#not sure how else to answer this question man. know it’s innocuous enough but every time it comes up i’m just like... could it kill ya

[diluc33rpm]

1/2 Do you like someone?

no i’m a seething ball of darkness who feels nothing but potent hatred

[forthegothicheroine]

How other great detectives would solve the Chesapeake Ripper murders

A series I do sometimes.  For the purpose of this post, I will be assuming Hannibal does not have protagonist protection.  I will also do my best not to assume that any of these detectives have protagonist armor, either.

Columbo: Columbo is immediately suspicious when Hannibal says that he “transferred his passion for anatomy into the culinary arts.”  When Hannibal talks about his hobby of collecting news clippings about church collapses, Columbo knows for sure that only a serial killer would do that.  He keeps needling at Hannibal, being incessantly polite, asking a series of innocuous questions, mentioning that his wife has been urging him to go to therapy and can Hannibal tell him anything about that process?  Hannibal can tell he’s smarter than he seems, but doesn’t realize just how smart.  He’s also smart enough to finally come to arrest Hannibal with a full squad of burly guys with guns.  Columbo is also very sweet to Abigail and they write letters to each other after the case is over.

Phryne Fisher:  Phryne has an absolutely marvelous time investigating this case.  Hannibal takes her on dates to the opera and fine wine tastings and they have amazing sex.  She also almost has sex with Will Graham, but when he collapses on a chair and beings talking about all the troubles he’s been going through, including encephalitis symptoms, she ends up driving him to the hospital instead.  Between Will’s testimony about how Hannibal has been misleading him about his symptoms and her own secret swiping of keys, she becomes suspicious and investigates the murder house.  When Hannibal catches her, he promises that her death display will be the most beautiful one yet.  She shoots him non-fatally and he gets arrested.  (She may also be arrested for breaking and entering, but Hannibal can’t exactly claim stand-your-ground when he has a basement freezer full of body parts.)  Phryne also possibly sleeps with Alanna.

Sam Spade: I’ll be real here, Sam Spade is probably going to die.  His primary method is deliberately antagonizing people into giving him money, and Hannibal would absolutely put him in his ‘rude people’ recipe cards.  If Spade was clever, he left a dead man’s switch with Effie, and she goes to the police with the evidence folder when Spade’s body is found posed like a statue of a bird.

Sam Vimes: The moment Sam meets Hannibal he mentally classifies him as a vampire, even though he is not technically a vampire.  Hannibal keeps ‘forgetting’ and offering Sam food and drink with alcohol, talking about how harm reduction is much more viable than complete abstinence and generally trying to manipulate him into falling back down the addiction hole.  Sam gets brittle and suspicious in response.  Hannibal drugs him and tries to hypnotize him into believing he saw another character do the murders, but the Inner Watchman in Sam’s head comes to the rescue again and he slams Hannibal over the head with the nearest heavy art object.  Sybil still afterwards insists that Sam go to therapy to deal with his rage.

L: L wastes time going on dates with Hannibal and trying to trick him into implicating himself despite already having plenty of evidence, and Hannibal kills him and puts his head in a candy store.

Poirot: When Poirot attends dinner at one of Hannibal’s parties, he knows as soon as the meat touches his palette that it isn’t really rabbit.  He does his best to hide the fact that he isn’t eating, and whispers to Hastings to do the same.  When he finally has caught Hannibal in enough lies, he accuses him of murder while in a room with him, Will, Alanna, Abigail, Chilton, Able and Jack.  With so many witnesses, Hannibal maintains his cool and says that he’ll call his lawyer and see everyone in court.  When they actually investigate his house and find the human body freezer, Poirot faints.

Philip Marlowe: Every time Marlowe tries to bother Hannibal, the local cops drag him into the station and berate him for hassling a rich person.  He has long conversations with Hannibal when he does get him alone about great literature and the morality of Shakespeare characters.  Hannibal drugs him and tries to convince him he witnessed somebody else commit the murders, but Marlowe is so used to being drugged and seeing ridiculous things that he doesn’t trust any drug trip memories.  He is eventually able to catch Hannibal in the process of cleaning up after a murder, and both shoot each other.  Both survive and Hannibal gets arrested, but Hannibal taunts Marlowe that he will go the rest of his life never meeting anyone who understands him as well as he did.  Marlowe sadly agrees.

Dale Cooper: If Cooper does solve this case, it will take at least a season and a half.  It will be based less on evidence and more on Hannibal having dark energy and his name coming up when Cooper picks it out of a bag of ice cubes with initials carved onto them.  Abigail finally breaks down and confesses everything that’s happened to Cooper, and he tells her she’s not an evil person.  He and Hannibal shoot each other; both survive.  Hannibal goes to jail but continues to influence other people to commit murders from within jail.  Cooper ends up in a coma, and when he wakes up, he reports visions of a feathered stag telling him that he should look for new hair gel.

Kinsey Milhone: Kinsey inherently distrusts smug rich people, and no rich person is smugger than Hannibal.  She spends a lot of time talking to Abigail about their mutual family issues and becomes suspicious of how much her answers seem to have been worded ahead of time by Hannibal.  She tracks him and manages to find him while he’s in the process of cutting someone up.  They attack each other, and it’s pretty much a coin flip as to who survives.  If it’s Kinsey, the resulting story is called C is for Cannibal.

Miss Marple: Miss Marple thinks Hannibal dresses in such a lovely fashion, and he’s so sweet to invite her over for a glass of sherry.  She doesn’t attempt to look around his house or catch him in the act of murder or do anything dangerous, she just compares notes about what’s being said by him, Will and Abigail, and unravels a web of lies to find some definite conclusions.  Jack Crawford and the entire FBI are humiliated that a nosy old lady sitting in her living room figured everything out before they did.

[spencerspecifics]

HI HI HI PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE WRITE MOREID AT PRIDE AND SOME PINING AND SPENCER THINKS DEREK IS STRAIGHT BUT HE ISN'T AND THEY KIIIITTTTTHHHHH

I absolutely love your energy fuck yes!! I’m so sorry this took forever, ive got school, work and some other personal things happening so I appreciate your patience!

No TW, B u t, a creep hits on Spencer at pride, so if that is upsetting please note that! Thanks :)

———————————————————————

Pride

———————————————————————

Garcia had been pestering Spencer about going to pride for the past week now, and it was slowly driving him insane.

He used almost every excuse he could think of. When he first turned her down, he had simply said, “Sorry, I’m going to be busy that week.” And of course, Garcia being Garcia, she stole his calendar to see what he was busy with (spoiler alert: he had nothing. Except a reminder to go grocery shopping, and email some professors and research scientists back).

So, she persisted, and he came up with a dozen more excuses; “I was considering flying out to see my mom”, “The local museum has a new interactive archeology exhibit for adults, and I want to learn more about ancient structures”, “I have to do a presentation on thermodynamics”.

None of those excuses work, as she sniffed out every lie, “Spencer, you hate flying to Vegas last minute, that archaeology exhibit has been open for months, and your calendar is empty!”

So with her persistence, and legitimate bullying, Spencer found himself finally agreeing. “Fine, but come over to my apartment before we leave so you can help me.” After all, he wasn’t really familiar with pride parades, and what the scene was like there. He was going to be a fish out of water, he already knew that for certain.

~

True to her word, Garcia showed up an hour before the pride parade was set to start, carrying a coffee in each hand- how she possibly knocked on his apartment door, Spencer didn’t know.

“I brought you a pick me up, that way you have no excuse to be in a bad mood!” She spoke in her signature sing song voice as Spencer let her inside, she barreled in like a hurricane. God, Spencer wasn’t ready for this.

“Thanks..” Spencer decided to reply with that lame response, and not with what he was actually thinking. He took the coffee from her wordlessly as she stepped in further, going to sit down on his couch.

“You excited?” Garcia asked as she set her cup down on his cluttered coffee table. Reid just shrugged, “I don’t know. I don’t do great with crowds.”

“But you do great with disarming murderers?” “You know that’s different-” Spencer said, doing his best to argue, “Reid it is literally not. Both are anxiety inducing, but one is life or death, and it’s not pride. So you can do this.”

Spencer sighed, resigning himself to not arguing with Garcia. Because she was right, though at times her arguments sounded wild. He just had to get over this anxiety and show up at pride, he could do this, right?

~

Wrong. So, very, wrong. They had left his apartment with thirty minutes to spare, deciding to walk over to where pride was being held- as it was only a few blocks away in a public park.

And as soon as they got there, Spencer wanted out. There were so many people, more than he estimated (and his estimations were usually spot on.), and there was just chaos everywhere. Music, dancing, shouting, singing, drag queens running around happily. Spencer wasn’t sure what to do. He was out of his element.

Garcia seemed to sense that, though, as she dragged Spencer over to some stalls that sold pride flags, pins, and other miscellaneous pride related things.

“C’mon Reid, why don’t you look around and find something you like?” She offered up, something for him to do- something for him to stay busy with. He could do that. Spencer nodded simply, Garcia stayed by his side- looking at pride related wear for herself.

~

Spencer ended up deciding on a small pin that simply said; “love all”, planning to stick it on his messenger bag strap. Garcia bought a pin as well, but hers just had her pronouns on them; “she/her/hers”.

Looking at all the pride apparel was a good distraction for Spencer, he felt a lot more calmer now- though that didn’t stop him from feeling like he stuck out like a sore thumb. He’s just not familiar with this world, and it’s awkward to suddenly be in the middle of it.

Spencer was in the middle of looking at another booth that sold flags, possibly considering buying himself a small one to stick in his pencil cup at work, because Garcia left him to go compliment a drag queen- when a voice broke through.

“Hey, pretty boy!”

That was a voice all too familiar, what on earth was Morgan doing here? Spencer looked up at him as he made his way towards him. “Hey,” Spencer spoke awkwardly. Not sure what to say.

Spencer was gay. He was fine with admitting he was gay, but he hadn’t really told the team. He thought they figured it out on their own. And they probably had, but still, having his coworker see him at a pride event- it was anxiety inducing.

“What’re- what’re you doing here?” Spencer asked, stumbling over his words as he dropped the small flag he was holding back onto the vendors table.

“Oh, well I’m on the local PFLAG committee. I’m just here to hand out flyers and stuff. But I’m glad to see you’re here, I’m guessing Garcia’s here too?” He asked Spencer casually, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on Spencer.

He was on the PFLAG committee? Why? To help queer people, obviously, but that had to mean he was gay or something- Spencer couldn’t stop his mind from coming up with every possible answer to why Derek was on the committee.

Spencer just nodded in response, he moved himself back from the vendors table to get out of the way, so other customers could look at the flags being sold.

“Yeah, she’s- there.” Reid pointed her out, as if on cue she came out of the thick crowd that had started to gather back up, the parade portion of pride had concluded by now, and people were coming over to the vendors section.

“Hey, Babygirl!” Derek called over to her, and Garcia somehow lit up with a smile brighter than the one she was wearing before, “Well, hey!” She responded enthusiastically, walking up swiftly to give Derek a quick embrace, which he happily returned.

“I wasn’t sure how long you were staying for, but I’m glad I caught you!” Garcia started rambling to Derek, about how the drag queen she met was so nice; “Her name was Mysteria Hysteria. Isn’t that genius?”.

~

Spencer just stepped back from them both, not sure what to do, not sure if he fully belonged. Pride was a nice event, it was. But the longer he stood around, the more he felt like he should be leaving. Everyone was laughing and smiling, everyone was just happy. And Spencer couldn’t stop racking his brain. In the beginning, he couldn’t stop thinking because of his anxiety, but now he was searching his brain for a reason why Derek was here and what it meant.

Of course, a stupid large portion of Spencer’s mind went to “maybe Morgan likes men”, and then an even larger and stupider portion of his mind had the absurdity to think; “maybe he’s interested in me”. Which Spencer did not even want to remotely entertain, because if he fell down that rabbit hole, he’d never climb back out.

Because yes, he did like Derek. He liked him a lot, the start for his liking towards the man was innocuous enough- which is why it was a problem for Spencer. He didn’t realized he liked Morgan until it was too late. And now he had been battling these feelings for years. Spencer wasn’t ever going to act on them, he just had to live with them- which he had been doing, which he has been content with. But this new information, about Morgan being here, being part of PFLAG- it was going to make Reid’s mind implode in on itself.

~

Reid decided the best thing was to say; “I’m gonna get some water, I’ll be back.” To which Derek and Garcia both nodded to, and Spencer was off, away from the vendors stand and the only two people he knew at pride.

And while that was a good thing, it was simultaneously not so good. Because now he was alone, overwhelmed, and thinking too much. And now he had a task to do, find himself some water.

~

That task seemed to be more difficult than anticipated, as the prides layout was a confusing maze, spencer had to pass in front of a group of drag queens in order to get to the food trucks that were on site- but he eventually got there.

He walked up to the first food truck he saw, it didn’t matter what they sold, he wasn’t getting it.

“What can I get for you?” The cashier asked him, “Just a water, please.” He ordered, the cashier nodded and pulled a bottle out from a cooler that was nearby within the truck, handing it over to spencer as they told him his total, a dollar twenty five. Spencer paid quickly, stepping back and away from the food truck, as he wasn’t sure where else to go now. He didn’t want to go back towards Derek or Garcia, he honestly wanted to go home.

He just needed a minute, some space and time to breathe and relax. He was stressing himself out. And about what? Nothing of goddamn importance, just a stupid crush he had been living with for a while now.

~

Spencer had been leaning against the back the food truck for not long, only a couple of minutes as he was absorbed in thought as he fiddled with the cap on the water bottle.

He was doing his best to follow the grounding techniques he had learned, something to help him calm down, when suddenly- a stranger emerged out of the crowd.

“Hey there, handsome.” The man said confidently as he strode up to introduce himself Spencer. Spencer looked up to meet his eyes, the man in question was a fine looking guy, chiseled jawline, long shoulder length hair, a bit of facial stubble. He was handsome. “Hello,” Spencer answered hollowly in response. In an ordinary situation, he would try and seem more lively- but he wasn’t in a normal situation, not at all.

The anxiety of attending pride was stress enough on its own, but now knowing the guy he had been drooling over for years was here- and worked as a PFLAG volunteer? It was enough to make him lose his mind.

The man didn’t seem to notice Spencer’s empty response, however, as he answered suavely in response; “I couldn’t help but notice you from across the way. I’m Fabian,” Thankfully, the man- Fabian, didn’t stick his hand out for a handshake, instead casually pushing his hair back a bit.

“I’m Spencer,” Reid replied simply, knowing it was best to ride this odd social interaction out, rather than try and fight it. “That’s a lovely name,” Fabian complimented, “Is this your first time at pride, Spencer?” He asked him casually, taking a step forward, closer to Spencer. He was all too confident for Spencer, he too comfortable with invading Spencer’s space. If Spencer could’ve, he would’ve stepped back.

“Uh, yeah. My friend dragged me along.” Reid explained, twisting the bottle cap back onto his half empty water bottle. Fabian nodded, “Your boyfriend didn’t take you?” Fabian asked him. That was a leading question, Spencer had alarm bells ringing in his head the second he heard it. “No. He- um- he met up with us here.” Spencer replied unconvincingly, Fabian obviously did not believe a word he said.

“Well,” Fabian took another step forward, practically blocking Reid in against the back of the food truck, leaning in farther to whisper in Spencer’s ear; “I don’t see him around. So, why don’t you and I get out of here? Hm?”

Spencer wasn’t sure of what to do. He wanted to kick this guy in the crotch and just book it, but he wasn’t sure if his FBI status would protect him in this scenario. He wasn’t sure what could protect him in this scenario.

“Pretty boy! There you are!” A saving grace broke through, and suddenly Fabian was stepping back, and Morgan was walking up.

Thank god, thank fucking god, that’s all Spencer could manage to think as Derek came to stand beside him. “Hey, babe.” Spencer said, cringing at his voice, at what he just said. But that feeling only lasted for a moment as Fabian was still standing right there, staring them both down now.

Spencer could only throw his wish in the sky and hope Derek caught it coming down, ‘please catch along to why I’m calling you babe’ Reid was trying to say.

And Derek caught it, “Hey, baby, was worried about you. Who’s your friend?” He said in his smooth voice, a voice Spencer couldn’t forget. He especially couldn’t forget now, being called ‘baby’ was something Spencer especially could not forget.

“I’m Fabian, you’re Spencer’s boyfriend?” Fabian asked, as if them both calling each other ‘babe’ counted for nothing. “Yeah, I’m Derek.” Morgan responded simply, sliding his hand around Spencer’s waist as if to prove a point. Fabian just nodded, looking between Spencer and Derek one last time before talking; “Well, it was nice to meet you, I’ve gotta get going. See you.”

And then, he was off, fast walking away from Derek and Reid, escaping the terrible situation he had created. Fabian quickly disappeared into the thick crowd, and by then Spencer had his hand squeezing his water bottle all too tightly- as evident by the terrible crunch sound it made. He was too anxious to let go.

“Hey, are you okay?” Derek asked him softly, pulling his hand away from Spencer’s waist. “Can we find somewhere else- can we go sit down?” Spencer asked him quickly. Reid didn’t want to talk about it right this second, right where it had happened. He wanted to leave, he wanted to leave pride and never come back.

~

Derek didn’t ask a single follow up question as he led Reid away from the food trucks, taking him back towards the vendors stands, and then a bit further back, into the normal-not-so-pride-parade-filled park area. Somewhere less stressful, less scary.

“What did that guy want?” Derek asked Spencer casually as they made their way towards a bench that was sat under a large oak tree. Spencer didn’t speak right away, instead he waited until they were seated to start talking.

“He was trying to flirt, but then he wanted me to leave with him.” Spencer explained as he took a deep breath in, just being away from all the loud sounds and sights was helping him calm down. Derek rubbed Spencer’s back in slow, circular motions as Spencer kept talking.

“He was a classic example of a narcissistic personality, it just made me so uncomfortable- he invaded my space.”

“He was a creep, Reid. Simple as that,” Derek kept rubbing Spencer’s back slowly, Spencer nodded. “I know. Sorry, it shook me up.” Spencer attempted to apologized, and Derek was immediately having none of that.

“Reid, no. Don’t apologize for that, don’t you dare. He was a creep, I’m sorry you got caught up with him. It’s okay if you’re shaken up. We can stay here until you feel up to going back, or we can leave. But I’m not leaving you.”

~

And so they sat for a good amount of time on that park bench, at one point Derek stopped rubbing Spencer’s back, instead just keeping his arm stretched out against the back of the bench and against Spencer’s back. Spencer loved it, but he knew if he thought about it for too long he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking. That was his biggest problem, he couldn’t stop thinking.

He had to know, he decided, he couldn’t just wonder why Derek was on the committee for PFLAG. He wanted to know, he had to.

“Derek?” He spoke up softly, sounds of laughing and shouting and music were still heard in the distance, but they were safe from the sounds under the tree. “Mhm?” Derek hummed in response, looking up at the aforementioned tree that was providing shade for them.

His eyes were tracing the way the branches curved and bent around each other, it was something he did to pass the time. Spencer thought he was extraordinary for it, Derek loved to see where things went; he was curious- after all these years, and all the bad they had seen together, Derek still loved to search and find the beauty.

“Why are you on the PFLAG committee ?” Spencer asked him, it was thankfully an innocuous enough ask to not draw too much of Derek profilings side out to pry apart his question. Derek shrugged, and was quiet for a second before responding, “I know what it’s like to be a scared kid, unsure of his identity. If I can help someone through that, that’s all that matters. Same reason I’m in the BAU, to help people.”

Spencer stayed quiet, Derek’s reason was so sincere and so sweet and kind- and only driving him to think further. Was Derek still unsure of his identity? Was he an ally? Why did he have to make Spencer swoon so hard without even trying?

“So, you’re just an ally?” Spencer approached Derek carefully with that question, not wanting to impose or be rude- but just feign simple curiosity, praying Derek wasn’t using his profiling skills right now to decode Spencer’s fake motive.

Derek didn’t notice, thankfully, as he chuckled lowly in response; “No, pretty boy, I’m bisexual. I don’t really tell the team, but it’s not confidential information. Plus, Garcia found Grindr on my phone. Can’t hide anything from that girl.”

Spencer nodded, mumbling something in response about how Garcia had hacked his email to make sure he was free for pride. And then, the two fell into silence again. But it didn’t last for long, because Derek wanted to know just as much, why was Spencer here?

“What about you, Reid?” Derek asked him cautiously, the way you approach a puppy you find on the side of the road. Calm and slow, trying to get him to trust him bit by bit. “What about me?” Spencer asked, not wanting to answer anything about himself unless Derek was specific.

“Are you an ally?” Morgan asked him, leaving the question open ended. Spencer could say as little or as much as he wanted. This is how you get him to open up, Derek knew that for a fact. “Um.. yeah, I mean- who isn’t? I just- I have to be. I’m.. gay.” Spencer admitted all too awkwardly, not at all in a normal fashion. But nothing about Spencer was in normal fashion.

Derek nodded slowly, not responding as he stared back up, tracing his eyes over the tree branches yet again.

~

A few hours had passed, Spencer and Derek eventually left their peaceful bench under the large oak tree, and instead moved back towards the parking lot.

“Garcia’s got a ride home already- I think she got that drag queen to get her home.” Derek explained as they approached his truck, Spencer nodded as he followed Derek. “Anyways,” Derek continued speaking, “I can give you a ride home. Let’s get going.”

“You don’t have to-“ Spencer started, Derek immediately shut him down. “I want to, c’mon. It’s late, you’re tired. I know you are. Let me take you home.” Spencer just nodded in agreement, he couldn’t argue with Derek, even if he did try. Morgan was a stubborn man.

So, Spencer followed Derek into his truck, and they sat in comfortable silence as they started on their journey back to Spencer’s safe space, his apartment.

~

By the time Derek pulled his truck into the apartments parking lot, Spencer knew something was just the slightest bit wrong. Derek had barely spoken for the entire ride, and usually he loves to say something, to make Spencer smile or laugh, or even just nod and mumble in agreement. But he had done none of that on the way to Spencers.

“Are you alright?” Spencer asked, turning to face Derek as he put the vehicle in park. Derek didn’t meet his eyes, staring at the steering wheel instead as he spoke; “Yeah. Sorry. I’m just thinking.”

“About what?” Spencer pried, absentmindedly unbuckling his seatbelt as he spoke, “About today.” Derek said, not explaining further. “Was today bad?”

Derek shook his head, “No. It started weird, it’s ending pretty good, though. But I’m gonna regret today forever if I don’t do something right now.”

Now, Spencer was confused. Not sure at all what Derek could be talking about, “What do you mean?” He asked, voice quieter than before.

Derek said nothing as he unbuckled his own seatbelt, turning to face Spencer as well, and then he leaned in- closer than they had ever been before. Their noses were almost touching, and Spencer didn’t move. Instead, he watched Derek’s eyes expectantly.

Then, Derek broke through, they were no longer intersecting each other’s personal space- now they were fully destroying each other’s atmospheres. Derek’s lips were on Spencer’s, a chaste, soft, quick kiss- something Spencer would have wanted to go for a lot longer. But then, he pulled away just as fast.

“...That’s what I meant..” He mumbled after a second, looking back towards the steering wheel, looking away from Spencer- and more importantly, not seeing the smile on Spencer’s face.

Spencer couldn’t help it. He knew it was terrible to be smiling right now- he should jump and say something to fix what was happening. But he had to smile, he couldn’t believe that had actually just happened, his brain was still computing and re-circuiting, trying to savor the memory and not forget how Derek’s lips felt against his.

Spencer dragged himself out of his own head quickly, though. He did all he could think of to do in the moment, get Derek back. “Morgan.” Spencer said, tugging on Derek’s sleeve as he did so, forcing him to look back at Spencer and meet his eyes again.

But Spencer didn’t say anything, and he didn’t give Derek the chance to speak, either. Instead, he leant forward, pressing his lips against Derek’s. This is all he had wanted to know for the longest time, and now he had it.

~

Maybe pride wasn’t so bad after all, you just have to be with the right people for it to work out.

———————————————————————

[odos-bucket]

Bruce Being Super Protective of His Kids in Their Out-Of-Costume Lives Pt. 2 Re-Write

Basically this story with a little bit of extra angst injected in

Jason isn’t particularly well adapted to the kinds of social gatherings that Bruce’s position within the city demands they participate in. He attends his first event a few months into his stay at Wayne manor. He goes in fully expecting it to be terrible, and is not disappointed.

The old ladies trying to pinch his cheeks were something that Dick had warned him about. His tone had been light, like maybe it was something that he thought was funny, or was trying to think of as funny. But Jason doesn’t like to be touched, not by people he doesn’t know. He's only just starting to feel okay about casual physical affection from his new family. He doesn’t think Dick was trying to scare him exactly, but he accomplishes it anyway.

From the time the shindig begins he’s wound so tight he’s practically vibrating. He has no idea how he’s supposed to act at something like this. Things he’s never thought about before are suddenly tormenting him. He can’t figure out how to stand, or what he should be doing with his hands. He’s never been self conscious, but now he’s in this stupid room, wearing this stupid suit, surrounded by these stupid people, and it’s making him feel awkward.

The first time somebody tries to touch him he flinches away violently. He doesn’t mean to; it’s just what happens. It earns him a series of incredulous looks, from the man who had made the mistake of putting a hand on his shoulder, and a few other people in the vicinity.

Jason relocates himself quickly, not that one corner of the large room is really any better than any other.
 The next time someone tries to touch him, it’s his face. He had already decided that he didn’t like the woman in question before it happened. Her voice is an annoying pitch. Her words are all condescending. And even before reaching out for him she had been standing way too close.

If the proximity hadn’t been enough to put him on high alert the patronizing way she spoke to him certainly would have done it.

When her fingers come to press against his chin- as if she wants to turn his head to examine him- he pushes her away. Again, he doesn’t mean to do it exactly. It’s an instinctive reaction (and a pretty reasonable one, he thinks).

This time, however, he gets more than a few suspicious stares. The movement itself had been subtle enough not to draw any attention he didn’t already have. But the woman replies with an outraged squawk, that suddenly brings dozens of eyes onto them, and sets Jason’s heart racing at a panicked pace.
 He freezes. Being stared at had been pretty high on his list of things to avoid tonight. And now people are talking too.
 “Why you little-“

“What happened?”

“Wayne’s little rat-“

“Did you just hit her?”

“Delinquent-“

“Did he just hit her?!”

The woman he shoved looks like she might be about to slap him, but he’s honestly less concerned about that than he is about the mix of curious and indignant bystanders drawing closer. They’re not surrounding him really, but it sure as hell feels like they’re trying to, and Jason’s had enough experiences being surrounded to know that it never leads to anything good. At the moment he’s having a hard time processing anything beyond the terrified impulse to lash out again, not to hurt anyone, just to get them away, so that maybe he can get away.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Oh god, Bruce. Jason’s not surprised the scene got his attention, but he’s a little startled to hear a much darker tone than his regular civilian voice.

Every muscle in his body that wasn't already tense tightens up, and heat flares at the back of his neck. He doesn't want to be in trouble. He doesn't even really know what being in trouble means in this new life yet, and he's been hoping to put off finding out as long as possible.

Bruce forces his way through the crowd. Some of the onlookers redirect their attention away as he approaches. A handful of voices from different directions make overlapping attempts to answer his question. Jason hears something about how he’s, “not as well behaved as your last stray,” but isn’t looking up in time to see how the comment makes Bruce bristle, and just feels the warm shame that he wishes it didn’t ignite in him.

Bruce reaches them in seconds, takes in the woman’s body language, and immediately drags her several feet back from Jason. When he speaks, he manages to sound like Batman (at least to Jason’s knowing ears), even without the voice modulator.

"You will never put your hands on my child again.”

Jason's not sure what he had been expecting Bruce to say, but that wasn't it, and hearing it gives him whiplash, makes his heart that had already been beating in his throat stutter to a halt.

“I didn-“ the woman begins. “Your urchin-“

“Did you touch him?” Bruce's voice is deceptively calm.

“I was only-“

“Yes or no.”

“I didn’t hurt him,” she scoffs.

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Jason wants to say that it doesn't matter, that it isn't a big deal, because really it shouldn't be. He shouldn't be afraid to be touched; it's just one more thing about him that so glaringly doesn't belong. But he's still not sure whether or not he's in trouble, and if he is then he's learned from experience that it's better to keep his mouth shut.

“Mr. Wayne, the kid attacked her. All she did was touch him.” One of the few onlookers who isn’t pretending not to be paying attention pipes in.
 Bruce’s jaw grinds, as he looks slowly between the man who had spoken, and the woman.

“So you did touch him?”

“This is ridiculous!”

It's somehow the worst thing she could have possibly said. Jason already knows he's ridiculous. He can feel it with every fiber of his being, and the confirmation that everyone else can apparently see it too sparks a stinging sensation at the back of his throat.

“On that we’re agreed.” Bruce slips further into his regular public persona as he speaks, and Jason flinches slightly at his words.

Bruce looks over the remains of the audience they’d acquired, making pointed eye contact, silently subduing any conflict before it can arise. By the time he turns back to where the woman had been standing, she’s hurried away. The sparse handful of people still shooting them scandalized glares are at least a little easier to ignore.

Bruce approaches Jason, who forces himself to keep his eyes open and his gaze up.

He's getting ready to apologize. He hadn't wanted to embarrass Bruce, or to get him in trouble with whoever the hell those people had been- with his luck probably someone important. He doesn't want to be in trouble either, but he recognizes that that ship has probably sailed already. He just wishes he knew what kind of punishment to expect; he hasn't been here that long, and adult behavior is hard to predict.

“Are you okay?”

Jason blinks, and apparently it takes him longer than he thinks to process and respond to the question, because Bruce asks it again.

This time he nods, figuring it’d be pretty stupid for him not to be okay.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Bruce asks.

Jason knows that it's not really a question; he's already done enough damage for the night after all. He nods his head. He’s not totally sure how to get back to the manor from here- he still doesn’t know this part of town very well- but he’s sure he’ll be able to figure it out before Bruce wraps up here.

“Let’s get our coats.”

Jason looks up in surprise, but Bruce is already walking away.

Right. He guesses it makes more sense that they’d be leaving together. He's noticed that rich families like to keep any shows of conflict private. One of the consequences of which being that he still doesn’t know how the hell these people discipline their children.

He nods again, cheeks still burning with embarrassment.

-

They leave the party without further incident, catching a cab back to the manor.

Bruce observes Jason’s defensive body language as they slide into the backseat.

“Are you sure you’re okay, lad?” He asks slowly.

He receives a tight nod in reply, and sighs.

“Do you want to help me get a better picture of what happened in there?”

Because what he’s looking at isn’t okay. He’s seen his witty, outgoing child shut down like this before, and it usually means he’s scared. Bruce needs to know if he was spooked by something innocuous, or if he’s going to need to hurt someone.

Jason turns from being seemingly caught off guard by the question, to apparently desperate to answer it in the span of a second.

“I swear I didn’t hit her! It was just that she-“ He shakes his head, apparently deciding against whatever he’d been about to say. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what? You’re not in trouble, Jason, not unless I’m really missing something here.”

That earns him a long suspicious look.

“I don’t like to be touched,” Jason grumbles after a minute.

“And people shouldn’t feel entitled to touch you.”

He learned pretty quickly when he first became a parent not to assume that adults would always respect children’s boundaries. And he knows that Jason has been hurt. He’s not sure exactly how, or by who, but the signs are all there. And he shouldn’t have to deal with being forcibly reminded of that by the carelessness of others; he’s a kid for god’s sake!

“Is that all-“ He stops himself from finishing the question. “People shouldn’t feel entitled to touch you,” he reiterates. “Can you tell me if anything else happened? If anyone hurt you, or threatened you?”

Jason starts to shake his head, but stops with his neck angled slightly toward Bruce.

“I thought she was gonna hit me,” he admits.

Bruce’s body tenses up. He had noticed that himself when he’d first entered the scene, and what he had read in her body language had made him see red.

“And then there were so many other people,” Jason continues. “And they were talking, and staring at me. It had me feeling kind of boxed in.”

“I’m so sorry, son.”

Jason looks a little startled up at him.

“Just to be clear,” he says slowly. “I’m not in trouble?”

“You’re not in trouble,” Bruce confirms. “I promise I will always do whatever I can to protect you from people like that.”

[sodone-withlife]

icarus fell, and blood stained the ground

i'm back!! (but not really—the new school year literally starts in an hour and it will be back to my pathological dependence on academic validation. at least i can say i've technically published another fic before summer break ends)

anyway, here's the fic in response to part 1 of sumayyah's post. i published a companion poem for this some time ago. as per usual, i gave up on proofreading so hopefully any mistakes don't detract from the story. also, i hope the formatting and jumping back and forth between italics makes sense—let me know if it doesn't, though it might be easier to read on ao3 (it should go up on there by 4pm PST because school)

warnings: murder, major character death (may potentially be classified as suicide-by-proxy, depending on your interpretation), guns, canon typical violence, slight gore at the end, mentioned substances

word count: 1.9k words

The damned man thought of everything, Jessica thought as she scowled at the damned folder that sat innocuously on the large mahogany desk.

The desk that would soon be cleared, all traces of the previous owner gone.

She lifted a shaky hand and brushed it through her hair, shuddering at its greasy and unkempt state that hinted at the state she had been in recently. Weary to the bone, she forced herself to sit back up and grab her phone, dialing the number that was written on the sticky note placed on the inside cover of the folder. It didn’t surprise her to hear an unfamiliar female voice answer the phone with a “Ms. Brooks?”

He had thought of everything, after all.

Really, the only thing she was surprised at was the sheer extent of his connections—but thinking back to her phone calls with Haley back when he was still practicing law, the talks about extravagant offers from top corporations and firms, she really wasn’t surprised. Thus, it made sense that her call to the top law firm in the state would be answered within two dial tones and by someone who already knew who she was.

And within minutes of talking with the woman who introduced herself as Ms. Stevens, Jessica became even more aware of just how prepared her brother-in-law had been before he walked to his dea—

Not an in-law anymore—her brother. He had long since earned that designation, that spot in her broken family, no matter how much self-flagellation he put himself through in regards to her sister’s murder and no matter how much abuse her father hurled at him in the years before the man who once viewed him as a son succumbed to dementia.

Hours later, despite having already reached her limit twenty minutes into the call, she finally hung up the phone with only funeral arrangements as an immediate concern. Slowly, she stood up from the chair and mechanically made her way into the tiny bathroom that had once been a familiar sight, when her nephew was still a child—

She forced her mind away from that minefield; she wasn’t willing to spend another sleepless night thinking about what had gone down in the past month, what had happened a week ago in that apartment, what her nephew was doing and thinking in the cell that only seemed to become colder and crueler the more she thought about it.

How many prisons had he visited? How many interrogation rooms, holding cells, general population cells, max security cells, death row cells? Did he ever get used to it? Could he allow himself to get used to it, to forget that these people are also human no matter the crimes they’ve committed?

A careful hand fell onto Jessica’s shoulder, and she shuddered under the warmth that seeped into her body, a warmth that had been lacking from her life for a long time now. She turned to see Morgan staring back at her, concerned.

“You didn’t pick up your phone,” he explained neutrally, flicking his eyes towards her phone—and sure enough, there were ten missed calls, each from a member of the team. She looked back up but avoided his concerned gaze only to latch onto her reflection in the mirror and internally winced at her haggard appearance.

“Did you—“ she coughed, clearing her throat, “have you figured out what happened?” Morgan’s unspoken question about her well-being went unanswered, and she continued to avoid looking at him.

She watched the man shake his head through the mirror, unsurprised and once again cursing her brother for his incessant habit of playing his cards close to his chest, especially when it came to personal issues.

How else is—was—he one of the best at poker in the bureau, often even beating Reid?

“He hasn’t talked, either,” Morgan informed her quietly, saving her the pain of asking the question herself. “Forensics is still struggling to put together a cohesive picture. To be honest, I doubt we’ll ever find out what actually happened in that apartment.” He shook his head, frustrated at the man he considered his brother.

If either of them bothered to ask, they would have found that both were truthfully unsurprised at this outcome, given what they only recently learned about the factors and circumstances that led to it. The few established facts about this case in addition to speculation based on systematically organized notes left in an even more meticulously organized folder painted a clear enough picture of the events preceding the fall.

But it wasn’t really an accidental, flailing fall.

In all truthfulness, he didn’t fight it.

Icarus let himself fall to his death in an attempt to compensate for his hubris, to suffer the consequences of his mistakes, and it was both a cowardly attempt to escape the hellish burns caused by the boiling, melting wax and a selfless attempt to teach posterity to avoid ending up like him.

Jessica remembered the warmth of Morgan’s embrace when he ignored all protocol and took it upon himself to inform her of what had transpired in the past two months, regardless of the still-ongoing investigation. It didn’t do much to soothe the cold that had threatened to swallow her whole as she listened to the details in silent horror.

He had sat her down in her apartment, the one she had taken care of her ailing father in before he finally died and the one she couldn’t bear to move out of for all of the memories that had been formed inside—with her father on his good days, with her brother, with her nephew

“A week ago, we were invited by MPD to consult on a series of killings that happened over the course of a month. We had an eye on the situation since the second murder, and there were two more victims in the span of a week before we were finally called in,” he began quietly.

He had suspicions as to what was happening by the time the team was invited in on the case at the personal request of the MPD chief. It certainly wasn’t the first time he had come across this profile before, but there were simply too many puzzle pieces with matching edges for the connections to be brushed off as a coincidence.

“Based on the rate at which bodies were popping up, we anticipated another one within two days of us being called in, but the killer had gone suspiciously silent. We went through crime scenes, forensic reports, and things weren’t adding up.”

"It’s a local case and we’ve coordinated with MPD multiple times, they know the drill. I’d like to take a personal look as well, the brass has been all up in my business about this case given its proximity to the Hill."

That’s what he said to the team regarding him suddenly taking the initiative to go to the crime scenes despite his responsibilities—it had been a while since he last went out to crime scenes, often taking care of the office politics and coordinating the investigation back at whatever precinct or office the team had taken over.

“There were odd inconsistencies, missing pieces of evidence… There was evidence to show that the killer was an amateur, but ultimately the profile we ended up building was nowhere near as detailed as we hoped it could be—but it ultimately went a long way in helping us figure out what was really happening.”

Old case files going missing from his home office, growing interest in his job, sudden mood swings happening long after the worst of puberty, increased isolation, dropping grades…

Absentee fathers of Georgetown students being stabbed and shot to death as if the killer was unsure about what to do, an innocuous Jack-in-the-Box takeout bag sitting near the last three bodies…

Numerous signs, and yet it was the outwardly irrelevant piece of trash, perhaps a sign of the killer’s gluttony—a sick joke that only he could have recognized—that led him to put all of the horrifying pieces together. It’s been over a decade, and yet the memories of that damned day remained as clear as ever, dogging his every footstep. Nightmares in which the worst happens still often visit him in his sleep, sometimes even combined with the effects of Peter Lewis’s drug concoction, effects lingering even after all these years.

“Somehow, we completely missed the fact that he fit the victimology. Maybe it was because of his efforts to distract us… If we had put it together earlier we might have been able to figure it out much earlier, and maybe everything could have turned out differently.”

Only after intensive counseling and careful editing of his case reports was he allowed to continue in the bureau after Lewis and his targeted attacks, and yet he knew he was still being watched. It was with that thought in mind that he made a decision on how to handle the situation. Either way, his life would be irrevocably changed, and there would be casualties alongside him.

All he had to do was figure out how to minimize them.

“He never came in that morning; Reid was the first to notice the lights off in the office. We were headed towards his apartment complex as soon as we saw a cleared-out office with a retirement letter being the only thing left on the desk. All of the pictures, trinkets, law books, messy stacks of paperwork—gone.”

A retirement letter for formality's sake, one copy emailed directly to the director and one printed on his desk, to simplify some things for the bureau and to ensure that Jessica and his son get his pension should the worst happen. All of his decisions, meticulously recorded and justified, except for this last one to protect the team from the consequences of his choice. All of his notes, all of the claimed evidence, carefully stored in the file box he left next to the retirement letter back in the office. Favors accumulated since law school called in, contacts throughout the local justice system ready to step in and deal with the fallout.

All of this, an attempt to compensate for the mistakes he’s made over the years and his hubris, to protect the remnants of his family and the team.

Morgan couldn’t finish telling Jessica what had happened, voice somehow caught in his throat and refusing to cooperate. He simply shook his head, and she folded in on herself, the weight of the last week too much for her to hold up. Slowly, he pulled her into a hug, rubbing her back but not doing much more to soothe her.

This is a wound that wouldn’t ever heal.

The story ends like this:

Icarus burned, and Aaron Hotchner said nothing as the hand that held the gun against his temple shook with uncertainty. Everything he wanted to say was written—one might call him a coward, but writing had always been so much easier for him—and he knew that he would be the final casualty, that the killings would stop after tonight.

Icarus fell, and Aaron Hotchner was flung sideways, the unyielding bullet from his gun fired by his own son shredding the brain that thought had of everything but the emotional and psychological effects his final decision would have on his family and friends.

Daedalus grieved over his son’s crumpled form, and Jack Hotchner would be found with his father’s dead body in his shaking arms as he stared blankly at sights unseen to the team, who had come hours too late.

Blood stained the ground, seeping into the cracks and crevices of grasping fingers, and nothing would ever be the same.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 38)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: The usual, plus like a heap of angst (or my poor attempt at it), a lot of stuff around broken bones, and mentions of injuries. And holy shit a lot of Persephone/Hades talk. A lot of it.

A/N: I hope you like this, and I’m sorry if tis is ooc, everything I write for Ivar feels ooc lately for me, and tbh I don’t know how to get better lol. Thank you for reading!

You never really considered, when you decided to tell Ivar about the Greeks, that maybe your lies were never for the sake of others.

That maybe pretending to love Narses was not for him to be safe and comfortable enough to lay all he had at your feet, but for you to be able to pretend it was something purer, softer, gentler than revenge what drove you to start that hopeless war against the Christians and their God.

That maybe the reason why you would have wanted to hide from Ivar the survival of the Greeks was not for them to be safe from him, but for you to allow yourself to live in a fantasy where the borrowed time, the winter, could last a lifetime.

You never considered it, and now you live with a weight on you that for once is caused by you telling the truth. Sometimes you wonder about the irony of it all.

You insisted to Ivar that nothing changed, that nothing had to change, but we don’t change the past or the present by telling a different tale.

And so things have changed. In the few days that have gone by since Ivar learned of their survival, of your meeting with Galla, a lot has changed, but at the same time, enough remains the same for you to pretend otherwise.

Pretend you don’t notice Ivar falter and hesitate at the sight of your gentleness, pretend you don’t feel the sting of pain when he sometimes rejects your affection, pretend you don’t feel your chest pull tight in pain and something else -something like nostalgia- when his eyes gain this haunted look even in the middle of something as innocuous as having dinner together.

This morning, his eyes are bluer than you’ve ever seen them, and he’s very obviously struggling, much more so than the day you saw him snap a bone out of place.

You eye him carefully as he tightens the iron braces around his legs, following his movements from your place at the foot of the bed, sitting with your legs hidden from the cold under your body and under a fur you’ve draped over them. Your refusal to get up has been deliberate, if only an attempt to lure him into choosing to not over exert himself by pretending everything is as usual.

Carefully, you start, “I don’t think you should-…”

“Ah, but I didn’t ask what you think.” He interrupts, not looking at you.

He can be annoying and infuriating when he wants to be, you know that. Knowing it doesn’t make the swell of irritation within you any lesser, but it does help you push past it, and insist,

“Just…come back to bed. If not for your sake, for mine. I don’t want to see you in pain.”

“No,” He states, unflinching, unwavering. But there’s a raw edge to it, a tinge of desperation in his resolve. Ivar stabs the crutch on the ground with more strength than needed, squares his shoulders and lifts his head. “I don’t get to stop my wife from sneaking out of our kingdom while I’m gone, I don’t get to decide when she decides to leave me,” His nose furrows in anger, and yet all that overcomes him is determination, “But I get to control this.”

“So you’ll break your bones just to hold on to control?” You call out, but he doesn’t reply with anything other than a grunt, leaving you alone in your room.

____

After more than half a day spent working with the women at the apothecary, and pointedly ignoring Valdís’ glares when she questions just why her son insists on her dipping him on the river holding him by the ankle; your relative peace is interrupted by a familiar-looking thrall coming into the home asking for a solution for the pain.

You step out from near the hearth, and Freydis shares a glance with you and steps back from the man, who looks at you with wide eyes.

You almost feel sorry for the way he seems to either fear you or your husband’s wrath so much so that his words stumble over each other as he tells you Ivar fell while inspecting the walls and broke his leg, but your sympathy for him is quickly overshadowed by concern -and more than a bit of righteous anger, because you told him so- for the man you married.

You dismiss him with short orders, and when you turn around Freydis holds a batch of comfrey in her hands, not hesitating, not even needing your words, to help you gather what you need. Her blue eyes shine with warmth when you thank her.

You are in your room waiting for him -but pretending not to by busying your hands with a mixture of chickweed seeds and primrose- when you hear the familiar pattern if Ivar’s steps, though they sound slower and more faltering than usual, and are accompanied by sounds of pain that make you grit your teeth.

“What are you doing here?”

If you weren’t told he had injured himself, that…warm welcome would have certainly let you know something was wrong.

“Have you forgotten this is my room too, love?”

“You aren’t subtle.” Ivar says, unnaturally-blue eyes set on you, even as he steps further into the room.

You answer with a shrug, “Never pretended to be.”

“They’ve put a cast on it already,” He tells you, and you can’t help but notice him not directly acknowledging the fact that he broke a bone. You eye the lower part of his left leg for a moment before meeting his gaze again. Ivar insists, “I don’t need you here.”

“I want to be here,” You reply, before changing the subject and asking, “You’ve sent scouts to find out where my people are, haven’t you?”

Ivar straightens where he stands, making himself taller and bigger, even though it makes the pain he is in all the more apparent. You have half a mind to scold him, but you bite back the words.

“Want to know where they are?” He taunts, but your answer is instantaneous,

“No.”

You make him falter for a moment; you witness the faint trembling of the mask he so cruelly wears. And there’s an inkling of regret within you, a voice telling you to remember that all you have done -and continue to do- is take away certainties from Ivar. Even if it is defeated and painful certainties, for the man you love it is better to hold on to scalding iron than to have nothing to hold on to.

Then again, he took much more than certainties from you, you think, but your soft heart keeps you from following that line of thought too far down.

He doesn’t say anything else, choosing instead to move carefully to the bed. You hear him working on the heavy iron contraptions, and you try to keep your attention on your work, but your every sense is attuned to him.

“Your Goddess, and what Hades did to keep her,” He starts suddenly, startling you with the choice of topic. Still, you are grateful he no longer insists on trying to get rid of you. “You never thought it a trick, I know that.”

You never told him that. Granted, you never told anyone that, about how you always wondered if the temptation wasn’t really hunger, if the trick wasn’t one at all.

But it doesn’t surprise you anymore how Ivar seems to be capable of seeing you bare of all lies and pretenses. He has since that first time you met, since those first conversations.

You shrug your shoulders, and turn to him, still holding the mortar and pestle in your hands.

“We can be forced to do many things. Go somewhere, even if that is another realm; accept a title, even if it is one that implies binds of marriage. But we cannot be forced to be loyal to someone.”

“So you think she chose him.”

“Chose to love him, yes. For anything else, she didn’t have a choice.”

“Who did, then?” He asks, moving to settle better where he sits with a grunt of pain that you narrow your eyes at. “Your Hades certainly didn’t either, she still leaves him each spring. That isn’t a deal that sounds like a choice, hm?”

“You cannot change nature with a trick, Ivar.”

“Ah, but it wasn’t a trick,” He lifts a finger to point at you, annoyingly smug about his retort. “I think you insist on saying there wasn’t a choice to make because you don’t like accepting the choice made, wife.”

“Your mother worshiped the Goddess of death and you still insist she was good and pure?” The Viking woman sneers, fingers toying with the carved statue of your Goddess.

“My mother worshiped Despoina, there’s a difference. The God of death is Thanatos. Despoina, she is the Queen of the Underworld.” You reply cautiously, because you know she has to know the difference, and you have the strange feeling of walking into a trap. Eventually, eyeing Sieghild with a smirk when she purses her lips, you press, “What. You surely have something to say about that.”

She shrugs, reaching for her ale and drinking before replying, “Our queens are not usually married to their captors.”

“He gave her a crown in exchange for her hand. Would you refuse?” You scoff back, as if the answer should be as clear to her as it is to you. “Hades offered her himself and his kingdom, Sieghild. A king and his reign are no small bride price.”

She starts to show a smile that tells you that in her own language of runes and one-eyed Gods she sees a deeper meaning to your answer. When you were a child you would almost fear her tales of tortured Gods and strange creatures, but now you see in those tales of fall and triumph the same honor and the same glory that Sieghild sees in them, and you delight in talking with her about her Gods and your own.

“In your Godddess’ place, would you want a king or a kingdom, little one?” She teases, and you take a sip of your wine with a smile on your lips.

“Are we not talking of the Gods?”

“Humor me.”

After a moment of consideration, you offer, “A kingdom would limit me. A king would offer me countless kingdoms if I so wanted.”

The Viking laughs, in that way of hers that speaks of a life of freedoms women in your home could never dream of, green eyes piercing on yours when she asks darkly, “And you still believe Kore was stolen?”

Unable to hold back the anger born out of uncertainty, you snap, “Since when are you so certain of the stories of my Gods, Viking?”

Ivar offers a smile, surprisingly enough not a smug or a taunting one, and instead one that is almost tender.

He considers you, head titled to the side, before he states, “I wasn’t talking about any Gods.”

And you’re face to face with too many truths for you to breathe easy, so you clear your throat and return your eyes and attention to your work.

“Willow should help with the pain, as it did last time.” You tell him instead, gathering the small vial of dark liquid and almost cringing at what you remember to be the most bitter drink you ever tasted. You hand it to Ivar, who surprises you by not arguing and downing the awful-tasting tisane in one gulp.

As you return to your small table to gather rolls of thick linen and the mixture you’ve known by heart for a while, Ivar lays down on the bed, but he is far from willing to succumb to the pain or sleep, and watches you raptly as you move about.

His eyes narrow at the things you bring with you to the bed.

“And what is that for?”

“Salves and presses always work best, especially with injuries like these,” You explain simply, noting the way he immediately sets to argue and rushing to insist, “I want to help, and you have no reason not to let me,” You state, unwavering. For emphasis, you raise your chin and remind him, “I’m the best healer in Kattegat.”

“I didn’t marry you because you were a healer, I don’t need your help.”

“I could argue once again that there ought to be a reason why the woman you married is a gifted healer, but I know it would be pointless, since our marriage was fated by the Gods only when it’s convenient to you,” You point out, the slightest tone of tease in your voice, “Instead, consider this from my perspective.”

Ivar’s chest expands in a slow breath, but he bites, “Which is?”

“That the man I love is in pain, and I know how to help.”

“You already gave me the…the tisane that worked last. It is done with,” He offers, the tell of irritation and anger at being put on the spot like this clear in his tone as he speaks, “You don’t have to…touch them, or s-see them.”

“Ivar…”

I didn’t want you to…to see. Thought I could make you forget. He told you once, the mark of pain heavy on his stance and his expression, and an uncharacteristic resignation lacing his voice.

It surprises you, even though you know you should know him better than to expect any different, that a part of him, however quietened in these months of faint moments of pain and scarce episodes of what he perceives as weakness, still tries to keep his condition from you.

You know that rationally Ivar knows he can’t exactly hide it from you. From the way he walks, to the very clear tell of the blue hue of his eyes, there’s not much he could ever do to keep you from noticing.

But he admitted to it himself, to wanting to keep you from noticing the graver problems with his legs, to wanting to hide from you the way sometimes the pain gets to be too much to bear. In these last few days, it has become more and more apparent, with him adverting his gaze when you mention the blue tone of his eyes; refusing to let you see him bare even if he has seen you countless times since you’ve crossed that barrier days ago; and even now, after everything, not letting you do the one thing you’ve been taught to do all your life.

“You know you don’t have to,” He tells you, looking pointedly over your shoulder, refusing to meet your gaze but still too stubborn to lower his eyes. “J-Just leave it be, it will heal, everything will be n-normal soon, and I-…”

You interrupt him with a soft call of his name, silencing his protests and making his eyes finally meet yours. Your chest pulls tight at the apprehension and the uncertainty you see written in them, but you do not falter.

“Trust me?” Is all you ask, voice quiet and eyes set unwaveringly on him. Your stomach tightens as you watch the conflict in his expression, and pale blue eyes search yours looking for something you aren’t sure he finds because you don’t know what it is.

Eventually, Ivar takes a breath, a breath that you think was supposed to be a deep breath but sounds only shaky and sharp, and nods his head. You exhale slowly, knowing what it means that he allows you this, that he trusts you with this, and move further down on the bed so you sit on your side next to the length of his legs, your own folded underneath you.

You need only lift the left leg of the pants a little over his knee, but Ivar tenses and coils his body tight as if you are baring him of any armor. In a way, maybe you are.

Hands carefully folded over his stomach, you catch a glimpse of a tremble in them before he tightens his hold on his own fingers, knuckles white and the trembling once again under careful control. You spare only a glance, before completely focusing on his exposed leg.

It is frailly thin, though you didn’t really expect any different, and it looks knobby and bears many scars, some deeper than others.

You linger on the badly-set bone that has long since healed in a bad position, and wonder how long it has been since a proper healer has tended to a fracture like this. Still, the latest of the breaks has been properly set and the linen put around it seems strong enough.

You take it off trying to move Ivar’s leg as little as possible, and think what kind of cast the men and women that have taught you to be a healer would use for this, wondering what improvements or changes they would make to work around the braces Ivar wears, that you know are not made with comfort for a broken bone in mind.

“T-Talk,” Ivar orders gruffly, startling you from your work on the comfrey and the ganglong you are so lucky to have found all the way in Scandinavia. You lift your head to look at him, but Ivar doesn’t meet your eyes, looking intently at the ceiling. At your silence, he insists, “It is never good when you’re quiet. Talk.”

“About what?”

“Anything.”

“Are you in a lot of pain?”

“I said talk, not ask questions.” He replies shortly, clear tell of gritted teeth in his voice. You don’t know if because of annoyance or pain, but you are smart enough to figure that it is best not to ask.

“Well,” You mumble, blinking a couple of times before you find something to say, “I once was mentored by a man that could know where a bone had been merely splintered with but a touch. I am…not nearly as proficient yet,” You smile slightly at the memory. He was from so far East that the people that traveled with you used to whisper he was from another Empire, and he had strict ways but he was a good teacher. You continue, “I’m using a plant he taught me to work with. Helps with healing, and with swelling. Not so much with pain. Comfrey helps with that,” You recall another memory and chuckle to yourself as you press the salve onto Ivar’s cold skin, and continue, “I…I was taught comfrey is incredibly useful when healing broken bones when I just started working as a healer, and I was still young, and…careless. Once, my mother was badly hurt in a battle. She had some of her ribs badly bruised, and was also nicked by a spear. They wrapped her torso with treatment for her wound before her bones, of course,” You mention, wrapping the press of herbs with a linen around Ivar’s shin. You are careful not to jostle the leg too much in fear of causing him further pain, but he doesn’t complain, and you continue, “And I was, uh, I was really worried about her ribs, so I made her an infusion using comfrey. Turns out, comfrey isn’t very safe for people to…consume. Sieghild was awfully sick for more than a week, threatened to poison my food as retribution for almost a month,” You fasten the cast he had before once again around the thin calf, and your voice turns wistful when you finish, “And she never let me forget it. Every time I made her an infusion, she would make me list the ingredients I used for it.”

You finish your work and after rolling the leg of the pant back down, you move the warm blankets and furs to cover both his legs and yours.

You look back up at Ivar, moving up on the bed so you are almost level with his face, and for as long as he needs to, you lay there, eyes on his and comfortably close even if a part of you grows anxious and searches desperately for something to say to make him lose the cautious and almost afraid edge.

His hand first settles on your wrist, lingering for a few beats before it moves up to grasp at your fingers, and you squeeze back without hesitation, lifting your joined hands to press a kiss against his knuckles, smiling up at him.

The warm specks of a dying sun linger on the room and make it feel somehow warmer, and smaller, more yours.

“I won’t do anything to the Greeks,” He starts suddenly, startling you. You hadn’t considered he would, if you are honest. Whether that makes you incredibly naïve or it makes him something other than the man that chained you, you don’t know if you want to hear the answer. Ivar takes a breath, the only indication he intends to continue talking before silence reigns between you for a few heartbeats. His voice is quiet but unwavering when he promises, “I love you, and…I know I have to let you leave.”

For a moment, with his voice so strikingly alike what it sounded like the night you told him of the Greeks, where he repeated out loud certainties for you to reassure him of and him to hold on to; you wonder whether he is trying to give you a few certainties of your own.

You try offering a smile that speaks of jest, though you are certain something much more saddened than what you intend is the result.

“They are technically your people too, you know.”

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, looking intently ahead and taking a deep breath before offering,

“You insist it is easy, you insist that…that nothing changed. That I should accept whatever time is left and forget that I promised to allow you to leave me,” His voice grows angrier and angrier the longer he speaks, but when he takes a breath, the anger is overshadowed by something else, and Ivar continues, “It isn’t easy, but I-…sometimes I forget. Sometimes you look happy here, with me, and I…I forget you’re leaving me.”

Your throat feels tight at his words, and your heart beats quickly as if trying to outrun the pain that fills your chest.

At the pain you hear in his voice, a pain you put there, it feels like your heart, no-longer-yours and trying to leave your chest with each of its beats, asks you to admit the shame and the failure and the damnation of I wish I never had to leave.

But you can’t, you can only remain quiet and advert your eyes to the side even if Ivar isn’t even looking in your direction.

“I’m…I’m being torn apart,” He confesses in a breath that shakes past his lips, eyebrows slightly raised as his expression trembles, as his strength crumbles and breaks your heart along with it. “I want to-…Sometimes I forget you are leaving, and I can pretend you won’t have to make a choice, and I am…” You cling to the way his words hang in the air between you, not realizing you lean closer and stall your breathing as if to hear the confession, not realizing until that moment how desperate you are to hear that he feels happy. But he doesn’t say it, shaking his head and returning the hardness to his tone, “But at the same time I need to remind myself that you are going to make a choice, that you will leave, because if I don’t…”

The words hang between you, but you don’t have the courage to ask him to continue, and you also don’t have the words to reply with, so silence too hangs between you soon enough.

Ivar turns on his side with a grunt of pain, and you don’t hesitate to move closer and lift your arm, his head a comfortable weight against your chest and his breaths, though labored and still hinting at a pain you cannot even imagine, familiar and warm against you.

“You should sleep,” You tell him softly, your fingers running through his hair in what you hope is a calming manner. Judging by the way his eyes flutter closed, you dare believe it is. Without thinking, you promise, “I’ll stay with you.”

You intend it to be the promise to remain in this bed for as long as he does, to keep him company and do what you can with your voice and your touch to soothe away the pain; but the moment the words leave your lips it feels like a weight dropped on you, like the reminder of the choice you will have to make.

For a moment, a fragile moment that you barely give time to be before you smother the foolish fantasy away, you pretend this is a promise you can make, and that it can mean forever and not a night.

If Ivar notices your poor choice of words, he doesn’t give it away.

Still, at your silence he speaks out, voice rougher with the pull of sleep, his words a little drawled out.

“If it wasn’t…pomegranates, what is it that keeps her there?”

You know to him they are just tales, but his curiosity for the world that has made you who you are and the Gods you’ll always hold dear to you never ceases to be…endearing, in its own way.

“I don’t know,” You answer truthfully. “This isn’t what we discuss at the temple, this isn’t…this isn’t what we are taught.”

“Were you never curious?”

“I didn’t have time to be. I left Greece when I was still a child, and when I returned…it seemed fitting, that she was truly stolen of a choice.”

“You told me some say she walked into the Underworld.”

“Yet she was still trapped, that part never changes.” You smile sadly, and for a moment when you blink you see warm eyes and olive skin and a sad smile that speaks of a man fully aware of your lies and choosing to love you anyways, choosing to trap you anyways.  In that moment, you understand why her story meant comfort to you all your life.

She was the maiden taken forcefully from her home, forced away from her mother and her land; you were a child clutching a wooden statuette of her and watching your birth mother burn, with Sieghild’s rough and unfamiliar hands guiding you on a path away from Greece.

She was the woman forced to marry a man she didn’t love, by deals of the Gods that ruled over her life and by her own mistakes; and you were a monster, a desperate one at that, whispering promises of love in Narses’ ear, earning what you wanted alongside heavy chains to be put on you.

She was queen of a world that was so unlike her, and a wife to a man many called a monster, alone and nostalgic; and you were dragged here by Ivar and told that by the will of his might alone he would make you wife and queen, no matter how much you fought against it.

And…and then she was a woman laughing under a red veil, lips stained with pomegranates and blood, and the winter meant home and love and belonging; and you learned to look into Ivar’s eyes and see a future even when you knew you couldn’t.

Chosen by Persephone, they always called you, since long before your birth. Child of the flower fields of Eleusis, they thought you to be destined to be yet another Hiereia under the warmth of Attica’s sun; they didn’t see the hunger, the heart that belonged elsewhere, they never imagined you to be one destined to delve into another realm to become its queen and never wish to return.

Lost in your thoughts, in your revelations, for so long that you don’t notice the passing of time, you only gauge how long you were lost by the way Ivar’s weight is a little heavier on you; by the way he is relaxed and pliant against you, even if shaken occasionally by a shiver or a tremble of the aftershocks of pain.

“Maybe they don’t tell us about whether or not she had a choice because she didn’t,” You whisper, voice so quiet you barely hear yourself. In the deep rise and fall of his chest, even if still interrupted by the quiet staggering in its pattern due to the pain, you are told he isn’t conscious anymore. Still, you continue your soft caress of the side of his face, and you continue speaking, “Or maybe it’s because she did, and she chose…chose love. Seems awfully selfish, though, doesn’t it?”

Your mother, the mother of sad smiles and a lost war, always told you that between love and duty one must always prevail. Between the earth under our feet and the sky over our heads, between what we must do and what we want to do, we must always choose.

Maybe she was never speaking of her plight, or in some prophetic way of yours, when she told you those things. Maybe she too wondered what temptation truly meant, whether there had been a trick at all; and she was whispering the truth about the Goddess of spring disguised as a warning.

You doze off, your fingers still carefully running through Ivar’s hair and your senses still attuned to him and his pain.

You wake up not because Ivar does, but because you hear something. For a moment, you think it to be him, but as the daze of sleep leaves you, you realize what it is.

The cry of a hawk.

Your blood runs cold, and with shaking hands and a heart that beats furiously in your ears you move your body from under Ivar and walk to the small balcony that overlooks Kattegat.

The sky is darkening, once again too late for a hawk to be hunting. Once again, it is too close, and its cry is too familiar for it to be anything other than Galla’s trusted beast.

You watch with wide eyes as the hawk flies above you, shrill cries piercing your head and your heart.

And a part of you that has been for too long too cowardly to face not the choice, but what the choice you’d make would say about you and who you are; that part of you begs and pleads in that moment.

You plead for more time, but the Gods have granted you time already.

And you once pleaded for a choice to make, and now the Gods demand you make it.

“His name will be Zephyr.”

“Why that name? He isn’t the fastest, or the strongest, out of the winds.” You mention casually, and Galla doesn’t take her eyes of her beast, smiling widely as it takes a piece of meat from her fingers.

“Because Zepyhr brings forth life, opportunity, change,” She chuckles, before knocking her shoulder with yours teasingly, “I may not be as versed as you in the worship of Demeter and Kore, Hiereia, but I know the gift that spring is.”

“And so you hold a special place for the one that brings forth the winds of the spring?”

She shrugs, fearless as she reaches under the hawk’s head and scritches at its feather’s, making it ruffle them and accept her affection. It never ceases to surprise you, how easily the beast has taken to her.

“Zephyr is the one that makes change happen. He is the one that time and time again guides Despoina home.”

You accept her words with a sigh, and reach for the piece of venison on the plate at her side, offering the raw meat to the animal, and smiling when it takes sit, though much more guardedly than when Galla offered the same.

“You hope it can guide us home?”

She chuckles, goes back to petting it, “I know he can.”

You stand there and watch Zephyr circle the longhouse, the cries louder once he sees you standing there. But all you can do is watch.

There was a girl, you don’t think you’ll ever forget her. You saw her first and last while working as a healer in some dusty city near Kufa. You were ambushed during the night, the cavalry of some enemy army broke past the defenses and were nearing the camp.

The hooves of their horses marched wildly over the dry earth, and Sieghild was cursing in her own tongue as she guided you both to the safety the soldiers provided.

But this girl, this thin and frail Arab girl, stood there, not moving, not breathing.

The ground trembled under the enemy’s might, the soldiers around you barked orders and prepared to defend, but she…she stood there, and watched them come.

Like she could keep time frozen in her small hands if she didn’t move, like she could hold on to life for as long as she held her breath.

You called for her. She still didn’t move. You screamed when the horses trampled her. She didn’t move again, and you didn’t even find her body in the aftermath.

And now you stand there in the small balcony, looking at the darkening sky like that wide-eyed girl looked at those incoming horses, frozen like she was.

You hear Zephyr’s call echo through the high skies of Kattegat and it sounds like the hooves of a hundred war horses wildly marching on cold ground.

You told Galla if she was ever to need you to send Zephyr to the skies, and you promised you’d be there. She needs you; they need you, and you promised you’d answer. You are their Anassa, their Hiereia; for the titles you bear and for your mother’s legacy it is your duty to answer their call.

Your hands tighten on the wooden railing, but still you turn your head to gaze into the dim light of your room, Ivar still resting on the bed you share. He trusts you; he loves you, and in another life you wouldn’t have hesitated to promise him forever. You are his wife, the woman he loves; for all the love you have for him you wish that you could be only that.

It was never Stithulf, it was never pomegranates; what forced a choice, what forced a change.

It was spring. From the first of its winds, it was spring what would force you to choose.

You just hoped winter would last.

____ ____ ____

....so yeah, s p r i n g.

What do you think will happen?

I might post 39 on tuesday just out of guilt for ending on a cliffhanger, but we’ll see.

Thank you so so much for reading, please let me know what you think!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @pieces-by-me @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson @peachyboneless @1950schick @punkrocknpearls @ietss   @itsmysticalmystery​ @revolution-starter​ @chibisgotovalhalla​ @the-a-word-2214​ @fae-sedai​ @crazybunnyladysworld​@funmadnessandbadassvikings @stupiddarkkside​  

[kjack89]

Impasse (Pt. 3/3)

Part 1 here, part 2 here.

E/R, Modern AU, former relationship. Being stuck together leads to the more or less inevitable conclusion.

Given the sheer quantity of alcohol the man had managed to drink, Enjolras wasn’t at all surprised that Grantaire slept through dinner and all the way until the next morning. He was also, frankly, a little relieved by it. He wasn’t entirely sure that he was ready to have the conversation with Grantaire about what he had said.

Or, worse, ready to pretend to ignore it because Grantaire couldn’t remember it.

Enjolras honestly wasn’t sure which would be worse.

But all too soon, the early morning quiet was interrupted by a prolonged groan from the futon, and Enjolras sipped his glass of water with only a small amount of sympathy as Grantaire rasped, “Holy fuck, why?”

“Bourbon,” Enjolras told him dryly. “That’s the answer also to who, what, when, where and how, in case you were planning to ask those next.”

Grantaire cracked one eye open to glare at him. “Why did you let me drink that much?” he managed.

Enjolras just gave him a look. “Have I ever once successfully stopped you before?”

Grantaire groaned again and flopped over onto his back. “No,” he said. “But you still could’ve tried.”

“Maybe I did, and you just don’t remember it.”

At that, Grantaire sat upright, and Enjolras had to bite back a laugh at the man’s hair sticking up in a million different directions. “Oh God,” Grantaire said, eyes wide. “Whatever I said, just remember, in vino veritas is more a guideline than a hard and fast rule.”

“So I’ll take that to mean there are some parts of yesterday afternoon that you don’t fully remember?” Enjolras asked carefully.

Grantaire waved a dismissive hand. “Some parts, the entire thing, something like that.” His expression tightened as he glanced at Enjolras. “I’m sorry for absolutely everything I said or did, by the way, especially if it was, uh…” He trailed off. “Untoward.”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “Untoward?” he repeated. “You’ve been hanging out with Courfeyrac too much lately.” He paused. “Besides, you’re fine. It was nothing I haven’t seen before.”

He meant for the latter to come off as a joke, but Grantaire’s expression didn’t change. “If you say so,” he said instead, not sounding remotely convinced, but luckily, he changed the subject instead of making Enjolras convince him. “But you should still let me make it up to you.”

“How?” Enjolras asked, curious.

Grantaire looked pointedly at Enjolras’s midsection. “Well, for starters, you can let me take a look at your ribs to make sure they aren’t actually broken.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I think I’d know by now if they were broken,” he huffed.

“Says the man who walked around for over a week with a broken wrist that you kept claiming was just a bad sprain.”

Enjolras considered it for a moment. “Fine,” he finally allowed. “If it’ll get you to drop the topic, at least. Not that there’s anything that either you or I can do if my ribs are broken, but…” 

Grantaire patted the futon next to him and Enjolras rolled his eyes but reluctantly perched on the edge of the futon, hesitating for only a moment before lifting his shirt up so that Grantaire could examine his side. He avoided looking at Grantaire, well aware that the bruises certainly looked bad, and he flinched only slightly as Grantaire lightly pressed against the bruises. “Sorry,” Grantaire said softly. “I know my fingers are rough.”

“That wasn’t—” Enjolras exhaled sharply as Grantaire increased the pressure. “Ok, that doesn’t feel great.”

Grantaire hummed in agreement before looking up at him. “Well, the good news is, based on my own fairly extensive experience with a variety of rib-related injuries, I’m fairly certain they’re just bruised and not actually broken.”

“Pretty sure I said that, but…” Enjolras trailed off, suddenly very aware that Grantaire’s fingers were still lightly pressed against his skin, and he flushed, tearing his eyes away. Grantaire dropped his hand as if he had been scalded, and Enjolras tried not to flinch again at the sudden loss of heat. “Anyway, uh, thanks,” he said gruffly.

Grantaire cleared his throat. “No problem,” he murmured, and for a moment, they sat there, side-by-side, in silence, every fiber of Enjolras’s being acutely aware of Grantaire’s thigh pressed against his, of how he could reach out and tangle their fingers together or rest his head against Grantaire’s shoulder, or— “You’re lucky that it wasn’t worse,” Grantaire continued, as if he was entirely unaware or unaffected by their proximity, and it took Enjolras a minute to even realize what he was talking about.

“I know,” he said after too long a pause for such an innocuous comment. “The police were even more violent than usual, and everyone in the crowd was getting bruised and bloody, and…”

He trailed off, sudden realization hitting. “Hang on,” he said slowly, and as if knowing what Enjolras was about to say, Grantaire quickly got off the futon, making his way over to pour himself a glass of water while conspicuously avoiding Enjolras’s eyes.

As if he knew he would see the accusation there.

“Everyone was getting hit,” Enjolras said slowly, watching the shoulders in Grantaire’s back tighten as he drained the glass of water. “Everyone was getting injured. But there’s not a scratch or bruise on you.”

“You don’t know that,” Grantaire muttered, still not turning around to look at him. “You haven’t seen me naked. At least not recently.”

Enjolras ignored the obvious attempt at what could have been either a joke or a come on (or, knowing Grantaire, both). “Why weren’t you injured?” he asked instead, struggling to keep his voice steady.

Grantaire jerked a shrug. “Luck, I guess,” he said, his voice sounding equally strained.

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire sighed. “Look—” he started, but Enjolras cut him off.

“Don’t you dare lie to me. Not now, not after—”

He broke off, but Grantaire’s eyes flashed to his for a brief moment before he looked away again. “I wasn’t injured because I wasn’t there,” he said flatly. 

Even though Enjolras had put it together, it somehow still shocked him to hear Grantaire admit it. “What do you mean, you weren’t there?” he asked, almost mechanically.

Grantaire shrugged again. “I mean, I didn’t go to the protest.”

Enjolras stared at him. “I thought you were calling it a riot,” he said, the words popping out of his mouth almost without thought, but it was enough to get Grantaire to finally look at him again, his own face flushed a dull, mottled red. 

“Whatever you want to call it,” he muttered. “I didn’t go. I came here instead.”

“But – why?”

“I figured you’d show up here eventually,” Grantaire said, as if that even began to answer Enjolras’s question. “And before you ask me how I knew which safe house you’d go to out of the, what, five we’ve got sprinkled throughout the city, give me some credit.” Enjolras had not even thought of asking that, and wisely kept his mouth shut. “This one was furthest from the action, which means it would take longest to get here, making whoever came here most vulnerable. There’s no way you would ask anyone else to take that risk.”

That had been Enjolras’s exact thought process, but he wasn’t going to give Grantaire the satisfaction by admitting that, and besides, he had a far more pressing question. “That’s not what I meant,” he said quietly. “I mean, why did you come here?”

Grantaire just looked at him. “You know why,” he said. “I came here for you.”

“But I thought—” The words stuck in Enjolras’s throat, because he knew what he had thought, knew that he had done what he thought at the time was a kindness, but now… “We broke up.”

“I know.”

“So then—”

“Just because we broke up doesn’t mean I want you to bleed out in some safe house,” Grantaire snapped, uncharacteristically sharp.

Enjolras wet his lips, trying to figure out what he wanted to say next. “I didn’t realize you still felt that way,” he said, which wasn’t even remotely true, and probably justified the look Grantaire gave him.

“You and I broke up for a lot of reasons, some valid, some bullshit,” Grantaire said impatiently. “But none of them were because I stopped loving you.” He met Enjolras’s eyes, something defiant in his expression. “And I don’t think it was because you stopped loving me either.”

“Grantaire—” Enjolras sighed, but Grantaire didn’t let him finish.

“I don’t remember everything from last night, but I remember enough.”

Enjolras swallowed. “What do you remember?”

“I remember this.” 

Grantaire closed the space between them, kissing Enjolras fiercely, hungrily, but this time, Enjolras didn’t hesitate before pulling away, just a little bit. “And do you remember me telling you this was a bad idea?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, his nose brushing slightly against Enjolras’s as he shifted. “But I don’t remember you telling me you didn’t want to.” He hesitated, his eyes searching Enjolras’s. “Just like I don’t remember you telling me that you don’t love me anymore.”

This time, it was Enjolras who surged forward, unable to stop himself, unable to remember just why this was such a bad idea in the first place. He cradled Grantaire’s face in both his hands, Grantaire’s hands falling automatically to his hips, the two of them slotting together perfectly like they always had.

Like they had never stopped.

They stumbled backward until the back of Enjolras’s knees hit the futon, but before he could even attempt to sit down, Grantaire had picked him up, and Enjolras automatically wrapped his legs around Grantaire’s waist. Grantaire laughed lightly against his lips. “Fucking Christ, did you gain weight?” he asked breathily.

“Shut up.”

For once, Grantaire seemed only too happy to do so, depositing Enjolras onto the futon before following after him so they could finish what they had started the night before.

----------

“Well,” Grantaire said, his voice a low rumble against Enjolras’s ear as his head was pillowed on Grantaire’s chest. “That’s a helluva way to cure a hangover.”

Enjolras huffed a laugh, tripping his fingers up the coarse hair of Grantaire’s happy trail. “That explains why you seemed to have less hangovers when we were dating.”

Grantaire carded his fingers through Enjolras’s curls. “It’s one reason, anyway,” he said quietly, before bending to press a kiss to the top of Enjolras’s head. “So now what?”

Enjolras twisted his head to look up at him. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean…” Grantaire sighed, and Enjolras felt his contentment slipping rapidly away. “Fuck, Enj, please don’t make me spell it out for you. What does this mean for us? Where do we go from here?”

Enjolras sat up slowly, avoiding looking at Grantaire as he felt around, trying to find his boxers. “We don’t go anywhere.”

“Oh.”

The single syllable somehow cut Enjolras more than any of the screaming fights he and Grantaire had had, and he closed his eyes for a brief moment, steeling himself. “I love you,” he said finally, not really seeing the point in continuing to deny it. “If I’m being honest with myself in a way that I’ve been avoiding, I probably always will.” He forced himself to look at Grantaire, to meet his eyes. “But we broke up for a reason, the biggest of which being that we don’t have a future together.”

“We could,” Grantaire blurted, his eyes wide, pleading.

“Grantaire—”

“No, listen to me,” Grantaire said, his tone turning urgent. “I know that I will never be everything you want me to be. But I'm not completely useless, and at the very least, I'd like a chance to try.”

Enjolras shook his head. “It’s not about that,” he said. “It’s not about you.”

Grantaire’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Enjolras took a deep, steadying breath. “My die has been cast, so to speak. And where I'm going when we finally get out of this godforsaken apartment...you can't come with me.”

Grantaire went very still. “What are you talking about?” he asked, but before Enjolras could answer, he recoiled, the blood draining from his face as he finally understood. “You're not waiting for the heat to die down, are you?” Again, he didn’t wait for Enjolras’s answer. “You've been waiting for Combeferre and Marius and whomever else to make all the necessary legal arrangements.”

Even though that part wasn’t a question, Enjolras still nodded. “Yes.”

“You're planning on letting yourself get arrested.” Grantaire’s voice sounded strangely hollow, his expression impossible to read. “And not just on a minor charge that keeps you in county lockup overnight.”

“Yes.”

“So, what, you attacked that cop on purpose?” Grantaire asked harshly.

Enjolras shook his head. “No, that actually wasn't part of the plan,” he said, because he owed Grantaire the truth. “But when I saw what the cop was doing...well, let's just say it accelerated our timeline a little.”

“Do I even want to ask why you're letting yourself get arrested?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras lifted his chin defiantly. “Because once I'm arrested, my defense team gets access to body cam footage, arrest statistics, everything they've been stonewalling us trying to get via FOIA requests. Marius will have a hundred plus subpoenas ready to go the minute I'm arrested on the grounds that my arrest was retaliatory. And if all that happens to get leaked to the public, well…”

He shrugged, and Grantaire just stared at him. “And if, God fucking forbid, you’re actually found guilty?”

“Then I'm prepared to do my time in service of all the people who are unjustly doing time for crimes they didn't commit.”

Enjolras had prepared for this moment so many times before he decided to just end things with Grantaire, prepared for Grantaire to yell and rage and tell him what an idiot he was. The breakup had seemed the easier route to take, but he should’ve known it would come out anyway, that he’d have to sit through it anyway, and he squared his shoulders, ready for anything.

Anything except Grantaire swallowing, nodding, and telling him simply, “Ok.”

Enjolras’s automatic defense of the Cause died on his lips, and he stared at Grantaire. “What?” he asked, his voice cracking.

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “Do you need me to repeat myself?”

“No, I just—” Enjolras shook his head. “I sort of expected you to try to stop me.”

Grantaire snorted. “I learned a long time ago that I can’t stop you from doing anything.”

“Maybe not, but…” It was Enjolras’s turn to have a sudden realization, this time seeing the stubborn set of Grantaire’s jaw, the resigned lines that braced his body. He knew what Grantaire was planning, because he’d threatened it before, during one of their fights, when Enjolras had said he was leaving and Grantaire had pinned him down and told him that if he did, Grantaire would follow him. 

(“You’d follow me?” Enjolras had repeated, his anger seeping out of him. “Even if I went all the way to Timbuktu?”

“Firstly, I have no idea what you think you’d do in Mali, but yeah, even all the way to Timbuktu.” Grantaire had leaned in and kissed him. “Face it,” he had whispered, “you’re stuck with me.”)

And Enjolras could see it on Grantaire’s face – he intended to make good on that threat.

“No.”

“No, what?” Grantaire asked.

“No,” Enjolras repeated. “I know that look, and Grantaire, you cannot—”

Grantaire shrugged, nonchalant. “Well, unfortunately for you, you are going to be in police custody, so you won't be able to stop me.” He leveled a look at Enjolras. “Will you.”

Enjolras shook his head. “Don’t be an idiot,” he snapped. “I’ve made my choice, and I know it’s not one you agree with, but it is what it is. But you—”

“If you think there is any world in which I would not follow you, you're out of your damn mind.”

Grantaire said it easily, pleasantly even, but his words were edged with steel. Enjolras shook his head and stood, grabbing his clothes to give himself something to do besides sit there and stare at him. “So, what, you’re just going to commit some crime so you get arrested, too?” he scoffed. “You don’t exactly have the kind of arrest record I do. Drunk and disorderlies don’t exactly hold the same weight as inciting domestic terrorism, so it’s not like you can guarantee you’ll get sent to jail.”

“Sure I will,” Grantaire said cheerfully. “Mandatory minimums are a bitch, haven’t you heard?”

Enjolras knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Grantaire would figure out a way to pull it off. Even if it took him multiple arrest attempts, or doing something unbelievably, irredeemably stupid. 

Just like he knew that he had to do everything in his power to stop him. 

“I can’t let you do that,” he said sharply. “Not for me.”

Grantaire just cocked his head slightly. “Don’t you understand?” he asked, something almost gentle in his voice. “If you were in there and I was out here…” He trailed off and shook his head. “I couldn’t live like that.” His expression tightened. “I won’t live like that.”

“That’s insane.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “But like you, my choice was made a long time ago. Whether we’re together or not.” He looked up at Enjolras. “You jump, I jump. Simple as that.”

Enjolras’s throat felt tight. “You can’t—” he repeated, but Grantaire just smiled at him, and the words of protest died on Enjolras’s lips.

“I would love to see you try to stop me,” Grantaire said softly, and he stood, crossing to Enjolras to kiss him once more. 

Enjolras caught Grantaire’s hand. “You’re asking me to choose you over everything I have worked for,” he said, his voice tight.

Grantaire shook his head. “I’m really not,” he told him evenly. “I learned a long time ago that the outcome of that choice would not be one that favored me.”

“But I can’t let you do this.”

“No more than I can let you go to prison without me,” Grantaire said, leaning in to kiss the corner of Enjolras’s mouth. “6 to 30 years is a long time. And I…” He shrugged, something catching in his voice. “I mean, I’d probably survive that long without you. But I sure as shit don’t want to.”

Enjolras couldn’t stop himself from kissing Grantaire again, a searing kiss that he could only hope captured everything he couldn’t bring himself to say. “What if I broke up with you again?” he asked when they resurfaced for air, his lips so close to Grantaire’s still that they were practically sharing the same breath.

Grantaire laughed breathily. “You tried that once already,” he whispered. “And yet here we are.”

“Here we are,” Enjolras repeated, the reality of it hitting him, the magnitude of what they faced hitting him. “So where does that leave us?”

“Pretty sure that was my question originally,” Grantaire told him with a smirk, though his smile faded slightly when he saw the look on Enjolras’s face. “Same place we’ve always been,” he said with a sigh. “At an impasse.”

“An impasse.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Your choice has been made, and so has mine. You jump, I jump.” He hesitated. “And even though I know I don’t need it, I’d still like your permission.”

Enjolras took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can give you that,” he said.

Grantaire just smiled again, a little crookedly. “Maybe not,” he agreed. “But thankfully, we’ve still got a few days of being stuck in here for me to try to convince you.”

“I love you,” Enjolras said, a little desperately, even though he knew repeating it wasn’t going to change Grantaire’s mind, any more than the opposite would.

“I love you, too,” Grantaire said, taking Enjolras hand and lacing their fingers together. “After everything. Despite everything. Because of everything. And as much as I wish it were enough – as much as I wish I were enough – I get why you’re making the choice you’re making.” He squeezed Enjolras’s hand. “I just hope you understand the same.”

Enjolras wasn’t sure that he did, or that he ever would, but he knew that it didn’t matter. Not anymore. “So we’re at an impasse.”

“Yup.”

Enjolras nodded slowly. “Well. At least there’s no one else I’d rather be at an impasse with.”

Grantaire half-smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

[thedumpsterqueen]

Standards of Performance

Here it is!!!!! First chapter of my first fic on my new AO3! This is a multi-chapter, slow burn work. Please let me know what you think, I welcome screaming and incoherent asks about our fave special agent in my inbox. Full text under the cut, or you can find it through the AO3 link below.

AO3 link

Summary:  You're the BAU's newest intern, desperate to prove yourself amongst an established team of much more experienced profilers. Agent Hotchner, the seemingly infallible team leader, sets strict expectations for your performance. He commands your respect without even trying, but is there something more to your relationship than a simple desire to impress your stony-faced boss?

Chapter: 1, Coffee Stains and Neckties

Words: 2388

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Pairings: Hotch x Reader, Hotch x You

Warnings: Not much for this chapter specifically, but let’s just assume general gore and murder stuff, explicit language, and sexual content are fair game form here on out.

Enjoy! I’ll try to update weekly, if not more often. I’ll let you know when I have a more defined schedule!

“Fucking SHIT!”

You cursed as you felt the (very, very) hot coffee soak your new skirt. Grabbing as many paper towels as you could with one hand, you tried to sop up the mess on the floor. The stain on your outfit? A shame, but nothing compared to marring the assuredly expensive cream color of the BAU’s breakroom carpet.

A low chuckle sounded off behind you, and you froze.

For the love of god, please don’t be…

“Morgan! Please tell me you have carpet cleaner, oh my god. I don’t even know how that happened.”

Morgan grinned, as he typically did, sauntering into the breakroom with his hands in his pockets. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, the janitor's got it later. I was looking for you, team meeting in five. You all good? You look a little - ” he paused, probably searching for a descriptor that wouldn’t sting too bad, “ - rushed.”

You stood up, sighing. He was right, after all. You had stayed up late last night poring over psychology textbooks and only just woken up in time to leave your apartment. As the BAU’s newest profiling intern - whatever the hell that actually meant - the pressure of performing to seasoned profilers’ standards manifested in spending practically all your free time buried in research. Hence why your hair was coated in unbelievable amounts of dry shampoo, you were wearing your unflatteringly oversized glasses instead of your usual contacts, and why your frantic attempt at pouring yourself a cup of coffee when you got into work had resulted in the giant wet spot currently soaking your skirt.

At least the skirt was black.

“You’re right. Late night,” you said, rolling your eyes at Morgan’s suggestive eyebrow waggle.

“Not like that, I wish. Just trying to catch up. Don’t really want to repeat last week’s disaster,” you mumbled, referring to the first time you actually got to question a suspect, which had ended up with a wad of saliva hawked in your face. It was only your third week in the position, but damn, if that hadn’t let the wind out of your sails a bit.

“Hey, what did I tell you then?” Morgan asked, as you walked out of the breakroom together. “You’re not a true profiler until you get assaulted by a serial killer!”

“I’m not a true profiler until I finish the year long training program,” you pointed out, “so I think I could do without the spit in the meantime.”

Morgan laughed, opening the door of the team’s briefing room for you. “Well if we’d known you were gonna be so picky, we might have gone with someone else.”

“Who’s picky?” asked Emily, looking up from her seat.

While Morgan laughed and launched into a dramatic retelling of the event as if the entire team hadn’t already fucking seen it in real time, you took your seat at the table. Reid nodded in acknowledgment, and you returned it with a small smile. Damn if he wasn’t handsome, and ridiculously smart to boot, but you were pretty sure your chances with him withered and died when you asked him what he was doing after work last Friday and he answered with, “Reading.” Point taken.

Hotch swiveled in his chair to face the table and you suddenly became acutely aware of how much of a mess you probably looked. It’s not that you cared about his opinion regarding your general appearance beyond the basic standard of professional attire, but his always-intense gaze and stony expression had a way of making you second guess even your most confidently held opinions.

“Sit,” he said, his voice cutting through the rest of the team’s animated chatter.

It would have been hard not to notice how quickly they obliged, not out of fear, but rather a respect and deference so deeply ingrained that it almost gave you goosebumps. You’d never thought of yourself as a follower, per say, but if Hotch was what a leader looked like, you certainly didn’t fit into that category either.

He scanned the table, stopping on you. “New glasses?” he asked, with a single, slightly raised eyebrow.

“I, um, not really, just didn’t have time to put my contacts in,” you stammered.

“Hm,” Hotch said, “They look nice.”

Your cheeks suddenly felt hot, and you thanked him quickly, looking down at your shoes to conceal the pink that was probably spreading across your face. Hotch had a way of speaking that made everything he said sound like the absolute truth, which was probably why such an innocuous little compliment had disarmed you so much.

Still though, jesus christ. Get it the fuck together. You’re not Reid; you’re not smart enough to be this awkward.

Hotch, blessedly ignoring how painful you just made that interaction, addressed the team while JJ passed out files. “We have a new case. Three bodies, all found completely drained of blood in various woods, off hiking trails. Cause of death appears to be blood loss from severed carotid arteries, meaning they were likely strung up and drained before being moved to where they were discovered.”

Reid spoke up first. “Erm, what exactly do you mean by various woods?”

“That’s the unusual thing,” Hotch said, pulling up a map of the southwestern United States on the screen behind him. "Each body was found in a different state, one here, one here, and one here,” pointing to spots in California, Arizona, and Nevada. “However, local police discovered the bodies within hours of each other due to anonymous tip offs, and medical examiners estimate approximately the same time of death for all three.”

Morgan whistled lowly. “So what you’re saying is, this guy kills three victims around the same time and takes a road trip to hide their bodies in places he knows won't be discovered until he calls in.”

“That’s how it appears, yes,” Hotch confirmed.

Rossi shook his head, twirling a pen that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe. “So, how are we splitting this up?”

You whipped your head in his direction. Splitting up? Of course, you should have known it’d only make sense considering the ground to be covered, but your quick mental calculations told you that there were six of them, evenly split into three groups of two, and one odd man out, both in skill and number - you.

“So, who’s getting stuck with me?” you asked, trying to beat everyone to the punch. Not that any of them would voice it, but if you couldn’t project confidence, you figured self-awareness would do.

When you entered the internship as a recent college grad around a month ago, you knew you’d be in way over your head. Everyone else on the team was a seasoned expert, and you were a 20-something with a degree in psychology who somehow managed to charm her way through the interviews of the BAU’s flagship internship program. It’s not that you weren’t smart, you were, of course, but comparatively? You were pretty sure this was shaping up to be a glorified babysitting program, and you were the baby.

“Oh, hush,” JJ said, smiling and shaking her head. You smiled back. JJ had gone out of her way to make you feel welcome, which you were unspeakably grateful for. Between her and Morgan, you sometimes felt like maybe when this year was done, you could actually belong on this team.

Hotch interrupted your pity party. “Rossi, you’re with Reid in Phoenix. JJ and Emily, you’re going to Vegas. Morgan, you and I are going to San Diego.”

He turned to you. “You’re coming with me.”

Your stomach flipped at his words. You knew he had the most to teach you, and you could observe him coordinating the entire investigation from San Diego, but the idea of your performance being directly scrutinized by your boss in such a small group made you more nauseous than excited.

“Please be aware,” he continued, “Garcia is going to have to deal with three times the inquiries as normal. I recommend you only contact her if the information you’re searching for is genuinely too difficult to find yourself.” He gave Morgan a pointed look, to which Morgan raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning.

“We’ll drop teams off as we go,” Hotch said. “Wheels up in thirty.”

____________

As you settled into your seat on the plane, your mind spun, trying to review every piece of psychology knowledge you’d ever encountered. This wasn’t your first case, but it was the first one you got to travel for, which made it feel much more real.

The hours ticked by as the team reviewed the case. You contributed - not much, and nothing they wouldn’t have thought of without you - but it was something. Narcissist, craves attention and spotlight, physically confident enough to detain and murder three women at the same time. The method was throwing the team for a loop, however. Bleeding the victims out was clinical, relatively painless - uncharacteristic of the sexual injuries found on the corpses and the bravado with which the killer executed the rest of the crime.

When you, Hotch, and Morgan trudged off the plane in San Diego, you had been going at the potential profile for hours and even Morgan’s patience was wearing thin.

“Look, Hotch, let’s hold off on speculation until we see the crime scene in person, alright?”

Hotch nodded, and took that as a cue to head straight to the crime scene. You groaned internally - having barely showered this morning and spent half the day on a plane, your greasy hair and coffee-stained skirt would have greatly benefited from a stop at the hotel to freshen up.

It’s not like you have to look good to go stare at a patch of dirt where a dead body used to to be though, right?

____________

Turns out the aforementioned patch of dirt was actually a wooded grove off a hiking trail leading to a nude beach, much to Morgan’s delight. The site itself was uninteresting except for the way the body had been buried - covered up very securely, implying remorse, another characteristic that didn’t make sense with the initial profile.

This commonality between all three crime scenes was hotly debated on the video conference between the entire team when you got back to the hotel. Cross legged on the bed in Hotch’s hotel room, you listened to Reid and Rossi snipe back and forth on the laptop about what the burial method could mean for ten-plus minutes (“It’s clearly just a functional tool to properly hide the body, Reid.” “But you don’t know that, the significance of burial practices can tell us so much more beyond function, it can even tell us about his religious upbringing…”) before Hotch put a stop to it.

“What do you think?” Hotch asked you, turning and looking directly into your gaze. You were suddenly hyperware of the proximity between you two - sitting close enough on the edge of the bed that your thighs were almost touching. Morgan had abandoned his position on the other side of you to stretch out in the armchair by the window halfway through Rossi and Reid’s debate. Hotch’s eyes boring into yours from only a few feet away and the expectant silence of the other team members on the video call spiked your heart rate, and you took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself.

“I… agree with Dr. Reid. I think it means something. The position of the hands, they were crossed across the chest, right? He didn’t need to do that. I don’t know if it means he was remorseful, but it was on purpose. I think.”

Hotch nodded, not breaking eye contact. “Good. Let's move forward with that theory.” He turned back to the laptop. “Let me know how interviews with the loved ones go tomorrow. Let’s find the connection between the victims. Call me if you need anything.” After shutting the laptop, he turned to you and Morgan. “Let’s call it for tonight. Meet me in the lobby at 7 tomorrow.”

Having been excused, you and Morgan made your way to your hotel rooms next to Hotch’s. Morgan wished you goodnight, and you unlocked your door and practically sprinted into your shower.

After you got out, you looked around the room, towel drying your hair. It was nice, much nicer than anywhere you’d ever stayed. The abstract art on the walls and the modern, clean white lines of the furniture were lit by the soft glow of the sunset filtering through the sliding glass doors leading to the balcony overlooking the ocean. You poured yourself a glass of wine from the minibar (a reimbursable travel expense, right?) and stepped onto the balcony, breathing in the ocean air.

“Nice night, hm?”

You jumped, nearly spilling your drink down your front for the second time in less than 24 hours. Hotch was sitting in a chair on his balcony to the left of yours, reclining with his hands behind his head. Despite wearing nothing but your thin hotel robe, you felt the urge to avert your eyes from him. His suit jacket was shucked, tie undone and hanging around his neck, and the top two buttons of his white, collared shirt were unbuttoned. You felt like you were seeing something you shouldn’t have, like the cold stoniness of his exterior had shifted just slightly and allowed you a glimpse underneath.

It’s just a couple buttons, calm down. You’re the one who’s barely clothed in front of your fucking boss.

“It is. Shame we can’t go to the beach,” you replied, keeping your eyes forward.

Oh my god, three women were murdered and I just complained to my boss about not being able to go to the beach.

“You’re welcome to get up early and go tomorrow; might be a bit cold,” Hotch replied. You could tell from his voice he was smiling.

You mumbled in affirmation, continuing to avoid glancing in his direction. “Well, I just wanted to see the view, um, I’m gonna get to bed. Goodnight, Agent Hotchner!” You ducked back into your room, and you could have sworn you heard him chuckle before you slid the door shut.

After getting ready, beating yourself up mentally for your complete social incompetence, and tucking in under the plush, white duvet, you drifted off to sleep.

[justafandomfollower]

Thoughts on Stargirl S02E01

Season 2 is here! So, I watched the first episode last night and, while I don’t often do this for TV shows I watch, wanted to share/write up my thoughts about the episode. I mean, overall, I thought it was really good and I was grinning like a loon to see the familiar characters back onscreen. But, more than that, I had some thoughts on individual characters.

First, I really really liked the way they handled Courtney’s “overworking” as Stargirl. A lot of other shows would have the debate about how being Stargirl is dangerous and she’s just a teenager, etc., etc. But they hashed that out last season, and they’re not bringing it up again here, which should be the bare minimum but ends up just being refreshing. Pat never says she needs to put away the staff (except for that last bit where he grounds her, and even that’s temporary). Instead, he cautions her to find a balance between the superhero and non-superhero parts of her life, to pass her classes, get good grades, get some sleep, learn to take breaks every now and again, and think about her future.

I do think Courtney will ultimately be proven right about the threats that are out there (I mean, duh, we saw Cindy and Eclipso right there), but nothing Pat said was wrong, or telling her that there were no threats. So, yeah. Big fan of that part. As for Green Lantern’s daughter, while Courtney was her usual “act first, think later” self, I also kind of can’t blame her, because someone did sneak into their house and steal important JSA relics. There were faults on both sides here.

The rest of my thoughts I’ve thrown under a read-more because it’s long and rambling:

I’m pretty solid and happy with where the other three JSA kids are at the moment, but I figured I’d still break it down a little.

Yolanda: I like that she’s struggling with what she did, even months later. I like that she knows she can’t say anything at church, I like that she’s still able to talk about it with Courtney, and I like that Courtney was supportive without outright agreeing with or condemning her actions. It’s a tough thing for kids to talk about, and while an experienced adult like Pat might be able to understand it better, I like that Yolanda’s not completely bottling it up.

On that note, though, they said Cindy might have gotten crushed when the satellite came down, “like Brainwave”, so there’s a possibility here that nobody else knows what Yolanda did, which’ll be interesting to see play out, if that’s true.

Rick: Again, I like where he’s at. He’s more confident in who he is, a little more settled, but also still lost. He claims Tyler as his name again and knows he’s a hero, but he doesn’t know where he goes from here. I think that’s part of why he’s seeking out Grundy, because he’s still clinging to that part of his past because he doesn’t have any clue of what’s in his future.

He’s still very much an angry teenager new at being a superhero, ranting to that teacher about how he saved her, but knowing his character (and acknowledging how crappy that teacher was), I can’t entirely blame him for that. Was it a good move? No. Did it make sense? Absolutely.

Speaking of that teacher, she was not a good one. Can I understand her wariness about the bad boy of the school suddenly getting every answer right? Sure. But, 1) it’s been months, so surely there’s been some gradual improvement, 2) that’s not the way to do it; talk to him about it, sure, but don’t refuse to accept his explanations, and 3) refusing to accept his name change is a jerk move that a figure of authority shouldn’t be making. I could wave away the first one from TV-time-skipping-magic, but not the other two. I don’t really think we’ll see this character again (but maybe in summer school), but she’s more of a vessel to show us 1) how Rick’s changed and 2) how the way others see him hasn’t, so, I suppose, in that regard, she did her job.

Beth: It’s neat that the goggles still seem to be (mostly) working, but it’s the AI that’s not functioning. Not the route I’d thought they’d go, but it’s really interesting because it gives Beth a chance to expand her skill set, or at least expand it to the viewer, and give her a role as a coder/computer scientist. It also doesn’t cheapen the “death” of the AI that happened last season.

Also, like the others (Rick at school with the teachers, Courtney and Yolanda having a discussion in the middle of main street, even Pat with STRIPE), she’s not great at hiding her activities. They’re just goggles, maybe, and she could explain them away fairly easy, but I don’t like the way she just leaves them out around the house. I’m okay with it for now because 1) she’s a teenager, still learning, and they are pretty innocuous, 2) some of it’s probably just TV “requirements”, like not wanting to cut from scene to scene or whatever (idk, I’m not in the TV business), and 3) her parents seem pretty clueless.

And speaking of her parents, man did I not like them even more this season. Every time I saw them on screen my mind went straight to: “good people, terrible parents”. Did they ever even want a kid, or did they just like the idea of having a kid to fit into their “perfect lives” until even that wasn’t enough to keep them together? They’re barely aware of what Beth does on a day to day basis, she still seems to be the one doing all the cooking, and they forget to tell her they’re coming home late? Bad parenting, and selfish parenting at that.

Overall, my mood about Beth this episode can be summed up like this: Do I like Beth struggling? No. Does it open up possibilities for what could be a really intriguing character arc? Yeah.

My biggest complaint about our JSA is that there weren’t really any scenes of them together, but that’s more of the time constraints of having so many characters we needed to get concrete information on regarding where they stand. They had that nice patrol scene in the beginning to let us know they’re all still solid friends, so I’m happy enough with that for now.

Other thoughts:

Barbara wasn’t really in it much (no mention of her job, though the newspaper article did say something about The American Dream going through changes after the death of its leader or something like that), but I can sympathize with her wanting a vacation and not getting one. It’ll be interesting to see how okay she is with Courtney as Stargirl as things get more dangerous.

Mike, likewise, wasn’t much present, but it’s clear he’s still struggling to be a part of things. Pat wasn’t wrong, when he said that the discipline, etc. from having a job was important, but it still feels like he’s brushing Mike aside and not letting him be involved, so I can see some more resentment brewing this season. Better than last season, but c’mon Pat. Mike just wants to help. Still, hopefully we’ll get a better idea of where Mike stands in future episodes.

Artemis. Really interesting the way she brushed aside her parents being in jail as them being wrongly convicted. I’ve seen Young Justice, so I’m looking forward to seeing if they turn her into a villain or hero here.

Zeek. (Is that how he spelled it? It looked like that on his hat.) I’m, probably unnecessarily, wary of how interested he was in working with Pat at the show (does he know something?) but for now I’m mostly just mildly amused at his “I don’t care what you do on your time, but hey, do you think that robot could use a flamethrower?”. Also. Pat. C’mon man. You’ve been in this business for decades. Hide your robot better. (Though, I’ll admit, he was only resigned when he realized Zeek had found it, so... Did he have an excuse ready? Did he just not read Zeek as a threat? I’m probably reading too much into this, but it’ll again be interesting to see where it goes.)

Cameron’s back, seemingly unaware of everything, and it looks like his murderous grandparents are taking care of him. Not great, but, eh, we’ll see what happens.

Sylvester is still tracking down Pat. I’m a little bit glad the landlord either didn’t give him, or didn’t have, Pat’s information from that end scene last season. I’m also interested to see if Maggie (Mike’s Mom, if my understanding of comics I haven’t read is correct) sticks around. Sylvester seems supremely unworried and in a mostly good mood, despite his desire to track down Pat, so I really want to know what’s up with him. I’ve seen some fan theories of time travel and him being a displaced Starman, which could be interesting, but I have no idea if they’re accurate. He certainly seems to be the real deal, at least with all the right memories.

Cindy and Eclipso. That opening scene was creepy, and made me question if I’d turned on the right show, and the connection with the McNider family is really interesting. Did not like the way she had Mike’s picture, but from a writing POV I really liked it. I don’t want Mike to go villain, but I mostly trust the writers to see how this plays out.

Other thoughts: The town seems to have moved on from the mind control/satellite-dish-from-the-football-field thing, so I’m guessing there weren’t too many causalities. New principal makes sense, and I like that they didn’t need to shove it in our face to remind us what happened to the old one (plus that scene where Courtney bumps into her kid; nice and simple and shows a little of how he’s coping). I appreciate that Henry hasn’t been forgotten. No glimpse of Yolanda’s home life yet, or Rick’s uncle. No idea how Rick managed to change his name, but the threat he was hiding from is more or less gone, so it makes sense.

I may have forgotten something here or there, but anyone who’s made it this far deserves a cookie, so, thanks for reading! I’m always up for discussion if anyone wants to add on or debate any of my points.

[3pirouette]

Fic: Virtual Insanity: Career Opportunities (1/1)

Title: Virtual Insanity: Career Opportunities By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette Disclaimer: They're not mine. Word Count: Distribution: AO3 Anyone else please ask first :)

Story Summary: It’s career day on Mr. Roger’s Zoom class, and Peggy needs to come up with something, quick. Sequel to Virtual Insanity.

Chapter A/N: I needed to write something fluffy and I’ve been DYING to find a way to get back to this little universe. This satisfies the “Sharon Carter” square for my Steggy Bingo. (We’re not talking about FATWS/CAATWS right now. I can’t. I just can’t.)

~*~

Don’t be mad at me.

The text itself was fairly innocuous, but her brain started to race, anyway. Peggy’s fingers flew over the keyboard, texting back: Is there a reason I should be?

She stared at the phone screen, waiting while the three little dots that meant he was typing appeared and disappeared twice over. Now she was worried.

“Aunt Peggy?” Sharon’s voice carried through her small apartment.

Peggy hummed a question in her closed mouth as the girl took off her headphones and bounded towards her, but the phone vibrated in her hands and pulled her attention back.

The Principal decided to observe me today instead of Thursday. Said he wanted to see a more interactive lesson plan, so I had to switch things up on short notice. I swear I was going to give you a heads up.

Before she could ask him anything else, Sharon sat herself next to Peggy at the tiny kitchen table, her notebook and pencil in hand. “Mr. Rogers gave us an assignment and I have thirty minutes to do it before I have to go back to my class and talk to them about it.”

Peggy smiled tight, the girl missing the tension in her sigh. “Oh? And what is the assignment?”

Sharon smiled. “I need to ask you questions about what you do for work.”

Peggy nodded, her mind racing as she tried to come up with what she was going to tell her niece. Not sure how you’ll do with the principal, she texted Steve, but that promotion to boyfriend you were looking for might be in serious jeopardy.

She waited a second then sent him a winking emoji, just to lighten up the mood. Having gotten to know Steve as well as she had over the last few weeks, she knew he might think her serious.

“Alright,” Peggy turned and faced Sharon, “how can I help?”

Sharon smiled and wiggled herself around in the chair, picking up her pencil before turning seriously to Peggy. “What do you do for a job?”

The honest answer would have been that she was making an obscene amount of money online by bouncing around her house doing chores in lingerie. That was not, however, the answer she could give to Sharon. “Well,” she bit the corner of her thumbnail and turned her phone over, not wanting to read the text that had just popped up from Steve, “I used to work for a company that helped other companies…” Peggy sighed, she wasn’t sure how to explain corporate espionage to Sharon, either.

Sharon looked up. “What did you do there? How did you help other companies?”

Peggy tapped her nails on the counter nervously, trying to come up with a good example. “Well, the company I worked for helped businesses keep secrets. For instance, you know how that chicken you like always says there are eleven secret herbs and spices?”

Sharon nodded. “Kentucky Fried Chicken!”

Peggy laughed a little. “Yes, well, those eleven are a secret for a reason. It’s what makes the chicken taste good to you.” Peggy leaned in dramatically and Sharon’s eyes widened. “But if everyone knew the secret, anyone who wanted to could make their chicken taste like that, and then that man with the silly bowtie—”

“Colonel Sanders,” Sharon interjected as she made some notes.

“Yes, he would have a hard time making money from the recipe he developed because it wasn’t a secret anymore. I helped other companies keep their secrets.” Peggy smiled to herself as the girl wrote furiously, satisfied. She wasn’t sure if she’d managed to make her job understandable to an 8-year-old, but it was close enough for now.

Sharon stared at her seriously. “And did you get to know the secrets or do you just have to stop other people from finding out?”

“Sometimes I got to know them, but most of the time I just had to help hide them, or help the company have enough security.”

Peggy’s stress melted away as Sharon asked her question after question and she was able to answer honestly, if not a little vaguely, for the next fifteen minutes. When she ran out of questions, Peggy cut her up an apple and put that and a spoonful of peanut butter on a plate for her at the table, where she waited for her class to start again with her snack.

Finally, she picked up her phone again.

I am so, so sorry. Really, I am. It was planned for Friday. I was going to tell you on Facetime tomorrow. I’ll have her go last. Billy Ryan can TALK. I’ll just let that kid go and maybe we’ll run out of time. Principal Clark won’t know the difference.

Peggy smiled, letting her fingers fly over the keyboard. Did you not see the ;)? It’s fine, and I’m not upset. Good luck on your evaluation and call me when it’s over. She paused for a second, watching Sharon put on her headphones and knowing her texts wouldn’t get an answer until their next break.

Peggy pulled out her own laptop and reviewed her e-mails. She was, in point of fact, looking for a new job. While the Only Fans was a surprising source of a lot of income, she was missing the excitement of her old field. There still weren’t many jobs to go around, but she found new ones each day and applied. Talking to Sharon, however coded, made her miss the day to day of corporate espionage: finding new ways to secure and protect trade secrets, while simultaneously trying to extract others. It had been challenging and thrilling work, and she missed it. While there was something to be said for the ease of her newest endeavors, it wasn’t the challenge she wanted or needed.

She smiled over the edge of her laptop as Sharon asked a question about dogs. Seemed a parent was a trainer or a vet of some sort. She could just barely see the screen from where she was, the Brady Bunch like squares filled with smiling little faces as they talked and asked questions. Steve was sitting in his own square in the upper right corner, smiling away as he listened intently and there was a fairly neutral man in the bottom left she assumed was Mr. Clark. She’d heard a bit about the administrator, but not enough to have an opinion on the man.

She posted her resume on a job-hunting site and crossed her fingers yet again. Six months of getting dressed up for a camera was enough for her. She wanted more.

More from a job, and more from Steve.  

They’d been talking nearly every night, facetiming, too, and had met just once, socially distanced, in the park in the fall for lunch. His mother, who lived in the apartment next to him and that he took care of, was considered high risk. He’d been apologetic, but careful about how and when he went out, and it was something she appreciated about him. She’d asked him, quite seriously, to be her steady significant other, but he’d flat out refused until he could take her out on a proper date. It was a conversation that had both made her fall a little more in love with him and completely frustrated her at the same time.

He was getting his second dose of the vaccine next week, and she was scheduled for a week after that. She already knew exactly which dress she was going to wear when that fourteen-day waiting period was up.

It was red and tight and screamed anything but staying socially distant.

She was daydreaming, one she had often, about pushing him back on that desk of his and straddling him, her dress riding up her thighs as his hands followed, kissing him and laying him down and taking him right there, when Sharon’s voice rang out loudly in the room.

“Ok. So, my Mom and Dad are at work, but I do school with my Aunt Peggy so I asked her the questions.” Peggy looked down at her watch. They had only ten minutes left in the morning session before lunch, but apparently that was enough for one more kid. Stupid Billy Ryan. Peggy closed her email and moved her laptop, listening. “So, my Aunt Peggy lost her job, which is why she can watch me, but before that she had a job she was really good at and she really liked. She worked for a company that I’m not allowed to tell you the name of, but for her job…”

Sharon took a deep breath and leaned into the screen. “For her job, she protects the recipe for KFC chicken.”

Peggy’s head fell in her hands as she heard the gasps of excitement from the kids. She couldn’t believe, after twenty minutes of questions, that was what the girl had understood.

“Sometimes, she protects the chickens. And sometimes, she tries to get the recipes from other places. She didn’t tell me exactly, but I think I guessed it and she just couldn’t say.”

~*~

Peggy laid back against the pillows, wine in hand, waiting for Steve to pick up his facetime. She’d just finished a short online session. Her heart hadn’t been in it, but she’d needed something to do while Steve was finishing his review with the principal after Sharon had been picked up.

His face popped on the screen and he wasted no time, slyly smiling. “So, you protect the KFC recipe?” She just shook her head, but he laughed. “I mean, I gave you a solid five minutes, you couldn’t come up with anything better?”

Peggy laughed loudly at that, leaning back into the pillows. “I swear, I did not tell that child I protected the KFC recipe.”

Steve lifted his phone and moved around his apartment, pulling a beer out of the fridge and sitting heavily on his couch before he set his phone on the table. “So, what did you tell her, exactly?”

“The truth!” Peggy sat up, pulling her robe tight around her. “I mean, how do you describe corporate espionage to an eight-year-old?”

“Corporate espionage?” Steve almost choked on his mouthful of beer. He sat up, eyes still wide with surprise. “You went from corporate espionage to an Only Fans?”

Peggy shrugged. “I wasn’t in IT. When everyone started working from home the demand was in IT because they had to lock down computer systems and access codes.” She sat up and took a long drink of her wine. “Quite frankly it was a move that was coming, anyway. More and more information is just digital.”

“So, uh,” Steve’s fingers played with the label on his bottle, “So you did what, exactly?”

Peggy bit her bottom lip and bent towards the camera. “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you,” she purred out.

Steve feigned getting hit, grabbing his chest and falling back. “Ouch, Aunt Peggy.”

She hummed at him, humoring his silliness while she played with her glass. She sighed. “I think my favorite part was where she literally told the children I protect the chickens. As if I were a farmer out there with a pitch fork keeping coyotes away!”

Steve started laughing far harder than was necessary. “Oh, I am getting the best mental image.”

Peggy rolled her eyes and laid back in the bed. “Oh? Do tell.”

“I’m thinking…” He smiled, took a deep breath and leaned back, his eyes sparkling. Little Daisy Duke short shorts, maybe a tied up plaid shirt, some dirty cowboy boots…” Steve drifted off closing his eyes, his smile growing wider.

Peggy laughed. “Oh really? Should I put my hair in pigtails, too?”

His head popped up, a guilty look crossing his features. “Well, I mean…”

She bit her lip at his stammering. “Your image of me protecting chickens and my image of me protecting chickens are vastly different images.”

Steve could only shrug.

~*~

The link that she texted him wasn’t familiar, but he trusted her by now. He clicked it, ready for anything.

When the video connected his jaw dropped.  

Peggy, in her shortest jean shorts and a tied up red gingham shirt he was sure was so small it must have been a handkerchief in a previous life, was standing in front of a green screened video of chickens in a chicken coop.

She smiled widely at him, putting on her best American accent. “Howdy, Partner!”

He laughed so hard he dropped his phone.

[iam93percentstardust]

AU-gust Day 23: Arranged Marriage

Requested by @maguna-stxrk for a Stevetony AU! I can pretty much guarantee that I've mixed and matched fairy lore and that not everything is going to be accurate so take this with a grain of salt

Also on ao3 here

~

Tony wouldn’t say he’s catatonic with fear, exactly. He’s a Stark after all and Stark men are made of iron. Not that that seems to have done him much good. If he were really made of iron, the fairies wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with him.

Anyway, he’s not catatonic with fear. He just…has a healthy level of concern. It’s perfectly normal in his situation. Expected, even! He dares anyone to not be…concerned when they find out that their father traded them to the fairy king in return for genius intellect. He gives Howard a sideways glare. Stupid Howard with his stupid arrogance and greed trading him to the stupid fairy king and then! And then! He tied him up and slung him over the back of a horse so he couldn’t escape!

He’s going to have bruises on his ribs from the jostling of the horse, he just knows it. He scowls again, this time to himself.

The worst part, he thinks, is that Howard doesn’t even seem to care that he’s traded away his only son. Tony can kind of understand promising your firstborn child to the fairies nineteen years ago when your wife isn’t even pregnant and you have no plans of having a child but once Tony had been born nine months later (and it does make him wonder if the fairies had made sure that Howard and Maria would have a child) he would have thought that that would instill some worry in most fathers. Howard, though, Howard hadn’t even hesitated when they received the missive three days ago on Tony’s eighteenth birthday, reminding them of his bargain.

If this were a story, Howard would have done everything in his power to make sure that the fairies wouldn’t take his child. But this is real life and apparently, Howard doesn’t give a shit that he’s never going to see his son again. To be fair, under different circumstances, Tony would be ecstatic never to see Howard again but he’s really not certain that being traded to the fairies is any better than where he’d been before.

They come to a stop in a clearing in the middle of the forest just outside a fairy ring and Tony shudders just looking at the small, innocuous circle of red and white mushrooms. Howard loops the horse’s reigns around a tree branch and hauls Tony down from its back like he’s nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Then he takes one deliberate step inside the fairy ring.

And they wait.

It takes an age.

It takes an instant.

Tony isn’t even entirely certain when the shift happens but between one second and the next, the light seems brighter, the colors sharper. The very air smells sweeter like Mama’s orchards in the spring. And out of a door in a tree comes a fairy.

And it is a fairy. His features are just a little too…off to be human. His armor is made out of a material that Tony has never seen before—he thinks that maybe, if he weren’t so terrified, he would itch to get his hands on it. Then there are the wings: two of them, in shades of red and grey and white that Tony doesn’t think exist in his world. They look incredibly delicate but he’d be willing to bet that they’re stronger than Tony himself.

It doesn’t seem to matter to the fairy that he himself isn’t in the fairy circle and in some distant corner of Tony’s mind, he wonders if that’s because they’re already in the fairy kingdom, if by stepping into the circle, they entered another world entirely.

“Nineteen years already?” the fairy asks and his voice is a low rumble that calls to mind the shifting of rocks.

Beneath him, Tony can feel Howard tremble and he viciously thinks, Good. Now you know how I feel.

“He turned eighteen three days ago,” Howard says, bowing a little. It’s the first time in his life that Tony has ever heard him be quiet. Howard is bluster and anger and fighting, not this tremulous man that makes Tony wonder if he had been like that before the deal with the fairies.

“He’s tied,” the fairy observes.

“He didn’t want to come.”

The corner of the fairy’s mouth twitches. “Small wonder,” he murmurs. “Set him on his feet. Let me see what King Steven is getting.”

Steven? What a thoroughly…ordinary name for the fairy king. Tony’s actually disappointed by it. The fairy laughs out loud and Tony frowns. Is he laughing at Tony? Because of how small and scrawny he is? Is he laughing at something else entirely? What could have amused him?

“I can read minds, little human,” the fairy tells him and Tony startles, nearly toppling over as Howard lets go of him. “That’s why the king made me the guardian of the entrance.”

He can read minds? The thought is intriguing enough that, despite his fear, Tony’s brain kickstarts into gear, wondering about whether the fairy can read emotions or intentions, if he can only read surface thoughts or if he can tell that Tony is terrified underneath his glassy calm. How far does his range go? Can he—

The fairy laughs again and tells him, “I’ll tell you everything once you come with me.���

Tony narrows his eyes, looking at him suspiciously. It sounds like a trap. Isn’t that what everyone always says? Be wary of the fairies, their every word is a trick. But he’s going with the fairy anyway and it’s not like he’ll be able to leave once he’s there. He was promised to the fairies even before his conception. There’s no changing that.

He glances back at Howard. He knows what lies behind him: a lifetime of living in Howard’s shadow, being yelled at and taunted and unloved by the person who should love him best. Ahead of him? It’s a little murkier. He knows that he’s meant for the fairy king and he knows what everyone always says about the fairies. But—but he’s been promised answers and he’s unwanted back home anyway and—

The ropes fall away from him with one glance of the fairy’s eyes.

Tony jumps again and asks, “How much can you do?”

The fairy smiles, revealing a neat row of sharp teeth. He glances at Howard, who freezes. “He won’t be able to hear us and when he wakes, he will not know how much time has passed,” the fairy says. “I will answer any questions you have before you come with me and if you don’t like them, I won’t force you to share the king’s bed.”

It’s easy to spot the trap there: this fairy might not force him but there are others who might. But even the promise itself is reassuring.

“What is he like?” Tony asks quietly.

The fairy’s eyes light up with genuine delight. “He’s an idiot,” he says fondly. “He’s awkward and brave and kind. You’ll probably wonder how he can lead an entire kingdom, how he made an entire race of backstabbers and tricksters want to change their ways and the answer is this: he inspires you to want to do better. It’s irritating, really, it is. But he inspires loyalty and trust in his followers. And he’ll absolutely adore you.”

“Me?”

The fairy nods but he doesn’t elaborate. “What do you say, Howard’s child?”

Tony hesitates only a moment longer. He knows what’s behind him and what lies ahead sounds like an adventure. He steps forward, out of the ring, toward the fairy. “I say yes.”

“Perfect,” the fairy purrs. “Let’s get you home and cleaned up. You can’t meet the king smelling of horse.” As they’re walking back through the tree, the fairy casually asks, “Can I have your name?”

Tony knows this one: if he lets the fairy have his name, it’ll belong to him and not to Tony. But he has two names and one of them, he no longer answers to.

“Anthony,” he says easily and the fairy laughs.

“A name without power,” he says. “You’ll do very well with us.”

In the forest, Howard awakens alone.

[shurisneakers]

espresso [13]

Summary: In which your best friend’s brother begins to set you up on dates when you mention that you haven’t been in a relationship in years, but things don’t go as expected.

Warning:  angst, pining 

Word count: 2.1k (???)

A/N: hi !  all my love to @samingtonwilson​ for making me not sound like a 6 year old when i write this never-ending series and for being a true queen ! we stan an icon

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous part- Part 12 || Espresso Masterlist

To Bucky:

Can we talk?

From Bucky:

Coffee shop at 7?

To Bucky:

Okay.

It almost felt like déjà vu. But this time you were nervous, and not nearly as much as you were confused– a stark contrast to the meeting you had at this very location months ago to start this deal.

It was deserted– for now.

You knew the crowd would pick up gradually as students filtered in for their daily dose of caffeine, so you didn’t have much time.

You took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and let the bell above you jingle. A joyous sound for something so… jumbled up.

Bucky perked up at the noise, pausing momentarily from cleaning the counter.

I got this. I got this.

“Hey.” He sent a tiny lopsided smile your way as you took your place at one of the stools before the counter.

I don’t got this.

“Hey.” The confidence you’d felt just outside was beginning to slip away.

Fuck.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked politely, gesturing around to the menus in front of you. It was almost eerie how uncharacteristically silent your surroundings were.  

“No, I’m good. Thank you though.”

He nodded as he pulled a stool towards him to sit. The counter separated the two of you. “We have about thirty minutes before the usuals start coming in.”

“Okay.”

Be brave. Be brave. Be brave.

“Did you read it? The letter?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

And it scared the shit out of me.

“Fucking hell,” you cursed, sighing lightly. “I’m so confused, James. It was so fucking confusing.”

“Why?”

“Because of the dates. Every time I thought there may be a hint of something more, you’d set me up on another date with some other guy who I didn’t even like. Did you do it on purpose?”

“No. Not consciously at least. I would never,” his voice slowly trailed off.

“But?” you pressed.

“But I did spend time thinking about it and… reflecting, I guess. And I think my defense mechanism or insecurities or whatever did have a role in it, but I never noticed until you pointed it out.”

“That’s a fucking dick move, you know.”

“I know,” he swallowed, tired eyes on the counter flitting up to meet yours. “I’m sorry. Truly. ”

“And what is it with these?” You pointed to the cups in front of you. “Why is everyone so obsessed with these?”

He leaned forward on his forearms. “I used to write little pieces of poetry whenever you came in. Or messages when you didn’t look like you were having a good day. Just innocuous stuff.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you saw them but didn’t care. A bunch of times you threw them away pretty quickly so I kinda figured you were doing it to save me from humiliation. So I just stopped after a while.”

“I didn’t see them.”

“Yes, I know that now.”

“Do you remember some of the stuff you wrote?” you asked hopefully. “Do I get to read it now?”

“All of it.” He laughed and pulled away from the counter. “But you’re not going to see it again. It’s too embarrassing.”

“Why do you hate everything you write so much?”

He shrugged. “I tend to get dramatic a lot. And emotional.”

“That isn’t a bad thing.”

Wordless, he just picked up a cloth to wipe at some glasses he knew were already clean. Until, “Any more questions?”

“Why didn’t you like Rumlow?”

“Oh, come on.” He looked at you like you were kidding, disbelieving. His expression fell when he realized you weren’t.  “Really?”

“Really. We’re getting all the skeletons out now.”

“Because-” a disgruntled sigh, “because he was absolute garbage! He was a fucking dick and I already hated him, but then he went and did that whole thing with Dot-“ he gestured wildly to make up for unfound words.

“-And after that I literally couldn’t look at his face without wanting to punch the living shit out of him.”

If it wasn’t clear by now, you could tell by the clench of his jaw that talking about Rumlow triggered something in Bucky.

Deciding to spare his anger before it spiraled through less important explanations, you pointed at the bandage wrapped around his knuckles. “What happened here?”

“Punched a wall.” That was a lie, you could tell. But you didn’t push it any further. “Pulled a Kyle.”

You rolled your eyes at his outdated joke, but he didn’t seem to mind, going back to wiping at the mugs in silence.

You just watched him breathe through it, his shoulders dropping tight tension as seconds passed.

“You know, you never actually told me what happened at the bar,” he spoke up, attempting to change the topic smoothly, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

“How much do you know?”

“Only what Dot told me, honestly.”

Fucking Dolores.

You groaned. “Dot? Fucking Dot knows about what happened?”

“She doesn’t know anything,” he interrupted before you had the chance to whine more.

You looked at him quizzically.

“It wasn’t my story to tell. She just said that your reaction made her realize there was some kind of history between you and Rumlow because no one leaves so suddenly in the middle of a conversation.”

You were gonna regret this but-

“Why was she in your room that day?”

He titled his head in confusion. “Which day?”

“Your birthday. I came to give you your present and she was wearing your shirt.”

It was like you couldn’t help yourself.

You cleared your throat after a beat, straightening your posture. “Actually, I’m sorry it’s none of my business. I didn’t-“

“Becca spilled her drink on her,” he explained coolly. Not defensive in the least. “I just gave her a shirt so that she didn’t have to stay in that for the rest of the night. Nothing happened between us.”

Oh. Becca had mentioned that she’d spilt her drink on fucking Dolores. Okay, maybe you didn’t connect the story. In anger. Maybe a little jealousy.

“I’m sorry, it wasn’t my place to ask.”

“It’s alright. I was going to clear it up that day but you left so suddenly.” You almost snorted as he continued, “She asked about you after the bar. She was a little worried.”

Slowly, the guilt of disliking her so badly was starting to creep into your mind. You’d always known there was no real reason to.

You owed her an apology basket.

Maybe two.

“What’s going on in your head? I can feel you thinking too much all the way here.”

“Who the hell writes people rejection letters, Bucky?” The thought was absurd enough to warrant a smile from you and a small laugh from him.

“Told you it was dorky.”

“Didn’t realize it was to this degree.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged, not saying anything to defend himself.

You glanced at the clock above the register. You had only ten minutes to go, and almost all the questions you had thought of had been answered.

Almost.

The one thing you wanted to know itched at you, aching to get out but you weren’t sure you had the confidence to just fucking ask-

“You good? Sure I can’t get you a-“

“Do you have feelings for me?” you asked directly. A straight shot.

His eyes widened slightly in surprise. To be honest, you were almost shocked yourself at how blunt you’d just been, but you were so tired. So tired. You wanted it done, out in the open. Clear air for once.

“Like, right now. This instant.”

“Y/N, I-” A sigh. A slow comb of his hands through his hair. A glance to the side.

“The letter, James.” You didn’t break your stare. Didn’t dare. Your heart felt two seconds from bursting through your chest. “You wrote it in the letter that you used to.”

No movement aside from a shift of his gaze downward, focusing on restless fingers. He pursed his lips, another sigh. But he said nothing.

Seconds of silence passed.

It almost felt suffocating.

Your eyebrows were knit together. “Bucky-”

“Yes.” You fell silent as his eyes met yours with little hesitation. “Yes. I do.”

You didn’t know what you were expecting him to say, but you froze. You opened your mouth but shut it again, unable to form any words. Well fuck.

His shrug was nonchalant, but the fall of his shoulders to a defeated slump was anything but. “Y/N, you have to know that our friendship means the world to me, and if this is going to change everything, then please, please stop me right now.” “I-”

“You’re my Mario,” his voice cracked but the corner of his lips tugged upwards. “I can’t afford to lose that.”

You didn’t know what to say. Of course everything it would change things between you. How could it not?

It’s not like you wanted to give up what you had with him. You didn’t know if you were being selfish, but the intensity of whatever it is that you were feeling was there and it hurt.

“Don’t-” he interrupted your train of thought with a restrained, almost forced smile. An attempt at confidence, perhaps. “Don’t overthink this. You really don’t have to say anything.”

“I just-” Bucky continued, another dramatic gesturing of his hands when words fell short. “Figured it was ‘bout time you knew. Properly.”

“Since when?” you sounded unsure.  

“How long? Oh, man.” He laughed softly and shook his head. “Shits, I think it’s been a good couple of years now.”

Silently, you mulled it all over. Sat with it all for a minute.

He smiled, genuine now. No longer forced and tight, but relieved at the loss of the weight on his chest.

He set down the glass he was holding and swung the rag over his shoulder.

“I’m… fuckin’ shit at communication, Y/N,” he admitted as your lips pursed. “You know that. I couldn’t tell you, I couldn’t tell Dot. I couldn’t talk to Becca, forget anyone else. It’s so fucking hard for me to talk about-”

“Feelings?”

“Feelings,” he confirmed, nodding. “Emotions. It’s almost like I can’t. It’s easier just shut up and listen to others talk all the time.”

It made sense.

Even though he asked you not to overthink, everything he did was thought over, and then thought over again, and again and million more times just out of selfless concern.

“It feels selfish. And I hate feeling that way.”

You knew he wasn’t very open but this-

This was new to you. It didn’t shock you like you’d thought it would, but it was still… a little difficult to hear.

“What you feel is important too, you know. Not that you should feel that way, but it’s okay to be a little selfish,” you replied, voice soft.

“Yeah well-“ He paused before shaking his head. “Communicating is just something I have to work on, I guess.”

“Me too, apparently,” was your mumbled response.

All of this could have been avoided if you’d just had this conversation months ago. Like proper adults. Mature adults.

“We both have some serious issues,” he said lightly, cracking a smile at you.

You didn’t respond. You just played with the hem of your scarf, unraveling a piece of thread from the rest of it.

You could hear the sound of cars pulling up to the shop. A glance at the clock confirmed an incoming crowd.

But something felt incomplete.

You felt uneasy.

“Ah fuck, here they come,” he cursed, a quick smoothening his hair before pulling on his barista cap.

You took it as your sign to leave, gathering your few belongings that sat scattered before you.

“I’ll see you around Buck-”

“Y/N.”

You lifted your head to meet his stare.

“I know I shouldn’t really be asking this, but are we- We’re good, right?”

You stopped your own restless fidgeting.

You couldn’t tell him you weren’t sure, could you? Could you tell him that and that you were relieved?

Relieved that it hadn’t been in your head, that there were feelings on his end. Angry, though, that even if his intentions with the dates had been pure, what he did kinda sucked. That misunderstandings which could’ve been solved with a little maturity and a little communication lingered for so long, caused so many sleepless nights.

Could you tell him all of that and how it all hurt?

You knew he wasn’t looking for reciprocation. You knew he didn’t deem himself worthy of it. Even though he was good. Through it all, he was still good. Probably always would be. Too scared to hurt others, too scared to put the weight of his feelings on anyone else.

Maybe that’s why it was so confusing.

It was so fucking confusing.

His stare didn’t waver even as the bell above the door rang, signaling a new customer. Never a lapse in intensity.

“Yeah. I think we’re good.”

[kelyon]

Golden Rings 19: A Friend

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Rumpelstiltskin receives a visitor

Read on AO3

A family stands before him, more terrified than they want to show. The man holds a top hat in both hands. The woman keeps her arms over their daughter.

“Is it true?” the man asks. “What Regina is threatening, can she do it?”

Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin steps toward the huddled family. It is unlike Jefferson to be so serious, unlike Leona to show anything less than brazen self-confidence. The girl may be too young to know what is happening, but she knows that her parents are afraid and that is enough to make her terrified. 

Belle comes up behind him, her hand extended to the child. “Grace,” she says gently, “would you like to visit my horse? Perhaps we could go for a ride.”

The girl looks to her parents. “May I, Mama? Papa?”

“Of course, luv.” Leona releases her grip on her daughter. “Make sure you mind Belle, and don’t get yourself into any trouble you can’t get out of.”

Nodding obediently, the child takes his wife’s hand. Belle gives him an encouraging smile before they go out to the stables. She trusts him to handle the situation on his own. She knows he can assuage their fears. 

Once his daughter is gone, Jefferson leaves his wife and comes up to Rumpelstiltskin. He puts his hands on his shoulders and looks him in the eyes.  “I’m serious,” he says.

“I know you are, my boy.” Delicately, he extracts himself from the other man’s grip. “This is a serious matter.”

“This queen lady told everyone she’s going to destroy the world.” Leona says what they all know but cannot utter. “Does she really have that much power?”

He cannot face them. He turns away, takes long, slow steps around his dining room before he answers. 

“Yes.”  

Jefferson crushes the brim of his hat in one hand. After a moment, he gathers himself. “We’ve seen worlds destroyed before, Dark One. It is a terrible thing.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Yes, you were with me when proud Atlantis sank beneath the waves. A million lives lost in fire and water and lightning. But Regina’s curse is… different. Her purpose is not to destroy the world, but to destroy happiness.”

Leona’s mouth drops open. “And how is killing everyone not the same as all that? Who would be left to be happy, when it’s all over?”

Rumpelstiltskin shakes his head. “No, she wants us alive. Everyone in this world, everyone she considers her enemy. She wants us alive and miserable and trapped in our misery for the rest of time.”

“Gods.” Jefferson collapses into a chair and hangs his head. Leona stands by him and takes his hand into her own. 

“Regina will end this world, and take us all to a new one--a land without happy endings. We will all be severed from the people we love, or even if we are near them, we won’t be able to love them.”

“But why everyone?” Leona asks. “Why us? I never did anything to this woman! What’s she got against me?” 

Walking over to the couple, he places his hand over where theirs are joined. “You are happy,” he says simply. “The two of you have a love that she will never know--and the love of your child besides that. Regina believes that she will never have happiness as long as anyone else does.”

Leona nods, understanding. “So she’s mad, is she?”

“Yes,” Jefferson answers. His blue eyes look out at nothing as he speaks. “I’ve worked with Regina, before I met you, Leo. Once, she commissioned me to take her and a servant girl to Wonderland. Didn’t tell me that this was going to be a rescue mission to save some old man. You know the rules of the hat, only the number of people that go in can come out again. That was why Regina brought the servant girl. She killed her. Ripped her heart out of her chest and crushed it. As easily as blowing her nose. We left the girl’s body there, in the forest of giant mushrooms. So yeah. As they say in Wonderland, Regina is mad as the March Hare.”

Leona holds her husband in both hands, standing over him as she had stood over her daughter earlier. Wincing at the memory, he rests against her bosom 

“What do we do?” For all her comforting posture, Leona looks at Rumpelstiltskin with steely determination. “Can you stop her?”

He raises his hands in a show of helplessness. “Regina is a powerful magic-user and she is on a war-path.”

Hands balled into fists, Leona breaks away from Jefferson and begins to pace. “If my mother were here, she’d hit that woman upside the head with a cauldron, queen or no!”

“Yeah, well Nanny Ogg is from a different world than this one.” Jefferson stays seated in the chair. His hat hangs loosely in his grip.

“It is not hopeless,” Rumpelstiltskin says. “All curses can be broken.”

“Broken after they’ve been cast!” Leona marches up to him, wielding an accusatory finger. “I want to know if you can stop her, stop this curse from ever happening!”

“Leo,” Jefferson stands behind his wife. Gently, he puts his hands on her ample hips and pulls her close to him. “The Dark One is our friend. I’m sure he’s doing everything he can.”

He says nothing. He lets Jefferson’s faith do the talking for him. Jefferson is a clever man, but less shrewd than his wife. The poor boy wants to believe in him, but Leona Ogg has no such sentimentality. She is wise enough to know that if he wanted to stop this curse, it would never have been able to start. 

“You should leave,” he tells them quietly. “The three of you should go in the hat, find some world far from here where you can live out the rest of your days together.”

“If Regina can destroy one world, she’ll find a way to destroy others,” Jefferson points out. 

He shakes his head. “After the curse is cast, Regina will be stopped. A Savior will come, a force of goodness who will destroy her evil forever.”

“But only after we’ve been cursed?” Leona crosses her arms. 

He nods. “Yes. The only way to avoid it is to flee. Leave this world before it leaves you.”

Slowly, Jefferson turns his hat over in his hands. “That makes sense.” He looks to Leona. “Where do you want to go?”

“Lancre, of course. If we can’t live in the home we made for ourselves, we might as well go to Mum’s.”

Jefferson nods. “What do you say, Dark One? Can I offer you and Belle a trip to Discworld?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t know what form my magic will take on a world like that. There is a risk I’ll transform into something horrible and the good people of the Disk World will have to try to slay me.”

Leona snorts. “And it’ll take a few weeks at least to find any ‘good people’ around. We’re not as black and white with the ‘heroes’ and ‘villains’ as this place.”

“All the more reason for me to stay here and face this curse as it comes.”

“And Belle will stay with you?”

He gives his friend a rueful grin. “I couldn’t make her leave me if I tried.”

Jefferson looks down at his hat and then looks up again. “Do you really think if we go to Discworld the curse will pass us by?”

He puts his hands over Jefferson’s around the brim. “The best I can promise is that you will be safer.”

Leona’s dark eyes narrow. “‘Safer’ isn’t ‘safe,’ Mister Dark One.”

“No.” Jefferson steps back, away from Rumpelstiltskin and toward his wife. In a motion born from years of practice, he twirls the hat to put it on his head. “But sometimes safer is the best you can hope for.”

“I hope you do get away from the curse,” he tells them honestly. “For it will be a very long time before any good can come out of all this. ”

****

It was strange, to wake up in a bed without Belle. Without even Mrs. Gold’s body, warm and soft beside him. In the month since they had started sleeping in separate bedrooms, Rumpelstiltskin still hadn’t gotten used to waking up alone. It had been a bittersweet torture to spend that much time in bed with a woman who wasn’t Belle. Being without was a milder ache, but an ache nonetheless.  

That morning, he met her going up the stairs as he was coming down. Mrs. Gold was still in her pajamas--a new pair he hadn’t seen before. She had a plate of toast in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. So she would eat in her room before she got dressed. That was the opposite of his routine. Ever since their new arrangement, Mrs. Gold had been going out of her way to avoid him.   

He wanted to speak to her. He wanted to say something innocuous, even just “Good morning.” Something to make her turn and look at him, say anything in response. He just wanted to see Belle’s face, hear Belle’s voice.

But Mrs. Gold turned away, pressed herself against the banister, and brushed past him as quickly as she could.

Rumpelstiltskin sighed. How strange that he would miss that woman, that he would feel their estrangement so keenly. Before, he had taken for granted that Mrs. Gold wanted to please him, that she sought him out and tried to talk with him. But now she would only speak when he asked her a question. Now she kept to her room when he was in the house. She stayed away from the shop during the day. Wherever he was, his wife made a point to be somewhere else.

Considering how he had treated her, it was no less than he deserved. 

After making his breakfast, he sat alone at the far end of a long table. In silence, Rumpelstiltskin read the newspaper and tried to push from his mind how familiar a situation this was. Not with Belle. Once he had her in his castle, she had never avoided him, even when it would have been in her best interest. But before Belle. During those long centuries of isolation, when he had been an enemy of love. When his life was nothing but magic and deals and endless searching for a way to find Bae. When people were nothing but tools to be used, locks to be picked, pieces to be arranged upon a chessboard that stretched out for decades. 

Then, he had spent many mealtimes at the head of a table set for one.

When it was time to leave for the day, Mrs. Gold came down to join him. Every morning he gave her a ride into town. She usually kept her face to the window and didn’t make a sound for the whole trip. 

She wore charcoal today, a sweater-dress that wrapped snugly around her body. Gold would have sent her out in that with nothing underneath, but she had put on layers of camisoles and blouses. Most of her clothes were flimsy and skimpy, so she wore the pieces on top of each other in a haphazard effort to cover herself.

 At least she looked warm.

The clashing dark colors washed out her face, made her look even paler and sadder. She wasn’t wearing cosmetics, or any jewelry besides her wedding ring. Her thick, curly hair hung limply over her shoulders, like a shroud. 

Again, Rumpelstiltskin wanted to speak to her. But what could he say? Any comment on her appearance would seem like an attack, any inquiry to her wellbeing would be an invasion. What do you say to someone you’re no longer even pretending to love?

“What do you think you’ll do today?” he tried once they were in the car. 

She shrugged and sank further back into the seat, her arms folded over her chest. 

“Do you need money?” It seemed a heartless, mercenary solution, but it was all he could safely offer her.

And it worked. Straightening up, Mrs. Gold spoke: “Sure.”

At Storybrooke’s only stoplight, he pulled out his wallet and handed her a wad of bills.

She put them in her purse. “Since you’re paying me, I guess that means you’re satisfied with what you’re getting out of this new deal.”

Rumpelstiltskin gripped the steering wheel. No, he wasn’t satisfied at all. But he wouldn’t be satisfied until Belle was sitting next to him, talking to him. Lonely as he was, he couldn’t ask for Mrs. Gold’s time or attention. It would be too cruel to demand any devotion, when he knew he had no intention of doing the same. He couldn’t love Mrs. Gold. It would be too unfair to ask her to love him again. 

He parked the car next to the shop.“You’re doing everything I expected you would, Mrs. Gold.” 

“Great.” She zipped up her purse. “That must be why we’re both so fucking happy.”

By the time he turned to look at her, she had already unbuckled her safety belt and slammed the door. 

Rumpelstiltskin watched Mrs. Gold walk away. He could go after her, even on his cane. He could shout to get her attention. He could drive up to her and insist she get back in the car. He could make an effort to talk to her, to get her to talk to him. He could try to understand this woman, this curse-creature who occupied Belle’s body, but who seemed to have a mind of her own. He could try to get inside that mind. He could try to see who she was, now that she wasn’t pretending to be what she thought her husband wanted. 

But he did nothing. Rumpelstiltskin was a coward down to his bones. No good would come of getting to know Mrs. Gold. He couldn’t risk finding out what she thought of him, what she wanted out of this relationship. They didn’t have a relationship, they didn’t relate to each other.

He had made sure of that. 

So Rumpelstiltskin did what he had been doing every day since he’d been let out of the jail cell: He opened the pawn shop, and conducted his business, and waited for the Savior to break the curse. 

****

 It was dark outside, when the bell rang over the shop door. A spring storm was picking up. Wind sent leaves and debris skittering over the road and sidewalks. Thunder rumbled and heavy clouds pressed down upon the town. 

Rumpelstiltskin was polishing the collection of silver on the side counter. At the sound of the bell, he looked up. 

And froze. 

Jefferson.

It was Jefferson. The tall, broad-shouldered young man who had transported him from world to world for a handsome fee, who had accompanied him on dozens of adventures, who had reminded him that physical pleasure could come with personal affection. The boy who had paved the way for Belle to enter his heart.

How was he here? Hadn’t he taken his family and escaped to the Disk World? Wouldn’t they have been safe there? Gold had no memories of the man who stood before him. He had no idea what Jefferson’s life had been like under the curse. Where was Leona? Where was Grace?

The longer Rumpelstiltskin looked at Jefferson, the more he saw the changes in him. He wasn’t smiling. The boyish good humor was gone. There was no dancing light in his slate blue eyes. He used to stand with his head jauntily cocked to one side, but now he looked straight ahead, level and deadly serious. The man before him looked burdened, weathered and hollowed out.

He was dressed like himself, as much as Storybrooke fashions would allow. He wore a scarf at his throat, as he used to wear a cravat over the leather collar that matched his wife’s. The clothes were well-tailored, expensive. His gray, rain-soaked overcoat had gunmetal leather lapels, very much like a coat Rumpelstiltskin had given him as a gift back in the old world. Jefferson’s scarf, shirt, and waistcoat were all different patterns, all in gray and black.   

He wasn’t wearing a hat.

The first time Rumpelstiltskin had met Jefferson, he had entrusted him with a magical hat. The boy had been running away from a woman he didn’t want to marry, a life he didn’t want to live. In his hopelessness, he had sliced a line across his throat with a knife. His dying wish had been to find a world where he could be happy. 

That was when the Dark One had made himself known. He had healed the boy’s wounds and given him a hat that would take him to every world with magic. Surely somewhere there would be happiness for a young man who had never fit the mold he had been made for. 

And ever since then, Jefferson had been at his service.

Brow lowered, gait heavy, the man approached the counter. He set both hands upon the glass top. A few of his fingers wore wide, silver rings. But no wedding ring. Was he not married in this world? What had happened to Leona Ogg? 

“Are you Mr. Gold?”

Quickly recovering from the shock of seeing Jefferson--and seeing him so changed--Rumpelstiltskin returned to his work. “That is the name on the front of the building.”

“But is it who you are?” Jefferson’s voice was different too. His tone was pointed, accusatory.  

If he was Mr. Gold, he wouldn’t put up with being spoken to that way. Rumpelstiltskin braced against his side of the counter, arming himself in businesslike courtesy. “And who might you be?”

Jefferson’s face changed as though someone had flipped a switch. He put on the mask of a wide, toothy smile that didn’t meet his eyes. Pushing back from the glass case, Jefferson took exaggerated steps around the shop. 

“They call me Dodgson around here.” His voice was too bright. “Chaz Dodgson. I’m a pilot. Normally I fly out of Boston, and I go all over the world. But lately--almost for as long as I can remember--I haven’t been able to leave this tiny town in Maine. Do you think that’s strange, Mr. Gold?”

He made his introduction with rapid-fire delivery. A machine gun, that was what they had in this world. That was the image that came to mind. Wild shooting that blasted forth in short bursts of dazzling, horrible, light. 

Then you waited for the smoke to clear, to see what would happen next. 

Rumpelstiltskin kept his composure. He made a show of looking down at the silver platter he had been polishing. He saw Jefferson’s reflection in it, warped and distorted. 

“I suppose you could say that Storybrooke is rather a strange place, Mr. Dodgson.”

A laugh then. No, a cackle. Rumpelstiltskin had done enough cackling in his time to know the difference. Jefferson let out an agitated, throaty sound that had nothing to do with humor. 

“You’re very right, Mr. Gold!” He pointed at him with a manic grin. “Maybe righter than you know!” Then his expression darkened and he turned serious. “Or maybe you’re exactly as right as you know.”

Putting down the polishing rag, Rumpelstiltskin looked up at Jefferson. “Can I help you with something, Mr. Dodgson? Is there something you’re looking for?”

“I’m looking for a lot of things,” he whispered. “And if you can’t help me, I don’t know who can.” 

What kind of game was being played here? What did “Dodgson” want with Gold? Obviously, Jefferson was speaking in a cipher. But was it his code? Or was it the curse’s? How should he respond?

He held the man’s gaze and didn’t look away. “What are you looking for?” he said softly. 

Jefferson took a step closer. He didn’t look away either. “I hope to every god it’s here, but I just don’t know.”

Finally breaking the gaze, Rumpelstiltskin began to put the polished silver away. “Do you need a gift for someone? Your wife perhaps?” 

With a smirk, Jefferson shook his head. “No, this is something I need for myself. What made you think I was married?”

“Oh, aren’t you? I apologize for the assumption.”

“No, I am.” He brought his hand to his throat. “But my wife is, uh, out of town, for now.”

“Traveling?”

“Living with her mother,” Jefferson said. “At least, I hope she’s still there. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”

Leona Ogg hadn’t been born in the old world. Jefferson had met her on an absurd flat planet called the Disk World, where her mother was a powerful hedge witch. Rumpelstiltskin had told them to go to that world, he had thought they would be safe there. If he could believe what Dodgson was telling him, he had only been half-right. 

Or maybe two-thirds. One of Gold’s memories flashed into his mind: A little girl, plump and blonde, with merry dark eyes. The very image of her mother. Grace. But in this world she was Paige Lewis, the adopted and cherished daughter of Tim and Mia Lewis. 

Why did he have no memories of Dodgson? Where had Jefferson been all this time, while his daughter was being raised by someone else?

“So is this an item for your children, perhaps?” He asked carefully. 

Jefferson looked at him, his blue eyes steel and stone. “No,” he said. “I told you before, this is something I need for myself, Mr. Gold.”

Shrugging, Rumpelstiltskin locked the silver behind the case and limped to the other end of the store by the cash register. “Tell me again what it was?”

 With a heavy tread, Jefferson moved to the middle of the store. “Tell me what you have.”

Rumpelstiltskin raised his hands and grinned like Gold would. “The shop’s inventory is rather extensive,” he said. “If I were to go through an itemized list, we’d be here for quite some time.”

“Alright then,” Jefferson said grimly. “Tell me what you think I need.”

He looked him over again, more than willing to play this game. “An umbrella, perhaps? The rain looks quite nasty.”

“Oh, it’s mad as a March hare, as they say. But I don’t need an umbrella.” He took a step forward. “I need something quite personal. Long-lasting, durable.”

“Maybe a set of luggage then. Didn’t you say you were a traveler?”

“I haven’t gone traveling in a long time.” Jaw clenched, Jefferson took another step closer to Rumpelstiltskin. “For a long time, I wasn’t even able to leave my house.”

Not able? For how long?

“Were you ill, Mr. Dodgson?”

“Yeah.” He grinned without humor. “I was sick in the head. An absolute nutter. I suffered from delusions. Memories that weren’t mine, a life that I had never lived. Can you imagine that, Mr. Gold? Can you imagine?”

“No,” Rumpelstiltskin lied. “Though it looks like you’re doing well now.”

“You trust your eyes?” Jefferson let out a short, stuttering laugh that sounded like he did actually find something funny. “I thought you were smarter than that!”

He straightened up. “What are you looking for, sir?” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “I can’t help you if you aren’t honest.”

The last few steps to the counter were a stagger. Jefferson almost fell against the display case and stayed bent over. “Don’t you want to know how long I was trapped in my house?” He looked up at him. His eyes were soft now, teary. “How long I was trapped in my own double-mind?”

Rumpelstiltskin’s mouth opened. It couldn’t be. Surely Jefferson couldn’t have suffered like that. Surely even this curse was not that cruel.

He set his hand next to Jefferson’s, not quite close enough to touch. “My boy,” he whispered. “Tell me what you need.”

“Not a spouse, I have one of those.” He seemed exhausted, breathless. “Not a child either. Not a lover or an employer or a benefactor.” Desperate eyes poured into him. “I don’t need a loan shark or a pawnbroker or a landlord.” Still staring, Jefferson took Rumpelstiltskin’s hand and gripped it with all his strength. “I don’t need a genius or a wizard or the fucking Dark One!” That last phrase was said in a gritted whisper. It seemed to take everything out of him. “So you tell me,” he panted. “What do I need?”

For a moment, Rumpelstiltskin said nothing. For the second time in just a few minutes, he felt the shock of seeing Jefferson again. And this man was Jefferson, inside and out. He was awake. He was suffering. He needed…

“A friend,” he answered the question at last. “Is that what you came in here to find?”

Slowly straightening up, Jefferson nodded. “Is there one here?”

“Yes.” If it weren’t for his cane and the glass case between them, he would have embraced the boy like he used to. “Yes, Jefferson. I’m here.”  

He covered his face with his hands and broke down sobbing. For a moment, Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t move. How should he respond to this? What could he do?

He could do what he couldn’t do with Mrs. Gold. He could comfort this man. His friend.

Ankle throbbing, he walked to the other side of the counter. Jefferson looked up, his blue eyes brimming with tears. This was the Jefferson that Rumpelstiltskin had known. The boy he had rescued on that fateful day in the forest. One of the rare souls whose desperation filled his dark heart with pity, and not contempt.  

“My boy,” he whispered. He opened his arms and Jefferson embraced him. 

Though Jefferson was taller than Rumpelstiltskin, the Dark One had always wielded the power in their relationship. It was the only way he had felt safe. Their physical dimensions hadn’t changed, but marrying Belle had rearranged Rumpelstiltskin’s perspective on safety and power. He let the bigger man hug him, envelop him in his need. He drew strength from Jefferson’s strength. Even though Jefferson was younger and bigger and fitter than Gold, he had come to him for help.

And Rumpelstiltskin would do everything he could to help him. 

When they parted, he held Jefferson’s face in his hands. Coarse stubble prickled against his palms. Full lips parted slightly. Rumpelstiltskin wiped away his tears with his thumbs. 

“How did this happen?” he asked softly. “Why didn’t you go to the Disk World?”

“We did.” Jefferson sniffed. Rumpelstiltskin took the silk pocket square out of his suit coat to give him. “We left as soon as we could. We lived there for months. But one night, I went to sleep next to Leo in Nanny Ogg’s cottage, and the next morning I woke up alone in a massive house I couldn’t leave.”

“You said that before. You couldn’t leave?”

He shook his head. “For twenty-eight years!” His face twisted and he pulled away. Rumpelstiltskin didn’t lower his hands. “You were locked in the curse, but I was locked in that house. I knew who I was, I remembered everything, I remembered too much!”

He rested his hand on his damp coat. “So that’s where Dodgson came from?”

Jefferson nodded, took a breath. “I had two lives in my head,” he whispered. “They both seemed impossible to the other. There were… months where I didn’t know what was real. In Discworld there was a poet who dreamed that he was a butterfly, and when he woke up, he didn’t know if he was a man who dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly who was dreaming he was a man. That was my life. For a very long time.”

“Jefferson.” He squeezed his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

He looked at him, his expression drained. “No one else in this town was like that. Believe me, I had a lot of time to look around. Any theories as to why I was so lucky?”

He shook his head. “It’s Regina’s curse, maybe she--”

“It’s your curse,” he interrupted. “I’ve had some time to think about that. Regina is powerful, but she couldn’t have made something like this. That had to be you.”

He took a step back, resting both hands on his cane. Twenty-eight years of isolation, of knowing that time wasn’t moving, but being aware of every moment. Twenty-eight years in a world he didn’t understand, separated from the people who mattered most to him. 

Utterly alone.

No wonder Jefferson had changed. 

He couldn’t fool him anymore. He didn’t want to. The poor boy deserved better than that. He deserved the truth.

“It was my curse,” he admitted. “Regina cast it, but I created it. That doesn’t mean I have any control over it.”

“How is that possible?” Jefferson growled. “How can you, of all people, not have control  over everything?”

“Because, my boy, all magic comes at a price. The curse that destroyed our world and created this town is the most powerful piece of spellmaking I’ve ever touched. Part of casting it was sacrificing the heart of the thing you love most--and there are more prices yet to pay. I’m not willing to lose everything, but Regina was. So it is her curse. She rules this land until it breaks.”

Jefferson’s jaw clenched. “You said something like that before, back home. You said something about a Savior. It’s that Sheriff, isn’t it? The woman with the yellow bug?”

Rumpelstiltskin blinked. “How did you know that?”

“She came to town in October. That’s when things started changing around here. The clock on the library started moving, people started doing things they haven’t done before--not in twenty-eight years of living the same lives. Now there are people in town now I’ve never seen before.” 

“Who?” Rumpelstiltskin asked. “The only new person I’ve seen is Emma.”

Jefferson shrugged. “There’s the guy carrying on with the schoolteacher, I don’t know who he is.”

“That’s Prince Charming,” he explained. “He was in the hospital until just after Emma came to town, in a coma.” 

“Weren’t you all?” Jefferson said dryly. “Okay, I’ve got another one for you. Around New Year’s, a guy rode in on a motorcycle, definitely an out-of-towner. He stuck around too. Do you know who he is?”

Rumpelstiltskin’s lips parted, but he said nothing. A stranger came into Storybrooke? That shouldn’t have happened. This place was supposed to be isolated from the rest of the Land Without Magic. The only people who could enter were people who were already connected to the old world, people who were born there. 

But if there was a young man who could enter the town freely, who had willingly stayed in this cursed place...

Before he could ask Jefferson more questions, the bell over the shop door rang again. 

“My God, it is cats and dogs out there!” Mrs. Gold stood on the front carpet. Water dripped off the plastic shopping bags in her hands. The rain had plastered all her thin layers against her skin. She looked bedraggled and cold, and Rumpelstiltskin’s first desire was to get her out of those wet things and into a bath, to give her hot chocolate and wrap her in a blanket.

It was only when Jefferson took a step back that Rumpelstiltskin realized how close they had been. Too close for any two men to be standing together in this world, and far too close for Gold to allow anyone who wasn’t wearing handcuffs. 

Mrs. Gold’s crystalline eyes took in the sight of them. Jefferson clutched Gold’s pocket square in his fist. Rumpelstiltskin’s hands still held out in mid-air, reaching for the younger man’s body. In an endless instant, he saw the shock on her face, the realization, the anger.

Then he saw her close herself off. It was like the turn of a lock, or the extinguishing of a flame. She went dead behind the eyes. When she spoke, her voice was thin.

“Sorry to interrupt your business, Mr. Gold. I just needed to come in out of the rain.”

“Of course,” he said automatically. He was too stunned to move. “But you weren’t interrupting anything, Mrs. Gold.”

Her lips pressed together at that. She said nothing, but looked up and down the length of Jefferson’s body. Then she moved past them both to get to the back of the shop. 

Once she was behind the curtain, Rumpelstiltskin allowed himself to sigh. Closing his eyes, he shook his head. Though that was not the worst way this situation could have gone, it was still far from optimal. 

Jefferson let out a low whistle. With a meaningful glance to the back office, he said: “So can I expect your call about the merchandise I requested?”

Limping back to the cash register, Rumpelstiltskin pulled out a notepad and a pen. He passed them over the counter to Jefferson.  “Certainly, Mr. Dodgson. If you’ll give me your address, I can have it delivered to your house.”

He wrote down a series of numbers and an address: 316 Angus Drive. “Just let me know when it’s ready.” His voice lowered. “I’ll be waiting.”

Rumpelstiltskin nodded. “As soon as I can, my boy.”   

[alwaysbethewest]

Narcos fic: Don’t Hold Your Tongue

Title: Don’t Hold Your Tongue Pairing: Javier Peña/Steve Murphy Rating: Mature Word count: 2k Content/warnings: I bullied politely asked @pajamasecrets​ to give me some fic prompts and she suggested Steve and Javi get drunk and play truth or dare. So. That’s what this is. No plot, no angst, no spoilers, no beta. Just drinking and kissing and implications of more than that after it fades to black. Also posted at AO3.

  Javi’s never noticed before that there’s a diamond-shaped pattern on the ceiling of the ambassador’s office. Maybe because he’s never before been lying on the floor of her office staring up at it. God willing, he never will be again.

This whole thing was Steve’s idea. Javi was just dumb enough to go along with it.

Javier is senior in both age and rank but sometimes he forgets that that means he’s supposed to reign Steve in when he gets like this. Sometimes their interests align and they both want to cut loose at the same time and in the same way, and sometimes, like tonight, that means sneaking into the ambassador’s office after everyone else has gone home and drinking the obscenely expensive bottle of scotch Steve had spotted on her sideboard during a meeting earlier in the day.

It’s bordering on disrespectful to the label how quickly they’re downing the scotch. It’s one that should be savored, peaty and complex and fucking expensive. But this whole thing is a little bit not about the liquor at all and a lot about the principle of the thing and their private resentment over the ambassador continuing to block every request they’ve tried to make for what feels like the last six months.

And anyway, respect is clearly not of any concern to Steve, sitting as he is in the ambassador’s chair with his feet propped up on her desk. He’s at an odd angle, from Javi’s position on the floor, but he can still see Steve’s bright eyes and lazy-drunk mouth, how his cheeks suck in briefly as he takes a sip of whiskey and rolls it over his tongue to the back of his mouth. He watches his eyes flutter shut and Javi’s reflexes must be impaired because it takes him a second to realize when Steve’s eyes open again and are boring directly into him.

“Hey, Javi,” he drawls. “Truth or dare?”

Javi shakes his head. He’s not doing that.

“I’ll go first,” Steve offers. He takes another sip of his drink and lets out a satisfied sigh. “I pick truth. Ask me a question.”

Javi shakes his head again, giving him his best unimpressed look, and Steve swings his feet off the desk and stretches one leg out to nudge his foot against Javi’s shoulder. “C’mon.”

He’s really not doing this so he thinks of the most innocuous question he can, one so pointless it might insult Steve into giving up.

“What’s your favorite color?”

Steve makes a face but he stops and thinks about it. “Blue. But like, dark blue. Like a medium-dark blue.” He pokes his foot into Javi’s arm again. “Like that shirt you have. That blue shirt is my favorite color.”

There’s a pause. Javi doesn’t have anything to say to that. He’s trying to remember which shirt Steve means and which exact shade of medium-dark blue it is.

“Your turn,” Steve says. “Truth or dare?”

“I’m not playing,” he reminds him.

Steve frowns down at him. “You can’t do that. You already asked me a question, you don’t get to bow out now.”

“I asked you a harmless one,” he says.

“Who says mine won’t be harmless?” Steve protests. “I’m gonna kick you in the head if you don’t play. Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” he says finally, resigned.

“How many women who work in this building have you slept with?”

“Hijo de puta,” he mutters, and Steve laughs, delighted to have gotten a rise out of him. Javi pushes onto his elbows to take a drink of his scotch and thinks about how to answer. He wants to ask Steve how he’s defining slept with but he doesn’t feel like getting into the discussion that would invite. He decides not to count purely hand stuff and rounds down a little and tells him, “Three.”

“Hmm,” Steve says skeptically. “I thought it’d be more.”

Javi shrugs. “Maybe I’m more of a gentleman than you think I am.”

“Right,” Steve snorts. He rubs a knuckle over his eye and takes a breath, about to say something else.

“Truth or dare?” Javi asks, before Steve can interrogate him any further.

“Dare.”

He tries to think of a good one. Thinks back to when he was a kid, since this is an actual children’s game.

“I dare you to streak around the fifth floor.”

“That’s dumb,” Steve protests, but he’s shifting in his seat like he’s unsure. “There’s nobody here.”

“Could be,” Javi shrugs. “If you’re scared, you don’t have to do it—”

“I’m not scared,” Steve says. He pushes out of the chair and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m just saying, it’s a waste of a dare ‘cause nobody’s going to see it.”

“I don’t care. You wanted a dare, you got a dare.”

Steve lets out a put-upon sigh but he’s naked by the time he reaches the door, clothes strewn across the floor in a messy trail. He’s a long, tall stretch of pale skin and Javi takes him in just for a second before looking back down into his glass. Steve sticks his head out of the door, peering down the hallway, and then he takes off in a jog and Javi chuckles and empties his glass and lies back, eyes closed, to wait.

The quiet solitude of the room makes him feel a little too drunk and a little maudlin and his thoughts turn briefly to serious questions like what are they even doing down here and is it making any difference and also, now that he thinks about it, are he and Steve going to be able to find a cab home this late since they’re both way past too shitfaced to drive. He opens his eyes again and stares up at the diamond-patterned ceiling and pictures the dismayed expression on the ambassador’s face if she were to find them passed out on her floor come morning. Almost, but not quite, funny enough to be worth it.

It’s not long before Steve returns, flush-cheeked and scrambling to get his pants back on. He stumbles a little and is laughing breathlessly and it makes Javi laugh, too, seeing how his face is glowing with the rush of this low-stakes moment of exhibitionism. Steve attempts the buttons on his shirt but his fingers are fumbling and he quickly gives up and leaves it open, fabric fanning out over his hips when he sinks down on the floor by Javi and props his back against the side of the desk. He tucks one bare foot under Javi’s thigh and chuckles again.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You know if I’d gotten caught and got fired for that you’d be stuck down here all by yourself.”

“That was my plan all along,” Javi tells him.

Steve wiggles his toes under his leg. “No it wasn’t.”

The room goes quiet again. Javi’s hand bumps against Steve’s ankle and he idly circles his fingers around it, under the hem of his pants.

“Your turn,” Steve says. “Truth or dare?”

“We’re still doing this?”

“You owe me, man, you just made me run buck naked through the office. It’s your turn.”

“I’m not running anywhere,” Javi warns him. “Truth.”

Steve is thoughtful for a few breaths, glancing around the room while he considers, before landing his eyes on Javi again. “Have you ever kissed a guy?”

“What?” Javi says, which is a mistake, because not saying no is almost as good as saying yes and now Steve’s eyes are burning into him.

“Yes or no, it’s a simple question,” he says.

Javi wishes he still had whiskey in his glass to swallow the rough feeling out of his throat. He realizes his fingers have gone tight around Steve’s ankle and he lets go and drops his hand to the carpeted floor.

“Yes.”

“I haven’t,” Steve offers. Not exactly a surprise.

“Okay,” Javi says. His brain is too fuzzy and Steve’s expression too calm for him to feel panicked, but he does feel—confused, maybe. Unsure what to say.

“Do you dare me to?”

“What?”

“It’s my turn,” Steve reminds him. “And I want a dare. Do you dare me to?”

“Sure,” Javi says, before he can think too much about it, and it still comes as a surprise when Steve shifts onto his knees and then straddles Javi’s hips and leans down to hover over his face. His expression is determined, overly serious, and it makes Javi laugh, struck by how ridiculous this all is. Steve’s brow furrows but the corner of his mouth lifts up, simultaneously amused and taken aback by Javier’s reaction.

“What are you laughing for?” he asks. Maybe trying to decide if he should be offended.

Javi huffs out another laughing breath. “Just, your face. You looked so serious.”

His face softens and Javi watches as his eyes flick down to Javi’s mouth, back up to meet his gaze again. “I am serious,” he murmurs, and leans in closer. “I want it to be good.”

He kisses him and it is good, it’s nice. His mouth is careful and softer than Javi would have expected, and Javi kisses him back, feeling the strain in the back of his neck from pressing up to meet him. He slips a hand around the back of Steve’s head to pull him closer as he relaxes against the carpet and Steve makes a pleased, surprised sound against his mouth and slides his tongue over Javi’s lips. It’s languid, a slow, easy kiss that moves like it’s got no destination in mind, just the journey of Steve’s tongue slipping into his mouth, stroking against him and drawing back again to allow his teeth to graze lightly over Javi’s bottom lip.

Steve’s body is still miles away from his, hovering over him, and it doesn’t feel right. Javi slides his hand down Steve’s back, grips onto his hip, and tugs him down to press his body into his, a comfortable, heavy weight landing over him.

“Shit,” Steve murmurs. He grinds his hips slowly over Javi’s, letting him feel where he’s starting to go hard just from the kiss. Javi’s pulse speeds up and he’s grateful for the deep breath he’s able to take when Steve drags his mouth away from his and presses his lips along his jawline instead. “Hey Javi,” Steve whispers. “Truth or dare?”

He thinks about it, briefly, and decides he still doesn’t want to risk being dared to do anything that would move him away from this spot. “Truth.”

Steve pulls back a few inches to watch his face carefully, looking thoughtful. His mouth is shiny and plush and Javi wants to kiss him again.

“Truth,” Steve says, considering. “Have you ever gotten off in an ambassador’s office?”

Javi laughs. “I came close once.”

“Yeah? What happened?”

He slides his hands under the loose ends of Steve’s shirt and presses his fingers into the hot skin at the base of his spine. “I don’t know yet.”

A smile spreads across Steve’s face and he leans down and bites at Javi’s lip again. He works his hand into the space between their bodies and rests it on Javi’s belly.

He murmurs Javi’s name in a soft, drawn-out drawl, and wriggles his fingers behind Javi’s belt. “Do you dare me?”

Javi tastes the stolen scotch on his breath and feels the rough carpet against his back and the slide of Steve’s long fingers inching into his pants, the hard length of him pressing against Javi’s hip. He catches sight of the diamond-shaped ceiling tiles out of the corner of his eye and thinks, this might be one of the top five dumbest things he’s ever done, but it might also be one of the best because sometimes life overlaps like that. And he slides a hand up the broad length of Steve’s back to his neck, pulls him in close again, and tells him, “Yes.”

[abizarreyodelingincident]

Our Nightly Confidant 3

Time for the Forgotten

He wonders. There's a question gnawing at him. Twilight knew. His wolf-boy had not wavered in the slightest when Time had suggested they could be related by blood. He'd been... serious. So serious. Scarily serious. It was a bit of a glance in his mirror shield. The reflection similar enough that it took some effort to mask it with nonchalance. Twilight hadn't been ashamed, more wistful and awed than anything after that talk with Malon.

But he had started to notice the way Twilight looked at him when no one else did.

Twilight knows. Twilight knows and he is a fine young man that Time is so, so proud of. He's not the favorite, because he can't have one. It's a different bond though (something like what he has with Warriors), and he always made sure to never let that influence his decisions on this quest.

The others don't doubt their place with the group. Not because of Time, at least. It's the least he can do for those incredible young men.

He just feels the question come and go in the dark. Twilight hadn't trained with a sword before his quest. Their technique is so similar however... He has to have been taught.

His heart hovers between settled and troubled, and it's the most innocuous thing that tips the balance.

A jab amongst others as they're cutting down wood for a fire, of all things.

Twilight, chainmail and shirt off, wipes sweat off his brows, an axe across his shoulders and a pile of neatly cut branches by his feet. “So slow,” he says, teasing his brother-in-arm a few trees over. “Didn't they run drills like those in the army?”

As always when pricked, Warriors heckles back. “Not every one of us was born in a barn, ranchhand!”

“For your information, I was found in the woods as a toddler, thank you very much,” Twilight replies, taking on an exaggerated snobbish accent. Or what he thinks passes as. It's a bit hard to tell with Twilight's countryside drawl.

The others laugh, join in the mockery, and they don't notice their leader taking a second to digest the news.

Twilight is his descendant. Twilight was adopted at too young an age to remember his birth parents. Might not even know their names.

And a wound he thought was closing suddenly bleeds inside him.

                                                   ***

It's a slow evening, almost night, and they haven't encountered a monster in days. But he's reeling, his head spinning.

His mind is filled with questions he knows are futile. Pointless bites from a cruel, unknowable future.

Which of Twilight's parents had the Hero's blood? Was it a granddaughter or grandson that perished, leaving a little boy orphaned? Had they known? Twilight mentioned having the Triforce of Courage since as long as he could remember. Had his parents learned only then of the heritage? When their son was marked by fate?

Was it a lack of knowledge that had killed Twilight's birth parents? Training?

The Goddesses truly are cruel, to confirm all his greatest fear in the same breath they gave him a glimpse of triumph. He doesn't know how to feel.

Time knows he ought to talk to someone about those things. About the choice he'd been offered. Even if it felt like breathing glass, like baring his own naked flesh to the elements. He's done it before, mostly with Malon, bless his darling wife. He's spoken the words, cried in whispers and fallen asleep on a damp pillow with the arms of his love around him.

He let his Zelda erase all the suffering Ganondorf wrought, and that very act might have condemned his own to an ignominious death. Might have cost Twilight his birthright. Worse still is the knowledge Wind offered him: the timeline hadn't vanished either. What was the point then? A childhood he couldn't recover even with a child's body? A forsaken land threatened by a mad demon?

He should speak.

He... can't.

He sits down on a rock and ignores the few curious gazes of the boys when he pulls open his inventory.  Other times, he might play with them, dance on their expectations and see their astonishment while he laughs inside.

He can't laugh right now.

His fingers close on the instrument, which sends a tingling of power through his hand. An ocarina to commune with the goddesses. He's not a pious man, never had the need, but as he raises the pipe end to his lips, it does feel like praying.

The Song of Healing.

Music to sooth pain beyond flesh and bones.

Why, then, does it only sound like screeching to his ears?

He put so many to rest in that forsaken place. Why can't he turn that power on himself? Why is he not allowed the slightest bit of-?

Something hits him in the chest. The last note of the song goes wild, off-key, and it stops the old memory playing in his head.

“Wolfie?” they call, some puzzled, a few like Wind rather ecstatic by the presence of the pup's beast form.

“... Did he just headbutt the old man?” Legend asks, smirking.

“Maybe the music hurts his ears?” Sky ponders.

Time doubts that. For one, Hylian ears wouldn't hurt enough for that kind of reaction even if he started playing as badly as he felt. No, it was the song that got Twilight into that state.

The whine Twilight makes pulls at some long dead heartstrings. Despite his size, worrying strength and undeniable intelligence, that sound alone gives Twilight the air of a kicked puppy.

The pup can't know, he tells himself. His heritage had been unknown to him until his quest, he mentioned that once. He can't know what the Song of Healing means, what playing it is supposed to do.

But the pain in Twilight's sky-blue eyes speaks otherwise.

“I suppose I ought to be more considerate of our canine friend,” Time declares, dusting off his pants. “My equipment could use a bit of maintenance.”

Busy work. The song had been a bad idea anyway.

As he stands though, he feels Wolfie's fang graze his hands and heels. Tug at his sleeves.

“Not sure he agrees with that,” Wild comments, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Wild knows what this is, and Time has the creeping idea that he's being herded like a goat.

“He'll have to get used to the idea,” he replies, more even than he feels.

The sympathetic feeling is starting to flicker at the repeated nipping. To be a hero, one needs to be stubborn. In this case, Time rather feels this is turning against him. He's rarely been the target of Twilight's protective streak. Fewer still as Wolfie. He is starting to understand that the style of comfort changed quite a bit during the transition. The inability to talk forces his protege to go physical.

And physical for a wolf...

Air is shoved out of his lungs as a massive weight crashes on his back.

“Not gonna work, pup,” Time bites out, trying and failing to keep walking as if nothing is wrong.

Wild's meals are far too rich if this is the result. A big lug of a wolf not knowing his place. He could shake him off, but now his pride is shouting for a decisive victory. He can't surrender so much authority at once. The group's survival and very continued existence depends on it!

His foot hits one of the logs they cut to sit. Of course.

Twilight chooses that moment to jump off. Of course.

Time has no time to brace himself for the puddle of mud. Of. Course.

Would the Goddesses strike him deaf so he doesn't have to hear the explosion of laughter shaking the camp!

His successor looks awfully smug, huffing and puffing on his side of the dead campfire.

Far too smug, in fact.

And, before he knows what's happening, Time finds himself chasing after that insolent youngster throughout the clearing under the thunderous laughter of seven other heroes.

Wolves are faster, but Time has far too many tricks up his sleeves to be bested. A hundred years of training might allow this brat to compete. MIGHT!

And when he collapses not too long after, it's side by side with an equally panting but not as annoyed pup.

He lets out a long sigh, his head lolling on a patch of moss, and the word is more mouthed than spoken: “Why?”

“Woof,” Twilight barks.

It's nonchalant, a little mocking and very much the non-answer Time would give in his place. He hadn't intended for his wall-building tactics to be turned against him this way. But, he supposes, a teacher can't always choose what his students will take from them.

There is, however, a clear hierarchy that needs reestablishing.

Time's grown up with eternal children. He has years of training in zero-ing of the most sensible weak spots in a body. Specifically, where one is most ticklish.

The effect is immediate, over-the-top and oh so satisfying.

Wolfie jumps five feet in the air. He tries to bolt, but in all his arrogance, hadn't realized he'd stayed too close to escape Time's grip.

(The others are watching with wide eyes as their glorious leader play-fights with their massive wolf-friend. Bets are, perhaps, being made.)

Only when the yipping sounds appropriately pitiful does Time give in and stop his ministrations. With a breathless laugh, he lets himself fall on his side, right next to his infuriating descendant. Clearly, Malon would have to be a stricter parent (Time knows he can't be one if his life depends on it) if this is the standard behavior to be expected of his lineage.

For a moment, Time lets himself lay there, on moist grass, half over, half under a wolf with behavioral problems. The thought, again, that he is promised a family line, that this irritating young man descends from him, soothes the old scars on his heart. Despite himself, his hand finds the soft fur and runs through the coat. He doesn't know the future. Few if none knows the full extent of his past. He's long learned to live in a world of strangers wearing friendly faces, of clueless happiness fueled by nightmares of events that, ultimately, never happened. He's a man of faded dreams, to be recognized only by the most precious few.

Some of the weight shifts, and Twilight's big head lies down on top of his chestplate, a soft glint in those gentle blue eyes. Time can hardly move, even if, at the moment, he finds himself comfortable enough resting with his eldest son.

… Which, now that he thinks about it, is what Twilight had been after all along.

“You damned nosy pup,” he says, smacking himself on the forehead. “It's not your job to worry. It's mine.”

The glare he receives goes straight to his soul. As if, it challenges. They really are the same on that front, aren't they? Him and his eldest?

Time can't even tell when it happened, but his chest doesn't feel tight anymore despite the added wolf head. His worries seem so much smaller when his descendant can wrestle-trick him into submission with ease. The boys would be alright.

“Thank you... ”

It's when he sits down by the campfire later that evening, glaring at a smug Twilight over his bowl of soup, that he suddenly realizes the ache has gone. That the bitterness of all his pain being forgotten just... didn't matter in front of that cheeky boy smirking at him.

Even his heart betrays him by going warm with pride. He's impressed.

It shouldn't be a surprise.

After all, his successor is descended from his Malon too. And she always knew best how to handle him.

“You're getting second watch tonight, pup.”

The grunt of annoyance is hardly repayment for a faceful of mud, but you take what revenge you can get. That's another lesson living with the kokiris taught him.

[aerielz]

come and untangle me one of these days

- a dream. a mistake. company, to make it better.

This is for and because of everyone in the original Flower Shop!AU post notes, specially @claudiasjeancregg and @stars-on-the-cuffs-of-her-jeans. You guys went waaaay too fast and I’m still trying to put Donna in here let alone everyone else, but I do hope everyone enjoys this! Title from Come and Find Me, by Josh Ritter. I feel like everything I’ll ever write for this AU will be somehow based off this song, tbh.

fandom: the west wing pairings: JD, CJ/Toby wc: 2453 rating: gen tag: flowershop au

He wakes up at the crack of dawn, stirred by some weird dream he can’t quite remember — some bittersweet memory. The coffee he takes washes away the sweetness and he’s left with only the bitter of it, stuck to the back of his throat.

He leaves the house, then. The streets are still somewhat deserted, but, much like his hometown, DC never really sleeps. Toby walks the five minutes from his house to the shop, and watches as the sun comes up behind the Capitol dome.

Walking into the storefront proves itself a bigger hazard than his own mood, though, as he is almost run over by a flurry of blonde as soon as he steps through the threshold— “Wow.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!,” Donna is already there, crossing quickly towards a table under the wall-to-wall window with a spray bottle in hand and talking into a phone she holds with her shoulder. “Oh— no, no, don’t worry, that was just Mr. Ziegler. Yes, of course. Yeah. Yeah, I’ll let him know, don’t— tomorrow? That should be hard, how about Saturday? Okay. Okay, thank you so much, Dr. Bartlett.”

“Donna,” he says when she hangs up.

“Shouldn’t we receive a shipment of sunflowers this weekend?” She sprays a mist over an arrangement of daisies.

It's too early for this. Too early for and her energy and her incessant talking, but somehow Toby can never be mad at Donna. Even when she sends congratulatory arrangements to funerals by accident. Even when she turns around still spraying, causing him to find himself inside a cloud.

“Donna—”

“We’ll sure need them, Dr. Bartlett just called saying that Liz will be home for the weekend.”

"How many times I have to tell you to never call me Mr. Ziegler?"

"Should I call you Mr. Grumpy, then?"

"It's Mr. nothing, Donna."

"Oh, c'mon. Don’t be so harsh on yourself,” she jokes. But her quip lacks the bite and the sparkle, and Toby finally notices it — she was here before sunup, too.

He barely has time to register the conversation and that last fact when the bell above the door rings behind him. His heart skips a beat.

Donna looks up to check and her eyes widen, just a little bit. Just enough.

“Oh, God, no, not him,” he mutters to himself.

“Can anyone tell me what magnolias are supposed to stand for?”

Toby sighs, closing his eyes.

“This is a flower shop,” he says, turning around, “can’t say much about trees.”

Josh Lyman, arrogant extraordinaire, flashes a smirk, shrugging apologetically. "Maybe you should start thinking about expanding."

He swagger his way further into the shop, stopping just beside him.

“I—,” she says, putting a strand of hair behind her ear, “Well, actually flowers from magnolias are very common in bridal bouquets. They’re these beautiful, delicate, things, they’re supposed to be all about purity and nobility.”

This is why he keeps her here, Toby thinks. For every fact about flowers that he doesn’t know, Donna knows five he’s pretty sure no one but her knows about. But she looks down to the floor, and Toby thinks she sounds sad, somehow.

“Well, that..." Josh’s smirk quickly turns into a grimace. "That makes sense."

“The more you know,” he says, clapping his hands against his legs. "Well, you got your answer, then."

"Yeah, maybe... maybe we should focus on some other flower," Josh says.

Toby is more than ready to focus on showing Josh the door when—

The bell rings again.

Sam walks in, saying, "Oh. And here I was thinking I was gonna be the first."

Toby runs a hand over his face and takes a glance at his wristwatch. It’s barely seven. "Why are you all even up?"

"No reason," Josh answers. It's way too quick, but he's not about to question him.

"The magnolias, they..." Donna looks up directly at Josh, "Why you ask?"

"I— uh."

"Magnolias!," chimes in Sam, leaving his shoulder bag in a corner and sitting on top of the sales counter, right beside Donna, "Such pretty flowers! We're doing bridal bouquets, now? We should, the marriage stuff really is great business."

"Oh, God, no," Josh mutters.

"It really is!,” Sam continues, “There’s definitely money in the sector, and it’s not like it’s an unpleasant job. Donna here, for example, would love it. Anyone with a knack for romance would, really.”

“You work the afternoon shift,” Toby tells Sam, exasperated and already so, so, tired. “On weekends. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I have no idea, Josh was the one who called me.”

“And you came?”

"Absolutely," says Sam, almost triumphant. “I mean why not?”

“I can think of at least, I don’t know, twenty reasons.”

“Well, I like to help my friends when I can, Toby. For the same reasons I think we should really start doing weddings.”

“Unbelievable,” he cries out, “How did we even get to this point of the conversation, we are not doing weddings, what’s wrong with you?”

“I’m a romantic—”

“Yeah, that explains it.”

“—and you know what, I think you are one, too. I think most, if not all, of us here are. Or you're gonna tell me you wouldn't like the sight of the love of your life, surrounded by blooms and blossoms, walking her way towards you? Or, or— maybe doing that walk yourself, that would probably be quite an experience, right? C’mon, Donna, you look like someone who dreams about a big wedding, tell ‘em."

"I... really rather not."

"God, kill me. Right now," Josh mutters a bit too loud, "Just kill me."

Toby notices, strangely enough, that Donna seems to second that thought, but the impression barely has time to settle in because at that exact moment the door opens again. But instead of the light, almost quiet, chime of the bell, they hear a sharp shrill and a loud thud, from the door connecting violently with the wall.

"Joshua Lyman, I will have you hanged," a familiar voice booms.

"I didn’t mean literally," Josh whispers to no one.

"What the actual f— I mean, really, I am never leaving you in charge of the schedule again. Amy just called me asking for your head and I’m pretty sure Joey wants your nuts served on sterling silver — why the hell did you think it was a good idea to have everyone here at like six in the morning, Joshua?"

“Look—”

“Choose your next words carefully because in order for you to keep your internal organs on the inside of your body this will have to be really good.”

His answer ends up not coming in words at all, but in a pleading look — the wide eyes of a man who needs help.

The room awaits silently for Josh's defense, but Toby is looking at CJ, who, for some reason, seems to have a monopoly on his attention whenever she's in the room. And so he catches the moment when her gazes subtly travel to Donna's face. He follows just as carefully, to find her sniffling quietly, cleaning her eyes with the sleeves of her cardigan.

CJ swallows and tracks her eyes back to Josh. Something passes between the two, some understanding, that Toby is not privy to.

“Well." She sighs, rage completely gone. Everyone looks at her. "Since we’re here... maybe... we could all just have something nice to eat...? My treat.”

Josh is visibly relieved.

"I'll take you up on that," Sam says, "I haven't eaten a thing yet."

"You left home without eating?," Donna asks.

"I'm not used to waking up this early."

"Well, let's put some kind of food inside you then," CJ says.

"And coffee," he completes.

They all walk to the nearest café together, finding Bonnie on her bike on her way to work. She unmounts and joins them. Ginger arrives later, when they're all making a fuss over latte flavours, chipping in too. Seasonal spices are seasonal, that's why they're special!, cries out Donna. Nonsense, says Josh, what if I want pumpkin spice all year round, what's wrong with that?

Toby is equal parts impressed and not at all by Josh having an elaborate coffee order. He's hanging back behind the group, watching them have fun with nothing but their own friendship, when CJ finds him.

"What about you, Tobus, gonna drown yourself in cinnamon and allspice, too?," she asks.

He lets himself laugh, "I don't think I have it in me to drink something that complicated."

"A simple man, huh."

"You could say that," he tries and fails to hide a smile.

"I have just the thing."

She enters the line and comes back two minutes later, shoving a blueberry muffin into his hands.

"You didn't have to."

She's the one smiling, then. "I know."

CJ looks up ahead at the rest of their party and her gaze falls on Donna, going soft when she watches how openly the woman laughs while trying to argue some sense into Josh about something as innocuous as coffee.

“Why do I have the impression you know something about my own employee that I don’t...?," Toby asks, then takes a bite from his muffin. It's a bit too sweet for him, but it tastes good. It feels good, like replenishing something inside him.

“I... might.”

“CJ.”

“I’m not supposed to say anything.”

“Those flower arrangements, you like them a lot, right.”

“You don’t play fair.”

“It’s why I’ll never be a professional baseball player.”

“Could've had a chance with the Red Socks team of nineteen—”

“You don’t know anything about baseball, stop obfuscating.”

She sighs, sagging.

“She was supposed to be getting married today.”

Toby chokes on a piece of his muffin. CJ gives him a slap on the back.

“Married?”, he all but yells, between coughs.

���Keep your voice down!”

“What do you mean married?,” he whisper-yells, “You’re telling me she was supposed to marry that asshole?”

“We all make mistakes.”

“Voice of experience?”

“I’m a tattoo artist, Tobias, I have seen things.”

"Married," he repeats. "Married! She's, what, twenty-five? And she's supposed to be getting married to— to a guy who wanted her to throw her entire life away to—"

"I shouldn't have told you anything."

"—what, pay his bills?!"

He breathes in deeply and takes a big bite out of his muffin, knowing the sugar will help him cool down.

It must be quite a picture, his beard covered in crumbs while he munches angrily, because CJ looks at him like she’s about to burst into laughter.

“What?”

"I swear to god between you and Josh the girl’s got more protection than a mafia daughter.”

"Josh knows?," that explains a lot, he thinks. "You're not very good at keeping secrets are you."

"Listen pal, I am very good at it, I just... She needed help, okay?"

"And you think we’re the right people to help her?"

He's not being skeptical, he really isn't. But Donna’s far away from home, and she’s bound to be missing more substantial support. It is true that CJ has a way of making him feel better by just being there, though, and to be fair it is a general talent of hers. Regardless of his protests both her and Josh, they do this, somehow. They arrive, arguing over something tiny, and he forgets he’s worried about anything.

"Yeah, I mean," she shrugs, "isn’t that what friends are for?"

Toby looks up ahead at the people who came around the shop, and all the way here, too, just to keep each other company.

“I think it might work,” CJ concludes.

Between their party and the sugar in his system, he can’t remember what was it that upset him so much that morning.

They all sit on a big table outside the shop, still discussing seasonal lattes. Sam remembers some of his favorites, recalling one or two that never came back another year. Ginger and Bonnie share hot chocolate recipes, and Donna makes notes.

The sun settles itself in the sky and shines down warmly. The District starts moving faster, getting into the gears of the day.

Their regular opening hour approaches.

CJ rises from her place beside Toby and motions with her head for Josh to follow her.

“It's been nice to be robbed blind by a coffee shop chain for your benefit, but we better get to work.”

“Thanks for coming around,” Donna tells her, “I've been having a couple of rough days and…this helped.”

“You should come up to the shop, if it happens again,” CJ says. “Just to hang around. There's always someone there to keep you company.”

“Come today, even,” Josh completes, “I think Amy might not murder me if there’s witnesses.”

“Today's probably not gonna happen,” Donna answers, “We'll be doing some new arrangements, for a while, Dr. Bartlett called.”

“MD or PhD?”

“It’s a lot of work anyway, so does it really matter?”

Josh smiles, shaking his head, “I guess not.”

Is there someone he didn't call?, Toby thinks.

Josh and CJ bid the rest of the table goodbye and head in the direction of their shop. The conversation around them resumes, but Donna is chewing on her lips instead of jumping in to refute Sam's argumentation over croissants.

She steals a glance to watch their backs retreat on the sidewalk, but, before they can get too far, Donna bolts from her seat and stops Josh with a hand on his forearm.

“Josh.”

He stops and looks back. “Yeah?”

She hesitates. When she speaks, it is just loud enough for him to hear.

"Why did you ask about the magnolias?"

She notices she’s still holding him by his shirt and lets go of it, but Josh slides his hand into hers. "Someone came into the shop yesterday to get them done. They reminded me of you.”

He gives her hand a squeeze, that she returns. They share a smile.

“Maybe I could come around tomorrow?,” she says.

“Yeah,” he nods, “Yeah, I think I’d like that. See you tomorrow, then.”

A few steps behind Josh, CJ is watching them, too.

She finds Toby's gaze, when Josh releases Donna's hand to join her. And gives him a wink.

He laughs at the ridiculousness of it, at how warm it makes him feel. But something in the gesture between him makes him believe that there are better days ahead. For all of them.

He turns back to the table around him and when Donna sits down he finally gives in— “You’re all delusional, black forest is just chocolate and cherry, it tastes the same anywhere.”

—starting another round of protests that leads to laughter and lively conversation that lasts the rest of the day.