#really threads that needle of growing up but still somehow being the same person

[novelconcepts]

I love Yellowjackets’ dual use of “The Killing Moon”. It speaks so beautifully to that feeling of hearing a song when you’re young, having it mean something, having it resonate in your chest—and then hearing it again as an adult, and realizing it’s just not the same. It still means something, it still lands, but you’re different now, and so the song, too, shifts. To have two different versions, two uses of one song, really capitalizes on that feeling of growing up and having music specifically grow with you.

[samstree]

Hug a Witcher Day (1/3)

Jaskier writes a new song ‘Hug a Witcher Day.’ It gains insane popularity and Geralt finds himself hugged by random strangers on one day every year. He just wishes a particular bard would hug him too.

By one person’s popular demand, I present to you a touch-starved Geralt, a cheeky Jaskier and a lot of pining. 

fluff, hand holding, sharing clothes, yearning, 3k, rated G

read on AO3

It is the most ordinary morning.

The wind is picking up after last night’s rain, a common occurrence in the fall, bringing nice moisture in the air all the way from the sea. The last of the heat washed away to reveal crisp blue sky, stretching all the way to meet the mountain range.

It’s an ordinary morning, except everyone is staring at Geralt.

The inn is not busy this early in the morning, but a few patrons have risen for the first meal of the day. As the witcher sits down at a table, the atmosphere changes instantly. The conversation hushes and eyes start turning in his direction. Some are even giggling with their friends upon seeing him.

Although, there’s no malice, no fear, or disdain.

Only amusement.

It won’t be the first time that a crowd finds a witcher to be a curious sight. Although it is unusual for a town of this scale to have never seen one of them before.

So Geralt pays no mind. He only wants to finish his porridge in peace. His stomach has been rumbling since he missed dinner last night. The hunt took way longer than he anticipated, and by the time he returned, the inn had long since stopped serving. Although the maid—a young girl no more than sixteen—promised to give him an extra portion at breakfast.

Even she’s staring too.

The girl takes a look at Geralt’s finished bowl and hurries to fetch another from the kitchen. She carries the porridge and an extra loaf of rye bread to his table with a smile that gradually lights up her whole face.

Geralt nods as she puts them down, confused at the good mood of this whole establishment.

His confusion grows when she doesn’t leave. Instead, the girl lingers a moment, as if working up her courage, before bending down to circle her arms around Geralt.

He has to fight every instinct in his body to stay still and let her hug him. Her arms are squeezing gently, not the too-tight kink. Her curled locks are all over his face. When she pulls back, her round cheeks are flushed like a beet, the grin now carrying a hint of embarrassment.

“Why—”

“Thank you, master witcher!” she exclaims chirpily.

“What for?” he frowns.

“For getting rid of the fiend, of course!” She’s almost taking offense at the question. “Right before today, no less.”

“What’s so special about today?”

“It’s the day before Saovine, sir. Do you not know?”

Well…no. The passage of time registers too vaguely when he’s traveling alone from one town to another. The contract last night was no different from the last five.

Geralt doesn’t want to think about how monotonous the path is without a companion, or he’ll have to admit to himself that he’s missing the bard and his ridiculous songs and too-loud playing. He won’t do it, even in the safety of his own mind.

Still, her answer doesn’t explain anything.

“The day before Saovine!” she must be seeing his silence as an encouragement to continue. “It’s Hug a Witcher Day!”

Geralt drops the spoon into the porridge. Biting back a curse in a child’s company, he fumbles to fish it out.

“Hug a—what?”

“It’s how the song goes! Hug a witcher and thank him for the work he’s done. All the monster-killing in the past year!” Her smile turns to a tiny frown. “And you, sir, just killed that fiend for us last night. As the lyrics say, it’s only right that I hug you!”

“It was…my job. And why does it have to be Saovine?”

“It’s the day before Saovine, sir. It’s the last holiday before witchers rest for the winter. It’s only right to thank them now.” she proclaims proudly. “Have you really not heard ‘Hug a Witcher’?”

Should he have? Before asking the next question, Geralt has an inkling that he already knows the answer.

“Whose song is it?”

“Who else? Your bard of course. Master Jaskier the bard!”

The words your bard somehow lands on a soft spot in Geralt’s chest.

Although Jaskier hasn’t traveled with him for months. Geralt doesn’t pay attention to the bard’s new hits because they will eventually reach his ears anyway. Jaskier can never pass an opportunity to serenade him with every new composition when they are alone by a campfire, looking for the witcher’s personal reviews no matter how well-received by the public they appear to be.

“Hmm.” Geralt calculates the distance between where he is and Oxenfurt. This ‘Hug a Witcher’ song, in fact, is spreading faster than any of Jaskier’s famous ballads.

A hug can’t be worse than being tossed coins, right?

 *

It keeps happening for the rest of the day.

First, it’s the stable hand. Geralt is just trying to load his pack onto Roach when the young lad comes in. He doesn’t try to hug Geralt, only giving him a polite nod.

“Thank you. For your work, sir,” the lad says, before helping Geralt saddle the mare. “Like the song says, eh? Thank a witcher so no monster will plague you in the coming year.”

And then, it’s a few small children. A flock of them suddenly come out of nowhere and just… cling to his legs.

“Thank you master wiiiiitcheeeeer!” They shout in unison and drag the last few syllables longer and longer. And then the group disperses just as quickly as they gathered, giggling and running off to an alley.

All except one.

The smallest one stays at his feet, looking up and staring at him.

“Hug!” the boy stretches out his short arms.

Geralt blinks.

The boy stares, eyes wide and expectant.

So Geralt has no choice but to bend down and let the boy wrap those short arms around his neck.

“You’re welc—"

It’s over in a second and the child is rejoining his friends, who are now peaking their heads out of the corner of the alley. Excited squeals erupt among them.

Geralt feels the corners of his lips tugging upwards.

When he gets to the market, a few shop owners are smiling so brightly and offering discounts. Roach gets a horseshoe and an apple for free within the first hour. The silversmith shouts out thanks before jogging up to him and pulls him in for a bear hug.

“Hug a witcher for luck,” she says.

“No, it’s for good harvests!” an old man corrects her.

They keep coming.

But everyone has a different reason and it makes Geralt wonder how many versions Jaskier has for this one song. Or, he dreads to think, how long it is.

“Hug a witcher and death will avoid your door.”

“Hug a witcher for a merciful winter.”

“Hug a witcher for good rain!”

“Thank you, master witcher.”

“Thanks, sir, for your service!”

 *

“Geralt! You need to control your bard!”

Lambert growls as he slams into the heavy wooden door of Kaer Morhen keep, stamping his foot to shake off the snow.

Turning another page of the book, Geralt refuses to look at his younger brother when he’s in a grouchy mood.

“What did he do?” he asks nonchalantly.

“You know—" Lambert grits his teeth. “—what he did.”

The youngest wolf sits down, crowding Geralt’s space, his cloak still wet from the storm outside. Geralt raises an eyebrow but stays on the book. He is not going to make it easier for his brother.

After seconds of silence, Lambert finally gives in. “His song!”

“You can’t possibly be mad about Hug a Witcher.” Eskel walks in and also sits at the table, the sewing kit and a ripped shirt in hand. “It’s a good one.”

“I’m a witcher! They saw me and tried to hug me!”

“So?”

Like Geralt, Eskel only fuels the youngest wolf’s exasperation. He even starts to thread the needle, completely unfazed.

“So?” Lambert pulls off his cloak and the water splashes all over Geralt’s book. “For a whole day, people tried to touch me. A whole day, Geralt! All thanks to your bard and his blasted song! I couldn’t even get out of town without those folks jumping on me.”

“And? I don’t know about you, but I appreciate some showing of gratitude. Thank your bard for me, will you?” Eskel nudges at Geralt.

“Hmm.”

“I don’t care,” Lambert continues, pointing a finger at Geralt. “Tell the bard to stop this nonsense, or I will stop him myself and he won’t be as pretty afterwards.”

Geralt finally dogears the page and faces his brother’s tantrum. He wonders if the crease between his eyebrows is tight enough to crack a walnut—it might be fun to try one day. “Or you can just not let them,” he deadpans.

“What?”

“You are a witcher, the best one among us—according to yourself.” Geralt tilts his head, squinting. “Are you telling me you couldn’t fend off some villagers who were only trying to give you a squeeze?”

Lambert’s face stills, his index finger hanging in the air. In front of Geralt’s unblinking eyes, his face turns redder and redder.

“Urgh,” with an annoyed wave, Lambert storms off the same way he stormed in, all the while muttering all kinds of colorful curses.

Geralt purses his lips as to not let out a too-obviously laugh, but at the corner of his eyes, he notices Eskel shaking his head in amusement.

“All jokes aside, I liked the song.”

Geralt shrugs.

“Jaskier knows how to make them go around.”

“No, I like the day that came with the song. Just about a decade ago, people barely thanked us for a job well done, but now? Lambert is a prick, but I don’t mind having a pat on the back after spending a whole year on the path. Don’t you think?”

“Hmm.” He shrugs again.

Eskel has put down his needlework and is observing him intently. Both of his brothers are so weird about this, Geralt reckons, but on opposite sides of weird. Maybe that’ll be the bard’s review when they meet in the spring.

“Maybe you are indifferent because your bard already knows to appreciate you, wolf. Being your barker and all. Was he thrilled to see the rest of the world catch on?”

Geralt frowns while opening the book again, not sure where this is going.

“Jaskier wasn’t with me during Saovine.”

“No?” Eskel is moving into his space too. Urgh, the two of them. “You bard got the whole continent to hug you, but he wasn’t there to give you one himself?”

“No.”

A sudden surge of irritation rises, but Geralt isn’t sure why. All he wants to do is read the damn book without his brothers nagging him about how terrible or how amazing this ridiculous day is.

“Hmm.” Eskel mirrors his hum. Every time the older witcher does this is because he’s trying to figure out something, and Geralt has no intention of finding out.

“I’ll read elsewhere.” With a loud snap of the book, Geralt leaves the room in a few quick strides.

He has a feeling that this lousy mood might stick with him for a while yet. At least until he can leave Eskel’s inexplicable prodding and Lambert’s grumpy ass behind.

*

“I know you don’t like the touchy mushy stuff, Geralt. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know they would actually hug you all day long!”

Jaskier looks so contrite that his hands are reined in from his full-body gestures, and that’s how Geralt knows the guilt is genuine. His fingers are fidgeting with the hemline of his winter doublet and his hands, exposed in the chill, are turning red.

It’s still quite early in the spring, since Geralt has come to find the bard in Oxenfurt as soon as the ground thawed. A cold spell is hitting the town pretty hard, although Jaskier is sure that it’ll be the last one before green returns to this town.

It doesn’t help that snow has been steadily falling and melting at the same time during their stroll around campus. The bard shivers a little.

“It’s fine,” Geralt says, taking off his own scarf and wrapping it around Jaskier’s neck.

“It is not! Once again, I have been so focused on my professional achievements and forgotten about the impact those songs have on you. All of you.”

Jaskier helps Geralt adjust the scarf so it covers all of his neck and the lower half of his face. It’s made of the warmest yarn Vesemir keeps at Kaer Morhen, but the plain color is a stark contrast against the delicate design of the bard’s fur-lined doublet. In comparison, Geralt’s scarf looks too coarse to be there, but Jaskier seems content enough to bury his face into the material, letting out a soft sigh.

His hands still look cold, so Geralt removes his gloves as well.

“Eskel likes it. The song and the day.”

Those words seem to lighten Jaskier’s mood. His eyebrows raise ever so slightly.

“Really? He likes Hug a Witcher day?”

“Mm-hmm.”

The bard flexes his stiff hands before sliding into the leather gloves. They fit surprisingly well with Jaskier’s long fingers, only a bit loose on the wrists, so Geralt makes sure to fasten the cords. He then holds both Jaskier’s hands between his palms, just to warm them up a little.

Can’t let a lutenist complain about frostbite on his fingers.

“Says it’s nice to be appreciated for all the hard work he’s done. The hugs aren’t bad either,” Geralt explains. “Eskel never minded them anyway.”

“And you?” Despite his slight apprehension, Jaskier’s eyes are filled with careful hope. “Do you mind them?”

With a final squeeze, Geralt lets go.

“I told you it’s fine.”

“You don’t have to say it to make me feel better, my dear. I know how you don’t like people touching you,” the bard says, reaching out to brush off some snowflakes on Geralt’s shoulder with a gloved hand.

Geralt frowns, looks down to Jaskier’s casual touch on his shoulder, and then back to his concerned blue eyes.

Why on earth does Jaskier think he hates touches? The bard himself touches him all the time, at least in the past couple of years. Not at the beginning though, when they were barely friends and Geralt told him to fuck off all the time and not to feed Roach treats and—

And when Geralt punched him in the gut just to drive him away.

He’s seen Jaskier hug so many people, countless flings, long-term lovers, his parents, cousins, even other bards. He’s seen Jaskier hug Essi just this morning while being teased by her relentlessly about something Geralt didn’t understand. Must have been an inside joke.

But never him.

Jaskier never hugs him.

The realization sinks Geralt’s heart somehow. The cold wind suddenly cuts a lot more brutally on his bare neck and hands.

He doesn’t mind a little nip when Jaskier is the more sensitive one, being human and all. But at this moment, with the bard all bundled up in a soft doublet with those feathery puffs on his shoulders, he looks like he can give great hugs.

Jaskier looks so…huggable.

Geralt wonders what it would be like to take Jaskier in his arms and squish him over those thick, airy clothes. He wonders if he can bury his nose into his scarf—now it would smell like a mixture of Jaskier’s floral scent and the wood ash that always lingers around Geralt’s person. He would pull away to see Jaskier’s cheeks painted pink in the cold air and snow melting on his long lashes—

“You are just saying it, aren’t you? I have deeply offended you.” Jaskier interrupts those wandering thoughts because he has taken the silence as anger. His expression can only be described as crestfallen. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be too mad. I cannot lose my best friend. I simply cannot take it, Geralt! I will die of a broken heart!”

The plea is so dramatic that Geralt lets out a chuckle.

“Will you relax?” he pats Jaskier on his puffy sleeve. “I’m not mad, little poet. It truly is fine. Some children hugging me on the leg is not the end of the world.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Somehow, Geralt knows that if Jaskier decides to also give him a hug that day, it won’t be the worst thing either. Hug a witcher to thank him, it’s the bard’s own words. He’s protected Jaskier from angry spouses so many times it will definitely warrant a hug, right?

“Good, then.” Jaskier lowers his face into the scarf again, pretending to hide from a draft, but Geralt can see the faint smile around the corners of his eyes. “I’m glad your brothers also enjoyed my contribution to what will become the next official holiday.”

“Oh no, that’s just Eskel. You should avoid Lambert this year.” Geralt grimaces. “Maybe the next few years too.”

Jaskier is taken aback but recovers quickly.

“Well, I’ve got you to protect me from his wrath, my friend who’s not angry with me.” The smile, this time, is genuine and brightens up Jaskier’s whole being. His arms stretch out in a pose once more. “Where shall we go when spring comes? You know, when it really comes.”

Jaskier grimaces at the sky as if judging it for the untimely harsh weather blocking their way.

“Hmm.”

Geralt is in no hurry to determine the where of their journey this year, but the when of it…

A sudden ache in his chest tells him that maybe he should stick with Jaskier until Saovine.

Or at least the day before.

---

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard​ @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[thebiscuiteternal]

“A Bird in the Hand” Friendship <3, Mutual Interests (Sorta Not Really), Hidden Identities, Kidnapping, The Ship Is A Huge Spoiler Sorry

__________

Having decided he was going to lose his mind if he had to listen to the constant chatter about scores and techniques for one more moment, Nie Huaisang quietly slips out of the dining hall and heads out into the early evening air.

Just a little time to himself to clear his head, that’s all he needs. A short walk, and then he’ll go back. If Da-ge gets upset about him wandering off here… well, he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it. 

Movement in the bush next to him startles him a little, but not enough for him to miss that the small reddish-pink form darting out of the leaves is flying very oddly.

Wing damage at the very least, he calculates. If he doesn’t intervene, it’s probably going to be a predator’s meal soon.

Concern replaces his earlier exasperation; he changes course from the path he’d been planning to take and begins tracking where it might land next instead. 

---

The erratic flight pattern makes his task a little more difficult, but there is still a bit of light left in the sky when he finally snares the wounded and bedraggled puff of feathers -a rosefinch, one he hasn’t ever seen this particular color and pattern of- and very gently deposits it in his lap. 

“Shh, you’ll be fine,” he soothes, carefully rubbing the poor thing’s cheek with a fingertip to calm it down before reaching into his sleeve for his usual pouch of supplies. “See? I’m here to help.”

Once the bird is gorging itself -no, himself- on seeds, he begins inspecting and carefully cleaning the injuries. He was right about the wing, plus there are nasty cuts to a leg and another to the neck. Claw marks, most likely. “Poor darling, you must have just escaped a cat,” he coos softly as he takes out thread and thin strips of cloth.

“Interesting.”

Nie Huaisang only just barely manages to avoid jostling his patient when he jumps slightly at the unexpected new voice, then freezes when he turns his head to find a young man wearing red and white robes. “Ah! I’m sorry if I entered a restricted area, I just-”

“It’s fine,” the Wen stranger says with a smile. “You haven’t left the guest territories yet.”

“Oh… good. That’s good.” The rosefinch cheeps in his lap and pecks his hand and he looks down and clicks his tongue as he resumes threading the needle he’s holding. “Demanding now that I’ve been nice enough to feed you, aren’t you?”

“May I observe while you work?”

He doesn’t hear the Wen disciple move at all, so when he looks up and finds the young man standing barely a step away, he has to restrain himself from scooting away on reflex. “Er- I suppose? Most people don’t want to,” he says, watching as his new companion takes a seat on a rock next to him.

Up close, there is something slightly unnerving about him. It's the same feeling he notices when Da-ge is trying to intimidate people around him less, like there's something big and dangerous being forced into a too-small hide.

Nie Huaisang swallows and ducks his head, reaching into the supply pouch to produce more seeds for his patient. He finishes prepping the needle and gently coaxes the rosefinch into a better position, feeling an intense gaze on him all the while as he begins the first neat, tight stitches. The bird makes an unhappy noise of pain, but more seeds and petting keeps him from attempting to escape and he only cheeps grumpily to himself as Nie Huaisang works.

"You're very skilled to make it trust you so easily."

Despite himself, he feels his face heat at the rare compliment. Though Da-ge and their cousin Nie Zonghui often try not to get bored whenever they visit the aviary, the only person who’d ever actually been interested in watching this sort of thing was-

He bites his lip and shoves that thought aside. “It’s a lot of practice in patience, mostly,” he says as he finishes with the leg and turns his attention to the wounds that might need to have feathers clipped for proper treatment. “You have to learn how they work, how to follow them without getting them so stressed they accidentally hurt themselves worse, observing flight patterns, all that.”

“Seems like a lot of effort to put in for someone who so infamously avoids it.”

Nie Huaisang stiffens, then forces himself to calm down.

Stupid. He’s wearing Qinghe colors and this disciple probably just saw him hanging around Da-ge. He’s not hard to identify, and his reputation… well.

Still, the unease lingers, though he tries to shake it off by remaining focused on his task. By now the rosefinch is comfortable enough with him that he’s able to gently remove some damaged and bloody feathers. “I just… I like doing this. That’s all.”

“Understandable. A reward only counts as a reward if you want it.”

It’s gotten dark enough for people in the buildings down the path to begin lighting their lanterns, but he’s well-acquainted with working in such conditions. He finishes the neck and wing injuries quickly, the strange disciple remaining in his spot for the duration. 

“There we go, all ready to get better,” he croons sweetly, coaxing the finch to his shoulder, where the bird snuggles into his collar. 

An elegant hand reaches into his view. “May I?” the disciple asks.

“If he’ll let you,” Nie Huaisang says, tilting his head to give space. The rosefinch is having none of it, however, and ducks to hide under his hair with a grouchy little squawk, tiny claws pricking at the nape of his neck. “Or not. Sorry about that.”

The other man’s lips curve in amusement as he draws his hand back. “It’s fine. Patience, as you said.”

Nie Huaisang begins packing up his pouch. The unease from before has faded into a more readily ignored feeling, especially since the disciple hasn’t actually done anything to deserve it. “Do you want to walk back to the pavilion? Da-ge won’t be happy if I stay out much longer. He’s probably not happy with me for staying out this long already, actually.”

“I appreciate the offer,” the other man says as he stands and needlessly dusts his clothing. “But I live in a different part of the compound.” Another smile, slow and interested in a way that makes Nie Huaisang’s face grow warm again. “There are still two more days left in the tournament. Perhaps we’ll cross paths another time.”

“Ah- well- shouldn’t I know your name, then? You already know mine.”

The strange disciple bows, smooth and sharp, not even a fold of cloth wrong. “This humble one is simply Han-er. I look forward to our next meeting, Nie-er, gongzi.”

It is only later, after Nie Huaisang has returned to his own room with the rosefinch, that he realizes somewhere the ‘perhaps’ had become a certainty.

---

They do cross paths again, more than once, in fact. 

After the second encounter, Nie Huaisang can’t help but notice that Han-er always seems to find him when he’s entirely alone. 

A spy, maybe? 

Maybe not. He’s been keeping track, and Han-er has never asked him anything particularly pointed about Da-ge or their cousin or anything about them that might be considered ‘vital information’, just the occasional offhand curiosity about their relationship dynamics. Their sects may be on bad terms -very bad terms- but Han-er has been nothing but polite.

By the time of their fourth meeting, he feels guilty for ever having had such suspicious thoughts about the man.

“And how is Minsheng doing this morning?”

“Besides being crushed under the weight of such an auspicious name?” Nie Huaisang asks cheekily, earning another of those amused smiles.

“You cannot deny he has earned it.”

He can’t, really. Once no longer in constant pain, Minsheng has become chatty enough that the finch has received at least one threat of being roasted and eaten.  “He’s recovering at a good pace. I worry about taking him home, though. With the differing climate, he’ll be miserable while his feathers are growing back in.”

Han-er inclines his head and looks away. “Why not leave him with me?” he asks after some consideration. “I do not have your experience, true, but our time has been... enlightening. And he likes me well enough, now.”

It’s… not a bad idea, really. If Nie Huaisang changes the bandages again just before he leaves, all that should be left to do surgery-wise would be to remove the stitches, and he’s seen that Han-er has a steady enough hand for that… “I can draw up some notes for you this afternoon and deliver them and Minsheng before the closing ceremony, would that be alright?”

“Perfect.”

---

He doesn’t actually see Han-er again before his sect departs to go home to Qinghe, having been forced to leave Minsheng and his notes with a guard who’d smirked at him in an extremely discomforting way. It brings back the troubled feeling lurking in the back of his head and leaves him unsure whether he’s unhappy to have missed the meeting, or somehow relieved. 

When word comes several days later that the Cloud Recesses have been burned, he decides on relief.

---

His stomach churns unhappily in a mix of unsatisfied hunger and nausea as they’re dismissed back to their cells after another day of grueling work and so very little food. Each step feels like he’s trying to slog through knee deep mud, and by the time he makes it to their designated hallway, he’s starting to feel dizzy.

Something… something’s wrong. Had the food been spoiled? But no, no one else seems to be...

“Young master?” asks one of the other Nie disciples.

“I’m fine,” he lies, even as it feels like the floor rolls under him like the deck of a boat.

He falls and doesn’t remember hitting the ground.

When he opens his eyes again, the disorientation persists. Something noisy is going on nearby and whatever he’s lying on, it’s too comfortable to be the paper-thin pallet mattress he’d been subjected to for over a week.

This isn’t his cell… Where…?

What is that noise?

Confused, head swimming, he tries to sit up and finds that his hands have been bound behind his back. Before he can start to panic, gentle hands squeeze his shoulders and assist him in rolling over. 

He dimly registers that the sound he’s hearing is the chattering of a bird.

But why would there be a bird-?

A familiar figure leans over him, long fingers sweeping his hair out of his face and down his cheek in an affectionate caress. For the briefest moment, he is grateful to see the face of… perhaps not a friend, but at least someone he knows.

Then ice cold terror seizes his insides when his eyes register the crown on the man’s head.

The Eternal Sun.

“Tell me, little bird,” Wen Ruohan says, smile sharp as a knife’s edge and gaze hungry. “Was I patient enough?”

__________

((Author Note: Okay, so, like, if I’m not remembering wrong, Novel!Ruohan is described as ridiculously young-looking because of his high cultivation. Like, we’re talking 19-ish even though he and Jin Guangshan are the only Great Sect leaders who have at least one fully adult child at the time of the Phoenix Mountain competition. So I thought, what if he leaned in to it? Suckered the other sects by having an older proxy take his place at meetings and conferences so that no one actually knows what he looks like except for some of the Wen Sect’s inner circle?))

[capsized-heart]

Sky Castles

Pairing: Laurie x Reader, Jo x Reader

Summary: Summer has always been your favorite season in Plumfield. Perhaps it’s the lovely, sunny mornings and cool, calm nights, or perhaps it’s the fact that you and Laurie and Jo are practically inseparable in midsummer. 

Follows the summers from childhood into young adulthood, with turmoils of the heart along the way.   

Word count: 6.1k+

Warnings: fluff!!!!!!!!

A/N: hi, everyone. I hope you’re all staying safe and well! Right off the bat, I want to mention that I’ve pinned a post on both this blog and my main blog @sarapii-peachy​ about resources for the BLM movement to raise awareness and petitions you can sign to help make a difference on a smaller scale. Everything counts!

i’m back and now with a bachelor’s degree :’) class of 2020 high school and college esketit!!! we did it!!! in this historic pandemic!!! Sorry I’ve been gone for a bit, this fic has been my rocky transition/attempt out of writer’s block after my INSANE last semester of uni and with all the craziness going on in the world. I hope you can channel and take in some of this innocent happiness and childhood glee into your own lives as we navigate the shitshow that is 2020. Saoirse x Timmy x Reader here to cure me of my depression lmao

this title is also based off a chapter in the Little Women book where Laurie, Jo, and the girls go to a park and gaze at the passing clouds and talk about their futures...it’s honestly really sweet. Loosely based off of that! 

Comments and feedback would be greatly appreciated on this💛! Not that you guys don’t leave love, but this fic like I mentioned is my attempt at kicking writer’s block in the ass, please let me know how I did! :) talk to me I missed you guys :)

tags: @ravenmoore14 @monikakrasnorada @dangertoozmanykids101 @toozmanykids​ @adawn1970​ @mrchalamet-mrstyles @chavezlikesthings @loveylangdon@daygiowvibe @statisticlytimmy @ceexreverse​ @bamposworld​ @lilttletimmy​ @cindere-llaaa​

gif credit to @sheisraging​

You love New England for its rich, distinct seasons, how they each paint the countryside in eloquent sweeps of shade and hue. Snow, sun, and breathtaking landscapes of fall color that tinge the treetops throughout the year. You love Plumfield, Massachusetts more for the warmth and love the March sisters have shown you, each alike in personality, nature, to the equinoxes that have shaped your girlhood, each tender memory from your youth synonymous with Meg, Amy, Beth, and Jo. 

 Autumn. Cozy and comfortable, where motherly Meg showed you how to heat and dip caramel with the apples you’d carefully picked from the orchard for a rare treat, the kitchen swirling with the aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg, turmeric, and spices that left you feeling aglow. She’d taught you how to use an embroidery hoop, how to let dough rise, how to bake a proper pie and how to fix any clothing tear with a simple needle and thread, her compliments quick for your ever growing domestic talents. 

Winter. Like cool, ambitious Amy with her painting and taste for luxury and pleasure, how she would praise you for being the only subject suitable for her artwork. Laurie would moan and complain about sitting for hours by the fireside, begging to be excused to go play in the snow, but never you. Amy called you her muse, arranging your hair and skirts to her liking, softening your lips and cheeks with a touch of rouge. It was always such fun to make a day out of modeling for Amy’s portraits, talking and laughing as she’d set up her paints.

Spring. Sweet and angelic like little Beth, windows wide open as her piano trills would float on the warm air, curtains ruffling in the breeze. You’d sit beside her on the piano bench and turn her sheet music for her, to which Beth would give you a shy, rosy smile in thanks. She taught you how to play Chopin and Tchaikovsky, duet pieces where you’d accompany her on the keys, harmonizing with chords and your fingers flying easily together.

Summer. Your favorite season, refreshing, bright, where you and Jo would spend balmy days and long, cool evenings tucked beneath the shade of tree trunks and willows as you’d read in the sun, listen to Jo’s carefully crafted stories. Her creativity and imagination never failed to amaze you, how her writing could transport you to the farthest countries, or keep you grounded in whatever fantastical setting she’d constructed for herself. She’d often write about the two of you; two young girls, best friends who’d have all sorts of dazzling adventures exploring the corners of the world, without the taxing responsibilities of chores, or schoolwork, or the foreboding, inevitable reality that one day you will be young adults and childhood would be gone forever. You’d have picnics and excursions to the nearby fields, dozing in the sun and picking wildflowers, splashing and wading through the rivers and creeks when the heat became unbearable. Before Laurie would come and spoil your fun, of course. Then, you and Jo and Laurie would be like three rowdy boys playing in the woods, your laughter echoing off the trees and sparkling waters. 

You first meet Theodore Laurence as a young girl in the fields connecting the March’s property and your own. You live just down the road from the March sisters, your house tucked away beyond the bend and you’d make the trek across the meadow and grasses daily to visit your neighbors. Being an only child with your father off fighting for the Union, the March house was like your second home and the girls and Marmee and Hannah always made you feel like part of the family, your own loneliness long forgotten as soon as you’d step through the door and you’d be welcomed back with laughter, squeals, and embraces.

Today, you are seeking the company of your friends as usual, returning a book Jo had lended you with a basketful of scones you’d baked in repayment. A recipe you’d learned from Meg. The autumn air is surprisingly warm against your skin, indian summer, flushed and golden and dappling the plains. It makes you smile softly, your mood pleasant as you gather your skirts in time with your step, adjust your basket. 

Then, you see him. A boy making his way in the same direction, dressed smartly in a black woolen coat and matching trousers, a silk scarf tastefully tied around his throat. His curls are windswept and tousled, his gait relaxed. He feels your gaze and looks up, eyes finding yours and the corner of his mouth ticks up in a friendly smile. Warmth floods your cheeks. You quickly duck your head.

He looks to be your age, but you’ve read tales of highwaymen and bandits roaming the countryside, how they’d feign kindness, only to strike unsuspecting travelers. Perhaps it was the work of Jo’s overactive and contagious imagination playing at your nerves, but why was he heading towards the March’s? You think of little Beth, how boys and newcomers made her nervous, timid. Your resolve hardens protectively. You have to keep this stranger away from the girls. 

Your pulse hammers in your throat as you lift your head to see the boy still looking your way. He waves his hand in greeting. 

“Hello!” he cheers. 

With your eyes still locked, you pick up your pace and keep your silence. Curiously, the boy finds this amusing, laughing, making it into a game as he too begins to walk briskly towards the house, of who will reach the door first. You narrow your eyes, summoning as much hostility and wickedness to your expression, demeanor as you can muster. The two of you are running now, his grin wide and eager, your own mouth twisted with hard concentration as you race each other.

Your chest is heaving when you brace yourself against the doorframe, blocking his way with your arm, back against the wood. He’s not a second behind you and is already on the stoop when you turn to face him.

“Are you Jo’s friend?” the boy asks you with a breathless, easy smile. “You’re quite fast, even faster than her.” He adds. He’s practically bouncing on his feet, jovial and buzzing with energy. The mention of Jo’s name curbs your distrust further. Bandit may now be off the table, and the thought makes you feel a bit foolish now, but how could Jo befriend such a strange boy without you knowing? How did he already seem to know who you are? 

Up close, you notice his eyes are green and mischievous, reflecting back the shimmering plains in flecks of amber as he gazes at you, your pulse fluttering ever so slightly…

You scold yourself internally. 

Handsome or not, he was undoubtedly a boy of trouble who had somehow won over Jo’s attention. And no easy feat, might you add. Headstrong and resolute, Jo’s circle of friends was quite small outside of you and her sisters, and you liked it that way. You’d like to keep it that way as well. 

You feel a sharp, ugly pang of jealousy curl in your stomach. You stick out your lower lip in a pout, turn up your nose in a way that would certainly earn a scolding from Marmee if she were to see your impoliteness. 

“Who are you to ask?” You snap.

Your words do not take the desired effect on him. Instead of hurt, or embarrassment, the boy smirks at you, amused. He cocks his head to one side and leans back on his heels, studying you like you’d just asked him why the sky is blue. His mood is breezy, amiable. 

“I’m Laurie. Is that better?” he offers with a comical pout of his own. You wrinkle your nose. This boy was starting to irritate you more and more.

“Surname?”

“Laurence.”

“Laurie Laurence? My, how silly and dull.”

He laughs, a low and pleasant sound that threatens to melt your angry facade. He shakes his head, hands in his pockets. 

“It’s a pet name. Jo calls me Teddy, but you may call me whichever you like,” he says. Your jealousy burns brighter, flushing your skin, twisting together with a hint of desire and yearning. 

You were once Jo’s everything, her favorite companion. She made this clear with how she’d tell you plainly, how she’d spoil you with compliments and stories and affection. And now, it seemed Jo knew another, this Laurie, well enough to call him Teddy when you had no pet name of your own. She seemed to speak of you, which would explain Laurie’s cordiality, but did she tell him how you were the only one she felt comfortable enough with to critique her writing? How she would encourage your aspirations of becoming a dancer by arranging the foyer into a stage and cheering for you while sitting atop the staircase like an admirer in the box seats? How the two of you could jest and play for hours with nothing but your imagination, crying from laughter until your bellies ached?

You feel a sense of betrayal and heartache at this, an intrusion, a tirade of emotions you can’t quite explain. Did you want Jo all for yourself? Did you want to befriend Laurie as well? Did you just want to be someone’s everything again and to be doted on and loved? 

Then, Laurie’s voice tapers into a quiet hum, a touch of softness. You hear the first indication of bashfulness as he looks down at you through full, dark lashes. “I hope the three of us can be good friends. I’d like to know you as well.” He murmurs. 

You don’t know what to think of him. Your chest feels tight and your cheeks burn, from anger or passion you can’t quite tell. You’re contemplating leaving your basket on the doorstep and shoving past him to go back home when you suddenly hear a clamor of voices and the turning of the knob and then the door falls open behind you. 

Laurie catches you before you can tumble through the entryway, hands finding your waist. Jo, vibrant and chipper as ever, lights up when she sees you and her sky blue eyes shine like glass. She has her cap fitted over her wavy blonde curls, skipping into your arms and for a moment you’re sandwiched between the two of them. You flush scarlet. 

“Oh, good! You two have met. Goodbye, Marmee! I’m going out!” Jo calls into the house, her voice overlapping with her sisters’ as they all greet you in a burst of chaos. But before Jo can usher you outside, you feel your childish temper flare and you squirm out of her reach and back through the open door and into the house. You set your basket onto the table, turning to hide your face in Amy’s shoulder with a flutter of your skirts as you feel the hot sting of tears prickle your eyes. You weren’t going to let this Laurie boy see you cry upon your first encounter.

“I’m not coming.” You mumble. Amy’s hand comes to soothingly pet back your hair with a hush of surprise and you sense her look to Jo with a characteristic glare.

“Jo, what have you done?” Amy presses.

“I’ve done nothing!” Jo retorts with a huff. Then, her voice turns gentle, curious as she speaks to you. “Dear, what’s the matter?”

“She wouldn’t be on the verge of tears if you hadn’t done nothing, would she?” Amy replies. You laugh weakly, tightening your arms around her. “See?” Amy says. “You’ve broken her heart, the poor thing.” 

“Jo’s made new friends,” you sniffle, embarrassed when Laurie’s eyes meet yours. Amy’s arms around you make you feel comforted and safe, brave enough to voice your true burdens when you say, “I’ve been replaced,” and gaze back at Laurie in defiance, protest. He frowns and shifts his weight, looking genuinely sorry with a guilt that touches his eyes. Good, you think. Let him think twice before stealing away your best companion. 

At this, Jo’s expression softens with understanding and warmth as she sees you curl into Amy once more. Jo takes a step into the open doorway, leaving Laurie on the stoop.

“No one could ever replace you, dear,” she says. “I only keep Laurie around for when I’m bored and you aren’t around to play. Look at him,” she gestures in his direction. “He’s aloof and vain, he’s lazy, he doesn’t have an ounce of the imagination you do-” 

“Don’t forget arrogant.” Amy pipes up.

Jo nods, wagging a finger at her sister. “Right you are, Amy. We mustn't forget that.”

Laurie starts to puff up with a temper, his lips twisting together and you can see him struggling with whether to speak up and defend himself, or let the girls have their fun for your sake. Jo goes on, saying he was devious and too pretty for his own good, making you and Amy giggle as she rubs soothing circles into your back. It’s rather polite and charming as you watch Laurie suffer silently, biting his tongue as Jo continues to defame his character before she finally turns back to you.

“I should have introduced the two of you properly, and for that, I’m sorry,” says Jo. “You must have had quite the surprise running into him.” Laurie again glances to you with an apologetic softness, wringing his hands together. “So, what do you think, Teddy? Are we ready to start afresh?” Jo asks him, hands on her hips. 

This makes you laugh, bubbly, your mood perking up as you finally lift your head from Amy’s shoulder. Of course, Jo would be able to comprehend your grievances and somehow peg Laurie with the blame, how she knew your heart was delicate and tender and so full of devotion that you were quick to hold grudges. Your envy dissipates and you feel a bit sorry seeing Laurie now in such low spirits, his theatrical demeanor now quiet and modest. 

“If she’ll have me,” Laurie murmurs, glancing up at you with such a pureness in his glittering eyes that regret starts to settle in your stomach.

“And I’ve written more of that story you enjoyed so much,” Jo holds out a hand to you. “Won’t you come hear what happens next?” she asks. Slowly, like the pull of a magnet, you untangle yourself from Amy’s arms and cross the room to take Jo’s outstretched hand. 

“Alright.” You say at last. Jo beams and cradles your face with her other hand, swiping away your tears with her thumb. You let her baby you like she would with Beth, enjoying her touch against your cheek. 

“That’s my sweet girl.” She smiles.

You then look to a sheepish Laurie and extend a hand, filled with new courage. You tell him your name and echo back his words that you hope the three of you can indeed become good friends, that you and Jo could do well with another acquaintance. The smile Laurie gives you is genuine, sweet and gentle, the corner of his mouth turning up in crooked delight. He clasps your hand warmly.

“I would want nothing more.” Laurie laughs. 

And with that, nestled between Jo and Laurie, you step back outside into the rich and golden light of a warm autumn afternoon, curious, excited for what adventures the day will bring you. 

**

Laurie joins your duo swimmingly and the rest of the year passes in pleasant tranquility as the three of you spend nearly every waking moment by each others’ sides. All Hallow’s Eve finds you dressed in a costume of French royalty, a pompous and comical gown of ballooning fabrics, complete with a powdered wig of pins and curls. You’ve painted your face with overlined lips and the trademark mole below your eye and the March sisters double over with laughter as you enter the foyer, fluttering your paper fan with an aristocratic pout, Laurie saluting your entrance with a roar of, la plus belle fille du monde! Jo is dressed as a fearsome pirate, outfitted in boots, breeches, and a captain’s hat, the wooden sword you and Laurie helped to paint swishing through the air as she parades into the room. Laurie enters last with a bang and a flash of white powder, appearing before your eyes in true magician fashion with a top hat and cane, a false mustache pasted onto his upper lip. All six of you then march across the field to the Laurence residence, now alight with carved pumpkins and lanterns, for your All Hallow’s Eve party of sweets and games.

Christmas brings festivities, flurries, and cheer. Sledding, ice skating, days of cold and winter fun making snow angels and snowmen, decorating the March house with holly, mistletoe, culminating into a hearty turkey dinner as you sit perched next to Laurie. The candlelight is homely, the sound of laughter and clinking silverware washing over you and you catch Laurie’s eye as he lifts his fork to his mouth. The two of you grin, leaning into each other with quiet happiness, heads bowed. You and Laurie both mirror each other in being only children, meaning these times together have been filled with welcome camaraderie. Where your instances of yearning for the companionship of siblings that only those without can understand, you’ve found company in each other, never a dull moment, never lonely. 

The thaw of spring keeps you tucked away indoors with torrents of rain pelting against the roof. Jo reads to you aloud from her novel, asking for your thoughts every so often as you and Laurie lounge on the sofa. When you articulate a point of slight critique on Jo’s use of character, Laurie teasingly tugs on a lock of your hair with a smirk. 

“How perceptive.” He murmurs, grinning.

You swat his hand away, glaring at him in mock anger. 

And as the days grow warmer, so does your heart. You’ve learned to share your affection between Laurie and Jo in a way you think is equally matched and that autumn day where you’d been so sour to both of them seems like ages ago. Soon after that incident, your bravado had quickly morphed into appreciation and Jo had been eager to break the ice between you and Laurie. And like all children, your differences and jealousy had been set aside as you’d discovered he was quite fun to be around. Laurie shared Jo’s quick wit and intelligence, like an androgynous mirror, so much of yourself also reflected in both of them in time and they in you. And yet, Laurie had a certain charm about him; how he could have the two of you in stitches and still maintain the air of sophistication that was so often expected of the Laurence boy. Admittedly, you were thrilled to have them both as your best and favorite playmates. 

In turn, they had done the same, showering you with loving attention and teasing, keeping you entertained with their bickering, quarreling over how they both wanted to occupy your time with their respective ideas for sport. Fighting over you. The thought of it makes you blush furiously. Yet, you feel cared for, like the most precious thing in their lives.You’ve also selfishly enjoyed being the apple of their eye and all the privileges that has bestowed; Jo writing you into her stories, featuring you as a beautiful sugar plum fairy, and Laurie promising to write you a French ballet, to someday whisk you off to Europe to experience high art and culture. 

At last, spring turns to summer and the three of you are back to mischief and horseplay in the great outdoors. The days are lush, agreeable, bright and pleasant with flashing sunshine and lofty clouds. You’re again reminded why summer to you is synonymous with Jo as you run together through the waving fields bursting with flowers, Laurie right on your heels as he too gives chase. 

“Jo! We were only kidding about the toads!” Laurie calls out from behind you. “It’s not like I have one in my pocket this very moment who’s squirming to get free and might have bitten me earlier when I caught him by the river and-”

He gives a shout of surprise and you hear his footfalls pause in the grasses. You and Jo both turn, breathless, already laughing when you see Laurie hopping about like hot coals are burning beneath his feet.

A small pond frog wiggles out of his pocket seam with a croak and then disappears into the meadow, waddling with great speed. With out-turned pockets and wrinkled trousers, Laurie stands there with his hands on his hips, confidence and humor masking his faults as always.

“My, they grow up so fast, don’t they?” Laurie says as he looks out over the crest of the hill with a humorous glint in his eyes, like a mother watching her child leave for the vast, cruel world. You and Jo collapse into a fit of giggles, holding each other upright by the shoulders and gasping for air.

**

Eternal summer and sun, a tender paradise. And as midsummer arrives, so does the heat. It’s stifling, heavy, the kind that suffocates and forbids any excessive movement or play, when being idle is perfectly acceptable, a rarity for you three young adventurers. Today, even nature herself seems to be drowsy from the stifling weather. Sunflowers droop from the weight of honeybees as they float lazily over the fields. Birds chortle from the treetops, as if too tired to fly, their song intertwining with the rustling grasses, tousled by the rare cool breeze. The sky burns a dome of brilliant blue above you, filled with towering, cotton white cumulus clouds. You watch as they drift slowly over the horizon. Like colossal ships at sea. 

You rest your head on Laurie’s chest and he toys with your hair. Jo dozes with her arms pillowed across your stomach and the three of you are a sleepy dog-pile of limbs. The feel of Laurie’s fingers makes you relaxed, drowsy. You hear Jo then give a soft snore and you chuckle.

“What is it?” Laurie asks. You can already hear the smile in his voice, how just your laughter is enough to amuse him too. You shake your head against his chest and the movement makes you giggle again. Laurie joins you, flopping out his legs, the heat making you both delirious and loopy.

You reach up blindly and give him a firm nudge, your hand landing just under his chin.

“Stop it, you’ll wake her.” You scold him with as much seriousness as you can muster and failing miserably. 

“Ow,” Laurie groans. He grasps your wrist, moving your hand to place it against his cheek and he puckers out his lower lip. “You’ve hurt me, I’m unwell.”

“Oh...Laurie, I didn’t mean it..” you sit up and coo, caressing his skin. Laurie looks pleased, a flash of playfulness in the green of his eyes as you lean towards him. “Let me take a closer-” 

You cuff him on the ear ever so lightly, catching him by complete surprise and Jo wakes, cackling, throwing her arms around you. 

Later, the three of you gaze up at the passing clouds, a comfortable silence settling over you all as you enjoy the afternoon.

“If we could fly up into those clouds and there was a castle with anything your heart desired, what would it be?” Jo asks. “Where do you two see your lives leading you?” Her tone is pensive, romantic. You and Laurie both hum in thought. 

“You first, Laurie.” You murmur. 

Laurie turns to look back at the bright blue sky, to the billowy clouds that look like spun sugar candy. 

“I want to live abroad in Europe and be surrounded by music, my music. I want to compose, I want to be renowned for my operas.” He declares with a proud puff of his chest. Jo nods, you give his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“That sounds very much like you, Teddy,” Jo says. “A bachelor making art in Europe, how capital.”

He makes a face, then winks at you out of the corner of his eye. You stick out your tongue.

“You can do it if you stay focused,” you add. “No more billiards, for a start.” 

Laurie wrinkles his nose. “And what is it that you want, prima donna?” he asks you in challenge. 

You turn away with a roll of your eyes, gaze to the heavens. The thought comes to you easily as you listen to the birds, feel the breeze tickling your skin, drinking in the sky. 

“I want to be a ballet dancer in a prestigious company. I want to tour the world.” You say softly. Before, you would have felt embarrassment to share such an ambitious dream. But something about this moment, of being with Laurie and Jo makes you feel brave and safe enough to speak your mind, to put your words into the universe and have it come to fruition. Like a magic spell of sorts. With them here with you, you feel like any dream is possible.

Another chorus of hums and Jo looks pleased at your response. Laurie smirks up at the horizon.

“No fair if it’s likely to happen,” he laughs. “That’s cheating.”

“Oh, hush,” Jo chides with a rather hard sock to Laurie’s arm. She ignores his whines as he recoils and grumbles dramatically. “You’re well on your way, dear,” Jo tells you. “Now that you’ll be in that New York production next summer, I’m sure your opportunities will be plentiful.”

You hope she’s right. You’d secured a role as an ensemble dancer in an upcoming production of Romeo and Juliet, your most prestigious show as of yet in your young and budding career. Jo’s warm praise makes you blush like the flowers surrounding you, pink and full. Laurie’s quick eyes catch this, envious, and he changes the subject, a muscle ticking ever so slightly in his jaw. 

“And you, Jo?” He asks tightly. 

Jo exhales, crossing her arms behind her head. “Being a writer, of course. A great one. I don’t want to settle for less.” 

“Doubtful,” snides Laurie. “I don’t see it.”

You and Laurie look to each other with a quiet smile.

“No, not with all the prizes you’ve won,” you add. “Impossible.”

Jo shoots upright, too quickly for the heat. She slugs Laurie again.

“Ow...Jo, it’s too hot for your beatings,” he moans. “Don’t be a poor sport.”

She doesn’t answer him, only gives him a final push and hunkers back down onto the grass, turning her back to him with a huff.

“Why am I the only one that ever gets hit?” Laurie grumbles, opening his shirt to cool himself off and throws his forearm across his eyes for shade, frowning. You giggle, curling up beside her.

“I believe in your abilities, Jo.” You whisper to her. She takes your hand. 

It’s not long before the three of you are fast asleep in the sun. 

**

And as the seasons and summers roll on and the fruits of childhood begin to slowly ripen with the passing years, you find your companionship with Laurie and Jo changing and growing like never before. Your friendship starts to blossom into fondness, adoration. Indeed, you’ve loved them as playmates and companions since the three of you were children, but as you flourish amidst that quaint, strange, and budding pocket of time when young men and women come of age, where you and Laurie and Jo are now struck with bashfulness and an awareness of being alone with each other, your love for them arches and glows like summer sunset. 

This makes you acutely conscious of your appearance and dress, your posture, how you carry yourself, your mannerisms. How did your hair look? Did you laugh too loudly? Would Jo think your comments about her writing were too harsh? Why did you feel such warmth in your chest every time you saw her? And why were you starting to anticipate Laurie’s company? Why did you always have a sharp hope that he would come around with every visit of yours to the March residence? The constant whir of thoughts and worries was enough to make your head turn with heaviness, make you collapse from the pressures of simply existing.

“You’re acting odd,” Laurie tells you one day.

The two of you lay in a meadow with summer buzzing all around you, resting beneath the drooping leaves of a willow tree. Jo had been unable to join you as she had Beth’s lessons to teach that afternoon, much to her own disappointment and promising to make it up to you soon with an affectionate pinch to your cheek. You’d considered going home then. The last thing you wanted was to be left alone with Laurie, that familiar crush in your chest, an inkling of dread coupled with a shortness of breath, fear and excitement. You were terrified. But when he’d taken your hand and asked you so sweetly to accompany him to the meadow’s waters, how could you possibly refuse? 

But of course, Laurie was quick to notice your nerves. 

“The heat is getting to your head,” you say evenly with eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the sun on your face. “Besides, that’s rather rude.”

You hear him move and feel his presence directly in front of you, as if leaning in.

“It is a bit hot, do you feel up for a swim?”

This makes your eyes snap open. Following Jo’s mannerisms, you give him a shove in the chest. “You’re vile,” you grin. 

To your surprise, Laurie’s teasing, playful demeanor is nowhere to be found. His gaze is instead thoughtful, holding your own like you are all he sees. Immediately, you feel your pulse kick up in the side of your throat.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he continues with a shake of his head. “You don’t seem like yourself. I thought a change in our routine could be refreshing.”

You give a light shrug of your shoulders. “I feel fine,” you say. 

He brushes the back of his hand against your forehead. He hums, then curls his fingers down along the planes of your face to rest on your cheek. 

“You’re flushed,” he murmurs. 

Time seems to slow. The roar of blood deafens your ears and the fragrance of the sweet waters and blooms around you is overwhelming, sunlight refracting like prismed rainbow. Laurie kisses you then, a gentle touch of his lips, tilting your chin up to meet him. A sweetheart’s kiss, one that tastes of summer secrets as you’re shaded by vines and mist. When you break apart, he keeps his hand cradled against your cheek, his thumb circling the corner of your mouth.

You don’t know what to say. You’re speechless, your chest rising and falling softly, staring back at him with wide, surprised eyes. Laurie looks reflective, emerald irises half-lidded.

“What am I to tell Jo?” you whisper to him. Heat diffuses through your body like desert wind. You feel elated, cherished, frightened, embarrassed. Guilty. Laurie’s eyes flicker once more to your lips, his dark lashes fluttering with the movement. His smile is melancholy, yet knowing.

“You love her, too.” Laurie hums. It’s a statement, a confirmation of your feelings for both of them. The fact that the boy you’ve adored for so long has uttered your very thoughts out loud should have you completely mortified, yet there’s a small sense of comfort knowing he’d understand. Laurie knows this because he himself feels the same way, knows you or Jo or himself could never bring themselves to choose.

Laurie’s smile prompts you to lace your fingers together in the grasses and you give him a light peck on the cheek. He brightens up, raking a hand through his black curls. 

“You love me.” Laurie beams.

**

When you tell Jo about the kiss, she’s dancing with you on the porch in the evening light. Inside, you can see Marmee and the girls entertaining themselves through the windows as you practice your pirouettes. Jo is dressed in her writing jacket and trousers, keeping you balanced as she plays the part of the male dancer, perfectly competent. 

“What an impish boy,” Jo says of Laurie. You laugh and the two of you continue your steps, running through the dance number in a private rehearsal. Laurie is due to rehearse with you the week before your performance and the thought itself is enough to make butterflies explode in your stomach. Jo is a strong, leading dancer, while Laurie is graceful and firm, both capable of making the palms of your hands sweat with nerves. You know in your heart if you could rehearse with them, you’d have no fear on opening night. You’d already be invincible.

“Again from the top, please, kind sir,” you curtsey to Jo. Her smile is giddy and she gives a click of her heels before returning to her starting position. 

“Of course,” she responds. Taking your hand, she guides you through the steps once more, your heart soft and temperate like the evening around you.

**

The sound of applause is warm and full, washing over you as you take your bows. You feel weightless, aglow, eyes brimming with tears. You think you see Laurie and Jo leap to their feet in the audience, but the stage lights are too bright and you cannot see clearly and you think you may faint from happiness. 

In the auditorium, you’re still in your costume of Venetian silks and flowers when you’re swept off your feet by a boisterous Laurie and he twirls you around in his arms, his riding cloak billowing out behind him. 

“There’s our Capulet! You were phenomenal!”

“I’m so proud of you, dear!” Jo practically shouts with excitement, tackling you next in a bearish hug when Laurie finally sets you down. Their praise is boundless, endless, showering you in so much adoration that your heart feels close to bursting. You gather them close, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks.

“Thank you both for everything,” you choke out, squeezing them tight.

Over Jo’s shoulder, you spot Marmee, Meg, Amy, even shy little Beth with a bouquet of flowers and then you let the tears fall when you run to them and you thank your stars for the luck and love you’ve been blessed with.  

**

Another year, another summer soon arrives. You and Jo and Laurie are back in the fields cloud-gazing, a lazy afternoon of heat and leisurely time well spent. Things feel familiar, recognizable between the three of you, yet there’s a sense of distance between now and when Jo had first asked about your castles in the sky all those summers ago. 

 Jo was now making a name for herself in the writer’s world, having won another prize in a New York newspaper. She’d been gaining the attention of devoted readers and critics alike and was now working on a proper novel, her longest project as of yet. She tells you not to worry, that she’ll be sure to feature you as a central character in the same way she’d done as a child, nostalgic tales of pirates and adventure and love.

“My sweet sugar plum fairy,” she’d gruffed, pulling you into another powerful hug.

Laurie had finished his opera, now with aspirations of pulling funds together and opening a production in Europe. He was still in the midst of planning and conversing with his grandfather about finances and departure dates, but it seemed like Laurie’s promise of spiriting you away to Europe could now become a reality. And with the possibility of your very own French stage debut! 

Thus, you three souls were being tugged into three far corners of the globe, to your respective callings. The realization scares you, to know that this may be one of the few times you have left together. But underneath it all, there was a sense of excitement to see the world and make it your own. You were satisfied, proud knowing that the three of you had come so far with your aspirations and you had no doubt you would find success in your art.

In the comfortable silence, serenaded by the hum of cicadas and birdsong, you gaze up to the clouds gliding over Plumfield, Massachusetts. You feel an aching longing for those childhood days of carefree play, the countless rose-tinted memories of Laurie and Jo by your side, yet looking up at the sky, you know these memories of summers past will always be with you. 

And there would be better and more to come. 

[greenninjagal-blog]

The Space Between Us

Alien au? Alien au! I have no self control! Please accept this one shot that quickly spiraled into 23 pages of Virgil being a disaster in space. (If you guys enjoy it, let me know because I’m considering making it a series.)

Summary: The cosmos is a Gigantic place and somehow Virgil’s past still catches up to him.

Words: 11400

TW: Human trafficking, Human experimentation, dehumanization, fighting rings, 

Quick taglist: @chelsvans @dante-reblogs @dwbh888 @glitchybina @faithfulcat111 @felicianoromano @harrypotternerdprincess @holliberries @jemthebookworm @killerfangirl3 @mrbubbajones  @musical-nerd18 @nonasficcollection  @stricken-with-clairvoyancy @the-sunshine-dims @themagicheartmailman @themultishipperchild @thenaiads @treasureofpriam @vianadraws @welovelogansanders  

Read on Ao3 || General Writing Masterlist

“Tell me again why this is absolutely necessary?” Virgil asked, watching Logan’s hands dance across the console. On any other day the sight would be comforting. Every time his digits landed on a key, his nerves glowed with sparks of multicolored light through his transparent crystal skin, creating a beautiful firework show right in front of them all. Logan had told him once it was called Lightdancing, an evolutionary adaptation of the Tenkarie people: their bodies were near invisible in dim light, and they could control the pulses of light just enough to attract other cave dwelling creatures to them before striking the killing blow.

Now, though, the sight made Virgil’s stomach churn. Logan’s lights were a calculated system that he had trained to hone better than most of his race: he could make any part of his body glow at a brightness ranging from a flickering candle light to a flood light, he could make his whole body radiate or he could make just the tip of one of his sixteen fingers, he could even change the color of the light with just a thought. Virgil had always been glad that Logan was the only Tenkarie that dared venture from their caves on L0-G1C; Logan’s kind had perfected the use lights and dancing which made all other creatures become so nauseated they couldn’t fight back or become so mesmerized by the swirling motions that they didn’t see the attacks.

(Of course, because Virgil was rather distinctly human, it took longer for either of the effects of Logan’s fighting to work, which had saved both their lives more than once.)

However, in contrast to the usual focus of Logan’s fingertips on the control panel, lights were flickering all over his body, up and down each of his four arms and burning from the notches around his neck. The lack of control was enough to make Virgil’s stomach churn.

“Because its Remus,” Roman replied, although it didn’t help that he said his brother's name the same way he might have said puppy kicker.

“And we care about Remus because....?” Virgil prompted, running his fingers over his satchel again, checking the latches to make sure they were still there, still closed, still containing the supplies within. “If my memory serves me correctly, Remus was the one that set us up to be ambushed by those space pirates the other week. You know, the ones that nearly killed Patton?”

“We care because, in Erefrenian customs, blood bonds are the most sacred of bonds.” Logan supplied distractedly. “And Remus invoked the Oath of Brothers, which means that if Roman were to ignore his call for aid, Roman’s honor would be forever stained which would prevent him from crossing to the planes of heroes after his death according to the religion of his people.”

“Yeah that,” Roman says, even less excited than Logan at the idea. The bone spikes along his spine had been secreting that red poison that usually only happened when he got annoyed or anxious. Virgil had learned quickly to stay away from him when he was like that: touching it merely made Virgil’s limbs feel pins and needles, but the Orlun thief had screamed until unconsciousness.

It was one of the (very) few perks of being a Deathworlder, Virgil supposed. Most of the things that hurt the other species out here usually had a looser effect on humans because humans rarely made it this far. In fact, it was illegal for humans to get this far by at least sixty doctrines (all of which Logan had filed away in his room). 

Humans were juggernauts-- the alien versions of the boogie man told to children to keep them from acting out. Virgil had seen some of the written documents about his kind, and the tales of bloodshed and terror invoked by merely existing were pretty horrifying. Graphic depictions of humans tearing aliens limb from limb, scientific studies on the amounts of chemicals that humans had absorbed and withstood against, an interview with a survivor of a human rampage who revealed the bite marks left by the so-called beast.

Almost every species out here was just as scared of him as he was of them.

The problem came from the ones that weren’t scared. 

Which, of course, was how Virgil had ended up hundreds of literal light-years from Earth, on a ship with three aliens whom he was pretty certain he would end up dying for sometime very soon. Yurinks were crafty, shameless, bold, creatures, and they were notorious for visiting Earth and abducting humans for individual sale. Weslors ran fighting rings and humans were almost always the safest bets for some quick cash. Quitans were a fan of skinwearing, which was not something that Virgil ever wanted to see, based on the name alone. And Pol’turs loved learning how things worked and paid very handsome prices for human subjects on the space black market.

Virgil, himself, had sold for 300 griot. (Which was apparently a lot, based on the way that Patton’s eyes had quite literally bugged out. Virgil was still trying to figure out the conversation ratio of American dollars to griot and getting nowhere with it.)

“I hate him,” Roman said under his breath as he threaded through the spare armored uniforms in the storage, trying to find one to fit over the rigid bone plates along his back. His tail squirmed behind him as he searched, dragging the spikes through the air. “I hate him so much.” His bone claws cut through the fabric and he growled as he tossed the ruined clothes to the floor. “We’re gonna save him and then I’m going to toss him off into space, myself.”

Logan made an affirming noise, using his lower left arm to nudge his visor back up his nose. Virgil had only caught sight of Logan’s eyes once or twice, as most light strained his sensitive eyes. They had paid a pretty griot for a repair and a spare of his light blocking visor after the first time some space smugglers had surprised them and managed to break the lens. Logan’s pained scream was the worst thing that Virgil had ever heard and he had sworn he’d do anything to avoid ever having to hear it again.

(That had been the first time that Roman and him had truly worked together on something, Virgil noted absently. Between Virgil’s uncharacteristic bloodlust and Roman’s furious wrath they had taken out the smugglers in less than five minutes and they hadn't been very nice about it.)

Looking from the back, Roman resembled a stegosaurus to Virgil. If, like....stegosauruses ran around on two legs, flourished a sword, and were prone to acting like every minor occurrence was a slight against them personally. His red-ish skin had the appearance of leather but was twice as thick, his bone plates were slimmer rounded triangles than Virgil remembered from his kindergarten picture books but they ran from the based of his neck all the way down his back and to the tips of his tail which he liked to use as a spike-ball-and-chain attack along with his ridiculous sword. Virgil couldn’t count the number of times that Roman had nearly taken him out along with the enemy. His claws were only a few inches long but Roman whined like a baby when they broke-- which was ridiculous because his bone plates literally grew back overnight, and the ones on his forearms were made to be taken off and thrown. (Logan had indeed informed Virgil that Erefren grow new bones every moon cycle and proceeded to lose the old ones which Virgil had then mentioned that humans did that too sorta! With their baby teeth! And Roman and Logan had both looked unnerved by that information.)

“I’ve got it!” A voice sang from the ceiling, which was about all the warning Virgil got before a child sized figure vaulted down from the rafters of the teleportation deck right onto his shoulders.

“Jesus! Pat!” Virgil yelled as he stumbled swaying to accommodate the new weight that had stuck itself to Virgil’s back and then wrapped around to hug his chest. “Give a guy a warning, will you?”

Patton giggled, hooking his legs around Virgil’s waist so that he could sit comfortably, swinging the two other satchels he had been sent to fetch from his hands. Roman accepted one of them readily.

“What's a Jeeezus?” Patton asked, stressing the syllables as English terms never really fit right in his tongue. As far as Virgil was aware no species were equipped to speak human languages, although Roman’s Erefren dialect involved some rolling syllables. He probably could have picked up Spanish, if Virgil hadn’t barely passed Spanish III with a C minus. 

To be fair though, that year had been bad. Janus had been in his class, and then he hadn’t. And it was hard to focus on conjugation of verbs when the golden student of the entire school who had sat next to him had been declared dead and Virgil had been the prime suspect of it.

That, and Virgil was pretty terrible at picking up new languages. He had only managed to figure out how to communicate with Logan by luck: hands raised with the fingers spread was a symbol of innocence and fear for the Tenkarie, while a sign of rage and fury for Yurink. This, of course, had also been in the middle of an illegal Weslor fighting ring which Logan had been dragged into and essentially sentenced to die in after being separated from Roman and Patton. 

(Virgil tried not to think too much about those days. Alien blood was still blood and it was very not-good to feel dripping from his hands, even if it was him or them, even if it had been his life on the line, even if it wasn’t another human with heterochromic eyes and smug smirk. Virgil had fought nearly six times before Logan had been his opponent, and that was six times too many.)

Regardless, Virgil was lucky that when Roman and Patton had come for Logan, Logan had remembered his reluctance to fight and insisted that Virgil come with them in an escape. Roman and Patton had their hesitations but Logan wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

(And Virgil who did not understand Common, had honestly thought that Logan had come back to kill him officially. Not a good first impression.) 

Logan had made him flashcards to study from and taught him common in the sitting area of their ship. The endless hours of memorization, the drills, the sentences, all of which helped him more than he thought the others knew. They were something to do with his mind and Virgil had been in desperate need of something to do with his mind those first few months that wasn’t thinking about Earth or home or boys who were dead.

“We could go to Earth,” Logan had offered once during one of their sessions.

Virgil had blinked looking up to from the practice reading he had been studying with a bewildered look. “What?” It had taken a moment for him to realize that he had spoken in English rather than Common, but Logan must have picked up on the meaning of the foreign word anyway.

“You were… badly, ah, stolen,” Logan had said, pointing at the flashcards. “We could give you back.” He had used his lower two arms to mimic the motion of handing something off.

It had been so touching, the way that he had scaled down his speech to match Virgil’s progress, had offered despite Earth being the infamous Deathworld, had been looking at Virgil like he was living being and not just some animal. Virgil had cried.

He should have wanted to go back to Earth, should have wanted to go home, but instead he had begged in his broken, garbled Common for Logan to let him stay in space with them. And Logan had glowed nearly blindingly with purple light, a relief light, a content light, a happy light and promised that he wouldn’t have to go back if he didn’t want to.

Perhaps that had been the day the Virgil had realized he’d die for Logan.

And once Virgil had decided that for Logan it wasn’t hard to decide it for Patton too. The Reytin was just so nice. Even back in those first months when Virgil didn’t know how to talk to them and Patton had been so obviously terrified of him, the alien had made sure that Virgil was eating, that he was sleeping, that he had space when he needed it. Though, Virgil really suspected that their friendship had blossomed so quickly because of Patton's rare Reytin ability to see emotions with his frog-like eyes. Once he realized that Virgil was actually terrified of everything, and it wasn’t just ploy to kill them (or maybe despite that….Virgil hadn’t gotten a straight answer from him), Patton had done his best to befriend him back to good health. 

And Virgil liked being on the ship. He liked his room, which was filled with stupid alien plants he had managed to collect and the weird shapes of the bed. He liked being right down the hall from the kitchen so he could smell when Patton was cooking something, and the way that he could always hear Roman singing in his room. He liked slipping out to the observation deck and just seeing Space the way no other human really had. 

(Its stupid really, that sometimes he forgot it had been three years. Its stupid really, that sometimes he still turned to ask a question of someone who was never going to be there. Its stupid really that he could be so happy and still feel the gaping hole where someone used to be.)

“Oh this is so exciting!” Patton said happily, shaking his hands in the air to show his excitement. “Isn’t this exciting, guys?”

“Exciting isn’t the word I would use,” Virgil said hoisting the smaller creature from around his waist to settle him on the floor carefully.

“More like Vexing! Or perhaps burdensome! Irksome! Problematic!” Roman snarled, finally finding the armor that would fit around his plates and slipping it on. “You know what? Let’s forget it! Remus got himself into this mess and he can get himself out!”

“Now kiddo…” Patton warned, and wow, Virgil sometimes forgot that the alien who was half Virgil's height and twice as lively, was also older than all of them combined. Reytin lifespans were literally off the chart. Patton had been around way back when humans were first declared illegal on this side of the cosmos. “You know that we can’t do that! He invoked the Oath of Brothers so we have to!” 

“We don’t have to do anything,” Roman griped. “Worse case, my soul just becomes eternally damned and I’m shamed by the rest of my race until I die a lonely, lonely death on some distant planet!”

“Must you be so dramatic?” Logan asked.

“You won't die alone!” Patton said, “We’ll be right there with you! Probably even die right next to you as well!”

“No offense Pat,” Roman said glumly, “But that makes me feel like I’m gonna be the cause of your death.”

“It’ll be fun!”

Thankfully before Roman could explain exactly there was nothing fun about making all his friends die, Logan cleared his throat and made his upper two palms glow with a soft blue light. Green and pink bulbs flashed up and down his neck. “I have mapped out the perceived trajectory of the enemy ship so we should be able to beam directly into the hold. However because of possible miscalculations I believe that I should be--”

“--The first to beam aboard as I am the only one who is not affected by the lack of gaseous properties and the extreme temperatures of the expanse of space.” Roman, Patton, and Virgil chorused together. 

“Must you all?” Logan asked, with just enough fondness in his tone for Virgil to know that he wasn’t actually bothered.

“Change up your speech sometime, Teach,” Roman suggested, and then he sighed dropping his head. “You guys are really willing to do this for me? These are mercenaries, you know. If this doesn’t go well they’ll likely sell us for parts.”

Virgil really didn’t need the reminder. Just the thought of once again having his arms restrained, having his clothes striped away, being reduced from a person to a thing used for entertainment, was enough to have Virgil eyeing the door back to the rest of the ship. Even on the off chance that they didn’t try to take him apart to see how he ticked, they would still sell him for griot. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, survive being thrust back into the fighting rings. He’d shake himself apart before they managed to drag him into that dust riddled death trap.

Patton reached up and tugged the edge of Virgil’s under armor tunic, drawing his eyes away from the door and down to his friend. Patton, of course, was smiling, imitating the human action of bearing his teeth (something that Logan had explained was incredibly threatening to all other species and you may want to avoid participating in that activity with Roman in the vicinity, Virgil). 

It was silly things like that that make Virgil hopelessly certain that he would do anything to protect his friends. He didn’t need to worry about being caught and sold off because the others wouldn’t let that happen again, and in turn, he wouldn’t allow them to be taken away either. They were a family, for better or worse.

(He wasn’t going to lose someone again. Not like before. Not without a fight, a trace-- not without Virgil doing every single thing he could to get them back first.)

“We’ll be fine!” Patton told Roman brightly.

“Yeah, cheer up, Princey,” Virgil added, hooking his satchel over his shoulder, “Worse case scenarios are my thing.” He offered out a folded fist, palm up and Roman dutifully knocked his own knuckles against it, as an upside down fistbump (a signal of friendship in Erefrenian). 

Patton let out a chittering and jumped up to knock his own knuckles with them. And Logan’s left forearms flickered pastel pink from the wrist up to his neck and he begrudgingly added his own to the pile.

“Everyone remembers their part of the plan, correct?” Logan asked, letting his two lower arms finish typing a final sequence into the control panel.

Patton sprung in the air, jumping Virgil’s entire height, and shook his palms. “I’ve got the emergency pods and the armory, using Virgil’s thingies to shut down the access to the lower rooms and blocking off escapes as I make my way to the medic bay!” 

“I’ve got the crew quarters to where I’ll use Virgil’s thingies--”

“Can we not call them thingies?” Virgil grumbled. “They’re just EMPs. Barely enough to take out the door locks. And it's likely they won’t do much of anything if this group has an emergency system reboot in case of an electrical surge. It’ll buy us five minutes, max.”

“--Virgil’s thingies,” Roman repeated with his tail rattling in that way that said he took pleasure in Virgil’s annoyance. “To lock as many of the doors as I can, before travelling to the cell blocks to get my brother and his crew and move them to the medic bay where Patton will have the necessary supplies ready incase of injuries.”

“I will take the Bridge,” Logan said, “and act as the major distraction, as Tenkarie are very rare and it is likely that they will have never encountered nor have preemptive measures against my Lightdancing. Once I have control of the bridge I will cut off the communications to other ships in the area and start inputting the redirection course. Once I have the new coordinates I will send them to Virgil for him to implement.”

“I’ve got the engineering deck,” Virgil said, finally, “To make sure they don’t try to blow us all up with the warp core and whatever. Then I’ll redirect the teleporting course and get us home while the rest of you take out the bad guys. Piece of cake.”

Logan’s neck notches glowed red, “There should be no stopping for cake--.”

“Idiom,” Virgil interrupted quickly, “Human saying. Means it should be easy.” 

Logan hummed musically, which sent a vibration of multicolored lights off his shoulders and down under his clothes. “Ah, interesting. This should indeed then be a piece of cake.” He picked up one of the teleportation bracelets from their charging pads and fixed it on his upper right wrist. “I’ve already added in the coordinates to the watches, so merely wait for my signal and press the button.”

Virgil would be lying if he said he didn’t have a little bit of anxiety over their plan. It was pretty slapshot compared to the things that they had put together before, but Remus’s transmission had been shoddy, even after Roman and his combined efforts to clean it up. It was hard to remember that Remus was every bit a ship captain as Roman was with how he had appeared in the picture dressed in ripped and tattered clothes, oozing green poison from his forearm plates, and bleeding profusely from a wound on his forehead. He had been leaning heavily on the communication panel, gritting his teeth through the pain, but his tail had been dancing in the air behind him in the same motions that Roman’s did when he saw a new sword to add to his collection. 

Remus had invoked the Oath of Brothers, spit up blood on the console, and then relayed as much information as he could about the attacking ship. They were lucky, in that way. Most of the Pol’tur ships followed the same base model, which meant that the Bridge was always going to be at the bottom, the engines would be at the top and the engine core center would be between them.

If it was possible Virgil was sure they all would have wanted more time to make a better plan, but they all knew that Pol’turs loved to work quickly. They had already lost three days chasing after the ship, and in that time, Pol’turs could cut apart fifty Reytins like Patton.

They were working mostly on the assumption that the Pol’turs would save Remus for near last, and they were going to be absolutely fucked if they had chosen to chop up the other Erefren first.

In addition, their plan had Virgil avoiding most of the fighting. well, as much as he could while being on an enemy ship. Virgil himself wasn’t sure how he would do in a lot of combat, but they had seen what happened when one of the others were in danger (when Logan’s glasses had broken, when the space pirates had almost shot Patton through both his hearts, when the spikes had been pulled from Roman’s spine by the Quitans before the new ones had grown in--). He could fight, and he could fight well, but the cost was a little bit of Virgil’s sanity and his ability to sleep through the night.

Patton plucked his own teleportation watch from the pad and hooked it on, before offering Virgil his. Well it wasn’t really his, the same way that the red one wasn’t Roman’s and Patton didn’t own the blue one. They were all Logan’s pet projects, but he had tailored them to their favorite colors. It felt a bit like coming home when Virgil clicked the locking mechanism into place and the screen lit up with the digital alien symbols.

“I shall see you all soon,” Logan said matter-of-factly, as if he couldn’t see all the ways that their plan could go wrong. Then with barely more than a breath he clicked the activation button and his form flickered out of existence.

Roman made a nervous noise with the back of his throat, which ended up sounding a bit like the first bars of a Disney song Virgil had forgotten. Virgil gently tapped his tail with the toe of his boot, avoiding the glisten poison spikes. Roman startled just enough to laugh.

“Its funny, you know?” He said, glancing towards Virgil. “A year ago Remus told me he had taken in a Deathworlder, and I thought he was crazy. A Deathworlder? But now that I know you guys I can’t believe I didn’t get my own sooner.”

“Remus has a human on his crew?” Virgil asked.

“Oh, I wonder if you know each other!” Patton added.

Virgil bit back his original comment, and let the weight settle in his stomach. If Remus had a human in his crew there was even more of a chance that Remus was dead, because the Pol’turs had chosen to save the mysterious human for last.

“Earth is a big place,” Virgil said instead. “Like really big. They’d probably be from like Russia or something.”

At the blank stares he got, Virgil tried rewording, “We probably never have met before. Or speak the same language.”

"There's more than one human language?"

Virgil breathed through his nose, warding off a memory of rolling Rs and failed pop quizzes. "Yeah," he said, "Humans can't agree on anything."

Roman thoughtfully crossed his arms, but Patton made a chittering again and bounced, “Oh well! Now you guys are gonna meet! All the way out in space! How cool is that?!”

Virgil hid a smile in his shoulder. Trust the Reytin to find the bright side to everything. 

Roman looked like he had more questions (questions that Virgil wasn't exactly enthusiastic to answer; Earth was a sore topic for him) but mercifully each of their watches let out several musical bars from Patton’s favorite song. The alien shook his palms one last time, beaming at each of them.

“Oh this is gonna be so much fun, guys!” He said right before pressing the activation button and disappearing.

“I’m so going to kill Remus for this,” Roman grumbled, one hand on his sword hilt.

And, really, Virgil agreed with him on that. Tossing Remus into the airlock and ejecting him directly into the void sounded like an excellent plan for when they got back to their ship alive and whole and safe.

“Let’s do this,” Virgil said and jabbed his thumb into the activation button.

***

Predictably, their flimsy plan fell apart within seconds of them appearing on the ship. Starting with, exactly, Virgil did not appear in or near the engineering deck. Instead he had landed approximately two feet above a box in the Cargo hold of the Pol’turian ship, which likely meant he was somewhere left of where he needed to be.

It also meant that the Pol’turs in the Cargo Hold had a grand view of his body blitzing into existence, landing on a crate, and then tumbling off it with a lot of English cursing. It was a mere matter of luck that Virgil was able to roll his body to the side just before the first BZZZTTRRRT of their blasters went off.

(There was an actual name for the guns that most aliens used, and Virgil was pretty sure that it started with a hard K sound but he had never been able to remember it. He stuck to calling them blasters in his head, and hoped somewhere back on Earth George Lucas was proud of himself.)

The Polyfurnish of the crate hissed and sizzled as it took the brunt of the attack meant to vaporize Virgil, and the human hissed another curse as his hands dug through his satchel.

One of the Pol’turs-- the deep purple one although Virgil hadn’t truly been able to catch sight of how many there were-- shouted something in its language. Probably something along the lines of “Stop”, “Surrender”, or “Kill him”. Virgil wasn’t exactly a fan of any of those options.

He had heard them before-- too many times. The hundreds of variations of the terms spat and yelled and cheered down at him, and he scrambled away from the edge of a sword, as he tasted nothing by dust and dirt as he dodged another attempt on his life, as he desperately backed away from an opponent who couldn’t understand that Virgil didn’t want to fight, please, stop, please, I’m sorry, please I don’t want to hurt anyone--

Virgil curled up as another gold blast ricocheted off the top of the crate he was cowering behind. The air was cooler here, he told himself, the air was cooler and the floor was slicker, and he was surrounded by shelves of goods. He was not in a colosseum and he was not in a fighting ring and he was not alone.

He had the others to regroup with and no time to panic over the past here and now. Virgil gritted his teeth, remembering the feel of Roman’s knuckles bumping his, the sight of Logan’s excited lights, the sound of Patton’s laughter, and then his hand wrapped around the homemade smoke bombs in his satchel.

He yanked the pins from their sockets, wound back, and launched them over the crate into the mass of where all the shooting was coming from. Almost immediately the shoots veered off course, and the cavernous room echoed with high pitched screams. Virgil ripped his turtleneck up and over his nose and then he grabbed the edges of the nearest shelf and hoisted himself to a higher area, out of the range of the low hanging gas.

It was a pale red, near pink thing: a concoction formed by Logan out of Roman’s poison that had taken them literal years to perfect. Virgil was mostly immune to it, the same way he was mostly immune to most poisons that horrified the other species. Inhaling it made his head dizzy and his limbs a little numb, which was just unpleasant enough that he tried to avoid inhaling anything when he had the chance. Other species though...they weren’t so lucky. According to Logan, inhaling it allowed it directly into the bloodstream where it would swiftly ignite all the pain sensors in the body and could make one feel like they were being stabbed everywhere at once.

(He knew this, Logan admitted, because it had taken him many times to get it right. His scientific journals recorded experiments #1 through #357 as “unpleasant” and “ill-advised” and Virgil had nearly throttled him when he discovered that Logan had used himself as a test subject.)

Using the shelves he boosted himself another level until his head was parallel with a box of what he thought were floating Welsor hearts, before he scanned the ground under him. There were three Pol’turs on the ground writhing in pain, blasters discarded, and pale smoke floating ominous above them. Their usually languid tentacles flopped up and down on the floor like a bunch of fish out of water.

The glass container next to his hip exploded, missing him by mere millimeters. Virgil cursed as he scrambled up another level, eyes darting around to find where the hell that shot came from. His armor took much of the hit but it was sizzling with heat in a way that was decidedly not-comforting. 

“Up there!” Something shouted.

Another blast missed his ear and a container of Sblorp fangs shattered and sent the teeth spilling to the floor. Virgil kicked his feet through the lower shelf pushing through a crate and a dozen jars of various indeterminable body parts and squeezed his body in the place of them. The crashes on the next isle were rather satisfying.

He ripped the pin from another smoke bomb with his teeth, and felt his tongue buzz slightly as the proximity to the toxin before he launched it out at the direction of the other shooter. There was another scream and Virgil took the time to roll into the next isle and leap back down to the floor. 

The gas still hadn’t cleared around the original three Pol’turs, but they had gone unconscious from the pain, with a few seizing tentacles here and there. Virgil would feel bad about it, really he would, but the last time he had been in a room of Pol’turs they had been discussing how nicely his skull would look in the centerpieces of their tables and tried to buy him for 270 griot.

 His skin tingled the same way he thought it might right before he would get struck by lightning back on Earth. Virgil ignored the feeling in honor of sliding across the polished flooring to the nearest fallen mercenary and hoisting it up as a shield, while he grabbed its blaster from the floor. 

Two blaster shots sunk into his Pol’tur shield and it dissolved into ashes in his hand. Virgil cursed again, raising the blaster with his other arm and using his ash coated hand to slide the trigger, because this blaster-- like all other blasters-- were not made for human anatomy at all.

The last Pol’tur was a sickly orange color, like some type of invasive evil moss with long arms. Virgil grinned as the blast exploded forth in a dangerous golden ray of death. The heat singed the edge of his fingers, although the mild numbness prevented him from feeling much more than the slight pressure he assumed was warmth. The shot went wide, and the kickback sent Virgil to the floor, but it was enough. 

The blast shattered though several items on the shelves and Pol’tur scrambled back to avoid the avalanche of perishables-- scrambled back right into the pink fog of Virgil's last smoke bomb. It was screaming before Virgil could even sit back up.

Virgil inhaled heavily, sucking as much oxygen into his lung as he could afford and breathing it out through his nose. He squeezed his hand around the handle of the blaster, and tried to pretend like his skin didn’t feel too small. His empty hand-- the one that had held the Pol’tur-- was trembling, shaking, burning.

“I just think you’d be better off spending time with someone else.”

“You’re not fooling anyone, Storm!”

“What was it like, Virgil? When you killed him?” 

His hand was covered in soot, tingling from nerves and poison and the heat of the blast that had annihilated all evidence of the living, breathing alien.  

“It wasn’t….” Virgil breathed heavily, “I didn’t….” 

He sucked in another breath, two, three, seven breaths, until he could feel the masquerading gas in the air turn his face numb, and the voices in his head went back to threatening buzzing. 

“Fuck,” he whispered softly, and pushed himself off the ground.

Virgil took the blaster with him, and made a private note to ask Logan to look into building communicators for times like this. There were an untold number of things that could have happened to get them mixed up: the Pol’tur ship could have barrel rolled at the time of, or before the final teleportation codes were in, it could have slowed or sped up, it could have marginally changed direction. All of which just proved that only stupid people like Virgil, Logan, Roman, and Patton would dare attempt a teleportation on a moving ship. Virgil tried not to think about what would have happened if his coordinates had been a little lower in space, a little closer to the box he had landed on, a little more personal and prompted whatever was inside of the crate merged with whatever was inside of Virgil.

It took him a moment to realize that the lights had started flashing an interspaced red and yellow series: a visual alarm to the crew.

“Fun,” Virgil mumbled, hugging the wall next to the exit, with one last breath, and then punching the exit lock. The hydraulics took a moment to work (probably due to excessive use of the doors and wear on the components), but it opened to reveal a brightly lit, completely empty hallway. Virgil raised his blaster, checking both the direction before he stepped out and punched the door closed behind him. Then he lined the blaster up with the door controls and fired.

You know, for safekeeping. The last thing they needed was the Pol’turs inside to wake up with a vengeance and come after them before they were off the ship. 

(If he was still on the ship by the time that they woke up, Virgil was pretty sure he’d be dead. But hey! Surprising things happened all the time when one lived in fucking space.)

The floor was springy under his feet, some mixture of carpet and flooring that Virgil didn’t know the name of, just that it was weird and he didn’t want it in his Sims House. He could feel the fibers through his shoes as he hugged the wall and sprinted towards where he thought the Engine room would be located.

He could hear the sound of more blasters echoing from the depths of the ship, some yelling, some cursing: all lovely signs that Roman was doing his best to be the most annoying moving target anyone had ever seen. Virgil found his lips curling into a smile as he faintly at the noise.

“Oh come on!” Roman taunted, “I’m a big guy! Surely, you can’t be that bad of a shot!” 

There was deafening BZZZTTRRRT, a clamorous crashing, and an ear splitting series of screams. 

Virgil flung around the last corner but in time to see Roman stand up from a kneeling position over a clump of bodies that had probably been more alive a few seconds ago. There were blaster marks all along the walls, and several had blown through a wall revealing a cozy living quarters with giant sword slices in the beddings and floors.

“Oooh, so close!” Roman said with faux-empathy bordering on smugness which at this point should just be his default to the mass. “Maybe next time you’ll think more before attacking an Erefren!” He spun at the sight of Virgil coming around the corner, pointing his sword and then shaking his tail in a greeting.

“Roman,” Virgil sighed in relief. “You okay?”

“Virgil! It seems like I got a little off course! Checked the prisoner cells but they were all empty. And then a few new friends of mine had some fun things to say about Remus.” Roman looked feral as he bared his teeth. He jabbed his sword down into the corpses and something wheezed painfully. Virgil didn’t look at them, didn’t look at them, didn’t look.

“Do you know where he is?” Virgil asked.

Roman used the edge of his shirt to wipe the blue grey blood from the tip of his blade. “Not yet, but if you give me a few more minutes with these lovely fellows of mine I will!”

It did not take “a few more minutes”. Roman hoisted on still gasping Pol’tur up by its gangly neck and it had already started blubbering in a mix of languages. Virgil watched the halls while Roman took notes from their new best friend. 

Half a minute later Roman dropped their captive to the ground with a fire in his eyes and turned to Virgil with his bone plates clinking, and dripping poison.

“He was on the Bridge.” He said, coldly, “He didn’t know if they had finished with Re or not, but he was up there”

“Okay,” Virgil said.

“The rest of his crew, Virgil,” Roman growled, squeezing the hilt of his sword. “His friends! His family!” He stared down at the shaking cowering alien life. “They..!”

The back of Virgil’s throat tasted like his stomach acids. 

Remus had tried to have them killed, he had sold them out, he had been a thorn in their side since before Virgil had become part of the team.  Between the harrowing escapes and the near deaths, it wasn’t hard for Virgil to absolutely despise him.

But his crew? His entire crew? In three days? 

Just….gone?

Condensed into the memories with a snap, removed from the future in just a blink. The initial attack on them must have been bad and bloody for Remus to call them for help, a surprise ambush type of attack. And for all Virgil hated Remus, he couldn’t help but wonder if Remus had had plans with them-- had they been discussing visiting the bars on L3-012 or shopping on K5-369 or relaxing on C2-276? Had Remus made plans with the people he had been close with and now those plans were meaningless because the people he had made them with were dead and gone and never coming ba--

The Pol’tur on the ground giggled something hysterically, one last brave blubbering comment, and Roman took the toe of his boot right into the creature's soft flesh. Its tentacles flopped on the floor with a plu-plat. 

“Virgil,” Roman hissed, without looking up.

Virgil blinked and swallowed hard, “Right, Engines,” He said, turning to go back to his task but Roman reached out and hooked his claws on Virgil’s shoulder, stopping him there.

“Change of plans,” The Erefren said, “You’re coming with me to the Bridge to get my idiot brother.”

Logan was on the Bridge too. Roman didn’t need to have Virgil come with him-- in fact, Virgil shouldn’t come with him. Too many people, too close to fighting, and Virgil couldn’t wipe away the feeling of grit on his hand. 

His entire crew. In just three days. 

Roman didn’t mention anything about how Virgil was shaking from head to toe, and Virgil didn’t point out the way that Roman’s voice wobbled with silent pleading. He just nodded at the alien and let him lead the way towards where they suspected the examination rooms would be.

Two heads are better than one, and all that. 

It was less of a guessing game when the halls and doors were labeled and Roman was very fluent in Pol’turian. Roman was quick to move, quick to sort his way through the poorly designed areas, quick to move. Virgil kept the pace as well as he could, watching the halls behind them for stragglers attempting to get the drop on them and Roman cut down anything in his way. 

Blue grey blood splattered across their shoes, filling the air with a sickly sour smell that made Virgil want to gag. He settled for squeezing the handle of the balster and counting out his breaths again as he avoided Roman’s tail striking forward at astonishing speeds and squeezing his eyes shut when he thought he saw a pair of mismatching eyes in the reflection of the lights.

There was no way for them to go quietly through the halls, not with Roman stomping hard enough to shake the entire ship and his poison attacks turning every enemy into a screaming, begging, crying puddle.

“Roman!” Virgil yelled as heat billowed around them, and the taller alien stumbled back, hit the wall and fell to his knees.

Virgil snarled at one of the mercenaries and fired three times at them. Between the near misses and the scattered yells of “Deathworlder!” they retreated into nearby rooms and locked the doors after them. Virgil tore one of his EMPs from Roman’s belt and sent it flying down the hall to keep them trapped there for a little bit, before he turned to check on Roman.

His shirt was smoldering, and one of his bone plates were cracked, but he just looked out of breath and angry, “I’m fine.” His claws scraped the floor as he stood up. “Armor took most of it.”

Virgil checked the hallway again. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, like a cancerous lump that he couldn’t get rid off no matter how much he swallowed or coughed. It pulsed to a beat that he wasn’t sure he could replicate: too fast and yet the space between each thud had felt like forever. It was so loud he almost was afraid of missing the sounds of another attack.

(An attack where Roman’s armor wouldn’t be enough, where he wouldn’t be able to wheeze off the pain, where he’d hit the wall then the floor and he wouldn’t be able to get back up and it would be all Virgil’s faul--)

Roman’s claws pricked his shoulder as he looked. With a slightly trembling hand he pointed in the direction they needed to go and Virgil did his best not to let his churning stomach get the better of him. 

“Virgil! Roman!” They both spun at the voice; Roman in particular struck out with his tail, and just narrowly avoided impaling Logan’s crystalline chest on spikes.

Logan didn’t even flinch, not that he could really. His lower arms spread with palms out to signal innocence but his upper arms were busy holding up the profusely bleeding Erefren that was leaning mostly on him. Logan’s arms were flickering with so many colors Virgil couldn’t keep track of them. (Vaguely it reminded him of a disco ball, of party lights, of something so Earthly it would have made him laugh if he wasn’t so busy trying to hold back a panic attack.)

“Remus,” Roman breathed, reaching forward, impossibly gently.

“Ro’mn,” Remus slurred, shifting his head ever so slightly. His blood was pooling down the left half of his face, his eyes were partially glassy, but other than that he looked remarkably like Roman: they shared the same face with a strong jawline, the same dark dark hair curled the same way, and the same long tail with dozens of bone plates. The only real difference was the tinge of white in Remus’s hair, the oozing green poison leaking from his bone structures in place of Roman’s red, and the gaps where someone had torn out his bone plates before Remus had grown new ones in.

“Didn’t think…” Remus’s head lulled to the side, showing off the smile he was desperately forcing on his face, “didn’t think… you were comin’.”

“I’m throwing you out of the airlock,” Roman told him.

“‘ounds fun…” Remus murmured, dropping his head back to Logan’s back, and wincing like each inhale was a battle.

“They had him on the Bridge,” Logan explained, “When I arrived, they were attempting to retrieve information from him through barbaric methods. I may have gone overboard with my retaliation.” Logan shifted Remus’s weight slightly, drawing a groan from the other alien. “I am by no means a medical examiner, however, I suspect that he may have several rib fractures, and a few wounds that need to be looked at and well bandaged.”

Roman nodded, although Virgil didn’t think he actually heard anything. Virgil was an only child himself, but he could guess that even if Remus had been the biggest asshole in the entire cosmos seeing him reduced to this weakened, bloody, broken mess was terrifying. From the stories of their childhood, Virgil had always guessed that Remus was as lively as they came. But this version of him couldn’t even stand by himself.

Roman’s head shot up, “Patton. Where’s Pat? We’ve got Re, now its time to get out of here and get him help--”

“NO!” Remus shouted lunging forward suddenly. Logan stumbled at the change of weight, nearly dropping him to the floor, but it seemed that the movement had taken most of the rest of his power. “I can’t… They have…Jay… I prom’sed…”

Virgil checked the hall for enemies because that was easier than looking at the desperation in Remus’s eyes. His voice was scratched and grated like a glass under the assault of a diamond. He coughed so violently it dragged out a glob of purple blood from him.

“Remus, you can’t--” Roman said.

And despite Remus looking like a simple breeze could end his life, he grabbed at Roman’s outreached arm, above the danger of the forearm spikes.“Me and... my crew,” Remus coughed, weakly. “The oath…” 

“I talked to one of those bastards,” Roman countered, forcibly soft, forcibly strained. “Re, your crew is--”

“Ro…” He pleaded, “Please.” 

Roman made a noise like something in him was physically shredding him apart. Virgil suspected it was his hero complex, which usually manifested the urge to save every living being he saw. Lost wasn’t a good look on Erefrens, Virgil decided right then and there. Hopeless and terrified and sad-- all of them made Roman look wrong. 

“What's wrong, Vee? You look like you want to say something.”

“....It’s nothing.”

“What? Not even a joke? Come on, I know you--”

“Let it go, Ekans.”

Virgil blinked away the unwanted memory.  He sighed out of his nose and reached up to hook on the back of Roman’s armor collar. “Let’s go.” 

“Virge…” Roman murmured.

“If we don’t do this now,” Virgil said, “We’ll regret it.” 

He didn’t wait for the others to catch up with his train of thought, or maybe he wasn’t waiting for his own train of thought to catch up. He tugged Roman back a step and nodded at Logan. “We’ll double back and find any crew that’s left and get Pat. You take Remus to the engine room room and get the codes ready for us to get back.”

“For real?” Roman said.

“Understood, Virgil.” Logan nodded back. He glowed purple softly, around his neck notches as if he had expected this after all. “Don’t be late.”

“Time is a construct.” 

Remus laughed like he was choking on a handful of rusted nails. Roman tensed at the sound, gritted his teeth, and then tightened his grip on his sword. Resolved hardened in his eyes, burning through the lost expression like a lighthouse in the middle of a storm. 

“Right,” Roman said, “Let’s go.” Roman grabbed Virgil’s hand and took off in the direction they had come from. “Any guesses where the guy’s gonna be? Or where Pat is?”

Virgil felt his stomach churn. He closed his eyes and let Roman pull him along as he tried to remember the 3D diagram of a Pol’turian ship. “Well if I was in cargo, you landed near the prisoner blocks, while Logan was on the Bridge...that means that while Logan was doing the calculations the ship probably did a half roll on the longitudinal axis, which he couldn’t have accounted for. Since this ship appears to be the same as the other makes and models of Pol’turs that means that Patton probably ended up in the medical bay. And if I had to guess that’s where any last member of the crew would be as well. Take this left here.”

Roman nearly stumbled over his own feet. “How in the name of the Great God, Disney-- have you memorized all the maps?”

Virgil furrowed his brow at the alien, “Haven’t you?”

“Well yes, but--” Roman’s face flushed with a bit of his purple blood, “Nevermind, Deathworlder.”

The medical wing of the ship was easy to get to compared to the other places. It seemed that either the Pol’turs had wisened up for an ambush or they had fled when they had the chance. Either way they only came across two mercenaries and Roman made quick work of them. 

He knew they had arrived by the buzzing of air, the tingle of his skin that made him feel too big and too small at the same time. The walls were bare and there were four rooms lining them, each with a number engraved in the door and the lock panels glowing red with what Virgil guessed was the Pol’turian symbol for “closed” or “locked” or “dangerous chemical inside do not release”. Virgil reached for another EMP, but his bag was empty. There were scents around them, faint scents: something metallic, something sour, something clean, something, something, something--

Something that smelled like blood. So many different kinds of blood.

Virgil swallowed hard. He hadn’t known a lot about Remus’s crew, but he knew that Remus had had a dozen different species with him. A dozen different species that hadn’t survived the encounter. 

“Pat!” Roman yelled down the hall, brandishing his sword. 

“Roman! In here! Help--” A voice that was most definitely Patton’s yelled out.

Roman didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward to the room the voice had come from, almost feverishly, desperately, and he didn’t bother with the password. With a swift violent motion he jabbed his sword into the locking panel and then pried open the door with his claws and his hands.

Virgil thought that it would have been one hell of a sight: if he had been strapped to a table, a knife jab from death’s door, begging, pleading, crying and knowing that all his friends had been taking to the room before him and had not come back out intact? If Virgil had been bleeding out and clinging to the slippery bit of hope that was a miracle, and then he saw his captain’s brother literally prying open the door with his bare claws to get to him---

Virgil thought it would have been pretty awesome.

Not something that should have warranted a knife being thrown at them.

Roman let out a curse in Erefren and it was one of those don’t-repeat-this-don’t-tell-Patton curses that Roman specialized in. He staggered back, clutching his shoulder where the knife had sunk in all the way to the hilt, Jesus! What the hell! Virgil kicked the rest of the door open, dropping low as scalpel skirted by where his body should have been, and then he sprung back up with his blaster set on that asshole. 

Except.

“Virgil!”

The room was small, almost claustrophobically small. Just standing in the doorway made Virgil’s breath shorten (his cell back at the Welsor fighting rings had been bigger than this--). And it was lit with cold harsh white light, nearly blinding, if it weren’t for the greyed walls and the splashes-- the splashes of faded pink and blue and other colors that Virgil recognized all too well as blood. The table took up most of the room, leaving just enough space for a Pol’tur to sweep around and a small hand tray of twisted instruments.

In fact there was a Pol’tur on the ground right there. Limp and unmoving with an eye scoop so far in it’s skull there was no way it was coming back out.

But Virgil wasn’t staring at the body. 

“Don’t you get tired of being everyone’s favorite person?” 

It couldn’t--

“Just shut up and help me with these conjugations, will you?”

This wasn’t--

“What do you mean no one can find him?” 

He hadn’t--

The detective had looked at him with such a pity that it had made Virgil’s entire body flinch. He squeezed the plastic cup in his hand, crushing it, letting the fragments cut into his skin. He couldn’t feel it, couldn’t feel anything. The man was still talking to him, talking softly like anything louder would shatter the fragile reality around them, talking so quietly Virgil couldn’t hear a single thing he was saying at all over the sound of his own heartbeat.

“You’re wrong,” Virgil had croaked. “He’s not dead.”

But he had been.

He had been for nearly two years now.

And everyone had thought that Virgil had done something to him, had thought that Virgil was the last to see him, had thought that his dark clothes and his eye shadow and a few sneers in the hall had meant that Virgil was suddenly capable of killing Janus Ekans in cold blood.

Except.

Except that Virgil was staring at Janus --fucking-- Ekans right now.

It was unmistakable, the shape of his face, the curve of his lips, the slimness of his nose. The wispy brown hair that turned golden under the summer sun, the mischievous eyes danced with different colors, the flick of his tongue that moved so freely when he let it, the tattoo of two theater masks on his chest that no one was supposed to know about-- Virgil could have spent days naming things, committing them to memory, staring in disbelief at him. This was the same boy who had sat next to him in Spanish. The same Janus who had been convinced he was so completely untouchable up until Virgil had dragged him off his stupid, golden pedastal.

It was the same Janus who was currently wrapped around Patton like a boa constrictor cutting off the alien’s ability to move and had a knife perched ever so closely to one of Patton’s eyes.

“What the hell?” Virgil had said because-- because--

Because Virgil had asked Logan once if there was a race that could pick through minds, pull memories from heads, change the way someone thought. And Logan didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t lie to him. There were no alien types that could break into a mind and drag illusions into reality and there were no races that could bring ghosts back from oblivion.

“Virgil,” Janus said barely a whisper, barely enough to be heard, barely enough to mean anything. The knife was tilting in his hand, tipped like he wasn’t sure what he was saying, wasn’t sure what he was doing. “What-?”

Partially drugged, Virgil thought with absolutely no room to breathe in his chest. Partially drugged, holding a knife to Patton’s weakest point, and alive. 

“Janus,” Virgil said, ”Put down the knife.”

He’s still partially strapped to the table, bound by his left ankle and sporting a lovely series of cuts on the side of his face as if someone had started carving scales into his cheek for funsies. If Virgil had to hazard a guess he would have assumed that Patton had dropped in literally as the Pol’tur was taking Janus-- Janus, alive, breathing, real-- apart one centimeter at a time, then proceeded to win a very cramped fight in the room. Virgil would even say that Patton had started taking the restraints off of Janus when he had gained enough consciousness to realize that he needed to defend himself. 

(The fact that they found something capable of drugging a human, a Deathworlder, was concerning, so concerning, terrifying--)

“Virgil….You are not real,” Janus said, slowly, blood dripping down his neck. “You cannot be real. None of this is real.”

“I’m the one thats not real?” Virgil muttered. “You’re the one that was declared dead.”

He laughed. Virgil’s stomach swooped.

For a second, a brief fleeting second, he could have sworn that this was all a dream. A fever dream in which Virgil would blink himself awake from and find himself on the floor of Janus’s stupid, giant ass room surrounded by a dozen cans of off-brand energy drinks, a half eaten bucket of popcorn, and the credits for a horror movie scrolling on the screen. For a second it felt like he would roll over and bump elbows with Janus who had woken up an hour previously to study for that stupid Spanish test that wasn’t until Monday. For a second it was like he was seventeen again and his biggest worry was figuring out if it was too weird to ask to run his hands through Janus’s silky hair.

“Of course, I was declared fucking dead!” Janus said, like it was the obvious thing that would happen, “I am dead. I have to be, because there’s no other way that the kid who's afraid of going outside made it this far into space.” 

“Janus, put down the knife.” Virgil took a step forward, a half a step, but Janus just squeezed the knife tighter. 

“Why don’t you come and make me?” Janus smiled at him, smiled, smiled, smiled.

Smiled like he knew that this was a dream and nothing he did was going to matter. Smiled like they were back on that balcony of his room with their feet swinging between the bars and two Seagrams gone each and they were going to get in a shit ton of trouble for it. Smiled like he had never been dead and Virgil hadn’t had to bury the thought of him.

Patton made a noise, a small whimper, and Virgil felt it in his chest. The near silence of the room, the soft muted buzzing in his head, the fuzzy dream like quality of reality-- it all shattered at the sound. Shattered like glass, like a mirror, like the concept of “forever”. It shattered and Virgil was suddenly hyperaware of how small the room was, how cold he felt, how metallic the air smelt. 

“Hm, just as I thought,” Janus said softly, smile dropping into something wistful and disappointed, “I really am just seeing thin--”

Virgil didn’t give him the satisfaction of finishing; he surged forward, throwing his blaster to the side, and using his left hand to catch Janus’s wrist millimeters from putting that knife in Patton. He twisted his hand, pining his fingers into the soft flesh of Janus’s nerves until his hand jerked open on reflex and the knife fell into the open air.

Janus froze, inhaling so sharply Virgil was certain that he took all the oxygen in the room away. 

He was warm, Virgil realized absently. He was warm and had a pulse and for some reason both those things made Virgil’s chest hurt. His skin was soft and his breath was sweet and Virgil had gotten punch-drunk stupid on less.

Which probably explained why, how, when, Virgil’s lips ended up on his, pressing firmly, and tasting like something from a past Virgil had thought he had given up on. Virgil had always been stupid, but this was another level of stupid. This was incredibly dumb, unbelievable, ridiculous. 

Janus’s mouth was on his, and Virgil’s hand was tipping his head back ever so slightly, and Patton had managed to scramble out of Janus’s absolutely shocked slacked hold.

“You’ve always been so annoying,” Virgil gasped between breaths, “Always thinking you know everything. Have you ever considered you might be wrong before?”

“You’re--” Janus whispered, “Real? For real?” Then, “Don’t you know what the fuck consent is?”

“Fuck you,” Virgil told him.

Janus grabbed him by his collar and yanked him forward again. “Since you asked so nicely.” 

“Don’t be cute.” 

“Don’t be coy.” Janus shot back because he was still the same asshole who needed to have the last word. He bit at Virgil’s lip, and then pulled back to show off a wolfish grin. 

Virgil was stuck somewhere between wanting to smash his stupid smug face in and wanting to kiss him until he lost all sense of direction. Janus was like that, Virgil remembered suddenly, even when they were kids, when Janus was trapped on that pedestal everyone had put him on, when Virgil couldn’t have cared less about him and somehow had ended up unsure how to live without him.

“Not that this isn’t the fucking cutest shit I’ve ever seen--“ A voice behind them called and Virgil stiffened.

“Language!” Patton interrupted, as Roman grunted through the pain of still having a surgical knife in his shoulder. 

“--But can the two of you save your weird-ass….human…. greeting custom…. for some other time?” The Erefren snarled with one hand clutching the hilt and then yanking it out with a wheeze that Virgil felt physically. His purple blood spouted out from the wound but Roman didn’t seem to care, beyond tossing the knife to the floor.

“That’s an Erefren,” Janus said because he’s just as good at stating the obvious as he is at kissing. “That is not Remus.”

Roman snapped out something in his native tongue, which by the stress on the syllables was probably not nice and definitely not Patton approved. The Reytin even puffed up, shaking his head in a way that normally prefaced an hour long lecture on manners and the reintroduction of a swear jar. 

However, Janus just laughed that pretty stupid little laugh of his but when he opened his mouth the words were all forgein. It took Virgil a moment to catch up, a moment to realize that he hadn’t even fumbled, that Janus had actually spoken Erefrenian and it had been grammatically correct enough that stunned Roman for a whole half second. 

“You speak Erefrenian?” Virgil asked.

Janus blinked up at him a smug looking expression on his face. “You don’t?”

Virgil had a good response, he did. It was a response that had been some-three years in the making and Virgil had been ready to wipe that prideful expression of his face. But before they could do anything the entire ship lurched to the side, taking gravity with it. Virgil let out a yelp and grabbed for Janus and clung for stability.

(Space had done wonders for Janus’s abs, Virgil thought distantly.)

Roman slammed into the door frame and stumbled out into the hall, with all the grace a drunken ballerina, and cursed again when Patton landed on top of him.

“That’s our cue to leave!” Roman growled.

“Ya think?” Virgil shot back. He lunged for the end of the table where Janus’s bare foot was still strapped to the table. He didn’t look at the rusted color on the buckle, at the stiffness of the leather strap, at the rawness of Janus’s skin where it was biting into his ankle. He didn’t, didn’t, didn’t--

His hands shook. Janus reached over and clasped his forearms, the fabric of his tunic, him. 

“Virgil--” Janus said, softly, unsuredly, with no trace of that previous pompous expression on him. “I--”

There was blood on his face, trailing all the way down his neck in scarlet silvers from the cuts. His hair was sweat matted, pressed and tousled in a way that made Virgil feel a certain rage in his chest, like someone had been running fingers through his curls while they sliced him apart. His eyes were still slightly glassy from whatever they put in him. There was an unspoken question on his lips, in his eyes, through his fingers as he clung to Virgil. 

“I’ve got you,” Virgil told him, practically scooping him up. Janus heaved a breath as his feet touched the ground again. “Us humans have to stick together, right?” 

Janus Ekans was alive. 

It sounded surreal even in the moment, because Virgil had been mourning him since they were seventeen and stupid. Everyone else had moved on, had buried his memory, had forgotten about him. But he was not dead, and Virgil had not killed him. Somehow he had ended up in space, ended up with Remus, ended up here on this ship in the several billions of lightyears from anything they had known previously.

There would be no more late-nights-turned-early-mornings study sessions, no more sneaking over the gated walls of the Ekans mansion, and no more scaling the lattice underneath Janus’s balcony. They were never going to go stargazing on the hills outside of town again, never going to ruthlessly text each other under the desk during History class, never going to skip prom together to go trespassing in the woods somewhere to find Mothman. He was never going to butcher Spanish past participles in the cozy corner of the school library after hours and he was never going to get to listen to Janus brag about obtaining his Seal of Biliteracy finally despite his proficiency in about three languages. 

Janus had disappeared right before senior year. And Virgil, who had been the biggest thorn in his side, the biggest instigator of all their fights, the wild and unruly punk kid that lived in detention-- Virgil had stopped looking for him. Because everyone said he had died. Because everyone said that Virgil had killed him.

But Virgil could feel Janus’s pulse, could hear his heartbeat, could see the way his chest moved as they stumbled out of the room. 

Part of him was afraid that if he let go now, later, ever, Janus would disappear again. Shimmer and fade like a mirage in the desert.

“Careful Virgil,” Janus said breathily. “I almost think you missed me.”

“I hate you so much,” Virgil said back, as Roman and Patton led the way toward the engine rooms by blade and alien jujutsu and well-placed pun.

“Somehow, I don’t think you mean that, at all.” Janus said, grinning.

And then he closed that last little bit of space between them again.

[Next installment: Stars Die (But We Don’t)]

[kiruuuuu]

Doc/Lion oneshot in which Lion suffers from the consequences of being tortured. (Rating M, hella angst + some comfort, ~3.3k words) - written for @renegad3spectre​! Thank you a ton for commissioning me, I really really enjoyed this prompt, just took it and ran with it. It was a pleasure, all the love to you 🧡🧡🧡

.

Horrifically, it’s his grandfather delivering the blows.

He’s got fond memories of him, of sweets smuggled into his pocket, repeated stories ever-changing from one retelling to the next, quiet banter loud enough for him to hear but muffled enough that he suppressed his own laughter. He smelled of books and wood and old people, and that must’ve been it – the building had held a heavy, stale air which probably triggered the association, unwanted as it is.

So now the creature in his head, the remnant, the ghost haunting his mind wears his grandpa’s face like it owned it, like it had absolutely any right. It hurts more this way. It hurts to be called a disgrace, worthless, useless. It hurts to be disowned, it hurts to hear I have no grandson and it hurts to be accused of killing them, you killed them, your hand held the scalpel and this particular voice coming from his grandfather’s mouth is even more disturbing.

Who do you work for, he yells, unforgiving, merciless, and now his features shift, skin discolouring and eyes sinking into their holes to make way for nothing but darkness, and soon it’s the familiar sight of a brutal, faceless monster, concealed by a mask, surrounded by others looking exactly like him, supported by clones. Where are they, they scream at him in unison, who else. And he wants to answer, wants so desperately to reply to make it stop, is willing to give up anything, everything, if only it means this unbearable noise in his head quiets down. But his thoughts are made of tar, spread slowly and directionless, impossible to wade through. Words elude him, fade like smoke whenever he attempts to grasp them, endeavours to put this horrendous suffering into a single sentence.

Not like any expression he knows would be sufficient to describe this torture.

He doesn’t know what’s real. At times, he’s losing himself in a loud beat and a steaming crowd, coloured lights sweeping overhead and music seeping into his bones, and he knows he needs to reunite with his friends to keep partying, keep the night alive. It’s convincing enough he can taste the cheap drinks in his throat and feels naked, sweaty arms brush over his own on the dance floor – and the next second a blinding light pierces his skull and there are too many people around him he doesn’t know. They sound alarmed, eyes wide, and it sparks an instant, shrieking panic: something is wrong and he has no idea what it is. The strangers refuse to let him go, hold him down, and he tries to explain while the sterile stench they exude causes his stomach to churn and turn.

.

Most of the time, his ears are filled with accusations. The source is constantly evolving but what stays is the nauseating sense of dread. His heart races against the rest of his bodily functions and easily wins every time since his senses are sluggish, his perception unreliable and his thoughts wrapped in cotton. Grimaces of fury are persistent companions, and though he can’t put a name to all of them, their familiarity cuts deep. His mother, his former friends, his father, his sister. Alexis. Claire. The guy he met in Marseille who pretended to be his friend. Doc. Thatcher. An abomination from that cursed city Lion tries so hard to forget. Doc. The masked entity, omniscient, omnipotent, terrifying. Alexis. Doc.

He understands.

Why people would betray their loved ones, their country, their morals – he understands now, and the realisation is as chilling as the experience. He begged to be able to tell them. Begged for his life, begged for his life to be taken. Begged for peace as opposed to the chaos inside him, and he knows now most people have no idea what chaos really means. They humanise it, award it positive or negative qualities yet Lion would tell them it’s neither malevolent nor merciful. It just is. Against it, he is nothing, smaller than a speck of dust, utterly inconsequential and unimportant: in the face of true chaos, he’s meaningless. All he can do is hope he survives it.

.

The room is empty, his eyes tell him, and his ears tell him the same, but his brain is convinced of someone’s presence, just out of sight. Pitiful noises fill the barren, bleak chamber and they come from him, but at least they summon another human. A human with Doc’s face, and then with a mask, and then it’s Doc’s face again. Lion buries his fingernails so deep into his arm he tastes copper on his lips and pleads for him to stay. He sounds like a broken record, this voice isn’t his, the syllables barely intelligible among the dry heaving and the sobs. Music starts playing, a loud riff reminiscent of his teenager years, signifying rebellion and freedom and the worst fucking period of his entire life, and Doc says your hand held the scalpel and he’s gone again.

More, he implored as if anything he said would sway them, yes, please. And he looked at the needle and hated it, despised himself for craving it like this, abhorred the ones who turned him into this, and simultaneously he needed. He needed it so much. Without it, he was broken.

His throat is hoarse from screaming, so the visions morphed from atrocious to tragic until he had no more tears left to cry, and then they went for the very core of him. And this, too, he understands now: why anyone would go above God and decide existence isn’t worth it anymore. If he’s being tested, he’ll gladly fail as long as it means silence. If he’s being punished, he’s ready to receive eternal punishment for it can’t be any worse than this.

.

Someone is calling his name. The man – the men – knew it because he told them, it was one of the many things he told them, so he fights tooth and nail to continue drifting in this vegetative state, but it grows ever more insistent and strips away the layers of mud obstructing his consciousness, leaving him no choice. He can’t remember what it’s like, to have a choice, to choose.

Long words are being thrown at him. He deciphers none and yet an image forms below his eyelids, less blurry with every new description. The professional tone of voice pushes him gently back to his days of studying, a time filled with diligence and the hope to make a difference, and his despairing brain latches on to the information like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood.

Delirium, the familiar voice lists, agitation, seizures, anxiety, hallucinations. Too many syllables to fully absorb, and still he deconstructs them halfway. The mask wouldn’t know them. And if it did, it wouldn’t use them around him.

He’s safe.

He must be, it’s the only valid conclusion, but why does his existence still hurt this much? Why is the world shaking, why is he slowly drifting away from everything he ever held dear, from his life, this earth, himself?

.

They have Alexis. The realisation jolts through him like an electric shock. He needs to rescue him somehow, together with the people by his side, yet he can’t shoot at the maniacally cackling crowd running away from him because he’s not sure which one of them has him, and he can’t risk hitting his own son. Risk harming his most important footprint on this world. The masked grimace tells him he’ll be too late, and besides, it was his own fault anyway: Lion willingly told them about Alexis’ whereabouts in exchange for his next fix.

And he did do that. He did that. These are the consequences of his own actions, his punishment for complying with minimal resistance instead of staying strong, remembering his training. He sacrificed his son for something this trivial. Offered him up in exchange for complacency. Put himself first.

People are screaming, Claire, his colleagues, his family, and he knows he must interfere if his life is meant to be worth anything anymore, and there’s a small voice inside his head, an old companion. Full of vitriol, pulling at threads to make him come undone, scratching at scabs to cause scars, widening holes so he’s incomplete. It suggests a scenario and with petrifying speed, he’s there to live it.

He has a choice. On the one side is his son, gagged, tears in his eyes, struggling against his restraints. On the other side is –

There’s a –

.

It’s a syringe.

.

“-s alright. You’re alright. Take a breath, Flament. You’re safe, you have nothing to worry about. Do you need to throw up?”

Paying no attention to the words, Lion is flailing, sitting up abruptly and touching his legs to check whether they’re still there, touches his face and feels blind panic flare up the moment he spots the object in the crook of his arm. He’s narrowly stopped from ripping it out by an iron grip against which he struggles wildly, demanding to be let go, knocking something over and shattering it.

The vice-like grip never once wavers, and gradually his surroundings begin to sink in. He’s in a hospital, it seems, and the person by his side is none other than Doc, trusty (your hand held the scalpel) Doc who’d never let a patient suffer more than absolutely necessary. Bleeding heart Doc. Doc with his stoic face which barely contains the rage undoubtedly roaring in his chest (and is it directed at Lion?).

From one second to the next, Lion deflates and sinks back into the pillows, thoroughly fatigued. His adrenaline wears off quickly and makes way for uncomfortable nausea and the sensation of itching limbs. He needs to move, needs to shake off this horrible feeling of having slept a decade, but he doesn’t trust his body. The hand finally lets go of his wrist and leaves behind a print even lighter than Lion’s skin already is.

“Alexis is safe, too”, Doc assures him.

Lion jumps at this. How does he know? His throat closes and opens, produces a dry rasp and forces him to cough. Next to him, Doc is waiting patiently. “Where is he?”, Lion eventually gets out.

“At home. He never left.” He sounds composed despite the storm clouds visible in his expression, so Lion isn’t the intended recipient of his cold fury. “You kept calling for him, so I figured you must be worried. But there’s no need for concern.”

“What happened?”

Doc pauses for a few seconds. “We apprehended the ones responsible. Fortunately, we intercepted their outgoing messages, so what little information you gave them never reached anyone else.”

If this was true, Lion could exonerate himself. He also takes note of how Doc is silent about the before. He must guess Lion remembers being captured, remembers what they did to him. Bruises on his body are evidence for some of it, and the hellish trip tells the rest of the story. “How much did I say?”

“Doesn’t matter. We caught it.”

“How much?”

“You shouldn’t worry about -”

“Gustave!”, Lion roars, desperate to be either condemned or redeemed. He needs to know, must know so he can better assess his own mental strength. So he knows what to confess. So he can pray for forgiveness.

Doc’s lips are a thin line. “I don’t know. Grace and Mark had an agreement with Harry not to disclose any details. He says it’s standard procedure to prevent potential animosity.”

Not good enough. He’ll never be able to look Alexis in the eyes again if it turns out he did mention him. How much of his memories are real, how much were part of his nightmares? “What about my son?”, he whispers and Doc just shakes his head.

“As I said: I don’t know. Try to get some rest, Flament.”

Just as he exits the room, Lion spots the deep scratches on Doc’s forearm. Please stay, just please, he yells at Doc in his head, unable to bend his lips around the words. Don’t leave me alone. Don’t leave me.

He starts crying again.

So weak is he that the tears won’t stop, can’t stop, a broken silhouette in the shape of a man. Fragmented, just like his thoughts. He can’t remember ever feeling this terrible, hasn’t felt this frail and fragile in forever. His body doesn’t feel like home.

No time that night is spent sleeping. Restless, he crawls out of bed, explores the room that isn’t his while dragging his IV stand along, lets his eyes wander over pages not belonging to him, books left on his nightstand on accident probably, and doesn’t absorb a single word.

.

Once his thoughts are his own again, he utilises them with newfound fervour. He requests his phone and types until his thumbs hurt, types and deletes, corrects, amends, reinvents.

This is a theme in his life, an endlessly repeating circle: arrogance begets punishment. A boastful adolescent loses his innocence by nearly terminating an unborn life, by indulging vices too great for him to understand. A reformed young man deeming himself competent is burdened with death and riddled with blame (your hand held the scalpel).

A man, feeling invincible, having repaired bridges, full of empathy, is beaten bloody and broken.

He hasn’t updated his will in years – a symptom of a much more dangerous cause. Rainbow instilled a delusion of grandeur in him, promised him a future, coloured his life vibrantly and provided a new motto. Not me. He won’t be killed in the line of duty, not with these people by his side. He’ll be fine. Whatever happens, he’ll be fine.

This was a close call. Targeted and much more efficient than Six anticipated, or else Lion never would’ve been captured in the first place. If this is a sign, it couldn’t be any clearer: he’s not only not invincible, he’s delicate. This was just one weakness they could’ve exploited, Alexis obviously being another, his family as well. He won’t be as cocky when embarking on a mission from now on, and he’ll try to convey to the others how easy it is not to return.

It’s an earth-shattering wakeup call.

And so he types until the letters blur before his eyes, and says things which needed saying years ago. And he vows that this change in perspective will be a permanent one – he’ll never open himself up like this anymore. He’ll stay alert. He’ll fend off complacency.

.

And then Montagne is by his side and says a thing too chilling to be true. He’s gone, it drips from his lips like poison, and Lion knows with absolute certainty that it’s the truth. Doc accompanied him on the mission, Lion failed him, only he was saved. Endless protest is shushed by a sad shake of the head, a head with a face so ashen Lion can tell he’s not the only one filled with sorrow at the news.

There’s so much left unsaid between them, so much admiration and respect bottled up in order to show no weakness, and now he knows it’s useless to suppress emotion due to pride. Neither of them had managed to move on and now that Lion was willing to offer introspection and the admittance of possible mistakes in the shape of good intentions and the only course of action he saw, Doc would never be able to accept any of it.

Doc would never tell him he did a good job again. He’d never show him this grim smile again, the one he wore whenever he was satisfied with Lion’s work despite the outcome, laced with pride almost – or maybe this is wishful thinking, because after all they’ve lived through, a part of Lion still craves his approval so desperately that every positive word makes him glow from the inside, only he’s gone now, and Lion will never tell him –

.

“Olivier.”

Drenched in sweat, a pounding headache and with trembling limbs, he wakes up. Still in the hospital, still with Doc by his side. Of course: his demons have been depriving him of all things positive in his life, so why not him too? Nightmares know no bounds and refuse to accept Doc is sacred.

The other man is flushed slightly, dressed immaculately as always, but most importantly: alive. His gaze is turned downward to where Lion is gripping his wrist so tightly his knuckles are white. “I’m here”, Doc says gently. “You can let go. I’m here.”

Lion considers complying, though when it registers that Doc called him by first name, all he does is loosen his grip. “I dreamt you died”, he admits, staring up at the irregular patterns on the ceiling. He couldn’t ever convey this emotionless void Doc’s death caused in him, the utter emptiness – somehow, it was as if he’d lost his life’s goal. Which is insane, because his aim is to better the world. Not win Doc over.

“I could tell”, says Doc.

He must’ve been distraught, calling out in his sleep, reaching for his colleague. A question occurs to him which he should’ve asked sooner: “Is everyone else alright?”

“Yes.” Hesitation. “Ying has a black eye. When we came, they were currently depriving you.”

Lion figured as much. “I need to apologise to her.”

“You weren’t yourself.” Doc’s eyes meet his. “That wasn’t you.”

His relief must be palpable. Hearing it from Doc’s mouth doesn’t make it true, but it drowns out that malicious voice which never fucking shuts up. Giving up their secrets, thirsting for a meritless high, attacking blindly – even himself: he’s more than that, and knowing Doc is fully aware of this causes him to fight back tears of gratitude. “No. It wasn’t.”

After a moment of silence, Doc’s arm twists around and offers his hand, which Lion immediately accepts. For now, there’s no second-guessing motives, no long deliberation as to whether Doc is helping a co-worker, a friend, someone more than that, whether he’s volunteering support or understanding or something else entirely. All he knows is: the hand is warm, so warm it spreads a soft calmness all throughout him.

“I brought you music.” Doc indicates an old iPod on the bedside table next to the stack of books (which has grown), a vase with flowers and a few cards. Lion either failed to notice them before or they’re a recent addition. “Dominic helped with the selection.”

This is good news. Lion hopes for unfamiliar bands – he’s not sure what kind of reaction the ones from his youth might trigger in this state.

“And I spoke with Harry.” The segue is too casual. Lion has become proficient at reading between the lines with Doc, and he translates it as I gave him a stern talking to. “He said to tell you the information you gave was deemed ‘insignificant’.”

The wording doesn’t escape him: there’s no certainty in what -

“And you didn’t even mention Alexis.”

Lion takes a deep breath.

Between the constant pressure against his temples, the rolling stomach and nauseating dizziness, he’s felt better, but trusting Doc’s words to be true settles something inside him. Doc wouldn’t lie about this. “Thank you”, Lion replies and hopes his earnest gratitude is audible.

There’s so much to say between them his thoughts are going haywire considering just a fraction of it. All their arguments are ultimately the same as Lion’s treason: insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Something invisible connects them and it should be time to drag it to the surface, but not now. Not when he’s barely begun to heal from his outside and inside wounds.

Instead, he asks: “Will you stay a little longer?”

This time, Doc nods and remains where he is, a bastion of calm. And when Lion squeezes his hand, Doc returns the gesture and it’s all he needs for the moment.

It’s enough.

[otterknowbynow]

Altean Home Economics (19/?)

Goo is great, but Hunk sure would feel better if they had kitchen access, even if that does mean figuring out some extraterrestrial foreign substances and ending up with a lot more than he bargained for. Set between 2x07 "Space Mall" and 2x08 "The Blade of Marmora," stretching time a little bit.

all chapters in this tag | full work on ao3

Yeskia has to hand it to Edessa; the woman knows how to use her influence when she needs to. There’s not even enough time for Elian to work himself back into too much of a huff before she’s showed up at the council room doors with a soothing presence, Ren, and Jenis -- the engineer-slash-farmer. Jenis is known to Yeskia mainly for being the person to call when there are problems with the grid -- though they’re not always easily found. She knows the youngsters rely on them for glodworm glisten during the third-season rush, though, and that they’ve always been kind to Ren, so she has a decent soft spot for them anyway. Plus, she can understand not wanting to be found when it’s often Elian doing the finding. 

“So, what happened when Ren and Edessa activated the signal, then?” Lisanne is asking now, and Yeskia is once again grateful to them for producing the necessary questions. 

Jenis rocks back on their heels, looking over at where Edessa is sitting in a chair in the corner, passing tarts to Ren every few minutes. They take a breath and look back to Lisanne, Elian, and Yeskia, arrayed around the councilors’ table. 

“Well, you see, councilors, we never rerouted the citizens’ array to its own signal tower, so it’s still connected to the old city.” 

“The city that was lost hundreds of sun cycles ago? The city that sank below the ocean as it was being evacuated by the early expeditions? That city?” That’s Elian, glaring at Jenis over his glasses, and Yeskia can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy as she recognizes it as the same glare he’s directed at her hundreds of times -- it’s highly disconcerting to be on the receiving end, she knows from experience. 

“Um, yes,” Jenis says quietly, now shuffling their feet in an odd little dance of nerves. “That’d be the one.” 

“Then...is it even broadcasting off-planet?” Lisanne asks, frowning.

“Yes! Yes, it is,” they answer, looking toward Lisanne but not quite at them. “But to anyone who receives the signal, it will look like it originated in the city -- unless they’re particularly equipped to look deeper.” 

--

Hunk and Coran are both typing rapidly on console keyboards, and there’s a growing restlessness Keith can feel through his entire body that’s threatening to explode at any moment. What is taking them so long? At least when Hunk wanted everyone to come mess around in the kitchen, that could happen while they were still on the way to the Blades headquarters -- if anything, it was a welcome distraction. But now they’re stuck here in this nowhere part of space, not only still hours away from the Blades base, but completely ground to a halt by some joker with a distress beacon. 

Trying to trace this stupid signal isn’t getting them any closer to their destination; it isn’t getting him any closer to answers. If all they found is ruins, why isn’t everyone back at the castle and set to take off again? Why are they orbiting around this nothing planet with some broken rocks under the ocean? Who cares where the signal originated? If it isn’t clear by now where it came from -- if it’s been deliberately hidden somehow -- then whoever sent it clearly doesn’t want to be found, and they’re wasting time! They’re wasting time they could be spending getting him closer to knowing the truth about himself, and maybe even something about his mom -- 

“Keith, buddy, you okay over there? You look like you’re about to break your station just to see if you can.” Hunk’s voice cuts into his thoughts, and Keith sees he’s looked up from the console, his hands hovering over the keyboard and an expression of open concern on his face. Keith also realizes he’s been clutching his fists so tightly the nails have dug into his hands and from the wetness on his right palm, in at least one instance they’ve drawn blood.

“Uh, yeah…’m fine,” he mutters, wincing, and silently uncurls his fingers to wipe the blood surreptitiously on his pants. “How’s the tracing going?” he adds, loudly enough for Coran to hear him too. 

“It’ll be better once we hear from Number Five,” says Coran in a harried tone that’s matched by the speed of his fingers on the keyboard. “She should have a better time of it than we are -- it’s like trying to trace back a needle that’s been cut off of its thread, which was already invisible, and -- I don’t know; I’m running out of metaphor! Simile! Whichever!” 

“It’s that bad,” Hunk adds, frowning determinedly. He clicks the comms connection back on to ask, “Pidge, what’s your status?”

“Approaching the beacon origin,” comes Pidge’s voice, sounding nothing if not determined. It looks like it’s in this crumbly old -- something -- building -- I’m gonna hop out of my lion and swim down.” 

“Aw, man -- Pidge is gonna swim? Wish I was there to see it.” Lance snorts, and Keith can’t help but roll his eyes hearing it. 

“Yeah, because it would’ve been better if we’d sent you down to try and figure out a piece of alien tech,” he mutters. 

“What was that?” Shiro asks, and Keith clamps his mouth shut. Oops. 

“Nothing -- just waiting to hear more from Pidge.” He puts an emphasis on her name that he hopes makes it clear that Lance can shut up any time. 

“Aren’t we all? Seems like it’s gonna be a minute, though -- not sure she’s exactly built for quick swimming.” He’s joking, it’s clear, but Keith really wishes he wouldn’t. Not when he’s already tense. 

“Lance, buddy, that is not the most helpful you could be right now,” Hunk says, a bit of tightness creeping into his voice, though it’s clear he’s trying to keep it gentle.

“Also, I have a suit, genius,” Pidge says flatly. I Lance’s comments have gotten to her at all, her voice doesn’t show it. “As you may recall, it has a propulsion system.” 

“A propulsion system I could outswim in my sl--” Hunk flips a switch, cutting Lance off mid-sentence, but it seems he’s only muted transmissions from the blue lion, since a moment later they hear Pidge. 

“I’m in, and the terminal seems navigable,” she says, and Keith is torn between relief she’s found something and frustration that this means even more of a delay. He taps his fingers together restlessly to try to relieve some of the tension he can feel building back up in his body. 

“Good -- can you trace the signal? Get us some actual coordinates instead of this zipping and zapping across the whole freaking continent?” Hunk still sounds harried, and Keith wonders vaguely for a moment if all his stress is just from this. 

“Looks like...yes!” Pidge is victorious, and even though Keith can’t see her grin he can hear it as she says, “Putting them through to you all now. Lance? Allura? We’ll meet you there.” 

--

“What if they are particularly equipped to look deeper?” Yeskia asks, keeping her tone non-accusatory. Jenis may be responsible for most of the outpost’s technology infrastructure, and therefore to blame -- but that’s also a reason to be understanding of them, she thinks. Imagine having to throw together a new interface with essentially some scrap metal and a shoestring. She certainly couldn’t have done a better job. 

“If they are, then they will, and they’ll figure out it’s come from us,” Jenis says, glancing at her face and then away again. “And I suppose we’ll find out soon enough if they have.” 

Elian appears to still be parsing out what Jenis is saying, eyebrows lowered over his tiny spectacles. Lisanne is frowning, but in more of a pensive way than Elian. Yeskia’s not sure what to make of this. 

“So, we meant to send a signal -- or Zoric did, anyway -- for emergency aid. We sent a signal for emergency aid. And now someone might respond to it. Is that right?” She says it slowly, clearly, looking from Lisanne’s face to Elian’s, hoping to get her fellow council members around to at least a place of calm, if not acceptance. 

“That seems about correct,” says Jenis, relief showing through their whole body as their shoulders lower and their round face relaxes. Yeskia is only too happy to take the pressure off of them -- not relaying the signal through a proper local tower was an oversight, but the outcome here may well be the same. 

“Then I don’t see this as a problem. This is what Zoric intended to do. Councilors, I move we dismiss Engineer Jenis and begin to discuss our far more pressing issue -- the fatality that moved Zoric to discharge the alarm in the first place. Losing a citizen means this disease is a real threat now.” She clasps her trembling hands in front of her and adds, “A threat to all of us.”

[reveriesques]

            ✧  ————  Blimey! Is that YASMIN BERKER? SHE is a RIGGER on the Cursed Serpent and has been onboard the ship for SIX YEARS. Legend has it she is IDEALISTIC & JOVIAL, but don’t get on her bad side, because I hear she’s CAPRICIOUS & UNFORGIVING. Aye! Stop staring! YASMIN has her ATHAME out!

Hi friends, I’m Via! I’m 24 and comfy with she/her or they/them pronouns. I’m Filipino-Chinese, so English isn’t my native language, but I try! I’m very excited to write Yasmin with you all <3 

THE CURSED SERPENT

Yasmin’s parents were Bulgarian-Turk immigrants. Her father worked odd jobs to make ends meet, while her mother was a seamstress for a small clothing factory. They lived a simple life in the slums of London, doing just a bit better than their neighbors. Yasmin’s childhood was spent on the streets, dodging policemen and other shadier figures, attempting a happy and normal life despite growing up in poverty.

Ever since she could remember, she always stood out. They lived in a neighborhood full of Irish and Italian immigrants, and more often than not, Yasmin’s olive skin and dark features were considered a novelty. Perhaps it was the memory of constant and unwanted attention, but Yasmin developed an aversion towards attracting any notice to herself. As she grew older, she retreated delicately into her shell, and preferred the company of her parents over that of other people.

When she was 15, she began working as a seamstress in the same company as her mother. The pay was pitifully small, but Yasmin’s fingers were deft, and it was time they were put to good use. She felt relieved and proud to be contributing even a measly sum to the family income, especially since her parents were getting older and working was becoming tougher on them.

Two years later, Yasmin was excused from her workstation to be informed that a fire was ravaging her neighborhood. She ran towards her home, thinking of her parents. When she got there, she was met with a wall of fire, bright and hot and seemingly endless. Even as she frantically looked around at the soot-covered faces around her, a sinking feeling in her stomach told her she wouldn’t find her mother and father among them. She was right.

When the fire died down two days later, all hope had gone out of Yasmin’s chest. Rain fell from the heavens like penance that came too late. She found her way into the ruins of her old home, now just piles of ashes, and felt anger and sorrow bloom in the place where her heart used to be. Just as she was leaving, she noticed a black box, purportedly untouched by the fire that burned down everything else. Yasmin picked it up and brought it with her to a friend’s house, where she had been temporarily staying.

When she opened the box, she found letters addressed to her from her late mother. The first of them opened to a statement that said: My darling Yasmin, if you are reading this letter then something terrible has happened. Please read on and pay attention to what I’m about to tell you. At the end of the letter, her mother wrote that the black box had a false bottom, and in it she would find a grimoire, passed down from generations upon generations of their family.

Yasmin browsed through the grimoire and realized she could understand it little, though a few of the letters her mother left her were instructions on how to read the book, written in Turkish and explained as best as her mother could. She knew sorcerers had a nasty reputation in Britain and the world at large, and so Yasmin kept her secret well-guarded, and studied the grimoire only whenever she deemed it safe. 

A year after the death of her parents, Yasmin set out on her own to join the crew of a ship called The Cursed Serpent. Word had it that they were pirates on a quest to search for The Jewels of Destiny, powerful gems that had been lost in the tides of time. Due to years of hard labor in the slums and her expertise at sewing, she somehow convinced the captain to take her on as a rigger.

It was undeniable – Yasmin was caught by the lure of the jewels, but more than that, she wanted to give her life a purpose beyond the ordinary. She wanted to restore glory to the sorcerers’ reputations and to honor her parents’ memories without fear. Foolish as it may be, Yasmin hoped a day would come when she didn’t have to be afraid of repercussions for honoring her family’s legacy. She wanted a future where she didn’t have to hide who she was ever again.

SECRET

Yasmin is a novice sorcerer with minimal training. Life after her parents passed was bleak to the point of intolerance, and she boarded the pirate ship in an attempt to redirect the course of her life. Her interest in the jewels lay in wanting to prove that sorcerers aren’t evil. Her parents hid the truth from her and her mother hid her own abilities to avoid persecution, and Yasmin couldn’t bear the thought of good people like her mother being persecuted because they were sorcerers. She’s looking for a fellow sorcerer to help her develop her skills, but she’s too afraid to talk.  

KEY RELATIONSHIPS

SOURCE OF COMFORT:  It’s not uncommon to find Yasmin deep in thought while patching up the sails with her thread and needle, or looking out at sea with an inscrutable expression on her face. This person accompanies Yasmin out on the deck for as long as they can, regaling her with stories and jokes or simply keeping her company. She might not always say it, but Yasmin appreciates this person a ton.

BUDDING ATTRACTION: A person who Yasmin is inexplicably attracted to, despite their difference in personality. Yasmin thinks she must be crazy, which is why she does little to reveal her affections. Still, she’s only human, which means that she slips here and there. Ultimately though, Yasmin would rather pitch herself off the side of the ship rather than confess.

A THORN ON THE SIDE: Sometimes, you don’t like someone, and there’s really no good reason for it. This person finds Yasmin annoying and suspicious. Something about her just doesn’t seem right, and they can’t put a finger on what it is! Yasmin is equally fed up with this person, which means that they bicker and squabble, though it hasn’t ever gotten physical – yet.

[haberdashing]

What A Tangled Web We Weave (5/?)

TMA AU diverging from canon at the end of episode 92. Jon is forced into an arranged marriage by Elias; Martin does what he can to help.

on AO3

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6

Martin might have said that the strangest part about the transformation was that it didn’t hurt, but that would have been inaccurate in more ways than one.

For one, the initial spider bite did hurt, after all, it stung like hell as the cool venom first entered his body, and his body ached as it toppled unceremoniously onto the floor of its own accord, though that pain was quickly replaced by a vast, all-consuming numbness.

For another, claiming that that was the strangest part of the transformation would have been glossing over every other part of what was just generally speaking a very strange process.

As Martin lay sprawled out on the floor, unable to move, his eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, and he saw the spiders emerge en masse, even tried counting them before quickly getting overwhelmed. There were dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands of them, far more than Martin would have guessed could be hiding in his own fairly small flat.

And Martin watched as every one of the spiders headed right for him, climbing atop his immobile body and getting to work.

There was no way they should have been able to spin spider silk as fast as they did, even given the sheer number of spiders working together, but then, these weren’t normal spiders, after all, and Martin supposed that meant they didn’t have to abide by the rules of normal spider biology, either. (Martin remembered, dimly, interviewing a man who’d rambled about spiders doing things that weren’t biologically possible in between violent sobs; Martin wondered, distantly, if it had really been a coincidence that that particular bit of research had been assigned to him back then.) Martin didn’t have any way to keep track of time, but by his best guess it was only a matter of a few minutes before the spiders’ webs covered his entire body.

Martin could feel each and every one of the spiders skittering around on top of him, was all too aware of the ones that evaded his static field of vision. Their legs tickled as they brushed against him, even when they were no longer touching him directly, even when their footsteps were placed on top of spider silk. His whole body started to fill with a pins-and-needles sort of sensation, too, like when you cut off the circulation on a limb and then when you try to move it it won’t quite move right, doesn’t even entirely feel like it’s yours, except it wasn’t just one limb, it was everywhere, covering every inch of his body.

Also, between the chilly venom coursing through his veins and the cool tile floor seeping away what body heat he still had, Martin was freezing. He would’ve shivered, if he could have; instead, he just wished he’d collapsed in one of the rooms that had a carpet draping the floor instead.

As the spiders finished up their web, they left holes through which Martin could breathe, but even his eyes became covered by their newly-made webs, his view of the ceiling replaced by darkness, though he could still see enough to see the off-white color of the substance that surrounded him.

The spiders kept moving after he was fully covered, kept dancing along to a pattern only they knew, and several times Martin felt a slight shock, like static electricity zapping him over and over, when their legs landed upon him. Martin tried to logic his way through what was happening, tried to figure out if there was some rationale behind when and where he was getting shocked, but if there was a method to the madness, he couldn’t find it.

In a way, those little static shocks were reassuring, because it meant Martin could still feel something beyond the numbness and the tingling and the pins and needles that still covered his entire being.

Martin wasn’t sure how long he lay there, cocooned in spider webbing, immobile and seeing nothing but a field of off-white. It might have been minutes, it might have been hours. It felt like an eternity.

But eventually, the spiders went from simply climbing atop Martin to slowly, carefully, taking apart the webbing they had so meticulously spun minutes hours an eternity ago.

They started by the hole that Martin had needed to breathe, and as that hole grew he could see the spiders, first out of the corner of his eye and then growing closer and closer, and he knew he should be terrified of all this. A small part of him was scared, truth be told, but mostly out of concern that one of the spiders might lose their footing and fall through the hole and onto his nose or mouth, which would likely end unpleasantly for the both of them, true, but that probably wasn’t what most people would be afraid of after being wrapped in a layer of spider silk that was only removed when the spiders themselves decided it was time.

But after all, Martin had always liked spiders.

He’d even named the one residing in his closet. Was that spider there still? Was little George an agent of the Web all this time, or was it a coincidence, that he’d joked to himself about having a spider as a roommate before? Or was it neither--had he become entangled with the Web specifically because he was the kind of person who, upon finding a spider spinning a web in the corner of his closet, decided to name it George and make it his honorary roommate?

The world seemed awfully bright as it began to emerge into view once more, but that could have been Martin’s eyes just having adjusted to the dim light that seeped through spider’s silk. Even with his sight restored, though, Martin couldn’t move his eyes away from the ceiling, where it seemed like there were even more cobwebs than the mass of them he’d seen earlier, somehow, covering nearly every bit of wall and ceiling within his range of vision.

Was that... sanitary? Removing the spiderwebs entirely was probably out of the question at this point, but he wasn’t going to get his neighbors sick by having his flat like this, was he? They may not have done much to help him out before--if they even existed, which he still wasn’t sure about--but that didn’t mean he wanted them to get caught up in this, didn’t mean he wanted them to suffer because of him.

Looking into that would be a problem for another day, though. Or at least for a time when he could actually get to his computer and do some research, instead of laying on the floor, waiting for the last of the spiders to retreat...

The spiders did remove the last of the spider silk and retreat, slowly but surely, and the pins-and-needles sensation left with them, leaving Martin feeling very cold and very alone and a little silly just lying there on the floor of his flat, staring at the cobweb-covered ceiling.

Martin’s whole body was shaking as he forced himself to sit up, then pushed himself off the floor. Everything still seemed too bright, even though he only had the one light on and the sun had long since set (what time was it, anyway? how many hours had passed? it had to have been hours, because it felt far too long for mere minutes but it- it couldn’t have been days, could it?), and Martin’s shaking quickly turned to shivering as leaving the floor didn’t warm him up nearly as much as he’d hoped. He looked over at a blanket that he’d left on the couch, imagining the warmth he’d feel while wrapped up within it, before his wandering eyes found something else to focus on.

Martin turned his gaze towards his hands, his heart sinking as he did.

They looked normal, really. Part of him had expected them to be- to be made of spiderwebs or something now, but they were the same as always, more or less. Big, fleshy, clumsy, with bitten-down nails and ripped cuticles. There was the minor matter of a new mark on his pinky finger, where the spider had bitten him earlier, and that almost certainly wasn’t a coincidence, but that wasn’t what had caught Martin’s eye so easily.

No, what had caught his eye wasn’t his hands, exactly, but the dozens, even hundreds of strings extending out from them.

No, not strings--threads. Threads that, though Martin didn’t dare touch them, he was certain were spun of spider’s silk. Connections, of some kind, perhaps? If so, he must be connected to more... people? things? both? than he’d realized.

Then he turned his hands slightly, and the threads disappeared from view, as easily as if they’d been a mere trick of the light.

They hadn’t been, though. Martin was sure of that much.

Instead of going straight for the blanket he’d been eyeing, Martin stumbled his way into the bathroom and turned on the light, instinctively squinting and raising one hand to his forehead because even now, even after his eyes had had plenty of time to adjust to being able to see his flat once more, that light was still awfully bright, almost painfully so, even as he took measures to block out the worst of it.

As Martin looked in the bathroom mirror, it became clear at a glance why lights that had been normal enough for him before were so uncomfortably bright to him now.

For one thing, his eyes were dark all over, an inky off-black hue filling them from lid to lid.

For another thing, there were eight of them there.

Maybe he should have seen it coming, should have realized why things seemed so off, should have noticed... well, he definitely noticed them now, at least...

Martin’s eyes started watering at the sight of it, and that just made it worse because all eight of his eyes were watering, and he did try not to cry, he really did, but even as his sight blurred he could see tears welling up in eight distinct places, and somehow this was the straw that broke the camel’s back, this was what made it all a bit much for him to handle...

Martin ended up curled up against his bath mat, sobbing into a rust-colored towel, and the only consolation he had was that this wasn’t happening at the Institute, that there wasn’t a tape recorder in sight, that the only ones who had to know about this moment were him and the spiders lurking in the corners of his walls.

[icosmohunters]

chapter nine : benignity

chapter nine of cosmo hunters!

word count : 4.4k words

synopsis : quinn was hurt during the hunt for the master of puppets, and the puppeteer remained untouched after hope chose to retreat. in the midst of the boy’s recovery, hope finds herself opening up to the others. 

it was a catastrophe, bringing the boy into the ship without bringing him incredible pain. the way the others hovered over him and rushed him around, running about for cloths and freezing cold water and bandages and needles and threads. hope had to stand back because it wasn’t her place to intrude.

they had put quinn on one of the spare bottom bunks, and all hope could see from the window over enzo’s broad back was dawn’s head moving at times and the sweet sound of her voice which would often be interrupted by the pained cries from the injured boy.

she couldn’t watch, nor listen.

blinking slightly, she moved away from the door and like a ghost, carried herself to her room. perhaps if she fell asleep, if she awoke the next morning, this nightmare would be over. a self-inflicted nightmare, one which she had caused due to her very aloof plan of taking down a cybercriminal for good. and someone had gotten hurt because of her actions. because of her recklessness.

sometimes she viewed moments like these as pure karma. was this the universe’s payback for her unnecessary rudeness? for her snappy attitude? for her unkind approach to things? for her coldness? did she deserve this for whatever reason?

resting her hand on the wall, hope blinked a couple more times and then viewed her red hand where the blood was drying. before she could dry heave, she rushed to the bathroom and in a frenzy, hurried to wash it off, wanting to rid it from her skin, the imprint of her foolishness. hope then splashed her face and smacked her cheeks before groaning.

“ you didn’t stab him. you weren’t the one who told him to get hurt. so why are you the one taking all the blame? ”, the bounty hunter was scolding herself, her mother wasn’t there to do the job. looking at herself in the mirror, her plain face soon contorted into a growing grimace. she whimpered and ran to dry her hands and her face.

exiting the bathroom, hope paused for a moment and frowned more. her chance to get the puppeteer was gone because she put a group of innocent people in danger. they weren’t saints but they didn’t deserve to be hurt by something that was meant for her. why did she even agree to take them? she knew something was going to go bad, she felt it.

and now here they were, struggling to remain calm after their mechanic was struck by one of the androids. hope didn’t even have the energy to seethe with rage at the man who inflicted the harm towards them. maybe when she grounds herself, she’ll be able to actually feel . . . something.

“ hope! ”.

the girl let out a yelp and smacked a hand over her mouth before looking at who stood before her. enzo. looking concerned, hands behind his back. she saw this as the first time he’s ever seen her in this sort of state and she wanted it to be the last time, she couldn’t afford to lose it. not now. not when they needed to feel secure or sane.

she felt her food begin to rise and focused on not doing so, focusing on better well-being that might be brought if she attempts to sleep. gulping, she removed her hand from her mouth and upon adjusting her posture, let out a small sigh. “ sorry, i was a bit dazed, that’s all ”, she replied. and then looked in the directions of the rooms. “ is he going to be alright? ”.

“ hope, you’re shakin— ”.

“  —n-nevermind me! quinn, how is he? is he stable? does he need a blood transfusion? what about his internal conditions, is anything bleeding from the inside? i can ask a.j to do a sca— ”.

“ hope! ”.

“ oh for god’s sake, enzo, tell me! i wouldn’t give a fuck if i was at the verge of dying right now, my worries are on quinn and whether i’m going to have to fly a dead kid through space to burry him somewhere! ”.

hope had grabbed a handful of the man’s shirt and squeezed it into her fists, ready to practically headbutt him to get him into the right frame of mind. or maybe to fix her very own, which seemed to have gone haywire, melting in the worry and the guilt of the entire situation, she hadn’t even gathered the courage to lift nebula off.

releasing her grip from his shirt, hope let out a shaky exhale and covered her face behind her trembling hands. “ s-sorry . . . ”, she muttered, shaking her head. she was losing it, absolutely losing it for no reason. she knew quinn was going to be okay, especially at the hands of an expert like dawn. but in the case that he wasn’t doing well, the captain felt like it was her right to know. “ god, i’m sorry. ”

“ it’s alright, all of this is messing with all of us ”, enzo reassured her and then crossed his arms across his chest. “ but really, hope, if you think any of this is your fault, you’re mistaken. if anything . . . it was my fault for agreeing to come. we should have stayed. but then the thought of you handling it all by yourself, you wouldn’t have made it. ”

she hated to admit it but he was right. she’d seen those androids, they looked hellish, like things manufactured in the deepest pit of the underworld, murderous and cold. they would have reduced her to dust in an instant.

the girl ran a hand through her hair, “ so, it’s kind of both our fault’s. we should have come better prepared, with better ammunition and maps and more people. people from voyage. god, i don’t know how i’ll ever get my hands on him again. after this, he’s shifting, he’s not going to the same place. ” she groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “ i lost him completely. ”

“ to be fair, it was too ambitious of voyage to throw you into a mission like that. one person could have easily died in there, they need an entire team ”, enzo spoke and frowned. “ i know you like to be independent, hope, but you wouldn’t have lasted a second in there by yourself. ”

“ i wouldn’t be able to handle fighting one of those things again. ”

“ what things? ”.

“ nothing. ”

enzo recommended for her to get some rest as best as she could. as if that was going to be easy, the horrors she’d seen today would come back to haunt her in the deepest parts of her dreams. perhaps she would dream of that pale picture that stared at her once in a dream, waiting, twitching, eager for her to step forward so it could lunge.

wandering into her room, hope grabbed her bathing equipment as she needed to wash up properly before thinking about going to bed. sometimes you forget things because you’re so exhausted. towel and soaps in hand, she wandered off.

the first thing she noticed after she started to fill the bath up whilst undressing is that her ankles looked like they had been bashed to pieces. it was probably from when she tripped up the juggernaut, forgetting he was made of metal and her legs were made of innocent calcium. not even dense muscles like hers would be able to survive without an injury.

her right ankle belonging to her dominant leg was pretty much wrapped in bruises, it was purpling. she could cry at the sight of it. it was horrendous, an enormous patch of purple on the surface of her skin and she didn’t even think to touch it, she just added drops of eucalyptus oil in the bath and hoped for the best.

bathing for around twenty minutes hope found her eyes closing spontaneously at times, hinting her exhaustion that had risen to a hundred ever since she properly relaxed. the smell of the eucalyptus oil was possibly the best aroma in the world aside from that of her mother’s food, it relaxed her body and her mind. but the images of today wouldn’t stop flashing in her mind.

and she tried to put them to sleep. she got changed after drying herself and searched for her sleeping pills and took them with a glass of water on the side of the bed. clapping her hands, the lights soon switched off and she tossed to her left side, the most comfortable side to sleep in. 

and then she waited, waited for sleep to take notice of her and take her away into a land of dreams, sweeter dreams compared to the ones she’s been having. her eyes were heavy but her body just wouldn’t relax. and every time she closed her eyes, she gets that sensation.

that someone is watching her, closely observing through some sort of entry, through some sort of gap through the space-time continuum. it was the feeling that lingered from having to deal with the puppeteer, the great, psychotic puppeteer.

the vision of his eyes came to mind and hope snapped her own eyes open and turned her bedside lamp on before gulping. she couldn’t sleep. even though she felt like she was going to faint, it was impossible for her muscles to relax. or her mind. nothing was relaxing. she was beyond perturbed. 

yet she didn’t want to stay awake. she needed to sleep. she needed rest, a.j wouldn’t let her lift off the nebula in the morning. realizing she was still on mars, hope got out from beneath her bedsheets and approached her window. looking out into the martian night sky. she sighed softly.

it looked too much like home. in fact, she just felt the homesickness growing painfully intense by looking at a sky littered with stars. it wasn’t earth, but among those stars, home could be spotted. home. 

“ a.j, what day is it on earth today? ”.

“ april tenth. ”

hope frowned. in two days' time, her home would be littered by color and lush, a new beginning to the seasons and a new beginning to life in general, inviting the bloom of flowers and the gathering of friends and family to celebrate rebirth. she wasn’t religious, but easter was somehow one of her favorite holidays.

“ would you like to send a message to your parents, captain? ensuring your safety? ”, a.j questioned once more.

hope looked out into the stars and then hummed, “ no. leave it. i’ll pay them a visit eventually. ”

time skip  ﹏

staying awake, it was difficult. but it wasn’t as if she would be able to sleep anyway, not with a million thoughts being fired in her brain. her head was consumed by all sorts of worries and perceptions, some that may be seen as worrisome but hope didn’t really share them with anyone. she felt that if she closed her eyes, she would see something. 

and this thing would keep her awake for hours at an end. there was a perfectly dark night sky out there, a sense of familiarity rather than floating through endless space with no awareness of time. she didn’t take advantage of it, though.

mars had a twenty-five-hour cycle, and currently it was three in the morning. the captain was in the lounge, nursing her nerves with a can of energy drink that she had stocked up on after a brief visit to a grocery store. she had spoken to enzo roughly five hours ago, and since then hope hasn’t seen or heard from everyone.

at this point, she was assuming the worst. the kid died, she was tempted to believe. nobody cared to drop in to tell her of anything, maybe he was still healing or was struggling to sleep like her and so they were trying to soothe him into a state of painless peace.

the doors slid open and hope’s tired eyes moved towards the figure that came in. it was dom, he looked like he hadn’t slept a wink either, still in the clothes from the mission and with a grave expression on his face. when he took notice of her, hope prepared to be yelled at.

to be blamed, to receive a good scolding. but nothing ever came. he just stared at her for a moment and then averted his gaze away. “ is he alright? ”, she questioned. “ the kid. is he okay? ”.

“ stable ”, dom replied and hope let out a sigh of relief, bracing herself for a but. it never came, though, as dom went over and got himself something from the vending machine. “ what flavor of energy drink do you choose? ”.

hope blinked but replied, “ cherry. ”

dom hummed and then tapped away at the screen on the vending machine. it was silent for a moment, hope had grown used to speaking to the rest but she never did the same with dominic, not after what happened between them just after they came out of the j-colony. his bruise looked slightly better but it was nowhere near healed.

“ he’s healing okay ”, he said to break the silence. “ the cut didn’t reach any vital organs but it was somewhat deep. a.j had a look, which was quite useful. but quinn’s healing slowly now, vivi’s watching after him in case he wakes up in pain. ”

“ i’m sorry. ”

“ don’t be. ”

for that and also for the bruise, hope wanted to say but was unable to.

dom walked near to the couch and hope saw the same cherry drink she was holding in her hands. popping the can open, dom took a sip and appeared puzzled for a second before grimacing. “ that’s strong ”, he managed to say with another shudder.

hope chuckled softly and looked to the doors when they slid open once more. enzo walked on through, it seemed as if he hadn’t gotten any sleep either but he at least had gotten changed. “ nice seeing you two getting along ”, he commented with a tired grin. “ why are you awake, cap? ”.

“ got a late-night craving. my sleeping pills didn’t work, so there’s no point in staying awake. besides, i was worried about quinn ”, she stated as the young man approached. “ is there enough medication for him? ”.

dom snorted, “ more than enough. ”

“ you could heal an entire army with what you’ve got stored in there, cap ”, enzo added before stopping by her and offering a small smile. “ quinn will be alright, he just needs plenty of rest and good food. i was in the kitchen, i saw some bags on the counter. did you go shopping? ”.

oh. hope blushed softly and looked down. she’s never been one to blush, at all. she was slightly embarrassed to have been found out, she was going to put the food back into the fridge but then completely zoned out and forgot. 

“ yeah, i did ”, hope revealed. 

enzo gasped and clapped happily, “ vivi is gonna whip us something good tomorrow then and i cannot wait for that. you should see the soup she makes when one of us is sick. ”

it was refreshing to see them back to their normal antics, it was better to see them all smiling, though, it brought a sense of safety. that she didn’t have to worry about all that’s happened and that all would be well within a given time. sure, she had missed the chance of killing the puppeteer.

but it was suspicious why voyage had even given her a task like that, especially one for her to complete alone. if he was on top of the list, they would’ve most likely offered her some sort of help. they didn’t, they forced her to do it by herself with the impression that she wouldn’t pass the task on, and she didn’t.

and now someone had gotten hurt. whilst she wanted to take the blame, the pirates didn’t allow her to. dom and enzo settled on the couch to watch something or play a video game, hope wasn’t paying too much attention to be sure.

because she soon lifted herself from the couch and left the lounge, her attention dragging towards the door of the rooms they were allocated in. she wasn’t too certain if dawn and quinn were awake, but she knew vivienne was, so it was worth going in to check. she could see with her very own eyes just what had been done to heal the boy.

once the doors slid open, hope looked into the room for the first time in a while. they hadn’t made a total mess of it, most of it was clean except for some bags by the window which hope assumed were clothes of some sort. or comfort items. 

craning her head to the side, her eyes widened at the sight. quinn was laying down on the bottom bunk of one of the spare beds, a blanket over his body. his chest rose and fell gently and some color had returned to his face. seeing movement on the top bunk, hope saw it was dawn, fast asleep.

vivienne had put a chair right beside where quinn laid, she had a reading light on and a book open against her lap. she was wearing some pleasant grey pajamas that looked rather comfortable. and it suited her a lot. upon taking notice of the other girl, she smiled softly. “ you’re still up ”, she noticed.

“ so are you ”, hope replied and approached her. she briefly crouched down beside the bed to get a better look at the sleeping boy. it was a weird habit of hers, something she had developed back home. always waking up early and immediately checking if her brother was still sleeping and if he was feeling okay. even now, it didn’t feel that different. “ poor kid . . . i feel awful for what happened. ”

vivienne reached over and brushed the hair out of quinn’s eyes, “ he was in pain but he never once spoke about it being anyone else’s fault. he just fell asleep a couple of hours ago after dawn gave him some morphine. ” hope’s eyes widened. “ i didn’t know morphine was even legal to have outside of a hospital. ”

“ yeah, well i needed it once a long while back ”, the girl described. she didn’t linger on the subject for too long and chose to sit on the edge of the bed rather than crouching and cause more pain to her ankles. “ he’s going to be fine, though. he just didn’t deserve getting hurt. ”

“ wait, did you deserve it instead? ”, vivienne questioned, turning back to her book with a chuckle.

“ yes ”. vivienne’s smile dropped. “ i would have rather gotten hurt than allowed someone else to take the hit. i should have stayed with you guys but . . . i don’t regret it. the puppeteer came into contact with me. he knows my name, my reputation, he knew i was nothing against him alone. but he knew there were people . . . people under my responsibility. ”

“ you think he commanded the attack ”, vivienne assumed.

hope nodded, “ it’s probable. he knows his own bunker, surely. it was easy for him to know we came in, we just weren’t careful enough. and it’s not enough to just shoot at the security cameras. he has eyes scattered everywhere. ”

she thought that he knew they were there even when they were above, on the surface of mars hunting for the ravine. those abandoned apartments, he could have easily stored something within them, something so high-tech that not even hope’s rogue sonar picked up anything. nothing at all.

but he knew that they were coming and when they were coming, it was how he worked. eyes everywhere, so everywhere that you couldn’t even begin to think where the first eye was. he was vulture flying above, waiting, watching as the prey draws closer before striking.

hope shivered slightly and shifted her position, trying not to think too much about the incident. it would make voyage angry but she had already dropped a word in, sending a distress signal as someone had gotten hurt during the mission and to pass the quest onto a team, not a single bounty hunter.

as strong as she was, she wouldn’t have lasted a second in there had she gone alone.

“ it’s going to be easter in two days back home ”, vivienne said suddenly, and hope was glad that she did. it was nice to talk about home sometimes. she relaxed slightly and nodded. “ do you celebrate it? ”.

hope chuckled, “ yeah, my family does. we’re not religious, we’re just easily influenced by others. but my mom usually puts chocolate eggs around the house and we all try and find it. usually, when he’s there, dad holds a nice barbeque for the neighbors. ”

“ no exterior family? ”.

“ nope, we keep to ourselves. besides, the exterior family is across the country. most are in canada, they like the cold for some reason ”, hope explained and looked towards quinn, fixing his blanket over him. “ i’d like to go there someday. ”

“ home? ”.

“ canada. ”

the two girls shared a gentle laugh, soft as to avoid waking the others up. it was nice, hope had to say. admitting it was hard but she liked the company, it made a difference. she knew that she was arrogant in the beginning, believing that she was fine on her own but sometimes having someone around makes a difference, especially for someone engulfed in solitude like this particular bounty hunter.

“ if you . . . want to go, to see your family, i could definitely tell the others we’re making a stop first ”, vivienne proposed slowly, trying to find the right words. “ i can’t remember the last time we’ve all been to earth. ” 

hope smiled. smiled. the pure selflessness had led to a sudden swarm of butterflies in her chest, it was very flattering to see the woman being so caring, she’s never quite seen anything like it. and it invoked a reaction that not even hope was used to. but the smile stayed for some reason, she didn’t try to wipe it away.

running a hand through her hair, the girl nodded. “ yeah, y-yeah that’d be nice. dad went through a lot a while back and i haven’t exactly been the best daughter, haven’t visited him. it’s cool between us but . . . i can imagine it looks bad ”, she explained softly, staring at her fingers. “ it’s nearly been a year since i’ve been home. ”

“ you must miss your family terribly ”, vivienne pointed out and tilted her head. she seemed to have forgotten about her book. “ is it just your parents and you? ”.

hope shook her head, “ it’s me, mom, dad and connor. ”

“ who’s connor? family dog? ”.

hope snorted and suppressed the urge to burst into total laughter. she slapped her knee slightly and adjusted herself on the seat, her smile didn’t fade, though. her eyes lit up at the mention of her brother. her tone even changed as she tilted her head and answered, “ my baby brother. ”

vivienne gasped softly, “ oh god, i’m sorry, i didn’t know. ”

“ no, it’s quite alright. he’s quite puppy-like, anyhow ”, the girl replied, her smile still completely intact. she appeared starstruck, but that gaze she had, that aloof expression of happiness, that was love. absolute love for a younger brother who she would die for. 

vivienne beamed herself, though it seemed to at something else. “ well, i can imagine you’d be very happy to see your family. we can go to earth, maybe it’ll cheer quinn up. besides, easter is a great holiday to go back home to ”, she suggested, looking back towards the sleeping boy. 

“ yeah, i suppose we can all go ”, hope said softly and nodded, and then looked towards her wristband. “ but . . . i have to take you guys to where you have to be. maybe you can get better help there. ”

vivienne frowned, “ do you want us gone that badly? ”.

hope was rendered speechless. she didn’t want it to seem like she had wanted to get rid of them or move them off her ship. it was just that quinn could find better help, better medication and better food somewhere where there was actually something to offer. hope had nothing to offer to them at all!

but she also really wanted for them to stay until he’d healed. and perhaps a stop by earth could do the trick. but hope wasn’t too certain about it until she looked at vivienne. she didn’t want them gone.

not now.

and perhaps, not for a while . . . maybe until all of this was over. until quinn was healed and until easter had gone by. she needed time to ensure that they would be leaving safely without voyage trailing behind them, on the hunt.

“ w-well, not really ”.

vivienne’s expression softened and she averted her gaze back to her book. “ then it’s settled. you can take us, i’ll tell the others in the morning. try to get some sleep, though, cap ”, the woman said and hope paused, she’s never been referred to as captain by vivienne.

nodding either way, the bounty hunter rose from her seat and wrapped her arms over her chest and walked towards the door, looking back for a moment. viviennne seemed to be happily enjoying her book, but she was smiling, even if it was ever so slightly gentle.

“ good night ”, she called back softly.

vivienne looked up and chuckled, “ good night, captain. and thank you. ”

[jflashandclash]

Tales from Mount Othrys

Flynn: Surprised Parenthood III

         “They’re trying to kill the hydra!” Lucille squeaked from the counter. Her voice altered as she commanded, “Don’t panic! Please exit in an orderly fashion. Larger monsters and monsters with better footing, please help smaller monsters and demigods get outside the premise.”

         The charm speak worked instantly. Everyone calmed down, despite the continuously flickering lights. A few other demigods in the room looked confused as larger monsters picked them up and carried them towards the exit. Lucille went to organize the exodus at the front while Vicky directed workers out from behind the counter.

         Axel and Ajax stumbled to their feet. Jack put an arm around either of their shoulders to push them towards the exit. His fingers twitched to tug at his hair. “Lucille! I don’t understand! Why is this happening if they’re attacking the hydra?!”

         Luke broke eye contact with Flynn, grumbling. He grabbed Jack’s shoulder to hurry him and the boys towards the orderly line by the exit. “All shops connected to this one become unstable when the hydra sprouts more heads,” he said.

         Flynn slid the blade back into her hair. She stepped back to the boys.

         They made it to Lucille stood by the doors. She trembled violently. From her reaction, Flynn realized they were actually in danger. This wasn’t some kind of courtesy precaution that Lucille was directing them out. “The hydra can’t concentrate where its power is going,” she confirmed, pushing all the boys through. “Why do you think Flynn and I had to talk to the hydra about this one?! Now, please hurry your exiting—”

         A roar screamed in the distance.

         Through the tree line, closer to the river, fire exploded everywhere. Smoke blasted in all directions. The ground shook.

         The blast was far enough away that there shouldn’t have been any debris or structural damage. So Lucille’s horrified, “GET OUT!” along with the way she tackled Flynn through the door came as a surprise.

         Pain exploded along her back.

         A secondary tremble throttled the sidewalk under them. Flynn tried to shove her little half-sister off. Lucille held strong—

         Like they were beside the other explosion, a wave of heat and force flattened them. Breath evaporated from her lungs. Like she’d doused her face in gasoline all over again, there was no way to inhale and no respite from the heat.

         They must have fired on the donut shop.

         Cool air swept over them as the air vacuumed and tunneled back towards the building. Flynn thought, for a horrifying moment, that the explosion had caused some sort of mythological black hole.

         Instead, when she opened her eyes, she found a sizzling crater where the shop had been.

         Someone’s labored wheezes hissed right into her ear.

         Flynn shoved Lucille off, then froze, looking at her.

         “Jack!” Flynn snapped. “Jack!” Her eyes darted around.

         Jack, Luke, Axel, and Ajax had left the donut shop before them. Could they have been caught up in the blazing inferno?

         In answer to her question and what would have been a prayer if Flynn wasn’t an atheist, Jack appeared at her side.

         His hands hovered over her face, his mouth moving to form words that she couldn’t hear. There was a ringing in her ears. Behind all of it, she swore she could hear the hum of opera music.

         “I’m fine!” she snapped, knowing Jack wouldn’t be able to hear her either and hoping he could read her lips. All of her limbs worked, and she didn’t see more than a few small burn marks. She pointed at the other girl’s collapsed body. “Lucille!”

         Jack pulled Lucille into his lap, stomach down.

         Flynn’s little sister wasn’t moving.

         From what she could see, Lucille’s Monster Donut uniform had melted into the skin on her back. The reek of burnt flesh scorched Flynn’s nostrils. Lucille’s pale flesh was blackened. That smell made Flynn touch her face, remembering how it lingered on her for days.

         Lucille’s hands were trembling: a good sign. She was in shock, but she was alive. For now.

         Sound slowly returned. Monsters, demigods, and nature spirits alike screamed and cried. The ground crackled with embers. A Cyclops touched some ash at the edge of the crater, and Flynn had to wonder if that ash was its vaporized friend.

         Luke shouted orders, trying to organize the survivors. Soldiers carried the injured to Jack.

         Flynn’s mind took a moment to process: one of the Cyclopes must have covered Luke, Jack, Axel, and Ajax. Axel held Ajax as they crouched beside Jack, looking stunned at the carnage. There was no damage to the boys. Cyclopes, after all, were fireproof.    

         Then a wonderful sound soothed Flynn: Jack’s seraphim song.

         Sweat gleamed on Jack’s forehead. Tears dripped down his eyes. He cradled Lucille, eyes glancing up to Flynn.

         It would have been Flynn burned there if Lucille hadn’t shoved her down. Really, Flynn would have probably been vaporized just inside.

         Flynn considered her stomach to be a strong one, but even she felt nausea rock her. Jack peeled off the burned flesh from Lucille’s back, where the skin had cauterized with the fabric.

         As they watched, Lucille’s skin went from blackened, to raw-red. Jack danced his fingers across her torso, where her vital organs were. The skin seemed to react like thread pulled by a needle. It stretched into pinkish netting. Jack reached up to his forearm. As his fingers traced it, thin strips of his own skin peeled away like strands of dough. To her horror, he weaved his own skin into Lucille’s back. While Jack’s lips moved, he trembled. His head began to lull. What color was left in his face drained. His lips turned parched and leathery. The dark circles under his eyes deepened, like his own vitality dripped through his song and skin into Lucille.

         The tinier of their “adopted” sons lost the three donuts he’d just consumed and the rest of his stomach’s contents.

         The older one looked queasy, not caring that his little brother had accidentally splashed his foot with throw up.

         “They—they just—what happened?” Axel asked, dazed.

         Luke appeared at Jack’s shoulder. He touched the younger demigod. As soon as Jack stopped singing, his eyes rolled up in his head. He collapsed backwards and would have clacked his own head into the concrete sidewalk if Axel hadn’t grabbed him with his free arm.

         Luke glowered at Flynn, daring her to say something about how they could have prevented this if they killed Percy. “They killed the hydra. When the hydra dies, its line of power cuts, so all Monster Donut shops face the same vaporization as it.”

         “And everyone inside them,” Flynn muttered, touching her little sister’s exposed backside.

         Lucille’s breath had eased. Her vitals seemed normal. The skin along her slender shoulders, the small of her back, and the curve of her butt was pinkish. Along her legs and arms, there were still some first-degree looking burns, but nothing like the charred flesh before.

         Flynn heard demigods grew more powerful with age. She wondered, if she and Jack survived until they were in their twenties, if Flynn could command full troops with her voice and Jack could resurrect the dead.

         And if Luke would grow more cowardly.

         She wanted to scream at Luke. This is why they needed to kill that uncontrollable “weapon,” before he did more damage.

         Someone shoved a piece of cloth into Flynn’s hands.

         She blinked. Axel had taken off his shirt, handed it to her, and looked away. He covered Ajax’s eyes. “You should put that on Lucille,” he said.

         Flynn trembled with rage. She would deal with Luke later. Gently, she pried Lucille from Jack’s limp fingers. The tattered clothing fell away. Careful to avoid Lucille’s burns as best as Flynn could, she slipped Axel’s shirt over Lucille. From what Flynn knew of her, the younger girl wouldn’t appreciate having scars the way Flynn did.

         Luke cursed, “Vicky got vaporized trying to help the others in the back get out.”

         Struggling to keep her composure, Flynn scowled at Luke. Charm speak enlaced in her words, “When we get back on the ship, you will have Ethel tend to Lucille while she’s recovering.”

         Luke’s face crinkled with concentration. Somehow, he’d learned to resist her charm speak. Likely a product of his mind-meddling with Kronos. “Ethel is pregnant and has to take care of a toddler,” he said.

         “Exactly,” Flynn snapped. “She’s worthless for fighting practice right now.”

         Plus, after what Zeus had done to Ethel a second time, the fifteen-year-old mother couldn’t stand going near any of the male demigods aboard the ship. She’d electrocuted more than one person in a panic, including Luke. When Flynn had scoffed at her, Phil reminded Flynn that different people reacted differently to trauma.

Maybe this could strike two birds down with one stone: Lucille was gentle and mild-mannered. If anyone could pull Ethel from her barbed shell, it was Lucille. And, Ethel was beautiful, else she wouldn’t have attracted the King of the God’s attention twice.

         Flynn knew Lucille’s secret and why Camp Half-Blood’s Aphrodite Cabin had mocked her away for being “different.” It was about time Lucille got to spend time with a nonaggressive, beautiful girl.

         “Prove your worth,” Flynn snapped to Axel and Ajax. Luke could stay to clean up his mess. Meanwhile, Jack couldn’t do anything else for the wounded. At least his singing appeared to have spilled over to heal some of the minor injuries of those around him.

         Axel sat up at attention. Ajax cowered behind his brother.

         “What do you need us to do?” Axel asked.

         “The stronger of the two of you, carry Jack back towards the ship. The weaker get Lucille,” Flynn said. She stumbled to her feet, her head feeling woozy from the sensation of flames so close to her face. “I’ll trade off with you whenever one of you gets tired.”

         She glared at Luke, challenging him to contradict her order.

         Luke’s blue eyes scowled in return.

         As far as Flynn was concerned, this was his fault. If he would get over this weird delusion about Percy Jackson, he would still have these soldiers to his cause. Vicky would still be alive.

         Luke cursed under his breath. He broke eye contact and turned to shout orders to the monsters.

         Axel picked up Jack, slinging him across his shoulders in a fireman’s grip. The lanky, older boy’s limbs spilled limply everywhere like miscolored props. Jack looked even paler against Axel’s tan.

         “Ajax,” Axel said.

         The smaller boy rushed over to Lucille. He lifted the fragile girl, apparently much stronger than he looked. Lucille’s semi-nudity didn’t bother Ajax as much as it did his older brother.

         Flynn lead Axel and Ajax towards the shoreline where she knew a centaur would be waiting to carry them back onto the ship.

         So much for Lucille having her noncombat job. She’d be back in the Assault and Battery unit as soon as she was well enough to fight. Despite the brush with heat and the explosion, relief flushed over Flynn. She wouldn’t need to lead anytime soon.

         “Um… Flynn?” Axel asked.

         She looked down at him. He seemed uncomfortable, like he wasn’t sure what to call her. Both he and his little brother trembled. Their eyes were glazed. The smaller one’s breath panted erratically.

This is when Flynn was probably supposed to comfort them or give them some kind of pep talk. Flynn didn’t believe in those kinds of lies. They’d both seen someone die before: Julian’s fight happened a few hours prior. If they were fighting in Kronos’ army, they would have to get used to violence.

         Instead of asking for comfort, which Flynn would have scoffed at, Axel cleared his throat. “Did those kids know what they did? That killing the hydra would make the donut shop explode—or whatever just happened—and kill everyone inside?”

         Flynn snorted. She doubted it. Demigods on the Olympic side only learned about monsters to kill them more efficiently. “Does it matter?” she asked. “Will that change Vicky’s death?”

         Axel’s gaze narrowed, his eyes coming more into focus. He adjusted Jack, so her boyfriend’s limbs flopped out more. After a moment, he glanced down at Lucille as she breathed shallowly in his little brother’s arms.

         “No,” he said, “No it wouldn’t.”

         They walked in relative silence for awhile. In the background, moans of the injured and dying fuzzed together with the rumble of the tide. The water was coming into view, along with another blast sight.

         Seeing the crater where the hydra must have been bombed, Axel cleared his throat. “I want to make sure this doesn’t happen again. And show them that ignorance doesn’t excuse cruelty.”  

         When Flynn examined him, she could see fury in his expression.

         Flynn snorted again. Maybe she could get behind having two adopted sons after all.

  ***

               Maybe I should have done a Christmas or Hanukkah special to lighten the mood? XD Regardless of a lack of talking reindeer, I hope you enjoyed! Thank you for reading. :D And I hope you guys are having some awesome holidays/holiday breaks!

               Stay tuned next week, when we kick off the new year with Ajax’s Magical Daycare, where you meet some of my favorite characters in TFMO (and some I know one or two of you have been waiting for XD).

[chisie12]

Friends and Butterflies, An After Ending - Part 3

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20490521/chapters/48755918 Uh, domestic bliss again? Cause the chapter i had for ‘language of flowers’ just got too long  At least it’s day 4 now and it’s actually the right prompt time ovo;;

~~*~~*~~ Life… was truly, oddly fulfilling at the moment.  

It was like their calm spring of Heavenly Waterfall rippled, the peace disturbed. The original habitants, the pair of red fox and white mink, sneaked out of the berry shrubs to bask under the sun, deftly ignoring the idiotic cat and dog fighting in the background as two smaller bunnies nervously hopped around them. A pair of butterfly koi, coloured yin and yang, dipped back into the water when the pair of cat and dog started hissing and yowling from the trees. What used to be a bubble with just the two of them, somehow overnight, the newlyweds became a family of four, even if their children weren’t theirs by blood, while being surrounded by… more relatives related by blood.  

Life… was odd. Yeah.  

And chaotic. ~~*~~*~~

Day 1: Becoming part of the Hua family

The next morning after their midnight adventure, Hua Cheng woke up to someone warm closely snuggled under his arm. He was comfortably curled and pressed against his body like a snug pet, as though Hua Cheng’s body and arm was his personal nest of a safe haven. His slender leg was wrapped around one of the demon’s own one, arms neatly tucked by his chest with fingers brushing close to his pink, parted lips.  

There was something special about waking up next to someone you love. Something about sharing blankets and body heat, listening to the steady breathing of their slumber that’ll bring comfort to your mind just by simply being next to them, to bare your soul in the darkness and to submit yourself to vulnerability.  

Hua Cheng stroked the soft chocolate coloured hair with a brush of his fingers, tracing the sides of his cheek as he stared at the thick long eyelashes, the smooth skin of his face… his lips…  

Leaning down, he pressed a quick kiss onto his forehead and slipped out of the bed whilst being careful not to wake – he smiled at the thought– his husband, Xie Lian. With a soft groan, the man’s arm reached out and he quickly settled his pillow near his fingers, who immediately latched onto the cotton and snuggled against it. He watched the sleeping man breathe in his scent on the pillow before  leaving the room with a loving smile.

And then he found his sons up bright and early a few short moments before sunrise.  

“It’s quite early to be awake,” he commented when he saw them sitting by the front porch’s steps.

“Good morning,” the twins echoed.

“Where’s Crown Prince Xian Le?” Huang Qing later asked.  

Hua Cheng smiled sheepishly. “That… he’s still in bed. He worked hard yesterday.”

Huang Qing rolled his eyes. “That little bit of work and he’s tired?”

Hua Cheng nodded his head wordlessly, thinking, ‘Yeah. He worked really hard in bed.’

Why wouldn’t he? They just got married and haven’t even had their honeymoon yet!

Huang Shao blinked, pouting at being lost. “Ba ba, I don’t understand. What work?”

His older brother turned towards him and patted his head comfortingly. “It’s alright. Just some adult stuff.”

Huang Shao huffed but left it be.

Hua Cheng watched the boys watch the sunrise, the wisps of orange brightening into a blazing yellow that shone on their faces. Both were really identical, except for the bloodless countenance that Huang Qing had in comparison to Huang Shao’s pink flush. After their small adventure last night, Hua Cheng had immediately helped Huang Qing attain a physical body upon their return (thus joining his husband in bed when it was very late!) and he could clearly see the contentment in those eyes, so contagious that he was bubbling over with pride and joy too.

“We’re usually awake quite early,” Huang Qing suddenly spoke up, his voice wistful and distant, gaze dropping from the sunrise and onto the elongating shadows. “By now, we would be cutting bamboo to bring back for… pa.” His voice grew soft, melancholic, and he felt a large hand rested on his head. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, feeling the slight relief the sensation brought, washing away the bitterness ever so slightly. It was the first time someone (he cared) could actually touch him ever since that day. “Pa always had us go before sunrise, so we wouldn’t get burnt by the sun.”

Hua Cheng hummed in acknowledgement and they spent some moments in silence before he spoke up, “Let’s get you boys some breakfast.”

“Sweet potato porridge!” Huang Shao exclaimed right away when he jumped to his feet.  

“You can’t always live off that,” Hua Cheng and Huang Qing lightly scolded. They each shared a glance and laughed.  

“Why not? It is good for my tummy, keeps me full and gives me energy! It’s perfect!”

~~*~~*~~

Day 6: It’s not for you, San Lang.

Blood oozed out of his finger, a bead of red striking a beautiful contrast to the white cloth. With a sigh, Xie Lian hurriedly unwrapped the white strip of cloth around his finger and applied more medicine, his skin turning even yellower from the copious amount already added before wrapping it once more.  

Picking up the threaded needle, he gingerly held the cut cotton cloth of a soft brown colour and poked the needle through.  

He eventually managed to sew the two pieces together after a long while, fatigue already swelling in his bones. Hua Cheng stood by the door of the study. He saw the brown and white cotton fabric piled up on the table before his husband with the vials of medicine and cotton strips on the side table next to him.  

“Ge ge,” he sang, catching the man’s attention, only to cause him to yelp as he pricked his finger again.  

“What’s up, San Lang? Do you need me for something?” Xie Lian asked, looking at Hua Cheng while he applied the medicine yet again. With how skilful he was with a sword, one would think he would be able to avoid pricking and slicing his finger while sewing. No one probably got hurt as much as he did!  

“Are you making something?”  

“Yeah, it’s a surprise!”

“For me?” Hua Cheng teased.

But Xie Lian shook his head. “No, not for you.”  

The demon pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why not? I want something that ge ge made too.”

Xie Lian chuckled and turned back to the fabric. “Your best present is already having me as a husband. Now hurry and see if the boys are okay!”

With a tender smile on his face and a blissful gleam in his gaze, he silently and wordlessly turned around, leaving his husband to his surprise. Even if he couldn’t see it, he could easily tell that the man was furiously blushing, a delicious red of an apple avoiding to be devoured on the spot.  

Well, he couldn’t deny. Being Xie Lian’s husband was the best present after all.

~~*~~*~~

Day 21: Do you (not) like Xie Lian?

“Qing-ge ah, do you not like Xie Lian ba ba?”  

Huang Qing continued walking around the garden with his brother following behind. “Who said I didn’t?”  

“But Qing-ge, you don’t talk to Xie Lian ba ba like Hua Cheng ba ba. You don’t call him ba, always Crown Prince Xian Le!” Huang Shao tightly gripped onto his brother’s hand as he leaped onto a garden rock half his height. “Xie Lian ba ba is very nice. He is always smiling and very kind. He always makes us lunch too!”

“That we can’t eat,” Huang Qing huffed with a roll of his eyes as he held his other arm up just in case his brother lost his footing.  

“At least he tries!” Huang Shao pouted, carefully turning on the rock so he could face his brother, the hand still in his. “He’s not a good cook like Hua Cheng ba ba, but I can see that he really cares about us!”

“Mm,” Huang Qing neither denied nor agreed.  

“Do you not like Xie Lian ba ba because of the prayer?” Tiptoeing on the rock, Huang Shao continued light-heartedly, “A-Shao heard about it. But I think he tried his best.” There was a short pause when he dropped back onto his heels, his voice equally falling. “A-Shao thinks that… even if Xie Lian ba ba helped us earlier, pa would still become a ghost.”  

He hopped off the rock with a light huff, Huang Qing’s arms easily catching onto his brother to steady his footing. Compared to a little under a month ago, Huang Shao looked healthier and fuller, though he was still smaller than most kids his age.  

“What do you mean?” Huang Qing asked.

“When Qing-ge… left, the old man and his son started beating us even more. Sometimes pa would be bleeding for days and A-Shao cannot move his arms.”

The sharp tug at his arm caused him to turn back, startled at the glowering expression Huang Qing had. “Did they break your arms, A-di?”

Huang Shao nodded naively, unperturbed at the sullen behaviour, “Yeah, they did. Why?”

A growl rumbled in his throat, anger rising to his head. Those evil, stupid, mean – !

“Qing-ge ah, don’t be angry. Did A-Shao make you angry? A-Shao didn’t mean to…”

Huang Qing forced to calm himself at hearing the pleading tone in his brother’s voice, his heart breaking a little. “No, no. I’m not angry at you, A-di. I’m just sad.”

Those words brightened up Huang Shao’s expression, relieved. “A-Shao is happy then. It’s already in the past. Isn’t it better now? We get good food to eat! A big garden to play in and our uncles are all so nice. So, please don’t be sad!”

“Mm, yeah,” Huang Qing said with a small smile as they walked around QianDeng Temple. As they neared the back-temple garden, they heard the rustling of dried leaves being swept, the curiosity rising. Slowing down, they peeked out from the corner and then blinked at the same time.  

There he was, smiling under the shade with white sleeves rolled up and a rake in hand. Dried leaves were gradually swept into a growing pile by the side and when he was done, he bent down to clean Old Man Huang’s grave before setting a fresh plate of fruits down and then lighting the incense for him.

“You know… he does this every day,” came a voice behind them.  

Startled, the twins spun around to see Hua Cheng standing there with hands clasped behind his back and smiling warmly at them.  

They turned back to watching Xie Lian walk away with the rags and pail of water. That’s when they realised who the person that had been diligently cleaning and changing their father’s offerings every day was when they went to pay their respects.  

~~*~~*~~

Day 30: Uncles! …? …Can I be jealous?

“Ba ba, can we get this?”

“A-Shao, that’s for a woman.”

“I’ll have to agree with Crown Prince Xian Le, A-di. Why do you want to get that?”

“Oh, oh! Qing-ge doesn’t know it yet! But, but, on Xie Lian ba ba’s and Hua Cheng ba ba’s wedding, there was this one Heavenly ge ge that could transform!” Huang Shao eagerly explained.

Xie Lian: ‘…we all kind of can though, son.’

“And at the dinner, I think he was arguing with another ge ge. He smelled like fish! And suddenly, that Heavenly ge ge transformed into a very pretty jie jie!!”

Xie Lian: ‘…why didn’t I know this happened during the banquet?’

“She had silver hair and it was bright and shimmering, like the gold foils ba ba got for us to play! And so tall! Then I asked the uncle next to me if I could switch places with him so I can sit next to her. He was a very kind uncle!”

Xie Lian while forcing to keep the smile on his face: ‘…Mu Qing, if you dared seduce my son…’

“Uncle? Did you call me?”  

The family turned around towards the voice. Xie Lian was surprised to see them in Ghost City!  

“Ba ba, Qing-ge! It’s the Heavenly ge ge and the kind uncle!” Huang Shao exclaimed, his face darting back and forth between the people and his family.

“Feng Xin? Mu Qing? Why are you here?” Xie Lian asked with a wry grin.

The pair of generals looked down at the two boys who each held Xie Lian’s hands, confusion painting their features. “When did you have children? Doesn’t it take around nine months before you pop one? But you have two?”  

“What is he talking about?” Huang Qing pointedly asked a flustered Xie Lian who was spluttering at Feng Xin for the question.

“Nothing!” Xie Lian’s face turned a deeper shade as he answered his older son’s question before turning to his old bodyguard, “And they’re adopted! Twins!”  

Huang Shao took this cue to step forward, one hand still in Xie Lian’s, and he smiled sweetly at Mu Qing as he waved with his free hand. “Heavenly ge ge! Hi! Do you remember A-Shao?”  

Mu Qing glanced down onto the grinning boy. “Ah! The little boy from the banquet! How are you?” he asked as he crouched down, a smile stealing the spotlight on his lips.

The boy was overjoyed at being remembered by the general, buzzing around like an excited bunny that couldn’t run amok. “Heavenly ge ge! What’s your name? I’m A-Shao!”

A soft chuckle escaped. “A-Shao can call me Qing-ge if you like!”  

“Eh?” Huang Shao tilted his head with a frown. “But that’s my ge ge’s name!”  

Mu Qing turned towards the other boy “You’re also named ‘Qing’?”  

Huang Qing nodded and replied tautly, “Surname Huang, Huang Qing. Nice to meet you.”  

The man narrowed his eyes at the different treatment compared to his younger brother, but his attention was soon stolen again by a soft-spoken, shy voice.  

“Can… I call you Qing-jie?”

Everything around him seemed to freeze, the bustling excitement around Ghost City and Feng Xin’s conversation with Xie Lian dimming in his ears. Qing…jie? His mind wanted to scream, to roll his eyes at such an idiotic, naïve yet adorable request because why would he want to be referred to as a female when he was a man!?  

Yet, his heart already spoke before his mind could send its orders: “Sure. You may call me Qing-jie.”

He should have raged, at least get angry, but the merry cheer from the boy warmed his heart, his innocence contagious as he felt his lips curve higher. Turning towards the other boy, he offered the same and surprisingly, he agreed easily. Then he felt a small hand tug at his, catching his attention once more.

“Qing-jie! Do you like this?” Huang Shao asked, pointing towards the woman’s robe he saw before. Silk dyed a plain deep black, soft to the touch with a pleasant caress, trimmed in silver that shimmered identical to his own hair, Mu Qing felt his heartstrings tug at the old familiar feeling of warmth coursing through his veins; of when children he looked after before he ascended would try to present him things or cheer him up, make him laugh and smile without a care for his background or identity – that all they wanted was just a friend to play with.  

With a low hum, Mu Qing found himself nodding. “Mm, I do. It’s very lovely. You have good tastes.”

Feng Xin and Xie Lian watched agape by the sides, contrasting thoughts flying over their head.  

Feng Xin: ‘What the actual fuck? Is this still Mu Qing? Who the hell possessed this guy!? He was never gentle like this with me!’

Xie Lian: ‘…Mu Qing… stop… seducing… my son. Please.’

Xie Lian continued to lament at the ordeal, confused and torn at the turn of events. Should he be happy? Or should he be angry? Did Huang Shao truly understand what it means to like someone? Should he separate the two? But what if it wasn’t the type of love he was thinking about?  

Ahhh, this was all too confusing for him!  

He never even loved someone until Hua Cheng came into his life.  

…Should he tell Hua Cheng?

“Ba ba, do you think you can buy for Qing-jie?”  

Huang Shao’s question pulled him out of his thoughts. Xie Lian’s smile twitched. Did he hear right?

‘This ba ba of yours is poor, okay! Ba is the one with money!’ Xie Lian howled regrettably in his mind.  

Catching his old employer’s expression, Mu Qing hurriedly added, “A-Shao ah, even though I think it’s nice, I have too many clothes. It will be a waste to buy for me. You should keep the money for yourself! Tell… your… ba ba to buy some new clothes for you!”  

“Oh…” Huang Shao’s mouth fell open into an ‘O’ as he considered Mu Qing’s words. Looking at his brother, he asked, “Qing-ge, do you want any new clothes?”

Huang Qing shook his head. “I think we have enough.”

Turning back to Mu Qing, Huang Shao happily said, “It’s okay, Qing-jie! Qing-ge said we have enough clothes. So, A-Shao thinks it’s best to just save for the future!”  

Ruffling the boy’s hair, Mu Qing praised him for being a good boy and stood up. When he looked back at Feng Xin, the smile disappeared without a trace and he rolled his eyes at the dumbstruck man. “What? What’s wrong with you?”  

“The hell –”

“Don’t curse in front of the children!”  

Feng Xin jumped at the four different voices booming in his ears. Xie Lian and Mu Qing he knew, but there were clearly two more than he didn’t recognise!  

“Have you no shame!” One of the two voices reprimanded, swatting at his arm with a folded fan.  

“Ah! It’s the man that smelled like fish!”  

He Xuan and Shi Qing Xuan turned their attention towards the voice, the former pursing his lips into a straight line while the latter grinned and crouched down.  

“Aiya! Such a cute boy! Do you remember who this ge ge is?”  

Huang Shao blinked and nodded his head immediately. “Of course, I do. You sat next to Fish-ge!”

Shi Qing Xuan laughed heartily when he heard He Xuan’s nickname, the sound calming like a warm summer wave in the demon’s heart. “That’s right! My name is Shi Qing Xuan and Fish-ge is… you can still call him Fish-ge and call me Feng-ge if you’d like? It might be too confusing since we both have ‘Xuan’ in our names.”  

Huang Shao blinked twice. “Why ‘Feng-ge’?”  

Shi Qing Xuan winked and waved his fan open with a flick of his wrist, covering half his face behind the paper and mysteriously said, “Because I used to be the Wind God.”

With his hair combed and elegantly tied at the back, and his face flushed a healthy pink while wearing beautiful robes of a light blue colour, it was really as though the former Wind God had reappeared to grace them with his presence.  

Huang Shao oh-ed at the thought, wholeheartedly believing the man. “Okay! I’ll call you Feng-ge then!” After that, he quickly turned back to his silent twin brother and introduced, “This is my brother, Qing-ge! Qing-ge, these are the ge ge and uncle I met during ba ba’s banquet!”  

Huang Qing mirrored his action, warily watching the strangers that stood before him and his family. Subconsciously, he gripped Xie Lian’s tighter and scooted all that little bit closer to the man. He knew none of them and even if his brother was friendly with them, he was technically friendly to everyone!  

Xie Lian kept his attention on Huang Shao, watching him interact freely with the three men and one demon. His youngest son was such a sweet talker, calling these men who were centuries older than him ‘brother’! (With the exception of Feng Xin, of course.)

However, his heart was internally sobbing at Huang Qing’s actions, whether it was from being relied upon or that it was his son being uncomfortable, he felt an unbearable ache beat.  

“Why are all of you visiting Ghost City?” Xie Lian asked at last.  

“We thought we should visit,” Feng Xin replied when Mu Qing scoffed and looked away. “See how your married life is.”

Seeing Mu Qing’s displeased expression, Feng Xin felt the cuss words dancing on the tip of his tongue, laughing at his discomfort and self-suppression. ‘I had to drag you here and you look like that! Ugh. You clearly enjoyed being with the kid!’

Shi Qing Xuan tapped his lips with his fan, an arm crossed over his chest as he held his other elbow. “Well, He-xiong got really hungry and I kind of ran out of food. So, we thought we could come here for some food?”  

Xie Lian sighed. Seeing Huang Shao’s expectant and hopeful puppy dog eyes, he felt a certain bitterness churn deep in his stomach. Should he – could he – be jealous of these people stealing his son’s attention away!? It was supposed to be a family shopping trip!  

Not a ‘treat-us-please’ trip or an ‘entertain-me’ trip!  

Yet, when he refocused onto Huang Shao’s suddenly teary eyed, pouty expression, his defences immediately crumbled into dust.

He sighed.  

“Then, I suppose we should all go have some dinner? I’ll call for San Lang to join us.”

~~*~~*~~

Day 43: To study or to train?

A resigned sigh echoed in the empty hall.  

Another sigh echoed beside him.  

“Bored?” Xie Lian asked, having walked into the main hall when he heard his sons sigh. He could understand them though. Other than the usual toys they were gifted by Hua Cheng and his uncles, the boys didn’t really have other children their age to play with.  

And Xie Lian would bless to the Heavens when his boys didn’t go out to play with the ghosts. They wreaked havoc no matter where they went! Outside of Ghost City! Ever since the group of four entered his sons’ lives, he realised his life has been more chaotic than ever!  

Overturned stalls, broken furniture, expert level hide and seek!  

Of course, they’d behave when Hua Cheng was around. Little demons, just like their father.

(Adorable little demons though.)

“Yeah, we’re bored, Crown Prince Xian Le,” Huang Qing flatly said with his face cradled in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees as they sat on the steps near the black jade futon.  

“Do you have any new toys for us to play with, ba ba?” Huang Shao asked with a pout.  

“Did I hear toys?” Hua Cheng’s head peeked out from the doorway, grinning at his family.  

“Do you have any, ba?” the twins perked up.  

The hall experienced its third sigh when Xie Lian thought about his circumstances. He’d always hear them call Hua Cheng ‘ba’, yet only Huang Shao would call him ‘ba ba’ (the slight difference was what the boy decided on not long ago because ‘Xie Lian ba ba’ and ‘Hua Cheng ba ba’ was too much of a mouthful to say when they’re in the same room). Huang Qing… was still… cold. Nor even an ounce of warmth.  

Sigh.  

Hua Cheng waved for them to come over and Xie Lian watched then obediently listen. He heard faint murmurings, simply inaudible for him to make out the words and curiousity spiked. What could his husband give that was so secretive? He saw the bright smiles blooming on their youthful faces, excitement gleaming in their eyes.

And so, he walked over, proud yet curiously happy.  

…

“San Lang!!”  

All three of them jumped at the scream. They slowly looked at Xie Lian who was clutching at the doorframe, aghast and pale at the sight of gleaming silver in the light.

Huang Qing glared at his reaction, his hand tightening at the gift his father just gave. Was Xie Lian going to berate them and take their new toys away? They were awesome and practical! He loved it! “Crown Prince –”

“Does Xie Lian ba ba not like it?” Huang Shao’s face fell and quickly interjected.  

Hua Cheng’s grin widened, “I think it’s a good gift!”

However, ignoring his sons, he turned a fierce expression onto Hua Cheng. “You can’t just give it to them like this! Teach them how to hold it properly!”

Both boys were stunned, blinking in confusion. Huh?  

Seeing their expressions, Hua Cheng chuckled and patted them each on their heads, undisturbed by Xie Lian’s scolding. “Your ba ba is a martial god, remember? He specialises especially in swords. In fact, he loves swords.”

“Loves them more than ba?” Huang Shao tilted his head back to glance at his father.  

“No,” Hua Cheng’s smile was pulled tight. “He better not.”

“Oh, shush.” Xie Lian stepped forward and took the scabbards from Hua Cheng. Knowing him, he must have simply told the children to pull out the swords and play with them. Seven-year-old boys! With real and sharp, polished swords! San Lang ah! Please be more careful!

Xie Lian carefully put the swords back into their respective scabbards. “Do you want to train on how to use a sword?”

There was eager excitement on their faces, even Huang Qing who normally scowled or flatly stared at him kept nodding his head.  

“Or do you want to study and learn how to read?”  

At that question, the boys’ expressions fell, dark and gloomy. “No, I want to train,” they flatly said simultaneously.

“San Lang ba ba would be teaching you how to read and write,” a grin jumped onto Xie Lian’s lips as Hua Cheng’s fell, “It’ll be good practice for all of you!”  

“The best swordsman is a person who’s also refined in literature,” Xie Lian added when all three of them continued to gloomily look at him.  

As though he was the most boring person in the world.  

…

“Fine! Sword practice first then writing!”

Everyone cheered at the good news.  

It was worth a shot. Sigh.  

“San Lang, you’re practicing too.”

“But ge ge,” a seductive whisper suddenly breathed against his ear when the boys turned to run towards the garden, “As long as yours is beautiful, it doesn’t matter if mine is ugly.”

“Your sons might not feel the same,” he casually commented while removing the (although welcomed) hand on his ass. “We’ve got to train the –”  

Lips dove down to devour his words and a tongue slid out to immediately assert its dominance. A moan quickly escaped his lips when an arm curled around his waist and pulled him in deeper, sending his mind into a lust-filled haze. Yet, before he could delve deeper into the warmth, it pulled away as quick as lightning.

“Nope, gotta wait for tonight, ge ge,” Hua Cheng chuckled and playfully ran towards the garden.  

Xie Lian’s chest heaved up and down, his breathing ragged partly from shock and partly from the brief pleasure. Just what…? When his mind finally registered the situation, an embarrassed flush climbed onto his cheeks.  

“San Lang!!”

~~*~~*~~

Day 50: You sure you didn’t take the pill?

It was only a week since the training began, but it was merely surprises after surprises.  

Drenched in sweat, heavy pants, smooth skin turning callous bit by bit, but not once was there ever a complaint. The sun would blaze, burn as spring passed and summer came to life. Hot winds blew, but they carried on.  

Each slash, each swing, each step forward and in retreat; repetitive, dull. But their movements were swift, filled with all the power their little bodies could muster even if all they held was a wooden sword.  

“It’s definitely in the genes.”

With an eyebrow raised, Xie Lian glanced over to his husband who was leisurely biting into a plum and said questioningly, “But they’re… adopted?”

Hua Cheng watched the boys closely, taking another bite of his fruit and nonchalantly asked back, “Are you sure, ge ge? Did you secretly take a child-bearing pill? They have your eyes.”

Even if it was a joke, a casual remark made offhandedly, Xie Lian’s jaw dropped. His mind blanked at that moment, all praises for his sons dispersing like the hot summer winds, while dreadful panic was exploding at the accusation. Incoherent words spilled from his mouth, jumbling and tripping over themselves, but everything was a mess in him! Just how – just what – when – did he do something wrong!?  

Hua Cheng stared at him in bafflement.  

“What’s wrong?”

“San Lang! I didn’t! There’s no way! I wouldn’t – there’s only you! I just – I only… with you…”  

Xie Lian’s voice eventually died in his throat, his head dropped low as he rubbed his arms for the slightest amount of comfort. He bit into his bottom lip, warmth pooling in his eyes. Was there a reason for Hua Cheng to say that? Did he not trust him? They were already married but, but… oh my God.  

The thought itself sent a thousand blades to pierce his heart, a pain worse than watching Hua Cheng disappear while in his arms. The agony of realising, thinking that your love, despite surviving through hurdles and obstacles, didn’t trust you…

No, he didn’t want to think about it further.  

“Ge ge, your highness,” Hua Cheng had called out softly when everything fell into a heavy silence, almost to the point of suffocation. Xie Lian didn’t respond.  

Did he say something wrong? He gently tugged at Xie Lian’s arm but the man simply shook his head wordlessly. What did he say wrong?  

“My love…” he called again, “My husband…”

“Hubby?” he finally tried.

Xie Lian instantly perked up at the term of endearment, worried and distraught, panic thinking to himself: ‘Hua Cheng never calls me that.’

Hua Cheng had felt relieved when Xie Lian responded, only for his expression to fall when he noticed the paling countenance of his husband. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you like that. I was only joking! Ge ge, slowly, breathe,” he could only say gently as a hand worriedly holds Xie Lian’s arm. “In… and out. Yes, that’s it. Slowly.”

Xie Lian’s chest heaved with Hua Cheng’s words, his gaze blank and mind filled with only the heavy pants of his breathing.

“Are you bullying him again, ba?” Huang Shao piped up when the twins noticed the abnormality, their training disrupted.

Huang Qing nodded his head in consensus, resting the tip of his practice sword in the grass, and added unhelpfully, “Must have been quite mean.” But he was frowning rather deeply, an inexplicable turmoil rolling in his gaze.

Hua Cheng’s expression fell further after hearing their words. He stayed quiet and continued to try calm his husband. Just what did he say to make him panic this bad?  

However, a smaller figure had already walked up towards Xie Lian, one hand still gripping onto his practice sword and the other lifting to tug at the panic-stricken man. “Ma, can you teach me how to lunge properly? A-Qing thinks he’s still not doing it right.”

Xie Lian blinked, a new habit he picked from his sons. Ma? That was a new term he’s never been called before – wait. Ma?  

His vision refocused, the blades of grass sharpening in his sight and feeling the warm, sticky humid air breathe at his face. There was a small, pale hand tugging onto his rolled-up sleeves. Wearing training robes equally plain and white like his, beautiful locks of hair sticking to his damp face (from such humid weather), there Huang Qing stood with a serious expression; As if he said nothing out of the ordinary, as if everything was perfectly normal.  

“Did you hear what I said, ma?” Huang Qing rolled his eyes.

…he’s been hanging out with Mu Qing far too much.

Still, Xie Lian nodded his head and smiled so bright. Ma! ‘A-Qing called me ‘ma!’’ It was no longer that annoying title ‘Crown Prince Xian Le’! Who’d want his son to call him that anyway!  

If ‘ma’ it is, then ‘ma’ it will be!!

“Which part do you think you’re weak at? Come and show ma.”

Hua Cheng remained frozen on the spot as his husband’s arm slipped out of his fingers, walking away without even a glance back. His hand felt colder than usual, his heart suddenly empty with a gaping hole. Small flowers seemed to bloom around the grinning Xie Lian while he worked on Huang Qing’s form, seeing what was actually weak and repeatedly demonstrated it for their oldest son.  

Huang Shao tilted his head to the right and watched his stock-still father continue being a statue. Seeing the half eaten plum in Hua Cheng’s pale hand slipping, he quickly grabbed it with the swipe of his hand and bit down into the fruit.  

“What did ba say to ma?” Huang Shao asked as he chewed onto the fruit, immediately adopting his brother’s way of referring to their always-smiling, affable father.  

Hua Cheng was still shocked, his gaze dropping to look at his empty palm, the one that allowed Xie Lian to slip away. That… was the first time Xie Lian ever voluntarily left him in such a situation. “I… I… was just joking?”  

Huang Shao remained quiet as he waited, the plum gradually being consumed the only sound in the silence.  

“I was just joking that… ma must have given birth to you two,” Hua Cheng finally squeezed out, his eyes closing in pain as he clenched his palm, “Because A-Qing and A-Shao are quite skilled with a sword even though you’re only 7 years old, and the both of you have eyes the same as ma. S-So… I just…”

Even he was not expecting his bubbly son to frown at him, the plum now finished. “Wow, ba. That is quite mean…”  

Even he thought so!? It was just a joke!  

Seeing his father’s growing distress, pale face turning even paler, Huang Shao pouted and pointed out, “Ma only loves you. A-Shao and Qing-ge know he loves you very much, and ba and ma just got married. If he gave birth to us, it means that we must be his sons by blood, right?” His voice was lilt, jumping high at the last word as he played with the thoughts. “But that would mean ma loved someone else before you! But ma said she only ever loved one person!”  

Hua Cheng was startled at the declaration, the fear and panic receding like the tide. When did they –?

“And it’s very mean too because what about my pa!” Huang Shao huffed, making a face at Hua Cheng of unhappy bared canines on a scrunched-up face before running back toward his brother and Xie Lian, who happily opened his arms and allowed him to dive into the embrace.  

The demon remained standing by the tree, head lowered and arms limp, yet his muscles felt tense, like a wooden puppet that’s been left hanging without its puppeteer, unable to move and unable to act, with only the thoughts a violent whirl in his mind as his only companion. He tried to organise the chaos in his mind, to sort them out one by one, but the words continued to jumble and bite at each other.

His head throbbed in pain.  

…

That night, Xie Lian reluctantly stepped into their room, the darkness consuming his figure whole. His heart jumped to his throat, suffocating and panicking when his fingers finally slid the door close. After the training, the twins had immediately brought him to their favourite stall in Ghost City, distracting him with the good mortal food and fighting to pay for his meal with the savings they’ve managed to save up.  

All the while Hua Cheng silently followed behind like a shadow.  

“Ge ge…?”

Xie Lian fought to calm his nerves at the slight startle that shocked his body. He slowly turned on his heel, his gaze moving from the shut door and towards the bed where a figure sat with his back slumped.  

“G-Ge ge?” Hua Cheng called again, the fear creeping its way into his voice he tried to steady but a force was stuck in his throat, its weight heavy and burdensome. He wanted to move, to walk towards his husband but his feet didn’t listen, glued to the floor as though it was lead weighing thousands of kilograms.  

“San Lang…” Xie Lian whispered, his voice a frightened whisper. Now that they were alone in the dark, the thoughts that had been repressed came gushing out like a tidal wave, engulfing his mind mercilessly. His feet quietly padded across the room, his throat bobbing as he gulped the lump hitched there.  

Did Hua Cheng really not trust him subconsciously? Which was why he made that comment? That his husband felt a repressed fear with thinking he might have past histories with other men!?  

Hua Cheng’s masculine scent wafted into his nose when his feet paused by the bedside, their knees a mere few inches away. The distance felt so close, yet so far to the married couple.

‘If only I just reached my hand out…’ they thought simultaneously, an ache in their hearts begging to be held, to feel the warmth of the other person’s love chasing the dark thoughts away.

But no one made a move.  

Xie Lian stood there, unmoving with his head held low, his hair falling to curtain his unreadable expression.  

Hua Cheng sat there, staring up at this husband with an anguish in his gaze, wishing, screaming, he could move.  

Time congealed around them, the darkness suffocating and warping around their bodies when the candlelight flickered. They both hoped someone would make the first move, yet a restraining fear locked their limbs, their voices.  

A wave of anguish rose within Xie Lian the longer he waited but his husband was like the corpse, equally still like the dead. The more one hoped, the bigger the disappointment, after all. The emotion rose, crawled up his heart and to his mind, washing everything with a feeling of heartache that pulsed dull and painful. Why wouldn’t he move? Did he really not trust me anymore? Please just say something… anything…  

‘I don’t want this silence…’  

His head lowered even more. A warm wetness assaulted his eyes, trapped behind the lids, his breathing becoming ragged, short and sharp.  

‘Maybe I should say it first –’

A knock rapped against their door; the sound exceptionally loud in the silence. Both men jolted and turned towards it.  

“Ma…? Are you awake?” Came a soft voice.  

Xie Lian’s instincts went on overdrive when he heard the trembles. He quickly strode over while wiping the unshed tears away with his arms and opened the door. He dropped into a crouch, caressing both boys on their heads with a worry in his tone. “A-Qing? A-Shao? What’s wrong?”

“W-We…” Huang Qing started but soon fell silent, the words stuck. The both of them stood there, each holding each other’s hand while a plush bunny slumped over their free arm. The plush didn’t look particularly adorable, with mismatched ears and paws, and made of cloths cut from cotton in brown and white.

Xie Lian patiently waited, intently aware of Hua Cheng’s gaze on his back.  

“We…” Huang Qing tried again but his body started to shake when sobs racked his body, his large round eyes filling with absent tears.  

Xie Lian quickly drew him into his arms, noting that Huang Shao was fighting hard to hold his own tears back, the liquid dripping out of his nose as he tried to maintain a serious expression.  

“N-Nightmare…” Huang Shao squeaked, the sound scaring even him. The tears spilled out of his eyes like the glass finally breaking and he sobbed and sobbed. “Qing-ge and A-Shao had a nightmare…! Uuu… ba and ma were f-fighting… a-and, and…”

Huang Qing clutched onto Xie Lian’s robes as he cried without tears, the pain unbearable and smothering him for the exact reason he couldn’t cry. Xie Lian’s heart broke, the cracks growing longer and deeper with each cry as he brought both of them into his arms.

But that’s when Huang Qing suddenly burst, “And then ba and ma said you didn’t want A-Qing and A-di anymore!”

Cold water splashed onto the men; Hua Cheng shot up to his feet, rushing over to his sons in a flash as Xie Lian tried to comfort them, patting their heads and whispering in soft, slow tones that they weren’t fighting, that they would never abandon A-Qing and A-Shao. When the boys noticed that Hua Cheng was crouched down next to them, he was attacked by faces full of tears and sobs, of sadness and heartbreak.  

“Please don’t fight with ma anymore, ba?” the twins begged in unison as they crawled into his lap, gripping his robes as they cried in his arms. “Please, ba. Please… A-Qing/A-Shao don’t want you to fight with ma…”  

“Shh… I won’t fight with ma anymore. I won’t. Everything is okay… We won’t abandon either of you…”

Children were a blessing, a gift from the Heavens, possessing a certain intuition that would turn mute over time as they grew up, an intuition that allowed them to feel and understand something, even if their parents said otherwise. They could tell if their parents are down, happy or in a fight, and those more outspoken would voice it out, yet there would be those that silently kept it bottled in for reasons only they would understand.  

But good parents always wanted to protect their children’s innocence, to shelter and protect, to only let them know of the good and pray they grow up well. To be healthy and happy, to give them the very best.  

Hua Cheng and Xie Lian could only be acquiescent to their requests, to wipe their tears away and warm them in their embrace, until their sobs died down and their cries reduced to tiny sniffles.

“Sleep with ma and pa tonight?” Xie Lian affectionately asked, kissing both of them on the forehead when they finally calmed down, feeling his heart too finally settling from the aches and worries.  

Hua Cheng echoed his husband, hoping, so dearly hoping they’d say yes.  

He couldn’t bear leave them alone after that ordeal.  

“We… won’t disturb ma and pa?” Huang Qing asked in reply, peeking up from his spot in Xie Lian’s arms who nodded with a smile.  

“Of course not!”  

…

The candle had burned low, its warm glow dim in the dark. Nestled in the centre of the bed, comfortably tucked behind the blanket and tightly hugging their plush bunnies, were the twins sleeping in between their parents who had been coaxing them to sleep with constant reassurance. Seeing their at long last steady rise and fall of deep slumber, Xie Lian and Hua Cheng carefully got out of bed and walked towards the candle, their steps silent like the shadows.  

“Ge ge… I’m sorry.” A pleading murmur in the light, an icy hand holding a warm one in desperation, in grief. “I’m sorry I joked like that.”

No further explanations, no defending himself. Just… a simple apology, a simple plea.

Xie Lian called out his name softly, covering the cold hand with his and took the step closer towards his husband. His unshed tears returned to prick his eyes and his sight turned into a watery haze. The red robes of his husband’s blurred, the image distorting. “I’m sorry too… I’m sorry I reacted like that. I thought you didn’t trust me.”

Hua Cheng slipped his hand free, raising them to cup Xie Lian’s tear-stained cheeks as he rested his forehead against his. “Never. It was a terrible joke. I was wrong.”

Xie Lian neither agreed nor denied, only responding by leaning into Hua Cheng’s touch.  

Hua Cheng kissed his forehead, a hard press of anguished emotions. “I love you.”

A declaration whispered against his skin, as though desperate to let him know that he still loved the man, that he feared he wouldn’t know.  

I love you.

I really really love you.

‘Please accept it, please don’t reject me.’

A fair hand rested itself atop the cold shivering one on his cheek, gently, warmly holding it. “San Lang…”

And he tilted his head to kiss the trembling lips, pressing and directing to relax the jaw and the teeth gnawing at the bottom lip, massaging their lips together in a reassuring warmth. Hua Cheng hungrily devoured the kiss, drinking in every love he could get as his hands tightened their grip. It was a fear, a valid fear aroused by his husband, yet doused by the very same man.  

Moist lips, tingling in bliss, parted with their tangled taste gleaming under the candle. Turning to towards the flame, Xie Lian gently blew it out, the smoky scent filling the room.

“It’s been a long day. Let’s go to bed.”

~~*~~*~~

Day 71: Can you do it, boys?

The summer was at its peak and summer blooms were thriving in the sun, waving their greetings to those that passed.  

In Paradise Manor, there were two people lying across the pagoda newly built and set up in the back garden. A small pond encircled the building, lotus buds budding above the water. It had been built on a whim, mainly to liven up the manor’s empty garden, so that the place could really feel more like a ‘home’.  

A man, tall and slender, walked across the arched bridge with a tray in hand.

“Ba!”

“Finally! We thought we were gonna melt in the heat!”

Chuckling, Hua Cheng handed them the tray with bowls of crushed ice laced with different fruit juices. Huang Qing took the bowl with mango, sweet yet sour, while his brother grabbed the peach shaved ice that had a really sweet taste to it.  

“Thanks, ba!”

Hua Cheng picked up his own bowl of melon shaved ice and plopped into the space in front of his sons. His gaze floated across the large expanse of land that the garden held and other than the lotus lake, the place still seemed dull to him.  

“Look! A dragonfly!” He called out.

A dragonfly zipped through the budding lotus flowers, flitting and beating its wings across the water’s surface, inciting ripples to dance. The boys gasped in excitement, running to the edge of the pagoda to watch it fly.  

“Hi, dragonfly!” Huang Shao greeted with a spoon in his hand, bits of his shaved ice falling into the pond with a splash.  

Hua Cheng watched the scene play out while he ate his shaved ice with still an arrogant elegance in his movements, a hum playing off his lips. The dragonfly landed on a lotus, its wings stopping to rest before it zipped away.

A thought came into his mind. He then mentally calculated the days and gasped in realisation. “Oh! It’s coming soon!”  

“Huh? What is, ba?” Huang Shao turned back to look at him.  

A cheeky smile curled on the man’s lips as he waved a hand for his sons to come over. “Come, come. I have a very nice idea and I’ll need your help for it. It’s a surprise for ma.”  

~~*~~*~~

Day 72: Mission: Surprise Ma! T-minus 7 days.

“Ma! Ma!”

“Yes, A-Shao?”

“Can we visit Qing-jie?”

“Err…”

“We can’t?”  

At his son’s teary eyes and pout, Xie Lian felt dread and got down to his knees. “No, no. I’ll ask Mu Qing to come visit instead, okay?”

“Yay! Thanks, ma!”  

“But…”  

“But…?”  

“A-Shao ah, you’re still very young. It’s not very good to be… very attached to someone else.”  

Huang Shao tilted his head as Huang Qing rolled his eyes. “What do you mean, ma?”

Xie Lian bit his lip. Just how was he supposed to tell his son that it’s not good to fall in love so early when he’s still so young?  

Ah, never mind. He’ll have Hua Cheng do it. Maybe he’ll know what to say.

Connecting to the communication array, he heard the bustling chatter of the other Heavenly Officials.

“Good morning!” he greeted.

Unlike the previous times when they would descend into silence, a cacophony of greetings waved back.  

“Your highness! Good morning!”

“Morning! How are you?”

“Your highness, how’s the honeymoon?”

“I’m well, thank you!” Xie Lian answered, deftly ignoring Pei Ming’s teasing tone on his honeymoon.  

What honeymoon? It didn’t make a difference!  

…everyday was a honeymoon, that’s why.

But they didn’t need to know that.  

“Is General Xuan Zhen here?” Xie Lian then asked politely.  

“What do you want?” Mu Qing’s voice bit out.  

“It’s not me. But it’s urgent. Do you think you can come?”

Mu Qing went silent, just like the entire communication array. After a moment did he only speak up, “Alright.”

“Where the fuck you going?” Feng Xin cut in, making his presence known.  

“I’ll see you then!” Xie Lian called out before leaving the array.

“Hello? What the fuck. Where are you going!”

…  

“Anyone?”

…

“Fuck.”

When Mu Qing came down to Ghost City, Xie Lian was somehow not surprised that Feng Xin tagged along. Huang Shao who was standing by his side, a hand in his, was jumping up and down while waving his hand excitedly at Mu Qing.

“Behave, A-Shao. Mu Qing isn’t running anywhere,” Xie Lian lightly scolded.  

With a pout on his face and obediently listening to his father, Huang Shao said, “Yes, ma.”

Huang Qing rolled his eyes at the scene.  

“Thanks for coming, Mu Qing,” said Xie Lian.  

“Not a problem. What’s the urgency?” Mu Qing asked.

Xie Lian lifted his excited son’s hand that he held and said, “This one here wanted you to come.”

When his father let go, Huang Shao immediately pounced onto Mu Qing, hugging the slim man around the leg. “Qing-jie! Let’s play?”

“Oh no, no ‘playing’, A-Shao!” Xie Lian scolded. Their ‘playing’ could only be running amok in Ghost City!  

Mu Qing rolled his eyes at Xie Lian and bent down to effortlessly pick up the pouting boy, the action alone enough to flip the frown up. “We’ll find something else to do, okay?”

“Mm!”  

“A-Qing, you coming?” Mu Qing asked but the older twin shook his head, tightly gripping his father’s hand and edging a little closer. “Then, I’ll see you later. I’ll take care of A-Shao.”

Xie Lian nodded and watched them leave before turning to the boy in his hand. “Is there anything you’d like to do?”

Huang Qing pursed his lips, a serious expression on his face. “Train.”

Hearing that his son wanted to polish his sword skills even more, Xie Lian was elated to the point his smile stretched from ear to ear. “Then, let’s go! We can work on your lunge again!”

When dinner rolled around, Xie Lian and Huang Qing who were already bathed and ready for dinner found Huang Shao sitting by the dining table with… two other people by his side: A scowling man and a ravishing beauty.  

“Why… are you two here? Like that?”  

Seeing Xie Lian’s deadpanned expression as he took the seat in front of them, Mu Qing rolled his eyes and daintily took a sip of his tea. He was dressed in woman’s clothes, hair combed and beautifully tied up with a flower hairpin adorning the silver locks. Huang Shao sat between him and Feng Xin with the biggest grin ever.  

Should Xie Lian ask what happened as a father?  

…Should he be worried?  

“A-Shao requested it,” Mu Qing answered vapidly.  

“Ah…” Xie Lian slowly nodded his head and a thought came to him, ‘You’re rather accommodating of A-Shao…’

“Mm,” Huang Shao nodded his head with a grin. “Qing-jie is really really pretty! And she’s so nice. Qing-jie brought A-Shao to eat a lot of good food! We talked a lot. I also found out that Qing-jie likes cats and foxes!”  

A smile broke out on Mu Qing’s face as he affectionately rubbed the boy’s head.  

Feng Xin kept silent the whole time, gloomy eyes constantly darting between the excited boy and his fellow general. Who knew what was on his mind?  

Patting Huang Qing on the head, he reminded, “A-Qing, remember to drink some water, okay? I’ll go help ba with the food.”  

“It’s okay, ma,” Huang Qing hurriedly stood up before the man could lift his butt off the chair, his actions swift and smooth. “I’ll help ba.”  

“Okay!” Xie Lian replied after a moment of thought. Despite his smile, he wondered if his son thought he would burn the kitchen too – or the food. With a soft hum, he happily drank the tea. It’s probably both.  

‘Hmm, I should probably sweep the garden tomorrow. The leaves are piling up too much,’ Xie Lian pondered, getting lost in his thoughts. There was still the daily sword training with the boys and the weekly cleaning of Paradise Manor. Sure, Hua Cheng could always get someone to clean it for him but he felt that he should be doing it since he’s now married to the city lord; It’s his responsibility after all.  

Maybe the boys could work on parrying tomorrow as well… Or should they work on riposting instead? Huang Qing could probably start working on either. His form was good for both offensive and defensive stances, though he seemed better with offense, whereas Huang Shao leaned towards defence…  

They could always work on teamwork?  

“Ma,” Huang Shao called out but his father was still spaced out. Huffing his cheeks, he leaned across the table and lightly swatted on his father’s arm, calling out louder, “Ma!”

A jolt shocked through the man and he refocused onto his son. “Huh? Yes, A-Shao? Are you hungry?”

The boy shook his head and put on a solemn expression. “I wanna marry Qing-jie when I grow up!!”

A shriek reverberated through the hall as though a firecracker had blown up. The shock burst forth from within, forcing the tea to gush in reverse, spraying it across the table like a pressurized hose exploding.  

Xie Lian started at his son with his mouth undecided between opening and closing like a silent goldfish. Did he just hear right? Did Huang Shao just…

“YOU’RE ONLY SEVEN!” Feng Xin screeched as he impulsively slammed his cup on the table, shattering it in the process. “YOU CAN’T MARRY HIM!”

Instinctively, a fair hand flew out and blocked the ricocheting broken pieces of ceramic from slicing Huang Shao’s face. A fierce expression turned onto the general as a murderous, protective aura engulfed him.  

Huang Shao had jumped at the sound, his body quivering like a leaf blasted by the wind while he stared at Feng Xin who was taken aback at the sight before turning back to his father that had blocked the shards. The boy’s expression fell, lips trembling and water pooling in his eyes. Reaching his hands out, fat drops of tears spilled from the corners as he cried out, “Ma…!”

Xie Lian leaned forward and picked up his son, gently soothing the crying boy in his arms as his killing intent momentarily disappeared.  

“How can you yell at him like that!” Mu Qing barked, slapping the shocked Feng Xin hard with the back of his hand. “He’s just a child!”  

“I…I… But he said he wanted to marry you!” Feng Xin cried out in defense, his tanned cheeks darkening in fluster.  

“And. He’s. Still. A. Child!” Mu Qing growled, his curvy chest heavily heaving in anger.  

Huang Shao’s cries echoed in the room, loud and reverberating. He clutched onto his father, burying his head into the chest, drenching it with his tears.  

“What did you do to my son?” A low growl sounded, dark and menacing and exceptionally clear amidst the chaos.  

A winter’s cold blade shone against Feng Xin’s neck, a sting sending shivers through his nerves. The intangible murderous aura doubled, laying upon his body like a mountain. E-Ming’s eye glared daggers at the man from below his jaw, as though he wished to draw blood right there and then.  

Feng Xin’s skin sliced against the sharp blade when he gulped the lump of fear in his throat and he turned only his gaze to meet the dark gaze of the Supreme Demon Crimson Rain Sought Flower. “I-I didn’t do anything!” The cold fear grew in his heart when the blade pressed nearer to his neck, drawing a thin line of blood. “I only scolded him for wanting to marry Mu Qing!”  

Hua Cheng snapped his gaze towards the man in question, narrowing his eye at the appearance the silver haired man took. “You tried seducing my son?” There was a sinister curl of his lips, like a predator’s arrogance in killing its prey.  

“As if,” Mu Qing rolled his eyes, unafraid of the demon. “A-Shao requested for me to transform, so I did to please him.”

With the blade still on Feng Xin’s neck, Hua Cheng leaned a little closer to the nonchalant man. “So accommodating of you. I didn’t know you were that nice.”  

“That’s cause he’s a sweetheart, unlike a certain bas – man I know,” Mu Qing seethed, catching himself in time when both fathers turned a murderous glare towards him. He raised his arms to gather his long hair, fluttering them to cool his neck and swept it to the side.  

Feng Xin gulped at the sight of the slender neck, mentally swearing to himself, ‘Fuck, can’t he change back to a man!?’  

“A-Di…” Having arrived with Hua Cheng, Huang Qing set the plate of meat on the table and rested a hand on Huang Shao’s back, the tensed worry evident in between his brows. “What happened?”

“Qing-ge…!” Huang Shao sobbed, turning to face his brother while still gripping hard onto Xie Lian’s clothes. “Uncle Feng… U-Uncle Feng!” he sniffled and the sobs came harder, tiny fists tightening their hold. “H-He won’t let me marry Qing-jie!”  

Different reactions presented itself across the room; Xie Lian squeezed his son harder, Feng Xin’s expression turned gloomier, Hua Cheng killing intent spiked and pierced the Heavens, Mu Qing feigned ignorance despite the turmoil wreaking havoc in his mindscape, while Huang Qing merely went: “Oh. That.”

Surprised at the reaction, both fathers turned towards their oldest son and said, “You knew?”  

Huang Qing innocently nodded his head. “A-di told me before.”  

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Xie Lian frowned while Hua Cheng turned a piercing glare onto Mu Qing, hatred for the general multiplying by the second.  

“I didn’t think it was a big deal?” Huang Qing squeaked. “Ma and ba wouldn’t let him! And I thought Qing-jie was more suitable to be with that Fish-ge ge…” His eyes shifted onto his father’s hand that held his brother and blinked.  

Xie Lian pondered for a moment.  

Fish-ge ge?  

…He Xuan?  

“Yo, I heard my name.”

Everyone in the hall jerked their heads towards the pair of newcomers, the mixed auras confusing both demon and man. Shi Qing Xuan leaned onto He Xuan as he hobbled on one leg.

“What’s wrong?” the man asked, limping towards the table. “I thought we’d be late for dinner but it looks like you haven’t started.”

“Clearly they’re in the mood for eating,” He Xuan flatly said, gesturing towards E-Ming still held against Feng Xin’s throat. “Is it ‘bully Feng Xin day’? Why wasn’t I invited?” he cackled evilly.  

There was a slight breeze in the room and Feng Xin finally managed to release the breath that he had been holding, the pressure lifting off him like a breath of fresh air. However, He Xuan jumped back with Shi Qing Xuan in his arm when he felt a shadow lunge towards him, quick and decisive. With a wave of his hand, he gathered the water elements that hung in the humid air as he continued to step back.  

“What’s wrong with you?” He Xuan grumbled, tilting his head sideways as E-Ming pierced the space beside his face, Shi Qing Xuan safe on the other side. “Can’t you at least let me put him down!”  

“You’ll protect him anyways,” Hua Cheng replied in a monotone. E-Ming slashed out to the side, forcing He Xuan to duck and pull away.  

He felt the water convene by his palm, its caress warm and welcoming as he rolled upright. Glistening water glinted in the sunlight, creating a curtain of sparkles that divided the space between the two demons, sharp yet beautiful. Ignoring the attack, Hua Cheng thrusted the scimitar out and He Xuan retaliated with a wave of his arm. Water immediately congealed into a shield and the blade struck deep into the construct.

“Child’s play,” Hua Cheng scowled, moving to pull his scimitar out when the water softened and curled around the blade. “Huh?”  

Like a hand seizing hold of the blade, the water grew in density and strongly held the scimitar in place. He Xuan clenched his hand into a fist and threw his arm out. The bubble of water mirrored his movements, forcefully snatching E-Ming out of Hua Cheng’s grip and throwing it aside.  

“You learned a new trick.”

“Thank you. I have to when dealing with you.”

“Not bad. Marry Mu Qing.”

“Ye - Wait, what?” He Xuan had been focused on assessing Shi Qing Xuan for any injuries, his replies half-hearted and nonchalant when Hua Cheng demanded such a thing.  

The man settled gently on the floor was shocked as well, the smile frozen rigid. Maybe they shouldn’t have come to leech off the demon king.  

“Marry Mu Qing. Now,” Hua Cheng narrowed his gaze, his tone leaving no room for negotiations.  

“Hold on, what happened!” the former Wind God burst out, question marks dancing around his head. “Don’t you owe us an explanation?”

“A-Shao wants to marry Mu Qing. Fucking marry Mu Qing so he won’t!” Hua Cheng growled under his breath, his voice dropping down a notch so that his sons won’t hear his cuss.

“Why not ask Feng Xin to marry him?” Shi Qing Xuan frowned, his voice taut.  

“Feng Xin? That bastard won’t ever agree to it. They’re constantly fighting!” Hua Cheng glowered, feeling unpleasant and uncomfortable at his son’s choice of a husband.  

“Did you even ask!?”

“San Lang?” Xie Lian piped up, his voice disrupting the harsh whispers muttering in the corner  

Hua Cheng leapt to his feet and ran back to his husband’s side, picking up E-Ming on the way. Huang Shao sniffled as he looked up at his father with his arms stretched out. With a soft coo, he picked up the boy and cradled him.  

“What’s wrong, A-Shao?”

“Is ba not happy if A-Shao marries Qing-jie because I’m only seven?”

Feng Xin froze at the latter part of his question, inching away from the father-son duo bit by bit while Hua Cheng sighed and pinched Huang Shao’s cheek. Xie Lian prayed at the side, hoping that his husband would change his son’s mind. He prayed and prayed and prayed: Huang Shao was still young! But his hopes were dashed, torn and broken down mercilessly like a lonely sandcastle crumbling under the high tide.

“It’s not that ba isn’t happy if A-Shao wants to marry. Ba is unhappy you just want to marry Mu Qing! He won’t be a good husband!”  

“San Lang!”

“Hey!!”  

“Let me tell you a secret,” Hua Cheng whispered, as though he was telling Huang Shao the biggest secret in the world, “Do you know when ba fell in love with ma?”  

Huang Shao repeatedly shook his head.

Leaning down to his ear, Hua Cheng muttered something barely audible into his son’s ears and whatever he said caused the boy to gasp out in admiration. “Really?”  

Hua Cheng nodded his head seriously. “Because I knew ma was the best choice for me! I don’t think Mu Qing is good enough for my little boy!”

Mu Qing wore a sullen expression on his face as he silently cleaned up the mess Feng Xin created. Despite the annoyance at the demon’s comments, he relented and simply dropped his attention onto carefully picking up the ceramic pieces.  

Feng Xin’s eyes darted towards the ‘woman’, her movements slow and somehow enchanting. Watching her gave him a sensation he never understood, something never felt before. It was odd, a little uncomfortable but it wasn’t something he’d shy away. His instinctual reactions never surfaced, never screamed at his mind to chase her away. Was it because he knew underneath that ravishing beauty was a man, he knew all too well? That if he stripped it away, he would see the man he’d come to hate yet — his ended his thoughts there. He was treading very close to uncharted territory here!  

When Mu Qing bent down to pick up the broken pieces, Feng Xin felt a heat gather in his body, collecting and growing below his middle. He quickly looked away and suppressed the groan that crawled up his throat. He tried hard to erase the image in his mind, of the fair skin on the exposed curves, of soft hair he could grip and pull —

Rushing footsteps thudding across the floor caught his attention and he looked up in time to see Huang Qing return with a small pouch in his hands as he ran towards Xie Lian. He watched with curiosity when the child picked up his father’s bleeding hand and realisation dawned on the general when he remembered he was the one that caused that. Guilt started to eat away at his insides. Why did he feel like such a failure today?  

Xie Lian glanced down when Huang Qing gently picked up his hand, having forgotten that it was bleeding. A warmth cradled his heart when his son cleaned the wounds before applying the all too familiar medicine. Past memories flashed through his mind, back when his oldest son was still acting unfamiliar with him, cold and distant, and now…  

His lips neared the pale face, pressing onto the cold forehead in a gentle kiss. He felt the boy freeze under his touch and he leaned back to smile down at his shocked son. “Thank you, A-Qing.”  

Huang Qing blinked his eyes twice in confusion before he realised what had just happened. Eyes widening in surprise, he quickly dipped his head in a fluster while cleaning up the things he used. “Y-You’re welcome, ma.”  

On the other hand, Huang Shao was still in Hua Cheng’s arms getting his curiousity answered.  

“How did you know ma was good for you?”  

“Why did ma save you?”

“But you didn’t see ma for so many years! Why did ba ba wait?”

“A-Shao wish he can find someone like that to love too…”  

He Xuan and Shi Qing Xuan eventually sat down at the other end of the table, feeling awkward and starving.  

“Will we be eating at all?” He Xuan inquired, feeling his stomach rumble violently.  

“Yeah, yeah. We will,” Hua Cheng waved him off dismissively, his attention fully on his son.  

He Xuan was about to express his dissatisfaction again when he felt a sense of trepidation settle in his nerves at Huang Shao’s next words. He nervously turned towards Shi Qing Xuan who was emitting a dense frightening aura, Mu Qing’s rejecting splutters faint at the back of his mind.  

Shit. That boy was going to be the death of him!  

“Then A-Shao thinks that Fish-ge should marry Qing-jie!”  

[rainbows-fanfics]

Two Dearest Friends (Chapter 20)

Summary:

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

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

Pairings: Jack Skellington/Sally

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

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

[boredom-thingy]

TL;DR- I have been sorta kinda diagnosed with Executive Function disorder (psychologist said it was very very very likely that I was suffering from it, but he couldn’t do anything) and I think I’m emotionally abused by my parents. I’m still trying to figure out whats what and what problem comes from where and if I can life hack it. I’m looking for help and/or other people suffering from the same things to add to the list. This is my list of symptoms.

Hey, all of you out there who struggle with executive function disorder or have been emotionally abused, or both. I have sorta been diagnosed with EFD and I think I’m being emotionally abused (I could be wrong and over reacting, I honestly can’t tell). Its been a while but I’m slowly discovering more and more symptoms that I thought were normal or scared the shit outta me (and still do) originally. Here’s an incomplete list, mind agreeing or disagreeing with them and adding your own? And/or how you deal with them?

My Incomplete (and ever growing) List-

Time. My sense of time is off, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. There are times when I think something happened 2 months ago when in reality, it happened years ago. I can be left home alone and when my parents get home and ask me what I did for hours on end, I have zero clue, its just a blank hole. I lose track of time extremely easily too.

Other Disorders. I often feel like my particular brand of screwyness happens to combine other mental illnesses/disorders like insomnia, depression, anxiety, adhd, add, odd, and paranoia among others

Depersonalization/derealization(dissociation). Especially here recently, I think I’ve been suffering from episodes of Depersonalization-derealization disorder. Its happened in the past but not as much as right now.

I feel like I’m going insane. Constantly. I feel like I’m over-reacting to everything, like everything is in my imagination.

I always feel like I’ve done something wrong/upset people. People I don’t know, people I do know, people I love. I always feel like I’ve upset them or I’m some kind of burden or I’ve done something wrong. (Leads to me apologizing to a chair for hitting it.)

Extreme clumsiness. This one is prolly just me. But its often a source of anxiety for me.

Social skills are next to nothing. I can’t make friends. All the ones I have were introduced to me by other people or approached me on my own. And most of the time they end up ditching me and telling me its my fault. Also, my timing is shit. I’ll walk up and ask you for something while you're busy.

Cotton. I feel like my head is full of cotton, like I can’t think straight. My thoughts are either spaghetti or a train wreck. I lose track of what I was thinking extremely easily.

Memory. My memory is shit. My parents claim its not, and I feel like it didn’t used to be, but it is now. I forget how to do something when I read or heard the instructions 10 seconds earlier. I forget things that are important to me, things that I wanted to get or do. I forget when things happened (ties in with the time issue.) I can’t remember important life events, or more accurately, I can remember them, but the memory seems weirdly muddled and I cant remember when it happened.

Food. I love food. But there are times when I’m light-headed and dizzy, and I know I should eat, but I just... Don’t want to. The thought makes me nauseous, its too hard to get up, I’m not actually feeling hungry (despite the fact that I can hear my angry tummy and I can feel the light-headed/dizziness), etc. 

Being left alone (especially with not much to do). I don’t fear abandonment (ok I do a little, but that not the problem here.) I fear my own brain. I hate being left alone, especially for long periods of time because when I run out of things to keep my mind occupied, all those thoughts I forced to go away come steam rolling back. Intrusive thoughts, suicidal thoughts, self harm thoughts, extremely depressing thoughts, disturbing thoughts that scare me witless, thoughts of running away, etc. I can’t stand my own brain. It scares me.

Motivation. I go to school online, 4.1 gpa (so far) and I am a fairly self motivated person. But there are times when I can barely find the motivation to grab my glasses off the nightstand 2 inches from my face and other times when I’m motivated to do something, I’m almost in a frenzy, and I’m hyper-focused on it. And there are times when I really want to do something (usually something that I love, like a hobby) but the thought of doing it makes me nauseous and I just don’t want to. Or if its a creative thing, like writing, I can’t seem to form a single idea or spark to get me started. My brain nopes out and I can’t do anything but stare at the paper, desperately wanting to write, but my brain is a bout as blank as the paper is.

Body-brain disconnect. Sometime my body and my brain seem to be on separate wavelengths. I want to stop scrolling through pinterest, but I can’t seem to make myself. I want to get up and eat, I know I need to, but I can’t make myself. I want to get up and do dishes or take a shower or do something, but my body just wont move. I want to go do something fun, like watch tv or draw, but I’m no moving, no matter how much I want it.

Pain. I am always in some kind of physical and/or mental pain. Headaches(near constant dull headache), back aches(always), cramps even when no where near that time(I am female), random muscle twitches/spasms/aches, etc. Oh and nausea. I’m nauseous a LOT. I also am light-headed or dizzy (or both) a lot.

Extreme mood swings.  I go from being so happy I could burst to emotionally shut down and sobbing in the corner in the blink of an eye. I go from being so pissed off that I want to slam my fist through a wall and break things to being so depressed I want to kill myself and repeatedly slam my head against the wall until I can’t see straight. I also sometimes get extremely frustrated/angry with the smallest things, like a noise, or something not working right, or the pets being annoying. Sometimes it gets to the point where I want to scream and break something or hit something (I never do and try my absolute hardest not to.)

Morbid thoughts. Fleeting morbid thoughts, generally about somehow injuring/harming myself. I might see a light socket and think “oh hey, you should stick a fork in that and see what happens” or I might see a pair of nail clippers or scissors and think “I wonder what would happen if I tried to cut x-spot on my body with those.” When I was younger, I used to want to sew patterns in my skin with a sewing needle and thread (never did, thank god) so they would scar over and create neat patterns on my skin.

War. I feel like I'm at war with my own brain, I talk to myself a lot. (I am an only child with parents that run their own business ((making them constantly busy)) so that is very possibly a reason I talk to myself. I also have very few friends and I talk to walls and my two dogs as well.) I tell my brain to shut up, to stop it, I feel like it has a mind of its own. Thats weird to say. (woooooo I'm totally crazy, right?)

Apologies. I apologize to literally everything. And about everything. I’ll apologize to a chair for bumping it. I apologize to my boyfriend when I rant to him or ask for help from him. I apologize for anything and everything, small or big. The bigger the issue, the more embarrassed and upset I am about it. Even if its not big to the other person. Ties in with always feeling like I did something wrong.

Defense. I am always on the defense, and sometimes it turns into offense. I always feel like I have to defend myself and everything I do or say that might have even the smallest chance of upsetting someone. And if I know it has or will upset someone, I defend myself more, to the point that it sometimes becomes offense. I can’t stop myself, I feel like I have to defend myself or I’m going to lose something or someone, or they’re going to take something I want or love away from me.

Noises and other various audio things.  Sometimes I feel like I can just barely hear someone calling my name, or a song, or a noise, or something just barely audible, but no matter how much I search for it, I can’t find it. Other times I can quite clearly hear someone calling my name, but I’m home alone, or when I ask my parents or the other people around me, they respond with confusion and a “no one called your name.” Other time noises, like beeps from the printer, even when I’m the one causing it and/or I’ve heard it multiple times in the past few minutes, jar me. They cause a jarring sensation, that is almost bone deep, I feel it in the back of my skull and it causes me to jump just a little.

All of these things are terrifying to me at various levels and they only seem to be getting worse. I study psychology for fun, I plan on going into it as a profession, eventually. I have done research on most of this, but I can’t find much on any of it (except emotional abuse), especially executive function disorder. Please help? (I am always adding to things when I think of more.)

@bradshore @katimorton @we-care-org

[stokan]

Top 20 Things of 2018

1.) Beychella How do you make a long awaited surprise album between two of the biggest names in music that is also one of the year’s best feel like complete afterthought? Set the bar as high as Beyonce’s Coachella appearance.

First awards show performances, then music videos, now music festival gigs: is there anything that Beyonce CAN’T turn into high art?

2.) Explained by Vox The most exciting development in the world of television in 2018 was radically breaking the rules on episodes length. We saw 30 minute dramas, and hour long comedies. We got shows like Maniac where episodes were as long as 49 minutes and as short as 27 minutes. Now television creators can tell exactly the stories they want to tell in however much time they want to tell them in. And perhaps nowhere were these loosened restrictions taken better advantage than Explained, Vox’s documentary series for Netflix. Many topics cant sustain a full length documentary, but, say, 14 minutes explaining cryptocurrency to me? Sure! 17 minutes on designer DNA? Sounds great! 20 minutes on the origins of K-Pop? How do you say “yes please” in Korean? Every episode has a different narrator, a different look, a different feel, and varies wildly in subject matter. Yet they are all exactly the length they need to be. The only thing left I really need explained to me is why no one thought to make this series before.

3.) Serial Season 3 If Explained was a great example of the latest evolution in television, then the new season of Serial is at the front line of the evolution of our newest artistic medium: podcasts. Serial’s third season was nothing like its second, which was in turn nothing like its first. It’s a series still figuring out what it CAN be, while now defining forever what it NEEDS to be. Serial this year explained a deeply important topic in a way that wouldn’t have been possible through any other medium. They always say if you’re a writer you have to ask yourself what form of writing your idea needs to be. Don’t write a play that’s really a TV show, or a movie that should be a book. And now we can add to that don’t make a TV series that’s really a podcast. As Homecoming proved this year, the two mediums are very different and better equipped to tell different stories. And after hearing Serial Season Three I can’t imagine there will ever be a better way to explore the current American criminal justice system. It was 2018’s version of Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle. It may not change national food safety standards, but it hopefully will do something perhaps even more important: it will make us never again take lightly the election of local judges and sheriffs. It was a podcast for the heart, the head, and the time capsule.

4.) Black Mirror - “Hang the DJ” I know this technically came out December 29th 2017 but I’m counting it here because nothing was more 2018 than this. The sadness, the isolation, the uncertainty, the living in a world you don’t understand the rules of anymore, the unfairness of modern life, but the ultimate perseverance of hope and love: it’s all there in the best episode of Black Mirror’s third season. It made me cry out of sadness and happiness in equal measure. Could anything be more 2018 than that?

5.) Kesha at the Grammys Ok so maybe one thing was more 2018.

The Grammys, an organization led by Neil Portnow, a man who said this year that “women need to step up”, and an organization that didn’t offer its one female Album of the Year nominee a solo performance spot, also offered us 2018’s most powerful show of female solidarity and one of the most moving moments of the Me Too era. It all amounted to the perfect encapsulation of this year. Kesha scream crying and then collapsing into a sea of strong supportive women WAS 2018.

6.) Eighth Grade My favorite movie of the year was also the year’s best horror movie. It was so real, and visceral, and intense, and frightening that at times I literally had to remind myself to breathe. I watched at least half the movie through my fingers and on the edge of my seat. Proving what everyone who has lived through it already knows: there’s nothing in the world more terrifying than being in junior high.

7.) Big Mouth Speaking of junior high, the other side of the pain and trauma of growing up is humor, so why it took this long for someone to make a comedy series explicitly about puberty is beyond me. I guess, of course, making a show like this work is a fine needle to thread. It wouldn’t work without being animated and being on a streaming service that lets them go as far as they did. It wouldn’t work without writing that is both laugh out loud funny and deeply compassionate and human in equal measure. And it wouldn’t work without one of the best voice casts on TV, including a true tour de force from Maya Rudolph. But work does it ever. In a just world junior high health class homework would be simply watching this show.

8.) Emma Gonzalez speech Here’s how long 2018 was: this was from 2018.

Finishing off my personal 2018 Growing Up Trifecta is the most powerful 12 minutes of the year. That high school students could be more inspiring, articulate, and better leaders than the President of the United States is sadly, at this point, a given. But that they are now more effective and efficient than him at starting genuine political movements still feels revolutionary. The kids are our future, and our future has never looked brighter.

9.) Childish Gambino - “This is America” video 100 years from now if theres only one cultural artifact that still exists and is still remembered from 2018 this will be it. A “you know where you were the first time you saw it” level cultural event. No song will ever be more closely associated with its music video, and no music video will ever be more of an avatar for an entire cultural moment than this. THIS is, of course, a truly shocking and horrifying (in a good way) music video from the former fifth lead of the TV show Community. A profound and brilliant piece of art underscored by a fun-sounding dance song. The year’s most complex and important social-political message delivered in 4 minutes via YouTube. This is America indeed.

10.) Drake - “God’s Plan” video While Donald Glover may have perfected the music video as art form, it goes without saying that long ago Drake mastered the music video as promotional tool. And in that sense the music video for “God’s Plan” seems like minor failure. It seemed to sort of come and go from the culture, especially in light of the success of the In My Feelings Challenge. But for me, there was nothing more heartwarming and human this year than watching Drake give away almost a million dollars to strangers. It was an idea so simple it’s shocking no one had ever done it before. And so affecting I was shocked it didn’t seem to penetrate the public consciousness more. There’s so much going on at all times now it’s hard for anything to truly break through all the noise, but this really deserved to. It’s impossible to watch this without smiling, and is there anything 2018 needed more than that?

11.) Nanette The dumbest debate this year was whether or not Nanette was stand up. Form and genre aren’t delineators still worth discussing in 2018. It’s now only about the message and the messenger, everything else is just details. An important fresh voice, the most timely, and sadly, timeless message imaginable, delivered in a way that reached and deeply affected seemingly every person you knew? What is there to debate? Nanette may or may not be stand up comedy, but it’s definitely RISE UP comedy. And in the end, that’s all that matters.

12.) Amber Says What Please click on the link above. The final two minutes are by far the best comedy of 2018. It still makes me laugh so hard that it causes me physical pain. You’ve been warned.

13.) A Star is Born trailers A Star is Born is maybe a perfect film. The performances, the songs, the direction, the fact that there’s literally no human being on earth who could have played her part and made the movie work like it did other than Lady Gaga. It was all perfect. But there was actually something better than watching A Star is Born: anticipating watching a A Star is Born. Before the first A Star is Born trailer came out I thought the whole project sounded dumb and unnecessary. After I finished watching the first trailer I knew I was going to see A Star is Born opening night. True story: I was at a movie where the same A Star is Born trailer got played three times in a row for some reason. And it was riveting every time. There was no grumbling at all in the audience, and I for one was sad when it didn’t replay a fourth time. So as much as I loved A Star is Born what I would really love is be able to still want to see A Star is Born for the first time.

14.) Ariana Grande - “thank u, next” It’s genuinely impressive that a song released in November could be the song I listened to by far the most this year. Somehow it took less than two months for this song to feel completely ubiquitous. Hell, even the PHRASE “thank u, next” is omnipresent now. Forget Song of the Summer, this was maybe our first Song of the Winter. Which is perfect because has a hit pop song ever sounded more winter? It’s cold, but it keeps you warm. It’s the sadness of the holidays with the life reaffirming joy of the holiday season. It’s a sweater for you to wear on the dance floor. And it’s clearly exactly the song so many of us needed. No matter how many times I’ve heard it (and as I said, I’ve listened to it, uh, A LOT) its existence feels like a holiday miracle. Having a new and fresh take on the breakup song in the year 2018? That shit IS amazing.

15.) The proposal at the Emmys This is literally the only thing anyone remembers about this year’s Emmys. It was amazing, and special, and made anyone who watched it believe in true love. But for me it still cant touch the most heart-melting awards show moment of all time: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lCJrku4fSxk

(Was this whole entry just an excuse to link to one of my absolute favorite YouTube clips? Perhaps.)

16.) Succession When I saw the promos for Succession I literally made the sound UGH out loud. The last thing the world needs is another show about rich white people behaving badly, I thought. How could there possibly be anything original left to say on that topic? Who on earth is still greenlighting shows like this in The Year of our Lord 2018?

People much smarter than I am clearly, that’s who.

Because from writing, acting, production design, direction - whatever element you want to focus on - this was the best and most exciting new show of 2018 by a wide margin. People have been saying for years that TV is the new movies; this show made movies look like the old TV. It was the most vibrant and perfectly crafted big budget feature film of 2018, stretched out over 8 episodes on HBO. Did it have anything new and important to say about the world? Probably not. And turns out, I couldn’t have cared less. The phrase compulsively watchable might have been invented just to describe the world these actors and writers created. I would watch the team involved with this show dry paint. 

17.) Angels in America on Broadway Angels in America is the best play of the past 30 years and its not even close. So the fact that it would get a production that’s this good is just unfair for everyone else on this planet who makes theater. It was so good it made all other plays I’ve seen since seem small and cheap and unimportant. It was such a towering achievement that it has made the entire rest of theater as an art form seem insignificant by comparison. When you hear old people talk about seeing Brando in Streetcar or watching the original production of Death of Salesman I now can relate to what they are talking about. I’ll be thinking about Andrew Garfield’s final monologue for the rest of my life. It was unfair that we the audience had to all leave the theater when the lights finally came up and that we couldn’t all just live in that feeling forever. The eight hours I spent watching this play are what art is all about.

18.) Jesse Plemons in Game Night If dying is easy, and comedy is hard, then they should cancel the Oscars and give Jesse Plemmons Best Supporting Actor right now for his work in Game Night. And ok, maybe it wasn’t the BEST performance of 2018, but it was DEFINITELY the best performance relative to what it needed to be. It should have been a dumb throwaway part in a big-budget mainstream ensemble comedy. But Jesse Plemmons crafted a performance so strange and singular and memorable that it elevated the entire movie into something way better than I’m sure even its creators expected. I legitimately don’t know how everyone didn’t break in every one of his scenes. It’s a master class in the comedic power of silence. It should be studied in acting classes everywhere. And 20 years from now when Game Night is considered a comedy classic, Jesse Plemmons will be the main reason why. You heard it here first.

19.) The 1975 - A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships Saxophones? Electric guitar solos? Backing choirs? A concept album about being uncomfortable with the internet? Dumb pretentious song titles? This album couldn’t be any more in my wheelhouse if I made it myself. Its best song is basically a modern reimagining of “We Didn’t Start the Fire” for God’s sake!

For me this wasn’t just an album, it was an experience. It was big music to get lost inside of. And I did. At age 36 it’s nice to know that sometimes I can still feel 16. And it’s fitting that a band named The 1975 would be the ones to make music that’s so transporting.

20.) Emma Stone Ok so as someone who once argued in this very space that Emma Stone deserved an Oscar nomination for Easy A, it’s clear I’m pretty deep in the tank for Emma Stone. But even an Emma Stone hater would have to admit than this was a banner year for Emma Stone. Signing up for the insane acting challenge that was Maniac and completely acing it while totally exposing two-time Oscar nominee Jonah Hill in the process? Going toe to toe with Olivia Colman in the battle of the best acting performances of the year in The Favourite? Coming across as more charming than Jennifer freaking Lawrence ?!?

2018 was Emma Stone’s year, we were all just living in it.

[ganymedesclock]

So I read once that in Hollow Knight, Hornet and Zote were originally meant to be playable characters alongside Ghost, and, this immediately intrigued me, thinking about how they’d play and how different their mechanics would be. Zote in particular- Hornet, being another demigod child of the Pale King similar to the Vessels, would logically be another “Higher Being” and able to focus Soul, but Zote at a glance would just seem to be some guy from nowhere, so if he had that ability, it’d raise a great question of what exactly his deal is.

This hypothetical trio of playable characters led me to think about another meaningful trinity present in the story: the connection of Wyrm, Void, and Root that are allegedly the elements sustaining Hallownest.

Ghost is a vessel- abyss-born, and while they were created by the power of the Pale King, ultimately their power and their ideal ending all comes back to reuniting with their parent Void. Even taking the King’s Brand and Kingsoul onto themselves, they use one to access the abyss in the first place, and the other is ultimately brought to the Birthplace to become the Void Heart- so crowning themselves, Ghost becomes not another Wyrm, but rather a king of Void. The ultimate forms of Ghost’s spells, their strongest charm- even the massively versatile Shade Cloak ability. Ghost embodies Void, and the height of their power draws from that source.

Hornet, rather, is a much more apt fit for Wyrm. She lacks Ghost’s connection to the void, as not a vessel herself, and Herrah being her mother cuts her off from Hallownest’s Queen, and the connection to Root. The ultimate fight with her at Kingdom’s Edge is an environment bathed in the dominant white associated with the Pale King, she supplements her needle weapon with gleaming white thread possibly created from Soul (as she’s not really a spider herself, despite her connection to Herrah, she presumably does not have spinnerets) and she guards and challenges Ghost for the right to the King’s Brand.

One could argue even that Hornet echoes some of her father’s more admirable actions- the Pale King challenging the Radiance brought sentience to Hallownest in the first place, thus, challenging the established order via mind, which Hornet does, in choosing to tamper with the cycle and assist Ghost by informing them and pointing them back towards their own element, Void, to understand themselves. She is also a person of rigid ideals and a willingness to do what’s necessary, but, in contrast to the Pale King, we see that Hornet has a lot more... empathy, for people in the way of such things, like Ghost.

So where does that leave Zote? The colosseum fight would tell us Zote has less offensive prowess than the average Vengefly- because even they can cost Ghost a mask on contact while Zote won’t even connect unless he’s swinging Life Ender, which is ultimately ineffective.

Except Zote actually does have a good skill- though certainly, it’s something that Hornet and Ghost would overlook.

Zote made his way into Deepnest.

That means he either got past the Mantis Lords or through the Fungal Core, through one of the most dangerous late-game levels, and while he did get stuck down there, provided Ghost bails him out, he finds his way right back out again.

His earliest encounter, in Greenpath, is past the Moss Knights, who are rather tough for that part of the game and all the way into a boss room, and he can also be found in the City of Tears, past the armed, armored, and agile enemies. None of which he’d be able to injure with his attack. And to be captured in the Colosseum, he had to make his way all the way up Kingdom’s Edge- another perilous late-game area.

So... Zote basically has been running the monster-and-hazard-filled annals of Hallownest without the ability to actually defend himself in combat against 9/10ths of the game’s creatures. And the only things you actually have to intervene and save him from are a Vengefly King (a low-tier boss, but still a boss monster) and getting ambushed by something in Deepnest that left him tangled up in webbing.

Zote’s real talent would appear to lie in not attacking, but either defending, evading, or healing. In the Colosseum fight, he loses with no saving grace- but there’s nowhere to run and he’s sealed in with the much more offense-capable Ghost, who he’s not about to flee from in front of an audience that’s already mocking him.

The two charms with overly root-and-Greenpath-related motifs are the Thorns of Agony, and the Shape of Unn. Thorns is a defensive charm that hurts enemies when you take damage yourself, and Shape allows you to move while charging Soul. And the existing patrons of Root that we see are Unn, who hides beyond an acid lake, and the White Lady, who not only hid, but chose to confine herself protectively and sense the world from afar.

While the nature of Void would appear to be unknowable and to a degree unstoppable- determined creatures like the Shadow Crawlers and Vessels whose minds cannot be read by the Dream Nail in its most powerful form- and the nature of Wyrm is a nobility and strength that demands that it is heeded, exemplified by Hornet who carries every inch the commanding presence of royalty regardless of if Hallownest is long vanished to the ages- the nature of Root appears protective, evasive, and enduring in the face of hardship.

One of the tablets in Greenpath claims that its authors draw life from moss and leaf, and “while it grows upon the path, we will never wilt.”

Zote is nothing if not somebody who survives in the face of adversity. That’s his real gift- he’s not radically engaging and shaping the kingdom the way Hornet and Ghost are from the very moment of their marked births. It’s just the fact that, with very, very little assistance, and several massive handicaps, he endures. And his whole bitter attitude and a lot of his precepts would tell us that he’s utterly unused to praise, or even people who aren’t actively trying to spite him. This is somebody who has been enduring, for a very long time.

And sure, maybe he’s an unreliable narrator and his parents and whatever lord he may or may not have served in the past were super great people. Somehow, I doubt it. Zote lies, but he lies to make himself seem more glamorous. There’s probably a reason he laps up Bretta’s adoration like a starving man in the desert finding water, and a reason why the game subtly criticizes you for not helping Zote- the achievement for abandoning him phrases itself rather harshly compared to, say, the achievements for clearing the Broken Vessel and Lost Kin fights, or clearing the Grey Mourner’s quest.

So I have to wonder if Zote, hypothetically, would be the hero of Root, rounding out the trio of Hornet’s Wyrm and Ghost’s Void. Especially because logically, Zote as a playable character would have to grow and develop and gain the ability to face down enemies- this is a game very focused on boss fights after all- and Root, while it technically pertains to all manner of plants (and fungi, perhaps?) seems to largely evoke the imagery of trees- which can be grand and formidable, but, always start as tiny humble sprouts.

By focusing on Zote, I don’t mean to suggest Hornet isn’t interesting or compelling- she’s fascinating, and I think the opportunity to play as both of them would be great if they ever added it in as DLC or sequel/companion stories- this game lives through being able to observe small things, and it’d be fascinating to see how Hornet or Zote would describe the same things differently when observing them, vs. Ghost. (Also that you could have actual conversations with NPCs by playing someone who has a voice)

It’s just that Hornet’s interesting qualities are basically a given. She’s like Ghost- a person of auspicious birth tied intimately to the fall of this ancient kingdom and its revival, and while I’d love to hear her story, it’s kind of... of course. She’s this dynamic colorful figure and the story really picks up in earnest once she takes the stage.

But Zote? Zote is sour and rude to the PC and at a glance the revelations of greater depth seem like fake-outs- his promise that he came back to Hallownest for being a promise to himself for personal glory- but frankly even if he’s a jerk, I think there’s something really interesting about him. Not that I want to with zero effort regale him as a Chosen One, but, as a player, the idea of being able to accompany Zote through his own journey, and growth as a person, would be interesting. Especially if I’m right, and he is thematically associated with Root- which unlike Wyrm or Void, is really the only thing that defines itself by growing.