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shireness-says · 5 years

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The Song Remains the Same

Summary: The more things change, the more they stay the same - including Emma’s teenage crush on Killian Jones. Will she finally work up the nerve to act on it at their ten year high school reunion? ~5.6K. Rated T for language. Also on AO3.

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A/N: Here it is: my contribution to @csseptembersunshine! It’s been a lot of fun to write. Funny story: the inspiration for this comes from me watching the music episode of CNN’s 2000s documentary, and getting really annoyed that they didn’t touch on that pop-punk phase we all went through around 2008. Somehow it turned into this. I don’t know. The song title is actually taken from a Led Zeppelin song, though I didn’t know that when I originally chose it. Still trying to figure out where else I’ve heard that phrase.

Super thanks to @snidgetsafan for her last minute beta-ing, and to @awkwardnessandbaseball for her encouragement as I slogged through it.

Tagging the usual suspects and a few extras: @snowbellewells, @kmomof4, @teamhook, @profdanglaisstuff, @thisonesatellite, @captainsjedi, @let-it-raines, @optomisticgirl, @welllpthisishappening, @scientificapricot, @winterbaby89, @thejollyroger-writer

Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

Gymnasium 2 of Storybrooke High - the larger of their sports facilities, as any alumnus knows - hasn’t changed a bit in ten years.

Emma remembers the way it looked at the one homecoming dance she’d attended - blue and gold streamers everywhere, with a balloon arch behind the DJ and another against a sloppily-curtained wall for formal photos. The gym today is much the same - all that’s been added are the buffet and a collection of tables where people can eat. The same people who couldn’t be trusted with food in the gym ten years ago maybe shouldn’t be trusted to have gained that maturity now, but Emma’s not one to argue against hors d'oeuvres. It’s odd, in a way, that she’d expect it to change. This is Storybrooke, after all; they thrive on that vague air of nostalgia, and most of the town hasn’t been updated since the 80s. Hell, the local diner will abandon their 50s soda shoppe aesthetic when hell itself freezes over, and maybe not even then. But in the ten years since Emma’s left town, she’s changed in such foundational ways that it’s jarring to discover that it’s not the case everywhere.

There can be a comfort to the sameness, too. Emma has a kid, now, and there’s an appeal to raising him in a place where the whole town is your neighbor and neighbors look out for each other. Plus, the closest thing she has to family lives here. As much as Emma had wanted to get out and see the world when she was 18, there’s a point where you just want to come home. Home for Emma has been Ruth and David and Mary Margaret, and home for them has been Storybrooke. Maybe it’s about time Emma makes it her home too - if not for her own sake, then for Henry’s.

The nostalgia oozing from every inch of the gymnasium isn’t the reassuring kind of sameness, unfortunately, probably because Emma never felt comfortable here in the first place. Years in the system left Emma struggling to fit in and really find her place at school, emotionally and socially, even after the Nolans had taken her in for good. It had been hard enough to open herself up to Ruby and Mary Margaret and her adoptive family; anything more than that was a stretch too far, and Emma never really bonded with her classmates. All those streamer-festooned walls don’t hold any sentimental value for her, even if this was the school she graduated from. All things considered, it seems pretty stupid to be showing up to this ten-year reunion at all.

Mary Margaret had decorated the walls, though, had sent out invitations and implored Emma to attend. Mary Margaret, who had been Emma’s first real friend, and is still her best friend in the world. And even after all these years - especially after all these years - Emma can’t say no to that earnest pleading.

So she’d left her three year old with Ruth for the night, wiggled into one of the more tasteful of her honeytrap dresses, and set out to her ten-year high school reunion. The last place she wants to be.

There’s already a good crowd here, mingling around as Lady Gaga blares in the background like no time has passed at all - which doesn’t help Emma’s nerves in the least. The people, not the music. The faces are still recognizable, even if ten years have passed and left their mark. Ashley and Sean are over by the buffet, apparently still together; if Emma remembers what she’s heard from Mary Margaret, they’ve got a couple of kids now. Kris and his wife are over talking to Victor, who hopefully hasn’t just come from the hospital. Aurora’s still got that unpleasant look on her face, though her boyfriend or husband or whatever else seems friendly enough. Hell, even Will Scarlet has somehow managed to clean up well in a dress shirt and tie, holding hands with a beautiful brunette with a ring as he points out something on the photo slideshow. Who’d have thought their resident troublemaker capable of such a domestic display.

With the exception of Ruby, who Emma knows will be running late out of long-ingrained habit, it seems like the gang’s all here. As Emma scans the room, there’s only one obvious character missing from the bunch; somewhere around here should be blue eyes and dark hair and a smile that —

“Fancy meeting you here, Swan.”

— looks exactly as she remembers. It starts out as a smirk when Emma first whips around to face the man who’d whispered in her ear, but it softens into something more genuine as she laughs - almost like that’s the exact sound he’d been waiting for. Just like always.

As it turns out, that’s another thing that hasn’t changed in ten years: her hopeless crush on Killian Jones.

He’d been handsome, even in high school, with all that dark hair and his confident swagger. He’d earned that confidence too, as captain of the speech team and a champion swimmer. Somehow, even if it had made him cocky, he had still been kind, and it was that kindness that had attracted Emma in the first place - the way he’d always been happy to smile and help her in math class, even though he didn’t have to. Emma wasn’t used to that; it was its own kind of intoxicating.

He’s just as handsome now, and if that smile she’s so loved is any indication, just as kind. He’d joined the Navy after graduation, Emma knows, and it had obviously done him good, filling him out in all the right ways. The trim fitted suit is new too; probably a good thing too, as the cut of those pants would have driven Emma to distraction back in high school. Otherwise, he’s almost just the same as always; if it wasn’t for the prosthetic peeking out of his sleeve where a left hand should be, the Killian in front of her now could be mistaken for a blast from the past.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Emma grins back at him.

“I might say the same thing,” he quips. “After all, I live here now. You’re the one who had to drive in.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I absolutely am not,” Killian confirms with a laugh. “Just finished up my first year of teaching at good old Storybrooke High. American History. Go Knights.”

“Damn. Well, congrats, I bet you’re great.” Weirdly enough, Emma really can picture him as a history teacher. It was always his best subject, and she’d be willing to bet he’s one of the cool teachers all the kids love.

“I do my best,” he shrugs modestly. It’s a new look on the cocky, smooth-talking Killian Jones she used to know, and not a bad one. It makes him seem… adult. Like he’s got his ducks in a row now in a way neither of them were capable of when they were young. She almost misses his next question considering it. “I seem to remember David mentioning that you live in Boston these days?”

That snaps her back. “Yeah, Boston. I work in bail bonds there. Though lately…”

“You’re thinking about moving back?” he finishes. At Emma’s puzzled look, he continues. “Like I said, your brother mentioned it. He’s a bit of a gossip, I’ve rediscovered.”

Ah, of course. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”

“Well, if you end up deciding to come home… let me know. I’d be happy to see your face around these streets again.” He even smiles like he means it. It’s a nice surprise again; Killian Jones is just full of those today. She’d thought that there would only be a handful of people who’d be happy to see her - David and Ruth, Mary Margaret, Ruby and Granny - but maybe there’s some others, too. For whatever reason, Killian seems to be counting himself among them.

“Thanks,” she finally replies, somewhat awkwardly. What are you supposed to say to such an unexpected, purely kind thing, after all? It’s just the kind of thing the boy she remembered would have said - though she has to wonder if that’s a true memory, or something she inflated from her own childish crush and even more childish tendency to latch onto even the smallest kindness in the way only those starved for affection do. “I’ll make sure to do that. I’ll let you go mingle or whatever, but I’ll, uh… I’ll see you around?”

“Absolutely, Swan,” he winks. Or tries to, in the same way he’s apparently never learned how. “Save a dance for me?”

Dancing has never been her strong suit, but weirdly enough - or perhaps, not weirdly at all, considering who made the offer - Emma finds herself wanting that too, finds herself agreeing. “Sure,” she shrugs, making her best display of nonchalance even if her pulse has picked up at the very prospect. “I’ll catch you later.”

What harm could it do? After all, it’s just one dance.

———

It’s weird how time can change people, or at least change her perceptions of them, Emma notes. With some notable exceptions - Aurora Stephenson, now… whatever the hell her last name is, who will probably never grow out of her tendency to look down her nose at everyone and everything - most of the people she graduated with have turned into more adult versions of themselves, whether that means happier or more responsible or just more tired. It’s refreshing to see in a room otherwise so mired in the past, from the decor to the never-ending 2010-era playlist constantly piped overhead. Emma’s a little worried she’ll hear Fall Out Boy’s entire discography before the night is over - weird, considering she’d never have pegged Mary Margaret for a fan.

But Scarlet turns out to be funny now that he’s dropped the class clown screwup act, and Ashley is actually sweet now that she’s allowed to be more than just a mouse under her stepmother’s thumb. Her older child is about Henry’s age, a little girl named Alexandra, and it’s a comfort that Emma never knew she was denying herself just to have someone else to talk to about all the trials and tribulations of toddlerhood with. She’s never been one of those mothers, but she’s never had anyone she could be one with, either. Mary Margaret and David have only recently announced that they’re expecting a baby, and Emma’s been somewhat isolated in Boston for a long time. But if she ends up returning to Storybrooke… it’d be nice, already knowing Henry has a playmate. Maybe they can set something up for before they return to Boston.

Still, as much as Emma’s enjoying herself - against her will, really - there reaches a point where she needs to get away from it all. By some miracle she’s never sure she’ll deserve, Henry calls to say goodnight just when she’s becoming too overwhelmed. There’s been a pair of picnic tables just outside of the gym for as long as Emma’s been here to see them - much longer, she’d bet, if she knows anything about Storybrooke - and it’s another thing that hasn’t changed in all this time, the tables appearing to have been replaced sometime in the past decade and then positioned in the exact same place as before. It’s the perfect place to take the call and collect her thoughts again - close enough to still hear the music faintly (Panic! at the Disco now, because none of them have actually grown out of their teenage taste in music apparently) without it overwhelming her senses.

Nothing’s the matter, of course - just some three year old affection. It doesn’t stop Emma from seizing the opportunity to take a moment for herself. It’s been a long time since she’s spent this much time with this many adults in a situation where she’s expected to actually interact; after almost four years of cartoons and make-believe and bedtime stories, it’s a little taxing. In a good way, she thinks, or at least not a bad one.

“Ah, there you are,” a familiar voice calls. Killian again. He’s everywhere tonight - the man himself before her eyes as he settles onto the bench beside her, back braced against the wooden tabletop, and memories of their time in school embedded in every wall.

“Did Mary Margaret send you?” Emma asks. It would be perfectly in character - Emma’s sister-in-law trying to make sure that she’s socializing properly.

Killian shakes his head though. “No, I just needed a bit of air. Victor’s trying to break out some of his old dance moves, which is just as scarring as ever, so I figured that was my cue to step out for a moment. Noticed you were missing too, figured that maybe you had the same idea.”

“Not exactly,” Emma laughs. “I mean, I can’t blame you for avoiding that nightmare. But no, I, uh… I had to take a call.”

“Ah. Yeah, no, you definitely couldn’t manage that inside.”

Oddly enough, Emma feels the urge to open up to Killian, to tell him about Henry. It’s not something she does, typically; after so long searching for a family of her own, she still finds it hard sometimes to share Henry with others, even if it’s just bragging. She’d never keep him from making friends, of course - she’s not that kind of overprotective mother, and besides, his time at daycare has shown that the kid is unstoppably friendly - but in her own life, she keeps him to herself. Minimal talk with her coworkers. No mention at all to strangers, not even the vaguest reference.

But then again, Killian isn’t really a stranger, is he? Even after all this time, Emma’s instincts still say she can trust him. He’s never been anything but kind and generous.

“I’ve, uh… I ‘ve got a son,” she offers, with a weak smile. “Henry. He’ll be four in August. Pretty much the best thing that ever happened to me, you know? He’s just… the best. So, yeah, I came out here because he called to say goodnight.”

“He seems like a lovely boy,” Killian replies, something fond tinging his tone. The familiarity of it alarms Emma, and makes her eyes widen. To his credit, Killian seems to notice it right away, his brows furrowing into a frown. “Oh, now that sounded a bit creepy, didn’t it?” he asks. “It’s much less concerning than anything you’re thinking, Swan, I promise. Mrs. Nolan has an endearing habit of showing off any and all new photos of the lad she gets her hands on when she comes into Granny’s in the morning. A proud grandmother, that one, not that I can blame her if your boy is even half as bright and curious and sweet as she claims.”

That… makes sense. Even if it means Emma maybe needs to invest in muzzles for her entire family at the rate they’re blabbing her business around town. “Sorry if I looked like I was about to clock you,” she admits sheepishly. “It’s just… he’s everything. I worry.”

“I think that’s your prerogative as his mother,” Killian laughs good-naturedly. At least he’s not holding that little freak out against her.

Things fall into silence. Somehow, the quiet is more intimate than any conversation, almost cloyingly so. It keeps both of them from looking at each other, both turning towards the stars instead as P!nk blares distantly in the background. God, the last time Emma actually took a moment to look at the stars was probably in high school.

Killian, of course, is the one to break the quiet. He always was bolder than her. “Is the little lad with his father tonight, then?” He asks, almost too casually. Like he might care more about the answer than he wants to admit. Emma can’t imagine why.

“No,” she replies on a snort. “He wasn’t exactly interested in sticking around, for better or worse.”

“I’m sorry, love,” Killian murmurs. “It’s his loss.”

“It really is. Henry’s a great kid. It was hard at the time, though. I felt like I had found someone who really loved me and wanted me, but that obviously wasn’t the case. Should have known it was too good to be true.”

“You can’t possibly think this is your fault,” Killian prods, concern cooling his voice.

Emma shrugs. “I mean, I know that it was up to him. I didn’t force him out the door or anything. But at the same time… I know I’m difficult to love.” She tries to keep her voice nonchalant, but isn’t entirely convinced that it worked. That’s the problem with admitting one of your deepest fears.

“That’s not true,” Killian chides back gently

“Yeah, well, it sure seems like it a lot of the time. I don’t have much evidence to the contrary.”

The silence this time is almost anticipatory, somehow. Emma finds herself practically holding her breath as she waits for what’s next.

“You know, I had the biggest crush on you back in school,” Killian finally says, almost absentmindedly, still gazing up at the sky instead of at Emma.

“You did not.” It’s not one of her better responses, but it’s her gut response all the same. There’s no way - absolutely no way that Killian Jones, the Killian Jones of Storybrooke High, had a thing for her back when they were both still teenagers.

“Aye, I did,” he chuckles. She’d almost call it fond, if she didn’t know better. Fond is too big a stretch for someone you haven’t seen in ten years.

“I can’t imagine why.”

Killian stares at her blankly for a moment, like the words don’t process. “Oh, don’t say that.”

“Look, I was a mess in high school —”

“You were lovely, even then,” he interrupts. “Maybe that sounds a little cliche, but you were. To me, if no one else. There was so much drama and bullshit going on in high school, but somehow, in the middle of all that, you seemed like you couldn’t give less of a fuck about the whole thing. You were strong, and fierce, and… I guess I had a thing for that kind of attitude back then. Still do, really.”

Honestly, Emma doesn’t even know how to take that - any of that. Especially not that last bit. She’s just not equipped to process it. But at the same time… she owes it to herself to try. Both of them, really, and her past self to boot. He wasn’t the only one with a crush, after all. As much as it terrifies Emma to think that just maybe, after all this time, he might still think she’s lovely and fierce, it’s exhilarating at the same time. With that in mind, Emma takes a deep breath and forces herself to respond.

“Maybe you should have done something about that,” she replies with butterflies swarming in her stomach like she’s still a nervous high schooler.

For what it’s worth, Killian looks a little stunned. “I’m sorry?”

“I kind of had a thing for you too,” Emma confides. “You were kind of a dreamboat, you know.”

“Were?”

“Oh, don’t get cocky on me,” she laughs. “But yeah. If you had asked… I probably would have said yes. Almost definitely, actually.” It’s hard to say that she’d change things, if given the chance; after all, the path that took her here gave her Henry. But she still can’t help but wonder what might have been.

“I’m sorry I didn’t, then.” His voice is almost wistful, longing for something he’ll never grasp. “Out of curiosity, why didn’t you?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Not brave enough.” Emma waves a hand casually, like it wasn’t a big deal, despite remembering all the emotional turmoil of that same subject back in high school. “Plus, it seemed like you had a thing going with Tink half the time - which, trust me, I know sounds ridiculous now that she’s shown up to this with a girlfriend. Still.”

“Aye, that’d do it,” Killian laughs. “We’ve always been just close friends, though. For what it’s worth.”

“I know.”

The anticipatory silence is back, and this time, Emma knows what it’s waiting for. In any cheesy movie, this would be the moment they kissed, two former somethings reunited under the stars. She’s not ready for that, though - not with the pain of her last relationship’s abrupt dissolution still hanging over her head, just reinforcing all her concerns about abandonment. She’s already used up her bold quota for the day.

Quickly, she breezes past it to a new subject. “So what are you doing back here, anyways? I thought you were off to the Navy, gonna see the world.”

She regrets it as soon as she asks as Killian’s whole body suddenly seizes with tension.

“I was,” he says carefully. “I did. I was going to. But for better or worse, the Navy doesn’t have much use for a man with one hand.”

“I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to ask, wasn’t it?”

Killian sighs. “No, it’s fine. I know you didn’t mean any harm by it, it’s still just a subject I’m a bit touchy about.”

“I’m sure,” Emma murmurs. It’s hard to toe the line between wanting to seem sympathetic and coming off as prying.

“Before you ask, it was a car accident. Not at all related to my service,” Killian explains, seemingly seeing the hesitance in her eyes. “Someone ran a red light, and that was that. So I took advantage of servicemember scholarships to go to school instead, and six years later, here I am. It’s hard to claim that it’s all worked out for the best, considering I’m missing a pretty crucial limb, but I’m happy with where I’m at.”

“I was just thinking earlier, I bet you’re a great teacher,” Emma contributes. “One of the fun ones, but who still knows what they’re talking about and holds the kids accountable.”

It turns out, Killian still scratches at his ear when he’s embarrassed, just the way he did in high school. The red flush is the same too. “I do try. And what about you? Bail bonds, you said?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not a dream job by any stretch, but they were hiring when my ex and I first moved to Boston, close enough for me to walk to work, and I’ve kind of just stayed. It’s something I’m good at, as it turns out - a little bit of research and a little undercover work and a lot of being willing to chase down people doing their best to get away from you. It’s a living. The money can be good, if sporadic,” she shrugs. “One of the biggest appeals of the deputy position here, though, besides coming home, is the steady paycheck. I don’t know. Moving is hard, but it’s very tempting.”

“Well, I’m sure you’d be a brilliant deputy,” Killian smiles. As Emma stares back, the anticipatory silence falls again, but this time, she’s almost ready for it. With a few more seconds, maybe she could make a move, and it wouldn’t truly hurt to shift an inch closer…

“Emma, there you are!” Mary Margaret’s voice calls, shattering the intimacy of the moment. “David’s about to do his speech, and you wouldn’t want to —” she cuts off abruptly when she sees Emma’s not alone. “Oh, hello, Killian! I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”

“No, not at all,” Killian smiles. Meanwhile, Emma wants to scream Yes! back at her friend. Timing has never been her strong suit. “Go ahead and get David all set up, we’ll be right behind you.”

As Mary Margaret scurries off again, Killian hoists himself to his feet before offering Emma a hand of assistance - one she’s only too happy to accept. God, his hand is just the perfect balance between soft and callused, the hands of a man who might not work with his hands (so to speak) every day, but might have a hobby where he gets to. She’ll have to ask. “Well, Swan? Shall we go see what our erstwhile class president has to say?”

“Lead on.” It’s probably best that they were interrupted, anyways. This is just one night, after all.

———

Poor David - he’s never been much for public speaking. Emma will never understand why they needed a speech at this thing in the first place, let alone why Mary Margaret couldn’t have just made the remarks instead as the organizer of this whole thing.

Still, somehow they make it through, even if David’s practically swimming in sweat by the time he exits the stage. That suit jacket is definitely going to need a trip to the cleaner. Emma manages to park herself close to the dessert table while the whole spectacle unfolds, sampling all the little bars and cookies and cupcakes while everyone else is distracted. She’ll have to thank David for that later.

She’s just reaching for a cookies and cream cupcake - she can’t quite remember who opened a bakery, but God bless them for it - when Killian appears by her side again.

“Might I steal you for a dance, Swan?” he asks. “I have it on good authority that they’re about to play a slow song.”

Emma laughs. “You bribed Mary Margaret, didn’t you?”

“Oh, shamelessly. So what do you say, Swan?” He offers his hand.

Maybe she should think about it more. Maybe it’s committing to something she’ll regret later. But for now, Emma takes his hand without hesitation. “Yeah. Let’s dance.”

There’s a little section of floor left open as if just for them, allowing Killian to lead her around to face him. Emma can’t help but chuckle as they come together, twining arms around necks and waists like any respectable high schooler faced with a slow song. And what a song it is: three beat time, Paramore. The soundtrack of her most fanciful imaginings way back when. Perfect.

“What are you giggling about?” he teases. If she didn’t know any better, she’d almost say there’s affection in his voice.

“Nothing. It’s kind of stupid.” Still, Killian watches until she continues, until she caves. “It’s just… I used to dream about this, you know? My own personal fantasy - and not like that, don’t even start with the eyebrows,” she warns. “But… even if I tried not to show it and even if I believed that love wasn’t in the cards for me, there was still a little bit of me that wanted. I’d imagine a moment, just like this. It’d be like a movie. We’d be dancing at prom or winter formal or something, and the whole world would melt away. I’m pretty sure I choreographed the camera movements in my head. And then, at the end… there’d be a moment. We’d kiss. And it would be my first kiss, and it’d be perfect.” Emma laughs just hearing herself. It’s almost disgustingly romantic, really. “Pretty silly, honestly.”

“I don’t know, Swan. I think it sounds nice.” He takes a moment to carefully twirl her underneath his arm, followed by a few moments of silence once they’ve floated back together again. “We still could, you know. Make that fantasy happen.”

Emma snorts a laugh, even as a huge part of her heart yearns, practically pulling towards his. “I’ve got a kid, Jones. Trust me, the first kiss boat has long since sailed.”

Killian smiles down at her with those calm, kind eyes she fell in love with a decade ago. There’s no denying that she’s still held in their thrall all these years later. “Maybe so. But we could still have our first kiss.”

The words hang in the air between them, full of hope. Still, Emma knows he won’t make a move unless she’s right there with him. “I’m not that girl anymore,” she tells him - warns him, against everything her heart is screaming. “I’ve changed a lot since high school.”

“I know.”

“And even with that… you’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure. We’ve both changed, but all I know is that you’ve become even more lovely and enchanting in that time, and I’d be honored to kiss you to the greatest hits of 2009 and 2010.”

“I think Mary Margaret included some stuff from before then too,” Emma replies, stalling for time.

“Ah, well, that’s almost a dealbreaker, but I suppose I’d be willing to kiss you to the greatest hits pre-2009 as well,” Killian teases. “If you want me to, that is.”

And that’s the question, isn’t it? It’s a thin, fragile line between wanting something so badly and being afraid to just reach out and take it, especially when you’re given the chance to do just that.

“I’m afraid,” she finally admits. “I can’t tell you that I’m moving home. I don’t even know that. And what if I don’t? Is this just a fling from the old days? Some belated wish fulfillment? A one time thing?”

“I hope not,” Killian replies calmly. “ I hope this is more than just two people giving into an old crush and never seeing each other again. I know that I wanted you then, and I wanted you for a long time after we went our separate ways, and I wanted you again when I spotted you from across the room tonight. Do I hope that you’ll decide to move back to Storybrooke? Yes. But only if it makes you happy. And if you decide that you’ll be happier in Boston, that you and your boy belong there… well, I suppose I’ll have to start looking for date night spots in the city, because I want more than just this one kiss, and I’m willing to fight for it. But that all depends on whether you want that too.” As her silence persists, Emma searching for her courage and her words, Killian’s face drops into a twist of uncertainty. It’s not a look Emma’s used to seeing on his face, and she doesn’t particularly like it. At all. “Would you like that?” he asks softly, the uncertainty even coloring his tone.

“Yes.” Emma only whispers it, but stares into his eyes intently all the while. Hopefully that can convince him of her sincerity, even if her words can’t. When she tries to speak up, it only comes out in a jumble anyways. “I… yeah. Yeah, I would.”

His answering smile seems to spread from the very center of him, blooming across his face slowly like the most delicate flower. Maybe a water lily; that seems fitting, somehow. “In that case…” His hand travels from where it had rested on her waist to cup her cheek instead. “May I?”

Emma barely takes the time to nod before she’s pressing up that last half inch in her heels to capture his lips within her own.

The thing about imagining what a kiss might be like for so long is that you’ve run it so many times in your head at a certain point that the real thing is never going to live up to everything you imagined. What’s even better is that this kiss, this particular realization of all that longing? It doesn’t need to live up to anything, instead a perfect expression all its own. That little romantic voice still hiding deep inside Emma wants to call it a fairytale dream come true; the rest of her is more than happy to just savor the moment as it shifts from teasing, exploratory brushes of her lips against his to something deeper and more determined. Her arms wind fully around his neck and his more tightly around her waist, leaving them twined together as tongues begin to seek and probe and stroke. For a moment, it’s like they’re the only two people in the world - like some kind of teenaged dream, if she can ever be forgiven for such an awful, topical joke.

When they finally separate, it’s only by scant inches, bodies still pressed together and foreheads touching with only space left for their mouths to gasp for air.

“That was…” she starts, unsure frankly how to finish. There’s still not nearly enough oxygen reaching her brain to properly think, her body and all its functions far more interested in diving back in for more than any stupid thinking. Or talking. Or… anything, really.

Thankfully, Killian is there to pick up where her words fail. “Bloody earth-shattering.” Even if Emma can’t see his goofy grin with her eyes still closed, she can still hear it in his voice.

“Yeah. Yeah, it definitely was.” Somewhere in the middle of their dance floor makeout, the song has changed to something more upbeat - a dance tune that Emma doesn’t recognize, but knows Mary Margaret would insist was absolutely definitely played at every school dance when they were in high school. She doesn’t really want this to end - doesn’t want it at all, in fact - but it’s probably about time they stopped standing in the middle of the floor. With great reluctance, she unwinds her arms from his neck and steps back, but makes sure to meet Killian’s gaze with a smirk. “So. You mentioned a date? Where are you taking me?”

Killian laughs before moving to dig in an inner jacket pocket, ultimately producing a flask. “Well, for the moment, what do you say to a drink? I think I see some glasses of punch over there just waiting to be spiked.”

“It’s a date.”

And if she has anything to say about it, the first of many.

#cs ff #captain swan #csseptembersunshine #my writing #The Song Remains the Same #high school reunions #mutual pining #and a blatant excuse for slow dancing to paramore

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shipaholic · 4 years

Text

Omens Universe, Chapter 1 Part 4

Jesus this chapter kicked my arse for a fortnight. OK, resume.

Warning for cartoony body-horror, just in case.

Link to next part at the end.

---

(last part)

(chrono)

Chapter 1, cont.

Crawly wouldn’t stop snickering. It was getting on Aziraphale’s last nerve.

The cart went over another bump. Aziraphale’s head wobbled off and rolled onto the floor. He shot Crawly an imploring look from near the demon’s ankle.

Crawly tutted and picked him up. “Alas, poor angel,” he said solemnly, holding Aziraphale’s head at arm’s length.

“I appreciate the sympathy, but please could you reassemble me?” Aziraphale dreaded to think how this must look to the driver.

“All right, all right. Mind you, I don’t know how long it’ll stay on this time. There are more potholes out here than on the road to Hell. I keep telling them to get it paved.” Crawly propped his head back on top of his torso. It wasn’t precisely on-centre, but both of them had given up on precision some time ago. Aziraphale’s body was entirely held together by string at this point, and occasionally bits of him swapped places. Right now he had a right foot for a left hand. [1] They had concealed [2] the rest of him under a rug made of animal skins that, he hated to say, was a bit whiffy.

“Heaven will definitely know how to patch you up, right?” Crawly eyed the ambiguous collection of shapes under the rug.

“Oh yes. A quick spritz of holy water should fix this up in a jiffy.”

The demon nodded, and draped himself back down on the floor opposite Aziraphale. “Heaven’s really behind the times, here,” he said, in the tones of one recently given a shinier work computer than the coworker he is addressing. “You should tell your side to get into the sixth century. Making us trek miles across a desert wasteland just to drop off a prisoner? Totally inefficient. Practically everything’s a portal to Hell nowadays.” His eyes clouded over thinking about it.

“Heaven has more of a ‘don’t call on us, we’ll call on you’ ethos,” said Aziraphale.

“I remember,” Crawly said darkly.

They fell silent. Aziraphale wished Crawly hadn’t mentioned the prisoner. He’d tried not to look at her since they’d boarded the cart. She radiated an air of sullen martyrdom from the back corner. Crawly had tied her up and chained her to him for extra security with a set of miraculously acquired manacles. He had cursed the chains with supernatural density, pinning the Nephilim to the floor of the cart by the ankle. [3]

Aziraphale forced his gaze away. He wanted to fidget. It bothered him that he couldn’t. He did the next best thing and changed the subject.

“This isn’t a desert wasteland. It’s nice actually. I think.” Turning his head to watch the passing scenery was out, but he was getting a pleasant enough picture. He blinked in the direction he wanted Crawly to look. “Look, they’ve farmed it. Slightly. See, plants. Of some kind.”

“I don’t care about plants, angel.” Crawly did still look, though. His yellow eyes flicked over the scrubby proto-vegetables.

“Humans are clever, aren’t they?” Aziraphale beamed. “They’ve domesticated so much of the Earth’s natural flora. And the results are very impressive.”

“Mm. Bit slow. Let’s help them along, shall we?” Crawly snapped his fingers and a sad-looking tree erupted into vibrant good health as they passed. Oranges sprouted among the leaves. Crawly held out an open hand, and a perfect round fruit fell into it. Crawly’s golden eyes shone, even more luminous than the orange. He nodded approval and tossed it over the side.

Aziraphale gasped to watch it go. “That was wasteful,” he said, plaintively.

Crawly pulled a face. “Don’t tell me you eat the food.”

Aziraphale paused. He hadn’t checked with his superiors whether it was ok to eat the food. He’d just done it. A lot. Which perhaps he shouldn’t admit to the enemy.

“Ugh. Your funeral. You know it goes through you?”

Aziraphale knew, and saw no need to discuss it further. “You should have kept it and given it to her. Humans need to eat.”

The Nephilim shot him a glare that could melt rocks.

“She’s only half-human,” said Crawly. “Maybe she only needs half the food.”

The Nephilim turned her glare on him. Crawly, who had bested her in battle a handful of hours ago, flinched.

“Fine, I’ll get her something before we reach head office,” he muttered. “Which should be sometime later this week,” he added in a raised voice.

The driver cheerfully ignored him. The donkey pulling their cart turned its head to eyeball Crawly. Its ears were pinned to its skull. It had the look of a beast that knew an apex predator was nearby, and was biding its time until it could catch him unawares and stamp him into a pancake. Aziraphale suspected Crawly felt similarly about the donkey. For his part, he tried to be charitable toward all God’s creatures, but there was no denying the animal’s loose definition of walking in a straight line had accounted for half his head-displacements so far.

“I hope no-one Upstairs is looking out for us,” he sighed.

Crawly raised an eyebrow. “You’d be ok, surely? You haven’t done anything wrong. Except fail to capture Heaven’s lovechild, I guess, but they’ll take one look at you and reckon you put up a good fight. Look, if they ask awkward questions, you can say I kidnapped you and the bastard offspring and you did a daring escape at the front gate. Problem solved. If anyone’s in trouble, it’s me. I’m aiding and abetting the enemy.”

Aziraphale sighed again. “That’s not what I mean. I just… This looks rather bad, that’s all. Me, here, in the enemy's presence. No offence. I should be… at least trying to thwart you.”

“Um, rude? I’m the one who paid for the taxi. Anyway, thwart me how? You can only move your eyebrows.”

Crawly was correct. Aziraphale didn’t really want to thwart him. It would be ungrateful. Still, there were… expectations.

“I could bargain with you,” he said. “For Sabrael.”

Crawly tipped his head back and laughed. “You mean Sabrael Junior?”

“That is Sabrael,” Aziraphale said stubbornly. He met the Nephilim’s eyes. He looked squarely into the golden gem in her forehead. “Look, they’re right there. Plain as anything.”

Crawly shook his head. “I don’t think so, angel. I’ve met human teenagers, they’re all reckless and rebellious and pissed off all the time. Does that sound like anyone Upstairs? That’s not an Archangel, that’s pure human adolescent.”

“Sabrael could get a little testy when the minutes weren’t submitted on time -” Aziraphale tried. Crawly cut him off with a look. “Oh, fine. But that is Sabrael’s gem!”

They both looked at it. It glared in the sunshine. The Nephilim glared too, less blindingly.

“If they were discorporated -” Crawly began.

“For fifteen years? And that’s not all,” Aziraphale plunged on, before the demon could come out with a counterargument. “Have you stopped to think what Hell will do to her?”

Crawly’s mouth worked soundlessly before he managed, “Well, that’s not my department, is it? I don’t do interrogations...”

He trailed off. Aziraphale gave him his most guilt-inducing look, with all the parts of his face that still worked.

“Look, she’s doomed either way!” Crawly’s voice jumped an octave. “What do you think your side’s cooking up for her, a welcome home party?”

“We certainly don’t torture people, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Got that in writing, have you?”

“You cannot possibly believe she’ll be better off with you.”

“I can, actually. And anyway, it’s irrelevant. My kill, my keep. Metaphorically.”

“I don’t expect you to understand, but could you try to look at it from doog retaerg eht fo evitcepsrep eht?”

Aziraphale knew that hadn’t come out right. He tried again.

“Dnous I od woh?”

Crawly didn’t blink. Carefully, he pulled back the rug covering Aziraphale’s assembled body parts, and searched through them until he found the angel’s right hand. He held it up and peered at the gem.

Aziraphale felt a flicker of nerves. “Ees uoy od tahw?”

Crawly breathed in and out, steadily. Like a heartbeat, although neither of them required blood or breath. It was calming.

“The crack is bigger,” he said, finally. He placed Aziraphale’s hand back on the seat and tucked the rug back around him.

“Oh?” Aziraphale’s voice wobbled.

“Not by much. You’ll be fine.” Crawly leaned over the side of the cart, squinting into the sun. “We need to go faster, though. Come on, you useless beast.” Suddenly his voice was a snarl. “She only designed you to lug things around. I would know, I was there. Get. On. With. It.”

The donkey brayed like one of the damned [4], and broke into a canter. The cart lurched and bounced from pothole to pothole. Aziraphale kept his head by sheer luck. He suspected they only weren’t capsizing because of infernal manipulation from Crawly.

He probably only had one chance to say this. He thought through each word he needed Crawly to listen to, sounded them out in his head one by one. “...Craw. ...Ly?”

Crawly’s head snapped around. Aziraphale licked his lips and focussed his entire brain on speaking backwards. “...Don’t. ...Hand. ...Her. ...Over. ...To. ...Them.” He paused. “...Please.”

Crawly didn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “Not long now. Save your strength,” he said, gruffly.

Aziraphale sighed. That was all he could do.

~*~

The driver craned her head back. She’d been loyally ignoring every weird thing that had happened behind her since the start of the trip, since the tall skinny gentleman gave her a gigantic tip up front, but now the poorly gentleman under the rug seemed to be speaking in tongues and you had to draw the line somewhere.

“You gents feeling all right?”

“We’re fine,” said the dapper one. He was glaring at Pebbles the donkey. There was something funny about his eyes, but her mind slid away from noticing what.

“Pot-pit etiuq,” said the other one. That was definitely what he said.

“Only…” The driver cleared her throat. This was awkward. “Is he possessed by a demon?”

For some reason, the one in black grinned at this. “Well -” he began.

“On,” the other one said, sharply.

The man in black looked chastened. The driver recalled the size of the tip. She could probably keep ignoring them for now. And if the sickly one got any ectoplasm or whatnot on the backseat, she’d charge them extra.

---

[1] Crawly tried to make a ‘two left feet’ joke, but Aziraphale refused to accept it on grounds of inaccuracy. Ten minutes of arguing preceded fifteen minutes of the demon sulking. It was the low-light of their journey so far.

[2] Or, rather, stacked.

[3] It was doing the same thing to Crawly. It was pretty uncomfortable. He was trying not to let on.

[4] Aziraphale assumed.

---

(Chapter 1, Part 5)

#omens universe fic #omens universe #good omens #good omens fic #steven universe #this scene was a bitch and a half no lie #crowley #aziraphale #i considered recording aziraphale's dialogue and reversing it with a programme online then phonetically transposing it #but nah too complicated

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illyrianbeauty · 6 years

Text

A Not so Chance Encounter: Chapter 13

Rhys is persuaded to attend a fundraiser by his cousin Mor. He didn’t expect to meet the girl of his dreams.

Fic Masterlist

Writing Masterlist

Chapter 13: Pics and Kicks

Once Rhys had recovered enough from the shock of Nesta’s blunt, though rather perceptive question, he stammered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He cursed inwardly at the heat he felt creeping up along his neck and face, certain that it would give Nesta a legitimate reason to doubt the sincerity of his words.

Nesta inspected her immaculately manicured nails as though bored and drawled, “Oh… so you don’t stare at Feyre Darling when you think she’s not looking or hang on her every word?” She gave him a piercing look, as though daring him to disagree with her.

“She’s got you there, bro,” Cass snickered. Rhys shot him a glare and flipped him off, muttering a string of filthy curse words under his breath.

“Well, it is kind of obvious that you have feelings for her, Rhys,” Az said consolingly.

“To everyone, that is, except for my sister.” Nesta snorted before continuing, “How she hasn’t seen and called you out on your constant ogling is a mystery to me.”

Rhys crossed his arms over his chest and scowled, “I do not ogle her.” Admittedly, he had already checked her out a few times that evening, and... well… every time he saw her. But Nesta sure as hell couldn’t know that. Could she? Fuck. Had it really been that obvious? He replayed the evening in his mind, hoping that his appreciation for how beautiful Feyre looked had not been that noticeable. Discrete, he assured himself. He had definitely been discrete when he had checked her out.

Nesta rolled her eyes and sneered, “Cut the shit Rhysand and answer the damn question. When are you going to tell my sister that you are in love with her?” Rhys looked at each of his friends in turn, silently beseeching each of them to help him out of this situation.

“I’d like to know the answer to that question myself,” Amren said with an irreverent shrug of her shoulders.

Cassian, who had been inconspicuously moving closer and closer to Nesta as the conversation proceeded, chimed in, “You’re on your own here, Rhys. I highly doubt Nessie is going to let this slide without an actual answer from you.”

Nesta slowly twisted around and faced Cassian. The smile she gave him was, undoubtedly, the most frightening thing that Rhys had ever seen in his entire life. She sauntered over to Cass, hips swishing with each step she took as she closed the distance between them. Cass’s eyes grew wide as Nesta stopped a hair’s breadth away from him, her chest imperceptibly brushing up against his. Cass gulped audibly as their eyes made contact. Rhys shared a concerned glance with Az, unsure as to what Nesta had planned. Whatever it was, he thought, it couldn’t be good. Amren watched the two with amused interest, much like one would watch a movie. In fact, the only thing she seemed to be missing was the popcorn. Cass’s breath hitched as Nesta reached up and ran a hand through his long hair, which happened to be down for once and not in its usual bun. His eyes glanced down at Nesta’s lips briefly before flicking back up to her eyes. Nesta’s smile grew even wider as she wrapped her other arm around his neck. Cass’s eyes darkened with desire as he placed his hands on her hips, pulling her impossibly closer to him. Never taking her eyes off of his, Nesta tilted her face towards him. With the slightest of smiles upon his face, Cass closed his eyes and leaned towards her. Just as their lips were about to meet, Nesta grinned wickedly. She removed her hands from his hair and the back of his neck and gripped his shoulders. Rhys watched in both amusement and horror as she proceeded to knee Cass viciously between the legs. Both Az and Rhys winced at the sight, knowing exactly how painful the blow had been. Amren, being the ferocious beast that she was, began cackling uncontrollably.

“Nice try, asshole,” Nesta sneered as she stepped out of his arms.

“What the fuck?” Cass roared, doubled over in pain as he grasped his manhood gingerly.

“I warned you not to call me Nessie, you imbecile.” She gave him a serpentine smile and warned, “Now maybe you’ll think twice before doing it again.” Cass gaped at her, a mixture of disbelief, pain, anger, and lust upon his face. Rhys wasn’t surprised in the least that Cass could still be turned on by a woman who had just kneed him in the balls. For someone, such as Cassian, who had no difficulty attracting members of the opposite sex, a female not throwing herself at him was seen as a welcome challenge.

Cass stuttered, “I… You… What the…”

Ignoring Cassian and acting as though nothing remotely interesting had just happened, Nesta turned to face Rhys and sniffed, “Well?”

Rhys had an overwhelming desire to shield his own private parts from her, just in case she turned her wrath towards him. Stifling that impulse, he said, “Feyre and I are just friends. And she happens to be engaged, in case you hadn't noticed.”

Nesta snorted, “That idiot doesn’t deserve her. He’s selfish. Not to mention controlling, condescending, and arrogant.” She looked Rhys up and down before saying, “At least you treat her with respect. Even if you do gawk at her every chance you get.” Rhys wasn’t sure how to respond to that. After all, how much of a compliment could it be, saying that he was a slightly better choice than Tamlin? It’s not as if someone could get any lower than him.

Rhys shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced around, wanting to look anywhere but at those steely grey-blue eyes. Cassian was intentionally keeping his distance from the eldest Archeron sister, though his attention remained fixed on her. He was no longer cradling his balls and his face was uncharacteristically stoney as he stared hard at her.

“Nesta is right. You should tell her, boy,” Amren stated. As usual, her tone of voice indicated that she was talking to a child, and a dimwitted one at that.

Rhys narrowed his eyes at the small, yet strangely fierce and intimidating woman. “Why? What good would that do?” He ran a hand through his hair and said rather defensively, “The only thing that would happen if I told her how I feel is that she would get pissed as hell and I would lose her as a friend.”

“Rhys, we’ve all told you this before. Many times. She has a right to know how you feel,” Az said beseechingly.

Nesta stalked up to Rhys, poked his chest with a finger, and snapped, “It would give her a choice in whom she is in a relationship with. That’s what telling her would do. She deserves that- a choice.”

“She made her choice when she put that ring on her finger.” he hissed. He paused, taking a deep breath in order to get his rising temper under control. “And unless she chooses to take it off for good, I am not going to tell her anything.”

“Then you’re a damned fool, Rhysand. And I was very, very wrong about the kind of person I thought you were,” Nesta spat at him, standing so close to him now that they were nearly nose to nose.

He threw his hands up in exasperation and took a few steps back. There was no way that he could tell Feyre. Especially not now, seeing as though she had been distancing herself from them lately. For Cauldron's sake, she hadn’t even spoken to Mor or him about her engagement to Tamlin. It was going to be hard enough for him to broach that particular subject with her tonight, let alone confess his feelings for her. He needed to take things slowly, one step at a time. Otherwise, she would walk out of his life and he would lose her forever.

Some of the devastation he was feeling must have been showing on his face because Nesta’s expression softened slightly as she implored, “Rhys, trust me. Please. I know my sister and she would want to know how you feel about her.” Rhys was instantly struck by the softness and sincerity in her voice. That, and the fact that she had just called him Rhys. There was definitely more to Nesta than meets the eye, he decided.

“We have drinks for everyone!” Mor chirped as she sauntered up to the group, hands laden with beer bottles. Feyre, who was also holding several bottles, wasn’t far behind. She passed one to her sister first. After the rather heated conversation with Nesta, Rhys was feeling somewhat exposed as Feyre made eye contact and approached him.

“Here you go, Rhysee Poo,” she said in a sing-song voice as she offered him a beer. Upon seeing her smile, he found himself beginning to relax.

“Why thank you, Darling,” he murmured, still somewhat unnerved. Her brows narrowed in a silent question, one which he answered with a smile that was just for her.

***

Rhys watched as Mor and Feyre sashayed back to the table, arm in arm and giggling like fools. After Mor’s endless badgering, Feyre had finally relented and joined her on the dance floor. Cauldron, her smile was breathtaking.

Before he could lose his nerve and chicken out, he asked with a smirk, “Care to join me for a minute out on the balcony, Darling? It looks like you need to cool down.” In all honesty, she did look slightly sweaty from her and Mor’s antics on the dance floor. It was a good opportunity to get her on her own and talk- too good for him to pass up.

“Sure, why not. I could definitely use some fresh air.”

As they walked outside, Rhys said a silent prayer to the Mother that the conversation he was about to have went smoothly. Once they were outside, Feyre leaned up against the railing and gazed up at the sky.

“Have I ever told you how much I love the night sky?”

“No, though I should have guessed since that’s what you painted me for my birthday.” She smiled, her eyes remaining fixated on the night.

Rhys walked up and leaned against the railing next to her, so close their elbows nearly touched. They stood in a comfortable silence for a few minutes.

Unsure of how to begin, he asked, “Enjoying yourself tonight?”

“Yup! Watching Cassian and Nesta glaring at each other during dinner was rather entertaining,” she chuckled.

He snorted, “I bet you a hundred dollars that Nesta knees him in the balls again before the night is over.” They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“I wish I would have been there to see that!”

“Me too! I think Cass has finally met his match.”

She turned her attention back to the view, still chuckling slightly.

“I’m glad you came tonight. We’ve missed you.” The smile on her face instantly disappeared and her body stiffened.

He turned his body so he was facing her more fully. “I’ve been worried about you, you know.”

Feyre sighed heavily and turned to face him. “I’m sorry I’ve been kinda distant lately. I’ve… had a lot going on.”

“Like an engagement ring you’ve failed to mention?” Feyre broke eye contact with him and stared down at the offending piece of jewelry. Her continued silence began to make him uneasy, so he continued, “You know that you can talk to me about anything, right?”

Silence. He wished he knew what was going through her head. He placed a hand on her shoulder and said quietly, “Feyre?” Her eyes finally lifted to meet his and he was lost in their blue-grey depths. Standing this close together, they were nearly touching foreheads. A stray curl had come loose and lay in front of her face. He reached his hand out and tucked it behind her ear. Her breath hitched ever so slightly at the contact. He stared at her in wonder. Was she… Did she… Could she… It happened so fast that he almost didn’t catch it- her eyes darted down to his lips quickly and then right back up to his eyes. He ran a hand down her check and whispered, “Feyre, I..”

A bright flash of light stopped him in his tracks. He and Feyre jumped apart and whipped around. Mor stood grinning like a fiend while holding up her phone. “I’ll send you the picture Fey.” With that, she turned around and flounced back inside.

“Well, we should get back to the party,” she stammered. He watched as she practically ran inside and away from him.

And just like that, the dream he had been living in came to an end.

***

As they often did on Saturday afternoons, Rhys met Mor the following day at their favorite little bookstore. They would frequently spend an hour or two perusing the books and then grab a coffee at the shop next door, something they had been doing for years. They were currently sitting at a table near the window, enjoying their drinks when Mor’s phone began to vibrate.

“Huh. That’s strange. Fey just messaged me on Facebook. I don’t think she’s done that before. She normally just texts.”

Rhys watched his cousin’s face become incredibly pale and horror stricken as she read the message.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he demanded.

Unable to speak, she offered him the phone. He wrenched the phone from her hand and quickly scanned the text.

Mor, I need you to come pick me up at Tamlin’s place now!! Please get here as soon as you can! It’s an emergency! I’ll explain everything later, but I need your help! Please hurry!

Rhys grabbed the keys off the table and was running out of the door in an instant, Mor following closely behind him.

His hands shook in fear as he turned the ignition. Shit. Shit. Shit.

***

Tagging @sannexwhoops @bitchypan @howtotameyourillyrian @cerridwxn @urbisie @thelaughingzeebra @summertime-acoustic @girl-who-fangirls @my-ships-will-never-be-sank @irrelevant5

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cliterally-what · 6 years

Text

what i wish rowling would write

Year 1

Three dark haired boys sulk inside a Hogwarts express cabin. The only luminescent thing in the room is the girl.

Her hair is fiery red and everyone's eyes swim with worry, except hers are bright green. She has a sour taste in her mouth from her fight with her sister. Looking down at her wand, she realized, maybe I am a freak. She was taking subjects called “Potions” and “Charms” after all.

The young boy’s face next to her looks grim. His long dark greasy hair fell around his hollow face. He already gained his first nickname. It wasn’t a good one.

Across from them sat another boy. His hair curled quite perfectly around his chin and he had a goofy lopsided grin. He sat laid back munching on Bertie Botts Every Flavour Bean. To Lily and Severus, he looked without a worry. Only he wasn’t. He sat petrified his family would disown him for not placing in Slytherin, but he knew at the very back of his mind he wanted Gryffindor. But he was also so scared the Sorting Hat would touch his head, would sense his countless generations of pureblood and Slytherin ancestry and cry “Slytherin” without hesitation. He disagreed with his family, but was too young to ever form a proper argument back. He knew one thing though, he liked the boy next to him.

As for the last boy, well he was excited, the only thing that worried him was if his hair was messy enough. He ran his hand through one more time as his knee bounced up and down. He wasn’t good at sitting still.

Year 4

Slughorn tells Snape he should take notes from Lily, even though he was second best in the class. Lily noticed from that day forward he constantly took more notes and even scribbled in the margins of his potions book.

Year 5

It’s year five and everything’s more complicated. OWLs are coming up and Lily can’t think. The knot in her stomach that she usually only feels before a big exam hasn’t left in three months. The knot grows bigger every 4th period when she has stupid Potions. The only class she shares with Severus and James. She can’t think when Severus shoots her daggers for not sitting with him and she can’t think when she hears James’s infuriating voice. Now a days, she can’t decide who she hates more. Severus has been acting so strange recently; at first, Lily thought it was because Professor Slughorn liked her so much. She soon realized he spent most of the class not paying attention at all but rather playing with his own potions set and hurriedly writing things down in his textbook. Normally, Lily would have investigated this matter more, but she was too tired these days.

Slughorn dipped into the Potions closet for a moment and James seized his opportunity to taunt Snape again.

“Snivellus, got dung under your nose again, eh?” James called out.

“Actually mate, I think that’s his natural face!” Sirius chimed in. Severus turned beet red, and mumbled a combination of foul language under his breath, which just made them laugh harder. Infuriated, Severus raised his wand, but lucky for James and Sirius, Slughorn reentered the room.

“Oho, Severus! No need for wands right now,” Slughorn caught his eye on his raised wand. He circled around Severus’s cauldron and exclaimed, “Excellent! One of the best Draught of Peace potions, I’ve seen in a while!”

At this, Severus perked up and scribbled more onto his book. James found it peculiar how he kept writing in his textbook; books were supposed to be kept in pristine condition. He nudged Sirius and directed his eyes in Severus’s direction. No words needed to be spoken for them to understand what to do next.

“Oh well, would you look at the time! Class over! A short six inch essay on Moonstone properties due Friday,” Slughorn announced. The class quickly shuffled towards the door but James and Sirius hung back making sure they’d walk behind Severus. He clutched his potions book under his arm, oblivious to his enemies walking behind him. Once out of the sight from the classroom, James nicked the book out from under his arm and flipped open to a page. Severus looked back wildly and tried to grab it out of James’s hand, but he was too fast. He dodged Severus’s arm and skirted backwards.

Reading off the page, James shouted, “Snivellus, why’d you write turn the potion twice clockwise when it clearly states once counter clockwise? Or crush don’t cut the beetle? Think you’re a hot shot, yeh? Gonna run back home to show your Daddy how smart you are? Oh, right, I forgot he walked out on your greasy arse.”

“Give that back, you arrogant fuck,” Severus fumed, lunging aggressively for the book. Again, James was too fast, and tossed the book over his head to Sirius.

With a casual catch, Sirius opened the book to the front cover and read aloud, “property of the Half-Blood Prince. What the fuck that’s supposed to mean? You’re that stupid you think you’re a prince?”

“Is that what you tell yourself to fall asleep at night?” James laughed, but soon realized Professor Slughorn was coming down the hall. He tossed the book back to Severus and ran off. “Catch you later, Snivellus!”

As Severus’s “friendships” with Avery, Mulciber, and other twisted Slytherins grew stronger, these interactions grew more frequent. James and Sirius despised the lot of them and the dark magic they used. Lily remained torn as ever; she hated Severus’s friends but couldn’t stand to see James and Sirius terrorize him. On a particular sunny day just after OWLs were finished, James lay about under a tree with Remus and Sirius. He lazily played with a snitch, letting it fly away for a moment, then snatching it before it went too far. Spotting Lily walking towards the lake, he quickly sat up and gave his hair an extra rumple.

“Mate, she isn’t paying attention to you,” Remus laughed, noticing his sudden alertness. James looked slightly deflated, but not for long; Avery and Mulciber were also coming down towards the lake with Severus a few strides behind them, trying to keep up. Eventually they sat under a tree across the way from Remus, Sirius, and James. They talked darkly among themselves before Avery and Mulciber sent Severus off. James stopped playing with his snitch, and Sirius began watching too. Severus snuck up behind a group of girls, which James knew to be Hufflepuffs, one of them was a muggle born. It looked as though he had dropped a letter behind the muggle born, then he slowly walked off. In unison, James and Sirius tore off from their seats, catching up with Severus before he made it back to his “friends.”

“Delivered a foul message to Penelope...Does that got anything to do with her being muggle born?” James angrily whispered behind his back. Severus quickly snatched his wand out of his robes and his face went pale. He had not expected to be caught.

“Serves her right, nasty mudblood,” Severus retorted.

Before James could even react, Sirius had already screamed “Scourgify!”. Severus’s mouth suddenly filled with bubbles, choking him. Now, lots of people were watching them, and James instantly noticed Lily was a spectator too. Severus spat the soap out of his mouth and quickly rounded up on Sirius, but James was too quick.

“Petrificus totalus!” Severus body crumpled to the ground frozen. At this, Lily ran over and cried the counter jinx.

“James, you arse!” Lily spat.

“I only did something because he left a fowl letter for Penelope!” James tried to reason.

“Sev, you wouldn’t do that, right?” Lily implored, but by her tone of voice she already knew the answer.

Severus, obviously mortified by James and Sirius’s teasing and the fact that Lily had to save him, spat back “So what if I did? She’s a filthy mudblood just like you.”

Acting unphased, Lily coolly walked away, leaving Sirius and James to continue their bullying.

That was the last time Lily ever considered Severus a friend.

Year 6

Year six holds a lot of surprises for Lily: she and Severus are finished, she witnesses a wizarding war for the first time, and most shocking of all, she realizes James might not be a bullying arrogant toerag after all.

Sixth year potions proved difficult as ever. Much more talented in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration, James desperately needed help. After pleading Lily the first two weeks of the school year, she finally agreed to tutor him on the condition that he would stop playing with his hair. They spent Monday and Wednesday nights together, couped up in the common room or library. Their meetings always started on track and James would actually act very studious. By the end however, the conversation had strayed from Potions but to Quidditch or the latest gossip, and they usually ended up in bouts of laughter. Lily enjoyed the conversations about the war the most though. She found it refreshing to hear James be serious and she found it hopeful to hear his thoughtful and brave insight about the war. To Lily’s dismary, she soon discovered how much she actually enjoyed his presence, but of course she wouldn’t admit that to anyone. He never stopped playing with his hair, but she began to notice how attractive she found him, especially with his hair messy. That secret would be taken to the grave.

Their Potions lessons turned into Lily sitting with James and his friends in all of the classes they shared and even hanging out after class. With Lily’s newfound respect for James, Sirius’s came too. Remus, of course, she had always admired. She found it an escape to hang out with the Marauders, they were fully aware of the horrors outside the castle, but they never seemed to stop their laughter and practical jokes. As some of the cruelty leaked into Hogwarts (always stemming from Severus or other Slytherins), Lily began to understand James hatred of Severus. Of course, his bullying was always extreme and she knew Severus struggled with fitting in. Lily had noticed that James’s teasing had subsided; it was if now that they were friends, he wouldn’t dare do anything to piss her off.

One evening, James left his Defense Against the Dark Arts research essay to the last minute, forcing him to spend his night under his invisibility cloak in the library. Finally at one o’clock, he sleepily made his way back to the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady swore at him for waking her up so late, but as her portrait swung upon, James heard faint crying coming from the common room. The crying grew louder as his walked through the tunnel. He stood at the end unsure if he should remove his invisibility cloak, but when he noticed the red hair alone by the fire he quickly slipped it off.

“Lily...er...are you alright?” James asked awkwardly.

Lily jumped and quickly wiped her eyes. Taking a moment to compose herself, she threw aside the letter she was holding, then spoke, “James! You scared me. What are you doing outside the common room so late?”

“Oh, I had an essay I had to finish up” he paused, unsure whether he should mention her crying, “but are you alright, what’s going on?” he finished, approaching the fire.

“Oh, nothing, it’s a bit stupid actually, I just--” Lily erupted in tears again, unable to finish her sentence. James now felt extremely uncomfortable, but he sat down on the floor next to her. He started rubbing her back, and caught a glance at the letter that was in her lap. Giving her a look, she nodded with approval, as he picked it up and read it to himself. It was from her sister. She said lots of foul things like how Lily was a freak, an attention slag, and that she didn’t believe a word about this “war.”

“Wow, your sister sounds like a lovely human,” James tried to laugh. To his surprise though, Lily managed a small smile and her sobs calmed a bit.

“She’s a-ac-actually amazing, but she’s always hated me for b-being a witch when she isn’t. I wrote her and my p-parent’s trying to explain the war,” Lily sniffled, then paused to cry a bit more. “My p-parents believed me, of course, but Petunia thinks I’m lying, and that I’m just trying to get attention. I’ve gotten past that her jealousy will always make her foul t-towards me, but I’m so scared that they’ll be V-Voldemort’s next muggle victims. I try to not act like I’m scared for myself, b-but its hard to deny that being muggle born doesn’t bode well these days. I just don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m t-terrified, James.”

There was something about the way Lily said James’s name, that he knew Lily truly cared about him. He comforted and chatted with her until two, before the both of them agreed they must get some rest. As they went towards their separate staircases, James found his heart a blaze inside his chest, but most shocking of all, Lily’s heart glowed too.

With springtime finally among Hogwarts, the students spent much of their days outside and the sunlight significantly benefited everyone’s mood. The fifth years, unfortunately, looked miserable as ever with OWLs approaching. Lily and the Marauders couldn’t be happier they had already gone through that hell. Of course, James liked to rub that fact into into the struggling fifth years. Looking arrogant as ever, he casually played with his snitch and deliberately asked loudly “Don’t you just love how little work we’ve got right now? Man, I truly can’t think of anything worse than those OWLs last year,” when passing a group of studying fifth years.

“You’re a real git, you know?” Lily scoffed.

“Doesn’t stop you from hanging out with me.”

“It did for five years and if you keep it up, I might leave you high and dry again.”

“She’s got a point you know, if you weren’t such a mangy arse people might actually like you,” Remus chimed in.

James and Lily spent many days like that, sitting by the lake under their favorite tree. Sometimes their friends accompanied them, and Lily found herself becoming increasingly fond of each of them. She's always been Remus's friend, but after all these years she thinks she might understand how Remus has tolerated James and Sirius for so long.

Year 7

Hogwarts is strange. Everyone knows the horrors that are happening outside the castle walls, but nobody acknowledges it. People talk in hushed voices in the corner of the library or the common room with worry plaguing their faces. Lily spends most of her time with James, Remus, and Sirius. After a particularly gloomy week James and Sirius decided to throw a party Friday night. They mysteriously disappeared sixth block and came back with their rucksack bulging in seventh period. Remus gave them an angry glare and Lily tells them “You’re a fucking moron, you know? Coming to class with that.” Perhaps they were right but James and Sirius knew Professor Binns wouldn’t notice a thing. After escaping History of Magic, they all hurried back to their dormitories. They piled into James’s room since Head Boy gave him a private dorm and boys weren’t allowed in girls rooms. James and Sirius dumped their treasures all over the bed.

“So, are you going to tell us what this is all about?” Lily said, pointing the pile of Butterbeers, Firewhiskey, and cheap goblets.

“Yeah, we’re throwing a party tonight.” Sirius replied.

“Things have been looking a little dim around here to say the least, we thought this might lighten the mood,” James added on.

“You’re mad! Where would this even happen?” Remus inquired, looking rather uncomfortable. His friends made many stupid decisions but this one took the cake.

“Well, the common room of course!” Sirius laughed.

“Absolutely not, what if McGonagall hears? We’d all be done for!” Lily felt rather nervous about this whole idea and she wasn’t willing to give up Head Girl just one month into the school year.

“I think you’re just worried you can’t keep up with me Evans” James taunted.

“Oh, bugger off.”

Despite many protests from Lily and Remus and silencing charms cast around the common room doors, they all found them self gathered in the common room at eleven.

Sirius had already found Marlene and was dancing foolishly on top of the coffee table trying to impress her.

Lily stood near the table chatting with Mary and Alice before James came over and dragged her to the corner.

“I brought you a drink,” Lily could smell the alcohol on his breath as he spoke. “Remus looks as if he’s about to shit himself,” James continued, laughing at Remus’s direction. “Having fun yet, Evans?”

Lily laughed and took a sip of her Firewhisky and James’s hand found a place on her waist. Her insides burned and she can’t tell if it’s the whiskey or his touch. She wished she could stay there with him the whole night and she wished she could tell him this, but instead she said “C’mon let’s go loosen Remus up.” James wants to tell Lily that he loves her cherry pink lip gloss or the way her hair falls when she’s hunched over a book or the fierce look she gets when she yells at Mulciber or the way she looks curled up on the sofa or just simply that he loves her. But instead they stare at each other for a moment longer, remaining silent.

They get Remus drunk and everyone’s happy. Sirius, James, and Remus put on a three man act for the party to see. When Sirius dares James to turn into his animagus, he almost does but Remus reminds them it’s a secret and they’d be expelled. Lily, Sirius, and Marlene had a competition about who can name every student McGonagall has given detention to in the last month. Marlene won and Sirius kissed her. For a couple hours everything was blissful, but then William saw them kissing and he called her a stupid slag. Marlene cried and Mary threw up and James’s heart felt like it was going to explode if he doesn’t tell Lily this moment that he loves her but it's all okay. Because the common room is warm and for a brief moment everyone has forgotten about the war outside.

The next morning, they all woke up feeling a little worse than they did the morning before but nonetheless content. At breakfast, they ignored their mountain of homework, instead recounting all of the fun they had the night before. Everyone's smile quickly disappears when the owls come, knowing the Daily Prophet brought nothing but bad news these days. Sure enough, the front page contained a list of Voldemort's latest victims, all muggles, muggleborns, or well known "blood traitors." Lily’s heart sank and horrible thoughts swarmed her mind. James removed the newspaper from her hands and tried to give her a warm smile.

On Thursday afternoons, James gives Lily flying lessons since she never learned properly. They spend most of the time in fits of giggles arguing over who’s a bigger prat, James for being so arrogant or Lily for being so incompetent.

“Well, I actually think I got better today!” Lily exclaimed, touching down on the ground after a surprisingly successful lesson.

“Great! Now you can finally thank me for being such an excellent teacher.” James hovered four feet off the ground circling around Lily, just to prove his broom control.

“Oh, come off it. Half the time you just laughed at me!” Suddenly, the sky erupted and buckets of rain fell from the clouds. “Merlin’s beard! C’mon James lets go!” He quickly hopped off his broom, grabbed Lily’s hand, and sprinted towards the Quidditch locker room. Gasping, they finally made it inside. Taking their time to catch their breath, they hardly realized they were still holding hands, until the panting stopped. With the silence, Lily found herself feeling awkward about it, but at the same time she didn’t want to let go.

“Well this is just an absolute mess.” Lily said to fill the silence, pointing down at their drenched clothes. “I’ve got mud everywhere!”

“Yeah, its a real shame seeing your shirt stuck to you like that…”

Lily slapped James, but she couldn’t help but blush. Her laughter faded and everything seemed rather serious.

They were still holding hands.

Lily became quite aware of how close they were and watched as James eyes dropped when she licked a raindrop off her lips.

All at once, James’s lips crashed onto Lily’s and they melted into each other. She forgot about the rain and the mud or whether or not they would survive once leaving Hogwarts. With sudden clarity, she understood everything. She understood that she didn’t have to understand anything, because she was his and he was hers.

And together, they’d be okay.

#jily fanfiction #jily #fanfic #harry potter #james potter #lily evans #sirius black #remus lupin #jk rowling #my heart

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reciprocityfic · 7 years

Text

fires, chapter two

Title: Fires Fandom: The Walking Dead Pairing: Rick x Michonne Rating: T Summary: "Because sometimes fires burn to make way for something new…something beautiful.“ The evolution of Rick and Michonne’s relationship throughout the course of season seven.

Author’s Note: I'm so sorry this took so long :/ I truly thought I would have this up just a few days after the last chapter, but my inspiration and motivation is so up and down because depression! and also I tend to always end up writing way more than I intended to.

That being said, this won't be the final part of this story. I still have (at least) one more chunk to tell. I was actually going to add a couple more sections to this chapter, but it was getting way too long and I wanted to get something up for you guys asap. I'm going to try my best to have the last part up before 7x15 airs, and then I might do some sort of epilogue afterwards, depending on people's interest and my inspiration/writing stamina.

As always, love and thanks to you all, xoxo.

chapter one on tumblr, ao3 or ff.net.

chapter two on ao3 or ff.net.

CHAPTER TWO: INCANDESCENCE

Their lives falls into some strange pattern of domesticity as they prepare for war.

Everyone wakes up in the morning, eats breakfast and then kisses each of their loved ones goodbye, before heading off to complete whatever task assigned to them. They work diligently into the hours of the early evening and then call it a day, heading home to spend the remainder of the night with their families and friends.

In their house, some combination of her, Rick, and Carl make dinner, and then they sit around the table with Judith and eat, discussing all they had accomplished today and their plans for tomorrow. Sometimes they talk strategy, but they try not to. They silently vow to keep their family time free of those kinds of topics. They can’t keep it as pure as her and Rick’s bedroom, but they work to keep it as pure as they can.

The minutes tick by. Judith coos and babbles and they all laugh at her, Carl tells her what’s happening in his latest comic book, Rick nudges her foot with his under the table, or reaches out and finds her hand once they move into the living room after they’ve cleared the table. Carl makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat at any sign of PDA, which Judith adorably attempts to imitate as they laugh again, and a deep blush never fails to color Rick’s cheeks even though he knows Carl’s repulsion is all in good fun. She squeezes the fingers that are laced with hers. He turns his head towards her, the corners of his mouth turning up into a mischievous grin, and she has to look away as a wave of heat begins to roll over her own skin.

The day dwindles to a close. They each take turns tucking Judith into bed, and then Carl retires to his room for the night. Her and Rick settle into the kitchen and do the dishes before heading up the stairs

There are exceptions to the routine, of course. There are the occasional overnight runs, and Negan comes to visit every couple of weeks, and they put on calm, resigned masks to hide the fact that they’re all scrambling around in the background, ensuring none of their battle plans are discovered or even suspected.

But more often than not, their days follow that same, strange pattern, and the monotony of it is comforting, in a way. Familiar in the way it brings back the taste of a way of life long abandoned and forgotten. In fact, the days could classify as normal – normal in the old way – if their jobs didn’t constantly revolve around preparation for a war against a sadistic man wielding a barbed wire-covered bat and his legion of disciples.

On one of these ordinary evenings, she and Rick stand at the sink in the kitchen, as they always do. The only sounds are the swishing of her hands in warm, soapy water, the clank of him placing dry dishes onto the counter, and the faint sound of crickets filtering in through an open window.

They don’t talk much, which is hardly unusual. Words aren’t always needed between them. Sometimes the calm of being together, the sound of one moving and breathing around the other, is enough.

But there’s something off about him tonight. There’s the slightest edge to the silence that even she might not pick up on, if she were the tiniest bit more tired or distracted. But she’s not, and she notices.

It’s not an angry off. Not a worried or upset one. It’s just…

Off.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” she asks, bumping his hip with hers gently.

He hums, hesitates, before pressing his lips together and tossing a half-smile in her direction.

“Nothing.”

She rolls her eyes playfully as she hands him a freshly-scrubbed fork.

“Well, I know that’s not true.”

“Oh yeah?” he questions as he dries the utensil, shifting and bumping back into her. “How?”

“Your eyes are all squinty,” she informs him.

He chuckles softly, but the sound gets louder when he glances over and sees her face, her eyes narrowed at him and her lips pursed in an attempt to mimic his expression.

“So that’s what I look like when I’m thinking, huh?”

“Mmhmm.”

He laughs again, but goes back to wiping off dishes without another word. She frowns, and sighs. She wishes he would tell her, but she won’t push him. He never fails to respect her independence and give her the space she needs, and she can do nothing but extend the same courtesy to him. So she puts her hands back in the water that’s gained the slightest chill, now, and drops the subject. If it’s important he’ll tell her in his own time. She knows that.

They fall back into their comfortable silence, and finish the dishes shortly after that. He places the plates and pots and utensils into the dish drainer on the counter so they can finish the last of their drying overnight, and she drains the sink, wiping her hands and then the area around the sink with a dishtowel as the water swirls and gurgles away. She’s about to grab the baby monitor so they can head upstairs when his voice stops her.

“Michonne?”

She turns, and finds him still in his spot by the dishes, that pensive look still on his face. She puts the monitor down and walks back across the room, stopping mere inches from him. A faint frown rests on his lips now, and the corners of her mouth turn down too at the sight, in a form of solidarity.

“What is it?”

He reaches his arm out and places his hand on her shoulder before letting it trail down her arm. His fingertips are pruned and slightly cold from their time spent covered in water, and goosebumps raise on her skin.

“We never would’ve met before, would we?”

The frown on her face grows. His question throws her, gives her an uncomfortable feeling as it rattles around in her brain. It’s something she’s never really considered, other than the passing thought of how lucky she was to have found him. She never qualified if she meant lucky in this world or lucky in the last one, too. It didn’t matter. She was just lucky to have found him at all.

She tilts her head slightly, a trait she’s picked up from him.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

He shrugs, dropping his eyes to the floor and grabbing her hand, twining their fingers together.

“I don’t know. It’s just…we never would’ve met before. If it weren’t for everything that happened, we would’ve never known each other.”

He’s still staring down, so she peers at the top of his head curiously, wondering what could’ve made him think of this. His thumb rubs nervously against the back of her hand.

“No,” she confirms. “Probably not.”

And as the words leave her mouth, her stomach drops. The weight of that realization hits her as she admits the truth of his words out loud. It almost knocks her off her feet.

“We lived very different lives,” she says flatly, as if her brain must offer up some sort of explanation as it processes this new information. “It’s unlikely that they ever would’ve…intersected in any way.”

A loaded silence settles over them. She imagines a life without him, and an unpleasant shiver runs through her.

“And even they did, you never would’ve looked at me twice.”

He lifts his head, a wry smirk playing on his lips. She scoffs and lets go of his hand, taking a step back.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on now,” he implores, leaning and wrapping his arm around her waist. He pulls her back into him and she doesn’t resist, even as she glares at him.

“I doubt that I was exactly your type. A scrawny, white, small town sheriff’s deputy with a stupid southern accent who’s never been out of the state of Georgia?” He laughs, and shakes his head. “Nah. Not for a refined city girl like you. An artistic, well-traveled, big-time lawyer. Even if we somehow had ended up in the same room, you wouldn’t have even noticed me.”

She meets his gaze. His eyes are light, because he’s mostly teasing her, and she knows this. But she doesn’t miss the small glint of sadness that shines in them too. He believes his words. And she wishes she could do something to take that away, wishes she could tell him that he’s wrong. But she can’t, because he isn’t.

“Your accent isn’t stupid,” she mumbles, and now she feels stupid, but it’s the only honest thing she can think of to say that doesn’t taste bitter on her lips.

She brings her hands up to his chest and begins to fiddle with the top button on his shirt. A pang of hurt thumps in her heart.

“And you don’t have much room to talk,” she declares, tearing her eyes away from his. She stares straight ahead instead, watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows.

“I mean, you married your high school sweetheart, babe. I didn’t date anyone in high school because I thought it would never work out and they would just end up being a distraction. And you. You fit the popular country boy stereotype to a tee. You were a police officer. You went around protecting the streets, were probably everyone’s hometown hero.”

She smiles softly as she envisions it, him riding around in his patrol car dressed in his deputy uniform, Carl’s hat on his head. Chaperoning his son’s field trips. Mowing the lawn, and putting up Christmas lights. Waving to the neighbors as he walked out to get the paper every morning.

She wishes she could see it, for real. That she could get a glimpse of him in his old life, even if it was just for a second.

“You had everything,” she murmurs as she continues. “The kind, sweet wife. The perfect little boy. I just don’t fit the part. I don’t exactly look like your typical, small-town girl next door.”

She pauses, feeling the slight pressure of tears begin to build behind her eyes, but she blinks and pushes it away. Her fingers still play with the buttons on his shirt. Her stomach churns.

“No. You’re wrong.”

She tilts her head up to find him staring down at her. A smirk still plays on his lips, but it’s changed from the cynical one he’d worn earlier. It’s sweeter. It gives off a certain fondness.

“I would’ve noticed you. Trust me, I would’ve noticed you. And I would’ve remembered you, too.”

His words are candid and sincere and she does trust him. She believes him, despite all her skepticism. She can’t help but smile, and she feels the tears come again, but she swallows them as he pulls her into a hug, wrapping himself around her, swaying their bodies back and forth. He drops a kiss onto her forehead, and she reciprocates by pressing her lips against his chest, right over his heart.

“Some of the people were talking today while we were taking inventory of the weapons,” he begins, his voice rumbling against her cheek. “Tobin and Tara, and a few people that are over from Hilltop. And someone asked what we would give up to have this all never happen. To go back to the way things were, to our lives before everything.”

“We never would’ve met,” she whispers, echoing his previous statement, and she feels him nod.

“I don’t have to wonder what I’d give up. I know what I’d have to give up. I’d have to give up you. And I just…I don’t know, Michonne.”

He releases her and takes a step back, shrugging and looking at her with an expression that’s almost embarrassed.

“I know that I should want it back,” he begins with a sigh. “I should want to prevent the pain that we’ve all suffered. I should want it back for everyone we’ve lost. For all of friends that we’ve seen die. I should want it for Lori, and for Carl. So he could have some sort of childhood. I should want it for Judith, too, although…I don’t really know if I’d have her either. I don’t know what would��ve happened with Lori and Shane.”

She can detect the subtle ache in his voice when he mentions the names of his dead wife and best friend, and she goes to stand next to him, snaking her arm behind him to rub circles over his back, and rests her head on his shoulder. She wishes she could soothe that hurt for him. Find some way to banish that uncertainty lingering in the back of his mind when he thinks of Lori and Shane. Figure out how to stop him from always having to wonder.

“I should want it for you, too,” he starts again, and the shame in his tone is profound. She snuggles further into his side as he runs a hand over his face.

“Fuck, I feel like an awful, selfish person. I should want it for you. I should want it for Andre and Mike. So you’d never have to go through the pain of losing them. So your baby could be alive, having the life he deserved. But, shit, I just don’t know.”

She inhales sharply when he mentions the names of her son and old boyfriend. She thinks of them, takes a moment to love them and mourn them, and then ponders Rick’s question some more. What would she give?

And she feels the first hints of guilt begin to come together inside her, too.

He slings an arm around her shoulders, and brings his head down to rest on top of hers.

“I really love you, Michonne.”

Her heart skips a beat, as it always does when he tells her that. She extricates herself from his embrace, and then comes to stand in front of him.

“I love you, too. So much.”

The corners of his lips twitch up involuntarily, and warmth floods her veins, traversing every inch of her body. She knows she’ll never tire of seeing any hint of his beautiful smile, especially when she’s the one to put it there.

“You’re not an awful person,” she assures him. “And you’re not selfish. I don’t know, either. It’s a little hard to admit, and if someone had asked me a year ago if I’d ever answer that question with a word other than ‘anything’, I wouldn’t have believed them in the slightest. But I never expected…you.”

She takes his hand again, closes her eyes as he squeezes.

“I never expected Carl and Judith. I never expected any of our family, but I definitely never expected you.”

“It’s a hard question. A lot to think about,” he says.

She nods as she looks up at him.

“It is. Feelings are hard. Love is hard. What you though were the simplest things get complicated.”

He hums in agreement. They stand there for a moment, playing with each other’s fingers.

“You want to go to bed?” he asks, breaking the silence. She smiles, and lifts herself on her toes to kiss him.

“I do,” she answers, and he smiles back at her, placing one more kiss on her lips. They separate, and she grabs the baby monitor and he turns off the lights, and they both head upstairs.

After bedtime rituals are performed, they settle onto their meager pallet, which has become more comforting and warm than they’d ever imagined was possible in these past weeks. They lay on their sides and face each other, and talk about nothing, about silly and frivolous things, their conversation interspersed with soft giggles and lazy kisses. They continue this way until his blinks become progressively longer and heavier, and she lets out a series of yawns so big her eyes water. He reaches over and turns off the lamp, kisses her once more, and then closes his eyes, falling asleep in record time. Gentle breaths and light snores fill their room.

She resists the urge to close her eyes for a moment, though. Ever since their reconciliation in the prison cell, she’s had a habit of watching him sleep. She tries her best to stay awake a few minutes longer than him every night, just to catch a sight of it. There’s something about seeing him so peaceful. He takes on so much, bears the weight of everyone’s expectations, hopes, and lives. And seeing it melt away as slumber overtakes him calms her, gives her one more happy moment before she shuts her eyes.

She lifts one of her hands and places it on his face, trailing her thumb over his cheekbone. She inhales slowly and lets herself drown in how right this feels. It’s like nothing she’s ever experienced before. Being with him – loving him – is so easy. It’s as natural as breathing. This is where she belongs. In this house, with him and his children, living in this home they’ve built despite every odd being stacked against them. She belongs next to him. With him, always, in every aspect, loving him with all that she is. She’s never been so sure of anything in her life.

What would you give to go back to before?

“Rick?”

She doesn’t really expect him to open his eyes, as he seems so lost in his slumber, but he does. His face is just illuminated enough by the faint light of the full moon shining in through the window, so she can see his eyes open and looking at her. Barely open, his eyelids still heavy and begging to close again, but open all the same.

“Yeah, gorgeous?”

She laughs at his pet name. She learned very quickly, when they started all of this, that he had a hopelessly romantic side to him, underneath all his jagged cynicism, that only shone through in his most unguarded moments. Thus, all those moments belonged to her. She fell for this new facet of him just as hard as she had fallen for all the rest of him.

Precious. To see him like this was an absolutely precious thing to behold.

He was so precious to her.

She loved him so much. More than she could fathom. More than she’d ever dreamed she could love someone else.

She’d always considered herself lucky to find him, lucky to be able to call him hers, but that crushing feeling of belonging and adoration and rightness had enveloped them so completely, from that first brush of his lips against hers, that it made her pause.

She’d thought it luck. But maybe it was more than that. She’d hardly believed in that sort of thing in her previous life, but everything was different now.

Maybe it was more than luck.

“I think we maybe would’ve met before,” she says tenderly. He stills under her hand, and then she sees the flash of his teeth in the moonlight as a slow smile spreads over his face. He wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her flush against him, burying his face in her neck and placing a kiss on her jaw. In a matter of seconds, it seems, she feels his steady breaths start back up against her skin.

She runs her fingers through his curls, and closes her eyes.

* * *

She’s on a run with Rosita, technically looking for ammo, but as always, keeping their eyes peeled for anything that might be of use to the community. They see a supermarket and park their car, not expecting much but checking it out anyways.

The place is clear of walkers and pretty much everything else, as is the case with most grocery stores at this point. The grab a buggy and find a few stray items: five cans of soup, a pack of diapers that are miraculously Judith’s size, some bottles of shampoo and seven bars of soap. Rosita pauses to grab a handful of bottles of ibuprofen and a box of band-aids as Michonne rounds the corner of the aisle.

Her face lights up at what she sees sitting on the ground, in plain sight, almost as someone had placed them there just for her to find.

Rosita looks up when she hear Michonne walking back to her and the buggy, and she almost laughs at the four bottles of wine she’s cradling in her arms.

“Where’d you find that?”

“Just around the corner,” she informs her and she gingerly places the bottles in the metal cart. “They were just sitting there like they were waiting for me to find them.”

“Who would leave them behind like that?” Rosita asks, genuine confusion in her voice. “Honestly, if it weren’t for all the other people we’re looking out for, alcohol would be the main thing I’d scavenge for.”

Michonne smiles and shrugs her shoulders.

“I don’t know, but I’m certainly not complaining. They’re all mine now.”

Rosita lifts an eyebrow.

“All yours?”

Michonne hesitates, biting her bottom lip. Officially, they were supposed to share everything they found with the community, but people swiped things they found for themselves every once in a while. And she knew once Alexandria got wind that there was wine in the pantry, the alcohol would be gone in a matter of minutes.

“I’ll split them with you,” she concedes, as an idea pops into her head. “But you owe me a favor,” she quickly tacks on.

Rosita eyes her suspiciously.

“Do you have an idea what this favor might entail?”

“Take the kids tonight,” Michonne exhales quickly. “I’ll tell Carl to bring over his Xbox so he and Tara can play. And I’ll send over Judith’s pack-and-play and a few toys. She’s easily entertained. It’ll be a breeze.”

She sees Rosita hesitate, so she continues.

“You know, you’re actually really good with Judith. I know you don’t have that much practice with her, but she’s an easy baby, I swear. Plus, Carl will be there if you need him.”

Michonne holds back a deep sigh as she’s once again met with silence. Her expression softens when she sees the trepidation on Rosita’s face.

“I think you pretend sometimes you don’t enjoy your time with her, but I think deep down, you do. You just don’t want to be around her too much. And I’m not faulting you for that. I totally get it. I did the same thing when I first found everyone back at the prison. I’ve heard you mention your nephew before. And I know that being around babies can bring up some…memories that hurt. Trust me, I’ve been there. But also trust me when I say that being around babies again can be the best thing to start and heal those wounds. It can be cathartic, in a way. Take it from someone who knows.”

Rosita looks at her with wide eyes as Michonne takes a deep breath. She’s only told Rick and Carl about Andre, but lately there had been a general assumption among their closest family that she’d probably been a mother. It doesn’t bother her, exactly; like she told Carl all that time ago, it wasn’t really a secret. She’s still getting used to actually acknowledging it in front of everyone, though.

Rosita still hesitates, and Michonne closes her eyes and steels herself for disappointment. But then Rosita’s voice rings through the air and pleasantly surprises her.

“Okay.”

Michonne can’t hide the smile that lights up her face.

“Okay. Great. Thank you.”

Rosita nods, and they make one more quick trip around the store before they’re satisfied that they’ve grabbed everything.

“So,” Rosita starts, her voice full of implication as they walk to the front of the store. “What are you doing tonight? Got a hot date?”

Rosita turns towards Michonne and wiggles her eyebrows. Michonne laughs, and spots a pack on M&Ms on the floor next to a pop machine. As Rosita shits her focus back in front of her, Michonne grabs the candy and stuffs it in her back pocket. That was one thing she wasn’t sharing.

She chuckles again as she thinks of Rosita’s question.

“Yeah, Rosita,” she answers, still unable to wipe the smile off her face. “Yeah, I think I might.”

* * *

She hears Rick walk into the house forty-five minutes after she returns from her run, closing the door behind him rather loudly, letting out a deep sigh. She hears him kick his boots off in the foyer, and her stomach twists in anticipation as his footsteps approach, another smile spreading across her face.

His lips quirk up as he enters the kitchen and finds her leaning against the counter, arms crossed in front of her.

“Thought I’d beat you home.”

She shrugs.

“Run went well.”

An immediate look of satisfaction takes over his face. She can’t help but grin at his reaction.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she confirms, nodding her head. “No herds or complications or strangers, or anything like that. Found a pretty good amount of bullets. A handful of guns, too. And then we stopped in a supermarket, and found some food. A few first aid things. Not very much, but at least it’s something.”

“Something is always good,” he assures her.

She smiles again as she looks at him, her heart filling with love and her belly tightening as she thinks of the evening they’ll have. He tilts his head and peers at her curiously, his eyes narrowing into slits.

“What’re you up to? Standing here all by yourself, looking at me like that?”

“I was waiting for you. I missed you.”

She can see his cheeks begin to flush even from her spot across the kitchen, and she shakes her head slightly, almost laughing at his bashfulness. It’s still odd to her at times, seeing that timid side of him, when she’s spent so much time with bold and powerful version of himself that he wears for everyone outside of the walls of their home. He can be so confident so often, even coming across as cocky at times. At yet here he is, standing in their kitchen, blushing like a middle school boy who just talked to his crush for the first time. All because she told him she’d missed him.

Her heart beats with so much affection for him that it’s nearly painful.

“Come here,” she commands softly, opening her arms. He walks across the kitchen in a few large strides, leaning into her, pinning her body against the counter with hers. They wrap their arms around each other, and he drops his head onto her shoulder. She rests her face against his curls, slightly damp with sweat from hours spent working in the sun.

They stay like that for a few moments, enjoying the feel of being in each other’s arms after spending the day apart. Before long, though, she tugs on his hair gently. He lifts his head up, and she waits for his eyes to lock with hers before speaking.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Hi,” he says back, the tips of his fingers beginning to trace imaginary patterns along her back.

She stands up on her tiptoes and presses her lips to his, sucking the bottom one into her mouth before pulling away from him.

“I missed you, too,” he tells her, tightening his hold on her as he leans down to kiss her again, more deeply this time. His tongue slips into her mouth and strokes hers, and when they separate both of their chests are heaving slightly.

He bites his bottom lip and shakes his head, laughing under his breath, the way he always does when he’d rather keep going but doesn’t want to risk either of the kids finding them making out in some dim corner of the house. But after a moment, he pauses, and glances around. She can practically see the wheels turning in his head.

“It’s awful quiet in here,” he remarks finally. “Where are our kids?”

Her breath hitches at the use of the word our. He’d taken to addressing Carl and Judith with it a few weeks ago. It started one morning while he was scouring through his dresser for a clean t-shirt as she put her headband on, the two of them mindlessly talking about the day ahead of them.

“Oh,” he began, as he pulled out a dark gray t-shirt he found tucked away in the corner of the bottom drawer. “Our kids keep asking about that bean casserole thing you made a few weeks back, with the crackers. Well, Carl keeps asking about it, and he just goads Judy to nod along and clap her hands. I can make it if you don’t have the time, or don’t feel like or anything. Just write down the instruction, and whatever ingredients we don’t have, and I’ll stop by the pantry and try to scrounge them up.”

She vaguely heard what he said, but she couldn’t really process it because she was caught up on the first two words that slipped from his mouth.

Our kids.

She turned towards him and froze, styling her hair all but forgotten as she clutched her headband in her fist. The only part of her that seemed to be moving was her heart. It was pounding so violently that she was convinced he could probably hear it.

He looked at her when he didn’t receive any sort of answer or acknowledgement from her, his eyebrows knit together. But his eyes widened when he saw her stiff body, the unreadable expression on her face.

“Mich, what’s wrong?”

She stayed still for another long moment, before forcing herself to take a deep breath. She dropped her gaze to the floor, extending her arm to place the piece of cloth still clutched in her grasp on top of his dresser. She hoped he’d miss the way her hand shook as she reached out. But she knew he wouldn’t.

“Michonne,” he murmured. She heard the floorboards squeak as he took a step towards her.

“You said our,” she managed to choke out, and she hated the way her voice broke as she finished her sentence, and hated the pressure of tears she could feel building behind her eyes.

It’d been that way for a while, if she were being honest. It’d been that way with Carl ever since she found the two of them after the prison. She’d started out as his best friend, and she still was, but it became something deeper than that. Something more. She hadn’t realized it right away, not until she stood on the porch with him on the night that turned her life upside-down in the best way.

It should be someone who loved her, someone who’s family, and I…I’d do it for you.

They’d always loved each other, and they’d always been family. But somehow, stating it plainly like that – having it out there in the open.

Something shifted.

With Judith, the feeling came over her more gradually. Once she’d allowed herself to engage herself with the baby girl, to swallow her pain and open her heart, she’d fallen in love with her just as quickly as the rest of the group had, and quickly became a trusted member in Judith’s babysitter rotation. Her role hadn’t been any different than Carol’s, or Maggie’s, or Beth’s, or Tyreese’s. Not at first.

But then there had been moments, small ones, that didn’t even register until she looked back on them. Like when she was the first one to join Rick and Carl to fawn over a relocated Judith after Terminus, or when Rick had kissed the baby’s forehead and placed her in Michonne’s arms as he marched off to Grady, trusting her enough to leave both of his children in her care.

Then, of course, when they settled in Alexandria, as everyone broke off into groups to move into their own homes, she had stayed with Rick and his children. It hadn’t even needed to be discussed or decided. She simply stayed. And it was good and it was right and no one questioned it.

And now, Michonne was just the collectively-assumed second guardian of Judith Grimes. When something concerning Judith came up and Rick wasn’t around, all questions went to her. The baby girl’s parentage was universally known, even thought it had never explicitly stated.

Until that morning.

Our kids.

He didn’t respond to her stammered observation immediately, instead giving her a moment for her head to clear and breathing to steady. But after a minute, he approached her, placing his hand on the small of her back, leading her back to their blankets and settling her on the floor next to him. He reached out and grabbed both of her hands.

“Yeah. I said our.”

“Why?” she whispered, and he laughed quietly, shrugging his shoulders.

“Because it’s true. Because they are ours. They’re yours. I mean, you love them like they are. I can tell that every time you’re with them. And you take care of them like they’re yours.”

He laughed again, and shifted closer to her, dropping her hands to wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her into his side.

“Carl adores you. I hope you know that. I know boys aren’t always the best at expressing their emotions, especially teenage boys. And especially ones who have me as their father. But he loves you with his entire heart. And Judith can’t really sit me down and tell me she loves you, but she lights up whenever you walk into the room. And you’re always making us all jealous with the way she’s constantly reaching for you over everyone else.”

They both chuckled together at that, and he squeezed her shoulder before exhaling slowly.

“Michonne,” he cooed, and he reached over with his free hand and grasped her chin, turning her face towards him. He gazed into her dark eyes, his thumb passing over the tip of her chin again and again.

“You’re the only mom Judith’s ever gonna know. Of course we’ll tell her about Lori. We’re gonna make sure Judith knows as much about her as she can. We’ll let her know how much Lori loved her, and how we’ll always remember her and love her. But…Lori is Judith’s mother. None of us will ever forget that. But you’re Judith’s mom.”

He closed his eyes suddenly, and bit his bottom lip before continuing.

“At least, I want you to be. If that’s something you want, too.”

She felt tears begin to build behind her eyes, and he moved his hand to wipe one that managed to escape with his fingers before cupping her cheek.

“If it’s too much right now, that’s okay,” he assures her seriously. “I’d understand if you wanted to avoid that after everything you lost. And if it’s something you don’t think you’ll ever want, we can…try to figure something out.”

And her heart, which had already been on the brink of bursting, swelled three more sizes. Because he meant every word he said. He wanted Carl and Judith to be both of theirs so badly, but refused to forget about her Andre, about her loss and her pain. He refused to force her into something she wasn’t ready for, or anything she didn’t want at all.

But he didn’t have to worry, and she reached up and grabbed his face between both of her hands, pulling him down and planting a kiss on his lips before resting her forehead against his.

“I want that,” she told him, and more tears fell down her cheeks when she saw the wide smile that immediately broke out on his face. “I want that with you. I want Carl and Judith to be ours.”

“Our kids,” he declared softly.

She smiled back at him, and repeated his words.

“Our kids.”

And even though it had been a few weeks since they’d made that decision together, she’s still not quite used to hearing it, is still knocked breathless by the immense joy that floods her at the thought of Carl and Judith belonging to both of them. She takes a moment to revel in that, and to hold him to her a little tighter, before answering his question.

“They’re spending the night at Tara and Rosita’s.”

He looks at her questioningly, but the corners of his mouth already begin to turn up.

“Oh yeah?”

She hums, and then points in the direction of the refrigerator. He turns his head, and she can tell when he spots the bottles of wine, because a grin stretches his lips over his teeth.

“Where’d you find that?”

“Sitting in the middle of the floor of a supermarket, like it was waiting for me,” she tells him, chuckling lightly. “I agreed to split them with Rosita if she and Tara babysat.”

“Not passing them around?”

She scoffs.

“Hell no. I earned those fair and square.”

“Yeah, sounds like it was real hard work, Miss ‘It was Sitting on the Floor like it was Waiting for Me.’”

She slaps him on the chest lightly, and then rolls her eyes when he purses his lips into a pout.

“You better shut your mouth,” she warns him, “and don’t you tell anyone about it. If we don’t follow the rules, no one will. It’s our secret.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he promises her, and then an impish glint creeps into his eyes.

“So, what are you planning on doing with all that wine?”

“I have a date.”

“With who?” he inquires, his fingers slipping just under the hem of her shirt.

“Tobin,” she deadpans immediately, and he scowls, pushing away from her. She laughs, and then reaches out and grabs his arm to pull him back to her. He’s able to feign his anger for just a moment before he concedes, bringing his arms around to embrace her once again. A frown still rests on his lips, though, and she smirks as she brings her hands up and pushes at the corners of his mouth with her forefingers.

“You’re such a baby,” she teases, and then takes one of her fingers and taps the bridge of his nose. “I have a date with you, silly.”

He takes one of her hands from his face and brings her pointed finger to his lips, biting it softly before pressing a kiss to it, and then places the hand into her lap.

“What do you have planned?”

“It’s a dinner date. Wining and dining. Can’t go wrong with a classic.”

“And what’s for dinner?”

She hesitates slightly, looking towards the fridge.

“Um. I think there’s still some leftover quiche from yesterday.”

“You’re giving me leftovers on our romantic dinner date?”

“Shut up,” she grumbles, slapping him again. “Besides, that’s not even the most important part. The wine is what really matters here. That’s the most important part.”

“That does sound good. I haven’t had a drink since we stole that beer from The Saviors, and it was way longer before that.”

His hands slip underneath the bottom of her shirt again, reaching up further this time, and he ghosts his fingers over her spine. Goosebumps rise over her skin, and she smirks.

“I was wrong. The wine isn’t the most important part,” she tells him abruptly, tugging him closer and reaching up to lace her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. He closes his eyes and groans just slightly. Her stomach flips.

She brings her face to his, kissing his temple and then speaking into his skin.

“The most important part is that the kids are gone, and we have the whole house to ourselves all night. No crying babies, no teenage, wandering eyes, no distractions. Just you and me.”

She kisses down his cheek and to his jaw, and he pulls her closer, his hands already starting to lift up the back of her shirt instead of hiding under it.

“Just you and me?” he asks.

“Mmhmm.”

“And the kids are already gone for the night?”

“Yep,” she confirms. “Already took their stuff over and everything.”

He pulls her tank top over her head, tossing it over his shoulder as his eyes immediately go to her chest. She laughs, and he snaps his head up quickly to stare at her, that impish glint back in his eyes, multiplied tenfold.

“Well, then,” he begins, lunging forward and pressing his face into her neck, kissing and licking at her soft skin, until she tilts her head back to give him more room to work with. “I think we should get started on that most important part right away.”

She giggles again, grabbing and lifting his face so he’s looking at her. She leans in and sucks at his bottom lip before pulling back and pushing his disheveled hair back from his forehead.

“Me too,” she tells him, her voice low.

He beams, and crashes his mouth against hers.

* * *

They end up cuddled up together on their couch, a few half-plates of quiche and whatever other random food items they found tucked away in the cupboards sitting on the coffee table in front of them. The pack of stale M&Ms rests on the arm of the couch, just a handful of the candies left at the bottom of the package. The two bottles of wine, now empty, sit on the floor just in front of the couch.

She’s clad in his boxers and his button-up, with just the middle few buttons latched together. Her hair is loose and splayed out over his chest as she lies against him. He, meanwhile, is as naked as the day he was born under her, running his fingers absentmindedly over her thighs and dipping below the fabric of his stolen pair of underwear every so often. The clothes they aren’t using are discarded haphazardly in a path from the kitchen to the living room.

The house is dim, the only sources of light being the small lantern they left burning in the kitchen and the one on the table. She gazes up at him, and watches the way the yellowish light dances and cast shadows over his skin. Smiling slightly, she brings one of her hands up to gently trace the planes of his face with her fingertips.

He’s beautiful. Undeniably so. She hadn’t noticed it at first, when they’d met back at the prison, but once she’d realized it, she was almost dumbfounded at how she hadn’t seen it before. Everything about his face is set just so, from his expressive bright blue eyes, to the perfect slope of his nose, the fullness of his pink lips, and the strong line of his jaw.

She hadn’t noticed it at first, but she makes up for that now. Sometimes when she gazes at him, the pure beauty of him knocks the breath out of her.

She thinks back to their conversation the other day, and how he said she wouldn’t have registered his existence in a room full of people back in the old world. She’d solemnly agreed with him; he wasn’t remotely close to any type she might’ve had before. But now, as she takes this time to admire him, she think that even then, if she had just taken a moment to really look at him, she wouldn’t have been able to stop looking at him.

He stirs under her touch after a few moments, his nose twitching and a slight hum coming from deep inside his throat. He’d been half asleep, dozing as they’d both been doing on and off for the past hour.

“What are you up to?” he mumbles, a moment before opening his eyes.

“Just watching you,” she whispers.

He smiles, tilting his chin up to press a kiss to her palm as it ghosts over his mouth.

“Like what you see?”

“I do. In fact, I love it,” she amends, lifting herself from his body slightly so she hovers over him. “I love you. I love this – being here with you like this. I…I love it. With all my heart.”

She can’t help but smile again, because she’s so happy. She’s warm and safe and fed and tipsy and so in love with the man beneath her.

She settles back down onto him, nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck. She can’t help but think of their road trip some weeks back. It had been the closest they’d probably ever come to going on some romantic vacation together. And she’d adored every second of it.

“I wish it could always be this way,” she breathes, as if she’s admitting some deep, selfish secret that she’s ashamed of. “I want it to always be this way.”

“It will be,” he says, bringing his arms up and wrapping them tightly around the small of her back. “As soon as we win this thing, it will be.”

He tugs on her head gently, tilting her face up so they can gaze into each other’s eyes. The blue of his irises is so deep, even in the scant light. They’re like the ocean, and she feels like she could get lost in them. Like she could drown in them.

“I’m going to spend the rest of my life making you happy,” he vows.

Her eyes well up, and it’s all she can do to lean in and give him a deep kiss. She feels the truth of his words echo in every cell of her body. It’s overpowering, the way her chest constricts with her unending affection for him.

Once they separate, she lays her head down next to his on the pillow he’s resting on. Their cheeks touch, and the rough hair of his beard rubs against her skin.

After a few moments of silence, he speaks.

“I’ve always wanted to have sex with you on this couch. Ever since that first night.”

She laughs once, and reaches out to grab the pack on M&Ms. She sits up, straddling his waist, and then shakes a couple of candies in her palm and pops them in her mouth. Then she takes one and presses it against his closed lips until he opens up and accepts her offering.

“What took you so long?” she asks.

“I didn’t exactly have the opportunity,” he says around the chocolate in his mouth. “What, with two kids and Daryl roaming around our house.”

“True,” she concedes with a smirk, and eats two more pieces before feeding him the last one. She crumples up the wrapper and deposits it on one of their empty plates on the table. She leans back, and lays her hands flat on his chest.

“Well, you got your wish.”

A devilish grin spreads across his face, and he reaches up and takes her hands.

“Yeah, I guess I did. It took me awhile, but I got there.”

She chuckles, and then settles back down onto him. His fingers go back to stroking her legs.

“You know, I would’ve had sex with you on this couch that night. You’re the one who had to go and remind me that someone could’ve walked in on us.”

She snorts.

“Yeah, sure. There’s no way in hell you would’ve let our first time be on the couch. You’re too romantic. You would’ve spread rose petals all over the bed if I’d given you the time.”

“You think I’m romantic?”

“Hopelessly so.”

“Huh.”

She lifts her head, her eyebrows pulled together.

“What? You don’t believe me?”

“No, I do. It’s just…” he hesitates, letting out a long sigh. “Lori never thought I was romantic.”

“No?”

“Nah,” he chuckles, glancing at her bashfully. “I tried sometimes. It just never came across, I guess.”

“What’d you do?” she probes.

“I don’t know.” He takes a moment to think, pushing a loud breath out between his lips. “Well…okay. So, when I was gonna propose, I was trying to figure out where to do it. I could’ve taken her to some fancy restaurant in Atlanta or something, but I felt like everybody did that, you know? I thought it should be different. Special. So I decided to do it where we had our first kiss. Which was, admittedly, not a glamorous place. It was under the bleachers at the football field. We kissed during a Friday night game on a dare. So not your traditional romantic spot. But, I don’t know. I thought it would be cute.”

He pauses, and bites his lip. A look comes over his face that seems regretful.

“Lori didn’t think so,” he continues. “She reacted okay when I actually proposed, but later on I found out she wasn’t such a big fan. I should’ve just taken her to a fancy restaurant.”

He laughs once, and turns his head to look at her. Again, his expression conveys just the slightest hint of guilt, and she frowns, bringing up her hand to rest on his cheek.

“That sounds romantic to me,” she tells him fervently. “Of course, no one’s ever proposed to me, so I don’t have anything to compare it to. But it still seems pretty romantic.”

“No one’s ever proposed to you?” he asks, his tone rising with curiosity.

“Nope.”

“Why’d you and Mike never get married?” he wonders, taking hold of her hand. He brings it to his mouth and kisses her fingers before placing it back on his cheek.

“We talked about it a few times, but we just never thought it was necessary,” she explains. “Neither of us had this strong desire to do it. I mean, we were together, and we loved each other. We were committed. Going through a ceremony and getting a piece of paper to confirm it wasn’t going to do anything to strengthen or weaken that bond.”

“You don’t have to,” he agrees. “I thought you did. Growing up where I did, in a small town like that, I definitely thought you did. I know that you don’t now. That you still love each other just the same, with or without it.”

“Yeah.”

She rubs her hand down his face before bringing it down and curling herself into him. She can feel her eyelids getting heavy.

“I’m tired,” she admits, after a few minutes of just breathing each other in.

“Want to go to bed?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Head upstairs. I’ll put the plates in the sink and then be up.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Let’s just stay down here. We’ll get the plates in the morning. Everything feels so perfect. I don’t want to move.”

All of a sudden, the room gets even dimmer than it was.

“The light in the kitchen must’ve burned out.”

“See?” she says, the corner of her mouth turning up. “It’s a sign. We’re supposed to stay right where we are.”

He laughs lightly.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Still, he reaches over to extinguish the lantern sitting on the table, and then darkness overtakes them. He rolls back into her and they maneuver together so they are both laying on their sides, facing each other, her tucked between the edge of the couch and his body. He feels around for her face, and places a kiss to her lips, and then one on her forehead, before settling his head down into the pillow.

“Goodnight, love,” he whispers. “Thank you. For all of this.”

She presses a kiss to his chest.

“Goodnight, Rick.”

She closes her eyes and relaxes into him, letting exhaustion from her long day and the incredible peace she feels whenever she’s in his arms overtake her. Just as she’s on the brink of sleep, she hears his voice.

“Mich?”

“Yeah?” she mutters drowsily.

“Marry me.”

Just like that. He says it just like that.

She’d never fantasized outright about getting engaged, not to Rick or to Mike. But somewhere inside her, she supposes she had subconscious expectations. Not about where or when it would happen, or what her ring would look like, or what the man in front of her would say leading up to it. They were more rooted in what she would feel, and she couldn’t even say that those expectations were good. They didn’t concern the love that might fill her heart, or excitement to start this new chapter of her life that might overtake her. They were closer to fear. To the apprehension that would stir deep in her gut at the thought of making such a strong and final commitment, at the prospect of giving herself over to someone else so completely.

And in the half second before she fully registers his words, she finds herself expecting all those reservations to bubble to the surface and spill over into her brain.

But they don’t.

Rather, she finds the peace is still there. If anything, it grows at the thought of spending the rest of her life with him, at being tied so closely to him until the day she died. At the thought of being his, and him being hers, clearly, for everyone to see.

“Yeah?” she whispers breathlessly.

“Yeah,” he answers, and his voice is so soft and gentle that she almost cries on the spot.

But instead, she swallows them back, with surprising ease. And a resounding, unequivocal joy begins to grow in her heart and pump through her veins.

She discovers that the decision she though would be the hardest, most daunting one she’d ever have to make, is turning out to be the easiest. Her answer is clear. Obvious. She loves this man so much, so fiercely, that she can really only answer one way. Her heart won’t allow her to even entertain the other option.

She is in love with him. That truth rings more strongly than it ever has before inside her as a slow grin forms on her face. And her answer is easy.

“Okay.”

It’s as simple as that. And she remembers what he’s taught her: sometimes the most important things are best said in the plainest of terms.

His lips press against the top of her head. And she can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks.

“Okay.”

* * *

She wakes up with a pounding headache.

She groans and rolls her neck in vain, because she knows the pain isn’t from an odd sleeping position or a kink in her spine. It’s the fucking wine, and she could roll her eyes at herself if she’d been willing to open them and face the harsh light of day.

Thoroughly hungover from two shared bottles of wine. She’d become such a lightweight.

She feels Rick shift under her, and she hesitantly drags open her eyelids, lifting her head and resting her chin on his chest to peer up at him. She finds him gazing back at her, a small smirk on her face.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

His eyes are groggy, but he seems slightly more aware than she is. He’s been awake for a while.

“When did you wake up?” she asks him.

“I dunno. About half an hour ago, maybe.”

“Why didn’t you get up?”

“You were layin’ on top of me,” he explains, his accent more pronounced than usual, as it always is after he just wakes up. “You looked comfortable. Didn’t want to wake ya. Plus, I figured you were gonna need your sleep.”

She does roll her eyes this time, making a show of it, and he laughs lightly when he sees the look on her face. But she can’t feign her annoyance for long, because it’s so sweet, the way he’s always thinking of her.

She stretches slightly, placing a chaste kiss to his lips and then to his cheek.

“Do you have a headache too?”

“A little,” he says with a shrug. “Nothing too bad.”

She hums, and then lays her head back down on his chest, listening to the whooshing of air moving through his lungs, letting her mind drift back to the night before. Warmth fills her as memories flit through her brain in rapid succession, replaying their evening like a movie.

When she reaches the end of the night, and recalls the moments right before they’d both fallen asleep, her stomach drops.

She’d agreed to marry him.

Her stomach twists, and her insides churn like the ocean during a hurricane, but it isn’t regret that weighs on her and pulls her down from her blissful mood; it’s uncertainty.

Had he intended to ask her, or did the question just kind of slip out of his mouth when he wasn’t thinking? They’d both been slightly drunk, and exhausted, and that wasn’t really ideal circumstances for making a life-altering decision like this.

Were they engaged?

She squeezes her eyes shut briefly, and then slowly maneuvers her head so that she can look at his face, nervous butterflies swarming within her.

She finds his eyes focused on her, but a timid glint shines in them, and she automatically knows the same questions she has are running through his mind.

And yet, neither of them seem to be able to be able to voice them.

She feels awkward in his presence, for the first time she can remember. Even in those earliest days of their relationship – those days full of mistrust and muted animosity – she’d never felt awkward with him. The emotion unnerves her, and she clears her throat, sitting up. She feels cold now that her body isn’t pressed against his, and the cool morning air sends a shiver through her.

“I’m going to go look for some ibuprofen,” she tells him. “I think there might be a bottle hiding in the bathroom somewhere.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, nodding slowly. “I’ll clean up.”

“Okay.”

Their gazes linger on each other for a moment longer, before she throws him a tight smile and gets up. She’s halfway to the stairs when she hears his voice calling her name.

“Michonne?”

She freezes, the anxiety that had abated a bit as she put more space between them coming back full force. She takes a moment to collect herself, inhaling and exhaling deeply before turning on her heel.

She finds him standing in the living room, holding his worn jeans in his hand, an indiscernible look on his face. He takes a moment to pull his pants up and over his hips before taking a deep breath, shaking his head slightly and rolling his shoulders before starting towards her purposefully.

He stops mere inches from her, but keeps his eyes trained on the ground. She watches his back rise and fall as he once again breathes heavily, and then he reaches out and laces his fingers with hers.

“What I said last night,” he starts quietly. “When I...when I asked you to marry me.”

His voice breaks, and her pulse doubles in time as he voices those words, and she feels his fingers tighten infinitesimally around hers.

A quiet beat passes between them, and she waits for him to continue. She can barely breathe.

“I meant it,” he blurts out suddenly, finally, and when he lifts his eyes to meet hers, what she sees nearly stops her heart altogether.

The lines of his face are set so sincerely, so severely, but in the most beautiful way. His eyes are full of unshed tears, and he looks so vulnerable, more vulnerable than she’s ever seen him. It’s as if his entire life hinges on her next words.

Her own eyes begin to water, so many emotions stirring inside her. But she finds that the most powerful one is that peace. The same peace she felt laying in his arms last night settles over her like a quilt. Any hint of discomfort or tension she was feeling is expelled completely and nearly instantaneously, and she steps into him.

“I meant it,” he repeats ardently, and she feels his breath wash over her face as she wraps her arms around the back of his neck and pulls his forehead down to rest against hers.

“I meant it, too,” she murmurs to him, and she’s unable to stop an unabashed grin from overtaking her face. She feels him inhale sharply, and he pulls back from her. He studies her expression, and then beams as the devotion and love he sees in her eyes begins to seep into his heart. His tears spill over and begin to run down his face, and she feels dampness on her own cheeks as his smile somehow seems to grow, and a light laugh escapes his throat.

They reach for each other simultaneously, their lips crashing together in the sweetest kiss she’s ever tasted, their mouths opening and his tongue stroking hers with near desperation. Their chests heave as they break apart, and he wraps his arms around her immediately, crushing her against him and lifting her off the ground. She curls her fingers into his hair and pulls him as close to her as she can manage. She never wants to let him go.

“So,” he drawls, his voice so light it’s almost buoyant. “You’re gonna marry me.”

“Yeah, sheriff,” she tells him, the tenor in her voice matching his in its joy and levity. She rests her cheek against his head. “I’m gonna marry you.”

They both laugh, and he pulls back to press his lips against hers again, before adjusting their positions so he can trail incessant, hungry kisses up her jaw and along her cheekbone.

“I love you so much,” he whispers into her skin. “I’ll love you until the day I die. I’ll love you forever.”

Her heart clenches, and she closes her eyes, focusing on the feel of his lips and skin, of his body pressing into hers.

“I love you, too,” she murmurs back, craning her neck so she can place her own kisses over his face. “Forever.”

She loves him so much. More than she ever thought she could love anyone again. She loves him with more love than she even knew existed in this world.

She’ll love him everyday, every moment for the rest of forever.

#richonne #richonne fanfiction #richonne fic #rick grimes #michonne #twd fanfiction #the walking dead #this post is so ugly i'm sorry #forgive any typos i proofread but i also finished this up at 5:30 am on no sleep so

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jixiani · 4 years

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In defense of fanfiction

I’ve been thinking about fanfiction lately, (really I’ve been thinking that I should really be taking some of this time to write more, but that’s another post) AO3 just had their yearly fundraiser so of course the old discourse over the site and its history was dragged up again and then Sarah had brought it up this morning and well, I have a lot of strong feelings on the subject. Let’s start with a little personal background: I have been reading and writing fanfic since the late 90’s. It started out as something silly my best friend introduced me to and we would sit in her mother’s computer room and giggle over ‘speculative fan fictions’ and participate on months-long roleplay scenarios on chat boards and take turns passing notebooks full of handwritten stories back and forth which were every bit as terrible as you’d think two 14-year-old girls could come up with. Unfortunately, we were in the Vampire Chronicles fandom so we had a front-row seat for the Anne Rice and her lawyer's debacle that will from here on out be referred to as “The Dark Times”. We watched our friends’ work get pulled, our RP sites close down, we feared that we’d get a cease and desist letter, we hid our notebooks and dreamed up our stories exclusively verbally. I was deeply ashamed of my secret love of fanfic for years. I kept writing, but I kept it secret, I kept reading it but would never admit to it. Fanfiction was something shameful, taboo, some terrible sin akin to watching porn, and not the good socially acceptable kind of porn. But time moved on and fandom moved on and fanfiction started to be more acceptable. I joined Fanfiction.net, I wrote some stuff on Livejournal (although I still kept it set to private). I read A LOT of fanfiction, jumping fandoms, and leaving reviews. People I admired came out as liking and writing fanfiction. Of course, then the purges hit. Strikethrough and the like. I’m not going to get into that here, because that’s a rant all its own. Anyway, those were also some dark days as fandom searched for somewhere to land. I stumbled over Archive of our own a few years ago and I aggressively support them whenever I can because they fight for the fandom. Now I speak out in defense of fanfiction whenever possible. I’ve attended panels at conventions about fanfiction, I support and share posts about it from my favorite authors, I let everyone know that I’m proud of my fanfic (although I still don’t post it, that’s because I tend not to finish things and I don't’ want to get someone excited for something I know I’m going to abandon in a month, not because I’m ashamed.). So let’s talk over some points because Sarah brought up a good point today. Why is fanfiction such a shameful thing in the fandom community, and in the writing community? One of the people on my friends list who I admire and is a professional, published author once rolled their eyes and scoffed when I said that I wanted to go to the fanfiction panel at a convention. Yet, no other facet of fandom is treated this way. I brought this up on Sarah’s post and I’m going to reiterate it here. Fan artists are not scoffed at, people flock to their tables in artist’s alley. Fan-made comics and doujinshi have led to careers writing and drawing comics and scripts for the same series their fanwork was based on. No professional costumer or prop maker sneers at cosplayers, in fact, there are now professional cosplayers. Fans wait in line for hours to watch masquerade skits at conventions. Fan-dubs like Dragonball Z Abridged and Nescaflowne are hugely popular and have led to professional voice acting gigs and production studios. But if an author dares to mention that they got their start in fanfiction? The horror, the outrage, the hate mail. Yet so much of our media could arguably be called fanfiction. Dante’s Inferno? John Milton’s Paradise Lost? The Aeneid? Classics? Yes. Fanfiction? Also yes. Joyce’s Ulysses is just an AU of the Odyssey. Anything written about or based on myths? Anything involving King Arthur? Sherlock Holmes? Shakespear...Oh you can cry adaptation all you want. Let’s face it if it’s written by some old white guy it’s literature and a classic and an innovative reimagining but really it’s just fanfic and it’s everywhere. West Side Story is a fanfic of a fanfic since Shakespeare based Romeo and Juliet off a poem by a similar name. My Fair Lady? Pygmalion AU. Hamilton? Real Person Song Fic! 50 Shades series, Mortal Instruments, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, Jean Rhys' Wide Sargasso Sea, hell there are literally hundreds of published Jane Austen fanfictions. John Gardner’s Grendel is a retelling of Beowolf. The Wiz, Wicked and the rest of Gregory Maguire’s books? The Wizard of Oz doesn’t enter public domain until 2035. The Magnificent Seven? Kurosawa called and he wants his seven samurai back, he’d also like to reclaim Yojimbo from A Fist Full of Dollars. Speaking of tv, how about Black Sails? It’s a fanfiction prequel to Treasure Island. Any comic book not written by the original creator. Any book series based on Star Wars, Star Trek, Dungeons and Dragons, World of Warcraft, etc. I could go on all day. So why is it, when so much of our popular culture consists of what basically boils down to fanfiction, that fanfiction is seen as a shameful indulgence, as “cheating”, as trash?Part of it boils down to sex. Read any article that brings up fanfiction and there will invariably be a line where the author distances themself by saying something along the lines of they don’t personally read it, or how slash fic isn’t their thing but to each their own. (Both quotes from some of the sites I pulled the above list from) A lot of people seem to think that fanfiction is just porn, and while yes there is some fanfiction that is porn and some of it is very good, the same can be said for regular fiction as well. People don’t blush and giggle over Lord of the Rings, yet when I say that I’ve read fanfic that’s longer than Tolkien’s trilogy I may as well be talking about how I read Aragorn/Boromir slash fic regardless of what the actual subject matter was. Yes, there’s sex in fanfiction. A lot of it is gay sex. You can read Lolita in school but Harry Potter fanfic? Gasp, think of the children! Even if that fanfic happens to be about what if Petunia loved Harry like a son instead of pushing him away and neglecting him. There is some really fantastic fan fiction out there. Some of it has sex, some of it doesn't. Some of it deals with queer characters and experiences, some of it doesn’t. There’s nothing inherently wrong with erotica and it’s an entirely separate issue. Not every fanfiction is a 50 Shades-eque erotic rewrite of Twilight, and even if they were, so what? A lot of fanfiction has to do with wish fulfillment. You want to know what happens next, or what would happen if this had happened instead, or if there was this character. You want to see someone like you in your favorite fandom. I had wanted to adventure with Bilbo when I was a kid. I wanted to go on adventures and fight and ride dinosaurs. These desires don’t go away just because we grow up. I got into roleplay and larp and gaming because I still enjoy make-believe. I write for a lot of the same reasons. Everyone wants to be the main character. Fanfiction gives you that chance. You can write yourself into a story, you can write someone that’s like you, you can write someone that’s nothing like you but what you want to be. So, let’s discuss our old friend Mary Sue. She gets trotted out as an example every time someone brings up fanfiction (or any uppity female character ever). Mary Sue was born in the 60’s. She is an actual character from a Star Trek Original Series fanfiction. Yes, fanfiction existed in the 60’s. Mary Sue was the brightest and prettiest girl to come out of Starfleet, she managed to be in all the right places at the right times to save the ship and capture the heart of Spock. Self insert fics and Mary Sues are at the heart of why we should be terribly ashamed of our fanfiction habit. Except, what was Luke Skywalker if not George Lucas’ self insert Marty Stu? There are countless male characters that are as bad or worse than your typical Mary sue and they are never called out for it. Seanan brought this up in a post once about her character October Daye, her editor had said that the character was too competent, too cool, and that it was unrealistic and she should tone it down. She had him replace the character’s name with “Harry Dresden” and reread the story and suddenly it was fine. There are a great many articles and essays about our friend Mary Sue and I implore you to read some of them. She is not the enemy we make her out to be. Fanfiction, on the rare occasion that it is accepted, is seen as some sort of training wheels, or baby’s first writing. It’s amateurish, it’s juvenile, it’s just not very good. If we are not ashamed of it, then it’s expected that we are only using it as a starting point to hone our writing and move on to professional published works. It’s either that or something terribly self-indulgent that should be kept to ourselves. Some fanfic writers do go on to become “real” writers. Seanan McGuire has always been very open about how her agent first approached her after reading some of her Buffy/Faith fanfiction. Some “real” writers also write fanfiction. Neil Gaiman won a Hugo for his Chronicles of Narnia Fanfic. Ursula Vernon and Mercedes Lackey write fanfiction in their spare time. Some fanfiction writers never become published authors, not everyone wants to. Some are happy to have a dozen 150k fics about their favorite fandom, or maybe just one 500k epic, some, myself included, may only have one short fic posted somewhere. There is nothing that says that you have to use your hobby to turn a profit. (By the way, for reference, War and Peace is 561,304 words, Dune is 187,240 words, you cannot make the argument that fanfic writers don’t put time into their craft when they have more words than Tolstoy under their belt.)Some of the ‘training wheels’ analogy is true. Fanfic is a terrific gateway to writing. It teaches pacing, plot, character development, how to take criticism. If I ever do write something professionally I will not be nearly as afraid of the red pen as I am of bad reviews. Anonymous readers are the most ruthless critics. May the literary gods preserve you from ever having your fanfic read aloud as an example of how terrible and ‘cringy’ fanfiction can be. There is a lot of fanfiction out there that is written by teenage girls, and it reads like it was written by a teenage girl, but the only way to get better at something is to practice. Fanfiction allows budding writers to do that. There are no rules, no one standing at the gates to bar entry, and entire communities of people willing to give advice and commentary. Sometimes it’s less helpful than harmful, but there is something about posting a new fic and waiting for that first ‘like’ or ‘kudos’ or a review. There’s something to be said for instant gratification. I have read a lot of really terrible fanfic. I have slogged through stuff that would make Mary Sue herself cringe. I have read about the ½ vampire, ½ werewolf, ½ fairy long lost princess. I have read grammar that would make your eyes bleed. Not all of it has been confined to fan works. I have read fanwork that has had me convulsing with silent laughter to the point that I wondered if I would die. Dialog that was ten times better than anything I had read in a professional novel. Fanfiction should not be judged by its worst offenders. We don’t hold Dune to the same standard as Twilight. Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is not terrible and cringy because 50 Shades of Grey overuses the phrase “Oh my.” There is some absolutely terrible fanfic out there and there is some pretty terrible published fic as well, but we don’t hold that against most novelists, so why do we hold it against fanfiction writers?I guess that brings us to the elephant in the fandom. Sexism. Fanfiction has historically been something written by and for young women and there is nothing more shameful than something liked by a young woman. Boybands? The color pink? Horse Girl books and Sparkly Vampires? Society hates them. We mock them. It is not acceptable to enjoy them. Sound familiar? How many times is something considered cool until a woman decides that she likes it? We as a society hate women and hate the things they enjoy and we hate teenage girls the most. Think of how much people hated selfies and duckface and instagram. How much hate was directed at Britney Spears, One Direction, Taylor Swift and Justin Bieber? Whether it has a basis in something or not, we hate them, we make jokes, we share the memes. We write them off as having no substance, as being stupid, not worth our time. Belittling of teenage girls for their interests and fandoms isn't a new phenomenon. Remember Mary Sue? Not only that, but a lot of fanfiction is gay. Women and gays are still the punchline to a lot of jokes and we can’t ignore that that plays a big part in people’s hatred of fanfiction, even if it’s not on purpose. Fanfiction has always been a bastion for people that couldn’t find stories about them in popular fiction. A lot of mainstream main characters are straight guys. A lot of fanfiction main characters are young women or gay men. Now, I admit that I’m oversimplifying this, and especially in recent years as it is becoming safer for people to come out as other genders and queer and as having mental illness or not being neurotypical, you are seeing more of that reflected in the fanfiction community. I don’t want anyone to think that I am purposefully leaving anyone out of this. The fanfiction community has not always been so great at being inclusive of people of color or transgender, it’s getting better, but I’m not going to stand here and pretend we’ve always been perfect. In the last several years I’ve seen a lot more inclusion. As I said, fanfiction has always been a home to the “Other”, as that expands to include more individuals so too does the community. Fanfics provide us with a place to work through issues and present perspectives that we don’t get to see anywhere else, without having to create an entire world from scratch. It’s accessible to everyone. I’ve spent the better part of an afternoon researching and writing this. I hope that I was at least partially coherent and I got you to at least take a look at why you feel the way you feel about fanfiction. I’m not sure if I exactly got across the points I was trying for, there’s a lot more eloquent, well thought out arguments out there from more knowledgeable people. Check out Seanan McGuire, she’s got a lot to say on the subject.

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