#not really just expressing my opinion to such a ridiculous and ludicrous take

[prodogg]

"The avatar should take Azula’s bending because that somehow makes her good and healthy"

No, thanks

[baticorngirl]

Title: “Dad, you’re embarrassing me!’

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Relationship(s): Talia Al Ghul/Bruce Wayne (Brutalia), Talia Al Ghul & Ra’s Al Ghul, Bruce Wayne & Ra’s Al Ghul, Dusan Al Ghul & Ra’s Al Ghul, Nyssa Raatko & Ra’s Al Ghul, Talia Al Ghul & Dusan Al Ghul,

Characters: Talia Al Ghul, Bruce Wayne, Ra’s Al Ghul, Nyssa Raatko, Dusan Al Ghul,

Summary: Bruce Wayne, an average (other than his parent's death) billionaire, was nervous. Very, very, nervous. It was a simple task, really, but meeting his girlfriend's family seemed rather intimidating at the moment. She has mentioned her father being strict or whatnot many times, and it had gotten many worries to arrive in his mind.

Unfortunately, Bruce had every right to be worried.

A/N: I don't own the characters, DC does.

This fic was originally made (or at least started) for @brutalia-week​ Day 4: Family. Since I wasn't able to finished it in time, I tried to make it a "day 8" kind of thing.... although I'm a teeny bit late for that, too, lol. It was originally just supposed to be a short humor fanfic, but... let's just say it got out of hand. Fair warning that some of the characters may be a teeny bit OOC (nothing too bad, though) because of humor or just plot-convenience.

For context, this takes place in an alternate universe where Bruce doesn't become Batman, but that's the only big difference. Anyway, enjoy!

Related Links: Read it on FF.Net (x), Read it on Ao3(x),

Day 1(x), Day 2(x), Day 3(x), Day 5(x), Day 6(x), Day 7(x),

______________________________________________________

Bruce was uncomfortable. His tie felt itchy, and hot, like a fever that somehow didn't spread to his forehead. In fact, his whole body felt hot, and the tiniest bit shaky. Bruce's stomach twisted up in a knot, making his face turn visibly red with discomfort. His breathing was a bit quicker and shorter than normal. He was nervous. Very, very, nervous. But considering the situation, he had every right to be.

Talia and him had been dating for quite a while now. Over 6 months, actually. They met up when they could, and every time they went on a date, they started enjoying each other's company more, and more, and more. Talia often had things she needed to do, though, and they would often come up out of what seemed to be nowhere. She'd always say she just had an assignment from work of some kind, but it often occurred to Bruce that she never mentioned what she did as a profession.

Perhaps, today would be the day he found out. Now that their relationship was feeling more serious, Talia had finally decided she would introduce her boyfriend to her parents, and the rest of her family. It had taken some convincing for her to do it, but her father had been adamant that meeting and evaluating any of her potential husbands was necessary.

"What if they're not worthy?" He had insisted, pacing back and forth in urgency. "What if they plan to spy on you, or hurt you, or are simply a failure? Besides, my Dear Daughter, what's the issue with him meeting us? Please, tell me you're not seriously acting embarrassed of your own family at this age." Ra's stopped to look at her, a disappointed look on his face.

"I-" Talia hadn't wanted to upset him, or even worse, make her view her as immature. She sighed, "Fine, but please…. try to stay calm with him. Be understanding if he's not quite up to your qualifications of worthy, and…. Just try not to kill him, okay? You can be very overwhelming, and although he's a very nice man, he's not used to murderers." She had tried to put it lightly, but truthfully, she wanted to yell the list of commands in his face. It was ridiculous -absolute ludicrous- that she had to tell him such simple things.

"Of course, Daughter. Whatever makes you most comfortable." Ra's smiled at her, and leaned in to kiss the top of her head affectionately. Yet again, she was reminded by why she had spared his feelings, but quickly forgot it as he spoke again. "But you can't truly expect me to hide my whole personality, can you? I'll try to make sure there's minimal stabbing at the family dinner that night, but you can only expect so much of me."

Talia had stared at him, with her eyes squinted with concern, but she pushed a smile on her face regardless. "J- Just do your best, Father. Thank you." The minute she had gotten out of the room, though, her smile immediately dropped. She let out a huge, tired, sigh. She loved her family, but sometimes she just wished they could hold their murderous instincts in for a moment.

Now, as her and Bruce inched towards the door, Talia felt that wish more than she ever had before. Even if Bruce was nervous, thinking of the times Talia had mentioned her Father being strict, controlling, and painfully traditional, he was nothing compared to Talia. She flinched every few moments. Her every instinct told her to lead Bruce away, to come up with an excuse, but it was too late now. She gulped. Maybe, if she had the best luck in the world, her father would only talk about his Endangered-Species-Saving Programs, and not his Murder-Most-Humans program.

But when Bruce looked down at her, he felt a sense of excitement. He surely hadn't heard the best things from Talia about her family, but if they have raised someone as wonderful as Talia, he was sure they couldn't be too bad. He knew they may not have the most similarities, but wasn't caring about Talia the most important similarity of all?

Despite his slight optimism, inside the Al Ghul house, not everyone was on their best behavior. Screams echoed through the dining room as everyone got settled down. Nyssa and Ra's, specifically, were the ones having the heated argument. Heated arguments were not uncommon for them, so much that no one had any clue why she was even invited to the family dinners. She didn't even consider herself part of that family, but Ra's was convinced that it was such a special moment, no one could miss it. His little girl has her first boyfriend! Inevitably, he lived to regret this decision.

"You're a dirty excuse for a father, Ra's! You left me to fend for myself when I needed you most!" Nyssa yelled, standing up from her chair. Her breath was heavy with rage. "You should be ashamed of yourself!" She quickly picked up her fork, throwing it as hard as she could in Ra's' face.

"No, you should be ashamed of yourself! You're the one that betrayed me, before I had done a thing to you!" Ra's screamed back, throwing the fork aside. Fortunately for Ra's, the fork hadn't done any damage. He quickly pulled himself out of his seat to balance the dominance in their positions. "Everything that happened was your own fault, so stop pushing the blame on to me just because I blatantly decided you weren't worth saving from torture!" Unaware of how bad that sounded, he picked up the fork again and threw it back at her.

They continued throwing things at each other, screaming endlessly. The danger of the things thrown escalated as they went. At first it was simply things like forks and spoons, things that wouldn't do too much damage. But it started getting worse, and worse…..

Outside, at least Bruce was getting some kind of a warning. Talia stopped him just before he opened the door, turning him to face her. She stared at him, a glint of dead seriousness in her eyes.

"Beloved, you are not ready to meet my family. You never will be. They're a lot to deal with." She warned. Talia's hands gripped his shoulders even harder than a villain does when threatening a hero. "Every single one of my family members is weird. Very, very weird. A bit absurd, even. Albeit a nice guy, you're also only a simple billionaire, so it's definitely going to get on your nerves. They even get on my nerves, they-"

Bruce gently tugged her arms off of her, "Talia, I can handle it. I'm not a judgemental guy, I swear. It's fine if they're a little weird." His face rested in a blank, -but more importantly, not a horrified or angry- expression. "Come on, let's go inside. They're probably waiting for us." He pointed towards the door, beginning to open it. Talia, still frazzled, immediately swung her arms over to stop him from opening it.

"Please, Beloved, you don't understand! It's not a difference in culture, tastes, or even opinions! I swear on my life… they're crazy." She stared into his eyes. Her pupils were huge, and her hands were shaky as she held him back. "I don't care if you don't believe me, but just… promise you won't blame me for them?" Talia looked down desperately. Her words slowed for a moment.

"Of course," Bruce nodded, but before she could even communicate her gratitude, he abruptly swung the door open. "I've told you a million times, though, I'm sure I won't even be blaming them! You're worr-" The second he took his eyes off of Talia, and on to the room in front of them, his mouth dropped. Every word he said about it being fine was regretted almost immediately. It was so very, very, not fine.

Bruce had looked just quick enough to see Nyssa cross a final line with the throwing… a full, sharp, assassin knife. It shot directly into, and right through, Ra's' guts. Blood dripped down his stomach area and onto his shirt and cape. Ra's looked down at the injury for a moment, before quickly realizing that Talia and her boyfriend had officially arrived.

"Look what you've done now, Nyssa!" Ra's scolded, pointing to Bruce angrily. "Our guest has arrived, and you've done this right in front of him! Look at him, so startled at your audacity to stab me that he can't seem to speak…. Congratulations, you've embarrassed the whole family!" Bruce couldn't seem to listen to Ra's, with his eyes stuck on his stomach. Blood kept spilling out of it, yet Ra's hardly seemed to mind.

"...Are you okay?" Bruce took a slow, hesitant step towards the dinner table. His eyes were as wide as he thought they could go. "Shouldn't someone call an ambulance? You're bleeding out!" With the pure shock of it all starting to fade, he whipped out his phone and started navigating to the dialer.

Now dripping even more blood on the ground, Ra's pranced over to the front door to greet Bruce. "No, no, no! Don't mind my other daughter's ill manors. She's never well-behaved anymore, I'm afraid. But you're the guest, you shouldn't worry about this. Just sit down and relax." He led Bruce over to his seat, nudging him to sit down onto it. Ra's turned his stomach away from the chair to be sure he didn't get any little drops of blood on it. As he made his way back to his own seat, he gestured towards his stab wound. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to have to get changed and cleaned up. I'm afraid this stab wound has created quite a mess."

Still recovering from the shock of the stabbing, Bruce attempted to reason with him, "But don't you need to get medica-" Before he could even finish his sentence, though, Ra's was already out of the room and down the hallway. As hard as Ra's had tried to keep the floor from too much damage, there were still drips of blood every few feet. Bruce considered following them to make sure he was okay, but quickly realized that with all the servants here, at least one person would help.

Talia sat down next to him, surprisingly unstartled by her own father's stabbing, "Try not to worry too much about it, Beloved. This happens a lot -sometimes even ending in the opposite- and as you can see, it has never resulted in his -or even Nyssa's- death. Oh, and don't worry for your own life, the stabbing is very personal. I doubt Nyssa thinks you have enough of a connection with him to be worth hurting." She explained matter-of-factly. Her hand gently reached over to pat his hand, in an attempt to sooth him.

"Okay… I just, I don't want you to lose him. I don't want you to feel the same pain of losing your parents as I did…" His voice quivered at the thought of his own parent's tragic murder. Talia nodded, understanding his pain, but in no way attempting to agree with him.

"As I've said before, don't worry. I'm afraid my mother already died when I was a child, and her death frightened me, but him? No, no, no, he's quite the survivor. He's survived so many ridiculous situations, in fact, I believe he's practically immortal!" She exclaimed the strong statement, seeming a bit excited, but not quite cheerful. Seeing the statement as a casual joke, Bruce laughed nervously. Talia did not laugh with him, though. To his discomfort, she stared at him, just as dead-serious as she was with her original warning.

The sound of her father's pattering footsteps knocked them both out of their odd conversation. Ra's entered the room, his blood now nowhere in sight. Despite how formal the arrangement was supposed to be, he was shirtless. A new shirt, looking very similar to the one he was wearing when Bruce arrived, was tucked under his arm.

As Ra's started pulling the shirt on, Bruce noticed something. The place where the stab wound had been just a moment ago was perfectly visible, with no clothes covering it, and yet it just… wasn't there anymore. Certainly no blood, but not even any bandages, or any kind of scar! The only thing in the victim's gut area was skin. Pure, undamaged, skin. Talia's family was starting to seriously freak Bruce out.

Once Ra's had gotten his upper-half dressed, he promptly began making his more formal greeting to Bruce, "I'm afraid, with all that chaos, I never got the chance to introduce myself! I'm Ra's Al Ghul, Talia's father. You can call me Ra's…. At least as long as I haven't found you unworthy of casual nicknames." He narrowed his eyes, scaring away any joy in Bruce for the moment. "...And you are…? I'm afraid I don't think Talia's mentioned your name."

"I'm Bruce… um, Bruce Wayne." Bruce stuttered, trying to shake away the strong sense of uncomfort Ra's was starting to give him. Ra's smiled politely, and shook his hand.

"Welcome to our home, Bruce… Or Mr. Wayne, whatever you prefer to be called." He gestured to the grand mansion they were having dinner in. Having had enough of leaning over to be eye-to-eye with Bruce, he slumped back down onto his chair. His grand, collared, cape got thrown back in the process.

"..Bruce is fine," Bruce answered, still a bit nervous. Ra's nodded at him. Surrounded by a thick layer of eyeliner, his eyes seemed to stare into Bruce's soul. Bruce hated to judge someone for their clothing style, but the way Ra's dressed was certainly off for a meet-the-family type dinner. In fact, with the gold button on his cloak looking eerily like a demon's face, he was practically dressed like a supervillain.

Everyone began eating the food in peace. Nyssa did not try to stab anyone during that time, and neither did Ra's. It was pure silence at the dinner table, with everyone focusing purely on their plates instead of making conversation. Eventually, Ra's finally brought his head up from it and started speaking to Bruce.

"So… You want to marry my daughter?" Ra's asked, looking at Bruce sternly. His eyes carefully moved up and down, evaluating every single part of Bruce to see how worthy it was. He squinted at Bruce's jacket, his shoes, his expression… everything. As much as Bruce tried to seem calm and collected for Ra's, both the sudden assumption of marriage and the intense staring were only making him feel subconscious.

Fortunately, Talia immediately cleared it up, "We haven't even spoken about marriage yet, Father! Please, you're going to overwhelm him. Didn't I already tell you not to do this?" She pleaded. Talia gulped, just as she had been doing consecutively for this entire dinner. Watching her father act this way always felt a bit off, but having her boyfriend there just made it so much worse. She could easily feel what Bruce was feeling, -or at least what she thought he was- and she knew it was far from positive. Talia looked back down at her plate, hiding her face as it turned bright red. She didn't think she'd ever felt quite this embarrassed in her entire life.

"I apologize, but you do realize, Talia, that if you ever want your relationship to go anywhere you must marry him at some point. How long have you two been dating, again?" Ra's looked back at Bruce, waiting for him to finally speak for himself.

Bruce took a deep breath, "Somewhere around 6 months? Or possibly 7, it's hard to get it exact." Ra's raised an eyebrow at the number.

"You two… have not even been thinking about marriage yet? Let me tell you, every single one of my marriages has always started with a month -at most- of prior dating, and I have had at least one perfectly good marriage. You all remember Sora, may she rest in peace, and we had the happiest of marriages. Yet, we married out of convenience! We hardly knew each other! Sometimes, you young ones must just let-" Ra's rambled, only to be cut off by Talia sighing. The gush of air was so loud and obviously exasperated that it completely cut off his story. After a second or two of silence, he continued despite it, "As I was saying, sometimes you young ones need to understand that dating isn't going to secure a marriage. A good attitude will! Both Sora and I had a good attitude, and she managed to be the light of my life. But of course, that only lasted so-"

This time, Talia simply used her words to stop him, "-So long because she got strangled to death in front of your eyes. We all know, Father, and frankly I don't think Bruce needs to know your life story. Why can't we just talk about something a bit more.. Conventional? We already talk about murder and death so much, can't we just lighten up a bit?" She begged, biting her lip uncomfortably. Her eyes looked at Ra's softly, almost as if she was attempting to do puppy eyes.

"Fine, fine, I really should get to the point, anyhow. We must tell if he is worthy enough to even date you! Only the finest in the lands are worthy of you, my darling, and so far I doubt he's up to that standard." Ra's scoffed, and Bruce couldn't help but roll his eyes in return. Talia looked down again, rubbing her temples. She was just about ready to fall asleep on her father's nonsense. "Hmmm…." Not paying any attention to his daughter's misery, he stared into Bruce's eyes for what must have been the fifth time.

"He's…. Very….. Wealthy…." Talia stated. Each word was separated by a ton of sighs, groans, and deep breaths of frustration. Even as she spoke to her father, she kept her eyes locked down on her plate, in a painful stare. Ra's rested his chin on his hand as he considered her words. He looked side to side, while tilting his head every which way in correspondence.

"Well… I suppose a bit of extra money surely isn't hurting his worthiness." Ra's titled his head one last time, glancing up at Bruce from a different angle. Slowly, he adjusted his head back to normal. His arms were lightly touching down on the table, propping up his hands to wrap their fingers in between the other one. Ra's leaned forward, with his face now less than a foot in front of his hands. "But… you can already get as much of that as you'd ever possibly need from me. Worthiness, you see, is about much more than that. It's about the intelligence. The skill. The strength. The willpower…. The grace." His index fingers, now pointing up from the rest of his hands, tapped against each other. Each tap was methodical, rhythmic… like the ticking of a clock, clacking each second away.

Bruce felt a cold, thick, drop of sweat roll down his forehead, "I… I once took an IQ test. Mine is… higher than normal. Quite a bit higher, I believe." He picked up his napkin and quickly wiped the sweat off, attempting to push a smile onto his face. Or, just some sign of confidence, at the very least. Unfortunately, he was just a billionaire -and not a very emotionally-mature billionaire at that- so it wasn't exactly helping his case.

"Good. That's very good…." Ra's nodded approvingly. His index fingers tapped together again each time his head bopped up and down. Finally looking up from her plate, Talia started to smile, a glint of hope in her eyes. "But if you really have such an impressive intelligence quotient, you better start acting like it. Hit it where it really counts, not just some meaningless quiz. If you want to receive my daughter's hand in marriage, you will prove yourself worthy of such a thing in real life." His head's nodding quickly came to a stop.

Talia sighed again, but didn't even try to bother stopping it. Her mind was much more focused on the worse tests she reckoned would come after… the ones her beloved, as wonderful and skilled as he was, was still bound to fail. She glanced up at Bruce, noticing how wet his forehead looked. Her warnings had not done a thing, as even now, he was acting as if this was a big problem in comparison to the other thing her father most valued.

As she silently brooded, Ra's began to start his opportunity for Bruce to prove his intelligence, "Bring. It. In!" His voice boomed through the room as he looked at his assassins servants expectantly. To his dismay, they all simply stared at him, waiting for some more clarification. Their eyes blinked unknowingly. Ra's cringed at his servant's lack of understanding. "I said, bring. It. In!" Yet again, he got nothing brought in at all. A long, exasperated sigh, -almost as heavy as Talia's had been all night- escaped his mouth.

One of the servants, still unsure what to do but eager to help, went over and stood by his side. The servant bowed, but didn't dare ask for clarification. Not wanting to anger the master, the servant made sure to be patient and let Ra's have time to explain himself.

Ra's turned directly towards the closest servant, looking him in the eyes desperately, "You know, it. The thing. The one you should be bringing in right now. Whipping up out of nowhere." The servant nodded, but continued to wait for even more of an explanation. Ra's waved his hand in front of the person, unsure if they were even listening. "Come on! Get to it! Bring. IT. IN….. Ah, forget it! I was really hoping I wasn't going to have to ruin the suspense and the drama like this, but the chess board! The one I always pull out dramatically when attempting to test whether I should respect someone! The grand assessment!"

"Ohhhhh…." The servant slowly nodded. They spun on their heels, beginning to make their way off to get the chess board. Every breath Ra's took was long and agitated, gushing out like the wind as he watched the servant disappear into the next room.

He turned back towards Bruce, "I apologize for that mishap. It seems I really should just keep my chess board nearby in these kinds of situations, but I promise you, my assassins did say they'd have it handy." He scoffed at their incompetence. Bruce, on the other hand, was a bit more focused on another thing. He stared at Ra's, his eyebrows furrowing.

If this family wasn't already freaking him out, they certainly were now, "A… Assassi-?!"

But before he even got to finish expressing his frantic confusion, Ra's quickly interrupted him. These 'assassins' of his were back, now with the chessboard that he desired so badly. Ra's rapidly swiped the chessboard out of their hands and slapped it down in front of the two of them.

"Finally, we can begin!" He exclaimed, a tint of annoyance still in his voice. He turned back towards his assassins for a moment, gritting his teeth. "We'll talk about this whole 'ruining my drama' thing later. All of you." Ra's pointed at his own two eyes with two of his fingers, and then pointed the fingers back down on the League of Assassins members.

"And I think we need to talk about this whole assassi-!?" Still more focused on the other matter at hand, he persisted in attempting to get some kind of explanation. But yet again, Ra's was simply not listening.

"You may go first. It's only fair that the guest gets privileges. Besides, I think you'll need every advantage you can get when playing with someone who's been playing this game for centuries." Ra's pointed to Bruce's end of the board, waiting. Bruce's lips quivered as he stared at it. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Ra's folded his hands together calmly. "Go on,"

Bruce chuckled nervously, "You're exaggerating… right?" His finger slowly inched towards the board as he thought about his first move. It was a strategy game, and Bruce was good at such games, but the claims Ra's was stating were more than intimidating. He bit his tongue, thinking back to all the games he'd won against Alfred.

"Exaggerating? Oh, hardly." Ra's shrugged, "You see, young man, this game has been going on far beyond even an old man like me's lifetime. I've been playing it for a long time, and I haven't gotten bored. But I have, as a matter of fact, learned many, many, strategies. I'd find it incredible for this to even last more than 30 minutes before you lose." Bruce leaned towards the board in concentration, attempting to ignore the chills running down his spine.

After what felt like forever of them playing chess, Talia finally saw an ending as she looked at the chess board. All of Bruce's pieces were blocked, in some way or another. She sighed in relief. Not only was this game not going to last forever, but her boyfriend wasn't even going to lose.

"It seems we've ended with a stalemate…" Ra's grinned at the outcome. He pulled out a clipboard from under the table, scribbling down the points this gave Bruce. Quickly tucking the clipboard back under the table, a look of awe sparkled in his eyes. "This is… incredible. Quite entertaining, actually! I haven't had a good opponent like this in years! Decades, even… if not centuries!" Bruce smirked, a sense of confidence raining over him. Talia rolled her eyes. She had certainly stalemated with Ra's at least once.

"Good, but now, can we please focus back on the fact that you called these… people around us... assassins?!" Bruce shook off the pride as he finally remembered the eerie mention. Talia's face flopped back down to face her plate. Her breaths were thin and short as she held back the urge to stand up and run straight out of this embarrassment.

"I did, didn't I...? Is that a problem? Did I offend you with that term?" Her father's voice rose. Despite the innocent questions, he fought back the urge to roll his eyes or scoff yet again in annoyance. "Would you prefer them to be called ninjas, murderers, or simply 'the people around us'? …..You're the guest."

"Murdere-?!" Bruce leaned back, unsure how to even say such a terrifying word. His mouth dropped open as his eyes anxiously darted back and forth. "These people are really… actual….." Talia reached over to Bruce, squeezing his hand.

"Are you alright, Beloved?" Talia asked. Her hand was warm, or possibly even a bit fever-ish to the touch. As was her cheeks, so very red with nerves. Bruce stared at her face, observing the not only embarrassed, but almost shameful expression smeared across it. A thought suddenly occurred to him… a quite unnerving, but eerily plausible one.

Bruce sighed, "...yes," He muttered through gritted teeth. Talia's shoulders slouched down, feeling her tense muscles relax at the reassurance. Bruce turned back towards Ra's, pouting his lip in a disapproving frown. "But… I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to. Let's get on with it, Ra's." Talia's muscles tensed right back up.

"Very well then, young man," Ra's aggressively shoved the chess board to the side. He pushed himself up from his seat, pulling out a sword that he had apparently been hiding in his pockets. "The next test is all about your ability to fight. Not only do I expect you to protect my daughter if the need comes up, but you also must be capable of winning wars if you want to win my daughter's love."

Talia pulled herself up from her seat, as well, "He already has my love, though, Father! No offense, but your tests and evaluations are all for yourself, and yourself only. We've already dated for long enough that it's ridiculous to act as if we aren't already in a romantic relationship." She crossed her arms, starting to get seriously fed up with her father's absurd behavior.

"Yes, yes, of course. But if you want me to treat you as my son-in-law, much less, my equal, you need to complete this test. It's about the respect! You've already shown competence in a battle of wits, now you must show you are just as skilled in physical battles for me to respect you." Ra's pointed his sword towards Bruce, making a stabbing motion towards the air. Bruce flinched as the sharp blade reached towards his chest. "Go on, get your blade out. This may not be a duel to the death -since Talia did go out of her way to make me promise I wouldn't stab you- but it's still a battle that you need to be prepared for."

"My… blade?" Bruce raised one of his eyebrows in confusion. He shook his head and squinted his eyes at Ra's. "I was just trying to go to a formal dinner, to meet my girlfriend's family. Why. Would. I. Have. a. Sword. With. Me?!" After having to listen to Ra's constantly scoff throughout the dinner, he finally managed to gather the courage to scoff back.

"You must always be prepared, young man. Always. You are obviously immature. You know strategies, but you lack the true wisdom to use them properly. But, I suppose that is only to be expected with your young age, so…. I will still give you a chance." Ra's slid his sword back into his pocket. His lips rested in a strict frown, but began to curve up ever so slightly for a moment. "Besides, you already stale-mated me. I love a good stalemate! I can't believe I found someone who could achieve such an outcome! You're wonderful, Bruce. Just wonderful… Assassins, get him a sword!"

Bruce could only stare as a woman, dressed in all black attire, handed him her sword. He opened his mouth to reject it, but only a small, frantic, l uttering sound sputtered out. Everyone, including Talia, Nyssa, the assassins, and a man who's name hadn't been mentioned yet, stepped back, leaving Bruce and Ra's alone. Bruce slowly wrapped his hands around the handle of his weapon, still adjusting to the odd feeling of holding such a sharp object in his hand. By the time he realized what was happening around him, it was much too late to eat his last bite of food.

In fact, it was too late to even stretch before the battle. Ra's, who was seemingly having enough of Bruce's shock, was already lunging over. His sword slashed at Bruce's. With Bruce's fingers barely even holding on to it, Bruce's sword immediately got flung to the ground upon feeling any kind of impact.

Clang! The metal blade chimed as it hit the hard floor. The sound instantaneously knocked Ra's out of his intense battle-focus. His teeth were not gritted anymore, and his eyes widened from their stern glaring. He looked down at the stray weapon, then back up to Bruce. Now realizing what had happened, Bruce's face turned red. A tiny spray of sweat appeared on his forehead as he looked down with embarrassment.

"With all due respect, I have never had a weaker or less skillful opponent." Ra's blinked at the pathetic sight, shaking his head. He bent down to the ground and picked up the sword. The woman who it belonged to eagerly reached out to take it from him. Ra's turned back towards Bruce, who gulped as he saw the disappointment in his eyes. "I suppose I should've expected this kind of thing from such an average billionaire, although that chess game had sure gotten me hopeful. I mean god, was that a good game!" Ra's mumbled, holding back a smile.

Bruce sighed, "Let me guess, you want me to never date or even speak to your daughter again." He looked back at Talia, his shoulders slumping at the thought of leaving someone so lovely. But almost just as quickly, his shoulders pulled back up again. "Because if I may just say, this is completely unwarranted! You could've at least given me a warning about this nonsense…"

"You.. have a point." Ra's nodded, "Which is why I haven't completely ruled you out. That chess game still proves your utter excellency in nature, so perhaps it is rather cruel to blame you for this one time. But-"

Out of pure instinct, Bruce punched Ra's in the gut and kicked him to the floor. Ra's quickly jumped back up and dusted himself off, hardly bothered physically. But mentally, he was shocked. Talia ran to her father's side to make sure he was alright.

"Why would you do that, Beloved?" She yelled at Bruce. With Ra's obviously unarmed, she took a step towards her boyfriend. "You already weren't doing very well on his evaluations, so how do you think attacking him is going to help you?"

"I've proved I can defeat him." Bruce narrowed his eyes, still confident in his reckless behavior. Talia sighed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "He was doubting my ability to fight, but I've proved that I'm perfectly capable of throwing a punch or two. Since he's so obsessed with my fighting, it should help me be 'worthy' or whatnot." He crossed his arms.

Ra's rested his forehead against his hand, facepalming, "Yes, you got me on the ground for a bit, but at what cost? Ambushing may be a great strategy, and I already admitted you knew many strategies, but what kind of true warrior would use it on his own friend!?" He snapped. His large boots rattled as he stomped his foot on the ground. "A little agitation and frustration towards me does not take away the fact that you never declared us at war!" He began to stomp back to his seat at the dinner table.

"For goodness sakes, you're really going to lecture me about my morals when you've got a freaking assassin cult surrounding us!?" Bruce yelled back in return, "In my defense, when I see assassins, it really seems like anything I do would be in self-defense… Even if you weren't currently attacking me…" He argued. Every sense of nervousness had spiraled into anger.

"Exactly, we never attacked you except for a formal, well-mannered, spa-"

"Shut up! Can't you both just agree to disagree?!" Now shaking from frustration, Talia finally let her voice really rise and scream at them both. She tugged Bruce back to the table, and motioned for them both to sit down. "Apparently you're both a bit crazy, but two different kinds of crazy that apparently don't mix. I just- I just want this dinner to not be the worst experience of all of our lives…." As she settled back down into her own chair, her voice began to lower again.

Bruce and Ra's both begrudgingly nodded. Everyone's muscles began to relax, and their breaths were much slower and calmer. The ticks of an old clock clacked in the background as everyone went back to eating calmly. After a few minutes of peaceful silence, a soft conversation began again.

"I don't think you two ever introduced yourselves." Bruce pointed to another man and woman who were seated at the table with them. They had been simply watching and speculating as him and Ra's did their shenanigans. "You're Nyssa, right?" He pointed to the woman who had stabbed Ra's not long ago.

"Yes, and it's been quite amusing to watch him be kinder to you than he is to me." Nyssa sent him a cold glare across the table. He shuttered. "I'm Talia's older sister… or technically half sister, but you get the point."

Ra's quickly took up the introductions once she was finished, "Yes, yes, she's my other daughter. Much older than Talia, but nowhere near as wonderful." He smiled at Talia, who blushed uncomfortably. Being the favorite was better than being the least favorite, but it could certainly be embarrassing, too. Ra's turned towards Dusan, "He's… my son? I think. I'm sorry, it's been a long time since his birth, so I sometimes forget it even happened! His name is… hmm… I'm fairly sure it starts with a C…"

"It's Dusan, Father. It doesn't even start with a C…" The man corrected. He sighed at his father's forgetfulness. Ra's titled his head at Dusan, displeased at the answer. His expression was questionable, with an eyebrow raised, like he was about to question Dusan on his own name. Dusan sighed even deeper.

"I… supposed that's his name, then…" Ra's gave in, his tone still indicating his lack of certainty on the matter. He looked Dusan in the eyes, making direct eye contact, "But don't call me Father! You're hardly my son if I can't even remember my name." Dusan returned the eye contact with a look of sadness and disappointment.

"If it makes you feel any better, Dusan, I still consider you my big brother." Talia stated, smiling towards him shyly. Dusan shook off the eye contact with Ra's to send a bitter glare back to his younger sister.

"Oh really? Like I care, Favorite! One day, he's going to realize that I'm the better child and you're going to be forsaken considering how much trouble you've caused him!" Dusan scowled at Talia. She groaned, but stayed quiet in an attempt to avoid another embarrassing argument.

"Don't you dare speak to your superior that way!" Despite her silence, Ra's was far from quiet. He immediately looked back towards Bruce as he finished speaking. His speech was completely polite to Bruce now, as if the spontaneous attack had never even happened. "I apologize for his foul behavior, Bruce. It seems that sometimes immature children will act out if you forget to treat them kindly."

"Um… okay." Bruce squinted at Ra's, concerned but still confused. He was still certain that despite the uncalled-for attack, Ra's was still indefinitely the crazier one. But of course, in an effort to not upset Talia, Bruce kept this thought to himself. "I… suppose you must have another test for me, right?"

"Of course! Even though your manners aren't the very best, I will admit you did get me on the ground for a bit there, so… I still haven't counted you out. With a little teaching, you could be a very worthy man." Ra's complimented, "I'd just like to ask you a few questions, to get a grip of your personality just a bit better." He explained, pushing his food to the side.

"Go ahead," Bruce said. Despite his encouraging words, though, he was frowning in utter disinterest. He slowly pushed his food to the side to clear a path between them. Ra's pointed to Bruce before he asked the first question.

"How do you feel about the environment? More specifically, the planet. Innocent animals made endangered by man-made devices and pollution!" Ra's began. He eagerly stretched his hand over to grab a nearby globe, pulling it into his clutches. His thick, strong, fingers spun it nonchalantly.

Bruce thought about the question for a moment, "I feel bad for the animals. Since I have so much money, I've donated tons to helping them, and I feel the environment is a very important cause. I will admit I haven't done a ton of work with it myself, though…" He answered the question as truthfully as possible, figuring it probably wasn't too important.

"That's good… although I would appreciate a bit more enthusiasm for such an important cause." Ra's nodded, quickly moving on to the next question. "How about… murder? Assuming there's a good cause for it, of course."

Bruce froze, "Do I… do I have to answer truthfully?" He whispered into Talia's ear. She nodded, pointing towards her father. With a couple of her fingers pressed up to her neck, she made a cut-throat gesture. Bruce shuttered and shook at such a threatening signal, even if it was more of a simple warning. "I think it's horrible. One of the worst crimes imaginable. I would never commit it, even if it cost me my life. I don't think there's any excuse for taking another human being's life, no matter what that human being has done."

Ra's frowned at the blunt response, "But what if it saved other lives? The animals, which we've hurt so much with pollution's lives, perhaps?" He argued, continuing to spin his globe fidgetly. His eyes peered down at the bright blue paint, thinking of the dolphins, fish, seals, and whales that all inhabited that precious space. The space humans were constantly taking over, with their plastic, machinery, and oil spills. To Ra's, such horrid actions seemed surely worthy of the death penalty.

"I said no," Bruce shook his head stubbornly. "No one deserves to die, period. I'm not going to be persuaded on this." He glared at Ra's, starting to get more and more confident by the minute. Ra's glowered right back at him.

Talia sighed, "You know, Beloved… You didn't have to be this blunt about it." She leaned her head on chin on her hand wearily. Her eyes began to close softly, having no energy left after all the messes that had gone on. "I just didn't want you making up something too-good-to-be-true…."

Bruce rolled his eyes, "Well maybe I want to be blunt-"

"Well, I'd like to remind you that my father isn't exactly the person you want to upset!" She gestured back towards all the highly-trained assassins surrounding them. Every single one had belts with an arsenal of weapons tucked inside, and half of them had enough muscles to take down most people without the help of the weapons. "Only a fool would mess with such a man. After months of dating you, I hope I am not misled when I say you're not that much of an idiot."

Bruce gulped, immediately realizing his mistake, "I…. I'm sorry, Mr. Al Ghul." He looked back at Ra's nervously. He quickly tightened his tie and fixed his posture, hoping even that small of a change could make a difference. . . Whether that difference was a matter of life or death, or simply whether Talia and him were allowed to keep dating.

"You know... '' Ra's considered his options, peering at Bruce judgmentally. "That kind of rebelness does show courage, if you squint. I'll be fair and say it's bound to come in handy at some point in your life… so, I have decided that you two may keep dating. From what I've heard, you make my daughter happy, so I suppose I'd feel bad being too judgemental." He smiled at Talia. Getting up from his seat, he wandered around the table to kiss her forehead lovingly.

Despite the loving gesture, though, Talia was much more focused on the wonderful news this meant for her and Bruce. The minute her father was done giving her the kiss, she ran over to Bruce and hugged him. Bruce wrapped his hands around her as well, squeezing her against him.

"Thank you, Father," Talia turned back towards Ra's for a split second before leaning back into Bruce's hug. She rested her cheek against him affectionately. "You're alive. I can't believe you're still alive. Everyone's still alive…." She smiled, tilting her to the left to peck him on the cheek.

"Yes.. although I will admit it's a bit sad that we even questioned that.. Not that we didn't have the right to." Bruce glared at Nyssa and Ra's bitterly. Fortunately, they were both looking the opposite way. He really had to stop doing so much of this rebellious, impolite, glaring at those he was attempting to make fond of him. "But more importantly, we get to stay together! I knew I had made the right move by attacking your father." He smirked.

"Sure you did," Talia's smile twisted into a smirk along with his, "There's a reason he didn't kill you, though, Beloved. You were wonderful… and the stalemate? That's more than impressive. It took me my entire childhood of playing chess with him to start being able to get those! You're so intelligent, and brave, and… well, I'm just very glad I fell in love with someone as wonderful as you. Even if you did punch my Father." Her eyes softened for a moment, now taken over by a bittersweet gaze.

"...Thank you," Bruce smiled softly back to her, but it was quickly taken over by a more solemn, concerned, expression. "Can we talk outside for a moment, Talia? After all this, I think there's a lot we need to go over… privately." He nudged her out of the comfy hug.

Talia's smile immediately dropped, "Of… course," She stuttered, now remembering that Bruce had just learned tons of secrets in this one evening. Her head turned slightly back towards Ra's, "Please excuse us for a moment." Taking Bruce's hand, Talia led him outside to a nearby courtyard.

Once they got there, Bruce let out a long, painfully loud, groan. He flopped down onto one of the benches drowsily. Talia sat down with him, letting out a smaller groan herself. They sat there, with all masks and forced smiles dropped for an awkward minute or two. Their eyes were closed for the most of it, only flickering open every few seconds.

"I assume you want to break up with me, anyway." Talia finally spoke, her words slow and quiet above the peeps of nearby crickets. She stared straight down at the ground, neglecting to blink or let the aching tears stream out of her eyes. Bruce slowly looked up at her. Both their heads were still dropping forwards for the most part, but he peered at her from the corner of his eye. Another gap of silence stood between them before he finally opened his mouth to answer her question.

"...No, not necessarily." Bruce finally answered. He looked back down at his lap, avoiding any kind of eye contact. Her chin twitched upwards at the good news. But as he spoke again, Talia's chin lowered. "But… out of curiosity, if I did, would your father kill me?"

"Well… yes, probably." Her skirt gently flew up, caught in the airy breeze. She breathed in and out, as slow and soft as the wind. Bruce bit his lip, pouting ever so slightly. He swallowed in consideration. "But I would try my best to stop it from happening, Beloved. As much as it would ache me, I would never want you to die, of course. …..You could fake your own death." She suggested, finally lifting her chin enough to really look at him.

Bruce flinched, but kept his head down, "I'd… rather not do that." A muffled groan escaped his lips. Talia's lips quivered at the uncomfortable sound. Her head dropped again, spinning towards the opposite direction. As she turned away, Bruce continued thinking over his options. Everything felt wrong, but somehow right in an odd way. They sat in silence for another couple minutes as he fell deep into his thoughts.

"You promised," Talia suddenly blurted out. Tears had begun to well up in the corners of her eyes. She continued to look away from him, hiding the weak, desperate look on her face. "You promised you wouldn't blame me for them….. You promised." Her voice was careful as she attempted to keep her tone as calm as possible.

Bruce nodded, "You're right," He stated. For a second, but only for a second, did his voice crack into a much shakier tone. It pained him to look at her, to hear her faltering voice, and most of all, to know that she hadn't truly done a thing. At least, as far as he knew. "Your father's a criminal. The leader of a league dedicated to murder. So, with that knowledge in mind…. How many people have you murdered?"

Talia gulped, "You- You don't want to know." She shook her head shamefully. Bruce winced at the cold, gut-wrenching answer. "You and I both know you don't truly want to hear the answer to that question." She repeated. Talia pressed her eyes closed, letting tears seep out out and on to her trembling cheeks. Bruce was going to go. She was sure of it.

"Why…? Why would you-" Bruce stuttered. He finally fully lifted his head to face the apparent-murderer. Talia turned even farther away from him in response.

"Can't you see? My father is an ecoterrorist, Beloved. A mass-murderer. A genocidal maniac. I spent my entire childhood in his care… Of course I've killed for him!" Her voice rose a bit. Talia's eyes peered back at Bruce to see his reaction, but she didn't move a muscle in her neck to truly look at him. "I swear on my life, I didn't enjoy it. But I couldn't let him down. I still can't let him down. He's still my father, and… I can't betray my own family, can I?" She wrapped her arms around herself. A sad look sparkled in her eyes, almost mirroring the stars above them.

Bruce felt a tinge of anger run up his spine, "But…. you want to, don't you?" Talia's neck shook as her head flopped even closer to her lap. He moved his hand a bit closer to her, considering whether he should place it on her shoulder or not.

"Maybe I do," Talia whispered, her words barely audible. It was if she was simply mouthing them to herself. She squeezed her eyes shut as she spoke the tiny, quiet, little words. As she slowly opened them again, she gradually turned her head to finally face him. Their eyes met for a moment, "But maybe I don't. It's more complicated than that, Beloved ..." Her head still faced him, but her eyes broke out of the eye contact. They wandered in the opposite direction wistfully.

Bruce sucked in his lips, every muscle in his body cramping together. He resisted every urge in himself to touch her, hug her... or simply just reach a bit closer to hold hands. She was a murderer. He shouldn't have felt this way, he knew he shouldn't, but the urges were there. Bruce. Still. Loved. Her. It hurt to say the words inside his head, but not quite as much as it hurt to deny it. He kept his hand still, worried even a small vibration of movement could result in him fully wrapping his arms around Talia. But as he focused on stillness in his body, Bruce felt another hand reach over and squeeze his.

"All I know now, Beloved… is that I don't want to betray you." Talia looked straight at him now, adjusting her entire body to lean towards him. Bruce looked straight at her, as well. Her green eyes were glossy, with wet tears glistening in the moonlight. "We could still work out. My father actually seems to admire you, and I do, as well, but…. I'm not sure if you return such admiration…. After everything you've learned."

"You have a point," Bruce pushed himself off the bench. He began to tread forward, wandering around the courtyard. "I lose nothing from staying with you… except perhaps my lack of relations with murderers. It's not like I'm completely innocent myself. I may not have taken anyone's life, but I certainly started some fires against people who didn't completely deserve it. My poor math teacher…. Besides, I made a promise." He paced back and forth, gradually walking faster and faster|.

Talia sighed, "But that promise only included what my family did," She stood up with him. "They are my murders, not my-"

"Yes," He looked down for a moment, lost in thought yet again. His mouth rested in an aloof frown. Bruce's eyes narrowed. "But even then, it's more than clear you wouldn't be such a murderer if it weren't for where you were raised. Blaming you for such a thing could be considered breaking my promise either way." His hands spun up and down, gesturing as he explained his logic.

Talia's hand reached over to his, "Please… I'm not some kind of damsel in distress. I may have tears coming out of my eyes, and I may look pathetic right now, but…you still must make the choice that suits your heart. I don't want your pity." Her eyebrows arched, a stern focus taking over. Bruce's hands stopped twirling. A stillness crept over, with her hand just barely resting on his arm peacefully.

"-And I will not give you any, Talia," Bruce cleared his throat. Finally giving in to the undying urges, he wrapped his arms around her. Talia felt him pull her into a soft embrace. "Even through mistakes, and even, well... crimes, there is one thing standing. One thing other than pity- and that is love. It may make me crazy for doing so, or even a criminal, but I will give you mine."

"What does that even mean, though?" Talia asked, looking downwards. Her eyelids flapped up and down as she quickly blinked. "I… suppose it doesn't even matter, does it? Not now, anyhow… If you will give me your love, then I will give you mine." She quickly peeked back up, now with a wide smile across her face.

"I think we both know what that means, then… and what it doesn't." Bruce sighed, carefully taking a step back from Talia. Their loving embrace loosened. Talia's smile began to drop, but still not fully hit a frown. "I'm sorry. I… may have gotten lost in the fairytales there. Or maybe I was right. I'm not even sure anymore, Talia…"

Talia took deep breaths as she thought everything he was saying over, "You… you said thought we both knew what it meant… and what it didn't, of course. But perhaps…" Her hand, hesitant and unsure, began to slowly nudge him back towards her. Despite his overall reluctance, he easily let her lead him in the movement. "Perhaps for now… we can just focus on what it does mean, Beloved." She whispered the endearing nickname, a hopeful smile appearing on his face. Bruce couldn't help but smile back.

With their arms already wrapped tightly around each other, Talia slowly began to lean in for a kiss. Bruce closed his eyes, gently following her affectionate behavior. Both of their soft hugs towards the other one tightened even more as they leaned in close. The soft glow of the moon shimmered behind them as they finally kissed. Talia and Bruce held the other one happily. Happy. Even for just a moment, they were happy.

[thinkingisadangerouspastime]

So, I'll bite, because I think some of these conversations should be had publicly and not behind the cloak of anon.

Why does it bother you personally if someone ships Kataang and is anti Zuko, if they are not tagging those posts in the Kataang tag?

I have a mutual who hates Zuko and ships Kataang. She keeps her opinions to herself in her own blog, tagging her posts anti zuko just in case. Why is hatred of a fictional character somehow an offense in fandom now? No one is going to die because she thinks Zuko shouldn't have been in the show.

Here's the deal: I only am tangentially involved in ATLA fandom. From what I see, most Kataang fans don't care what other people ship. They want to make their own content and be free of the stupid takes on Aang, Katara and their relationship that permeate their fandom. But even if they did hate or resent multishippers, if they are not calling you out or reblogging your properly tagged ship posts to shit on them, what business is it of yours?

The idea that a Kataang fan who can create content and add to the fandom, but happens to hate Zuko or any other character or ship being a "bad fan" is ludicrous. I don't know why so many people seem to be afraid to say this to you without hiding.

P.S.: It's pretty obvious that one troll anon is writing all of these anons, probably to get you riled up against Kataang fans who are looking at this shit like "wtf?" You and others are being used to spread dissent in a harmless part of fandom, but a person who hates Zuko on their own blog is the problem?

hi! firstly, i greatly appreciate you being willing to step forward and ask for clarification; i wish more people would do so instead of jumping to ridiculous conclusions lmaooo

secondly, you have asked some great questions! im gonna try to take them one at a time bc it works best for my brain lolol

1) it does not bother me if the posts are properly tagged! in fact, i don't believe i ever implied it did, so im a little confused on why you bring that up 😂 what does bother me is when unsolicited anti zuko anons barge into my inbox and insist that it's impossible to like zuko and ship kataang and similarly negative rhetoric. bc like. yeah, that's really rude and kills motivation 😂

2) hatred of a fictional character is not a fandom offense! i have simply expressed in the past my personal opinion on my personal blog that i don't understand anti rhetoric bc i can't fathom investing so much time and energy into hatred of a fictional person lmao. but again, the issue is not from properly tagged content, it's from the anons who show up and try to interrogate me about how i can possibly ship kataang and also appreciate zuko,, like hello?? people can have different opinions?? you don't see me going into anyone's inboxes like that, tf 😂 fandom etiquette 101

3) you're right that most kataang shippers don't care what other people ship! my expressing discomfort with a very small portion of the atla fandom does not negate the fact that i love kataang. maybe this is crazy lmao, but i have the range to be uncomfortable with rude anons and anti content (the latter of which is a personal squick and again! if it's appropriately tagged, evidently not what im referring to) while simultaneously acknowledging that a majority of the kataang fandom is a wonderful place. like, i wouldn't make so much kataang content if i hated the fandom hello 😂

4) that's the thing - i have gotten numerous anons who rudely insist that they don't think it's possible for me to ship kataang and also like other aang and katara ships. so you're damn right, i do have a problem with the harassment that i (and some of friends who actually only ship kataang!) have received. i am sure you can understand why it's both hurtful and frustrating for someone to tell me i can't possibly appreciate kataang just because i have other ships for those characters, too. so yes, idc what people do on their personal blogs, but you're damn right i feel hurt when people show up on my blog and criticize what is literally a fun hobby for me. it's unwanted, unnecessary, and im tired of it

5) you're right, that is ludicrous, and i have never once stated that. in fact, i always emphasize the importance of curating one's own online experience! i only have a problem when those people (and others) accuse me of taking positions i have never taken, insist i can't enjoy kataang bc i like zuko and/or other katara and aang ships, and continually harass myself and my friends for it. which like,, im sure you can sympathize 😂

6) im inclined to agree it's only a few different people writing those anons. they need to get a hobby lmaooo

7) a person who hates zuko is not the problem, the problem is a person who hates zuko harassing myself and others. it is quite simple. (which is clearly not your friend, btw!! i appreciate them tagging appropriately 💕)

i hope this provides the clarification you seek, my friend! i appreciate your honesty and your willingness to seek understanding and further information when you recognized you weren't getting the full picture 💛 have a great day!!

[densi-mber]

The Christmas Brew

A/N: For today’s prompt: Kensi and Deeks plus the team at the Squid and Dagger. Takes place semi-currently, but perhaps not quite in canon with the show. Copious amounts of ridiculousness and Christmas cheer.

***

“What can I get you, Sam?” Deeks asked, flinging a dry towel over his shoulder as he braced himself against the bar. Kensi was next to him making some kind of fluorescent green drink with copious amounts of vodka and a couple other liquors for Nell.

The bar was all decked out for the holidays with ribbons, bows, a tree, and various figurines. To add to the festive mood, Eric and Nell had come dressed in ludicrously awful Christmas sweaters, and in Nell’s case, a massive tree skirt and a wobbly candy cane head band. Callen had even worn a funny Santa hat, much to Sam’s amusement.

“You have any of Yuengling left on draft?”

“Oh, come on. You’re seriously not going try our Christmas special?”

“Deeks, I have tried every beer you two have concocted,” Sam said, gesturing between Deeks and Callen. “Every single one of them has been awful. I’m not falling for it again.”

“That’s very hurtful,” Deeks commented.

“Everything I ate tasted like roadkill for the next 24 hours after the last one.”

“Actually, I think you’ll really like this one,” Callen said.

“Deeks, give the man his beer,” Kensi said, lightly smacking his shoulder with the back of her hand. “If he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t have to try the special.”

“Just out of curiosity,” Nell said, accepting the radioactive looking drink from Kensi. “What’s in this year’s Christmas brew.”

“Cranberry, yam, and raisins,” Deeks answered eagerly.

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Eric decided uncertainly.

“With hints of glazed ham and brussel sprouts,” Callen added helpfully.

“On second thought, that sounds really awful.” Eric made a face and quickly moved to the far end of bar, apparently in case anyone should try to force unwanted beer on him.

“Kensi,” Sam said. “Honest opinion. How bad is this one?” Kensi took a sip of her own beer and considered for a moment.

“Hm, it’s not as bad as the oyster one, but it’s weirder than the bacon. And more meaty than the sausage,” Kensi explained, screwing up her face as she recalled. “And as a bonus, it did not burn make my tongue burn.”

“See, it’s delicious,” Deeks said with a grin. “You’ll love it.”

“No chance.”

“C’mon Sam, do it for your partner.”

“Nope.”

“Oh for god’s sake,” Nell said, rolling her eyes. “I’ll try it.” She drained the rest of her drink and grabbed the bottle Deeks offered her. He eyed her dubiously.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to mix Midori, vodka, rum, and beer, Nell?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine.” She twisted the lid of, muttering something about “babies” and took a large gulp while Deeks and Callen waited in anticipation of her response.

She nodded, not swallowing immediately and then delicately spit it back into her empty glass.

“Yeah, that does not taste like Christmas,” she said with a grimace. Kensi handed her a glass of water with a sympathetic expression. Sam grabbed the bottle and gingerly sniffed it.

“Only if it’s Christmas dinner that’s been sitting in the back of the fridge for 2 months.” He grimaced, handing the bottle back to Deeks.

“I guess it’s back the drawing board,” Callen sighed, shrugging as Deeks passed him the open bottle. He took a drink and swallowed, earning a look of pure disgust from Sam.

“I guess we could start on the ghost pepper one next,” Deeks suggested. He knew none of their beers were fantastic, but he honestly hadn’t thought it was that bad. It had a very...unique flavor.”

“Oh no, baby, why don’t you give it a break,” Kensi said pleadingly, lightly resting her hand on his stomach. “I know you guys love creating new flavors, but isn’t it time you guys gave up? No one every drinks it besides Callen.”

“I feel like we’ve been insulted,” Callen observed, not looking remotely insulted.

“I know!” Deeks said, adopting a scandalizes tone. “And from my own Lady Bird too.” Kensi patted his stomach and leaned up to kiss his cheek.

“Mm, yes and your Lady Bird is getting sick of being your main guinea pig.”

“But it’s our creative outlet.”

“You’d do better if you took up woodworking,” Sam muttered. “At least then there’d be less chance of casualties.”

“Unbelievable,” Deeks said, shaking his head. “Betrayed by my friends and my wife in one day.”

Kensi rocked up on her toes and whispered in his ear. His eyes widened as she pulled back with a pleased expression. He cleared his throat, turning back to face Callen.

“Sorry, man, but it looks like I’m going to be very busy in the near future. The beer making business was good while it lasted.”

“Do we want to know what Kensi said to make you change your mind so quickly?” Nell asked. She was leaning a little heavily on the bar while Eric kept a steadying hand on her back.

“No,” Sam said firmly and loudly as Callen shook his head, and added,

“Not even a little bit.”

“Merry Christmas to me,” Deeks said happily, raising a fresh bottle of the Christmas special in the air for a toast.

[ineloqueent]

Hello! I would like to ask for fluff with Joe since you haven’t written for him yet. How about Joe dating/flirting with someone way more quiet and shy than him? A shy! Reader

here’s some fluffy joe for you! i’ve made y/n into a bit of a bookworm, because i’m a bit of one myself, oops. hope you enjoy :)

⭒

Joe had been the first person in your life to understand that being shy wasn’t mutually exclusive with not wanting to be spoken to, that you were human, and craved connection as much as anybody else.

You’d first encountered him at the local hybrid cafe-bookshop, Paracosm. Perhaps that was why you’d been a little more at ease than usual, that day; you knew the place. Paracosm was your favourite haunt, filled with the familiar comforts of tea and yellowed pages, the glittering light bulbs that hung from the ceiling like little planets and kept the atmosphere of the cafe cosy, even on the coldest of days.

Or perhaps it’d been the look of kindliness about him, the slight ginger tint to his hair, the snow dusting his eyelashes, the way he’d shivered and shared a laugh at his own expense with the barista. It was a beautiful quality, to be able to laugh at oneself.

Or maybe it was none of those things at all, and instead simply that he’d smiled at you when he had accidentally made eye contact with you, instead of hurriedly looking away, as most people— including you— did.

“I should’ve worn a warmer jacket, I think,” he said conversationally, and with a start, you realised he’d been talking to you.

Your first thought was why? Why was he speaking to you?

You were sitting by the door, yes, in the spot where you normally did, because the way the bookshelves were positioned by the table ensured that no draft would sweep over you, but just because you were closest to him… Was that why he had directed his remark to you, in polite resolve of the mistake he’d make in looking at you earlier? Or was he speaking to you because he wanted to speak to you?

No, of course not.

But he was still smiling at you, almost expectantly, as though he thought you would reply.

“Wrong day to wear a thin jacket,” you said, and your tonelessness could have been mistaken for hostility. You cursed yourself inwardly; it wasn’t hostility, it was nerves. Admittedly, the man was attractive, and as you already struggled with small talk in the company of people you knew, talking to this auburn-haired stranger turned your words more nonsensical than normal.

But he laughed again, lightly, easily. He had an easiness about him, a simplicity that boasted earnesty and depth, both wit and charm. “You’re right,” he said, simply. “But you look like the clever sort.”

You blinked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you said.

The memory of a smile remained on his face as he told the barista, “A latte for me,” glanced in your direction, then added, “and another hot chocolate for the lady, please.”

Your expression turned further puzzled, and the man said to you, “Mind if I sit down?”

He’d said it so kindly, as though he genuinely cared that you would not be bothered by him taking the seat across from you.

“No,” you managed, “sit down.”

He pulled out the chair and sat down, made as though to take off his coat, then changed his mind, instead wrapping it more tightly around himself.

“You’re reading Shakespeare,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“You’re reading Shakespeare,” he repeated, and you glanced down at your book.

You were reading Shakespeare, but as to why that was relevant, you couldn’t guess.

“And?”

He shrugged. “Call me simple-minded, but if you’re reading Shakespeare for fun, you have to be some kind of smart. You can’t read between the lines if you’re not smart, and most of Shakespeare is between the lines, not in them.”

Pulling your book closer to you, you challenged shyly, “How do you know I’m reading for fun?”

You noticed, as you leveled your gaze on him, that his eyes were a lovely brown, the kind of colour one might wish to sink into, merely to fathom a whisper of the warmth that lay within them. “You were smiling at the book when I came in.”

He’d noticed you even before you’d seen him.

How often did that happen?

The answer was never. You were one to shrink into the corner, preferring to deflect most attention, and careful observation was your greatest asset in this world of loud-talkers and scatter-brained thinkers. You imagined that nothing about you drew the eye.

But you’d drawn his.

A flush touched your cheeks. “That’s embarrassing,” you muttered. You were only half-joking.

That smile was back on his face again.

“I’m Joe,” he said, reaching out to shake your hand.

“Y/N,” you responded quietly, taking his hand. His skin was soft.

“Joe! Latte and a hot chocolate.”

Joe raised his eyebrows at you, then went to retrieve the drinks. Returning, he set down the hot chocolate in front of you.

“You really didn’t have to do that,” you said, avoiding his eyes.

“Oh, but I wanted to,” he winked. “Gotta make a good first impression.”

Your book was a refuge as you glanced down again, the reliable pattern of black lettering stamped into creamy paper offering you familiarity in this unfamiliar situation. You weren’t used to this… interest.

“And anyway,” he resumed, “what I meant to say was, that’s not embarrassing,” he jammed a finger in the direction of your book, “but the fact that I know how to recite the entirety of Macbeth backwards is.”

“Backwards?” you couldn’t help but laugh. “Why do you know how to recite the entirety of Macbeth backwards?”

Joe winced. “See, that’s the embarrassing bit.”

You raised your eyebrows, and with a heavy sigh, he continued.

“It was a bet. I was being stupid and thought it would be a good idea to bet my friend a hundred dollars that I could memorise any play within a week.”

“Okay, that does sound a bit embarrassing,” you conceded. “But still, why backwards?”

“I’m getting there, I’m getting there,” he said, blowing over the surface of his latte, gingerly taking a sip. He recoiled when it was still too hot, wrinkling his nose in an adorably childish manner. “Backwards, because my friend decided to teach me a lesson for being an idiot, and one-upped me that I should learn it backwards. Before I knew it, there was an entire bar-full of strangers chanting for me to do it, on pain of death if I refused.”

You laughed, finally slipping your fingers from your book, closing it gently with the bookmark inside, your attention captured by how this man told stories in such a lively way, the lilt of his voice akin to how one would narrate a fairytale.

“Go on, then,” you said, trying your hot chocolate. It was perfect, as ever. Perhaps a little more so because it hadn’t come out of your weekly budget. And because it had been paid for by a handsome stranger, one who actually wanted to talk to you. “I want to hear some backwards Macbeth.”

Joe’s eyes twinkled. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I do,” you answered. But you didn’t, really. And he knew it.

He narrowed his eyes.

When you didn’t flinch beneath his gaze, he began, “Despair thy charm, and let the angel whom thou still hast served. Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother’s womb untimely ripped.” Here, he changed his voice to represent the change in speaker, and you smothered a laugh in your hands at how dramatic his facial expression had become. “Thou losest labor as easy mayst thou the intrenchant air with thy keen sword impress as make me bleed. Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmèd life, which must not yield to one of woman born.”

A few more lines, and he had you utterly in stitches; you did not bother to quiet your laughter. Of course, the lines now sounded completely meaningless, but Joe’s sense of humour was as ridiculous as your own, and in deriving pleasure from the ludicrousness of a Shakespeare work read backwards, Joe was more likable to you than ever.

“I believe you, I believe you!” you cried, and his composure crumpled, a grin spreading across his face.

“Thank god,” he said eventually, when the two of you could contain yourselves. “I thought I’d have to recite all of it before you gave in.”

You shook your head, still smiling.

“I would’ve done it, though,” he said, and you felt your chest tighten at the look of earnesty in his eyes.

“You should be an actor,” you told him, and he chuckled, the warmth of the sound warming you.

“I’m glad you think so. I am an actor.”

“Oh!”

“But I’m not pretending I want to be here with you,” he said.

Something like butterflies had fluttered beneath your skin.

He’d returned to Paracosm every day after that, and though he seemed happily surprised each time he encountered you, you weren’t so foolish as to believe that your meetings were actually a coincidence.

As the days went by, you grew more comfortable in Joe’s presence, until you were relaxed enough to begin an argument with him about which of the Brontë sisters was more forward-thinking in terms of women’s rights. Unlike most of the men you’d come across in your lifetime, Joe was perfectly comfortable debating such topics, even going so far as to slag off the more conservative male classical writers of the same time period. The two of you had then pored over the difference between Oscar Wilde’s poetry and his literature, examined the metaphors of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, trawled through the conspiracy theory regarding Shakespeare and whether or not he had really authored all of his own works. The latter conversation had become so heated that other cafe patrons had begun taking their own personal sides on the matter, loudly voicing their opinions until even Paracosm’s baristas had a thing or two to add to the discussion.

“How are you so well-read, anyway?” you’d asked Joe.

“My mom forced me through all of the classics before I was ten,” he’d said with a shrug. In his nonchalance, he became all the more alluring, the humbleness a complement to his personality.

Not many days into the routine of running into you at Paracosm, Joe had asked you to go out with him, properly.

You’d nodded, “Okay.”

“Okay?” he’d laughed, nervously. “You don’t have to go out with me if you don’t want to.”

“No,” you’d shaken your head, adamant that you get your point across. “I want to go out with you, Joe.”

His face had broken into a smile. “Okay,” he’d said, making you laugh, and his smile had broadened until it reached his lovely eyes.

The first time he’d kissed you had been on that first date.

He’d taken you to see a musical, one you’d struggled to pay attention to because Joe kept looking over at you to gauge your reaction to certain parts of the show, laughing with you, smiling when you smiled.

After the show, the two of you had wandered down the boulevard, and as it had been cold, you’d used this as your excuse to hover close enough by Joe’s side that your sleeves occasionally brushed as you walked with your arms by your sides.

You’d been content to walk like that, floundering for breath when his eyes caught on yours, your heart stumbling along its usually steady course. But then, in place of sleeves, his fingers had brushed your fingers, and suddenly you wanted more, to be closer to him in this blistering cold where his touch would surely warm you.

And he slipped his hand into yours.

You could hardly breathe.

“Look,” he said quietly, pointing up at the sky.

Confused, you frowned, but it wasn’t long before you realised his meaning: snow drifted down from above, snowflakes spinning through the air like dancers. It was beautiful, light snow, not the heavy kind, the kind there’d been on the day when Joe had first stumbled into Paracosm, the kind that would warrant a panic about losing one’s way home.

The snow was beautiful, but you couldn’t take your eyes off of Joe.

He stared up at the heavens, his eyes wide with childlike wonder, and for a moment, you lost yourself in watching him, drenched in your own memories of a simpler time.

Snow glittered in his hair, on the shoulders of his coat, on his eyelashes and on his collar. The word ‘angelic’ came to mind.

“I like snow,” he murmured.

You laughed softly. “I can see that.”

He lowered his eyes until they met yours.

You remembered that he was holding your hand.

“And I like you,” he said, a smile finding its way to his lips. His eyes were homely and familiar in his face, the face you’d looked into for so many days now, gazing at him and wondering at how it was really nothing more than a coincidence that the two of you had met. What a wonderful coincidence.

“I like you too, Joe,” you whispered, your hold tightening on his hand.

He lifted his other hand to your cheek, not quite touching you, but close enough to make your breath hitch.

His own gentle exhale tickled your skin.

Tentatively, he asked, “Is it okay if I kiss you?”

“More than okay,” you murmured, already gravitating toward him.

“Okay, because I wasn’t sure, and I wanted to be sure, and I—”

You cut him off, pressing your lips to his as he hummed a soft oh against your mouth and finally, finally pulled you into his arms.

You felt him wrap his coat around you, and you leaned further into him, relishing his warmth in the coldness of the night.

When he pulled back, he combed snow from your hair with the lightest of touches, laughter in his eyes.

“You know,” he said, “you must be more well-read than I am.”

You blinked at him. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, because that was classic, cutting me off.”

You rolled your eyes at the ridiculousness of his joke.

The snow fell more thickly now, but neither of you moved. You simply stood, you with your head nestled against Joe’s chest, Joe with his coat and his arms wrapped around you. His breath ruffled your hair.

“My well-read girl,” he whispered.

⭒

[emospritelet]

Heatstroke - chapter 10

Last time, Lacey thought she was flashing Gold in his kitchen, and it turned out to be Neal. Oops!

[AO3]

x

Gold tugged the belt of his silk robe around his waist, smiling to himself as he heard Emma out on the landing explaining to baby Henry that although he thought it was a great time to be awake, momma needed coffee. He had heard Neal go downstairs a little earlier, so Emma would probably get her wish. It was nice to have his family back in the house, and he looked forward to spending the day with them. He made his way down to the kitchen, listening with half an ear as Emma and Neal discussed Henry’s breakfast.

“Heat up some of that porridge, would you?” said Emma, bouncing Henry on her hip. “If I don’t drink at least two cups of this coffee I’ll go back to sleep.”

“Sure thing,” said Neal. “You think he wants some banana in it?”

“Yeah. Should be some blueberries in the fridge, too.”

“Okay. Go sit down, I should take Dad a coffee. He’s usually up by now.”

“I’m up,” said Gold, entering the kitchen and making them look around. “You two relax, I’ll make breakfast. Eggs? Pancakes? There’s bacon if you want it.”

“Eggs, bacon and toast would be awesome,” sighed Neal, running his hands over his face.

“Ditto,” said Emma reverently, and took a slurp of coffee.

“You sleep okay?” asked Gold, and she nodded.

“Yeah, Henry was pretty good, he let us sleep until seven this morning. Usually he’s up with the birds.”

“Wait until he’s a teenager,” remarked Gold. “You won’t be able to get him out of bed without a crowbar.”

“That sounds like it’s aimed at me,” said Neal. “And I grew out of it.”

He gave Gold a friendly shove with an elbow as he passed with Henry’s porridge. Gold grinned, heading for the fridge and taking out the bacon. He began preparing the breakfast, taking sips of coffee in between cutting slices of bread, listening to Emma coaxing Henry to eat his porridge. Neal poured a cup of coffee for himself and set it down, leaning back against the kitchen counter. Gold stacked the bread slices, ready for the toaster, and reached for his coffee. It was good: strong and black, a smooth, nutty flavour spreading over his tongue.

“So,” said Neal. “This is not a question I ever thought I’d have to ask, but have you by any chance been flashing your neighbours?”

Gold choked on his coffee, eyes watering as he coughed.

“What?” he wheezed. “Why on earth would you ask that?”

“Mostly because a young woman marched in here, yelled ‘now we’re even’ and flashed me.” Neal flung his arms wide. “Squeaked, swore like a sailor and ran out as soon as I turned around, so I assume she was hoping to see you.”

Emma burst out laughing.

“Seriously?” she giggled. “Oh my God! Pops, what have you been up to?”

“Nothing,” said Gold stiffly. “If it’s who I think it is…” He hesitated for a moment. “What did she look like?”

Neal shrugged.

“Petite. Dark hair.”

“Australian accent?”

“Yeah, now you mention it.” Neal grinned, winking at him. “There something you want to tell us?”

“Her name is Lacey French,” said Gold coolly. “She’s my new neighbour, and we’re currently having something of a battle of wits. I’m not sure who’s winning.”

“If she’s getting naked in your kitchen, I’d say both of you,” remarked Emma, raising her cup. “Good for you.”

“It’s not like that,” he snapped, and then hesitated again. “She was really naked?”

“Under the robe, yeah,” said Neal. “I was at the sink. You should have seen her face when I turned around.”

“Was she pretty?” asked Emma, and Neal grinned.

“Yep.”

“You’re a stud, Pops!”

“I most certainly am not,” said Gold repressively, making them both chuckle.

He started making breakfast, hoping they would drop the subject, and set slices of bread in the toaster, trying very hard not to imagine what Lacey might look like naked. Naked in his kitchen. Naked in his bed.

“Why did she do it, though?” asked Emma, and Gold fumbled the bacon as he tried to get it on the grill.

“What?” he asked.

“Why did she say you were even?” asked Emma. “Why was she flashing you? Or - or thought she was flashing you?”

Gold sighed, laying out the bacon slices with rather more care than was necessary.

“She saw me at the cabin,” he said. “I’d been swimming in the lake, and she was running on the trail near the cabin when she saw me getting out.”

“So she saw you skinny dipping?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He wrapped the rest of the bacon and put it back in the fridge. “She saw me standing on the deck afterwards.”

“With - everything hanging out…” Neal gestured in the direction of his crotch, and Gold heaved another sigh.

“Yes, thank you Neal, with ‘everything hanging out’, as you so eloquently put it.”

Neal grinned widely and raised his coffee cup.

“Well,” remarked Emma, scooping up another spoonful of porridge. “Guess she liked what she saw.”

“What?” snapped Gold. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

“I’m just saying.” Emma gave Henry the spoon, wiping a smear of porridge from his chin. “Girl wouldn’t go to the trouble of showing you what she’s got if she didn’t want you to take notice of her.”

Gold stared at her as she sat back in her chair and reached for her coffee.

“That’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard,” he said eventually.

“Why? Makes perfect sense to me.”

“Because she hates me, that’s why.”

“How do you know?” asked Emma. “Maybe she’s just terrible at flirting, like you.”

“Because I know!” he snapped, and frowned. “What do you mean, like me?”

“I mean you can’t tell when a woman’s throwing herself at you,” she said patiently. “Remember last year, when we came up to visit for that Halloween party at Granny’s? That woman with the red hair was all over you like a rash.”

Gold shuddered.

“Miss West,” he muttered. “Don’t remind me. The woman has no concept of personal space.”

“Around you, sure,” said Neal. “I don’t see her draping herself over anyone else in town.”  

“And then there was the realtor for our apartment,” added Emma. “She was dropping hints the size of taxicabs about the two of you getting dinner. You gave her your recipe for coq au vin and pretty much shut the door in her face.”

“She said she enjoyed cosy evenings in…”

“My point,” said Emma, waving a hand in the direction of Lacey’s house. “Is that I think this girl likes you, I think you actually like her, and the two of you are as bad as each other at showing it.”

“Like her?” Gold stared at her, outraged. “The woman’s a bloody menace!”

Emma and Neal shared a look, and a satisfied nod that made his eyebrows draw down.

“I do not like her!” he said petulantly. “I don’t!”

“Fine,” sighed Neal. “We won’t say anything more about it.”

“To you,” added Emma. “It’s gonna be the main topic of conversation when we’re driving home, though.”

“Especially if we see the two of you interact,” said Neal, raising his cup.

“Oh yeah, if there’s any interaction we’re totally giving you our opinions again,” agreed Emma, and Gold scowled as they chuckled.

“I’m so glad my non-existent love life is of interest,” he said waspishly. “Perhaps we could change the subject? I thought perhaps a walk in the woods today, and we can go to Granny’s this evening for dinner. If the two of you can stop taking the bloody piss between now and then, of course.”

Emma set down the porridge and got up, kissing his cheek.

“It’s only because we love you, you know that, right?” she said. “We want you to be happy. Not every day a pretty young thing gets naked in your kitchen, and if it happens again, we want you to make the most of it.”

“Just don’t tell us the details,” said Neal hastily.

Gold grunted, mollified.

“Well, I’m sure you mean well,” he said, kissing Emma back. “But I can assure you that’s never gonna happen.”

x

At six-thirty in the evening, Granny’s diner was busy enough that Lacey felt she could at least pretend that she wasn’t having an existential crisis. Since the incident in Gold’s kitchen she had hidden in her house and sworn that she would not be setting foot out of doors until she could be sure of not doing something mortifying. A day of nothing but her own company had, however, been too much to bear, and so she had come to Granny’s to have a few drinks with Ruby. She managed to get one of the tables near the bar, and was stirring her rum and coke with a straw, waiting for Ruby to arrive.

“Okay.” Ruby’s tone was brisk as she hurried over and flopped into the seat opposite, the scent of fresh perfume wafting from her. “Shift’s done and I no longer smell like burgers, so let’s get this girls’ night going! Did you order yet?”

“Hell yes,” said Lacey, pointing to her drink. “You’re one behind. I ordered another round.”

“Cool.” Ruby shuffled in her seat, then leaned on the table and waggled her eyebrows. “So. How’d it go with Gold?”

Lacey groaned and slumped forward, head on folded arms.

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say not well,” observed Ruby, and Lacey groaned again.

“I’m moving to Greenland,” she said in a muffled voice.

“Huh?”

She pushed up on her hands, fixing Ruby with a flat stare.

“I tried to get even and it backfired,” she said dolefully.

“How come?” asked Ruby. “I thought you were gonna flash him. What could go wrong with that? I’m willing to bet he appreciated the view.”

“Maybe if he’d seen it he would have,” said Lacey. “Unfortunately it wasn’t him I flashed.”

Ruby’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“There was someone else at his house.” Lacey sat back in her chair, slumping a little as she reached for her drink. “Some guy. I think it was his son.”

“Dark hair, brown eyes, kind of has an expression like a puppy that wants petting?” asked Ruby.

“I - well, definitely the first two, I guess,” said Lacey.

“Yeah, that’s his son,” confirmed Ruby. “Neal. Moved to Boston years ago, works in insurance or something. I think he has a kid now.”

“Well, there wasn’t a kid there, thank God,” said Lacey, with feeling.

“Wow. Kind of unlucky that the one time you go ever there, he’s visiting, huh?”

“Unlucky?” snapped Lacey. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Ruby shrugged, leaning back as one of the waitresses set down their round of drinks.

“Well, it just means that you’ll need to move to phase two of the plan, that’s all.”

“Phase t– there is no phase two!” Lacey threw up her hands. “I’m not even sure there was a phase one!”

“It was your idea to try to get even,” Ruby said. “You just need to plan it better, that’s all.”

“No way.” Lacey shook her head, taking a drink. “I’m not talking to that man ever again. It only blows up in my face.”

“But you wanted to interview him,” Ruby reminded her. “Sidney said he’d give you a raise, remember?”

“Yeah.” She shook her head, stabbing at the ice cubes with her straw. “Well, I’ll just have to think of a way to arrange that that doesn’t involve anyone being naked.”

“That sounds like no fun at all.”

“Ruby…”

“Okay, I’m teasing.” Ruby grinned wickedly. “Although you have to admit that getting naked with him would probably bag you an interview.”

“No one is getting naked,” said Lacey loudly, making the diners at the next table glance around. She sighed, blushing a little, and Ruby snickered.

“Maybe his son didn’t say anything to him,” she suggested.

“Yeah, maybe.” Lacey eyed her. “Would you keep quiet about something like that?”

“Oh, hell no!”

“Yeah.” She pulled a face, eyes flicking towards the door as it opened, and felt her heart sink. “Shit! He’s here!”

“What?”

“Gold!” Lacey hunched over the table, hoping Ruby would shield her from his gaze. “Shit!”

“Would you relax, he’s probably just here to get some food.” Ruby glanced over her shoulder. “See? He’s getting a table. And - yep, that’s Neal. With a stroller. Oh my God, that is one cute kid. Oh, and that’s Neal’s wife. I forgot how pretty she is.”

“Just tell me no one’s looking my way.”

“You’re safe.” Ruby turned back. “See? Gold didn’t even glance at you. I don’t think Neal told him.”

“Right.” Lacey felt her heart lighten a little. “Okay. Look, can we get out of here and go to the Rabbit Hole? I don’t think I can relax if he’s here.”

Ruby sighed.

“Fine, but you’re gonna have to see him at some point,” she said. “You’re neighbours.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Okay, how about this,” said Ruby. “Once Neal goes back to Boston, you go over to his place like nothing happened and ask about the interview. It’s not like you introduced yourself to Neal, so even if he did say something to Gold, all he knows is that some random woman flashed his son. So just pretend it wasn’t you.”

“Okay.” Lacey nodded. “Act like it never happened. Got it.”

“And then, when he least expects it…” Ruby mimed opening a coat, and Lacey rolled her eyes.

“Oh no,” she said. “My days of exposing myself are over. If he wants to see me naked he’s gonna have to be the one to make the effort.”

“Hmm,” said Ruby slyly. “It almost sounds like you want him to try...”

“What?” Lacey gaped at her. “I do not!”

“Mhmm.” Ruby took a long slurp of her drink. “Come on, finish that and let’s get out of here. I feel a number of poor decisions need to be made this evening, and I want your help to make ‘em.”

“Fine,” said Lacey. “As long as you don’t expect me to carry you home.”

She swallowed most of her drink, the rum burning on its way down, and set down the glass before pushing to her feet. The chair legs scraped against the floor, and Gold glanced over. She was surprised when he looked away almost immediately, his attention on his family, and even more surprised that she was disappointed by that fact. You wanted him to ignore you. What the hell is wrong with you?

“Ready?” Ruby was watching her expectantly, and Lacey pulled her eyes away from the Golds.

“Ready,” she said.

He glanced across again as she headed for the door, and she kept her eyes on her destination, a prickling feeling between her shoulder blades, as though she was marked. As though he was watching her leave.

[strivingscribe]

ILIC ~ CH 30

It’s Lost Its Charm by  MsMoon

Chapter 30 ~ Whiling and Styling

Chapters: 30/?

Chapter Navigation: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15,16, 17, 18,19,20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age,

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Violence,

Relationships: I feel like it’s a little early for that…

Summary: Siheta and the Iron Bull have a very candid discussion.

Notes: Don't get excited. I'm not...I mean, I've been sitting on this for a while and thinking it wasn't any good. I figured, it wouldn't hurt to post it.

“The Iron Bull.”

The mercenary captain in question was almost startled to have Siheta approach him, let alone speak to him. 

“That’s my name.” he grumbled, eyeing her with unmasked suspicion. 

She lifted a single eyebrow, almost as if she didn’t believe his statement ….then again, she was always looking at him like she didn’t trust him. He didn’t really blame her. In fact, it was nice of her to do him the courtesy of conveying genuine emotion. Sure, it was doubt, but at least he was confident it was authentic.

“A word in private, if you please?” It wasn’t a request. That much was obvious as she turned and sauntered away.

Bull sighed, rolling his eye expressively in Krem’s general direction before hefting himself up and following. She walked into the tavern, which felt odd. He supposed he could understand the logic. There are two entrances/exits and both were easy to monitor. Still, it didn’t fit with...well, with them. The tavern was a place of revelry, and the mood between them was tense at best.

“You know, if we keep this up, people are gonna think we’re fucking.” He drawled. 

She did not dignify that with a response, and he was a little perturbed that even the notion of it didn't so much as make her blink. Did anything get a rise out of this woman? Or was she just a cold fish through and through?

“I don’t really know you, the Iron Bull.” she began. “However, if I did, I think I would like you very much.” Now it’s his turn to look unconvinced. “You tend to make everyone around you very happy, and in spite of how intimidating you appear… you make them feel safer if you can.” she explained. Her eyes drifted, as though she were inspecting those words them seconds after she’d spoken them. She evidently approved of them, sealing them with a nod. “Yes. I would probably like you very much, were it not for the Qun.”

He gave a single big nod at that, snickering as he sat down in his usual spot. It felt a little weird to be in here with no one else.

“All that isn’t to say that I don’t appreciate you as you are, but...well.” she turned and walked around the table, sitting down once the length of the entire table was between them. “The Qun makes me nervous for many reasons, most of which I’m sure you can understand without my naming them.”

He had the good sense to look squeamish. “Is that what you asked me here for…? To talk about the Qun?”

“No.” she soothed, settling forward onto her elbows. “I’m prefacing our conversation with this because there’s something else that I want to tell you. And I want you to understand, I’m not telling you this because I have any desire to see your reaction to it. I’m telling you this because you’re the only Qunari I know here; and, more to a point, you’re the only Qunari Amy knows.”

Bull’s face froze as he considered this. Slowly, very slowly, he nodded for her to continue. “Alright.”

“Last night, Amy said two words in perfect Qunlat while she slept. She said these two words twice in succession. Then she settled again.”

“You know Qunlat?”

“Why wouldn’t I? It was my parents’ first language.” she said with an almost doting smile. It was strangely reminiscent of the Tamasaren he had been so familiar with… His only response to her statement was to shrug. 

“Well, don’t keep me on the edge of my seat, woman. What’d she say?”

“Katoh, Hissrad.” 

At that, everything in the Iron Bull went still. As if the words were a trigger that literally made him stop. 

His brain was trying to process what she was telling him, but it didn’t make any sense no matter what angle he tried to approach it in. 

Amy shouldn’t know about ‘Hissrad’. No one should...Not that she hadn’t gained a reputation for knowing what she shouldn’t. And he’d never given her the ‘just say ‘Katoh’’ speech (though if he’d had the occasion to do so, he’d be one lucky son of a bitch as it’s usually a prelude to more enjoyable things). 

When he finally remembered where he was and came back to himself enough to cover his tells, he was more than a little irritated to note that Siheta looked strangely satisfied. Dammit, he gave her that one. She just dropped two words, two repeated words that Amy had said, and he forgot to hold his reaction. Vashedan!

“To be clear… you’re just.. telling me this. Like..” he leaned back, throwing his right arm over the chair back while making a vague encompassing motion with his left arm. “...like just for the sake of letting me know it happened?”

“Well…” she began before letting out a heavy sigh, that damn-near indulgent smirk on her face still. “I don’t know anyone named Hissrad, but I reason that you may.”

“You know that the Qun is big, right?” Bull grumbled. “And besides, it’s less of a name and more of a title. There could be a bunch of guys walking around as Hissrad.”

Both of her eyebrows rose so loftily as she nodded with an almost amused hum. “Would we call this collective of Hissrads a Qun or a Ben hassrath?”

He half growled, but it only earned him a soft chuckle. At least someone was enjoying this brouhaha. Still...the fact that she was being so congenial was...it felt more like light-hearted teasing than barbed discourse. 

“I am only telling you for your benefit.” Siheta soothed, and yet he wasn’t the least bit soothed. “Take it as you will. After all…” she shrugged. “It could’ve just been a random dream.”

He huffed out an exasperated breath, full of his disbelief and bitterness. No matter how it may seem, things were seldom ‘just random nonsense’ when it came to Amy. 

He snapped back into himself, into his persona when she shifted to stand up. She rifled through the sling pouch on at her waist. His brow lifted when she sets a canister of horn balm on the table.

“Amy got some for you too, huh?” he asked.

“She did.” 

He squinted at her as she pulled out the buffing cloth and brushes.

“...uh… You know, I got the same care package.” he figured his ‘you too’ question was enough to enforce that he also has all of this at his disposal.

“Maybe. But you’re doing it wrong.” she replied, brandishing the file. He huffed an indignant response. “You just smacked the balm on without doing any of the filing or buffing repair first.” 

She slid up behind him, and he had to work real hard not to tense up when she began filing at the base of his horn. Even as it burned, there was a satisfying element that crept into his ear bones and down his neck. It’d been ages since anyone tended his horns for him.

“Can I assume you'll want similar treatment?” he finally managed to grind out.

He didn’t see her smile, but her words didn’t feel cheeky or cruel. “I wouldn’t be against it.” So ridiculously, ludicrously sincere, this interaction with a Tal-Vashoth. Well...maybe she wasn't exactly Tal-Vashoth since it was her parents who had defected. But still... she was of the opinion that the Qun was wrong and... and it felt strange to be able to relax around someone like that. This sort of thing was usually reserved for people he considered closer to him... He grunted and groaned about it because he had an image to uphold. It wasn’t as if he could just sit here and get pampered, after all.

He didn’t think she wanted to try and kill him… and if she did, he was certain he could take her. But as time passed, he began to relax.  His horns needed the help since he had a heavy rack. She worked deftly, and all the irritation he felt simply melted away.

Then it was her turn, and she accepted his efforts with more grace than he’d accepted hers. Conversation and all, it took the better part of an hour before they were done… The door opened not a moment after he was finished making certain Siheta’s hair was fixed without getting any balm in it. 

It was Magpie, of all people! Her eyes widen fractionally before returning to their more neutral position.

“Hey… I was looking for you two. Didn’t think I’d find you together.” she said, looking between them before her eyes darted around. “I especially didn’t expect to find Bull styling Siheta’s hair.”

“What! I wasn’t—”

“Why were you looking for us?” Siheta interrupted.

..well, if she wasn’t bothered, he wouldn’t be either.

Hmph.

“They want a gathering in the map room.” She announced, her eyes staying on Siheta. “Your presence is requested.”

“Both?” the surprise was obvious in Bull’s tone

“Both.” she confirmed.

[honeypiehotchner]

Trust -- part thirty-eight

It’s Best Man Speech time! Also, I’m a liar. This chapter is not the last. The next one is. Oopsies! ;)

“Pray silence for the best man.”

           You squeeze Sherlock’s hand as he stands to his feet, buttoning his jacket and smoothing it down. He really is nervous.

           But to be fair, you’re a little nervous, too. He wouldn’t let you hear the speech—He wouldn’t let anyone hear it, actually. This is brand new to everyone. And while that should be exciting, since it’s Sherlock, it’s a little nerve-wracking.

           John is beaming, though, grinning from ear to ear – possibly a little buzzed. But he does really love Sherlock, and you know that, even when he doesn’t want to admit it. You know those two have a bond like no other. The Baker Street boys, as Mary calls them.

           “Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends. And, um…others.”

           Sherlock’s stuttering continues, prompting you reach up and thread your fingers through his. He glances down, smiling a little.

           “Telegrams,” you hear your brother mutter, and then Sherlock is back.

           “Right, um…” Sherlock picks up the cards. “First things first, telegrams. Well, they’re not actually telegrams, we just call them telegrams, I don’t know why. Wedding tradition. Because we don’t have enough of that already, apparently.”

           “Sherlock,” you whisper warningly.

           He settles again, nodding. “To Mr. and Mrs. Watson. So sorry I’m unable to be with you on your special day. Good luck, and best wishes, Mike Stamford.”

           Ah, Mike. You chuckle.

           “To John and Mary. All good wishes for your special day. With love and many big…big squishy cuddles from Stella and Ted.” Sherlock sighs. “Mary, lots of love—Oh.”

           John looks up at him. “Yeah?”

           “…poppet.”

           Mary snickers, leaning forward to catch you stifling your own laughter.

           “Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes from Cam. Wish your family could’ve seen this.”

           You lean forward at that, giving Mary a look of sympathy as John takes her hand in his, comfortingly.

           Sherlock carries on, not missing a beat. “Special day…Very special day…Love…Love…Love…Love…Love. Bit of a theme, you get the general gist. People are basically fond.”

           Here we go, you think, wanting to smack Sherlock in the arm, but you decide against it.

           “John Watson. My friend, John Watson. John. When John first broached the subject of being best man, I was confused. I confess at first, I didn’t realize he was asking me. When finally, I understood, I expressed to him that I was both flattered and surprised. I explained to him that I had never expected this request, and that I was a little daunted in the face of it. I nonetheless promised that I would do my very best to accomplish a task which was, for me, as demanding and difficult as any I had ever contemplated. Additionally, I thanked him for the trust he placed in me and indicated that I was, in some ways, very closed to being moved by it. It later transpired that I had said none of this out loud.”

           The room erupts with laughter, especially coming from John. You laughed loudly, too, because that definitely wasn’t the story you remembered John telling you.

           Sherlock begins rummaging in his coat for some cards. “So…done that. Done that. Done that bit. Done that bit.”

           He takes a deep breath. And continues.

           “I’m afraid John that I can’t congratulate you.”

           Your eyebrows furrow. Odd start. Maybe you should’ve forced him to practice the speech in front of you.

           “All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure cold reason I hold above all things. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world. Today we honor the deathwatch beetle that is the doom of our society and in time, one feels certain, our entire species.”

           The room stills. You stare down at your hands, a little bit worried for the rest of this, and still regretting the fact that you never took a peek at his speech before today.

           “But anyway, let’s talk about John.”

           “Please,” you hear John clear his throat, shifting around in his seat.

           “If I burden myself with a little helpmate during my adventures, it is not out of sentiment or caprice, it is that he has many fine qualities of his own that he has overlooked in his obsession with me. Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes in truth from the extraordinary contrast John so selflessly provides.”

           You tilt your head. That was an insult, wasn’t it?

           “It is a fact, I believe, that brides tend to favor exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day. There is a certain analogy there, I feel.”

           Is he…serious? He absolutely has to be kidding.

           “And contrast is, after all, God’s own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation. Or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity to the family idiot.”

           The room rustles again, and you clasp your hands together, willing yourself to keep listening.

           “The point I’m trying to make it that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous,” Sherlock pauses to look down at you, nudging your arm so you’ll look at him. “I am unaware of the beautiful.” He smiles only softly, then turning to Mary and John. “And uncomprehending in the face of the happy.”

           You smile sadly.

           “So, if I didn’t understand that I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody’s best friend. And certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.

           “John, I am a ridiculous man. Redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship and the love from the woman sat to my left.”

           Your breath hitches. You weren’t expecting him to mention you at all.

           “But as I am, apparently, your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion.” Sherlock pauses, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Actually, now I can. Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss. So sorry again about that last one.”

           You chuckle softly. He’ll forever be apologizing for the time he was ‘dead.’

           “So know this. Today, you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man and woman you have no doubt saved. In short, the three people who love you move in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary and Y/N as well when I say we will never let you down and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.”

           You reach up and wipe a stray tear away from your cheek, chuckling a little when Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice he’s gotten the rest of the reception hall crying as well.

           “Ah, yes. Now on to some funny stories about John…” Sherlock frowns. “What’s wrong? What happened? Why are you all doing that? John? Y/N?”

           “Love…” You shake your head, smiling despite your own watery eyes.

           “Did I do it wrong?”

           “No, you didn’t,” John mutters, pushing his chair back. “Come here.”

           The room applauds while the two of them hug, Sherlock still not understanding anything at all as he tries to continue over the noise. John pats his shoulder and says something to make him stop, but you don’t hear.

           After John is settled back in his chair, Sherlock continues.

           “So, onto some funny stories about John. If you could all just cheer up a bit, that would…be better.” Everyone laughs. “On we go. So, for funny stories, one has to look no further than John’s blog. The record of our time together. Of course, he does tend to romanticize things a big, but then, you know, he’s a romantic.

           “We’ve tackled some strange cases. The Hollow Client. The Poisoned Giant. We’ve had some frustrating cases. Touching cases,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “And of course, I have to mention, The Elephant in the Room. But we want something very particular for this special day. The Bloody Guardsman.”

           Ah, you remember. The unsolved one. From wedding planning weeks ago.

           “Private Steven Bainbridge had written to us with a concern about someone possibly stalking him. A bloke, no less. Private Bainbridge had just come off guard duty. He’d stood there for hours, plenty of people watching, nothing apparently wrong. He came off duty and within minutes was nearly dead from a wound in his stomach but there was no weapon. Where did it go?

           “Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to consider this: A murderer who can walk through walls. A weapon that can vanish. But in all of this, there is only one element which can be said to be truly remarkable. Would anyone like to make a guess?”

           Good lord. You definitely should’ve looked at his speech.

           “Come on, come on. There is actually an element of Q&A to all of this.” Sherlock clears his throat. “Scotland Yard, have you got a theory?”

           “Don’t pick on Greg,” you mutter.

           “Yeah, you. You’re a detective, broadly speaking. Got a theory?”

           Lestrade crosses his arms over his chest, deciding to entertain Sherlock. “Er, um…If the uh, if the blade was propelled through the um…grating in the air vent… Maybe a ballista or a catapult, uh, somebody tiny could crawl in there. So yeah, we’re looking for a dwarf.”

           “Brilliant.”

           “Really?”

           “No.”

           You shake your head.

           “Hello, who was that? Tom.”

           Sure enough, Tom stands from his chair, Molly sending a frightened look your way. This is going to end badly, it always does when Sherlock gets in one of these moods.

           “Got a theory?”

           “He attempted suicide with a blade made of compacted blood and bone. Broke after piercing his abdomen, like a meat…dagger.”

           “A meat dagger?”

           “Yes.”

           “No.”

           Tom sits back down, and Sherlock continues, clearly annoyed. “There was one feature and only one feature of interest in the whole of this baffling case and quite frankly, it was the usual. John Watson. Who while I was trying to solve the murder, instead saved a life.

           “There are mysteries worth solving and stories worth telling. The best and bravest man I know and on top of that he actually knows how to do that. Except wedding planning and serviettes, he’s rubbish at that.”

           Everyone chuckles at the slight joke.

           “The case itself remains the most ingenious and brilliantly planned murder or attempted murder I’ve ever had the pleasure to encounter. The most perfect locked-room mystery of which I am aware.

           “However, I’m not just here to praise John, I’m also here to embarrass him so let’s move onto some—”

           “No, wait. So how was it done?” Greg interrupts.

           “How was what done?”

           “The stabbing.”

           “He never solved it,” you chime.

           “Yes,” Sherlock nods. “I never solved that one. It can happen sometimes. It’s very…very disappointing. Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night.”

           Oh, dear Lord.

           This night was the night you, Mary, and Molly got together and had dinner before having essentially a big sleepover at John and Mary’s. Because John was out with Sherlock all night, apparently doing something along the lines of having a beer at every place they’ve solved a murder.

           It’s okay, you found the idea weird, too. But Molly said she calculated everything correctly, so they should be fine. Even if it was odd that Sherlock asked her to calculate anything in the first place.

           But anyway, while the three of you were drinking wine and sharing idiot stories of your significant others, John and Sherlock were getting absolutely pissed.

           “‘Course, there’s hours of material here, but I’ve cut it down to the really good bits.”

           Apparently, they were only out for two hours before returning to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson said she nearly had a heart attack when she walked out with her trash to find them snoozing on the stairs, drunkenly mumbling to each other.

           And then they had a client. Of all things, they had a client that night.

           “The Mayfly Man.”

           They also got arrested, which Lestrade wasted no time calling you about and starting off with saying, “You’re not gonna believe this shit.” You thought it was going to be much worse than what it was, but at least Lestrade was able to get them bailed out with no problem. And thankfully, it never turned up in the papers.

           You still remember after that when Sherlock continued investigating. You were sat in his chair when he had probably six or seven laptops open, talking to all of these women who had encountered the Mayfly Man. John was here as well, helping with the case on his day off.

           Apparently, Sherlock had asked a question to the women and immediately every single one of them signed off. You had warned him to let you help, but he didn’t want you to. He didn’t want to come off as too knowing.

           “Why? Why would he date all of those women and not return their calls?” Sherlock slams the laptop closed, straightening up and buttoning his blazer.

           John snorts. “You’re missing the obvious, mate.”

           “Am I?”

           “You are,” you nod. “He’s a man.”

           Sherlock still doesn’t get it. “So? I’m a man.”

           “You’re a different breed,” you chuckle.

           “But why would he change his identity?” Sherlock asks the rhetorical question to the wedding guests, not noticing their lack of interest. “He was married. Obvious, really. Our Mayfly Man was trying to escape the suffocating chains of domesticity and instead of endless nights in watching telly or going to barbeques with the awful, dreadful, boring people he couldn’t stand, he used his wits, cleverness and powers of disguise to play the field. He was—” Sherlock stops, suddenly surveying the room and seeing their tired faces. He turns to you and you shake your head, motioning for him to stop the story.

           He nods. “On second thoughts, maybe I probably should’ve told you about The Elephant in the Room.

           “However, it does help to further illustrate how invaluable John is to me. I can read a crime scene the way he can understand a human being. I used to think that’s what made me special. Quite frankly, I still do. But a word to the wise: Should any of you require the services of either of us, I will solve your murder, but it will take John Watson to save your life. Trust me on that, I should know. He’s saved mine so many times and in so many ways.

           “This blog,” Sherlock gestures with his phone, “is the story of two men and their frankly ridiculous adventures. Of murder, mystery, and mayhem. But from now on, there’s a new story. A bigger adventure.”

           You watch with a smile as Sherlock glances to the happy couple, and then you watch in surprise as he looks to you.

           “Ladies and gentlemen pray charge your glasses and be upstanding.” You stand with your glass in hand. “Today begin the adventures of Mary Elizabeth Watson and John Hamish Watson. The two reasons why every single one of us is—”

           Sherlock freezes.

           His glass falls from his hands, but no matter about that. You know that look in his eyes. He’s gone. Albeit for a split second, but he’s gone.

           It’s almost like he’s gone to his mind palace.

           The glass shatters as it hits the floor, the noise startling Sherlock back into the real world. He blinks, looking down at the mess he made and tries to brush past it.

           “Oh, sorry, I—” He shakes his head, clearing his throat.

           “Another glass, sir?”

           “Thank you, yes. Thank you. Now, where were we?”

           “Sherlock…” You whisper.

           He looks to you briefly before continuing on. “Ah, yes, raising glasses and standing up. Very good, thank you… And down again.”

           You sit down quickly, casting a worried glance in John and Mary’s direction. The rest of the guests follow, confusion coating their faces.

           “Ladies and gentlemen, people tell you not to milk a good speech. Get off early, leave them laughing. Wise advice I’ll certainly try to bear in mind, but for now…”

           “Sherlock!” You hiss as he jumps over the table.

           “Part two!” He walks down the middle. “Part two is more action based, I’m gonna walk around, shake things up a bit.

           “Who’d go to a wedding? That’s the question? Who would bother to go to any lengths to get themselves to a wedding…? Well, everyone!” Sherlock turns around, clapping his hands. “Weddings are great. Love a wedding.”

           Mary leans forward to look at you. “What’s he doing?”

           “Something’s wrong,” you whisper back. “I don’t know what.”

           “And John’s great, too,” Sherlock points back to the front. “I haven’t said that enough, barely scratched the surface. I could go on all night about the depth and complexity of his jumpers. And he can cook, does a thing – A thing with peas, once. Might not be peas, might not be him, but he’s got a great singing voice – Or somebody does…

           “Too many, too many, too many, too many!” Sherlock screams. He stops himself, turning back around. “Sorry, too many jokes about John. Now, uh… Where was I? Ah, yes. Speech! Speech. Let’s talk about…murder.”

           “Christ, Sherlock,” you smack your forehead.

           “Sorry, did I say murder? I meant to say marriage. But, you know, they’re…quite similar procedures when you think about it, the participants tend to know each other and it’s over when one of them’s dead. In fairness, murder is a lot quicker, though.”

           You watch as Sherlock pulls out his phone and begins texting behind his back – something you hate when he does, but now it’s only worrying you further.

           “Jeff, the gents.” Sherlock looks at Lestrade.

           “It’s Greg!”

           “The loos, please.”

           “Why?”

           “Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s your turn?” Sherlock nods toward the door as Lestrade’s phone beeps. So, Sherlock was texting him. You wish he’d text you to let you know what the hell is going on right now.

           Lestrade looks at his phone and his eyes widen. “Yeah, actually, now that you mention it.” And he disappears through the doors.

           “Sherlock,” John calls out. “Any chance of an end date to this speech? We’ve gotta cut the cake.”

           “Oh! Ladies and gentlemen, can’t stand it when I finally get the chance to speak for once – Vatican Cameos.”

           Your eyes widen. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

           “What did he just say?”

           You scoot over to Sherlock’s seat next to John’ careful of the broken glass. “Vatican Cameos,” you murmur. “It means someone’s going to die.”

           “Not you, not you, you,” Sherlock points to John. “It’s always you. John Watson, you keep me right.”

           John stands to meet Sherlock. “What do I do?”

           “You’ve already done it,” Sherlock whispers, glancing to you. “Don’t solve the murder. Save the life.

           “Sorry,” Sherlock inhales sharply, turning back around. “Off-piste a bit, back now, phew! Let’s play a game. Let’s play murder. Imagine someone’s going to get murdered at a wedding. Who exactly would you pick?”

           “I think you’re a popular choice at the moment, dear,” you hear Mrs. Hudson say, bringing a small smile to your face.

           “If someone could move Mrs. Hudson’s glass just slightly out of reach, that would be lovely. More importantly, who could you only kill at a wedding?”

           Your eyes widen. They lock with Sherlock’s. There’s a brief moment where you wonder if it’s you. After all, this morning was the only time you traveled without Sherlock in a long time. But it doesn’t make sense, you don’t fit. He’s here with you now, and no one was close to you when he wasn’t.

           Sherlock shakes his head slightly. You’re safe.

           “Most people you can kill just any old place,” he continues. “As a mental exercise, I’ve often planned the murder of friends and colleagues. Now, John, I’d poison. Sloppy eater, dead easy. Y/N is a different story. To poison her would ultimately insure my own death sentence. Lestrade’s so easy to kill, it’s a miracle no one’s succumbed to the temptation. I’ve got a pair of keys to my brother’s house, I could easily break in there and asphyxiate him…if the whim arose.

           “So, once again, who could you only kill here?”

           Sherlock’s eyes lock with yours again and you mouth, “Isolated.”

           “Clearly, it’s a rare opportunity, so it’s someone who doesn’t get out much. Someone for whom a planned social encounter known about months in advance is an exception. Has to be a unique opportunity. And since killing someone in public difficult, killing them in private isn’t an option. Someone who lives in an inaccessible or unknown location, then. Someone private, perhaps, obsessed with personal security. Possibly someone under threat.”

           When Sherlock looks to Major James Sholto, you sigh, letting your eyes fall closed. You should’ve known from the minute your brain told you it had to be someone who is truly isolated. Major Sholto is the only one true fit to that statement.

           “Or, a recluse,” Sherlock speaks, now obviously filling the time as he writes something on a card. “Small, house hold staff. High turnover for additional security. Probably have all signed confidentiality agreements.

           “There is another question that remains, however, a rather big one. How would you do it? How do you kill someone in public? There has to be a way. This has been planned.”

           Your eyes widen. “The Bloody Guardsman,” you blurt. “The killer that can walk through walls. The weapon that vanishes.”

           Sherlock stares off when he hears you, Major Sholto standing and leaving in the meantime. Sherlock nods to you. “Not just planned, planned and rehearsed.”

           He slides back up to the front, grabbing a random glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, there will now be a short interlude. To the bride and groom!”

           Everyone stands for the toast, but Sherlock whirls around, leaning down to the table. “Major Sholto’s going to be murdered. I don’t know how or by whom but it’s going to happen.” Sherlock abruptly kisses you on the forehead before turning and moving his way through the crowd. “Excuse me, coming through, consulting.”

           John gives Mary a kiss before standing, looking to the both of you and saying, “Stay here.”

           As soon as he gets around the table, though, you and Mary look at each other and nod. You stand, linking arms and pushing your way through the crowd, careful not to trip on your dresses as you search for where Sherlock and John went.

           You round the corner just as your brother is laying into Sherlock for not remembering Major Sholto’s room number.

           You roll your eyes and say, “207,” as you and Mary push between them.

           The four of you bound up the stairs and to the left, Major Sholto’s door right at the end of the hall. Sherlock immediately begins banging on the door, trying the handle.

           “Major Sholto!” Sherlock yells, hitting the door with an open hand.

           The Major speaks from behind the door. “If someone’s about to make an attempt on my life, it won’t be the first time. I’m ready.”

           “Major,” John steps forward. “Let us in. Or I’ll kick this bloody door down.”

           “I really wouldn’t,” he calls out. “I have a gun in my hand and a lifetime of unfortunate reflexes.”

           “You’re not safe in there. Whoever’s after you, we know that a locked room doesn’t stop him.”

           “Yes, I know. The invisible man with the invisible knife.”

           “I don’t know how he does it, so I can’t stop him and that means he’ll do it again.”

           “Solve it, then.”

           “I’m sorry?”

           “You’re the famous Mr. Holmes. Solve the case, on you go. Tell me how he did it, and I’ll open the door.”

           Sherlock shakes his head, stepping away.

           “Please, this is no time for games. Just let us in, you’re in danger!” John’s voice cracks on a matter of urgency, and the knot is your stomach is twisting dangerously tight.

           “So are you, so long as you’re here,” the Major counters. “Please, leave me. Despite my reputation, I really do not approve of collateral damage.”

           “Solve it,” Mary blurts.

           “Sorry?”

           “Solve it and he’ll open the door, like he said.”

           “I couldn’t solve it before, how can I solve it now?”

           “Because it matters now!” Mary cries.

           “What are you talking about? What’s she talking about? Get your wife under control.”

           “She’s right,” John replies, deadly serious.

           “Oh, you’ve changed!”

           You smack Sherlock’s arm harshly, finally succumbing to the urge you’ve had all evening. “Shut up!” Sherlock looks back at you, dejected and holding his shoulder where you hit it. “She’s right. You are not a puzzle solver, you idiot, you never were. You’re a goddamned drama queen. Now, there is a man in there about to die, the game is fucking on, solve it.”

           Sherlock’s eyes widen, though you can’t tell if it’s in shock or realization, but then he turns to the door, and you hear he’s solved it. “Major Sholto, no one’s coming to kill you. I’m afraid you’ve already been killed several hours ago.”

           “What did you say?”

           “Don’t take off your belt.”

           “The belt,” you mutter. “Of course.”

           “Bainbridge was stabbed hours before we even saw him. But it was through his belt – tight belt, worn high on the waist. Very easy to push a small blade through the fabric and you wouldn’t even feel it.”

           “The belt would bind the flesh together when it was tight. And when you took it off…” John trails away.

           “Exactly. Delayed action stabbing.”

           “Neat,” you mutter, then realizing what you’ve said, you grimace. “Sorry.”

           “You’re supposed to open the door, Major, he solved the case.”

           Silence.

           “Whatever you’re doing in there James, stop it, right now, I will kick this door down!” John yells.

           “You and I are very similar Mr. Holmes,” the Major continues. “There’s a proper time to die, isn’t there?”

           “There is.”

           “And one should embrace it when it comes. Like a soldier.”

           “Of course, but not at John’s wedding!” Sherlock screams. “We wouldn’t do that, would we, you and me? We would never do that to John Watson.”

           Sherlock steps away from the door, and right as John is getting ready to ram his foot through the door, it opens.

           John and Mary disappear into the room, leaving you and Sherlock in the hallway. He suddenly picks you up by your waist and spins you around, setting you down to press a firm kiss to your lips.

           “You’re a drama queen, too,” he pouts.

           “Shut up,” you shake your head, pulling him back into you for another kiss.

[rainoverthemountains]

Twist story chapter 8

Twistfell and Swaptwistfell belong to @itsladykit

Summary: There’s a cure for LV (probably). It’s completely safe (probably). It’s a highly unpleasant experience (definitely). Twist only cares about that first statement. He probably should have paid a little more attention to the other two. But what does it matter? He’s getting what he wants, and he has the best friends and family in any universe to help along the way.

chapter 1, chapter 7

Chapter 8

A door slamming open startles Iggy out of her chair. For a moment, she thinks it’s Twist, but he couldn’t possibly have gotten out of bed and besides, the sound came from outside the lab. Another door slams, and then it’s her office door slamming open as a skeleton steps through. Well, shit.

“where is he?”

“Who are you?” she counters. He has a lot of nerve, storming into her lab like he has a right to be here!

“i go by cash. where’s twist?” Shit, shit, shit. He knows! Or maybe he’s just guessing somehow. Who is he to barge in here anyway?

“Look, Cash, I don’t know who you are or why you think you can come into my lab without permission like this, but I’d suggest you leave before I have you removed.”

“answer the question. i know twist is here. you have him for the lv project. take me to him, now.”

“You can’t just come in here and demand to see details of my projects. That’s proprietary work and certainly not open to the general public!” It’s at least not available to interfering skeletons who are definitely going to object to certain necessary parts of the experiment.

“you told me about it yesterday. now i want to see twist.” What? She didn’t tell anyone anything yesterday. Except… no. He can’t be. Her luck is not that bad.

“You’re not…” it seems ludicrous to even suggest, but the universes can be very different and he did say his nickname was Cash…

“the person who’s paying for all this? yes. now that we have that out of the way, where’s twist?”

Shit shit shit shit shit. Ok, time for damage control. He must agree with the goals of the project or he wouldn’t be paying for it, so she just needs to make him understand that she has everything under control and it should be fine. 

“He’s resting right now. I’m sure you know from the reports that the treatment can be hard on the patients and they need lots of rest. He’s happiest when I just leave him alone to sleep.” He looks skeptical, but he’s listening, so she continues. “I’m so grateful that he volunteered to participate in this study, as I’m sure you are too! He’s just what we need to get past the review board, and it’s great for him too because he gets the treatment early!”

“he volunteered, huh? and how did he know there was something to volunteer for?”

“Oh, word gets around.” Technically. People do know the project exists, and someone might have heard about the problems it’s been having.

“word gets around that the only thing standing between you and full approval of the lv cure was needing a research subject exactly like twist.” Skepticism drips from every word.

“Well ok, not exactly like that, but you have to agree that he’s perfect for what we need, and he jumped right on the idea the second I mentioned it. It’s not like I forced him into it. Once he knew about it, I probably couldn’t have kept him away from it if I tried! He knew it was a win-win situation.”

“and how has this ‘win-win situation’ turned out for him?”

“It’s going great!” Cash raises a browbone. “I mean, he’s not really feeling that great right now, I’ve told you how the side effects are, but he’s hanging in there and I’m taking good care of him. Like I said in my report, I’ve already seen some EXP destabilization, which is pretty good considering just how much of it we’re dealing with. I think he’s getting frustrated by how long it’s taking to get any results, but he was really happy about the destabilization too, and I’ve told him that it could take a while with how high his LV is. Mostly he’s grumpy, and a little uncooperative, but he agrees with my goals and I have everything managed!”

“so you won’t mind if i talk to him myself, then?” Are all skeletons this difficult? Letting this one talk to Twist will be nothing but trouble.

“I don’t think he’s really up to talking right now. He’s pretty tired, and he needs his energy for the treatment, so I don’t want to disturb his rest.” All technically true, just leaving out a few unpleasant details that someone too close to the subject isn’t going to understand. How close is this Cash to Twist, anyway? She doesn’t know anything about him, but the skeletons all seem to flock together, and he obviously at least knows him.

“i won’t wake him up, then, but i am going to see him.”

“There’s really no need for that! He’s fine. He just needs to rest.” This project does not need interfering friends and family. It could derail the whole thing. Especially friends and family who are apparently the source of most of the project’s money.

“the longer we argue, the more suspicious i get. i suggest you quit while you’re already behind. is that your lab?” He gestures towards the door opposite the one he entered. “i’m guessing yes.” Without waiting for any response from Iggy, he heads through the door. Panicked, and hoping Twist is having a relatively good afternoon, Iggy rushes after him, only to have her own door slammed in her face and locked. Damn excessive security measures. This door shouldn’t be so easily lockable.

***

Cash doesn’t know what he was expecting to see upon entering the lab, but Twist lying naked on a bed in the middle of the room wasn’t it. He approaches the bed cautiously. 

Twist looks terrible. He’s sleeping on his back with both arms tied to the bed. She fucking didn’t! He’ll kill her. Wires trail out of his ribcage, the ends buried in a soul that glows a pale, sickly yellow, the surface raw and somehow rough looking, like pieces have been scooped out. The rest of his magic is the same color as his soul, glowing around each joint like it never should in a healthy sleeping skeleton. Partially healed scratches cover his ribs, and inside his ribcage are what look like scorch marks. Scorch marks?! His breathing is shallow, and he’s twitching in his sleep. Honestly, he looks like he’s about to dust. A quick check reveals that his HP is fine, but it’s hard to discount the sight in front of him. Nausea and rage rise simultaneously, but he forces them both down to deal with the situation in front of him. Figure out what’s going on first. Don’t do anything that might screw up the treatment.

Trying to convince himself that Twist isn’t about to shatter any second now, Cash reaches out to touch his arm. The response is immediate. Twist startles awake and stares at him through frightened, hollow sockets. Then he blinks, and recognition sets in.

“Patches?” Cash never thought he’d be so glad to hear that ridiculous nickname, even in a voice that sounds like sandpaper. “Patches!” A grin lights up Twist’s face, bringing life back into his whole demeanor. He starts to reach for Cash, only to have the movement stopped by the straps around his arms. He deflates, looking as bad as he did when Cash first entered the room. Oh, right, someone strapped him to the bed. There better be a damn good explanation for that, but Cash isn’t feeling optimistic.

“what are those for?” He gestures to the straps.

“Dunno. Pissed her off, maybe.” Twist’s voice is flat, like he doesn’t have any strong opinions about it. Or like he won’t let himself have an opinion.

“she strapped you to the bed because you maybe pissed her off?”

“Dunno.” 

“did she at least tell you why she was strapping you to the bed?”

“Maybe. Dunno.” Twist pauses to catch his breath. “Don’ think ’m thinkin’ real good right now, Patches.” His voice is getting stronger with use, but doesn’t lose its raspy quality.

“because you’re normally known for your clear thinking.” The jab gets a faint grin.

“Good ta see ya too, Patches. Patches.” His smile widens.

“yeah, that’s the name you, and only you, like to call me. glad you’re enjoying it.” All sarcasm aside, Twist seems incredibly happy to see him. Not that Twist is ever lacking in enthusiasm, but something seems off about it, especially when combined with everything else about his current state.

“So good ta see ya, darlin. Can’t even tell ya. ‘s great. Patches. Patches!”

“no need to yell. i’m right here. not that that usually stops you.”

“Jus’ haven’ seen ya in so long, Patches. ‘s nice ta see ya again.”

“twist, it’s been a week, maybe a little longer. that’s not that long.” 

Twist’s browbones furrow in confusion. “That can’t be right, sweetheart. Been here a lot longer ‘n that.”

“you’ve been here six days.”

“Nah, couldn’ta been six days. Cause I remember… Lots’a stuff.” He shakes his head. “Not sure, ‘s all kinda a mess, but she’s had me a lot longer ‘n six days.”

“twist. i have access to your treatment report. you’ve been here six days. you were bothering me at home eight days ago.”

“Nah, can’t be right. Too many things’ve happened, an’ some’a them couldn’ta happened in six days. I remember ‘em.” He sounds certain, but Cash definitely saw him eight days ago. It’s hard to forget a tall, loud skeleton showing up on your couch and refusing to leave until you watch some stupid sort of entertaining show with him.

Twist must sense his disbelief. “‘m tellin’ ya, darlin, I’ve been here awhile. Don’ really wanna talk ‘bout it, but jus’ believe me. Wait!” Twist’s sockets widen. “Why’re you here? Ya shouldn’t be here. ‘s not safe. She’ll get you too!” This is clearly a horrifying thought from Twist’s perspective, but Cash has no idea what he’s talking about.

“who’ll get me? Iggy?” Twist nods, then shakes his head, then starts to nod again, then shrugs.

“Dunno. Just… ‘s not good. Ya don’ wanna be here, darlin’. Go home.” Twist’s expression darkens as he speaks. So does Cash’s. The things Twist is saying don’t paint a positive picture of his time here. Cash knows about the side effects of the treatment. Iggy detailed them extensively with some of the earlier research subjects, and her report mentioned that Twist was experiencing some of them. But how he’s acting combined with his physical condition, combined with the restraints around his arms, and then Iggy’s attempts to keep Cash from seeing Twist… He doesn’t like how it’s all coming together.

“why don’t I want to be here?” Twist just shakes his head. 

“twisted. answer me. why don’t i want to be here? do you want to be here?”

“Dunno. No, that’s… Yes! Darlin’, do ya know what she’s doin’? She’s curin’ LV!”

“i know, and that’s great, but-”

“Doncha un’erstand, sweetheart? My LV’ll be gone! Er, prob’ly. Might not work, ‘m not really sure, but ‘s doing somethin’, so I wanna stay, ‘cause it don’ matter what else happens if it works, an’ it’s workin! Prob’ly. I think. But I dunno. Think tha’s it, but it don’t really make sense, an’ I don’ know why she’d do that ‘cause she don’ do things like that, but she is so I thought maybe it wasn’ her, but they’re kinda the same but she’s helpin’ me so I jus’ need ta go along wit’ it an’ cooperate, ‘cause she said do that, but now yer here an’ I don’ think you should be around her ‘cause I’m stuck but you don’ gotta be here so I wish you’d go home an’ be safe, darlin.”

“um. what?” Twist looks very serious, like he’s just conveyed some important information, but Cash is lost.

“Go home, darlin. ‘s not good ta be here. Fer you. Uh… go home.” Well that clarifies nothing. Twist might not be the best source of information at the moment. The problem is, Iggy isn’t either, and any reports she might give him access to probably aren’t any better.

“i’m not leaving until i know what’s going on here. why are you in this condition?”

“Sweetheart, Patches, um, Cash… uh… It’s a cure! Didn’ I tell ya? Thought I did. Could be wrong. ‘m not thinkin’ that great.”

“i know it’s a cure for lv. what i don’t understand is how curing lv involves you being strapped to a hospital bed, naked, alone, with a medicine that’s dissolving parts of your soul, causes sudden HP drops, and is apparently scorching your ribs. and now you want me to leave you here.”

“‘s ok. See, ‘ve got…” he gestures vaguely towards the monitor, “that thing. ‘an I had another one when I had a bath so we wouldn’t haveta drag that thing in the water an break it, an’ it says my HP all the time so Iggy knows if it drops so she c’n gimme more.” Cash mentally notes the existence of something less cumbersome than the giant monitor that Twist is plugged into, but avoids interrupting the most useful information he’s gotten out of Twist. “She always fixes anythin’ that goes wrong. See, ’m doin’ fine.” By what definition of fine? He’s alive and speaking, but that’s about it. “I don’ mind, really. ‘s nice ta be left alone. Relaxin’.” Now that just doesn’t fit with anything he’s ever known about the other skeleton.

“twist. you love being around people. when you aren’t around people, you find people to be around, even if they’re just trying to have a peaceful afternoon at home and didn’t really want someone breaking into their living room to take over their couch and make them watch tv with you. you can’t expect me to believe that you’ve suddenly started enjoying quiet solitary reflection.”

“Eh, it’s fine. ‘sa nice break.”

“a break from what?”

“Ya know, treatment stuff. Not really a nice treatment, an’ Iggy’s kinda-” his jaw slams shut.

“iggy’s kind of what?” What has she been doing?! He paid for this shit, and now she’s using it to hurt one of the few people in the whole fucking multiverse he cares about? Stop. Calm down. Twist doesn’t need this, and he hasn’t actually said anything specific, or at least not anything coherent.

“It’s fine. She don’ gotta be nice. Not her job. She’s helpin’ me an’ I don’ need her ta be nice about it.” She fucking made it her job when she – Stop. First figure out what’s going on, then help Twist, then deal with Iggy. Not the other way around.

“what ‘not nice’ things has she done?” Something, anything, specific would be helpful.

“Look, sweetheart, I don’ even know. Most’a the time I’m so caught up in the shit in my own head that I don’ even know what’s happenin’. Fer all I know, I could jus’ be imaginin’ talkin’ ta you an’ really be ramblin’ at the ceiling. ‘s real nice ta see ya either way, though.” So Twist isn’t always aware of reality but is aware that he isn’t always aware of it. That probably means something, but Cash is no psychologist, or doctor, or whatever else Twist needs. Cash probably isn’t anything that Twist needs, but he’s what they’ve got at the moment so he’ll try to do something helpful.

“twist. listen to me. i know about the lv treatment. i have a general idea of how it’s supposed to work. none of what i know explains the situation i found you in, or why no one knows you’re here, for that matter. you need to tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothin’s goin’ on. It’s jus’ the treatment. I got my LV too high so it’s harder ta make it work on me, an’ Iggy’s makin’ it work but it don’ feel good, tha’s all. Sometimes I think she’s doin’ somethin’ but then she’s not, an’ she doesn’ know if somethin’s botherin’ me cause I’m usually too messed up ta tell her, but tha’s not her fault, s’just the shit in my own fucked up skull.”

“for someone tied to a bed who can’t tell whether i’m actually here or not, you seem to be taking the blame for a lot of things. it looks more like-” he’s interrupted by the door slamming open and a voice he’s not in the mood to hear.

“Finally! That door drives me crazy. I should have replaced it a long time ago. Now as I was saying, everything is under control and there’s no reason for you to be back here disturbing my patient-”

“Leave him alone.” Startled, Cash turns back to Twist. Gone is the confused monster smiling at seeing a friend and defending the person who’s obviously been doing something to him for the past week. This is the monster who earned every bit of that 17 LV. For the first time, Cash can see a slight justification for keeping him tied up. But no, there’s a reason he’s acting like this, and Cash doubts it’s just from the LV.

Iggy, meanwhile, seems oblivious. She walks right up to both of them, fully focused on Cash. A small, sharpened bone appears at her throat, but dissolves before she notices. Twist winces, but refocuses with a shake of his head and locks his furious gaze back on Iggy. Iggy just keeps talking.

“It’s great to have such a wonderful financial supporter taking such an interest in the project, but it would really be best if you would leave the scientific work to the scientists. Just come on back to my office and I’ll explain anything you want to know, and we can let the patient rest. He’s a little confused, and having someone new around will just confuse him more.” She reaches a hand towards Cash’s arm, presumably to lead him out of the lab, but stops at his forbidding expression. 

Twist lunges at her, snarling. “Don’ touch him!” He’s stopped by the straps on his arms and collapses back on the bed, but continues to glare, good eyelight intent and magic building in the broken socket. Holy fucking stars, how does he even have the magic to attack with? He sure has the intent to put behind it. Iggy steps back, finally noticing the problem.

“C’n have me but ya can’t have him.” Magic leaks from Twist’s broken socket. Shit, he can’t just-! That half of his face crinkles up in a wince, and he makes an aborted effort to bring his hand to his face, blocked by the strap on his arm. 

“twisted, stop, you shouldn’t be using your magic-”

“What did I say about threatening me?” Iggy demands. Twist shrinks back, but continues to glare. Cash turns to Iggy, furious.

“what did you say about him threatening you?”

“Oh come on, nothing that bad! Did you see what he just tried to do? Look, back before the treatment started and right after it was administered he was very aggressive. He almost killed me when I first started preparing his soul for the injection! He’s mostly behaved since then, but his self-control is terrible and I never know what’s going to set him off.” This gets a raised browbone from Cash. 

“i’m sure he’s very dangerous.” What with being tied to the bed, still wincing from accidentally using his magic, and looking back and forth between the two of them in complete confusion as the protective anger is replaced by bewilderment.

“You should have seen what he did to my arm this morning just because I gave him a bath. Completely unprovoked, too! I’m sure some of it has to do with side effects of the treatment, but that doesn’t mean I have to just let him tear my arms apart! He’s way too aggressive, and doesn’t cooperate with anything I need to do, and I’m trying to make this treatment work out but he’s doing everything he can to make my job difficult.” Twist, being difficult? Who’d have thought. But the way she’s describing it…

“did you ever make any effort to figure out why he was being so ‘uncooperative’ and ‘aggressive’? he seems to think he needs to protect me from you. if you want me to believe that he’s here voluntarily, i’d think you’d have made some effort to figure out why he’s acting like he’s not.”

“Patches?” Twist sounds hesitant. Twist, one of the loudest, boldest, most impulsive, most overenthusiastic, least hesitant people Cash has ever met, sounds like he’s afraid to fucking speak. Cash doesn’t even know what to do with that.

He makes an effort to gentle his voice. Being gentle with Twist, of all people. “what is it?” So he sucks at being gentle. Sue him.

“Don’ argue with her. ‘s jus’… ‘s better not to.” Do not murder the only monster who can keep Twist from losing his mind. Do not. Even if she seems to have made a damn good effort to fuck up that mind, they still need her. Focus on Twist, what Twist needs. What does Twist need? He turns to Iggy.

“you. get out.”

“What? You can’t kick me out of my own lab! You’re not-”

“out. i want to talk to twist.”

“You can talk to him with me here.”

“out.” Something in his expression must reflect how he’s feeling, because Iggy shuts her mouth and walks through the door, muttering something under her breath about the whole group of them being psychotic. Cash tunes her out.

“there, she’s gone. now what has been going on here?”

“Sure listens ta you better’n she does ta me.” There’s a hint of irritation in his voice, which Cash is relieved to hear. Twist being timid isn’t something he can deal with.

“what doesn’t she listen about?” Asking again and again isn’t the best strategy he’s ever come up with, but Twist is so disoriented that he might let a little more information slip. Assuming he even knows it.

“Lotsa things. Don’t matter, though. She’s jus’ doin’ what’s necessary, an’ I ain’t gonna complain if it gets me a cure. Doncha see, darlin’? ‘s worth it. Nothin’s so bad that it’s not worth getting’ rid a’ LV. ‘s not even that bad.”

“Which is why you’re scared of her and don’t want her anywhere near me.”

“No… jus’… I’m jus’ bein’ stupid.” He pauses to catch his breath. “Swear ‘m fine, sweetheart.” He gasps, but keeps talking like nothing happened. “Jus’ stupid shit in my head, jus’...” There are little sweat drops on his face. They’re on his ribs too, and the sickly glow in his soul and joints has intensified.

“twist? what’s going on?”

“Hot. ‘s hot,” he whimpers.

“it’s not hot in here. If anything, it’s cold, and you’re not wearing anything, which is another point against-”

Twist’s spine arches off the bed, and he screams.

chapter 9

[jedimasteramell]

Backbeat

M!Ortega X F!Sidestep // Post-Date Night // SFW

Wrote to the Dagny song by the same name on literal repeat. Siona is mine.

If you haven’t played Fallen Hero: Rebirth, I can’t recommend it enough.

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

There's something about the way he kisses her.

Siona never expected nostalgia to have an actual taste, especially not tasting like Ortega. Burning… longing… a dozen wishes on shooting stars. A thousand promises, and a thousand and one suns to fulfil them. She didn't expect it smell like the cinders of car fires, his mother's tamales, sweat on metal mods, that same damn musky cologne he’s been wearing for decades.

She didn’t expect it to feel like warm blankets and crashing waves, like the first breeze of spring, and the vacuum of air pulled from a falling airplane. With hands tangled in her hair, the reassuring and stirring press of a well-muscled machine sandwiching her to the wall, anchoring her to the rest of the world.

Didn’t expect it to sound like soft acoustic, the rumble of distant traffic and thunder across the sky. How could she have known nostalgia would sound like breathy kisses, low rumbles of affectionate laughter, and Ricardo’s warm breath against her ear calling her lovely in English, Spanish, and every other way he could?

She couldn’t have imagined. Couldn’t have known. And somehow she forgot, until each time he kissed her again.

They broke apart to furiously flushed faces. Ortega’s grin from ear to ear at the sight of her mussed hair.

“What are you smiling at?” She shot at him, hiding her frazzled state and erratic heartbeat behind sass.

“You, obviously.” How was it possible for so much emotion to be stored in the corner of someone's eyes? For his earnestness, Ortega earned a sharp jab to the ribs. His ‘oof’ for her benefit only.

“Idiot.” She grumbled, massaging her knuckles. Next time she wouldn’t aim at the repair work. A sick jerk tugs her navel. Repair work she caused.

His grin remained, it had been far too long since he’d taken any insult of hers seriously. He mistook the wince as one of pain and not guilt, brushing her knuckles against his lips, the barest of static charges between his hands and hers. “Im glad you agreed to our date.”

His expression is too open, too warm, genuine in a way that turns her stomach and heart into gymnasts. “Yeah, well all we've done is made out in this alleyway so its not been much of a date yet.” Heat betrays her flushed cheeks, and the off kilter rhythm of her heart is not something she could ever possibly fake. He just has this way with her, and she just let it happen. Willingly even.

If smirks could be illegal, his most certainly should be. Especially since he shaved. Older face, younger eyes. Kiss-flushed lips cocked in the most infuriating teasing curl. Ricardo looked straight of a dream and he goddamn knew it. Bastard.

By his or her direct, Siona spun back into his arms, fingers splayed across his proud back. He stole her sarcastic retort along with the rest of her breath. She’d have let herself go flying along with it, if the tease of his thumbs, just under the waistband of her leggings hadn’t grounded her. Surprisingly soft, terribly tender, ripe with the memories of the intimacy they shared just days ago.

Ortega must have sensed her shit, the pause for air a polite time for her to disengage, to fiddle with her hem and curse the need for and the lack of contact.

“Let's go dancing.”

He said it with such ease and whimsy it took Siona a moment before she processed that he was indeed serious. Balking at him, she shook her head, only adding to the mess of her hair. “What no, I don’t- I can’t- and in public.”

Heavy comforting hands cupped her cheeks, a lid on the anxious angry flare. “Siona, hey, I know you by now.” No you don’t. “I'm not going to push you out there, not when your comfort matters so much more. I should have specified back home.”

“Home?” She queried speculatively and finally he appeared as abashed as she’d been feeling all night. Rose blush darkening his already bronzed cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“I mean, my place. Guess it just feels right to say home when you're there.” And once more, with that disarming smile he turned that fluster back around on her.

Ricardo Ortega was damn lucky she loved him.

Shit.

That wasn't the intrusive thought she wanted. Nor the hot rush that flooded her tip to toes at the very ludicrous notion she could even feel that.

Ortega’s pull on her was gentle and guiding, a comforting hand on the small of her back. The trip only a few blocks back to his apartment went by in a flutter of butterfly-feelings and far too many smiles. The presence of his hand pushing back the static void of his mind beside hers. They were two joined bodies here, even if not two joined minds. The doorman remembered her, she wished he didn't. Ortega had this way about him that made too many aspects of this, of them, bright, and shining, and grounded, and real.

Thank the devil, he’d left the lights down low. One glance on the couch and Siona’s whole face got five degrees hotter, and Ortega didn’t need any more reasons to be so smug.

Maybe he was the telepath then as he leaned into her, nuzzling into her dark hair. “I'm thinking about the couch too.”

A pout on her round lips, Siona twisted and shoved over-dramatically at the flat plane of his stomach. She couldn't budge him. Figures. “I thought you wanted to dance.”

He had no right to look so doting, no right! “I do.” The sheer magnanimity folded in the creases of his eyes and his smile was truly overwhelming. “As long as you still do.”

“I do...” She muttered, subconsciously leaning towards him as he stepped away to find the insulated remote that controlled his stereo system. A deep-beated R&B song, just fast enough to warrant dancing, filtered out from the speakers. Siona arched a heavy brow. “Your music's changed. What happened to all that club stuff you liked?”

“Tastes change. And I still like some of that ‘stuff’ you know. Just not tonight.” He lifted her arms to drape around his neck, hands finding purchase just above her hips. Goosebumps rose everywhere the faint static charge pulsed.

The song was catchy, or at least of quality artistry by Siona’s limited opinion. Music hadn't really ever been a thing for her. Too much else going on, too many other sounds and places to focus rather than engaging with the rhythms and lyrics of the radio. Her body didn't quite know how to move, every shift awkward and hesitant. “You can go ahead and say it.” She huffed, primarily at herself, mouth pulled to a cornered grimace. “I really suck at dancing.”

Ricardo hummed with a laugh, like it was really that easy. “You just need practice, Siona. It's not that different than a fight. In fact you can honestly just” Oh no, that grin meant he was about to say something exceptionally ridiculous. “sidestep.”

It took several pregnant moments, the song changing in the background, before Siona met his devilish smile with a disbelieving scoff. “You did not just make that joke.”

“I did and whatever are you going to do about it?”

“Smug asshole.” She swore, standing up on her tiptoes, and dragging him down into deep and abiding kiss.

There was something about the way she kisses him.

Ricardo doesn’t expect it to smell like shea and chocolate, like new clothes and hand rolled tobacco. He doesn't expect it to sound like an old favorite song restored to an unheard clarity, like the silence of the air before a great storm, like a prayer-hymn in pre-quake temple. He doesn't expect it to feel like melancholy, impatience, hope. Like fluttery stomachs, the wind while on his old bike, like taking off his costume for a well deserved shower and an ache so profound he’s not sure he could bear it. An ache and a love and a promise.

He couldn’t have imagined. Couldn’t have in his wildest, most heart-wrenching dreams. And yet, somehow, he forgot, until each time she kissed him again.

[rose-of-pollux]

Inktober for Writers, Day 30

Prompt: Catch Fandom: Perfect Strangers Title: One and Only Summary: [Post-series] In which the woes of a passenger help Jennifer realize how lucky she is.

Notes: this vignette takes place post-series.  One of the things I adore about the series is how Larry and Balki never even so much as glance at other women after they go steady with, and eventually marry, Jennifer and Mary Anne, and this vignette happened as a result.

Cross-posted to AO3 & FFN.

As head of the cabin crew, Jennifer had been coordinating the details of the meal and beverage services on the flight heading from Portland to Chicago. Things had been running surprisingly smoothly—until it stopped going smoothly.

“Jennifer?” Mary Anne asked, peeking her head in to the attendants’ private area, where Jennifer was going over their food inventory.  “We’ve got ourselves a situation up in 15 A.”

“Oh, no; what now?” Jennifer asked.

“They’re demanding I serve more alcohol, but I think they’ve had enough already, given the circumstances!  I told them that, and they said they wanted to see my manager—that’s you.”

Jennifer sighed; heading to row 15 with Mary Anne—and stopped as she saw that the passenger in 15 A was a woman.  The woman was clearly a little tipsy, and what concerned Jennifer was the one-year-old girl sitting on her lap, clearly upset that she wasn’t getting her mother’s attentions.

“How many…?” Jennifer silently mouthed.

Mary Anne held up three fingers in response.

Jennifer responded with a nod to assure her that she’d made the right call, and then addressed the woman.

“I’m the head of the flight crew; I understand that you wanted to see me?”

“Yes!” the woman exclaimed.  “It says here on the menu that you serve alcoholic drinks for $5 each, but she won’t take any more of my money!”  She glared pointedly at Mary Anne.

“Well, we reserve the right to withhold the service of alcohol if we think it’s necessary,” Jennifer explained.  “And I have to agree with my colleague; I think you’ve had enough.”

She had expected the woman to get even more belligerent, but, to their surprise, she suddenly burst into tears.  Jennifer and Mary Anne exchanged baffled glances, and Mary Anne shyly offered a packet of tissues to the woman.  After a moment, the woman accepted them.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed.  “I know I probably shouldn’t be drinking, but I just…  I just want to forget everything!”

“It’s okay,” Jennifer said.  “You’re clearly having a very bad day—”

“The worst!” she wailed.  “My husband left me for another woman!  Threw us both out of the house—me, and his own child!  …Not that he ever put the slightest effort into raising her, of course…” She sobbed.  “My sister lives in Chicago; she’s taking me in, but…”  She shook her head.

Jennifer had gone slightly pale, but she was still trying to put on a comforting expression, as was Mary Anne.  But Jennifer had a deep-seeded fear of abandonment, born from years of disastrous dating, coupled with being teased for not being able to maintain a relationship. And even after she had found true love with Larry, every so often, that fear reared its ugly head and tore at her from the inside-out, even if she knew she had no reason to fear it.

Mary Anne stepped up now, sensing that Jennifer’s mind was going there again.

“I really hope things get better for you,” she said, sincerely.  “And that you’ll find someone else to spend your life with.”

“No! I’m not looking for that anymore!” the woman insisted.  “You can’t trust men!  They’re all the same—out for a conquest!  And when they’re bored, they’ll move on to the next one!”

Jennifer let out a quiet sigh, trying to suppress her own anxieties.

“Take it from me,” she said.  “Chicago is a great place to start over.”

The woman didn’t seem convinced, but she did seem calmer now, once again attending to her child.  They had to attend to other passengers, but both Jennifer and Mary Anne made frequent checks on her and her daughter for the remainder of the flight to make sure they were both alright.  And once the flight had landed in Chicago, Mary Anne insisted on staying with her until her sister arrived to pick her up; Jennifer stayed, too, and after they had seen her off, they headed for the parking lot, where they had kept Larry’s blue LTD—the eventual replacement for the Mustang he had sold years ago for his sister’s Julliard tuition.  Though it lacked the sentimental value of the Mustang, Larry was still almost as persnickety about the LTD as he had been for the Mustang, and after that incident with Jennifer denting the Mustang’s door years ago, she most certainly had asked to borrow the LTD this time, and, without hesitation, he’d handed over the keys.

He loved her.  And she knew he loved her.  It was foolish to think that Larry would leave her for any reason, let alone the ludicrous idea that he’d stray for another woman.

Even as she sat in the driver’s seat, all around her, there was evidence of his devotion—the car cover she’d knitted for him was folded on the back seat beside Tucker’s car seat, and stuck on the sun visor clip was a picture of her holding Tucker shortly after his birth, after they’d been rescued from that runaway hot-air-balloon and brought back to terra firma; given the situation they’d been in, Tucker had been swaddled in Larry’s jacket—it was a rather ridiculous sight, with Tucker in the jacket and Jennifer looking, in her opinion, like a mess, but Larry never failed to get emotional just thinking about that moment.

“What are you thinking about?” Mary Anne asked from the passenger seat, though she seemed to know the answer already.

“That Larry is quite a catch,” she said.  She looked over at her best friend and smiled.  “You’ve got quite a catch with Balki, too.”

“I sure do,” she agreed, with a smile.

“You know, I still can’t believe it,” Jennifer sighed.  “I’d just come off a bad relationship and was convinced that I was done with dating.  I take a side job at a health club, selling memberships, I walk into a discount store trying to get the signature of the Mediterranean guy who was so eager that he forgot to sign his form, and then I meet his cousin—my future husband.  Who knew?”

“I kinda did—when I saw you trying not to laugh when you saw him falling off of the bench press machine the next day.  …I don’t think any of your previous boyfriends ever made you smile like that.” Mary Anne smiled.  “And it was lucky for both of us that you went into the discount store that day—you met your future husband, and I met mine the next day!”

“It took us a few bumps in the road along the way, but the four of us got there eventually,” Jennifer agreed.  She sobered slightly.  “I don’t ever want it to end.”

“It won’t—for a long, long, long time,” Mary Anne assured her.

“…I’ll take it,” Jennifer admitted.  With a sigh, she started the car.  “Let’s go home.”

“Can’t wait.”

                                             ***************************

The lights in the house were warm and inviting as they pulled into the driveway. Gathering their things, they entered through the back door through the kitchen.  Balki was tending to some things on the stove as Robespierre sat nearby in a high chair, coloring with some crayons.

“Oh, hi, Mary Anne!  Cousin Jennifer!”

“Hi, Balki,” Jennifer smiled, as Mary Anne kissed him in greeting.  “How’s it going?”

“Oh, terrific,” Balki grinned.  “Robespierre is getting good at the whole walking thing; I think I’m going to start teaching him Boochi Tag one of these days.”  He turned to his son and tickled him on the chin.  “Yeah, you want to play Boochi Tag, don’ you?”  He trailed off into Myposian, and Robespierre giggled at him in response.

Mary Anne picked Robespierre up from the high chair and hugged him.

“Where are Larry and Tucker?” Jennifer asked.

“In the living room; Cousin Larry’s been trying to tempt little Tucker into walking, too…”  Balki gave an apologetic shrug.  “I think Cousin Larry might be a bit concerned that Robespierre has been walking for two weeks already, but Tucker hasn’t…”

The words were barely out of his mouth when, suddenly, they heard Larry exclaim from the living room—

“Yes!  YES!”

“Oh, no; I missed it!?” Jennifer exclaimed, running to the living room, followed by Balki, Mary Anne, and Robespierre.

Larry was just picking up Tucker in a triumphant hug when they walked in; Larry noticed them and gave them a huge grin.

“Mary Anne!  Jen! Welcome home!”  He kept one arm holding Tucker and drew his free arm around Jennifer, giving her an excited hug.  “Jen, guess what happened!  No, wait, don’t guess—let’s see if we can get an encore!”  He placed Tucker gently back on the ground.  “Okay, Tucker—once more, for Mommy…”

Tucker looked back at him with an amused expression, as though wondering what all the excitement was about.  Jennifer knelt down and extended her arms to him, gently calling his name.  Tucker turned his attention to her and, slowly, toddled towards her.  With a joyful squeal, Jennifer gathered him into a hug, and the warm feeling growing in her heart grew even more intense as Larry knelt beside the both of them, drawing them into a hug, as well.  And soon, they were joined on the floor by the three Bartokomouses.

“Cousin, this is so great!” Balki exclaimed.  “In a few weeks, they’ll be better and better at walking, and, someday, we can teach them the Dance of Joy!”

“You bet, Buddy,” Larry grinned, and he turned back to Jennifer.  “Well, Jen, you pretty much saw the highlight of our day. How was your day?”

Jennifer exchanged a glance with Mary Anne, and with just a glance, both of their thoughts turned to that unfortunate passenger, as well as to how lucky the two of them were to have such caring and loyal husbands who were heavily invested in the care of their children.  It seemed so basic, and yet… was it really that rare?

Mary Anne snuggled up to Balki, still holding Robespierre, and Jennifer leaned in further into Larry’s embrace.

“Jen…?  Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine, Larry,” she assured him.  She glanced up, gently touching the side of his face as she kissed him.  “Thank you.”

“…For what?” Larry asked, slightly confused.

“For being you.”

“That goes for you, too, Balki,” Mary Anne said, kissing him again.

The cousins exchanged slightly confused glances, but shrugged, holding their wives and children close, glad to have their families all together again.  And Jennifer and Mary Anne held them as well, grateful to be loved—and grateful that Jennifer had walked into Ritz Discount that day years ago.

[cutesuki--bakugou]

Little Nurse

For Day #1 of the @mha-xmas-challenge

Christmas Challenge | Day 1 - Catching A Cold

Category | One-Shot

Pairing: Bakugou x Koge (OC) Koge’s Tag

Rating: E, no warnings

Word Count: 2,072

“Aachoo!”

Koge gave a small, sarcastic gasp from the sound of sneezing that came from upstairs, loud enough to get through a closed door and over the roaring sound of cartoons on the television. “Oh goodness. What a sneeze.” She looked down at the tiny figure of her daughter, who was eagerly bouncing her body up and down without actually lifting her feet off the floor. Crimson eyes locked on her mother, the two year old had both tiny hands on Koge’s leg, waiting impatiently for her to finish her work. “Ma!” She spoke through her pacifier, bringing a smile to Koge’s lips.

“Yes, Natsuki, I know. That was Daddy sneezing, wasn’t it?” After mixing a vitamin C boosting powder into a glass of water, Koge placed it onto a tray. Already on it was a bowl of soup, which was a special recipe graciously given to Koge by her mother-in-law, to which her darling husband had already thrown a fit about. Bakugou had never been one for his mother’s home remedies, but Koge had seen this stuff work, and she was determined to get him feeling better as quickly as she could. Having just hit a high fever yesterday, her lover was totally miserable, and it broke her heart to see him so pathetic. In fact, she was pretty sure this was the first time he had gotten sick since he was a pre-teen, so the way he was handling the situation was absolutely ludicrous, in Koge’s opinion.

At first, it had been denial. Then more denial, followed by further denial, all the way up until he hit a 103 degree fever and had gone through an entire box of tissues in only two hours. Even then, he refused to believe it, stating that it must have been an aftereffect of a villain’s quirk, one which he must have captured recently. Koge had effectively told him that he was stupid, forced his stubborn ass into bed and medicated him. Now, he was beyond needy, so delirious with fever that he had screamed about not being able to find the remote to the television, when it had been in his lap the entire time. Koge loved Bakugou to the deepest depths of her soul, but he could really be a moron sometimes.

Her attention was pulled back down to her daughter as she continued to bounce, finding her enthusiasm exhausting. “How many times do you think Daddy has sneezed today?” Natsuki stopped bouncing, looking at her hands as she put up a variety of fingers, before displaying two to Koge confidently. Koge smiled, picking up the tray in front of her to take upstairs. “Two? Oh man, that sure is a lot. I’m going to take this to Daddy now, you stay- ah, Natsuki!” Before Koge could even take a step, the tiny girl took off out of the kitchen, vanishing behind the wall with her light blonde hair bouncing vigorously in its ponytail. With a sigh, Koge followed, having to be careful with each step so that she didn’t spill the food.

“Natsuki! Baby, you can’t see Daddy right now.” Much to her dismay, the tiny speed demon was already halfway up the stairs, a skill that she had acquired very quickly after learning how to walk. In fact, Koge was pretty sure the child had come out of the womb with the willpower of a god, learning to walk before she could even crawl. Her daughter was a completely different experience compared to her son, who was very attached to Koge in contrast to her highly independant daughter. Bakugou had always claimed that she was going to be someone amazing who would one day even surpass him, and Koge didn’t doubt a word he said.

As she passed through the livingroom to the stairs, she looked over at the couch, spotting her son sitting on the floor at the coffee table. He was drawing, tongue sticking out of his mouth with extreme focus. He had just turned four, and was very mellow compared to his sister. “Matsuki, baby, I know you’re drawing, but could you come help me, please?” Pale blue eyes that matched her own locked onto her before the child stood, quickly making his way over. “Yeah, Mama. Need me to open the door?” Matsuki made his way up the stairs with Koge following, still being careful not to spill the soup. “Please hun, thank you. And try to keep your sister from barging in if possible, I don’t want her to catch this stuff.”

“Yes, Mama.” Matsuki looked back at her a few times as they headed up, concern on his face, as if he were worried about her having to carry the soup. Besides the eyes, Matsuki was nearly an exact clone of Bakugou when it came to looks. Personality wise, however, he was incredibly soft and timid. He had an extreme sense of empathy, even for something as small as an ant. Koge loved that about him, though she could already see him struggling in pre-school and with other kids. With a father like Bakugou, an extremely well known and powerful Pro Hero, Matsuki had a lot on his shoulders that was starting to weigh him down. Everyone expected big things of him, and told him that constantly. Koge vividly remembered the defeat on his face when he had told an adult that he had wanted to be a doctor instead of a pro, and that person had the audacity to tell him that he had no other choice than to follow in his father's footsteps.

If not for the child in her arms, Koge would have knocked that man's teeth out, though that didn’t stop her from giving him a piece of her mind. Bakugou had even been the one to pull her away from that confrontation, with Koge still spitting venom even as she walked away. She hated people like that, and if she were honest, the world of Pro Heros was nothing but constant stress and ridiculous expectations that often times made her sick. On top of that, she was constantly worrying about Bakugou’s safety, no matter how strong he was. So, in a way, she was thankful for this little cold that kept him home with her, where she could take care of him.

When she finally reached the top of the stairs, Koge gave a small roll of her eyes at the sight of her daughter, trying to hop up to reach the doorknob to where Bakugou was resting. Matsuki quickly made his way over to her, putting his arms awkwardly around her tiny torso to pull her back. “Natsu, Mama said you can’t go in!” The pacifier in Natsuki’s mouth flew out, though was successfully caught onto her clothing by the clip and string Koge had bought to limit the loss of them. “No, Da!” The tiny girl struggled against her brother, desperately reaching for the doorknob. Koge shook her head as she approached, stopping beside the door. “Natsuki, that’s enough.” “What’s going on out there? Sounds like a -cough- damn wrestling match.”

“Sorry, Katsuki. Baby, open the door for Mommy, please.” Koge address Matsuki, who successfully got his sister to sit on the floor. “Yes, Mama.” Though, the instant the door was opened, Natsuki tumbled her way into the room, pushing past her brother with a sudden burst of speed of which Koge had never seen before. “Ah, Natsuki!” She could only watch in defeat as her daughter rushed over, first climbing up onto the cushioned bench that sat at the foot of the bed before onto the mattress itself. Clumsily climbing over the thick layers of blankets, she crawled her way over to her father, who was already sitting up and looking at her in a numbed state of annoyance.

Natsuki plopped down beside him, putting her pacifier back into her mouth. Koge sighed, walking into the room as well with her son following. “I’m sorry, we tried to stop her, but she’s so stubborn. Like someone we all know.” She smiled at Bakugou as he glowered up at her, though the tissue shoved up one nostril ruined any sense of intimidation he was trying to give off. Paired along with the pale complexion, bags under his eyes and exhausted expression, he looked all around pathetic. “Well if she gets sick, you can’t blame me.” Bakugou’s voice was hoarse and nasally with stuffed sinuses, and Koge could tell that he was in need of another round of medication.

“Katsuki, you need to eat this and then take more meds. Have you checked your temperature recently?” Koge walked over to the pop up table she had set up beside the bed, placing the tray down onto it. Bakugou grumbled at the thought of putting food into his mouth, looking away from it in disgust. “I haven’t. But I don’t know if I can eat. Especially not that garbage my mom made.” He quickly brought his arm up to cover his mouth, giving a series of coughs into his hoodie sleeve. The instant he lowered his arm, he was suddenly poked in the face by an object, startling him a bit and pulling his attention to the small girl beside him.

Peering up at him with intense focus, she was holding the digital thermometer up towards his lips, once again poking him in the chin. Carefully, Bakugou took it from her. “What, you little squid? You want me to take my temperature? I don’t think you want to know what it says.” He glanced at Koge before pushing the button to turn the device on, placing it in his mouth with the sensor under his tongue. Matsuki came closer, crawling up onto the end of the bed as well. “Daddy, I tasted Grandma’s soup, it’s good. It’s not gross like you said.” Bakugou raised an eyebrow at his son, silenced by the device in his mouth. Koge smiled, sitting down beside Bakugou’s legs. “He wanted to taste test it for you, to make sure that it was good. He thinks it’s delicious, and so do I.”

Bakugou glared at the steaming soup beside him, not responding until the thermometer beeped and he removed it from his lips. “Then she must have not been the one to make it.” He turned the thermometer towards Koge, allowing her to read the small screen. 102.8 wasn’t exactly a good thing, but it had gone down a little from that morning. “Ah, still high. Well-” She was cut off as Bakugou gave a small hiss, suddenly smacked in the face with his box of tissues by Natsuki. Taking it from her, he did his best not to glare at his daughter, taking in a deep breath the best he could to stay calm. “Thank you, Natsu-” Next was the television remote, which was something he wasn’t entirely sure why she had picked, as it had nothing to do with his recovery.

Stifling her giggles, Koge covered her mouth, smile on her lips. “Aw, she’s just trying to help you.” Matsuki laughed softly as his sister stood, placing her tiny hand on Bakugou’s forehead, as if to feel for a temperature. Bakugou placed a hand on her back gently to steady her, allowing her to ruffle his hair a bit, as she always enjoyed doing. “Natsu, I think you’re a miracle worker. I already feel- ah no, you don’t need that.” The child suddenly yanked the tissue out of his nostril, which Bakugou promptly took from her tiny hands, tossing it into the trash can beside the bed. With this, Natsuki sat back down, leaning against Bakugou’s torso. As he let his arm rest around around her, she tenderly stroked his stomach, obviously mimicking the way Bakugou rubbed her back when he held her during naptime.

Koge patted Bakugou’s leg gently, gaining his attention. “I’ll take her so that you can eat and then get some rest.” Bakugou shook his head, clearing his throat a bit. “No, it’s fine. I don’t want any of you catching this, but… Honestly this is the best I’ve felt. And she’s already asleep.” Sure enough, Natsuki had completely crashed. Koge gave a small sigh, laying down across Bakugou’s legs in defeat. “How about we all just take one big family nap.”

“Let’s do that, Utsuro. As long as that means I don’t have to eat that garbage.”

[bakechochin]

The Book Ramblings of January 2019

In place of book reviews, I will be writing these ‘book ramblings’. A lot of the texts I’ve been reading (or plan to read) in recent times are well-known classics, meaning I can’t really write book reviews as I’m used to. I’m reading books that either have already been read by everyone else (and so any attempt to give novel or insightful criticisms would be a tad pointless), or are so convoluted and odd that they defy being analysed as I would do a simpler text. These ramblings are pretty unorganised and hardly anything revolutionary, but I felt the need to write something review-related this year. I’ll upload a rambling compiling all my read books on a monthly basis.

Wise Blood - Flannery O’Connor I haven’t read much American literature, but far be it from me to state that the sole reason for this is my position as a staunch Englishman. In truth, I genuinely just don’t have much of an interest for the great American texts; the enforced reading of such literature during GCSEs and A-Level taught me that even the American texts with the best prose were not on the most interesting of subject matters, concerned with social progress or supposedly deserving of merit because of relevant historical context, as opposed to actually just being, well, enjoyable. Yes, I am obviously over-simplifying to a ludicrous extent, but these were the thoughts that I had way back in the halcyon days of school, and subsequently these are the thoughts that I’ve carried with me since, simply because I haven’t been arsed to actively try to challenge them. However, my infatuation with the grotesque was bound to bring me to the realms of American literature at some point, and so asking my American friend to procure me a copy of this book with a decent cover, I started on this Southern Gothic classic. I love the idea of transposing the gothic genre to a setting different than one would conjure up from the word ‘gothic’, and the fictional deep South town of Taulkinham does a bloody good job at capturing what I want; there’s madness and isolation and a sense of oddity in the air, and the town is populated by a gallery of fantastic and memorable grotesques. The fantastic and evocative prose, almost comical at points, belies how fucking odd the story’s events are, and breathes life into this setting in a similar way to Hammett’s Red Harvest; this is perhaps one of my favourite techniques in literature, simply because I’ve never thought of envisioning America in this fantastical way. The story is rather fragmented, with many of its major scenes basically being some of O’Connor’s short stories stitched together (and the Frankensteined nature of the story does result in a few chapters having noticeably different writing styles to the rest, or some characters’ decisions that would develop into these slotted-in short stories seeming odd and poorly explained). With this awareness, I remain unconvinced with critics’ dogmatic statements along the lines of ‘O’Connor evokes an individual voice/style, unburdened by the rules or conventions of story writing’; if she had that in mind, as a deliberate means of creating a fragmentary narrative in the name of the genre or in reflection of the characters or what have you, she came up with that shit after she started writing. It is a view that I could subscribe to, on account of the fact that this is not a stereotypical narrative. Characters don’t do much or evolve much, with the decisions made by the characters seemingly motivated more by manic episodes than actual rational thought; Hazel, for instance, is depicted as basically coming up with the teachings and philosophies of his Church without Christ as he goes along, repeating his new discoveries to himself and to anyone who will listen as soon as he formulates them, and it is this improvisational drifting (motivated by his own warped thinking) that defines his story’s progression. What separates gothic stories set in recognisably recent times to gothic stories set in the distant histories of castles and deep dark woods, is the changed understanding of madness, and I’ve talked about this a lot in my rambles on Le Fanu but I’ll delve into this book’s treatment of it. In the words of Bakhtin, ‘in Romantic grotesque, … madness acquires a somber, tragic aspect of individual isolation’, but before the advancement of scientific knowledge as to what actually constituted ‘madness’, it often took the form of histrionics and melodrama. This is all fine and dandy when you’re writing a story about tormented murderers hearing hearts beating under the floorboards, or masked men with skeletal faces scuttling around opera houses, but when you’ve got to transpose this madness to a recent-ish society, with said madness being expressed or brought out via recognisable themes such as religion, you’ve got to tone it down a bit. As such, Hazel and Enoch are manic, not mad, and this is excellently conveyed through their individual speech styles and the ways that other characters interact or interpret the two; my favourite example of this is Enoch running down his day’s activities to himself as a strict and sacrosanct ritual of undeniable importance, swiftly followed by the reveal of the actions’ trivial nature (and his co-workers negative opinions of him as a result). WOULD I RECOMMEND?: HELL YES

The Crock of Gold - James Stephens Trying to ascertain the seriousness of this text boggles my brain. Let it first be said that I rather like this book, despite the shoddy John Murray publication that I have it in; I was prompted to purchase it on account of its place in the great ‘Irish comic tradition’, basically expecting something along the lines of The Unfortunate Fursey, but I instead was greeted with a much more thoughtful and interesting read that I advise everyone to pick up at some point, with the caveat that you have to be in a very specific mindset to read it. It’s a funny story, but it is quietly funny; the humour comes from little quirks in the writing, in the speech and actions of its characters, in the ultimate charm of the story. The dialogue is deliberately circumlocutive and often rather meaningless, pondering incessantly on philosophical matters big and small, and ofttimes the narrative itself reflects these rambling trains of thought, most notably a long aimless pilgrimage wherein the Philosopher stumbles across snippets of other peoples’ lives, experiencing quibbles and learning folk wisdom and ruminating on the head and heart. The book’s world is charming, all made up of storybook character archetypes and Irish folklore (described matter-of-factly and easily accepted as truth); ofttimes, the information that we are given is ultimately unimportant and has no bearing on the overall story, and this is a statement that can, truthfully, be applied to much of the text, but it is all the same delicately written and rather pleasant. The book does perhaps toe the line on this point with its rambling philosophical paragraphs from the Gods, with its grand allegories and metaphysical nonsense getting a tad wanky and mind-numbing, but it’s not the most egregious thing in the world. In any case, the philosophising of the Philosopher is entertaining enough to make up for the rather more dense philosophising of the Gods, being much more like the aforementioned circumlocution, going off on unrelating tangents and eventually bringing the rambling back around to the initial point that catalysed said rambling. I bring this up not only as a point of comparison, but because it ties in nicely with the commonly-utilised storytelling method of basically going off on a tangent, following one person off on their quest before jumping back to where the narrative left off to see how things are doing then. This can perhaps be attributed to this book’s lack of urgency or real danger, and thus lack of a need for hastiness and rapid jumping from one person’s story to another. This extends even to the final resolution of the humans’ storyline, which basically amounts to one sentence saying that what they set out to do was done and dusted; there isn’t even a scene to show everyone happy again, because it is simply implied that things will go back to the jolly equilibrium. Hell, when the book incorporates wistful or thoughtful or even flat-out sad tales, no resolution is offered for them. The story just goes on, and we are presumably meant to just assume that all will end up alright in the end, or at the very least, all will just end, and then it’s not worth worrying about any more. Reading what I thought would just be another fucking The Unfortunate Fursey type of fantasy book has really evoked some unexpected feelings in me. So that’s nice. WOULD I RECOMMEND?: YES, IF YOU’RE IN THE RIGHT MOOD

Gulliver’s Travels - Jonathan Swift I’ll level, I went into this book expecting a low-brow adventure story about little dudes and fucking massive units. It is, in fact, a tad more complex than this. This book is a lot of things; it can be read as a storybook adventure novel, but it is also a satirical piece, both of Swift’s society in general and of the travel writings form, and it is this satire that I am not too fond of. But we’ll get to that. The main technique utilised in this novel (yeah I’m just going to call it a novel for simplicity's sake) is optical conceit, and the idea of viewing familiar things from different perspectives or in different ways, presenting them in a new light as ridiculous or laughable and perhaps to make us reevaluate the workings of society so farcically presented. This technique is noticeable mainly in the first and second travels, coincidentally the two travels that are most widely known, and this optical conceit is a concept that I like a lot more in theory than in practise. The first travel takes us to Lilliput, the island of the small blokes, and here the small size of the people links in with their small-mindedness and melodramatic quibbling over minor matters, but in the second travel to Brobdingnag, land of the big dudes, the size of the folk is seemingly unrelated from the satire. With the possible exception of the pompous Prince, none of the natives have any sort of comical largesse or egotism that might have related to the satire. And then when I had this in my mind, I began scrabbling around to try and find some other snippets of how the native people tie in with the satire, to little to no avail. The Lilliputians put great faith in long and formal written legislations and diatribes (related in full in Gulliver’s account), suggestive of shrewd ink-nosed clerks hiding behind their papers, and much of the Brobdingnagian report is one long rambling philosophical back-and-forth between Gulliver and the Prince, suggesting these large people have large mouths and loud opinions, but the satire, in my opinion, is a) tenuous and b) not what I’d consider engaging reading. And that’s not even considering the specific basis of the satire: contemporary politics! This book is striking an interesting balance between being entertaining in its own right, and ostensibly being entertaining because of its significance as satire, that every character or event in the story is comically reflecting some real-life event in English politics. To this, I have to compare it to Calvino’s story Invisible Cities, and it’s varying depictions of Venice through different disguises; it doesn’t matter how you tart up your source material, or how colourful your new layer of paint is, because if I’m not interested in the original source material then I probably won’t give too much of a toss about how it is newly presented. And contemporary English politics really could not appeal to me less, even if Swift does dress them up as Lilliputian acrobatic displays or thinly veiled warring kingdom allegories. That’s not to say that there is nothing funny to be found in this text; the details in the stories that are not intended to serve any satirical purpose, and instead merely to emphasise the differences between worlds, are always great fun. My favourites are the Lilliputian’s alien descriptions of the gigantic contents of Gulliver’s pockets, and two great instances of humungous monstrosities in Brobdingnag, namely the huge lice on the giant beggars and the scene of a Brobdingnagian mother breastfeeding; the sheer revulsion that Gulliver has to this spectacle is fucking hysterical. The travel to Laputa has got a good grasp on linking the fun content with the satirical aspect (not only is the flying island a great pisstake of science-minded learned folk, but is also like something out of a fucking Lem story), but the overall story is generally rather boring and without much in the way of obstacle or threat. The Land of the Houyhnhnms doesn’t really have the optical conceit, being more of an abstract switcharoo of horses and people, with not much relationship between the two races and a lot of obvious satire about man’s bestial nature. There are occasions of overt physical comedy, again tied in with these changes in size; Gulliver is in one story dousing great fires with his almighty piss stream, and in another being dressed up like a doll or dunked in a bowl of cream by a mendacious dwarf (or rather, a dwarf by Brobdingnagian standards). I am fully in accord with the former sort of comedy, not only because such imagery of dousing fires with a slash puts me in mind of Gargantua and Pantagruel, but because it reflects this book’s fun indulgence in crude toilet humour. Crude toilet humour is fun to begin with, but Swift uses scatalogical humour to demean the noble form of travel writings, taking a moment from seriously discussing the learned folk and their cultures and customs to describe his shitting habits. The latter sort of comedy, however, that serves to emasculate Gulliver by having him toyed with by giant folk or entrapped by tiny folk, only highlights to me the lack of character that Gulliver has, beyond being our narrator. I’m sure that critics will argue for his supposed egotism or pomposity or whatnot, but such details in the text are thin on the ground, and if Gulliver is not characterised as being a dick, why should the reader find it entertaining or cathartic when he gets his shit handed to him? These problems perhaps originate with Swift’s worries of the character of Gulliver being a reflection of himself; he is willing to put the character through light slapstick shenanigans, but he hasn’t got the balls to go too far lest it tarnish his own reputation. Apparently in one early publication of this text, Gulliver partakes in the custom of eating shit with the ape people, but oh no no, Swift couldn’t possibly have something that funny in the story in case anyone thought that he himself might truly be a coprophagous ninny! There is a strange bequeathment of snooty scholarly worth unto this book, considering that it does have talking horses and ape men who shit everywhere, as illustrated by the study done around this book (handily referenced in the editor’s annotations). Let me briefly give some examples. This book uses a lot of nonsense ‘little language’ for its place names and whatnot, and as you can tell by the fact that I’ve taken every opportunity to use the word ‘Brobdingnagian’ in this ramble, I’m rather fond of it all. However, amidst all the daft place names (all bizarre anagrams of existing places), the editor makes sure to highlight some as being ‘obvious, and therefore uncharacteristic’, as though there is a scholarly level of obfuscation or stupidity to adhere to in order to be respectable. This sense of superiority continues to the demeaning of one particularly transparent and obvious satirical paragraph, which is described as being ‘artistically weaker’ than the rest of the text; not that I’m defending the aforementioned insulted paragraph, because it isn’t that good, but the implication that the text deserves artistic merit because of the obfuscation of its satire rubs me up the wrong way a bit. WOULD I RECOMMEND?: PROBABLY NOT

The Nightwatches of Bonaventura - Bonaventura The new introduction to this text, written by the uppity translator Gerald Gillespie, is rather dogmatic in its excessive insistences of all of the things that this text is, or takes inspiration from. As much as I like to portray myself as a learned man and top-quality dude, I’m not so invested in contextualising this book’s composition that I’m willing to engross myself in Napoleonic war history or the works of Kant. What I am interested in, however, is the Romantic grotesque, for whilst Bakhtin’s infatuation with Rabelais’ grotesque completes eclipses any appreciation he might have of any writer who deviates from Rabelais, Bakhtin manages to spare a brief word of praise for this text amidst all the wanking over Rabelais, so I was intrigued enough to get myself a copy. This a book densely populated with great grotesque imagery and content, and as such it is a book that probably warrants re-reading with a certain subject in mind so as to allow for further unpacking, but within the framework of the grotesque, Bakhtin was right to say that this book basically epitomises the Romantic grotesque, because it’s all here in amazing detail. The story is a rambling introspective on dark topics, either prompted by the morbid and corrupt sights of the world around our narrator or plucked from the memories of our narrator’s own dark past. Said narrator, Kruezgang, brilliantly speaks on such subjects with amazing and colourful prose, with literary allusions and warped rumination galore. The other characters in the watches seem more like marionettes or shadow puppets, necessary to tell separate stories or fill a hole where there should be an aspect of Kruezgang’s past, but their purpose as such is fascinating enough and so excellently done that it doesn’t warrant criticism. The world is grim and grotesque, but depicted out as a joke via Kruezgang’s own view of it, described with poetical allegories and bitterly laughing at awful events by portraying them as black comedy farces. This book’s infatuation and idolisation of the mad and the strange and the grim is something fantastic, it really is. Now, having prefaced this ramble with such positivity, I can delve into a truth that looms over this text like a storm cloud; it is so incredibly fucking dense that I could not imagine rereading this book for any reason other than literary analysis. There is so much content, rich bloody content, in this book that it is easy to equate the feeling of numbness in one’s mind with an overload of such fantastic stuff, from the prose to the ideas to the fascinating storytelling, but this process of thought precludes the very important contributing factor to said mind-numbness, which is that the book seemingly just rambles about nothing at all! Am I to assume that such rich prose in the name of maddening circumlocutive (is that a word?) nothingness actually does have a purpose, and my mind just slides over it because it can’t comprehend the information, or perhaps just can’t contain so much information? Am I an uncomprehending fool for glossing over chunks of text, or am I just inadequately prepared to cram so much prose into my bonce at any one time? Such thoughts bounced around in my head as I was reading, and the only conclusion that I could come to was that I would be hard-pressed to recommend this book to anyone, for what if they encountered the same problems, and asked me to elucidate on such matters, when I have no answers to give them? Wouldn’t I look a fool then! But I digress. The introduction snootily says that to break down the narrative’s events chronologically would only ‘contravene the spirit… of the work’, which I believe insofar as a fragmented narrative obviously reflects the fragmented mind of the narrator (real in-depth analysis going on here), but that doesn’t mean that I won’t say that the narrative isn’t all over the shop, generally rather confusing, and interspersed with fragments of other stories of seeming tangential relation to Kruezgang’s storyline, all described with Bonaventura's same grandiose verbosity but often nowhere near as interesting as Kruezgang. Sure, I could have read into the exact (and no doubt important) purpose(s) of these segments, but a) just reading this book and revelling in its dark prose is an enriching enough experience without having to learn all the context clues that contributed to such nonsense being formulated, and b) most of the research writing about this book by Gillespie is just trying to figure out who Bonaventura is, a mystery to which I honestly could not give any semblance of a fuck about. WOULD I RECOMMEND?: NO, UNLESS YOU WANT TO READ IT FOR ACADEMIC PURPOSES

Shit I read this month that I couldn’t be arsed to ramble about: Shakespeare and Co. by Stanley Wells (absolutely amazing, incredibly informative, would absolutely recommend if it’s your thing), and City of Sin by Catharine Arnold (generally fun and informative, Arnold’s voice can get annoying at times, overall would recommend just for the chapters about sex in the medieval/early modern period and the chapter on Victorian pornography).

[fuzzballsheltiepants]

That Cocky F*%!ing Smile

AFTG/All For the Game, follow up to Name Games.  Written for Fanfiction Cockyweek.  Neil and Andrew meet up for coffee, Andrew is a smitten law student and a series of lawyer jokes ensues.  Read on AO3 if you prefer.

I am fucking ridiculous, Andrew thought, glaring at the pile of clothes on the bed.

He might have actually spoken allowed, judging by the amused look Sir gave him before jumping up to nest in the rejected shirts.  Great.  All he needed was white cat hair all over his clothes to complete the look.  He really ought to buy stock in lint rollers.  Not that Neil Josten would likely care about any of this, really, judging by the fact that he dressed like a kid wearing his father’s clothes. 

How the cocky little shit had managed to get that card in his pocket still baffled him.  Why was an even bigger mystery.  It wasn’t that Andrew was insecure, more that he was a realist.  None of which made it any less ridiculous that he was trying on shirts before going to get fucking coffee with someone he had met an hour ago.

Eventually settling on something that wasn’t too obvious nor too covered in cat hair, Andrew reached the coffee shop a few minutes early and sat on the bench outside for a cigarette.  He was just about down to the filter when Neil approached, wearing overlarge sweats and looking flushed and slightly out of breath.  Andrew suddenly felt a little breathless himself.  I am absolutely fucking ridiculous.

“Did you run here?” Andrew queried when Neil stopped in front of him, seeming to inhale the smoke with an almost religious expression on his face.  

“Um, yes?”  Neil seemed surprised by the question.  “I only live a few blocks away.”

“Do you own a car?”  It was uncommonly hard to keep his face blank; he let his fingers twitch instead.

Neil rolled his eyes.  “Yes, you saw me with it.”

“Ah, well,” Andrew said, “I figured you might have borrowed it.  Or stolen it.”

Neil dropped onto the bench a hairsbreadth from him, seeming unfazed by their proximity.  “I didn’t steal that car.”

“That one.”  Andrew didn’t think it was his imagination that the flush on Neil’s neck deepened.  He stood before he could unintentionally chase the man off.  Neil followed him into the cafe, tugging his hood on over his head despite the sweat still evident on his face.  Andrew glared at him when he ordered a fruit smoothie; Neil looked incredulous at Andrew’s triple chocolate mocha frappuccino.  

“Is that coffee or dessert?” he asked as they found an empty table near the window.  Andrew just gave him a flat look, and Neil grinned.  They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping their drinks, while Andrew tried to ignore the unfamiliar twist in his stomach that got stronger with every glimpse of glacial blue eyes.  

“So, uh, what do you do?” Neil asked.

“Really?  That’s your opening salvo?” Andrew shook his head in mock sadness.  “I expected so much better from a pickpocket who defends feline gender nonconformity.”

Neil’s face was somewhat hidden by his hood but it appeared he had gone pink again.  “My…coworkers told me that was a normal question to start a conversation.”

Well, that was definitely not a normal second sentence in a conversation. Andrew arched an eyebrow at him.  “Your coworkers are boring little fucks, aren’t they.”

“No.  Yes?  I don’t know, they find the things I say ‘unsettling’ and ‘assholey’.  Not that that’s even really a word, but that’s what Jean called it.”  He shrugged.  “I mean, he’s fluent in three languages, you’d think he would’ve been able to find something more creative but whatever.”

Andrew found himself staring at Neil’s mouth as he was talking.  When the fool reached for his drink Andrew dragged his eyes upwards; he did not need to be watching Neil sucking on something in that precise moment.  “How would you prefer to start a conversation?”

“I don’t know, I guess I’d want to ask why your cat chews on bones.  Isn’t that more of a dog thing?”

“You have seen my cat, yes?”  Neil nodded, and Andrew rapped his knuckles on the table.  “Then you may understand that he is the type of creature to pinch shit out of the trash, including, evidently, a chicken carcass this morning.”

“What about you?”

“Are you asking if I steal food out of the trash can?  Now I know why your coworkers think they need to give you tips.”

Neil huffed a laugh as he shook his head.  “No, I was wondering how you would start a conversation.”

Andrew leaned back in his chair and took a too-long pull at his frappuccino, trying not to grimace at the brain freeze that resulted.  “Why did you slip that card in my pocket?”

“Oh.”  He blinked at that and looked down at the table, his fingers playing with the wrapper from his straw.  “I guess I enjoyed our run-in at the vet.  People keep telling me I should make friends, so.”

Friends.  Figured.  “So you put your pocket-picking skills to use.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Neil asked, that cocky grin returning.  “It got your attention.”

Andrew snorted at that bit of ludicrousness.  “Are your polyglot coworkers also petty criminals?”

“Not exactly.”  Neil laughed.  “I work at a bank, doing interpreting and translation with Jean.  The rest of them are bankers.”

“So, criminals, just not of the petty type.”

Neil hummed in response and poked at his drink with the straw, sealing the end with his finger and lifting it up before releasing it and watching the liquid pour back in.  He never seemed to still his movements, a sharp contrast to the waiting room at the clinic where he had appeared to be doing his best to turn into the furniture.  Something about him didn’t quite add up, but Andrew had always enjoyed human calculus.  Then Neil’s eyes darted up to his and Andrew was caught.  He recognized that look too well.  Fuck.

“I’m going to law school,” he found himself volunteering.  Anything to push that bleakness off that face.  “To answer the question your friends so boringly suggested.”

It worked.  “You’re kidding.”  Andrew shook his head.  “You didn’t seem like the ambulance chaser type.”

“I’m flattered you have such a high opinion of me.  And of my future profession.”

“Well, everybody hates lawyers, right?”  There was a hint of teasing in his tone again.

“Except lawyers.”

That laugh again, that bright sound.  I am so, so fucked.  Neil studied him with a small smile playing on his lips.  “What’s the difference between a lawyer and a vulture?” he asked.

“Frequent flyer miles,” Andrew deadpanned.  

The smile grew.  “I’m still undecided.  If I saw a lawyer and an IRS agent drowning, would I get lunch or read the paper?”

Andrew tsked and shook his head, adding in a level voice, “It’s a real shame that ninety-nine percent of lawyers give the whole profession a bad name.”

“I think that’s giving the remaining one percent too much credit.”  Neil kept playing with his empty cup as he studied Andrew.  “Seriously, why go into law?”

“The system is set up to screw over the underprivileged to benefit corporations and rich people.”

“And you wanted to get in on that.”  Neil sounded playful but his expression was not.

“Naturally,” Andrew said.  There was no point in getting into everything he wanted to do, the fact that he wasn’t going to graduate for a couple of months but had already mapped out his track into child advocacy.  That would take too much to explain.  He debated pointing out that Neil couldn’t talk, given that he was working for a bank large enough to require two interpreters, but didn’t want to cause that hopelessness to creep back into his eyes.  “What do you do when you’re not interpreting and translating and whatever the fuck else you do at work?”

Evidently that still wasn’t the right question, judging by the brief flicker that crossed Neil’s face.  “I play with my cat.”

“You’ve had her for a month.”

Neil shrugged.  “I’m studying Tagalog right now,” he said.  

“So, what, you spend all of your time learning how to say shit in other languages?”

“I can say ‘shit’ in sixteen languages,” Neil answered.  “It’s the other words I’m working on.”

“Ha, ha.”

Andrew’s phone chimed and he glanced at it.  Fucking Nicky.  

U better not be late for dinner i’m making enchiladas  

According to the clock on the phone he still had an hour.  Neil cocked his head at him.  “Problem?”

“No, just my idiot cousin.  I agreed to have dinner with him and his husband and have been regretting it ever since.”

“I should go anyway,” Neil said, standing up and looking around for a trash can.

“Busy night learning another language?” Andrew asked.

Neil made a face and Andrew had to smother the desire to kiss the frown off of him.  “Nah, I’m supposed to meet up with a couple of my coworkers.  They want to do trivia night at some bar.  I don’t know when they’ll ever learn that I suck at trivia.”  Neil’s coworkers seemed to be oddly invested in him.  Andrew wondered how much of it was a result of his perfect bone structure and lean runner’s body, and how much of it overcompensation for the scars on his hands and face and no doubt elsewhere.

Once outside in the parking lot, Neil flipped his hood back and tilted his head so the light rain played on his face.  

“You know, most people have the hoods up when outside in the rain and down when under a roof,” Andrew said.

Neil angled so he was looking at Andrew.  “I get tired of people staring at these,” he said, gesturing at the unusual scars that stood starkly on his cheeks.  “And I don’t mind a little rain.”

“I doubt they’re looking at the scars.”  Neil straightened up and looked at him in confusion that Andrew didn’t bother to clarify.  “Do you want a ride home?”

“It’s just a couple of blocks.  It’ll take just as long to drive there as run it.”

It was the politest possible rejection.  Andrew nodded and turned to leave when Neil called his name.  He looked back to see a grin so beautiful it should be outlawed splitting that perfect face.

“Someone should give you some Viagra.”

“What?” Andrew heard wrong, he must have.  He walked closer and peered up at him.

“Haven’t you heard?  You give Viagra to a lawyer, and they just get taller.”

The laugh barked out of Andrew before he could stop it.  Only this lunatic could manage to combine a short joke with a lawyer joke.  “Yeah, but if the effect lasts longer than four hours I have to call a doctor.”

Neil’s laughter shifted him closer until Andrew could feel the heat off his body even through the sweatshirt and the rain.  He felt like he was going insane; when he had found that card in his pocket he had thought this guy would just be a pleasanter-than-usual way to get off.  Damnit.  Now he was…interested.  He didn’t want to be interested, didn’t have time for it and the clusterfuck of emotions that went with it, and Neil—well, he had no idea what Neil was thinking and that was dangerous.  

“I don’t really know how this works,” Neil said abruptly, and Andrew blinked his way back out of his thoughts.

“How do you want it to work?”

Neil shrugged for about the eightieth time during their conversation.  “I don’t know.  I mean, I like talking to you?”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“Statement?”

Andrew almost laughed again, which would have broken some sort of record and ruined his reputation.  Luckily he managed to control it.  “So do you want to do this again?”

“Yeah.  Maybe real food though.”  He looked contemplative.  “Apparently I don’t eat enough.”

“Okay.”  Andrew would wait to dissect that comment.  “I have a late seminar tomorrow, but I’ll text you.”  A minute later he was in his car, driving past the idiot who was jogging down the road, rain plastering his auburn hair down into a near-black skullcap.  He debated just going straight to Nicky’s but that bottle of Jack he’d picked up just to help him get through the dinner without committing homicide was sitting on his counter.

Sir greeted him with a sleepy chirp from the pile of clothes on his bed.  Fatass had no doubt not even bothered to get up for the past couple hours.  Probably wouldn’t until Andrew got home and opened a can for him.  Bee and Nicky both had told him a pet would be a good companion.  He still had his doubts, especially when the feel of the obese monstrosity walking across the bed had him bolting upright in a near-panic, but he had to admit the purring and warmth quieted the nightmares.

And even his garbage-raiding habit may have its benefits.  He pulled the card for the vet clinic out of his pocket, rubbing his thumb over the scrawled letters and numbers that marked the back.  Whether Neil was a benefit or a curse was still up for some debate.  Time would tell.  

Swearing under his breath at his stupidity, he swiped the bottle of Jack off the counter, called a useless good-bye to the lump of fur currently ruining his shirts, and headed off to torment his cousin.

[just-oki-doki]

I really want to draw DDLC art but I don't want to be seen as "cringey" because my art is bad

I’ll tell you outright that you should definitely create if that’s what you feel like doing or want to do.

I’m afraid I’ll ramble in this post so I’ll try to tackle two parts of this to start. Your worry that your art could be cringey and the thought that your art is bad. Hopefully by doing that I won’t lose the thread here but if you wanted my gut check on this- Do it. Draw. Create! Go for it!

Cringey and cringe culture and just all of that ‘attitude’ are entirely in the wrong place. To put it bluntly- anyone who’s still labeling things as cringey is out of their mind and is handling things incorrectly. Either on a benign level where they are struggling to accept that other people exist at different skill levels or have different interests- or on a malicious level where they know exactly how damaging this label is and they find joy in spreading it any way they can.

Inexperienced art is by no means cringey, that’s simply ridiculous. Anyone who would say that it is is, and I don’t swear on this blog so don’t take this lightly, an ass.

The entire culture of labeling things as cringey exists to belittle interests that are ‘out of the norm’ which in itself is ridiculous because why on earth should everyone like the same thing? -Or it’s used to snuff the creative fire inside aspiring creators because being a terrible person who stomps on someone’s joy is just fun for these people (I’m looking at you, Bad Art blogs)

Cringe culture, as it stands, should honestly just leave your field of vision and be considered an unimportant subset of jerkholes who aren’t worth listening to and don’t have opinions worth valuing. Screw them.

If you ever find that some pile of garbage person attempts to hit you with insults like that, or potentially worse- they attempt to label their hate as ‘criticism’ then you should just block them (if online) or cut them off from getting the pleasure of enjoying your creativity (in real life). Screw. Them.

As for your worry about your art being bad, LUDICROUS!!!

No one, AND I MEAN NO ONE, starts out at the top of their game! Each piece you create will include a piece of you and will be another step towards improving your skills! EVERY. SINGLE. PIECE!

Inexperienced art IS NOT BAD ART.

Heck, for my money there IS no bad art, unless we dig deeper into pieces intended to harm another person IE: using your art to insult/make fun of someone. But that’s an entirely different can of worms and isn’t exactly a common thing from where I’m standing at least- but I figured I’d mention that if any art would be labeled as “bad” it’d be those merely for their intention and purpose.

THERE IS NO BAD ART.

You can’t get to your masterpieces without practicing through it all! You can’t skip to the end, so find joy in every piece you create! Because, and here’s the kicker, OTHERS MOST CERTAINLY WILL!!!

When you create it’s an expression of yourself- it carries your thoughts, your intents, your strengths AND your weaknesses- and it’s better and more valuable for it!

From stick people to photo realism to stylized out the wazoo- IT IS ALL GOOD ART!!! And my god, it is ESPECIALLY good art if you wanted to create it! If it was something you sat down and said “Yeah! I want to make something today!” then it is EXQUISITE art! I mean heck, I have my own inexperienced doodle floating around on this blog! That doesn’t make it bad!

Just remember- You’ll always be your biggest critic. You need to fight that as often as you can to remind yourself of how far you’ve come. And if you’re thinking “But I haven’t gone anywhere yet” WRONG!! If you pick up a pencil or a marker or a tablet pen or a mouse cursor or what have you and make a single line- THAT IS MILES more than you were just before! After you finish your first piece you’ll be leagues beyond where you were beforehand! And I realize that logically you’ve drawn before, this is in reference to returning to it for DDLC content, but even so! You’ve done it before, you can do more! You’ll get better! And every piece from your first to your last will hold value and be an incredible one, because YOU made them! THAT’S INCREDIBLE STUFF!! Creating is unbelievable! How unique each piece can be, how unique each artist is! How you can share your thoughts and imagination through a stroke of a pen, it’s wonderful stuff and you doing so would be a gift!

I have to wonder if I can explain this in a better way, but maybe I can close it out clearly enough.

You creating art is an incredible thing. Cringe is dead and should just be swept under the rug for being a mistake for ever coming into commonly used lexicon. And there is no such thing as bad art. You creating as an inexperienced artist is exactly how you take the steps to get better! And seeing your improvement over the months or years can be empowering and fun! And if you go sharing your creations from day one, holy moly that’s such a kindness to all of us who get the chance to see them!! That’s INCREDIBLE and UNBELIEVABLY BRAVE because trust me, it IS hard to create and it IS hard to work up the will to share that!

I can’t flip a switch and change your mind on things, but I will end off by saying I sincerely hope you feel less worried about what some terrible people might think because frankly? They are in the minority. And they can screw right off.

You creating would be fantastic, both for you and for anyone lucky enough to see your pieces. So I really hope you feel a little better about starting that up :)

I hope you have a fantastic day, and here’s to you in any future creative outlets you pursue! Give it a chance!!

[alwaysspeakshermind]

Favorite Mon-El Funny Moment:

Okay. There are so many gloriously funny Mon-El moments in Season 2 of Supergirl that it took me half of forever to make a decision, but I’m going to go with Double Date: Creepy Journalism Edition as my final answer, because Mon-El is just so doggone ridiculous in it and I love it.

While he’s reliably goofy and entertaining in every single episode, his seven +/- minutes of screen time in 2x18 stick out to me in bold-faced type when I think back on the season.  I loved “Ace Reporter,” and the whole restaurant sequence is one of the biggest reasons why.

First off, Mon-El is the yin to Kara’s yang. He may not be an experienced hero, but he’s calm and clearheaded during scenarios that freak her out/get her dander up, and this is one of those times. She’s so focused on learning the answers, finding the truth, protecting Lena from a suspected killer, that she doesn’t even notice how her “I have passion, Winn! A lot of it” brand of intensity is making the situation really awkward. 

Like...r e a l l y awkward.

Mon-El does, because he’s a very sociable guy. He’s now been on Earth long enough to start picking up on certain cues, and he knows even before they take off for the restaurant that there’s something not quite polite about the way Kara wants to crash Lena’s date with Jack—she insists it’s what journalists do, he expresses his doubts but accompanies her anyway, and once they arrive, he watches Lena and Jack and sees not only how very unwanted he and Kara are at this particular moment, but how Kara is bound and determined to interrogate Jack. So he sits back and nods and smiles, and dies slowly on the inside like you do when you know you’re third-wheeling and so do the first and second wheels, but everyone’s too polite to do anything other than hint at it.

Until it becomes too much, and he realizes that someone has to do something. So, in typical Mon-El fashion, he doesn’t spend a lot of time forming a plan. He just acts. Who cares if Lena, Jack, and the entire restaurant think he’s odd, and maybe a little creepy? Kara’s suspicious of Jack, she wants to investigate, and to investigate, they’ll need a way in, right? He has an idea on how to get them that way in.

Mannection, anyone?

Personally, I love his method. It’s a classic honeypot/femme fatale maneuver—really, Mae West of “Come up and see me sometime” fame would approve—and it works because he’s so committed to it that it throws Jack for a loop. You can actually see Jack thinking, “Okay, what the <insert four-letter word of your choice here> is going on?” and “Dude, isn’t your girlfriend sitting right over there?” 

It’s the kind of scenario I adore, because not only does everyone have an absolutely hilarious reaction to Mon’s little charm show (I LOVE watching everyone in the background of this scene), but the humor works as a wink-and-nod inversion of gender roles in cheesy detective flicks: you’ve got the business-minded investigator and the along-for-the-ride assistant who’s always prepared to use flirting as a distraction technique, but in this case, the investigator is female and the assistant is male. 

That’s icing on the cake, though. 

The beauty of this scene is that on a basic level, it’s just plain funny. It works, because no one outside of Mon-El has any idea what’s happening. Not Kara, not Jack, not Lena, not us. At its core, comedy is about entertainment. The goal is to make people laugh, or at least cheer them up, and and that’s achieved through a disappointment or upending of expectations. But that’s if you want to get all fancy about it. Bottom line: 

I love this scene because it cracks me up. Mon-El cracks me up. The whole thing is ludicrously awkward, and I love it. Chris Wood does well in dramatic scenes, but in my opinion, comedy is where he really shines. His timing is great, his facial expressions are hilarious, and he can make something as simple as a movement funny. 

Like during this scene, which produced my favorite Supergirl gif ever (yes, I rank this gif above all the kiss gifs, and I’m not even a little embarrassed about that):

Frankly, if I could get some more undercover Mike Matthews moments like this in Season 3, I would be a very happy camper.

(Neither gif I used is mine. I found them in the black hole that is a random google search, so thanks to whoever created them.)