#oh hey I have empty spools of thread!

[tj-crochets]

I finally found my hot glue gun and the right glue to go with it and now the possibilities are endless!!! What should I make with the hot glue gun?

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

A Deafened Bard (Stephen Strange x Female!Reader)

I can explain. 

Please don't come at me for starting a new project before finishing Cult Girl Doctorate. I hit a wall and needed to take a break. I am trying not to let this one take up too much time.

Y/n is a sorceress-in-training who’s known for being hard to teach. Sensing her potential, Doctor Strange takes her on as an apprentice. 

You firmly believed that shattering the urn of Fei-Amie was the best thing that ever happened to you. 

It happened a year ago, but it still replayed in your head over and over again. You made a conscious effort to remember it vividly. 

Sure, it was terrifying, Stephen Strange's initial look of anger when he heard the ceramic shatter. It softened when he saw that the culprit was just a clumsy sorceress-in-training who looked on the verge of tears with remorse. Still, it was a face you never wanted to see again: his teeth bared, his already sharp features accentuated under the constraints of anger. 

It diluted into silent, simmering frustration that revealed itself to you in short sarcastic jabs and body language. 

"Just, stop." He cut you off after a string of profuse sorries. With no disarming smile in sight, you could tell he was tense. "Artifacts get broken all the time. Don't cry. It was an accident." 

His tone indicated that he was trying to convince himself more than he was you. You were a closed-off person and could hardly stand the idea that anyone out there didn't like you. The idea of the Sorcerer Supreme being mad at you, personally, made you briefly consider ritual suicide. You lowered your head. "Yes, Master Strange."

"Hey, butterfingers." He called out after you as you tried to make a painless exit. You looked back at him and he gestured to the pile of broken ceramic pieces. "You gonna fix what you broke?"

It hadn't dawned on you that an ancient relic could be fixed. Especially one that once contained the ashes of the ancient necromancer Fei-Amie. You were embarrassed to say that your knowledge of manipulating time was surface-level at best, and couldn't think of any other solution. 

You wordlessly gathered the pieces up in your skirt and carried them off, striking out any plans to go into town that evening. Instead, you poured through book after book for any instruction whatsoever on repairing broken artifacts. You ran out of desk space, so books were just floating in the air, suspended on pages that briefly mentioned relic breakage. 

You started to believe you were given an impossible task. Or perhaps all the resources you needed, he was withholding. Even so, you didn't want to go back to him empty-handed. You changed into your street clothes and opened a portal to the local craft store.

You returned with two types of extra-strong superglue and got to work. First, you made all the pieces come together and had them hover over the desk. Unconsciously, you began to sing as you pieced the urn back together. 

Cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels

Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles

Brown paper packages tied up with strings

These are a few of my favorite things

"Haven't heard that song in years." 

You dropped the tube of glue and the few remaining pieces fell back to the desk. "Master Strange!" 

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." He said, though his apology was undercut by his smug tone. "Carry on." 

You picked up a piece and began to line the edges with glue. 

"Aren't you going to finish the song?" 

You looked up to see that he hadn't been just passing by. He was leaning against the threshold, watching you. 

"I don't usually sing for an audience." You laughed, uncomfortably. "Just me." 

"A man and his sentient cape should not count as an audience," he scoffed. "But, if you insist, I guess I'll have to just listen to Julie Andrews instead." 

"What's wrong with her?" You raised your eyebrows in surprise. 

"Oh, nothing. She's a treasure." He put his hands up. "But everyone gets to hear her sing. And I take it that only a very select few get to hear your rendition of my favorite things. I just have to be one of them." 

You blushed, suddenly forgetting all the words to my favorite things. 

"Girls in white dresses..." he offered, an impatient edge to it.

You swallowed. "Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes. Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes-"

"Hey, butterfingers." He interrupted again. Before you could object, he pointed to the way that the pieces floated gracefully overhead at the sound of your voice. 

"I'd like to see Julie Andrews do that." He said with a wink.

"Looks alright," Master Strange said, running his finger along the tight seams that showed where cracks once were. 

"Will it still work?" You asked. That was really all you were worried about. 

"Beats the hell out of me." He shrugged. "I didn't know how to use it to begin with." 

"What?!" You spat back. "Are you kidding?" 

"I'm afraid not." He said, taking the urn and placing it back on its pedestal. "Don't worry, you did a good job. I'm not mad at you anymore." 

That was really all you needed to hear. "Thank you, sir." 

"You're an apprentice, right?" He asked. 

"I'm..." Your voice trailed off in embarrassment. "Between masters right now."

He raised an eyebrow. "If I were to ask around, would I receive glowing reviews from your last masters?" 

You admitted it point-blank. "No." 

"Let me guess," he folded his arms. "Something didn't make sense to you and instead of giving you the space to question it, they insisted you follow blindly." 

You wanted to throw your head back and shout in relief; finally, someone understood! 

"Bingo, bullseye." You put your hands up in surrender after being read so easily. "Right on the money."

"I see." He said, tucking that thought away for later. "Could I trouble you for one more odd job before you go?" 

"That depends." You folded your arms. "What is it?" 

He looked over his shoulder at his cape. "How are you with sewing?"

‘Sewing' was not the verb you would use to describe repairing the tears in the Cloak of Levitation. It was taller and stronger than you and it did not want to be repaired. It was closer to performing surgery on a fully grown mountain lion that could rip your head off at any minute. 

"Like putting eyeshadow on a cat," Master Strange said. It flicked its edge contemptuously, while still clinging to his shoulders for dear life. "I'm a licensed surgeon and it won't let me within 20 feet of it with a needle." 

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." You said, thoroughly discouraged. All he'd given you to work with was a spool of thread and a pack of needles. 

He tried with sincere force to remove the cloak, but it wouldn't budge. "Of course, now it knows you're coming at it with the sewing kit and it won't leave my shoulders." 

"Maybe I can work with that?" You shrugged. You threaded the needle and hid it in your hand. 

You approached the cloak, only for it to shove Master Strange in your way like a human shield. 

"Listen, you naughty little blanket." He scolded, turning around to face it as if it were a puppy that had just wrecked the living room. "If you don't let her fix you, you're going in the washing machine. Extra spin." 

It shuddered, and, for a moment, you thought it was going to comply. You slowly took a step forward, only for it to dart as soon as your foot hit the ground. It made its escape with a large crash through the heavy wooden doors of the library. 

"Hey!" You shouted, chasing after it. "Get back here!" 

You caught a glimpse of it headed towards the relic room, so, without thinking, you opened a portal to make it there first. You reached it only seconds before the cloak breached the threshold, with only enough time to grab it by the edge. 

"Come here!" You exclaimed, giving it a full force tug. It tugged back, overpowering you to the tenth degree. It dragged you across the room and into the foyer. You yanked on it, only for it to escape from your grip and send you flying back into the wall. You wondered for a second how such a sturdy piece of fabric could possibly be in need of maintenance. 

"Bastard." You mumbled, rubbing the spot where your head collided with the wall. The pain didn't stop you, though. You were on your feet within seconds, pursuing the naughty blanket all over again. 

You heard the words of one of your many, many masters ringing in your ears; "never outrun what you can outsmart". Or maybe that was from a Garfield comic. Either way, whether or not you could outsmart the cloak was still unknown, but you had to at least try. 

You took a second to catch your breath and tried to remember where you saw it heading next. Downstairs, you thought. To the laundry room. The one place you would never look. 

You slowly but deliberately descended the stairs to the basement where the laundry was. You turned the light on and saw overturned baskets of towels, clothes, and sheets everywhere. And then a washing machine door slammed shut. You turned your head and saw a twinge of dark red hiding in the washing machine. 

You removed your shoes and socks to minimize noise, then picked up a fitted sheet that had been thrown on the ground. You mounted the washing machine and affixed the sheet to the front. The cloak would have to come shooting out the door, and you would ambush it. 

You forced the door open with your heel, holding the sheet like a giant net. As predicted, the cloak shot out like a bullet from a gun, getting caught in the sheet. It thrashed around aimlessly, trying to escape, but you had a tight grip and it wasn't going anywhere. 

"It's curtains for you!" You said, then laughed at your own joke. "Stop struggling!" 

It flailed and fought, but eventually ran out of energy and sunk to the ground. Not trusting it quite yet, you pinned it down with your whole body weight before releasing it from the sheet. As expected, it tried to fly away, but couldn't get anywhere.

"The less you fight, the faster this will go." You said, examining the fabric for any visible tears. The rip presented itself right away. About as long as your hand, right in the center. 

"What did Strange do to you?" You asked, pulling the threaded needle from your pocket. "Hold still, I'm going to fix it." 

Once the needle hit fabric, the cloak stopped trying to fly away and instead writhed about on the floor like it was about to die. You fixed the tear with as many stitches as you could make, then pulled it shut. Once you knew the thread was secure, you rolled off the cloak and let it fly free. 

It shot up, but froze, noticing something was different. It swished itself around, unaccustomed to the feeling of air not blowing right through its center. 

"You're welcome." You said with a shrug. "It's not like I had to chase you all around the sanctum to make it happen." 

Without any warning, the cloak scooped you up and squeezed you. Your initial reaction was that this was its revenge and you were taking your final breaths, but you could tell it was gratitude by the way it gently set you down on the ground. 

"Happy to help." You gasped for air. "Just remember this feeling if I ever have to do this again." 

"Not bad, butterfingers." Master Strange told you, though the tone of his voice conveyed he was impressed beyond a simple 'not bad'. 

"Not bad?" You protested. "I absolutely crushed it." 

He ran his finger down the uneven but sturdy stitching. When his face met yours again, he was smiling with genuine enthusiasm that managed to eek through his dry, sarcastic exterior. It came out as an admittedly very handsome sideways smirk as his eyes scanned you up and down. 

“If you don’t need anything else, I’ll get out of your hair now.” You said, heading towards the open doors. 

“Wait.” The doors slammed shut before you could reach them. You turned around to see Master Strange still examining the stitching. "You wouldn't leave without tea, would you?"

A pot of chai tea sat between you, filling the air with an aroma of spicy vanilla. You held the teacup in both hands, determined to never give him a reason to reinforce the "butterfingers" nickname he'd become so fond of. 

"Chai is my favorite." You said, letting the scent waft into your nose. "Yerba mate used to be my favorite, but if I drink more than two pots of it I get sick." 

"Yeah, definitely don't do that." He chuckled, bobbing his teabag up and down in the cup. "Out of curiosity, are you wondering at all why I invited you to tea?" 

"Oh, definitely." You nodded. "I was just wondering about that." 

"Would you believe it's just because I find you interesting?" He raised an eyebrow. "Good company, perhaps?" 

"Interesting? Absolutely." You agreed. "Good company is debatable." 

"I can't believe I never thought to trap the cloak in the washing machine." He rested his chin in his hand. "It seems so obvious now." 

"If it makes you feel any better," you shrugged. "It was mostly dumb luck and reckless disregard for my own life, considering it almost threw me off the balcony.” 

He glared at the cloak. “What did I tell you about trying to kill our guests?” 

It lowered its collar shamefully in his direction. 

“Don’t apologize to me!” He scolded. “Apologize to her.” 

It turned to face you and repeated the somber motion. 

“It’s okay.” You shrugged. “My family adopted a retired army German Shepherd growing up. I’m used to high-strung creatures that could end my life at any second.” 

“Well, rest assured, butterfingers,” He said, leaning back in his chair. “This will never happen again.”

“I, uh-” You opened your mouth before you could even really pick up on the implication he was putting down. “Wasn’t aware that there would be a chance for it to happen again?” 

“I suppose we should get down to brass tax, then.” He folded his hands in his lap. “How would you like to stay here?”

“Well-” You said, not wanting to come off as too enthusiastic, which you certainly were. “Not if it’s going to kill me-”

“If I could promise you that your life won’t be in constant danger, I would.” He cut you off. “But if you wanted safety, you wouldn’t have started studying the Mystic Arts.”

“Got me there.” You conceded, your made-up objection withering away. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” He shook his head. “I’ll help you train and in return, you help me preserve the integrity of the sanctum.” 

“So an apprenticeship?” Your eyes widened. "Are you saying you want to take me on as an apprentice?" 

“I know you’ve got bad associations with that title, but yes.” He answered. “If it brings back memories of your previous masters treating you like garbage, we can call it a ‘partnership’, if you’d like.” 

Partners with the Sorcerer Supreme? You thought, butterflies materializing in your stomach. 

"That sounds great, but-" You broke eye contact and fidgeted with your fingers. "I feel like I should disclose that it wasn't really all that one-sided. I am… notoriously hard to teach."

"And who told you that?" He tilted his head. "The ones who refused to teach you?" 

You hadn't thought about it that way. "I guess."

"The way I see it, you've repaid your debt and are free to leave," he began. "But seeing how dutifully you reassembled that urn, wrangled my favorite piece of defiant outerwear, and how desperately this place is in need of some life, it might be a good idea to keep you around." 

You put your hand over your chest to still your heart. "It would be an honor." 

"Excellent." He nodded. "That saves me the trouble of having to convince you."

He brought you to a small but comfortable room with a bed and connected bathroom. 

"There's plenty of closet space for all your clothes." He said, gesturing to an antique looking bureau set. 

You dumped your duffel bag out on the bed, revealing the extent of your possessions. "Thanks, but this is all I've got." 

"Travel light, huh?" He asked.

"Yeah, I moved around a lot growing up." You admitted. "Got no real roots and all that jazz." 

"That changes now." He told you. "This is your home now so I want it to feel like it. Make the space your own."

“I don’t know how I can thank you for this.” You lowered your head, still feeling undeserving. 

“Don’t thank me yet, butterfingers.” He chuckled. “I’ve been told I tend to be a little on the egotistical side. That I don’t work well with others.”

"It's actually [F/N], if you were curious." You said, sitting on the bed and folding your hands in your lap. 

"Okay, [F/N]." he smiled. "You've been in and out of enough apprenticeships to know the drill. Early mornings, late nights. And I've got a laundry list of odd jobs for you that I'm too important to do." 

"Naturally." You nodded. His dry self-awareness inspired a little confidence that he wouldn't be a complete tyrant. 

"You did a good job today." He said, bluntly. "Thank you for your help. Keep it up and you'll make an invaluable addition to the sanctum."

You smiled downwards. "Thank you." 

"Do you often sing when you're trying to focus?" He posited. "Just, as an aside." 

You could tell the gears in his neurosurgeon's head were turning, undoubtedly trying to pin some kind of diagnosis on you as doctors were known to do. 

“I guess it’s just a force of habit.” You admitted. “I used to play piano, so when I’m working with my hands, it just kind of happens. My last master was not happy about that.” 

"Oh, screw him." He waved his hand dismissively. "He pissed away an opportunity to nurture a sorceress with a special gift for the sake of tradition. That's a mistake I won't make."

Special gift? You thought. Nobody who practiced the Mystic Arts had ever referred to anything you'd ever done as a 'gift'. Annoyance? sure. A symptom of ADHD? All the time. But 'gift'? That made it sound useful.

[beautyiswithinchaos]

Night Shift

*** disclaimer: all new work is here @chaos-is-beautifvl ***

pairing: spencer reid x reader (no specified gender)

summary: you leave as he comes. neither of you want to let go... but is the pain worth holding onto?

warnings: ANGST, so much angst, i’m sorry (not really), some fluff at the end to make up for it, bonding time with the lovely BAU women

word count: 5.04K (i know... it’s a lot, but enjoy!)

---

You got a 9 to 5,

So I’ll take the night shift

And I’ll never see you again if I can help it

— Night Shift by Lucy Darcus

It wasn't how it used to be, your relationship that is. You knew how life worked, how relationships worked. Sometimes things would change, and whether they were for the best or the worst was up to fate. Well, the three spinsters weren't on you or Spencer's sides.

You had felt the shift - the change in the natural flow of your dynamic. It was like a spool of thread, and you were walking on it. After a while, the sturdiness and solidity of the beam slowly fell off, piece by piece. It happened so slowly that you hadn't even registered that it was falling apart until it was.

Had the two of you had a proper conversation in months? No, and it wasn't because of your jobs - not that you both hadn't used that as an excuse. It was because both you and Spencer felt the drift. You both were holding onto that last piece of thread, holding onto some semblance of hope.

"Hey." His voice came out sharp and clear. The voice that once calmed you and brought you comfort was now a memory of the past. When he spoke, it was a constant reminder that what you once had was falling apart, dissenting into an empty pit.

You muttered a quiet "hello" as you searched the room for your work badge. Locating it, you breathed a sigh of relief. Your interactions with Spencer had continuously been this way. Well, at least that's how it had been for the past few months. Or, was it always this way, and either of you had yet to notice? Or maybe you did notice but pushed the feelings away in turn of keeping your spool of thread.

Your coat was the next thing you grabbed. It was routine. Spencer would come home from work or a case, and you would be leaving. It hadn't always been this way. At one point or another, you didn't take the night shift, opting for the day shift so that both of you could spend time together. You weren't sure why you did it, why you decided to change shifts. Your best bet was that it was easier, not seeing him, not having to talk. Talking revealed things, things that you couldn't hide with a profiler psychoanalyzing your every move.

"We should talk," Spencer said as your hand touched the doorknob. You shut your eyes, trying to keep your mind away from him. The only you wanted - no needed, to be focused on was work. It wasn't healthy what you were doing, but it helped.

"I have to get to work," you sighed, still facing the door. You could feel eyes on your back, but you couldn't allow it to phase you. Spencer took a step forward, and you could only imagine how he looked. His routine eyebags would be present, disheveled look on his face, but clothes as crisp as a teacher's assistant. He would step forward, right foot in front of left, hands in the pockets of his trousers.

He released his own sigh, and you could feel the disappointment radiating off of his body. "Okay, then. When you get home." He wasn't asking you if that was a good time, and you preferred it that way. If you had a choice, you would decline as you hated confrontation. But this was better.

You agreed before walking out the door, the night sky greeting you as a star twinkled. In your mind, it was mocking you, the way the stars twinkled. They built constellations, something that would stay forever. You had built a relationship, but you weren't sure it would last another day.

---

You received a phone call during your shift. It was "lunch" time. Well, since lunch wasn't until a few more hours, it technically wasn't. You couldn't find it in you to eat anything. You didn't feel sick or anything, just not hungry. You poked around at your food, passing it over to Paula. She was a mother of three, one grown with a baby on the way, another about to graduate, and one in middle school.

You and Paula had grown close over your time working together. She was a good woman who worked hard for her children. She eyed you as you slid the food over to her. Paula knew things hadn't been happy go lucky with Spencer lately. Hell, anyone with working eyes and common sense could tell there was something wrong.

"How are you doing, honey?" Paula's voice was soft and comforting, much like Spencer's had been one point in time. You pulled yourself away from your thoughts, a sad smile crossing your face as you shrugged, "I don't know, Paula. I feel like we're holding onto something that isn't there anymore."

"Oh, hun," she said gently, hand reaching across the table and touching yours. You closed your eyes at the contact, feeling as though at any minute you would break. "I know it hurts, and I know you're scared..." she paused, and you opened your eyes to meet her soft green ones, "But you have to talk to Spencer."

You shook your head, anxiety already piling up. I can't do that, you thought, worrying your bottom lip with your fingers. If I confront him, will this be the end?

"Of course, you don't have to," she grasped your hand in her own. Even if you and Spencer didn't survive this, she knew this would be good for you. There was so much unresolved pain settling between the two of you, and it grew every day.

You were about to speak when a buzz sounded from beside you. Grabbing your phone, you saw Spencer's name pop up. He was calling you. You flashed a look to Paula, and she sent a reassuring smile before grabbing her food and allowing you some privacy. You were grateful for that.

Answering the call, you released a shaky breath before pulling the phone to your ear, "Spencer." Your fingers tapped anxiously on the table as you awaited his response.

"Y/N," the sound of him calling your name calmed your nerves. It had been so long since either of you had even uttered the other's name. Whenever the two of you saw each other, you would mutter a hello or goodbye, and that was it.

"We don't have to-" You cut him off before he could continue. You already knew what he was going to say, well, at least you thought you did. "It's fine. I get it. You don't want to talk. Right? It's okay, Spence."

Unbeknownst to you, Spencer felt the corner of his mouth tugging upward at the nickname that left your mouth. He looked down, his fingers fiddling with the cord attached. You had always picked fun at him with how anti-technology he was. That was until his old-timey habits started rubbing off on you, and you began reading on paper rather than a screen, amongst other things.

"Y/N." His voice made you stop speaking, and you hated it. You hated the effect it had on you. After all these years, you would think it would lessen, but now that you and Spencer were at a crossroads constructed by the three spinsters, it seemed to be growing like a waxing moon.

"I want-" His sigh came through the speaker of the phone, "I want us to talk. We need to talk."

You nodded before remembered that he couldn't see you. Your voice was steady as you spoke, "Yeah, I think we do. Uh, I'll see you when I get home."

You both muttered your goodbyes before you got back to work, and he, doing whatever he had been doing before calling. Other than having a hiccup with one of the patients who insisted on being independent, the rest of your shift went smoothly.

The drive home reminded you of your relationship with Spencer. Not only was he your lover, your significant other; he was your best friend. He knew some of your deepest thoughts and fear, and you, his. Besides that, he could read you like a book, and it wasn't because he was a profiler. There were just little tells about yourself that he noticed. He noticed you would rub a hand down your neck when you were uncomfortable or how excited you got when your favorite music would play.

You noticed the little things about him too. You picked up on how when Spencer got really invested in a newfound topic or something he wanted to share - he would scrunch his nose. You thought it was adorable, but you had never brought it up to him, not wanting him to stop doing it. You also noticed when his mood had shifted, no matter how hard he attempted to hide it.

The question at hand was how had you not noticed that the thread you were both holding onto was straining.

When you had gotten home, an anxious feeling filled you. You were nervous, to say the least, and it wasn't the good kind. With a deep breath, you opened the front door, hung your coat up, and kicked your shoes off.

Spencer was sat on the couch, papers in hand, but he put them aside when he saw you approaching. You sat across from him, opting to look down at the floor instead of his face. Both of you sat in silence for a while. The tickling of the clock on the wall and kitchen faucet dripping water were the only sounds filling the living room.

"We can't keep doing this." He was right. You couldn't keep doing this. The back and forth, the not talking to each other. It was beginning to become too much, and you both wished things could back to the way they were. But Spencer was a realist, and even though you could be a dreamer at times, you knew it wouldn't work out that way.

"I know." It was silent after that, those familiar sounds from before filling the room. You couldn't help but feel as though this was the end. You could barely look at him, and it seemed he couldn't look at you either.

"Spencer..." you paused before speaking. Was this what you wanted? To confront him and hope for the best? At this point, it seemed like your only choice is you wanted to salvage whatever was left.

"What are we doing?" You saw Spencer open his mouth, about to respond when you continued, "I mean- we can't keep doing this. I can't remember the last time we even had a proper conversation, one that wasn't exchanging pleasantries."

"45," Spencer said after a moment. You raised an eyebrow as you played with your bottom lip, "45? What are you-"

"That's how long. 45, 45 days ago was the last time we had a proper conversation, but I'm sure you're referring to before all of this happened." 45 days? The piece of thread waned.

You nodded, a soft sigh leaving your lips. Spencer shifted on the couch, running a hand through his messy hair. "I felt something odd happening between us exactly 92 days ago. I don't know if..."

He stopped talking, and you rose your head to look at him, "You don't know if what?" Spencer looked to you, mouth dropping open slightly. "What were you going to say?"

"Nothing," Spencer sighed, shaking his head as he stood. You followed his movements, standing up as well, "Don't 'nothing' me. What were you going to say?"

"I don't even know if I still love you, okay?!" His words hit you hard. It seemed as though he hadn't meant to blurt them out as his hand flew to his mouth, and he avoided your eyes. You took in a deep breath, contemplating your next words. He doesn't know if he still loves me, you thought as you stared at him. He doesn't love me anymore...

The silence was overbearing. It allowed you to wallow in your thoughts, be consumed by them. The piece of thread grew thinner and thinner. You blinked back tears. How long had Spencer been feeling this way? And did this mean your relationship was over? You didn't know, but you were about to find out.

"Y/N..." Spencer started, taking a cautious step towards you. You shook your head as you wrapped your arms around yourself. A gnawing pain entered you, causing your chest to tighten and your head to hurt, swarmed with thoughts about how this was your fault.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that." You wanted to believe him; you truly did. The problem at hand was that even though he seemed sincere, you knew it was true, at least partially. If there was one thing to know about Spencer was thought he was factual. Everything he said was a fact, and that - what he said about not loving you anymore - was a fact. You didn't want it to be, but it was.

"Yes, you did," your voice wavered as you spoke, and you lifted your head to meet his gaze. Spencer's bottom lip jutted out. He looked at you as he rubbed the back of his neck, "I didn't."

"It's okay, Spence." Your hand quickly shot up and wiped at the tear falling down your face. It hurt, but you wanted to do what was best for both of you, what was best for him.

"If we can't-" you shook your head as more tears fell, and all Spencer wanted to do was hold you. He never liked it when you were sad - even more so when it was by his hand. There were few times either of you had made the other cry. But none of those occurred because one of you wasn't sure how much you loved the other.

"If us being together isn't good for you, then maybe..." You couldn't finish your sentence, but Spencer knew what you meant. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, shaking his head. "That's, that's not what I want. I don't want to lose you."

He stepped forward and rested his hand on your cheek. You leaned into his touch, inhaling his scent, "But, is it what you need?" He was silent after that. Was this what he needed? He didn't want to be apart from you, but you were right. Being apart from you, from your relationship as each other's significant others, was what he needed.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled softly, leaning forward and resting his forehead against yours. You smiled sadly, tears falling down your face. "Don't be."

He nodded, and you felt something warm on your face. He was crying, something that didn't happen often. Spencer was the type of person to hold everything in - when something would happen, he would bottle it up. It wasn't the case now, though.

He was about to speak when you wrapped your arms around him, nuzzling your face into his chest. He was quick to hold you close to him as he brushed the tip of his nose against the top of your head.

Your shoulders shook as you sobbed into his chest, tears wetting the fabric of his sweater vest.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." And he was, sorry, that is. He never wanted to hurt you, ever. But here he was, breaking your heart.

"I love you, Spencer." There was so much pain and love behind those four words that it was overbearing. It felt like you were suffocating, swallowed by the pain in your heart.

"I love you, Y/N," he said as he rememorized the way you felt in his warms because soon, he would no longer have you. As the two of you held each other, eyes closed as you relished the memory, the thread snapped, leaving you both on two cliffs, far away from the other.

---

"So," JJ came back to the table, drinks in hand, "how'd your date go?"

It had been almost two years since that night when everything changed. It hurt - the distance, the not being able to be with him, the loneliness. But you did what you knew was best for him. The rest of that night, you two held each other, no words spoken but small 'I love you's and sorrowful 'I'm sorry's.

Penelope accepted one of the fruit drinks JJ had just whipped up in the kitchen with grabby hands, "Yes. Your date. Spill." You all shook your head and laughed at her antics. Penelope raised her brow as she sipped from her straw, "Well?"

"It was nice," you said, resulting in the three ladies in front of you to lean in excitedly. While they were serious and professional when it came to their work, they loved to gossip.

"What happened?" Penelope asked, her grin growing. That was one of the things you loved about Penelope - she was so optimistic, and while others may find that annoying, you loved it.

"Well," you started, taking a long sip of your water as you weren't in much of a drinking mood tonight. You almost laughed at how invested the three were. It was like you had just left them on a cliffhanger, and they were waiting for the next episode.

"It was nice. He took me to dinner, and we had a nice walk around the park..." You were telling the truth, well, partially. The date wasn't as nice as you made it seem. Emily squinted her eyes at you, "What aren't you telling us?"

Ah, there it is. The perks of having profilers as friends, you couldn't lie to them or hide anything without them knowing. It was like they had a sixth sense, and sometimes you wished they didn't.

"He kissed me, and I'd be lying if I said I enjoyed it," you stated as you leaned back in your chair, munching on a few pretzels. The date had gone smoothly, and you were having fun. There was good conversation, and your date was nice company, a good distraction. The problem came when he took you home and gave you a goodnight kiss. When you got inside your apartment, you felt sick.

"It was a bad kiss, wasn't it?" Penelope pouted as she swirled her straw around, "Oh, I think I know what it was. Did he have one of those piercings?" she asked, gesturing with her hands. "You know, the hoop kind? I remember making out with this guy a while ago, and he had one of those. Worst decision ever."

You stared at her, amused, as she shuddered, thinking of the kiss. Emily leaned forward and took your hand in hers, "Well, hey, at least it wasn't as bad as the time you called your date the wrong name?"

JJ nodded, grabbing some pretzels of her own, "Yeah, what'd you call them again?" You sighed, looking down as you muttered it. The women looked at you in confusion. They had no idea what you said.

"Can you speak up, hun? We didn't hear you," JJ asked, making you sigh again. You fiddled with your fingers as you spoke, embarrassed about what you were going to tell them, "I called them Spencer."

It was silent for a second before Penelope spoke, bringing a light air to the room as she always did, "Oh, honey. You're not over him, yet, are you?"

You chuckled sarcastically, running a hand down your face frustratedly. "No, Pen, I'm not. Honestly, I don't know what to do anymore. I mean, no matter what I do, it's always him, always Spencer."

"Have you..." JJ paused, waiting for you to look at her, "Have you tried talking to Spence about it?"

You shook your head as you stood up from your chair, "I can't, Jayge, you know that." You could; you were just afraid. It took a while for you and Spencer to become friends again, not that you'd ever stopped, but someone falling out of love with can put a toll on your relationship with them.

"You can," Emily replied, voicing your thoughts. "I know it's hard-"

"Yeah, Em," you sighed as you paced back and forth, "it's really hard."

The three BAU agents felt for you. They didn't pity you, but they understood and sympathized with what you were going through. It's hard letting go of the people that you love, and they had all experienced that one way or another.

"We know, and all we're saying is for you think about it. The two of you are still friends, and I think it would be good for you to talk to about how you feel," the blonde said as she threw another pretzel in her mouth.

And you did, think about it. Which led you to where you were now - standing in front of a forest green painted door, decided whether or not you would knock.

Nope, not today. I'll just tell him that I got busy or something, you thought as you turned around, ready to leave. Fate wasn't in your favor because just as you were about to leave, the door opened, and the familiar smell of cinnamon wafted through the air.

"Are you leaving?" You could hear the hesitancy in Spencer's voice. Was he nervous? He shouldn't be. He's not the one who wants to talk about the past because he can't get over me.

"No, sorry. I thought I left my phone in the car," you said quickly, trying to cover up your blown cover. Spencer's eyes flitted down to your hand and raised an eyebrow, "It's in your hand."

You looked down, feigning surprise, "Right. My mind escapes me sometimes," you nervously laughed as you tapped the side of your head.

He eyed you suspiciously before widening his door, "Come in." You nodded and stepped in, Spencer closing the door behind you.

You took in your surroundings. It had been a while since you were last here, but everything was the same. Everything down to the books on the shelves and the photos on the wall was as it was before. The familiarity eased your nerves as you sat down on the couch while Spencer went to the kitchen.

Something caught your eye as you looked around the small apartment - it was a photo of the two of you. You had given it to Spencer as a gift one day. It was your favorite picture - the two of you were doing something crazy, and one of the team snapped it. You both looked so... happy. That was an emotion you hadn't felt in a while.

Spencer pulled you from your thoughts when he came back and handed you a cup. You took a sip and smiled softly, "You remembered." He made you hot chocolate, just the way you liked it.

"Of course, I did," he leaned back on the couch, crossing one leg over the other. "I do have an eidetic memory, you know." You did know, but you also knew that wasn't why he remembered. He remembered because, at one point, it was another one of the little things he noticed about you. You didn't like it too hot, warm but not too warm. And you only wanted a little sugar in it because the kind of hot cocoa you used had sweetener already added.

"So," you started, turning your body to face him. You were trying to give yourself enough confidence or courage to tell him how you felt. Honestly, you had no idea what you were going to say, but it was now or never. And you preferred the now.

"So," Spencer repeated, eyes twinkling as he mocked you. He had missed you, missed your presence, your touch. As much as he wished that night had never happened, he knew it was for the best.

"I wanted to talk to you about something that's been on my mind lately," you fiddled with your fingers nervously, "Well, it's been on my mind for a long time."

Spencer perked up at this, straightening up as his honey brown eyes watched you. He noticed all your little ticks, things you did when you were upset or nervous. He assumed it was the latter. "Is everything okay?"

You shrugged as you looked down at the floor, "Ye- no. No, I don't think so." You could see him about to say something, so you held up a hand, making him close his mouth, "Just let me finish. Please?"

Once he nodded, you dived back in, decided that if you didn't do it now, then you would never do it. "I've been trying really hard, Spence, but for some reason, I just can't... let you go. And I miss you all the time. I miss listening to you ramble on and on about quantum theory. I miss waking up next to you and coming home to you. I just miss you so much."

He didn't say anything, so you continued, "No matter what I do, everything comes back to you. And it hurts. It hurts so bad because I know that I'll never get to have you the way I once did."

You looked up to Spencer as silence filled the room. It was like that night when he had said something you hadn't expected, and you didn't know what to say. Except, this time, you were the one who said something he wasn't expecting, and he didn't know what to say.

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop your eyes from watering. He has to say something. I need him to say something.

"Spence..." you called out softly when he still hadn't said anything. You were growing nervous. Had you ruined everything? Way to go, Y/N. You screwed up. Your head was swarming with thoughts as you watched him walk the length of the living back, avoiding your eyes each time he turned your way.

You covered your face with your hand as you shook your head, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have even - god, what is wrong with me?" Tears prickled your eyes as a sick feeling filled your body. It hurt, and it wasn't because you weren't with him anymore. It was because you knew that now you'd never be with him in any capacity.

You rose your head, eyes filled with tears, when Spencer placed a hand on your shoulder. His hazel-colored eyes seemed to hold a cluster of emotions - sadness, regret, longing.

"I've missed you, too," his words came out in a hushed whisper, but you heard them loud and clear. He missed you. After all of this time, he missed you. You needed to hear it again, hear those words come out of his mouth one more time.

"Say it again." You sat up and locked eyes with him, "I need to hear you say it. I need to know that you've felt the same."

Spencer sighed softly as he grabbed your face in his hands, "I missed you, Y/N. I missed you so much. I've..." he paused, eyes searching yours to see if there was any hesitation - there wasn't. "I've had time to think, think about us, our relationship."

You nodded, prompting him to continue. "It wasn't that I never loved you. Because, believe me, I did. I just think that I fell out of love with you." Another stab to the heart. You tried not to let it show, but Spencer caught on the way your face dropped and how you looked away to avoid crying.

"But that doesn't mean that I haven't missed you. I've missed you a lot," he said quickly, attempting to correct his mistake. He hadn't meant for it to come out that way. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong. I'm just nervous."

"Why? Are you nervous to tell me that even though you missed me, we can't be together? Because if that's the case, then just tell me now." You couldn't just sit here and listen to Spencer explain why he stopped loving you. It was selfish, but you didn't want to hear it because you weren't sure if you had fallen out of love with him too.

Spencer frantically shook his head, "No. That wasn't what I wanted to say." You nodded your head slowly before meeting his gaze, "Then what do you mean?"                

"I'm not sure how or exactly when our love for each other starting waning, but all I know is that I've missed you." You had missed him too, but this didn't tell you what the fates had in store for you.

"So..." you looked up at him in confusion, "what do you want?"

He sighed before taking a step back as he shook his head, "I think..." his eyes met yours, "What if we started over?"

You raised an eyebrow, even more confused. What did this mean? Spencer must have caught on to your confusion because he was quick to explain his thinking, well, his introduction. "Hi, I'm Spencer."

You just stared at him, no expression on your face. What the hell is he talking about? Of course, I know he's Spencer. Is he... maybe he's confused. Yeah, that has to be it.

"I miss you, Y/N," he said, quietly, as he looked down, "If we start over, we can rebuild our relationship - from the beginning. I know it sounds crazy, but I don't want to lose you... not again."

"Maybe I can learn to love you again, and you can learn to strengthen our love for me? We could just start over." He paused, looking at the indecisive look on your face, "I'm sorry. This was stupid. I shouldn't have even-"

You were quick to cut him off, "Hi, I'm Y/N."

He let out a soft breath of air before sitting down next to you on the couch, a small smile on his face as he held out his right hand, "Spencer."

It was then, at that moment, that you felt the fates winding up a spool of thread. But this time, it was a new piece for the new chapter for both of you.

—

a/n: done! i hope you guys liked this, angst and all :)

[marvinswriting]

old vers

ménage, chapter four

previous chapter, masterpost now we’re starting clare pov

“Otis you absolute idiot.” Teddie almost looks like he’s about to laugh. “What the fuck.”

“It was a mistake!” Otis brings his hands up to his ears. “Like I dropped my hock on purpose. Besides, she didn’t see me. Why are you so worked up?”

“Because she sure as hell heard you.” Teddie states flatly. “I can’t believe you.”

I look back and forth between the two of them nervously, scared to interject. Both sides had points. Yeah, Otis didn’t mean to draw attention to us. But at the same time- that was a rookie mistake. One we can't afford to make, especially with a human around. If the lights had been on-

I shake my head. I don’t need my mind to go there. We’re just lucky the lights were off.

Teddie’s shoulders sink now that he’s yelled away his stress and anger. “Let’s just-” ,he sighs, “maybe not tell Audwin. He’s under enough pressure teaching Kye tonight. We got what we need, let’s just go home and relax. We’re safe.”

“Right.” I nod, but the latter to Teddie’s statement sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself.

Otis is quiet, and walks behind Teddie and I as we make our way back. I can tell he feels bad, I’ve known my brother long enough. It was an honest accident and something Teddie or I could have easily done as well. I step back, falling in line with Otis’ trudge.

“Hey.”

“I didn’t mean to, y’know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know that too.” I pause before quickly adding, “And it’s okay. Honest mistakes happen.”

Otis and I are no stranger to mistakes. For as long as I can remember, bad luck was kinda our thing. I mean- when we met Audwin, he had come across us on a borrowing trip. I had a broken leg and neither Otis or I were in very good condition. We had gotten separated from our parents and in no way had the skills needed to survive. 

And that's only one example.

Today, while adrenaline inducing, was in no way the worst hit we’ve taken.

We make it back to our familiar pocket of the walls without much talking. I think we all just needed a couple minutes to process.

“Still no signs of Audwin and Kye.” Teddie says, setting down his tools. “ Let’s just hope Audwin doesn't notice we’re down a hook. I’m gonna unpack, you guys do whatever.”

“We can help if you need it.” I offer, holding out my bag of goods.

“No. You both should relax after the close call today. I’ll join you when I’m done.” Teddie says, taking my bag and Otis’.

“Okay.” Otis agrees, stepping away. 

I follow him into a room meant to mimic a living room. Unlike the house we live in, it doesn't have comfy couches and nice tables, but we have makeshift chairs and one of those things you find in a pizza box. 

It works.

Otis sits on an empty spool that once held thread, the colorful string now used in our tools. I sit on the floor beside him quietly. 

“Do you-” Otis pauses. “Do you ever think of moving out? Finding our own place to borrow?”

“No, not really. Why?”

“Because we’re sixteen, Clare. Typical borrowers move out of their parent’s area at age fifteen.”

“Well we aren’t typical borrowers, huh.” I shrug. “Beside, those aren’t official rules. Just tradition. Audwin isn't our parent, more like- a mentor.”

“Don’t you think we’ve been mentees long enough?” Otis asked.

“Where is this coming from?”

Otis shrugged. “With Kye starting to borrow, I realized how long we’ve been here. Seven years, Clare. Roughly at least. It gets boring doing the same routine all the time. I want something new.”

“Oh, so almost getting caught today is boring?” I tease.

“What are we talking about?” Teddie steps into the room, sitting on another ‘chair’.

“Moving out.” Otis says, like it's a simple light hearted topic. “What about you Teddie? You’re nineteen.”

“I like it here.” Teddie says simply. “You guys are family. Audwin will have to drag me out of here himself. It’s safe, relatively warm, there's not bugs or mice. Aside from lots of people living here making it hard to borrow, this place checks off almost all a borrower’s boxes. Besides, at this point I would say we’re more like a borrowing group rather than a family with kids waiting to move out. With the exception of Kye, we’re all adults here making our own decisions. Audwin’s obviously in charge, but I’d call him more of a leader than a father figure.”

I nod. “Right.” 

“I’ve just been thinking about it a lot recently. I overheard two of the humans talking about it. Evan and Matteo. Apparently for the beans it's normal to move out at eighteen, which Matteo will be at the end of the summer. He wants to go to a school far away and Evan hates the idea.”

“Huh,” Teddie said. “If we were humans, I guess I’d be long gone.”

“You’re only nineteen.” I remind him. “Don’t be dramatic.”

Teddie grins. “Yeah yeah, still three years older than you guys.”

We bicker back and forth, the stress of earlier slowly going away. It wasn’t until I was suppressing yawns and heard movement outside the walls that I realized it was morning- 

-and Audwin and Kye had not returned.

“Guys,” I stood up, looking at the door. “Where are they?”

Teddie shrugs.”I’m sure they’re fine, maybe they just lost track of time. Audwin is probably giving Kye a tour of the walls, you know that’s a lot of alread to cover.”

“We should go check just to make sure though.” I point out. “I’m not gonna go to bed till they’re home.”

Teddie looks up at the ceiling with a sigh. “Sure. Let’s roll.”

I scoop up my bag and head back into the walls, followed by Otis and Teddie. “We should split up. We each do a lap around a section to cover all the group. If you don't see them, just head home.”

“Sounds like a plan, Clare.” Teddie nodded. “I’ll take the upper left.”

“I’ll go right.” Otis offered.

“I’ll check lower left then.” I nod. 

We don't borrow on the second floor. That’s just the childrens rooms. But the left side of the house has half a stairway leading to a raised platform with another bedroom, and office, and a bathroom. We think it's Rebeckah’s bedroom but we don't ever go into check. The office is what holds the sewing supplies, staples, and everything else needed for tools. 

Lower left on the other hand, it's the kitchen, pantry, and everything needed for food. The right side is just the front room in the house, so the walls are empty except for a path leading outside. There is the smallest change Audwin and Kye will be there, which is probably why Otis was so quick to jump on it.

Lazy ass.

I make my way carefully though the well marked path. I can hear people moving around from all around me. There should not be this many people up for a Sunday morning.

Once again, just my luck.

There was yelling, muffled but definitely yelling. I stop walking, listen carefully  to the voices. 

“Across the country?! You wann go to collage across the fucking county?”

“Language Evan. Christ.”

“Have you told Rebeckah yet? What about Riley or Megan?!”

“It’s my life. Why do you care so much?”

There’s silence. I can’t see what’s going on, maybe one of them walked away.

“I don't,” One of the voices finally spoke up. “I don’t care. You’re right. Your life, not mine. Do whatever you want, it doesn't matter.”

“Even-”

There’s no response. Yikes. I continue walking, shaking my head. That’s their problem. I’ve got my own. There’s still no signs of Audwin and Kye, at least for me, and I’m running out of places where they could be. 

They’re probably just on another path. 

Yeah.

I stop in front of the exit to the kitchen, peering behind the outlet.

The room is empty, and I can see the tiny hook Otis dropped from here.

It’s not a far run. 

I listen carefully, observing the sounds around me. You’re number one skill as a borrower in your hearing. 

It’s your best tool to gear up and prepare for your next obstacle. 

But it’s quiet. 

I brace myself slightly, before stepping into the open. My mind isn’t quiet processing my actions, but it doesn't need to be; instinct has kicked in as I rush over to the hook, grabbing it quickly. I’ve made fast runs before, but normally at night during a borrow. 

To be in the open while it's bright out was weird. Day runs were for when the entire family was out and there was no risk of getting caught. Not when there’s movement one floor above us. 

I don’t slow down once as I scoop up the hook and quickly turn around. 

I’m about halfway to the outlet again when there’s a gasp. Not from me-

I freeze.

Fuck.

There’s a small girl standing at the kitchen entrance, grinning widely. She had a gap tooth smile which was quite evident as her eyes locked on mine. 

My brain was telling me to move and run, but my legs felt glued on the spot. The child didn’t move either, but it was glaringly obvious I had been caught.

“You’re real!” She examines softly.

The sudden talking snaps me out of my paralysis and before my brain can catch up my body is moving, booking it towards the outlet. There's a sad ‘wait’ behind me but I don't. Infact, I don’t stop running until I’m back home, Audwin and Kye forget, the hook gripped tightly in my hand. 

“Clare? What the fuck?”

I’m snapped out of my panic by hands on my shoulders, shaking me.

Otis gently pried the hook from my hand as my brain robots slowly. “What happened? Where’s Audwin and Kye? Are they okay? Where did you get my hook?”

“Too many questions.” I mumble, stepping away. All my emotions are catching up with what just happened, and if anything- i'm ashamed. It was a stupid was to get caught and a rookie mistake. It was only a hook. What was I thinking? Embarrassing.

Otis looks at me carefully before letting his gaze fall to the hook. “You didn’t run into Audwin and Kye, did you…”

“No.”

“But you ran into someone.”

I cross my arms, turning away. “I don’t want to talk about it. Look- I got you your hook. If you don’t tell Audwin I won't.”

“Against my better judgement I’m gonna say deal.” Otis said, turning away to put his hock back like this was just another day. 

I shake my hands out and take a breath, leaning against the wall. I’ve been borrowing for as long as I can remember and I’ve been doing runs alone since I was eleven. Out of every way to get caught- while none are ideal- this was the stupidest.

“Good news!” 

I turned to see Teddie was through the door with Audwin and Kye close behind.

“Guess who I found!”

Audwin smiled, placing down his bag. “We lost track of time. Don’t worry, we were out of sight in the walls, just doing a tour.”

Out of sight in the walls.

Yeah. Because it's the first rule you’re taught as a borrower. And I totally disregarded it.

[wanderingchocolateeclair]

Part three (and final part) for the birthday ramble!!! This ones quite a bit longer than the previous parts.

Part 1 | Part 2

————————————————————

“I’m home!” Shinya called out as he set down his bags and hung up his coat....no answer.....that’s weird, normally Tsunagu would be home before him. But he clearly had come back already, as his work shoes had been placed neatly to the side - maybe he just didn’t hear him.

He was about to go and see if he could find him, but something told him that he actually wasn’t home - and so he decided that he’d probably gone out for a walk or something. Shinya made his way to the place where they keep their notes (hc that they leave each other notes when one of them have to go do something and so they have a specific place where these notes will be) and sure enough there was a note on the side, neatly folded with something carefully placed inside it. It was just a spool of red thread, so he placed it down gently and read the note:

“Hi, love! Sorry I probably should’ve told you earlier but I’ve just gone on a small walk, I’ll be back soon.

Hope you had a good day at work!

<3 (p.s could you do me a favour and tug on the end of that thread - if it does anything...follow it)”

He was rather confused as to why Tsunagu’s instructions were so specific, but he did as he was told to and sure enough something did happen! He tugged the end of the red thread, thinking it was just one of Tsunagu’s weird little antics, and the spool suddenly shot out of his hand and out through the open back door, making its way through the garden and even further. Shinya was incredibly surprised. What just happened? “I- oh come on! Just when I thought this day wouldn’t get any stranger...” he chuckled to himself. He chucked on his coat and decided to follow this string to wherever it led to.

The string took him through all the little footpaths and fields they usually walked through and he was starting to realise where he was going. Although, he was a little suspicious of how long this piece of string could possibly be - but he reckoned that was one of Tsunagu’s doings. ‘Why didn’t he just say to go to this place, instead of making me follow this string through all these unnecessary paths?’ He grumbled to himself. He was now walking through the forest path and was being led through all these tall trees.

As he came out into the open, he found himself in front of the entrance to his old village. ‘Ah, I knew it.’ He had a feeling that this was where he would be led to. Besides, it was his birthday, why not take him to the place where he was born and raised. The only thing he was a little confused about was why it was so dark. He knew the village like the back of his hand, so he would have no problem with navigating to where he needed to be, but this was just odd. Okay, it was late and an abandoned village would be pretty dark anyway, but not this dark! It’s as if someone had just gotten rid of basically all the light around him! “Weird...” he contemplated the possible reasons for this, briefly, before following the string again. “Wherever he wants me to be, it must be at the end of this wretched thing-” and, well, he wasn’t wrong.

The string led him to the old fountain that stood at the centre of his village, and tied to the end of the string was a small puzzle box. Shinya groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me. First the note, then the string, now this? I’ve got to solve a puzzle box in the dark, all by myself, just because- wait why am I still doing this? Ahhhhh whatever-” he really didn’t mind all too much, but hey it’s his birthday, he’s allowed to grumble a little! Once he had solved the puzzle box, he opened it to find a single flower laying inside. It was one of the flowers that always bloomed everywhere in the village, his grandmother’s favourite flower actually. Out of instinct he knew exactly what to do with it, and gently placed the flower on the edge of the fountain.

In an instant, the entire village lit up, the water flowing in the fountain carried many of the flower petals down its turrets and a loud chorus rang out the words “Happy Birthday”. Shinya, absolutely speechless, looked up to see his village, normally so empty, now full of light. It felt so alive. So familiar. He saw the vines that embraced the walls of the old houses, twisting beautifully with new flowers. The little torches that stood outside were now alight, with tiny flames that danced around elegantly. The ribbons that were strung from roof to roof were fluttering around, colours more vibrant than ever. There was a pink glow that highlighted the mist that took the form of the old stalls that used to stand in the streets, creating illusions of the children and people who used to dance and play there, passing through, as if time had stood still. The lights, ribbons, mist and everything else all led to one place. They all led to the place on the mountainside, where his family lay, watching over them.

Shinya turned around to see absolutely everybody, standing there with gifts and kind words, all wishing him a happy birthday for the second time - knowing that he probably wouldn’t have registered the first. And when I say everybody, I mean everybody! You had various different pro heroes, interns, sidekicks - Teachers and friends from UA and Shiketsu - Enji, Hawks, Rumi, Ryuko, people from the neighbouring villages, Yu, Shinji, all standing there. Somehow Hana had managed to gain the courage to ask Mao to be there with her - literally everybody that he knew was standing right in front of him. And at this point I think that it’s a miracle Shinya didn’t pass out.

“Happy Birthday,” a familiar voice gently called out. Shinya looked up to see Tsunagu smiling at him, hugging a small bunch of flowers. “You’ve been so busy with work recently you haven’t been spending much time on your little village visits, and we’ve all noticed that you’ve been getting quite stressed out-”

“Yeah! We can’t have that! You’ll go grey- oh...wait...” Hana briefly interrupted.

“...which wasn’t our point...”

“Which wasn’t our point!”

Tsunagu sighed. “Anyway, the thing is, everyone here loves you so much, Shinya. We all do. And we wanted to give you the best birthday ever. To make it a day where you can spend time with your family, new and old...those who are with you and those who may not be anymore. So we all worked together to plan this for you.” He looked at Shinya to see him quite clearly on the verge of tears, face softly smiling back at him. Tsunagu glanced at Hana, who gave him a reassuring nod. “And so all I think I have to say...is Happy Birthday, love. From all of us... we love you!”

“WE LOVE YOU!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!” The chorus of voices rang out all in unison.

Shinya really didn’t know what to say, or how to react. All these people who stood in front of him had worked so hard to give him a birthday he would never be able to forget, and had managed revive the place that held so many amazing memories. And so he stood there in silent shock for a moment, before looking up at them. Tears now rolling down his face, he let out a small chuckle and smiled brightly at all of them.

“Thank you so much! Everyone...thank you.”

————————————————————

And there we have it! The finished birthday ramble for our beloved Shinya Kamihara!

I’m gonna be honest and say that I may have cried a tiny bit whilst writing the end of it......

~Eclair

[coffeecomicsgalore]

Unveiled Love

@smutember

Ao3

Chapter 8 – Long Distance

     It's been said and done

     Every beautiful thought's been already sung

     And I guess right now here's another one

     So your melody will play on and on, with the best of 'em

     You are beautiful, like a dream come alive, incredible

     A centerfold, a miracle, lyrical

     You've saved my life again

     And I want you to know baby

Marinette hummed as she perused the aisles of the fabric store. She was looking for something to inspire her, anything to get her away from her current studies. Everything was weighing on her heavily, and she needed some reprieve to keep her focused while Adrien was gone. With her earbuds in her ears, she sang along to one of her favorite songs, singing quietly to herself as she touched a silky fabric.

     Constantly, boy you played through my mind like a symphony

     There's no way to describe what you do to me

     You just do to me, what you do

     And it feels like I've been rescued

     I've been set free, I am hypnotized by your destiny

     You are magical, lyrical, beautiful

     You are, and I want you to know baby

Marinette picked up a mint-colored cotton thread fabric. She brushed her fingers over the embroidered flower that was embedded every few centimeters. She liked the way the cotton felt underneath her fingertips, and her mind began to swim with ideas of what could be created with this fabric.

She managed to hold onto the fabric bolt as she made her way down, looking for a cream-colored cotton bolt that could easily be made into a top. The thought of something with accented pearls along the neckline would look both sophisticated and comfortable, something that could be easily worn while working in her office. A knee length green flowy skirt would look amazing, and even adding a large bow to the back could give it a 50’s flare.  

     No one compares

     You stand alone, to every record I own

     Music to my heart that's what you are

     I, I love you like a love song, baby

     I, I love you-

The sweet piano melody filled her ears as her song paused. Smiling, she pulled the phone from her pocket and the dorky contact image of Adrien with drawn on cat ears displayed on her phone screen. Quickly pressing the accept button, she waited until she heard him on the other end before answering.

“Adrien!” Marinette called to him, keeping her voice low. “I missed you!”

“Hey bugaboo.” Adrien responded back. She could hear the smile in his voice. “I missed you too. What are you up to?”

Marinette locked the screen and pocketed the phone, then placed the two bolts of fabric into her cart. “Oh, just walking around Monsieur's Fabric Emporium. I couldn’t deal with the Statistics notes that I need to learn for the test on Friday, and if I didn’t take a break, I was going to go insane.”

“Statistics is a hard course. Good for you for going out a bit. Got a design in mind?”

“Now I do. I decided to look at fabric to get ideas first. I decided on a mint flare skirt with a large bow around the waist and a cream-colored top.” Marinette stared at the different spools of green thread to match the bolt.

“That sounds amazing. I heard there was an akuma the other day. How did it go?”

Marinette looked around to see if there were any patrons around her. She lowered her voice just in case and decided to speak in code. “Not too shabby. Ms. Fox and Bee Bee managed to keep him going while DJ Protector decided he needed to get there earlier than necessary. Not sure why, but then the entire meeting went ten times longer than normal. Even the secret weapon was no match for his counter skills. It would have gone so much faster had you been there.”

Adrien could hear her voice breaking at the end, and his heart panged with guilt for having to leave so suddenly. While he was already 10 days into the trip, he still had four more days to go before he could fly home and be with her. He tried to make the process go quicker so he could get home sooner, but every time he did, things fell apart.

“You really do miss me, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. Of course, I do. I’ve been feeling so empty without you.”

“Do you?” She hummed in agreeance. It sounded slightly muffled, yet Adrien could tell she was nodding as she agreed with him. He chuckled at the thought.

“Well, besides this vibrator that I’m wearing, I'm pawsitively lonely without you.” She added with a purr and he straightened at her words.

“You- you’re wearing the vibrator I bought you? Right now? While you’re in the store?”

“Yeah...” she drawled out as she grabbed a couple of packets of pearl beads and inspected them. “I wear it whenever I feel absolutely empty and need something to fill me up. It’s not you, though, but it helps me pretend that it’s you.”

Adrien grabbed his headset and placed it on his ears as he hooked it into its jack. He switched open the app and hovered his thumb over the ‘On’ button.

“You’re right, it isn’t me.” His voice became low and husky as he pressed on the button on the first setting. Marinette’s knees buckled as she felt the bullet begin to vibrate within her, and she clenched onto the cart as she felt it shake her core. “But hopefully this little game will help you.”

“Adrien...” She began, but he increased the speed causing her to cough to stop the moan that was threatening to leave her lips. Adrien turned the dial back down the first setting and let her get used to the vibrations.

“You miss this cock inside you, don’t you?”

Marinette cleared her throat as she tried to walk, nodding at the phone instead of trying to speak. She realized her stupidity and finally let out a muffled hum, and Adrien chuckled in response.  

“I want to hear your voice, princess.” He switched the setting to a two and the vibrations switched from a steady hum to a pulsating beat. She gasped at the change. “You miss this cock inside you, don’t you my love?”

“Ye- yes, Adrien. I miss it. I mi-miss y-you.”

“Good.” Adrien turned the setting back to a one, but increased the speed to two. “Be a good girl and tell me what you’re doing right now.”

Marinette tried to slow down her rapid heartbeat as the vibrations rattled her clit. The feeling felt so good, yet she wished he went harder with the settings. Being in the store while he was controlling her actions was doing wonders to her libido, and she wished she could play with herself to help get herself further to the edge.

“Walking.”

“Walking...” He drawled out to help her along.

“LookING.” He increased the speed to a five making her voice increase quickly. Her knees buckled again as she grasped onto the cart before she straightened herself up.  

“Looking for what?”

“Beads.” She moaned out then cleared her throat. “Pearls. For the top.” She breathed out.  

“Good.” He turned up the settings again until it pulsated with a heavy beat. “You know what would look great in your cart?”

“Mm?” She hummed out, the feeling of her coil beginning to twist low within her belly. Her breathing picked up as little mewls started to spill from her lips, and Adrien smirked at the success of his actions.

“Rope.” Her knees buckled again at his words. “And a blindfold.”

“Adrien...” She sputtered out as he increased the settings. “Adrien. I’m close.” She whispered.

Increasing the setting one more time, he could hear the increased mewls and the gasping of air. Adrien whispered into her earphones, with an intense sultry tone that he knew would get her off, “Cum.”

All of a sudden, Marinette gripped the cart, her knuckles white from the intense grip as she came down hard. She let out a muffled groan as she hunched over the cart, breathing in and out through her nose as best she could. Adrien finally turned off the vibrator and cleared his throat, waiting for Marinette to catch her breath.

“Fuck.” She finally breathed out as soon as she came down from her high. She straightened her back as she wiped her brow, and brought her hand to her cheek to cool down her flushed skin.

She looked up and noticed the store clerk looking at her, and she pursed her lips as she meekly waved to him.

“Do you need help, mademoiselle? You seem to be having some trouble.”

Marinette’s already flushed cheeks blushed crimson. “N-no. I’m. I’m okay. Just feeling a bit warm, is all.” The clerk stared at her with one brow perked in contemplation. “Really. Just slightly lightheaded. I’m okay.”

“If you’re sure...”

“Yup! Just menopause!” She yelled out, and she slapped her hand over her mouth. The clerk mouthed out ‘okay’ as she bit her lip to kill the groan that tried to come out. He gave her one more look and she nodded to indicate she was really okay, then the clerk finally walked away, shaking his head as he went back to stocking the shelves. She let out the breath that she was holding in, but stopped the moment she heard chuckling at the other end of the line.

“Adrien-” She tried to scold, but Adrien interrupted her.  

“I’ll call you later. Love you! Bye!” He sang before hanging up on her, leaving a flushed Marinette to handle the aftermath on her own, finishing the song as it replayed in her ears.

[ericsonclan]

An Unexpected Setback

Summary: The halflings and Brody head out to start their adventure together only to come across something unexpected: another halfling and a human child.

Read on A03: 

The next day they headed out of the tavern with full bellies and excited chatter, all dreaming of what they would accomplish. Brody had acclimated quite nicely to life with three halflings, maintaining a languid stroll as her three new friends bustled down the street. They weren’t sure exactly what the right next move was, but had decided together that they should start by going to the town square to see if they could find any postings or hear any news of upcoming quests. Thus they found themselves in the busiest part of the market when Louis happened to bump into a stranger.

“Oh, my apologies,” he offered routinely before letting out a surprised gasp at seeing he had collided with a halfling girl.

She smiled at him prettily, batting her eyes before continuing on her way.

“W-wait!” Louis exclaimed before being dragged along by Violet. “Vi, that was another halfling! Out here, in the world! We should have befriended her!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Violet muttered. “She was clearly busy and so are we. C’mon, I’m itching to find our first quest!”

Once they’d reached the town square, they made their way over to the nearest bulletin board, reading as far up as they could before relying on Brody to tell them what the quests on the top of the board said. Many of them seemed far above their level of experience, but there was one quest to clear a manor of pesky squirrels that seemed like a safe enough start.

“Not sure how much help I’ll be,” Brody murmured, looking down at the ground. “I don’t have any fighting experience or even any sort of sword,”

Louis patted her wrist reassuringly. “No worries! It’s not like we have to kill the squirrels, just clear them out! Tell you what, we’ll buy you a net. Then you can catch the squirrels while we scare them your way. Lemme just get some coins out, then we’ll find a good net and-” He froze, feeling around in his pack with a silent panic. He looked inside, having no better luck as he continued to rummage. “I-I’ve been robbed!” he squeaked in disbelief.

“You sure you didn’t just drop your coin purse or forget it at the inn?” Violet asked.

“No, it was just here! I could feel it weighing me down. I just got distracted reading the quests ‘cause I was so excited and didn’t realize till now!” He swung around wildly, searching the surrounding area. Suddenly his eyes lighted on the halfling girl. “Hey, maybe she can help! I bet she has more experience in this town then we do!”

Omar shrugged. “Worth a shot,”

They scampered over to her. The girl seemed shocked as they eagerly surrounded her, but kept an even stance, eyeing each of them in turn.

“Name’s Louis!” Louis thrust his hand forward in greeting.

She stared at it without moving.

Louis awkwardly pocketed his hand. “We were wondering if as a fellow halfling you’d be willing to help us. I seem to have misplaced my coin purse. I’m sure you’d be able to help us lickety split, right? Are you from around these parts?”

The girl shook her head. Her expression began to warm to them. “Just passing through. I’d be happy to help you though. Where did you last see it?”

Louis eagerly guided her back to the quest board where he’d realized the coin pure was missing, the others trailing behind the pair as they began their search. Louis quickly found himself quite taken with the girl. Her curly hair fell in ringlets around her face, framing it beautifully. Her golden eyes crinkled in amusement at each phrase he spoke, and her nose wrinkled playfully as well. She might just be the prettiest halfling girl he’d ever laid eyes on. He was about to ask her if she had any interest in joining their group in their adventures as well when Violet swore angrily behind him.

“My pouch is missing too! This is worse than we thought!”

Brody emptied her pockets worriedly. “Nothing of mine is missing, but then again I don’t think thieves would be very interested in loose buttons and a spool of thread,”

The halfling girl shook her head in annoyance. “Honestly, people in towns are the worst! No respect for private property, just taking whatever they please!”

“It really is awful!” Louis assented, nodding emphatically. “Thievery like this never happened back home. Halflings are too pure of heart to even consider stealing. We work hard for our breakfasts each and every day!”

“Not sure you’ve ever worked hard a day in your life,” Violet challenged. “But that’s beside the point. We have to find our money or none of us will eat!”

With that threat looming over their heads, the group continued their search in earnest, examining every nook and cranny and asking each stranger they came across if they’d seen anything. No luck. After a good few hours of searching they collapsed in exhaustion by the town well, taking off their packs and breathing heavily as they tried to sort themselves out.

Violet kicked the side of the well in anger. “Nothing! We’ve searched for hours and we’ve gotten nowhere! How could this have happened?”

“Don’t give up, Vi!” Louis said encouragingly, offering her a turn drinking from the cup they’d rustled up to fetch some of the water. “Worst comes to worst, we sell a few things from our packs to get Brody that net, then we head off on our squirrel herding quest. It’ll be a blast!”

Suddenly they heard a loud slap and a distressed cry. Omar leapt up from where he’d been sitting, eyes wild. “He tried to steal my cheese!” he shouted, pointing to the culprit.

A young boy, barely over 5, crouched beside the well, panicked. The belt he wore round his waist held three coin purses. It was all their money! He was the thief!

“A.J., run!” the halfling girl suddenly cried. She leapt forward, grabbing all three of their packs in a surprising show of strength before booking it out of the square.

“Stop, thief! Stop!” the halflings cried, chasing her as quickly as they could. Brody quickly outpaced them, almost catching up to the halfling girl until she took a sudden sharp turn, disappearing into an alleyway. They continued their chase, in desperate pursuit of her and the boy who’d rejoined her, but to no avail. They found themselves trapped at a dead end, watching helplessly as she and the child scaled the wall effortlessly.

“How could you?” Louis cried desperately. “Betraying your own kind? Turning against good, honest halfling folk for your own gain? You dishonor the halfling name!”

The girl turned around at those words, glaring down at them as her child companion towered behind her, his afro making her look tiny in comparison, but doing nothing to diminish her ferocity. “How dare I? I dare because halflings never did a thing for me! You’ll be fine without all your coin and fancy snacks. Go on back to your little town and let this be a lesson that fools like you have no place in the real world!” With that she turned, leaping down from the roof and onto the next building. Soon both thieves were gone and the four adventurers were left standing aimlessly in a deserted alleyway, penniless and bewildered.

Was their adventure over before it had even truly began?

[hamlets-ghost-zaddy]

queen of peace

Part 8/10 Shifty Powers x Reader

You regret the words before the syllables form, before they’re from your mouth, but then they’re spiraling through the air and you can’t cram them back in.

Ricocheting around your brain, dunking your anger into a frigid swell of shame, the echoes of your callousness send thoughts spinning until you’re motion-sick; until they don’t sound like words at all—more like liberal strokes of cruel unfeelingness—and you will later marvel at your mechanical ability to escape: leaving a penny on the table, leaving Shifty sitting there, shame-faced and red. It was cowardice, how you fled from your own vitriol: ‘I don’t have much left, Shifty, but at least leave me my dignity.’

The next morning, you rest your head against the worktable surface, piled with Aigle fabric bolts, the words repeating again. You went to bed hearing them, woke hearing them, and no matter how you plugged your ears or shut your eyes, you couldn’t hide. They haunt you, plummeting through and dragging you low. But its deserved, you know; Shifty was trying to help, trying to be a good friend. You snapped at him, and though the words cripple you with guilt, it’s preferable, you assure yourself, to the alternative: to seeing flashes of Shifty’s expression, seared forever in your memory, when your words hit.

His nighttime eyes shone with injured earnestness, with undiagnosable hurt, his cheeks hollowing and graying and—stop, you think, resolutely taking up your needle. Dwelling wouldn’t do you any good, not when you needed to finish the meager order stack as quickly as possible. And anyway, you think, he probably thinks I’m a horrid, wretched little girl now.

And rightfully so, too.

Pass the needle in-and-out, in-and-out of the fabric. Pull the thread, tighten the stitch, finish the commission, receive the payment, and pray the bankers deign to bestow a small mercy on you (it’s unlikely, considering this would be the second year in a row you’ve requested an extension on the loan payment, but you can’t afford to be realistic. Threadbare optimism is all you have to cling to).

You’re fulfilling your last order—letting out a favorite nightgown for a very pregnant Mrs. Morrison—when Mother peers into the workshop. She knocks softly on the doorjamb, wavering and unsure if she’s welcome to enter, and you’re careful not to look at her: the rush of guilt would only increase, rendering you paralyzed. She’s crept around the house since you laid out the truth of financial ruin—and how it directly resulted from her carelessness—and its precisely what you had carefully avoided. She’s sinking once more into the shadowy depths she had been lost to after your father’s death, succumbing further every day to her grief. Time had been the cure but, with how life currently slams every opportunity closed on you and your Mother, you wonder—if Mother does manage to pull herself out of her grief this time around—if there’d be anything to live for when she resurfaced.

You tried so hard to protect her from this, too: to protect her from herself, terrified of seeing her look at you but not really see you. She would perch in the sitting room, staring out at the front garden, and blink at you blankly when you asked if she wanted tea, or if she wanted to take a stroll around the neighborhood, or how she was doing. Now, just as it had then, life has emptied from her eyes, guilt opening up a drain she’s unable to plug, but your acknowledging it would mean acknowledging losing another person: your mother, Shifty. Both repelled and isolated because of your hardheartedness.

Biting your lip, you wait for Mother to speak.

“Darling,” she begins, softly. “There’s some Americans here to see you. Margaret is with them.”

“Americans?” you repeat, perking up despite yourself.

Startled to find you looking at her, Mother shifts under your stare. You lower your eyes back to your needle, shame heaving your shoulders. “Well, yes,” she offers, “They say they’re here to place orders.”

“Oh,” you breath, gathering yourself from the stool and following Mother through the sitting room and into the entryway. The front door hangs open, Margaret leaning against the doorjamb with Allen Vest at her side and a herd of olive-uniformed boys at her back. You recognize Skip Muck’s cackling laugh, spy the bright grin of Don Malarkey, catch the flash of Alex Penkala rolling his eyes among other faces you recognize from Margaret’s Christmas Eve party.

Margaret straightens at your appearance, hand fluttering up to fluff her curls as a roguish grin curls her lips. “Hey there, pretty lady. Just who we were wanting: we need a miracle-worker.”

“A miracle-worker?” you repeat, arching an eyebrow, not helping yourself from sweeping all them into a quick glance. “What do you need? Water to wine? Curing the blind?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” pipes George Luz, his head popping in between the much-taller shoulders of Muck and Penkala. “Heya, sweet thing, how’s it rolling?” he adds with a wink.

Don Malarkey nudges George. “He’s not serious; we’ve been given orders that we’re shipping out soon and we’re all in desperate need of uniform repairs.”

“Our new CO isn’t as much of a—” Skip hesitates, obviously trying to settle on an appropriate vocabulary choice for the present, mixed company, “Stickler for uniform regulations, but we also don’t want to look shabby when we’re going to meet up with a lot of other Airborne companies.”

“We’re the Screaming Eagles not the Scruffy Eagles,” offers George, earning him another nudge to the ribcage.

“Ah,” you reply. There were nearly ten men haunting your doorstep—a day’s worth of hard work, from the state of the fraying thread on their citation patches, the snagged fabric puckering at the sleeve-cuffs—but your fingers itch for the challenge, for the distraction of a series of goals to strive toward, pushing through a feverish night of work and into the small hours of the morning. “If you boys are wanting mends, I can get everyone done by this tomorrow.”

“Don’t make any promises,” Margaret interjects with a wink. “This is the first wave of orders; there’s more to come.”

Interpreting your raised eyebrows, Malarkey supplies, “Word is you’re the gal to go to, ma’am, and that word has spread like a wildfire through Easy, Fox, and Dog.”

“Company names,” Penkala interjects, helpfully.

You nod vaguely, mind caught and stuck on wondering how the ‘word’ got out, and why it spread with such ferocity—wondering who ignited the spark. Your brain conjures Shifty’s face—smiling and bright, a twinkle in those nighttime eyes, and so different from when you last saw him—but you hastily push it aside, asking, “Um, how many orders am I facing down then?”

Margaret, impossibly, smiles wider. “Oh, well over four-hundred.”

And maybe you are a miracle-worker: after all, it is a miracle you don’t faint.

…

George Luz lingers, waiting to be the last client to put in his order of the ‘first wave,’ and once you’re done calling notes for his uniform jacket to Margaret, acting as your assistant and secretary—organizing the order receipts—he hops down from the tailor’s block, immediately nosing through the parcels of brown-papered, orders completed and needing to be delivered. “What are you up to?” you ask, eyeing him over your shoulder as you hang his jacket up alongside the others. You’re relieved all of the men’s clothes already have their last names patched on them; it saved paper, twine, and safety pins.

“Oh, just looking,” George replies, far too innocently. “Are these the things you’re done with?”

“Yeah, I need to drop them by this afternoon and collect the commission money,” you reply, sticking a needle between your lips and sniping a length of olive thread—one of the only spools left in the workshop that’s well-stocked—as you take down Penkala’s jacket. Around the needle, you call to Margaret: “What’s needed for Penkala?”

Hunching over her notes, Margaret replies, “‘Refasten buttons, all are loose; redo Eagle patch, and patch holes on left bicep.’”

Nodding, you mumble ‘thanks,’ taking it to the worktable and poking a gentle pinky-finger through the bicep holes. Your question to Shifty, asked only four months before but feeling a memory from a different lifetime—maybe someone else’s life—drift back to you: did the boys really take cheese-graters to their uniforms? Why and how could they acquire so much wear and tear so quickly?

George follows you to the worktable, the stack of parcels migrating with him. You raise an eyebrow at it, and then at wide grin worming across his mouth—as if he tried mightily to repress it, but then, when has George ever known how to hide his every emotion? The kid’s face reads like an open book. “What are you up to, Georgie?”

“Well, hear me out,” he begins, talking in a great gush of words as if he’s sure you’d shoot down his idea before it’s even from his mouth—not that he’s wrong, you think, tying off the olive-green thread and beginning to mend Penkala’s sleeve-holes. “Why don’t I make all the deliveries for you? That’ll save you some time and you can completely focus on finishing up the orders. I mean, how much time do you waste making deliveries when you could be here, putting in elbow grease and making money?”

You frown down at the jacket. “I don’t know; it’s just…I’m really sorry, but I can’t afford to pay you.”

You can almost feel George shaking his head, his persistent rebuff palpable when he replies, “No, no, I wouldn’t dream of asking you to pay me. I’ll do all the deliveries for free.”

Now, you frown up at him, a protest forming on your tongue: you don’t want hand-outs. You want to be respectable, earn your keep and be independent on your own merit, but if you denied George’s offer, should you—from the same logic—return all of the men’s jackets? Your eyes slither from George’s open and hopeful expression, as if he thinks making deliveries will be the most fun he’ll have this side of the Atlantic, and to the neat row of American Airborne uniforms. You glance at Margaret, madly scribbled up totals and making notes that none of the men have prepaid.

George offered a kindness; Margaret offered a kindness; and every single man who left his jacket in your care—entrusted you to do a service—did, too. It’s too coincidental after yesterday, and you know Shifty plays some part in the plot. The fury, the heated and sharp anger, you felt in the teashop perks up in your stomach, wanting to rise and push hot words from your mouth all over again, but then Shifty’s expression flashes behind your eyelids. With these jackets, a favor had given, you realize, but not a favor to me. Shifty, perhaps in league with Margaret, had convinced the men to bring their orders to you as a favor to them, but you would earn the money through hard-work and timely delivery: no prepaying, no hand-outs.

When your eyes return to George—sheepishly, you wonder how long your silence has dragged, considering the concern darkening his eyes—he asks: “C’mon, why not? Friends help out friends, no strings attached. Putting up with my dumb jokes is payment enough, right?”

And that single innocuous question suckers the air from your lungs, grand-slams every thought from your brain, leaving a dull ache behind your eyes. ‘Friends help out friends, no strings attached,’ you turn over mentally; it’s what Shifty proposed, granted on a much more drastic magnitude. Friends don’t deal in repayments, they deal in affection and trust; they operate above the reaches of dignity because, you think as you observe George’s keenness to help you, my success is their success; my dignity is their dignity.

It takes a great feat of restraint, but you want until after you send George on his way with the deliveries under arm, until you’ve completed repairs on five of the jackets, until Margaret suggests stopping for tea and toast before you allow yourself to slump, forehead pressed to the worktable. Groaning, you wonder how you’ll ever earn Shifty’s forgiveness.

(Yet, the respite doesn’t last long: more groups of Americans soon show up on your doorstep).

. . .

With every day that passes, you expect Shifty to drift in on the heels of one of the ‘waves’ of Airborne men shuffling in and out of your workshop, yet, his abashed grin never winks into existence to warm you. You expect Shifty to accompany George Luz in on one of his many thither-hither jaunts to deliver finished orders or follow Margaret in to help sort through the stacks of orders and receipts, logging the payments, but he remains a specter of your imagination, always lingering on the periphery of your thoughts and imagination.

After keeping at a mad pace for eight days—filling orders as quickly as the American boys, enlisted and officers alike, tottered out of your workshop—George informs you the Airborne is to ship out at the end of the week. You don’t allow yourself to nibble at your lip or worry your fingers together, speculating if you ought to send a note with George for Shifty, begging him for forgiveness. You trust George would see it delivered safely—he’s been nothing but reliable with the other two-hundred-seventy-plus orders, though you suspect he’d snoop and read it before handing it over—but you do hold onto the girlish hope Shifty might want to see you one last time, if only as a final homage to the friendship you once had (the friendship I brutally axed to death, you remind yourself savagely).

You haven’t the time to worry, not with your skin cracking from sewing so much; not with her muscles cramping and the orders piling up. You put on sewing gloves—they slow you, but at least you can keep going—you don’t fuss when Mother throws herself into the work at your side, silent and dogged despite her arthritis, or when Margaret completely bans you from so much as glancing at the account ledger.

“Completing the orders and earning the money ought to be your only concern,” Margaret tuts, slapping your hand away from her spidery lines of arithmetic. You shake her head, tucking your chin to hide an affectionate grin, all the while thinking of the drafted letter begging for a loan extension tucked into your sewing apron. If the payments from the American orders fell short—don’t think about it, don’t even consider it, you internally coach yourself—you’d have to send the letter out on Saturday, the day after the American Airborne left Aldbourne.

(Don’t think about that either, you mentally tack on.)

On Thursday, in the quiet hours of the afternoon, George appears on your front stoop for his usual afternoon deliveries, payment collected that morning jingling cheerily in his pocket. “You know,” he says, accepting your offer of the tea and toast you, Margaret, and Mother had just made. “It’s been a good time doing all these deliveries, getting to chew the fat with the people I drop things off for and stretch my legs while I’m doing it. I think I might like to do that after all this is over.”

You shrug, not helping a grin from George taking an overenthusiastic bite of his toast and a loud slurp of tea. His table manners are hopeless, honestly. “Why not? You can do whatever you’d like. I mean, with your charm and can-do attitude, George Luz, you could dethrone Cary Grant as king of Hollywood, if you wanted.”

“Aw, gee, you think I’m charming?” he crows, perching his teacup and plate of toast on the desk next to Margaret’s ledger to sling an arm around your shoulders. “You’re too sweet to me, I swear! What did I do to deserve you, huh? You’re like an angel!”

“Alright, alright; get off me, please.” Feigning surliness, you shrug him off but your efforts are subverted by a snort bubbling up from your diaphragm and popping from your nose, a round of giggles following closely. George looks as though he’s won the lottery and, some small part of you thinks, it almost feels as if you have, too.

You haven’t laughed in weeks, not since the Aigle fabrics appeared in the post office.

. . .

Thursday inches along, taking George on another delivery run, and dusk descends on your back garden. Every time you think to glance up, sunlight has leeched more from the world. By the time it’s fully dark, the BBC’s news bulletin concluded and allowing for a radio play to alleviate the daily gloom of wartime, you shoo Margaret and Mother: Mother to bed and Margaret to a date with Tommy Beale (she even gushed at a poor private named Hoobler, one of the stranglers who’d yet to collect his order, regaling him with the details of Tommy having positively dragged feet about asking her on a proper date for years. Though you agree Tommy has been an absolute horror, you also can’t help thinking of poor Allen Vest, who’s obviously smitten with her).

And isn’t that a nice change? You wonder, refastening a loose button onto Toye, Joseph’s dress uniform jacket. Being able to giggle over the possibilities of a date, of having multiple suitors? You sigh, longing for the days of mooning over handsome boys—allowing yourself to be a girl—and not mooning over a tin of freshly baked scones in the bakery shop window, hunger grumbling in your stomach.

A faint knock on the front door echoes to you. Checking your watch, a quarter past eleven, you wonder why George is out, cavorting, so late the night before loading out to wherever the Airborne is bound for next. Knowing your mother could (and has) slept through German bombings, you feel no qualms with shouting, “It’s open! Come on through, George!”

The front door whines open, the floorboards complaining under the weight of a person, and you’ve tightened the button with three more stiches, tying it off and nipping the thread, before a gentle voice says, “It’s not George.”

Startled, jumping from your stool and upsetting it in your haste, you twist over your shoulder to find Shifty—cap worrying between his fingers, just like when I first saw him, steals through your thoughts, just like at the teashop—shadows from the weak electric light hollowing out his cheeks, defining his nose. He looks like a man, like someone you don’t know, standing there with something—something you’re too scared to name for fear of being wrong—darkening his eyes.

“Shifty,” escapes on a breath without conscious decision. Silence; you track the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows; you pretend you can see the thoughts and words forming, and quickly tossed aside, darting across his expression. Reaching a hand behind you, clutching the worktable, you attempt to steady your weak legs and hide the tremors turning your fingers jittery.

The movement startles Shifty, prompting him to move in careful steps—as if tiptoing around a skittish forest creature—and he sets a parcel on the worktable before bending to righted your stool. When he straightens again, his face is close to yours. Involuntarily gulping, you step back only to bump into the worktable. You bury your fingers into Toye, Joseph’s jacket, pressing the newly hastened button into your palms. “Um,” you begin. “I, um, owe you an apology, Shifty; I shouldn’t have reacted to your offer the way I did; you were being a good friend—”

“No, stop,” he interrupts, voice soft and it’s just not fair for him to look at you like that, especially after he hadn’t looked at you like that when you kissed him. “Please, stop.” Pain tucks the corners of his mouth, a marginal movement you’re privy to from proximity. “It was a crazy offer and I didn’t consider your feelings when I decided to ask you. I just made up my mind that that was the answer to all your problems after Maggie told me; that I’d sweep in and fix everything, and…and…” He nibbles his lower lip.

You can’t stand him looking like that, can’t stand knowing it’s because of you, so you offer: “No, Shifty, none of it was your fault. It was a solution, granted not one I was willing to consider—”

“And rightfully so,” he interjects, fiercer than you thought him capable of, his hands capturing yours and pressing hard, a physical askance for you to listen to him, to believe him. His eyes catch yours, and you’re trapped (except, ‘trapped’ implies it’s unwilling) under those eyes. A constellation burns there, threatening to swallow you whole. “It wasn’t a solution because I was lying to you; I lied to you from the very beginning because…”

“Because…?” you echo when his hesitation stretches.

Biting his lip again, he sucks in a deep breath. His eyes never leave yours. “Because I said you’re my friend and that I wanted to help. But the truth is, y/n, you’re not my friend; you never have been. I kept up this façade for so long because…because of that day, that very first sewing lesson.” His eyes leave yours, sweeping to encapsulate the sewing workshop, a wry smile quirking his lips. He mumbles, “I guess it’s fitting that I tell you here, huh?” His eyes drift back to yours. “We kissed, but then you looked so horrified afterwards, you apologized so quickly, and I knew you only saw me as a friend. After that, I was…I am so scared of losing you as my friend that I never tried to act on…I decided having you as a friend was better than not having you at all.”

“What?” manages to cobble itself together in your brain, coming out on a choked wheeze. Swallowing once, twice, you rally your thoughts but the one conclusion logic offers you is too ludicrous—too illogical—for it to be real. You try speaking again, “What do you mean?”

A blush creeps into Shifty’s cheeks. “I mean…well, I mean that I’ve…” He hesitates, his hands dropping yours to gently cradle your jaw, tilting your head up, and then your nose are bumping, his lips ghosting over yours in indecision and hesitation. Stretching up on your toes, you catch his lips in your own, fingers skittering up to clutch the lapels of his jacket, and your mouth slots with his. Every inch of you presses into him. Shifty’s height forces your spine to arch, stretching your arms as your hands migrate to his hair, threading and rethreading the silky hair around your fingers, trying to drown every sense with him: Shifty Powers. You try to exist in the same space, try to live in the same breath, and you know it’s foolish—against the laws of physics, nature, and biology—but you keep trying; you want to keep kissing just to try.

When he pulls away, gulping down air, he concludes, “I’ve been in love with you for a long fucking time.”

. . .

Shifty props you onto the worktable after some half-hour’s worth of kissing, gently smoothing your hair as he explains, “As much as I’d like to go on kissing you, I’ve got two things for you. It’s, uh, why I came. That, and to apologize.” He crooks a grin at you, placing a kiss on the corner of your lips that makes you chase his mouth a few inches as he moves back. “Didn’t expect to kiss you, I promise. I didn’t want to take advantage.”

Blushing, you thread your fingers with his, and quip back, emboldened by his kisses, “Well, maybe, Shifty Powers, I was wanting to take advantage of you.”

That crooked grin stretches into a proper grin now. “Well, after you open this for me, I don’t see why you can’t do just that.” He places the forgotten parcel in your lap.

Arching your eyebrows, wanting to ask if his confession wasn’t gift enough for one day, you grab a pair of sewing shears and snip the twine off the package. The paper flops open to reveal a carefully folded length of blue fabric and a little wooden carving nestled at its center. Cradling the carving in your palm, cool against your skin, you realize it’s a doe, legs delicate and thin, but head tilted in curiosity and—you fleetingly allow yourself to think in wild imagination—defiance.

“I carved her for you in December. I wanted to give it to you during the Christmas Eve party, but then…” he hesitates, his fingers tapping out a nonsense rhythm on your knuckles. “I went to that dark mental place, you know. Then, I was going to give it to you after, but I began to wonder if you really are a doe.”

“I’m not?” you ask, glancing up at him through your eyelashes. “What would you say I am, then? Have you figured it out?”

Shifty shrugs. “No, not really; nothing I can say definitively, at least. Though,” he tilts his head, considering, “maybe a lioness?”

You hum, your turn to kiss the corner of his lips. He’s agile, turning to catch your mouth, and he works at your bottom lip, gentle and considerate and eager. He draws back with a long inhale of breath, leaving you blinking and dazed—suddenly wakened from a drunken stupor. Clearing your throat, you say, “Well, I think the doe is lovely; she has a spirit and fire to her, even though she looks fragile. Thank you.” Carefully, you set the doe aside, already planning to transport her to your bedside table, so she might greet you every morning and bid you a restive sleep every night. You return to the blue fabric, shaking it out to find—“My dress!” Your eyes swing to Shifty. “You went and bought it back?”

Shifty shrugs, abashed anew. “I didn’t believe that you had been meaning to sell it. It’s what made me go ask Margaret about if you were having money trouble. In her defense, she wouldn’t tell me anything at first, but after she did, I went and got the dress.”

You shake your head, voice quiet. “She didn’t know. No one did.” Hugging the dress to your chest—a dress you convinced yourself was gone—you offer, “You have to understand, Shifty. I didn’t keep my problems from only you; I didn’t tell Margaret, or even my mother. Some part of me wanted…wants…to be like my Mother used to be; to be like how I remember my father. They took chances, but they made their way on their own merit. I just couldn’t…I know my pride is silly and prickly but…”

Now, Shifty shakes his head. “Please never apologize. I understand; my folks didn’t have much money, and I was always determined to make my own way in the world. I get it, y/n, and it’s one of the reasons I’m a goner for you.”

Your hands slacken, arms and dress falling into your lap, and you’re transfixed by the pooling blue fabric—as sleek and brilliant as a springtime creek swollen with melted mountain snow; as flooded with promise as the waving green shoots along the creek-bed. Returning your face to his, you kiss him chastely, adding a whispered, “Thank you.”

(And, until that evening, you had thought of the War as olive-green khaki. But, as Shifty peeled off his jacket and shirt, leaving him in his white undershirt; as he lays atop the quilt on your bed, refusing to ‘compromise’ you by joining you under the covers and instead contented to press kisses to your temple, your nose, your mouth, holding you close against him; as you listen to his breathes even into sleep, you think of the War as chiffon: easy to tear and irrevocably ruin, but soft and precious and, if handled mindfully enough, capable of heart-rendering beauty.)

(When the morning comes, the War of khaki will follow, hurrying Shifty back to his barracks and toward the inevitable invasion of Europe. He leaves with kisses, your postal address in his pocket, and a promise you dare to hope will remain unbroken: ‘I’ll be back for you.’)

tag list: @gottapenny, @maiden-of-gondor, @wexhappyxfew, @medievalfangirl, @higgles123. @mayhem24-7forever

[rainbows-fanfics]

Two Dearest Friends (Chapter 20)

Summary:

Jack Skellington, the Pumpkin King of Halloween Town, meets Sally, a ragdoll created by Dr. Finklestein. A friendship blossoms between them as he introduces her to the world outside of her tower. Sally is falling for him as their relationship grows into something more, and Jack finds the same is happening to him.

A story where the Christmas incident never happens, and Jack and Sally find their happiness on their own.

Pairings: Jack Skellington/Sally

Sally feels very secure as she sticks to Jack's side, leaving only a few inches of space between them. She remembers what he said about keeping their relationship a "secret" for now, and hopes their closeness doesn't arouse any suspicions. But then she remembers how his admirers will touch him or hold his arm, and the jealousy that twinges in her leaves urges her to inch closer to him. The skeleton doesn't seem to mind, even going as to hold her arm and ensure she isn't swept away in the nearby crowds. Anytime she begins to trip, the skeleton's hand always catches her in time. She grows a little cold every time he has to pull away, but then he gives her a smile that instantly makes everything better. As for her new surroundings, it's not as big as the Town Square she knows, but it is a lot more spacious. It accommodates the crowds of monsters, children, and ghosts who carry on their way - the sidewalks serving only a portion of them as they walk on the streets as well. Everyone seems to be out today, as Sally can barely make sight of the buildings they'd pass by over their heads. But she listens to Jack's voice over all of the commotion, instantaneously warmed at the sound. He points to the places they pass and to the ones they're soon to approach, managing to list everything they'd walk by in a matter of seconds. "-And that is Halloween Town's finest bistro! Their spookghetti and eyeballs is to die for, if you get what I mean." She laughs. "-That building in the corner is the library; I'll take you sometime. The place right behind that is a small barber shop...not that I've been there, but I've heard Nelson does a fantastic job! Over on the right is a rather petite salon - I think you'd like it there." His explanations are easy to follow, and makes her feel like she's right at home. That she can do anything she wants here, just like everyone else, because the Doctor isn't here to hold her back from experiencing the outside world. She actually feels...alive. And as Jack and Sally gaze at each other, they both share a mutual feeling of freedom. "Hey, Jack!" "Hello, Pumpkin King!" "Jack's out today!" "Jack, Jack, over here!" Their gaze is torn by the voices sounding from around them. People flock over to the skeleton, arms naturally outstretched and their faces brightening at the sight of him. He turns to give the ragdoll an apologetic smile as he's surrounded, but even when she's pushed to the side, Sally doesn't feel empty anymore. She doesn't feel the same numbness in her leaves as she did when the witches perched themselves on Jack. No, her heart is already filled with her desire, and the only thing keeping her grounded right now is her faith. And he doesn't let her down, as he calmly pushes away the hands reaching for him and slowly edges back to his date. "-Thank you! It's very nice to see you all! But if you can excuse me, I'm afraid I'm busy at this moment, you see..." She sighs in relief as he comes back to her side, letting him direct her away from the crowds. Even if he has his many followers and admirers on his tail, Jack still feels like freest man in the world. And how ironic, it seems - that the only time he can truly be unconfined is when he is with Sally. As he spends the rest of the afternoon with her, showing her some of the many places he'd like to take her and talking endlessly about things, he feels the truest to himself in a long time. --------------------------------------- Hours pass until Jack eventually realizes that he has lost track of time yet again. He's been so swept up in this date that he's forgotten all about his promise to the Doctor. He's been enjoying himself immensely ever since the beginning, from helping with her stitches to stopping at some of the eateries and enjoying a few refined desserts with her(all of which were his treat). But as every good afternoon, it eventually has to come to an end - and the skeleton feels disappointed as he starts on their route back to Finklestein's place, somehow wishing that time could slow just for another hour.

Sally, meanwhile, is in the prime of her life. All of these places he brought her to - they were things she could only dream of! At one point on their date, Jack took her in a small crafts shop and bought her a new spool of thread and a backup needle. And if that didn't spoil her enough, he got them both lunch and insisted she'd try something called a "red velvet cake". It was very delicious, and the rest of their afternoon consisted of him showing her new places and getting her familiar with more of the town. She couldn't have asked more for a date - it exceeded everything she's ever dreamed about. She beams and gently squeezes his hand, still shivering at their contact. "I had such a wonderful time today. I wish I could thank you more." He's snapped out his disheartened thoughts when he finds her excited, and smiles softly feeling her squeeze. "I'm glad to hear that. I had a terrific time myself." They both approach a set of stairs, to which he helps her down like the gentleman he is. "-And you know what? We should have another one like it." "Really?" Her eyes shimmer from a nearby lantern. "You think so?" "Well, seeing as we both had a good time today and I most certainly would like to see you again, I think it can be arranged." He catches her when she stumbles. "-Wouldn't you agree?" "I do! It was more than wonderful, and having another like it is just...do you really think I deserve it?" He's dumbfounded at her words. Why in Halloween's name would she not deserve it? The whole reason they had this date -- besides his ever-growing feelings for the ragdoll -- was a thanks made to her for turning his death around and finally giving him a purpose again. The slightest implication that she was not worthy of his affection was not one he wanted to hear coming out from her mouth. "If I didn't, would I really be inviting you on another date right now?" She shakes her head. "-I'm sure there will be plenty more to come. So believe me when I say to never forget how important you are to me." She feels so incredibly fortunate to hear that he has more dates in mind, and it comforts her when he says that she very much deserves them. It puts all her discomforts at ease...knowing her future is going to be with Jack, and no longer will she have to slave over the stove or work herself to the bone cooking and cleaning for Finklestein. She'll be out in town trying all these new things - all while being treated like a person by a man who has done nothing but made her life better. The two go quiet as the top of the Doctor's tower comes into view, their gazes shifting uncomfortably. Neither of them want to say goodbye to the other just yet. They want to spend every last minute talking and sitting together, as they've always done. It especially worries Jack to think of how this night will transpire for Sally - if the Doctor will vent out his frustrations on her or she'll be grounded just for leaving again. It looks gloom for her either way, and he wants to prolong their last moments together before he has to leave. "Oh, I forgot to mention..." He fiddles around in his pocket before pulling out a folded sheet of paper. "I've added you into the Halloween plans for this year. Now, you officially have a role." He unfolds the paper and reveals the sheet he's already signed for, handing it to Sally so she can inspect it. She takes it from his hands and squints at all the fancy writing. They look more like blueprints than anything - swirly lines, a moon, a building, and a small figure she can only recognize as herself. It is much too elaborate for her to scrutinize, so she looks back at the skeleton with pleading eyes as for him to explain. "As I said before, you don't have to worry about the Doctor at all. You don't even have to leave your room - you can perform your line just from your window. The wind will do the singing for you; I've granted permission to blow through your hair. Just to go along with the line and all." He shrugs. "And after that, you're done. It's that simple." She looks at the paper apprehensively, placing a hand on her hip in displeasure. "I don't know...it doesn't seem like I'm that important to Halloween." He knows she is joking, but her words produce some sort of defensive reaction out of him. He can't imagine a Halloween without her, certainly not now. It elates him to combine two of his most favorite things together - if he is ever bold enough to admit that, of course...He already knows she'll be the highlight of his Halloween this year. Before he can open his mouth to refute, she giggles. "I was just joking with you, Jack." "Really, now? Because I would be more than happy to list you a hundred reasons why you'll make this Halloween better than the last." She takes a few deep breaths as her cheeks warm, handing the papers back to him slowly. "Thank you, again. For all of this." He takes the paper from her hand and slips it in his pocket again, never moving his gaze from hers. "No, thank you, Sally. I have a lot more to thank you for than you do with me." "No, I don't think so. You've done so much for me...I could go on for days naming them all." They've approached the tower by this point, which seems as quiet as the night itself. No lights seem to be on in the inside. The skeleton opens the gate for her and bows his skull as she passes. He helps her climb up the steps and they both pause when they reach the door. Neither of them go to knock or reach the handle just yet - their attention is instead on each other, and in particular, their lips. It's a natural habit to want to end such a satisfying evening on a romantic note, but as Jack stares longer at her soft, ruby lips, he feels...afraid. He recognizes the nervous swelling in his bones and the prickling at his fingertips - and as Sally leans towards him, his mind just barely manages to overcome the demands of his body. Ever so gently, he moves his hand to the back of her head, slipping his phalanges through the strands of her yarn hair, and slowly brings her towards him. He leans down to place his lips firmly on her forehead, enjoying every second he feels her soft skin under his touch. When he pulls back, the kiss he leaves on her cloth skin still tingles at his stitches. He finds her looking at him with perplexed eyes, and in the corner could he see the slight disappointment in them. If he had any, they would be showing in his irises as well. "Goodnight," He tells her, giving her hands a final squeeze before removing his own. The air feels unusually cold on his palms. "...Goodnight," She repeats. She clasps her hands down at her waistline and watches as he makes his way back to the gate. He stops for a moment to turn back to her and wave before leaving without another word. Her eyes don't leave the spot where he once was, and her feet stay firmly planted on the ground. But when a cool breeze tugs at her dress, she's ushered inside, to where she flees for her bedroom for the night. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Sally hasn't left his mind the next day. The moment Jack brought her home last night, he felt every part of his body long for her company again. He wants the warmth he feels around her, and her small hand in his own again. His evening with her was the highlight of his death - she's very kind and understanding; the only person he found that shared his interests, listened to him, and understood when his duties had to be prioritized. She was always there for him, and he's trying his best to be the same for her.   It takes more effort than usual trying to focus on his work. Anytime he had the opportunity to think, his mind resorted to that kiss he gave her last night - how he wished it would have been on her lips instead, or if he had just held on a little longer...It takes a physical turmoil on him, and by the time he arrives home that night, he feels very restless. He resorts to going into his study and stacking cards until he can clear his mind. By the time he is done, he has a tall house of cards sitting in front of him. He is much more at ease, but he finds the room is hotter than usual. He tugs at his collar and realizes just how heated he has become - all from these small thoughts from the other night. He loosens his bow tie and heads quickly for one of his windows, opening it and letting the fresh air from outside pour in. In this moment of bliss, where he closes his eyes and bathes in the cool air, he hears his dog yapping from beside him. "Arf! Arf!" His eye sockets immediately open, where he finds his ghost dog flying in front of him just outside the window. "-What is it, boy? Do you see that cat again?" He leans his skull outside further to find the alley cat that's been getting his dog's attention lately, but, instead, Zero barks again. He points his glowing nose in a certain direction in Halloween Town. The skeleton follows his snout and finds Finklestein's Tower sitting almost perfectly straight from the sight of his window. The sensation in his bones start to mellow, and he relaxes the longer he keeps his gaze on the tower. How could he have not noticed it was in his view this whole time?  He must've been so busy with his work that he didn't look out of his windows that often. How many times he must've missed gazing out into the rest of the world, in the same direction Sally is in...a woman who has found her way into his death, and changed everything for the better. His arms fall on the window sill as his dog passes through him back inside. "Oh, Zero...I feel so blind." As he continues to gaze outside, he sees the light in the circular window come on. Through the small lines of the bars from afar, he makes out a tall, thin figure inside. His bones soften as his sockets study her, recognizing the figure all too well, especially the hair climbing down to its waist. He watches as they turn and stand in one spot - as if she is looking outside of her window as well. He can't bear to move his gaze. But after a few moments, the figure turns and shuts off the light, and Jack's left to stare at a black window. He remains like that for only a minute more - in hopes she would come back - but after seeing no change, he removes himself slowly. He returns to his desk, getting rid of the cards and returning them to their rightful place. He finds a book sitting in front of him, the same one he had planned to write in tonight. He picks up a feather and carefully dips it in the ink bottle nearby, then begins to write a small message in the book. And as he writes these words, he feels like he's writing them for someone he's known all his death. Not for someone he's just had his first date with - but a woman who knows more about him than himself. He lets his imaginative heart write the words out for him, and only pauses once he begins to run out of room. He decides to finish the letter by drawing a small butterfly in the bottom corner of the page. He has no idea what urged him to do so, but he doesn't mind it. It's been a very long time since he's something as lively as a butterfly - and, somewhere, he finds that same feeling in Sally as well. He leaves the book open to dry, hovering by the window a few minutes more before leaving his observatory for the night. ----------------------------- "SALLY!" The ragdoll is startled by yet another one of Finklestein's outbursts. She assumes she'd be used to them by now, but every time his voice comes out of nowhere and begins shouting, she still jumps instinctively in the belief that she's done something wrong. In this case, the beating in her chest quickens as she momentarily thinks the Doctor has figured out about her and Jack's relationship - that he found something, or had been watching the whole time. She drops the bottle of cleaner in her hand when he comes into the kitchen, and he looks at her impatiently from the other side of the room. She scrambles to grab the bottle again and smiles at him bashfully. "Sorry...I was just-" "Something came for you." He interrupts. She perks up. "It did?" "Yes. Now, tell me when you're done with whatever you're doing and I'll give it to you. It's something good, don't you worry." He leaves the room without another word. At the lack of an explanation, she rushes through the rest of her cleaning. She wants to know what came for her. Would someone really go through the effort to give something to her? If it was from him or Igor, the Doctor would've given it to her without question. But if he is holding it, then that means someone outside the tower sent her something. Once the oven looks satisfactory, she leaves the kitchen and scrambles to find the Doctor. He's in his laboratory, talking to Igor before she comes in. She holds her hands together as looks at him patiently, seeming calm on the outside, but on the inside she is jumping around in circles, antsy to know just who sent her a gift. "You have something for me?" She asks. "Oh, yes!" He turns his wheelchair and grabs something from a table. "Jack left this for you, my dear. He couldn't stick around to tell me what it was. Seemed like he was in a hurry." She feels every part of her start to tingle. She leans forward and asks, "What is it?" "Well, I took a peek at what he handed me, and the boy never disappoints me!" He grabs a few things out from the bag and hands them to her cheerfully. She is hesitant to take it from his enthusiasm, but she can't deny anything that comes from Jack. She takes what he gives her and looks at them with apprehension. They are three books - two of them light, one a little heavier. The heavy one is a book on quantum physics and the other two are math books. She can't help but feel disappointed as she looks at the covers, and glances back at her creator. He, unlike her, is wearing an excited grin. "Science and math, you see?" He asks her eagerly. "Now, I know that these seem a little advanced with where you are now...but you'd make me really happy if you started reading them, Sally." She forces a smile. "I'll be...sure to, Doctor." "Great! Why don't you go ahead and start reading the introduction of that quantum theory book? Oh, and don't worry about lunch today. I'd rather you study." She holds back a groan and nods. She leaves him and climbs up the ramps carrying the books. As much as she doesn't want to admit it, she feels very let down by what Jack brought her. She was expecting something more like what he mentioned before. About romance novels...not books about math and science. She sighs when she reaches her room, and throws the two math books on her bed without much care. She doesn't notice the quantum physics one slips from her grasp, and lands with a thud on the floor. She goes on her knees to grab it but stops at what she sees.   "Huh?" The cover of the book slipped off during its fall. She notices a brown, more texture-like cover underneath the sheet of paper. She slips off the Quantum Physics sheet and finds a different title underneath. She reads: Romeo and Juliet. Then, she looks back at the books on her bed and finds that the covers on them, too, slip off easily. When she removes them, she discovers romance novels underneath. Exactly like Jack had promised her. She suddenly feels very regretful for every doubting him. Since when had he ever broken a promise to her? She places a hand over her chest as she reaches for the Romeo and Juliet story. She opens it to the first page and finds a message written on the side. She recognizes the writing as Jack's, due to his penmanship and the bold words. Thankfully, only his signature is in his cursive - he seems to have made sure that the rest was legible for her. She sits on her bed and begins to read the message. Her hand lingers over each word as she reads them, her body shaking at the thought that his hand wrote all of them. "For my dearest friend, I was hoping we can meet again this Friday. But it will have to be during the night, as I am busy that day - please forgive me. I would like to see you soon. I'm a big fan of Shakespeare(this book is my third favorite of his!) I'd like to know what you think of it. If you have any issues reading it, I left some notes in the margins. Let me know what you think of it next time we're together. P.S. Every time I leave you, I'm  counting down the days until we can see each other again. A lot like what I do with Halloween. And it's getting closer to it every day, but it isn't soon enough I can see you again. P.P.S. I disguised the books so the Doctor wouldn't know. I hope it worked! -Jack Skellington"   She looks at the additional drawing he made. It's something she's never seen in person - only in illustrations and stories. It's a butterfly. The note makes her smile gradually shape into a grin. The last message touches her. She, too, counts down the days until she can see him again. She felt a lot of things that night when he kissed her forehead...she hasn't stopped touching it since that day, and she's even dreamed about it. Except, instead of her forehead, his lips came to her own...but the sensation she felt in that dream would be nothing like how it truly feels, she thinks. She remembers about the book she's holding and squeezes it closer to her chest. She pretends as if she's hugging him - thanking him for this escape from reality, and ensuring she was able to get it. She wishes she could tell him in person; look him in the eye and thank him and maybe even get another kiss on her cheek.... She opens the book and begins to read one of his favorite stories. She keeps him in her mind the whole time she reads it, completely engaged in the text. Anytime the characters share some sort of love...a special connection between them that ignited passion and desire, it reminded her of Jack. And she would picture herself as the woman, him as the man - falling in love in all sorts of different ways. By the time Finklestein calls her down to make supper, her mind is swarmed with nothing but thoughts of her and Jack - and what he'd ever do if he found her at a party like Romeo and Juliet.        

[frownyalfred]

ur ‘5+1 times alfred carried bruce’ fic was so good and heartbreaking and ever since then i’ve wanted more of alfred’s pov <3 ur one of my favorite superbat/batman writers, i love the way u characterize everyone and ur tone in general!!!

Thank you so much, anon! Here’s an idea I was throwing at @batwayneman a few days ago you might like. 

renewal, or five things Bruce doesn’t know Alfred taught him 

Stealth

Six year-old Bruce Wayne ducks behind the hydrangeas, giggling loudly.

Alfred tugs the garden hose into a better position, keeping his thumb over the spout. He can hear the boy a few feet ahead of him and decides to wait, crouching between Martha’s rose bushes.

Sure enough, after thirty seconds, Bruce’s patience wanes. He pokes his head out of his hiding spot, looking around the empty garden.

“Alfred!”

The hose is ice-cold in his hands. Alfred steps around the rose bushes, head ducked low. Bruce’s back is to him–neck craned, still looking for his playmate.

“Alfred, if you’re not going to play–”

He grins as his thumb slips from the spout, sending water shooting across the garden.

Bruce shrieks, spinning around. He puts his hands up to block the spray, but it’s too late. His clothing is drenched, sopping wet with ice water. The look on the boy’s face is priceless.

“You–you–”

Alfred raises an eyebrow, and then the hand holding the hose. Bruce eyes it, pauses, and then makes a run for the garden shed.

Round two, the butler thinks, hefting the hose with a smile.

Negotiation

“If that hand goes back into the cookie jar,” Alfred says, knife stilling. “It’s getting cut off.”

Behind him, he can hear the rustle of Bruce’s fingers removing themselves. He resumes dicing onions, listening for the sound of the lid being replaced.

“Just one? Please, Alfred?” At eight, those blue eyes are deadly to everyone but him. Still, he doesn’t risk turning around. “You won’t hear from me until dinner.”

“Dinner is in one hour,” Alfred raises his knife, gesturing. “You’ll have to do better than that, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll clean my room.” Bruce says, with a look of distaste. “And…make my bed.”

“Right before you go to sleep?”

Alfred waits, watching Bruce’s expression morph into a pout. “…tomorrow morning.”

“And the next morning?”

“I just want one cookie!” Bruce exclaims. “You’re making me do all this stuff for it. It’s not fair.”

“Exactly, Master Bruce.” Alfred grabs the next onion, chopping the ends off. “It’s not.”

Bruce considers this in silence. After a pause, he sets his hands on the counter, looking suspiciously like his father.

“One cookie a day,” he says, “And I’ll make my bed every morning.”

Alfred hides a smile, resuming his dicing.

“Deal.”

Resiliency

The car is frigid; his hands curl around the steering wheel, cold even with gloves, but Bruce doesn’t ask to turn the heat on. He is a smudge of pale skin and red eyes in the back seat, unspeaking and unmoving.

Alfred feels his own eyes burn, looking in the rearview mirror, and turns his attention to the funeral procession. Ahead, a sea of black coats and umbrellas file out towards the graveyard, braving the cold for one last chance to say goodbye.

He parks in the reserved spot, shutting the engine off. In the backseat, Bruce seems to wake up from his daze, blinking at the crowds. His expression is painfully young–scared, uncertain–as he realizes where they are.

“Alfred,” Bruce says, lip wobbling ever so slightly. “Alfred, I can’t.”

He ignores the urge to start the car and drive them away, ignores his outrage that a child so young has to do this. Alfred reaches for Bruce’s hand, grasping it in his.

“This will be hard,” he says, pausing as Bruce’s eyes fill over with tears again. “One of the hardest things you’ll ever do. But you can do it.” He smiles, knowing it’s a little watery. “I know you can.”

Bruce’s eyes close. He takes a breath, hand tightening in Alfred’s grasp. When he opens them again, his eyes are free of tears. They’re still red–still puffy and full of pain–but determined, now.

“Let’s go,” he says, and Alfred opens the door with a smile.  

Suturing

“Why are we doing this again?”

Alfred ignores the obvious eye roll sent his way, threading his needle. “It’s good practice. You’ll never know when you’ll need to darn a sock until it’s too late.”

“I don’t need to darn socks,” the teenager says, grabbing the needle Alfred had set in front of him. “I’ll just buy new ones.”

“Thread it, sew a neat line, and we’ll be done.” Alfred says, turning over the piece of fabric in his hands. He holds it up to Bruce, revealing the row of perfect, even stitching. “See? Easy.”

The teen narrows his eyes, unwinding a spool of yellow thread. His first attempt at threading the needle goes poorly, and so does the second. On the third try, he finally ties it off. Alfred nods at the piece of fabric in front of him, waiting.

Bruce’s stitches are slow, and more than a little unsteady. He pricks himself more than a few times, but completes the row eventually. With a sigh, he holds it up to Alfred.

“Good,” the butler says. “But not good enough. Try again.”

“Alfred!”

Misdirection

“Thanks for picking me up,” Bruce says, climbing into the backseat. Lights were flashing behind him, music pounding through the estate as people ran across the grounds. “The party was getting a little crazy. You have good timing.”

Alfred nods, eyeing the line of paparazzi huddled at the edge of the grounds–hoping to catch a glimpse of how the richest teenagers partied, no doubt. “Ready?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

He shifts into drive, heading slowly towards the end of the drive. A gaggle of drunken teens run past the car, screaming. Alfred maneuvers the Rolls-Royce around them, hearing Bruce scoff in the back seat.

Together, they watch as one of the girls trips and falls, smashing her face into the concrete right in front of the paparazzi. Cameras flash as her skirt flies upward, legs and underwear bared to the world.

“Oh my god,” Bruce says, as the paparazzi go wild. His face is pressed ot the window. “That’s Carrie Jensen. We have to help her.”

The girl’s friends abandon her, running off toward the house. Alfred turns the wheel sharply, sliding the car between the cameras and the girl.

“Go talk to them,” he says, turning around to face Bruce. “I’ll take care of her.”

“What do you mean talk to them?” Bruce asks, frantic. “She’s hurt.”

“Yes, and if they don’t find something more interesting in the next ten seconds,” Alfred says, opening his door, “her underwear will be the news tomorrow.”

Bruce grimaces, sliding out of the backseat. He waves at the cameras, clearly forcing a smile onto his face. “Hey! Hey!”

Alfred gathers the girl quickly, sliding an arm under her legs. He picks her up, setting her in the backseat, still concealed by the side of the car. In the distance, he can hear Bruce laughing at a reporter’s comment.

“–think he’s a good choice for governor? Are you kidding me?” Bruce scoffs, playing up his disbelief for the cameras. He points at one. “My father had no patience for hateful rhetoric, and neither do I. Yeah, you can quote me on that.”

Alfred clears his throat. After a brief wave, Bruce walks back to the car, sliding into the passenger seat. The paparazzi were still going wild over his comment, screaming for him to elaborate.

“Hospital?” Bruce asks, turning to glance at the girl in the backseat. The charm and bravado he’d shown in front of the camera drains from his face; the change is almost startling.

“Hospital.” Alfred agrees, hiding a smile.

(+1) Renewal

In the backseat, Bruce has one hand around the boy’s head, tucking him against his shoulder. Dick breathes softly, exhausted by the events of the past hour and a half. There are still tear tracks on his cheeks.

They ride home in silence. Bruce stares forward the entire time, stroking Dick’s hair softly with a rough hand.

“Good,” Alfred says, as they pull into the driveway of Wayne Manor. “Very good, Master Wayne.”

[sonicrainicorn]

Made of Love, Chapter 7

<< Previous|Next >>

Ship(s): Logicality, (platonic) Prinxiety

All Characters: Thomas, Virgil, Roman, Logan, Patton, Dr. Picani, Joan, Talyn, and Deceit

Synopsis: Humans Roman and Virgil get wrapped up in some serious magic business without meaning to. Their other companions aren’t exactly as they seem, either. Together they all must defeat a great threat for the safety of humanity.

Chapter Desc.: Virgil eavesdrops and gets a glimpse of what it's like to be Logan and Patton for the night. He decides he doesn't like what he hears.

TW: Blood mention

Prefer to read it on Ao3? Click here!

Arriving unannounced at someone’s house at two in the morning wasn’t on Virgil’s must do list. It made him feel bad. Not every person had a jacked up sleep schedule as he did. So he felt pretty guilty (and a little confused) when Thomas opened the door.

Thomas yawned and rubbed his eye. “What the heck?” He wore an oversized shirt with paint stains and sweats that were in a similar condition. So not quite bed ready. “What are you two doing here?”

After a quick explanation, Thomas let them inside. The house, save for a few lights on in the living room, was pitch black. It then occurred to Virgil that they had never been over like this before. The first time they ever came over -- many weeks ago -- the house was awake. It didn’t feel so quiet or heavy from the darkness. They were seeing it in a new light. Or lack thereof.

Regardless, the two sat down at their normal seats. That’s when they noticed why the few lights were on in the first place. Thomas had been painting. The floor was covered to protect it from any stray paint that may have fallen. Bottles of acrylic paint were in various locations on the floor with the black one still being open. A plastic palette sat next to the canvas with a mess of dark colors since the painting, Virgil noticed with a start, wasn’t full of sunshine and happiness.

It depicted a cloaked figure -- Death, perhaps -- kneeling in an unfinished patch of grass. The grass it kneeled upon was brown rather than green and it had a hand -- a human hand, not a skeletal one -- extended toward… something. That’s where it stopped. Thomas hadn’t finished.

That’s when something else occurred to Virgil. They had never seen any of Thomas’s paintings before. They knew he liked to, but they never saw any work. For this to be the first one was a little surprising, to say the least. Thomas didn’t seem to radiate anything other than happiness. But then again, a person is only so much as they show themselves to be.

“Patton and Logan are sleeping,” Thomas whispered as he cleaned up. He didn’t seem to notice how his visitors were entranced by his work. “I’ll get them in a minute.” He grabbed the canvas off the floor and carried it away.

Virgil and Roman sat in silence as Thomas walked around. After things were somewhat neat, he stepped down the hall toward Picani’s room. It took a moment or two before he came back out, calling behind him, “Don’t forget your glasses, Patton.” Which prompted loud, annoyed groaning.

Thomas plopped himself on the armchair at the same time Patton and Logan shuffled down the hall. They looked annoyed at having to wake up. Plus the bed head made them look downright miserable.

“What’s happening?” Logan asked as he rubbed his face.

So Virgil and Roman explained it. Everything. They tried their best to describe each scenario in detail. Who knew what could be useful information. Figments were a whole new world to them.

“This isn't good,” Logan muttered under his breath.

“Are you two okay?” Patton appeared much more awake now. “You didn't get hurt did you?”

Virgil rubbed his neck. Other than being choked out, he was fine. No physical damage.

“Actually.” Roman held out his arm. “I got scraped while trying to escape. It's not a big deal, though.”

Perhaps it wasn't a big deal for Roman, but Virgil had alarms going off at the sight of it. It wasn't just some scrape, but a cut along the length of his forearm. Superficial, of course, but deep enough to draw blood. He had no idea how he didn't notice it before.

“Big deal or not, an injury is an injury.” Patton held out his hands. “Let me see.”

Roman hesitated before moving to the edge of the couch and handing over his arm. Patton rolled up the sleeves of his oversized hoodie. He placed his hands over the cut and a soft blue glow came from beneath them. When he removed them, the cut was gone.

Thomas came back in after that. Virgil didn't even notice when he slipped away. “Here.” He handed Virgil a spool of thread and a needle. “For your jacket. We only had white.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.” Virgil took it with confusion. Thomas didn't need to do this for him. He mentioned once before that his mom tried to teach him how to sew, but he didn't think the kid remembered.

Roman ran a hand over his arm, eyes wide and searching. “How… how did you do that?”

“What was that, kiddo?” Patton sat down with a napkin, wiping the thin line of Roman's blood off his hands.

“How did you fix it?” He moved his eyes up to Patton. “There's nothing there at all.”

Patton smiled. “I'm a healer, remember? You’ve seen me do it before.”

“I mean, yeah, but…” It didn't seem as if he knew how to word it.

“I can only heal what can naturally be healed.” Somehow, Patton seemed to understand. “So I can't cure any terminal illness or anything. In fact, I can only really cure a cold. I fix physical injuries from cuts and bruises to broken bones.” He thought for a moment. “It's more like I speed up the healing process if that makes sense.”

Roman paused. “Can,” Virgil had never seen him so unsure before, “I mean, is it possible to heal, like, a scar?”

“Of course!” His smile slipped for a moment as he glanced at Logan. “Kind of. If it's not caused by magic, at least.”

“Logan?” Thomas interrupted the conversation. “You alright?” After not getting a response he asked again, “Logan?”

Logan snapped out of whatever trance he was in. “What?” He lowered his hands from his mouth. “I'm afraid I wasn't quite paying attention.”

Thomas’s brows pulled together in worry. “You okay?”

“Yes.” His hand moved to where his glasses should have been, but they were not there. Instead, he opted for straightening out his undershirt. “I was simply thinking over our predicament. And I find it quite troubling, to say the least.” His eyes passed over everyone. “I fear we may have made a grave mistake in bringing Virgil and Roman along with us on our rescue mission. Altair has seen both of your faces. He must be strong enough now to detect when someone doesn’t have magic -- and you simply being with us already put you on a kill-on-sight list.”

Virgil didn’t like how that sounded.

“And the Figments know how you act,” Patton said with slow realization. “The ones you saw both catered to how you responded to them in the past. Roman’s tried to trick him to take him by surprise, but Virgil’s immediately tried to attack him.”

“Hey -- yeah.” Thomas sat up in surprise. “They knew Roman would attack the moment he saw what they were, but Virgil hasn’t done anything to prove he would fight first.” He paused, an awareness crossing his face. “You can’t hide.”

Virgil pricked his finger with the needle. Oh boy.

Thomas’s words seemed to click with Logan. “No one saw you come here, did they?”

Virgil and Roman glanced at each other. “No,” Roman answered. “No one else was around.”

A million things could have been passing in his mind at once and no one would have known. He kept a stern, albeit stoic, expression. “It might be best for you two to stay the night here. Altair hasn’t figured out where we are yet so this is the safest place you can be.”

Virgil’s mind couldn’t help but latch onto the “yet” part in Logan’s sentence. Though it made perfect sense. Logan was a realist. It wouldn’t have been very logical to assume their location would never be found -- not with five faces to follow. Still, that corner of Virgil’s mind wouldn’t shut up about it.

“Another sleepover?” Thomas’s eyes brightened.

“No.” Logan quickly shot it down. “I’d like to sleep on a bed tonight, thank you. Roman and Virgil can choose rooms to sleep in as well. We’ll discuss things further at a more reasonable hour.”

By the time four o’clock rolled around, Virgil decided sleep wouldn’t come. He groaned in annoyance and sat up. The room he had chosen stifled him with unfamiliar shadows. He needed to get outside. He sighed and slipped off the bed, grabbing his hoodie on the way out. Even in the dark, the white thread stood out against the black fabric. Mediocre stitch work, but it got the job done.

Virgil peeked his head into the hall to see if someone happened to be there. Empty. He made sure to keep his footsteps light as he traced the wood back toward the living room. The voices in that direction made him halt in his tracks. He listened for a moment and discovered the voices to be Patton and Logan. Their whispering was far too hushed to be deciphered clearly. Then they stopped. A bright light seeped into the hallway.

With curiosity getting the best of him, Virgil peeked his head out enough to see a familiar attempt at fusion. This one, however, lasted a bit longer, although the outcome was the same. The two fell to the floor, sighs of annoyance and frustration accompanying their thump. Virgil didn’t fight back the frown that tugged at his lips. Why were they doing this? From what he knew, they did a few attempts yesterday with all of them ending in failure.

“We need to take a break,” Patton muttered. “We can’t keep doing this.”

“What else are we supposed to do?” Virgil could see Logan throw an arm over his eyes. “We need Picani.”

“We can’t get him -- at least not right now.”

Logan stayed quiet for a moment. “There’s no way we can keep them all safe without Picani’s spells. It isn’t as if we can ask Roman and Virgil to take up fighting. This isn’t their war. They shouldn’t be involved in the first place -- we brought them there.”

“Okay, so we messed up. That’s fine. Just another failure to add to the list.” Virgil found himself flinching at the bitterness in that sentence. “But we are not going to have this turn out like everything else, alright? We’re going to find a way.”

“How?”

This time Patton fell silent. “I don’t know.” He sat himself up. “All we have is us. Maybe if we had… them with us then things might be different, but we don’t have that luxury. We’re the only ones left, Logan.” He lowered his head. “We can’t just fail.”

Logan moved his arm to look at Patton. “I never said we would.”

“But you’re right. There’s no way we can protect three people with just two of us.” Patton brought his knees to his chest. He thought for a moment. “One more time.”

The two got to their feet. They took each other's hands and pressed their foreheads together. With a deep breath from both of them, they formed a bright light. Virgil couldn't look directly at it. But what caught his attention this time, when the light went away, was the lack of any noises of disgruntlement. He brought his eyes back up to see Picani.

His eyes were shut tightly and it looked as if he was holding his breath. And he might have. Forming a fusion didn't seem like an easy task. Though after a few seconds, his form began to flicker. Virgil could almost see the two lights struggling to stay together, but it didn't work. Picani switched into a ball of light and the two tumbled out.

They both sighed.

“I wouldn’t call that a complete failure,” Logan said. “That's the closest we've gotten yet. It's still annoying, but at least we know we can do it.”

“Right.” Patton sat up. “We'll keep trying. We might not be able to shield them, but at least we’ll still be able to defend them.”

“Well, you will, at least. I'll just be uselessly standing off to the side since I've lost the one thing that would be of any help.” He threw his arm over his eyes again. “Just like old times.”

“Whoa, hey.” Patton shuffled over to him. “That's just the lack of sleep talking. We've had -- what? -- four hours sleep total these past two nights? If you got some more then I guarantee you'll feel a lot better.”

Logan paused. “I suppose so.”

Virgil withdrew his head from the conversation. He didn't want to intrude on any late night confessions more than he already had. He tiptoed back to bed with new information swirling around. He couldn't believe how hard Patton and Logan had been trying.

When he saw them in the morning yesterday, they were running on less sleep than him. He just assumed sleeping at hours they weren't used to messed them up. Not only that, but they had been trying to form Picani the whole time.

They needed a break.

They were too focused on trying to help everyone else. Virgil would be willing to do most things if it meant Logan and Patton slowed down for a second. He might have to talk it over with Roman. Maybe Thomas as well. All he knew is that something had to be done before Logan and Patton overworked themselves. Sure he wasn’t the best at that himself, but he’d be damned if someone else was going to do it.

He checked back in two hours later and found them fast asleep on the floor.

~~~

Once a more reasonable hour came about, Virgil gathered Roman and Thomas into his room to discuss what he had witnessed -- well, as much as they needed to know, anyway. Patton and Logan were still sleeping.

“I didn’t even think about it,” Thomas placed a finger to his lips, something reminiscent of Logan, “Picani is capable of creating protection wards. It’s long and strenuous and, honestly, a lot harder than it should be -- but he’s still able to do it.” He ran his hands through his hair. “It’s why they’d try so hard. The easiest way out of this is through Picani.”

Roman crossed his legs. “So why can’t Logan or Patton just do it?”

An expression flickered across Thomas’s face for a second. Something Virgil caught on as seeing a reflection in the mirror. It disappeared with a smile. “It’s not their type of magic.” He got his hands ready for a demonstration. “Logan is the fighter and he has magic that represents that. Patton is a defender and you’ve seen what he can do already. Together, as Picani, they become a protector. He still has elements of both their magic types, but his main magic becomes something else. He can do things that Patton and Logan can’t do on their own.”

“Like how Pearl and Amethyst can’t summon Opal’s weapon alone?”

“Yeah, that works.” Thomas grinned at him.

Virgil crossed his arms. “Even if they could form Picani, would he even be able to do the magic he’d need to? Logan got his mojo jacked, remember?”

Thomas thought for a moment. “I don’t know, actually.” He looked at Virgil with uncertainty. “Something like this has never happened before. It’s kind of not supposed to happen. Ever. Taking away magic is like pulling out your lungs and asking you to breathe.”

So then how can Logan still breathe?

Virgil decided to hold his tongue on that. He didn’t need any kids crying to start off his day. “So then what can we do?” Best to move on to the important subject. “It’s obvious that they can’t do this by themselves even if they want to. They’re going to need help.”

Thomas’s eyes flicked from the chair Roman sat on to the wall Virgil leaned against. There was a subtle switch -- so subtle that Virgil almost missed it. He became older, somehow. As if he had lived several lifetimes and this scenario had come up in each one. It was a recognition one would get after seeing a familiar face for the first time in years. “That’s what we’re going to give them.”

“Uh, how, exactly?” Roman asked.

“We prove it to them.” Thomas stood up from the bed. “Explain how and why they can’t do this alone and then say we’re here to help.” He started walking toward the door.

“What makes you so sure that’ll work?” Virgil challenged.

Thomas stopped. He turned to give him a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Because they’ll see the same thing I did.” Then he left without another word.

Virgil and Roman shared a glance before following suit.

When they walked into the living room Thomas was already leaning over the armchair to talk to Logan and Patton. It looked like he had just woken them up. He glanced over his shoulder then ducked his head to whisper something to them.

Patton placed a hand over his eyes while the other searched the ground. “Give me a few seconds.” Virgil wasn’t sure who that was meant for.

Logan used the back of the sofa to help himself up. He looked a bit frazzled. “Uh, good morning.” He brushed his bangs out of his face. “We were told you had something to discuss with us.”

They all took their seats and Thomas began the discussion. Well, technically, a discussion would mean that both parties get a say on a topic, which wasn’t going to happen. It was more of an intervention. A callout, even. Thomas laid down all the points and spoke as if he knew exactly what interjections Patton or Logan would make.

Even though he had some solid reasoning, the two still seemed uncertain. They didn’t want to get anyone involved if they didn’t have to.

“Listen,” Virgil interjected. “Whether or not you like it, you’re going to need us. There’s no possible way you can keep your eyes on all of us at all times. Let us make it easier and help you -- we’re the ones offering.”

Logan and Patton stared at him in response. They had a similar expression as Thomas did earlier -- seeing someone for the first time in years. Someone they never expected to see, it felt like. Logan’s eyes scanned every inch of Virgil’s face as if to search for something he had forgotten. Virgil could almost see the thoughts racing in his head. Patton, on the other hand, became oddly stoic. For the first time since his appearance, he grew hard to read. Whoever they saw, they must have been important.

Then Patton laughed.

He covered his mouth and let out a giggle. “I guess history repeats itself, after all.”

Virgil blinked. That wasn’t what he was expecting.

“Those that don’t learn from it are doomed to repeat it,” Logan added, somewhat lost in thought. “I suppose that means we only have one option.”

“Learn from our mistakes?” Patton gave him a sly smile.

A tiny grin cracked through Logan’s features. “Learn from our mistakes.”

What those mistakes were, they wouldn’t know for sure. But they accomplished what they set out to do and that was a victory in Virgil’s book. Hopefully, more victories were in store.

(Next)

[siren-dragon]

Light in the Darkness (Ardyn Izunia) Part 1

Hello everyone! ^_^

Now, I said in a recent post that I was deleting my fic Memento of the Past because I am re-writing it. Well, this is the first half of that fic, ta dah! 

Anyway, this was a request from a anon, who asked for Ardyn with a young daughter. So I took that prompt and merged it with Memento of the Past and created this fic. Plus, I feel a bit better about this one. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this fic anon and @kuro-megane :D

WARNING!: Brief scenes of violence and blood

Ardyn twisted the champagne flute he held between his fingers, swirling the bubbly beverage within its glass container. Across the large ballroom stood Niflheim’s elite who laughed and toasted to their great nation’s victory. For indeed; the battle against the Glacian was hard fought, though eventually the goddess had fallen. Now that frozen tundra was naught but an enormous tomb for the icy witch.

And with the impressive results the Magitek had provided, Ardyn had these pitiful mortals right where he wanted them. They listened to his honeyed words so easily, and bent to his designs like the good little hounds they were. Ah yes, everything was working out perfectly….

“And there is the man of the hour himself. Congratulations on the new post, Chancellor.” Verstael spoke, the blonde man coming to a halt next to Ardyn.

“You are too kind, my friend. And what’s this? So, you’ve finally taken my advice and exchanged that appalling armor for something more…flattering.”

Verstael glared at the magenta-haired man, a rather absurd action due to the Chancellor’s superior height. “At least my armor is comfortable; instead of this blasted ensemble.”

Ardyn chuckled, “I am sure the Emperor will honor you for your selfless sacrifice!”

“Your wit never ceases to entertain, Izunia.” Verstael drawled irritably.

“I live to serve.” Ardyn grinned mockingly, even tipping his hat to the blonde scientist. “And if you will excuse me, I shall take my leave.”

Spinning on his heel, Ardyn turned away from his dear associate and proceeded out of the ballroom; ignoring the various nobles trying to mingle with the new Chancellor.

Exiting the Imperial Palace Ardyn continued to walk down the streets of Gralea, deciding to enjoy a simple stroll instead of warping discreetly back to his current place of residence. Much of Niflheim’s militaristic lifestyle was reflected within the city’s steel and concrete architecture; a far cry from his dear old homeland. Slowly he walked across the empty cross-walks, humming merrily to himself before falling silent at the touch of cold steel against his back and the sound of movement in front of him.

“Hand over your gil, and don’t try anything funny!” The thief shouted while two more thieves appeared from the shadows.

Ardyn smiled cheekily at his captor, hands raised in a innocent manner. “Oh? Is that a dagger in your hand or are you simply happy to see me?”

“Shut the hell up and hand over your money!” one of the thieves exclaimed, raising his own dagger.

“Gentlemen, as entertaining as this experience has been, I am rather busy. If you will excuse me- I shall bid you all farewell.”

The thief behind him bristled angrily at Ardyn’s playful tone and immediately raised the dagger in his hand to strike the Chancellor down. Quickly Ardyn spun about and twisted the thief’s wrist, immediately catching the released dagger and dragging it across the boy’s throat. The boy collapsed to the floor, choking on his own blood while his friend roared in anger and charged at Ardyn; his own dagger raised dangerously high. The ancient king simply side-stepped the clumsy assault, giving his attacker a mocking grin that simply enraged him further.

A gunshot then sounded, missing Ardyn by mere inches. He glanced to his attire and his eyes widened in horror as he stared at the large hole that now sat within the fabric of his scarf.

“Shoot him again!” His attacker yelled to his companion.

The gunman moved to take aim but only responded with a sickening gurgle as a dagger imbedded itself within his throat. He moved his hands toward his neck to stop the bleeding, raising his arms halfway before he fell to the ground in a puddle of blood. The final thief turned to face Ardyn, screaming at the sight of glowing golden eyes surrounded by an inky darkness. “Wh-What the hell are you?”

A cold smile pulled across the monster’s lips as a crimson sword materialized within his hands. “A man of no consequence.” He answered before swinging the blade down and removing the thief’s head from his shoulders.

When Ardyn appeared within his flat, it was late, cold, and his suit was covered in blood from his earlier encounter. Slowly he flicked the light switch on before walking to the sofa and retrieving the cloak that was folded within his jacket, gently placing the damaged cloth upon the low table. Removing his blood-stained coat and tossing it within the rubbish bin; as he refused to keep the now stained article of clothing, Ardyn collected a small box that sat atop a bookshelf and returned to the sofa. Opening the box revealed a simple sewing kit, containing needles, thread, an ancient pair of scissors, and a pin cushion in the shape of a Lucian tomato stuffed to capacity with multiple pins.

Withdrawing a needle and the spool of grey thread, the immortal king expertly looped the string through the needle’s eye before stitching the damaged cloak together once more.

“Seems another scar has been added,” murmured aloud to himself.

Once the hole was stitched together, Ardyn tied off the thread and returned the needle and spool of thread to the box once more. He lifted the cloak to the light and admired the beautiful piece to check for any other unfortunate marks. He ran a hand across the elaborately stitched black sylleblossoms, the soft fabric brushing gently against his skin.

Here, this is for you. It’s special, so it will keep you safe!

Ardyn frowned as he felt the multiple repair jobs he had stitched upon the ancient cloak but shook his head, and closed the box of sewing supplies and carrying the article of clothing to his bedroom.

It even has those flowers you like! Slyblos….Sylepow…Syfpossums!

He placed the cloak upon his dresser before readying himself for sleep; not like it would come though.

You’ll come back, soon right? Then we can go and see the flowers together! It’s a promise!

Slowly he laid down upon his bed, staring up at his ceiling as sleep began to claim his senses. At long last his eyes closed and Ardyn fell into the abyss of unconsciousness, where the shadows always came to play.

....Together….right Papa?…

The Crown City of Insomnia; Lucis

The wind slowly blew through the open balcony doors, gently ruffling the sheer floor-length drapes of the elegant bedroom. Quietly the door creaked open, allowing a small shadow to sneak inside before the door shut once more. The shadow glanced about the large bedroom, immediately focusing on the enormous bed that stood in the middle of the bedroom. Beneath the large duvet that sat upon the massive bed lay a sleeping figure, a tuft of raspberry hair peeking out at the top.

Calmly and quietly the shadow moved closer, hands outstretched as a grin appeared on their face. Yet as soon as they only a few inches away from their target, a hand snatched their rest and pulled. The shadow squeaked in surprise before falling onto the bed, laughing hysterically as hands begun to tickle their sides.

“You will have to do better than that, love,” Ardyn chuckled, ceasing his merciless tickling of his young daughter.

The 4 (and a half, as she always corrected) year old child smiled, her face flushed; “but I was so close! How do you always know it’s me?”

“Ah ah ah, that’s my secret.~” Ardyn grinned, kissing her forehead; “now then, may I ask why you are awake at this hour?”

The young princess beamed, thick dark-magenta hair pooling across the sheets of the bed, “Papa, don’t you know what today is? Did you forget?”

“Hmm…I believe it is Tuesday.”

She giggled, mischief sparkling within the depths of her (e/c) eyes. “It’s not just Tuesday Papa.”

“Oh? Then I’m afraid I am at a loss, my little moogle.”

“Today is your birthday Papa!”

Ardyn blinked in surprise, having forgotten all about the day. With the preparations for his…departure, he had all but forgotten the arrival of his birthday. But his little girl spoke the truth, it was indeed his birthday.

“You did forget, didn’t you?” (f/n) frowned before a smile lite up her face. “Good thing I didn’t! Come on Papa, we’ve got lots to do today!”

“Well then, it is imperative that we are not late!” Ardyn replied, hoisting the younger royal upon his shoulder, causing her to laugh in delight.

 He smiled happily as his young daughter dragged him through the corridors of the Citadel and toward the gardens. Apparently, with the help of Gilgamesh, his little girl managed to clear the meetings of that day to free his own schedule. It was no surprise to be honest; as (f/n) could cause even the strongest of men to tremble at the sight of her tearful “puppy-dog” eyes. Yet he was at least happy to spend his final day within Insomnia with his sweet, little girl, and not locked away in the throne room burdened by final preparations. It made the burden of leaving his dear (f/n) a little easier and lessened the guilt….

“Come Papa, we’re almost there!” she cried excitedly, gesturing to the gardens. 

“Is that so? Well then…last one there is a smelly Malboro!” He exclaimed, dashing off in an instant.

(f/n) gasped in surprise before following at his heels, “hey! You cheater!”

Ardyn laughed, purposely slowing his stride so that (f/n) remained just behind him. The entrance to the gardens was fast approaching, surely guaranteeing his win before a flash of blue light illuminated the hallway. Ardyn turned about to search for the source, only to see his daughter warping toward him. Immediately the King’s arms shot outward, catching (f/n) before she hit the floor and collapsing onto the soft grass of the Royal Gardens.

“I win!” she cheered, sitting comfortably upon his chest.

“So, it seems,” Ardyn smiled, lifting her off his chest. “And what will the young lady like for her prize?”

(f/n) paused, biting her lip slightly before glancing to the floor. It was a look Ardyn knew well, for he himself did the same action when wishing to hide something. Instead she simply smiled, “I will tell you later, Papa.”

Ardyn raised a curious eyebrow, wondering what she could be hiding, but decided to let it go…for now. “Very well then, my dear. Shall we continue with the birthday celebration?”

“Yes!” (f/n) replied, taking hold of his hand and guiding him toward a small picnic which was set beneath a cherry blossom tree, near the small water pond. “It’s a birthday picnic! Do….Do you like it?”

“I love it. Thank you, my little moogle.”

 Ardyn slowly walked toward his daughter’s bedroom, the young princess leaning against his chest in content. The sun had already set below the horizon as the moon begun to take its place alongside the stars. Reaching the Royal Wing, Ardyn opened the door and walked toward the bed, placing his precious cargo down upon the duvet.

“Wait Papa, I didn’t give you your birthday gift.” (f/n) spoke, leaving the bed and claiming the box that sat upon the small vanity.

“(f/n), your company is more than enough of a gift.”

“Please Papa, please open it.” She pouted, eyes starting to water as the “puppy-dog” eyes began to reveal themselves.

“Alright, my dear.” Ardyn chuckled, taking hold of the box and untying the dark blue ribbon that was wrapped around it. Lifting the lid off he peered within and pulled out the item within. A beautiful cloak, soft to the touch; made of grey and black fabric with black sylleblossoms stitched into the material. Ardyn let his hand slowly slide across the mantle, admiring its craftsmanship.

“Do you like it? It even has those flowers you like. Slyblos….Sylepow….Syfpossums!”

”Sylleblossoms,” He corrected, tying the cloak about his shoulders. “Oh (f/n), this is beautiful….”

(f/n) beamed happily, “It will keep you safe….” She replied before yawning loudly, rubbing her eyes. “Papa…can I tell you what I want my prize to be?”

“Of course,” Ardyn spoke.

“….Don’t leave.”

He frowned, gazing sadly down at his tired daughter, knowing what it was she spoke of. Sitting upon the bed, he pulled her into his arms and embraced her tightly. “I know you don’t wish for me to leave, but I am afraid I must. This is a job only Papa can do to help our people.”

“I will miss you….”

“And I you. But how about I make you a promise. When I return, we will go to Tenebrae together and I will show you the sylleblossoms. Would you like that?”

“Uh huh! So…you will come back soon, right? Then we can go see the flowers together?”

Ardyn nodded, giving her a small smile; “it’s a promise.”

Yawning loudly once more, (f/n) slowly sunk into the pillows, eyes beginning to close. “Papa, can you…sing Mama’s song? Just…just for tonight….”

“Of course, my dear.” Ardyn answered, humming the lullaby’s melody before singing the words.

Deus dormit

Et liberi ignem faciunt

Numquam extinguunt

Ne expergisci possit

 Omnia dividt

Tragoedia coram

Amandum que

Et nocte perpetua

In desperatione

Auroram videre potest

Mane tempus expergiscendi

 Ardyn glanced down to see (f/n) eyes closed, her breathing calm and even as she slept peacefully. He smiled softly and leaned down, placing a gentle kiss upon her cheek and tucking back a strange of her magenta-hair. “Sleep well, my little moogle.”

[reecesfleeces-blog]

Chaplain of the Lot

Some guy once said religion is the opiate of the masses.

The sun rose on a Tuesday morning in the summer of the year two-thousand and twelve. She rose and floated low in the sky, nudged the people to wake up.

The light came in at an angle through the large showroom windows of Joe Capini Honda and the tables in the middle of the showroom floor cast long shadows. The sales manager, a man with pale blue eyes and a well trimmed white beard, who went by the name Roger, stood in the front office, looked out its floor-to-ceiling window, saw the sun floating in the sky and sipped his coffee.

The first employee to arrive at the dealership was Ryan Delotte. Ryan had just graduated from high school and planned on working through the summer, making a little money and enjoying his foray out into the world. He was somewhat short, at least relative to the salesmen who all seemed to be giants, and he was a bit gaunt. He had a pierced lip and ear, but he only donned the jewelry away from work.

The dealership proper was composed of two buildings: in front, facing a busy road, was the showroom and beyond this was the finance and automotive service building.

Ryan parked in the employee lot, a place in shadow and sandwiched between the showroom and the finance building. He jingled his keys as he locked his door and meandered to the side entrance. The side entrance was locked and so he continued to the front. He saw Roger through the front window and smiled and waved.

He liked Roger, Roger was kind to him. When he gave him the job, it was with utter faith.

Roger had shook his hand, looked him in the eyes, and said “it will be boring sometimes, stressful sometimes, but I think you can handle it.”

The job was small, but he was proud of it. He complained to the salesmen when they smoked cigarettes together, “fuckin’ four sales this morning, that’s four fuckin’ cars I got to detail in like half an hour. Calm the fuck down with the sales, huh?” But he loved it. He loved it as far as he knew that he loved anything. The part of the job detailing cars was even pleasant, these were new cars; mostly it involved removing the window sticker, taking it through the car wash, wiping the dash and hitting the tires with “tire shine”.

He stepped into the building and noticed it was much cooler inside than out. The cool and the smell of new tires enveloped him.

He said, “Mornin’ Rodge.”

Roger said back, “mornin’ Ryan.”

Ryan proceeded to the back of the showroom, poured himself a little styrofoam cup of coffee, walked back to the front office and sat on Roger’s big desk, sipping coffee.

Roger said, “have a good night, last night?”

Roger had this sort of trust with everyone that worked at the store. He knew everything everyone did, and so long as it was irrelevant to the smooth sale of cars, he judged not in the least. As it turned out, Ryan had a party he went to last night.

Ryan smiled, said, “oh hell yeah.”

Roger lifted his eyebrows, “girl?”

Ryan smirked, said, “girls”, and laughed.

Roger smiled, “hope you didn’t get too drunk.”

Ryan was a little more serious, “no sir, not in the least.”

Roger said, “that’s good,” he looked at his watch and said, “hey look, I need you to put up the balloons.”

Ryan nodded, hopped off the desk, and walked back through the showroom to the back office. The back office was a bank of six small desks, each with a phone and dividers so that salesmen could call their customers without polluting the main showroom floor. In one of the corners was an upright-standing large helium tank, and on the nearest desk was a spool of red ribbon-thread and a package of balloons.

It had been a learning experience when this first happened. Before he arrived, the salesmen took turns “doing the balloons.” All of them were better at it then him, and he marvelled at the idea that it could be so well done. They would have 50 balloons done and tied up in ten minutes. They taught him to start the knots of ribbon before filling the balloon. You cut fifty lines of string, start the knots, and lay them out across the desks. Then you fill the balloons, attach the string — finish the knot on it — then let it go. It floats up to the ceiling, and eventually the whole room is filled with balloons.

With great care he gathered the fifty dangling red strings and began the process of moving outside. Moving this assembly through doorways was yet another skill he was still mastering. It was a good thing that it happened in the morning, and that it was before other salesmen got there, because he was sure it would be an enjoyment for the salesmen to watch him struggle through this.

Ryan made it outside holding the great mass of balloons. For the hell of it, just because it was who he was, he found a particularly ugly balloon, dark green that clashed with the red ribbon, pulled the ribbon from the bunch, and let it go. He watched it float away, thirty seconds there, up, up and away. It tickled his stomach.

The sun was up a bit higher now and the road across from the dealership was gathering traffic. Down the road was a McDonalds, and its drive-thru lane was packed with breakfast customers.

As cars whooshed by, Ryan took the time to tie three balloons to the side-view mirrors on the front row of new cars. It was slightly difficult to hold some forty balloons while tying the another handful to the mirror, and even the very gentle wind tangled the balloons considerably, but in a few minutes he had mostly accomplished the task. There was sweat running down his neck when a salesman, Frank, drove up toward him and stopped, rolled down his window.

Frank said, “‘ey Ryan, gotchu somethin man.”

This lit up Ryan’s heart and he beamed, said “nice, nice.”

The salesman said, “you on balloon duty, huh?”

Ryan looked at him, feeling his own sweaty face.

The salesman looked up and down the row, saw he was nearly finished, and said, “ay I guess you started last night huh?” and he burst into laughter.

Ryan blushed.

The salesman continued, “aight man, well come see me when you get done.”

Ryan tied the last wad of balloons to the last car in the front row and knotted it about fifteen times. He looked back on the row of cars, each with its bundle of balloons gently waving in the air, and was thoroughly satisfied with his handiwork.

He found Frank, who he considered he best friend among the sales staff, in the back office, unwrapping a breakfast burrito and sipping a 32oz Coca-Cola. He had, in fact, three burritos.

Frank said, “one’s ham, one’s sausage, one’s… I don’t know what the fuck, oh yeah, bacon.”

Ryan sat down next to him and Frank asked, “you want one? Got it for you.”

Ryan looked at the burritos sitting on the desk and said, “yeah.”

Frank slid the burrito over to Ryan’s desk. Ryan was in the process of opening the burrito when Frank took the first bite of his own, then immediately spit it out.

“Yuck, man.”

“What?”

“Shit sucks.”

Ryan sat there looking at his own burrito, it looked just fine.

As he was contemplating eating it, Frank took the remainder of his own burrito and threw it in a trash can nearby.

Ryan took a bite. It tasted just fine. Pretty good. Eggs, sausage, potato, cheese. It could use salsa. He said, “what’s wrong with it?”

Frank looked at him, almost in disbelief, then said, “you mean to tell me you can’t tell what’s a shitty burrito?”

Ryan shrugged and continued to eat.

Frank took a package of cigarettes out of his slacks, flipped it open, took one out and put it to his mouth, said, “you want one?” and Ryan nodded. Frank handed him a cigarette.

“And that’s not aaaall,” he said.

Ryan was chewing the burrito, trying to finish quickly now that they were preparing to go for a smoke break.

“Check this out my man.”

Frank turned the cigarette package on its side and out fell a tiny ziplock bag, the kind that would normally hold a button. Inside was a single nug of weed.

Ryan’s heart lifted. He’d asked Frank if he could score for him two weeks ago, just a few days after he started working.

Frank waved it under Ryan’s nose and said, “how’s that shit smell, man?”

Ryan nodded and said, “yeah.”

Frank said, “tell you what, I got a piece in my car if you wanna hit it.”

Ryan continued to chomp down the rest of his burrito, swallowing, mouth full with his last bite, he said, “fuck yeah.”

Ryan stood up, balled up the wrapper for the burrito and threw it in the can. Frank said, “hey you want this other burrito?” Ryan shook his head ‘no’.

“Ah, fine, I’ll try to pawn it off on one of these other retards.”

They left out the side door and stood beneath a wide awning. Outside was another salesman already smoking. His name was Carl, and Carl was old and grumpy as hell. He hated working here, and, indeed, had worked here for so long that virtually all of his business was repeat customers. He saw two or three a week, customers he had last seen maybe five years ago, and each time, without fail, sold them. At this point, he simply showed up.

When Frank saw him, he tilted his head back in a gesture of recognition.

“‘ey Carl, you have breakfast yet?”

Carl removed the cigarette from his mouth and as he spoke smoke came out of his mouth, “no. Don’t eat breakfast.”

Frank said, “‘ey well look, I got an extra breakfast burrito. I’ll sell it to you for a dollar.”

Carl glared, “I’m gonna have to pass, Frank.”

Frank shrugged, pulled a lighter out of his pocket, lit his cigarette, then handed the lighter to Ryan.

“ey man, you know breakfast is the most important meal of the day. How can you expect to sell cars on an empty stomach?”

Carl dropped his unfinished cigarette on the ground, twisted it out with his foot and went inside through the side door.

Ryan looked over to Frank and laughed, said, “fucking asshole” and laughed again.

“It’s cause he don’t eat breakfast.”

Frank turned, motioned with his head for Ryan to follow him, and started walking back toward the employee parking lot.

Out from under the awning, the world was a nice gold color. The cement of the lot was tan, and when the morning light fell on it, it gave off a welcoming vibe, said “you are here.”

Cigarette hanging out of Frank’s mouth, sweat glistening on his bald head, he said, “it’s fucked up we got to wear pants and you don’t.”

Ryan shrugged, but since he was behind Frank it was a useless gesture.

They approached Frank’s car, a relatively new Chrysler sedan. Frank clicked the keyfob in his pocket, pulled open the driver’s side door, and sat. Ryan waited at the passenger side, Frank clicked the keyfob again, and Ryan opened the door and sat down.

Frank pulled out an aluminum foil pipe from his driver’s side door. He had fashioned it by rolling up a sheet of ~5” wide aluminum foil into a tube, then bending it at the end to form a bowl. He glanced down at this pipe, then glanced around the parking lot. He turned it over in his hand, emptied the bowl of ashes, rolled down the window and dropped the ashes out.

Then he handed the pipe and cigarette package to Ryan, fastened his seatbelt.

He said, “you get that shit ready,” and with a gentle dinging noise, turned on the car.

They drove out of the lot, down the road a little ways, and turned into a neighborhood. As they did, Ryan unzipped the little package, took out the marijuana flower, broke it into pieces, and put the pieces in the pipe.

After passing a ways through the neighborhood, Ryan tried to hand Frank the pipe, but Frank said, “nah man, you start it,” and handed Ryan his lighter.

Ryan looked around, saw houses and no one else, bent down, lit the lighter, felt the heat from it on his forehead, and inhaled, pulling the flame through the aluminum foil pipe. He sucked through several times before it started burning well.

Holding the smoke in his lungs he passed it to Frank. As he held it out, there was a coil of smoke coming from the bowl, Frank said, “you hit it too hard man,” and still looking toward the road, pulled the pipe to himself and gently sucked on it, stopping the bowl from emitting this smoke into the car. Then he took a hit, light, as though it were a drag of a cigarette, rolled down his window and exhaled, then took another light hit, gentle, so that it soothed the bowl, tempered the cinders, and exhaled through the window again, then passed it back to Ryan.

Ryan already had a feeling of giddiness. He could tell that while right now there was little effect, it was going to blossom into a very nice high. He put the lighter to the bowl, gently inhaled, rolled down the window, and let the smoke out.

He tried to pass it back to Frank, but Frank said, “nah man, I’m good.”

By the time they returned to lot, Ryan felt stoned. His eyes were red, and he knew he was going to have trouble acting normal. As he left the car, he kinda stumbled, and had to stifle a giggle. Frank went to the backseat, pulled out a bottle of Febreeze, sprayed it through his car, then sprayed it into a little mist cloud in front of himself then walked through it.

He had taken out a cigarette and was holding it in his mouth when he said to Ryan, “c’mere man”.

He sprayed Ryan with the Febreeze up and down, then pulled him by the shoulder so he’d turn around, then sprayed his front.

Frank put the Febreeze bottle back in the back seat, went to the front seat, grabbed a couple starlight mints and a bottle of visine. He stood beside the door, and said to Ryan, who was standing looking like an idiot at the front of the car, “ey, keep the rest if you want.”

Ryan thus opened the car door, withdrew the pipe from the passenger seat and stumbled over to his own car. He was having trouble unlocking his car door when he heard Frank say, “ey man, stop fucking around.” He succeeded, opened the door and stowed the pipe beneath his front seat.

Frank was standing along the backside of the building in shadows, holding a bottle of Visine up and squeezing drops into his eyes. Ryan came up alongside him and Frank handed him the bottle of Visine. Ryan tried to do the same thing, but flinched several times and Frank had a look of disbelief, mumbled “jesus christ.”

Ryan finally handed the bottle back to him, and it looked like he had been crying he missed so many drops. Frank told him so and laughed.

Frank then took out two cigarettes, handed one to Ryan and said, “here, smoke this cigarette.”

They stood there, behind the painted cinderblock back wall of the store, and smoked in relative silence.

After they finished, Frank handed him a mint, looked at Ryan and said, “good?”

Ryan half-laughed, unwrapped the mint, mouth hit with peppermint, and said, “yeah.”

When they returned to the showroom, all the salesmen had arrived. Frank made eye contact with one of the salesman, a massive polar bear looking like guy, and shouted, “hey, buddy!”

Ryan was having trouble walking normally, told Frank he had to go wash the cars, and left out through the front door.

Beyond the first row of cars with the balloons was the second row: the second row of cars was composed of the “premier” cars for the day. These were the ones that would be test driven and given walk arounds for new customers. The next part of Ryan’s job was to run these cars through the car wash.

He came up to the first one, a mid-sized SUV, and squinted at the number on the sticker in the top-right corner of the windshield. He said to himself, “five two two two six, five two two two six, five two two two six,” and walked back inside, turned into the main office where the key machine was. Roger was at the computer and without looking over said, “should already be halfway done with those cars, Ryan.”

Ryan muttered under his breath as he punched in the numbers, “five five two two six.”

The digital display said, “no such key.”

He punched it in again, this time getting it right, the machine whirred, and out popped a box with a key inside it. He turned to Roger and said, “sorry, Frank made me get breakfast with him.”

Roger turned in his chair, raised an eyebrow and said, “did he get me anything?”

Ryan said “uhh” and Roger turned in his chair, leaned back and shouted, “Frank! Get in here!”

Frank half-slid into the doorway of the office and had a huge smile on, he seemed to have been in the middle of telling a joke and said, “what is it, boss-man?”

Roger said, “how come you got breakfast but didn’t get me anything?”

Frank’s smile expanded, he looked up to Ryan then back to Roger and laughed, “you think I’m gonna forget you?”

Then he dashed off to the back office.

He returned wielding the burrito with pride, “now, I wasn’t sure which was your favorite, how do you like, uh, bacon?”

Frank placed the burrito on Roger’s desk, Roger opened it, took a bite, chewed, then his chewing slowed. He pulled out a trash can from under his desk and spit it out.

He said, “that’s worst damn burrito I’ve ever tasted.”

Then he turned to Ryan and said, “how come you aren’t washing the cars?”

Ryan left, and as he went out the front door, he heard Frank slap Roger on the back and say, “Rodge, we are going to sell some cars today!”

Ryan drove the SUV, smelling entirely of brand new car, by the finance building, and onto the back service road. This service road was shared by three car dealerships, and along this road was a body shop, a couple reserve lots — where the new shipments were held — and, most importantly, the car wash.

He drove up to the keypad, pressed on the square metal buttons, “3, 1, 2, 4”, and pulled around to the tunnel. The first drive through the car wash was perhaps the holiest experience of the day. The sun was fairly strong by now so that the tunnel felt like a cool enclave.

He pulled up to the tire grooves, set the car to park, and lay back in his seat while the machine did its work: rinse, water streaming down the windows, soap, the spinning cylinders with lapping fingers, wax, green, yellow and red in blurred stripes, sweet smelling, then rinse again. The machine retracted its tools and it was time to pull forward through the air dryer. Slowly, slowly emerging out from this enclave and entering the world anew with a wonderfully clean car.

He pulled up in front of the showroom, saw that it was busy with salesmen on the phones — it was too early for walk-in customers so they could call from their showroom desks — and came to the next car in the row.

He repeated the routine: check the window, repeat the number to himself, get the key, drive to the wash, return. He repeated it again, and again, and on the fourth time through the high was leaving and he was feeling a bit tired, so he stopped, got another little styrofoam cup of coffee, and went to the side of the store to see if anyone was on a smoke break.

…

Sure enough, there congregated were four salesmen: the big polar bear guy was telling a story from the era when he worked at a custom shop in Chicago, he told these tales beautifully, that they worked on Porches and Ferraris and Lamborghinis. Somehow Ryan could only imagine that he worked at a shitty lot in some suburb.

“Anyway, it was a red ferrari, it was Michael Jordan’s. Now, he didn’t come in the store, he had an agent bring it in, but the license plate said MJ 23 and it had dark tinted windows.”

He scratched his head with his cigarette-empty hand as if he were trying to remember exactly how it went, his voice was soft and he meandered on: “I had to take it to another one of our shops, and driving on the highway everyone slowed down around me, trying to look in through the windows, and little did they know, it wasn’t Michael Jordan in the Ferrari, but me.”

He grinned, took a drag from the cigarette, looked around from person to person, seeming disappointed by the tepid reaction, lifted his eyebrows, and said, “he had a Porche too, a sweet setup; a black turbo.”

He continued to talk and Ryan nudged Frank, who was standing in amazement, and Frank responded by throwing his hand out as if he was sweeping away a fly.

Ryan sighed, went back through the building, prepared the fifth car for a car wash. This time, however, he stopped on the way to the car wash in the employee parking lot, sat halfway in his car, legs still facing out, retrieved the pipe from under the seat, a lighter from the cupholder, and took a deep hit.

He let out his breath and the smoke coiled around the footwell, the pedals, of his car. He leaned out, waved his hand to ward off the smoke, returned to the still-running uncleaned burgandy sedan, and proceeded through to the car wash, listening to the radio at very loud volumes.

He was determined now to make it through the rest of the row of cars before his high went away. Boom, wash, boom, wash, boom, wash.

He parked the final car in the row, closed the door, stood away and looked at all the cars facing the steps to the dealership. Beautiful, shining, spotless. A bright point of light was reflected in each of the roofs of the vehicles. Ryan, shielding his eyes from the sun, looking like he was giving a salute, turned and went in the showroom.

At this point, Frank had got himself a customer, Ryan was familiar enough to understand that the man wanted to buy the van, but he was in the delicate act of maximizing his gains by choosing accessories. He could drive away with the van today if it were just the van he wanted, but he was going on a roadtrip Friday and he wanted the luggage rack. He needed to know how long it would take to be installed, and Frank was in a gleeful back and forth with the man.

This sort of information went through Ryan’s head unimpeded. It was the daily rhythm and the song and refrain of the days. People came in, full of anxiety about being sold, and were eased into it. He imagined that, in their younger years, the salesmen must have been pretty good lovers. Been very good at easing her tension: no, no, honey, yes, it’s okay to say no, we can lay here and relax, and then they start rubbing her shoulders, and finally she gives in, just barely, leans back into him, and he kisses her on the neck. It’s smooth sailing from here. The man buying a van was well into the process of love, would be willing to spend a hundred years in the dealership, and the salesman was giving him all the peace of the world.

Ryan sat in the back office, legs propped up on another chair in front of him, and sent text messages on his phone. He wanted to let his girlfriend know that he had some weed and that he was going to save it for them tonight and that they’d have a wonderful time.

It was at this point that there was a knock on the open door.

It was Roger.

“Ryan,” he said, “did you wash the burgundy Accord this morning?”

Ryan turned from his chair and looked at Roger, he said, “yeah?”

Roger smiled, and said, “I thought so.”

He said, “come with me.”

Ryan stood up and walked out of the room. Roger held his hand lightly on the small of Ryan’s back and led him out to the side entrance door.

Ryan said, “where are we going?”

Roger responded, “finance building.”

The walk from the side entrance to the finance building was changed from the morning. It was high noon now, the sun was directly overhead and the tan cement was so bright it seemed white. The sky was so clear Ryan expected a buzzard, or maybe a hawk that fly across and cry out, ba-kaw!

He heard his own footsteps, tennis shoes on pavement: contact, contact, contact.

As they approached the finance building, Roger took the lead and opened the door for Ryan. They walked down a hallway, and Roger stood by an open door, made a motion for Ryan to enter and sit down.

Roger closed the door behind him, looked at Ryan with his soft, gentle, pale blue eyes.

Then he looked down at the floor and said, “let me ask you Ryan,” looked back up, “why do you think we’re here?”

Ryan said, “huh?”

Roger said, “I mean, why do we come to the dealership?”

Ryan felt that he understood the right answer, he trusted Roger to ask questions honestly and in earnest.

“Well… to make money.”

Roger nodded, “Close. To sell cars.”

Ryan was vaguely confused.

Roger put his hand on Ryan’s shoulder, gave him a concerned look, said, “and do you know what makes it hard to sell cars?”

Ryan looked up and shook his head “no”.

Roger smiled, “when they smell like weed.”

Ryan frowned and felt very small.

Roger patted him on the back, looked Ryan in the eye, and said, “you need to be more careful.”

Roger turned to leave the room, but in the doorway he spun on his heel, and then said, “Ryan, do you know the difference between working to make money and working to sell cars?”

Ryan shook his head.

Roger nodded, “The difference is… you work for money if you need something: if you need a house, if you need food — whatever.”

Roger took a moment to compose himself, then said, “But what if you have enough money for food and shelter and security and all that?”

Ryan said, “you buy stuff.”

Roger said, “exactly, you buy stuff, you work for stuff not for money. And why do you buy stuff? Because you want it. What is the opposite, what must it be like to want nothing?”

Ryan thought about this, he assumed that to want nothing must have meant pure bliss, but now he could see that it was much more a kind of depression. Apathy, pointlessness. Even a preacher wants for the salvation of his congregation.

Roger saw the conclusions being reached in his head.

He nodded, “and so, what do we do here? We sell cars. We give people meaning.”

Roger took a second, smoothed out his shirt, and said, “It’s bullshit that people think meaning is a singular thing, like, ‘oh if god just sent me a message then I would know exactly how to live my life’, no. It’s a collection of things, it’s about girls,” and he raised his eyebrows at Ryan, “and it’s about good food, and it’s about many, many things. We give people a small chunk of meaning too, a pursuit of a nice car, the bliss of taking ownership, and the several years thereafter where they have pride for it.”

He smiled at Ryan, turned to leave the room, and in the doorway he stopped and knocked on the frame, looked at Ryan, said, “people are fulfilled, so long as they want.”

Roger left the room, and as he was on his way down the hallway, he stopped at another door, leaned in, looked at the finance guy at his computer and said, “look alive! Frank’s about to sell a van!”