#something something loss of innocence. a child swinging down on a stranger and thinking “will that be me one day?”

[articskele]

Dave holding Entre back after killing Bitter............ Entre holding Ted back after killing Creep............

[emerald-amidst-gold]

WIP Wednesday

Guess what, guys? IT’S WEDNESDAY! >:D You know what that means~!

TIME TO SHARE!

I’m excited because I finally, finally found the inspiration and motivation to write chapter 13 of my main fic! And I used the good old, ‘And he returned...’ technique! X’D

Time to talk about mages and templars everybody!

“Ma halla,” Cyfrin’s voice came forward, laced with tiredness and unusually serious as his eyes fell upon his sister, “the Chantry has not had control over either side for years. If they had, the Chantry in Kirkwall wouldn't have met the fate that it did.” He picked up the stick they had been using to tend the fire, giving the logs a gentle poke and sending sizzling embers upwards, “Now, it is merely a war of endurance; who can last the longest and who can end it with the most spite, the most damage. Blood will run for many moons as it has for several years now. Except this time, light is being shone on those crimson puddles rather than being mopped up with a," A finger rose to slender lips, a pantomime of silence and secrecy.

Fane sighed, grimacing a bit when Mhairi shifted against his side and watching those embers rise and then blink out of existence. Cyfrin was right. This was a war without end, and each side was merely swinging at whatever happened to move now. Power corrupted, and it had done so in this instance; mages overwhelmed by the taste of air, magic responding with giddy excitement; templars breaking the chains that held their hands and feet in place, as well as their swords. Both had never known what it meant to be free, and now that they had it in aces, they couldn’t cope with it.  All the common folk, them included, could do was wait it out, like a parent waiting for their child, who refused to listen, to settle down. That was all there was to it.

Fane slowly rubbed his palms together, wringing his fingers a bit as he spoke, “Whatever it is now, it doesn’t matter. It’s a mess made for a different rag,” With a tired movement, he let his head roll to the side a bit to rest atop his sister’s, relishing in its silkiness. To think, he had almost abandoned that comfort for fear. He continued with another sigh, “All that matters is staying away from it. It isn’t our fight; it never has been.”

Silence passed between them all after his words had fallen, the crackling of the fire and the drone of crickets and cicadas the only sounds to fill the air. Cyfrin only gave him a nod that said, 'I agree' before going back to idly poking at the fire. However, Fane could feel something like a tense ripple from Mhairi, her body suddenly rigid where it rested against him.

Shit, Fane thought, growling a bit as he recognized this rolling wave exuding off Mhairi. He should have kept his mouth shut.

A few more moments of silence passed before the words he had been dreadfully waiting for passed lips gingerly being bitten into.

"Is it really not our fight, though?," Mhairi asked in a sheepish whisper. Fane watched from over his nose as delicate hands appeared from under fur and cotton, pink with Fereldan chill and palms up, "Or at least, my fight? I mean, I'm a mage, so really--"

"Mhairi," Fane cut off his sister's words, voice dropping low in warning, "Whatever's going through your head right now, end it."

Fane caught the flicker of amber from across the way, their owner knowing where this was going as much as he did, but he was more focused on ice as it hardened before him. He was not going to entertain this ridiculous train of thought! Was his sister mad!?

"But, brother--!"

"Enough," Fane snapped with a harshness he rarely used with her, "Do you want a templar on your heels!? Do you want to be silenced again!?"

Nostrils flared as he brandished a glare downwards, but his irritation cooled as Mhairi's icy gaze melted and turned downwards, guilt and pain in turquoise. Fane frowned deeply at that. Shit, he hadn't meant to…! Damn it all! This was why he should have left on his own! All he did was pull down, down, down! He could never find the right words!

"Of course I don't want those things, brother. You know that," Mhairi said with tightness, voice like a taut cord before letting out a tiny sigh, down-turned eyes staring pointedly at her hands--the tools for which another tool could be wielded in, "It just...feels wrong to turn away and let not only the mages and templars suffer, but innocent people, too. The people on farms and in villages didn't ask to be involved, but they are." A gentle blue glow enshrouded slender fingers and smooth palms, making Fane's nose twitch in irritation and his stomach roll uncomfortably, but he watched it same as her, "I guess I just want to help them, to show them that it doesn't have to end in flames. Magic is beautiful, and it hurts to know no one but the Dalish recognize that."

Fane listened, rapt and attentive even though he knew his face showed otherwise. Mhairi had vocalized these thoughts before to him, and while he understood where she was coming from, that still didn't mean this was their fight. What was there to gain from throwing themselves into the pan? Nothing but an early grave, that's what. Or worse yet, tranquility. The very idea of that happening to his sister made him sick. How such a practice came to be was beyond him, and yet, it made his mind prickle and pull with those odd feelings of ‘wrongness’. Obviously, stripping a person of their emotions was vile and grotesque and disgusting, but it felt like something more to him. It always felt like more with so little.

Fane let out a long sigh through his nose at himself and his sister, the air condensing in front of him, "It's not your job to present that to the world, Mhairi." He shifted a bit, the fur lining of his cloak brushing against the bottom of his cheeks as he did so. He was starting to get warm, uncomfortably warm.

"Isn't it?," his sister forwarded, pressed, pushed, sparkling eyes slowly rolling upwards to look at him; the glow of her hands fading away to let firelight take center stage again, "I’m a--”

Fane growled, his chest rattling from the depth of it. “Yes, you’re a mage, My, but that’s more likely to get you killed, or worse, made tranquil than understood,” He met her slowly narrowing gaze unflinchingly before sighing tiredly, shoulders slumping and voice softening at the look of hurt in icy blue, “Listen: stop chasing after trouble. No good can come from involving yourself in this mess,” His tired eyes shifted to the fire once more, watching it dance and consume both air and forest wood, “This continent is engulfed in war, and it’s not your job to fix the mistakes of others just because of what you are. That type of blind thinking is exactly why all that’s happened, happened.”

He felt his fists ball up against where his hands were resting between his thighs from anxiety and frustration, the skin along his arms pinching to where he could finally feel his scars start to act up. Great. Just what he needed alongside all this ridiculousness. Why did his sister always have to play this card? Yes, she was a mage, but there were a thousand more who could, but wouldn’t do what his sister wished to. And why? Because they knew it was pointless as narrow perspectives were set in the stone of ages.

Time and time again mages had tried and failed to show the world the intended use for magic. Time and time again restrictions were set ever tighter because of those harmless displays, the Chantry crying, ‘Demon, demon! Blood magic, blood magic!’, and a single, single show of defense against such accusations was treated as a literal felony. Now, the Fade touched were doing the only thing they could think to do after so many disappointments; fight. A caged animal was bound to break the door holding it back, and that was exactly what had happened to every Circle; they broke.

They went silent, voices stolen straight from their throats, emotions ripped away so as to be unable to defend themselves any longer, and the beauty his sister desperately wished to show no longer relevant as it had no place in war, in a world where beauty was a stranger. Fane didn’t have much allegiance to either side, both were foolish and pathetic and tiring, and despite his personal experience with magic, he didn’t detest it. It had its uses, just not on him and that was because he didn’t relish getting uncontrollably ill. He was open minded enough to know magic hadn’t been the true culprit, it had only been like the innocents in this pointless war; used against its will. It had been the blade that carved the stone of his body, but it hadn’t been the hand to wield it.

So, he would admit he felt sorry for the endlessly warring factions, even the templars despite his personal feelings regarding them. To be played like a fiddle by a bunch of tottering zealots, zealots that used ‘faith’ as their bargaining chip to garner influence and power while declaring, ‘It is the Maker’s will’. Sadly, despite how thin the veil of deceit was, the people fell for it like raindrops during a heavy downpour, fast and hard. Was it the humans’ ‘god’s’ will to rip away independent thought? To sunder the minds of those who broke the leash long having held them back?

To indiscriminately kill another on the basis of ‘you’re a mage’ or ‘you’re a templar’ or ‘you’re a threat to our power’? Apparently so. Tragic, but there was nothing to be done about it now and Mhairi needed to understand that.

She needed to understand there was no ‘beauty’ in war.

Mhairi let out a disgruntled huff before her form shifted away from him to sit up. Fane squeezed his already tight fists tighter, the leather of his gloves creaking from the force as he watched his sister rise up from the log, her action calm, but her eyes and face held frustration in delicate edges and firelit ice. He felt his expression go hard as he sat up straight, silently mourning the loss of momentary comfort. Again, he should have kept his mouth shut. Why did he even try using words?

“I think I can see perfectly well, brother. I saw the corpses mutilated beyond recognition, the burnt buildings and the sacked ones, the people crying over what they lost, children wailing as their parents wouldn’t wake up. I saw,” Mhairi said, lilt strained and lips twitching with the urge to bend downwards as a forlorn mutter came after, “I wish you would stop treating me like I don’t, like a child.”

With that, Fane watched his sister quickly stride away towards where they had pitched tents, darkened cloak fluttering behind her and kicking up the dusting of snow with her partially bare feet. It was only when Mhairi completely disappeared from his sight, safely burrowing into her tent, did he let out a sigh, the exhalation hard and long.

“Damn it all,” Fane cursed out under his breath, bringing hand out and up from his cloak to rub at his face. He felt ten years older all of a sudden. Scratch that, a thousand years older. How much older could he potentially feel at this rate?

“Tactful as always, ma falon.”

----

Fane can be incredibly harsh, and a downright jerk sometimes. He doesn’t mince words or give platitudes. He says it how he sees it. 

Tagging: @noire-pandora @oxygenforthewicked @varric-tethras-editor @dreadfutures @the-dreadful-canine @drag-on-age @a-drama-addict @little-lightning-lavellan @whataboutbugs @blueheaded @aymayzing @rosella-writes @1000generations and anyone else that’d like to share! (no pressure! <3)

[dulce-pjm]

caffeine crush

word count: 4.3k 

genre: fluff, coffee shop!au

summary: all it took was one trip to the cafe to cement a friendship you never wanted. but it’s high time you fess up and call it all off. 

Yes, you’d picked up the habit last August, you’re certain. 

Classes had yet to start but, growing tired of your overbearing family, you decided to head back to campus a week or two early and get a head start while the university was still mostly empty. 

You didn’t exactly get a ton of work done, but those few weeks were relaxing. Cleansing, even. You spent your mornings wandering around campus and the surrounding area, soaking in the summer sun. Your afternoons were spent curled up in a comfy chair in the corner of the library, nose deep in a romance novel. You found yourself eating better, exploring the city and finding new activities and niche locations. At this point, you thought you would make an excellent tour guide if someone hired you. You knew nearly every corner of the blocks surrounding the university. You’d made it a game to leave no stone unturned, memorizing the storefronts and seeing what hole-in-the-wall restaurants and shops you would find next. 

You were playing just this game when you met Seokjin.

It’s not like you particularly liked coffee. It’s always been much too bitter for your taste. No amount of sugar or cream or pumpkin syrup made the drink worth it to you. 

But you set your personal preferences aside for the mission. How could you give coffee shop recommendations to your imaginary tour group if you’d never tried them out yourself?

And it was with that mentality that you tentatively stepped inside the near-hidden cafe, door chiming as you made your entrance. 

The minute you walked in, you fell in love with the atmosphere. The place was well ventilated and cool, perfect for someone like you who preferred to keep the thermostat at ‘obscenely low temperatures,’ as your sister would say. The walls were coated with muted mints and greens. Draping plants decorated the wooden shelves scattered across the far wall and the soft jazz playing over the speakers made you feel relaxed. A large chalkboard menu hung behind the counter, fresh flowers sat by the cash register. The smell of coffee grounds was undeniably comforting and potent, despite your general dislike for the drink. 

This place was perfect. You could imagine your friends applauding your efforts now, praising you for managing to stumble on such an amazing hideout, tucked away from the chaos of university campus yet still within easy walking distance. 

The cafe was almost completely empty, save for a couple about your age camped out at a corner table. You barely paid them any attention except to be jealous of their closeness as they giggled over something on the girl’s phone. 

You approached the counter, curiously vacant of any employees. You looked left, you looked right. But no one appeared. 

The couple, too absorbed in their own world, did nothing to aid you as you stood helpless in the middle of the abandoned store. You gave it a good ten seconds before you felt much too awkward standing here all alone and gave up, turning to leave. 

And just as you did, you heard a collection of scuffles coming from the back and a door swing open with a creak. 

“Oh, I am so sorry. One of our frothers broke and made a huge mess.” You spun around. And your jaw dropped. 

Before you stood the most godly man you’d ever seen. 

The first thing that caught your eye was tufts of soft lavender hair, shining under the cool vintage lights. His eyes were wide and dark and warm, making you shift on your feet when they focused on you. His shoulders were broad and wrapped in a thin, cream turtleneck despite the warm weather. You practically drooled when you caught sight of his lips, full and soft pink.

He looked just like every male romantic lead you’d read about in your spare time. A purple-haired prince charming. A knight in his shining, corporate-regulated apron. 

“Were you waiting long?” His friendly voice snapped you from your daze before your thoughts could roam further to his muscles and chest and-

“No, not at all.” Could he tell you’d just been ogling? You really hoped not. 

“Good, good.” He shoots you a relieved smile that has your knees shaking. “Well, what can I get for you?” 

Shit, he was pretty. The slope of his nose and jaw and the swell of his cheekbones looked like they’d been crafted by god himself. Not that you were particularly religious, but after this encounter, you mused that maybe one day you could be. 

You were already fantasizing about the future the two of you could forge together. Stolen kisses, cuddles by the tv, a cozy house full of little purple-haired kids. His pillowy soft lips looked awfully inviting. You wondered what it’d be like to lean onto the tips of your toes and press your lips on his, to run your fingers through his hair, to-

“Uh, is there something I can get for you?” 

Shit. You’d been caught red-handed. 

“Oh! Um... uh...” You couldn’t focus. The words on the menu were suddenly too blurry as your tunnel vision zoomed in on him and only him. “A latte! A latte is fine.”

Seokjin smiled sweetly, making your stomach flutter. 

“You got it! Just a sec.” He spun away, running back and forth between the different contraptions that look more like convoluted machines from a sci-fi movie than coffee-related appliances. 

You were still trying to collect yourself when his hand brushed yours as he passed your drink across the counter. A shiver ran unwelcomed down your spine. You barely managed to fork over a few bills when the man shook his head adamantly.

“I made you wait. This one’s on the house.”

God, he was hot and nice? How?

“Oh, thanks...” Your eyes found the small name tag pinned to his blue apron. “Seokjin.” He grinned, his eyes crinkling adorably. 

“Not a problem. See you around.” He said it like the two of you were friends and not strangers. Like he was going to miss you when you walked out the door. 

You felt his gaze on your back as you left the tiny shop, bells chiming as went. 

You knew you’d be coming back. 

And come back you did. 

You’d reasoned that it wasn’t because of Seokjin, no, of course not! You liked the cafe, it was quiet and there was plenty of room to study. 

Oh, who were you kidding? It was totally because of Seokjin. The cafe was nice, you guess, but you don’t even like coffee! Rather, you used your time spent in the shop half actually doing your work and half staring at Seokjin and letting your mind wander. It was a stress reliever, really. A guilty pleasure, to bask in his glory. 

It was a harmless habit. You got your work done and got to stare at an angel sent from heaven, and Seokjin had extra business bolstering his paycheck when you dragged your friends with you to camp out at the cafe. 

It was harmless. 

Until you’d spent the better part of four months somewhat stalking him and now he knew your face. 

So when a certain someone tapped you on the shoulder in January as you settled down for the first day of class, you really should have known this would happen. 

“Hi!” he’d exclaimed, taking the seat next to you before you could protest, not that you wanted to. “I didn’t know you were a student here.” 

It was Seokjin. Hot barista from the coffee shop, Seokjin. In your class. Talking directly to you. Except now, he’d traded his purple locks for warm brunette ones. It didn’t take away from his appeal at all though. It made him seem boyish and younger, suiting him well. 

“Oh, hi...” You were at a loss for words. Never in your life did you think that Seokjin attended your university, let alone would be taking the same classes as you. Wouldn’t you have seen him by now? How did this slip under your radar?

“Y/N, right?” His smile widened when you nodded, confirming his suspicions. 

The professor walked in a moment later, informing you all that the person next to you would be your partner for all projects for the rest of the semester. Your stomach dropped to the floor

And from then on, Seokjin was your friend. 

You’d done your best to fight it, to resist him but you were only pulled deeper and deeper. 

Before then, the line of acquaintanceship was defined, set in stone. You knew his name, sure, but only because of the context of the situation. You had no reason to talk to him, to know him. And he had no reason to remember you. 

But once he confirmed your name, claimed the seat next to you, expressed excitement at being your partner (because he’d seen how studious you were at the shop, he said- and what a lie that was), the line had been crossed and blurred. He made a point to smile at you every time you arrived to class, to ask you how your day was going and if you were planning on stopping by the cafe any time soon.

It didn’t take long, however, for fantasy Seokjin to crumble before your eyes. Your dashing prince charming turned out to actually be a gluttonous man-child. Long gone were the days of your innocent crush on him. No longer could you sit and daydream about his perfect self when you were watching him pig out on take-out dumplings and listening to the most cringe-worthy jokes you’d heard in your life. 

“So I was at this vegetarian restaurant, right?” You nodded, only half paying attention as you made final edits to your presentation on Nordic traditions. “And this girl comes up to me and starts to tell me how I’d done her so wrong and she was finally standing up for herself.” 

At that point you were interested, allowing yourself to watch his dramatics rather than your laptop screen. Was Seokjin secretly an asshole? A heart breaker? God, this couldn’t be farther from how you’d imagined him months ago. 

“But the thing is-” He paused, meeting your eyes to make sure you were fully paying attention, which you were. “I’d never even seen herbivore!”

A fully offended sound left your throat as Seokjin burst into squeaky, boisterous laughter at the disgusted expression on your face. 

You couldn’t even bring yourself to fake laugh. That joke was absolutely dreadful. 

See, this is normally when relationships- dating and friendship alike- started to go downhill for you. You were much too idealistic. You set certain expectations for anyone and everyone before you ever laid eyes on them. And when they didn’t meet those expectations, it was easy for you to lose interest. Once you realized that they weren’t the person you’d hoped they’d be, you realized you’d never really liked them at all. You’d just gotten too caught up in your head, too captivated by your own imagination to recognize that you were walking into something you didn’t want.  

Seokjin, though, was different. He’d been drastically far from your expectations, absolutely. But instead of that eventual feeling of self-directed bitterness and regret for setting yourself up for failure, you felt guilty. Overwhelmed with guilt and shame, actually. Even if he had an awful sense of humor, Seokjin was great. He was kind and charming and teasing and thoughtful and earnest. He was genuine. 

Yes, if there was one word to describe Seokjin, it was genuine. But if you had to add a few more words, they would be ‘too fucking nice.’

When you were about to be keeled over in the school’s bathroom, puking your brains out with the flu, it was Seokjin that had noticed you were feeling off and chased you down after class. He’d been the one to see how sick you were, to hold your hair while you were bent over the toilet, to take you to the doctor and bring you homemade soup for dinner. 

While you panicked about the project due in the next few days, Seokjin adamantly insisted that you rest and promised that he could take care of it for you. He was unwavering in his resolve and despite the guilt brewing in your stomach alongside the nausea, you almost let yourself think he was doing this just because he wanted to, not because it was his personality. 

You didn’t deserve him. Not his friendship, not his love, not his time. He’s out of your league. Hell, he’s playing a different sport entirely. What you were doing wasn’t fair. This friendship didn’t happen because you were genuinely nice like Seokjin. It happened because you were lonely and, frankly, thirsty.

So, while you’re taking your final exam for your class with Jin, you reach the conclusion that it’s time to fess up. To admit who you really are, what your motives were, the reason you kept coming back for coffee you didn’t like. And then you’d cut it off. Not that you think you’d have to. Seokjin would see just how crazy you were and then never speak to you again. Things would be right with the universe and you’d be guilt-free, if a little embarrassed. 

Your pencil hovers over the scantron and you consider that you probably should have spent all this time focusing on the exam and not your friendship’s impending doom. 

But this class had been nothing short of an easy A, so you decide to have a little faith in yourself that even you could choose the correct answers while your mind wandered elsewhere. 

Yes, this was the best option. It’s not like you were in love with Seokjin, missing his presence and smile the minute he walked out the door and admiring the way his laugh lit up a room. Seokjin wasn’t some unreachable fantasy. You wouldn’t be retreating to your room sobbing if he was suddenly gone. He was just a person. He was just Seokjin. You could let him go. He could realize what you really were.

Easy peasy. Right? 

When you shoulder your bag and trudge out of the exam room, Seokjin is waiting for you, despite finishing a few minutes earlier. He was much too nice to other people like that. He hasn’t quite noticed you yet, too absorbed in a conversation with a fellow classmate. You indulge in his objectively perfect features for what will likely be the last time, but you don’t let your imagination wander. You just take the moment to appreciate what is in front of you. 

“Oh, I don’t know, I’m pretty tired...” You note the awkward, apologetic smile on his face and wonder what they’d been talking about. In that moment, his eyes flicker to yours, immediately lighting up. “Oh, Y/N!” He shifts towards you, leaving the poor girl to flounder. While he smiles enthusiastically your way, your expression is almost completely neutral. The abandoned classmate looks back and forth between the two of you, trying to decipher your relationship. You sigh, internally scolding him for wasting his attention on you. 

“Hey, Jin.” You address him by the nickname you’ve heard his friends call him. He’d never explicitly told you to call him that, but when it accidentally slipped out one day, he smiled to himself and you added the name to your vocabulary.

“Well, how do you feel? It’s over!” You shrug, shifting the backpack you always carry to the other shoulder. 

“Not as good as you do, I’m sure.” Seokjin’s brows furrow curiously and cutely, not understanding where you’re going. “You’re graduating? I’m still stuck here another year.”

“Ahh, at least the semester’s over. You are coming to my graduation, right?” You shoot him a look saying something akin to, ‘are you stupid?’

“Of course I am. You’d never let me live it down if I didn’t.” Seokjin laughs but doesn’t argue. You realize the classmate from before is long gone. You’re not sure when she left. Good, now you can tell Seokjin what you’ve been meaning to. “Can I talk to you?”

“Aren’t we talking now?” You sigh, loosely crossing your arms. 

“You know what I mean, Seokjin.” Sensing your serious demeanor, Seokjin immediately drops his teasing smile, switching his expression to one laced with concern. 

“Yes, of course. My shift starts in half an hour, though. Can we talk on the way to the shop?” 

“Sure.” Perfect, actually. Walking side by side, you wouldn’t have to watch that soft smile turn into an expression of disgust when you admitted what you were about to. 

As the two of you walk across campus and into the city, you tell him everything. You tell him how the minute you saw him, you’d thought he was the hottest person you’d ever laid eyes upon. You tell him how you came back almost thrice a week just to stare and think about him. You tell him how you don’t even like coffee, but your frequent visits to the shop have made you dependent on caffeine. You tell him how you’d had a bit of a crush on him, no, on your fantasy version of him for months. You tell him you don’t feel like that now, that you just feel guilty that this friendship existed when it was all born from a lie, from a terrible habit you couldn’t seem to break. You tell him how fake you are.

“And you deserve better than that, than me. I’m sorry I dragged you along for so long. I shouldn’t have.” You haven’t looked at him once this whole time, too ashamed to clue yourself in to what he’s thinking. “I think that’s everything.” Seokjin stays silent for a few agonizing minutes as the scenery morphs from tall, brick lecture buildings and trees into a more urban environment filled with bustling streets and colorful displays in the store windows. 

“Can I ask a question?” You jump at his voice. You’re almost surprised he’s still here. 

“Yeah.” You nervously fidget with your backpack straps, still refusing to even glance his way. 

“When you actually got to know me better, were you disappointed?” If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he sounded nervous. Heat rises to your cheeks. Shit, you’d hurt his feelings, hadn’t you? Why couldn’t he just get mad or storm off to leave you in the dust? Did he think that you hated him? That you were tired of him and that’s why you were doing this? You had to make him understand. You are the problem, not him. God, why was this idiot so nice?

“What? No!” You’re frantic with worry. Maybe you were being too egotistical to think that your confession had hurt his self-image, but you were willing to take the risk. “You’re great, Seokjin. You’re sweet and thoughtful and funny- well, actually your humor could use some work -and perfect. You’re a great friend. It’s me who’s disappointing. You’ve never disappointed me, not once.”

If you could just tear your eyes from the sidewalk, you’d see that Seokjin was grinning from ear to ear, over-the-moon ecstatic your compliments. Neither of you has ever been great with words, so you hope your pep talk was enough and that his silence is a good sign. 

The skies have begun shifting away from bright and sunny to grey and cloudy. The air is thick and heavy, like it’s about to rain. Just your luck. You should have checked the weather channel this morning. 

“We have caffeinated drinks other than coffee on the menu, you know.” 

Really? You’d just confessed your most embarrassing secret and that’s all he had to say? You stumble over your words, not sure whether to be flustered (because you definitely didn’t know that) or frustrated at his unwavering good nature. 

“Oh.” You grow sheepish and pretend to find the dirt under your fingernails interesting. “I guess I had a hard time focusing back then.” Those days had long faded away. You didn’t crumble under his gaze anymore or struggle to form coherent sentences around him. He’d long lost his mystery. 

Then, Seokjin laughs. He laughs and he chuckles and giggles and you cringe. You want to crawl into a hole and never come back out. When other times you could find humor in the rambunctious sounds spilling from his lips, now it only felt jarring, like a smack in the face. He was laughing at you, at how much of a hopeless idiot you are. You suppose that was better than him feeling betrayed and never wanting to see you again. Though he hasn’t exactly ruled out the latter. 

This is what you wanted, this is what you wanted. 

You say nothing, consumed by your own bitterness, as Seokjin calms down. 

“You’re pretty stupid, Y/N.” Your face falls. 

You knew that. He didn’t have to tell you. 

You were stupid to keep showing up at the coffee shop like a lovestruck teenager. You were stupid to believe Seokjin was your friend or that he might have even enjoyed your presence. He was just too goddamn nice and you were too goddamn stupid.

As the two of you get within a few blocks of the cafe, Seokjin’s hand brushes against yours. 

“Oh, sorry.” You’re quick to yank it away, almost burned by his touch, but to your surprise, Seokjin chases after it, fastening his palm against yours and intertwining your fingers. 

What was he doing?

“What are you doing?” For the first time since you started your rambling, you look at Seokjin, gape at him. But the timing is poor and now he’s staring straight ahead, not giving you a passing glance. 

“Do you really think I would have given you free drinks and sat next to you in class and talked to you every day if I didn’t at least like you a little bit?” You’re rendered speechless, eyes bugging out of your head.  

“I- um...”

“For being an accounting major, you really are the densest person I know.” His tone is light despite his blatant insults. “Don’t you realize I had a little crush on you, too? I was so excited when I realized we were going to share a class, but you never gave me the time of day.”

Your mouth opens and closes but no words leave it, not unlike a fish. 

“I've nearly asked you out at least three times now, but I kept chickening out.” 

The entire world feels like it’s flipped upside down. It’s like gravity’s stopped working and your head is spinning and you’re dizzy and your heart as burst and Seokjin’s hand enveloping yours is the only thing keeping you from floating away into the sky. 

The revelation smacks you in the face. 

Seokjin’s a liar. Not as genuine as you’d thought, after all. 

While you spent a semester pretending you liked coffee when really you just thought Seokjin was hot, he’d spent the next pretending he was only interested in your friendship when he’d been harboring a crush on you. 

You struggle to contain the small smile on your face. Seokjin’s hand gently squeezes yours and lightning shoots up your skin and spine. 

Seokjin’s eyes finally meet yours as the two of you stare sheepishly at each other. His gaze flickers to your lips a few times and you openly ogle at his, but he doesn’t lean in. He simply lifts your entwined hands and smiles, a short breath leaving his nostrils in place of a chuckle. It’s content and peaceful. There’s no need for love declarations or romantic kisses. You think you could be happy here forever knowing Seokjin wants you by his side. 

The moment ends when a raindrop hits your nose, startling the hell out of you. 

While you’re disoriented, Seokjin laughs and tugs you into the shop, now only a few steps away. The place is rather busy for it being lunchtime, but Seokjin weaves the two of you through the throng, stopping by the staff door. 

He looks at you with slight mischief. 

“You know, since it’s raining, you should probably just stay in here. Don’t wanna catch a cold.” You want to scoff, tell him that’s ridiculous and that your dorm is only a few minutes away. But you swallow your retort and let him have his moment. 

“Good idea,” you agree solemnly with a nod. 

“Actually, you should probably just stay until I’m off my shift. You never know when the rain might pick up again.” This time, you can’t help but quirk a brow. 

“Because you’re planning to protect me from the rain? You don’t have a jacket either.” Seokjin gives an offended look, like you’d just insulted his pride. 

“No, it’s so we can get sick together. It’d be romantic.” You scrunch your nose. Having fevers and runny noses and gross coughs together? Doesn’t seem like an ideal first date. 

“Sounds romantic.”

“I’m glad you agree.” 

You’re staring at each other again, in your own little bubble, until a customer brushes against your shoulder and you’re reminded that Seokjin is technically on payroll right now. He has a similar realization and reluctantly releases your hand, blowing a kiss over his shoulder as he steps through the staff door. You roll your eyes, feigning embarrassment, but on the inside, you’re melting. 

You plop down in your self-assigned seat in the most well-ventilated part of the cafe that also has a very convenient view of your favorite barista. The semester’s over and you have no work to do, but you don’t mind, content to watch Seokjin work while mindlessly giggling when he shoots you winks in between orders. 

You don’t fantasize or wonder where this might go. You don’t think your imagination could come up with anything better than what’s in front of you. 

You do predict, however, that you’ll be spending many more hours cooped up in this little cafe. 

Old habits die hard, you suppose. 

[hellomorganus]

Helen Draiz

I do not own The Phantom of the Opera. The book/musical/movies belong to their rightful owners. I only own my characters.

CHAPTER 5

Helen examined her surroundings, fiddling with the sleeves on her robe as Erik made tea in his kitchen. He had brought her down to his home, instead of the kitchen in the opera house because she had wanted to talk freely without any fear of eavesdroppers. It was dark and cold in his home but Helen didn’t dare mention anything. He had already given her enough grief about him not wanting any visitors but he caved at the mention of any eavesdroppers. 

He returned with the tea shortly after, placed the tray on the small table in front of Helen and a loveseat that he sat in. “Thank you,” the brunette grinned, gently lifting her cup off the tray and placing it in front of her. 

Erik nodded, his eyes never leaving her. He seemed a bit more on edge, especially having a stranger in his home. The place he felt the most safe. She was practically invading his space. He should have said no to tea. 

Helen sipped on her tea quietly, trying her best to ignore him staring at her. She went back to scanning the area, a small smile tugging at her lips. There was music sheets everywhere and several instruments hidden away in their cases. Helen grinned when her gaze caught sight of an organ. 

“Your home is beautiful Monsieur.” she told him as she turned her gaze back to him. 

Erik ran his hands down his thighs nervously. “Thank you,” he whispered, continuing to eye her. “What was it...you wanted to talk about?”

Helen looked back up at him, observing how nervous he was. He had hung up his cape and hat, leaving him in his normal attire. He probably felt bare. She looked down over her own attire and smirked lightly. He felt bare compared to her? 

“Well Monsieur,” Helen started, lifting her cup to her lips. “I didn’t really have a topic in mind. I just wanted to talk.”

Erik nodded, gulping as Helen took another sip of tea, leaving his own cup untouched. His breathing was quickening just slightly throughout the moment of silence, making Helen anxious. He probably wanted her to leave. This interaction was too much for him.

Helen bit her lip and thought of topics to talk about when her eyes flashed towards the music sheets. “Perhaps you’d give me the honor of knowing what you’ve been composing?” she suggested, smiling softly to him. 

Erik’s hands paused on his thighs as he examined her. Sitting up straighter, he finally composed himself and shook his head. “None of them are finished. They are for an opera.”

Helen nodded, gently putting her tea down. “I’m sure they’re lovely. You will finish them soon enough.”

The Phantom once again was uncomfortable with the silence, running his hands along his pant legs once more. The woman sighed to herself, playing with the ends of her hair as she thought of what to talk about. It should be something that would make him comfortable with the situation. Comfortable around her. 

“Mademoiselle Helen,” Erik said suddenly, his eyes flashing to her’s. “If you...don’t mind my asking...where are you from? You have an accent I have never heard before.”

Helen blushed, grinning at him. “I’m from the U.S. Monsieur. Born and raised in Boston, Massachusetts.” she told him. 

“What...brought you to France?” he asked, gulping a bit as he reached for his tea. 

Helen thought about how to answer that. “I suppose...my brother’s death did indirectly.” she answered, sipping on her tea as she thought about her elaboration. “My brother wanted to travel the world. And he promised to bring me. But he died before we could do it together, so I’m adventuring for him.”

Erik nodded understandingly, holding his tea cup with both hands. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Helen smiled, “Thank you,” she whispered before sipping on her tea again. They sat in silence once more before Helen briefly cleared her throat. “May I ask you something Monsieur?” she asked, running her fingers along her ring finger. 

The Phantom shifted in his seat before nodding. “You may,” he replied, watching her anxiously. 

Helen took in a deep breath before looking up at him. She licked at her lips nervously as she thought of how to go about her question. “You’re a man…” she started, tapping her fingers against her teacup. “Do...well, um...do all men want to marry at some point in their lives? And...let’s say if they are planning on proposing, do they...carry the ring with them?”

The man furrowed his eyebrows at the question. He definitely wasn’t expecting that as her question. He gulped as he thought over her questions. “Well,” he mumbled, thinking back to all of the men he’d met in his lifetime that fancied women and gotten married. “I suppose maybe not all but most men would want to settle down with the woman they love and marry. Start a family.”

Helen leaned forward, intently taking in his answers as she thought of Henry. Maybe he was one of the few who didn’t want to marry? But, if that was true, then why would they be courting. Courting usually led to marriage. “And...do they carry the ring with them? Everywhere?”

Erik slowly nodded, his own thoughts drifting to the ring secured in his pocket for Christine. “I believe so, yes.”

The brunette nodded, her smile faltering as she sat up straighter. “Thank you,” she mumbled, taking another sip of her tea. 

“May I ask why you would inquire about such a thing?” Erik decided to push, following her actions. 

Helen sighed, lowering her shoulders. “I have been courting a violinist here for about two years now. And he has yet to show any interest in proposing. Am I doing something wrong?”

Erik couldn’t help but smirk as he shook his head. “No child. It’s the boy.” he replied, sipping at his tea.

“What do you mean?” Helen asked, leaning forwards again.

Erik pursed his lips as he placed the tea cup down. “He is simply nervous. The man in question is Monsieur Henry is it not?” 

Helen nodded, placing her own teacup down. “How did you know?”

The Phantom smirked, motioning around his home. “The Phantom has eyes everywhere Mademoiselle.” he replied mysteriously before leaning forward like her and clasping his hands together, slowly becoming more comfortable around her. “I have seen the way he is around you. Have you noticed how his left hand is always in his pocket when near you?”

Helen shook her head, gnawing on her lip as she listened silently. 

“That is where he has been hiding the ring my dear. I have seen him in his room late at night writing for hours. Most likely his proposal speech or ideas. He does plan on marrying you someday, he is just scared to act upon it.”

Helen’s face lit up as she learned the news. One of her hands held her flustered cheeks as she thought of Henry nervously coming up with ideas on how to propose to her. And the ring that was tucked away in his pocket. She couldn’t help but giggle at the information. 

“Thank you,” she beamed at the man, her smile still ever present on her lips. 

Erik nodded, enjoying seeing the girl as happy as she was. He felt the corners of his lips turn upwards, a ghost of a smile rising on his face. “You are ever welcome Mademoiselle Helen.”

They both finished their tea and both decided it was time for Helen to return to her room to at least try and get some sleep. Erik led her back to her room, opening the wall for her to exit out of. Before she stepped out into the hall, she turned to face him. 

“Thank you for tonight,” grinned Helen. She chewed on the inside of her lip anxiously. “Can we do it again some other time?”

The masked man felt his lips twitch upwards and his head move up and down on it’s own. Helen, upon receiving the nod grinned even more and curtsied. “Until next time then Monsieur.” she said before turning and walking down the hall.

Erik closed the wall’s entrance before reaching into his pocket and pulled out the box. He opened it carefully examining the ring closely, trying to picture it on Christine. When would he propose?

                                                    ~-~-~

“Guess what, guess what, guess what?” grinned Helen as she spun Henry around to face her. 

Henry chuckled, swinging their arms back and forth. “What?” he smirked, looking down at her excited face. 

“I, good sir, have the rest of the day off.” she grinned, throwing her hands up in the air and spinning in place to show off how happy she was. 

The blonde boy chuckled as he watched her with adoration, crossing his arms. He took his hand in his own and began twirling her, dipping her backwards and placing a kiss of her lips. “That is wonderful news my love,” he grinned, lifting her back up. 

Helen sighed contentedly, resting her head on his shoulder. “And I...would like to spend it with you.”

Henry smiled and played with the ends of her hair, swaying them back and forth. “I like that idea...but…”

“No,” whined the brunette. “No buts. Buts are always bad.”

Henry smiled sadly, nodding. “But...I have to get back to rehearsal. The show is in two weeks, remember?”

Helen huffed, kissing his jawline. “Please? Not even for an hour?”

The boy smiled, gently peeling her lips away from him. “As much as I would love to say yes, I have to decline. But...the last night of our show, I’m all yours.”

Helen frowned and nodded, pulling back and kissing his cheek. “All mine?” she repeated, looking up at him. 

Henry nodded. “All yours.”

“I’m holding you to that promise.” she swore before walking away from him. She waved him goodbye before walking over to her red haired friend. 

Camille, the ever loyal friend to them both, had admitted to Henry about finding Helen’s bed empty recently in the middle of the night and sneaking back in a few hours before sunrise. Last night was around the fourth time Camille had noticed. Word flew around the stagehands of Helen’s disappearances late at night, some claiming they even had their way with her. This upset Henry in many ways. He was upset to know that Helen wasn’t getting enough sleep. Upset that the stagehands would say such horrible things about his innocent love. But a small part of him feared they were true. Why else would she stay up all night?

Helen linked arms with Camille, sighing sadly. “He says he has to get back to rehearsal,” she told her friend, leading her down the hall towards their room. “Maybe we could do something together?”

Camille blushed, biting her lip. “Actually Helen…” she started, smiling guiltily. “I have somewhere to be.”

“Oh?” Helen said, raising her eyebrow. “May I know some details?”

Camille blushed, and lowered her gaze to the ground. “Do you know Jean?” she started, twirling her hair around her finger. 

Helen thought for a moment, opening their bedroom door. “The one that tends to the horses?” she asked. 

Camille nodded, her cheeks darkening. “Yes, him. Well,” she gulped, tugging lightly on her hair as she walked towards her wardrobe to find a dress. “We are going on an outing.”

Helen gasped, holding her hand to her chest. “And you’re just telling me this now?” she asked in fake betrayal. 

The 17 year old laughed, pulling out a green dress and black shoes. “Je suis desole (I’m sorry),” she said, laying the dress down on her made bed. “We haven’t had the chance to work close together recently. And...well...you’re never in bed.”

Helen frowned lightly, nodding. “I understand Camille.” she replied, biting the inside of her cheek. “We’ve both been busy.”

Camille nodded, slowly undressing and pulling on the green dress. She slid on her nicer shoes and finished by releasing her hair from the messy bun she threw it in that morning. She added a touch of makeup before grabbing any of necessary accessories. When she was done she turned to Helen for approval. 

Helen gave her a nod and two thumbs up, ushering her off for her date. She waved to her friend from their doorway, holding onto her arms as she watched the girl disappear around a corner. 

She was now alone. 

Helen sighed, pushing off of the doorway and walking down at the halls, hoping to run into a familiar face. And that she did. 

She grinned when she caught sight of the Persian’s face, quickening her pace to walk beside him. She looked up at him, finally catching up. “Good evening Monsieur Khan.”

The man gave her a warm smile, nodding his head towards her. “Good evening to you as well Mademoiselle Draiz.”

Helen shook her head, a smile widening on her face. “You don’t have to use formalities around me Monsieur.”

Nadir nodded once more, rounding a corner with her. “Of course Helen. Tell me, what do I owe this pleasure?”

Helen shrugged, folding her hands over each other. “I just wanted to talk to you Monsieur.” she admitted before lowering her voice. “Thank you for what you did the other night. He would have killed me if you weren’t there.”

The man smirked, shaking his head. “He wouldn’t have.” he told her, sighing. “He took an oath to not kill any women since the incident a few years ago.”

Helen furrowed her eyebrows, intrigued. “Incident?” she repeated, lifting up her skirt as they began climbing stairs, most likely leading to the boxes. 

Nadir nodded, looking around him anxiously for anyone watching them. “Yes Mad--Helen. He swore he would never kill any women after that. His bark is bigger than his bite.”

Helen smiled, nodding. He was a kind man once they both got over their stubborn shell. “I know,” she grinned, quietly counting the boxes as they passed. She followed Nadir into box five and looked around at the beautiful interior. She never came inside the box during the day

“Are you joining me Helen?” asked the man as he stood at a wall. “He may enjoy more company.”

Helen bit her lip as she thought it over. Henry would be rehearsing for a few more hours and Camille wouldn’t be returning any time soon. She hesitantly nodded and walked over to him. “I would love to join you Monsieur.”

[redcrossroads]

With You I'll Stay As You Allow Me To Remain

Summary: Mana’s suffering from nightmares. Allen decides to do something about it because the man’s misery is contagious.

Nightmares are a common occurrence. A constant companion of Mana’s much like Red—Allen, he’s Allen now, he reminds himself, hoping it will stick soon—himself is. Every other night ends up with Mana whimpering and crying. Stricken beyond belief from something that isn’t even real or at least nothing but a mere memory.

It pisses Allen off.

Like a bad reminder of the time he spent in that hellhole of a circus, he finds himself scowling and frowning more often as days pass. He recalls going out at night to catch the man sitting by himself in the cold, curled into a ball so small and full of misery even Red couldn’t help the tug of pity inside his chest.

Unlike then, he can’t justify ignoring the obvious anguish of the man with the excuse of him being a stranger.

As convenient as it would have been to be in denial, Allen isn’t a liar, no matter what that Bastard Cosimo insisted upon, so there’s no point in denying the inevitable. Seeing Mana upset makes his insides twist into a tangled heap which makes him lose all appetite.

Allen loved eating more than anything, yet remembering Mana’s shaking, the wideness of his eyes, the haunted expression on his white face turns his stomach inside out and he finds the thought of eating whatever they decided to eat on that day revolting.

He blames it all on Mana’s weirdness. The way he smiles like a lunatic most days, trying to think of new tricks to practice and babbling on about things Allen pretends to listen to even if he understands nothing of what is said. How he would try to keep his hold on Allen’s hand, ignoring the bristling and the curses while swinging their joined hands with the joy of a kid on Christmas morning. It was all so irritating, Mana’s patience, the kind words he had to spare for everybody. But the man took him in despite the rough edges and foul language he so dislikes and Allen still finds it hard to believe he’d gotten to tag along at all, much less to find the man trying to take care of him.

So, it’s unacceptable for Mana to be sad and try to hide it when Allen can do something about it.

“You can’t stay up all night long, Allen!”

“Watch me.” Allen says with a snarl, because even half blind, the dark circles underneath Mana’s eyes would have been visible like bright bold letters written across his forehead. Not a stranger of exhaustion, Allen doubts he’s ever felt tired like Mana had these past few days.

“It’s not healthy.” Mana chides, voice soft and in the dim-light of their fire, he looks so old. Wrinkles prominent in his face, lips pursed into a weak parody of a half-assed smile, he looks into the fire with unseeing eyes.

“It’s not like I could sleep with all the ruckus ya make while yer sleep.”

Allen wrinkles his nose, giving the man a dirty look as he crosses one arm over his chest. Mana blinks, startled if the sudden alertness of his gaze means anything and he actually turns to look at Allen now, instead of dozing off inside that head of his.

“Pardon?”

“Don’t act all innocent,” Allen glares, because the ache in his chest burns when he thinks back to the tremors wrecking Mana’s body in the night and how long it had taken him to calm down after shaking him awake. He’s no fan of waking up to terrified screams.

“You’re havin’ trouble sleeping. With all your turning and yelling it’s not like I can sleep either, so I might as well be useful if I have to stay up all night.”

He expects Mana to brush the issues off with a joke, to say it’s no problem, silly Allen, he’s being harassed by bed bugs lately, he has no reason to worry but it’s cute he does in that cooing voice of his, which never fails to make Allen flush to the shade of his hair as he hurls one insult after another at the man for daring to embarrass him.

The reaction he anticipates isn’t the one he gets.

Mana laughs, a sudden sound full of amusement and warmth, and it makes the shadows disappear on his face like sunlight chasing away rainy clouds. Shoulders shaking and eyes twinkling as his lips quirk up Allen gapes for a moment, speechless at the turns of events before he explodes.

“What the hell is so funny, stupid Clown!? Are ya laughing at me?”

Jaw and fist clenching as his heart sinks to the bottom of his ribs, heavy as lead and dropping like a stone, he glowers at the man sitting opposite to him.

Stupid! So, stupid. I should’ve known caring would bring me nothing.

“Stop laughing! It ain’t funny!”

He’s ready to throw a rock at the man, when he stops and gets his chuckling under control. Mana directs a soft gaze at him and the smile spreading across his face is genuine and gentle.

The suffocating rage crawling up his neck fizzles out like a matchstick fire in the downpouring rain, leaving behind the smell of burnt wood and smoke drifting off into the air. Wavering in the face of such a loving expression, Allen twists his face into a scowl, kicking out at the burning wood of their fire place.

“I wasn’t laughing at you, Allen.”

“Huh uh.” Giving the man the cold shoulder, he mourns the absence of a stick for poking the flames.

“But I wasn’t!”

Mana insists and Allen may be stubborn, but Mana’s persistence combined with his begging was on a whole other level of thick-headedness. Knowing when to cut his losses, but still sulking Allen squints at the man from beneath his bangs.

Seeing he’s caught Allen’s attention, Mana perks up on his seat, arms resting on his knees, he leans forward, his face gaining a healthy dose of color from the glow of the fire. It brings out the gold in his eyes, another one of Mana’s odd features, and instead of shrinking away from the tall figure looming over him or pushing out his shoulders to seem bigger, Allen sighs, raising a brow to complete his picture of a reluctant listener and leans back.

“What?”

He asks, when the silence continues to drag on. Mana’s habit of staring isn’t as creepy as it used to be but still unusual enough to make him squirm and dig his heels into the floor.

“Nothing! It’s just…I’m happy you care so much.”

Continuing, like Allen isn’t spluttering on his protests, Mana hums, eyes crinkling at the corners as he slaps a hand over his heart.

“Allen used to snap at me quite a lot, always so mean and grouchy, but now you’re being so kind to me, worrying over me it truly warms my heart! I’m so happy I could cry.”

“Don’t even start with that!”

Allen makes a face, because Mana’s dramatic antics are a sign, he’s feeling better, but it’s late and having to deal with them when he knows there’s a good chance Mana could be crying later sets his nerves on edge.

“Listen, if I stay up, I can wake you if you start getting uncomfortable sleeping. There’s not much else I can do to get you to sleep better.”

Mana gives the idea some thought, scratching at his chin and Allen knows from the gesture alone, the man is only doing it to humor him. He ends up being right when Mana shakes his head.

“Thank you for your kind offer, but I couldn’t possible accept this generosity my boy. If you watch over me while I sleep, you’ll not get the sleep you need to grow.”

Oh, bloody hell—

“Well, what am I supposed to do then!? Either you sleep or I won’t.”

He regrets those words leaving his mouth as soon as they’re out because Mana snaps his fingers, grin stretching from ear to ear like he’s got the best idea and Allen knows from last time, the next thing Mana will suggest is going to be utter nonsense.

He’s still holding a grudge over the man forcing him into that stupid clown costume and forcing him onto the walking globe for a show. Falling from that height had hurt.

“Allen could sing me a lullaby!”

“No way.” Short and merciless, he rejects the idea without batting an eye. Not to mention there might be a chance he’ll end up crying if Mana gets him to hum that familiar melody, he’d taught him. Which would happen over Allen’s dead body.

Head falling at the harsh refusal Mana sighs. “I guess you’re still too shy, but we’ll work on that. I’m afraid then there’s nothing you can do.”

Bullshit. Allen thinks, but doesn’t say. There must be something he can do! If he has to take another day of Mana clinging to his blanket like a scared child afraid of the horrors of the dark, he’ll end up pulling out all his hair or he’ll starve to death at this rate.

He’s come too far to give up, so he tries to come up with a way to get Mana to sleep.

Absently rubbing at his eyes, he watches Mana put out the fire to get them ready for their beds. They’re camping inside an abandoned run-down house which is more of a ruin than an actual house with the half-broken roof, but it shields them from the cold and keeps what little warmth they manage to create inside long enough for them to fall asleep comfortably.

Throwing the man, who rolls out their sleeping matts with care a glance, Allen chews on his bottom lip.

“It’s time for bed, Allen~.”

“Alright, stop nagging me already.”

Standing up, Allen kicks of his shoes and pulls off his jacket. The rustling of clothing tells him Mana’s doing the same, of course, neater and actually folding his clothes to put them aside. Risking another glance between his sleeping matt and Mana’s, Allen comes to a decision.

Oh, to hell with this.

Reaching down to lift his sleeping matt, he drags it over to Mana’s, dumping it right beside him before getting his blanket. The stare drilling into his skull is uncomfortable and makes his ears burn. Sitting down on his matt to arrange his blanket, he pulls it up to his shoulder and rolls onto his side, daring the man to comment with a sharp look thrown over his shoulder, he waits for Mana to settle down next to him.

“Isn’t this a nice surprise—”

“Don’t make this weird!”

Allen bursts out as Mana lays down next to him, his shoulder and side brushing against Allen’s back and he knows he’ll regret this in the morning because Mana seems like a person who cuddles like a leech but if this gets him a night of undisturbed sleep it’s going to be worth the mortification. Trying to relax now that Mana’s laying down next to him, knowing he wouldn’t have been sent away hadn’t put a rest to the feeling of anxiety crawling up his spine, Allen closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep.

“If you roll on top of me, I’ll suffocate ya with a pillow.”

“Of course,” Mana’s hushed voice is soothing in the night. The smell of burnt wood, smoke and paint helping him get comfortable in the chilly room. The heat the man emits like a furnace helps to keep himself warm and cozy. “Sweet dreams, Allen.”

“Night.” He mumbles, feeling the edges of sleep drawing him in. He hears Mana’s steady breathing, feels the phantom caress of a hand stroking his hair and the gentle hum of a melody and lets himself fall into embrace of sleep.

The next morning, he wakes up to Mana’s quiet snoring, an arm thrown over his waist resting on his back with his cheek pressed to the man’s clothed chest, his head carefully tugged underneath the man’s chin. It’s a lose but comfortable embrace Allen hesitates to pull himself out of. He decides to let Mana sleep a few extra minutes and denies any snuggling having taken place with vigor.

Mana’s nightmares don’t stop, but they do lessen, so Allen keeps their sleeping arrangement and is thankful for what rest Mana manages to get during the night.

At least, he can enjoy his food again, now that Mana’s nightmares have become manageable.

[dokuhebi]

Jiraiya / cont. @peepingtoad​

No. There was no difference.

That was exactly why he threw it out to tempt them, referring not only to the possibility of tethering his power as they already had done in the past, but also his will itself… because if he can’t be accepted with all his flaws by the one he loves, then he may as well, at the very least, not have to suffer any longer for it. Either by being allowed to die again, or the next best thing—by becoming a mindless servant who can fulfil whatever role they desire from him. And why not assert just how sick and tired he is? Why not let them know, in no uncertain terms, just how crazy they make him, and see exactly what guts they have to do something real about it?

But replaying those words back to himself as a tense quiet descends thickly in the space between them, where the only sound is his ragged, wet breathing, it now seems less like the assertions of his aggressively free spirit, and instead reeks more of fear. Fear of that highest tier of rejection—and not for juvenile things like dating or kissing or any of that stuff, but the idea that he might face rejection for being fully himself… including his less relaxed, less humorous and cheerful, less indestructible sides. The very sides of him that right now seem to be earning him nothing but further ire, neither his tears nor anger seeming to awaken any kind of vulnerability or understanding in return.                                                                                                

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|| “...you think you know what might make me happy?” Words that cut directly to the bone, that take what the serpent had said and pierced its heart until all sentiment had been killed from it. They stare on silently, even if they feel he was turning the knife within them. That they can not argue they know him at all, if he has told them just how blind they have not only been, but are currently being. And it does leave them feeling raw and ripped open, it does make them feel that the only bond they ever truly formed in their lifetime had been a rather poor effort all the same. And it is not his intention, or at the very least, his comment is not to aim blame outwardly. Instead, after wounding them, he acts to wound himself. They would say they spot the pattern, of how quickly he puts himself in jail for things he has not truly done. But they feel themself a fool to make that analysis after being chided for knowing so little as is. And then comes his confession - a child saviour. So simple, so innocent, yet he delivers it as if it may have been the very weight holding him under water for so long. Perhaps if he had told them years ago, they would have had a better understanding, perhaps if he had, they would simply have scoffed at all his talk of destiny and fate. Maybe they still do. But one thing is certain, they can not fault him... when during his death they had run off to do the same thing. And that might just be making them feel a little eerily inclined to believe destiny for the briefest second.

Mitsuki is quick to enter their thoughts, they had created that boy to be everything they were not. They had given him the power their body was too weak to control, the lessons they had never been taught... but more importantly, they had tried their utmost to present the little moon they birthed with a sun. With some guiding light out the darkness. Because they had truly thought that no child of theirs could ever be capable of escaping the shadows, because high and mighty as they are, and whether they call it destiny or genetic predisposition, they could not shake the feeling that the apple would not fall far from the tree. Because one lesson they could not shake, was that the moment they pushed Jiraiya away, was the moment the darkness finally had the opportunity to clamp its jaws around them. And although madness had been soothing, although a blinding veil of darkness had allowed them peace, it was a form of admitted delusion to ignore the signs of being killed in that way. To lose oneself entirely to whatever force would give them relief from the world. And it was knowing this, it was knowing how the game ended the moment they tried playing alone, that had them guiding their child toward another boy. That had them encouraging one sacred rule: to stay close to the one who offered light. The gods knew the serpent wished they had. But they can not tell him this. No, they can not show him how much they regret making him think all that optimism was for naught, that it was foolish and naive and had no impact. For they can not tell him of the child just yet. Too poor an opportunity to announce the insanity of their own ploys. That they would once more tamper with nature in new ways to produce the two a son. That they would, with a heart that is just as much of a dreamer as Jiraiya’s, look to the child and whisper for him to do what the two Sannin couldn’t. They would like to show Jiraiya, that he had. For now, however, they would need to convey it a different way. They would need to find the words to express that he was wrong to think that all those years were wasted. Those were the only years the serpent could ever count themself alive. Them being too stubborn, scared and lost to see that would change nothing. “No right?” the words catch in their throat when he speaks them, no right to feel pain? Their eyes meet his without intent to be patronizing, yet a mark of a parent informing a child appears regardless, “we can not measure suffering... but if we dared to, I would wager that yours was within all rights my dear. For any tragedy upon or around you will stifle the human heart... pain is so easily transferable, is it not?” That was a lesson taught to them in parenthood, from the day they saw their child in agony, and felt a violent need to bear that pain themself than witness it. But they had not yet addressed what they felt needed addressing. That he thought all his efforts a complete waste, that he now abhors even that optimism that had in fact, carried the Sannin a great distance. A loss of words ensnares them momentarily, until he has walked the short distance back to them. Even after they had almost killed him moments ago, even after wind rattled the cottage and threatened more pain. He would get bitten a hundred times more before realizing some beasts were too feral to be a part of his domestic fantasy. Gold meets the inverted optics he now dons, and their voice is but a breath louder than a whisper. Even now, their stillness could be read as them being pacified, or as a serpent getting ready to strike, “I remember strangers dressed in red coming to my door, the eyes of pity ridden onlookers in utilitarian and windowless hallways... I remember the matrons office, the houseparents, the scattered documents I didn’t have the guts to read when my parents names littered every page. I remember thinking that everyone would be disappointed, inconvenienced, if I behaved like a child rather than a shinobi. If I admitted my feelings on the subject rather than handled it like one of our assignments. I didn’t tell you I was scared... I found I did not have to.” “Maybe it was your optimism, maybe it was that whenever the ground shook beneath me on my broken foundation, there was at least one familiar face, one constant... and I could measure myself to you. If you could fall and get back up, so could I. If you could live in a home where your mother was more absent than present, I could too. And if you could hold up not only yourself, but others... well, the least I could do was move forward on my own. And perhaps even then our goals were of similar heart. That you took to raising a saviour, where I took to trying to paint myself as one...” A light and single huff of laughter, lacking amusement but perhaps admitting to the irony of their days battling for the seat of Hokage. Then the days forging their own village with equal tenacity after denouncing the way the world was shaped. Who knew the child who dreamed of being the worlds redemption, would become a villain without any hope of being redeemed themself. And it is then that they feel the brush of his hands on their face, that the softest of touches seems to rattle them. They did not notice the feeling of dampness that had risen subtly to their own sharp eyes, and they look almost surprised when they feel the light sensation of a tear fall down their cheek. They blink it away, as if caught off guard by their feelings. As if they had done too good a job of stifling real emotions and of letting anger take precedence instead. That their heart must have been far removed from their mind, and caught them completely off guard by the sudden and single exposure of nostalgic grief. And part of them wants to blame him, that just like a yawn or smile or laugh, crying could be contagious. But they know better than to demonstrate further weakness with a cop-out lie.   ||  “… Well. Maybe.” The words bring another huff of laughter from them, bitter amusement, but amusement more genuine than the previous time. The wind in the room has died down, the light swinging of the curtain rope and the disheveled state of paper and books is all that is left in its warning wake. And they are left, with the heartfelt promise he had just made, that maybe their little secret is not wise to withhold. That it was true madness to continue the same action in hopes of a different outcome. If they are to hide from him... if he is to hide from them... they are back where they started. “Fate... that is a very fickle thing to hold to, is it not?” they reply, a hand coming up to clasp around the back of his head. Nails have a bit of bite to them, a bit of tug. But it is not to harm him, it is to keep him locked a while longer as he is. It is the shake of his hands and the quiver in his breath, it is the unleashed vow of being theirs, only theirs. It is the unspoken promise of years ago that has finally been put in to words. They tug him down when they draw themself forward, a kiss that they hope will signify a seal on his promise. Less gentle than they had intended, more possessive than romantic. They toy with the idea in their mind, they toy with whether they should tell him, and then finally, they have their answer. “Pack your things. I have something to show you.”

[druddigoon]

Snippets of ATLA wips I hate too much to finish that I like enough to post on Tumblr

I know most of my followers are from Pokemon nowadays, but I still do post some atla stuff. Also this is probably like 4k+ words of complete shit so I’m putting them under the cut

Brother, Son 

“How do you play Pai Sho?” Ozai asks, peeking over the low rim of the Pai Sho table. He’s almost four now, toddles his way around the palace clinging the legs of the staff, parroting official declarations from the leverage of a chabudai. Their parents barely acknowledge his younger brother - Azulon is busy countering earthbender resistance on the eastern front, and Ilah handles military campaigns to the Water Tribes. As loyal Fire Nation citizens, their duty rings like a mantra: Nation beyond family, personal sacrifice for the greater good. 

And Ozai is left alone. 

Iroh idly twirls a lotus tile beneath his finger. “You’ll learn it when you’re older,” he says, pulling the trick their mother always used on him. Iroh is fifteen; old enough to join the army but not in the front lines, not yet anyways. It drives him mad. 

Ozai pouts and starts whining an ear-grating whimper. That kind of noise usually gets him a backhand and a harsh scolding from their father, but he’s smart enough to realize that Iroh would never hurt him in that way. He tugs on Iroh’s sleeve, puffs his chubby cheeks into a pout. “Please?”

When Iroh doesn’t respond, Ozai stumbles his way to his brother and collapses around his waist. Small arms try, and fail, to wrap around him. “I humbly request assistance regarding certain matters of conduct that appear to be beyond my comprehension. Would you care to enlighten me?”

If Iroh had been drinking tea at that moment, it would be coming back up through his nose. He ends up bursting out laughing, because did Ozai not realize how sarcastic that was? His brother rolls off, confused, but ends up giggling along. 

After their laughter petered off, Iroh wipes the tears off his face and grins. “I suppose that can be arranged.” He gestures at the tiles while Ozai bounces up and down. “Now watch, my disciple; Pai Sho is a game of strategy…” 

Ozai fails to grasp the finer points of Pai Sho, but Iroh discovers that he didn’t mind. He likes watching Ozai; the boy has an awful poker face, and Iroh can differentiate the multitude of emotions that manifested in his expression. Confusion, in a crooked tilt of his eyebrows and a crease on his nose. Contemplation, in a furrowing of his forehead and intense glare of his eyes. Glee, in the way the corners of his mouth curved like a shy little thing. Iroh begins giving him little loopholes just to see that smile more.  

Curt raps at his door snaps Iroh out of his contemplation. Ozai casually moves another tile. “Come in.” 

A servant enters. “Prince Iroh, your firebending lesson starts at noon. It’s been two hours.” 

Iroh looks at the sun outside his window, surprised to see how low it hangs; he’s never been the one to lose track of time. He glances back at Ozai, who has his head turned away from him as if he’d trying not to meet his gaze. “I’ll be out in a minute. Wait outside.” 

After the servant leaves, Iroh grabs his brother’s shoulders and turns Ozai towards him. “What’s that matter?” 

Ozai’s face looks crestfallen. “I-” he stops, purses his lips, and continues with the simple honesty of a child, “-I don’t want you to leave, that’s all.” 

"No.”

So this is what having a brother feels like. Iroh smiles at Ozai, who looks back incredulously. "We’re princes. The servants listen to us, not the other way around.” He makes his move with a flourish. "Your turn.”

Oai’s grin was the widest he’d seen yet, and their game fades well into the evening.

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

Ozai cannot please their father, Iroh’s learned, and not for the lack of trying. The boy wakes up hours before the sun rises, rehearsing through his katas illuminated by the cusp of dawn. Stands a little straighter in court meetings, gleams with a pomp of authority when in the general vicinity of the throne. He loves Azulon with every fiber of his being.

Azulon hardly notices.

He can feel the flames of rigor flare in his brother’s chi as he watches Azulon address his troops, the wisp of smoke that escapes through clenched fists. They were royalty; lavished with care, laden with gifts, and yet he still yearns, yearns for something that he will never reach. (They have a habit, the Fire Nation, of aiming the arrow further than the bow can shoot.)

Because Ozai is flawed, and very much so. Despite his rigorous training, he is naturally clumsy, as if his chi is innately unbalanced from the moment of his birth. At the age of six he still possesses the incoordination of a toddler, tripping over his own feet and fumbling with objects enough that he’s been banned from the royal archives from accidentally dropping a candle. His fire burns strong, but not strong enough for someone of his bloodline. By the time Iroh was his age, he’d already mastered four more sets than he did. By the time Iroh was his age, he could recite the names and dates of all important battles (all Fire Nation victories, of course) and pinpoint them on a map. By the time Iroh was his age, he had earned the respect of his father of his country.

Ozai is the second-born; less talented, less needed. He bears the scars of the uncontrollable on his skin, reminders of their father’s fury and the love he can never own because of his succession at birth.

(And perhaps that was why, when Azula came to the world with infernos in her eyes and lightning at her fingertips, Ozai named her after his greatest desire, and reached out for her like it never did.)

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

Shortly after Lu (and he should think my son instead of just his name, like he’s a pawn on a roster, just a tally amidst the casualties, but it hurts too much when he’s used him like a soldier instead of loving him like a father) Ten’s death, Iroh receives a letter stamped with the royal insignia, addressed specifically to him. The person who brings it is one of his closest servants, one of the few he allows in his tent anymore; he bids him leave with a jerking sweep of his hand, and Iroh is alone.

The precise calligraphy of words is heartwrenchingly familiar, and yet the letter’s contents read like a stranger’s. His brother’s tone is formal, clipped. Ursa and I are sorry for your loss it reads, and the rice paper starts to smolder around its edges. I have decided to return this back to you. I no longer have any need for it.

There is a bundle attached to the message, heavier than expected, and inside Iroh finds the Prince’s crown. He knows that this means. He knows his brother too much and not enough, because they are worlds away and he is losing him.

His troops looked startled when they saw their general exit his tent for the first time in months, clad in the dark linens of a mourning man. When asked where he was leaving to, Iroh replied simply: “Home.”

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

(“Ozai used to be my brother.” Iroh mentioned once, offhandedly, the night they first camped at the Western Air Temple when he found Zuko wide awake. He was standing in the central pavilion (with its sweeping murals amidst pallid marble, that probably wasn’t built to be so empty) leaning out from the balcony to catch the passing wind on his arm. The other was wrapped up in a cast.

Zuko looked at him. He seemed confused; he could see it in the familiar crooked tilt of the brow, the way his nose wrinkled just so. “But Father still is.”

He says it with such sincerity and innocence despite the bandages obscuring his left visage, and later when he falls asleep, Iroh weeps. Because after all Ozai did to the boy, he still loved him like a son to a father, a brother to a brother.)

Azula Week Day 7 (AN: Never thought of a title for this haha)

“I did not consent to this,” Azula says, after she recovers from the initial shock.

Her only reply is a burble. Izumi is one year and five months old and still communicates in phonemes. Zuzu seemed to be slacking in supplementing her development; by her age, Azula was just beginning to recite classic Fire Nation poems.

She resolves not to mention it in front of him. “I was also under the impression you had alternate babysitting options that didn’t drastically increase your child’s risk of mortality.”

Zuko, who had barged into her household unannounced (“You know there are strict punishments for home invaders under Fire Nation law, right?”), has the grace to act sheepish. “And those ‘alternate babysitting options’ are out of reach now, unfortunately.” He unceremoniously dumps his daughter onto Azula’s lap; Izumi’s shirtfront is damp with slobber and immediately wets Azula’s robes. “Iroh’s tending to his teashop in Ba Sing Se, and Ursa left with Noren to visit their old village for a couple weeks. Mai—not that I consider her a babysitter, she’d kill me—is coming with me, and none of my friends except you and Toph are in the Caldera right now.”

Azula raises an eyebrow, still managing to look skeptical with a toddler drooling against her robes.

“Please?” Zuko pulls a puppy-cub face, the one he used when they were children to get what he wanted from their mother. Azula has no idea why he believes it’ll work on her. “I have an urgent meeting with Aang in Republic City, and I can’t bring Izumi—or Kiyi for that matter, she had school—along with me. I don’t trust the palace staff to take care of them.”

Funny how Zuzu trusts her more than the people hired to serve him. Azula relents. “Fine. You better come back for them in four days like you promised, or I’m putting both up for adoption.”

Zuko ignores the jab (it had no heat to it anyway) and showers profuse thanks, pulling her into a quick, uncomfortable, and consent-violating hug. He sweeps out of the apartment before Azula can retaliate, most likely in a way that would burn her house down.

The door swings shut behind him.

Not long after, Toph walks in, clad in her official ambassador’s attire and looking utterly bewildered. Azula takes mercy and fills her in.

“We’re impromptu babysitting for my brother. I have Izumi, and Kiyi’s already upstairs brooding or something.” Kiyi is pushing into her teens and is already doggedly stretching her independence, as well as everyone’s patience. (Azula likens it to jumping off a cliff and hoping to fly.) She had bolted for their guest bedroom the moment Zuko arrived, in an attempt to avoid the “grown-ups” below.

“Oh. Huh.”

“We’re stuck with them until Zuzu comes back from his meeting.”

“Huh.” Toph sits down on their living room couch, still processing the information. Azula tugs a bowl of fruit out of Izumi’s reach. “Huh.”

“Remind me again why I decided to make nice with him.”

Toph shrugs. “Beats me.” ------------------------------------

Azula has brought down armies, made lesser men bow beneath her feet; she overtook Ba Sing Se in a day’s coup without killing a single person, something her ancestors been trying for eons without success; she almost killed the avatar, and had once stood against him and three other master benders (because Zuko wasn’t one) to come out unharmed. She was a prodigy firebender and manipulator, capable of getting almost whatever she wanted.

If any of those achievements transferred to present day, it means that she is capable of feeding a drooling toddler.

“Eat.” Azula commands, pressing a spoonful of rice congee against Izumi’s unyielding lips.

She once had the unfortunate privilege of watching Zuzu feed her—saying “heeeere comes the dragon!” in a disgustingly sugary voice and cooing whenever Izumi took a bite—and refuses to replicate his technique. So far she’s managed to get one mouthful in, only for Izumi to spit it all out onto her bib.

An ungroomed Toph walks into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Whereas Azula always rises with the sun, the earthbender prefers to sleep in. She sticks a finger up her right nostril. “Everything alright here, Thunder?”

Azula takes the opportunity to remove herself from the warzone, stepping over to the sink to wash the stickiness from her fingers. “Just peachy. The infant seems determined to starve herself and I’ve just about given up trying to stop her.” She glares up indignantly when Toph has the audacity to laugh at her. “Hilarious, isn’t it? You try shoving congee up her mouth.” 

“Heh, sure,” It’s too early in the morning to engage in their snarky banter, so Toph just picks up the brush on the counter and grooms her boarqpine’s nest of a hairdo. Izumi starts making babbling noises, bits of congee still dripping past her lips. “You go wake up Kiyi then. The clock on the wall behind me says there’s only an hour until she has to go to her classes.”

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

“How did waking the sleeping beast go?” Downstairs, Toph seems to have successfully allocated half the bowl into Izumi’s stomach. Her amusement tapers off as Azula sweeps into the kitchen like a brewing storm. “What’s wrong, Thunder?” 

(It’s sweet that Toph can detect her moods and episodes through the way she carries herself and know what to do without Azula having to tell her outright. Right after the war it had been a sign that she was slipping from perfection, but nowadays Toph’s gotten sharper and Azula’s learned that there’s strength in vulnerability.)

“Not well, unfortunately. I stuck a hand in its mouth and it bit back.” She occupies herself in wiping Izumi’s face, hoping that Toph is familiar with her moods enough to know now is not the time to pry. 

Toph’s not happy about that (she can see it in the way she blows at her bangs, how her nose wrinkles just so) but decides not to pursue. “Well I think that’s all Izumi’s eating today. We should probably change her diaper now. I smelled something funky while I was feeding her.”

“I’ll do it. Agni knows how you wipe your own butt.”

“If you want, I’ll let you do it for me.” 

Azula mimes a shudder, and Toph snickers. “I did not need that suggestion. Next time you make such a scandalous request, I’ll sleep in my own bed for the next month.” 

“Pssshh. As if you’re able to hold out that long.” Azula is pulling Izumi’s linens out from under her when she hears Toph set another bowl of congee on the counter. She looks over her shoulder to see Kiyi creeping near the table, timid as a sparrowmouse. The girl quietly takes Toph’s offered spoon but ends up clinking it against the ceramic, looking up at Azula in guilt. Toph tilts her head expectantly. 

She sighs, strolling over to the pile of supplies Zuzu left her and picking out some clean linens. “I understand that some adolescents are incapable of regulating what comes out of their mouths, and will not hold it against you. Now stop acting like a kicked puppycub.” 

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

One questionably wrapped diaper later, Izumi is bouncing on the carpet with Azula holding her for support. The toddler is drooling (again) and making infant noises and what suspiciously sounds like “A-zhu-a”. Babies are a peculiar thing, high maintenance with rolls of fat, soft cheeks and a bulbous head. This one has come out of Mai’s vagina, after… no, best not to think about it. Azula can never imagine herself this gross and vulnerable.

An infant babbling Azula’s name on repeat is somewhat unnerving, so she procures a wooden rattle to occupy Izumi, only to remove it when she starts gnawing. Izumi starts pouting and making little distressed noises, so Azula returns it.

Toph has sent Kiyi off with some well wishes and a hearty slug to the shoulder. Now she settles on the carpet, listening to the rhythm of Izumi’s stomps.

“She should be close to walking by now,” Azula says, “Both Zuzu and I learned to walk by our thirteenth month.”

Toph shrugs. “Give her time. She might be a late bloomer; I didn’t walk by myself until I was well over two years old. It’s probably why my parents didn’t see me as a good earthbender, us being familiar with the ground and all.”

A pause. Toph leans in, contemplative. “...Do you think Izumi would let me touch her face?”

It isn’t like Toph—headstrong, stubborn Toph, Avatar’s sifu, greatest earthbender in the world—to speak with a quiet waver in her voice. In a way, her uncertainty makes Azula feel better about her own insecurities right now. They are navigating new territories, but they are doing so together. “I don’t think she’ll mind much. Be gentle with the top the head though; I’ve heard that the skull isn’t too developed there.”

It brings Toph out of her contemplation. She scoffs. “Yeah right, who do you take me as?”

“Someone who punches holes in the pavement when she’s angry and smashes boulders with her head when she’s bored,” Azula reminds her.

“Also someone who’s a master metalbender, which asks for, as you like to say about your crazy fire katas, ‘utmost finesse’.”

Despite her braggadocio, Toph reaches for Izumi’s face gingerly, cradling her cheek against calloused fingers. Izumi wrinkles her face but, to their surprise, does not cry out.

Azula watches as Toph’s hands explore Izumi’s face: cresting over her nub nose, ghosting past her eyes, combing the downy black hair without ever touching the scalp. Toph herself is in a trance, her brows furrowed in concentration. After a brief eternity she withdraws with a fluid motion as if finishing the tail end of a meditation.

“Hello, I’m Toph,” she tells her.

Izumi claps her hands.

‘She’s squishy.” Toph says, turning to Azula. Izumi is repeating “Tawh, Tawh, Tawh” while bouncing in Azula’s arms. Entranced, Toph reaches over to grab her hand. “Can I hold her?”

Yes, they’ll get through this together.

“Can’t know if you don’t try,” Azula says when Izumi leans forward into Toph’s arms.

Ember Island Blues  (AN: This was a test thing gone wrong and I hate it a lot)

 Azula has only gained a few inches after the war, making her shorter than Katara. Her hair, once lustrous black, has greyed prematurely; her eyes, while sharp, now have a haunted look to them - a sun’s wavering reflection on deep ocean. Still she walks with grim poise and posture, her royal robes replaced with a traveler’s attire that reminds Katara eerily of that decisive Agni Kai. They lock eyes, and the waves rock just a little higher.

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

She wakes to floorboards creaking, Aku’s muffled hiss as she bumps into the dining room counter. There’s a distinct click of a lock, an agonizingly slow creak of the door as someone tries to silence her sneaking out only to prolong the sound she makes. Only when it stops does Katara sigh and get up. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes and tamping down a yawn, she steps outside.

Despite the heat wave indicative of Fire Nation weather, Ember Island’s mornings are surprisingly chilly. It’s still dark outside, the sun a sliver of pink beyond the horizon. Katara expects to find Aku fooling around before quickly returning home as the temperature gets to her. What she doesn’t expect is to find her at the edge of the ocean, practicing katas with a single-minded intensity that she hasn’t seen since Zuko joined their group during the war.

She clears her throat, notices Aku’s breath hitch, like she’d been surprised. The girl looks at her with a wide expression. “Good morning, Auntie Katara.”

As if she has done nothing wrong waking up and causing a racket at the crack of dawn. Katara clicks disapprovingly. “Kya and the others are asleep.” You should be too.

“Can’t.” Aku says. She draws her arms and legs toward her body, lowering and exhaling and relaxing at the conclusion of her kata. The entire move is precise, not a hair out of place. “It’s a firebender thing.”

Firebenders rise with the sun, Katara knows. They get their power from its rays, just like how her blood thrums a little bit stronger, her movements a little more fluid, under the waxing of the moon. What she doesn’t consider is how it affects their sleeping schedule.

No wonder she never sees Zuko asleep in the mornings.

“Well, be quieter next time, okay?” She says. Aku nods before resuming her practice. Katara sits down on the spray-soaked crags to watch.

Since the conclusion of the war, Katara’s waterbending had taken a backseat. Nowadays she mostly uses it to heal the scrapes and cuts on her children, to do the laundry. Her real waterbending (the hardening of blood against flesh, puppets straining under a master’s reins) is always - has always - centered around combat, and there is little need for that in an era of peace.

It surprises her how Aku practices without stopping—her little brow furrowing in utmost concentration—until the sun fully rises from sea to sky. If Aang had been this disciplined at this age, he’d have defeated Ozai before the start of summer. Occasionally she breathes, little tongues of flame leaping off her palms, her mouth, weaving fiery blue filigree in the shadowed dawn.

“Were you cold out there?” Katara asks, when the air starts heating up and they are on their way back to the villa. “Do you do this every day?”

“Um.” Aku looked perplexed. “No and...yes? All firebenders have an inner fire, which they have to maintain so it won’t die or get out of control.

"Mine keeps me warm, I guess. We practice katas every morning so we don’t accidentally burn something or someone.”

For such a destructive element, Aku’s explanation hinges a lot on precision and control. Perhaps that is why they need it, Katara thinks. “Do you like firebending?”

“Mhm.” A turtlecrab pops out of the sand, and Aku stops to observe as it burrows back inside. “Mommy always says that bending is a gift. Something that should be used to its fullest extent.”

Of course Azula would say that. “And what about you?”

“I don’t think it’s a gift.” The house is still silent and dark as they enter, the three other inhabitants soundly sleeping away. When Katara closes her eyes, she can feel the pull of her element, Aku smoldering softly by her side. “I think it’s a part of who you are, as a person, I mean. When you neglect it, you’re neglecting part of yourself too.”

Aku gives her one last smile, the ripe innocence of a child, then heads back to her room with the floorboards creaking behind her.

The next morning, Katara rises with the sun and leaves for the seaside.

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

When it comes to her daughter’s appearance, Azula has clearly gotten the upper hand. Aku looks aristocratic: pointed nose, tapering chin, pale porcelain skin. The only outward resemblance to Sokka is her hair. Instead of jet black locks, Aku’s are dark and wavy, like the seas her father had once called home. 

Sometimes Katara sees snippets of her brother in Aku’s mannerisms. How she seamlessly segues from a noble strut to stumbling over nothing, how she demands “scientific proof and evidence” when accused of not eating her vegetables, how she inhales information like it is going out of style, how she seems to eat more than Bumi, Kya, and Tenzin combined. 

There are times when Aku is just Aku. Her demureness is all Azula with none of the underlying malice. Instead she’s hesitant, almost shy. Asks permission for almost everything she did. Speaks formally, and only formally, to Katara and her children untilasw Bumi decided to ask about her adventures with Uncle Sokka. She is—as Katara discovered accidentally, when she’d seen her sketching the sea on a notepad—an excellent artist. Katara has no idea who she gets that from. Certainly not Sokka, that’s for sure. 

Her children are already familiar with the Fire Nation princess, having been babysat together quite a few times. Back when Tenzin was too young to bring to the Air Nomads, when Katara had actually accompanied Aang during his excursions around the world.   

Tenzin is more wary than anything. Katara could distinctly remember Aku being there for his birth, but they never had the chance to bond as much as her other kids, what with Tenzin constantly being out with Aang. His father’s absence is clearly stinging; he’s more stiff than usual, takes his glider to coast the drafts first thing in the morning and doesn't return until dusk.

To Bumi, Aku is another playmate he can rope into playing with. As the sole non-bender of his family, he practically idolizes his Uncle Sokka. Aku soaks up the attention, telling (probably embellished, definitely exaggerated) tales of his conquests, later acting them out with theatrical flourish. She’s even carved out a replica of his boomerang out of driftwood, which now rests on Bumi’s bedside when he sleeps. 

Kya is immediately taken to her. The girls both love to read, spending hours upon hours on the couch while Bumi and Tenzin play on the beach, curling up against each other with a battered book propped up between them. When not reading, she leads Aku around a tour of their villa and the surrounding beach, pointing out little pools and deltas she uses to practice her waterbending. Aku is fascinated, and on nights when Katara is too tired to enforce the curfew, the shoreline roils with flame-touched waves and steam. 

Aku’s flames still give Katara a bitter taste in her throat, the pain of a could-be scar blooming against her chest. She remembers being at the receiving end of two pointed fingers, blue fraying at the edges, the same fingers her brother later kisses at his wedding. Aang is twelve years old again, wrapped in her arms; Zuko is seizing uncontrollably, the world is at war.

But this girl, the result of their union, is not born in war, has never carried the wounds or shed the tears or bore the frigid chains against metal grate bars. Just like Zuko shouldn’t be blamed for the deeds of his forefathers, Aku never asked for her parents’ histories. 

Somehow, watching her stumble in the sand, Katara finds it easier to forgive every day. 

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

“It’s funny,” she murmurs, “Daddy laughs more to strangers than he does to Mommy, and Mommy acts better to officials I know she hates than she does to Daddy."

"But when they’re alone with me, Daddy can frown and yell all he wants and Mommy can throw fits and cry. And I’m glad. To be part of that. It means they trust me with their weaknesses, in a way.” And perhaps there’s a quiet strength in that too.

Aku reaches over to grab Katara's hand (the girl's skin is gritty with clinging sand, soft with an innocence her aunt’s never had; Katara wonders if she’s ever been burnt before) and their fingers touch with silent truce. "I trust you too, Auntie Katara."

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

Bending is an art. Aku performs it with the steady tenacity of a wolf-warrior, an ice-dodger at the prow of a sailboat. Energy is never lost, only converted. Even firebenders must give to take. 

[godhanjisung]

At First Sight - Chan Scenario

Summary: Children are great, for sure, but only if they’re your kind thing. They weren’t yours so you ended up getting help from the master child himself – Chan. You just didn’t know he would have this effect on you.

Genre: Fluff

Rating: 13+ [SFW]

Words: 2552

It is universally acknowledged that anyone who takes on a babysitting job should have at least some experience in the art of babysitting, or at least kids; luckily for you however, it seemed that your mother’s friend had not caught the memo. As a result you now found yourself all alone in a small apartment with no one else around but two small children, who by the end of tonight were probably going to leave just as scarred as you were if things turned out half as good as you had imagined. You mentally patted yourself on the back, that’s right think positive, optimism was the only way out of this.

A small tug on your fingers brought you out from your thoughts and you stared down at the two young boys standing beside you. The child whom had tugged on your fingers was staring up at you with his large doe eyes, his brother beside him holding onto a large dolphin toy – dolphin holder was Tom and the other Tim. You placed a smile on your face kneeling down to Tim’s height, tilting your head to the side before speaking.

“Yes?”

You watched as the boy opened his mouth wide before closing it suddenly, “hungry.”

‘Of course’ you thought - food. You sighed before placing your hands on your knees and lifting yourself from the floor, turning around quickly before power walking towards the kitchen. Their kitchen was large and spacious and newly renovated, the white and grey hues blinding you as you entered.  You had decided on cooking pasta coming to the conclusion that simple was the way to go. But before you began searching for the appropriate ingredients you made a bee-line to the pantry opening the door and pulling out a packet of cookies. After all something had to keep the children preoccupied whilst you cooked.

Thirty minutes later and you found yourself backed into a wall. Tim was on his back, red in the face with his limbs going up and down in violent chaotic strikes. Likely half the neighbourhood could hear him screaming as if you were beating him with a stick. All you had said was, "No." Apparently denying him a second cookie was as devastating to him as someone stealing your home and all your possessions would be to you. You watched as he suddenly stopped and stared at you before flipping over and banging his head into the floor. That did it. In seconds you had the cookie in his now sweaty hand. He flipped to his bottom and stuck it in his mouth, staring at you with sullen eyes under a forehead that was sure to bruise. What would his mother say? What would your mother say? You sank to the couch and ready to call it a night but then you remembered, where was child number two.

Quick as a flash you began sprinting throughout the house only to find him in the recreational room playing. You slowly dropped to the floor sighing in relief. Babysitting was much harder than you thought it would be. At that moment Tim entered, cookie in hand, now sporting a large grin as he shook the cookie in front of his brother’s face, teasing him. ‘Please no’ you thought a grimace already set on your face but Tom ignored him completely engrossed with his teddy bear.

“Do you know,” you began “why teddy bears never get hungry?”

Both the children turned to look at you, Tim enthusiastically shaking his head, whilst the other, Tom, peered at you.

You stifled a smile as you recited the line that always got you cackling, ‘because they are always stuffed!’

Lifting your head to the ceiling and laughing at your own joke, you suddenly felt like you were going insane, were kids supposed to be this difficult? Then you wondered if you were asking yourself a stupid question. They were children how could they not be?

Exhaling you got up from the floor and quickly jogged back to the kitchen. You quickly took out some bowls and placed the pasta you had cooked inside each one, ready to call the kids over to eat. It was at that moment you heard the doorbell ring and you silently thanked whoever it was from saving you from another tiring moment. If watching kids was this hard you didn’t want to even imagine the battle it would be to feed them.

Opening the door you are immediately find yourself face to face with a young man sporting a very large grin. He had dirty blonde hair however his brown roots were visible and already beginning to overtake the rest of his hair. His brown eyes were the opposite almost invisible as they were scrunched into slits as he smiled at you, full blown with all his teeth. Something about his smile made your stomach churn, he had the kind of smile that made you feel happy to be alive and just that little bit more human.

“Hi! I’m Chan!”

You nodded your head slightly, despite how good looking he was, you didn’t know who he was or why he was here.

“Ah! Right sorry, I just came here to help you out. It got pretty loud so I called up their mother and asked if I could help…she said yes.”

You immediately narrowed your eyes, your mouth opening slightly. Who did he think he was? Sure you had not done the best job thus far, but it was your first night! Suddenly you felt annoyed at him what if you lost this job because of that one phone call of his? Just as you were about to go off at him he stuck his hand into his pocket and brought out a note. You looked at the note your eyebrow raised.

“Take it, it’s from the Tim-tams mother.”

You slowly grabbed the note from him opening it before scanning through the message. Yes this was definitely Tim and Tom’s mother’s handwriting and signature. It was also a note that clearly said that Chan would be around to help you out with anything as he lived right next door.

Chan then held out his hand for you to take. You complied, but instead of shaking hands like everyone else, he brought your hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss upon it. You felt your face flush warm and the hairs on your neck stand. Something fluttered in your stomach. You didn't know what that feeling was. You thought it was a bizarre sensation, but it wasn't unpleasant. In that moment you knew that if you spoke, your words would fumble and you wouldn't be able to make your usual witty remarks. Right there and then, you were at a loss for everything; no words, no breath, no thoughts. The only thing that came out of your mouth at that moment was your name, and even then it came out shaky and quiet. For once in your life, your breath had taken away by a complete stranger - by the eyes of a complete stranger and most definitely his smile.

Chan, although much older than he looked, was like babysitting a third child. You watched as the children laughed and played with him, jumping up and down at his jokes and laughing at the endless amounts of faces that he pulled. They particularly enjoyed his duck impressions, although you did give him the benefit of the doubt for those, not even you could keep the small smile off your face.

He always squatted down onto the floor, folding him arms to his sides like wings, and started flapping them, his ducks noises anything but accurate. You watched him as he made the impression for the tenth time as you quickly finished off feeding Tim before sending off on his way to join Tom in watching and cackling at Chan. They were both giggling before they stopped, simultaneously jumping onto him and making him fall.

You smirked slightly picking up the bowls of pasta and heading to the kitchen. Despite being initially quite annoyed at his appearance you couldn’t deny how much easier it had become to look after the children once he had arrived.

Leaving the kitchen you entered the living room to find Chan, Tim and Tom playing with some model dinosaurs. You were busy looking at the kids and didn’t notice Chan’s stare, however when you finally met his eyes you watched as his lips lifted upward. You watched the way his one dimple crinkled, the way his perfectly aligned teeth emerged and you definitely noticed the warm glow of happiness that his smile. His smile was a ray of sunshine and you felt as though you were getting burned.

Since that day whenever you were babysitting Tim and Tom, Chan would always come over at random intervals to help you out, never at cooking though, you had quickly realised that wasn’t his forte. However playing and keeping them occupied? He was an angel at.

One day he would help you take them to the park. Those mild spring days were days where the kids were so happy to run outside without jackets. Running to the swings, their legs moving wildly in order to pump themselves higher and higher. Chan and you would push them from behind talking.

“You must really like kids.”

“Haha yes, you noticed?” Chan didn’t look at you when he replied but by then you could imagine the smile on his face.

“I did.”

Chan glanced at your for a second before looking away again, “Kids are so innocent being with them destresses me out. I find it strangely relaxing.”

You snorted at his response, “I wish I could say the same.”

“You’re not that bad, if kids like you enough to be near you there’s no way you can be that bad.”

You turned to him smiling, “Thanks?”

He chuckles, “Yeah don’t worry it was a compliment.”

The next day you were babysitting Chan insisted that you take the kids out again, he not being a large fan of the indoor lifestyle. You had been surprised when he pulled out chalk from his pocket as he bent down on the sidewalk and began drawing. Far away from computers or television he drew squares on the sidewalk and numbered them – you were all going to play hopscotch. Stones on the sidewalk were easy to come by as you all had begun to play excitement oozing off everyone in waves. The sun had already begun beating down on all four of you but none of you had noticed.

As days like this became more frequent you found yourself enjoying them more and more, not just because you had come to love Tim and Tom, although you couldn’t deny the connection that had formed between the three of you, but because of Chan. His character – bubbly and loud always allowed you to the find joy in actions you didn’t realise could make a human happy. The way he could turn something so boring into the most attention-grabbing thing – cleaning, cooking and even a simple two minute walk. You adored the conversations you had with him, as you always remembered each word he spoke locking them away into your heart and mind, never wanting to let them go.

Chan had become a drug, your drug.

It was a day similar to this when Chan smiled at you with ease again, that big wide grin on his face making him more beautiful than ever.

“Call me if you need anything, and I mean it. Day or Night, I’m never too busy for you.”

Your heart flutters at his words, ready to fly out of your chest and into his hands. However you already know it is too late for that for your heart is already in his hands. He could squeeze it and you would feel the pain immediately, he had complete control but for some reason that didn’t scare you. You didn’t feel like a puppet and Chan your puppet master, you dangling completely limp on some strings as he moved and played you to his will – no, it wasn’t like that at all.

Rather you were a bird you had willingly given up some of its freedom, its ability to fly and sore, to be with him. The smile on your face wavered a little as you continued to smile at him, you were in love, deeply in love and it was completely by choice.

Maybe it was his smile at first, the way his eyes smiled along with his mouth or maybe it was the way he had played with the children or the manner in which he had been so willing to help you? Whichever it had been you had been mesmerised, you had fallen in love.

“You listening?”

You blinked rapidly, laughing a little “Sorry just spaced out for a bit.”

Chan hums, “I see, I do that too sometimes it’s nice.”

You stifled a laugh as you nodded.

“Anyway I was asking you if you wanted me to walk you home today?”

You loud “Yes!” escaped you and as his smile got wider, your cheeks got redder.

It was raining outside and every person that surrounded the two of you was moving at maximum speed with their head hanging down. The sound of feet on wet paving stones is almost lost against the splashing of the traffic, only the click of high heels still clear. 

You don’t notice when it was that you arrive at your place. You had been too preoccupied conversing that you thought time had stopped for the two of you and deep down you wish it had. Chan is already turning to look at you to say goodbye and the only thought in your head is ‘no, no, no, please don’t let this end!’

That’s when warm lips pressed against yours. Your eyes widen and it takes approximately one point three seconds for you to realise Chan is kissing you and a further three point eight seconds for you to realise that you’re kissing him back. Your eyes have fluttered shut and in the darkness you can see light exploding. You forget that you’re in front of an apartment building with people around, you forget everything, your only focus Chan. The soft moan he makes, the way he tastes like cotton candy, the way his hand has moved to your waist and the way he pulls back.

Your eyes are still shut, you’re too afraid to open them. But all it takes is Chan’s laughter the image of his smile in your mind for you to open them.

For sure you still even know weren’t sure what it was that had made you fall in love with Chan. Was it his eyes? His ability to handle children? His smile? His sunshine personality? Who knows? All you knew for sure was that you had fallen in love with him.

Fallen in love at first sight.

[kiki-wiccan]

Eerie and bleak like the way his soul always seemed to feel, the night held within it’s expanse a heavy fog and the formations of morning dew. His nostrils breathed deep, inhaling every trace of a scent in the air. It really did smell different here in the states. Like there was electricity in the air, or perhaps some sort of pathogen that was slowly affecting them all, driving them deeper and deeper into their sedentary lifestyles. He despised nights like this and the groggy, muggy feeling that came along with the humid air. Admittedly it had already left him predisposed towards ignoring and maneuvering around absolutely anyone that crossed his path on his way to the meeting spot. 

As sick as it might sound to someone else, he was looking forward to this; to the moment he would deliver his justice to one of the sick sons of bitches who called Tabula home. Very much the vigilante, Lucent had figured out about a child trafficking ring that was being operated in the shadows. Some new group in town not worth the sweat off the brows of the people who claimed to be in charge of the city. Or maybe it was just that they had been allowing this sort of activity? He couldn’t be sure, but he did know one thing for certain; Anyone doing anything this close to his territory without his explicit permission added their own name on his big bloody list. A list that not a single soul ever should want to be on. This list consisted of people Lucent identified as enemies, threats or otherwise undesirable by his standards. Clinton Beuregard, or as his friends liked to call him ‘Big Beu’ - was one such name. Added to his list long before he ever came to Tabula and now they had finally got the bastard. Snooping around the house of one of the little girls he kidnapped a week before, luckily he and his boys had gotten to the warehouse they were using to distribute the young girls they abducted and shut the entire thing down. Of course, the cops were claiming all the credit and none of the bloodstains as fucking usual. He didn’t give a damn about that though, he wasn’t out to be some kind of hero. He was only out to make sure that nobody in the arms of his new city would ever feel the way he did on the steps of that stranger’s house back when he wasn’t able to even walk. It was his calling in life. To not only give those like himself hope, but a place they could truly call home. 

That’s why he had to do it... and he had to make it personal. This had to be a message for all the sick, sadistic fuckers out there that think they can just do what they want without recourse. There was a new form of order in the town and he believed in dealing justice up close and personal. His head and shoulders weaved in and out of the passersby like the flow of a stream through it’s banks, avoiding even the slightest bit of contact without paying any mind to where he stepped. He came to the randown area that bordered his territory and made his way to the location his boys sent to his cell. Two suppressed USP45′s laid tucked neatly into their holsters beneath the coat of his suit and overtop the NTEC ballistics vest he wore beneath his undershirt. He knew he wouldn’t need the guns unless the other man had one as well, and god did he hope this bastard was as stupid as he was sloppy.  For a split second the tremors racked his body, riding like a wave up the back of his spine until the chills settled into the base of his skull, rolling his neck he nodded.

“Right you fucker, Let’s see how tough you are against someone your own size.” He slid his four leaf clover knuckledusters onto his digits and gave them a wriggle. Then balled his fist so tight he could feel the pads swell and as he approached the front door, he leaned all of his weight into his kick;  slamming the door off it’s hinges and sending the man inside falling backwards out of his chair. The look on his eyes spelled pure fear, unrelenting waves of terror washed over his features in shock, anger and then - there it was - Realization. Next came the bartering.

“Please, please lucky I-I-I I can pay you for th- hrrrrk!” Jet black dress shoes stomped clear on his throat to silence him before delivering a rough kick to his knees. 

“You think this is about money? You stupid fu-” He combed his fingers through his hair and stepped off the man; completely turning his back to him and making a gesture for the man to pick himself up off the floor. “Face it like a man, at least then you can die with a pinch of dignity.”

“You cocky little shi-” The larger man got up and immediately charged, a horrible decision after just being dropped flat and deprived of air. Lucky didn’t so much as flinch, the man made it maybe two or three steps and then collapsed, clutching his side as crimson leaked out from a small stab wound in his side. 

The floored man’s features were falling back into shock, the loss of blood registering inside of his body no doubt. It would be then that the redhead would click his left heel and retract the small blade that protruded from the tip of his shoe. He leaned over the man and picked him up, the man tried to swing at him only to get caught with the curved edge of his Karambit, the talon shaped knife slid right under the mans armpit and dug deep, the gushes of cherry red liquid let him know he hit his mark - The Axillary to Subclavian in a single stab. This man would be dead in a matter of minutes now and would be completely incapable of moving his arm at all. “Where’d you take her? Crawl there. Crawl there and beg me to stop like they all did!” For once he let his emotions boil over, he let them take control for a fraction of a second and everything went black. 

The next thing he saw, was the body underneath him with his blade drove straight into the man’s skull. Then came the sounds of a kitten’s mew and the back door creaking open. Instinctively he let a hand roam to his pistol at it’s holster and slinked back into the darkest corner of the room. The only entrance to this room was off to his right. The body wasn’t moving at all, but still leaking. His heart began to race and already his mind flicked between his options.

Fight or Flight?

Just as he gripped his pistol tighter the figure of a thin young woman emerged, her voice almost altering the atmosphere of the building’s interior. He held his breath as she came in and slowed his heartbeat. She went over and... asked if the body was okay? Then things went from bad to worse. Another set of footsteps began coming towards the room. ‘SHIT! Bastard wasn’t alone afterall. And now there was this woman here... Aggggh. Stuff it. He couldn’t just let the lass get roped up in his affairs like this... least of all when she seemed to be innocent and even taking a fondness to the recently orphaned cat. The kind of person he felt alright with risking his own life for. Not the average run of the mill Tabula Trash, but something... unique. She hid in the closet. Good. He hoped that meant she wouldn’t see what he was about to do to this other figure. He despised it when first impressions were ruined with work. 

This second man came in and walked straight past him in the dark corner, just as the woman had and just as he stepped into view; he moved towards the body and knelt down muttering to himself before growing louder and louder. Then a bonechilling sound wrang out from the closet. The feintest mew of concern from the cat in the woman’s arms. The second man turned to the closet and hollered, raising a pistol of his own to the closet. “WHO THE FUCK’S IN THERE?!? YOU BETTER COME OUT RIGHT FUCKIN’ NOW OR I’M UNLOA-” then two puffs of air and the ring of a suppressor zipped into the back of his skull. Sending red spatters over the closet doors followed by the heavy thud of a second body. 

He tried to think of the best way to put someone at ease after seeing what they just did, but all that came to mind was; “Are you alright, lass? It’s safe now. You can come out... just... give me a sec.” He ran around a bit and found something to throw over the bodies. He made no motions to hide his identity from her at all. After all, who would believe her if she ever tried to put a name to his face? He had connections all over the globe that could make little... mishaps like this disappear. If she would step out of the closet, she would be met with two kind and hopefully comforting eyes. Eyes, that seemed to plead for her forgiveness.

Watching through the crack in the closet door she felt her breath hitch as she observed the figure walking into the room. Staying as still and quiet as possible, praying that the man would leave. However the little kitten in her arms let out a soft mew drawing attention to their hiding spot. Seeing the figure raise his pistol towards them she bites down on her lip. Quickly moving the kitten behind her, if she got shot she wasn’t going to let the kitten die with her.

Bracing herself to feel a bullet piercing her skin at any moment. However to her surprise it never came, instead she heard the sound of splattering and a loud thud as the figures body fell. The room was momentarily silent and Kiki was attempting to process what just happened. It wasn’t until she heard a voice from within the darkness that she realized another person was there. Grabbing her phone she turns on the flashlight and stands up, scooping the kitten up with her free hand. Creaking open the closet door she shone the light on Lucky. Had he saved her? She was still on guard but any fear that had previously been there had faded. Instead replaced with curiousity “Did you save me?....thank you...” glancing around the room she noted that the man must have covered both bodies. “Would you mind telling me what exactly is happening?” She was confused as to why there was a dead body to begin with and if this man had anything to do with it. Obviously he wasn’t with the two murdered men on the ground seeing as he just killed one of them.

[egoiistas]

at the center of the world (2)

previous  || ao3 || ffn || tag

Amestris becomes a harrowingly silent place on the afternoon of the Promised Day and only the survivors at the center are left to tread over it. Within a few hours, they won’t be the only ones wandering. 

Rated: M. it’s a horror/zombie au fic. - or it tries to be Warnings: Mentions of death/corpses, Cursing

Chapter 2/11

Riza

Given the hour and spring in full swing, the coal stations had been burning with less intensity than they would in the winter and naturally, the lights went out. The hospital’s sublevel was dark with only small rectangular windows allowing passage for the natural light and a terrible humidity exacerbated by her lagging exhaustion. The sulfuric smell of diesel dissipated when she stowed away the fuel can away from the generator. Her fingers gripped the rip cord, foot inclined as a counterweight, and she yanked hard. Perhaps too much.

The generator sputtered and her vision blurred alongside a numbing vertigo causing her to stumble forward in the dark. Riza grimaced, catching her fall against the edges of the machine with an open palm. She rubbed her eyes on a clean, cotton sleeve and took a few deep breaths before she was clutching the starter once more.

May had inspected Riza’s wound as the others went off to secure adequate bedding and supplies for Alphonse. As instructed, Riza lied down on the floor marked with a star array she wasn’t familiar with. A worried Colonel sat next to her; a slight frown on his grimy face, biting the inside of his mouth, and hands curled into bloodied fists. He made no attempt  to mask it as he stared off into the middle ground with his clouded eyes. A flash of red had brought her attention back to the Xingese girl, and May gave her the all-clear in regards to the wound, but it was beyond her ability to restore the blood she had lost. It wasn’t an issue; she’d experienced worse. The Colonel had looked unconvinced, yet he didn’t speak on the matter nor did he voice any opinion when she volunteered to search for the hospital’s generator. Not that she expected it for her sake, but Roy Mustang had an opinion for everything. His silence made her uneasy.

She tugged with controlled and measured force until the generator stirred, eventually humming to life after a black start. The lights flickered on overhead as a sigh of relief escaped her.

The moment to wind down escaped her. In between the worry for his wellbeing, her acute anemia, the Elrics, and the general state of things, she was quietly eager at the prospect of sitting down, resting, or even the evasive luxury of sleeping. A pause to the insanity that had transpired. Maybe a short cat nap.

She was no stranger to the morbid sights of a battlefield.The fallen soldiers at Headquarters lulled her into a false sense of security gained through years of emotional compartmentalization. The number of Amestrian Blues and the white of Fort Briggs decreased with each passing step and the reality of the innocent civilians caught in the crossfire had tightened her injured throat.

She was unnerved by the passivity of the scene. Unlike the battlefield, there was no visible bloodshed or anguish. They were just there as if in mid-slumber, capable of stirring at any moment. The stillness layered another blanket of chilling eeriness. No one said a word. There were no chirping birds despite the warm and vibrant weather, no feline rascallion rummaging for scraps in the alleyways, or any other indication that life existed beyond their party of ten. It was as if everyone agreed wordlessly to play along with this grisly game; the rules being “do not wake dead as they sleep.” She certainly seemed to think so, until the curiosity of one of the chimeras got the better of them.

“Is no one going to check?” He had said. The break in  quietude was harsh and she involuntarily flinched at the disjunction from her thoughts. The Colonel had furrowed his brows. It was too early, too fresh a wound that heads would rather turn groundward than answer his question. Of course she wanted to check. Undoubtedly they all did, but doing so would give a finality to it all; the sealing nail to the Amestris’s coffin. The tall chimera Darius carried an unconscious Scar in his arms and spoke again, clearly aching for an answer, “Anybody?”

She had tried summon the strength stemming from her own curiosity, outstretching her foot towards the nearest civilian, but her stamina had been drained, mind swimming as a result. Instead of moving forward, she was close to toppling over, caught only by a quick foot to the concrete and the Colonel’s grip on her shoulder while he murmured to be careful.

Izumi approached a body near Riza. A male, middle-aged businessman wearing a suit and holding a matching briefcase. Riza watched as Izumi flipped the corpse carefully and searched for a pulse. The woman’s sigh was soft, but she gently lowered the hand back onto the ground. “No pulse,” she had announced to no one’s surprise..

Though it was a culmination of their worst fears, the hospital’s lobby had raised the bar, taking on a different atmosphere. A macabre sort that had dug through the thick of her skin and settled in the darkest crooks. The people in the receiving area, for one reason or another, weren’t distracted at the time of the eclipse. They weren’t given the mercy of not feeling their souls slip and it showed.  Some clutched their necks as they tried to breathe, others slumped over their waiting chair, children clung to their mother’s skirts with a horrified look in their open eyes and tear-guttered cheeks, and couples holding one another. Death had fallen upon them indiscriminately.

Even as she ventured down to the scarcely lit basement, Riza had to maneuver carefully around maintenance workers that had tried to make sense of their last moments. A part of her wanted to pause and have a moment to breathe, to really breathe and unleash that clawing feeling in her chest akin to the invisible scars when they were fresh from Ishval. While she tried to rationalize that an anemic sniper had little power to make a difference against creatures such as the Homunculi, she still felt that inkling of guilt; the survivor guilt that had plagued her for many years after the war. Why her and not her fallen comrades. Why her and not the Ishvalan child.

She always shelved the thoughts, and it would remain there, collecting the proverbial dust along with other losses she was ready to deal with yet.

Riza stood still in the doorway of the boiler room. She was unprepared to deal with her gains either, if she could call them that. Her fingers curled into the wooden threshold, mouth thinning to a straight line with the fluttering of her heartbeat.

She had kissed him.

Unbidden, she cupped the face of her superior officer, gratuitously brought him closer to her face and, in no uncertain terms, saluted him with her lips instead of her hand in an unchecked wave of emotion.

She bit her lip, ruminating before the stairwell. While the military was effectively destroyed, the hope that something would blossom out of this graveyard felt downright insulting. Riza didn’t spend years of dedicating herself to the future of Amestris to throw it away in anticipation for something as capricious as love. Inarguably there was a mutual affection, but there was also respect: for the ones they lost, for him, and most importantly for herself. If the seedlings decided to sprout, she’d nurture them under more pertinent conditions, not during this crisis where she’d compromise her focus.

Distracted, the bottom of her military boot landed heavily on the wood flooring that lead into the hallway. It rung in the hollows of the area around her. The air shifted where she stood, one foot on the top step and the other on its predecessor. She felt like she was being held under an oppressive gaze, imperceptible save for the bloodthirst that saturated the air. Only a souvenir from her days under the watchful eyes of Pride and Wrath, she reasoned. However, her skin prickled, hairs standing at attention like cadets fresh out of the academy, and it sent a cold shiver down her spine, chilling each vertebrae in succession. Looming behind her, a ceiling bulb flickered. She saw her own shadow, still and statuesque, fade and return.

She blinked when another shadow emerged from underneath and blinked again to see it vanished. Swallowing thickly, she turned slowly on her heel. The staircase was empty. The staircase was empty.

Her eyes widened slightly, and Riza composed herself, urgently, denying her emotions any more liberties. She couldn’t catalogue details as well as Falman’s  encyclopedic memory, nor did she form conclusions as quickly as Breda. Despite that, she knew the count of the corpses she’d come across, on the stairs and in the halls, was frightfully and significantly less.

Something clattered and the noise bounced off the walls, shaking her bones. Riza crouched and flattened herself as much as the railing would let her. It sounded thin and long, like a broomstick. She glanced around the corner where the rattling came from. The shadows didn’t move and the sounds swayed to silence.  Riza straightened herself, stifling her nerve.  

Rounding the corner, her feet moved one in front of the other, her hip perpendicular to the cream-colored wall. Instantaneous regret burned like bile at the back of her throat when she reached for firearm in a holster that wasn’t there. She’d left behind the one she pilfered off an officer under the assumption she wouldn’t need one.

“Hello?”

Her flesh jumped and muscles stiffened. Her even breath morphed into a long exhale. She faced the other end of the corridor, releasing the tension in her shoulders and stepping out normally.

“Lieutenant Hawkeye?” the teenager’s voice carried around the corner, and Edward followed soon after, donning a different set of clothes. “There you are! The Colonel has been nagging me to go find... Are you all right?”

Her throat knotted, she nodded.  

”You’re as white as that blouse you’re wearing.” He stepped in a little closer. “And you’re sweating bullets.”

She blinked. Her fingers touched her scrunched brow and brought them into sight,  thumbing the moisture refracting from the light.  “Yes, I’m fine.”

He subtly raised an eyebrow suggesting he didn’t believe her.

“Trust me, Edward. I thought I saw or-or heard something. A symptom of fatigue, I’m sure.”

The alchemist frowned and his boyish features hardened. “It’s been a long day. May told me you lost a lot of blood, and it hasn’t been more than a few hours since then.”

“I won’t deny it, I overestimated my overall constitution.” Riza managed a reassuring smile. “Perhaps I should have had more sustenance.”

Edward continued to stare. His stubborn concern was endearing, but the scrutiny was unwelcome, and the diminishing adrenaline left her light-headed and weakened muscles sore.

Eager to abandon the subject, Riza added, “You mentioned the Colonel..?”

“Right,” Ed trailed off his sentence with his lingering skepticism. He eventually relented when her expression became stern and gestured behind him, inviting her to follow him. “We’ve settled in a wing on the other side of this hospital.” They walked in tandem and his face flashed with the light from the passing windows. “I didn’t know this place was so big.”

“Central is-was the largest city in Amestris and housed the bulk of the country’s soldiers.” They fell silent and she knew why, but at current, she didn’t want to remain in silence. “Were the chimeras able to procure canned goods or other foods?”

“Yeah, they found the hospital kitchen and brought food to the wing we’re staying in.”

“How are the others faring?”

The boy sucked in breath, “Everyone is better than we thought-” his golden eyebrows raised “- surprisingly. A few cuts here and there. Even Scar is up and walking around. May told him he was just exhausted. I mean, even I thought he looked like hell. Mustang’s palms were fucked up, but May patched him up and -- well, you know, there’s not much we can do with the Colonel’s sight short of a philosopher's stone. Jerso sustained a direct hit from Pride.“

She snorted softly at the resemblance Ed didn’t see between himself and their superior officer, and how he expertly avoided the actual question. “How is Alphonse?”

His mouth curved into a sad smile. “He’s fine. He just needs to get some meat on those bones. Through these doors Lieutenant,” He instructed and latterly pointed.  “Teacher hooked him up to an IV.

“There was never a day I didn’t think about this - when and how he would return to flesh. We always considered different possibilities and at one point, I thought I was prepared to see him like this and-and be ready to do what would be necessary for him -” he paused, holding the door open for her, showing newfound interest in the slits between the boards of rich brown wood under his feet. He shook his head slowly, “But not like this.”

Edward’s eyes darted up to her, surprised when her hand landed on his shoulder. “He’ll get through this. You’ll get through this. It’ll just take time.”

She didn’t stay to watch him nod silently to empty words, noting the bodies laid to rest outside of the thick doors. Watching for movement.

Riza walked by a glinting sign that read “Intensive Care Unit”; the wing was sizable and clean compared to the stuffy basement below. It faced the front of the building with windows lining the corridor that overlooked Central’s one of many residential areas. Several rooms wrapped a corner around an open space that housed the nurse’s station. She’d been through this hall a couple of times with its light maple half-panelling and windows that brightened the entire ward.

They turned into the corner room where Alphonse lied in a bed flashing a beleaguered smile at their return. A tube was attached to his arm leading to clear bag of saline stand next to his bed. May sat diligently by his side. The Colonel sat opposite them on the waiting benches that belonged outside that room, Izumi sitting next to him. All three chimeras took places next to the windows, casting unnervingly long shadows into the room, and a bandaged Scar was seated rigidly in a lone corner.

It was a meeting of sorts; she wouldn’t put past a man of rank to take charge. She took her place at his right. “I’m back, sir.”

His knitted brows loosened a little at her voice. “I have full confidence you’ve made the place that much brighter, Lieutenant.”

He didn’t have the slightest clue how quickly her face fell.

“Is that all of us?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered quickly, out of custom if not out of jitteriness.

“In spite of appearances, I’m aware of the situation we’re in… We’ve suffered a cataclysmic defeat today. Undoubtedly, everyone in this room has lost someone dear to them as sacrifice for the national transmutation circle. I imagine it will be difficult, but I have to urge you to move on.”

Riza glanced over to him, but it was Edward that voiced her quieted thoughts. “Are you that heartless? The bodies are still warm.”

“Just because we managed to survive the homunculus doesn’t mean we’re out of the woods, Fullmetal.”

“What are you saying,” asked the tallest of the trio. Zampano unraveled his arms, “You think that thing is coming back?”

“I don’t think we’ll stand a chance this time. You saw those parade grounds. The Xingese brat -- Greedling, was it? -- tried to fight it and he was sizzled worse than bacon on a pan,” Darius looked to a bandaged Jerso to his left. “No offense.”

“I’m a boar, not a pig.”

Scar grunted, “Will you shut up and let him finish?”

“It’s not a secret that Amestris was constantly involved in skirmishes and wars. Always in battle and now we know why. We have enemies as a result, enemies that are constantly watching the fronts and I can assure you they will notice the downed soldiers including the radio silence. The Aerugonians and especially the Cretians will not hesitate to advance forward as a result if they have not already.

“It will take three days for the either force to reach Central barring any detours.”

“Why? Why would that mean anything for us?” Alphonse raised the question curiously.

“One of two things can happen “ - Mustang shrugged- “or both will-”

He held the room through his pause and she was unsure if it was for theatrics or not.

“After these armies cross through leagues and leagues of corpses and arrive in Central where an inner struggle is all but evident, you tell me if you wouldn’t find any survivors within in the least bit culpable.”

They were held in silence as it sunk in and the room was suddenly filled with protest. The Colonel raised a hand to stop them. Edward didn’t care.

“You can’t be serious. Just because they were enemies of the Amestrian military doesn’t mean they’ll hunt down a random group of people.”

“Perhaps not the Aerugonians. They are more diplomatic outside of wars. It would be an multinational matter with foreign laws that none of us are privy to.

“Back then, there were talks that the Aerugonians tried to assist the Ishvalan War of Extermination. The higher ups assumed it was to tire the Amestrian Army in their war, despite the multiple, successful fronts. Others believed that they were trying to interject in the inhumane nature of the war. In retrospect, this seems more likely given the direction their recent monarchs have taken.”

Riza’s fist tightened behind her.

“Then we’ll hide,” May looked around the room for reassurance in her suggestion. “They can’t search all the buildings.”

Mustang leant back into his seat, crossing his arms. “The second scenario involves both armies becoming aware of each other’s presence. The Cretians are an aggressive sort, second only to the Drachmans -- luckily, they’ll be busy taking down Fort Briggs for months. They’ve been known to be ruthless in the Western Front and too reckless a military to have a stable relationship with any of its allies.  

“Battalions will become regiments, and regiments will become divisions when armies send scouts and inevitably realize their positions. The goal will be to reach Central first for the militaristic advantage. Untouched resources observed along the way mean that Central’s massive supply of military supplies, weapons, and anything else the Research and Development department was working on will be up for the taking. For both of them, that’s worth the bloodshed and they’ll be bringing more force with them ever seen on Amestrian soil. ”

The tension surfaced in their faces, the wringing of their hands, and from their stillness as they all digested what was left unsaid.

Central would become a battleground again.

note: Thanks for reading. feedback is always appreciated <3 

[corruptionofteller]

Catching Up with the Past -  by Scarlet

Scarlet didn’t set a time limit for how long she would be in Charming but she knew it wouldn’t be forever. She was doomed to live a life of never fully settling down for too long of a period in one place at a time. Gemma had offered to help Scarlet gain access to the home of her late father whom he shared with his wife, Luann, who also had passed away. It brought Scarlet some comfort to know wherever Otto ended up, he was not alone. Until the legal work was done Jax offered her to stay in the back apartments of TM. She had originally planned to stay in her car assuming it would only take her a day or two to find the answers she was looking for. However, the opened armed welcoming of the brotherhood in which her father lived, and eventually died for, was something she had not expected. She was numb to the fact that there was a family she never had the chance to grow up with, one that Otto claimed he was desperate to hide her from out of fear it would ruin her.

The following days seemed to pass slowly. There was not a lot of talk about Otto, which was unsettling to her. There seemed to be no urgency given about the situation. She could tell Jax, his mother and the rest of the leather-clad men seemed to stall her mission. Scarlet felt out of place and somewhat in the way of the everyday undertakings for SAMCRO. Most of the time Scarlet wanted to sneak out and leave, the girls seemed to find her presence one of a threat, the men treated her like a child and Gemma was unclear on how she felt about Scarlet and her intents. Wanting a way out of the compound, Scarlet offered to make a store run for the club. She needed to do something, anything to clear her head.

There was a torn feeling with the need to find the killer of her father, and the want of feeling like she truly belonged with the club. However she may feel like she wanted to be able to settle in Charming to feel closer to her father, Scarlet knew due to her past it was a possibility that simply could not happen. For the club, she looked innocent, like a lost child who stumbled over a family she rightfully belonged in. But Scarlet had a past none of them could bare to imagine. The word Family was in a lot of ways a myth. She had her mother but Joanna Mathes was not exactly what most would call a mother. She wandered off for days, weeks and sometimes months at a time. Often leaving a young Scarlet to fend for herself, getting evicted from home after home. She had to teach herself early on to fend for herself. If Scarlet didn’t make things happen, there was no one to help her.

Sleeping outside of a bed was a way of life the young woman had grown to adapt to. It wasn’t until she was old enough to work and earn a living that she began to live a more lavish life of having a bed. Struggling was a normalcy to Scarlet, it was all she had known. In fact, when things began to move in a smooth direction it would make her uneasy with a need to cause waves in her life no matter how necessary it would be. From the outside looking in, most would call it self-sabotaging. She never knew she was doing it intentionally nor did she necessarily want to cause these issues for herself. It was more of an internal self-protection timer. Almost a reminder that all good things come to an end and to never fully become comfortable for too long.

Walking down the street to the store Scarlet was admiring the historic feel of Charming. She had become wrapped in her mind wondering the what ifs of a life she could have easily lived had Otto taken her in. These were all things she never thought to question until she learned of his passing. Where would she be if she grew up with the others her age, such as Jax Teller, Juice, Opie Winston? Would she have grown into the self-destructive woman, that has a past lingering under a dark cloud of self-hate she was today?

“Scarlet” The sound of a voice close behind her brought her out of her thoughts, directly into a situation she knew was bound to happen at some point. Her head quickly turned to look back but it was too late. Scarlet was shoved into a waiting car door before she could fully react to the what was happening. One person began to drive while the other held her down against her will. She fought back but the man was stronger and more prepared than she was. She knew exactly what was happening, but she wasn’t going to let it happen with ease. She was grabbed by the hair, dragged out of the SUV that sped off once she was out and her abductor had claimed control of her. The large man tossed her petite frame into a wall of an empty building. Her skeleton structure jolted inside her as it clashed with the thick wall. The man stood in front of her with an arrogant confidence. “Andy said to tell you, he knows.”   

With those bone-chilling words, he pulled out a large knife, charging at Scarlet with only one intent. To take her life. Unfortunately for him the pause for his message gave her enough time to react, dodging his first deadly swing. She tried to run for the door but he was able to grab hold of her arm, dragging her back. Scarlet was unaware of her murderous screams while fighting for her life. The man yanked her head back by the hair exposing her neck, raising the knife a second time to slice her. There was a moment of clarity for Scarlet, a single moment that told her life was just beginning, That Charming somehow was where she truly did belong. Jax Teller's words had finally sunk into her soul, ringing in her head.  “You are part of the family, Scarlet. Never doubt that. Never forget it. You belong here.” Scarlet knew that her life was finally beginning or at least she was hoping it was. The knife came flying down, nicking the side of her neck as she pulled away, elbowing the man. Grabbing hold of his hand they both fought for control of the knife. She spit in his eyes making him naturally react by letting go. There wasn’t a moment of hesitation on her part as the knife fell to the floor so did she. Dropping to her knees Scarlet reached for the knife as the man did the same thing.

Everything for her turned black; her surroundings, her mind, her emotions all turned into an empty numbing black. The last thing she thought was “This was it.” That life she dreamt of for that one long moment was suddenly gone. She was lying on the floor with her eyes closed, laying in a pool of thick liquid unable to control her breathing. Lying there waiting for death to claim her, Scarlet thought of made up memories of a life she wished she could have had.

It wasn’t until hours later that Scarlet's eyes fluttered open only to be laying in a pitch black space. There wasn’t a single sound other than her own panicked breaths. Her body felt heavy, she was unable to move, she was terrified into paralyzation. She was unaware of the time she spent laying in the emptiness until the phone in her back pocket repeatedly vibrated. Slowly reaching for it, Scarlet, brought it to her ear answering in a very low whisper.

“Hello”

“Scarlet, where are you? We have been waiting hours for you to come back from the store.” The sound of Tigs familiar voice made her head lift. A cold, thick liquid began to run down her skin giving her goosebumps. “Scarlet?” Tig questioned, this time with concern. Still, she didn’t answer him, she stood up realizing she was wet, still unable to see anything standing in place trying to piece together the last chain of events. “Sweetheart where are you?” He asked with urgency.

“I’m, I can’t, I don’t know what I did.” She tried to form a train of thought to match her words but it came out scrambled. “There is a building, I was taken to, he’s gone I think.” She mumbled, setting Tig into a full-on panic. He was talking but it was not registering, she was trying to find her way out of the cold stall building. Her hands reached out, searching until it finally they brushed along a light switch.

“Who is gone Scarlet?” Tig asked again as her eyes adjusted to the light. She turned around to take in her surroundings until her eyes landed on the man lying on the floor covered in blood.  

“I..I.. He’s dead.” She said mostly to herself. She looked down seeing she was covered in blood and all she could do was start to scream. She wasn’t sure what was her blood and what was his. The slight of his lifeless body made her sick to her stomach making her dry heave, still holding the phone to her ear.

“Scar, baby, you need to tell me where you are. Do not call the cops.” Tig said in a clear and authoritative tone. “Go outside and find the address baby girl. I am on my way.” Scarlet found her way outside still in shocked by her loss of memory.

Finding the street address on the side of the building she gave it to Tig. Sliding down on the side of the building she sat, covered in blood waiting for someone who was technically a stranger to her but yet she trusted to help her stay out of prison. She knew questions would be asked, so while she waited she came up with excuses to avoid having to tell him anything about her past. She wasn’t sure how long she waited but Tig pulled up and immediately jumped out the van running over to Scarlet. He helped her up checking her over for wounds frantically. When he concluded she was ok Tig pulled her into a tight hug. This confused Scarlet; she wasn’t used to be cared for especially by someone she had met less than a week ago.

“You want to tell me what happened? You went to the store, how did you end up here?” Tig asked walking into the building with her. Scarlet looked at the body across the room floor and back to Tig with worry. She didn’t know if he would freak out and call the cops. She didn’t know why she was trusting him other than her father telling her before that if the club would do anything for her it would be protecting her.

“I don’t know him, I was walking and he grabbed me. Brought me here and I fought him off and I did that I guess” She wasn’t lying, she just was leaving out a few key details. One of the prospects walked in and without even questioning the situation began to help Tig dismember the body. They had Scarlet wait in the van while they took care of the cleanup. Tig clearly had questions but he was more concerned with the clean up of the body and getting them out of the building then asking her for more details.

Once they got the body in the van Tig drove Scarlet back to the clubhouse. He had promised her he would take care of it while she was cleaning herself up but that they would have a conversation about it later. He was dead set on figuring out how and why this guy had come after her.

As soon as they got to the clubhouse Tig began to curse under his breath; there was no way she would walk in and not be seen. She was nervous to even get out of the van but Tig got out and opened the door for her. She began to walk towards the clubhouse door when her arm was caught in a tight grip flipping her to face him. Jax Teller was looking down at her with wide eyes, then glancing to Tig for some sort of explanation.

[benikoumori]

The Fate of the Phoenix 39

  The giant’s hand caught Kirk’s wrist and nearly snapped it. Spock slumped bonelessly toward the floor and Kirk managed to topple him into the chair.   Then he looked into Omne’s face.   “Who calk Omnedon?” the giant said.   Kirk stared into the unclouded, suddenly young-looking face, and knew that Black Omne was not back from wherever he had gone.   This was the man Omne had been, the man Spock had called “the Alexander of his world, but not by conquest.”   “My lord,” Kirk said carefully, mindful of his wrist strained to the snapping point and of the starship hurtling on autopilot toward the Anomaly. He chanced the title. Omne’s implant translator would render it. “I called, my lord. You have been ill. Allow me to bring you—” He tried subtly to disengage the wrist, as if it were a foregone conclusion.   It was not. The giant’s hand remained locked. “You touched me,” the young face said in simple astonishment. “Without permission. In fact—you struck me.”   Kirk inclined his head in assent and stopped trying to free the wrist. “Indeed, my lord. It is a specific remedy. You have been gravely ill.”   “Not in my right mind?” the man said quickly, facing it gravely. “I do not recall… However, if true, I thank you. But I do not know you. Call my customary attendants.”   It was the casual order of royalty—an embattled royalty to whom a stranger might be enemy, assassin, the other half of that civil war which had killed Omnedon’s life mate, his sons, his world. A stranger must be checked out.   Kirk sensed that he had tapped a level which was before Omnedon’s final tragedy. Kirk must keep it that way—until he could recall the giant fully to the present.   The Phoenix ship could not contain the black grief and rage which had turned Omnedon into Black Omne.   But now Omnedon’s eyes were focusing beyond Kirk, on the ship.   “My lord, you required medical care far beyond the available facilities. You were brought here.”   “It is not the Federation starship,” Omnedon said alertly, decisively.   “And it is moving. Are you a rival political entity?” He twisted to look over his shoulder and saw Spock. “Romulans?”   Kirk shook his head. “We are of the Federation. He is a Vulcan. We are a second ship, recently arrived at your world. A more advanced ship. You needed much care. Perhaps more than we can offer. However our base—”   “Your story might also offer plausible justification for a kidnapping.” Omnedon said. “Tell me the name of your first Federation ship, its Commander and First Officer, and the name of my eldest son.”   “My lord, I cannot,” Kirk said immediately. “I spoke only to give you time to gain complete possession of your faculties. The truth is that I am a Federation starship Captain, and my friend here is my First Officer, but we are not from the time which you remember now. You are remembering only a portion of your memories, from your early life. We know you from your later life, and of the time of Omnedon we know little more than your name and stature, which we honor. You must now release me, and I must revive my First Officer or restore your later memories—or at a minimum, change course, or we will be destroyed by a hazard which is ahead.”   Omnedon’s eyes widened and finally he chuckled. “At a minimum that is the most ingenious lie I have heard in some time. Show me the hazard.”   He stood up, a trifle unsteady, but with the bearing of a world-king, and moved forward.   For a long moment Omnedon merely looked at the splendor of the stars, the speed of their movement, the ominous roiling haze of the Anomaly just ahead.   Then with that calm which was able to assimilate any truth—however rare, unwelcome, or bitter—and to decide the fate of a world, Omnedon released Kirk’s wrist. “Go wake your Vulcan,” he said quietly. “I see that these are not my stars.”   “I think—they are” Kirk said, inclining his head for a moment in tribute. “I once wished that I could have known Omnedon, sir. I am glad that for a moment, at least, I have.” He reached and slowed the ship, swinging it slightly off course to buy time.   “My later self does not bear my name?” Omnedon said.   “No. A shorter form of it.”   “Is my later self—your friend?”   Kirk turned to look at Omnedon gravely. “No. He is my enemy.”   Omnedon looked startled. “I find that—remarkable. It would be my estimate that you are a man of honor, and that the stars are also yours. Are they not his?”   Kirk smiled ruefully. “The galaxy is his. He has defeated death.”   Omnedon’s eyes narrowed sharply. “It is an old dream.”   Kirk nodded, not sure how far he could or should pursue this. He was not certain that Spock could be roused. Perhaps Spock would only come back if Omnedon came back to being Omne. But to try to rouse Omne could be fatal. What if Kirk tapped into Omnedon’s deadly grief?   Perhaps it would work the other way around. Start with Spock—   Kirk bent and felt the Vulcan’s heartbeat. Slow for him, and faint. “Spock!”   The name made Omnedon blink.   Kirk slapped Spock. The Vulcan did not stir.   “The Vulcan is your enemy, too?” Omnedon said.   “No. My closest friend.”   Omnedon sighed. “Your remedies are impartial, if somewhat heroic. Why are you here with your closest friend and your enemy who defeated death?”   Kirk looked up at him. ‘To hunt the man who is both.”   “You speak in riddles, Captain.”   “Yes.”   “How was my later self hurt?”   “Saving my life.”   “And the Vulcan?”   “Saving yours.”   “And now?”   “Spock will die, I think, unless you come back to your later self. You are mentally linked—your later self and my friend, and you already have my friend’s memories, from your process which defeated death. I cannot explain the riddles further now. For your life and his—and mine, and others you would not know now, you must come back. Now.”   He stepped to face Omnedon.   “I am going to say your later name now, Omnedon, and mine. You must return into your memory and let the self who is my enemy come back.”   Omnedon looked down at Kirk.   “I am reluctant to do so,” Omnedon said. “If what you say is true—and I believe you—I suppose that I no longer exist. I am—the child of whom your enemy is the man. And he has arrived at the enmity by some path which I cannot change, since it did happen. But it is impossible to feel that. For me, the future is still untaken. We meet across that gull and I would not have you for an enemy.”   “Nor I you,” Kirk said. On impulse he extended his hand, the offer of a handshake.   Omnedon took his forearm in a locked-arm shake reminiscent of Rome.   “I will remember Omnedon,” Kirk said. “That part of my enemy will be my friend. Now you must be—OMNE.”   He put every force of will he had into it. “Omne! Spock! Both of you! I am Jim Kirk. Disengage and come back to me now. Omne! My enemy—”   The giant’s eyes clouded and his hand bit into Kirk’s arm.   Kirk shook the giant’s shoulder—and the Vulcan moved as if shaken.   “OMNE!”   Suddenly he could see the giant’s face begin to transform itself, going through the terrible grief, the rage, the loss of innocence—a terrible and awesome transformation, compressing decades into a moment   The giant’s eyes blinked and suddenly they opened and Kirk knew somehow that they were the fathomless black eyes of Omne.   Omne looked down at Kirk.   Spock shuddered.   Omne put a hand to his temple and his eyes dissolved into the look of Vulcan concentration.   Spock’s head lashed from side to side. Then suddenly his eyes opened and were his own, alive, and sane.   Then Spock slumped in the chair in simple unconsciousness.   Omne swayed, then put Kirk aside, strode forward to the controls, punched up a review of Spock’s calculations, made a correction for Kirk’s course change, set an undiscovered control for some kind of hazard evasion, and kicked the autopilot to take them into the Anomaly.   The he turned to Kirk in black fury.   “Never attempt to recall Omnedon again,” he said in his throat. For a moment he looked as if he would smash something—perhaps that earlier self.   Then he turned and went to examine Spock.   “He will live,” Omne said after a moment, and turned back. “No thanks to his honor, or yours. Foolhardy nobility, Captain. You should have let me die.”   “Don’t tempt me,” Kirk snapped and went to Spock. “I owed you his life,” he said. “We are even on that count now.”   Omne chuckled. “Oh, no, Captain. I do not release you from that obligation. I will call it even with the Vulcan for one of the times I saved yours.”   “Go to hell,” Kirk said without raising his voice. He found the Vulcan breathing adequately and went to the communicator to try to raise the Commander. 巨人の手がカークの手首を掴み危うく折りそうになった。 スポックは床へと崩れ落ちそうになり、何とかカークに椅子へと倒された。 その時彼はオムネの顔を見た。 ”オムネドンを呼んだのは誰だ? ” 巨人が言った。 カークは突然若く見える様になった顔を凝視した、そして知った、何処からか戻ってきたのはブラック.オムネではないのだと。 これはオムネがそうだった男、そしてスポックが ”彼の世界のアレクサンダー、ですが征服者ではない ” と言った男だと。 ”My lord ” カークは手首の臨界点とオートパイロットでAnomaly へ向かっている船に留意しつつ、慎重に言った。 彼は敬称をつけた。 オムネのインプラント.トランスレーターがそれを与えた。 ”呼んだのは私です、my lord. 貴方は体調を崩されました。 私が貴方をお連れしているのは -- ” 初めから分かりきっている結論だと言う風に彼はそっと手首を外そうと試みた。 上手くはいかなかった。 巨人の手は離れる事はなかった。 ”お前は私に触れた ” 青年の顔はただ驚いてそう言った。 ”許可なく。 事実 -- 私を打った ” 手首の解放を諦めたカークは同意いのために頭を傾げた。 ”確かに、my lord. それは特別な治療でした。 貴方の具合が酷く悪かったので ” ”私は健全な心持ちではなかったのか? ” 男は素早くそういいい、真剣にそれと向き合った。 ”思い出せない... だがしかし、それが真実であるなら、私は感謝する。 けれど私は君を知らない。 私の付き添いを呼んでくれ ” それは王族としてのさりげない命令だった -- 戦備を整えた敵や暗殺者に悩まされ、オムネドンの人生の仲間や彼の息子、彼の世界の半数は内戦で死んでしまった者の。 見知らぬ者はチェックせねばならないのだ。 カークはオムネドンの最後の悲劇の以前の時代に触れたのだと感じた。 カークはそれを維持しなくてはならない -- 巨人が完全に現在を思い出す事ができるまで。 Phoenix ship ではオムネドンをブラック.オムネに変えてしまった黒く深い悲しみや怒りを抑えておくことはできないからだ。 だが今オムネドンの眼はカークを越え船に注目していた。 ”My lord, 貴方に必要な医療行為は利用できる施設を遥かに越えるものでした。 貴方は此処に連れて来られたのです ” ”Federation の船ではないな ” オムネドンは油断なくきっぱりと言った。 ”そして動いている。 お前は対抗国家の者なのか? ” 彼は身を捩り肩越しにスポックを見た。 ”ロミュラン人か? ” カークは頭を振った。 ”私たちはFederation です。 彼はヴァルカン人だ。 私たちは最近貴方の世界に到着した第二船です。 より先進の船です。 貴方には治療が必要なのです。 私たちにはそれが提供できるはずと。 しかしながら私たちのベースは -- ” ”お前の話は誘拐をもっともらしく正当化しているようだ ” オムネドンが言った。 ”お前のFederation 第一船、指揮官、副官、そして私の長男の名を言ってみろ ” ”My lord, 私にはできません ” カークが即座に言った。 ”私に言えるのはただ貴方が自身を完璧に得る為の時間を与えているのだと言うことだけです。 私がFederation の船長であり、此処に居る私の友人が副官である事は真実ですがそれは今貴方が覚えている時間のものではないのです。 貴方が覚えているのは貴方の記憶のいち部、貴方の人生の初期だ。 私達は貴方の後生を知っている、そしてオムネドンの時代の事は貴方の名前と偉業以上のことは知りません、名誉に誓って。 貴方は私を解放せねばならない、そして私に私の副官の介抱をさせるか貴方の後の記憶を取り戻させねば -- 若しくは最低限コースを変えなくては前方にある危険によって私達は滅びる事になってしまう ” オムネドンの眼が見開かれ、ついに静かに笑いだした。 ”少なくとも私が聞いた中では最も独創的な嘘だな。 危険とやらを見せてみろ ” 立ち上がった彼は僅かにふらつきながらも世界の王として振る舞い移動した。 長いことオムネドンは広がる星々をただ見つめていた、彼等はAnomaly の不吉な渦へとただ向かっていた。 そして、真実を消化し落ち着かせた -- どんなに不本意で苦くとも -- 世界の運命を決断するように、オムネドンはカークの手首を解放した。 ”君のヴァルカン人を起こしなさい ” 彼が静かに言った。 ”私の星は無いのだな ” ”思うに -- あれらが ” カークが一瞬敬意を表そうと頭を傾げ言った。 ”私はかつてオムネドンの事を知る事ができたらと願いました。 少なくともそれが出来ているこの瞬間を私は嬉しく思っています ” 彼は手を伸ばし船を減速させ時間を稼ぐべくコースを僅かにずらした。 ”後生の私は私の名を帯びてはいないのか? ” オムネドンが言った。 ”はい。短くしています ” ”後生の私は -- 君の友人か? ” カークはオムネドンを重々しく見つめた。 ”いいえ。彼は私の敵です ” オムネドンが驚いた様子を見せた。 ”見つけたのか -- 驚くべき事に。 私の推定では君は名誉ある男で星も君の物なのだろうとおもうのだが。 彼の物ではないのだろう? ” カークは悲しげに微笑んだ。 ”銀河は彼の物ですよ。 彼は死を打ち負かしたのです ” オムネドンの眼が鋭く細められた。 ”それは古い夢だ ” カークは頷いた、これを追うべきか彼にこれ以上できるのか確信が持てないままに。 彼にはスポックが目覚めるとの確信もなかった。 スポックは恐らくオムネドンがオムネに戻れば戻ってくるはずだ。 だがオムネを目覚めさせようとすることは致命的になるのではないか。 もしカークがオムネドンの致命的な悲しみをタップしてしまったとしたらどうなる? 逆に作用してしまうこともありうるのだ。 スポックとスタートしてしまう -- カークは身を屈めヴァルカンの鼓動を感じた。 彼にしてはゆっくりと、微かなものであった。 ”スポック! ” その名がオムネドンの眼を瞬かせた。 カークはスポックをぶった。 ヴァルカンは身動きをしなかった。 ”ヴァルカン人も君の敵なのか? ” オムネドンが言った。 ”いいえ。私の親友ですよ ” オムネドンはため息をついた。 ”君の治療は公平で、幾らかヒロイックでもあるのかな。 何故君は君の親友と死を打ち負かした君の敵と此処に? ” カークは彼を見上げた。 ”二人ともある男を追っているんです ” ”君の話は謎だな、船長 ” ”そうですね ” ”どうして私の後生は傷を追ったのだね? ” ”私の生命を救ってです ” ”ではヴァルカン人は? ” ”貴方を救ってです ” ”それで? ” ”スポックは死んでしまう、後生の貴方が戻らない限りは、私はそう思っています。 貴方は精神的に繋がっている -- 貴方の後生は私の友人の記憶を既に持っている、貴方の死を打ち負かしたプロセスによって。 今はそれ以上の謎を説明することはできません。 貴方の生命と彼の -- そして私のものの為に、貴方は今の事を知らずに戻るべきだ。 すぐに ” 彼はオムネに向き合うべく進み出た。 ”今貴方に貴方の後生の名を告げましょう。 オムネドン、そして私の名を。 貴方は記憶に戻り、私の敵である者を戻さねばならない ” オムネドンがカークを見下ろした。 ”渋々ではあるがな ” オムネドンが言った。 ”もし君の言うことが真実であるならば -- そして君を信じるのであれば -- 私は最早存在していないのだな。 私は -- 君の敵ある男の前生か。 起きた事により私には変えよう無い道を辿り彼は敵意にたどり着いた。 だがそれを感じる事は不可能だ。 私にとって未来はまだ不明なのだから。 私達は対岸で顔を合わせたという事だな、君は私にとって敵ではないのだから ” ”私にとってもそうです ” カークが言った。 衝動的に握手をしようと彼は手を差し出した。 オムネドンは彼の前腕を取り、ローマを思わせるロックド.アーム.シェイクをした。 ”私はオムネドンを忘れません ” カークが言った。 ”私の敵のいち部は友人であると。 今は君が居なくてはならない -- OMNE ” 彼はそれに全ての意志の力を込めた。 ”オムネ! スポック! ふたりとも! 私だ、ジム.カークだ。 別れて私の元に帰って来い。 オムネ! 私の敵 -- ” 巨人の眼が曇り彼の手が僅かにカークの腕に食い込んだ。 カークは巨人の肩を揺さぶった -- ヴァルカンもまた揺さぶられた様に動いた。 ”OMNE! ” 彼は巨人の顔が突然変化し始めた事に気づいた、恐ろしい悲しみ、激しい怒りが無垢を失わせていく -- 数十年を一瞬に圧縮した恐ろしく凄まじい変化だった。 瞬き、突然開かれた巨人の眼が底知れないオムネの黒い眼であるとカークにはどういうわけか分かった。 オムネがカークを見下ろした。 スポックが震えた。 手を米神に置いたオムネの眼がヴァルカンの深い集中に溶けた。 スポックの頭が激しく左右に振られた。 そして唐突に彼の眼が開かれた、彼自身の生きた正気の眼だった。 そしてスポックはただ意識を失い椅子に沈み込んだ。 ふらついたオムネがカークを脇に押しやり大股でコンソールに歩みよりスポックの計算をチェックしカークのコース変更と繋げ危険回避の何らかの制御をセットしAnomaly へのオートパイロットに変えた。 そして彼は黒い激怒をもってカークに振り向いた。 ”二度とオムネドンを思い出させる様な事はするな ” 彼は喉の奥で言った。 まるで何かを壊す様な様子が一瞬伺えた -- 恐らくは以前の自分自身を。 そして彼はスポックを調べた。 ”彼は生きている ” 一瞬後、オムネが言い引き返した。 ”彼の名誉、若しくは君のそれに感謝はしない。 無鉄砲な気高さだ、船長。 君は私を死なせるべきだった ” ”私を誘惑するな ” カークは鋭くそう言い、スポックの元へ向かった。 ”私には彼の生命の借りがある ” 彼が言った。 ”今私たちのそれはイーブンだ ” オムネは静かに笑った。 ”それは違う、船長。 私は君をその義務から解放はしない。 君の物を救った一度とヴァルカンの物でイーブンだ ” ”地獄へ落ちろ ” 声を荒らげずカークが言った。 ヴァルカンが充分に呼吸をしている事を見てとった彼は指揮官を呼び出すべくコミュニケーターへと向かった。