#this was supposed to be a five minute warm-up sketch but i guess i got possessed ;-;

[finnprof]

a little late to the party oops

✨ them ✨

[phykios]

Five Times Percy Jackson Cheated At School (And One Time Someone Cheated Him) [read on ao3]

thank you as always to @darkmagyk for inspo and beta-ing 💙💙💙 and thank you to @arosnowflake for the homer idea!

1)

Percy squints at the paper prompt again, tilting his head, as if the new angle will extract some hidden information. It doesn’t change. The font is the special dyslexia-friendly one used by most departments at NRU, so he isn’t misreading it, either.

Your final will be an 8-10pp (TNR, 12pt, double-spaced) research paper expanding on one of the topics discussed in our class so far, or an alternate idea of your choosing, to be submitted in writing by May 7 with footnotes and bibliography. By 10am on the Wednesday before the Thursday class you will submit online a 750-word essay (word count does not include footnotes) on the research thread you have pursued that week (no written assignments due Week 6 or Week 12). 

Percy might hate college.

“Your neck bothering you again?” Annabeth asks, coming up behind him, her hands already on his shoulders. She’s sweaty, dressed in workout clothes, having just come back in from a jog. 

“My neck is fine,” he says. “Just preemptively freaking out over my Roman history final.”

He tilts his head back over the top of his chair, staring into the upside down, prettily frowning face of his girlfriend, and it does nothing to improve his mood.

“How bad is it?”

“Eight to ten pages,” Percy says, “not including footnotes.”

“Ouch.”

“And,” he grimaces, “it’s a topic of our choosing.”

Her mouth twists in sympathy. “Sucks.”

“Yep.”

“Anything I can do to help?” She squeezes his shoulders lightly, an open invitation. 

He shakes his head, stretching his arms back to grab her waist. “Promise not to break up with me when you catch me crying at 4AM over it.”

“Promise.” And she seals it with a kiss, bending down to reach him. “Dad wants to know if you’re free on the 16th.” 

“The 16th?” He wracks his brain. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t conflict with sailing, or Greek Club, or the monthly intra-pantheon relations council meeting that Chiron and Clarisse both guilted him into joining. “Pretty sure. Why?”

“Dinner--Charlotte’s out of town that weekend.”

“Sounds good.”

“Great, I’ll let him know. Now,” and she grins, “are you going to stare at that computer all day, or do you want to come and take a shower with me?”

Percy slams the computer shut. 

He doesn’t think about his paper topic for a while after that.

***

To his great dismay, Percy gets to her dad’s house first on the 16th. Drama in writing group 🙄 she texts him as he gets to the door, be there asap.

Great. Alone in the house with his girlfriend’s dad. Taking a deep breath, he knocks on the door. 

Not a minute later, Dr. Chase opens it. Last time they went to visit, Percy and Annabeth had ended up waiting outside for almost a quarter of an hour. “Oh, Percy,” he says, fumbling his flight helmet off his head. “Goodness, I thought I’d lost track of time again. Come in, come in.”

“Thanks,” Percy says, stepping inside and shedding his jacket. “Annabeth’s running late, but she said she’d be here soon.”

He frowns, looking so much like Annabeth that it throws Percy for several loops. “Well, that’s alright,” he says. “I’m sure we can entertain ourselves well enough until she gets here.”

“Yeah,” Percy chuckles, uneasy.

Several seconds pass. 

“Oh!” starts Dr. Chase. “Right, yes. Come in. Would you like something to drink?”

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t get much better.

A few minutes of staggered conversation later, it becomes eminently clear why they need Annabeth between them. It’s not the awkward small talk that doesn’t go anywhere (“How’s school going for you?” “It’s okay.” “Good, that’s good to hear.”) or the fact that Dr. Chase doesn’t really grasp how to relate to younger kids (“Have you heard of this website called ‘Vine’?”), but more that it’s just painfully obvious that the two of them don’t really know where they stand with each other. 

Now, he knows that Frederick Chase doesn’t hate him. Objectively, he’s aware of the fact that, if it weren’t for him, Annabeth never would have reconnected with her father in the first place, and he kind of owes him for that. Also, Percy knows that he’s a pretty chill guy--a little scatterbrained, but chill. 

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to make a good impression, though. Or that Dr. Chase thinks that Percy is smart enough for his daughter. Because, like, Percy isn’t smart enough for Annabeth--that much is obvious. Dr. Chase was courted by Athena. Percy barely made it out of high school calculus.

“Would you…” Dr. Chase hedges, plucking off his glasses and giving them a quick wipe with his shirtsleeve. “Would you like to see some of my current research?”

“Uh… sure. I’d love to.” 

At the very least, hopefully Dr. Chase will talk enough for the both of them, eating up time until Annabeth gets here.

A new spring in his step, Dr. Chase leads Percy to his study, where he’s got a setup worthy of Cabin Six: on his desk is a massive map of the Mediterranean, littered with miniatures of tanks, planes, and ships. Ringing the room are wall-hangings, depicting different types of planes, half of their structure in x-rays like people in an anatomy textbook, sandwiching the giant viking sword which hangs directly behind his chair. Every inch of floor space is occupied with a pile of books, some serving as additional desk space for mugs, notepads, spare toy soldiers, and, in one case, what looks like the leftovers of a handful of celestial bronze spearheads, melted down into shiny, useless nuggets. 

“You know I primarily study aviation,” Dr. Chase is saying, tidying up as he walks around the room, “but my colleagues and I are collaborating on an interdisciplinary re-evaluation of the entire North African theatre in World War II. It’s fascinating stuff; until very recently, they used to call it the ‘war without hate,’ given the lack of partisan roundups and, ah, ethnic clashes that you see in Europe--absolute garbage, of course. As if there weren’t civilians caught up in the fighting, too!” He chuckles, pleased at his own joke. Percy forces a laugh out of himself. “Anyway, with my prior experience studying the invasion of Sicily, I was brought on to assist in piecing the timeline together, working backwards from 1943.”

“Cool,” says Percy, filling the natural gap of conversation.

“Extremely! Operation Husky was a terrific endeavor of airborne, amphibious, and land-based combat.”

Percy nods. Amphibious? “Uh-huh.”

“Though, I must admit, I am having a little trouble retracing some of the ships.” Peering over his map, he leans down, fiddling with one of the ships. “You see this one here? The Palmer?”

Stepping up to the desk, Percy crouches down so the little toy ship is at eye level.

“Well, based on official records, the Palmer was supposed to have arrived at the rendezvous point at the same time as all the other ships, but ended up delayed by two days, and I can’t… quite…” He moves the ship again, frowning. “Figure out… why…” 

“Where were they sailing through?” Percy asks. 

Dr. Chase points to the map. “From Alexandria to Malta.” 

“They probably just hit a bad couple of currents,” Percy says, standing up. 

Tilting his head, Dr. Chase peers at him. “How do you mean?”

“If you’re going through the Cretan Passage, you’re going to hit all kinds of West-East currents which will push you backwards.” Snatching up a pencil from a nearby book stack, Percy lightly sketches on top of the map, tracing along the North African coast. “There are tons of overlapping currents in this area that push boats around in circles, especially around Sicily. That’s one of the reasons why so many historians figure that Homer was referring to the Strait of Messina when Odysseus goes through Scylla and Charybdis, here.” And he circles the strait, with a confident flourish.

When he pulls back, Dr. Chase is staring at him.

Percy blinks. “Um… sorry I drew on your map.”

“You--I have been trying to figure that out for weeks.”

He coughs, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry.”

But Dr. Chase just laughs. “You can make it up to me by helping me with these next.” Clearing crumbs off of southern France, he bends over, pencil in hand. “So, say you were trying to get from Marseilles to Tunis…” 

Forty-five minutes later, still embroiled in battle recreations of the Mediterranean theatre, they don’t hear Annabeth letting herself in with her key, not even registering her presence until Dr. Chase, grasping for a notebook, spots her leaning against the doorway. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“Oh, Annabeth, dear! I’m sorry,” says Dr. Chase, going over to give her a hug. “We didn’t hear you come in.”

“I can see that,” she says. “What are you guys doing?”

“Percy here has been assisting me with naval movements,” he says, proudly.

Lacing her fingers with his, Annabeth steps over to Percy, studying their battle map. “Really?”

“Oh yes, he’s been phenomenally helpful.”

She kisses his cheek, pleased. “Look at you, Mr. ‘Phenomenally Helpful.’”

“It was pretty fun,” he admits, warm all over.

“I’d bet. Although, I guess this means we should probably order in for dinner…?”

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Dr. Chase smiles. “Yes, I suppose we should. Does pizza sound all right to you two?”

“Let me take care of it,” she says, slipping from Percy’s side. “You guys looked like you were in the middle of something. Extra olives, dad?”

“Don’t forget--”

“And anchovies, Percy, I know.” She rolls her eyes, taking out her phone.

Rather than the three of them move into the kitchen, Annabeth ends up bringing the pizza in with her, because of course she has opinions she’d like to share about the Allies’ naval movements. 

“You know, Percy,” says Dr. Chase, “I must say, you have a real knack for this kind of thing. Have you thought about what you might major in yet?”

Ah, the million drachmae question. “Not yet,” he says, fiddling with a pencil. “I figured I’d get through my gen eds first and then see which one I hated the least.” 

“I think you should consider majoring in history.”

Percy’s head snaps up. “History?”

“Specifically maritime history, I suppose. Your predisposition to sailing and ocean currents would be a huge asset to your research.”

“But--wouldn’t history have, like, a metric ton of required reading? I’m not really sure that’s my area.” He has a daughter with dyslexia and ADHD; surely he’d understand Percy’s hesitation.

But he just shakes his head. “Graduate programs these days are very favorable towards interdisciplinary methodology, I sincerely doubt you’d have to barricade yourself in the library. And recently there’s been a significant push to make the field more accessible to students with disabilities, including things like digitization, screen reading for people with vision impairments, and even restructuring programs all together so that students no longer have to memorize the Encyclopedia Britannica in order to pass their general exams.”

“That’s really nice of you to say, Dr. Chase,” Percy says, “But history class isn’t like talking over naval movements with you.” He thought back to the paper that had lowkey been haunting his dreams. “Like, in my classical history survey, I can’t just… talk about currents and battle plans. I have to come up with a topic on my own, and then write about that.” 

“Surely something involving Roman naval movements would be well within your skill set. You have a second sense about these things,” he chuckles, “clearly.”

Percy glances towards Annabeth, hoping she’ll back him up, but she looks thoughtful. Considering. Like she’s actually thinking about her dad’s proposal. “I can’t just choose something in naval history.”

“Why not?”

“Because… it's too easy?” 

If it was anything like his afternoon with Dr. Chase, it might even be fun. And school isn’t supposed to be fun. 

He repeats that thought to Annabeth as they drive home. “School isn’t supposed to be fun.” 

“No,” Annabeth agrees, “but I don’t know… I like my intro art history class way better than anything we ever did in high school because I actually care about it. Maybe if you write about stuff you’re good at, like my dad suggested, you’ll like it more.” 

The idea follows him all the way to bed, where he’s still mulling it over at 2 in the morning. Before he can chicken out, he grabs his phone, shooting off a quick email to his professor with his potential paper topic, then rolls over, eventually falling asleep.

By morning, he has a response. 

Sounds good! Looking forward to it.

***

With shaking hands, Percy calls his mom. “Yes?” 

“Hey mom.”

“Percy?” He hears her perk up, almost visualizing her sitting up in her chair. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

Mom instincts. They can always tell when something is different. His heart throbs in his chest. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, smiling stretching across his face. “It’s just--I got my paper back.” 

Percy had ended up writing his paper about the Roman navy movements in the Battle of the Aegates in 241 BC. It was probably the most fun he’s ever had on a school assignment, or at least the most fun he’d ever had writing a paper. 

“And?” She sounds expectant, hopeful. His mom has always had such faith in him, even with thirteen years of schooling to prove her otherwise. 

He looks back at his email, just to make sure he’s reading it right. “I got an A.”

She gasps. He can hear the scrape of the chair as she stands up. “Percy, that’s wonderful!” 

“Thank you.”

“An A!”

He smiles into his fist, inordinately pleased. “Thank you.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I am so happy for you!”

“Thanks, mom.”

“I’m so proud of you, Percy.” Her voice is soft now, like twilights on the beach with blue marshmallows. “I know how hard you’ve worked for this. You should be very proud, too.”

“I am.” And he is, weirdly enough. “I just can’t believe it.”

“I can.” His mom must be grinning, her eyes sparkling. “I always knew you could do it.”

“Sally?” He hears in the background, muffled. “Is that Percy?”

“Paul, Percy got an A on his Roman history paper!”

A second voice crowds its way in, equally excited. “An A? That’s great, kiddo! Congratulations.”

Why can’t he stop smiling? “Thanks.”

“I bet that feels pretty good, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

“Well, it is very well-deserved,” says Paul. “That was some great work you did. I could tell how passionate you were about your topic just from your first sentence.”

“Thank you.” Maybe he should be worried about all this praise going to his head, but damn, is it nice. “Listen, I have to go get started on dinner, but I just wanted to give you a call.”

“Of course,” says his mom. “I want to hear from you more, okay? Tell me more good news! Like when are you and Annabeth going to--”

“I’m working on it, okay?” says Percy, smiling even more broadly. “I’ll keep you posted, promise.”

She laughs, tinny and happy. “You’d better. Congratulations again, sweetheart.”

“Thanks mom. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” 

And he hangs up, puts his phone down on the table, tilts his head back, and sighs, full, happy, a release. 

Maybe college won’t be so bad after all. 

2)

“You don’t have to do this,” Frank says, hushed. “All you have to do is walk away.”

Five Greek Fire bombs, cloudy yellow, are lined up on the table in front of him, neatly laid out in front of five twenties. From the side, Frank stares him down, surrounded by an army of morbidly curious Romans. Someone turned off the music and turned on the lights a while ago, stopping the party in its tracks, every eye on Percy and his opponent. Figures, his first college party all year and he causes a scene. 

Percy grips the edge of the table. “He insulted the Mets,” he says for the millionth time. “I can’t let that shit stand.”

Frank sighs. “Annabeth?” he asks, hoping to stop this nonsense.

Turning to his side, Percy sees his girlfriend, two drinks in, her cheeks lightly flushed, but solid as she stands beside him, supporting him. Her eyes are hard, fierce, the warrior gaze of Athena all but leaping out of her. “Do it,” she says. 

William, the sour-faced Roman legacy of Juventus, scowls. “A hundred bucks on the table. Sixty seconds. No throwing them back up.”

“Deal.”

“Frank,” Annabeth calls. “Start the clock.”

He sighs. “You guys are idiots.”

“Frank!”

“Okay, okay.” He holds out his phone, thumb primed, hovering over the screen. “On your marks, in three… two… one…” 

He hits zero, and Percy grabs a shot glass. Squeezing his eyes shut, he brings it to his lips, and throws it back.

It’s… not what he expected.

The tequila is awful--no getting around that. Even to Percy’s untrained taste buds, having really only ever had some of Gabe’s sour beer (under duress) and some of the Demeter cabin’s strawberry wine (on his eighteenth birthday, a celebration for actually getting to graduate high school), he can tell it’s cheap, rank, unrefined shit, like he’s drinking straight toilet cleaner. But the garum, the weird Roman condiment that the shot is mixed with, the one that Percy had never heard of before, it’s… it almost tastes like the fish sauce that comes with the pork and rice noodles from the Vietnamese place down the corner of his mom’s apartment, only less… fishy? Yeah. Less fishy.

It’s a weird taste. It’s not bad, by any means, it just--straight up, it just tastes like saltwater. Like the sea. 

And, well. Percy can handle the sea.

He looks at William, and grins. “You are so fucked.”

The assembled Romans cheer, spectators at a gladiator show, as Percy knocks back the rest of the Greek Fire bombs, one after another, clearing them all in under thirty seconds. Annabeth swipes up the cash, shrieking as she throws her arms around Percy. William wanders off, red-faced and glaring, as whoever turned the music off before flips it back on, the night, and the party, saved.

Silly Percy. He should have known what was coming next.

Thirty minutes later, he is well and truly wasted.

“You’re, like, really pretty,” he shouts at Annabeth over the loud music.

She snorts, grinning at him. “Thanks.”

“Seriously,” he slurs, tipping forward on his feet. “You could be a model.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Remember when we were fourteen,” he yells, bracing himself against the wall, “and you got kidnapped by that monster?” Slightly soberer but still a little flushed, she bites her lip, nodding. “Well, I followed the rescue party--I told you that, that I snuck out of camp to follow the rescue party? Right?” 

“You did.”

He takes a sip of water, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Feels goofy as fuck. “We got hijacked by Aphrodite halfway through, and when I saw her, I thought--I thought, ‘Holy shit, she looks a little like Annabeth.’”

Her brows shoot up, smile pulling at her lips. “Really?”

He nods. “Totally! But you’re way, way p--” 

Still smiling, she silences him with a kiss, the lingering taste of hard cider on her tongue. “I appreciate it,” she murmurs, grinning, “but you probably shouldn’t say that out loud.”

“Gross.”

From out of nowhere, like he always does, the weasley little shit, Nico di Angelo is suddenly in their space, looking surly and emo as ever, red solo cup in his left hand. “Nico!” Percy crows, grabbing for him and missing. “How’s my favorite cousin?!”

Ducking his wildly swinging limbs, Nico grimaces in the way that Percy has to come to recognize as his attempt at a smile. “Better’n you,” he says, a little wobbly. “What’s up with him?” he directs towards Annabeth.

“Greek Fire bombs. Five.”

“You’re a psychopath.”

“What!” Percy pouts. “He insulted the Mets.”

“Aren’t you s’posed to be, like…” Nico snaps his fingers, words momentarily escaping him. “A--representation… person? For the Greeks?”

Percy waves his hand, hitting the wall. “Fuck that. The Greeks can handle themselves. The Mets are sacred!”

“Are you with anyone?” Annabeth asks, momentarily taking up Percy’s usual role of concerned parent friend while he is drunk off his ass. Theoi, he loves this girl so much. 

Nico shakes his head. “No, but Will and I are staying with--”

A thought suddenly blooms in Percy’s tequila-soaked brain. “Nico!” He shouts.

“What?” he hisses, glaring.

Percy pushes himself off of the wall, outstretched arms managing to box Nico in, falling on his shoulders and trapping him. He’s still a short, skinny little shit, the fuck, when are his Big Three genes going to kick in? “I need to talk to you about the thing.”

“The what?”

“The thing! The--the,” then he leans in, scream-whispering over the pounding bassline. “The thing.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“You know, it’s…” Percy licks his lips, language escaping him for a hot second. “Round. Metal. Jewelry thing.”

A beat, then Nico’s eyes widen. “Oh, that thing.”

“Yes, that thing!” Pulling back, he pulls Nico towards him, slinging an arm over his shoulders in a half-headlock. Annabeth watches, bemused, lips pursed as she tries not to smile. “I need to borrow Nico for a sec,” he says, words spilling out of him. “Back soon. Later. Soon.”

Her eyes crinkle, grey sparkling. She’s so fucking pretty. “Drink your water.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Then together, like some three-legged beast, the two boys lurch away deeper into the party, Nico leading them towards the kitchen. “Where’re you taking me?” Percy slurs. “‘M I being kidnapped again?”

“If I’m helping you plan out this stupid proposal,” he grumbles, pouring himself more vodka, “then I need to be less sober.”

***

Some mistakes may have been made.

“Where’s Annabeth?” Percy mumbles, looking back towards the house. The party is still raging, someone’s muffled Spotify playlist making a real racket, the greatest hits of ABBA still bouncing around his skull.

“Simp.” Nico, swaying a little, tries to stand up from his kneeling position, only to fall heavily back down on his knees. “She’s right where you left her.”

Discussing Percy's proposal plan had led to more drinking. More drinking had led to the two of them discussing their shared preference for blondes. (“Malcolm is pretty cute,” Nico admitted, flushing, and Percy almost screamed, “Isn’t he?! Sometimes I think about Annabeth with short hair looking like Malcolm and I almost start crying because she’d be so cute!”) Which then led to even more drinking. Which then led to general bitching about their lives, about Percy's hard-ass classics professor Dr. Bauer who he actually really liked but just pushed him so hard and expected so much of him, and Nico's half-brother Zagreus who was causing some family drama by picking fights with Hades all the time and also hooking up with both Thanatos AND the fury Megaera, which, ew, which then led to Percy inhaling his drink, nearly choking to death on unspecified college punch, Nico laughing at him all the while, as he had the most incredible idea.

"Nico!" He shouted, crushing the red solo cup. "Can you resurrect Homer for me?"

Nico gaped, staring. "What."

"Seriously! I need to ask him something for my paper."

"Percy." Nico gazed at him, all the power of the Ghost King boring into his soul, deep and haunting. Percy stifled a burp. "You're a fucking genius."

Which is how they found themselves around a shallow hole they had dug in the backyard, a large bottle of Pepsi originally intended as a mixer pilfered from the kitchen along with two slices of pepperoni pizza dumped on the grass beside them.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this," he says, uneasy even through his drunken haze.

"It was your idea!"

"I don't have good ideas."

“Fuck you, I’m doing it.” With all the force of a tiny, angry kitten, he snatches up the Pepsi bottle, wrestling with the twist cap for a good ten seconds. “I wanna give that bitch a piece of my mind for making me cry in school.”

Percy looks at him sideways. “Hector killing Patroclus got you, too?”

He snorts. “Fuck no. Achilles didn’t pay his dues to the dead.”

“Seriously?”

The cap pops off, and Nico tips the bottle over, dumping flat, lukewarm soda into the shallow hole. “It’s the ultimate dishonor!”

Freak. Percy would die for the kid.

“Let the dead taste again,” Nico mutters. “Let them rise and take this offering. Let them remember.”

“You’re so weird.”

“Says the guy who’s related to both horses and water.”

“I’m not related to water, I just control it.” 

The dirt turns black, dead soil mixed with sticky sugar water. Nico drops in the pizza, and begins to chant, that same ancient Greek that Percy heard in a dream once, talking of death and memories and returning from the grave or whatever. It’s still creepy as shit. 

Despite the warm California night, the air thickens with chilly fog. Silence, impenetrable, surrounds them, blocking out the noises of the party. From the earth, blueish, vaguely person-shaped figures begin to form, like thunderous clouds before a storm. “Which one is Homer?” he asks, hushed.

“Shh!” Nico hisses. 

Like little wells of gravity, the fog begins to coalesce. On one of them, Percy can almost make out, like, fingers. “Um, Mr. Homer? Sir?”

The figure doesn’t say anything. It lowers its mouth, drinking the soda out of the dirt. When it raises its head, Percy can see it more clearly, curly hair and milky white eyes and a straight nose. It--he?--seems a little more solid than your average run-of-the-mill ghost.

Nico frowns, eyes closed, concentrating. “What’s your name?” he mumbles. 

That mouth opens, soundlessly, jaw working on nothing.

“Speak.”

It--there’s a sound, like hissing, only it’s not coming from the mouth, Percy thinks. It sounds like it’s coming from the earth. “Nico?” he asks. “You good?”

The ghost opens its mouth again, moaning, raising its hands. Weakly, unsteadily, it stumbles forward on feeble legs, tripping over the shallow hole in the dirt.

“Nico?” he asks again, a little more forcefully. “What’s going on, dude?”

Nico blinks, slowly, mouth hanging open a little. “Uh.”

The… thing… raises itself up on its hands? He guesses, and knees, crawling its way over towards them.

Now, Percy may be drunk off his ass, but he has seen enough movies to know exactly what the fuck is up.

Moving with a speed he didn’t quite think was possible right about now, he grabs Nico’s wrist, and pulls him up, dragging him along as he lurches towards the house. “Percy…” Nico moans, stumbling over a rock. “I think I fucked up.”

“You think?” Percy wrenches the door open, tossing Nico inside, before following in after, throwing himself against the door. 

Nico groans, throwing his arms over his face. “Dio santo, my head.”

“Forget your head,” he says, “did we just raise a Homer zombie?!”

Panting, Nico stares up at him, sprawled on the floor of the house. “Oops.”

Percy thunks his head against the door. He does not have nearly enough mental capacity to deal with this right now.

But, he thinks ruefully, at least it’s just one. Even drunk, he’s pretty sure he can handle one zombie.

Nico’s eyes widen. 

Percy stares. “What.”

“I didn’t stop the ritual.”

His stomach goes cold.

Turning around slowly, he pulls aside the little curtain on the window. “What?” Nico asks. “What do you see?”

Percy can’t speak, mouth dry.

Slithering up behind, Nico peers over his shoulder. “That’s… not great.”

“Nico,” Percy says, eyeing the horde which slowly shambles closer, half-decayed bodies in togas bumping into each other, almost identical to the drunk college students inside, as the song changes, once again, to ‘Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight).’ “Please go get Frank and Annabeth.”

The following Monday, an announcement is sent out to the entire campus: Per new department guidelines, students may not utilize the ambassador of Pluto to interview the dead for academic purposes.

3)

Percy attempts to flatten his hair. He readjusts his shirt. He almost wipes his sweaty palms on his pants, before he realizes what he’s doing, and clenches them instead, nails digging into his palms. He turns to Annabeth. “Do I look okay?”

“Ooh, ‘Mapping Funerary Monuments in the Periphery of Imperial Rome.’”

“Annabeth.”

She looks up from her brochure. “Relax, seaweed brain, you look fine. You look better than most people here.”

“That’s because I bring down the average age of presenters by about thirty years,” he hisses, eyes darting about at the milling mass of attendees, all packed into the hotel ballroom. 

Dr. Bauer had alternately convinced/pressured/guilttripped him into attending this year’s annual conference for the Society of Classical Studies to talk about the research he’d been doing with her. This year, the conference was held in San Francisco, so at the very least Percy didn’t have to spend five hours stressing about his poster presentation while simultaneously up in the air. But now that he’s here, in the ballroom, surrounded by strangers who know way more about this subject than he does, who are actually smart and probably never nearly flunked out of school or got kicked out or--

“Hey.” Annabeth takes his hand. “I know that look. You deserve to be here just as much as any of them.”

“Do I? I feel like any moment someone is going to come over and throw me out for trespassing.” He vaguely recalls something similar happening to him as a kid after he had ducked into the lobby of a semi-nice hotel to dodge what he had thought, at the time, was just a weird stalker, but had later realized had only had one eye. In any case, the hotel security guard had practically picked him up by the scruff of his neck, tossing him back out into the street. 

“That’s just your imposter syndrome talking,” she reassures him. “No one is going to throw you out.”

He sure as shit hopes so. It would be a shame to have done all this work for nothing. 

Glancing back at his poster, Percy can’t help but feel… good. Accomplished. Proud. About a school assignment, of all things. 

His poster traces the development of the prow from the Greek penteconter, to the Roman liburna, and finally to the Byzantine dromon, looking at artistic depictions in history. Percy had picked the topic himself, spending hours in the library reading, writing, and hand-drawing cross-sections of the ships on the poster board when the images he had gotten from the Cambridge University library had been too small. It had been grueling, frustrating work, but fun, too. And not nearly as much reading as he had feared.

Dr. Chase proofread it for him. Dr. Bauer signed off on it. And Annabeth had taken one look at it, smiled, then kissed his cheek.

That was the best compliment he had gotten.

Though now he’s kind of torn between showing it off and hiding it away before one of these attendees figures out that he doesn’t belong.

He rocks back and forth and his feet, pursing his lips, randomly clicking his tongue. Annabeth nudges him. “Your ADHD is showing.”

That’s when, finally, one of the attendees steps up to his poster. He certainly has the look of a professor, in a black cable knit sweater with grey, curly hair and a receding hairline, thin, rimless glasses perched on his nose. He squints at Percy’s poster, rubbing his chin with one hand. “Interesting,” he murmurs, in a thick German accent. “Very interesting. This is yours?”

“Um.” He glances at Annabeth, who is frowning at the brochure, silently sounding out words that she can’t read. “Yep. All mine.”

“Very interesting.” He leans in closer, tilting his head. “So you agree with Pryor and Jeffreys about the skeleton-first construction, then?”

Percy blinks. Pryor and Jeffreys had written The Age of the Dromon, arguing that the ram, which had been a key feature of Roman liburnians, had gone away in ancient ship construction because of developments in how they built the hull. Right. “Yes,” he says. “The skeleton-first construction is a lot stronger than the, um,” shit, what was the name for this, Leo had only told him about a million times--oh! “Mortise-and-tenon!” He nearly shrieks. “The mortise-and-tenon method. It, um, it wears out a lot more quickly than the frame, so… yeah.” He clears his throat.

He nods. “Very interesting.” 

Percy stares. Can this guy say anything else? 

“This is very well done, young man.”

Oh. “Thank you,” he says. 

“Who are you working with?” 

“Um, June Bauer?” He winces at the accidental question. 

He frowns. “I’m not familiar with her work. Where does she teach?” 

What a loaded question. “Uh… New Rome University.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s--she used to teach at Northwestern, if that helps. Um, retired,” Percy says.

The frown stays, but at least he doesn’t ask any more questions. “Hmm. Well, this is excellent research, nonetheless. I look forward to reading your dissertation.” Then, distracted by something else, he wanders off, chin still attached to his hand. 

“Who was that?” Annabeth asks. 

Percy shrugs. “Beats me. Also, what’s a dissertation?”

“It’s like a senior thesis, but, like, five hundred pages long.”

Five hundred?! “Fuck me.” 

“Maybe later,” Annabeth smirks. “It looks like you’ve got company.”

Sure enough, a smallish group of four people are approaching, led by Dr. Chase, making a beeline straight for them. “Here we are,” Dr. Chase says, gesturing. “This is the project I was telling you about. Percy, would you mind going over your poster for us?”

“No problem, Dr. C,” says Percy, smiling his least-grimace-y smile. 

As one, the adults all turn to look at him, faces politely blank, expectant.

Percy swallows. “So,” he begins, “um, this research is about the development of ship construction in the Roman empire…”

He trips up on some of the words, and at one point, he sees Dr. Chase squint in the way that usually means that Percy is speaking too fast, but all in all, he doesn’t totally fall flat on his face. His audience looks engaged, nodding along as Percy moves from point to point, and no one accuses him of being a giant fraud, which is pretty nice. 

At one point, Percy turns to the poster to indicate a specific point on his ship diagrams. When he turns back, his audience has suddenly multiplied, four people turning into a whole goddamn crowd. Each person gives him their undivided attention almost unblinking.

His mouth goes dry. “Um…” 

Dr. Chase, bless him, saves his ass once again. “Would mind starting again from the beginning, Percy?” he asks, a little bemused himself at the amount of people that had suddenly appeared. 

Silence stretches on for a moment, the muffled noise of the rest of the conference like a dull roar in his ear. 

Annabeth, behind him, coughs. 

“S-sure. No problem.” 

Swallowing, he closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose. Why, oh why did he let Dr. Bauer talk him into doing this again?

He pictures the tides of Long Island Sound, gentle and rocking, unhurried and unbothered, tries to match his breathing to them. When he opens his eyes, unfortunately, the crowd hasn’t disappeared. Everyone is still staring at him. 

But Annabeth stands next to her dad, flashing him a big smile and two huge thumbs up.

Percy relaxes. He’s got this.

“Okay,” he says. “So, about the middle of the first millennium CE, ship construction went through a couple of major developments…”

This time goes much, much more smoothly. He’s not sure what it is--though it’s probably Annabeth, her face fixed in a gentle smile as she watches him speak. Gods, what did he do in a past life to deserve someone as amazing as his girlfriend? 

That’s the only reason he can do this. Hell, that’s the only reason he even thought to do this. If he didn’t have Annabeth there, encouraging him, cheering him on, he never would have had the confidence to put himself out there like this. She’s there to pick him up when he doubts himself, there to listen when he can’t explain himself, there to give him feedback when he needs to practice. 

She makes him feel so strong. She makes him feel like he can take on the world--or at the very least, that he can impress a handful of academics.

And they certainly seem impressed with his talk so far. 

“Excuse me,” says a nasally, pinched looking older British guy, face lined as though he lived his life in a state of perpetual squinting. “I find your conclusions to be suspect--wouldn’t the frame method be more susceptible to breaking than the mortise-and-tenon?”

Well, most of them, anyway.

Percy shakes his head. “You’d think, but no. If you look at the study by Steffy, you’ll see that the three-finned ram from the Athlit wreck was designed specifically to break the mortise-and-tenon hull by causing the planks to flex, so that they’d dislodge the joinerys right next to them. A blow like that can cause the wood to split right down the middle.” A blow like that had sunk Sherman Yang’s ship when they tested it out on the lake at camp last summer, the naiads practically hurling him out of the water so quickly Percy didn’t even have to dive in to save him.

“How were you able to do these strength tests?” asks another listener, an older woman with a thick Hungarian accent.

“Hands-on battle simulations,” Percy replies, easily. “We took our models and tested them in as accurate a simulation as we could make.”

“And how big were these models?” 

Percy holds his hands apart, a vague, entirely inaccurate estimate. “About thirty meters, give or take.”

Her eyes widen. “How on earth did you get your hands on such a large ship?”

Percy freezes. “Uh.”

Oh, shit.

He had forgotten--most people didn’t have dads who could summon shipwrecks from the bottom of the sea, dropping them off at Camp Half-Blood with nothing but a sand dollar and one or two exhausted, pissed off hippocampi who had had to drag them all the way there.

“Um,” he stammers, licking his lips, thinking fast--c’mon, Percy, think! “I…” He swallows, panicking. “I… b… built one.”

In the corner of his eye, Annabeth facepalms.

Simultaneously, every mouth in the crowd drops--in shock, outrage, and even excitement. “You built one?!” the woman yelps. 

Oops. “I had help,” Percy says, quickly. 

Annabeth adds a second hand to her facepalm.

“Where?” The first man asks, his bushy brows flying above the rim of his glasses.

“At my… summer camp…” 

Dr. Chase sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I mean,” Percy chuckles, shrugging his shoulders, trying not to sweat too obviously, “it was either that or lanyards, am I right?”

Dr. Chase, thank Athena, raises his hand, ready to step in. “What Percy means to say, I believe,” he says, attempting to draw their attention, “is that--”

“That’s amazing!” says another woman, probably a grad student attendee based on the fact that she’s wearing jeans. “Do you have pictures?”

Oh this is not good. “Um, not--not on me, but--”

“I do.” Annabeth takes out her phone, holding it up to the person next to her.

Percy blinks. “You do?” He doesn’t remember her taking any pictures.

She shoots him a look, two parts exasperated and one part “shut up and let me handle this,” with just a dash of fondness in the mix. Pointedly, she looks at him, eyebrows raised, indicating that he should continue.

Oh. She’s using Mist. And he needs to keep their attention on him so that they buy it. “Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Any more questions?” 

His audience placated for now, passing around Annabeth’s phone, he manages to finish up his presentation. After fielding a few more questions, people start to peel off, distracted by other posters and presenters in the ballroom. When everyone has finally wandered away, Dr. Chase comes up and pats Percy’s shoulder awkwardly. “Nice work,” he says, and he seems like he means it. “A little touch-and-go there for a while, hm?”

“A little.”

He chuckles. “Still, you should be proud. I don’t know how many undergraduates would be able to handle that kind of pressure.”

“I mean,” Percy says, shrugging a shoulder, “it’s about on par with leading an army. Maybe a little less.” Honestly, maybe even a little more stressful. If a monster had decided to attack the convention center and interrupt his presentation, he probably would have been relieved.

He’d been worried for a moment that he’d undone all those years of work in making Annabeth’s dad like him. And that he’d be charged with some sort of academic fraud, for the whole “I have a boat” thing without proof. Thank the gods for Annabeth, as always.

She’s looking at him now through narrowed eyes. She at least can’t be surprised--that was far from the dumbest thing she’s ever seen him do. At least his “I spent most of my time at magic greek mythology summer camp” covers are normally better than hers. As someone who spent his formative years in the real world, he’s usually pretty good at keeping the demigod thing under wraps. 

“Come on,” she says, grabbing his hand. She pulls him off, through the dispersing crowd, lacing their fingers together, sweet and intimate, out of the hall and then down another one, and through a smaller corridor. Bringing them up to a little door, with a shake of her wrist, she pulls out her Estruscan keyring bracelet. About several of the keys have found themselves used in various misadventures, vanishing once their purpose is fulfilled, but her favorite key is still there. And, just like a clever child of Hermes, it can pick just about any lock. 

Inside is just an empty room, a little staging area surrounded by tiered desks going up, no more or less remarkable than any of the other conference rooms they’d visited before. 

“What--?” His question is cut off by Annabeth’s mouth on his. 

Surprising, but definitely not unwelcome.

It's a while before they separate again. “You’re so good at this,” she tells him, unbuttoning his shirt.

He runs his hands along the lines of her flanks. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he grins. He’d practice kissing her all day long if he could. 

She smiles, shaking her head. “No, not this,” though she does lean in for another kiss, pulling at his lower lip with her teeth. “I know you’re good at this.” They break away, Percy pulling her shirt over her head, Annabeth shucking off his. “But history. Presenting.” She runs a finger over his chest, kissing his cheek, headed towards the sensitive spot on his jaw. “Gods, you’re so smart.” 

Something about the praise vibrates through his chest. She doesn’t sound surprised, or anything, just--turned on.

“You had all those crusty academics eating out of your hand. Just, so impressed by you, knowing you know way more than they do about naval history. When you were explaining the--” Her compliment is cut off with a moan, as he leans down and starts sucking on her throat. Her blouse has a high neck, so he feels no guilt for using his teeth.  

“Watching you today, gods.” Her breath is labored as his fingers play at the waistline of her skirt. “And then thinking of you defending your dissertation.” He bites at her jugular, and she lets out a long, deep moan. 

“I don’t know what that means.” Do academics fight each other? Like, with weapons? He’s pretty sure he can take most of the people he met today. 

“It means you get to show off how smart you are,” Annabeth says, grasping his shoulders, pulling him in for another kiss. “I was born the day my dad defended his. Gods, it's going to be amazing to watch you go.” She yanks his belt out of his pants, tossing it to the floor. 

They miss the panel on recent translation efforts. But Percy can’t say he minds one bit. 

And when Annabeth presents him with a positive pregnancy test two months later, Percy definitely knows he made the right decision. 

4) 

He almost doesn’t realize he’s having a dream-vision at first.

It has been literal years since he’s had a demigod dream. Hell, it’s been a long while since he’s had a dream, period--being a new dad to a one-and-a-half-year-old saps too much of his energy to even think about dreaming. Once Junie is put to bed, when he’s out, he is fucking out, and he does not have the brainpower to spare to manifest any messed up subconscious fears.

Which is why when he blinks open his eyes, taking in the too-bright colors of the Parthenon and the gleaming shine of the bronze statues which are somehow all looking at him--also, you know, how the Parthenon is complete, standing as it did thousands of years ago, and not crumbled into ruins--he knows, immediately, he is being contacted by a god.

And only one god in particular would bring him to Athens.

Without even checking, he heaves himself up off the ground, folding into a kneel. “My lady Athena,” he says, “can I ask for what quest you’ve brought me here?”

“Impertinent as ever, Percy Jackson,” rumbles the goddess, but Percy doesn’t think he can sense any ill will towards him. He hopes, anyway. “Perhaps I have summoned you here for a social visit.”

“Perhaps,” he says, choosing his next words as carefully as possible. “But I assume you have too much to worry about to randomly check up on your daughter’s boyfriend.”

He lifts his head, catching her expression--stoic as always, but maybe with just the barest hint of a smile. “You assume correctly. You have become, contrary to my initial expectations, very wise in the time that I have known you.”

“Thank you.” He knows better than to do anything but accept the compliment for what it is.

“I have observed your work as a scholar in recent years, and I must say that I am surprised, yet pleased, that you have chosen to pursue such a path. I had not thought you to be suited for a world of old men and dusty papers.”

He grits his teeth. Don’t rise to the bait, don’t rise to the bait, don’t rise to the bait--

“I understand, as well, that though you and my daughter have,” and here her careful composition cracks, just the slightest, the tiny lift of her lips falling, “made a child together.”

Percy swallows. He figured, you know, in the abstract, that Athena would know about Junie, but hearing her say it out loud is… well, he’s just glad that Dr. Chase has always liked him. “Yes, my lady.”

“It is customary in your time to marry prior to childbirth, is it not?”

“It is.” Oh, fuck, is she going to smite him for that? “I--that is to say, we, Annabeth and I, we, um, we definitely want to get married, but, Annabeth kind of…” 

He trails off. He can’t tell Athena, goddess of war, that his daughter pissed off the queen of heaven! And if he does, he definitely can’t imply that it was because she was being too stubborn!

“I know well of my daughter’s history with my father’s wife,” Athena says, smoothly. “I come to you now with an offer of peace.”

Percy straightens his back. Peace?

Raising one graceful arm, Athena turns, indicating the structure behind her. “Look upon my temple,” she intones. The white marble shines even more powerfully against the blue and red paint, intricate scenes and figures ringing the top of the columns. “In the time of Pericles, it was built to commemorate the victory of Hellas over the armies of Xerxes the Great. It was to be the shining beacon of our world, a triumph of our power and influence over the race of men.”

The race of men might have had something to say about that, he thinks to himself.

“But it was not to be,” Athena says, mournfully. “As our influence waned, so too did our temple, until its might was all but forgotten.” 

Before his eyes, the paint fades away, ceilings and columns collapsing, the destruction of the Parthenon playing out in front of him. 

“Some two hundred years ago,” she says, her voice taking on a darker, more dangerous tone, “a grave insult was paid to the ruins of my ancient sanctuary.” Like curtains falling on a stage, darkness swallowed up the structure, swift and impenetrable. “Many treasures were taken from my temple, stolen, by foolish, greedy men, spirited away far to the north, where they have languished in unworthy hands.”

He narrows his eyes. She can’t possibly be talking about--

Athena turns back to him, her eyes blazing, somehow twice as tall. “Retrieve my treasures,” she commands, war personified, “return the prizes of Athens to their rightful place, and I shall give you my support against my father’s wife.”

“You…” Percy leans back on his haunches, staring dumbfounded up at the goddess. “You don’t happen to mean the Parthenon Marbles, do you?”

“Yes.”

“The ones in the British Museum.”

“The same,” she says, imperious as ever.

Fantastic. “Welp,” Percy says, slapping his thighs, scrambling up. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to decline. Nice seeing you, by the way. I’ll tell Annabeth you stopped by.”

Her sharp gazes pierces him, full of fury. “You dare to refuse my support?”

He snorts. “When it means trying to get the UK to give the marbles back, absolutely. Do you know how stubborn they are about this?”

Lightning flashes behind her, nearly blinding him. “You will regret this,” Athena says, dark and foreboding. “You may have your father’s goodwill, but the queen of Olympus is clever and cunning, her displeasure swift and merciless.”

But Percy still shakes his head. “When Annabeth and I get married,” and it’s definitely a ‘when,’ it’s just a matter of when precisely, like after Junie can sleep through the night maybe, “I’d rather take my chances with Hera than try and untangle that particular can of olives.”

A growl, and a snap of her fingers, and Athena disappears.

With a start, Percy wakes up. Junie had gotten her chubby little hands around his nose, and had decided to pull.

“Ow, ow, Junie, hey,” he squawks, attempting to dislodge her grip from his face. “Hey, I’m awake, it’s okay.”

She laughs, illegally adorable, her grey eyes sparkling, squeezing harder. 

“Okay, okay,” he laughs along with her. “You got my nose, you win.”

As if she were waiting for him to admit defeat, she lets go, clapping her pudgy toddler hands together. 

“That’s right,” he picks her up, raising her above his head. “Barely sixteen months old and you already know how to take me down, don’t you? Just like your mommy.”

She smiles, waving her little fists.

Gods he loves this little monster.

Junie really is the best parts of both of them. She’s got her daddy’s hair but her mommy’s brain, quick and sharp and painfully adorable. She’s already learning to read Greek, Annabeth sitting her in her lap and sounding out vowels together, Annabeth taking her finger and tracing it over the letter shapes. This kid absorbs information like a sponge, which Percy can only assume is the natural conclusion of taking a son of Poseidon and a daughter of Athena and mixing their DNA together. 

Thinking about his dream, he frowns. “What do you think, Junie,” he asks his toddler. “Should I take her up on her offer?”

The baby says nothing.

“I mean,” he tilts his head, “Greece has been trying to get the marbles back for two hundred years. UNESCO has top lawyers on this. What does Athena think I can do?”

Junie blinks at him.

“On the other hand, I do really love your mom,” he admits, “and I really want to marry her. You’d like that, right? To have your parents be married?”

There’s no way she can understand what he’s saying, but she moves her head like she’s nodding. Or maybe she does understand. She is Annabeth’s daughter after all. 

Percy sighs. Dammit.

Time for a new project, he guesses.

***

Several months, a college graduation, and one relocation to Boston later, Percy growls, hurling his pencil at the wall. Mother fucker. Fuck the British Museum, fuck his tiny laptop screen, and fuck the Italian prick who decided to have the least ADHD-friendly handwriting of all time. 

Why the hell is he doing this again? Like, seriously. Why in all of Hades is he, an inexperienced, snot-nosed, first year master’s student deciding to tackle the return of the fucking Parthenon marbles of all things. Like, what is wrong with him? 

Roughly scrubbing his fingers through his hair, Percy stands up. He has to go for a walk, clear his head, or he might actually explode. 

Then he catches a glimpse of the photo pinned to the fridge.

Percy’s mom had taken it, a candid of Percy and Annabeth and Junie on a sunny day in Central Park. There, in perfect 1080p, Junie is laughing, at what he can’t even remember, her pudgy fists yanking on Percy’s hair, while her mother and the love of his life does nothing to extricate Percy from her grip, her face screwed up so hard she had tears in her eyes. 

Percy had talked a lot of shit to the goddess of war’s face, but truth be told… Hera still terrifies him a little. Which, he assumes, was her goal all along, but it would be nice to marry Annabeth without fear of something going terribly wrong--or, gods forbid, something happening to Junie. That simply was not a risk he was willing to take. Percy is content to spend the rest of his days as Annabeth’s life-partner and roommate, if it means that the queen of the heavens won’t have a reason to take out her issues on his children.

Even if the engagement ring in the back of the pantry is gathering dust. 

Sunlight, wan but warm, falls in from the window, landing perfectly on his pile of open books. “I know, I know,” he growls, speaking to the air, rubbing his face so it doesn’t get stuck in a permanent glare. “I just--I just need a few minutes, okay? Let me go down the block and get a coffee or something. Two minutes, Lady Athena.”

The light fades. Percy takes that as an acquiescence, angrily scribbling a note. He’s not sure when Annabeth and Junie will be back, but even angry as he is, he doesn’t want to worry them.

Snatching up his jacket, he slams the door shut, stomping out of his apartment building and down the streets of Boston. He must be accidentally doing his wolf stare, because people are practically flinging themselves out of his path as he hurtles down the sidewalk. Literally--some girl is walking her husky, and the poor dog actually whimpers, cowering as Percy rounds the corner. 

Coming to a stop, Percy slaps his hands over his face, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. 

He might be in over his head a little.

Sighing, he looks to his right. He’s standing outside of a Starbucks. 

Percy doesn’t drink coffee, Annabeth does. And he knows exactly how much of a coffee snob his girlfriend is. Starbucks? Overpriced, overrated, over-sweetened garbage.

He pushes the door open, sliding up to the counter. “I’ll take a… iced mocha, I guess,” he says. “Large.”

“No problem,” chirps the barista. “I’ll have that out for you in a minute.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

One thing Starbucks does have going for it, though, are really good napkins for doodling.

Slumping down in his uncomfortable metal chair, elbows resting on the hard, faux-wood table, Percy takes out his pen, and doodles aimlessly on the brown napkins. No, not that pen. Just because it can write doesn’t mean that Percy wants to risk slicing his face open every time he has a stray idea. Completely out of the blue, Annabeth had gotten him a nice set of pens, and ever since then, Percy always keeps one on him. Now, if he could just remember to use the little notebook she had gotten him, too.

Percy is not an artist by any stretch of the imagination. He doesn’t have an image in mind, just lets his pen move, drawing endless chains of triangles and stars, nebulous shapes which form themselves into Greek letters. After he catches himself writing γλαυκῶπις for the eighth time in a row, he sighs, dropping his pen, and picks up the cup, taking a sip.

Yuck. At least the chocolate outweighs the coffee taste a little.

Gods, and their cups are always, like, drenched from condensation--not that Percy can feel it, but there’s practically a whole other drink on the outside of the plastic, dripping all over Percy’s pile of doodle napkins. That must be why they give out so many.

Grumbling, he mops up the mess, ink smudged into a blue-brown slurry.

He stops. 

He squints at one of his doodles. 

Not that anyone else could tell, but Percy had apparently been trying to recreate the signature of Ottoman sultan Selim III, the guy who had supposedly authorized the Earl of Elgin to take the Parthenon Marbles. Percy had been staring at copies of his signature all damn day, trying to tell if it had been forged or copied, but classical Arabic was just so far beyond anything he could even begin to wrap his head around. It was gorgeous work, but even looking at it made Percy’s eyes swim.

This particular doodle is not his best attempt. It looks nothing like the signature. It’s smudged, blotchy, but in a way that’s… weirdly familiar. 

Snatching the napkin up, Percy bolts from the Starbucks, leaving his mocha behind.

Taking the steps of his apartment building two at a time, he bursts into his kitchen. His set up is exactly how he left it, books spread out all over the table, laptop shut and laid askew, the dry, half-eaten remains of his morning muffin on a plate on top of his encyclopedia of illuminated manuscripts--except for one book, the one on Ottoman history of the nineteenth century. It’s been opened, its pages facing the door, in the exact opposite direction of all the other books. 

“Hello?” he calls into the apartment. “Anyone home?”

No response. 

Percy approaches the table. 

From the pages, Selim III stares at him, his portrait rendered in black and white, sitting just above a figure of his signature, his tughra. 

Percy picks up the book, squinting. 

The signature is crisp, clean, a work of art all by itself. 

He looks at his napkin drawing. Blurry and smudged.

Opening his laptop, he pulls up the scans of the documents in the British museum, zooms in on the letter’s seal.

Blurry and smudged.

Percy stares. 

It… can’t be that simple, can it?

In a daze, he fires an email off to his new grad advisor. Hopefully he won’t mind Percy sticking his nose in where he doesn’t belong. Hey Dr. T--was looking at the Parthenon marbles docs in the BM (don’t ask) and I noticed this weird smudge on the tughra. Lazy scribe, maybe?

And he closes his computer.

Later that night, while he puts Junie to bed, he gets a response. not sure. sent it to a colleague for a closer look. 

He can’t even be bothered to really think about it though, not with Junie looking up at him with Annabeth’s eyes, and asking for another book. “Alright, kiddo,” he acquiesces, settling in beside her. All her story books are in ancient Greek, and at age two, she’s starting to recognize the letters. “Which one are you thinking?” 

“Daw-fins, daddy,” she says, smiling.

“Dolphins, eh? Getting Mr. D on your side early, I see. As smart as mommy.” He leans down and kisses her forehead before he starts to read her the story of the sailors and their sudden dolphin madness. 

***

“Huh,” Percy says to himself a few weeks later, as he and Annabeth are chilling on the couch, watching some Netflix.

His advisor has forwarded him an article from the BBC (New evidence suggests Elgin documents to be forgeries) with an accompanying note: Amazing catch! 

“What is it?” Annabeth asks, nudging him with her elbow--a feat, since she also has an armful of a squirmy Junie to deal with.

“Update in the Parthenon marbles thing.”

That gets her attention. Anything Parthenon-related does. “Really?”

He shows her his phone.

Her eyes go wide as saucers. “Damn.”

“Yep.” He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he feels his lips pulling at the sides of his mouth. 

“My mom is probably your biggest fan right now.”

He starts. “What did you say?”

Turning back to the TV, she still manages to cast him a weird look. “I said, my mom will probably love you for this.”

A beat, then Percy practically somersaults over the couch, darting into the kitchen. Wrenching open the pantry door, he shoves his hand behind their collection of flours, fingers grasping for--

“If you’re looking for any more sacrificial cookies,” Annabeth calls after him, “we burned them all when Junie got a cold.”

“Remind me to make some more,” says Percy, pulling out his prize. It’s a little dusty, streaks of flour clinging to the blue velvet. “I have a feeling we’ll need them.”

“Oh yeah?” She chuckles. “What, did Olympus put in a special order?” 

Percy slides back down next to her, ring hidden in his closed fist. “Can I have the baby for a sec?”

Eyes fixed to the screen, Annabeth passes her over. Junie’s hands automatically reach for his nose, ready to grab, but Percy places the ring in her grasp instead, kissing her forehead. “Hey, babe?” he asks Annabeth, handing her back. “I think our daughter has something for you.”

Annabeth takes her without a second glance. 

Then she does take a second glance.

Ring closed in her pudgy toddler fist, Junie holds it out to her.

Annabeth gapes. 

“So,” Percy says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, “quick confession: I wasn’t just working on the marbles for fun.”

Annabeth just stares. Junie babbles.

“Your mom told me that if I helped get the marbles back, she’d back us against Hera if we ever got married. So…” He trails off, waiting for her response. As close as he is, he can see the tears start to well up in her eyes--a good sign. “Shall we?” he prompts.

“Oh thank all the gods.” Annabeth is crying, because she's Annabeth. And because she's Annabeth, she also wastes no time in transferring Junie to her other side, and holding out her hand so Percy can slide the ring on her finger. “I was so worried I'd have to have Chase on my Masters’ diploma, too.”

5)

Percy is making sauce when his phone lights up. He hits speaker. “Hey.”

“Hey man,” comes the tinny voice of Magnus. “Sorry I missed your call earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Percy says, “I figured you were dying or something.”

Magnus’ eye roll is almost palpable. “Very funny. What’s up?”

Bringing the spoon to his lips, he blows on it, taking a taste, before reaching for the salt. Needs way more. “Do you happen to have any Varangian guards in Hotel Valhalla?”

“Varangian guards? Uh, maybe. Probably. Why?”

“I’m doing a thing on the attempted reconquest of Sicily,” he says, lowering the heat a little to a simmer, “and I’m having some trouble piecing together the Battle of Montemaggiore. Know anyone who was in it?” 

Magnus hums. “I’ll ask around. Anyone in particular you’re looking for?”

Rifling through their little spice cabinet, he makes a mental note to get a new thing of hot sauce, tipping the rest of it into the pot. “If you have anyone who fought under Harald Hardrada, that would be great.”

“Hardrada? I’m pretty sure he lives on the fifth floor.”

Percy nearly drops the bottle. “No shit?”

“Big dude, long mustache, writes poetry?”

“Yes!” He picks up the phone, grinning from ear to ear. “Do you think I could come up and talk to him sometime?”

“Sure, but I thought you were doing something on Homer’s identity?”

He groans. “Backburnered for now until she stops driving me crazy.” No matter how many times Percy tells her, he can’t just drop the “Homer was actually an Egyptian woman” bomb without some serious evidence backing that up. And forgery is not one of his strong suits. Hence the need for a different topic for the time being.

“Has everyone ever told you your life is weird?”

“No, why do you ask?”

His phone suddenly vibrates, shocking him so badly he nearly drops it into the saucepan. Almost home, texts the love of his life, a shot of serotonin directly into his bloodstream. V hungry

“Sorry, Magnus, but I gotta run. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem. Say hi to my cousin for me.”

“Can do.”

“And make sure you pick a date soon! Sam needs to know so she can schedule her flight home.”

“Soon as I can.” You know, when his brain isn’t melting from grading undergrad papers. And making sure Annabeth and Junie are fed. And that Annabeth doesn’t lose herself in graduate school. And finding Junie a new preschool after she destroyed a classroom last month because of a monster. His toddler is a badass. But he’s a little worried she’s gonna follow Mommy and Daddy’s example as far as school goes. 

Sometimes, he thinks that their wedding just won’t ever happen. With Athena on board, he figured it would happen sooner or later, but time just… keeps getting away from them. Which isn’t the end of the world. A lifetime at Annabeth’s side is all he really needs, Mrs. Jackson or no. But he’s seen the silver fabric she weaved for her wedding dress. It would be a shame for all that hard work to go to waste.

And, yeah, he wants to see his little Junie dancing down the aisle flinging seaweed before her mother. He wants his mom to cry a little and he wants all his friends to be there to celebrate with them. Is that so much to ask? 

Speaking of his two favorite girls--”We’re home!” Annabeth calls from the hallway. “Junie, go say hi to daddy!”

Her bare feet slapping against the floor, his daughter comes toddling in, making a beeline for him. “Hey, kiddo,” Percy says, scooping her up. “How’s my best girl?”

“She’s just fine, thanks,” Annabeth says, setting her work bag down on the table. “Tell me I don’t have to wait for dinner--Margie kept me for the entirety of my lunch break, and I am starving.” 

“Just gotta make a salad and we should be good to go.” But he makes no move to finish chopping vegetables, entirely too enraptured with the way Junie smiles when Percy sticks his tongue out at her. “Let me guess,” he says. “Does my best girl want some olives?”

“Peas,” Junie says. 

“Oh, you want peas instead?”

She giggles, waving her arms. “Elaia, daddy!”

“Fine,” and he kisses her nose. “Extra olives for you.”

“Chip off the old block,” Annabeth says.

Handing her back to her mother, Percy sighs. “When am I going to get a kid who likes anchovies?”

“I’m doing my best here, okay?”

***

Hardrada is… not what he expected.

“Reputation isn’t that bad.” Hardrada is saying. “The production isn’t what it should be, but lots of her lyrics are still on point.” 

“The production ruins it,” Percy insists. “And as a follow up to 1989? It's just bad.” 

“And what about Lover?”

“What about Lover?”

“You can’t argue with the genius of that one.”

“It is terribly inconsistent,” Percy shoots back. “Yeah, ‘The Archer’ and ‘Daylight’ and ‘Miss Americana’ are sublime, but ‘ME!’? Come on!”

“Are you one of those people who thinks she peaked at Red?”

“Red is a bop from start to finish,” Percy fires back. “But she definitely peaked at folklore.”

“Thinking she peaked at folklore is just pedestrian when ‘tis the damn season’ exists!” Hardrada yells, drawing his axe, which is then promptly flung over Percy’s head. 

As the only mortal in a room full of armed, excitable, undead Taylor Swift stans, Percy beats a hasty exit, Magnus and Jason covering him as he flees, because they’re just so thoughtful like that. Percy’s pretty sure he saw Magnus take an arrow to the knee, going down in a heap, before he shuts the door to the hotel, finding himself in a Forever 21. 

Looking over his notes later as he gets back to his apartment in the North End, he frowns. They had spent… approximately twenty minutes talking about Sicily before getting solidly off track. Who knew an eleventh century viking would have such intense feelings about pop music? 

And now he’s singing “seven” to himself as he unlocks the apartment door, because it's a good song, and because it made him think of Annabeth. And he always wants to think of Annabeth. 

“Hey, babe,” he calls into the apartment, toeing off his shoes. “I’m back!”

He gets no response.

Percy looks up, confused. “Annabeth?”

“In the bathroom,” he hears, faintly. 

“Everything okay?”

“Yep! Totally fine!” she says, unconvincingly. 

“Alright,” he calls back. “Let me know if you need something.”

Moving Junie’s toys out of the way, he drops down onto the couch, grabbing his laptop. Hopefully he can make some sort of sense of the… notes… that he got from Hardrada. Though he’s probably going to have to trek out to Beacon Hill again, which, while not really out of his way, does mean he has to hike a bit from the Park Street station through the Commons, which makes him super sweaty and out of breath. It’s just embarrassing, walking into a hotel full of the greatest warriors of Valhalla, and Percy can barely handle a hill. 

However, he’s not so out of practice that he can’t sense Annabeth coming up behind him. “You good?”

“What do you think about getting married by the end of the month?”

“Sure,” he says, pecking at his computer. Damn autocorrect ruining all the Norse names. He keeps forgetting to download the right language package he needs. “But I thought you wanted to wait until after you turned in your portfolio?”

“Well… I might not be able to fit in my dress if we wait much longer.”

That gets his attention.

Percy turns around, slowly. Annabeth is grinning, holding a thin little piece of plastic with a circle on the end. She wiggles it. 

“Is that…?”

“Yep.”

“Oh.”

Her smile falls. “Are you mad?”

“What? No!” Percy slides his computer off his lap, twisting around to face her, up on his knees. “No, no, not at all. I’m not mad.” She slings her arms around his neck, pregnancy test warm against his skin. “I just…” 

Eyes warm, she looks into his, unafraid. “What is it?”

“It’s…” It’s silly, is what it is. But this is Annabeth. If he can’t tell her, who can he tell? “I just feel bad that I’ve gotten you pregnant twice before getting married.”

“Well, at least I’m not nineteen this time,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “But maybe we wouldn’t have this problem if you weren’t such a horndog.”

Percy snorts. “Me? What about you, Annabeth ‘3 AM anal before my first lecture’ Chase.”

“Jackson,” she corrects.

“Huh?”

“It’s Annabeth ‘3 AM anal before your first lecture’ Jackson.”

Grinning, he presses his mouth to hers. After all this time, she still smells like lemons, her lips soft and warm. “Not yet it’s not.”

“Then let’s make it happen.”

And, well, Percy can’t think of a better plan.

+1

Jamie hisses. “Fuuuuuck,” she whispers, the sound dropping like a stone in the dead lecture hall. “Goddamn shit fuck ass.”

And the worst part is, she’d actually spent a lot of time preparing for her Latin midterm. She’d made flashcards, she’d drilled noun endings, she’d even slept with the textbook under her pillow for fuck’s sake. 

Typical--the moment she sits down to take the test, it all goes out the window. 

“Legistne carmen longum de Troiano,” she reads under her breath, as though saying it out loud will unlock some hidden secrets of the cosmos. 

Nope. Nothing. The multiple choices remain as inscrutable as ever.

“Psst.” 

Jamie looks up. 

There’s a four year old staring at her. 

“Hi,” Jamie says. 

“Hi,” says the four year old. Junie, her name is, she thinks. 

Mr. Jackson, Jamie’s Latin TA, will bring his kids to class with him sometimes--his wife works full time, and Jamie guesses that they can’t afford a babysitter. She’s a cute kid, quiet, usually sitting in the corner of the lecture hall, drawing or even knitting, sometimes with her little sister playing with toy ships next to her. 

Now, she’s still staring at her. “What’s up?” Jamie asks.

“Bello,” says Junie.

Jamie blinks. “Sorry?”

“Legistne carmen longum de bello Troiano.” 

She squints down at her test sheet, attempting to visualize her flash cards. That’s… “Bello” is the right answer.

The fuck? The fucking four year old can speak Latin? “Thanks,” she whispers. 

Junie beams at her.

Darting her eyes to the front of the lecture hall, Jamie spies her professor, Buck, completely conked out at his desk, his chest rising and falling with his snores. Percy is nowhere to be seen, his laptop open at his chair. “What’s the next one?” Jamie turns her paper so that Junie can see better.

“Pluto Proserpinam infelicem cepit,” she announces, perfectly accented.

Jamie points to the one after that.

“Rex qui pontem fecit erat Ancus Martius.”

“Awesome.” 

The door to the lecture hall opens. Jamie whips around in her seat, startled, and sees her TA, walking down the steps. From the corner of her eye, Junie disappears, booking it to her dad, who scoops her up without missing a beat. “Hey kiddo,” he murmurs, smiling crookedly. “Were you bothering my students?” Then he glances at Jamie. “Sorry about that--hope she wasn’t too annoying.”

But Jamie shakes her head. “It’s fine.” Dammit. 

Still smiling, Percy makes his way back down to his seat. Junie grins at her over his shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around her dad’s neck.

At the beginning of the semester, Professor Buck had droned on and on about Mr. Jackson, about how he was one of the best up-and-coming classics scholars in the world, how he could have had his pick of PhD programs, and how NYU was lucky to have him. He got first pick of assistantships this semester, apparently, but had volunteered to teach Latin 1001, and they should all be grateful, because he had done some beautiful new translation of Virgil for his Master’s thesis, and they were all going to learn a lot from him. 

Turning back to her exam, Jamie snorts. Of course a guy like that would have a kid who could speak perfect Latin. 

She really should have just stuck with German instead. 

[earliebirb]

nosedive

steve/tony, fluff, (newly) established relationship, 3250 words

Tony stares absentmindedly out the airplane window as he puts his phone up to his ear, watching people run back and forth, performing last-minute engine checks. Some of the guys look sweaty and out of breath.

From the comfort of the air-conditioned Stark Industries private jet, he feels a slight twinge of sympathy for the people having to suffer in the humid summer heat.

He loosens his tie and sinks deeply into his seat, closing his eyes with a massive yawn as he listens to the ringing tone. He hadn’t been able to sleep very well throughout his five-day stay in Tokyo, too anxious about the contract to rest properly. 

The ringing tone goes on for a few more seconds before ending with a click, replaced by an achingly familiar voice greeting him in his ear. 

“Hello?” 

Tony’s eyes spring open. Outside, an aircraft marshaller walks by, speaking rapidly into his walkie-talkie.

“I had a blueberry muffin for lunch today. One single blueberry muffin.”

“...What?”

“It didn’t even taste that good. I couldn’t finish it. Too dry.”

“Tony, that’s not good. Is that all you had for lunch? You should really eat—”

“The meeting went well, by the way. Mr. Watanabe finally signed the contract, everything went as planned. My ride to the airport, however…”

“I told you things would go smoothly, you had nothing to worry about. You’re a brilliant negotiator—”

“The traffic? Fuck. I had to keep shifting in my seat to avoid pins and needles.”

“That sounds awful, are your legs okay—”

“Did you know that Tokyo is number nineteen on the list of cities with the worst traffic congestion in the world? I know that, because I looked it up on the way to the airport. But boy, did it feel like it deserved the number one spot. I think I lost feeling in my ass.”

“I did not know that. And, uh, is your ass okay—”

“Thank God for my private jet. These plush seats are the best things I’ve ever spent my money on.”

“That’s objectively not true, and you know it—”

“Then again, I think these seats in particular were Pepper’s choice? We remodeled the airplane’s interior like… two years ago. I couldn’t be bothered to meet with the airplane seat people and I just told her to pick whichever looked best. I had much more important things to tend to, like sewing up the holes in JARVIS’s Christmas stocking.”

“I am concerned about how you sort your list of priorities—”

“Hm, that’s right. I think it was around two, three weeks before Christmas and I didn’t want JARVIS to be upset about the whole stocking thing, you know?”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t have—”

“Also, you’re right, the single blueberry muffin was a bad idea because now my stomach won’t shut up. So I’ve ordered some pasta for my in-flight meal. Robbie’s making it, you’ve met Robbie—”

“I’ve met Robbie, yes, he’s—”

“Larry’s replacement after he resigned. Gotta say, I was sad to see Larry go. Guy worked for me for seven years. But then there was that thing with his grandma, and he had to leave, so… But! Robbie makes a mean carbonara, maybe even better than Larry, don’t tell Larry I said that—”

“I don’t even know Larry like that, how would I—”

“Mr. Stark, we’re ready to go.” The pilot—Paul—emerges from the cockpit, staring at him in anticipation.

Tony nods and makes a few rapid gestures with his free hand that he supposes Paul is only able to interpret perfectly after years and years of working for Tony. The gestures roughly translate to something like “Copy, I hear you, just let me wrap this up and then I’ll let you know when I’m done. Capiche?”

Paul—bless him—just gives him a curt nod and retreats back into the cockpit. 

“Anyway,” Tony takes a deep breath and puffs his cheeks out with the exertion of his exhale, “I called because… I got a feeling, Steve.”

“A… feeling?”

“Just— A gut feeling. A feeling in your gut. Inside of me. Like a hunch?”

“Okay,” Steve says patiently, his voice low and warm, “what are you feeling?”

“I… got a bad feeling. Today. A few hours ago. The feeling came to me when I was sitting in traffic, and I just— I feel like something bad’s gonna happen today, Steve. I can feel it in the air. In my heart. In my gut. In my joints.”

“Your joints? Like… the feeling old people get when it’s about to rain?”

“Okay, maybe not in my joints. Also, are you calling me old, grandpa?”

“I did not, you told me you felt something in your—”

“Anyway, so yeah. Where was I? Oh, right. Feeling. Bad feeling. Like, like, I don’t know, something bad’s gonna happen. Like an accident. Like a plane crash.”

“God, please don’t say that. You’re scaring me, Tony.”

“And I guess, I just called because I… I feel like I need to do this before the plane crashes and I die a violent and fiery death.”

“Nothing bad’s going to happen, Tony—”

“Like, if I didn’t do this today, maybe I’d never get to do it, you know? And, uh, okay, I’ve honestly been ranting to stall for time, but the longer I keep it in the more nauseous I feel, so maybe I’m just gonna do it now so I can die in peace—”

“Do what? And stop saying that—”

“Look, I’m trying to be brave and honest here and— Wait, actually? Maybe I’m being a coward because if the plane actually does go down, I won’t have to face the consequences of my actions, so I guess I’m just going to say fuck it, and say that I love you.”

“The plane is not going to— Wait, what?”

“I, uh. Love you. I’ve known it for a while now. And, uh, I know we’ve only been dating for like, a week, but—” Tony blinks. They’ve only been dating for a week. 

“...Fuck.” Tony can feel his own pulse starting to race. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Tony?”

They’ve only been dating for a week. What is he doing? What the hell is wrong with him? Normal people don’t do this. 

“Fuck. Shit, I mean— Uh, I’m sorry. That was super weird, huh?” Tony laughs nervously. He closes his eyes, gritting his teeth and cursing his stupid brain. Of course it’s weird. He always gets too attached to people way too quickly. No wonder Pepper was his only long term relationship. She was the only person who could put up with him—everyone else just got weirded out. “Uh, see you tomorrow? Or not. Fuck, sorry, I’m just gonna hang up before this gets—”

“Tony, wait.”

“...Yeah?” Tony says, hyper-aware of how breathless he sounds. His heartbeat is ringing in his ears. Everything is going to be fine. Right? Right. The worst thing Steve could do is… break up with him.

Oh, God, that is the worst case scenario. He really should’ve just kept his stupid mouth shut. 

“Tony, are you freaking out? I feel like I can hear you freaking out from all the way over here.”

“No, I’m not, of course I’m not. Who says I’m freaking out? You have no proof. I am calm, I’m calm as a clam, is that the saying? Did I get it right? Or was it happy— Anyway, I am absolutely calm, I’m the calmest I could possibly be. Any calmer and I’d be asleep. I’m—”

“Tony. Breathe.”

Tony forces himself to drag in a slow breath as he grips the arm of his seat with his free hand, focusing on the soothing hum of the airplane’s engine.

“Look, Tony, I—”

“No, listen. I’m sorry I jumped the gun, I hope I haven’t weirded you out or anything. You really, really don’t have to say it back to me. I mean it.”

“Tony—”

“No, in fact— Please don’t say anything. It’s fine. Let’s just pretend this never happened, okay?”

“But—”

“Drop it, Steve. Please?” Tony pleads. Clearly, his brain hadn’t been firing on all cylinders. That is the only reason that could explain his temporary lapse of judgment. “Look, I feel like talking about it more right now is going to send me spiraling into a panic attack.”

“...Okay. Fine.”

“Thank you. Uh, I’ll see you when I get home. If I get home. If the plane doesn’t crash. Haha.”

“Would you please stop saying that? It’s not funny.”

Tony latches onto the change in topic like a lifeline. “It is objectively true, you know. In order for me to be able to see you tomorrow, the plane has to land safely, and unfortunately, some things are just beyond my control. Like, who’s to say the plane won’t explode mid-air and—”

“The plane is going to land safely and you’re going to come back home to me in one piece. This is non-negotiable, Tony. You hear me?” Steve demands, his voice all hard authority and no-nonsense, like there will be Consequences should Tony fail to comply. 

As if he could ensure Tony’s safety with the force of his willpower alone. 

Come back home to me. 

That sounds good. Really good. Tony closes his eyes and pictures Steve’s baby blues in his mind’s eye. Warmth flowers in his chest.

“I hear you.”

“Great.”

“Awesome. I, uh, I gotta go now.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow.”

“See you.”

Tony hangs up and lets Paul know that he is done with his phone call. The jittery feeling left over from his call with Steve refuses to leave him, however, so he pulls up the drawing application on his phone and begins sketching something just to give his brain something else to fixate on.

He tends to lose track of time when he is hyperfocused on a project, so he isn’t exactly surprised that the next time he becomes aware of his surroundings, the plane is already well up in the air, his sketch of what looks like a flying coffee pot is almost finished, and Robbie is placing a plate of spaghetti carbonara on the table in front of him. 

“Spaghetti carbonara. With extra cheese.”

Tony’s mouth waters as he eyes the mountain of grated Pecorino Romano sitting atop the pasta. He sighs dreamily and smiles up at Robbie.

“You’re a lifesaver.”

“Enjoy, Boss.” Robbie grins and slips back into the kitchen.

He only realizes just how truly famished he is after taking his first bite, and proceeds to finish the rest of his meal with gusto. Afterward, he spends the majority of the remaining flight time sleeping, the result of post-carbonara food coma and his sleep-deprivation finally catching up to him. 

It’s well past two in the morning when Tony finally makes it to his floor in the Tower, which is why he is surprised to see Steve sitting on his couch, one of Tony’s fantasy novels open in hand. 

“Steve, what are you doing here?”

Steve’s head snaps up at the sound of his voice. Tony frowns. “Actually, why are you awake at all?” He is usually an early sleeper, unless—

“Nightmare?” Tony gives him a sympathetic smile. It wouldn’t be the first time. In the early days of their friendship, Tony and Steve would sit together in the living room whenever they had trouble sleeping, talking to each other until the sun came up.

Steve shakes his head, closing the book with his eyes still trained on Tony. “No, I was just… waiting for you.” Tony blinks. 

“It’s…” Tony glances at his watch. “Half past two. In the morning.”

“I know, I just…” Steve stands up, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. He ambles over before coming to a stop right in front of Tony. “I wanted to see you.”

Tony stares at him uncomprehendingly. “You’ll see me later anyway.”

“I couldn’t wait any longer. I didn’t want to go to sleep without seeing you first,” Steve says, low and earnest. His gaze wanders around Tony’s face, as if he were cataloguing each and every facial feature and trying to locate any changes he might’ve missed during his absence.

“Oh.”

Steve steps closer, arms snaking around Tony’s waist and pulling him close. His next words are whispered against Tony’s shoulder.

“I knew you’d make it home safely.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“You were wrong.”

“I was… wrong.” Tony swallows. “Uh, turns out the bad feeling completely disappeared after I woke up from my nap on the plane, so I suspect that perhaps the bad feeling I got was due to my severe hunger and sleep deprivation. I mean, I’ve heard about hallucinations caused by hunger or exhaustion, but this was—” 

Steve presses a soft kiss to the column of Tony’s neck, effectively cutting off Tony’s ramblings.

“Tony,” Steve whispers against his skin.

“Yeah?” Tony squeaks.

“Please don’t call me before a flight and say that you think the plane is going to crash, ever again.”

“Right. Noted. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Steve says, pulling away slightly and loosening his hold around Tony.

Tony allows himself to relax, letting out a quiet sigh. This thing with Steve is so new and delicate that every single physical contact still sends his heart fluttering, butterflies going crazy in his stomach.

Which makes, in retrospect, his abrupt love confession—as truthful as it was—that much more insane. God, Stark. Never do that again.

Except, it turns out that Steve only pulled away to slide his hands down the back of Tony’s thighs, wrapping his hands around them, and then lifting him up without warning.

Tony yelps, and in his alarm, promptly locks his ankles around Steve’s waist. When Steve begins moving, Tony quickly wraps his arms around Steve, resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder.

“Uh, Steve?”

“Hm?” Steve says, calm and nonchalant, as he begins walking away from the elevator. 

“Um— Wait— My suitcase—”

“Leave it. It’ll still be there in the morning.”

Tony blinks, staring dumbfoundedly at his lonely suitcase, abandoned by the elevator. It becomes smaller and smaller with every step Steve takes. 

“Where are we going?”

“Your bedroom.”

“Why are you carrying me there?”

“Because I want to.”

“You know it’ll be faster if you just let me walk, right?”

“Maybe. But you won’t be in my arms.”

“Um.”

“Bear with me, will you? I missed you.”

“I, uh, missed you too.”

Steve hums, satisfied. Tony lets himself settle more comfortably in Steve’s arms.

When Steve has successfully carried him to his bedroom, Tony fully expects Steve to deposit him on the bed. 

That is not, in fact, what happens. 

Instead, Steve turns around and begins walking backwards towards the bed before sitting down on it. Tony, still seated on his lap, swallows and pulls back slightly to look at Steve. 

“Look, Steve, as much as I’ve missed you, I’m kind of tired right now. I mean, don’t get me wrong. This whole carrying thing? Great. Very romantic. Ten out of ten. But I’m just not in the mood for sex, you know? Like, I’m not even sure I would be able to get it up if—”

“We’re not going to have sex.”

Tony blinks.

“We’re not?”

“We’re not. I’m just here to tuck you in.”

“Oh.”

Steve reaches up and begins undoing his tie. After setting it aside on the bed, he begins to unbutton Tony’s shirt. He takes his time, one button at a time.

“So…” Steve begins with a deep breath as he unbuttons the final button. “Did you mean, uh, what you said to me? On the phone?”

Tony closes his eyes, feels his own cheeks heating up. “Steve—”

“I’m sorry, Tony, I know you told me to drop it. But— I feel like if you did mean what you said, I owe it to you to… set the records straight.” When Tony opens his eyes again, Steve is looking up at him, blue eyes solemn.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… We have only been together for a week. Well, eight days. In fact, we’ve only been on one date. And it was interrupted. By giant lizards.” Steve chuckles incredulously. 

Tony remembers that day very well. They were in the middle of dessert at Tony’s favorite Italian place when they received the call to assemble—something about giant lizards wreaking havoc in Central Park.

The lizards had green, gunky blood that got into the nooks and crannies of the suit. It had taken forever to clean.

“But Tony…” Steve gathers the material of Tony’s unbuttoned shirt in both of his fists, pulling him closer until their noses are only inches apart.

The second their eyes meet, Steve smiles the sweet, lopsided smile that never fails to make Tony’s stomach flip.

“I need you to know that… I didn’t have to date you to know that I loved you. I figured that a long time ago.”

Tony stills, breath frozen in his lungs.

“I guess, what I’m saying is… I love you too. I’ve loved you for a very long time, Tony. Even way before—” Steve breaks eye contact, looks down as he clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is tight. “Way before we got together. I’m talking… years before.”

Tony still finds it hard to breathe. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, the word more breath than sound. He meets Tony’s dazed gaze. “So you don’t have to worry about… jumping the gun. Not with me. I’m in it for the long haul.”

“...Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Good.” Tony feels a lightness growing inside of him, spreading outwards to his extremities.

“Good.” Steve smiles, warm and impossibly fond.

“...Glad we’re on the same page.” Tony’s gaze drops down to Steve’s lips.

“We are.” Steve inches closer, nose brushing Tony’s. He then tilts his head ever so slightly and takes Tony’s lower lip between his, kissing him so tenderly Tony’s heart feels like it’s about to burst with it.

Steve’s warm hands slide up Tony’s naked back under his open shirt, sending goosebumps breaking across his skin. Tony buries his hands in Steve’s hair and relishes the feeling of the soft strands caught between his fingers. They stay caught up in each other for a few moments, capturing and releasing each other’s lips until the need for breath becomes too unbearable.

They break apart eventually, accompanied by soft chuckles. Steve smiles up at him, lips slick and cherry red, courtesy of Tony. He reaches up to caress Tony’s right eyebrow with the pad of his thumb, fleeting and affectionate.

“Get some rest, okay? You must be really tired. I should probably go to bed, too.”

Tony looks down at his lap, clearing his throat. “Uh, I know that we haven’t done this before, but…”

Steve waits patiently for Tony to gather his thoughts, hands stroking up and down Tony’s sides.

“Do you want to stay with me tonight?” Tony finds the courage to meet Steve’s eyes, holding his breath.

Steve’s blue eyes are gazing at him intently, looking at him like he’s the only person in the world worth his sole, undivided attention.

Tony swallows. “No sex. Just to sleep. If you—”

“Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“I would like that very much.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Good.” Tony feels his own lips slowly curve up into a smile, wide and unbridled. 

“Good.” Steve nods, lips twitching, his eyes never leaving Tony’s. 

Tony grins, feeling near giddy with delight. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“We are, sweetheart.” Steve looks up at him, blue eyes fond and smile radiant. “We definitely are.”

[enterprisetrampstamp]

Request: TOS Spock and Bones being an adorable married couple while aboard the Enterprise!

"All I'm saying is, you could've warned me," Bones was complaining, before the fabric of his uniform pants had even touched the plastic of the bench across the table from his Captain.

Jim, his focus directed at the PADD containing the paperwork that Yeoman Rand would be coming to fetch in less than five minutes, hummed a neutral acknowledgement and trusted his Chief Medical Officer to continue his diatribe with only that minimum of prompting.

"A chance to prepare--" Bones's fork flicked through the air-- "A chance to brace myself. Pretty sure that after everything you've put me through over the years, Jimmy, I deserved one."

"Almost certainly," Jim agreed, dashing off another signature with the rubber tip of his stylus.

"Good of you to admit it. Spock didn't!"

"What didn't I do, Doctor?" Spock asked, and-- unlike when Bones had sat down-- Jim looked up to shoot his Number One a crooked grin of welcome. (It wasn't about Spock, specifically-- it was about that, that warm feeling of vicarious happiness he got at seeing his two best friends oh-so-casually brush their fingers against each other in a gentle "Good morning" kiss.)

Bones rolled his eyes; Spock raised an eyebrow.

"You wouldn't admit I deserved a bit of warning before you dumped an entire crop of fresh-faced, bushy-tailed morons in my lap." Bones stabbed at his eggs vindictively, his expression sour. "Do you know how much work--"

Oh, that's what this was about? The new nurses and interns who'd joined the crew at their last pit stop?

"They're not morons," Jim told him, amused, as hebturned back to scrolling through his PADD. "And you did have warning, Bones; you had to sign off on all of them."

"I was told that I was offering my opinion on their placement on other ships!" Bones threw his hands wide, his left hand smacking into Spock's chest unapologetically. "Not mine!"

Spock gently removed Bones's hand from his personal space, and Jim sighed. "At the time, you were," he said dryly. "But several of your nurses have resigned their commissions recently, and this mission has been turning out a lot differently than we anticipated at the start; you could always use some additional hands in surgery--"

"Like I would trust these fools with a scalpel--!"

"They aren't even fresh out of the Academy, Bones," Jim reminded him. "Every one of them has at least a year of prior experience in a hospital and performed admirably--" he looked up, eyebrows raised. "At least, according to your own assessment."

"Have they yet shown themselves to be unsatisfactory?" Spock asked, calmly cutting to the center of Bones's ranting, and Bones scowled as he buttered his toast.

"They're fine," he said, shortly. "But not a one of them is prepared for the differences between traditional hospital practices and those of a starship, Jim. On another ship--" he waved a hand. "They'd have time to ease into things. But here? On the Enterprise? They need their hands held, Jim, and Chris, Geoff, and I only have so many hands to go around."

Spock looked to be considering this point deeply, so Jim left him to it for the moment, glancing guiltily at the chronometer on the far wall of the mess and resuming the race to finish his paperwork. It's not that Bones was wrong, in Jim's opinion; it was just that they didn't have a lot of choice in the matter. The CMO and the indomitable Nurse Chapel would simply have to ride herd on the new kids until they either shaped up or washed out-- no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

"You believe they are likely to freeze the first time they're placed under pressure," Spock surmised.

Bones-- when Jim glanced up into the silence of hesitation-- pulled a face and shook his head. "All hospitals are, by definition, life or death situations; they've already proven they can handle 'pressure'," he said. "But basic xenobiology credits don't do justice to the realities of practicing your craft on biological systems you barely understand-- present company included-- with diseases no one's ever seen before and half the equipment you would have wanted. It's their imaginations I'm worried about, Mr. Spock."

"Then perhaps it is their imagination you should focus on training, Doctor."

"There are a couple security officers trying to put an improv comedy club together," Jim suggested, hiding his grin by ducking his head further towards the PADD as he dashed off another signature, and a bit of toasted crust bounced off of his temple after Bones threw it at him. "That was assault of a commanding officer, I'll have you know."

"Shove it, Jim. The grown ups are actually brainstorming solutions over here."

"Of course," Jim agreed, smoothly, and pretended that "brainstorming" was the only reason Bones had laid his hand over Spock's when Spock placed it palm up on the table.

"Sims, maybe?" Bones murmured. "I could write something up, if you'd be willing to code it. No right answers, only better ones; see what they come up with."

"It would be my pleasure, Doctor."

A beat, a shit-eating grin in his periphery, and Spock repeated, sharply-- "Doctor."

"My virgin ears and I are glad Bones kept that one telepathic," Jim said, hiding his own shit eating grin behind his cup of coffee as he took a sip, and Bones laughed.

"Not in front of the Captain, Mr. Spock, or whatever will appear on your next performance review?"

Spock sighed. "You have a singularly frustrating personality, Doctor."

"You're one to talk. You know, Jim, he uses cinnamon toothpaste?"

"Perish the thought." Jim signed another dotted line, his feeling of foreboding growing as he scrolled further and further down towards the next. Janice was going to be here in--

"Your yeoman has just walked into the mess, Captain," Spock told him.

"And she's a woman on a mission," Bones added, eith a thread of laughter lacing through his tone. "A tactical retreat may be in order, Jim boy."

Captain James Tiberius Kirk did not turn to look over his shoulder, because that would be a sign of weakness. "Buy me five minutes," he said, his tone just shy of an order. "I'll speed read."

"How are we supposed to do that?" Bones demanded, but Spock-- bless those pointed ears of his-- was already rising to his feet.

"Accompany me, Doctor," he requested.

And, with a sigh, Bones took a few quick bites of his toast and then rose to his feet, wiping his fingers on a napkin as he trailed behind Spock. Jim paused his reading only long enough to watch them intercept Janice--

What they said couldn't be heard from across the room, but Bones's right hand found the small of Spock's back, his wedding ring glinting under the light as he waved the other about enthusiastically, and his exuberance combined with Spock's quiet intensity commanded Janice's attention quite completely. By the time she'd wormed her way free, Jim was outting the last flourishing signature on the paperwork, and he handed the PADD over to her with his most charming smile.

"Thank you, Yeoman."

"No, Captain," she said, with a smile that was far too shark-like for the sweetness of her tone. "Thank you." And then-- laughing-- she was gone.

Bones looked smug, and Spock's eyes glittered with Vulcan amusement, and suddenly, Jim was feeling much less charitable towards the man's ears.

"Gentlemen," he said suspiciously. "May I ask what price I've just paid for those five minutes?"

"You know, Yeoman Rand has a lot of friends on the ship, in all kinds of departments," Bones said, as he tucked into his remaining eggs. "Including Security."

"She's a popular woman," Jim agreed, slowly.

"Ensigns Martinez and Harper will be most grateful to hear of your interest in joining their improvisational comedy group, Captain."

Jim stared at Spock. "No."

Bones smiled. "Oh, yes."

"No!"

"His idea," Bones said, jerking his thumb at Spock.

"I was under the impression you had been looking for a method of engendering further goodwill between yourself and the crew," he said, with a perfect Vulcan poker face.

"Wouldn't do to back out on a promise now, Captain," Bones told him cheerfully. "Say, they still encourage audience participation st these things, don't they?"

"A staple of the genre, Doctor."

"My," Bones said, smiling into the horror dawning across Jim's face. "I guess I'll just have to make sure I never miss a show."

Spock hummed as he returned to his own breakfast. "I believe I shall have to miss every show, for fear that you would volunteer me for a sketch."

"Well." Bones wiped his mouth on a napkin, blue eyes twinkling. "Even so, Mr. Spock. I'll see you at lunch."

Spock bid him a pleasant morning shift, and-- with a brush of their fingertips-- Bones was gone.

"You didn't really promise Janice that I'd be doing improv comedy, did you?" Jim asked, weakly. "I'll forgive you for the implication if you simply admit--"

"No, Captain, I did not." But the way he said it...

Jim closed his eyes. "Spock. Did Dr. McCoy promise it?"

"Yes, Captain, he did."

"I know you love him, Spock, but I'd like your permission to ship him back to Earth--"

"Negative."

"He'll be happy there," Jim promised. "I'll set him up on a nice farmstead in Georgia--"

"I don't believe that the life of a farmer would especially agree with me."

"I'm not planning on sending you."

Spock raised an eyebrow, and Jim sighed, relenting. "I suppose you would follow him, wouldn't you?"

"Of course, Captain."

"Of course," Jim agreed, with a ghost of a smile breaking through his glum mood. It was nice, seeing his two best friends in love--

Even when they ganged up on him.

[just-dreaming-marvel]

Out Of Time ~ 4

MAIN MASTERLIST

Out Of Time MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 2,325ish

Summary: Steve comes back bigger and with permission to take Y/N with him.

Warnings: none

Steve was gone before Y/N woke up in the morning. She understood that he probably thought that was best for both of them, but she couldn’t help but be a little angry at him. She went to work that day, and the weeks following, with a plastered smile on her face. She struggled to do what she had promised Steve she would do. All she wanted to do was curl up in her bed and cry until she couldn’t feel anything anymore. It was her day off, and she was planning on doing just that, when a knock sounded at her door.

“Coming!” She shouted as she slowly got off her bed. The knock impatiently sounded again. “I said I’m coming!” The knock sounded for a third time just as Y/N had reached the door. She pulled it open. “I said I was coming! Couldn’t you just—“ 

She stopped speaking at the sight before her. A large, blonde man in military uniform stood at her doorstep. Y/N studied him. He was all too familiar, yet not at the same time. When she meet his eyes, that’s when she realized who was standing at her doorstep.

“Stevie?” She gasped.

“Hey, Y/N,” he smiled. 

“What— How— You— You’re taller. An-and you—“

“I got chosen, Y/N/N. They actually chose me. And it worked.”

Y/N was speechless. She turned around and began pacing around the living room, leaving the door wide open for Steve to come in. He came in and carefully shut the door. Y/N silently paced as tears formed. She wanted him to come back, she had literally prayed that they wouldn’t choose him. And look what had happened? God laughed at her and made sure he became the chosen one.

“Are you going to say anything, Y/N/N?” Steve timidly asked after a few minutes of pain staking silence.

“What do you want me to say, Steve?!” Y/N stopped pacing, turned to her brother, and yelled. “Congratulations? Well, congratulations! You successfully became a science experiment and got to join the army! You get to go to Europe and be shot at! Hurray!”

“Y/N—“

“Don’t, Steve. Don’t try to make excuses.”

“I wasn’t going to make excuses. I was going to tell you that I’m actually not going to be heading into battle anytime soon.”

“What?” 

“They— um… they think that I should go around the country selling bonds.”

“Selling bonds? Why?”

“You didn’t see the paper?”

Y/N shook her head. “Haven’t wanted to… I’ve been afraid of what it might say.”

“I went after a Nazi. Saved a child. The story went Nation wide. They think that because of it, I’ll be able to sell bonds.”

“So… you’re not going to be shot at?”

“I still want to go and fight, and if this is how I get there, I’m okay with it.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know. But I got permission to take you with me. If you’re willing.”

Y/N sighed, running her hand over her face as she looked at the ground. “What I am suppose to do?”

“We’ll find you something.” Steve took a step forward. “You won’t be useless. I just…” He set his now large hands on her arms, running them up and down in comfort. “I just need you there with me. I need my sister’s support and I need to be able to take care of you.”

“Is this because you’re bigger than me now? Now that five minute difference is going to matter?” Y/N chuckled. “Yes. I’ll go with you.” 

Steve pulled her into his arms. It was definitely going to take some time for Y/N to get used to how large Steve had become. She wrapped her arms around his large frame. 

“I guess I finally have a big brother,” she teased.

“Hey! It’s not funny,” he laughed.

A week later, Steve and Y/N were in a large theater. It was filled with people. Steve was dressed in a red, white, and blue costume. Y/N was watching him as he stood at the center of the stage, just behind the curtain, trying to prepare himself to go out and face the crowd. She could tell he was nervous. Senator Brandt’s aide was there to make sure that Steve didn’t bail.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Steve second guessed, letting out a deep breath.

“Nothing to it,” Brandt’s aide said. “Sell off a few bonds, bonds buy bullets, bullets kill Nazi’s. Bing bang boom. You’re an American hero.”

“It’ just not how I pictured getting there.”

“The senator’s got a lot of pull up on the hill. You play ball with us, you’ll be leading your own platoon in no time. Take the shield.” Steve put on his mask and grabbed his shield.

“You got this, Steve,” Y/N walked up, smiling encouragingly at him. “Go get ‘em.”

Steve gave a nervous smile before taking another deep breath. Senator Brandt’s aide was clearly done with how long it was taking him, and pushed Steve onto the stage. The singers began singing and dancing as soon as he was out there. 

Y/N moved to the side of the stage to see better. Steve was nervous, clearly, and hadn’t memorized his lines. But he stayed up there, through it all. Afterwards, he signed autographs, with you right behind him. Life went on this way for weeks. Traveling to different cities around the country. Steve was embracing the name of Captain America and finally memorized his lines. The ladies were obsessed with him. Men wanted to be him. Children idolized him. You watched from a far, opting to just be Steve’s moral support, which was definitely needed. 

By the time November rolled around, Steve, Y/N, and the rest of the Captain America crew started touring Europe. They were touring the Allied military camps there. Y/N was confused how a man playing dress up would help cheer up the soldiers, but Senator Brandt insisted that Steve was needed there. And if Steve was told that he was needed, he was going to be there. Y/N was currently standing backstage, watching Steve get made fun of by the soldiers.

 She cringed as they yelled at him to bring the girls back out. Brandt’s Aide quickly ordered the girls back out and Steve came backstage.

“Don’t worry, pal,” Brandt’s Aide put a hand on Steve’s back. “They’ll warm up to you. Don’t worry.”

Y/N rolled her eyes as Brandt’s Aide walked away and she made her way towards her brother. “I knew we shouldn’t have come,” she stated. “Why would soldiers need a man dressed in tights to come and speak to them?” Steve glared at her. “Sorry, it’s just the truth.”

“I know…” Steve sighed as he took off his helmet. “I just believed that coming here would do some good…”

“No. You believed that by coming here, you would see some action. And don’t try to lie to me, Steve. We’re twins. I know you better than anyone else, sometimes even yourself. You just agreed to this tour to try to have an opportunity to fight.”

“Can we drop this right now?” Steve questioned as he pulled on his trench coat and grabbed his sketch book. “All I want is some quiet.” 

He turned around and headed to the back stairs. Y/N sighed as she watched him sit down and begin sketching. Rain started pouring, almost in perfect timing. Y/N eventually moved a chair to sit behind Steve and began reading a book. 

“Hello, Steve,” a British female voice broke the twins out of their thoughts. The woman came up from behind them, taking off her rain coat.

“Hi,” Steve looked up at the woman and greeted.

“You must be Y/N, Steve’s sister,” the woman smiled. “I’m Peggy.”

“Hi,” Y/N greeted. Steve had mentioned Peggy a few times in the past few months, aways blushing and stuttering. She could now understand why.

“What are you doin’ here?” Steve asked the woman.

“Officially, I’m not here at all.” Peggy just above Steve. “That was quite a performance.”

“Yeah. Uh… I had to improvise a little bit. Crowds I’m used to are usually more uh… twelve.”

“I understand you’re ‘America’s New Hope’?”

“Bond sales take a ten percent bump in every state I visit.”

“Is that Senator Brandt I hear?”

“At least he’s got me doin’ this. Phillips would have had me stuck in a lab.”

“And these are your only two options? A lab rat or a dancing monkey? You were meant for more than this, you know?”

“Oh, he knows,” Y/N muttered. “He just wishes he was out there fighting instead of dancing.” Steve hesitates. Obviously waiting to say something, either to Peggy or something about his sister’s comments, but stops.

“What? Peggy pressed.

“You know for the longest time I dreamed about coming overseas and being on the front lines,” Steve said almost wishfully. “Serving my country. I finally get everything I wanted, and I’m wearing tights.”

They’re interrupted by an ambulance honking. The trio turned around to watch the wounded soldiers be taken out of the ambulance. Tears form in Y/N’s eyes as the possibility of Bucky ending up that way. At the possibility of him returning to her in a coffin.

“They look like they’ve been through hell,” Steve stated as they still watched.

“These men more than most,” Peggy said. 

“What happened?” Y/N asked, unable to look away from the wounded men.

“Schmidt sent out a force to Azzano. Two hundred men went up against him and less than fifty returned. Your audience contained what was left of the one-o-seventh. The rest were killed or captured.”

“The one-o-seventh?” Y/N and Steve questioned at the same time, suddenly standing up. They looked at each other. The one-o-seventh was Bucky’s division.

“What?” Peggy wondered, standing up as well.

“Come on!” Steve insisted, grabbing Y/N’s hand as they ran through the rain to the command tent. Peggy followed behind, holding her coat over her head. “Colonel Phillips,” Steve addressed as they entered the tent.

“Well, if it isn’t the Star-Spangled Man with a plan,” the Colonel sarcastically said as he sat at a desk. “And what is your plan today?”

“I need the casualty list from Azzano.”

“You don’t get to give me orders, son.”

“I just need one name. Sergeant James Barnes from the hundred and seventh.”

Colonel Phillips ignored Steve and pointed to Peggy. “You and I are gonna have a conversation later that you won’t enjoy.”

“Please tell us if he’s alive, sir,” Y/N begged. “B, A, R—“ 

“I can spell,” the Colonel cut her off. He looked at the trio before looking back down at the stack of papers in his hands. He stood up, carrying the papers with him. “I have signed more of these condolence letters today than I would care to count. But the name does sound familiar. I’m sorry.” 

Y/N gasped, hand coming up to cover her mouth as she held in a sob. Steve stood there, tall, not letting that be the end of the conversation. He also didn’t want to show his hurt or weakness, though he held onto Y/N’s hand tighter.

“What about the others?” Steve questioned. “Are you planning a rescue mission?”

“Yeah! It’s called winning the war,” Colonel Phillips stated.

“But if you know where they are, why not at least—“

“They’re thirty miles behind the lines. Through the most fortified territory in Europe. We’d lose more men than we’d save. But I don’t expect you to understand that, because you’re a chorus girl.”

Steve’s jaw clenched. “I think I understand just fine.”

“Well then understand it somewhere else. If I read the posters correctly, you got some place to be in thirty minutes.” Colonel Phillips walked away as Steve looked at the military map, clearly showing where the men were lost.

“Yes, sir. I do.” Steve quickly led himself and Y/N out of the tent and into the show tent.

“Steve,” Y/N whimpered once they were alone inside.

He quickly let go of her hand and pulled her into his chest. That’s when she let loose, let all the tears out. Y/N had never told Steve what had happened between her and his best friend, but it didn’t surprise Steve to see her acting like this. Bucky was her friend too. 

“I have to do something, Y/N,” Steve whispered.

“Please, no.” She gripped onto his shirt. “I can’t lose you too.”

“I’m sorry.” He pulled away and began changing and packing somethings. “I have to try and save the guys that are left.”

“What do you plan to do?” Peggy asked as she entered the tent, shaking off her coat. “Walk to Austria?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“You heard the Colonel, your friend is most likely dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, we don’t,” Y/N cried. “But if you go in there, you’ll most likely die too. And then where does that leave me?”

“Colonel Phillips is devising a strategy,” Peggy stated. “If he detects—“

“By the time he’s done that, it could be too late!” Steve walked out to a jeep, the women following behind. “You told me you thought I was meant for more than this. Did you mean that?”

“Every word.”

“Then you gotta let me go.” Steve jumped into the jeep.

“Steve! Please!” Y/N pleaded, grabbing onto his arm. “Please don’t leave me.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” He leaned down and placed a kiss on her forehead. “I have to do what’s right.”

“You can’t drive there, Steve,” Peggy stated. “I have a better way.”

next chapter >

Notes: Tags are struggling right now, for many writers. So I truly appreciate all the likes, comments, and reblogs. It means the world.

[iekxow]

Reposted from my Wattpad

Xiao x electro yaksha reader

Requested by @yoruna_tokito (on Wattpad)

Trigger warning: Mentions of suicide, blood, and death.

Aqua water, golden leaves, and fresh air. A break from your everlasting duty to protect Liyue and its citizens. You sat upon a ledge of a mountain as you took in the beauty of Luhua Pool. The clear and unpolluted waters of Liyue were always fascinating to see, and the trees surrounding Luhua Pool never got old to watch. They aged slowly, turning from the little saplings from thousand years ago to the majestic, large trees that would forever accompany Liyue.

You had lived thousands of years, most of those going towards working under Rex Lapis, who was now known as Zhongli to the residents of Liyue Harbor. The Archon of Geo had rescued you and Alatus, better known as Xiao, from the evil god who had gotten hold of both Xiao's and your weakness, who then made the both of you commit horrible crimes that could never be repented for.

Xiao had been tasked with eating the dreams of his victims, while you had been, against your will, sucking the hopes out of those who opposed your old ruler. It wasn't at all pleasant, to say the least, but to say that the hopes of others didn't taste good would be a plain out lie. Especially back then, when both immortals and mortals who weren't being controlled by a master could freely wish to do anything they liked. You and Xiao both had that right taken away from you.

Before the control of that god, you and Alatus had lived as friends. Quite good friends, who would often visit each other every day. For some reason, Alatus had stopped talking to you after meeting the god who you grew to resent.

You were both later saved by Rex Lapis, who then offered you a job as one of the Yakshas. After serving your duties in the Archon War, three of the Yakshas turned against each other, successfully destroying each other. A fourth had disappeared. He likely caused his own end because of the unbearable pain from karmic debt. This left you and Xiao, the two surviving Yakshas.

Back at the present, you hummed a tune, which you probably heard a few hundred years back, and fiddled with your purple mask while quickly walking away from someone who had just been approaching. Adepti have no need to meddle in human affairs, you thought while giggling to yourself, sounds like something Xiao would say.

For the thousands of years you have been an Adeptus, there was not a human who was as bold and fearless as the one who had just called out to you, telling, almost demanding, you to come closer so that he could sketch you.

"Me? You do realize that my presence alone could destroy you, right?" You were just as confused as you were annoyed. Does he not understand that the Adepti already spend most of their time protecting Liyue and its people? We don't need humans intruding on the days we have to ourselves.

"Huh? I'm the famous painter, Vermeer. You must have heard of me somewhere."

A painter named Vermeer? Didn't ring much of a bell to you. "Painter? I know what a painter is, but I've never heard of any 'Vermeer's in the thousands of years I've been in Liyue."

"Ah. You're one of the th— two surviving Yakshas, am I correct? I expect that someone so old would like my paintings. Many of the elderly people of Liyue enjoy my paintings. Don't you?"

Elderly... old... just who exactly do you think the Adepti are?!? Have you no respect for the very people who protect you? You obviously didn't like to be called old. Indeed, being called old is almost always hated by people, but to you, it felt more like mocking. Something along the lines of 'Haha, you won't ever be able to age and live a normal life.'

"Look, I'll stop bothering you if you let me sketch the basic lines of you. I just need a model and you're the only person who's here right now."

You cave in, agreeing to let Vermeer draw you as long as he stopped bothering you afterward. "Fine. I'll stay for a few minutes. I don't care if you can't finish within that time. I have more important issues I have to attend to."

Vermeer held up his end of the deal, not speaking even once while working on his painting.

"Hey, are you done yet? I'll get going soon. Wrap up your sketch." You didn't exactly know why you wanted to leave, but the man was acting quite weird. He kept checking his watch and looking behind you.

"Uhhh... uuuhhhh... just a bit longer, please."

Please? What a change of attitude from before— Wait. Behind me?!? Who's behind me?

"Well, well, well. Long time no see, (Y/N). If it isn't the other Electro Yaksha. You took my rightful place as the Electro Yaksha."

"Hey, wait up. No one ever took your place. There weren't and aren't a limited amount of spots for the Yakshas. And why are you so upset about the fact that we're both wielders of electro? Above all that, where the Archons did you disappear off to?"

"You've gotten weak. I've been training all this time for this. Hahahaha! I'll finally be the Electro Yaksha!"

"Get that stupid idea of yours out of your head, dummy. I wanted to get along. Didn't you see? None of us ever thought of you of anything less than us five. Why don't you open your eyes and get that thought out of your head?!?"

He goes in for an attack. You dodge. Ten entire minutes into the fight, there still wasn't a clear victor.

"Ah. I'm done warming up. Time for the real fight. Try to keep. You'll probably lose anyways."

You silently curse. That was his definition of a warm up? Last time I checked, he wasn't half as strong as this—

"Ah!" A scream tore itself from your lips. First try, and he already landed a hit on you. Your left shin had been scraped by the long blade of the other Electro Yaksha. You immediately whipped out your weapon, (Y/W). Looks like talking won't be an option.

"Haha, like I said, little (Y/N). Those years you spent lazing around have weakened you quite a bit."

Where did he get so strong? Was he somehow trained by the Tsaritsa? By the Abyss? You tried attacking, but those attacks seem to not take any effect on him. Blood slowly but steadily seeped out of the wound on your left leg, dragging your speed down by a whole lot.

Another cut. This time, he aimed for your dominant hand, and you screamed once again, your panicking voice not at all matching the peaceful scenery of Liyue. Wait, where did that Vermeer go?

Your question was answered by a hand holding on to each of your arms. Vermeer was working with him... for what reason? You kick and trash, but your wounds weren't exactly helping, and you didn't have much energy left.

The other Electro Yaksha had a wicked grin on his face. "Hah, I defeated you before you even had the chance to use your mask."

Tears stream down your normally peaceful face. You cry, wishing that Xiao could help you.

"Don't worry, I'm here now. You can relax." Xiao's soothing voice seemed like a light in the void of darkness you had been swallowed in.

First, he took care of Vermeer. Just a few strikes, and he was unconscious. You stood for a few seconds before your left foot decided to give up on standing. Your body collapsed, and possibly because of the loss of blood. The last thing your eyes saw before blacking out was Xiao's spear colliding with his weapon. Thank you, Xiao.

Your eyes slowly blinked a few times, then opened completely. "Xiao?" You said the first thing on your mind.

A soft voice spoke from your left."That was dangerous. Don't go anywhere without me knowing, please. I can't lose you too."

"I'm sorry, Xiao. I'll train harder. I guess he was right. I got weak."

"He's wrong. You're not weak. I-if you ever wanna train, I, uh, could help you."

"Aww, is little Xiao embarrassed? Anyways, sure. Who else would I train with? You're my favorite person, and you're strong."

"I— thank you."

You threw your arms around Xiao. "I miss being like this. Why did you even stop talking to me? Is it because of the 'sins' you've committed? Have you forgotten that I've done the exact same thing as you? We've both done terrible things, but everything's going to be fine now, Xiao."

Xiao looked down, and, surprisingly, returned the gesture, wrapping his arms tightly around you. "If... if you don't mind... I..."

"Eh? What are you trying to say?"

"I would uh, kinda like to try out a thing called dating...", he finished with a tint of pink on his cheeks.

"Ehhh? Really? I almost thought you hated me."

"Uh— uhh—"

"Are you kidding me? Of course the answer's yes. I've liked you for so long, you idiot."

Xiao blinked, trying to take this new information in. "You have?"

"Yeah. But don't worry, we can take things slow. We have eternity, after all. I suppose that's one good thing about not being able to age. No matter what happens in the future, we'll protect each other. I promise you that everything will be fine, Xiao."

Hope you enjoyed it! Requests for any of the characters are open! (not counting Klee, Diona, and Qiqi, unless it’s sibling!reader)

[jadekitty777]

Umbrella

@chiherah drew the cutest Fair Game sketch of Clover and Qrow sharing an umbrella at my request. And thus, I got inspired.

Rating: K+

Pairing: Qrow/Clover

Word Count: 1900

Ao3 Link: Umbrella

Summary: It’s pouring out and Qrow has no umbrella. Luckily, the cute, new guy at the apartment complex is willing to share his. [Modern AU]

~

Qrow liked to think of his mornings as chaotically organized.

That is to say that he got up at 6:40 sharp every morning, spent 5 minutes on downing a burning cup of instant coffee, 12 minutes on his bathroom routine, and was out the lobby doors of the apartment complex by 7:02 to catch the 7:10 bus that was two blocks away. He had it down to an art, always was on time without failure every day; and though he’d probably benefit from turning his clock back even five minutes to avoid rush, why change something that wasn’t broken?

Problem was, being so precise with his schedule didn’t leave for any opportunity to make last minute adjustments. Like, for example, grabbing an umbrella. Or a coat.

Qrow stood in the foyer that acted as a go-between to the lobby and the outside world, sourly staring at the sheets of rain coming down in thick torrents from the sky. As he pulled out his phone, hoping by some miracle he had three minutes to spare, he stepped aside as he heard the door open behind him to get out of the way of whomever it was.

7:02 AM laughed back at him.

“Shit.” He grumbled.

“Everything alright?”

He jumped, looking over to the person who’d joined him in the foyer. Brunette hair, teal eyes, and an easy-going smile greeted him in return. He instantly recognized him as the new guy who’d taken Maria Calavera’s old apartment when she’d moved out into assisted living earlier on this month (A fact he was a bit salty about – he liked that old codger). Qrow also happened to already know his name because, by habit one day, he went to go get Maria’s mail for her and found a new name etched on the box: Clover Ebi.

He’d caught a few glances of him in passing, but this was his first up-close contact and the realization hit him hard over how unforgivably handsome he was.

“Uh, yeah.” He avoided his gaze when he realized he was staring. “Just, forgot it was going to rain, is all.”

“Oh. That’s unfortunate.”

Qrow snorted. “Buddy, that’s my middle name. Anyways, see ya.” He offered him a wave before walking into the storm. He ducked his head as the rain instantly assaulted him, feeling cold spikes hit along the back of his neck and exposed arms. He sighed, crossing his arms and hunching over as he started his miserable walk to the bus stop, knowing he was going to be drenched by the time he got there.

Or so he thought, until a shadow fell over him, the rain blocked from above.

“You know, I had thought you were going to go back up and grab a coat at least. You’ll catch your death of cold going out like that.”

He tilted his head up, spotting the turquoise umbrella with little, happy aquatic creatures patterned along it, then to the one who had offered it. “Don’t have time. I’ll miss the bus.”

Clover’s smile hadn’t faltered, even as he was pelted by the rain. “Where ya headed? I’ll walk you there.”

Despite the chill in the air, he could feel heat creeping up his neck. “Don’t you have anywhere else to be?”

Wow, real grateful. Good job Qrow. A+ social skills.

But if it offended the other, he didn’t show it, stepping closer so he could hide under the umbrella as well. “Actually, I’m running early. I don’t mind, really.”

“I uh, well, sure, thanks.” He said articulately, his sociability surely continuing to impress.

“Lead the way.” As they started down the street, shoulders nearly touching, he offered. “I’m Clover, by the way.”

“Qrow.” He replied. With his profile now in his sight-line, it made him realize his left ear was pierced, a little silver shamrock twinkling there. Huh, cute. “Soo,” He drawled, feigning obliviousness, “You just moved in, didn’t you?”

“Yep, all the way from Montana.” Clover replied.

“Montana?” He felt his eyebrows shoot towards his hairline, easily picturing lush forests and grand mountain ranges and snow fall ten feet deep. He had to wonder if the guy also had a deer head mounted on the wall and a bearskin rug in his living room. “That’s quite a move. Why’d you come out all this way? It not like Wilmington is the Los Angeles of North Carolina.”

Clover laughed. It was a very nice sound that had Qrow’s heart pattering harder than the rain along their nylon shelter. “That’s an interesting way of putting it. Honestly though? The beach.”

“Okay, fair.” He conceded. Wrightsville Beach was less than an hour away from here, and was the one of the east coast’s most beautiful tourist attractions for a reason. The stunning, deep blue water and wide sandy banks were easy attractions to an appreciative eye and had a calming effect on the soul.  Back during his more insomniac years in Uni, Qrow would oftentimes head down there just to capture the sunrises on his easel.

“I’ve always loved the sea, so when my job offered a relocation opportunity out here, I knew I’d be stupid not to take it.” Clover continued. “Kind of hoping for some time off to rent a boat, maybe do some fishing.”

Well, now the aquatic creatures above them made more sense.

Qrow stuffed his hands into his pockets, trying to keep them warm. “You fish?”

“I know, it’s about the most boring thing you’ve ever heard, right?” He joked.

He rolled his shoulders in a shrug, focusing more on the cracks in the concrete as he hesitantly admitted, “Actually, I uh, I bird watch.”

Immediately as the words flew out of his mouth, he regretted them. Of all the things he could have said! What was he thinking, telling this cute guy about his dumb, weird hobby? Now, he probably thought he was about as drab as a broken lamp.

“Really?”

…So then why did he sound so awestruck?

Qrow swallowed his nerves. “Yeah, my parents were ornithologists and they were a little obsessed with their work. It’s why they named me and my sis after birds. Raven hated it.” He did another shoulder roll, feeling that blush creeping up on him again. “But my parents were always so fascinated and one day I decided I wanted to try and see what was so special about ‘em and well, I didn’t care for all the science and stuff, but I liked watching them fly and build nests. I even learned how to do a few calls.”

“Really?” Clover’s eyes widened. “Can I hear one?”

“What? No!” Now he was positive the blush was on his face.

“I won’t laugh, I promise.”

He just shook his head even more vehemently.

“Alright, then I guess I’ll just have to improvise.”

What?

Clover cupped a hand over his mouth, took a deep breath, and then let out a series of loud squawks. “Caw-caw! Caw-caw!”

Qrow watched him a moment, briefly flabbergasted, and then just started to laugh. “What in the hell are you doing?”

“Bird-calling.” He replied innocently.

“That is not bird calling.”

“Well then,” He lent forward in the small space the umbrella offered, his smile coy. “Guess I got to learn from the master.”

Yep. He was red a tomato, for sure. “Alright, jeez, you swindler. I’ll do one.” Ignoring the way Clover’s face lit up like a damn Christmas tree, Qrow regretfully unearthed his hands from their temporary warmth. He thought over which one to do that was both easy for him but also impressive. “Okay, this’ll be a canary.”

He’d learned how to do that one in high school, and it taken him months to get it just right. The moment he did though, he belted it out randomly in the halls, enjoying the slight chaos it caused the other kids as they tried to find the source of the noise. Just like he used to back then, he pressed the pinkies of both hands to his lips, curled back his tongue a bit, and whistled through them, vibrating his vocal chords just enough to make the sharp trill of the bright yellow bird, the sound easily piercing over the falling rain.

Unlike his classmates though, Clover wasn’t fooled by who had made the noise. “Wow.” He breathed. “That was spectacular.”

“Ehehe, not really.” Qrow rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yes really.” He knocked his arm gently with the umbrella stem. “Don’t cut yourself so short. I bet that was hard to learn how to do.”

How was this guy so nice? Helplessly, he scrambled to respond, “I mean, not as hard as the seagull.” At the other’s sudden, eager grin, he gave a firm, “No.”

“Aah, alright.” Clover surrendered, “We’re almost at the stop anyways.”

Qrow glanced forward, spotting the familiar black structure just a few feet away. As the approached it, he ducked under the curved roof that functioned as a blissful shelter form the rain, and turned back to the man who had gotten him here, realizing this was probably goodbye.

He was surprised by how disappointed he suddenly felt.

“Uh, thanks, for, you know.” He said, gesturing around himself as words again failed him. There was a reason he never took public speaking in school.

“It was no trouble, really.” Clover replied, that easygoing smile back on his face.

He crossed his arms, rubbing the exposed skin idly. “Guess I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah – oh, wait.” Suddenly, the other stepped into the shelter with him, flipping his umbrella upside down and leaning it up against the bench. Then in one smooth motion, he yanked the green hoodie up and over his back, running a hand through his hair to fix the little quiff at the front.

Qrow’s brain short-circuited because whoa, muscles.

Clover held it out to him. “Here, you can borrow this.”

“Huh?” He looked from those nicely toned arms to the offering to his eyes, suddenly catching up to the situation. “No, I couldn’t.”

“I have time to go back and get another. Besides,” He winked, short circuiting Qrow’s brain again, “It’s not like you don’t know where I live.”

Oh. Oooh.

Qrow was experienced enough to recognize the gesture for what it really was: a surefire guarantee that they’d run into each other again.

Now how could he ever refuse that?

“Suppose I do.” He quipped back as suave as he could. He took the hoodie, pulling it on. It smelt like pine, heady and rich and despite their similar heights, it still dwarfed his leaner frame. Some of the other’s body heat still lingered in the fabric and he couldn’t help but melt into the much-needed warmth. He fingered one of the strings, trying to remain casual as he subtly offered, “I’ll return it tonight. Around…?”

“6:30.” Clover rested the umbrella back on his shoulder, expression just as sly. “Maybe we could catch some dinner too?”

Qrow felt his stomach flutter, face easing into a grin. “I’d like that.”

“Then it’s a date.” As he stepped back out into the rain, he winked at him again. “See you soon pretty bird.”

“See you.” He returned, watching the other leave, eyes scanning along his backside and appreciating the view.

Despite the dreary beginnings, it was shaping up to be a great morning after all.

[pluto-fics]

Inspiration is Motivation － Prologue

Fanfiction | Artist!Taehyung x SingleMom!Reader

Genres: Fluff, Romance, Humor, Smut

Rating: G (for this chapter)

Word Count: 2.385 words

Chapter Warnings: none

Your brows furrow at the earlier statement of your best friend, Hanna.

"Believe me, it'll help you to relax for a few hours and I'll take good care of Ty."

You have no doubt about the latter. Hanna might be that stereotype single woman who likes to go out for a couple drinks every so often, but she is a reliable caretaker and one ridiculously good cook. Based on this, she was an absolute blessing the last two times she watched over your son. However, you still feel a little uneasy about her suggestion.

"I don't know... Tyler is kind of stubborn and moody lately, how could I leave you both alone for nearly four full hours? Not to mention that I can paint at home if I want to, I don't need to go to some weird art course..." you try to defy yourself. The idea of entrusting Hanna with your five year old son for so long worries you. Just the thought of it causes a bad feeling to spread throughout your body. Hanna just rolls her eyes, however. "Listen. I already signed you up for that course this Saturday. It's supposed to start at eleven, won't go past three in the afternoon and you can calmly come back home to Tyler and me having a great time without setting your apartment on fire."

You can't fight down the amused giggle at her statement before you sigh. "Hanna, I really don't-..." you begin, only to be interrupted mid-sentence. "Yes, you do want to try it. I'll be here at 10 this Saturday and you can either go to that course or stay here with us and bathe in my judgment."

And here you are, two days later and sat on a chair in front of an empty canvas and an A3 sized sketchpad, surrounded by strangers who, just like you, are waiting for the course to begin.

You take this time to inspect the equipment provided to you. Brushes and pencils of rather good quality, however accompanied by a cheap, fizzy eraser. The watercolor paint seems decent enough. But the big bottles of acrylics and oils on the desk in the middle of the room, accessible for everyone in it, clearly are not top-notch quality. That of course does not mean it is bad per se, you just might have expected something fancier in the art department of the local Community College.

Your train of thoughts comes to an abrupt stop when you hear someone opening the big wooden door and entering the room, a deep but smooth voice wishing you and your fellow course participants a good morning. The slender figure who just stepped into the room makes your eyes grow wide the second you lay your eyes on him. He is tall, with model like features, facial as well as bodywise. His fashion sense clearly is a little extravagant, for he wears a way too oversized dress shirt with a pair of what almost seemed to be pajama pants of some sort, and a matching beige colored beret topping his head. The big round glasses topping his nose make you curious. Does he need them to see? Or were they simply added to this retro outfit because they fit the vibe?

"I'm glad you all made it here on time, unlike myself" he then speaks while rummaging in the bag he has just placed on top of the desk in the front of the room. You hear quiet giggles erupting from two slightly older women in the back. His lips curve into a handsome smile, not even needing to show the whites of his teeth to make you doubt the existence of a man with such impressive visuals. Yet, you feel kind of stupid for the way you swoon over his looks like a teenager, despite being a grown woman with a child waiting for her to return home.

The young man claps his hands together as if to catch everyone's attention, even though he already possesses the full concentration of everyone in this room. "Now, I'd like to start by introducing myself, if that's alright by you."

He swiftly turns to the chalkboard behind himself and writes down what you assume to be his name.

"My name is Kim Taehyung and I teach traditional art at the local University. But as you can tell, I'm also hosting art courses like this one once a week, while also working as a hobby freelance artist. So I guess you could say that art is my passion."

There it is again. That charming smile of his as he tends to the attentive group of people in front of him. "But enough of me, I think we're all here to improve our skills, so how about we start with some easy warm ups to get creative first?" You notice everyone responding by nodding or already flipping over the cover of the massive sketchpad in front of them to reveal a blank page. Imitating your 'classmates', you flip open your sketchpad and face Mr. Kim again.

He begins by instructing everyone to warm up their wrists by drawing circular shapes of several sizes and shading them to your heart's content to make yourself familiar with the medium you're using. Another hint of his is to try the different art materials provided to each one of the participants and see which one you'd preferably work with today.

A couple minutes later, you can tell Mr. Kim valued his participants' individuality. Only giving a rough theme for the artwork you are supposed to create, he left everything else to you. "Warm Autumn" was the theme he came up with and your mind immediately drifts off into what you would like to call your ‘creative mode’. Images of brown leaves, soft breezes of air and fluffy fabrics of knitwear come to your mind. Thus, you begin by settling on a color palette in warm brown, red and yellow tones and soon start by sketching an idea.

Mr. Kim does no longer talk to the whole course. Instead, he begins to slowly walk around the classroom and take a look at everyone's approaches on the topic. Usually, you'd get so engulfed in your works that you would blend out most of your surroundings. However, Mr. Kim's presence makes it hard for you to fully concentrate on the sketch before you like you usually would. You don't even need to look up to know where Mr. Kim currently stood at, while he gradually comes closer to where you are seated at.

The sound of his steps approaching you slowly sends shivers down your spine, just like the feeling of him standing right beside you, wordlessly examining your sketch. You can't keep from glancing up at his face as his gaze remains locked on the paper before you, an approving look surfacing on his face. He then glances at your face, his eyes meeting yours immediately as he leans down a bit to speak to you with a quieter, low voice. "Nice choice of motives. Do you have an idea for the final composition already?"

You feel your cheeks heating up as you mumble out a shy "Um, kind of", unsure of how to feel about the genuine interest Mr. Kim shows. It's been a while since someone other than your son Tyler had commented on one of your works. The young artist next to you smiles. "You're a fast one, huh? I like that. But let me know if you need anything, alright?" His voice is just as unique as his appearance. And the more you get to hear of it, the more you come to like the sound of it. Nodding your head with a smile, you thank him before he smiles back and moves on to the next participant of his course.

By the end of the course, you have created a piece you are rather proud of - the motives assembled in a harmonic way, adding to the calm and welcoming atmosphere of your painting. Throughout the creation process of it, Mr. Kim came around every once in a while to praise you for your ideas or help you improve parts of your piece in ways you wouldn't have been able to think of yourself. You have actually truly enjoyed today. At the end of the course, Mr. Kim gives his final speech in which he thanks everyone for participating and gives some last advice before sending everyone home with their final artworks. You had just put the materials you had used back to where you got them from, ready to pack your things to leave, when Mr. Kim approaches you with a gentle smile. "(Y/N), am I right?" He addresses you, your heart seemingly skipping a beat at the way your name sounds when spoken with his smooth voice. "Yes, that would be me" you say, turning to him with faked confidence. In reality, something about this Kim Taehyung makes you feel like a shy teenager again. He smiles apologetically as he asks "Do you perhaps have a minute or two to talk? If you're not in a hurry to be somewhere, that is."

To be honest, you want to apologize and leave right now. Tyler is waiting for you at home, after all. And so is Hanna. But your head nods on it’s own accord before your mind could stop it from doing so. What are a few minutes anyway, right?

"Great! Actually, I was curious to see how your piece turned out. To be honest, I didn't really get to look at it yet," he then says as he regards your artwork which is still on the easel at your seat. Examining it interestedly, he chuckles. "You're really talented, you know? This can't have been the first time you’ve painted something like this."

Your lips curve upwards in a bashful smile. "Ah, well actually... It's kind of my hobby. It's just that I haven't had much time to pursue it recently..." you answer. A soft humming noise resonates in his throat before he faces you again. "Are you interested in modern art too?" He suddenly asks, catching you a little off guard. "Modern art?" You repeat, to which he nods. "There's an art exhibition at the City Hall next friday. The main focus of it lays on contemporary artists and most works shown there are paintings and sculptures, rather than installations or anything like that. But I have a feeling that you might like it." You aren't sure where he was aiming at with this information, but you appreciate it. Mirroring his friendly smile, you say "It does sound interesting, yes. But I'm really busy lately, I'm not sure if I'll be able to go."

Mr. Kim seems understanding as he nods. "Well, if you do make it, maybe we'll meet there." He responds, making you nod slowly as you mumble a barely audible "That'd be nice." You want to ask him if there'd also be works of his exhibited there, remembering that he introduced himself as a freelance artist earlier, but the sound of your phone vibrating in your pocket interrupts you. "Ah, sorry" you then say, quickly looking at your phone to see messages of Hanna coming in. It’s nothing serious, just questions about whether Tyler still takes naps after lunch or not, since he apparently got a little energy boost after having eaten well. But it is urgent enough for you to decide that it is time to go home now. "I better get going now. Today was really nice, thank you. And thank you for telling me about the art exhibition, too. As you said, maybe we'll meet there." You speak as you collect your belongings and art piece, Mr. Kim nodding calmly and smiling as he wishes you a nice day before you leave.

On your way home, you keep thinking about today's events. About the fun you have had while painting for the first time in months and the useful help Mr. Kim had offered. The giddy feeling you got whenever he would lean in to talk to you quietly with that soothing deep voice of his. You have really had a great day, even if you still feel a little awkward for being so affected by the male's looks and kind words. But who could blame you, if said artist looks like a piece of art himself?

Arriving at home, the first thing you notice right after opening the front door is the welcoming scent of warm pancakes coming from your kitchen. Peeking past the doorframe, you smile at the sight of your best friend and son pouring dough into a frying pan together, your little son giggling in excitement.

"Hello you two" you greet the diligently working duo and laugh when your son immediately comes running to you to hug your legs and welcome you back excitedly. Crouching down to meet his eyes, you then give him a kiss on his cheek and smile at him. "Did you have a nice time with Hanna?" You ask, your smile widening when Tyler nods eagerly. "Yes! Hanna knows so many fun games for two! We played hide and seek too!” You give Hanna a glance, relieved to see her smiling just as happily as your little son. For some reason you’re always worried that he might be a little too challenging for her sometimes, but seeing her reaction to his happy storytelling, you have no doubt that she adores your son almost as much as you do.

Getting up to greet your friend properly with a short hug, you then look at the pile of pancakes on the kitchen counter. "Someone seems to be hungry, huh" you comment, Hanna rolling her eyes as she speaks, avoiding the topic. "How was the art course?"

You can feel Tyler leaning against your legs, silently requesting your attention. Picking him up to hold him close, you then begin to tell Hanna about the building, the people there, the fun you had when painting something from start to finish for the first time in ages, and in the end you thank her for having made this possible. Yet, a very specific detail you keep to yourself for now － Kim Taehyung.

Thank you for reading the Prologue to my new series “Inspiration is Motivation”!

If you can’t wait to read the next chapter, check out my Series Masterlist and follow @pluto-fics to be notified of new updates.

Stay safe and see you soon! 💜

- Pluto 🌑

[animalsatwildlilac]

Power Outage with Bearded Dragon

This beardie has a job. His name is Stripy, and he is a working lizard. His life is full of adventure at Wild Lilac preschool. But he does get weekends off, vacations, and even mental health days, just like me. I think he is lonely when we are not together.

On Thursday, when WL announced an early release because of the winter storm warning, I got the whole day off because I only teach in the afternoons. But I still needed to go in, briefly -- to tend to the animals before the roads got messy.

On the way there, I stopped for supplies at my local pet store, Tropical Hut. I bought 100 crickets and a package of frozen bloodworms.

When I parked in front of the school, rain was falling and the temperature was dropping. Masked parents were picking up their unmasked kids. I left 50 of the crickets in my car with plans to take them home for Stripy, my bearded dragon, and then I went to the animal room.

I fed and tucked our critters in –

Two cubes of bloodworms for the Axolotl;

Cucumber and carrots for the just-hatched baby snails;

Fresh pinecones and toilet paper rolls for the gerbils;

Hay for the new-found guinea pigs (see previous post);

Crickets in with the animals that eat crickets: the tarantula, the geckos, and the cane toad;

And food for the crickets themselves (some apple, some dog food);

The Madagascan Hissing cockroaches still had food;

The walking sticks are all out of bramble – I’m sorry, but they will be okay for a few days without food.

I headed home.

As I brought the deli container of crickets into my house (they had been in my car for about 45 minutes) I realized something was tragically wrong -- all 50 of them were on their backs, heels to heaven. My first though was carbon monoxide.  How could they all have DIED in such a short time? Then I realized maybe they weren’t dead – they were cold! Or did they freeze to death? It just hadn’t been that long. Such drama! I set them on a table and watched them, and as they warmed, they started to move. First a leg twitched, then another, then one flipped over. I was thinking how cool is this! Definitely something to explore with the kids – the freezing and warming of crickets.

And then, as I was deep in contemplation watching the flipping crickets, it’s 3 in the afternoon and -- the power goes out! There was no accumulation of ice or snow. The storm had hardly started. PGE said the power would be back on at 5pm. But at 5, they said 6, and at 6, it was 8.

When the temperature in Stripy’s tank dropped to 65 degrees, I had lifted him out and put him on my chest, zipped up a fleece vest over him, and put a fuzzy blanket around my shoulders.

My husband ventured out into the cold night to find a restaurant with power. He arrived home with salted peppered cod and garlic broccoli and kung pao shrimp from Powell Seafood, and the news that there were now 100,000 people without power in the greater Portland area.

At 8:03 our lights came on! Stripy was glad to get into his warm tank and eat some crickets. The humans were glad to catch up on what we had missed electronically in the past five hours.

Stripy poops biweekly, and does so in a predictable way – pretty much every time I put him in the bathtub; warm water brings it on for him like coffee does for me.

His poop in interesting. Part of it is white and rubbery, part of it loose and greenish brown.

At 2 in the morning my partner woke me. The power is off again, he says. PGE says the cause is under investigation and there is no estimated time for the power to return. In my Ambien induced slumber, I mumbled, “Please … bring me Stripy…”.

Stripy settled on my chest and closed his eyes. He clung to my nightie like a bur on a wool sweater, both of us covered with the duvet. Our dogs are not happy about Stripy joining us in the bed, and they move as close to my head as they can.

My partner kept checking on Stripy, to make sure he was staying on me, not straying into the sheets. But he needn’t worried. Why would this lizard leave the best heat source in the house -- a woman going through a menopausal transition?

Flanked by dogs, a lizard, and my partner who at this point in the pandemic has not just a beard, but a full wizard’s beard, we sleep. But not well. Our thermostat now says 54 degrees. I am worried about the crickets -- they are no longer chirping. but I am not going to snuggle them.

It is windy. My neighbor's roof is covered with snow and smoke is coming out of her chimney. Branches come down from the weight of ice. A car explodes and burns when a power line falls on it. All over Portland, people are lighting candles and caressing their reptiles, trying to keep them warm.

Stripy has two tanks – one at school, and one at home. His at-school tank is what I think of as his studio apartment; it’s furnished with a doll’s bed covered with a patchwork quilt, a hammock, a tiny ceramic toilet, and a small, hard copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar. At home, he has a “desert” tank where I’ve built him tunnels and hillocks out of excavator sand.

In the summer, at the end of the day, he likes to join my family on the patio. We have cheese and crackers and glasses of chardonnay, and Stripy gets his own glass platter of mealworms. Yes, I know the mealworms are fatty and are supposed to be a treat, not a regular staple, which is why I’ve been trying to transition him to crickets. I want Stripy to chase crickets like how the beardie in the YouTube video chases blueberries, but he doesn’t.

I believe he doesn’t chase his food because he doesn’t have to.

He waits until a cricket crawls up on his hillock and then -- a quick snap nom nom nom -- he chomps on them. A drop of cricket juice spatters from his mouth.

But I know he still has his instincts, because I have watched him shoot across the patio to catch and eat a bee.

At school, the kids touch Stripy with one finger, and they know not to pet his head. Heads are personal spaces, and plus, that third eye! The first time I saw his third eye, I thought a child had drawn on him with marker.

When not roaming about the animal room, or sunning himself under a UV light, Stripy is carried in a woven sea grass basket filled with silks. He has castles built for him out of Magnatiles. The children pick fresh arugula for him from the garden and hand feed it to him. They sketch pictures of him that are pinned to the wall. The kids love him. They tell him this on a daily basis. They don’t imbue him with meaning, they just recognize him as sentient being.

The kids marvel at how his spikes look so sharp but are actually soft. They touch him and talk about his textures and colors, the orange rings encircling his eyes, his soft belly, his pointy tail. We watch his torso expand as he sighs, relaxing into his body.

What are those holes in the sides of his head?

What do you think they are?

Can he hear me? Why aren’t his ears on the outside like mine?

Will he lick me?

He might.

Why did he lick me!

He is tasting you. He’s finding out who you are.

This bearded dragon, does he know how to fly?

Not yet.

Well, his mommy needs to teach him!

I ask him questions in front of the kids … Stripy, do you want some dandelion greens? Oh, you do!  Oh, Stripy, I can see you don’t want to be held right now. You want to move across the floor on your own!

I regularly give animacy to inanimate objects, too.

What is he saying now, Teacher Nikki?

What do you think he is saying?

Caring for animals helps us to build compassion. I want the kids to know that the animals are communicating with us, we just have to listen.

Sometimes, on my way home from work when I stop at Trader Joes, Stripy tells me that he doesn’t want to be left alone in the car, so I set him on my shoulder and he lies very still (but is supremely alert and watches everything) as I walk around the frozen foods and the wine aisles. Kids always notice him and want to connect. The crew usually notice him, too, and greet him with a wink. My sister, who likes animals but doesn’t have any, when I tell her about my experiences in Trader Joes with Stripy, says “Oh, Nik-Nac, you’ve become one of those people.”

And yes, I guess I have, it’s true. I have become that lady with the bearded dragon.

No, we are not supposed to have a lizard in a preschool -- because of the salmonella risk. However, I believe that risk is an inherent and natural consequence of childhood. Our preschoolers take turns on a broken seesaw that was homemade to begin with. They build with crates and cardboard boxes we scavenge from the furniture store on the corner. There is sometimes a sprinkling of nails in our sandbox. We have earthquakes here, and floods, and ice-storms.  Our children breathe harmful air from wildfires. We have lockdown drills to prepare us for potential active shooters in our schools – a little salmonella isn’t going to shut things down for us!

In my more than 30 years of teaching with animals, I have probably exposed thousands of children to salmonella. It will be okay. For those of you who are still worried, let me tell you a little story.

I hosted a special COVID sleepover for some school-age kids recently (the kids were all from the same pod) and when it was discovered that one child had forgotten to bring a tooth brush, I said, “that’s okay, just borrow someone’s toothpaste and brush with your finger.” I mimed a demonstration and all the kids made faces of disgust. “I would never brush my teeth with my finger,” I heard. “I put my fingers in my butt too much!”

We do wash our hands as often as possible.

[athingthatwantsvirginia]

EAT ME

PART NINE OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: mentions of death, underage drinking, mentions of vomit (just two remarks in passing), plentiful pop culture references

Word Count: 5.1K

Summary: After returning from her summer babysitting job, Ella has a rough night. With friends busy and out of town, she eventually ends up on the doorstep of the diner.

With a toddler asleep on her chest and a five-year-old dozing in a makeshift fort on the floor below her, Ella finally got a moment of peace. The Iron Giant hummed at a low volume on the TV, a naptime movie to celebrate her last day babysitting. She loved her aunt’s house, a hippie-dippie pad adorned with tapestries, iscense, and other random items. Ella herself wasn’t into the holistic lifestyle, but she appreciated how much joy her aunt derived from it. The children, two little girls with red hair and big brown eyes, were gentle and silly. Alongside her new husband, Ella’s aunt Julie filled the family household with joy and games. It made Ella nostalgic for a period of her childhood she almost couldn’t remember. Sprawled across the floral print couch, Ella almost fell asleep herself but decided not to screw up her schedule when she was going to have to go back to early morning shifts at Luke’s very soon. Instead, she stretched her arm over, careful not to wake Annie and grabbed the house phone.

After two rings, Luke’s grumbly voice came through the line: “Luke’s Diner.”

“Hey, boss, is Jess there?” Ella spoke in a hushed tone, eyes on the baby as she tucked the afghan which covered the two of them tighter.

He sighed. “With his petri dish of a girlfriend. Hold on one second.”

Ella smirked and waited, listening to the early afternoon commotion of the diner. She’d only called a few times since she’d been gone, and almost every time Luke had to pull Jess away from the mysterious new girl. But Jess always came to the phone, and she made a careful effort to avoid the topic of his girlfriend. Mostly, they discussed the merits of the Chuck Palanuik novel Jess had been reading. It was one of Ella’s favorites.

“Jess Mariano, may I ask who’s calling?” he began.

Ella rolled her eyes at his theatrics. “You’re hilarious.”

“It’s been said,” he replied, the usual amount of cocky. “Why are you whispering?”

“The kids are sleeping. The baby is literally lying on top of me.”

“And when I’m asleep in the middle of the day, suddenly I’m a world-class slacker,” he said.

“Well, the last time I remembered, you’re not two years old.”

Jess scoffed, disinterested. “Semantics.”

“Whatever gets you through the night,” she retorted.

“How’s it been otherwise? Annie still crawling into the bed and kicking you in her sleep?” Jess asked, having caught her in a middle of a sleep-deprived haze the last time they spoke.

She laughed fondly. “Only a little. There was also one projectile vomiting incident, but, hey, at least I got to watch an Exorcist reenactment in real time.”

“What a glamorous summer gig you scored.”

“It’s true.”

“But you’ll be back tomorrow, right?”

“Bright and early. You’re gonna have to fill me in on everything I missed,” she said, noticing how Erin had begun to snore from her place wrapped up in various throw blankets on the floor.

Jess hummed. “Well, let’s see...I think Taylor might have shifted the stand outside the market about an inch. It was on the front page of the Gazette for a week straight.”

“Riveting.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Oh! I finally finished The Lovely Bones. You’ve got to borrow it when I get b-”

“Hey, sorry, honey,” he interjected, and she heard him mutter some irritated words to someone she couldn’t see. Jury was out on whether it was Luke or some other unlucky Stars Hollow civilian. After a pause, his rushed voice came over the line again: “Look, my new...I gotta go. But tomorrow I’m gonna need a full review.”

“Only if you finish the Palahnuik by the time I clock in,” she wagered.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and she could practically hear the smirk on his lips.

.   .   .

Ready to close up and anxious for what awaited her at home, Ella sketched in the notebook her aunt Julie had given her after arriving home from the honeymoon. Since returning to work, spending sweltering days in the AC of the diner, Ella tried to ignore the strange feeling which pulsed through her. Every time Jess’s new girlfriend Shane sauntered in, she had to avert her eyes as they made out, Jess’s hands roaming her body. And not only because of the grotesque amount of PDA they engaged in. But as soon as the uneasy feeling rose in her throat, she began to sketch her feelings away, ignoring the thumping of her heart against her ribs. Jess always insisted on finishing his conversations with her, or saying goodbye to her, before going gallivanting with Shane. And where did she get off feeling jealous? Jess was her jackass coworker, who only bordered on a friend. It was easier to pretend nothing was bothering her, lest her cheeks burn with shame each time the bleach blonde girl walked through the diner doors.

The sky was overcast, but the night was supposed to clear up. With Luke out on some date, she and Jess were the ones charged with boarding up the shop for the night. Caesar had gone home early, since the Friday had been unusually slow and he was pretty much useless when closing anyway. When the last customer departed, though it was ten minutes until official closing time, Ella decided to use her authority to call it quits for the day. However, she first had to wrangle Jess off Shane while they made out on the sidewalk, up against the diner window. Shutting her sketchbook, she grimaced at the task at hand, but strode out confidently with her hands on the hips of her blue jeans.

Clearing her throat, she watched them disentangle themselves from each other, their lips parting with a smack! in the warm night air. Ella rolled her eyes. “Jess, we’re closing. You’ll have to take a rain check on the next round of tonsil tennis.”

Jess only smirked, planting one final kiss on Shane’s cheek before making for the door.

Shane rolled her eyes. “Jess.”

“Relax,” Jess grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked away. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Shane shot a look at Ella. “That stick up your ass must hurt like hell.”

Ella only sighed, a unamused smile on her face. “Charming as always, Shane. Come again any time.”

With the situation diffused, Ella rushed back into the diner before Jess, who was chuckling behind her. Ella didn’t utter a word before she began closing, ducking behind the counter to grab the disinfectant spray and a clean rag. If it was possible, Jess thought she looked even more stressed than usual. She had her hair in a messy updo, cheeks flushed red. Her eyes darted around anxiously, her hands fiddling with the silvery chain of her necklace. Luke had almost sent her back home to change when she showed up for her shift, wearing a black t-shirt with the words EAT ME written across the chest in big white letters. Instead of changing though, she argued her way out of it. It was simply an endorsement of the diner’s products, she’d said. Luke’s eyes had rolled nearly up into the back of his head, but, nonetheless, he’d dropped the subject.

“Nice to see you and Shane bonding,” Jess quipped as he began gathering up the salt and pepper shakers to store for the night.

She scoffed. “Yeah, quite a winner you’ve got there.”

Jess raised his brows at her tone. “Are you upset about something?”

“No,” she shot back flatly. “It’s really just such a pleasure to have to watch you tongue-fuck her while I’m at work.”

He straightened up and stopped working, brows furrowed. “Says the girl who’s read Bad Behavior, at that very counter where you now stand, three times.”

Still, she didn’t look up as she sighed heavily. Her voice was tired. “I read it. I didn’t have to be subjected to a visual. Would you just wait to suck face until you’re not in view of the customers who’ve come to eat here?”

“Fine. Sorry,” he snapped angrily, going back to the shakers. “Didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

“Apology accepted,” she shot back.

“Great.”

“Good.”

.   .   .

Tense silence had stood between them for the remainder of the evening. Later, Jess laid on his twin bed fuming, the night darkening to an inky black. Stars glowed brightly, the moon new and invisible. The apartment over the diner had its familiar pine smell and was lit low by Jess’s desk lamp. He had no idea what time it was, but found it odd Luke still wasn’t back hours after closing. But the solitude meant he could blast his Shags through the speakers he’d brought back from his old room in New York. They were pretty much the most valuable items he owned, and he didn’t get to use them nearly often enough. Jess was nearly done with The Lovely Bones, trying to decipher Ella’s cursive annotations. Of all the books she had traded him, it was perhaps the saddest one yet.

The music was louder than he’d anticipated, as it took nearly four rings of the phone before Jess heard it under the lyrics. He rolled his eyes, but saved his place in the book, turned down the volume, and went to answer.

“Hello?”

“Jess?” came Ella’s voice through the receiver.

He furrowed his brows. “Eleanor?”

“No, it’s Virginia Woolf, back from the dead,” she said, slurring her words.

Jess let a chuckle escape his mouth. “Are you drunk?”

“I guess so. My dad was soooo pissed. He kicked me out, said not to come back until I had my head on straight. I don’t think my head’s been on straight my entire life,” she rambled, her voice husky and sleepy.

“Where are you?” Jess asked, his voice earnest.

“The phone booth on Main Street. Why do they still have this here? It’s such antiquated tech-”

“Just stay right there. I’ll come down,” he said shortly, then hung up before she could respond.

Jess rushed down the stairs and weaved through the dark diner, tables stacked on chairs, leaving the door open as he exited onto the sidewalk. He caught sight of her petite form almost immediately. Out on the deserted street, trudging towards the diner with her hands in her back pockets, watching the sky as she walked. The night was humid. Sighing heavily, Jess came over and touched her arm gently.

Ella flinched, but relaxed when she saw it was him. “Jesus, Mariano. Give a girl some warning.”

Shaking his head slightly, he brought a hand to the small of her back to steady her as they walked. He could smell the alcohol wafting off her, mixed with her normal aroma of lavender and rosemary. “What the hell did you drink?”

“A lot,” she drawled back instantly. They neared the steps of the diner and she blew out a shaky breath. “Can we sit down?”

Before he could even answer, she sat down heavily on the concrete steps. He took the seat beside her, leaving a safe distance between the two of them.

Ella brought her hand to her mouth and started biting at her nails. A warm breeze blew past them. Ella huffed in frustration and took the elastic from her hair clumsily. She ran her hands through her brassy waves and sniffed. Jess glanced over at her and could tell she had been crying. Her hazel eyes were red-rimmed and her mascara was running slightly. Even drunk, she flushed when she saw him looking at her, and wiped her hands over her cheeks self-consciously.

“My dad got engaged,” she said suddenly, frankly.

“Huh.”

“Yep.” There was a pause before she spoke again, crickets singing around them. “We had a fight about it this morning. I got home tonight, and he wouldn’t talk to me. So, I stole a bottle of his tequila to piss him off, get a rise out of him, but then I thought: ‘Fuck it. Just drink it. The day can’t get much worse anyway.’”

Jess nodded, listening.

“But then he kicked me out for the night. So, yeah, it could get worse. Lorelai’s not home, and Rory’s still in Washington. I sure as hell can’t knock on Lane’s door like this. I just wanted to call and say sorry for being such a jackass earlier.”

“I thought I was the jackass here?” he teased offhandedly.

She giggled drunkenly, though her eyes were hazy. “Usually. But, just this once, it was me. Just...a bad day.”

“It’s alright,” he assured her, standing up and holding a hand out to her. “You can crash upstairs. Luke’s out but I’m sure it’s fine.”

Ella shook her head and sighed. “Jess, you don’t have to be nice-”

“Fine, I won’t be nice then. Shut up and take my hand,” he said flatly.

After a long moment, she nodded, grabbing his hand and straightening up. Upon standing, she got dizzy and staggered back.

“Careful, Stevens,” Jess grumbled, hands hovering over her arms for a moment in the event she fell over.

“Shut up,” she snapped, retreating back into the diner.

The way up the stairs was iffy, and by the top Ella was practically holding onto Jess for balance. Jess’s mouth was set in a thin, stern line, though slight worry touched his heart. She sang along quietly with the lyrics of the song which still hummed lowly from the stereo as they entered. It almost made Jess want to smirk, if she hadn’t been so completely smashed. He steered her to his bed, where she immediately flopped onto her back.

“Is this your bed?” she asked, eyes closed and hands behind her head.

“Yes. But tonight it’s yours,” he sighed, shutting both the music and his desk lamp off. In the bluish glow of the room, he saw her sloppily tug off her shoes. Then, she sat forward with her elbows on her knees, head in her hands.

“I can just sleep on the couch or the floor or a park bench. Y’know, a couple years ago Taylor went on this asinine crusade to make the benches more comfortable-”

“Just go to sleep, Eleanor,” he scolded.

“You go to sleep,” she retorted lamely, but nonetheless, she flopped onto her back again and scooted up until her head laid on the pillow. But, her glassy eyes remained open and she stared at the ceiling.

Jess had been fetching her a glass of water, cold from the tap. He was surprised to find her still conscious considering how strong the smell of tequila was when entering her general vicinity. Instead of forcing her to drink the water, a fight which he knew would be fruitless, he just left it on the nightstand.

“Jess?”

“Yes?”

“Do you believe in fate?”

He scoffed, hands in his pockets as he stood by the bed. “Is now really the best time to solve the mysteries of the universe?”

Giggling, Ella let her eyes flutter shut. “No time like the present.” When she spoke again, her voice had a wistful, far-off quality. “I just...my dad told me he proposed to Fiona because it was fate which brought them together and they were immediately in love and all that shit. But he thought he was in love with my mom and looked how that turned out. I just...most of the time I can’t bring myself to believe in fate or love. Not after everything that happened.”

“Hm,” Jess hummed, brows furrowed. He waited for her to continue, as he knew she would.  

“Fiona’s not a horrible person. But she acts like she’s my mom,” she said, defeated. “And she wouldn’t shut up this morning about me being disrespectful and just...and I can’t talk to Rory and Lane’s busy with her drums and...you with your girlfriend or whatever she is…”

Jess raised his eyebrows at her last comment, but at just the moment he hoped she would continue, she began to doze off. Her breathing deepened, and Jess sighed again. Before she could completely slip into unconsciousness, he went over and rolled her onto her side. Ella stirred, but did not fully wake. He threw the orangey afghan from the end of the bed over her form.

Creeping over to retrieve the book from his bedside table, Jess was reassured when she curled up into a ball on her side. Before he made it over to the couch where he planned to spend the night, Ella hummed drowsily.

“Jess?” she croaked, peeking through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Yeah, honey?” he asked, grouchy but not angry.

“Thank you,” she slurred, grabbing a handful of the blanket in her fist sleepily.

Jess sighed, and grimaced when a wave of fondness washed over him. “You’re welcome.”

As he flipped through to his marked page, flicking on the floor lamp near the couch and settling in for the night, she began to snore softly. Jess tried to concentrate on the final twenty pages of the book, but knew he would definitely have to reread them.

.   .   .

Around half past midnight, Luke’s booted footfalls sounded softly up the stairs to the apartment. He was surprised to find the door unlocked, considering how late Jess had been out with Shane the last few Friday nights. Soft, yellowish light illuminated Luke’s side of the apartment. He thought Jess had fallen asleep with a lamp on, and jumped when he found his nephew with his nose in a book on the old brown leather couch.

“Jeez!” he exclaimed as he shut the door behind him.

“Keep it down!” Jess hissed back, saving his place in the book again. Five more pages. “You’ll wake her up.”

“Excuse me?” Luke asked, accusatory, eyebrows raised as he followed Jess’s gaze to the left. He could make out Ella’s face in the dimness, and his confusion only grew. Instantly, he knew Jess had done something. He had to have done something. “What the hell is she doin’ here?”

Jess rolled his eyes as his uncle pointed a finger at him. He hopped up to grab a blanket from the top shelf of the nearby closet. “She called me. She got kicked out for the night and needed a place to crash. I figured it’d be okay.”

“Kicked out?” Luke echoed softly. In all his time knowing Ella, she’d never been one to piss her parents off so severely. The girl worked doubles every weekend and had a four-point-oh GPA. “Why?”

“She was wasted. Stole her dad’s tequila,” Jess explained shortly, shutting off the floor lamp and returning to the couch to get some sleep. It had been a long night to say the least. The twinkly lights of the town square still made for relative visibility in the apartment.

Luke sighed heavily at Jess’s nonchalance and loomed over the couch, not done with the conversation. “Did you get her drunk?”

“No,” Jess answered immediately, angrily. “She managed it all on her own. She’s a big girl, y’know.”

“Shut up,” Luke snapped. “You’re telling me Ella Stevens got drunk on her dad’s tequila and called you for help?”

Jess nodded and looked up at his uncle in aggravation. “Someone give the man a prize.”

“Why would she call you?”

“First, I’m absolutely flattered by your tone,” Jess droned. “Lorelai wasn’t home, she couldn’t go to Lane’s, and Rory’s still in Washington. So, I was choice number four. Quite an honor. She probably figured you’d be the one at home, anyway.”

Luke groaned quietly at his nephew’s attitude, his hands on his hips. After a particularly terrible date, he hadn’t expected to have to solve another problem at home.

Satisfied the game of twenty questions was over, Jess crossed his arms over his chest, turned on his side and closed his eyes.

“I gotta call Jake,” Luke thought aloud, starting towards the phone.

Jess’s eyes flew open and he jumped up to stop Luke. “No!” he blurted out, a hand on his uncle’s arm, and waited a long moment to make sure Ella hadn’t woken.

“Jess, she’s a kid. I have to tell her dad where she is,” Luke explained tiredly, rolling his eyes.

“Really? Her dad who just kicked her out in the middle of the night?” Jess asked doubtfully, eyebrows raised.

Luke sighed again, and seemed to actually ponder Jess’s words.

“Look, just let her sleep it off. I’m sure she’ll still have an earful waiting for her tomorrow morning,” Jess said urgently, his eyes flicking over to his bed.

Taking a long moment to stare thoughtfully at his shoes, Luke finally conceded. “Fine.”

Jess blew out a short breath in relief. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Luke snapped back.

As he retreated back to the couch, Jess caught one last glance at Ella’s sleeping form. Bathed in the starlight, she looked almost ethereal, despite the snoring. “She’ll be fine. I put her on her side so she won’t choke if she throws up or anything. And she’s got water by the bed.”

Furrowing his brows, Luke let a suspicious gaze linger on his nephew. “How’d you know to do that?”

Jess uttered a bitter chuckle. “Liz Danes is my mother. I’m sure you can fill the rest in yourself.”

“Right,” Luke sighed, nodding. He regained his harsh exterior after a moment, pointing a final, warning finger at Jess. “But call me before letting people stay here next time. And, just so we’re clear, there will not be a next time.”

Scoffing, Jess turned on his side away from Luke and gave only a noncommittal grunt as an answer.

.   .   .

Throwing up in the shower had actually been the high point of her morning. Sneaking out of the apartment at nearly five o’clock, Ella had left nothing more than an empty water glass and a folded afghan on Jess’s bed as traces of her being there. Though the morning was cloudy, her splitting headache still got worse trudging down Main Street back towards her house during sunrise. She’d never been on a walk of shame, and was glad there was no one yet awake to witness it. After unlocking her window with a bobby pin, she’d managed a few more hours of sleep before facing the music of her father’s rage.

However, stealing his alcohol had proved to have at least one silver lining. Ella was the one with the hangover, so Jake had opted just for disappointed yelling instead of screaming and breaking whatever furniture he could get his hands on. Instead, Ella had to sit through two hours of Jake and Fiona standing with arms crossed, looming over her while she sat hunched at the kitchen table. It wasn’t easy with her stomach swirling and her heartbeat throbbing painfully behind her eyes, but it certainly wasn’t the most brutal dressing down she’d ever received. A two-week grounding with the exception of work and school was in order, and Ella made the compulsory show of accepting the punishment. She knew they would likely forget to enforce it anyway, caught up in their own dramas.

A shower and a change of clothes had her looking slightly more human by the time she returned to the diner at noon for her eight-hour shift. At least she wasn’t on the books to close. She tried multiple times to apologize to Luke, but he was disinterested at best. Ella could tell he was disappointed, but she would have to wait it out before he would actually talk it out with her. By her break around four in the afternoon, it had already been a long day of the cold shoulder and demanding Saturday afternoon orders. Rather than staying in the diner for some lunch, she opted for a walk around town to keep the churning in her stomach at bay.

The summer haze cast long shadows on the cracked asphalt. As she passed the town square, she breathed in the clean air and decided the headache might finally be passing. The breeze was picking up, and the sound of the vibrant green leaves rustling in the wind washed over her like ocean waves. The smell of exhaust filled the air as she passed the bus stop, the city bus coming to a screeching halt by the bench next to her. She would have ignored it completely, but Jess caught her eye, deboarding the bus with his hands shoved in his pockets. Ella picked up her pace, but Jess had already seen her. He raced up beside her with a wicked smirk on his lips.

“Wait up, Speed Racer,” he quipped, panting slightly.

She chuckled halfheartedly. “I’ll give you a second to catch your breath.”

“Ah, I think I’m alright,” he assured her with a shrug. “You on break?”

“Yep,” she said shortly, avoiding his eyes. “Where are you coming from?”

“Shangri-la,” he answered instantly. They were circling back around to the square, and Jess tilted his head to the gazebo. “You wanna sit down? You look a little pale.”

“Sure,” she nodded. “I think the tequila’s had a bit of an effect on my complexion.”

Jess laughed. “Yeah, maybe if you hadn’t downed that last liter it wouldn’t be quite as pronounced.”

“Shut up,” she smiled, seeming to relax just a touch. She tucked some rogue wisps of hair behind her ears as they sat down on the bench in the gazebo, the town buzzing with tourist groups and regulars.

Before Jess could make some wiseass remark, Ella cleared her throat and cut to the chase. Her cheeks grew rosy but she powered through the nervous fluttering of her heart. “Look, I’m really sorry about last night.”

“It’s okay,” Jess said, shaking his head dismissively. “I’ve had a few nights like that.”

“But I don’t drink. Ever,” she said, speaking with her hands.

Jess snorted. “I’ll say.”

She scoffed self-consciously. “And I don’t steal my dad’s booze, and get black-out drunk, and steal my friend’s bed and piss off my boss-”

“Luke’ll come around. Compared to the shit I’ve done? You’re living out amateur hour,” he interjected with a smirk. Though he wished it hadn’t, his heart skipped a beat at her so casually calling him a friend. Even in New York, he’d only a few of those, and none of them had kept in contact with him since coming to Stars Hollow. It occurred to him in the moment how he may have never had a friend like her before, someone who wasn’t disappointed in him, who was excited to talk about books, who called even when they were many miles apart.

“Just let me finish,” she said earnestly, raising a hand to him.

Jess bit his lip to keep from chuckling at her stubbornness. “Go on.”

“I’m just so embarrassed and I don’t remember most of what I said but I’m just... I’m sorry,” she said, biting at her nails. Her ears were tinged with red, flesh hot with shame. “And thank you for letting me crash. You really didn’t have to do that and...thank you.”

Sighing through his nose, Jess nodded with more sincerity than she expected.

“And the last time Lane and I went to a party, I tried to recite all the lyrics from the whole Rumors album, so I’m also really sorry if I did that,” she added, a return of some levity.

Jess laughed. “Don’t worry. You’re in the clear.”

She sighed in relief. “Thank God.”

“Seriously, Stevens, don’t be embarrassed. If it makes you feel any better, I once ate a pumpkin raw when I was drunk,” he admitted, his voice low and conspiratory.

A confused grin crossed her face. “What?”

“Yep,” he confirmed, nodding. “I’ve sworn off both forties and Halloween parties since then.”

Ella laughed.

“Does that make you feel better?” he asked.

“A little.” After a moment, the serious air came back. “Thank you, Jess.”

He nodded again. “You’re welcome.”

And, just then, they locked eyes. A charged silence passed between them, and Jess thought he saw something flash behind Ella’s eyes. She had to avert her gaze to hide her blush.

Jess’s stomach did an involuntary flip. But Ella seemed to regain her composure quickly. Had he imagined the look on her face or the redness on her cheeks? When she spoke again, the weight of the moment was gone.

“So, really, where’d you come from? A drug deal? A prostitution ring?” she prodded in curiosity. “A date with Shane?”

Jess shook his head, clearing his throat. “No. Shane and I don’t exactly go on dates,” he joked suggestively.

Something between a grimace and a smirk crossed her lips at his implication. “Gross. But I suppose every relationship is different,” she teased.

“I think ‘relationship’ might be a bit of an overstatement,” he said, shrugging. His face was guarded, but Ella could see the corners of his mouth threatening to tick upwards. “She thinks Oscar Wilde is a type of cocktail.”

“No,” she said in disbelief, giggling a little. Eventually, Jess began to chuckle and both of them laughed together. People passing by raised brows at the two of them. Most of them had never seen Jess smile.

“And we don’t know each other's last names,” Jess continued, biting his lip to fend off another smirk.

She shook her head, but kept giggling. “How romantic.”

“That it is,” he quipped.

Ella smirked and glanced down at her watch.

“My break’s almost over. You coming back to the diner?” she asked, ignoring the still air sitting in the small distance from her face to his own.

He shook his head. “Not yet. I have some things to do.”

“Specific.”

“I know. I am famous for my candor,” he said. “But I’ll be by later to help with dinner. You’ll get your book back with some brand new notes in the margins.”

“Lucky me,” she smiled. “Next on your list….” she paused, racking her brain for one of the many suggestions she’d thought of giving him. “Joan Didion.”

“Is that the lady from LA?” he asked.

“That’s the one. She makes it sound even better than New York.”

“Well, I’ll be the judge of that,” Jess said, watching her rise from her seat. Her black skirt came to her mid-thigh, and he saw some yellowed bruises on her knees. “And you’re in for another classic. Bukowski himself.”

She leaned on the white railing, readying herself to descend the steps and return to the diner. Her eyebrows were raised doubtfully. “We’ll just have to see about that ‘classic’ business.”

“Prepare to eat your words!” he called after her as she rushed away. He could tell she was anxious to be back on time, for fear of even more passive aggression from Luke.

“Ditto!” she returned.

Jess watched her go, disappearing back into Luke’s with her nails chewed. And found himself oddly content in the July afternoon heat.

[sylvanfreckles]

Day Five: Mistletoe

Fandom: Fire Emblem Awakening

Summary: Chrom and Lissa recruit Robin to help plan a solstice festival for the Shepherds.

(Yep! It’s the third of my top-three game series!)

After nearly an hour of poring over the field reports brought in by their scouts, Robin slowly became aware that someone was standing in front of him. “Oh. Hello, Lissa. Did you need something?”

Chrom's sister was smiling down at him—which usually meant trouble—with both hands innocently tucked behind her back. “Do you know what date it is, Robin?”

“It's, um,” Robin shuffled through the reports. One of them had been dated. “It's...winter?”

“It's nearly solstice,” Lissa explained cheerfully. “You know what that means?”

“Uh...” he squinted up at her. “The...shortest day of the year?”

Lissa giggled and brought one hand out, holding a sprig of some kind of plant and dangling it over Robin's head. He stared up at it in confusion, then looked further up to the gleeful expression on the young cleric's face. “Lissa?”

“Holy wow,” Lissa rolled her eyes. “You really don't know anything but strategy, huh? This is mistletoe.”

“Okay?” Robin shrugged. Mistletoe was a parasitical plant, and Miriel used it in some of her research. That was about all he knew of it. “What about it?”

“Duh. When two people are under the mistletoe they're supposed to kiss.”

Robin felt his cheeks burn bright red and he tried to scramble away from Lissa. “That-that wouldn't be appropriate! You're the princess...Frederick would...and Chrom...!”

Lissa just giggled at his consternation and leaned over to place a dramatic kiss on top of his head. “Solstice is a time to celebrate, Robin. We're just trying to spread a little cheer! Put your books away and come to the mess tent, Sumia and Stahl are talking about making a special meal.”

He let her grab his wrist and tug him to his feet, following the flounce of her yellow skirt through the camp to the mess tent. “Maybe you can help me convince Olivia to do a special dance,” Lissa continued brightly. “Or-or at least convince Henry not to. And Mirabelle's looking for anyone who used to do those old Yule plays in school...but I guess you wouldn't remember that...anyway, here we are!”

With a dramatic gesture, Lissa swept the mess tent's entrance flap aside. Inside, several of the Shepherds were busy arranging boughs of evergreen branches along the tent's frame. Nowi seemed to be helping Cherche untangle a mass of red and white ribbon, but Robin was fairly sure the Manakete was just tangling things up further on purpose.

“Chrom! I found him!” Lissa waved at her brother across the tent and pulled Robin through the chaos. “Your favorite tactician, big brother,” she announced, shoving Robin forward.

The Exalt chuckled, resting his chin in one hand. “He's my only tactician, Lissa.”

“All the more reason he should be your favorite!” she replied with a cheeky grin. “Now, here, you two work on your plans. I'm gonna go hunt for more mistletoe.”

“Keep it away from Tharja!” Chrom called to his sister's retreating back. He offered Robin a warm smile and patted the empty spot on the bench beside him. “We've been planning a little celebration, and I was hoping you'd help me.”

Robin sat and rested his hands in his lap, fingers twisted together. The bustle around him was so cheerful, so comfortable...and so unfamiliar. “I don't...Chrom, I don't remember anything. From before.”

“Hey,” Chrom's hand on Robin's shoulder was warm. Comforting. “We're making new memories, right? I'm not asking you to come up with anything, I just need my favorite tactician to do what he does best.”

He couldn't help but smile at Chrom's words. “And what's that?”

“Strategy,” Chrom held up a few loose sheets of paper. “I've been trying to think of different things we could do, but I can't seem to get it into any kind of order.”

Robin flipped through the pages and nodded to himself. “I think I can see what you mean,” he said, digging for a spare quill in his robes. He took a scrap of paper and roughly sketched out two-hour blocks of time and started filling them in. “You want to have active events, like the wrestling tournament Sully wants, a couple of hours after a meal. Mirabelle wants to do a play or recital, that should be directly after lunch.”

“We could have an informal dinner,” Chrom suggested, spreading the loose pages across their knees. “We used to have a solstice ball every year...it could only be something small out here in the camp, but I think everyone would like it.”

The tactician's quill darted across the page as he made notes. “Does...does this page just say 'candy'?”

Chrom groaned, crumpled the page up, and tossed it over his shoulder. “Gauis was here a few minutes ago.”

“Right.”

Robin leaned over the paper, making new notes and crossing old ones out, drawing lines to move events around. Eventually Chrom got up to bring him more paper when their notes began to overflow the pages. Someone brought them bread and ale at noon, though they were too busy arguing over whether or not to include a horse race for the solstice festival. At one point Vaike simply dragged their bench over to one side so he could decorate the tent pole that had been behind them.

“...look, all I'm saying is, Cherche always wants someone to pet Minerva,” Robin explained, leaning back away from Chrom to keep his quill out of reach. “She doesn't need a special day for a wyvern petting zoo, I'm pretty sure she slipped that into your pocket while you were asking Sumia if she knew how to make mince pies.”

“I know that,” Chrom retorted. He planted a hand on Robin's shoulder and held the tactician down long enough to pluck the quill out of his outstretched hand. “I'll ask you this...do you want to tell Cherche we left Minerva out of our solstice festival plans?”

Robin shuddered at the thought and watched Chrom scrawl Minerva's name next to the box for Sully's wrestling tournament. “Right. I think we have a good schedule here. Maybe...”

“Robin!” Lissa pelted into the tent, leaves caught in her blonde hair. “Oh—Chrom! You're both here!”

“Lissa?” Chrom was already on his feet, holding his arms out to stop his sister's mad dash. “What's wrong?”

Lissa doubled over, panting for breath, hands resting on her thighs. “It's awful. I was looking for mistletoe, and she...Tharja followed me. I didn't know she was there, I swear!”

“Tharja?” Robin felt another shudder run up his spine. He climbed to his feet, papers scattering around him, and clung to the back of Chrom's tunic to steady himself.

“She found the Mistletoe! Oh, Robin, you have to hide!”

“Follow me,” Chrom seized Robin by the wrist and fled the mess tent, pulling the tactician along in his wake. “Frederick is working in the armory today, he'll know what to do.”

Robin stumbled along, nearly tripping over his own robes as Chrom pulled him between the tents. “This is...is solstice always like this?”

Chrom smiled back at him over his shoulder. “It is when you're a Shepherd!”

* * *

Next time: Trifles - “No”

* * *

Day Four - Master List - Day Six

[hopiewrites]

Nobody - OHSHC

NOTE: big, big thank you to the person helping me write this fic, LT! i don’t think they have a tumblr so here is a link to their quotev!

pairing - host club x reader

ongoing series, chapter 3

word count - 4,180

chapters 1 & 2 up now!

-> back to masterlist

03

Forget-me-not Blue

Weeks had passed, and the daffodils began to bloom, welcoming spring into season that April.

(Y/N) was excited, even if things were barely starting to come to life. The early spring flowers had arrived, and that meant the butterflies and bees would start dancing around again, and the cherry blossoms would bloom, and everything would be alight with new life and begin the new year with vibrancy. She couldn't wait until she was able to walk through Ouran's gardens that would be full of roses and lavender and dandelions.

It seemed that the entire school shared her excitement, as the whole campus was vibrating with excitement and joy. The colors seemed brighter and the sky seemed clearer and the spring air was crisp and clean, brushing it's hands through the trees that were budding with new leaves and fruits.

All was well that day. (Y/N) got to spend time with her mother that morning before she had to run off to work, managed to remember all of her school supplies, and even got to finish her makeup on time; she was wearing one of her favorite outfits, a cherry wood brown turtleneck and a pleated plaid skirt, paired with the dirty vans she always wore.

She stayed late yesterday to make the food beforehand instead of going in early that morning, so she managed to get two extra hours of sleep, and felt relatively rested.

She decided that the day was good.

Everybody in homeroom was chatting amongst themselves, as usual, while cute drawings of different characters and flowers adorned the whiteboard with little phrases and words next to them. Her head was low as she entered, quietly making a beeline towards her usual desk and pulling out her notebook.

Something scrunched under her papers.

The girl moved her notebook, curious brows raised, and there, on her desk, sat a yellow sticky note, with a sun wearing sunglasses and a little daisy sitting around the neat, swirly handwriting that read;

Come to the club room after classes, We have planning to do~

Just when she thought she'd gotten away from them, they pulled her right back into their grubby hands.

She sighed, trying to hide the slight grin that made it's way to her face. She propped her head up on one hand, staring blankly at the whiteboard at the front of the room.

I wonder what's going on this time.

It wasn't long before everyone got settled and into their seats. Now, all she had to do, was wait.

- nobody -

Everyone is so lively today.

Even more so than usual, the host club's atmosphere was effervescent, seeming to bubble over with what she assumed was excitement – even the guests were basically dancing in their seats.

"So, Kyoya! When will the annual Spring Dance be held this year?"

"Yeah! Everybody has been talking about it already, we're all so excited!"

"Well, ladies, we plan to have it soon, in early May. We're actually having preparations being made at this moment."

"Oh, wow, really!? We have to start looking at gowns, then!"

"Yes, we're looking forward to it! I wonder what the theme will be this year."

Spring Dance?

"That, my dears, is a surprise. Just know that all the hosts have worked very hard to find only the best decorations and catering for our guests."

They all swooned at Kyoya's smooth cut words, alight with his usual false cheeriness. He smiled at his guests politely, listening to their excited rambling.

Huh. I should've figured they would have one. Just slipped my mind. Maybe that's why they wanted me up here, to help with preparations?

"Oh, (N/N)-chan!!! You look so pretty!"

Almost knocked back by Honey's embrace, she hid a giggle, letting him hug her – now that it's been nearly a month, the timid girl has gotten used to her elder's childish mannerisms.

"Hello, senpai. Um, thank you!"

He laughed cutely before letting her go. "So you got Tama-chan's note? I wasn't sure if you'd come visit us today."

"Yeah, I almost didn't see it actual-"

"Oh, Princess! Welcome!"

Yet again, she was scooped up into a pair of arms, but this time, she was twirled around and around and around, before finally her feet touched the ground once more, a pair of warm hands on her shoulders.

Her cheeks were pink from that welcome, and head spinning after that twirl; she still wasn't used to Tamaki's bear hugs. As nice as they were, they always made her chest flutter and twist, as if, suddenly, the only thing that was there was warmth, and a rosy cinnamon scent that she could lose herself in.

(Y/N) smiled.

"Hi, Tamaki-senpai."

"I'm glad you came today! We have many things to discuss, like the-"

"Spring Dance?"

"Oh! Yes. I'm guessing you've heard?"

His hands fell from her shoulders, as his head tilted like that of a puppy, blonde hair shining like gold under the florescent lights that hung in chandeliers from the ceiling high above.

"Well, just now I heard some of Kyoya's visitors talking about it- oh, I think you have people waiting, senpai."

She nodded her head towards the girls waiting patiently with smiles on their pretty faces. The taller nods. "Yeah, I'll tell you more about it later, okay? So don't leave!"

"Okay, don't worry! I'll be right here."

He smiled once again before greeting his guests and walking with them to a table.

She took it upon herself to sit, folded up in a sofa situated at the back of the expansive room, and plugged her earbuds in to block out the chatter that echoed. Plucking her journal out from her bag, she balanced it on her knee, continuing a sketch she'd been working on recently–a myosotis plant, more commonly known as forget-me-not's.

Small flowers, known for their symbolism of faithful love and reminiscent feelings; their color, known as "true blue," was the color of trust, loyalty and truth. She chose these flowers for an assignment in her art class, the project being on symbolism in everyday objects.

She was a bit of a nerd for those kinds of things.

From beside the focused girl peered a curious ginger over her shoulder. A pair of honey eyes roamed across the paper, watching as her hand moved and twitched, careful yet messy in a way he hadn't really seen before.

"What're you drawing, (Y/N)?"

Music drowned out his words, earbuds nestled safely in her ears as she just continued what she was doing, unbothered.

He decided to tuck his voice away for now, watching the pencil as it dragged across the paper, quietly. He moved closer, a sheepish smile playing on his lips as he crouched, propping his arm on the armrest of the chair, head leaning close to the oblivious girl's shoulder.

He'd seen those flowers before, overflowing in the pots that sit right outside his mansion's front doors, serving as a welcome whenever he arrived home. He never realized how pretty they were until that moment.

Soon enough she turned the page, and from the corner of his eye he saw a nonchalant smile pull on her cheeks - she wrote a message in her book.

How long have you been spying on me?

Kaoru chuckled, then pulled out an earbud of hers.

"About five minutes now, actually."

"Hm. You're such a stalker, you know that?"

Closing her book she turned towards the younger twin, headphone swinging and smacking Kaoru in the face as she moved; she held back an embarrassed laugh.

"Those are forget-me-not's, right?" His head tilted, lights reflecting in his eyes like constellations.

She lit up. "Yeah. I'm just doing rough sketches for a project I'm working on... I'm pretty excited to start painting it."

"That's right!" The girl jumped at his exclamation, dropping her journal with a thud, "We've never seen your paintings before. When will you show us your winning masterpiece, (Y/-"

"What's this?"

Her cheap journal was plucked from the floor by slim hands, mischievous eyes studying the contents of the page that had revealed itself from the prior fall.

"Wai-"

"Ooh, I never took you as the obsessive type, (Y/N)."

Kaoru stood abruptly from his crouch and walked over to where his twin was in front of the poor girl, lips falling open, just a bit, just enough to suck in a breath he didn't know he needed.

"And for Tamaki, no less!"

Imprinted on the thin pages of her grimoire, was an unfinished portrait of none other than Tamaki Suoh, eyes sleepy and hair a mess, but a smile as bright as the very sun. You could feel the warmth he radiated through the page.

What took Kaoru by surprise was how much detail was put into the whole thing, even if it was a bit sloppy. It looked like it held every color in the world, even though the only thing that was there was the dull, grey lead of the pencil and bits of eraser shavings caught here and there.

She jumped up and tried to snatch it out of the taunting male's hands, though he just held it over her head.

She felt like crying; nobody was supposed to see that.

"What are you all doing?"

None other than the king himself asked, taking long strides towards the twins. Hikaru couldn't get enough of this. For one reason or another, he felt acid deep down in his stomach that bit at him from the inside, but on his tongue was the sweet taste of hell's fire, and he would deal with the burning of his conscience later.

"Seems like you have another fan, boss! Look at this."

Though, the girl wouldn't give up that easily. She jumped up once again, eyes glaring holes through the auburn's head, and a shiver crawled up his spine. He almost considered giving it back. Almost.

Tamaki was there now, and it felt like everything was in slow motion for her. Yeah, maybe she was being dramatic, but she couldn't help it. That was private and special to her, not to mention how embarrassed she'd be if he saw it.

(Y/N) disregarded how she was now chest-to-chest with Hikaru Hitachiin, and how pink dusted his cheeks as his eyes slanted down at her own ones in a silent declaration of war. The tips of her toes kissed the marble of Ouran's floors as she leaned against the much, much taller male in effort to get back what was rightfully hers, but he only stretched his arm out further, completely ignoring everyone else's presence in the now emptying room.

In that moment, nothing mattered to either of them. There was nothing else but each other and the mutual feeling of a bloody red.

...Save for the other club members of course, who watched the whole ordeal with amusement.

Kyoya sipped on his earl grey. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say Hikaru is flirting, wouldn't you agree?"

Haruhi's hand clasped over her mouth in an effort not to laugh. She hummed in silent agreement. "Yeah, I'd definitely say so."

"(Y/N), you drew this...?"

It was those words that were the rain that washed the fire to ashes,  though the biting heat lingered even when she pulled apart from Hikaru. His glare snapped to the wall as he avoided eye contact. Her skin was red with embarrassment and anger, blood boiling and burning her from the inside. The older twin only stood, arms crossed and eyebrows drawn together with an angry pout plastered on his rose petal lips.

Though, what she didn't know was that Hikaru was nauseous with the nasty aftertaste of guilt, pitchforks stabbing at his lungs, making it hard for him to do anything but clench his fists and bear it. He didn't care about how he made her feel. Why would he? She was just another one of Tamaki's stupid fangirls.

Right...?

He couldn't keep himself from glaring over at (Y/N) one last time.

- nobody -

Tamaki cleared his throat, clapping his hands together as all the hosts gathered and watched him.

"So, as many of you know, the annual spring dance is upon us, and we've already booked the grand hall for the ceremony."

(Y/N) listened curiously from her seat beside Mori, whom she felt safest by at the moment. He didn't ask questions; he didn't pry; he didn't do much of anything, really. His quiet presence was cooling against the fire raging red underneath her skin.

"I thought we should all gather to choose a theme. Last year's was royalty, and the decorations and dress code played off of that."

That's so like them. The girl grinned quietly to herself, finding their predictable nature entertaining. "Does anyone have any ideas?"

The girl hesitated, just for a moment, swallowing Hikaru's thorny glare like sour medicine.

"What about a vintage theme?" She spoke.

"Vintage theme...?" Tamaki questioned aloud, tilting his head slightly, just like she noticed he'd always do when thinking.

"Yeah. Like age old antiques, soft colors, lace, the like. Unless you've already done something like that, I mean.."

"No, no. Actually... That's a really good idea, (Y/N)," Kyoya flipped through his little black book, jotting down the girl's idea.

"Yeah. Sounds good."

(Y/N) shifted at the sudden voice beside her, quiet but not shy. Mori wasn't even looking at her, not sparing a single glance her way, his face bearing the same sea glass expression.

She took Mori's words to heart, those words he probably thought nothing much of. She then elaborated her thoughts, a little clearer, a little more confident.

"I think it would be really elegant, not to mention economical. We could maybe even visit a few antique shops for some of the decorations."

No one added anything in, silently willing her to continue.

"Soft colors, like cream and periwinkle and mauve would do. Maybe we can even make some kind of dress code."

Still, no one.

"...I don't know."

"That's a wonderful idea, (N/N)-chan!" Exclaimed Honey from his cozy seat on Mori's lap.

"Yeah, we've never done anything like that before. It could be really pretty," added Kaoru.

Kyoya chimed in, "Any other ideas?"

"Nope! I think this is what we're going for this year, my dear Kyoya!"

As the hosts scattered amongst themselves, Honey tucked his arms snugly around (Y/N)'s legs with a wide, sweet smile; too wide, too sweet. In the moment, though, the girl was caught up in catching butterflies in her stomach. They listened to me, she thought. Her hands subconsciously found their way around the short male's small frame, as they tended to these days.

"(N/N)-chan, do you wanna walk with us outside?"

A sheepish smile stretched her lips as she replied. "Can't, senpai. I have to prepare tomorrow's food."

"Oh, about that, (Y/N)."

Honey reluctantly loosened his hold and marched back to his tall companion. Kyoya stood at her side now, tucking his phone away safely into the pocket of his trousers.

She hummed, listening.

"We're not opening the club tomorrow, so you don't have to have anything ready. Just go home and get some rest."

(Y/N) turned her head to peer up at him. His eyes were unfocused, looking out at the blooming colors of spring outside the windows. She didn't understand what he was thinking or feeling, or if he was feeling anything at all for that matter.

In that moment, he reminded her of the darkness that separates the stars.

- nobody -

The walk home was full of life, unsurprisingly. Wildflowers and green grass lined the roads, honeybees buzzing happily as they kissed the flowers and danced with butterflies. There was still a few hours of the day left, judging by how the sun was strung in the sky, so instead she decided to walk to a local park. It was small and well-worn but very peaceful, with its rusty swings and small pond.

Ducks waddled around in and out of the water. Birds chirped back and forth in the few trees as a lady struggled to keep her small dog from chasing a poor squirrel scurrying around the base of an oak.

Settling on the swings, (Y/N) took a second to unwind. The wind was soft and carried the scent of wild roses as it soothed her skin. There were yellow daffodils happily swaying by the pond. Everything was okay in that moment.

In a swift movement the girl kicked off her shoes and hopped out of the swing, laughing at herself when she stumbled. The grass felt like silk on her callused feet as she stepped towards the large rose bush, crouching to smell its pink petals. Carefully, she plucked one, two, three, four roses and skipped away to gather a few daffodils, cattails, and dandelions.

For mom, when she gets home.

Right as she was about to steal a pinecone from its branch, her phone vibrated annoyingly in her pocket.

2 new messages from " the host club 👑✨💞"

Since when was I in a group chat??

Ignoring it, (Y/N) decided to check it out later. How did they even get her Instagram though? It didn't matter, she figured. She'd probably spent far too long at the park, anyway, if the creamy orange beginning to color the sky was any indication. It was time to head back home.

With all different kinds of plants gripped securely in her dirty hand, she retrieved her discarded shoes and gingerly walked back towards her neighborhood.

- nobody -

It wasn't until (Y/N) found herself sprawled across her bed and once more attempting to wrap-up her forget-me-not sketch that she remembered the notifications she had received from the host club prior.

The mixed bouquet of wild flowers she had managed to concoct was placed on her mother's nightstand, along with a note on which she had scrawled a short but sweet message the moment she arrived back home. Aside from that, the only things she had her mind set on were homework (regardless of how little she was assigned), dinner, and sleep. It's true, she was tired,  a bit hungry as well, but she still chose to squeeze in some relaxing time to comfortably let her pencil dance across the designated page within her journal.

It almost amazed her how lost in thought she would find herself whenever she decided to let her creative side flow as freely as it did. It's as if she would switch over to autopilot and let nothing but her hand take control while her mind soared with an intoxicated sort of vigor as it explored every idea that subconsciously came to her head.

It was for this exact reason that it took her several moments to register the lit-up screen of her phone lying atop the cluster of unmade sheets just inches away.

Setting down her pencil, (Y/N) diverted her attention to the rectangular device and awkwardly shifted positions before picking it up and unlocking it. The number of messages from earlier had since multiplied, a prominent 61 plastered on the corner of the application.

haruhi.fuji: Well I know of a few thrift shops around near my apartment. You can find all kinds of hidden gems there.

haruhi.fuji: Don't know about antique stores though, but (Y/N)-chan might know of some.

tama_king: Thrift stores????

(58 more messages)

The corners of her lips upturned just enough for her to notice.

She opened the app and scrolled through the messages, skimming through notifications and following each member back. Well, accept for Hikaru, who hadn't even followed her in the first place. Hesitantly, (Y/N) typed out a message, then deleted it, then typed it out again, then deleted it. The girl sighed, chewing on her cheek, trying to decide what to say.

tama_king: Look (Y/N)s online!!

Well, leave it to Tamaki to point her out. Said girl settled for a simple greeting.

(username): hi everyone!

haruhi.fuji: (Y/N), we were just talking about what kind of decorations we should get for the spring dance.

(username): oh, well i figured we could just go looking through local shops to find authentic antique decor

haruhi.fuji: Like all of us out shopping together??

tama_king: That sounds like fun we should go see all the commoner shops together!

(Y/N) suddenly had regrets. All eight of them, six of which all likely hadn't ever even heard of a thrift store before, out and about? Even if she was starting to grow used to the lot of them, it was a whole other thing to be seen out in public with them. It wasn't that (Y/N) was embarrassed of them, but more so bothered by how much attention they seem to bring towards themselves. The socially awkward girl wasn't sure if she could handle that very well.

(username): i mean, sure??

haruhi.fuji: That sounds... ;;;

(username): yeah ik, migjt not be the best of ideas i've had huh

(username): *might

She quietly laughed to herself, trying to shake off the dread that was already piling on her shoulders.

tama_king: No, it sounds like a great idea!!

The "Oh, what have I done," slipped past her lips as she saw none other than Kyoya himself finalize the plans.

KyoyaOotori: I see you three have been planning an outing?

KyoyaOotori: And when are we all going to do this?

It was funny, because she could practically feel him shaking his head through the screen. Maybe the two of them were more alike than she had originally thought.

She decided then that she might as well go through with it.

(username): well, earlier you said i didn't have to prep for tomorrows guests, so i'm free tomorrow after school.

tama_king: The host club was planned to be closed tomorrow for preparations to be made for the dance. i'm sure our lovely guests wouldn't mind. so Kyoya, is tomorrow okay to go out shopping?

KyoyaOotori: I suppose that it would be a good learning experience to see what low-budget commoner living is like. So, yes, that sounds just fine. I'll make sure to let the others know.

It looked like all had been settled, so she switched the device back off and let it sit to the side. The sound of the door clicking shut and the A/C being tampered with alerted the young girl of her mother's arrival home, so she skipped into the doorway to greet her.

She looked tired, just as she always did, with the same empty smile and hollow eyes. (Y/N) hugged her and in a small voice, said hello.

"Heya, Pumpkin."

There was nothing else to be said as the woman kicked off her shoes and walked into her room, no doubtedly to sleep until she had to drag herself back out to work again. (Y/N) hoped she liked the flowers she had picked out for her.

Sometimes there is no worse feeling than guilt that will eat one out from the inside.

She felt as though the way that things were running in her house functioned like an unbalanced scale. Her mother always came home exhausted and worn-out as the result of working from dawn to dusk, and it hurt the young girl's heart to see her in such poor condition. It wasn't extremely often that she would even get the chance to say hello, and rarer still that she ever had the time to hold a good conversation.

They both loved each other more than life itself, and (Y/N) knew that better than anyone else, but with all the overbearing work her mother put up with, day and night, everything just seemed...

Unfair.

Bitter and unsavory thoughts aside, one glance at the clock on the microwave reminded her of the looming drowsiness she felt gradually washing over her. It had been a long day, and the next was certain to be even longer.

With this in mind, she experienced little to no hesitation before striding off towards her bathroom to ready herself for what she hoped to a good night's rest. Once she was curled up under the cotton sheets and had her stuffed animal of choice in a loving grip (not caring about how childish she may have seemed), the bluish light of her phone caught her attention as she slowly and reluctantly lifted up one eyelid.

Reaching for the device resting on her night stand, she opened both eyes; given how she hadn't really been exposed to the darkness of her room for a prolonged amount of time, it didn't take long to adjust to the screen's luminescent glow as she focused on the message displayed on her lock screen. A single notification was shown, and (Y/N) couldn't help but allow a small smile to make its way onto her face once she had processed what it read.

haruhi.fuji: Good luck tomorrow, (Y/N). Hope you'll be able to handle a few hours out with those goofballs.

[hailey-with-an-i]

i made a lams one shot a while ago and i figured i’d share it here :)) in which laurens is a caricature artist and he meets alex by chance !

John Laurens hated his fucking job. There was no way to sugarcoat it. He simply couldn’t stand it: the early mornings, the late nights, the large crowds of people… it really wasn’t his scene. Besides, regardless of how big the crowds were, he still only managed to earn close to minimum wage, despite standing in the bitter cold for several hours on end.

This wasn’t how his life was supposed to go. He was supposed to get out of college, make a living selling his art, then get married and have two kids. Technically, he had graduated already, but selling caricatures on the side of a New York City boardwalk was certainly not what he meant by “making a living.” After all, he was still sharing a small apartment- which, keep in mind, was certainly not meant for three people- with his best friend, Lafayette, as well as Lafayette’s boyfriend. He was also still single, but admittedly, that wasn’t the worst of his problems. He was only twenty-three; he knew he still had time.

He didn’t even quite understand how he got into the situation in the first place. Sure, he remembered coming out to his father and getting kicked out of the house, and he remembered begging Lafayette to let him stay with him. But for the life of him, he couldn’t remember how he came to work at this stupid pier. If he’d known what he was getting himself into, he would’ve never even considered applying for a job there, or coming out to his father. At least then he’d still have access to his trust fund.

Maybe that was why he despised working there so much: maybe it was because he got to see all the happy tourists and families come by and make memories that he knew he’d never have the opportunity to make. Or maybe it was because he knew that, even with his many years of experience in the field of art, drawing caricatures was probably going to be the height of his artistic career. Nevertheless, he knew that he still had to get paid, so...

“I’d better be getting paid extra for this,” John whined, leaning his weight against the cotton candy booth next to his. It was run by a constantly hyper Peggy Schuyler, and her older sister Eliza. They had a third sister, too, but she was off in law school while her sisters were still in college. John never quite understood why they worked there, as they were stupidly wealthy, but he also didn’t want to question it; he enjoyed their company anyway.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, which provided no real source of warmth, and let out a shaky breath. “It’s fucking freezing,” he continued.

“Come on, Jackie,” Eliza retorted, “you know George isn’t gonna be happy if he sees you away from your post.”

“You know what? Fuck this. Fuck George. Why do I have to sit there looking stupid when there’s no one even stopping by?”

Peggy joined the two and giggled, beginning to tangle her fingers into John’s wild curls, which were pulled back into an attempt at a ponytail. “He’s got a point, ‘liza,” the younger girl added.

“Don’t encourage him,” Eliza said, shooting her a look, then directing her attention back to John. “You’ve gotta stop cursing, too. You never know when there’s gonna be kids nearby.”

He sighed. “I know. It’s just frustrating.” He turned on his phone to check the time, then groaned when he realized he still had an hour before he could go home. He trudged over to his own booth and sat down in the wooden stool.

In all honesty, even though he wanted to go home pretty badly, he didn’t mind this part of the day. It was the time of day where things slowed down exponentially. And while that wasn’t good for his wallet necessarily, and it was uneventful at times, it also meant that he could rest his cramping hand until he could go home.

John pulled his phone back out of his pocket and looked on social media, absentmindedly liking the photos in his feed. Each picture was almost identical to the last, so he found himself liking them to occupy his time, not because they were actually interesting.

He smiled when he realized that he’d successfully killed time for thirty minutes. That meant that there were around thirty minutes until he could go home and go to sleep.

“Hey, are you still open?”

John’s head snapped up at the sudden voice, and he was visibly startled. He was getting ready to say, “no, actually,” but he quickly bit his tongue as the man looked at him curiously, a timid smile on his face that made John’s heart skip a beat.

“Yeah, yeah, come have a seat,” John said, gesturing to the stool in front of him. He complied, setting his things down on the ground beside him. John quickly reviewed the script for what he said to customers mentally. He thought it was weird at first that there was a script, but he learned that it actually helped him, especially when he didn’t know what to say… which was a lot.

“Would you like it to be colored or just black and white?” he asked, and watched as the man’s expression turned pensive.

“I’ll just have black and white, please,” he responded. This was fine by John, after all, he wanted to be done as soon as possible.

John reached into his pencil case and grabbed a pencil and a black marker. “So, what’s your name?” John questioned, studying the other man’s face for a second before going to sketch it.

“My name’s Alexander,” he said as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear, “-Hamilton. Alexander Hamilton.”

“Oh, nice! My name’s John Laurens.” An painfully awkward silence loomed over them.“Are you from New York, or are you visiting?” he asked.

Alexander shifted uncomfortably in the stool. “I guess you could say I’m visiting,” he explained. “Is it obvious?”

John shook his head frantically. “No, no, I just wasn’t sure.” That was sort of a lie. He could tell he wasn’t from New York because of the amount of layers he was wearing (sure, John was cold, but Alexander had to be wearing at least four jackets), and because of the slightest hint of an accent in his voice.

“Well, I just came here from the Caribbean, so I’m just trying to find somewhere to live.” John nodded, and decided that he had talked enough for the time being, and that he should focus on finishing the caricature.

As he continued to examine his face, he could help but notice that the man was actually fairly attractive.

His smile was bright and welcoming, that somehow made John feel warm inside despite the freezing temperature. He also took note of the fact that he had wide dark brown eyes, flecked with hazel and gold.

“You have pretty eyes,” John said under his breath. He hadn’t even realized that he’d said it until he heard Hamilton laugh lightheartedly at the comment, and John could feel his face darken with embarrassment. That was definitely not in the script. “God, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

“No, it’s okay. Thank you. I think you have pretty eyes, too.”

“Oh, uh… thanks…” John wanted to end himself right then and there. He really needed to learn how to filter himself.

“So, how long have you been drawing?” Alexander inquired, and John was thankful that he changed the subject.

“For as long as I can remember,” he told him. “I’ve always loved it. I just love the concept of it, you know? Being able to put something in your brain onto paper.”

“I never really thought of it like that,” Alex shrugged. John grinned crookedly at the man, putting away his pencil and uncapping the black marker to outline the sketch.

“What about you? What do you like to do?”

“Nothing interesting,” Alex said, almost mechanically. “I like writing, and debating, and reading, of course.”

“Why wouldn’t that be interesting?”

Alex stared at the ground awkwardly, running a hand through his thick locks of hair. “I don’t know. Being able to write well isn’t the same as being able to draw well.”

“I’d argue differently,” John replied. “Sure, they’re different categories of hobbies, but I can’t write for shit. I’d give anything to be a good writer.”

“I’m sure you’re just being modest.” John raised an eyebrow at him.

“I barely passed English in high school because I was so bad at writing. That, and I was so focused on art class that I kinda neglected my other classes, but that’s a different story.”

“You should give yourself more credit,” Alexander said. He checked the time on his watch. “I thought these things were supposed to take, like, five minutes? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re dragging this out on purpose.”

Once again, John felt his face burning bright red as he’d realized that he was right. He hadn’t even noticed that he put slightly more detail than he usually did, or that he’d even started to color the picture with crayons he hadn’t even realized he’d taken from his bag.

“Aw, shit,” John whispered, clutching his hair in his hand.

Alex raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, calm down. I was just joking,” he said with amusement. “You know, you’re cute, John Laurens.”

He was almost angry at the beautiful stranger. How dare he make him flustered and tongue-tied with a simple remark? In less than fifteen minutes?

“Thanks,” he choked out, unable to think of anything else to say. “I, uh… I’m pretty much done.”

After a few finishing touches, John was finally satisfied with the way the caricature looked. He put away his art supplies and turned the canvas around to show Alex his caricature.

His heart nearly pounded out of his chest as he was met with Alexander’s awestruck expression. “This is so cool!” he exclaimed, his eyes widening in surprise.

John felt a strange sense of pride, but also relief at the Caribbean man’s reaction. He typically never had to worry about people liking his drawings, but this time felt different. This time, he felt like he had to prove himself to this man that he’d never met before.

“You even made my nose look good! Incredible!” John raised his eyebrows at him.

“What’s wrong with your nose?”

“It’s just so… there. I don’t know.”

“And you said you’re a writer?” John teased, earning a glare from Alex.

“What I mean is that it’s so… protuberant. I hate it.”

“I actually happen to like your nose, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Alex fished into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled twenty dollar bill, placing it into John’s hand.

John stood up from the stool, only to be stopped by Alexander. “Where are you going?”

“Oh, I’m just getting your change. Don’t worry, I’m not charging you for the coloring… that was my bad.” Alex shook his head, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“No, no, that’s not necessary.”

“But… it’s only ten dollars. Didn’t you see the sign?”

“I saw it. But I want you to keep the change.”

John hesitated, before finally saying, “Are you sure?” Alex gave him another unamused look. “I’m just saying, if you need extra money for a hotel or something, you’re gonna regret giving me extra.”

“I want you to have it, okay?” Alexander clearly wasn’t going to budge, so John gave in and slipped the money into his pocket.

“If you say so…”

Alex stood up and brushed off his clothes, then picked up his things off the ground. “It was really nice meeting you, John.”

“You, too, Alexander.” John felt himself smile at the way his name rolled off his tongue, sweet and smooth like caramel.

He waved goodbye to him with a disappointed frown. His stomach dropped as he watched him walk away, then completely disappear into the crowd of bustling New Yorkers, eager to get home after a long day just like John was.

He wanted to smack himself.

He should’ve asked him on a date, or asked him for his number at least- because there was no way in hell that he would be able to find Alex again.

He didn’t have time to wallow in his own self pity, because he then saw the two sisters walking by his booth.

“Hey John! Get any more customers?” Peggy asked.

John nodded slowly, pulling the wrinkled twenty dollar bill out of his pocket and showing it to them.

“Twenty, huh? I guess today’s your lucky day.”

“I guess,” John mumbled, going to put the money back in his pocket. As he was doing so, he saw a small piece of paper fly out from in between the folds of the dollar, landing on the cement. He furrowed his eyebrows, bewildered, and bent over to pick up the piece of paper.

It was a sticky note, John had suddenly realized. He unfolded it reluctantly, unsure of why his heartbeat accelerated so much, only to see a set of digits- that he could tell were hastily scribbled down- next to a name.

“Alexander,” he whispered inaudibly, a wide smile growing on his face as he stared at the messily written numbers on the sticky note.

It was then that John concluded that maybe his job wasn’t as bad as he thought.

[lovemesomerafael]

Others Like Me                                      Chapter 1:  Abduction

Source:  @heybinary​

[Oh, shit.  I might be obsessed.  Again.  This is my first attempt at writing anything related to The Avengers, and I’m really only focused on Bucky and Steve.  Not sure what’s gonna happen here.  It’ll be full of swearing (helloooooo?  It’s me) and it’ll be smutty, but not sure yet who’s gonna be doing whom.  Stay tuned.   Right now, Bucky’s about to make a new friend.]

It’s a beautiful spring day when they come for Bucky.  It’s calm and sunny, just warm enough not to need a jacket, with the first promise of true summer on the breeze, and he’s walking around Brooklyn.  Just walking around, minding his own business, trying to pull memories out of the deepest recesses of his mind.  The places Hydra never touched.  

He stands outside a deli that he swears was there when he and Steve were kids and, judging from the age of the building and some of the fixtures, he could be right.  It’s the smell that holds the closest thing to a memory for him. So he’s just standing there, breathing it in and squinting a little behind his nano mask, trying to fill in the bare sketch that could be a memory, or might just be a fantasy.

When Bucky sees them coming for him, he knows they’re real enough, but he almost doesn’t believe what he’s seeing.  It’s the way they move.  It’s too synchronized.  It’s like they’re one person in many bodies – twelve or fourteen, he thinks – moving in absolute concert without a command or even much sound.  From every direction – including up – they converge on him and before he has time even to register a threat, it’s too late.  They just appear from doorways, dropping down from balconies where no one had been a split second before, and piling out of a dirty, beat-up panel truck so perfectly common he hadn’t even noticed it.  He feels a stupendously painful pinprick, and he’s out.  They bundle him into the truck.  The whole thing takes fifteen seconds and, of all the passersby on the street at that moment, not one is sure anything strange happened.

He comes to, and finds that he’s as trussed up as he’s ever been, and he’s been bound plenty of different ways in the course of his hideously eventful life.  These restraints are different.  They’re not the crude clamps used by Hydra back when he was first their prisoner, which relied on bulk for strength.  They’re not even the crazily redundant engineered system used on him in Berlin.  These are something he’s never seen before, something so advanced he thinks even Tony Stark would be impressed.  For one thing, they’re too light.  He knows before he tests them that they’ve got to be made of something immensely strong. Vibranium, maybe?  What he knows for sure is, he can’t get out, and the people around him in the plane know it.  He’s struggling against the bands holding his arms, legs, chest and abdomen, and they’re barely paying attention to him.

He wonders, irrelevantly, what happened to his nano mask.  It’s when he’s testing the restraints that he realizes he can’t move his left arm.  It’s just lying there, powerless, dead and useless.  How the fuck did they manage that?

They don’t even seem to care that he’s woken up, although he sees them notice.  It’s the same people  who captured him in Brooklyn; he remembers catching glimpses of most of them.  They’re obviously a team of some sort.  Soldiers, or operatives or something.  He guesses he’ll call them “agents,” for lack of a better word.  They’re not wearing street clothes now; all of them are wearing what looks like tactical gear, although they’re not wearing body armor at the present.  They’re speaking Russian, debriefing his capture.

A striking-looking woman with a lot of hair bound up in a tight knot at the back of her head is clearly the leader.  Bucky’s fascinated for a few minutes by the fact that, although most of her hair is dark brown, there’s a section on the right side that’s blonde.  He’s also fascinated because she seems to think the mission went badly, sloppily.  Which pisses him off, because they sure as shit took him without a fight.

“Where are you taking me?” Bucky decides to ask, because it’s kind of getting to him the way they’re pretending he’s not there.  He doesn’t like it at all.  It reminds him way too much of what it was like… before.  

A few of them look at him, but none of them answers or responds in any other way.  Until he hears sounds from behind him and a tall, fit, older man in the same type of tac gear as the rest of these people steps in front of him.  His hair is a very short, white cap and his skin is badly weatherbeaten, as though he’s seen a lot of time in the field.  Bucky thinks his head looks like a bullet, and immediately christens him Bullethead.  The guy has true believer written all over him, and Bucky notices he’s holding one of those fucking stun batons he learned to hate so much.  

No.  Please, no.  These people cannot be Hydra.  Hydra is dead.  It can’t be happening again.  He can’t be going back… there.  Bucky Barnes makes a decision right then and there.  He’s not going back to that.  He’ll die first.   Hopefully, he’ll get to take some of these motherfuckers with him.  He feels a tight, cold core of fear form in his stomach, and stuffs it away like he’s done a thousand times before.  That’s easy. He’s got a limitless vault inside him where he can stuff fear and pain, and get on with whatever he’s got to do.

It’s the other stuff that’s always been harder to ignore.  Stuff like guilt.  Steve’s gonna be insane with grief and fear when Bucky disappears without a trace.  And now there are more people who care about him, too.  People like Sam and Natasha, Clint and Bruce and Scott.  Even Tony tolerates him, although it's debatable whether Tony can be said to really like anyone other than Pepper.  He’s let them all down, and he knows that Steve will come looking for him.  Again. That’s a whole lot of distraction he can’t afford right now, and it’s a hell of a lot more difficult to stuff that mess into the vault and slam the door shut on it.

Bullethead, holding the stun baton in one hand and smacking it into another, speaks to him in German-accented English.  Of course, Bucky thinks.  Why’s the accent always gotta be German?  The dread boils inside Bucky’s chest and he stuffs that into the vault with the rancid memories that come flooding through him just hearing the guy’s voice.  

“It’s an honor to meet you, Sergeant.  I’ve been studying you for a long time.  The things you’ve accomplished…  I feel very fortunate to have the opportunity to work with you.”

“Can’t say I feel the same,” Bucky growls.  The leader of the team of agents flicks a look at him as he speaks.  There’s no expression on her face.  

“Do you need anything? A drink of water, perhaps?  Are you feeling all right?  The tranquilizer can make some people a little queasy, I’m told.” Bucky decides he really, really hates this guy.  The whole thing about being smugly courteous to a prisoner has never sat well with him.  He prefers being smacked around.  At least that’s honest.  He doesn’t bother answering, just closes his eyes and leans his head back.

“Very well.  We’ll let you sleep it off.  It’s a long flight.”

 They must drug him again, because the next thing Bucky knows, he’s waking up in a cell.  The walls are solid, riveted metal of some indefinable dark color, and the door is a grate of thick bars.  It’s so familiar he nearly vomits just from the hellish sense of déjà vu.  It’s not the same cell, not the same place as before.  But it’s close enough.  In fact, it’s so close he wonders if he’s back in Siberia.  He can feel the same dry cold, and smell the same musty scent.

He’s no longer bound. No need to be; he’s not getting out of this cell.  It’s made of whatever metal the restraints were made of, and his arm’s still as dead as it had been on the plane.  It feels unbelievably heavy.  He squeezes his eyes closed as tightly as he can and concentrates on his breathing. For a full five minutes, he forces all the chaotic, roiling emotions he can’t afford right now back into the vault in his mind, and seals the door tight.  

When he opens his eyes again, he realizes that the leader of the team of… agents who abducted him is standing inside his cell holding a tray of food.  He has no idea how she got there without him hearing her, but there she is. And the cell door is shut behind her. If nothing else, he has to admire her guts.  She’s wearing the same tac gear as she was on the plane, and he again notices her dark hair. It’s in a plain ponytail today, and it’s strangely thick and very long.  That blonde patch is cool, Bucky decides.  Half her bangs are blonde, and the blonde continues a ways toward her right ear.  He wonders if it’s natural.  There’s something odd about the idea of hired muscle worrying about her hair but, then again, he never met a dame who didn’t.  He christens her Blondie.

He nods to the tray.  “You really think I’m gonna eat that?”  He spits out, just to be difficult.

“I hope so,” Blondie says, in English, with an almost-perfect American accent.  There’s just a slight hint of something else, something Slavic, behind it.  She sets the tray down on a small folding table next to the cot he’s lying on.  As she does, she looks him straight in the eye. Her eyes are large and deep brown, and unlike when they were on the plane, there’s an expression in them now.  “We’ll both be glad you did.”

Bucky has no idea what that’s supposed to mean.  She stands up and takes a step back, looking to her side out the bars of the door.  There’s someone there, and she gives the slightest nod of her head and says, “Devyatnadsat.”

Huh? Nineteen what?  Bucky doesn’t get anything this chick has said so far, even though he’s understood every word.

A hulking blond guy with a military-looking haircut comes to the door and unlocks it, and Blondie turns her back on Bucky and walks out of the cell.  She’s obviously not too bright, turning her back on a prisoner like that. It’s been so long since Bucky’s met anyone who wasn’t afraid of him that it never occurs to him to think this woman might not be.  

“Eat.”  She says as the blond guy closes the cell door behind her. “Please.”

Bucky eats.  Because why the hell not?  Or maybe that’s his reason.  He really wonders what Blondie meant by “We’ll both be glad you did.”  It’s a little more difficult to eat when his left arm’s completely useless, but he manages.  He pays no attention to what the food is.  It’s fuel.  That’s all that matters.

There’s no way to know how long it is before they come to get him.  It could be one hour, it could be five or six.  There are no windows, nothing going on that he can see or hear, that might help Bucky measure the passage of time.  But if there’s one thing he learned in the Army, it’s how to wait. As he does, he reiterates to himself his determination that he will not go back to being the Winter Soldier.  If he has to die to escape that fate, that’s what he’s gonna do.  He sits up on the side of his cot and says a little prayer that God, and Steve, will forgive him.  But he’s pretty sure they’ll both understand.

It’s Blondie that leads a team of whatever-they-are to the door of his cell.  They’re all the same ones from Brooklyn, and wearing the same tac gear they had on when they were on the plane, only this time, they are wearing body armor.  They’re heavily armed, and they’re bristling with other weapons.  The blond guy unlocks the door of Bucky’s cell and, again, Blondie just walks in casually.  She does take the precaution of handing her weapon to another woman behind her, but she’s still got a massive sidearm, an automatic pistol strapped to her thigh, and three knives that he can see, not to mention some other things on her belt and in her armored vest that are undoubtedly weapons, too.  

Bucky thinks about it. Of course he thinks about it.  If she’s that dumb… but there are simply too many of them, and they’re just too heavily armed.  Anyway, if he’s going to take somebody out with him, he wants it to be more than just Blondie.  So when she takes a pair of combat boots from one of the others and kneels down to put them on him, he lets her.  With only one arm, he can’t do it.  

It’s then that Bucky realizes what he’s wearing.  The same black tac gear as the rest of these people.  Why the idea that somebody changed his clothes while he was unconscious bothers him more than anything else that’s happened so far, he doesn’t know.  But it does.

Blondie stands up when she finishes fastening the complicated buckles on his boots.  Bucky stands, too, and when she signals him to, he just turns around and lets her bind his wrists behind him with cuffs of the same material he was bound with on the plane.  There are ankle chains, too.  This is all so fucking familiar.  The helplessness.  The absolute lack of options.  It gets harder to ignore the terror.

They surround him – four in front, two on each side, and four in back - and walk him through what must be some kind of bunker, because there are no windows anywhere.  Everything’s metal, utilitarian, ugly.  Just like before.  Again, he notices the eerie synchronization in the way these people move. They walk in step, their strides all the same length.  They turn corners in formation.  If he didn’t want to kill them all so badly, he might find them graceful.  

But that’s the last remotely pleasant thought he has, because they come to a set of doors that looks way too fucking familiar.  Thick, metal doors with a small glass slit of a window in each.  There are armed guards in front of it, outfitted and armed exactly as his escorts are, and they pull the doors open without a word or signal that Bucky can see.  The escorts don’t break stride or slow in the slightest as they arrive at the now-open doors and walk into a large room where he notices several people and a bunch of what looks like… oh, shit…  oh fuck no…  

Bucky can’t help it. He stumbles and recoils in horror when he sees that same fucking chair with the same damn restraints and the same hellish apparatus behind and above it, like a massive mechanical halo with those things that clamp onto his head and…

Strong hands take Bucky’s arms and legs, and he’s lifted from the floor as if he weighs nothing and placed, quickly and efficiently, into the chair.  He tries to fight, but there are too many of them, and they all seem to be a strong as he is.  Besides which, he’s shackled.  Eight of the black-wearing agents hold him down while Blondie engages the restraints built into the chair.  One of the agents unfastens Bucky’s handcuffs once his upper arms are bound, and two others wrestle his forearms into cuffs in the chair’s arms.  The rest take positions around the room, all of them with weapons aimed at him.  

Even with all the thoughts wildly careening through his brain and the horror that has broken completely free of his control, even as he screams in defiance, Bucky has the presence of mind to realize that he is the only one making any noise.  From the time they appeared at his cell door to bring him to this torture chamber, no one has said a word.  Not one.  There have been no commands, no questions, nothing.  

Once he realizes he’s fully trapped, unable to escape no matter what he does, he stops wasting energy on shouting, even though the stream of profanity he’s been yelling helped with the panic.  He needs to focus.  He needs to figure out how to die before they use that accursed machine on him again. He can already feel the overwhelming agony that’s coming.  No. NO.  Anything, even death, but not that.

And then something utterly bewildering happens.  The rest of the team, or whatever they are, let go of Bucky now that he’s fully strapped into the chair, and back away.  As they do, Blondie leans over him, ostensibly to check a strap and, so close to him that only she and Bucky can see it, flicks something into her hand from underneath a wristband she’s wearing.  

“Say nothing,” he hears her mutter into his ear as she sticks whatever it is to the inside of Bucky’s left arm.  It’s tiny and apparently strongly magnetic, because he can feel it latch onto his arm.  And when he does, he feels his arm come to life.  

As she backs away slightly, she again makes full eye contact and pulls at other restraints as if to check them, too.  “Watch. Be ready.”

It’s so quiet he can’t be sure he heard her, and her lips don’t move as she says it, but there’s no mistaking the eye contact.  

What.  The.  Fuck.

He doesn’t move his hand or his arm.  Mostly because he’s so stunned.

“Vocem’!”  A man with a hideous scar where one eye and cheek should be barks at Blondie.  She steps back from Bucky and goes rigid.  Her eyes go blank.  “What did you say to him?”

She looks toward the others in the room, away from Bucky.  “To whom, Sir?”

“To him!”  The man’s harsh, guttural Russian only accents the hate in his voice.  He’s already pulling one of those damn stun batons from a loop on his belt.  

Blondie blinks and fights not to let amusement show on her face.  

“To… to him?”  She asks, indicating Bucky, as though it’s the most ridiculous thing the man could possibly have suggested.  “To the… cyborg murder-bot?”  

One of her team members, standing very near the scarred man, cracks a grin.  It’s the most emotion Bucky’s seen on any of their faces.  The guy nods to the scarred man.  

“Good one, Sir.”

And several of the others in the room laugh a little.  Bucky notices that, in addition to the armed team, there are men and women in uniforms who, to Bucky’s trained eye, are clearly higher-ups.  He sees, with a roll of nausea, that they are, indeed, wearing the skull and tentacles symbol of Hydra.  Bloody hell!  How the fuck many times do they have to kill these assholes?  Why doesn’t Hydra fucking die already?  

There are also a number of men wearing lab coats.  Some of them are fiddling with dials and pushing buttons on the banks of electronic gizmos lining the walls, others are just standing, watching him as if he’s some particularly fascinating lab specimen.

That’s when Bullethead, the guy from the plane, comes from behind the chair to face Bucky.  “Sergeant, welcome back.  It’s very gratifying to be a part of helping you to return to your previous extraordinary level of functioning.  I look forward to seeing Hydra’s most legendary asset in action.  You are the model on which we’ve built these troops,” he indicates the team of armed agents scattered around the room with their weapons trained on him.  Bucky notices that even the ones who strapped him into this chair are now aiming weapons at him.  There’s something really odd about their positioning, though.  They’re everywhere in the room.  Why aren’t they all equidistant, making a perimeter around him? He doesn’t get much of a chance to consider that, because Bullethead’s not done speechifying.

“Of course, they have nothing like your ability to function as a one-man strike force, but Hydra has decided that is as it should be.  After all, those with your skills have proven much more difficult to control than this… livestock.  But they are useful in their own way, if only as a unit.”

There is no flicker of emotion on the faces of any of those the man’s just described as “livestock.”  Jeez, Bucky thinks maybe he should be flattered.  At least they’d called him a weapon.  

The man goes on and on, pacing a little in front of Bucky as he warms to his sermon about the re-emergence of Hydra, so long in the making, and how he, The Asset, as they like to refer to him, will be integral to bringing it about.  Bucky’s not listening.  He’s too busy choking down bile and trying not to scream.  

Blondie sniffs.  Just once, and very quietly, but it seems odd in the circumstances, and Bucky automatically looks at her, standing behind the preaching jagoff who’s still spouting off about the new Hydra.  She moves the barrel of her weapon the tiniest fraction to the right.  It’s a slight movement, but Bucky’s a sniper, and he sees immediately that she’s no longer aiming at him.  She’s still looking at Bucky, but she’s now aiming at the man in front of him.  Bucky swears she nods imperceptibly at him before sweeping the room with her eyes.  

Bucky does the same.  No one is aiming at him anymore.

And then she makes two short, soft whistling sounds.  Immediately, Bucky hears every one of the armed agents in the room fire their weapon twice, but the only reason he knows it’s multiple weapons is the volume of the sound.  The shots are in absolute, perfect synchronization.    

Almost before Bullethead falls dead at Bucky’s feet, Blondie hands her weapon to another agent beside her and steps over Bullethead’s body to Bucky.  She begins unfastening the restraints holding him in the chair.

“Thirty-two, make sure they’re all dead,” the woman orders, still speaking Russian. The entire squad begins to move with a purpose, each one clearly well aware of his or her assigned task.  

This is crazy.  One second he’s surrounded by mad scientists and Hydra brass, the next every one of them’s been double-tapped and the same babe who strapped him into the chair is now getting him out of it.  Bucky feels like he’s in the hall of mirrors at Coney Island and all he can think of to say to the woman is, “Cyborg murder-bot?”

She kneels in front of him, taking a key from her armored vest.  As she unlatches his ankle chains, she looks at him with a wide-eyed, open gaze.  In English, she says, “You better be.  Otherwise, we’re not getting out of here.”

Once again, Bucky understands her words but has no idea what they mean.

“What the hell is going on?”  He demands. Bucky’s completely free of restraints now, but he doesn’t get up from the chair.  He stays perched on the edge.  

“What would it take to get you to trust me?”  The woman asks.

“A miracle, and about a thousand years,” Bucky answers.

“We have three-point-eight minutes.”

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”

The woman turns to her left just as another agent tosses an armored vest to her, which she hands to Bucky.  “Put this on.”  She doesn’t have to ask that twice.

While he’s strapping the vest on, her teammate tosses Blondie a weapon like the ones the agents are carrying.  “You know how to use one of these?”  She asks, holding it out to Bucky when his vest is secure.

Bucky gives her a look that he hopes conveys his disdain at such an asinine question, and takes the weapon.  She grins a little and holds up her hands as if in surrender, mocking him back.  

“Are you… You don’t actually think I’m gonna lead you all out of here like Moses to the Promised Land, do you?”  Bucky asks, incredulously.

In another situation, the offended look on her face would be funny.  “I will lead my squad,” she says imperiously. “No one’s asking…”  Her expression changes again, this time to one of confusion. “You do understand that we’re rescuing you?”

“Yeah, you don’t get a whole hell of a lot of credit for that seein’ as you’re the ones who brought me here in the first place.”  

She gets up and takes her own weapon back from the woman she’d handed it to.  “Now we’re getting you out.  Let’s go.”

Bucky stands then and slings the strap of the weapon over his shoulder.  “Thanks for the help, Doll, but I’ll make my own way from here.”  He begins to cross the room to the door through which they’d entered.  

“Really.” He hears the woman say from behind him, all attitude now.  “You got a plan for getting out of here?  Because I do.”

Bucky turns around.  

“A route, accomplices, staged weapons, supplies and transportation once we’re clear of the bunker.  You got any of that?”

“This was kind of a last-minute trip,” he shrugs.

“I see. Well, just so you know, genius, that door you were about to go through leads you to a nest of guards we didn’t kill.  You might want to at least use the door we’re using.”

“Fine,” Bucky bites off and crosses back toward her, then follows her to a door on the other side of the room.  They join three other members of the squad and begin making their way carefully and quietly down a dimly-lit hallway.  

It’s way too easy, and Bucky’s pretty sure this is all an elaborate trick of some kind. He feels completely unhinged, and he doesn’t trust these people in the slightest.  Plus, they’re dumb.  They’ve got him at the back of the line, with no one covering him.  Which is why he slips down a hallway without a sound and hopes like hell he’s far away before they notice.  

He needs to think, and find a way to get his bearings.  It occurs to him that maybe the best thing to do is get out of sight and hope there’s a ventilation system with shafts big enough for him to crawl through.  He’s not small.  That’s a pretty tall order.  But desperate times…

He finds a door that’s slightly ajar and whips into the room, surprising a guy sitting at a desk.  The guy’s dead before he even looks up at the noise.  Closing the door, Bucky scans the room.  He swears viciously when he finds a tiny ventilation grate on one wall.  So much for that idea.  Next, he rifles the desk to see if he can find some kind of map of this place.  No such luck. He’s going to have to try the hallway again.  Striding toward the door, he sees that there’s a little sign on the back of the door with the fire evacuation route marked on it.  Bucky actually smiles.  God bless bureaucrats.

Back in the hallway, he flattens himself against one wall and makes his way along the route the sign indicated.  He makes it halfway before three people in uniforms emerge into the hallway in front of him.  He takes them out easily, but it makes a lot of noise.  Damn.  He doubles his speed and comes to the T-intersection where he needs to go left.  Except Bucky has the bad luck to peek around the corner just as a guy in an officer’s uniform is striding purposefully right toward him. The guy opens his mouth to shout and, at that moment, a small red dot appears in his forehead, just above his right eye, and he crumples.  Bucky whips around to see Blondie standing halfway out of a doorway, her weapon still aimed at the officer.  

“They said you were smart,” she mutters quietly, and jerks her head toward the doorway she’s in.  Bucky shakes his head and runs down the hall to follow her.  When he gets to the room, he sees it’s some kind of equipment room, and she’s climbing a metal ladder to a hatch in the ceiling.   He slings his weapon to his back and follows her up.  What the hell.  If she’s playing him, he’ll just kill her.  

It’s a long, straight shaft that goes God knows where, and Bucky’s very surprised to see that he and Blondie are the only ones in it.  He has no idea where the rest of the squad is now.  They climb up what must be four or five floors until, at last, they come to the top.  The ladder ends in front of a metal doorway with no hinges or handle on this side.  Blondy waits until Bucky is just beneath her on the ladder, then knocks softly on the door in a definite pattern.

The door’s instantly opened by a woman Bucky recognizes from Brooklyn, one of the ones who dropped onto the street from a balcony, he thinks.  He’s surprised to see that they’re outside now.  It’s nighttime, it’s freezing, and there’s a foot or so of snow on the ground.  Yep. Siberia.  The shaft they’ve just climbed is the only part of the bunker above ground.  From outside, it just looks like a small utility shed within a large complex of buildings. Bucky has no idea what the other buildings are for, but most are big and have very few, if any, windows.  They’re all made of concrete blocks.  

Again, neither woman says a word or makes a signal.  The one who opened the door silently hands Blondie and Bucky white coveralls, which Blondie immediately begins to put on, so Bucky does, too.  When they’re zipped into the coveralls, the woman hands them fresh weapons, and also gives Blondie a small package which she tucks into a pouch on her armored vest. With that, the other woman goes in the metal door.  Bucky sees her begin to descend the ladder as Blondie closes the door and engages the latch.  

“Low and fast,” Blondie says to Bucky.  She shoulders her weapon and, at a crouch, begins to sprint across the area between the door they’ve just exited and a long, low building fifty yards away. He follows, the heavy snow pulling at his legs.  The white coveralls will make them harder to see in the snow, but the second they begin to run, shouting and gunfire erupt from somewhere behind them.  Blondie and Bucky both aim and fire blindly behind them, not hoping to hit anything, just trying to make the assholes shooting at them knock it off and take cover.  

It doesn’t work very well, but they make it to the other building where, just as they arrive at a man-sized door within a larger roll-up door, another of Blondie’s squad opens the door and they rush in.  Several bullets hit the door as it closes behind them.  

This building is some kind of garage.  Blondie keeps running across the floor toward a group of vehicles, flinging both of her larger weapons to the floor as she does.  “Get rid of those,” she calls behind her to Bucky, so he tosses his away, too.  He’s let the second one fall before it occurs to him that she still has several guns and knives and probably other weapons, but now he’s unarmed again.  Smooth, Barnes.  Well, if he has to relieve her of some or all of her weapons, he will.

They’re running between the vehicles when a deafening alarm goes off, and the whole garage lights up like mid-day.  Bucky squints but neither of them slow.  Blondie approaches a long, black SUV but he’s shocked to see that, rather than climb in, she drops to her belly and slithers underneath it.  

“C’mon, Sergeant,” she hisses, and he rolls his eyes and drops to the floor, too. Blondie’s now squeezing into a shallow box of sorts built into the underside of the SUV.  Bucky sees that there’s a part of the exhaust system that’s separated from the rest, hanging down on hinges.  He just has time to admire the cleverness as she urges him silently with hand gestures to hurry and slide in beside her.  He does, and doesn’t need to be told to pull up the hinged section of the vehicle’s undercarriage and secure the latch he sees on the inside.

It’s pitch black in the cramped space, but at least the alarm is quieter from in here. Bucky’s pressed up against Blondie and they’re both panting from exertion.

“What now?”  He asks in a whisper.

“Catch your breath and stay quiet.”

Within a very short time, there’s yelling and the sound of running feet outside, and the SUV starts up.  Bucky can feel the vehicle begin to move, and he spends the next half-hour in a very tiny space with a woman who has abducted him, put boots on him, frog-marched him into a torture chamber, insulted him several times, and is now helping him to escape.  He doesn’t even know her name.

“Hey,” he says in a low voice that can barely be heard over the engine and road noise. “What’s your name?”

“Tishina,” she hisses angrily.  She’s not telling him her name.  She’s telling him, in Russian, to shut the fuck up.

The SUV stops several times, and there are tense, shouted exchanges in Russian at each stop.  Each conversation is about the search for Bucky and, he guesses, the team of rogue soldiers, because they keep talking about “Trup vocem’” – Troop Eight.  

After the fifth or sixth stop, Bucky feels the SUV cross onto a gravel road. He feels Blondie tense, and she leans toward him and whispers into his ear.  “This is the tricky part.”

Bucky wants to make a crack about that – which parts of this haven’t been tricky? But he has a sinking feeling he’s not going to like what comes next.  

“Unlatch that panel again, but don’t let it drag on the road.”

He does as he’s told, hoping like hell she’s not about to say what he’s afraid she is.

“When I say so, let go of the panel, and slide out as fast as you can.  Try not to get run over.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Ten seconds,” she replies calmly.  

It’s both the shortest and the longest ten seconds of Bucky Barnes’s life.  

“Now!” Blondie hisses and, for good measure, gives Bucky a healthy shove onto the panel he’s holding up.  It falls to the road under his weight, with him on top of it.  He swears mightily – but quietly – as he slides to a painful, scraped-up stop on the gravel road.  The small amount of snow in the gravel probably helped him slide further to dissipate his speed more smoothly, but not nearly enough.

He looks up in time to see Blondie fall to the road from the bottom of the SUV, sliding and only missing being run over by the thinnest possible margin.  Snow flies up around her as she slides and , when she comes to a stop, she wastes no time getting to her feet and running to the side of the road, where she throws herself into a shallow ditch.  Bucky gets up and does the same, then crawls through the snow up the ditch until he gets to her.

“You OK?” He asks, wiping a hand across his cheek where he is sure he’ll have gravel embedded for the rest of his life – however long that might be.

She looks at him strangely and turns to the side of the ditch away from the road. He hasn’t really had time to wonder where they are, or how she knew when to bail out of the SUV, but when he looks up, he sees that she clearly knew what she was doing, because they’re at the side of a small airfield.  The SUV they were in has now turned onto a short road leading to a series of hangars and outbuildings.  In the middle is a small, two-story building with more windows than the others, which looks like it houses offices.

“You can fly a jet, yes?”  Blondie asks, not sounding confident.

“Which one?”  Bucky asks, seeing that there are a few different types on the tarmac, some of which he can probably fly.  Probably. It’s been a while.

“That one.”  She points and Bucky relaxes.  A little.

He’s not nearly as confident as he sounds when he says, “Yeah.  I can fly that.”  

Bucky turns to Blondie.  “I have no idea why the hell any of this happened, but thanks for getting me out.  What are you gonna do now?”

“I’m coming with you.”  

“You’re… But…”  Bucky sputters, finally resolving on a simple, “Huh?”

“It’s complicated, Sergeant, and we have a long flight ahead of us.  I’ll explain once we’re in the air.”

“But what will you-“

“Sergeant.  Focus. We need to go.”

“Fine. I’ll take you with me.  On one condition.”

She looks at him expectantly.

“Tell me your name.”

She hesitates just a beat.  “Eight.”

“Huh?”

“I am Troop Eight.”

“That’s not a name.”

The look that flashes across her face makes him wish, fervently, that he hadn’t said that.

“No. It isn’t.  But it’s all I have.  Can we go now?”

Bucky wants very much to apologize.  He spent a very long time not knowing his own name.  Being referred to as “The Asset” or “Soldat,” with no idea that he should even have a name.  He, of all people, gets why she’s looking at him like that.  But it’s way too much to get into right now.

The jet’s not that far away, maybe half a mile, but it takes over an hour to get there. First, they have to low-crawl their way through the snow to a chain-link fence, and then they have to cut through that fence.  That’s when they ditch the white coveralls, which helped hide them in the snow, but will make them more visible as they run from object to object to hide in the shadows from the bright light spilling over the tarmac.  Finally, scraped up, cold, and tired, they make it to the shadowed side of the jet.  Bucky boosts Eight up to unlatch the cockpit entrance and roll in, then she reaches down and pulls him up as he scrambles after her.  He’s stunned at how strong she is.  

Once they make it into the cockpit of the jet undetected, they take a few minutes to simply rest and catch their breath.  They can’t take off yet, anyway.  Eight tells Bucky they’re waiting for a signal.  Members of her squad are going to have to incapacitate the skeleton crew manning the airfield, or their flight will be disappointingly short.

“So what’s the signal?”

At that moment, half the little office building explodes.  

“That.”

“Subtle,” Bucky grins as they strap themselves in.  He begins flipping switches and says a little prayer that flying a jet is like riding a bike.  

Whether it is or not, there are suddenly a small group of people running out of the burning building, shooting wildly at the plane that’s just roared to life on the tarmac.  Bucky wastes no time getting them off the ground.

“Where are we going?”  He asks once they’re airborne and out of danger.

“You tell me.  This is as far as the escape plan goes.  From now on, I’m following you.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

[cuorepietoso]

Things you said that I wish you hadn’t

requested by @katarinadvpont    /    ft. Alessio Rossi

     I. 2010.

     The cot they’re settled on isn’t really built to hold two people. Alessio Rossi seems unconcerned by this fact, picking away at his guitar almost absently, the occasional hum escaping him. Tahan is flat on his back, booted feet hanging over the edge, the top of his head just brushing the other man’s hip. Flipping through sketches he’d finished-- some of them are of Alia, whom he hasn’t seen in three years. Some of them are of Rossi, some of Bianchi and his wife, some of strangers, some are intricate designs he’s copied down from murals he’s seen, some are occasional jotted notes. Coordinates. Times. Locations. His entire life of late in snapshots and sketches. 

     Rossi strums one more note on the guitar, and then cuts it short, putting his hand over the strings to still them. The silence seems to ring in Tahan’s ears, the quiet air of their shared space almost oppressive. Tahan waits, because he knows Rossi has something to say, probably something that’s been eating at him for hours or even days. He closes his sketchbook and settles it on his chest, staring at Rossi’s elbow until he twists around to look him in the face. 

     “Do you ever--” He cuts himself off, brows furrowed. Tahan watches him quietly, unused to the younger man’s tentative approach. They’ve known each other for a few months. It feels like years. “Do you ever miss your parents?”

     Tahan’s face flickers for a moment, a quiet longing shifting into subtle surprise. “Mine are both dead.” Long dead, a little over five years. Buried in Verona, in a cramped cemetery. Tahan hasn’t been back since he left. 

     “I know. That’s not what I asked.” Rossi settles his long fingers against Tahan’s cheek, covering one eye, his touch feather-light before he pulls his hand away once more. “Do you miss them?”

     His first instinct is to tell the kid to kiss his ass, to snap at him for asking him something personal. Then to dodge around, make a joke, ask him about his own family. But he looks almost frail in the light from the halogen lantern, and the wind is loud outside like it seeks to rip everything that they are apart, and Tahan knows that he’s afraid of something-- he can only hope it isn’t him. 

     “Yeah, I guess I do.” Rossi’s fingers dancing delicately over his brow bone reminds him a little bit of his mom, at least. How she’d always been quick to touch his face, pull him close, shower him in love. The kind of easy affection that’s been missing from his life for years, something he didn’t know he could miss at all until he was completely bereft of it. And he misses his father’s cooking, he supposes, especially compared to MREs and mess hall chow. And the big belly laugh he would let out every time Tahan proved himself to have a troublesome streak. The pride they felt watching him grow. 

     Sometimes it feels like that’s all he can remember of them. Then the darkness creeps back in-- his father’s body on the cold metal slab in the morgue, mutilated and unrecognizable. His mother, listless and silenced, wasting away in a chair by the window no matter how much he begged her to come back. “They were nice people.”

     Rossi sighs heavily out his nose, his brows relaxing. “I know that, darling. They raised you, didn’t they?” He hits him gently on the cheek when Tahan snorts in response. “I’m asking because-- well, I miss my mother. And my siblings.” He seems almost ashamed to admit it, but Tahan is distracted by the way his finger feels trailing along the shell of his ear. 

     “You have seven of them, don’t you?” He hums in agreement, and Tahan tries to picture him then, at five, at ten, at fifteen, the oldest of eight, trying to herd all of his siblings and helping his mother cook and learning to tell stories-- it’s shockingly easy. He wonders what Rossi can imagine of him, if it’s even half as flattering and idyllic.

     “You should come with me to Taranto, next time we have leave together.” The invite is a little unexpected, if only because usually the only time anybody wants their family to meet someone from their special forces unit is when they want to scare the shit out of them, and Tahan makes a doubtful noise in the back of his throat. Rossi laughs, muffles it in the back of his hand. “No, I’m serious. My mother would love you. My brothers probably would not, but they have bad taste.” 

     “Oh, and you don’t?” The wisecrack comes naturally to him, an easy banter turned into something familiar once more. Rossi doesn’t bother to muffle his laugh this time, and it shatters the almost uncomfortable stillness in the air between them with ease.

     “Fine, fine. I’ll take that. My taste is terrible, but you should still come with me.” He shakes his head and pats Tahan on the chest, the palm of his hand hot, and the chains of his dog tags clink loudly. “Think about it: a home cooked meal, a chaotic house. I could show you the city-- and we could go cliff diving.” 

     “Cliff diving.” The flatness of his voice does little to convey the breadth of his skepticism at the thought. He blinks up at Rossi, the white teeth settled in his warm smile. “Bene-- Taranto is hardly even a town, to me. Bet you could take me on a tour of it in less than an hour, the way you drive.” 

     Rossi shoves at his shoulder with mock-offense, and it’s Tahan’s turn to laugh this time, something that rolls out of him easily. It eases a line of tension in Rossi’s shoulders that he hadn’t even noticed was there. “Yes, yes, fine. It’s a small town, and the way I drive I could show it to you in twenty minutes. And the cliffs aren’t that high. An easy way for you to impress the girls, no?” 

     “Eh? I thought the only girls I was supposed to be impressing while I was there were your mother and your sisters--” he’s cut off when Rossi rolls him off the cot with an outraged yell, following him to the floor to try and playfully strangle him, his thighs on either side of Tahan’s hips. They wrestle and bicker like boys until the Sergeant comes by and yells at them to go the fuck to sleep. 

     II. 2015.

     Rossi looks gaunt in the watery sunlight of the early morning, the cloud cover leaving everything washed out and colorless. He’s clutching an arm full of manila folders, his eyes are too wide in his face, and he’s just a little too thin-- too many hours spent digging, not enough eating or sleeping. Tahan imagines the same could be said of him, though he’s mostly been doing legwork, running the occasional errand for Rossi and working double time to keep the others from getting suspicious of them. 

     Most of his sleeplessness came from the flashes of a little pink coat and a growing red stain. Even now he finds the memory hard to shake. 

     Tahan finishes off his cigarette and turns to face him, throwing it into the rocky dirt at their feet and grinding the cherry out with the toe of his boot, blowing smoke off to the side. He watches him carefully for a moment. “Is that all of it?”

          Rossi nods.

     “You know, they might not do anything about this. Or they could kill us.” The reminder is half-hearted. Tahan had already said his piece. 

     Rossi nods again, shifting his grip on the papers. His fingers are steady, not a sign of trembling. Nerves of steel, all wrapped up in silk. 

     “Is it worth it?” He already knows what the kid is going to say, but he thinks maybe he needs the reassurance himself. That they’re doing the brave thing. The right thing. The thing to be proud of.

     Pale brown eyes lock with his own, turned molten gold by the rising sun. Fire burns in them, and in his bleeding fucking heart, willing to die to get it right. The next words out of his mouth will haunt Tahan and his dreams for the rest of his life, the rawness of his voice, how steady it is despite how obviously he’d been crying on and off all night. “It’s always worth it,” he says, like it’s that easy. 

     Maybe for him, it is that easy. Maybe for him, the bravery and the kindness comes naturally. Tahan nods, and holds out his hands for the papers. “Alright then. I’ll go in first. No reason to get you into any trouble, right? If things go to shit for me, I need to know you’ve got my back.”

     Rossi hands the stack over and claps him over the shoulder, a weak smile flickering on and then off his face. “I always will.”