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juvenillia · 7 months

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~ Death of Peace of Mind ~ 11: silence

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!reader

photo credits go to very talented @ave661

a/n: hello, yes i like to hurt my feelings, and yes I had lot of fun writing this one, reblogs are really appreciated and pls let me know what you think, this chapter is kinda important to me

CW/TW: mentions of death, loss, trauma, violence, assault, angst, hurt, use of y/n and petnames (difference in the petnames is intended)

wordcount: 3.8k

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"I dinnea ever again will hit the gym with yer two.", Johnny whined while pearls of sweat ran down his forehead. "Nobody asked ya to be here.", Ghost said, maybe a bit sarcastic, but still a serious tone hidden in between. You only chuckled while catching your breath. You had a chat with one of the other Sergeants a day back and he recommended a good work out, but you needed at least three persons for it to be efficient. To give yourself a challenge, you didn't hesitate to ask Simon and then Johnny. "Well, bonnie here did.", he smiled – a knowing smile - aimed at Ghost. They started a full-on argument about it but you didn't listen. Only caught fragments of burgers, tanks, and tea. You didn't pay much attention; your glance was pinned onto the screen of your phone. Price had called you, at least three times and a message was left, that you should see him in his office as soon as possible. "Gotta go. Cap wants to see me.", you stuffed the phone back into the pocket before waving your goodbye. "Dinnea forget about dinner tonight!", Johnny yelled after you, what earned him a simple thumbs up by you before running around the corner.

"Dinner?", Simon didn't want to ask, he really didn’t but sometimes his mouth was faster than his mind. Something that happened rarely, but even more when it comes to you. He had sworn to stop that. Invading your privacy like he did with the dog tag of your dead friend. If there would be something he needed to know, you would tell him. You trusted him. He trusted you. Still, he hated the feeling in his guts as Johnny asked you about dinner. Just like he hated the feeling boiling up in him when Johnny sat next to you instead of himself. "Yer ken, just some mates havin' dinner together.", Johnny wore one of the most mischievous grins he could. He didn't look at him, but he felt how Simon stared daggers at him. What Simon didn’t get to hear, that the dinner was supposed to be the whole team, but Johnny kept that part to himself. The reaction from his Lieutenant made it worthy, until he heard the harsh tone from him again. "Another round, Sergeant." - "Oh, c'mon."

Just as you wanted to knock at the door, of Price's office, it already swung open, and Kyle investigated your face. "Brought ya someone.", he stated while moving to the side and gifted you a quick but honest smile before you entered the office. "You wanted to see me, sir?", your voice serious but soft. You walked over to the desk where Price was seated. "I might need your help to find a solution for all that mess.", he said while pointing to the chair and you sat down, looking at your captain with anticipation. Price explained the whole situation and that there was one person that could gather intel to lead the whole operation forward. The problem was, this person was announced MIA like two months ago, but there was a little hint to find him. Laswell worked the last weeks to find his trace. He should’ve been held hostage for the whole time in an old chem factory taken by Russian terrorists. Biggest problem about it; another military organization is already trying to get rid of the occupier. That way the 141 couldn't just head out. Especially when the deployed team and yours were known to be not getting along quite well. You couldn't just walk in and get your man out of there and act like nothing happened. Price found out who led the operation on location, and that was your entry.

You knew him, way too well. "You’re asking me to reach out to request a favour?" - "Unfortunately, I think it's our best shot at the moment." You stayed silent, eyes trailing to your hands folded in your lap. "Look, I know it's a lot to ask for. But we don't want them to help us, just to lay down their work for a day that we can go in and out. Maybe it can even help them..." You stayed silent. "It isn't an order, you know." Your silence made Price feel uneasy. But you were so entangled with your own thoughts that you couldn't bring yourself to speak.

It's been over a year now, a year of distance between the two of you and now you should approach him like nothing happened. That was almost impossible. You couldn't just call him. You couldn’t reach out to him, like you did nothing wrong to him. You simply couldn't, "Gonna take care of it.", and you did. Your work brain took over.

It took you some time to achieve what was requested and to your fortune you had achieved it without calling him directly. He was on the front line anyways. That way you found yourself surrounded by Soap, Gaz and Ghost on the way to the border from Uzbekistan. Price wasn't there, he had to take care of another problem, Laswell and he needed to solve before your return. Wearing the black mask, eyes closed you listened to your surroundings. Gaz' and Soap's talk, the steady and deep breathing from Ghost who sat next to you again. It gave you a familiar grounded comfort before leaving the vehicle to go after your target.

You needed to operate with a huge level of fineness. Pulling as less as possible attention while freeing your man. That's why you decided to split up. Ghost and you should march first, you were the most quiet and the best of the team to act in the shadows. Gaz and Soap built the rearguard to take cover of you from higher levels. Everything seemed to go right to plan. Within an hour you found your man and was able to free him. Ghost steadied him and you watched his six while making your way back to the exit.

That was the turning point, from now on the mission just went south. Gaz couldn't keep you covered because he needed to cover his partner. Both got literally overrun by enemies. Just when you lost Gaz over the comms, you got distracted as Ghost lost grip of the hostage. That's how you caught a bullet in your shoulder. Nothing to worry too much about it, but the pain was ringing through your body. You kept pushing it down. Kyle and Johnny were long gone, and you switched channels at your comms really quick before you pushed further forward. Just then you caught a familiar face. It was a face printed on a photo Price showed you weeks ago when you had to eliminate two men. This image in front of you instantly made you stop in your tracks. "Impossible.", you breathed out nearly inaudible when Ghost stopped to look after you. His voice was harsh. "Sergeant?" But before you could answer him, a huge trembling of those old and rusty metal floors caught your attention more. "Keep moving.", Ghost now yelled at you, and you did. Running to the point where you entered the factory. The metallic bridge you had to run over did collapsed into itself before you reached the other side and dragged you down. Ghost tried to catch a fracture of your tactic vest, but you were already gone. Somewhere levels below your actual exit point.

You could muffle the impact of the harsh ground a bit, still you groaned in pain. "Sergeant, you broken?", you heard Ghost's voice over the comms. It sounded as serious and stern as always. The hole in your shoulder made it so much more difficult to breathe right now. You needed to steady yourself. "Skadi, status?!", his voice got more demanding or even desperate. You couldn't tell. He was already on his way down, as you didn't answer him. You took a few deep breaths before pushing the button on your communication device. "Steady. Need another way out. I guess."

He instantly stopped his movement. Ghost didn't realize he held his breath until you spoke, that's why he let out a deep exhale of relief. "Let's see if I can help.", he answered and that earned him a quite chuckle form you. "Take our man outside, Lieutenant, rendezvous at evac. I'll be there." - "Don't do something stupid, Sergeant." You didn't answer him, but you felt a harsh pain piercing through your chest. Not caused through the fall, no, caused of his choosing of words. Words you heard all so often. You pushed yourself up, grip tight around your rifle while searching for another way out of that factory.

Ghost brought the hostage to the evac point before reaching out to you again. You weren't here. "Sergeant, location?" Soap was already seated in the jeep, Gaz just arriving. His comms were destroyed, Soap had dust and sticky liquids all over his gear. But after all they still looked alright. Soap wanted to ask about you, but suddenly another quake brought their attention back to the factory. "Status, now!!", Simon yelled in the comms. The men could witness an explosion going off in the upper levels of the factory. Johnny reached out to his comms after you didn't answer. "C'mon bonnie. Where are yer?" Still no answer. Ghost could feel his stomach turn. He could feel how the grip around the little device at his vest tightened. Soap and Gaz already talked nine tin to a dozen, but none of their words met his ears. "Stay here!", he hissed out a order before running towards the factory. Soap and Gaz didn't even try to protest, they knew Ghost had already chosen. He couldn't afford to bring them right into the danger zone. It was enough to endure that you were out there. He couldn't afford to lose you. He couldn't live with the knowledge that he could have changed something. And he could, so he would. He wasn’t the helpless little boy from Manchester anymore. He could protect what he held dear to him now.

His feet dragged him faster than ever to the place your ways parted. His eyes scanning for a hint of your figure. His comms switched to the private channel he had with you. "Skadi?!" His voice was so broken, he could feel how a rope laced around his throat. "Skadi, please." He ran through the building, finding bodies laying everywhere around, always scared to look if it might be yours. But they were all too tall for your figure. A figure that shouldn't have to endure all that like he had to. He heard a distant exchange of fire. Then a crack in his comms and immediately stopped in his track. "Skadi??", his breath was uneven, his chest lifting heavy. "Backup's here.", an unfamiliar raspy voice echoed through his head. Backup? They never called for backup, but that would explain the gunshots he heard from afar. He didn't give it another thought before continuing his search for you. He only had one goal, finding you, alive and bringing you back. Back home, not to this shitty apartment in Birmingham you told Simon about. No, he would make sure that you feel at home wherever you wanted and deep down he hoped it would be besides him.

"y/n, please tell me your location.", his voice was desperate. This silence killed him. He never hated silence, especially not when you were next to him. Your sheer presence providing him a feeling of safety. But this damn radio silence, not knowing what happened to you, or if you were injured. His mind already flashing him with images of a blood-stained body. An image that joined the row of images in his head. A deep groan left his throat, no, he wouldn't let this happen. You were not supposed to take a place with them. You're supposed to stay at his side. In that moment he wished that you were back at the patio. Watching as the sun lowers itself, painting the sky red and orange. In this comforting silence sharing those disgusting fags of yours. He hated them to be honest, but the small smile on your lips when he took one of them made it worthy. "Please, just anything."

That's when his eyes found something familiar. The little blue box he found some time ago on that same patio. At a time when he had never thought he would need you. But he did. He was on the right track. His eyes instinctively scanning for other hints when he finally heard your voice. Without hesitation and with a tight grip around the rifle he ran after the echo your scream was coming from. Hold on a little while longer, he thought to himself.

As soon as he rounded the corner he froze. A vicious frame burned itself inside his brain. A tall statue was holding you up in the air. A gloved hand around your throat, while the other pushed a knife into the side of your abdomen. Your hands clung sloppy on the arm of the man in front of you. The last attempt to keep the air flowing in your system. Your mask was crooked, making it even harder to breath. The tactic vest long gone from your body, ripped down leaving you only in your bodice, already soaked in the carmine liquid. Simon saw red. His mind was completely empty, only one thought was running through. You.

His temporarily paralyses lead to a huge mistake, something he would regret so often in his life. In those little seconds where he stood frozen, taking the scenery in front of him in, your opposite took notice of his appearance. Those seconds did decide about life or death of both of you. Before Ghost could draw his rifle and take him out, the man spun around, turning you with him. Your back pressed against his front. Leaving your throat, so you could finally breath a bit more. He held you close to his chest, using you as a shield as he drew his own gun and pressing the cold barrel against the side of your head. "Gun down, we don't want to destroy that pretty face, do we?!", he yelled over with a Russian accent, and it made Ghost's jaw clench. He was the reason you were in this situation. His emotions blinding him and now he wasn't able to make it up to you. But he had to. No matter what it takes, he would take care of you and bring you home. "Did I speak unclear?!", the man yelled again while pressing the cold metal even further into your skull. Your eyes were squeezed shut. You could barely make out the silhouette in front of you.

To your fortune he left the knife inside, that gave you a bit of a chance to not completely bleed out right here. Everything felt numb and sore at the same time. You could feel your eyes rolling back in your head. But you forced them back, using the last bit of adrenaline to look back onto Ghost and shaking your head. Only the slightest. Only to signaling him that it was okay. You knew they were safe. He should leave. Your eyes closed again. You knew you did all you could. Ghost slowly put the rifle down. Lifting his hands in defense. "Let her go and we'll leave.", he demanded but the man only laughed. Simon's hands were trembling. The anger inside of him as high as the anxiety. He couldn't afford to lose you. He didn't want to add your images to those of his family. He carefully took a step forward, what immediately earned him a shot in the air. A warning shot. He froze again. He only once felt so helpless before. But this situation was too new for him. He felt like drowning. He wanted to hold you, carrying you out of here back to your bed. You were so close to him and still, he couldn't reach you. What would Price say? What would Johnny say? What would Kyle say? It didn’t matter because he would rather die right here than seeing you all riddled up.

The next moment felt unreal to everyone in this room. Especially for the Russian. Before Simon even realized what happened, he saw both of you going down to the ground. He didn't need another signal, started sprinting towards you. Completely ignoring his own safety. You only felt another painful impact, before a darkness washed over your sight. Another crackle in his comms and there was this unfamiliar voice again. "The motherfucker is down!", but Simon didn't care about that guy. He only cared about you. He was already on his way. Your figure laying on the floor. Within seconds he was by your side, pulling you in his lap. Immediately ripping of the mask off your face to give you the chance to breathe properly before he checked your pulse. "Lieu....t..." your voice was raspy, and low, barely audible. "'m here. 'm here. Just stay with me, that's an order. Ya hear me.", he pressed you close to his chest, your head steadied in the crook of his neck. "Yer...yer not gettin’ ...rid of me that easily.", you breathed out exhausted, your accent thicker than usual. Every breath sent a piercing pain through your chest. Simon chuckled in relief, then there was another crack in the comms. A low laugh could be heard. You could hear it as well, as your head was close to Ghost's earpiece. You opened your heavy eyelids. "Always having your back, mein Engel." [my angel], the voice came again through the comms, sweeter and softer than before while your head fell back, even further into your Lieutenant and a smile appeared on your lips. "Get her out of here big boy.", a quick switch to the deeper demanding voice, "I'll cover you." Ghost nearly ignored him, he only had ears for your little pants, especially as you closed your eyes again. He shuffled you around and cupped your face. Making sure not to cause any more pain than anyhow.

"Eyes open, Sergeant. Look at me, Skadi.", he plead. "C'mon.", you could hear him, but it sounded so distant. "We need ya out of here. But ya need to open those pretty eyes f' me first.", you were sure you were already gone. His voice sounded so soft and the number of words. He never talked so much before. God, you wished he did. "y/n please, look at me." You slowly forced your eyes open, and they found his. Those dark eyes looking down at you, filled with worry but at the same time with determination and a hint of adoration. The way he looked at you changed since your first days with him, and a weak smile formed again on your lips, your face relaxed. If that would be the way you'd die, you'd be fine with it. Looking in his eyes, dying in his arms, listening to his heartbeat. Is that what Randy thought in his last moments? It felt peaceful.

"That's it, luv. Keep them open f' me." He didn't care about the choosing of his words, he didn't care about his heart nearly leaving his chest, he only cared getting you out of here. He pulled out the box you lost earlier. "Here, hold on. Randy will be pissed if ya’d lose it.", he pushed the box into your hands, and you clung to it with the rest of strength that was left in your body. Your eyelids weighted tons, but your tried to keep them focused on the little box in your hand and Simon's voice helped to keep your head clear. This beautiful melody in your ears, a melody that symbolized safety. Ghost pushed the button on his comms again "MacTavish, move the fuckin jeep over here.", he ordered before lifting you up as careful as possible. "Just hold on a little while longer."

He carried you through the mess of factory. Ignoring everything around him. His focused laid onto you, onto your chest that's still moving and on your eyes. He started searching for the jeep as soon as the beams of sunlight brushed over his eyes. "Don't leave me, ya hear me."

Johnny pulled over and Kyle helped to move you into it. Simon kept you in his lap, against his chest. His huge hands found your cheeks, tilting your head into his direction. "Not falling asleep on me this time, alright.", he said calm. Kyle held onto the weak body of the hostage while he yelled at Johnny as the jeep went through the thick vegetation, already taking care of medevac. Simon ignored them. He whispered sweet nothings and praises into your direction. Trying to suppress the panic in his voice. It only got worse when you slowly closed your eyes again. "No, no, no. Ya have to stay awake. Keep listin' to me. I know ya able to.", his voice was so broken. There were so many more things he wanted to say to you, so many things he wanted to show you. He needed more time. "y/n, please. Stay with me.", he bended over, bringing his masked head to yours. "Don't leave me.", his forehead pressed against yours, while keeping your body steady against his own. Johnny and Kyle still yelling at each other, while Soap drove like a madman.

"Simon...", your voice was weak, just a whisper but he heard you and nearly melted when you approached him. " 'm here, love." He moved his head away from yours to look at you. Your eyes were still closed, but your lips were moving. "Johnny told me...ya good with jokes. Think I need something... something to laugh.", you breathed out while still clinging to the box in your hand. Your voice was filled with pain; every word that left your lips hurt and still you were able to soften the tone. Simon let out a nearly inaudible chuckle. He wanted to scold you, tell you to spare your strength. Tell you so much more than a sloppy joke, but he didn't. " Why did the coffee call the police?”, he paused for a moment, his eyes never leaving yours. “It got mugged.", his voice was so calm and soft. You did sink further into him while a weak chuckle left your lips. "That's...", you weren't able to complete the sentence anymore as you fell into a darkness. The grip around the box loosening. "No, nooo!!!", Simon's voice trembled, there were cracks in it. The silence was an old friend of him, but this friend pushed a knife right through his heart.

taglist: open just lmk

@yyiikes @saffronimagines @originaldeerhottub @illuminwtesz @killergoddess97 @kaelaiscool @spiritndrain

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kastlequill · 8 months

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ii/v. ‘til my pulse loses time: pulsus bigeminus

pairing: kyle gaz garrick x f!reader word count: 1.4k synopsis: the second time you save gaz tags: whumptober, broken bones, blood and injury, wound tending, hurt/comfort, medic!reader, 4+1, no y/n warnings: war ao3: read here ← prev | next →

II.

The first time you left the base’s vicinity to operate out in the field was under less than ideal circumstances.

You’d been stitching up a deep laceration across the chest of an infantryman when your radio crackled to life. On the other end of the comms, Captain Price had informed you of his squad’s status after a particularly nasty ambush near a series of steep cliffs not too far off from the medbay. While Sergeant McTavish and that lieutenant had managed to avoid the worst of the damage, one Sergeant Garrick was currently still stuck under several large bits of debris. Before the captain tried pulling him free, he wanted medical personnel to be on standby.

So here you were, staring at a pile of rubble, wondering just how far below laid the man out of whom you’d dug a bullet some weeks ago.

“Have you been able to contact him, Captain?” you asked so as to fill the silence with something, anything other than your unrelenting thoughts of paranoia and worst-case scenarios.

Price nodded, his hands grabbing onto the collar of his tactical vest. “Affirmative. We checked in just before you arrived.”

“Put him on the line.”

The captain unclipped a hand-held radio from his waistband and tossed it your way before turning around to convene with his remaining men. You raised the device to the level of your chin, pressed the button on its side, and spoke.

“Sergeant Garrick,” you greeted, tone clinical and matter-of-fact. “Can you hear me?”

A cough sounded through the static. “Nice to hear a familiar voice, Doc.”

You almost snorted at that; familiarity wasn’t exactly the first word you’d use to describe your professional relationship with the guy. The two of you hadn’t exchanged more than a few acknowledging gestures since that day his comrades dragged him into the clinic. In fact, until this very moment, you’d thought he had forgotten all about the interaction, reducing you to a mere vagueness in his pain-hazed memory.

It appeared, however, that the sergeant remembered plenty enough. While he had managed to stay out of trouble—and thus out of your orbit—during this past string of weeks, the pit in your stomach had never quite left.

Your initial premonition had proven correct. Injured again. Through no fault of his own, yes, but establishing fault was hardly important when it came to life and death.

“How are you faring down there? Try and rank your pain on a scale of one to ten.” While you waited for him to respond, you began to set up your equipment, digging for your stethoscope, for bandages and gauze. Once everything was to your satisfaction, a quick wave of your hand brought Captain Price back to the site, ready to excavate the final member of his team.

“Feels like a bloody mountain of rocks just fell on top o’ me, how ‘bout that?”

Damn soldiers. Always difficult, always stubborn. “A number, Gaz.”

“Between a three and a four,” he relented after a few beats of silence. His voice sounded strained despite his efforts to conceal the truth of his current state. “But no rush, yeah? The quiet’s not so bad.”

You handed the radio back to the captain, with whom you shared a look. Freeing Gaz was your highest priority; there’d be no more delays.

Price signaled for McTavish and the one called Ghost to approach the rubble, and, together, the three of them got to digging. Their gloved hands lifted debris, methodically removing boulders and slabs of earth in a way that would minimize the risk of it all toppling down. It was arduous work, but involving heavier machinery might do more harm than good.

Ten minutes into the unburial, they located him. Pinned beneath stone, in an air pocket—alive. McTavish and Ghost relieved the crushing weight, enabling Price to grab Gaz by the arms and drag him towards an open spot of land. There, he tried to sit upright, eager to become of use, but a single stern if I catch you moving before the medic gives the all clear, I’ll make your arse clean latrines for the next month, hear? from his captain had him stilling.

As you knelt closer to the wounded man, those brown eyes swiveled to meet yours, trapping you with their alert intensity. Dirt was speckled across the bridge of his nose, appearing more like a patch of constellations than grime, and a cut crusted with dried blood ran through his left brow. Dust clung to his lashes, exhaustion deep set in his face, and yet he looked. . .

Good. Too good, considering where he’d been for the last hour. Not the most professional observation, sure, but you were only human.

The longer you maintained eye-contact, the more recognizable the reverence in his stare became to you; it wasn’t uncommon for soldiers who’d been separated from their environment, from their very atmosphere, to view the mortal world as heaven itself once they returned. That same sentiment was now infused into his gaze, shining with wonder, like he had just found the answers to his life-long questions, had just stumbled upon eternal paradise.

The kiss of the wind, the hug of the sunlight, the confession of the birdsong. A utopia; Eden.

“Happy to see the sun, Sergeant?”

A flicker of confusion replaced the awe in his expression, but it was gone so quickly you questioned if it’d even been there in the first place. “Right, the sun, yes, that. Bloody ecstatic.”

Gripping his shoulders, you assisted him in moving from a supine to an upright position, your efforts careful and gradual. The amount of buckles and straps and zippers that constituted his tactical vest were unnecessarily complicated, in your opinion, which made freeing it from his body too damn difficult. After a minute of watching you struggle, Gaz took mercy on you; he brushed aside your unsteady hands, swiftly unclasping the vest and pulling it over his head with a wince.

The motion drew your attention to his face. You assessed his clenched jaw, the pronounced frown line between his brows, the strained muscles and bulging veins in his neck—all physical signs that did not particularly bode well.

“I’m going to check if anything’s broken. Is it alright if I feel my way around?” At his nod, you brought your fingers to his sternum. “This may hurt.”

And so began the routine of poking and prodding and pressing. He inhaled sharply when you touched along his midsection, over his ribs, but he waved off your whispered apology, motioning for you to continue your examination. Even through his clothes, you could discern what felt like misaligned bones, which was to be expected.

You leaned slightly away to retrieve your stethoscope then guided its ends into your ears, wanting to listen to his lungs. Carefully untucking his shirt from the waistband of his cargo pants, you slipped your hand beneath the fabric and rested the auscultatory device against the skin of his back.

“Take a deep breath in for me. Hold it. Then slowly, slowly breathe out.”

Ever the soldier, he heeded your directive, his chest filling with oxygen. No crackling noises, and his respirations sounded regular, so you concluded that he had avoided puncturing a lung. Thankfully.

However, that still left the matter of the tenderness you’d felt in his torso as well as the fractures his ribcage had sustained.

“His ribs,” you diagnosed, withdrawing your hand from his heat, hanging the stethoscope around your neck, then rising to your feet to better address the captain. It unnerved you, the height difference between you and every single one of these men, and you thus had no desire to further add onto that preexisting disparity by staying on the ground. “They’re almost certainly broken, but we’ll do an x-ray to confirm. The good news is that the recovery should be quick and easy. He’ll be field-ready in no time at all.”

Price nodded, and the majority of his concern ebbed away, frown lessening. “But?”

“But.” There’d always be a but in this field. No good could come without being joined by the bad; they were a package deal. “The bad news is he’ll have to visit the medbay at least once a week so I can monitor how it’s healing.”

If you had fully turned around to face him then, you would’ve seen the sly grin that now illuminated his features, the glint that entered his eyes. Alas, you did not, and so his following words caught you off-guard, bringing heat to your cheeks.

“Seems we’ve got awfully different definitions of bad news, love.”

tbc.

#kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick x reader #kyle garrick #cod gaz #gaz x reader #cod #cod x reader #call of duty #whumptober #my fic #fic: ‘til my pulse loses time

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hippolotamus · 2 months

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run to the water (and find me there) 🧜‍♂️

Idk why but this wip has a hold on me 🥰

Is this a slightly outdated WIP ask? Yes. Do I care? Absolutely not. Because I've been holding onto it in case I had a new snip for you, dearest, and today seemed like an excellent opportunity. I reworked the beginning and added more detail, so consider this a New Old Snippet. (all prev snippets here) Enjoy, lovely 🧜‍♂️💖

Eddie Diaz is eleven years old when he meets the love of his life. In what could only be considered a miracle, his parents announce the family is taking a vacation that isn’t their usual week at Abuela and Abeulo’s ranch. Not that Eddie doesn’t enjoy his time there, but he maybe – okay definitely – gets a little frustrated hearing about how his classmates get to go to Disney World or summer camp. This is the year Eddie will finally have something cool to tell his friends. Not only is he going to the beach – in a whole other state! – he gets to take his first ever plane ride. It doesn’t even bother him that he has to sit with Sophia because he gets the window seat. An up close view as the plane ascends through white, fluffy clouds that stretch across the boundless bright blue sky and create a wispy barrier to the world below. Sipping Sprite from a plastic cup, and nibbling on cookies the nice flight attendant brought, he stares into the distance. His body feels like it’s not his own, bubbling with awe and wonder as he admires the curving horizon. He likens the experience to being pleasantly trapped in a liminal space that’s not quite earth, the cosmos or heaven. When they begin their descent, he can’t help feeling a mild sense of disappointment, already anxious to be back in the air. That immediately dissipates when he gets his first glimpse of the ground below. A complex grid of streets and highways even more densely packed with cars and houses than El Paso. From this high up they look like toys rather than functional structures used by real people. While the flight was exciting, the Los Angeles airport is less so. Well, it’s still exciting, but in more of a terrifying, confusing way. Eddie is nervous to look away from his parents or older sister for even a second, afraid he’ll be swept up in the sea of people. It’s a small comfort that his mother has Adriana, his baby sister, strapped to her chest in a carrier. “Edmundo! Help with the bags!” His father snaps, leading them towards the baggage carousel. “Why can’t Soph help, too?” Eddie asks. He’s not complaining and he doesn’t mind helping, but wouldn’t it be easier with three of them? Regardless, it was obviously the wrong question. His father sighs, looking for all the world like he’s trying to maintain what little composure he has. “Because, Edmundo, you are going to be the next head of this family. You, and not Sophia, need to learn to take responsibility. To take care of them. You are the one who needs to learn what it means to be a man.” “Ramon,” his mother cuts in. “He’s just a boy.” “Sí, mi corazón.” His father softens slightly, but it’s evident his mind is made up. “A boy who needs to be ready for life to be thrust upon him at any moment. Better that he prepare himself now.” Eddie sends his mother a grateful smile for trying.

(Tease Tidbit Tuesday) tags below the cut

np tagging @stereopticons @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz mi amor @disasterbuckdiaz @actuallyitsellie @apothecarose @barbiediaz @buddierights @chaosandwolves @diazsdimples @elvensorceress @epicbuddieficrecs @eowon @fortheloveofbuddie @gayedmundodiaz @giddyupbuck @heartshapedvows @honestlydarkprincess @hoodie-buck @indestructibleheart @jesuisici33 @thekristen999 @ladydorian05 @lemonzestywrites @loserdiaz @loveyouanyway @monsterrae1 @spaceprincessem @spotsandsocks @statueinthestone @steadfastsaturnsrings @the-likesofus @theotherbuckley @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @thewolvesof1998 @tizniz @vanillahigh00 @wildlife4life @wikiangela @your-catfish-friend and anyone else who wants to 😘

#still in my 'do what i want' era #one day i'll settle back on one wip #*snort*#until then i'm happy for words to be wording #buddie wip #hippo writes #fic: run to the water (and find me there)#human eddie diaz #merperson!buck #🧜‍♂️#seriously daffi i love how much love you have for this wip #it makes my tiny heart so happy #tease tidbit tuesday

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fortheloveofbuddie · 4 months

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Fuck It Friday ✨

I'm sorry for being AWOL (again lmao) but I've been working on the omegaverse fic literally every day for the past week and you're not gonna believe this, you guys - I DID IT!! I FUCKING FINISHED A FIC FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER 😭

So many of you have tagged me in these last few days and I can't wait to go through all of your amazing works 💕

Prev snippet here

(Story and tags under cut)

In the bedroom, he sits down carefully next to Buck and strokes his lower back gently, a soft sigh of relief escaping Buck’s lips as he feels the warmth of Eddie’s hand on his skin. “You’re in labor” Eddie states, his heart skipping a beat as a fatigued Buck sits up to meet his eyes in the darkened room. Buck swallows harshly, feeling bad for lying again. “Yes” He says and bites down on his lip, chewing on it gently as he places his hand on Eddie’s stubbled cheek. “Why didn’t you say anything?” Eddie’s heart aches in his chest, hating that Buck kept a truth from him once more. But this time, he was more willing to hear the reasoning why. “I didn’t want to take your time with your family away, I wanted you to be able to celebrate Christmas with them and to not worry about me. Besides he’s not supposed to be here for another three weeks and I think that-… that I didn’t say anything because that would make it all a little more real. I’m not ready, Eds. I’m not ready for this” Buck’s words are dripping with sincerity and he even sniffles quietly a few times to calm his racing heart down. Eddie reaches onto the nightstand and turns on the lamp, wanting and needing to look at Buck right now. He cups Buck’s head in his hands, feeling warm tears making their way down the sides of Buck’s face and he lets out a deep breath, one that had seemingly been growing inside of him because the pressure on his chest lessens. “Hey, let’s just get one thing clear, okay?” Eddie begins and tilts Buck’s head carefully, making him look into his eyes. “You are my family, mi amor. You and our son are my family too and I will always, always worry about you. Even if you don’t say it out loud. And I don’t want you to hide something like this just because my family is around. We’re in this together” He says, concern etched deep into his face as he holds eye contact with Buck, not letting him look away. “And I know that he isn’t supposed to be here just yet but we’ll handle it. We’re ready, you are ready, baby. You hear me?” His voice grows a little more firm as Buck averts his gaze and shakes his head, not wanting to hear it. “What if I’m a horrible dad? What if…” Buck wipes his tears away with the back of his hand, all of his unspoken fears bubbling to the surface as another contraction surges through his body, making him wince in pain and surprise. “What if he’s like me, Eddie? What if he’s an omega too? I spent so many years hating who I was because of it, feeling like I wasn’t good enough. What if I’m just as strict as my father and I can’t love him how I’m supposed to?” Buck’s voice breaks at the end of his sentence, insecurities washing over him like a tidal wave, sweeping away all of the confidence that he’s spent years building, with it, leaving nothing but a wreck of a man. “You are not your father, Evan. Just being able to recognize that you don’t want to be like your father is already a step in the right direction. I know that you will never hurt him like your father has hurt you, I know that you will help our son build the confidence and strength to be proud of who he is, no matter what. I know that you already love him and would do anything to see him happy. You are going to an amazing dad, you already are an amazing dad, promising to not be like your own and loving our son so damn much” Eddie’s speech is filled with adoration, love and so much pride in knowing that he’s creating a family with someone like Buck. Someone who loves so unconditionally. Someone who, in the face of adversity, is still able to show others how strong that he is. Someone who’s kind and caring. Someone makes Eddie want to be a better version of himself. That’s the man that Eddie knows that he’ll love for the rest of his life.

Tagged by @daffi-990 @giddyupbuck and @diazsdimples for FIF 🌹

Tagging!! @theotherbuckley @thewolvesof1998 @devirnis @jesuisici33 @hippolotamus @evanbegins @exhuastedpigeon @wildlife4life @loserdiaz @athenagranted @tizniz @wikiangela @cal-daisies-and-briars @honestlydarkprincess @disasterbuckdiaz @butraura @lover-of-mine 🦋💗

#buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie wip #this is actually crazy #like how did I complete an entire fic #literally doubled my word count in the span of a week #fortheloveofbuddie writes #fic: corner office consequences #should I post more on ao3?

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coffeehighallthetime-blog · 9 months

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I am Kind Not Complacent Chpt 2

I am Kind not Complacent chpt 2

{prev},{next}

Heimdall gow x reader

word count: 6 k

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hello and thank you to every single person who has liked, commented, and reblogged my silly little story. I'm so glad I can make a few people smile and share my little fic. if anyone would like me to tag them to make finding the next chapter easier in the future please don't be afraid to ask!

as always, enjoy and have fun reading!

@engardeitsme as always, love bouncing ideas off and getting to share stuff with you before I post it! thank you for helping again! @lunaryasha @nokolla I hope you enjoy Thank you so much for your support and kind words <3

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As YN got closer to the training grounds, Her limbs got ridged and her steps were more sluggish.

“Um, Mal?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think I can do this.” She froze in her tracks, whimpering as Mal tried to move her forward. She sighed and grabbed hold of the girl’s arm. YN leaned against her pulling, digging her heels into the mossy floor. “I-I mean I’ve only fought to get away, I don’t know anything about combat!” she looked up at Mal pleading, Her cheeks going rosy in embarrassment, “A-and I don’t know these people…” Mal huffed, looking back at Thor and Heimdall as they seemed to be waiting for YN, getting more and more annoyed the longer she took to get there.

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice really, do you? No come on, I'll introduce you. But you need to act properly. They are the Aesir princes and as someone under Asgard they now rule over you as well, you should know,” Mal tried to encourage the girl while also pressing it was important not to keep the princes waiting, “I’m sure they won’t go hard on you, dear little thing.”

“Oh? Are they nice?” YN asked, a bit hopeful. Mal looked at her as if she had grown a second head.

“Ni-? No, they’re princes. But you’re so small and sweet, so they may lose interest in you. Where did you say you were from again?”

“Vanaheim.”

“...Mmh,” Mal just hummed, now getting s bit nervous herself for the girl.

YN frowned at Mal’s lack of help. She almost felt like she was going to throw up. Meeting new people? who were mean? And she had to spare with them?

“B-but why do I have to? Why now? I-I just got here, d-don’t you think-”

“Ah ah ah, don’t you go doing that negotiating thing. I saw what you did at breakfast. Now let’s hurry on, I rather not keep the Aesir princes waiting.” YN swallowed thickly, looking down at her feet as she allowed Mal to drag her the rest of the way. They stopped at the edge of the sparing area, where the dirt had gone wet and muddy from constant trampling. Thor quickly blocked a hit from young Heimdall and looked over at Mal and the girl.

“Lord Thor, Lord Heimdall,” Mal lowered her head and put her hand on YN’s head to elicit a bow as well. “This is YN, a guest of the All-Father’s. She is to train with you today for an introduction to Aesir's fighting tactics.”

“Took you long enough, come here, I don’t have all day.” Thor didn’t even glance an eye at Mal, his focus purely on YN who gulped as he pointed to a spot at his feet. Heimdall didn’t even spare her a glance as he made his way to the opposite side of the circle across from Thor. YN felt Mal give her one more nudge as she finally moved to stand in front of the thunder god.

“I will take my leave,” Mal stated, before turning back towards the great lodge. YN tightened her fists as she watched Mal retreat. Thor crossed his arms as the girl stood in front, craning her neck up at him. She gulped and dipped into a deep bow. ‘Just introduce yourself, don’t speak too much, and maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe they’ll go easy if I’m polite.’ YN thought she heard a scoff come from behind her at the thought. But that was impossible.

“Hello, my name is YN of Vanaheim and I am the goddess of peace. I was brought here to-” She peeked up at the sound of Thor clicking his tongue in annoyance or boredom, she wasn’t sure. She swallowed thickly, focusing on her feet, “U-um to be of assistance in some way t-to the All-Father?”

Yn gasped at a sudden large hand on her shoulder, roughly twisting her to face the blond boy on the other side of the sparing circle, and nearly tripped into the mud as she was shoved forward.

“Quickly, let’s see where you are. Heimdall, keep her face intact. We don’t want to be scolded by Father, do we?” YN could almost hear the smirk in Thor’s voice and tried not to show her fear as the boy in front of her picked up two swords, the blades dulled for training. He tossed one to the girl and she caught it before it hit the ground, surprised at the weight of it. YN was shocked as the boy seemed to disappear from in front of her and yelped as she was kicked sharply in the back, skidding in the mud but staying on her feet. She whipped around to see Heimdall starting to circle her, smirking with his lips but glaring at her intensely.

“Gods you pathetic. ‘Maybe I’ll go easy if you’re polite’? Ha!” he laughed sarcastically, before sneering and rushing YN. She moved quickly to try and block, their swords straining against each other as he leaned in, overpowering her easily.

“Wh-what are you talking about?” Her eyes widened as she processed his words. What would happen if she failed? Would she be shunned again, would she be shut out? Didn’t she want to go home? Why did the thought of isolation suddenly scare her so much?

She thought of how to get out of the stalemate, wanting to parry and jump back to put some distance so she could have more options. But as she moved to do so, Hiemdall was quick to twist her around and shove her back from him. While she stumbled, her back turned, he moved quickly again, grabbing her by a fistful of hair and kneeing her hard in the ribs.

“And thinking we could ever get along? That you’ll ever belong here? Don’t make me laugh. Crawl on your belly like a dog and maybe I’ll tell the All-Father to send you back to your hovel in one piece, Vanir scum.” there was venom in his voice. Even at this young age, godly strength knocked the air out of her and she sputtered, coughing up drops of blood onto his once pristine tunic. He scoffed in disgust and pushed her back. Her mind raced as her vision blurred. She dissected the situation, his movements, reaction time, and words. She caught her breath, feeling him approach again behind her, and whipped around, knocking him in the brow with the hilt of her sword. Heimdall stumbled back in a daze and stared at the girl in disbelief. He wasn’t planning on retaliation, so he had stopped reading her movements.

He watched her as she panted, her face contouring into a snarl as she squared her shoulders and changed her stance from submissive to feral; like a beast trying to get away from a hunter. Desperate, scared, angry.

“That’s a dirty trick,” she growled out, straightening to stare into his eyes, “you have some nerve crawling into spaces you’re not welcome.” he was caught off guard by the statement, shocked that she had found him out so quickly. Thor meanwhile just rolled his eyes on the sidelines, thinking his brother was a fool for talking too much and revealing his hand so easily. Heimdall flushed in embarrassment as he heard Thor’s thoughts prodding into his head and growled, lunging in frustration. YN was able to narrowly dodge and the two circled each other.

“You catch on fast,” Heimdall offered with a sneer.

“You talk too much,” YN bit back, guarding her body just in time as Heimdall attacked again.

Thor noticed the following pattern:

Heimdall would always attack first, getting a few good hits in. he moved fast, and precise; then got cocky and didn’t remember to put space between him and his opponent. He had a bad habit at his young age of underestimating enemies and didn’t use his foresight as fluidly as he should be,(or so Odin thought, and told Thor to push him harder.)

YN was the opposite. She seemed to almost run away, backing away and refusing to keep her eyes off her opponent for as long as possible, and constantly whipping around to try and keep up. She would try to defend herself, taking a slash to the arm, or leg while protecting her core, and when Heimdall got careless she would go in to retaliate. Her movements were hard-hitting and violent, going for jabs hard enough to push Heimdall across the field or knock the air out of his lungs. That said, she was precise in her own way. Thor also noticed that as Heimdall seemed not to care where he hit the girl, aiming for arteries, joints, and soft spots; she only aimed for places that would discombobulate him, throw him off balance, and put space between them. Thor stroked his beard in thought, calling out to Heimdall.

“You need to use your powers, Heimdall,” He scolded, “you underestimate too much, and you need to do so quickly, process the information, and act accordingly.”

“Underestimate?” Heimdall scoffed and dropped his stance to stifle a sarcastic laugh. YN stiffened at the mockery and growled.

“Well, what kind of god who can read minds lets his opponent land hits on him?” She barked, blocking another attack and ducking to elbow him in the side. Heimdall was quick to pary and kicked against the length of her sword, knocking her off balance.

“Maybe you just think yourself too highly. What is a goddess of peace supposed to be able to do in a real fight? You haven’t attacked me once! Goddess of pushovers more like!” He cackled, nearly doubling over. YN dropped her stance, her cheeks searing red in anger and embarrassment.

“Try goddess of logic and tactic, you oaf!” Her heart pounded in her ears as her anger started to rise. She wanted to stand up for herself. She wanted to reason with him. She wanted to rip his tongue out from his teeth and-

“Ooh! Such snark! Not very peaceful of you, Queen Kindness ~”

“I’m warning you!” ‘Be calm. Be calm. Be calm. Don’t let your anger get the best of you. It will only end badly. Just breath.’

“Oh or what? You’ll sign a peace treaty? Bake me a cake? Cry and beg for forgiveness?” Heimdall was almost out of breath from laughter, and YN saw red. Suddenly time stood still as Heimdall’s laughter was cut off by a mound of mud flying into his face. YN watched satisfied as the dirt dripped down his chin and smeared down the front of his tunic.

Thor snorted and threw his head in laughter as he watched Heimdall swipe his hand down his face, his fiery pink eyes searing holes into the girl's face.

“I told you to shut up!” she shouted, She reeled her hand back with another pile of mud. Heimdall dodged, running at her full force and grabbing her face, slamming her down into the mud.

“You repulsive little worm.” he snarled, watching her sink into the ground under his weight. With her face still covered under his palm, she blindly grabbed another fistful and slammed it into the side of his head, knocking him off of her and deafening him in one ear momentarily. Thor was wheezing, doubled over the fence. YN stood slowly, the weight of water and dirt seeped into her clothes and hair dragging her down. She looked down at her grimy hands and shook them once, spraying mud and hitting Heimdall with droplets of muck.

“I don’t bake cake” she stated, smearing mud off her face nonchalantly. “But you’ll find I’m quite good at mud pies,” She smirked as Heimdall shook his head, regaining his senses. The next three minutes were full of pure chaos.

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“ Sire, are you certain that Lord Thor and Lord Heimdall were the best suited for the job of testing the girl’s abilities?” A man with curved horns spoke, walking a foot behind Odin at all times.

“Of course. Heimdall and her are nearly the same age, so it’s a fair fight wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes sir, but Heimdall is young and doesn’t know how to hold back at times. That with his fighting prowess and Thor’s…buffoonery, may cause a bit of disastrous cocktail.” Odin laughed at Mimir’s statement, holding his belly.

“I always appreciate your bluntness, dear friend!” Odin regains his composure with a sigh, still smiling slightly. “That may be true, but I need Heimdall to read the girl’s mind. And because he is progressing so slowly, he still needs to be close and be able to concentrate, making the whole ordeal less than ideal. And Thor? He’s just grounded and I knew he would hate the job of babysitting.” Mimir frowned at this, not sure why Odin was so carefree about having his two most hot-headed sons be with their new guest. “ I fear Tyr or Baldur would go far too easy on the poor creature. I need results quickly to see where she stands. I just hope they haven’t beaten her too badly.”

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Mud flew in every direction, both from wads being thrown at each other, or residual splatter from tackling each other into the ground and wrestling each other like feral little goblins.

“Ugh!! You are such a little weasel!” YN screamed as Heimdall managed to slip behind her, shoving mud down the back of her shirt, but not before she flipped around and tackled him to the ground, shaking his shoulders violently and slamming him into the mud. He growled, his eyes glowing as he flipped her over, pinning her to the ground under his hips and yanking her hair, smearing it with dirt.

“Oh yeah!? Well, you’re nothing but a squawking raven!”

YN reached up, yanking at Hiemdall’s mud-caked hair, pulling so they flipped and rolled across the floor. Heimdall elbowed her in the eye. She yelped and punched him in the nose, pinning him to the ground, and closed the gap between them. Her hands found home around his throat and she didn’t feel herself squeeze, tighter, tighter, tighter. Heimdall gasped for air, kneeing her in her already bruised ribs. She screamed out in pain, her grip loosening and Heimdall threw her off, making her skid into the mud, curling up in pain as her side throbbed.

“Hey, alright, that’s enough,” Thor called, getting closer to the two, still chuckling at the state of his brother. Heimdall heaved, grabbing a sword that lay forgotten in the mud.

“Heimdall, come on, put the sword down,” Thor spoke firmly this time, reaching to grab the sword, Heimdall yanked free of his hold and trudged over, raising the sword above his head to swing down, YN nursed her side and prepared to dodge and tackle him again.

“Heimdall!”

“ What is the meaning of this!?” A voice boomed, making the children both freeze. YN watched as Heimdall’s eyes widened in horror, dropping the sword and stepping away from her immediately, getting down on one knee in the mud and bowing his head, eyes screwed to the ground. Thor followed, not even the hint of a smile on his face anymore. YN finally looked up, seeing Odin approaching with a scowl on his face, followed by a man with curved horns atop his head, his eyes shining with what looked like opals.

Odin turned immediately to Thor, his arms crossed and his foot tapping as he waited impatiently for an answer. Thor straightened, deciding to look at the children instead of his father.

“They were just sparing, All-Father. Nothing but some roughhousing.”

“Roughhousing?” Mimir drawled out as he walked closer to YN. “They’re covered head to toe in filth. And this one’s eye is swollen shut!” He grabbed YN's face to get a good look at the bruising. He tutted and walked over to Heimdall, looking him over as well. Heimdall winced as the man checked his nose. “Oh lovely,” he spoke sarcastically, looking back at Thor and Odin. “his nose is broken!”

Odin sighed, bordering on a groan as he pinched the bridge of his nose. YN couldn’t explain it but despite what only looked like mild frustration, there seemed to be electricity in the air. She was not blind to the way Heimdall seemed to cower under his father’s gaze, and Thor seemed so small all of a sudden in the All-Father’s presence. The way everyone reacted to him unnerved YN and she hated the feeling of tension closing in on everyone.

“Boys, I told you to train her, not maim her. Mimir helps her up, will you?”

Mimir gently grabbed her arm, helping her to stand, and walked her over to Odin’s side.

“ S-sir it was my fault. I-I’m no good at fighting! I fought desperately and my temper got the better of me, I’m deeply truly sorry.” She tried to reason. Heimdall peaked up at her, confused as to why she would bother to take the blame. She didn’t know him or his brother. Didn’t she know what would happen if she spoke out of turn? Heimdall couldn’t help the pang of jealousy he felt at the way his father acted towards the girl. How his voice softened. Was she manipulating him? Heimdall tried reading her mind but he was still dazed from the scuffle the two had had.

Odin cut off the girl’s apologies by holding his hand up, shushing her silently.

“ I won’t hear it. You are a guest and in a strange new land. You were taken from your home and told to fight without any time to understand what was going on. I simply wasn’t thinking. And for that, I am sorry. I was supposed to come here to introduce you and watch you spar, not fight! But I thought to myself, ‘Surely my sons will do well in some friendly competition. I mustn’t worry so much!’ Isn’t that what I said, Mimir?”

“Yes, sir.” Mimir nodded, but YN felt his hand tense against her shoulder. Odin nodded and scowled at Heimdall and Thor, shaking his head with a sigh.

“But I suppose I was wrong to trust them with such a simple task.” YN was caught off guard as she felt Odin’s hand rest on her head.

“Are you alright, child?” YN looked up at him and nodded meekly. He smiled and pushed the girl over towards the two still bowing in the dirt. “Get up.” They stood quickly. Thor looked his father in the eyes, while Heimdall struggled to do the same, his hands squeezed tight at his sides. Odin nudged the girl forward. “I’d like all three of you to apologize to each other.”

At this, the girl immediately bowed, apologizing for letting things get out of hand. Now that her anger had subsided all she felt was anxiety at the tension in the air. YN wanted nothing more than to apologize and hopefully get along with everyone. She turned to Thor and looked up with big round eyes.

“ I apologize, Lord Thor, for not paying better attention to your encouragement and advice, and instead letting my nerves take over. Thank you for taking the time out of your day to teach me.” Thor let out a harumph, looking away. But then sighed and lowered his head in a passive bow.

“Yeah… sorry I didn’t keep a better eye on you both.” Odin scoffed, not satisfied but knowing that was the best he’d get out of Thor. He looked down at Heimdall expectantly, who just seemed to be frozen in place. Yn stuck out her hand as a peace offering.

“I’m deeply sorry, Lord Heimdall. I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly.” Heimdall tsked at the statement and didn’t move. YN looked him in the eyes and he heard her thoughts.

‘I know you can hear me. Shake my hand, and play along. Unless you want to get in more trouble.’ He clicked his tongue in annoyance but with the nudge of her thought and the searing eyes of his father, he grabbed her hand and shook it.

“No my…lady…” he strained with a smile, his brow twitching “The fault is mine for thinking you could withstand a fight with me. I must remember that you are a woman, and therefore, weak and delicate. Like a baby bird,” She smiled back, squeezing his hand so tight that the tip of her fingers turned white.

‘I’ll show you delicate, you little weasel.’She thought, her brow twitching as she pried her hands away and noticed him flex his hand subtly at his side to subside the aching of her anaconda squeeze.

“There, see? All better now! Mimir, take our guest to the infirmary will you?” Mimir nodded, guiding YN away. When they were out of earshot, Odin’s smile disappeared and he looked at his sons expectantly.

“What have you learned?”

“She is reactive in her fighting.” Thor started his report, “ only attacking after her opponent makes a move. Otherwise, she’s a bit of a chicken shit. Kept running away from Heimdall until the only choice was to fight back.”

“Hn…” Odin looked down at the younger boy. “So she was trying to run away and you still ended up like this? Honestly, Heimdall.”

“B-but father-“

“ I don’t want to hear it.” Heimdall shut his mouth stiffly. Odin repeated his original question, directing all his attention to Heimdall. The boy swallowed thickly and remembered her thoughts and the way they rushed one after the other.

“She…she’s a goddess, and she’s from Vanaheim. She wanted to avoid fighting me, kept trying to find a way to introduce herself, and thought being polite would stop me from hurting her. She kept trying to calm herself down, so I provoked her to see where she would go from there. She’s hotheaded and immature. I don’t think she can be trusted. You should just send her back.” Heimdall fidgeted as he spoke and Odin lost his patience, grabbing the boy’s chin roughly to look up at him.

“Unfortunately that’s not in the cards just yet, son. She’s a child, and a goddess, therefore powerful and unpredictable. We need to keep an eye on how she grows and see if we can use her for the betterment of Asgard before one of our enemies finds her and uses her against us. You understand, don’t you?” Odin squeezed Heimdall’s chin as he posed the question. Heimdall whimpered slightly at the pain of Odin’s bony fingers digging into his skin and just barely was able to nod. Odin abruptly released his son, smiling brightly. “Good. So then, anything that we can use to get her to trust us? Get her to work with us?” Heimdall nodded again, reaching up to rub his sore chin.

“She’s very lonely and pathetic…, which you can use to gain her trust, All-Father. She seems passive in her solutions but she is also quick to anger and frustration so it would be important to keep that in mind during any negotiations…”

Odin looked down at his son, taking in the information. He hummed in satisfaction and nodded.

“ alright. Good. I can work with that.” With that, Odin turned to walk away, paused, and spared Heimdall a glance over his shoulder. “Clean yourself up. You’re filthy.”

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“What’s his problem, anyway? Is everyone in Asgard as… volatile?” YN asked as Mimir prepared an ice pack for her. He snorted and shook his head.

“Heimdall is a special cocktail of issues, lass. Best to keep away from him. He’s a spoiled little prince, and I’m afraid the way he’s going it will only get worse.” He walked over to her with a white cloth. He dipped it in a bowl of warm water, rang it out, and pressed it to the girl’s swollen eye. She hissed, pulling away slightly, but Mimir kept her head gently in place, blotting the wound. “Stay still, I know it stings but I need to get all the dirt and blood off.” YN stayed tense but allowed Mimir to clean the wound. There was silence in the room, save for the slow trickle of water from the towel being run out every once in a while. YN interrupted the quiet.

“Are you allowed to say that about the princes?” She asked meekly, looking up at Mimir with her good eye. He raised a brow, dipping the cloth in the water again and going back to cleaning.

“Are you going to rat me out?” He posed, grabbing the ice he had prepared and holding it up to her face. YN shook her head slightly and smiled as Mimir simply shrugged, “Then I have nothing to worry about. Besides, my loyalties lie with the All-Father, not his band of brats. Like I said, best to just keep away.” YN thought for a moment and shook her head, holding the ice to her face as Mimir walked away to grab some medicine for the cuts on her face.

“That doesn’t seem right. Why should they be able to do whatever they want at the expense of others? Because they’re royalty? They should be held to even higher standards considering the power they have.”

“What we think is right and what will end up happening are two different things. Best to forget the whole thing to save yourself the disappointment.”

“And who taught you that? Was it the All-Father?” Mimir stilled, seeming to be in deep thought. YN pouted, guilty at the tension she had caused.“ I-I’m sorry.” Mimir shook his head, a smile returning to his face.

“It’s alright. It’s just… you’re quite forward for a young goddess in a new place.” YN frowned at that. She wasn’t really sure how she was supposed to be acting. She had spent so long working off instinct, that it may have made her a bit blunt in her words and actions. Mimir let the silence hang as she fidgeted with her ice pack before deciding to elaborate.

“… I’m not from here… Asgard, I mean. Hel, I’m not even from the 9 realms.” He looked back at YN and chuckled as she straightened her posture, her interest peaked. “ I’m a Fae, a Goodfellow. I used to be a fool to a Celtic faerie king.” He got a faraway look in his eye, as he slowed the grinding of herbs. She swung her feet as she waited for him to continue, tilting her head in curiosity. “What’s a Fae? What’s Celtic?” Mimir snorted at this, shaking his head.

“That’s too long a story. The point is that I’m an outsider, like you. And I wasn’t happy where I was so I left… things may seem rough here, but they are better than they were. That’s what I hold onto. This is all new to you, and new is strange. The All-Father told me a bit about your background. Going from complete isolation to being surrounded by people and sparing lessons is a lot, and I apologize for your rushed introduction to Asgard thus far.”

Yn nodded, thinking about her own home. There was nothing for her there, really. And though Heimdall and Thor were less than pleasant and Odin had not yet shown he could be fully trusted, there were already things YN felt would be hard to let go of. The food she was able to eat here, the feeling of a warm bed and a crackling fire, the sound of people moving to and fro in the morning. The sound of people living around her, unbothered.

“ Odin called you Mimir…that means wise one doesn’t it?”

“ yes. I am Mimir, the smartest man alive.” He said proudly. He saw as the girl raised her brow in confusion and chuckled, “I am the ambassador of the gods and the nine realms, I know every corner of the realms, everything that has happened, every language spoken, every moment in time past now.” YN’s eyes widened in awe, to meet someone who claimed to know so much of the world after she had been isolated from it for so long, it made her mind soar. YN pulled the ice from her eye and balled her hands together in anxious excitement.

“ Would you… Would you be able to teach me? Please?!” She pleaded, nearly shaking with excitement. Mimir pretended to think about it, stroking his beard.

“ Oh? I dunno, it’s a lot of information I’d be throwing at you. Could be a bit boring.”

“Yes, that’s what I want! I want to learn about the realms, I want to help build connections, That’s what Odin said I’d be able to do here! Will you please teach me, Mimir?”

The truth was, he was tasked with keeping an eye on the girl and taking her under his wing. Odin wanted him to teach her about the relations of Asgard to the rest of the realms and see if she could aid in Mimir and Tyr’s growth of Agard’s connections. He looked back down at the girl, guilt buried at the back of his mind. She was only here to be used. But then, weren’t they all in some way?

“I suppose I could use an apprentice. But don’t whine when you feel you're being thrown over the deep end.”

“Yes!” she cheered, hopping off the table. She bowed deeply, before looking back up at the man with a hopeful smile. “Thank you, Mr. Mimir. I hope that your teachings allow me to be more useful, so that I may continue to stay here. Maybe my first day was hard, but I’m sure I can find my place here.” She beamed, the pain of her wounds already subsiding thanks to godlike healing and the creams that had been applied. She runs to the exit, hoping to find Mal. She wanted to tell her about her fight with Heimdall and tease her for being too scared to stay and watch.

“Oi, wait, your eye! I need to put this on it!”

“I’ll be fine! I have to go! Thank you again, Mimir!” she gathered her things, a new skip in her step.

“Ah ah ah, at least take it with you.” He grabbed her by the shoulder, handing her a metal tin with the cream he had made with the crushed herbs and some bandages. “The great hall! Tomorrow at 6 am. Do not be late!” he barely got it out before she left, the heavy door slamming behind her.

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The sun had set in Asgard and YN was on her way back to her room from supper with Mal, who had apologized for leaving in a hurry and gave her an extra serving of potatoes as a sorry.

YN yawned with a stretch. The swelling in her eye had gone down, but the bruising was now a deep yellow and purple. Mimir had also found out she had two broken ribs, but with the ointment and bandages he had applied, the girl felt fine and knew they would be fine by morning.

YN was about to retire for the night, walking to her door, when she heard a loud hiss come from across the hall. She quirked a brow at the sound and turned. Dim candlelight flickered from under the door and YN walked over at the subtle sound of a pained groan.

“Hello? Are you ok in there?” She asked with a knock. There was silence for a beat, and she knocked again, “Hello?” The person on the other side clicked their tongue in annoyance and YN could hear the loud screech of a chair dragging across the wooden floor. The door swung open and YN was met face-to-face with Heimdall, scowling with a blood-stained handkerchief over his nose. She tilted her head in confusion.

“What the Hel do you want?” he grumbled, but his voice was slightly nasily because of his broken nose. YN had started to regret ever knocking but quirked a brow and pointed at his handkerchief.

“You’re still bleeding.”

“No! Really?” Heimdall gasped in fain surprise.

“ I didn’t know we lived across the hall from each other.” She spoke again, ignoring his rudeness. Heimdall rolled his eyes and went to slam the door in her face.

“Seriously, just get out.” She held her hand up to stop the door from fully closing. “What the- hey! I said, "Get out!”

“Why didn’t you go to the infirmary?”

“Tsk! Are you serious? I’m not a baby, I don’t need bandages and a cookie for staying still.” YN just rolled her good eye at the statement, pushing further against the door. “Hey!”

“You know we heal too fast for you to leave that alone. Your cartilage is going to grow back crooked.” Heimdall’s eyes widened at that, but he frowned as he looked away.

“That’s not true. You're lying.”

“Why would I lie about your nose growing back crooked?” YN watched him fidget in place. It didn’t take a genius to know that he cared about his vanity. The bright white shirts with gold trim and intricate braids in his hair when she first saw him were enough of a hint. And despite everything, she still wanted to make peace, if not to become friends then to at least have to worry less about being tackled at a moment's notice. Heimdall groaned in defeat, knowing she was right.

“ Alright, fine then. What do you suggest I do, pestering raven?” YN sighed at yet another insulting name and crossed her arms.

“ May I come in?” She asked, annoyance obvious in her voice. Heimdall frowned but opened his door wider. Yn walked in and noticed the room was nearly the same as hers, save for a vanity in the corner of the room with the chair pushed back. She grabbed the back of it, dragged it over to the bed, and sat down, turning to Heimdall and patting the spot on the bed across from her. He shut the door and trudged over, sitting across so that their knees touched.

“Can you move the handkerchief?” Heimdall hesitated but slowly did so, his face showing discomfort as he removed pressure. His nose had in fact already started to bend slightly and YN couldn’t help the concerned hiss she let out. “ I really am sorry…”

“ Whatever. Just fix it.” His bright eyes glared through her.

“ I’ll have to break it again.”

“Like hel you will!”

“OK, if you don’t mind a deep bend at your bridge.”

“… fine.”

“What was that?”

“ I said fine already!”

She just nodded with a smirk, touching at the soft cartilage, and pressing it into place. Heimdall winced and tensed at each prod, his hands squeezed tight on his thighs.

“If you keep scrunching your face, this won’t work.”

“Well, it hurts! You're doing it on purpose.”

“ I am not. Do you want a towel to bite down on?”

“ Shut up- ow! Hey!”

“OK, take a deep breath, This one is gonna be the worst but it should open up both nostrils so you can breathe better.”

“H-how do you even know what you're doing is right?”

“ I’ve been alone for a long time. I’ve always had to heal myself. And I’ve fallen on my face many times, my nose looks pretty good if I do say so myself.” She smirked slightly at him as he only gulped. YN grabbed the bridge of his nose and when he braced himself, she twisted her hand sharply, effectively knocking a piece of cartilage that had grown crooked out of place. Heimdall screamed as blood rushed out his nose. He brought the handkerchief back up to his face.

“Are you crazy?!”

“If I didn’t do that, your nose would have looked like a tree branch. Keep pressure on that for a moment.”She pulled the small tin from her pocket. “Look, Mimir gave me this to apply to my eye and ribs before going to bed. It will help with the pain.” She grabbed some bandages that were tucked in her pocket and ripped them into two strips, rolled them up into tight coils, and dipped the ends into the concoction. “Take that off, please. The bleeding should have stopped, and this will stop the soreness.” YN had started to think the boy’s brows were permanently knitted together in annoyance by this point as he moved the kerchief from his face. YN quickly pushed the wads of bandage up his nose to keep the cartilage from collapsing and to promote healing in the correct direction. That being said, he looked ridiculous and she couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled out of her mouth. His face went red and he pushed her chair away from him with his boot.

“ Alright, you’re done, right? Get out.” he hopped off the bed, pushing her towards the door.

“W-wait a minute, do you think we could-” she gasped as she was shoved out the door, but twisted and jammed her foot before it could slam. Heimdall let out an exaggerated growl, throwing his head back.

“Gods- now what do you want?” she swallowed thickly and offered a small bow.

“My name is YN, goddess of logic, tactic and peace. I will be staying across the hall from you. I hope we can learn to get along.” She stood back straight and smiled nervously. Heimdall pulled together a sickly sweet grin.

“I am Heimdall, god of foresight, and my time is too precious to be wasted on you. Good night.” And with that, he swung the door wide open before slamming it in the girl's face. YN winced and then sighed in defeat, fidgeting with her hands.

“Good night…” she called softly back through the door. At no response, she turned toward her room to retire for the night. Maybe the next day would be better.

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#heimdall gow #gow odin #gow x you #heimdall x reader #fiction #gow Heimdall #gow thor #gow x reader #god of war x reader #fem! reader #heimdall x you #mute!reader #child! reader #child! heimdall #I am kind not complacent #dance with me like the sun and moon #@engardeitsme #@coffeehighallthetime-blog

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onedaughterofman · 1 year

Text

You, forever (Chapter IX: Waiting for the night)

Pairing: Papa Emeritus IV x g/n reader

Summary: The Clergy takes something from Copia, but he refuses to let go.

Warnings/tags: descriptions of corpses, death, blood and violence. Biblical references and Satanism. Emotional hurt. Psychological horror. Copia straight up not having a good time. Around 5.5K words.

A/N: Shit got real.

PREV CHAPTER HERE

ENTER APOCALYPSE.

“The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood, and they were cast upon the earth: and the third part of trees was burnt up, and all green grass was burnt up”

A perpetual smile is plastered on Mary Goore’s face.

It’s rare. In old pictures, faded away by the passage of time and corroded by the sun and water, Goore consistently had a frown on their face. From Academy portraits to concert photos on an underground metal magazine, there was only a scowl, furrowed brows and thin lips in a line.

Now, Goore smiles. The corners of their mouth are lifted, stretched out almost to the maximum as their head moves to follow the lively rhythm of a song. Papa Emeritus stands in the middle of the rundown studio, not daring to take a seat anywhere. From the walls to the floor, everything appears to be covered in a dense layer of dust and gravel, dirty and corroded by time.

This studio, as much as Goore seems to appreciate it, is in ruins. A long, long time ago it was a mausoleum, part of the ancient chapel’s private cemetery. No one in the Ministry cared about it, which made it easier for Mary to naturally take it.

Muscles stiff and fingertips cold, Copia desires nothing more than to exit this place. It’s freezing between these stone walls and the humidity clings to the surfaces, rendering them sticky. Even the ghouls would prefer to be anywhere else but here, judging by their rigid shoulders and flickering tails. This space stinks of death, wet soil and decay.

“I thought you said three weeks,” Goore speaks up for the first time since Papa Emeritus set foot inside the mausoleum.“I still have time.”

“I know,” it’s the reply. “I’m just here to oversee the process.”

A short, bitter chuckle is all the answer he receives. Mary’s fingers toy with a small bone, cleaning the carcass of something that might have been a crow during better times. Now, the remains are almost unrecognizable. “It’s okay,” they state, after a beat. “As long as you don’t wish to see them.”

“Why not?”

Goore’s eyes are too dark to be read. Face obscured by shadows, they look more like a corpse than a living person, all pale skin and gaunt cheeks. “It’s ugly,” they explain. “Messy.”

The sound of a Ghoul’s tail flickering swiftly cuts the air. Papa inhales, gathers a shallow breath before speaking. “Am I supposed to trust in your words only, then?”

“Yes.”

A loud crack reverberates on the walls when the bone on Goore’s hand snaps in a half, bending between their fingers. Mary stares at the pieces, clicks his tongue before tossing them at the table.

“It’s better not to distract me,” they continue, turning around to face Papa Emeritus. “I’m not very good at multitasking. Had a hard time playing guitar while singing on stage, that’s why I planned to get another guitarist.”

“Couldn’t you find another one of your corpse puppets to play around?”

A laugh, short and hollow fills the air. Papa Emeritus still hears that sound often, when he’s alone trying to sleep, fingers reaching out to the side of the bed you used to rest in. “Not necessarily. I didn’t have the time to search for a good one, that’s all.”

Silence falls deeply into the room. Papa Emeritus takes one step, then another. His mismatched eyes inspect the bird carcass, note the way Goore is cleaning the bones and peeling away the flesh from them with an almost clinical care. “Tell me,” he commands. “What’s the process?”

For a moment, Goore stays silent. Then, his fingers pick up another bone. “Once you find the soul and guide it back to this earthly realm, you must make the body a suitable vessel for it again. Much like summoning a Nameless Ghoul and giving them a human carrier, the soul must accept the old receptacle. To put a soul infused with life essence into a dead container is complicated. They don’t want to remain there. It feels wrong.”

No, wrong is not the right word.

It’s pure horror. A painful, traumatizing, unforgettable process. It’s torture, visceral and profound. Regardless of how much time has passed since their demise and return to life or how well their body was preserved thanks to black magic, Goore still remembers the agonizing pain, desperation and gut wrenching fear.

“A soul brimming with life energy will stop the decomposing process. In this case, since they have been embalmed, I need to perform a few other modifications here and there.”

Over the distant low whistle of the wind, Papa’s voice sounds harsher, stronger. “Explain.”

“Blood.” Goore says, fluttering a hand in an empty gesture. Their fingers are coated with a dark, thick substance. “They need fresh blood, organs, entrails… I need to reverse the embalming little by little, step by step. It’s a bit more complicated than reversing natural decomposition.”

“I assume you have found a way.”

“One or two,” Goore smiles, cracking their knuckles before continuing.“It’s not my first time working with something like this. I had some practice before getting kicked out from the Academy.”

Moving even closer, Papa Emeritus peeks from behind Goore’s shoulders. As messy as it might seem, their work is careful and curated. Those long fingers move deftly, minding every individual detail. Goore may have said they are not fond of multitasking, but Copia notes the way they clean the skeleton with natural ease, almost on autopilot.

“I read your file,” he comments, tongue poking out to moisten his lips. It’s hard to speak when it’s so bleak. “You stole a Papa’s corpse from the mausoleum.”

The file was very explicit. Whoever wrote it didn’t spare details and curses on Goore’s figure, cataloging the incident as something “never seen before” and “overly blasphemous". To tinker around with a sacred body, with a relic no less, must have been heavily disapproved of.

“Well, yes. Where else would I have found an embalmed corpse? You have an idea of how much money it requires to embalm a body?” They ask, before another smile stretches their lips.“Sorry. You do, after all.”

Even if Papa Emeritus feels the anger rise from deep within his guts, he remains calm. There’s no use getting upset at this moment, not when your return hangs from Goore’s fingers. “What I don’t understand is what you were trying to achieve. You knew you were risking it all with your stunt. Were you studying so you could bring a loved one back?”

This time, Mary’s slow laugh echoes around the corners. They stand up, so fast the chair drags on the floor and almost falls to the ground. The bones are thrown on the table, landing in a series of horizontal lines.

“Is that all the motivation you can think of?” they snort, a hand darting up to move away a few strands of hair from their eyes. Then, something in their expression softens, temporarily filled with melancholy. “If you want to know, I loved a guy once. He was hot but stupid, and I liked him because he reminded me of Jim Morrison. Later, he left me for some woman whom I’m pretty sure had something to do with my death.”

Surprised by the sudden display of emotions, Papa struggles to continue. Goore is a mystery, an eccentric figure never understood by anyone in the Ministry. “Then, why?”

For a long moment, Goore remains silent, reflective. Images of blood and bones, of funerals and burials pass in front of their eyes, misty like forgotten memories. Decades ago, the Ministry was an extremely sinister place.

Well, it is possible it has always been that way.

“Lots of kids died in the Ministry years ago, did you know?” They start, fingers blindly reaching to collect the bones back up. Even though they are clean, their nails still scratch the surface trying to wipe off a spot of dry blood. “I was young, but I’ve been told The Clergy was growing desperate. They wanted to force the coming of the Antichrist by any method.”

Dozens of babies and toddlers died as a result of those rituals. Parents were assured it was an honor to surrender little children to their hands, that from their suffering the Evil One would cast incommensurable rewards their way. Turns out, blood infected the ground and the rewards never came.

After lots of failure, those old men and women were forced to stop.

“The grass over those graves never grew right. It looked all burnt up, dead. I used to play a lot in the graveyard, until one day somehow I woke someone up. Kid rose from the grave, walked out of it all the way back to her parents. That was my first accidental necromancy.”

It was a mess. The screams from the parents could be heard all around the Ministry. The thing with the dead is, they are angry and confused. Without their brain controlling and limiting their bodies, they are capable of amazing things they couldn’t perform during life. That little girl tore the scalp off her mother without blinking.

What a fucking mess. Naturally, that’s not something Goore can tell Papa Emeritus IV.

Fortunately, Copia doesn’t press on that issue. “How did you do it?”

“Natural talent, they said. Everybody praises you the first time, but soon the same trick grows old. I got tired of simple rituals, so I searched for ways to use my power. Obviously, there were some setbacks.”

At the beginning, the empty corpses roamed the Ministry seeking a soul. Once they found one, they tore the flesh from the living trying to get it out. Then, once Mary managed to fuse both soul and body, the corpses started moving by their longing for a future.

Brought back to life, they regained some memories from their final moments and recalled their wishes for the future, the one they were to have had. The holes between their memories and their life plans became an incomplete, confusing puzzle. It got them crazy.

“The Clergy began to worry,” Mary continues. “They saw me as a threat. I had the power to set foot in the cemetery and raise an army of undead detractors they put underground. That’s what happens when you build an empire over the blood and flesh of your enemies, it’s easy to make it crumble.”

Beyond a few threats Mary sputtered here and there during lengthy discussions with the higher-ups, they never planned to actually take the Ministry by storm. Goore never wanted the responsibilities that came from it, never desired to be the one in command. They merely wanted to perform, to live their life to the fullest.

Achieving the perfect reanimation ritual was the only interesting enough goal they had. Just to see if they could do it, to prove… To whom? To whom did they want to prove themselves? Mary can’t remember it anymore. Death always takes something from you, even if it’s only a few memories.

”I thought a dark, powerful being with deep connections to the occult like an old Papa would be a good subject to try something new. Who knows, maybe that one would have been a perfect resurrection. I was wrong. My only perfect resurrection has been myself.”

Another sharp flick of a tail slashes the air. Goore’s black pupils focus on the ghoul, observe the way his shoulders are tense and teeth poke out from behind his lips. To the ghoul’s right, Papa Emeritus nods his head solemnly, eyelids pressed together. “You will succeed again,” he says, but there’s no encouragement in his tone.

No, that’s not meant to be comforting or kind. It’s an order, a command.

“You will succeed, or else,” Papa doesn’t say. He doesn’t have to.

Behind Goore’s back, the mix of black blood and putrid flesh begins to ooze from the bird’s corpse and drip from the corner or the table, tarnishing the ground. No grass will ever grow there.

“The second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea: and the third part of the sea became blood, and the third part of the creatures which were in the sea, and had life, died; and the third part of the ships were destroyed.”

“Did you finish?”

The Nameless Ghoul nods. Standing right in front of Papa Emeritus IV, the creature is tall, taller than most humans on earth. To its right, another Ghoul stands still, gaze obscured behind the opaque glass of the mask. There are red splotches on the surface, coating it with an acidic smell.

Outside, the water runs in a crimson color. Papa said not to make a mess, but creatures like the ghouls are hungry and wild. They don’t know how to control their most primal instinct, how to resist the deep yearn for hot violence and tender flesh.

There’s no use reprimanding them. “Take the blood to Goore,” he commands, instead. “Make sure it’s still fresh.”

“As you wish,” the smaller ghoul replies. “Anything else?”

Shaking his head, Papa turns around. “Tomorrow,” he states, extending one finger in their direction. The creatures follow it with their heads. “Go for another hunt tomorrow. It’s better if we take precautions, just in case Goore requires more materials.”

“Yes, your Dark Eminence.”

Without any more words, they leave. Outdoors, a crimson sea of dead bodies covers the earth, soon to become nothing but embers that will feed the funeral pyre for long days and nights.

“The third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters; and the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.“

It never rains anymore.

Still as death, the sky remains gray for most of these days. The dark clouds float gracefully in the horizon, immobile, waiting.

Just like the sky has stopped and the clouds have decided to halt too, Copia’s heart lays still most of the time. The pain has subsided, leaving behind nothing but a never-ending emptiness. Hollow as he is, he craves. The hunger is constant, a dull ache that eats and eats and eats whatever it can find in its way.

Unforgiving, the emptiness is maybe indeed worse than the pain. Copia misses it, sometimes. He misses the sweet relief of being able to feel, of experiencing dread and sadness, endless anger or, long ago, happiness, bliss.

Oh, how much he misses the sound of laughter and talking echoing through the Ministry’s halls. The songs, the music, the sweet whine of the guitar or the deep rumbling of the drums he misses too. A core part of him has been clawed out of his chest, forcing him to become a vacant puppet.

No, not a puppet anymore.

Not a copy, either.

Copia doesn’t know what or who he is anymore. Someone who wants blood and glory, maybe? Blood, he has it. Now, glory…

He can’t fool anyone. This is not a matter of glory anymore. At first, he thought by avenging you he’d find peace and bring justice to your feet. Hell, he wanted to put the whole word right below you if you only hinted of desiring so. Now, it doesn’t matter anymore. Copia no longer recognizes himself in the mirror most days, and a part of him doubts if you’d recognize him.

For all one knows, you wouldn’t. Maybe you would see right through him, or look into his eyes as if those were the eyes of a stranger. A part of him wishes for that to be the case. He knows someone as divine as you, as full of joy and beauty would only be tainted by him, stained with pestilence and decay.

A heavy book is set on the coffee table in front of him. There is a dense layer of dust coating the velvety binding, obscuring the golden letters. “Should I bring anything else, Sir?”

It smells like rain when the ghoul leans in closer, perhaps to listen to the faint words that Papa mumbles under his breath. “No,” he whispers, before repenting. “I mean, stop. Take a seat with me.”

Full of reluctance, the Nameless Ghoul obeys. The chair lets out a harsh screech when it’s dragged on the wooden floor, before the creature sits at the edge of the seat. He seems wary, confused even. There are no signs of aggression in him, but Copia can see the dark red splotches dirtying his mask.

Over the cracking of the fireplace, Copia struggles to recover his voice. He has no idea why he ordered the creature to stay, if it’s because he seeks company or because he has an undying curiosity. And so, he asks. “Tell me, how is Satan?”

“How?”

The uncertainty coats that word. The ghoul’s head leans to one side, motionless mask conveying the feeling. Copia himself feels disorientated, hazy. His mind is everywhere, haunted by lack of proper sleep and ghostly nightmares. Some days, he dreams and hears voices; he sees the sky breaking in a thousand pieces and the ground shattering under his feet.

Absent-mindedly, his gloved hands reach for the book. His fingers open it on a random page, tracing the edge of an image painted in black ink. There are some annotations made on the corners of the page, on neat cursive handwriting. Time has made most of it fade, melt into the yellow paper.

“Yes, how is he?” Papa repeats. “Have you ever spoken to him?”

In front of him, the Ghoul doesn’t laugh. Still, a weird rumble escapes his mouth. His shoulders relax only a bit, but the air of perplexity remains. “You must have a strange conception of Hell if you think I have. We ghouls belong to the upper circles, and someone as important as a King of Demons belongs to the lower parts.”

“So you don’t know him.”

“I’ve seen him a few times. Heard stories here and there, but I must not speak of them.”

As always, no matter how hard Copia reaches for the truth, he never finds it. It reminds him of his time as a student, of spending long afternoons in the tunnels underground with his nose buried in a book, being interrupted only by Imperator placing a cup of tea or hot chocolate next to him.

Copia doesn’t want to think about Imperator anymore. He’d rather not recall her at all, but it’s hard when her handwriting covers most of the margins of the book, filling them with comments and highlights.

“Satan, Adversary, fire illuminated spirit of darkness and light, whose touch illuminates clay, who is the ancient serpent, rise up in me father!” She underlined. Copia’s pupils focus on it for long seconds. “I will ascend to Heaven. Above the stars, I will raise my throne. There is no God beside me.”

“Sister Imperator used to say I had Satan’s eyes, whatever that meant for her,” he utters, at last. “She said He would listen to me if I spoke to Him, for we were connected.”

“You are Papa for a reason, after all.”

“I have doubted it, lately.”

He has grown sour, resentful of these worn books that lay on his lap and of humanity in general. He has become a poison that sweeps on the ground and infects the water, condemning many souls to the lake of fire. If he was ever the chosen one, Satan’s favorite or whatever lie Imperator fed him for years, that is long gone. He has fallen from grace, a burning star turned meteorite, ready to destroy himself and implode the earth in the process.

Copia will burn, sooner or later, but the whole world will accompany him.

A smidge of bitterness coats the air. Sensing the conversation has died, the ghoul stands up slowly before speaking up. “As blasphemous as it is, I must admit you remind me of Him.”

“Is it the eyes?”

“No. Satan was also bitter and covered in blood.”

“And the fourth angel sounded, and the third part of the sun was smitten, and the third part of the moon, and the third part of the stars; so as the third part of them was darkened, and the day shone not for a third part of it, and the night likewise.”

Things go bump in the dark.

In the adjacent room, behind a heavily locked door, things bump against the walls before falling to the ground.

“Tell it to stop staring at me,” Goore orders, as soon as Papa sets foot in the mausoleum. He’s not accompanied by any ghoul, and the lack of guardians makes him look smaller, mortal. A mere man, old and drained, bearing a tortured soul.

“I commanded him to keep an eye on you.”

“Well, that it does.”

Another knock comes from the room. Then, scratches on the wooden door. The ghoul doesn’t react. His massive figure remains sat on the chair, barely fitting in it. He’s tall, almost a giant in human standards. Even if his presence is mostly calm, Goore can feel the intensity of that stare never leaving their back.

Under their breath, Mary curses. To have Papa Emeritus here can’t be good, not when the process had to be sped up this much. The ritual is complicated, messy, and painful for the recipient. If Papa loses it, if he witnesses something he mustn’t, then all their effort would have been in vain.

For the time being, Papa does his best to ignore the sound. If he’s intrigued, at least he doesn’t mention it. Those dark eyes dart to the doorway at the end of the corridor, focus on the wood before returning to the necromancer. “I assume you received my gifts, si?”

Mary’s smile is wide, almost sheepish. Their fingers smooth out a feather on the recently finished taxidermy crow. Half of it is skin and black feathers, while the other half is a skeleton. A reminder, perhaps, of the duality of life and death.

“You didn’t have to,” they reply, waving a hand. “It was put to good use. We are making progress.”

“If only I could…”

A click of their tongue kills any other words Papa might have wanted to state. “I already said no.”

Another impact. Goore inhales a deep breath, letting the air come out through their nose slowly. A constant screech fills their ears and mind, voices uttering one over the other in a never-ending buzzing. The damned souls ride Papa Emeritus’ shadow, stand behind him like a funeral procession, shrieking and crying.

Even worse, your own soul screams in the other room. Goore recognizes the pain and despair, the feeling of crawling around the dark while suffering from hunger and thirst, searching for any hand to squeeze. They understand, but wish you would simple shut the fuck up for a few minutes while they are trying to maintain a conversation.

A second loud bump echoes down the hall.

Well, you are a curse. You grant them no peace.

“What’s that?” Papa Emeritus inquires, hair moving to follow the shift of his head. His pupils finally shot in the direction of the door, squinting hard as if he could penetrate the walls.

Fuck. Here goes nothing.

“Your partner.”

Mary can recognize the shift in the air, the sudden cold atmosphere that dominates the mausoleum now. The ghoul seems to also notice the change in energy because his tail suddenly stills, flickering once before resuming a measured, careful pace. He’s alert, prepared to execute any order.

To Goore’s relief, Papa doesn’t command any violence. Quite the contrary. He looks overwhelmed, almost frail. His lids are wide open, pupils trembling inside the mismatched irises. There’s a severe semblance on his face, nearly mortuary, and his hands remain clutched in front of his chest.

“Are they… Is it…” Copia stutters, taking one step forward and two backwards.“Are they back?”

“Yes and no,” Mary replies, raising their voice when Papa gathers the courage to start walking towards the door.“I’m not done yet!”

“Are they hurt? Can I see them?”

There’s no sense in arguing with a man who’s spiraling into despair. Yet, Mary can’t risk the whole ritual just to accommodate his needs. Whole body pressed against the massive door, they raise one hand in order to stop the other in their approach. From the other side, Mary feels your nails scratching the surface and it makes their ears hurt so much they might bleed.

“You can’t,” Goore reminds, through pressed teeth and clenched jaw. It all hurts so fucking much. “You have to trust me.”

“I don’t!”

The ghoul abruptly stands up upon hearing Papa’s voice. The chair produces a thunderous noise when it falls to the ground, raising a cloud of dust. Goore knows their worth. They had years of stupid fights both inside and outside the Ministry, but they equally know there’s no way they could win against that ghoul.

It’s massive. Then, calling some corpses up to defend them would take too much time. Staring right into Papa Emeritus’ eyes, they lift both hands in a clear demonstration of peace. “I get it,” they affirm, softly. “But you have to. I’m not your enemy here.”

“You’re not a friend, either.”

No. Copia doesn’t have friends. He never had. He used to spend long afternoons sitting beside a large tree, feeding the stray rats and other vermin that roamed through the Ministry. Some people were kind to him, of course, but that kindness felt more like a formality than anything else.

Copia doesn’t need friends. Especially not friends like Mary Goore.

A smile is all they offer. Their body is still shoved on the door, raw wood biting at their back. “I said I’d do this and am planning on it. You know rituals like this are forbidden for a reason. There’s a price to pay.”

“I don’t want them to be in pain.”

“Too late for that. Both death and birth are excruciating, lonely processes.”

Papa yields. His hands remain clutched over his chest, but his head falls and the long strands of hair obscure his face. “Alright,” he nods.“Si, alright.”

One step, then another. Papa is half way into the hall when another crash vibrates against the door. His feet halt, before gradually resuming their slow pace.

Until the whispering comes. “Copia.”

It’s a screeching, guttural voice. It doesn’t sound anything like you, but Copia recognizes it anyway. He would recognize it anywhere, here and in the end of the world, dead or alive. His soul would heed your call anywhere, both heaven and hell, all the way through the purgatory.

Goore swallows once before the air is knocked out of their lungs. From behind Papa’s body, they distinguish the ghoul waiting at the end of the hall, debating whether or not to interfere. For the moment being, the creature just stands there, sharp nails and white fangs gleaming under the faint golden light. Behind the glass, those pupils are two reflective dots, emitting a glow on the otherwise completely obscured face.

Even if Goore doesn’t want to feel fear, they must admit the bile is gradually rising. They swallow once, then twice, but nothing loosens the knot in their throat. Papa’s body is a substantial weight on them, and his hands squeeze hard on their neck.

Fuck. Things are incredibly messy.

“Copia”

A clattering sound.

“Copia”

A hissing, gurgling snarl.

“Copia!”

Shit. They can be messier.

“Open the door, Goore.” Papa growls, quietly. Somehow, the serenity in his voice is worse than him yelling. There’s no emotion there, nothing but the promise of pain and violence. Even if Mary can find a way to come back, it would be wiser to avoid getting on his bad side.

“I’m not going to fight you,” they mutter. Quick eyes dart from one corner of the corridor to the other, analyzing the options. None of them is worthy. For now, the best is to comply. If hell falls over them, then Goore will welcome it with open arms and a beaming smile. “If that’s what you want, so be it.”

A key dangles in front of Papa Emeritus’ face. With unsteady hands, he takes it before Goore rushes out of the way. The trembling of his fingers makes it almost impossible to insert the key in the small lock.

One turn. Papa gathers in a deep breath. Mary’s pupils dwell on his back, staring with a piercing gaze. A step back after the other, they retrocede until their body hits something hard, big. The Nameless Ghoul stands before them, obstructing any exit.

Fuck.

Before Papa can complete another turn, a high-pitched, painful scream pierces the air. From sheer shock, the key falls from Copia’s hands as he jumps backward, almost tripping on his feet. The sounds are gurgles and growls, almost inhuman.

To his gut-wrenching horror, Papa fathoms he can no longer recognize any hint of your voice. No, it doesn't sound like a person. It's like a wounded animal or an ancient demon, something wicked and malevolent, an archaic curse.

The frigid breeze hits Copia’s face when he turns around, pupils desperately searching for anything to land on. His gaze hardens when it falls on Goore and, without any need to await for an order, the ghoul’s large hands are placed on their shoulder. Those long, sharp claws dig on the flesh, not strong enough to pierce the thin skin but still a bruising grip.

“Do something! You are hurting them,” Papa Emeritus accuses. A faint glow emits from his pale eye, casting shadows on his face. In the poorly lit room, he looks far much older than he is. The wrinkles are deep, full of worry, and his cheeks are gaunt.

“Me? You are the one who wanted this, remember? If there’s someone here who has condemned them to this, it’s not me. It's all you.”

For long moments, silence falls on the mausoleum. The muffled rumble coming from behind the door is faint, buzzing like a beehive. Goore lets out a hiss when the sharp nails squeeze his shoulders with barely more pressure.

Resistance is pointless. The ghoul doesn’t let him go. Those eyes, hidden behind opaque glass, remain on Papa Emeritus’ figure, waiting.

“But…I didn't want them to be in pain.”

It's pathetic. So pathetic, Goore practically feels like laughing in his face. Copia’s voice is a whisper, words mumbled together under his breath. There’s a helpless look on his eyes, a distant gaze.

“No, not pain. It's pure agony. Believe me, I suffered it. But this is what you wanted. We come to this world screaming and covered in blood, why would this be different?”

A sharp wail echoes in the hall, pulsating against the exposed stone walls. Copia’s hands immediately dart up to cup his ears, in a futile attempt to shelter himself from the sound. His lips quiver and his pupils are a dot inside the extremely big irises. The muscles on his neck tense when he swallows, falling back a few steps.

Copia’s legs tremble so hard it looks like he’s about to break down into pieces. He seems to be about to faint, and the ghoul debates whether to continue holding Goore in place or try to assist his master.

“What have I done?” Copia whimpers, at last. “Oh, Satan. What have I done?”

Collapsing on the ground, Papa’s body presses on the door. From this close he can clearly hear your screams and detect the way your nails relentlessly scratch the ground and wood. His whole body shakes when something, your head, bangs against the door.

“Stop it,” he whispers, through sobs. “Please, amore, stop it. I’m begging you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

It doesn’t work. If the sound of his voice installs a new rage in you, he can’t understand it. The sole thing Copia is aware of is the way the banging becomes louder, faster, making the door violently rattle with each impact.

Yet, he tries to reach out to you. “Amore, it's me. I’m here now,” a long pause. He breathes in, but there’s no oxygen in his lungs. “Please, I’m begging you. Stop. I’m sorry.”

Feeling Papa Emeritus’ rage slowly die down, the ghoul unhands Goore. They move away quickly, rubbing over a particularly sore spot as they mumble curses under their breath. A sharp pain runs up their arms when their nails dig too deep into the palms, leaving behind red marks. On the desk, the taxidermy crow caws one time before the neck breaks and it collapses on the worn surface, nothing but a mess of bones and feathers.

Outside, the sun falls behind the horizon, plunging the world into darkness. The night has arrived, in the form of a vast starless sky. Copia looks out of the window for a few seconds, before his palms press on his face. Eyes narrowed, he allows his head to fall back and descends into a fake sense of tranquility. Not even the bugs disturb the quietness of the night.

By the time the banging stops, he’s completely numb. Goore is nowhere to be seen. Sat on the chair, the ghoul only stares.

“And I beheld, and heard an angel flying through the midst of heaven, saying with a loud voice, ‘Woe, woe, woe, to the inhabitants of the earth by reason of the other voices of the trumpet of the three angels, which are yet to sound!’”

Ps: I might share some fun facts/references later if you wanna. Guess who Mary Goore used to date or something ♥

#ghost band #ghost band fanfic #papa emeritus iv x reader #antichrist copia #evil copia #cardinal copia x reader #papa emeritus iv #my writing #my fics #you forever fic

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burninlovebutler · 2 years

Text

22 - Christmas Special (ft. the Grinch) // Forever Winter Series

pairing: austin butler x fem!oc warnings: sad fluff, angst, SAD SAD, drugs (pills), physical agression, paranoia, memory loss?, cursing, annoying male territorial shit, teeth rotting christmas presents, 18+ minors mdni

22/?: Austin struggles to wrap gifts alone on christmas eve before spending the next day with Elsie & her suspiciously nice boyfriend. Elsie finds herself atop Austin after opening his gift. Austin is cornered with an unexpected proposition.

prev chapter -> 21 - Blue M&M's see masterlist/summary for background info + chapter log

gif cred: @carnevol ♡

(SORRY YES I NEEDED MULTIPLE GIFS SH)

I hope you get your ballroom floor Your perfect house with rose red doors I wish I'd known that less is more But I was passed out on the floor That's the last thing I remember It's been a long lonely December

-AUSTIN-

A mountain of failed gift-wrapping attempts sat next to me as I started what I hoped would be my last one. Smoothing out the foiled paper flush against mahogany slats and carefully placing one of the two vinyl records I’d gotten for Elsie strategically in the middle. A scissor still dangled from my pinky while my palm attempted ease the frustration built up behind my eyeball.

“Okay, it’s fine. I can do this. It’s just wrapping a fucking gift.” I muttered to myself, something I did quite often. When you have to reassure yourself as much as I did, saying the words just in your head got to be inadequate.

Taking a deep breath, I repeated the process I had already done what seemed like a million times – fold (poorly), tape, fold, tape, add a cute ‘to/from’ sticker tag, a bow, then holding it out to admire my handiwork.

Then, paranoia all over again.

My stupid fucking brain.

I tried my best to delicately tear a small corner from the taped gift in order to double check that it was the right record. And obviously, it was the same fucking one as the last ten, but of course it destroyed the wrap job completely.

“Fuck!” I swore, letting out a charged, frustrated groan before chucking the kitchen scissors across the living room floor. Then, ripping the gift wrap off, crumping it into a ball and repeated the action, landing opposite the scissors.

My foolish coping trick was the first line of defense when I attempted to focus on one of the thousand skyscrapers that scattered outside my floor-to-ceiling windows. City glows and holiday twinkles littered the midnight skyline, then a wall of snow flurries poured over the scene. There wasn’t a damn thing out there that interested me enough to stare at to distract me. If anything, the arrogant bustling city only added to my heightened state. My eyes then scanned across the room – the wall, no – the couch, no – the coffee table –

The mug on the coffee table. Elsie’s mug.

Reminding me of how we had spent almost every Christmas Eve together for the past 6 years. Well, we met on Christmas eve and sat in a breakfast diner until about 2 am Christmas morning. But the traditions really began when we moved into our apartment the year after that, sophomore year. We’d find the most pathetic looking evergreen at the closest tree farm and brought it home.

We were both so broke we couldn’t afford real decorations, so we’d buy plastic dollar store ornaments and even made some out of paper. Like kindergarteners we’d get a thick stack of construction paper and create those chain garlands, draping them all over the house. Then on Christmas eve we’d wear tacky matching PJs, make the sweetest hot chocolate with the biggest marshmallows and watch cheesy Christmas movies.

Christmas celebrations with my family were always so chaotic and stressful, full of arguments and tears. But the ones with Elsie were so easy, so fun. I hated Christmas until I met her.

When we finally decided to not renew our lease last year and she moved in with Nox, I packed our decorations away into storage totes, keeping all of them, even the paper ones. I intended to surprise her with them and have her help me decorate this holiday, but then all this shit happened.

And so, here I was staring at her favorite mug that was filled with my futile effort at the hot cocoa tradition, by myself. I out did her in almost every concoction that required a kitchen, but her hot chocolate was one I could never quite replicate. But maybe if I added enough sugar, enough syrup, enough marshmallows, it just might have some aftertaste of hers. I thought it might bring some sort of comfort and festivity to this lonely Christmas eve.

My heart was still thumping and my hands already trembling from the inability to wrap a fucking gift, but I kept staring at that stupid, condescending cup. I lifted it off the table, leaving behind a brown ring on the glass and brought it to my lips. Tipping the entirely full and now cold beverage to my lips, letting the liquid seep past the layer of melted marshmallow. Immediately repulsed at the taste, spitting it out. It was bitter.

“Augh-“ Wiping the liquid off my chin and furrowed my brows at the cup, “What the fuck?”

How the fuck could I have made hot chocolate bitter?

Using my index, I gently pushed the mountain of marshmallow to inspect the drink. It was watery, pitch black and had floating specks. Specks.

Grounds.

The cup was full of coffee. Black fucking coffee.

Right now, that mug was a familiar pest, but I had to weigh out how dangerous it really was. Racing through the steps I took earlier to make this cup, but all I could see was me ripping open an instant hot chocolate pouch, pouring it into the warm milk and mixing it. I thought I could remember even taste testing it to check the sweetness. It was all so real, vivid, tangible.

I had been taking my meds – or at least trying to.

It took a moment before complete and utter descent kicked in.

My chest felt tight, constraining, like an anaconda wrapped around my ribs, and just about every negative emotion a human could feel hit me like a train. Anger, heartache, loathing, sadness, jealousy, frustration, everything. Before I could even process the rumble surging through me, the full cup soared through the air clashing into my white wall. Ceramic shards flying and coffee painting the wall brown.

The sight of it encapsulated everything I was experiencing, the shattered cup a perfect analogy for me and Elsie. Her favorite mug in pieces. Something that was once full of beauty and meaning, now shattered on the ground. The scene reflected my mind as well - broken, fragmented, incapable of being used anymore.

I folded my extended legs into myself when tears began to well in my eyes, pressing my face against my knees and wrapped arms around them. My sobs shaking my entire body and soaked my stupid Christmas pajama pants.

I didn’t know what I was crying about – the frustration of not being able to trust my brain? The inability to wrap a fucking gift because of said brain? The lack of my best friend? or the sheer loneliness of this eve?

The harder I cried the tighter my grip was around myself. It was the hardest I’d cried in a while, maybe even since my dad. But at least I had Elsie then. Now I had to play some fucked up game of chess just to see her on Christmas.

“Okay,” Wiping the tears aggressively with the palms of my hands, “I can do this.” My breaths still rapid and staggered.

The words of my father rang in my ears –

Shut the fuck up, men don’t fucking cry

Only little girls sob like that

Be a fucking man and cut it out

You’re an embarrassment

Why was I relying on a woman to come save me? A woman that wasn’t mine? A woman that didn’t even want me?

Once my cries slowed enough to pull myself up, I went to what I really relied on - arguably worse than any girl. Going straight to the cluster of orange prescription bottles scattered all over the apartment, finding the one I wanted on the granite kitchen counter. I plucked an entire bar and knocked it back with ease.

If I wanted to get those fucking presents wrapped, I needed to do it before the pill entered my system fully.

Unrolling the wrapping paper tube reaching the end, leaving me with just enough to finish. I laid out the metallic paper, placed the records on their respective squares and employed my last resort when I really couldn’t trust my mind. I used my phone to snap several – several pictures of the records, front and back, from all angles. Now, I had concrete proof for myself that they were correct ones. Even with the evidence, I figured out a way to leave a small discrete opening in the back so I would have an extra layer of verification.

As the Xanax began to filter into my mind, I decided it would be a great idea to write a letter to Elsie, basically emotionally dumping whatever I felt in that moment.

Though I hadn’t decided when or if I’d ever let her read it.

I slipped on a pair of dark jeans, getting ready for this stupid fucking group Christmas Elsie had arranged. I didn’t understand why she would even set this up, why she pushed us to get along - but whatever it was important to her.

What I couldn’t wrap my head around was why Nox allegedly wanted to apologize, I knew he wasn’t sorry. I hypothesized that it was all Elsie’s puppeteering, and we were just her dolls on dangling strings.

Regardless, it felt a lot like a minefield. I wasn’t much of a people person, I avoided them as much as humanly possible. Though, that was difficult being in the industry I was in. But people like Nox always kept me on my toes, they reminded me so much of my dad. I loathed the juvenile mind games and territorial rivalry.

Nox was convinced I wanted something that wasn’t mine. It was as simple as that. I suppose this fence mending dinner was the perfect time to prove him wrong. I could wave a white flag and call for a ceasefire. I shouldn’t have to fucking tip toe around my best friend of six years just because of some fucking asshole. As much of a shitty thought it was, I knew they wouldn’t last.

He was temporary, I wasn’t.

I piled gifts in my arms. The gift wrap crinkling around the two flat presents reminded me of my last-minute verification method. I lifted the tiny hidden opening at the back to check the record, then pulling out my phone to match them to what was in my hands. This process delayed me quite a bit – about 20 minutes late as I kept going back between the two pieces of reassuring evidence. Before I left, I poured some white tablets into my palm, deciding to snap one in half and swallowing it dry. I couldn’t be too out of it in front of her, especially not on Christmas.

After a knock, I anxiously waited for Elsie to open the door. The most enthusiastic smile plastered on her face when it finally cracked. “Yay you’re finally here!” She exclaimed before even fully opening the door. Joyful arms squeezed around me, filling my nose with a strong peppermint scent, “Merry Christmas Austin!”

Hm, Austin. Not Aus or Aust or Austie. I wonder fuckin why.

Even though ‘Austie’ was the lamest fucking one, it was my favorite. I’d do whatever she wanted when she used it. She could ask me to bring her lava and I’d figure out how some way to gather some for her, even it singed me, even if I came back to her looking like Deadpool.

She wore a short, strapless red dress with scrunched sleeves just off her shoulders, a black corset tied around her waist. It almost resembled a pirate’s dress. Her hair curled and topped with reindeer antlers. A sudden flash of her on my couch in my oversized shirt using my lap as her own personal toy-

Thank god for Nox appearing because my eyes and thoughts would’ve lingered much longer. He crossed from the kitchen. His outfit much like mine, black jeans, black shirt. Except Elsie had just plopped a Santa hat on my head. “Nox won’t wear one.” She glared over at him with a pout.

And of course, I would, right? Because I do all the things he doesn’t, right? Including making her fucking come. Must be nice to have your cake and eat it too. I’d like to have just one fucking decent slice of cake. The abrupt rumble of resentment told me maybe this Christmas special was a mistake.

“Hey man, I just wanted to say sorry about… well everything.” He gave me the stereotypical ‘bro’ handshake. I didn’t believe a word that man said, but this time it did seem genuine. Perhaps he did have some sense knocked into him from having the best thing that could ever happen to him ripped away, even temporarily.

“It’s alright, I’m sorry too.” My best attempt at a cordial apology.

“Okay okay! Presents!” Elsie broke the tense air, clapping excitedly.

My brain already began to slow down thanks to the meds and suddenly, the idea of this didn’t seem so bad, maybe even fun. That sense was fleeting though when she went to grasp my hand but promptly drew away, probably remembering her boyfriend was right fucking there.

Funny how this worked - her instinctively reaching for my hand and the word ‘baby’ swirling at the tip of my tongue. The memories from a couple weeks ago looping in my brain – the dressing room, truth or dare, dancing, couch, eating, cuddling.

They seemingly just no longer existed. They didn’t mean anything, they never happened.

The fucking close call clause.

Did they mean anything? Did they mean anything to her? Did they mean anything to me?

A jarring twist in my chest suggested that they might mean something - or it might be because she was completely unaffected.

But it was wrong, the twist wasn’t any of those things, I was just fucking angry.

The close call clause was in place for a reason, for this exact reason. And normally it would be relieving, but for some reason it no longer felt like a safety net. As if what we did had burned a hole straight through the web, and I was falling through it.

Falling into what exactly?

She led us to the sloppily decorated tree, surely because she wasn’t home for so long or because she didn’t have me to help her. And I knew Nox wasn’t one to assist in any sort of festivities. “C’mon,” She tapped the ground next to her looking at me, “Sit.” But naturally, Nox stole the seat. So, I chose to sit to the other side of her, further away.

Nox and I exchanged gifts first. It’s always awkward when you’re required to get gifts for people you don’t really know.

Shocker, we got each other the same things – Amazon gift cards.

She excitedly handed over a small container to Nox. He opened the box revealing a luxury designer watch, silver with a navy face. “Oh, thank you baby.”

‘Baby’

A sharp jab pierced through me as the memory of calling her that rolled across my brain. It didn’t sound right when he said it, it sounded like a lie. But I guess I was lying too, since I only ever managed to call her that when I wanted to be inside her.

“Do you like it?” She chirped, straightening up like a little kid giving their parents a finger painting.

“Yeah of course.” Wrapping his arm around her and pressed a kiss to her temple.

I studied him, this was a reconciliation dinner after all. I wanted to know if it was genuine, picking apart every word, tone and gesture. It appeared authentic – so fucking bland, but authentic. Perhaps that’s why she’d get so wrapped up in him, he could just act this way and she was pliable in his hands again.

“Your turn Austin!” She shot up from the floor, “Wait here! Close your eyes!”

My eyebrows scrunched watching her scurry away across the grey carpet. What could she possibly have gotten me to require this song and dance? I glanced over at Nox, sensing his anger but keeping a pokerface. A stupid, happy, festive pokerface. Any other time, her cheerful excitement would wrap me in a fluffy warm cloud but even with the Xan beginning to kick in, I was still just unnecessarily fuming. Nonetheless, I closed my eyes as instructed and waited for her.

Some fumbling came from the other side of the apartment before I sensed her next to me. “Okay! Open!” I was almost afraid to look, any tiny misstep threatened to set Nox off.

Cracking my left eye before opening both wide. She stood there with a vintage guitar, one I had been searching for - for years. I think I had only ever mentioned this guitar to her once. During one of our first trips to our college diner, before I even learned how to play.

“I- Oh my god Elsie.” In complete awe of the wooden instrument.

“I know your new role has some music parts, I thought this might help.” She beamed at me, wider than with Nox’s gift. Her green eyes brighter than they were with him.

“Wow- um you really didn’t have to do this.” Leaning forward my fingers tracing the smooth, worn curves. “How did you even know?”

“I pay attention.” Shrugging and giving me the soft kind smile that always seemed to melt me.

That was my Elsie. Not whatever artificial shell of a human Nox turns her into. How can you see her, who she is, her heart and treat her the way he does? Why would you want to change her?

“I’m, just wow. It’s beautiful Elsie, thank you so much.”

She didn’t need to ask me if I liked it. She knew.

She rested the guitar across the couch before coming back to sit down. Nox handed his present to her, a generic teardrop diamond necklace. But she acted like it was the best thing on the planet. Probably because it was the nicest gift he’d ever given her.

Her arms wrapped around his waist nuzzling into him, “Thanks babe.” She shined, “It’s so pretty!” The way her eyes flickered up at him broke completely through the calm lull of my high, for some reason making me more furious, livid even. The sort of fierce anger that I’d only ever felt when disgusting men would hit on my girlfriends at bars and clubs.

But as her delicate fingers unraveled the thin chain from the box handing it to him to place around her neck, it brought another sensation. His tattooed hands gently laid the silver necklace on her accentuated collarbones and clasped it at the back. The same ferocious feeling came but beneath a different filter. It was like someone took the arteries in my beating heart, wrapped them around the thumping muscle, then tied them in strangling knots.

Why?

Wanting to fuck her was one thing but wanting to put some cliché necklace around her neck? That was different. I didn’t fucking like that feeling. That was the worst one yet.

“Are ya gonna keep me waiting or what?” She joked, leaning out of Nox’s arm to lightly smack my own. It was only then that I realized my stare had stayed on them when my thoughts ran rampant. I glanced over at Nox, finding an expected displeased look.

“Oh, Oh yeah sorry.” I twisted behind myself and picked up the poorly wrapped slender boxes, stealthily peeling the paper back to ease my doubt one last time before handing them over to her. Coincidentally I had also gotten her something had long been on her ‘in search of’ list. “Alright well, I’m not sure I’ll be able to top that, but I hope this comes close.”

Her dainty fingers followed the edges of the wrapped presents then tucking a soft chocolate curl behind her ear. From the gift’s shape it was pretty obvious that they were vinyls, but she was probably assuming they were some new albums, thinking something like Taylor Swift or Halsey. She gently tore the wrapping paper seeing only the corner and letting out a gasp already able to tell what it was, “Austin!”

Elsie loved old music (hence the Cher guilty pleasure) but an even bigger love than Cher was-

“Oh my god it’s Elvis!” Then followed what could only be described as an ear-piercing screech. “Aaahhh!” Almost as if she flew off the ground and pummeled me to the floor (still screaming) knocking all the wind out from my lungs. The spirit of the king must’ve certainly been in her at that moment because my god, I’d never seen anyone move that fast. It was what I imagine parents experience when they give their kids Harry Styles tickets, just ear drum shattering screaming and ‘thank you’s.

The records I got her were antique Elvis vinyls, originals from his very first albums. They cost me an arm and a leg, literally, an absurd amount of money I didn’t even want to say outloud - but this reaction was worth it.

“Thank you thank you thank you!” She hugged me tight, her body on top of me and then, at just at the right angle away from Nox, she smushed my face in her hands and planted an aggressive smooch on my cheek. Yep, those expensive little plastic discs were worth this. And if her looming boyfriend wasn’t just feet away, I don’t think I could’ve restrained from pulling her on top of me in that skimpy dress.

Once her spirit returned to her body she promptly recoiled, regaining composure in front of a visibly irritated Nox. “Oh- I’m so sorry everyone.” She chuckled, nervously playing with her fingers, “I just got really excited.”

My slowed body struggled to pull myself upright again. I didn’t need to look up to know what Nox’s reaction was like this time. Fucking Elsie, with an antic like that I could very well get my ass kicked, for real this time.

“Well.” He cleared his throat sending a rumble through the apartment, “That was eventful.”

“I- Yeah, sorry, I know you don’t like when I get loud like that.” Her voice now shy, hidden and her attention on her hands as they smoothed out the plastic that covered the vintage record.

My jaw clenched and fists tightened hearing her shrink herself down for him. That’s when I turned my now fuming eyes at him, his nearly black ones already on me. No surprise that they matched my energy, his girlfriend just tackled me to the ground, screaming. I knew that was something she wasn’t doing with him, in any context. She certainly didn’t restrain from being loud with me when my head was between her thighs, and I definitely didn’t mind.

Then in the most terrifying switch, one I visibly saw in his eyes, he shifted. He confirmed it when he flashed a pleasant grin. “I just didn’t know you liked Elvis so much babe.” Was this man not dating her? Did he even know the color of her eyes?

The buzzing of her explaining to him how much she loved the king of rock and roll faded to the background as the full weight of the drug kicked in. I brought my hand up to touch the searing remnants on my cheek from where she placed her lips. It only made me realize that through all of the shit we did at my house – the dancing, the touching, the couch – we never kissed. Not once. She never even kissed my neck. I didn’t kiss hers either. My mouth did touch her, but never a kiss.

So maybe she was right, it never happened. Nothing happened. We never even kissed.

It’s not like we were having some illicit affair, but I still felt like a secret.

She wasn’t mine to kiss. She wasn’t mine to fuck. She wasn’t mine to want. She wasn’t mine to have. She wasn’t mine at all. She was his. And as much as the thought of it nauseated me, it was the harsh reality.

They ordered take out Chinese. Although Elsie and I protested since people shouldn’t be working on Christmas, but Nox insisted. Elsie passed a white and red carton to me.

“So, Elsie tells me that you landed that one role?” Nox asked, proving that he didn’t listen to a word she said since she just gave me an entire guitar for it. I believed his apology earlier but after the gift exchange I became hyperaware of any word he said.

My decelerated mind took a moment to process. “Yeah, yeah.” Scooping out some lo mein onto my plate. “It’s not that big really, but definitely bigger than any other role I’ve had.” He just nodded and I passed the carton to him. “She told me that you just got a promotion too?” Nox worked in some business office, typical former fratboy pipeline.

“Yeah, it’s been great. More money but of course more responsibility.”

I glanced over to Elsie, who looked like a parent who was monitoring siblings getting along. A part of me wanted to play nice and keep a smile on her face, the other part wanted to end the dinner there, tell Nox off and leave.

The sinking paranoia from earlier took a front seat as my gaze stayed on her as if some subtle gesture would confirm or deny the authenticity of our transgressions. If it had all been imaginary then any stirred feelings were just that, delusions. It would make all of this so much easier. It was then that felt a pair of eyes boring into me, realizing that lost in my own thoughts my stare never left Elsie.

Excruciatingly uncomfortable small talk swirled back and forth between us the entire dinner.

In a bustle while cleaning up Nox bumped into Elsie spilling red wine all over her dress. She immediately left to get the stain out, he didn’t offer to help, and I certainly wasn’t going to, seeing as I didn’t have a death wish. I made my way to the kitchen to help clean up, wanting to keep busy in an effort to avoid any awkward small talk with Nox.

Almost in the instant she left the room, the brooding raven-haired male was in my face, grasping my shirt with a fist and shoving me back, this time against the counter. Fucking Elsie, I knew her little show with the gifts would land me here. “Listen here fucker, I’m sick of you filling her head up with bullshit.” His voice dark, only slightly different from his normal voice. The angular edges of his face seemed even sharper.

“Bullshit?” I questioned, “What the fuck are you talking about?” God this was so ridiculous. We’re grown adults, why was I being thrown around like a rag doll over some stolen glances. But with the high that weighed down my limbs, I had nothing in my arsenal to fight back.

“You with your fake mental shit, your ‘hallucinations’. Telling her you saw me fucking cheating?” Ramming his boney fist into my sternum. “I know you’re just doing it so she’ll come to your rescue, so she’ll leave me for you.” His eyebrows furrowed with intimidation, creating deep wrinkles between them.

“They’re not fucking fake, I’m fucked up in the head, obviously.” Regarding him with a sneer. “I don’t need rescuing for her to come to me.”

“I see the way you look at her.” Thankfully not catching onto my sly jab.

“I don’t know what y—" Going to protest.

He shoved me back again, his fist tightening around my shirt, and each knuckle making itself known. “She told me about your little game of truth or dare.”

Truth or dare – she only told him about truth or dare. And thank god because I’d probably be dead in a dumpster by now if he knew the rest.

I blinked up at him, “She told you?”

“Oh, you bet she did. I knew her touch was different, now I know why.”

She touched him differently? After us?

“What the fuck do you mean different? Nothing even happened.” Practically spitting his face.

“She hasn’t wanted put out since she came home from you.” Causing a vein to pop out of his forehead.

Who the fuck says ‘put out’?

“Well, that’s not my fucking fault, maybe you’re just shitty in bed.” His thick bushy brows lowered and forced me back into the cold, sharp granite edge.

Maybe my mouth had fucked some sense into her.

I beat him to it before he had a chance to explode, “I don’t fucking want her Nox.” A guilt pulsed like a lie. “She’s yours.”

He ignored me, “Now here’s what going to happen.” growling just inches from my face, his expression twisted into a threat, “I’m gonna introduce you to my friend, and you’re going to like her, and you’re going to leave my fucking girlfriend alone.”

“And why the hell would I do whatever fucked up scheme that is?” Countering his insane demands. What normal person creates such a calculated plan. And what the fuck did that mean, his ‘friend’ and ‘you’re going to like her’. What, was he pimping me out to some random bitch?

The grip on my shirt only constricted, tightening the cotton around my chest, “Because I know your little secret.”

“And what would that be?” I scoffed.

“Your bloodshot eyes and giant pupils. Your heavy, slow movements. Your slurred words.” Tone pitched with prideful blackmail. He was right, the only reason I wasn’t trying to escape was because moving was too much effort. “It’s honestly shocking that your so called ‘best friend’ can’t tell that you’re fucking strung out.”

I hadn’t thought about it that way. Even though I was hiding it from her, and I didn’t want her to know – actually hearing it caused me to view it in a different light. If I was obvious enough for Nox to notice, how didn’t she? How could I notice her every tiny gesture, but she couldn’t even tell I was high?

“You follow the plan, and you’ll have an endless supply of whatever fix you want.” He cushioned the appeal of this ridiculous plot.

Endless supply – now that was a thought. I could tell that my doctor was starting to get suspicious, I was only a couple more requested early refills before she’d cut me off.

Eyebrows furling up at him with curiosity, “And how exactly would you do that?”

“Ah, so I got your attention,” His lips curving into an arrogant smirk, “The how is none of your concern.”

I analyzed him, searching for any explanation of how exactly he’d have unlimited access to supposedly whatever I wanted. My silence must’ve answered some silent trick question since he followed with,

“I knew you’d sell out your little crush for some pills.” Heaving me once more into the counter coaxing an audible wince when the edge dug into my hipbones, “You see, me and you are more alike than you think. We both rely on things we shouldn’t. We both love the same thing – except that thing only loves one of us back.”

Love?

Heavy eyes rounded at his words, more surprised at the visceral sting through my gut. I knew if I took any more time to unpack it, he’d suspect it meant something else.

“For the last fucking time, we are just friends. Nothing more, nothing less. There is nothing is fucking going on, you’re just fucking delusional.”

“No, you’re the one who’s delusional to think she’d ever chose you over me, that she’d ever love you.”

The sting returned, this time followed by rage. Though I was unsure what I was angry at, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t the sender, just the messenger. My nails dug into my curled fists, “It’s going to hurt her, being away from me. You know that.”

“Yeah, and I’ll be there to take care of her. I’ll be the one to save her.” That was it, wasn’t it. He didn’t like how it made him jealous, that she came to me more than him.

“I’m not doing it.” I stated simply, taking any ounce of composure to mask the brewing fury.

“Well, if you don’t go along with it, I’ll tell her you relapsed.”

And there it was. I hadn’t wanted to say it. And he said it with such ease, when I couldn’t even admit it to myself. If I said it out loud it’d make it real. But it was already fucking real.

But it was my secret and Elsie couldn’t know. I didn’t need her to know. There was still a part of me that believed I had it under control, that I could stop if I wanted. As long as I could get myself clean without her ever finding out, it would never hurt her. And I wouldn’t have to burden her again.

Aside from the relapse, it was probably a good idea to stay away from her. Ever since Thanksgiving week, things hadn’t been the same. At least not for me. I couldn’t get her out of my head - her in my clothes, in my bed, in my arms. In my fucking lap.

It was eating away at me, even more than the drugs. The only thing harder than accepting my relapse was the realization that I had to push her away. I thought I could just stifle, push, stomp, burn it out - but today showed me that was impossible. It was too confusing, it hurt too much to be around her.

I had to do this stupid fucking scheme.

Next Chapter -> 23 - Comeback Special (Christmas Pt. 2)*

A/N: Thank you for every like, reblog or comment, it means the world to me truly. I love hearing your thoughts and I'm glad you're liking my little story 💗

P.S. Fun fact - This chapter is followed by four back to back smut chapters 👀

#austin butler #austin butler x fem!oc #austin butler fanfic #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler x oc #austin butler x afab!oc #austin butler series #austin butler imagine #elvis #elvis movie #elvis 2022 #forever winter #forever winter series #forever winter fic #Spotify

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darsynia · 1 year

Text

Present Imperfect | Ch 5. Day Three - Mourning

TONY STARK MASTERLIST | STORY MASTERLIST | PREV | NEXT

Written for @endlesstwanted for @tonysbirthdaygala!

Summary: After losing Pepper to Extremis, Tony decides to get the shrapnel (and thus his arc reactor) removed– but he wakes up as President of the United States.

Tony’s heart surgery is the last thing he remembers, a worst-case amnesia scenario that leaves the country with a leader who doesn’t remember the last year of office, the election, or his marriage to the First Lady, Natasha Romanoff Stark. Length/Warnings: 3,534 words // none

Tags: @sobeautifullyobsessed @chickensarentcheap @karimac

Excerpt: “If this keeps up it’s going to remind me of our honeymoon,” he jokes, turning his head to look at her right as he turns the lamp on. Natasha’s hair is a riot of messy red curls, and it’s the most natural thing in the whole world to reach up with his other hand and bury his fingers in them at the nape of her neck as he steals a kiss for the camera.

There’s something heady about the cling of her lips to his, like maybe she did drug him, but not with an identifiable substance. Instead, she’s rewired his brain to recognize the little noise at the back of her throat when he angles his head and presses closer. She’s rearranged his molecules to find the scent of her hair intoxicating. Somehow Natasha’s converting his exhaustion to lust-- and it’s that thought which finally gets through to his sleep-fuzzed thought centers.

You kissed her for show, Tony. She’s kissing you back for show. Don’t lose your head.

Day Three - Mourning

Tony is insufferable when the two of them emerge from the bedroom. He rationalizes the smug, self-satisfied behavior as something the ‘real,’ unsuspecting Tony Stark would engage in anyway. Anything that makes these fuckers’ lives miserable while he and Natasha set them up for their big fall is worth doing, in his book.

That gives him an idea, as he eats lunch at the sturdy-ass desk and reads about the fake victims of the fake terrorist attack that’s supposedly happening.

“Hey, Cora!” he hollers, instead of using the phone. The resulting silence doesn’t feel empty as much as resentful. Finally, the door swings open.

“Yes, sir?”

If she’d wired her jaw shut, her expression wouldn’t have been more stiff and forbidding.

“Two things. One, I’d like to speak with one of my doctors about this memory thing, see if there’s some way to jog it so I can get access to at least the Presidential years. Two, along that vein-- have I written a book?”

Cora blinks at him like an android assassin faced with unexpected parameters. “No book that I know of, sir, but I’ll look into contacting your physician. I’m not certain the Secret Service can safely set up a secure phone line; the best we can manage is encrypted email.”

Tony nods, unsurprised. Cora turns to leave, and he catches her with her hand on the doorknob. “Can you have a staffer get back to me with some of the articles written during the campaign, the first 100 days, that sort of thing? Thanks.”

His dismissive tone doesn’t allow her to prevaricate before she leaves. The whole conversation is utter bullshit, just like everything else. The President of the United States is traditionally treated at Bethesda Naval Hospital, a place that definitely has access to secure phone lines. Not to mention, if the packet of overdue condolences were really true, there’d be news footage of the events, articles written, demands for accountability.

How has HYDRA been able to stay hidden so long if they’re this sloppy? They have to be expecting him to become unhinged and try to escape. Even with sub-par agents working the fake President detail, that’s the only way any of this makes sense.

Tony leans back in his chair and frowns, looking around the room with new eyes. He should have come to this conclusion sooner, but he’d been lulled by the excitement of a mystery, something to figure out, something to solve. The months since losing Pepper had been so achingly lonely, partly from missing her, partly because he’d felt so guilty to have failed her that he’d pulled away from everyone else.

He’d gone to some dark places, tearing apart one of his labs to make space for what he’d called a Grendel Cluster, a souped-up version of a Beowulf Cluster. It was the fun way to get enough computational power (with JARVIS’s help, of course, though his AI had asked whether that made Tony Beowulf, or Grendel’s Mother) needed to project holograms to simulate the entire confrontation with Killian. It was important to know without a shadow of a doubt whether he’d missed something.

He’d drawn no concrete conclusions, but he had spent hours watching Pepper die over and over, in the process.

Tony looks down at the open folder, his eye catching on the address of one of the fake people who ‘died’ in the Capitol attack. Virginia. Seeing her name doesn’t hurt as badly it would have just weeks ago.

“I need to know you’ll let yourself be happy again.”

Natasha’s face flickers in his mind for a few seconds, and Tony clears his throat. He’s thinking of her because she’s the first friend he’s been in contact with for months. She’s on his mind because of what they’d just done, which had of course just been in the service of the greater cause, finding HYDRA’s weakness and taking it down.

He latches onto that last thought with the desperation of a man drowning in the deep end of sudden possibilities. Her plan is solid, but so is his: he’s going to flood these jerks with documentation requests, hundreds of them. They’re bound to make mistakes, and that gives Natasha plausible deniability. Tony has no doubt that her life is in danger, should they know exactly how far the Black Widow has woven her web around HYDRA’s plans. Inevitably, they’re going to realize Tony’s onto them, and he doesn’t want them to assume it was Nat who gave away their game.

He’ll be damned if another beautiful woman dies because of him.

By the post-dinner meeting, Tony has asked for a massive amount of documentation, including curated clips of news footage from multiple countries to gauge how they’re reacting to the crisis, and a group call with the mayors of the top twenty cities in advance of the attacks spreading to other locations. He’d pointed out how strange it was that he has yet to see a report from both the Intelligence Committees in the House and Senate, or a threat assessment from the CIA, Homeland Security, and the FBI.

Then, to really twist the knife they’re aiming at his back, he demands to speak to the Vice President, because seriously, who is his VP? He’s still holding the ‘amnesia’ trump card in his back pocket. Basically, his philosophy isn’t that he’s trapped in this nonsense with them, they’re trapped with him.

Predictably, the VP thing gets the most resistance, probably because they haven’t picked one.

“Sir,” that Darby guy says, “Having the two of you in the same location is an unacceptable risk.”

“See this? I’ve been studying it all day. I know more about the names of the people who died than how they died, who could have prevented their deaths, how to prevent more deaths in the future, and how the global community is dealing with our utter weakness!” Tony throws the folder down the center of the long table, and the various fake files slide out, cinematically. “Everything that’s happened is an unacceptable risk, but I’m going on little to no data, here! The only conclusion to draw is that I’m being isolated because of my medical condition, and my VP is being groomed to step in. Does anyone want to challenge that conclusion? Hmm?” He spins in place, arms out, struggling to keep the derision from showing on his face.

The whole room is silent.

Amateurs.

“You know what you need? I mean, besides a backbone,” Tony sniffs, changing tacks. He’s all derision, now. “You need a healthy sense of fear. No television sets showing the news, no phones ringing, no fax machines churning out scary headlines, what! Is it the Stark Administration or has there been a coup?” He leans forward and rests his weight on his fists, looking each person at the table in the eyes. “If you were sitting in your homes hearing about this, wouldn’t you be fired up? Wouldn’t you expect the staff of your elected president to fight back?”

The dismay on everyone’s faces is palpable. Tony pushes back up off the table with a sound of disgust.

“Either you’re with me or you’re part of the scheme. Get me the things I’ve asked for by breakfast tomorrow or find another job.”

With that, he stalks out the door, startling the ‘Secret Service detail’ that lurks on their phones outside each room he inhabits. It’s another confirmation of how absurd this all is, but he can’t risk blowing up at them. He may have spent a generous percentage of the past months working out for the endorphins, but these guys are beefcake goons straight out of central casting.

Once at the Fauxval ante-room, Tony stalks through, saying, “Clear my schedule for the rest of the night. Next person who comes into my office better be my wife or someone with any of the reports I’ve asked for! Enough of this amateur bullshit.”

He only has fifteen minutes before the condolence calls anyway, and Cora is nowhere to be seen. Tony looks at the folder, looks at the door, and then looks at the desk. Natasha had told him she’d hidden his watch prototype in a false bottom of one of the drawers, and it feels like he’s going to need it sooner rather than later.

Fuck it.

Muttering that everything needs a reset, even his desk, Tony starts removing the contents of each drawer. The plan is to shuffle things around just enough to make retrieving that watch a two, maybe three step, swift process.

Everything he’s removing is the kind of filler crap you’d expect to see on a comedy skit, but one of them is a pocketknife whose edge lets Tony find the break in the bottom of the false drawer and lift just enough to see the compartment. To cover what he’s been doing for those assigned to watch the video feed, he scrapes the knife edge along the back of the drawer and pulls the tool out, looking at it with distaste.

“Thought sure Clinton kept pot back there,” he muses aloud, tossing the ‘useless’ knife into the ‘put back’ pile. A check of his watch tells him that something’s up; he’s just strolled two blocks past Condolence Call Avenue, and no one’s bothered to say anything.

As that thought crosses his mind, though, there’s a brief, heavy knock at the door, and it springs open to admit Secretary Alexander Pierce. He’s wearing a surgical mask slung under his chin, and there are sweat droplets around his hairline.

“Tony! I was wrapping up a security meeting at Searchlight when I heard you were having a tough time, wanted to see if I could help,” he says jovially, striding over with his right hand outstretched to shake. “Before you ask, they brought me up to speed on the memory thing.”

Two things occur to him at that moment.

One: Alexander Pierce is meant to be his Vice President. Two: Pierce is HYDRA.

Tony stands slowly and accepts the shake, noting the crushing warning in the strength the other man exerts on Tony’s hand. “Starting to think they’re poised to put you in charge, with the limited data I’ve got access to,” he says.

“Ahh, the Joint Chiefs and Congress are working hard, I wouldn’t worry too much about that.” Pierce gestures goodnaturedly for Tony to sit back down. “The big bill on Separation of Powers at the end of the last guy’s term really fucked with war powers, but that’s what you get when the President tries to jump into a foreign conflict without listening to anybody else’s opinion on it.”

Tony keeps his expression neutral, but inwardly, he’s swearing a blue streak. Pierce is good at this. He’s just put a kibosh on Tony’s whole plan by making up something that ‘legally prevents’ the HYDRA team from having to construct false evidence.

“Nothing an executive order can’t fix, right?” he says, leaning back in his chair. The move was supposed to project confidence, relaxation, but Tony worries it just looks like he wants to put more distance between them.

“Truth is, Tony, we’re past op-eds and news footage, here. We need to get moving on defense, while the rest of the leadership focuses on offense.”

“You’re all starting to sound like a broken record.” If Tony can avoid punching this guy in the face, they might get some incriminating stuff for Fury.

“Well, when there’s only one song worth singing, that’ll happen.” Pierce lets out a weary-sounding sigh. “We’ve clashed about this before. I might even be willing to admit that it was too soon, back then-- it’s not like those weapons would have done much against the Chitauri.”

Tony doesn’t doubt that HYDRA’s lifted the Tessaract weaponry out of the SHIELD database, ready and willing to adapt it to the gem in the scepter. “You want me to okay something worse, and authorize its use on our own citizens!”

“Our own citizens are already dying!” Pierce rockets out of his seat, moving to pace in the middle of the room, rubbing at his temple in distress. “My daughter could have been one of them, and you know it!”

It’s too late to suppress his instinctive look of confusion, but Tony’s figured it out (with a sinking feeling he’s not going to shake any time soon) by the time Pierce clarifies.

“Cora Pierce. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful her position has kept her mostly out of this, but it could have easily gone the other way. All of these people, they’ve got parents, husbands, wives, children. We owe it to them not to expand the victim list.”

“She’s very good at her job,” Tony says, looking up from the folder of fake victims just in time to catch a hint of suspicion in his fake VP’s expression. “Okay, say I listen to you, aren’t there procedures, especially after the Separation of Powers thing you mentioned?” he asks. “You’re all acting like I have the right to just tell you where it is, and that’s it. If that were really true, you, Darby, half the others out there, you’d be hassling Nick Fury about it, not me.”

Pierce stops behind the chair he’d been sitting on, leaning thoughtfully on it, nodding, and Tony presses his advantage.

“The only thing worse than an amnesiac President lying about a serious medical condition is one that just got impeached, Alex. You want the scepter, you’re going to need to show me what we’re going to do with it, or show me a legal pathway to telling you where it is that doesn’t get my political future strung up by its fingernails.”

“Fair enough,” Pierce says, turning his charm back on with a bright smile. “As always, pleasure doing business with you.” He stretches out a hand to shake again, and Tony smiles back.

“My wife has plans for these fingers, so I’ll forego another shake, if it’s all the same to you.”

Pierce’s grin widens. “You’re a lucky man. Tell her I send my regards?” With his golden hair and penchant for treachery, Pierce makes a perfect Lannister.

“Will do,” Tony says, standing. He watches the statesman exit the room, feeling certain his next stop will be the room Natasha’s so anxious to get a recording device into.

Can they afford to wait until tomorrow?

He isn’t given much time to ponder the question, because one of the secretaries from the ante-room comes in to set up for the condolence calls. Tony had been planning to half-ass them and blame his medical condition, but instead, he asks her to send someone with a strong coffee to fortify him for what’s to come. It seems clear that things are escalating, and he can’t imagine HYDRA has any bigger guns to bring in to persuade him than the former Secretary of Defense.

Halfway through the calls, Tony understands that this is retaliation, escalation. Knowing that the people on the other line-- querulous elderly ‘parents,’ indignant, world-weary adult ‘children,’ heartbroken ‘spouses,’ even one elementary-aged child who answered the phone asking ‘Is my daddy ever coming back?’ --are acting, that their concerns aren’t real… it doesn’t help. Tony’s emotionally wrung out by the time he’s done, and he opens the door to the ante-room to find it empty except for the ever-present ‘Secret Service’ agents.

“Mechanic’s moving,” they say to their nonexistent microphones, but he doesn’t wait for them. Tony runs, uncaring whether this confirms for his captors that they’ve won, they’ve gotten to him. He runs because it’s one of the last acts of rebellion he has, because he didn’t have the guts to do what he wanted to do on those phone calls: call their bluff. “Yes, your daddy isn’t coming home. He’s dead.”

Even knowing it’s not real, he couldn’t do it.

Some superhero he is.

Tony walks into the fake Presidential suite, shuts the door, and falls face first on the bed. It’s all he can do not to flip off the camera he knows is watching.

He wakes up to the feeling of someone tugging his (unbuckled, unbuttoned, and unzipped?!) pants off in the dark.

“And here I thought I usually woke up before the best parts of dreams,” he says aloud.

Natasha immediately stops what she’s doing, and he has to roll over onto his back with his pants down around his ankles. That’s when he notices that his arms are bare. Before starting on his pants, Nat apparently got his suit jacket, tie, and long-sleeved button down dress shirt off. Without waking him up.

“Did you drug me? Maybe I did wake up before the good part,” he says incredulously, kicking off the pants and reaching for the bedside lamp. That involves swinging his legs out over the side of the bed and sitting up, and right as his fingertips touch the switch, Natasha presses up against his back and whispers in his ear.

“Pierce authorized the installation of a microphone and two more cameras to cover the rest of the bed.”

“If this keeps up it’s going to remind me of our honeymoon,” he jokes, turning his head to look at her right as he turns the lamp on. Natasha’s hair is a riot of messy red curls, and it’s the most natural thing in the whole world to reach up with his other hand and bury his fingers in them at the nape of her neck as he steals a kiss for the camera.

You kissed her for show, Tony. She’s kissing you back for show. Don’t lose your head.

He pulls back and opens his eyes, catching the moment where disappointment crosses her face and her eyes flutter open, revealing those gorgeous green eyes of hers.

“How are you even real?” Tony whispers, without thinking.

Inexplicably, his words seem to crush her; her brows furrow and cheeks flush before her professionalism takes over, and the walls come crashing down in the form of a blank expression.

“Shut up, Tony,” she whispers, quiet enough for that to be only for him, before she scrambles off of the bed to angrily rummage through her drawers. Tony knows he shouldn’t watch but he’s so confused he needs to, needs to understand what just happened. She pulls on a pair of black sweatpants and stomps off into the bathroom with another black thing for mere seconds before emerging with a shapeless black top on. Their eyes meet as she pulls back the blankets, and Nat snaps a “Go to sleep!” at him, ruthlessly pulling back her curls into a ponytail.

“Was it something I said?” he can’t help asking.

Natasha doesn’t answer until she’s walked around the bed to turn off his lamp without asking. “No.”

He’s wearing boxers and an undershirt, but Tony gets in bed and turns on his side (facing away from her, because message received), mind racing.

After many minutes of self-examination, the best he can do is the thought that she was setting up a fake argument to bolster the idea of make-up sex in the office they need to steal the bug from.

Tony’s almost asleep when another option occurs: she’d thought he wanted to kiss her, wanted to compliment her, and her fury was related to the idea that he’d been faking for the cameras. She’d been disappointed.

He allows himself a few seconds to re-imagine the kiss and compliment from that angle, to inhabit that forbidden space, just to see what it feels like. He can almost smell her hair, can feel the press of her lips against his, can see pleasure cross her face when he draws back and looks at her like she’s so beautiful.

Oh, he thinks. Then, oh no.

Tony can’t lay still in the aftermath. His mind is racing, a yin/yang of positive and negative reactions. The only thing that takes him out of it is remembering all of the really important things that Alexander Pierce has access to. He runs the cold water for a long time, soaks a washcloth in it and scrubs his face until his cheeks hurt.

Get it together, Tony. Your life’s at stake. HER life’s at stake. Stop acting like a fucking playboy idiot.

It works, but when Tony makes his way back to bed with the tiny flashlight whose battery is so close to dying it hardly makes any light anymore, he sees that Natasha’s rolled over while he was gone.

Her right arm is outstretched, fingers tucked under the edge of his pillow like she’d felt the bed to see if he was still there and fallen asleep waiting for him to come back.

To be continued...

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