#mutiny has him separating himself and I think that would carry over

[a-bottle-of-tyelenol]

I often think about how Mutiny has that callback to Luck Runs Out and how it, as the last Eurylochus song, contrasts to his first.

Right now, something I’m currently thinking about is that line Odysseus has— please don’t do this, I need to get home.

In LRO, there’s a moment where the music changes during Odysseus’ verse when he’s parroting Polites’ philosophy and it’s meant to represent the way that Odysseus was reaching out to Eurylochus, not as a captain but as a friend. There’s a similar moment that Eurylochus has when he calls Odysseus Ody instead of captain. It’s a moment that strips away the sociopolitical factors that dictate a lot of their relationship and it’s personally my favorite in the entire show.

Odysseus follows that by, once again, calling out to his friend, rather than his right hand. What’s interesting, though, is that Odysseus says that he needs to get home, and then follows it by saying “reconsider— we can get home”.

This happens while Eurylochus is doing the same thing— starting by asking how much longer he must suffer, and then ending with the crew speaking with him and asking how much longer they must suffer. What I find particularly notable about this is the fact that Eurylochus, as the voice of the crew, is implied to be the one voicing their thoughts regardless of if they’re actually backing him. It’s implied in Keep Your Friends Close that Eurylochus wasn’t just voicing his concerns in LRO, he was voicing the concerns of everyone (which is part of the reason it was such a public confrontation). In Mutiny, the same thing occurs in the first half of the song, where Eurylochus confronts Odysseus and then we learn that the crew agrees and shares that sentiment right after.

In the second half of Mutiny, however, that isn’t the case. This moment is the only one in the entire show where Eurylochus is truly being selfish. Arguments could be made about him urging Odysseus to run from the cyclops or him choosing to tell Odysseus about the windbag before Scylla, but I would then argue that those moments are him acting for Odysseus’ sake as well. With the cow, in this verse, he is only acting for himself. He is only responding as himself— Eurylochus is not the voice of anyone else, he is only Eurylochus. He has isolated himself, for just a moment, from the rest of the crew. Most of the show is Odysseus acting for himself and, in this moment, Eurylochus is doing the same thing.

[overheardatthecontinental]

Talk Chapter 7

AO3

Helen learns about the hit that’s been ordered 

John addresses the guilt that’s holding him down

John packs up quickly, filling the car pretty much to the brim, holding on to the knowledge that he really doesn’t know when he’ll come back.

By putting a contract out on Helen, it was no longer a matter of killing DeLuca and ending this. The contract was open. Whether he was dead or alive, people would come for her.

And while dead was the only way John wanted to see Mateo DeLuca, the fact remained that only he could remove the bounty on Helen. DeLuca, he thinks, or the High Table.

But the High Table wasn’t going to give a shit that Helen Kingston was a civilian. That she hadn’t done anything.

A hit was a hit.

He isn’t sure how he’s going to fix this.

John goes back down to the basement, to his workshop, and found a book hidden among the masses. It’s a newer book that stands out among his bookbinding collection. Larger than most.

He selects it and heads back to the main floor. John lays it open and takes out his phone to prepare to send the message.

As technology got better, so had hackers. Even phones issued by the Continental were subject to being hacked or tracked. He, Marcus, and Sofia had set up a failsafe years ago.

Even if the phone was hacked, it would take years to crack the code they came up with.

He opens the book and finds the first letter he needs, capitalized. He types in the page number, followed by the line that the word is located on, and finally counts out how many words into the line it is.

John hears Helen’s footsteps on the stairs and spares a glance upward. She has a tower of books piled into her little hands. He withholds a smirk and instead, shakes his head. “Just those?”

“This is as many as I can safely carry.” She replies, walking towards him and setting the books on the side of the table, “But rest assured, I’ll be back to steal more.”

He says nothing to that because he can say nothing. Every plan he’s had is screwed up now. His original thought, to separate himself from her, is in shambles now that every assassin in New York knows her name.

She peeks at his phone, “Is that an Ottendorf cipher?”

John feels himself inhale sharply. Why does she have to know that?

It’s such a small thing, really, but she says something like that and his heart starts to stutter in his chest, making him all the more aware of just how much he loves her. He loves her and he can’t have her.

But she says that and he’s lost.

“Yes, but modified. Do I want to know how you know about Ottendorf’s?” John asks, instead.

“I was a paranoid child.” She says, glancing over the book he has chosen, lifting the cover without closing the page to better assess. “All my childhood diaries were written in some kind of code.” She glances up at him, a small smile on her face, “I made up my own cipher when I was eleven to pass notes to my friends in school.”

It occurs to him that she’s never mentioned her own childhood before. Of course, he knows a bit. Between his actual stalking and the time spent on the Continental database, finding every piece of information on Helen Kingston, he was bound to find some things.

Like citations from Elementary school where she got her class to mutiny against a teacher or the handful of detentions she got for backtalk.

But they’ve never talked about her early life before.

Their lines had always been blurred but this was one they hadn’t crossed.

John glances back to his book, “Quite the little rebel.”

She shrugs, “We talked about it last week. What are rules in the face of meaninglessness?”

“And here I thought we were stepping away from nihilism.”

“You’re stepping away from nihilism.” She corrects, “I’m quite content with the idea that there’s no plan or grand design.”

His lips twitch, “There’s still some food left in the kitchen if you want to grab something before we go.”

She hoists her books back up, “Alright. I’m going to drop these in the car first.”

John nods, continuing to compose his message. The Ottendorf cipher was difficult to crack because not only did you need the right book, you needed the right edition, the right printing. It was also a bitch to decode because it required time and accuracy. He, Marcus, and Sofia even took it a step farther by using the first letter of every word rather than using the word itself and often wrote in shorthand.

That said, it was a bitch to put together.

He manages to type out the address of his safehouse and hits send.

John types up a quick message to Winston that he was going off the grid until further notice as he goes back up the stairs. He changes quickly, forgoing the suit for something more casual. Jeans and a t-shirt are oddly discomforting but a three-piece suit would stick out in the middle of nowhere.

Once changed, he checks his phone one last time before powering down.

By the time he finishes, Helen is outside, leaning against the car, eating an apple.

He makes a mental note that they’ll need to stop and pick her up some new clothes because the sight of her dressed in his makes it hard to breathe.

“Ready?” He asks.

She nods, pushing off the car and opening the passenger side door. “Do I want to know about the matching holes in the windows?” She asks as she climbs in.

“Probably not.” He admits.

Helen shoots him a smirk as she buckles in. He’s grateful when she dives into one of the books she had brought rather than asking him questions. He’s still not sure how to broach the subject.

She knows something is wrong, he’s certain, but she hasn’t asked.

Not that he’s offered information. He wants to keep it from her, to protect her for just a little bit longer but he can’t. It’s not fair to her.

Every so often, he catches her looking up from her book, checking road signs and overhead passes that give off locations, directions.

Her curiosity is palpable but, even now, she’s playing the therapist. Not pushing, just waiting for him to get there on his own.

It’s not right. She shouldn’t have to do all the work for them. He tries to bring it up, pushes himself to say something, anything, the next time she looks around curiously.

Half an hour passes.

Then an hour.

Then two.

He gives himself until the clock on the dashboard hits the hour mark. Then he watches as that arbitrary deadline passes, too.

At quarter past, she looks up at one of the signs and he forces himself to choke out the word, “Vermont.”

Helen looks over at him, an eyebrow raised. “Vermont?” She repeats.

He nods, “I have a safehouse there.”

She looks back at the road ahead of them, “Are you ready to talk about it?”

No, he thinks. But it doesn’t matter. They need to talk about it. She needs to know what’s going on.

What was the expression she used? Quick, like a band aid?

“DeLuca put a hit on you.”

He glances over, gauging for a reaction and is met with a simple nod. “How much?”

That, John thinks, should not be her primary concern but he answers anyway, “Four million.”

That makes her head shoot up, repeating the number while staring at him, “Four million dollars?”

He nods, once.

“Jesus.” She mutters, shaking her head, “For four million, I’m tempted to turn myself in.”

John’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.” Helen rubs at her temple, “Fuck.”

That about covered it, John thinks.

He waits. She’s kept it together this long but news of a bounty on her head has to be enough to snap her out of the idle calm she’s been sitting in. He waits for her try cry or get angry or scream but, no. She shakes her head and looks back to the book on her lap.

He can’t help himself. “Seriously?” He asks, looking between Helen and the road, “You have a four-million-dollar bounty on your head.”

“Yes.” She agrees.

“There are hundreds of assassins looking for you right now.”

“I gathered.”

“Helen…” he cuts himself off, before he says something stupid.

She closes the book and leans back, facing him the best she can in the moving vehicle. “Do you think it would help?”

“What?”

“Do you think it would help if I broke down right now? If I started crying, do you think it would help either of us? Freaking out will not help me handle everything that’s going on. And it won’t affect the guilt that you’re clearly experiencing from something, and I can’t emphasize this enough, was beyond your control.”

He flounders for a moment, opening and closing his mouth as he searches for how to respond to her, “You’ve been kidnapped.”

“Mhmm.”

“Held hostage, sedated, been forced to play mind games with mobsters,”

“Seems like it was only yesterday.”

“And now you have a four-million-dollar hit out for you and you’ve barely reacted!”

She shrugs. She fucking shrugs and John wants to pull off to the side of the road and fucking shake her just to see if that sets her off.

“We all process things differently, John.”

“What have you processed?” He asks, unable to keep the frustration from his voice, “You’ve been eerily calm this entire time!”

She waves a hand, “I started processing it before it even happened. Maybe, if it had been completely out of the blue, I might have had a more visceral reaction. But let’s be real: this was going to happen at some point or another.”

“You were going to be kidnapped at some point or another?” He asks incredulously.

“Given the circumstances, it isn’t a large jump.” She points out. “You’re the Boogeyman. You might not understand all the fear people have when it comes to you but you recognize it. Fuck, I saw firsthand how terrified of you DeLuca’s men are. But you don’t present with a lot of exploitable weaknesses. And, regardless of how I entered the picture, it’s easy to see we have unhealthy boundaries.”

It takes him nearly a minute to process everything that she says and, when he does, he’s shaken.

“You’re saying you knew you were going to be kidnapped because we supposedly have unhealthy boundaries?”

Another shrug, “I wasn’t blind to the possibility that I could be targeted as a way to get to you. And there’s nothing supposedly about it. Our therapeutic relationship has been fucked since the beginning.”

John does a doubletake and looks over at her. “No, it hasn’t.”

Helen snorts, “One month in, I told you to forgo Tarasov V. Regents. A single phone call from you and I could have had my license revoked and my practice disbanded.”

“Isn’t trust the basis of a good therapeutic alliance?”

“There’s trust and then there’s putting my career in your hands. But if you don’t think that’s enough to indicate our God-awful boundaries, we could talk about your late-night stalking habits.”

John’s head flies to look at her.

“Traffic, John.”

He swerves and narrowly misses driving off the road.

His mind reels. She’d never mentioned it before and neither of them has ever brought it up. He operated somewhere between the assumptions that she didn’t know and that she would never mention it if she did.

He asks gruffly, “What did DeLuca tell you?”

She snorts at that, “Please. DeLuca doesn’t see nuances. He’s just convinced we’re sleeping together.”

“Then how--?”

Helen glances over, her voice softening, “Give me some credit here, John.”

He swallows, “How long have you known?”

“Five months.”

Since the beginning.

He watches the road, suddenly hyper-aware of the pounding of his heart, the hairs on his arms that are standing on end, and the tension filling his body.

He’s unable to look at her. He wonders if he’ll ever again be able to look at her, knowing that she knew. This whole time, she actually knew.

How many times had she asked him if he was planning for a late night, supplying him with coffee, all the while knowing that his late night was going to end sneaking into her home and watching her sleep?

And she had known? For five months?

And no, John Wick wasn’t the kind of man you took a restraining order out against, but she knows him better than anyone. One word from her and he would have disappeared.

Morbid curiosity and confusion get the better of him. “You never said anything.”

“You would have stopped.”

It really isn’t fair, John decides, that she can read him like a book despite his prevarications and evasions. But she answers him, and he can barely understand her.

“And that would have been a bad thing?” He can’t keep the incredulity out of his tone.

“I weighed the pros and cons.”

Now John can’t help but look at her. Calm as ever, her eyes remain kind and non-judgmental. “You weighed the pros and cons.” He repeats.

She nods, once, and John really isn’t sure what the hell kind of pros she came up with to sit back and just let that happen.

“Do you really want to have this conversation right now?” She doesn’t sound exasperated, only concerned. “I’m pretty sure you’re about to pull the steering wheel out if we keep going.”

He considers it, but John is pretty certain that the only thing worse than talking about it would be to stop. He wasn’t certain he’d be able to sit in his anxiety now that it was known.

“Yes.”

“To having the conversation or to yanking out the steering wheel?”

He shoots her a look but is a bit relieved that she’s still making jokes. She gives him a smile.

“I figured it out fairly quickly, I think.” She admits, “I woke up one night and just had a gut feeling that I wasn’t alone. Saw your reflection in the window but it was the middle of the night, and I was tired, and so I just went back to sleep.”

“Probably shouldn’t have been your first instinct.”

He doesn’t even have to look to know that she is rolling her eyes again, “You really want to start talking about instincts and poor decision making?”

She has him there.

“Anyway, you were gone when I woke up. At first, I thought it might just be a one-off. You’re a paranoid bastard. It made sense that you wanted to see where I live, gain a little bit of perspective. Trust that I wasn’t some sort of sleeper agent out to kill you or some shit. But then you came back.” She looks back to the road, almost thoughtfully. “And you kept coming back. So, I sat down and thought out a list of pros and cons.”

“And the pros outweighed the cons?” The disbelief is apparent in his tone.

“Yes.”

This, John thinks, has to be the most surreal conversation he’s ever had in his life. Casually talking about the pros and cons of stalking his therapist, with his therapist. Only for said therapist to decide that there were more pros than cons.

“What possible pros did you find?” He asks more out of interest than validation.

“What would you have done if I addressed it in session?”

He blinks at her answering his question with a question. Truth be told, he’s not sure what he would have done but walk out and never come back seems like the most likely.

“You would have run.” She says, matter-of-factly but somehow still manages to make it sound nonjudgmental. “Which, given your history of disorganized attachment, is perfectly understandable. But, it would have been a drastic step that would have pushed you farther away from the healing process.”

“After all this,” John bites, “You still think I can be healed?”

“We've talked about this before, John. There is no "perfect healing" when it comes to trauma. Things can and they will come back up. But I think that you can get to a point where you can let go of the things that have haunted you for so long.” She lets out a breath, “But nobody can get there on their own.”

John shakes his head, “And healing me is worth having your space violated?”

She huffs, “Believe it or not, it isn’t all about you, John.” He glances over and she shrugs. “I— I sleep better on nights you were there.” Helen pauses, then adds, “You keep the nightmares at bay.”

Her words cut him like any knife, but he feels it so much deeper than any cut.

Nightmares.

His thoughts seem to erupt in too many directions at once for him to even follow?

Nightmares?

She’s known for so long.

She sleeps better when I’m there.

What does she have nightmares about?

How the hell have I never noticed that she has nightmares?

Not like she would’ve fucking told you. She’s your therapist.

But she says I keep the nightmares away…

She know; she knows; she knows.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He can’t handle it, can’t process it right now. Especially while driving. He needs a moment. Or a few thousand.

How can someone’s presence simultaneously sustain him and destroy him?

They pass a highway sign advertising food, gas, and lodging.

It wouldn’t hurt to fill up the tank. They still had hours to go.  And she needs food. Real food, more than just an apple.

“Can you eat?”

She smirks knowingly at the abrupt change in conversation, “Yeah. Probably should.”

He nods to himself, pulling off on the exit ramp. Focusing on finding food, on providing, was much easier than letting himself sit in his own thoughts.

But even as he switches focuses, keeping an eye out for one of the places advertised, he can still hear her in his mind.

Your abrupt change in subject indicates that you’re afraid. Are you afraid, John?

They both knew the answer to that. He was fucking terrified.

He catches sight of a diner and pulls into the parking lot. They’re far enough from the city that he isn’t too concerned that anyone from his world will see them, but he hasn’t put it out of his head that he could have been followed. Even watching the rearview constantly hadn’t helped to ease the paranoia that came after having Helen taken.

John puts the car into park and Helen shoots him a grin, gesturing to her outfit. She’s still wearing his shirt and sweatpants, drawn tight. “Hope you don’t mind that I’m hard-core scrubbing it.”

He blinks, “I don’t know what that means.”

She rolls her eyes and gets out of the car, “Come on, John.”

He follows her into the diner, which boldly advertises breakfast all day. He keeps his eyes peeled and steps directly into the space behind her as he assesses the patrons.

A few bikers, a teenage group of friends, and two couples. It was late enough that the actual dinner rush had died down.

“Stay close to me.” He mutters and she shoots him a look over his shoulder, as if to say, seriously?

He nods.

Helen rolls her eyes but murmurs, “Fine.”

“Two?” A waitress asks.

“Yes.” Helen replies as John nods once, adding, “The back booth, please.”

She gives him a look, as well, but grabs two menus and gestures with her head for them to follow. Helen starts to sit on the near side of the table but John gives her a tap. She sighs quietly but goes to the far side, against the wall, and scoots into the booth. John sits next to her.

“You want anything to drink?”

“Just water, please.”

“Coffee.” John says.

The waitress walks away and Helen leans into the corner, “We’re hours away from your place; hours from the city. Do you really think we’re going to run into trouble here?”

“I’m not taking any chances.”

“I’d roll my eyes but if I keep doing that, I’m afraid they’ll get stuck.”

He shoots her a look and pushes the menu towards her. Helen only grins in response but takes the menu and looks it over.

He peruses it idly before turning his attention back to the people in the diner.

The teenagers looked normal but he had been trained to kill when he was their age. No one blended in quite like a teen.

The bikers had plates from South Dakota. He had checked all the license plates on their way inside. How many assassins lived a nomadic lifestyle?

Fuck, there had been a time where John, himself, had lived like that. Riding under the hot sun, funding his travels by killing at night.

The couples seemed inconspicuous but there was nothing to indicate that it was anything more than a cover. How often had he posed with Sofia as a couple on complicated cases?

The waitress comes back with his coffee and her water and he’s sick to his stomach, thinking of a thousand ways they could be poisoned.

“Know what you want?”

Helen orders first, offering a kind smile to the older woman.

She’s so trusting, he thinks, and that terrifies him.

“And you, hon?” She asks John.

“The southwestern hash.” He pushes his and Helen’s menus across the table and the waitress takes them, eyeing him.

Was the waitress a part of the Underworld? A spy for people leaving New York?

Had he made a mistake by choosing some place only a few hours out from the city?

But she turns and walks away.

Everything else has him on edge.

He acknowledges that he’s paranoid as he picks up his coffee and swallows it down. The burning almost helps to alleviate the frustration.

Over the course of the weekend, he’d lost her. He’d lost the woman he loved to an unknown enemy; had clung to the idea of finding her to keep him going. And Helen had managed to save herself. And things weren’t fixed by getting her to safety, but they were better.

And now, DeLuca was pulling this new shit.

While most of the older, more disciplined assassins were smart enough not to go up against him, he wasn’t naïve to think others wouldn’t come.

He had been a young, stupid assassin once, after all.

He’d made his share of stupid decisions trying to make a name for himself.

And what better way to make a name for one’s self than to go up against a renowned assassin?

He remembered his training well.

The Director had beaten it into their heads: it only takes one bullet.

One well-aimed bullet, one perfect blow with a knife and even the best would fall.

John would die for Helen, happily, a thousand times over. But things were fucked and dying for her wouldn’t be enough to keep her safe with a bounty on her head.

And he didn’t know where DeLuca was.

He didn’t know what it would take to remove the bounty and—

Her hand lands on his thigh and he nearly drops the coffee mug in his hand. Quickly, he sets it down, glancing over to her.

Her hand is on his thigh.

Fuck.

“Tell me five things you can see.” She says and he knows better than to ask questions when she’s using that sort of tone.

He blinks, swallowing as he looks around, “Uh, there are thirteen people in this room, aside from us. There’s the exit sign. A clock. An old license plate on the wall. And you.”

“Four things you can feel.”

“The seat we’re on. The scratch of denim. The air circulating. Your hand.” He tries to keep his voice from breaking at the last. Her hand is on his thigh.

“Three things you can hear.”

He listens, intently. “Murmur of conversation. The sounds from the kitchen. Coffee being poured.”

He can tell what she is doing. Simultaneously distracting him from his paranoia and grounding him in the moment.

“Two things you can smell.”

John breathes in and stutters on the exhale. There are many scents in the diner that he can distinguish, but none more powerful than her. Bathed in his shampoo, his body wash from her shower. She smells like he does and it makes his head go a little fuzzy when he thinks too much about it.

He swallows, deciding he is not going to say that. “Uh, I smell the grease from the kitchen. And my coffee.”

“And one thing you can taste.”

“The coffee.” He says, before he can start to think of what he wants to taste.

“Good,” Helen praises and she squeezes his thigh, “Are you with me?”

“I’m here.” He wonders if he’s flushed.

Helen had, once again, pulled him out of his head. Stopped him from going down a darker path and it wasn’t right, he thinks, that Helen is having to calm him down.

“Are you?” She asks, raising her hand from his lap up to his face. She cups his jaw and turns his head to face hers, “Because you look like you’re still lost in your head.”

“I’m sorr—”

“Don’t be. You have no reason to be sorry, John.”

He doesn’t deserve her. Not her love, not her friendship. Not even her help. She’s too good for him, but now, neither of them have a choice. He got her into this mess and now she won’t survive without him.

“This is my fault.”

“I’m not exactly blameless, John.” She removes her hand and he immediately mourns the loss of her touch, “I kept you on as a client even after knowing what you do. I knew you were sneaking into my house at night and I didn’t do anything to stop your or dissuade you. I’m positive that I don’t have the best security at my house.”

“It’s not the same th—"

“John.” She interrupts him again, “Look, we can go back and forth for eternity about where the blame goes. But it’s not going to do us any good because, ultimately, it lies with DeLuca.”

Helen pauses, giving him a moment to ingest what she has just said, before she adds, “I know you’re not used to being scared. And I know it feels like a lifetime since things have been out of your control. But everything is going to be okay.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can. Because no matter what happens, no matter what horrors and traumas we face, no matter what loss we experience, we still get up in the morning. We figure things out, we adjust our tactics, and we do what we have to.”

He almost believes her but his fear lingers.

He offers a small smile, “Is that how you managed to stay so calm when DeLuca had you?”

She smiles back, adding teasingly, “I figured you’d be stressed enough for the both of us.”

John relaxes his posture, still on guard but no longer feeling fight or flight instincts that had been drowning him since their arrival.

Their waitress walks over and Helen calmly smiles, thanking her as they’re passed their dinners.

John waits until the waitress has gone to respond, “I’ve had missions go south, but not being able to find you, not knowing who had you…” he shakes his head.

“You crave control.” Helen says understandingly, “With your life, in general, of course. But primarily, over your emotions. So you ignore them until something sends you into overdrive.”

“What’s the solution there?”

She reaches over with her fork and snatches a bit of hash from his plate, “No easy fixes, unfortunately. We’ve already talked about rational verse irrational thoughts. The next step would be directly talking about your reactive attachment but I don’t think you’re fully ready to address that.” Helen tells him as she pops it into her mouth.

“What the fuck is reactive attachment?”

She swallows, “One day, I’ll let you read your file.” She takes a sip of her water, “Okay, attachment crash course: attachment is, basically, the bond that develops from person to person. It starts when you’re a baby and the relationships that you have in your early years tend to be large indicators for the rest of your life.

“Babies have needs that have to be met: being clothed, being fed, changed, and cuddled. When these needs are met by a consistent caregiver, babies start to develop trust. They can recognize their caregiver, they feel secure in knowing that, even if their person leaves them, they’ll come back.

“But, these needs aren’t always met. And, when kids don’t form secure attachments, it effects their relationships growing up. If not addressed and treated early, it transitions into adulthood.”

John couldn’t remember that far back but he still remembered the tribe. The orphans were taken care of. They weren’t abandoned but they sure as hell hadn’t been loved, either. He remembered, not too long before he was sent to live under the Director’s care, being in the orphanage and telling one of the little ones to stop crying.

Nobody cared.

It was best to learn that lesson early than to waste tears on someone who would never come.

“And what does that look like?” John asks.

“Being withdrawn from social interaction; not asking for help when you need it because you don’t trust anyone to come through for you; feeling like you don’t understand the world around you, like everyone else is in on something that must have skipped you; not seeking comfort; avoidant behaviors; a tendency to shy away from intimate relationships.”

John exhales a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Jesus.”

“When kids with RAD—reactive attachment disorder—start to form connections, they typically go one of two ways. There’s the disinhibited, where the kid with RAD ends up becoming overly emotional. They search for affection in anybody who pays them the slightest bit of attention.”

That didn’t exactly describe John so she continued, “There’s also inhibited. Those kids avoid any emotional bond, they reject kindness and relationships because they don’t trust it. Even if a kid likes someone, they eventually reject them before they can be rejected.”

John swallows. Just that morning, he had been thinking about how to disentangle himself from Helen. He had justified it by telling himself it was to protect her. From him, from his enemies.

But Helen was still there; still sitting by his side. Still trusting him with her life despite everything.

“When kids with RAD grow up, relationships—even friendships are strained. There’s a fundamental lack of trust that’s based in fear. You avoid close relationships; avoid personal relationships, period.”

“I didn’t avoid you.”

She inclines her head, “Yeah, well…” She takes another bite of her dinner.

“Well, what?” He’s almost afraid of the answer with the look she’s giving him.

“It isn’t unusual for someone with RAD to over-attach themselves to one or two people in particular. Those relationships tend to be a bit obsessive.”

And now, he needs a drink. He preferred to savor bourbon, but he was ready to down a bottle to avoid this particular conversation again.

He can’t help but wonder if she knows just how far his obsession for her goes. If he told her he loved her, would she say that she already knows? After all, she knows everything else about him. Or would she smile sadly, empathetically, and tell him that she cared for him, but not like that?

He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

John had accepted a long time ago that he would love her forever. That he would never feel for another what he felt for her.

A part of him is… almost angry. He loves her but it isn’t because of his trauma.

She’s kind and good and so damn empathetic. But she’s more than that. She’s clever and unyielding. Smart and funny and so damn beautiful, inside and out.

And he isn’t sure he can give a reason why he loves her but he doesn’t want his feelings for her, his obsession, his love for her to be tainted by the abuse he had suffered.

“I don’t want to be defined by that trauma.” It slips out before he can think better of it but Helen takes his words in her gentle way. Her head tilts to the side.

“Do you feel like you are?”

“Sometimes. At least, that I’m a product of it.”

Helen nods, thoughtfully, “You are… distinguished by your trauma. It has shaped you, just like every other experience you have been through, you are changed by it. But you are far more than the sum of your past, John.”

John shakes his head, “The things I feel… they’re not normal.”

Again, her little hand finds his, resting atop the back of his hand. She squeezes in comfort.

“That doesn’t mean they’re not real.”

Ultimately, John thinks, he’s still fucked in the head.

But it’s a little easier to live with that fact with Helen at his side.

[ohmightydevviepuu]

hello love (a silent kiss from a wish) / CS January Joy

part one of two for the @csjanuaryjoy AO3

When Elsa admitted that she had no control over the ice swirling around and seeping into Emma’s bloodstream, Emma knew fear unlike any she’d experienced yet.

She just--she wanted to believe that everything was going to be okay. And that they would all live, happily ever after.

--

thanks to @thisonesatellite, @profdanglaisstuff and @optomisticgirl for encouragement and love.

special birthday shoutout to @distant-rose <3 <3 <3

(i would like to note that @optomisticgirl’s epic “Days of Future’s Past” inspired part of this story) (you should read it) 

@shireness-says @shardminds @mariakov81 @stahlop @kmomof4 @carpedzem​ @jonirobinson64​ @spartanguard (for science)

part two will post on 24 january!

--

the time-slip is a classic and i would be remiss if i did not point other other gems (that i am aware of) in this fandom: a seed of hope by @unfolded73​ in time by @justanotherwannabeclassic​ i jumped across from you (oh what a thing to do) by @bemusedbicycle​

--

this story was inspired by an old sailor moon fic called quirks by vievre (on FF dot net)

one. 

Emma Swan was freezing.

She had never, in her entire life, known it was possible to be this cold.  She thought she’d understood cold--had endured cold, had survived cold, living on the streets in Minnesota in the winter, camping out in the backseat of her unheated Beetle in Boston, shivering in a jail cell in Phoenix.

She’d been wrong.

“If I could just--lay down for a minute,” she panted, letting Elsa help her to the ground.

“Emma,” Elsa said.  “Emma--talk to me. Tell me more.”

Emma wasn’t sure if she was going to survive this.  She heard her father’s voice on the other side of the ice wall and knew that he would be disappointed in her.  She tried to imagine him saying something supportive and ridiculous and cheerful and exhorting her to have hope, but she--she couldn’t.  Hope had vanished at least 20 degrees ago.

Emma was too damn cold for hope. 

“Parents don’t always help,” Elsa murmured, but Emma was having difficulty following the conversation from one end to the other.  She could hear the static squelching on the walkie from the other side of the ice wall and knew that David Nolan was doing everything in his power to get her out of here.  And Hook--

“That has to be very lonely,” Emma said, but the movement of her lips did little to help her stay warm.

Emma wasn’t going to think about Hook, about how she’d refused to let him break down her walls--metaphorically speaking--and how she was now trapped behind a literal wall, made of ice, and wasn’t that one hell of a metaphor?

But she knew that he was probably trying just as hard to break that one down, too.  She tried to imagine the pair of them, the prince and the pirate, just to make herself laugh, to move her muscles, but it was cold--too cold for anything to be funny.

“Were you born with magic, or cursed?”

She’d seen some weird shit in her life, and even weirder shit in the year and change she’d lived in Storybrooke.  She’d eaten chimera and killed a dragon and led a mutiny of Lost Boys. She’d seen a flying monkey in New York City.  But when Elsa admitted that she had no control over the ice swirling around and seeping into Emma’s bloodstream, Emma knew fear unlike any she’d experienced yet.

Fear of loss--because, for the first time in her life, she had something to lose.

Her parents, her family.  Henry. Hook.

“I’m very sorry I trapped us here,” Elsa said.  “I didn’t mean it.”

Emma knew that, she did--she just wished that she knew everything was going to turn out all right.

That they were all going to live, happily ever after.

She was barely conscious and did not see the glow of the wishing star in the ice underneath her.

two.

  He came awake all at once.

Two hundred years shipboard made a man a very light sleeper, and in the years since, Killian Jones had been content to be awakened most mornings by the movements of his still-drowsing wife.  She would breathe against his skin, tickling him. He would feel her lips against his back in light butterfly kisses along his spine or her fingers as she traced the designs inked into his arm.  He would feel the gentle pressure of her body as she pulled herself closer to him, and hear her whisper: “For heat.” And then he would nod, allowing her the simple fiction and enjoying the way she fit perfectly against him as he watched the sun rise through the filmy curtains of their east-facing bedroom.

He was unaccustomed to the sight that greeted him on this morning, however.  He was cold and stiff--”Getting old, babe,” she would say, giggling--and when he opened his eyes the first thing he saw was a portable heating device on the floor of the Charmings’ old loft.

The loft that no one in their family had occupied for years.

It came to him in phases:  the awkwardness of sitting on the floor; the pain in his shoulder and neck; his arm, oddly positioned behind him and over his shoulder.  He tried to move, but couldn’t. Something-- someone --was holding his arm in place.

Instinctively, Killian twisted--he needed to check, he needed--

When he tried to pull his hand from her grasp, she turned, though she didn’t wake.  Emma Swan was curled up on the old too-small couch in the old too-small family loft, his old greatcoat pulled up to her chin and his hand wrapped tightly in hers.  

He wasn’t wearing his wedding ring.  Neither was she.

three.

  Killian examined himself in the mirror.

He was wearing one of his linen blouses and a pair of leather trousers, his waistcoat discarded on the wash basin.  The boots lined up next to the couch had pointed toes instead of rounded and buckles instead of zippers. Though he always protested to his wife that he still ‘retained his youthful glow’, the reflection that greeted him was younger, and harder, and Killian suddenly missed the laugh lines and crow’s feet he had begun to accumulate.

With a sigh, Killian pulled his shirt up by the hem, already suspecting what he was going to see.  His skin was largely unblemished, except for his tattoos; the scar he carried from Excalibur was missing.  He had not yet been wounded. Killed.

He had not yet asked--begged, pleaded--she had not yet--

Killian closed his eyes and for an instant, he could feel his wife’s fingers tracing the pale silver line in the dark, the way she did on the nights where it still, sometimes, all felt like too much, when one or both of them was restless, when the only thing that kept the darkness at bay was the light they created together.  He exhaled, scrubbing his hand down his face.

The sliding door separating the washroom from the living area still stuck--of course it did, he reminded himself, no one had ever bothered to fix it--but he maneuvered it gently, hoping not to wake anyone, least of all the baby.  The cot was in its old spot by the alcove and if he had to postulate, his brother-in-law was--at most--three or four weeks old and still well into his screaming phase.  

Killian would bet gold doubloons on unloaded dice that there was sleeping Arendellian royalty in the bed at the top of the ladder.

Which meant that the Emma Swan curled up on the couch, under his coat, was not his wife.

He examined her, taking in the gold of her hair in the early morning sunlight, and saw that the strands of silver that had begun to twine around the gold were missing.  She appeared to be relaxed--he doubted anyone else would notice--but his Emma slept with complete abandon, and Killian could see that even in repose, in her family’s loft, this Emma was on her guard. 

He wanted to touch her.  His fingers practically itched.  He wanted to smooth away the worry line on her forehead, to run his palm across her cheek, to wind his fingers into her hair.  But this Emma still had walls that were miles high, and would not welcome his touch or his breaching of her carefully-constructed boundaries, no matter that he had, once upon a time, literally attempted to tear down a wall between them.  He had bruised his shoulders, had blunted his hook on the solid ice and been rewarded with the feeling of the weight of her in his arms for the first time.

And when he’d carried her back to the loft, wrapped in his coat, she’d pulled his hand into both of hers and didn’t let go, clasping and unclasping their fingers, tracing the metal of his rings.  He remembered it, they way her hand had felt, small and cold; the way her eyes had softened when she wouldn’t let him leave.

That was last night, unless he missed his guess, and just as he had the realization, she opened her eyes.

Emma startled very slightly--another thing that his Emma had not done in years--and relaxed infinitesimally as she saw him.  “Hook,” she said, and smiled. Her eyes were sleepy but crinkled at the corners as she met his gaze; she laughed at him every time, but Killian always swore that the morning sun made them glitter a particularly vibrant shade of green.

And that’s when his breath caught, in that moment, when all he saw was the woman he had married.  His True Love. (“Capital ‘T’, capital ‘L’,” she always said, as if he could possibly forget.)  

“Good morning, Swan,” he said, kneeling to put their eyes at a level.  He tried, and failed, to hold back, restricting himself to brushing a lock of hair out of her face.  “Have you warmed up at all?”

four.

  The shower at Granny’s was worse than he remembered.

Killian wasn’t sure if it was the pressure of the water, or the fact that he missed Emma’s open shampoo bottles and the scent of her around him while he bathed.  Maybe it was that the shower in their home was big enough for both of them, a circumstance they frequently took advantage of. Killian reached for his old black dressing gown that was still brand new in this time, and had not been appropriated by his wife.  He stepped out of the bathroom, thumbing the scar on his abdomen that wasn’t there, and took in the room: the corners of the sheet tucked in with military precision, the hand-drawn map of Storybrooke tacked to the wall, his books stacked precisely on the wooden desk in the corner.

It was clean.  None of the photographs Snow had started gifting them, which multiplied on what felt like a weekly basis, cluttering every surface. None of the detritus his Emma left in her wake wherever she went.   When he’d walked through the door and didn’t immediately trip over Emma’s boots, which she would leave wherever she happened to take them off, it felt wrong.

She’d sent him “home”, and that felt wrong, too, but Killian knew there would be no changing her mind and no reason for her to think any other way.  Especially not when she’d allowed his touch and then immediately pulled back into herself. Emma had merely thanked him for spending the night, shooing him out the door, and he had gone.

“I’ve slept in far worse places for less worthy reasons, love,” he’d said, conscious of Snow--of Mary Margaret--and David trying not to watch them from their alcove.  They were destined to be forever watched, always interrupted, and they’d long ago given up changing the locks. “Far be it for me to deny a beautiful woman such a simple request.”

He’d been there for her, and she’d allowed it, and he had never forgotten how that felt.

But now, in the Spartan room he’d once maintained as his own, there was much else to consider.  This wasn’t time travel, nor was it another reality--two things he, unfortunately, had practical experience with.  He had not gone through a portal, or been transported by other magical means. It did not match Emma’s and Regina’s descriptions of waking up in the Wish world, or being sent through the looking-glass.

To his best approximation, he had merely woken up in the body of his younger self, on a day that he had already lived. 

That left him with two questions:  why?

And--perhaps more importantly--where was the Killian Jones that had been meant to live this day?

five.

  The bed was warm, and it was that as much as anything that alerted his senses and pulled him fully and completely awake.  The bed was warm, and strange, and there was filtered sunlight coming in through flimsy window coverings. He was wearing neither hook nor brace--nor shirt--and he wasn’t alone.

Hook lay sprawled on his stomach, and there was on his back the weight of another person, their arm draped across his neck and a cheek against his shoulder.  He tried to remember the last time he had woken up with someone in his bed in the daylight, and when he lost count of the years, he rolled over onto his back.

Emma Swan followed his movement, mumbling to herself as she re-settled her head on his chest, and Hook froze.

Bad joke, that, he thought to himself, when he had just last evening been surrounded by literal miles of ice--when Swan had nearly frozen to death in a spell gone awry.

She was anything but cold at the moment, her breath tickling his skin.  Her hair was tied up at the top of her head in some kind of knot, and he had a delicious view of the skin at the back of her neck and the silver chain she wore.  They were tangled together in a web of soft sheets and he could feel, from where she pressed against him, that she wore little or nothing beneath her sleeping shirt.

He didn’t belong here.

Though he had often fantasized about what he and Emma Swan could do, should they ever find themselves in bed together, her present reaction to this manner of company would likely end poorly.  Emma Swan had carefully constructed boundaries, and this was a violation of all of them.

He didn’t belong here, and Hook knew this couldn’t be a dream.  It was too real; he could feel the weight of her against him, and the softness of the mattress under him, and the warmth of the sunlight against his skin.  There had been no portal that he was aware of, no other means of magical transport. He did not know what else it could be, other than a curse, and though he would happily kiss her--

Hook exhaled a laugh through his nostrils.

His previous attempts at curse-breaking had not been successful.  He would rather enjoy this feeling for a few minutes longer than endure another knee in the groin for his efforts.

But.

He had thought of her, every day of the year that they had been apart, and dreamed of her every night, and this was--

He remembered carrying Emma back into her parents’ loft last night, under the worried and watchful eyes of her family, and of Elsa.  He had been easily persuaded to stay, just by the look in her eyes that told him she needed him. Hook knew she couldn’t verbalize it, not yet, but she needed him, and he could be there for her.

And now, Hook found himself in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar place, with a very familiar yet unfamiliar woman pulling him closer with every breath she took.

Her hand moved, and he saw it:  the slender silver band around the fourth finger of her right hand as she absent-mindedly traced the tattoo along his collarbone.  Hook watched her, mesmerized by her obvious familiarity with the intricate design, the way the light reflected on the ring, and he noticed something else.

He wore one, too.

six.

  Killian stood in his rented room, letting the weight of his greatcoat settle on his shoulders, and realized there was another question he needed to account for.

What now?

Zelena was clearly not an option in this time.  Regina was still avoiding as much of the Charming clan as she could as often as she could rationalize it.  The crocodile was, for obvious reasons, out of the question. Mary Margaret and David would undoubtedly panic, and then work to convince him that his discarded solutions were viable possibilities, and all of these years later he still stayed away from the convent and its inhabitants whenever possible.

They had forgiven him, but he still had not.  Killian felt a pang as he thought of all of the ways he could attempt to change what was about to happen, and the chain of events that would follow. Few knew better than Killian Jones the cost of meddling with the past, however.  And there was too much that would be put at risk if he even tried.

But--in the meantime--what if he just enjoyed this quiet moment, and spent a day with Emma Swan?  He was turning the key in the lock and on his way down to the diner before he even completed the thought.

“Good morning, Captain.” Granny Lucas greeted him with an appreciative grin, and Killian could not help but smile back as he ordered his coffee.

“Coffee?” Granny’s eyebrows quirked upward.  “Finally starting to rub off on you, are we?”

“You know that you can...rub…wherever you wish, Mrs. Lucas,” he said, waggling his eyebrows in the way that she liked.

She flicked her towel at him.  “You watch yourself, boy,” she said, the way that she always did, before turning to pour out a cup of coffee.  “How do you take it?” she said.

“Ah,” he said, caught off-guard.  Emma drank coffee, Emma and Dave, who made a pot every day at the station, and he had first gotten into the habit of bringing her a morning fix in the weeks after she had restored his heart to his body.  “Black,” he said.

Before that, he had drunk tea.

He checked his phone for the time while he waited for Granny to hand the cup over, and looked up to see her watching him.  “Sheriff won’t be here for a few minutes yet,” she said.

“Aye,” he agreed.

“You doing okay with that thing?” she asked, gesturing at the device.

Killian ran his finger over the keypad, hovering over the ‘Emma’ button.  He shrugged. “Needs must, and all of that,” he said. “Have a hot chocolate ready?”

Granny smiled.  “Sure,” she agreed, watching him take a sip.  “You know I’m rooting for you two.”

Killian nearly spat out his coffee before turning to face her, one eyebrow raised.

The bell over the door rang and Granny gave him a wink.  He put his mug down. “Faint heart never won fair lady,” she said, handing him a cup of cocoa doused in whipped cream.

He turned back toward the door.  When Emma spotted him, their eyes met for a moment before she relaxed into a small smile and gave him a little wave, pointing to a booth.  Their booth. The one where they ate breakfast every weekend, had family dinner at least once per week, afternoon coffee breaks after quickies in the restroom and the time he had persuaded Ruby and Dorothy to close early, commandeering the old jukebox and dancing with her in the middle of the diner.

Killian waited for her to sit before handing her the mug, careful not to spill, and mindful of the way her hands immediately encircled it and how she touched her pulse points against the heat of the beverage for warmth.  “Still cold, love?” he said, wishing he could pull her hands into his, rub his own thumb across her wrist, trace the five-petaled flower tattoo with his finger. 

“I’ll be fine,” she said.  She gave him another small smile and a shrug.  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Only mostly dead, then?”  Killian smiled at her, affecting a calm he knew his other self had not felt.  

Emma paused mid-sip and looked out the window.  “Yeah,” she said slowly. “I guess I should be glad you didn’t go through my clothes, looking for loose change.”

Killian chuckled.  He understood that reference--

--and he shouldn’t.

Emma noticed.  Of course she noticed.  Half a dozen emotions flashed across her face before she settled on the easiest one, and Killian would swear she was wishing for another dagger to hold against his neck--bad joke, that--as she asked:  “Who the fuck are you?”

seven.

  It was a wedding band.

It was a wedding band .

He--

She--??

Hook sat up, dislodging both the dozing woman and the sheets.  She muttered a curse under her breath and grumbled as she rolled over to the other side of the mattress, and he saw the ornament on the chain he had just been admiring, and he swore. 

Colorfully, describing anatomically impossible acts in several languages and ending with an emphatic “bloody hell .”

She--Emma Swan--his wife --sat up immediately, her expression brimming with concern.  “Killian?” She held her hand out, her right hand, putting her palm against his chest and spreading her fingers.  She inhaled and exhaled, deeply, and “breathe, Killian,” she whispered. “It’s okay.” He felt himself falling into her rhythm, the metal cool against his skin, his eyes drawn to the ring between her breasts against the thin fabric of her sleeping shirt.  They looked--she looked--different. Rounder?

Hook averted his eyes, embarrassed.  She looked down at herself, her hand brushing her abdomen, and back up, guiding her face with his palm until he was looking at her again.

He couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop himself leaning into the pressure of her hand against his cheek.  

Shaking his head, Hook found he wasn’t quite capable of speech.

His eyes closed.  “Killian,” she said, her voice gentle.  “Killian, look at me. Did you dream about Excalibur?” 

He shook his head again, still uncomprehending.  “I don’t--Swan--I’m not--”

“Come back to me, Killian,” she said, and it was a command.  “Here and now, babe, look at me.” Her hand was back on his chest, her breathing rhythmic and soothing.  “Tell me something you know is true.”

He looked at her.  Finally, he said, “I think we’re going to have a bit of a problem there, love,” and laughed.  

The sound was more than somewhat unhinged, and Emma’s hand fell away.  “Okay,” she said. Her expression had changed into something he was more intimately familiar with:  suspicion. “Tell me the last thing you remember, then.”

Hook caught her hand in his, finding himself suddenly unwilling to let her pull away.  She surprised him by immediately lacing their fingers together. “It’s okay,” she said.  “You can tell me.”

“The ice wall,” he said.  “Last night, you were trapped in a wall of ice and you nearly froze to death.  We took you home, to your family’s loft, with a woman called Elsa. I didn’t want you to be alone, so I stayed.  When I woke up--” he shook his head “--I was here.”

Emma’s mouth was open.  For a minute, she said absolutely nothing, until the confusion on her face cleared.  “Oh,” she said. “ Oh, oh, shit--”

She took a few deep breaths of her own, closing her eyes before she looked at him again.  “Hook?”

He nodded, and her fingers tightened around his.

“Our second date,” she said, and smiled.

Hook laughed; this time, there was a trace of humor in the sound.

“Aye,” he said, rubbing his finger against the silver ring she wore.  “I don’t suppose you ever found the champagne?”

eight.

  Hook bathed--showered--letting the hot water steam up around him as he chased his own thoughts in circles.  The shower smelled like her.

It was distracting.

Though it was far less distracting than the ring he couldn’t bring himself to take off.

“Swan, we should talk,” he’d said, and Emma laughed.

“I find,” she said with a smirk, “that when my husband says that to me, I’m rarely in for a pleasant conversation.”

He glared at her.  “Poor form, Swan,” he said.  “Using a man’s words against him.”

She’d called him ‘Hook’ as if there was a distinction.  Perhaps there was; perhaps that’s what happened when a man woke up years into his own future.  That’s what she’d said: “Oh, shit,” in her typical state of eloquence. “That was real--you really--”  She’d laughed until she was nearly in tears, until he’d needed to steady her with his arm and she’d smiled at him, as though she expected nothing else.  “You’re in our house,” she’d said finally. “In the future.”

Perhaps, in that instance, he was no longer the same man he once was.  Hook wanted to know, and yet he didn’t. He rubbed the ring again--”It’s real,” she’d said, “I promise”--and thought maybe that was all he needed to know.  That, and the way she’d smiled, as though it was nothing out of the ordinary.

“I’ll make breakfast.  We’ll talk after,” she’d said, his wife said, and smiled a smile that lit up the entire room.  “You can use the shower. Pretty sure you’ll find everything you need.”

But he didn’t belong here.

Hook kept repeating that to himself, like a touchstone, but everywhere he turned, he was contradicted.  There was his soap in the shower next to the open, flowery-scented bottles that were Emma’s. A razor on the wash basin, a straight-edge with a shaving brush, stood solitary amidst the cosmetics.  Everything he needed, indeed. The soap was the same kind he’d gotten into the habit of using since the curse, from the washroom at the inn, with its clean scent of citrus and hint of spice.  

It mingled well with the open bottles that smelled like Emma.

He wrapped himself in a towel, a luxurious sheet of soft fabric that covered him past his knees, and dragged his thumb against a six-inch scar bisecting his abdomen.  The closet held boots and jackets and waistcoats; his brace and hook were on the table next to the bed. On the shelf was the chest he had carried with him on the Jolly Roger across the centuries.

And Emma Swan wore his brother’s ring on a chain around her neck.

There were pictures dotted on every surface, small miniatures depicting him or Swan or Henry or some combination of all three.  Pictures of himself and Charming, of Snow White and Emma, of the four of them together, of the wedding-- his wedding.  To Emma Swan.

Hook had never given much thought to the future.  He had lived the majority of his unnaturally long life with only one goal and a single-minded focus on its achievement.

He had never seen a sunset so perfect.

Hook dressed himself, buckling his brace and selecting a blue shirt and a black waistcoat and, after a moment of hesitation, a jacket.  Clothing was armor. It was the facade he chose to show to the world. He had never been less certain of what a day might bring in his entire life and he did not intend to face it in nothing more than the low-slung trousers of soft fabric in which he had awoken.

And a gentleman would never parade himself about in a state of undress.

“Hey, sailor!”  Emma’s voice easily carried up to where he stood.  In their bedroom.  “Breakfast is ready!”

nine.

  She was angry.

That was an emotion with which Killian was intimately familiar.  Hers, and his--because the Darkness had left its mark upon each of them.  Killian’s already-short fuse was, occasionally, shorter than it ever had been.  Emma sometimes retreated behind walls that were taller than ever. They fought it as they had everything else--together--and kept the same rules, always:  always talk to each other. If that didn’t work, then talk to someone else.  

And when all else failed, there was Archie, who called it “post-traumatic stress disorder”.

“Fucking post-traumatic savior disorder, more like,” Emma always said, her body brimming with frustration.  But her hand didn’t shake anymore and that was, itself, a victory.

Somehow, they got through it.  Together.

But all of that was to come much later.

For now, Emma Swan was angry, and she repeated her question.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Killian watched her, calculating the best way to answer her question.  Honestly, for a start.

“My name is Killian Jones,” he said, and her eyes narrowed, assessing him, until she nodded.

“Killian Jones who suddenly learned what Netflix is?” she asked.

It was her favorite movie.  He could practically recite it as well as she could at this point.

“Killian Jones who has had more opportunity to familiarize himself with Netflix, yes.”  He smirked. “And all of the pleasures of ‘Netflix and chill’.”

Emma rolled her eyes.

“I’m not the Killian Jones with whom you are currently acquainted,” he admitted.

Emma’s hand went to her forehead.  “What the actual fuck?” 

He wanted to reach for her hand.  He wanted to, but he didn’t. “I can’t properly say, but I woke up this morning in our--in your family’s loft.  That is not where I went to sleep last night. I fell asleep in my own bed, in my own home.” With his wife, whom he missed more and more.  It wasn’t--

She didn’t--

It wasn’t Emma , he realized.  She was exactly as he remembered, and he loved her now just as he had done then  It was the way his fingers itched, and his sudden understanding of why.

“Holy shit,” Emma muttered.  “You’re--”

“From the future,” he finished.  “Aye.” He rubbed his finger against his ring--the wrong ring--to stop himself reaching for her hand.

“When?” Emma said.

“I really shouldn’t say,” Killian hedged.  “Several years from now.”

“You’re still in Storybrooke?  You--you stayed, in Storybrooke?”

It was the Darkness again, or rather the magic that had come with it.  Though he had no aptitude and even less interest, he retained just enough of it that he could feel her, his Emma, because of the bonds they shared.  Like a warm sunlight against his skin, nothing more, but he had gotten so used to it that he felt chilly in the shade.  The feeling was enhanced by physical contact.

Only this body had not yet been subject to the Darkness.  

And this Emma did not--yet--love him.  Not the way she would; not the way she did .

“Aye,” he said, looking directly at her.  “I’m still in Storybrooke. My entire life is here.”

His Emma loved to touch; she needed it almost as much as he did.  Their fingers intertwined, her body flush against him as they walked, her hand splayed against his chest as they lay on the couch or in their bed, against his heart.  As though she needed to remind herself--to remind both of them--that it was still there, and still beating.

Her eyes widened for an instant before she looked away.  She seemed suddenly uncomfortable.

He cleared his throat.  “Listen to me, love,” Killian said.  “You and I, we’ve done this part before.  Just answer me: Am I telling you a lie? Because I’d rather not have to do the whole bit with the flying monkey and the brig to prove to you I am who I say I am.”

“David doesn’t have bologna,” Emma said, and Killian could hear acceptance in her words, perhaps with a hint of a smile.

“A fact for which I remain eternally grateful,” Killian said.

She smirked.

He smiled.

“So,” she said.  “If you’re here, then my Hook--”  She blushed and cleared her throat and started again.  “The Hook from this time is--where?  There? Where you came from?”

He shrugged.  It was the most likely explanation.

“And you’re not, like, I don’t know,”  Emma said, “worried? Upset?”

He shrugged again.  “Why should I be?”

“And that’s it?”  She was incredulous.  “You’re just going to, what, stay here?”

“I could give you a ‘hope’ speech, if you want.  I’ve got a fair few memorized by now.” He laughed.  “Let’s just say, darling, that you and I always get back to each other in the end.”

In New York, in Camelot, in the Underworld, in Neverland.

Always.

That’s what it meant to be True Love--capital ‘T’, capital ‘L’--to not give up, to never stop looking.  To always make the choice, and choose each other.

“You’re wrong, you know,” Killian said.  “He is yours. If you believe nothing else, believe that.”

She bit her lip and looked out the window.  “I believe you,” she whispered.

[katlyn1948]

Only Human: Part 5 “A Newfound Family”

So I lied, there are going to be six parts, but I don’t think you guys are going to be too mad at me for that. As I was writing this part, I decided to add a character that some may or may not know and it ended up getting the better of me and it became too long for my liking, meaning I split it into two. So the last part will be up tomorrow (I hope. I work during the week, so I only really get to write during the weekend, so we will see) and it will be amazing! Anyway, I hope you guys like!

A quite humming rang though Arya’s chambers. She was rocking the new born babe to sleep, faintly humming a song she heard Ser Podrick sing right before the battle. Jenny of Old Stones, Arya had remembered. It was a pleasant tune and she had thought it would be perfect for the babe to fall asleep to.

It had been three moons since Bella was born and Arya couldn’t be more in love with the small child. She had always said she would never give any man children, but the thought of Bella being Gendry’s made Arya’s heart flutter. It was a strange felling to love something so fiercely. It had been a different kind of love than the one she had for Gendry. This love was so much more intense. She had felt as if her world would stop if anything were to happen to her. She kne w she would protect the babe as long as breath was in her lungs.

The bond she had made with Bella had not come easily. For the first moon, the babe would do nothing but cry, not matter how much Arya comforted her. It had worried her and she seeked advice from Sienna. She was assured that some bonds take longer to create between mother and child, especially a mother so young and new.

Bella also had a hard time latching to Arya. Aside from the day she was born, Bella would not want to suckle from Arya’s breast. It was out of sure hunger that the babe would finally latch, but it without fight. Arya was sure she was doing something wrong, and with no wet nurse on the ship, she had no choice but to nurse the babe. Sienna had told Arya that the babe’s could feel the unsureness of a new mother, and the more Arya feared, the more Bella would refuse.

By the time the second moon rolled around, Arya had finally heeded Sienna’s advice and the bond between mother and daughter was created. Arya couldn’t stand to be away from Bella, but she trusted Sienna and Alyse to care for the babe when she was above deck manning her ship.

They had made a good heading, sailing faster than usual. Arya wanted to make it back to Westeros before Bella had turned four moons. She the longer she stayed away, the harder it would be for her explain the situation. Her first and only stop would be Storm’s End. She had to return to Gendry and to apologize for everything that she had put him through. She also wanted him to know his daughter and to love her as much as she loved her.

Aries did not complain about the change in course and her crewmen were more than happy to return to land. By the time they were to reach Storm’s End, it would have made the journey on the seas nearly nine moons. That was a long time to be at sea without seeing one shred of evidence that land existed beyond Westeros and Essos.

Arya had assured her crewmen that they would be compensated as soon as they made land, giving a lighthearted atmosphere on the boat. It was better than the near mutiny that threaten to happen just six moons prior.

Donovan, Aries’ lover, had also taken a liking to the babe. He was a shy and timid thing and could do no damage to even a fly. Bella has been the first babe he had seen since his sister gave birth his nephew, 10 years ago. And it seemed Bella had enjoyed Donovan’s company. She took a liking to him almost immediately. Arya had believed that she liked him more than her at times and all Donovan could do was give Arya a mischievous smile.

Most of her crewmen had grown to love the babe. Bella had nearly a hundred or so men and women dedicated to protecting the babe of anything that may come to harm her. It was a family they had; a family that Arya had grown to love. And although she was grateful for her crewmen, she couldn’t help but feel a bit empty. She loved this family, but she wished for her own, with the man that she loved and left behind.

It was the night before they were supposed to make port at Griffin’s Roost. Aries has assured Arya that they were on the right course and the dock would be visible by morn. The rest of the ship was celebrating the incoming land. Port and ale were being sloshed around and the horrid voices of men rang out in dreadful tunes.

Arya had decided to pass on the festivities and spend her time with her babe. The song she hummed out had tired the babe, but her deep blue eyes were still open. Arya decided to tell her daughter about her father and how much Arya loved him.

“He is going to adore you, little one. She will cherish and love you until the end of his days,

I know it. He’s brave and kind and stubborn. Sometimes I fear that you will be the most stubborn of us all. I cannot wait to see his eyes once the fall upon you. In just a few days, you’ll meet him and he’ll be your favorite, even more so than Donovan.” Arya noticed Bella’s eyes flutter close, her chest rising and falling steadily.

Arya smiled and clutched the babe to her chest, wondering how Gendry would take the news.

*********

Gendry left King’s Landing as swiftly as he came. He’d only stayed a few days after the Dragon Pit council, hoping he would be able to speak to her. He was desperate to speak to her. After their last conversation, he needed to make things clear; to apologize for being a stupid bull. He never meant to jeopardize their friendship, and if he hadn’t been drunk that night, then maybe he still have a friend to talk to.

He tried on three separate occasions, only to be met with her back running away from him. He wanted to try a forth, but Ser Davos had advised against it. He had assured Gendry that if the lass wanted to speak to him, she would come.

On his last day in King’s Landing, he decided to head to the forge. His nerves were getting the better of him and he needed to blow off his frustrations before they rode for the Stormlands. His fears were justified. He had no idea how to run a smithy, so how in the seven hells was he supposed to run a kingdom? He had Ser Davos, but with him being Master of Ships to King Bran, he could only stay in Storm’s End for a short amount of time. He was truly alone in this and that’s what terrified him.

All day he was in the forge, and for the last two hours he couldn’t help but shake the feeling that someone was watching him. He suspected that Arya was lurking somewhere in the shadows, but was too cowardly to acknowledge her presence. So, he kept on forging, hoping that she would greet him one last time.

When she didn’t, and Ser Davos came to fetch him he nodded and cleaned himself up to ready for the ride the next day.

He didn’t go to the dock. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to feel all of the emotions he had tried so hard to suppress to bubble back up to the surface. It was hard for him to do, but a necessary action that needed to be taken. He was going to forget about Arya Stark and move on with his life, at least he hoped he would.

The ride from King’s Landing to Storm’s End took no more than three days.

Gendry hadn’t expected the castle to be as big as it was. It was completely massive and intimidated the young lad. How was he supposed to rule that? How were the people going to take him? For years they had Renly Baratheon as their leader, and now a bastard of Robert Baratheon came to claim the lands.

That was petrifying to say the least. Gendry could only hope the people of the Stormlands would accept him, much like they accepted Orys Baratheon, a bastard himself.

Gendry and Ser Davos rode up to the gate of Storm’s End and were greeted with nothing more than welcoming people. They were happy that a Baratheon had returned to lead them; a Baratheon that reminded them so much of the late Renly himself.

Cheers had erupted, and Gendry couldn’t help but have a smile on his face. He looked over to Ser Davos, who also had a smile on his face. They were welcomed and it felt nice to feel wanted.

They dismounted their horses and greeted the people, shaking hands with strangers. As each new person came up to greet their new Lord Paramount, they recited their name and title and what they did around the castle. Gendry made a mental note to learn everyone who would be working in the castle. He wanted to make sure that everyone here would feel just as important as the next.

A feast was also held for the new Lord and it carried well into the night. And even though he was drunk off of ale and happy on life, Gendry wanted to explore his new home. He wanted to learn every orifice, every stone, and door. He wanted to learn the castle inside and out. His first place would be the Round Hall. According to Ser Davos it’s where the liege lords of the Stormlands would come to meet once a moon to discuss important manners that were happening in the lands. He wanted to become accustomed to it, for he believed he would be spending a rather large amount of time in there.

He opened the large oak doors and noticed the Round Hall was lit with small candles. Someone else was here, he could feel it. Although he had a bit of ale; too much for the likes of Ser Davos, he became alert and ready with his had on his sword.

He rounded a corner and noticed a woman just a few year older than he, sitting at a long table with her legs propped up. She was twirling and fork in one hand and a goblet of wine in the other.

“Who are you?” Gendry asked. His words were slightly slurred.

The woman looked up from her goblet and gave Gendry a sly smile.

“It is about time you showed up. I’ve been waiting for hours. If it weren’t for the chambermaids, I would have starved.”

Gendry shook his head, trying to clear his vision. He wasn’t sure if it was the ale playing tricks or the way the lighting was in the hall, but the woman in front of him looked exactly like him. She had the same striking blue eyes and her hair was as black as coal.

The woman noticed his shocked face and scoffed, “Oh, don’t look too surprised. You honestly believed that you were Robert Baratheon’s last living bastard? Well, I hate to disappoint you, but you’re looking at his first bastard. Mya Stone, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, little brother.” She reached out her hand for a Gendry to shake.

He stared at it for a while before taking it swiftly and giving it a firm shake.

“Mya Stone, you said?” He asked as he made his way to sit at the table she had arose from. His head was a little fuzzy and he didn’t trust his feet to keep him up right for much longer.

“Well, I suppose it’s Baratheon now.” She said. She returned to her seat and took another swing from her goblet.

“Baratheon? But how?” Everything was more of mess than Gendry thought.

“About a moon ago, I received a letter from his man or whatever, named Bran. There I was minding my own business waiting for some poor unfortunate soul who would need a guide up the Eyrie, when a black raven landed right in front of me with a scroll. It told me that I had a brother who was legitimized and was now the new Lord of Storm’s End. The letter said to make my way to the Stormlands, so I did. And here you are. Then I got another letter three days ago from this Bran, who is now the King of the bloody six kingdoms, saying that he legitimized me as well!” She recounted her story.

Gendry took an empty wine goblet and filled it the expensive port. Everything was still so confusing and wasn’t sure if wanted to hear the rest.

“So, you just did what a letter said to do? What if it was a trap, or something?” Gendry questioned her.

Mya scoffed, “I worked on a mountain for most of life, not knowing if I would live to see the next day. It really couldn’t have gotten any worse.”

“Right. So why are you here again.” Gendry took another sip.

“Oh! So the letter said that you may need help with Lordy things. Whatever that means. All I know is that I can read and write and he said you may need help in that area, so here I am, ready to help my brother, the lord.” She said with a laugh.

Gendry couldn’t help but laugh along with her. He was hoping that all of this was real and not some sick dream his mid decided to play to torment him. With Ser Davos leaving in just a weeks time, he needed all the help he could get, especially if it was someone that was his blood.

When Gendry woke the next morning, with his head in a wooden table and an empty goblet of wine in his hand, he had realized that it was not a dream and he did have a sister to help him along the way.

Ser Davos didn’t seem as surprised by the whole ordeal as much as Gendry had been. He knew Robert and had know about his affairs. It would make sense that he would have a bastard older than Gendry living in the world.

As the moons progressed, Mya and Gendry began to make good work in Storm’s End. They were working in tandem to make it the once grand kingdom it was before. Along the way, they got to know each other. Gendry learned about Mya’s life and how she had lived in the Vale. She told him of the vague memories that she had of their father and how he would visit her daily while she was just a small child, but after the rebellion, he would stop seeing her altogether.

Gendry reciprocated his tale to her. He had told her of his mother and her early death and how he became a smith’s apprentice. He then told her of the killing of the bastards and how he narrowly escaped being murdered. Then he began to tell her of Arya and their many adventures.

Mya had noticed the way Gendry’s eyes lit up whenever he mention this Arya woman to her. He looked like a love sick child, only making Mya smile more. He told her everything, even down to the rejection she had cast upon him.

Mya’s heart ached for her brother, and although they hadn’t know one another long, she couldn’t stand to see her brother in pain.

“How are you doing now? Do you still miss her?” She asked him one night after he had recounted his time with her. They were sitting by a fire in a large common room; a storm raging on outside. It was a rather large storm and Gendry believed that it was across the entire country.

“Aye, I still miss her. Everyday it think about her. I don’t know if she is ever coming back, but I hope she does.” He confessed to her.

“And what will you do if she does? What if she comes here? Are you afraid she will break your heart again?” She questioned.

“I love her, Mya. If she come walking into Storm’s End at this very moment, I would run to her and grab her in my arms and kiss her with all my might. I would never let her go, and if she tells me that she isn’t done exploring, then I will wait for her some more.” Gendry raised his goblet that he had in his hand and chugged the remaining contents.

“You sound like a hopeless romantic, little brother.” Mya scoffed

Gendry smiled and the new found siblings laughed through the night.

They had many nights like that, just sitting and talking. It was comfort for the both of them, considering each had never really had a family.

More moons passed and they began to fall into a familiar pattern. Each month, Gendry would meet with his liege lords while Mya would listen. She would hear all the concerns and squabbles that the men talked about. It was a rather boring experience and something the Mya didn’t look forward to once the new moon rolled around. For last eight moons, Gendry had been at the helm of the meetings, but this moon was different. A complaint in a near by town of the Stormlands had taken the Lord Paramount off of the castle grounds, leaving Lady Mya Baratheon in charge.

She was in the Round Hall siting on the throne atop of the dais listening to absolute nonsense.

“For the last time, Lord Estermont, my brother is not getting married! At least not any time soon. So please stop trying to make matches for him.” Mya sighed.

“I understand that, Lady Mya, but Storm’s End needs an heir. If your brother does not produce one, will you?” He questioned.

Mya stood from the throne and walked down the small steps to meet Lord Estermont’s eyes. “Let me make this as clear as I can. My brother, nor myself, will be producing any heirs in the near future. Have I made myself understood?”

Her voice was calm, but there was edge to it that could cut through any man.

Lord Estermont knew better than to press the situation. He gulped and nodded his head in understanding.

“Good. Are there any other complaints? No? Perfect! Meeting adjourned. We will see you lads come the next moon.” Mya scurried from the Round Hall as soon as she could. Being in a room with stuffy old men was tiring and she didn’t want to be in there any longer.

She nearly ran down the stairs and headed towards the kitchens to grab a midday meal. But before she could reach the hall that lead her to the kitchens, a young squire boy had stopped her.

“Lady Baratheon?”

Mya turned to see Harold, one of the cooks sons. He was squiring to Maester Jorren. He had the poor lad running all around the castle doing his bidding.

“Yes, Harold?” Mya asked annoyed.

“There is a party of five outside the castle gates. They wish to enter and one, I believe the leader, has asked to speak with the Lord.” He said timidly.

“Did they state their purpose besides wanting to speak to my brother?” She asked the squire.

He shook his head. Mya sighed and followed the boy out to the courtyard. All she wanted was to grab a meal and head to the training grounds to practice her war hammer skills. Gendry had suggested it and she didn’t complain.

Harold let Mya outside to the guest at the main gate. The guards had let them in, realizing that they were harmless. As she approached them closer, she noticed that the group was compiled of two men and three women. The woman leading the group gently hopped from her horse and landed on the ground with grace. Mya could see she was being more cautious than necessary and that’s when she noticed the small babe strapped to the woman’s chest.

[crqstalite]

sidereal. [andronikos && mierrio]

(adjective: glittering with gold and silver)

i did another kotfe chapter. because i finally accidentally saw the andronikos reunion and wanted to cry. a man who hijacks ships to find you again, is the best man in the whole damn galaxy.

oh, and mierrio got a redesign! here’s her pinterest board <<

written: 9.11.19. words: 4,453

════ ⋆★⋆ ════ character song: in the end, 2wei ft. edda hayes

character file: mierrio revel, darth nox.

-

"what was that?" mierrio's ears perk up once the conversation becomes quieter, and a certain word stands out to her, and raises from where she was sitting. "you've found what?"

"we captured one of the raiding pirates recently. i believe hylo's with him. i intend to go and question him in but a moment." pretta answers, lazily flickering an eye over to her as she glares at kal and theron, who are both looking quizzically at a datapad.

mierrio doesn't particularily like the imperial chiss, but since she'd been recruited to the alliance after the war that separated her from her crew, she's learned to listen and accept orders. well, that's a small white lie, mierrio doesn't follow anyone's rules but her own. that's an even bigger lie, only she and pretta butt heads as much as she and kal do. typically over the smallest things, but mierrio still finds her rather annoying with how she preaches imperial tactics to them. the sith in question couldn't care less about the state of the war at this point, and makes it known with her offhanded comments. mierrio has overheard the barsen'thor and colonel speaking at length about her controversial decisions. she figures there may be a mutiny soon if kal doesn't take over again.

and everyone tends to forget she is sith, after she shaved her hair with an undercut in a fit of anger before she went awol and left the rest atop her head. she doesn't wear the robes of the sith anymore either, a spacer jacket and greaves finished off with a pilfered belt and combat boots, she's figuring no one from her old life would recognize her. at least, not until she shocks the life out of some poor zakuulan and they all spontaneously recall that yes, she can still murder you with a double bladed lightsaber and magenta lightning in pilot's armor.

the wrath does, however. she'd been brought back to her (pitiful) existence after marr's ship combusted. thankfully (thankfully?), they don't fight nearly as much as they once did. separated from her imperial fanatic of a husband (by the stars, the man's ideals would fit in nicely with lana's, but his personality would drive them all up the wall), her own morals have come into question. she rarely if ever fights with the double bladed swords at her hips and has chosen to take up duel wielding pistols. (she still uses the force, maybe more than she used to, and is better for cover fire than actually aiming at things. she's a horrid shot.) she raises an eyebrow before continuing to levitate a few crates for the brunette mercenary and heading away. "a pirate?"

"that's what i said, yes." pretta reaffirms as her grip on her own datapad visibly strengthens as theron steps ever closer to the other azure agent. "i can't figure why he's important though. he won't talk."

"that's a bit odd. doubt it's from my days." hyrenne says, musing as she leans against pretta, snaking her arms around her waist. pretta visibly shivers and steps out of the togruta female's grasp. the bronze female frowns, but regulating herself to stand next to the commander instead. hyrenne was rather touchy with the commander, and clearly made her uncomfortable.

and had yet to be told off directly. or stop. "i didn't spend much time with pirates."

"yes, i'm aware." pretta deadpans, as she continues on.

"most surrounded myself with sith, fallen jedi, sometimes the occasional spacer-"

"-and your husbands, yes we know this story already, hyrenne." the passing colonel says, rolling her eyes as she pulls off her helmet (the woman has as much hair as a wampa, and just a thick from the looks of it). as much as mierrio would like to say something snippy, she doesn't because the soldier has a point. everyone on base knows this story, how she'd romanced a sith, and then a fallen jedi, and then they'd fallen for each other. it's a rather boring and clipped story, and she's praying hyrenne didn't either force herself on two gay men, or her husbands are very fictional.

well, hoping is a strong word. lana and tri'ama technically owe her twenty credits each if they don't hear from the men in the next two years.

"hmph. well, i didn't tie myself down before i nearly died, so it's fine." she grins, as pretta looks away very quickly. it's been like this for a long while, and hyrenne hasn't yet gotten the hint pretta is not lesbian or interested.

"is there anything special about this pirate that made you take him in?" mierrio speaks up over whatever the ignorant togruta was about to say. pretta looks nearly relieved by the distraction as mierrio's heart begins to quicken as she reminds herself to slow down and reason. it couldn't be him, not after all this time away.

"he's been a thorn in our side for much too long. we believe this is the ringleader we've been attempting to catch for maybe a year now. i might as well go now if you're so curious." she says, quickly stepping out of the two foot radius that hyrenne has nearly locked her in. she nearly looks grateful as hyrenne ambles away. "let me gather my things, yes?"

there was no time left for discussion as pretta nearly bolted out the door and down the hall, presumably to her own quarters. mierrio figured she was ready for travel, lightsaber clipped to her belt (rather hidden with her blaster), and zipped her jacket up the front. maybe she should put on her gloves, to keep her hands from chafing on the blasted thing.

but as much as she tries to distract herself from the thought, she wonders if she's coming full circle. biting down on her lip, she tries to think about space, about everything that needs to be done, about trade contracts. about what she's going to eat for dinner today, anything but the pirate she's coming face to face with. anything but the hope that it's him.

anything but. how she needs a small shave along the undercut, how she needs to brush out the smaller hairs so that it doesn't look as if she has wind burn. how she should start doing her makeup again because she has the time and she's not fighting an empire anymore. how maybe she can start doing gold accents in her armor again.

how maybe she doesn't need that knife anymore.

how she doesn't need to think about how her face felt against his rough jawline.

how she doesn't need to think about how it felt to be back to back with him, firing lightning out of her fingertips as easily as he could shoot point blank and take down a row of fighters. how her pale face could be covered in blood from stars knew where and he'd still kiss her roughly before carting her off to bed. how it didn't matter what had happened the day before, but he'd still tell her he loved her.

her feet are still carrying her towards the landing pad, but she's a million light years away.

"what're you planning, andronikos?" she asks, a questioning look in her eyes. she's curious, as he shuts the door behind her and the stars twinkle back at her through the viewport. "you've been rather spontaneous lately."

"i've been spontaneous, yeah?" he asks, his gruff voice sending shivers up her spine as she turns to face the pirate. "just you wait."

mierrio's rarely if ever scared when he plans odd things like this. he claims the spot as the only man in the galaxy she trusts fully. pacing closer to him, she's stopped as he presses a button near the door.

and she's weightless.

gravity has ceased to function in the cockpit as she nearly shrieks in fear, crying out as her feet leave the ground. she rolls forward by accident as she foolishly tries to get a hand on the ground. andronikos has the nerve to chuckle through her confusion. "and how long have you known the fury had this function?" she says breathlessly, trying to reaffirm she's just fine and won't float out of arm length of her husband.

"while i was poking around the engine compartment." he says, reaching out for her as propels himself forward, lacing hands with her as he passes by. "by accident, at first. this time, completely on purpose."

she rolls her eyes, but sinks into him. if anything, it calms her rather quickly, finally having an anchor in the madness. "and what exactly are you trying to prove, other than that i don't know my own ship?"

"beats me. just a little fun i wanted to poke at you." he answers as she raises her gaze to his eyes. his joking face fades just a bit, but his features still soften. "happy anniversary, sith."

she grins. he had remembered, and she'd spent the day wondering whether he'd forgotten. (given, she had until two days ago) "happy anniversary to you too, you lunk-headed pirate." she says sarcastically as she laughs herself, moving her arms from where they'd been grasping his forearms to around his neck.

"what, don't like your gift?"  he asks teasingly, his hands wandering further up from where they were resting around her waist. he knows she adores anything he retrieves for her (she never explicitly stated that included making her float like a children's balloon, but she digresses.), and doesn't need the reassurance as much anymore. however, the self deprecation pokes through every so slightly sometimes.

"i love the gift, and i love you, andronikos." she says, giggling as they float in front of the viewport. it just barely mirrors them against the durasteel, her hair floating wildly about as her robes pool around her. this, is the only place in the galaxy she'd want to be. in the arms of her husband as he pulls some new stunt that just makes her love him more than she already did. "just warn me next time."

"good to know." he murmurs, before kissing her softly. "i love you, mierrio."

it's not the first time he's said it, but from the way he used to talk about being tied down to one location, one job, one occupation, one person. it made her nervous in the beginning as she tried to withdraw from the first relationship she'd ever had once she realized he was only using her. or so she thought.

she'd give anything to have their anniversary nights back. anything to have the feeling of safety, of warmth against her chest, around her again. to have his hands in her hair, to have his hands wandering her pale skin in search of her scars and bruises. to be able to wake up to his brown eyes instead of some cathar yelling marching orders in the morning (kal still won't provide her with her own quarters. she can't be held responsible if someone in their barracks -a certain captain jorgan- won't lose their head in a fit of force-fueled anger)

she shakes her head, trying to clear her mind and seem relaxed as pretta arrives, hair done back in a severe bun (mierrio's convinced she has gel on hand, or that chiss make it naturally) that shines in the sunlight. she's wearing her imperial uniform again (odd, considering she's no longer aligned with the empire; or so she says), and her red eyes are pinned on her as she walks in what seems like a military marching order. "are you ready to depart, my lord?"

"as i've said, you do not have to refer to me as such, commander." she says, checking her pockets in case she's left something important in the crew quarters. with nothing to be found but her fingerless gun gloves, she inhales and then exhales before falling in step with her, slipping them on. "let us go and question this radical."

"as you wish." she answers, quickly marching up the outstretched plank. both heading to the cockpit, pretta flicks on all the required flight switches as mierrio takes the pilot's seat. all the lessons received by him, did do her some good.

she wishes it were him in the co-pilot seat as she hears the engines roar to life. adjusting her hands on the controls, she's steels her emotions for the trip ahead.

mierrio prays that it's andronikos.

she tries to prepare herself for the fact that it may not be.

-

it's rather cold when they arrive, as she tightens her jacket around herself and re-adjusting her gloves. blowing a strand of hair out of her face, she tries slicking the dark hair back so that it doesn't get in her face while they are here..

nervous tics, here and there. pretta punches in the code to the ship, and they pass through the airlock, soldiers on either side of the door as pretta nods to them. they stand rigidly back in place, heads facing forward.

mierrio finds it odd, how she once had them at her mercy all those years ago. then they were the ones who took her in.

to say the least, the armored guards make her quite a bit jumpy as she hurries to catch up the alliance commander. "you said you may know this man?" pretta turns to her, vermillion red eyes locking onto her own amber orbs.

"i'm not sure." mierrio answers, blaster clanging against her lightsaber's hilt. "possibly."

"hmph." pretta gives a disapproving glance in her direction before choosing against saying something. "let me enter first, in case this turns violent."

"that may be a bit backwards, commander. shouldn't i go in first then?" she hurriedly asks as she can hear muffled conversation beyond the corner they were about to round. one of the lights flicker as she walks under it, and she rubs her hands against the thigh of her pant leg, trying to put out the literal nervous energy she's evoking.  "in case it is dangerous?"

"i'll fight my own battles, my lord." she retorts, holding her head high and cutting the conversation quick. mierrio tries to shrug it off before she says something that'll get her arrested, kicked from the alliance or both. or worse. mierrio's been threatened that way before, and as much as she despises this commander, she stays because she has nowhere else to go.

she hasn't even seen kavelle in the years past. her third and final apprentice before the eternal fleet attacked, she wonders where the girl ended up. possibly she met up with ashara, khem val or xalek after she'd heard of her so-called death. possibly she struck out on her own and carved a path through republic space.

or died in a fiery ball of a combustion.

the possibilities were endless.

"wait here." pretta stops her just before the last door, and presses a code in that mierrio just barely catches. the door slides open, awaiting her entrance. "let me speak to hylo and this pirate first."

but why? her subconciousness cries out before pretta disappears. her voice catches in her throat before she can stick her booted foot in the door, and it snaps shut in a comfirming snick. frowning, the door closes just as she catches a glance of the golden electrical fence, and two people standing inside. there's nothing much else to do other than wait for the commander's return, but childishly, she discreetly leans against the durasteel wall, hoping to catch their conversation.

she doesn't. it seems that though they were rather loud earlier, whoever is inside has quieted down.

"i'd never go down without a fight, especially if it meant getting you out alive sith."

her heart pangs in defeat. had andronikos gotten himself captured by accident? what if it had been wrongly, trying to protect someone he cared about?

the what ifs were going to drive her mad.

nipping at the exposed skin on her fingers, her nails graze the bruises on her nose and the freshly scarred cut along the cupid's bow of her lip. hissing in pain as she pulls the offending hand away, she paces around the checkpoint. she counts the steps it takes to get to the corner and back, she walks in time like how she'd seen the commander do so. she quizzes herself on the trade routes lana was bound to ask her about again, she tries to name everyone by their full name (she still doesn't remember the gruff golden twi'lek's name, nor does she remember she remember the mercenary's either). anything to get her mind off what was happening on the other side of those blast doors.

"and who's to say i won't miss you when you come back?" she remembers asking, holding him up as he limps back to the fury. "who's to say i won't hunt down who's killed you?"

"can't say i'll stop you." he chuckled, nearly doubling over coughing up his lungs, "whoever kills me should get a medal, then the death sentence."

maybe this is all because she needs to sleep more often. mierrio has been missing out on crucial sleeping hours, trying to get accustomed to the eternal empire's time, which is not imperial standard time, nor is republic standard time either. maybe it's the insomnia that plagues her. maybe it's the ghost of a chance she may get caught again by the imperials for her crimes.

maybe it's because on the off-chance that she can see her husband again, he may not recognize her after all that's happened.

after everything. after the nights alone, finding the fury nearly intact. but empty. devoid of laughter, devoid of love. devoid of emotion.

devoid of her family.

of ashara and xalek, who she feels that though only years separate them, that they've grown up as her children. slowly training them to be sith, to be as powerful as they possible can.

of khem val, who though their partnership started off rocky, trusted with her life. who she felt as if she could turn to at any point in her life, and one of the few people who could translate his dashade language.

of talos, who while odd, was always interested in holding conversation. obscure or otherwise, his personality brightened the fury when the others we gone.

of andronikos.

the door slides open again, and mierrio's stands up a bit straighter, pulling herself away from the wall so it didn't look nearly as suspicious as it once did. pretta looks rather agitated, and rubs her temples as the door remains open. "has something gone wrong, commander?"

"i am not fully sure who this man is, or why he is here. if you'd like to speak to him before i shoot him out the airlock, you may." pretta responds, visibly gritting her teeth as she tries putting herself back together. angry isn't typically the vibe she gives off, but whoever it was must've struck a nerve or annoyed her to no end. pretta doesn't have a threshold for stupidity or a capacity to be annoyed, so this person may not be andronikos.

her mood drops immediatly, facing that reality. that it may not be him, and she may have gotten her hopes up for nothing.

she's thirty four years old, not four, she shouldn't be trapped in this cycle of wanting and facing reality. "then i should be in and out."

"good. i've got things to do back on base." pretta says distractedly. "if you need hylo to leave, just ask her. torture him or whatnot, i don't intend to keep him."

a bit concerned for her commander's state of mental health, she walks through the door. it shuts behind her and that small noise propels her forward. no longer in a leisurely jog, she walks just a bit too fast for it to be normal. she can hear talking rather clearly now, and her heart picks up the pace as well.

annie.

"i ain't tellin' you nothin." she hears, and she rushes forward faster.

nikky.

she stops just before the door, hylo arguing back with him as the guardians nod at her, the electric door opening. hylo turns away from him for just a moment, frowning. "so then the commander sent you in to deal with him, yeah?"

mierrio intends to answer her first, but the shocked expression on andronikos' face is enough to make the words freeze on her lips. he shakes his head, like as if he's going mad. "i've seen enough ghosts for a lifetime..." he trails off.

"guessing you two know each other?" hylo questions again. mierrio barely wants to take her eyes off him long enough to nod. she's afraid if she stops acknowledging his existence, he'll be gone like it was a dream. the mirialan gives her an odd look before leaving, and then there they are.

alone together.

"i thought you were dead." is all he can manage to say, looking her up and down. "i thought i'd lost you."

mierrio reaches out for one of his hands, looking at the outstretched limb before really looking at him. her heart is beating out of her chest as she nearly cries. six years. six long years, and yet here he is. stubble is peaking out here and then, and new scars decorate his face. a new armor set that has dings here and there. "it's you. you came back for me." she whispers, lacing her fingers into his.

she's shaking as she makes this realization, other hand buzzing at her side with unrelenting energy. she's willing the lightning not to short out the lights in here as well. "i thought i'd never see you again."

he chuckles darkly, "i could say the same." he ruffles her hair affectionately, "didn't know you shaved it all off."

"things happen." mierrio responds, "i hadn't known you'd taken up piracy again."

"i didn't know you were with the eternal empire." he counters.

"alliance." she corrects him, "we're the alliance now."

"yeah." he's quiet for a moment, "you fit the bill, i guess."

"what's that supposed to mean?" she asks quizzically, knowing full well what he's talking about. a rebellious group warranted a change in his book apparently. well, in hers as well.

she doesn't want him to stop talking. what if she blinks, and he's gone?

"new hair, new style, new friends, new ship. it's a good look for you." she smiles, smoothing out her hair and running her sweaty fingertips through it. it does seem as if everything is new since the last time they'd seen each other. "hoping that means you don't have a new me somewhere out there too."

"never." she responds, tripping over the word to reassure him. replacing him is the furthest thing from her mind. nothing could fill the void that andronikos left in her life, in her heart. to think he'd suggest such an absurd thing, fills her with panic as she stutters through her thoughts. "i'd never replace you, andronikos." she pauses, putting her other hand in his. "we're in each other's orbits until the stars grow cold."

he seems surprised she still remembers that, eyes widening until they crinkle at the edges. that's new, possibly with age. it just makes her love him more, as a smile emerges among his features. "we're in each other's orbits until the stars grow cold." he repeats back to her. "i love you, mierrio."

"i love you too, andronikos." she says, before standing on her toes and embarassingly failing to reach his lips. she doesn't wear heeled boots like she once did, so the staggering height difference is increased. he chuckles, letting her suffer for a moment before bending just a bit to allow their lips to touch. mierrio hasn't been kissed in years, and they'd both be lying if they said they weren't quite a bit more aggressive than they needed to be. however, neither seems to care as their lips crash against one another again and again. she just can't get enough of her husband after being away from each other for so long. her body cries out to feel his touch again, shivers running up and down her spine. once they have to pull away to breathe, she speaks again "you'll never leave my side again, understood?"

"your wish is my command, my lord." he responds jokingly as she untangles herself from him. "when you cut your hair? it was so long before."

"little while before i got arrested." she says, attempting to avoid the conversation that's about to ensue. her little stint in piracy could be ignored for the moment. "we should get going."

"arrested? you?" he asks incredulously as he follows her out, hylo and pretta most likely on the other side of the blast doors. "my sith wife got arrested. on what charges?"

"we'll discuss this matter later, andronikos." she says, face heating.

"fine then." he shrugs, before planting another kiss on her lips before she opens the doors. "i'll never leave you again."

"that's good to hear." mierrio responds, sheepishly smiling at pretta when they azure agent turns to her from hylo. clearing her throat, she calms her racing heart for just a moment as andronikos waits just behind her. "we're taking him with us."

"what?" pretta cocks a suspicious eyebrow in confusion. "he's a prisoner of the eternal alliance."

"he's my husband." mierrio deadpans, stalking past them both as she takes andronikos' hand and heads back the way they'd come earlier towards the airlock. "refuse this, and you refuse me from the alliance."

hylo, nor pretta say anything on the return trip, allowing both her and andronikos to take the controls of the ship. they talk a lot on the round trip back, smiling and laughing as they explain the years in between their last talk. the scars they've gained, the laughs they've had, the times they've cried. the friends they've made and lost.

even once they reach base again, they're still talking long after hylo and pretta leave to go about business as usual. it's dark once they run out of things to say, andronikos' hands combing through what hair she has left, and her head laying against his chest as she sits atop him in the captain's chair. to hear his heart beat beneath her ears, it feels good. it feels like the last few years have just been a collective fever dream, and that any time she'll wake up on the fury.

but, she'll make the most of what's happening now. she has her husband back, and life continues on. whatever happens, the revels will be here for it.

i love you, more than anything.

[raylendaerthe]

The Birth of a Conscript

Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

The venerable Kaldorei sat cross-legged before the fire-pit, embers floating up into the cool, breezy night sky of the Khaz mountains. He’d departed from from Ironforge not three days prior, riding tirelessly through day and night. His only reason for stopping was because unlike himself, Dutchess, the the golden-haired mare he’d procured from an old friend, needed sleep. The horse slept quietly by the wayside of a downed tree, curled up on itself to preserve heat in the chilly mountain pass.

Raylen always thought too damned much, or so he told himself.

The pretension of the claim didn’t escape him, but he didn’t believe he was wrong for asserting it. Despite his greatest attempts in his insomnia-filled nights, he couldn’t stop himself from meticulously going over every minute detail that brought him to this very moment.

“Well, it all started when I was born. Everything sort of went downhill after that point.” he’d envision himself saying to some superbly analytical psychiatrist, stretched out on one of those couches. The thought made a smirk rise at the corners of his lips as he stared blankly into the fire, sipping from his tin mug.

Aredin Hamilton was a name that kept rising to the forefront of his mind as he looked back. Raylen hated the bastard, or so he told himself. It all really started with him, his life was just peachy before the smug human came along, according to him.. He replayed the events in his head like a moving picture.

It was on the coast of Stranglethorn Vale not five years ago, about a days’ sail from Booty Bay. It was the Saintess’ hundred and fiftieth voyage, on the nose. Raylen loved that ship like a father would love a daughter. Protective, prideful, and a little bit egotistical. Or a lot. The Galleon was not averse to any type of deal, though most at the time were legal and legitimate.

This was not one of those times.

“I’m tellin’ ya’. Easy gig.” the goblin, Greez claimed boisterously. “And it’s a lotta’ gold. Unless you’re tellin’ me yer bucket can’t handle it?”

That was enough to seal the deal for the dark-skinned and prideful Ship Captain.

Raylen grimaced at the thought. Looking back on it, it was so clear how that ego fucked him over. Hindsight is always 20/20. The fire sparked and snapped as he threw another log onto it. The near-black purple hue of his skin made him look like a living shadow against the glow of the fire.

From all angles, it -was- a simple job. It was a lot of spice to be moved, sure, but how often did policing vessels hail transport ships, let alone come aboard and inspect cargo? Booty Bay was a sailor’s haven. They went through rum faster than water there, so what question would there be when a transport galleon with a squeaky clean record was hired to carry eight-thousand bottles of the stuff there? The rum was on his ship, of course. There just also happened to be a pound of very potent, very illegal substance vacuum sealed tight, floating within each bottle.

It was simple job. The only thing the Goblin failed to mention was the SI:7 operative hot on his heels, and that he dared not step foot out of the city because of that.

So when the Alliance-flagged vessel hailed them and climbed aboard his ship, he didn’t sweat it. It was likely routine, he thought. His first mate, a bald man with a moustache named Hastings, looked on grimly. He was an absolute mountain of muscle, only a head shorter than Raylen’s 7’6.

“Don’ like it, Cap. Not a fuckin’ lick of it.” he’d say, spitting his dip into a nearby bucket.

Raylen had met Hastings not long after the Kaldorei joined the Alliance. Both having a natural inclination to the seas, they’d found each other quite the team as they started as mere deck swabs, eventually working their way up to first mates of separate crews. Hastings’ Captain began slaving after a while, much to the dismay of the crew who eventually mutinied. By then, Ray had bought the Saintess and offered the moustached man a position as his first mate. He was the only man Raylen had ever truly trusted with his life, and had personally saw to the plan of making the voyage alongside the Captain.

“You worry too much, Haste. It’s probably protocol.” Raylen fired back, a friendly and welcoming (and very fake) smile plastered on his face as the Crown’s lackeys climbed aboard.

Raylen grimaced at the memory, the image of that bastard Hamilton setting foot on his ship. The Elf should’ve pulled his gun and ended him there. Hindsight is always 20/20.

“I want to see permits, passenger records and cargo listings.” the greyed human ordered at Raylen. He looked back at his subordinates. “Question the crew. I’m going to have a friendly chat with the Captain here.” his smug smile always made the elf’s blood boil, despite all that the two had been through since.

“Of course, Agent. Why don’t we step inside my quarters? I’ve got a bottle of whiskey older than the Kingdoms that I’ve been meaning to share.” He’d shoot back charismatically, gesturing him in.

The door closed behind them and Raylen would stroll gracefully over to his desk, flipping through a drawer and pulling forth a manila envelope. “Passenger and cargo manifest is all in here, as well as commercial permits and voyage records. For your leisure.” he’d kick back in his chair, crossing his legs and pouring two scotch glasses full of bourbon so ancient that the labeling was long deteriorated.

“Cut the bullshit, Captain. I know you’re running contraband for that scummy goblin Greez.” Hamilton barked, leaning over the table, not even glancing at the files.

Raylen offered a shrug, sliding a scotch glass over to him and bringing the other to his lips. “If the Alliance has outlawed liquor then this is the first time hearing about it. Good luck finding supporters if that’s the case.” he’d say with a snicker.

Aredin stared him down. “I know there’s spice aboard this vessel.” he’d proclaim, looking through the logs. “But you keep a meticulous record, Mr….. D’aerthe.” he’d pronounce awkwardly, a sudden warm smile climbing to his lips. “So you’re free to go, once we check inside one of your crates. My boys should be hauling it up right now. Shall we?”

There it was again, that damned smile. From that moment on, it had always unnerved the Elf. He’d nod, still convincing in his facade.

“After you, Agent.” he’d say, holding open the door and walking back out to the deck. Two Agents were wrenching open the lid of a crate with crowbars while Hastings stood surrounded by the rest of the crew, looking ready to twist heads off. The lid screamed off as the nails pulled free, and Aredin would approach to peer inside, squinting.

“Hmm. Black label. Greez has got expensive tastes.” Aredin mused after pulling out a bottle and running it over his hands. The bottle was a peerless black, masking the insides well.

Raylen offered a shrug. “Guess so. He’s a Goblin after all.”

“That he is.”

Aredin looked over the bottle a moment longer, the silence lingering just barely long enough to charge the air. He’d look up at Ray with another smile, holding the bottle out for him to take. “Well! You run a tight ship, Captain. I appreciate your compliance.”

Raylen offered his fake smile again “Of course, Agent.” he’d say, reaching out to grab ahold of the bottle, though Aredin still held it tight in his grip.

“Just one more thing Agent.” Aredin piped. Ray’s smile was wavering. “I’d be happy to take you up on that drink. But I’m more of a rum guy myself. Mind if we crack open one of these bad boys and have a drink?”

“Sorry Agent. This is private property, and not mine at that. What kind of reputation would I have if I delivered seven-thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine bottles of Black Label instead of eight-thousand? The number is far too unattractive.”

Aredin narrowed his eyes at the Captain, then turned to see Hastings staring daggers. The first mate spat on the deck of the ship as they made eye contact.

In a flash of movement, the bottle would explode into a thousand shards of glass against Hastings’ head, the man howling and clutching his bloodied face as Aredin stood in front of him, the neck of the bottle still clutched in his grip. White powder exploded across the deck of ship like a fine snow in the tropical heat.

Aredin snapped out a blade, the tip pressing gently into the first mate’s throat. “Agent’s, arrest these men. Any of them try and run, kill them.”

“Wait!” the Elven Captain howled, holding a hand up. Aredin darted forward and pressed the blade against his throat now.

“Good work Captain. You just bought all these men a life sentence.”

“They didn’t know!” he’d yell into the Agent’s face, hands held out to his sides.

Aredin narrowed his eyes. “What the fuck are you trying to say, Captain?”

“The deal was only between me and Greez. His men in the city packed the stuff, the crew loaded the boxes none the wiser. None of them were in on it,” the captain rattled off machine gun fast, staring steadfast at Hamilton.

The Agent scoffed. “What a load of bullshit.” Raylen would narrow his eyes.

“My records and logs are squeaky clean, as are the records of my entire crew. They’re honest people, thinking they were doing honest work. You have no evidence that anyone is culpable but me, Agent.”

Aredin stared at the Captain for a long moment. Hastings looked at Ray like he’d seen a ghost.

“Captain, what the fuck are you doi-”

“I know, Hastings. I’m sorry I lied to you. You asked me the day you signed up if this work was honest, and I lied.” Despite the bleakness of the situation, Ray mentally patted himself on the back for his performance.

A flash of stars blurred his vision as he fell to his knees, blood dripping from Hamilton’s blade hilt.

“Get him in chains. Send Antheron to commandeer the vessel along with the crew back to Stormwind.”

Another sharp burst of pain to the back of his head and his vision went black.

He’d remembered it like it was yesterday, and the stirred thoughts brought him to action. The Kaldorei quickly gathered up the saddlebag, rousing Dutchess. The mare huffed out a breath as she woke, climbing back to her hooves as he tied the saddle snuggly around her. And just like that, he was off, horse cantering along the mountain path beneath him as the sun began to cast a fiery orange hue across the Aerie sky. Raylen was far too tired of idle reminiscing.

Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

[punk-in-docs]

You Were Always Mine, Chapter 12

AU Tom Hiddleston - Romantic, Historical Romance, Victorian Fic. 
Based off the imagine; ‘Thomas spying on you after your divorce and doing anything to get you back. Including threatening your new beau.’ credits go to the lovely ladies at Tom-Hiddleston-Imagine.Tumblr.com. Link to the imagine here…. http://tom-hiddleston-imagines.tumblr.com/post/158156795440/gif-lokihiddleston-imagine-thomas-spying-on-you
 Chapter number: Chapter 12 Author: Punk-in-docs Triggers/warnings: smut! And angst.

~

“Do you think…”

Thomas asked, his coarse, rough, morning voice grating against her ears like gravel. They had shared another exquisite night abed last night, and were consequently naked as a result. She felt his warm, inventors fingers slide along her shoulder. His lips joining to her silken skin not long after. Kissing over one of his favourite moles that pocked her pale body.

“… That because of the strict social times we find ourselves in. Miss James. When a single man can’t so much as touch a single woman. That our sheer, overwhelming need to make love, quite as often as we have done, is fuelled by a deeper, more salacious desire to be all the more promiscuous?” He enquires.

She chuckles sleepily. Opening her eyes to her sun drenched bedroom, to peer across at him over her shoulder. He lay behind her. His hips keenly pressing his lower body into her own. She shuffles round, he lifts his arms to tuck her into his pale chest. He smelt like sleepy bed sheets, and the musk of male sweat. He enclosed his arms about her. Pulling her so they were pressed skin to skin.

“Yes. Dear heart. Why don’t you know, It’s the only reason I allowed you in my bed.” Vianne teases with that fabulous, cheeky smile he adored seeing. He can’t help it. He smiles too at the sight of her own. His hands slides under the covers, down over her hip, and squeezes the fleshy globe of her rear.

“Cruel, vixen, woman.” He smiles, not taking his eyes off her. His eyes creasing at the sides with the force of his smile.

“I think we keep on ending up in each other arms, and bed sheets, because you and I both know it’s inevitable that we should do so.” She adds. “It’s astonishing to me how very right it feels.” She tells him.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t always so. You’ve no idea. Vianne I will regret not being a good husband to you for the rest of my life.” He tells her earnestly. Guilt drowning those expressive eyes. As he stroked a pretty coil of hair back past her cheek.

“From that very first Sharpe kiss. Stood on my doorstep, in the pouring rain. I was condemned.” She explains to him. That made his heart hurt. Because how had it escaped his notice she was besotted, body and soul with him, and he barely gave her any indication that he returned those feelings.

“Oh, my love…” He sighs. Taking her face in his hands.

“I… Back at Allerdale. Even when we were alone. I could never seem to, fully, disclose how I felt. Because I was certain the walls had ears… Now I am relieved of that, burden. Let me make it evidently clear. Vianne. Before you, I felt like my life was rehearsed. Ball after ball, flattering girl after girl. Doing nothing more than being a vessel for Lucille’s greed and monetary needs. She kept saying to me, "this one will be the last. Then it can be us, for eternity. Just love and death.” But I couldn’t… Would not, let her get to you. I tried with all my might… But then you….left anyway.“ He explained.

It was her turn to feel rotten. Here he was pouring out his heart. And she still hadn’t told him about the contents of her own. She so badly wanted to let them loose.

"Well. I’m sorry there had to be such tragedy and heartbreak on our routes back to one another.” She swallows.

Their intimate, pillow talk made all the more heartfelt. As they lay in one another’s arms. Bare and vulnerable. And they had both been as such, many times before. Brutalised by his family and suffocated by his sister. And she, orphaned as a small child, and then thrown, after her heartache, at the mercy of a man who broke her bones, bruised her, and beat her. In their separate ways, they had both been battered, and mangled by life, and love.

“I’m not.” Thomas tells her. Still stroking her coppery hair. Admiring her.

Being free of his biggest demon two years ago, had liberated so many things for him. Of course, in his anger and rage, he had completely put aside the love he previously had for his sister. He could only focus on all the horrible things she’d made him suffer through. The murders. The grief. The rage. He was dangerously fed up of living under her iron fist. And then along came this red haired, saviour. Vianne was a godsend in more ways that one. She was his salvation. And she had saved him. She’d made him see what true love, caring, and nurturing was. Being with her was the first time he felt like his life wasn’t shrouded in cold shadow.

She sighs. Pressing a kiss to his hand. She could see sometimes. A sadness flare in his eyes. He had lost one woman he loved to gain another. And no matter how horrid the circumstance was, it was bound to have a deeper hold on him than he let on.

She wants to tell him. But somehow, now didn’t seem like the right time…. In her gut she knows she’d feel down to the very narrow of her bones. when the right time was. She didn’t want to spoil this moment.

“When do you need to leave for work?” She asks.

The sun had only just risen. But it was full and bright. And promised the day would be a happy one. He had mentioned last night that he needed to make a call in at the office. Check the yard was running along without him. His office was installed in a large factory come foundry in Richmond.

“I’ll go before eight. If I can stomach tearing away from such a naked beauty.” He smiles.

Vianne was biting the bullet. She knows she had to try and tell him somehow. And her courage flares.

“Well… Why don’t I come and relieve you of a lonely lunch hour? I haven’t got to help Harriden until this afternoon. We could…go for afternoon tea if you cared for it?” She asks. Her brain tells her that Saint Anthony’s was virtually five streets over from Thomas’s factory workplace. Could she stomach taking him there? Letting him know the truth?

“I’d adore that. You be careful though.” He warns her. “Start flaunting that beautiful face and figure on the factory floor, I could quite rightly have mutiny on my hands from my workers.” He flatters, winking at her.

She laughs at his honeyed words. He always did have a silver tongue. And he always found ways to put it to good use.

“I thought gentleman of your calibre, Mr. Sharpe, only flattered women, in order to get them into situations much like the ones we presently find ourselves in. Now, your gallantry seems rather superfluous. Does it not?” She teases.

“There is a beautifully naked woman in my arms. Miss James. Whom I made come undone, screaming my name the whole night through. I flatter her when I see fit. Naked or not.” He lusts, his eyes growing dark.

Before she can point out that he would be late for work should he carry on. Her eyes flutter back in her head, and she sighs wantonly as his lips find that certain spot on her neck. He feels her body shiver, his blood ran hot and his ardour started to stir.

He doesn’t have time to be gentle with her. Not this morning. He flattens her on her back, harshly grabbing her hands and pinning them up over her head. Making her supple curves arch up, exposed, prostrate under him as he asserts himself between her split thighs. Those predatory eyes rake over her body. Over her pert nipples, and her heaving chest. He’s assessing her like he wants to swallow her whole.

“Thomas…” She gasps softly. Her voice hoarse with lust and he’d barely even started yet. He trailed his lips over the pulse point in her neck. Feeling it thrum against his lips. Smirking as he felt it. Quickening. Like a carnivore would sense it’s preys pulse erratic in it’s fear.

“You keep your hands where I’ve put them.”

He tells her firmly. She nods. Complying. Eager for his next move. Retracting both hands, he skims down to her ribs, and his mouth swoops down to capture a rosy peak in his hot mouth. His tongue toys with it. Driving her to distraction. Making her buck and writhe, and her head thrown back, exposing that long neck. He feels her toes curling against the sides of his thighs.

His head travels lower. Leading kisses down the centre of her body. Not stopping. Even when he got to her sweet cleft. He trails his fingertips through her dark thatch of hair. She gasps shakily again. Trying hard to obey his wishes. She moans gutturally. Clutching her hands, hard, into the pillow behind her head. Biting down her lip.

He kisses her. Right at the very heart of her womanhood. A jolt of longing tears through her body. He liked toying with his belongings, did Thomas Sharpe. Her moans were music to his ears.

More so when his notorious silver tongue lapped and lapped at her, coaxing pleasure to flutter through her veins. Bursting through her body like tidal waves. Her back arches, and she cannot believe the carnality of the sounds, moans, that they are both making. He groaned as he dragged his lips across her, and stroked two long fingers to plunge deep inside her. Keeping his mouth on that little pearl of pleasure. Her sex sucked ravenously at his appendages. And through strands of that wild raven hair, he looked up, seeing her strain against his ministrations. She was crying out gods name, closely mingled with his own.

She looked so beautiful. Breathtakingly so, when he was pleasuring her. A sight he could watch for eternity. Her face contorted in a soundless cry of ecstasy. Her body shuddering as her legs wrapped around his shoulders, urging him closer.

He can’t take it. She was eager for more. And he ached to give it. He has to be inside her. He snatches himself away from her with a snarl, and one hand presses open her right thigh, he guides himself to her wet sex, and drives in deep with one push of his hips. Their bodies slap together, and his mouth crashes down to her own.

He allows her hands to move now. Especially as those small, dainty things grapple for his shoulders, the sting of her nails biting into his back urges him on. He growls against her neck. Plunging himself deeper into her velvet heat. His free hand, that didn’t clutch at her breast, folded her thigh up and over his hip. She can feel their pelvises gyrate, matching the speed of the other. Their bodies flush with heat, the sensation of one another’s weight and skin only fuelling the raging desire. His teeth dig into her neck, nibbling at her delectable skin.

“Everytime I touch you. God. Even when I’m inside you, still making love to you…” He groans. “All I can think… Is that I want more… ” He moans, bucking his hips faster. Seeing her groan as she clutched at him harder. Her dark blue eyes taking in the sight of him as they made love. That primal, dark lust in his eyes as he gave them both pleasure.

“You have me. All of me… Oh god. Thomas…you have me…” She sighs. He watches her bite her lip. And that almost makes him come undone.

But he can’t. Not yet. He helps her along. Rubbing his thumb in pressing circles around that tight pearl that makes her shout loudly. But when her legs start to shiver again. He knows he’s doing something right.

The pleasure comes to a urgent peak. He grabs her hips, and slams into her hard. Adoring the sounds of their bodies as they entwined sharply. Slapping together. He takes her face in his hands, and kisses her. They groan into each other’s mouths. Shouting and muffling their release. Coming powerfully undone together.

When he finishes coaxing out every, single, ounce of pleasure he could wring from their encounter. Panting, he leans over her. Resting his forehead on her shoulder. Kissing her dewy skin.

“Careful. Or you’ll be late for work… My dear. The boss can’t be seen to be unpunctual.” Vianne sighs. Raking a hand through his onyx hair.

He gathers her closer, if that was even possible. Cupping her head. He kisses her again. Deeply. His thumb stroking over her ear and jaw. The way he held her so possessively made her feel safe, adored and desired.

“I can be as unpunctual as I like. With this beauty in my arms. There’s a danger I may never be on time, ever again.” He winks.

~

Whether he parted from Vianne. He felt as if he were leaving a part of his heart behind. But the thought of returning to her soon, put a spring back in his step. He strode proudly off the the Richmond factory that morning after bedding his beautiful ex-wife.

As soon as he stepped foot across the factory threshold, he is plunged straight back into the world of mechanics and engineering. Of pistons, the scent of motor oil, frayed fan belts, head gaskets and manifolds. His mind turning from leisure to industry. He strides to his workshop slash office, and before he can even set down his briefcase in the desk, he is roped into helping on the factory floor.

His day passes quickly in a blur of dynamics and difficult machinery. At one point, he is on his back, under the stubborn contraption he invented, swearing the cursed thing into either oblivion, or working order.

His white shirt sleeves were rolled up, and this leaves him in a black waistcoat and breeches. He was virtually up to his elbows in grease and muck. Trying in vain to fix a loose, misbehaving, spur gear that had come off it’s tracks, with a dial calliper. He was wincing up at the machine. Muttering little pleas to god that it would work after his interference.

“Come on, you bloody nuisance…” He talks encouragingly up to it. Hearing the clatter and bustle of the factory floor going on around him. But he didn’t hear the sound if a pair of heels heading his way.

“What’s that old saying?…” Comes a sweet, silvery voice that he instantly recognised. It makes him grin instantly. He couldn’t see the source of such a lovely voice. As he currently had his head halfway under the main bulk of his life’s work. But when he ducks his head out, he sees his biggest, most beautiful distraction beaming down at him.

Copper hair perfectly coiffed in a chignon. Kitted out in a blue velvet dress, and navy drop sleeved jacket. With diamond droplet earrings dangling from her lobes, and a dark bowler hat perched over her eyes, pinned to sit low on her hair. Looking as gorgeous as ever.

“… It’s either, a bad workman blames his tools. Or, that one about speaking to inanimate objects kindly, and treating things how you want to be treated yourself…” She grins. Folding her gloved hands as she leaned against the nearest, safest, table.

Looking over her shoulder, at the intricate blueprints spread out behind her. Pinned to the surface with dividers, compasses and scale rules. The blueprints looked terribly beyond her comprehension. That were engineers of a different sort. He of machinery. She of anatomy. Both were detailed trades.

He groans, and the sound takes her back to that morning, when they were abed. But he then heaved himself up from under the thing, into his feet. His clothes flecked with dust and muck. His hands were slathered all over in engine grease. And he even had a smudge if it on his forehead. But he had that determined, steadfast glow of a man who looked as though he very much enjoyed his profession. Which he knows he did beyond all doubt.

He daggers a glance around him. Seeing that a few pairs of male eyes were remaining fixed on her. The rare sight of a beautiful woman on the factory floor. In amongst the muck, grime and incessant whirring of machinery. It was no place for a gentle woman. But Vianne looked right at ease, and at home, by her lovers side.

“Well. Kind words will be wasted, on this shrewish machine. She’s as stubborn as anything I’ve known.” He tells. Reaching behind her for a rag on which he wiped his hands.

She blushed when she thought of what those hands had done to her that very morning. He saw it also. When he leaned in close. He could smell the alluring french perfume on her neck. It clung to her bed sheets too, he noticed, and after he made love to her, he could sense it lingering on his skin too. It was intoxicating.

After he did clean his hands, he took hers, and kissed it.

“You. Are the most inciting lunch break from work I’ve had in a very long while.” He smiles. Winking at her in a lusting way. That was when he noticed she had a hamper slung to the crook of one elbow.

“May I enquire as to the occasion?” He asks. Nodding to the wicker basket. Still wiping his hands. Grease was, literally, slippery customer of which to rid himself of. She smiles. Lugging the basket further up onto her hip.

“Our luncheon. Is the occasion. And I hope you have an appetite. Hot, homemade chicken pot pie. All the trimmings. Buttered potatoes, cabbage. And two bottles of ginger ale, with Jeanie’s excellent Chester pudding if that doesn’t satisfy your hunger.” She tells. He wasn’t even hungry, but after hearing that list. He was suddenly famished and his mouth watered.

He leaned closer to her then. His smile growing completely wicked.

“Depends. To which hunger of mine are you referring?” He asks slyly.

“The culinary kind.” She smiles back. Equally as flirtatiously. He steps away before he causes outrage and scandal. They saved that for behind closed doors. He grabbed his jacket, and leads her through to his office. Closed off from the floor by a wall of windows. He opens the door for her, letting her pass through. She smiles at the scene before her. Even if no one told her this was his office, she’d know it from the personal touches alone.

It was unorganised, a little cluttered. But stuffed to the brim with half finished inventions made from a brilliant, kind mind. Tiny metal creations, contraptions and half finished toys. Littering the shelves, or clumsily collapsing to heaps on his desk. There is a worn, expensive scarlet wool rug on the floor, the fire burns merrily, as does the oil lamp on the desk. The walls were a washed shade if midnight blue. Crammed with framed blueprints and maps. And a homage to Isambard Brunel in one frame.

She places the hamper on the desk, and takes off her gloves. Thomas shuts the door behind them. Coming up behind her, he sweeps a coil of her hair aside, and presses a kiss to the join of her neck, and spine. Closing his eyes. Humming in bliss.

“Despicable. Mr. Sharpe. People may see us…” She worries, looking outside the windows to the factory floor. Biting let lip as she feels his on her skin.

“Get your coat off. Miss James. I’ll unpack the food.” He promises, moving around her as she peels off her outer layers in the welcome warmth of his office. He unlatched the lid, diving in for the warmed pies and all the trimmings.

She un-pins her hat, and lays it on his desk. Rounding it to have a closer look at the pictures on his wall. Her hands on her hips as she examines them curiously. Tilting her head. Thomas watches her being inquisitive. Smiling at her for that trait he so adored and admired. When she turns back, something on his desk made her halt in her tracks. There were two silver picture frames on his desk. And she was in the both of them.

One was a wedding photo. Both him and her, side by side in wedding attire. Stood at that chapel in Gretna green. And the other, was simply her. A portrait. Black and white, she was elegantly posed. Her hair coiffed, and wearing a fine high collared dress. That spears warmth right into her very heart. Thomas looks up. Seeing her admire the pictures. One hand gingerly reaching up to touch the top of one of the oval frames. He sighs a smile.

“None of…. Your family?” She asks softly. He knew full well she meant Lucille. She just couldn’t bring herself to say it. And he didn’t blame her.

“They aren’t the ones I missed.” He tells her. Smiling gently.

She has to tell him. She had to tell him now. She was waiting for the right moment. And this was it. She’d never forgive herself if she didn’t take it. Grab it tight and take that risk. It was too great to let it pass gently.

“Thomas… I’ve . There’s been something… on my mind now for… Quite a while. And it’s…” She stammers. Wringing her hands together, nervously.

He blinks. Tilting his head to urge her on. But when she opens her mouth. A sharp rattling knock to the door cuts her off. She blinks. Jarring out of the moment as Thomas, frowned apologetically, and went for the door handle. A worker gave his apologies for his interruption. But told Thomas something brief about a frayed belt and a loose gear shaft.

He turned back to her, leaning close. Kissing her solidly on the lips as he cupped her head.

“I’m so sorry. You can start without me if your hungry. I just have to see to this urgent matter…” He smiles. Kissing her hand, before he slides away. Off onto the floor, away to fix and tend to things.

Vianne watched him go. She sighs. Heavily. She wished she could mend things as readily, as adeptly as he could. As it was, the moment, yet again. Had slipped right through her fingers.

~

@frenchfrostpudding @heavymist @totallynotasmutblog enjoy ladies 😘

[arisefairsun]

As someone who's heard that Romeo + Juliet (dir. Baz Luhrmann) was the "most accurate to the screenplay, technically" but also that it wasn't as accurate as it could be, plus all the other pro/con arguments abt it that float around, I was hoping you could tell me why you dislike it? Thank you!

So, I decided to watch the movie again before answering your message (that’s mainly why I took so long to reply! I’m sorry) because the last time I watched it was like five years ago, and I actually loved it this time around? I’ve been fangirling the whole night.

I agree that Luhrmann did a fantastic job in ‘translating’ the society of Shakespeare’s Verona into the contemporary world. The misogyny, the cult of violence and masculinity—all these aspects were brilliantly shown by Luhrmann. Besides, the rhythm of the movie is marvelous. All the scenes are governed by this impulsive, erratic speed. It gives you no time to think; you get carried away by its rash haste. The crazy speed of the play is one of my favorite things because it’s like, a huge emotional rollercoaster.

Still, I’m uncomfortable with the way Luhrmann filmed Romeo and Juliet’s first conversation—Juliet literally has to step back to prevent Romeo’s mouth from touching hers right when he says, “have not saints lips and holy palmers too?”. It looks so self-assertive, it makes me cringe. They’re literally creating a sonnet together, it should be beautiful and not creepy. And then there’s this new scene where we see Romeo arrive at Juliet’s bedroom on their wedding night, which I think is nonsense. I talked about it here.

Another part that I found disappointing was the portrayal of Romeo’s despair when he receives the news of his banishment in the friar’s cell. He should be “on the ground, with his own tears made drunk”, “taking the measure of an unmade grave.” He is so desperate and anxious that he even attempts to kill himself just to destroy his Montague self. However, Leo is too serene. I can’t help comparing his acting with Leonard Whiting’s portrayal, who was cut out most of the lines in this scene but who managed to accurately show Romeo’s anxiety nonetheless. Another thing I’m not sure I like entirely is the “balcony” scene. In the original play, Juliet is locked inside her window and therefore they cannot touch, let alone make out in a pool. I find it very significant that they don’t even touch in the longest, probably deepest conversation they have, but I felt like Luhrmann over-sexualized the scene unnecessarily. And then, as usual, they didn’t make Tybalt come back after Mercutio’s death. It’s quite an important little detail—both the fact that Tybalt came back to Romeo and that Romeo only suggested revenge after Tybalt’s return. (Tybalt would never run away from a fight? He is too arrogant to do so.)

The death scene is most likely what I dislike the most, though. To begin with, I think the scenery, pretty though it is, isn’t really appropriate—it should be dark, scary, the way a “nest of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep” should be, only lightened by Juliet’s beauty and not by pretty candles all around (“Her beauty makes / This vault a feasting presence full of light”). The place should correspond to Juliet’s fears:

Shall I not, then, be stifled in the vault,To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?Or, if I live, is it not very like,The horrible conceit of death and night,Together with the terror of the place—As in a vault, an ancient receptacle,Where, for these many hundred years, the bonesOf all my buried ancestors are packed:Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,At some hours in the night spirits resort—Alack, alack, is it not like that I,So early waking, what with loathsome smells,And shrieks like mandrakes’ torn out of the earth,That living mortals, hearing them, run mad.

It should be that terrifying. And, most importantly, it should specifically be Capulet’s crypt rather than some random church. Basically because by poisoning himself in the vault of his wife’s family, Romeo is destroying the patriarchal system (as well as reinforcing again his rejection of his own surname and the whole feud; he chooses to “set up” his “everlasting rest” in Capulet’s tomb rather than in that of Montague).

I find it very symbolic that they both die alone, surrounded by Tybalt’s and Paris’ corpses—the two men who thwarted their love the most—; I actually think it’s very significant to make them die separately. It reinforces the repressive isolation that they both experimented throughout the play. If you think about it, we not only witness the evolution of their love but also their evolution as individuals. We get to see how their relationship alters their social identities (i.e. Romeo’s willingness to love Tybalt, Juliet’s sexual liberty, etc.), and when their society rejects these new identities, they tragically decide to commit suicide. (More on this here.) I think they not only kill themselves for each other, but also for themselves, and this is something that’s highlighted by the fact that they die alone.

Besides, having Juliet wake before Romeo’s death kind of blurs the Liebestod trope—that is, death is not truly dividing them, but finally bringing them together. They kill themselves because they cannot be together in life, ergo Romeo promises he “will still stay with thee” because death will turn him into Juliet’s husband again. (There are actually lots of references to wedding rituals in this scene.) So when he says “thus with a kiss I die” (“die” meaning both to lose your life and to have an orgasm) he is not really saying farewell. He is kissing her right before dying to “seal with a righteous kiss / A dateless bargain to engrossing death”. However, in the Luhrmann version, Romeo dies thinking that death will separate him from Juliet, and so his last kiss is not a “dateless bargain” but a goodbye. (Overall his death lacks something if Juliet wakes in time. This awesome lesbian version also made Romeo die after Juliet’s awakening, but neither Luhrmann nor the lesbian production dared add new lines and he just stays speechless until he dies and I find it very weak? If Romeo saw Juliet live again, he would surely say something. If Shakespeare had wanted Juliet to wake before his death, he would have written it like that, but he didn’t. I feel like Luhrmann is changing the meaning of the scene just to increase the dramatic effects of it.)

I also think it’s highly important to make Friar Lawrence enter the scene between Romeo’s and Juliet’s deaths—he gives Juliet a very suitable option in terms of religion:

Come, I’ll dispose of theeAmong a sisterhood of holy nuns:Stay not to question, for the watch is coming.

Juliet is breaking the rules again by refusing to hide at a convent and spend the rest of her life devoting herself to God and mourning her dead husband. She prefers to commit suicide. But what’s even more irritating about Luhrmann’s version is that Juliet doesn’t say a word after Romeo’s death, which weakens the character a lot. Their conversation ends with Romeo’s “thus with a kiss I die”. It’s a pity, because her last words are really potent, especially considering that daggers were seen as a masculine form of suicide (whereas poison was often attributed to women. My kids love burning down gender roles): “O happy dagger! This is thy sheath: / There rust and let me die” (with another pun on “to have an orgasm”). By introducing Romeo’s dagger into herself she’s again claiming her right to be sexually active. This metaphor is weakened by making her use a gun instead (AND BY CUTTING OUT HER DEATH SPEECH LIKE!!! HOW DARE YOU!!!).

Another thing that I wish were included in the movie is Capulet and Montague’s reconciliation. I find it vital for the message that the play wants to transmit. After all the violence, the prejudice, the social oppression, Romeo and Juliet’s death puts an end to the war between both households (I say households and not families). The patriarchs admit the wrong they did, and it’s just so satisfying to hear them apologize. I think this is kind of the whole purpose of the play—I would dare say this last conversation is the reason the whole story was told in the first place. The prologue focuses on the households’ violence, and it actually mentions Romeo and Juliet to express that their death ceased the violence:

Two households, both alike in dignity,In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.From forth the fatal loins of these two foesA pair of star-crossed lovers take their life,Whose misadventured piteous overthrowsDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife.

However, in Luhrmann’s version, Capulet and Montague only stand side by side without saying a word while the Prince reprehends them, leaving up in the air whether or not they will take their children’s advice and replace hate with love.

But apart from that, I actually did enjoy it!

[fntstory-blog]

Jaws of Neptune (pt V)

In which a crime is punished. | chapter I | pt i | pt ii | pt iii | pt iv

Though Owen and Haru had reached an agreement regarding Haru’s position on the Ivory Maiden, Doctor MacMorgan’s orders superseded the captain’s wishes. His patient, the doctor insisted, was in need of bedrest; sending him scurrying up and down the rigging would undo everything he had been able to do to see his patient healed and whole. To this end, he regularly administered Haru doses of his all-purpose elixir, ensuring his patient was resting as often as prescribed.

While Haru rested and healed, the rest of the Ivory Maiden’s crew’s lives went on. The two surviving sailors who had perpetrated the attack were hung, their dual execution overseen by Captain Hayes and carried out by Pierce and his Marines. The crew in its entirity had been in attendance, passages from Avalon’s Articles of War had been read, the doctor recited prayers for the condemned. This swift carriage of justice cast a pall over the ship; the mood aboard was turning, darkening.

Orientating the Maiden in the featureless, silvery sea was nigh impossible. There were no stars to guide them, no setting of the unsettling twin suns, no change in weather or wind. Rumors ran rampant above and below decks concerning the ship’s stores and how long they would hold out. Extra work was assigned and the Maiden’s decks had never been so perfectly polished, but it only delayed the inevitable. They needed to find the Jaws of Neptune Marco had named before they had been separated from the Vodacce ship and soon.

It wouldn’t much matter how long their stores could, or would, last if the crew mutinied and they all killed each other.

It was with these heavy thoughts preying on his mind that Owen stole some minutes to check in on Haru. A week and some had passed since the attack, nearly all of them had seen Owen on deck, conferring with his lieutenants and consulting all maps and instruments the ship held. While his uniform appeared in good order and he had recently shaved, his eyes told an entirely different story; the weight of responsibility was taking its toll.

These visits with Haru were the only real indulgence he allowed himself, justifying them as performing part of his duties as captain. After all, officially, the Rokugani was still a passenger and one who had been grievously wounded by one of his own.

When he entered Haru’s cabin, he found his lover rummaging through what few things he had brought onboard. He knocked as he opened the door, a curtesy more for appearance’s sake than anything else. A tired smile lifted the corners of his mouth despite himself and he leaned against the closed door.

“Feeling better, then?” He asked.

Haru looked up, returning Owen’s smile, and leaving off his search for the time being. He wore his hand-me-down sailor’s clothes, minus the stockings and heavy leather shoes. The bruises on his face were beginning to fade and the swelling around his one eye had significantly subsided; the edge of a wrapped bandage could be seen peeking from beneath the cuff of his shirt.

“I am, yes. MacMorgan-sensei’s elixers and treatments have been quite … Effective.” He stood, his movements awkward and stilted, and paused for a few seconds with a hand pressed to one side. His ribs still troubled him and, the doctor assured him, would continue to do so for weeks to come.

Owen stepped forward to put an arm about Haru’s shoulders, gingerly. He held him for a moment, silently offering comfort and support. The pain passed and Haru looped his arms about Owen’s waist, looking up into the captain’s worn face.

“I am doing better, Owen,” he said, reassuringly. “Though I know I still look awful …” His vanity remained unbruised and unbroken.

Owen’s smile reappeared and he shook his head. “Believe me, there is nothing I would rather see than you as you are now.” He pressed a tender kiss to Haru’s lips, mindful of bruises and their no doubt limited private time. “Do you feel up to taking a walk about the decks? It won’t be the most cheerful of strolls, but …”

“I think a walk would be wonderful …” Haru drifted free of their shared embrace, casting another glance about the cramped cabin. “Do you know what happened to my wakizashi? I haven’t been able to find it since I left the doctor’s cabin …”

“Pierce has it. He took it after the — after the attack.” Owen’s brows lowered in a frown. “I’m sorry, Haru, I should have thought to have it returned before now …”

“So long as it’s been kept safe … And you don’t need to apologize; you’ve had a thousand other things to occupy your mind …” For their walk Haru slipped on his wooden getta, Rokugani sandals balanced on blocks. Thean shoes were still too much, too new, for him to master.

Owen came up beside him, opening the door. Glancing to the sandals, he grinned and shook his head. “I have no idea how you stay aloft in those, Mr. Haru …” Stepping onto the deck proper, he slipped back to formalities, though the addition of ‘mister’ still carried a note of affection.

“Very easily, in fact,” Haru countered. “I don’t see how you can clomp around in those heavy leather things, Captain Hayes.” His accompanying smile was a sly, subtle thing.

“I can do more than clomp, Mr. Haru, I’m also a fair dancer in these heavy leather things.” He lead Haru on a circuit around the deck and though his spirits had lifted, his eyes and ears remained ever sharp for reactions from the men.

Haru’s change of clothes caused a chorus of murmurings, the men wondering what it signified, if anything. There seemed to be some surprise, too, that the man yet lived; though the officers had tried to squash the story, rumors of his fits and exaggerated accounts of his injuries had circulated nearly unchecked.

A look of faint surprise lit Haru’s face. He remained oblivious to the stares and whispers of the men, or so it seemed, and focused only on the man at his side. “You dance? You mean, perform? Like an actor? Ahh, it’s a shame I was never able to take you to a kabuki play. Or even to visit one of the geisha … And despite what you might have been told by your men, the geisha are not whores,” he quickly added. “They sing and play instruments and perform traditional dances and are quite charming company …”

“I think, perhaps, the approach is different?” Owen ventured, confusion clear in the quirk of his brows. “We dance for recreation; it’s actually a large part of Avalon’s culture. Well, I’ll be certain to bring you to a ball. I’m sure you’d find it most interesting, though we poor sailors aren’t often invited …”

The pair crossed the galley and descended down a short set of steps to the armory, where the Marines, and Pierce, were stationed. The space, like all spaces on the ship, was low-ceilinged and cramped and ill-lit. Lanterns hung from beams and the air was stale, stuffy, the result of too many bodies in wool uniforms living too close together. Owen approached a tall, square shouldered young man with a fearsome beard. The young marine offered a crisp salute upon sighting the captain.

“Pierce is within?”

The marine nodded. “Ser,” he responded just as crisply as his salute.

They entered through an iron reinforced door, Owen ushering Haru in with a leading hand at his back, and found Pierce within. A voice from somewhere in the room sounded, “Captain on the post!” and all the Marines, including Pierce, snapped to attention.

“At ease,” Owen said in a cool tone and the men resumed their duties.

Pierce approached, the wakizashi already in his hand. Owen regarded the tall man with the same cool regard he maintained while on deck. “I see you’ve been expecting us, Mr. Pierce.”

The marine nodded. “Aye, ser.” He held out the short sword to Haru. “Begging yer pardon, ser. You were waving it around whip-like. For our safety, I assure you.” The weapon appeared to have been polished, the lacquer scabbard had been wiped clean of blood.

Haru turned a critical eye to Pierce and, more so, to the blade in his hand. He appreciated that it had been cleaned, but he bristled slightly at the reason for its having been confiscated, never mind how right the marine had been in his thinking. He returned the blade to his side, tucking the scabbard between belt and waistband.

“Mr. Pierce, you will have Lieutenant John Barrows ready to be hung at four bells, afternoon watch.” The command came with some surprise; the lieutenant had been held belowdecks since the attack nearly two weeks prior. Truth be told, Owen had been waiting for Haru to more fully recover before delivering justice. Haru cast a questioning glance to him, but kept his piece; Owen was captain and knew best how to run his ship and dispense justice.

Pierce looked uncomfortable. “He’s been asking to see Mr. Aaroo, ser.” Pointedly, he turned his gaze to Haru. “His last request, it would seem, ser.”

To his credit, Haru showed no surprise at this information, his face remaining coolly detached, neutral. Dark eyes met Owen’s once more in a sidelong glance before returning to Pierce. “If his last wish is to see that he failed in his ill-conceived plot, then so be it.”

Owen nodded, stepping to one side to allow Haru space to walk through the rows of Marines lining the armory’s walls, all standing at rigid attention as he passed. Pierce led the way, further back, to where the Maiden’s cells were housed and, specifically, where Barrows still remained. He rapped on the bars with the hatchet he wore at his side.

John Barrows scuttled to the bars, his eyes shining with a mix of desperation and tears. Pierce cleared his throat and stepped back, to allow them some modicum of privacy.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Haru, I didn’t … I only listened to the rumors …” Barrows babbled, his hands clutching the bars in a white knuckled grip. “Please, sir, I don’t want to hang. I beg of you, please!”

Haru stood stone-faced before Barrows’ cell, just beyond the man’s grasp should he think to do anything foolhardy. Seeing him in the light, he couldn’t say that he recalled the man at all, for good or ill. The only pity he felt was an abstract sort; it was a shame that such a young life would be ended, that the ship would lose an officer, a mother her son. But for the young man himself, Haru felt almost nothing except contempt. A crime had been committed and so justice must be served.

“You let petty gossip poison your mind,” he began, voice cool and calm. “You convinced the men under your command to attack me under the cover of darkness, taking advantage of the confusion of the storm. You would have had me beaten to death, my body undiscovered until the storm fully passed. You lacked the courage to do the deed yourself and now you grovel and refuse to accept your fate. Were I dead, you would receive the same answer: No. I will not absolve you of your guilt; I will not pardon you. You will hang for what you attempted to do.”

“Please! Have Pierce shoot me! I want a clean death!” Barrows cried, his body coming forward against the bars as he sought out Haru’s eyes with his own. “I’ve seen it before, and it doesn’t … If my neck doesn’t snap!” He rested his head on the iron cage with a rattling sigh. “My mother’ll learn I’ve been hanged at sea and she’ll kill herself for the shame, I know it.” He eyed Haru again. “Please, *please*. Have me shot. Anything but being hanged, sir.”

Pierce muttered something from his position, not too far away, and most of the life went out of John Barrows. He released the bars and settled down on the bundle of hay they’d arranged for his bed. He stared sullenly at the bulkhead, wrapping his arms around his knees. He did look young, Haru noted, far too young. He could see the telltale marks of a beating, most likely administered by the Marines.

Familial shame and a mother’s grief hit too close to home for Haru’s liking. He had done all he could to lessen the burden his own mother would bear, leaving her a letter full of pretty phrases meant to conceal the true reason behind his leaving Rokugan.

“Where I come from, you would be made to take a sword, not unlike the one I have, and disembowel yourself without uttering a sound. That act would see the shame wiped from your family’s name and honor restored.” Haru met Barrows’ eye, letting a silence settle between them. In that silence, he thought on what he would do, what he could do, what justice demanded and what common decency begged. The signs of a beating sat ill with him, though he couldn’t immediately name why that was so.

When Haru spoke next, it was to address Pierce. “Can a shooting be arranged, Mr. Pierce? Could you do that providing Captain Hayes approved of the new method?” Then, “Was the beating necessary? Surely, young Mr. Barrows did not pose so great a threat to all your Marines that he needed to be so subdued …”

John Barrows stared up at him, eyes wide, head nodding. “Theus bless you, sir. Thank you.”

Pierce grunted, shrugging a shoulder. “I did what I thought was necessary. My men merely followed suit.” He leaned forward to appraise Haru from oddly shod feet to dyed white head. “Begging your pardon, ser, but a shooting death is too good fer the likes of him. You’d have bled out in the muck belowdecks if it weren’t for Lannigan and the good doctor.”

“I am more than aware of what my fate would have been had Lannigan-san not intervened,” Haru said, addressing Pierce, holding his ground despite the near half foot the marine had on him. Appraising the man with a practiced, ice-cold eye, and finding him wanting, he continued, “If it took you and your men this much force to bring a frightened boy to heel, perhaps it was for the best you did not accompany us to the Shadowlands …”

“Mr. Pierce.” Hayes’ voice was like a whip and Pierce stood ramrod straight. “I believe Mr. Haru does not have to be reminded of the Navy’s good graces.”

Pierce nodded, saluting. “Aye, ser! Won’t happen again, ser.”

Hayes took a moment to eye the marine from his boots to his cap. “See that it does not.” Pierce’s face remained impassive, like granite, without a hint of his inner thoughts. Owen cleared his throat, the matter settled. “I feel the matter of a hanging versus a shooting should be addressed by you, Mr. Haru. What say you?”

The tension in the air became thicker, each marine eyeing either Haru, Hayes, or Pierce. Haru returned his attention to the pathetic sight of Barrows. He disliked having to play judge, deciding the man’s fate. He had been prepared to hold onto the contempt he initially felt, but the more time he spent in Barrows’ presence, the more the lieutenant spoke, the more sympathy Haru felt for the condemned. His companion Ishoya’s influence, belatedly felt, no doubt; the monk had been a rarity, showing compassion for all, not just the samurai. Rokugan treated its prisoners no better than this, a fact that had never bothered him in his twenty years of life.

“Justice demands that Mr. Barrows forfeit his life for his attempted crime. Mercy, decency, however, says that his death need not be a tortuous thing. Mr. Barrows will have his wish fulfilled; he will be shot.” Then, giving Pierce a pointed look, “Cleanly, quickly. He has suffered enough for his wrong-doing.”

Pierce, in the face of both Haru and the acting captain’s gazes, decided to hold his response. He sniffed and returned to his stance of attention. Barrows watched from his small cage, knees still tight against his chest. He had no more to say and the situation was gradually going in his favor, macabre as it remained.

“Harris,” Pierce ordered and a marine snapped to attention. “Have yer flintlock loaded, full dress.” The marine snapped a salute with a crisp, “Sir!” and hurried to obey.

“Fourth bell, Mr. Pierce,” Hayes reminded the stone-faced marine.

“Four bells, aye. Will there be anything else, ser?”

Owen shook his head and made to exit the armory, Haru following close behind. Once they were back up ondeck, he spoke in a quiet voice, “In the future, I would restrain from goading Pierce.” His expression grew more serious and he paused in his steps, hand resting at Haru’s elbow. “He’s … He’s a brutal man, Haru, and it’s no secret that the Avalon Navy has an element …”

“Mr. Pierce is a coward and a bully,” Haru said, matching Owen’s hushed tone. “However … Seeing that you hold my heartstrings, I will endeavor to hold my tongue in the future.” He gave the captain a small, slightly strained smile. “When is four bells?”

Owen pointed out an hourglass from across the deck. “Once that runs dry, a bell will be rung. We’ve two more, unless I’ve missed my guess. Perhaps you should return to your cabin and get some rest? If you’re feeling up to it, I can have Beckett introduce you to your beginning duties tomorrow morning …” He peered at Haru, trying to apprise the man’s health.

It might have been a callous thing, to discuss future plans in the face of a man’s execution, but the navy was an especially pragmatic institution. Today Barrows would die yet the ship still needed hands to man her decks and rigging and sails; she needed officers to maintain order and Marines to enforce rules. And she had a Greenhorn in need of teaching and training and every hand was needed, especially in these strange waters, especially with her having lost men in the crossing to and from Rokugan and the executions held the day before.

Haru looked to where the glass was and nodded. “I know the doctor will protest, but I feel ready …”

With that, the pair parted ways, Haru returning to his cabin and Owen to his duties.

Later, Haru heard the beating of drums, the snares employed by the Marines. Rap-tap-raptaptap, at a slow pace. He rose slowly, stiffly, from his bed, having drifted off for some unknown length of time. Four bells had arrived, the watchman crying the same and the bell clanging four times.

Slipping his sandals back on, he left the cabin and joined the growing, gathering groups of sailors. Lieutenants called for attention and order and the men fell into line, on either side of the deck. They all faced John Barrows, who had his head held low. He was dressed in full uniform and paraded to one side of the ship, flanked by rigid-backed Marines in red uniforms and shouldering muskets. A frown he did not work to hide or erase creased his brow as Barrows was brought to the, Haru presumed, spot of his execution.

Captain Hayes stood on the poop, above the wheelhouse, surveying the men below on the quarterdeck. He had donned his full dress uniform as well for the solemn occaision, jacket’s gold buttons catching the strange silver light of the Seventh Sea.

Once Barrows was lined up, Hayes spoke, his voice strong and clear and carrying his message through the still air. “Discipline and good conduct. They are the meat and bread of the Queen’s Navy. Without them, anarchy reigns. This man, John Barrows, attempted to murder one of our own, for all who are aboard this ship are of us. By the laws of Queen Elaine, and by full right of Her authority as acting captain, I hereby condemn him to death by musket. Does the condemned have any last words?”

Barrows lifted his head, speaking in a shaking but strident voice. “I regret my actions and beg that my memory be remembered fondly, sir. My effects shall be delivered to my … My mother.”

There was a note of mercy in Captain Hayes’ voice as he responded, “I shall see it done, Mr. Barrows.”

The contempt and hatred Haru had held onto when the man was merely a concept, a vague attacker in the dark, a face he couldn’t recall, those dark feelings that had already begun to dispel upon their actual meeting, faded to nothing when he heard the disgraced lieutenant’s last words. The whole display, his death, it all seemed so pointless. Logically, coldly, he knew and recognized that what Owen said was true; if crimes went unpunished in a space so small as a ship, the whole delicate balance of life would fall into chaotic anarchy. Emotionally, however, things complicated; Barrows so obviously repented of his sins, his would-be crime had been thwarted and he had suffered terribly for his lapse in judgment. The religion he still clung to offered no easy answers. Though he might have lost his way, Barrows demonstrated a sincerity of heart at the end, in his apology, his wish to spare his mother the disgrace of a hanging death. That had to be recognized and reflected upon.

Doctor MacMorgan approached to stand to the side of the Marines, holding a leather-bound book in one hand. “Theus grant His mercy upon ye. May He bless and keep ye, and know He shall whisper all the secrets of this life and the next in thy ears when ye arrive in His kingdom. Amen.”

The crew responded at once and hats began to be removed. Captain Hayes nodded to Pierce, who stood straight.

“Marine! Shoulder Arms!” The chosen firer of the deadly musket shouldered the weapon. “Load!” The man rammed a shot home, each movement precise and deadly. “Take your aim!” He put the weapon to his shoulder, taking careful aim with the gentle roll of the ship. “Fire!” The single shot sounded like a clap of thunder. Barrows jerked, a small spray of crimson bursting into the air where his heart was located. His body slumped to the ground and was immediately attended by Doctor MacMorgan, who grimly looked up to the captain and nodded.

John Barrows was dead.

Still unaccustomed to gunfire, Haru flinched, jumped, at the sound.

And, like that, it was all over. Barrows had asked for a quick, clean death and he had received just that.

Doctor MacMorgan called for canvas; the very hammock Barrows had used to sleep in would now be his shroud. He stitched the body into it, starting at the feet and working his way up, though he took a moment to slip a copper penny into one of Barrows’ shoes. Once the work was done, some of the Marines retrieved the body and brought it belowdecks. “Remember, lads, plenty of salt for it,” the doctor called after them and the men grunted a reply.

Haru watched, in a detached sort of way, the ensuing activity. The sewing up of the body in canvas, the slipping of a penny into his show, these were foreign funreal customs to him and he could make no sense of them. The penny he recognized as a thing meant to ward off the fey, Owen had told him so, but what use it would serve the dead he could not begin to guess.

Beckett, who had stood silent by Haru’s side, sighed. “I never like that …” The young lieutenant had been present for the execution of the two surviving sailors who had acted as attackers; they had been hung. In Rokugan, he had witnessed the beheading of a pirate. He might not have liked seeing such things, but he was quickly becoming enured to them; the beheading had made him physically ill, Barrows’ shooting only roused a sense of sadness and regret.

“He asked to speak to me,” Haru said, his voice subdued. Though he spoke to Beckett, his gaze remained fixed straight ahead. “I granted his wish for a quick, clean death; he didn’t want to hang.” Reflecting on this for a moment, he then said, “I should have shown him more kindness in those moments.”

Beckett took a moment to steel himself, already adopting the habits of officers twice his age, standing straight and donning his hat. “We are doing him one last favor - He won’t be sent to the deep here. Who knows? The Devil himself might swim these waters … Or sky …” He cast a quick, uncertain look to the quicksilver surrounding them above and below. “You shouldn’t worry, Mr. Haru. At the end, I think he was likely thanking you most of all.”