#the opening line of fascinating reports might be one of my favorites

[starseneyes]

Chenford REWIND- Lucy Chen / Tim Bradford - The Rookie - Season 5 - Ep 6 & 7

*phew* almost all caught up on this REWIND of Chenford! And with today's edition, we will be completely caught up to date of current airing (5x11 being the most recent to air).

I'll put together a Master Post later to make things easier to find. For now, it's time to talk about another favorite of the season.

SPOILER ALERT: This is not one of those reviews where people tip-toe around spoilers. I will spoil every last morsel in these episodes without restraint. Please know that going in! I do try to write these as though I were seeing them for the first time.

Alright, with all the red tape out of the way, let's dive into the fun!

The Reckoning

"Hello. Good morning!" "Chen. Sanford." "What's up with him?" "He's just grumpy with everything he's got going on." "Wait. What? What's going on? "Nothing." "What." "He's fine. I'm fine. We're just eager to protect and serve." "Aaron." "I have to go. I'm so sorry." "What?"

Cackling during this scene the first time I watched it.

Aaron's doe-eyed, assuming that Lucy would know everything going on in Tim's life already (because he's not Nolan-level oblivious) then realizing oops, he should've kept his mouth closed.

Side Note: "Nothing" is never a good cover... just sayin'.

I also find it fascinating that Chris is framed out of most of the scene. Yes, he's there in the establishing shot and brief interaction with Tim, but as soon as Tim departs, this is Aaron and Lucy's conversation.

Lucy's worried. She could tell something was up with Tim because he was about to walk by without even acknowledging them. When he did, he could barely look Lucy in the eye, and he stuck to last names without salutation.

At first, she thought it might be something trivial, but Aaron's words affirm something is definitely up with her husband.

"I think the radio belonged to the broody one." "The broody... Tim forgot his radio? Tim Bradford, 'Super Cop'? You know, this guy will not let me forget that I was once three and a half minutes late to Roll Call. Can you believe that?" "I guess." "This feels like Christmas. Thank you."

Oh, I know that glint in your eye, Lucy Chen. You're cooking up something. But, she pauses as she considers exactly what to do.

And this is the difference between a Tim/Lucy prank earlier in the show versus now. Now, Lucy wants to do something that will be fun... not just funny. Lucy decides to go the same route my husband did when he proposed—scavenger hunt.

"What the hell?" "What is it? ... Who sent that?" "Someone who's about to get in a lot of trouble." "You know you could just file a incident report and get a new radio." "And get written up? That's one day suspension without pay."

I love you, Tim Bradford (platonicly. I'm happily married and he's fictional... so...). He truly is the Super Cop who wants to do everything by the book.

"I think I know where this is."

And what I LOVE about this is that Lucy Chen has already been to these places, and timed it out to know how long it would take Tim to get from one to the next.

She knows him so well. ("too well", anybody?) Lucy knows that she needs to break through his walls by getting him active.

Paintball? He loves it. Shooting range? Totally something he did with his ex as a date. Tim isn't one to open up about feelings easily.

This is a way to prime him, and help him think about something other than whatever is bothering him.

"Man, this is one sketchy-ass looking coffee truck."

Side note that I love that someone had to look at that line in a script, then either find or design the perfect coffee truck to make Aaron say that. It gives me such special pleasure to think about.

"It's where I get my coffee every morning. No oatmilk mafia hipsters rewriting screenplays. A buck for coffee and you go to work." "You sound like the old dude from Up!"

My husband was over my shoulder when I first watched this on Hulu, and he was rolling at that. But, it's so true. Tim is a creature of habit. He likes what is comfortable because it's stable, and his life often lacks stability.

It started in childhood... not knowing if Dad was going to ignore him or lay into him at any given moment. He learned to constantly be on guard, to be slow to trust, and to find what comforts he could to get through until he could get out of the house.

So many of Tim's life choices are informed by the abuse he survived.

"Damnit. They're running us all over town." "Okay, so, like, what's the point? I mean, they haven't asked for money or anything. And if they really want to screw with the police, they could do a whole lot more with that radio." "I don't know. We gotta figure out what studio lot that is."

First off, my hat's off to Aaron, who wants to be a detective. He's diving into the why right off the bat. Tim, though... he's in the game.

Right where Lucy wants him.

"My favorite movie was shot right here on this lot."

Woah, woah, woah. Your favorite movie is Shane!? I mean, it tracks for Tim's character, absolutely. In high school, my US government teacher spent a whole semester having us watch US Westerns and writing about them. I aced that semester if you can imagine.

While I'm not a fan of Shane personally (I don't like most Westerns), I get why it appeal to Tim. And it's heartbreaking.

Shane is a Western where a man is hired to help a family of homesteaders, gets into many a gunfight, befriends the son of the homesteaders, and then when injured protecting them... he leaves. The boy stands at the door crying out for Shane to come back... and that's how it ends.

This is not a happy story. It's a story of a man who did the right thing. He took out the bad guys, then abandoned the people he'd connected with to protect them from retribution. And this is Tim's favorite movie.

"Wait, your favorite coffee place. Your favorite movie. Whoever's doing this knows you really well." "Chen."

Again, Aaron with the Detective cap on. And it takes only seconds for Tim to realize who would know all of these details about his life... Lucy.

When did they talk about his favorite movie? The coffee would be an easy one, but I bet there's some fanfic out there about how Lucy conned Tim into telling her his favorite movie, possibly by guessing terribly on purpose to draw him out.

Much as Tim tries to avoid talking about personal things... Lucy has always drawn him out. He has helped refine and sharpen her, but in the same manner, she has helped pull him out of his darkness. And she's doing it again with this distraction.

"Where's my radio?" "Did something happen to your radio? Oh, you know what, Halloween is tomorrow. Maybe a vengeful spirit took it."

This flirty banter is giving me major end-of-season-4 Chenford vibes. I don't know if Lucy even realizes she's doing it. But sitting together in that hospital room, they erased all the awkwardness—or so she thought.

Because Tim's had time to think about Lucy, now, in the absence of the all-consuming vortex that was Ashley. Without the distraction of his girlfriend, all he sees is Lucy.

"Why are you doing this?" "I don't know what you're talking about." "Is holding my radio payback for how tough I was on you as a Rookie?"

Tim's playing a game of 21 questions and Lucy hasn't answered a damn one. Well done, girl!

But I also like the quirk to Tim's lips at the end of that statement. He's having fun. Even arguing with Lucy (playfully), he is having so much damn fun.

"Were you? I hadn't noticed."

Oh, yeah. Definitely flirting.

"Okay." "But, again, I don't know what you're talking about. But I might be able to help you look for your radio if you tell me what's going on." "Nothing is going on with me." "Please. I rode with you long enough to know when you are being you, and when you're upset. I mean, are you okay?"

How do you tell the woman of your dreams that you're falling in love with them while they're dating another man? I don't know, and Tim certainly doesn't either.

Because this isn't just about Ashley. Yes, he is hurting because yet another person walked out on him. Hell, she practically trampled on his oxygen line on the way out the door.

Without Ashley to redirect his thoughts, he's having a harder time ignoring how much he wants to be with Lucy. And her being soft with him makes it even harder because he starts to question himself. "Is it possible she could feel something? Should I ask?"

His attitude totally shifts as he makes the decision to play it off.

"It's nothing. I'm fine."

Tim, someday, someday, I hope you realize that "nothing" is a terrible, terrible cover story.

"Then I don't know where your radio is."

She storms off, and we can hear she's really frustrated. Lucy hopes that this game is helping loosen him up because she wants to help him.

Last week, she didn't get to be there for him as much as she wanted. Now, she has a chance to help him, and she feels like it's failing.

Lucy is drawn to Tim as much as he is drawn to her. It's all a matter of getting on the same page. And right now she feels like they're flipping back and forth instead of landing on the same spot.

"Hey. Hi. What the hell is going on with Tim?" "Well, he lost his radio." "I will give you his radio if you tell me what's bothering him." "Honestly, I don't know. He won't tell me either." "What?"

Maybe Aaron should do all the lying for the team, because he's the only one who's any good at it. We know he knows what's up with Tim. But, he's being a good Gofer and keeping his trap shut.

But Aaron also knows that Tim and Lucy know more about one another than most cops he's met. Even if Aaron hasn't sniffed out the romance angle, he knows that there's something there. And he ain't getting in the middle of it.

"Hi. Good morning." "Good morning."

Everything is shifting! Did you clock that? Oh, I totally clocked that. Tim's graduated from monosyllabic greetings for Lucy to an actual phrase! Progress! But he's still not looking her in the eye.

"Still missing your radio?" "No, it's in the shop." "Where's your standard issue?" "This is it." "That hasn't been standard since the sixties... Wait, let me get a photo of you with it, first!"

Peep Aaron looking ANYWHERE other than Tim and Lucy? He knows better than to get in the middle of this.

Tim and Lucy have a tendency to take embarrassing photos of one another. It's a quirk they share... one of those places where two seemingly very different people overlap. And I so hope Lucy got her shot so we can see it make a comeback at some point.

Can you imagine their wedding slideshow? Half of it's just going to be shots of them pranking one another.

"Uh, here. I thought torturing you would be more fun, and getting your mind off of whatever has been bothering you."

First off, coworkers don't need to hold onto the object they're passing that long. Y'all are being obvious right outside the station. Second, she clues him in on why she was doing this... it wasn't revenge. It was concern.

Damnit, that's hot. You know Tim's thinking it. Lucy Chen did all this for him.

"I should know better than to get into your personal business."

This is another deflection. Back in 5x02's opening scene she talked about having a lot going on in her "personal life" and we know that involved Tim. But after 5x02's breakup scene, she's convinced that he isn't interested.

"Goodnight." "Night... Ashley and I, uh, broke up. Well, I guess, technically she broke up with me."

Did you see how Lucy's head whipped around? Because Tim Bradford just let her in. It's been a while since Tim has let her in on anything. He's been keeping her at a distance for a while—even last week when he was injured.

But here he is, letting her into his personal life. She had given up, and he just let her waltz right in. Lucy knows what a big deal for Tim this is, even if she doesn't understand what's going on in his head and heart. Could you two just TALK!?

"And just so you know, I did appreciate your whole radio gag, a little. Took my mind off things." "Well, good."

See that little size up and shimmy? Because Tim Bradford complimented Lucy Chen. And she has a thing with Praise. He basically told her that her whole plan worked, and that he understood and appreciated it.

And for some reason, that little affirmation cracks open something between them that they've both tried to bury since their "breakup".

Looking at the woman of his dreams, radio in one hand (a literal communication device), Tim considers another leap.

And, oh, you know he has to have it bad to try this, again, after how badly he fell the last time. But he feels that connection between them, again. And there's no Ashley, anymore, to distract him from it.

And look. At. Lucy. Her face reminds me so much of the end of season 4 when she and he stood in this parking lot looking at one another, her anxious of what he might say. Some part of her knows.

But before Tim can open his mouth, the door opens, and out parts Mr. Professional Chenford Blocker himself, Chris Sanford.

Lucy and Tim both look caught. Because even if they weren't playing tonsil hockey, they were in an emotionally-charged moment that shouldn't happen when she's dating someone else.

And Tim just got the second coldest shower of his life (nothing tops bleeding-out Chris).

"Do you wanna join us? We're gonna go get a bite to eat." "Oh, no, no. I'm good. I'm beat. You two have fun."

And he means that. He wants Lucy to be happy, even if it isn't with him. But that fake smile is so heartbreaking. Because, here he was, considering a huge leap... and now he's clamming back up because he thinks Lucy is truly happy with someone else.

You know who isn't happy about this interaction? Chris, that's who! Early on, he clocked something between Lucy and Tim, but she was able to shove it off.

Think about it. She never called or texted anyone when she decided to spent the evening at the hospital by Tim's side. But likely she told Chris later about it, not thinking anything of it.

Now, Chris comes out to see Tim and Lucy chatting, and she invites him on their date!? Chris might think things are good between him and Lucy, but a part of him definitely sees Tim as a threat. He no likely.

Good.

Lucy and Chris walk off, arms wrapped around one another, but the camera stays on Tim, offering us a shot of him from a distance, defeated, looking back at the opportunity missed with the woman he's falling for.

We feel how distanced he is, now, from Lucy. We feel his struggle with that distance.

And as we switch angles to see it from her side... Lucy is looking back at him.

Remember beginning of season 4 when Lucy and Tim stood together in his living room, his left arm stroking her right arm after their hug? Lucy felt the change in energy between them. She saw the look in Tim's eyes.

She loves that look. She's addicted to that look. It's been a long time since she's seen that look, but she saw it at the hospital, and she saw it again just now. She loves when he looks at her like that.

It's hard to say if she knows how he feels about her, but I think she is struggling with the same thing he did with Ashley—Do I risk it all for someone who I think is unavailable to me, or do I stick with what's easy, but not satisfying?

Even though she's still with Chris, Tim being available, more flirty, complimenting her, and showing the slightest bit of interest is sending her spinning.

She shoves it down... but it'll come out, someday. Like a spring wound too-tight eventually snaps.

Crossfire

"If your puppy vouches for her, it could go a long way." "I don't know. Having a kid act as a CI on his own sister? I mean, they might not even be in touch."

I need to point this out. Is it directly Chenford related? Yes. Go with me here.

If you've seen the episode, you know one of the key Chenford-related moments is coming up, but this conversation feeds right in.

Nyla and Angela want to get Lucy in as a UC. But Tim, yes Tim is the first one to reason why it's not the best idea. Why? Because he's concerned for the kid.

He's not thinking about Lucy's career, or even about the possible apprehending of a criminal. He's thinking about this kid. We need this context to see where Tim's head is at.

"How about we keep an eye on the kid, ourselves? Make sure he's safe."

Nyla and Angela are the ones pushing this. Lucy, too. Tim isn't doing any pushing. But he's actually the one hearing Aaron. Because Tim does have a soft spot for kids. He was one, once, and his childhood sucked.

Lucy at Gunpoint

Aaron glances to Tim, aware of how Tim's stopped freakin' breathing and is watching the situation unfold.

"We should pull Tabin out, now." "Nah, he's fine." "Sir, no it's not. You are endangering this career all because it's good for Lucy's career." "Excuse me?" "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."

I saw the responses online, "Good! Someone called him out". And, sure, it's good Tim knows his Lucy-o-meter is showing because that's going to get him in trouble someday.

But Tim would never put a kid in danger for Lucy's career. Hell, he hates that Lucy puts herself in danger for Lucy's career.

But Aaron doesn't know Tim's history with an ex-wife who was UC. he doesn't know about Tim's abusive childhood and how he would never want to put a child in harm's way.

Tim is working the op the way it needs to be worked because he is a seasoned cop. In this moment, it's actually Aaron who is operating off of emotion. And Tim is smart enough to know it, so he drops it instead of starting an argument—the work comes first.

"I don't wanna blow my cover." "You got it."

Wow, how far we have come. Tim used to think Lucy didn't have what it took for UC. Now, he's letting her call the shots on her UC op. He respects the hell out of her, and that is earned, and that is built.

Lucy Makes Herself

Look, I don't know what the long-term plan here, was. Did Lucy want to keep using that cover to infiltrate the gang further? I don't know. But the second she saw Tim and Aaron in trouble, she leapt out to help.

Tim and Aaron can absolutely handle themselves. Lucy made an emotional decision. And it got her made.

Was it the right decision? Who knows. Aaron was the only one to get through to Tabin, and Lucy's presence didn't help anything. But she was worried about Tim and Aaron.

"Night."

Lucy doesn't know what went down between Aaron and Tim while she was undercover. But she knows what made her break it. And she's had time to think about their chat outside the other day—what was Tim going to say?

Because she knew he was going to say something. And lately he's looking at her with these soft eyes... What does it mean!?

"Hey, uh, I just wanted to say I'm sorry for what I said, you know, about Lucy. That was totally out of line." "It was."

Because Tim would never endanger a child just for Lucy's career. But, also, calling Tim out about Lucy was out of line—but that part wasn't wrong. And Tim knows it.

"It's all good. Look, sometimes tensions get high, but we get the job done. And you had my back the way you threw yourself in front of mom for me." "Oh, yeah, she was gonna lay you out." "Come on."

Aaron and Tim has become a really unexpected relationship for me on this show. Tim has softened enough that while he maintains authority over Aaron, he listens to him. Of course, this is Lucy's influence in his life. So it makes sense that the three of them are sort of becoming a new OT3 on the show.

In the past, it was Jackson, Lucy, and Nolan who formed the OT3. Common element? Lucy, of course. She brings people together in unexpected ways.

And while Aaron's comments were out of line, it's not wrong for someone to call Tim out about his intentions and choices. He's an authority figure in the station, and a supervisor. People need to know he's on the level at all times.

That's going to play into the rest of a season, I think. But, what do I know? I'm just a girl from the very-near future rewinding back to Chenford classics of ages past.

As ever, thank you for reading and joining me on this journey. We're all caught up! Can't wait to see what's next for Lucy and Tim (and Chenford)!

I'll put together a Master Post to-date later. And I can't WAIT to see what 5x12 has for us all! See you then!

[fandom-space-princess]

Read: 2022

Because I - somehow - managed to only pick up books I liked, or loved, this year, and I know I like hearing about what others are reading: a list of what I read in 2022.

Series

The Witcher (The Last Wish, Sword of Destiny, Blood of Elves, Time of Contempt, Baptism of Fire, The Tower of Swallows, Lady of the Lake, Season of Storms) - Andrzej Sapkowski: Working through these took me most of the year, but it was worth it. I grew up reading 90s sf&f magazines much like Fantastyka, and the tone of the first two books, especially, was very nostalgic for that. If you have the patience for an eight-novel trek and a love for dry, snarky fantasy, or any interest in the source material for the franchise, I'd recommend these. And that isn't even the hyperfixation talking.

The Locked Tomb (Gideon the Ninth, Harrow the Ninth, Nona the Ninth) - Tamsyn Muir: Singing my appreciation for this insane series every day. These get hyped for a reason, and that reason is that they will take you out at the kneecaps. I mean - what if your obnoxious millennial lesbian protagonists were also a profound exploration of mortality and grief? What if God was real and present and also just some particularly mediocre guy? What if tragedy and magic and Pyrrhic victory and no happy endings for anybody? I think Alecto might be the end of me when it gets published, and I will go to that death gladly.

Poetry

Water I Won't Touch - Kayleb Rae Candrilli: Reflections on transitioning, growing up in hostility, and finding joy in adulthood. Melancholy; also, hopeful. Made me smile a lot. Gay. The Necessity of Wildfire - Caitlin Scarano: I picked this up because part of the description - "the unraveling of long-term relationships, the complexity of their sexuality, and the decision not to have children" - sucked me in. Very glad I did. The nature imagery here is particularly vivid and effective. Things You May Find Hidden in my Ear: Poems from Gaza - Mosab Abu Toha: Poems about Palestinian life in Gaza. While good poetry often moves me, it doesn't usually make me shed actual tears, but this did. Pecking Order - Nicole Homer: Reflections on motherhood and Blackness and identity within family and other social hierarchies. This one had teeth. Immediate favorite. Drinking to Sainthood - Devin Devine: Local author out of Portland. Themes: religion, queer sexuality, death and addiction, aftermath and recovery. This was fascinating, and heartbreaking, and gorgeous.

Short story collections

The Glassy, Burning Floor of Hell - Brian Evenson: Short horror stories. The fear here is mostly the subtle psychological kind, with a definite sci-fi lean in most cases. The Lonely Stories - ed. Natalie Eve Garrett: Meditations on loneliness in various forms, from before and during the pandemic, but not mostly focusing on lockdown. Report From Planet Midnight - Nalo Hopkinson: NH is among my favorite modern authors, and this collection is part essay/lecture, part short works of fiction. I'd read the stories before, but the lecture was new to me. If you care about science fiction's recent history of grappling with racism (or watched any part of the drama around RaceFail circa 2009), I'd go so far as to call this fandom history required reading. Everyone on the Moon is Essential Personnel - Julian K. Jarboe: The opening line of the first story is "The first nice thing I ever did to my body was tear it open." It's a hell of a beginning to a hell of a book. The tagline is "body-horror fairy tales and mid-apocalyptic Catholic cyberpunk," which is apt. I'm actually almost done with this, and I started it a day and a half ago. I haven't been able to put it down.

Longform Fiction

Small Things Like These - Claire Keegan: A very quick read. Deeply unsettling historical fiction about a common man's encounter with one of Ireland's Magdalene laundries, and the horrors they contained. CK's writing style is very stark, spare, and lovely for it. I wish I could do half as much in 100 words as she does in 10. Comfort Me With Apples - Catherynne Valente: The premise here is: what if Eve hadn't been the first woman after all (read: this is a horror story)? Short and… well, not sweet (more gory), but as good as everything else CV writes. A Dowry of Blood - S. T. Gibson: Vampire romance about the brides of Dracula. Come for the polyamory, stay for the grisly murder. I wanted this to be scarier than it was, but it was certainly fun. The Only Harmless Great Thing - Brooke Bolander: An alternate-history sci-fi novella. In a past where humanity learned to communicate with elephants by sign language, US Radium begins buying them to work in factories after the social fallout of the radium girls incidents. Inspiring, in the "will make you want to commit acts of uncivil disobedience" kind of way. Haven - Emma Donoghue: Non-genre historical fiction, which is not usually my kind of thing, but I picked this one up on the recommendation that the story was mostly in the incredible character development, which it was. It examines the consequences of isolation and fanaticism on a trio of seventh-century monks, who set out to found a monastery on Skellig Michael off the Irish coast. The Book Eaters - Sunyi Dean: A modern dark fairy tale, about people who eat books - and occasionally, human minds. This was an excellent look at the worst things love can do to people, and what kind of monster someone might be willing to become for the sake of their family. I'm excited to see what this author does in the future.

And that's it! If anyone wants to share what they read this year, please tag me; I'm curious to hear what you've got 👀

[vaskianmountains]

20 fic tag game

Thank you so much for tagging me @veretianstarburst 💕💕

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favourite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favourite authors!

1. Missing

It was already late into the evening when Laurent’s governess Vivienne came to Auguste’s chambers.

2. Not Like the Other Blonds

“You really are unfairly attractive in scrubs,” Nikandros said.

3. Fascinating Reports

“Come to bed, Laurent,” Damen whispered into Laurent’s ear.

4. Your Breath in My Lungs

Damen tried to breathe, but no matter how much air he tried to suck in, there still wasn’t enough of it.

5. Of Soulmates, Books, and Spilled Guacamole

“You are my soulmate?”

6. The Downsides of Having a Teenage Baby Brother

When Auguste first learned that Laurent had found himself a boyfriend, he was overjoyed.

7. what never was and never will be

The baths were too humid, not leaving enough air for Laurent to breathe.

8. The Truth About Our Marriage

“I thought you guys weren’t coming to the faculty drinks?” Erasmus asked Ancel and Nicaise.

9. Our Unconventional Courtship

“Hey, asshole!” Damen said as he roughly elbowed Auguste in the side.

10. Veretian Roses

“How did this happen, Laurent?” Auguste asked when Laurent presented him the cut on his finger.

11. Take Care of It Myself

It was the third day of Damen and Nikandros’ business trip to Ios.

12. Moments Like These

Nikandros was tired.

13. The Kyros’ Unexpected Desire

At the end of the evening meal, the kings of Akielos and Vere excused themselves from the table.

With six out of thirteen of these starting with dialogue, I’d say that’s definitely a pattern. Those six plus some other ones also make it clear that I tend to start immediately with the ‘action’, rather than first setting up the scene before that. On the one hand that’s also specifically a preference for me when I’m writing (and probably also when reading), because I can immediately get to what I wanted to write and what other’s are probably coming to my stories for. But then on the other hand, I also do think some of my stories could maybe do with some additional detail to make them a bit richer, and first taking the time to set up the scene before jumping into the action could maybe do that. Although I suppose there’s also other ways to do that.

Relatedly to starting out with the action, all of these lines immediately start with the characters rather than with describing surroundings or something. Some of them is the characters actually doing something and others are more about things happening to them/about them experiencing emotions. Then, of course, there’s the ones where they’re talking, and we’re back at the often starting with dialogue 😂

I think one thing that’s also interesting is that there’s two openings about breathing and then also both specifically about there not being enough air. At the same time, Your Breath in My Lungs is about Damen having a panic attack after waking up from a nightmare, and what never was and never will be starts with Laurent being triggered in the bath scene from chapter 3 of the first book, so with them dealing with a similar topic it’s not that strange that they’d start similarly. I think it perhaps says something about how I tend to write panic attacks, and that kinda leads back to one of the questions from the ask meme that I answered yesterday, about whether any of my fics are inspired by personal experiences. When I wrote both of these fics, I didn’t write them with the purpose of writing about something I’d experienced myself, but now looking back I can still see that they do in part reflect my own experiences of having had panic attacks, because the times I’ve had those they’re mostly characterized by affecting my breathing (although there are also very much still differences between my own experience of them and how Damen and Laurent experience it in these fics. (Yes, I went a little off topic here. I don’t think this really counts as still being about opening lines 😅)

Choosing a favorite is difficult. I think most of them work well for their accompanying fic, and choosing a least favorite one is honestly easier. The one that would fit that description is from The Kyros’ Unexpected Desire. If I were to ever rewrite that fic, the absolute number one thing I’d do differently is its opening. Like I already said, I normally prefer to just almost immediately start with the action, and that’s not really what I did in this fic. I do think it does require a little bit of set up, and while what’s there right now isn’t actually long, I still think it would have been better if I’d condensed it somewhat. (And getting off topic here again, but while I think I should have written the opening to the fic differently, it does also contain a line that I’m actually really fond of, and that I was reminded of just now as I reread that part: After all, Nikandros had, against his will, learned well enough by now how to recognize when a proposal made by the Veretian king contained any undertones of a proposition of a different kind.)

I also don’t feel too much for the first line of Take Care of It Myself. I don’t think it and the rest of the two opening paragraphs are necessarily bad, but I’m also not sure they do particularly well at grabbing a reader’s attention and pulling them in, so that leaves the need for the premise promised by the summary and the tags to be interesting enough that they’ll still keep reading. (And I do hope people keep reading, because I think the rest of the fic is really fun! (And hot, also really hot.))

But then on to lines I do actually like. I feel kind of partial to the first line of Moments Like These, because I feel being tired is a perpetual mood for Nikandros, although that’s mostly the ‘I’m so done with this’ kind of tired, rather than the ‘I want to sleep’ kind of tired which he feels at the start of this fic. I wouldn’t call the line my favorite though by any means, as I’m not sure this line is going to particularly make people want to keep reading. I do think the immediate next couple of sentences do well enough in establishing what kind of fic this is going to be, so it’s not too big of a deal if the exact first line maybe doesn’t do that.

I think all the other lines do well enough in either setting up what the fic will be about, or getting the reader interested in finding out more, or both of those. I’m not going to be able to choose just one favorite from them, but the ones I like most are I think those from Fascinating Reports, Your Breath in My Lungs, and The Downsides of Having a Teenage Baby Brother. The line for Fascinating Reports has a sweetness and softness to it that I really love, and that combined with it also having a certain suggestiveness, does well in setting up the tone for how Damen is going to treat Laurent in that fic. The opening sentence for Your Breath in My Lungs immediately captures the kind of panic that Damen feels really well, and I like that it’s both the first thing you read when you open the fic, as well as the first thing Damen is aware of when he wakes up. I really love the first line to The Downsides of Having a Teenage Baby Brother. It has Auguste being happy for Laurent, which is always good, and the other thing that I love about it is that you can already hear a but in it, which also immediately gets followed through on in the next sentence.

I didn’t think I’d have that much to say on the opening lines to my fics, but this got unexpectedly long, so congratulations if you read all of this! I’m supposed to be tagging people now, but all the people I can think of right now have been tagged already... I do think this was a really good way to reflect on my writing though, so if there’s anyone who would like to do this, but hasn’t been tagged, I really think you should still do it, and if you want to you can consider yourself tagged by me :)

[ptergwen]

I think your requests are open (I didn’t see anything that said otherwise but I suck at this app lol) but I was wondering if you could write a peter x reader (likely college-age) where they have an academic rivalry and just tease each other a lot and lots of fluff and shit? It can be an established relationship or like a friends/rivals to lovers or really whatever you want. Sorry if this is super specific! Anyways, I love your writing, it always cheers me up :)

friends close, enemies closer

ik this is cherry BUT i had to

w/c: 1.6k

warnings: swearing and hints of suggestiveness

a/n: thank you my love ! i’m actually obsessed with this concept so i’m super super happy with how it came out n i hope you are too :,)

-

you wipe sweat from your upper lip, peeking at peter’s laptop screen. he’s more than halfway through the paper your english professor tasked your class to write. he looks to have not a worry in the world as he continues to type away. growling at this, you dive right back into work.

you’ve been at each other’s throats since the beginning of classes when you both wanted the same spot. first row, middle seat. peter had officially claimed it in the end. you’d flopped down next to him and his irritating smirk.

the dude is smart, you’ll give him that. his knowledge of literature is almost as impressive as yours. almost. he raises his hand any chance he gets, effectively stealing your thunder if you dare to participate.

peter is also a bit of a people pleaser. he’ll chat up your professor at office hours, fascinate her with his hot takes on things or stupid anecdotes. you often get so annoyed that you bail before you even attempt to woo her yourself. the sight of you storming off is something peter thoroughly enjoys.

bottom line is, golden boy peter parker never loses. underneath the sweet, innocent persona he hides behind is a ruthless fighter. you’re determined to end his winning streak, thus sparking your ongoing competition to be better than the other in every way possible.

this time, your goal is to meet your ten page paper requirements the fastest. they aren’t due for weeks, but you and peter are banging them out in one sitting.

you’re hauled up in the campus library, sat side by side despite your wishes for peter to get his own table. he’d insisted on sharing with you. why, you haven’t a clue. you can’t stand him, and he isn’t the fondest of you either.

that’s what you tell yourselves, at least.

“progress report?” peter requests from you. “page three. you?” you grunt back. he props his feet up on the table, arms flexed behind his head. “finishing up page seven. you already knew that, though... creeper.”

god, you can hear the shit-eating grin in his voice.

you glance over at peter, doing your best to ignore how his biceps bulge under his hoodie. nerdy little parker is ripped.

“worry about yours, i’ll worry about mine. thanks.” you reread the sentence you wrote prior to peter’s chiseled body distracting you. “oh, the irony,” he sighs and nudges the edge of your laptop with his sneaker. scowling, you shift the screen away from him.

about a minute of silence goes by until it’s unfortunately filled by peter. he stretches his arms out, finally removing his dirty shoes from the table.

“i’m gonna take five. maybe, you could use it as an opportunity to catch up to me,” peter cockily suggests. “spare me your charity, peter. i’m doing just fine without it,” you retort, letting out a scoff. peter raises his hands in defense. “if you say so, princess.”

here you were, naively thinking peter couldn’t become any more insufferable than he already is.

you slam your laptop shut and jab a finger at his chest. “jesus christ, how many times do i have to ask you not to call me that?” a patronizing pout adorns peter’s lips. “aw, i love it when you get all bossy on me. so cute.”

he grabs your hand still on his chest, pressing a light kiss to the back of it. you’re quick to wipe it off on his hoodie. nevertheless, there’s an undeniable heat rushing to your cheeks.

“well, i hate it when you call me princess,” you deadpan. peter tilts his head to the side. “do you?”

of course not. deep down, you live for the fuzzy feeling you get whenever the nickname slips from his tongue. oh, his tongue and the things it can do. poking out as he focuses hard on a question, running across his pink lips…

you have to reel it in. this is peter parker you’re fantasizing about, your mortal enemy.

“yes. i hate it, and i hate you,” you unsuccessfully convince the both of you. “no, you don’t,” peter rasps, darkened eyes scanning over your features. his stare is intense and intimidating. he grasps your chin between his thumb and index finger, slowly leaning in closer.

he’s not going to stop until you make him. you don’t want to, but you will.

you shove his shoulder, dragging your laptop towards you again. “on second thought, i could use that catch up. you’re not gonna throw me off my game, parker.”

your rejection seems to disappoint peter. his expression matches that of a kicked puppy, brows furrowed and arms crossed over his chest.

“we’ll see,” he murmurs and swings a leg over his chair. “alright, i’m gonna run to the caf. you want anything?”

he’s offering to buy you food now? what’s his angle here?

“i’d say yes, but i’m afraid you’ll poison it somehow,” you half joke. peter hops to his feet. “don’t give me any ideas,” he warns, snatching his backpack off the floor. “i’ll just surprise you.”

although you’re curious what his mystery snack choice for you would be, you can’t accept. you’d be going against your entire dynamic.

would that be so terrible?

absolutely.

you wave him off towards the double doors. “i’m good, peter. really. i’m not that hungry, anyway.” shaking his head, peter throws a backpack strap onto one shoulder. “y/n, your stomach’s been grumbling for the last hour. you gotta eat.”

he’s not wrong. you’re starving, but you’ve been too preoccupied by your essay to break for dinner.

“fine, surprise me,” you concede. peter flashes you a smile, this one void of its usual condescendence. “i’ll be back. try not to miss me too much,” he calls as he walks backwards to the library doors. “i won’t. shoo already,” you dismiss him, a laugh falling from your lips.

peter winks at you, then disappears into the night. you’re left with a serious case of butterflies and a certain freckle faced know-it-all on your mind.

that’s a problem.

you’ve managed to get another page done when peter reappears. he sits back down and slides a bag across the table, you closing your laptop. you dig into it to figure out what he picked for you. you’re not too pleased with his selection, however.

“oh, yummy. vomit in a cup,” you announce as you hold a green smoothie in your hand. peter reaches over and pats your thigh. “it’s good for you. drink up, princess.” you slap him away. “hard pass. i’d rather you have gotten me nothing.”

narrowing his eyes, peter pulls two cookies wrapped in a napkin from his pocket. “i’m guessing you don’t want these either? more for me, then.”

they’re chocolate chip and m&m, your favorite in the cafeteria. they just came out of the oven, so they’re still warm.

“how… how did you know i…” you trail off, peter setting the cookies in front of you. he offers you a lopsided grin. “i know a lot about you, believe it or not. i pay attention.” you surprise yourself by returning his smile. “thank you, peter. how much do i owe you?”

“nah, it’s on me,” peter assures you. “enjoy.” pushing aside your unappealing drink, you seize the cookies instead. “you have to eat, too. let me at least split these with you.” there’s a beat before peter nods. “fair enough.”

that results in you two munching on your cookies while pretending to write your papers. you’re sneaking glances at each other whenever the other isn’t looking, in reality.

once it’s about time for the library to close, you’re on the verge of passing out. peter is concluding his essay until he hears a thump from your side of the table.

he finds you with your cheek smushed against your keyboard and hitting random letters, snores escaping you.

chuckling to himself, peter places a hand on your shoulder. “hey, y/n?” he speaks in a hushed tone. you awake with a gasp, drool pooling at the corners of your mouth. “easy there, princess. it’s only me.” he rubs circles on your back, and it’s oddly comforting.

“keep doing that,” you purr, momentarily forgetting how much you’re supposed to despise peter. he lets his fingers dance across the exposed skin of your lower back. “we should probably head out. it’s kinda late,” peter decides.

you sit up, bones aching and eyes forced open. “not yet. have to beat you first.” you start to delete the gibberish you accidentally typed. peter cups your cheek to turn your head towards him, your movements halting. “this one’s a tie. you did good, y/n/n,” he coos. “finish the rest another day.”

“why’re you being so nice to me?” you nearly whisper. peter uses his thumb to swipe the drool from your lips. “‘cuz i care about you. i might not show it, but i do,” he admits with the hint of a smile. “besides, i need you… for the, uh, the healthy competition.”

laughing softly, you twist his hoodie strings around your fingers and tug. “your intentions are pure as always. sure that’s all you need me for?” peter’s gaze darts to your lips, then your eyes. “we’ll see,” he repeats.

rivalry be damned.

“mm. i care about you too, parker. thanks again for tonight,” you hum. a blush coats peter’s cheeks, even in the dim library lighting. his sweet and innocent side might truly exist. “no problem.” peter links your pinkie with his, the gesture giving you that fuzzy feeling. “i’ll walk you back to your dorm?”

you lean over and kiss his pinkie intertwined in yours.

“lead the way.”

[haztory]

hi mcdonald’s can i get uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh nanami + “nice tits”

“Nice tits.” from my writing event that ends today! 

 warnings: adult language and sexual themes, but that’s about it!

a/n: 3k words all for sanju that probably strays from the prompts but its fine bc i love you biiiiitch. thanks to everyone that requested a prompt! they will be out momentarily!!

nanami kento x gn!reader

There’s a universal understanding amongst the adults in the general realm of well-formed maturity and a sense of responsibility that there is no situation to ever exist in which listening to Gojo Satoru’s advice is a viable option. 

Much less any advice about love.

“You know,” His voice sings to your left, interrupting the tranquil silence of your office by his surprise warping, “If you needed help in satisfying your urges, you only had to ask. Looking at porn during school hours is a bit of a cry for help, (Y/N).”

“Go away, Gojo.” You reply, hardly perturbed at his unannounced visit and continuing the matter at hand. Your index finger continues its motions, pushing the wheel of the mouse downwards and studying the plethora of Google Search images the float past your eyes on your computer monitor.

Gojo leans his elbow on your desk, perching himself on the left side of your body, “Hey, I don’t judge! I’ve done it once or twice myself. I just always pictured you as more of an ass-person.”

Landing on an appropriate image for your task you click it, enlarging it on your screen. Gojo whistles.

“Now that’s just obscene, isn’t it?”

A finger enters your line of sight, pointing itself obnoxiously at the screen, specifically at the rather large pectoral belonging to that of a male model. An image that is necessary for your study of a new cursed technique that you witnessed on your last excursion with Nobara, and not at all the focus of sexual release as Gojo might insist. Even if they are rather admirable in their size. 

You would rather die before ever telling him that, though.

“They should really put a warning on those honkers—”

“Is there a reason you’re bothering me?” You ask bluntly, printing the image and retrieving it from the printer tray beside you.

“I just wanted to see what my second favorite teacher was doing, but never did I think I would catch you in the act of making a shrine to tits, so—”

You roll your head to the left, meeting Gojo’s shit-eating grin with a deadpan stare. With a sigh, you shake your head, “I’m studying.”

Even beneath the blindfold, you can see the waggle in his brows as he props his head on the bent elbow. “Oh suuure.”

Huffing impatiently, you swivel your desk chair to face him, placing a singular finger on his chest to push him back from your immediate space. He only continues to grin in his usual unabashed manner, as though he’s caught you red-handed. It makes you roll your eyes once more.

 You didn’t need to explain yourself; it wasn’t like you were doing anything immoral. Sure, staring at a number of pectoral muscles might seem inappropriate to the passing eye, but it was easily explainable. 

But as it always is with Gojo, he manages to rub that small part of you that just has to fight back. Fuckin’ prick. “We came across a cursed technique two days ago that targeted the chest. It caused—”

Gojo waves his hand in your face, “Seismic tremors in the pectoral muscles that affected a cursed energy point, yeah, yeah. Nobara told me all about it.”

“If you knew what I was doing why are you making me sound like such a creep?!” You exclaim, kicking his chest with the heel of your shoe. He catches your foot with a laugh, dropping it and holding his index finger upward.

“Because it’s fun to tease you.”

Huffing, you turn back to your monitor and point at the door, “Leave.”

“Oh, come onnn,” He warps in front of your computer, leaning himself over the top of the screen, “I’ve brought you a little gift of knowledge to help your studying.”

Even as he desperately tries to insert his gangly arms into your line of vision, you continue typing into the search bar. Some variations of “pectoral”, “muscles”, and “large men”. For research purposes, of course.

“Oh yeah?” You ask noncommittally, knowing full well the manner in which Gojo dangles his plots of mischief disguised as help, “And what would that be?”

Smiling largely once more, he lets out a giggle, “The larger the muscle, the more potent the attack on the cursed energy.”

Sparing him a quick glance, you mumble, “Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”

“No, but it does take a genius to figure out how to reverse the effects.”

He stops the statement there; grin audible in his words. After having spent years in the presence of the obnoxious Gojo Satoru, you already know there’s an ulterior motive to his words, something that is going to bite you in the ass rather aggressively.

And as much as you want to avoid being in the line of fire, especially the one directed by him, you’re simultaneously dying to know where this is going.

You hesitate to ask, but it comes out. Dripping in all of its cautiousness. “And?”

“And it also takes a willing participant to study.” His smile, in all impossibility, became even wider.

“I’m still not getting the picture.”

“A participant with rather large pectoral muscles.”

Oh.

Oh no.

“Someone who would willingly participate for the sake of education.”

Of all the people to have figured out about your (not so) little crush on a fellow sorcerer, it had to be the world’s largest idiot and nuisance. You had to end this, now. Before he does something so irrevocably stupid— 

“Shall we go ask Nanami?”

And that’s how you find yourself flushed with absolute mortification, gripping your clipboard with tight knuckles against your chest, wondering how you ever managed to forget the utmost important rule when it comes to Gojo Satoru.

Never listen to him, especially on the matter of love. 

Maybe that’s indicative of the state of your crush as a whole, something you should probably pay more attention to, seeing as the minute Nanami Kento was mentioned, you’ve forgotten the extent of logic and reason and followed the whims of Gojo without hesitation. 

It’s problematic, horrifying, and ultimately a monumental issue at the moment considering your mouth is as dry as a desert and your brain absolute mush, rendering you completely unable to formulate any words.

“Wow, Nanami,” Gojo shamelessly says, one hand shoved in his pocket as he stands beside your frozen figure, “Nice tits.”

Nanami hums unenthusiastically, unbuttoning the last button on his blue shirt and elegantly removing it from his large, muscular frame. Folding it neatly on the expanse of the couch beside him, he turns his stoic gaze back to you, hardly even concerned about his half-nakedness. 

Whereas you felt yourself almost drooling at the revealed expanse of firm muscles peppered with sparse hair. The fact that it was that easy to get to see this, to almost be able to touch it— 

Maybe listening to Gojo isn’t a bad idea after all.

“Shall we begin?” Nanami asks, pulling his glasses off of his face with his (large) hands and folding them on top of his shirt. A strand of blond falls onto the front of his face and his gaze trails from the impassive stare at Gojo, to you. 

And by all that is sweet and holy you swear that you’ve ascended to an ethereal plane and before you sits an angel waiting to take you to the pearly gates. No longer stares a man unamused at the teasing of the white-headed idiot beside you, but instead a celestial being with a body made of pure stone and dare you say, looking at you with a tenderness in his gaze that was absent only a moment before.

An elbow digs into your side, pulling you rather dramatically out of your stupor and towards the smug grin of the man beside you. 

“Well?” Gojo asks, “If you’re not going to touch him, I will.”

“Thank you, Gojo, but I can take it from here,” You all but hiss, pushing him once more away from your body, accompanying the action with a pointed glare. Beginning a backward trek towards the door, he holds his hands up in surrender.

“Alright, alright. I can see when I’m not wanted. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

Opening the door and stepping out of it, he halts, turning his head to look over his shoulder and says, voice coated in that familiar tone of teasing, “Remember to use condoms, lovebirds!”

He shuts the door quickly, hardly giving you a chance to spear your ire at his retreating figure, but you have half a mind to chase him down the hall when you hear his echoing laughter ring out. 

An awkward silence settles between you and the man of your horrid fascination that not even an uncomfortable laugh can ease. Clearing your throat and trying to remember your sense of professionalism, you straighten your shoulders and take a deep breath, facing the handsome man with a confidence that was growing incredibly difficult to face. 

“I’m going to touch you. For research. Your chest, specifically.”

In a move you’ve never quite seen before, Nanami sheds that formidable air of quiet stoicism and lets a small smile grace the features of his face. It gently pushes against the corners of his mouth and his bare shoulders move the slightest bit with the exhalation of his amused breath. 

“For the tremors in the pectoralis.” He says, leaning his body to rest against the backing of the couch, straightening his legs wearing their usual tan slacks to rest naturally in the position and hands folding in his lap. 

You gulp. “Y-yes.”

“I read your report.”

“You did?”

“I always do,” With his eyes still trained upon yours you can see them widen a bit at the realization of what he’s said as if that were an intimate detail he hadn’t meant to make you aware of. He quickly brings his fist up to his mouth, clearing his throat, “You are one of the few sorcerers here that fill them out correctly. I learn a great deal from your detailing. It’s… very helpful. You’re very thorough.”

Blinking repeatedly, you only nod at the compliment. Despite wanting to combust internally at the growing flames that burn inside of you, you take a step forward. Then another until, in an unforeseen reversal of circumstances, you’re towering over the man of great strength and respect. The man you’ve admired for the longest time.

The man that continues to stare at you with a softness you’ve never seen him reveal before. 

You can see the spattering of freckles that have intricately placed themselves over his broad shoulders resembling that of an artistic constellation and the delicious protruding of his biceps, great in mass yet telling of his of strength as your try to conservatively trail your eyes over his torso.

He’s beautiful, incredibly so. Baring himself to you in this way only affirms that.

 “Thank you,” you breathe out, and it’s more intimate than you intended it to be, but truthfully, it’s as fitting a phrase as it can be considering the proximity and the intensity behind his stare.

It’s all you can give him without crumbling at his feet. Placing your fingertips against his shoulder, you gently push him back, silently instructing him to lay on the couch. He follows suit like the dutiful sorcerer he is.

“I’ll just be examining the way in which your cursed energy extends from your chest. It shouldn’t hurt, but if you feel uncomfortable, just let me know.”

He hums once more from his supine position on the couch. Despite being much larger than the couch allows, he hardly looks uncomfortable. Only watches the way in which you press your fingers into his chest, pushing into his muscle and slowly massaging your finger in a circle. You circle around the left side, trailing around the outer edge of the muscle and above the rib cage, stopping and pressing rather firmly when you feel a surge in an energy presence beneath the skin. Almost on the center of his chest.

You snort a quiet laugh when you realize where it is.

“Should I be worried?” His deep timbre vibrates your indented fingers drawing your focus to his interested stare. He looks relaxed, the usual crease between his brow hardly recognizable. A stark refute to the question he posed.

You quickly shake your head, smiling growing wryer, “No, not at all. I just… think it’s funny that your energy presence is strongest where your heart is.”

Nanami quirks an eyebrow, “Isn’t that the same for everyone?”

“Would it be much of a surprise if I told you Gojo’s comes from his mouth?”

Nanami rolls his head, a breathless laugh exhaling as he stares at the ceiling. “No, I guess it wouldn’t.”

“Everyone has a different point from which their energy roots itself. Each one gives a different feeling of sorts. It doesn’t really mean much in terms of power and technique, but it is noticeable. You have an overwhelming presence as is, I just…” Your shoulders drop with a sigh, one stemming desperately from loving admiration and instead try to disguise as just an exhalation, “…never realized it came from there. Kind of fitting if you ask me.”

His brows furrow in contemplation, unsure if whether he could accept the statement. Unsure of whether it was a fitting examination or compliment for him. He must deem it something insignificant of his ponderance because he quickly moves on.

“And yours?” He asks, alight with curiosity, “Where does yours come from?”

You hum, grateful to finally shed the last remnants of awkwardness and engage in the usual friendly conversation you tend to have with him. The brief discussions that always prod a little too close for friendly discovery, but never breach the line of professional respect. That self-imposed limitation that you desperately wish he’ll cross, that this conversation is once again coming toward.

“Take a guess.” Allowing that lilting tease to infiltrate your words, you watch as Nanami adjusts himself on the couch. Bracing his arms against the cushion, he pushes himself into a sitting position and crosses his arms. Trailing his eyes over your seated body next to him, he leaves a burning trail in his wake.

He fixates on your face for a second and your breath hitches, before he travels downward over the column of your neck, then your chest, to your legs. Drinking you in as per your consent and request. Then, he extends his hand. Palm facing upwards in a silent request. You understand.

Placing your own hand in his, he turns your hand upward, allowing full access to the center of your hand and tracing his finger over the lines.

“Your hands. That’s your center.” He says with finality, monotonous but confident. With a small smirk, he looks up at you, “You are a healer after all.”

You give a small nod, “I’m not sure if it comes from my fingertips or my palm, but yeah. My hands.”

Looking back down at your hand in his, he traces the finger in a circle, “Palm. That’s where I feel it the most.”

“What does it feel like?” You ask with a laugh, expecting something asinine and noncommittal considering Yuuji once said your presence felt like a cool wind on a summer’s day and Nobara insists that it feels like a warm shower.

Two entirely opposite feelings, yet somehow categorized in the schema of comfort. You hardly expect Nanami to give something so introspective, nor anything that reveals too much considering the extent to which he tends to maintain the boundary of respect in the conversations of explorations. The kind in which two people teeter on the thin ice of interest, yet never voice it.

And yet, his eyes connect with yours again, and it's entirely too overwhelming for you to process. Too interested, too warm. His face betrays no nervousness nor any hesitation as he stares, entirely convinced that this is what was meant to happen. As though he knew from the moment Gojo asked that it was going to unfold this way.

Like he prepared for it. Like he decided today was the day that he crossed that line.

“Home. Warm and comforting.”

Slow heat the creeps its way up your spine that makes your brain halt thought altogether and sputter intelligently, “Gojo’s kind of feels like… tar. Thick tar. Super gross.”

His hand, large and warm, encompasses your hand once more, lays it flat against his chest to feel both his exuding energy and the steady beat of his formidable heart.

“And mine?” He asks, low and gravelly. Like sweet honey that has you captured entirely, unable to escape. Not like you want to. No, you’d rather drown in this overwhelming redolence than ever live without it.

You don’t even realize your breathing heavily, nor that his face has gotten closer to yours. When did he move there? Did you move there?

Either way, his face is in front of yours, noses almost touching and the compulsion to answer him on the tip of your tongue.

“Addicting,” you whisper.

And then his lips are on yours, molding sweetly into you, and it's everything you have ever imagined it to be. Slow, yet firm. Warm and craving, and you can only fight for more, more, more.

His hand moves to the back of your neck, pulling you in impossibly closer and you place your hands on his bare chest, the great reason as to your current predicament entirely, to steady yourself and your erratic heartbeat. Time seems to slow in the passion of his kiss, and yet when he parts for air, you feel as though you only had him for a second.

All the months of pining could barely make up for that singular moment.

“I’ve been meaning to do that for a while,” He says, leaning his forehead against yours, breath fanning over your aching lips. You scoff in laughter, meeting his smile with one of your own.

So, maybe, just maybe, listening to Gojo wasn’t a bad idea. And maybe, sometimes, he’s right about some things.

“Hey Kento?”

“Yes?”

“You really do have nice tits.”

“Likewise.”

[peachesandmilktea]

Hi there!

I am a non-binary person with short hair that I dye myself and a taste in clothes that can be best described as tight pants/short and Giant shirt. I am a musician and a writer who loves long drives and cups of tea and iced coffee.

My favorite song is line without a hook by Ricky Montgomery (the version featuring mxmtoon is just 👌)

My kinks include voyeurism and exhibition, shibari, roleplay and idk how to phrase this other than being sexually dominating over a more socially dominant person

And I'd like to see a male character match please

Your writing is fantastic btw ☺️

Match-up Event Masterlist

Thank you so much!

I match you with...

𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫!

Enji is the pragmatic kind of man, has never known romantic love and never will. Of course, he has no idea why his gaze lingers just a bit too long on your face when you sip your coffee in the morning, when you bite your lower lip while studying the report of one of his missions, or when you let out a relieved sigh at the end of the day when there is no more work to be done in his so busy agency. You're working for him, he tells himself, it's completely normal to care about his employees. But even if it were normal, the childish blush that creeps over his cheeks when you praise him on his work sure isn't. Damn.

He'll take you on road trips, long car rides every time he has to get away from the city for a mission. Buy you your favorite coffee without even asking you first; he notices, that's all. He doesn't talk much, doesn't ask many questions, but if his job as a pro hero has taught him anything, it's to be observant, and he'll make note of every little fascinating thing about you. The kind of tea you like. The songs you enjoy listening to. The brand of the pens you use when writing. You don't need to ask him for anything; he notices and provides, never asks for a thank you in return.

He might be the Number One Hero, but he'll leave you all control in the bedroom, attend to you on his knees and worship every word that crosses your lips. He looks good tied up in shibari, the ropes making his strong muscles stand out even more. It's fun bullying him then, but it's even funnier when you do it in his office, the door unlocked, when anyone and everyone can come in and see the supposedly strongest hero in Japan finding pleasure in the way you so skillfully abuse his body. Maybe we can even leave the door open next time, you taunt him, so that Hawks or Best Jeanist or even Mirko can see you like this. What would they think, then? That you're some kind of slut who gets off on being brought to his knees? He'll say no, just because he's playing a role, but you both know that's exactly what he is.

-------

Please tell me if you liked it ♡

Also I stole the bit of Enji liking praise from @bnhafanfiction bcs Hiro is the King of writing Endeavor and I just can't do it on my own. Check out the praise kink one shot here (AO3) it's amazing I swear.

[winterscaptain]

a kindness.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: it is loving megan kane hours!! i’ve been working on this one for a while and i am so excited to share it with you!! we have ajf!pleasure is my business at last! as always, tell me what you think!! i adore your feedback. also, if you’re thinking ‘what the hell, tali! why am i missing from the tag list?????’ it’s because i redid it! the link to the form is below.

words: 4.8k warnings: language, canon-typical death, canon-typical discussion of sex work

summary: “i believe that sex is one of the most beautiful, natural, wholesome things that money can buy.” ― steve martin. au!february 2009

a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | taglist | what do you want to see next?

You rap twice on the office door before pushing it open with your fingertips, peering inside while ready to retreat at a moment’s notice.

There’s no need. Aaron’s alone. 

“You’re here early,” he says, his eyes still on his paperwork. 

You snort. “So are you.” 

He looks at you over his nose. “Can I help you with something?”

Sitting down opposite him at his desk, you prop your chin on your hands and grin at him. “You stole my line.” 

“Get out of my office.” 

Your smile stays plastered on your face as you stand and cross the room, closing the door behind you. On your way out, you catch the ghost of his smile. 

+++

You watch Hotch leave the bullpen, his go-bag slung over his shoulder. 

“Where you headed?” You ask, looking up. You’re still the only one in the bullpen, taking a few consults off your teammates’ hands by typing up quick briefs they can review without going through every single comma in the file. 

He sighs. “Dallas.”

Yikes. 

“By yourself?”

He sighs. “Standby - not sure what’s going on yet. Can you -” He gestures to the hallway behind you.  

You nod and stand. “Yeah. Fly safe.” 

After you watch him leave, you turn and make a beeline for JJ’s office. She’s here early, too - pushing away the separation anxiety by diving into work. 

“Jayje?” 

She looks away from her computer, looking exhausted. “Yeah?” 

“Hotch just left for Dallas - we might have a case there, but it didn’t sound like something that would come across your desk.” 

She squints. “Why d’you say that?” 

“He had that look on his face like he was going into a room full of lawyers.” 

+++

You lean forward, jamming yourself into the circle around the table with the rest of your team. Hotch, on the other end of the line, sounds oddly well-rested. 

Spencer, as usual, gives you the history and textbook briefing before you get to the actual case. “Female serial killers are a fascinating field. We don't have much information on them, but what we do know involves throwing the rules completely out the window. Signature, for instance. They don't torture or take trophies.” 

“Because there’s no sexual gratification when a woman kills,” Derek adds. 

Looks like we’re all getting in on the pre-brief today. 

“Exactly. Murder is the goal. They don't have to do anything extra.” 

That makes you laugh a little. “So, basically, women are more efficient at killing?” 

Spencer shrugs. “Historically, they’ve had body counts in the hundreds.” 

Hotch, of course, is the one to get you all back on track. “So, assuming that the job is the stressor, what are some of the reasons prostitutes kill their customers?”

Derek, of course, is the first to follow. “Money, drugs, post-traumatic stress disorder…”

The team bounces for a moment, covering previous cases of serial killers with a history of sex work. Emily brings up Allison Wuornos, but Aaron shuts it down. He thinks this killer is organized, not so much driven by trauma or need but the mission itself. 

Spencer looks at the medical examiner’s reports again, comparing notes between the victims. “She’s using tetra-methylene-disulfotetramine.” 

You don’t look up from the same report. “Bless you.” 

Emily snorts. 

Spencer continues, unperturbed. “It’s a popular rat poison in China - easily soluble in alcohol.” 

“Poison is the perfect M.O.,” Dave notes. “Quiet, quick, and the victims never see it coming because they think they’re getting lucky.” He turns back toward the phone. “Does that mean something to you?” 

“Well, at $10,000 a night, these men are paying for discretion as well as sex.” 

Fair point.

“She has a history with them. They see her repeatedly.” 

You look over at Dave, trying to find the thread that connects Aaron’s thought to his.

Before you can really get to it yourself, Aaron spells it out for you. “She didn't decide to kill them in the moment. She walks in with the intent to kill them and she's doing it before she sleeps with them.” 

There we go. 

“So she's not just organized,” you add. “She's also methodical. Could she be parsing out which clients are worth killing and which aren’t?” 

“Maybe the victims all share the same fetish?” Emily offers. 

Derek shrugs, his eyebrows raised in thoughtful agreement. “Both victims were in their fifties, highly visible. Careful about their image. I mean, if they were kinky in the same way, they'd go to great lengths to hide it.” 

“And we're facing a corporate culture that'll do everything it can to keep us out.”

There’s the exhaustion I’m used to from Hotch. 

He sounds weird without it. 

“Actually,” JJ says, “I had some luck there. Hoyt Ashford's wife isn't too happy with how he died. But because every silver lining has a dark cloud, the hedge fund released a statement.” 

JJ pulls the statement from her file and reads aloud: “Ashford died peacefully in his home, according to lawyer David Madison.” She puts it down again. “They're already trying to close ranks.” 

Spencer frowns. “Does that language sound familiar to anyone else?” 

“What do you mean?” You ask. 

“The press release from the first victim.” He recalls, not needing the paper itself. “‘According to company lawyer, Stanton died peacefully in his home.’” 

Hotch begins to make assignments, directing Emily and Derek to the wife of the second victim. JJ’s tasked with the lawyers and you’re tasked with setup at the precinct with Spencer and Dave. When he’s done, you pick your phone up from the table, taking him off speaker. 

“What are you gonna do?” You ask.

Hotch snorts. “I’m gonna see which of the lawyers calls us back and in the meantime, see what I can get out of anyone else.” 

“Good luck.” 

+++

You’re up in your hotel room, getting a little bit settled and unpacked when you get a call to your cell. 

“Hey, Hotch.” 

There’s a sigh. “We got another body.” 

“I’ll meet you downstairs in five.” 

+++

You hop out of the car, following Aaron through the service entrance and up the back hallways to the lobby. Between your travel from your room and Aaron’s wrap-up in his, Derek and Dave beat you to the scene. 

Hotch is wearing that coat - your favorite, the one he’s apparently had for years - with the red lining and the soft wool exterior. It so rarely sees the field anymore you were afraid he’d done away with it, but every time you remember it exists and worry about its whereabouts, he brings it out again. 

Derek hands you a notebook when you reach him. You settle near Dave for the rest of the info. He, of course, delivers. 

“Victim was Joseph Fielding. He was the CFO here.” 

You frown. “Poisoned? Like the others?” 

“And staged,” Derek says. “She killed him in his office and then rolled him out here to be found.” 

“The lipstick's new,” you muse, circling the body in the elevator. “Done postmortem, it looks like.” You find Derek’s eyes with a little frown. “Reid said female serial killers don't leave a signature. I think she did that just for us. She's already exposed him at his most vulnerable.”

He hums. “Now she wants to be noticed.”

There’s some kind of scuffle at the police line - another man in a suit who thinks he’s more important than God. 

Hopefully he’s looking for Hotch. 

“Which one of you is Aaron Hotchner?” 

Ugh. Good. 

You step back and point at Aaron, getting out of his way as he shoves past the crime scene techs. 

Aaron turns. “I'm Hotchner.” 

“Larry Bartlett.” The man holds out his hand, but Aaron doesn’t take it. He retracts his hand with an unperturbed tilt of his head. “I represent Mr. Fielding in Webster Industries. 

Hotch, as usual, has no time for his bullshit. “This is a closed crime scene, Mr. Bartlett.” 

My lawyer could kick your lawyer’s ass. 

That’s a good bumper sticker. 

You shake off your thought and return to the victim, directing one of the younger crime scene techs. After a moment, you return to Derek’s side. 

“Yes. I spoke to Ellen Daniels.” This clown still sounds far too confident for his own good. “She said you're a very... reasonable man.” 

“Escort him out, please.”

You stifle a laugh. 

“No, wait. Please.” The lawyer - Mr. Bartlett - shrugs off the security team and chases after Hotch on his way to your side.  

Aaron stops, but looks inconvenienced in the extreme. 

“The press is outside and they can smell blood. Any way we can handle this discreetly?” 

“We're not about to lie for you.” Derek’s even less amused than Aaron, if that’s even possible. 

Aaron squints at the other lawyer, and you find it nearly impossible to tear your gaze from the little pinch at the corners of his brown eyes. 

You can only imagine him behind a prosecutor’s bench, laying into witnesses with the same deadpan amusement - like a bored cat with a half-dead mouse. Hoping to back him up a little bit, you get a little closer, looking skeptically at the lawyer from over Aaron’s shoulder. 

“You don't have to lie,” Mr. Bartlett insists, his eyes flickering to you. “Just don't comment.” 

“Excuse us.” He takes you by the shoulder and leads the three of you into a huddle. 

“Is there any reason to go public yet?” Aaron asks. 

Dave wavers. “Validating her is exactly what she wants.”

“If we hold back, she's more likely to make a mistake,” Derek says. 

You raise your eyebrows, looking over your shoulder for a moment. “He doesn't need to know that.” 

Hotch’s mouth twitches, and you know it’s almost a smile. He turns over his shoulder, back in game mode as he approaches Bartlett again. “We need everything you have on Fielding. Bank accounts, tax records, emails, everything.” 

+++

“Eighteen cars, six houses, and three boats.” Spencer rattles off the numbers with only the barest hint of shock in his voice. 

Your brow pinches and you look up. “Can you even boat in Dallas?” 

“You know, when you're talking about that much money, ten grand for a call girl is like deciding where to go for dinner.” 

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience, Em,” you laugh. 

She rolls her eyes, still pinning photos to the board. “Yeah, right. My mom had a pretty cushy gig with her postings, but we were never that well-off. But...” She looks over her shoulder, “I’m sure Rossi would know a little something about that.”  

Before you can all get too out of control, Hotch reaches over you to connect to Garcia on the speakerphone. “Are you there, Garcia?” 

“Affirmative.” 

JJ flags him down. “I have half a million over here for something called the Bat Cave...” 

It really takes everything in you not to laugh. 

“...and here's a picture of him as fetish Batman. That is… wrong.” 

Emily pulls a face. 

“Is there anything this guy didn't like to spend money on?” Spencer asks.  

“Yeah,” Aaron replies. “His ex-wives. Fielding was married four times. He didn't have prenups for the first two, but he did everything he could to cut them off anyway.” 

You lean forward, trying to see the paper in his hands. “Are there children involved?” 

“Yes, with three of the wives.” He hands it over to you and looks at Emily. “Hoyt Ashford was married a few times, too, wasn't he?” 

She nods in the affirmative. 

“You know, considering that when Kevin takes me to dinner and a movie, he defaults on his student loans, this amount of money is sick.” 

Tell me about it, Pen. 

Emily sounds resigned. “What did you find?” 

Garcia outlines a series of bitter court battles about child support, alimony, custody, etc. “And even when the court ruled in the wife’s favor - which was almost always - these three charmers just, you know, decided not to pay.” 

Hotch asks for a cross-checked list of high-profile Dallas CEOs holding out on their ex-wives, and you figure it’s not a short one. 

“One loaded losers list, Dallas edition, comin' at ya. Penelope out.” 

The line goes dead and Aaron turns off the speaker.  

“So,” Aaron leans heavily on the table. “Why would a prominent businessman who could easily pay child support refuse to?” 

Spencer obliges. “For this type of overachieving personality, paying money after the marriage ends probably offends him.” 

“They're spending tens of thousands on an escort, but they won't drop a dime on their wife and kids? That's cold.” JJ shakes her head and looks over at Hotch, seeking an answer. 

“Narcissistic, self-absorbed, a pathological avoidance of paternal responsibilities.” 

There’s an odd kind of look that passes over Aaron’s face as he speaks, and you pin it for later. You can already tell he’s falling into a headspace that’s fraught with comparison and self-loathing. 

They bounce around for a moment while you keep your eyes on Aaron. 

“Well,” JJ brings you back. “Should I assemble the police for a profile?” 

Your mouth twists. “I just don't think it's gonna help.”

“She lives in a completely different world than they do,” Aaron adds. 

“And,” Emily pipes up, “the CEOs who sleep with her won't admit to it.” 

JJ snorts. “Like I couldn't even get past the team of lawyers protecting them.” 

“What if we give the profile to the corporate lawyers?” Aaron stands straight, his hands resting on his hips. “They've cleaned up after her, even if they don't realize that they've seen this woman.” 

“Why would they go for that?” You ask. 

“Because she's putting them at risk, too.”

Your phone rings and you answer as you always do, chirping your last name into the receiver without really looking too closely at the caller ID. 

“Hey, it’s me.”

You nod once to your team as you step out of earshot. “Hey, Haley.”

“I can’t get a hold of Aaron. Is everything alright?” She’s beyond surprise or concern at this point. You’re sure you could tell her Aaron’s been shot in the head and she’d probably just hum at you. 

“Yeah,” you say with a sigh. “Things are crazy and there are lawyers all wrapped up in this. Are you alright?”

“Jack’s got a fever - I just wanted to let Aaron know I’m taking him in to get checked out. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll let him know. Give Jack a big kiss from me and I’ll do my best to get us all home quickly and in one piece.” 

She laughs a little into the phone. “Thanks. Will do. Talk soon.” 

You hang up and return to the table, shooting Hotch a significant look. He nods and pulls you aside. 

“What’s up?” 

“Jack has a fever - Haley just wanted me to let you know she’s taking him to the pediatrician to get him all checked out, just in case. I told her we’d all do our best to get home soon.” 

Aaron sighs and flips his phone in his hand. “I’ll call her now…”

“No need. She knows this is a tough one and you’re getting your money’s worth out of your JD this week.” 

When he starts to walk away, you call his name again. He turns. 

“You know - um.” You wet your lips and swallow. “You’re not like these guys. You know that, right? You’re a great dad.” 

His face lifts in surprise for a fraction of a second before he recovers. 

“Thank you,” He says. “Really.”

You offer him a crooked smile. “Anytime.”

+++

Hotch stops you all before you enter the conference room, full to the brim with suits and pantsuits. “Let me lead on this one. I’ve handled corporate lawyers like this before and they can smell blood.” He snorts. “This time, it’s their own.” 

You and Derek raise your hands in simultaneous and identical postures of surrender. 

“Have at it,” you say, falling into line behind Aaron. “Corporate lawyers scare the fuck out of me.” 

+++

“Hey, Prentiss. Got a whip?” Derek holds the leather outfit to Emily’s shoulders and she laughs. 

“Yeah, right.” 

You fondly roll your eyes at them and continue following off Aaron’s right shoulder. The two of you reach the bookshelf - an impressive glass case that runs from the floor to the ceiling. 

 Aaron’s gloved finger opens the case and runs over some of the spines. “Antique first editions on the bookshelves.” 

Rossi quips something about porn in the DVD player while Spencer espouses about the merits of a disposable, adaptable lifestyle in this line of work. 

“Well, these aren't just for show,” Aaron says. “The spines are cracked. Somebody's read these.” 

You peer over his shoulder. “Who reads Voltaire in French?” 

“Someone with good taste. Probably well-educated…”

You pick up where he trails off. “We profiled that she learned to fake privilege. What if she's not faking it?” 

“You're saying maybe she came from money the whole time?” 

You shrug. “It’s a possibility, at least.” 

Just then, the apartment phone rings. 

“Prentiss should answer,” Aaron says. “If it's a customer, she'll get more information out of them.” 

You hum, hedging your bets a little. ‘Unless she's calling in for her messages.” 

Too late. Derek’s already on the phone with Penelope. “Yeah, Baby Girl, we're getting a call to this line. Can you work some magic?” 

“I don't have a trap-and-trace in place yet. Give me a few. I'm gonna stay on the line.” 

Aaron gives her the go-ahead. “Prentiss, get ready to vamp.” 

The voicemail picks it up before Emily can so much as reach for the phone. 

“Hi, it's me. You know what to do.” Beep. 

“...Aaron.” 

You turn your head so fast you throw your neck out. You raise a hand to the crick and work it with your fingers. Aaron’s too busy frowning at the phone to notice. 

“I know you're up there. Pick up… Aaron Hotchner... Hello?” She drags out her words, almost flirting with everyone listening. 

With a sigh, Aaron pushes past the rest of you, silently counts to three, and picks up the phone while Emily clicks the speakerphone button. 

“I'm at a disadvantage. You seem to know my name, But I don't know yours. Can we start there?” 

Nice start. 

The game has begun. 

“I thought I could trust you, Aaron.”

What? 

The pinch between his brows deepens. “Who says you can't?” 

“I want to. I even looked you up online. Is that strange?”

Yes.  

“No.” Aaron wets his lips and begins to pace, the gears whirring in his head. “It's flattering to be noticed by a woman like you.” 

The woman continues as if he hasn’t said anything at all. “And I thought you were so... upstanding. I watched the presentation you gave on school shootings. I found it posted on YouTube...” 

She has good taste. That’s an excellent presentation. 

“...And for a moment, I actually thought there were still good people in the world.” 

“But I've disappointed you, haven't I?” He asks. “Just like all the other men in your life Who've walked out on their families, Who deserve to be punished.” 

“Did you walk out on your family?” 

His eyes flicker to you and you nod, nearly imperceptibly, reminding him he’s not alone. “No. My wife left me.” 

“Do you have kids?” 

“I have a son.” 

A sweet, thoughtful, perfect son. 

You smile a little, thinking of Jack, but it disappears when you remember that he’s home sick with Haley, probably having a miserable time. 

“How often do you see him?” She asks. 

 “I try to see him every week.” 

“Do you see him every week?” The question is mocking, smothered in dark amusement that could almost be called sarcasm save for its bitterness.  

“No,” Aaron’s eyes fall to the floor. “No, I don't get there as often as I want.” 

“I believe you.” Her response is softer, and you think she might make a decent profiler if she wasn’t on the other side. 

She is a profiler. 

In some ways, you suppose it’s true. She has to read and respond to everything her clients do, say, how they behave. It makes her good at her job and you good at yours. 

Same skillset, very different application. 

“But don't compare yourself to the men I see,” she continues. “You are nothing like them. You're just another whore.” 

Never in my life did I ever think I’d hear someone call Aaron Hotchner a whore. Unironically. 

That catches everyone’s attention, even Derek’s, still on hold with Penelope. 

“How am I a whore?” He asks. 

“You come when called. You do their bidding. In hotels you take the side elevator to avoid crowds, while the men who pay your salary walk across the ivory marble foyer into their cars.” 

Derek, behind you, presses. “Garcia.” 

You can hear her, faintly. “I'm in on the landline. Triangulating the cell. Give me like sixty seconds.” 

You gesture to Aaron when he looks. Keep going. 

He nods. “But I'm just frustrating you, aren't I?” 

She sighs, sounding a little impatient for the first time. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, you want to show the world all these bad men and my investigation's just getting in your way.” 

“No, Aaron.” You almost startle, her tone escalating to a deeply frustrated shout. “You're not doing your job! You don't want to arrest me, you don't want me in custody because you're in their pocket.” 

She’s crying now, actively. “You just want me to disappear, just like they do.” 

“Truthfully, I'm only interested in finding you.” 

Now that’s a tone you recognize - you’ve heard it when he talks to Haley. Most recently, when he couldn’t make it to some appointment or another. It’s one that’s disarming in the extreme, soft, but not condescending. 

“You've been betrayed so many times, You don't know who to trust, And that's why that first murder felt so good. But each one since has been less and less satisfying. You know that's going to continue.” He pauses, letting his words sink in. “Am I right?” 

Just like Haley always does, the woman loses steam, sniffling once before answering. “Yeah.”

“Come to me and turn yourself in. I will make sure that you get the help you need. I won't let you disappear.” 

“If we met under different circumstances... I could believe that. I won't let you cover this up.” 

A gunshot rings through the line and you flinch, turning to Derek just as the line goes dead. You know Penelope will have something for you soon. 

She never fails, directing you to an address only moments after the elevator doors close in front of the team. 

+++

Once you found Megan Kane, it was easy enough to find her father. 

You could empathize with her mission well enough after meeting him. He’s shrouded by his lawyers - detached and seemingly indifferent to anything Aaron had to say. 

Aaron starts the car and you settle back into the seat. “So, the wall of lawyers strikes again.” 

A shadow of a smile ghosts around the creases at the corners of his eyes. “So it seems.” 

“What’s next?” 

“We tail him - home and office. He’ll meet with her soon enough.” 

Your brow furrows. “Not to protect her, right? It doesn’t seem like he cares that much.” 

Aaron turns, placing his hand on the back of your seat as he pulls out of the parking spot. You’re momentarily distracted as he turns back, spinning the wheel with the heel of his hand and gunning it out of the garage. 

Focus. 

“No,” he says. “Think about it.” 

It comes to you only seconds later. “To protect himself.” 

“There you go.” He turns to you, another little smile threatening. “You’re getting pretty good at this.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’ve been here over a year, Hotch. I’d fucking hope so.” 

You’re rewarded with a real smile, and it’s enough. 

+++

You take Derek’s six through the hotel, clearing the floors and reporting back to the rest of the team. SWAT is in full deployment, clearing the hard-to-reach areas like the stairways and rooftops, just in case. 

Aaron catches up to you, taking the four o’clock position off your left shoulder as Derek breaches the door. 

The gun and chilled champagne sit like ironic centerpieces on the entry table, but they hardly use any of your bandwidth as you clear the room, your vision narrowed by the sight of your service weapon. 

You hold a hand up when you catch the figure on the balcony. “Hotch.” 

He squints, and you move to raise your gun again and make the arrest, but he stops you with a hand over yours. “Easy.” 

There’s a question in your eyes. 

He, of course, answers it. “She knows it’s over.” 

Just then, she places an empty champagne glass on the table where you can see it. 

“I’ll call 911,” Derek says, stepping out and closing the door behind him. 

You turn to leave with Derek, but catch Aaron’s open hand, subtly signaling you from just under his hip.  

Stay here. It says. Stay close. 

So, you stay. You lean on the far wall of the hotel room, watching Aaron hold the hand of this dying, hurting woman. They’re speaking softly, and she smiles at him when she drops something into his hand. His eyes are soft, gentle, not even searching. Just warm. 

You feel for her. 

It’s the best way to go, you think. If there was ever a time you were dying before your time, you’d want Aaron there, holding your hand, telling you he was going to continue the work that killed you, that it was gonna be okay. 

“How could your wife have ever left someone like you?” You hear her ask. 

As much as you love Haley, the same question often floats through your head, and your heart aches for this woman who’s been able to see Aaron so clearly, even if she’s only seeing him for the first time now. 

“You’re the first man I’ve ever met who hasn’t let me down.” 

You creep forward, further into Aaron’s eyeline, and sit on the edge of the couch. She’s close to her last breath and you can feel it - so can Aaron. His eyes flicker to you for a moment before returning to her. 

Megan’s voice is full of tears when she asks, “Will you stay with me?” 

You have a feeling it isn’t the first time she’s asked the question and you find yourself hoping Emily will be particularly rough with the handcuffs when she apprehends Mr. Kane. Hopefully he didn’t make it past the checkpoint and is still on-site.  

“Yes.” Aaron is solemn, so sincere, so genuine it makes your heart ache. 

“Promise?” 

“I promise.” 

You’re not even sure he realizes it, but he’s doing her a great kindness - one that many would not offer. 

It’s because he is good.

A good man. 

The tension drains out of her, and she grips tightly to Aaron’s hand as she fights through her final breaths. His hands are gentle, his attention only on her. He looks more like a father in this moment than any other time you’ve known him. She’s safe. She knows she can die in peace. 

Once more, you hope you have the opportunity to leave this plane of reality in such safety, when your time comes. 

When she’s gone, he places her hand in her lap and takes a moment to brush the hair off of her face, pressing the back of his fingers to her temple as if checking her for fever. 

After a minute or so, he turns to you, and you hope the pride and respect coursing through you is evident in your gaze. You pull an evidence bag out of your pocket, but he shakes his head, pocketing the SIM card. 

You rise as he gets closer, returning the evidence bag to your pocket. He’s clearly affected, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. 

Opening your arms to him, he wilts into you, allowing you to gather him into your shoulder. His arms are loose around your waist, his fingers wrapped around his opposite wrist as an anchor. It’s a rare moment of vulnerability and you’d hate to make him feel anything less than safe. 

You still have a minute or so before they all come stomping through the door to collect Megan’s body. 

“I’m sorry, Hotch.” 

He shrugs. “I don’t know why this one hurts.”

Your arms tighten around him. “It’s okay. I feel it, too.” 

A deep, shaky breath rolls through him. 

“She’s right, you know.” You almost regret your words, afraid you’re giving yourself away. 

“What?”

“You didn’t let her down. You’re a good man.” 

His jaw tightens, and you can feel it against your neck where his head falls into your shoulder. 

“Oh, stop. You’ve never let me down.” Your hand reaches up, stroking the back of his head, carding your fingers through the hair. “She died knowing you kept your promise.” 

+++

You look up to Aaron’s office when news of the leak breaks, finding his silhouette haunting the window, staring at the television. 

A ghost of a smile crosses his face, and he turns back to his desk, settling back down to work. 

+++

tagging:  @aaronhotchnerr @ambicaos @angelsbabey @arganfics @averyhotchner @bwbatta @capricorngf @cevanswhre @crazyshannonigans @criminalsmarts @deagibs @forgottenword @genevievedarcygrangerwriting @hotchsflower @hotchslatte @hurricanejjareau @joanofarkansass @kelstark @kerrswriting @little-blue-fishie @lotties-journey-abroad @mandylove1000 @missdowntonabbey @mrs-dr-reid @pan-pride-12 @popped-weasels @quillvine @qvid-pro-qvo @reidingmelodies @reids-mismatchedsocks @roses-and-grasses @shesbiochem4 @ssahotchnerr @ssaic-jareau @ssareidbby @starsandasteroids @stxrrywildflower @sunflowersandotherthings @sunshine-em @teamhappyme @this-broken-band-girl @ughitsbaby @unicorn-bitch @venusbarnes @violet-amxthyst @word-scribbless @writefasttalkevenfaster @zizzlekwum @iconicc @avatarkorraswife @mooneylupinblack @ssworldofsw @nuvoleincielo @kaemarie23 @violentvulgarvolatile @abschaffer2 @ellyhotchner @rousethemouse @baumarvel @reidtomestyles @dreamsonthewall @jhiddles03 @willlemonheadsupremacy @infinity1321 @messyhairday-me

[ddaehyeon]

ophiuchus - you have this limited stack of sticky notes. write whatever you want on it, and that note would magically appear somewhere in your soulmate’s line of sight during that day.

send me a member and a constellation!

— pairing: jung subin + gn!reader

— genre: fluff, soulmate au, office au

— word count: 1.5k

— requested ☆ victon masterlist

today will be the start.

that was the words scribbled on a blue sticky note you kept in between the pages of your favorite book. the last note you received from your soulmate. you randomly found it by your desk as you were working on your resume for a manufacturing company you were trying to get into. months had passed since you last got a note, so you assumed it was your soulmate’s final words to you.

a fascinating way to get to know your soulmate, although you doubt you ever got the chance to send your soulmate any type of notes. you can’t remember having that limited stack of sticky notes similar to what your friends would gush about during college. and your soulmate wasn’t too keen on giving off their identity either, settling for a few words of encouragement every other day and sometimes, random words. like really random ones. there was even a time they sent off a what seemed to be a grocery list.

though you got a hold of their last note, their other notes were no longer with you. with most of it only appearing in your line of sight, either too far to be reached or too awkward to pick up.

“good morning, you’re the new analyst, right?” a man with towering height greeted you, slumping a box on your table. things you supposed were necessary for your job. you peered over their id, their smiling photograph looking back at you. choi byungchan.

“i am.” a small curve made its way to your brim, lighting up your face a bit. though there was no point in denying that you were actually worried about what you were to do. the new environment adequate for your stomach to twist in both nervousness and excitement.

byungchan looked at the close area, the nearest cubicles were ones occupied by employees who probably had started their day way too early. already in the middle of typing out reports, with some answering phone calls and pacing in and out of the area. “our advertising manager is scary.”

a clearing of the throat stopped you from whatever question you were to throw as to why byungchan said that. another guy appeared next to your cubicle, he was holding a couple of brown envelopes. “am i?”

you shot a look on his id, his name easily spotted. jung subin. underneath, his title proudly printed. he was the advertising manager.

“just kidding.” byungchan let out a chuckle before grinning to the other. waving in your direction before leaving your cubicle.

subin watched him all along before he stepped closer to you, placing what he was carrying on the table. it was a few clippings and report summary of the former trends and advertising plans. “i compiled everything that you might need there, on the sticky note my email’s written. if ever you need additional data, just send me a message.”

“thank you,” you said with a nod. opposite to what byungchan had warned, subin wasn’t really scary. though you had to agree that his sharp look made him somewhat intimidating. gazing at the sticky note stuck on the top of the envelope, a cold feeling crawled onto your skin. breathe immediately sucked in, heart missing one beat— wait a minute.

“is something wrong?” subin asked, halting your train of thoughts, but not the trail of sensation that was rapidly setting in your body.

you shook your head, unable to commit to any verbal response.

his writing was familiar.

awfully familiar.

never did the idea leave your mind. for good days it remained there.

subin wasn’t in his office when you got there. you’d simply leave the files he had asked for only if you didn’t need some other monthly data. quite urgent of a need that you were willing to wait just a little bit until his meeting ends.

unable to hold still in sitting on the couch, you stood and wandered around his office. supplies tidily stacked on the shelves, a pile of documents on his table, most of the former advertising campaigns stuck on the bulletin adjacent to the sofa. the thing that caught your eyes the most was the handwritten weekly schedule. his handwriting.

once again, you ended up having a staring game with the paper. trying to analyze it as if it was your schedule, when in fact you were not really paying attention to what was written. all your focus fixated on how it was written. curving in rush, yet still neat.

the door swung open almost inaudibly or perhaps you were simply lost with your thoughts that you failed to perceive it. not until subin’s voice echoed in your ears as he stood behind you did you notice that he was already back.

“i’m free this weekend,” subin casually said, a chuckle heard from him afterward as he walked towards his table to settle down his notebook.

you shook your head, a little abashed of how he caught you in the act of staring at his writing. oh well, his weekly schedule. “that’s not it.”

nodding his head, he sat down on his chair. “then why were you looking at my schedule ever so intently?”

“just…” stepping away from the bulletin, you walked closer to his table. for a moment, you contemplated whether to tell him about your thoughts or not. but there was nothing weird with finding someone’s handwriting familiar, right? it wasn’t such a strange thing, right? meeting his gaze was enough of a reassurance, quite inquisitive too. “i think your handwriting is familiar.”

“it is?” he raised a brow at your words. “what do you mean?”

unsure of what to say, you blurted out the first thing that came to your mind. “today will be the start.”

the puzzlement that came across his features allowed an awkward smile to come to your lips. maybe it was some kind of coincidence. he wasn’t that person, no? admittedly, that was quite a disappointment. you shook your head in an attempt to take the words back. “nevermind.”

that was ignored though, subin’s frown melted upon a realization. “so you were that person who kept on sending those animal doodles when i was a kid?”

and it was your turn to be confused. “what?”

a knowing smile lit upon his lips, welcoming and a bit nostalgic. eyes discerning, warm gaze as if he had found someone he had been looking for. “do you not remember drawing something on a paper and it disappearing?”

“wait, so you mean—”

there were only a few instances it occurred or at least that was the depth your memories could still recognize. around kindergarten, you had this notepad that you weren’t entirely sure how you got. its pages were pigmented in bright and whimsical colors. and you filled it with the same amount of playfulness through doodles of animals and flowers, most were silly, but fun to make. however, none of it lasted in the notepad, all disappearing after the day it was drawn. you didn’t mind though, thinking that perhaps someone just pulled it off or it just magically vanished.

it was magical, yes, but it didn’t just disappear.

“i even have most of it kept,” subin confirmed, pulling a drawer and retrieving his keys from it. lifting his hand, he revealed a keyring that had a small drawing of a bunny locked on it. the color of the paper familiar to you, regardless of the many shades of color there was. its blue tone was distinct. “this drawing was from you?”

you took a few steps closer to him to study the keychain which he ended up handing to you. shooting him a look, a question slipped out of your tongue. “you mean you were actually able to get some sticky notes from me?”

subin bobbed his head up and down, his smile spreading in delight. “when we were younger.”

later that day, subin insisted on walking you to the bus stop. the remaining rays of sunlight brushes upon your figure, two shadows moving from behind as the two of you strolled on the sidewalk. you were unable to hold any more conversations earlier due to the other office tasks both of you had to work on.

“so why haven’t you been writing?” you asked, breaking the silence that had been existing ever since you stepped out of the building.

subin shrugged. “i ran out of it.”

“i see.” you nodded at his words, feet stopping in one go when you thought of another question. something you’d been curious about. “what do you mean by ‘today will be the start’ on your last note?”

“oh that?” subin’s track halted as well, a moment taken to look at the sky. the colors altering to what seemed to have been the pigments of the sticky notes the two of you had exchanged— of orange and red. “it just meant that from that day onwards, i will simply allow fate to work, to bring us together.”

he turned to look at you, the curve on his lips was able to spark a glimmer in his eyes. “and it seems like it did.”

[takingcourage]

Kismet

Pairing: f!Hayden x m!MC (Tate)

Word Count: 2,825

Summary: A weekend getaway gives Hayden and Tate the perfect excuse to enjoy some time together and to think about their future. 

Note: This is one of those stories that’s been collecting dust in my drafts for ages. I could never get the ending quite right, so I kind of forgot it existed until I started seeing posts about this appreciation week and decided to finish it. The end result certainly doesn’t do Hayden justice, but I wanted to do what I could to recognize one of my favorite Choices characters. I’m still a little bitter that we never got to see Hayden’s continued growth in a third book. : / 

Anyway...

Thanks so much to @haydenyoungappreciationweek​ and @lizzybeth1986​ for organizing this event and giving me an excuse to finally finish this story.  

Tate stood outside Hayden’s front door, scratching the line of one thick eyebrow as he waited for the telltale rush of footsteps on the other side of the wood. His lips slanted into a smirk at the sound of his girlfriend’s bare feet coming down the hallway. As usual, she was running. Seconds later, the door flew open wide to reveal Hayden, breathless and giddy.

“Are you ready for the best weekend ever, Tate Park?”

Following her into the apartment, his mouth kinked up at her eager greeting. “I am, but it doesn’t look like you are…” he replied, surveying the piles of clothes strewn about her living room.

Hayden snagged a dirty mug from the coffee table, glancing over her shoulder as she carried it to the kitchen. “Really thought you’d be used to my messes by now.”

Her duffle bag sat open on the floor, empty save for a pair of tennis shoes at the bottom. Shaking his head, Tate sauntered over to the side chair and began folding the towels that were heaped into the seat. From the other room, he heard Hayden pull out the dishwasher tray. Based on the sounds that emerged from the kitchen, it seemed the mug was not the only dish making a tardy entrance into the machine.

“I’m just wondering how we’re going to have the best weekend ever if you haven’t even packed yet. And I never remember things being this cluttered when you lived with Sloane.”

“You never saw my bedroom.” Hayden reappeared in the doorway and threw him a suggestive wink. “Besides, I’m much cleaner when I’m living with another person.”

“Careful...l might hold you to that someday.” He caught her waist as she passed by and pressed a sound kiss to her lips. For a brief moment, she melted against him, and he savored the scent of warm vanilla against her skin. So much had changed since their first meeting more than a year ago, but at least one thing remained the same: her kisses still had the power to make his knees turn to rubber. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” she rejoined, eyes flashing with sincerity before the customary glint of mischief returned. “Even though you’re a neat freak.”

“I’m not a neat freak. I just prefer to use my furniture for its intended purpose.”

“Couches are overrated.”

“Ouch. I’ve clearly been slacking if you think that’s the case. Are you sure you don’t want to skip the getaway for a movie marathon? There’d be lots of blankets and snacks. And hours of snuggling…” His skin tingled a bit at the thought.

“We can watch movies in Cedar Rest.”

“If we ever get there…” the words were mumbled under his breath, but nothing escaped her hearing. He dodged the rolled-up pair of socks she threw in retaliation, then dropped them into the open duffle bag at his feet. If this was her method of packing, it was going to be a long night indeed.

“I just have to be there to check in with the organizers before the festival starts tomorrow morning. And I should be ready to go in the next ten minutes or so, which gives us plenty of time to get dinner and then go explore the town for a while.”

“Or time to chill at the bed and breakfast,” he offered, arranging the now-folded towels in a neat stack.

“Long day at work?”

“No, I’m just not convinced that we’re going to get out of here in the next ten minutes. And I think you’re forgetting that we have a ninety-minute drive ahead of us… after we’ve made it out of the city.”

“Oh, hush.” She shoved a pair of pajama pants into her duffle bag in protest, and Tate had to turn his face to hide a smirk.  

“Take your time,” he offered casually, lifting the precarious pile of towels from the chair. “I wasn’t in the mood for dinner tonight anyway…”

Tate had already rounded the corner to the bathroom by the time she called out after him, “You love me!”

He did. So very much. He could hardly remember the days before she’d come into his life, although he’d known her less than two years. And as he transferred the stack of washcloths from his arms to the cabinet shelf, he found himself wishing that he was putting away their towels in their bathroom. He’d caught himself having similar thoughts too many times over the past months.

Tate fully supported her decision to live alone, but in such moments, his resolve wavered. Recently, he’d missed seeing her every day -- missed those quiet, intimate moments they had shared during the many weeks they spent on the run. Staying over for weekends just wasn’t the same. He wanted all of life to be with her.

Much as her methods might frustrate him, he wanted to pack a single suitcase, together. They’d pull their favorite items out of the closet, comparing piles as they arranged them on the bed. Tate would check the forecast and watch Hayden cram everything from a bathing suit to her winter coat into the allotted space. She’d curl her nose at his planning and make quips about the unreliability of weather reports. 

Somehow, it was his idea of bliss.

But for now, he would continue to be patient. There was nothing to be gained by rushing her. He’d never ask her to do anything she wasn’t ready for, though he would be lying if he said he wasn’t ready to put all separation behind them. The engagement rings in his browsing history were a sign of just how ready.

When he returned to the living room, Hayden was tugging at the zipper on her duffle, all traces of clothing having disappeared from the couch cushions. She dropped the finished bag beside the door, wheeling toward him with a distinct sparkle in her eyes. “Shall we go?”

Tate shook his head at her bemused expression. “We may have time for dinner after all.” Hoisting the strap of her bag over his shoulder, he wove his fingers through hers and flashed her a cheesy grin. “Time for the best weekend ever!”

The last thing he saw before she flipped off the lights was Hayden shaking her head at him, eyes narrowed at his affected tone. He squeezed her hand as they made their way out into the hall.

______

“Dipper would have loved today. It’s a shame she’s with Sloane this weekend.”

Tate mumbled his agreement around the key card between his teeth. Behind him, Hayden turned on a lamp and continued talking. “It’s my penance for missing two Stir-Fridays in a row. I couldn’t have her living alone all weekend, especially with Khann out of the country for the month.”

He unburdened himself, setting the bags of food on the small table. Hayden placed her bottle beside them before rummaging to find the cups from their place beside the sink. “I’m sure she appreciates it.”

“She deserved to have her for a while. This joint-custody has hardly been a fair exchange with all the traveling she’s been doing with the AIC.” Hayden broke the seal on the wine, pouring generous servings into the hotel glasses. “We should find her a dog of her own someday. Dipper’s bound to get spoiled if we keep this system up.”

“She is your dog, after all.” He took the drink from her outstretched hand and drew a sip of the dark liquid. “And think of the playdates Dipper could have with a new dog. They’d have a great time.”

Hayden beamed at him as her quick fingers yanked an inscrutable object from one of the food cartons. Their dinner was a haphazard assortment of festival food, and most of it was cold. After a long day of socializing under the autumn sun, they’d both decided that a hotel-room dinner was in the cards. Luckily, between all of the food stands, they’d had a considerable selection to choose from, and Hayden had wanted to try it all. 

“I’m starving.”

Tate raised an inquisitive brow at her complaint. He rummaged through the packaging to find the burger he’d ordered.

“I know I had a massive lunch, but these jobs take it out of me.”

“I can see why.”

Tate reflected on the day, unable to control his smile at the memory of how much fun it had been to watch her work. Steve had been the point of contact for this job, it was true, but there was no doubt in Tate’s mind why the event organizers had chosen Hayden to document the day. The Equinox Festival had been a vibrant, colorful affair that was almost enough to make Tate miss the mundane bustle of New York City streets. But Hayden was completely at home.

Tate never stopped marveling at how good Hayden was at engaging people and bringing out their best features in her photography. He’d always thought of himself as an extrovert, but she gave new meaning to the word. Children, especially, had been drawn to her at today’s event, and he knew without even looking at the camera that the images she’d captured would be stunning. There was something in those candid moments that mesmerized her, and that fascination translated into her photography.

“You okay there?”

Tate raised his lukewarm sandwich in acknowledgment. “Yep, just thinking.” He watched as she withdrew a kebab from yet another container of food. “Do you want to take a look at today’s shots after we finish eating? I’m excited to see what you got.”

“Me too. I think the new tourism website is going to turn out great.”

“I’m sure it will.”

Once they had finished eating, Hayden transferred the images to her computer while Tate cleared the table. His task complete, Tate joined her on the couch, startled by a sudden change to her appearance.

“You started wearing glasses?” The question came out a bit more incredulous than he’d intended, but the sight was jarring.

“Not all the time -- obviously. Usually just when I’m working on my computer.”

“Your vision is better than 20/20, Hayden.”

“And I want to make sure it stays that way,” she insisted saucily, tapping the hard plastic frame at her temple. “These are supposed to protect my eyes from blue light.”

"Your eyes are....nevermind..." he mumbled, stretching his fingers to brush a strand of hair from her forehead. He narrowed his eyes and looked closer. "They look great."

“They’re supposed to make me look more competent and less threatening.”

Tate’s brows knit in confusion. “Is that something you’ve been worried about?” While he knew she was capable of incredible feats of strength, it would be absurd for the average observer to be frightened based on appearances.

“You never know. Harley looks pretty threatening when she wants to be.”

He had to admit that much was true. “But none of your clients have said anything about you being threatening or incompetent, have they?” The question prickled the skin at his neck;  the thought of anyone questioning her made his blood boil. 

“Of course not!” she brushed it off as though the thought were ridiculous. At his skeptical look, she added, “I promise. No one has said anything -- I’m just testing them out.” Her dark eyes looked even larger from behind the clear frames, and Tate smiled in the rush of affection that flooded over him. The underlying fondness was always there, but in these moments, he was struck by just how proud he was of her. With a sight pang, he also realized how much he missed being there to witness these little steps in her process of self-discovery.

“If you’re sure,” he answered, pushing the feeling aside. “Let’s look at what you’ve got.”

Computer in hand, Hayden moved to his lap and stretched her legs along the length of the couch. “Can you see?” She asked, sweeping her hair over one shoulder as she settled back against him.

“Uh-huh.” His eyes flicked down to the screen before settling again on her profile. The glasses were quite an attractive addition…

“This girl had the best fashion sense. I don’t understand how she put all of that together, but look! It’s perfect.”

He nodded, trying to concentrate on the picture instead of Hayden's warm, familiar scent. “I like the socks,” he murmured against the silky hair at his cheek.

“Me too! Maybe I’ll try to find some like that next time I’m out shopping. I bet Nadia would like them too.” 

Tate hummed in assent, watching contentedly as she flicked through the pictures and offered observations on each one. As expected, the images were a perfect representation of the day’s events. For the next hour, they chattered over their favorites and relived memories.

"...And that's the last one,” she announced, lifting her finger from the trackpad. “I'll start editing them when we get back tomorrow."

"And in the meantime?"

"I’m going to enjoy the rest of my weekend with you.” She closed the lid on her laptop before moving it to the coffee table. Stretching a hand behind her, she wound deft fingers into the hair at the base of his neck. "Maybe we should sleep here tonight -- I'm pretty comfortable."

“On the couch? Aren’t they overrated?”

“Mmmmm,” she considered. “No.”

He kissed the exposed shell of her ear. 

“Well,” she waffled, shifting in his arms so that she could see his face. “The one at my house is still overrated -- at least, most of the time. I don’t need it all to myself.”

“I guess that’s just one of the downfalls of living alone.” He tried to play the exchange off casually, but his heart sank at the reminder that they would be parting ways once they reached home the next afternoon.

She grew uncharacteristically still, one nail digging slightly into the outer seam of her pants. “I think that’s something I had to learn for myself,” she told him finally, the hesitance in her tone catching him off guard. 

Was she nervous? He thought back over the strange response, pulse accelerating at the possibilities. “What do you mean?” 

“That I don’t like living alone as much as I’d like living with you.”

His breath halted, and he couldn’t quite suppress the hope that was bubbling up inside of him. For the space of several anxious heartbeats, he held his tongue, afraid that breaking the silence would cut the opportunity short.  

“Didn’t you say you wanted to move in together?” Her voice was soft. Behind the glasses, he saw a flash of trepidation.

“Of course I do. But are you sure? You’ve been discovering so much on your own. I don’t want to hold you back.”

Swinging her legs off the edge of the couch, Hayden turned to sit sideways on his lap. Tate bristled with pleasure as one cool hand landed on the nape of his neck. “It’s been good for me -- don’t get me wrong. But while I still don’t know everything, there are a lot of things I’m sure of. One of them is that I’d rather be living with you. ” Her nose wrinkled as she met his gaze and removed her glasses. “You’re my kismet, remember? We were always destined to be together. Together together, Tate. Living together.” 

“I get the picture.” Taking the dangling glasses from her fingers, he carefully placed them on the coffee table.

“I’m pretty sure I get the pictures. We just finished looking at them, remember?” 

Tate groaned and pulled her tight against him, relishing in the small sigh of contentment that fell from her lips when she was secure in his arms. 

“Think you can handle me and my flawless sense of humor all the time?” 

“Your humor, your sincerity -- on the rare occasions when it makes an appearance -- your messes...” His lips curved into what was shaping up to become a permanent smile. Even the thought of sacrificing his spotless apartment couldn’t dampen his mood. 

“My massages?”

He laughed as her grip on his neck tightened. “Your massages -- I want to be there as often as you’ll let me.” 

“Then you’ll be there a lot. I hope you’re ready for it.” 

“I’d consider it a privilege,” he told her truthfully, combing his fingers through the pile of hair at his shoulder. Lulled by the repetitive motion, the events of the day started to catch up with both of them.

“Tate?” 

His eyelids parted in time to see her lift her face off his chest. Her eyes had grown a little tired, but they were steady and true. Soon, they’d be the first sight to greet him every morning. He could have pinched himself over the realization. “Hmm?” 

“Told you this was going to be the best weekend ever.” 

[soundsaboutrighttumblr]

ramking fic: gimme the Tee

 Read on AO3

                     Summary:            

Some dialogues that need to happen. Set after Cool Boy, won't probably make much sense without it. After a leisurely breakfast, probably.

Knock knock who's there?

                 Notes:    

I am a tiny, tiny bit sorry about that terrible title. Not enough to not keep it though.

The knock on the door startles King out of his favorite routine. Three urgent raps of knuckles against wood, and some crumbs of soil spilled onto the floor.

He’s been deep into a contented buzz of mindless concentration, murmuring playful nothings and letting his hands and senses do the work, completing his round of checking up on his plants after breakfast. He tends to get a tiny bit lost in it, maybe. Especially when he feels as light as he does today.

When the knock is repeated, although with some hesitance, King brushes his hands off on his pants, and goes to answer.

Finding himself face to face with Tee's raised eyebrows.

“Hello and good morning, most esteemed project assistant!”

There’s a cupholder with two steaming hot drinks in his hand, and a laptop clutched under his other arm. King’s eyes barely have time to narrow.

“Soooo, about our talking over the school paper’s blog article? On our reforestation charity project? And you helping me choose pictures and edit some paragraphs, would now be a good time? I thought it would be quicker in person.”

King’s eyes definitely do narrow then: “Our what? I didn’t know there was an OUR-anything?”

“Oh, I… texted you? Did you not see? Is now not good? I was on my way to the shops, so I thought I’d take a chance.”

King opens his mouth to say something, but his attention is drawn to  the click of a door, and then Ram appears out of the bedroom, one headphone already in ear:

“I’ll be back with the dogs around three, text me if I should pick up any- P’Tee.” He stops short. King’s heartbeat stumbles and quickens.

Because. Oh.

There is that comical moment of them all blinking at each other. In silence. The one that's more than just the absence of sounds.

Then something well-meaning inside King decides that this is rather ridiculous, and he brushes over it, as light in tone as he dares:

“Okay, Ai’Ning, see you later then.”

Ram turns big eyes on him, wide and a tad anxious: Will you be alright?

And it makes King want to laugh somehow, but also? His throat and chest feel kind of tight.

He manages a smile, possibly even a confident and soothing one.

Ram looks at Tee once again, who wiggles the fingers of the arm holding the laptop in an awkward wave.

Ram nods and slips out of the door next to Tee. Maybe King imagines it but his leaving steps do sound rather hurried.

King heaves a sigh, only partly for show:

“Well, dearest friend Tee, do come on in then.”

---

Tee sets the drinks on the counter and King waits. Ignores the slow waves of panic that want to take hold, berating himself because what is there to fear? This is Tee.

Tee, who sets up the tablet, turning it on and tapping on the display. But he is biting his lips continuously; so King just waits for it.

“So. You two live together? “

There. No denying it now, really. But why does it feel like he’s supposed to guard secrets that are not only his own?

“He needed a place to stay.” No going wrong with a part of the truth though, is there? Still. The knot at the base of his tongue feels thicker, letting through less air.

Because how official are they? And is Ram out? And why the heck didn’t they talk about this?

Tee’s voice cuts in casual but curious: “I thought he had his own room, over with…”

“It’s family stuff. He needed a place to stay.”

“Okay!” Tee raises hands in an apologetic way and King thinks the echo of his own tone in his ear does ring rather uncharacteristically clipped.

The article draft is pulled onto the sceen, and King starts skimming over the lines of text, not really absorbing much.

“So… you guys are okay?”

It takes King aback.

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Well, there have been some tensions the last night at camp after our drinking game, and I just wondered…” King feels Tee’s eyes on him from the side. Then Tee coughs.

“Also there have been some ‘incident reports’ about late night yelling from an undiscerned tent…”

Heat shoots up to King’s neck and Tee throws up his hands: “Without too many specifics, of course."

King takes a moment to soak in his shame.

“Yeah, we are okay. Sorry about that.”

“Okay then.”

“Okay.”

Tee’s eyes still stay on the profile of King’s face, so he taps onto the screen, directing Tee’s attention there:

“I wouldn’t use that picture here, have you seen the ones P’Thara sent? There are some among them that fit better, I am sure he’ll let you use them.”

“Oh. I see, I’ll ask him!” For the moment, Tee complies.

King takes a breath and forces his concentration on the text written, clicking the editor to remove some typos.

“So, Ram is bringing his dogs here? I thought you said some time that you didn’t like dogs?”

King deflates. His thoughts feel like they’re in knots: “It’s not like I don’t like them, they just make me feel uneasy.”

“But you let them stay in your apartment?”

“Once you get to know them it’s easier to get used to them…”

“Still…”

“What’s your point?” King’s tone might be a tiny bit overly nonchalant again. And Tee might be throwing up consoling hands once more:

“No point, really, no point at all.”

“Do you wanna do this or not?”

It annoys King that he still sounds so defensive.

“Yes! Okay, okay, no more questions.”

It annoys him even more how Tee’s voice sounds like he is suppressing laughter.

---

When Ram comes back, the dogs are a white grey whirl around his feet, still excited from their walk. They do look at King, tails wagging carefully, but Ram keeps them close to him on their leashes for now. They sniff around and sneeze at some plants, and they sure are the adorable sort, King thinks, all puffy and fluffy and… safely over there.

Ram looks at him. “You okay?”

King decides he might mean the Tee situation earlier, rather than the dogs now. Or maybe both.

He makes a gesture with his hand, from where he is sitting on the couch, tablet on his lap.

“Yes. It went fine, we sent out the finished article, he’ll link us once it’s published.”

Ram’ eyes linger for a moment, then he nods and goes to settle the dogs with food.

Once they are happily crunching and slobbering on dog dinner in their room, Ram washes his hands at the kitchen sink and comes over, and for a moment just stays, stands next to King. King looks up to him and smiles. Ram sits down.

King gets lost in his eyes, drawn in easy and so naturally, until Ram suddenly speaks:

“Duen was there. He asked… He’s planning another short get away trip over the break and he was asking if I… and you would want to join them?”

King can’t help his mind springing up questions in a million different directions at once.  

“Why would he be asking that?” He realizes how it possibly sounds, but he is genuinely curious. “I mean, I get the you, but why the you and me?

Ram shrugs but there is a tiny something in his eyes: “I guess, Bohn… well, we have been spending time together. You and me, I mean ”

“Does Duen know?”  It’s slipped over his lips before he can reign it in. He doesn’t want this to sound like an interrogation.

Ram looks directly at him. Though he might be squinting a bit: “About?”

King feels strangely flustered under that look: “About us, or about you…?“

“Me?”

“That you like…”

“That I am gay?”

Ram sounds settled in that. So much so that the fascination over it pulls King out of his own head for a moment.

Ram shrugs: “He might. I never explicitly told him. But then, I never told him I am not, you know.”

King nods. He’s not sure he does know though. There are already countless more questions on his mind, but he remembers earlier with Tee, and so he decides on this one:

“So, you and me… we just tell our friends?”

More narrowed eyes: “We don’t?”

“Don’t look at me like that, Ning, I am asking because I genuinely want to know! I am asking so that I know. You’re not some secret-“, some secret affair his mind supplies in an echo, and he realizes why it might rub Ram wrong, so he hurries on with all the sincerity he can muster:

“It’s just that I think I am rather private about that stuff?”

“I am, too.”

It feels like a strange impasse, and it’s not like they are arguing, but King is at a loss for words for a moment.

He’s usually really good at this, but here and now he’s finding once more that it is a wholly different thing, trying to embrace and dissolve a tension when you are a party involved and invested.

But Ram stays, in that way that he just does. And it feels like they take in and let out the same breath. King finds he can let himself lean his own shoulder against Ram’s without hesitation or inhibition.

He sighs: “I think most of them are already convinced we are a couple.”

Ram’s voice is softly matter-of-fact. “Well, we are.”

King plays along through a smile: “Well. When you put it like that.”

His fingers pick a piece of dried leaf from the cuff of Ram’s sweater; touching his wrist.

“So, when they ask… I can tell them that you are my boyfriend?”

Ram turns his head to King, and it’s a long, studying look.

“Yes.  Can I?”

There’s a flutter in King’s stomach, and he’s not quite sure if it’s a flare of nerves or metaphorical butterflies; maybe both.

“Yes.”

Ram nods and smiles.

The corners of King’s lips tick up before he can stop it:

“Will I have to go through some trials like Bohn, too? You know, to be allowed to date you?”

Ram’s face is dead-pan. “No.”

Then one eyebrow arches: “That’s it? Were you honestly afraid of that?”

King sinks deeper into the backrest, flustered. “No. It’s not… no. I wasn’t afraid. It’s just new to me, is all.”

Ram scoots a little bit lower on the couch, too, until he’s at eye level with King, leaning his forehead against King’s, so that King can feel him nod.

“New to me, too.”

---

Later in bed, when they are lying face to face, King finds once more that looking at Ram until his lids grow heavy is the most potent source of peace, without the feeling of wonder and awe ever lessening.

“So who else knows? Your family? Ruj?”

Ram half-shrugs, half-yawns: “I think he might.”

He shifts and puts his arm up and King follows the invitation and presses his lips to Ram’s naked shoulder, before resting his head there.

“He asked me once if I liked any girl.”

King grins: “And you just stared at him?”

Ram nods, moves his head against the pillow.

“He then asked if I liked any boy.”

“And again, you just stared?”

Another nod.

“So, he probably knows.”

“Yep. He probably does.”

King smiles and watches his own fingers trace the tattoo on Ram’s chest.

“How long have you known?”

It takes a moment for Ram to think about it, and King waits.

“Early on. Around 10, 11? Took more time to understand it, though.”

“Huh.”

“You?”

King blinks. “I think… I am learning, that I take time with people… have to get to know them, before attraction takes hold? I mean, I’ve always understood as a concept that guys can be fascinating and beautiful to me, too, I just assumed that’s what every open-minded person’s brain operated like?”

He knows Ram has raised his brow before he looks up to confirm. It’s not really judging, but then again, it totally is.

King laughs: “But, that’s not attraction, I guess.” He puts his lips against the skin where Ram’s shoulder meets his chest once more: “So yeah, you… kind of hit me hard.”

It’s the same with Ram’s smile; King just knows it is there, doesn’t even have to look up to check. He feels it.

“God, I am kind of terrified to have Kamfah find out.”

Ram tenses beneath King, and he has to hold back a giggle.

He starts drawing soothing circles into Ram’s skin again, and amends:

“A bit excited though, too. But mostly terrified. We’ll be invited to lunch every weekend.”

The both stare up at the ceiling imagining for a moment.

King breaks first:

“You think we can keep it a secret in front of her for a bit longer?”

There’s a snort that might be a laugh, as Ram pulls King close:

“We can try.”

                             Notes:  

always want to hear what you think! <3

sorry this took forever... I got distracted buying plants and making little plant terrariums, me, who never even really owned plants, now my apartment is a tiny jungle. Oh, who to blame? Does anyone come to mind? PS: I am loving it

[heyitsn1kk1]

Nameless Pt. 1

Nameless

Part 1: The Deal

Synopsis: a nameless assassin for hire finds herself in a tight spot after a hunt gone wrong. Stranded on Navarro with no fuel and no credits she’s forced to make a deal with one of the galaxy’s most feared warriors: a Mandalorian.

* Note this story takes place a year or two before the events of The Mandalorian

* Also it’s going to be a slow ass burn

——————————————————————————

So far so good.

Everything was going according to plan. The mission was simple enough. Seduce this wealthy snob, get him into a room alone, then proceed to stick a knife into his throat.

But I’ve been in the business long enough to know that things rarely go this smoothly. In fact I was quite suspicious as to my good fortune.

“Mira... why don’t we head back to my room? I’ve got some Cloothian Spirits on ice.”

That’s my cue.

“How can I say no to that Mr. Harker?”

The profoundly round man offered me his fleshy arm. I linked my arm with his slowly and purposefully, some might even say sensually. I could practically feel him buzzing with excitement over what sharing those drinks in his bedroom entailed.

This entire night I’ve been displayed as this wealthy contractors arm candy under the alias Mira Remell, and I had about enough of it.

Patience was a necessity in my line of work but this man was an utter bore. Sometime I get prey that I can immediately connect with. We could talk for hours, sometimes I even purposefully dragged out the mission longer just so I can get to know a bit more about them. This man however could only talk about food and booze. I can appreciate both but not to the sickening extent this man could. To say I was eager to kill him was an understatement.

After a lengthy walk filled with monotonous conversation Mr. Harker finally led me into his room. It was lavish, as to be expected, though not the most lavish I’ve seen.

I took a seat on his bed as he poured us our drinks.

“So Mira, have you had a spirit like this before? It’s of the highest quality. From what I’ve heard the Cloothians ferment these high altitude berries for centuries to make this drink we are about to enjoy.”

“Fascinating isn’t it? What goes into making life worth living.”

I was met with a nasally chuckle.

“I have everything that makes life worth living right here.”

That was cheesy.

He handed me the drink but not before slipping a hand behind my back, trying to undo my dress.

Someone’s a little over eager.

“Is that so Mr. Harker?”

I said in a low soft voice so he had to lean in closer to hear me. I slowly reached for knife I kept strapped onto my inner thigh.

He was about to plant a wet kiss on my lips when the door suddenly opened.

“What the hell! Ever heard of knocking you fucking dim wits?” Mr. Harker raged. Immensely angered over the interruption.

“Sir we have reason to believe you are in danger. Our intel reports that an assassin is here to kill you tonight.”

I knew things were going too smoothly.

“Nonsense! Why would anyone want me killed?”

That’s easy. Your son wants his inheritance before you keel over from over eating.

“Sir please, we are to place guards outside and in your room to ensure your safety.”

Better get this done quick then.

“I’m a little busy at the moment if you couldn’t tell!”

“I’m afraid they are right dear. Someone is here to kill you tonight.” I say sweetly before swiftly drawing my dagger and slashing it across his throat.

Piping hot blood splattered over my face and chest. As planned the guards were too shocked by the sight of blood that I easily slipped past them, booking it down the hall to the resort’s exit.

I hope my client takes news coverage as proof of death.

It was only a few seconds later that I heard one guard crashing after me yelling at me to stop. Blaster fire shot passed me as I rounded a corner. I took the stairs down by flights, pretty impressive considering I was wearing heels and a tight gold sequined dress.

In no time I had exited the building and was making a beeline for my ship: The Regalia.

I practically threw myself into the cockpit and starting up the engines.

“Come on come one I gotta get my ass outta here.”

The Regalia’s engines roared to life and I swiftly nosed the ship out of the dock. I was preparing to make a straight shot out of the atmosphere when I saw 3 police droid ships heading my way.

Never a dull moment is it.

I gassed my ship, blasting myself forward. The droids followed me. As fast as The Regalia was I didn’t have a chance in hell of making it off this planet by roaring past them, I had to get them off my tail first.

I weaved in and out between towering mega skyscrapers, swiftly losing the droids.

As soon as a path opened up I took it, flooring it I made straight for the stars.

I was about to enter hyperspace until a blaster bolt hit my ship. Immediately red light started flaring and alarms sounded.

I frantically pressed a few buttons to get a diagnostic check.

Shit my hyperdrive was damaged.

But I was in hyperspace at the moment... meaning. I pulled a lever to disengage but nothing happened. I tried a second and third time. Nothing.

Well fuck.

Unless I did something I’d be stuck in hyperspace until my fuel ran out... meaning I would be stranded probably beyond the known galaxy.

The next hours were spent in pure panic. Lucky my original location was in the inner rim so I had a considerable amount of time to correct this unfortunate situation.

I flipped through my owners manual frantically, finally finding a bit of useful information. A pivotal structure that the hyperdrive couldn’t operate without: a single cable. Lucky I would be able to reach this from inside the ship. The bad news, it would cost a fortune to fix.

I’m not really given any other choice here.

So I sucked it up, grabbed my dagger, and went to work.

It took a couple minutes to saw through the cable but once I did my world came to a hurdling stop.

I rushed back to the cockpit still sweating bullets. I needed to figure out where the hell I was.

The closest planet to me was Navarro. From what the database said about the planet there really wasn’t much too it... except it was an outer rim planet crawling with bounty hunters.

Oh joy.

However I had no other options as my fuel was running desperately low. I’ve never been to the outer rim but there’s a first time for everything.

—

I somehow managed to land my poor Regalia in a dusty landing port. As I exited my ship I noticed right away that it was the nicest docked.

I had a plan... sort of. I needed credits, desperately. Since this planet was riddled with bounty hunters I was hoping to get a piece of the action. I’m an assassin, not a bounty hunter. My quarry never leaves alive when I’m done with them. But I guess aside from that fact it’s not to different... right?

Also since my ship was out of commission I needed a ride. And since I had no credits to borrow one that meant I needed to work with someone with a ship.

My best bet was to find a cantina where guild members got their assignments. I just hope that at least one of them is willing to let me on board.

I’m sure I looked like a mess. But frankly I didn’t want to spend any more time on deck as I spent the last 3 hours or so panicking in there. I was still wearing my golden cocktail dress, my hair was for sure in disarray, and I probably still had blood splattered all over me. I had put on my old cloak in hopes to cover up the mess.

Like that’ll do any good.

I made my way into a dimly lit cantina that was filled to the brim with shady looking bounty hunters. I really should have changed as I stuck out like a sore thumb. Despite the blood and wild hair I was the most done up person here.

I made my way to the bar and took a seat.

“Just water please.”

It was all I could presently afford.

The bartender grumbled in disapproval and quite rudely slammed my drink onto the counter.

“Thanks”

I took a sip before looking around, my hand instinctively going to my concealed dagger as I was met with malicious faces.

None of these people seem promising.

So I waited. Eavesdropping on every conversation I could but nothing piqued my interest. That is until a Mandalorian walked into the room.

All eyes seemed to be on him. Some with fear, some with admiration, but most with distain.

The Mandalorian made his way to the guild leader, from what I heard his name was Greef Carga, dropping a pile of fobs onto the table.

“Nice work Mando!” Carga said as he dragged the collection of fobs towards him.

“Please have a seat.”

The Mandalorian unclipped a rifle that was nearly as tall as me off his back and settled down.

“So I’m assuming you want some more jobs huh?”

The Mandalorian said nothing but Carga carried on as if a reciprocal conversation was happening.

“Well you’re in luck, I’ve got 5 real good ones.”

He placed five bounty pucks onto the table along with their corresponding fobs.

Without even looking at them the Mandalorian said “I’ll take them all.”

I was caught off guard by the smooth baritone of his voice modulated by his helmet. It was oddly alluring.

“Hey now you aren’t the only one in the guild! I have to save some for the rest of the guys!”

The Mandalorian just gave him a pointed look somehow with that helmet on.

“Fine fine, but only know I let you do this because you’re my favorite Mando.”

The Mandalorian was about to take the collection and leave before Greef Carga said “Hold up, I have to warn you about this one job.”

Carga grabbed a puck out of the pile and initiated the display.

A young Mon Calamari showed up.

“Krath Wilgi, a Nobel men’s son. Not sure what he has a bounty on him for but the guy’s paranoid. He’s hold up in some fancy mid rim hotel with a squad of mercenaries guarding him. Not that I doubt your abilities Mando but this might be a bit much for just one person. Plus you’d be out of your element on such a... developed planet.”

“I’ll be fine.” Was all the Mandalorian said before making a motion to leave.

Suddenly I had an idea.

“Wait!” I jumped out of my seat and strode over to the table the two were sitting at.

Two sets of eyes, one behind a beskar helmet, bored into me.

Time to work my charm.

“Forgive me for eavesdropping gentlemen but I overheard that a certain bounty might give you some trouble.”

I really wish I didn’t look like such a complete mess right now but I’ll have to make due.

“As it so happens my specialty is dealing with rich men holed up behind their security.”

I turned to the Mandalorian, directly addressing him.

“I don’t doubt your abilities for a second Mandalorian but it doesn’t hurt to avoid a waste of ammunition and avoidable danger. With that armor of yours you aren’t exactly subtle. I can get past those mercenaries and deliver the quarry right to you.”

The Mandalorian said nothing, giving no indication to how he felt about the prospect.

“Besides mastering the art of subtlety I’m also pretty good with a blaster and even better with a blade. So you wouldn’t have to worry about me dragging you down.”

Still nothing.

“I’m assuming you’d want something in return right dear?” Carga piped in.

I turned my head towards him before I answered.

“Naturally of course. Obviously I’m not from the outer rim. I need some credits to get me back home. I just need enough for some repairs for my ship as well as enough fuel to get me back to the inner rim.”

“What got you stranded here in the first place.” That strangely alluring voice said.

I turned back to the Mandalorian a bit shocked that he actually spoke.

“Let’s just say a serious of... unforeseen circumstances happened. My hunt didn’t go exactly as planned.”

“How do I know this bad luck of yours won’t follow me?”

Prick.

“Bad luck? If my luck was bad I wouldn’t be alive now would I?”

All I got was a scoff in response.

“Look, I’m good at what I do. All I’m asking for is enough credits to cover my trip back to the inner rim.”

“I took more than one job, you’d be stuck with me for the other ones as well.”

“That’s fine by me.” I say my voice dripping with sultriness.

It usually worked on most men but the Mandalorian seemed to be an outlier.

“Deal?” I tentatively said offering this ‘Mando’ my hand.

For a few seconds nothing happened. I was about to dejectedly withdraw my hand before his finally reached out and griped mine.

“Deal.”

[greenninjagal-blog]

It’s Always Been This Way (Hasn’t It?)pt2

Hello! Did someone order 52 pages of Virgil angst, gayness, and magical shenanigans? If you missed the prologue you can find it right [here]!

Summary: After deciding not to go back to Hogwarts for their final year of school, Virgil, Roman, Patton, and Logan all enjoy living together in their quiet muggle neighborhood and doing small tasks for the Order. It would be nice, Virgil thinks, if he wasn’t actively lying to their faces every day.

Also if the Neo Death Eaters weren’t trying to kill his friends.

Words: 21,080 (and no thats not some joke)

Read on AO3 ||  My General Writing Masterlist

Chapter One: Liar, Liar (House On Fire)

“This is absolute bullshit and they know it!” Virgil yells to no one, as he slams the morning paper on the table.

From somewhere not far away, Patton’s voice calls out “language”, but Virgil doesn’t really register it at all. He’s too busy reading over the front page article again as if he missed something the previous four times he had read it. He flicks his wand (Cypress, 9 inches, semi flexible) across the kitchen with barely a thought which makes the coffee pot start up and his favored mug place itself under it.

It’s somewhere past eight in the morning, and Virgil still feels drowsy which probably isn’t helping his mood at all. He hasn’t gotten a full night's rest in at least three years, and he doesn’t expect to get it for another ten years. And that’s only if his half muggle born ass survives that long.

He snarls at the paper again, slamming a fist on the table hard enough that the stinging goes all the way up his arm to the back of his eyes, and that in turn ruffles the owl on the perch in the corner out of its trance.

“Sorry Logan.” Virgil breathes in deep and snarls it back out.

The horned owl titters on the perch turning towards him, blinks twice in a sophisticated way that’s made doubly effective by the strange rectangular pattern around its eyes, and then reaches out its wings. With powerful gust and a blur of brown, white, and black feathers, the animal leaps into the air. It morphs with precision, a complex series of motions that elongates its body, shrinks the eyes, and changes the number of bones under its feathers all together. Its fascinating to watch: in less than a second the air is filled by a stern looking seventeen year old with square glasses, a sharp nose, and matted dark hair that rarely appears to have a strand out of place.

But then again, Virgil thinks its fascinating every time Logan breaks the law at all. There’s something about seeing a man so rule orientated like Logan breaking those very same rules that makes Virgil’s heart flutter in that entirely unhelpful way.

“Salutations, Virgil,” Logan says, sounding exactly like he had just swallowed a muggle computer. “May I inquire what has your frustrations today?”

Virgil huffs, sliding the paper across the table for his friend. “See for yourself.”

Logan picks it up at the same time as Virgil flicks his wand at his mug and exchanges it for the one Logan favored. Logan’s still frowning at the article when both the cups come levitating through the air and set themselves on the table between them.

The Daily Prophet had never been Virgil’s favorite source of information. It didn’t take a genius to know when a reporter was being paid to report--or not report-- something. Not to mention it was practically controlled by the Ministry and that it was more concerned with sales than with accuracy.

Still, Virgil is too much of a sucker for routine to cancel his subscription to the utter nonsense. Which leads him to mornings such as this: grumbling into his coffee mug, with his illegal animagus of a friend across from him equally displeased and showing it in the way his eyebrows furrow and his thin lips squeeze together, with Patton in the other room somewhere, probably stress cleaning again (which is marginally better than when he’s stress eating), and Roman out on his morning jog through the quiet muggle neighborhood they called their own.

It’s strange, Virgil thinks, knowing that none of their neighbors are aware of the nuclear bombs that rest in each of their pockets disguised as sticks that they might have picked up in the park last Saturday.

It’s strange, Virgil thinks, that its September fourth and none of them are at Hogwarts, or even intending on going to the esteemed magic school that had been their homes for six years prior.

It’s strange, Virgil thinks, knowing that Dee’s family had helped finance the Dark Lady's rise to political power and then had started murdering muggles in distant countries and the Daily Prophet was refusing to acknowledge any of it at all.

They’d all be seventh years this year, completing the second half of their courses and preparing for the NEWTS and practicing their nonverbal spells. And maybe Virgil’s spent too much time in his own head this summer because he misses going the kitchens and tapping out the rhythmic pattern of “Helga Hufflepuff” on the barrel that would open up to the soft, cozy, and quiet common room. From the very first moment he had done it himself, Virgil had always felt a bit like he was walking home when he entered the Hufflepuff dorms, as ridiculous a notion as it was. (And he’d die before he’d admit that to anyone else.)

But even here, in Roman’s semi-modest muggle neighborhood, it feels a bit like that. He can’t pretend that he doesn’t like waking up and seeing those three again and again and again. He doesn’t want to either.

He feels guilty about it. A whole lot of guilty. For the first month of them living together, Virgil hadn’t been able to sleep at all, because he’d been so afraid of waking up, and finding the spell over them had broken.

Virgil can survive losing a lot-- he’s done it before with his mother, his home, his holidays, his sanity (on Thursdays, specifically),-- he doesn’t think he can survive losing them too. And that’s partially his fault, he supposes: his defining character trait has always been that fierce loyalty, with a more than a dash of selfishness that his mother hadn’t managed to iron out of him. 

He loves the spell that was over them. He also hates that he loves the spell that was over them.

The second they found out it would be over and they’d never forgive him for using them like stepping stones.

His fingers tighten around the mug at the spiral of his own thoughts. Logan’s eyes flick up from his reading to look at him, and Virgil wished he knew what that sort of look meant. If they had actually been friends for five years, he probably would have known.

Its a little late to ask.

It doesn’t matter much because the next moment the front door opens with a loud boom and a louder voice sings the ending line of some Disney song that Virgil recognizes only because it had been in the back of his head for three days straight. (That song from that night when the four of them had curled up in the living room and Roman had tugged him into a cuddle and then forgotten to let go of him before he fell asleep with his head on Virgil’s shoulder and-- and he was blushing just thinking about it.)

Virgil makes a mistake of swallowing his coffee at the same time as Roman Prince comes tromping into the kitchen after his morning run. And hell, if it didn’t take every single muscle in his body to keep from spitting his drink back up.

Virgil has seen Roman come back from runs before: it was part of his routine that he rarely switched up and he had admitted to Virgil once that it was when he did his best thinking. Alone with his music in his ear, his wand in his pocket, and the rhythmic pounding of his sneakers on the pavement-- Virgil could see how it was appealing. If it didn’t require getting up so early, or going outside, or like...exercising, Virgil would have totally been down to run with him. 

But the way that Roman comes into the room-- his shirt in his hands, instead of on his body like a normal person, glistening with sweat that seemed to drip off every single muscle which was only emphasized by the smug look on his face, his eyes sparking with his endorphins running rampid and his face still flushed from his workout--like he knew, the little shit, knew that he was making Virgil short circuit by looking like that.

Virgil swallows his coffee, with his hands around his mug so tightly he thinks it might take a crowbar or diffindo to get them apart.

Logan turns into an owl again.

(Animals don’t feel emotions quite like humans, Logan had said once and Virgil has never been able to get over that particular jealousy.)

“What's the matter, Morgan le Fretful?” Roman asks with that shit eating grin of his that, by itself, can turn Virgil’s thought process into a first graders string art project. That smile coupled with his gleaming abs and Virgil’s complete and utter gayness? Oh he’s down for the count and out of the game all together.

“Boo,” Virgil manages, “Weak.”

“I think it was a good one!” Roman responds so blithe and warm that Virgil wonders if the sun came to earth for the day. Logan flutters his feathers, which only makes Roman laugh more.

“Put on a shirt, Princey,” Virgil says, deliberately not looking at him as he says it. He steals the paper back from Logan’s place, and pretends to find the articles in it interesting and not at all offensive. 

"And if I don't?" Roman's wiggling his eyebrows and Virgil can tell because the picture of Celestina Warbeck (the famed Singing Sorceress, whom Roman had once said should be the next Disney Princess) was blushing furiously and waving her face in her article.

Virgil glares at the singer and she gives him a wink like she knows exactly what his heart is doing in his chest. He changes pages as fast as he can, grabs his mug and his wand in one hand, and does not look up at Roman.

"If you don't, Patton's gonna have a hard time putting out the Bluebell flames I'm gonna--"

Virgil stops mid sentence as his eyes catch on a familiar face on the page. A face he hadn't seen in a year, but saw each and every time he had a nightmare. The paper crinkled in his hand.

"Virgil?" Roman says playfulness gone. "If it's really that much of a bother I'll put it on--"

Virgil blinks once, twice, and he swallows hard. "What? No its-- Its fine. I don't care." He folds the paper and sticks it under his arm as he convinces himself to keep breathing.

Roman stares at him (shirt around his neck like hawaiian lei). Logan gives a ruffle of feathers and touches down at the edge of the table next to Virgil's elbow. Despite being a bird, and despite the fact the markings around his eyes only look like glasses, the gaze he holds is sophisticated and knowing. Virgil refuses to look at him, at either of them. He finds a spot just over Roman’s shoulder to stare at in conviction.

"I'm fine," Virgil says again, as if that will convince them. 

"You're clearly not." Logan's voice says and Virgil just barely restrains himself from batting the glasses off his face. (When the first animagus was done, why didn't they included a sound with their morphing? A bell ringing? A tumblr notification noise? Something???)

"Yeah, last time you acted like this after reading the paper, you disappeared for a day, without explanation." Roman says (and Virgil doesn't flinch, does not, does not), "So to prevent Patton from worrying all day, I'm gonna wait for an answer that's the truth."

"It is the truth!" Virgil responds. And its not a lie. Not a whole lie. Barely a partial lie. Its nothing compared to the other lies he's been telling.

And when neither of them fall for it, he lets out a defeated breath. "You guys remember Professor Remus Dukeson?"

Roman snorts, "Crazy Divination teacher? The one who ate a physical teacup in third year?”

Logan picks up a feather from the table, one of his own feathers, and twists it in his fingers, “What about him, Virgil?”

“Do you know what Alstroemeria flowers represent?”

Virgil unfolds the paper from under his arm, “He’s dead.”

Virgil doesn’t expect them to understand. He can’t expect them to. Logan thought Divination was a waste of school funds. It was the only class he didn’t even attempt to master. And Roman and Professor Remus never once got along. After the disaster of third year Roman had dropped Divination like it had been going out of style, and maybe it had. By fourth year only half the class had stuck around. 

And Virgil had been one of them.

He hadn’t been particularly good at it: he didn’t like his tea without sugar, the crystal balls never once filled with smoke for him, and he mixed up the head and life lines on his during the Palmistry portion of his OWLs despite having had the class for three whole years by then. Professor Remus had mentioned he had a latent talent once upon a time, but the man had also said that Roman was going to cast a forbidden curse at Virgil and Logan was going to win a duel with Professor Sanders, so Virgil hadn’t put much merit in his words.

But seeing the teachers face, his smirking mouth, his mustache that always had something in it, and even seeing his picture shuffling side to side as he was trying to stripe which unfortunately was not a new phenomenon to anyone who took his class...seeing Professor Remus in the Obituaries with the cause of death being labeled as an unsolvable murder? Oh, there was something cold about that, something that makes Virgil’s empty stomach churn and his head feel warm, and his fingers itch for the coin in the secret pocket over his heart. 

Theres a flash of red in the corner of his eye and Virgil freezes, but in the end its just Roman tugging his shirt over his head, and pushing back his sweat drenched bangs. He’s frowning, as people do when they hear someone died.

“Oh man,” Roman says, “That’s pretty awful. I mean he was a terrible teacher, but I never wanted to see him dead.”

“Agreed,” Logan says. He flips the paper to read the small written eulogy himself. “I wonder who the new teacher in his place is?”

“Maybe they brought back Trelawney?” Roman suggests.

And just like that the topic is gone and Remus Dukeson is forgotten. Virgil wishes that his right hand would stop feeling like someone had stabbed him with a thousand needles in the meantime, please and thanks.

Listening to them feels a lot like they’re standing on opposite sides of a one-way glass wall. They keep talking, the topic gone, and in a few minutes Virgil’s little freak out will have been forgotten to them. Virgil thinks he should be thankful for that: with his life on the line he really doesn’t need them to be prodding into why exactly crazy Remus Dukeson’s death matters all that much.

Crazy Remus Dukeson who would have been the only one who could have helped him out of the hole he’d been digging for himself for the past two years. But if he was dead, then there was no one left who could vouch for him when all of this was over, no one who would be able to stand in a court room and say without a doubt that Virgil had done the only thing he could have done, no one who would want to believe Virgil was a good guy.

And, of course, Logan was not stupid in any manner. If past memories hadn’t secured such a reaction as his as one of normality, then surely he would have put two and two together. Surely if he hadn’t had five years of false memories under his belt he would have realized that Virgil was hiding something behind that glass mirror of his, and that it was bad and evil and going to get them killed.

Virgil slips out of the room about the same time as Roman and Logan start arguing over whether Divination should even be a course offered at school (a debate of which has been ongoing for three years now). Part of him wants to be sad that it's so easy to just fade away from and exit the room without making them even turn from each other.

But Virgil knows how Roman and Logan stare at each other when they get into a debate, how everyone stares at Logan when he gets filled with that prim-and-proper, fuck-you fire. Outside of seeing him break the laws with ease, watching Logan get passionate is one of Virgil’s favorite sights. (Even if the first memory of it that Virgil has also includes Logan giving him a bloody nose and Patton crying--) 

Roman isn’t any different. That’s why he purposely eggs the ravenclaw on, and then stares stupidly at Logan’s flushed cheeks with a cocky smirk that is absolutely impossible for Virgil to witness when the other still hasn’t showered from his run.

So really its for his own sanity that he manages to escape the room when he does.

***

Virgil is coming down from his room at a quarter after four when Patton assaults him with the brightest wand-lighting charm Virgil has ever seen performed. 

“Pat! Fuck!” Virgil stumbles back on the stairs covering his eyes against the white light. “Warn a dude!”

“Virgil!” Patton yelps, “Language!” But he giggling far too much for it to come out stern. Virgil feels the other boy batting his hands away from his face, “Stop, stop that, Virgil!”

Virgil squints past the glare, “What are you--”

“Smile!”

Then there's a flash of light even brighter than Patton’s wand followed by a puff of purple smoke that practically spelled out what was going on.

Virgil coughs, waving off the smoke while Patton removes the wizard polaroid photo from his camera. His brain is working overtime trying to remember what holiday it is because Patton never breaks the camera out unless its an important date. But Virgil had his calendar in the room marked with all their birthdays, and the major and minor national holidays--magic and muggle alike because Patton had started crying the last time they forgot to tell him about Arbor Day and Virgil wasn’t ready for that to happen again in this lifetime or the next or the one after that. He’s even marked the full moon, because he was pretty sure the girl from the public library was a werewolf and didn’t want to accidentally wander outside if she missed a potion on one of those nights.

“Pat,” Virgil says in a sort of defeated, anxiety ridden tone. “What’s going on? Who’s birthday--”

Patton just laughs at him, and Virgil has to shut up at that. Patton’s laugh was like a waterfall, like bells chiming, like angels signing. Virgil would rather pitch himself from the Astronomy Tower than miss any second of his glorious happiness. 

Its unhealthy. Its gonna be the end of him.

Virgil can’t help but smile at the other’s toothy grin. And if he gets a hug out of it? Well, someone once mentioned that that Virgil was touch starved, so that’s the reason he melts at Patton’s touch.

Patton shows him the picture without relinquishing any hold on him. Somehow that leads to them stumbling around on the stairs until Virgil’s sitting and Patton’s basically in his lap, fuck. But Patton doesn’t even seem to notice at all.

“It’s no one’s birthday!” Patton says, “I just was cleaning up earlier and I came across a bunch of photos from school!”

And just like that Virgil’s short lived happiness evaporates. Dread settles on his shoulders like a cloak, and anxiety wriggles straight down his throat to grip his pulsating heart. “Oh?”

It comes out too innocent. Patton doesn’t notice.

“Yeah! I got so many pictures of Logan and Roman and Me! I used to carry this camera around everywhere! Don’t you remember?”

Virgil remembers. He remembers it very well. Especially when he can see the crack on the side where the flash bulb hooked on before he had accio-ed it right out of Patton’s hands in second year and tossed it back and forth with Dee until even Logan had come to Patton’s defense. Especially when Logan had called all three of them childish and then Dee had laughed some sort of nasty laugh and tossed the camera right over the edge of the moving staircase, before linking hands with Virgil and dragging him out to the quidditch pitch for the rest of the time before dinner.

Virgil mentions none of this. “Yeah? What about it?”

Patton waves the photo in his face and, really, it's a pretty terrible photo of him. He didn't even know skin could be that pale and his hair is sticking up from where he had been running a hand through it all evening, and his irises were red from staring directly into the flash.

“I saw that we don’t have any pictures with you in them!” Patton sighed, “It’s terrible! You’ve been our friend for so many years! I can’t believe that you aren’t in any of our pictures!”

Virgil forces himself to keep smiling. It hurts his cheeks. “Well you know me…”

“So we have to take a bunch of pictures right now!”

Patton sets those blue eyes of his on him, and Virgil cannot believe that he’s 100% wizard. Somewhere someone in his family line had to be part selkie because those are definitely baby seal eyes, and who the fuck is gonna say no to them? Not Virgil!

“Okay,” Virgil says. “Alright sure, whatever you want.”

And he means it. He’d give Patton all the stars in the universe if he didn’t think removing them would make Logan lose his shit about order and necessity.

Besides Virgil has just as few photos of them as Patton has of him. So when the photo session is over and Patton’s hair was dusted purple and Virgil’s eyes hurt from the brightness and they were both crying from laughter, Virgil makes sure to snag one of the better photos for his own room.

(It was always so easy to laugh with Patton, so easy, nearly too easy. But that was okay for now.)

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Patton says, looking up from his glistening stack of pictures suddenly, “The Order is having a meeting next week.”

“Oh?” Virgil swallows nervously, “you mean like, having a meeting, here?” He folds the picture of him and Patton in his pocket, running the edge of the photo between his nail and the skin under it. (He’s pretty sure the photo version of Patton is talking the photo version of himself out of a panic attack, but he disregards it.) His other hand comes to his mouth, and he nips away at the black chipped nail polish. 

Patton shakes his head, and Virgil can’t but help a sigh of relief. “Nope! No worries, kiddo! Thomas-- wow, it sure is silly to call him by his first name!-- Professor Sanders and I talked about how uncomfortable you are with anyone new in the house, so instead we agreed that it was easier for us to go to him to give our reports!”

Patton hums looking at another picture, where he had magicked up some cat ears for the two of them. “Plus it would be a pain to have to undo all those charms you set up for one measely meeting!”

“Cool,” Virgil says.

It's not really, because Virgil hates leaving the house, hates stepping into an area that could so easily be compromised, hates when he can’t be sure if he’s leading his friends into a trap or if he’s just being paranoid again. But that’s definitely better than inviting people, even the Order, into the house that Virgil had made sure was their safe haven.

But Patton takes his quietness with grace. He gives up one of his blinding smiles and Virgil is vividly reminded of how pretty he looks like this. Virgil knows that the secrets he’s keeping from them are unforgivable, knows what they did to the trio of boys is terrible and deplorable and shameful. Despite that, Virgil can’t help but feel...relief that Patton is smiling like this.

Patton doesn’t remember why he should never smile at Virgil, doesn’t remember the year after year of Virgil tearing him down, doesn’t remember what Virgil and Dee did to him. And Virgil is selfish enough to be grateful for that.

“Oh would you look at the time!” Patton says brightly, “I better go start dinner before Roman gets into the pantry again! Are you going to be joining us, Vee?”

Virgil nods, even though he doesn’t really catch whats being said to him.

“Yay!” Patton holds his new pictures to his chest, “I’ll call you when its ready then! Love you, VeeVee!”

He says it so effortlessly.

Virgil wishes it didn’t feel like a snake wrapping around his chest and squeezing the breath right out of him. Patton pops back down the stairs, leaving a cold empty space in Virgil’s lap where he used to be. He jumps the last step and gives one last wave to Virgil as he turns the corner--

“Hey, uh, Pat?” Virgil says at the last second.

Patton hums to show he’s listening, even though he’s still flipping through their pictures. “Yeah, kiddo?”

“Will Remy be there?”

Patton blinks and looks up the stairs at him. Virgil’s nails dig into the banister. Something flickers in the Ravenclaws eyes, confusion or pity. Virgil’s not sure there’s a difference at this point.

“Remy? Oh! You mean the Ravenclaw that joined the Order the year before us!” Patton shuffles the photos with a smile, “And you mean at the Order meeting, right?” He tilts his head to the side as he thinks, before shrugging and offering, “I’m not sure!”

Virgil breathes like he’s a drowned man finally come up from the water. “Uh, cool! That’s cool.”

The itch to recheck his charms hits him then. Like being trampled by a Mountain Troll.

Remy’s not a threat, Virgil tells himself.

Except that he is. Virgil had met the Ravenclaw twice before, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t acutely aware that Remy was a very skilled Legilimens. 

And the last thing Virgil needs right now is someone poking around in his head. Virgil’s seen first hand what a Legilimens can do to someone: Patton looks at him with a smile instead of with tears, Roman challenges him to duels over the spot on the couch rather than to the death, Logan has no clue how attractive he looks angry out of his mind and giving people nosebleeds with his barefists.

“I do.”

No, Virgil doesn’t need someone looking in his memories, even at a glance. Not now, not when they’ve come so far and the Order is so, so very close to being able to combat the Dark Lady before she takes over the Ministry of Magic.

At best, he’ll be labeled a Neo-Death Eater. At worst, no one will ask any questions and they’ll just kill him without hesitation.

He needs to check the charms on the house, because that’s something other that just sitting on a staircase in the center of the house and having a break down where one of the others will see him.

Virgil launches himself to his feet and takes the six stairs upwards two at a time. He runs his fingers over the wall as he goes, picking at the peeling wallpaper that none of them have taken the time to fix yet. There are pictures of baby Roman and his muggle family at the beach on the walls and classical music coming from beyond the closed door of Logan’s room. Virgil moves beyond it all to his room at the end of the hall.

Well he calls it his room, and so do the others. Virgil thinks they might be a little upset if they ventured into the room that Roman had given him and found it was nearly the same as it had been at the beginning of summer break two years ago.

The window facing the street had the blinds drawn and a thick layer of dust over the windowsill because Virgil was not in the process of airing his dirty laundry or his room. The bed was neatly tucked in from his routine habit, the floor was clean and clear, his extra shoes lined up at the foot of the bed so he couldn't trip over them in the night--those were things he did to remember his mother; she always did like it when he kept his room neat. He had a total of eight outfits in the closet, which he was sure if Roman knew about he'd have a heart attack. So far Virgil had avoiding the issue by magically changing the shade of black in his shirts every other day.

The only things that Virgil had brought into the room that weren't absolutely necessary for him to have was that calendar on his wall, a collection of seventh year textbooks he had bought himself even though he wasn't going to school, his school trunk that he hadn't touched since getting off the train last year, and now, a picture of him and Patton making silly faces and laughing (very happy to be unfolded).

He slips out his wand and wanders towards the window.

The spells are all over the house, on every window, over every wall, under every carpet. Roman had put the first layer on himself when he was sixteen, and later when he, Patton, Logan, and Virgil had been inducted into the Order of the Phoenix, Thomas Sanders had come over and reapplied more of them. Once the Transfiguration Teacher had finished, Virgil had then moved in and quietly applied his own.

They were subtle differences in magic, in skill, in finesse. Virgil had smoothed over the rough edges and connected the corners that no one else might have noticed if they hadn’t gone looking for them. Every full moon Virgil had snuck around quietly checking the magic cloaking spell and then muggle deterrent spell and the silencing spells---

Needless to say the one time the girl scouts had rang the doorbell, Virgil had nearly had a heart attack. Patton had bought ten boxes of cookies with Roman’s money before Logan had managed to get Virgil to put his wand away.

Virgil had obsessively checked the spells after the girls had left until he found the loophole that had allowed the girls to get all the way to their front door. By the time he found it dinner had gone cold and only Logan was left awake to witness Virgil trip down the stairs in his haste to fix it.

Roman hadn’t even known he had been adding spells at all until Logan had tried to floo Remy Dormire into the house.

So Virgil’s first time meeting the legilimens is really not a good one. There had been something about the way that Remy had looked at him while Roman gave him the “dude what in Merlin’s name??” speech that made Virgil uneasy. Something about the way that a smile had flickered across Remy’s face and he sipped on his homemade tea that only Patton had touched, something about the way that Virgil felt like Remy had gotten inside his head without him drawing his wand, something about the way that Remy had said “It’s all cool hun! Paranoia is all part of the game!”, which made it sound like Virgil was overreacting yet again.

Something about the guy feels wrong to Virgil.

So he adds more charms to the house, ones he’s sure no one but himself and the trio of boys he lives with can get through.

It doesn’t feel like enough.

And in the end, he's right about that.

***

Their role in the Order is small really. They’re all too young to be doing anything important like infiltrating the Ministry-- except Logan, who despite choosing not to graduate from the esteemed magic school had been offered several internships over the summer which he had denied. Patton’s Uncle Kiddel had been very adamant that Patton be as far removed from danger as he could get, and while Roman had been a bit bummed at the lack of action he had jumped at a chance to offer his family’s house for their activities while his parents took an extended vacation to some place that Virgil doesn’t remember.

The combination of parents between the four of them is depressing: Roman’s muggle parents are unreachable, Patton’s are dead, Logan’s Dad took his mom to a safe place in another country, and Virgil’s mom… well, there’s an understanding between the four of them not to bring up parents unless they were trying to bring the mood down to rock bottom.

So really they are just four seventeen year olds living in the house together. Roman monitors the muggles near them, Logan handles correspondence between certain branches of the Order (although Virgil suspects that Thomas Sanders fields some of the letters before they get to them). Patton monitors the wizarding world. Virgil exists to be anxious on the edge of their consciousnesses.

He doesn’t have a job title really, but Virgil is the one who does his best to keep the rest of them alive and safe and not killing each other (which, surprisingly, happens at least once a week, when Roman gets tired of having no logical reason to practice magic and then starts charming things in the house that shouldn’t be charmed, when Logan runs out of work to do and restlessly snaps at them until a fight starts, when Patton gets too far in his head about what would happen if the Dark Lady manages to win against them and refuses to let any of them leave the room lest they disappear on him--)

So their part of the Order’s functions are minuscule. 

Virgil doesn’t see why they have to go at all, but he goes with Patton, Logan, and Roman to the Order meeting all the same. The location they pick is a townhouse that magically doesn’t exist until they need it to. When it does exist, its across the country so they take the brooms there, which makes Roman so happy he cries five minutes into flying, and almost makes Virgil not hate the heights so much.

(Roman, of course, used to be a Quidditch player, a Chaser, up until he decided not to go back to school that year. Virgil used to split his attention between watching Roman’s windswept hair and Dee’s cheeky smile when the latter managed to beat a bludger just right to knock the Quaffle right out of Roman’s hands.)

Virgil sidelines those memories and grips the handle of his broom until his knuckles are white and the cold air of the upper atmosphere begs him to stop holding so tight. Patton flies beside him, naturally swerving like a lackadaisical snake with the ease that only comes with having ridden brooms since he was in diapers. Ahead of them Roman does a loopdeloop and tries to goad Logan into racing him, who in turns calls him every childish name in the book.

It takes them forty minutes to get there. Roman wins the race, and because Logan is petty, he changes the color of Roman’s firetruck red robes to a dull beige.

“Hello Professor!” Patton waves to Thomas Sanders as the older man appears on the street across from them, and because Virgil’s luck is terrible, Remy Dormire appears next to him.

“Patton,” Thomas greets them all warmly. “I’ve told you guys to call me Thomas before.”

Said Ravenclaw ducks his head sheepishly, “Its just feels so strange! You’re always going to be my Transfiguration teacher to me!”

Remy cooes at him and pats Patton on the head, “You are so adorable, hun.” He says, “Come on Bitches! Its cold as balls out here and I’m ready to hear all the juicy gossip you babes have been collecting!”

Virgil is more worried about a muggle peeking out their windows and seeing four teenagers with brooms and long cloaks so for once he agrees with the magic mind reader. The glasses on the older boy's head are mirrored, which makes it hard to tell who he’s looking at, who’s mind he’s reading. Virgil reaffirms his mental walls as he follows the others inside.

The inside of the townhouse looks pretty much like it hasn’t been used in years. There’s layers of dust on everything. Which Virgil guesses is why Remy’s face screws up when Thomas’s hand lands on his shoulder and guides the older boy towards one of the rooms. Remy shrugs his hand off as soon as he physically can, and then brushes the area on his leather jacket that Thomas had touched, like he could wipe the phantom traces of the man off it.

“Vintage Leather, Babe!” Remy doesn’t quite hiss, but it’s a close thing. “No touching!”

Thomas laughs good naturedly and Remy’s snarl fades a bit back to that condescending look that Virgil always associated with him. Roman sneezes three times in succession, and his eyes start watering and he croaks something about dust being the bane of his existence.

“Pardon me,” Logan says to Thomas, “He will be completely unhelpful until this is cleared up. Scourgify!”

It was frankly impressive. At least, to Virgil it was. Patton always got that excited look on his face when someone did magic, and Roman was too busy sniffling and rubbing his red eyes to really watch. Remy rolled his eyes and Thomas smiled at Logan when he performed the charm that left the previously untouchable room into a cozy living room with plenty of space for the six of them.

“Excellent job, Logan!” Thomas said.

(For a moment Virgil feels like he’s back in class and Logan just won another ten points to his house for being naturally gifted at forcing things to shapeshift.)

Logan blushes at the compliment, so Virgil thinks he’s not alone in the flashback.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s great,” Remy bulldozes the compliment and tosses himself on a length of sofa meant for two people. “Its time for the good gossip, girls!”

“None of us are female presenting--” Logan starts, but Remy rolls his eyes and waves him off. 

“What-everrr! Pat come sit with me, babes!”

Virgil wants to drag Patton far away from Remy, but the older Ravenclaw raises an eyebrow at him like a dare. Virgil counts to four and reminds himself that Remy is part of the Order and Thomas is there and even if he is a legilimens that doesn’t mean that he’s going to read any of their minds. In fact, he’s likely there just because he got bored doing whatever the fuck Thomas has him doing.

Patton jumps on the cushion next to Remy and bounces on the seat like an excited child. Logan opts for a spot on the adjacent couch with Thomas, Roman on the floor like a drama queen who needs to be the center of attention, and Virgil ends up perched on the armrest next to Logan’s elbow where he can easily see both the fireplace and the door to the dusty parlor. 

Thomas is a comforting presence, Virgil thinks as the discussion starts. He had been their professor and he had taught all of them and had been right beside them when they were sworn into the Order. He had never been cagey about this past, being a half blood from Hufflepuff who had been there that day that Harry Potter had defeated Voldemort and witnessed all the fighting first hand. He had joined the Order not long after that final battle by tracking down Headmistress McGonagall and subtly asking if there were any alternative plans for if another dark wizard started raising.

According to Thomas he had gotten the job as a Transfiguration teacher less than a year after that and Virgil really never had the guts to exist in the same room as Headmistress McGonagall long enough to ask her if that was true. 

“Remy?” Logan says, after a lull in the conversation, which Virgil, himself, only realizes because Logan’s elbow slides onto the armrest and its dangerously close to touching Virgil’s thigh.

The other member of the Order takes another moment to respond which makes the hairs on Virgil’s neck raise. Remy’s hand is twisting through Patton’s hair so casually and somehow they ended up with Patton leaning heavily on Remy’s shoulder. Virgil thinks it would be weird for anyone else, but Patton likes to touch and its most likely that Logan and Virgil haven’t been providing enough of those touches recently. Remy’s still wearing those stupid sunglasses even though they are inside and its dark in here, but Virgil knows instinctively that he was reading thoughts. 

Probably. 

“Hmm, doll?” Remy says, “Sorry I zoned out when y’all started getting boring. You know me; I just can’t keep my focus on things when theres a cute boy around!”

Virgil wants to point out that they don’t know him, but Patton meets his gaze and Virgil loses the courage to say anything.

Right, they should be avoiding instigating a fight here.

Regardless Roman spread himself out on the ground and sighs dramatically, “I know what you mean, Rem! All these glor--”

“Remy,” Remy says, peering down his nose at Roman, “Its Remy. Or just don’t address me at all, hun.” 

Virgil thinks the whole room is thrown for a moment. Remy’s tone isn’t necessarily icy or cold, and he’s still grinning when he talks, as if they’re sharing a private joke. He twists one of Patton’s curls so gently, it almost looks intimate. Virgil can see Logan’s jaw shift at the motion, and how Patton seems to be unsure if he should be moving away or staying still.

“S-sorry?” Roman says, unsuredly.

Remy smiles at him, with something that’s borderline unfriendly, “Sure, hun. Now are we done here, or are y’all still doing that small talk thing?”

Thomas shifts in his seat, “Actually there is one more thing I want to let you four know about.”

At once he has all of their attentions. Logan who had been talking the most moves to straighten his tie again, and Roman sits back up so he can see the Professor clearly. The room gets a sort of eerie feeling to it, and Virgil swears for a moment that he can see his breath in the air.

“We’ve gotten some suspicious reports about the Dark Lady and her followers.” Thomas says, “I’ve had some suspicions for a while, but we recently got proof-- thanks to Remy-- that the Dark Lady has a time turner on her.”

“A Time Turner?” Logan says, “I thought all of them had been rendered useless after the Battle of the Department of Mysteries when they were all caught in a time loop?”

“Wait wait wait, we’re saying the lady who wants to legalize casual genocide now has the ability to go back in time?” Roman yelped. “Doesn’t this mean all of our possible plans are useless then?”

"I told you, babe!" Remy sings, boredly, "All it would do is worry the poor things!" He rests his chin on Patton's shoulder, which startles a ticklish giggle from the younger Ravenclaw. 

Thomas ignores him, "We're not sure what the implications are if it yet." He admits, "Headmistress Mcgonagall, Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, and Ron Weasley are all discussing the possibilities of it now. I was told to advise you guys of the situation." Thomas gives them each a look, and then he smiles, "Don't worry too much about it, boys. We'll take it slow and smart and we'll figure this out."

Its a pep talk, Virgil realizes. And in a weird way, Virgil guesses he does feel a little reassured.

In another way Virgil's mind tunnels downward towards the forbidden memories of a Slytherin boy who told him two years ago that the Dark Lady possessed a means to turn back time and what both of them had done about that.

Thomas is looking at him, he notes, suddenly. 

"What?" Virgil asks right as his palms begin to sweat, and his mouth tastes like his black nail polish as he forces his hand away from his mouth.

Thomas frowns, "I...well, I assumed that you would find this information a bit more surprising."

Virgil squeezes the sleeves of his jacket. His jaw creaks open, reminding him pathetically of how tense he was. "Well its like you said," he defends lamely. "We shouldn't worry too much. If the Lady already has a Time Turner, we can't do anything about it now."

Remy is grinning at him. Like the cat that caught the canary and Virgil is the very dead canary in this scenario.

“I’m sure I’ll have a break down later and, you know, over analyze absolutely everything.” Virgil hurriedly says. Which maybe isn’t the best thing to say because now Patton’s staring at him with those wide doe eyes that he makes when he wants to wrap Virgil in a hug. Roman and Logan share a look that shows that maybe they aren’t as convinced, but Thomas nods understandingly and doesn’t push it.

He stands up from the couch and addresses Roman, Logan, and Patton, “I trust you three to keep an eye on him, please? Despite the new news, the Order’s decision so far is to continue work as usual. I’ll be in touch if that changes.”

Logan stands to mirror Thomas and offers his hand. “We’ll do our best.”

Which sounds a little strange to Virgil, because really they weren’t doing much of anything. Thomas had tried talking the four of them into going back to school this year but Roman had gotten antsy about the muggle murders and had dropped out to take care of his parents. Logan and Patton would die before being separated from the Gryffindor, and of course Virgil had followed along with them. 

Thomas had set them up with easy jobs and then sent them magical homework via Owl so they were still learning things although Logan seemed to be the only one who was truly excited about more homework. Its enough for now.

Virgil gathers their brooms while Roman breaks into one of his glorious tales of living life in a Muggle neighborhood, followed by Patton make a pun that makes Thomas laugh and Logan groan. When they finally stumbled outside, it’s nearing ten at night and the stars are out.

“Interesting,” Logan states with his eyes to the stars that were just barely seeable behind the halo of the streetlamps. But before Virgil can ask what exactly Logan is seeing in the stars (he had always been the best as Astronomy), Remy vaults down the steps of the house.

“Hey, Badger-boy!” The older Ravenclaw says. He’s grinning again, in a way that makes Virgil’s skin feel too loose, and his palms too slick from sweat, and his mind sing out every protection spell he knows. In the darkness his sunglasses seem even more impractical, and Virgil is left staring at his own reflection rather the other’s eyes.

“What?” Virgil answers, despite the fact he’s not wearing any of his house’s bright yellow and no one had dared call him a badger since he and Dee had put Alfred Hitchcockopolous in the Hospital wing for a day in First Year for it.

Remy laughs. Its the type of laugh that someone gives when their particularly stupid animal does something stupid and has to face the stupid conseqeunces for it.

“Nothing, babe.” He says. “Just wanted to see your face one last time.” He turns to Patton, and flicks his glasses down just enough that he shows off those golden eyes. “Stay adorable, Freckles.”

Then he flashes a peace sign at them and apperates away.

Thomas sends them on their way, with waving hands and farewells and a promise to see them soon. Roman does helix roll once he’s in the air to show off, and Logan berates him for risking the Muggles seeing them, while Patton laughs like an angel beside them.

Virgil glances back at the ground, ignoring the swoop of his stomach at the height difference, to see Thomas staring at the spot Remy had been last with a frown. As if sensing him, Thomas looks up, gives Virgil an unreadable smile, a wave, and then he too apperates away and the street is empty of all the signs they were ever there.

***

“Well that was fun,” Roman hums landing his broom with utmost ease. With a hand through his windswept hair, he turns that charming smile on the rest of them, which somehow still sparkles despite the lack of actual light. He’s a silhouette, a shadow, a half visible fraction, and yet Virgil has absolutely no trouble seeing the full on Roman-ness of the action.

“We have very different definitions of fun,” Logan notes, and turns Roman’s red robes back to a less offensive beige. Virgil bites back a smile when Roman complains about him being petty and uncreative for someone in Ravenclaw.

And if it starts a lighthearted magic battle in the enclosed backyard, well, there are no muggles out at near eleven in their quiet suburban dream neighborhood. In the flashes of red and purple and blue he can see Logan and Roman grinning like fools and he can feel Patton’s laughter reverberating through him when the other boy leans on his shoulder and watches the two quibble.

Its….happy. Virgil is happy.

Watching them like this, watching them laugh and have fun and enjoy themselves, even after they were just told that the evil force they were combating had the ability to change timestreams. They’re so resilient, so optimistic, and Virgil wishes that he could place some complicated spell on the house right here so that they’d never be disturbed and they could just exist like this happy forever. 

But Virgil knows that Roman would detest being stuck to one place for forever and Logan would run out of things to do and turn bitter and Patton would wonder why they weren’t happy anymore and then come to the conclusion it was somehow his fault.

There’s no way to preserve the happiness forever. Virgil spent all of fourth year combing through the books in the restricted section for a spell that he could cast and he had come up blank.

“The best type of prison,” Dee had said, once upon a time, “is one that the prisoners do not know they’re in.” 

“You really think Prince needs to be aware of a prison to want break out of it?” Virgil had shot back.

And Dee had just laughed and flipped the page of his book.

That had been before he had become a Neo-Death Eater, Virgil thinks. Because he hadn’t been wearing the skull clasp on his robes yet, hadn’t started avoiding Virgil like he had contracted Dragon Pox, hadn’t started actually using the mind magic excessively ….

Virgil’s smile slips, and Patton notices almost immediately. “Kiddo?”

Virgil nudges him with his shoulder, “‘M just tired, you know? Talking to people and all that.”

He feels the Ravenclaw laugh softly. Theres a flash of red where the grass by Logan’s feet catches fire, and the other wastes his turn of their duel using aguamenti to put it out before one of the neighbors look out their windows or it spreads to the deck where Patton and Virgil are and then consumes the entire house.

Roman laughs at him. “My house? Are you sure? Virgil’s put so many charms on that thing nothing short of an atomic bomb is going to bring it down!”

Not true, but Virgil feels himself preen at the compliment anyway. He rubs the back of his neck and knows his face is a flushed pink, but its too dark for anyone to make it out.

“Yeah, sure,” He calls to them, “Now, if you excuse me, I’m going to go overthink everything Professor Sanders just told us.”

“Professore Sanders told us--” Logan starts, but Virgil knows that tone all too well and he manages to wave it away.

“I know, I know. Nothing to worry about.” Virgil waves his wand blindly towards the door handle and unlocks it with Alohomora (a spell which only works for one of their four wands). “I’ll see you guys in the morning!”

“Goodnight, Virge!” Patton calls after him, and because he’s a good person he adds, “I’m making french toast tomorrow for breakfast if you want to help!”

“Happy Nightmares, Jack Smellington!” Roman throws in because he’s much less of a good person.

Virgil closes the door behind him. His body leans against it for a second, hearing the sounds of his friends getting back to their shenanigans. He gives it maybe ten minutes before Roman and Patton start up the cheery Hogwarts chants and an impromptu dance routine in which Logan is dragged around the backyard, trying to pretend like he still has dignity.

Its nice. Virgil fumbles through the kitchen, using the light from the magic hall sconces to guide himself down the hall and then up the stairs. The pictures on the walls of the other three laugh and rough house around. Virgil runs his fingers over the picture frames as he walks.

“Get some sleep, kiddo!” One of Patton at a Dragon Petting Zoo from second year tells him.

And Virgil has every intention of it.

He does. 

But he gets to the front of his room and there’s a warmth against his chest that makes his blood freeze. His hand frantically pats his chest, pressing into the warmth, trying to determine if its real or just something in his head, please let it be something in his head, please, please--

Its not in his head. He throws himself into his room and locks it behind him. The lights stay off and he drags the curtains closer together just to make sure that absolutely no one can see inside. Then he crawls into the closet, with his breath coming out in shaky breathes too rapidly to count.

His hands shake too hard to unzip his sweatshirt all the way. It gets jammed by his belly button. The burning against his chest feels like an open flame right to his right pectoral, hissing with heat, demanding to be appeased. Virgil couldn’t have ignored it if he had wanted to. 

He doesn’t want to look.

He looks anyway.

His hand opens the invisible seams of the hidden pocket right over his chest. There are only two items in it, but Virgil drops them both into his lap anyway. He kneads his palms into his eyes and forces himself to take a breath and hold it-- one second, two, three-- which is about as long as it takes for him to remember every lie he’s ever told to the trio outside.

As long as it takes for him to remember whose lives are on the line if he messes up.

As long as it takes for his hands to steady enough to pick up the coin from his lap and for the sudden heat to fade. The closet is doors are firmly pulled closed and Virgil twists his Cypress wand in his hand.

“Lumos,” Virgil whispers scarcely more than a thought. He’s sure that the sound of the dishwasher in the kitchen is louder than his own voice. He’s afraid any louder will make Roman or Logan burst into the room and demand to know what he’s doing and he doesn’t have an explanation, doesn’t have an excuse, doesn’t have an escape.

They’d hate him if they knew.

Virgil hates himself for them.

The coin is a Galleon, but despite the shiny color and the heavy weight, Virgil knows its fake. He made it after all, pouring over the details for most of two days. But it would never stand up to a Goblin; Virgil doubts it would stand up to a normal wizard if they looked for more than a couple seconds at it.

The Protean Charm on it is too strong for it to go unnoticed to a trained eye.

He told the others he collects Galleons with specific dates on them. “A half muggle thing,” He had told Patton who had taken him very seriously and started checking the dates on every coin he came across. Even now, Galleons show up on the kitchen counter with dates of their birthdays and the first day of Hogwarts and the day they would have graduated.

The serial number on the rim of the coin in his hand had changed.

It was a series of four numbers and then various letters that Virgil decoded with a slight glance at-- he had memorized the code and then burned the last key in existence after all, too paranoid to risk someone ever finding it. 

It takes Virgil a second, a moment, a year to understand what date it was. For him to get his brain to work past the dread that bubbling up his throat like a bottle rocket. 

And his breath gets caught in his chest when he does.

It’s tomorrows date.

Its tomorrows date and there’s no time to warn anyone without revealing his source.

Its tomorrows date and someone in the Order is going to die.

Virgil does not have a good night, or happy nightmares, and he most definitely does not sleep at all.

***

“You look like death,” Roman says the next morning when Virgil slumps on the stool at the kitchen counter. Virgil can smell his cinnamon body wash from clear across the kitchen which is entirely unhelpful in the light of things because now he’s thinking about Roman in the shower after his morning run and when there are other things to be thinking about. 

“Gee, thanks Princey,” Virgil says very tiredly.

Patton is cooking bacon to go with the French toast. It’s sizzling. Does all bacon sizzle so loud? It smells so good Virgil might throw up. His stomach feels empty, but the thought of actually chewing and swallowing food makes head dizzy. 

“-rgil, Virgil!” 

Virgil blinks for a second, glancing up from the bacon to see that Logan had somehow appeared next to him.

“You do not appear to have slept at all, Virgil,” Logan says thoughtfully. “If it is about the Dark Lady, I can assure you--”

“It’s not,” Virgil says, which sounds like a lie even to him. 

Patton, Logan, and Roman all share a look. A silent conversation that Virgil feels unnecessarily annoyed to be excluded from.

“What?” He snaps.

“No offense, Helga Hufflegruff,” Roman says, “But its not like you to be this out of it.”

Virgil flicks his wand at the coffee mugs across the kitchen, “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Kiddo,” Patton says.

“The eggs are burning,” Virgil waves him off. And for a moment it works on taking the attention of him. He takes all of one breath, while Patton squeaks over the breakfast and Roman and Logan watch on ready to jump in and help before the fire alarms go off. But the moment passes and he feels the suffocating gaze of his housemates on him again.

Granted he did look awful. The picture of both him and Patton which had taken residency on his desk had winced when Virgil had stumbled from the closet. There’s a crick in his neck that he can’t get rid off no matter how much he rotates his head and his eyes feel heavier than they have any right to be. Screw his eyeshadow, he hadn’t even put any on today.

He was still in his clothes from yesterday, and he was careful to keep his left hand in his pocket or his sleeve, because he had bitten his nails until they bled last night, though if anyone asks he’ll tell them the morning paper Owl had bitten him when he had forgotten to pay it.

“We should do something today,” Virgil says suddenly.

Which is not the right thing to say. At all.

Roman chokes on his orange juice, and ends up spilling more on the floor than he gets in his throat. Patton nearly drops his hot pan in the sink with how quickly he whips around to stare at Virgil.

Logan adjusts his glasses, “Pardon?”

“Are you sick?” Roman blurts out, rasping as he tries to dislodge the last of the juice, “Is it Dragon Pox? Scrofungus? Heartbreak?”

“Heartbreak isn’t a sickness,” Virgil squints at him.

“Additionally how would one’s heart break?” Logan asks, “Unless it was frozen with Glacius by some means--”

“People can die from Heartbreak!” Roman interjects, despite the fact no one suggested anything about dying. Virgil’s stomach churns around and the coffee on his tongue tastes stale at the thought.

“I’m not dying!” He says quickly, hotly. His fingers squeeze his mug tightly, drawing the warmth from the liquid inside it and hoping it covers the coldness that came over him.

“Yes, it seems much more likely that he was affected by the imperious curse,” Logan suggests.

“I’m not under any curse either!” Virgil hisses, “I just… I thought--” He grits his teeth, “I thought it might be nice to get out of the house.”

Entirely. And never come back.

“You never want to get out of the house,” Roman points out.

“Well I do now!”

Logan does that thing he does when he doesn’t believe something-- a mix of tilting his head and tapping his fingers on the nearest surface while his eyes rotate around the surroundings. Virgil likes to think it was a subconscious reaction: he’s actually observing the room for threats so that he could produce a working solution.

Roman summons more orange juice from the fridge and makes it pour him another glass.

Virgil twists his mug in his fingers and chances a look towards Patton. He spent most of the night trying to figure out what to do, trying to figure out what to say, what he could say. He thinks that he turned over every scenario ten times and fought off the nauseous urge to vomit all through the fourth hour that morning.

He thinks that if he can just get Patton to say yes.

He thinks if he can just get Patton to leave the house that he'll be able to keep all of them safe if the attack is at their location.

(Because that's in question too. Its possible that by some blessed fate that the dread and certainty in his stomach does not mean its going to be here thats attacked. Its possible that he's just paranoid. Its possible that when Professor Remus Duke told him he had a natural latent ability for Divination that the teacher was just spouting nonsense like usual. Its possible.)

((Virgil doesn't take chances like that. He won't. Cant.))

"Virge…" Patton says.

Logan adjusts his glasses, "Thomas told us that work should continue as normal. As such, I have several letters I must attend to-- a group in Romania is requesting the Orders help in tracking several suspicious individuals, a wizard in America got apprehended by MACUSA without proper papers, and Thomas asked me to make a list of where a certain wizarding plant can be found and I've received a pile of responses just this morning I have to comb through-- I can't just drop these tasks. Patton has already agreed to help me."

"What?" Roman says, "Why didn't you ask me?"

"I'm afraid that the thought didn't cross my mind," the Ravenclaw admitted somewhat guiltily. "But Patton has a superior knowledge of the wizarding world that I believe would be most beneficial, and-- I mean this with the least amount of offense-- I feel that if you or Virgil were to join us, we'd be more hindered than helped."

"Ouch," Roman says with wounded pride, and jabs Logan in the shoulder. "I cannot believe you think I'd be bad at answering letters! My handwriting is amazing."

"The chicken scratch you call handwriting is atrocious." Logan bats his hand away easily, "but that's not why I think you helping would be counterproductive."

“Its not?” Roman asks.

“Its not?” Virgil echoes with just enough of a teasing tone that Roman turns his coffee mug into a chicken like the disrupting asshole he is. The bird squawks the second its lungs are formed and Virgil drops it the moment the warmth turns from “warm liquid in a mug” to “living thing with a heartbeat he can feel”.

“Roman!” Logan yells, stumbling back to avoid it and crashing into Patton. They both land on the floor in a heap of limbs and cooking utensils. The chicken flaps over them, screeching something awful. Patton’s glasses somehow end up hooked with Logan’s and their faces mere inches apart and brown chicken under feathers in both their hair.

Roman’s laughter almost makes it worth it: breathless and gasping for air, doubled over and wheezing like an idiot.

It only takes a moment before Patton’s laughter joins in with Roman’s, very much sounding like the usual angels on high. Virgil watches the glorious sight of Logan’s entire face turning redder than an Hippocampus skin and immediately transforming himself into in an owl.

Virgil can’t really blame him. If he were hit at point blank by both Roman and Patton’s carefree laughs like that, he’d turn into an Owl too, regardless of if an Owl was his animagus form or not.

It takes Patton three times to turn the chicken back to a mug-- missing twice because he’s laughing too hard to keep his wand from shaking, and once because the chicken is fast-- and by that time Roman’s on the floor with a hand gripping his chest, grin wider than the fucking sun itself, feathers on clinging to his clothes and his shirt riding up his stomach just enough to be a tease. Logan transforms back long enough to move the cup from the floor to the sink, but when he turns around to see the Gryffindor, his cheeks flare back up and Virgil can feel the heat from where he is.

The bacon definitely burns.

Virgil doesn’t really think any of them notice.

He doesn’t even notice until the fire alarm goes off.

Roman groans from the floor and Virgil coughs into his sweatshirt sleeve to hide his face. A sound like that? Even with the background of a shrill alarm and the smell of smoke, it makes the room itself feel hundreds of degrees warmer, makes the whole world seem to fade away, makes Virgil want to plunge his face into a bucket of ice water.

Logan hits the smoke detector with his beak. Patton throws open the kitchen windows, giggling foolishly.

“You’re cute when you blush, Vee,” Roman says from his spot on the floor.

“Fuck off and die,” Virgil tells him.

“Aw, but your little ears!” Roman cooes, dragging himself from the floor like it was some tremendous task. He pinches the air with both his hands like he was supposed to be pinching Virgil’s ears.

Virgil’s hands immediately switch position, covering the tattletale tips of his ears. “Shut up!” He grumbles.

“Not exactly my forte, Virge!” Roman sings, “Just ask anyone!”

Logan does that thing where he lands on a surface and turns back to human, and Virgil gets a front row seat of seeing Owl talons elongate into slender legs that cross ever so confidently as he settles on the barstool next to Virgil. And the way that Logan ever so casually reaches up to loosen his tie just a millimeter?

If Virgil wasn’t blushing before, is now.

(He thinks he likes this version of Logan Ackroyd more: the effortlessly oblivious tease, compared to the bloody knuckled version that so angrily put Virgil in his place in the middle fourth year)

“I can attest to that,” Logan says, with the crease in the corners of his lips that implies a smile being hidden just below the surface, “He really does never shut up.”

“Wh--hey!” Roman gasps,”Patton! Logan’s bullying me!” He drapes himself over the smaller Ravenclaw with a dramatic flare that causes Patton’s whole face to light up. Sunlight bounces off his glasses but his eyes sparkle like the ocean on a sunny day.

“Sorry kiddo!” He says, “That’s just how he is!”

“Falsehood!” Logan calls.

“Losing battle,” Virgil nudges him. Oh god, what just came over him? His elbow feels tingly, like some sort of numbing jinx, but warm and welcome. Logan actually laughs as he straightens himself back on the chair.

(Logan laughs like he’s in a library about to be scolded for being too loud. Virgil isn’t sure what it would take for him to laugh louder. He wishes he had time to figure it out.)

Breakfast comes after that. With Patton severing french toast and Roman spilling orange juice on Logan's plate because the Ravenclaw told him he was putting far too much syrup on his and Virgil convincing Roman to shove an entire piece in his mouth just to prove that he could.

"Really attractive, Princey," Virgil says when the Gryffindor chokes and has to spit out soggy mush.

"You love me," Roman coughs.

"Yeah," Virgil says. It's a mostly meaningless statement. Because Roman thinks everything loves him, because Roman is very loveable, because it's light and witty banter and that's what they do.

Because Virgil’s thinking about the coin in the pocket on his chest, because Virgil is thinking how likely it was for him to be able to pry both Logan and Patton out of the house without a real reason, because Virgil is weighing his friends lives in his head like its just another sucky Arithmancy problem on the homework he put off until an hour before it was due.

And because Virgil is not really thinking about what comes out of his mouth, it comes out honest and true and it takes him three more blinks to realize that Roman is staring at him, with something like akin to...to...surprise?

“What?” Virgil asks, his breath hitching all of a sudden. He was tired but he wasn’t so tired that he could have started just talking out loud-- and even if he had surprise was not the thing that Roman would have on his face. Disgust, maybe. Anger, definitely. What kind of person can look at the people sitting next to him and think about how likely it was for someone on the street to kill them? How could he think about blood purity at a time like this?

But then again how could he not?

“You agreed,” Roman says, a tinge of awe.

“What?” Virgil tries again, because he really doesn’t know what is going on. Logan and Patton are staring at him too, but Patton’s smiling and Logan’s rolling his eyes and they’re tugging Logan’s plate between them in a silent argument of who gets to do the dishes.

“You agreed! About liking me!” Roman says down right giddy.

Virgil’s brow furrows, “Princey, we literally live together. Of course I like you.”

“But you said Love!”

Virgil glances at Patton for help. Patton is enchanting a sponge to wash the cups and is therefore, no help. His stomach does a flop. A flip flop. A flip flop right off a fucking cliff top.

Roman’s face appears right next to his, earnest and full and bright. Virgil thinks its like standing at ground zero of an atomic bomb.

“You never say Love. And I think if I remember correctly the last time you implied you even liked me, it was when Logan tried to cook and you got food poisoning and I gave you a bucket to throw up in.” Roman says. “So this is a big thing!”

Virgil should tell him its nothing, because even with his heart threatening to jump straight out of his chest, and his hands aching to curl in the fluff of his russet hair, and his eyes darting to Roman’s lips which for some reason are still right there next to Virgil’s own-- because even with Virgil thinking of that night years ago when Logan had given him a righteous nosebleed and he had run off and hid behind the One-Eyed Witch Statue on the third floor and had the biggest gay breakdown of his entire life--

Virgil should tell him its nothing because he’s been lying to Roman and Patton and Logan for two years, nearly three.

Virgil should give Roman’s face a shove away and make some insulting comment that will draw out those offended dramatic noises he likes so much.

Virgil should.

“I guess,” Virgil tongue warps around the words without an ounce of his permission. “Don’t go--”

“YES!” Roman hollers over him, throwing his hands in the air so suddenly that Virgil legitimately forgets what he was saying. “This is perfect! Amazing! Splendid!”

Virgil should tell him to calm down, that it means less than nothing. But Virgil threw away his entire life for them: for Roman’s celebratory fist pumping and sparkling eyes, for the quirk of Logan’s lips and the late night sleepy talks about the stars, for the taste of Patton’s baking and the feel of those tight, warm, safe hugs. He wants to dance around the word “Love” and its billions of meanings in billions of languages, because he knows that if he thinks about it for too long, he’ll realize that he loves the three of them in every sense of it.

Which, decidedly, means much more than nothing.

But there’s also that thing.

That thing where Virgil is lying, has been lying, will continue to lie, right to their faces. Which stands to be the absolute worst thing he’s ever done and if he stops it he’ll die a horrible painful wizard death and then they’ll be doubly angry with him for it. 

But isn’t angry with him-- isn’t never wanting to see his face ever again-- better than them being dead? Which is likely what they’re all going to be if Virgil doesn’t do something to convince them to leave the house for the day.

Them, he thinks and then hesitates because its not really “Them”. Patton’s got magical blood: blood so pure it practically glows under his skin and his wandwork is practically flawless. Logan’s got half magic blood, too, which is half more magic blood than sad little muggleborn Roman has. 

The anxious feeling of dread creeps up Virgil’s back, like a dementors fingers ghosting along his spine before it spins him around and gives a soul sucking kiss. Once the thought comes he can’t get it out of his head: the idea that if the Neo-Death Eaters show up here, and they breech the defenses that Virgil’s put up, and they catch them by surprise, the idea that they’d hesitate to hurt Patton or Logan or Virgil, but they’d execute Roman without a thought.

Virgil is staring at Roman.

Virgil is listening to Roman talk about something.

Virgil is thinking about Roman’s corpse lying on the ground in the kitchen, as a green light steals away his life in an echo of two forbidden words.

“Hey Princey,” Virgil says, trying to hide the way his entire body is shaking. “Let’s go on a date.”

Because Roman being angry at him, being unable to ever forgive him, being so enraged he can’t think about Virgil without wanting to put him in St. Mungos, will always be better than Roman being dead and Virgil having not done anything about it.

Roman looks at him and he smiles so prettily Virgil almost thinks he’d be able to forgive himself one day.

***

Virgil has never been on a date before. 

It’s tragic. Embarrassingly so.

If Virgil were watching this broomwreck from the outside, he’d been on the floor in tears from laughter.

Roman bumps his shoulder casually, “Relax, Felbert the Fearful! There are no roofs around to cave in on us.”

The joke doesn’t quite land for Virgil, but he laughs anyway. Roman deserves it, at least.

For putting up with Virgil not knowing the first thing about that how one proceeds on a “date”. He thinks he watched a Hallmark movie on this shit once or twice back before...everything. He thinks that it should have given him some clue how to act, what to say, where to go. But all they do it remind him how completely and utterly bootless he is in the grand scheme of things.

Disney, of course, never really taught the whole “take it slow” sort of thing. And with magic? Forget it. He wonders how Patton’s parents did it, how the famous Weasley’s did it, how any wizard ever did it.

(He supposes that it helped that in most cases that neither partner was hiding a double life behind a cloak of fake memories implanted in the other, but really what did he know.)

They had gone shopping. Kinda.

Roman had gone shopping. Virgil had watched him try on muggle clothes again and again, listened to him complain about prices, and testily remark about color coordinating. He tried paying the girl at the cash register in sickles and Virgil got a good laugh at his face when he realized his mistake. He tried on two T shirts just it looked like he was participating his fair share even bought one, but once it was in the bag he forgot what the design had been.

(He did not forget the way that Roman’s eyes had roamed over him and the way that he had mentioned how nice it would be to see that shirt on his floor.)

Virgil wished his heart was in it, wished that he could get his shoulders to unwind, wished that he could stare at Roman for a few minutes without thinking about what an awful person he was.

They have Ice cream for lunch specifically because Logan is not there to tell them not to. 

It devolves to Virgil splattering Roman’s nose with Chocolate ice cream and only getting half an apology out before Roman shovels a spoonful of strawberry into his mouth. Like a kiss. Indirectly.

Virgil wonders for all of three seconds if Roman’s tongue also tastes like strawberry.

“There’s a music store,” Roman says. “It just opened around the block. I’m sure it has some PG music for you to listen to, Edgelord.”

They hold hands. Virgil can’t tell if Roman can feel him shaking, or if he notices how distracted Virgil in worrying about something he won’t share. The music store is so muggle-like its distressing.

Virgil loves it. The musty smell of the building despite it being brand new, the feel of actual records in his hands, the beats in the background that his head bops unconsciously. Roman makes comments about the artwork on every cover that Virgil flits through, which is impressive because Virgil isn’t even looking as much as pretending to.

Its hard for him to be excited about an album of music when his friends could be in danger.

Its hard to remind himself why he needs to draw out this date as long as he possibly can to make sure that Roman doesn’t go back to the house. 

They catch a movie at the local theater. Virgil doesn’t remember the plot at all because Roman throws an arm over his shoulder halfway through it. Its dark, mostly silent, and Roman smells like cinnamon and ash that somehow is very attractive on him. Virgil leans in, selfishly enjoying the warmth that comes with it.

Virgil’s eyes...close just for a second.

Only a second.

“Hey, Vee,” Roman says, “Maybe we should head home?”

“No!” Virgil snaps awake so suddenly their heads collide. “Ow! Fuck!”

Roman’s pained laughter joins him. The lights are on, now so Virgil must have slept straight through the credits. He wants to curse himself for that one. What if something had happened? What if a Neo Death Eater had tracked them all the way to the theater and crept in during the show?

The ache in his head subsides to a mild annoyance that makes his eyes water. 

“Okay, wow, ow,” Roman says, “If I knew you were gonna wake like that, Stormcloud, I would have done something else!”

Virgil freezes. “What did you just call me?”

Roman blinks a couple times, “Stormcloud? Is that alright? I figured it might be nice to, uh, have a nickname that’s not an insult.” He sounds strangely hesitant, strangely unconfident, strangely not-Roman like.

“Its...fine,” Virgil says and pretends like the name doesn’t strike half a million chords in him. “Totally fine.”

Roman hums like he isn’t convinced. “Yeah well, we should get back to the house. I’m sure, Pat is making dinner.”

“Uhh!” Virgil says, “Or we could not!”

The Gryffindor raises an eyebrow at him. 

“I just, I mean--” Virgil’s not good at excuses. 

“Vee, you literally just fell asleep on my arm in the middle of an action movie. You’ve been unable to focus all day. I have half a mind to think that you only wanted to do this because you’re so sleep deprived that you can’t think straight.”

Virgil doesn’t have anything to say to that. There’s a stain on Roman’s shoulder from where he had been drooling. Roman presses their foreheads together and they both wince where the lumps collide.

“Listen,” Roman says, “I love spending time with you. How about we go back to the house, and throw on a movie and just...cuddle or something?”

Its not fair.

Virgil wants it so badly as whimper builds in his throat. But he doesn’t want to chance it, doesn’t want to risk it, doesn’t, doesn’t, doesn’t.

Roman leads him out the door. 

Its dark outside. Its still not dark enough. The town isn’t far enough from their house, and the longer Virgil is silent the closer they get back to the house. His hands twist in his pockets, his nail rubs over the engravings in his wand.

He needs something, anything, to catch Roman’s attention. Keep him away from the house until the days over and he’s sure there’s no chance that the Neo-Wizard Nazis are going to show up and kill Roman. 

“We should stop at the bookstore and pick up Logan’s order for him,” Virgil suggests.

“Logan just picked up his newest shipment two days ago, remember?” Roman says. “I dropped them and he yelled at me for a full hour.”

“Do we have milk at the house? Maybe we should get some groceries while we’re out.”

“Patton wants to go tomorrow instead. And only he knows the list. But he’ll love if we come with him.”

“A play!” Virgil says weakly.

“Hm?” Roman blinks lazily from beside him. The street lamps give him halo.

“I heard there’s a play going on!”

“There are no plays this week, Virgil.”

“I swear there was one.” Virgil says, “You know we should check just in case--”

Virgil has seen the news on the TV before: he’s seen coverage of car crashes that had lit on fire, of the forests burning in California and the Amazon, of muggle apartment buildings being swallowed entirely from faulty wiring. He’s kept a lighter in his back pocket for the longest time, for emergencies, for those moments when his wand is out his hand and needs to resort to a more unexpected muggle way of defending himself. He’s started tiny fires made of leaves in his backyard, of candles in his moms house when the summer rain storms knocked out the electricity again, of a pile of photos at his feet wiping away any evidence that would allude to what they had done.

Still watching Roman’s house explode is so much more terrifying. The blast of heat burns his body even from down the street. The noise is deafening, but the sight is ghastly: the roof of the building shoots straight into the air and then dissolves apart until its swallowed by the resulting black cloud, the windows break outward sending millions of shards into the surrounding houses, half of that ugly sofa that Virgil had fallen asleep so many times on shattered on the asphalt road barely four feet from the two of them.

Oh, its something straight from a nightmare and it makes Virgil’s stomach violently turnover and his eyes water and his heart jump straight up his throat to the back of his mouth. His limbs freeze at the sight, as if keeping from moving would keep the destruction from following. Flames lick the the inside windows, a thousand twisted toxic tongues that burned brighter than the sun in the night sky. 

In seconds the building is unsalvageable and Virgil’s throat closes up like someone magicked away the very oxygen in the air. 

“Virgil!” Roman yells some a million miles away from him, from right behind him, from beside him with a hand on his upper arm, tight and squeezing and real. “Protego!”

A white shield forms in front of him seconds before a chunk of the TV in the downstairs living room crushes him completely. An arm, Roman’s arm, wraps around him and drags him back from the flaming wreckage.

“Logan!” Roman screams, “Pat!”

And suddenly Virgil snaps back to the present, to the way the noise is louder than life, to the way that they stick out like sore thumbs in the middle of the road. 

“Aguamenti!” Virgil shouts pointing his wand at the the neighbors hedges. He doesn’t remember drawing it or thinking about the spell, but he knows that the family of four that live there just hit a rough patch financially and don’t need to pay for a house on top of that.

By the time he looks back up, Roman is down the street and Virgil doesn’t think there’s a single thing on this planet, magic or muggle that could stop him. So Virgil, the reigning king of making poor decisions in the moment, charges after him.

(Because he knows what this is, know that houses don’t just explode, knows that Roman is about to charge head into battle. He knows that Virgil would never forgive himself from turning tail and running when any of those three are in danger.)

So Virgil-- also reigning king of mistakes and regrets--charges after him with is wand drawn and prays to deities he does not believe in that he won’t see Dee tonight.

There are three Neo-Death Eaters on what used to be Roman’s front lawn. Virgil stumbles at the sight of them, at the sight of their long black cloaks and white theater masks and the skull pendants they wore so proudly. He doesn’t think they can be more than a few years older than him or Roman, but they find another section of the house to use Bombarda on and shriek joyfully when it sends part of dresser into the next door neighbors roof.

Roman makes use of Flipendo Tria on the first one, and clocks the next with his bare fist. Virgil uses Oppugno on several flaming objects (shirts maybe? Logan’s sweater vests?) and sends them wrapping around the face of the last one before she can make any move against Roman. 

“How dare you touch me, Filthy Mudblood!”

Roman punched him again. And then a third time for good measure.

“I may be muggle born, but I’ve never needed magic to fix my problems.”

It would be a good dramatic line if he wasn’t trembling as he delivered it, if Virgil didn’t need to throw protego between him and the guy he had punched because the Neo-Death Eater had managed to get his wand again, if they were acting in a movie this wasn’t real.

Roman snaps the guy’s wand in half and throws it into the fire before sprinting towards the front door.

“Patton!” He yells, “Logan!”

“Roman!” Virgil yells and lunges for him. They go tumbling to the ground, knees scraping on concrete pathway up to the house but Virgil doesn’t notice. He can’t notice, not really. 

He’s too busy imagining Roman as a flambeed corpse, as a crispy unrecognizable mass, as ashes fluttering in the wind.

Roman shoves against him, frantically calling for their friends.

And the smoke robs his throat of any moisture, clogs his lungs with lead laden gases and deteriorates his vision. There’s another explosion (Virgil thinks its the fire reaching the chemical closet in the downstairs powder room) and the force of it knocks Virgil across the lawn. His shoulder slams into the grass with a popping noise Virgil is pretty sure it isn’t supposed to make and his vision goes white for all of a second as his chest flops over and his other shoulder follows in a tumble of limbs. 

When he can see again Roman is right over him. He’s glowing-- kinda. The fire behind him creates a halo effect all over his body. Whatever words he’s saying, they’re lost in the buzz of Virgil’s brain as it reconnects and reboots and the panic comes back.

In the grass by his hand is a burned photo: the one of him and Patton that they took on the staircase, the one he put in his room, the one he kept.

And the fire burned him right out of the picture.

“--irgil!” Roman says, “We have to get up!”

Virgil nods dumbly at him. He tears his eyes away from the picture and grabs Roman’s forearm so he can help him get up. He smells like smoke and ashes and that Cinnamon body wash he liked so much. Virgil breathes it in and chokes on the air.

“We need to get out of here!” He says, “To the Rendezvous point! They’ll find us!”

Virgil isn’t sure Roman hears him at all, isn’t sure that Roman even remembers that they had a rendezvous point for if the base was attacked. But he doesn’t try to go running into the unsalvageable house again, so Virgil thinks that its enough.

(He doesn’t think about Patton on the kitchen floor desperately gasping for raspy breaths pinned under a flaming beam of the house and unable to move. He doesn’t think about Logan screaming as the flames swallow up his pant legs, and his sweater vest and his hair. He doesn’t think about them yelling for them and Virgil dragging Roman away from the fire and leaving them to die. He doesn’t, he doesn’t, he doesn’t--)

Away. They need to get away. Before a Neo-Death Eater shows up that they can’t beat.

Down the street. Virgil’s eyes are watering, his heart is thumping, his thoughts are screaming.

Somehow he still manages to see the enemy before they see him.

Its just that Virgil has absolutely terrible luck. It’s just that the shock makes him forget  Its just that Virgil freezes with half of a hex on his tongue, when his eyes catch on the other figure. Or more specifically, his wand.

Virgil doesnt know a lot about wands, but he thinks he knows more than average. Patton always did have a habit of rambling about his hobbies and wand making happened to be on that list. But even before that, Virgil would know that wand blindfolded: Elm, nine inches, with a rougarou hair core.

And he'd know it by the way it never quite looked like it fit in the hands of its owner.

Said owner, who was staring at him like he was the biggest idiot to ever grace the earth, someone who had been hit with confundgus until he couldnt remember his own name, someone who for some absolutely idiotic reason, decided not to curse a Death Eater the moment he saw one holding a wand at him.

"Virgil!"

Virgil feels the spell blast by him, missing his ear by mere inches. The Death Eater is almost as lucky: the spell hits the black Honda Civic behind him and explodes outward. The Death Eater is launched back towards them rolling across the asphalt, but his cloak took most of the damage.

“Confringo!” Roman shouts again, and another blast of a spell goes out.

"Protego!" The Neo-Death Eater counters and for a moment Virgil doesn't see the shield go up, doesn't see a way for him to escape the spell. 

Virgil grabs at Roman's arm, because it's the only thing he can think to do, and the last half of the flame veer to the side just enough that the enemy can scramble to his feet behind his shield.

"What are you--" Roman snaps, fiery and hot, and demanding of Virgil.

"Adorable!" The Neo-Death Eater cooes at them, "You actually thought those flames could hurt me?"

Virgil feels feverish just hearing that voice. Its a slippery eel of a tone, something sinister and mocking and Virgil knows it too well. So does Roman. So does everyone.

Its the voice he uses when he's scheming, when he's hiding something and wants you to know it, when he's got the upper hand in a conversation.

Its the voice that is undeniably Dee’s, and no one else's.

“Ekans,” Roman growled.

“Guilty as Charged, Prince,” Dee Ekans smiles like snake oil and mistrust, “I take it you saw the Fireworks? They were a bit disappointing for my taste, but then again all things muggle usually are.”

“Sectumsempra!” 

Virgil mouth tastes like ash. Roman’s wand slices the air like a sword, like a knife, like death, and the green spell flies towards Dee faster than Virgil can react. (He knows what that spell does: they’ve all heard the rumors around Hogwarts of the Potions teacher that created a curse that killed from bloodloss, they’ve all heard how it can’t be cured and how Severus Snape took the countercurse with him to the grave--)

Dee throws himself to the side. He’s not smiling anymore, not when the spell shreds the flaming car behind them. His hand moves to the side of his face, the left side of his face, where some part of the magic had skimmed him and left a precise line that welded with cherry red.

Roman raises his wand again, and this time Virgil leaps in front of him. 

“Virgil!”

“Patton, Logan,” Virgil gasps out but he cant remember when he stopped being able to breathe. The world threatens to start swimming so he grabs Roman by the forearms to steady himself. “Patton and Logan.”

Dee hisses violently, “Don’t worry about your blood traitor, Little Raccoon. My father invited him for a stay and when he leaves I’m sure he’ll want nothing to do with you.”

Virgil squeezes Roman’s wrists, but Dee’s face is too proud to be lying about this one.

“Be more worried about the owl.” Dee’s grin came back, a blinding white in the fire of around them. “Last I checked only one wing had been broken, but Mother does move very fast.”

Roman roars and lunges forward, but Dee presses his bloodied fingers to his lips and blows them both a kiss. By the time Roman gets around Virgil, gets close enough to grab the Neo-Death Eater that is Dee Ekans, the Slytherin had twisted up in his cloak and disapparated into a black cloud of smoke. 

Virgil wants to throw up. Distantly he’s aware that there are sirens ringing, and he knows that means that Muggles are on the way.

He should be terrified, but all he can feel is relief. Patton is alive, Dee had said so. He was full wizard, a pureblood, from a pureblood family. He was alive for now.

Virgil grabs Roman by the back of his shirt, “We have to go.”

Roman slaps his hand away, “Why did you do that?!” The flames dance behind him, giving him wings of fire. Somehow his breath his hotter than them. “Why did you stop me from killing him?!”

“We have to go, Roman.” Virgil ignores him, “Logan needs us.”

“Ekans deserves to die!”

“Roman!” Virgil yells, “It’s time to go,” He tugs him towards the end of the road, “I’ll explain later.”

“No!” Roman slaps him away again, “You’ll explain right now! I’m so sick and tired of not knowing what the hell is going on in your brain! Why did you stop me from hitting him? He’s the bad guy, Virgil!” 

“We don’t have time for this!” Virgil says he grabs on to Roman again, yanks him towards the end of the street. Roman fights him every step of the way, smelling like ashes and cinders and charcoal.

“Answer me!”

“You are no good to anyone in wizard jail, Prince!” Virgil snarls back.

“Bullshit!”

Virgil wants to take a swing at him, wants to yank his wand out and litter him so full of spells that he can’t move a muscle until Virgil finds Logan and gets all three of them somewhere safe, wants to cup Roman’s jaw and tell him everything between rough lip-biting kisses.

“You’re always doing shit like this!”

Virgil doesn’t do any of those things. He drags both of them into the community park and the wooden area beyond that. The heat between them blisters his fingers, stinging and burning and telling Virgil that its not worth it. But Virgil is a Hufflepuff, and Hufflepuffs are a loyal sort of people. And really that is Virgil’s biggest flaw.

“Running off, being secretive, pretending to be happy when you obviously aren’t--”

Roman gets a hand under Virgil jaw and shoves him up, up, and away. Virgil hits the ground with this tongue between his teeth and tears threatening in his eyes. 

“Roman!” He snaps, spitting blood from his mouth.

“Whose side are you on?”

Virgil’s body freezes.

Roman stands over him, moonlight shadows painting his face. His wand twists in his hand. He’s always been dangerous, Virgil remembers suddenly, with the effortless magic in his veins and the endless spell knowledge in his head and the whimsical creativity in his words.

“Virgil,” Roman says breathless, and he looks angry. Rightfully so. “The only one of us who would have both the information and the opportunity to give our location to the Death Eaters, is you.”

“What? Why would I--”

“You wanted me out of the house.” Roman says in an accusatory tone that makes Virgil’s blood slow in his veins. “You wanted me--the most powerful of us-- out of the head quarters, for a day of activities you weren’t even enjoying, and on that same day my house is blown up.”

Virgil scrambles to his feet, but he still feels off balanced, “It’s not like that--”

“Isn’t it?” he hisses, “You pestered us all last week about what charms were set up around the house! You said you were adding more! How do we know you didn’t take some off?”

“Because I didn’t!”

“You’re a master at Charms.” Roman snarls, “It would have been a sinch!”

And Virgil doesn’t know what to say to that. His hand slips into his jacket pockets, just barely resisting the urge to go for the hidden pouch over his chest that’s numbly cold--

Roman shoves his wand at him. “No! Hands out of your pockets, Storm.”

“What?”

“You heard me!” Roman said, stepping around him, like he’s some dangerous wild animal and Roman is the hunter come to put him down before he hurts another innocent person. “Did you or did you not give information to the Death Eaters? Did you tell them our location so they could kill us?”

“Roman!” Virgil takes a step back, his hands come out of his pocket and he starts wondering if maybe he should have been reaching for his own wand, after all. 

Roman looks angry; he looks like the fire that had eaten up his house. His hold on his wand is so tight, Virgil can see the red oak wood threatening to split. Small sparks dance at the edge reacting to Roman’s anger. No muggles would be out here in the woods, and the neo Death Eaters should still be dancing around the bonfire of the house. The only person who would come was possibly Logan, and they didn’t-- Logan wasn’t-- 

There was no one to stand between them, or direct attention away. For all intents and purposes they were alone in the world.

“That date was just a ploy,” Roman growls, “A ploy that I fell for!”

“No!” Virgil wants to list all the reasons why it wasn’t just a ploy.

But that of course isn’t the problem here. The problem is that it was a ploy in the first place. It was a ploy that Virgil made and took advantage of Roman to get him to follow in it.

Virgil tongue feels swollen, and he isn’t thinking. He knows he isn’t thinking. Because the next thing out of his mouth is the biggest mistake he’s ever made: “When have I ever done something to purposely harm you guys?”

 “I don’t know, maybe every single school year up until fourth year--”

Roman stops. 

Blinks.

“Every single school year up until…” He repeats, and Virgil feels the cannonball of dread in his stomach swell until shoves its way up through his lungs and up his throat. 

He’s imagined the way it happens a million times. Each one worse than the last, each one dangerous and bad and terrifying. Still the sight of Roman’s copper eyes turning purple and the light that drifts off him like an angelic aura is worse than all of them. Its his nightmares, come to life, and it’s staring at him with a murderous expression.

“Roman?” Virgil whispers, and maybe there’s a faint hope there that he’s wrong and the spell over him hasn’t broken and Virgil hasn’t lost the only thing he’s had for the past two years. 

“These are false memories,” Roman says. It feels like a slap in the face. “Why are there false memories in my head?”

Virgil’s mind tells him to run, and to run fast, but his body doesn’t move an inch. Not even to breathe. Roman had effortlessly used Sectumsempra against Dee, and Virgil is weaponless against him. He needs to get out of there, before either of them do something they’re going to regret. 

But at that moment there a sound of something tumbling through the branches above them, and Virgil looks up out of instinct. 

Its an owl, and it looks like it hell. Virgil lunges to catch it before it hits the ground, because even in the moonlight he’d know that white and brown and black pattern anywhere. 

“Logan!” Virgil calls, slightly more than horrified because he’s no owl expert but he’s pretty sure owls wings aren’t supposed to do that. There’s blood too. Virgil doesn’t know what to do with blood like this. “Roman! Roman I need--”

He stops when he sees the the other hasn’t lowered his wand. “Roman?”

“Avada--”

Virgil doesn’t hear the end of it. All he sees is the green light and then… 

And then there’s just darkness.

***

Dee had told him on the first Train Ride to Hogwarts about the Sorting Hat. 

“It uses Leg-ili-men-cy,” Dee had said holding up identical Chocolate Frog Cards with Salazar Slytherin on it “Thats a type of magic. It reads your thoughts and figures out where you’d best fit.”

Virgil had been so happy to be a Hufflepuff. He had never thought it was going to end up being a death sentence. 

***

“-nnervate.”

Virgil blinks his eyes open groggily. His whole head feels a bit like it was stuffed with tissues, like that Christmas that he spent sick out of his mind and Dee had shown up in the fireplace with more pumpkin pasties than he could carry and sugared butterfly wings for his mom, like that time they had hung out over the summer when Dee had wanted to practice for his position as Beater on the Slytherin Quidditch team and Virgil had dragged out his old baseball supplies only have Dee accidently beam him in the head on the first throw, like that time when Roman had cast a killing curse at him and Virgil hadn’t even tried to move out of the way.

And suddenly the fogginess of his head gives away to absolutely panic and its the cold type that surges through his veins freezing over his muscles and making his lungs work over time for air that only comes in every third heave. Its the panic he remembers and hates because its only happened once before and that was the worst day of his life.

He needs his wand.

His hand doesn’t even reach to his chest, not to mention across his body to the inside of his left boot where he normal keeps it. It takes him a moment to realize its not his lack of coordination, not his lack of focus nor disconnected thought process struggling to comprehend what was going on: his arm was being prohibited from coming forward by a rope.

Whats more is that when Virgil looks up too slowly putting together the pieces, Roman is standing over him with Virgil’s wand in his hand and an angry look on his face.

It feels like a nightmare; one of his worst ones yet. Its the version where he can’t wake up. The one where Roman has his wand and he’s been dragged somewhere he doesn’t recognize (the woods? Some woods somewhere?) and he’s been tied up because they can’t trust him and--

 And Virgil can’t figure out why he’s alive at all.

He knows what curse Roman sent at him. The bad taste in his mouth and the tingling pain in all of his limbs shows he knows it. The object anger in Roman’s expression is just further confirmation.

And yet, Virgil’s still alive, his pulse fluttering like a pixie’s wings as he desperately tried to come up with an excuse, an explanation, something that he can say that wouldn’t get him killed.

“Hey, Storm,” Roman says with a mockery of a smile that makes Virgil flinch. When was the last time he called Virgil by his last name? Fourth year? “I’m glad to see you alive.”

“Ro- roman,” Virgil gasps. He presses his back against the tree as if he can melt into it. The rope scratches at his wrists. Roman leans closer, and he’s always been taller but its never been threatening until now.

“Wanna tell me why there’s a bunch of fake memories in our heads?” Roman suggests with the end of the wand.

Virgil can’t tear his eyes from the tip, the glowing red that lies there ready to spark whenever Roman wants it to. Virgil’s watched Roman do spells for years; he knows how easily magic comes and flows through him and a wand. Even if it wasn’t through his own wand, he rarely ever messed up.

Is that what happened? Roman made a fluke with the killing curse and now Virgil was still alive when he should be dead?

Virgil’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. Pulling it off will probably make his mouth bleed.

“That was not a rhetorical question, Virgil,” Logan’s voice says icily from beyond the wand.

Virgil pries his eyes away from the wand, to where Logan is standing half turned away, with his arm in a makeshift sweatshirt sling and his clothes rumpled and blood crested. There’s a table in front of him where he’s looking at several things with his good hand and his wand is sticking out of his deep pocket like it was just another day out of class. A breeze blows through the trees.

It looks like it should be a happy place.

Virgil doesn’t think he’s ever been so terrified in his life.

“I-”

Roman looks at him impatiently. “You-?”

He wants to say he doesn’t know, but thats a lie. He knows why there are fake memories in their heads, has known for nearly three years. He’s known and lied and he’s so sick of lying.

But if he doesn’t lie, he has to tell the truth.

And the truth will kill him. Literally. Virgil can feel the stinging pain of his forearm, the burning warmth that he isn’t sure his brain is just making up.

He squeezes his eyes shut pressing his back against the bark of the tree he’s tied to. His voice is quieter than the breeze through the leaves. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?” Roman scoffs, “Did you hear that, Logan? He says he can’t tell us.”

Logan doesn’t answer so Roman lunges forward to grab Virgil by the front of his jacket and hauls him to his feet. Virgil’s knees threaten to give out but he forces himself back against the tree again, getting as far away from the Gryffindor as he can. 

(He still smells like ashes, like smoke, like death and danger, and an enemy--) 

“I can’t believe you, Storm,” Roman snarls at him, “All this time you were pretending to be our friend, pretending to be more than a friend, and then you turned right back around and fed information to the neo wizard nazis? Who does that?! Other than you, apparently?”

“It’s not like that!” Virgil wishes he kept silent. His eyes are burning with the desperate need to stop the tears from falling, but he doesn’t think he’s been doing a good enough job.

“Tell me what its like then,” Roman challenges.

And Virgil’s mouth snaps shut. His tongue tastes like blood again. His whole mouth tastes like blood.

“His jacket,” Logan says distantly. “He never goes anywhere without that jacket.”

Virgil’s chest constricts, “No.”

Logan glances back at him, then at Roman and without even saying a word they both nod.

“No!” Virgil squirms back into his hoodie, as if he can make himself smaller or make the jacket stick to his back. “Please! Roman!”

Virgil had been smart when he made his jacket. He had been smart when he shielded it with charms to ward off rain and mud and soda. He had protection against cuts and scrapes and fire. Honestly Virgil could charge into battle with nothing but his jacket and most likely come back unscathed from the amount of spells he put on it.

But he's not stupid enough to think that between Logan’s endless knowledge of spells, Roman’s creativity in making new ones, and their combined level of determined spite, that his charms would do anything more than delay the inevitable.

It takes them twenty minutes.

Virgil’s wand flicks in Roman’s hand and then Virgil is left shivering, tied to a fucking tree, begging uselessly for them to stop. His jacket phases right off him, like it was made of some ghost material that existed in a secondary dimension where they can see it but not touch it. Virgil doesn’t understand beyond the fact that its wrong. 

“Accio,” Logan says.

His jacket-- the one his mother had bought him, the one that he had painstakingly stitched back together after every adventure with Dee, the one that he had enlarged every time he had outgrown it because that jacket was his safety blanket-- his jacket sails right towards Logan and lands over Logan’s broken arm’s shoulder.

Virgil’s voice is raw. “Guys, please. Stop--”

They don't stop.

Virgil almost wonders what his life would be like if they did.

“Logan,” Virgil repeats, “Logan, please, don’t--”

“Specialis Revelio,” Logan says ignoring Virgil entirely. His wand waves over Virgil’s jacket. And Virgil can’t tear his eyes off the interior pocket he had charmed away from normal eyes, that glows red in response to Logan’s spell. 

Logan doesn’t even look at him as he flips the jacket over and tears the patch open. Maybe if he had he would have hesitated, even just a little. Roman crosses his arms, squeezing Virgil’s wand in his hand. Virgil shakes his head, blinking back those unhelpful tears, and the whimper thats climbing up his throat.

“What is he going to find?” Roman demands.

Virgil wishes the rope was just a bit longer, just enough that he could bring his hands up to his ears and block out the accusatory tone.

Logan pulls out the Galleon, and rubs it between his fingers for a moment. Virgil’s breath catches at the sight of it, his dark bangs tumbling into his eye sight and his gaze losing hope when Logan says quietly, “Coin Collecting.”

 He doesn’t sound surprised. He doesn’t sound like anything.

“There’s a Protean Charm on this.” Logan says in that same cold tone. “And the date on the border...this is yesterday’s date.”

Roman snarls, oh god, he snarls. Virgil’s chest seizes at the sound. He’s been crying for the past several minutes but that's nothing compared to the absolute dread that floods over him.

“It’s not like that!” Virgil says, “Guys, please!”

“Isn’t it?” Roman growls, “Who were you talking to?”

“I wasn’t--”

“Roman.” Logan interrupts, and Virgil’s stomach drops out.

Because he knows what's in Logan’s hand now, what can make him take on that face, so pale, so horrified.

He knows deep in his heart that the past two years were never going to end quietly but this is something worse. This is his nightmare, this is the scene that keeps him up at night, keeps him terrified of falling asleep and risking seeing that sort of expression on their faces, except this time there is no gasping awake, no pinching himself until his vision blurs and he’s staring up at the ceiling of the guest bedroom in Roman’s house.

Roman’s hands shake as he takes it from the Ravenclaw, that single little paper, worn with age and love and desperation folded into eighths and hidden in his pocket a million times over. 

“You--” Roman says, and, oh god, those brown eyes rage with a fury so much like the fire, full of so much hatred, that Virgil feels it from where he is tied up. Roman can’t finish the sentence, and that’s as scary as what else he could have said.

Its a picture. The picture.

Its thirteen year old Virgil and thirteen year old Dee and its Virgil biggest mistake.

“You’re still friends?” Roman’s voice shakes just like his hands.

“Its not what you think!” Virgil repeats like a broken record, his eyes burning, his voice begging, “Please it’s not--”

Roman rearranges the two wands in his hand and flips the picture around and pinches the top on either side of the fold and gives just a quick jerk of his wrists--

“ROMAN!” Virgil screams. “NO! Please! No, please don’t!” 

And the picture--

He thrashes against the bindings, and the sound he makes is not human. Its a scream, its desperation, its absolute terror and panic. His eyes blur with tears, and his lungs beg to be allowed to inhale again, and his arms are sticky with blood and burning around the wrists where his movements caused the rope to slice his skin and, and, and.

And all Virgil can see is that picture in halves on the ground between them. One half him, one half Dee, and their winter scarves twisted together so that the yellow and green are on both sides and their arms linked just enough to show off those handmade sweaters.

His knees go weak and Virgil ends up on the ground, without being able to drag his eyes from the way Dee had smiled four years ago and never again.

“Repario,” Virgil whispers desperately, despite the fact he doesn’t have a wand and he’s never had enough skill to perform wandless magic. “Repario, please, Repario.”

His chest heaves, shuddering his entire frame with the pleading gasps and wish, wish, wishing the halves back together because despite the fact that he knows the picture like his own face in the mirror, he needs it to not be torn apart, not be ruined, not to be unrecognizable.

“Please, please, pleasepleaseplease,” Virgil sobs, “Please don’t... take it from me...please Repario, Logan, please!”

He tugs on the bindings again, and his head drops to his chest, vaguely aware that he’s soaked and shivering and this is the longest he’s gone without his jacket since he was ten, and that he hasn’t cried this much since he had last hugged his mom and she had said that she was proud of the man he had grown into and the friend he would die for. 

“Why should we do anything for you?” Roman demands, “You got Patton-- he’s-- and Logan’s arm--” Roman blows his breathe out of his nose like a Chinese Fireball, “You’re a Death Eater!”

“I’m not,” Virgil hiccups, “Please, I swear!”

Roman’s foot slams down on the pieces of the photo and grounds them into the forest floor.

Virgil blubbers his way through another series of pleading that falls on deaf ears. His fingernails dig into his palms, sticky with blood from his wrists. He tugs uselessly at the rope again, as if it had somehow become loose in the past three seconds. Snot runs down his chin, and salty tears burn his eyes and irritate his neck where he can’t wipe them off. His shoulder blades ache, but its really nothing compared to how the cavity in his chest seems to gnaw at him from inside.

Then Roman is right in front of him, dragging him off the ground by his shirt collar and forcing Virgil to meet his gaze and the tip of a wand, Virgil’s own wand, digging into the soft flesh under his jaw.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, stop, I’m sorry--”

“Shut Up!” Roman snaps.

And Virgil’s mouth closes, but the whimper escapes just enough that Roman gives him a violent shake. The back of his head hits the bark of the tree, and Virgil remembers those hands that had held him as they fell asleep on the couch with movies playing, those hands that had caught him when he fell off his broom in sixth year, those hands that had pulled him out of the way of the Whomping Willow-- those same hands were very capable of of crushing his trachea without magic at all.

Roman backs him up until he’s pressed against the tree and Roman is the only thing holding him up. 

“How long have you been feeding information about the Order to Dante Ekans?”

Virgil whimpers.

“Tell me!”

“It’s not like that,” Virgil hiccups, “I swear Roman--”

“Don’t swear to me!” Roman’s fist tightens, “You and that snake put false memories into our heads! You made us believe that we were friends for who knows how long! I can’t believe we trusted you! I can’t believe I really thought--”

He lets out a breathy laugh, that’s void of the warmth he’s known for, “So tell me how long you’ve been a traitor, Storm, or I’ll leave you here for the wolves to enjoy, bite by bite.”

“I--” Virgil squeezes his eyes closed but it does nothing to relieve the feeling of being burned alive by the other’s eyes. “I’m sorry I can’t...Roman...p-please you...have to believe me.”

“Give me something to believe!” Roman hisses between his gritted teeth, the wand jabs him in the jaw, but the whatever magic Roman’s trying to produce won’t come out because its still Virgil’s wand and unicorn hair cores are as faithful as they come.

Roman throws the wand to the side and instead hooks his other hand on Virgil’s collar. “I haven’t heard a single reason why I shouldn’t believe you aren’t a Death Eater or why we shouldn’t leave you tied up right here.”

God, if Virgil wasn’t terrified before, he is now. Because he’s lost a lot, and he was prepared to lose some of it, but he’s never been alone. He’s never not had someone to have his back, never not had someone to remind him what he was fighting for. The idea of Roman and Logan simply apperating away and abandoning him in the middle of this forest by himself causes his lungs to stutter in complete horror.

He doesn’t care if they hate him. He doesn’t care if they keep him tied up, or frozen over with petrificus totalus, just as long as they take him with them.

“Virgil!” Roman yells, and Virgil flinches, at the loudness of his tone, at the closeness of their bodies, at the sharpness of his canines. He’s got to be delirious from terror, because he’s pretty sure Roman’s eyes are rimmed red and there’s lift in his voice that sounds like he’s pleading for the truth.

Virgil doesn’t know how else to apologize to him, so he says the same words again and again and again.

Then all at once he feels it.

The feeling of someone shoving their hand directly into his brain, ripping apart the muscle at each wrinkle. There’s no precision to the attack; its bloody, and violent, and unpracticed. Claws that thrash and slash and its not like Dee’s soft touch. And that alone triggers Virgil’s urge to vomit.

The walls come on instinct: practiced instinct, muscle memory. They’re strong and thunderous and built out of critical necessity to protect and defend. The claws scratch at the barricade dragging along the stone like it can out run Virgil’s ability to set it them up.

“Virgil,” Logan’s voice comes from somewhere far away, strained, tired. He doesn’t say to let him inside, but Virgil can hear the unspoken words.

Of the two of them Dee had always been better at Legilimency and Occlumency. He had to be. Virgil wasn’t great at either, but they had practiced every night for a year, and then Virgil had done it by himself in the following years, and that had to count for something, didn’t it?

“S-stop!” Virgil sobbed, “Logan!” His hands yank the rope again pulling as far as they can but he can’t get anywhere near his own body, much less where Roman is holding him up.

“Let him in.” Roman commands, “Virgil, let him in!”

Logan isn’t a practiced Legilimens. In fact Virgil bets he’s barely done this more than twice, and even then he needs to use a wand for it. He’d get tired long before Virgil’s walls would come down.

Virgil blames his own unstability. He blames it on the rising feelings he’s harbored for Patton and Logan and Roman and he blames it on Dee leaving him with them. He blames it on the feeling of Roman’s skin so warm on his own freezing, on the touch of Logan in his mind which disregarding the raw, rough edges of the claws, still feels like the raven haired ravenclaw and Virgil still wants to hoard those touches and keep them for himself. He blames it on the fact that he’s wanted to tell them for years now, and that he doesn’t want them to hate him, and, and, and. 

And Logan’s claws leap upward and Virgil’s walls are a second slower then they should have been.

Virgil feels his throat burn with his own stomach acids and memories flash by his mind’s eye, tearing them apart as it goes, searching ever so violently for the memory that explains why Virgil is the way he is, as if his whole life hasn’t been building to this outcome.

Virgil snatches them away from Logan, snatches and stashes and saves those tiny bits behind secondary and tertiary walls before Logan can get to them. Again and again and again until Logan is bruised and battered and Virgil can’t breathe and they’re standing in--

The living room he grew up in. His pictures on the mantle with both him and his mom and three of them emptied where the pictures stolen away. The coffee table has three mugs of tea on it and magazines about the city and the remote that was missing a battery because Virgil had stolen it to put in his secondary Xbox control earlier. 

His mom is there, hugging him tightly, “I’m so proud of you, my little storm cloud. I’m always going to be proud of you.”

Virgil tackles Logan out of that memory. 

Grocery store. Virgil’s been staring at the cereal for five minutes. His wand is in his boot, and his hands are in his jacket. Clenched into fists.

“Pardon me, young man? Would you mind helping me reach the great value box up there?”

Mom. She smiles at him. She doesn’t know him. 

“Yeah, sure. This one, right, Ma’am?”

Another person, a shadow from the end of the aisle, No, no, no, not here-- 

Virgil locks the rest in a black box. Logan doesn’t fight it.

“Don’t you dare try to take this from me, Ekans!” 

Anger. Angry. A challenge. Mistake. Mistake. Mista---

“Lo--Logan!” Virgil gasps. 

“Nasty little fates,” The professor mutters, “Nasty indeed. Do you know what Alstroemeria flowers represent?”

“Logan!”

“Face each other! Grip your right hands!”

“Please!”

Fourteen year old Dee is staring at him. Their hands are clasped tightly, and thin stream of red wrapping around their fingers weaving them together. Professor Remus’s wand doesn’t shake. Virgil doesn’t hesitate.

“I do.” 

Virgil goes limp in Roman’s arms. Seven feet away, Logan stumbles back further, tripping over a tree root and hitting the ground almost as hard as Virgil does. Maybe harder with that broken arm of his. Virgil’s not sure from how intensely his own body shakes trying to get rid of the vile feeling of someone else being in his head. 

He lets out another sob, yanking on the rope and falling as far forward as he can. Roman’s embrace isn’t comforting, but its something. His throat feels dry and eyes burn and he wants to get his hands on that pesky time turner that caused them to do all this just so he can stop himself from ever being born in the first place.

“You--” Logan says. He’s pale, paler than before, paler than paper, paler than the ghosts at that stupid castle. “You made an Unbreakable Vow.”

And whatever slim reserve, whatever dignity, Virgil had left, breaks and he’s gone.

(Next Chapter)

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[featherymalignancy]

CHAPTER THREE—In Vino Veritas: A Nessian Story

“In wine lies the truth”

Summary: Nesta Archeron is convinced she has everything she wants: a law degree from an ivy, a prestigious job, a gorgeous boyfriend, and excellent taste in wine. However, when she wanders into her local wine vendor and meets a handsome stranger unafraid to play her quick-witted games, she begins to wonder if the life she’s built is really the one she wants.

Cash Kahukore worked his entire adolescent life to become a sommelier, ignoring the slurs his mixed heritage have always earned him as he fought his way to the top. However, after five years abroad buying for Michelin star restaurants and dealing with rich white assholes, he’s grown bored with his life. When a gorgeous lawyer comes in to his uncle’s shop one afternoon, he immediately recognizes a worthy opponent in her. Undaunted by her sharp tongue and possessive boyfriend, he’s determined to be her friend, and—as time goes on and their circumstances change—possibly something more.

This a prequel to Navy Suits and Chelsea Boots that takes place three years before. If you love Elriel (and don’t mind finding out how this story ends) check it now.

Check out the masterlist for In Vino Veritas here!

Chapter Three: Bollinger

This time, Nesta didn’t bother lying to herself; she’d made the trip to Merchant because she wanted to see Cash.

It was perfectly innocent, though. She’d had a good day was all, and the truth was she didn’t have an over-abundance of friends in San Francisco. It would just be nice to see a familiar face. Besides, Tomás was out of town, which made this...easier than it might have ordinarily been. 

The old bell chimed as she strode in, and Cash—who’d be pouring over what looked like an inventory report behind the bar—grinned when he saw her, eyes glittering. His hair was tied up in its usual style at its crown, but today he also wore a pair of dark-rimmed glasses that made him look more distinguished, if no less roguish. She found it vaguely irritating  that he seemed to get more handsome every time she saw him. 

“Let me guess,” he said in greeting. “Another dinner party.”

“No,” she said primly, setting her bag down and perching on a stool. “Today we’re celebrating.”

He grinned, teeth bright against his bronze skin.

“Are we?”

“We are,” she said. “I just won a huge case.”

“Congratulations. Unless—” he narrowed his eyes. “You weren’t defending a murderer, were you? Tell me he didn’t do it.”

“It was a civil case. Police brutality.”

Cash’s eyes softened. 

“Not just a supermodel, then. A superhero, too.”

Nesta let the comment glance off of her, unsure the sort of damage it could do her if she let it sink in. Instead she pursed her lips.

“The officer broke my client’s back during a rough ride. A man who’d done so little wrong that he was never even charged for the supposed crime he was arrested for. He was only in police custody so long because he ended up in surgery.” She shook her head. “Fifteen hours on the table, and he’ll still never walk again. I pushed for criminal charges but couldn’t get the government to prosecute, so I took the case to civil court instead.” 

She flashed a dour smile.

“I made sure there wasn’t a cent left on the table.”

Cash let out a low whistle.

“You sort of scare me, you know?”

Nesta shrugged, feeling oddly pleased by this observation. 

“Normally I only take on criminal defense cases pro-bono, but this wasn’t one I was going to let slide.”

“You fascinate me,” Cash admitted, and Nesta huffed, not wanting to let that sink in, either. 

Unfortunately, it was harder to ignore, and Nesta felt her cheeks warming.

“Maybe you just need to get out more.”

Cash laughed, eyes glittering from behind his frames.

“I’ve been out plenty, trust me.”

“Gross,” she sniped, and he laughed again.

“I didn’t mean it like that. You’re just determined to make me a philanderer, aren’t you?”

She glanced at her watch to give herself something to do.

“You’ve yet to prove you aren’t one.”

“I can’t prove a lack of something. As for proving the opposite—“ he shrugged. “Maybe I’ll surprise you.”

“I don’t care for surprises,” she said, needing to change the subject.

It felt too much like they were flirting again, and it was a line she knew she couldn’t cross. Tomás would be beside himself if he ever found out.

“Alright,” Cash said, seeming to read her body language. “Enough witty banter. What kind of champagne do you like?”

“Bollinger,” she said. “If you have it.”

Cash grinned, the gold in his ears winking at her as he propped his chin on a fist. 

“Are you sure you’re not a international super spy? That’s James Bond’s favorite, too.”

She couldn’t stifle a short laugh.

“How do you even know that?”

“When are you going to accept that when it comes to wine, there’s nothing I don’t know?”

“Never,” she said in challenge. “Because someday you’re going to make a mistake, and I vow to be there to roast you for it when you do.”

Cash raised his eyebrows, leaning in slightly.

“Then I’ll be sure to make said mistake in the shower.”

“Cash,” she warned, even as she fended off another laugh.

“You’re the one making threats!” He said, holding up his hands. “I can’t help it if you occasionally fall victim to your own hubris.”

“I—“ she began, still trying to avoid imagining what Cash looked like in the shower. His thick hair slicked back, skin glistening as water ran down the arched grooves of his Adonis belt towards his thick—

She cleared her throat.

“Fine. You win this round.”

“Part of me is afraid that you’re only giving ground as some sort of tactic, but I’ll take my wins where I can get them.”

“Then I have you just where I want you,” she said, glad to have made her way back to more familiar terrority.

He laughed, going to get the champagne.

“You can have me wherever you want, Archeron,” he called, but before she could censure him for it, he’d disappeared into the back.

He came back carrying the Bollinger and two antique glasses that reminded her of Downton Abbey. 

“Nice touch,” she said, gesturing to them.

Cash flashed a self-satisfied smirk. 

“Thought you’d like these. Be gentle with them, these are Dev’s babies.”

He popped the bottle with a expert kiss of sound before pouring a measure for each of them and pushing one of the glasses to her. 

He held his up to her.

“To the justice we can get.”

She raised hers in answer. 

“Even if it isn’t the justice that’s deserved.”

Their glasses sang as they touched, and Nesta paused before taking a sip so she could watch him take his. As always, his reaction didn’t disappoint. 

His brows drew together as he gave a hum of appreciation, biting his lip as he let the flavor linger. She hurriedly took a sip herself, not wanting to get caught admiring him. She could feel him studying her in return as she did.

She let her eyes flutter shut as the satiny bubbles caressed her tongue. 

“What do you taste?”

Her eyes snapped open to find he was still watching her, head cocked slightly to the side.

“You’re the expert,” she said archly. “You tell me.”

He laughed.

“I already know the profile. I want to hear what you think.”

“Is this your way of putting me in my place after all my dress-downs?”

His grin faded, something she couldn’t quite name softening his hazel eyes. 

“Never. I just—“ some of the tension melted from his shoulder as he gave a laugh that didn’t feel entirely genuine. “You obviously have a great palette. I just want to know what it is you like about this vintage in particular. Think of it as—market research, if you want.”

She considered this, and him, because taking another sip. 

“I’d know it was champagnois even if I’d never had it before. It’s nuttier than a Prosecco or a Cava. Not as finely-edged. And the fruit in it is lightly spiced. Apple, definitely. And...pear, maybe? It reminds me of Christmas.”

She glanced up to find him looking at her. 

“Well?” she said, feeling oddly embarrassed. “How did I do?”

“Spot on,” he said. “Though no surprises there. You would have made a great sommelier. A big part of the job is painting a picture that makes people fall in love with the wine. That description was painfully charming.”

“Don’t be obsequious,” she warned, even as she felt herself preening a little from the compliment.

“No idea what that means,” he said with a grin. “But I will do my best. How did things turn out with your sister and the Riesling?”

Nesta flashed a feline smirk, one she knew sent most men running for the hills. 

“Better than I could have hoped,” she said “Graysen’s mother wouldn’t stop raving about it. Her new favorite, she said. Even better than the bottle Graysen got here for her birthday last year.”

Her smirk widened as he shook his head, laughing. 

“You’re gonna put this poor kid in therapy.”

Nesta sniffed, taking another sip.

“He’s made Ellie cry more than once; he can burn in Hell for all I care. Besides, he couldn’t be less worthy of her if he were were a clown car mechanic. I’m going to throw a gala they day they break up for good.”

“If you could invent a perfect man for Elain, what would he be like?”

“Quiet,” Nesta said immediately, and when Cash laughed, she added, “I’m serious! Graysen is constantly talking, and she can never get a word in when they’re together. She has so many interesting things to say; she deserves a guy who wants nothing more than to listen to her all day.”

“A wallflower, roger that. What else?”

Nesta considered. 

“Someone who does sweet things for her. Elain’s love language is acts of service. Men always want to buy her expensive things or spouts odes to her beauty. What she really wants is someone who will pack her a sack lunch or get her car washed. Also dark-haired. Grown men shouldn’t be blonde.”

Cash grinned, eyes slight. 

“He sounds like a dreamboat. Maybe I should let you find me someone, too.”

Nesta was surprised at how much the comment ached. Not that she begrudged Cash meeting a woman; he certainly deserved it. She just—didn’t want to have to imagine it. 

“I don’t know you well enough to make an accurate assessment,” she sniffed, trying not to seem too desperate as she poured herself more champagne. 

Cash opened his arms in invitation. 

“What would you like to know?”

Nesta narrowed her eyes as she considered. 

“How do you feel about Beyoncé?”

Cash laughed.

“Is this a trick?”

“Answer the question, please.”

“The Lemonade album deserves a permanent exhibit at the Smithsonian as a pillar of human achievement.”

She nodded in approval.

“Good. At least I know I can trust you now.”

“That’s your litmus rest?” He laughed. “What were you going to say if I say no?”

“Leave and never come back, obviously,” she said. 

“Fair enough,” Cash allowed. “What else?”

“Best Hogwarts house?”

“Alright, this one is too easy. Gryffindor.”

Nesta feigned a gag. 

“That is the most offensive thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Daring and chivalrous! Those aren’t favorable traits to you?”

Nesta sniffed imperiously. 

“Self-important and braggadocious, you mean. Besides, there’s nothing more dangerous that a person who’s convinced they’re right.”

He shook his head, chuckling. 

“I feel so foolish. Everything about you screams Slytherin; I should have seen that question for the trap is was.”

“You know why I’ve been so successful in the courtroom?”

“Because you’re brilliant?”

She dismissed the compliment with a flick, even as it warmed her from the inside out.

“Because most of the time I’m going up against self-righteous prosecutors who’d rather waste their time beating their chest and  waxing dramatically to the jury about my client’s character, instead of arguing the facts. It makes mounting a defense and tearing them to ribbons almost comically easy.”

“Like I said,” Cash offered, studying her with unchecked appreciation. “Fascinating.”

“I’ll change your mind before this is all over,” she said. “Mark my words.”

He leaned in slightly, enough that she could smell his clean scent again. 

“Looking forward to it.”

They studied each other for a moment, and this time it was Cash who looked away, chuckling quietly to himself. 

“What else?”

“Tell me secret. Something no one else knows about you.”

He considered this before turning over his forearms to show her his tattoos.

“I cried like a baby when I got these.”

She put her chin in her hand, if only to resist the urge to trace the slightly-ridged ribbons of ink. The designs were exquisitely tendered; whoever the artist was, they’d known what they were doing.

“Why?” she asked finally. 

He laughed. 

“Because they fucking hurt!”

She pursed her lips to indicate she wasn’t buying it, and he laughed again, glancing down at his forearms. 

“Growing up, I just always felt like—I don’t know—a mongrel. When you’re a kid all you want to do is fit in, and being mixed, I never really felt like I did. I was—weirdly resentful I couldn’t just be like everyone else. I had my gran in my ear always spouting all this Māori stuff, but I just wanted to be Hawaiian. It wasn’t until she took me back to Waitomo when I was in high school that I got to see my culture for what it was—mine. I wanted to wear that pride on my skin.”

“So when you got the tattoos...”

He nodded.

“When I got the tattoos, I felt like I was reclaiming something I’d lost. Not just a sense of belonging, but a connection to my dad, who I never got to meet. It was—really emotional.”

“Did you take anyone with you?”

“My friend Ro. He was the only other Māori kid in my neighborhood growing up, so our families were always close.”

Cash laughed, adjusting his glasses. 

“You should see him. His tats cover almost the whole left side of his damn body. If he hadn’t wanted to be a cop, I’m pretty sure he’d have gotten them on his face. We had to convince him to stop mid-neck.”

Cash glanced down at his own again, and Nesta couldn’t resist. Gingerly she reached out to follow the band on diamonds that studded along his wrist. She watched his skin pebble under her touch, and she pulled her hand back, knowing she was being unfair. 

“That sounds—intimidating,” she said instead, trying to shift the conversation back.

Cash shrugged.

“He’s a sweet dude underneath all the gruffness, but yeah, he’s pretty terrifying with all that ink. I suppose it doesn’t help that he’s also 6’6 and looks like a jacked Anderson Cooper.”

She had to laugh. 

“What does that even mean?”

“He started going grey when we were still in high school, and now he’s completely silver. It’s annoyingly dashing.“

Nesta snorted. 

“The silver fox trope is such a double standard. If I was completely gray, no one would be gushing over it.”

Cash considered. 

“I feel like you would be very striking as a silver vixen. Besides, I thought women dying their hair gray was a thing now?”

“How do you even know that?”

Cash laughed. 

“My friend Rhys is a...great lover of females.He loves to opine on all the various trends.”

“Is that your polite way of saying he’s a playboy?”

Cash shrugged.

“His dad’s a billionaire. Az and I think he didn’t hear the word ‘no’ enough as a kid, and it’s made him restless and hedonistic. When he meets the right girl, though, it’s going to be game-set-match. I know it.”

“Thats...charming, I suppose.”

“You’d like him,” Cash said before pausing to laugh. “...I think. His cousin I think you’d definitely like. In fact, I’m having a friend from Paris in next week to host a tasting, and Mor will be there. You should come and meet her.”

Nesta’s heart leapt at the opportunity. She loved getting dressed and going out, and she was in rather desperate need of female friends. Still, there was Tomás to consider.

“I know that look,” Cash said. “So let me beat you to the punch: you can bring your boyfriend, and whoever else you want.” 

“Elain would love it,” Nesta said, not wanting to admit that Tomás wouldn’t, especially when he saw Cash.

Still, she was reasonably confident she could convince him. 

“Maybe I’ll tell her to bring Graysen, and your friend can embarrass him in front of everyone.”

Cash shook his head, giving a resigned chuckle. 

“You are terrible.”

Nesta admired her long nails self-importantly. 

“Please, you love it.”

She immediately regretted saying it. She wasn’t oblivious to the way Cash sometimes looked at her, and she didn’t want to blur any lines by being over-flirtatious. It wasn’t fair to him, and it definitely wasn’t fair to Tomás. And if he ever found out she’d been saying things like that to another guy behind his back, he’d never let her step foot in the Merchant again.

“I admit I’m morbidly curious about this guy,” Cash admitted. “Though I don’t want your sister to hate me for humiliating her boyfriend.”

“She’ll love you,” Nesta blurted, and realizing her misstep, forced herself to add, “maybe I’ll set you two up once she gives Graysen the boot.”

The idea made her stomach roil, especially when Cash smirked.

“First you accuse me of philandering, and now you want to set me up with your precious baby sitter? Pick a lane, Archeron.”

Nesta shrugged mechanically.

“At least I’d know she was being treated the way she deserves.”

Cash laughed, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back on the bar.

“I don’t want to date your sister, Nes.”

Nesta ignored the way something in her black heart fluttered at the declaration, pursing her lips in feigned annoyance instead.

“Why not? Gorgeous and brilliant aren’t your type?”

Cash laughed.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say that gorgeous and brilliant are every guy’s type.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Nesta had no idea why she was pushing the issue. She had less than zero desire to see Cash pursue Elain.

Cash only laughed again, an edge of exasperation souring the otherwise rich sound.

“Maybe I’m too afraid of you. I can only imagine what kind of cruel and unusual torture you’d cook up for me if things didn’t work out.”

“I’d flay and barbecue you at a low heat,” Nesta affirmed, and Cash grinned, his expression easing slightly.

“Exactly. Besides,” he paused, eyes glittering from behind his frames as he studied her again. “I wouldn’t want to risking messing up our friendship.”

She sniffed to disguise the way that touched her.

“Bold of you to assume we’re friends. We hardly know each other.”

“I know you better than you think, my thorny Slytherin queen. And we are friends, so don’t be like that.”

“Fine,” she said. “I admit I find your company enjoyable in an...annoying sort of way.”

“Please,” Cash said, grinning. “You love it.”

“Don’t push it,” she warned, and he only grinned wider.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. So about next weekend: are you in? I’m trying to firm up the guest list for my friend Hélion.”

Nesta felt her cheeks warming as she admitted, “I...have to discuss it with Tomás. He’s been out of town.”

Cash looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he said, “Well if you do decide to come, I have only one request—“

“That I don’t bring my friend Claire,” Nesta finished for him, and he laughed. 

“She was in again last week and left me her number on a receipt. I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Call her?” Nesta made herself suggest.

Cash frowned.

 “I told you: not my type. Everything I said, she agreed with. I don’t want a woman who only ever tells me what she thinks I want to hear.”

Nesta couldn’t help herself.

“What do you want, then?”

Cash sank his teeth into his plush lower lip as if he were trying to suppress a smile before finally glancing at her.

“Someone who’s quick on the draw, and who isn’t afraid to dish it back. I don’t want a admirer; I want an equal. Besides,” he paused, biting his lip again. “I prefer brunettes.”

Nesta felt her heart beating in her throat as he studied her—her dark hair—before meeting her gaze again. 

“If you know anyone like that, then...”

“I don’t,” Nesta said automatically before adding, “sorry.”

Cash continued watching her for a second before shrugging. 

“Being single isn’t all bad.”

“I wouldn’t really know,” Nesta admitted in a soft voice. “It’s been a while.”

Cash nodded, adjusting his frames as he looked down into his glass.

“How long have you two been together?”

“Six years.”

“That’s—a long time.”

“It is,” she agreed, wishing they could change the subject.

“No ring yet?”

Her eyes snapped up, he shook his head. 

“Sorry. None of my business.”

She thought about biting out that no, it most certainly wasn’t, before realizing she didn’t want to sour things with an unduly harsh retort. Instead she shrugged. 

“If he had his way, we’d be married already. I’m the one who’s insisted on waiting.”

“Why?”

She didn’t know why she answered. She knew she really shouldn’t, but somehow she couldn’t help herself. Cash was so easy to talk to, and the fact he didn’t know Tomás personally somehow made it feel like less of a violation of their privacy. 

“We’ve been through a lot together, but I don’t know—I’m not ready. I guess I’m just waiting for a sign to show me that I am.”

“Didn’t have you down as a person who believed in signs,” Cash admitted. 

Nesta fidgeted in her seat, looking down at her bare left hand. 

“I’m not usually. But this is...too important not to be completely sure.”

Cash nodded but didn’t push for clarification, even though she could tell he wanted to.

“I’m happy, though,” Nesta added, needing to hear herself say it out loud. “He makes me very happy.”

Cash gave her a smile that was warm, even if it didn’t quite touch his eyes.

“You deserve that,” he said. 

“How would you know?”

At this Cash’s smile widened to show pearly teeth. 

“Because I’m an excellent judge of character. Besides, doesn’t everyone deserve that? Someone who makes them happy?”

“You do,” she blurted, and her cheeks caught fire as she realized she’d said it out loud. 

She’d clearly drank more champagne than she’d thought; she was being embarrassingly loosed-lipped. Cash only smiled again, politely ignoring her insidious blush. 

“You think?”

“Per your logic, everyone does,” she pointed out, drumming her nails on the oak bar top. When he dimmed a bit, she softened. 

“But yes, I think you deserve it more than most.”

Cash gave a sheepish laugh as he looked down at the scuffed chukka boots her wore, and Nesta found herself adding, “She’s a lucky girl, Cash. The woman you end up with.”

It was truer than he even knew, and harder to bear than she’d expected. She had a sudden image of Cash in the arms of some unknown brunette beauty, and she felt her hands curling to fists. 

She was on dangerous ground, and she knew it. She couldn’t figure out for the life of her why she hadn’t retreated to safer territory yet. 

“I should get home,” she said, draining her glass. “Thank you for celebrating with me.”

He grinned. 

“Thank you for an excuse to drink champagne on a Tuesday. And before you embarrass us both by trying to pay for this bottle, let me make a proposition instead.”

Nesta huffed and made to protest, but he cut her off. 

“You know it’s nothing like that, so don’t get shirty with me. Just—come next Saturday. Tastings go much easier when there are people there who know what they’re looking for in a good wine, and I promised Leo I would give him something to work with. He’s French, so he gets fussy like that. And if you come, I can just put the bottle on his company’s tab. He works for one of the biggest distributors in France, so they won’t mind.”

“How long have you been cooking this scheme up?” She asked, and he grinned.

“Since about the word ‘celebrating’. Do we have a deal?”

He even extended a hand, and she bit her lip as she considered. 

“I still have to talk it over with Tomás. But yes, I will—tentatively be there.”

She slipped her hand into his, and he squeezed gently as his smile returned. 

“But you have to let me pay for the bottle if I don’t end up making it.”

Cash rolled his eyes. 

“I’ll add it to your tab, I promise.”

“Fair enough,” she said, rising to her feet. “I’ll will let you know on Tuesday when Tomás gets back into town.”

Cash laughed, though the sound was a bit hollow. 

“How? You don’t have my number.”

Nesta bit her lip, resisting the urge to shift on her feet. She and Tomás had given each other permission into their respective phones, and though it wasn’t a privilege he often exercised, she knew that if he did and saw Cash’s number, he’d freak. It would certainly be the end to their coming to the tasting.  

“I’ll—call the shop.”

All the playfulness melted from Cash’s expression as his mouth tightened. 

“Are you serious, Nes?”

“What does it matter?” She shot back, needing to go on the defensive. “You’re always here anyways.”

“That’s not what concerns me.”

“I don’t know what you’re even talking about.”

He crossed his bruising arms across his chest, his tone brittle in a way that belied he usual ease. 

“Oh really? Then look me in the eye and tell me that—as your friend—I have nothing to be concerned about.”

“Goodbye, Cassian,” she said. “I’ll be in touch.”

She turned to the door and heard him swear under his breath.

“Nesta.“

She tightened her grip on the leather strap of her handbag, fighting the urge to turn back to him as she left the shop.

————————————————-

“What’s going on with you?” Hélion asked from where he lounged on the sofa, watching as Cash straightened the collar of a fresh button-down in the mirror. 

They were currently in in the apartment above the shop, which Devlon had bought when such things were still possible to afford in North Beach. He’d agreed to let Cash stay there while he was in Hawaii, provided Cash didn’t change anything. 

So far, he’d  had the place painted, replaced the dated backsplash in the kitchen, and bought a new couch. A contractor was coming the following week to talk about taking down a wall in the living room and gutting the master bath.

“What do you mean?” Cash said, shrugging into the burgundy blazer slung over a nearby armchair.

Hélion eyed him critically for another moment.

“That’s the third time you’ve changed your shirt.”

Hélion continued his brazen assessment before snapping his fingers in realization.

“There’s someone coming you want to impress. Who is it? Investor for your mythical vineyard?”

Cash cleared his throat.

“No, I’m—still working on that.”

Hélion smirked.

“Ah, okay. Who is she, then?”

Cash fought not to tense. This wasn’t a conversation he really wanted to have right now. Despite the voicemail he’d gotten from Nesta on Thursday at the shop informing him she’d be coming with two guests, he was terrified to get his hopes up knowing it was still entirely possible she wouldn’t show. 

“Who is who?” 

Hélion rolled his eyes.

“The woman you’re clearly trying to impress. And if you don’t tell me, know that I can get it out of Mor when she arrives.”

Cash felt his palms beginning to sweat. 

“It’s—not like that.”

Hélion smirked.

“No? Certainly seems like ‘that’ to me.”

“She’s got a serious boyfriend.” 

“A boyfriend isn’t a husband, Cashish,” Hélion said in a coo. “Besides, who could resist all this devilish charm?”

“Don’t make it weird,” Cash warned.

“Me?” Hélion said in mock offront. “Never! Come on, tell me more about her. She must be something if she’s caught your picky eye.”

“I’m not—“ Cash shook his head. “We’re just friends.”

“Non,” Hélion said. “You like her. You’re smitten, I can tell. What’s her name?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“What? Why not? I only want to know who I need to charm tonight. I will help make her yours.”

“For fuck’s sake, Leo,” Cash said, unsure whether to be exasperated or warmed by his friend’s meddling. “She’s bringing her boyfriend.”

Hélion bubbled his lips and gave a dismissive flick of his wrist.

“I hate him already. He’s a swine! A wretch! Totally unworthy of her!”

“I actually think he might be,” Cash admitted, and at his tone Hélion straightened, setting down his glass.

“What do you mean?”

Cash blew out a breath, trying to keep his anger in check as he remembered the look on Nesta’s face when he’d suggested she take his number. Normally he might have taken it as a sign that she was more interested in him than she let on, but it hadn’t been guilt he’d seen in her eyes; it’d been fear.

“Allô!” Hélion said, snapping his fingers to get Cash’s attention again. “What does that mean?”

“He’s totally controlling; demanding to know where she is all the time, I think going through her phone—I don’t know, it just doesn’t feel right to me.”

“Have you met him?”

“No,” Cash admitted. “But Dev has, and he said the same. He said that he’s very territorial over Nesta, and that I should keep my distance.”

“Nesta,” Hélion said with a satisfied smirk. “That’s very pretty.”

Cash flipped him a foul hand gesture before turning back to the mirror. He sighed before continuing.

“I don’t know what it is about her, but I can’t get her out of my head. And it would be bad enough knowing she’s got a boyfriend, but this prick—“ Cash shook his head. “I hate thinking of her in a bad relationship.”

“Maybe she just needs someone to show her there’s a better way,” Hélion said, and Cash huffed.

“Don’t tease me. This sucks enough as-is.”

“Non,” Hélion said. “No teasing. She clearly likes you, Cash, or else she wouldn’t be coming tonight.”

“She’s coming with him.”

“Then she must like you very much, to risk upsetting him just to see you.”

“I don’t want to put her in a bad spot.”

“But...?” Hélion prompted.

“But what?”

“But you do want her.”

Cash groaned, slumping down on the arm of the sofa.

“How could I not? She’s brilliant, and thoughtful, and witty. And God—so fucking gorgeous. She might honestly be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Hélion gave an amused snort.

“The man’s in love.”

“I’m not in love,” Cash protested before pausing. “And it doesn’t matter, anyway. She’s got her sod of a boyfriend, and I just got her to admit we’re friends; I can’t mess things up.”

“Okay,” Hélion said, holding up his hands in submission. “I won’t say anything to her.”

Cash let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Thank you.”

“But say the word, and I will seduce the boyfriend and clear the path for you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Cash muttered, and Hélion smirked.

“So far as I know, you’re the only man who’s been able to successfully to resist me, straight or otherwise.”

“Az,” Cash pointed out, turning to the mirror to pull his hair back. 

Hélion rolled his eyes.

“He’s just being obstinate to spite me.”

“I’ll let him know you’re onto him.”

Hélion smirked and settled back into his seat. 

“Can you imagine what he must look like naked?”

“As his friend, I try not to. Shall we?”

Hélion rose, straightening his immaculate heather gray slacks as he did. Cash shook his head.

“I don’t know how you’re wearing that sweater. It’s bloody August.”

Hélion straightened the collar of the turtleneck self-importantly. 

“I’m French,” Hélion sniffed. “The laws of nature don’t apply to me.”

“That’s not at all how that works,” Cash pointed out. “But suit yourself.”

They descended the stairs to find the servers Cash had hired readying the place at Mor’s direction. The dining table had been set with the appropriate glasses, and flutes were arranged neatly on trays, waiting for champagne. 

“Looks good,” Cash told her in greeting, coming over to kiss her cheek. “Almost good enough to justify flying you all the way out here from London.”

“Please,” Mor said, batting his cheek. “I flew myself out here, you ungrateful plant pot.” She spotted Hélion and shoved Cash back. “Leo, there you are! Come give me a kiss.”

Cash only barely managed to get out of the way as Hélion slid a hand around Mor’s waist and pulled her to him. She draped her arms over his shoulders and pecked him on the lips. Cash only barely managed to fend off a groan of disgust, and Mor only flashed him a quick hand gesture before her eyes settled back into Hélion, who still had a possessive hand pressed to her low back.

“How are you, mon cœur?” She purred, and Hélion gave her an appreciative up-down.

“Better, now you’re here. Oh, and Cash has a woman coming tonight.”

Cash snarled.

“What part of ‘be cool’ did you not understand?”

“You are?” Mor demanded, turning to punch him in the arm. “Who?”

“She’s got a boyfriend,” Cash said, feeling sour for having to repeat it out loud. 

“So? Never seen a defender you couldn’t score on. What’s her name?”

“None of your—“

“Nesta.”

Cash screwed his eyes up, rubbing his temple. 

“Leo, for fuck’s sake.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mor asked. “This is so exciting! I haven’t seen you interested in someone in—“ she paused to think. “I honestly can’t remember the last time.”

“She’s got a serious boyfriend,” Cash said, annoyed at having to repeat himself. “And she’s my friend, so please don’t scare her off with your meddling.”

Mor toss her blonde waves off her shoulder. 

“I don’t meddle.”

Cash pursed his lips. 

“Tell that to Az’s love life.”

“That’s different. Without my help, poor lamb’s going to die alone.”

“I can think of someone I know who could make him feel properly loved up,” Hélion said with a smirk, and Cash rolled his eyes. 

“Leave him alone, both of you. Leo, if you want someone to flirt with, go back to London and bother Rhys. He’ll be more than happy to oblige you.”

“Tempting,” Hélion admitted. “But he’ll flirt with anyone. Besides, there’s just something about that pouty mouth of Azriel’s that drives me crazy.”

“Let’s just get the champagne opened,”  Cash said, not wanting to discuss his friends’ love lives anymore. 

He gestured to the servers, and Hélion glanced at the label of the nearest bottle and frowned.

“Bollinger? I thought we’d agreed on Moët.”

Cash shrugged. 

“I changed my mind.”

Hélion narrowed his eyes. 

“Fine,” Hélion sniffed. “But no more changes. I made these selections for a reason.”

Cash grinned. 

“You’re afraid I’ll pull something something you don’t know, you mean.”

Hélion gave him a dirty look, and Cash laughed. 

“I haven’t changed anything else,” he promised. 

At this the door chimed, and Cash’s heart rate picked up. Forcing himself not the react in a way his friends might notice, he nodded towards the door. 

“Go, minions. Be charming, make people feel welcome.” He grabbed Hélion by the elbow as he made to strut off. 

“Not too friendly. This is an elegant tasting, not a live sex show.”

Helion grinned, teeth bright against his dark skin. 

“Afraid I’ll meet your Nesta and win her away from you?”

“No, because you lay even one line on her and she’s probably punch your lights out. Get out of here.”

Hélion laughed, clapping Cash in the shoulder even as his eye snagged on fetching red head who was already smiling at him. 

Cash found as people trickled in that he was too wound up to mingle, so he busied himself in the back instead, helping pull bottles and making sure the hor d’euorvers looked the way he wanted. 

When his phone buzzed, he pulled it out to find a text from Hélion.

Come to the front. 

Swearing under his breath, Cash did as a instructed to find Hélion waiting for him at the bar. 

“What is it?”

Hélion shrugged. 

“Nothing. But you need to be out here. It’s strange for your to lurk in the back like the hunchback in his tower. Have a glass of champagne and relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

“That’s exactly what a tense person would say,” Hélion said. “Go talk to people.”

“I will as soon as—“

He broke off as he watched Hélion eyes skate over his shoulder and light up. 

“What?” he demanded.

Helion smiled, eyes flicking back to Cash. 

“I think your Nesta just walked in.”

Cash’s throat went dry. His first instinct was to whip around, and he forced himself to relax his posture. 

“Merde, you weren’t joking,” Hélion said, gaze going over Cash’s shoulder. “She’s—fetching. Who’s the woman with her?”

“Her younger sister, I think.”

Hélion’s grin grew sleepy and slightly wicked, and Cash shook his head.

“Nesta will flay you alive.”

Hélion only shrugged before looking back and cocking his head slightly. 

“C'est intéressant...” he mused, tapping his fingers against his lips in mock bemusement. 

Cash grit his teeth. 

“What’s interesting?” 

Hélion’s smile was a feral thing, one that reminded Cash of a fox.

“I don’t see a gentleman with her,” Hélion finished. 

Unable to resist any longer, Cash turned, his pulse drumming a lulling beat in his belly as he drank Nesta in. 

She was dressed more provocatively then he’d ever seen her, and it made his mouth dry as he took her in. The slinky navy cocktail dress she wore hung off her body as if it had been made  for her, highlighting her gorgeous small breasts and lean legs. 

She’s yet to see him, but his heart sped up as the woman next to her, who was undoubtedly Elain, turned her head in his direction. Elain gave him a delightfully unsubtle up-down before she leaned over to whisper in her sister’s ear.

Something warm began to pool in Cash stomach as Nesta’s gaze snapped to him and she flushed. 

He smiled in greeting, feeling pleased when she took Elain’s hand and started towards him.

“Go away,” Cash hissed to Hélion. 

“But—“

“I’ll introduce you later. Buzz off.”

Hélion huffed before retreating, and Cash fought not to fidget or look too eager as Nesta approached. She dark hair fell in a satiny curtain down her back, and he imagined bunching it is hands as he kissed her neck, peeling off that dress so he could...

“Cash, hi.”

He flashed what he hoped as an easy smile. He wanted to kiss her cheek the way he might have with someone like Mor, but given everything, he doubted she’d appreciate it. 

“Nesta,” he said, taking in the hint of her cool, sharp perfume as she came closer. “Glad you could make it.” 

She smiled, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. He admired the elegant line of her wrist as she did, marveling that wrists could even be attractive. Hers were, though. They were gorgeous. 

“Thank you for inviting us.”

At this she put a hand on her sister’s back. 

“This is my sister, Elain. Ellie, this is my friend Cassian.”

Hearing her said the word “friend” had giddy delight crashing through him, and he forced himself to look at Elain instead. 

She gave him a bright, easy smile, and he immediately liked her. 

“Lovely to finally meet you, Cassian,” she said as they shook hands

“Cash, please. Honestly, I feel like I know you already. Nesta’s always bragging about you.”

Elain gave a sheepish laugh, doe brown eyes sparkling. Like her sister, Elain was beautiful, though hers was a much softer, more angelic thing: the fresh-faced Disney heroine to Nesta sultry villainess. She was of a curvier build as well, her figure voluptuous where Nesta’s was willowy. 

If Az was here, he’d be drooling all over the floor. He was a sucker for big tits and brown eyes, even if he was too much of a gentleman to ever admit as much out loud. 

“Well that’s embarrassing,” Elain said. “It’s not like I’m going to cure cancer or something.”

“No it’s not,” Nesta said. “You deserve it. You’re brilliant, El.”

Elain blushed before turning back to Cash. 

“I’ve heard a lot of nice things about you, too.” Elain continued. “It’s good to put a name to the face.”

Cash grinned at Nesta, whose mouth has pinched into a pert frown. 

“You been bragging about me too, Archeron?”

Nesta sniffed in a way Cash now knew signified she’d been caught off balance. 

“Hardly. It’s Claire who can’t shut up about you.”

Elain gave a delicate laugh. 

“It’s true,” she admitted. “I think she’s got a crush on you. She still hasn’t stopped talking about that red Nesta served at her dinner party. No one could; did Nes tell you?”

Cash laughed when Nesta rolled her eyes. 

“Your sister isn’t in the habit of giving me compliments, unfortunately. But thank you, it’s nice to know you liked it.”

“I loved it,”Elain corrected. “You should come to the next party and listen to everyone fawn yourself.”

Cash glanced to Nesta to gauge her reaction, afraid to find her expression disapproving. She wore a sardonic smile instead. 

“Before you say yes, please keep in mind that Claire will be there, and there won’t be a bar or a stock room to shield you from her attentions.”

Cash grinned. 

“You’re not going to protect my virtue?”

Nesta pursed her lips to hide a smirk. 

“As if there’s any left to protect.”

“I will,” Elain assured him, grinning as she touched his arm. “We’ve known Claire for ages, but she can get a little—predatory.”

“Yes, a scrawny thing like you, who knows what she might do if she caught you alone,” Nesta added dryly. 

Cash laughed, and unable to resist showing off a little, he crossed his arms across his chest and said, “Archeron, I’m pretty sure I could bench your weight about five times over.”

“Doubtful,” Nesta shot back, eyes glittering with the challenge. “I weigh over 300 pounds.”

“What a coincidence; I bench 1,500.”

“Well congratulations on setting a world record, then. The last I heard, it was 1,075.”

Elain watched them, a grin on her face before she cut in, “Will you excuse me? I have to use the restroom.”

“I’ll come with you,” Nesta said immediately, and Elain gave her a hard look. 

“Don’t need any help, thanks.” She brushed a friendly hand down Cash’s arm. “Nice to meet you again.”

With that she slipped away, leaving them alone. 

“She’s cute,” Cash said when she’d gone. 

Nesta smiled, eyes softening in a way they only ever did for her sisters. 

“Isn’t she?” 

They watched in silence as Elain sauntered off before Nesta turned to give him a thorough once-over.

“You look—nice.”

Cash laughed, basking under her careful attention as her eyes swept from his blazer to his caramel dress shoes.

“Do I not usually?”

She flushed before pursing her lips.

“The joggers certainly gave me pause.”

He grinned, wanting to see if he could make her blush again. 

“I try to avoid them in mixed company. It’s unfair to the women present. Too distracting.”

She rolled her eyes. 

“I managed them just fine.”

“Or so you claim. But you easily could have been checking me out when my back was turned.”

She rolled her eyes. 

“Get over yourself. Your ass is not as cute as you clearly think it is.”

He flashed her a smirk, seeing the opportunity her comment presented and finding himself unable to resist. 

“And how would you know?”

She flushed, and he felt his belly tighten, even as he grinned.

“Gotcha.”

She rolled her eyes again but didn’t offer a retort, and the realization she had been checking him left him feeling giddy. That was, until he remembered who’d she was supposed to have with her that evening. 

“So,” he said. “No Tomás?”

He tried to keep the hopefulness from his tone, unsure if he’d succeeded as Nesta straightened.

“He’s running late. But he’ll be here, don’t worry.”

Cash felt his heart sink.

“I can’t say that I was,” he admitted quietly. 

“Was what?” She said, tone flatter than before.  

“Worried he’d be here.”

He hated the way her face pinched at that, the light in hey eyes dimming. 

“Don’t start, Cash.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Her expression darkened. 

“You didn’t have to. Please, promise me you’ll play nice. I think you two might really hit it off.”

Cash knew he would never like this prick and that the feeling was certain to be mutual, but afraid of pushing her away, he only smiled. 

“I’m sure we will. You look lovely, by the way.”

Nesta looked down under the guise of smoothing her skirt, but he suspected it was really to hide another blush. God, she was killing him tonight. He wanted to kiss her so bad it hurt. 

“Thank you,” she said finally. “It’s new. I don’t usually like this color, but—“

“It suits you,” he said, and though he wanted to push the issue, he knew he’d gone as far as he’d dared.

Reaching behind her, he grabbed a forgotten tray of champagne, passing her a flute and taking one for himself.

They were silent a moment as they both took a sip, and Nesta nodded in approval.

“Bollinger,” she said. “Should I be flattered?”

He shrugged, sure she was seeing through him.

“I’d forgotten just how good it was until you reminded me. I figured I’d help remind everyone else, too.”

“Good,” she said with a small smile. “I would hate to think you were just trying to impress me again; you know I’m immune to your charm.”

“But you do admit I’m charming,” he said with a grin. “I’ll take it.”

She considered this, eyes sparkling.

“I admit nothing,” she sniffed, taking another sip.

He laughed.

“Of course you don’t. It’s fine, my ego can take it.”

She snorted.

“That I don’t doubt.”

They lapsed into comfortable silence as Nesta turned to survey the room. Cash watched her in profile, admiring the narrow bridge of her nose and the dusting of freckles she’d clearly tried to conceal under her makeup. She was so lovely it made his chest ache.

Knowing he had to stop staring before she caught him, Cash turned to watch the crowd milling around instead.

“So no Graysen either, huh? I’m oddly disappointed.”

Nesta huffed. 

“Elain was going to bring him, but they got in a tiff earlier and now they aren’t speaking.”

“Why don’t you seem happier about that?”

“Because this happens all the time. I can’t emotionally invest in the hope they’re actually break up; the disappointment is too bitter. Please just tell me there’s someone here to distract her. What about your friend Azriel? Vanity Fair seems to think he’s single.”

Cash laughed.

“Az is still in LA; he generally avoids mingling with strangers, even for my sake. And my friend Leo was practically foaming at the mouth when she walked in, but I don’t think he’s the kind of guy you want dating your baby sister. He’s something of a...philanderer.”

“I’m not concerned,” Nesta said. “One thing I will say for Elain: she’s not easily wooed. I think she honestly gets hit on so much it doesn’t phase her anymore. Besides, she’s annoyingly loyal to Graysen. Tell your friend to do his worst; he’s not going to win her over.”

“Why do I get the sense that pleases you?”

She flashed him her Disney Villainess smirk again, and he felt his skin prickle in arousal.

“Because it makes me feel like I raised her right; weird blind spot for Graysen aside, Elain knows who she is, and doesn’t let others try and tell her different—especially men.”

“What about Feyre?”

Nesta expression grew more devilish. 

“Fey’s more like me. She didn’t need to be taught how to shred men to ribbons. It’s instinct for her, and she’s damn good at it.” Nesta pursed her lips. “I just wish she’d use it a bit more often.”

“She’ll get tired of kissing frogs eventually,” Cash offered. “You remember what it was like at 19.”

“I didn’t date until I was 19.”

Cash smiled.

“What was your first boyfriend like? I’m imagining either a geeky engineering major or an uptight Shakespeare nerd.”

“Neither,” she said, taking another sip of champagne. “He was a gorgeous Portuguese exchange student.” 

He chuckled, even if some of his amusement had soured.

“You really have a type, don’t you?”

When she gave him a pointed look, he felt his heart sink. 

“Tomás was your first boyfriend?”

It explained a lot. The blind loyalty, the way she seemed to capitulate to him when she didn’t for others. 

“Some people are just lucky, I guess.”

“In what way?”

She shrugged.

“To get it right on the first try.”

It hurt—physically hurt—to hear her say it, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from blurting something petulant.  Instead he forced himself to shrug.

“I guess I wouldn’t know. My first girlfriend’s name was Becky, and she was the actual worst.”

“The fact she chose to go by Becky didn’t tip you off?”

“Looking back, it was the first of many warning signs.”

Nesta laughed, and Cash felt some of his bitterness fading. They were friends, he reminded himself. She’d claimed him as her friend, and as far as he was concerned, that made him the luckiest guy in the world. Her relationship with Tomás wasn’t any of his business. If she was happy, he’d be happy for her. 

Over Nesta’s shoulder, Cash spotted Hélion trying to get his attention by tapping his watch.

“I should probably start getting people settled,” he said. “Do you want us to wait for Tomás?”

Nesta bit her lip. He knew she hated when people did her favors, and he suspected she was embarrassed that it was her boyfriend holding things up. 

“It’s fine,” she said quickly. “I’m sure he’ll be here soo—“

The doorbell chimed, and Cash didn’t need to look up to know who it was. He fought down a searing stab of annoyance as Nesta raised her hand in greeting, choosing to glance at his own watch instead. 

“Querida,” a smooth voice called. “There you are.”

Cash thought about trying to use the opportunity to make his escape, but he knew Nesta would see that for the cowardice it was and be annoyed he wasn’t playing nice like he’d promised. 

Instead he turned, watching the well-dressed man making his way towards them. He was of rather average height and build, Cash noticed with satisfaction, though his face was classically handsome. Between the way his dark hair was pomaded away from his face and the fact he wore no socks in his Armani loafers—despite being dressed in slacks and a blazer—Cash thought he probably worked at a hedge fund. 

Of course he did, the little prick. 

The minute he was close enough, Tomás caught Nesta by the elbow and hugged her into him for a wanton kiss. 

Cash bristled at seeing Nesta stiffen, clearly embarrassed. She should be, he thought sourly. It was like the beginning of a bad porno. 

After a second Nesta pulled away, flushing a little as she dabbed at her lips. Tomás kept a proprietary hand on her low back. 

“Where’s your phone?” Tomás said in Portuguese, ignoring Cash entirely. “I called you twice.”

“It’s on silent,” Nesta said. “I’m sorry.”

Tomás pursed his lips in unveiled irritation before finally seeming to take note they weren’t alone. Cash felt a grim satisfaction when Tomás had to tilt his chin up to meet Cash’s eye. 

“Tomás, this is Cassian. He owns the shop.”

Not friends anymore, Cash noted with disappointment. Acquaintances, if best. The fact she wasn’t willing to admit to any degree of familiarity in front of Tomás was monstrously telling, and it made him hate the asshole even more.

Tomás tossed a casual glance in Cash’s direction, and though his smile was placid, his gaze was cold. 

“Nice to meet you,” he said, shifting Nesta in his arms so he could extend a hand. 

Cash could tell she was uncomfortable that he hadn’t released her, and he fought the urge to break Tomás’s fingers as they shook hands.

“I suppose I have you to thank for all the exquisite wine I’ve been drinking lately,” Tomás  said, smiling down at Nesta before letting his eyes drift back to Cash. 

Cash shrugged. If Nesta wanted or needed to downplay their interaction for the sake of her relationship then he’d oblige her. 

“I guess. Though Nesta’s got great taste on her own. She doesn’t need my help.”

“She doesn’t need anyone’s help. Right, querida?”

Nesta’s laugh was tinny and hollow as she finally extricated herself from Tomas’s grip until the pretense of looking around. 

“I’m going to go find Elain,” she said, leaning over to peck Tomás again. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Tomás said, and Cash wanted to punch him for the tone he used, as if he were granting her permission. “Come right back.”

Nesta nodded her agreement and headed off, and though Cash expected Tomás to follow, he stayed, flashing a much cooler look as he took Nesta’s abandoned glass from the bar. 

He raised it, and when Cash raised his, Tomás said in Portuguese, his tone light as if he were making an actual toast, “I don’t like you.”

Fucking coward. 

Cash only flashed a grim smile, clinking his glass to Tomás’s and replying in English, “I don’t really give a shit.”

Tomás’s oily, self-satisfied smirk curled into a sneer, and Cash found himself bracing his feet a little farther apart on the floor. He guessed they were really doing this, then.

“Stay away from Nesta,” Tomás spit out. “She’s none of your concern.”

“And she’s not your property,” Cash shot back. “So why don’t you try treating her with a little respect?”

“Fuck you.”

Cash let out a bitter laugh. 

“Did I strike a nerve?”

“Stay out of our business, bugre.”

Cash took a step in Tomás’s direction, teeth bared. 

“What did you just call me?”

It was a slur Cash hadn’t heard since he’d left Brazil, but it wasn’t one he could ever forget. It had gotten him into more than one fight growing up, and even now, it still made some part of him burn.  

Tomás had the good sense to take a step back, even as he bared his own teeth. 

“Stay away from Nesta,” he said again. “Or I will make you very sorry.”

Cash snarled.

“First you insult me, and now you’re threatening me? Tread lightly, caralho. You don’t want to fuck with me.”

“What’s going on?”

Both men looked up to see Nesta approaching, brows drawn. 

“We’re leaving,” Tomás said, reaching for her hand. “Let’s go.”

“Leave? You just got here.” 

Nesta spared Cash the briefest glance as Tomás tried to pull her along behind him.

“I have a headache,” Tomás said curtly. “Get your things.” 

“I have Elain with me—“

“Give her your keys; she can bring your car home.”

People had begun looking now, and Nesta tugged her hand from Tomás’s, flushing.

“You’re embarrassing me,” she said quietly.

“I have a headache,” he said more forcefully. “Are you expecting me sit here and suffer?”

“No, but—“

“Good, then let’s go.”

Unable to stand by any longer, Cash intervened. 

“Nesta—“

“Stay out of this,” Tomás snarled. He turned to Nesta. “Let’s go. Now, please.”

Nesta looked rather helplessly towards Elain, who was trying to make her way over to them. 

“I need to—“ she gestured to her sister, and Tomás mouth tightened. 

“Do what you need to and let’s go. I’ll be waiting in the car. Two minutes, querida.”

With a final sour look he stormed off, slamming the door as he left. 

“Prick,” Cash muttered, and Nesta whirled on him. 

He expected her to snap at him, but instead she pursed her lips, looking down at her feet for a moment before glancing back up at him. 

“I’m sorry,” she said tightly, and he realized what he’d been interpreting as annoyance was  actually her attempting not to cry. “I have to go.”

“No,” Cash said, touching her chin gently to win her gaze back from the floor. “You don’t.”

She brushed him off immediately. 

“Yes, I do. Have a nice evening, and please make sure my sister gets home safe.”

“Nesta—“

By now Elain has arrived beside them, and Nesta pulled out her keys and stuffed them into her sister’s hand. 

“Don’t drive if you feel like you’ve had to much to drink. I can come get the car tomorrow if need be.”

“I’ll come with you,” Elain offered, but Nesta was already shaking her head. 

“No, you stay. Tomás just isn’t feeling well, so I’m going to take him home.”

“For fuck’s said, Nes. You don’t have to do this!”

Nesta flashed Cash a searing look. 

“Please don’t make this worse. Ellie, I’ll see you back at the house. Have a good time.”

She brushed a hurried kiss to Elain’s cheek, and before Cash could protest again, she was striding for the door. 

“I’m sorry,” he called, and she only raised a hand in salutation before disappearing. 

“It’s not your fault,” Elain said from his side. Her voice was quiet but bitter. “It’s always like this. I’m going to try and smooth things over. He’s—less harsh when I’m there.”

Cash could hear his heart beating in his ears, every instinct roaring at him to go to the parking lot and beat Tomás bloody. Nesta might hate him for it, but at least then he’d know she’d be safe.

“Is she going to be alright with him?” He asked Elain, and she pursed her lips. 

She knew what he was asking, and she nodded. 

“I’ll make sure she is.”

“Will you call me?” He asked, knowing he sounded desperate and not caring. “And let me know everything’s—okay?”

She nodded, handing her his phone so he could enter his number. When he handed it back, she gave her another soft smile, this one edged in a sadness and regret and broke his heart. 

“It really was nice meeting you, Cassian. I hope I—see you again sometime. ” 

She patted his arm before she too was leaving. 

He swore until his breath when they’d both gone, furious and terrified in equal measure. Furious at Tomás for the slur, and for dragging Nesta out like a rag doll, and terrified that despite Elain’s reassurance, something bad might happen to her because of him.  

More selfishly than that, he was terrified that he’d never see her again. She’d been lying to Tomás about coming to the Merchant before he even knew Cash existed. Now he’d be watching her even more closely. The thought made him sick, as did his powerlessness to help her. 

“What the hell was that?”

Cash turned to find Mor behind him, brows drawn. Hélion, he noted gratefully, had corralled the other attendees and was beginning a speech about the history of the Bollinger and it’s flavor profile. 

“Her boyfriend is an abusive prick,” Cash grit out. “And I just lost my cool.”

“Why didn’t you go after her?”

“And make things worse? I’m sure sure she hates me enough already.”

“Are you worried about her? Maybe you should call Ro, have him send over some unis for a wellness check?”

“I thought about it, but her sister said she’d call me. If I don’t hear from her in the next fifteen minutes, I will.”

His and Nesta’s friendship, he feared, was already destroyed. The least he could do now was make sure she’s alright.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Mor breathed, lacing her fingers through his and resting her head on his shoulder. “I can tell you really like her. If it helps, she likes you, too. That’s why her boyfriend hated you so much.”

“It doesn’t. And I don’t think it matters, anyway. I doubt she’ll be back after that.”

His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out. 

Hi, it’s Elain Archeron. I just got to Nesta’s, and Tomás is gone already. Guess his “headache” worse than we thought. 

Cash let out a breath. 

I’m glad. Please tell her—

He paused. Tell her what? That despite the fact he hardly knew her, he couldn’t stop thinking about her? That hearing her laugh was like hearing the voice of God, and seeing her with Tomás had been like a knife to the gut?

He backspaced before trying again.

Thanks for letting me know. xx

Elain’s response came at once.

Thank you for caring about her. She deserves that. ❤️ 

Cash blew out a breath as he read it, something tightening in his chest.

“How can I help?” Mor asked.

Cash straightened his blazer, forcing a broad smile as Hélion introduced him and he waved.

“Scout the talent,” he said, scanning the bevy of beautiful, eligible women who were now smiling in his direction. “I need someone to make me forget, at least for tonight.”

“Forget what? Her, or the fight?”

Cash sighed.

“All of it.”

PREVIOUS CHAPTER              NEXT CHAPTER 

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[beatricebidelaire]

Last conversation ask meme but with Beatrice and Bertrand

@kitsnicketts becca also asked b/b …. same minds …. 

here we go!

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

The poison darts hit them, too accurate, too on-spot, too unavoidable.

Too ironic also, all things considering.

The dart shooters left with final vindictive glances, leaving behind the victims of the darts in their own mansion, also leaving behind a neatly typed up report of another poison dart murder event, one that had occurred many years ago at an opera.

The report had contained many details of that night, apparently intended for the police to find after their death, intending not only to take their lives but also uncover their dark secret from long ago, ruining the careful reputation they had built over the years. The report also stated there was a “third unknown person” involved in the poison dart murder many years ago, and it seemed that the person who wrote it up did not manage to find out who the third unknown person was, and was hoping the police could open an investigation into this and take that third unknown person down, also.

“How ironic,” Beatrice lamented. “If this had been a play instead of real life, that would’ve been fascinating to watch. How much time do you think we have left?”

“Three and half minutes, four minutes tops,” Bertrand replied automatically, like the answer was right on his lips, like it’d been etched into his mind long time ago. He looked pained, “I did the research on it years ago.”

“How very thorough and prepared we had been,” Beatrice sighed.

They looked at each other, and he put his hand on hers, squeezing it tight, and she pulled him into a tight hug for a few seconds, before lightly pushing him away, “If they truly don’t know about the details of that night yet, then we better make use of the four minutes.”

He nodded, took a quick moment to compose himself, and schooled his expression into a determined one as he picked up the phone and dialed Kit’s number. It rang, and his frown deepened each second Kit didn’t pick up.

“She’s probably driving and not paying attention to phone calls, we don’t have enough time to wait for her,” Beatrice said quietly. “We need to call someone who will be by the phone at this moment.”

Bertrand grimaced, but nodded and agreed, “Yeah.” He dialed the number front desk number of his favorite hotel. Someone picked up after one ring. “Hotel Denouement,” a professional voice answered. He didn’t know which one of them this was yet, but he knew there was a very quick way to find out.

“This is Bertrand,” he said quickly.

The voice on the other end soured immediately, “Finally remember how to pick up the phone and call first after a decade?”

Bertrand winced, and said, “Hello, Frank.” Beatrice quickly press the speaker button, “Hi Frank,” she chimed in.

“I’d let you lecture me but we kind of have about only four minutes left, so there’s no time,” Bertrand said, after a brief moment of hesitation. He really needed to stop hesitating at times like this, he thought. “We need a favor.”

“Four minutes left of what?” Frank demanded.

“Four minutes before the poison from the dart kicks in,” Beatrice said. “So listen up.”

“The dart - what the - ”

“Yes, yes,” Beatrice interrupted. “Shocking. I know. They left a report of opera night but apparently they don’t know Kit’s involved, but it’s still quite a detailed one. I need you to get take this away from our house before the police could get their hands on it, and have D analyze the report to determine how much they know.”

She paused briefly, and Bertrand added, “And warn Kit about this.”

“Yes,” Beatrice agreed. “Actually, burn the house down while you’re at it, after taking books D might want away. A death by poison darts is too suspicious and would raise questions about our past and open unnecessary wounds, unlike arson that just seems to happen all the time these days. If you don’t know how to burn a mansion ask your brother. We’re running out of time, can we trust you with this?”

Even if he couldn’t actually see Frank’s face right now, Bertrand could feel the shock and frustration and overwhelmed feelings from Frank over the phone. He probably wanted to say “that’s a lot to process”, but Frank never admitted that he thought things were too much to process.

“Yes,” he finally answered tersely, before he said, suddenly more panicky, “Are you sure there’s nothing to do about your current situa -”

“We’re sure,” Bertrand said, feeling the weight of the words as he said it. He’d been focusing on utilizing the final minutes that he’d let himself avoid thinking about how this would inevitably end. “We’re -” he choked a bit, “familiar with this kind of poison.”

“Okay,” Frank said, his voice suddenly professional and cool again like he was trying to push down whatever emotions he had right now. “Quick recap - bring the report back for Dewey, warn Kit, burn down the house and make sure there’s no trace of poison dart crime.”

He’d always had a quick and efficient mind.

“Exactly,” Beatrice said. She paused, then glanced at Bertrand, reached her hand out, and intertwined her fingers with his. 

“Thank you,” Bertrand said quietly. “For - everything.”

A moment of silence fell, as if Frank wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so Beatrice added with forced cheeriness, “And don’t forget me. Us.”

“You’re both very hard to forget,” Frank assured her immediately.

“That’s true,” Beatrice agreed, she softened slightly, and added. “We love you. And your brothers. And Kit. Tell them for us.”

“Yeah,” Bertrand agreed. He thought he should say more, but he’s finding it hard to, his mind felt like it was going blank.

“Will do,” they heard a sigh from over the phone. “I’d go find my brothers but they’re occupied at the moment and if three minutes is accurate - then - well, it’s not enough. I’ll, uh, leave you two to some privacy for the remaining minutes?”

“Okay,” Beatrice agreed. “Thank you.”

“Thanks.” Bertrand said.

“Well - I guess this is it,” Beatrice sighed, with some sort of finality in her tone.

“Yeah - bye,” Frank’s reply sounded strained and almost strangled, and then a very, very quick “love you two also” followed, the words rushed yet clear, like something he’d always known but maybe never thought of saying but decided that he should, with such little time left.  And then he added again, “And I’ll take care of those things, don’t worry.”

“You’re the best,” Bertrand found himself saying before he could stop himself, and he heard Frank gave a short laugh, a final attempt to lighten the mood with an inside joke before the inevitable strike, “I will tell my brothers you said that.” He answered, and then they heard the line disconnect.

They looked at each other.

“How much time -”

“- not enough,” came the quick answer and a tight hug and a brief kiss on the lips. “Well, a little over a minute, I think.”

There was a moment of silence, before Beatrice said, “remember that time we had our very first dance together? At R’s ball?”

“Vividly,” Bertrand smiled faintly. “You tried to teach me a very difficult dance move.”

“Well, you mastered it eventually, somewhat,” she smiled back also, but it was a very sad smile.

“You’re a very good dance teacher,” he said softly.

“I’m good at a lot of things,” Beatrice said. She sighed. “I wish we have more time, with the children. I haven’t even taught Violet how to dance at social functions, or Klaus how to hold a martini glass properly, or Sunny how to cook.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she pressed a finger on his lips quickly, stopping him. “Dance with me? One last time?”

Bertrand hesitated for a moment, and nodded.

They got up to their feet, a bit uncomfortably, already feeling the poison spreading through more and more parts of the body.

“One last dance,” he said quietly.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Pluralistic: 04 Mar 2020 (Brokered conventions, the Siege of Gondor, ICE risk-assessment whitebox, Chinese covid censorship, America's national immunocompromise)

Today's links

A brokered convention will produce a powerless presidency: Transformative change requires a movement, not a plan.

What the Siege of Gondor teaches us about medieval warfare: 40,000 riveting words from Roman military historian Bret Deveraux.

ICE's risk assessment algorithm only ever recommends detention: NYCLU suing to force them to admit what we've all figured out.

Probing China's Covid-19 censorship: Outstanding work from Citizen Lab.

America is uniquely at risk from coronavirus: 77 million un- and underinsured people.

This day in history:

Colophon: Recent publications, current writing projects, upcoming appearances, current reading

I'm coming to Kelowna, BC tomorrow! I'll be at the library from 6-8PM with my book Radicalized for the CBC's Canada Reads. It's free, but you need to RSVP (and most of the seats are gone, so act quick).

https://www.eventbrite.ca/e/cbc-radio-presents-in-conversation-with-cory-doctorow-tickets-96154415445

A brokered convention will produce a powerless presidency (permalink)

Hoping for a brokered convention is basically saying, "Hey, go fuck yourself" to every doorknocker and phone canvasser in your base. It says, "Let's not use votes to choose the candidate. You little people were for show. We choose our leaders by gathering the people who matter in smoke-filled rooms."

Any candidate hoping to enact a transformative program from the presidency is going to need a powerful, motivated base to whip establishment Dems into order: "I want to do it, now make me do it." Jettisoning the idea that your supporters get you nominated is the most demoralizing thing I can imagine, short of shutting off the server your organizers used to get you elected as soon as they succeed (looking at you, Barack Obama).

It's pure technocratic hubris, the kind of thing that turns promising wonks into figureheads who accomplish nothing. Saving America from plutocracy and white nationalism requires a movement, not a savior with a plan.

What the Siege of Gondor teaches us about medieval warfare (permalink)

Last spring, Roman military historian Bret Devereaux published over 40,000 words of analysis of the Siege of Gondor as depicted in Peter Jackson's Return of the King. It is by far the best use of fiction as a tool for teaching history that I've ever read.

It's in 6 parts, broken down by themes. By far my favorite section was the opener, on the logistics of sieges. I am a quartermaster by temperament, and the logistic of moving 200,000 orcs (plus trolls, elephants, siege engines, etc) is FASCINATING.

https://acoup.blog/2019/05/10/collections-the-siege-of-gondor/

"The road the orcs are on allows them to march five abreast, meaning there are 40,000 such rows. Giving each orc four feet of space on the march, that would mean the army alone stretches 30 miles down a single road. At that length, the tail end of the army would not even be able to leave camp before the front of the army had finished marching for the day." (!!)

The section on the siege's opener, part II, is likewise fascinating and contains some great craft notes.

https://acoup.blog/2019/05/17/collections-the-siege-of-gondor-part-ii-these-beacons-are-liiiiiiit/

"LOTR doesn't rely – as so much fiction does – on the 'good guys' making stupid mistake after stupid mistake in order to create tension. Instead, Gondor executes its plans admirably, and yet it is so outmatched in military might that it remains in peril."

Part III is more in the weeds on weapons and tactics. It gets into some really gnarly deep nerd stuff about the immediate preamble to a siege that I loved.

https://acoup.blog/2019/05/24/collections-the-siege-of-gondor-part-iii-having-fun-storming-the-city/

"The paths the siege towers will take must be cleared and leveled (even a slight grade will tip them over). Earthwork cover for the approach on the gate should be set up, along with obstructions to prevent the army within the city from advancing at an inopportune moment. In assaulting a fortified city with a large army, the spade is often the most important weapon. Even building a ramp right up the enemy walls to enter the city was a common and successful tactic, if the assaulting army had enough labor to do it quickly enough."

My favorite part of the section on calvary charge was the notable absence of NCOs in the orc ranks, maintaining discipline.

https://acoup.blog/2019/05/31/collections-the-siege-of-gondor-part-iv-the-cavalry-arrives/

"The orc general, Gothmog has to push through the ranks and reorder his infantry, while the orcs stare dumbfounded at the new threat. This is a task that should have been taken up by a hundred-hundred NCOs up and down the line, which speaks to problems of command structure."

By far the most intensely geeky section is in Part V, which deals with the math for calculating whether the trolls could possibly heft the hammers that deal the damage that we see.

https://acoup.blog/2019/06/07/collections-the-siege-of-gondor-part-v-just-flailing-about-flails/

"If a troll really is around 9 times as strong as a strong man, we might figure that a troll sledgehammer might be something like 81kg, and a troll warhammer only 5.76 – 13.59kg. Wildly short of the massive clubs and hammers the trolls wield in these scenes."

ICE's risk assessment algorithm only ever recommends detention (permalink)

The New York Civil Liberties Union and Bronx Defenders have filed suit against ICE, trying to force it to respond to a FOIA request about risk assessment algorithm that has put people in detention 97% of the time.

https://theintercept.com/2020/03/02/ice-algorithm-bias-detention-aclu-lawsuit/

The algorithm was tweaked after the 2016 election (prior to then, it only recommended detention for 53% of cases), and by classifying virtually everyone it evaluates as a public safety risk, it violates the law's requirement of "individualized determinations" for detentions.

People in immigration detention have yet to see a judge or be found guilty. They can be locked up for weeks or months, and detention can cost them their jobs — or even their children. The Trump administration has exponentially increased the number of immigration arrests; coupled with automatic detention-by-algorithm, this has put thousands of New Yorkers in harm's way.

Investigative journalists and activists have previously shown that the algorithm was changed to eliminate all possible outcomes (bond, release, etc), so that it could only recommend detention. So the problem here isn't the usual one of not knowing how the black-box works. We know exactly how it works. You ask it, "Should this person be detained?" and it says "Yes."

"The no-release policy is particularly tough on people with disabilities or health problems. 'This practice of widespread detention is both cruel and needless.'"

Probing China's Covid-19 censorship (permalink)

Citizen Lab's new report on Chinese coronavirus censorship is outstanding. By decompiling the YY client (which stores blacklist words on the client-side) and probing Wechat (which uses server-side blacklisting), they build up a detailed picture of Chinese epidemiological censorship.

https://citizenlab.ca/2020/03/censored-contagion-how-information-on-the-coronavirus-is-managed-on-chinese-social-media/

Most importantly, they demonstrate how the Cyberspace Administration of China's threat of "thematic inspections" of platforms to ensure coronavirus censorship led to indiscriminate blocking of vital public health information.

It's "authoritarian blindness" in the making, "where people too scared to tell the autocrat the hard truths makes it impossible for the autocrat to set policy that reflects reality"

https://pluralistic.net/2020/02/24/pluralist-your-daily-link-dose-24-feb-2020/#thatswhatxisaid

"Censorship of COVID-19 content started at early stages of the outbreak and continued to expand blocking a wide range of speech, from criticism of the government to officially sanctioned facts and information."

By contrast, the sheer volume of "sarcastic homonyms or word play related to COVID-19" that appear on the blacklist are really a testament to the ingenuity and spirit of Chinese netizens.

"A number of these keyword combinations are critical (e.g., "亲自 [+] 皇上," by someone + emperor), criticizing the central leadership's inability or inaction in dealing with COVID-19 ("习近平 [+] 形式主义 [+] 防疫," Xi Jinping + formalism + epidemic prevention). Many of them refer to leadership in a neutral way (e.g., "肺炎 [+] 李克强 [+] 武汉 [+] 总理 [+] 北京," Pneumonia + Li Keqiang + Wuhan + Premier + Beijing)."

America is uniquely at risk from coronavirus (permalink)

Among rich countries, the USA is uniquely vulnerable to coronavirus. Thanks to its title to "by far the worst system among rich countries, it is much worse than that of many poorer countries when it comes to confronting a fast-moving epidemic."

https://theweek.com/articles-amp/899359/why-america-vulnerable-coronavirus

The US has 77m un/underinsured people. "and the vicious, right-wing ideology of the Republican Party has wrecked the government's ability to manage crises of any kind, " with "unqualified cronies" running important agencies.

"Now they are resorting to the only thing they know how to do really well — lying, concocting conspiracy theories and blaming Democrats and the media for any bad news. It does not bode well."

This day in history (permalink)

#15yrsago EFF is hiring a new IP lawyer https://web.archive.org/web/20050307005314/http://www.corante.com/copyfight/archives/2005/03/04/ip_attorneys_eff_wants_you.php (the ad that led to the hiring of Corynne McSherry!)

#10yrsago Guardian column on LibDem proposal to block web-lockers https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2010/mar/04/web-lockers-digital-economy-liberal-democrats-wrong

#1yrago Fox News was always partisan, but now it is rudderless and "anti-democratic" https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2019/03/11/the-making-of-the-fox-news-white-house

#1yrago Leaked memo suggests that Google has not really canceled its censored, spying Chinese search tool https://theintercept.com/2019/03/04/google-ongoing-project-dragonfly/

#1yrago Terra Nullius: Grifters, settler colonialism and "intellectual property" https://locusmag.com/2019/03/cory-doctorow-terra-nullius/

#1yrago Tim Maughan's Infinite Detail: a debut sf novel about counterculture, resistance, and the post-internet apocalypse https://boingboing.net/2019/03/04/gnu-slash-apocalypse.html

#1yrago Financialization is wearing out its welcome https://www.ft.com/content/a9f13afc-3c3d-11e9-b856-5404d3811663

#1yrago How the patent office's lax standards gave Elizabeth Holmes the BS patents she needed to defraud investors and patients https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2019/03/theranos-how-a-broken-patent-system-sustained-its-decade-long-deception/

Colophon (permalink)

Today's top sources: Naked Capitalism (https://nakedcapitalism.com/), Slashdot (https://slashdot.org/) and Kottke (Kottke).

Hugo nominators! My story "Unauthorized Bread" is eligible in the Novella category and you can read it free on Ars Technica: https://arstechnica.com/gaming/2020/01/unauthorized-bread-a-near-future-tale-of-refugees-and-sinister-iot-appliances/

Upcoming appearances:

Canada Reads Kelowna: March 5, 6PM, Kelowna Library, 1380 Ellis Street, with CBC's Sarah Penton https://www.eventbrite.ca/e/cbc-radio-presents-in-conversation-with-cory-doctorow-tickets-96154415445

Currently writing: I just finished a short story, "The Canadian Miracle," for MIT Tech Review. It's a story set in the world of my next novel, "The Lost Cause," a post-GND novel about truth and reconciliation. I'm getting geared up to start work on the novel now, though the timing is going to depend on another pending commission (I've been solicited by an NGO) to write a short story set in the world's prehistory.

Currently reading: Just started Lauren Beukes's forthcoming Afterland: it's Y the Last Man plus plus, and two chapters in, it's amazeballs. Last month, I finished Andrea Bernstein's "American Oligarchs"; it's a magnificent history of the Kushner and Trump families, showing how they cheated, stole and lied their way into power. I'm getting really into Anna Weiner's memoir about tech, "Uncanny Valley." I just loaded Matt Stoller's "Goliath" onto my underwater MP3 player and I'm listening to it as I swim laps.

Latest podcast: Disasters Don't Have to End in Dystopias: https://craphound.com/podcast/2020/03/01/disasters-dont-have-to-end-in-dystopias/

Upcoming books: "Poesy the Monster Slayer" (Jul 2020), a picture book about monsters, bedtime, gender, and kicking ass. Pre-order here: https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781626723627?utm_source=socialmedia&utm_medium=socialpost&utm_term=na-poesycorypreorder&utm_content=na-preorder-buynow&utm_campaign=9781626723627

(we're having a launch for it in Burbank on July 11 at Dark Delicacies and you can get me AND Poesy to sign it and Dark Del will ship it to the monster kids in your life in time for the release date).

"Attack Surface": The third Little Brother book, Oct 20, 2020.

"Little Brother/Homeland": A reissue omnibus edition with a very special, s00per s33kr1t intro.

[go-events]

GO Rom Com Spotlight: @musegnome​

The most excellent @musegnome​ has claimed The Wedding Singer to adapt for Good Omens in the Good Omens Rom Com Event.

For reference, here’s a little background about the source material!

About The Wedding Singer: Set in 1985, Adam Sandler plays a nice guy with a broken heart who's stuck in one of the most romantic jobs in the world, a wedding singer. He loses all hope when he is abandoned at the altar by his fiancé. He meets a young woman named Julia (Drew Barrymore), who enlists his help to plan her wedding. He falls in love with her and must win her over before she gets married.

We spent some time chatting about how the adaptation is coming so far, as well as future plans for it! Now, get to know @musegnome​ a little better!

* * *

goromcom: You know how if you open a Tumblr chat with someone you haven't chatted to before, Tumblr tells you two things they post about? I wanted to tell you that yours reports that you post "about #goromcom and #good omens." Aww! goromcom 4eva!

musegnome: #goromcom 4eva indeed! I actually have a weird online social media anxiety, because I worry that can't read people like I can in person. I've been an accountless Tumblr lurker for years - and finally created Tumblr and Discord accounts when I signed on to the Rom Com event! Everyone has been lovely. Please come say Hi on my new Tumblr!

goromcom: And we’re happy to have you! You chose to adapt The Wedding Singer as your rom com. Has this movie been a favorite of yours, or is there some other reason you chose it?

musegnome: I was a teenager when this movie came out and I've loved it forever (though not of course without an eye toward its more problematic qualities). I also feel like Robbie and Julia map very well to Crowley and Aziraphale respectively, and a lot of the other characters connect wonderfully too (Glenn's attitude toward Julia was reminiscent of Gabriel's attitude toward Aziraphale; Robbie's brother-in-law's nipple-twisting comments were a great way to link to Shadwell, etc.) Because of the aforementioned online social anxiety I was hesitant to jump in to the event, but when I realized I had a list of almost all the GO characters connected to Wedding Singer ones, and a multi-chapter story line outlined, I took the plunge! I'm really excited to mix up a favorite nostalgic movie with my current GO obsession.

goromcom: What's your favorite moment of The Wedding Singer, and are you looking forward to presenting it in your adaptation? Any loose plans for that scene that you can share?

musegnome: Less a favorite moment and more some favorite scenes/lines. The scene where Robbie is talking to the woman who jilted him at the altar, Linda, and as she's telling him about all the reasons she doesn't want to marry him, he says "You know, that information might have been a little more useful to me yesterday." I quote this line all the time, and that scene is definitely making it into this fic! Along with the whole wedding cake/dress shopping montage, capped by the bit where Robbie and Julia listen to the rival wedding singer John Lovitz (to be replaced by Hastur and Ligur ...with Ligur singing "I Will Survive"). That's actually the next scene up for me to write, and just writing this description has me antsy to get started!

goromcom: Oh, some Ligur irony there! It sounds like you may plan to stick closer to the story beats of the original movie rather than making bigger changes?

musegnome: Pretty closely. The major events and scenes will be the same as the Wedding Singer (but stuffed with GO tropes like a turducken), and there's a few original scenes I'm adding to firm up the Wedding Singer/GO bridges. I'm still working on the ending - in the movie, Glenn and Julia get on a plane to go get married in Las Vegas, and Robbie gets on the same plane and stops them. But I have Gabriel as Glenn, and since the angel/demon characters are still angels and demons in this fic, I can NOT imagine Gabriel tolerating plane travel at all, or viewing Las Vegas with anything other than horrified fascination. I have a tentative plan that will be a major change from the Wedding Singer ending, but would tie into the Nazi church scene in GO. We'll see how it plays out though; characters can veer off in unexpected directions!

goromcom: What's an interesting decision you've made in your planning so far--a notable casting decision, a changing of venue, or some other plan you have to paint Good Omens all over your rom com?

musegnome: I thought about doing the fic as a full human AU, but I had a lot of touches I wanted to include that involved angelic/demonic abilities. So I have the Wedding Singer town of Richfield (which is of course Tadfield in the fic) as a kind of neutral space where the angels/demons come to tinker and thwart each other in the happy parts/miserable parts of weddings and wedding planning. Also, The Wedding Singer was almost as much a tribute to the 1980s as it was a romcom; I'm not doing a specific 80s focus, although I've tried to keep music and technology mentions such that the fic could vaguely be set in the 80s. Like I mentioned earlier, a lot of the characters have similar roles and personalities, and map really well - Robbie and Julia as Crowley and Aziraphale, their respective BFFs Holly and Sammy as Anathema and Newt, Glenn as Gabriel, Rosie (the lady Robbie is teaching to sing) as Madam Tracy... so it's been fun to draw those lines.

goromcom: I am blatantly stealing this last question from The Good Place: The Podcast, but here goes: Tell me something "good". It can be something big or small. It can be a charity you think is doing good work, or you can talk about how great your pet is.

musegnome: Not to belabor a point, or to gush too much, but everyone on the GO RomCom server has been a delight. I've really loved getting to interact with everyone - couldn't be a nicer group (or a more welcoming fandom) for a socially anxious gnome to dip online toes into! And I haven't written for fun in a very, VERY long time, and it's been a real confidence booster to see how easily the writing has been flowing so far. (Hope I haven't just jinxed myself....) I'm so thrilled about this whole experience. Also, I have a very cute tiny dog who likes to keep me company while writing.

goromcom: Adorable! 

Stay tuned for the GO adaptation of The Wedding Singer, coming soon!