#particular) to get to the espresso cups. we hide them under the counter for some reason. i don’t know why. i mean Very few people order

[fingertipsmp3]

Guy who looked like he should be a fairytale prince came into the cafe yesterday and I have never wished I knew how to flirt more

[the-sympathetic-villain]

The Chance Meeting of the Black Cat Cafe

AO3

Prompt: Everyone is born with a limited number of words. Because of this, people thing more before they speak. In some cultures, it's even considered the god(s) choice on who gets how many. Those with the fewest words are pitied but accepted nonetheless.

Prompt by anonymous on Tumblr.

Author's note: This prompt has been sitting in my inbox for a shameful amount of time, but I had to figure out some baseline for this. Giving the characters the ability to use sign language or the ability to write seemed too easy. So I had to figure out a way around that <3

Word Count: 5866

Pairing: Analogical

Warnings: Flirting/Romantic contact, Prejudice, Very, very light hurt/comfort

---

    Black coffee.

    Two sugars.

    Splash of cream.

    That's the way Logan's coffee had always been served to him. As long as he could remember, he spent his morning getting ready for work, drove to his favorite coffee shop and went about his day. He'd been doing this for years. This was how his life had always been.

    Until today.

    Logan stood outside his favorite coffee shop dumbfounded by the ‘Closed' sign blocking the way to his daily routine. A small note was tacked to the sign explaining that a family emergency that had forced Anna, the shop owner, to close on this very particular day, but still the small sign stalled his brain.

    This was fine.

    Emergencies happen. The most important factor of the situation is that the owner was taking care of her family. His need to stay on his routine was of minimal importance compared to the safety and well being of the kind barista who'd been serving him his coffee for years.

    Logan knew this was true. He shouldn’t still be staring blankly at the dark building, but he couldn’t seem to drag his feet away. The thought was irrational and he knew there were several solutions existed for this very simple problem he was facing. He forced himself to take a long breath, considering his options.

    He could simply continue onto work without his coffee, but the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. Dealing with his coworkers without caffeine as a buffer sounded less than ideal. Logan let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he turned towards his car.

   Of course, the logical course of action was to simply go to a different coffee shop. It would be well worth the mediocre coffee and pitiful stares of the new shop's patrons if he didn't have to go without his daily dose of dark roasted stimulant.

    Logan chewed on his lip as he slipped his key into the ignition of his car. He knew the dread building in his chest was an overreaction, but he couldn’t seem to trick his brain into releasing the anxiety constricting his throat. He'd spent years, slowly optimizing his daily routine to avoid the stares full of pity that he often received while out in public. Too often, well-meaning people would notice the lack of black designs on his body and their looks would immediately turned to pity. The very thought of the way people looked at him when they realized he had no words made his stomach twist.

    Most people were gifted with at least a few decades worth of words, more if they were careful about how they used them. Everyday, he was surrounded by dozens of people whose arms and legs were covered in black designs, indicating the words they had left in there life. Some were more faded than others, especially among the older generation, but few people were like him. His arms were bare when he was born and one would assume he would have gotten accustomed to the way people without words were treated, but it never seemed to get easier.

    He turned the key, humming as the engine suddenly jumped to life. Slowly, he let out a sigh as he backed out of the parking lot and turned back onto the busy streets. The sounds of traffic and instrumental music on the radio soon lulled him into an uneasy resignation as he scanned the road for the next indication of an establishment selling the much needed warmth and comfort of caffeine he was craving today. Logan had barely gone two blocks when a purple neon sign caught his eye.

    Black Cat Coffee.

    The branding left a lot to be desired.  The faded logo was nearly unreadable under the purple glow of the neon circled around the cartoon-ish black cat logo. The design was garish and had too much of a Halloween vibe for Logan’s usual taste. Not to mention, something about the cat's eyes unsettled him as it seemed to smile directly at him. He wouldn’t even have considered it any other day, but he was already behind schedule, and the shop appeared to be nearly empty even as the morning traffic bustled past. Logan sighed,  relenting to his need for caffeine as he pulled into the narrow parking lot and stepped out of his car.

    He looked up as he stepped out, taking in the aged building as he made his way to the door. The bright purple paint on the building had faded with time, leaving behind a deep, muted purple that only seemed to retreat from the dark, green trim framing the building. He swallowed, nervous as darkened the doorstep of the strange establishment.

    Logan pushed open the heavy door, almost jumping at the sound of the bell that announced his arrival. He quickly slipped through the entrance but his unease only seemed to increase as the sounds of the traffic we dulled by the thick walls. His skin prickled with discomfort as he stepped forward into the empty shop.

    He hadn't thought to check for an open sign. After all, he'd hardly have assumed that a coffee shop would be closed on a Monday morning during prime business hours, and yet it appeared he was alone in the dim space. The natural light from the windows was muted by the large pine trees outside and the amber light cast down by the industrial style light barely seemed sufficient to light the room.

    Logan had barely stepped up to the counter when a figure suddenly rose up from behind the register. He bowed his head quickly, ashamed by how much he'd jumped when the man stood up, marker in his mouth as he stared at Logan.

    The man blinked, still staring at him as he pulled the marker out of his mouth with a knowing smirk. The man's long hair was pulled back into bun on the top of his head and he was wearing a dark colored hoodie with purple patches on the elbows. His smile twitched as he chewed on the piercing on his lips and Logan got the feeling that the man had enjoyed spooking him. The man chuckled at his disgruntled expression, pointing up at the faded menu board above him before slipping the marker behind his ear as he waited for Logan’s response.

    Logan bit his lip as he raised his wrist into the air to showcase the purple band around his wrist. He paused, expecting the man’s expression to change as he realized that Logan wasn’t able to speak. This wasn't a new experience and he'd seen all the reactions before. Sadness, pity, and even disgust at how young he was to have lost his privilege to speak, but nothing could have prepared him for the casual shrug the man gave in response.

    He couldn’t help but stare, dumbfounded by the lack of a reaction as the man turned to the espresso machine. His mind became a blur as he listened to the hissing of the machine, still shell-shocked by the man's nonchalance.

    After a moment, the man seemed to catch him staring and he smirked as Logan started. He flushed, suddenly embarrassed by his distinct inability to function like a normal human being and follow basic social norms like not staring at the attractive barista who seemed to be taking pleasure in his incompetence. Taking a step back, Logan bowed his head as he tried to hide the red burn in his cheeks. He started to turn to find a table to wait, but the man almost jumped over the counter at him trying to get his attention.

    Logan looked up as the man’s smirk softened as he leaned back holding up his hands in a gentle apology. He smiled, waving Logan back over as he turned to finish with his process. Logan stared for a moment before reluctantly returning to the bar. He watched the barista work and a moment later, the man slid the purple to go cup across the counter to Logan.

    Black coffee.

    Two sugars.

    Splash of cream.

    Whatever the man had handed him was most certainly not that, but Logan had to admit this drink was much tastier than what he'd grown accustomed to drinking. He'd been to dozens of shops and always been served the same drink. His lack of words had always meant he couldn’t order and that had left him at the mercy of the standard drink every shop had agreed to serve people like him.

    Logan stared down at the cup, almost shell-shocked by the unexpected flavor. He didn’t even known coffee could taste this good. The flavor didn’t have even a hint of bitterness and the steamed milk was light and fluffy with a sweet caramel finish. The sweet drink was absolutely divine.

    “Pretty decent, huh?”

    Logan had just started taking another sip when the man's words startled him. He choked, nearly dropping his delicious drink in the process and his eyes turned up to the stranger's knowing grin as the man leaned forward on the bar. He hesitated a moment too long, shocked by the man’s casual use of his words, only to realize a moment too late that he was expecting an answer. Slowly, Logan nodded and he smiled as the man perked up.

    “Name's Virgil and, um, I'm not busy at the moment.” The stranger leaned on the bar, glancing around the room with a raised eyebrow. “Do you think maybe you'd like to stay a bit?”

    Logan hesitated, looking at the door. He knew he was already going to be late for work, but he couldn't help but be intrigued by the handsome man who seemed willing to throw away precious words on a complete stranger. His silence hung over them, even more deafening than usual as he pondered the stranger’s invitation. That was, until a soft fur brushed Logan’s hand and he startled once more, looking to see a purring mass of dark fur staring up at him with glittering amber eyes.

    “That's Azazel.” The barista drawled lazily as Logan turned back to his smile. “I'd lie and say you were special, but the truth is she’s kind of a slut for anyone who's willing to pet her.”

    Logan snorted, slightly embarrassed as he glanced nervously at the soft expression on the man's face and extended his hand out to the cat. The black mass lifted up to reveal her slender black legs as they stretched as she arched her back before pushing her head into Logan’s hand. He chuckled as she purred and allowed Logan to scratch under her chin, leaning her head in for more.

    “Are you sure you can’t stay?”

    Logan bit his lip as he turned his gaze back up to Virgil. He shook his head. He wanted nothing more than to stay with the stranger who had spared more words on him in this short conversation than he'd been given in weeks, but he couldn’t afford to abandon his job. He liked the job had now. It was comfortable and gave him more freedom than most places would, given his social status. Not to mention, the placement process for employment for those without words was an experience he wasn't eager to repeat. Reluctantly, he shook his head at the stranger, feeling the disappointment weigh heavy on his chest as he stepped back to leave.

    “Now, just hold on,” Virgil raised a hand to stop him. Logan turned back, surprised to see the barista swinging around the counter. “This isn't a one time offer.”

    Logan paused, shocked as the man reached out to take his hand. He stared in bewilderment as the man flipped his wrist over and rolled up his sleeve. Virgil pulled the marker from behind this ear and popped off its cap. Logan's mouth dropped open as Virgil took the black marker and started to write on his forearm.

   “You know where that is?”

    Canterbury Park.

    Logan blinked as he looked down to read the words scribbled on his forearm. From what he remembered, the park was close to here and not far from his own house actually. He looked at his wrist, still mystified by the ink now decorating his skin for a moment longer before nodding up at Virgil.

    “Good,” The man whispered with a smirk. “If you’re interested, meet me there tonight around 9pm.”

    Logan nodded, still holding his arm and looking shell-shocked as he turned to go.

    “Oh, and you best keep that hidden.” Virgil smirked, gently pulling at the piercing in his ear as Logan turned his head over his shoulder. “I don’t do parties. That invite's just for you.”

    Logan felt heat rise in his cheek as he nodded and the stranger flashed him a coy smile. He quickly pulled his sleeve down and shuffled back out of the door, jumping again at the sound of the bell as he ducked out of the shop.

    Logan was shaking as he dropped into the seat of his car. He quickly set his coffee into the cup holder immediately to avoid spilling the precious liquid as his hands started to shake. His hands found their way up to rest firmly on the steering wheel as he tried to steady his breathing. His eyes lifted up to the shop windows if disbelief as he tried to process what had just happened. Needless to say, this was not how he’d anticipated his morning going.

---

    Logan's focus was all but non-existent for the rest of his day. He was fortunate enough that his reputation of reliability kept him out of trouble with his boss. In fact, she’d barely even looked up as he walked in the door nearly twenty minutes late. It perturbing how dreadfully normal the day was as it passed. It was entirely as though the encounter with the stranger was nothing more than a dream. He may not even have believed it happened, if it weren't for the black ink still scribbled on his arm.

    Logan set the coffee on his desk and began to pull his pencils out of his bag. His drafting board was laid out in front of him. The numbers stared back at him in the only language that had ever come naturally to him.

     He tried to set to work on his current drafting project. He'd been assigned to design a new public art house on the south side of town. It was a project he’d been lucky enough to land when so many people like him were simply placed into manual labor or food service. Not that he would ever belittle the importance and necessity of such jobs, but the opportunity to pursue creative work drove him to push the boundaries of what people like him should be encouraged to do. In a world of silence, this was his voice and he was ready to shout from the mountaintops.

    Usually.

    Yet somehow, today he seemed utterly speechless. He could barely put his pencil to the board without shaking. Every time he moved, his sleeve pulled up to reveal the black ink on his skin, and each time, the sight sent his thoughts spiraling towards the mysterious barista's offer. His coworkers moved around him, buzzing and humming as they worked productively, making him grow increasingly desperate to manage even to draw a straight line as his day dragged on.

    I shouldn’t go.

    He knew he shouldn’t even consider the man’s proposal. Meeting a strange man in the park alone at night was dangerous to say the least. His condition made him particularly vulnerable, and he knew it. If something happened, Logan couldn’t even call for help. It was the reason why he had always been exceedingly cautious in his previous ventures, so he couldn’t understand why he was even entertaining the idea now.

    Logan sucked in a breath, slowly releasing the breath as he pressed his hand to his sleeve, thinking about the dark scribble underneath. He knew the answer was obvious. Writing on his arm was an intimate gesture. In a world where the spoken word was rare, the written word was nearly non-existent. A thousand spoken words would not fade the black designs on one's arms as with the same potency as a single written sentence. Even among those with the most words to spare, few of them chose to give their words the world through writing. To give even two written words to a stranger was an incredible gesture of generosity and trust and not one he should throw away lightly.

    Oh, fuck. I'm actually going go.

    Logan swallowed, leaning back in his chair as he dropped his pencil on his desk. He gave up on trying to focus. With a sigh, he rested his head in his hands on his desk. He just needed to get through the day without the curiosity killing him. Whatever happened that night, he would simply take his chances on the meeting being worth the misery.

---

    The chill of the night crept up Logan’s neck as he turned into the dark park. He'd opted for a more casual outfit than this morning than he'd been wearing this morning.  The choice had taken him longer than he would like to admit, but he'd settled on a pair of straight, black jeans, his canvas side bag and a blue sweatshirt he'd gotten a few years ago as a gift from a friend. The blue garment had always been a bit of a comfort item for him, even as the years started to wear it thin. He'd loved it and had managed to keep it in perfect shape, and though he’d admit in this particular moment he was craving something a little less threadbare, it still brought him a sense of ease he waited.

    “You made it.”

    Logan jumped at the sound of the  man's voice, immediately feeling silly that he hadn't anticipated the man's appearance behind him. He smiled shyly, taking in the man’s appearance as he turned around. The man’s dark hair was covered by a slouch beanie and he wore a heavy leather jacket that was lined with a dark black fleece underneath. A plain back tee showed through the half-zipped jacket and the skinny jeans he wore seemed to be his signature shade of purple. Logan chewed his lip as the man stepped up to him, playing with the silver cuff on top of his right ear. Logan flashed a shy smile, shifting his feet as he tried to avoid staring.

    “You can relax, dude. I promise I don’t bite.” Virgil dropped his hand from his hear, flashing a coy smile at Logan. “I mean, not unless you ask nicely.”

     Heat rushed to Logan cheeks as he ducked his head to his chest as the man smirked at him.

    Nope, this is too much.

    He tried to turn away, only to be stopped as  Virgil’s gentle grip caught his arm.

    “Hey, wait. I'm sorry.” Virgil came up beside him, softening his grip on Logan’s wrist. “I'll cool it with the jokes, I swear—um, I didn’t actually catch your name."

    Logan nodded, staring at the genuine concern in the man's eyes as he stopped him. He relaxed a bit, allowing Virgil to guide him back as he reached for his wallet. After some digging, he pulled out an old ID card, faded from years of use, and handed to Virgil.

    “Logan King.” Virgil smiled, flashing a look up and down him as he handed back the plastic card. “That’s a killer last name, dude.”

    Logan tensed slightly at the verbiage, forcing a smile as he shoved his hands in his pocket. Still despite his attempt to conceal his discomfort,  the man somehow managed to pick up on the slight shift in his demeanor. His eyes immediately became apologetic as he held up his hands in gentle reassurance.

    “Listen, I'm not a serial killer or whatever you’re worried about,” Virgil smiled, almost appearing nervous as he watched Logan's head turn back to him. “I’m nervous too. That’s all. I haven’t been on a first date in a long time.”

    Logan blinked in shock, staring at the man with apparent confusion in his eyes. He was quiet as the man’s eyes suddenly filled with distress.

    “Oh, god—” Virgil stammered, suddenly fidgeting under Logan’s stare for a change. “—Please tell me you knew what this was. If that’s not what you came here for, I can walk you home. I didn't mean to—”

    Logan chuckled as he held up his hands to brush off the stranger’s worries.  The man stilled as he watched Logan’s movements. He seemed to understand that Logan was not uncomfortable with the thought, but the stranger was clearly still unsettled by Logan's surprise. Logan's shyness abated slightly and he stepped forward, taking the man’s hand in his own.

    Virgil looked down as Logan’s hand as their fingers intertwined together. His tension started to melt away as he tipped his head up to the gentle look in Logan’s eyes.

  “You’re sure this is what you want?”

   Logan raised an eyebrow, teasing as he pointedly looked down at the man's hand curled in his own before turning playful eyes back up to Virgil.

    “Alright, smart-ass.” The man laughed as he turned to pull Logan along the path. “I needed to check in with you. Consent’s important and all that.”

    Logan’s lips curled into a small smile as he nodded in appreciation of the gesture.

    “Alright, then.” Virgil whispered,  squeezing Logan’s hand as he started to pull him down the path. “Let’s go.��

     His posture softened as they ventured deeper into the park. Virgil’s grip was gentle as he led him up the slight incline through the trees. Logan looked up as they hurried along their way and he could see the stars were starting to shine through the darkening sky when he noticed the trees suddenly started to thin out in front of them. Logan swallowed feeling nervous as Virgil pulled him up next to him, but his mouth immediately fell open as he looked out at the sight before him.

    They stood at the side of a sheer drop that overlooked the shimmering lights of thee city. The light below had started to glimmer as the valley's inhabitants turned on their lights on and the sun above had dropped below the horizon, illuminating the sky in the most vibrant colors Logan has ever seen.  Wispy purple and blue clouds shown brightly against the amber halo of the sun.

   “Looks like we’ve got a good one tonight.”

   Logan adjusted his glasses taking in the sight as Virgil walked him over to the bench at the edge of the small cliffside. Virgil let him sit and stare for a moment before Logan managed to pull his attention away from the jaw-dropping sight in front of him and look over to the kind man’s crooked grin. He blushed, looking away as he coyly tried to hide his embarrassment.

    “So, I take it you’ve never been up here before?”

    Shaking his head, Logan leaned back into the bench and lifted his head to the man sitting across from him. He furrowed his brow, tapping his own bare wrist with a questioning glance at Virgil’s sleeves.

    “You don’t have to worry. I have plenty of words to spare.” Virgil smiled at the concern in Logan’s eyes. “Honestly, I don’t think I have a limit, and even if I did, I don’t really talk to that many people to begin with.”

    Logan blinked, glancing curiously down at the man’s covered arms. Virgil continued to stare at his troubled expression until Logan let out a sigh, raising his eyebrow as he reached a hand out to Virgil’s wrist with a question in his eyes.

   “You want to see my markings on the first date?” Virgil smirked, cocking his head as Logan flushed. “That’s scandalous, Logan. What would people say?”

   His face reddening, Logan pulled his hand back as he nodded an apology. He’d started to lean back when he felt Virgil touch his arm.

    “Hey, I’m just kidding.” Virgil slowly released eased away from Logan’s arm as he cautiously turned back to Virgil. He held a wrist out to Logan with a gentle smile, inviting him to satisfy his curiosity. “Seriously, I wrote on your arm within minutes of meeting you. You deserve a peek.”

     Logan was hesitant, staring at the man cautiously as he attempted to gauge his genuineness. When the man continued to smile at him, his curiosity started to take over and he found the will to lean forward. His eyes flitted carefully to the man’s arm as it curled around his shoulder in a smooth, though not subtle, movement. Logan smirked before relaxing into the bench behind him and turning his eyes down to Virgil’s wrist.  The man’s skin was soft as Logan held his hand, gently pushing the sleeve of his jacket up so he could see the man’s forearm.

    The sight of Virgil’s arm sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body and he automatically leaned forward in disbelief. He ran his thumb along the intricate design almost expecting it to disappear before his eyes. Unlike the black and grey designs he’d seen before, Virgil’s arms were full of intricate designs in all colors of the rainbow. Each line was clean and bright as one would expect of a newborn. The patterns swirled across his wrists in repeating lines and curves that formed such intricate patterns that Logan almost couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His mind went blank as he stared down at the beautiful patterns, running his fingers along the colors until a realization suddenly swept through his mind.

    Logan turned to dig through his bag for a few moments before pulling out a small novel and pointing to the author’s name as he held the book out to the man in front of him.

    Virgil Dark.

    Virgil chuckled as he took the book from Logan with a knowing smile. “Oh, great. You’re a fan, huh?”

    Logan flushed, suddenly shy as he suddenly made sense of the strange man’s identity. Virgil Dark, one of the few active authors in the world. His novels were a dark, genre of fiction, and like all authors, his novels were published and printed all over the world. His stories were coveted all over the world, though his own fame was clouded by certain shroud of mystery.

    In a world where words are such a rare and coveted commodity, it was common for authors to tour with their books. The sacrifice of words to be printed for the masses turned them into celebrities, and most authors were all to glad to eat up the attention, but Virgil Dark had always been an enigma to the world.

     Despite being one of the world’s most prolific creators, the author had never held a single viewing. He'd never even be seen as far as Logan knew. His stories just appeared on the shelves of bookstores one day, only to be gone the next as the masses greedily consumed his thrilling novels. Yet here he was, smirking at Logan as the gears turned slowly in his head.

    “They say it’s rude to stare.” Virgil prompted, chuckling as he flipped open Logan’s copy of his book. Logan’s heart dropped slightly as the man’s expression shifted. Bright colors followed the lines of text as Logan watched Virgil scan the text he highlighted. “Man, you really got into this one. Is it your favorite?”

     An embarrassed smile spread across Logan’s face as Virgil turned up to him. He nodded slowly as Virgil’s hand brushed his shoulder.

    “What’s your favorite part?”

    Logan bit his lip as Virgil handed the novel back to him. Pausing for a moment, Logan scrunched his face in thought before flipping through the pages. Virgil waited patiently as Logan dug through the pages, flipping back and forth through the pages until he found the right section. As soon as he settled on a section, pointing it out to Virgil as he handed the book back to him.

    “Oh,” Virgil breathed, slowly scanning the section that Logan had presented to him. Logan’s skin prickled nervously as Virgil grew quiet, flipping through his own writing. His voice softened as he turned up to Logan. “This was one of my favorite sections to write. There’s not much exciting happening. It’s just a moment of humanity between in the midst of the storm. I, um—I guess I didn’t realize there were people who enjoyed these bits. I mostly wrote them for myself.”

    Logan blinked at the sudden wave of emotions in Virgil’s eyes as he handed the book back to him.

    “People are always clamoring for more action, but really what’s the point if you don't give a shit about the characters.” Virgil smiled as he dipped his gaze to the ground. “I always felt like I was just throwing those sections in for myself, so I’m glad to know there are people out there who resonated with them.”

    A soft smile spread across Logan's face as he turned his head down to flip through the pages of the novel, humming to himself as Virgil stared at him.

    “Do you read a lot, Logan?”

   Logan let out a sigh and his smile faded slightly as he nodded down at the book. His gaze turned to the ground and he leaned his elbows down to his knees, flipping absently through the pages.

    “Whoa,” Virgil leaned forward as Logan's expression shifted. “What’s that look for?”

    Continuing to stare down at his book, Logan stared at the pages full of words with a forlorn look in his eyes.

    “Come on,” Virgil pushed gently. He reached out to Logan's forearm, frowning as Logan winced at the contact. Slowly, he backed his arm away, watching the emotions flash across Logan’s face. “You can be honest with me.”

    Logan snorted with contempt as he set the book to the side. He stared at the ground blankly as the man watched him carefully from his periphery. A moment passed before he turned back to Virgil. He stared up at the dark circles under the man's eyes reached forward, holding his bare wrists next Virgil’s colorful forearm.

    Virgil stared at down at Logan’s wrist, glancing up at him as he took in the questioning look in Logan's eyes. He smiled softly as he curled his hand to take Logan’s arm. Slowly, his gaze dropped to Logan’s arm as he ran his thumb along his forearm. “I'm not so shallow that I'd judge someone based on how many words they have, Logan.

    Staring at the man in front of him, dread dropped like a stone in Logan’s stomach as he attempted to pull his arm back, surprised as Virgil caught his wrist.

    “I’m serious when I say this is the most interesting conversation I've had in months.”

    Logan’s lip twitched with doubt as he looked away.

     “I'm serious, Logan. I—” Virgil leaned closer as his hand closed around Logan’s, hesitating briefly. “Shit, dude. You’re freezing.”

    Logan shrugged, not particularly  concerned until Virgil pulled his hand back. The man started to unzip his leather jacket and Logan’s eye went wide as he tried to wave away Virgil’s attempt to hand him his leather jacket.

    “Just take it, dude.” Virgil smiled encouragingly. “I'll keep the lining. The fleece is plenty warm for me, and the leather will at least keep the wind off your arms.”

    The leather jacket was placed in his hand as Logan gave up his resistance. He nodded, reluctantly slipping the leather over his shoulders as Virgil’s fingers dropped to the zipper and he closed Logan into the jacket with a smirk.

    Virgil’s hands hesitated at Logan’s collar and he sucked on his lip as he looked up and down at him. “Leather's a good look on you.  You could actually be a proper punk if you felt so inclined.”

   Logan glanced down at his chest, unsure of how to process the compliment as Virgil smiled at him.

    “Seriously though, you’re the most interesting person I've met in years.” Virgil raised a hand to Logan’s cheek. “You may not have words, but you have a language all your own.”

    Virgil raised his hand, guiding Logan’s eyes up to him. “Your eyes light up when you’re excited and I get to see the most endearing smile every time I so much as brush your hand.”

    Logan blushed as Virgil dropped his hands to his lap. The man's voice dropped as he whispered to Logan with sincerity.

    “You have a language, Logan.” Virgil as he wrapped an arm around Logan’s shoulder. “I'm sorry no one seems to have bothered to learn it, but I want to. If you’ll allow me, of course.”

    Virgil’s hand curled into Logan’s as the man's forehead leaned down to his own. Logan nodded stiffly as a lump rose in his throat, emotions filling his chest as he turned his head into Virgil’s shoulders as he stared up to the stars in the man’s eyes.

    The deep blue sky wrapped around them as Logan relaxed. He smiled shyly as he lifted a hand to point at Virgil’s lips before bringing his finger back to his own.

    “If you’re asking if you can kiss me, the answer is yes,” Virgil laughed, allowing Logan to lean closer. He paused, glancing at Logan with a cautious smile. “but if anything I do makes you uncomfortable, let me know. Push me away, squeeze my hand, whatever you need to do to get my attention. Okay?”

   Logan nodded, hand still intertwined with Virgil’s as he leaned into Virgil’s lips. The man's breath was warm as he leaned into Virgil’s chest, curling a hand around the back of his neck. Logan’s body felt lighter as Virgil’s arm curled around his shoulder and they leaned into each other under the light of the stars.

   When Logan finally pulled back, he turned up to see the soft look in Virgil’s eyes. He felt a warmth spread across his as he blushed, glancing down at the sleeves of the man's leather jacket around his wrists.

   “I think I could get used to seeing you like this, Logan.” Virgil whispered, smiling at the blush on his cheeks as he sat up. He chewed his lip as he stared down at Logan's eyes as they glittered in the moonlight. “I know it's starting to get late, and I can walk you home if you like, but do you think maybe you’d like to do this again sometime?”

    Logan lifted his head and raised a hand to Virgil’s cheek, pausing for a moment as he stared into the eyes of the mysterious man who fate had set into his path. Virgil’s eyes stared down at him, and he didn't see something broken. For the first time, someone looked at him with curiosity and wonder and suddenly he didn't feel the limits of his voice. Logan smiled as his body relaxed and he leaned in to kiss Virgil.

    “I'll take that as a yes.” Virgil whispered, chuckling as he leaned into Logan's kiss.

---

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Can I request yandere Tomura stalking his obsession?

I’m your biggest fan

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a/n: this has got to be the longest shigaraki fic i’ve written. which really surprises me since shigaraki isn’t really my type.

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warning(s): stalking, yandere tendencies, mentions of drugging, slight cursing, a tad too long

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It started out with an innocent cup of coffee.

Then, it was the constant request for you to serve him.

Afterwards came the personal questions asked as you sat across him at the usual table he would park himself at after your shifts.

Next came multiple coincidences of running into him when you least expect it.

Of course, you were too naive and innocent to see through his intentions. That’s why he chose you.

At first, Shigaraki had entered the cafe you worked at in hopes of finding a hostage to threaten the pro-heroes, under the pretense of just causally dropping in, like many other customers do.

When he opened the door to the homely cafe, you were the one that greeted him with the warm and kind smile you’ve always had on your face. At first Shigaraki thought nothing of you, until you walked up to him to take his order.

“Good afternoon, sir. May I take your order?” You grinned at the light blue haired male sitting at the small table furtherest away from everyone.

There it was again- that same smile that you gave him when he first entered the cafe.

“Just a coffee.” The male replied gruffly as he pulled the hood of his jacket further down his face.

“We have many types of coffee, sir. Which one are you interested in?” The smile was still plastered on your face as you stood there, waiting for his reply. “We have different types of lattes, mochas and espressos. May I also interest you in the different cakes and breads we have?”

“Whatever, just get me anything.” Shigaraki replied impatiently. “I don’t know what to get, surprise me.”

Upon hearing his reply, you were slightly taken aback by surprise. Sure, you’ve dealt with many customers who were picky, but never one who was uninterested in picking out an order.

“Very well then,” You clicked your pen. “Do give me a moment.” Smiling at him, you turned your back towards Shigaraki and made your way to the counter.

~~~

“Here is your coffee, sir.” Your voice caught Shigaraki’s attention as he turned his attention away from the window. “Do enjoy.”

“What is this?” The male asked as he took a whiff of the aromatic scent of the coffee in front of him.

“Matcha latte.” You smiled. “Our store’s speciality.” Seeing no reaction from the man in front of you as he continues surveying the coffee in front of him, you figured a little background information wouldn’t hurt anyone, especially him.

“Did you know? The matcha latte is our specialty because it-“

“I don’t care.” Shigaraki spoke up with such brusqueness that you immediately stopped talking. “What’s your name.” He asked or rather, demanded.

“Y/n. My name is y/n.” You replied quickly, as if eager to please him when in reality, you were just afraid he might pick on you and cause the manager to come out. There’s no knowing if you’ll get to keep your job if that happens.

“Y/n....” Shigaraki hummed as he drummed his fingers on the smooth table absentmindedly. “That’s a nice name.” He muttered. If you hadn’t been paying close attention, you would have brushed it off. Instead, a blush slowly crept onto your face at his words.

“When are you done with work? I want to get to know you more.”

Checking the clock on the wall, your face lit up with the prospect of pleasing a customer. “Five more minutes.” You informed him.

“Then come back in 5 minutes.” The red eyed man replied, scratching the back of his neck as his gaze avoided you.

He was like a little kid, you thought.

“See you in 5 minutes then.” You chirped happily at the prospect of making a new friend.

“Oh and,” You turned back to face the man that was looking at your retreating form.

“What’s your name?”

“...”

“Shigaraki Tomura.”

~~~

Ever since then, you’ve hung out with Tomura every time your shift ends. Without fail, he would be waiting quietly at the same table the both of you first met, until you were ready to approach him.

Sometimes it was just hanging out at the cafe after work, catching up on anything and everything. Other times the both of you would walk through the town without a destination in mind as Tomura listened to you talk about your day.

It’s been three months.

Three months since you’ve met Tomura, and you’ve never once asked him what he does for a living. And he doesn’t tell you anything about himself either.

And then one day, he didn’t drop by the cafe as usual. You thought it was strange, but for all you know he could be busy.

As the last customer made their way out of the cafe, you started to clean up when your co-worker took on the job of closing the store, allowing you to leave earlier than planned.

Even though you left earlier, it was close to midnight when you alighted from the train. By now, there were not many people in the station.

Wrapping your coat around yourself, you hastily walked towards the direction of your home. There has been news of dangerous people lurking around the neighbourhood, and you wouldn’t want to risk bumping into them.

Although close to the station, the neighborhood you lived it was a rather old one. Dim streetlights lit the way home, but they were so dim that it didn’t help much. Often you would hear of rowdy people laughing as they drink themselves drunk in the dead of the night, causing a ruckus to the people living close by.

Picking up your pace, you avoided all eye contact and strained your ears to hear for any footsteps apart from yours as you took a turn into the neighborhood. You thought it was stupid to be so anxious about it, but you wouldn’t want to end up dead in an alley the next day because of one mistake.

But still, you couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling of someone or something watching you from the shadows. Turning back ever so frequently, you would scan the surrounding for any signs of a stalker. Every now and then, you could feel someone or something watching you as you walked hastily towards your home. And your suspicions were confirmed when a group of men emerged from the dark, menacing looks plastered on their faces.

“Hey little thing,” One of them drawled as he made his way towards you, the smell of liquor hanging onto his clothes and skin. “Where are you going? Let me take you there.” He hiccuped.

You tried to walk past him, but his drunkard friends surrounded you in a circle, preventing you from escaping.

“Are you deaf?” Another man demanded impatiently. “He asked you where you’re going. Are you gonna ignore him? You know what happens to stupid people like you who don’t answer big bro?” the man on your right snarled at you.

You could’ve just run through them, but fear overtook your body, your legs frozen in place. You whole body shook in trepidation. Is this how you’re going to die?

You were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t realize that the men were now closing in on you. They were the kind of people that the neighborhood police have warned the people living close by about. They’ve been trying to nab these guys, but were unable to because they would evade the police and seem to have a hiding spot that nobody knows about.

A surprised yelp left your lips as you were being pulled by the collar from behind, your legs desperately trying to regain stability.

“Please just let me go. I won’t tell anyone about this.” You begged as a last resort. In response, you were roughly pushed to your knees as “big bro” stood in front of your trembling form, his hands undoing his belt.

“Stupid bitches like you should just shut up and do as you’re told.” He slurred.

By now, the feeling of someone else watching you apart from the men who’ve cornered you were the least of your concerns.

“No! Please!” Tears were running down your face in fear of your situation as two men from behind tore your coat away and roughly pinned you down.

A stinging slap to your face was all you got in response.

“Better open your mouth nice and wide.” The supposed leader hiccuped, his face flushed red from the liquor he has downed.

While you struggled against your captors and begged for your life, you thought it was over as the man grabbed your jaw and forced your mouth open.

As the sight of him drew closer to you, tears wouldn’t stop leaking from your eyes. Maybe, if you closed your eyes it would be better. Not like it would help you get out of this situation you’re currently in.

But when the grip on your jaw loosened, you opened your teary eyes to see that the man had completely disappeared. And in his place was a pile of ash and dust.

“He should’ve gotten his filthy hands off what belongs to me.” A familiar voice reached your ears.

“T-Tomura?” You looked up through blurry eyes to see the oh so familiar face staring at the pile of ash with contempt.

Instantly, the rest of the men who’ve had you cornered released you and stumbled backwards as if they had seen a ghost, a look of fear flashing before their faces.

“Oi, are the both of you going to come out or do I have to finish this myself? If that’s the case, what’s the point of bringing you guys along?” Tomura said to no one in particular as he scratched the back of his neck.

“What’s the rush?” A second voice replied as a man with scars on his face and hands emerged from the shadows. “We have all the time in the world.” The man smirked at your assaulters as he ran a scarred hand through his thick, black hair. “And also, I didn’t join you so I could save some damsel in distress, Shigaraki.”

“Dabi’s right, you know. I just wanted to see for myself how y/n looked like, not come and play hero. We should leave that to the real heroes.” A blonde haired girl giggled, knife in hand. “But I can see why y/n’s got your interest. I guess you following her around for 3 months really did pay off.”

“Are you going to help me get rid of these good for nothings or am I going to have to disintegrate you for talking too much, Toga?” Tomura questioned the girl named Toga.

“Well,” She started. “There’s new blood, so I guess i’ll help out then!” Toga bounced up and down gleefully.

As the remaining of your captors tried to run away, Toga leapt at the closest man and plunged her knife into his neck, all the while chanting “new blood, new blood” gleefully like a little kid.

“Dabi. You get the rest.” Tomura scratched his neck, a red spot emerging slowly but surely.

It was then when you felt warmth as blue light emitted from the the black haired male’s palm. Wait no, it wasn’t light.

It was blue flames.

Soon, the terrified screams of the men who’d attacked you died down in the flames, the nearby walls scorched and tainted black with the aftermath of the blue flames.

And there you were, clutching your coat that Tomura had picked up to your chest, trying to process what just happened.

Tomura just disintegrated someone, the girl called Toga was collecting the blood of her victim, and the man with blue flames was standing there, his hands now shoved into his jeans.

“Y/n.” Tomura spoke as he looked at you, who was still a trembling mess on the floor.

“H-how did you know I would be here? Who are these people? W-who are you?”

The night was still and quiet now apart from Toga’s quiet humming as she cleaned her knife, your questions hanging in the air unanswered.

“You k-killed someone.” You whispered, Tomura becoming a stranger in your eyes.

“...”

“Because he touched you. He touched what belongs to me.” Tomura replied, a hint of remorse nowhere to be found.

“Why don’t you just tell her that you’ve been watching her like the creep you are for the past few months already.” Dabi smirked.

“And who we are!” Toga piped up.

Silence greeted the four of you as Tomura stood there, staring at you intently.

“no... wait!” You cried out as you inched back from the once familiar figure in front of you. Now, he was someone else- a murderer who feels no remorse and not the Shigaraki Tomura that you knew. 

“So?” The blue hair man scratched his nape out of frustration. “I told you, it’s because they touched what is mine.” 

What’s his? Did he mean you? Since when did you belong to him. 

“H-how long have you been following me?” You questioned, hoping that he wouldn’t hear the fear in your shaky voice. You needed to stall as much time as possible while thinking of an escape route. But three against one? Only a miracle would allow you escape. 

“Long enough to know your daily routine.” The man name Dabi smirked, mockery lacing his words as Tomura stared down at you and said nothing. 

“Creep.” You couldn’t help but whisper under your breath. Your eyes were stinging and blurry with the tears that were threatening to spill over, but you didn’t dare to look away from Tomura out of fear that he might try something in the mere split second. 

“We’ll save the questions for later.” He finally spoke up. When you finally looked at him, a syringe was in his hands.

“For now, get some rest.” 

A soft gasp left your lips as the stinging feeling of needle pierced your skin, and drowsiness slowly overtook you, your body heavy like lead.

The last thing you saw was Tomura’s ruby red eyes looking down at you.

“I’ll protect you forever, y/n.”

[benedictscanvas]

objectively - spencer reid x reader

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: none that I can think of unless you hate fluff (you monster)

A/N: My first Spencer Reid! I love this man so very much. Requested by @justkurotingz​ who I think is such a wonderful writer so I really hope I’ve done this justice! :)

---

It smelled like coffee and business. Keyboard tapping and idle chatter. There were teenage girls with elaborate concoctions to be sipped through straws, men in suits ordering espressos to go, one particular women taking an ungodly amount of time in the line to choose a cake for the weekly catchup with her friends.

You didn’t mind as much as some of the men in suits shaking their head in the line. Her friends were laughing at her and nudging them and the whole debacle only made you smile. There was nowhere else in the world you had to be, which was a rare feeling to be savoured as much as possible.

So you waited patiently as they made your drink and people watched along the way. A little boy with a slice of cake that he definitely wouldn’t finish. A man with a scarf half wrapped around his face trying to wrestle with the sugar container whilst also talking to someone on the phone. A woman on her phone in the corner. You frowned at that one. If she just looked up, took in the sights and the smells that surrounded her, she might not be sighing every two seconds before her acrylic nails began an incessant tapping on her screen.

“Y/N?”

You stepped forward and claimed your drink with a grateful nod, turning to the counter to put a little more sugar in it yourself. But clearly, you must’ve turned too quickly, because before you knew it there was hot coffee all over your arm and splashing onto the floor as you bumped straight into something solid with a gasp.

It took you a few moments to register the pain in your arm, but when you did, the person you’d bumped into was already grabbing napkins frantically and pressing them to your arm, mopping up as much of the burning liquid as he could as he rambled.

“I am so so sorry, I didn’t even see you I was on the phone and I must not have been concentrating,” he stopped and you finally looked up at him from your arm. It was scarf and sugar guy. He still hadn’t looked at you properly, focused on cleaning up your arm even though he was speaking into the phone propped between his ear and his shoulder now, “Shut up, Morgan, I didn’t even see her...I’m hanging up.”

He did just that and shoved his phone in his pocket. A disgruntled employee mopped up the spill on the floor while he had spoken. Suddenly he seemed to realise what he’d been doing, that he’d been cleaning up your arm without even asking. You felt stupid. You’d been just staring at him dumbly for such a long time, shocked into stillness by the burning and the sudden accident. But also, by some strange yet overwhelming urge for him to look up at you.

He sheepishly moved his eyes up to your face, biting his lip with worry like he was expecting you to scold him, or maybe even scald him with the little coffee remaining in your cup. Instead, you were standing there, looking at him. His eyes, specifically. You hadn’t seen them when you glanced over at him earlier. Now, it was like you’d become obsessed in a matter of seconds. One little moment. Sometimes, that was all it took.

You shook your head and tried to hide your embarrassment with a smile.

“What are you talking about? It was completely my fault. You didn’t get any on you did you?” you asked, checking him over. When you looked back up at him in his silence, you noticed he was still looking at you, a look in his eyes that meant it was your turn to bite your lip until he recovered himself.

“N-no, no I didn’t, it tipped your way,” he said nervously. He hurried threw the napkins he’d been patting your arm with in the bin and turned back to you, “Can I buy you another?”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of it,” you said easily, waving him away and trying to ignore the heat of your arm.

“Please?” he asked, taking you off guard with how earnest he sounded, “My coworker now knows I bumped into a woman and he’ll never let me hear the end of it if I don’t make it up to you somehow. It’ll only add to his opinion that I’m hopeless around the opposite sex, which may be a somewhat accurate opinion, but I’d rather not give him more reason to-”

“Hey, hey,” you said soothingly, stopping him from his rant in the hopes that he’d take a breath, “I could really do with my morning coffee, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

He let out a long overdue breath and, for the first time, he was smiling at you, this small shy smile that felt ridiculously infectious. You smiled back at him as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and willed yourself to pull it together, following him to the back of the line. Even from the back, scarf guy was too attractive for his own good. You rolled your eyes at yourself before he turned back around as you waited in the queue again.

“I’m Spencer, by the way. And you must be-” he ducked his head to read the name on your cup, “Y/N?”

“That’s me,” you said brightly, “You’re sure you don’t have somewhere to be?”

“I always leave myself at least an extra half an hour in case the line’s too long or something, so I’m fine. What about you?”

“A rare day off,” you mused with a smile, “The feeling of having literally nowhere to be is one of my favourites.”

“It is a pretty nice feeling,” Spencer said wistfully, as if he were just guessing that and you frowned.

“You don’t get much of that?” you asked and he tilted his head at you. You shrugged shyly, “I just mean, the way you said it. Didn’t sound like you really knew what that felt like.”

There was that look in his eyes again. The one you thought you might recognise but didn’t want to name, because you’d only become more bashful than you already felt.

“I suppose I don’t. I work for the FBI, in the Behavioural Analysis Unit. It can be...intense.”

“Wow,” you said seriously, looking at him with newfound awe, “That’s amazing. I’m so impressed with everything your team has done. You work under SSA Aaron Hotchner?”

His brow furrowed and he made that little confused face that you were already enamoured with.

“Yeah I do. You’ve heard of us?” he asked, looking a little more wary now, and you realised that most people who said that probably didn’t have the best intentions with the guy. You chuckled as you lifted your cardigan just a little.

“Don’t worry, I’m a cop,” your badge shone from its place on your belt before you let your cardigan hang over it again, “You helped one of my friends from back home with a case a while back. She said you lot were the best and from everything I’ve seen since, she was right.”

His blush was prominent as he stared at his shoes, scuffing them against the floor, but you didn’t grin like you wanted to, not wanting him to think you were teasing him.

“We just come and help where we can,” he mumbled, “Nothing special.”

“You know, Spencer,” you said sincerely, making him look back up at you, “If I had to guess, I’d say you were pretty special.”

He paused, still looking at you. Silence. You worried you might have said the wrong thing.

But then, a grin.

---

“...and that was the moment I fell in love with him,” you said finally, glancing from the people around the table to Spencer beside you who was staring at you with that same look from that day in the coffee shop, which you now knew to be awe and adoration all rolled into one. You smiled at him, leaning further into his side as you squeezed his leg.

“I can’t believe you guys have never told us how you met before,” Garcia sounded like she was caught up in the dreamy romance of it all and you couldn’t help but laugh at her.

“I knew!” Derek cut in with a sly little smirk directed at Spencer, “Only because later in the day I asked pretty boy why he hung up on me.”

“Derek, I don’t think-”

“You know what he told me, Y/N?” Derek continued, ignoring Spencer’s attempts to cut him off as you leaned forward excitedly, “He told me that he’d met, subjectively, the most beautiful girl in the world. That it was love at first sight.”

“That is not what I said-”

“Okay, well maybe not those exact words, but it was words to that effect, right Reid?” he said teasingly and Spencer was blushing, looking down into his lap. You put two fingers under his chin and brought his face to yours.

“Subjectively?” you asked, eyebrows raised and he shook his head.

“He’s got the words wrong, because he’s an idiot,” he directed his last comment with a side eye at Derek that had the whole table laughing, before whispering so only you could hear, “I said objectively, the most beautiful girl in the world.”

“Should hope so,” you murmured, grabbing his tie and leaning in to kiss him. You had to pull away quickly when the chorus of ‘aww’s and groans sounded out around the table and reminded you where you were. You chuckled and smoothed down his tie.

“You two kids are going to make each other very happy,” Dave chimed in from the head of the table as you rested your head on Spencer’s shoulder and looked around the group and the soppy smiles on their faces as they stared at you and Spencer. You knew they were happy just to see him happy. Most of them had come up to you privately to have conversations about how good you had been for him. It was all you could want, “To Spencer and Y/N!”

“To Spencer and Y/N!”

Everyone cheered, raising their glasses to you both and you had to fight down a tear or two. Spencer reached for your hand, entwining it in his own and brought it up to his lips, kissing your ring before resting both your hands in his lap as the conversation around the table continued.

[softbiker]

Agent 14 Oneshot

Warnings: maybe a couple bad words

Word count: 2.6k

A/N: While this is a continuation of the Steve x Agent 14 series, this particular installment has...almost no Steve lol. Just wanted to warn people before I get in trouble for that. It does, however, feature Agents 41 and 28 (from series written by @nacho-bucky​ and @kentuckybarnes​ )! Also, I plan on expanding and posting the full “menu” of custom drinks that 14 makes for her friends, so stay tuned for that! As always, enjoy and let me know what you think! :)

She squeals when the ad pops up as she’s scrolling through Instagram.

There it is, in all its glory, right between yet another engagement photo and a “no filter” celebrity selfie.

The S’mores Frappucino.

A towering frozen swirl of sweet vanilla and creamy milk chocolate, topped with the most mouth-watering promise of all: marshmallow whipped cream. And all of it dusted with a generous sprinkle of crushed graham cracker pieces. It’s enough to make 41 want to lick her phone screen.

With a flailing little backwards somersault, she rolls herself off the couch and bounds down the hallway towards Clint’s room, tie-dye socks slipping on the freshly polished floors.

“Guess what season it is?” She flings the door open with one hand, brandishing her phone in the other, her grin nearly splitting her face as she bounces up on her toes, eager to see his reaction - only to pull up short, a soft frown dragging her lips back down. The room is empty.

“Tweets?” 41 glances around the room, taking stock of the discarded socks and inside-out jeans littering the floor, a pair of her own boots flung to one corner, a plush sea turtle smiling at her from the bed. There’s a Sharing Size bag of peanut M&M’s on the nightstand, next to an open can of Red Bull, leaving a ring on the cover of last month’s Men’s Health which he’d permanently borrowed from Sam. She looks up at the ceiling - typically he leaves a vent open as a point of entry if he’s been…exploring up there. But no dice. Their vent remains screwed in place.

Shoving her phone in the front pocket of her hoodie, she backtracks towards the kitchen, rounding the corner from the hallway and sliding into the room Risky Business-style. A blazing mid-morning sun floods the room with light through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bouncing off of the metalwork backsplash and casting sparkles across the empty table. Hands on her hips, she huffs to herself, wondering where he’s run off to, before the clinking of glass bottles catches her attention.

Sticking up from the open door of the fridge is a vaguely familiar yoga-panted ass, waving in the air as its owner rummages through the shelves and drawers, muttering under her breath.

“Nat?” The red curls bounce in her ponytail as she stands at the sound of 41’s voice.

“Oh, hey, kid,” Nat smiles, propping a hand on her hip. If she’s at all bothered by the fact that her friend and coworker just got an eyeful of her backside, she hides it all with a poker face she probably mastered in super spy kindergarten. “What are you up to?”

“Just looking for Clint.” 41 pouts. She shifts her weight to one leg, scratching at her ankle with the toe of one sock. “You haven’t seen him have you?”

Natasha’s eyebrows flicker up as she closes the refrigerator with her hip.

“Oh - he didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“The boys are all out for the day,” she sighs, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “Some kind of belated bachelor party for Tony - even though he’s been married for a year, he said he missed out on the experience; so he kidnapped all of our male counterparts for the day.” Nat shrugs one shoulder, smirking. “Frankly the concept seems outdated - and sexist. But when has Tony ever listened to me?”

Nat notices the way her shoulders fall, the way her hands roll up inside the sleeves of her hoodie. Poor thing. And she’d come in here looking so excited, too; now her frown settles too deeply at the corners of her lips, eyes cast somewhere on the floor. Abandoning her search for a snack, Nat slides onto a bar stool at the island, propping her chin in one hand.

“You have any plans for today?” she prompts. She’ll deny it till her dying day, but the formerly made-of-marble assassin feels…soft at her core now. No, not her abs - her backflips are as tight as ever; but somewhere behind her ribs, deeper than her muscles, there’s a marshmallowy give to her now - the press of fingers could leave a dent on her.

And that’s why, God help her, she couldn’t stand the sight of 41’s frown. Couldn’t endure the downcast disappointment in her gaze. Couldn’t walk away from her halfhearted, sighing shrug.

“Not really,” 41 mumbles, licking her bottom lip. “I was just gonna see if Clint wanted to go get Starbucks with me. They’ve got the S’mores drink now.”

Pulling her phone from where it’s tucked into the waistband of her yoga pants, Nat quickly swipes through her messages and pulls up a group chat named ‘No Boys Allowed’.

I’m so gonna regret this, she thinks, but she types up her proposal anyway and taps send. Time to assemble.

 ***********                                                                                                  

The bell over the door dings cheerfully, and 14 fights her inner groan long enough to yell over her shoulder, “Welcome to Starbucks!” She doesn’t turn from the drink in her hands, too afraid of spilling the milk (again) and having to remake this caramel macchiato. Gaze intent on the cup in her hands, she drizzles the sides with caramel, watching the sticky sweet goop glide down the walls of the cup. Satisfied that this should meet the customer’s request for “extra, extra caramel”, she reaches for her milk jug, glancing up from the machine where her espresso shots are queueing.

41 waves ecstatically when she meets her gaze over the espresso machine, a suspiciously casual Nat smirking over her shoulder. Wanda is following close behind them, hands shoved in the pockets of a denim jacket, despite the summer heat. Maria is already standing in front of the register, eyeing the menu, with 28 next to her, a pair of dark sunglasses pushed up on top of her head.

14 blinks.

With quick, nimble fingers, she finishes the drink in front of her and sets it up on the mobile order stand, awaiting the customer. Chase, the barista who should be covering front, is nowhere to be seen; but she doesn’t have any other drinks waiting, so she strides up to the register, tilting a curious brow at her friends.

“Ladies,” 14 smiles, tilting her head to one side. “This is…a nice surprise? A kidnapping? A mission?”

“Relax,” Maria says, punctuated with a good-natured eye roll. “We’re just here for the coffee.”

“Oh, sure,” 14 crosses her arms, leaning a hip against the front counter. “You guys are a little short-staffed, aren’t you? Where’s all the testosterone?”

“Looking for a certain star-spangled specimen?” Nat pipes up. Their group has clustered around the register in a close semicircle. “Boys’ day out. Some kind of adventure that will probably land Tony in the doghouse…but then again, he’s partying with a couple centenarians, so how bad could it be?”

“You’d be surprised,” 28 mutters with a quirk of her eyebrows.

In front of a group of super spies, superheroes, and super intelligent women, 14 fights to put on the best poker face she’s ever had in her life. At the mention of Steve - as well as the news he wouldn’t be joining them - Nat watches her closely; the only sign of her disappointment is the way she purses her lips, eyes flicking towards the door as though she might prove them wrong. And then it’s gone, her eyes turning back to her friends, a beaming, nose-scrunching smile fixed on her face.

“That sounds awful,” she giggles. “But very on-brand for Tony.”

A chorus of assent from the ladies, rolling their eyes and scoffing at the endless supply of evidence they have to that fact.

“Alright so…what can I get you?” 14 prompts. As much as she’d like to stand here, chatting with her friends, she’s still on the clock for another hour and a half - and there’s work to be done. Maybe it stings, chafes her heart a little, that this little outing doesn’t quite include her; that she’ll make their drinks and then they’ll leave, and then more drinks for more people for the rest of her shift. But these customers are more pleasant than most, and it’s not as though she won’t see them later, so she shoves down her insecurity and taps at the screen of the register, opening her till.

“Well we were thinking…” Wanda starts, glancing at Natasha. The two share an amused smirk that 14 doesn’t like at all. “…that maybe you could surprise us?”

“Except me!” 41 raises her hand, bouncing up on the balls of her feet. “I haven’t had a S’mores yet this year, I need one! Please?”

Stunned, 14 looks around the group, cocking one eyebrow.

“So…one S’mores, and then - you all want to be surprised?” What a request - she didn’t trust anyone to make a drink for her…that could really backfire.

“Well, you know us,” Nat shrugged. “You know what we like, what we hate, what we won’t drink…”

“Besides, it never hurts to try something new,” Maria smirks.

Teeth sinking into her bottom lip, a slow smile spreads across 14’s face.

“Alright, ladies, say no more-”

It takes her little more than a minute to line up her plan, squinting at each of her friends in concentration, a Sharpie poised to mark each cup, labeled with a name in her characteristic block-print scrawl. They crane their necks over the tops of the machines, trying to see behind the bar and guess what she’s whipping up back there. Ingredients flit through her hands, shaken into one cup, then exchanged for something else for the next. Syrups, cinnamon, juices, toppings. They try and fail to keep it all straight from one cup to the next, but she’s too fast, hands reaching between two drinks at once.

Finally, with a last look over her shoulder, goofily sticking her tongue from the corner of her mouth, she piles 41’s coveted marshmallow whip on top of her drink and sprinkles the graham cracker topping with a generous hand. 41 barely contains her squeal as she grabs 28’s elbow and points at it.

“That one’s mine! Doesn’t it look amazing?”

One by one, she lines up the drinks at the end of the bar, turning the cups so each name is properly shown.

“Alright, so what am I in for?” Maria cautiously waves her drink under her nose, letting the steam waft up from the small opening in the lid. Hers is a hot drink, its contents concealed in a thick paper cup proudly bearing the same green logo as its cardboard sleeve.

“I thought you wanted to be surprised?” 14 smirks, sliding 41’s frappucino across the bar into her glitter-nailed hands. 28 grabs hers as well, a refreshingly cold…something - she plunges in a straw and swirls the ice as she examines the pale pink color of the drink.

“Well, bottoms up girls,” Nat shrugs, inspecting the layer of foam on top of her drink before raising it to her lips. Wanda taps her cup with 41’s before tipping hers up as well. Standing behind the bar, a rag in her hands, 14 gnaws on her lip as she watches them sip her creations. She shifts her feet as she waits for the verdict.

“Wow.” Wanda’s brows shoot up, tongue flicking over her lip. “This is really good.”

“Yeah,” Maria agrees, going in for her second taste.

“Don’t know why you sound surprised,” 41 says around her straw and a mouthful of whipped cream. “Everything she makes is delicious.”

“Oh, thanks,” 14 brushes off the compliments with a one-shouldered shrug. “If you like it I’ll give you the recipe, so you can order it again?”

Various noises of agreement, all enthusiastic, all from full mouths. She smiles, grabs a blank receipt paper from the register and a pen from the pocket of her apron.

“Okay, so yours Wanda is a double dirty chai with cinnamon…”

  ***********                                                                                                  

Folding her apron over one arm, 14 releases her hair from its butterfly clip and reaches for her backpack. She keeps a spare change of clothes folded neatly in the bottom, in case she has to run errands after work and can’t go out covered in coffee and syrup. The bathroom is empty and she ducks inside, slipping into a pair of cutoff shorts and and a tie-dye t-shirt; her faithful sneakers can make it through work and life, thankfully, so she wiggles her feet back into them, not bothering to untie the laces.

It’s been a long day. And a glance at her watch tells her it’s only…1:09 p.m.

Backpack on one shoulder, sunglasses perched on her head, she makes her way back out of the café, pausing at the end of the bar to get her drink.

“Here, girl.” Jade, the barista who made her drink, smiles as she hands her a straw. “You look like you need this.”

“I feel like I need this.” 14 smiles back as she jams her straw into the cup and takes the first sip. Iced blonde americano, 2 pumps toffee nut, a splash of sweet cream. She makes a small noise of pleasure - hits the spot every time.

“See you tomorrow!” she waves to her coworkers as she backs out the door, dropping her sunglasses down to her face as she steps into the unrelenting summer sun. Not two steps out the door, turning to the street, and she nearly bumps into-

“Nat?”

“Hey, long time no see.” Nat wiggles her fingers in a mocking little wave. The rest of their posse is clustered around a couple of bistro tables haphazardly shoved together outside the café.

“What…you guys are still here?” 14 cocks her head to the side. It’s been over an hour and a half at least, their drinks are sitting empty on the tables in front of them. She had assumed they’d be long gone.

“Well, duh,” 41 grins. “We’re going to lunch! And then - oh, we should get pedicures!”

“Oh, can we go to that new Thai place?” Wanda asks, leaning her elbows on the table. “It’s only a couple blocks down from here.”

“God, the things I would do for some egg rolls right about now-” Maria agrees, patting her stomach.

They start to stand from their tables, the metal chairs scraping loudly against concrete, and 28 gathers the empty cups to throw away in the trash cans next to the door. The group shuffles and chatters, eager at the prospect of lunch; purses and wallets are snatched up, phones tucked back into pockets. Wanda leads the way as they march off in pursuit of pad thai and egg rolls, the rest of the group falling in behind her on the sidewalk. Even in the early afternoon heat, they link arms and laugh and stand too close together, sharing giggles and gossip.

Nat lightly bumps 14 with her shoulder, her green eyes gone pale and glittering in the sun.

“You didn’t really think we’d eat and run on you?” she smirks. “Come on, I’m starving.”

14 ducks her head and grins.

“Just one second-” she says, sliding her phone from her back pocket. She snaps a picture of her drink, then smiles at Nat. “Okay, now we’re good.”

Nat rolls her eyes.

“Wow, that was so basic-”

“Shut up.”

A few minutes later, sitting in a blessedly air-conditioned Thai restaurant, she captions the photo ‘new drink for you to try next time - I highly recommend it’ and hits send.

Somewhere across town, shoved cheek by jowl with his buddies in the back of a stretch limo, the interior vibrating with music and lit with flashing LEDs, a super soldier smiles at his phone.

[hottestthingalive]

Bluebells (2)

Chapter 2: Bulbs

Ao3 Link here.

Chapter 1 here.

Notes: Yay, second chapter is here! Expect the next one... any time between next week and a year. 

Plot: Virgil isn’t okay (I promise), life sucks, and things get gayer. 

Tw: Cursing, disappearances, mental and physical abuse

-

Morning came in the beeping of a shrill alarm.

Scratch that, Virgil decided as he sat up blearily, shutting off the alarm immediately. Doesn’t count as morning if it’s still dark out. 

He grabbed his phone, wincing as the bright light shone into his retinas. 2:31 A.M, the screen said. He was doing pretty well, then -- as long as he got to the coffee place by three, he’d be able to complete a four-hour shift in time to get to school at seven thirty. 

Ugh. He hated the night shift, but his boss liked having the cafe open 24/7, and he ought to be grateful; it was the only time (other than the weekends) that Virgil was able to actually work at, and due to the shitty time the pay was pretty good. It even made up for the lack of tips. 

He got dressed quickly, throwing on his patched sweatshirt over his ripped jeans and torn shirt. Makeup was fast, too, just some cheap foundation and dark eyeshadow under his eyes to hide how crappy he’d been looking lately. No sleep will do that to a guy, he thought, doing his best to hide the dark shadows under his eyes, or at least make them look like eyeshadow. Say what you would, being an emo these days had some perks -- people thought the exhaustion and ragged clothes were for aesthetic, or some bullshit like that. 

Virgil was out the door quickly, locking it behind him and tucking his keys into his pocket. The boards on the porch creaked under his sneakers, and he grimaced at the noise. Creepy as all hell, that. 

As he walked in the darkness towards the better part of town, avoiding the patches of light given by the streetlamps (What if I get mugged?), he reached into his pocket and pulled out his headphones, plugging them into his old phone. Sure, it was dangerous to listen to music while walking alone at two in the morning, but this particular street bordered the woods, and no one wanted to cause a commotion near the home of the fey. There was a reason all the rich homes were in the center of Torbrook, sheltered from their mythical neighbours by human shields.

The ironically-called Sleep was standing at the counter when he arrived, sipping from an obnoxiously large cup and wearing his sunglasses inside. Because of course he was.

“You’re early, Anxiety,” he drawled, tossing a black apron across the counter. “Go sit down. You want a coffee?”

“I’m here to work,” Virgil deadpanned, tying on the apron, “not to buy shitty coffee.”

“Listen, we get a free drink for every shift, and you look like you need it,” Sleep retorted. “Do you ever sleep at all?”

“I need the free drink for later, when I get off,” he said, avoiding the question as he set his bag down in the back room, using his extra time to check his phone. 

Sunnyside had left him a voicemail. 

“Hey, Anxiety,” a voice said into his headphones. “It’s Beck, from the Sunnyside Hospital for Elderly Care. You still have some unpaid bills from last month -- do you want us to email them to you, or mail them? Please get back to us as soon as possible. Thanks!”

Crap. 

“Everything okay?” Sleep asked, giving him a concerned look from the doorway. “Need me to stick around for a bit?”

“I’m good,” he said, mind scrambling for an explanation. “My, uh, my grandma forgot I had a shift today. She got worried.”

“I’m surprised Robin’s even letting you work here. She was always so protective,” Sleep grinned. “I haven’t seen her around town lately. How’s she doing?

Protective? the voice in the back of Virgil’s head screamed. She's in a hospital! How is she supposed to be protective when she thinks I’m living with my aunt and that her shitty insurance is paying all these bills, while as far as anyone else knows she’s just getting a bit reclusive in her old age?

“She’s good,” he said, forcing a smile onto his face as he went to stand behind the counter. “Bossy as ever.”

“Tell her I said hi,” his coworker nodded. “Alright, if you’re good, Anx, I’d better get going. I want to get a short nap in before school starts.”

“Got it,” he agreed, standing. “See you in English.”

“Bye, girl!” Sleep trilled, waving as the door slammed shut behind him. 

He dropped the smile almost instantly, glaring down at his purple nails. Four hours. He just had to get through four hours. 

“Morning, Anx!” chirped Morality, coming through the doors of the cafe. Virgil sighed internally. Morality was always so cheerful. It didn’t make any sense. “Can I just get that nice caramel thing you made for me last time?” He passed his thermos over the counter, still smiling. 

“Sure,” he nodded, taking Morality’s cup and grabbing his own. His coworkers, Oak and Swift, had come in half an hour ago, thankfully early, so he passed the containers to Swift as he untied his apron. “One caramel latte, and for me, as much espresso as you can get into a cup.”

“Anxiety, you’re going to give yourself a heart attack,” Oak deadpanned, but she took his place at the counter. “Have fun at school, kid.”

“When has school ever been fun?” Swift pointed out, before xe turned to face Anxiety. “I’ll give you three shots.”

“Five.”

“Three.”

“Four,” Oak said, “but no more coffee for the rest of the day.”

“Fine, parental figures,” he rolled his eyes, picking up his backpack. “Four.”

“Hey, I thought I was your parental figure friend!” Morality cried, managing to look betrayed even as he giggled. 

“You’re the paternal figure, popstar,” Virgil told him, hopping over the counter to protests from both Swift and Oak. They didn’t have to wait long for their drinks, and soon the two of them were in Morality’s car, sipping on the life-giving substance. 

Morality was unusually quiet, had been since they left the cafe, and finally Virgil broke the silence to ask “Hey, everything okay?”

“Oh, it’s fine, kiddo,” he grinned, but the smile quickly faded. “It… It just sounded like you made a pun with my name.”

“...Your real name?” Virgil said, blood running cold. “I’m so sorry, Mor, I didn’t -- I swear, I don’t know it--”

“No, of course you don’t,” Morality nodded, smiling again, more genuinely this time. “I’ve just been a bit jumpy lately. The forest’s been so… quiet. We’re entering spring -- shouldn’t we be seeing more faeries?”

“Only Seelie,” Virgil shrugged absentmindedly, staring out the passenger-side window at the foreboding trees in the distance. “Unseelie will mostly be returning to their realm for the winter.”

“I don’t know how you remember that stuff,” the other teenager sighed. “I can never keep track.”

He hadn’t meant to say that. Shit. “I always liked those stories,” he said, chuckling weakly. It was enough to fool Morality, or maybe that was just because he had spotted his boyfriend. 

“Sweetheart!” Morality called, rolling down the window. “C’mon, you’re gonna be late for school!”

“Thank you, love,” smiled his boyfriend, sliding into the backseat and kindly ignoring Morality’s blush. “Anxiety, I see you’ve stolen the front seat again, you heathen.”

“Best friend privileges,” drawled Virgil, taking a sip of his coffee. “Morning, Princey.”

Prince rolled his eyes, before leaning forward and stealing Morality’s thermos and drinking from it. “Listen, One American Reject, I’ll have you know that while I respect and honor best friend privileges, I will still attempt to steal the seat closer to my boyfriend at any opportunity.”

“Fair enough,” Virgil nodded. “That was one of your better nicknames, too.”

“Thank you,” he grinned as Morality started the car. 

“Anxiety and I were just mentioning how we haven’t seen much activity from the forest as of late,” Morality said. “Put your seatbelt on, honey! Have you noticed anything?”

“Er… I haven’t seen as many fey recently, no,” Prince answered, biting his lip as he fastened said seatbelt. “It’s dangerous to go near the forest, anyways -- they might be there, and we just haven’t spotted them.”

“But usually I see something,” Morality countered, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “It’s just… concerning.”

“Speaking of fey, did Mariposa make plans for the play again this year?” Virgil asked Prince, turning in his seat to face Morality’s boyfriend. “She always tells the actors about her weird precautions first.”

“What do you mean, plans?” Prince raised an eyebrow. “I’m new, remember?”

“Oh, Ms. Mariposa always gets worried that the fey will try to attend the school play,” Morality laughed. “Apparently they did one year? It was ages ago. But she always goes all out to try and protect the auditorium during rehearsals and performances and stuff, all salt lines and horseshoes, and she paid the school to make sure the doors and windows have iron on them. She even hangs bells everywhere! I get performances, kinda, but rehearsals? Tech’d notice if anyone snuck in, and they can’t exactly be actors!”

“They could, actually,” Virgil said, and then mentally smacked himself. Sleep deprivation was going to kill him.

“Really?” his cheerful friend asked, surprised. “I thought they couldn’t lie!”

Apparently, I’m the one who can’t lie today. “They can’t,” he agreed reluctantly, because he’d dug this grave and now he had to lay in it. “But acting is different from lying. People are aware you aren’t actually that person, that whatever you say on stage isn’t necessarily true, and they’re faeries, so they exploit that loophole.”

“How do you know that?” Prince inquired, staring at Virgil with a strange expression on his face. 

“My gran. She, uh, used to tell me about meeting some Seelie once, when she was young, and was wearing an iron pendant. They… tried to tempt her by telling her about celebrations they had, and mentioned a performance,” he lied through his teeth, thinking fast. “She was confused, like you were, Mor, and they told her that.”

“I didn’t know your grandmother had almost been taken,” remarked Prince. “Could I ask her about it? That necklace sounds… fascinating.”

Virgil felt himself tense, even as Morality chirped “Oh, I love Robin! She’s so nice! Remember those cookies she used to make for us?”

“They were great,” he nodded, plastering a smile across his face. “But, uh, she’s been kind of sick lately. Not really up to visitors. Sorry.”

“Oh, alright,” Prince nodded, suddenly all bright cheer again. “What were you saying about those cookies, love?”

He tuned out, head pressed against the soothingly cool glass of the window. Those bills were going to suck to pay -- mortgage payments were due soon, too, along with the money needed for everything else. His aunt wasn’t going to be any help at all, the bitch, but his job at the cafe didn’t pay enough for all of the money he owed.

The money just didn’t add up. A sigh escaped him, quiet enough that Morality didn’t notice. He was going to have to dip into his college fund again, huh?

Virgil liked to sit near the windows in classes. Sure, it could be a bit distracting, but even with the coffee, he was too exhausted to pay attention anyways. He liked being able to sit and watch the trees in the distance, observe the squirrels in the large elm that grew beside the school. 

An acorn dropped onto the open windowsill, rolling towards Virgil slightly.

And, of course, there was another reason he liked this placement. 

Elm trees didn’t have acorns. He knew this, had known it when the very first of the nuts had appeared, when he had picked it up in curiosity and noticed it was a little too light. Acorns weren’t heavy, of course, but they had some weight to them. He’d popped off the acorn cap with his fingernail, noticing the smell of sap, and his suspicions had been proven correct -- the nut was hollow, with a folded, thin wedge of paper curled inside.

Peeling out the paper had been difficult, but with one hand doing as he pretended to rummage inside his desk and the other feigning note taking for the teacher’s benefit, he had managed to extract a note. 

He did much the same thing with this new acorn, glad that his seat was in the back of the class and that Ms. Vlinder, his math teacher (and Ms. Mariposa’s wife) was writing out a long problem on the board. Stashing the hollow nut in his desk, he unfolded the paper on his notebook, as stealthily as possible. 

Anxiety,

I should be able to meet you later today -- Advice has agreed to cover for my absence. I’ll see you then, unless plans change. The usual spot.

You’re probably reading this in math again, so stop procrastinating on your work, please. Just because you do not like the subject does not mean you should neglect it. Besides, it would probably take up less of your time (like you keep complaining it does) if you actually took the time to do it in class. 

Logic

He grinned to himself. Well, that was something to look forward to, at least. 

“Anxiety,” said Ms. Vlinder, raising an eyebrow at him from the front of the classroom. “What are you reading?”

His face flushed red. “Um… nothing.”

“Well, whatever it is, it doesn’t look like calculus. Save it for after class, please. Now, can you answer the question on the board?”

He’d gotten lucky, thank god -- the question was one from last night’s homework, and he’d actually done it for once. Virgil muttered his response, slouching in his seat and trying to ignore the heat on his cheeks. Morality cast him a glance, mouthing Are you okay? from his seat closer to the board. 

Virgil nodded briefly at him, stuffing the note into the pocket of his sweatshirt. 

“Stay for a second, Anxiety,” Ms. Vlinder told him as the bell rang for lunch. He did so, fidgeting nervously where he stood. 

“Do you want me to stay?” Morality asked quietly, coming up to him as the other students left the classroom, casting a glance at their teacher. 

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” he shook his head, mustering up as much false bravado as he could. “Save me a spot, though.”

“Of course, kiddo,” grinned the other teen, before also leaving the room. 

“Are you doing okay, Anxiety?” Ms. Vlinder asked once the room was empty, eyes on Virgil. “I normally wouldn’t ask, but you’ve been extra distracted lately, and your grades have dropped. Even in English, and you’ve always been praised by Mx. Cee for your work in that class. Do you want me to talk to your grandmother?”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, stuffing his hands into his pockets and curling his fingers around the note in an attempt at comfort.

“My wife mentioned seeing you when she went to pick up our coffee this morning,” the teacher told him, frowning. “That would have had to be a very early shift, Anxiety. Are you sleeping alright? Do you want me to talk to the counselor-”

“I need money for university,” he interrupted, the practiced falsehood he’d told everyone about his job falling easily between his lips. “I’m fine, really. Can I please leave?”

“...Okay,” she finally nodded. “Have a good lunch.”

“Thanks,” he said quickly, grabbing his backpack and practically running out the door before she could change her mind. 

His friends liked to eat lunch out in the courtyard. It was easier for all of them, the cafeteria being too loud for Sleep and too stressful for Virgil. For March it was relatively warm, and it was an unspoken tradition for every member of their small group to find themselves near the same elm tree that bordered the math classroom for lunch break now that the cold had finally broken. So that was where Virgil went, slipping out the doors with his hood up, ignoring the brief chill of the wind. Morality waved to him, patting the ground besides him, Prince arguing with Sleep about something. 

“Why are you fighting again?” Virgil sighed as he sat besides Morality, setting down his backpack to lean against it. “What did Princey do now?”

“Me?” the dramatic male asked, aghast. “Why me?!”

“We were debating who your mysterious boyfriend might be,” grinned Morality, elbowing Virgil. “That’s who gave you that note, right?”

“Spill, girl,” Sleep drawled, taking a long sip from his Starbucks cup. Where did he even get that? Torbrook didn’t have a Starbucks! “Is he hot?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend!” Virgil protested, face red again. “The note -- stop rolling your eyes, Sleeping Beauty, I don’t! -- is none of your business.”

“Aw, you think I’m beautiful!” cooed Sleep, as Morality protested “It is certainly our business! We’re your friends, and as such we have a right to know about your love life! It was in the best friend contract, Anx!”

“No, it wasn’t,” Virgil rolled his eyes. The ‘best friend contract’ had been something he and Morality had made when they were nine, meant to be a joke. Morality’s mom had helped him frame it, and he’d hung it near his desk. It still was on the wall in his room. “I wrote that.”

“Well, I deedn’t expect that to work, anyways,” Morality grinned, and Sleep and Virgil groaned, Princey letting out a snort. “Still, though!”

“Yes, Anxiety, tell us about your mysterious lover’s note!” Prince exclaimed, pretending to swoon. “Every last detail of your courtship! Tell us about your Romeo; did you make the first move, or did he? Have you kissed yet? Do we know him?!”

“I’m certainly hoping I’m not Juliet, because she was thirteen and he was a grown adult, and also they died,” Virgil deadpanned, though internally his mind was racing, scrambling for an excuse. He seemed to be doing that a lot, lately. “Also, no, no, and no! I’m not dating anyone! The note was from a friend of mine who lives outside Torbrook. We, uh, met up over the weekend, he left it for me because when I got there he was out to buy groceries, and I just realized I accidentally grabbed it from his house.”

“You never leave town,” Morality shook his head. “Try again.”

“Actually,” Sleep interjected, actually looking interested now, “last Sunday he wasn’t at work for once. Asked me to cover for him. Are you telling me you actually went to visit this friend?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “Now they get it. We all know I’m doomed to be alone, anyways.”

“If you keep talking bad about yourself I will physically fight you!” Morality screeched, tackling Virgil into a hug as Sleep rolled his eyes in fond exasperation and Prince snickered at them both. 

After school, he found himself walking home. He never accepted Morality’s rides on the way back from school, always coming up with some excuse or another to walk. Virgil suspected the cheerful teen believed he was sneaking off to see someone, which would explain how that idea had started, but the truth was that he simply couldn’t let his best friend figure out that his grandmother wasn’t in the house. As far as Morality or anyone else knew, he was living with his grandmother in their nice house near the edge of town. As far as his grandmother knew, he was living with his aunt in her apartment a few towns away, and their shitty insurance was being supported by said woman. Only he knew the truth: that when his aunt had come to visit his grandmother in the hospital when she’d first been admitted a few months ago, she’d sat down with him at the dining table and told him that he wouldn’t be staying with her. 

“I have nowhere else to go--” he’d tried to tell her, but Caroline (she had no other title, having grown up outside Torbrook) had stood up from her seat, eyes shards of ice. 

“I’m not having Lydia’s child in my home,” she’d spat, and Virgil had recoiled at the mention of his mother. “My sister poisoned everything she touched -- she was driving, that night when she died, wasn’t she? Killed your father and your sister, and finally took herself down too. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did it on purpose. She was like that.”

“She -- it was an accident!” he cried. “Don’t talk about Mom like that!”

“I will talk about her any way I damn well please, Anxiety,” his aunt snapped. “You’re just like her, you know. You even call yourself after her! You could have chosen anything, and you decided on a goddamn disorder!”

“Gram told me-”

“I don’t give a fuck what she told you. That woman’s batshit crazy. She tore apart our family to come back to this town, and when I thought the cycle would finally end with her, my idiot sister forgave her, and granted her custody of her child when she died.” Caroline had paused there, picking up her bag. “You’ve been poisoned by both of them, Virgil, and I’m not risking my own life or happiness to deal with helping you just to let you go back after the old bitch dies. The old woman will be gone within a month without money for her treatment, you know that, and I’ll take you in then, finally get around to fixing you.”

She glanced at the rainbow flag magnet sitting on the fridge, holding up a picture of Virgil and his grandmother smiling together at the camera, her expression twisting from simple hatred into something ugly. “Maybe we’ll finally be able to get that gay bullshit out of your head, then.”

“Who am I supposed to stay with?” he’d asked, quiet and resigned, because he understood what was happening, had known deep inside the moment that his grandmother had told him to call Caroline that things would go wrong. 

“Just stay here,” she’d rolled her eyes. “You should be able to care for yourself, Virgil, you’re almost an adult. I’ll see you in a month, when she’s gone.”

He’d felt like laughing, even with the dark bags under his eyes and the crippling exhaustion he hadn’t yet learned how to manage, when his aunt had come back a month later, expecting to see her mother on her deathbed. The confusion and anger on her face when she’d seen Robin sitting up in her bed, hooked up to an IV but chatting merrily with a nurse, and had heard the old woman say “Oh, Carol, hon! I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m so glad you’ve been able to put them past you to care for our Anx, and help with the bills. The doctors say I should be out by August, dear, just in time to see him off to college. How will I ever thank you?”

His aunt had looked at him, standing on the other side of the bed, where his grandmother wasn’t looking, and he’d grinned, twirling his finger near his temple in gentle circles, the sign for crazy, and pointed at first his grandmother, and then himself. There had been a brief flash of fiery anger in her eyes, before Caroline had returned her gaze to her mother. “No need,” she’d smiled benevolently, and Virgil had to give it to her; she was a brilliant actress. “We’re family, after all. It’s what Lydia would want.” 

(He’d regretted taunting her later, when she’d thrown his grandmother’s favorite vase against his head as he tried to leave the house, trying to escape her wrath. She’d been screaming that he was poison, as toxic as his mother and grandmother before him, when the world fuzzed to black, and had left Virgil to wake up a few hours later with his bright purple hair dark with water and blood. He’d only seen her a few times since, when they’d met outside the hospital to visit his grandmother. They’d never mentioned it, and if she noticed how he was constantly on edge around her, she didn’t tell him.)

Virgil snapped himself out of his thoughts, unconsciously rubbing the back of his head. The injury had healed, now, but sometimes he found himself touching the spot anyways, especially after certain nightmares. 

He glanced around as he ducked into a gap between the trees, shifting to the right through a bush to find himself on the rough path he’d carved out over years of walking through these trees. 

It had been too long since he’d visited, he saw -- the grass had begun to regrow, and he muttered silent apologies to the forest as it was crushed under his torn sneakers. A faint breeze swirled around him, lifting the branches, and he grinned to himself. Virgil wasn’t much for gods, capital G and singular or otherwise, but he’d always believed these woods held a magic all their own, even beyond the faeries that used it as a portal between his realm and theirs. The place seemed to hum with it, a quiet force all its own, and he half-believed he’d only ever survived his adventures into it because it let him, had perhaps even guided him to the field of flowers when he was young. 

It was only a matter of minutes before he reached the clearing, and he shivered as the sunlight hit his skin fully, the afternoon sun’s warmth combatting the cool breeze. 

“There you are,” he heard from behind him, and he whirled around at the familiar voice.

“You’re starting to look like Slenderman,” he grinned at Logic, who had grown taller again.

“Those legends were inspired by my people,” the faerie said, rolling his eyes. “And I will have you know I am of perfectly average height for an Unseelie. At least I am not the size of the average mushroom, like those flowery nitwits.”

“Don’t be rude,” Virgil scolded, but he was still smiling, and pulled Logic into a hug even as he said it. “I missed you,” he muttered into his shoulder.

“...I missed you as well,” Logic told him, warm against the crisp March breeze. “It has been a long winter.”

“You look exhausted,” he pointed out, frowning as he pulled away to examine the shadows under the faerie’s mismatched eyes. “When did you last sleep?”

“I’m not the only one,” retorted the other, taking his hand and pulling him further into the sunny space between the trees. The grass was soft as the two sat, Virgil taking off his backpack to put it besides him. “I told you you would need adequate rest to ensure your head healed properly.”

“It’s fine,” he grumbled. Logic still moved behind him to check, examining the skin on the back of his head. “It really is, L. The magic did the trick -- no pain, no dizziness, nothing.”

“It looks alright,” the faerie conceded, although he still seemed perturbed. “Be careful, though, Anxiety. It may have been a while ago, but head wounds can have lasting effects.”

“I know,” he nodded, turning to face Logic again. “Now, why do you look like you haven’t slept since August?”

“I could say the same to you.”

“Logic.”

“It has been an… eventful winter,” sighed the dark-haired faerie, lying back in the grass. “There has been strife in both courts for years, but everything has gotten worse now. The heir to the rule of the Seelie Court has gone missing.”

“What? How is that even possible?” Virgil asked, staring down at him. 

“He disappeared in late summer, at the very end of August. Both courts have assumed they are being framed for what happened.” Logic closed his eyes, frustration seeping into his words. “I’m… friends with him, I suppose. I’m a bit worried about him -- Prince was never known for his intelligence.”

“Prince?” he blinked, a cold wave of suspicion washing over him. “Short, dramatic, acts like he stepped out of a Disney movie? Acts like the universe personally affronted him and will only accept an apology if it brings cookies?”

“You know him?” asked the faerie, eyes flashing open as he sat up. “When did you meet him? How? Did he hurt you?!”

“He sounds like Morality’s boyfriend,” Virgil told him, a mix of confusion and anger and fear rising in his chest. “Princey moved to town just in time for school to start -- they started dating in January. Apparently they had Christmas together, some cute fairy tale kiss under the mistletoe.” He’s vaguely aware his breath is quickening, but the blood pounding in his ears is far too loud to concentrate. “Oh god, L, what if he hurts Mor?”

“We cannot be sure your Prince is the same as mine. It could just be a coincidence,” Logic told him, moving closer to hold Virgil’s shoulders. “Breathe, Anxiety. It is alright. Do you remember the pattern you taught me?”

They did a breathing exercise, a four-seven-eight method Virgil had once led Logic through when they were fourteen and the faerie had been having a panic attack. He’d had no idea Logic remembered. 

“We’re going to have to figure out a way to definitively identify whether they are the same person,” he heard a while later, once he had calmed. His head was on Logic’s lap. He didn’t remember lying down, but long fingers were running through his hair and Virgil was far calmer than before, so he shrugged it off. “There’s no way he’d be willing to accompany you near the forest, right?”

“I doubt it,” he shook his head. “Everyone’s scared about this place. How’ve you been getting the messages to me? Could we use that?”

The faerie sighed. “Unfortunately, no. I’ve been making use of the birds in the area to do that -- a little magic, a promise of food, and they do whatever I wish.”

They sat in silence for a time, each with thoughts running rampant through their minds. Something tugged at Virgil’s attention, and he focused, trying to remember what he’d forgotten…

“His eyes!” he exclaimed, startling them both. 

“What?” Logic asked, a trace of amusement in his voice. “What about them?”

“Shouldn’t they be like yours, if he’s a Seelie?” said Virgil, sitting up. “All… fey-ish?”

“That isn’t a word.”

“Shush, you. Point is, shouldn’t I have been able to tell he was a faerie because of that? Or because of his ears? Do Seelie also have the pointed ears, or is that just your lot?”

His eyes widened. “An illusion, of course! Anxiety, you absolute genius!”

“I try,” he grinned. 

“The solution would be to pose as a human, accompany you to your place of schooling, and speak to him myself!” Logic exclaimed. “Do you have any human clothing I can borrow?” He hesitated. “Only if it is alright with you, that is. We can come up with another solution.”

“Actually, that works out,” Virgil told him. “I lied to my friends about visiting someone out of town over the weekend -- they’re going to ask for photos or something for proof, knowing them, so you can stand in as my imaginary friend.”

“What were you actually doing?” Logic asked, frowning, and Virgil mentally cursed. Why was he so goddamn perceptive? “We haven’t seen each other in a few months, so it was not on my behalf, and I have never known you to lie without reason.”

“...I was visiting my gran,” he confessed, staring at the blades of grass under his hands. “She hasn’t been doing too well lately, and my aunt still isn’t helping with money. I’m probably going to have to take more shifts at my job, and I wanted to see her without my aunt there for once before I started having no time to.”

“You told me once that it was strange that my people made me work even as a child,” Logic said, voice quiet. “You are clearly not doing well, Anxiety, and your health is precarious enough as it is. You should have gone to human doctors for that head wound, and you appear exhausted.”

“I’m fine, L,” he snapped. 

“No, you aren’t!” 

They both were startled by his shout, and Logic pinched his nose in faint exasperation. “I apologize. That was unnecessary. But I think you really should inform your grandmother of the situation. At this rate, even if you save her, you may kill yourself in the process.”

“She’ll make Caroline take me in, or ask a friend of hers from out of town. I can’t leave Torbrook now,” he shook his head. “I can’t. I’d be leaving you, and Mor, and… and God, L, there’s some sort of curse on this place, and I want to go to college, I want to see the world before I’m dragged back here!”

Everyone, even the fey, knew of the strange power of the town, and its effect on its residents. Virgil had watched people try to leave for years, to go to college or to just finally escape, and yet somehow, every single person, even the ones who hated the place most bitterly, were dragged back, unable to stay away permanently. It had happened to his gran, he knew -- she’d left, married a man she’d met in college, had his mom and Caroline, and then when both of the girls were ten, had found herself divorcing her husband and returning to Torbrook. Robin had hated herself for it, said so to Virgil after she’d had a bit too much wine, but she hadn’t seen another way -- the place had seemed to pull on her soul, and she couldn’t drag her new, innocent family along with her. 

The only people who had ever seemed to permanently escape were the ones who had accidentally revealed their names, and Virgil suspected that was only out of pure necessity. They could only survive on the outside -- returning to Torbrook was a death sentence, or worse, with any faerie or opportunistic human ready to use their true names against them. It was what had happened to Taylor, formerly called Yellow. They had accidentally told their true name at a party, gotten a bit too vulnerable, and one of their friends had told the whole school. They’d left town the next day, and hadn’t been back since. Their parents had occasionally visited them, but never seemed able to permanently stay with their child, much as they wanted to. Eventually, the visits stopped, and then so did all communication.

Taylor could have been dead, for all anyone knew, the pull of Torbrook doing to them what it had done to all the others who had resisted -- first sickness, like the flu, a shivering weakness, and eventually… 

Well, after a girl called Fortune had died in the hospital near her college, the doctors unable to help her, no one had wanted to risk it. 

So Virgil couldn’t leave Torbrook, even if he wanted to. He was saving every second for college, and maybe for a trip after that if he got lucky. 

He wouldn’t.

Abruptly, he stood. 

“Anxiety, I-” Logic began, and Virgil knew him well enough to know the other was about to apologize, and he couldn’t take that, not then. 

“Meet me here again in a few days, okay? I’ll bring clothes and stuff, and I’ll let the school know you’re a visiting student. They let that kind of thing happen, usually assume it’s a cousin who was born here who got the sickness. Super lax about it, weirdly.” He was aware he was babbling now, as he grabbed his bag, but he couldn’t stop himself from speaking. “Sunday should work, yeah? You can come with me on Monday, I can say we drove down from your home together.”

“Anxiety, what if it is him?” Logic asked, interrupting him mid-tangent. “Not only will we face the wrath of the next ruler of the Seelie Court, but will also expose the fact that we have been… consorting.”

“I’m not letting Mor get hurt,” said Virgil shortly, stepping back to leave. “I don’t need my best friend getting kidnapped by a faerie on my plate, too. I’ll see you Thursday.” He turned, and, without giving Logic a chance to respond, left the clearing. 

It was Sunday before he knew it, and Virgil was exhausted. All of his friends had noticed that he was more tense, more tired, more snappish -- he remembered muttering something about college admissions, which made sense since the letters were supposed to be coming in the next couple weeks, and they passed the mood change off as heightened anxiety. If Sleep noticed him picking up more shifts than ever, mowing lawns and doing whatever he could for money around town, he didn't say anything, and Virgil was grateful. Besides, Sleep himself was an insomniac -- he would just be a hypocrite.

Not to say Virgil had insomnia. More than anything, he wanted to fall onto his bed and sleep for a week. But he couldn’t, not yet.

He asked for the day off for both Sunday and Monday. His boss didn’t protest, telling him to go get some rest in a quiet tone. Sleep didn't make fun of him like usual, either, and there was no teasing him about going to see a boyfriend, only a quiet thumbs up.

The forest was quiet when he entered, a bag over his shoulder, and he shivered. It was disconcerting. Virgil had gotten used to noise, blasting music over his headphones as he worked, and then in lectures or with his loud friends every other moment. Faint birdsong, wind in the trees, dirt under the combat boots his gran had bought him two Christmases ago -- he wasn’t accustomed to them anymore. 

Perhaps that’s why Logic could sneak up on him so easily. 

“You look awful,” the faerie said bluntly from beside him, startling him enough that he almost tripped. He got lucky -- Logic reached out to steady him, concern shining in his strange, mismatched eyes. “Anxiety, you… you look worse than when I last saw you. Are you doing alright?”

“I’m fine,” he said, trying for a smile. Judging from the look on Logic’s face, it wasn’t convincing. He patted the bag. “Look, I brought you clothes. Got a couple of outfits. And, bonus-” he reached into his coat, pulling out a hairbrush and the scissors his grandmother had used to use to cut Virgil’s own hair when he was young. “We’re finally going to make you presentable, Tarzan.”

“How dare you?” Logic exclaimed, but there was no heat behind his words, just a quiet underlying concern that Virgil almost hated more. “My hair is perfectly fine!”

“Listen, you look like a member of Aerosmith,” Virgil rolled his eyes. “I’m thinking we can put it in a bun. Or maybe cut it even shorter! I’m just saying, you’re cosplaying a rocker from the 80s.”

“My hair isn’t that messy, or that long!” the faerie protested, but he let Virgil lead him to an old tree stump and sat down, albeit reluctantly. “Not too drastic of a change, Anx, or I swear, I’ll turn yours pink.”

“Eh, I needed a new dye job, anyways,” Virgil shrugged, and narrowly dodged Logic’s attempt to swat at him. 

Half an hour and much swearing later, the disheveled hair was brushed through and tied into a bun. Logic looked unbelievably cute. It was not fair in the slightest -- Virgil’s dark gay heart wasn’t built for this kind of shit!

Alright Virge, stop checking out your friend. he snapped at himself mentally, handing Logic his phone to see his new look as he reached into the bag. He’s a faerie, firstly, and also, you’re doing this to save Mor. Haven’t got time for this, you disaster gay. 

“I will confess, this does suit me,” the faerie smiled, looking up at him. “You’re quite good at this.”

“My gran taught me,” he shrugged, before dumping the bag of clothes onto Logic’s lap. “Pick an outfit.”

“This is not the same kind of clothing you wear,” blinked the faerie, looking through it. 

“You’d hate wearing my clothes, and they wouldn’t even fit you,” he pointed out. “I brought you… I dunno, nerd stuff. Should make you look respectable and smart, or whatever -- we’re going to play into all the stereotypes, today. Besides, people ought to think of you like you are, not like some emo.”

“You think I’m smart?” Logic asked, staring up at him. 

“You’re the smartest person I know, dumbass,” Virgil told him. “If you don’t want to wear any of that, it’s fine, I packed a T-shirt and jeans, and you could borrow my hoodie, I just thought it was kind of more your style-”

“No,” the other smiled, and wow, Virgil was really gay. “You… yes. I would prefer to be thought of as smart or respectable, I just didn’t realize that was something that could be done.”

“Anything’s possible when you harness preconceived prejudices,” he grinned in response.

Virgil couldn’t mask his amazement when Logic whispered to the forest, convincing the plants to grow together to make him a screen to change behind (he’d always been fascinated by magic, even when they were kids), but forced himself to stare at his phone when the faerie went behind it. He’d read through the same Tumblr post four times without understanding a word of it when Logic said “Anxiety?”

He’d chosen a black polo and a dark indigo tie, a shade that perfectly offset both colors of his eyes, paired with dark pants and his rabbit-fur boots. He looked hot.

“You… you’re going to need different shoes,” Virgil choked out.

“Oh, yes, I suppose I will,” Logic nodded. “Here, I am going to attempt an illusion.” He ran his fingers over his ears, and the points vanished, rounding. The rest of his features softened, less harshly fey and more human. He paused at his eyes, frowning.

“What’s wrong?” the human asked, as they had yet to change. 

“Eyes are… harder to hide,” the faerie confessed. “For fey they are quite literally the windows to the soul. I believe I will require an external object near my face to mask my eyes to cast the spell on.” He bit his lip. “If we restyled my hair to have bangs a bit like yours, I could use that, but I do not wish to ruin your hard work.” 

Virgil frowned, thinking back, before snapping his fingers. “Princey carries around contact solution in his bag! I bet that’s how he’s doing it -- casts the illusions on the contacts, pops them into his eyes, good to go.” He grinned. “You, Logic, are lucky I am so blind.”

“Excuse me?” he frowned. “I think your vision is alright. I wouldn’t have let those scissors near me, otherwise.”

“I wear contacts too, most of the time; good excuse for my weird eyes, people who don’t know me assume they’re colored. Plus, glasses don’t match my aesthetic.”

“What aesthetic?” Virgil glared at him, and Logic snorted in laughter.

“Don’t be rude, nerd. Anyways, I carry around my spare pair of glasses just in case, because if I lose a contact I can’t see without them. I was going to have to switch over to them soon -- don’t have enough money to buy another box -- but I can lend them to you for now, and we can cast the spell on them. Will the prescription affect you?”

“Let me see them,” Logic frowned, and Virgil pulled his glasses case out of his coat, handing the frames over.

The faerie tried them on, frowning briefly before running his hand over them. The glass shimmered for a moment, and suddenly his eyes only had color in the iris, one a paler green than Virgil’s own, the other a dark blue. “There. And I can see through them fine -- just have to change my own ability to see to do so. Easy shapeshifting spell.”

Virgil smiled despite himself, looking at the different colors. “We’re still eye buddies, huh?”

“I wasn’t about to give that up,” Logic grinned as he rolled his new eyes. It was so much more obvious when he did that, now that he actually had evident whites and pupils. “How do I look?”

Virgil stepped back, passing an appraising glance over his friend. “Very human,” he decided. “Also, very nerdy, so welcome to the weird kid club, L.”

“Excellent,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, before his features adjusted into something more serious. “Are you sure you want to do this, Anxiety? For all we know, your Prince isn’t mine at all. I can think of no reason for him to disappear for so long into human society.”

“I can’t risk Morality getting hurt,” Virgil shook his head. “We’re doing this.”

“Alright,” Logic nodded, before his face split into a sly smile. “Now that I look human, though… There are some things you’ve mentioned in Torbrook I’ve always wanted to see.”

Virgil laughed despite himself. “Well, you should probably stay with me tonight, for appearances’ sake anyways… Okay, sure. Let’s go see the library, and then we can stop by my house.”

“How did you know?” the faerie asked, startled, as they started collecting the supplies Virgil had brought.

“Magic,” he grinned, and Logic punched him in the arm without any real force. 

“Ass.”

“Dork.”

Even as they laughed, fear’s cold claws sunk into Virgil’s heart. He swallowed. What if Prince was who they thought he was?

What would one of the most powerful fey in the Seelie Court do to the human and the Unseelie that exposed him? 

He glanced over at Logic. The faerie was beautiful when he smiled, even with his teeth disguised to look duller and more human. The sun streamed through the trees, lighting up his dark hair and contrasting the shadows painting fragile pictures across his skin. 

What if Prince hurts him? the little voice in the back of his mind whispered. 

No. He wouldn’t let that happen, Virgil decided, pushing the fear deep, deep down. Not to Logic, or Morality, or Sleep, or anyone he cared about. 

The world was so shitty, as it was. He wasn’t about to let the few people that made living in it bearable suffer.

“Anxiety?”

Logic’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he turned to see the faerie looking at him. “Yeah, L?”

“It’s going to be alright,” he promised, reaching out to hold Virgil’s hand. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

“Okay,” he nodded. And it helped, really, because he knew faeries could only tell the truth, or at least what they believed was the truth. Logic was the smartest person he’d ever met, and if he really believed that… 

Everything would be alright.

[privatemessage]

Carla’s Coffee Bar: Mycroft

Mycroft reached Carla’s Coffee Bar just under ten minutes later, with more than a touch of trepidation. He’d been forced to postpone a finance meeting for this. He just hoped Lestrade wasn’t going to make a damn fuss.

He ordered two flat whites, and took a table in the corner.

He then sat down to wait. As he did, he checked his emails on his phone, hoping to ease some of his tension.

His heart leapt as he spotted a new private message from Dick - but there was no time to answer it. The door of the coffee house had opened with a jingle.

Here we go, Mycroft thought. 

He braced himself to be patient and tried giving Greg a smile, reminding himself that at least there was Dick to reply to when all this was over. He’d meant to write Dick something for days now. Real life kept intruding - real life in the guise of Greg Damn Lestrade.

“Flat white,” he said, nudging the cup towards the inspector as he approached. “I’m afraid I haven’t brought you any flowers.”

Greg took the proffered coffee. “Flowers… hmm,” he said. “I’ll forgive you, since your apology was so sincere… not. Look, shall we just start over?

Mycroft winced a little. He’d known this was going to be difficult. As the inspector sat down, Mycroft reflected to himself that this would all be so much easier if Lestrade wasn’t so… photogenic. He had one of those eternally likeable, almost mischievous faces, and it just did things to Mycroft. Lestrade was the sort of man who looked like he’d smell good.

God alive, I need to get laid… Mycroft thought. Before I go insane.

He lifted his coffee to his lips.

"Yes,” he said. “Perhaps we could. For Sherlock’s sake. You and I are both intelligent, reasonable professionals, after all… there’s no reason we shouldn’t get along.” He blew across the surface of his cup. “How has your morning been?”

“Not bad actually,” Lestrade said. “Thought it would be mayhem after my two days off, but the criminals seem to have taken a sabbatical. It’s quiet. Got all my paperwork finished by ten.”

Mycroft took a first sip of coffee, briefly closing his eyes. His heart belonged to tea and always would - but lately, coffee had been the only thing keeping him on his feet. Decent stuff like this, anyway.

“By ten?” he said. “Heavens… sometimes I haven’t finished mine by ten at night.”

He looked up over his coffee, briefly meeting Lestrade’s eyes. Sweet stars, but the man was attractive. Life is unfair, he thought.

“I - wondered if we might set up a visiting schedule for Sherlock. Alternate visits, perhaps. To take some of the pressure away from John.”

Greg nodded. “I can do most times until a case comes in… but as you know, work will pull rank, unless you can do some magic with the boss. Do you know how long Sherlock will be in for? You said something about test results in your email.”

“Oh - yes, of course…” Mycroft reached inside his coat, extracting the sheath of documents he’d been given by the clinic. “It’s - largely medical jargon,” he said with a frown, unfolding them and offering them to Greg. “Take a look if you wish. The short answer is they want to keep him in for two more weeks. His headaches are quite pronounced, and he’s still not entirely in control of what he says…”

He watched Greg drink the coffee, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly.

“Good?” he inquired.

Tell me that it’s good, you beautiful bastard.

Greg reached for the papers. His fingers brushed Mycroft’s as he took them.

The brief shock of touch burned all ideas about gloating out of Mycroft’s head. He maintained a fiercely neutral expression as he busied his fingers on the coffee cup, drinking while Greg read.

“Well,” Greg said. “I hope they manage to keep him in for two weeks. Once he’s feeling better, he’ll be climbing the walls.”

“Mm… that might be our main challenge, I fear. We’ll need things to occupy him. If you have any challenging cases, now might be a golden opportunity for you to delegate… have a relaxing two weeks for yourself.”

Mycroft smiled a little, sipping his coffee. He was trying to ignore the slight tingling in his fingers where Greg had touched him. He was also trying to ignore the thought of pushing Greg up against the nearest wall.

“Perhaps head off to Mexico,” he suggested, eyes dark. “Sea, sand…”

What in God’s name am I saying? Oh, hell.

“I have about a dozen cold case files,” Greg said. “If you would okay it with the powers that be, I’ll release them into his care. Thing is, Mycroft… er…. I know you’re aware, but Sherlock can’t be seen to have anything to do with these particular cases. Suffering from a head injury, should any of these come to trial, they would be thrown out if word got out that he had a hand in the investigation and was not compos mentis.”

“I’ll see to it that his name stays off any records,” Mycroft promised. “If you need to attach a name to anything, put mine… it usually shuts down any awkward questions rather quickly…”

There was a pause.

“So…” Greg said. “Have you ever been to Mexico?”

Mycroft eyed Greg over the rim of his coffee cup as he took another sip. Casual holiday chat, he thought. The peak of civility.

“Ah… only to check up on all the people I’ve had deported there.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “More of a - European city break sort of person. Art galleries. Opera houses.”

“Can’t say I’ve been to much of anywhere,” Greg said. “This Job isn’t conducive to family holidays. I was going to go to Barcelona before the divorce, but she took the plans when she took the cash.”

He seemed to pause.

“Was going to see the Sagrada Familia,” he said. “The idea of such an amazing building still being built after such a length of time… makes me feel quite small. Do you know it?”

Mycroft stared across the table in amazement.

“The Sagrada Família - …” he said. “Yes, it’s - magnificent. But then as are most of Gaudí’s designs. It’s… a Gothic masterpiece. You really must see it.”

He wondered if he was dreaming.

“You know Spanish architecture,” he said.

Inspector Lestrade was full of surprises. Mycroft had had him down as a beach-and-a-beer sort of man.

Greg looked at him across the table, an eyebrow raised. “You don’t like much… do you, Mr Holmes?”

Mycroft was still trying to reconcile the man in front of him, casually discussing Spanish architecture, with the man who had spent the week winding him up by e-mail. The question took him by surprise.

His brow contracted faintly.

“I like a number of things,” he protested. “Art. Tea. Literature. Peace and quiet.”

“So, do I, Mr Holmes,” Greg said. “So do I. I think if we got to know each other instead of biting each other’s heads off, we might have some things in common”

Mycroft found himself faced with a man perhaps far wiser than he’d wanted to believe. It made him feel uneasy.

’Things in common’, he thought. It quietened his heart.

What could he possibly have in common with the widely-liked, easygoing and brave Inspector Lestrade?

He was a politician who the public didn’t even know existed; an erotic writer who hadn’t felt someone else touch his skin in over a year; an older brother who always seemed to make the wrong decisions, no matter which ones he made.

He spent so much of his time on other people. And yet everyone knew him as a cold-hearted bastard.

He wondered if it was easy to be Lestrade. It looked it. Maybe Lestrade was just better at being who he actually was.

It took Mycroft a moment to find something suitable to say - some piece of light conversation he could throw out with a faint smile.

“Yes, well… perhaps it is easy to misread each other by email. Tone is difficult to interpret by text alone.”

He picked up his coffee, hiding his expression behind it as he drank.

Greg settled back in his chair.

“Oh, yeah…” he said. “Nice coffee, by the way.” He grinned.

Mycroft’s brief moment of pity evaporated at once. He was disarmed enough to flash a grin across the table, saying, with a delighted glitter of his eyes,

“Yes, inspector. Yes, it is. I’m glad your re-education about these things has now begun.”

A thought tingled into his mind.

“Stay there,” he said.

He proceeded to the counter, returning a couple of minutes later carrying a plate and two forks. Upon the plate was a slice of cake so richly filled with espresso and chocolate that it was almost black.

Mycroft placed it down upon the table, handed Lestrade a fork, and said, “Proper breakfast.”

As he sat down, taking up his own fork, he added,

“They call it ‘Better Than Sex’… the jury is still out, but it’s a viable contender.”

He waited for Lestrade to eat first, watching his reaction with interest. He was delighted to see Greg tuck in with gusto.

He was even more delighted by the groan.

“Ohhh… delicious.”

Mycroft gripped his hands together very hard beneath the table, his knuckles whitening. It wasn’t even noon, and he already knew exactly what he would be thinking about tonight when he got into bed. He would be thinking about it in some detail.

It almost wrote itself. Slowly he laved his tongue through the mess of crumbs and chocolate smeared across Greg’s chest, listening with delight to the groans it envoked, feeling the man arch beneath him. He took a second handful of cake from by the bed…

God on high. I must stop this. I must stop this now.

“Well, Mycroft…” Lestrade was saying. “You win the battle of the cake and the coffee!”

“Well,” Mycroft said, taking a moment to retrieve his thoughts from the floor. “I’m glad I could be of service.” He drank the last of his coffee. “This has been… productive.”

Greg coughed quietly.

“I’m expecting a phone call soon, Mr Holmes… as delightful as the cake and coffee have been, I should take my leave. Would you like me to drop in Sherlock tonight? We seem to have neglected to formulate a plan to visit him…”

“Ah - yes, if you could,” Mycroft said. “That would be rather convenient, actually… I have a personal engagement tonight. I probably won’t be contactable. But if you could leave me a short message to let me know how he is… I might not reply until morning.”

Mycroft had spent enough of his life telling diplomatic lies not to feel too guilty. In truth, his 'personal engagement’ was going to be entirely with himself, a pot of Earl Grey and his keyboard, then probably not long after to bed - though not to sleep.

The thought of his favourite reader flickered briefly across his mind. He felt strangely guilty - lusting after Lestrade, while somewhere out there was Dick, waiting for a reply to his message. But then, Mycroft supposed, they were not in a relationship. Dick could well have a partner. Hell, he might have a wife and children. He hardly belonged to Mycroft, nor Mycroft to him. The poor man didn’t even know his real name.

He would write to Dick tonight, he thought. Share a few messages. It would help distract him, however briefly, from the thought of Lestrade covered in cake.

“Well,” he said. “Thank you for… arranging this.”

Greg  stretched as he stood, licking his lips for any stray crumbs. His eyes flitted quickly over Mycroft.

He then reached out and offered a hand. “It’s been nice meeting you in less tense circumstances, Mr Holmes. Maybe we could…”

Mycroft’s eyes flickered over the outstretched hand. He knew something so simple shouldn’t have caused such a leaping of his heart, but it had - and he rather hated it. Touching palms with someone now made him feel as giddy as pulling a lover’s clothes off once had. It was a sorry state of affairs, he realised.

He forced himself to assume a professional expression, took Greg’s hand in a completely neutral manner, and shook it politely.

“Yes. Perhaps this is a better way of communicating. If we - find ourselves in tense circumstances in the future, then perhaps we should - …”

A mobile phone somewhere nearby started to ring.

In the same moment that Mycroft realised the phone ringing was Greg’s, he recognised the tune.

His brow darkened at once.

“Is that - …?” It was unmistakable. The surprising news that Greg was an Elton John fan was lost in Mycroft’s immediate annoyance at the tinny melody of ’Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word’. He stared at Greg, biting the end of his tongue. “I hope that’s not a recent artistic choice of yours.”

Greg grimaced.

“Oh, for God’s sake, lighten up!” he said. “A wise man once told me that when you’ve lost your sense of humour, you’ve lost everything,”

Mycroft glared.

Then he felt the edges of his mouth quiver slightly. His eyes glinted, as he told Greg,

“I always get my own back.”

He smiled; it reached his eyes.

Whatever retort Lestrade had been planning, it stuck in his throat. Mycroft enjoyed the transfixed expression for a moment - committing it to memory.

He’d be revisiting it later.