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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

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The Quiet Room

- Chapter 6 - ao3 - (previous tumblr pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5)

The Lan sect’s rules said Learning comes first, and that was because learning was the root of all things.

Humans were changeable and ever-changing, molded by their heritage and their environment; it was through careful education that they learned to comprehend goodness – it was only through constant learning that they could keep themselves walking on the path of righteousness.

Learning from books, learning from others, learning from one’s own mistakes; it didn’t matter.

What was important was that you couldn’t stop learning.

You had to keep moving forward.

Lan Wangji had for some time entertained the thought that his life had stopped when Wei Wuxian’s had. It had felt as though it had: it felt as if his heart had been irrevocably shattered, like a priceless vase that had once contained all his tender feelings – all those feelings that, lacking their container, would now slip through his fingers forever, leaving him as empty as a soulless puppet. He’d thought he was doomed never to love again, never to learn again, all his mind consumed with nothing by memories.

He’d been wrong, of course.

Even with Wei Wuxian gone, he was still learning.

There were his recent meditations on the subject of silence and noise, for one.

There were his wards, for another.

Lan Sizhui was a polite and thoughtful child, inquisitive but a little shy and hesitant, a little fearful to assert himself – a little too quiet, in a way that Lan Wangji was starting to be able to recognize as being not good, a silence and reticence born of concern and anxiety rather than genuine introversion. Luckily, there was also Lan Jingyi, who was and had always been the liveliest and most spirited of children, and yet he, too, was just a little bit too loud in a way that reflected his own method of displaying anxiety, another startling realization that was brand new.

Lan Wangji had always associated quiet with reserve and self-control, noise with carelessness and recklessness, but being in the controlled chaos of Qinghe and really sincerely listening to it, accepting it, came with its own set of revelations. He found that there were people who were naturally loud and those that made themselves be loud, just as there were those who were quiet and those who were forced into quietude. Lan Jingyi worried just as much as the next person, but he displaced those feelings through distraction rather than through the force of his willpower, taking on the role of clown or hero as suited each moment, unafraid to cast himself in the role of aggressor if it would allow Lan Sizhui the chance to play the mediator. The subconscious division of roles allowed Lan Sizhui to feel useful and in control, reducing his anxiety, while Lan Jingyi got to feel taken care of, which reduced his own – it was good, in a way, but after some consideration Lan Wangji carefully took them both in hand and told them that they would need to be more thoughtful about it.

Lan Sizhui could not, should not, always have to be the peacemaker, always yielding and kind and gentle and quiet: he deserved to be loud, too. He deserved to be assertive, to be heard, to feel entitled to take up space regardless of his utility to those around him. He should never feel like he had to pay in service for the right to exist.

And by the same token, Lan Jingyi shouldn’t feel burdened to always have to be the one to take the first step, always acting as the driving force, the loud and opinionated one. He should have the opportunity, and the obligation, to think through what he was doing or saying, to be thoughtful and careful, to sometimes yield if he wished; he should be granted space of his own to make sure that his actions were what he wished them to be rather than some impulse.

Lan Wangji only wished he’d had the wisdom to tell Wei Wuxian the same thing while he’d been alive.

He’d been so short-sighted when he was younger, at first unable to recognize how he felt about the man and then unable to figure out how to speak with him – he’d been unable to break his own habitual silence, and equally unable to see the depths concealed in Wei Wuxian’s brash arrogance, especially towards the end. Like Lan Jingyi, Wei Wuxian’s reckless courage was genuine, especially in the happy days of their youth; like Lan Jingyi, when things got bad, Wei Wuxian had taken refuge in more of the same, building himself walls made of noise that were designed to keep everyone out.

Wei Wuxian might have been noisy and loud, right to the very end, but in his own way he’d been just as alone as Lan Wangji in his excess of quiet.

The next generation, Lan Wangji thought fiercely, would do better.

He felt comforted by that thought.

The children were chewing over Lan Wangji’s words as they walked along the outmost ramparts of the Unclean Realm, already inured to the glittering barrier that hung in their sky, full of arrays and inscriptions – they were accompanying Lan Wangji on his daily walk.

The Nie sect’s doctors had a very different regimen for curing illnesses than the Lan sect’s, he’d found. Thirty-three strikes of the discipline whip: in both places he’d gotten stitched back up, but while the Lan sect doctors had allowed him to retreat into seclusion, prescribing medicine and rest and self-reflection, the Nie sect doctors insisted on coupling medicine and meditation with exercise. Intermittent and gradual exercise, meant to increase flexibility and reduce muscle atrophy – it wasn’t really that different from what Lan Wangji had been left to do on his own back at home, but he found that it was easier to struggle against his stubborn body when he had company to encourage him to take that extra step beyond his limits, their voices pushing him when his own willpower was insufficient. Even the silent presence of the two children, walking beside him, helped him find the reason to keep going.

Truly, there was much to consider on the subject of quiet and noise, of loud and soft, of loneliness and isolation and how no amount of either introversion nor extroversion could alone save you from them.

Lan Wangji was still thinking it over when he heard a new noise.

It was also an old noise, painfully familiar from all those days of war – before he even consciously identified what the sound was, his back had straightened, his legs sinking into a prepared pose, his mind already summoning his spiritual energy to the forefront in case he needed to defend himself.

Cultivators, flying on swords at speed.

Lan Wangji looked up and saw them: men and women both, a small group – a forward scouting troop, small enough to be subtle and sneak ahead to see what was happening but large enough to ensure someone would be able to return to the main force and warn them if they did find something.

They were dressed in the colors of Yunmeng Jiang, and it was Jiang Cheng leading them.

Lan Wangji’s back stiffened.

He had not seen Jiang Cheng since the massacre at the Nightless City, although he’d heard the stories of how he had turned against his own shixiong and led the greatest of the forces that besieged the Burial Mounds. He’d decided then that he’d never wanted to see Jiang Cheng ever again – he hadn’t been able to comprehend how Jiang Cheng could do a thing like that to Wei Wuxian, who he’d loved.

He still didn’t understand, but he thought, perhaps, that he ought to be a little less hasty in judging others by his own standards.

He’d done enough of that.

“Hanguang-jun!” Jiang Cheng called, seeing him, and pulled ahead of all the other Jiang sect cultivators, leaving them hanging back warily. Lan Wangji turned to face him, conscious of the two young children still clinging to his hands and now half-hiding behind his robes – conscious, too, of the shimmering but translucent barrier that divided them from Jiang Cheng, the barrier that had been raised to protect the Unclean Realm from Lan Wangji’s own brother and all the mistakes he had made, well-meaning as they were. “Hanguang-jun, good, you can tell me, what is the meaning of…”

Jiang Cheng trailed off, his eyes suddenly wide and almost bulging from the force of how hard he was staring at Lan Wangji.

“Jiang Wanyin,” Lan Wangji said politely in greeting – or, well, politely enough.

“Lan Wangji,” Jiang Cheng said in return, his voice sounding strangled. “What…happened?”

Far too much to explain, so Lan Wangji didn’t, just waited for Jiang Cheng to continue with a more specific question.

“I mean, uh. The beacon went off,” Jiang Cheng said. He was still gawking, looking as though he were about to fall off his sword any second. “The – you know the one, the one that shows when a sect’s barrier defenses have been activated. I thought...”

He’d assumed there was an invasion, Lan Wangji realized, and had rushed over at once to try to help forestall it. It was a reasonable assumption, and a noble response: having once lost everything without being able to rely on the help of others, Jiang Cheng now sought to be the help that he had not had.

It was the sort of thing a righteous person would do, and in line with what Lan Wangji thought he’d known of Jiang Cheng’s character.

And yet…Jiang Cheng had still turned his back on Wei Wuxian.

Time and time again, he’d turned away fro him.

“I came to find out what happened, why they put up the shield,” Jiang Cheng continued. “I brought people with me to help, though I left them back a ways so it wouldn’t be an insult. And now I’m here and – and you’re here – and you’re…just…it’s…Lan Wangji, what happened to your forehead ribbon?”

Lan Wangji arched his eyebrows. “Is that your primary concern?”

Jiang Cheng waved his hands around, almost flailing, and Lan Wangji couldn’t quite help but feel a sudden stab of amusement – and then of sorrow, because the flailing was almost painfully familiar. He had seen Wei Wuxian do much the same when he encountered something unexpected, whether some threat or some new maneuver by the Wen sect or, in one notable instance, the unanticipated appearance of a fish in a place where one would not normally expect fish to be.

“I have taken a leave of absence from the Lan sect,” Lan Wangji finally explained, deciding to be magnanimous and take pity on his former comrade in arms. “The Nie sect has permitted me to remain with them while I determine my next course of action. As for the shield, there is no imminent invasion. The situation is – complicated.”

Jiang Cheng huffed. “You don’t say!”

Still, the explanation seemed to help steady him, somewhat, and Lan Wangji observed that Jiang Cheng did not look his best: tired, with circles under his eyes and an unhealthy skin tone. Too much work, too little rest, and probably nightmares…because of what had happened to Wei Wuxian, perhaps? But if so, why had he done it in the first place?

“I cannot let you in,” Lan Wangji added, even though technically he had one of the only remaining guest tokens that still functioned. Jiang Cheng nodded, seemingly having expected that. “I can escort you to the sect leader’s quarters to have your request for admission approved.”

That the person approving the request would probably be Nie Huaisang, Lan Wangji did not say – not so much out of caution, which would probably be justified, but rather out of a completely inexplicable urge to see Jiang Cheng start flailing once again upon finding out.

Was this how Wei Wuxian felt all the time?

Interesting.

He began to walk again, the children at his sides slowly coming out, and Jiang Cheng did him the courtesy of not mentioning how slow and stiff he was, although Lan Wangji thought he remembered enough of Jiang Cheng’s mannerisms to interpret the twisted grimace on his face as he glanced over time and time again as a look of concern.

After a little while in which Lan Wangji walked and Jiang Cheng floated alongside him on his sword, the Jiang sect cultivators lagging behind by a respectable distance, the children getting over their fear to start looking around again, Jiang Cheng finally cleared his throat.

“There’s a medicinal blend of herbs that can counteract the anti-clotting effects of the discipline whip,” he said. Lan Wangji glanced at him: Jiang Cheng was staring forward, not looking at him at all any more. “It makes it heal faster. I can pass the prescription along to the Nie sect’s pharmacists, if you like.”

Jiang Cheng had also been struck by the discipline whip, Lan Wangji suddenly remembered. It had been a matter of deep embarrassment for him during the war, making him reluctant to remove clothing even when they were rancid with blood and poisonous fumes.

“Thank you,” he said, and for some reason the children took that as their cue that Jiang Cheng was actually all right and burst out in a flood of questions.

Lan Jingyi wanted to know how Jiang Cheng’s clothing had gotten to be such a vivid shade of purple, while Lan Sizhui was more curious about his sword and how shiny it was – the concerns of children, unburdened by the memories or concerns of adults. Their questions made Jiang Cheng smile, and Lan Wangji thought briefly of the orphaned Jin Ling, who had been temporarily given to Jiang Cheng’s custody to pick up some of the traditions of his maternal sect. A fancy way of saying that the Jin sect wanted him out of the way for a few years until he was worth teaching their own ways to, but Lan Wangji suspected Jiang Cheng would have taken any excuse at all to remain close to his kin.

“What, now children aren’t too noisy for you?” Jiang Cheng asked Lan Wangji, and for the first time it occurred to Lan Wangji that the tossed out words, broken off and abrupt, might be meant as a friendly tease.

“I am reevaluating my relationship with silence,” he said, and Jiang Cheng smirked, amused.

“I bet you are,” he said. “Nie Huaisang alone would drive a man to distraction…”

Lan Jingyi laughed and clapped and that, and, inspired, Lan Sizhui followed suit.

And then, suddenly, Jiang Cheng frowned.

“A-Yuan,” he said, and Lan Wangji was suddenly cold from head to toe, the chattering of the children suddenly too loud in his ears: he had forgotten that Jiang Cheng had also visited the Burial Mounds. “That’s – that’s A-Yuan, isn’t it?”

“Jiang Wanyin…” Lan Wangji started, his voice sticking in his throat, then trailed off. He did not know what he could say that would work to convince Jiang Cheng that he was wrong when he was right, but neither could he admit to the truth. Even if Nie Mingjue had been kind enough to allow Lan Wangji to come to the Nie sect to stay, and to bring the two children with him, that had been under the premise that they were Lan sect children. If he ever found out that Lan Sizhui had been born surnamed Wen…

Nie Mingjue would not hurt a child, he was too righteous for that. But he might not be inclined to let that child grow up in his sect, either.

Jiang Cheng’s face was twisted in a strange sort of way, as if he couldn’t decide to be angry or relieved. “I thought he’d died,” he murmured, more to himself. “I thought…what is that?”

Lan Wangji was momentarily confused by the question, focused as he was by the terrifying implications of Jiang Cheng’s discovery, but then he saw that Jiang Cheng’s gaze went further into the distance.

He turned to look, then felt twist of unpleasantness deep in his belly: there was his brother in the sky, flying to the main gate on Shuoyue, and beside him was Jin Guangyao.

Why did you have to bring him? Lan Wangji thought, unhappy, but he already knew the answer to that. His brother trusted Jin Guangyao. Why wouldn’t he bring him?

If only he would trust the rest of them as much as he trusted that liar.

“We can discuss Lan Sizhui later,” Lan Wangji said, careful to emphasize both the surname and the courtesy name he’d given him – painfully obvious now that he thought about it, though at the time it had seemed only appropriate, the only name he could bestow that fit – and quickened his steps. “Now that my brother has arrived, things will become difficult.”

He wondered, a little bitterly, if his brother had even noticed that he was gone, or if he had been so thoroughly forgotten in his enforced ‘seclusion’ that it hadn’t even been thought of as a possibility.

“Lan Wangji!”

Lan Wangji came to a stop at Jiang Cheng’s shout. Suddenly full of anger, he turned his head back – surely Jiang Cheng didn’t hate Wei Wuxian so much that he wouldn’t let the matter of a small child go, even in the midst of a crisis?

Jiang Cheng was pointing into the distance. Strangely enough, it was not in the direction of the main gate, where Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao were even now landing, but somewhere even further beyond.

“Do you see it?” Jiang Cheng demanded, and his eyes were suddenly wild, his breathing disordered; he seemed far more disturbed than he had when he’d recognized A-Yuan. “Lan Wangji, tell me that you see it!”

Utterly lost, Lan Wangji focused his gaze on the far horizon. It was the same scenery as he’d seen there the past few days, the interspersed richness of the low valleys that quickly arced up into the mountains that surrounded the Unclean Realm. There was nothing there that was unusual…

Lan Wangji spotted a very faint glimmer.

Sun, he thought, the reflection of sun – sun off steel.

All of a sudden, he wasn’t on the ramparts of the Unclean Realm but standing beside Jiang Cheng on a rough-hewn fortress barely worthy of the name, watching the horizon grimly as the damned Wen scout’s flare did its work and the amassed forces of Wen Chao’s troops began to move inexorably in their direction. They would come, he had known, and they would kill them all if they could; it would take everything they had to stop them, and to survive long enough just to retreat once again.

For some of them to survive.

“Invasion,” he heard someone say, their voice hoarse, and only a moment later realized it was himself who had spoken. “Invasion…it’s an army!”

“It’s the Jin sect,” Jiang Cheng said, staring blankly as if he couldn’t believe what his eyes were telling him. For once, Lan Wangji understood him completely; he was similarly shocked. “They’re wearing gold, you can see it from here…the Jin sect has sent their armies here? How could they even think to dare? Chifeng-zun will annihilate them!”

Lan Wangji’s throat worked, and for a moment he felt drowned in the quiet once more, his voice not wanting to cooperate with him, his entire being willing or even wanting to return to the solace of seclusion if it would only mean that he wouldn’t have to hear the horrible din of war once more. But he was not a coward, and would do what he must – even speak of things that felt impossible to be spoken.

“That complicated situation I mentioned,” he said, and Jiang Cheng turned to look at him. “My brother has either conspired with or was duped into assisting Lianfang-zun in an attempt on Chifeng-zun’s life through destabilizing his qi and inducing a qi deviation.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw dropped. “They did what?!”

“Chifeng-zuns remains alive, but is confined to his bed,” Lan Wangji continued, ignoring the interjection. “Nie Huaisang was the one who ordered the shield raised, saying that there might be an attack – I thought he was overreacting, but apparently not.”

“If Jin Guangshan can take over the Unclean Realm while Nie Mingjue is incapacitated, he can say that the incapacitation is worse than it really is,” Jiang Cheng said, abruptly getting it. Lan Wangji had forgotten how much he enjoyed working alongside those from Yunmeng Jiang, Wei Wuxian most of all but also in his absence Jiang Cheng, who was smart and did not require too many words to understand. “Everyone knows Nie Huaisang’s a good-for-nothing – it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for the Jin sect to claim that they came here at the invitation of the Nie sect to ‘rescue’ them, and remained in order to manage the sect on their behalf. Better that than have Chifeng-zun recover and come after you in vengeance!”

Lan Wangji nodded.

“But surely they didn’t think they’d be able to get away with it? Even if they could manage it for a while, as soon as the confusion cleared up, all the other sects would throw a fit…”

“Jin Ling,” Lan Wangji said, and Jiang Cheng blanched, seeming to realize the problem at once. His beloved nephew legally belonged to the Jin sect; if he dared to protest their actions, wouldn’t they be sure to take him away? As for the Lan sect, Lan Xichen would have been implicated through his actions – they could hold his participation over his head, forcing him to pick between supporting them and losing face for the whole sect, which would in turn weaken it. And that was assuming that Jin Guangyao didn’t somehow manage to talk Lan Xichen into thinking it was all for the best regardless…

There were only four Great Sects left, now. If the Lan and Jiang did nothing, who would be left to stand up for the Nie?

“I have to get inside. Nie Huaisang will need my support,” Lan Wangji said, but instead looked down at the children beside him.

“Go,” Lan Sizhui said, releasing his hand and stepping back away from him. “I’ll take Jingyi and hide in the room we’re staying in. You won’t need to worry about us – go, do what you need to!”

Jiang Cheng flinched as if he’d been struck.

Lan Wangji glanced at him. “The Jin sect army,” he said. “However unlikely, there’s still a chance that we are misinterpreting their motives.”

“I’ll go find out what I can,” Jiang Cheng agreed at once. “How many there are, what can be done…I’ll find out and report back.”

Lan Wangji tossed him the guest token he’d been given. “Be cautious,” he said. He still hadn’t forgiven Jiang Cheng for what he’d done in the Burial Mounds, but he was willing to wait until a better time to talk it over with him – now was not the time to try to gain understanding.

Jiang Cheng nodded and left at once, and Lan Wangji saw the children off, then hurried to do the same.

By the time he made it to the main hall, his brother and Jin Guangyao were already there, and Nie Huaisang was confronting them with nothing more than a fan gripped in white-knuckled hands and a glare.

“– dare you talk as if he’s gone mad, as if he can’t be trusted?” Nie Huaisang was shouting. “You should know how seriously we take such words here!”

“It is because of that that we are worried,” Lan Xichen said, and now it was Lan Wangji’s turn to flinch. His brother’s voice sounded just the way it always did, comforting in its familiarity: he sounded calm and patient, thoughtful and wise, sure of himself. He sounded as if he knew better than anyone else what was right and what was wrong. “Huaisang, you don’t know how much your brother has been worried about suffering the way your father did. He knows that qi deviations can be subtle as well as harsh – he understands that his reason might be the first to go –”

“And so you took it upon yourself to decide that for him?” Nie Huaisang sneered. “You keep saying that he understands, that he would understand, all that. But that’s a lie, isn’t it?”

“Huaisang, please,” Jin Guangyao said, his voice just as gentle as always. “You know we only want what’s best for your brother.”

“Do you?” Nie Huaisang said, but he was still looking at Lan Xichen. “You knew he hated the quiet room, er-ge. You knew that he’d never wanted anything to do with it – it’s not like that was anything new! That was something he’d said repeatedly, year after year, month after month, for his entire life. You knew how he felt about it, and you decided to ignore what he wanted in favor of what you wanted. How is that wanting what’s best for him?”

“I was only concerned for his health,” Lan Xichen said, sounding injured by the accusation. “I had nothing but good intentions…”

“Your intentions are immaterial compared to your actions,” Lan Wangji said, and they turned to look at him, both of them surprised – maybe they really hadn’t noticed he’d left the Cloud Recesses.

Well, he thought bitterly: they’d notice now.

He took a step into the room, then another.

“Your actions are this,” he said, ignoring the way his brother stared at his forehead, unadorned by the ribbon that had been there ever since he’d been a small child, receiving it for the first time from his uncle as a precious gift. “You did not trust or respect your elder brother’s word. You disregarded his decision, treating him like a child who can’t be trusted to make up his own mind – you put your own desires ahead of his, and in doing so, betrayed him. Did you really think he’d thank you for it?”

Did you think I’d thank you one day for authorizing our sect’s attack on the Burial Mounds without ever having to explain yourself? Even our uncle respected me enough to tell me at once what he had done and let me decide how I felt about it, accepting the consequences of his actions!

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen murmured. “You’re still healing, you shouldn’t be wandering around…where is your self-restraint?”

Where is your forehead ribbon, he meant, and Lan Wangji shook his head.

“Wangji, you don’t understand,” Jin Guangyao said, and Lan Wangji stiffened at the unasked-for intimacy of the address. “Whatever da-ge said to you, whatever he did, you cannot allow others to guide you by filling your heart with incomplete echoes of what you have lost. You will never forgive yourself.”

Lan Wangji was so furious that he could not speak. Was Jin Guangyao implying that Nie Mingjue had, what, seduced him? That Lan Wangji held his love for Wei Wuxian so cheap that he would have his head turned by the first person willing to make up to him in such a fashion?

“I should hope you know my da-ge better than that, er-ge,” Nie Huaisang said coldly, still speaking only to Lan Xichen. “Or is this something else where you will believe the words of that lying dog over everyone else and the evidence of your own reason to boot?”

“Huaisang, that is unwontedly cruel, and uncalled for,” Lan Xichen said, tearing his eyes away from Lan Wangji. “Whatever Wangji has decided, I do not blame Mingjue-xiong for it.”

Implying, Lan Wangji supposed, that it was Lan Wangji that was to blame for it.

“Put the blame where it belongs,” he said stiffly, staring at his brother as if looking at a stranger. “Was I to leave Chifeng-zun where I found him, half-dead and dying in our jingshi where you left him at Lianfang-zun’s incitement?”

“You think I don’t recognize that I’ve done wrong?” Lan Xichen demanded. “I will speak to Mingjue-xiong and apologize – I will explain my reasoning and let him decide how I can make it up to him. But please, there is no call for you to be cruel to A-Yao. Do not blame him for my mistakes.”

“What about for his lies?” Lan Wangji asked. He took a breath, sharp and unhappy, and suddenly it was desperately, urgently necessary to know the truth. “Brother, tell me you didn’t know. Tell me you weren’t in on it – that you didn’t try to kill Mingjue-xiong in order to cover up your affair.”

“What, kill, you think I would try to…Wangji! Affair?” Lan Xichen exclaimed, and he seemed genuinely shocked. “No, Wangji, you’ve misunderstood entirely! It’s not like that at all. Mingjue-xiong and A-Yao, they were once lovers –”

“No, we weren’t,” Nie Mingjue said.

They all turned at once. He was standing at the door, all but clinging to the doorframe to keep himself standing; he was swathed in bandages and still stuck with needles. None of them had heard him or seen him approach – he must have heard them shouting and dragged himself over.

He sounded tired. He sounded quiet.

He looked at Lan Xichen.

“I was never Meng Yao’s lover,” he said. “Not now, not before, not ever. And Xichen…you knew that, didn’t you?”

#mdzs #lan wangji #lan sizhui #lan jingyi #jiang cheng #lan xichen #jin guangyao #nie huaisang #nie mingjue #my fic #my fics #the quiet room #you may want to reread previous chapters to get caught up

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has-gilgamesh-doneanythingwrong · 3 years

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Teatime of The End (Guda/Goetia)

"The void gave way. What was once none but a mere blank canvas, exploded into none other than the form of a café. Just where was Guda exactly?"

In which Guda ends up conversing over tea with none other than Goetia himself?!!! Chaos ensues!

Note: i'm legit writing this outta boredom and cuz goetia is LIT!!

Warning: This fic does not follow canon fully; it may be a bit OOC.

Before them was none other than a void.

An all-compassing, endless horizon of nothingness; spread even further than the eye could comprehend it to be.

'...Okay, this is weird.' Guda swore that they were flanked by a plethora of servants not too long ago, who were guarding them from none other than endless galaxies of the final singularity.

So then where the hell was this place?!

The gnarling tree branches- that were slowly decaying-and the overwhelming midnight skies of Solomon Singularity were practically seared into their mind by now. This soulless place was absolutely nothing like it.

'Ugh, thinking of it just gives me chills.' The Solomon Singularity's shadowy, obsidian 'moon' frightened them; its formidable depths evoking a fear of the unknown. However, this void-like blank space was marginally duller in comparison.

Thinking that they'd prefer to get back into battle (as soon as possible!) Guda trundled through the gleaming expanses, clutching their injured arm all the while.

Trapped within a perpetual state of nonexistence, Guda braved through the never-ending road with none other than their extraordinary, sheer force of will aiding their side; as they hopped languidly across the blank space.

Hopping was good! It was a fun distraction from the despair-inducing inevitability of self-erasure that this place carried.

'One step, two, I've got a saint quartz for you! Three steps, four, the gacha is a pain in the ass! Five steps, six, oh shit I've run out of QP!' Incoherent thoughts rumbled through their mind, its unrelenting repetition serving as a means to retain their sanity. 'Ah crap, I'm so bored...when will this come to an end...'

The passage of time seemed to have come to a halt within this realm. The empirical world seemed to cease entirely, rendering all of the laws of physics null.

Nevertheless, they continued, simply because they had no choice but to do so. If Guda wasn't there to serve as the final master; then who would take their place? Who would rescue the world on their behalf?

Absolutely nobody.

If they couldn't reach the end by foot, then they would float. And if they couldn't float, they'd crawl; no matter what. Because that was the only way for them to survive such torture. It was this obsessively optimistic mindset that had kept them going for so long, despite experiencing so many terrifying realities during their time serving Chaldea.

And that was what Guda was currently doing, crawling whilst humming the 'my room' theme song; eyes gleaming with life.

A desire to live. A resignation to fate.

An unstoppable will. A wavering heart.

Life. Death.

The foolhardy beast; taking residence deep within-protected Guda's humanity; encasing it within a safe enough shelter for them to carry on.

Just when hope began to ebb the beast couldn't hold on for much longer, the form of a shadow finally transformed this empty space into something; defining it as more than just a realm of nonexistence.

'About...damn time...' Legs regained their strength, as they reached towards the shadow, as it coalesced; transforming the once hollow land into a genuine, tangible location.

The void finally gave way.

What was once none but a mere blank canvas, exploded into none other than the form of a café, enshrined within a domain filled to the brim with decaying ivory pillars and overgrown, ravenous plants. Under the celestial cloudscape that spread before them, this zone made Guda feel as if they had accidentally ascended to heaven.

Just where was Guda exactly?

Not particularly giving a damn about the finer details, Guda slammed open the café door- the bell tolling ominously as they yelled out a powerful "Yahoo! Guda here. Let's get this meeting over and done with!"

Only silence greeted them.

' Err...what?!'

Well, this was quite an awkward turn of events. It seemed as if they were still alone within this bemusing world. Bored, they decided to peer curiously around the cafe's interior, and was pleasantly surprised by it. The café was warm and comfortable, sunlight streaming through flower-covered windows, as mahogany tables and chairs stood before them. It was much more regular than expected.

"So, you managed to make it here in one piece. I'm impressed, dear customer." Appearing from absolutely nowhere yet everywhere at once, the voice was deep, its piercing reverberations echoing around the once soundless café.

'What-?!!!' Eyes wide with shock, Guda almost crashed into the door, yet is kept upright by none other than...a strange tendril?!

"A-ah, thank you-!? " As they spin to face their helper, two bewildered eyes stare into an entire plethora of beady red irises.

It was a demon pillar, dressed in none other than a dapper black suit; pale tendrils gripping onto a serving plate; its eyes staring right into Guda's very soul.

'What the actual fuck.' Of all the things to happen, this was much beyond Guda's expectations. "T-thanks for the help. You look familiar..."

Which one out of the 72 pillars was this one?

"I'm glad you remember my face, human. It's me, Barbatos." As soon as their name passed through their gleaming, red scars; Guda rushed at them, pulling them by the collar.

"Does this mean what I think it does? It's you! C'mon Barbatos, pass the materials! I need them!" Eyes sparkling with mirth, Guda invaded their personal space. "Let's make a deal, shall we?" Finding Barbatos here was akin to locating a gold mine! Taking full advantage of this opportunity, Guda tried to bargain with the poor demon pillar.

"How dare you! Unhand me at once, you foul cur!" The two began to tussle, as Barbatos' ice-cream shaped body wobbled with rage. By this time, the other pillars also began to emerge within the café as well, decked in identical suits; chattering and complaining between themselves.

"It's the scent of a human." "Human smells good." "Not good for me."

"Disgusting." "Foul." "Scorch them."

"The human made it." "They made it?" " You made it?" "We did."

Voices rushed and burbled, like a flash flood shooting straight through a dam- whispers and yells seeping through the café. The sound was unconceivable for the naked ear, screeching tones prickling against Guda's body. These pillars seemed to speak as if they were one brain. Continuing on from the others' thoughts, they spoke as if they were a united front.

It was understandable to assume that anybody would be terrified by such a thing, yet Guda's eyes were glowing with curiosity. To Guda, such pillars were none other than potential friends. Seeing as the pillars could communicate; it wouldn't hurt to try talking to them, right? Though it was also very tempting for Guda to try and steal Barbatos' materials as well.

'Holy shit...' Of all the things they had experienced, nothing could compare to this! 'Damn, this would make for a good story for gossip time at Chaldea.'

Grip finally loosening on Barbatos' suit, the demon pillar sighed with relief; as they used their tendrils to dust themselves down. Guda had traumatized them enough in other battles. There was absolutely no way they were going to agree to any of Guda's deals!

"I would attempt to farm you, but looks like I'm outnumbered. I give." Aware of this, Guda finally yielded, raising their arms in defeat. There was no choice but to hear them out this time, for curiosity had trumped over all other emotions.

As they spoke, a vast wall of red eyes glared at them; encasing Guda within their intimidatingly powerful aura; as the pillars watched with amused expressions. They were judging the human; mulling over whether it would be more fun to let them live or torture them until their dying breath. Such bloodlust drenched the cafe with its petrifying intensity, yet Guda's mind was somewhere else entirely.

"Seeing as you were nice enough to greet me, I'd prefer not to fight you." Barbatos' customer service was pretty good- for a demon pillar, that is. Much nicer than their usual fanfare of causing mass destruction and exploding things on impact. 'I may as well return their hospitality this time,' Guda sighed.

"A wise decision, human. Nobody can save you here. All of our eyes can incinerate you within an instant." The millions of glowing eyes shone dangerously within the café; as the sunny skies briefly clouded over, enshrouding them within a deadly shadow.

"However, that's not what we invited you here for. Follow me." Slinking forwards, Barbatos left a trail of a slick, thick muddy-like substance behind them; as Guda casually followed behind- making sure to wave a friendly greeting at all of the demon pillars standing beside them.

'This human sure is weird', One demon pillar mused.

Once the party of pillars finally gave way; Guda was welcomed by none other than the sight of a massive circular glass table; as a single pot of steaming tea and two decrepit cups laid upon its surface.

"Please take your seat." As Guda bowed respectfully to the departing demon pillars, a ravenous army of shiny black and red wisps filled the café. As the glittery sparkles finally disintegrated within the air, a solitary figure manifested themselves within a single marble throne, cracks appearing through ancient material.

With beautiful ebony skin, long tendrils of flaxen white hair and sagely robes, this visitor's appearance was stunning. Even their rage-filled, coal-black eyes contributed even more to their divine visage.

'Wow, that's one sparkly entrance.' Shielding their eyes from such enthralling beauty, Guda bravely apprehended their final guest, as they slid into the seat opposing them. A sneer and a smile; eyes filled with malice and ones filled with intrigue. Serving as the utter antithesis of one another, these two enemies had just committed the most unthinkable, most surreal of actions.

Guda had been invited to join Goetia for a drink of tea.

"So, it's you, Goetia. We meet again." Sniffing the tea cup for any signs of poison or maleficent uses of magic, Guda grins brightly towards them. "Though I wasn't expecting it, thanks for inviting me for a cup of tea!"

"Your words mean nothing to me, final master. Save your useless chat for those pathetic servants of yours." His dark irises refused to even acknowledge their presence, daintily sipping on their cracking cup of tea.

"Final master ? That's such a cool nickname!" Guda seemed blissfully unaware of Goetia's vehemence- or had they already accepted it as just being a natural part of 'his personality ?' Knowing Guda, they had most likely already accepted him for who he was. To witness one in their full form and accept it wholeheartedly for what it was...it was an uncanny; if not incredibly rare knack to possess.

"Usually you just call me 'human'. But calling me the 'final master', that's really nice! It feels a lot more direct and personal." Guda was touched.

"Scratch that. I'll call you vermin instead."

"C'mon, you were doing so well!"

"Blight."

"Awe, that's so harsh."

"Fiend."

"Does that mean I'm like a demon?" Guda laughed at that. "Then that makes us alike."

By this time, even Goetia was smirking slightly, amusement lighting up his usually dour face. "How impetuous, to assume such a thing. Plague."

"That makes me sound like a lethal threat. Which is a pretty good thing, actually."

"Worthless mass of human flesh."

Heart singing at such words, Guda gripped their cup. "T-that actually hurt-" But before they could finish their sentence, a rippling aura of doom weighed down on them, death's grip mere inches from their throat. For the first time, Guda was silenced by none other than just the immense energy of the opponent sitting right before them; oodles of sweat beading down their face.

"Silence." Black nails tapped the table, as he interweaved his tattoo-embedded hands together, golden rings and bracelets glinting off the sunlight. "Vermin. What was your verdict on the void, the hollow expanse of space that you so leisurely traversed upon?"

'...So, he's decided to stick to calling me vermin (affectionate), huh?' Guda stifled a laugh at that- in order to preserve their very existence.

"It was terrible. Almost lost the will to live wandering through that hellscape." Without existence, could life have any meaning? To Guda, such a zone stripped them of all the reason to exist; let alone live.

Eyes narrowing with displeasure at their answer, Goetia frowns. "Of course, a feeble entity such as yours would fail to comprehend the beauty and peace of such a world." Irritably running his hands through rich locks of hair, Goetia's voice deepened considerably.

"That void, is the world that I shall create; plunging this sordid excuse for a world back into the oblivion that it once was."

"That sounds like a pretty boring world to me," Guda all but complained. "Life's no fun without existence! What good would it be if everything just disappeared?"

"Spoken like true vermin." Goetia's expression filled with contempt, as they loftily looked down upon them; like death staring at a frog. "Even with this so-called 'existence' that you pathetic humans like to yammer on about, suffering sits at the apex of all life. To live is to face anguish, to writhe and wither until you are nothing but mere bones and dust!!!"

By this point, he was shouting.

"Yet you would claim that this 'life' is fun? That it's worth enduring for the sake of some 'fun and games' ? How preposterous."

"...You've made some great points right there, Goetia. I kind of see your point there." Crossing their arms, Guda furrowed their brows in concentration; thinking of ways to convince Goetia that life had its uses as well.

"But I think that life can be precious, as well. The bonds you make, things you create, events you experience...and then finally, the legacy that you leave behind...those facets of existence are irreplaceable; beautiful gems. Never forget that." Guda had seen it for themselves. Each and every life that they had passed by and touched was infinitely precious and worthy. To them, suffering was naught compared the human ability to love, and cherish life itself.

Delirious laughter echoed through the now darkening café, as Goetia clutched the left side of his face in agony; sharp teeth bared with rage.

"Only one who has not the slightest inkling of the sheer pain that humans have endured ever since their very first incarnation could say such utterly naïve hogwash. Try living for as long as I have, vermin!! Try observing the same horrors that I have, witnessing death upon death! You won't be so positive then."

Goetia's eyes illuminated a world of endless pain and melancholy. What was love to one who had only experienced death? Did it even exist within his mind? Guda found it terribly sad to think that this ancient, wise being had no compunction of the happier aspects of living.

"Hey, Goetia...What is love to you?" Before making any assumptions, it would be better to ask him his perspective first.

"Love...?!" His expression was as flat as a blank canvas, as if the word itself wasn't even worthy of his recognition. "It is nothing but yet another concept humans created to lessen their anguish. It serves no purpose."

"I think that it's a pretty nice feeling, actually. It's warm and comforting; like a nice cup of tea." At this, Guda frowned at the rather unsightly brew of tea Goetia had brewed for them. "Well, not like your tea, but you catch my drift; right?"

"What drift is there to catch? This warmth and comfort you speak of eludes me." His eyes burn holes through Guda, wrath engulfing his spirit. "You forget that I am a monster."

"Well, if you say so." To Guda, those words meant little. No matter what form they took; Guda regarded all beings that she could communicate with as fellow contemporaries. Even the most dastardly of monsters would be struck by Guda's exceptional brand of humanity, and Goetia was no exception.

Trying to deepen their understanding of him, Guda raised yet another question. "But there must be somebody you have cared for at least once, right? For you to worry so much about the difficulties humans face, that means-" Before they could even finish, Goetia slammed an arm shrouded in trailing tattoos on the table, clear frustration on his features.

"How very vermin-like of you, to try and prescribe human characteristics onto one like me. I have no need to possess such feelings."

This peaceful teatime conversation was going absolutely NOWHERE.

'How can I convince him of humanity's worth?' Taking a shallow sip of tea, Guda was about to debate him- much like a certain spiky-haired lawyer- only to have their mind assaulted by a paralyzing set of abhorrent images, filled with the wails of humans; and abominable scenes of suffering. Each scene pulverized their mind with pulsating electrical waves, sending them through a tumultuous bout of distress.

"Agh!" Guda's head thwacked against the table, as they squeezed their eyes shut in terror; as more terrifying moments of the tragedy of humanity's existence scorched themselves into their soul. Hands gripping onto the table for dear life, their frail body began to tremble from the tremendous force of witnessing such horrific recollections.

It was too painful to bear.

"HAHAHAHAHA!!!!" Head reared back in reverent bouts of laughter, eons of torment rippled through Goetia's maniacal eyes. "I'm glad you liked my tea, vermin. I may have accidentally implanted it with a few of my memories, you see. HAHAHAHA!!!"

What a petty demon he was, sinking to such depraved depths. He must've really hated Guda's optimistic mindset.

"....I... prefer to have my tea...with sugar and m-milk, rather than your s-shoddy magic memories...." Despite shivering from the traumatic impact of such terrible images, Guda put on a strong front. "...Your tea sucks..." This was the worst time to be making witty quips!

"Oh, is that so? ~ Well, I don't care- seeing as this pathetic teatime shall be your very last!!" Guttural screeches of demonic laughter pealed from his venomous mouth. "Do you get it now, vermin ?! The only way to restore balance to this world is to wipe it through entirely; and stop the beating heart of humanity! Only then, shall true peace reign throughout the universe-"

Like a wilting flower, his self-righteous demeanor faltered ever-so-slightly, as his usually domineering tone became a meagre whisper, as a strange feeling took over him. "...To end it all...that's all I want..." A lacerating pain- that he would not admit to- swelled within him for the briefest of moments, yet it was enough to catch him off guard.

Luckily, Guda was too overwhelmed to notice such a faint moment.

Shaking his head, Goetia wiped that slight moment of vulnerability away from his countenance as soon as possible, arching his back upright so that he could appear infallible again. To experience such a moment of weakness- daresay, humanity- was typically beneath him. "..."

"...I shall stand atop the throne, on my own. You have no right to interfere with my plans." A slight sense of disappointment briefly flickered through Goetia's features as they regarded the human shivering inconsolably before him. To think that the human whose eyes were glimmering with such vivacious energy moments before could be reduced to this...for Goetia, it was much too expected a reaction for him to even be surprised.

Humans were fragile, after all.

All interest in this being faded from his feelings immediately, as he ruefully spun away.

'Just as I expected.' It was without a doubt that this human was no different from the others. It was a miracle that they had even managed to survive this far. Of course, they'd be like a mere ant before a waterfall when exposed to the same pain he had endured.

"I was wrong. You're even lesser than vermin." His footsteps plodded lifelessly through the café, as he made his way to leave...

"H-hey...I actually pretty liked that nickname..." A clumsy clattering noise echoed, as Goetia spun back in surprise; eyes widening with wonder.

Guda was standing upright despite the never-ending pain, eyes blazing with desire.

"Don't underestimate vermin, dude."

And with that; they gulped the rest of the tea, like a ravenous beast ripping into its prey. Although painful torrents of memories tore and pierced their mind; grappling with Guda's waning sense of sanity, the beast within them proudly smashed through it all. Guda would remain Guda throughout anything, up until their very last breath. A few million dastardly images of human suffering would never get in the way of that!

Roaring loudly, Guda shot through Goetia's magic; as they threw the now-empty teacup to the ground. Body heaving with the weight of their mental turmoil, they breathed a simple, "Humans are a lot stronger than you think, Goetia."

"You're fucking stupid." Although his words were harsh, a small fragment of awe roused within him.

"Even after enduring such torture, you still wish to prove me wrong? How pathetic." He chuckled softly, as yet another unrecognizable emotion settled within him. It was indescribable, something that even he had no knowledge of.

"If I can't use words, I'll use actions to prove you wrong." Guda wheezed, pain wracking their body. It was taking all their strength just to stay upright. "Sometimes, the only way you can reach your opponents' hearts is via battle!"

"How foolish of you, to think that you could even sway the heart of a demon, let alone the king of all. You'll pay for such hubris one day."

"It's a worthy price to pay, if it can get through to you." Guda grinned, as a wave of exhilaration danced through Goetia's spine. This human was really something, that was for certain.

That was it.

He'd make a special exception to reserve only the finest of hells for such a gutsy human.

"As a special gift for amusing me so, I'll make sure to prioritize your incineration, vermin. I'll show you a suffering so vast that you'll never be able to rise again. Hehe, I'm quite looking forward to it." Light began to flood through the café, as it faded away. "Survive, and struggle pathetically. I can't wait to snuff you out." His voice trailed away within the sparkling light.

"You bet I will! You better watch out, because humanity's gonna kick you in the ass!" Guda pointed exuberantly towards his fading figure, as they smiled as brightly as the sun. "Let's do our best!"

"Stupid vermin."

"Ohoho, that sounded pretty affectionate to me!" Their conversation ended with a well-placed tease.

And with that, the void was gone.

Coldness seeped through Guda's veins as they awoke with a start; hands clutching onto mangled branches. As their eyes fluttered open, a midnight sky filled to the brim with stars shone before them.

'Ugh, not this singularity again...' As Guda rubbed their forehead, their massive party of allies rushed towards them.

"They're up! Recommencing battle!" Servants' cheerful yells resounded through the Solomon Singularity, as they all rushed back onto the battlefield; sparing Guda hi-fives, hugs and greetings on their way.

All that was left was a rather confused Mash, holding onto Guda's arm. "...What happened, senpai? Are you alright?" Lavender eyes brimmed with worry.

"I'm fine," Guda softly patted Mash's arm, as the young kouhai breathed with relief. "Let's just say that I had a rather riveting cup of tea with the end of humanity itself."

"....?!!" Mash was entirely befuddled by such a response.

Standing proudly, Guda looked up towards the sky; thrusting their fist towards the towering black moon.

'Goetia. I'm coming straight for you!' There was no looking back. Rushing straight towards the end of time, Guda made their way forwards.

Hopefully they'd be able to join them for yet another cup of tea. Hopefully with less discussion on the fate of humanity, and more on more interesting topics this time. It would be fun to find out what such a character was like in their daily life.

'Sure, his brew sucks. But it was fun talking to him.'

With renewed spirit, Guda hoped for the day that they'd be able to hear the words of their greatest enemy again.

THE END :3

#fate series #fate grand order #goetia #guda #ritsuka fujimaru #my writing #gilgablog #the fics i write...are something else sometimes LMAO #archive

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definegodliness · 3 years

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Intermezzo

Cloud nine exists no more. It has been forcefully swept from under my feet, and now, surrounded by anxiously jiving debris, I plummet; deliver my shredded consciousness to all gods, both new and old, into the vacuous eye of delivery's storm and hear naught but silence, as if the raging matter surrounding my flightless corporeality is but a mindless, soulless distraction; destructive, therein. The clean-swept dust bath closes in, and I can see nothing but the red of dire Earth; aridness in a canister of compacted losses, circling nauseatingly if I were to track and follow one speck of its respective alloy until witnessing its total assimilation within the whole.

I mourn every smidgen of incandescence turned tin, fixed into place to keep agreed upon reality in, till it sickens me and I toss the weight of my temporal vessel around mid-flight to ethereally recumbent behold the distant star of life as last a beacon of hope; bright enough to blind me from the shames and pities of the human lament.

I fall. I see.

The star of life shines its mutating radiance boldly, mocking all conscious beings, more temporal, for their quests in keeping the status quo of this exact existence.

"Deliver me from evil!", I beg the star of life.

Solar flares rip and tear at my mortal husk, till exposed is all that which matters at this point in time, and being.

I plummet, still.

“What am I now but the eternally bright light of my undying soul, claiming its birthright of resonance within time's ever rippling, as if a shooting star, or comet, illumining the clearest midnight blue of empty nightly skies; the void, far beyond the edges of space which one might call 'emptiness', and the girth and length of my magnum dong, now drastically elastically flopping within the tension between gravity and air resistance?”

Confusion. Yes, confusion and bedazzlement take a hold of me. Perhaps I should not have opted to deliver my shredded consciousness to ‘all’ gods, new and old, ‘cause what bullshit deity would have the totality of my humanity be a sparkling and pulsating orb of brilliant luster, only to then attach the fleshly variant of two semen packed avocados and a forearm sized zucchini? It is an outrage! Thus, by lack of arms, I shake my wiener upward, brandishing it like an angered fist toward whatever divine creator thought it funny, or agreeable, to reduce a human to a mere materialization of procreation.

“Who does that?”, I ask, “... why?”

There is no answer.

Only giggles in the wind.

I fall. I fall, still.

And, well... still. As a matter of fact, it is taking so long I get bored and entertain current existential contemplations: the duality of man; flesh versus soul; instinct versus cognizance; lust versus love, lustful love, and loving lust, and all imaginable shades of nuanced reality that thrive in between; all the while watching that star of life, fading into the distance, until the sheer weight of my ever engorging avocados by universal law of gravity cause me to topple back into an ethereally procumbent position.

Purple lightning rages against the pink German World War II helmet, which feels nice, I gotta say, and I realize I am part of some blitzkrieg beyond my understanding. My rock solid prophet’s staff splits the sea and all the turmoil of pantha rhei skips a beat to unveil the Big Bang’s Birthplace, starfish spread-eagled; so blatantly lascivious its design can only 'be' to mock my innate yearning spiritual transcendence. Ghastly, yet still, I plummet further. Through the entirety of Earth. Further, deeper. Helpless in this what can only be the inescapability of divine purpose. After all, whereto can I otherwise go without letting my deplorable rendition of palpability break the laws of time and space? So much for self-determination.

I crash down.

Down the center of the Milky Way.

Ever accelerating, caught in the gravitational field of Sagittarius A*. I am. And as I am, I am evidently designed to fill, or plug, this manifestation of lamentable ever expanding emptiness and darkness. As such I make amends with the insignificance of this carnal existence. Hushing my conscience with the fact that I actually have no spine at this given moment, therefore being spineless is more than justifiable, it is logical.

I give in.

Then, a bright flash of light, as the embodiment of godly origin flicks her fingers last milliseconds before impact and sends the remnants of my drab corporeality down the drain of existential settlement where all past's hapless human chances at godliness tragically consist. She does it casually, to then ask me if this is where I want to shoot for the future, before I can even think to try and push forth in an attempt to reach dead end's greatest depths for the sole sake of hedonism to begin with. I realize, what she offers is a lifetime's gratifying 'all'--, and yet simultaneously that this gratification is relativizable to the point of non-existence as there is no way to puncture the veil of finiteness into the never ending.

Despite the ecstasy of vortex-fall; the vehemence of plummet, my god given pride in heated surging sanguine engorged masculinity falls to dwindle limp in a sad shriveling retreat outside the Virgin Miley's rhythmically pulsating, monkey-fist-grabbing-dick contracting dirty dawn star.

"This is not what life is"; my genuflection.

She smiles, "it isn't."

Then, as if in a dream, the Virgin Miley vaporizes into a million shimmers of sparkling stardust, and I am grounded; crashed through the harsh permafrost, until splicing the rock of another dimension’s version of earth. I examine the shape of the crater left by my plummet, wondering where I am. I ask the aether, addressing the chaste one, yet she gives no answer.

Only giggles in the wind...

All too familiar.

I understand, now. Yet I cannot dwell on my understanding. Suddenly, circling all around me, a mob of enraged Swiss men and women; complaining the Matterhorn has been decimated by my plummet from death’s plane of ‘settling’. I try to explain to them spiritual evolution is about peaks of existence, as so considered by any remotely achievable esoteric consensus, being utterly shattered; pulverized into fertile grounds of brand new inspiration and realizations, yet they have none of it. They shout and seethe I am an idiot, who should have simply traversed the depths of tightly constricting predestination and be done with it.

Then, in a last ditch effort to talk some sense into them, I wrap the fleshly part of my current reality like a pink veiny tentacle around the holy triangle, the Toblerone, holding it out to them, letting my spirit’s echoing voice resound:

"He who is without caramel bits, cast the first chocolate."

Alas, they have none of it. Instead, the angry Swiss mob closes in, among them I now see some carry steam wafting bronzen kettles. I am entrapped. No way to wriggle myself out of this, and wriggling is all I can. As punishment, they slather the brightly pulsating core of my eternal spiritual purity (and my throbbing, wildly flopping curd spewing boa constrictor) with the molten golden of drooping fondue cheese. Agonizingly. Thus, the orb of light, my sorry soul, is by time and negligence; ignorance, and society’s cruel demands, yet again encased. Dimmed. Damned to once more partake in this loop of ever reoccurrence. When they leave, I am once again, but man. Another lifetime beckons.

The whole endeavor has left me ravenous.

I start eating myself.

--- 7-9-2021, M.A. Tempels ©

#absurdism #creative writing #prose #writers #writing #alt lit #writers on tumblr #chronicles of miley #weird #i don't know how to tag these things

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curioussubjects · 4 years

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come be a season 12 truther with me; or what if dean and cas got together offscreen

Originally, I wrote this post to celebrate “Galaxy Brain” airing as Berens & Glynn gave us “The Future.” It’s been a while since that episode aired, and some things have changed about this meta. As such, there are multiple versions of this post floating around, so make sure to go back to the source for the most up to date version. For all intents and purposes, this post functions as a meta manifesto not unlike shipping manifestos from days of LJ past. In keeping with that tradition, this post is a close reading of Dabb Era Destiel in which I argue that by using narrative gaps, queer coding, and romance tropes, Dean and Cas are shown to be in an established relationship. Although beyond the scope of this post, it’s worth pointing out that keeping Destiel mostly off screen was a way for the creatives to bypass network censorship while still remaining true to the characters.

This post is divided into three sections. Section I focuses on giving an overview of why earlier seasons of Supernatural aren’t as compelling as season 12 as a turning point for Dean and Cas’s relationship. That said, special consideration is given to 09.06 “Heaven Can’t Wait” as a potential rest stop in our journey due to it’s significantly placed narrative gap as well as themes in the episode. However, this post isn’t going to examine season 9 trutherism in depth, though it does coexist with and allow for it. Section II analyses season 12 and proposes a timeline and justification for the shifting Destiel dynamic. Finally, Section III will offer an analysis of how Dean and Cas’s relationship has changed dramatically from previous seasons in a way that is most like the shift from a “will they or won’t they” pairing to an established one.

Before I move to Section I, I’d like to note something this post takes for granted: Dean and Cas are the main romantic subplot of Supernatural, and, in fact, their relationship is elevated to main plot for both characters in season 15. This post won’t argue about the canonicity of Dean and Cas’s feelings for each other, therefore, and so won’t spend time looking at many Destiel defining moments. I’d also like to make clear that this post also takes for granted that Destiel is being intentionally developed by the writers starting with Carver’s Era, and more so in Dabb’s.

I. Why Seasons 4 through 11 May Not be It

The tl;dr. here is that while there are many moments throughout these seasons that Dean and Cas could potentially get together, none of those moments are ideal for a bunch of reasons that can be summed up as really bad timing. I also think the narrative is actively pushing them towards a moment that works. We get plenty of stepping stones, especially once we hit seasons 8 through 11 (and 11 most of all).

Seasons 4 & 5:

I know there’s been a lot of get together fics over the years set in this time period, but I just don’t see it. Do I see them being intrigued and drawn to each other? Yes. Do I think either Cas or Dean would act on it? Nope. I’m not arguing anything re: Dean’s feelings, but with everything going at the time I find it hard to believe he’d pursue anything with his angel friend. Most importantly here, though, is that during this time Cas was still very alien and other. There was too much angel in him, and while he obviously came to care about Dean (and Sam) very much, I just can’t see him navigating the realm of human relationships. That said, seeing human!Cas in “The End” is the first we see of potential developments for how Cas could behave without his angelness interfering. Being human changes Cas a lot, beyond even his experience existing among humans, though that of course matters too. This development will be important later /wink.

Seasons 6 & 7:

Before anything else let me just recognize that if we could see some sexual tension in seasons 4 & 5, these two seasons come with our first taste of romantic tension. The pining! Also note the difference between season 4 Cas and season 6 Cas in terms of behaviour. He is much less the angel we saw in that barn in “Lazarus Rising.” In season 6, we have a Cas making misguided decisions guided entirely by his emotions – namely, not wanting to involve Dean with the war in heaven – which is peak human, honestly. Put a pin on how sad Dean is in both seasons with Cas’s absence. Finally, put a pin on this being our first moment of Cas doing things on his own to spare Dean and it not ending well (soulless!Sam, Cas “dying” after Leviathan) because this is *the* hurdle in their relationship (along with Dean’s lashing out and self-worth issues). With all this said, the marked distance between Dean and Cas in these seasons negates the possibility of them entering into any kind of relationship. Much like seasons 4 and 5, there’s too much going on.

Season 8:

Ah, yes, the summer of purgatory. If you thought we had pining before…! I think we’re all very clear on season 8 being a turning point for the show, not only because new showrunner, but we also get the bunker. TFW now has an HQ, which pretty soon becomes home. Yes, Baby will always be home, but the bunker becomes the *unmovable* safe haven that Baby couldn’t be. The bunker is a place to coalesce, and for all the amazing things Baby is, she is not that. The acquisition of the bunker marks a shift in the psychology of the show: with the stable home space we can start to imagine domesticity, a place to come home to, the stuff of ordinary living. Most of all, the bunker is emblematic of security, of safety –keep this in mind, as we go forward.

This season also continues to see Cas go down the path of independently solving his problems instead of asking for help from Sam and Dean (his family in a way heaven never was) – note that the better together issue is at play in different ways with Sam and Dean also, but I digress. I also want to point out disastrous instance #2 of Cas’s insistence on figuring it out on his own: he loses his grace, and the angels fall. As for Dean, season 8’s focus for him has much to do with Sam, and them coming face to face with their issues with codependency, which hit catastrophic levels with the gates of hell and Gadreel plots.

So despite all the deliciously angsty get together purgatory fics and spec, there’s too much distance between Dean and Cas on Cas’s part due to his guilt over betraying the Winchesters in s6 plus slaughtering angels plus unleashing Leviathan. We do see Dean being more emotionally open with Cas and continue to voicing his wish that Cas would just stay with him and Sam, and let them help. It’s clear as day how much Dean cares. The timing is still bad, though.

Before moving on to next season, let’s take a moment to appreciate that this is the season Dean admits being kinda done with one night stands because “always with the adios.” Remember the bunker as a sign of stability? Yeah. I wouldn’t say Dean is craving a relationship, exactly, but I think we can see that he does want something more (ahem also I’m nodding to Cas refusing to stay put just cause).

Seasons 9 & 10:

The most important thing to happen between this two seasons is Cas’s stint as a human for an extended period of time. There’s been plenty of spec and meta written over the years about the effects of being human on Cas’s grace (a proto-soul now maybe?). What we can say for sure, regardless, is that Cas is much more humanized once he becomes an angel again. The understanding he gets from being human doesn’t go away once he regains his angel powers. You’ll notice that while we still see some of season 4’s characterization, Cas is not the same as he was – he is alien to angels now and is more intelligible to humans. Additionally, in an interesting reversal from previous seasons, we now get to see the depth of Cas’s feelings for Dean (thanks, Metatron) as well as seeing him be more open emotionally, while Dean does most of the pushing away (first because of Gadreel, then because of the Mark of Cain). In short, the timing is still bad as Dean and Cas are largely kept apart both physically and emotionally.

9.06 Heaven Can’t Wait

This episode is my white whale, friends. While I’ve come to fully subscribe to the idea that something did happen between Dean and Cas during the fanfic gap, I don’t actually think it’s feasible that it marked the start of a relationship -- be it sexual or romantic. My reasoning here is quite simple: the timing is bad. Were it not for external events (Cas regaining his Grace and Dean taking on the MoC), the course would have likely differed. Furthermore, Dean’s guilt over making Cas leave the bunker as well as Cas’s own hurt and self-loathing pose a significant and as yet insurmountable obstacle, which is easily seen with how Dean and Cas’s character trajectories go separate ways.

YMMV on what exactly happened between them in that Motel, but something definitely did. Perhaps one day I’ll have a proper s9 trutherism post to link to here for more details (likely won’t be written by me, though).

10.16 Paint It Black

From the point Dean gets the MoC until the end of season 10, anything between him and Cas is quite impossible due to distancing, to say the least. Again, yes, the fic is really good, but alas. One of the reasons I’m bringing up this episode in particular is because of the confession scene. One, it’s a rare bit of explicit emotional honesty from Dean, and two, it tells me that while he and Cas may be well aware of the Thing™ between them, it’s still uncharted waters. It’s scary, and murky, and they’re unsure how to navigated it or if they should even try. Makes sense, too, there’s been A LOT going on since s6. Anyway, he’s the full confession:

You know, the life I live, the work I do…I pretty much just figured that that was all there was to me, you know? Tear around and jam the key in the ignition and haul ass until I ran out of gas. I guess I just thought sooner or later, I’d go out the same way that I live – pedal to the metal, and that would be it. […] Now, um… recent events, uh… make me think I might be closer to that than I really thought. And…I don’t know. I mean, you know, there’s – there’s things, there’s…people, feelings that I-I-I want to experience differently than I have before, or maybe even for the first time. […] Yeah, I’m just starting to think that… maybe there’s more to it all than I thought.

Can I just say, first, that this confession keeps me up at night because we never actually see anything done with it explicitly? I mean, obviously, I think we do in fact see the effects of this confession in the show, otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this behemoth, but still, like. Damn. Ok, so, remember when I brought up that thing in season 7 about Dean being kinda done with hook-ups? Here’s where that led us. We’re seeing a Dean here who wants more than what he has convinced himself he gets to have. He wants more than dying bloody. And when he talks about wanting to experience people and feelings differently, well, that says a lot not just on the queer coding front or the romantic front. I mean, jfc, Dean is accepting the idea that he can have more in life than just hunt until he drops, and he’s specifically talking about experiences at the interpersonal level.

Do you ever see a character having an epiphany and find yourself wanting to cry because this is it right here. Dean is just blatantly admitting he wants more and maybe he can make himself be open to that (!!!), which all culminates in season 11, so…

Season 11:

The pining is still here, but it’s worse now since it’s the whole plot? It’s been *checks calendar* 5 years of this. How are any of us still kicking I don’t know. Your slow burns could never. Cool worth noting points: Cas says yes to Lucifer (bad decision #2.5, lots of mitigating effects_I don’t actually hold it against him that much but Dean is another story & not entirely rational at this point); for the first time since the early days, Dean and Cas are on equal grounds: they’ve both fucked up a lot and have hurt each other. The issues this season are outside their dynamic. Amara and Lucifer here serve as externalizing forces for Dean and Cas’s problems: Cas checks out with Lucifer because he thinks it’s the only way he can help, Dean is caught up in the turmoil of Amara, the emblem of absence and avoidance of struggle. We do get something like an affirmation from the two of them to each other via Dean calling Cas his brother (and I want y’all to consider the historical queering of that statement, and Cas’s “I could go with you.” It feels like we’re headed to them being on the same page. By the end of the season, though, it feels like we’re getting a clean slate: Mary is back, nobody died, no end-of-the-world in sight, no interpersonal crisis. We’re also getting a new showrunner, so. No wonder. We’re gearing up for something, but I’m getting ahead of myself. What this season does that is super important is that it sets up the stage for the possibility of an actual relationship between Dean and Cas, something that has, up until this point, been pretty much impossible.

11.04 Baby

Y’all know what I’m about to quote here, right? That conversation between Dean and Sam about having something with someone who understands the life. Here we still have Dean reverting to the idea that it’s impossible, which is a direct contrast to the openness in 10.16. It’s understandable, though, considering there’s been little reason to think anything like that would be possible (see all the mess and poor timing from seasons past). The quote in question, though, marks a continuing development regarding the issues Dean is struggling with this season:

DEAN: Piper? That’s awesome. Heather. One-night wonders, man. Shoot, we’re lucky we still get that at all. SAM: Really? You don’t … Ever want something more? DEAN: I’m sorry, have you met us? We’re batting a whopping zero in domestic life, man. Goose eggs. SAM: You don’t ever think about something? Not marriage or whatever. But … Something? You know, with a hunter? Somebody who understands the life?

We wouldn’t be talking about this stuff all these years after Sam and Dean had a serious relationship if it wasn’t important, right? Also who else do we meet this season? That’s right! Eileen! And doesn’t that hit different with season 15 hindsight? And who does Dean have that understands the life? Whose stories have been intricately connected to his? Right now, this is all conjecture. A pipe dream Sam is revisiting, and Dean is skeptical about. Except, well. Look at what we get in “Into the Mystic” and “The Chitters.”

11.11 Into The Mystic

I’m bringing up this episode as a cross reference to “Paint It Black” as well as to complement the talk from “Baby,” and to show, again, that, for all the closeness between Dean and Cas, there’s still a marked distance they haven’t yet bridged. There’s still truths they haven’t told each other. Thanks Mildred for the delicious exposition:

Darlin’…If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years on the road, it’s when somebody’s pining for somebody else. […] Oh, don’t try and hide it now. Follow your heart. Remember?

11.19 The Chitters

And here we see some validation to Sam’s imagining of a possible future with someone else. We actually see hunters who not only are married, but they both make it out alive. Jesse and Cesar get their happy ending. They make the dream come true. And the reality of it important not just for Dean to see, but Sam too.

Dean: [with realization] Oh, so … [points back and forth to Jesse and Cesar] Cesar: Yeah. Dean: Okay, that’s… Cesar puts his beer bottle on the table and looks at Dean, while Jesse is being silent. Dean: What’s it like, settling down with a hunter? Cesar: Smelly, dirty. [turns to Jesse] Twice the worrying about getting ganked.

I’d like to point out, too, that the fear of getting ganked is thematic when it comes to the tension between Dean and Cas. More on this when we hit s13.

Alright, now, having said that, let’s take a look at season 12. Bear in mind, this is the official start of Dabb’s era, even if he kinda began taking over in season 11, and the change in vibes is obvious. In fact, 12 jumped out at me as a turning point, in hindsight, after getting smacked by the domesticity of seasons 13 and 14.

II. Why Season 12

[Out of date section. Update coming soon when spoons. After significant debate, I’ve altered the definitive start of Dean and Cas’s friend-with-benefits-with-mutual-pining relationship to between 12.02 and 12.03. I briefly explained why here, and yes it’s a shitpost--still true tho.]

Finally, the promise land, y’all. Getting right to it: what s11 was for Dean in terms of setting up the relationship stage, s12 was for Cas. In its initial beats, any way. That is, until the Kelly debacle, this was the longest Cas has been around the bunker and with the exception of seasons 13 and 14, it’s one of the first times we get to see how Cas might actually fit into the bunker-as-home. Things seem remarkably chill. Of course, we’ll notice that there’s still a lot of baggage hanging around because despite Dean and Cas being in a more stable place, they haven’t actually dealt with their interpersonal problems. I didn’t single out directly this episode, but do keep in mind Cas’s declaration in 12.09 First Blood as far as how much the Winchesters matter to Cas & how we also see Dean and Cas be particularly singled out with them seating together in the backseat of the Impala. What we also see this season is Cas trying to prove he is worthy of this family, his family. He’s not fighting for heaven or to right some grievous wrong (a la s8). No, this season he’s fighting to spare the Winchester, to bring them a win. To bring Dean a win. The major disconnect is that Dean (and Sam & Mary) already sees Cas that way, he doesn’t think Cas has anything to prove. And just maybe, Cas starts believing that too – or, at least, believing it enough.

12.10 Lily Sunders Has Some Regrets

This episode, oh my god, the goodness. In the wake of 12.09 we have Dean and Cas in a tiff because Cas mistake #3 (killing Billie and “cosmic consequences”), this is a pattern. Twice the worry of getting ganked, etc etc. But where this episode really shines is through the contrast between Ishim’s obsession with Lily and Cas & Dean’s mutual affection for each other. Ishim sees no difference here and, to him, Cas’s feelings for Dean are a human weakness. Returning to my point about human!Cas, this episode underscores that Cas’s increasing humanity is what puts him in the place where he can want what Dean wants instead of either being too alien to get it (see s4 & 5) or unable to experience it properly (Ishim).

12.12 Stuck in the Middle (With You)

Cas’s trajectory culminates here with the whole I love you (@ Dean), I love all of you (@ Winchesters). Let’s note too that Cas is dying here, in a way that is much more human than going up in light. This declaration of different types of love is entirely human. It’s also a definitive step wrt to Cas and Dean’s relationship because of what happens in 12.19. This. is. it. Oh, and, of course, let’s not forget to point to Dean’s face when Cas says that “I love you,” and how terrified he is that Cas is dying. Might make one rethink some things, hm?

12.19 The Future

This episode is simply hella suspicious, and all the kudos to Berens and Glynn for writing it. It’ll haunt me forever. Consider watching it again and just questioning everything. So. Weird things:

1. Dean’s reaction to Cas no getting in touch as opposed to Sam’s. Dean is pissed, which is Dean-speak for worried out of his mind. Sam is very worried, too, and puzzled, but he’s mostly expressing his relief that Cas is back. But Cas has gone awol before, but this time Dean is much more worked up about it; Sam takes note of this, too. Now, let’s imagine that maybe the events of 12.12 led to something happening between Dean and Cas. Then Cas decided to leave to find a lead on Kelly, but eventually Cas decides to work with Heaven and goes radio silent. For days. Having taken a chance, and something having happened between them, how would Dean react to Cas just going poof and not contacting him – despite Dean having called Cas multiple times.

2. Cas knows about the Colt. Ok, nothing off there. But when he goes to Dean’s room to talk, right after Dean leaves we see Cas looking around briefly. Like he know Dean would keep it in there. Maybe Cas had looked other places already. Who knows. What we do know is that eventually he does find the Colt not only in Dean’s room, but under Dean’s pillow. Sam didn’t even know the Colt wasn’t in the safe. So how did Cas know?

3.“He came into my room and he played me.” So, this quote right there, makes it seem like some seduction for personal gain, right? But can you see Cas actually doing that if they hadn’t gone there previously? For Dean not to suspect anything and go with it? There’s plenty of plausible deniability here, but the gaps in time in the narrative make me question what is there in those spaces. The scene where Cas tried to give Dean the mixtape back doesn’t read like “playing,” so it’s about a different interaction. Hm. Hmmm.

4. Dean and Cas’s brief conversation in Dean’s room is clearly Dean just wanting Cas to stay, so they can work (and be) together – because they’re better that way. Which, yeah, truth, but also ow.

5.And most importantly: When did Dean give Cas that mixtape??? How did that happen?

Sequence of events: Cas tells Dean he loves him – Dean is clearly shook by it – Dean gives Cas a mixtape (romantic gesture, often a declaration of feelings; in true Dean speak too lolsobs) – Cas goes awol - Dean acts like he got ghosted by his new bf -?????- Cas somehow knows the Colt is under Dean’s pillow – "He went into my room and he played me."

What am I supposed to do with that, hm? Like. Y’all realize they probably had some emotionally constipated getting together moment, right? Something that Dean clearly initially thought meant things were gonna change, now. Something that Cas couldn’t allow to happen until he could give Dean a win. Y’all are seeing this, yeah? I’m not saying they slept together and were full of feelings, except that’s kind of what I’m saying. But YMMV, there are other possibilities beyond sex. The full of feelings isn’t up for debate, though, even if the whole thing is informed by ridiculous amounts of miscommunication.

III. Seasons 13 through 15 As Established Relationship

Regardless of what happened in season 12, exactly, I can’t shake the feeling that something did happen, and something did change. My reasoning here is actually really simple: in comparison to previous seasons, Dean and Cas’s dynamic shifts significantly come season 13. I know some folks have been disappointed with some of season 13 and then season 14 for having dialed back on the destiel side of things. And, hey, maybe there’s truth to that in terms of backstage stuff, but I also want to point out that...well, the dialing back isn’t quite dialing back is it? Let’s look at 13 a little more closely:

Season 13:

So I said the deancas dynamic changed, right? I also think that change caught us unaware because the pivotal turning point that would cue us in never happened on screen as well as being subsumed by Cas’s death and Jack’s birth. But if I ask you about deancas in season 13 what would come to mind? Grief arc? Brokebacknatural? How domestic Dean and Cas are? There’s just something easy about their relationship after Cas returns from the Empty. The tension we’d grown so familiar with over the years is gone. Actually, it feels like we skipped the getting together bit of their relationship and went straight to established relationship and parenting. Some of the most peak married deancas moments we see circulating? Season 13, (and 12.10). It’s a lot, and it’s different, and it’s amazing.

13.01-13.05

Dean’s grief mini-arc. He was acting like a widower. Here’s me vaguely gesturing towards the mapping of Jonh, Mary, Dean, and Sam onto Dean, Cas, Sam, and Jack. And the reunion? I can’t help but be giddy at the song choice: “it’s never too late to start all over again.” To. Start. All. Over. Again. I’m just saying.

13.06 Tombstone & 13.16 Scoobynatural

I’m not going at length about these episodes, I just want to point out that they reveal that Dean and Cas have a whole thing going on off screen: they watch movies together, Cas knows about Dean being an angry sleeper, Cas seems to have been aware of the Dean-cave before Sam was. It’s little things like this that are examples of the narrative gaps surrounding Dean and Cas that have cropped up over the years. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to wonder what else could be hiding there. And when did the movie nights alluded in “Tombstone” happen? Maybe in season 12 when Cas in hanging around the bunker? The same period when Dean and Cas seem to be coalescing into something safer and more stable? Something that we never see come to a head because plot happens and Cas dies? Something that is immediately taken back up once Cas is alive again?

Season 14:

Overall, this season is more of what we got during 13, but it had two high notes I wanted to single out before ending this already too long post.

14.15 Peace of Mind

Look me in the eye and tell me Dean and Cas talking in the kitchen about Jack doesn’t read like husbands talking about their child. Look me in the eye and tell me Cas just texting Dean to gossip about Sam isn’t couple-y as hell.

14.18-14.20

Ah, yes, the divorce arc. Awful. Terrible. The culmination of Dean’s problem in all this: he lashes out, he pushes Cas away, his anger is alienating. Cue all of us suffering. But while Dean is clearly in the wrong in how the deals with his feelings, let’s not pretend some of his anger doesn’t come from a long established, and unaddressed, rift between him and Cas, which had its last traumatic turn when Cas died in s12. Dean isn’t being rational here: he saw Cas doing something on his own, and he saw that his mother is dead. What else could happen? Why won’t Cas just trust they can work as a team? What if Cas died again? And why should Cas put up with Dean’s behavior without knowing the cause? How can any relationship work this way? But notice how caught in the middle Sam was during all this. Notice how Jack is running off and acting out. The whole family is falling apart. Divorce arc, indeed.

Season 15:

But what about what we’re building up in 15? That seems like it could be a getting together plot, too, right? Well, yeah. It could very well be. But I’d argue the tension we’re seeing isn’t a will-they-or-won’t-they because they already have. We’re are watching a getting back together plot! The tension is, instead, will-they-or -won’t-they use their words to talk about the baggage that has kept them from truly being confident about their relationship. That’s the crucial step in their togetherness that they’re still missing, which is also the bedrock of the divorce arc that spanned twelve fucking episodes -- y’all, that’s half a season.

And technically? We’re not even done with yet because Cas never let Dean finish his prayer/confession in purgatory. What’s more, Cas hasn’t grappled with his role in the breakdown of their relationship, either: that he keeps going off on his own and getting hurt (and getting other people hurt), and Dean has to deal with the fallout. The deep emotional understanding, the truly being on the same page is what we’re on the edge of our seats for. We’re waiting to see what else Dean had to say, and what will happen when Cas’s deal with the Empty comes to light.

Finally, could we still have this plot without Dean and Cas having gotten together off screen? Sure, but I think the stakes are higher if they already did have something between them. If they actually have an established romantic relationship going on. Something real and tangible and as of yet much too fragile.

"...you asked what about all this is real. We are."

#destiel #deancas #supernatural #spn #spn meta #this thing is gargantuan yikes #anyway enjoy? let's chat #my writing #this thing is half meta half my adhd unleashed

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Dadstiel Shoulder Touch Analysis

I want to take some time to discuss something about this incredible father/son dynamic that I don’t think gets enough recognition. And that is their connection. A connection layered in so many different attributes yet primarily based on physical touch. Apologies this is going to be long. Despite my saltiness towards Supernatural as I feel the show squandered them during its run, I really love the amount of attention to detail that was put into Castiel and Jack’s relationship. It kind of has a Terminator inspired vibe going on which I can’t deny enjoying. The bodyguard and the future savior of mankind. And this bond was in development all the way back in season 12; long before Jack was born.

During 12x19 it’s through his mother Kelly, that the son of Lucifer forges an emotional attachment with the trench-coated angel whom he imprints on to be his surrogate dad. From the moment Castiel puts his hand on her belly, and feels Jack, they instantly fall in love with each other. At first touch. Trusting each other completely without the slightest bit of doubt as they sense the other’s good aura. It’s a devotion unlike anything Cas has ever experienced in his millions of years. Even more than what he’s felt for Sam and Dean. And it happens before he and Jack even get to see each other. Their bond becomes intensely essential that it boosts Castiel’s grace, allowing him to protect Kelly and her son from Dagon as well as cause a rip in time and space.

After Jack is born and in the care of the Winchesters, scared, lost and confused yet curious as an infant in an adolescent body; the child wanders aimlessly searching for Castiel. All he wants in that moment is to be with Castiel because that is who he recognizes as his father. Missing him and needing to feel that same warmth, protection and compassion he felt from inside his mother’s womb. However, following the tragic circumstances that led to the angel’s unexpected death at the hands of Jack’s biological dad in 12x23, these two are forcibly separated in the beginning of season 13. Until Jack instinctively resurrects Castiel out of the Empty through his own will and desire alone at the very end of 13x03. Proving that no matter how far away they are, the tether between them can’t be broken.

These two don’t even need an introduction from Sam and Dean when 13x06 finally reunites them for the first time. Jack immediately knows who Castiel is going off on his mother’s memories. And their reunion comes so naturally. There’s no awkwardness, no hesitation or apprehensiveness emanating from the angel’s presence. Jack just walks right up to Cas, puts his arms around him and tells him how much he missed him. Its as if they’d never been apart. And afterwards they spend nearly the entire episode practically inseparable. Getting to know each other as father and son. And that goes without saying, while Jack did bond with the Winchesters in person first, there is no comparison to the Nephilim boy’s emotional attachment towards the angel.

This special relationship is very significant to both of them. Around each other they’re at their most happiest. Castiel is constantly at Jack’s side; and ALMOST ALWAYS tenderly touching him, namely his shoulders or protectively holding him by the arm and the child wholly reciprocates this. In Castiel’s gentle physical touch Jack is given a sense of security, solace, reassurance and comfort. Same as he’d had as an unborn baby. Not only is this the angel’s way of demonstrating his affection, empathy and devotion towards his son but this is actually how he non-verbally tells Jack that he loves him. Its purely unconditional. And this gesture isn’t one-sided as I will acknowledge later. Jack desires Cas’s tangible nearness as much as his dad does which is why they’re so magnetically pulled together in all of their scenes on the show.

Even when they’re at conflict with each other or arguing, Castiel never fails to let Jack know that he’s always safe and loved. That he isn’t afraid of him. His son could be in pain, angry, or vengeful in the moment and Castiel’s affection for that child will never waver. He’ll endlessly put his own life at risk in order to reach Jack; who is far more powerful than he is via his archangel half. Like the convivence store scene in 13x23 when Jack attacks a civilian believing he’d killed his friend and Cas does his best to subdue him. Whether Jack wants it or not at the time, he needs his dad’s emotional support; and the angel can’t stand the thought of his son harmed or hurting. He’s easily saddened whenever Jack refuses his touch as shown in 13x21 when he was very upset over Sam’s temporary death and rips away Cas’s hand as he’s trying to console him.

Supernatural really emphasizes the powerful connection Castiel and Jack share using physical communication in nearly every one of their episodes. Its these wonderful details they do onscreen that illustrates the depth of love these characters have for each other. Unfortunately though, they didn’t get to interact much during season 13. Yet the small portions in their four episodes together is exceptionally substantial. While we’re on the subject, the shoulder touches are definitely a Dadstiel thing. It’s their signature sign of affection and theirs’s only. Don’t believe me, let me give you an example of a specific scene in 14x19 between Jack and Sam; which takes place in the aftermath of Jack’s accidental killing of the Winchesters’ mother Mary.

Dean and Sam conspire to trick and lock away the soulless infant Nephilim in a mystical coffin as punishment with the intention of finding a solution that will end his life. Sam is the reluctant main player in this scheme of using his influence over the child in order to gain his trust and sway him into his fate. Just before Jack’s about to be led to the room and put into the box, scared and uncertain, Sam then puts his hand on his shoulder telling him they need to keep him safe while giving him an awkward grin. And look at Jack’s expression as this happens. It reads shattered. He immediately knows something’s wrong. Sam is touching him just like Castiel…except this is nothing like Castiel. His dad’s shoulder touches are always so tender and loving.

Jack can literally feel Cas’s devotion for him in every tangibility. But here he doesn’t feel that from Sam at all. Its cold, fearful and empty just like he is on the inside. Rendering him even more nervous. Speaking of season 14 the father/son content we get between Castiel and Jack is even better that year as its all about their relationship growing and strengthening into something far deeper than it was in the previous seasons 12 and 13. It’s the year their bond is put through the ultimate test. Where Jack is made human after Lucifer steals his grace and Cas dominantly steps into his role as a father.

Providing Jack with a certain guidance, boundaries, and stability in episodes 14x01, 14x02, 14x03, 14x09 and 14x10 unlike what he’d received from Sam and Dean. Castiel takes on all the difficult tasks of parenting ranging from scolding to teaching his son about death, responsibility, self-restraint, patience and the tribulations of growing up. He doesn’t raise his voice ever when he speaks to Jack. And is completely there 100% for his son from the beginning…and the end of his life. Although Castiel is an angel he is very much a pivotal link to Jack’s humanity and vice versa as well as a link to his celestial side. While he greatly admires and looks up to the Winchesters, its through Cas’s influence that the infant Nephilim aspires to be a good person.

Jack never wants to become the monster his biological father was; desperate to break out of that mold once in for all. And he isn’t alone. Castiel is right there with Jack every step of the way. Ready to challenge and encourage his son whenever he does something decent or makes a mistake. He doesn’t hesitate to tell his son when he’s proud of him. And sometimes he’s there to coddle Jack during times of crisis as displayed in the 14x09 showdown with AU!Michael where the angel takes a second to heal Jack’s minor facial wounds. I just love that tiny focal point of Cas in the background, as the Winchesters are talking, putting his hand on Jack’s shoulder before using his powers on him. As if to keep him calm; like a parent reassuring their nervous kid that it won’t hurt.

Throughout the first part of season 14 we’re blessed with so much affectionate Dadstiel moments like the after-the-battle angst talk in 14x01 where Castiel reminds a very frustrated Jack “you’ve got me” as he declares he has nothing. Or 14x08 after Jack’s death and they’re bittersweetly reunited in Heaven with Kelly; all smiles, touching shoulders and hugging each other as if they can’t bear to be separated. Followed with that heartfelt moment of Castiel tenderly touching his son’s cheeks, sadly looking at him with so much adoration, as he sends his soul back to his body. Then there was their unforgettable father/son pep talk in regards to the vulnerability of Jack’s soul; Castiel just gives his son’s shoulder a gentle squeeze as he leaves the room. Again, this is how these two say “I love you”.

And I couldn’t very go in depth of this analysis without mentioning 14x20′s Jack death scene 2.0; Castiel helplessly touches his son, who’s screaming on the ground in agony, trying desperately to ease his suffering. Yah this was particularly very hard for me to watch witnessing Castiel going out of his mind, completely unable to save Jack from enduring such a painful end to his life. Once was already cruel enough on me. And of course 15x01 continued that vicious trend of Castiel harrowingly protecting his son’s corpse, carrying him over the shoulder in a fireman’s hold as he runs through the cemetery, then gently lays him down on the floor in a mausoleum. I get emotional watching Cas cradling Jack’s head as he positions him comfortably; letting his touch linger unable to let go. He doesn’t even care what happens to him in this moment as long as his son’s body is safe. Very strong symbolism of a parent who will never abandon their child long after they’re gone.

On a side note I want to quickly call attention to how much I revere the Dadstiel healing parallels in 14x09 and 14x14 plus BONUS: Jack almost-killing Castiel in 15x13 so he can talk to Ruby in the Empty. These just add some nice little textures in their dynamic which compliments their ongoing tradition of showing devotion through physical communication. And both the healing scenes and the temporary death scene are composited very similarly. Focused on Castiel and Jack’s hands in the process of relieving the other’s pain/life.

Touch is exhibited as being a very crucial element for both of these characters when it comes to their iron-clad relationship. That palpable part of Castiel and Jack’s connection keeps them closely-knit. Its their familial instinct and how they express their feelings for each other. If they aren’t kneading shoulders, the angel duo is often standing beside each other or firmly linked at the arms. And this usually happens during moments of extreme stress, joy, sorrow, pain or fear. Jack relies so much on Castiel’s parental presence. He respects his authority, disobeying only when his actions feel necessary, and will go to the angel whenever he wants to talk or vent. Jack is also comfortable with Castiel enough to confide his darkest secrets no matter how awful they are. That’s the foundation of the everlasting trust built between them. They’re just tethered to one another in such a way that nothing will divide them.

I’ll begin with the hospital scene from 14x07 where Castiel is being the rock to his ailing son who can barely stand on his feet. There’s so much anxiety radiating off him in this moment as he struggles with watching Jack suffer; holding him so close. Staring at his face you can tell this horrible situation is ripping him apart. Actually, the entire episode is basically just Castiel silently enduring the pain of Jack dying.

The second set of screencaps underneath are of 14x10; Jack is agitated by AU!Michael’s antagonistic claims that his family’s love for him isn’t unconditional. Reading into one of his greatest fears. But then Castiel instantly calls out to his son, grabs the crook of his arm; gently reassuring him none of this is true. And Jack doesn’t resist this as he knows his dad is sincere. He never has to question Cas’s feelings towards him as his physical touch alone is self-explanatory. But when it comes to the Winchesters, that’s a whole other conversation.

Next, we have one of my favorite emotionally-charged Dadstiel moments in 14x14; where in a fit of panic because the anti venom wasn’t working Jack, going against Castiel’s warnings not to risk burning off his soul, is compelled to use his powers to save his dad. And I love this because this time its Jack who’s the one initiating all the physical contact. Just as the recovered angel demands what he’s done, his son responds with a soft “you’re okay” and the “I love you dad” shoulder touch as well as firmly gripping his arm.

Finally stepping away from season 14 I’m going to briefly go over the caps from season 15. Let’s begin with 15x11 the Dadstiel reunion scene at the church which is so beautifully poignant. Castiel is so overjoyed to see Jack alive that he takes a second to look over his equally stunned son, touching his shoulders before they embrace. This is by far one of Cas and Jack’s top father/son moments on the show and it’s done so effectively. If you want a more in-depth description for what I love about this scene, you can read my post about it here.

After that is the 15x13 Dadstiel moment where Castiel, suspicious of Jo’s story about the Occultum, had asked Jack to temporarily kill him in order to go see Ruby in the Empty. Two things I really like about this; 1. even though Jack still doesn’t have a soul, is very concerned about and protective over Castiel because of that deal. And 2. again Jack is initiating all the touching in this scene; look at the way he grasps his dad’s arm as he returns him to life. It’s almost as if he’s hoping the touch of his hand will not only speed up the process but also reach his dad so his essence isn’t lost forever.

And then we have 15x17. We didn’t get much Dadstiel interaction in this episode but the amount of times Castiel protectively holds onto his agonized child, who’d been turned into a cosmic bomb about to go off any minute, having no regard for the danger he’s in is so visually gut-wrenching. There’s a specific moment in the scene where, as Sam and Dean are arguing, Castiel is sitting on the floor just clutching Jack tight. Trying to non-verbally soothe him.

And this is followed up in the first half of 15x18, aka THEIR VERY LAST EPISODE TOGETHER ever on Supernatural. Here is where everything about their connection comes full circle with Castiel refusing to abandon Jack no matter the situation. Demonstrating the extent of his devotion by willing to die for his child just as he’d sacrificed his happiness to save Jack from the Empty. Because that is his son and nothing not even death itself can ever destroy what they have. Much as the young Nephilim boy begs for his dad to stay away, yells that he doesn’t want to hurt him; Castiel kneeling to Jack’s eye-level doesn’t leave his side. Then when Jack disappears to the Empty and reappears back at the bunker reformed, Castiel’s hand remains firmly glued to his son’s shoulder. He doesn’t want Jack to feel afraid or traumatized any further.

This was such an intense part of the episode I mean just look at how stressed out these two were. The anguish in their expressions. Simply put, Cas and Jack cannot bare to live without the other. They’re each other’s home; two sides of the same soul. Castiel loves all of Jack; the good, the bad and the ugly. This is an EPIC father and son’s love that knows no bounds. So powerful and pure that it transcended the loss of Jack’s soul, Lucifer’s DNA, the Empty, Mary Winchester’s death and everything else in between. Oh, and guess what, their “I love you” Dadstiel shoulder touches aren’t limited to just their hands. Its in every single one of their hugs too.

Notice how their chins or faces just comfortably rest on top of each other’s shoulders. And except for 14x20 their eyes are shut, as if to savor every single second of that closeness. Jack just buries himself against Castiel like he’s never felt safer with anyone else in the whole universe. And both of them hold each other; giving and receiving the other’s love with their whole self. Like I can’t even begin to describe how much Castiel and Jack’s softness towards each other just melts my heart. Their relationship, despite the horror tongue-in-cheek atmosphere of SPN, is surprisingly sweet, healthy and endearing. They are the epitome of true unconditional love and a great contrast to the Winchester brothers. In my humble opinion Castiel and Jack’s father/son dynamic is the best thing to happen to this show in a long while.

For the closing segment of this analysis I want to do something special before I discuss the paralleled-angst driven Dadstiel shoulder touches in 15x15 and 15x18. First off, I can’t shout enough praise from the rooftops about the insanely remarkable chemistry between Alexander Calvert and Misha Collins. Just brilliant casting. They embody these characters heart and soul and make this relationship feel so real, genuine and grounded. The fact that they look so similar in appearance really sells the idea that these two could actually be father and son. Forget the scripts, the quiet subtly these two bring to Castiel and Jack is the true magic of their relationship.

Let me start with the Dadstiel centric 15x15 aka THE BEST EPISODE of Supernatural season 15. This amazing masterpiece of art is everything I could’ve asked for and more; giving me so much precious father/son content that I will cherish forever. I really enjoyed seeing Castiel and Jack in those matching ties, bonding with each other over a case while they save the day. It’s a shame this show never let these two have more solo adventures together because they’re truly a joy to watch onscreen. Fingers crossed for that spinoff.

But I digress, the car scene in question happens at the very end of the episode in which Jack reveals the alarming truth that he has to die in order to stop Chuck and Amara. And Castiel, visibly and outspokenly distraught by this news, has to be assuaged with that infamous shoulder touch by his son; who’s in just as much pain. This is without a doubt one of most emotional scenes between these two characters out of the last three seasons of the show and quite possibly one of Misha and Alex’s strongest acting moments after the Dadstiel church reunion in 15x11. They killed it with the feels here. I like the attention to detail, the shadows and the colors in the shot, the melancholic score as well as how it seamlessly switches from Jack’s perspective to Castiel’s. Seriously watching this scene always makes me cry its so devastating.

Lastly, we have the Dadstiel car scene in 15x18; and Castiel and Jack’s LAST ONE-ON-ONE together. I’m kind of disappointed by this if I’m being honest. Its not that its bad its just not that definitively great for a final scene between these characters. Especially after four seasons of development. Where are the stakes? Why don’t Jack and Castiel seem as concerned about their situation? Cute as that smile was it doesn’t fit the tone. And where’s that punch in the gut knowing something is going to separate these two any second? It’s too light and doesn’t come off like a goodbye or a cathartic bookend which is what I wanted to take away from the episode considering its title “Despair”.

I mean if they were going to follow up on that heartbreaking car scene at the end of “Gimme Shelter”, the 15x18 scene wasn’t the way to do it. So, the weight of this final interaction feels almost non-existent. Maybe if it had taken place at night and the dialogue solely focused on them not the Winchesters it would’ve faired better. But since this isn’t a rant post I’ll cut to the chase by saying that the only saving grace this moment has happens in the last part. Jack’s in tears telling his dad how scared he is that he can’t use his powers to protect anyone. Coming off very childlike and vulnerable; needing that parental protection that Castiel was always known for. And sure enough, he gives Jack that final “I love you” shoulder touch which I swear had me choked a little.

Rethinking about it now that the show is over actually makes their final moment together really sad as incomplete as it is. I not only look back on how much these characters were drastically underutilized but how much the Dadstiel storyline could’ve been executed better with all the development that it was given. Well there you have it my full Dadstiel shoulder-touch analysis. Hope you’ve enjoyed!

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zmediaoutlet · 4 years

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(read on AO3)

Dean pushes Sam into the bathroom, after what feels like a day of questioning and caution and Dean being withholding—he's so bad at it, Sam doesn't know why he even tries—and Bobby avoiding Sam's eyes—and Sam'll figure that out, eventually—but it's really only four in the afternoon, and he's got food in his belly for the first time in what feels like a week but he's assured is a year, and he's had a beer and a cup of coffee and Dean's squeezed his arm, on his bicep just above the bend of his elbow, and looked into his eyes for a full heart-rich moment when Bobby was on the phone in the kitchen and couldn't see—and they didn't do anything, of course they didn't, not in Bobby's house, but Sam closed the door behind himself with that look thick in his head, the knowing that Dean was safe and okay and that Lucifer didn't hurt him—that everyone was okay, that what he'd done by jumping into the cage had worked when he hadn't been sure, not at all, that it would—and he still doesn't really know how he got out but he'll get that out of Dean eventually—and he turns on the shower and smiles at the rickety jump of the hot water because, holy shit, he's alive to suffer Bobby's godawful shower—and he pulls the shirt off over his head, and unbuttons his jeans, and fishes in his pocket for his phone and his wallet like he always does—and finds a new phone that he doesn't recognize, which makes him frown, a wallet that he does, and—the amulet.

The air goes out of him. The shower's guttering down, getting warm at last. He hears Dean's voice through the door, saying something to Bobby although Sam doesn't know what. Sam twines the leather cord around his fingers and crushes the little metal head in his palm, standing there in his socks and boxers. He didn't lose it. Somehow he—hadn't thought about it, until now, but now that he has he just—assumed it'd be gone. He's not in the same clothes he was wearing before he fell, so—did Dean—? He doesn't know and in this second doesn't care. He brings his closed fist up to his mouth, the cord thin and worn against his lips. He breathes in, slow.

The last time he held it in his hand was—Detroit. Milkjugs of blood sitting in the trunk. Dean—somewhere, talking to Cas maybe, and Sam alone, and Sam was alone a lot then. It feels like yesterday. He'd felt distant somehow. Even if Dean had forgiven him, or at least had been willing to try to forgive him. Ever since the second he'd made the decision to say yes, and decided to make Dean agree, it was like he'd been one step outside his life, looking in. Watching Dean try to accept it and knowing Dean never would. Watching Dean, with his hands in his pockets, and his hand curled so hard around the amulet that the horned edge had actually cut into his palm and he'd bled, inside his jeans. Not minding that and squeezing it tighter. Reminding himself why what he was doing mattered so he wouldn't falter. He wasn't going to falter.

Lucifer had healed that little wound without even acknowledging it. Sam remembers that if nothing else. He opens his hand and he's made sore white marks where the edges of the demon-head have cut into his palm. The shower hisses, next to him, and there's a thump of the side of a fist against the door—"Hey, princess, don't take forever on the primping," Dean says, muffled, the idiot—christ, Sam loves him.

He looks up at the door, startled. Creak of floorboards outside, like Dean's just standing there. Sam blinks at the peeled paint, and calls back, "Dude, it's my first shower in a year, hold your horses," and Dean says, "Yeah, yeah," and Sam closes his hand around the amulet again, his chest—thick. He can't take a full breath. He stoops, and loops the amulet cord around itself three times, four, and tucks it back down into the deepest corner of the pocket of his jeans. He crouches there for a second, feeling—feeling. The steam in the air curls against his skin. He has to stand up. Take the shower, get into fresh clothes, get back out into the house, figure things out. Figure where the world is, after a year without him in it. He crouches there, instead, taking in air. There's a little spot on his jeans, he realizes. Worn, nearly white, where something's made a space for itself. You wouldn't notice the difference, if you saw it every day, but with a jump of time between the last time he wore these jeans and now—it's obvious.

Of course it was longer than a year. Of course there were things Dean didn't tell him. Soulless, Sam thinks, trying the word out by himself, when Castiel's left and Sam's waiting for Dean to get back with the sword. Soulless. Not—a good thing to be. He's pretty sure.

Things that are described as soulless: corporations, governments. His comparative philosophy professor in junior year. Soulless due to lack of consideration, due to lacking character, due to—what? Indifference. Cruelty.

When they got to Portland, Dean picked the motel by turning into a random parking lot off the highway, and Sam hauled most of their bags in because he could tell Dean was tired after all the driving, and he'd barely made it through blinking at the one king bed before the door slammed behind Dean and Dean hauled him around by the jacket and gripped his shirt and said low and fervent, Sammy, if you don't want to you're gonna have to knock me out, and Sam dropped the bags right there in the entrance and got his hand on Dean's face and dragged his thumb soft over Dean's pretty lower lip and felt how Dean tensed, and then how the tension spilled out of him like water.

He doesn't get it. He walked around, he was told, without a soul, for a year. More than a year. Castiel was very precise about it. He'd left Dean with Lisa and found his grandfather, instead—his grandfather!—and he'd hunted. When they came to Dean it was by accident, Castiel said, and then when Dean had started hunting with Sam it had seemed to be for convenience, rather than something that meant—anything. Shifters, alphas. Vampires. Castiel knew all of it and told Sam earnestly, not judging. Sam had tried to kill Bobby but it was all right, Castiel said, because Dean had gotten so fearful and sick that he'd let himself die, to speak to Death, to make Sam right. He would have died, if Sam hadn't gotten right. It had been worth that. It had been that bad.

There's a text, from Dean. Sorta got the sword. Back in 8 hrs. Want any sourdough?

Sorta? Sam chews his lip. Just the dragon-killing magic weapon, thanks, he texts back, and Dean texts him a :) and Sam puts down his phone and stands up from the table and wants to vomit. Jesus christ. Soulless, he thinks, again, and pulls the amulet out of his pocket, winding the cord around his knuckles, staring at it.

He kept it. Somehow, some way. A year and more. From however he got spit out of the cage, from looking at Dean and choosing to turn away from him, to having Dean back and treating him like—he shudders. His indifferent callous body, carving an efficient line through the world. Sam wants to remember and doesn't. He does want to know what the exact moment was like, when he stuck his hand in his pocket standing on a street under a flickering lamp, watching Dean through a window like a damn pervert, and felt the amulet skin-warmed and heavy against his skin, and thought—what?

He puts it back in his pocket. Eight hours, until Dean gets back. Sam drags his hand over his mouth. When he shifts he can feel it—a little, nagging weight, pressed against his thigh. A year and a half of that with no reason to keep it. With all the reason in the fucking world to keep it. He blows out air until his chest is empty. Eight hours. He'd better have something to show for it. He gets to work.

He remembers, of course, later. Fractured, incomplete. Three selves' memories colliding and sleepless nights with a monster whispering in his ear. He curls on his side in a too-warm bed and watches Dean, curled beside him, sleeping. Frowning in his sleep. Lucifer says, though Sam ignores him, "Imagine how much easier he'd have had it at Lisa's, right? Bet she wore sweet little nightgowns, too. Where's yours, Sammy?"

In the cage he hadn't worn the amulet around his neck, not like he had in the year of Dean's absence. Lucifer didn't allow that. Sometimes he would crouch alone in the dark while Lucifer and Michael fought and he'd get space to breathe although breathing there always felt like the coldest depth of a North Dakota January. Shards of ice in his throat. The air thin. The air, of course, not real, but no matter how much Sam's conscious brain tries to rationalize when he has a moment to think, the cage isn't a place for rationality. Lucifer throttles him and Sam knows distantly that his lungs aren't real but he chokes anyway. He chokes. The air whittled thin in his throat and the edges of his vision vignetting to black, to sparkle-shot oxygenless, uncertain—

He turns his head, gasps deep. "Aw, thought I had you there," he hears, and turns fully onto his back, and they didn't bother undressing tonight before Dean crashed miserably into the mattress so he's still got his jeans on, and he shoves his hand into his pocket and wraps his hand around the amulet and squeezes so hard the horned heavy edges tear into his thin unhealed skin and the pain—god, the pain, piercing, cleansing.

It hurts. The room's quiet, except for the rattle of the heater under the window. Dean's breath, at his side. Not quite a snore. Sam's bleeding. He can feel the bandage getting wet. He curls his hand tighter and fumbles in the dark. A hitch—Dean's baby snore, interrupted—and Sam goes shh, as soft as he physically can, and Dean huffs and turns over and puts his face on Sam's shoulder, and Sam squeezes his hip through his jeans very gently, settling down. Lucifer will be back, he knows. When it's worst. When he thinks he's nearly fallen asleep. When Dean wakes up, in the pre-dawn because he has to piss, and he leans in first and kisses Sam's jaw, rough and sleepy with his breath rank, when Sam loves him just—the absolute most—Lucifer will ruin it. Even if Sam knows it isn't real it's as predictable as it is gutting.

He pulls his fist out of his pocket, amulet included. Dean won't wake for—what time is it?—hours. He turns his head toward Dean's, presses his lips against the warmth of his hair. He settles his fist on his chest. If the blood spills—well, it won't be the first time Sam's lost a shirt to blood.

Taking the amulet out of the trash wasn't a decision, when he did it. When animals are cornered their lashing out is survival, nothing else. He kept it because—he had to keep it. It wasn't possible that it be left where it was. An indifferent housekeeper dumping it into the mixed refuse of a half-dozen rooms; a trip to a dumpster, and then a dump, to be lost. No.

They had—

Sam knew it didn't matter in the face of what came later but he still felt it. That day. Vermont, autumn. The leaves dark red in the setting sun, or red just because they were. Immaterial, with Dean's back against the tree and his face tipped up to Sam's. Shocked. Sam's fingers on his jaw and then trailing down his throat, hooking into the cord of the amulet and pulling, down, to the demon-head, and Dean letting that tiny insignificant weight tip him forward so he met Sam's mouth when Sam offered it. The bodywarm of it against Sam's thumb when Dean's lips touched his, and how his hand closed into a fist on instinct, shocked too.

Whatever betrayals had come later. Whatever misunderstandings and miseries. There was still that day, and all the days before. This solid thing that had marked Dean as Sam's brother, for all the months and years marching all the way back to that stupid, shitty Christmas morning, five a.m. cold and disappointing, and Sam making the first decision that was really his own that he'd ever made. Handing over the shitty little packet of a gift he hadn't picked, and Dean looking at him with this—rare, uncertain happiness. Not willing to take it, in case it'd be snatched away like everything else had been.

Maybe that hadn't been a decision either, in retrospect. It was Sam's first day, in a hunted life that wasn't one he'd chosen, and maybe that was just instinct. Looping something around Dean's throat and saying, please. Dean had taken it. Said yes. Tossing it in the trash, later—well, Sam didn't blame him, but and he understood if the yes was retracted, but—Sam couldn't let it go. Even if he was the only one who remembered. Even if, ever after, even if they hurt each other and found each other again and circled each other like twin stars in an uncertain orbit—even if they met, in a dark room, and Dean said to him soft and sorry, Sammy, I swear, and Sam dragged Dean's body over the top of his and took the weight and feel of him like a payment, due—even then. He kept the damn thing, quiet, and his.

It didn't even register, after a while. It transferred from jeans to duffle to backpack to jacket. Part of the morning pat-check, unthinking unless something was missing: phone wallet amulet keys. Amelia never asked about it. Gadreel never interfered with it. When Dean was a demon Sam got up every morning in an empty bed and took a shower and carefully lifted his sling over his head and being ready for the day meant sling wallet keys amulet phone list of contacts he hadn't burned through yet and it just—felt like part of him. He thought about it as much as he thought about his lung.

On the day that Dean almost killed him Sam got dressed without thinking because there were more important things than thinking, and he put on jeans and he put on his boots and he put on shirt, shirt, jacket, and he dragged his hand through his hair instead of combing it, and he put in his pockets keys phone amulet wallet and he stood there, then, in the total quiet of the bunker, and took the amulet back out of his pocket. He looked at it in his palm. Small, heavy. The cord looping back over his knuckles. Dean had had to get new ones, he remembered. The leather ones kept wearing through, because Dean wore it every second: sleeping, waking, in the shower. When they were in bed, and Sam folded Dean in close against his chest, and Dean's lips brushed his jaw, and Sam slipped careful fingers under the cord, worrying at it. If only he'd known, then, the things he had to worry about.

He put the amulet back in his pocket. He went to Dean's room, in the bunker, and found the pictures Dean didn't keep very well hidden, and flicked past the ones of them together until he found the one of their mother. That, maybe. That would work. It wasn't fair, that day, to try to pretend anything else would, and as far as what mattered more to Sam—that was his problem, he thought, and nothing that needed to bother Dean. It was important, he thought, to be realistic.

"Give us a minute," Dean says.

"Dean," Sam says, appalled.

Chuck—Chuck? Jesus christ—jesus christ! Sam thinks. Chuck looks entertained, standing there in his sneakers—his Chucks! Jesus christ!—and his jeans and his simple short body and how he's—he's—

"Dude, seriously," Dean says, impatient, and Chuck raises his hands like surrender and says, "Hey, no, I get it! You've got stuff to talk about! Just say my name when you're ready, we've got all the time in the world, I'm sure my sister isn't planning the imminent destruction of all creation," and he winks, and then—disappears, jesus christ because Chuck is GOD—

"Sammy," Dean says, firm.

"Dean," Sam says back, immediately, "what are you doing—holy shit, do you realize—"

"Sam," Dean says, in a different tone, and Sam's gut jolts, hooked. Diverted.

The bunker, quiet around them. They're in the map room and the lights are all on full, bright and warm. Dean's looking at him and Sam—they've been good, it's been good, for months and months—the best it's ever been, even better than those first heady days when they were learning each other, young and reckless—and even with all that, Sam's nervous, somehow.

"How you doing, Sammy," Dean says, eyes narrow.

Sam lets out a sharp breath.

Dean seems surprised at the lack of answer and his chin tips up. He looks at Sam steadily. Sam doesn't know what he's supposed to say and so stays silent, and Dean keeps looking at him and then slides his hand into his pocket, and pulls out—of course.

He holds it low, in front of himself, dangling from two fingers. The heavy pendulum sway. Dean's eyes are low, fixed on it, but Sam's watching Dean's face.

There are obvious things to say that Dean doesn't say and Sam's grateful for it. "You took the other one," is what Dean says, and he doesn't look up to see Sam frown confusion but he must sense it, somehow, because he continues: "From that—jesus, Sam. From that play, that the girls put on. When I came out to the car the next morning it was gone. Doesn't seem fair. You got the prop and the real thing, both."

"Sorry," Sam says, and Dean says, "Christ," and takes the three long steps across the room to where Sam's got his back to a pillar and kisses him. Sam takes it, breathing in. Not soft, not that giving sweet that Dean can be, but it's Dean's mouth and therefore it's a miracle, every time.

Dean pulls back. His brow rolls against Sam's, brief, and then he sets down from where he lifted up on his toes, and he looks at Sam from six inches, their hips pressed together. The amulet swings against Sam's stomach, from where Dean's hands are fisted on his sternum.

"Sammy," Dean says, and Sam takes a deep breath and says, "I didn't mean to keep it—secret."

It's a lie and a bad one. He doesn't know why he said it that way but he doesn't know a truer one. He didn't—make a decision about it. It was just that…

Dean doesn't call him on it. "You said," he starts, and then his cheek sucks in on one side. Sam notices for the first time how tired his eyes are. It was a long day. The fog and the people they couldn't save. He folds one hand over one of Dean's, pressed against his chest, and Dean's eyes dip, and maybe that makes it easy enough because Dean says, "Sam, I wouldn't choose her."

Sam takes a deep breath. Their hands rise, all knotted together. Dean says, "It kills me, Sammy. That you think I'd—but I wouldn't. If it were any choice, if I could—make it how I wanted it to be. I wouldn't, not fuckin' once," and Sam says, "I know," just to stop Dean from talking, with his voice thickening up that way.

God's somewhere, waiting in the wings. Sam doesn't give a shit, anymore. Dean's mouth turns up at one corner but it's not happy, and Sam slides his free hand up Dean's side, gripping through his jacket, trying. However he knows how to try. "I know," he says, again, because—christ, he does. That nasty awful fog doesn't get to take this from him. "Dean, I told you before. Whatever she makes you—think, or do. I got it. I can handle it."

Dean bites his lips between his teeth and he looks down. His thumb catches the swinging cord of the amulet. "You know," Dean says, echoing. A question, buried down in it.

He hasn’t said it, specifically, out loud or internally or even when he prayed, back when he thought that praying was something that mattered, but: Sam hates Amara. Hates every aspect of her, baby to adult to imagined vision to physical manifestation to the haunted look, in Dean's eye, when he thinks Sam isn't looking. Hates how she makes Dean doubt. Hates how she makes Dean afraid. Hates every fragment of her that draws Dean's attention away, makes him look into the shadows of the room, makes him weak and afraid of his own weakness. In their bed at night Dean lays awake and Sam is awake with him and he thinks—how can he prove it? How can he show Dean how much he wants to take this burden away—to make it so the darkness is nothing that could come between them?

"Sam," Dean says. "You're…"

Nothing goes there. What could? Sam slides his hand from Dean's side up to the back of Dean's neck, cupping his skull, holding. He ducks his head. His temple against Dean's temple, Dean's breath against his throat. He closes his eyes and reaches and finds the amulet, dangling, on his first try. Luck. He gathers it into his palm and knocks Dean's fist open and closes their hands together, fisted around the sharp little weight of it. Any other day Dean would make a crack about holding hands.

Sam says, "I kept it because I wanted you. It wasn't your fault that things went bad. Or, I don't know. Half yours and half mine. Or maybe it was destiny's fault—fate, or something. It doesn't matter. What mattered was—how you stuck with me. How we—figured it out, every time. No matter how crappy it got, or how much we didn't trust each other, or… Because it's us, right? Every time. It's us, no matter what. I knew that on days I didn't know anything else. Nothing's going to take that away. Not the Darkness. Not God."

True. Dean's temple tips, against his. Their stubble drags together. "Not even the big guy, huh?" he says. Frail. "Seem pretty sure of yourself, there."

"I am," Sam says, not joking, and hears the breath Dean takes in. He squeezes their hands together, squeezes the back of Dean's neck.

"Shit," Dean says, and lets out a fraction of a laugh. "I wish I..."

He shakes his head, tipping away from Sam. Sam looks at his profile. The sweep of his eyelashes. His nose, with the little broken tilt. His jaw, squared. Sam bites the inside of his cheek and then lets go of Dean's neck, and folds their hands together all in a square—Dean's hand over Sam's over Dean's over Sam's—and when he unfolds them the amulet's caught in Dean's palm, and Sam folds his fingers over Dean's fist and pushes it, down, tucking it neat into Dean's jacket pocket. Dean blinks at him.

"I don't need a reminder," Sam says. Echo of something that feels like forever ago, surprisingly—now—true. "I'll be right here. No matter what. I swear."

He lets go of Dean's fist and slides up his arm, holding his shoulder instead. Dean looks back and forth between his eyes. "Thank you, Sam," he says, serious.

Sam nods. Dean looks up into his eyes, and then at his mouth, and when he leans for the kiss Sam responds simply, holding him and trying to say—everything there is to say. There could never be enough time, to say all there is to say.

Dean pulls back, after a few seconds. Not nearly enough. Their noses brush together and Dean's hands are on his chest, heavy. The amulet in his pocket. Where it belongs, Sam thinks, but it doesn't—matter, the same way it did before. It's not tying Dean to him; it's not a relic of a promise, broken and then kept. He touches Dean's jaw, with his thumb, and Dean sighs against him.

"Guess we should call him back," Dean says. "You think he knows we totally made out just now?"

Sam groans, and pushes Dean away, and catches him smiling. "You're totally going to hell," he says, and Dean winks at him, and turns away, and calls out, "Yo, Chuck!" like he's calling the literal creator for a dinner of hot wings, and Sam would despair but Dean's hand is in his pocket, and—well, they're okay, so. It's okay.

#ffcc #wincest #samulet fic #my writing

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tinumiel · 3 years

Text

My Spuffy feels and why I feel that Spike/Buffy are a much more complete and better suited couple.

First of all, I want to say. I have yet to read BTVS Season 8 to 12, so please, please, PLEASE don’t spoil me anything.

TW warning: the following analysis contains mentions of sexual assault, emotional abusie, toxic relationships and death.

First thing you need to know is that Buffy and Spike’s relationship in Season 6 is toxic and mutually abusive. This doesn’t mean it doesn’t have it’s good moments, but it is toxic none the less, and there is no way around that fact. The fact that their actions can be explained does not mean they can be excused. I know it, you know it, and any Spuffy shipper who tells you otherwise really missed the point of everything. They do a lot of harm to each other, and neither is at a healthy mental state to have a healthy relationship. Buffy is dealing with her resurrection, and Spike is dealing with these feelings that go against everything he has ever believed during his time as a vampire and he doesn’t understand, and probably an identity crisis. While they find comfort in each other, it is not in a healthy manner. Buffy is using Spike, and Spike displays obsessive behavior towards her.

It all culminates in Spike trying to force himself on Buffy, which is the final proof that this relationship had become as unhealthy as they come.

But, we need to analyze the entire situation more deeply, because, unlike most cases, it is not a black and white thing. Spuffy is not black and white, and that is the depth of their relationship.

What is important to remember is that, at this point, Spike is still a vampire without a soul. But, unlike other soulless vampire (including Angel, all you apologists), he is capable of feeling affection and genuine empathy for others. He is capable of good deeds, as we see majorly in season 5. He cared particularly for Dawn and Joyce (see how he paid his respects to Joyce after she died, not because he wanted to impress Buffy, but because he was genuinely fond of Joyce). After Buffy’s death, he could have left Sunnydale, since there was seemingly nothing left for him there. The Scoobies could not and would not remove his chip, the girl he was in love with was dead, he could hunt demons anywhere. But, he stayed AND helped the Scoobies to fight against the demons. This was, most probably, because he had come to care for Dawn and wanted to look after her.

But, he is still a soulless vampire. And as long as he stayed as such, he would never be a good guy. He was capable of good and selfless acts, he was capable of love, but his natural condition remained evil. In order for him to truly redeem himself, he needed to have a soul, and in order for that to happen, there needed to be a turning point for him, an event terrible enough for him to fully realize his “evilness”, process it, be horrified by it, and decide to atone for it. This was the sexual assault on Buffy. It could have been something else: murder, torture, etc. But the creators chose this, and I think it makes sense, considering how deteriorated their relationship had become.

But, how could Spike really become aware of te fact that what he had done was something terrible? In order for that to happen, I think the central factor is that he had to have no truly evil intentions. Spike sexually assaulted Buffy; but, he didn’t mean to. It was not a conscious action in which he did not care for the victim’s feelings, and only for his gratification. This is what allows him to realize that what he has done is terrible and that he must hold himself accountable for it. What proves that he had no ill intentions?

I read that a key factor in Buffy and Spike’s relationship in season 6 is the word “no”. But in this case, no usually meant yes. A problematic statement, but let me explain. Most of the times they said no to having sex with each other (particularly Buffy), she did not really mean it. It was more of a mandatory thing for her to say because she was not supposed to want Spike, but she did. It was why they always ended up together. The struggle was also part of, let’s say, their foreplay (see that very hot scene of the house destroying). Spike and Buffy’s relationship, particularly at this stage, it’s a love and hate, enemies to lovers dynamic. So, all of this was normal for both Spike and Buffy. Because of this, when Buffy refused him, Spike initial thought it was most probably that it was just another case of the same scenario.

The audience realizes it’s not way before him, of course. Because we are not soulless vampires. Spike, while capable of selfless acts (like I already said), is coming from a very selfish position in this moment. He doesn’t stop to think of what Buffy is really feeling or considering the possibility that this time her no is a “real no”, but assumes that she is simply resisting him in the same manner she always did, because in that moment, he is being a typical soulless vampire. It is something the audience has probably come to forget at that point because of the good he had done previously, but, like I said, Spike would never be a good guy as long as he didn’t have a soul. He was bound to commit something atrocious sooner of later.

But, and here is the key element to this situation and one of his main differences with Angel. He realizes his mistake. Not exactly on his own accord. Like Buffy says, it was only because she stopped him, but that moment of stop was shocking enough to “bring Spike back from his frenzy”, really think the situation through and realize what he had been about to do. And unlike soulless Angel, Spike feels guilt for his most terrible act, he feel disgust at himself. He realizes he doesn’t want to be this person, and that he has to do something to take responsibility for what he has done. This is the moment Spike realizes he wants to be a good guy. And that he can’t be a good guy as long as he doesn’t have a soul. This is the pivotal moment. It is in this point that his actions do become black or white: he either chooses to be good or he chooses to remain bad. And he goes for the good action, thus initiating his redemption arc. But this would not have been possible without the extreme situation that was the horrible act of attempting to abuse Buffy.

After this, we reach Season 7. Spike has a soul now, and much like it happened to Angel, he is taking responsibility for all the terrible things he did in the past. He can’t change them, and all his victims are most likely dead, so the only way to take accountability is to start to do good, which he does. The one of his victims he can answer to for his crime is Buffy. So begins the journey of Spuffy in season 7, that begins with Spike properly experiencing and accepting the guilt and blame, and understanding the extent of the harm he did to Buffy, and accordingly changing his behavior. Where he was once selfish and obsessive, he is now comprehensive and supportive. He gives her the space she needs, listens to her, respects her feelings. The trust between them begins to develop and strengthen, and their relationship matures into a healthy love that is not based purely on physical attraction and unresolved feelings; but in full communication and mutual compromise. Just like Buffy accepted that Angel with a soul was not the same man as Angel without a soul, she accepts that Spike with a soul is not the same as Spike without a soul, and thus, forgives him and starts to trust him again. And this time, Spike proves himself worthy of this.

A lot of people, for some reason, seem to judge Angel with or without a soul as separate people (like Buffy does) but Spike with or without a soul as the same. I don’t know if this is because Angel answers to different names depending on his soul condition, or because his personality changes drastically, but either way, of course under this circumstances Angel is going to seem more healthy and come out on top. But if he were to be judged under the same standards as Spike, he would turn out to be much, much worse. Unlike Spike, Angel without a soul is incapable of love, selfless acts, or feeling empathy under any circumstances, nor is he interested in them. His only joy is to cause pain. He abuses Buffy, perhaps not sexually, but definitely mentally and emotionally, stalks her, threatens and kills those who are close to her and is obsessed solely with the intention of causing her pain. And he does not regret any of these actions. His soul is imposed on him as a punishment. Once he has it, of course, he is happy for it. But when he loses it, he has no interest in taking it back. Spike, on the other hand, has his soul restored. He resolves to search it on his own initiative because he wants to get better. He is willing to face trials that will test his physical and emotional resolve for it because he wants to be a good man. Angel’s soul is meant to be a punishment. Spike’s soul is meant to be a blessing. So, if they are both to be compared and judged, it has to be under the same terms. Just like Buffy does in the show. So they are either judged as separate entities (with and without a soul), or as a whole.

Taking all of this into account, I think it’s safe to say Spike and Buffy are on the long run a much better suited pair, because their relationship is much more mature and developed. They’re based on open, serious conversation, and mutual agreement and compromise, as love should be. Both Spike and Angel (that is, Spike and Angel with a soul) are good, healthy love interests for Buffy, but Angel’s relationship is much less mature and developed. Angel wants to protect her and preserve her, while Spike wants to support her and let her grow. One is a relationship from her teenage years, when she was still growing to be the person she was to become; while the other is a relationship developed throughout different stages in which they have both come to know each other fully well at their worst and their best.

Angel will always be Buffy’s first love and first soulmate. It will always be true love. And they will always have a deep, unique connection. But Spike is her true love soulmate, and to a much deeper level, because just as they reach the point of becoming the man and woman they were meant to be, they are there for each other to have the relationship and love they were both meant to find.

If you read this whole uncalled for reflection, you deserve a cookie and all my love.

#buffy the vampire slayer #spike #buffy #buffy summers #spike x buffy #spuffy #angel

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orionares · 4 years

Text

BTHB: Brain Damage

A/N: Takes place after "To Live and Die in Mexico."

A/N2: Bingo again! I'm calling that a backwards 7. =]

@badthingshappenbingo

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

His memory is in pieces- fragments of the trauma of his childhood, his possible broken engagement and flames bursting from twisted metal toss and turn around his mind. Marty Deeks curls on his right side under the thin, hospital blanket into a fetal position. Everything is so damn bright, his battered body throbs and nothing in his mind makes sense.

He and Kensi are no longer engaged.

No-he reproposed to her earlier and they’re back together. Right?

This is a hospital in Los Angeles. Or Mexico. Or Cabos?

The concussion also brings a level of hypersensitivity that can’t hold a candle to even his worse of hangovers. Every sound- every passing footstep, every pen clicks, passing of charts, laughter, innocent chatter- seems to rattle against his skull.

A pair of footsteps enters the room, stopping where he assumes to be inches from the left side of the bed. Deeks winces as the room visitor takes one step back and exactly three towards the foot of the bed. He’s about to scream when the steps start again, moving exactly four steps back and then six to a spot directly in front of where he lays.

“Hey…how are you feeling?” the faintly familiar voice asks softly. The female voice, even though exasperated by his concussion, brings warmth and love that honestly terrifies him.

He knows her- hell, he has to. He knows of his Kensi, his absolute everything- the dark-haired woman smiling down at him with a growing belly but he can’t remember her voice.

“Deeks, I need you to open your eyes.”

Deeks- that’s his name. That he knows. He squints in the direction of the voice to see a dark-haired woman standing in dark blue scrubs. She’s battered with a few cuts but looks down at him with the same love and warmth from his fragmented memory.

Is this his Kensi?

"Do you remember me?"

He inhales slowly to gather his thoughts- everything is so goddamn loud, and he loves the woman in front of her that he’s not 100% sure to be his wife.

Or was it fiancé?

Deeks’ words come out in an incomprehensible jumble. “Th-pa-ca...no...no...hep."

The brunette shushes him softly and reaches out to run the back of her hand against his cheek. "It's ok,” she whispers, “It's ok...do remember anything from the last time we talked?"

His mind flashes images-Heat beating against his skin, sand against his back, remnants of a church. What happened to the baby?

“It’s Kensi, Baby,” she leans down and kisses his forehead. The gesture sends a chill down his spine. How can something so nice be so terrifying?

“You’ve had two concussions from our last case,” Kensi explains. The dark circles around her eyes hint heavily at her lack of sleep. “We’re waiting for the results of an MRI to explain your memory loss and trouble speaking. Is any of that familiar?”

Deeks furrows his brow in deep concentration on producing a coherent sentence. Instead, "How...shpwn..no, no,...ti-ti-m," spills out from his lips. The mismatched brown eyes blink blankly before realization dawns over her, “ Time? Are you talking- are you asking how long you’ve been here?”

Deeks shakes his head and weakly raises a finger and motions a circle. Kensi cocks her head slightly and guesses, "A circle? I don’t- Doctor Colton!”

Kensi darts out of his eyeline and begins speaking in hushed voices with another individual somewhere near the door. His mind has shifted from painful hypersensitivity to noise back to erratic, fragmented thoughts.

What had he been trying to ask her?

Wait, her- who’s she again?

He’s suddenly incredibly warm even in the cool room. Kensi and the doctor’s conversation becomes muted in the background as the lights in the room begins to dim. The detective tries to move his head towards the voices but freezes, paralyzed by what his mind shows him.

Standing in the corner of the room directly in his eyeline is him. Except this can't be him- the mirror image is ghostly pale with blood dripping freely from his forehead. Soulless and empty like an apparition.

It can't be real.

He looks dead.

He tries to scream, plead for his injured mind to stop playing the visual nightmare but instead he hears erratic beeping, screams and then darkness.

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

"Callen gets discharged today."

No answer.

"Kensi?"

No answer.

Sam Hanna glances over to Kensi, who’s resting against the wall and watching her sleeping fiancée through the room window. He’s watched her for the last hour keeping vigil while occasionally wavering on her feet from fatigue. "The doctors are optimistic. Look, it’ll take time for Deeks to wake," Sam reminds her as he had numerous times earlier in the ten hours since Deeks had crashed and collapsed.

"The doctors being optimistic mean nothing to me while he’s unconscious. His blood pressure dropped off the face of the Earth, Sam," Kensi croaks. She shudders at the memory of machines flashing and blaring as her fiancée eyes had fluttered closed. “He had aphasia before and then-“

“Stop.” Sam holds up a hand to prevent her from spiraling. With Nell confirming Hidoko’s death and Callen still in the hospital, he has to be the strong one for the group. "Walk me through the doctor's notes again."

"The expressive aphasia and the memory loss are something that the doctors want to observe over the next few days. They called it transient meaning hopefully everything subsides once his brain settles," Kensi repeats dully. "Wait and see."

"Deeks is a stubborn, chatty fighter, “Sam says with hope in his voice. "Whatever happens, you’ll both work through it.”

“But what I’m not enough? “Her question comes out in choked sob. In the split second between the erratic beeps from the heart monitor and Deeks’ eyes fluttering closed, she had seen pure terror clear in his eyes.

Was he afraid of her?

“What if-“ the dam breaks and her words stumble out in sobs,” We got into a fight before the case and that nearly broke us! What if I can’t help Deeks through his speech ? What if he never remembers me? I tried to help Jack and-“

Sam closes the space between them to pull her close into a tight as manageable in his healing state as possible. Kendo melts into his arms and begins to openly cry, letting go of over a week of built fear, anger and heartbreak. “You love him, right?”

“O-of course.”

“Then you don’t focus on the what if’s,” Sam continues, “You focus on the love you share and that your strength in each other will help you get through whatever happens when he wakes up.”

Sam feels her trembling begin to settle in the hug. Kensi forces out to breaths and stares down at Deeks’ sleeping form.

He’s breathing and right in front of her. He jumped on a plan, even without a job, on a suicide mission to back her up. Even in the depths of hell, Marty Deeks hasn’t ever left her.

As she continues to calm, Kensi takes the elder agent’s words to heart. I’m not going anywhere, baby. All in.

#densi #ncis la #marty deeks #eric christian olsen #bad things happen bingo #bad things bingo

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absideon-ephemeral · 3 years

Text

II - Roommates, Commanders, and Generals.

A/N: And they were roommates - I'm sorry. The next chapter will be a lot more interesting as we finally get into the plot. And just as a heads up, THERE WILL BE NO SMUT AT ALL. Idk how to write it and I don't want to make a complete fool of myself if I do so. If I ever learn I may add some.

Warnings: mild language, curse words.

METANOIA Masterlist

——————————

Who knew a ship could be so damn big.

I had walked and walked, following the map on my datapad to my quarters, which seemed to be on the other side of the ship. It was nearly midnight and I still hadn't reached it.

During the entire walk, I couldn't get the strange encounter with Kylo Ren out of my head. Why had he just stared at me? What was that prickling sensation? My mind was going so fast, asking so many questions, that I almost ran into a wall. I had stopped myself just short a couple of inches from slamming right into it. I stood there, recollecting myself, as a quiet, minuscule beeping came from my datapad.

Looking down, the beeping was signifying that I had reached my destination. In front of me were my quarters and not some random wall.

"For kriffs sake, finally," I muttered.

I shut off my pad and went to reach for the control panel next to me, but I stopped myself from hitting the door button. Are my roommates already inside? What if they're already asleep? I don't want to get on their bad side, who knows how long I'll be rooming with them.

"Hey!"

My head whips to the side to be met with a stormtrooper.

"What are you doing here?" They asked. From the sounds of it, the stormtrooper was female.

"I asked you a question."

"I'm sorry, I'm supposed to be rooming here." My words flew out fast and uneasy.

"Whose orders?" The stormtrooper asked.

"Head technician Ademir. He said that there were no available rooms in the technicians' quarters and that this was the first available spot," I explained.

The stormtrooper made a noise of understanding and hit the door button on the panel. It slid open with a slight whoosh and was pitch black inside. The stormtrooper went in, turning the lights on in the process. I stood there, awkwardly, almost waiting for an invitation.

"Well, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to come in?" The stormtrooper said.

"Uh, yeah right." I hurriedly walked in, the door closing behind me.

The room was semi spacious. It had two dressers, three beds, each with its small nightstand; a refresher, and a window that outlooked the galaxy.

I made my way further in and sat on the bed that looked unoccupied. I sat rather stiffly as the stormtrooper began to take off her armor.

Her helmet came off first, revealing dark skin, that almost seemed to have a honey glow to it, brown eyes, and a pretty face.

"So what's your name little technician?" She asked. Without the helmet on, I could hear an accent that was unfamiliar to me. I gave her my name and asked for hers.

"LN-7245." She answered as she continued to undress.

"LN-72- okay, that's a lot to call you by. Do you have a nickname or something I can use?" I asked.

She momentarily stopped her movements. "No. All we ever go by is our numbers." She then resumed, sitting down on the bed to take off her shin armor.

"Well, what about," I pondered for a second, "Leonora or Leo for short." She looked up at me.

"Leonora," she tested the name on her tongue, "I like it. Sounds nice. Where'd you come up with that?"

" Your number started with LN. I just took it from there and made something out of it that sounded pretty."

"Well, thank you for that." Leonora stood up, grabbed a case from under her bed, and began to pack away her armor for tomorrow.

When she finished, she grabbed some clothes, presumably sleep ones, out of the drawer on her nightstand. Before walking away to the refresher to change, she turned to the bed farthest away from me and smacked the person, who I honestly didn't even see, that was lying in it. They awoke with a start, cursing in Durese, a language known by space travelers.

"Why would you do that? I was sleeping so nicely!" They groaned. It was another female. This one had blond hair with brown streaks, blue eyes, and a pretty face as well.

"We have a new roommate. Be nice." Leonora smacked her again with her clothes and went to the refresher to change.

The girl grumbled something then turned to me, leaning back on her elbows, her head cocked to the side.

"So, what's your name?" She asked. I gave it to her. She peered at me curiously.

"You don't look like a stormtrooper." She pointed out.

I laughed. "What gave that away?"

She looked me up and down, "You don't have the body of a stormtrooper. And the way you seem to carry yourself, I'd assume you're a technician."

"Right you are." She laughed.

"I'm ZA-7283."

"Nice to meet you. Can I give you a nickname?" I asked.

"Nickname?" She asked. Leonora walked out of the refresher, dressed in comfy, all-black, nightclothes.

"She gave me one," Leo laid down on her cot, putting hands behind her head, "I'm Leonora, Leo for short." She had an air of pride around her.

The other girl gasped. "That sounds so cool! I want one too!"

"Okay, um, how about Zariah?" I suggested.

"Ooo, I like that. Makes me sound badass!" Zariah exclaimed. Leo and I laughed at her enthusiasm.

After we all calmed down, Zariah asked me a question.

"So why did they put a technician with two stormtroopers?"

I told her the same thing I told Leo.

"Ahhh okay. Well, at least you got two roommates who aren't sticks in the mud. That would've sucked." Zariah laid back down. I nodded in agreement.

—————————

"Shit, shit, shit, shit."

I hoped to maker that there were no higher-up officials around, because if so, I would've most likely faced punishment. I was currently running through the halls like a mad man with my jumpsuit half on and struggling to carry my small tool bag.

I had completely forgotten to set an alarm last night, causing me to wake up 20 minutes late, which is by no means acceptable. Leo and Zari left way before me, as troopers have to get up earlier than the techs, and they didn't even bother to wake me up.

So now I had to resort to dashing my way through the metal halls, weaving in and out of other technicians and stormtroopers. As I slid around a corner, I suddenly ran straight into something. The force I hit it with was enough to send me sprawling backward onto the cold metal floor. I groaned in slight pain and made an effort to sit up. Regaining my bearings, my sight is immediately met with black boots.

My blood ran cold.

Trailing my eyes up, all I see is black. Black pants, a black shirt, a black cloak, and a black helmet.

The prickling sensation returns. This time it's sifting through my mind, weaving in and out of the crevices.

Kylo Ren.

I scramble to my feet as quickly as possible and bring my arm into a salute. Once again, the black soulless eyes of his mask stare into the very depths of me.

"Please forgive me, Commander, sir!" The wavering words flew out. He said nothing, and I feared that he would whip out his lightsaber and end me right then and there. But he simply stared for a few more moments then briskly walked away, the prickling fading with him.

I watched as he left, not dropping my salute until he disappeared completely and I could no longer hear his boots on the metal floor.

When I had deemed it safe, I dropped my arm and breathed a sigh of relief. Gathering myself together, zipping up my uniform properly, and grabbing my bag, I made my way to my task for the day.

I was assigned to fix some damage in a meeting room, presumably caused by Kylo Ren during a meeting that had gone sour.

But when I walked through the doors metal blast doors, I couldn't help but curse.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

In front of me was one of the biggest messes I have ever seen. The poor innocent wallhad been slashed many times by a burning saber, leaving deep jagged lines. They crossed and weaved in and out of one another, forming some type of chaotic artwork. No matter the strange beauty, this was going to be a pain to fix.

Setting my bag down, I went closer to inspect the damage. The wiring underneath it had been damaged severely. Some areas are worse than others, but half of the underneath panels would need to be replaced.

Looking away from the wall, I took notice of a larger bag of tools and a welding cart set off of the side; free for me to use. I walk over to the bag, open it, and grab my first piece.

——————

Four hours and counting. That's how long I've been fixing this mess. And I haven't even gotten to re-welding the slashes yet.

For the last hour, I've been working in a tight space. Literally.

To fix some of the wires in one of the deeper slashes, I had to go inside the wall. It required me to remove the vent cover, which resided right below the slash near the floor, and crawl inside; upside down. It took me several tries and having to unzip my jumpsuit halfway, revealing my black under tank, and tie the sleeves around my waist to finally weasel in. My back was flat against the air vent as I worked and I could hardly hear anything. Honestly, it was a miracle I even fit. After removing the air duct lining, I was able to finally access the wires.

Which leads me up to now. I was in the process of attaching one of my last wires, peacefully working and oblivious to the outside world, when something unexpectedly nudged my foot.

The sensation made me jolt up, my head slamming into the roof of the duct.

"Kriff!" The word escaped as pain now radiated through my head. My foot was nudged again. "One moment please!" I shouted. I began to weasel my way back out, having slight difficulty due to not being able to see much.

Once I finally got my head and arms out, I sat on the ground, blinking my eyes to adjust to the harsh lighting, having been in a dark vent for the last hour.

"Did you hear me?"

My head whipped up, and I was met with someone you hoped to never meet; the infamous, General Hux.

I stood immediately, getting a slight head rush from the fast movement, and saluted. "General Hux, sir." I addressed him.

He looked at me with distaste; not pleased to see me without my uniform on properly. But there was no going back now. He looked me up and down, a frown forming on his face. He was just like I've heard him to be. Short, red-haired, and a not-so-pleasing face that was always screwed up in a face of displeasure.

He huffed and spoke again. "Did you hear me at all?" His voice was snobby and pitched.

"No sir, I couldn't hear anything in there." I curtly replied, taking notice of the men behind him. Other Generals and officers, I had never seen, but by the way they presented themselves, they were important.

"Well, I had asked what you are doing in here. This is a restricted area to those without permission." He sneered, obviously not liking me.

"I was tasked to fix this damage, sir. Some of the wirings needed to be replaced but I could only access it through the vent, sir." I remained still, keeping my salute.

"On whose orders?"

"Head technician Ademir, sir. I have the assignment on my data-pad if you wish to see, sir."

"That won't be necessary. Do you have any other tasks to do?" He was growing frustrated at my presence.

"No sir, I don't. This is my only one due to how much work it requires." I answered. He huffed and opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the blast doors opening, and someone walking in. My view was blocked by the other men, but General Hux rolled his eyes, already knowing who had entered.

"Ah, Commander, how pleasant of you to join us."

#kylo ren #kylo ren x reader

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north-peach · 4 years

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Whoops, lemme fic it (SW)

So I’ve been tossing this idea over in my head, daydreaming, wordbuilding and talking to myself and I’ve had enough.

It’s time to come out.

So, I tried the SI fic once and I didn’t like how it turned out and it was a good few years before wrote one again. There’s a lot of good ones, done by good authors. Silver Queen, Shadowblayze, Vixen Tail, and Mullk6 to name a handful.

But I wanted a character who knew the depth and breath of canon and could fix it. In Star Wars. With Mandalorians.

Which is usually a self insert, but....wasn’t feeling it.

Then it shifted to time travel. Main characters generally revolved around Bly, Aalya Secura, Quinlan Vos or Anakin, Rex and Alpha-17. Then it was a mix, sometimes Padme or Ahsoka, Jon Antilles or Fay, thanks to @blackkatmagic.

Then it was Boba Fett, Jango, Arla or Jaster even Tarre Vizsla. Korkie Kryze, a mix of his father’s ‘obi’ sound with ‘kote’ as in ‘glory’.

It’s been almost a month since this thought sprang from my head, exactly the opposite of Athena, but here it is.

My first Star Wars time travel fic.

Bly doesn’t wake, not for a long time.

Even if he is aware of the pressure against bare skin and the alternating temperatures that cause him to shiver or sweat to beat across his face.

He doesn’t wake to the snack, crack of the whip against his back, nor to the claws that rake across his face, but as the days pass, it is pain that draws him back from the dark.

The cold metal of manacles around his wrists, the dull throbbing of his knees against cool, packed dirt. He doesn’t move even as chains rattle and as a weak light flickers in tiny bursts even though he can’t quite open his eyes.

Bly takes a deliberate breath, deliberately breathing in long and slow.

Ribs, is his first immediate thought as pain now screams in his head, followed instantly by, back.

His arms are numb, lips cracked, throat and mouth dryer then Tatooine and it feels like someone’s poured sand in his eyes and then glued them shut.

We release our emotions, our pain into the Force. We breath it back in and then stand and carry on. Lives depend on us. The trick to keeping the pain away is it set it aside and ignore it. But you need to remember, Bly, pain is our body telling us we’re injured. You cannot ignore it forever.

It’s her voice in his head, the memories always there as soon as he tugs them and he barely muffles a noise in the shifting of his chains because the last thing Bly remembers is a fractured and shattered thing that provides nothing to help him determine his situation.

Beyond the obvious of captured, separated and tortured.

A breath, another and his fingers twitch as he tries to get his hands to response to his commands.

He moves his eyes, scrunching his face, and ignoring the sting of scabbed wounds and manages to crack his eyes open. He’s in a room, surrounded by stone and bars. An electrical lamp flicker erratically in a halo of barely there light in the distance.

No one is there. He is alone.

He listens, strains his hearing, yet nothing so much as stirs.

Bly goes back to restoring feeling in his body.

A minute, two and then an unpleasant rush of pins and needles as sensation returns to his arms. Bly grits his teeth and clenches his thighs, his legs then curls his toes under his feet, allowing his body weight to force him to rock back, using the momentum to stagger to his feet.

Lights prickle against what little vision he has and the chains jerk and rattle as he uses them as leverage to remain on his feet.

Pain bursts across his back, down his legs, his knees, every motion and contraction of his body, his muscles sends signals of agony to his brain.

“Osik.”

The word is almost soundless, hissed between clenched teeth and formed from harsh, gasping breaths.

Bly cannot help how his body curls over it self, even if it sends the blood rushing to his head and makes him even more dizzy. He braces his feet and refuses to pass out.

He doesn’t know where Aalya is.

He doesn’t know who he was with, what he was doing, if any of his vod’e are here, Bly doesn’t know anything.

He remembers blue and gold, the blue of Aayla’s skin, the gold of her eyes, maybe the blue of the 501st? Was General Skywalker on mission with them?

Was... was Vos there?

There’s nothing but a blank space in his head, so Bly puts that away for now and takes stock of what he has on hand.

Which is, in short, a big fat nothing.

He’s in loose pants, thin material, covered in dirt and blood, no shirt, no armor, no weapons- even the small tools disguised as a ring, bracelet- he’s got nothing.

It looks like he’s chained up underground in a cave somewhere. That’s the only explanation for both his surrounding and the relatively cool atmosphere. There’s a door that’s barely even a door, just a large rectangular slab of rusty bars almost propped against the entry way.

He could probably kick it open, depending on how heavy it was, but that was once he found a way out of his chains-

Bly pauses.

Looks up at the roof of his cell where the chains are anchored.

Well, he thinks, an edge of amusement to himself, If I can take my chains with me, I’ll have a weapon.

__________

Honestly, later, if someone asked how long he was stuck there in the murky darkness working and working to pull the anchor points of his chains from the ceiling, Bly wouldn’t be able to say.

He stops and rests when the injuries on his back crack open, spilling blood down his skin and dripping onto the floor, when his ribs scream at him and his breath wheezes as he desperately tries to breath.

He doesn’t ever stop for long though.

Eventually he gets free, the rest anchor breaking free of crumbling stone and Bly sinks to his knees, wincing as pain flares up again.

A moment of rest, to wait until his breathing slows down enough he can regulate it for sleath.

Then he carefully wraps his new weapon around his shoulders, winding them down his arms. Slowly, he makes his way to the door that is currently the only obstacle in his way to relative freedom.

It was heavy as it looked, but several solid shoves and one frustrated kick and the door was free enough for him to squeeze past it.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to worry about directions at the moment because his cell was located at the end of a hallway and the only way out was forward.

So forward Bly went, creeping along the walls on bare feet, moving steadily down to where a single light was valiantly, but ultimately failing at lighting up the area.

Bly took a breath and walked past, heading deeper into the caves with no way of knowing which way was out, if anyone was waiting for him on the other end or even if he could find a way out.

Bly didn’t care because right now, there was an entirely unacceptable amount of space between him and his General and it needed to be rectified, right karking now.

__________________

Times passes and Bly has to take a breather, has to sit to wait for his legs, his hands, everything to stop shaking even as chills crawled up his skin.

He keeps going, keeps following the eternal hallway he seems to be trapped in. Occasionally he’ll come across other cells, but like all of the ones he checked previously, there isn’t anyone in them. Just chains, manacles, shakes, crude stone tables or chairs.

The weak lights are not quite evenly spaced out, but every cluster of cells has one in the middle of the block. He’s sure he’s passed about six blocks by now, and still no sign of this hallway ending or branching off.

A part of him wonders if he’s hallucinating, but the continuous pain for his body begs to tell him differently.

He trails bloodstained hands against the wall and so far he hasn’t randomly circled back around so he must be making progress.

You were modified to see better in the dark? Compared to humans, or near-humans, Twi’leks vision is considered superior, but without the Force, I’m thinking you’d win at Hide-and-Seek-in-the-Dark.

My favorite color? Tell me, if I said blue wh- no, I’m kidding! It’s gold Bly. W- No, not like my eyes! Like Master’s-

Bly can hear Aalya sometimes.

The way she laughed, said his name or how she would stare at him. When her mouth softened and she smiled so easily.

Bly keeps going.

______

Hours? Maybe days later, Bly hears voices that are, for once, not his or in his head. A soft murmur, nothing clear enough to make out words or the like, but Bly grits his teeth and quickly lunges into the nearest cell and flattens himself in a natural curve of the walls.

He’s lost weight during how ever long he’s been here, so he folds himself easily into the shadows and evens his breath down, ignoring the ever familiar spasm of pain his ribs makes with every movement.

A beat, two, three, longer and still the voices only murmur.

Bly slows moves from his hiding place only to step right back into it as the voices abruptly rise in volume along with a feminine scream of pain that rings off the walls and is swallowed by the darkness that leads down to his cell.

Gently, Bly uncoils his chains.

______

When enough time passes he can make out the heavy footfalls of two armored being’s footsteps and the unmistakable sound of dragging feet, Bly closes his eyes and concentrates on his hearing.

“-Ne shab'rud'niÖ, aruetii-”

“-aruetyc dini'la-”

The sharp sound of metal against flesh, followed by a harsh vocalizer.

“Ne'johaa!“

A faint moan, before one of the men laughs.

See, the thing is Bly isn’t considered Mandalorian.

In fact, Manda’yaim considers Bly and his brothers to be abominations. Soulless things created in a lab. Not to mention General Kenobi’s Duchess is a pacifist in the very worst way.

A Mandalorian with a Mandalorian’s stubbornness, determination and pride to be anything but a Mandalorian.

Good intention’s Satine Krytze may have had at the beginning but erasing everything that makes Mandalor Mandalor was not the way to go about bringing peace to her people.

Especially since the Duchess had the final say on if the Clones of Mand’alor Jango Fett should be considered citizens of Manda’yaim. Or rather, she just enforces Prime’s opinion that clones were not real people and this couldn’t be a people or a part of a people.

Jango Fett may have been some high ranked Mandalorian in certain circles, but the only reason why the clones even knew the languages is because of the instructors who adopted the older batches and how those clones would teach one or two- like Kote who became Cody, who taught Ret who was now Rex.

The language and the customs spread from the clones who were actually wanted down to even the shiniest of shinies. Of course, there were parts of their culture that they developed all on their own.

Being modelled after a Mandalorian, of course, meant that they shared the same traditions and quirks that they did as a consequence of being so closely related.

The colors, symbols and naming to mention a few.

Colors all had meaning, as did their placement, the same with symbols and the bucket everyone wore. Working with the jetiise as closely as they did, their culture took bits and pieces that resonated with the Vod’e and as it did with everything, spread to all the battalions.

But when he hears a threatening form of behave, traitor followed by two words that mean ‘traitorous’ and ‘insane’ preceding what is clearly an armored fist making contact with someone’s bare skin, Bly’s already pretty sure who’s side he’s on.

That’s even before he sees the dusty blue and the gray of beskar in the dim lighting worn by two people dragging what looks like a teenaged girl between them.

Kyr’tsad.

Kriffing, karking-!

Bly untucks himself from the shadows and creeps up behind the two, careful to keep to the walls until he lunges forward, throwing one of his chains between target two’s legs even as he losses a coil of chains around target one’s neck and pulls back.

His ribs scream, his arms shake, but he drops his weight and wrenches the shabuir back, his legs kicking out the catch the small space between armor plates on Death Watch’s lower back to toss him over and behind.

Target the second is already dropping the girl, pale blonde hair visible in the gloom and reaching for a weapon at their belt.

Bly doesn’t give them the chance, jerking his chain back instantly compromising target two’s balance.

Barely ten seconds in this fight and both of them are on the ground. Target one is still choking with the chain around their neck and Bly keeps yanking it back to ensure they stays that way.

The other, Bly goes in for close combat, using his chain as bet he can with his shoulders and ribs kriffed up, but he manages to get enough wrapped around their legs and a single arm that he’s able to jab his fingers into the hollow of their throat and jerk their helmet off.

Eyes, nose, mouth, all places Bly can do some damage, but his strength is flagging so he slams his palm into their nose, once, twice, thrice until the shabuir goes limp.

One down, one to go.

Bly cracks the chain and sends the last stumbling even as he palms a vibroblade and uses the weight at the end of the chain the move himself close enough to-

Bly swings up, twists and lets dead weight fall where it may.

A moment, two, three before he breaths again, carefully, adrenaline pumping through his body. He pulls the chain taunt and swings the blade down. Metal chips, but doesn’t break do he does it again, again, again until it gives and all he’s left with is a manacle around his wrist.

The process repeats until he’s free from the weight of chains and he’s free. An arm carefully wraps around his chest as he struggles to breath, but he forces himself back up, to rifle through the utility belts and pockets to see what other weapons or rations he can find.

The first pocket he searches has a whole flask of water and he immediately takes small slow sips,

He coughs, the taste of iron lingering in the back of his throat, but already his day is starting to pick up. Setting the water back down, he turns his attention to the small body crumpled on the ground.

Gingerly he makes his way over, easing himself to the floor and reaching out a hand-

-before pausing.

All three of them spoke Mando’a. Even in the dim lighting, Bly can see all the bruises up an down the girl’s arms. So he opens his mouth to speak, only to cough, his entire body lighting up in pain as his ears start to ring.

It takes a minute, but when he stops, he carefully wets his lips and tries again.

“Hey, ade.”

Silence.

In the hallway, there’s only the sound of his strained breathing and her soft breaths.

Bly doesn’t know if she’s faking or not. Either way, he can’t afford to take any more injuries.

He coughs again, hunching over and unable to avoid the low groan of pain that crawls up his throat.

He does his best to breath, there in the dark with the girl either genuinely unconscious or faking it. Either way, the pain is distracting him and he’s going to need to sit there for a moment before he attempts any other movements.

Regardless he tries again and ignores how his voice cracks.

“I’mma...I’mma need you to wake up here, ad’ika.”

His back burns where he’s leaning against the wall and he can feel the blood begin to drip again. He doesn’t know how much he’s lost, how many times he’s reopened his wounds, but considering how lightheaded he is, considering how everything is starting to close in on him, it’s probably more then recommended.

The world blurs around the edges and his awareness drifts away for a bit. Somewhere, far away, it sounds like Aayla singing, her voice echoing with the 327th Star Corps.

_____

“Gar shuk meh kyrayc.“

Bly blinks back to awareness.

The girl knees in front of him, short blonde hair framing a pale face. Barely out of childhood, even if she looks like she’s in need of a few good meals.

Then the words register.

He can’t help the amusement that wells up and huffs a laugh he immediately regrets.

“Here,” the girl says as she shoves a fist in front of him.

He flinches back, before stilling himself.

The girl doesn’t react, just holds up the water flask in her other hand.

“It’s for the pain. The tall one carried them.”

A breath, then he reaches out, ignoring the shaking on his hands, to let the girl drop two small pills into his hands while shoving the water at him. More careful sips as the pills go mostly dry down his throat.

“Vor entye,” Bly rasps.

“Ba'gedet'ye,” she says, eyes running over his face, his chest, a wary twist to her mouth. “You’re no use dead.”

Unnecessary for her to repeat that, Bly thinks. Scared, but brave. His lips twitch as he runs a searching gaze over the girl.

Torn clothes, almost identical to his own, only with a shirt and less blood and dirt. Thin wrists, lank and greasy hair, coupled with even more bruises he can see blooming everywhere on uncovered skin.

Including her face, one cheeks which sports several colors that frame lines of dried blood and a split lip.

Gently, carefully, Bly lifts a hand and hovers in front of the injury. Not touching, close, but out of reach.

“And you?”

She blinks, startled. The barest hints of confusion crinkle her brow.

Bly smiles, letting his hand drop.

“Are you hurt, ad’ika?”

A touch of fire burns in her eyes.

“You’re bleeding.”

It’s almost an accusation, the words falling harshly from her mouth.

He acknowledges the point.

“Lek.” He continues, more solemnly, shifting his weight forward to meet her eyes, slowly enough that she doesn’t react beyond tensing her muscles. “But Kry’tsad is not known for being kind.”

Slowly, the girl shakes her head.

A moment of silence passes and the girl watches him. Bly gets his breathing back under control and deeply appreciates as the pounding in his head fades along with the burning in his shoulders and arms.

“By any chance, have you seen a blue Twi’lek in any of the cells you passed?”

“We are the only prisoners in this place. There are none who come here, save for the tall one and the cold one, both of which you killed.”

Bly studies the girl, the way the strain in her features eases as she talks about target one and two’s death, the audible note of gratitude.

“Tion gar gai?“

“What is yours?”

The response to his simple question is instantaneous, her tone now biting and wary. He doesn’t react, only lets amusement tug at his mouth.

“Bly-”

(“There is a name that Mandalorians use when they are disowned or cast out from their clan or family. Some chose this name as a way to seperate themselves on their own terms. Others have their names taken and are left with this.”

“Considering that Jango Fett doesn’t considering us real people let alone his ade, do we call ourselves this?”

A humorless laugh.

“You always were the one who never hesitated to go for the throat, Kote.”)

“-just Bly.”

“Arla.”

Not a familar name, even if there’s something about her face that reminds him of- reminds him.

“Let’s get out of here, okay, Arla?”

The barest hints of a smile as Bly hauls himself to his feets and then turns once he can speak without screaming or making any other noises of pain, and holds out his hand.

Arla hesitates to reach out, before glancing over to the bodies.

“Can I have the blaster if you have the vibroblade?”

“How about we see if there’s another vibroblade you can carry and I’ll take the blaster?”

______

A more thorough search of the bodies produces another vibroblade, a small holdout blaster (which Arla claims), a large blaster (which Bly claims) rations, two lights that work and a new set of clothes and armor for Bly.

He makes Arla turn around while he strips the corpse of the tall one, a.k.a. target one and pulls on the armor under suit, which helpfully compresses his ribs and then begins to strap on armor.

“Were you conscious enough to see how many people there are in these caves?”

Arla’s voice is soft, but it carries well as she immediately goes into an information download.

“We came on a ship, just the three of us. There is no one else here. It’s supposed to be so secure that it doesn’t matter if you manage to escape, there’s no where else to go. Plus someone always comes to check every couple of days. Which is when, if they want you to live, you get food and water. This is where you get thrown when they want you to rot away and die in the dark.”

Bly hums, carefully clicking vambraces into place, pleasure briefly rising up in his chest at the decent fit.

“And the war?”

Arla pauses.

“I haven’t- They kept most of the information away from me, but sometimes I managed to hear things. Like how Kry’tsad has a sky in Mand’alor Mereel’s camp and how they’re planning how to lead them into a trap and kill them all in such a way to send a message.”

Bly blinks, as he finishes up with tugging the last piece in place.

“Mand’alor Mereel?”

Arla makes an agreeing sound.

“Someone let slip they’re calling him Mand’alor the Reformer. Vizsla gets really angry when he hears that.”

Mand’alor Mereel.

Jastor Mereel?

On getting access to the holonet, one of the first things the Vod’e who were interested in Mandalorian history looked up was the state of leadership. Kote was certain that he wanted to see who decided that they weren’t citizens despite being from a Mandalorain.

Jaster Mereel was the father of Jango Fett, before he died on Korda 6 twenty something years ago!

Bly took a breath, before spitting out a curse in Twi’lek, follow up by a very vehement “Force osik!”

Arla didn’t say anything when Bly walked up behind her, only stared to stare, distaste clear in the disgust on her face.

“Needs must, ad’ika. I need to find someone and the easiest way off this haran place is on the Death Watch ship you came in one. Which”, Bly slid the helmet on, the HUB automatically pulling up and activating night vision. “Will be a thousand times easier which me pretending to be Kry’tsad.”

Again, he held out his hand.

“Ba'slanar.”

A smile, small, but undeniably there as clearly seen by the display screen in his buy’ce.

Arla took his hand.

_________

The climb out of haran was nothing to sneeze at, but they made it. Upon exiting, Bly couldn’t help the noise of appreciation he made at the sun setting into the distance. Or rising. Either or. It wouldn’t matter in a few minutes as they would be leaving the planet, deserted and rocky as it was, it offered no appeal in water or wild growing plants.

The ship was there, ramp still down and Bly gently tugged Arla along, right into the ship and take that, General Skywalker!

Plan A, accomplished with only a minor deivation.

Minus the either confused youngling or the apparently very real possibility of time travel.

Aayla was still missing and Bly still had no idea if anyone else was missing or if it was him that was missing and not everyone else. For all he knew, this was something that only affected him and Aayla was completely fine.

Surrounded by the 327th and the 501st, plus droids.

Bly quickly ran through each and every room in the ship, Arla right behind him, gripping her vibroblade, clearing each space before moving on to the next one.

Cargo, armory, kitchen, berths, cockpit and a decent sized corner with padded seats and tables.

Bly also ran a lifesigns sweep from the main computer before he was satisfied. It wasn’t a large ship, but it could comfortably accommodate three to four people so it would be perfect for them.

He holstered the blaster and quickly ran through flight check before initiating the start up sequence.

Arla quickly strapped herself into the co-pilots chair, unable to contain the trains of excitement painting itself all over face.

Ramp up, engines fired, all systems green, Bly slowly poured power into the system and the ship lifted off this karking planet, landing gear folding up and away.

Before he turned around to launch into the atmosphere, he quickly toggled the weapons system, loaded up a missile and fired it without hesitation into the mouth of his former prison.

The resulting explosion of stone, dirt and fire would go a long way to ease nightmares for the next weeks.

Once they cleared the atmosphere, Bly carefully used the HUD to change all teh passwords, security settings and just generally switched out who the ship’s computer’s answered to before tugging it off and gently running a hand through his tangled hair.

“Well, ad’ika. I’ve no place to be, but frankly I could use a shower. How about you?”

Arla look up and smiled, eyes wet.

“Shower and food first. Then we find our people.”

The knot of worry in his chest eased somewhat at the assurance that now he was able to begin his efforts to find out if Aalya made it along with him and if any others did.

“Her name is Aalya,” Bly says, longing heavy in his voice. “I don’t remember much, but if she’s out there, I’ll find her.”

Arla, stands, equal height with him before holding out her hand. She wait unti Bly takes it before speaking.

“Arla Fett. I’m looking for my brother Jango. He should be with Mand’alor Jaster Mereel and the Haat Mando’ade.”

_______________________

....so uh. When I sat down like............................five hours ago I did NOT mean to write chapter one of fic. I guess I did though so....eh. I’ll go polish it up and post it on ao3

#star wars #arla fett #jango fett #bly #aalya secura #bly x aayla #time travel #fic #ficclet #chapter one #fanfiction

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whumpforthewin · 3 years

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The Answer - 5

Jack looked up at the huge building. He felt too underdressed to even be outside the building. But he was here for a reason. He wasn’t going to chicken out now. He had the card in his hand. The doorman looked like he was going to say something but Jack held up the card and the doorman just nodded and opened the door for him. No one else tried to stop him. Apparently if he got through the doorman people considered he needed to be here.

He went up to the elevator and got in. Of course this prick was in the penthouse suite of the apartments. He rode up feeling more and more rage build up. He hoped it was Mark he saw first because he was going to deck him.

Apparently luck was on his side. The doors opened and there was a much more casual, but still well dressed Mark.

Jack didn’t stop to think. He just stalked over to Mark and drilled him in the nose with all his might. He felt it crack beneath his hand.

Mark stumbled back. “Yes, ow, Amy said she spoke with you.” Mark didn’t seem surprised and that honestly pissed Jack off more. He went for another blow but it seemed Mark was having none of it. He stopped Jack’s hand mid punch as if it were nothing.

“Let’s have a chat before you hit me again, okay? Can I offer you a drink perhaps?” Jack didn’t say anything as he wrenched his hand out of Dark’s. “Alright, no drinks then.” He turned and led Jack into the suite.

“I sent the others away for the next few days so we have this all to ourselves. Meaning you can speak freely and so can I.” Mark explained.

“You were fucking there.” Jack was barely keeping it together as it was.

“Right to the point then.” Mark started making himself a drink. “You are, mostly right. I found you that night. But that’s all. I didn’t know about you or the operations until about a week before we attacked.”

“That’s not what Amy said.”

Mark’s lip curled into almost a snarl. “I had heard rumors, nothing more. Nothing concrete.”

“Then you kept tabs on me. You dropped me off to Amy.” Jack hissed.

“Amy is one of my top generals. I trusted her to look after you. You were free to leave-“

“I was sixteen where the fuck was I gonna go?” Jack roared.

Mark set down the drink. “I looked for your family.” Jack scoffed but Mark continued. “And I found them.”

“Then you just know all about me don’t you?” Jack demanded. Mark was lucky he’d put the island in between them or Jack would’ve hit him again.

“I know enough.”

“Well fuck off!” Jack snarled. He gripped the edge of the island to stop himself from launching over it.

“No.” Mark went back to making his drink, seemingly unconcerned.

“You have done nothing but manipulate me the entire time I’ve known you,” Jack scoffed.

“I have not. I nudged you in the direction, but you were free to choose what you wanted to do. We’ve had no direct contact until last year when Amy called me in to rescue you from that john with the spreader bar.” Mark finished making his drink and finally looked at him.

“I have to know, did you know what happened to me?”

“I had a hunch. You are not the first I’ve looked into. But you are the first in a while I was able to get out alive,” Mark said as he took a sip from his drink. “That group is large and dangerous and we make it a habit of keeping tabs on those that survive.”

“Why? Did you want to use me for your own gain? Cause I hate to break it to you it didn’t fucking work. I’m no use to you.” Jack didn’t know why a smile crept onto his face. Maybe it was the fact that all of Mark’s planning and manipulations had come to nothing. Sure Mark had fucked him, but that was definitely mutual so he didn’t feel like Mark was getting more out of it.

Now it was Mark’s turn to laugh. It was deep and emotionless. It seemed to reverberate throughout the apartment. Jack was suddenly very unsure of himself. More unsure than he’d ever been in Mark’s presence.

“Mark?” He whispered the name and his breath came out in a puff. It was suddenly freezing in there. “Wha-“ he was cut off by his own shivers.

“No, call me Dark. Like I told you to. And You aren’t the only one to have gone through that process,” Dark said calmly.

“What are you talking about?” Jack was shaking and he wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or fear.

“The little tests.” Dark twitched. “The torture.” He put his hand on the table as if to steady himself. “I recommend you leave and we will continue this another time.” He let out another laugh though this one sounded a bit more pained.

The lights started to dim and Jack searched the room, he realized shadows were growing to cover the windows.

“What tests? Those, those weren’t tests?” Jack no longer felt confident about the two worst years of his life. “They were just torture.”

“Believe what you want. But they were, and it worked.” Dark straightened and something was very wrong. “If it didn’t work, you wouldn’t still be alive.”

Jack shrunk on himself. What the fuck was he in for. The shadows seemed to be coming from Mark, or Dark. But, that, that wasn’t possible.

“It’s possible your powers haven’t manifested. Yet. Amy’s had to be triggered. Ethan can’t control his.” The weight of Dark’s gaze fell on him. It was like the void looking at him, soulless black eyes that held no pity.

“If you couldn’t tell, I control shadows. Some other more in depth things than that as well but it’s the basics. It’s clear you didn’t know the extent of their goals. You were taken by a fairly small faction. It makes sense you wouldn’t know all the details that came along with it.” Dark made a move and suddenly he was right next to Jack.

Jack yelped and jerked away from him, falling to the floor in his haste.

“There are drawbacks to using these powers of course.” Dark took a step towards him and Jack scrambled away from him. The shadows seemed to grip and claw at him. “My drawback is the darkness is difficult to control and makes it a bit more all consuming. Makes it very hard to stop.” His voice was almost a pur.

“Dark, I think you should come back to yourself now,” Jack said shakily, scooting away from him.

“Hmm, no.” Dark had what Jack could only describe as a sadistic smile on his face. “You see I’ve been nice, I’ve been kind, I’ve been patient with you Jack. But you have done nothing but turn around and ignore me, insult me, and all over piss me off.”

Jack scrambled out of the way as a shadow tried to grab his leg.

“Tell me more about these experiments!” Jack yelped. His heart was pounding in his chest as he tried to maneuver the unfamiliar space.

He saw and heard Dark crack his neck. “You don’t want to know about them, you experienced them. You want to know about how they affect you. Right?”

He wasn’t really wrong. But Jack was too busy dodging a shadow to respond.

“They affect all people differently. The ones that survive at least. You seemed like a fighter. I had to let them finish one last one before I stepped in.” Dark said casually.

“What!” Jack stopped short. And there was the opportunity Dark must’ve been waiting for. Shadows clung to his legs holding him in place. When he realized and tried to pull at them his arms were locked as well. He was trapped.

“The final week is the most important.” Dark slowly made his way over to Jack. “It’s the week you may die but it’s the week that unlocks your powers. Amy was confident you would survive. But it was my call to wait on the rescue.” He stopped directly in front of Jack.

“You son of a bitch!” Jack growled.

“Now, now, calm down. Aren’t you glad it all meant something. Imagine going through that and it meaning nothing more than the suffering of others for nothing. This gave you something. We just have to unlock it now.” Dark raised his hand and a tentacle-like shadow wrapped around his throat.

There was a bang on the door that caused Jack to jump and Dark to pause.

“I thought it would take them longer,” Dark muttered.

The door burst open with Tyler crashing through it. Dark sighed and put his hands up before stepping back. Tyler didn’t appear to care that Dark was in a “non-threatening” position. He stormed over to Dark and forced his hands behind him and kept them there with enough force to make Dark wince.

“Jack, close your eyes, Ethan, could really use some light about now,” Tyler said in a harsh tone.

“Working on it!” Ethan snapped.

Jack didn’t need to be told twice. He squeezed his eyes shut and not a moment too soon. He felt more than saw a giant ball light up the room.

The shadows melted away and he heard Dark hiss.

“It’s okay to open your eyes,” Ethan said, much closer than he had been a moment before. “Tyler, deal with Dark, I’ll be right there.” Jack opened his eyes to see Ethan glance over at Tyler as he forced a very resistant Dark out of the room.

“Sorry, we got back as soon as my alerts went off that someone was using their powers in the house. And since Dark was the only one here, we figured it wasn’t good,” Ethan explained.

“I can manipulate light, usually to make illusions. Tyler basically becomes a god, he’s super strong and can’t feel pain. We also think there’s a healing factor but we can’t know for sure.” Ethan continued when Jack just looked at him. “Amy can manipulate emotions. Her own and others. Usually she’s the one to deal with him like this but she’s too far out to deal with this so we’ll bring him back. You should probably go though. It can get pretty hard to watch.”

Jack nodded somewhat numbly.

“Talk to Amy, I’m calling you a cab. It’ll take you back,” Ethan said pulling up the Uber app.

“I’ll see ya later Jack.” Ethan pressed a kiss to his cheek and Jack had to wonder what it meant. They’d all done it before.

Tagging:

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#whumptober2021 #no.5 #broken nose #immobilization #fandom #jacksepticegos #markipler egos #whump #emotional whump #Loss of control #Whoomp for the Win

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