#text behind the armory | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Note

can you do a ghost version of the Memories of Youth fic you did for price please?

Harvest Storms

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Daughter!Reader

SYNOPSIS: In the process of trying to keep you happy and separate from him, he was leading you down the exact path he had tried to steer you from.

WORD COUNT: 4.8k

WARNINGS: Angst, emotionally distant father/Simon, injuries, arguments, mentions of Simon's past, hurt/comfort, fluff near the end, etc.

A/N: I know this might be controversial but I really don't see Simon wanting kids so I tried to keep this realistic but also cute, lmao. Enjoy!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Simon admitted that having a kid was never on his to-do list, and it wasn’t only his job that caused that. In fact, at any point in his life, the thought alone terrified him.

His icy eyes spaced out as the man unstrapped his combat vest in the on-base armory, hucking it over his head with a tiny grunt. Muscles ached; wounds burned.

He’d known having that one-night stand wasn’t right—he should have just stuck to his perfected solitude of dark rooms and middle-of-the-night workouts. But there was only so much you could do before instinct overcame any sort of common sense; add a few drinks into the mix and the concoction had glazed over his mind like a honey-laced dream.

And then nine months later a single text. A photo attachment.

“She’s yours.” His child. His daughter. Simon had a daughter.

It had taken weeks of self-isolation to figure out what to do. There were moments of very real panic—bone-deep worry and hatred. He couldn’t be a father and still be the Ghost that he was now, but there wasn’t a way to reverse his already damaged psyche. Home in Manchester didn’t feel like a real place anymore; home was a gun in his hands and his mask over his face. Slumping bodies and adrenaline-blown pupils. The high he got out of killing could never be topped by the joys of having a family he didn’t want.

But then he remembered his own father and the guilt that had struck him at that moment left Simon physically sick. Head pounding and bile lacing his tongue as he retched over a toilet. It would have been easier to just promise money, and give over some of what he earned to give you a future. He could distance himself but still be a shadow on the wall if it all went south.

Yes, it could have been easy.

Until your mother up and disappeared; leaving you all alone. There was no way in hell he could leave you in foster care. The stories he’d heard…

Simon’s gloved hands flex, joints cracking, before he checks the watch on his wrist with slow-blinking eyes. He needed to be home in two hours.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” A groan escapes, rolling his shoulders twice before grasping at his thigh holster—slipping out the X12 to place it down with a small thump of black metal.

These movements were entirely routine and soon there was a neat line of multiple knives, the pistol, an automatic rifle, frag grenades, med pack, rope, and anything else that Ghost could have even the slightest possibility of needing in a tight spot. Through it all, the mask stayed; icy eyes behind the spread of black face paint numb.

It’s one hour later that he’s done cleaning and putting everything away with tired fingers. Feet shuffle before he’s exiting the armory all together, snatching the large duffle bag near the double doors; a small grunt plays out of his chest. The strap is dragged over his head when Soap passes him in the base’s hallway.

All Simon could do is hold back a groan as a headache already begins to form.

“Lt.” The Scot calls, smile pulling his lips up, “off to go hide in back-alleys, then?”

“Jesus, Johnny, shut the fuck up already.” Ghost grumbles out, hands slipping into his pockets as he continues off down the hallway. Behind him, the mohawked Sergeant belts out a laugh before disappearing into the armory Simon had just vacated.

“Copy and check, Sir!” Sarcasm bleeds out and makes icy eyes fall half-closed with subdued annoyance.

The large phantom continues on until he exits the base and digs his keys out of his pockets—finding his car in the underground parking garage exactly where he had left it two months prior. As if on autopilot, he shuffles open the door and tosses his bag in the back before sitting in the front seat and twisting the ignition.

Reaching into the glove compartment, Simon pulls out a clean balaclava and holds it loosely—his opposite hand slipping up to the skeletal mask of his head and feeling the fibers on his fingertips. Replacing it swiftly, the clean fabric slips over his face with a stiff movement of his arm. Seconds later, his foot presses into the gas.

There are no words spoken, no comments under breath, just a silence that seems to stem from some underlying anxiety completely foreign to Simon on the field. Going home always made him nervous. A soul-digging kind of hesitation.

It takes him the rest of that last hour to drive home—a tiny little country house far removed from Manchester though still leaving it well guarded by local law-enforcement patrols. A perfect mix of safety and distance that had been the driving force in Simon’s initial purchase of it. But it wasn’t his only properly, not by a long shot.

Like a rat, the holes of his paranoia ran deep into the earth.

He pulls the car into the dirt driveway and kills the vehicle. Outside in the darkening sky, his eyes slide to watch over the top of the garden wall; seeing tree branches sway in a subdued breeze. Sitting there for a few moments, the man just ends up shaking his head and shoving open the door with his shoulder.

Veins tighten under his flesh.

“Kid!” Simon raps on the front door with his knuckles when his boots take him over and up the steps, voice gravelly. A house key slips into the lock, turning over before the barrier opens. Ghost stomps in and immediately knows the entire home is completely empty.

He blinks in confusion, looking over the still air and dull noises. The AC unit whirls; the fridge shakes. No feet on the floor—no groan or sly comment.

You were a teenager now, but the absence of your aura was harsh to him. You were supposed to be here. The Manchester man’s lips thin.

“Christ, don’t go and tell me she’s fuckin’ gone again…” Simon kicks the door shut and lets his bag fall from his fingers, feeling his chest tighten slowly. He beelines to the kitchen where, sure enough, a note from the far-off neighbor who keeps an eye on you when he’s gone was sitting with its delicate font.

Fast fingers snatch it like a snake, jaw clenched and tight grip creasing the paper. He reads with a growing disappointment.

“She got into a fight out of school again—black eye and bruised knuckles. I’m sorry, Mr. Riley, but I couldn’t get a hold of you to tell you about it. I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father. When you read this, I’ll have tried to make her come back inside but I was unsuccessful. I left supper at the base of the hill and a blanket. I’m sorry. I’ll be at my home if you need me.”

Simon places the note down and runs a hand up and down his face, a deep sigh exiting his lips as his fingers cover his jaw and chin. Like the definition of fatigue, his body lightly bows forward. Slouched shoulders.

This would make the fifth fight this year.

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

After a minute of mute irritation, the man drops his hands and goes to the freezer, taking out an ice pack with a small glint of further emotion stinted in his gaze. There are so many things that Simon feels for you—some of which he would never be able to properly express.

He’s not a good man. Not someone to look up to or place on a pedestal. He’s in the 141 because he can do a job; a job that not many others can do simply for the fact that something in him was broken. Shattered beyond repair.

Simon was never meant for this.

The blond placed the ice pack into a rag from the drawer and exited through the back door of the house. Grunt stuck in his throat at the thought of the delinquent activities you seemed to always get up to when he was gone which, admittingly, was more often than not.

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

But wasn’t he doing a good thing by staying away? He took you in—provided food, water, shelter, and anything else you could need. What was he doing wrong?

Simon’s brows tighten as the chilled air hits him as a winder wind would. By now the sun had fully set and the darkness was becoming more black than blue by the second; dim twinklings from stars dancing in the pupils of his eyes. His feet take him off the back porch and easily finds a small trail that leads through the barren garden all the way to a hill in the distance.

Icy blue easily finds the tiny hunched being at the very top. His hand tightens over the ice pack.

Ghost was unable to understand, of course, he hadn’t had the kind of childhood people would want—was never around kids in general. No friends with little brats running around, obviously. Was this a normal kind of thing kids did? Start fights?

He’d heard some things about teenagers.

Closing his tired eyes for a moment, Simon silently walks past the plate of food at the foot of the hill but snatches the fluffy blanket that had been beside it. If you don’t want to eat he won't force you, but it was getting cold out quickly.

Simon wasn’t letting you catch a bug.

He huffs as he ascends the slope, all the aches and pains finally making themself more known in his thighs and abdomen.

You hear him coming when he’s three-fourths of the way there.

Your red eyes widen in shock, hands that had been trapping your legs to your chest rising to wipe the tears on your cheeks away aggressively; frantic. Three seconds later a heavy fabric hits your head and you tense, widely looking up into the dead eyes of your father.

The blanket thumps to the ground beside you in a heap.

“Put it on,” he grunts from behind his balaclava and your surprised expression slowly sours.

You turn away with a growl. “Don’t want to.”

“Bloody ‘ell, just put it on,” there’s no acidity behind the words, but the annoyance is clear. “Asking to get fuckin’ sick at this rate, are you? I’m not cleanin’ up your vomit from the floor when you're hunched over like a mutt on drugs.”

Not a stranger to his humor, but with a venom-laced look, you grab the blanket as Simon sits next to you and end up throwing it over your shoulders. Your face hurt too much to talk for long periods—right eye swollen and radiating heat; hands weren't that much better, the knuckles puffy and blood-flooded under the skin. It made you flinch when you had to clench your fingers.

You’re acutely aware of your father’s presence. How he sits with his spine bent with one hand behind him; legs laying out flat. You should be happy he’s back safe in one piece, but in reality, there would be little change if he never showed back up at all.

The house was always silent anyways. Dead. Simon was as much a stranger to you as he was to everyone else.

“What did I tell you when I went away, eh?” The man asks you lowly when you’ve settled, and you grit your teeth and look out over the landscape, long grass swaying in the wind. “Kid.”

“Don’t get into any more fights.” Words are stiff, reflective of both of your muscles and hearts.

“Affirmative. You want to explain to me what you did?”

“Got into another fight.” An icepack is tossed near you, bouncing in the grass. You scoff but take it, softly applying it to your face with a concealed flinch. Shame permeates in your ribs, a desperate need to prove yourself. “I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s not an excuse.” Simon glares at you from the side of his eye, utterly serious. “When I tell you something, you listen, yeah?”

“...Yeah,” you grit your teeth and clench your hands, a bitter huff leaving your lips. “Sure.”

A tense silence keeps you in its clutches, the kind of silence that stems from two people who really have no idea how to speak or understand one another.

“No more fighting,” Simon grits out, “now show me.”

“It’s not that bad—”

“Show me it.” Your face burns as you slip the ice pack away and turn your face his way, meeting your father’s gaze head-on and seeing his lids slightly pull back. You spy his hand clenching in the grass, ripping strands out like hair from a head.

“Happy?” You sarcastically ask, turning back forward and putting the ice pack back into your socket.

It’s a long while before he speaks to you again, and you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face when he does. Your heart rampages at the deathly slow and tiny voice.

“Why?” The question makes your body flair with anger and you grip the pack tighter, feeling the ice shift in your grip as you clench it violently. You feel your fingers twitch when you answer, unconsciously closing into fists.

“Why?” You glare at him, “Why the hell do you care?”

Simon’s eyes go blank, brows going up his head. Gazes lock and you’re suddenly standing to your feet, chucking the ice pack right into his chest. It only makes you madder when he catches it easily, glancing down at the object before slowly shifting his numb eyes back to you.

“You’re never fucking here, what’s the point in telling you anything about me?” Your father’s face is covered, but the mask is more than just physical—it’s a part of him in every sense. You don’t know what he is, but you see his lungs going still in his ribs. You splay your hands around you as the blanket hits the ground at your feet. “It wouldn’t even make a difference if you never came back! Even when you’re here it barely even matters beyond who’s dishes are in the sink.”

Bitter tears spring to your eyes but you refuse to let them fall, a tight itch in your skin. Slight guilt hits you when you shove out such harsh words, but you don’t care enough right now to think about what you’re saying. Everything just hits a breaking point. Shaking your head you scoff again, weaker this time. “You don’t even know the first things about me and you want me to try and explain why I do the things I do?”

Simon watches and listens, stone still. It’s as if he doesn’t even breathe; his pulse doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. If you would have been able to see it, you’d have noticed the way the large man’s lips were slightly parted.

He wasn’t averse to arguments, he yelled on Ops and cursed aggressively on duty, but he had made a stark promise to himself to never yell at you. If there was one thing that reminded him of his father—it was that. Explosive fights that only ended one way.

What you were saying was everything he knew to be true. This came to him in a slow and silent realization of growing pain. Simon didn’t know your favorite color or what food you loved. Your interests or your goals.

He knew how much you spent on snacks at the store, but didn’t know what you bought.

Ghost clenches his jaw and watches your resolve deteriorate with a heavy heart. What was he supposed to do? He was your father, sure, but…he didn’t know the first things that went with anything beyond giving you items and objects.

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

How could he be a father to you?

Simon clears his throat, for once in his life completely unable to pull on any sort of skill to rectify this situation. You take his silence as blatant disregard.

With a burning face, you sniffle and twist on your heel, speed-walking down the hill back into the house. Your brain is pounding in your head, just as fast as your heart when you finally stomp through the garden and shove open the back door.

Simon doesn’t tell you to stop.

Left on that hill, he watches your back disappear into the house and gets a rabid pain in his stone heart. You were his daughter. You were hurt; neglected. He’d never felt like this before.

Simon had failed the only job that he knew was far more important than any other. Blue darkens into a color reminiscent of storm clouds.

“Fuckin’ Christ.” Standing, he snatches at the ice pack and the blanket, lightly jogging down the mound of earth. In no time he’s standing in the house again, having completely forgotten about the plate of food outside. It’s the tense set of his shoulders that really give away how unprepared he feels. How out of his expertise.

Give Simon a gun and he’d be able to take it apart and reassemble it in one minute; a knife and he’d have it sharp in seconds.

Simon Riley has no idea how to be a good father and he’s suddenly very aware of how fast the window is closing to try. You were his blood and his responsibility. He can’t end up like his own father.

The thought almost makes him sick again, stomach rolling with anxiety.

Inside the house, he tosses the items in his grip onto the couch and whispers past into the hallway to your room. Fingers twitching, he grabs at his balaclava before ripping it from his head; stuffing it into his pants pocket. Stopping in front of your room, Simon raises a hand.

Just as he’s about to shove open the door, he instantaneously stops himself with a sharp thought.

Daughter, not soldier. Home, not barracks.

Hand lowering, he takes a long and deep breath and waits a moment; gathering himself. He still didn’t know what to say…but…

God, your words hurt, but he needed to hear them because they were true.

Simon’s knuckles rasp on the wood, a series of three dull thumps that echo over the stale air. There’s a shuffling of sheets and a dull, “God, just go away!”

Cursing quietly under his breath, Simon runs his fingers through his hair tense-like; pushing back blond strands.

“Open up for me, yeah?” He tries, awkward as his hips shift weight. “Need ‘ta talk to you.”

A cruel laugh exits from under the bottom of the door. “You? Talk?”

Simon keeps his mouth shut and closes his eyes, pulling from the deep pit of patience he holds for on-duty missions and not mastered yet for disagreements and verbal talks. He calms down and rolls his shoulders slightly.

“Please.” A pin could drop.

It’s a long, hot-air moment before there's the padding of feet over the floor and the slight shift of the door handle. The metal jiggles before it’s twisted back with a firm hand.

Your face comes into view through the tiny crack of the door, injured eye on full display in all its swollen glory. A young face is laced with surprise at seeing your father’s bare visage—only the black face paint stuck to his skin—but even more so at his plea. There were only a few times you’d actually seen him and even fewer when you’d hear something like that. Simon stops himself from getting angry at the sight of your wound, staring down at you as his gaze softens just a fraction of a sliver.

He recalls the moment he had first held your form when he had picked you up at hospital years ago. You were so small, squirming in his foreign grip. The nurse had to tell him how to hold you properly—what to do and what not to do.

It had been the first time that Simon could really say he’d been terrified down to his marrow; sweating and lips pulled tight. This being so small it couldn’t do anything by itself had rendered him frozen with unease like he had been stabbed in the heart. Your eyes had looked up at him with trust and love. You hadn’t cried or screamed at his hidden face, even if he thought you should have…you’d done something worse.

You had reached up to his face and placed your little fingers on his brow, slapping his flesh with no strength or hatred. Simon’s gaze never left you for hours after you’d done that, uncharacteristically warm and rendered mute to all else.

Tiny. Weak. Innocent.

How could anybody ever leave you? Hurt you? But the man had been petrified; utterly fearful to the point he would begin shaking when you’d begin crying for a bottle.

In the process of trying to keep you happy and separate from him, he was leading you down the exact path he had tried to steer you from.

“What?” Your crestfallen voice brings him back and he blinks, expression going blank once more. But he tries.

“Can I come in?”

“I don’t know—are you going to give a lecture?” You ask, eyes red and other hand still holding the door handle. Simon breathes out a grunted sigh.

“Negative, Moppet, no lecture.” He relaxes his posture, eye bags plainly visible. He was so tired his fingers had gone numb. “Jus’ need ‘ta…” Words fail him. What did he need to do?

Simon clears his throat, looking off down the hallway before his eyes drift back to you.

“You land a hit, then?” You blink in silent shock at the graveled question, a hitch in your lungs giving way to confusion.

“I…” your feet shuffle, face burning, “what?”

One of your father’s large hands goes up to rub the back of his neck, fingers creating red lines across his flesh as his chest rises and falls. You could immediately tell he had no idea what he was doing.

But…he was trying.

“A hit,” he vaguely gestures to your eye, staring intensely. “Did you get ‘em back?”

It’s a vague few moments before you respond, oddly touched by the question. Your door opens the slightest bit wider.

“More than one person,” you admit hesitantly. Your father’s gaze darkens but you quickly continue. “T-they look worse than me right now.”

Simon nods stiffly, hands going to slide into his pockets. “That’ll do,” a pause, “...‘cause I can’t beat up teenagers without getting into a fuckin’ heap ‘o shit.”

Your heart lurches with amusement and a small smile grows on your face. You stare, still just a tiny bit confused at the sudden shift, but unable to stop the chuckle you let out. He doesn’t know how to describe the feeling in his chest when his ears twitch at the sound of your humor, yet Simon pulls a smirk to his lips. It made him…content, you could say.

“Who said they were teenagers?” you smirk, tinting your head, and your father immediately frowns, unamused. Brows pull in.

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“No, it isn’t. Shut your bloody trap.” The air lightens to a degree you hadn’t experienced before. A silence settles before you break it, vision darting down to spy on the dog tags Simon wears.

“...How long are you staying?” The man hums, licking his lips.

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

“I’m off as long as it takes to get you to stop picking fights, yeah?” Your fingers flinch and you stare into eyes that are always like ice, except now try to melt themselves into a chilled puddle.

“Change of heart?” You ask, voice subdued. A bitter hope builds in your veins.

Simon motions with his chin for you to open the door to your room and you do, elbowing it to the side before backing up—letting your father’s large frame enter.

He looks around for a moment at the posters and the bits of personality, glaring internally at himself because he didn’t know what you liked at all. He seems disappointed with his own negligence.

He’d really fucked up.

“C’mere,” Simon goes and snatches your desk chair before he whirls it around, “lemme take a proper look at it.” His hand pats the top of the wood and you listen, going to it and sitting down softly.

Your father kneels in front of you, bones cracking, and he delicately grabs hold of your chin to tilt your head to the side with practiced ease. You avoid his eyes, hands in your lap held tight together in this silence that brews from shared thorns.

Simon has to take a deep breath to get his head out of his rage at the sight of your damaged skin; instinctual reaction to guard you rearing its head even more so now that he can see the injury in the dim light of your desk lamp. His thumb caresses the side of the swelling with intense care.

“Won’t die,” is all he can say, voice hard and strained. “Lucky you, eh?” You scoff and his hands leave—there wasn’t much he could do. “Moppet.”

Eyes slide up to his and his grip finds your bicep, squeezing once. You’re momentarily locked at the sight of real concern in his glinting orbs; a once in a blue moon occurrence.

“Give me your word.” Simon levels firmly, feet shifting. “No more of this. You’re gonna end up gettin’ hurt—badly—you got that?”

“They were calling soldiers cannon fodder.” You glare at your hands in your lap, mumbling out the truth with a burning face mixed with shame and honesty. Your father goes silent. “That they weren’t even good enough for bullets.”

Jaw clenching, you rotate your wrist and feel the flare of pain from the joints. A deep sigh exits from Simon and with a hesitant clench of his jaw, his hand travels to the back of your head. He presses firmly, and your face finds the junction of his neck and shoulder with little fight. Tense in the beginning, you slowly breathe in sweat and tarmac with a gradual loosening feeling in your muscles.

Eyes wide, you slowly begin to return the strange embrace. Your father flinches lightly when your fingers slip along his waist, hands grabbing into his shirt. But like you, time makes him calm—the side of his face connects with the side of your scalp, lashes fluttering closed tightly.

It was you. His daughter. Innocent.

The emotions are so foreign to you that it brings a burning behind your eyes as the minutes lengthen.

Simon can’t even begin to process it, it just felt natural to do such things for you. If there was one thing he did know—it was that he didn’t want to see you in pain or suffering; hurt or eyes filled with pain. His hands slip to bring you up into his arms like you were a baby again, carrying you easily as your nose sniffles with restrained tears. You’re placed in your bed with a delicate plop, icy eyes darting over you until it seems a decision is made with a quick nod.

You watch him leave and return seconds later with a pile of manilla folders in his hands. Your father grunts softly, “Go to sleep. It’s late out,” and drops the items to your desk, sitting down with a huff and a squeal from your chair. The air is warm and you sit in it a moment longer.

Eyes blink at the silhouette before a small smile builds on your lips—genuine and warm like a weighted blanket.

“How long are you gonna be there?” You ask your father, grasping the covers and slipping under as your head hits the pillow; making sure to stay on the uninjured side.

He doesn’t turn around.

“All night. Need ‘ta get this shite done for my boss.” You don’t know why, but you feel like he’s lying. Simon looks over his shoulder with a tone dipping to a whisper. “Sleep, Kid. We’ll get those knuckles sorted in the morning.”

Of course, he’d noticed that, too.

“Dad?” You ask and his spine straightens instantly at the title. It’s a long time before he answers and when he does his emotion is the softest you’ve ever heard him; gravel so deep you almost miss the words entirely.

“What is it?”

“Goodnight.” Simon’s hands shake as they open the first folder in the small stack, small tremors that are both horrible and endearing. He doesn’t say anything until you’re fast asleep behind him—when he stands up and walks over, pressing a kiss to your forehead and pulling the covers farther up to your chin.

Into your skin, he whispers, “...Goodnight, my little Moppet.”

Simon wonders if his daughter likes eggs for breakfast as his pen slides over the first report, one eye forever staying on your slumbering body to watch the rise and fall of your lungs.

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wileys-russo · 6 months

Text

childhood sweethearts (12) II a.russo x reader

playlist one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven

childhood sweethearts (12) II a.russo x reader

"took your time!" you stepped aside as the two taller boys pushed inside making you roll your eyes. "please, come in!" you gestured sarcastically, slamming the door shut behind you. "get off russo." you huffed, smacking away gio's hand as he ruffled the hair you'd just finished doing.

"that was not an hour. that was forty minutes you're lucky i'm ready!" you warned them both, kicking harry's feet off your coffee table with a glare. "forty minutes is an hour in guy time, you'll learn." your brother dismissed with a wave.

"nice place shortstack, teachers salaries must be better than i thought." gio whistled as he wandered around your living room. "not really." you chuckled honestly with a shrug. "she's just good at saving money, squirrels it all away like a little mouse." your brother teased pulling a face.

"i had to! you and lil were always stealing it from me." you shot him a filthy glare as he held his hands up. "you have no evidence of that." he grinned with a wink. "hang on. you're not wearing that are you?" gio narrowed his eyes and pointed at you accusingly.

"yeah. why? whats wrong with it?" you frowned, playing with the hem of your jumper. "it's sky blue!" gio groaned without explaining as your frown deepened. "oh he knows the color wheel! good job buddy." you mocked sarcastically with a clap.

"manchester city are sky blue you idiot. we support arsenal, go find something red!" harry chimed in pointing away as you scoffed. "sorry i didn't know there was a dress code for a football game." you rolled your eyes.

"no it's fine we'll just get you a jersey from the armory. go find a hoodie or something, but not blue!" gio dismissed, shooing you off toward your room. "all this over a stupid fucking football match." you mumbled to yourself as you left, both boys yelling at you for the comment.

"can we go now?" you sighed, gesturing to yourself as the boys nodded, dressed in distressed blue jeans, a black hoodie and a black puffer vest on over the top, harry hauling himself to his feet.

"yes we can now you no longer support the enemy. so are you still allergic to football or have you actually grown up?" gio threw his arm over your shoulder guiding you away as you grabbed your keys, leaving the lights on and locking up.

"oh she's still deathly allergic, pretty sure she thinks the ball is a square." harry grinned as you flipped him off and buckled up, gio immediately beginning a rambling recount of all of the rules and history as harry started the car and you sat in the back with a sigh.

you contemplated texting alessia to let her know you were coming but the first moment your fingers touched the device to pull it from your pocket it was snatched from your hand.

"you're a teacher shortstack you should know better than to have a phone out in class, football school is in session and there will be a test." gio grinned wolfishly dropping your phone into the front console and ignoring your protests to have it back.

the three of you split up as you arrived to the emirates and your eyes almost bugged out of your head at the amount of people wandering around. "they're all here for the match?" you asked in disbelief, harry disappearing to get some food as gio dragged you off to get a jersey, again ignoring your protests.

"yeah! you've clearly been living under a rock if you don't know how big womens football is." the boy chuckled with a shake of his head, the two of you waiting in line. "didn't you literally go to the world cup? and you still can't believe how many people are here?" he laughed as you looked around in awe.

"in my defense the last match of alessia's i attended that wasn’t a world cup semi had about fifty people watching!" you frowned, only making him laugh harder, patting you on the back and shaking his head. "well, times have changed kid." he grinned, again ruffling your hair as you shoved him away and you moved closer in line.

"so. you and my little sister, worked things out then?" gio asked, leaning in to practically whisper at you as you frowned, unsure what he was asking. "please. don't play dumb with me i know you far too well to be fooled by that!" the boy warned with an amused smile as your eyes widened.

"she told you that we..." "yeah. i went to visit her at college a couple of months after she moved, she got quite drunk and babbled everything." gio smiled somewhat sympathetically.

"everything?" "yeah, everything. i had your back though she should have told you her plans and i made sure to let her know how stupid she was to mess everything up." gio shrugged.

"christ did both of our families know?" you huffed with a scowl, forever under the impression your relationship with the striker had been a well kept secret, though as time passed it seemed more and more people had been clued in than you thought.

"not the parents. dunno how they didn't catch on given you and less were hardly subtle, luca and i had our suspicions long before less told me i can promise you that." gio chuckled with a wink making your face heat up as you arrived to the front of the line.

"we're just friends though." you quietly answered his previous question as he gave you a look and nodded, turning toward the cashier with a dazzling smile.

"could i please get a red gunners beanie and a russo home jersey in a size..." he glanced to you clearly waiting an answer as you shrugged cluelessly, never having bought a jersey before. "large." he answered for you and rolled his eyes at how you looked like a fish out of water.

"better too big than too small." he shrugged, pushing you away with a firm shake of his head as you tried to pay, tapping his phone and grabbing the bag with an appreciative smile. "gio!" you hissed with a scowl, punching his arm as he whined and rubbed it.

"a thank you would have sufficed!" he mocked, waving at harry who was wandering about with a confused look a hundred or so metres away.

"put it on we haven't got all day." gio waved impatiently as he handed you the bag and you sighed, stripping off your puffer vest and pulling the jersey on over your hoodie, shrugging the vest back on.

"perfect! now you at least look the part even if you're still as clueless about football as a newborn baby." the boy grinned, yanking the beanie down on top of your head and spinning you around. "i have not missed you." you grumbled as he smacked away your hand from pulling off the beanie.

"aw my little sister in law i love you too." he pinched your cheeks as the two of you caught up to harry, your face going almost as red as your beanie as you were squished between both boys. "did you not get me anything?" you poked your brother accusingly as he handed gio some food but not you.

"you didn't ask for any!" he defended as you all squished into an elevator. "you didn't ask me if i wanted any." you rolled your eyes at his thought process, tuned out by the rumble in the elevator.

"they sometimes have food in the box." gio shrugged as your head whipped toward him and the doors opened, the boy gesturing for you to step out. "the box?" you questioned with a suspicious frown.

"friends and family box." harry answered with a grin, the pair of you following after gio. "he comes with me and luca sometimes." gio answered with a chuckle before you could even ask.

"most of the time mum and dad or some of the extended family come too but they've got some swanky lunch they can't get out of." he shrugged, handing you and harry a lanyard as you only nodded, at a loss for words.

having gotten over your initial shock and now settled in your seats waiting for the match to begin you nodded as both harry and gio seated either side of you attempted to debrief you on everything they felt you needed to know for the game.

you of course were still clueless, focused more on trying to spot alessia as they lined up for the team photos, noting her right away as you hummed, gio and harry sharing a look over your head and rolling their eyes.

it wasn't until half time when you felt like you could finally exhale, a familiar but unwelcome sensation settling in your stomach, worry.

this match had been particularly aggressive, yellow cards hardly in short stock as you winced every time alessia's body went tumbling down onto the pitch, just like you used to all those years ago when you watched her you still worried.

you accepted the drink from gio as he returned with a grateful smile, the older boy just chuckling at the blatant worry in your eyes. "she's fine! she's a big girl she can take a tackle or too, and dish them out." he assured you as you nodded, falling into conversation with harry about lily's upcoming baby shower.

your panic came in a different form the second half, the score locked 1-1 with only injury time remaining you bounced your knee anxiously amusing both boys either side of you who hadn't hesitated to tease you all match about it.

you held your breath as again alessia went down, this time not getting back up as a few of her team mates waved for the medics and she slowly sat up, your grip on your cup tightening.

"hey, she's okay." your brother noticed your discomfort and squeezed your knee, draping his free arm over your shoulder.

"this is sort of insane." you breathed out, having been taken aback all match by the chants and passion of the spectators filling out the stadium, all 59,000+ of them which sent your brain spinning. "yeah next match we'll teach you some chants!" gio grinned, nudging you with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

"or at least alessia's. she'll be horribly offended if you don't know her chant at least!" harry chipped in, both boys clearly doing their best to distract you as alessia was looked over by the medics.

you exhaled as finally she got back to her feet rewarded with a thundering cheer from the supporters, a free kick given for the poor tackle as the stadium exploded in support.

"speaking of!" harry laughed as alessia's name echoed around the pitch. you shook your head with a smile of utter disbelief, you knew she was clearly famous you weren't that naive, but seeing how many people were yelling her name with a clap had your heart bursting with pride.

"so less doesn't have to take the kick right, and they can get their players in front of the ball?" you questioned for clarification as harry nodded, explaining roughly how it would work and what arsenal would try to do to force man city to concede.

you held your breath as two of the arsenal girls lined up for the kick, watching as alessia was shoved and pushed around, repeatedly yanking away hands and arms which jostled and poked at her.

you watched frozen to your seat as the kick was sent in, a mad panic exploding in the box as a flurry and fight of heads, limbs and feet flailed around to try and make contact.

then finally there was a swish as the ball hammered the back of the net, the whistle blew and the stadium exploded.

"oh my god!" your eyes almost bugged at of your head as alessia sprinted away from the goal with her hands in the air, tackled to the ground by her team as you jumped up to your feet alongside nearly every single person in the stadium, cheering loud and proud for the blonde.

"she's still got it." you grinned at gio who laughed and nodded, shoving your head playfully as alessia was announced as the goal scorer and the crowd went mental at a replay of her goal.

"now they just need to park the bus for six minutes." harry whistled, turning and explaining to you right away what he meant before you even had to ask, the three of you settling back into your seats.

you weren't sure quite how but you were near certain you didn't breath for those next six minutes, your eyes widening in shock as with three to go alessia was shown a yellow card and walked off with a roll of her eyes.

"told you she gives as good as she gets sometimes short stack!" gio beamed, full of pride only making you chuckle quietly. "you'd know, she used to beat you up!" you teased the boy who shushed you and pulled the beanie down over your eyes.

you finally let out a deep exhale as the full time whistle sounded, the crowd erupting into cheers of victory as you watched alessia do her laps of the pitch clapping the fans.

"she'll be a fair while, she'll sign some stuff and go shower then come up." gio explained as you all returned inside the box to escape the cold, the weather well and truly taking a turn for the worst as thunder started to rumble in the far off distance.

meanwhile alessia had finally returned to the locker room, unable to wipe the smile off her face as she laughed and sang along to the music leah had blasting all around.

"hey less did your brother get a girlfriend? ben said he was all over some girl he brought with him to the box." beth laughed as alessia pulled a face, grabbing her slides out from her cubby and tying her wet hair up into a bun.

"no? that would be news to me." the blonde frowned with a shrug, shoving her belongings into her bag, now one of the last ones left. though sure enough as she tiredly made her way into the box flanked by vic and kyra her frown returned seeing her brothers arm draped over a girl, both of them with their backs facing her.

but right before she could reach them the girl spoke and shrugged his arm off, making a beeline for the toilet as alessia charged toward her brother. "did you bring a girl to my game and not tell me you were seeing someone!" she accused with an annoyed frown poking at his chest.

"did i what?" he laughed in disbelief, an annoyingly smug grin curling on his lips as he realized where his sisters thoughts were. "yeah actually i brought a little date!" he grinned, knowing the moment you returned everything would fall into place for the striker.

"gio!" alessia huffed punching him in the arm, temporarily distracted as a few of the girls and their family members wandered over and pulled her into conversation. "those bathrooms are so nice!" you marveled, your brother pushing you away as you shoved your hands into his face demanding he smell how good the soap smelled.

gio smirked as at the sound of your voice alessia spun right around, ignoring the questions fired toward her by the small group of people she was with as she finally noticed you, smacking about your brother as he wrapped you into a choke hold.

"i never said who the little date was for." gio smirked as he appeared at alessia's side, the blondes cheeks flushing bright red as she hurried to smooth her jumper out, suddenly wishing she'd made an effort with her hair.

"go on lovergirl, she's even wearing your jersey. you're welcome!" gio whispered, pushing her in your direction as she stumbled slightly and shot him a filthy look over her shoulder.

catching gio's eye harry let go of you and pushed you away, shooting over to the other boys side before you could tell him off, turning around and practically running into a body.

"you're here!" was all alessia managed to get out with wide eyes as you nodded. "i didn't know you were coming." she added on with a nervous smile, shifting her bag on her shoulder.

"not of my own free will. thing one and thing two kidnapped me!" you pointed to your brothers over her shoulder, not missing the strange look which crossed the taller girls face.

"hey, less i'm only joking. you had a great game!" you were quick to make amends, hoping your comment hadn't rubbed her the wrong way. "that volley? class!" you complimented, the blondes lips curling into a surprised grin.

"well well well, look whose been studying her football jargon." alessia teased, nerves melting away as you bumped her with your shoulder and a playful roll of your eyes as the two of you chattered away, everyone else in the room ceasing to exist as you only had eyes for one another.

"i see old habits die hard. will you ever learn?" you sighed dramatically, reaching a hand up to tuck away a loose strand of wet hair out of her eyes. "when have i ever listened to you?" alessia smirked, you having forever warned her against not drying her hair or at least leaving it out.

the two of you so engrossed in conversation alessia failed to notice a few of her friends eyeing the two of you off, laura and leah looking especially pleased as they gave the two of you some space, just sending you a friendly wave from a distance which you returned.

alessia also failed to notice a few of them creeping closer, jolted out of the little bubble with you as an arm slung around her waist with a squeeze. "hello!" vic addressed you as kyra and teyah appeared on alessia's other side and she withheld a groan.

"and who is this?" the dutch girl smirked as alessia shot her daggers briefly. "this is my..." she struggled for a moment giving you a glance. "my y/n." she answered awkwardly, wishing the ground would swallow her up as she shot kyra and teyah a firm glare at their giggles.

"well hello lessi's y/n. pleasure to meet you! i am lessi's vic, this is lessi's kyra and lessi's teyah." vic beamed as you couldn't help but laugh, alessia shoving vics arm away and moving to stand protectively by your side as the three younger girls all began to speak at you.

"oi! lay off she's not a performing monkey." alessia warned, hand settling on the small of your back as you struggled to keep up with the three different accents, lines of conversations and questions. thankfully leah noticed and swooped in, quickly ushering away the three troublemakers as alessia mouthed a thank you.

"they seem fun." you grinned up at the blonde who groaned quietly. "that's one word for them." she sighed. "seem to remind me of a certain outgoing outspoken loud mouthed young striker." you paused to look away contemplatively as alessia cracked a smile, harry and gio joining the two of you, the tall girls hand remaining on the small of your back.

"hey how did you get here?" alessia asked as the boys ducked off to use the toilet, the box clearing out. "i told you, kidnapped!" you teased, alessia's stomach clenching strangely as you smiled up at her and her knees went a bit wobbly.

"would you like to come over for dinner? i'll cook." alessia asked before she could talk herself out of it, nervously playing with the strap of the bag still slung over her shoulder.

"are you asking me on a date?" you asked quietly, smile growing at the slight blush which coated alessia's cheeks. "yeah. is that okay? or we can do something else!" she breathed out, corners of her mouth curling upward as she rocked back and forth on her heels.

"dinner sounds lovely." you agreed, trying to ignore the butterflies swooping and diving around in your stomach as alessia seemed to relax a little. "i'm gonna get a ride back with less." you spoke up as the boys returned, the four of you falling into conversation for a bit before parting ways.

"uhh, stay here for a second. please!" alessia stopped you suddenly after taking you down the back of the stadium, disappearing around a corner as you crossed your arms and waited, eyes roaming the photos of past teams and their victories on the wall.

"okay!" you jumped as alessia suddenly returned, the blonde apologizing with an amused smile nodding for you to follow her again. she lead you out to the back lot, having moved her car away from prying eyes where a few fans were still hanging about.

she wasn't quite ready to have to explain that aspect of her job to you just yet.

"nice jersey, your favorite player?" alessia grinned as the two of you arrived to her place, parking out the front as you rolled your eyes. "don't flatter yourself your brother bought it and forced me into it, and this!" you gestured to the beanie on top of your head which alessia found absolutely adorable.

"ouch, my poor ego!" the blonde sighed dramatically clutching at her chest as you rolled your eyes. "it could use the humbling. we've got, lessi russo! we've got-" you clapped as alessia's cheeks went red and she shoved you mumbling for you to shut up.

"we might need to sprint for it, my umbrella's in the boot." she shifted tones, the rain now hammering down against her car as you hummed in agreement.

"on three?" you nodded as both your hands hovered by the door handles. "three!" alessia announced as you both flung your doors open and made a dash for it, your laughter lost into the mid afternoon air as alessia almost sent herself flying down her stairs.

the two of you collapsed into one another laughing once you were in the safety of her front porch. "whose got wet hair now!" alessia teased tugging your beanie down over your eyes and scrambling for her keys.

"might have to bin this jersey since its all wet, shame." you yanked off the beanie and tousled your hair with your hand, stepping out of your soaking wet shoes as alessia slipped out of her slides both pairs left by the door.

"i can get you another one, even sign it for you if you like." she winked making you roll your eyes as she wasted no time pulling off her sopping wet jumper and gesturing you do the same. "mmm would up the resell value for ebay. have you got a pen handy?" you teased.

"do you want a shower?" the blonde offered kindly, biting her lip to stifle her laughter at both of your soaking wet states. "just some dry clothes if you don't mind." you replied with a somewhat shy smile, alessia nodding and sprinting off before you could say another word.

she returned mere seconds later, a pair of joggers and a hoodie in hand, nodding for you to change and give her your wet clothes so she could put them in the dryer. as the bathroom door closed with a click alessia went into panic mode, racing around her house tidying as well as she could in the small window of time she had to do so.

you couldn't help but inhale once you were changed, now drowned in the familiar smell of your ex girlfriend, though for once it wasn't accompanied with a weird stab of guilt, you allowing yourself to just enjoy the sense of safety and comfort which settled on your shoulders.

what alessia hadn't anticipated was you exiting the bathroom right as she rushed past with a basket piled high of dirty washing she intended to hide, her body slamming into yours and sending the two of you to the ground and her laundry into the air.

"i'm so sorry!" her face paled as she winced and gently peeled off her training shirt from where it had landed on your head, the two of you buried in a mountain of her dirty clothes as alessia wished the ground could swallow her up.

"if this is a way of you telling me to do your washing for you, you could have just asked!" you laughed and rolled off of her, alessia relaxing a little at your reaction, quick to her feet and helping you up to yours.

"two minutes." the striker promised still red with embarrassment, hurrying to shove her clothes back into the basket, grabbing your wet ones from the bathroom floor and darting off into the laundry, yelling out for you to help yourself to anything in the kitchen.

alessia took a moment once her washing was safely in the machine and your clothes in the dryer to collect herself, gripping the bench and taking a few deep breaths, nodding firmly and exiting the room.

an affectionate smile curled onto her lips to see you sat up at the island bench of her kitchen, your legs just a little too short to touch the ground you'd tucked one beneath you and were absentmindedly swinging the other to and from.

alessia would be lying if she didn't something settled over her which could have maybe been described as a sense of possessiveness seeing you sat in her house in her clothes once again. though she quickly tried to shake that off, giving herself a firm reminder the two of you were taking things slow and you were far from being hers anymore.

the large black adidas hoodie she'd given you to change into was big on alessia so it hung down to your mid thigh, and the blonde grinned in amusement seeing you'd had to roll and cuff up the ends of the joggers given her legs were a fair bit longer than yours.

"so whats on the menu chef russo?" you smiled sending her stomach into knots again as she joined you in the kitchen. "what do you feel like?" alessia questioned, washing her hands and rolling up the sleeves of her jumper with a raised eyebrow.

"anything. just no pineapple!" you teased, alessia laughing dryly and flicking water at you from her wet hands before wiping them on a tea towel. "pasta?" you nodded happily.

"just no tomatoes." alessia now teased your own eating habits as you mocked her and pulled a face. "wait, from scratch?" your eyebrows shot up in surprise as alessia breezed around the kitchen pulling out ingredients.

"obviously. did you forget i am italian!" she grinned and you smiled softly seeing her tie an apron around her waist, resisting the temptation to tease her for it and instead settling for enjoying how cute it was that she had one handy.

"half italian." you reminded earning yourself a glare and a middle finger in your direction as a cutting board and knife appeared on the bench in front of you. "make yourself useful would you." alessia smirked, placing down some peppers, onions and carrots on the board and tugging playfully on your ear.

"you know typically when you ask someone on a date and offer to cook them dinner, you don't force them to be your sous chef!" you shook your head but rolled up the sleeves of alessia's hoodie.

"aw you think you're at a sous chef level, that's adorable babe." it was a simple slip up, so much to the point alessia didn't even clock what she'd said but you did, your face burning bright red as you focused your energy into prepping the vegetables as she busied herself making dough.

the two of you fell into conversation about your upcoming weeks, alessia filling you in on her training schedule and commitments as you explained your lesson planning, both of you hanging off the others words, fully engaged in making an effort to show your sincere interest in what the other had to say.

"only you would just casually have things laying about to make pasta from scratch on a sunday night!" you grinned, now stood by the stove keeping an eye on the sauce at alessia's request. "if its not better than anything you've made pre-made i'll retire tomorrow." alessia challenged confidently, moving to take her hoodie off leaving her in joggers and a singlet, not wanting to get flour all over herself.

you wrenched your eyes away from her bare arms as she expertly kneaded the dough, muscles flexing as you turned back to the sauce, stirring it occasionally as a comfortable silence fell between the two of you.

"come here." you glanced up to see alessia wipe away a few small beads of sweat on her forehead, nodding for you to join her. she leaned over and flipped the stove top to the lowest heat it could so the sauce wouldn't burn.

"a pasta making lesson with a real life italian? should be charging." you teased as alessia demonstrated how to fold and roll out the dough, shaping it into spirals melting you a little as she made a point to note she knew they'd been your favorite growing up.

"christ you make this look easy." you credited her as you struggled with the dough, tensing up a little as you felt her body settle in behind you, her front pressed to your back as her bare arms wound around you.

"like this, push with your palms." she murmured, maneuvering your hands with hers on top as she helped you to roll out the dough and shape it like she'd shown. you thought once you started to get the hang of it she might move away but she stayed pressed against you.

"is this okay?" she checked quietly as her hands settled on your waist and her chin rested on your shoulder and you nodded, a little lost for words as waves of emotions you refused to overthink crashed into you, alessia starting to very gently sway the two of you.

"perfect!" the blonde beamed proudly as you finished rolling out and shaping your half of the dough. "had a decent teacher i guess." you smiled, craning your head back to gently kiss her cheek as alessia's hairs stood on end and she pushed herself away from you, moving to quickly finish off her half of the dough as you returned to the sauce.

on her orders you had a pot of water waiting to boil, leaving the sauce to thicken on low as you moved to watch her finish off the pasta. "do you want a pro tip?" alessia smiled as you nodded, gesturing for her continue.

"always flour your board." you gasped as her finger reached out and rubbed flour all over your nose, the taller girl grinning clearly quite pleased with herself. not even waiting to speak your hand darted out into the leftover flour, your hand pressing against her cheek leaving a white hand mark on the side of her face.

that seemed to open the floodgates as you chased one another around the island flicking and smacking flour against one another until alessia called for a truce, wincing at the flour which now coated her once clean floors.

however as the two of you retreated back toward the stove in typical alessia fashion, she slipped.

"less!" you cried out as she grabbed out for you to steady herself, instead taking you down with her, your body landing on top of hers as you both groaned.

"i'm beginning to think you do this on purpose now!" you tutted, hint of a smile on your lips. hyper aware of her large hands resting on your back an odd sense of deja vu settled over the pair of you, neither of you paying attention to anything than one another when you suddenly found yourself admiring and studying over ever little feature of her face, alessia doing the exact same.

just like clockwork the longer you maintained eye contact the smaller and smaller the room seemed to become, alessia's eyes flickering down to your lips just for a fleeting second.

"would it be too fast if i kissed you again?" the girl whispered, eyes still locked with yours as you gave a small shake of your head. "please." was all you managed to breathe out.

your hand moved to brush a few strands of her golden blonde hair out of her face, leaning in ever so slowly.

just like last time your hands moved to tangle in her hair now brushed out and dry again, and in turn alessia's own hands came to rest on either side of your face, thumbs tracing soft circles on your jaw, ever so gently guiding your mouth within millimeters of her own.

you both sighed as your lips met, the kiss slow and calculated and tender. alessia kissed you like you were made of glass, terrified that one wrong move and you'd break, her lips soft and inviting as they moved against yours.

you parted your own slightly as her teeth ever so gently tugged at your bottom lip, her tongue slipping into your mouth as the kiss became just a little less sweet.

though you hissed and pulled away at the feeling of something burning your neck, the blonde underneath yours eyes widening as she tightened her hold on your face and sat up taking you with her.

"what's wrong? was that too much? too fast? i'm so sorry." she rambled out, chest heaving with worry as you were quick to shake your head. "i think something bit me!" you gently moved her hands off your face and turned your head, moving your hair out of the way as alessia frowned and glanced at your neck.

but everything suddenly made sense as she heard a strange noise and looked up to the stove, realizing exactly what had happened.

"shit the water's over boiled!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

thirteen

our cute little lovers seemingly all happy but will it last?

what do we think is going to happen? what do you want to see happen?

#woso x reader #woso #alessia russo x reader #woso community #engwnt #alessia russo #woso blurbs #woso fanfics #woso imagine

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dr-futbol-blog · 1 month

Text

The Storm/The Eye, Pt. 4

Finally, the Genii arrive at Atlantis with Acastus Kolya at the helm. With Robert Davi acting, it's rather on the nose how much the events of the story follow the plot of Die Hard with Kolya as Hans Gruber and Sheppard as John McClane. And, as I mentioned the polysemic storytelling used by the series, the role of Holly Gennero is played by both McKay and Weir.

McKay and Weir are captured by the Genii almost immediately.

They're clever enough to keep their communicators on so that Sheppard can eavesdrop on the discussion. McKay is clearly frightened, even more so than Weir because he actually has experience of these people from before, but he's not about to give them anything that would jeopardize Sheppard (not even his own name, confirmation of which Sora provides for Kolya). Rodney is a brave little toaster but he's way in over his head. You can see by the minute tilt of his chin that he just entered What Would Sheppard Do? zone, he's trying to navigate the situation the way he thinks John would.

The fact that Weir responds verbally to Kolya's inquiry about his identity and McKay does not but is recognized anyway is exactly how the entire scenario plays out main text / sub text wise. We are verbally told: Elizabeth, from contextual cues we are able to interpret: Rodney.

We actually cut from Sheppard's reaction to what he just overheard to the storm brewing outside. Because if he was frightened of the storm and what it might do to this newly found home at the beginning of the episode, he's now terrified.

In the Genii home world when they were held hostage, McKay and Sheppard both attempted to keep the other safe in their own ways, and they continue doing just that here. Sheppard is using his military training, McKay is using his brain (and Weir is using her skills as a negotiator). McKay is trying to convey information that Sheppard could use by "accidentally" leaning on the communication panel but at the same time, he's letting him know that they are both still alive and unharmed. It's notable that all of the characters are lying to keep each other safe. They are saying counterfactual things in the hopes that the others might be spared.

Also notable: Kolya is smart enough to know that they are lying.

McKay seems to realize that he has no experience in dealing with the kind of sociopath Kolya is but he tries his best. He's being careful not to antagonize them unnecessarily and is also lying about the most important things.

Kolya has figured out that McKay is too important to be there. There must be a reason why he stayed behind. The Genii clearly recognize his importance on a lot of fronts, the least of them not being that he's the one that knows how to use the C4 to build an A-bomb which is something that the Genii don't know how to do. He would go as far as to injure McKay but it's doubtful he ever had intention of killing him.

But even under physical torture, he didn't give up Sheppard. The Genii only learn that Sheppard is in fact in the city through the radio he left in the armory himself. The only reason he gives out the plan to save the city is that he has such faith in Sheppard. This is why he looks guilty when Kolya and Sheppard have this exchange:

Kolya: Your offer is very generous, Major. Sheppard: Yes, it is. Kolya: However, Doctor McKay recently shared with me there's a plan in action to save the city. Sheppard: He did?! Kolya: He did.

Like, McKay overhears this and thinks that he's disappointed Sheppard; as though Sheppard is expressing surprise that he would do such a thing. The last thing McKay wants is to let the Major down. What their exchange is actually about is Kolya letting Sheppard know that he has hurt McKay enough to get information out of him, and Sheppard gets this.

And Sheppard's plan is to rescue them. He hides the thing that he knows the Genii care most about, the thing they can't do without, it being the C4. He's holding the most important thing to the Genii ransom because he hopes that this will be enough for him to get back the most important thing to him. Everyone is attempting to find the leverage and use it.

Knowing that Sheppard has walked into an ambush, even though he is afraid McKay tries to help him the only way he can which is by pointing out that something is invaluable (reminding them that they might break the only thing that can save the city if they start shooting at him). Likewise, Sheppard only went to the grounding station with the hope that doing what the Genii asked would keep Weir and McKay safe. And boy is McKay relieved to hear the Sheppard managed to dodge the ambush:

Note that it's McKay's reaction we get to this, and his alone.

Now, Sheppard makes the mistake of mentioning McKay because he just can't keep him out of his mouth. When you're thinking about something or someone, it's going to come out of your mouth. He tells Kolya that he's going to get "an earful from McKay for" his soldiers breaking the controls to the grounding station, and then this very thing actually happens. What he actually did was to demonstrate to a really intelligent sociopath that he knows McKay pretty damn well. Too well. And that he cares about him because damn, if that didn't signal familiarity between them.

Starting to play hardball, Kolya tells Sheppard "Say good-bye to Doctor Weir". But note that he actually looks at McKay just before he says this, thinking about something. Kolya and Sheppard are playing a game with extremely high stakes.

Now, it seems like Kolya threatening Weir is too much for Sheppard. It's the mention of Weir that throws him off the edge, right? Makes him threaten to destroy to whole city if he hurts her. Weir, and not McKay. Easy, heteronormative reading. That's what they say, after all.

The thing is, we've seen before that Sheppard is both a strategic thinker and (especially in Underground, S01E08) that especially when it comes to the Genii, he thinks that the less information they have about them, the better. He lied about the number of puddle jumpers they have. He was willing to let them know that they have a ship, but not that they have many ships. He stopped McKay from spilling the beans on how much weaponry they have. Each and every one of the characters have been lying through their teeth all through the ordeal to keep each other safe.

Kolya is likewise a strategic thinker. He's trying to figure Sheppard out. He has two hostages and he's trying to find out how he can use them for leverage. He knows all of them are lying.

Some people watch the episode and come to the conclusion that Sheppard cares about Weir the most because Kolya threatens her and he loses it. And like, he doesn't mention McKay so he must not care about him as much as he does about Weir. But it is precisely because McKay is the one he cannot and will not lose that he plays it out as though Weir is the one he cares the most about here. Giving the enemy that kind of leverage like revealing the thing you actually can't live without would be stupid. And Kolya figures it out anyway.

Sheppard tells him that if he hurts Weir, he would rather blow up Atlantis with all of them in it, indicating to him that Weir is the one he cannot afford to lose. Anything you do, just please don't kill her. And yet we end the episode with Kolya telling Sheppard that he is about to kill one of the two, and he's not telling him which. Having just glanced at McKay before he decided to test Sheppard out by threatening Weir by name.

Why would he do that? If Kolya believed that Weir was the one Sheppard cared most about like he indicated to Kolya, why would he not simply use the leverage Sheppard had just (on purpose) given him? Why suddenly be vague about which it's going to be?

Because Kolya can play 4D-chess too. And it's when Kolya tells Sheppard that he is going to kill one of them and he does not know which that is going to be that Sheppard actually capitulates, not when he threatened to kill Weir a moment ago. Notice that Sheppard was still relatively cool and level-headed when Kolya was just threatening her life; when her life was on the line, he was still negotiating with Kolya. But suddenly he loses it.

Note that while he's shouting throughout this dialogue because he's outside in the storm trying to get his voice heard, his tone of voice changes throughout:

Kolya: You killed two of my men. Sheppard: I guess we're even! [flippant] Kolya: I don't like even. Sheppard: I'm not finished yet! [bravado] Kolya: Neither am I. Say goodbye to Doctor Weir. Sheppard: The city has a self-destruct button. You hurt her, I'll activate it. Nobody'll get Atlantis. [still calmly negotiating, able to formulate a plan of action] Kolya: Even if it exists, Major, you need at least two senior personnel to activate it -- and I'm about to take one of them out of the equation. Sheppard: Kolya?! Kolya?! I'll give you a ship! I'll fly it out of here for you myself! KOLYA!! [suddenly desperate]

Sheppard is willing to do anything and say anything to keep McKay safe. The man he's fallen in love with. His home. The person he cares so much for that a stranger he's known for all of five minutes was able to figure it out and use it against him. Threatening Weir wasn't the thing that pushed him over the edge, it was not knowing which one the gun was pointed at and the fear that Kolya had figured him out, had his ticket.

This is when Kolya made himself into Sheppard's mortal enemy. And it's notable that in every one of their subsequent encounters, Kolya knows to use McKay to get to Sheppard.

Continued in Pt. 5

#stargate atlantis #sga #sga meta #john sheppard #sheppard is bi #rodney mckay #rodney is gay #ep. the storm #ep. the eye

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elvenbeard · 10 months

Text

Chances

Cyberpunk 2077 Fanfic

Summary: Mr. Blue-Eyes' offer indeed surpassed V's wildest expectations... but his and Kerry's views on how to move forward now begin to diverge. (Post-Sun-Ending, mostly canon-compliant, Chapter 9/?, 6893 words, Kerry Eurodyne/V - notes at the end) >> Previous Chapter >> Read from the Beginning

The drive back home came close to what Kerry imagined hell to feel like. It was getting dark, and yet, the city was so bright, so colorful… it pissed him off. The radio, usually tuned to V’s favorite radio station, was silent. Kerry gripped the steering wheel until his shoulders hurt from tension. He dared a quick glance in V’s direction. Pale, sweaty, he still looked like shit as he tightly clutched the half-empty water bottle Kerry had gotten him from the first SCSM they’d come across.

“Did… ya text Rogue back yet?” Kerry asked carefully, his voice croaky, too loud really for the quiet between them.

V didn’t even react, stared blankly ahead.

“V?”

Nothing. Wherever he was with his thoughts, he wasn’t here with him. Kerry looked back on the road, eyes fixated on the taillights of the truck ahead, focused on the droning engine, the bumps in the road.

“You’re probably not really hungry, huh?” he tried to strike up a conversation, get V out of his thought spiral, “But I’m starvin’. Was thinking, what about that noodle place? Ah fuck, what’s it called… Somethin’ somethin’ Panda… They have that soup that’s – …”

“Kerry,” V interrupted him hoarsely, and Kerry quickly turned his head. V’s eyes, dark and tired, locked with his, and it stung.

“’preciate it,” V added, “But I’m really not in the mood.”

“Okay, fine,” Kerry shrugged, and despite being brushed off, he was happy to have V’s attention back, have him out of his head, at least for now.

He took the next exit that would lead them directly into the heart of Watson.

“Y’know, we don’t have to go home yet, either,” he then tried a different approach, “Could pick up the cat and drive up to North Oak, too. Slightly belated weekend getaway. Or early…”

“Kerry, please,” V sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I love you, but… just shut up. Please.”

Now… that hurt. More than he’d expected it to.

“Okay. Sorry,” Kerry said, resigning. He wanted nothing more than do or say something, anything, to cheer V up. But all things considered… that was probably an impossible task, at this point in time at least. He was relieved when their building finally came into sight. He counted the seconds until they’d be able to get out of the too cramped car, leave the noisy, bright highway behind, return into their home, their safe space.

Nibbles greeted them expectantly, purring and meowing, dancing around their feet as they entered the penthouse. V briefly bent down to pet her, then, without further words, trailed off towards the patio door. The sun had just set, but the garden and pool area were well-lit at night, and so the cat slipped outside with him and ran off. Kerry stayed back in the kitchen, utterly lost and frozen, unable to do anything but stare after V as he disappeared around the corner and down the stairs. Kerry decided not to follow him just yet. He himself was trying to process still what they had seen at Blue-Eyes’ lab, couldn’t even begin to imagine V’s mind right now. What this would mean for them, their future… Whether they still had one beyond two, three months after all of this today.

As soon as he felt ready to move again without fearing his knees could give way, Kerry walked to the small chamber adjacent to the kitchen that V had turned into his armory. He pulled his gun from his pocket and set it back down in its place in the gun locker. Then he took off his jacket and went upstairs.

The bathroom door slid open, the sink turned on automatically as he held out his hands, as did the large mirror screen when he stepped in front of it. He splashed some water into his face, washing off the grime and dust of a too-long day. His hands found purchase on the rim of the sink, sleek and cold, and he looked his reflection in the eyes. Cold and blue and artificial, ironically. He’d noticed V averting his gaze on the way out of that corpo-wet-dream of a building, and he wondered if those had been the reason…

Raising his chin slightly he ran his fingers through his beard that seemed to be getting grayer each day. He continued down his throat, along the shimmering black and gold of his voice box, golden lines trailing down the sides of his neck to his collarbones and sternum. It wasn’t so wrong. There was little that was a hundred percent “natural” about his body anymore. All of his implants had been choices he’d made, willingly, or “willingly”. Deaf and half-blind and voiceless he’d be, a fine rockstar, had he not done this or that at some point out of sheer necessity. ‘Ganic bodies weren’t exactly made for excess, and what had his career been if not a 70-something-year-long excess in one way or another?

Were some bits and pieces of his chrome, the procedures he’d gone through, pure vanity, too? Maybe. Probably. And a handful of things, his eyes for example, were marketing stunts, brand-deals… He didn’t even have to sign those, but he did anyway, because at the time it hadn’t really mattered. He’d just done what he’d been told to do, by Kovachek, Louise even, and others. If Kiroshi pays, why not try something new, something different, anything to get out of the agonizing rut, to stand out in the endless media swamp, to look someone else in the eyes in the bathroom mirror…

But at no point ever had someone told Kerry “if you don’t get this done, you’ll die”. Or, well… maybe at least not this blatantly, threateningly as Blue-Eyes had told V today. And no procedure had been as all-encompassing as the one to supposedly safe V’s life.

Was Kerry still the same man as ten, twenty years ago? Hell no, neither physically nor mentally. But he didn’t have too many positive feelings towards that Kerry anyway. He liked himself how he was like now, more or less. Most days. And he liked himself mostly, because V liked him the way he was. Including all the imperfections, the grey hairs and wrinkles, despite only being alive and making music still thanks to his abundant implants.

His hand slipped down and landed on the sink again. He broke eye contact with his reflection, looked down onto the black stainless steel, almost polished enough so he saw himself in its sheen as well. The main difference between their situations was really that, even though not all his implants had been absolutely necessary, only a handful truly life-changing and -saving, the change had come gradually. Over decades. Not over the course of a few days with a nice, medically induced coma in-between… That thought still freaked him out the most. How would it even work? Would he drop off V at the lab and then pick him up again a few days later like nothing had happened, noticing no difference? What would Blue-Eyes do with his “old” body afterwards – what a fucked-up thing to even put into words. And what if something went wrong in the whole process… Would they even let Kerry know? Just how they’d been so eager to let him know “by the way, the love of your life will have to launch himself into space for a highly sketchy suicide mission”.

He shuddered, rubbed his face once more, gently slapped his own cheeks to stop himself from overthinking, drifting off too much. He had to stay in the present. After a final, short glance into the mirror, Kerry stepped away and left the bathroom again.

He passed their bed and walked to the window to look outside, simultaneously opening his belt. He wantedd to slip into something more comfortable than military-grade cargo pants. It took him a moment, but he eventually spotted V sitting by the pool, one foot hanging into the water. The cat was nearby, playing on the lawn, but V paid her no mind. Kerry tossed his pants over a chair and snatched a pair of V’s ridiculously colorful joggers, and he went back downstairs after putting them on.

The flooring of the patio was still warm against his bare feet, even the grass on the way to the pool, dry and ticklish. Kerry carefully approached, a steaming mug in each hand, and cleared his throat from a distance as to not startle V too much. It worked, V turned his head quickly; and Kerry’s heart stung at seeing his eyes and nose reddish and swollen, his eyeliner a mess.

“Hey…” he said quietly, gently handing V one of the mugs as he reached him. V laughed weakly and took the cup with his healthy hand, sniffling and wiping his face with his other sleeve. He had both feet in the water now, his boots kicked off onto the lawn behind him.

“Thanks,” he said quietly as Kerry sat down next to him, legs crossed.

“Just some green tea, nothin’ fancy,” he said, trying his best to hold himself back, not be too in V’s face and personal space just yet, “But the good ‘ganic stuff you like.”

“Yeah, I can smell that,” V chuckled without looking up from his mug, swirling it slightly.

Kerry took a sip from his own, then scooched slightly closer to V so their shoulders touched. V didn’t flinch back or otherwise indicated he needed distance still, which was something at least. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, Night City’s colorful skyline reflected in the blue-glowing pool. The night was loud and quiet at the same time.

“Sorry that I told you to shut up,” V eventually said.

“Nah, it’s okay,” Kerry waved.

“No, it’s not…”

“No, really, V, it’s fine. I was pushin’ it. I’m not mad.”

There was a short pause.

“Still could’ve been nicer ‘bout it,” V insisted then, also drinking from his tea now.

Stubborn as always, but that was just one of the many things Kerry loved so much about him. If he’d set out to do something, V would move heaven and hell to accomplish it. At least, so far he always had.

Eventually, V leaned over to rest his head on Kerry’s shoulder. Kerry’s heart was close to exploding, with love and with pain and every other emotion he’d ever felt. He reached out to wrap his right arm loosely around V’s back.

“We had a good run,” V then said quietly, but he could’ve just punched him right in the throat instead.

Kerry swallowed hard, bit his lip.

“Yeah…” he then just nodded. He took a deep breath.

“Maybe… sleep on it, before you make a final decision?” he added, his voice almost giving in. But he’d forever hate himself if he didn’t at least try to talk this through. Together, like they should.

“I mean… I don’t wanna pressure you I’m just… You really had high hopes for this, invested so much time…”

And time truly was the most valuable resource V had left to give right now.

“I honestly don’t know what I expected,” V then said without looking up, voice and expression tired, defeated, “But not… this.”

“It could be a chance,” Kerry carefully insisted, “I mean, don’t wanna know what kinda price tag this tech would have on the free market.”

“I don’t think this is something intended to be readily available for everyone as long as they got deep enough pockets,” V said, “I think they pick and choose their ‘clients’ very carefully.”

“But… ah, fuck,” Kerry sighed and now V sat up straight again, put his mug down, and reached out to gently turn Kerry’s head, have him look him in the eyes.

“Kerry… I can’t,” he said, with a seriousness and conviction that broke Kerry’s heart, “I… if someone had come to me with an opportunity like this ten years ago, I’d jumped at it. Sign me the fuck up, a body however I want it without any immediately visible downsides? There’s probably millions of people who’d love this, for just as many reasons. But…”

He let his hand sink, placed it around Kerry’s holding onto his own mug still.

“I’ve been through hell and back with his body. This is my body, this is who I am. I already couldn’t give it to Johnny, I could never just… hand it over to these people. Exchange it for a copy – a good one, presumably – but a copy nonetheless. My mind already doesn’t feel like my own anymore some days.”

Kerry didn’t know what to say in response for a moment.

“Maybe,” he wondered, “You wouldn’t notice a difference.”

“Maybe,” V shrugged, “But what if you did?”

Kerry gasped. That horrifying thought hadn’t even occurred to him yet. He had clearly noticed V’s behavioral changes over the last weeks, sneaking into their routines and conversations. Would he move differently around the house, feel like someone else, a stranger, when Kerry only sensed his presence in another room? Would all his little moles and freckles still be in the right spots where he loved to tease and touch him? Would his hair, his skin still smell the same? Hell, would sleeping with him still feel the same, his lips, his mouth, his breath, his kisses?

And what if not?

V withdrew his hand and looked back across the water, to the skyscrapers on the other side of the street canyon.

“You’ve known me without Johnny longer than with him now. And you didn’t know me before. But lemme tell you, I was a different person then either way.”

“People change,” Kerry said in an attempt to ease the tangible tension. They were held together by a rubber band only just not snapping yet.

“Not like this, no,” V shook his head vehemently, “People normally don’t come back from the dead in the first place – twice – and they don’t come back unchanged. And also, even if Blue-Eyes has a new and better Soulkiller up his sleeve, going through that again… That almost disturbs me more than knowing that my scars will be fake, my tattoos, my entire existence...”

He sighed, ran his hand through his hair and paused. Then he pulled his feet out of the water and turned around to fully face Kerry now, rolled up his right sleeve and extended his bare arm. V had a small, faded tattoo of the Ursa Major constellation on his biceps that he pointed to.

“That little stick-and-poke will no longer have been done by a former friend when we were 17 and he was piss-drunk. That’s why it’s crooked. Not ‘cause some machine perfectly copied the shapes and the color of the ink he used,” he explained, “They’re gonna use fine tattoo needles or even a thermal laser instead of the thick piercing needle we’d bought from a shady Ripper. They’ll just replicate how it looks, without the memories attached, and if my mind doesn’t end up completely fried, I’ll always know that.”

His hands wandered to his chest, grabbed at his t-shirt.

“These scars won’t be uneven because I went back to work too early instead of resting my ass two weeks longer, scared Jenkins would make me obsolete otherwise. With that new body they’ll be uneven ‘cause a computer just generated them like that, however they’re even gonna do it. If they even let me keep them…”

His fingers traced along the cyberware on his throat.

“What is this even going to be apart from fashionware? Is my voice going to be the same as it is now, will I have to go through a voice break again, am I gonna sound different cause everything is just artificially reproduced, copied, the ‘ganic parts of my body and the cyberware?”

Then he pointed to his temple, eyes gleaming ice-cold in the pale blue pool lights.

“Even the scar on my head from fuckin’ Dex’ bullet is going to be fake.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, struggling with that so distant yet still so present memory. Then he looked back up at Kerry, continuing to point his finger against his temple in a way Kerry did not like all, his heart was racing.

“All these stories are going to be lies, if I go through with this procedure,” V said angrily, desperately, “What does that make me in the end? The more often you copy somethin’, the more little fragments get lost or change forever. How many copies does it take for me to completely lose myself, to fully destroy the little bits and pieces that are left of me, still visible through the blur that’s taken over my life ever since I walked out of Mikoshi?”

He suddenly winced, his hand still at his temple now grabbing onto his own hair tightly, and he closed his eyes as he hunched over in pain.

“V!”, Kerry almost dropped his mug to quickly grab V’s shoulders, scared he might collapse into the pool if he didn’t hold him.

“It’s… it’s fine,” V groaned, “I think I puked out all the pills earlier.”

“I can go inside and get ‘em for ya real quick,” Kerry suggested, still on high alert, but V carefully shook his head.

“No, I’ll…” he paused, “It’s okay.”

I’ll live, is what he wanted to say. It was like all air was sucked from Kerry’s lungs.

“V just…” he tried his best to keep it together. He had to remind himself that in the end V was the one to truly face the full consequences of this decision. And yet…

“Promise me to think it over. I mean, fuck, yeah… it’s creepy and scary as hell. But at least give it a night’s rest.”

“Kerry, I won’t change my mind… and I think I made it clear, why.”

“Please. For me,” he begged, no longer able to hide his pain. He pulled V into his arms, held him too tightly really, pressed against his aching chest… But like this at least V wouldn’t see him hurting.

“Even if you don’t change your mind,” Kerry pleaded, “Think it over.”

V sighed, then hugged him back, buried his face against Kerry’s shoulder. He was stubborn as hell… deep down Kerry already knew his opinion would remain the same the next day. But he’d hold on to the hope for as long as he could. The only thing scarier than Mr. B’s proposal was the thought of waking up in a bed with V’s side of it empty.

The night was too quiet, too short. Kerry woke up every other hour, from intrusive thoughts and nightmares alike, each time making sure V was still beside him, still breathing. Every time he fell asleep again it was wondering how he could convince him, what arguments to bring forward, raking his brains for good, important reasons that could sway him after all. In a way, he was simultaneously trying to convince himself that this was a good idea, a good plan to move forward with.

When the sun began to rise, the room felt like the pool the night before, cold, plunged into pale blue light. Kerry turned over for the thousandth time, watching the silhouette of V’s chest rise and fall for a while. His eyes were burning with tiredness, his stomach hurt from hunger, and he had a headache. The day could only get shittier from now on, and yet… Kerry tried to seize every awful, unpleasant second, burn it into his brain to not ever forget the peaceful sight ahead of him accompanying his pain and anger.

After a couple minutes he pondered whether he should peel himself out of bed, go for an early swim, make some breakfast for them both. Hell, he probably should’ve continued working on Shivers, because Lee would damn well call him soon enough about a timeslot to book a recording booth for. But all Kerry wanted was to stay in bed with V all day, all night, all week, forever.

But then V shuffled, turned around. Almost as if he’d sensed that Kerry had been watching him. His eyes opened slowly and after a short pause a soft smile appeared on his lips.

“Mornin’,” he then half-mumbled, half-yawned into his pillow, “Urgh… too early.”

“Yeah,” Kerry replied, voice scratchy with sleep still.

V sighed heavily and closed his eyes again, and Kerry scooched up to him, carefully sliding an arm under his head, the other around his shoulder. V slung his arms around Kerry’s waist in return and nuzzled his face against the crook of Kerry’s neck. Their chests were close like this, only just not touching, but Kerry could’ve sworn to feel the slow and steady rhythm of V’s heartbeat anyway.

The question whether or not he’d changed his mind, might consider Mr. B’s offer after all, was burning on Kerry’s tongue. But at the same time, he didn’t want to ruin the moment. The peace and quiet of resting in his lover’s arms, safe and sound... More than a lover, really. V was his soulmate, however too cheesy that was to ever say it out loud.

“Wanna know what Judy said yesterday?” V then suddenly asked, voice muffled against Kerry’s chest.

“What?” Kerry asked back, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

V took a deep breath.

“She said… what if we’d just let it happen.”

Kerry couldn’t help himself but clutch V a little tighter.

“Just let… what happen?” he asked despite knowing the answer already.

“What if I’d stop running myself into the ground for a cure that doesn’t exist,” V added, very calmly and collected. Kerry swallowed heavily.

“Spend the time I still got with you. Not busting my ass for some creepy psychos’ secret agendas anymore.”

“V, I…” Kerry barely got the words out, but V interrupted him right away anyway.

“I know… I know,” he whispered, pressing himself against him even closer, so much so that Kerry could definitely feel his heart racing in his chest now, just as fast if not faster than his own.

“I don’t wanna lose you either,” V breathed against his skin, warm and soft, making Kerry shiver with fear, and love, and hurt, “But I’d rather have you for three more months, than just a couple days or weeks… Our time together interrupted by crazy gigs that could kill me even sooner cause I’m growing numb to their danger.”

The first sunrays finally climbed over the skyline outside, stretching to embrace Kerry and V, drive away the cold of the night.

“Remember the mornin’ after the yacht?” V asked.

“’Course I do.”

Kerry would never forget that morning. That whole day really. Probably the most perfect day he’d experienced in his entire, too-long life he’d lived.

They’d woken up in V’s old apartment together, and hell, it had been hard to keep their hands off each other that morning. The night before they’d fucked, and it had been good, cathartic even… But that morning they’d made love to each other, romantic as fuck, so many little kisses and touches and whispers. It had been so good, healing, just right. Then they’d had to get ready together in that tiny, cramped bathroom, and gone for breakfast at a diner around the corner ‘cause H10 didn’t have any decent coffee shops at the time. Kerry had been wearing some of V’s clothes that he’d borrowed him, his favourite t-shirt, and some worn out boots because it had been the only pair somewhat fitting Kerry. Then they just spent hours talking, driving around the city, really getting to know each other, beyond all the Relic-crap and Us-Cracks-drama. Kerry still remembered how everything had clicked right into place with V. How having him around felt like finally being understood, as if they’d known each other all their lives already. V told him later that he fell in love with him for good that morning. Thinking back now, Kerry could only second this. Even though it had taken them another month and a half to finally say it out loud. Kerry really hadn’t wanted to go home that day, part ways, but V promised he’d be there for the night again. And he always kept his promises…

“That morning,” V continued, “With all the uncertainty at the time still… not knowing whether I’d see the next week, the next day, one thing I knew for sure. Whatever time I’d’ve left, I wanted to spend it with you. And I think I lost sight of that thought these last few months. Time to remember it again.”

“Fuck,” was all that Kerry managed to utter, as he closed his eyes and clung to V, forehead against forehead, V hissing in pain just slightly but not backing away, leaning into Kerry’s touch even more instead.

“Yeah,” V said then said, voice brittle, “Fuck all of this so hard.”

Neither of them had a great desire to get up, let alone get anything done that day. They fell back asleep for a little while, basking in each other’s and the sun’s warmth. But past a certain time, V’s phone started ringing every couple of minutes and it just wouldn’t stop. Clients, old and new, an unknown number that could’ve been Mr. B trying to play his little games again, other Fixers trying to check in whether V was still in business, still alive even. At this point, V was used to their occasional teasing, but it was also beginning to get old. About an hour into the terror, in a spontaneous fit of frustration, V grabbed his phone from the nightstand and chucked it down the gallery. That finally earned him a hint of a smile back from Kerry.

“Bet I can toss mine further?” he instantly challenged.

“I’m not gonna go and measure, so I’ll just have to believe it I guess,” V shrugged with a smirk and Kerry huffed.

“Just scared you’ll lose against a guy three times your age.”

“Mh-hm, that’s it, for sure.”

Kerry sat up, his phone in hand already, aimed, and launched it towards the kitchen area. V didn’t see it, but certainly heard the shattering of ceramics as it hit its target in the shape of yesterday’s mugs in the sink.

“Impressive,” he chuckled as Kerry raised his arms victoriously, then let himself fall back into the pillows.

“Years of practice,” Kerry nodded proudly, then he scooched closer to V again, pulling him back into his embrace. V half expected him to try and start making out, which he wouldn’t have been in the mood for. But instead, Kerry hesitated. His fingertips began to trace along the lines of V’s chest tattoo, then to his shoulder, down his arm. He wasn’t sure what Kerry was looking at, everything, anything. There was an alertness in his eyes paired with an immense heaviness, carefulness in his movements. Like an archeologist unearthing an ancient artifact.

“You good?”

Kerry blinked, then softly shook his head.

“Tryin’ to come to terms with it still, I think,” he then said, “Will take some time.”

V’s heart sank, because Kerry not coming to terms with his death would worry him until the day was here. Suddenly though, Kerry’s eyes lit up, just as his hand reached the cast on V’s wrist.

“What about that doctor? Fuentes?” he perked up.

“What about her?” V asked, a little confused.

Kerry froze for a second, then he sat back up again, making a “what the fuck” kind of face at him that V didn’t appreciate.

“What about her… She said she wanted to help, obviously?”

V sighed. He carefully sat up as well. His muscles were still sore, but it was getting better each day.

“I think she said somethin’ more like ‘lemme poke around in your head ‘cause I’ve never seen anything like this before’.”

Kerry shrugged.

“Even if so,” he said, “What does it hurt lettin’ her have another look before we just… throw the towel for good?”

“Kerry…” V said, and he tried his best to remain calm, forcing his voice to stay low, “I’m not throwing the towel. I’m fuckin’ dying. And I’m tired of being poked and prodded and getting’ my hopes up only to be slapped in the face over and over again as soon as they say ‘sorry, couldn’t help you after all’.”

“Urgh!” Kerry sat up quite abruptly now, burying his face in his hands. He wasn’t crying, but distraught regardless.

“Make it make sense to me!” it then burst out of him, and he dropped his hands, “Please, because I really don’t get it!”

“Didn’t I just do exactly that?” V shrugged and he also sat up fully.

“You’re this close to the finish line,” Kerry pinched his fingertips together, “And you just wanna give up, is what I’m seein’. ‘Cause you’re too stubborn to see your choices are affecting the people around you just as much!”

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” V started to become infected by Kerry’s sudden sour mood, “Are you seriously pulling the ‘you don’t love me anymore if you don’t do what I want’ card on me now? ‘Cause that’s really fuckin’ low, Eurodyne.”

Kerry looked away again, rubbed his face.

“Fuck, I… need a cigarette.”

And with that he slipped out of bed and was down the stairs faster than V could say something else.

“Yeah, really fuckin’ mature for a guy three times my age!” he called after him in a moment of weakness, but he bit his tongue the same instant. The patio door opened and closed shortly after. V slumped back into bed, slammed a pillow on his face. Then he screamed until his voice gave in.

Half an hour or so had passed until V’s blood pressure had settled again, pillow, cold and blocking out all light, still on his face. His head was throbbing to a point where his optics began glitching, some kind of feedback loop for sure. One of the many symptoms that were becoming more frequent again, reminding him a little too much of the Relic’s random malfunctions back when Johnny was still around. V drowsily sat up and rubbed his eyes, then reached for the pill bottles on the nightstand. There were the new pills specifically to ease the Relic’s symptoms, prescribed by Vik, and then the regular painkillers Fuentes had given him for the concussion and his other injuries. He figured his current symptoms called for Vik’s. He’d forgotten to take them again the night before after barfing his usual evening dose onto Blue-Eyes’s doorstep, so it made sense he felt like crap now. Just like yesterday though, he struggled to get the bottle open with just one useable hand.

“Can you fuckin’ believe it,” he muttered to himself, a habit hard to let go of. Even after three months he half-expected a snarky response from somewhere in the back of his mind still.

Special Agent V, Arasaka Counterintelligence. Cannot even make it past child-safe packaging, would’ve surely been Johnny’s way to cheer him on right now.

“Shut up,” V responded almost automatically, only in his mind this time, and he began to wonder if this was what going crazy felt like. It sure as hell had felt like it back when this all was still fresh.

He still couldn’t get the bottle open, so he sat it down on the floor on its side and stepped on it, slowly increasing his weight on it in the hopes the lid would pop off like that. The fucking thing was surprisingly sturdy for a regular pill bottle, but not sturdy enough in the long run. The lid came loose with much more force than V anticipated, shooting against the gallery’s balustrade with a bang, and the bottle instantly cracked and crunched under his sole.

“Argh, fuck!” he cursed and stepped back, the dark grey plastic mutilated, a couple of the shiny black and blue pills spilled onto the bedroom floor. V sighed, then slowly bent down much to the disagreement of his headache. He picked up the bottle and tried to squeeze it back into its original shape without success. A closer inspection of its insides also revealed that some of the pills had been squashed and reduced to crumbs. V groaned even louder, sat the bottle down, picked up the remaining spilled pills, and then took everything downstairs with him to the kitchen. He sat the broken bottle on the counter and began looking for a different container that he could open up more easily in the future.

As he went from cabinet to cabinet his eyes wandered outside briefly, catching a glimpse of Kerry. V had to pause and stare for a moment at the sight, breathtaking and heartbreaking at the same time, washing away all his lingering anger. Kerry was still butt naked, as they both usually were fresh out of bed. His form was engulfed in golden light like an ancient statue, the sun accentuated his muscular arms, his lean waist, the slight curve of his legs. The majestic illusion was only distorted by Kerry’s hunched over posture, elbows resting on the balcony rail, face buried in his hands, cigarette between his fingers slowly smoldering away unsmoked. V interrupted his search to walk outside, shielding his eyes from the sun as best as he could.

Kerry turned his head at the sound of the door sliding open, then rubbed his face, lowered his hands. V said nothing, just walked over to hug him from behind, resting his head on his shoulder again. Kerry reached up to caress V’s arm, leaned his own head against his.

“Dunno what’s gotten into me,” he said quietly, “Dunno what to do with myself, and now I’m lettin’ it out on you, of all people.”

“It’s okay,” V softly shook his head and started smiling.

“It’s not,” Kerry said, but then had to smile realizing V had been doing the same thing to him the night before.

“Bunch of gonks we are,” he added then.

V slowly withdrew a little to better see Kerry’s face, brushing his hand through his hair, stroking his cheek. He looked as tired and as in pain as V was.

“I’m so worried you’re getting your hopes up about this as much again as I did before with Blue-Eyes’ promise. As we both did with all the doctors you managed to rally. As I still do with Panam and the Aldecaldos keeping their eyes and ears open somewhere down in Arizona. It’s just… not looking good right now,” V paused, “I just… dunno anymore. What I’d do if one more doctor tells me ‘there’s nothing we can do’. And I’d hate to see you get torn apart by it as well, even more so than you are already by the situation as a whole.”

Kerry listened quietly without looking up at him.

“I think,” he then slowly begun, “In the long run… I’ll manage. Somehow. I mean, not like I haven’t before.”

He then tried to smile at V, but it wasn’t really convincing with his eyes all teary.

“You’re my fuckin’ soulmate, Vince. There, I said it,” Kerry’s voice was shaky, and V shuddered, cursed under his breath. He wanted to say something, anything in response, but his mouth, tongue, vocal cords disobeyed him, paralyzed like they were so often lately. So, he just reached out and held Kerry again, a little tighter than before.

“I thought Johnny was, too,” Kerry added quietly, “And in a weird and fucked up, mutually abusive way, I guess we were. And I managed, somehow, when he was gone. But it’s gonna be so fucking hard to lose you, too, and I’d like to be sure, when the day comes, that we’ve at least looked into all available options. I don’t mind if everythin’ blows up in our faces again, over and over. As long as I can look myself in the eyes still and say, with conviction: we tried our hardest. If I’m selfish for not wantin’ you to die, then fine. Maybe I am. I’d rather be selfish than as detached and uninvolved in life as I’ve been for the majority of the last 50 years.”

V didn’t quite know what to respond to all of that, whether he needed to respond at all. His heart was so full and so empty at the same time, aching with the pain in Kerry’s voice, aching with pride for him not wanting to fall back into old patterns even though he clearly still struggled with it.

Eventually he knew what to settle for though.

“Okay… If you wanna try, even if it’s another disappointment, then I’ll talk to Fuentes again. I mean… gotta go back to get rid of that fucking cast anyway soon…”

Kerry slowly withdrew, quickly wiped across his face with the back of his hand, but his smile seemed a bit more genuine now.

“Okay,” he nodded, then gave V a quick kiss.

“But not Blue-Eyes… I can’t do that, I just… I can’t,” he shook his head, slowly, to not increase a sudden onset of dizziness, “It’s too far removed from anything I’m comfortable with. From what would be compatible with my self-worth. My sense of self, even.”

Kerry nodded, kissed him again.

“Okay.”

V’s chest was still weighed down by fear and sorrow and regret, having wasted so much time and risked so much for Blue-Eyes’ mission. For the first time in weeks, he felt like he could think clearly again. He began to wonder now, after sleeping on this huge reveal for a night, how despite so many red flags, so much distrust on both sides, it had even come this far. Why was Blue-Eyes so keen on putting him into a body worth at least a couple million eddies? And why had V not seen any of this coming, continued to believe there would be a gentle, easy solution to all his problems offered by someone as deeply unsettling and shrouded in mystery as this man?

“Let’s go back inside before the first best media drones spot us ‘ere,” Kerry suggested with a soft nudge and V followed him inside. Kerry put out his cigarette in an ashtray sitting on the kitchen counter and noticed the half-destroyed pill bottle.

“What happened there?” he frowned and nodded in its direction.

“Told ya, cannot get rid of that fuckin’ cast soon enough,” V grumbled and simply grabbed his favourite mug as the pills’ new temporary home.

Since some of them were crushed, he emptied the old bottle onto the kitchen counter first, to sort out the pills that were still good. He could already hear Vik scolding him, because this kinda stuff was expensive and hard to get his hands on. Not like “anti-Relic-insanity-pills” were something sold in every pharmacy. Vik had told him what they were exactly before, chemical formula, use cases and whatnot. Some of their components were used as an experimental treatment for cyberpsychosis, throw in mood stabilizers, pain killers and bam, treatment plan a la Ripperdoc complete.

Not that these details were important. They eased V’s symptoms for now, and that was all that mattered.

Kerry stood to the side, making coffee for them both now, but he watched over his shoulder now and then to make sure V was alright. V quickly and carefully plucked the intact pills from the dust and crumbs, absent-minded at first, beginning to make a list in his head of other alternatives he and Kerry could try and follow still, beyond Blue-Eyes, Fuentes, whatever the Aldecaldos may or may not find.

He didn’t want to die, not like this, not yet. He wanted to die in dignity, on his own terms, ideally older than 30 – pick not more than two, though, because this was Night City after all. He felt the burning urge to scream well up in his chest again, so he took a deep breath. Then suddenly something pricked his index finger.

“Ow, what the – …“

A droplet of blood rapidly grew at his fingertip, as if he’d been stuck with a needle. But obviously, there was nothing like that on the counter, just pill crumbs. He resisted his first impulse to put his finger in his mouth, instead reached for a paper towel to dab the blood.

“What happened?” Kerry asked, mildly concerned.

“I… dunno,” V said, removed the towel again. He could only just make out something that seemed like a tiny metallic splinter stuck in his skin before it was swallowed by pooling blood again. He loosely wrapped the towel around his finger, careful not to apply too much pressure, just wanting to prevent a mess. His thoughts began to race as he looked closer at the crumbled pills on the counter. More tiny metal pieces shimmered among the grey dust, seemingly baked into the center of the pills. Invisible as long as the pills were intact. But they were also all a bit too uniform, too manufactured looking to be random impurities caused by a faulty production process….

“We gotta pay Vik a visit,” V slowly looked up and met Kerry’s concerned gaze, “Right now.”

*****************

>> Next Chapter

*****************

Notes:

Last time I wondered whether V and Kerry would behave and they promptly started fighting ;A; Ngl, I cried a lot writing all of this, I don't like writing them fighting and upset (but also I love it, and I mean, they have their reasons and just suck at spelling them out).

No Judy cameo just yet, but we're getting there, I promise! Next time we first gotta pay our favourite Ripperdoc a visit and hopefully he can do some explaining on those "new pills" (<- inspo for these comes from one possible line Kerry has in the Sun ending!)

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#cyberpunk 2077 #cp2077 #cyberpunk #cyberpunk fanfic #cyberpunk 2077 fanfic #cp2077 fanfic #cyberpunk v #male v cyberpunk #cyberpunk kerry #kerry eurodyne x v #kerry eurodyne #cyberpunk 2077 spoilers #otp: to bad decisions #vincent ezaki #my writing #love is stored in the olive jar

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motherodysseus · 1 year

Text

Ptolemaea - Chapter 1

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Original Stark Female Character (Alysanne Stark)

Warnings: Violence, language, sexual innuendo, length of text (lol)

Summary: Lady Alys remains behind as her brother rallies support from the lords of the North. On her nameday, a tourney for her hand ensues, one she intends to win. But danger is around every corner. Will she survive long enough to unite with her Velaryon cousins?

Author's note: Sorry this took so long. Turns out, editing your own work is liable to engender insanity!!! This one is a bit of doozy in length (I swear, I cut plenty), but hey, there was a lot to set up! Could I have split it into two chapters? Maybe. But where's the fun in that!? Besides, we have a Rogue Prince to meet. I hope you enjoy, and, as always, your comments, thoughts and feedback are most welcome!

“My lady, we must hurry. Your Uncle will be cross if he finds you’ve been away too long. We were only supposed to take a ride, after all.”

Alys rolls her eyes. Mikken Reed is a kind boy, if not a bit irksome. House Stark’s newest ward, the future heir of Greywater Watch is young, only having nine summers on him, and tiny yet; he does not even clear her chest. This has not deterred the boy from latching onto her skirts, thinking himself her gallant knight and protector. Alys is quite capable of protecting herself, but she is happy to indulge him. Usually. Here in her meadow, however, the real world and all its accompanying burdens have no place. This makes his reminder most unwelcome.

Found in the heart of the Wolfswood, the glade is dotted with wildflowers and the occasional oak and rowan tree. A brook cuts through like a vein, water trickling over the stones and strewn branches from trees long since fallen and rotted away. The sweet perfume of honeysuckles and primroses, and the dew that coats them each morn, are Alys’s favorite scent, second only to the winter rose.

Alys was but eight summers when she discovered this place, after running away from her lessons with Muña. At the time, she had no interest in learning to sew, or to dance, or to play the harp, or to manage a household. She’d much prefer to be in the training yard with her brother – a place she was barred from, on the unfortunate account of her being a girl.

Alys was never one to care for rules, especially ones that made little sense. While the boys would practice at swordplay with Vayon Cassel, master-at-arms, she would sneak into the armory to fetch a bow, and teach herself how to shoot. Each time she was caught, she would be brought before her father. She’d beg and plead with him, but the yard was no place for a lady, he said, sending her from his solar back along to her mother, with red knuckles and a sore heart.

Indignant and embittered, Alys decided to prove herself. She stole a bow and quiver full of arrows, had Nan the cook make her a picnic, saddled her pony Wynafryd – a beautiful black courser gifted to her by her Uncle Corlys – and galloped straight out of the safety of the Keep’s walls.

Once she found this place, she built a shelter from fallen branches she found along the forest line, weaved a crown of wildflowers and named herself Queen of the Wolfswood. She held a coronation feast for one, gorging herself on the treats Nan provided.

It took her parents a night and day to find her. When the Lord and Lady Stark finally laid eyes upon their wayward daughter, they were shocked to find the little kingdom she had created.

“There is no denying it, my lord husband,” Valaena said, dropping down from her horse and scooping Alys into her arms, hugging her close as she brushed brambles from her dress. “Your daughter has the wolf’s blood in her. Or perhaps this is not our daughter at all; rather, some little fae creature we have on her hands. Tell me, riñitsos, are you a changeling or mine own daughter?”

“I’m no changeling, Muña. I am your daughter, the Queen of the Wolfswood! See?” Alys asked, pointing to her crown, slightly wilted and askew, tangled in her mass of dark curls from a night spent abed the soft grass. Valaena laughed again, peppering her face with kisses.

Rickon dismounted so that he could join his wife and daughter in a much-needed embrace; the search having frayed his nerves. “Aye, that you are, Your Grace. But a Queen cannot simply disappear without informing her loyal subjects.” Alys scrunched her face, turning from her father to hide in the crook of her mother’s neck.

Rickon brushed the back of her head softly, reaching in between mother and daughter to cup her cheeks and bring her eyes back to his. “You had your mother and I worried sick, Alysanne. You must swear to me never to run off like this again.”

Alys’s lips quivered, but she did not back down. “I will swear it, but only if you swear you will allow me to train, Papa. Else, I shall be forced to make my home out here, and you shan’t look upon me again.”

Rickon locked eyes with Valaena over Alys’s head. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You drive a hard bargain, little wolf. After you serve your punishment, I’ll see what I can do.”

Alys, true to her word, served her punishment without complaint. She swore a full commitment to her lessons with both mother and Maester, and suffered through two moon turns without riding or sweets, nor playing with Holly, her closest companion. Not that Holly was interested, for she was quite cross that Alys would dare to run off without bringing her along. Nothing could mend the rift until Alys agreed to make a blood oath, swearing to never again adventure without her. The scar is still visible on her palm, and it is one she cherishes. By sharing blood, they were made sisters. Alys, though she loved her brothers dearly, had always wanted a sister.

Her father, true to his own word, allowed her to train – though she never was welcome in the training yard. He would make time each week to take Alys and Holly out to the meadow. He taught them how to carve their own bows and string them, and trained the two how to shoot himself. When their skills surpassed his own knowledge, he sent for an archery instructor from across the Narrow Sea, swearing him to secrecy so the girls could continue to learn.

Shaking herself from her reveries, she looks back to the boy. “Oh, a pox on my uncle, Mikken! And what have I told you? You need not call me ‘my lady’ or ‘Lady Alys’ outside the Keep. Here, I am simply Alys.” She turns to face her fiery-haired friend. “Now, Holly, what say you? One more round of roving marks?”

“I say the little lord makes a point. No time left for all that – let’s aim once more for the target and then make our way back to the Keep.”

“Fine,” Alys huffs. “First one to hit the center gets their pick of dessert from the kitchens?”

“Challenge accepted, your Ladyship,” she says, leaning in with an exaggerated bow.

Holly herself never much cared for the pageantry of lords and titles, preferring to poke fun whenever she could. They are not her way, for she was born North-of-the-Wall to a wildling mother. When Holly’s mother was put to the sword, the Lady Valaena protected the girl, insisting she join her daughter’s household. Holly never forgot the kindness, even if she often forgot herself in the face of nobility and their “silly Southern customs.”

Bennard thought Holly a bad influence, attempting to separate them when he took over the regency of Winterfell. But the Lady Valaena stood firm. “Woe be to any man who would tear apart sisters,” she said, “whether they be borne or made.”

Bastard, thinks Alys, Should he ever try to take her from me, I’ll show him what a Lady is truly made of.

The girls nock their arrows, aiming for the mounds. “Mikken, count us down,” Alys insists.

“But, my lady, we will get in trouble if– ”

“‘Tis not an invitation to argue, Mikken! And what did I say about titles? Now, if you would please count us down.”

“Yes, my lady – I mean, Lady Alys. I mean, Alys!” Mikken squeaks, as his hands twist the reins of their horses. Poor lad. I am too harsh. It is not fair to unleash my nerves upon him.

“Loose your arrows on one! Three, two…”

Alys takes a breath, and eye falling shut as she narrows on the target.

“One!” Mikken shouts. Alys has already released her quiver, as has Holly; neither girl is above a bit of treachery when they compete against the other. Their arrows whistle through the air. Alys squints, holding a hand over her brow to shield herself from the sun’s glare, attempting to follow their trajectory. She loses sight for but a moment, until she hears the telltale thwap-thwap.

“I cannot tell from here, it’s too far to see clear, and the arrows too close to call a winner,” Holly says. “Should we send your little squire to check?”

Alys considers it, but the sun is nearing its midpoint; they are cutting it close. “Nay, I think he has suffered enough this morn. Let us make our way back. You may choose the dessert; I care not.”

“You care not because you know Nan is already preparing all your favorite sweets,” Holly says, bumping her shoulder. “Oh to be a Stark girl on her name day!” She declares, twirling about in some mockery of a dance, pulling Alys along with her.

“Almost name day!” Alys says, giggling as she joins in. She turns and twirls with head upturned to the sun, following the tune of the brook behind her and the magpies overhead. There is a bite in the air, despite the fact that it is the twentieth day of the sixth moon of the year. Under the warmth of the sun, however, she can close her eyes and pretend that summer will last forever. Or, for a little while longer, at least.

As she steadies, reality finally forces itself upon this once inviolable space. Her stomach twists, mood blackening instantly. If all does not go to plan, this could be my final name day as the ‘Stark girl.’ Steeling herself, Alys puts on a smile, giving Holly a little shove as she makes her way back to the tree line.

She approaches Mikken. Up close, she can mark the strain her words put upon him in his creased brow and his slim shoulders that now rest firmly next to his ears.

She bends down to meet him. “Mikken, I owe you an apology for the way I spoke. It was unbecoming and cruel; I’m sorry for it. I know that you were only trying to look out for me.”

His bottom lip juts out, eyes fixed firmly on his boots. Alys places a hand to his shoulder, giving him a squeeze. “You know, it takes a brave man to stand up to those in power when he knows they are in the wrong. You will make a fine knight one day, and an even better Lord. It is an honor I do not take lightly, to watch you grow into both.”

“Do you truly mean it?” he whispers.

“I am not in the habit of saying things I do not mean, Mikken,” Alys whispers back conspiratorially. At this, he cracks a smile. “There he is,” Alys says, knocking his chin so that she can see his eyes. “Now, what say you to a little race back to Hunter’s Gate? Whoever makes it through first, can have the first bite of sweets. I heard a rumor that there will be apple tarts and stewed plums.”

Mikken brightens at this, and rushes to untie the horses.

“You are good with him, Alys. Your mother would be proud,” says Holly, who has snuck up to her side. Gods, she’s silent as a wraith when she wants to be.

“Thank you for saying so. Though, I wonder if she would be proud of the spectacle I shall be forced to make of myself tomorrow,” she muses, turning back toward the clearing.

Holly grabs her hand, the scars upon their palms brought together. It is a gesture of comfort, and she relishes in it. She knows me better than I know myself, as all sisters do. “Aye Alys, she would be proud, and you know it. These are nerves talking, not reason.”

“Perhaps,” is all Alys could muster.

Holly studies her closely, but decides not to push. A first. She takes Alys’s bow from her, and goes to hide it in the brush alongside her own. Task complete, she turns back to her friend. “Come, if you think I shall let you win this race because you’ve decided to mope, you’re sorely mistaken.”

This jab is enough to make Alys smile. “Pray tell, Holly – when have you ever let me win?”

Holly ponders for a moment. “I’m certain there was a time or two, but I can’t recall them just now. Now, will you mount or will you give me a head start?” she asks, as she takes her palfrey’s reins from Mikken.

“Take it, Holly, for you shall need it anyhow!” Alys crows. Holly laughs as she mounts her horse, whom she named – Gods, of all things – Squirrel. Alys did attempt to reason with her, pointing out the absurdity of such a name, but Holly would not be moved. “'Tis is a funny name for him, but it fits. Squirrels are quick and agile. Is he not those things, too?”

Alys takes one last look upon her meadow. She cannot help but feel that today is an ending of sorts. She sighs, turning to Mikken. He hands her riding gloves over. Newly made for her, they are black as night, as is the rest of her new wardrobe. It may be her name day tomorrow, but she is still deep in mourning.

Mikken is bursting with energy. He bounces on the balls of his feet, anxious to join the race. It is his eagerness that deals a final blow to Alys’s melancholy. “Come, I’ll help you mount.”

She approaches Wynafryd, now as tall as any Lord’s war horse. Folding her hands together, she bends down to give him a boost. He scrambles into the saddle as Alys places a foot in the stirrup, launching herself behind him. She bundles Mikken tightly to her front, reaching around him for the reins.

“Are you settled, Mikken? We have ground to make up, it seems.”

“Aye, Lady Alys! Make haste!”

She chuckles. My, is he not an imperious little lordling when competition is afoot. She gives Wynafryd a gentle kick, and clucks at her. “Onward, girl!” They race through the wood, Mikken whooping all the way.

As soon as Hunter’s Gate comes into view, Alys spots Holly. That hair could be seen miles away, kissed by fire as it is. She leans in, forcing Mikken to do the same. “Come on, girl!” she shouts as she nudges the horse into a gallop, pushing her full tilt towards the gate.

It is not long before they overtake her, barreling through the gate a few yards before she does. Really, it is not fair, even with the extra weight. Squirrel may be quick but he is no match for Wynafryd, in size or speed. Mikken’s cheer is contagious. Alys’s cheeks hurt from grinning, flushed as they are from activity. She slows Wynafryd to a trot, making her way past the kennels and kitchen, around the Library Tower, and toward the stables.

She leads her horse into the paddock, as the stable boys rush in to aid her dismount. She passes Mikken down first, before swinging her leg over and leaping to the ground. Holly and Squirrel enter the paddock soon after.

“It was a close race, Alys. One of these days, Squirrel will overtake Wynafryd, I’m certain of it.”

“Aye, and the pigs will sprout wings and take off in flight,” Alys snorts.

Mikken interrupts them. “May we go to the kitchens now, Lady Alys?”

Alys rolls her eyes, but her smile does not abate. “Aye, Mikken, we may. Run along ahead, and tell Nan I’ve sent you. You were first through the gate, which means the first sweet is yours.” The boy does not need to be told twice; quick as a rabbit, he runs back toward the kitchens.

“It seems you’ve had an eventful morning, my lady.” Alys turns to see Maester Lymon leaning against the paddock fence, green eyes twinkling. A genial old man, Lymon is like another father to her. He is a grounding presence in her life, always encouraging her learning and supporting her throughout any trial. The Citadel may not allow women into their ranks, but her Maester does not share their qualms about the fairer sex.

“That I have, Maester. How did you know I was gone?”

His tone is firm, but his eyes remain warm. “I didn’t, that is until I saw you flying through the gate from my solar; like a bat from the seven hells, no less.”

Alys pulls her gloves from her hands, and makes her way to him. “I had no choice – Mikken would have been aggrieved if we had not won the race. Apple tarts were on the line, so he cannot be blamed for it.”

Lymon laughs. “No, I suppose he can’t. You, however, can. We still have much to discuss ahead of our guests’ arrival. I’ve come to escort you to the Library so that we may talk logistics. Perhaps the boy will be kind enough to save you some sweets for when we are finished?”

“I think it unlikely,” she grumbles. My respite is at its end, it seems. “Holly, go on ahead to the kitchens without me. And do try to ensure Mikken does not take advantage of Nan’s good nature to eat his weight in sweets – Vayon will be cross with me if I’ve slowed down his newest recruit.”

“Aye, I can try, but I’ll make no promise of it,” Holly says, handing Squirrel’s reins to the stable boy and making a quick escape. She doesn't mind the Maester, but she was never one for lessons. “I’ll learn by doing, not by reading,” she said once, never returning to be taught thereafter.

Alys and Lymon walk in an amiable silence as she takes in the din of the grounds. Nearing noon, Winterfell is alive with activity, its inhabitants bustling about in preparation for their incoming guests. The stable boys are bucking hay, and burly men roll barrels of ale toward the Great Hall. Maids flitter about, bringing fresh linens and candles to the Guest House, gossiping all the way.

It is Lymon who breaks their silence. “I’ll not ask where you were, my lady, but may I make the rather safe assumption that you were preparing for tomorrow’s contest?”

“Aye, you may,” she concedes.

“And did you consider the risks, should you have been caught?”

“Aye, I did.” She pauses, before continuing in a hushed tone. “I found the necessity outweighed the risks. Besides, Bennard has been quite occupied these last few days, preparing to welcome my future husband, ‘whomever he may be,” she scoffs. “As if we are all unaware of his preference.”

Lymon hums in agreement. “We shall speak more on it in the Library.” Alys nods– it would not do to have one of Bennard’s lickspittles overhear. He banned her several summers ago from training, after all. If he were to be made aware of my rebellion, especially before the contest; well, it simply would not do.

The pair climb the steps outside the tower. She allows Lymon to go first so that she may keep an eye on him. Now reaching an age where stairs become a struggle, he takes them slowly, grumbling as his bones creak. I worry for him. If I manage to succeed tomorrow, it would be best to take our lessons in the Maester’s Turret, or mayhaps the Glass Gardens; the warmth would be better on his joints.

They arrive at the top, entering into the cavernous space which holds a thousand and one tomes, covering every inch of the rounded walls. She runs her fingers over the weathered spines, inhaling deep. The smell of leather, old parchment and dust soothes her.

The Maester also shares her love of this place, if not for the sheer delight in the library’s collection, then for the privacy it provides. No one enters this tower but the two of them. Bennard and his degenerate sons are far from learned, having preferred the training yard as most Northern second sons – and sons of second sons – seem to. It is one of the only places within Winterfell in which they may speak freely.

Lymon does not beat around the brush. “‘Tis a dangerous game you play, my lady. I worry for you. With your brother not yet returned from Last Hearth, there is no one here who may protect you, should you fail.”

“Come now, Maester – have you such little faith in your favorite pupil?” she asks, attempting a jape. It falls flat. Lymon grunts as he sits at the table, chains clinking. He motions her to join him before unfurling a parchment that holds a map of the North. He reaches into the wide sleeves of his robe, pulling out game pieces. Nay, not game pieces – they are direwolves.

“Let us review again, Lady Alys. We’ve secured allegiances for your brother’s cause from Houses Reed, Karstark, Manderly, Mormont, the Flint’s of Widow’s Watch, Hornwood, Cerwyn and Forrester,” he states, positioning a direwolf piece over each of the respective holdfasts. “I think we can assume he will succeed with House Umber, for they have always answered the call.” He places a direwolf over Last Hearth before moving back to his sleeve, this time pulling from them not direwolves, but sheep.

“But that leaves several houses in Bennard’s camp,” he says as he scatters the sheep across the map, “the strongest and most dangerous being House Bolton. Should Lord Bolton’s son Mervyn succeed in the tournament tomorrow, it would not be a shock if your Uncle were to force you to marry him that very night, to ensure their allegiance to his cause.”

Alys huffs. “First – it is simply inconceivable that I would marry a man named Mervyn. Besides, Mervyn will not succeed. I am sure he is fine with a bow, but I am better. Second – the other houses attending who are sworn to us would not stand for it.” Her voice is confident, but the direction of this conversation is beginning to unnerve her.

“‘The houses will not have a choice in the matter,” Lymon hisses. “Your brother took his most loyal men with him to ‘settle disputes amongst the great houses.’ Bennard is not stupid, he knows that Cregan is rallying support. Without the men, or your brother to lead them, they will not interfere. You also risk insulting those who have sworn fealty, should you beat their sons in this contest. The lords are loyal, but they are also prideful. If they take offense, Bennard will fan the flames.”

Alys rubs her hands down her face, groaning. “That is unfair! It is not as if I asked for any of this!” She regrets the childish words, for they incense the Maester instantly.

“You did ask for this, Alys! You did!” His palm slams against the table, several pieces tumbling.

“Maester –”

“No, do not deny it! I know your hand was forced, Alys. To attempt to announce an unagreed-upon betrothal at your lady mother’s funeral was, is, a travesty. But you stood up in front of Gods and men at that feast, and offered your hand to whichever lord could best you on the archery field. Rather than practice logic, as I have taught, or patience, as your lady mother taught, you reacted with your emotions. You asked for this.”

Tears prick her eyes. How is it that a proper scolding can make me feel as if I am not but a tall child? Lymon is not one to raise his voice, and it pains her to have aggrieved him so. It also pains her that he is right.

“I apologize, my lady,” he mutters. “I did not mean to shout.”

Alys waves him off. “‘Twas not undeserved.”

She twists her mother’s signet ring, staring at the carving of her entwined sigils. I cannot tell if this grounds me, or if it upsets me. I wish she were here with me, she would know what to do. “So what you are telling me is in either scenario – win or lose – we still lose. Do I have that correct?”

“Yes, that’s the long and short of it,” Lymon sighs.

Alys swallows. “Well, fuck.”

The curse shocks them both, for Alys seldom uses profanity. Lymon snorts, and the sound alone is enough to send her into a fit of giggles. They tumble together headlong into hysterics. As soon as one wrests control back over their senses, they make eye contact and the fit begins anew. It only ends when they are firmly out of breath, sides pinching and tears streaming.

“Is there not a chance that they might be impressed by me?” Alys asks, wiping her eyes and righting herself. “For winning back mine own hand, which was already supposed to be mine by rights?” In truth, she knows the answer, but is desperate enough to ask.

“I suppose a small one,” Lymon considers. “Several houses have, or have had, ladies lead them. And most still recognize your father’s word as, if not law, then bond. But – whether we agree with them or not – most still see a lady’s place as in the home. Wedded, producing heirs, keeping house; not besting boys in the art of war. Or, one of the arts, at least. We will have to count ourselves lucky if they perceive it as a rebellion against your uncle –”

“Which it is,” she counters.

“Yes, but it is as likely, if not more so, that they will take offense. We can’t presume that they will see it for what it truly is: a disavowal of Bennard’s unlawful hold on Winterfell,” he concludes.

Frustrated, Alys drops her head into her hands, fingers tugging at her hair. She wishes to growl, to scream, to rip at her hair or slam her fists on the table. To do anything to act upon her feelings. Instead, she takes a deep breath, then another, working to calm the tumult of her emotions. Perhaps one more breath would do.

She sets her hands back on the table, folding them together to keep from fidgeting. “Is there any other option?” she asks. “Any possibility of getting through this unscathed?” And unwed?

“There is one. You will not like it,” says the Maester, lips drawn thin.

“Tell me.”

“You run. No, do not interrupt,” he insists before Alys can speak. “I know you have been in near constant contact with the Lady Laena and your Aunt, the Princess Rhaenys, since your mother’s passing. I am the one who sends your letters, after all. I took it upon myself to send my own raven to your Uncle, Lord Corlys, making him aware of your plight – something you neglected to share with him, or any of them, it would seem.”

Aye, because until this moment, I assumed that I had this in hand. Arrogant, mayhaps, but it is the truth. Lymon must find her silence encouraging, for he pushes on.

“He and the Princess Rhaenys have agreed to take you in as their ward. It is not customary, I know, but they are one of the most powerful houses in the Seven Kingdoms; soon to be made more so with the wedding of Laenor to the Princess of Dragonstone. They will have the security of the Crown behind them, and they can protect you until Cregan secures his seat. You would also be in a position to advocate for aid, if not from the Crown, then from your uncles. Docking the Velaryon fleet at White Harbor would be a show of force, and discourage the lords that back Bennard against a coup.”

Alys takes in Lymon’s counsel. My Maester has been hard at work, it seems. It is a clever, nay, brilliant plan. But it is an unacceptable one.

Alys sighs. “If I abandon my house, and my brother, what message does that send? And, should I run, what is to stop Bennard from closing the gates to us? A few hundred men can hold Winterfell, even if ten thousand set upon its gates. Winter is Coming; all he’ll need to do is wait us out.”

She looks upon the signet once more, brushing a finger over the seahorse. “As tempting as it is to call upon the Velaryons, to ask for interference from a Southern house – kin or no – feels tantamount to admitting Creg cannot hold the North. This would bolster Bennard’s claim that he is unfit, unready. My brother would not allow it, nor can I.”

“All fair rebuttals, my lady,” Lymon shifts forward in his seat, looking Alys straight on. “But, so caught up in his efforts to seize power, Bennard has not properly prepared this Keep for Winter – no stocking of grain, nor movement made to repair Winter Town for the inevitable influx of smallfolk. And the Night’s Watch continues to send disturbing reports that your Uncle has all but ignored. Wildlings are attempting to cross The Wall in droves. Those that succeed have been raiding villages in their push southward. They’re desperate, enough so to claim to have seen the Others, not that those wives' tales stop them from losing their heads.”

A chill courses down Alys’s spine. The Others are ghost stories meant to scare little children; a mere allegory for the coming of Winter itself. In any event, they have been gone for thousands of years, if they existed at all. ‘Tis a monstrous excuse to use to rape and pillage defenseless villages. But what if there is more to it? There may be no White Walkers, but it is possible the wildlings are running from, not toward, something. I shall have to ask Holly.

Lymon’s voice pulls her from her thoughts. “There is a chance, a high one I should think, that the vassals and smallfolk would turn on him. But to allow yourself to remain here is to risk not only your future, but your very life. If Bennard grows reckless, he will use you as a weapon against your brother. He has always seen you as a tool. And what is a weapon but a tool used to maim; to kill?”

Alys sucks in a breath – this cannot be happening. This is my home. This is my family’s home. And am I to leave as it is torn asunder? Am I to abandon my brother, my kin, my people when they need me most? Her mind is made up.

“And what if I am a weapon, Maester? After all, a knife cuts both ways.”

“Alys, I beseech you–”

Alys holds her hand up, halting his speech. “Maester, I am grateful for your counsel; even more so for the care you have shown me. But I will not leave my home and people to be picked over by carrions who call themselves wolves. I have made my bed, and I mean to lie in it. I will write to my Aunt and Uncle to thank them for their hospitality, but to inform them that it is unnecessary. For I am a Stark; I belong to the North.”

Lymon slumps in his seat. “As you say. But I urge you, do not hasten to send that raven. Wait until the tourney ends, at least.”

Alys nods as she rises from her seat. “I should go. I must prepare for the welcome feast, and Bennard expects me to greet my suitors.”

“Tread carefully, my lady,” says Lymon as she reaches the door. The double meaning is not lost on Alys. She quickly exits, turning the conversation over in her mind as she picks her way down the stone steps. Unsettled and disquieted as she is, she allows herself to be led by instinct. Rather than turn toward the Great Keep as she ought, her feet move forward, straight into the Godswood.

Alys sighs; it is as if a stone has been shed from her shoulders. In the forest, she is as free as a snow shrike, alive and unfettered; but it is here in the Godswood where she finds true peace.

The three acre grove is as old as the land itself. It smells of damp earth and pine, with only the sound of crunching needles underfoot and the caw of ravens for company. She walks deeper, trees rising and tangling around her as she makes her way through.

Her feet stop as they alight upon their chosen destination – the Heart Tree. The world quietens here, for this is where the Old Gods keep house. Its weeping eyes are ever watchful. Carved into the snow white bark by the Children of the Forest eons ago, many have sworn to feel them follow. This never unsettled Alys – those eyes make her feel seen, held, safe.

Alys keeps the Old Gods, just as every Stark has. Nameless and faceless, they are found in the twisting of roots, the bends of streams and sturdiness of stones; in the eyes of the Heart Tree, too.

Still in her riding leathers, the chill of the afternoon cuts through easily, but she scarcely feels it. Dropping to the grove’s floor, she makes her home where she always does — curling in between the roots of the tree, hand gripping the root. She closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the tree as she listens to the wind moving through its branches, blood-red leaves rustling as they reach for the heavens.

Time suspends itself as she begins to pray. She prays for her brother’s swift and safe journey home. For Holly and Mikken, for her Maester. For her Mother, Father, and brother since passed. For the health and safety of the Northern folk. For an easy Winter. For herself.

Once her prayers are complete, her mind drifts. She is so tired – tired of fighting, tired of fearing, tired of feeling too big to be small and too small to be big. She is simply tired. Her body seems to agree, for her eyes droop, and consciousness slips away.

She dreams, though it feels as real as breathing. In her dreams, she is a wolf. She runs through the forest on unsteady legs, as if she were but a pup. She dashes about, sniffing and climbing and bounding through to a clearing. It is her meadow; she recognizes it instantly. She turns just as another pup tackles her, nipping and wrestling and rolling in the grass. They frolic and play until a howl cuts through the Wolfswood.

Alys awakens with a jolt, disoriented. Something has hit her shin. No, not something, someone. Her cousin Benjen stares down upon her, eyes beady and black. His hair is greased back with animal fat, and he is dressed in such finery, it is as if he were a Lord’s heir himself. I suppose he and Bennard like to think so.

He knocks her shin with his boot once more. “Get up. You’re late. Again.”

She rolls her eyes. “How can I be late to mine own feast, Benjen?” He curses at this. Alys should know better than to bait him, but cannot help herself. “Now cousin, is this how you speak to a lady?”

He kicks her again, harder this time. “I see no lady, just an insolent brat. One who is finally getting what is coming to her. It’ll be a relief to be rid of you,” he sneers.

“So sure of yourself. Fortunately, so am I,” she fibs. He doesn’t need to know I’m out of my wits with nerves. “I’ll succeed, my brother will return, and you will be back to doing whatever it is the first son of a second son does. Shoveling horse dung, I assume.”

Alys moves to stand — too slowly, for Benjen grabs her by the elbow, squeezing tight as he lifts her. She knows immediately it will bruise, and stifles a whimper. Her cousin has always been a cruel, violent sort. As a child, he would bludgeon animals for sport; kicking cats, strangulating squirrels, beating dogs. Nothing was beneath him. The maester would often chase him from the rookery, for he would try to break a raven’s wings for no discernible reason other than to relish in their agony. Now a man grown, he’s moved from animals to men. And women, it seems. Creg’s absence emboldens him.

“You think so, cousin? You know, Father doesn’t pay close enough attention to you. ‘What time do I have for some halfbreed girl?,’ he says, ‘She is pretty, and she has our name. 'Tis all that matters.’”

This particular revelation does not surprise Alys. Bennard has never been above othering her or her mother for their Valyrian heritage.

“Father thinks you dotty, yes, but dutiful,” Benjen continues. “A silly little girl whose own father gave her too much freedom. He thinks he curbed that, and that you will go quietly to your marriage bed, even with the stunt you pulled. But I know better, Alys. I watch you running off with your little wildling to the woods, and whispering in corners with your Maester. You are dangerous, as are all girls who do not know their place. But soon, your husband will teach you. ’Tis a shame I am not part Valyrian; perhaps I’d have the honor of breaking you.”

Alys’s stomach drops. She attempts to extricate herself from his grasp, but his grip tightens as he pulls her in. Her nose crinkles as his hot, rancid breath covers her face.

“You know, I’ve spoken to Mervyn of your proclivity for impertinence. He assures me that the Boltons have a particular method for dealing with untamed wives.” He leans closer, whispering into her ear. “Considering the rumors of their continued predilection for flaying men alive, I can imagine it’s quite painful. Do you think he’d let me watch?”

Alys cannot seem to speak, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. How dare he speak like this in front of the Gods. She remembers the Maester’s scolding. Logic, patience – I must practice them.

“You and Mervyn seem quite confident in his ability with the bow,” she says, forcing her tone into one of casual indifference. “But I hear Lord Manderly’s sons are truly gifted. If the ravens are to be believed, I could be the next Lady of White Castle.” Alys does not know if this is true; it likely isn’t. She doesn’t even know the boys’ names, let alone if they have any skill with the bow. But it’s enough to get what she needs from Benjen.

“Aye, but Mervyn has the distinct advantage of training with the best archery master in the North. You may recall him; he was sent from Winterfell some years ago now, for conspiring to train you in secret.”

Benjen must see her blanch, for he begins to cackle. “Come along, cousin. You must make yourself pretty for your husband.” He shoves her forward as they make their way to the Great Keep.

Alys remains in a daze as she prepares for the feast. At once, she is bathed and dressed in a gown of black. It is made of velvet and soft as sin, with trumpet sleeves and a square neck trimmed with ermine and silver brocade. A direwolf belt is swung low around her hip. When she looks upon herself, all she can see is Muña’s lilac eyes boring into her. It is a haunting sight. I look as if I am attending another funeral rite; in a way, I may be.

Holly attempts to engage her in idle conversation while she plaits her hair, but it is no use. Alys twists her signet and stares off. She thinks more on her dream, wishing it were as real as it felt; how she longs to be as free as that pup.

So overcome, she does not notice Holly’s look of concern. “You do look lovely, Alys.”

“Thank you,” she mumbles. The girls lock eyes in the mirror, and Holly turns her from the vanity, taking her hands in hers.

“I wish you would tell me what is troubling you so. Is it the Maester? I’ve told you, too much thinking addles the mind.” Alys lets out a huff, and Holly smiles. “Tell me, what has you all worked up?”

She tells Holly everything — from the Maester’s concern and push to send her to her cousins in the south, to Benjen’s cruel behavior and the information he let slip. Holly listens intently as she unburdens herself.

“Aye, I can see now why you’re so troubled. This is quite the dung pile we’ve found ourselves in.”

“That I’ve found myself in, Holly.”

She holds up her scarred palm. “Thought you’d learn by now that we’re a package, you and I. Now, let’s talk it through, shall we?” Holly moves to the bed, patting beside her, encouraging Alys to join. “I think the Velaryons are a good fallback. If your mother could sail herself away from the south to Winterfell to marry your father, can we not go the other way? If it comes to that tomorrow, we'll leave.”

“I don’t know if we can, Holly. I’m needed here. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell; certain, Bennard does not count. I just – I don’t see how we can leave our home.” Alys’s lip quivers.

“If Bennard, his shite-for-brains sons — I’ll kill Benjen, by the way, and use his bones to pick my teeth — and his shite-for-brains Bolton cronies have their way, Winterfell won’t be home any longer,” Holly says, grabbing her hand. “You don’t belong at the Dreadfort, Alys. You have to think of yourself for once; what use are you dead or hidden away in some rotten Keep? And speaking on the Boltons, so what if he’s been training? So what if he’s good? You’ll be better.” Holly rubs her thumb over Alys’s knuckle to soothe her, just as Muña used to. It serves its purpose— Alys lets out a watery sign and hugs her friend close.

“Thank you,” she breathes as Holly rubs her back.

“Don’t thank me. I’m only telling you what you already know; you just got caught in your nerves again. Now, we should get to the feast,” Holly rises, and Alys moves to join her.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “ I forgot — Cregan left you a gift for your name day. He told me not to let you open it until the day of, but he’s not here, is he? It’s under your bed. Do with that information what you will.” Holly smiles beatifically, as she always does when causing trouble.

“Will you give me a moment then? I have a present to unwrap,” Alys grins. Holly nods, and closes the door behind her.

She drops flat to the carpet, with no thought or care for her dress, rummaging under her bed. Not once does she think to wait, for she hates surprises. Creg should never have trusted Holly to keep a secret from me, anyhow.

Her hand alights upon a box, and she slowly pulls it from its hiding place. It's large, and carved from rowan wood, with her House’s sigil burnt into the grain.

Alys gets up and places the box upon her bed. There is a note attached; one she is tempted to bypass entirely in her eagerness to open her present. Patience is a virtue, I suppose. She sighs, plucking the note from its ribbon. She cracks her brother’s seal to see his scrawl, short and sweet.

Father told me I’d know when you were ready. Shoot straight.

Your brother,

Creg

She sucks in a breath. Father told me I’d know when you were ready. Hands quaking, she opens the box.

Inside is the most wonderful sight she’s ever seen – a beautiful bow and quiver set, made to size. The bow itself is bone white, carved from weirwood; Alys would recognize it anywhere. The arrows are carved from the same, with its feathers a startling crimson, akin to the leaves of the Heart Tree. But it is the arrowheads that truly dazzle, for they are not of any metal she has encountered. In truth, she only recognizes it from her lessons, for they are dragonbone. So sharp, they would draw blood at just a touch. She picks up the bow, testing the string's tension, the weight of it, how it feels in her hand. It’s perfect, it's perfect, it’s perfect.

She does not know how her father came into possession of such a treasure. Dragonbone is not an easy material to come by, nor an inexpensive one. And to have a perfectly carved weirwood bow – it is an honor he’d entrusted her with it. He believed in her, as did her brother; her mother, too. They may not be with her, but they are behind her, as they always have been. She does not know whether to laugh or cry. For the first time in an age, she feels hope; not just hope, but a sense of surety. Holding the faith of her family in her hands, Alys knows now what she must do, and how she can win.

She attends the feast, light as air. Nothing can spoil her good humor – not Benjen’s leer, nor her uncle’s very presence, which often serves to put her off her appetite. In truth, she is ravenous, nearly inhaling her roast pheasant and potatoes.

Soon, the minstrels begin to play. Alys takes care to dance with each Lord’s son. Lord Manderly’s boys, Jonnel and Joseth, prove exceptional dancers, even if they’re impossible to tell apart. She takes Mikken for a spin on the floor, much to the delight of everyone present. She even allows Mervyn a dance; when his hand moves too low to be proper, she steps on his feet with particular verve. Here’s hoping it cripples him, but I would settle for a lost nail.

When she retakes her seat at the head table, dessert is being served. There are apple tarts and stewed plums as promised; even the rare lemon cakes make the rounds. Once full, she sits back and watches the hall. Many of these men are allies and competitors in one; some are outright enemies. It matters not to Alys. She smiles at them all – for she is a wolf, and she does not fear sheep.

“It seems you have made some peace with your lot, niece,” Bennard slurs. A drunkard and a fool, may the Others take him.

“I was always at peace with my lot, Uncle,” Alys sniffs. “It was ensuring that I marry a man worthy of me that put me on edge over the prospect.”

“Well, you have a peculiar way of choosing that man. Not that you should be choosing at all, but your father will get his way, as he always does,” Bennard glowers as he sinks deeper into his cups. “Archery, pah! I know you think yourself a savant because Rickon indulged you as a child, but you will learn the truth of it tomorrow. The Boltons are a powerful family, and you will be lucky to join their house when Mervyn proves himself.”

Alys bites her tongue, once again remembering Lymon’s counsel. “As you say, Uncle.”

“As you say, Uncle,” Bennard mocks. “Do not be impertinent, especially in the face of my generosity. This feast and tourney cost me a pretty copper, as will your dowry. You ought to be grateful.”

Her blood boils, but she tamps it. Best to let it fester so that I may use it on the field tomorrow.

“Of course, Uncle. I am ever so grateful,” she says through her teeth.

Bennard hums again, too drunk to notice her ire. “Good. Now, to bed. You must look fresh-faced for your husband tomorrow. Men like their women pretty, after all. They also like them demure. I suppose I shall leave it to your husband to teach you the latter, if it’s not a lost cause already,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “Begone from my sight, Alysanne.”

Alys squeezes her fists, nails cutting into her palms. Yet, she arises gracefully as her mother taught. She bids her Uncle and cousins a good night, though she does not mean it. Benjen runs his tongue over his teeth, like a bloodhound who caught the scent. Ignoring him, she beckons to Holly, and they leave the Great Hall.

She helps her undress in silence, untying her stays while Alys works at her plaits. With mere hours left until dawn, she knows she will sleep little. Holly offers to stay with her, but, as it might be her last night abed alone, she declines. I should enjoy the space while I am able. They bid one another good night, and Alys buries herself under the covers.

She tosses and turns for what feels like an age, until sleep finally claims her. Again, she dreams she is the wolf. She is warm, safe, cuddled against fur. She turns her head, to see the same grey pup that had tackled her, now fast asleep. Perhaps the mother is on the hunt. She gets up, stretching her tiny limbs, and makes her way from the den, dirt soft under her paws. She looks up at the moon, and howls.

As dawn breaks, Alys arises from her bed. Despite the chill, the rooms remain warm. Not for the first time is she thankful for the ingenuity of Bran the Builder. Piping water from the hot springs into the stones for certain has saved me a toe or two.

She dresses slowly in her leathers, somehow managing the stays herself. She then places her mother’s signet upon her smallest finger, and her archer’s ring upon her thumb. Once finished, she sits at her window, watching the sun rise.

Holly and the maids enter not long after, bringing tea and food to break fast. Alys forces down some bacon and bread, despite her scant appetite. She watches in the mirror as Holly tames her hair into an intricate five strand plait.

“Do you like it?” Holly asks.

“More than like it,” Alys says, marveling at her handiwork. “It almost looks as if it is a chain.”

“Aye, that was the aim. For you will not break this day, I know it in my heart.” Alys warms at her steadfastness and faith, sending a prayer of thanks to the Gods for bringing Holly into her life.

They sit in silence for a time, and she lets Holly inspect her new bow. “It is impossible to fail with a bow as nice as this. You can feel the love that was poured into its making, and yet there is something deadly in it. It will protect you, I think.”

“I think the same,” Alys says. Too soon, there is a knock upon the door, and she begins to shake. “You may enter.”

It is Mikken, and for this kindness she is thankful. Better than my cousin, that is for certain. “Lady Alys, it is time,” he says.

Alys takes a deep breath, and tries to calm her trembling hands. “So it is. Mikken, will you stay with Holly and me? I could use a lad like you to keep an eye on my back.”

Mikken sputters. “I would be honored, Lady Alys, but perhaps someone bigger would be best?”

“No, sweet boy, you misunderstand. I want someone whom I trust to stand with me, and that’s you. Consider it part of your training if you must, but in truth, I would just appreciate you there as my friend.”

She watches the blush creep up his cheeks. “I’d be honored, my lady!”

“Good, now, let us make haste. I would not put it past Bennard to start without me in an attempt to void my participation.” She takes her bow from Holly and straps the quiver to her back. Stealing one last look in the mirror, she’s pleased to find she cuts an unearthly and imposing figure. Let these men shiver when they see me.

Flanked by Holly, Mikken and several guards – sent by Bennard no doubt, to ensure I do not run – they march from the First Keep and through to the North Gate, outside which an archery field is constructed. At least a dozen mounds are set in a line. Alys breaks into a grin. Mere target practice. Not roving marks, nor splitting the wand. Bennard underestimated me. Good.

The archers check their names upon the roster, and Alys does the same. The Maester was right, many of the most noble houses of the North have sent a son to participate. She sends up another prayer before making her way to her designated marker. Mervyn is to her left, and a Manderly – Jonnel? Or is it Joseth? – to her right. And the line goes down, faces blending.

She walks the paces, gauging the distance between marker and target. She crouches down, and picks up grass and leaves, crumbling them to see which direction the wind blows. She heads back to her marker as she stretches her arms, ignoring the eyes upon her. Finally, the trumpets sound.

“Esteemed lords, ladies and guests! Thank you for your attendance on this day; the day my beloved niece turns seven and ten!” Bennard shouts from his spot on the dais. He has made himself and his sons little thrones to sit upon, above all the other lords and vassals. Alys rolls her eyes. They look foolish.

“The Lady Alysanne is now a woman grown, and it is time for her to choose her bridegroom. And so she has; the one who succeeds her in this tourney shall be the lucky man! Not too hard of a task for such strapping Northern men, I should think.” A cheer rises from the crowd, and she can feel the eyes of all the archer’s boring into her. Let them think they have me. “Now, at the crier’s call, let our tourney begin!”

Alys nocks her arrow, breathing deep as she closes her left eye to aim at the target’s eye. The first arrows loose at the crier’s call. She hits near dead center. It must be the nerves. She sneaks a peek at her competitors – only a few have come as close as she has.

One by one, round after round, the men are eliminated. The crowd, who had once cheered for her future husband, now turn their love to their Lady, becoming more raucous as each arrow is loosed. Alys does not dare to look upon her Uncle. She can feel his ire well enough, and does not need the distraction.

Finally, the last Manderly boy – Jonnel, if the crier is to be believed – is eliminated. “You are a worthy opponent, my lady. I am undeserving of the honor of your hand,” he says, placing a kiss upon her knuckle. She smiles and thanks the man before he makes his way back to his brother.

Only her and Mervyn remain at the butts.

“He may be undeserving of your hand, Lady Alys, but I certainly am more than up to the task,” he scoffs. “I shall even give you my sword as well, as many times as you ask for it and more.” Her rage is set aflame by his words, hotter than dragonfire – so hot, it burns cold. I am going to enjoy this.

The crier calls for them to nock once more. Inhale as you pull, exhale as you release, easy as breathing. She hears him shout loose, so she does. The arrows whistle through the air, and she knows before it lands it will be dead center. She looks over at Mervyn’s target, and his is centered. But not like mine. They send a judge – Lord Mormont, by the looks of it – out to check. Another – Lord Ryswell – joins him. The crowd hushes as they deliberate. Coming to an accord, they summon the crier.

“The Lady Alysanne Stark is our winner!” the crier shouts, and the crowd is insensate. They stomp and cheer and cry for Alys, so loud she can scarce hear herself think. She turns to Mervyn, whose mouth is agape.

“It seems your sword is unworthy of my sheath, Bolton,” she quips over the din. “I wish you and your future lady wife luck; Gods know she’ll need it!” She laughs as Holly and Mikken barrel into her, bundling her in an embrace as they jump up and down.

She looks over their heads – the lords and their sons are shocked, but do not seem angered by the result. Relief begins to set in, until she hears a commotion coming from the dais.

“No, no, no! This is not how this was supposed to go!” Bennard yells as he stomps toward her, mouth foaming. He rips her from Holly and Mikken’s grasp. “You little ingrate! Worthless fucking trollop!”

Before she can react, she hears a crack as her head whips violently. Blood pools on her tongue, tainting her mouth with the taste of copper. He’s hit me. Gods, he’s truly hit me.

The crowd is silent as he grabs her plait, twisting painfully. “You disgust me, you halfbreed whore. Your flagrant disrespect is at an end. I command you to marry the Bolton boy this very night. I don’t care if I have to hold you at sword point to see it done!” His spittle flies in her face.

“Everyone knows that marriage will not be valid in the eyes of Gods and men, as no marriage under threat of the sword is,” she says, voice projecting loud enough for the crowd to hear. “I’ve won, Uncle, fair and true; this contest is at its end. A Lord would take it gracefully, but you are no lord. The real lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North rides from Last Hearth, to take his rightful place on the Winter Throne. I’m certain he will be fair when he metes out the King’s justice.” She smiles menacingly as blood coats her teeth.

He shrieks as he throws her to the ground, kicking her once, twice, thrice in the gut. She coughs, curling into herself in agony. The crowd, regaining its senses, hisses and jeers. The hair-raising sound is enough to pull Bennard from his rage. He turns back to find the Lords in the North looking upon him with disgust, and a crowd so enraged they are near riot.

“Guards! Take the Lady Alysanne to her rooms and bar the door. If she is to act a child, she will be treated like one.” The guards hesitate. “Now!” Bennard shouts. The crowd grows restless as the guards grab her under her arms and drag her back to the keep. She’s begun to grow faint, so she does not hear what Bennard says to try to appease them. Whatever it is, she hopes he fails.

Once she is unceremoniously thrown into her rooms, she begins to laugh. It hurts, terribly, but she cannot help it. Her wretch of an uncle proved as foolish as she always thought. Perhaps the Lords would have been upset at her winning, if they had not been made indignant at her ill treatment. Their beloved Lord Rickon's only daughter, beaten by her uncle in front of Gods and men. And the crowd, filled with small folk and all manners of vassals, loathe him. Now, they all see him for what he truly is. A usurper cunt.

She forces herself up, and gingerly makes her way to her bed. She does not bother with the door, knowing that it will be locked, with guards posted outside it. She does not know what has happened to her bow, and can only pray that Holly or Mikken managed to save it from her Uncle’s wrath.

Consciousness begins to ebb and flow – like the tide. I should have taken the Maester at his word and fled to High Tide. She swears she hears Lymon attempt to gain access to her, but cannot tell if she is dreaming. If it happened in truth, he is clearly denied. Perhaps Bennard means to starve me, or hopes I bleed out internally. She goes back under, and comes to when it is long since dark.

She winces as she attempts to rise. Her ribs and stomach are especially sore, so movement must be made carefully. Once standing, she creeps to her window to look out at the moon. By its placement, she guesses it's the hour of the owl.

Suddenly, she hears a quiet scuffle at her door. She panics, searching for anything in her room that can be used as a weapon. She pockets a letter opener and grabs an iron candlestick for good measure.

Alys braces herself as she hears the lock click. The door opens; all she discerns are shadows and black cloaks. She raises the candlestick, preparing to fight to the death. Then, a hood drops, revealing long, fire kissed hair. She crumbles in relief, and Holly catches her before she hits the floor.

“By the gods, Alys! What did you mean to do with this thing, and in your state?” Holly asks, pointing to the candlestick.

“Hit you with it,” she wheezes, “though I’ll admit, I am not in the best fighting shape. Had hoped I’d get a second wind, but alas.”

Holly shakes her head, busying herself with cataloging all her injuries. Alys looks over her sister’s shoulder, trying to decipher just how she took down the guards. It seems she did not succeed by herself. Mikken holds open the door as the two Manderly brothers pull the unconscious guards inside. Nan the cook steps gingerly over them, basket in hand, with Vayon Cassel and his son Rodwell taking position at the door, which Mikken quietly closes behind him.

“What is this? I don’t understand,” she says. “Where is Maester Lymon?”

“They locked him in his turret, but not before he gave us marching orders,” Holly says. “We’re getting you out, tonight. First to White Harbor, then on a ship to High Tide. Your Aunt and Uncle have been informed of your arrival. Seems the Maester had a contingency plan.”

“He tends to have several,” she quips, wincing. Holly rolls her eyes, before turning back to the Manderlys. “Ribs bruised, not broken. Severe bruising on the abdomen, but doesn’t seem fatal. It’ll be painful, but we’ve got to go by horseback.”

“Aye, I’ll go prepare them now,” says – Joseth? – before making a quick exit.

“Holly, how do we know we can trust them?” she asks.

The remaining Manderly brother kneels before her on the floor. “My lady, my house is loyal to the one true Lord of Winterfell, your brother Cregan. We owe everything we are, our lives and our very home, to House Stark. Beyond house ties, I am here of my own accord. I would pledge my life and loyalty to you, my lady, if you will have me. Allow me, as a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, to swear fealty to you, so you know me to be loyal and true.”

Alys is overwhelmed by the gesture. “Your kindness and loyalty are noted, Ser, but I cannot accept. Your father would be most aggrieved to lose a son and heir in service to a Lady.”

“I am but the second son, my lady. My brother Joseth is the heir, with another brother who can play spare until he takes a wife and begets a son.”

Flabbergasted, all Alys can think is: Oh, so this is Jonnel. “Are you certain, Ser?”

“More than anything. Will you permit me?” he asks, reaching for her hand. She acquiesces.

“I, Jonnel of House Manderly, offer my services to the Lady Alysanne of House Stark. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

Alys swallows, overcome by the earnest show of devotion. I shall cherish his loyalty always. For he is my sworn shield, and I protect what’s mine.

“I, the Lady Alysanne of House Stark, vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise, Ser Jonnnel.” He beams at her for but a moment, before acting upon his vows.

“We must move quickly, my lady,” Jonnel says. “Your cousins have been locked in their rooms, and your Uncle drugged with milk of the poppy. Enough to put him to sleep for a few hours, but no more.”

“And the lords of the North? What of them?” she asks, watching as Holly quickly packs the necessities.

“The lords have seen all they needed to this day; enough to look the other way at your leaving,” says Jonnel. “The vassals, too, are in an uproar. Your brother can expect their support. Aye, your Uncle will not have an easy time of it once he awakes.”

Alys attempts a smile, bruised cheek smarting. “Good. That’s good. What of the guards?”

“Since tonight’s feast was canceled, the Maester thought it smart to have me send the remaining barrels to them directly," says Nan, speaking up from her place in the corner. "I happened to agree – good autumn ale like that shouldn’t be wasted. Outside of these lads, most are too drunk to stand. Though I suppose they’re not standing, neither.”

Alys, with help from Jonnel, walks to her, pulling her into a gentle embrace. “Thank you, sweet Nan. I will not forget this kindness.”

“You are our Lady. No matter where you go, Winterfell is always with you,” the cook says, wiping a tear from Alys’s eye. “Now, I’ve packed provisions. Should be enough for the journey there. But you all need to move now, there’s not much darkness left.”

Mikken steps in front of the door, distraught. “I’m coming, too, for I promised to protect you first! I know I failed, but I won’t again, I swear it!”

Alys's eyes water. “You did not fail me, Mikken. You could never,” she says, gentling the boy. “But I have a new task for you. I need you to protect Nan and the Maester until Cregan or I return. They’ll need you more than I will, and I can trust no one else but you.”

The boy begins to cry, and rushes to hug her. She tries not to flinch, not wanting to hurt the boy further. “I don’t want you to leave,” he hiccoughs.

Alys stiffens her lip, hugging him back. “I do not want to leave you either, sweetling, but I must. We’ll be reunited soon, you’ll see. Can you be brave for me until then?” She feels him nod. “Good lad.”

He wipes his eyes, and moves to Nan’s side. Alys turns to them one last time, offering a parting wave before Holly bundles her in a black cloak and Jonnel hurries them from her rooms. Vayon and Rodwell fall into step behind them. Quiet as ghosts in the crypt, they move through the Keep. They reach the stables with no interference, where Joseth and a stable boy have their mounts prepared.

Jonnel lifts Alys into Wynafryd’s saddle. Holly grabs a bow and quiver, one set of two, from the saddle bag – my bow, Gods be praised. She passes the bow to her before strapping the set she nicked from the armory to her back. The rest of the group races to mount their horses. If anyone spots them from Brandon’s Tower, they raise no alarms.

Alys looks up at the Maester’s Turret. It is dark, so she is unable to discern any movement through the window. She gives a wave anyway, hoping that Lymon can see. She pours her gratitude, and her grief, into the gesture. He knows, he must.

In a flash, they are out the East Gate and barreling into the hills outside. Avoiding the Kingsroad and camping will make the journey safe, but long. With her injuries, it will be many days until they reach the White Knife, and more yet before entering the safety of White Harbor.

Alys ignores her pain as best she can, making it a few hours before it becomes unbearable. As dawn starts to crest, they stop to set up camp. They share some bread and mead amongst them before Alys must rest her eyes. Jonnel offers to take first watch, and the others are happy to oblige.

In a trice, Alys is jostled awake. “Quietly, my lady,” Jonnel whispers. “There is something in the tree line. Prepare yourself.” She moves stand. As Jonnel unsheathes his steel, she moves to grab her bow. Body laid low, she does not even know if she has the strength to nock an arrow, but the weight is a comfort in her hand.

The leaves rustle further, putting everyone on high alert. Finally, they break, out of which come two of the largest wolf pups she has ever seen.They are fighting; no, they are wrestling. One grey, one black, they playful pair are clearly siblings. Alys sucks in a breath.

“They are direwolf pups,” Vayon whispers under his breath. “The sigil of your house, my lady.”

“Impossible,” Rodwell says. “Direwolves haven’t been seen south of the wall in at least a century.”

Until now. Alys quietly moves forward, so as not to startle them. She hears a chorus of “Be careful, my lady,” and “Alys, stop.” Shushing them, she squats low, holding open her palm. The wolf pups stop, and cock their heads. The grey one is more leery, preferring to watch, but the black comes right up to her hand, nudging it before rolling over to expose her belly.

“Hello, my girl. Have you been waiting for me?” Alys coos. The wolf pup’s orange eyes cut through her. I dreamt you. You’re mine, and I’m yours. She rubs her pup’s belly, watching her tongue lob as she smiles.

Alys turns back toward her companions, ignoring their shock. “Joseth, Vayon, search the wood for any sign of the mother. Based on the feel of this one, it has been some time since she ate. I assume the mother is dead, but we must be sure.” Joseth and Vayon nod, and make their way into the tree line. “Holly, check to see if Nan packed some milk for the first night’s journey. If she hasn’t, we’ll stop at the next town. They look nearly weaned, but it's best to be safe.”

“Alys, you can’t mean to keep them!” she hisses.

“Holly is right, my lady,” says Jonnel. "A direwolf is no pet. Even a pup can tear a man’s arm clean from his shoulder.”

“I do not mean to keep them, Ser. I only mean to keep the one. Rodwell,” Alys says, turning toward the lad, “come closer so that you make the grey pup more familiar with your scent. When your father returns, you both will take it toward Last Hearth. You should meet my brother along the way. Present it to him, for it is his by right.”

“Alys!” Holly exclaims.

“I dreamt them, Holly,” Alys says firmly, tone brokering no argument. “They are the sigil of our house. They are meant to be ours; mine and Creg’s.”

“You dreamt them?” she whispers. Alys nods. Though perturbed, Holly complies.

Alys picks up her pup, who burrows into the embrace. She grabs some meat from the provisions, and gives her a bite before gently laying down to rest. She trusts Jonnel and Holly to ensure her orders are followed.

Her pup curls up against her on her mat. She smiles, petting her back. “You’ll be called Frenya,” she whispers as the direwolf snuggles in closer. “We will always protect each other, you and I. Always.”

Alys shuts her eyes. When she dreams, this time it is not of wolves, but of the sea.

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ward-leon · 6 months

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the following text is my thoughts about a side character in twa sponsorship wars (season 2). although his role (and fate) doesn't matter much in the grand scheme of things, i'm still putting this under a readmore.

you're welcome to read this if you don't know who that guy even is. i'm not your mom and i won't judge, but there will be slight spoilers. (and i alternate between he and they for conspiracy guy sometimes.)

anyway,

hey guys wouldn't it be terrible if commercial breaker just... became a blurry memory for everyone after his death?

the knights do not mention him being gone.

he's never brought up again.

it's like he never existed in the first place.

the knights have these very vague memories of him. they can remember that there was probably one more knight, and that maaaybe they were a quintet before sir newguy appeared, but they won't be able to tell who was there with them.

there was an extra pair of pauldrons in the knights' armory. it belongs to no one now. there's a pair of shoes to go with it, but no chestplate. just a piece of cloth, a fur collar and a mask.

conspiracy guy remembers backstabbing someone. they can't tell who it was, and probably disregard the memories as unimportant. i mean, how can you be haunted by someone you didn't even know, right?

of course, those were likely left behind with commercial breaker, but that's if we choose to believe conspiracy guy didn't loot his corpse just to sell the equipment as scrap metal before hiding the remains under the copious amounts of money. i mean, all that armor's got to be worth something, the conspiracy is in a tough spot money-wise, so... why not take megacorp's money and the armor?

(oh wait it would be too heavy for conspiracy guy alone to carry. nvm. give the armor to dl (he probably needs it more for his minions anyway) and take the money.)

although, now that i think about it...

wouldn't it also be kind of messed up if conspiracy guy was the only one who could actually remember him?

they backstabbed that guy and got away with it.

they buried him in the vault. nobody noticed.

what blood there was on them had seeped through the cardboard box.

it was a shabby disguise anyway.

no one took note of him going somewhere and taking it off, cutting out the bloody parts, and putting it back on.

that guy had a face, a name, an identity - but no one else thinks that way, apparently.

he's haunted by the spectre of a man who, according to everyone else, may not have even existed.

...but maybe i'm just rambling about nonsense and trying to explain what could probably be just a writing mistake and a continuity error on jp's part. i dunno. tell me your thoughts on this if you read all that or something

#random ramblings #not a reblog #terrible writing advice #death mention #murder mention

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pbandjesse · 3 months

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I pushed myself ridiculously hard today. And my back hurts so bad that I have a pillow behind me propping myself up while I'm laying on my side because when I remove the pillow it hurts so bad.

But I really enjoy today and while I was incredibly stressed out thinking about today and ended up being great. And now I'm just stressed out thinking about tomorrow and I know that just means tomorrow also be great probably. It was a really nice day despite the weather.

When I woke up this morning it was pouring outside. I let myself sleep in and woke up around 9:00 and stayed in bed for a long time. I needed to get up and feed sweet tea though and he was being so naughty biting my ankles and my calves. But I felt pretty good and sleeping in honestly make me feel a lot better after how exhausted I had been yesterday.

I also felt really cute today. My hair was doing really nice thing and my makeup was good. I'm trying to wear eyeshadow again to try to fix the issue I'm having with my eyeliner sticking to my eyelid. And it seemed to work. So that's good.

I didn't really know what to do for breakfast. Didn't want cook anything. Once I got all the curtains open and fed sweet pea I looked in the fridge and I found that I had half an omelet from the other day so I want that up. It didn't taste incredible but it was food. And I knew that I was going to take myself to Five guys after my workshop. I had the whole day planned out. I sat at the kitchen island with sweet pea. I had my omelette and a couple little donuts. Which I shared with sweet pea. And I double checked my materials I needed to bring. I had to cut a couple blocks in half because I wanted them to be smaller for the group. Which ended up being incredibly small. The group I mean. But that was fine I was just glad anybody came at all.

I left here around 10:30. I didn't have to be over at the armory until 11:30 but I wanted to stop at Michael's and get more black ink. I was not going to have that issue again because that made me so angry and embarrassed. So I wanted to make sure I have something better. I even had a 30% off coupon.

I poured myself two drinks. A lemonade and a soda and got my umbrella and headed out into the rain. And it was raining very hard. And when I got to the car I realized I left my lemonade and my soda in the house. I had grabbed all my other stuff and forgot those. So I had to go all the way back inside. But it was fine. I was in a really good mood.

I got over to the Michaels and was annoyed that they didn't have any black ink or any actual printmaking ink in the pots I normally buy it. They only have skin printing ink which I've already run into the issue of that not working But they did have a four pack of black yellow and blue block printing ink and I felt like it was too expensive but with my coupon it made it more reasonable at least and I stopped to look at the clearance real quick but then I went to pay and headed out back into the weather. It's all self checkout at the Michaels now but one of the workers still checked on me and she was really nice. I really interacted with a lot of very kind people today and that made me happy.

I was less than a half an hour away from the armory and my GPS said I was going to get there at 11:11 with the rain. And that is basically exactly what happened. The drive was terrible I could hardly see it times. But there was almost no one on the road because I think they were all afraid because it was so bad. Like roads were flooding and I was getting Gail warnings on my phone. But I got over to the armory and that's when my stress started. Because the gate was locked.

I drove past the armory itself and went down the street to the grocery store to wait in the parking lot until I heard from Michael who is my contact. I looked through my email and sent him an email letting him know that I was down the street and then I found his phone number and texted him. Turns out he lives 2 hours away! And he was just stuck in traffic so it was fine. He said when he got there a few minutes before I drove over someone's bumper was stuck in the fence. Like they had driven into it. I didn't see that so it must have happened in the last couple minutes between when I got there and he did. Crazy.

But the workshop ended up being great. He brought his little dog again and she's very sweet. And while I only had two people they were awesome. They were both named Tony. It's probably t o n i. They were sisters and the older sister was a little older than me and the younger sister was probably like 13. And they were so funny. They both have different names but they both go by the nickname Toni. And they were just so nice. I had set up and started a print so that I could be at different steps and show them everything and going off of my experience on Thursday I had like a pretty good system for explaining everything and I think I did a really good job. And both of them were so nice and the two hours went by so quickly we were just having a great time talking about different projects and work and she might contact me to come in with her church which is in the neighborhood that I live in and work with some of the teenage girls there which I think would be lovely and it was just a really nice time. And they kept saying like this was so cool and this was such a good experience. And It was really cool to just introduce them to something that they've never done before. And I explained different ways that they could do it at home because they were both a little intimidated by the idea and I was like well these are some ways that you can do it with stuff that you might already have and some home DIY stuff. And it was great.

While they were working we were talking and I had brought my one book of men illustrations as a reference guide and while I was standing there and they were working I was looking at the book and I'll back it said that there was other versions like one of women I was like oh I should obviously buy that. So I went on eBay and found it for $10 with free shipping. And then I was like hey wait a second on the book itself it said it should be $4 but that was in 1980. Inflation. I'm excited to have the set though. And maybe eventually get the other ones. They apparently have children and animals and food and items. It's a really good reference guide so it would be nice to have more options for when I do these classes.

Once we were finished and I made sure they had my contact information I cleaned everything up and Michael came back with Quinn and I let him know that at one point Gwen was in there playing with a Christmas ornament and she had eaten part of it. But he doesn't think she actually ingested it. I really hope that that's the case because I would feel terrible. I had taken it away from her as soon as I noticed that she was chewing on it. And he said that the rain had stopped. We were very deep into the building where there was no windows so we weren't aware. But I was very glad to go out into the world and it not be pouring as horribly as it had been.

I said goodbye to Michael and let him know that I was available for more stuff and to just let me know and I was even down for helping with their camp again that I had helped before and I didn't mind the very long drive. And he was like whoa that's awesome. So I really hope he does reach out.

And then I had the rest of my day. The armory is right by the Goodwill. And when I went over there I had some amazing finds. I got a pair of ugg driving slippers that are basically new. If I was buying them new I probably would have sized up one but they do fit me very well. I just tend to wear things that are too big for me. And I found a little shelf for $8. And a really cute blue cloth for the top of it. And it's all scratched on top so the cloth covers up the imperfections. So I was doing great. Though it was hard to carry the shelf around the store.

Once I paid I drove a little farther down the street to go to Five guys. And I have a really nice lunch while I worked through the podcast episodes that I apparently had slept through? I thought I was caught up on my show but I started listening to the new episode I'm like I have no idea what's going on. And the breaker whiskey episodes are only like 5 minutes apiece so it wasn't like it was a huge deal to go backwards but I was very confused. I'm going to try to listen to those on a weekly basis because they come out every day but listening to 5 minute chunks is not fun for me. I want at least a half an hour. I do still really recommend that show though. It's very good.

I have texted Meril earlier to ask if my package was delivered because I got an email notification that it was. And she said yes and I was like I'm going to come and get it. So once I was done my lunch I drove out to the museum to say hi to everybody.

And that was great. The sun was basically out by then and I didn't realize that it was the egg drop project at the museum today so it was very busy in there. But it was the end of it so everyone was leaving. But I got to see Jessica and Jesse and Ashley. And I got my package and I did a little unboxing for project at the museum today so it was very busy in there. But it was the end of it so everyone was leaving. But I got to see Jessica and Jesse and Ashley. And I got my package and I did a little unboxing for Meril and Meghan. And it was a lot of my stuff that I had thought for our upcoming trip like the airplane seat foot rest and then stuffable neck pillow and a new tag for our luggage and it was just very silly just opening everything and showing them all the stuff. Especially because I got a whole bunch of fake hair products. Like fake hair that you wear in a ponytail. And they were like why? But my idea is that I'm going to try to figure out how to wear them so they can use them for different looks for the wedding. I haven't 100% figured out what that means yet but we're working on it.

I hung out there for a while just chatting with everybody and catching up. And a little after 3:30 I said goodbye. And decided that before I went home I would drive over to the shopping center and walk around the Five below.

The sun was really out by then and I didn't realize it was going to be so I didn't have my sunglasses and I was kind of dying so I let myself buy some trendy shaped frames from the Five below. And I got nail polish but I ended up hating the color when I got home. Like it's just looked terrible on my fingers. But it's fine. It was worth a shot. And it was $2 so not the worst thing.

I left the Five below and I drove home. I got stuck in a bunch of traffic around the inner harbor. But it was whatever. And when I got home I brought everything inside and went through all of the packages inside my larger package that I have picked up and took all the packaging off of them. And I just use the word packaging so many times. And put everything away. And then went to figure out how I was going to set up the little shelf. And I had a whole plan and ended up working really really well. My original spot I didn't like so I thought about moving one of the two wooden chests that we have over there since the one just has cleaning products in it and I switched out all the cleaning products so that I could put them in the basement with all the other cleaning stuff. And then I moved one of the boxes up to James's room. And then the little shelf fit perfectly and honestly I love how it looks there. And once I was done that I jumped into the next big project of the day. Which was James's room.

I have sent James a drawing the other day about how I thought the layout of the furniture could work better. And they agreed with me and I was not being supervised and so I was very excited to start moving some furniture around.

I was in there for hours. I hung a shelf and I moved a whole bunch of stuff and I just tried to optimize the space. I had a podcast going about creepypastas and was just really enjoying myself. But I also really wanted the couch to be in there. I got the dresser moved and the bookshelf with the plants moved.

Which by the way was a disaster. It started falling apart and one of the plants got knocked over and the things shattered and then I realized it was root bound and I was texting James and I felt so bad and I was trying to move everything and then it just collapsed on me. Thankfully I'd gotten off all the other breakable stuff before that happened but it was very upsetting. But after I did all that I realized how much space was in there now and it would just be so nice for James to have seating in there especially when they have like friends over. And just having flax seeding in your space is so nice. And so I went to try to move the sofa.

Which I don't know if you remember but I got stuck on the stairwell last time I tried to move it by myself. And when me and James had moved it James said that it was just not going to make it on the hallway but I hate being told no. So I wanted to figure it out to surprise them.

But it did not fit. I tried squishing it I tried everything but it was just about 5 in too wide to go down our hallway. So I took a saw to the legs.

I saw the legs off and this was no easy feat. Because I had to make sure it was even. I made the sofa 27 in wide. Which fit down our hallway and at the narrowest point of the doors it was 28 in. So I had to take the doors off because with the doors on it was 25 in. And I've never taken a door off before so that was a whole exciting thing and I have not tried to put them back on yet because I think you need two people for it. So I took off the doors of the little room and of James's room and over-ended the sofa down the hall and I got it in the office. I was very proud of myself but man wasn't ridiculous.

Once I got it in the room I was kind of exhausted but I had torn up James's whole room and I wasn't going to leave it like that. So I took a moment and got a drink and came back and started figuring out how to reattach the legs. This was not easy. And I should probably go back in and add more supports but I drilled the legs on an angle and I put a very long screw in it and then on the one side I used hinges that I had and I put the hinges the wrong direction so that they will act as a brace and it's ugly but it worked. I will definitely have to figure out a more long-term solution at some point but I sat on it for a while and I wiggled around and it seems pretty secure. So baller. I'm the best.

I really can't wait to show my parents everything that we've done in the house for better or for worse. I text my mom some dates the other day and if she is reading this I hope that she answers me and tells me what date will work the best for them. Because I would really like to show them everything.

And once I got the sofa set up I moved a bunch of stuff onto the sofa so that I could continue to work on putting things away best I could. I finally had enough space to vacuum up the dirt from when I knocked over the plants. And I looked at James's closet which they had said was two full to put anything in and I was like James there's barely anything in here you just don't have it laid out well so I took everything out of the closet and I realized that if I took out the wire rack that was in there when we moved I could fit the bookcase that had fallen on me in there and so I drug that back down the hallway and reassembled it and hopefully it is more secure now. And I made sure there's no breakable stuff on it this time because it is too fragile for that. And I just started putting stuff away. I did realize that there's a dead space on the wall that I think James would benefit from having some shelves there and then they can put some other knickknacks up there and open up some more space. But it was looking really good and I went through a couple of the bags of clothes that they have and then it turns out those were donation stuff. I was texting James basically this whole time. And filling the minimum what was going on. So I wasn't doing anything without their permission and they were excited that I was getting so much accomplished and I was feeling so good about getting so much accomplished. Even though I was exhausting myself.

I would finish up as much as I could do around 9:00. And that's what I realized I hadn't eaten since two and I was dying. All of a sudden I was wheezing and shaking and it was horrible. And the quickest thing I could make was the one minute Tikka masala And I toasted a pita and opened it up and filled it with the Tikka masala and just try to eat that as quickly as possible because I was shaking so hard. But I have that and then I had a little bowl of cereal and I felt a lot better.

I was texting Jess and telling her about my ridiculous evening and she was telling me that she was watching a movie and we were both wheezing apparently. Just having a time.

And then I would go and take a shower. And while I was in the shower I freaked myself out and thought I heard someone in the house but it was just the dishwasher. I came out in Sweet pea was being so cute so I knew that since he's not freaked out I don't need to be freaked out. And now we are in bed together. And I am very much ready to go to sleep. I'm going to go take some allergy medication and go to bed.

I have another full day tomorrow. I'm meeting Meghan in the morning for brunch and then I'm subbing at art with a heart. And then I don't know what I'll do after that. Maybe I'll take a nap. But I just hope that the stress that I'm feeling right now is meaningless because I know everything will be great. It's going to be a good day and I hope you all have a lovely evening. Sleep well everybody. Until next time.

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