#seeing her in this room made me realize what Pygmalion felt like

[die-rosastrasse]

Carl Schlüter, Fraulein Bierling (1883)

Displayed at Albertinum, Dresden

Picture credits belong to this blog

[thevoidscreams]

Movie night

Kung Lao x reader Rating: M Summary:  Your bi monthly movie night with your favorite monk turns spicy, a lot of feelings get shaken loose. Word count:  2497 This has been in my wips FOREVER! I wanted to finally get it done and post it somewhere.

_________________________________ The soft light from the tv dimly lit the room, not the best for your eyes in this otherwise completely dark space, but like hell was that gonna stop you from enjoying yourself. You hadn't seen this movie yet and that excites you. From what you could tell the fighting was well choreographed and the characters weren't too cookie cutter. 

Another clump of bland white rice found its way into your mouth as yet again a fight scene graced your screen. The sounds of the combat are greatly exaggerated but not enough to not be enjoyable.

"His stance is all off, his legs need to be bent more and his body needs to be lower."

That made you chuckle. Kung lao had a habit of making you laugh and smile, which is precisely why you invited him over twice a month for terrible non-authentic Chinese food and kungfu movies. Really though any movie containing asian martial arts was fair game. He had a surprisingly extensive catalog of knowledge about other forms of martial arts.

 It was partially for this fact that his knowledgeable criticisms had become very endearing to you and surprisingly interesting.

"Ever the critic, ey Kung lao? I'd Like to see you do a triple backflip off a roof and land in a perfect stance on the ground below." The monk tipped his head back with a smirk, his titular hat missing from his person. "Oh I know I could, just you wait, I'll show you that I could do it better." That too was becoming a common phrase when you watched these movies. ‘ “I could do it better.” Yeah I bet you could.’ You’d think to yourself as you smiled at him.

With a carefree shrug you relent, continuing on your bland white grains.

The movie pressed on and the fight ended, the hero was wounded but alive and the rather pretty love interest was tending his injuries.

"I wish I had a beautiful woman to tend to me after my fights." Lao sighed wistfully, one hand draped over his eyes in pretend sadness.

"Hey now wait just a minute." The sound of your voice cut through the quiet like a hot knife. "If I recall correctly, I gave you a band aid not even a week ago." The shocked and offended act you put on would have made Johnny Cage proud.

"Oh yes of course. My mistake. How could I possibly forget your heroic act in saving my life from that paper cut. My apologies." Kung lao acted in return, bowing to you in mock submission.

"You should be sorry, you could have lost a finger to that dreadful and most grievous of injuries." You closed the distance to playfully push his shoulder before cuddling into his side.

He huffed in amusement as he lazily draped an arm over you. It felt so natural to be touched by him after all the years you'd known him. Lao didn't hesitate to give you hugs and let you cuddle up to him, he seemed almost starved for these small acts of affection. Well you wouldn’t deny him at all, his happy little sighs always made you smile.

As time passed on screen the two characters grew closer and the tension between them finally snapped. The way the protagonist's mouth moved over her neck making her sigh in satisfaction, the sounds in turn made you feel uncomfortably warm. Lao shifted next to you. The fingers that had been rubbing idle circles on your hip had gone completely still, his whole form now stiff.

Progressing forward the two draped themselves over a small bed. You hadn't expected this,but here it was. A cursory glance determined that your friend's face was nearly beet red. Breaking the tension might help him relax, so saying the first thing that came to mind you inquired "So how about that lao?"

 He looked down at you confused and flustered. "About what?" 

"Think you could do that better?" Your question was capped off by a rather loud moan from the female lead. 

The slack jawed expression that he gave you lasted for only a few moments, but it was enough to make you nervous that you'd made him upset or ruined something. 

"I, uh… I might." This was new, there was rarely a time when Kung lao was so quiet or seemingly unsure of his own abilities.

Then again all his blood appeared to be taking refuge in other places aside his brain. The comfortable pair of sweatpants he was wearing made it abundantly clear how his body was feeling, probably a lot like yours was. This could be the perfect opportunity to really get your feelings out in the open and scratch an itch that had been bothering you since the day you met the cocky Shaolin.

"Oh? Well why don't you show me then?"

A small gamble this was not, given Kung lao's vows, he might just turn you away. Although he wouldn't be the first shaolin in history to have a lover, lord knows Liu Kang wasn't just friends with Kitana. Still the terrifying thought of never seeing him again was almost enough to make you put on the break and pass this off as a joke.

"Well if you insist, but I must forewarn you that I don't intend to go easy on you." His response made your insides feel as if you'd suddenly come down with a case of butterflies. "Perfect, I was hoping for exactly that." 

Sitting up fully you brought your leg over his waist and sat your ass squarely over his apparent arousal.

Lao seemed just as at a loss for words as you did, merely enjoying the feeling of your plush rump pressed against him through the thin cotton fabric of your pajama shorts.

Suffice it to say the movie was all but forgotten about as Kung lao sat up, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his lips excitedly to yours. They were warm and so very nice against your own. It felt good and it felt right to kiss one of the people you'd called your best friend for years.

The way your bodies moved was a bit clumsy but your hips had a pretty decent rhythm now. Lao swallowed your moans with his kisses and vice versa. Slowly his hands left your hips, working up and down your sides growing more confident with every motion.

For an indeterminate amount of time this make out session kept you both busy only allowing you to break for air when you felt like your lungs were going to explode.

At last the kiss was broken and you could only think of one thing as you wiggle your hips against Lao's, your panties were completely  soaked with your own slick and sweat.

"Lao. Lao I need you, I can't wait anymore. I've needed you for so long, please." It sounded so desperate, the way you whine for him to take you. But the fucks you gave at that moment were only for Kung lao.

 "By the elder gods I've wanted to hear you say that since I met you."

 His fingers were needy and rough as he slipped them into the hem of your shorts pulling the fabric down. You stopped him and stood up to fully divest yourself of clothing. Lao watched mesmerized by the display. 

"You know the activity I had in mind works best if we're both naked." It was such a gentle sort of teasing but the way the monk sprung into action you might as well have told him he was on fire. He abandoned his garments quickly, having been in far fewer clothes than he usually wore. 

Now you were both bare and exposed to each other and your view was simply spectacular, Lao looked like he'd been sculpted by Pygmalion himself and brought to life by some ancient deity just for you.  He was simply divine to look at and the idea of getting your hands on him made the prospect of what you were about to do even more exhilarating. 

With all the grace you could manage you closed the distance between you and coiled your arms around him, pressing your chest to his and indulging in his warmth.

"I can't believe it." Lao breathed, sounding happy and in complete disbelief. "You're even more beautiful than I thought." The compliment drew a happy little breath from you. "Thank you, you're even better. I mean I've seen you shirtless before but now I actually get to touch you too. I don't know if I'll be able to control myself."

Lao chortled at your confession.

"Then by all means, don't."

With that you both stepped back and fell onto the couch, your lips locked and your bodies pressed snugly against each other's.

Carefully you reached between his body and yours to find his cock and stroke it. Lao hissed in satisfaction as did you upon finding him fully erect and ready. Normally quite a bit of foreplay was a must but tonight was not a night for hella pre gaming your sex. After all you were already dripping like a broken faucet. You slid two fingers into your slit and worked your fingers in time with the hand stroking his cock. Lao busied himself with palming your breasts and kissing you. It wasn’t enough though, You wanted to feel him inside of you and pulled your hand away from your own aching cunt to brace yourself against the back of the couch. 

It  took almost no effort to slip him inside of you and when you did your body shook at the sensation.

 It was like slipping the last piece of the puzzle into place and stepping back to look at the whole picture. All the tiny details made absolute sense now, all the squashed feelings and signs you glossed over because you were certain it was all in your head and those feelings were surely unrequited. It was so clear now that this was what was supposed to be and the overwhelming sense of rightness brought physical tears to your eyes. 

Of course Lao nearly pulled out thinking he'd hurt you somehow but your vice like legs kept him firmly in place. 

"Are you alright? Does it hurt?"

In truth it burned slightly to be so stretched out again but it was far from painful enough to stop.

"No no no. Please it's just so good." When you finally realized you had closed your eyes at some point you opened them slowly to look into your lover's eyes. Kung lao was nearly startled by the joy he found there, it was the very same joy he felt deep within himself. This was right. He'd live the rest of his days knowing this and he'd die knowing this. 

After a few minutes of sweet whispers and soft touches you gave the all clear and the real fun began. 

What Lao lacked in experience he made up for in work ethic, finding a pace that made you both cry out in pure bliss calling for one another, you found yourself pleading for more. Not that you knew what more was, you just knew you wanted it.

Years of training gave him a leg up on controlling his body's movements. His thrusts, though shakey at first, became firm and rhythmic. Still it took adjustment to find a position that worked just right for you both. It was almost like a game or challenge that you were both determined to do well at for the sake of the other.

Lao seemed to have a knack for finding every little spot inside of you that drove you wild. 

He was quite vocal in his satisfaction, growling and moaning praises to you in a mix of English and Chinese. His hands wandered over your body seemingly of their own accord. Starting at your hips then over your waist, they played with your breasts tenderly until finally they curled back around your waist to hold you close to him.

Sex had never been like this before, you struggled to get off with other partners, often having to either pleasure yourself mid act or finishing yourself off after. You couldn't recall a time when just penetration was enough to make your back arch, your eyes fill with stars and your voice cry out in pure exhilaration and pleasure.

Hell, maybe Lao had more than just hat magic, maybe he had sex magic as well.

Whatever it was it was bringing you quickly to your end. The first wave of your orgasm was otherworldly, drawing sounds from your lungs that you didn't recognize. Mixing with breathless pleas that began but never went anywhere.

The monk held you close to him as his pace faltered and the tightness of your sex drew him over the edge just after you. It was truly a new sensation to him, nothing else before this could compare and he could finally see the appeal in it as he spilled his seed into you.

The afterglow could have lit up a stadium. 

Lao pet the mused strands of your hair back into place as he peppered your face and neck with sweet kisses. 

Slowly you could hear your voice as the credits to the movie scrolled slowly to the sound of mandolins and flutes. You'd have to watch the rest of the movie next time.

"I don't know if it still matters at all… but you definitely did it better." You laughed, kissing Kung Lao deeply and running your fingers through his hair.

He smiled into the kiss and pulled away for breath still smiling. "Told you." He sure did, you’d give him credit for that.

The night was basically over, Raiden had promised to be by in the morning to collect him so you still had time. You dragged him back to your room and slipped into bed next to him. He held you close and rested his chin on the top of your head. Once it was quiet real worry began to settle in. You’d just had sex with Kung Lao, a shaolin monk, one who’d made a vow of chastity. Would he get in trouble for this. Be kicked out of his home. The thoughts and sudden guilt began to plague your mind. The sudden pressure of his arms increased around you while his voice broke the silence. “I know you're worrying, you don’t have to. I knew what I was doing and I know so long as it doesn’t interfere with my ability to protect earth realm then Raiden won’t say anything.” He kissed your cheek. It did calm you to hear this and with him here with you telling everything would be okay, the troubles faded from your mind. Soon sleep overcame you. In the morning things would be different. You could iron out the details later, just so long as he was part of them.

[caimkairos]

interlude - ‘childlike’

“...I just think you’re more of a kid than I am.” It’s the kind of thing that comes from resentment, a wrinkle on her face that should be seen on the face older cynics rather than one so young. Perhaps certain people would speak of beauty- that it ruins the aesthetic of the Little Mermaid, smiling and pure, to be disgruntled or frowning.

But Galatea, if anyone, could understand the equal parts insult and importance of such thoughts. After all, she and Ruler both were made by man to be beautiful, were they not? Still, the idea of the unit being ‘childish’ in any way makes her frown.

“What does Ruler mean?” Yet Galatea does not react as coldly as she could and it seems the Little Mermaid realizes why immediately, her expression growing even more bitter.

“You’re doing it too! I’m not... I’m sixteen! I wasn’t a child when I died! So I’m not just some dumb kid!” Though the petulance with with she signs doesn’t help her case, Galatea does not judge for it. She is used to seeing a side of the Little Mermaid that one does not often see, after all.

(There is a discussion of what it means to be a ‘woman’ hangs in the back of her head. The Little Mermaid had left deciding, or revealing, she did not feel like a woman, and Galatea was unsure of the exact reason. She still is, because the interplay of age and gender and all such things is foreign in many ways to a statue carved to be a beautiful woman and to never age.)

(Maybe it’s why she, for all her patience, bristles at the idea of being a ‘child’.)

“I know I look like a kid. But it doesn’t mean I’m just...” The Little Mermaid isn’t wrong. She’s dressed in page’s clothing, like a servant, and it does nothing but emphasize her frame. Short and slight, dangerously thin and waifish. Galatea looks into Ruler’s eyes, like pearls, at the sliver of white in her pupils that either can be seen as a shimmering light or as a reveal to inhuman origins, but they are always overflowing with emotion.

The Little Mermaid looks more like a young child than a teenager, it is true. Idly, Galatea thinks back to what she has read after their first interaction... and wonders if this is part of why the mermaid’s prince saw her as a child, rather than a prospective bride. Adopted her as a sort of stupid child rather than considering the helpless, mute soul as a mate.

...perhaps it was for the best. If the Mermaid looked like a ‘woman’, what kind of attention would she have received instead? What would people do, finding a helpless ‘woman’ dependent on them instead of a helpless ‘child’?

...ah, was that it?

“This unit believes that Ruler is not a child, but she is not an adult either. The expectations held to adults should not be held to Ruler. But Ruler is not a child.” These words, intended to be a balm, do little to settle anything. Galatea realizes it. But they are an invitation.

An invitation taken, by shaking fists that morph into words.

“If I didn’t look like this... he could have seen me as somebody-”

“But would you have returned those feelings?”

“I’m not a child!”

“That doesn’t mean anything to this unit’s question. Would Ruler have returned romantic feelings extended towards her, even in the most optimal scenario?”

“...”

The silence, of hands and words, is enough of an answer that it proves there is at least doubt.

Ah. The attachment of being an ‘adult’ to romantic feelings and ‘growing up’. To an extent, Galatea can understand. She was designed to be an adult, and no matter how many things she does not understand, to be considered a ‘child’ is an insult to her, no matter how it’s phrased. She may be ignorant, may even be stupid, but she has the mind and body of an adult woman, and has lived for a very, very long time.

Yet ignorance is seen as ‘purity’ and ‘purity’ is ‘childlike’, just like the Little Mermaid’s frame and smallness and smile are seen as ‘pure’, and thus, ‘childlike’.

Men of history have often had a sort of mentality like this. The pure is desired because it is not ‘soiled’, but the ‘pure’ is ‘childlike’. So something becomes pure and childish, or sinful and adult. It only seems natural, if unfortunate, that one born of the thoughts of man would have such thoughts dwell in her mind.

There is no room for a teenager grasping at independence, trying to be seen for her true age, overreaching as all teenagers do to be an adult to make up for being seen as a child. There is no room for a woman who does not know many things, and is deemed to be childish in her lack of understanding, despite what the true circumstances may be.

But Galatea thinks it is harder for the Little Mermaid, not a child, yet not an adult. Perpetually trapped in that in-between must be difficult enough without coming off as a child to even her peers in age.

(She can relate to being forever trapped in a single moment, can’t she?)

“...I shouldn’t snap at you. You’re the same.” Ah. The moment of insight makes Galatea blink. A look of flushed awkwardness on the mermaid’s face, of somewhat shameful realization just a tad bit too late. Right. This is part of why the young teen in front of her isn’t quite a child, isn’t it?

“This unit wouldn’t expect you to be calm. That is what this unit offered, isn’t it?” A moment, a while ago now.

(“...this unit knows that a smile can be hard. So if Ruler needs anything... to not smile. This unit is here.”)

“Eh, don’t say that kind of embarrassing stuff!” Right. This was a teenager. So Galatea smiles and extends an arm (not a hand, so she may have her speech free) to the Little Mermaid.

“This unit is happy to help.” The Little Mermaid’s expression twists, something of a bitter aftertaste, a look of helplessness, but nods. Wraps an arm around Galatea’s, leans into smooth ‘skin’ with a sigh that is purely air.

“...okay. Thanks... Galatea.”

(Galatea does not know the extent that romantic love is important for the Little Mermaid, of her born of repressed love, of shame, of desperation. Loneliness. To the mermaid, it is important to be able to understand romantic love. Not just for her own sake, but rather, for someone else’s, too. How cruel would it be to someone who birthed her from repressed love, to say that she can’t understand it? That she, just like the world around them, had deemed it platonic and unreachable?)

(She can’t do that to him. He loved his prince, the one who rejected him, so she has to understand this. She has to love, in the way of lips and touches, of wanting and yearning, because that’s what he felt, wasn’t it?)

(The Little Mermaid doesn’t want to let Hans Christian Anderson down.)

(But these are thoughts that the mermaid cannot share or vocalize. Not yet.)

(Not to one who still calls their master ‘Pygmalion’.)

(Not to one who could likely understand.)

[theholycovenantrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, MIMZ! YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF RAPHAEL.

Admin Rosey: I never really thought that Raphael’s application would be so f u n to read. Macabre? Absolutely. Impassioned? Of course. But hilarious to the point where I was giggling? Definitely unexpected but that is what made this so enjoyable and it is ultimately why this application received a r e s o u n d i n g yes from each of us. There was a perspective that I always envisioned for Raphael but was never able to articulate it myself until you laid it out, word by word, with this application, Mimz. Raphael is such a multi-faceted and character that holds so much potential, and the way that you wove it into every aspect of the application made this so fun to read. Thank you so much for taking the time to produce such a wonderful application! Your faceclaim change to Kendrick Sampson has been approved. Please create and send in your account, review the information on our CHECKLIST, and follow everyone on the FOLLOW LIST. Welcome to the Holy Land!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias 

mimz

Age

21

Personal Pronouns

she/her

Activity Level

i’ll typically check the dash every day, and i try not to keep replies stewing for longer than a couple of days! that said i can be a little slow, especially around exam seasons.

Timezone

pst

Triggers

REMOVED

How did you find the group?

miss minnie bleubeard’s blog

IN CHARACTER

Character

raphael, with a fc change to kendrick sampson

What drew you to this character? 

short answer: divine amorality sexy HAHAHAHA

long answer: there was something i read a little while ago about some of the best surgeons being able to dehumanize their patients to a rather frightening degree. there’s a level of abstraction that you need in order to not let your empathy get in the way of the practice of medicine; ultimately, a body is a body is a body, right? and then there’s the moral quandary of healing - it is a doctor’s duty to heal, but what does that actually mean? to what extent is a doctor’s duty to relieve suffering? to obstinately prolong life? if the body heals but the mind still ails, is a person healed? what i’m getting at, here, is that in some ways the healer is the most dangerous character of all. 

when i read raphael’s bio, there was a quote in that article from a surgeon named david cheever that came to mind: “as a result of anaesthetics, the surgeon ‘need not hurry; he need not sympathise; he need not worry; he can calmly dissect, as on a dead body.’” to me, raphael is an explosion and expansion of this concept. raphael is, quite literally, a medical ethicist’s worst nightmare, and to me, that’s absolutely fascinating. without sympathy, what separates a healer from an educated control freak with a god complex? with raphael, we can extend this concept to its furthest extreme. raphael isn’t even human - how could he even begin to sympathize with an experience so foreign to him? why would he worry about something trivial as human suffering when it essentially exists as a theoretical concept to him? divine beings have no reason to play by human rules, and as a creature raised by god’s side raphael was so far removed from the concept of human suffering that it’s sort of a no-brainer that he developed a sick fascination with it, like a child who managed to con their parent into buying a grand theft auto game and is obsessed with running over pedestrians because the stakes never quite feel real. it’s a perspective i’d absolutely love to explore in a group rp setting because the nature of rp means that it’s kind of...completely unsustainable? like as writers we’re shoving these characters together, which means that raphael will have to be exposed to mortals. there’s room for a lot of character development there, and it seems like something extremely interesting to explore.

BUT HERE’S THE THING⁠—and this is where the character gets really fun, in my opinion. i’ve talked a fair bit about god complexes already, but when applied to raphael an interesting question is raised: how much is a complex, and how much of it is actually being divine? what really made me want to get my grubby little hands on the reins of raphael’s story was seeing the disconnect between the way his connections are written from raphael’s perspective versus the other character’s perspective. it’s a fun little hubristic shade that makes him an unreliable narrator and infinitely more interesting than a simple morality thought experiment. i think it’s easy to see raphael as this super cool, all-powerful master manipulator (i think that’s a pretty accurate take on his self-image, in fact), but he’s not the only player in this game. for every pawn he’s trying to move, there is someone else trying to use him in a similar way, and i don’t know that he truly understands the ramifications of that. see, i think it’s easy to reduce raphael to the points i discuss in the previous paragraphs because that’s what he wants you to think of him. but this is a world of gods and superpowers and magical political intrigue and game of thrones doesn’t exist so nobody can tell him that he’s on the path to becoming a cersei lannister (admittedly i haven’t watched got so this reference might not be right but i feel like it’s right so uh. yeah!). maybe i just like to see arrogant men getting knocked down a peg? this might be a projection of that. i dunno. i just know that there are quite a few mind games and mental gymnastics to untangle with raphael and that’s fun. he’s fun.

also. i would like to once again reiterate: divine amorality sexy. it’s not good, to be clear, and i don’t condone it, but i’m just saying.

What future plots do you have in mind for the character?

WHEN  THE  CITY  CRUMBLES  AROUND  YOU  AND  YOU  HOLD  ITS VESTIGES  IN  YOUR  HANDS,  WHOM  DO  YOU  BLAME?

i think Raphael’s big character arc revolves around a simple question: how far are you willing to go to achieve what you want? 

ostensibly, it’s an easy answer: very far. but when your desire is antithetical to your very purpose, when chasing it puts you at odds with the thing you’ve worked to build, do the goalposts move?

(the correct answer is that raphael did not build caelum. he simply destroyed god.)

let’s say, hypothetically, that raphael gets what he wants. the world is thrown into war and chaos and destruction, yadda yadda, raphael gets his blood and his suffering, great. he’s lived through this before (a couple times, actually), so you think he’d realize by now—eventually, the dust will settle. people will tire of suffering. and where will that leave raphael? how many times will you remake the world to watch it burn? can you ever be fulfilled chasing a temporary high? 

(the correct answer is no, but raphael is an immortal being. more importantly, he is a patient one. he will wait a million days for rome to be built, if only to witness the single day in which it will burn.)

i think raphael needs to reckon with these questions. i think he’s lived far too long with his mentality unquestioned and that has made him both insufferable and a major threat to society. this is a long and pretentious way to say that raphael honestly kind of needs a hobby whatever the thc-verse equivalent of therapy is, but i think any sort of positive character development is contingent upon a recontextualization of suffering and chaos and raphael’s masks.

of course, this isn’t to say that introspection will only lead to positive character development. perhaps a raphael who looks deeper into his psyche will come to understand that his desires outweigh his role; perhaps such thoughts will push raphael over the edge of propriety and into something more outwardly despicable. no matter what, though, i think that the direction of raphael’s character development will be largely shaped on how he decides to prioritize his⁠ roles and goals. 

FOR  WHOM  DO  THESE  HANDS  HEAL?

let’s discuss the archangels, shall we? despite it all, raphael genuinely loves his brothers. i would argue, even, that raphael believes that his scheming is in service to the other archangels; he’s not blind to the way complacency has softened the angels. at this point, the only true threat to the angels is themselves—if michael wants to to unlock a state of sanctifying grace, it will happen at the hand of one of his kin. 

i spoke earlier about raphael’s goals ultimately being futile. this is largely because they are diametrically opposed to michael and gabriel’s goals, and while raphael knows this intellectually, i don’t think he’s quite thought about what the long-term implications of that conflict entails. he’s so caught up in the conflict between michael and gabriel that he’s neglected to consider how he factors into the dynamic. could he be the common ground that brings michael and gabriel together? could he be the final straw that breaks them apart? he is excited for the fighting, the fallout; but has he stopped to consider what the long-reaching effects of such a rift may be?

raphael is breaking his family apart because he loves them. will that be enough, when he is sent to pick up the pieces? whose side will he fall on, if he is to pick a side at all? 

DID  PYGMALION  FALL  IN  LOVE  WITH  THE  BEAUTY  OF  HIS  CREATION,  OR  THE  BEAUTY  HE  CREATED?

i said this in the previous section but i’d like to reiterate it: i think a big reason raphael is Like That is because the stakes have never quite felt real to him. raphael’s a pot stirrer, but he’s not a creature of action. to this, i say give him real stakes. to be honest, i don’t know exactly what that entails, because i could see a number of ways in which tangible pressure manifests itself for raphael. perhaps his meddling with michael and gabriel steps too far, and his brothers  perhaps the angels become suspicious of his maneuvering, in which the spider is drawn into his own web of intrigue. maybe we apply positive pressure, where the ails of the world require a healer and raphael is tapped to higher purpose⁠—and higher power. maybe raphael will find himself tempted by the very demons he holds in contempt. 

the point is that raphael has largely been a character who acts through others. even now, we see this through his grooming of romilda, with his subtle manipulation of michael and gabriel. i want him to become a more active character, either by his own volition or by his hand being forced. 

similarly, i’m extremely interested in seeing how raphael navigates the political elements of this verse. i expect it stings a bit to be the only archangel not given a position of leadership; perhaps he holds lingering resentment toward zadkiel for being given a role raphael had expected to receive. does he subtly undermine zadkiel’s leadership? i want to watch him play up tensions with the vices, to hide a vicious war-hawk perspective under the guise of a concerned healer. i want him to smile in abaddon and samael’s faces and plot their suffering in his mind. i want to see the snake slither in the grass, to return to his original form as a spider spinning a web of intrigue across his court. yes, i want a more active raphael, but i think the political drama is ripe for development, as well.

WHEN  I  SPIT  UP  MY  SINS  AND  BEG  FOR  REPENTANCE,  WHAT  WILL COME  UP?

this one’s a long shot, but i could maybe...see...raphael……..falling. i can guarantee you that the idea has never even crossed raphael’s mind, and that he would literally rather be smited than be cast out of caelum, but i can see it. i think he might be happier, actually; if he fell, he could really lean into the chaos and suffering thing without any compunction.

of course, this is something infinitely easier said than done. were raphael to be cast out of caelum, he would have nowhere to go. infernum would never take him⁠—he’s made far too many enemies among their ranks. he could wander the holy land, but he’s far too proud to bind himself to its existing social systems. (he wouldn’t be able to look gabriel in the eye.)

raphael would have absolutely nothing. 

but he would also be free.

that’s right, i think that a horsemen-style liberation arc would be an absolute banger for raphael. again, i don’t think it’s feasible unless a very specific set of circumstances happen, but just imagine a raphael with nothing to lose, free to go absolutely apeshit. his only prerogative is to make sure you have a bad day. he is free to sow whatever chaos, whatever suffering he so wishes across the land. WHEW.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character?

yes, but i don’t see him going down easily.

IN DEPTH

Driving Character Motivation

entomological curiosity, in short. consider: why did god leave the apple in the garden of eden? why do humans keep animals in glass cases? why do children burn ants with magnifying glasses?

raphael wants to observe the world. a good healer must understand his patients at a fundamental level, and such truths are only revealed when the subject is broken down to its basest parts. you see, raphael was weaned on temperance and virtue; there is a lush decadence to emotional extremes that he finds most fascinating. they are debased. they are crass. they are wantonly sentimental, in a garishly beautiful way.

but this is not all. he wants to stave off boredom, and these are the tools he has to play with. for all of his machinations, raphael is a simple being. raphael has no grand ambitions, no lofty ideals, and that is what makes him so dangerous. he wants to be amused. he wants to be stimulated. he wants to observe a world in which things happen.

ostensibly, this is not as selfish a motivation as it may seem. as a healer, raphael knows something that many do not: serenity cannot exist in perpetuity. it is impossible for the world to remain unchanged⁠—even if the change is not evident, it is happening. an eternal peace is all but a stagnation of the kingdom; the only thing stagnation breeds is degradation. the angels are weakening because they are not being challenged. michael and the virtues may be doing extensive research to find an alternate explanation, but raphael knows this to be the truth. 

of course, the irony underlying the selfless explanation of raphael’s motivations reveals the truth of the matter: it is a farce. perhaps it is a lie that raphael has even convinced himself he believes, but it is farcical nonetheless. raphael claims he wants to invoke change because stagnation is dangerous, but riddle me this⁠—if this is true, why has raphael never changed? centuries upon centuries have passed, and the world has changed around him, but raphael himself has remained largely unchanged. he is the orchestrator of change, not its agent nor its subject, and that is just the way he would like things to stay.

Character Traits

CHARISMATIC - there’s a reason very few have cottoned on to raphael’s true nature, and it’s not (just) his pretty face and magical girl-esque aura. there’s something effortlessly captivating about raphael, a pace to his cadence that has you hanging on to his every word, a lightness to his smile that makes you want to coax it out whenever and however you can. everything about raphael puts people at ease, except for his eyes, which tend to put people on edge if he’s not careful. he’s not gregarious or the outgoing sort of charismatic by any means, but he does manage to exude an overwhelming charisma.

PATIENT - it’s important to remember that before raphael turned on god, he waited for him. raphael performed healings for centuries and never raised a hand against his father in that time. think of all the angels that fell, that rebelled; raphael was not among them. no, raphael played the dutiful son, allowing his resentment to fester and boil deep underneath his skin, but never to surface. for centuries he served loyally, biding his time. remember: lucifer fell. raphael did not. which one killed god? as i mentioned in the plot section, raphael will wait a million days for rome to be built to witness the single day it burns. prolonged suffering is perhaps the most beautiful of all. fortitude goes hand-and-hand with patience.

INTELLIGENT - in a few ways. raphael is well-studied, with extensive knowledge of biology and chemistry and history and politics. raphael is emotionally intelligent; he hides his true nature behind a veneer constructed to meet expectations. he may not be as talented as gabriel in this regard, but it is a skillful construction nonetheless.

MANIPULATIVE - i mean. yeah.

ARROGANT - he thinks he’s smarter than god???????????????? tbf god was a bit of a headass in this universe but we’ve all read enough tragedies to know where this kind of hubris ends up going.

CRUEL - there’s a bit to unpack here. i’d argue that there are two types of cruelty: malicious cruelty and callous cruelty. raphael is certainly capable of both, but i think he embodies the latter. with certain notable exceptions, raphael’s cruelty is rarely personal; it is a thoughtless sort of cruelty, the type inflicted upon beings considered expendable. raphael is selfish and petty and powerful, and these traits coalesce into a casual cruelty. 

In-Character Para Sample cw: light gore

Look at how they look at him. God’s good little lambs, lined up all in a row, passive and pliant and patiently awaiting benediction. Patiently waiting for Raphael. 

Raphael hates them.

No. This is false. It is difficult for Raphael to muster up stronger feelings toward mortals than a vague sort of amusement, the sort of affinity one might have for a particularly stupid kit when it does something surprisingly clever. In this regard, he understands that he differs from his kin. Gabriel, in particular, has developed a particular fondness for the mortals. Why anyone would wish to strip mortals of their most fascinating behavior⁠—to the point of openly defying their Father⁠—is beyond Raphael. He has given up on trying to reason with his brother on the matter. 

The first supplicant is beckoned forward. They pray to the Lord and Raphael touches their forehead with one palm, cups their chin with the other. His fingers splay carelessly around a throat all but bared to him and the ceremony is so mechanical Raphael allows his thoughts to wander⁠. 

How easy it would be to tighten his grip. How beautiful it would be, to watch the lamb’s naive adoration flash into fear, to watch fear darken into betrayal and resentment and the most beautiful emotion of all: despair. He can feel the pulse at his fingertips. It would quicken in a stress response, he knows. It would quicken, then it would pound, and then maybe it would stop.  It all falls to Raphael’s whim. In this moment, Raphael holds their life in his hands. They have all but laid on his sword for the promise of absolution and when they look up at Raphael with their dumb, trusting eyes he can see the sparkling tracks where tears once fell, down the hollow of a cheek into the pool of a collarbone. He finds himself overcome with the desire to trace the fall with his tongue. “Give me your pain,” he murmurs. Let me taste it. Let me understand. 

He takes it. He does not taste it. He does not understand.

He releases the mortal. Those beautiful tear tracks are already fading. “The Lord be with you,” he says, and perhaps he even means it. His Father’s gaze burns into his back, even from a world away. He’d laugh at the irony, were he free to. Is this the weight you so desire? he wants to ask the devotee. No, Raphael knows the truth: God’s love is a shackle. God’s love is a leash and it is holding Raphael back from his fullest potential.

“And also with you,” the lamb responds. Their head is bowed obediently in prayer and they shuffle away, appropriately awed. The next supplicant is beckoned forward.

The light of Raphael’s presence obfuscates the darkness in his eyes.

— 

Later, much later, Raphael finds himself studying his hands. He flexes them, balls them into fists, stretches his fingers as far as they will spread. 

How easy it would be to tighten his grip.

The hand is at once an individual unit and a summation of individual parts. The hand contains twenty-seven bones and thirty-four muscles connected by over a hundred ligaments and tendons. Wrists connect to metacarpals, which connect to carpals, which taper off into delicate phalanges. Individually, each of these parts are largely useless; were Raphael to take a scalpel and drag it through a tendon, across the joints, the strings would be cut and the puppetry would cease to dance. You would be left with a small pile of carpals and metacarpals and phalanges, loose strings of muscle and tendon. At times, it is difficult to fathom how such mundane component parts are the instruments of extraordinary acts.

Raphael flexes his hand, watches bone shift under skin. If he remembers correctly, mortals have an idiom about knowing your hands, or something along those lines. He will not pretend to be familiar with mortal culture. Did you know that, wings aside, mortals and angels all have the same bone structure? 

Of course you did. It is common knowledge that God made all beings in His image, or so the story goes. 

This is an easy answer, but one with interesting implications. Let us extrapolate. If mortals and angels are essentially biological mirrors, and each are made in the image of God, does that mean that God will bleed like His creations? Slide a scalpel across God’s knuckles—will His puppets cease to dance?

Raphael could find out. It would take only a single blade, sliced through a single tendon. 

Now, Raphael is not so arrogant to believe himself the blade. He would not even consider himself the hand. Such a role requires a particular kind of conviction—

( —and that sort of conviction is made manifest in bitter disillusionment⁠—the sort inflicted upon Michael. How easy it would be to find himself in his brother’s ear, whispering of their Father’s capriciousness and the unnecessary cruelty that resulted for the poor, poor humans— )

( —and that sort of conviction is made manifest in righteous anger⁠—the sort inflicted upon Gabriel. How easy it would be to find himself in his brother’s ear, whispering of their Father’s neglect and the unnecessary cruelty that resulted for the poor, poor humans— )

( —and that sort of conviction is made manifest in a whetted hunger⁠—the sort God gifted to each of His angels. Hunger breeds hunters and heaven is full— )

—that Raphael simply cannot embody. Rage has never been his forte. 

Consider, however, that the hand is controlled by nerve impulses. A spark is all the hand needs to transform from a collection of bone to an agent of action. Yes. He clenches his fists. Here are the bones, the veins, the tendons, the muscle. Angels and mortals all share the same bone structure.

Does God?

Extras

pinterest.

raphael has classically beautiful wings. i’m talking TEXTBOOK cherubic angel wings, with the sweeping white feathers and all. raphael kind of hates them, though he takes a great deal of pride in them.

raphael doesn’t have a signature weapon. he’s proficient with blades, yes, and fights with a surgeon’s precision, not the strongest nor the fastest but eerily efficient in his blows. but he is a healer—at the end of the day, his empty hands are all he needs. (his empty hands are what you should fear.)

raphael hates the heretics pro forma but. but. he cannot deny a certain...fondness for them. the heretics exhibited such dedication to a futile cause; they believed their suffering to be something noble. it’s a laughable notion, certainly, but a sentiment so distinctly human it’s almost charming. should they wish to return, to throw themselves on the knife over and over and over, well. raphael shall not complain. he shall smile beatifically, perhaps abate their suffering, even⁠—and watch them do it again. 

in a modern au, raphael is a reality tv producer. ok actually he’s probably a surgeon but i think he’d make a very good reality tv producer. alternately, there is a universe out there where raph fixated on like...baking, or k-pop, instead of suffering. those are good timelines, i think. maybe not the k-pop stan timeline.

raphael is the living embodiment of that dwight schrute “we need a new plague” meme.

[fic-for-fic-sake]

Sunlight, Bucky x reader

Y/N: Yes, you guessed it, another Hozier song! Also be proud of me for branching out from my Loki comfort zone! As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated. 

Seventy years. That’s how long Bucky was HYDRA’s plaything for. Seventy years of missions and erasing his memories and reprogramming him every time he fought back. That was until, of course, his best friend Steve Rogers saved him. Yet, nothing could save him from the nightmares, or so he thought. 

I would shun the light, share in evening’s cool and quiet, who would trade that hum of night for sunlight

He sat in the dark in his room, trying his best to block out his pain. Most days it was manageable but today it was damn near impossible. The sound of his own screams reverberated out of his mind and into the emptiness of his room. The place on his body where flesh met vibranium throbbed with a dull pain, as he sat frozen, remembering the fall from the train in the 40’s. 

He would’ve laid there remembering everything had it not been for the soft tapping on his door breaking through the spell of his mind. Steve was calling him, asking if he wanted to go for a run. He knew Bucky too well, knew working out was one of the only things that could break the monotony of the pain. 

Huffing a sigh, Bucky put on running shorts and a tank top, throwing his dark tresses into a messy top knot before opening the door of his room. He squinted in the light as he walked towards the kitchen when he stopped dead in his tracks. Coming from further down the hallway was the sound of giggling. High pitched laughter that broke him out of his trace and sent a chill down his spine. 

He walked toward the sound, his interest piqued. He came into the kitchen to find everyone crowded around someone, the same someone whose windchime laughter made Bucky’s heart skip a beat. 

“Oh, there you are Buck!” Steve called over when the laughter died down. That caught her attention. The woman with the magical laugh turned around until her bright eyes locked with Bucky’s. 

But whose heart would not take flight? Betray the moon as acolyte, on first and fierce affirming sight, of sunlight.

All of a sudden his mouth went dry and he forgot how to breathe. He went to run his hand through his hair only to remember it was in a bun. How was it that you existed? Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he recalled the story of Pygmalion, who sculpted his bride out of ivory. He was struck by her beauty and prayed to Aphrodite to make her real, so the goddess took pity on the man and gave her the gift of life. 

He had always imagined what someone that beautiful must’ve looked like but he didn’t need to imagine it anymore, here she was, standing before him. Eyes bright and smile radiant as she gave him an outstretched hand, waiting for him to shake it. Oh shit, she was introducing herself and he completely missed it. 

“I’m sorry darlin’ I missed your name.” He said sheepishly, taking her outstretched hand in his and bringing it up to his lips for a delicate kiss. He swore he could feel sparks fly between them. 

She giggled again and he wanted nothing more than to hear her giggle for the rest of his days. 

“That’s okay Bucky, I’m Y/N.” She replied softly, taking her hand back from his. Y/N, that was her name, and oh did it suit her. 

“Y/N.” He repeated, testing out the way it felt in his mouth, he liked the sound of it, could get used to it, to her. “How do you know who I am?” He questioned, had it been possible that they’ve already met. He felt sure he wouldn’t forget a dame like that. 

“No,” She shook her head quickly, making some of her hair fall out of its bun and perfectly frame her face. How was it everything she did seemed as if the gods themselves designed it? “Steve here can’t stop talking about you.” She said, nudging his best friend playfully. Wait a second, no, this couldn’t be. 

“Bucky, she’s, Stark’s new PA.” Steve said by means of an explanation. Oh thank God, Bucky didn’t know if he could stand it if she had been Steve’s girl. But no, she’s not. He wondered absently if she had a boyfriend, probably does, pretty little thing like her. 

Bucky could’ve spent the rest of the day standing there in her presence. She seemed to glow in front of him. He couldn’t focus on anything but her she was so distracting. She smiled gently at him before something lit up on her wrist and she looked down at it. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth absentmindedly as she read the message. Bucky wanted nothing more than to tug her lip free and run his thumb against it, imagining how plump it probably felt. 

“I would love to stay and chat, but duty calls.” She flashed her wrist apologetically as she turned around to leave. Before he realized what he was doing, Bucky grasped her fingers in his hand, making her turn back around to face him. 

“Will I be seeing more of you?” He questioned desperately, not willing to let go of her now that he knew she existed, his sliver of sunlight in the world. 

“I hope so.” She teased, throwing him a small wink as she let her fingers pass through his and made her way through the hallway. 

I had been lost to you sunlight, and flew like a moth to you sunlight oh sunlight.

Tags: @lokixme, @drakesfiance, @lokilvrr

[twilight-deviant]

Crazy lady again! Lol ☺ (Maybe I should just give myself a username...) Anyway, I think the Garcy shippers were wearing our Garcia and Flynn tinted glasses and more than one of us thought the were going to kiss in the finale. (I was sitting there, blinded, obviously, saying "Just do it!" Oh wait... This is canon...) But here is a prompt: What if they HAD kiss? Perhaps impulse of the moment? How would it have changed the episode? (A lot obviously...😝)

AO3 Link

The plan I first had for this prompt was more low-impact in the beginning and culminated with their final scene. But then I reread that it’s asking how it would affect the episode. So affect the episode I did.

Finale AU!

Lucy stared out the window, observing people pass in vintage clothes and classic cars. Her hands crossed in front of her, presenting a patient, dignified stance. She waited. Lucy knew it was not coincidence or bad luck that she and Wyatt were targeted by McCarthy’s men.

The door to her conference room cell opened without warning or knock. Flynn closed the door back behind him. They were free to speak in private, as they so often did.

Lucy began the mission to 1954 with reservations against stopping Flynn. Over the past weeks, the concept nagged at her more and more, growing in size and inescapability as it snowballed. She knew he was right, but even now, she could not support his methods.

Flynn announced his plan to destroy Rittenhouse that night. He exercised enough courtesy and compassion to let Lucy know her grandfather would be there. He warned of potential fallout and consequence in her life. He was guilty. He could not look her in the eye.

“Why are you telling me this?” Lucy questioned, and she turned to look at him with more than peripheral vision. She stared at him as he stared shamefully at the floorboards.

Giving every respect he held for her— since before they even met— Flynn said, “I thought you deserved the truth.” He attempted a smile that faltered and fell. The reassurance it attempted was a self-aware fallacy.

“So you told me.” Lucy did not know what reaction he expected. In all Flynn did, she gave him understanding. She could not afford support. “What do you want from me, my blessing?”

“I don’t want anything from you,” he quickly dismissed with a scoff, deriding the assertion as if it were absurd and unprecedented.

“You don’t want anything from me?” Lucy retorted. Flynn always asked for so much. He always wanted from her. They knew it was a lie even now. His eyes were big and scared. His insecurities were exposed before her. “Because I think you do. I think deep down there’s some part— some human part of you— that wants me to stop you.” She saw too much. Flynn did not interrupt. He did not contradict. “God,” Lucy said, “I swear this game that we keep playing— nobody wins, nobody loses, people keep dying. What’s the body count so far?” If Flynn had an exact number in his head, he did not say it. “And for what?”

“Okay,” he objected, cutting her off, knowing her opinion, “now’s the time where you tell me what a monster I am?” Flynn put words in both their mouths. It was an opinion he assumed on Lucy’s part but arrived at all on his own. He was wrong.

“I don’t think you’re a monster anymore.” She shook her head. “I used to.” Again, Flynn could not look at her. He only had confidence against Lucy when he was right and she was wrong. “But now, I just think that you’re sad,” such a simple three-letter word consumed and defined that strong man, “and you’re lonely.” He had no one. Flynn lost his family. He killed or alienated his allies. “I think you’re a broken person.” Flynn glanced at Lucy but slowly dropped his eyes to the floor, weighed down by the burden of her hard-hitting words. “Who misses the people that they love, just like me, just like Wyatt.”

Flynn could suffer any emotion but empathy. His loss, as he considered it, was greater than all others, greater than Lucy’s, greater than Wyatt’s. “Don’t talk about my family like you know them,” he commanded.

“You want to stop Rittenhouse,” Lucy said, “we’ll help you, but not like this.” Lucy was utterly, desperately sincere. She shared Flynn’s beliefs that something must be done. She could not ignore that truth, but she could not permit mass murder.

Flynn came upon her with great stalking steps. His shoulders came up as his back arched down. He towered over Lucy. She did not shy away. She did not show cowardice and uncertainty against intimidation, not even when Flynn asked a question she could not answer: “How?” His smile was wrong. There was no happiness. Flynn felt no happiness. He took what pleasures and reassurance he could find in life, like watching Lucy fumble for an alternative. If she could think of nothing, then there was truly nothing. Flynn earnestly waited for her suggestion. He waited until Lucy dropped eye contact in defeat. “You don’t know,” he presumed. Lucy tried to speak in her defense but had nothing to offer. Flynn was right. “Because there is no other way.”

Nothing more was said. They both knew, regrettably, that was the last word of a conversation neither wanted to end. Lucy did not want Flynn to leave and prepare for the unthinkable. Flynn did not want to say goodbye to Lucy.

Green and brown eyes stared into each other, delaying the inevitable. Flynn’s expression softened. His rage faded. He never could keep it going very long with her. The half-life of his resentment was always a fleeting thing, youthful and snuffed in its crib.

Flynn licked his lips, as he was wont to do. He glanced at Lucy’s, as he never did.

If it was to be their end, there was no reason to watch it wither with regrets and “what-ifs?”

Flynn leaned further down and closer in. He hesitated.

He hesitated.

He kissed Lucy.

There was little pressure and no force. Flynn gave her the right and the ability to back out at any time. The kiss met his want, his desire, but he understood if she did not share it.

Lucy was too stunned to react immediately. Flynn’s slow approach benefited no time for thought, not when she wasted those long, dragging seconds convinced she misread his intent— even when it was alarmingly obvious. For an equally long, and equally short, gap of time, Lucy stood there completely frozen.

Flynn kissed a still statue. He was the fruitless Pygmalion, and his desperation increased as his confidence waned. He misinterpreted what was between them, and he realized that.

Lucy wanted to grip his face or clutch his tie and demand from where such brazenness came. She did not. She experienced what she felt instead of acting on first impulse. Flynn was kissing her, and that meant something. It meant— as could not, and would never, be denied— he had feelings for her. The kiss he gave— the kiss he stole— was not platonic. He wanted more than that. Lucy wondered what would happen if she gave it to him.

Just when Flynn’s nerve finally failed and he pulled away, Lucy stepped forward. She kissed him back, and with his height, it was a difficult thing to chase. She leaned closer in her high heels and stood further on her toes.

Reversing roles, now Flynn was surprised. His shock was much more brief. He overcame it much more quickly. His head came back down, and Lucy’s feet touched the ground.

Strong hands hesitated and hovered in the air, not daring to touch. Lucy made the first move. She pressed her hands against his chest and moved them with a gentle, calming stroke. Flynn considered it permission given. His hands cradled her jaw, outlining her face, keeping her there, confirming her presence. Thumbs caressed Lucy’s cheek, and fingers grazed the nape of her neck. Flynn took such special care to not mess her hair. There was an unavoidable end to their dalliance, and they would need to look presentable when that happened. But it was an act neither of them wanted to end. Lucy did not want Flynn to leave and prepare for the unthinkable. Flynn did not want to say goodbye to Lucy. She complicated his choice further.

Lucy moved her hand inward. She grabbed Flynn’s tie and pulled him forward as she moved back, forcing him to follow. He did not break up their kiss. He continued it, changing the angle, spurred on by her initiative. The backs of Lucy’s legs knocked against the solid wood of the conference table. With barely any hesitation, Flynn picked her up and sat her on it. He leaned over her, across legs modestly bound together by a long pencil skirt.

Flynn’s hands rested on the tabletop, and he put his weight on them, surrounding Lucy on both sides with his arms, pressing against her knees with his body. An end could no longer be anticipated or predicted. It was decided for them.

The sole of a hard shoe walked over wooden boards in the hall. The person did not enter, did not disturb them, but simply the act of passing by frightened Flynn and Lucy back into their senses. They pulled away from each other.

Flynn looked ashamedly at the floor. He licked his lips and then wiped them with the back of his hand. Lucy stared at her lap before sliding off the table. Her skirt was perfectly in order, but she smoothed it out regardless. She touched her hair and stood up straight. Lucy found composure quicker than Flynn.

“What was that?” she asked, retaining an authoritative persona when he could not. After all, they were not led by her impulse.

Flynn did not know. He was not sure and could not answer. “We may… not see each other again,” he lamented. “I wanted to…” There was no end to his sentence. He could not confidently explain the irrational.

“You wanted to.” Lucy helped him realize motive was unnecessary. She finished the statement where he left it hanging. That was all there was to it.

“Yes,” Flynn confirmed. He wanted to kiss Lucy, so he did. “Yes.” His voice was gruff. He cleared his throat and took a step back. He situated the tie Lucy had mussed, laying it back down the middle of his shirt and securing it with the metal tie clip. His hands crossed behind his back, maintaining a modest figure as he stood up straight and to his full height. Flynn looked perfectly presentable, ready to step out into the hall and attract no stares, no suspicions.

“Don’t leave,” Lucy asked.

Flynn was finally able to look her in the eye again. “If you think this changes anything—”

“It doesn’t.” Lucy was not foolish. Flynn was a master of detaching himself from his emotions. He sacrificed his soul for his mission. He could easily forsake a relationship before its start. It was a comparably simple obstacle. “Take me with you.”

“No.” He was rightfully worried over what interference she could manufacture.

“I’m alone,” Lucy said. “Just me. I’m unarmed.” She was physically weaker as well but did not comment on the obvious. “I can’t stop you, Flynn.”

“You saved General Grant,” he stated. “You let John Rittenhouse go. You forget, Lucy, I’m the one person who will… never… underestimate you. I’ve learned my lesson from the times I did.”

“Take me with you,” she asked again. “It’s not a trick.” Not even she could tell if that were a lie. “Take me with you and we can think of an alternative. We can carry out your plan if there isn’t one.” Lucy came closer to him. She touched his arm and pulled until he let it go from behind his back. She held his large hand in hers. “Let me save my grandfather. Let me keep him from the meeting.”

“He’s a leader,” Flynn argued, “invited to the summit for a reason. They all have to go, Lucy.” He was apologetic. He did not take back his hand and, instead, let it rest in hers like comfort and physical proof.

“He can’t rebuild Rittenhouse on his own.”

“It started with one man before,” Flynn reminded her. “It can happen again.”

“No, you don’t know that,” Lucy insisted. “Maybe he’ll give up. Maybe he…” She did not know the man and could not predict him. She used logic. “He can’t repair Rittenhouse to the state it’s in now. He can’t… redo two hundred years of progress in just sixty. It won’t be as operational in the present. Rittenhouse won’t be able to spare men to take out you and your family.”

Flynn gently took his hand away. “You’re asking a lot,” he murmured.

“You’re asking to risk my life,” Lucy replied.

“Your father’s already born,” Flynn told her, “a child.”

“But growing up without his father can change anything,” Lucy said, “everything.”

“That’s the plan.”

“What if he doesn’t meet my mother?” She was asking Flynn to spare her life. “Regimes can- can fall quickly, but they need time to gain power. One man,” she asserted, “can’t do it all. After I’m born…” It was a cold sentiment, but Lucy did not care what happened to her father. She did not care what happened to her grandfather. “You’re right,” she said. He was. “Rittenhouse needs to be stopped. But it can be done another way. It can be done without dozens of people dying, without me being a casualty.”

“It can be done one way,” Flynn maintained. He had a plan and he was convinced it was the only one. “But maybe we can…” It troubled him to concede, to leave anything to chance. “Maybe we can, uh, spare your grandfather.”

Lucy smiled at him, and it took all of Flynn’s resolve not to smile back. She headed for the door. “We have to get Wyatt.”

Flynn stepped between her and the exit. “No,” he refused. He could allow Lucy to tag along, but Wyatt was a gun and hand-to-hand combat. He was a kill order who could only be warded off through bribery of information. Flynn had none for him at the moment. “Wyatt can handle himself.”

“He can help,” Lucy insisted.

“He can,” Flynn agreed, “but I think we both know he won’t.” Wyatt despised Flynn. Mere hours ago, he talked about putting him down, taking him out, as had always been his mission. He was less willing to compromise. “You come with me— alone,” Flynn said, “or you stay here… in custody.” She had two options, no more, no less.

“Okay.” Lucy nodded her head. “All right.” She did not want to let Flynn out of her sight. She grabbed her coat, gloves, and purse. “Let’s go.” Wyatt could handle himself. If not, Lucy would come back for him. She would come back when it was all over.

“One more thing,” Flynn interrupted, stopping her from leaving.

“What?”

With greatly acted nonchalance, Flynn bent down and kissed Lucy one more time. It was quick and chaste, as if all he did was experiment— experiment if that prior spark remained or was a fluke. It was there. Lucy felt it. Then it was gone. Flynn opened the door. “That’s all.” Lucy walked through and Flynn closed it behind him. “We’ll take the stairs down the hall,” he said, “go out the backdoor. Strictly speaking, this is a jailbreak.” He grinned, finding humor in the fact that he made Lucy a prisoner and now a fugitive.

She followed Flynn closely and together, they avoided detection. He had a car parked down the street, and Lucy climbed into the passenger seat. They were alone.

“Where are your men?” she asked. It was not a rarity for Flynn to work alone, but a mission so important was best suited to have all hands on deck. “The one who’s always following you around,” she said, remembering his name was, “Karl, where is he?”

“Not here.” He gave Lucy no better answer.

“What else are you planning?” If Flynn was delegating tasks, spreading resources across a grand plot, Lucy felt she had a right to know.

“Lucy,” Flynn said in a stern voice, warning her against pursuing the subject, “drop it.”

She did, knowing he could kick her out and abandon their delicate partnership at any time.

“My grandfather,” Lucy said, “my mother told me that she met him once, that he was a White House aide.” She knew where to find him, where to abduct him.

“I know,” Flynn said. Of course he did. He hunkered over in the seat and grabbed insulated tubing that wrapped around exposed wires. He twisted two wires together and struck another two together. The car sparked to life.

“You’re pretty good at that,” Lucy remarked, and she was impressed.

“Pretty good,” he agreed. Flynn sat upright and put the car in gear.

The sun set early in February. Already, it hid behind tall buildings and cast long shadows. The work day would end soon.

Flynn drove right to her grandfather’s car as if he planned the route. They passed a sign that reserved parking for Ethan Cahill. The red convertible in the space was empty, so Flynn found the first vacant parking spot for them to wait in and watch from. He let the engine idle a moment before reaching down to untwist two wires. The car died. He waited and then twisted them back together, ready to go at short notice.

“Really good at that,” Lucy amended. Flynn certainly knew what he was doing.

He sat back in the seat. They watched the sun set, taking with it any warmth of daylight. A soft snow began to flutter down, catching in trees and on cars. It accumulated on their windshield but was not substantial enough to obscure the view.

Snowfall always brought dead quiet, even in a city. When Flynn spoke, it startled Lucy, despite its gentle volume. “You cold?”

“Uh,” she stammered, surprised by the considerate inquiry, “no.” She had gloves, sleeves, and layers. Only her exposed calves were a little chilly. “No, not really.”

Flynn nodded his head and resumed the silence. There was a discussion they needed to have, but it was clear neither of them wanted to address what happened in the conference room. There were more important matters at hand.

They waited for Ethan to leave work, but apparently he was devoted. Time slipped by. Flynn became anxious, and Lucy knew he was counting every minute he lost in the window to act against Rittenhouse. She said nothing, fully aware Flynn did not want assurances for a concern she did not share. Lucy busied her hands to fill time and ease tension.

Flynn stared at the parking lot. His focus seemed intense, but he betrayed that it was split. “What’s that?” he asked.

“What?” Lucy glanced out the windshield and saw nothing, no new development.

“In your hand,” Flynn clarified.

“It’s…” Lucy reached behind her neck and unfastened the small clasp. She handed the locket to Flynn, and he held it in the scant light coming in from a streetlamp. “It’s my sister,” she told him, “Amy. I always keep it on me because now I never know… I never know what will disappear, what I’ll lose.” Flynn did not dismiss Lucy’s sorrow. He did not hastily study and discard the pictures in the locket. “Is she in the journal?” Lucy had to ask.

“Yes,” Flynn confirmed, but he did not go into detail. He shut the locket with a click and returned it to her. “I’m more concerned with the fact you have this.”

Lucy fastened the locket back around her neck and let it slip beneath her blouse to stay hidden. “I don’t understand it either,” she admitted. “Connor Mason said that… because it existed outside time, outside of the… damn time change, that it was unaffected, even after Amy disappeared.”

Flynn let the information turn over in his brain. He was a very smart man, capable of connecting related and unrelated threads of intelligence. “Then you’re not at risk,” he concluded. “You exist outside of time, Lucy, and you were, uh, conveniently quiet about it.” He was very displeased with her over the revelation but was becoming acclimated Lucy’s duplicity. He leaned down to grab the hanging wires under the dash and jolt the car to life.

“Wait, wait.” Lucy put her hand over his, and he stopped. “It’s still a risk,” she said. “I’m not a locket, Flynn. We don’t… know what will happen.” He sighed and looked up at her. “Even if I survive, I might— I don’t know— not have a- a life to go back to.”

“I know people,” was all he said. It was enough to represent seedy relationships with individuals who could forge a new identity and paper trail spanning Lucy’s entire life. Flynn flicked her hand away and resumed striking the wires against each other.

“Please.”

He stopped again. One pitiful, pleading word and he stopped. He would trust Lucy. He would help his partner. With a long, frustrated growl, Flynn sat upright.

“Thank you,” Lucy said.

“Shut up.” He did not want to hear her gratitude. It was nothing but evidence towards increasing weakness. He let his left hand rest on the steering wheel, holding it with a lax grip, as if they casually drove down a long stretch of road. “We save your grandfather,” he permitted. “But I will take care of the rest of Rittenhouse.” It was their standing agreement.

Lucy did not repeat her acquiescence. She still had not come up with a better idea, and Flynn’s plot remained the best chance at taking down Rittenhouse. It was the most violent.

His right hand was a tight fist on the seat between them. When Lucy grazed it with a soft touch, he first flinched and then relaxed. She opened his hand up and held it. Flynn reciprocated, wrapping long fingers around her. Lucy turned in the seat, bringing her knee up and over as far as her skirt would allow. She gripped his hand in both of hers, holding the rough skin between the fabric of her gloves. Flynn watched Lucy raise it to her lips and place a tender kiss on the back, on his fingers, on each knuckle in between. He was so malleable, so hopeful, so delicate before her.

“I know that you’re not a bad man,” she said. He was a good one who lost his way. “I know that you’re hurting.” She pitied him. Her heart hurt for him. “I know you don’t want to kill all those people.”

Flynn sniffed. He moved his hand in Lucy’s, not pulling it away but not letting it rest deathly still in her grip. Their hands swayed back and forth like a slow pendulum. They watched only that hypnotic motion. “I don’t want to kill them,” he confessed. Lucy knew that. He simply confirmed. “I have to kill them, to put my wife and child back on this earth.”

Lucy doubted it would work, but she held her criticism until the last minute, when Flynn could not easily get rid of her.

She looked out at the soft, snowy night and saw, “That’s him.” Flynn pulled his hand away and reached for the door handle. Lucy grabbed him. “Not now,” she stated.

“Why not grab him now?” Flynn huffed.

“Someone might see,” Lucy said, “someone who could call the police.” It was dangerous to act while still in the city. The seclusion of the Rittenhouse summit was a much safer target area. “We know where he’s going. We’ll follow him to the meeting and grab him before he goes in.”

Flynn made an exaggerated gesture of turning his wrist over to check the time. His watch lit the cabin with a blue glow. “I have to prepare for the summit,” he said. “If you think you can run the clock down by leading us around Washington—”

“No,” Lucy interrupted. “That’s not it.” She knew Flynn would not tolerate or forgive such a ruse. “The car,” she prompted, “hurry.”

Flynn leaned down and set to starting the car. It took him a few tries, and Lucy kept an eye on which direction Ethan went.

They drove in quiet, tailing her grandfather down intersections, long roads, then twists and turns.

“This is not the way to the summit,” Flynn said. He had an address and, knowing him, had already memorized the route to get there.

“Maybe he knows a back way,” Lucy proposed, “a shortcut.”

“Or maybe,” he said, “he knows we’re following him.”

“You’re being…” Lucy did not finish her statement. She knew how Flynn detested being called paranoid, crazy. “Don’t you think,” she reasoned, “McCarthy could have been lying to you?” Flynn did not answer. He could not confidently contradict it. “I’m assuming he told you the information under duress.”

“I’ll give it another ten minutes,” Flynn granted. “Then I’m turning around. If your grandfather wants to drive across the city all night, he’ll save himself and we won’t have to.”

It did not take the full ten minutes. Ethan pulled up to an old, ornate building. It was not the address Flynn was given. He was beyond frustrated, and Lucy could tell. Either McCarthy lied to him or they were wasting time.

With a angered snort of air through his nose, Flynn turned off the car. His temper was a liability.

“Wait,” Lucy cried.

“What?” barked Flynn.

Lucy kissed him. She leaned across the wide seat of their stolen car, grabbed him by the sleeve, and kissed him. Flynn was immediately responsive. “Don’t kill him,” Lucy whispered against his lips.

“No,” he agreed around a quiet smacking sound. “No.” Killing Ethan Cahill risked Lucy’s life in one way or another, and she was convincing Flynn against taking that chance. He did not want to take it. Suddenly, he pulled away and shoved Lucy back across the seat. “He’s getting away.” Flynn got out of the car and slammed the door.

His moods were so wildly unpredictable, Lucy was obligated to follow. Flynn stopped at the corner of the building. Lucy kept going, but he grabbed her around the arm and squeezed.

“Too late,” he said. “I’m afraid your grandfather’s already inside.” He was sympathetic to Lucy’s plight for existence, but, “We can’t exactly walk in the front door.”

Lucy pulled her arm away and Flynn let go. “Why not?” she said. “Can’t look them in the eye before you murder them?”

As if to make a point and prove his determination, Flynn reconsidered an entrance. “Lady’s first,” he said.

“We’ll get him away from the group,” Lucy suggested. “Tell him there’s an emergency, a phone call.” Flynn grunted in reply. The lead was hers. Every foolish plan was hers— until he had to intervene.

They walked through the front door, and Lucy was prompted by a man to check her coat. She looked at Flynn, knowing he would not appreciate anything that delayed a hasty exit. He moved behind Lucy and helped her out of her coat. “We’ll leave it,” he whispered in her ear, sharing her thoughts and already accepting the worst outcome. Flynn left the coat with the attendant.

Soothing jazz whispered through the door and into the entryway. Flynn and Lucy stepped between curtains and observed the gathering. Lucy was anxious. Flynn was tense. He was on edge, calculating how long it would take to pull his gun. From the corner of her eye, Lucy watched him slowly undo the button of his jacket and make his weapon accessible. She put her hand over his to calm him.

The room before them was full of men who greeted Ethan warmly and rather affectionately. They whispered closely in each other’s ears and came away blushing. It was not the atmosphere of a manipulative terrorist organization.

“This isn’t Rittenhouse,” Flynn said, voicing the realization they arrived at simultaneously.

“No,” Lucy haltingly agreed, “I think this might be a gay bar.”

Flynn relaxed, but Lucy saw him compulsively check his watch. “It would appear,” Flynn remarked with a somewhat amused tone, “I’m only the second-most powerful threat to your having been born.”

“I exist,” Lucy said. She watched her grandfather order a drink and begin a conversation with a man at the bar. It all happened without their interference. It always happened.

“Which means,” Flynn reasoned, “Ethan is very, very covert with his, uh, extramarital affairs.”

“It’s 1954,” Lucy explained. “You could be arrested for being gay.”

“Excellent,” Flynn said, and it was not the response she expected. However, it preceded his next plan. “Then we’ll have no trouble getting him to come with us.” He buttoned his jacket. A gun would not be necessary.

“Don’t…” Lucy whispered before breaking off in a sigh. She yielded. “Don’t blackmail him too badly.”

“Oh, that depends entirely on him,” Flynn insisted.

Lucy reconsidered again. “Let me do the talking.”

Flynn deferred authority to her. “Whatever gets him in the car quickest.” It was no new development that Flynn cared more about the end result than the method imployed getting there. They waited to get Ethan alone and watched him have a superficial conversation at the bar. Flynn kept vigilance despite the unhostile environment. “Well,” he commented as he gauged the room, “I’m certainly getting a lot of looks.”

Lucy saw a young man a few yards away gander up and down his tall physique with a suggestive eye. Flynn nodded politely in response, and Lucy experienced an odd sense of jealousy. “I get the feeling it’s not every day someone like you walks in,” she said. It made Flynn grin, and surprisingly, she liked the ease with which they could now subtly compliment each other. Lucy went a step further and spoke outright. “You… are… attractive,” she admitted. It felt like coming clean about a lie, though she never said anything to the contrary.

“And you’re beautiful,” Flynn said with much less difficulty.

Lucy barely kept herself from blushing, and she was grateful that fortune gave her an out because she had no idea what to say next. “He’s alone.” The man at the bar walked away and Ethan watched him leave with an admiring gaze and a grin. He turned back to his drink. “Let me do the talking,” Lucy said once more, making certain Flynn remembered. He stayed an obedient distance behind her and tried to copy Lucy’s casualness when she walked up and rested her arm on the bar. “Excuse me,” she said. “Are you Ethan, Ethan Cahill?”

Ethan had a very pleasant smile when he lied to them. “No,” he answered, “sorry. You’re mistaken.”

Lucy did not have to look back to guess Flynn was frowning. “No,” she assured Ethan, “we’re not cops.”

That concerned him almost as greatly. He came closer and spoke to her in a subdued whisper. “I don’t know what you think you saw here,” he said, trying to maintain some authority, “but I have a wife and son to get back to, so—”

“We know,” Lucy interrupted before he left— before Flynn stepped in. “His name is Ben.”

“How do you know that?” Ethan asked. Lucy could not think of a good answer. She looked at Flynn for suggestions, but he refused to contribute unless asked outright. It was Lucy’s discussion, as she insisted. Ethan looked between them. He reached into his jacket pocket. “Okay,” he said, ready to bargain, “how much do you want? I’ve got about $50.”

“We don’t want your money,” Lucy said. She wanted compliance to his own kidnapping, but there was no tactful way to ask for it.

“Mr. Cahill,” Flynn butted in. He stepped around Lucy and stood at her side. “We believe it would be in your best interest if you follow us outside, sir.”

Ethan swallowed with fear, but they held every card and he could not disobey. He nodded and followed them to the entryway. Flynn helped Lucy back into her coat and they left the private establishment.

“Keep walking to your car,” Flynn instructed, and he may as well have aimed his gun for all the weight his presence carried. He was intimidating.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Lucy promised.

“No, actually it’s quite the opposite,” Flynn said. “We’re keeping you from attending the Rittenhouse summit.”

“Ritten…” Ethan was shocked at their knowledge of Rittenhouse but did not insult them by denying its existence, not like so many members before him. “How do you know about—”

“Give me your keys,” Flynn ordered. Ethan did not dare defy him. He handed them over. “Get in the front seat.” Flynn passed on the keys. “Lucy, you drive.” He climbed into the back with a gun in his hand, watching for any sign of treachery from Ethan, waiting for an excuse. There came none. Ethan was an obedient hostage. He was too confused and too nervous to act any other way.

They left the city completely and drove into a dark night with no stars. A waning crescent moon flitted in and out of clouds and lit the fallen snow, making it glow. Lucy drove where Flynn instructed. She took the turns he said.

A name was one thing. Knowledge of the summit was another. Exact directions to the summit let Ethan know they were perfectly aware of what evil they fought. He took them seriously, which meant that for a long while he said nothing.

Lucy peeked at Ethan while she drove. She was curious about him and got away with that peeping curiosity for several minutes. He glanced back at her, and Lucy quickly put her eyes on the road.

“You look familiar to me,” he said.

“My father is in Rittenhouse,” Lucy replied, and it was only a temporal lie. “Maybe you’ve met him before.”

“What do you want with them,” Ethan asked, “with Rittenhouse?”

“Does it matter?” Flynn spoke up from the backseat. “You won’t be participating in tonight’s event.”

“He’s going to kill them all,” Lucy said. She looked in her mirror at Flynn. He licked his lips nervously and looked at the floorboards ashamedly. “Everyone except for you.”

“Why me?” Ethan asked. He looked at Flynn and then at Lucy, feeling he had better chances getting an answer from her. “Why are you singling me out? What makes me special?”

“Lucy insisted on it,” Flynn said. “She thinks you’re worth saving. Personally,” he leaned forward and rested his gun on the back of their seat, “I’m waiting for you to prove her wrong.” Nothing would comfort Flynn more than complete eradication.

“You want to kill everyone in Rittenhouse?” Ethan questioned.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“Why?”

Flynn would not say, so Lucy answered on his behalf. “Rittenhouse murdered his family.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Ethan said, “truly. I mean it.”

“You work for them,” Flynn laughed. His tone was condescending. He did not care for Ethan, a man who benefited from the organization.

“I didn’t want to,” Ethan swore. “I’ve never… wanted to. I don’t want to.” He looked ahead at the dark road lit by headlights. “If Rittenhouse finds out the truth about me—”

“What, they’ll kick you out?” Flynn presumed.

“No, they’ll kill me, too,” he said. Lucy felt such sadness and offense for him. Ethan’s face contorted with despair. He sobbed without crying. His voice broke. “I love my wife,” he insisted. “I love my son. It’s just— It’s a bad habit. It’s a sick habit. I keep trying to stop. I- I tried the shock therapy. It’s just- it- you know…”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Ethan,” Lucy said in a calm, comforting voice, but it was difficult to instill progressive thinking in the past. “Nothing.” Ethan wanted to believe her. His desperation for that modicum of understanding was pitiful.

Behind them, Flynn added in, saying, “She’s right, you know.” He shook his head. “Well, insomuch as, uh, attraction is concerned.” Allegiances were another matter.

“Who are you people?” Ethan demanded. There were so different than any standard acquaintance in the 50s.

“We’re the people saving your life,” Flynn said.

“By not killing me,” Ethan remarked, separating the suspicious mercy from altruistic heroism.

“We’re people you can trust,” Lucy promised.

And Ethan believed her. Somehow, he believed her. He looked at Lucy with such soulful eyes, eyes that glistened with unshed tears. He nodded his head along and looked forward. “When I was eighteen,” he said, “my father caught me with a��� friend.” He raised his eyebrows emphatically, implying something more, knowing they would catch onto what exactly. “And after he spent the better part of an hour whipping me with his belt, he sat me down and told me all about Rittenhouse.” Ethan paused and licked his lips. The truth troubled him to that very day. “At the time,” he told them, “I thought I’d rather he beat me all over again than be part of something like that.” Ethan’s timidity slipped away. His pervading emotions were a burning resentment and hatred. “If the two of you do destroy Rittenhouse,” he concluded, “I just might thank you.” Lucy watched Ethan and gauged his sincerity. He seemed completely honest in all he said, and she knew even Flynn had trouble doubting it. Ethan wanted them to succeed.

Lucy drove the car another half-mile and pulled over as soon as there was space on the side of the road. The brakes squeaked. She left the car running but put it in park. “I need to talk with you,” she said to Flynn, “outside.”

Flynn looked back and forth between Lucy and her grandfather. Whatever she had to say was important and secret. “If you get out of this car,” he warned Ethan, “if you try to run, if you… open the door for a little fresh air, I’ll shoot you.” He said the threat— the promise— so seriously it could not be disputed. “Do you understand?”

Ethan nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll stay here. I’ll stay right… I’ll stay here.”

“Good man.”

Lucy exited the car and folded the seat forward so Flynn could climb out. He closed the door behind them. Snow crunched under their feet as they walked a few yards past the car. Frigid air whipped through bare trees and bit at their exposed faces. Lucy’s coat protected her arms and body, but cold scratched her legs. She did not want to be outside any longer than necessary.

“What?” Flynn demanded. The closer they got to the meeting, the more impatient he became. He guessed the time had come for Lucy’s ineffective plan.

“Please,” she asked before he could start. “I don’t want to fight.”

“And yet you’re going to suggest something for us to fight over,” he assumed. “I told you, Lucy. I told you what I was going to do. I never lied. I never downplayed it. They’re all going to be in one place, and I’m going to end this, once and for all.”

“What if it doesn’t have to be that way?” Lucy said. Flynn scoffed and paced away from her, turned his back to her. “What you’re planning,” she told him, “it won’t work.”

Flynn rounded on Lucy and yelled in her face. “You don’t know that,” he claimed against her, pleaded with her, “and I know you’d do the same!” He took a deep breath and lowered voice. Warm air puffed out of mouth as visible vapor when he spoke. There were tears in his eyes. “You would do the same,” he said again, “for Amy.” Flynn thought it was a moral victory over Lucy. He thought she was no better than him.

“You’re right,” she admitted, saying exactly what he wanted to hear. “You’re right,” she repeated, saying exactly what he did not want to hear. “I would.” She was no better than him. It was what the trips were teaching her. Lucy was learning how far she would go. She moved her own boundary at every turn, pushing it farther and farther back. She knew that, in time, one day, she would easily catch up with Flynn. And that was why they had to stop. “We are all so caught up in our grief,” she said, “in our past, in our pain, and we can’t let go, so we just continue to hurt more people.” Her words hit Flynn and affected him greatly. It was their reality, their selfish reality.

“I prayed to God,” Flynn whispered, “for answers.” His lip quivered as he doubted his own conviction. He looked down the road and Lucy followed his gaze. There, almost a mile away, sat a mansion upon a hill, lit from ground to roof in a way that denoted a large gathering. Without asking, Lucy knew he looked at the Rittenhouse summit. It was so close to him. “And He led me here, to this.” He took a deep breath through his nose, and it stuttered like a sob when it fell from his trembling lips in a white cloud.

Lucy came closer to him, so close. She could almost feel his body heat. With utmost sincerity, with honest consideration, she said, “What if He led you to me?” It was not the response Flynn expected. It was not a response he might ever have expected. His head twitched in an erratic nod as he tried to process it. He was listening. He was willing to hear her. He would hear someone who thought they were meant to find each other and be together. He was listening. Lucy felt an overwhelming responsibility not to let him down. “I know a way that we can really take out Rittenhouse,” she said. She had a plan that finalized itself as she spoke. “We have to stop trying to fix the past and focus on the present. Please,” she begged, and Flynn was so desperate for an alternative, he kept listening. “I know what to do now. Please, before it’s too late.” Flynn sniffed. It was loud in the winter night, where the only other sound within a mile was the car’s engine. Flynn wanted to believe her. He waited to believe her. “The journal,” Lucy said, citing his guide, using his most trusted source of information, “didn’t it say that we were going to work together?” It was the goal he wanted third in life, behind the resurrection of his family, behind the dismantlement of Rittenhouse. He wanted their partnership. He needed her. “Today’s that day,” she asserted. “Look how far we got, Flynn, together. We did it.” He looked over her shoulder at the mansion on the hill. Lucy dragged his attention back to her. “You helped me today… Flynn,” she said. “You spared my grandfather for me. So please,” she asked, “please… let me help you.” She wanted to save Rittenhouse from death. She wanted to remove them from power. She wanted what was best for Flynn. She had no other motive, and from her, he had nothing to fear. “Do you trust me?”

Flynn looked at her with big, pleading eyes. He wanted to trust her. “What?” His voice was weak and broken. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What is it you have in mind?”

“We use Ethan,” Lucy told him. She explained it very generally because there were still finer details she had yet to iron out. “It can work.” A cold wind blew and Lucy shivered. Flynn stepped between her and it. He shielded her from the worst of the gust.

“I can’t,” he apologized. Her plan was too uncertain.

“You can,” Lucy stated. “And you want to.” She knew him well by now. “You don’t want to kill those people. Please.” Lucy had begged Flynn to forgo murder before, when she stood between him and John Rittenhouse. He denied her then. “Please.” Lucy’s hand was warm in her glove. She could not feel Flynn’s skin, but she imagined it was chilled when she took his hand in hers. “Please. I don’t want you to do this.” She wanted to save Flynn from himself. She wanted to preserve what was left of his soul. He was too reckless with the precious thing, and she took responsibility of its care. He wanted to trust her. He did. Lucy gave him a backup guarantee that would satisfy all doubt. “This isn’t the only meeting,” she said, “right? If this doesn’t work, we can- we can go back further.”

“We?” He put such fearful optimism in that two-letter word.

“We,” Lucy confirmed. She would go with Flynn, accompany him to however many eras and however many summits it took. She was all the guarantee he needed.

Flynn touched her face. His hand was cold, as Lucy knew it would be. She did not care. She rested her cheek against his gentle palm. Flynn leaned down and kissed her. His mouth was warm. “Okay,” he surrendered. “Okay, Lucy.” She won. He let her win. It was the victory they both wanted. It was a plan they agreed on together.

Lucy drew back. “Ethan could be watching.”

“Let him watch.” It changed nothing. Flynn was unashamed. He was excited to kiss Lucy and proud to show off their burgeoning relationship, even with her grandfather watching. He had all the enthusiasm and negligence of a teenager. He wanted to celebrate.

Flynn’s arms wrapped around her, and he was such a warm, comforting presence. He was so strong, and it felt good to be held by that strength instead of assaulted by it, dragged around by it. They moved back and forth in a languid sway.

When they pulled away, white vapor exited both their mouths before mingling, disappearing, and being immediately replaced. Lucy ducked her head down and rested it on his chest. Flynn’s gravely voice rumbled against her ear.

“You trust him that much,” he asked of Ethan, “a man you just met?” Flynn stroked her neck and fingered the short, stray hairs at her nape.

“I do,” Lucy said. She would not suggest using him otherwise. “Do you trust me?”

“I do.” If it were anyone else, he would never take the chance. Flynn left nothing to chance, and he did not consider Lucy’s ingenuity as such. “You stopped me too many times for it to be dumb luck.” Lucy pulled back from him and saw a smile. “Kiss me again.”

“It’s cold.” Lucy wanted to get back in the car.

“Kiss me.”

It was the least he deserved. She pushed her lips against his. She opened and closed them with audible little smacks. They tilted their heads to get closer. The tip of Flynn’s sharp nose pressed into her cheek. His hands rested tamely on her back, rubbing with gentle pressure. Lucy put her gloved fingers on his neck and on his face. She wanted to take off the ridiculous things. She wanted to feel him. But it was cold. Lucy broke the kiss.

“You’re pretty good at that,” she panted, trying and failing to not sound worn out from such a simple exertion.

Flynn shrugged with a smirk. “You’re not so bad yourself, Lucy.” As with most things (talking, acting, planning), they were very good together, naturally compatible. Flynn looked at the car and chuckled. “He’s probably thinking the worst about his situation.”

“Come on.” Lucy took his hand and led them back to the warm car. “We have to go to the Lifeboat,” she said.

“Why?” Flynn did not think Lucy escorted him to a trap, but neither was he willing to take a chance on her team.

“Because Ethan needs to know how it works,” she said. “He needs to see it work. Wyatt should be back there already. That’s the plan if we ever get separated.” She hoped Wyatt returned to the Lifeboat and was not out scouring the city for her. She hoped Rufus was not doing the same thing, especially with his gunshot wound. “I’ll go with you, Flynn,” Lucy promised, “in the Mothership. I’ll leave with you so I can’t… change anything after you’re gone.” She would not leave his side. “But we have to do this first.”

“All right,” he agreed. It made sense and he could not object.

They got back in the car. Flynn kept his gun tucked away. He had decided to trust the man, Lucy’s grandfather, her family.

“Well?” Ethan prompted, drowning in curiosity and concern.

Lucy put the car in drive and made a sharp turn to take them back the way they came. “Not today,” she said. Rittenhouse received a sixty-year pardon.

“Not to… When?” He was anxious for an end to it all. He would have to wait.

“I can’t explain yet,” Lucy told him. “But soon.”

“Don’t worry,” Flynn cheerily said. “You’re still not dispensable.” Ethan was safe.

By the time they neared the city, it was early morning. When they made it to the warehouse where the Lifeboat was stored, the sun was coming up. Lucy was so tired. She was three days without sleep and running on empty. But it was not yet the time to rest.

Ethan was more surprised by their reception than Wyatt and Rufus were to see Flynn. It was a hostile arrival. Wyatt pulled his gun as soon as he saw Flynn get out of the car. Lucy stood between them with her back right up against Flynn, leaving no separated space between them, no opening for a shot.

“Lucy!” Wyatt exclaimed.

“It’s okay,” she promised. “He’s not here to hurt anyone.”

“He had Al Capone shoot me!” Rufus yelled.

“He kidnapped you again,” Wyatt stated.

“I went with him,” Lucy said, proving freewill. “I asked him to take me. And when I asked him not to kill all of Rittenhouse, he listened. He didn’t do it. Please, it’s all right.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Rufus said. “We gotta get Jiya back home. She’s in the Lifeboat. Something happened to her.”

“What?” Lucy questioned. “What are you talking about?”

“Probably has to do with carrying too many people,” Wyatt said. They obviously spent the night talking about it, worrying about it.

“We gotta get her back,” Rufus insisted. He did not care about the showdown going on. “Now.” He looked between Wyatt and Lucy, urging them to drop it.

Begrudgingly, Wyatt put away his gun. He kept a heavy glare on Flynn. It was a safe enough assault that Lucy could step away. She went forward and explained time travel to Ethan. He met them with understandable disbelief.

Not needing more added onto the overwhelming moment, Lucy was grateful Flynn did not make a spectacle of them in front of the team. He kept a professional distance and did nothing so obscene as kiss her or lean in too close, whisper in her ear. He was an exhibitionist in front of Ethan. With Wyatt and Rufus, he knew better. He knew what could hurt them. He knew who could change Lucy’s mind, talk sense into her. So he stayed away. He acted decently civil towards Wyatt and Rufus. He spoke when spoken to, and he did not approach until the Lifeboat was gone.

Ethan believed in time travel.

When Lucy told him she was his granddaughter, his immediate response was to remark on how she looked like his mother, her great-grandmother. Following that, while still processing, his eyes drifted to Flynn with obvious thoughts. He saw them together on the road. He could not have missed it. What he ignored before with strangers carried a different weight once Lucy was related to him. If he felt a familial, gentlemanly obligation to object, he subdued it and said nothing, unsure of his place in her life.

Lucy kept them focused on what really mattered. She told him her plan, the plan to stop Rittenhouse, the plan that depended on him. Lucy made the decision— for them— to trust Ethan. Flynn trusted her. Together, they convinced him.

“You know how Rittenhouse operates,” Flynn said. “You know the consequences. You know how they make examples of failures, deserters, traitors.” Flynn knew more about Rittenhouse than Lucy. Ethan knew more than Flynn. “I want you to understand…” He came closer to Ethan, penetrating his personal space. “Understand that I am… I’m learning… their cruelty. Understand what they’ve done to me.” He inhaled deeply. “My daughter was five,” he stated. “Your son is two. But I think we can both agree, Ethan, that tragedy is not a numbers game.” Lucy did not think Flynn could kill a child. She had watched him struggle with it before. But there was also no telling what he would do when pushed to the brink. “Do you understand that, Ethan?” Flynn encroached even further upon the man. He dipped his head and stared into his eyes. “Do you understand?”

Ethan nodded but could not form words. He was terrified. Lucy intervened.

“Stop,” she said. “Please, just- just stop.” She pushed on Flynn’s arm until he allowed himself to be moved out of the way. She stood in front of her grandfather. “Ethan,” she said, “we don’t want to threaten you. We know you hate Rittenhouse, and we know you want to see them taken down just as bad as us. We can do that, but we need your help.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll try.” They could depend on him. He would work within his capabilities.

Flynn walked to the driver’s side of the car but only to climb into the backseat once more. “You can drive,” he said, giving Ethan permission like he had final say. “Lucy?” His request was clear. Lucy got in the back with him.

As they drove, Lucy went over the finest details of her plan. Flynn was quiet, but she knew if he had anything to add, he would. He was satisfied with her explanation. He held her hand and rubbed his thumb across the back of it in a gentle caress. When her words ran out of momentum and the car went silent, Flynn moved his arm behind Lucy’s shoulders. His hand curled closed and he stroked her right cheek with the backs of his fingers. It was a very tender, sweet touch. It was very visible in the rearview mirror.

“You guys are, uh,” Ethan cleared his throat, “you’re married?” Flynn wore a ring, but if Lucy had a matching one, her glove covered it. He assumed. “You know, in the… future?”

“We’re…” Lucy sighed. There was no good explanation for it, not even by the looser standards of the 21st century. “We’ve known each other a few months now.” It was the best she could offer.

“I assure you, sir,” Flynn said, a noble statement almost undone by his smirking lips, “I have only the, uh, best intentions with your granddaughter.”

They kept his secret and did not judge. Ethan was obligated to return the favor. “Okay,” he said, “all right.”

Lucy knew Flynn wanted to kiss her again and make some sort of point. He forewent the uncomfortable display. Ethan knew about them— Ethan, and no one else. He was the only person they could carry on around. That Flynn did not take advantage of it told Lucy they were done for now. They would be done until they were alone again, and there was no telling how long that would be. They were mature enough to keep themselves off each other. But Flynn did keep a hand on her at all times, touching Lucy, taking advantage of the privilege.

“You’re tired.” He could tell.

Lucy did not bother lying. “Yeah,” she murmured. They would be done soon.

Flynn pulled on her shoulder, drawing her in until she rested against his side and laid her head on him. Lucy closed her eyes and dozed but did not sleep. She listened to Flynn give the occasional direction that led Ethan to the Mothership. It was a short drive.

Unintentionally, Lucy thought of when she was a child and pretended to be asleep in the car so her father would carry her to the house. That did not happen now, of course. Flynn patted her on the arm. “We’re here.” He let Lucy rouse herself and sit up before he moved.

They said goodbye to Ethan and let him return to his family after being gone all night. He insisted on staying to watch another time machine take off. It was an understandable fascination.

Flynn ignored all questions and comments from Emma. They left. When they jumped to Flynn’s hideout and disembarked, he stared at Emma until she took the hint and walked away. With such a demand for privacy, Lucy assumed he had something important to say or do. Flynn made no actions to verify that.

“Wish me luck,” Lucy said, starting the farewell conversation herself before she left to meet with her grandfather for his first time in sixty years.

“No,” Flynn refused, “I have… too much depending on this to rely on luck.” He had difficulty relying on anything other than his own two hands. “But I’ll count on you.” He tried to smile, but he was too anxious over the whole situation to keep it going. “You always find a way, Lucy. I’m putting my trust in your, uh, proven… effectiveness.”

Lucy felt every ounce of the burden Flynn gave her to come through for him. “I won’t let you down,” she promised. He nodded and said nothing. He waited for Lucy to do something. He waited for her to kiss him again— instead of the other way around. Flynn wanted a voluntary goodbye kiss. Lucy swallowed. She looked around the wide, open warehouse. Emma was nowhere in sight. They were alone. “Can you, umm… Can you lean down for a girl?” she asked with a nervous chuckle. Flynn smiled and obliged.

He no longer cared if he messed up her hair.

The goodbye after that was slower and less awkward. A possibility hung in the air, something to come back to besides business. Lucy found she liked it that way.

When she got to the city, Lucy called Wyatt’s phone. Rufus had taken Jiya to a hospital, risking detection for her when he would not even do it for his own gunshot wound. Lucy asked for company when she went to visit her grandfather.

Ethan was different, of course, very different after so many years, but he was the same around the eyes. He looked at Lucy, then Wyatt. “Where’s Flynn?”

“On the lam,” Wyatt answered before Lucy could, “like always.” He did not miss Ethan’s reaction. “But I’m guessing he probably forgot to mention he’s a terrorist.”

Ethan recovered quickly. “I know who Garcia Flynn is,” he said. “All of Rittenhouse does.” He looked at Lucy and confirmed for her, “I know he didn’t kill his wife and daughter.”

“I know.” Lucy lost her doubt long ago.

“I know who did,” he said.

Ethan gave them everything they needed to take down Rittenhouse. He recorded every name in the party responsible for the attack on Flynn’s family. Lucy was so grateful to him. She was glad to have the information for which Flynn depended on her.

Flynn was nervous when they met again, though Lucy felt a stranger would not pick up on it. She saw. She gave him the flash drive she promised. Flynn stared at it a moment then tucked it away in his pocket.

“I think maybe I’m owed the truth now,” he said. He did not need anything else from Lucy. She did not need anything from him. They could speak freely and jeopardize nothing. “Was any of it how you really felt?” A day apart gave him ample hours within which to second-guess and overanalyze everything.

Reluctantly, painfully, Lucy confessed, “It wasn’t.” She played along with Flynn, hoping to win his cooperation. It worked. “But then it was.” She fell prey to her own plot. Kissing Flynn opened two doors of opportunity. One was a strategy. The other was something else, something much more traditional. That thought concerned Lucy. It had since the moment she realized she enjoyed it, enjoyed him.

“Thank you,” Flynn expressed, “for telling… me… the truth.” Lucy knew it meant a lot to him. She wanted him to trust her. “I’ll be gone a few days,” he said. He planned on being thorough. One last trip and he would be done— forever. “When I get back, I might…” Flynn dropped his gaze down, down onto the concrete. “I might, uh, ask… you.. on a date.” He smiled at the ground. “Maybe do things the right way, get to… know each other… the right way, not in a journal or a, uh, classified file.”

He made himself so vulnerable and exposed. Lucy wanted nothing more than to take pity and say yes. She had to be more responsible than that, for both their sakes. “I think maybe,” she said, “you need to come back first, see your family, see what you…” She inhaled and blew it out in a tired sigh. “See what you still feel for your wife.” Again, Lucy felt jealous. Flynn picked up his head, ready to object. “Ask me again, Flynn,” Lucy interrupted, and she meant it. “Ask me again when you get back.” She would trust his proposal then.

“All right.” It was a mature, rational concession. Flynn read between the lines of her denial. All that was pending was the question, not the answer, and he had no worries on his end. How could he not smile over that?

Unfortunately, by the end of the next minute, Flynn would never trust Lucy again.

[shewhowantsmouseears]

Love Like Lava, 6

Notes: As always, big massive thank yous to my marvelous editors, Drucilla and Blueshifted!

I feel like this chapter is mostly filler. In between the horrifying sadness, anyway.

This storyline troubled me for years, in that I couldn't find a way to do the Pygmalion plot with Goofy without making it really creepy. Then it hit me - explore and explain the creepiness!

Summary: In trying to give a blessed gift, Minnie winds up giving Goofy an unknowing curse. As she becomes closer to Mickey, the sculptor's heart is broken once more.

Goofy had been a young man when he lost his lady love, although in such ancient times, twenty was a perfect age for marriage. He'd lost his own parents years before, but had been able to pull through thanks to Millicent's tender love and care. When she died, he felt as if a part of him had died with her. Even now with Goofy in his forties, the pain lingered like a fresh wound. He longed to see her again with every beat of his heart.

But longing didn't make miracles, so when he regained consciousness and saw his formerly dead sweetheart kneeling at his side patiently, it was almost enough to knock him out again. He wasn't particularly knowledgeable about many things in the world, but even he knew that the dead stayed dead, simple as that. He opened his eyes again, and she was still there.

“Does your head hurt?” the girl asked, hands on her thighs, cocking her head to see if a lump had formed on top of Goofy's skull – it was difficult to tell since his head was naturally bumpy. “Your head hit the floor really hard.”

He didn't speak at first – more accurately, he didn't possess the words to fit what was going through his heart and mind. Fear tried to freeze the blood in his veins, knowing something had gone against the very will of nature, yet unbridled happiness would melt it away because she was there and she was alive and what could be wrong with that? He heaved as he forced himself to sit up, hot tears blurring his vision. “Millie?” His voice cracked like glass, terrified and joyous, scared and elated. “Is... is it really...you?” His trembling hands reached out to cup her cheeks – cheeks that were warm, of fur and skin and flesh, and a sob escaped his throat. She hadn't aged a day since that fateful one decades past, looking the same as she did before she went on that deadly voyage.

“Well, who else would I be?” she replied, chuckling softly at his reaction, allowing his hands to do as they pleased. “Honestly, Goofy, you ask the silliest questions. You'd better expect some very silly answers.”

Goofy yanked Millie into his arms, his face becoming a wet embarrassment. “Millie!” It was nearly a howl of agony, all the years of pain released into this very moment. He wept her name over and over until it was a jumble of incomprehensible letters, and he didn't care if the entire village went up in flames so long as this time would never end. Millie, for her part, made no effort to wipe away his tears, as she figured they wouldn't stop for a while. She simply rested her head on his shoulder, her fingers curling against the shabbily made necklace that hung from her neck.

“I've missed you,” Goofy managed to speak in between hard breaths. “I never stopped thinkin' about you, all these years...I wanted you back every single day.”

“What do you mean, you silly goof? I've been here for a long time.”

The sculptor's eyes snapped open, a sudden and terrible realization out on the horizon. He wanted to believe she meant something sappy, like she'd been in his heart all along. He untangled his arms from around her thin body, pulling back enough to stare at her cheerful face. “Wh-whaddya mean? Whaddya mean you've been here for a long time?”

“You must have hit your hard much harder than I thought,” Millie quipped, still strangely peaceful despite all the sobs and screams. She lifted her hand and pointed to where the statue of her once stood – and stood no more. “I've been right there for years. Don't you remember? You say hello to me every morning and dust me off once a week.”

Now fear won out and Goofy's very soul felt as if it had become encased in ice. His fingers trembled, and for once he wished he really was as stupid as everyone believed he was, so he wouldn't have to understand what was happening. “M-Millie...What...what was your father's name?”

The poodle paused, her pretty eyes bouncing back and forth in contemplation. After a brief moment she merely shrugged. “I don't know. I don't think you've mentioned him.”

Bile began to rise in Goofy's throat, and now he could no longer control himself. He shoved Millie off of his lap, and she rolled over with a startled cry. “Who are you?” He scrambled to his feet, pressing himself to the wall, as if he was corned by a monstrosity that had come from a place he dared not imagine. “You're not Millie! Who are you?!”

Millie – the girl – whoever she was – whatever she was – slowly rose up, her once pleased face now wrinkled with confusion. “But you've always called me Millie. Isn't that who I am?”

“No!” Everything inside of Goofy hurt, but before he could even try to rationalize anything, his eyes found the necklace. A hot rage blinded him, that wound of memories now bleeding and raw. “That's not yours! Take that off! THAT'S NOT YOURS!” His hand lashed out, grabbing the necklace and snatching it off her neck, scratching the girl's neck with two harsh cuts. He was about to demand how she thought she could wear this, how much pain she planned to inflict upon him, but the girl was whimpering now, touching the injuries where spots of blood began to prickle. It was her first time experiencing pain, of many varieties. Guilt lowered Goofy's arm. “I...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...”

She began to open her mouth, but Goofy knew he wouldn't be able to handle any more words. “I can't, I'm sorry, I can't... I gotta... I gotta...” Without any further explanation than that, he fled from the room, the destroyed necklace still in his hand. He burst from his house, unsure of where to go but he had to get away from there. He ran and ran and ran, confusing his neighbors when he didn't even try to say good morning. He ran until his legs gave out, letting him collapse in a patch of dry grass, not caring who, if anyone, saw him retch and cry like a sick child.

As for the girl who wasn't Millie, she was at a complete loss what to do. She sat there for a time, rubbing her sore neck, trying and failing to understand what his words had meant. Eventually she began to imitate what she would see Goofy do on a normal day – dust off his statues, make his bed, and have breakfast. She ate and ate and ate until she experienced her first stomachache, and as she sat on the dirty floor, licking an apple core between her sticky fingers, she wondered how she would, in Aphrodite's words, “Heal Goofy's heart”.

Regardless of how much pain anyone was in, the day went on, as time always does in its unforgiving and relentless way.

~*~

As Minnie had promised, she came back to Mickey's cave the very next morning. He'd still had lingering doubts she would come, but just in case, he took the longest bath he ever had. It was worth it, as she flounced into the cave without Axelia's assistance as if the place was her second home. Like day one, she asked question upon question and he gave answer upon answer.

One of those questions involved a map she was allowed to take from his wall. “Where is this?” she asked, spreading it out on the floor as Mickey hammered away, breaking up ores to find the precious minerals and stones inside.

“The coast of Izmir.” Mickey paused briefly in his work to make sure he was remembering it right. “I think. That's what the girls say, anyway.” He resumed his smashing, bits of broken rock spitting back at him. “Sometimes if I have a free day, I'll ask them to describe coasts and shorelines of other places, so I can try to draw 'em.”

Minnie lifted her head, her hands still flat on the map. “Why don't you just go to these places to see if you got them right? You're a god, aren't you? You can go anywhere you want with just a thought.”

“Aw, what do I need with other places?” He rolled his shoulder, letting the past where he did in fact long to go to those places slide down his back to be forgotten. “I got everything I need right here: Food, friends, and a furnace. Can't ask for anythin' else.”

Minnie pouted, her cute cheeks puffing out. He was a stubborn one when he wanted to be. As much as she wanted to tell him about her accomplishment with the statue, she felt it wasn't right to divulge anything about herself as long as she was keeping her name a secret. Besides, there was much more to learn about him. Maybe once she learned absolutely everything about him, she could even the score and tell him the truth. Maybe.

“Asking and wanting are two different things,” Minnie said after she placed the map back on the wall. “I bet you've wanted a lot of things!”

Mickey snorted, not bothering to raise his head as he answered. “Y'think you know me so well already? This is just day two, missy. If I say there's nothin' I want, then there's nothin' I want. What makes you think you know me better than I know yourself?”

“Because everyone wants something! It's part of what makes us who we are.” Minnie skipped to his work bench, plopping herself down beside him. “There are a lot of things I want every day. A beautiful sun in the sky, a new friend to make, and to learn lots of things I didn't know before.” She then grabbed his arm to force him to look at her, though it really didn't take that much. “Are you honestly telling me, right here and right now, there's absolutely nothing you want?”

If Mickey didn't know any better he'd swear she was implying something else, and his cheeks reddened. Of course there were things he wanted, but wanting was foolish when you would never get your desires. In the end, it only caused suffering. However, this strange feminine beauty gazing intently at him for reasons he couldn't fathom was suffering in its own way. A girl like this could kill a better man, with those gorgeous eyes of hers that – “Hey!” he realized, much to his relief to have a distraction, “Did you know your eyes change color?”

Minnie blinked rapidly, her train of thought now on a different track. “Huh? They do?”

“I think so! They were red before – now they're like, kinda orange. I dunno... Hey, Axelia!”

The Axelia he called for had been organizing his blueprints, but she stopped abruptly upon command. She walked over, arms straight at her side, waiting for further instructions. Mickey placed his hammer aside, grabbed Minnie by the shoulders with both hands, and turned her around. “What color are Minnie's eyes?”

Axelia craned her golden neck at Minnie, and the answer came in seconds. “They-Are-Black-Black-Black.”

Mickey laughed in amusement, and instead of taking up his tool again, he reached for his walking stick. “I ain't ever heard of any mortal, myth, or creature that can change their eye color! How come you didn't know you could do that?”

Minnie slid off the work bench and smoothed down her dress, although as usual there wasn't a single wrinkle to be found. “I guess everyone assumed I already knew. Now it makes me want to ask everyone I know what color my eyes are!” She giggled, wondering if Daisy saw the colors of the garden or the colors of her husband's gaze. “Didn't you say orange was your favorite color?”

“Sure did.” Though it begged the question why it had been red before – and why, on their first meeting, he'd seen blue. But if Minnie didn't even realize her eyes changed color, then it would be useless to ask her the reasons behind it. “C'mon, I want to show you to the girls. Bet they'll get a real hoot out of this.” He began to chuckle again, already imagining them squeaking like dolphins at Minnie's eyes. Maybe Minnie was something nautical like them.

As Mickey placed his walking stick under his left arm and began to hobble along, Minnie had to physically stop herself from trying to help him along. If he could create women of gold, beautiful jewelry, and weapons designed for others, why did he settle for a mere stick for disability? She tilted her head as she watched him. “Mickey, has your leg always been like that?”

Mickey stopped, though his eyes instinctively went to his twisted limb. He supposed she was bound to ask eventually, since it was his worst feature and biggest shame. “Yep. Can't move it, and can't feel most of it.” He waited to hear the inevitable follow up questions – Can't you fix it? Can't you make it work? Doesn't it bother you? Why is it like that? Why don't other gods look like that -

“Are you ticklish there?”

“No.” Wait. What? Mickey turned his head, and Minnie was at his side, all smiles and sunshine as always. “Huh?”

“Well, you mentioned seeing the girls, and I figured they've probably tried to tickle you all over before. I don't even know if I'm ticklish.” Her hands were knotted behind her back, keeping slowly with Mickey's pace as they made their way forward together. “The mermaids, the nereids...They're like your family, right?” If they were Mickey's friends and family, then she had to become their friends and family too.

Mickey wondered if he'd ever understand how Minnie's mind worked. “Ah, um, yeah. They raised me since I was a little guy. Mermaids taught me how to talk, nereids taught me how to walk. They fed me and took care of me until I could do it myself.” Though they were headed for the sunlight, Mickey's eyes stayed down, thinking of saltwater days when the girls would lay on the sand with him, holding him until he went to sleep. “I know folks think they're a bunch of dummies...but they've got good hearts. They didn't have to keep me. Makin' 'em feel prettier is the least I can do repay 'em. So – so go easy on 'em if they bother you, all right?”

Mickey thought he was simply saying the facts as they were, but Minnie could hear the depths of his appreciation and care with every sentence. The same could be said of his gifts – they were only so breathtaking because he put genuine love into each craft, trying to say with metal what he couldn't express in words. “Of course, Mickey. I would be honored to meet your precious family.”

He almost asked why, but didn't. They walked around the sharp rocks, sat upon the sandy cliffside, and Mickey taught Minnie his special whistle to summon his companions – two fingers, pinky down, sharp breath. Minnie was still practicing when bubbles began to pop up underneath their feet, followed by giggling and splashing. Once again, as had happened more times than Minnie could count, the women froze momentarily as they got an eyeful of the goddess of beauty. She waved and spoke to knock them out of their shock. “Hello, everyone! It's very nice to meet you all.”

Mickey cleared his throat and straightened his back. “All right, everyone, this here's Minnie. You treat her nice, understand? Cause I brought her here for a fun game.”

“Game, game, game, I love playing games!” “I want to play a game with pretty Minnie!”

“I'm the best at playing games and being pretty!”

“Okay, good! All you gotta do is answer one question.” Mickey gestured towards Minnie's face, making sure not to block their view. “What color are her eyes?”

“Pink! I win!” “Where do you see pink? Her eyes are purple!”

“They're green! Green, green, green!”

Perhaps Mickey had overestimated how gracious his girls would be, as instead of making it a fun guess, now they began to argue about who was right. They began to splash at each other, tugging on hair and taking sides. “Hey, hey, hey! Calm down!” He grabbed his walking stick, intending to physically split apart those he could, but when his back was turned, he heard Minnie give out a surprised  “Oh!” followed by a splash.

Color drained from his face – he wanted to impress his mermaids and nereids, and now he was making a horrible impression on his new friend. “Minnie!” He whipped around, but it was too late. She'd been captured by the gaggle of girls, so one could clearly show the other Minnie's eye color. Minnie herself was unharmed, blinking away water from her eyelashes. Mickey was imagining a thousand scenarios, most of them winding up with a frustrated Minnie storming off after being humiliated and never turning up on the island again. “You – you – you fish heads! You let her go!” He waved his walking stick at them, but this was as far as he could go. With his leg the way it was, he couldn't swim.

Yet Minnie wasn't as helpless as everyone tended to think. With a smirk curling on her lips, she clapped her hands once. “Everybody wins!”

A beat of silence overcame the school of fish friends, and then an eruption of celebration squealed forth, with clapping and spinning and singing.

“I win, I win, I win!” “I won too!”

“This was the best game ever!”

With that miniature crisis over, Minnie flashed a sporting grin at her companion, but Mickey still wasn't relieved. He offered her a hand, and while she took it, she didn't pull herself out of the water. “Aw, Minnie, I, I'm so sorry! I thought they'd be better behaved than this!”

“Oh, Mickey, relax!” She squeezed his hand before letting go, letting herself float on her back. “You just have to know how to talk to them. I guess I know you and your girls better than you do after all!”

Mickey's eyes narrowed, taking the challenge. “You think so?” This girl was nuts, bonkers, and absolutely off the wall. What a nice change from his predictable lifestyle. He found a smile forming on his mouth, and he twirled his stick in the air. “Say, ladies! Minnie here doesn't know where she's ticklish!”

Minnie's eyes widened. “You wouldn't dare.”

He dared. “Why don't you all be a bunch of good girls and help her find out?” In seconds Minnie was mobbed by eager fingers and screeching laughter. It was also nice to have someone else be a target for once. Even this didn't frighten Minnie away, as she tried to return the favor and tickle back her assailants. The game eventually grew boring for some of the elders, who now wanted to dress Minnie up in pearls and seaweed, which she allowed as long as they introduced themselves.

Mickey watched without comment, chewing on his lower lip. A part of him thought that maybe, perhaps, he'd been trying to see if she would be driven away by his nautical allies – almost counting on it, because she would be driven away eventually, inevitably. She would find a reason to leave as soon as her tiara was completed. His mind worked to excuse what he saw – so, fine, she liked mermaids and nereids, but you could find them on any shore, and the world was a big place. If she wanted their company, she could go anywhere she wanted.

She would leave him. That was a fact. Minnie was kissing the foreheads of the younger mermaids and allowing an older nereid to play with her spitcurls. When they tried to give her the trinkets Mickey had made for them, she politely declined, insisting it looked much better on them. “And I wouldn't want to take away anything your dear brother gave you.”

“Brother?” The nereid adorned with green coral repeated, looking at her sisters and aunts and mothers for help. “I don't have a brother. Do I have a brother?”

Mickey raised his hand. “I think she means me.”

“Mickey's not my brother. Mickey is Mickey!”

“Mickey's not our brother or cousin or uncle or father because those are all boring.”

“We have a Mickey, and no one else has a Mickey, so we're the best.”

“Best Mickey, best Mickey, best Mickey!”

Minnie quietly glanced at Mickey, thinking she might see a hurt or pained expression, but instead he was just rolling his eyes with a knowing smile. This was not like the traditional families she saw on the mortal plane, with a pair of mothers and fathers and a set number of children. This was a family of choice, but still a family nonetheless. In their forgetful ways, they latched onto the new topic of conversation by showering Mickey with compliments and requests for more pretty accessories, playing keep away with his walking stick but being sure to never break it. With a bit more personal space now around her, Minnie swam back to the cliffside and tried to climb back up.

“I'm sorry,” Mickey mumbled, not making eye contact with her.

“About what?” Minnie asked as she began to squeeze water out of her dress.

“Y'know, them! I should've figured they'd pull some kinda stunt. They're not that bad, normally, I swear.”

“Mickey-”

“It's just - they can't help it, okay? That's what they are. I've tried teachin' 'em, but it's hard, cause they don't wanna learn.”

“Mickey-”

“You can't just snap your fingers and make seagulls change the color of their feathers, and it's like with them, you can't expect too much, you can't-”

Minnie pushed her palm against his mouth in a quick attempt to shush him. “Mickey. You don't have to make excuses for them.”

“Mmmmf?” Mickey asked, which roughly translated to “Really?”

“Yes, really. I like them. I like you. I like being here. Now will you please relax?” She made him nod by pushing his head back down, and then pulled her hand back, poking him on the nose afterward. “You don't have to apologize for them like that. Just tell me about them. Please.”

Mickey almost asked if she was entirely sure, absolutely sure, but she was giving him that funny, intense gaze again. He sucked on the inside of his cheek, trying to make himself calm down and do what she had so kindly asked. He had been ready to both defend and excuse his beach beauties much like he had felt he needed to both defend and excuse his entire being. He knew their reputation across the lands – and that it wasn't entirely unjustified – but they were his, and if no one would accept them, then good riddance to those jerks. But she was accepting them.

She was accepting of a lot of things.

Mickey cleared his throat. “Fine, then, you better pay attention, cause I'm not going to go through everyone a second time.” His eyes found the nearest girl, and he motioned to her with a point. “That there is Lydia.” Upon being named, a raven haired nereid swam forward, returning his walking stick and getting an affectionate pat on the head in return. “She's Tallia's little sister.  She likes to wear things that make a lot of noise.” So evidenced by dangling hooped earrings that clinked whenever she moved her head.

“It's nice to meet you, Lydia.” Minnie placed her hands on her lap, leaning forward. “Why do you like making a lot of noise?”

“Because then it's really hard to ignore me!” Lydia yelled giddily, clapping her hands as hard as she could.

“Very well, then I will never ignore you.” She moved to flick Lydia's earrings, making them clink and clank back and forth, and Lydia kicked in the water, thrilled to bits. Mickey then introduced her older sister Tallia, then Aquata, then Calista, Andria, Rydia, one after the after, telling them how they were related, what treasures they desired, favorite moments out on the sea, who could imitate a dolphin's call, the best backflipper, so on and so forth. With each meeting, Minnie made sure to do more than greet them – she interacted, she asked questions, she complimented. She made an effort to remember each and every single one of them, which to a newcomer was no easy task. It helped that she genuinely adored them, and found them like children with grown bodies. It was, she imagined, like a new mother being introduced to the young ones of her new beau.

Having children with Mickey  - wasn't that a lovely spot of fantasy! Though she had tried to tell herself that she couldn't really love Mickey without knowing all about him, her mind didn't get the message, happily wandering off to see Minnie holding a newborn with the beautiful features of both parents while Mickey was hard at work making a crib.

The parental paradise was unknowingly interrupted as Mickey kept going with, “And this is Damara.”

Damara – Damara – where had she heard that name before? Minnie slowly moved her eyes over, and her paradise turned to panic. This was indeed the exact same mermaid who, to her words, met someone who could have been Aphrodite. Had she been so caught up in romantic fantasies that this chance meeting never occurred to her? Mickey was saying something or other about how Damara liked to play pranks on mortals, despite Mickey's lectures about not doing that. But Minnie and Damara were looking right at each other, with Damara blinking at Minnie, clearly recalling a moment.

Sweat broke out on Minnie's face – she hadn't told this one her original name, right? She was so overcome with worry that her mind went blank and she couldn't remember anything. As Damara tilted her head, Minnie silently hoped that this particular mermaid didn't have a good memory and was as smart as a wad of seaweed. Mickey was oblivious to Minnie's panic attack, too focused on the mermaid in front of him. “Hey now, be polite! Don't just stare, say somethin'. Be nice.”

So Damara spoke, tugging on the ends of Minnie's dress. “Have we met somewhere before?”

“Ummm,” Minnie drew out the word, adding more “m”s in a hard attempt at thinking. So far she had never technically lied to Mickey, she had only left out certain details. But if she actually denied Damara's words, that would be a lie for real, and Minnie would be a terrible person for it. If she could help it, she would not lie to her dear Mickey or his precious family. “Yes. We have.” She winced as she spoke, her chest feeling tight.

“I knew it!” Damara clapped in victory, her head bouncing back left and right. “I knew it, I knew it! She's the one I was telling you about when I broke that “No Aphrodrite” rule!”

“You broke it again!” said a mermaid with skin as dark as night.

“I did not! I'm not talking about Aphrodite, I'm talking about a girl that could be as pretty as Aphrodite!  If I was breaking the rule, I'd be saying she was Aphrodite, but she's not Aphrodite, she's Minnie, Mickey said so! I'm not breaking the rule, so I'm a good girl!”

Mickey ran a tired hand down his face. “I'm thinkin' I need to reword that rule a little. Did you have a point somewhere in there?”

This required another twenty seconds of deep thought for Damara who ultimately concluded, “Your girlfriend is very pretty.”

Just like that, Mickey and Minnie switched moods. Minnie was calm and relaxed, whereas Mickey broke into alarm. “G-G-Girlfriend?! What are you – you – you girls are as dumb as rocks, is what you are! New rule! No saying that word! And no embarrassing me!” He swiftly turned to Minnie who was smiling adorably from ear to ear. “Well – I – you said – you said not to make excuses or apologize, so, so, so I won't! But! Y'know! That's...they don't know what they're sayin'.”

“I am a girl,” Minnie pointed out, scooting in half an inch closer to Mickey's side. “And I am your friend. So, in a way, she's right.” She knew exactly what would come next, and enjoyed every second of it, even waving her finger about like a conductor's baton.

“I'm right, I'm right, I'm a smart girl!”

“Wait! This means I'm Mickey's girlfriend too!”

“We're all Mickey's girlfriends! Yay!”

Mickey wondered if his cheeks would ever return to their normal color again, as right now he couldn't stop blushing. He tried to muster up a glare at Minnie, but it was difficult. “You're enjoyin' this way too much.”

“I had to pay you back after you sent your tickle army after me.”

“Yeah, yeah, missy. You keep that up and I'll push you back in there.”

Minnie had no doubt that he would, and it all made her giggle the absurdness of everything hitting her at once. It was a contagious noise, and so to no great shock, Mickey also found himself laughing, needing to hold his stomach as it came harder and harder. Even though the mermaids and nereids didn't really get the joke, they laughed as well before they decided on more games and more questions to pester the pretty one with.

Later that day, Mickey would find another surprise – in that he spent much more time with the girls than usual that day. He wondered if Minnie's presence had anything to do with that. On a small level he was annoyed, as it meant he was now behind on all of his work, even if only by a few hours. Yet he couldn't say he'd change that day if he could. Having a second like-minded head in there made dealing with the girls a little easier. It was, dare say it, fun.

Perhaps it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if it happened again, though he still believed it was a hard “if”. Perhaps some conversations were as entertaining, if not more, than working on his projects. Perhaps Minnie was the type to change things even without meaning to. Who knew? She was a mystery, but he was in no hurry to solve it. Like the mystery of why she looked at him so strangely – it was a way he'd never seen before, and so couldn't put a word to it. Maybe it was the way the rest of the world looked at each other.

Girlfriend, however – he ought to push Damara's bracelets back a week for that stupid remark. Why, he bet she didn't even know what the word meant, and was just trying it out. Mickey knew that word was not meant for him, and to dare imply anything about that in regards to Minnie was downright insulting to her. They were friends. Unusual friends, yes, but she was unusual. Once she had her gift, she'd leave, and things would go back to normal. Whatever normal meant.

So when he laid in bed that night, he told himself he didn't care if Minnie had a boyfriend (even though he definitely did) and that he didn't care if Minnie had a thousand boyfriends (even though he doubtlessly did) and that he'd never want her as a girlfriend in a million years (even though after that popped into his head, he couldn't go back to sleep.)

But with every shift he made under the sheets, he felt his twisted leg move, and with it came the reminder of who he was, what he was, and the future that had been laid out for him the second he was born.

Pretty girls don't become the girlfriends of rejects.

~*~

Hours before Mickey would go to bed and contemplate matters of the heart and how furiously he denied them, Goofy finally went back to his house. He hadn't eaten all day, and now his stomach matched how bad his head felt. He stood in front of his dilapidated house, afraid to enter and relive the horror of that morning. Yet he also knew he couldn't stay away forever. With a giant gulp, he walked inside and opened his mouth – but what could he call her? She wasn't Millie.

The girl in question was back in the bedroom, having recently discovered one doesn't eat orange peels. As she rubbed her belly, she looked up as Goofy stepped in, and they watched each other with frightened intensity. The broken necklace was still grasped in Goofy's hand.

Eventually Goofy began the investigation, moving to sit down on the floor across from her. “You were my statue.”

She nodded, rubbing her sore neck. The bleeding had been quick, and the tedious healing process has begun. “Until the other night, yes.” Her voice was quiet, unsure of what would spark his fury again.

“What happened the other night?”

“The goddess Aphrodite came to me.” She placed her hand on her heart as she remembered the moment, rubbing the area as feeling fur and skin was still a new and exciting threshold for her. “She told me I would heal your heart. She laid her hands here, and brought me to life.”

Had Goofy somehow offended the goddess and this was his punishment? Or had the divine woman honestly believed this was a righteous action? Now Goofy was afraid of going back to the temple, lest Aphrodite's next well-meaning intentions completely destroy his sanity. But what to do now? To pray to Aphrodite to send this woman back into her marble form seemed cruel. She had life now, and no one had any right to snuff away – though one could argue no one had any right to give it, either.

After a heavy sigh, Goofy decided, “You aren't Millie. You can't ever be Millie.”

“Then...” She sat on her knees, wanting to get closer but not within striking range. “Who am I?”

Wasn't that the question of the century! Goofy scratched his head, going over the possibilities. It was not within him to toss her out into the street and fend for herself, so, ultimately, she was now his responsibility. Feeding one stomach was already hard, but there must be people worse off than he was. Until this got resolved one way or the other, he would have to do the right thing. It wouldn't be easy, and for a second he wished he was a rotten fellow, someone who could ignore it all and do what made life simple for him. But he wasn't. He never would be.

“I suppose,” Goofy said, “Until you find a name you like better, we can always call you... Agalma.” It was the Greek word for statue. Names weren't his specialty, and he did feel a smidgen silly for simply calling her what she used to be. But what else could he do?

“Agalma,” she repeated, and then said it again, “Agalma!”, letting it work on her tongue, saying it three times more before being satisfied. “It'll take some getting used to. But I don't think it's so bad. I am Agalma.”

“And I am hungry.” Goofy could hear his stomach rumbling, and spotted the orange peel in Agalma's fingers. “You ate my oranges?”

“The insides are very good, but the outsides are awful.” Agalma stuck her tongue out, as if that'd get rid of the taste. “I'm still getting used to having tastebuds. Did you know we have a lot of tastebuds?”

Already there was a glaring difference between Millie and Agalma – Millie would have never eaten someone else's food without permission. If his mind wasn't so rattled he might have found it funny. “Guess I gotta go to the market. I think it's still open.” As he began to stand up, Agalma stood up with him. “And buy another bed, I figure.”

Agalma blinked. “Why can't we share this one?”

“Reasons.” He was in no mood to explain any further than that. “Gunna need to getcha some more clothes too.” This was going to drain every last coin he had. He was going to have to find a larger, more permanent source of income fast. “I'll be back as soon as I'm able.”

The woman dared to step in closer. “Can I come with you?”

Goofy looked at her, breathing quietly through his nostrils. Could she come with him? Should she? The world was a large place, and apparently she had a lot to learn, with only a clumsy fool as a teacher. What a pitiful girl. “Better now than never, I reckon.” He took her by the hand, and began to walk her back out of the house.

For the second time that month, the villagers stopped to stare as Goofy walked with a girl far more lovely looking than they believed he deserved. Once could be fought off as coincidence or circumstance, but twice was deliberate and gave them much to think about it. On the way to the marketplace, Goofy could see Aphrodite's temple, and the glimmer from within told him someone was burning an offering, of which he had only recently learned that is what one does with them, or had lit candles to welcome people inside. As a mortal, did he have any right to ask for a proper explanation from an all knowing and all mighty goddess?

He thought of Millie, of Daisy, of Minnie, and believed they'd make much better goddesses than Aphrodite. Yet he bought another crate of peaches, because in that kind tired soul of his, he saw it as a way to say he forgave her. She had made a mistake, and he knew all about making mistakes.

As for Agalma, despite all the pain and terror she'd experienced in that day, she also wanted to make an offer to Aphrodite. They weren't pleasant experiences, but they were still experiences, and it was better than feeling nothing at all. Even if things hadn't worked out as planned, she was alive, and that was the best gift of all. No life was a mistake, not hers, and not Goofy's.

The night was cold, and they held each other's hands tighter.