#she has all these feelings and thoughts and all this bundled rage and grief but the nature of the game is not showing literally any of it

[faebriel]

ough *roblox damage noise* thinking about niki’s speeches at the green festival/doomsday but in the context of hunger games au

burr kai faebriel has caused me brainrot

THE BRAINROT SPREADS

i feel like before her games and during them niki is running on pure survival mode....she works better in communities but I think part of her would be so cautious in the arena because she knows only one of them can make it out of the arena and she has wilbur counting on her, it has to be her, and the idea of betraying her allies so violently turns her stomach a little too much to be making any inspiring speeches.

after, though.....

okay it's difficult. because she is so closely monitored by the capitol, there is very little she can do - they can go back to her district and find her friends, wilbur is still in their clutches, even she and jack are not really safe themselves. and also i think something that people kind of overlook with niki (myself included) is that like... during the manberg era in canon she despises schlatt, don't get me wrong, but in the early days she is scared of him. she reacts fearfully when she sees he's online and she tries to avoid him at all costs. she'll spit in his face when she actually has to speak with him, she puts on a brave face, but that doesn't mean she's not scared. (also i think this is kind of an overlooked part of her character because we all just remember her being a fucking badass whenever she does interact with him. she's not brave because she's an unfeeling girlboss, she's brave because she's scared and she feels alone and abandoned but she stands up for herself and for l'manberg anyway!!!)

ANYWAY my point is she's still scared when she leaves the area, especially as she starts her victory tour...... she has thousands of capitol eyes on her and it's uncomfortable and she doesn't like becoming a victor and a mentor. they don't have a great reputation in 12. after all, every victor in the capitol is another person who killed 12's children, and that's exactly how she's felt about all but one victor ever since she was old enough to be aware of the games. she knows that's how everyone else in every other district sees her, she knows the capitol is always watching her, and jack reminds her that there's no chance schlatt and his pals in government are happy with the mess she made of the arena, cracking open its fuel to spread the fire. (she wasn't thinking about that at the time, she was just thinking about surviving - but now she's painfully aware of the danger she's put herself and everyone she cares about in. it's uncomfortable to say the least.)

but then. i think bonding with the other victors empowers her. she starts to piece together that even if she feels extremely alone, there are people who feel the exact same way that she does. people who are a little cold to outsiders, but who can be worn down. it starts with people like puffy and sophie, and it spreads from there. not exactly loud speeches, but these brief flashes of empassioned conversation do get to happen, even if they're constrained to hushed whispers and dark closets. sometimes it's not even whispers at all. there are ways to communicate beyond her words, she's learning that now.

i think once district 13 comes in she'd be a real passionate orator. that's when she's the perfect balance of safe and furious to stand atop an upturned crate and start shouting her heart out. it just takes a long time for her to get there.

[annastrxng]

Night of Peril & Unlikely Accomplices: Baker & Anna

@sharp-teeth-and-wide-grins (Preplotted for Baker)

The din and near ceaseless noise of the tavern is achingly familiar, that there is a certain kind of comfort derived from her forced return. The kitchen boasted a welcoming whirlwind and the fire in the hearth gave some relief to her chilled, wind battered skin.

Whitehall was no longer safe. A fact, that was purely felt after the Major’s abduction at the hands of the Rebels and amplified with Wakefields unwillingness to take unnecessary risks. Richard had turned on her, viperish in his grief, when he learned of Abraham’s detainment at the Sugar house.

When Richard had thrown her out, Anna knew she would be unwelcome to resume living at Strong Manor thanks to his attainder. Not that she could bare the thought of soldiers defiling every corner of a house that she and Selah had once cherished. The brunette realized, with no little uncertainty, that she would have to throw herself upon the graces of Dejong and beg a very room she used to clean and let herself. This war had seen fit to heap upon her many indignities and this, she mused was the worst of them all.

It is Cicero’s assistance Anna had intended to employ, when Simcoe gleefully corners her and assumes command of her belongings. Peevish and too exhausted to do more than protest, Anna lets out a heady sigh as her words befall deaf ears and the Captain bundles her things up the stairs.

Ambling after him, she finds herself mortified when he insists that she stay in his room. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine with one of the smaller rooms.” What she meant in the shallow undercurrent of her words, was that she had no desire to sleep in a bed that he had once occupied. Nor does she long for him to trifle with her belongings. Lord knows there is still a half decoded missive tucked somewhere between her petticoats. Retaining her composure, Anna still follows his fluid motions.

“Nonsense.” The man oblivious breezes.

Anna clears her throat. “Captain, I don’t want to inconvenience you.” It is a polite enough excuse that she hopes will spare her. To her dismay, it does little to abate the spiraling situation.

Simcoe’s reply is immediate, almost unthoughtfully rapid. “No inconvenience.” His swift movements have him emptying his belongings from the dresser and into his travel packs. Her own steps tread tentatively into the room after him. She swallows down the dread in an effort to keep it from thundering across her heart and echoing in the depths of her ears. There’s a hedge of assertiveness bristling, breaking like foaming waves over her as she unleashes her own words carelessly. “I do not wish to stay in this room.” The statement provides no sense of wavering in her decision. Yet, he continued to pack. “Why can’t you just respect my wishes? The brunette finally dares to question.

The Captain’s eyes deign not turn back to her as he answers. “It’s because I don’t wish to see you make another decision you’ll come to regret such as moving to white hall in the first place. I warned you. You wouldn’t be safe there. Major Hewlett has proved himself incapable of defending this town even with an entire company at his disposal.” Simcoe wants to makes sure Anna feels the weight of her poor choices as keenly as he had, watching her walk away with the major. It is clear that he expects her to feel properly abashed.

If Simcoe had expected the reminder to work in his favor, it did not. All his statement managed to do was stoke a disquieted ire inside of Anna. In such a rage is she, that she loses control of her temperamental tongue with a maddening torrent. “And you are not half the man he is.” Of course, Anna knows this is unkind but she is beyond the point of caring. She has held her tongue in check long enough. 

Simcoe’s fluid packing movement halts. His piercing azure orbs cast an icy glower across his belongings before his attention turns sharkishly upon her. There’s a hatred born, kindled with new vehemence inspired by the gulling audacity she had displayed. “That was a very rude thing to say.” His voice is measured with patience, though his words are clipped. Miraculously he had discovered restraint.

The sound of his short step towards her causes Anna’s spine to tense. Her teeth grit, one against the other. She doesn’t know which is more maddening; Simcoe’s relative indifference to her jab, or the accusation that lay settled like an iceberg a thousand fathoms below the surface while it remained unspoken.

Trembling porcelain digits curl round about the stiff fabric of the cloak that hung about her shoulders, strengthening her resolve. “Or perhaps you are just unused to hearing the truth from those you can bully and intimidate. So I will speak plain, Captain...” Her jaw squares with defiance. “I do not love you. I never will.”

Simcoe’s ever darkening expression deepens when it finally befalls her. Anna observes his lips twist with distaste. There is something, hedged on the graces of his severe lower-lip. What? She can not decipher for it does not escape the confines of his mouth. He is censoring himself. Anna sees no reason to stop with her lecture now given her fortuitous window of opportunity. “I may have lost my home, the protection of a husband, and what little standing I had in this town, but if there is anything left of me you want, you WILL have to take it because I’ll give you nothing of me, ever.” She seethingly and adamantly declares. Her voice pitches higher with every syllable spoken. All the emotions she’s been damming up are now freely lavished upon the soldier. “Get it over with. Least wise I expect it to be quick.” She snips. Adrenaline causing her voice to quaver just gradually. Suddenly, before Anna can even register Simcoe’s abrupt movement, her back is furiously slammed against the wall. The impact reverberates the boards that she hit. It takes her a millisecond longer to realize that his mighty hand is coiled about her throat. They tighten in a crushing grip causing her to gasps for air. Anna’s smaller hands flail outwards, futilely pressing against the much stronger soldier’s shoulders. But she’s making no avail. In desperation, she struggles to rip at his hands, trying to pull them away from her throat. Air rasps, struggling to traverse her airways. Her efforts soon begin to falter as hazy pinpricks take over for solid sensations. There’s another noise at the door. She tries to turn her floating attentions and bleary eyes towards it, but that too seemed to be a fruitless option.

“This doesn’t involve you Ensign.” Simcoe growls at the intruder. He takes but a moment to shoot a warning scowl in the intruder’s direction. “Keep moving.”

[i-mybrunettelady]

Friends in unlikely places

Preface: angst of season 3, ‘nuff said. I wrote this a bit back, but forgot to post so, here it is. Enjoy!!!!

Spoilers for HoT and season 3

---

Sometimes, she wishes she were sylvari. The skin, the flesh, the organs, the blood all feel like unintentional storages of grief, purposeful fullness when all she wants is to be empty and to let it all pool down at her feet, blown away by the merciless wind of the Bitterfrost frontier. Maybe then she would’ve made a nice replacement for Trahearne back at the pod. Maybe then she could’ve carried Caladbolg and died instead. 

It takes a moment for those thoughts to upset her. When they do, like a slap to the already bruised cheek, Nyra shivers against all the furs she’s bundled in. Unshed tears threaten to freeze in her eyes and she rubs her sleeve against her eyes. Her shoulder and feet hurt, her thighs ache, she feels the cuts and scrapes and surface wounds. Sensations come, one by one, as if to make up for the way her chest aches and distract her from just letting herself freeze before she reaches the stranded refuge in the middle of the lake. 

Nyra hates them for it. She hates them so much. 

“Dragonslayer, I am glad you came back in one piece,” one of the kodan says. “The worst of the cold is about to set in. I was worried you wouldn’t make it in time.” 

Nyra’s smile is frail and mirthless. “No need to worry about me,” she tells them. “I’m tougher than some cold weather.” The sentence feels incomplete, but she doesn’t want to finish it. She has no strength to face the consequences of doing so. 

Pact YOU commanded, Braham said. People that died because of YOU.

“I’m tougher, yeah,” she repeats, looking at her feet. Her insides twist and turn and she grips her hand to the point of pain. Rox’s eyes were apologetic, but Nyra sobbed alone in the cave as Rox’s and Braham’s footsteps became distant. Just as she deserves. 

The thought is right and wrong and she’s too tired to dissect it. 

The kodan’s eyes are kind as they push her against their big, warm body. Nyra breathes out in relief. “We made dinner,” they say. “The bed is yours, if you still it.” 

“I want to sleep the rest of my life off,” she laughs drily, unsure of how she can still do it. Laughing is a foreign object stuck in her throat. 

Thankfully, the kodan doesn’t say anything as they help her up. 

Nyra sleeps for a bit, warm and safe behind thick walls, with some dinner and some traditional quaggan painkiller drink in belly. And it works for a while, for which she is thankful, because sleep is rare and precious and she wants to keep it tightly against her body and shield it from the world. Not that it’s much worth; it didn’t save Trahearne, it didn’t save Eir, it didn’t save Braham the heartache, it didn’t save her murderous little hands and it didn’t save Caladbolg. She’s a broken shield, but if you need to, you can always use the sharp ends of it to incapacitate an enemy. 

Unless you’re aiming them at yourself and you’re Alysannyra Ainsaph, who for some reason refuses to go down. Then you just have to suffer through the relentless blows. And when you’re not dragged down by the physical needs of sleep and exhaustion, you feel them all the more. 

And she hates it, hates it, hates, her hands shake in an awful, self-directed rage as she tries to tie her hair back in braids. Braham’s words echo in her head like the pull of knives, the vines around airships she commanded even if she wasn’t there. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so, so sorry you lost your lives because of me.” It feels shallow and empty against the sorrow she caused, but it’s the best she can offer aside from herself to make it right. Little Aurene makes sure Nyra doesn’t do that, so all she has are empty apologies. 

Suddenly, the doors swing open and the kodan who helped her up last night, Enduring Icicle - she recognises their soft, brown eyes and a slight scar over their snout - enters. 

“Could’ve knocked,” Nyra says, annoyed. She doesn’t want to be angry at them, she isn’t angry at them.

“If I knocked,” they say, “you wouldn’t have let me in.” 

Nyra purses her lips and lets down her hair from the unsuccessful braid she’s been trying to wrestle it into. But it’s greasy and sweaty and though she wants to wash it, she cannot afford to catch a cold or worse out here, in the Bitterfrost frontier. “What is it?” 

“I went to see if you were awake.” Nyra wants to lean into the concern in their voice and wrap herself around it, though a part of her advises against it. “Whatever happened that you’re struggling with, it wasn’t your fault.” 

“You don’t even know what happened,” she looks at them. “How do you know it’s not my fault? How do you know I’m not feeling righteous remorse sent by the Gods for my wrongdoings?” 

“Koda told me,” Icicle says, a joke creeping in their voice. 

“Koda doesn’t know anything about it,” Nyra bites out. 

“If the creator of the world doesn’t know, what makes you think you do?” Their voice is suddenly all serious again.

Nyra blinks. “I meant no offense to Koda,” she explains. “I was just– It hasn’t really been my day. Or my month. Or my year. Or my heroic career. I don’t know.” She huffs. “Year rhymes with career. Poet Nyra. Put me in anthology books.” 

“I know you meant no offense, and in all honesty, I cannot know whether Koda is offended or not,” the Icicle admits. “But I am seriously asking you. Why do you think you know what exactly happened? Are you objective and omnipresent?” 

“I’m not,” she confesses. “But there has to be a reason why I had to kill the man I love and why my friend had to lose his mother and that reason might as well be me because I’m the leader, I’m responsible and I command the Pact’s troops. Commanded. I don’t even know anymore. Point is, I should’ve been there. I should’ve saved them. But I didn’t. And they’re in the Mists somewhere, while Braham and I are here dealing with–” Tears are warm on her cheeks and she is breathing deeply to quench the little whimper. Her heart cannibalises itself for several long minutes before she’s able to continue and Enduring Icicle has sat down before her. “With this.”

“How young you are,” they murmur. “You’re both so young to be dealing with this.” Their paw is big and warm on Nyra’s hand. Nyra is all too aware she is only 23 and Braham is only 20. When they speak again, it’s with compassion and understanding and warmth. “Being left behind is horrible. Dragonslay- Nyra, I know what it’s like. I am old, and my mate and parents have left me years ago, and I grieved, just as you are doing now. Just as Braham is now. And it hurts, but you learn to live with it, and you think that this is Koda’s will; what is born must die. The one who rises must fall. But that doesn’t mean they will not rise again.” 

“But then they’ll fall again,” Nyra says. 

“Exactly. And rise again after that.”

“The world is loss and grief... And faith... And hope,” Nyra recites. “Then take heart, and rejoin the war eternal. For it may be that death is not the end.” She doesn’t end the War Eternal. She wants to pretend it ends here, because Grenth’s prayers are too hopeless, though she knows Him to be rather gentle when He wants to be, and Melandru’s ways offer no comfort. Dying is the way of nature, yes, but she doesn’t want to admit it. Dwayna’s yet to offer a salve to the wound that keeps festering. 

Nyra looks at Enduring Icicle. “I hope they don’t mean we have to be alone when we’re left behind, the ways of Koda,” she says, half a question and half a statement. 

They pull her in a hug. “They do not,” they say, and Nyra closes her eyes. Hoping against hope, she’s glad she at least doesn’t have to grieve alone. 

[dreaminpetals]

could i request hcs for naib and Jjseph reacting to their gn s/o coming back from a match severely wounded? like broken bones or having been left to bleed out (i saw someone hc that bleeding out feels like actually dying and someone else hc that the surv is left in a comatose state while they recover from exsanguination and i RAN with it)

🔪 naib and joseph react to mortally wounded s/o . . . 🎞

tw: emetophobia and blood

NAIB SUBEDAR ;;

art credit

♡ jack had left you to bleed out after being rescued. he chased martha all the way across moonlit while you writhed in pain inches away from the rocket chair. it was so excruciating that you considered chairing yourself so you could seek medical help immediately, but your legs were broken. you couldn't move an inch.

♡ once you finally went comatose, you faded back to the manor and martha hopped into the dungeon, panicking when she saw the blood pooling below you.

♡ his foggy blades had ripped through everything you had and you weren't looking good. you were rushed to the emergency wing where emily tended to you. the doctor was thankful you were comatose, because if you were conscious the disinfectants she used were so strong you would have let out screams of agony that she could never forget.

♡ naib burst through the doors the moment he heard of your condition. he kicked a hole in the wall when he saw how many machines you were hooked up to.

♡ had he been there, he never would have let this happen. martha is young, inexperienced. she wouldn't have been willing to sacrifice herself for you either. naib would have broken all of his bones himself if it could save you from simply bruising one.

♡ the usually stoic naib was wracked with grief, hiccuping back sobs and clinging to your bandaged frame. emily's heart broke as she heard him mutter "don't go, please baby don't leave me," whenever your breathing would spike.

♡ naib is furious with himself and with everyone who let this happen to you. his fists shake his rage and he nearly bites the head off anyone who tries to speak to him.

♡ none of the other survivors can console him. when he does leave your room, his actions are frantic and his interactions with others are limited. naib has complete hope that you'll wake up and he doesn't want to miss it. also, as much as he doesn't want to admit, he wants to be the first thing you see when you rise.

♡ the doctor and mercenary grew quite close over their shared anguish for you. naib would take your vitals as you slept and help flush out your IVs when necessary. he has some experience with tending to wounded soldiers so he knows all about the proper procedures for you.

♡ however, he's never seen something like exsanguination before. he can't bear to see you be drained. naib has seen plenty of disturbing and life altering sights but he needs to step out of the room when his lover is undergoing such a process. it would traumatize him more than your status already has.

♡ he cries himself to sleep every night. the thought of losing you claws the breaths out of his throat. he pulls up a bed beside yours and stays stationed there all night, only leaving when necessary.

♡ your steady breaths in the dead of the night help to ease his nerves but he can't stay asleep for too long in case that breathing stops and he isn't able to save you again.

♡ on the day you're scheduled to wake up, naib prepares a feast and a bouquet for you. you receive several bouquets from your friends, but naib consulted emma for the best, most romantic flowers to choose.

♡ your eyes flutter open to the sight of naib jogging towards you, eyes as wide as saucers as his fingers run through his hair in disbelief. so overjoyed he can't form a single word. he peppers you with kisses and his hot tears drip onto your cheeks.

♡ the bags under his eyes are a sign that naib hasn't been boding well with your affliction. pull him into your chest, mindful of any tubes you may still be connected to, and let him rest there. speak every once in a while or card your fingers through his chestnut hair stained with sweat so he knows that you're still with him.

♡ when he wakes up to you smiling down at him, he knows things will be okay. of course he'll be extra protective of you, but this has taught him that you won't go down without a fight. it's a tad reassuring for the mercenary.

♡ once you're able to walk and fight again, naib never lets you play against jack again for good measure, and he never leaves your side during matches. it doesn't matter how many rescuers the team has, naib is staying. and he's not letting you out of his reach, never again.

JOSEPH DESAULNIERS ;;

art credit

♡ joseph knows what courting a survivor entails. you're going to be hurt by the people he lives with and there's nothing he can do about it. he warns everyone to be gentle with his s/o, but the photographer's words fall to deaf ears during grisly rank matches.

♡ this match was one of those. one where zero survivors made it past the exit gate and the feaster was left to triumph over his four victims.

♡ you had been left to bleed out after reaching your self heal limit. hastur's mighty tentacle whipped you stronger than usual, breaking your ribs and leaving you wheezing for air. the red waves of pain that pulsed through your body with every breath left you a bawling puddle on the ground, curling into a fetal position as you silently pleaded to a god that wasn't listening for the last kiter to be chaired already.

♡ mike was finally stuffed into a chair and flown back to the manor while you oozed into the ground and landed on the cold tiled floor of the manor with a thud. he gasped when he saw your condition and alerted emily right away.

♡ laying in the hospital bed, joseph teleported into the room with knitted brows and a green tint to his complexion. the sheen of bile on his chin told you he had thrown up before arriving.

♡ your approaching lover, screaming as he saw your eyes close, was the last thing you witnessed before passing out for days.

♡ as far as joseph knew, you were dead.

♡ for the second time in his life, he lost the most important person to him. he shrieked and whimpered out sobs that chilled emily to the bone. she had to explain right away that you were alive, only comatose, and you were expected to make it through.

♡ the photographer didn't believe her. he saw the bones sticking out of your torso and the blood staining your shirt, he wasn't blind. his lover was dead.

♡ emily had to politely usher him out of the room as she and aesop went to work on your body, draining the blood to restore you to your former glory. this has happened to survivors before and you were no exception.

♡ as they operated on you, joseph struggled to walk back to your room. he clung to the walls and tables lining the hallways of the manor but nothing could propel his legs to move. they felt like bricks, chaining him down to the cold tiles you collapsed on upon your doomed arrival.

♡ there isn't a shred of hope inside of joseph's body. he isn't an optimistic person, especially not when he saw his darling draw their final, ragged breath. you had the death rattle. the same rattle claude had in his final moments.

♡ he saw aesop approach your hospital room. joseph took this as a sign of your departure, when it really was emily asking for a second hand to improve your chances of survival. all the critical thinking skills leave joseph's body when you're in any sort of danger.

♡ for days he laid in your bed back in your bedroom and slept with your clothes until your scent drifted away, replaced with his musty one from not bathing. he didn't want to wash you off of him. there was a small fleck of your blood on his sleeve that he would cherish forever as a memento of you.

♡ just as he became obsessed with capturing people after claude's death, joseph was itching to claim some lives due to yours. firstly he was going to snap a picture of the barbaric feaster who dared to steal his love away from him, then the survivors in the match with you who could have saved you.

♡ his final photograph was going to be your gorgeous corpse so you could truly be preserved forever.

♡ dragging his camera equipment down the halls, he was promptly stopped by emily calling his name. she told him to come to the hospital wing to visit you.

♡ he was appalled that the doctor would dare to ask him to look at his dead lover while he was busy avenging them. joseph was moments away from trapping her in his camera world for all of eternity, pinning the woman down and reaching for his film, when she exclaimed that you were awake.

♡ he gripped his lens so hard it shattered and cut his hands.

♡ with a snap of his fingers, joseph teleported back to your bedside where you were eating a plain cheese sandwich, a bit groggy with a bedhead but awake.

♡ he thought he was hallucinating.

♡ but he wasn't.

♡ you perked up where you sat and he dashed into your arms, deep cries rumbling from his chest as his tears stained your gown. his nose was dripping with snot and he had an almost vacant stare on his face as he scanned your features. feeling down your body, his hands ghosted against some bloodstained bandages wrapped tightly against your torso. he could feel your heartbeat thrum beneath his fingertips. you were okay.

♡ you were okay.

♡ you were okay.

♡ joseph proposed to you and promised to murder any hunter who hurts you again. they all listen to him.

♡ though joseph's possessiveness and obsessiveness over you grew tenfold, you were never going to be hurt again and the thought lulled him to sleep every night as you snored in his arms. he was going to protect this innocent bundle sleeping with him until he drew his last breath.

[silverstarlightwrites]

An alternate AU to this one that occurred to me just now

Team Seven take the mission to the Land of Waves. On the bridge, they fight Zabuza and Haku.

On the bridge, Naruto dies.

Something in Sasuke breaks, and he goes berserk. Haku and their ice mirrors scream as they flashboil in the black flames Sasuke summons forth, and it takes only a howl and a wild gesture to send Amaterasu blazing across the bridge to consume Zabuza and Tazuna as well. The stone melts underneath them, while Kakashi snatches up Sakura and flees, and it’s not until Sasuke feels the weight of wet clothes - crushing Naruto’s body to his chest, bloody and so absurdly hot - that he realises the bridge has disintegrated, and the water is burning.

It’s instinct and desperation that let Sasuke to douse the fires he’s conjured, and even then it aches and tastes like blood and acid, and he’s sinking when Kakashi whips across the surface to catch him, the moment the flames are gone.

Sasuke cries into Naruto’s chest, and refuses to let go. Sakura is cold and silent, and she neither speaks nor eats for the grim, slow trek back to Konoha. And it is slow, even further drawn out by the constant fluctuation of chakra from Naruto’s corpse, carried awkwardly and painfully by Sasuke alone.

It’s not Naruto’s chakra, of course. Kakashi dreads the inevitable questions, resolves not to lie when they come, and somehow their absence is even worse.

The moment they walk through the southern Konoha gate, there are Anbu all over them. They pry Naruto’s body from Sasuke’s arms, despite his shouting and kunai, despite the way Sasuke’s eyes ignite into blood red to fight-- But he doesn’t summon Amaterasu again, doesn’t expend the chakra he doesn’t have to try and kill their own. Sakura touches his shoulder, just two fingers, and her face is pale and hollow when she shakes her head, but it’s still more interaction than she’s allowed for the whole trip, and Sasuke obeys her. Blinks his eyes black, slumps in place, and then sags against Sakura.

She catches him, and he’s shaking, and she stares over his shoulder, unblinking, at the Anbu wrapping Naruto’s corpse in chakra-absorbing paper scrawled endlessly with Seals.

Kakashi isn’t sure what she sees, and he isn’t sure he wants to know.

One Anbu stays behind, and they instruct the gutted remains of Team Seven that the Hokage wants to see them. Kakashi can’t bring himself to intervene when Sasuke snarls and lunges, or when Sakura lets him. Doesn’t step in when Sasuke tells them to Fuck Off or when he punches them weakly in the chest - and the Anbu clearly thinks he’s simply not going to get involved, because when they try to catch Sasuke’s wrist they aren’t expecting Kakashi to move. Too fast to be safe, too fast for the chakra use not to burn.

Sasuke leans back into Kakashi as the Anbu trips, and Kakashi feels himself close his hands on Sasuke’s shoulders. “Don’t touch my kids,” he hears himself hiss, and if he doesn’t quite know when he accepted them as his then he doesn’t quite care either.

One of them is dead, and they won’t be permitted to mourn him properly because of the beast caged inside him without his knowledge.

The thought makes Kakashi sick. It all does, all of it. Konoha’s abuse of an innocent child, Kakashi’s complicitness in allowing it to happen. Hiruzen’s cruelty in allowing it also.

In allowing all of it.

Sasuke has lost enough.

The Anbu doesn’t need telling twice, and they leave Kakashi to cajole his kids into seeing Hiruzen. It takes more effort than he’d care to admit. Just physically, the three of them are a wreck - and it’s worse emotionally. Mentally.

“You let them take him.”

It’s the first thing Sakura has said since Naruto died - in a burst of blood and scarlet chakra - and Kakashi suddenly thinks he’s never felt anything so cold as her voice. When he meets her gaze, it’s like drowning.

“I had to. The Hokage will explain.” Because Kakashi is bound not to. By an oath that maybe he shouldn’t have taken, by a promise extracted by force. Why shouldn’t he tell them?

He doesn’t, of course. He scoops Sasuke up, and despises that Sasuke simply allows it, and offers Sakura a hand as they start walking. Sakura ignores it, striding ahead with her back too stiff and her hands clenched too tight. The walk to the Hokage Tower, while significantly shorter, is the same as the trip from Waves to Konoha.

Hiruzen ushers them into his office, tearful, and Sasuke struggles stiffly out of Kakashi’s grip. Red flickers and whorls through his eyes, and it’s impossible to know if he’s fighting to ignite his Sharingan or if he’s fighting not to.

“I’m sorry.” It’s low and mournful and wet. It’s insulting.

Sakura snaps. She flies into a rage, screaming obscenities. Her teammate is dead, and she’s never experienced loss like this before, and gods but she watched it happen, and no pitiful, pathetic ‘I’m sorry’ can ever undo that. That Hiruzen even tries sends her over the edge.

Nobody stops her. By the time she burns out, the office is torn apart, papers scattered everywhere and the desk overturned. Sakura has scratched her nails bloody against the woodwork. When she collapses to the floor and howls, Sasuke finally approaches her, sinks to her level, and wraps his arms around her.

Perhaps he understands, then. Perhaps a hug - so tight as Sakura clings back that it may be the only thing holding her together - is all he wanted after the horror of his clan’s slaughter.

Kakashi catches himself wondering if Sasuke ever got that hug, but he knows the answer.

Of course he didn’t.

Hiruzen explains to them what a Jinchuriki is. He explains the basic concept of a Bijuu, and gives them a short summary of the Nine-Tails. They take it blankly, too much to process over the top of their raw grief, but they look to Kakashi as if searching for confirmation and Kakashi nods. Tells them it’s true.

And then, because it’s not enough, it’s pathetic an explanation, he hears himself continue.

Because “He deserved better. We failed him.” Hears it spin, feels more than sees the way Sasuke and Sakura twitch and shrink, and then corrects himself. His own voice is like tar in his throat.

“You failed him.”

Sasuke and Sakura follow him out of Hiruzen’s office, and Hiruzen doesn’t try to stop them.

Kakashi sets the pack to watch them when they all end up at the war memorial. It wasn’t exactly a decision to go there, of course, but it never really is. All eight ninken are there already when they arrive, and they encourage Sakura and Sasuke to collapse and curl up with them, but Kakashi resists. He has something else to do.

And it’s dark by the time he comes back, his kids and his pack all bundled up in his far-too-tiny apartment, but he wakes them all the same. Demanding Naruto’s body back hadn’t been easy or clean, and the results of the chakra-draining done to preserve as much of the stray Nine-Tails chakra bleeding out of where it had torn free upon Naruto’s death is... messy.

Naruto’s body stays wrapped up the way Kakashi walked out of the Anbu Blue Vault with it. Only his head is visible, and his hair is knotted and matted with blood and oil, but it doesn’t stop Sakura from running her hands through it, or Sasuke from laying his head against Naruto’s chest.

Not enough people come to Naruto’s funeral. The whole fucking Village should mourn him, the child who protected them from the Nine-Tails for his entire, short life. His loss should have been overwhelming - it should have brought all of Konoha to a fucking stop.

But it doesn’t. Umino Iruka attends, and he’s quiet but he weeps ceaselessly the whole day. Sakura and Sasuke seem to welcome his presence, so Kakashi doesn’t nothing to discourage it.

Hiruzen shows up, perhaps halfway through. It takes all of Kakashi’s still-wan strength to hold Sakura back from trying to maul him, and Sasuke doesn’t fight one way or another when he lights up his Sharingan at the Hokage’s approach.

“Go. Away,” Sasuke snarls at him, and for just a moment it seems like Hiruzen might scold the boy, who’s been stripped of his family in half a dozen different ways, over and over again, as if he’s expressing his grief incorrectly, and that moment is all it takes for Kakashi to speak over all of them.

It’s the voice he used as the Hound. He hasn’t heard it for years. “You should go, Hokage-sama. You don’t want to make me choose a side here.”

Because Kakashi is loathe to fight Konoha at all, let alone its leader, but he knows without a doubt that he will. For Sasuke. For Sakura. If ever the decision must be made, Kakashi knows he will turn on Hiruzen in an instant if it would protect his kids from ending up like him.

Konoha would not make a broken blade out of Sasuke. It would not strip Sakura of her soul.

Orochimaru comes. He seeks out Sasuke, and the power he offers is too tempting for Sasuke to pass up - but he refuses to sneak away in the dead of night. Team Seven’s progress has halted in the aftermath of Naruto’s death; Hiruzen has tried several times to full the gap in their unit, but Sakura and Sasuke vehemently refuse to accept one, and Kakashi does not make them. He will not.

Naruto cannot be replaced. The gap can never be sufficiently filled.

And so comes the morning that Sasuke asks for their company in leaving. He’s been suffocating under Konoha’s weight for a long time, Kakashi realises that morning, and he’s finally reached his limit. Kakashi doesn’t try to talk him out of it; he won’t succeed. There’s no point. Revenge has been his motivation for so long that Sasuke will never quite learn how to give it up, and now he has so much more for which to seek vengeance.

It will only be Itachi first. After that, all of Konoha is culpable for Naruto’s death, and the endless suffering he endured before it. Kakashi is not fool enough to think he can change Sasuke’s mind.

Sakura agrees on the spot. She’s unrecognisable from the bubbly genin Kakashi took custody of from the Academy. She’s gaunt and messy and angry, and she’s forsaken her friends in order to follow Sasuke into the dark. She’s clinging to him, ferociously, in a different way than she’d tried to before.

She’s clinging to Sasuke the same way Kakashi had clung to Rin - how Rin had clung right back - after Obito’s death. Sasuke is her constant, her reassurance that Naruto’s absence won’t just be for nothing, that someone is going to pay for it. That she’s going to help make that happen.

You don’t want to make me choose a side, Kakashi had told Hiruzen, as if they were words of fucking prophecy. Because here are his kids, minds made up, choosing a side that Kakashi would rather flay himself than join - and yet, here he is too, and he knows already he’s going to go with them.

Choosing against Konoha tastes like ozone and fear and self-loathing, but choosing against Sasuke and Sakura is unconscionable. Even this, even this, Kakashi will do. Watching them die is a terror that keeps him up at night, a nightmare with its hands around Kakashi’s throat, a dread that’s getting ever colder. That this might lead to that outcome takes his breath away.

But the thought of not being there is even worse. Konoha forsook Sasuke when his family was wiped out, and Konoha forsook them both once again when they came home bloodied and shattered. Konoha has gone on the same as always, as if nothing even happened, and it always has when the whole world was supposed to shatter and didn’t - with Obito’s eye in Kakashi’s skull and Rin’s blood on Kakashi’s hands - and that truth does absolutely nothing to stay Sasuke’s hatred or Sakura’s wrath. They are young and angry and wounded, and there is no words Kakashi can say that will convince them to reject the power on offer, no matter how dangerous and untrustworthy the source may be.

And he refuses to let them do this alone. Everyone will want their heads, but Kakashi has fought and killed the best of them, and if - in the end - his only purpose is to protect his remaining kids, where he failed to protect the third, then perhaps the Hound yet serves a purpose still.

So Kakashi selects a kunai, and helps them score through their Konoha hitai-ite, and lets them lead him into hell.

[codedredalert]

O’ Death [One Piece, Law] -- oneshot

Law-centric character study || 1157 words

The first time Law dies, he is ten and the world ends in fire.

(Written for the OP Tarot Project Death card.)

Death Upright: Necessary endings, illness, change, letting go, transition, rebirth. Reversed: Living unaware, resistance to change, delayed endings.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, character death, chronic terminal illness and pain

(On Ao3) 

===/\===

.

          I. Faith

The first time Law dies, he is ten and the world ends in fire.

Somewhere between the rain of explosives and artillery, the marines in uniform dragging bodies into the street, and numbing horror, some part of Law is mortally wounded. It's a small part, and it goes into shock as Law buries himself under the crushing weight of bodies being carted out of the city to be burned.

His parents' son and sister's brother dies. He is carted away with a nameless heap of his country's people. The part of Law that is light, love, and innocence goes with them to the grave.

That he still breathes is of no account.

.

===/\===

.

          II. Flesh

The second is a slow death, from when Law is nine-and-a-half to twelve-and-nine-months.

Amber Lead hurts.

It's noticeable in the lungs first, in the hacking cough, and the sensation of never getting enough air no matter how many rasping breaths he might struggle to take. It goes for the intestines next, sitting heavy and painful in his gut, making even the thought of food unrealistic. By the time it takes to his skin, hard patches which crack and ooze blood and plasma…

Everything hurts, all the time.

Law's days are numbered. He counts them, three years from his parents' last hushed argument about his dying sister and himself.

Some days are better. Some days are worse. Some days, dying is scary, but living just hurts  so much.

Hate keeps him going.

Hate straps scavenged explosives to his small chest with patchy-white hands.

"Let me join you," Hate says to Donquixote Doflamingo with Law's failing lungs. "I want to see the world burn."

.

===/\===

.

          III. Heart

Law's third death is a surprise, but that is the risk of walking around with your heart in someone else's body.

Humans are social creatures. So, despite everything, it's rejection that hurts the most.

He'd overcome the impossible, escaped the fall of Flevance, fought through overwhelming grief and weakness, scraped together enough willpower and supplies to get to Spider Miles—and the Donquixote inner circle scattered away from him, screaming.

Disgust. Avoidance. The desire to eliminate him like vermin.

Again and again it happens, at every hospital Corazón stupidly,  ignorantly, drags him to. Law is subjected to fear and rejection time and time again.

It chips away at the pale shadow that had roused itself in the ashes of his burning city. He barely has the energy to be bitter, he  wants  to be bitter, to rage and rail and protest "I lived! I lived, and this is what I got."

But he's tired and everything hurts and he's twelve and he's dying and he's dead—he just hasn't stopped bleeding yet.

"You poor boy," whispers Corazón, thinking Law sound asleep. Law isn't, not truly—he hasn't slept properly in years. The strangled breaths, the twisted gut and the cracked skin don't allow it. "You poor boy."

And Corazón wept.

With his back to the man, Law feels tears fall upon his head. The heat and salt of them were alive, deeply human, and a remedy for great wrongs. Corazón swept the hate out, replaced it with the soft mortal thought of "I'm small and I'm scared and I don't deserve to die."

The tears he'd thought long-dried well up in his eyes and Law wept too.

From that point on, Corazón is Cora-san, and Law is a boy who deserves to live.

        (I love you.)

        (You are free.)

Cora-san dies in his place to make it true.

.

===/\===

.

          IV. Fear

Law's fourth death is by his own hand.

He learns his lesson—everyone around him dies. He hadn't learned well enough from Flevance, but the lesson had been repeated in Cora-san and well. . . he didn't fancy a third time.

He sends his people far away with every provision he can make for his failure. They're holding him back, he tells himself. So he looks his oldest, dearest, closest friends in the eyes and tells them to go ahead to Zou. That he'd meet them there soon. He doesn't tell them what he's going to do—Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin corner him to ask, but he's foul-tempered from stress and fear, and stubborn enough that they let the matter drop. He refuses to risk them, so he bundles up everything worth living for and banishes it, watches the Tang sink slowly below sunset-dyed waters for maybe the last time. He stands on the shore replaying the sight to burn it into memory long after they're gone.

"It's for the best," he argues at the yawning blank landscape of the winter half of Punk Hazard. He knows exactly what—who—he is up against, and preparing for death is only prudent. His exhaustion and selfish desire to hide with them in the Tang forever just isn't realistic. It doesn't matter how he feels. This way he can't be tempted to cowardice, to run into the waiting arms of those who love him and just . . . live.

He has a debt, a  duty, and he's already made Cora-san wait for so long.

It doesn't matter how he feels.

When the marines come knocking, when Monet reveals that she has been one of Doflamingo's all along, when his careful contingencies start collapsing around him, and allying with Straw Hat constantly feels like the dream where he misses the step on a staircase and  falls—

Law goes through the whole thing half-numb, smirking or scowling to hide his racing heart and whirling panic.  

Dressrosa is the end of everything, one way or another. Law is terrified but he can't show it, not with the Straw Hats watching him for direction and the slightest indication that he'd betray them.

Despite Law's best efforts, Doflamingo cuts through Law's plans, unloads a round of lead bullets into Law's chest in a mocking parody of Cora-san's murder. Somehow, deep in his heart, Law expected this. Law has run all the possibilities and permutations, failure is very real. It's  Doflamingo, after all. And Law is only Law.

But Straw Hat—impossible, aggravating, miracle-working Straw Hat—charges straight ahead. He causes pirates and kings to argue for the privilege of killing Doflamingo. It's bizarre, to have an entire crowd believe Doflamingo so easily killed—like he isn't a beast of mythos, the closest thing to invincible, the idol god of Law's desperate youth.

In the midst of the rabble, Law finally manages a fragile belief in what he's been trying to convince himself of for thirteen years:

          He is not infallible.  

          All men must die.  

          All men must die, and Doflamingo is only mortal.  

In that moment, Law decides, against all logic and reason, to bet everything on Straw Hat.

.

.

.

.

Impossibly, they win.

High above the rising dust of Dressrosa's ruins, Straw Hat defeats Doflamingo. Law picks Straw Hat from the sky and Doflamingo's dominion dissolves along with his birdcage.

It's over, everybody lives—

.

.

                        —and Law is  free.

.

.

===/END\===

(On Ao3)  ( patreon ) ( kofi ) ( paypal )

[respectablesentiment]

Her arm itches, a deep graze stretching from her elbow to her wrist and smarting in a way that makes Ellie examine it closely, as though she may be bitten. She wasn’t though. Riley had saved her and she didn’t save Riley. It was a blur after that. -- prompt: family, day 4 of elliedina week Ellie's mother doesn't die but Ellie still grows up alone. Ellie was never bitten but she still goes on a journey. Alternative Universe where I ignore two specific parts of canon.

(day 1: ache) | (day 2: dawn) | (day 3: trouble)

or you can read it here: 

Warmth

Family is a complicated word until it isn’t.

She’s never known it until she does.

--

Marlene is the one who finds her after Riley.

Ellie is a bundle of raw nerves, cheeks stained with tears and speckled with blood. She doesn’t think she has anything left to give.

It was meant to be a special night and for a blissful moment it was.

And then it wasn’t.

Riley had been bitten. She saved Ellie’s life and Ellie wasn’t able to save hers.

Riley was her best friend, her person, her something. Her someone with one foot out the door who just agreed to stay.

And now it would be Ellie clinging to Marlene, considering pledging to the Fireflies in her place because one more moment in Boston would make her heart hurt too much.

There must be something extra special in the air, perhaps a shared sense of mourning or grief, maybe Marlene had been more attached to Riley or Ellie than she let on, but she shares something new with Ellie. She knows her mother, a Firefly who was stationed in a lab out west. Still alive.

Ellie isn’t sure if its rage or tears building inside of her, too exhausted to form words or find her way through her emotions.

Mothers were meant to protect and hers clearly hadn’t.

Abandonment was hard to rationalise, but it felt very much like her grief was due to her mother and if she’d never known Riley then Riley would’ve never known her. They’d both be fine and Riley would be alive and her chest wouldn’t hurt like this.

The realisation couldn’t have been recent, it didn’t make sense that Marlene hadn’t told her before. She admits to keeping tabs on Ellie but doesn’t specify why she stayed away.

The offer to journey west with Marlene feels like a form of salvation. She had considered returning to the military school but couldn’t go through with it.

Her arm itches, a deep graze stretching from her elbow to her wrist and smarting in a way that makes Ellie examine it closely, as though she may be bitten. She wasn’t though. Riley had saved her and she didn’t save Riley.

She had cycled rapidly through the first four stages of grief without ever touching acceptance, pacing and screaming and crying for hours. Riley sat resigned in a corner, staring at the gun in her lap as sweat began to build on her brow.

She gave Ellie the gun for protection, kissed her one last time and asked her to walk away.

It was a blur after that.

Marlene gets hurt, Ellie gets lumped with two smugglers and the Capitol building is full of dead Fireflies.

Ellie is fairly certain that either Joel or Tess used to a be parent. Potentially both. Potentially together? She isn’t sure. She overhears bits and pieces of hushed conversations, arguments about how far they are taking her and whether its worth finding the Fireflies and her mother.

Ellie isn’t entirely sure to be honest, the road is gruelling but she’s moving somewhere. Forward, onwards. It’s not like she can move back, and its not like she can stay with Joel or Tess. So onwards it is.

Bill’s town is a shit hole, Pittsburgh is a nightmare, and the suburbs outside of Pittsburgh sends her spiralling. Did Riley turn that way? Fall asleep and wake into oblivion? Was Riley still in there?

Her last conversation with Sam loops over and over in her brain, interrupted occasionally by Tess checking in. Asking and caring in a way that Ellie doesn’t deserve.

“Joel doesn’t handle grief well,” Tess says openly.

Ellie’s eyes flick over to watch Joel ahead of them.

“He pushes it down and refuses to speak about it, but you don’t have to do that,” Tess says, squeezing Ellie in a side hug as they walk. “I’m here whenever you need to speak, or whenever you wanna be silent.”

Ellie nods along but keeps it inside.  

Joel shows care differently. He’s gruff and matter of fact and if there’s nothing that needs to be said then he says nothing. It takes Ellie a while to pick up on it because he’s Joel but he always makes sure she eats enough, that she’s between him and Tess, and he makes her put on a jacket when the weather changes.

The first time they meet Tommy is a turning point. They have power and a town and its nothing like the Boston QZ. Or Bill’s town. Or Pittsburgh.

It’s tempting.

Why rush after an unknown entity? A mother in the distance who abandoned her? Who she’d never known? Would their shared blood just make things click? The destination, the conclusion, the end. And what then? Would they get along?

Would Tess and Joel leave?

They wouldn’t stay.

Would Ellie stay?

Ellie’s lost in thought when the attack happens. Tess is immediately on her, making her crouch down under a table as Maria guards the door.

It happens and then it’s over.

They stay one night in Jackson and then they continue.

Ellie tries to call things off. It seems like a safe place to stay, Tommy and Maria said they could come back if the university labs in Eastern Colorado didn’t pan out.

“We’ve come this far, Ellie,” Joel says resolutely.

“You should be with your family, Ellie,” Tess affirms. “It’s rare to have that in this world.”

Ellie clenches her jaw. She’s never known family, never felt it… so how would she know?

“We should at least go to this university.”

And so they do.

It’s another bust.

In a long string of bad luck, nothing changes.

The buildings are deserted, there’s some fucked up infected monkeys, a dead scientist and another location to trek to.

And then there’s FEDRA soldiers.

She’s never been more thankful for Tess in her life.

“There’s three in the building across from us, they’ll head this way soon,” Tess says curtly. “Let’s head two rooms back, wait for them in the hallway. Gunfire will bring more so we’ll hold our positions. Agreed?” Her voice is gruff, almost an imitation of Joel’s and despite the adrenaline rushing through Ellie’s veins, Ellie smiles.

Times moves slowly, the gun is Ellie’s hand is solid and she’s got five bullets which is more than normal so she feels confident.

The soldiers slowly drop.

They wait five minutes at each floor, slowly advancing forward.

Joel bounces his knee as they hide, and Tess divides her time between scanning the entryways and windows and glaring at Joel to ensure he plays by her rules.

They escape relatively unscathed. Joel is bleeding from the temple, his face a mess of red that Tess reassures Ellie is fine. Tess has a bullet graze on her upper arm, a worn grey bandage tied haphazardly over it to stop the blood flow but Ellie thinks it might just make the wound infected. Ellie’s tired, shallow cuts and grazes line her right side from falling onto shattered glass, her head is pounding and she’s over it.

She cries that night. Feeling alone and scared and stupid.

Family is dumb and overrated.

It’s clearly not for her.

Her mother had decided long again.

If her mother didn’t want her then she didn’t want her mother.

She curls into a ball in her sleeping bag, safe elsewhere but feeling unsafe. She presses her fists to her eyes as though it’ll stop her tears and she just shakes, her body wracked with sobs.

A warm hand falls on her back. It’s large and solid and just resting there.

She knows its Joel but can’t bear to look at him.

Tess strokes her hair where it meets the nape of her neck, and Ellie wants to sink into the ground just as much as she doesn’t want them to stop.

She doesn’t speak and neither do they.

--

From where they are in eastern Colorado, Jackson is northwest, and Salt Lake City is west. Its only a few days travel from Salt Lake City to Jackson on horseback. Tess takes the time the following morning to show Ellie on a map.

“If we’re heading back that way anyway, then it’s worth it to check,” Tess tells Ellie, tracing the route they’d take and informing her of their decision more than anything else.

“It’s not worth anything,” Ellie replies, scuffing her shoes on the ground.

“It’s your mum,” Joel says simply.

“Has someone told her that?” Ellie mutters.

Joel and Tess both grimace, sharing a look. Ellie knows family is complicated, she’s been told this and now she’s experiencing it.

“Ellie, she’s your-”

The rage bubbles up inside her before she can stop it. “Everyone I’ve ever loved has either died or left me,” Ellie says with a raised voice, her hands shaking jerkily in front of her. She’s tense and full of energy and she wants to punch something. She can feel tears coming and her throat is dry and it’s too much.

“Ellie-”

“So why should I run after someone who’s already left me?” Ellie yells. “Why should it be this hard? Why do we have to risk this much? Why do you have to risk anything at all?”

They say nothing. Ellie can see pity in their eyes, and before she can stop herself, she punches a tree.

It doesn’t make her feel better.

Joel bandages her hand, three of her knuckles split. He’s gentler than she’s ever seen him and it makes her feel small for some reason.

“Kiddo, we don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Joel says in a low tone. “You can- You can choose, it should be your choice.”

“It can’t be for nothing,” Ellie says bitterly, emotions swirling inside of her.

“If it doesn’t work,” Tess says, patting Ellie’s knee. “Then you don’t have to stay.”

“Where else can I go?” Ellie asks, squeezing her eyes shut, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“There’s always Jackson,” Tess offers.

“But- I-”

“With us,” Joel says awkwardly. “If- if you wanted.”

Ellie’s throat is tight.

“I could teach you how to play guitar,” he offers. “I reckon you’d like that.”

“Maybe,” Ellie says softly.

And they continue on.

The journey from Colorado to Salt Lake City isn’t an easy one. Nothing was ever easy.

The weather gets colder which makes it harder to navigate, harder to find food, and harder to sleep.

She feels more as they get closer. More scared, more nervous, more anxious.

Just more.

She struggles to make sense of it, not sure what she’s looking for or what they’ll find. What she’s already found.

They’re on form. Heading through a bus depot, exiting the last highway and clearing through an underground tunnel.

They’re almost there and then there’s rushing water and straining lungs and darkness.

--

Ellie wakes in a hospital with a stranger beside her bed.

The woman’s eyes are green, her expression is soft, and she tuts over Ellie sitting up too early.

“Easy, easy,” the strangers says, hands reaching out to help Ellie sits up.

Ellie’s body freezes, jerking away from her. “Where are Joel and Tess?”

“I asked them to give us some time alone,” the woman says. “I’m your- I’m Anna.”

Ellie takes her in with wide eyes, waking into an anticipated moment was hard to process. “Can- where’s- I don’t-”

Anna hushes her and draws Ellie into a tight hug that she doesn’t relax into.

Meeting Anna doesn’t make things easier for Ellie.

There’s a sense of warmth there, honey in Anna’s voice, a soft touch and an excited expression.

Anna rushes through excuses, building a narrative of a complicated birth, a missing father and a sense of duty to the Firefly cause. She didn’t want Ellie to come out here, she was safer in a QZ until her mother had figured out the cure she’d devoted her life to. Her words are sure and well-spoken, she pauses in places like she anticipates Ellie reassuring her, and then she continues painting her picture of abandoning Ellie for noble reasons.

Ellie nods along.

It ticks so many boxes, but something is off and Ellie cannot place it. There’s a hardness behind Anna’s eyes, something she’s sometimes seen in her own, and it feels off.

“Do you have any questions, my love?” Anna asks, tone saccharine.

“Where’s- where’s Joel and Tess?” Ellie asks awkwardly.

Anna’s smile turns a little bitter at her words but she takes Ellie to them nonetheless.

“We’ve got it from here,” Marlene says, her voice is muffled but Ellie picks up the words as they approach. “You can take the guns as agreed.”

“We’re not leaving without checking on her,” Tess’s voice says firmly.

Anna’s steps turn heavy, as though to announce her approach.

Marlene changes the conversation quickly as they enter.

“Ellie!”

Ellie throws herself at Tess, initiating a hug for the first time in their long journey. She clings to her, relaxing in the safety of her arms.

“It’s good to see you up, kiddo,” Joel says, a protective hand on Ellie’s shoulder.

She hugs him as well, relieved to be reunited and to see Joel in one piece after the tunnels.

“You’re welcome to stay for a couple of days,” Marlene says curtly.

It’s clear she doesn’t mean it.

Joel and Tess stay anyway.

--

Anna is involved in testing to find a ‘cure’ for the infection. She works with some doctor. Talks about how she used to be a nurse and had diversified her skills over the last 14 years in immunology, pathology and mycology.

Anna seems to want to share everything, tell Ellie everything and nothing, unable to sit in the silence that Ellie offers.

Ellie doesn’t particularly care, too focused on the way that the Fireflies hover over Joel and Tess like they aren’t allowed to go to certain parts of their hospital or their base. The way that whispers cease when she turns a corner, the blood splatter on doctor’s coats, and the weird feeling that Infected are nearby.

It feels off.

There’s something out of place.

It doesn’t take long to click.

Or at least, it doesn’t take Ellie long to venture where she’s not allowed to go. She uses every trick Joel and Tess taught her about being stealthy, sneaking passed Fireflies to reach the upper floors of the hospital in the middle of the night.

There’s Infected in cages. Dozens of them.

She supposes it makes sense if you’re studying immunology to find a vaccine.

Cages are marked with numbers and dates.

#259, vaccine 23, injected: 20/04/34, infected: 21/04/34, turned: 22/04/34

#260, vaccine 23, injected: 20/04/34, infected: 21/04/34, turned: 23/04/34

Her eyes linger on the dates, only days prior, comparing those around her.

Someone passes the room she’s in, footsteps audible between the groaning of the Infected and Ellie is terrified.

She hides under a desk, flashlight off, in the total darkness of a room filled with nightmares.

Once she’s certain they are gone, she gets up, hands shaky as she searches through paperwork.

It confirms what she thinks.

She drops the notebook in shock, the sound alerting several of the runners. Within seconds they are snarling, baring their teeth, and pounding on the doors of their cages.

They’re locked away and yet she’s never been more terrified, stuck in place and trembling.

She hears guards shouting, footsteps rushing closer.

The room is flooded with light when they arrive, and Ellie finally moves. She rushes forward, ducking passed them in the doorway.

She runs and she doesn’t stop.

They don’t shoot and they don’t chase her.

--

She finds comfort when she finds Joel and Tess. Too overwhelmed and too worked up to be able to explain what she saw and what she now knows.

Her mother is experimenting on humans to find a cure.

Injecting them with a trial vaccine, infecting them with the virus, studying them as they turn, and then dissecting them.  

Hundreds.

#260.

The knock at the door that goes ignored so Marlene and Anna enter anyway.

Joel stands in front of them, partially shielding Ellie and Tess from view.

“What can I help you with?” Joel asks, crossing his arms. His tone is serious and its impossible to tell that Ellie has shared nothing with him.

“I just wanted to explain what Ellie saw,” Anna says, holding her hands up. “Sometimes sacrifice is needed for the greater good, I’m sure you understand that.”

Tess stiffens against Ellie, holding her tighter. “Are you okay?” She whispers in Ellie’s ear.

Ellie nods but she’s uncertain, she pulls away to watch, eyes studying Anna.

“In order to create a vaccine,” Anna continues. “There’s a need for trials. There are- we’ve had-” She falters, clenching her hands into fists by her sides. “Immunology is complex and working tirelessly in order to create a vaccine for animals which do not ordinarily get Infected does not necessarily help to create a vaccine for animals that do.”

Ellie narrows her eyes. “So you test on humans instead?” She offers plainly. “You make up a vaccine, you give it to someone and you infect them and you just take notes as they suffer.”

Anna’s nostrils flare.  

���We’re learning a lot,” Marlene says. “We don’t like it either but it needs to be done.”

“Two hundred and sixty times?” Ellie asks.

Tess swears.

“Where are you finding two hundred and sixty people to experiment on?” Joel says threateningly.

“We have to think about the future,” Anna says coldly.

“You’re monsters,” Ellie snarls.

Anna’s jaw tightens, she shakes her head as though she’s deciding the argument isn’t worth it and she walks away.

“They’re not good people, Joel,” Marlene says, rubbing her eyes. “Most of them are hunters and- and think of how many people we could save if we get this right.”

“We’re leaving in the morning,” Joel tells her. “Please go.”

And Marlene does.

Ellie sits stiffly on the bed, fidgeting with her hands as Joel and Tess talk circles around her.

“Human testing?”

“Hundreds of people.”

“What if they never find a vaccine? How many more will they go through?”

“I always knew the Fireflies were misguided but fuck.”

She zones out, disassociating more than anything else as she thinks about Riley and Sam, about hundreds of Rileys and Sams, about being cold and feverish and knowing what’s coming and not knowing how it would come.

She must fall asleep at some point because she wakes up to Tess stroking her hair and smiling sadly.

Joel and Tess have packed and they’re ready to leave.

It takes Ellie several sluggish moments, heartbroken and half asleep, to register than they mean to take her too.

“Really?” Ellie asks.

“Of course,” Tess says, like its nothing.

“We’re family,” Joel says, like its everything.

--

Ellie leaves with them.

Anna doesn’t really say goodbye and neither does Ellie.

It had felt like Anna was trying to build something between them, but she was really pretending something was already there. But there was nothing. No spark, no connection, no meaning. The journey had been worthless.

Ellie shouldn’t have run after someone who already left her.

Family was both complicated and simple.

Out of reach and sneaking up on her.

Her mother was nothing and no one, and the smugglers were now something and someone.

--

“It’s kinda pretty, ain’t it?” Joel says, gesturing to the snow-capped mountains surrounding them.

“Yeah, it’s gorgeous in Spring, Texas,” Tess grins, helping Ellie over a fence. “This whole area is covered in wildflowers.”

They’re on the outskirts of Jackson, almost back to where they were months previously. Months of danger and sleeplessness and darkness.

Risks and close calls.

For nothing.

“Sarah and I used to take hikes like this all the time,” Joel says easily. “I reckon the two of you would’ve been friends.”

Ellie nods along, thoughts elsewhere.

“Just a little bit further now,” Tess says eagerly, giving Ellie a boost onto a higher bit of ground.

Joel lends a hand to stabilise her and then pulls up Tess.

“Hey, wait,” Ellie says, looking out toward Jackson and then down at her hands. She sighs as she tries to find her words. “I’ve been meaning to tell you but, back in Boston… before I left, I was- I was somewhere I shouldn’t be with my friend. My best friend. She got bit and we didn’t know what to do so we tried to wait it out and she made me leave before she turned.”

“I’m sorry, Ellie,” Tess says quietly. “I know how hard that can be.”

“Do you think they-” Ellie rubs the back of her neck. “Do you think they’re still inside? Like they’re stuck?”

“No. No, Ellie I don’t,” Tess says. “I think they’ve moved on. They’re at peace.”

Joel is silent and awkward, but his eyes are kind.

“I’m sorry we went all that way for nothing, I-” Ellie falters, biting her lip. “You both risked so much and I don’t think I could have handled someone else dying or- or turning because of me.”

“Your friend’s death wasn’t your fault,” Tess says.

“I feel like it should have been me and not her,” Ellie admits.

“Ellie, I’ve struggled a long time with surviving,” Joel says. “But no matter what, you keep finding something to fight for.”

Ellie fidgets with her fingers, scratching at her arm. “I just-” She huffs. “I just feel like we fought through all of that for nothing. We came all this way and for what?”

“For you,” Joel says plainly.

Ellie tears up, nodding and sniffing and doing her best to keep it together.

Family is a complicated word until it isn’t, she’s never known it until she does, and she feels it constantly in Jackson.

In their meals together, in learning how to play guitar, in movie nights, in sharing books, learning how to swim, and to grow and move forward.

She tells them she loves them on her sixteenth birthday in an abandoned museum.

She tells Tess and Joel she likes girls the day that she decks someone for taunting her about Cat.

She goes hiking with Joel when she and Cat inevitably break up, finding peace in the open air.

She cries on Tess’s shoulder when Dina and Jesse get back together for the third time. A mess of complicated feelings loud in her chest.

Joel helps her practice playing her song for the end of harvest bonfire and Tess helps her pick out a shirt to wear to the town’s winter dance.

“I’m just a girl, not a threat,” Ellie says softly.

“Oh, Ellie, I think they should be terrified of you,” Dina murmurs. Her eyes are bright, she feels warm and perfect in Ellie’s arms, and she steals Ellie’s breath long before she kisses her.

She distantly hears someone calling out, too lost in the tenderness of the moment to register it properly.  

“God, I-” Ellie laughs at herself and her breathlessness, eyes lingering on Dina’s affectionate smile before she kisses Dina again.

Once. Twice. Soundly and enthusiastically.

When she pulls back the second time, she notices Joel and Tess having words with Seth. They look angry and Maria seems to have put herself in the middle, mediating and ushering Seth outside.

Dina’s hand on her cheek makes her refocus.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” Dina whispers playfully.

Ellie’s cheeks flush pink, smiling in disbelief, her fingers flexing on Dina’s lower back. “Me too,” Ellie admits shyly.

Dina leans her forehead against Ellie’s again, swaying them together slowly under the twinkling lights.

[theblackberrygirl]

Dead Hearts

Summary: The Red Room is destroyed and Natasha has some unresolved goodbyes to say.

Author’s Note: alright I wasn’t super happy with this bc I felt like it was kinda OOC but my beta reader said she rly liked it so here it is!

Warnings: torture, death, death of children, hypothermia, grief. It’s sad alright

This is a song fic and it’s inspired by Dead Hearts by Stars

Tell me everything that happened

Tell me everything you saw

They had lights inside their eyes

They had lights inside their eyes

“JARVIS, show me the article,” Nat asked, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

“Of course, Ms. Romanoff.”

The headline streamed across the TV in her room. Russian training academy, Red Room, has been destroyed and burned by the US government.

Her stomach dropped. No. It can’t be true. The Red Room doesn’t just get destroyed. That’s not possible, it’s not true.

But it was. It was true. The Red Room had been reduced to a pile of burning cinder blocks.

She felt a strange feeling in her heart. She definitely wasn’t nostalgic. The Red Room had kidnapped her from that house fire when she was 4, leaving her parents to die. They tortured her, made her into a killer, messed with her mind and memories.

They made her kill her friends.

When she had escaped when she was 16 and Clint had found her, she never looked back. She ran and ran because running was what she knew, it was all she knew.

But now, she couldn’t run away. No, for once in her life, it was time to run towards something.

“JARVIS, is the quinjet fueled up?”

“Yes, Ms. Romanoff, but-”

“Get me 29 roses please. I’m leaving in 10 minutes.” JARVIS didn’t answer her, but she knew he was listening.

It was late, around 2 in the morning. Tony would be in his lab. The others would hopefully be asleep. Clint… well, he was a wild card at night. He could be anywhere. But she had known him for years. She knew how to avoid him.

She threw some essentials in a bag before heading towards the quinjet. JARVIS had been listening, because a bundle of blood-red roses laid on the countertop.

She picked them up on her way out to one of the jets. She needed to do this. Not just for herself.

But for them.

-

Did you see the closing window?

Did you hear the slamming door?

They moved forward, and my heart died

They moved forward, and my heart died

-

“Mr. Stark, Ms. Romanoff has just entered the roof.”

“What? Why?” Tony asked, actually pausing his newest project to listen to JARVIS.

“She asked me to make sure one of the quinjets had fuel and to get her roses.”

“That’s helpful,” Tony grumbled. “Is Barton still up?”

“Mr. Barton is currently downstairs in the archery range.”

“Typical. Tell him to come up here, will ya J?”

“Right away, Mr. Stark.”

Tony didn’t go back to his tinkering. He wanted to give Natasha her space, since she’d probably kill him if he didn’t. But at the same time, if this was something important, he didn’t want her to be alone.

“Tony? What’s up?” Clint had arrived in the lab, his bow on his back.

“Hey, do you know if today is anything important for Nat? An anniversary or something?”

“...no? Not that I know of anyways. Why? She alright?”

“I’m not sure, Katniss. JARVIS just told me that she was going up to the jet with roses.”

“Where is she going?”

“The GPS coordinates are set for an area approximately 50 miles West of Vorkuta, Russia.”

“Russia? Why would she be going back to-”

“JARVIS, how many roses did she want?” Clint interjected.

“29, sir.”

“That’s specific,” Tony commented.

Clint didn’t say anything. He wordlessly picked up one of the laptops Tony had laying around and typed something into the search bar.

“Oh no, Tasha… I knew you talked about it doing something, but...”

“What? What is it?”

Clint spun the laptop around for him to see. “The Red Room. It’s gone. And I think I know why she’s going back”

-

Please, please tell me what they looked like

Did they seem afraid of you?

They were kids that I once knew

They were kids that I once knew...

-

Even in a quinjet, the ride from New York to Northern Russia was pretty long, giving her plenty of time to think and contemplate.

She did not want to think. Not about the Red Room, or Madame B, or the other girls, anything.

You owe it to them to remember.

All of her memories before 16 were jumbled. But some things… some things can’t be erased or altered by drugs.

She remembers their names. All of them. All 29.

She had been the youngest girl in her class of Black Widows. Some said that was a weakness. Others said it was an advantage.

But when they brought little Natalia Romanova to that place, still covered in burns and ash, she didn’t care about becoming the Black Widow. She wanted her mother, and father, in their little one-bedroom apartment, with her stuffed rabbit Alexei. It was always cold in that apartment, but when she was snuggled between her mother and father, she felt safe.

She learned quickly that safety was not a feeling in the Red Room. That was something for children, and she was not a child. She was Natalia, made of marble.

On her first night there, when she had silently cried from the pain of cold metal handcuff cutting her wrist, one of the older girls had helped her. She was 8. Her name was Nadia.

Nadia had stolen one of the handcuff keys from the guards. She had unlocked the cuffs and hugged her. Made her a makeshift doll out of an old sock and toilet paper. Told her stories of magic and heros.

In the morning, they found out about what Nadia had done. They punished her until she couldn’t scream anymore. Just before they killed her, she looked at Natalia. “It’s ok”, she whispered. Just before they pulled the trigger.

Magic had not been in that place in a very long time.

After Nadia had been killed, Natalia funneled her grief and fear into her training. She rose to the top, taking down girls who were twice her age and twice her size. She used untraditional methods on the mat, using her legs to take them down since that was where she was strongest.

Her handlers were very impressed with her sudden prowess. She became the best dancer, best fighter, best liar. She picked up the languages quickly. She was as stoic as stone, never flinching or backing down from the threat of a punishment.

They never knew what fueled her excellence. Never knew that she was motivated by rage and grief. For her parents. For Nadia.

When she turned 9 years old, she decided that it was time to repay her debt to Nadia. There was a new girl, the last one for their class. The thirtieth. Sasha.

No one knew what had happened to Sasha. But they did know that she was good. She was unwavering, unmoving. During the day, anyways.

At night, Natalia could hear the girl in the bed next to her trying to muffle her cries. She took out the key that one of the guards had foolishly left in the washrooms. She carefully unlocked her own cuff and Sasha’s.

She rubbed her back silently. Rebraided her French braids that had come undone in the night. Made her a crude doll out of an old sock and toilet paper. Just as Nadia had done for her.

The next morning, Natalia had waited all day for someone to take her to a room to be killed. But they never did. They hadn’t been caught.

Sasha and Natalia continued their routine every night. It was nice to have a friend in a place where friends were a myth.

They were friends for 2 years. They learned to master sneaking around. When Sasha turned 11, someone took her into a room alone. They did this all the time for training, interrogation practice, or just a mental test.

When Sasha didn’t come back that night, she knew something was wrong.

She never saw Sasha again. She didn’t know what happened to her. She still didn’t.

“Landing in 10 minutes,” the jet intercom told her. A wave of anxiety washed over her. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to turn around, go home, and never come back.

She hated the memories associated with this place. This was the closest she had ever been in the 12 years since Clint saved her. She avoided it like the plague.

The clearing the jet had landed in was still about 2 miles from the old academy. She pulled her coat and hat on and began her march through the barren fields and forest.

Tank tops and shorts. No shoes, she thought to herself. When she was 13, Madame B had given them all black tank tops and shorts. She took away their combat boots and forced them out into the bitter winds.

“Only the strongest will survive this challenge. Only those worthy of the Black Widow title will make it through this. If you are not ready, well, hypothermia isn’t a bad way to go,” she had told them. 2 girls out of the remaining 18 had died that day.

Then they had gone inside to train. The cold made their muscles achey and stiff, but the Red Room was not a place for complaints.

Then they did it all again the next day.

By the end of the week, 7 of the remaining 18 girls were dead, either from exhaustion or the cold. 11 remained from a group that was once 30.

Anastasia. Irina. Svetlana. Alina. Manya. Eva. Kyana.

Their dead hearts were everywhere. The lights inside their eyes extinguished. They’re still out there. And she still cares.

She always will.

-

I could say it, but you won't believe me

You say you do, but you don't deceive me

It's hard to know they're out there

It's hard to know that you still care

-

Pepper, Tony, Clint, Bruce, Thor, Steve, and Fury had all boarded a jet to Russia as soon as Clint told them what had happened. They weren’t going to let her go through this alone.

Natasha Romanoff liked to pretend she didn’t feel things. But they were her family. And family helped each other.

They all sat in silence. Natasha only had an hour on them, but that was still an hour where she was alone and hurting. Even Tony didn’t say anything.

Clint was playing with the spider necklace he always wore. Natasha had a matching one with an arrow. It was a symbol of how deep their friendship went.

Fury was completely still. He had his arms resting on his knees, looking straight ahead. His lips were more downturned than usual, and his forehead was more tense. You could only tell if you had known him for a long time, but Fury was upset. Upset that the woman he looked at as a daughter had to relive this. That she even had to live through it at all.

Clint and Fury were probably getting hit the hardest. They knew the most about what went down in the Red Room. They knew the most about how painful this had to be for their friend.

As the jet lightly set down in the field near the jet that Natasha had taken, they all prepared to walk the 2 miles in the cold weather.

The ground beneath their feet was completely frozen. Permafrost. Snowflakes rushed around their faces. It was painfully beautiful.

The sound of dried grass and leaves under their feet was the only sound on their walk. The wind whistled in their ears. The cold air bit into their exposed skin like needles.

Clint’s breath caught in his throat when he saw her.

She was standing on a pile of rubble with her back to them. Her flaming red hair was flying in the wind. In her arms was the bouquet of roses. Each rose had a note attached, written in Natasha’s small, elegant penmanship.

As Clint looked closer, he saw what the notes were. Names. All of them.

If Nat had realized they were there, she made no move to acknowledge them.

She just stood there. As if she was in shock. To be honest, she might’ve been.

“Sometimes, I swear I can see them,” Natasha spoke. She sounded so… broken. “Everywhere. In the reflection of a window. When I heard a door slam, it was like they were right there like they used to be. Like how they were in here.”

They all stayed quiet. She needed to get this out.

“It’s like they’re following me. Protecting me. I miss them. I miss them all.”

“Inna, Katrina, Larisa, Polina, and Oksana were the first 5 to go.” She held the 5 flowers tightly in her hand, like if she squeezed it tightly enough, she could bring them back. “5, 7, 6, 4, and 8. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” she whispered. Her emotions were coming to the surface, hidden by a thin veil of control.

“Raisa, Sonya, Ulyana, Vanka. I didn’t know any of you. Not personally. But all of you deserved so much better than what you got.”

“Luda, Lubov, and Klara. You were 8 years old. Triplets. Nothing could come between you three. Not the Red Room. Not even death.”

Clint started to move closer towards his best friend. He could see the way she was shaking.

“That week when we stood outside for hours. The cold and exhaustion took 7. Anastasia, Irina, Svetlana, Alina, Manya, Eva, Kyana. I hope that you weren’t in pain when you died. I hope you’re finally resting.”

Only 10 roses were left in her arms, the other 19 laid out on the ground in front of her. The bright red petals contrasted sharply with the grey cinder blocks and white snow.

“Yelizaveta. Liz. We were in actual hell together, and yet you somehow managed to make me smile with your fucked-up sense of humor. In a place like that, dark humor is the only kind you have.” A small smile joined the tears running down her face. “I hope I’ll see you again one day.”

“Taisiya, Sonechka, Nikita, Mischa, Maya, Luda. You were all so smart. And so strong. You fought harder than everyone. Even now, I have yet to meet someone as smart as you six, and 2 of my best friends have more than one PhD,” she laughed.

She was down to the final three roses. Clint put his arm around her. The dam was threatening to break any moment now.

“Nadia.” She let her tears fall for Nadia. “I wouldn’t be alive without you. I wouldn’t have gotten to meet my family. I wouldn’t have gotten to become an aunt without you.” Clint had already been crying, they all had, even Fury, but that had struck him deep in his heart. “I owe you. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she choked out. She bit her lip to keep it from trembling as she gently set the rose down on the ground.

“When I was 14, we had to do torture training.” Pepper let out a small gasp. “After I had finished the whipping and electrocution day, Anya split her bread with me. She cleaned the cuts that I couldn’t reach. In the morning, I-” Her voice began to crack. “They made me be the one to kill her. She was 15.” She set Anya’s rose on the ground next to the others. “You didn’t deserve it, Anya. You were always so good. Better than I ever was.”

“Sasha. Sasha and I were best friends,” she let out a small bittersweet laugh. “When I was with her, I felt like, maybe, we could lead normal lives. Escape. Be happy. One day, when we were 11, they took her away and never brought her back.” She held the rose with Sasha written on it in her hand. “I’m sorry, Sash. I’m so, so sorry. For everything.”

“You forgot one,” Clint whispered. He held out one more red rose. “Natalia Romanova. A little girl orphaned in a fire, who did what she had to do to survive. Who walked through hell and back and still found herself a family and a home.” He set the rose down with the others.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she cried. Clint hugged her tightly as they sank to the ground.

“We were all so young. We were all kids. Just kids,” she sobbed into his shoulder.

Years upon years, over 2 decades worth of grief, sadness, fear, rage, and pain came pouring out. She had been bottling these feelings up for 24 years, shoving them down, and now they were finally being released. Finally being set free.

“They were kids that I once knew. They were kids that I once knew...”

-

Now they’re all dead hearts to you.

They were kids that I once knew

They were kids that I once knew

Now they're all dead hearts to you

Now they're all dead hearts to you

They were kids that I once knew

They were kids that I once knew

Now they're all dead hearts to you...

[givemeonebreath]

A big, messy Linked Universe playlist

Link for Links

Heavy on the angst, because of who I am as a person. (At the same time, don’t take it too seriously, man.)

Influenced by canon, manga (TP Link is really Going Through It™ ), my personal perceptions, and popular fandom canon.

A pretty wide variety of genres, with a bias towards metal and prog rock.

I kept snippets of lyrics for most songs, also because of who I am as a person. (Some were particularly hard to narrow down to just one verse or chorus.) Those - and a little more rambling - are under the cut if you really want, in the order of the playlist. But. It’s long.

I didn’t initially make this with the intent to share, but hey. Throughout my past year+ of listening, I’ve been haphazardly adding songs to a playlist I very creatively named Links. If something reminded me of them, whether through the music or lyrics or both, I threw it on the playlist, so some songs might seem odd or vague. Some are really on the nose, as subtle as a sledgehammer. (Sky for Sky? Dude. Sorry.) Some are there because of a fitting line or two that stuck in my head. Ultimately, music - like any form of creative expression - can be interpreted in a multitude of ways. 

My listening habits and tastes are erratic, which is why this is one big, jumbled playlist and not separated for different Links. Not to mention if I did that, some (Wild, Legend) would have a lot and some (Wind, Four) would have none, both because of my own familiarity with them, and because of the general themes of the music I tend to listen to. Most songs are a general ‘hero’s spirit reborn’ mood, anyway - those are the first part of the playlist. The second half is more nuanced to specific Links, plus a few Ganon vibes.

1. Deep Purple - April (Koji Kondo, composer of the original Legend of Zelda theme, was into Deep Purple as a kid, and it shows.)

2. Kamelot - Regalis Apertura

3. Au4 - So Just Hang On, Beautiful One (I’ve posted this here before. I can’t hear it without thinking of LU now.) So I slipped in through the gate almost unknown. All my border stamps were late. Seven days old. Cold hand griped my shoulder blade, broke the bone. Bloody nose and turned away, all the way home.

4. FC Kahuna - Hayling Don’t think about all those things you fear, just be glad to be here

5. Glass Animals - Youth Boy, when I left you you were young I was gone, but not my love You were clearly meant for more Than a life lost in the war

6. Pain of Salvation - Restless Boy A restless boy in a world too slow A flame born into cinder, ash, and glow I've given everything I gave it all Yet find myself alone

7. Haken - The Endless Knot Our design shifted frame by frame! Across the line our cycle starts to fail. Our design shifted frame by frame! Across the line we die to live again.   We need a story to believe in. We need a hero to prevail. We need a challenge we can overcome, it takes a tragedy to make us one 

8. Kamelot - Memento Mori (I particularly associate this with Time and Twilight) I am the god in my own history The master of the game I may believe if she would come to me And whisper out my name Sometimes I wonder where the wind has gone If life has ever been Sometimes I wonder how belief alone Can cut me free from sin

9. Katatonia - Fighters Look I told you so We never stop If we said that We'll back it up For sure You know We're fighters

10. Megadeth - This Day We Fight! (I mean, all Links, but particularly Warriors) For this I was chosen, because I fear nothing With confidence I tread through the dead of the night Off to another war-torn, faraway battlefield Wherein lies a demonic enemy horde

11. Moon Tooth - Igneous Well, the spirit took me And this old broken body leapt up and danced Settin’ out Settin' out with all my heroes in a bundle at my back Hawk am I More wings span in my shadow than overcast Yeah, you know what they say Always need something to look up to, ha

12. Samael - Moongate Destiny, tomorrow is today Destiny, without boundaries How many nights will we spend together traveling infinity back and forth and again How many times will we go together questioning eternity about us about our wonders...

13. TOOL- Parabola This body holding me reminds me of my own mortality Embrace this moment, remember We are eternal, all this pain is an illusion

14. Lunatic Soul - Blood on the Tightrope No matter how hard you try To shut down your feverish thoughts They hunt you down with no regret Cause you have to fix it all

15. Hybrid - Keep It In The Family

16. Soul Savers - Unbalanced Pieces Gone, now carry on Through violent seasons I call you mother, mother, mother In vain, absent chain The twilight's bleeding And the playing board has two unbalanced pieces

17. Steve Von Till - Valley of the Moon All she gives is a stone facade Like ill-given flowers at a dead man's wake Here we slave for the dreams of another And fight over scraps like wayward dogs

18. Ludovico Einaudi - Experience

19. Lunatic Soul - Summoning Dance Three stones on the right side Three stones on the left My vicious circle of life and death   “Oh you want it” I hear it again “Oh you want it” My burden Curse to break

20. Lunatic Soul - Through Shaded Woods Run through your shaded woods Run through your shaded mind Run through the night Run away Run through the darkness Run

21. Lunatic Soul - Naavie

22. David Bowie - Nature Boy There was a boy A very strange, enchanted boy They say he wandered very far Very far, over land and sea A little shy and sad of eye But very wise was he

23. The Dandy Warhols - Sleep Well, I could sleep forever But it's of her I dream If I could sleep forever I could forget about everything 

24. Au4 - Everyone is Everyone (and Everything is Everything) Tripping and tumbling, Flipping and fumbling. Flowing on the rivers of sadness That have been forever rumbling.   But from dawn until now Of all the paths that I could have gone down Of all the valleys That I could have been flowing through.   In spite of all the chaos And all that has come between us, How is it I still find myself Here with you. 

25. Kingcrow - Everything Goes Your hands again upon the ground Falling rain for hours and hours As you learn the game Time dispels the fog ... Ever been there? Ever felt like prey? Ever thought your mind was feeble? Lot of things that don’t make sense

26. Pain of Salvation - Icon As a child I felt too old And now when I'm grown-up I feel too young A different kind so I've been told Just slightly out of reach and out of time

27. Sophia Loizou - Divine Interference (I got spooky dungeon vibes. Also, the title.)

28. Carpenter Brut - Fab Tool Runnin Gunnin Forward in the phantom shatter so grand Splatter grand, arcanum fuel Wrought iron out of the sky Over me, tells no lie

29. Blue Stahli - Death Will Have to Run All on the open road Where none will ever grow A journey toward the known With countless miles to go

30. Gyroscope - Mistakes & Ladders I am the first? No I can't be the first A continuous nothing, destined for something Tell me who you are and why you trapped me here

31. Queens of the Stone Age - Run, Pig, Run Run, pig, run Here I come

32. Chali 2na & Krafty Kuts - Guard The Fort The swords are drawn and odds are stacked And we clash the impact's a thunderous clap Calm demeanor Even though we are under attack [...my turn to guard the fort ready for combat]

33. The Great Discord - Army of Me (lol)

34. Kongos - Terrified I think I'll start again and change my name You only live once or twice, what a shame Somebody fucked up when designing this game

35. Woodkid - Run Boy Run Run, boy, run! This ride is a journey to Run, boy, run! The secret inside of you Run, boy, run! This race is a prophecy Run, boy, run! And disappear in the trees

36. The Beta Machine - The End A million miles away from you this time I'll do what it takes I'm on my way If lines are in the sand I'll go under If I can make it in time I will bring you back with me

37. Devin Townsend Project - Gump When we last met who was I? I'm sorry we no longer see eye to eye The energy to keep you in while keeping myself out I'm sorry how you'll take this  But I just don't have the patience anymore 

38. Arrested Youth - Riot! I can't get much satisfaction living in this cave It's tough to breathe, I'm in the belly of the beast Can't sleep with all my rage With me and all my generations living in this cage Pick up your guns and tell your sons, tonight we break the cage

39. Led Zeppelin - Friends So anytime somebody needs you Don't let them down, although it grieves you Some day you'll need someone like they do Looking for what you knew

40. Faunts - M4, pt 2 (Wild) Fight your foes you're not alone Holy war is on the phone Asking to please stay on hold Bleeding loss of blood runs cold And I need you to recover   Because I can't make it on my own

41. Faith No More - Ashes to Ashes (Wild) I want them to know it's me, it's on my head I'll point the finger at me, it's on my head Smiling with the mouth of the ocean And I'll wave to you with the arms of the mountain

42. Devin Townsend - Jupiter (Wild) I know you At least I think I do Everything's changed But in the days that are so dark It's wonderful

43. Katatonia - Neon Epitaph (Wild) Shadow of my shadow Cling not to my grief I am long left behind now You are free

44. The Smashing Pumpkins - The Beginning is the End is the Beginning (Wild) Time has stopped before us The sky cannot ignore us No one can separate us For we are all that is left The echo bounces off me The shadow lost beside me There's no more need to pretend Cause now I can begin again 

45. Katatonia - Lacquer (Wild) My voice travelling Soaring bird above your head The house we lived in Ridden with disease ... The levee breaking I can't live to fight once more The road to the grave is straight as an arrow I'm just staying around to sing your song, baby

46. Eskimo Joe - This is Pressure (Wild) There is no romance in suffocation  The walls fall down like your expectations You want to scream  And you want to shout But you've built up steam  And you can't let it out This is pressure 

47. Portugal. The Man - 1000 Years (Wild) We'll wait 1000 years  Until the end of time We'll wait 1000 more Dressed up in gold and white We'll climb the mountain sides  To find what's in the sky We'll dig through mountain sides  To find what's deep inside

48. Au4 - An Ocean’s Measure of Sorrow (Wild) Forgot my name and who I was. Memories of nothing floating up. All of the sorrow we once knew, Colours the ocean's water blue.

49. Band of Skulls - Carnivorous (Twilight) I am corrosive and cohesive Like a chemical bond I'm all together undone I am the broken kingdom I'm just so, so, so  So carnivorous

50. Glass Animals - Flip (Twilight) I wanna go back with a club and attack I wanna take to my guns and break you I gotta make my little foe take his own

51. TV on the Radio - Wolf Like Me (Twilight) My mind has changed my body's frame, but, God, I like it My heart's aflame, my body's strained, but, God, I like it

52. Kamelot - The Spell (Twilight) All my demons cast a spell The souls of dusk rising from the ashes So the book of shadows tell The weak will always obey the master

53. OSI - Radiologue (Legend) I was dreaming I was heading west thirty days faster Had a fever woke up in a sweat bailing out the water  Can't go on Can't go back   Heard your voice coming through the noise wrote it in the radio log Hurt my head, wondering what you said so I threw it overboard  

54. Katatonia - Don’t Tell A Soul (Legend) I have been destroyed by the perfection that is a lie see I'm moving soon see my feet are already on the road and if you know where I’m going don’t tell a soul

55. Haken - The Mind’s Eye (Legend) The shape of things to come are closer than they seem Changing your design every time you disappear I'm planning my escape through portals of your mind Where people seem to drop like flies

56. Pain of Salvation - Species (Legend) Sometimes I hate my fucking species Yet most days I'll do anything to please it  My generation was fooled to pursue our dreams But it is not what it seems You never need what you want And you rarely want what you need

57. Euringer - Do You Kiss Your Mama with That Mouth? (Legend) All my life, misunderstood I'm fuckin' too smart, too smart for my own good The last question, before I go is "Hey motherfucka, do you kiss your mama with that mouth?"  Yes! I kiss your mama with this mouth

58. !!! - Pardon My Freedom (Legend) Like I give a fuck, like I give a shit Like I give a fuck about that shit Like I give a fuck about that motherfucking shit

59. Team Sleep - Ataraxia (Legend) Froze asleep Coma deep I dream I'm out with you Alone at sea

60. Oliver Tank - Embrace (Legend) You're in my dreams The world is torn apart at the seams And I don't wanna leave Wearing my heart on it's sleeve

61. Machine Gun Fellatio - The Girl of My Dreams (Is Giving Me Nightmares) (Legend) The girl of my dreams is giving me nightmares I don't know what it means but she's got multi-coloured hair When she stands in the sand I dream of peaches And I'm not sure what that means either

62. Earl Greyhound - Shotgun (Legend & Hyrule) I am nobody, nobody is who I am I am a traveler on this land And nothing, nothing, nothing in my hands

63. TV on the Radio - Staring at the Sun (Hyrule) You're staring at the sun You're standing in the sea Your mouth is open wide You're trying hard to breathe The water's at your neck There's lightning in your teeth Your body's over me

64. Echo & The Bunnymen - The Killing Moon (Time) Fate Up against your will Through the thick and thin He will wait until You give yourself to him

65. Sufjan Stevens - Sugar (Sky) Don’t break my heart, don’t break my flow now And all this rage has got to go now Let’s take up this lifeline Come on, baby, gimme some sugar Don’t make me wait Don’t make me wait too long Don’t make me sing the sad song Come on, baby, gimme some sugar

66. Obsydians - Ascension (Sky) Rise above the hardships you’ll face I will sign and keep on rising As long as you are giving me your soul and keep me awake Feel like home and spread your light around I will listen and just be there As long as you are giving me your love I’ll give you my soul

67. Sonique - Sky -_-

68. Enter Shikari - The King (Ganon) Watch your back, my friend I'm about to kickstart a cycle Of never ending revenge And this time it's primal, it's tribal

69. Saul Williams - WTF! (Ganon, Hylia) "You've been polluted, uprooted by time You have been muted, computed but I'm A living vessel of the one, of the moon, of the sun" Hey! You ain't as dead as you seem, what the fuck? Hey! But you keep living your lies

70. These New Puritans - We Want War (Ganon/ Dark Link/ any nemesis I guess) Shadows dance back up, it's happening again If you listen carefully you might hear them whisper: "We hold all the secrets, we hold all the words; But they're scrambled and broken so you'll never know" Can't you see them Floating like black ash? Can't you feel them Crawling down your back?

[entropictome]

Holiday Hot Pot

S:Final Fantasy XIV No plot or purpose. Just one man, his friends, family, his overwhelming grief and their very late Starlight. [mentioned non-WoL OCxThancred] 5754 words [ More FFXIV Content ]

“You look like shit.”

Moth’ir was missing his characteristic shades so all four occupants could clearly see the viera’s tactless comment send his eyes rolling. Five if the infant in his arms wasn’t soundly asleep. His comeback was snappy as always. “Thanks, kid. Thought I’d take a page from your book for a change.”

The Burn’s reaction was immediate. His rage coiled in his arms as he quickly changed stance. Ever one to turn to violence before reason. His voice rose as he started “,Why are you always-”

The rest was swallowed by a mitten plopped against his mouth. His smaller─but no less dangerous─companion shot him a long suffering look. Keeping The Burn’s temper under control was like trying to keep a lit match from igniting firedamp in a coal mine. Most folks had no hope but to abandon the mission to begin with. Ibuki was the sole exception. Though she could give him a good and proper dressing-down, it didn’t take much besides a sigh and disappointed look to upend his rampage before it started.

The anger didn’t go away, it just receded, but it allowed the pale and dark scaled auri to turn their attention back to their long missing friend. The three gathered around him with varying levels of interest. Leaving Havhen to flail helplessly as their presence was quickly forgotten in that of Moth’ir’s. Whom was obviously the more respected between the two when it came to their present company.

“You’ve been gone for months without word! We were really worried!” Ibuki stated, nearly whining with the intensity of her sincerity.

“We would have come sooner but there were a lot of things to take care of,” the Xaela man spoke apologetically. “There were so many festivals and trying to keep the bar staffed with so many people wanting days off and of course the Basement-”

Ibuki elbowed her much taller compatriot and cut his further worrying off by enthusing “,but Bukidai has dealt with all of it marvelously well so you don’t need to worry.”

“Oh?” Moth’ir looked at the Xaela with an appraising look. Though, paired with an easy grin, it was unlikely he was being serious. “Food baskets?”

“All delivered as of yesterday,” Bukidai, who was serious, assured him. “Thanks to our volunteers.”

“Volunteers is it? Did Mr. Auberdine show up?” Moth’ir asked and chuckled lightly when he saw Bukidai’s surprise.

“Ah, yes. Though we had to ask him to leave-”

“Because he was trying to convince everyone that volunteers deserved two baskets for their trouble.” Moth’ir interrupted, leaving Bukidai startled once again. “Did that every year. A few others too. Reason why I started delivering them my own damn self if I’m honest.”

“Every year?” Bukidai’s horror was indication enough that Mr. Auberdine had thrown one of his characteristic fits before he allowed himself to be let go.

“Grew up as a wealthy merchant’s son and then his family landed themselves in dire straights with bad investments,” Moth’ir shrugged. He was sympathetic but the sympathy was for Booker, not the man. “He’s remarkably less worse than he was but he’s never quite gotten over the idea he deserves more than everyone else.”

Bukidai sighed and shook his head. “Regardless, I think we can make do with our other volunteers if they want to pitch in again.”

“If you say so,” Moth’ir said dubiously. Bukidai held unto hope for dear life but Moth’ir had been divested of that a long long time ago. “Take care with old U’leh. Greying Miqo’te lady, very unassuming. She likes to troll through some of the donated items in Spring and Autumn for cakes to raffle off at her little charity parties.”

“She raffles off donated cakes?” Bukidai was aghast then pulled himself off the topic for another. “Spring is an awful long time away. Aren’t you coming back?”

“If you need to break out, we’ve got you,” Ibuki rose her sweater’s sleeve so she might flex her otherwise deceptively pudgy arm. Havhen─who had been watching their interaction with keen interest and was not familiar with Ibuki’s playful personality─shot Moth’ir an alarmed look over her shoulder.

“Contrary to whatever belief you might have, I am here of my own free will,” Moth’ir stated firm enough that they knew he meant it. He had certainly come of his own accord anyway. Staying was less than thrilling since he didn’t much care for the sole physician in this strange hospital. Divulging why was far more personal than he was comfortable sharing but he did add a “More or less.”

“More or less?” The Burn attention had been momentarily bought by the possibility of fighting.

Moth’ir gave him a stern look “,I’m staying.”

It was the right thing to do. More than that, it was where Thancred had left him. Left them. The four of them descended into an awkward silence. None of whom seemed particularly thrilled with the prospect.

Ibuki, hopping from one foot to the next, tried her best to break the quiet. “Is the baby yours? Bukidai said you left because you were feeling sick and had suspected but we didn’t know for sure.”

“Ibuki!” Bukidai chastised her.

Moth’ir gave him a solid kick to the shin. Which might have actually hurt had he been wearing anything but his slippers. He gasped and proclaimed with played up scandalization “What a gossip!”

Havhen was likely the only one of them who noticed the slight hissing. Something which indicated an actual irritation from Moth’ir he hid by dramatizing it.

“Is it a boy or girl?” Ibuki asked before throwing her arms up and blithely gesturing “,you know, for now.”

It was a joke that three of them understood better than the other two. Though she wasn’t aware of Havhen’s case. She had quite nearly forgotten they were there at all. Which was more or less in their favor as they were busy taking mental notes. Specifically on Moth’ir’s face after Ibuki asked her question. Moth’ir had settled into fatherhood like a round peg in a square hole. He’d fallen in but the corners weren’t right. Fairly typical of new parents but he’d taken his ineptitude as immediate failure and the guilt had landed him here in Havhen’s care. He’d only just been able to acknowledge his daughter directly at all.

Moth’ir visibly braced himself before muttering “,it’s uh... she.”

“She’s so cute! Can I hold her?” Ibuki thrust her arms out exuberantly. Either not noticing the stumble or too polite to point it out. Moth’ir handed her over mayhaps a bit too eagerly but the fact he’d been carrying her without needing to was progress. Havhen made a note of it.

Holding a baby was something Ibuki had enough experience in that she hadn’t needed coaching. Utterly doting, she looked fairly natural cooing down at the fussy bundle who had begun to stir due to the commotion and movement. Moth’ir struggled not to look miserable watching the pair, ears flattened against his head. Grief that went unnoticed now that all attention was on the baby.

“What’s her name?” Bukidai asked pleasantly.

“Doesn’t have one.” Moth’ir said flatly. Bukidai looked to him with confusion but Moth’ir waved him off and continued. “Her dad thought I should name her but I’ve been preoccupied and just... haven’t.”

Havhen distinctly remembered the white haired hyur had mentioned he’d wanted Moth’ir to name her because it might help them bond. And something about having already named two girls but that hadn’t been meant for Havhen’s ears. The concern of Moth’ir’s friends weren’t at all alleviated by the explanation but Bukidai had enough sense to recognize Moth’ir’s agitation. He simply nodded and smiled, if a bit awkwardly. “I’m sure it will come to you soon.”

Moth’ir brushed him off, glanced over at the window and the dwindling light outside. Whatever he’d wanted to see there caused him to sigh. He postulated “,You three didn’t really have a plan once you got here, did you?”

Said three exchanged glances that said they hadn’t and then all four heads turned to Havhen. The physician shook their head and crossed their arms in front of them. “Absolutely, not! This is a mental care facility! Not an inn!”

“It’s not like you’ve got any other patients and there’s not exactly a line waiting,” Moth’ir stated sternly.

“Nevertheless there are professional standards I have to adhere to,” Haven pushed back with just as much authority.

“It’s a madhouse,” Moth’ir exclaimed incredulously “,You’re already a joke and a half!”

“Not a madhouse!” Haven corrected him with a great deal of passion. “Those facilities garner their reputation by focusing on containment and are as like to cause as much─if not more─damage to their patients had they just left them alone. This facility is for study and treatment with the intent of rehabilitation.”

Havhen was a generally genial person but this was a subject they were particularly staunch on. Moth’ir, on the other hand, was just normally stubborn and exceedingly opinionated. Where the standoff would go was any one’s guess but it wasn’t likely to be clean. With that in mind, Ibuki interjected “,that’s actually quite fascinating! I’d love to get an interview with you on the subject for an article. Mor Dhona isn’t that far from Ul’dah, I’m sure some of my readers would love to know more.”

“You’re a reporter?” Havhen asked, scrutinizing the pastel garbed auri woman closer.  “Publicity would be nice but your ilk are so fond of twisting things on their head for greater attention.”

“Well, you’re in luck because miss Bunji is far more partial toward fluff pieces,” Bukidai noted with a fair bit of amusement.

“Oh! I’m so tired of writing hard hitting news! Everyone is so wary of talking to me now but I don’t mean to find bad things! I’m just very good at tripping into them,” her sudden outburst sounded surprisingly sincere considering it’s absurdity. It had also upset the baby who she quickly went about soothing. “Oh! I’m so sorry, dear thing. It’s okay! Nothing’s wrong! You’re not running a money laundering business out of here are you?”

The last question was aimed at Havhen who simply held their hands up defensively. “If I was I wouldn’t be struggling to make rent.”

“You’d be surprised,” Ibuki sighed as she gently rocked the baby back to complacency.

Havhen considered the three newcomers and nodded approvingly. “Alright. You can stay for a short while.”

There was a short lived celebratory movement before Havhen added: “Under the condition you do chores around the building and submit yourselves for an interview of my own.”

Moth’ir balked. “Nevermind, everyone can go sleep outside.”

Havhen crossed his arms and said firmly “,if she’s going to write about my organization she might as well get the best understanding of what I’m trying to do.”

“I think we can handle some housework and questions,” Bukidai offered, trying to hearten Moth’ir whose grimace only deepened in return.

Moth’ir threw his hands up and shook his head but went to his next order of business “,Regardless, your kitchen stock is atrocious. Scribbles, go out and see what food stuffs you can pick up for tonight. It’s Starlight and almost sundown so don’t expect a lot.”

“You can count on me!” Ibuki chirped despite his sentiment and snapped off a salute unfamiliar to Havhen.

“You,” he pointed at The Burn “,there’s some weird creatures out of town. Ask around the adventurers, see what all is edible and how, kill it and bring the proper bits back.”

The Burn grinned and smacked his fists together. “I can do that.”

“As long as you can ask politely and don’t pick a fight,” Ibuki said to him as more of a warning than anything else.

“You’re with me in the kitchen,” Moth’ir nodded toward Bukidai “,let’s prep and you can see if you have any more ideas about what we have on hand than I.”

“And me?” Havhen pointed at themself.

“You’re on baby duty.” Moth’ir gestured dramatically toward his daughter, still in Ibuki’s arms who passed her off to them.

“Alright kids, we have a short amount of time and very little to work with. Let’s move,” Moth’ir gestured and his people went to do as they were asked.

Havhen and the child watched them all scatter. Before today Moth’ir had been antagonistic and withdrawn around them. This commanding man and the willingness of his peers to follow his direction was bemusing. Both attitudes were entirely alien from the way he had been with his beau. At least when he didn’t think Havhen was looking. Assuming different personae to suit different groups was normal enough but, when all was said and done, some of Moth’ir’s faces would likely have to die to save the host.

“It should be an interesting night for us, I think.” They cooed gently to the nameless girl.

--------------------------------------------------------

Havhen had hoped they might be able to observe something that would give them clarity on Moth’ir in the process of the night. What they happened to see was utter chaos. Babies need care and Moth’ir’s child was particularly fussy without any seeming need to be. A fact even her wet nurse had noted. Then there was the utter mess that Moth’ir and Bukidai were making in their kitchen. Which was adequate enough by Havhen’s standards but not theirs.

The Burn returned first. A bit bloodied for his trouble. He’d gotten a handful of strange looking material he all swore was good for eating in a variety of ways. Havhen had some doubts but Moth’ir took him at his word.

“Who did you piss off?” Moth’ir asked passively after getting a proper look at the viera’s nose.

“Some weird frogs, some newts, wriggly things, you know,” The Burn gestured toward his assorted meats as if the question in itself was inane.

“I said: who,” Moth’ir reiterated, pointedly.

The Burn crossed his arms and stood defiantly. Which unraveled under Moth’ir’s steely gaze and he finally yelled “,it was some roegadyn, okay? Didn’t like the way I asked and wouldn’t listen so he started punching. He was asking for it.”

Moth’ir shrugged and shook his head. He wasn’t exactly pleased but the disappointment didn’t stick. He said to The Burn “,Thanks for the bits, kid. Since you’re here, try and keep that one out of our hair.”

Moth’ir gestured toward Havhen, saying to them: “And you? Good luck.”

It was a particularly perplexing series of statements that cleared itself up over the course of a brief conversation. Havhen came to the conclusion that The Burn would make a good case study if he’d allow it. Alas, it was unlikely that The Burn would avail himself to their care so Havhen was forced to deal with him on a social level. Which was an exceedingly unpleasant task. He was combative, sullen, and downright rude without any self awareness. A hungry malboro would have made better company.

Luckily, Ibuki returned not too long after. If her strength had been in question, it was not now as she managed to juggle a notable number of boxes. Of which she was more hampered by the awkwardice of their distribution than their weight.

“What did you do? Buy the whole market?” Bukidai exclaimed as he started offloading her parcels.

“There’s a lot more in the market than food, you know,” Ibuki retorted. “I just got things that they said were edible and looked good.”

“Is that a whole dodo?” Moth’ir asked as he eyeballed what she’d brought in.

“Yup! The man said I could have it cheap because it’s Starlight,” she said as she divested herself of her last package. Arms free, Ibuki turned to Havhen and stretched them out to them “,let me see the baby!”

They could hardly deny her after she asked so passionately.

“More likely that the seller misjudged his buyer’s needs and wanted to offload it quickly,” Moth’ir commented looking the bird over. He’d found little wrong with it all the same.

“Oh! Oh!” She hopped back around to face him after having secured the baby in her arms “,I was thinking maybe a hot pot would be good?” Ibuki’s suggestion sounded more like the favorite child pleading a favor of an otherwise stern parent. 

“I think I saw a burner for one,” Bukidai added with a questioning note. Indirectly asking why Havhen would have one to begin with.

“I’m quite particular towards hot pot dishes, myself,” Havhen explained “,I should have noodles too.”

Ibuki looked enthused for all of a second before she schooled herself back and asked “,like, spaghetti?”

Havhen gave her a sympathetic look and patted her and the shoulder “,I’m not sure I’ve had pasta in a hot pot. Personally, I’m preferential toward glass noodles but I have udon too.”

This suitably reignited Ibuki’s excitement. She nearly launched herself at Havhen, might have had it not been for the babe, asking “,you have a lot of stuff from Othard here, actually. Have you gone to Kugane?”

Havhen suspected the woman might be a tad homesick but unfortunately had to shake their head. “Not myself. The matrons of my clan told me stories of Yanxia from when we’d travel before the Garlean occupation. I believe it’s a short boat ride between?”

Moth’ir audibly hissed. A thing so uncharacteristic that it completely silenced the room a second and then was immediately moved on from. Moth’ir’s friends assuming it had been unintentional; like a sneeze. They hadn’t been told that Havhen had just happened to be Moth’ir’s long lost sibling. That their clan had once been his. At least, before they’d left him to die as a small child. But Havhen did.

They gave him an apologetic look. Divulging details about their clan hadn’t been their intent. It was an act which Moth’ir had very clearly expressed wanting nothing to do with. Their conciliation did little to quell the absolute rage that Moth’ir was having trouble keeping from his face. Cooking did though.

Havhen and Ibuki settled into chatting idly about Othard while the babe slept in her arms. The Burn─whose chaotic nature had been hard contained just moments before─sat calmly watching Ibuki. A man who was seeing his girlfriend in a domestic light for the first time and wasn’t sure what to think. Havhen rather thought he looked awed. The dining table they sat at and the kitchen were hardly separated. Only a partition that covered perhaps half the room from view. With The Burn preoccupied, he could hardly stop Havhen from observing Moth’ir.

Havhen had thought Bukidai might be in charge of the hot pot, seeing a Xaela would surely know more of the concept than a Eorzean born miqo’te. He was no doubt talented but it was to Moth’ir’s beck and call that he scurried. Ibuki mentioned to them that the pair had come to Kugane some time ago and that’s when Moth’ir had picked up some new techniques. Havhen was fairly impressed that anyone could simply “pick up” traditional methods from one trip but there was a great deal they did not know about Moth’ir.

Ibuki and his hyur “friend” had both spoken about Moth’ir’s prowess as a craftsman. The man had asked him to make a dress for their child and what he produced was of a higher quality than Havhen had expected. The act of putting the dress on the baby had helped Moth’ir acknowledge her and he’d since made several articles of it’s ilk. They had encouraged it because it seemed to be a source of catharsis for him. In the kitchen, Moth’ir seemed just as at home as he did with a sewing needle. Though these two fields were not the limits of his capabilities, Ibuki confirmed they were two specialties of his many interests.

He also seemed to be cooking more or less as a stress relief at the moment. As evidenced by the increasing number of plates Bukidai was producing.

“This is actually pretty early for us.”

It was a lovely little spread. Maybe more geared toward ten people than five. Ibuki had gotten her hot pot. Her eyes glittered despite the fact some of the ingredients used were… questionable in texture. It did look appetizing despite knowing where some of it had come from.

“Do you usually make so much food too?” Havhen eyed the spread and glanced to Bukidai.

“Uh…” Bukidai sheepishly responded, rubbing the back of his neck and then taking a moment to remove his neck tie as he’d suddenly become cognizant of it. “Yes and no? Traditionally, we cook a lot more but we also share with the neighborhood.”

“They do that at the end of every moon but Starlight is supposed to be special,” The Burn noted dully.

“Must be profitable in Ul’dah,” Havhen suggested without having any real clue.

“Oh, it’s all free though.” Ibuki commented cheerily.

“Who knew you were such a philanthropist?” Havhen remarked, turning around only to find Moth’ir missing. They stepped into the kitchen and found him sitting behind the partition. His head between his knees and both hands resting on the back of his neck.

“Gimme a moment.” He’d murmured, completely devoid of any venom he’d usually summon. He could only turn with a facsimile of it when Havhen sat beside him but the comment he’d expected to have to beat off never came. They simply sat there quietly.

Bukidai pretended to busy himself with the spread once again. Shooing Moth’ir’s clockwork toy off the table. He remarked “,that thing has a mind of it’s own.” A statement that started Ibuki and The Burn on a discussion on whether it had been set to follow the babe─since it was never far away from her─or if it was actually possessed. For that matter, where was the other one? None of the three had seen that one in a while. They only made indirect mentions of the man whose countenance both automatons shared. Neither Ibuki or The Burn knew what his relation was to Moth’ir though they’d seen him from time to time. Only Bukidai had any clue.

Bukidai who much preferred this to impeding on Moth’ir’s privacy any more than he already had.

They sat like that for a long time. The three younger ones chatting amicably amongst themselves while the miqo’te siblings sat out of view. After a bit, Moth’ir had gathered himself enough to pull himself to a more relaxed position. Havhen gave him a moment before risking a quiet remark “,they sound like family.”

Moth’ir only hmm’d at first. When he managed to speak, his voice was quiet too but the lack of force was from the palpable exhaustion that colored the tone. The kind of exhaustion unrelated to sleep. He replied “,Maybe they are. Ul’dah is a long way from the Steppes, Hingashi and wherever the hell The Burn fell out of.”

“Ul’dah is a long way from the Twelveswood too,” Havhen said gently as they could “,but you seem keener to keep your distance.”

“So many questions,” Moth’ir spat but even this indignation lacked fire.

“When one cannot find answers they are often left with nothing but questions,” Havhen replied pleasantly enough. It still pissed Moth’ir off.

The Burn was yelling about something but Ibuki and Bukidai were laughing. At his worst there was a request he calm down because he was disturbing the baby. Words which were also choked with laughter.

Moth’ir let them hang there. Content to sit and listen and not at all up to acknowledging what was a valid statement. He was supposed to be getting better after all but sometimes Havhen and their questions made him want to disappear into the swamp.

“If you don’t celebrate on Starlight, what do you do?” Havhen asked him, trying another angle.

Moth’ir sighed with his whole body. He tried to say “stuff” but all he managed was a weak roll of his wrist.

“You and your man must have some traditions?” Havhen offered.

Moth’ir snorted. The idea of Thancred being any one person’s was cute to him. Even after the hyur had confessed all those things to him before he’d left. Before Moth’ir had had the ability to say it back. Words that he so desperately wanted to say back. They pooled in the back of his throat and begged to be released so Moth’ir did something uncharacteristic of him and spoke about him. If just to speak of him at all. “Thancred’s not usually home when the holidays come around. ‘Specially not these last couple years but when he is it’s just a drink and then sleeping in.”

“Festive,” Havhen said with a chuckle.

Admittedly it didn’t sound like much but it had meaning for him. Maybe Thancred too. A tradition started nearly a decade ago. A rare occasion when Thancred hadn’t had any luck with any fair maiden despite his “silver tongue.” Too inebriated to make it to his lodgings but just sober enough to crash against the backdoor of Moth’ir’s home and workplace. Thancred almost looked dignified sitting there, looking like a misplaced gift from Nymeia’s Saint after Moth’ir’s very long and miserable day.

Thancred somehow talked him into one single drink for the occasion despite Moth’ir’s distaste for alcohol. So they might be on equal footing or some line of the sort. Though Moth’ir wasn’t anywhere near as intoxicated by the time he’d managed to dump Thancred in his bed. Then they’d passed out in a sleep near as deep as death itself. An act remarkable for the both of them.

All their important moments seemed to be in that bed. Very few─if any─had a thing to do with Thancred’s typical salacious activities. It was another sort of intimacy only available to them in the privacy and relative safety of Moth’ir’s room. Honestly and vulnerability that they’d not allowed themselves anywhere else. And yet...

“I didn’t realize you lived together.”

Moth’ir rolled a hand dismissively again. “Some of his stuff is at my place but I don’t think he lives anywhere anymore.”

“Too busy doing what he does.” Havhen said with some meaning. Near everyone who paid attention to the daily happenings around them had some conception of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn even if they didn’t know each member. Savior’s of the realm and at their center the indomitable Warriors of Light.

But Thancred was quite faliable. It was one of his charms.

“I don’t want to go back.” Moth’ir said so quietly Havhen almost didn’t hear him.

Havhen lightly bumped his shoulder against Moth’ir’s. “His life is largely here in Mor Dhona now, isn’t it?”

Moth’ir crossed his arms over his knees and pressed his eyes there to shut out the pressure from behind his eyes. He’d had some conception of Thancred’s work but it was something alien and distant. He imagined it was much the same for Thancred and Moth’ir’s work outside the Tavern. They’d known each other in a way that no one else did─that no one was supposed to─but they’d lived separate lives save where they let it intertwine. A special and private part of themselves tailor made for each other. It had worked. Might have continued to work but then Thancred had taken him from this hospital to the Rising Stones.

He’d met the women who’d given Thancred a shave and a haircut and found he’d liked them both despite that. Hadn’t recognized the man with the sun and stars before he spoke because he’d been missing the goggles and shroud he’d seen him in before. Lightly roasted Thancred with a Seeker woman with whom he shared new material to his friend’s chagrin. One of them would tell him if anything happened to Thancred while he was on the field. Thancred had assured him of such before he’d left.

And he’d liked that. He liked the idea that he’d be one of the first to know. He liked that Thancred had shown him context to the part of his life that had been a thin outline. But Moth’ir could never go back to waiting and wondering and subtext and half told stories they were too tired to finish telling because living it had been too much. He liked knowing and he liked being here and he knew he could never ever go back to that room. It’s privacy and false safety be damned.

He’d fooled himself into thinking he’d feel differently once he returned and started to go around the usual rounds but here he was. The same comedy routine fit like a glove but it was a glove that weighed as much as a buffalo and he was so tired. More than that: “They don’t need me,” Moth’ir said, choking back something that might have been a sob. Though he didn’t know why or what he was feeling exactly.

“It’s gonna get co~ld,” Ibuki’s voice came from beyond the partition.

Bukidai’s voice came after, raised suspiciously “,alright! alright! But make sure you don’t eat everything!” His added emphasis that the couple had had a habit of scarfing down an absurd amount of food returned to a normal pitch but the reaction to it was no less raucous.

Havhen shook their head in agreement and said “,Maybe once, but they do seem to have themselves covered now.”

“Wish I did,” Moth’ir breathed. Drawing himself up and closing his eyes, trying to center himself once more.

It was quiet between them again. The only sound coming from Ibuki singing over what was assumedly a well done meal. But Moth’ir broke the silence by turning to them and stating “,I never wanted children.”

Havhen cocked an eyebrow at him but let him continue on his own without prompting. So Moth’ir continued. “I did when I decided to keep her but I never wanted children. I don’t know how to do this and I don’t… how do we do this? I don’t know how to name kids.”

Havhen considered the distance Moth’ir had kept himself from his family and friends. They considered that he carried internalized feelings of guilt as if his abandonment was due to his own fault. The way he shied away from his daughter and the way he tormented himself for having done so. They wondered if “I never wanted” simply meant he hadn’t thought he should as if he was not worthy.

Moth’ir could simply have been asking for their opinion but the emphasis on “we” seemed like more. They did not know if he meant as keepers or as a clan. They weren’t sure if offering their typical naming conventions would be much use to him. Havhen offered a smile and said “,Oh, I’m not sure it’s all very complicated. You just pick something you think sounds nice or has meaning to you.”

Moth’ir sighed, clearly unsatisfied by that answer. Answers to a question that wasn’t the one he wanted to ask would never be sufficient.

“I think picking a name of someone important to you is suitable as well. As a tribute of sorts,” Havhen tried again despite the futility.

Moth’ir’s eyes stared upward as he considered various people whom he’d had some attachment to. It was an ordeal when one specifically kept people at arms length with few exceptions. “Can’t just name her Menphina, can I?”

“I mean,” Havhen shrugged and said flippantly “,your fellow Eorzeans might find that blasphemous but it’s your daughter.” They received a gentle elbow to the ribs for their trouble.

“Moth.”

“After your mother?” Havhen asked.

Moth’ir eyed him warily. Karga clan was very distinctly something that was his and his alone. It was never far from his mind that Havhen had only ever had their gods forsaken clan. He did not know what they saw when they thought of him and his siblings and his mother together. They all had meant the world and more to him and he misliked the idea of someone belittling that.

Havhen continued to smile at him warmly as he tried to assure him “,I think it’s a lovely name. And, from what your brother has told me, a woman deserving of such dedication.”

Moth’ir only knew that Moth’wo had trusted Havhen with the health of his brother. He’d not had a clue said brother and they were related by blood. How close the two actually were was a mystery to him. He hadn’t even ventured to ask so he had no choice but to accept the comment at face value. Or at least he had no energy to grill them about it.

Eased somewhat he turned his attention inward. He reiterated the name Moth in a whisper. More for himself than Havhen’s benefit. Making it real. Making her real. He closed his eyes and used it as a point to center himself.

Havhen ventured to tap his shoulder to grab his attention before holding their arm out, hopefully offering a hug. Moth’ir regarded them irritably but leaned his shoulder against theirs and allowed himself to be pulled closer. Havhen lightly pressed his head against Moth’ir’s and so they sat. Silent while idly listening to the other three while their minds were elsewhere. For their part, Havhen was busy committing the moment to memory. A small victory for them that may mean nothing but a memento of their brother when he left them for good but that in itself would be enough.

“Hey, you think she can eat some of this meat?” The Burn’s voice asked from beyond the partition.

Moth’ir snapped to, breaking Havhen’s precious moment. On his feet and away in a second. “You feed that baby anything and I swear I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

Havhen let themself linger for a moment. Wrapped their arms around their knees and listening to the new argument. Havhen had been walking with Moth’ir’s ghost for over a decade. They’d been convinced of his death by their mother and it haunted them. But then he’d returned alive; so very much alive. That life had been a messy and painful one. Whether he cared to know or not, Havhen’s had been much the same. The mystery of what laid before them could very much be more of the same but that wasn’t the important part. That they were alive is what gave those lives meaning. Nothing more, nothing less. Which is why they allowed themselves a moment to linger and not a moment more.

A life must be lived.

And there was a hot pot they needed to get to before it was gone.

[writtenonreceipts]

My runaways story continues.  Based on characters from the Throne of Glass series.  90% of this was written tonight.  100% of this is roughly edited.

TW: Depression, mentions of addiction, grief, angst…angst

 when rowan whitethorn meets a girl and memories are cruel twists of fate he slowly slowly slowly come to understand reality. Part One, Part Two, Part Three

the thing about hope

There is a farm where rows of lavender bloom.  All summer long for miles on end.  The purple and blue extend along in near perfect rows.  He’s never understood it.  Flowers.  Plants.  Life in general apparently.  How was anything supposed to grow when it was all such a raging storm of instability and pain?  How was anyone supposed to come out of life functional?  

Rowan didn’t know.

He didn’t know how his mother had managed to keep acres and acres of the lavender alive and blooming.  It was to the point where every summer hundreds of people would come to pick lavender themselves or buy potpourri, lavender jam, lavender honey.  

It was consuming.  Inspiring.

He didn’t know how she managed to keep such beauty alive but not herself.

And lately he didn’t want to.

“Check in on room 220,” someone says.  A clipboard is stuffed in his chest and Rowan grunts a response.

Grateful to be pulled out of the memories, he takes the clipboard and pushes off from the desk he leans against.  He doesn’t look at anything in the file.  As long as it doesn’t take him back to pediatrics he doesn’t care.  There are so many stickers on his scrubs he knows he’s going to have to throw them away.  Dammit.  These were his good ones too.  He was supposed to be on the trauma surgeon’s services but instead was schlepped off to do the grunt work of the hospital.

Sighing, he meanders to the designated room and looks through the open door.

The girl is laying perfectly still.  Her hair in a messy braid flung off to one side.  She’s so pale that Rowan can see her veins even at a distance.  Her eyes are rimmed red and blue.  It seems a miracle that she is even alive.

Rowan wants to roll his eyes.  It doesn’t help that another girl, nearly her same age, is stretched out partially over the foot of the bed.  This one hasn’t taken care to brush her hair out of the way.  A pair of too tall black heels lays on the floor and Rowan can make out a black lacy dress.  Of course, a couple of girls out partying to the point that they drank too much and got alcohol poisoning.  

They should have been kept in the ER and turned out this morning with the regular discharges.

Rowan’s about to walk into the room to start taking her vitals when her eyes pop open.  Hazed with sleep and pain, her eyes take a moment to focus on her friend.  The girl curses.  Several times.  And then she notices Rowan.

“What the hell’d’you want?” Her voice snaps and slurs together in a way he has never heard before.

“Glad to see you’re not dead,” he replies.  He finally glances at her file. “Aelin.”

“Yeah right,” she mutters.  She’s barely awake as she rolls her head from side to side and then kicks lightly at the girl lying at the foot of the bed.  “Wake-up, bitch.”

The brunette gives a muffled reply but doesn’t move.  It doesn’t matter though because Miss Aelin Galathynius is asleep within moments and Rowan is left in a peaceable quiet once more.

#

She is trying to be quiet—Aelin Galathynius.  But if there is one thing Rowan has learned about her in the past twenty-four hours it is that she is incapable of it.  Of being still too.  Once the drugs slowly worked their way out of her system and she’d managed to stand on her own two feet without looking like damn Bambi, she hadn’t stopped.  Stopped talking, stopped cursing, stop, ordering him around.

Until she threw up on his shoes.

His good shoes.

“Buzzard,” she mutters before slumping onto the floor next to her bed.  The hospital gown she wears does little to cover her.  Not that she cares.  She hardly tries to adjust the way it rides up her thighs or dips down from a shoulder.

Rowan wonders if she’s somehow managed to sneak another hit into the hospital.  But he soon realizes that one of the reasons she hasn’t managed to be still is because she is shaking too much.  She is sweating too much.  She’s in a withdrawal that is threatening to kill her.

So when she passes out, again, Rowan stays with the night nurse to get the vomit cleaned up, to get her hospital gown changed, to make sure she’ll make it through the night.

#

He was eight when his mother died.

And eight when the lavender was plowed over to make room for a new hotel.

And eight when his father started drinking.

#

It takes forty-eight hours for one Aelin Galathynius to be discharged from the hospital.

Rowan is once again covered in stickers from the cretin children in the pediatrics wing.  For some reason he doesn’t care though.  Not when one of the girls who needs a heart transplant hands him a sticker.  It’s a daisy with white petals and a happy, smiling face.  She tells him it’ll help him remember to smile more.

He decides he has a love hate relationship with the pediatrics wing.  

While he’s down on the ground floor working on paper work that supposedly will help him find his way into an OR he caught the flurry of blonde hair.  He looks up to see Aelin walking towards him in the clothes she was wearing when she was admitted.  It occurs to him that she was not dressed like the girl who had been visiting her.  No, Aelin Galathynius had not been dressed for a party that night.  Not with the leggings that had holes along the seams, the black tank-top with bleach stains.  Not with the hospital socks to protect her feet.

She’s walking though the hall with wide eyes, beautiful eyes.  Even though they are still rimmed with red, the gold and turquoise is captivating.  If filled with confusion.

And Rowan realizes he knows that look.  He knows that look all too well.

Maybe that’s why he’s taking that silly little sticker and writing on the back of it.  Maybe that’s why he gives it to her.

“Ninety days,” he tells her.

It’s a lie, but sometimes it’s better to have the start of a goal, the start of something too look to, to home for.

She tilts her head as she takes the sticker, her beautiful eyes piercing him.  And then she is gone.

#

He tried to find another lavender farm when he was ten.

Just to be something better than what he had.  Because at ten years old, his mother was dead and his father was absent.  So he would walk for hours around Wendlyn.  It was summer and her had no place better to be, so why not on that desperate hunt?

He never found lavender quite like his mother’s though.  He did find a group of boys playing with water guns.  They still had smiles on their faces.  They still had shoes on their feet.  Even if the shoes had holes and more tape than sole.  But they were smiling and laughing.  And Rowan wanted to remember how to laugh.

#

The girl should not be on his mind.

Aelin Galathynius. 

Beautiful, shameless, powerful.

She should not be on his mind, but how can she not be?  She’s made an extra trip to the hospital on another overdose.  But this time was different.  This time she left with shoes.  With grimace.  With determination burning in her eyes.

She handed him a small watch that day.  Pink, Dora the Explorer.  She winked and told him keep track of the days for her.

And in that moment Rowan knew he was gaining a look into who Aelin Galathynius really was.

Which was highly unfortunately because no he cannot stop thinking about her.

He cannot help but hope she is okay.  

And it is strange to him--to hope. It hasn’t come easily to him.  Not since his mother.  Hope is intangible.  It can’t be measured or felt.  At least he never thought.  Hope is obscure and obsolete.  Something that has barely graced his life.  

But when he thinks of Aelin Galathynius, he feels a bit desperate that one day he’ll turn around and see her out of the corner of his eye.  He doesn’t see her as the girl that vomited all over him or flipped him off while failing to stand up properly.  Rather, he sees her as what he saw in her eyes that last day.  That determination.  That strength.  And he hopes that she will always become that person.

He knows it isn’t his place to think of her like that.  He shouldn’t obsess over a woman he hardly knows.  And not just because it is sad and pathetic, but also because he shouldn’t even know she exists.  She was just a patient in the hospital where he works.  A name on a paper.  A body in a room.  And that should be it.

But hope, he comes to realize, is a bitch.

#

When his father died, Rowan thought that maybe that was how things were supposed to be.  Maybe things would get better.  He had Lyria, he had college coming up, he had his friends.  He could see his life playing out the way it was supposed to.  

It was late in the summer when they had the funeral.  The only thing Rowan could afford to put on the casket was a small bundle of lavender.  And Rowan believed he was betraying his mother for it.

Not long after, Rowan began his senior year of High School.  Lorcan of course had been suspended so much last year that he had to repeat senior year again.  Neither he or Rowan minded.  It made things easier.  Mostly because Fenrys and Connall insisted they could continue their yearly ritual of cleansing the school halls with silly string and glitter bombs.  For one more year at least.

For Rowan, it was all that mattered.  Chasing that high of life with his friends.  Forgetting the man that drank himself to oblivion.  Forgetting that he betrayed his mother by laying his father to rest with that small bloom of lavender.

Maybe that was why Lyria died.  The universe knew that all he was good for was betrayal.  So he betrayed the universe.

#

The first time Rowan realizes he loves Aelin is when it is raining.

Torrents of rain are coming down and he can hardly see in front of him.  As if that’s not the worst thing of the night, Aelin won’t unlock the car.  Probably because she’s mad at him.  Again.  For something he doesn’t even know about.  It shouldn’t matter.  They’re barely friends anymore.

Not after she kissed him.

Not after he left.

Not after he forgot to text.  To call.

She says she doesn’t blame him.  They’ve been busy.  He finally got time in a surgery to hold a scalpel and make a few stitches.  She finally got a pay raise and has a new skirt to prove it.  They’ve been busy and that has been perfectly alright.

Until tonight.  Until he was so close to breaking because damn the fools who can’t drive.  And damn the fools who don’t use their seatbelts.  Who think that one drink never hurt anyone.  Damn the fools who don’t answer their phones.  

“I can’t find the keys!” she yells over the rain.  She’s digging in her purse, her blonde hair utterly soaked.

“Are you serious?” he shouts back.  Unable to help it, he tosses his hands in the air. “Hell Aelin.”

“Screw you,” she says.

He almost doesn’t hear it because the rain is pattering against the car, the sidewalk.  It’s a rush of noise that assaults his ears in a constant whir.  Scowling, Rowan goes to Aelin’s side.  She must be missing something, not seeing properly.  

As soon as his shift ended, he’d come racing to her apartment, praying, hoping, she hadn’t gotten tied up in an accident.  Only to find that she was talking to some guy--a really attractive one with dark hair and golden eyes.  The kind of guy she should be with.  The kind of guy not tatted up with a drunken alcoholic history.  The kind of guy who isn’t him.

Rowan just barely grabs her arm when she yanks out the keys with a triumphant laugh only to have him jostle her enough for the keys to go flying over her head.

“Dammit, Rowan!”

“Dammit, Aelin!”

They are screaming at nothing.  At everything.  To the rain that slips down the planes of their faces and deep into their bones.

And then Aelin is laughing.  She’s tossing her head back and clutching her wet hair and is laughing.  It’s the kind of laugh that can carry over the rain.  It hits Rowan suddenly as he stars at her sopping wet form.  Nothing can affect her anymore.  She is her own.

And he loves her for it.  She got her all on her own, he realizes.  He might have been in the background, but he’s not the one who got her the apartment or the new job.  He’s not the one who drags her out of bed so she can get to work on time or even get in the shower.  No.  She’s done it all herself.  And he loves her for it.

So while she’s laughing like she’ll never stop he’s coming forward.  His hand are cupping her face before he even realizes what he’s doing and he kisses her.  

Mouths slick with rain and bodies chill with it too--they come together slowly at first.  And then all at once Aelin is moving against him, her hands around his neck.  She pulls him tighter against him as though he might disappear.  

Rowan wants to tell her he’s not going anywhere but that would require him taking his lips from hers and that is not going to happen.  Not now.  Not for a long time.

At least he thought so.

Until a clap of thunder echoes overhead.  Until he realizes how cold her fingers are on his skin.  Until the slip of lightning comes and lights up the shock in her eyes.

And he pulls away until he can rest his forehead against hers.  With a sigh, he runs his hands down her cheeks, her neck, until they settle on her waist where he lets his fingers dig into her sides.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispers.  He has to close his eyes from the sight of rain drops falling from his lips and the desire he has to capture them with his own.  Deliberately, he steps away from her and runs a hand over his face.  

She stares at him still, head cocking to one side. “That’s it?”

“That’s all it can ever be, can’t it?” he replies.  

Even though he’s finally begun to hope again.  Even though he’s finally started to see something else in his future.  Even though she is the reason he can roll out of bed in the mornings.  He knows she deserves better than him.

He should have remembered that hope is a bitch.

#

thanks for reading my dears! 

Tags: @tottenhamboys20 @morganofthewildfire  @aelinchocolatelover @cicadabones @esco--s

[oh-for-merlins-sake]

Hello! Congrats 200! Sorry if this is a bit late but if you don't mind could I please get a 🌻 for my fic happy days or dear theodosia? Thanks!

helllllo haley! thank you, love! 💛 aaah ok i’m in an angsty mood sooo:

dear theodosia

ok i’m already sad for post war!fred. i’m just so protective of him and just want to give him the biggest hug. 😔 i feel like we’re all very protective of post war!fred because you-know-who already tried to take him from us, and we have this overwhelming urge to make sure it never happens.

He provided that joy with the joke shop before the war and even though its over, some people still need that. His family needs it. He needs it. He needs to be that happy person he always was. George doesn’t look convinced. His eyes swimming with worry as he watches his twin’s smile struggle to stay on his face.

i love the dynamic you’ve created between post war!fred and george here. i feel like we always expect fred to take care of george, but i like the concept of those roles flipping after the war.

dad!fred. that’s it, that’s the whole bullet point. i fucking love dad!fred.

“There’s my little firecracker.” Pinching her cheeks he leans to press a kiss to her forehead.

“my little firecracker” - i CANNOT handle how cute this is.

How do you tell a baby. This sweet little princess, his sweet princess that her mummy wasn’t coming home.

OH NO wait WHAT

this is making me profoundly sad 😭

But of course the fire that raged in you couldn’t be stopped, not even by Fred. He lightly touches his lips as he thinks back to the passionate kiss he shared with you before the battle started. Ellie reaches out to him. Her small hand grasping for his larger hand.

this is so bloody sad. you can just feel fred’s complete and total sadness here. you can feel that empty piece of his broken heart.

THAT FLASHBACK I- 😭

I AM ACTUALLY CRYING.

i can’t imagine how painful it would be to tell your small child that their mother wasn’t coming back; a child that is too young to fully comprehend what that means but is old enough to be hurt by it. and it’s likely you’re going to have to revisit the topic time and time again as she gets older, and i’m juST SO SAD FOR ELLIE AND FREDDIE OK

There was so much that you would miss. Her first steps, her first day of school, her wedding. It’s not fair.

it really isn’t fair 😞

“It’s going to be okay Freddie. You aren’t going to be alone in this. Ellie is going to be just fine. She’s a Weasley after all.”

akjd;safsj i don’t even know what to SAY anymore. i’m just so stunned by this fic.

Fred glances back at you with a smile. You were fast asleep after giving birth to the best present Fred could ever ask for. It was just him and his mum in the hospital room. Molly had never been so proud of Fred before. The boy who used to prank and tease his siblings was now a dad. She could already tell just how wonderful a father Fred was going to be too. Fred leans over his mothers shoulder to get a good look of his daughters sleeping face. Tears welling up in his eyes as he looks at her. His bundle of joy. She was so small and so innocent and she was his daughter. He couldn’t explain the feelings that bubbled in his chest when ever he looks at her.

omg haley wtf i am so bloody emotional! this memory is such a poignant way to end this fic and YES I’M STILL CRYING

HALEY! this was so so so good! everything was so well thought-out: from the relationship between fred and george, to the painfully heartbreaking moment where fred has to tell his daughter that her mom isn’t coming back, to the description of fred’s overwhelming grief. i felt like i was grieving with fred. this shattered my heart but in the most beautiful way. wicked wicked work, haley! xo @wand3ringr0s3

join my after party!

[hallospaceboyy]

Hea, I love your stories! How about another one wit Zelda? She and reader are married happy but reader disappears for long time unknowingly (maybe kidnapped). During time she's gone Zelda marry Faustus and reader appears again. Please very sad and happy ending. Sexy is alright and good too. Love you and have a great day. (Sorry, I french)

Hi! I feel like this is kind of a train wreck, feels kinda rushed, but it's a lot to fit into a one shot. I hope you like it, anyway! (I couldn't resist making Blackwood the villain in this lol)

Warnings: Smut, mentions of flagellation as punishment, slight injury detail

A month ago, you had married the love of your life; the witch of your dreams. You never thought you could be so happy as in this moment, laying beside Zelda Spellman, as Y/N Spellman. You'd never grow bored of telling people you’re a Spellman now. You stroke Zelda's long auburn hair, kissing her softly and pressing yourself against her, and she chuckles against you, knowing you can’t get enough of her – and she can’t get enough of you. She hums as you kiss down her neck, sucking the pale skin there, leaving a deep purple mark. She hisses as your teeth graze her, her hands coming down to squeeze your bare ass.

“I’m going to make you feel so good, Mrs Spellman,”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that, Mrs Spellman,” Zelda chuckles, her voice low, sultry. You grin and slide your hand between her legs, grazing over the soft patch of red hair there to slip your fingers between her folds, finding her already wet and wanting. A soft moan leaves her lips as your fingertip brushes her clit, her hips bucking slightly. You love to tease your wife, but know that now is not the time, know that all you want is to make her come undone beneath you, haven’t the patience to make her wait. You enter her with deft fingers, and as you move them inside of her, she claws at your back, ripping a groan from you that mingles with her own moans and mewls. You pump them faster and harder, add a third finger, fucking her with reckless abandon and she’s writhing beneath you now, mumbling praises and obscenities.

“O-oh darling... you’re so incredibly good a-at this...”

Zelda stiffens beneath you, throwing her head back against the pillow as her orgasm courses through her, moaning loudly and digging her nails into the flesh of your back, sure to leave marks there. She tugs on your hair, clinging to you in any way she can. As she comes down from her high, lids heavy and breathing erratic, her grip loosens, her muscles turned to jelly, and she kisses your cheek, your forehead, savouring the intimacy of this moment.

“I love you, Y/N. My amazing wife,”

“I love you more,” You roll from your place atop her, laying beside her brushing your mussed hair from your face, and take in the sight of Zelda now, euphoric, elated and thoroughly fucked.

“That my dear, is impossible,” You giggle and curl up in her arms, both of you falling asleep almost immediately, in a haze of marital bliss. Neither of you knowing the misery the next morning would bring, when you would be bundled into the trunk of a car, and seemingly disappear off of the face of the earth.

*

A year later

*

Zelda had finally given in, married the misogynistic High Priest that had been trying to court her for months, coaxing her with whisperings of power, status, and what he referred to as staggering sins of the flesh, which were only ever really mediocre, compared to you, and she would never admit her thoughts turned to you whenever she did let the man touch her. Zelda let him flagellate her, punish her in ways she felt necessary, because she should have been able to protect you. Knew that something had happened to you, that you would never have just left her, without a word, without a reason. Her heart was split in two, and her trysts with Faustus were her attempt at a soothing balm, although not soothing at all, merely her searching out physical pain to lessen the emotional. She saw her family less and less, felt cut off from them, having to spend almost all of her time at the academy with her now husband, and she felt alone, and broken, but resumed the facade of happy, married life, kept up the appearances expected of her as Lady Blackwood. As she lay beside her sleeping husband, feeling desolate, and unsatisfied, Hilda opened the door at the Spellman mortuary, to find you standing at the threshold, gripping the door jamb to keep yourself up, and you fell into Hilda's arms.

*

Zelda awoke to the feeling of being summoned, heard her sister’s voice in her mind, urgent, telling her to come home, She sounded panicked, and Zelda didn’t even think twice before teleporting into the mortuary entrance hall, clad only in nightgown, taking in the scene before her and gripping the bannister beside her instantly at the sight. Hilda knelt with your head in her lap. You looked thin, your skin pallid, almost translucent, and your breathing was laboured. A dark bruise surrounded your eye, and more bruises peppered the skin of your body, marks of tight restraint around your wrists and ankles.

“What happened, Hilda?? Satan, look at her!” Zelda's was hysterical, shaking uncomtrollably.

“I-I don’t know, Zelds. She just knocked on the door and collapsed,”

Zelda fell to her knees and crawled to your side, stroking your hair, and she sobbed, both from relief at your being alive, and fear at thoughts of what ordeals you had been through in the last year, a wave of self hatred coursed through her as she scolded herself for not resuming their search, not tearing the whole damn world apart to get you back. She had given up, and now she knew you were somewhere close the whole time, suffering, pained, and waiting for Zelda to save you. The sisters assisted each other in getting you to Zelda's bed, both silent save for choked sobs and sniffles, and over the coming days they nursed you back to health, and Zelda ignored Faustus, forgot he even existed.

*

The days after your return to the Spellman household were blurred, as if a fog surrounded you. You fell in and out of consciousness, let someone spoon feed you soup, took the water offered to you, swallowed foul tasting potions, and then fell back to sleep, your strength slowly returning to you, but still too weak to stay awake for long periods of time. You dreamt of Zelda, heard her voice, felt her touch, and you thought maybe you had finally died, must be dead, if you were really with her again.

But when you opened your eyes, colour finally returning to your cheeks, actually feeling somewhat human, Zelda laying beside you, your hand clutched in hers, and she sat bolt upright as she sees you wake, tears filling her green eyes. You can see she wants to say something, her mouth opening and closing again several times, and you offer her a weak smile from cracked lips.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N, I’m so sorry,” Zelda's body was wracked with sobs, and you pulled her to you, stroking her hair, and began to sob yourself, so overwhelmed by being in Zelda's presence again, smelling her musty, floral scent, mingled with cigarettes, and you knew she had most likely returned to her habit of chain smoking. Feeling her warmth against you, the static of her magic that you had become so used to, you felt such a relief, a relief that you never thought you’d feel, so sure that you would never see or feel your Zelda again.

“None of this is your fault, Zeldie. I-it was B-Blackwood...” You swallowed thickly, feeling bile rise in your throat at the mere thought of the abhorrent man, knew that Zelda had married him. He had come to tell you, visited your prison often to gloat that Zelda belonging to him now, told you she was always supposed to belong to him, that you simply got in the way. An obstacle that he had to be rid of. You knew he would have killed you a long time ago, if the sadist in him didn’t enjoy seeing your pain, causing your pain. The excruciating torment of knowing Zelda was married to the man that took you away from her, and she was none the wiser. Faustus told you in great detail of the repentance she begged him for, how she cried as he flagellated her, and whispered apologies to you, for failing you. You squeezed your eyes shut now, willing your mind to banish the thoughts.

“What do you mean, Faustus?” There was a fire in Zelda's eyes now, a fury that made you almost pity any person that happened to be on the receiving end.

“H-he took me. Told me you were his. That I was in the way, ruined everything. He told me you married him, that it was his plan all along,” Zelda squeezed your hand, a tear slipping down her cheek, but her eyes were dark now, a storm raging inside them.

“That little bitch. He is going to be in for a world of pain,” She was shaking, so angry you thought she might explode, but she took a deep breath, calming herself and stroking your hair. “Darling, there's something I have to take care of. I’ll be right back,” You nodded, pulling her face to yours and kissing her softly, needing to feel her. It had been so long. “I’m never letting anybody take you away from me again, Y/N. I love you so much,”

“You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?” You couldn’t help but smirk. You weren’t typically a vengeful person, weren’t vindictive, didn’t wish people pain, but this man had destroyed your life, destroyed Zelda's, taken advantage of her in her grief, and although things would be better now, if anyone deserved punishment it was the High Priest.

“No sweetheart, I’m not. But someone is, if he doesn’t pack his bags and leave Greendale immediately,” And Zelda stormed from the room, a fire in her eyes, no doubt readying herself to round up the other Spellmans, and you knew that feisty wife of yours and her family, your family, were a force to be reckoned with, and that they would protect you at all costs now, eliminate the enemy that has taken you from them.

[technicalchaotic]

How about, your Clown ocs, HoM, distracting eachother? :)

[I started this literal years ago and found it in my drafts yesterday. Warnings for: parental death, references to intoxication, references to clowns doing weird things with bones, death and grief.

This takes place maybe a sweep before the start of Hope of Morning, about a sweep after Gamzee was captured. Istmun and Kalton are fantrolls. You can see more of them in Lost and Found by me, and Ain't There, by @kravkalackin ]

I’ve been sitting on this prompt for a month I don’t even fucking know at this point (and you’re deactivated??? noooo) and this is probably not remotely what you were asking for but~ 

You’re focusing on paperwork today. It’s past noon, the numbers swirl in front of you and you have to start the calculations over again, these are supply orders, you have family depending on these. You need to focus. It's important you get this right.

Kalton comes in, of course. 

He looks like shit. Face painted with an unadorned mask for mourning. He’s got something in his hands that makes him shuffle his feet like a scolded wriggler. 

“Kalton.” you sigh, “Brother, I got shit to do, so-” he holds his hands out to you, and you go still. You know what they are, you’ve seen him using those cuffs, or letting them be used on him, the rare times you get yourself to a festival. You know what he likes, he’s not the least bit shy on it, but he knows you too, and he knows better than to ask this of you. “Kalton you know I ain’t-”

“Not like that.” he says, real quiet. “I know, ‘m not gonna ask that shit of you,” he takes a breath that shudders in his throat, “don’t want it like that right now. just.” he’s not looking you in the eye and his fronds tremble where they grip the worn leather of the cuffs. “Make me forget? Just for little?” 

Your heart hurts for the pity of him. Gone is the headstrong smartass that guards the hive like a rabid barkbeast. Gone’s the eternal flirt, and all that’s left is a barely-adult troll who just lost the closest thing he ever had to a lusus. You take his hand and pull the cuffs away from him. 

You set them on the desk and leave them there, pull yourself to your feet. “Not here,” you tell him when he goes to protest. You still have some standards when it comes to what you let your asshole idiot best friend talk you into. “Come on, my block’s not that far.” you tap his hand reprovingly when he reaches for the cuffs again. “nah, bro, leave’m.” His face twists, bitter under the paint, but you know him, and you know his limits, and he needs something more than that, and if you’re being real honest, so do you. 

Your little set of blocks ain’t far from the office you share with Shatterd, (Lord, you ain’t even thought much on Shatterd, and her moirail gone like that and— you’re not thinking on it. Kalton needs you right now, you’re focused on him. You have to focus on him and not anything else.) 

You pull him through the door, past your pile of soft things, holding firm to him when he makes like to stop there. “Trust me, you fucking wreck.” your voice comes out softer than you mean, and woven with pity. 

You don’t use your ablutions block much. Mostly you shower off in the subadult dorms when you’re done training a class, or in the exertion clinic when Kalton drags you out to spar, but you got yourself a nice trap, and the hot water reservoir feeds in here as well as anywhere else, and it’s private, which is the only way you can think you’d ever be undoing your best friend’s armor and letting it slide off like you are, shooshing at him when he makes confused noises. “Trust me?” You ask.

He stares at you wordlessly, eyes wide and terrified, and it almost makes you laugh in the worst way. You’ve seen him tied up, letting one of the Inquisition sisters take a knife to him, but this scares him. This makes him pause. You don’t push. You never push, you don’t dare, but after a long, silent moment, he nods. You give him the best smile you can manage, which isn’t real good, and squeeze his hand before you let go and set the tub to filling as hot as you can stand. you allow yourself a full minute of fussing with scents and oils, gifts you hardly touch mostly, before you make yourself pick something that smells green and alive, and not at all of smoke. 

You set a cloth on the edge of the trap, and a bottle of the light cleansing oil for your face. You pretend you don’t hear the silence behind you. 

You’re not armored. You hardly leave your office, let alone the hive, but you take the time to fold your clothes instead of captchalogging them. By the time everything is ready, the trap is full, and you turn back to Kalton, who is standing, still wide-eyed and staring at you. You hold your hand out. “You can say no.” you tell him, even if you don’t need to. “You can get dressed, and we can go sit in the pile, if you need to.” 

He hesitates, which is almost enough to make you call it off. You almost reach out to wrap him in a towel, go wrap yourself around him in the pile. It would be nice. He would feel better for a little while. But it wouldn't make him forget, and he asked for forgetting.

He takes your hand and steps down into the water.

The scented oils leave a rainbow shine on the surface, below the haze of steam. It's silent in here, other than the water against the lip of the trap. He sinks into the water up to his chin. Your trap is sized for the behemoth you will be someday, if you live long enough, with room for a partner besides. With the two of you just out your first adult molt, there's space enough to stretch your limbs out and not touch the sides if you were so inclined. You sit on the edge and ease Kalton back against your legs.

You start by working your fingers through his hair. He doesn't want to talk, you think. So you go in hard and fast. Your thumbs dig into the flesh of his hornbeds firm and smooth, and he goes limp against you with a noise that makes you blush to hear.

You slip into the water behind him, holding him up so he don't slide in and drown. You keep on his horns, pressing hard enough to ride the edge of pain. You take a breath, letting the heat of the water soak into your bones, and the scent of tree resin and citrus fill your head. There's something extra in that particular oil, you think. Family always trying to get you to relax some.

His body is limp and trusting in your hold, but the physical part of this isn't what has his pan trembling as you relax and let yourself expand beyond the tight-bound knot you keep yourself tied into. You hold him against your chest, hardly minding the nakedness anymore.

Not many trolls take the time to learn this. It's something Shatterd taught you back when she figured you were as best a regular palemate as Kalton was ever gonna get, and you all were sure that he took after Infernal in temperament. Most clowns work in fear only. Few have your delicate touch. You hold him in the jaws of your chucklevoodoo, press him all down into a tight little ball of grief and rage and terror. Fear about what comes next. Anxiety about the war. Terror on how someone so solid and eternal and ageless could just be gone. You twine around the roiling storm of his own power, and you bite. Precise as a scalpel. The part of his pan that holds his fear and grief shudders and writhes for a breath, then goes quiet. You reach for fear with a funny little mental twist, and grasp pleasure, and bless Kalton for being the kind of troll where pleasure and fear live ass-to-cheekbone.

The pleasure you tug to the fore. Kalton whimpers in your arms, a sound not quite unhappy. He's clinging to you, hands wrapped around your elbow, and you let him cling, claws rhythmically gripping and releasing. You pull at his pan again, catching the wispy floating feeling of the something extra that the oil put in the water. You weave it around with pleasure, wrap it with a sharp thrill of fear, and let it go.

You hold him up as he goes limp and floats out into the water. His breathing is shallow and fast, and you can feel the fear seeping through his limbs, but his eyes are open and vacant, and his face is slack and peaceful for the first time since he came home this morning.

You float with him for a while. Until the water begins to cool and you have to decide if you want the heaters on or not. You wash his hair, careful of his face. When the water has taken on enough of a chill to be annoying you herd him out. You can't puppet him in the same crude way as the lower blues, but you can herd him with little shocks and mental nips out of your trap and into a thick towel.

You bundle him into your pile and settle his head in your lap. He comes back while you are carefully squeezing the damp from his hair. It lies in heavy coils around his shoulders now, and you're wondering if you should twist it for him while you're at it. He hasn't had time since you lost Gamzee's whole squad, and you haven't missed he's been less polished since you lost your third yearmate. He blames himself for a whole lot of things as ain't his fault.

"Lv't." He mumbles, batting your fronds away. Loose it is. He comes back slow, and words come nearly last, the few times you've done this for him.

You wait until he blinks. Until pupils contract and expand and focus on your face where you lean over him. Not until he's aware enough to stop you do you catch his chin in gentle fingers, and pour a little cleansing oil on the rag. He doesn't stop you when you press the cool rag to his face. His paint was fresh enough, you could have left it. But he needs to be laid bare and taken down to his core, you think. So piece by piece, with a rag worn old and soft and thin by generations of trolls using it for just this purpose, you strip his face from him.

Beneath the paint he looks young. Afraid. His cheekbones are hollow and sharp from too much exercise and not enough food. You clean the paint from his thin lips. From the proud arch of his nose, the slight crookedness where more than one troll has tried to flatten it for him. You love his face, so you take your time. You press your fingers along the pressure points of his face as you work, and by the time you are done, he's gone again. This time his face is sweeter, eyes half-shut in relaxation. It's a gentler place you've sent him, now. When his face is clean of paint, you slide down and curl yourself around him, drag your heavy blanket over the both of you, the one weighted down with glass and steel beadwork so it presses you both into the pile like the lusus neither of you had. You settle against him, his face tucked against your throat, and pet his hair, and wait.

When you feel his chest hitch, and tears drip against your skin, you stroke the back of his neck and shoosh him softly. "I know, brother, I know."

He cries himself to dry, hiccupping sobs, and then to unconsciousness. When he wakes he looks better. His eyes are still raw and swollen from crying, the set of his mouth is still fragile. But he's not lost and shaken anymore.

"What are we gonna do?" He asks your collarbone.

"There's still wrigglers as need gathering," you say gently, like Shatterd didn't break the news by sending you the promotion paperwork. "I expect they'll need a troll on that as knows the work." You stroke your claws through his hair, careful not to snag his curls. "She wanted to go in the cathedral. New chandelier is what Shatterd said. Someone with good hands oughta shape her." That almost sets him off again, mouth trembling. "If you can't do it-"

"No!" He takes a deep, shuddering breath, "She always said she wanted me to do it. Joking, like. I want to. When the rendering is done. I-" he sets his jaw. "She deserves the best. But I'm all thats left of the lusus clade." He rubs an eye, makes a face. "Gimme paint. 'Nd a mirror." There's a new fire in his eye as you hand him the paintpots and hold your little hand mirror for him. Its not his usual hearts and spades paint. You see a little of Infernal in the inverted darts on his cheekbones, the painted fangs on his lips. He looks himself when he's painted again. Harder, more sure. You can still feel anxiety fluttering in him as you pull your voodoos back into their tidy little knot, but he's steadier now. He can do this.

You pull him down so you can press a kiss to his hair. "She's got the best, she knew that when she asked for you." The smile he gives you is shaky, but solid enough. He's ready. As long as the family sticks together, it'll come out right in the end.

[genyathefirebird]

what it keeps of you

ch3 - The Axe (AKA, clearing out the innumerable valuable-not valuable things she’s accumulated over time in a not-last-will-and-testament kind of way) read on ao3 or below

.

There’s weapons, of course.

In the team's eyes, it seems a shame to get rid of them when they’d launch a thesis or furnish an exhibition corner well, and Andy grudgingly agrees, especially if there's good lighting and the glow strikes off the engraved blades nicely.  

It still feels strange, because they are tools. They were made to be used, and now they were to spend their retirement inside a glass box, or worse, inside locked cupboards away from warm palms to hold them the way they were meant to be.

Nicky helps her pack things up, and casually offers his take on it. “I think, maybe we are hoarders.”

“I think we move about too much to be.”

He brushes the dust off his hands and plops them onto his hips. “Good luck decluttering the Halfeti cave.”

It makes her groan at the thought of it. “Don’t remind me.”

They keep working in silence, until Nicky begins humming a tune under his breath, something he must have heard on the radio earlier, or in the car. Or maybe at the opera a few centuries back. It all blurs together, until last week and last decade could easily be switched for each other in sheer forgetfulness.

They find a pair of fine daggers, boxes full of old guns, broken arrowheads she’s never bothered to sweep up and bin that have now fallen into cracks on the floor and threaten to poke through the soles of unsuspecting trainers.

She comes across a cluster of old arrows wrapped in a burgundy piece of fabric and she vaguely recalls the feel of it against her cheeks, protecting her from the harsh desert sun.

The arrows fall out because although they were bundled together, there's not much of the cloth left. Time had shred it into tatters, and that particular century of her life was more faded and opaque than when Andy had last sat down and recalled it. Memories were fickle creatures, and she'd like to think she can still recall the smell of the desert air before the rain, the feel of her damp clothes as they set up the tents for the caravan, and how she had sat underneath the entrance and kept guard while watching the rain come down.

But she would be a liar if she said she remembered the full memory. Sometimes, all she had was a vague impression, a taste of emotion that lingered if the memory was a particularly strong one; her joy, her melancholy, or her rage.

Even then, there were those she'd rather forget and others which were decidedly too boring to still be carried around inside her brain.  

A thought strikes through the mists of time.

Slowly, Andy lowers down another blunderbuss with scratches all over the handle into the box, not worn from use but from a particularly nasty scuffle that had only ended when she had regained her grip on the trigger and fired it.

When she stands, she teeters on her hesitation, “I have something to ask you.”

“Anything, Andy.”

She smiles at that and leans forward to drop a hand on his shoulder. “Nicky, when I am gone, I want you to do something for me.”

“Anything.” He repeats it solidly, and she loves him all the more for it.

It’s not with the crinkle of grief caught behind his eyes that she sometimes sees Joe trying to banish, or the minute hesitation Nile has before she kicks through doors and draws enemy fire with the acute knowledge that she might take enough bullets to fall and then rise again before making it to cover.

He says it plainly, in the same way she knows asking him this is the right thing to do.

“I want you to offer my axe to Nile. She doesn’t have to take it, not if she doesn’t want to or if she prefers something else. But...just ask her, that if she does want it, I’d be glad.”

And now that she’s said the words, she feels lighter for it.

“Of course, Andy."

They smile at each other for a moment, and just as Nicky turns to pick up another empty box to fill, she hauls him into a hug. He responds in kind with his warm arms around her shoulders and back, and she holds on for a little longer than usual, just because she can.

"Thank you."  

---

When the offer finally reaches Nile's ears, not long after Andy's final death, she nods and says she'll think about it.

And she does, for a long time.

The axe is carried around with them as they move to continue their work, even after a brief discussion on whether to store it safely for the meantime, but in the end it goes where they go, and continues to cross land and sea and air.

It remains sharp, lovingly cared for by four pairs of hands that polish the blade and rewrap the handle as the leather unravels.

Eventually, the morning comes when Nile settles on her decision and takes it into her palms after a brief warm up run down the beach. The safe house they're staying at is a secluded one on a farm at the end of a long country lane. No one would ever see them train in the fields or the barn.

With Joe and Nicky's eyes on her, she rotates her wrists, feels the weight of it and its history in her shoulders. "Andy wielded this, I'm not sure I'll be any good with it, even with the few training sessions she gave me. But I want to try."

Nicky smiles and Joe swipes a hand over his eyes but they both stand with their swords and ready themselves to spar with her.

It is a weapon, after all, and made for one use and one use alone. Nile takes it with her on the next mission and it takes its payment in blood and broken bones. The mission is a success and they walk out with all the stolen children.

At their next safe house, Nile cleans it down and packs it back up for the next mission, and so a little piece of Andy remains within them in each battle.

As the years go on, the axe is passed between them, Booker takes charge of it for a year, hacking through hired mercenaries for warlords, and the blade sings with each blow.

Once, Nicky and Joe trade it off during a drawn-out battle. It passes between them in an elegant dance, until it and their arms seem like extensions of the same body.

But time goes on, and their fighting styles evolve further. Nile picks up newer weapons and circles back to older ones for more nostalgic reasons. The axe is still cleaned and polished, and then hung in their most visited safe house, kept under the most secure locks and keys the modern world has to offer.

When the world seems a little darker from burgeoning wars or tragedies, or they embark on a new grim fight that seeks to eat at the edges of their old souls, Nile makes the journey there and takes down the axe. She carries it on her back into battle with her small family, and the four of them are reminded of the strength and courage of its former owner who spent millennia fighting for the good in the world.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Wait For Me || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @deathduty & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY:  “I don’t know if I can do this. Not if this is who you are going to be. Not if this is what our future has to look like.”

CONTAINS: descriptions and discussions of self-harm, references to suicidal ideation

It was gauche, Deirdre thought now, to come bearing flowers whenever she had something to apologize for. But the flowers were pretty, and rare, and only grew one place in the world---a place Morgan may not ever come to, though Deirdre ached to take her. The fae world she held delicately in her heart wasn’t friendly to outsiders. But it had saved her life, and it had clothed her, and it had given her the strength to come back home to the person her heart belonged to. And She’d make a place for Morgan there. Deirdre wore a stolen sweatshirt, about three sizes too large for her, and shorts that covered nothing. In her crudely bandaged hand she held a bundle of flowers from the mirrored district, some of which were like mirrors themselves with their reflective petals, others as bright and pale as the moon. And a few, from the Lydia tree, striking red against the rest. She groped around the large sweatshirt pocket for her keys only to remember that she’d lost them in the forest--right along with her phone. All she felt there was the crinkle of the articles she cut. And so, she stood awkwardly in front of her own house, like a stranger--a beggar. In the days of her absence, the fog of rage and grief had lifted from her mind, and left behind a hollowed woman. What pieces she needed to pick up, where she went from here, she didn’t know. But one thing had remained true, and she always knew the place to start remembering herself. Deirdre lifted her hand and knocked against the frosted glass of their door. In the cloudy, skewed reflection, she could see a face that hardly looked like her own under all of her injuries. Stiffly, she tried to adjust her damp hair to look more the way Morgan remembered it, even if the ends had been singed in the fire. She was more bandage than skin now, and had about half a dozen jokes about being a mummy she would never say.

Instead she stood there, and waited.

Nothing good knocked on your door in the middle of the night unannounced. After almost forty years grappling with a curse, Morgan knew this better than most. So she held no hope, no illusions of her world getting one stitch better when she opened the door. Then she saw Deirdre, or what was left of her. What precious bits of skin she could see were swollen and streaked all the wrong colors. Blood crusted the edges of her bandages, and in her hand… a fucking bouquet of flowers. Morgan took her in with a long, terrible look; she couldn’t hide how sick, how wrong Deirdre looked with the stain of violence on her in its stiff, crusty, puss tinted glory.

“What the fuck,” she hissed, her voice cracking with sobs. “What the fuck was that? What were you fucking-- What is this fucking bullshit, Deirdre--” Morgan wanted to shake her, scream at her, knock those flowers out of her hand, show her exactly how much of an insult they were. But the woman before her was Deirdre, broken and small and finally home. Morgan shook her head, still burning with rage, and flung her arms around Deirdre and dragged her inside.

Resolve cracked. All the fancy words she drafted in her head on the way back home crumbled against her quivering lips, and Deirdre let loose a volley of apology and sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, my love.” She breathed Morgan in, held her back just as tight, just as desperate. She threw her flowers aside, they were dumb anyways. “It’s the—it’s the way the mirrored district works; it takes time away and I just—“ She trembled against her love, pain flaring in the places she was hardest held, and in the sore muscles that begged for rest—for once. Deirdre ignored it all, eager to be with Morgan again. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “I’ve been so stupid. I’m so sorry. I love you, I love you.” She kicked the door closed urgently with her foot, keeping steady as they backed up blindly into their home. After all this time, after all her thinking, the only thing she could manage now was apology. “I’m sorry.” She pressed her lips firm against Morgan’s skin, peppering her in kisses as she mumbled more sorry’s. “I know it’s not good enough,” she pulled back, “but I am, I am.”

Morgan’s sobs shook her body. This was everything she had craved for weeks, but like some starved human given a five course meal, she was throwing it all back up. Deirdre’s touch burned, her soft voice made Morgan want to scream, and she did: tired and frustrated and bleeding with hurt. “You’re sorry,” she said bitterly, hating how fragile her voice sounded. “Now you’ve decided you’re--” She shook her head, trembling so violently her spine would’ve popped if she were still alive. Deirdre was always sorry. What did sorry mean after six days? “Stupid? Is that the word you--No! It’s not enough!” She pushed one of Deirdre’s hands away, but didn’t move to separate herself. “What were you thinking, what even happened to you, what is this?” She gestured wildly to Deirdre’s latest injuries, her face crumpling as new details caught her eye. Morgan couldn’t help but reach out for her face, even just a little, just enough to brush the patch of bare cheek she could. She shook her head again, uselessly scrubbing her hand over her eyes. “No, why don’t you explain what you’re sorry for now and why you didn’t feel like you could tell me or how I was supposed to know on my own. Tell me. If you are half as sorry as you say you are, you will fucking tell me!”

Deirdre knew now to be less startled by feeling Morgan’s anger against her—it was startling, yes. Something that she never should have let fester to begin with. But it didn’t spark the same bubbling panic it had the first time, or during her moments of immeasurable grief. “I’m sorry…” she mumbled again, face fraught with apology and concern as she looked at Morgan. Her girlfriend lobbied several questions, all good, all she was more than willing to answer. She started with the obvious. “For leaving. For not coming back like I should have. For sending pixies off to deliver you a note. For the way I’ve treated you recently. For the things I’ve done to myself, with no regard for you. For thinking it would have been okay to die on that driveway, for wanting it. For forgetting how much I want this life with you. For not being here to help you too. For running off the first time, and the second time, and this time. For going off and doing these terrible, stupid things, and then leaving you to find out through other people, or not all. I—I’m sorry, Morgan.” Deirdre breathed, eyelids fluttering as she blinked back tears. “I was—I couldn’t contact you, exactly. But I should have come home first, I should have told you. I should have done a lot of things that I can’t change right now, but I’m here, and if you’ll let me...I want to make things right. Please.” She shifted, wondering if Morgan would let her wipe her tears away, and then deciding she would try it anyway. “Do you want to sit, my love?”

Morgan squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t look at Deirdre, so desperate and pleading and soft. It made Morgan want to throw everything from the last two weeks away and forgive her so she could nest in her body. Deirdre wiped her tears and Morgan’s mouth fell in a silent scream. How could she skip to the end of this when she felt as raw and pummeled inside as Deirdre was on the outside? How long did she wait for her before she became pathetic? Morgan hid her face in her hands, nodding. She didn’t want to do anything, exactly, but she couldn’t stay standing in the hall. She stiffened her expression as best she could and led the way to the great room. She sat in the middle of the couch, hugging her knees. “Why should I believe anything you say right now?” She asked, her voice still wet and rasping. “I’m finally worth talking to, but why? Because I don’t understand. I would have done almost anything for you if you had just thought to--” Her voice squeaked with pain again. She shook her head tiredly. “I just don’t understand anything right now. What is this? What’s happening now?”

Deirdre fell beside Morgan, softly as not to disrupt the couch. She hovered anxiously beside her love, unsure how much affection Morgan wanted now, if any. She settled for resting her hand close to her, yearning for her touch. “I don’t know….” she confessed quietly. “I don’t know. And I know you can’t trust me but I can promise it. Everything that I just said, I can say it again as a promise. I mean it. And you don’t have to accept it, my love. I’ll still mean it tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day. I love you, I want our life together—I promise I do. And I’m sorry, I promise I am.” Deirdre breathed shakily, voice quivering. “You’re always worth talking to, you were always, I promise that. I just—I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking right, I guess. Lydia died and in my head I knew everything I had to do. Torture, pain, death...for Lydia’s peace and her justice. I have to do it. But I didn’t want—I didn’t want to bring that to you. You said you didn’t want to be complicit in what Lydia did and I couldn’t make you complicit in my acts. I thought it was right—I was right. I thought a lot of things, I know, but I just didn’t know what to do. I want Lydia back so badly...I want a good death for her, still.” She reached for her girlfriend, hand pressed against her knee. “But then I almost died again, and these fae they—“ She swallowed. “I saw what they did for Lydia. And it was beautiful, and kind and all this pain and anger I have...it hasn’t brought me anything, and it hasn’t brought Lydia back and I haven’t done anything right and I...I’m so tired, Morgan.” Her hand fell down, grasping the air. “What’s happening is that I’ve taken too long to remember what’s important. The thing I’ve always wanted is you, Morgan. And whatever I need to do to bring Lydia peace...I don’t think it means hurting you. I never want to hurt you, not ever. Not for this, not for anything.” She paused. “I’m sorry.”

Morgan slumped as Deirdre made her promises. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t who they were, but Deirdre wasn’t sick or choking on her words. They were true. It didn’t make sense, but she was speaking true. And the choice of what to believe, the woman next to her or the one she remembered, had been taken away. Morgan listened, weeping silently as she did. She understood these words, to an extent. She knew death. She knew loss. She knew bloodlust. (She was still trying to figure out what to do with her own.) And she knew that some pains demanded to take rule. But-- “But you did...” She said faintly. “You hurt me. And you never told me what I was doing wrong. You said I didn’t do anything but you wouldn’t even let me touch you at night towards the end, and then you just vanished! And then that...that note, that didn’t...what was I supposed to do?” She shuddered, whimpering. “I didn’t even do that to you when I died. I came back to you. I always came back. And I know you needed me, and she meant so much more to you than me, and I tried, I swear I tried. I wanted to be here for you! But you wouldn’t talk and I couldn’t do anything…” Morgan clutched Deirdre’s sweatshirt and tried to curl up tighter against herself.

“Because you haven’t done anything wrong. You hadn’t. I promise. I—“ Deirdre grimaced, memory slotting into place. “I didn’t want you to see…” she admitted, small and broken. But she could show Morgan now, not because she had grown any less embarrassed, but because she remembered sharing herself with Morgan was a safe thing to do. And it was the least she could do now. “Hey…” When she peeled Morgan off of her now, she offered explanation. “I need to take off my sweatshirt, okay? I’ll show you. I just need to take it off.” And she pulled up the fabric, wiggling out of its cotton hold until her body was bare and open. Crudely done bandages wrapped around her abdomen, covering the iron stab wound that would’ve claimed her life, if Athena had been any less arrogant. But she gestured to the bandages around her back that wrapped around her arms and chest as the pixies found it hard to secure. They weren’t expert medics by any stretch, but they never questioned her. It was simply what fae did for each other. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Morgan. I didn’t know how to say anything, I…” She trailed off, bitting down on her lip. “I’m sorry about the note, about whatever the pixies wrote. I should have just done it myself. I should’ve.” She sighed, and motioned that she was going to turn around now. Finally, with her back to Morgan, she looked over her shoulder and nodded. “You can take those off...I think all of these need to be changed anyway. But that’s—I was just trying to—“ Deirdre sighed. “I was scared, I suppose. I was hiding.” And underneath the bandages, she’d find the marks of a woman who had tried to seek repentance in an old technique yet found none. Where she couldn’t use her words, it was easy to turn to violence, even if that violence had to be leveled against herself. “I didn’t know what to say.”

Morgan searched Deirdre’s eyes as she spoke, desperate for some deeper affirmation. Are you sure I didn’t do anything? Are you sure I wasn’t being punished? But she had asked, Deirdre had promised, and what else could she plead for? Morgan squeezed Deirdre’s fingers as she stood. She couldn’t stifle her gasp as she saw how thoroughly wrapped in bandages her body was. Morgan meekly stood and undid the knots and unwrapped the bandages. The first few layers came off with ease, but as she got closer to Deirdre’s skin, the color grew brown, then red. There was a sucking sound as Morgan eased off the last layer, whispering, “I’m sorry, I can… I-I can…” Still half in the nightmare version of their relationship, she fumbled for the words that had been slapped out of her hands the most : help, heal, fix, soothe. But then she saw the ruin of Deirdre’s back and there was nothing left to say. Streaks of red sores crosshatched over each other so thick they swelled together in bloody spots in some places. Blood eeked out where the bandages had stuck. Morgan was silent for what felt like a long time, then at last managed, “May I get the first aid tub for you? I’d like to... you need to have these touched up for them to heal right, and you shouldn’t do them by yourself.” She stepped to the side and met Deirdre’s eyes sadly. They hadn’t solved anything yet, and she had more questions, but this much could be simple for them.

Though largely unaffected by the cold, Deirdre shivered. It was humiliating in a terrible way, but then, she supposed she ought to feel it. It was stupid in a thousand more; the desperation of a fraught woman. The only thing her pain had really done was change her body into one she hardly recognized. Deirdre looked up at Morgan, hoping to explain herself, somehow, not that there was much to explain. Instead she found her asking to get their first aid tub, and she shifted in her seat. “Are you sure you—“ she swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, that’s okay. That’s fine, if you want to. You know you don’t have to, right? But yeah, it’s fine. More than. Um—“ In truth, she hadn’t wanted Morgan to leave, some part of her worried she wouldn’t come back. But Deirdre trusted and she nodded, and she hoped they’d be able to get to the thing she actually wanted to confess sometime before it was too late—though it always was too late, wasn’t it? “I’ll be here.”

Morgan held up a finger for enough. “Of the two of us, I’m not the one who’s found ways around honesty,” she said, a solemn statement of fact. “I want this. Thank you.”

It was a while before Morgan padded back to Deirdre’s side. She set everything down in a daze and gave her back another look, still struggling to process the violence on display. “I am going to be as gentle as I know how to be,” she mumbled. “But if anything hurts worse, you need to let me know.” She frowned, fighting the urge to kiss Deirdre’s shoulder with comfort and went to work. Her hands tingled. They seemed to crave giving the tenderness they were finally allowed just as badly as the rest of Morgan craved receiving it. She made tender caresses on the brown, ridge lined scar tissue of Deirdre’s old wounds. She was so soft the movements were discernible to her only by her eyes. After over a week of loneliness, there was novelty in care this exacting and relief in the concentration it required too.

“Of course I hate seeing you hurt,” she said softly into the quiet. “And this is...incredibly extreme. I know what fae funerals ask of you, but there are at least two different occurrences on your back. I’d like the story when you’re ready for it, but this feels like you went back for more just because it’s something you could do.” She continued in quiet, then, “It’s not like I don’t know you sometimes turn to self harm when you’re destabilized. You could just have said. I don’t want this for you, even now, but I’m not going to judge you for it. Just, please stop, my—” Morgan stumbled over the endearment that usually fell from her so easily. It would not come. She sighed, her gentle voice turning tired. “Please. Try your best not to anymore.” She applied salve to the cuts, then a fresh roll of bandages. “You still haven’t said what it is you’ve done. You didn’t do all of this to yourself—“ She came around briefly to look at Deirdre as she wrapped up her body again and gestured with her eyes to the rest of her injuries. “I need to hear what happened. All of it.”

Deirdre frowned, feeling the truth and harshness of Morgan’s statements—and silences—worse than any pain she had put on herself. Even now, she lacked the language to explain the thoughts in her head, the grief in her body—the intensity of it. But she would try. “Six,” she corrected. “Six times, I believe. From what I could remember. You see my family...as a way to...it just—“ She hissed, not from pain—Morgan was unbelievably gentle with her—but from trying to pick apart the things her family told her to make violence okay, an unbiased fact. “Atonement...is not found the way I used to think it was. But it was familiar, and for a moment, it felt like the right thing to do. I didn’t know how to tell you how much pain I was in but this is….I don’t know,” she sighed. “I suppose you know now.” Deirdre slumped, weighed by fatigue, guilt and remorse. She pulled at the bandages on her wrists; iron burns. Her only thought was that Athena could have done much worse, and that she probably should’ve. She reached down and picked one of the articles out of her sweatshirt pocket. Amanda’s face, smiling in black and white, stared back at her. She placed the clipping on the table. “The girl who killed…” she closed her eyes. “The warden who tortured Lydia was close to this girl. Like sisters, in a way.” She opened them and stared down at the headline. This was only the clipping from her disappearance, old now, she wasn’t sure if her murder had been reported. “I wanted the warden to feel pain, like I have. But she—“ she tapped Amanda’s face. “—was innocent, truly. And young. And against everything I believe...I killed her. I needed information from the warden, I needed...Fates, I don’t even know. But I killed her and she didn’t have a thing to do with it.” She reached down and pulled out two more clippings of missing people; Roger Johnston and Joseph Wood. Names she had to hunt down in her memory, faces she had to fight to remember as they were and not as she’d made them. “Those men too. For no purpose, in fact, not even to terrorize someone else. Just because I could...just because it hurt.” she turned back to her injuries, which seemed like too little now. “The warden did this. I’m alive only because she wanted me to feel pain too. That’s the cycle we’re stuck in...pain begets pain. I felt so much of it—I feel so much of it—I don’t know where it goes. But not there, not on them. And not on me...but then where else?”

Morgan finished wrapping up Deirdre’s back and clipped them in place. She couldn’t help but brush her fingers over the spot and down her arm. She’d done a good job, worth affirming, and Deirdre’s body seemed to beg for comfort. “Sometimes the worst things we can do are ones that are most familiar,” she whispered. “But you can’t stay in that place, Deirdre…”

And then Deirdre explained how she had earned her injuries. Truly earned by the bloodsport rules of their world. Morgan dropped her hand and took the clipping, eyes wide with horror. The girl was young, practically Ariana’s age. She crunched it in her fist. “There really is nothing you won’t do,” she whispered. “She didn’t even know Lydia--none of them knew her, or so much as heard of her, much less had anything to do with what happened--and you destroyed them. Not even for fate, or for her. Just you. And I used to think you had more principles than me.” She looked away from Deirdre then, over at the walls where their skeleton paintings hung, the floor where the book of Mary Oliver poetry had fallen, the windows repaired and braced against their trauma, the snow globe (now just a tiny sculpture on a pedestal, without its glass dome) of a winter cemetery, a hope of a future that seemed to disintegrate the more Morgan watched it. “You know, that would’ve been a great question to ask the person breaking herself to try and help you. Before you destroyed yourself and everything you supposedly stand for. That would’ve been something great to figure out together.” She let out a long, shaky breath and shut her eyes. She couldn’t sit in their home and watch the life that had made her into a person again color with pain.

“I need you to swear to me that you understand that you are loved. Even now, you are loved. And none of this was necessary. You are the one who did this, to yourself and to us. You were loved through all of this mess, and a single word from you to clue me in could’ve made it stop. You are so loved, Deirdre,” she whispered, tears creeping over her lashes again. “But I don’t know if I can do this. Not if this is who you are going to be. Not if this is what our future has to look like. I don’t think I’d survive it.”

Deirdre closed her eyes, curling into herself. In her mind swirled a thousand explanations about the rules of the fae; how revenge worked. It didn’t matter what humans were trampled on the way, it didn’t matter how young they were. Lydia would understand, because Lydia was a fae just like her. But Lydia wasn’t here. “The warden took someone from me, I took someone from her. I should have killed her but I wanted pain…” she mumbled to herself, not offering her words as an explanation, but a trickled thought. She turned, and planted her feet on the ground, resting her arms on her legs. “It all seemed so clear at the time, all the things I needed to do, terrible as they were. Everything I was taught,” she sighed, shaking her head and pushing her inadequate explanation away. She couldn’t meet Morgan’s eyes, though she didn’t imagine Morgan was looking at her anyway. She knew what this house looked like before, like the set to someone’s life, but not hers. It was a home now, and she seemed to keep ruining it. “It would’ve,” she agreed, “in some other world, maybe I would have been smart enough to ask it sooner.”

The words that came from Morgan next were no surprise, she had imagined them on her way here. She had feared them. What would I do, she asked herself, if it was what Morgan wanted? She looked up and remembered the empty that her house once was, not a single book or decoration she cared about. No gifts, no cat tree in the corner. “If it’s what you want…” she began, “...then I won’t stop you. And I understand, I do, if it is. Because I love you too, Morgan.” She swallowed and turned to her girlfriend. “But I’m not giving up. When I said I wanted to be a better person, I meant it. When I said cruelty wasn’t a thing I wanted in our lives either, I meant that too. What I’ve done was wrong, and it’s not what I want. It’s never been what I’ve wanted. Because I am tired of it Morgan, these cycles of pain. I don’t want them anymore. I don’t want to hurt people like this. Not without cause, not like...not like their lives don’t mean anything. I don’t want that.” Deirdre tensed, though the desire to turn away flared up in her twisting stomach, she continued to look, determined. “But I do what I have to...sometimes. And most of the time I don’t understand what it is I have to do. I promise you that I will try, because that is what I want. But I can’t say this will never happen again, because I don’t know. My duty is to the greater good and I don’t—“ she swallowed. “No, there’s no greater good that involves death like that; senseless. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t know. If trying my best sounds good enough to you, stay and I will give you everything I can. But if it doesn’t….then please, let me take my things out. You should have the house, it suits you. I can stay somewhere else.” She finally broke her gaze, unable to find resolve or foothold in the idea of leaving Morgan. She didn’t want it, she would have done just about anything to avoid it...but lying was not something she could do to Morgan. She could not make guarantees where there were none. “We’ll—“ her voice cracked. “—f-figure something out about the cats. If you...think it’s the best thing for you. I want your future to be good, Morgan. The best it can be.”

For the first time since Lydia’s death it wasn’t the world that cracked in two, but Morgan. Part of her still bled inside, hurt and twisted and needing validation as much as a way to punish Deirdre until things felt fair. Another burned to sweep Deirdre into her arms saying, okay, okay, we’ll be okay. She looked at her sidelong, taking in her familiarity: her sad brown eyes, her trembling lips, her earnest voice, pieces of a woman Morgan didn’t want to do without. But she had looked that way before, and then she’d done this. Morgan continued to watch her and continued to think. There was no way to guess what circumstances they would be faced with, what they would be pushed to consider. Deirdre was offering so many promises, but they brought so little comfort in return. How was she supposed to do this, knowing this woman could drop her and run? And yet…

“If we do this…” she said slowly, reaching halfway for Deirdre’s hand.“If we do this, we have to be different people. Being like this, treating me like this cannot be our normal. You need to tell me things even if it hurts. Before you get yourself into some deadly mess. I get wishing you could join the dead better than most. But I cannot watch you destroy yourself. This needs to stop. And however rare your connection to Lydia was, we are supposed to have long lives. We need something better than this for our grief.” She shifted her body, angling toward Deirdre. “And we can’t pop back into what old shapes we had. I know...there was a time when you were all I had to cling to in this world. You told me it was okay if I made you my sole anchor. And I was scared because it seemed unfair to put that weight on you. You already have so much to carry. But I did it. And because of that decision I am still a recognizable version of myself at all. But what I didn’t reckon on was…building my existence entirely on you meant that whenever you break or leave me, I beak too. Every moment since you sprinted out of our home and practically died in my arms on our driveway has destroyed me. I am nothing without you, the way we’ve been doing this. And that is not fair. And it is not right. I need to do that much differently, for myself, and for us too. We can’t destroy each other so fast with our mistakes. You’ve done a lot, and I think even the strongest version of myself would be wrecked by now, but I fell apart so fast, and I’m still really broken...” Morgan’s voice broke as she remembered screaming and wailing in Lydia’s bedroom. She shuddered, shrinking in on herself. “And, I don’t know, maybe if I was different, some of what happened could have been different too. Does that make sense, what I’m saying?”

Deirdre’s gaze fell, her eyes stuck on Morgan’s hand. Her own fingers twitched. She stared, wondering if it would be okay. She remained silent for a moment before she met Morgan’s hand the rest of the way, held firm in her grip. She looked up. “I think it makes sense. It feels like it does.” She drew her lip in, scraping it across her teeth. She would’ve liked to imagine that she could carry Morgan on her own, but it was true that her own stability had been threatened. She didn’t know who she was, and she couldn’t ask someone to depend on an identity that she wasn’t certain of. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do it, Morgan. I never thought…” She sighed her words away and slumped. “I wanted to be enough. For someone.” Deirdre turned towards Morgan, running her fingers along the fabric of their couch, the same motions of comfort she normally shared with Morgan. “I can do that. I can do better.” But she didn’t have anything better to build her life on; her duty was a demanding thing, the fae had rules that often created more ruin than she wanted. Morgan was her shred of happiness, and she couldn’t imagine finding that any place else. She couldn’t even imagine where to start looking. “Can I--can we hold each other? Can we be doing that now?” Her voice was a soft plea as she gulped the rest of her anxiety down. “It’s just--It’s been so long. I’ve missed you, so much.”  

“It’s not about being enough,” Morgan said quietly. “I need some-thing, stars only know whatever that is. And you are someone. My most important someone, whatever else happens. The someone who made me as alive as I’m ever going to be. It’s just different.” She let the thought sit between them and hoped it stuck. She wasn’t sure if she had enough of herself left to try explaining it another way. She ached like her bones were just waiting to turn into putty, and her mind, tortured by its restless shamble from one thought to the next, deflated.

At Deirdre’s question, Morgan slumped, shaking as a sob broke free. “Yes,” she said, her voice whistling shrill. “Yes, please. Please...” She didn’t reach for Deirdre so much as she tipped over and fell against her. Whatever resolve or pride she had left washed away in the tide her tears had unlocked. She clung to Deirdre, careless and full of need. Morgan nuzzled into the crook of her neck and remained there, crying, until new words floated up and cracked through her throat. “I need to release you from the promises you’ve made tonight. I’ve already lost track of them and I don’t want you to be forced into being here.” She hiccuped a cry. “But I do need some, until I figure out how to trust you again. I need something until I’m a whole person again. I still need you…”

“I am a thin-ermng--” Deirdre mumbled, having just enough sense to realize what Morgan was trying to say, and how her self-deprecating thoughts didn’t play a role. She coughed. “I understand. That isn’t going to stop me from wishing I could be, though. I want the best for you, whatever I can offer and whatever I can learn to....You wouldn’t ask me to be something, I know, but I’m saying I would.” As silence drifted over them, Deirdre’s body began to quiver and her face contorted. She erupted in laughter, head raised to the ceiling. “Oh, Fates, that doesn’t sound romantic at all! That just sounds terrible.” She wiped away a tear, bubbling with a smile. Though the amusement was short lived, she offered the grin to Morgan, pulling her love tight into her arms. “I’ve forgotten them too, actually,” she chuckled softly, trying to hold Morgan as tightly as she could, with all the longing of the days she’d neglected. “But I’d be alright with that, all of it.” Working for Morgan’s trust again wasn’t as heartbreaking as she thought it might sound--to have lost it was terrible, was something she hurt for--but to work to love Morgan didn’t sound awful at all. She already did, and finding better ways to love was her honor and privilege. Horrible as it felt to have treated Morgan so poorly, loving her was no task at all---it was a matter of course. “I can work with that,” she smiled softly, “and that’s okay, whatever you need. I can do that. What do you want me to promise? I can do that now, put your heart at ease….I’d like to.”  

“I—release you—“ Morgan gasped, mumbling the words into her skin. “From every promise you’ve made tonight. I relinquish you.”

Time turned slippery as she cried, carried off by the current of her tears. After a while it wasn’t even one particular memory she was agonizing over, so much as her pain itself. Maybe if she screamed louder, it would spend itself, and the throbbing would end and her bones would settle. Maybe...

When she could speak more or less without gasping for air, Morgan said, “Will you promise you won’t leave me tomorrow like you have before? And promise you won’t hurt yourself on purpose until your body’s been completely healed for a week. Promise...p-promise me I’m safe with you. For tonight, for tomorrow.” She shivered and dug into Deirdre tighter. “I’m so scared,” she explained in a whisper. “I keep thinking the phone’s going to ring and you’ll throw me away and I won’t know how to get up this time. If nothing else, I need to know I’m safe here, like this, however we are, through tomorrow.”

For all the times Deirdre had held Morgan in her arms, there’d never been a moment so clouded by her own mistakes. Even the times before they started dating, sprung apart by Deirdre’s fear, it hadn’t felt so different. All Morgan wanted was to be with her, and though Deirdre wanted the same, she kept finding some way to twist it. She could’ve promised herself to Morgan for the rest of time and thought nothing of it, she could have sworn to stop tearing them apart. But these promises, just for tonight and tomorrow, were hopelessly Morgan—and heartbreakingly earnest. “I promise I won’t leave you, like I have been, tomorrow. I promise I won’t physically hurt myself on purpose until my current injuries have been healed for a week.” Deirdre shifted their bodies, just enough so she could look at Morgan. “I promise you’re safe with me, today, tomorrow…” she swallowed. The desire to say she would be safe everyday was strong, though it wasn’t what Morgan had asked—and it wasn’t something her girlfriend would feel comfortable holding in the form of a binding contract. Deirdre didn’t think it lessened the truth of her words though, even if she couldn’t say it. “Hey,” she cooed, momentarily lifting her hand away from holding Morgan to cup her face instead. “I lost my phone so you don’t have to worry about that part but how about this?” Deirdre smiled warmly, “I promise I won’t abruptly leave your side without telling you where I’m going.” She pulled her hand away, wrapping it back around her love. “I know that one’s a little bigger…” she leaned in and pressed her lips to Morgan’s forehead. “But you can let that go when you feel like you can trust me again. Until then, for as long as you need it, you can keep that. And anything else you want me to promise now.” She smiled again; promises could be dangerous for a fae, deadly even. But she didn’t imagine these would be hard to keep, or something she’d ever break. It was fine, and even if it wasn’t, she imagined that they’d figure it out. “Is that okay? You can ask for more, my love.”

Morgan whimpered as Deirdre shifted to lift her head. The vulnerability her softness inspired frightened her. Her urge to surrender was almost instantaneous, she barely knew how to keep from hurling herself into this woman, so comforting and painfully familiar. Morgan’s eyes pleaded with hers as they met, clinging to the words spoken and unspoken. Today, tomorrow, and every day thereafter. They couldn’t dare, even if whatever punishment fae magic might devise felt fair in this moment. But it was tempting, more than it had ever been before.

She was awed by the promise Deirdre volunteered. It was so kind, a gentle salve over one of the worst wounds on her heart. She itched to touch her face, to kiss her, and only just held back. “You don’t have to say where,” Morgan whispered. “I know sometimes you need to be away from me, or you don’t know where you’re off to. You can just say why, if that’s better. Either.” She hesitated, searching for any sign of reluctance in Deirdre’s expression, something to keep her back from hope. But there was only her tenderness, only her affection. “Thank you,” Morgan said, mouthing the words more than speaking them. She pressed her face back to Deirdre’s. She had almost forgotten the way her lips brushed so faintly against her skin and how much it felt like love. “Maybe after tomorrow,” she admitted. “We’ll have to see. But there are...I need to know some things, before I get too comfortable too fast. Even if I just want to lay down with you holding me...” If the universe was still in her, she would have reached for it for strength. But there was only herself and her want. Anything more would have to come later. “If I put you on my insurance, would you try therapy? I know we can’t talk about everything, but even just for methods around your self harm, or your idea of yourself, or us. I need to know if you would.” Morgan swallowed thickly. “I need to know if there’s anything else you’re keeping back from me. Because I can’t take more surprises right now, I need all of it, whatever’s left. And I know I can’t make you swear never to do this to me again, but you need to know there’s every chance we won’t make it if you do. I don’t even know if we’ll make it right now, but If you don’t let me stop you, if you don’t let me in enough to even try next time, we’re not going to get years you say you want. And I need...stars, I don’t even know. It feels like so much but I’m so tired… I wish I could sleep, I’m so tired.” She shuddered and clung that much tighter to Deirdre. “Tell me you love me again. Tell me it wasn’t my fault…”

“I don’t particularly think I’d ever want to be away from you…” Deirdre whispered with the same reverence as a promise. It wasn’t want that ever separated her from Morgan, though she knew she’d shattered her girlfriend’s trust. “Then: I promise I will never leave your side abruptly without telling you why and/or where I’m going.” She pressed her forehead against Morgan’s, slow and careful, offering just enough time for her to move away. It had been so long since they held each other, even longer since they’d kissed. But she didn’t dare close space between them as she once had; Morgan said it would be different, and while she learned just how different, Deirdre wanted to respect it. But even for all of the respect she wanted to summon, she couldn’t help the grimace that flickered across her face at the mention of therapy. The fae had their version of therapy, it involved mushrooms and torture, usually. “I went to therapy...actually. Group therapy, if you can call it that. It was…” she sighed; it was helpful, in a strange way. “Are you sure you want me on your insurance? I—well, you know money isn’t an issue for me...the only thing that would do is….well, it would be a commitment. Is that—are you okay with that?” Deirdre shifted, which in her position, amounted to wiggling stiffly. “I could go...yeah. I don’t know how much I could tell a therapist….I don’t know if they understand ancient banshee religious practices. But I would; I would go. If it would help, I’d do it.” And while the imagined embarrassment of having to sit across from a human and tell them all about how much she hated herself was a strange, stabbing kind of pain, it felt more like a step to her. She had tried being better on her own. She had tried it with Morgan’s help. If she could push her own pride aside and try it a little differently, maybe it would stick this time. “I….” Deirdre swallowed. “I’m sorry again, Morgan. And thank you...for letting me try. I love you. Everything that’s happened, the way that I’ve treated you, that wasn’t your fault. None of it has ever been your fault. I love you, I love you so much.”

Morgan soaked up the pressure of Deirdre’s forehead like fresh water. She still felt right. It was almost galling how much she could do and still feel so right. “You...what?” She asked, almost laughing with surprise. “When? Did you--group? Really?” Deirdre didn’t really strike her as the ‘play nice with others’ type. “Would you want to go again?” At the timid mention of commitment, Morgan rolled her eyes with a sigh. “I just mean--the American healthcare system makes enough money off of people without you paying out of pocket, first of all. And obviously someone supernatural would be ideal, maybe through some telehealth service since we probably won’t get lucky looking local, but for now, with what you feel able to talk about, I think it would be ideal. And…” She sighed stiffly. “Even if this didn’t work, I would want to help you. Do something for you. I’d want you to be happy and okay. So...it’s okay. No matter what happens, it’s okay. I’ll do this.” She offered a thin, sad smile, still in the process of reconciling the fact of her devotion with what they could make work in the wake of their mess.

Morgan sank back down against Deirdre’s chest as she made her assurances, sniffling quietly and nodding along. The thought of blame was the hardest to rewrite, and even as she felt the calm of Deirdre’s chest against her ear (no tensing, no gurgling, nothing that felt like a swallowed lie), she tried to replay their interactions and comb them for mistakes she could fix the next time around: when she’d gotten short and frustrated, when she fell to pieces, when she surrendered to Deirdre’s wishes after the first rebuff instead of the third. Maybe it was just that hard, admitting how helpless she’d been.

“It was...a thing for fae who don’t want to hurt humans anymore. They said…” Deirdre swallowed thickly, trying to shrug. “I think I’ll go again. They said they’d have pie for me this time. They only had donuts...which kind of suck as far as dessert foods go.” The food wasn’t the point, obviously, but as Deirdre navigated her own comfort with speaking of the topic, she found herself latching on to what was easiest to talk about; the food, the shitty chairs, the weirdly specific posters. “It felt nice,” she said eventually, “to talk to people like that. I kept thinking they would start laughing at me but they never did.” Deirdre shifted again, as if getting a better position on the couch would magically make talking about her feelings easier. She waited for her mother to materialize and chastise her for her behaviour, to say this was all some elaborate test and she failed terribly—there was always a breath held in anticipation for it every time she spoke of something forbidden. “I don’t think me not paying for therapy is going to ‘stick it’ to the American healthcare system.” She tried to laugh, but the sound came out as a shaky exhale. “If—if this doesn’t work out—which is…” A terrible thought to have. Exactly what ninety percent of her nightmares were filled with. The last thing she ever wanted to think about and even as someone who adored argument, it was a thought she felt horrified to entertain. “...a hypothetical I don’t enjoy considering. I don’t want to make anything harder for you. If it does...I can promise you I will continue to attend therapy, and you don’t need to have me stuck on your insurance. You could….save that for someone else, I suppose.” Or something. Deirdre didn’t want to speak more of it than she had to, but her mind had already worked out the logical steps they needed to take. Morgan would get the house, because she’d always wanted one; everything inside the house would be hers, save for Deirdre’s clothing and personal belongings; and Deirdre would continue to provide financial support, until the day she couldn’t. The only thing she hadn’t figured out was the cats, but every time she tried, her body was seized by sadness. And so, she left that one in the hypothetical space.

There were more important problems to solve, anyway. Like what to say now, if she needed to or could do more, what things had she forgotten to apologize for? It was a long list, when she’d taken mental stock of it, and she felt like she only spoke a fraction. But time, she realized, was what she had to leave the Fate of her most precious relationship to. She couldn’t force Morgan to love her like she had before right now, right away. She couldn’t soothe every issue with some promises just at once, like she hadn’t been gone for days. “Can I kiss you?” She asked quietly, blurted out as her mind drifted. “I know it’s been a while and I know I don’t—it’s okay if you don’t want me to. I understand, I can wait for...whenever you’re ready for that again. I just...thought I’d ask.” She flushed with guilt and embarrassment. “It’s fine if—you can just forget I asked. I’m sorry.”

Morgan couldn’t help the watery smile that spread over her as Deirdre explained where she had been. “You have a fae support group...?” She said faintly. For the first time this night, her voice lilted up with hope. She lifted her fingertips to tenderly brush along Deirdre’s cheek. The faeness of the group made the strange parts fit together, why Deirdre felt comfortable speaking at all, why she took the idea seriously in the first place. And it was why Morgan thought it might stick. Deirdre had a community. Maybe not a banshee community, but one who knew what it was like to be raised similarly, where wings mattered more than hearts. “That’s incredible. You should go, as much as you can. I’m so proud of you, for doing this for yourself.” She kept stroking her face, moving down to her jaw, as she thought about the rest of what Deirdre said. The habit was so compelling, she didn’t want to stop.

“I don’t want to think about there being someone else,” she admitted. “I don’t want someone else. I just…” Say these things to protect myself. Remind myself the woman who hurt me looked just like you. She grimaced, hoping that by process of elimination, Deirdre would understand. “We don’t have to keep talking about this in those terms, though. We shouldn’t. I don’t want to manifest that world. I want…” What she most wanted was for all of this to have never happened in the first place. She couldn’t quite visualize the steps between where she was and where the life she still desperately craved lay ahead of her: happy, vibrant, stable, and pledged to Deirdre. It was painfully ironic. Her whole life she hadn’t even dared to imagine that she could have anything so long lasting as to imagine stability. Having something good for a time, a year at most, was as promising as her reality got. And now that she could almost taste that new, better life, her foundations were in shambles. “...I want…” Morgan hesitated. Deirdre promised I’m safe. She promised she won’t leave. She promised, she promised… “I want this to stop hurting. I want us to be together without it being scary or hurting. I want to be able to hear you tell me something without having to question it. I want ‘us’ to mean something again.”

At Deirdre’s question, and the volley of insecure backpedals and qualifications that followed it, Morgan sat up in her lap. She looked long into Deirdre’s eyes, frowning with heartache at the swelling around one of them. These eyes knew her, understood her, pleaded with her. Even loved her. Morgan brushed back her hair, greasy and tangled. It was as though her grief had torn itself out of her heart and onto her skin. And somehow in the middle of that anguish, she’d had enough sense to try something more for herself. Her poor banshee was so strong. Even if her heart was stronger than she realized, it wasn’t used to carrying so much love or bearing the cost of it. Morgan’s lips trembled as she smiled sadly, then she reached up and cupped her face as gently as she could. “I love you. And I need some time. But you can have this--” She kissed Deirdre, tender, chaste and lingering. She parted, meaning to leave it at that, but the touch had only been a ghost of contact and that faint cotton tingle that was as close to softness as she would ever feel only made her body ache for what it had missed for so long. Morgan met Deirdre’s eyes. If she gave anything more, the promises for tomorrow would mean nothing. Her heart would be sunken too deep and it would be so much harder to pull back if they fell apart too quickly. She didn’t even know what she would supplement Deirdre’s place in her life with. The only thing clear was her want, however terrifying, however unwise. Please help me, her eyes said. Please. “A-and...and now you can kiss me back. Just once.” She whispered.

“It’s not a fae support group...it’s a murder support group...in which we’re all fae.” But the more Deirdre talked about it, the more ridiculous it sounded. it sounded stupid when Sundew took her, it sounded stupid while she was there, and it probably would have sounded stupid to her mother. Did that make it good or bad? As she listened to the hopeful turn in Morgan’s voice, trying not to shiver under her feather-touch, she thought it might have been good. It might have been okay. But she closed her eyes, and there was everything else, everyone else. The idea of a fae that felt bad about killing a human was ludicrous. As a child, every sentence she uttered ended with a glance at her mother. She waited for the hum of approval, the hiss of disapproval; the direction she needed to steer herself. Morgan thought it was good, and Deirdre did too, but when left on her own, would she still look for her mother’s eyes? “They meet often...I can—I suppose I’ll join them.” She lowered her head, Morgan’s pride was not as intoxicating an incentive as her mother’s, but it was gentler. Embarrassingly so. It was the warmth it blossomed, the stirrings of tender thought—her self-worth did not conflate, but it fluttered. Like wings in her chest, waiting for the right breeze to carry them off.

“I don’t want to either. But it’s—maybe it’s something we need a plan for too? To make it less—“ scary? It would always be scary. Terrible? The terribleness of it would not lessen with carefully considered steps. “—I don’t know,” she confessed. “I just thought I was being considerate, by offering. I can barely think about it. I don’t want to.” It occurred to her then that it would’ve been better to discuss a plan for staying together rather than parting. It was better to think about on all accounts, and more important. Those were steps she’d much rather lay out in her head, but they didn’t have easy answers—the solution was subject to the strange, volatile factor of time. “I’m sorry…” she said quietly in a moment, shifting closer to Morgan. “...that I ruined that. But I want us too, I want you to trust me again too, and I’ll work for it—I will.” She bit back a promise, though she would have offered them all out if she thought it would help. What good was a power like that, if she couldn’t even use it to properly explain to the woman she loved just how devoted she was? She was tired of saying she could promise things, if Morgan suddenly turned into such a creature that would bind Deirdre to her; she could do it. She wanted to just do it. But time—terrible, slow and inconsiderate—stood between her. She’d have to wait, for however long it would take. Each second, each hour, day or year—she would wait. “I am yours,” she sighed, “always.”

And she realized her mistake then, in asking for a kiss. Even when she could give them freely—a privilege she would remember to cherish—they were never enough. Too short. Too soft. Too hard, this time. Not right, that time. They were her favorite inadequacy; time after time she could try to get them perfect. Not enough love. Too much. She should hold Morgan tighter. She should kiss her longer. She never felt horrible for falling short, it was just a matter of trying again and again—some were good, some were great, some so instinctual she forgot them (those too, had their merits, she could kiss Morgan again, carrying the value of two kisses). But they were all strung together by a common thread; that she wanted more. Morgan parted from her and Deirdre chased her for the centimetres between—too soft, too short, not enough, come back. But this one could not be fixed with another, or another after that one. And Deirdre blinked, trying to reign her longing to no avail. She wasn’t so sure if she was looking at her desires in Morgan’s eyes, or Morgan’s own staring back at her. But she was such a terrible fool to think she could look at her, drink her in, and want just one kiss. The furrow of her brow alone demanded twenty. And her eyes—big, beautiful, blue—she wouldn’t even start to count how many they’d get in their name. Just once, Morgan urged her, and altogether, Deirdre crumbled. She pushed herself up, meeting Morgan’s eyes. She leaned in slowly, plagued by quivering breath. She held herself those missing centimetres away from Morgan, thinking there was something to savour in the lingering. But as she brushed her lips against Morgan’s, gentle even to her senses, she couldn’t kiss her. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled there, voice heavy with longing. “I can’t kiss you. Not just once. I can’t do that. Not in...any way that won’t be worse for us.” She pulled back, meeting Morgan’s gaze. “I want you, Morgan. Not just once.” She dropped her head, ashamed by her own dramatics—by the ferocity of her love and affection, and all that it wanted. Her mind was still reaching for Morgan, her body trembled with the need to; it had been so long since she had to stop herself from offering affection, she’d forgotten what agony it was. She lifted her head. “I can’t help you,” she said, “I can’t not want you enough to just—“ She swallowed. “I’m sorry. Not just once. I can’t do it once.” Deirdre brought her fingers to her lips, the feeling of Morgan there was already gone, and they burned to be renewed. She’d have to live with it for now, she’d have to wait.

Morgan had nodded encouragingly at Deirdre as she leaned in. She was terrified of what this would do to her, but she ached worse for one more taste of their intimacy. Her hands had slid up Deirdre’s shoulders in expectation. She’d closed her eyes and—nothing.

Morgan’s wide eyes flashed with hurt and confusion. “But—” Her voice cracked in her throat. She cut herself off, lips quivering, and listened. By the time Deirdre finished, Morgan’s body was just as tense with longing as her banshee’s, and her whole mouth trembled. Her hand went out automatically for Deirdre’s, ready to tear it away, to pull her right back in and show her what she’d really meant by once (so long as they didn’t fully part, it was only one kiss, right?) and soothe both of their hurts. But she stopped herself halfway, unsure now. “Worse how? Would it hurt…? Did it hurt before?” Had her kindness been cruel without her realizing? “I was gentle so you’d know I really meant it. So it would be just for you. I was scared, but I wanted to, and I wanted you to have it. And I thought that would be it and I’d be content, but as soon as I felt you, I wanted—” More. So much more. Enough to fill herself up and be sick on. One kiss had seemed like a balanced compromise, but maybe it wasn’t after all. Morgan shuddered and took Deirdre’s bandaged hands, looking earnestly into her terrible, pained expression. “I want you too…” She whispered.

“This is stupid,” she whimpered. “This is so stupid and unfair.” Physical affection had come so easy for them before. It was automatic sometimes, at others, as fluid and nuanced as language, composing poems on each other’s bodies of how much they loved and craved and cherished one another’s presence. “How do we fix this? How do we get to the part where it’s better? If you can’t...if even this isn’t good, we need to figure out something soon, right? We need...a plan, a-a rule, I don’t know. Something to hold onto.” She searched Deirdre’s eyes, finding her own pent up longing reflected back at her. She finally forced her lips to hold their place. “Aren’t you tired of hurting? Can you tell me what you need, what you think will help?”

“No, no! No, it didn’t hurt. That’s not it.” In her eagerness to dissuade Morgan’s worries, Deirdre wrapped her back up in her arms, in the same state that sparked the desire for more in the first place. “It was a good kiss, a really good kiss. That’s the problem…” She sighed, looking into Morgan’s eyes—big, blue, beautiful—and realized the number they would garner was indefinite. How did she ever think just one kiss would be fine? “Would you be okay with that? Would just one kiss be enough? Could you tell me you wouldn’t want more? If you can, I’ll do it. But if you can’t….then we’ve played this game before, Morgan. I don’t want to pretend like I don’t want you as badly as I do, I don’t want to pretend like I can give you just one kiss and move on with the rest of the day.” She pulled Morgan closer, sidestepping a kiss by pressing her lips to her cheek—the same way she’d skirted the definition of a kiss before. “You set a boundary for a reason; you want to feel safe, right? And you don’t right now, you said you don’t. I’ll still be here tomorrow, and the day after that, and the one after that too and so on….and we don’t have to do this now. We can wait until you feel safe again, and it’s okay.” Deirdre smiled, gentle, though she pulsed with the pain of separating herself from Morgan. It was like she’d been peeled off, and half her skin was still stuck to Morgan—and she needed it back, she wanted it back, but she couldn’t take it. She knew the feeling well; the electricity that coursed through her body and the mind that throbbed with longing. She could work herself into a fever just thinking about it; those days, it had been so terrible...but it had been different. She felt strong justification in keeping her hands and lips to herself, now, she had no self-righteous idea to steady herself on. “It was selfish of me to ask, I’m sorry.” She breathed out, heady with the things she could not do. “I want you, Morgan, and I could have you right now that’s not the issue...but would it be okay for you? I don’t—kissing you just once is better than not kissing you at all, but I’m trying to do this right. For both of us.” Of all the things to feel nostalgic of, this was not one she imagined would ever flutter back across her body. “I am so tired, my love. Of hurting...of hurting people…all of it. But what I want is you, what I’ve always wanted is you. But I’ll be here tomorrow, and after that, and all of tonight too….and I want you, and one kiss isn’t enough for me and I’d only want you more. And I don’t know what to do, I don’t. But I can wait. I’ll wait for you.”

Morgan latched on tight to Deirdre as she was brought in and did not let go. “How could you do this? We can’t even kiss without hurting, how could you do this...?” She burrowed her face into the crook of her neck, pressing her lips earnestly to the patch of bare skin there. She trembled, trying to chase after the piece of her that had made this choice too. They were already hurt and agonizing and overthinking—wasn’t it silly not to get something out of it? Or was that just her imbalanced need, clawing for what it knew best? Was it the distance Deirdre had put between them playing cruelly with her body?

Whatever the reason, Deirdre was right. Especially because Morgan didn’t know the reason. How could she stop herself from making old mistakes? And yet how could she pull herself up long enough to do better if she didn’t take what she needed now? Morgan hung on tighter, nodding. At last she said, “Before, when we weren’t having sex for a month and two weeks, it was because you wouldn’t tell me how you felt. It was clear. I didn’t have to guess with myself whether it was time or not. If you told me and you wanted me, we could have that again. But I don’t know what the rule is now. I don’t know what to look for or wait for. I just know I want you right now and I’m so tired even more than I’m scared. I just want something good to hold onto.”

Morgan whimpered as she fought to steady her voice. She risked pulling back enough to see Deirdre’s face, so fraught and soft and horrifyingly hers. Morgan couldn’t figure out where the shift in her expression was, but she knew at once that this so familiar Deirdre wanted to be hers and all Morgan needed was to pick her up and say yes. Her heart would be impaled on another empty silence or dropped down a safety hatch that let her out of all her pain, all with one yes. It was that simple and that hard. “I can’t wait for you to not hurt me, it can’t be an absence. We need to make something, but—” But what the hell was that supposed to be? What did these other versions of themselves look like? “Is it when you’ve found a therapist? That could take ages. Is it when you’ve been to group for a few weeks? When I’ve balanced myself with something besides just you? Because I don’t even know where to start with that!I know...I’m the one who’s scared, but I don’t know when it’ll be better. I don’t know when it’s fine again and I don’t want to rush anything, I just want to feel something besides hurt for a minute, maybe five. Is that bad? Do we really just...have  to keep waiting, and hold each other because it’s the only thing we have left? Hope it doesn’t take too long?” As soon as the words left her, Morgan felt a sinking wave of realization: they very well might have to do just that.

“I’m sorry...I’m sorry…” If she once stopped to consider the repercussions of her actions, she wouldn’t have done anything. Amanda would be alive and Athena less heartbroken, yes, but Deirdre could’ve asked Morgan what good revenge looked like. Or...could she have? Maybe Athena was too young for Morgan too, maybe she didn’t see it like Deirdre did. The banshee shook her head, it wasn’t what she wanted to think about now, and it didn’t matter. Amanda was dead. She’d ruined the safety and trust she built with Morgan. “I’m sorry….” she mumbled. It wasn’t worth it, the things that she’d done. None of it was. “I can hold you tighter? Really tight. I can do that.” And she moved to try, except her arms locked at her sides and her throat seared. She tried to lunge out of the strange body lock, but her arms wouldn’t budge even as the rest of her body flailed. “Oh,” she slumped. “No I can’t do that….because that would be hurting myself….” But what was some muscle pain? Who cared if her body was already sore? She could do that much for Morgan, she always had, no matter the pain. She sighed and held Morgan at an appropriate level, enough that Morgan could feel it, but not so tight that Deirdre’s aching body would protest. “A week,” she mumbled, “seven days exactly. I’ll ask you how you’re feeling; if you feel safe now. If the answer is yes then...then it’s fine, we can have each other just like we want to. And if it’s not, then we’ll wait another week. And after another seven days, I’ll ask again. And if it’s still not, then we’ll take another week and so on until you feel safe, my love.” She looked at her, hoping the tenderness and sincerity was readable over the remorse that played in her eyes. “It can’t be a day….because there’ll just be more of this. But a week sounds good, I think. How does that feel to you? We don’t have to use anything else, just time.” A week felt both too long and laughably short, but even if it wasn’t by this week that Morgan felt comfortable kissing her again, then it might be by the next, or the one after that. And Deirdre found herself looking forward to the day. “I don’t know...whatever you need to feel to know it’s okay. If that’s being safe...or if that’s trusting me again...whatever it is, I can ask you in a week.” She searched Morgan for any hint that it was a good idea, or, at least, that her having stopped from kissing her was a good one too. It hadn’t felt right when she’d done it, but she was no stranger to the desperation that could trick Morgan’s mind. All she wanted to do was honour the boundaries Morgan was setting for herself; that wasn’t so bad, was it? “It didn’t last long…” she sighed, “the no-sex thing...we weren’t supposed to kiss either. But then we were, but it was supposed to be one or two...and then it wasn’t. And then it was everything else just shy of sex. But it was important to you, and if this is anything like that, then we should keep waiting. And I’ll be here. I’ll wait for you—for us. And I’ll try for it.”

“A week…until we check in and ask,” Morgan repeated slowly, her eyes locked onto Deirdre’s as if to ask, are you sure? It was fair. She would be the one to determine an answer, which was both a relief and terrifying. She could say fuck it right now and take Deirdre’s mouth with hers. They were both taut with wanting, they could take the relief for a few seconds, maybe a minute—until that made their bodies more glaringly aware of what else was missing.

Morgan’s features fell as she remembered the old no-sex boundary, and considered that even if Deirdre’s body wasn’t one walking wound, sex right now was just a fast track to a panic attack. It wasn’t just bodies fucking anymore, it never could be again. And the way she needed Deirdre in bed, the way she gave herself best, with her body in complete submission… Morgan felt like it would be another month at best until she could bear that again. “I remember,” she mumbled. “That one Saturday visit, I kissed you goodbye on your cheek and went into my car and cried all the way home. But then a few nights later you came to see me...and you were just so happy, like I’d never seen you before. I couldn’t bring you down from that when I could be a part of it instead. And I already wanted you so badly. I think it only took one kiss for me to sign off on a hundred. And the rest came after I was staying with you, I think. It was just so hard to be next to you, to lay with you without touching you. It hurt. I felt like I was giving in and maybe deluding myself into some terrible half-life with you. But it hurt so much worse, keeping everything back. That’s how I made those decisions.” Was hurt the only way to measure her life, even the things that were ostensibly good? Was she so curse fucked that even dead, she couldn’t touch anything without suffering having its way with it?

“I’m so tired of everything hurting,” Morgan whined, a child’s complaint. “I just want it to stop, just for a little…” But what was that quote her mother had liked? If you’re going through hell, keep walking? Morgan clenched her jaw and sank back down against Deirdre’s chest. This was really not a time she wanted Ruth Beck to be right. “Fine. You’re right. In a week we’ll check.” she said faintly. When her heart calmed and the ache had numbed her out, she would be grateful for the decision. Maybe. Hopefully. Morgan reached behind her for one of the blankets draped over the couch. “You need some rest,” she mumbled. Deirdre needed a lot of things, like a shower, and the rest of her bandages changed, but Morgan wasn’t about to walk another intimacy minefield tonight.  “Can we just stay here?” Can you just hold me? “Can that be okay…?”

“I don’t want you to make decisions out of hurt, Morgan.” But then what was this? What had she left Morgan to do now? Deirdre frowned; she knew that it wouldn’t be so bad to kiss Morgan. She knew that she was going to stay, and that she’d be here to build their foundation again, but Morgan didn’t. And was it wrong instead, to wield that longing and use it selfishly to fill the hole in her own chest? She wanted to take Morgan’s pain away; soothe her, hold her, love her. Was it wrong then, to give in if it was for those things? But it wasn’t her decision to make, she couldn’t pick what was best for Morgan. That had been her problem before, she thought silence would be better; she thought going off on her own and taking the weight of revenge would all be best. This was Morgan’s choice, and Deirdre wouldn’t take that away. “Back then, the only thing I considered was that I was happy, and that I wanted to be happy with you. I don’t think I even understood why you set those boundaries in the first place. But I’ve grown so much since then, and I know now.” And that made it worse, almost. She knew she didn’t want to kiss Morgan because kissing was fun, she knew she didn’t want sex with her because sex felt good—she loved her, and it was irrefutable now. “I love you,” she mumbled against her skin, staving off the searing desire to kiss her girlfriend. These were the kisses she didn’t even think about before, the ones that came by instinct, that marked her sentences and breaths—the ones she forgot about, and promptly chased with another.

Deirdre leaned up and pulled the blanket down with Morgan; wrapping one around them, and herself around the other. “I’d rather stay here anyway,” she smiled, “and can I hold you? Is that okay?” Though she asked, she already had been, and wasn’t sure she could even take not doing it. “Don’t say no to that one,” she mumbled, closing her eyes. “If it’s true, don’t say no, not just yet. Let’s have this...for a little while...for as long as we can…”

Morgan heard Deirdre’s brave, tender smile in her voice and peeled her face back just to see it. A fresh wave of desire shook her. Deirdre looked so sure, so perfect, even with her body ravaged; her affection for Morgan seemed to shine out of every scar and bandage. Morgan’s eyes burned, finally out of tears but no less anguished. She strained up to bring their faces close and pressed her lips to her girlfriend’s cheek. “No,” she whispered. “I need this too. Please hold me. I’ve missed it so much. I’ve missed you loving me. I’ve missed you.” Her voice tightened, so Morgan left it at that, keeping her face pressed to Deirdre’s as her girlfriend settled the blanket around them. When the seconds seemed to stretch and her awareness of how close she was to the corner of Deirdre’s mouth made the space between them feel like pins and needles, Morgan gave a small affectionate nuzzle that granted permission for more of the same, and settled back against Deirdre’s chest. With her mental fatigue and heightened nerves, she wasn’t able to let her head find the old spot where it fit. She shifted and shifted again, and at last surrendered to the idea that near enough was good enough. She could feel Deirdre’s arms for however long she stayed conscious, she could hear her breath coming out of her wounded body, and as ever, she heard her heartbeat. Slow. So slow you’d think it had stopped and gone away, but perfectly in time, always coming back.