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reylofanfictionanthology · 4 years

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TO FIND YOUR KISS IS NOW LIVE!

Authors will be revealed next week! For now all fics are anonymous. Treats can be posted through author reveals on 2/21. We will post an updated masterpost at that time.

To Find Your Kiss collection on AO3 | Treats Masterpost

GIFT FIC MASTERPOST

- Reap the Stars for abbytheatre08

The prompt: After Ben's death, Rey goes mad and turns to the dark side. Only Ben's not dead anymore. ----------------------- She is consuming fire, magnificent in her rage. She will burn the galaxy to its foundations, until the ashes rain down and pile high as mountains. She will gather them into bouquets and scatter them like petals upon his grave.

He will be remembered, and they will not.

Call him The Light Bearer and Joy Giver. Call him He Who Loved and Laid Down His Life. Call him Ben.

- we are question marks that hang above the endless unexplained for AlwaysEverlark

The first time she walked into his club, she was looking for a job. Kylo took one look at her—the stubborn pout of her lip, the determined glint in her eyes, the ruddy glow of her face where the sun had kissed it—and swallowed a lump in his throat that was shaped like the words you’re too good for this place.

They needed a singer. Kira Johnson could hold a tune, knew the old standards, and had a knockout pair of tits to boot. A few slinky ballgowns and a touch of lipstick, and she’d more than do the trick of distracting suckers long enough to part them from their money.

The club solely needed to break even; anything they made on top of the Syndicate’s cut was gravy, and Kylo Ren had been lining his pockets with his own take for long enough that he could see Kira for the lump of clay that she was: rough-hewn, misshapen, but soft and supple and sure to curve under his touch.

- Eighty Bucks Says Sweetheart for Amoreusou

Ben likes puzzles. Rey needs help with a bunch of them. Good thing it's a slow day at the office.

- Seldom Visions for Andrina_Nightshade

After visiting an old Sith temple, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren has fallen into a deep sleep when he pricks his finger on the point of a red crystal. Rey become is the first to find him, but his rescuer isn't just any general or pilot, it's the woman he shares a soul with, who haunts his waking hours, who still sees him even in his sleep.

- The Dyad for aneighthdomain

Based of the Prompt: Groundhog Day scenario. Ben and Rey keep getting sent back to the first time they met and no matter what they do, Ben always dies so they stop trying to change events and just live a life time in the year between and couple of weeks and run away together.

- Saudade: The Love That Remains for AnneAnna

- The Delegation for aNerdObsessed

A humanitarian delegation from Naboo arrives at Niima Outpost. Rey is skeptical, to say the least.

- i don't want you like a best friend for anopendoor

It’s not like she hadn’t seen this coming—Rose told her weeks ago that he was invited. It was an inevitability Rey was always going to have to face, she just didn’t think that Rose would be so merciful as to also give every guest a plus one.

But Rey can’t really be upset—and she is totally, unequivocally not upset—that Ben's bringing someone because, well.

She is, too.

- Love is Weakness for bittersnake

“He’s someone I found on my recent trip to Corellia,” Rey replies placidly, her face practiced in its boredom. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Love is weakness,” her grandfather reminds her, the way he has for years. It’s why he doesn’t love her. He will not be weak. It’s why she doesn’t love him, either.

- in sickness and in health (with health being less likely) for BlueButterflyKisses

Deciding to spend the rest of their lives together is the easy part for both Rey and Ben; the trouble is in how to propose.

- Snowed In for Blueyedgurl

Never in her wildest dreams did Rey Johnson think she would ever get to meet her favorite other Kylo Ren. She also would have never entertained the idea of the scenario she found herself in. How did a hike in the woods lead to a snowstorm and taking shelter in a remote cabin in the woods? The idea was so ridiculous but had become reality. Stuck inside with a handsome stranger surrounded by a winter storm, Rey wonders what will happen with no power and only one bed. Will they be polite co-habitants stuck in a strange set of circumstances or is there room for something more?

- Curses, Comforts and Capybaras for Bombastique

Arrogant CEO bites off more than he can chew when he angers a witch... And suddenly finds himself transformed into a capybara. Can kindhearted wildlife rehabber Rey Niima help him break the curse?

- To Heal a Broken Soul for Cat2000

Ben survives the fallout of Exegol, but his connection to the physical world is in danger. Rey tends to him as she searched for a way to heal him.

- holding me like water in your hands for Ceallaigh

After Hux finds out Ben killed Snoke, Hux encases Ben in Carbonite. Rey refuses to let Ben stay frozen forever so she mounts a rescue.

- Like a Thief in the Night for chagrins

Their bond won't let them be alone. At least this time it's the middle of the night and they can't get into a shouting match.

- The Chance for Crysania

When Rey and Ben, long time co-workers who have never been able to admit their feelings to each other, go on a weekend retreat to work on a movie adaptation script together, a Nor’easter leaves them snowed in. On Valentine’s Day.

- Awake for cuddlesome

Something inside him is awake, and something inside her is about to wake up.

An alternate interrogation scene.

- darkness rises, and light to meet it for czechia

After the throne room, Jedi Ben Solo and Kira Ren meet again a year later.

- Not Quite a Fairytale for DarkMage13

Rey lets a stranger use the phone of the café she works at late one night. It changes the whole course of her life.

- You Won't Escape Me ('Cause I Set You Free) for DoorKeeper9

- The Canvas of Your Skin for darlingreadsalot

She was incapable of touching him without drawing blood, it seemed. Lines like vermillion paint streaked where her fingers sketched down the contours of his face, his back, and now his chest.

In which a Force bond is splintered, a resurrection goes wrong, a kiss is forgotten, and two almost-lovers avoid speaking for the better half of a year.

- Fleeing the Storm for driverfever

As the granddaughter of an merciless aristocrat, Rey’s life hangs on a thread at the hands of the French Revolutionaries. When her childhood friend, Ben, offers to platonically marry her in order to take her to his home in England to safety, she has no choice but to accept.

But her suitor and revolutionary Hux won’t give her up so easily. Hounded by revolutionaries and falling in love, Rey and Ben must use all their wits to flee Paris and make it to England.

- Equal Measure for dustoftheancients

When Princess Rey of Coruscant calls upon the cursed Sir Kylo Ren to help her escape her grandfather the emperor’s political machinations, she discovers freedom in the ancient familial magic that binds them together.

- Benimina Solo's Late On-Set Force Ability for Evangel10n

Benimina Solo has never, not even once, had an ounce of Force Sensitivity. She's done a great deal to move on with her life after failing out of her uncle's Jedi training school. So when Rey Palpatine comes into her life and suddenly everything changes, she's not a happy camper.

- Splatter for expendable

“You’re Palpatine’s girl,” he says coldly.

“His chief of staff, yes.” Rey’s eyes narrow. “And you have your hand on my ass, Kylo. Kindly take it off.”

“Or what?”

AKA powerful corporate rivals Kylo and Rey put the hate in love/hate.

- The Haunted Mirror for FangirlintheForest

When Rey travels to UK to attend the reading of his grandfather will, a grandfather she didn't know existed until that very moment, she finds a house, and a old story that will haunt her...

- i'm your secretary for firelord65

Kaydel pressed her lips together in a thin line, passing a pile of datapads over the desk. “I don’t know what that pretentious nerf herder has put into your brain, but these are tales of the key roles women have played in past rebellions.” She stood, tapping the pile. “They’re great reads,” she added, with a pointed raise of her eyebrow.

- and they danced across the sky for flipflop_diva

When he was still a child, he constantly watched the blue butterflies as they danced in the sky.

They seemed to be calling him, aiding him each instance that icy-cold darkness flowed through his very veins. The magnificent creatures saved him from the voices. They drowned out the incessant chatter in his head. Temporarily cleared away all the anger. During those brief respites, watching those blue wings flutter in the sky, Ben felt free.

But that’s another life. Another world. Another time. Another, another, another.

And Kylo's no longer a child.

No. He welcomes the darkness now. Embraces it.

- Finding The Answer for FrenchMartiniPlease

Rey pines for Ben Solo…so why does her soulmate mark always drain of colour whenever she gets close to him?

- Almost Unforgettable for HopeRebel

The woman in the mirror has blood on her clothes, cash in her bag, and a letter from her husband telling her it's better to forget. Well, he got his wish. She forgot everything-- including her name. And she wasn't the only one afflicted.

It'll take the combined efforts of gumshoes, a flatfoot, a washed-up Hollywood starlet, and more to get to the bottom of this bad business. In the end, these things always come back to the beginning.

- The Curl of a Sigh for irridesca

During the last song in Maxine’s set, a song she announces is called “Soul Companion,” Ben heads back out to the lobby to look for Rey. He finds her not with his eyes but with one broad shoulder, when he bumps into her and knocks her gig bag out of her hands and onto the plush carpet.

- and they were roommates for Lady_of_Haven

When Ben loses a bet to his roommate, Rey, he has to eat her out for 30 days.

- torn away from you (my heart is broken) for lakerose

The Force binds more than minds.

- If You Take Me for literallynoonecares

She sighed wistfully as she watched her two friends lean in toward each other as they danced, their lips meeting and melding together as they seemed to become one person instead of two separate beings. She had seen them kiss so many times, but this kiss … it was special.“I just want someone to kiss me like that,” she mused softly to herself, her eyes not leaving her friends.“I could make that happen if you wanted.”

- 3 Days in Vienna for Like_A_Dove

Kylo Ren, trained mercenary Alpha assassin, is on a mission—assassinate Chancellor Palpatine and bring his underground authoritarian regime to an end. It’s what the First Order demands, for the better of society.

It should be an easy task. He’s been getting close to the Chancellor and his cronies for years. So how is it that the unexpected appearance of an Omega, with a seemingly similar mission—and a wholly inconveniencing scent—become a distraction he hadn’t accounted for?

- Confidence and Desire for LittleLostStar

“Stay afraid, but do it anyway. What’s important is the action. You don’t have to wait to be confident. Just do it and eventually, the confidence will follow.” - Carrie Fisher

- Love brightens even the most monstrous parts of ourselves for LRRH17

No one knows since when the giant, black bear has lived in the forest near Theed. Many stories about the origin of Kylo Ren circulate in the small village. After Rey has run away from Jakku, and arrived in Theed she has heard them all of, but has never actually meet the creature. This changes when her and her friends get attacked by bandits on their way back from Otoh Gunga.

- Your Sweetness Comes With Sugar on the Side for Lutrosis

Rey's daughter loses her mother as she wanders around the Supermarket. Ben finds her and the two connect over both being Type 1 diabetics. They find Rey, and Ben and Rey are instantly smitten. As they date and fall in love they discover that Jade and Ben are connected more than they thought and healing is brought to the Solo/Skywalker clan.

- Allegories, or Allusions to Real Life for maq_moon

“Boys, please stop arguing.” Rose rubbed her temples. “Poe, we get it, you’re childhood best buddies, you’ve got a better grasp on his character than some rando of a rando you met at a party. Finn, for fuck’s sake, we’ve been working with Ben for months. I’m pretty sure if he’s a serial killer or whatever, it would have come out by now.” Finn sat back in his seat, grumbling. “Not how serial killers work.” Rey was going to have a headache if this continued any longer, so she lied through her teeth at the reality of a new player joining their D&D party. "He seems nice." She didn’t trust a single inch of skin on that man. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

- A Mad Man, with a Box for MBlair

Rey and Ben meet, move in together, get engaged, and marry.

- Invite the Wild In for midwinterspring

Kylo Ren, the mysterious senator who appeared from out of the deserts of Jakku and somehow brought them back to life, has spent a long and unproductive session on Hosnian Prime. Now, it's time to go home. After all, there's someone waiting for him and so much for them to do together.

(The ancient Sith had some interesting rituals.)

- Purim Party for MissCoppelia

Rey goes back to visit her foster mother for a Purim celebration. She meets Ben Solo who's visiting his parents, who are friends with her foster mother. They have an attraction to each other right away, but try to play it cool.

- The Banished Heart for misszeldasayre

On Rey of Niima’s nineteenth name day, Jakku gains a new wizard.

Jakku is a withering outpost of the kingdom, and its people hope the new wizard - the mysterious Kylo Ren - will bring them the rains the land needs to heal. Rey is a lonely, clanless girl living in Niima, and she has a secret. One she hopes the wizard will be able to help her with too.

- The Smuggler's Bride for MyJediLife

Miss Rey Nemo is the new mistress of Manor Takodana, left to her by the late Lord Skywalker. When a strange man named Kylo Ren appears on her doorstep, she decides to hire him as her new groundskeeper. As Rey faces sinister threats and secrets are revealed, Kylo Ren may be the only person who can save her.

- Annabel Lee for myownlittleinfinity

Rey keeps finding these ... notes in her locker. She doesn't quite get them. They seem like love notes, but she doesn't know who they could be from. Meanwhile she's paired up with Ben Solo (who hates her despite her gigantic crush on him) for this English assignment. Who knows how THIS will go.

- with my body i thee worship for niennathegrey

- the losing game for no_big_deal

Sith Princess Rey Palpatine is given a peculiar gift for her Life Day: a Jedi. Not only that, one who is boorish, spirited, and stubborn. But, he presents an opportunity: one that could liberate her from a life under the thumb of her grandfather. She has seven weeks to change his heart before all her freedom is taken from her - forever.

- standing right in front of you for notkellymarie

When Senator Solo's engagement is pushed forward, he and his Jedi bodyguard, Rey, travel to Naboo alone for the announcement ball. The pair despise each other, constantly bickering and disagreeing with each other, which makes spending extensive amounts of time alone together all that more difficult. Until of course, one of them breaks...

- the good, the bad, and the smuggling for OccasionallyCreative

Ben Solo is a seasoned smuggler. And he’s not bad at it, either. But when bounty hunter Rey offers him a temporary partnership he can’t refuse, Ben will find himself pushed to the limits of his skill, patience, and resourcefulness on a job that’s dangerous enough to be his last.

It’s like his dad used to say: bounty hunters are nothing but trouble, kid.

- Whatever our souls are made of...his and mine are the same for Padawan_Writer

Ben and Rey meet only after Kylo has defected from the First Order and returned to the Resistance and his mother. Will the dyad still find a way to be?

- They say that only the dead have seen the end of war for politicalpadmé

“He traded his life for mine,” Rey choked, stomping back and forth in front of him so fast he could barely keep track of her. “He died. He died so I didn’t have to—and it’s not—it’s—after everything he’s gone through—it’s not fair.” Tears were running down her cheeks now, and Poe wanted to do nothing more than hug her, but there was nothing he could say—nothing she would want to hear. Poe remembered all the people he’d lost, all the times he had raged and screamed and cried about the unfairness of it all. “Leia sacrificed herself to bring him back,” Rey declared suddenly, ceasing her constant pacing around the fire as she looked straight at him. “And he sacrificed himself for me—and now no one’s going to know. All he’ll be remembered as is Kylo Ren, but he was—he was so much more.” She exhaled with a shudder and whispered, “He was a part of me, and I—I don’t feel whole without him.” ~

A Force Ghost Ben/Rey love story, with a side of rebuilding the galaxy.

- Cicatrix for Priestly

Getting cut up by Rey on Starkiller awakens something in Kylo.

- I Will Always Be With You for Prix

But she wouldn’t be able to hide her pregnancy for much longer. She was starting to show, and her friends would start asking questions. She would have to give them answers, some of them would not understand, and none of them would accept.

She carried his child. The tiny spark of light woven with darkness, just like her. Just like his father.

—————

The world has gone dark More times than you Or your mother Or your grandmother Can remember. And every hurricane That was meant to be The end of it all Had instead ended In sunshine again.

So believe me When I say; You will survive this And the next one too.

World’s End—Nikita Gill

- all my daydreams are disasters for QueenOfCarrotFlowers

During her search for the infamous Luke Skywalker — the man who predicted a devastating earthquake in New Madrid, Missouri — Rey finds herself entangled in Luke’s family history and with his brooding nephew, Ben Solo.

- on what ground I was founded (when I first saw you) for redbelles

Kylo dreams of Rey after the Battle of Crait. And the yearning is mutual...

Some Force Bond dream smut inspired by "Shrike" and "NFWMB" by Hozier.

- Last Summer for Reykenobi68

Rey had started to get used to Ben not living next door anymore by the time the holidays came around. Then he's back for the holidays. Rey is really expecting things to go wrong after the way he left at the end of the summer. ut is it really going to be that bad.

- The Long Way Home for reylotrash711

In the aftermath of Exegol, Ben and Rey are divided by misunderstandings. It will take time and danger for them to work things out.

- Under the moonlight for shariling

I don't know why I followed you here. She wanted to reply. Maybe because you're so tall I couldn't help but notice you. Maybe it's because of your hair or the way you move, or maybe it's because of that kind of melancholic look in your eyes. There is something about you that I find terribly attractive and I don’t know what it is: maybe the moon or the alcohol or the wolf I have met before infected me with some strange parasite and now I am hopelessly attracted to dogs, I do not know. She could have said one of these things, any of them, instead she said: “I've never bitten anyone before, and I want you to be my first.”

- Fallen for shipperofdarkness

Prompt: Devil!Ben and Angel!Rey or Angel!Ben and Devil!Rey. How do these two on completely opposite sides fall in love and defy worlds to be together?

- come away with me for silentfleur

Rey owns a tinker shop, but her life changes when she meets Ben Solo and is cursed by a witch. Not necessarily in that order.

- A Picture of Me Without You for SpaceWaffleHouseTM

"I suppose I'd somehow struggle through / But I'd hate to picture myself without you."

It's impossible not to have a soulmark. It's not a big deal, not in the lax and gin-soaked speakeasies of 1920s Manhattan, but it's still a heavy weight to bear, as Ben Solo and Rey find out side by side.

- Lips Raw With Love for stellardarlings

Their kiss on Exegol wasn't their first kiss...

Nor would it be their last.

- Everyone Makes Divine Mistakes for Takekurabehime

Jedi Knight Ben Solo is sent to Naboo on an errand of mercy (and to visit his grandparents). He arrives in springtime; but will he be able to complete his mission without finding himself distracted and bewildered when love and intrigue waft through the fragrant air?

- Glitter & Gold for TearoomSaloon

Rey is lead singer in an up-and-coming glam metal band. They've finally got steady performances, but that means playing at the same club as the Knights of Ren, whose lead singer definitely isn't interested in any competition.

- To kiss like lovers do for the-reylo-void (Anysia)

Ben and Rey spend their formative years growing up together in Medieval Scotland and it looks like they will end up together. Circumstances intervene and Rey loses her chance to be with him. Devastated, she carries on until the day clan Ren attacks Castle Jakku lead by the notorious killer Kylo Ren.

- Snow Turns To Rain for thehobbem

For a moment, he wanted to ask what she meant, but if he was being completely honest, he already knew. He asked himself that same question over the years, and none more often than tonight, since seeing her again. Was leaving worth it? Was going their separate ways worth leaving each other?

“I’m not sure,” he said finally, shaking his head. “I’m happy...” he said, and she tensed a little, so he continued, “with my work. I’m glad I’m doing what I love, but....”

“But?”

“But it wasn’t the only thing I loved.”

- Change the Dance for theresonatinglight

- Meet Me in the Woods for thewayofthetrashcompactor (BriarLily)

“What do you mean no one goes in there?” A chuckle. “It’s haunted. People see all sorts of weird things in there and some don’t ever come out. You’re better off living with your curiosity.” Rey wakes in a shadowy forest with no memory of where she came from, only her name. With the help of the resident guardian she takes a journey to figure out her past, and maybe even discover her future.

- permanent calligraphy (your name on me forever) for Thursdaygirl

As they continue to work together, two things become clear. One: Ben Solo is an enigma. He’s preppy yet humble, privileged yet introspective. He’s the opposite of lazy; she kicks herself every day for assuming otherwise. And two: Ben Solo will never love her.

- show me the stars. for tmwillson3

“I don’t hate Christmas, I just don’t love it the way you do.” Lifting his head, he pulls a face, loosening up a tangled ornament of a poodle with pink, curly fluff. Rey snatches it from him possessively, tossing it back to the cart. “No one loves it the way you do, to be fair.”

“Now that’s the truth,” says Poe, who Finn invited about half an hour ago to keep him company.

“People have bad taste, I don’t know what to say.” Huffing, Rey scrolls through her phone with more intent. “Neither of you are helping me, anyway.”

“What’s the problem?” says Poe.

“Rey thinks her hot neighbor hates her —”

“He does hate me.”

“ — When really he’s been flirting with her for the past, oh I don’t know, how long have you lived there?”

- I realized that I need you, I wondered if I could come home for VR_Trakowski

Rey is doing exploration work for the Resistance, searching for force sensitive planets so any force sensitives that they find have a place to train.

One day, midflight she finds a slip of paper with the elegant scrawling words of the ones that came before. The ones that she found when Ben still roamed the galaxy.

When she lands on a dark and barren planet she is forced to face the feelings she thought she buried.

- Shadows of the Moon for walkingsaladshooter

The hallways got darker, the corridors grew longer. Shadows stretched across the walls. The ghosts of Breha Manor grew each night.

Rey clutched her necklace. Ben met her gaze.

And every night, there was weeping.

- show the way (the world could be) for writergenie

In the aftermath of the Battle of Crait, Rey struggles to find her place among the Resistance. However, her lingering Force bond with Kylo— Ben— whatever name he calls himself— complicates things, blurring the line between friend and foe.

When the tension threatens to boil over and a desperate plan goes awry, Rey begins to wonder whether there really is a line between light and dark after all.

(Stars do burn brightest in the blackness of space.)

- why don't we go (somewhere only we know) for XarisEirene

The bond snaps back into place, even stronger than before. He is here. With Rey, yes, but with Luke - Luke, who is looking at them now with that same dangerous glint in his eye that haunts Ben’s dreams.

- renewed, transfigured, in another pattern for yodalorian

Rey mourns on Tatooine while Ben is stuck in the World Between Worlds. But neither of them are alone, and blue butterflies light a path back to each other.

#reylo #reylo fanfiction anthology #rffa writers #to find your kiss #master post #mod post #photo edit

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dreamhot · 2 years

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Signed up for wattpad in 2014 flash forward to last year and their data breach put my email on the dark web and someone tried to scam me lol

oh we love ourselves a good data breach ... i've found my old passwords on sites that track that sort of shit but luckily i've never gotten into any sort of trouble (save for my first neopets account getting shut down but that was my own dumbass fault for falling for a scammer loool)

gonna answer the other fanfic asks under a cut

Anonymous asked: I remember reading Hermione x Ron fanfics on deviant art when I was like 12 :/ also used to read Percy Jackson fics on Wattpad but we don’t talk about that 🤡

re: the last point - you and dream both, pal

Anonymous asked: its kinda funny for me to think about, i got into fanfic by reading mcyter fics (shout out team crafted). they were reader insert and not shipping but i really have come full circle

when i was into rtah, there was def some fic centred around let's play minecraft, but . i was reading the shipping stuff Oops

Anonymous asked: my first fanfiction experience was in 2014? In YOUTUBE. there were channels that made videos reading fanfictions they've got god knows where and if they were multichapter they would usually upload twice a week or something. Now that I think about it it was weird af cause istg the voices reading couldn't have had more than 15/16 years old and they read some filthy stuff sometimes. I can't even imagine reading shut outloud, let alone RECORD MYSELF DOING IT

yeah like i was def too young to be writing some of the fic i did at like, 16/7, but . that was also an era in which people weren't really disclosing their ages anyway lol BUT PUTTING YOUR VOICE TO IT ...? that's a level of bravery i can't even fathom

Anonymous asked: possibly my first fanfiction experience that i can remember was discovering that the avatar the last airbender wiki had a closely linked sister wiki for fanfic content and i dived into that. it must have been like… 2010/11? I knew about ffnet around the same time thanks to my brother but i’m not sure which actually was in my life first. anyway shoutout to avatar fanon wiki

fanon wikis are so fascinating like either they're enormously helpful and point out a lot of cool content Or they're just ill-kept messes of drama. always seems to be one or the other lmao

Anonymous asked: if we're sharing our fanfic experiences, i will say i used fanfic.net, ao3, wattpad, devientart, and quotev, and fanfiction.net has a special place in my heart. its where ot3s, brotps, lemons, using hate comments as fuel to bake cookies, disclaimers about not owning characters, a/n: breaks in the middle of the story, and songfics with the lyrics taking up half the word count really thrived. times were simpler back then

STOPPP NOT THE A/N BREAKS ... you'd be reading a fic and then it suddenly breaks into a fuckin roleplay dialogue between the author and the characters like WHAT'S GOING ON HERE !! i remember when ff.net purged all the songfic etc and how fucking mad ppl were cos they literally just . deleted shit without warning. they were truly merciless back then

Anonymous asked: my experience with fic platforms is kinda weird because i'm definitely in the "too young to have used ffn regularly" demographic but because english is not my first language and my first fandom was full of people who in general were 10+ years older than me (because after my brother taught me how to pirate stuff i ended up getting into 90s anime), the first fic i ever encountered was in ffn and wattpad became popular and easily accessible to me not long after, so for a while those were my two sites until i became fluent enough in english to engage fandom and moved from there to ao3 without struggling with the lack of content in a language i could read. it's funny because whenever older people talk about the youth (tm) not knowing how things were before ao3 it makes me feel old lmao

that's interesting tho :0 see, the thing is that wattpad and ff.net are still in USE, so it's completely possible that ppl were (or are?) using them while others used ao3 - though it blows my mind why anyone would CHOOSE to use ff.net in the year of our lord 2022

#smile.ask #beedreamss #anon #long post #<- under tha cut

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angst-fairygodmother · 3 years

Text

Light Fingers (The Umbrella Academy)

Diego’s vigilantism brings him repeatedly across the path of a young cat burglar. But as he finds himself developing feelings for the thief, he begins to wonder if there’s more to her than meets the eye, and whether they’re really on opposite sides. And as their relationship deepens, it brings with it a plot involving his estranged adopted father, and threatens to destroy all of them.

CHAPTER 13: DARKNESS FALLS

Word Count: 2362 Pairing: Diego Hargreeves x Reader Rating: T Content Warnings: swearing, references to violence (canon-typical), heavy angst, sort of spoilers for TUA season 1? Cross-posted to AO3: here

Previous Chapter: Confrontation || Masterlist

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

Two weeks after your visit to the Academy, and everything that followed, a headline caught your eye as you poured coffee for a couple at the diner. ‘Eccentric Billionaire Reginald Hargreeves Under Federal Investigation. Crimes include Smuggling, Arms Dealing, Fraud’ screamed out at you in bold black print and you barely managed not to scald yourself as your hand trembled.

Your mind was racing. It hadn’t seemed real, when you were making phone calls and “visiting old friends” and whispering in the right, or wrong, ears. It was a stab in the dark, that you never expected to amount to anything. But it seemed like someone, somewhere, had listened and moved on D.S. Umbrella and your father-in-law.

A bubble of elation built up in your chest. Unable to contain yourself, you yelled out that you were taking your 15, despite the earliness of the hour, and jogged down the street to pick up a copy of the morning paper for yourself. As you scanned the article, more snippets jumped out: “midnight raid,” “suspicious and hazardous materials,” “illegal within city limits.” They also mentioned looking into his accounts, heavy investigation into recent break-ins at the warehouse that authorities suspected were to cover up evidence, and a re-examination of the adoption records for his now infamous Academy of children. That last one made your heart skip a beat. You hadn’t wanted to drag Diego or his family into any of this, and certainly not risk having his world flipped upside down. Still, there was hope nothing would come of that bit, and he would never have to be involved, and everything else was well worth it.

With a giddy giggle, relieved and stunned that things were going better than you could have hoped, you tucked the paper into your bag and returned to work, feeling lighter than you had in a while.

“This is insane,” Diego said, dropping onto the couch, head in his hands and the copy of the paper you’d brought home on the table in front of him.

“Is it?” you countered, sitting down on the far end and tucking your knees up to your chest. “We knew he was up to something…”

“But not this! Why would he raise us the way he did if he was a criminal?”

“Covering his tracks maybe? Or there’s something bigger here we haven’t put together.”

“You’re not even a little surprised by this,” there was something flat to his tone.

You shrugged, knowing that he knew you too well to deny it.

“What did you do?”

“Technically, nothing.” He fixed with you a firm, unamused expression that made you sigh. “I just talked to people. Gossip, anonymous tips, that sort of thing. I didn’t really think anyone would listen.”

His jaw clenched as he struggled to reign in his anger. “Who else did you talk to?”

“A few journalists, some law enforcement that Patch put me in touch with who wouldn’t ask too many questions, some folks in my line of work. That one clearly didn’t go anywhere, or we would have heard by now, especially if there’s an investigation too.”

“Thieves?”

“No waitstaff.” You rolled your eyes.

“What for?”

“I thought...I figured if some other crews went in, free looting, it would make it harder to figure out what we took, cover our tracks some.”

“That doesn’t make sense. He already knew we were there. Y/N, what aren’t you telling me?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done now. I’m sure nothing will happen, the authorities are probably in his pocket, and if not...Prison for someone like your father isn’t even that bad. It’s a penthouse, just one with a 24/7 guard at the door.”

Diego looked annoyed but didn’t say anything else. You bit your lip, the silence tense over the two of you.

“I’m sorry, Diego. I just thought...it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

He grunted in acknowledgement. A moment later, he stood, silently getting ready for bed, despite the relatively early hour, and went to bed without a word. You waited, fighting back tears, still curled on the couch. You didn’t expect Diego to be thrilled the way you were that something was happening with Reginald, but you also hadn’t predicted this anger.

“Y/N,” he called softly, an indeterminate time later, making you jump. “Come to bed, sweetheart.”

Things in the household felt fragile after that, even the dog could sense that both you and Diego were tip-toeing on eggshells, waiting for the outcome of the investigation, like the Sword of Damocles.

And then it dropped, with a breaking news bulletin, one that made you almost grateful that Diego had a late night at the gym. You wrapped your arms around yourself, shuddering, as you watched an all too familiar building go up in smoke.

“No one knows what, if anything, was taken by the miscreants seen fleeing the warehouse shortly before the explosion, or why they chose to destroy the structure so definitively,” the news anchor said, the rest of her words blending into a drone in the back of your mind.

At some point, you fell asleep there on the couch, waiting for Diego to come home, startled awake in the morning when the door slammed shut.

“Diego?” you asked, frowning and rising to greet him. “Are you okay?”

He laughed bitterly, shaking off your hand on his arm and stepping away. “You’re really asking me that, Y/N? After everything you’ve done?”

“What are you talking about, Diego?”

“I’m not an idiot Y/N.”

“No but evidently I am, because I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about, baby.”

“Don’t,” he growled, shaking his head again. “D.S. Umbrella. Thieves, an explosion. You’re honestly trying to tell me you had nothing to do with it?”

“I didn’t! Not...directly!” you protested. “I promised you that I wouldn’t go after him, so I called in friends who could, who would.”

“How is that any different?”

“I...you said yourself that he was dangerous, and he proved that to me. And I got scared okay? I panicked, and when I saw a solution, I took it. Torch and burn, and salt the earth seemed like a good idea.”

“And Luther? Was he part of your plan or just an acceptable casualty?”

“What do you mean?” your frown shifted from one of upset to confusion.

“Pogo called, last night. Dad sent Luther to the warehouse had he got caught in your friends’ chemical explosion. He’s lucky to be alive.”

There was a slight hitch to his voice as he spoke, and you knew that despite the years of tension between them, hearing such news about his brother had shaken Diego badly. And you hadn’t been there for him. You reached out for his hand, to comfort him as you usually would before recoiling.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen. No one was supposed to get hurt.”

Diego scoffed in disbelief, nostrils flaring angrily. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because I don’t hate your brother, and I had no reason to want that. Because your father was the one who sent him in, alone and probably unprepared even though he knew better than anyone what hazards were in there. Because I’m your wife, and I wouldn’t lie to you, not when it mattered. Because I never wanted any of this, I just couldn't sit back and do nothing.”

“Why not? And give me a straight answer this time, Y/N.”

“While you and Luther were busy getting out all your boyhood aggression or whatever, I tried to find answers just like we planned. Only instead I ended up having a nice little chat with Reginald. And he said that everything was staged, that it was an audition. That I passed. And he threatened you, and he called the Academy a failed experiment.”

“You never said anything to me.”

“I didn’t know how,” your voice was sharp, pleading. “I have even less answers than I did when we started. All I have is that your father didn’t care about you, but he did about me, for something. He was willing to let you die to test what I could do. He was okay with the idea of hurting you to keep me in line. I...I had to protect you. So I did the only thing I could think of to do.”

“We’re s-supposed to be a team.” His eyes were still dry, but you could see the pain written across his features, and you closed your eyes against the sight.

“I know,” you said softly.

“W-w-we could have figured it out t-to-tog-gether if you had ta-lked to me…”

“We tried that Diego,” you wanted so badly to reach out for him. You hated that you couldn’t. Not now. “It had us spinning in circles.”

"So you just shut m-m-me out?" His lip quivered.

“Would you have done any differently?” you gave up on even trying to keep your own emotions out of your voice, tilting your head in question as you looked at your husband, the man you loved, and said words that you knew were breaking both your hearts. “Honestly?”

He was painfully silent, lips pressed together and eyes downcast as he considered your words, and what his answer would be. Rather than let the question continue to stew, you forged onward, almost afraid of what would happen if you didn’t.

“I’m truly sorry that Luther got hurt, and glad he’ll be okay. But I still stand by what I did. It was the right choice to make. If anything, it worked out better than I had hoped.”

“H-how could you say t-tha-that?” despite his stutter there was outrage in his voice now, raising the pitch to almost a shout.

“If it’s him or you, as far as I’m concerned, there’s no choice. I’m not sorry for that.” You shrugged. “And maybe almost losing his last loyal son will be enough to get your father to back off, to rethink, stop doing...whatever it is he’s doing.”

Diego’s body tensed and his eyes narrowed to a glare, the full fury and hatred locked inside suddenly directed at you. There was no trace of the pain in his voice now and it made your blood run cold.

“Luther’s an asshole, but he’s m-y family.”

“I know that, Diego. And I know how much family means to you. That wasn’t how I—”

“You know, you’re starting to sound a lot like my father.”

You stared at him, aghast.

“You’ve been just like him this whole time, haven’t you?”

“What?” you couldn’t keep the break and horror from your voice, didn’t want to.

“All this scheming and planning. Using the rest of us as puppets. It’s all about the so-called greater good. And screw anyone that gets in your way.”

“Diego, that’s not—” You tried to pull your emotions back into check but couldn’t. Hot, desperate tears pooled in your eyes before spilling down your cheeks.

‘Not what?’ you froze to ask yourself. ‘Not fair? Not true? Isn’t it though? Wasn’t he completely right, that you and Reginald were circling each other, playing a game with each other? Lay a trap, dance away from it. Steal a piece of information, change it’s meaning. Capture a bishop, sacrifice a knight. Move and counter-move. For months now.’

“I’m going to the gym tonight,” he said, making a dismissive gesture when you remained silent for too long. “I can’t do this anymore.”

He turned on his heel, throwing a few things in a duffle bag haphazardly.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” you said quietly as you watched him pack, rooted in your spot in the living room.

“Of course it was a mistake!”

“I don’t mean things with your father or D.S. Umbrella,” you took a deep, shuddery breath. “I...I mean us.”

“What?” his voice dropped, all the anger leeching away as he hesitated in the middle of folding one of his turtlenecks.

You took a shuddering breath, “None of this would have happened if we hadn’t gotten tangled up trying to pretend we fit together, in each other’s lives.”

“Y/N. Stop.” He shook his head, words clipped and forced. “Don’t say that.”

“Say what Diego? What we’re both thinking? I love you, so much. More than I can possibly say. But...I don’t think that’s enough. I was...we were better off alone. Everyone was.”

“That’s not t-true.” He took a step toward you and you took a step back. He looked like the world had just dropped out from under him.

“Tell me I’m wrong. Please?” you begged, voice and lip trembling. “If you can say that, after everything I’ve done, after all of this, I’ll believe you. But...don’t say if it’s not true.”

“That’s it?”

“I don’t know.”

Your gut gnawed at you, the still image of the burning warehouse catching in the corner of your eye. It felt like he was going to forgive you, even for a moment, for that, for Luther, and you couldn’t fathom that. And the more you spoke, the more you found yourself meaning the words. You loved him, and he loved you, and that could only hurt.

“I should go,” he said, half-heartedly, almost asking you to stop him.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

His keys rattled as he picked them up, and the door closing behind him seemed louder than you had ever imagined possible. It felt like one of his daggers was protruding from your chest. You couldn’t breathe.

“Diego, wait!” you called shakily, throwing open the door but not quite chasing him into the hallway.

He stopped but didn’t turn around. Silence hung like a wall between you. Your tongue felt like lead. What could you possibly say to undo what you had just done?

The minutes dragged on, the silence unbroken.

With a sigh you could almost imagine wafting back to flutter over you, he started to move again, and you stood there until his back disappeared. Only when he was truly gone, did you sink to the floor.

“Goodbye Diego,” you murmured, the words trailing off into a sob.

#And No One Lived Happily Ever After. The End #I mean technically there's an epilogue and some sort of sequel but this is the 'end'#the epilogue isn't going to make things better I promise #13 is an unlucky number right? :/#how to break your reader's heart (and your own) in 2.5k or less #an essay by Shye #Light Fingers #Diego Hargreeves x Reader #The Umbrella Academy fic

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myakkoh · 4 years

Text

wonders in a hunt

(Read on Ao3 here!)

Thank you and shout out to @blackkatmagic for letting me have permission to write this silly fic!

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You see, there’s a novel.

A novel that was only published two months ago, detailing the events of a Jedi and a clone falling in love while undergoing an adventure that changed their lives in order to save the entire galaxy. It tells of a tale that many have fallen in love with and are eager for more.

Unfortunately, this novel is also Mace Windu’s greatest headache at the current moment.

Why?

Well, let’s just say, there are details in the novel that are extremely similar to the same events he had undergone with his husband a year ago, especially with the part where they faced Palpatine, the Sith Lord who has been right under their nose the entire time. It’s not just the book that’s Mace’s problem, though.

It’s who made the novel. No one knows who made the novel, just that it's an anonymous author.

When Mace first got introduced to the novel, it was about a few days ago, when he decided to take a break with Fives. Said Padawan took out his datapad and began to silently read something on it, dark eyes glued to the screen, scanning it slowly, ever so slowly. Chuckles and giggles have escaped him, before Mace became curious and asked what it was.

That was his first mistake, and how it all began.

~~~~~

“A novel,” Mace repeats as Fives gives him a bright grin, tilting his head to the side as he reads the title. Heartstill, the title says on the cover, followed behind by a picture of two hands clasping together. He can see silver bands shining around fingers on both hands, the design strangely familiar.

“Yeah,” Fives says, the grin still in place, the Force rippling around his Padawan softly. “It’s surprisingly really good, and the main characters kinda reminds me of you and Cody.”

Mace raises an eyebrow, though he’s more bemused than anything. It’s nice to see that Fives is having something else to do other than their training and meditation. “Is that so?” he asks, hands the datapad back to his Padawan.

“Yes, Master,” Fives answers cheekily, then says, “You can read it if you want.”

“Oh?” Perhaps he should ask Cody if he read this novel yet; his husband did like reading.

Fives only laughs. “Better than having Cody steal all the blankets, Master!”

“I thought you can’t hear through the walls?” Mace asks with slight amusement as Fives immediately looks horrified at the implied meaning. It’s always fun to tease his Padawan, even if all he and Cody do is stay close to each other in bed these days, curling into each other’s warmth.

Small gestures mean more than the large ones, after all.

“Oh my kriffing god, Master, I did not need to know that!”

~~~~~~

He did not have the chance to read the novel until a couple of days later, when he managed to secure some peace for himself. Cody’s currently on a guard shift at the Jedi Temple’s entrance, and Fives is off exploring Coruscant with some of the other Padawans, clones, and a Jedi Knight.

When Mace settles down on the couch, he reaches for the datapad Fives lent him, flipping to the novel and relaxes as he flips to the first page, beginning to read what many have been calling a masterpiece.

A couple of hours later has him stuck in the middle of said novel, because Mace is staring at the same page for the past few minutes. Multiple reactions are running through his head to what he’s read so far. Throwing the datapad to the wall or ripping it up with the Force may have been a very near thing.

Mace hasn’t mentioned the leviathan to anyone but the council and the ones who’ve been there with him, which was only Cody. Granted, the name in the novel is completely different, but the vivid details, the careful explanations of their abilities- it’s similar to a leviathan. Knows the effects of being too close to one, what it does-

Grimaces at the crystal-clear memory of it, doesn’t shudder, but it’s a close thing, enough to make him put down the datapad and stop reading for a few moments. He closes his eyes and breathes, curls his hand into a fist before he lets go.

Several events he’s read so far in the novel are similar to what he and Cody had experienced in Dromund Kaas, far too similar for his liking. It’s... slightly disturbing, to read the same events that personally happened to him. Someone on the council may have written this novel.

He only reopens his eyes when he hears the doors to his quarters slide open, Cody’s aura flickering tiredly and fondly.

“You look like you went through Dromund Kaas again,” Cody observes with a tilt of his head, and Mace sends a small wave of wry amusement to his husband’s end of their bond. The clone commander only snorts, setting his bucket down and strips his armour before joining him on the couch.

Their fingers tangle together before they rest their hands on their legs, Cody leaning his head on Mace’s shoulder, and he can’t help but smile softly.

“The horror,” is all Mace says in response, dry. “But, no. Have you read Heartstill?”

Cody furrows his brows, twists his head to look at him carefully. “You mean that novel everyone seems to be raving about these days? I haven’t read it, if that’s what you’re asking, but I heard it was good. Why?”

Mace wordlessly motions to the datapad on the table in front of them. A few beats of silence, then- “That’s Fives’ datapad.”

“I’m quite aware.”

“Why do you have Fives’ datapad?”

“He lent it to me.”

“He lent it to you.” Cody’s voice sounds flat, though a note of resignation makes its way through their bond. “Is this because of the novel?”

“If you’ll read it, you’ll understand,” Mace informs him. “I feel like someone in the council wrote this.”

“Yeah, yeah. When I get the time to, then I will.”

~~~~~~

It takes a few more days before he manages to finally finish the novel.

Needless to say, Mace is more convinced that someone on the council has written this novel, considering they’re the only ones who have even read the mission report. It’s close, though. Very close. Too close for his comfort, really.

But who?

Thus, this begins the investigation of who has written the novel Heartstill. Needless to say, it produces a lot more headaches than expected.

~~~~~~

Obi-Wan doesn’t know what prompted Mace into thinking he wrote a novel. The sheer indignation rattles inside him as he stares at the Jedi Master in his doorway. “A... novel, you say?” he asks weakly, praying that his question will make the man go away.

One doesn’t appreciate it when someone interrupts their time to sed- take their husband to bed. Said husband is currently sitting at the kitchen table and looking over paperwork after their last mission together. Obi-Wan would like to have some privacy with Rex, thank you very much.

Mace only raises his eyebrow. “Yes, the novel Heartstill,” he says.

He blinks in surprise. “The one that’s currently raging around the galaxy? Rex told me it was a fascinating read. Why?”

When Mace doesn’t answer, Obi-Wan closes his eyes, lets go of his annoyance, and says, “Mace, please don’t tell me that you believe that I wrote that novel.”

“... perhaps.”

“I should be offended, you know I would never write a novel.”

“Indeed,” Mace notes dryly. “However, your mission reports say otherwise. It is fascinating to read about the adventures you and Skywalker have, especially when chasing after Grievous and getting stuck in a cave, and I quote, ‘After a few moments of shock, we were horrified to learn that Anakin have managed to release poisoned gas into the air, with mere moments left to live.’ Yes, Obi-Wan, rather dramatic.”

“I,” Obi-Wan says lightly like the negotiator he is, “have not written that in my life. Perhaps you should ask Anakin if he wrote that part in that particular mission report.”

“Perhaps I will,” Mace says, like he doesn’t believe him. How dare he. “Good day, Master Kenobi.”

“And you as well, Master Windu.”

When the doors close behind him, Rex looks up from the table, amusement lighting up in those perfect brown eyes. “Did you really write that in your mission report?”

“Rex, we are not going to talk about that.”

~~~~~~

“What.” Agen is more confused than angry that Mace would accuse him of writing a novel. He only tilts his head to the side, Mace giving him a flat look. “A novel?”

“Heartstill,” Mace answers, and- oh. That’s the novel that Dogma and Tup have been reading together during their free time, and honestly Agen doesn’t have enough patience to sit still for one novel, even if it does sound intriguing. “I take it you have never read it before?”

“Yes,” Agen says slowly, trying to make sense of what Mace is trying to say. Dogma’s aura flashes curiosity before fading away, and he focuses on the Councillor in front of him. Usually Mace would never bring something like this up unless it’s important. If it is, then he might not be able to help. He has no idea what Heartstill is even about. “Why?”

Mace slowly blinks at him. Ah. He immediately gets the message.

Agen doesn’t even know a single thing about writing a novel, and writing mission reports and normal reports are completely different. He can only look back at Mace and think that whoever wrote the novel that made Mace Windu chasing after the Jedi Councillors is quite a sentient.

“Master Windu, I heard that Master Ti is in the gardens with Tup and Colt,” Dogma says helpfully, takes Mace’s attention off of him. Mace nods a thanks to his commander and the doors slide shut.

After one long second, Agen turns around to face Dogma, and tilts his head to the side again. “What is Heartstill about?” he finally asks.

“A Jedi and a clone falling in love, sir. Why?”

And this is why he’s more partial to taking missions in the Outer Rim; Agen wouldn’t have to deal with anything like this. “How many weapons do we have left?” he asks instead, walks towards the couch and grabs one of Dogma’s blasters to clean.

“Sir,” Dogma says very slowly, carefully, like he’s about to step into a danger zone filled with landmines and slavers and droids. Agen rather likes that combination; the odds are good, especially between him and Dogma. “Please don’t tell me you’re planning to destroy another slaver base that belongs to Aruk the Hutt again.”

Agen deliberately chooses not to answer that.

~~~~~~

Shaak is smiling very dangerously, and Colt would like it to be known that his wife’s smile is beautiful and kriffing hot and it also means he should stay a few steps back because of what will happen next.

“Mace, old friend,” Shaak says with perfectly practiced innocence, something sharp dancing in her eyes. Colt swallows, and he really wants to grab her and steal her away to somewhere... more private. “Whatever do you mean by that accusation? I would never write a novel in my life.”

Mace stares her down, strong and unflinching. “Oh?”

“Indeed.” Shaak tilts her head to the side, a smile of an innocent predator, while Tup is watching the exchange with wide and fascinated eyes. Colt is also tempted to drag his brother further away so they don’t get caught in the soon-to-be-ensuing battle. “Have you tried, say... Kit? He really is good at writing those mission reports, wouldn’t you agree?”

The other Jedi Master looks rather exasperated and close to breaking something, even if his impassive expression doesn’t show anything. “Perhaps,” Mace says calmly. “You have a tendency to describe battles... interestingly.”

“Is that so?” This time, Shaak rises to her feet, and dips her head towards him. “Well, then you know that I’m not the culprit, my old friend.”

“Yes, I’m quite sure.” With that, the Jedi Master spins around and stalks away, and Colt can’t help but glance towards his wife. A look of triumph passes through her face, before settling into her usual, soft smile.

“Master, what did he mean by that?” Tup asks curiously.

“Oh, Tup. I just write... differently in my mission reports is all.” That smile should be illegal, and shouldn’t be making his heart squeeze tightly.

But by this point, Colt is a desperate man and he really wants to kiss Shaak senseless and make sure she knows that he loves her. From the sweet smile she sends him, Shaak knows it, too.

~~~~~~

“I did not write a novel.”

“Kit-”

“I did not write a novel,” Kit repeats again for the twelfth time as Mace stares at him. “I swear on the Force, I did not.”

The Force only ripples in response, as if offended Kit would choose it as a sacrifice to try and convince Mace. Disgruntled, Mace lets it go and sighs. After all, Kit has been repeating the same words over and over again ever since he found the Nautolan near the entrance to the Jedi Temple, delicately holding a bag.

His mission reports are similar to the novel’s writing, but also entirely different, and-

Wait.

“Kit, are those thermal detonators?” Mace asks with slight disbelief.

The Nautolan freezes before offering a hesitant smile. The grip on the bag tightens but doesn’t drop. “Yes.”

He suppresses the headache he can feel coming. Usually the Nautolan wouldn’t even touch a thermal detonator unless there’s a reason to. “Master Fisto,” he says, cautiously approaching the subject because obviously they’re going to be an occurrence, especially from the look on Kit’s face. “Who are they for?”

“Allow me to say that-”

“Kit.”

“-I heard that Master Kolar needed some more,” Kit continues breezily, and- oh. Oh no. Mace briefly considers taking Cody on another honeymoon to avoid dealing with this. He didn’t think this could happen, but... it really is happening, and he knows how Agen is.

Agen is oblivious to all courting attempts, and he’s not losing the bet to Depa that it’d take a few months for Agen to realize there is a courting attempt.

“I see,” he says steadily, then gives him a respectful nod. “Good luck for you and Agen. You will need it.”

Kit stares at him like he’s grown an extra head. “What- what do you possibly mean by that, Mace? Mace!”

Mace is already turning away. He needs to continue on with his... errands, not watch two of his fellow Councillors dance around each other.

“Mace! Come back here! What do you mean by that!”

He only walks faster.

~~~~~~

Adi raises her eyebrow. “Are you alright, Mace?” she asks in concern, because her fellow Jedi Master and Councillor looks ready to crush something close to him. She’s the only one in range of that, and she would like to have no broken bones, thank you.

Mace blankly stares at her. “You’re not the one who wrote Heartstill.”

“I did not write Heartstill,” Adi says, confused, and that’s new. Mace wouldn’t bring up a popular novel into the conversation. “But it’s a very good novel, I will have to admit that. Though the events are similar to the reports we received from you and Cody.”

From the unimpressed look he’s giving her, it seems that she’s right in guessing this is what it’s about.

“Well, Yoda wouldn’t be the one who wrote it, considering his grammar,” she says, and Mace closes his eyes as if he’s in pain from remembering said grammar. To be fair, all of Yoda’s reports are all filled with different grammar and sometimes, she has to enlist Eeth or Depa’s help in translating some of them. “Depa would have written something a little more exaggerated than the actual events.”

“That is true.” Pride and amusement flickers across Mace’s face before steeling itself back into his usual expression. “I suppose you might know where Master Mundi is?”

“Ki? He should be in his quarters.”

“Thank you, Adi.”

Adi finds herself more bemused than anything.

~~~~~~

Ki blankly stares at Mace, before he shakes his head in confusion. “What novel?”

Mace only rubs a hand over the side of his face.

(In all honesty, Ki is slightly terrified by the one-second murderous look in Mace’s eyes before it fades away and the Jedi Master stalks off with a quick farewell. Hopefully whoever wrote this novel that clearly annoyed Mace will live. Hopefully.)

~~~~~~

Eeth is very close to slamming the door right in Mace’s face and heading back to sleep. Look, when someone gets back from a mission that somehow led from peaceful negotiation to a full-blown civil war because of a single insult, they would be exhausted, too.

But Eeth is also a very dignified Zabrak (unlike Agen, who has a penchant to go straight into the violence and then offers sentients the solution of surrendering after knocking them around). So he obliges Mace and allows the other Jedi Master to enter his quarters, before taking a deep breath and surrendering his anger to the Force.

“May I help you, Master Windu?” he asks tiredly.

“How was your mission, Master Koth?”

“Fine,” Eeth answers flatly and resolves to setting the system settings to the off switch after this so he can get some sleep. “You already received my report, Mace. What else do you need, if it’s clearly not about my mission?”

Perhaps that’s a little too blunt, but Eeth has been running on three hours of sleep for the past two days and he really wants to sleep. Badly. One month of dealing with negotiations, a civil war, and then back to negotiations. He considers asking for one month of leave after dealing with that nonsense.

“Have you heard of Heartstill?”

Yes, yes, Eeth has heard about it. In fact, several of the clone troopers who have been with him on his mission had told him about the novel, detailing the romance of a Jedi General and a Clone Commander. Privately, he thinks it could deal with more outside forces that stops the romance from prevailing, but it sounds rather promising the way it is.

“I have,” Eeth says neutrally, tilts his head to the side. “Why?”

“I have my suspicions that someone in the council has written it, and I intend to find out who it is.” Mace looks at him with narrowed eyes, and he has to suppress a sigh. Of course Mace would think he would be writing it.

“I see,” is all he manages to say. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“Of course.” Mace pauses, then, because Mace is a bastard, he adds, “Agen is being courted.”

His mind immediately stops at that, because what the kriff. Agen? Being courted? The most oblivious of them in the Jedi High Council is being courted? Eeth closes his eyes, slightly concerned for the one who’s apparently trying to court his friend. Whoever has the sheer boldness to do that deserves luck. “And who is trying?”

“Kit.”

Never mind, Kit doesn’t need the luck. Agen is the one who needs the luck, seeing how Kit can flirt to no end, almost on par with Obi-Wan. “I’ll take the next two missions for someone on the bet if Kit manages to get Agen’s attention within the next two months via flirting.”

Mace is not outwardly laughing at him, but he is laughing and Eeth doesn’t appreciate it. “Alright.”

Eeth may or may not consider kicking Mace out of his room right there and then.

~~~~~~

Mace is very close to finding the culprit of the novel Heartstill.

There’s only one member left of the council that he’s yet to ask; Plo Koon. The said Jedi Master has been seemingly smiling every time Mace passed him, and that’s enough to cause suspicions. Enough to know that his friend is tricky enough to slip past his questions and straight past his defences.

Knows exactly how Plo will act, especially when they’ve known each other in the creche, and it’s slightly amusing to know that Plo might do something drastic. Like taking in two Zabraks from the Nightsisters, and training them when the Kel Dor has the time.

Feral looks up from his datapad to nod politely to Mace when he enters Plo’s quarters with the code his friend gave him a long time ago. Wolffe cleans his blasters while Savage naps close to him. “Master Windu,” Feral greets quietly, inclines his head. “Master Plo should be in the Archives.”

“Tell that jetii of mine to eat, sir,” Wolffe tells Mace. “He told me to babysit these two.”

Feral doesn’t blink an eye, obviously used to Wolffe’s words. “You know that we won’t damage Master Plo’s quarters.”

“Last time you said that, you and Savage managed to nearly destroy the kitchen when I was looking for my jetii,” Wolffe informs the small Zabrak dryly, Savage already opening an eye to stare at them. “So don’t bother. Sir, just make sure he ate and didn’t break his neck down there.”

“Of course,” Mace says, bemused. “May the Force be with you.”

Feral only gives him a soft smile as he leaves Plo’s quarters.

~~~~~~

He’s met with the sight of Agen, his hair untied, tiny black dots catching the light when the Zabrak inclines his head.

“Master Fisto,” Agen greets, silky black hair falling over his shoulders. Dark eyes skim the bags, and he can see Agen’s commander quickly scurrying away. Ah well, at least he can finish this up quickly and then take Agen for a run to the gardens after getting caf for both of them.

“Master Kolar,” Kit says cheerfully as he holds up the two bags in his hands. He knows how much Agen appreciates the gestures of resupplying him with weapons that the Zabrak needs. “These are the flash-bang grenades.”

Surprise flickers across Agen’s face, before his eyes soften, even if his expression doesn’t change. “You remembered.”

“So I did,” Kit easily says, politely waits for Agen to allow him to step inside the Zabrak’s quarters. Amusement curls at the edge of Agen’s tiny smirk, and all he wants to do is smile back and wait forever.

(Depa is a dignified Jedi Master; so if anyone says that they saw her take a holo of Master Fisto and Master Kolar standing together, they are a liar. She did no such thing.)

~~~~~~

Unsurprisingly, Plo is in the Archives. Again.

“Ah, hello, Mace,” the Kel Dor greets with a smile in his voice as Mace approaches him. Plo is already taking out a datapad with a soft hum, a talon clicking against it with an echo. “Did you know how interesting Zabrak poetry can be when being expressed out loud?”

“Pardon?” Mace asks in bewilderment, a beat little too late.

Why is Plo asking him about Zabrak poetry? Granted, this could have been discussed with the other Zabraks in the Jedi Order, given that Mace has little knowledge of it. Though... if he can just steer the conversation to the novel, then he’ll know whether or not Plo is the one who wrote it, and then make sure no one else is writing a novel based on actual events too close for his comfort.

“They have such wonderful sounds when conveying it. Such as this one here...”

This, Mace thinks with an oncoming headache as Plo continues to ramble about the poetry, is going to be exhausting.

~~~~~~

“Plo-”

“Oh, Mace, I’m not finished with explaining the messages inside the poems yet!”

“Did you write Heartstill?”

Plo emits amusement into the Force. “That’s not the topic right now, is it, Mace? Now, as I was saying, there are some hidden messages within each line for each sound they make...”

Cody is going to become a widower if Mace doesn’t survive this.

~~~~~~

Cody finally finds his husband in the Archives after a couple of hours, impassively staring at Plo Koon with an exasperated look, though no one can tell unless they know him or look very closely.

“Master Koon,” he says formally, dips his head in greeting when Plo waves a four-fingered hand to him. Mace’s slight relief rises in their bond, before fading away to exasperation and fondness for the Kel Dor. “Mace, there you are.”

“Cody,” Mace says as he rises to his feet from the chair, gives Plo a look, before the Korun offers his hand to him. “Something urgent?”

Cody only rolls his eyes and grabs his husband’s hand to lead him out of the Archives, away from delicate datapads and apparently Mace’s current headache. “Not really,” Cody answers after a fair distance away from the Archives. “But you haven’t answered my calls for the past six hours, and that was before you told me you were going to find Master Koon.”

Mace stops, slightly turns his head towards him. “Six hours,” his husband repeats.

“Yes, Mace. Six hours. I didn’t realize you liked debating with Master Koon for that long.”

“Yes,” Mace agrees, dry. Displeasure flashes in their bond, before Mace carefully tucks it away and lets it go. “I very much enjoy debating with Master Koon about Zabrak poetry.”

Cody pauses, turns to stare at his husband. “... why were you discussing Zabrak poetry?”

“That is a mystery I would like to know myself.”

~~~~~~

Humming, Plo opens the doors to his quarters and steps in, the sight of Feral and Savage curled up on the couch in front of him, the Zabrak brothers sleeping peacefully. On a chair nearby, Wolffe is reading his datapad, his head lifting to meet his gaze. He should get a holo of this.

“Sir,” Wolffe greets, sets the datapad down as Plo walks towards him. “Did you eat?”

“Yes,” Plo immediately says, and Wolffle closes his eyes like he’s going to do something rather drastic. The clone points to the kitchen, gives him a glare that makes him want to smile. “Wolffe, my dear...” He stumbles over the next word. “... partner, I did eat before going into the Archives.”

Woffle lifts an unimpressed eyebrow before his shoulders relax and the clone offers him a tight smile and a grimace. “Sorry, sir, watching these two are going to give me grey hair.”

“I have faith you will prevail, Wolffe,” Plo says, and- he knows that Wolffe will be able to handle it, knows that he can trust him with these kinds of tasks. Wolffe seems to know it, too, judging from the tilt of his head and the slow blink of dark brown eyes.

Breathes, and his chest tightens when Wolffe flashes him a sweet, tender smile, before it turns crooked with teeth. “You always do.”

“I always do,” he easily agrees, steps forward to gently tilt his head down to press his forehead against Wolffe’s.

He watches as Wolffe’s eyes flutter shut at the contact, and a comfortable silence surrounds them. Plo smiles behind his rebreather, and it’s calming, to stay like that with Wolffe, Wolffe’s hands catching his and tracing gentle shapes on his skin. It feels like there’s nothing that can stop him from feeling this much.

The Force hums with approval around them.

Wolffe slowly pulls away from him, dark eyes watching his every move. “Why was Master Windu looking for you this time?”

Plo pauses, and lets out a chuckle. “Heartstill.”

“You should have never written that novel, sir,” Wolffe says with an exasperated look, full of fondness and contentment and other emotions Plo doesn’t dare to say out loud. One look is enough for the both of them, enough to last them a lifetime.

It’s enough for them both.

“Ah, but Wolffe, where’s the fun in that?”

~~~~~~

Anakin stares at the message in front of him, before looking up to see his wife and boyfriend going through the senators’ fashion choice on their holograms. Both are laughing at something he can’t hear from where he is, before he looks back down at the message again.

Anakin, whatever you do, Obi-Wan’s message reads, do not claim that you wrote Heartstill. Or anger Master Windu.

Why would he claim that? Or anger Mace?

“Ani?” Padme calls, and he looks up to see his wife smiling that beautiful smile, and Fox with his really cute dimple. “What are you reading?”

“Obi-Wan’s messages to me,” he answers, sets the datapad down and joins them on the floor to stare at the new senator on the screen. Anakin reels back from the hologram of unbelievable taste, and wrinkles his nose. “Okay, what in the karking hells is that? Are they trying to copy Sidious’ fashion of puffy sleeves?”

“Yeah,” Fox says, his eyes bright and his smile sharp. “It’s really not that great, isn’t it, Ani?”

Fox’s use of his nickname makes him lean down and gently press a kiss on Fox’s cheek. The clone blushes, looks away, and Padme giggles and leans back against him. It’s nice, to have two of the people he cares about with him, and maybe they can plan out a wedding to include Fox to officially announce him as part of his and Padme’s married life.

It would make Fox happy, make Padme happy, and he wants that for them and more.

“What do you think about a wedding?” Anakin asks curiously. Fox’s head shoots up from staring at the hologram to stare at him, his cheeks flushing red at the mention of one.

“For Fox?” Padme’s smile is full of vicious triumph. “I think he’ll look good in blue.”

“I look best in red,” Fox tells them dryly, but he’s smiling, and Anakin can only count that as a victory, as a vow to the people he loves the most.

“You would look good either way, Fox,” Anakin reassures him.

They have a wedding to plan.

~~~~~~

Shaak slowly blinks. “I will bet two trips to the ice cream parlour for all the younglings and clones in small groups.”

“I will ask that if I win this, I get to have a month’s leave to travel with my Padawan,” Depa says as she drops a couple of credits into the pot. “He always did want to see the ancient Jedi Temples.”

“Try my cake for once, you all will,” Yoda adds. Everyone present (except for Kit and Agen, who are the subjects of the said bet) shudders at the memory of the bug-infested mud cake (Adi remembers seeing a frog leg sticking out of one of Yoda’s cakes once. It was slightly horrifying if you have to ask her).

Ki watches helplessly as his fellow Councillors place their bets, buries his face into his hands, and lets out a groan. How is he the only sane one left?

~~~~~~

Six days of investigation of his fellow Councillors later, Mace wordlessly hands the datapad (that has caused him several unnecessary headaches) back to Fives.

“Uh, Master, are you alright?” his Padawan asks, furrows his brows.

Mace only nods and firmly turns around, hears Fives following him. He’s going to lead Fives to the Archives to make him read the Jedi Order’s history. Maybe the entire history later, but he’s not so vicious to inflict that on his budding Padawan.

That novel is a headache and deserves to be treated as such after Fives gave it to him to read.

If anyone says that making Fives read the Jedi Order’s history is revenge, they are a filthy, filthy liar. This is justice at its finest form, and he’s going to make sure it stays that way. Preferably without Plo describing Zabrak poetry to him again. He still doesn’t know how he stayed there for six hours.

Now, for the bets on Kit and Agen... Mace is going to win it.

(Behind him, Fives shudders at the foreboding feeling of doom and hopes that his Master isn’t planning anything bad.)

((It’s only another couple of days later before Mace realizes that Plo didn’t deny anything and is left wondering if Plo wrote Heartstill or not. He still doesn’t have an answer.))

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sunlitangles · 4 years

Text

Prose and Cons

I had the pleasure of also writing a fic for the @grishaversebigbang! Please go check out the other wonderful fics written by my fellow Etherealki. 💙

Thank you to my Corporalki @jdobrski and my sensitivity readers @niecity, @nekonamicosplay, and @wybiegowritey

And my talented Materialki (please check their pieces out and show them some love):

@ninaaswaffles x

@artzy-lia-art x

@dingy-doodles x

@protec-kuwei-yul-bo x

Summary: When his father kicks him out of America in disgrace, Wylan leaves for London looking for opportunity. He loves telling stories and sharing knowledge, so when the publishing company Crows Publishing accepts his application as a writer, he is overjoyed. There’s only one problem- Wylan can’t physically write. The solution to this stumbles into his life as Jesper Fahey, the anonymous author of popular war-time novels and coworker. They quickly enter a co-writer relationship, but maybe Wylan wants it to be more. The pair starts to get closer, but it isn’t long before Wylan gets caught up in the secret goings of the Crows Publishing company.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26316439/chapters/64080943

Keep reading after the cut for chapter one!

“Mister Van Eck, I simply must inform you that you are not qualified for this job,” said the man. Wylan sighed and glared at the stout man sitting before him. “Mr. Rollins, I really need this job. I don’t have anywhere to go, and I-” Wylan started but was quickly cut off. “Van Eck, I couldn’t give a damn. Now, please see yourself out of my office,” Mr. Rollins said, spit flying out of his mouth. He didn’t give Wylan another look, proceeding to make a ‘shooing’ gesture and turned back to his records. Wylan grimaced and wiped his face with his sleeve.

Wylan stood, smoothing out the wrinkles in his tweed blazer. He grabbed the strap of his leather bag as Mr. Rollins lit a cigar. The beady gaze of the older man followed Wylan out of the office, and as Wylan stepped outside into the cool autumn breeze, the noisy bustle of London streets overwhelmed him. Wylan resisted the urge to plug his ears, which were not accustomed to the din. The countryside was never this loud. He missed the scent of the rolling fields, the clean autumn breezes, and the subtle hints of life on the farms nearby. He sighed disdainfully and stepped into the chaotic streets of London.

The intricately built buildings arched high above Wylan, seemingly watching his every move. What am I supposed to do now? His bag thumped against his side as he strolled the uneven cobblestone, dodging other pedestrians in long coats and large skirts. He was alone in this damn city with no steady source of income. If only my dad could see me now, Wylan thought, a frown tugging the corners of his mouth. He walked down Fleet Street, a sour expression stuck on his pale face. He strolled past the brightly lit shops of 36th street, the warm smells of the bakery wafting towards him. He stopped in front of the shop, observing the buttery pastries and golden rolls in the shop window. The soft light emanating from the bakery illuminated workers bustling around inside, putting more dough in the oven and piping thick jam on top of fluffy cakes. His mouth watered at the sight of flakey scones and he longed to taste at least one warm confectionery but tore himself away from the shop, turning back to the crowded streets. He certainly didn’t have the money for those types of luxuries yet.

He continued down the street, avoiding the large skirt of a beautiful fair-skinned brunette who strutted as if she owned the town. Her red dress flaunted her generous, soft body. She was fairly plump, and Wylan could tell her corset was laced far larger than customary. He stared as she bounced down the street, entering the bakery with a wide grin on her face. The other patrons stared after her, their expressions a mix of disgust and confusion. Wylan grinned to himself.

Loose pebbles skittered down the path as Wylan continued to make his way down to the run-down hotel that he called home for the time being. He’d managed to make enough money doing odd jobs between university classes to keep himself out of the streets, but if Wylan didn’t find steady work soon, he’d surely be down on his luck. He hurried down the cobblestone streets until he reached the hotel. The front needed a new paint job and windows were in a serious need of cleaning, but the rooms were in good enough condition. He stepped inside the lobby, which was empty save for a Suli family who waited on the moth-eaten couch and a tall, well-dressed man speaking quietly with the concierge. Trudging up the stairs, Wylan searched for his room number, turning right and then forward. He slid his key into the lock, taking off his jacket as he stepped into his hotel room.

He examined his belongings, anxiously making sure nothing was missing. Earlier in the week, he had experienced a run-in with a maid who had taken a liking to rifle through his belongings, looking through his music notebooks and pockets for spare change. He sighed in relief as he realized none of his belongings were swiped. Wylan could hear horses trotting along the street below him, barkers shouting at passerby and the mumble of conversations over watered-down tea and lumpy rice pudding. He still couldn’t believe he was in London. It felt a lot bigger, even though it was barely big enough to fit a fraction of America. He sat down at the tiny desk in the corner of the room, lit by the setting sun. Sunlight streamed through the dusty window, illuminating his fiery copper-red hair. Setting his head in his hands, he rubbed his temples, willing the stress of the day to disappear.

He had no idea how he was going to sustain himself for much longer. The funds that his dad had sent him off with were running low, and it would only be a few more weeks until he would be kicked to the streets with only the clothes off his back and a university scholarship, forced to feed himself and fend off the rats and pests that lurked in the dark alleys. According to his calculations, he would be able to afford his room for three weeks if he cut back on his food budget and skipped meals. He groaned as he pushed himself out of the creaky wood chair, the moth-eaten upholstered cushion leaving dust on his nice black pants. Brushing himself off, he collected his school work from his leather bag. Thick leather-bound books and spare pieces of paper stared up at mockingly, the neat font gleaming under the setting sun. Rubbing his eyes, Wylan attempted to make out the words written on the crisp pieces of parchment but gave up after a few tedious moments.

Mind still preoccupied, Wylan grabbed his flute. The cool metal was familiar to his smooth hands, the brass instantly calming his nerves. Grabbing a few sets of sheet music that he had already memorized, he brought his flute to his mouth and began to play.

As the stars twinkled in the midnight blue sky outside his window, Wylan fought to ignore the rumble of his stomach. He had played for hours, taking breaks to try to read the work he was assigned but he quickly gave up; the frustration consumed him as simple words mocked him. He craved a flakey pastry from the bakery he’d passed earlier, but the almost non-existent weight of the money in his pocket reminded him that indulging in such luxuries would not suit him well. He fiddled with the cuff of his shirt, wondering if he could afford to buy potatoes at the grocer. Deciding to go food shopping tomorrow, Wylan got himself ready for bed, humming under his breath as the crows chirped in the distance.

*** The streets of London were never quiet at night, Wylan had soon realized after his first night at the hotel. The drunken steps of men stumbling out of bars and their loud, slurred voices filled the streets night after night near the gambling halls and pubs while the sound of horses trotting through the cobblestone alleys mixed with quiet sighs of private theatricals. Tonight, Wylan caught wind of a few conversations, most of them noisy neighbors complaining about the prices of tea and whatever was in the paper that morning. Curling up on the window sill, he felt the cool London air blow into his room.

“Brekker said he would be here by now,” mumbled a gruff voice. The voice was coming from a stocky man, leaning against a building with a few companions by his side. The man to his right drawled in a kaelish accent, “Damn that kid. I can’t stand him.” “Did you hear what happened to Thomas today?” a blond man asked, rolling his neck. Fiddling with the pistols at his hips, a Zemini man replied, “Did Brekker con him?” The blond man nodded and replied, “Got ‘em good, too. I heard he got all of Thomas’ inheritance. Didn’t even see it coming.” The group of men continued to converse, loudly complaining about “Brekker”.

Wylan tuned out the rest of the conversation, opting to watch the early morning carriages drive across the roads. He watched rats scour the streets below, rotten apple cores littering the darkest corners of the alleyway. A young couple took a stroll along the other side of the street, speaking to each other in earnest. Wylan wondered what that was like. To have someone to tell everything to. Try as he might, Wylan’s father never could seem to get Wylan interested in the town girls. He just didn’t fancy any old girl, right? That had to have been the explanation for his blunt taste in women. They were just so peculiar. He often felt as if he never really liked any of them.

“Damn Brekker, can’t seem to keep his nose outta people’s business,” complained the man with the kaelish accent, snapping Wylan out of his daydreaming, “Do you reckon The Dregs will write something about Thomas?” Wylan knew that The Dregs was a popular newspaper in London, published by Crows Publishing. The Zemini man snorted and replied, “It’s a newspaper and publishing company.” “So? They can’t possibly know everything.” “You would be surprised, and I don’t read their shit. You’re the one reading penny bloods from Crows Publishing.”

Wylan knew about the penny bloods that were taking the country up by a storm. His neighbors often gossiped about them with their friends and family, and his classmates read them at school. They formed clubs where they would read them aloud and catch up on the latest episode. Wylan joined a few of those clubs, enjoying the way the writing sounded and taking note of the masterful ways they were written. The most popular penny bloods were written by a man named Kit Young starring a plot of war- novels and by the sounds of it, they were almost the most popular penny bloods in London, second only to a series of detective penny bloods published by the Dime Lions publishing company. Wylan heard that they told tales of crime and detection in America, but he didn’t find the descriptions as intriguing as the bloods written by Kit Young. Wylan participated in one of the clubs for Mr. Young’s stories and he latched on to every one of his words, but he had to stop going to the clubs as he needed to find work more than participate in leisure. He laughed bitterly as he thought about the war bloods and continued to ponder the on-goings of Crows Publishing.

Wylan had dared to hope that he could potentially be hired at the publishing company. He imagined conversing with his coworkers, and hopefully friends, about the latest stories and articles looking to be published. He imagined laughter spilling out of him and his coworkers and them sharing a mutual love for stories, him hopefully writing successful penny bloods that took the country by a storm. He wondered what he would do if he met Kit Young, and how he would praise the man for writing the stories that kept almost all of London intrigued. He let his imagination roam free until the sun rose over the gray city.

***

Though he was drowsy from his lack of sleep, Wylan tried to pay attention to the lesson his English professor was droning on about. He had yet to read the book assigned and he tried to understand what Professor Williams was saying about the metaphors in the book, but the encounter he witnessed from last night had been playing on repeat. The name “Crows Publishing” stuck out to him and kept nagging in the back of his mind. Wylan got chills down his spine each time he thought about how “Brekker” worked the gang and how disturbingly good he was at getting what he wanted. Doodling on the piece of paper in front of him, Wylan continued to ponder the mystery of Crows Publishing. Professor Williams announced that he would be calling on students, effectively breaking Wylan out of his stupor. Wylan silently prayed that he wouldn’t be called on as his professor scanned the room for participants. Though of course, Professor Williams decided it would be the perfect time to call on him.

Locking eyes with Wylan, his professor said, “Mr. Van Eck, what did you think about the relationship between Victor and his monster?” Wylan gulped nervously, the room feeling awfully hot and stuffy. “I found their relationship, uh, quite intriguing.” Professor Williams raised his eyebrow in expectation, “Anything else, Mr. Van Eck?” “Uh, I thought that Victor treated the monster unfairly and that maybe the author was commenting on the times,” Wylan said, balling his hands into fists. He thanked the lord that Mary Shelley’s work was popular enough for him to have known the plot. His breathing began to get shallow, and he focused on simply breathing in and out to avoid getting too worked up.

Professor Williams sighed, nodded, and called on another student. Wylan felt the eyes of his classmates burning holes into the back of his head. Wylan shifted uncomfortably, digging his fingernails into his sweaty palms. He focused intently on the paper in front of him, fighting the blush creeping up his neck and heating his ears. He silently wished for the floor to open up and devour him; anything would be better than sitting here embarrassed.

As the class ended and students were packing up their belongings, Wylan felt a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him from exiting the classroom. “Van Eck. Hold on,” said Professor Williams. A few moments after all the students had sifted through the door, he leaned against his oak desk, crossing his ankles and watching Wylan intently. Wylan gulped and settled his hands on the strap of his leather bag. “You wanted to see me, Professor?” Wylan said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. “In fact, yes, Mr. Van Eck. Your performance in my class has been… less than satisfactory. I am quite aware of your, ahem,” Professor Williams cleared his throat, “difficulties with reading and writing, and I would like to help you.” Wylan looked towards the ground, “I’m sorry, Professor.” “I have a tutor willing to help you. I hope you accept this offer, as I truly think it would help you.” Wylan nodded, “I accept. Thanks.” Professor Williams smiled slightly. “Let me know when you’re available and I will let your tutor know. Don’t worry about the finances, I have it handled.” Wylan walked out the classroom, cheeks hot. His professor was paying for his tutoring sessions, and Wylan couldn’t help feeling useless. He wanted to think that the tutor could help him, but he was too overwhelmed by the fact that another human being had to know about his inability to read and write. Wylan silently decided to somehow find a way to pay his professor back; his search for a job becoming his top priority.

***

Professor Williams had found Wylan a tutor, all right. He was a 19-year-old boy with hints of patchy peach fuzz along his upper lip. His blonde hair was gelled back and he wrote a purple bowtie, rather than the standard university’s blue. Wylan sat down at the library table his tutor, Joost, had found. Joost pulled out an intimidating stack of books and Wylan eyed the stack nervously. “I think we should start with the book Professor Williams assigned to us. Do you have a copy?” Joost asked with a pretentious air in his voice. Wylan smiled, narrowing his eyes. He already disliked Joost.

“I do. It’s required, you know,” he said, the fake smile slathered on his face. If his jab affected Joost in any way, he didn’t show it. Joost eyed Wylan up and down, waiting for him to pull out his book. Wylan gritted his teeth and grabbed it out of his bag. Joost smiled and opened his heavily- dog eared copy. “Let’s start with chapter one. Do you know what happens?” Wylan bit his tongue to stop himself from lashing out at the blonde boy. “I don’t remember.” Joost cleared his throat arrogantly. “Then open your book to chapter one.” Wylan groaned internally as he began his slow descent into hell. He tried to read the words printed on the smooth sheets of paper, attempting to keep up with Joost’s monotone droning. After ‘reading’ the first chapter, Joost looked at Wylan expectantly. “Now, can you finally tell me what happens in this chapter?” Joost looked at Wylan intently, and Wylan dropped his head into his hands, pulling on the strands of his hair. This was clearly not going to work.

*** No matter how well-intending Joost was, he was not the tutor for Wylan. Wylan endured two grueling weeks of his pretentious personality and he couldn’t stand how Joost treated him like the scum under his shoe. Wylan sagged in his seat, pretending to read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein as Professor Williams directed them to a certain part of the book. He glanced at the pages, scanning the words printed on the cream pages. As the rest of the class went on, Wylan avoided eye-contact with Professor Williams and Joost. He couldn’t stand the way Joost kept glancing at him. Wylan silently hoped that the class would be dismissed quickly.

Professor Williams held Wylan back at the end of class, grabbing his shoulder as he tried walking out of the door. “I take that tutoring with Mr. Van Poel didn’t go well,” his professor said after the students cleared out of the room. Wylan internally rolled his eyes, heat crawling up the back of his neck, “Joost was… fine.” Professor Williams pursed his lips. “I’ll find you another tutor, Wylan.” Wylan nodded, embarrassed of his additional request, and quickly thanked him and sprinted out of the room. As he rushed down the hallway, he felt his spirits deflate. Wylan couldn’t believe he’d already needed a new tutor. He already felt bad enough that his professor was paying for it, and now he’d complained about his old one? In times like these, he thought that maybe it was a good thing he could no longer disgrace the family name.

***

The library he’d agreed to meet up at was on campus, and it stretched a sizable distance. It had a big, arching front doorway and, once inside, beautiful oak shelves lining up the tall ceilings all the way to the back. Wylan held down a shaky breath thinking about the words lining those pages, words that he couldn’t read. It was almost suffocating. There were about fifteen people spread around the library’s common area, including a plump, whiskery little man sitting at the front desk. Wylan shuffled his way over. “Hi, sorry, I’m looking for a- um,” he glanced at the slip with the address and his tutor’s name, a name that he already memorized but he looked at the slip nonetheless, “Jesper Fahey?” “Always great to meet a fan,” called a rich, deep voice behind Wylan. He spun on his heel, coming face to face with a tall man with a rich-umber complexion. The confident expression on his handsome face made Wylan’s heartbeat quicken. “Hi, I’m uh- Wylan Eck Van. Uh- sorry, Wylan Van Eck. I’m assuming you’re Jesper Fahey?” Wylan said, stumbling over his words. “That’s my name,” the stranger said, raising his eyebrows in amusement, “And nice to meet you, Wylan.” Wylan reached his hand out for a handshake, but Jesper started down the hallway, looking for a table to sit at. The whiskery man stared at Jesper and went back to reading, smoking his cigarette when Wylan turned back to him. “Uh- wait up!” Wylan called, dashing to catch up with Jesper. Finding an unoccupied desk in the middle of the library, Jesper sat down, pulling out various books from his worn messenger bag. Wylan sat down, mimicking Jesper’s actions. “So…” Wylan started, glancing around the musty library, “What subject should we start with today?” Jesper looked up from his bag, pulling a textbook out. “I was thinking we could do English. Professor Williams told me you were struggling with the reading assignment?” Jesper confirmed, and Wylan glanced down at his hands, heat flushing his cheeks. Clearing his throat, Wylan replied, “Yeah. Something like that.” Jesper gave him a wide smile and said, “It’s fine, Mr. Van Eck. So, how far are you into the book?” “I haven’t- um, I haven’t started it,” Wylan clenched his fists tight, “I can’t read… it. I can’t read.” Jesper’s playful smile dropped just enough for Wylan to feel embarrassment flood over him. “Oh,” Jesper simply said, scrunching his eyebrows, “Well, we can either read it together or I could give you a brief summary. Williams said that we should be at chapter four by now so I highly recommend the summary.” Jesper winked. Wylan took a deep breath and felt the tension leave his body. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

#gvbbcreation20 #gvbb2020 #gvbbfic20 #gvbb #grishaverse big bang #wesper #Jesper Fahey #Wylan Van Eck #six of crows #the grishaverse #the grisha trilogy #the crows #Kaz Brekker #inej ghafa #ninej #nina zenik #kuwei yul bo #matthias helvar

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give-me-back-my-rhodey · 4 years

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Let’s Burn the World Down - AUgust Day 6

Title: Let’s Burn the World Down

Author: Purple_ducky00

Rating: Teen

Relationship: Clint Barton/Tony Stark, Background relationships: Bucky/Natasha, Steve/Sam

Link: Read on AO3

Summary: Tony falls in love with the guy he keeps meeting in the ER. Too bad the guy already has a girlfriend... or does he?

+++++++++++

For a billionaire, Tony has to go to the hospital very often. Whether it’s a lab accident, a car accident, an assassination attempt, and/or anything else, Tony finds himself in the ER at least once a month. His insurance is higher than his standards, which isn’t saying much, Tony surmises, because he’s halfway in love with the guy he sees almost every time he goes.

They’ve seen each other so frequently that they’ve started nodding to each other and saying, “What are you in for?” like they do in the movies at the police station.

Although he’s being truthful, Tony knows that most of his incidents sound very made up. “Oh, they sent someone to assassinate me, but I managed to flirt my way out of it with only a stab wound.” “My lab exploded.” “My robot dropped a steel sheet on my foot.” “I tripped on something and fell off my porch to the porch below.” But he is even more disbelieving of this man’s injuries.

The guy says stuff like “I shot myself with a boomerang arrow.” “I was skydiving with my dog and my parachute got caught on a tree branch, and an eagle attacked me.” “I think that pizza I ate was too old.” “My old circus buddy tried to kill me. He failed.” “I fell out of the vents, and the bad guys beat me up.”

Today Tony comes in because he had to jump through a window to avoid Sunset Bain. He now has glass sticking out of his side, and he’s sitting calmly until a doctor can see him. The man limps in, bloody and skin mangled on his leg. The others in the ER gasp as he signs in and takes a seat beside Tony. “Hey man, what you in for?” He asks.

“Jumped out a window to avoid my ex.”

“Mood.” The man nods sagely. “I just battled a cougar and won. Before you ask, yes it was the cat kind, although I don’t doubt that a middle-aged woman couldn’t do this if she was rejected.” He gestures to his leg. Tony barks out a laugh.

“Oh, they could. Trust me. By the way, I never got your name. Or did you want to stay anonymous?” Tony asks.

The man shakes his head. “We’d go great no matter how we do it. Name’s Clint.”

“I’m Tony.”

“Yea, I know.” When Tony looks at him, surprised, Clint pats his shoulder placatingly. “You’ve got these people fooled with your greasy shirts and hats, but I never forget a face. Don’t worry, I won’t rat you out. But why do you come to this crappy ER all the time? Aren’t you supposed to go to the ones that are made for rich people?”

Tony shrugs. Truthfully, the first couple time he came, it was because he had happened to be in the neighborhood when disaster struck. He had struck up conversation with Clint, and he decided that if he were able to talk with him, Tony would keep coming to this ER. “I don’t know. I’m in the area a lot, I guess.”

Tony gets that he has problems. He knows that he quickly falls in love with anyone who will show him kindness or even just the time of day because he didn’t get enough love and attention from his parents as a child. He goes to therapy, and he does make an effort to figure out which people are being nice only because they want something, which people are just simply being nice, and which people are flirting. It’s still hard sometimes, like now. He doesn’t think Clint wants something because 1.) he just said that he won’t rat Tony out and 2.) he could have taken Tony’s wallet very easily many times. But is Clint just a nice dude, or does he like Tony?

A nurse gets Tony just as another comes for Clint. Tony lies on his side for far too long as they pull glass from his body. When he’s cleared to go, the doctor tells him, “You have to be more careful, Mr. Stark. You’re not invincible, and I’d hate to see anything happen to you.”

“Thanks Doc. I’ll do my best.” He shakes the man’s hand.

On his way out, he sees Clint talking to a beautiful redhead. She is reaming him out in Russian, calling him and idiot and a few other unsanitary words. Clint tries to console her, but she grabs his hand and pushes him into her car. She speeds off, still shouting in Russian. Tony’s heart drops. He has no chance with Clint now. No one would give up a woman like her for him unless they wanted something.

The next time Tony gets hurt, he goes to the ER near his home. He is in and out shortly, but Tony feels incomplete. He misses the easy camaraderie with Clint. I can still joke with him as friends, right? There’s no harm in that. He reasons, but he chickens out the next time, when he accidentally burns his arm with his blowtorch, and then when he gets shot. This keeps happening until it has been at least three months since he last saw Clint.

Tony gets drunk in a bar | in Brooklyn. Very, very drunk. The thing about being a Stark – you can hold your liquor very well, and even when you are so drunk most people black out, you can still walk and talk albeit hindered a little. Well, Tony is that drunk, and this is when he tends to overshare. He’s telling the bartender, a beefy man with long brown hair, about Clint. “So, there’s this guy, you know. Only time I see him is when I go to the ER. He’s really cute, he’s got like tons of biceps, and he’s funny. We used to see each other all the time, and I think I love him. But one time, I saw him, and he had a girlfriend. Super, smoking hot redhead – like I don’t even stand a chance. So, I’ve been avoiding him. It’s dumb because he doesn’t know I like him, and I keep convincing myself that I can still talk to him as friends and such, but then my brain just tells me he has a girlfriend, and I end up going to an ER near my house. You know?”

“Not really.” The bartender grins. “But I’m not an ER regular.”

“That’s too bad. It’s fun there sometimes.” Tony pats his hand somberly. “Sometimes we freak people out with our injuries. But we’re calm. It happens so much that we’re just like ‘meh’. The doctor told me to be careful because I wasn’t invincible, and I was like ‘ok, I’ll tell my enemies to stop trying to kill me. I hope it works.’”

The bartender throws back his hand and laughs. Tony drains his glass of Scotch and asks for another. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” The bartender asks. What was his name? Barney? Barn?

“Barnes!” Yells someone from the other end of the bar. “I need a mimosa stat!”

“Shut your whore mouth Wilson!” Barnes yells back. “I’m not serving you anything after what you and Steve put me though last night!” He turns back to Tony. “The dude’s dating my step-brother, and our walls aren’t soundproofed. I hate them so much.”

“I could soundproof your walls for you.” Tony offers. He’s not sure why he offered, but he did. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before.

“Thanks for the offer, but Nat and I will get them back at some point. Maybe we’ll do it on the couch.” Barnes grins. “Someone else can make Sam’s mimosa. Wanda’s working that end of the bar anyways.” He gives Tony one more Scotch and says, “This is your last one. I’m going to have to cut you off because I don’t want you to die.”

Tony quietly sips on his drink while Barnes makes other drinks. Once done, he stuffs a few hundreds in the tip jar and turns to leave when a scarlet-haired woman sits on the stool beside him. Tony blinks at her for a second, thinking that she looks familiar. Barnes’ face lights up, and he comes over to her. “Hey, come here often?” He asks, fake seductively.

“Don’t be an idiot,” She tells him and pulls his face in for a kiss. Tony realizes why he thinks she looks familiar. She’s Clint’s girlfriend!

He spins on his stool to face them. “You bitch!” He yells at her, then clamps a hand over his mouth as Barnes growls a warning. “I am so sorry. I don’t know your situation. You could have broken up with him, or hey, you’re a threesome, or an open relationship. I’m sorry. I was just caught up… and I’ll just go.”

Tony stumbles off the stool and heads out of the bar. Mind swirling with liquor and shame, he doesn’t notice he’s in the street or the ugly purple car headed towards him until it’s too late. Frozen, he stares down the lights until the car smacks into him.

Lying on the ground, the last thing he remembers is a person jumping out and yelling, “What are you doing, you idiot? Tony?”

Tony wakes up in a strange place. He feels like he should be in the hospital, but he’s not. Looking around, he sees a lot of… purple. “Ugh, no one should have this much purple anything,”

“I take offense to that.” A voice says. Wait… that’s Clint. Tony wildly tries to sit up, and Clint comes into his line of vision. “Hey, hey lie back down! I don’t think anything’s broken, but you should probably just let your body rest for a while.”

“What happened?”

“I hit you with my car because you were standing in the middle of the street. Why were you standing in the middle of the street?” Clint looks worried.

Tony tries to wave him off. “You know, just for the thrill.”

“Tony, most things I do are just for the thrill, and I know it’s idiotic to stand in the middle of the street.”

“Yeah well, the thing I did before it was idiotic, too, so I’m pretty good at that.” Tony sighs. He doesn’t really want to get into it because Clint will probably make him leave. Tony’s good at leaving. Everyone makes him leave after they learn his true self. Ah, well, what does he have to lose but the love of his life?

“So, last time we were both at the ER, I saw the woman who picked you up. I guess I just figured you were dating the way you both interacted with each other,” Tony explains. “Well, at the bar last night, she came in and made out with the bartender. I called her a bitch because my first thought was that she was cheating on you. Then I remembered that it had been three months, and I didn’t really know anything about you – you might have broken up, or were poly, or open relationship. Point is, I’m an idiot who speaks before he thinks then faces the consequences, even if they’re not direct.” He is very confused when Clint starts to laugh. “What’s so funny?”

“I can’t believe you called Natasha a bitch and still live to tell the story.” Clint says between gasps. “That’s fuckin hilarious. I am sorry that I hit you with my car.”

Tony is thoroughly confused, and Clint takes pity on him. “Natasha is dating Bucky, the bartender. She’s my best friend and confidante. She gets angry when I do stupid things, but I still do them. We are not dating, never have, and never will. Hopefully, that clears things up.”

“A little.” Tony just feels disoriented. This is not something he has ever had to deal with before.

There’s a knock at the door. This “Natasha” pokes her head in. “Hey Clint, is he ok?”

“Yea, come in. Tony meet Natasha Romanoff. Natasha, this is Tony Stark.” Clint gestures to the both of them.

Natasha smirks. “Hi Tony.”

“Hi,” He says weakly. “I’m sorry for calling you a bitch. I sometimes talk before I think, and I’m sorry.”

“Just don’t do it again. Are you guys hungry? Bucky’s making blini.”

Clint nods. “Tell him I love him. We’ll take two plates. You like blini, right?” He directs the question at Tony.

“I think so. I’ve only had them once or twice,” Tony says. When Natasha leaves, he tells Clint, “You don’t have to stay with me. I’ll be fine.”

“Well this is my room, so I want to stay here. By the way, how have you been? I haven’t seen you in a while. I was starting to think you took my fancy ER comment seriously.”

Tony grimaces. “Well, it’s a long story. But I did end up going to the ER near my house a couple times. It’s hard to get no injuries in the stuff I do.”

“Well, I don’t blame you for going to the uber fancy ERs, you know, because there’s better service or whatever. But if you do, can we hang out somewhere other than the ER, then? I kind of missed you, man.” Clint looks at Tony earnestly.

“The main reason I stopped going to our ER is that I saw you with Natasha and thought, ‘how could I ever compete?’ I would tell myself to just go. I could talk to you as a friend, and not me crushing on you, but I always psyched myself out when I got hurt, and I just went to the ER by my house.”

“You’re crushing on me? Wow. I did not know that. I crushed on you the first day I saw you, and I thought you were just being nice. I’m a dumpster fire on my best days.”

Tony shoots him a wicked grin. “Then let’s burn down the world together.”

#ironhawk #background buckynat #background samsteve #au_gust_2020 #i write!#hospital au #no powers au #tony stark #clint barton

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calenheniel · 4 years

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Queen of the Ashes, a frozen fanfic | Part IX

Frozen | Alternate Universe | Hans x Elsa | Romance, Drama | T+

They meet as children, each with a secret. Plagued by tragedy, their paths cross again many years later, and their secrets are unraveled.

Follow updates: #QueenoftheAshesFrozen

Read below, or find links to AO3/FF.Net/Wattpad on my Tumblr.

Author’s Note: The longest chapter to date, as I had to accomplish with Hans's backstory in one installment what I did with Elsa's in several. It is an intentional choice on my part not to refer to characters, for the most part, by their first names; in part, to give the overall story a more fairy tale-like atmosphere, but also to demonstrate the anonymity Hans assigns to his own brothers and father, as their cruelty is so all-encompassing as to be indiscriminate. As we Frozen fans often glibly ask of Hans, "who hurt you?" Well, here's my take on the answer to that question.

»»————-　❈　————-««

IX.

The boy was five years old when the king presented him with his first pair of gloves.

They were white and soft, made of the finest kid skin, and he stared at them in bemusement.

Are these for me?

Yes, the man said. You’re to wear them on your hands at all times, from now on.

He looked up at the king with a frown. All the time? Why?

The older man’s gaze narrowed. You know why. Now put them on.

The boy crossed his arms, the gloves tucked against his biceps. No. I don’t want to.

The king pulled his arms out until they were straight in front of him, seized the gloves from his grasp, and in two swift movements he forced one, and then the other, onto his small hands.

The boy wriggled under the older man’s grasp, flames shooting up and licking against the gloves and at the king’s skin.

The man let go of him with a grunt, pulling his hands towards his sides, and watched as the boy’s gloves slowly disintegrated within the fire that enveloped them.

Insolent child, he rumbled. I will have another pair made, and you will wear them.

I won’t, the boy exclaimed, shaking off the ash from his fingers. You can’t make me!

The king scowled and snapped the back of his hand across the boy’s face hard enough to make him lose balance and fall to the cold stone floor below.

The boy glared up at him with watering eyes, pressing one hand to the injured cheek and raising the other towards the king.

The older man grabbed the outstretched hand, his expression dark and hard even as the boy’s fire encompassed his grasp.

You will never raise this hand to me again. Do you understand?

The boy’s lower lip trembled as his fire sputtered out, smoke rising from the burnt edges of the king’s gloves, saying nothing.

The king released his wrist, putting out the remaining embers. Good. Now get up, and go back to your lessons.

The boy rose with effort, his arms straight by his sides, and bowed.

Yes, Father.

»» —— ««

The boy received another pair of gloves a week later, but did not raise a fuss when instructed to put them on, feeling his father’s eyes boring into his small, shrinking figure.

He wore them dutifully every day after that, though they often made his hands sweat and slick from over-long use. He dared not allow the king to see him without them, for the risk of injury and humiliation was too great, hanging over him like a thundercloud.

His brothers, seeing the king’s animosity towards their youngest brother from an early, copied it in the hopes of winning their regent’s favor. After several entreaties to his father to make them stop were met with little more than a retort of sort it out with them yourself, the boy stopped asking, and retreated to the refuge of his bedroom.

There, he took to experimenting with his magic in-between lessons and meals, training his flames with his bare hands into the shapes of fantastical beasts and far-off places that he had read about in his picture books.

Eventually, however, many of his brothers intruded on this space, each with a new taunt or trick to play on the “Unlucky Thirteenth” prince. Whether it was placing a snake in his bed, horse manure in his boots, or dusting the insides of his gloves with chili powder, they performed each stunt with wicked glee.

Hardly sleeping through the night and instinctively checking every inch of his room each morning to try and discover whatever fresh horrors they might have planted for him, the boy’s erstwhile hobby of fire sculpting fell to the wayside. In his newfound vigilance, he wore his gloves so often, and for so long, that their fine and durable needlework began to fray.

Even as he grew more adept at neutralizing their threats, so did his brothers’ attempts grow in outlandish cruelty—and it was during one such attempt that his burgeoning ability to control his magic faltered.

Just after his seventh birthday, the boy returned to his room after supper to find a scarecrow stolen from the kitchen gardens laid out upon his bed, its straw stuffing strewn all over and tucked inside of his sheets.

Buried in its torn shirt were several daggers, and across its nondescript, yellow face was written “HANS” in animal’s blood, a fact he discerned from the heavy smell of iron which permeated the air.

In his terror, the boy dragged the scarecrow to the bedroom of his oldest brother by its neck, fighting back sobs. The oldest prince was one of his only brothers who never seemed to be involved in the others’ schemes, preferring to stay by the king’s side and focus on preparing for his eventual role as future monarch.

When the boy banged on his door, the prince answered with a scowl.

What do you want? I’m in the middle of my studies.

The effigy fell from the boy’s hand as he dragged it into the room. I think Magnus or Alfred did this, he said through sniffles, clenching his fists at his sides. I just want it to stop, Frederik.

The prince bent over the scarecrow and plucked a dagger from its body, eyeing it with interest, and then looked back at the boy as he slid it into his belt.

Are you really crying, Hans? Over a prank?

The boy shook his head, and his tears fell more freely. But they painted my name on its face with blood, and—

So what?

The boy was struck dumb by the cold indifference in his brother’s reply, his mouth agape.

The prince’s scowl deepened. You’ll never become a man if you snivel and cower at every injury you suffer.

The boy’s jaw tightened, flames licking at his fingertips and burning up the gloves on his hands. This isn’t fair, he hissed through his tears, and in the next moment threw a ball of fire at the scarecrow.

His brother fell back against the door with a shocked exclamation, a mixture of fear and disgust swirling in his eyes as he watched the straw man burn. Sweat poured down his face as he turned his stare back on the boy, his mouth twisting.

What are you, devil!

The shout was loud enough to attract attention from a servant outside, who knocked on the door.

Is everything all right, Your Highness—

Get my father, quickly!

The boy’s face paled at the mention of the king, and the flames in his hand were extinguished as quickly as they had come. His effigy continued to burn on the floor.

The smoke produced by the fire caused the oldest prince to cough and flee the room, leaving the boy alone to stare helplessly at his handiwork as the fire swelled, erasing his name on the face of the scarecrow and eating into the antique Persian rug below it.

By the time his father arrived with several servants in tow, each with scarves tied around their faces and bearing two buckets of water, the fire had consumed over a third of the rug and had begun to crawl up a bedpost. With their intervention, they were able to save the bed from being turned to cinders, and the boy was rushed out by a guard into a private meeting room adjoining the east wing of the library, far from the site of the bedlam.

He waited for what seemed a year in the small room, lit by a single candelabra the guard had left for him, before his father reappeared.

The king wore a thunderous glower. I’ve spent the last hour lying for you, to make sure everything looked like an accident, he began as soon as the doors were closed behind him, staring down his long nose at the boy’s recoiling figure. Unfortunately, however, Frederik saw what you did, and now he knows what you are. And so do Antoni and Harald.

The boy’s skin turned pallid at the mention of his two other oldest brothers. How do they know? I didn’t show them it.

I told them, the king replied. I can’t trust Frederik alone to bear the knowledge of this. Between the three of them, there is a better chance it will be properly contained.

The boy quivered. But—but they’ll tell the others—

They won’t, the king interrupted, crossing his arms. They’ve sworn an oath of secrecy to me, for which they will forfeit their lives if they dare break it. No word of this curse can ever be spoken.

The older man’s eyes tightened.

Tell me the reason why, boy.

The boy swallowed the lump in his throat. The curse will lead to the ruin of our family, he recited, and to the ruin of the Southern Isles. It must be kept secret.

Yes, the king affirmed, and suddenly seized the right arm of the boy, grasping it as he rolled up the sleeve of the white shirt. And you would do well to remember that.

He withdrew a dagger from his belt a moment later – a dagger, the boy realized, not unlike the ones stuck into the scarecrow – and sliced a long, precise cut into the boy’s skin from his elbow down the length of his forearm, drawing blood.

The boy shrieked and tried to jerk his arm away, his skin and the air around him growing hotter, but his father held him in place.

Every time you disobey me, I will mark your skin so that you will never forget it.

He wiped the blade on his pant leg before sliding it back into its leather scabbard, ignoring the pained whimpers of the boy as he released him.

The king glanced at the boy’s bare hands, still dusted with ash, and glared at him. The next time I have gloves fashioned for you, they will be the last pair you’ll have until you’re grown. Do you understand?

The boy clutched his arm to his chest, where the blood stained his shirt red.

He bowed his head. Yes, Father.

The king uncrossed his arms. Good. Now go back to your room. The others will become suspicious if you’re gone for too long.

The boy’s lower lip curled and trembled. But my arm—

A servant will come and take care of it later, he snapped. Now go, before I lose my patience.

The boy kept his eyes trained on the floor, and bowed.

Yes, Father.

»» —— ««

In the aftermath of the fire, the king grew stricter with the princes, their schedules consisting only of schoolwork and daily exercise.

They were watched closely by their tutors, with corporal punishment for misbehavior enforced regularly enough that the brothers, one by one, came completely under the heel of their father.

The younger and middle princes, unused to such harsh penalties, blamed their youngest brother for these new measures. Though their father had been clear and adamant in his insistence that the fire was the fault of a clumsy servant – the same that had alerted the king to its existence – and the servant had been whipped for his mistake, the sharp and dark looks which the oldest three princes cast at the youngest alerted the others that all was not as it seemed.

A few of them also spotted the bandages under the boy’s shirtsleeve, and noticed his difficulty in keeping up with them in their fencing matches or other sports. This confirmed their suspicions that he had done something worthy of punishment.

Nevertheless, the heightened scrutiny of the princes’ behavior made it harder for them to do much more than jeer at the boy, or slip notes under his door and into his pockets wherein vulgar obscenities were written that disparaged his appearance and character.

Even with this relative quiet, freed from the more terrifying provocations that had plagued his formative years, the boy’s existence grew gray and dull—for of all his brothers, he knew that his father kept the closest eye on him, and was waiting for the boy to slip up again.

The king assigned an especially strict and cold nursemaid to watch over the boy, and she paid little mind to his grunts and whines when she would dress him, pulling his sleeve roughly over his wounded arm, or when he would cry out when given baths in ice-cold water.

Understanding that his pleas would lead nowhere, and seeing that they had equally little impact on the old woman, the boy withdrew into himself. He spoke only when spoken to, read voraciously, and the vicious remarks of his brothers became no more than passing whispers on the wind.

It was unexpected, then, when the king announced that the boy and his brothers would accompany him on a diplomatic visit to Arendelle, their neighbor to the north.

For many of the younger princes, including the boy, it would be their first voyage outside of the kingdom, and so they spoke about the opportunity with excitement; the older ones, meanwhile, greeted the news with apathy, knowing from experience how little time they would have to themselves outside of official meetings and events.

The boy, dreading the prospect of being quarantined with his brothers onboard a ship, steeled himself for months in advance. He paid close attention during lessons to the history of Arendelle, and memorized the names of everyone in the royal family going back several generations. Expecting that he might be isolated and kept apart from his brothers and Arendelle’s royalty so that he would not cause an incident, he prepared a small pile of books to take with him so that he might still have some semblance of his regular life.

They departed on his eighth birthday for the northern kingdom, with several servants accompanying them (including the old nursemaid, much to the boy’s displeasure), and the quarters were close enough that the other princes could not do much more than play the occasional prank on the boy without a tutor or servant spotting their misdeeds and reporting them to the king.

Aside from a dramatic bout of seasickness which plagued the younger princes during their first day on the ocean, the voyage was quieter than the boy anticipated. Once he had adjusted to the swaying of the ship, he found a measure of peace resting outside in the cool breeze, salty air, and warm sun, and was disappointed to leave it when they arrived after only a few short days at their destination.

Upon landing, he was kept apart from his brothers, and his nursemaid assigned to monitor his every move. For all the renown of the fjords, lakes, and mountains of Arendelle, he saw only dusty outlines of them from his bedroom window.

After a few days of being mostly confined to his quarters, he found himself wishing that they had never made the journey at all.

Midway through the first week of their visit, he was, without warning, shunted off to entertain the young daughters of the King and Queen of Arendelle. The girls’ wide-eyed looks and endless questions irritated the boy, unused to the attention or expectation to converse, and he refused their invitations to play as he read his books or pretended to sleep.

It was not until the end of that week that the boy discovered the great secret of the older princess by accident, witnessing as she conjured snow and ice from her fingertips, molding the elements into the shapes of animals and castles and snowmen.

At first, this amazed him, and he watched the spectacle in disbelief. This astonishment, however, quickly turned into envy, as he saw the girl’s freedom and joy as she played with her sister—and then to anger as he fled the room at the thought that he was unable to do the same.

The reappearance of the older princess that evening, along with her tearful pleas for the boy to keep her magic a secret, caught him by surprise. Recognizing the same fear in her that he held in his own heart, he acquiesced to her request, and stared at his door long after she had left.

In the days that followed, he became kinder to the princesses, and even joined in some of their games. It was a bond unlike anything he had known before, and though he still deemed some of their conversations and activities too juvenile to engage in (he drew the line at playing dress-up), their time together allowed him to relax and speak more than he had with anyone else in years.

His relaxedness in their company even led him to tell a tale of a boy who could make fire, modeling the story after his own life insofar as he could without revealing his secret.

But in the telling and subsequent pressing by the princesses for further details, he became reticent and cold, sensing that he had said too much. For all the comfort he knew it would bring to the older girl to know that he understood her troubles, the trained eyes and ears of his nursemaid and the scar on his arm kept him silent.

By the time he and his family were scheduled to depart for home, the boy’s heart was heavy with regret. He had kept himself apart from the young princesses in the days prior to his voyage, though his refusals to see them had resulted in several icy baths and hard slaps to his face. He expected that they would never want to see him again with how he had behaved, and after being told as much by his nursemaid.

Just as before, however, the older princess shocked him in her parting request and gesture, leaving him with a delicate ice sculpture of his own. When the object melted in his hands before he could admire its craftsmanship, he cried, feeling its loss more keenly than any other hurt he had weathered in recent memory.

Upon their return to the Isles, the boy’s brothers – finally free from the constraints of propriety expected of them as guests in a neighboring kingdom – once again made him the target of their antics and schemes, finding ways of getting around the tutors to plant nails on his mattress or needles in his hairbrush.

The maltreatment, while nothing new to the boy, startled him after going so long without it. He tolerated it without complaint for the first month following their return, but as their tricks escalated, he found it harder to control his instinctive reactions to them.

Burning small holes in his gloves with increasing frequency, he spent many sleepless nights learning to patch them up with sewing books he had discreetly borrowed from the library. His handiwork was rough, but decent enough to go unnoticed.

The nights spent in this fashion allowed him time to think on his visit to Arendelle, and to recall in vivid detail the way he felt when he saw the older princess’s ice magic—as well as her pleading to know more about his own, by way of the boy in the story he had told her.

The innocent curiosity and genuine sympathy she expressed for this character and his plight touched him long after they had parted ways, and he began to wonder why he was not allowed to feel the same way about himself as she did.

One evening, after falling victim to a particularly inventive prank involving his favorite dessert (in which his brothers had paid off kitchen staff to serve him eclairs filled with grasshoppers instead of cream), he had burnt his gloves badly enough that he stayed up well past his usual bedtime to repair them.

He worked by the light of one candle on the floor, his eyes straining against the growing darkness to perform the careful stitching required for the operation. He could not risk lighting more than one, should a servant passing by his room see any light under the door and report it to his father; but as the hours passed, it became more and more difficult to focus on his task, and his eyes drooped as the flame died.

The boy was awakened the next morning by a rough shake by his nursemaid, and then a hard slap on his shoulder as the king hoisted him up off the floor to stand, dismissing the older woman from the room.

The king shook the boy’s patchwork gloves in his face. Did you think no one would notice, boy? he asked, and threw them onto the floor. To think you would sink so low as to perform a woman’s work.

The boy recoiled. I just thought—

What? That you could avoid punishment? the king interrupted, and scoffed. He grabbed the boy’s chin and pulled it upward, examining the large bags under his eyes, and let go of him just as suddenly.

You know the penalty for using those accursed powers of yours. Take off your shirt.

The boy’s lip trembled as he stood in place, remembering the girl with blue eyes and snow-kissed skin.

But I’m not the only one—

He stopped mid-sentence as the desperate, crying figure of the princess appeared as clear as daylight to him in the room.

You have to keep it a secret, she seemed to whisper to him again.

The king watched his son object with a half-formed thought, and then pause as if frozen in place, with a frown. Get on with it, boy, he growled, jolting the boy from his reverie.

The youngest prince bowed his head, and began to unbutton his shirt. When it was halfway open, the king turned him around and pulled it down until it hung loosely around his biceps, exposing his entire upper back.

Expecting the cut to be sudden and precise like the last one, his shoulders raised in anticipation, the blades tense and shaking. Instead, nothing happened for a time, and only the sound of the boy’s sharp, terrified breaths were audible in the otherwise silent room.

I wanted you dead from the moment you were born, the king said at length, his voice low and menacing. For killing my Therese, my evening star. When I learned of your curse, I wished for it even more.

He paused to unsheathe his dagger from his belt. Were it not for the love she bore you, I swear I would have done it.

He pressed the point of the dagger into the bottom of the boy’s left shoulder blade. And for my weakness, you yet live, and cause our family great shame. And this you must remember, as I must remember it, and bear this curse as punishment for our sins.

The cut was longer and deeper and slower than the first, running from that shoulder blade down to the small of his back, the king yanking down the shirt as he went.

The boy bit back his cries of pain all the while, swallowing his sobs, waiting until he heard the dagger slide back into its sheath before he dared to pull his shirt back up over his back. Fresh blood seeped through the cloth.

His mouth was dry, but he turned to face the king, repeating the words he knew the man wanted to hear before he would finally leave the room.

The curse will lead to the ruin of our family, he said, bowing, and to the ruin of the Southern Isles. It must be kept secret.

The older man stepped back a few paces, and grunted. Leave the gloves to the servants to repair, he replied. If I catch you doing it again, I trust you understand the consequences.

The boy’s head remained bowed.

Yes, Father.

The king stayed a moment longer, and the boy kept his back bent and stiff, though the gesture caused him great pain. When the older man left, the nursemaid was sent back in to wash and dress the boy’s wound, which pulsed and ached under the woman’s callous ministrations.

As he struggled to stay conscious, the loss of blood draining him of his remaining strength, the visage of the princess reappeared to him at the other end of the room.

Her face was wan and melancholy.

Please, she said, her voice a distant echo. Please don’t tell anyone.

His eyes drifted shut, and he nodded.

I won’t, Elsa.

»» —— ««

The memory of the snow princess remained fresh in the boy’s mind as the months and years drew on, the cut across his back fading to a pink line.

Though he continued to suffer injuries of a similar scale at the hands of his brothers (including an especially brutal attack that left an long, dark scar across his chest), he once again became inured to their monstrous whims, turning ever more resolutely to his private studies.

These consisted of long nights spent reading books on mythology, legends, and fairy tales that he had managed to sneak out of the library at odd times of day, examining them for clues or insights into his condition. Having recorded in his spare time the routes taken by the guards on their regular rounds, and knowing the exact times when the nursemaid would check in on him, he taught himself how to navigate the palace without being seen.

In spite of the king’s declaration during their last confrontation, and the general threat of being found out at any moment by his older brothers, the boy now knew that another child existed with powers like his—another child whose parents and sister were all alive and well and happy, and therefore did not seem to be “cursed” with her magic as punishment for past crimes committed.

With such knowledge, he felt his fear about the possible consequences of his actions dissipate, and he delved deeper and deeper into the far recesses of the library’s archives, finding older texts with references to shamanistic rituals and practices long since forgotten. Others were written in ancient runes whose meanings he could not discern, and dared not ask his tutors to decipher for him.

The texts hinted at the source of his powers, and, presumably, the girl’s: that they were elemental, of nature, and exceedingly rare. Though some tales and myths presupposed that they were the result of a witch’s curse, or borne of the sins of the child’s parents, others theorized that they were gifts from God, or passed down from ancient civilizations of trolls, elves, and wights who had intermarried with humans.

Even without a definitive judgement from the books, the boy grew emboldened by their notions and by their colorful, if faded, illustrations of this elemental magic. He tried to replicate the shapes and designs he saw in them with his own powers, and after many haphazard attempts resulting in some of his furniture, carpeting, and drapes being singed, he gradually developed an impressive degree of control over his abilities.

In the company of others, the boy showed an equal level of control over his temperament, asking for nothing and never complaining about the injuries he suffered at his brothers’ hands. Without any fight from him, they began to lose interest in their persecutions, and moved on to other, more mature fancies, such as playing cards and pursuing young ladies at court.

(In the latter activity, however, they continued to actively discourage potential partners of the opposite sex who might otherwise take a shine to him, whispering that the “Unlucky Thirteenth” would surely make a poor husband, and an even worse lover.)

By the time the youngest prince turned fourteen, even the king had come to begrudgingly acknowledge his son’s careful and studious behavior, rewarding him with a tan foal for his birthday.

It was not a unique or grand gift, as all of the princes had been given horses long before then, and at a much greater price to the king than the one accorded to his youngest son. Even knowing this, the boy recognized it as the first thing that he could truly call his own outside of clothes and books, and he raised the foal by hand, naming it “Sitron” after the sole lemon tree in the kitchen garden which had survived the harsh winter.

Ignoring the jeers and slurs thrown at him by his brothers, he visited the creature daily, combing down its mane, training it for riding, and checking its food and water to ensure that it was free of pests and parasites.

He whispered to the horse as if to an old friend, confessing to it his troubles, hopes, and dreams. In imagining that the creature could understand him and shared his burden, he found that the harassment of his brothers affected him less than before, and he directed most of his spare energy and time to looking after his newfound charge.

The king lectured the boy on smelling of manure, but otherwise allowed him to care for the creature in the manner he wished, pronouncing it a better use of his time than burning gloves and carpets.

The boy, in turn, grew less interested in his former studies of shamans and strange cultures, and no longer saw visions of the snow princess from his childhood. With little room in his schedule between his regular coursework, riding lessons, and chores in the stables, he hardly practiced his magic.

Nonetheless, he continued to wear his gloves out of habit, sometimes forgetting that they were not a part of his skin.

»» —— ««

As he grew into a young man, his thoughts increasingly turned to what careers the king might allow him to have, given his specific circumstances.

The memory of the open sea on the voyage to Arendelle, and of the liberation he felt out upon it, thus directed his efforts towards following in the footsteps of his royal predecessors by entering naval service.

Knowing that the king would be skeptical or even averse to the idea, the young man became warier than ever in keeping his public appearance respectable and controlled. No untoward word left his lips, nor did he utter a single sentence that was not deliberately weighed and chosen for maximum personal advantage.

When, by his seventeenth birthday, his father had not yet approached him about his future, the prince took the liberty of requesting a private audience with him.

The king, having become less severe with age, still cut an imposing figure in person. He eyed the young man with suspicion, but also undisguised interest, as he waved for him to approach the throne.

Yes, boy? What is it?

The young man bowed. I’d like to follow in my brothers’ footsteps, and yours, Father, he said. If you would have me, I would be honored to serve in your Navy.

And leave your beloved pet here, to be tended by the stable boys? the king mocked, chuckling. When his jab did not produce a reaction, his smirk dropped, and he sighed. I suppose you’ve comported yourself decently enough these last few years, though there is still the matter of your curse to consider.

The old man paused. However, it would look strange for a Prince of the Southern Isles to forego naval service, and I have no appetite for coming up with excuses for why you should miss yours.

The young man, expecting the king to arrive at this conclusion, could not help but smile a little when he did.

The king frowned. Do not look so pleased—I have not agreed to anything. But I will think on it.

The young man bowed again. Thank you, Father. I am grateful for your consideration.

The king grumbled something incomprehensible in reply, and waved for him to leave.

The young man complied and returned to the stables, greeting his grown horse with a triumphant smile.

It’s happening, Sitron, he whispered, resting his forehead against his friend’s. Soon.

»» —— ««

His orders to begin his naval education were delivered to him by the king’s page two weeks later, the ink still fresh on the page. It noted that should the prince pass the rigorous entrance examination, he would then gain admission to the academy, and upon graduation given his official commission.

It was a process he knew well from watching his older brothers go through it, and had prepared for in advance. He elected to undergo the examination only a month later, and though he had hoped to take it amongst his peers, the king forbade it, insisting that he be alone and monitored by a single tutor.

To his family’s surprise, the young man passed the test with flying colors, and was promptly admitted to the academy. The dean noted him for being at the top of the entering class, and even the king was forced to acknowledge this accomplishment during the welcoming ceremony.

He continued to excel in his initial two months of basic training, earning the hard-won respect of his peers as they learned everything from drills and loading firearms, to studying navigation and maritime law. It was the first time the young man could recall being in a group to whom he felt he could truly belong, and he dedicated his every effort to integrating himself with them while remaining a stellar student.

Slowly, however, his peers began to withdraw from him, and even mocked him from a distance. Eventually, they did so openly, undermining him through tactics such as sabotaging his weapons so that they would not fire during drills, or sending notes to the instructors signed with his name, causing him to endure additional, harsh exercise on top of their regular routines.

It was not difficult for the young man to guess at the source of the change. Two of his brothers and most active childhood tormentors, Alfred and Magnus, were upperclassmen in the academy and had disliked his entrance from the start. This disapproval was matched only by the eleventh and twelfth princes’ envy of his spectacular exam score and quick ascent to popularity within the freshman class.

The sixth prince, Stefan, served as a “special advisor” to the academy’s leadership, a role which amounted to little more than having the power to “strongly” recommend the sons of his political friends and benefactors for admission. He happened to be quite close to Alfred and Magnus, and had worked the levers of power on many occasions to grant them special privileges unavailable even to other cadets of high renown. Like his brothers, he had never been shy in demonstrating his antipathy towards the youngest prince, though he could not go against the king in denying him admission.

The young man’s suppositions were verified by one or two sympathetic classmates, who told him in confidence of the slurs and rumors they had heard about him from his older brothers.

These included stories ranging from the absurd – such as the one in which the youngest prince was actually born with mental deficiencies, and so had cheated his way to the top of the entrance exams with his tutors’ help – to the vile, wherein they claimed it was common knowledge within the palace that he had sexual relations with his horse.

While he was doubtful as to what extent everyone believed these cruel inventions, he realized that the powerful positions his brothers occupied inside the academy meant that his peers would sooner submit to the older princes’ wills, than to defy them by defending the youngest prince’s honor and integrity. As they were all sons of the cloying, obsequious noble families he had grown up observing at court, he knew that his low status within the royal family would not, nor could not, assist them in meeting their lofty ambitions.

Recognizing the source of his misery did not make it any easier to bear, and as the months dragged on and the sabotages and pranks escalated, the young man came to the conclusion that he would find no greater peace or freedom on the sea than he did on land.

Privately, he had decided to see the course through to the end, though he often longed for the solitude of his old life. Most of all he missed his horse, and whenever the students were given their holiday and seasonal leave, the palace stables were the first place to which he returned.

In the company of the affectionate, happy creature, well-tended to by trusted stable hands during his long absences, the young man was able to forget his worries at the academy for a time.

His second and third years proved more fulfilling as he pursued the master-line and became a full cadet. His classes fell in line with his own interests in history, economics, and strategic warfare, and he specialized in naval law, thinking he might be able to excel in such a field after graduation.

Remembering the grievances suffered during his first year, however, the young man took care to publicly perform at merely an average level in all his endeavors. He did not score too high or work too fast to draw unwanted, jealous attention, nor did he do too little and draw scorn.

The effort of disguising his true intellect and ability, while shielding him to some degree from continued harm, weighed on the young man in a way that his brothers’ schemes did and could not. He resented the smug looks his fellow cadets would shoot him when they saw how low the prince’s test scores had fallen from his initial entrance exam, and the triumphant smirks they would wear when they tied rope knots faster than him.

Moreover, his instructors at the academy – many of whom had once praised him as a natural and thoughtful leader for his peers – openly expressed their disappointment in his sudden descent.

Sometimes, when he was out at sea on an exercise, he would allow himself a stray thought, or two, or three, about how he could incinerate everything and wipe those smirks and disappointed looks off their faces, once and for all; but upon seeing the gloves on his hands, these violent fantasies would die as quickly as they had come.

The curse will lead to the ruin of our family, he would hear his father say, and to the ruin of the Southern Isles. It must be kept secret.

»» —— ««

Pacified by the sight of the youngest prince isolated and with lower marks on his assignments, his older brothers gradually stopped spreading some of the fouler rumors they had started about him. They graduated one or two years ahead of him, and as each prince exited the academy, so did the burden on their young brother lift a little bit.

Wary of their influence and reach with the other cadets still enrolled, he continued to keep his work unremarkable.

By the time of his own graduation three years after entering the academy, the king who had once given him grudging respect for his high exam score now regarded him with a knowing frown etched into his aged, grey features. The old man, along with several of his brothers, attended the ceremony for tradition’s sake, sitting in their prescribed seats of honor along the sides of the stage.

The young man was unsurprised at seeing his father’s unhappy look, and yet it sparked an old, dormant anger within him. His hands crackled with hot energy – it was the first time in years, he realized, that he had allowed himself to feel his powers even to that extent – but when his name was announced to come forward and receive his commission from the dean, he forced it down.

The heat pulsed back up through his hands, wrists, and veins, causing him to swallow with discomfort as he collected the rolled-up document and saluted the dean and his instructors. His face shook from the effort of presenting himself with decorum, his gloved fingers curling and flexing around the paper as he moved to join his fellow, newly-minted officers off-stage.

He was almost taken aback at how smooth the ceremony proceedings were, with no pranks or jokes attempted at his expense; then, catching the eye of the king in front of him, he remembered that none of his peers – nor even his brothers – would dare to pull such maneuvers with their monarch present.

When he returned to his bedroom in the palace later that evening, the relief he had felt at the end of the ceremony was extinguished as he unfurled his commission.

His hands shook as he read it.

Next to the king’s royal seal, the words “WELCOME HOME” were hastily scrawled in tall, bold red letters—an addition made by one of his brothers at the last moment, he presumed. The young man lifted the page closer to his nose, sniffing it, and then recoiled as he dropped it, the paper landing on his desk.

It had been written in blood.

»» —— ««

The note was an intentional harbinger, as the young man soon learned, of fouler things to come.

It began with his first assignment following graduation to the Mercator, one of the oldest frigates in the Navy, a small, battered ship dating back to the end of the eighteenth century. It had been scheduled to be retired many times over, but the king had insisted on costly repairs to extend its service life.

The youngest prince’s appointment to it was a clear shot across the bow at his capabilities, with the king pronouncing that his middling finishing scores at the academy made him unfit to man any of the newer, more technologically advanced ships in the fleet.

And besides, the old man had said, the Mercator was my first ship—a fine one in her time. You should be honored to serve on her.

The young man did not protest, for part of him was glad just to be away from home. There, the king and his brothers, not to mention the council and courtiers, had easy access to him at all times in order to make his life a living hell.

Unfortunately, he fared little better with life at sea, as his position within the royal family – and his low scores at the academy – were communicated to the captain of his ship before he had even step foot upon it.

He was given tasks unworthy of his station and schooling, from scrubbing decks to repairing cables to rigging sails. He had trained, while in school, to concentrate in naval law; his current reality, being far from that, left him wanting for any work requiring intellectual rigor.

Unlike his brothers, he knew he did not have the luxury of cutting his minimum service time short to pursue a different career, nor was he even sure he would be able to after undertaking such a specialized education.

He thus languished in his first few months of service, begrudgingly performing his duties as assigned and taking advantage of the port calls in Europe to finally experience the opportunities that had been denied to him at home. Among these were visits to brothels and gambling halls and other institutions of disrepute; he frequented these places alone, having been ostracized early on by the captain and, therefore, all of his mates onboard the ship.

Word of his foreign exploits inevitably found their way to the palace whenever the ship returned home, confirming and enhancing the existing stories that circulated the Isles about the thirteenth prince. He received a lecture from the king each time, the old man chiding him through rattling coughs about the need to be discreet – especially with your curse, he would add – and an accompanying threat to have his commission revoked.

The young man would promise to behave better each time in turn, though he knew that his father’s threats were idle at best.

By contrast, his brothers used the rumors to their full advantage, denying him invitations to family events ranging from births to christenings to marriages and refusing him visitations with his nieces and nephews.

His oldest brothers – still, he hoped, the only ones who knew about his powers – were the unofficial ringleaders of this charge. The others (not including those whom had gone missing, were taken ill, or had chosen to become ascetics and abandon palace life) proved easy to recruit for this cause, as they were already poisoned against their brother from years of prejudice.

He thus spent most of his time at home exiled to the stables with his horse, just as he had been during his years at the academy, taking it for long rides through the towns and forests around the Isles.

As these rides became well-known, his absences from family gatherings were framed by his brothers as him declining to attend, his jaunts cementing his status as an irresponsible layabout.

With each fresh insult and snub, the young man became more and more driven to succeed in spite of his family’s determination to see him fail. He refused to play into their low expectations as he had while in school, no longer deterred by taunts or threats of expulsion.

By the summer of his first year in the service, he had become so dedicated to his work that even his mates and captain began to show him reluctant respect. He was assigned less of the grunt jobs on the ship, and even began to supervise some of the crew, though he was careful to be far more polite and tactful in giving feedback than other officers.

Soon, murmurs spread throughout the fleet of the “Unlucky Thirteenth’s” surprising prowess as a leader, with comparisons being drawn between him and some of his older brothers who were revered admirals still in the service.

When months passed without any sign of professional advancement, the men wondered at why the youngest prince had not been publicly recognized by the king, nor by any of his brothers, for his laudable work. His continued assignment to the Mercator when he had shown himself capable of handling a more difficult assignment was equally puzzling to them.

The young man, not expecting recognition no matter the caliber of his work, was unvexed by his fellow servicemen’s quiet complaints on his behalf. It was enough for him that they should express them at all, for he knew that these grievances would eventually reach the ears of his family—and when they did, that they would reignite his brothers’ ire and resentment towards him.

The thought of this would make him chuckle, and he waited impatiently for the day to arrive when he could see their irritated faces for himself.

»» —— ««

He was not granted his next full block of leave until the week of Christmas.

The king traditionally held multiple holiday fetes and hosted foreign dignitaries for the holiday, and by the time the young man returned home, these events were already in full swing.

He passed by the great hall to catch a glimpse of that year’s guests of honor – princes and princesses and ambassadors from Spain and England and the Ottoman Empire, plus some duke from a country he had never heard of – but otherwise kept himself out of sight as he dropped off his belongings in his bedroom, and then headed out to the stables.

He smiled in anticipation of seeing his old friend’s face, their latest separation being longer than usual. He thought of all the events to catch him up on, and carried a bag of carrots he had bought at port that afternoon to offer in exchange for the creature’s sympathetic ear.

Upon arrival, however, he was alarmed to find that his horse did not occupy his usual stall, nor any of the other stalls allotted to the royal family. He jogged to the ones given to visitors, thinking that perhaps his friend had been placed there by accident, and was startled a second time at the creature’s absence.

His eyes darting to and fro in the dark, he dropped the bag of carrots and grabbed a passing stable hand by the shoulders, making the boy almost drop his lantern in surprise.

Boy, have you seen my horse? Sitron?

The boy blinked. Sitron? You mean—

Yes, the young man interrupted. The horse of Prince Hans, the Unlucky Thirteenth, my horse. Where is he? He frowned as he scanned the boy’s face. I know all the stable hands, but I don’t recognize you.

Espen, Your Highness, the boy replied, bowing clumsily as he took a step back. I was hired just recently, you see. I mean no offense, sir.

None taken, the young man said, his tone cautious. Well, Espen, perhaps you haven’t been informed yet, but Sitron is my horse. Tan color, amber eyes, with a salt and pepper mane. I’m quite fond of him, and he’s usually in that stall over there, but I don’t see him there tonight. Do you know where he might be?

The boy swallowed. I, uh, yes, sir, Master Georg mentioned him. The thing is, sir, he’s been missing for a few days, and—

Missing? the young man asked, his frown deepening. What do you mean?

Well, um, Master Georg thinks he’s run off, sir, and—

Impossible, he interjected again, scoffing. Sitron is too well-trained to do such a thing. Where is Master Georg? I must speak with him about this.

The boy fidgeted, his hand shaking on the lantern handle. He’s, uh, been given leave to spend the holiday with his family, Your Highness.

The young man’s eyes grew slatted with skepticism. But he’s always worked during Christmas, he mused out loud. Who gave him permission to—

He paused, shaking his head. Never mind. You wouldn’t know. He sighed, waving the boy away. Go on, now, and tend to your duties.

The boy took a few steps back, almost tripping over his own feet, and rushed off to assist late-arriving guests with parking and settling their horses.

The young man, meanwhile, scoured the area for any sign of his friend – an old horseshoe, a half-chewed carrot, or even a stray hair – but found nothing except well-worn hoof tracks inside of the stall and along the entryway. The disappearance was so thorough as to make him believe that the boy might have spoken the truth, and something had spooked his old friend so badly as to make him run away.

Knowing his friend’s calm and easygoing temperament, he wondered at what could have triggered such an extreme response; but the more he wondered, the more he worried. He searched the palace grounds for hours with only dim lantern light to guide his path, refraining from using anything stronger lest he scare off his horse.

His eyes were tired and near to closing by the time the palace steward found him and begged him to go inside upon threat of physical injury from the king. Though the young man was loathe to comply with the request, he had no desire to see the steward beaten for his perceived transgressions.

Relenting in his search for the evening, he followed the older man back into the palace, his head hanging low.

»» —— ««

He combed the palace grounds and surrounding towns and forests ceaselessly in the days that followed, though he took care only to do so in the evenings when he would not be found out by his father.

The old man had castigated him for disappearing on the night of the ball in a wretched, weak voice, telling him I won’t have you looking for that damn beast, boy over and over again until he had finally lost the strength to carry on.

The oldest prince was at his side always, assisting the king to his chambers or whispering news into his ear; he often shot his youngest brother looks so cold that they would make the ice princess tremble, staring warily at the youngest prince’s gloved hands.

The looks and warnings mattered little to the young man, who passed each day of forced meetings and celebrations with guests with the same false geniality from the edges of rooms and halls. Though he knew what they thought or assumed about him, he would not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him as anything less than princely.

As time passed with no sign of his friend, however, his hope of finding him dimmed, and it became difficult to hide his disappointment in public.

What’s the matter, Hans? his brothers would ask, smirking. Rejected by the local whorehouses again? You know they don’t have any fillies for you in there.

He had been suspicious of them and the king since his first night back, when the stable boy had told him of his horse’s disappearance and of the stable master’s absence. However, with no appetite for a futile fight or argument with his family, he had kept quiet, seeking clues out on his own that might pin the horse’s vanishing on them.

This effort was made more complicated by the fact that the vast majority of the palace servants were fiercely loyal to his father and oldest brothers, and thus were of no help to him in identifying suspects. Their loyalty, having been purchased and maintained with adequate coin for years, was buttressed by the stories spread by his old nursemaid of the youngest prince’s burnt carpets, gloves, and “unnatural” attachment to his pet horse.

By the evening of the king’s grand Christmas Eve dinner, the young man was visibly sullen as he took his seat at the end of the long table in the banquet hall alongside his brothers, wives, their older children, and several guests of honor.

Of the latter group, one was seated directly opposite from him – an older man with scant gray hair atop his head but a full, bushy moustache atop his lips – and when the man recognized the prince, he bristled, frowning.

I could have at least been seated across from Prince Alfred, he grumbled loud enough for the prince to hear, adjusting his round glasses on his nose. The indignity of it all…

His voice trailed off to a mumble, which the young man ignored as he stared at his plate. Servants brought out one dish after the other to fill it: pickled cabbage, boiled potatoes, roasted duck and pork, and roasted potatoes with gravy. He picked at each in turn with an equal lack of enthusiasm, eating only as much as he could get away with without raising suspicion, and drinking his wine in moderation.

Once the main courses were swept away, he stared at the corridor from whence the servants carried the food, expecting dessert and glogg to follow.

Instead, the chef himself appeared with all of the dinner staff in tow, each carrying a covered bowl.

Your Majesty, he said with pride as he approached the king, I have created a special dish for you and your guests this evening.

The old man looked up. Oh? What is it, Birger?

The chef smiled as the servants placed the bowls down on the table, and took the covers off.

A rush of steam was released and the guests gave a collective gasp. A venison stew, Your Majesty. I know it is rather nontraditional, but your sons thoughtfully suggested its addition to the menu given your love of venison.

The king nodded, half-smiling at his oldest sons seated next to him at the head of the table. Yes, thoughtful indeed. Though I am already near to bursting, I cannot resist.

Very good, Your Majesty, the chef replied, and bowed as he departed. Velbekomme!

The appearance of the stew caused a spate of chatter to break out among the family and guests, who eagerly dug into the dish and lavished it, as well as the princes for coming up with the idea, with effusive praise.

The young man looked at the steaming bowl with apprehension. The chef never changed the menu for Christmas Eve dinners, always following the roasted duck with glogg and Ris a l’Amande, among other cookies and marzipan.

He glanced up at the other end of the table, and was surprised to find several of his brothers eyeing him in return. Some stared with amusement, chuckling under their breath or whispering to each other; others looked smug, their simpers small but obvious.

His lip twitched with a frown at observing this, and he looked back down at his bowl, his gaze becoming intense and focused.

Master Georg thinks he’s run off, sir.

The words of the stable boy echoed in his mind as a gamy smell emanated from the stew, and the young man’s eyes widened.

I won’t have you looking for that damn beast, boy.

He fought the urge to double over and gag all at once, though he did grip the edges of the table suddenly, his face pale and his hands shaking.

Why aren’t you eating, Hans? the king boomed from his seat, causing a hush to fall over the table. You must, lest you insult your father and brothers by refusing.

The young man’s head shot up, his eyes meeting his father’s, and his mouth open and shut slowly.

His oldest brother, at the king’s right side as always, had a rare, wide smile on his face.

You’ll never become a man if you snivel and cower at every injury you suffer.

He forced his hand to grab the spoon, dipping it into the bowl, and turned his gaze to meet his brothers’.

Yes, Father, he said, and brought it to his lips, swallowing the stew effortlessly. At his brothers’ surprised expressions, he smiled.

Inside of his gloves, his hands were burning.

#QueenoftheAshesFrozen #helsa #frozen #frozen fanfiction

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sortofanobsession · 5 years

Note

Prompt: Buck is isolated and shunned after the lawsuit fiasco so when he starts to feel weird. He goes for a check up and doctors find a shadow on his lung or liver and tell him he needs a biopsy. A terrified Buck keeps this to himself, feeling that he can't go to the team because they're all so mad at him. On the day of the biopsy Athena happens to be at the hospital and sees Buck being wheeled in for the procedure. She is horrified and then furious as she goes to the team. They rush to Buck.

Author’s Note: They don’t exactly rush, as much as I wanted them too, I think they all needed some time to deal. And my muses wouldn’t let me be, and apparently if given the proper motivation I can write and edit nearly 5k words in a day. Who knew? Also please know not all prompts have to be anonymous. I would love to be able to tag these to you guys when I get them done. Or just tag to people in general. EDIT: Just going to sneak this in here...For a different take on the prompt check out this fic on ff.net by gothraven89

Tags and requests are open.

Word count: 4k+

AO3

Tag list: diazbuckleysworld

EDITED 1/13/24 idk what happened to the spacing but hopefully it is fixed.

Fear in the Shadows

Buck had a cough he couldn’t shake. He thought it was the leftovers from a persistent cold. When it wouldn’t go away, and his sister wouldn’t let him ignore it he decided to make an appointment.

“This spot, Mr. Buckley, is what we are concerned about.” The doctor pointed at a cloudy spot on the X-ray of Buck’s lungs that was on the screen.

“We would like to schedule some further testing so we canget a better idea of what we are dealing with.”

“What kind of tests?” Buck asked, fingers digging into the paper covered cushion he was sitting on to keep his hands from shaking.

“CT and PET scan to start, then if needed we’ll look into abronchoscopy and lung biopsy. That should give us an idea of what we aredealing with and if we need to refer you to a specialist.”

“Like an oncologist.” Buck stated.

“If it comes to that, yes.” The doctor nodded. “But there are a number of things that can cause this sort of image on an x-ray, cancer is one, but they are also caused by pleural effusion, pulmonary edema, tuberculosis, even benign tumors.” The doctor tried to reassure the firefighter, but none of those sounded much better than cancer. “Given your profession and your medical history it could be damage from smoke inhalation or broken ribs. We wont know until we do the testing.”

“Alright, lets schedule it.”

Buck was absolutely exhausted when he dragged himself into work the next morning. He’d gotten about two hours of sleep. He’d spent all night doing research and trying not to panic. It hadn’t worked. He was on autopilot as he changed into his uniform. He went up to grab a cup of coffee. Not even looking at the people around him. He got his coffee and went to sit in a quiet corner. No one would bother him. No one ever did. No one would say hello. No one would sit down for a chat. No one asked him how his day off was. They didn’t care. He just stared out the window, coughing every now and again, rubbing at his chest as he did. Not even really drinking his coffee. He sat like that until Bobby shouted at him that the ladder truck needed cleaning before their next call.

His next shift he was in the middle of cleaning the kitchen when his phone rang. He stepped out and was gone for over an hour. When he came back he spent five minutes being berated for vanishing during a shift. No one seemed to notice the his red rimmed eyes or the way his hands shook slightly. He didn’t tell them that he’d just gotten news that the scans showed a tumor in his lungs. He was set for a biopsy in a week. He knocked on Bobby’s office door.

“What do you want Buckley?”

“I…I know it is short notice but I need to take next Wednesday off.”

“You couldn’t even give me a week to find someone to take your shift?” Bobby shook his head.

“I only just found out that-,” Buck almost let it slip that he was sick. “I just got the call telling me I needed to be off. Sorry, Cap.” Buck was trying so hard to keep it together.

“Sorry doesn’t help the fact someone is going to have towork a double now. You have your day off.” Bobby waved a dismissal. Buck ran out of the office. He locked himself in the bathroom and sobbed. He wanted to tell Bobby, but Bobby already saw him as a burden, this would only make it worse. He couldn’t tell anyone. They’d look at him like he was weaker than he already was. He wanted to call Maddie, but she had her own problems. She didn’t need this on her shoulders. No, he wouldn’t tell her until he knew something for sure. He was alone again.

Athena had swung by the hospital to check on a friend who had a son getting his tonsils out. She froze in her tracks when she saw a very familiar man being wheeled back towards the surgical suites. She wanted to go running after him. She wanted to grab a nearby nurse and ask a thousand questions. Her badge might get her a few answers, but the one thing she couldn’t do was leave now. She pulled her phone out and called her husband.

“Hi honey, now’s not a great time, we’re a man down for a few hour and-“

She didn’t let her husband finish. “I know. I just saw them wheeling Buck into surgery.”

“What?” Bobby had to take a seat on the back of the truck that his team had been checking after the call they had just returned from. “He’s in surgery?” The question had his team hurrying over.

“You didn’t know?” Athena found that hard to believe.

“No, he…he just asked for the day off. Is Maddie there?” The question got a reaction from his team. Eddie had to reach out to steady himself against the truck. Chim grabbed his phone and called Maddie.

“Haven’t seen her,” Athena answered.

“Did you see him? Which ER is he at?” Bobby asked.

“That’s just it. This isn’t an ER.” Athena stated. “This is an outpatient center.”

“What?” Bobby couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He hadn’t bothered to ask Buck why he wanted the time off. He had been too busy telling him how inconvenient it was. Bobby was kicking himself now.

“Maddie has no idea what is going on but she’s on her way.” Chim said as he approached.

“Chim says Maddie didn’t know.” Bobby told his wife.

“Why wouldn’t he tell anyone?” Athena asked.

“I…I’m not sure.” Bobby answered. He had a feeling that it was because they hadn’t exactly been kind to Buck since he got back after the lawsuit.

“Well, I’m going to wait here for Maddie.” Athena said, “I’ll call you when I know more.”

“Let me get this clear, Buck isn’t here because he’s having surgery?” Hen wanted to make sure they were all on the same page.

“Okay, thanks.” They exchange a quick goodbye and Bobby hungup his phone.

“It appears so.” Bobby frowned.

About two hours later Athena came storming into the station. "What the hell is wrong with all of you?!”

Bobby’s head snapped up when he heard his wife’s angry voice as she entered the loft. “What's wrong?” Bobby asked as he stood up from the couch he’d been sitting on.

“A hell of a lot is wrong. Now answer my question. How the hell did Evan Buckley get that sick and none of you noticed? What the hell did you do that had him thinking facing down a lung biopsy by himself would be more preferable than telling anyone?”

“He…what?” Bobby had to sit back down.

“A biopsy,” She repeated, glaring at them all. “As in that boy might have lung cancer, biopsy.”

Eddie nearly threw up. “No…no, no, no.” Eddie said, burying his head in his hands. He’d just lost Shannon. He couldn’t lose his best friend too. Hen sat down beside Eddie and put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“How the hell did two paramedics, a field medic, and the captain of this squad not notice the fact that that boy looks like he’s half a second away from coughing up a lung?” Athena put her hands on her hips. When no one answered she wanted to slap them. “Nothing to say for yourselves?” She looked at Chimney. “You have any idea how upset Maddie is? Her brother might literally be dying, and he was so worried about making you all see him as weak that he didn’t even tell her. So I am going to ask you all, one more time, what the hell is going on?”

“Things haven’t been easy since the lawsuit.” Bobby admitted.

“What did you do?” Athena turned to glare at her husband.

Bobby sighed. “I’ve had him on chore duty and keeping him off calls.”

“We didn’t know because he doesn’t talk to us anymore.” Hen said.

“And why is that?” Athena asked.

“Because we haven’t been talking to him.” Chim admitted.

“Or including him in anything.” Hen added. “Even meals.”

“So you all were just letting the sick kid waste away to nothing because you couldn’t get past a damn lawsuit that he dropped?” Athena pinched the bridge of her nose. “You were so angry you didn’t notice that he was coughing so hard he was in physical pain? Even after we all watched him cough up blood and collapse. You all didn’t even notice?” Athena was livid. She’d scrubbed the blood off the patio herself. And they hadn’t noticed any red flags that he was sick again. “You know what. I have my answer. Your heads were so far up your own asses that you couldn’t even see your teammate might be dying.” She shook her head. “You better hope he doesn’t have cancer or an aneurysm. You better hope that he can come back from this, because you owe him so much more than a death bed apology or worse, a eulogy.” With that the police sergeant left.

Eddie choked back a sob. She was right. They could lose him and it would be their own fault. He loved his best friend, and now he might not get the chance to make things right. Even if they did, it still might be too late. He failed. He’d told Buck he’d have his back and he failed again. What the hell was he going to tell Christopher if they lose Buck? How could he tell his son that he’d lost weeks of what might be a very limited amount of time with someone he loved because his dad was too petty to get past his anger? This would break Christopher, Eddie too. They could lose him after almost losing him so many times. What if it was bad, what if they had been able to catch it sooner if they had just been paying attention? Eddie would never forgive himself if they lost him because he was too busy being angry to notice his best friend was sick. He let out another sob.

“Shhhh.” Hen hugged him, but what she said next had him pushing himself up off the couch. “Eddie, it’ll be-“

“Don’t.” Eddie cut her off. “It’s not. This is not okay!”

“Eddie,” Bobby cautioned.

“She’s right. We didn’t see he was dying!” Eddie shouted.

“He isn’t-“ Bobby started to correct him.

“If it was bad enough to need a biopsy, it isn’t good.” Eddie spat. “And we didn’t see it. How could we not notice cancer? Cancer!” Eddie pressed his palms into his eyes to try and force back the tears. “Some team we are.”

No one said anything for what felt like hours. Chim tried to call Maddie a few times but the call was sent to voicemail every time.

The moment his shift was over Bobby went to Buck’s apartment. He wasn’t surprised when an angry Maddie opened the door.

“You have some nerve showing up here.” Maddie was tempted to slam the door in the captain’s face. She was furious with the entire 118.

“I know, I never should have let it get as bad as it did. I should have ended it sooner. Hell, it never should have happened.” Bobby hadn’t felt this guilty since he lost his family. He just kept ruining the good things he had. His wife was mad at him. May and Harry looked at Buck like a sibling, and they’d be upset if they knew. Bobby hated himself. “I need to apologize. If he doesn’t want to come back to work with us, that’s fine. I’ll make sure he gets transferred somewhere nice. I just… I can’t let the last thing I say to him have been part a stupid fight, not again. I…”

“Fine.” Maddie sighed, stepping aside. “He’s in watching TV. I’ll be in the kitchen.” Bobby nodded and headed towards the living area of the open space. Buck visibly tensed when he saw his boss approach, clearly bracing himself to get yelled at. It broke Bobby’s heart. He’d treated the kid so bad that just seeing Bobby caused fear to take over the younger man’s features and he could practically see his lungs heaving and struggling.

“Cap, I know, I should have told you, but…” Buck started to say but ended up having a coughing fit. Bobby rushed over to try and help him. He didn’t know how but he was going to at least keep Buck from falling off the couch.

“Easy, kid.” Bobby held Buck upright as best he could. Letting the younger man’s shaking form rest against him. “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay? You didn’t. I did. I failed you again. I was so worried about losing you that I pushed you away and nearly lost you anyways. I am so sorry, Buck. I need you to know that. When Athena called and said you were in surgery it was it was like losing my kids all over again.” Bobby felt tears start to fall.

“But I’m right here.” Buck tried to reassure him. “I’m still here.”

“I know, but…” Bobby started to say that he might still lose him.

“But nothing,” Buck said. “I didn’t survive that stupid truck, just to give up now.”

“God, I am so sorry.” Bobby hugged Buck.

Buck hugged him back. “Me too.”

“No, Buck.” Bobby pulled away but kept a hold on Buck’s shoulders. “You have nothing to apologize for. I started this. If I had just talked to you we could have worked it out. I just didn’t want you to get mad at me, and then I ended up hurting you and you ended up mad anyway. And then I got mad, and I let the crew get mad. I should have been mad at that lawyer, not you. I did this.”

“No, Bobby-“ Buck tried to argue but Bobby wasn’t going to let that happen.

“You just wanted to come back to work, and I was afraid, and I should have just talked to you.” Bobby squeezed the younger man’s shoulder. “And then I let the others ignore you and treat you terribly. That is all on me. I should have been looking out for you and I failed. You were sick and we didn’t notice, because we were too busy punishing you for my stupidity. I just hope you can forgive me someday.”

“Already forgiven.” Buck smiled sadly. “I just wanted to get my family back. If this means I might actually get that, then I’m happy.”

“Buck, you’ve always had us, we were just being assholes. The entire time you were gone the station felt wrong. It was too quiet. Everyone missed you so much. Then we nearly lost you again and as much as we missed you we didn’t want to be selfish and have you come back too early and lose you. What we did was stupid. We hurt you, then we hurt you again, and again. Then today, when Athena came to the station and told us what was going on everyone was a mess. Hen and Chimney barely spoke the rest of the shift. Eddie was a wreck.”

“Eddie,” Just saying his name made Buck’s heart hurt. He missed his best friend so much. “Is he okay?”

Bobby smiled fondly. “He’s okay, he’s just worried about you.”

The two of them talked for awhile, Maddie eventually brought dinner out for everyone. When Bobby left he felt lighter, felt better than he had in months. He ran home grabbed a few things, gave his wife a kiss and explained his plan to her. Her anger at him easing when he told her he’d checked on Buck, they were in a better place and that he was going to make sure the team did the same, starting with Eddie. She’d agreed that was a good start and sent him on his way. That was how Bobby found himself holding a duffle bag and knocking on Eddie’s door.

“Cap? What are you doing here?” Eddie asked, confused as to why his captain was at his door. Eddie stepped aside to let Bobby in.

“I’m here to look after Christopher for the night,” Bobby smiled. “Because there is somewhere you need to be.”

“Bobby, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Eddie shook his head. As much as he wanted to go see Buck, he didn’t think Buck would want to see him. He’d treated him so terribly. He failed him and pushed him away. Eddie was probably the last person Buck wanted to see.

“I do.” Bobby shrugged off his jacket, making it clear he wasn’t leaving. “I was just there, Eddie.”

“You went to see him?” Eddie asked quickly. “Is he okay? How did he look?”

Bobby smiled. “He looks tired and underweight, but he’s in for the fight, Eddie. He hasn’t given up yet. He just wants to be able to come home. And now he can. But you want to know the one thing he asked?” Eddie nodded, prompting Bobby to continue. “He asked if you were okay.”

“What?” Eddie stared at his captain.

“I told him that everyone was upset when we found out he was sick. I told him we were all a mess, but he wanted to make sure you were okay. So now I’m here to look after your son, so you can show him that everything is okay. Because it will be okay, no matter what happens we are going to be there for him. He wont go through it alone. So go, tell him you still have his back and aren’t going anywhere, okay?”

Eddie worried at his lip as he thought about it. “Okay, yeah.” He nodded before heading towards his son’s room, gesturing for Bobby to follow him. Eddie went in and knelt beside the chair his son was sitting in as he was drawing. “Hey bud, I have to go somewhere, but Bobby’s going to look after you tonight. Is that okay?” Christopher nods. Eddie smiled. “Okay, love you, bud, I’ll see you in the morning.” Eddie kissed the top of his son’s head when he stood up.

“Bye dad.” Christopher said before turning back to his drawing. Eddie gave Bobby a quick rundown of Christopher’s routine as Eddie gathered everything he needed in order to leave and tossed them into his dufflebag. Eddie was just wrapping up as he grabbed his keys.

“He likes to try and do things on his own, it’s hard to watch him struggle with the little things sometimes, but he knows he can ask for help if he needs it.”

“I’m not going anywhere, if he needs help I’m here. So try not to worry too much. He’s a good kid. I’m sure we’ll have a good time.” Bobby grinned. “Now go see your best friend.”

“Thanks, Bobby.” Eddie says as he heads out the door.

Eddie took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Maddie pulled the door open but instead of letting Eddie in right away she stepped out into the hall with him, pulling the door mostly closed behind her. “I swear if you so much as raise your voice at him, I will throw your ass out.”

“I wont, I promise.” Eddie held his hands up in defense.

“Good.” She pushed the door open and let him inside. “He’s upstairs. He’s had a long day.”

Eddie took a second to calm himself and headed up the stairs. Buck looked up from where he was propped up on pillows when he reached the top of the stairs. Buck’s eyes went wide.

“Eddie, what…”

“I came to make sure you’re okay.” Eddie said as he dropped his duffle near the wall, and shrugged off his jacket, dropping it on the duffle.

“I’m fine, Eddie. Really, it’s just a test it-“

“Not just a test,” Eddie said as he took off his boots. “It’s a life changing diagnosis.” Eddie pointed out. He set his boot aside.

“What are you doing?“ Buck asked as Eddie went around to the other side of the bed and moved to sit on the bed beside his best friend. Buck wondered for a minute if he was dreaming. Eddie hadn’t talked to him in weeks, and now he was in his bed, albeit on top of the bedding, but he was still there, in Buck’s bed.

“Can we talk?” Eddie asked, turning so he could look at his best friend.

Buck sighed. “If you guys didn’t think I was dying would you even be talking to me? Because if that is all this is, door’s that way.” Buck gestured towards the stairs.

Eddie winced. “Okay, I deserved that and honestly, I don’t know the answer to that. I’ve wanted to talk to you, I just didn’t know how. Then Bobby gets this call saying you’re in surgery and all I can think about is a spiraling list of what ifs and trying to figure out what I missed. A lot, I missed a lot for dumb reasons. I was so angry with myself that I hadn’t seen that something was wrong. Then Athena came to yell at us and," Eddie looked closely at his best friend and something inside of him shattered. “I- god Buck, I thought I was going to throw up. She said you looked so sick and now I’m looking at you and-”

“Yeah, I know, I look like shit, you spend weeks alone wondering if you’re about to get a medical death sentence, and end up not looking like this.” Buck said bitterly. And Eddie couldn’t take it. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around Buck, burying his face in the younger man’s side.

“Fuck, I failed you. I am so sorry. You needed me and I wasn’t here. I am so damn sorry. I was wrapped up in my own shit and I didn’t see how much you were hurting. Please, Buck, I can’t lose you. I can’t. I thought it would be easier if I pushed you away but it wasn’t. It hurt like hell. It hurt you. It hurt Christopher. And nothing I can do can change the fact I fucked up. I am so sorry.” It all came out a bit mumbled and half sobbed, but he hoped Buck could understand him.

“Shhh, Eds.” Buck ran his hand through Eddie’s hair. “It’s okay. I forgive you, okay. I could never stay mad at you, especially after today. I wont lie, it hurt thinking that everyone was just trying to make it right in case I died, but it’s okay.”

“No it’s not.” Eddie lifted his head so he could look at Buck. “I love you so damn much and now it might be too late. If I had just stopped being a dick when you came back, we might have-“ He was cut off when Buck’s lips crashed against his, it didn’t last long though, Buck had something to say.

“It’s not too late. Okay? You think I’m going to just give up now? Do you think I want to leave you guys? Do you think I want to leave Chris? No, I thought about him crying over me and I just…I can’t. So whatever this is I have to beat it. I’m not giving up without a fight.” Buck smiled. “And I love you too, Eddie, have for a long time.” Eddie gave him another kiss, but it was cut short when Buck started coughing. Eddie had to squash the panic thatbwas rising in him and jumped into action.

“Come on Buck, try and breathe.” Eddie spoke as he hurried to prop up his best friend, maybe boyfriend, to give his lungs the best chance to get air. Maddie came running up as he did. When the coughing stopped they eased Buck back into the pillows, but the younger man preferred to lean against Eddie, which earned a chuckle out of the older man.

“Sorry,” Buck mumbled.

“Nothing to apologize for.” Eddie shook his head.

“Well, since you two seem to have this under control I think I’m going to head out.” Maddie said. She leaned down and gave her brother a kiss on the forehead. “Love you little brother.” She looked at Eddie. “You make sure he sleeps. I’ll be back in the morning.” With a quick goodbye she was gone.

“I guess you got Maddie’s seal of approval.” Buck grinned.

“It would appear so.” Eddie laughed. “But she might take it away if you don’t get some sleep.” Eddie kissed the top of Buck’s head. “So sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

A few days later they were at the station. The entire 118bcrew were eating a late lunch during a shift after a call. Everyone stilling as Buck’s phone rang. They had all spent most of the shift trying to keep Buck’s mind off the fact that the doctor was supposed to call about the test results at anytime. Buck excused himself, Eddie and Bobby following close behind as the youngest firefighter took the call. Eddie muttered a quick prayer. Bobby had been doing the same thing most of the day. Eddie held his breathe as Buck thanked the doctor and hung up. It was silent for a moment.

“What’d they say?” Bobby asked.

“It’s benign.” Buck grinned and was almost knocked over by a bone crushing hug from Eddie.

“Good,” Bobby sighed in relief. “That’s great.” He smiled and turned back to the table.

“That’s good, right?” Hen asked. “Our boy’s going to be okay?”

Bobby nodded. “Tumor was benign.” The table erupted incheers. Bobby pulled his phone out to let his wife know the good news.

“Maddie’s going to be so relieved.” Chim said as he sent Maddie a message to let her know. Bobby looked over to where Buck and Eddie hadbtheir foreheads together. The two were in their own little world. Bobby took a moment to appreciate the fact that for now their team was okay. It would take time for Buck’s lungs to heal up and his cough to ease, but it would. The doctors were confident about that. Bobby relaxed into his seat and went back to eating. Hen and Chim quietly discussing the surprise party they were going to throw Buck now that they knew he was going to be okay. They owe him a ‘welcome back/you didn’t die/sorry we were assholes’ party. Bobby shook his head and laughed. Yeah, everything was going to be okay.

#Anonymous #Buddie Fic #Buck x Eddie #Eddie x Buck #Evan Buckley #Eddie Diaz #Eddie/Buck #Buck/Eddie #diazbuckleysworld #tw: cancer #tw: language #evan buckley & bobby nash #Bobby Nash #Athena Grant #Athena Grant Nash #Hen Wilson #howie han #prompt fill

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unforth · 5 years

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hi! i haven't been aware of the fan survey before, so im sorry if these are dumb questions, but i wanted to know... how does it work? do all fics submitted by all people to the survey make your ao3 collection, does it depend on the number of votes, and do you post final survey results on pillowfort? i couldn't find answers but if they're out there, sorry if this is annoying. thanks for creating the whole thing!

Hi anon!

So the way it works is, lots of people fill out the survey during the two weeks each year-or-so I keep it open (this time, 164 and counting). The survey is completely anonymous. I take the results, tally them all in a spreadsheet, track down all the authors and all the fics, download everything, and do a lot of back end work.

This is not a popularity contest, so the “results” are never shared, and there’s no “competition” where a fic that gets more votes is treated as “better” or “more worthy” than a fic that got fewer votes. I’ve never shown them to anyone else, in fact. Every single fic that gets even one vote gets added to the collection on AO3.

The closest to a “popularity” aspect is that I do usually do a “top twenty authors” list, which is a celebration of the authors that get the most votes (not ranked, just everyone who made the cut off for me to get 20 folks) and all the works they’ve got in the collection. If any fics make the top 20 fics list that aren’t by a top 20 author (...Twist and Shout is always in that category, for example...) I also share the 20 fics that got the most votes.

(I’ll own, I’ve been debating whether to do the top 20 this year, though. It really feels at odds with the spirit of this survey - my goal isn’t to draw attention to people who already have attention on their work, but rather to help promote the work of people who often don’t make “normal” rec lists and to help readers find new fics outside of the works we “usually” hear about.)

I used to also do themed rec lists but I’m not really any longer; with more than 2000 fics in the collection, it just takes me way too long to compile a rec list, especially compared to the limited usage the lists seemed to get. Instead, I recommend people using the collection get used to the extensive and effective system AO3 has for sorting and filtering by tags, to help folks find what they’re looking for.

Does that answer your questions?

And, folks reading this...do you think I should do the top 20 list this year?

#unforth replies #anonymous #destiel favs survey #Anonymous

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dogbearinggifts · 5 years

Text

Beauty in the Mundane, Chapter Two: Gone Away

Umbrella Academy

Author’s Note: And here is chapter two of my fic answering this petition from @scotty-the-t-rex to have Hazel and Agnes go back in time and adopt the Hargreeves kids. If this is the first time you’re seeing this on your dash, you can start with the prologue here and follow the link at the end to chapter one, or search with the tag “hazel and agnes adopt the hargreeves au.”

The whole fic is also available on AO3.

And the chapter title is taken from a song of the same name by The Offspring.

**********

Klaus watched through the big bay window as snow sifted onto the yard of a home he’d just learned to navigate.

The home owned by his foster parents, Louise and Albert Fleming, was considerably smaller than the Academy, so it should have taken him no time at all to learn where everything was and how to get there without asking for help. But where the Academy was just one big square, the Fleming home sprawled and splayed all over the lot. Walk out through the garage, and you’d find yourself in the back yard, where you’d need to either go around the whole outside of the garage and past a bunch of windows to get to the front door, or walk through half of the backyard to get to the back door. If you wanted to get to your bedroom from either of those entrances, you’d have to find a staircase, and those staircases liked to take turns that left you wondering exactly which direction you were supposed to go once you got to the top.

But he’d figured it out, or he thought he had. He couldn’t walk from one bathroom to another with his eyes closed, like he could at the Academy; but he remembered which rooms belonged to which siblings and he could get there from the great room without getting turned around.

And the house was new. He didn’t know how new, exactly, but his foster parents had been the only ones to inhabit it, and no one had died on the grounds before their move-in date. Before the police and social workers and everyone else had taken him and the others out of the Academy and brought them here, he hadn’t known a house could be free of ghosts.

The lawn was entirely white now, not a blade of grass to be seen. He didn’t know how long it had been snowing—he’d never been good at keeping track of time even when there was a clock to watch—but Albert should have found Louise by now. It was a big city, but not so big that it would take one grown-up this long to find another when he knew exactly where she’d gone.

Luther joined him at the window, taking a seat on the built-in bench set up against the glass. “I can watch for them now.”

“S’okay. I got it.” Watching wouldn’t bring them back any faster, but it was something to do. The snow looked nice, floating against a sky of dusky purple, and he didn’t mind looking at it while he waited for one of their cars to appear.

“It’s really late, Klaus. You should get some sleep.”

He couldn’t, not with Luther in the room. Not when Luther had shaken him awake weeks before, eyes full of concern and voice full of questions about what sort of nightmare could have made him shout loudly enough to interrupt the slumber of anyone near enough to hear it. Falling asleep had been easier with someone else in the room, but if he was only going to wake everybody up, he’d rather brave the darkness alone.

But then, maybe Luther needed to watch awhile, to see if he was the one to spot Louise and Albert coming home.

Klaus slid from the bench and went to his bed on the other side of the room. He pulled the covers over his head and felt around until his hand grasped the handle of a flashlight. One click, and the makeshift tent was illuminated.

In the beginning, the first few nights after he’d found the flashlight and snuck it off to their shared room, Luther had commented on it. Asked if he was reading, asked if he should leave the door open a crack when the answer was no. A part of Klaus, a small part of him, hoped for a similar question tonight, but all that came was silence.

The air under the blankets was hot and thick, and Klaus could only sleep through the light if he turned his back. But the nightlight had been useless and a cracked door even worse, so he turned away from the flashlight and closed his eyes.

*********

Agnes didn’t mind stakeouts with Hazel, but even she had to admit they got old after the first week.

The initial public outcry over a child being locked in a mausoleum for most of a day had given way to debate. One welfare check turned up a soundproofed room in the basement, in which one of the two girls—the papers didn’t specify who—had allegedly been held while she battled a long illness. Another revealed that each child had been granted their own bedroom and some apparent say over how that room was furnished and decorated, with no locks on either the interior or exterior. They’d found an android named Grace, a sweet soul designed to care for the children; and Pogo, a talking chimp who referred to the children as “Master” and “Miss.” An anonymous source told a few tabloids that more than one child “cried every night they had to be away from their daddy,” and Sir Reginald himself expressed doubt the foster parents could provide the sort of specialized care his children needed. Mr. and Mrs. Albert and Louise Fleming had responded to these claims with a willingness to adopt all seven, should it come to that.

That was when Hazel suggested the stakeouts.

“Nobody’s come after them yet,” she’d pointed out when he first voiced concerns.

“We changed the timeline, Agnes, and we changed it pretty bad. This isn't the sort of thing you can fix by killing some guy off the street. It’s gonna take the Commission some time to work this one out.”

“You…you don’t think they’re involved? I mean, nobody’s tried to kill you.”

“If they’re not involved now, they’re gonna be.”

Agnes lowered the binoculars. “Their coupe’s still missing.”

Hazel took the binoculars and had a look for himself, though he’d already seen the exterior of the Fleming home plenty of times that night. “Minivan’s still gone. No other cars in the driveway, so it looks like they didn’t hire a babysitter.”

“Didn’t plan to be gone this long?”

He didn’t answer, but his silence was enough. He lowered the binoculars as the wipers slapped a few snowflakes aside.

“What….” Agnes swallowed. She couldn’t quite identify the expression that crossed his features, but she knew she didn’t like it. “What do you think happened?”

Traffic. That was what she hoped he’d say. Just got caught in a bottleneck. Maybe they dropped by the store to pick something up. Maybe they’re getting gas. Any number of maybes, any number of perfectly normal things could become an explanation for their prolonged absence, and she would have gratefully accepted any one of them just to ease the gnawing fear in her stomach.

Hazel watched the house a minute more, then kissed her cheek and stepped out into the snow.

*********

“Klaus? Klaus, I know you’re there.”

Klaus was nowhere near sleep, but Albert’s voice still gave him a start. He nearly threw the covers off, but his hand stopped short of the motion.

Luther hadn’t said anything.

He was sitting in the window and he hadn’t said a word. He would’ve seen Albert come in, would have noticed it and welcomed him home. He would have seen their car come up the drive and said as much, but he remained silent.

“Come on, Klaus.” Albert’s voice had always been low and warm, and while it sometimes got strained after he read news reports about Dad, it always carried a note of assurance, a soft reminder that he knew what needed to be done to keep everything going smoothly. This pleading, this quiet desperation—this was new.

New for him, anyway.

“Klaus, I need you to come out here.”

He didn’t want to look. He could stay there under the covers, wait until dawn or until Albert lifted the blankets and proved he hadn’t died after all. He’d be proven wrong eventually. All he had to do was wait.

Hot air stuck in his throat as he snaked a hand to the edge of the blankets. His fingers trembled and he nearly let them slip out, but he managed to slide them under, poke them through enough to lift the blankets but not enough to be obvious about it.

Cool rushed in as the blankets rose an inch, maybe a little more. The flashlight was pointed toward his pillow, but Albert stood near enough for Klaus to make out the blood clotting his side, filling in the gaps and gashes of twisted, broken flesh. A second figure stood close by, blood staining a manicured hand. Red nail polish with little gold bows painted on, the same design Louise had gotten in honor of the holiday season.

The blankets fell. Klaus shoved a fist against his mouth, bit down hard to keep from screaming.

“Please.”

Tears stung his eyes; the flashlight blurred. He had to leave. Had to get out from under those covers, but he couldn’t move, not without Albert’s ghost seeing him and following him and coming close, too close, it was all too close—

He got himself turned around and crawled on his elbows to the opposite end of the bed; then, before any voice from outside could interrupt him, he threw off the covers.

“Klaus!”

Klaus ran for the door, started down the hall and turned around to head back for one of the staircases. It was dark, too dark, all so dark but he saw a light switch and turned it on.

“Klaus! What are you…”

He was halfway down the stairs before he realized that voice belonged to Luther, but he kept running and sank onto the second-to-last step. Luther, Luther was there, his footsteps were getting closer, but Klaus could only clap his hands over his ears as big sobs choked their way out. He knew Luther sat down next to him, knew he let a hand rest on his shoulder, but he couldn’t do anything about it besides sit and cry.

Luther’s hand migrated from one shoulder to the other. He wasn’t crying, didn’t know what was in their room or oh god what could be behind them right now, but the arm wrapped around him, the awkward little half-hug—it was enough to still a few of his thoughts, turn the wordless jumble into an endless stream of no no no no no no.

After a minute, Luther tensed. His voice was muffled, but the words were clear.

“Klaus, you need to get up.”

He couldn’t. He sucked in a breath to try and say as much, but the words wouldn’t come. The arm squeezed a little.

“Klaus, get up. Somebody’s breaking in.”

He tried to stand, but the most he could manage was dropping his hands to his lap. Luther was on his feet in an instant.

The lock clicked, the door swung open and a figure stood in the doorway, framed in the light from the stairwell. His tears shuddered to a stop. Klaus found himself rising to his feet, just to get a better look. Just to make sure he was seeing things right.

“Hazel?”

**********

He’d seen the light flicker on during his approach. It wasn’t much of a light, not enough to signal the couple’s safe return or one of the kids getting a late snack, but enough to hint at activity somewhere within the house. He hadn’t been able to get a copy of the Fleming McMansion’s floor plan, but a hall or a stairway seemed the most likely source for that particular light.

He just hadn’t expected to see Klaus behind it, standing to his feet and saying his name.

“You know him?” The other boy, the blond, looked about Klaus’ age. One of his brothers, though Hazel couldn’t say which.

Klaus didn’t answer, not in the usual way. Inside of a few seconds, he’d closed the gap, thrown his arms around Hazel’s waist, buried his face in his chest. A quick glance to the brother confirmed this wasn’t what Klaus usually did when somebody broke into their house; not knowing what else to do, Hazel returned the hug.

“They’re dead.”

The muffled words sent a chill through him. “Who’s dead?”

“Albert. Louise.” The names were thick with tears. “They’re dead. Both dead.”

The brother descended the few stairs standing between them; a small girl appeared on the landing. “How?”

Klaus didn’t answer. He knew, or he could find out; the dead were all too eager to speak with him, if the way he’d urged them all to shut up in that hotel room was any indication. A question, maybe two, and Hazel would know the manner of death, the location, who might be responsible, and how long they all might have before everything went to hell. All he had to do was ask.

He pulled away, dropped to one knee to meet Klaus’ gaze. “Klaus, listen to me.”

The brother was there too, hovering with a protective air. Hazel couldn’t say what he could do without knowing his name, but he knew this boy was a lot more dangerous than most kids his age.

“I’m a time traveler. I came here from the future, and I need to get you—all of you—I need to get you outta here before something real bad happens.”

“What’s gonna happen?”

That was a girl’s voice, soft and carrying a slight tremble. She hadn’t descended the stairs all the way, but stood on a step closer to the top than the bottom, gripping the banister in a pale hand.

Vanya.

For a moment, Hazel could only stare. Vanya Hargreeves, the woman who’d ended the world in fire and smoke, was on that staircase looking very much like she’d rather hide from the stranger and confusion in her home than determine the cause. He wanted to search her face, wanted to sit down with her and ask as many questions as he dared until he could find something, some indication, some minuscule bit of forewarning toward what she would one day do.

But this little girl in pajamas identical to those her brothers wore—she was the Commission’s plan. The ghosts Klaus had seen were a part of it. The first responders on their way were a part of it. Hazel didn’t know when or how, but once these kids were back in the system, the Commission would ensure their path led straight back to Reginald. The Flemings had sealed their fate with an interest in adoption. The next foster family would not be such an obstruction.

“Lot of things can happen. None of ‘em are good.” It wasn’t a lie, technically, but it wasn’t quite the truth. Still, he needed something to get them out the door before the police or the Commission or both showed up. “And if your foster parents are dead, that means one of those things is gonna happen a lot sooner than you think.”

It was hard to tell if Vanya was convinced or not. There was fear on her face, sure, but it seemed shrouded, like an image seen through a staticky TV set.

“They’re dead?”

That was from another brother who’d appeared at the top of the stairs. His voice climbed in pitch from the beginning of the question to the end.

“Yeah.” Klaus kept his voice steady, but barely. “I—I saw ‘em.”

Other children quickly found their way to the stairs, the news parroted to them on arrival, sweeping over them like a snowstorm and freezing them in place. Hazel knew it would be right to explain it to them, give them a few minutes to wrap their minds around the new reality; he nearly did, but thoughts of the police whisking them all off to another foster home and then back to the arms of their dad pushed him to speak.

“I’m here to get you all someplace safe. Get your clothes, get whatever else you need, and then we’ll go.”

No one moved. Klaus swallowed hard.

“He—I know him. We—we can go with him.”

That small display of trust didn’t spread, not immediately. His siblings stood for another few moments before shuffling off toward their rooms, casting glances over their shoulders as if waiting to see whether or not Hazel would prove Klaus a liar. The first brother, the one who had been with Klaus on the stairs when Hazel picked the lock, was the last to leave, staying close to Klaus as they turned back up the stairs.

Hazel stepped outside, saw no police lights, and walked until he was even with the car’s windshield. Agnes’ head snapped up, and she broke into a smile at the sight of him, raising a hand in a cheery wave.

Not what he’d expected.

He lifted one hand, as though lifting a briefcase. She hesitated, then brightened and scrambled for the backseat.

*********

If Klaus said Louise and Albert were dead, they were dead.

He hadn’t been the same since the night the police arrived, the night they’d taken Dad away and taken him and Klaus and everyone out of the Academy before asking what seemed like an endless stream of questions. Luther had never shared a room with Klaus before—never shared a room with anyone before—but he didn’t think he’d ever slept with a flashlight or woke up screaming before that night. Something had gone wrong, horribly wrong, but Klaus wouldn’t say what and Luther couldn’t guess.

But he’d always seen ghosts. So if he claimed their foster parents were dead, Luther saw no reason to disbelieve him.

Hazel, though. Hazel was another matter.

He gathered his shirts together, kept them folded neatly in a pile as Klaus tossed both pairs of pants onto the bed and dumped shirts on top. They were new, or somewhat new; Louise had insisted they all needed new wardrobes upon seeing nothing but Academy uniforms repeated across seven different closets. T-shirts, sweaters and jeans were a good deal more comfortable than starched white shirts and blazers, but it still felt wrong to wear something other than his uniform. Even so, it was what he had, so he added pants to the pile.

“You know where we’re going?”

Klaus shook his head, pulling on a pair of socks.

He trusted Hazel, that much was clear, but that didn’t explain how they’d met or why that trust came to be. Social workers didn’t break into houses after dark. Police officers didn’t claim to be from the future, and attorneys didn’t demand everyone leave the house in the dead of night to escape some unnamed disaster in the making.

But then, Dad did always say time travel was possible.

Klaus swept all of his clothes into his arms and made for the door, turning back just long enough to retrieve a dropped sock. He marched out of the room without looking back, and Luther was left with the sinking certainty that Klaus knew something he didn’t.

He always had, technically speaking. No one else could see the ghosts that always seemed to find him, and Luther wouldn’t have known they existed if not for Klaus. But this was different. This wasn’t two people getting different powers; that was just what happened. This was one person peering around a corner that no one else had yet passed. This was Klaus knowing what was coming before Luther knew to watch out at all.

“Keep them safe, Number One.” It was the last thing Dad had said before the police whisked him away. There was more, had been more, but not the time to get it out. Even so, Luther had tried to follow those words. Being separated from Dad, from Pogo and Mom—that just made his usual duties as Number One even more important. Keep them safe. Keep them together. Keep everything running until Dad can come back.

And he couldn’t do that if he failed to see everything, failed to understand what he did see.

Luther clutched a shirt to his chest, trying to ease the cold pit forming in his stomach. Hazel—he’d missed Hazel somehow. An entire person had managed to slip past his awareness and now Klaus knew about him, trusted him, and Luther only knew him as a name, a face, and a collection of claims he couldn’t prove or disprove.

He should have heard the footsteps behind him, should have faced the door so nobody could sneak up, but he didn’t notice he wasn’t alone until Klaus gathered his shirts off the bed and piled them into the crook of his arm. Luther grabbed his pants and everything else. There was nothing to do but follow Klaus out into the hall.

Hazel had found a suitcase, and it lay open in the downstairs entryway. Allison’s clothes were piled next to Vanya’s, Diego’s were jumbled up with Ben’s, Five’s were crouched in one corner and Klaus’ and a few of Luther’s were scattered over top. Luther added what he’d carried, tamping down the urge to fold them again. Hazel seemed to be in a hurry.

“Is there anything else you kids need?”

That wasn’t from Hazel; it was from his companion, an older woman with long blonde hair edging toward grey and a briefcase at her feet. She had a nice smile, a kind one that reminded Luther of Mom.

Were they going to get her on the way to wherever they were headed?

“My meds.”

No sooner had Vanya said it than Five was gone, back in the blink of an eye with the bright orange bottle in his hand. It too went into the suitcase.

Luther should have done that. Should have been the one going upstairs to grab the bottle, been the one to bring it back down. It would’ve been useless to stop the situation at hand, useless to make sense of it, but it would’ve been something.

“Anything else?”

Hazel went to the nearest window, stepped back into their haphazard little circle.

He was from the future. He was here to prevent something bad from happening. He’d met Klaus before, and Klaus might not know what exactly was going on, but he knew Hazel. That was something.

“Coast is clear,” Hazel said. “But we’ve got to jump now.”

Five’s eyes brightened. “We’re gonna time travel?”

Something Luther couldn’t identify crossed Hazel’s face, fading into a small smile. “We are. Just need everybody to hold hands, move a little closer.”

“Are we coming back?”

That was Allison. Hazel looked to his companion, then to her for a long minute.

“I don’t know yet. We just need to get you where it’s safe for now.”

“When it’s safe.” Five was practically bouncing in place, and Luther suspected it was only the fact his hands were clutched between Vanya’s and Ben’s that kept him still.

“Yeah. When it’s safe.” That strange look crossed Hazel’s face again, but there was no nervousness in that glance. He had urged them to hurry, yes, but not with the abundance of energy and tension he’d seen from Dad on that last day. He hadn’t snapped at anyone, hadn’t accused anyone of intentionally slowing them down, hadn’t made any strange requests about secret rooms or keeping things mum. Maybe he shouldn’t have, maybe he should have seen it for the warning it was, but Luther found comfort in that.

His companion zipped the suitcase closed and pulled it up onto its wheels, held onto the handle and looped her arm through Hazel’s before taking Klaus by the hand.

Maybe they’d come back. They’d return after a while. Hazel just had to make sure everything was safe.

Hazel fiddled with a few things on the briefcase, then held it by the handle. “Last call. Everybody got everything?”

A minute passed in silence. Luther thought maybe he should say something, stall a little more. Maybe another minute would be long enough for him to think of some other plan—but the thought of perhaps forcing his siblings to face whatever Hazel said was coming kept him from speaking.

Hazel shifted his hand, pressed some sort of unseen button. There was a flash of blue light, and then everything was gone.

********

Chapter One

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