#to make matters worse when i gave them the letter they said 'our other services are slow but we are still really quick with prescriptions'

[pochapal]

girl who is not going to be okay (i need to phone the gp to chase up a missing prescription)

[hellbentrapture]

Gone

I did not think my first eulogy would be for my best friend. I did not think we would not grow old together, geriatrics doing movie nights. I did not think I would not always be cooking and sharing meals with him, so candid and excited about each one. I did not think he would let go. I did not think he would not be there. Ever. Again.

CW/TW: suicide, grief, loss, depression, mental illness, abusive and manipulative family, funeral arrangements, C-PTSD/PTSD, OCD.

My best friend committed suicide on February the 7th of this year (2024), I learned about it on the 10th after myself and my other best friend filed a missing persons report for him on the 9th. He had been struggling only a few days prior with an episode that involved C-PTSD and a flashback - I cannot divulge more than this, only that it was so complicated and there is so much more to it. He did go to the hospital, on Sunday the 4th. He did spend the night. He went home Monday the 5th.

Myself, he, and my other best friend had a group call. We talked for awhile and he was genuinely hopeful for the future. He had plans, he was talking to people, he was reaching out.

Wednesday the 7th was the last time anyone heard from him - it was me and my other best friend, at 10am. We were told he likely died around 4:30pm/5pm. A matter of hours, lessened when you account for him writing the letter and travelling. We were informed it was a train. I will never look at trains the same ever again, I do not know when I will be able to truly look at them yet...

The space between the 7th and the 10th is because he was unidentified, and was only discovered and connections made because I insisted we check on him. I insisted we make calls on Friday, we go to his apartment, we involve local health, we involve the police. Had we not filed that missings, who knows how long it would have been.

Worse yet, his abusive and estranged mother is his legal next of kin. So she gets to make all the calls on his arrangements and care. He had technically cut off his sister 8 months ago, but she is our only ally and is the far far lesser of the two evils. Working with her has not been as bad as it could be - without her, my other best friend and I would have no power nor legal recourse anywhere.

Before his mother intervened, we had picked a lovely funeral home to have him cremated at, that even said they could arrange a viewing for us. Instead, he will be going to literally the cheapest crematorium in the city (that actually advertises as such) and does not do viewings. His mother has been withholding what belongings she has gotten and has threatened to withhold all of his ashes if his sister does not see her for them. His mother, and her partner, have also threatened to keep the ashes out of spite. Luckily, the crematorium has promised us half the ashes that we can pick up separately.

I am trying not to fret that She will intervene once more...

I have not been fully processing or feeling it all yet - I don't think I will be able to until we are done planning the official service (that anyone who knew him is welcome to) and the wake (the tight circle). So a big part of me feels like I am in wait mode still.

But I do feel it every now and then, the deep cavernous sadness. The utter despair. The loss. The denial. The anger. Grief. More grief.

I loved him so very much. We were two struggling souls caught in a ruthless and relentless storm, gripping each other's hands, terrified but knowing we could make it together. I had so many visions of my future, and he was always going to be there with us.

In the end, as he told me in his letter, it was the OCD. I am angry that he gave into the impulse to find only the worst stories of OCD, where he believes those to be the all. I am deeply hurt, wishing I had known it felt so bad for him. And I am mortally terrified, for I did not know OCD could take you down like that - and I have OCD.

And you know what this all needs? Therapy. Do you know what I cannot access? Therapy.

I am so lucky and thankful for the Tight Circle I still have, we are supporting each other so much right now and I am so glad for it. I know I have others. I know this awful, awful pain will pass eventually, with time.

Time...

[x0401x]

Violet Evergarden Movie Summary

The initial plan was to make this a short bullet-point thing, but I felt like there was too much to clarify and I had no choice but use novel references to explain certain parts, so I decided to just write a normal summary. Many thanks before-hand to my friend Yuuki, who gave me all this info.

Apologies for taking relatively long with this thing. Not even I expected that I would end up writing this much. Buckle up for the ride, ‘cause it won’t be fun.

Nope, not kidding. It really won’t.

First thing I need to make clear is: this movie is one and a half hour long and divided into three parts and two different timelines: the times when Violet existed and the times after she dies. Already in the beginning of the movie, Violet is dead.

Yes, you read this right. She’s dead.

Now, I don’t mean that she’s dead in the literal sense. This is 60 years in the future. She might be alive or not, but it’s never said. However, the timeline of 60 years later is considered an era without Violet, apparently because she has retired and her “legend” is over, so to say. It’s also a time where Auto-Memories Dolls don’t exist. That’s one good punch in the face. Let’s keep counting.

The movie is sort of like a tale being read by someone else, which at some point goes into Violet’s first-person POV. The whole thing is kind of a look back on Violet’s life tragectory and how it took a new turn when she decided to continue looking for Gil despite all the mess of the TV series.

The era where Violet exists is an era where telephones are being introduced to the people, so Auto-Memories Dolls are starting to become unnecessary. I would argue that the creation of the telephone isn’t enough for an entire occupation to start disappearing so quickly, since new inventions are normally extremely expensive and not everyone has access to them (or even knows about their existence) so immediately after their conception. Realistically speaking, ghostwriters would still be important as long as there were still so many people unable to buy phones. Not to mention that this is a steampunk world where compulsory education doesn’t seem to be a thing yet, so even in the off chance that everybody can buy a phone, there would still be a lot of people who can’t read or write on their own. But all of this clearly went over the animators’ heads, so not only ghostwriters but also the mail business in general are nearing their doom in the movie.

The one looking back on Violet’s life was Ann, who was telling it all to her granddaughter, Daisy (who, by the way, is voiced by Morohoshi Sumire, the same girl who voiced the seven-year-old Ann). Ann had kept all the letters that Violet ghostwrote for her mother, as well as the newspapers about the CH Postal Company. Looks like the article was printed after Violet left CH, since she isn’t in the picture with everyone else.

In this era, CH’s main office has been turned into a museum. Nerine is shown working in it. Of course, she’s a grandma by then. Speaking of the CH personnel, Erica also quit being an Auto-Memories Doll and became a playwright like Oscar. She appears in the newspaper, though, so she probably a while left after Violet did. Taylor also appears there.

Back to Daisy, she was writing a letter to her parents, in order to learn how to properly convey feelings with written word. The message of this scene seems to be that, no matter the tools, what’s important is that we convey our feelings to the people we love.

As we see in the trailer, Gil’s mom has passed and Violet runs into Dietfried when visiting her grave on the anniversary of her death. To anyone who is wondering: yeah, Gil never went to see his mother and she died thinking that he was dead.

Nobody knew that Gil was alive. Not his mother, not Dietfried, not the Evergardens and not even Hodgins. No one.

Here’s what happened to Gil in the anime: he survived the incident at Intense, of course, but got separated from Violet in that explosion. His tag miraculously stayed on the same spot, though, as we saw in the TV series. Now, since this isn’t explained in the anime at all, I have to make it clear: the tag is that necklace the soldiers wear. It contains their names and ranks, so that their bodies can be identified even when they’re irrecognizable. Without the tag, the people who rescued Gil had no idea who he was, so he was sent to a different place to get treated. He ended up at a monastery hospital instead of the one in Enchaîné. I would debate that his uniform alone is enough to identify him as someone from the Leidenschaftlich Army, or maybe they could’ve just asked him which troop he belonged to after he woke up and relocated him to where his fellow men were, but who even cares about all these plot holes anymore? Definitely not me.

Anyway. After Gil was discharged, he ran the fuck away. Like, literally.

If anyone out there was hoping that Gil would finally have his moment to shine as the self-sacrificing, thoughtful and ridiculously kindhearted character that he is in the novel, I have bad news for you. What we had here was even worse than it being Gil’s excuse movie. It’s like the whole thing was made to drag his character so deep through the mud that he’ll never be able to get up again. There’s pretty much nothing in this one and a half hour that actually justifies what he did to Violet. I’ll elaborate on this as we go on.

Anime!Gil became a nomad and went traveling. He offed his ass to the island where that lighthouse displayed in the most recent official art is located (that’s why Gil and Violet were at the beach on the movie poster). He doesn’t have a prosthetic in the anime because, apparently, he was more worried about disappearing as fast as possible to somewhere he would never be found, and never attempted to contact anybody. So nobody knew that he was alive, hence the grave, which, as we feared, was not a fake one. His family really did think he had died.

This is a point that I have already addressed before, but that also means Gil really did abandon Violet to luck. If anything dangerous ever happened to her (as it did, and it was always very obviously likely to happen, since she was the southern army’s most outstanding soldier and quite literally fled from the military), he wouldn’t even know. If word ever got to him, it would probably be too late. And even if it weren’t, he wouldn’t be able to do anything to help her. More than allowing her to live freely, it felt like he was running away from his responsibilities regarding Violet.

Punch on the face count is currently at six.

By sheer coincidence, Violet learns that Gil is living in that island. She goes to see him and Hodgins goes with her after trying to stop her at first. When Gil finds out that they came to see him, he outright refuses to meet them. It pretty much takes the near entirety of the goddamn movie for them to see each other face-to-face. I say face-to-face because all of the following shit happens:

Hodgins goes to talk to Gil. It lasts about 20 minutes.

Gil talks to Violet from behind a door. This one is about 10 minutes.

Dietfried also comes to the island to talk to him. Also about 10 minutes.

At long fucking last, Gil goes to see Violet. But that, too, is only for about 10 minutes.

Hodgins gives him a speech very similar to what happens in chapter 8. Now get ready to fall back from your seats: Dietfried basically goes there to tell Gil that he won’t run away from taking over the family anymore, so Gil can live freely. Yes, Dietfried is officially a better Gilbert than Gilbert himself. I crave death.

So, after much ado, they come to a conclusion: Gil will stay in the island. In order to completely free himself of the shackles of his bloodline, he stays behind, living the way he wants to. ‘Cause all anime!Gil wants is to rot away alone by the sea, apparently. Now prepare yourselves, for it gets worse. Ready?

Violet stays with him in the motherfucking island.

That’s right, ladies and gents. Another fear became true. She quits her job at the CH Postal Company and goes to live with him. Well, at least, not as a housewife. She starts working with mail services in the island, and Gil helps her with it. Her life goes on like this and she dies in the island as well.

This is where the timeline after Violet passes away comes into light, parallel to the era when Violet was alive. Daisy talks about what happened after Violet left CH, as if it were a tale from the distant past.

That’s it.

The movie paints this as a happy ending. I can hardly see it as one. I know it almost looks like everything was solved, but it just got swept under the rug.

The main point that makes me sad in this ending is that Violet’s character development did a 360 degree flip. In the end, she threw everything to the air and went to live in someone who she always put before everyone else, even herself, but who didn’t do the same for her (in the anime). She’s gone to a crammed little island, where she led an uneventful life away from everyone and everything that’s ever had a positive impact on her. All she has is Gil.

Of course, he’s all she needs, but he isn’t all she should have, and that was the entire point of pushing her to go live on her own. Which is exactly what she earns in the novel: two loving parents, a father figure, a brother figure, a best friend and several other friends and acquaintances whom she formed a bond with. She has all she needs, so she doesn’t have to cling to Gil for any reason. There’s no emotional dependance on him anymore. She doesn’t need him to be whole. She just wants him because he happens to be the best person she’s ever met.

Anime!Violet is most definitely not whole. She almost got there, but then she backtracked completely. And anime!Gil... in my friend’s words, is a weakling. There’s nothing in him actually worth all this undying blind love. Sure, he’s full of regret and shit, but it’s too easy to only act upon it now, by vanishing into thin air like a coward.

The deal with novel!Gil is that he looks around at everything he has, everything that had been burdening him and killing him on the inside all his life, and decides to make use of it for Violet’s sake. He continues being family head and working in the army, amassing money and connections in order to have every means possible to protect Violet should anything happen to her. And as it turns out, he does end up having to use those means, more than once, but he will keep this up for as long as he needs to, because he lives for her now. That’s what makes him worth all the blood, sweat, tears, mental sanity and even body parts that she gave away for his sake: he pays it back. Every cent.

Punch in the face count ends at twelve. Thirteen if I include the fact that the movie ends with a last shot of Violet after she and Gilbert do a pinky swear. Looks like they were really trying to buy everyone with tears.

Oh, well.

I hope this has been a good enough summary. Sorry if I rained on anyone’s parade. I’m pretty sure we won’t get a remake ever, so I really wish we all can get over this soon.

[purrincess-chat]

Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s Spite Playlist: Remix CH7

Happy Valentine’s weekend, my dears! To make up for missing last week, I’m sharing two chapters today. Maybe if you’re all really good, and I have time I’ll share chapter 8 on Sunday. That’s where the fun begins ;) Are you ready for it?

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Chapter 7: Shake It Out

My dear sweet Marinette,

           How are you, my fairy? I hope that this letter finds you well. When you backpack over Russian mountains, you take whatever mail service you can get. I have so much to tell you about my latest trip, but first I have some exciting news for you!

During my last stay in Africa volunteering to build homes in a humble little village, I ran into a sweet little fairy by the name of Clara Nightingale. She says she met you! Did you know she’s a famous pop star? Anyway, she and I spent a lot of quality time together teaching young children how to read, and I showed her the scarf you knitted me for Christmas. She loved it! She says she will be in Paris again on the 18th and wanted to meet with you about designing for her, so I gave her the address to the bakery. She said she would stop by and see you.

“No way, no way, no way!” Marinette shrieked, kicking her feet. “Clara Nightingale wants me to design for her! I’m gonna faint.”

“This is an amazing opportunity for you, Marinette,” Tikki said as Marinette paced the floor, hugging the letter. “Tomorrow could change your life!”

“I know, Tikki! I’m so excited to- wait.” She stopped abruptly. “Tomorrow?”

“The letter said the 18th,” Tikki said, and Marinette raced over to pull down her calendar. “Isn’t that-”

“Tomorrow! Clara Nightingale is coming to my house. Tomorrow. To look at my designs!” Marinette clutched her cheeks as rapid breaths shook her shoulders. Tikki covered her ears as another scream emitted from Marinette’s throat. “This is a dream come true, Tikki!”

“It’s not that surprising. Gabriel Agreste liked your designs, and Clara attended the show, so it’s not like she’s unfamiliar with your work.” Tikki pointed out. “Plus, you’ve designed for Jagged before too.”

“I know, but getting commissioned by celebrities at 14 isn’t something you just get used to.” Marinette fell onto her chaise with a sigh. “I can’t wait to tell Macy, Eliott, and Martin! They’re gonna freak out.”

“What are you going to do about Chloe?”

Marinette waved it away, reading over the letter again. “I’m going to ignore her. She has no power over me.”

“True…” Tikki said. “But she did have a point. You always look out for your friends.”

“Yeah, but how many of those ‘friends’ came to visit me when I left?” Marinette said pointedly.

“Is that why you left? To see who would come?”

Marinette set the letter down and pursed her lips. “That’s one reason. I wanted to get away, but I also wanted to see who my real friends are,” she said. “I wanted to see who cared enough to chase after me, and I guess Adrien is the only real friend I had after all. Funny how I spent all that time hoping he would notice me when in reality, he’s always been on my side.”

“He thinks really highly of you.” Tikki flitted over to rest beside her.

“I know. My heart was beating so fast when he said those things earlier. Do you think it means he likes me?” Marinette smiled up at her ceiling, biting her lip.

“It definitely means he knows how amazing you are, and I’m sure you can catch his attention romantically too. Especially now that you two are hanging out so much,” Tikki said.

“I feel like all of my dreams are coming true.” Marinette buried her face in the throw pillow with a squeak.

“With everything you give to the city, I think you deserve it,” Tikki said.

“Well, one thing is for sure, I need to defeat Hawkmoth before I become a famous fashion designer and go to New York. That’s priority number one. Chat Noir, Rena- oh-” Marinette sat up abruptly.

“What’s the matter?”

“Well, Alya and Nino are Rena Rouge and Carapace, but after everything… I don’t know if I still trust them,” she said. “I don’t doubt that they would help Ladybug, but if I know who they are, then it might affect me. Do you think I made a mistake picking people close to me?”

“I think that’s a question for someone with more experience picking.” Tikki advised.

Marinette drummed her fingers on her thigh. “You’re right, Tikki. Let’s go.”

Master Fu was playing cards with Wayzz when Marinette knocked on the door and poked her head in. “Master?”

“Marinette, what brings you here?” He lowered his hand calmly.

“I could use some advice. Do you have a minute?”

Wayzz peeked over his cards with a huff. “We are in the middle of a game,” he said matter-of-factly, but Master Fu cast him a sly smile.

“It’s okay.” He splayed his royal flush for Wayzz to see. “I was just winning. What is on your mind?”

Marinette sat on the mat, hugging her knees to her chest as Wayzz zipped off grumpily. Taking a deep breath, she dove in, sparing no details—Volpina, Lila, her friends, changing schools, leaving Alya. Everything. Master Fu listened patiently while she talked, sipping his tea thoughtfully every now and then.

“I’m sorry, Master, but I think I made a mistake picking my friends to be Rena Rouge and Carapace.” She finished, head hanging low. “I don’t think I’m fit to choose our partners anymore.”

“Marinette,” Master Fu said with one of his kind, grandfatherly smiles. “We cannot blame ourselves for the actions of others. Your friends have made choices outside of your control. That does not mean that your judgment was lacking when you picked them. People change, and that is no one’s fault, just the natural order of things.”

“So, you won’t be mad if I pick someone else next time I need help?” Marinette glanced up at him like a small child waiting to be scolded.

“You must pick allies you can trust—whoever that happens to be in the moment,” he said.

“Thank you, Master.” Her shoulders relaxed. “Sorry to interrupt your game.”

“It’s okay. I have a large lead on Wayzz.” He chuckled. “Come back anytime.”

“I will. And next time, I’ll choose people I know I can count on.”

♪♫♪ StopRewind ♪♫♪

“You’re in an awfully good mood,” Macy remarked as Marinette took her seat in home room.

“Did something good happen? Spill!” Eliott leaned in.

Marinette glanced around the room to ensure their classmates couldn’t hear them. “Can you two keep a secret?”

“Oh, if there’s anything we aristocrats know how to do, it’s keep secrets.” Eliott assured her.

“Yeah, you’re our friend now. You can count on us.” Macy echoed with an encouraging nod.

Marinette bit her lip, leaning in close to whisper, “Clara Nightingale wants me to design for her.”

“No way!” Eliott gasped.

“Marinette, that’s huge.” Macy squealed before regaining her composure. “Don’t worry. We will totally keep it on the down-low, but I can’t wait to see the look on Gabrielle’s face when it goes public.”

“Pretty soon you’ll be buying your own yacht, Marinette,” Eliott said with a laugh. “Speaking of, you still need to see mine.”

“Oh, and we should totally have tea at my house! We just had the theater redone,” Macy added.

“I’d love to,” Marinette said. “Clara is supposed to come over today, so I’ll tell you how it goes.”

“We want all of the details tomorrow,” Macy said as Mr. Mercier entered the room and called for everyone to settle down. “We can rendezvous at my place this weekend.”

“Sounds good.”

When school ended, Marinette rushed home, a giddy smile tugging at her cheeks. What type of design would Clara want? A dress? Or maybe a tasteful pantsuit? Her mind was already buzzing with ideas. Hopefully, she didn’t mess everything up. What if she designed something, and Clara hated it? Or worse what if Audrey Bourgeois slammed her design in the next issue of her magazine because she refused to help Chloe? Then it could ruin Clara’s career, and it would be all Marinette’s fault!

“Hi, sweetie. How was school?” her mom greeted when she entered the bakery.

“Fine, except I have no talent, and I’m going to ruin Clara Nightingale,” she said.

“That’s not true. My daughter has all the talent in the world. She can do anything!” Her dad scooped her into a tight hug. “After all, she comes by it naturally.” He gestured to a large wedding cake resting in the back.

“You’re just nervous, sweetie. You’re going to be great,” her mom said.  

The bell above the door chimed, and a woman wearing a hat and sunglasses entered. Marinette’s father put her down and resumed his post in the back while her mother returned to the cash register.

“Welcome! What can we get for you today?” her mom asked politely.

“What I’m after isn’t a sweet treat; there’s someone here I want to meet.” She lowered her sunglasses to peek over at Marinette. “It’s been some time since we’ve seen one another, but your designs are truly like no other.”

“Clara Nightingale! You’re here!” Marinette gasped.

“I want to ask you a request of mine. I’ll run it by you if you’ve got time.”

“Yes, I have so much time!” Marinette said, then composing herself, gestured to the back door. “Why don’t we chat upstairs?”

“Fine by me. This request is top secret, you see,” Clara said. She followed Marinette up to the apartment, and once they were safely away from the public eye, she removed her disguise with a sigh of relief. “Thank you for meeting with me. I assume you read your grandmother’s letter.”

“I did. It arrived yesterday.” Marinette nodded, putting on a pot of tea.

“Excellent! Then you know why I’m here.”

Marinette turned and found herself face-to-face with Clara, nearly dropping the teabags in surprise.

“Ever since I met you, I felt a connection between us like our destinies were entwined. I loved the hat you designed for Adrien, and Jagged has only ever told me great things about you. Then of course, Gina’s scarf was to die for, so, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, would you be willing to design for me?” Clara dropped onto one knee.

“Doesn’t Gabriel Agreste usually design your clothes? Wouldn’t you rather see a professional?” Marinette asked.

“Gabriel’s designs are wonderful, but I think you can capture my essence for this. I’ve been nominated for a music award, and I want you to design my dress for the ceremony.” Clara took her hands with a confident smile. “You and I are both passionate about our crafts, and I think you can bring something that Gabriel can’t, so what do you say?”

Clara’s gaze bore into hers hopefully, and Marinette shifted her weight. “I’ll do my best.” Marinette gulped, and Clara bounced in delight.

“Thank you, Marinette! This favor is one I won’t forget!” Clara pulled her in for a tight hug. “Your willingness means so much, and very soon I’ll be in touch.”

Clara trotted out the door happily, hat and sunglasses in hand, leaving Marinette standing in the kitchen, stunned. She blinked out of her trance when the teapot on the stove screeched and set it aside, barely capable of containing her smile.

She couldn’t wait to tell her friends this.

♪♫♪ I’d Love to Break It to You ♪♫♪

Adrien removed his fencing gloves with a sigh. Another long day of watching Lila manipulate everyone. Even he had to admit it was getting old, especially since Nino spent most of his free time helping Alya with her deputy duties, which were really Lila’s class representative duties that she came up with excuses to get out of.

He ripped open his locker and tossed the gloves into his bag, thinking back to Marinette’s anguished sobs the previous evening. Seeing her so upset was nauseating in a way Adrien had never felt before. Maybe it was because Marinette was always positive and upbeat, doing her best to help others even when she had problems of her own. Someone like her being so broken and hurt was painful to watch. He wanted to help her in some way, but how could he? He could barely stand up to Chloe, let alone Lila.

“Why the long face?” Kagami’s voice startled him.

He turned to face her as she leaned against the locker next to his.

“Just tired.” He slung his bag over one shoulder with a shrug.

“You’ve been like this for the past week,” she remarked as he paced up the aisle toward the door. “Ever since Marinette left.”

“It’s been a long week. I’ve had a lot going on,” he said flatly.

“You miss her.”

Adrien stopped short at the end of the row and glanced back at Kagami over one shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I? She’s my friend.”

Kagami shoved away from the locker, approaching him slowly—lithe like a cat stalking her prey. “I wonder why she left so suddenly. Rumor has it that she had a jealousy spat with that Italian girl in your class,” Kagami said. “What was her name again? Lie-la?”

“Yeah,” Adrien said curtly, adjusting the strap of his bag.

“She sure has everyone enamored.” Kagami paused beside him and cocked a hip. “Well, almost everyone.”

“Why do you care?” Adrien’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t.” She shrugged.

“So why bring it up?”

“Because you and I both know the truth, and I suspect Marinette does too.” She tilted her chin to meet his gaze. “She’s a liar.”

Adrien let out a breath, the stiffness in his shoulders fading. “How’d you find out?”

“She claimed that her great grandfather was a world-champion fencer who invented a secret technique, but my family has held the championship title for the last six generations,” Kagami said. “Plus, her stories are so obviously farfetched and self-congratulating.”

“Tell that to everyone else,” he grumbled.  

“It’s not really my place. I don’t even go here.” Kagami shrugged again. “Besides, to everyone here, I’m just the ice queen.”

“So, you’re stuck with this knowledge too.” Adrien deflated with a sigh.

“After what happened with Marinette, I have no interest in confronting her. If your classmates want to be sheep, I say let them,” she said. “No sense in letting it upset you. They could easily figure it out if they applied an ounce of brain power.”

“Well, yeah, but she’s using all of them. I thought her lies were harmless, but she has everyone bending over backwards to help her. Now Marinette left the school hurt… I’m starting to get a little fed up.” Adrien averted his gaze, the wave of nausea returning to his stomach.

“So, call her out then,” Kagami said as if it were obvious. “People trust your word, and you have enough celebrity pull to prove it.”

“Yeah, but…” He winced.

“Adrien, your friends will only continue to suffer if you stay silent. Action is the only way to help them.” When he lowered his head, she rolled her eyes and pushed past him. “I hope your friends see the light eventually. For your sake. See you tomorrow.”

Adrien’s hands clenched into fists as she sauntered from the locker room, biting his tongue as anger swelled in his chest. Letting out a heated breath, he stalked toward the door, blinking in surprise when it opened.

Lila stepped in front of him and wasted no time latching onto his neck. “Adrien, you’ve been avoiding me,” she said with her sugary-sweet lilt. “You promised to help me catch up on my school work.”

“Sorry. I don’t think I can. Why don’t you ask Max?” He unhooked her arms and pushed her away gently.

“But you promised!” She pouted.

Her whiny tone sent a shiver down his spine, and he tried unsuccessfully to mask his grimace. “I’ve got a lot going on, Lila. Photoshoots, private lessons, that sort of stuff.” He took a purposeful step away from her.

“You seem to have enough time to go visit Marinette,” she said pointedly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“Lila-”

“She’s the one who’s lying, ya know. I’m sure she has told you all kinds of nasty things about me, but they’re false,” Lila said. “She’s just trying to turn you against me because she’s jealous.”

“That’s not true, Lila.” Adrien’s anger boiled hotter. “Marinette just wants to move on.”

“Is that why she went to Jagged Stone’s concert just to try to make me look bad?”

“No, that’s not-”

“Alya is still upset over their fight. Marinette ripped her heart out and stomped on it.”

“There’s more to it than tha-”

“Honestly, Marinette is the worst person I’ve ever met.”

Something in Adrien’s chest snapped—a rubber band stretched too far.

“How do I know when I should stand up for myself?”

“I get a feeling in my gut that it’s the right thing to do.”

“Enough, Lila!” he shouted.

She flinched, cupping her hands over her mouth. “Adrien, I-”

“Your lies won’t work on me, and sooner or later everyone else is going to see through you too, and you’ll be left all alone. Is that what you want?” He barely gave her a moment to respond before continuing. “Marinette poured her heart and soul into her friends. She made sacrifices for them and never once asked for anything in return, and now you’ve gone and turned her best friend against her and convinced everyone that she just wanted attention. If anyone here is a terrible person, it’s you.”

Lila’s face hardened, her whole countenance darkening. “I see how it is, Adrien.” Her jaw clenched. “If you choose to side with her over me, then I can’t help what happens to you. I own this school now, and there’s nothing you or Marinette can do about it.”

Turning over her shoulder, she slapped Adrien with her hair on her way out, and he balled his hands into tight fists. A feeling he’d never felt before bubbled in his core that made him restless. Adrien always thought Lila just wanted attention, but purposefully targeting one of his friends was not okay.

A new resolve came over him, and he instructed Gorilla to make a pitstop at the Grand Paris on the way home. His fist pounded against the suite door, breaths short and hot.

Chloe was lounging in a yellow bathrobe, feet soaking in a tub of water when her butler let him in. She raised an eyebrow as he entered. “You know I’m always happy to see you, Adrikins, but I’m in the middle of an herbal soak-”

“I want to help you take down Lila.” He cut her off.

A sinister smirk spread across Chloe’s lips, her shock fading to triumphant glee.

“Excellent.”

[fiddlepickdouglas]

Viva Las Vegas, Pt. 10 - Clean This Up

Summary: Sunset Curve Alive AU, Willex, who is he really?, 2.9k

@trevor-wilson-covington is the bestie who makes these lovely edits, we stan supportive friends

WARNINGS: abuse, mild violence

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9

Alex had said to check the diner, so Victoria opted to have dinner there and asked to see the owner. She was aware of the vigilante-style work she was doing, but with everything else going on in her life, this couldn’t possibly hurt any worse. Folding her hands, she breathed calmly as she peeked at the menu. It was important not to act as authoritative as she usually did, she reminded herself. A portly man with short gray hair and a mustache came over and took the seat across from her.

“Hi there,” the man said, shaking Victoria’s hand. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi, I’m Victoria Molina,” she introduced herself. “I was actually trying to find someone and I was told you could help me.”

The man raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Oh, alright. Who are you looking for?”

“I’m looking for a young man of about seventeen, he goes by Willie? I was told he works here. I just have some questions for him. Would he happen to be in at all today?”

“We don’t have anyone named Willie here anymore,” the man told her. “I actually just bought this establishment along with the hotel about two weeks ago and a few of the staff followed the previous owner to a different business. You might want to talk to him instead.”

“Oh,” Victoria sat back in slight disappointment. “I take it you’re not Caleb Covington?”

“No, he’s the guy I bought it from. I’m Frank Wolfe. I can give you his contact information, though.”

Nodding, she smiled politely.

“I would appreciate that. Sorry I had to come bother you, though.”

“Not at all,” he said. “I apologize that I can’t be any more useful. If you like, I can take your order.”

“Oh, thank you. I’ll actually have the carne asada.”

“Perfect,” he smiled as he took her menu away. “I’ll have that information for you in just a minute, too.”

Taking a gulp of water, Victoria sighed. It certainly felt just like any regular case. The fact the business had recently changed hands made her want to be suspicious, but she fought to remain level-headed. It was enough that she was going off the word of a teenage boy and an old poster. If it was a dud, if this trip led nowhere, she would buy Carlos a gift and head home safe and sound.

After finishing her meal, she returned to her hotel room and pulled out the business card Frank Wolfe had given her. Something about the dark purple design and the old-fashioned lettering he’d chosen made her feel like Caleb Covington was at least a little pretentious, if not flashy about his business. Picking up the phone and dialing the number, she held her breath waiting for an answer.

“Caleb Covington, who may I be speaking to?” a baritone voice chimed on the other end. The touch of sing-song in his tone was unexpected.

“Hi, my name is Victoria,” she introduced herself for the second time that night. “I was told you were the guardian of a young man named Willie?”

“Are you with social services?” he asked.

She furrowed her brow. “I’m sorry?”

“I usually only get a call when we have a hearing scheduled, but our last one was just a couple months ago.” His tone had gone from happy to serious at such a jarring speed it took Victoria a moment to process his words.

“No,” she said finally. “No, I’m not with them. I didn’t mean to confuse you. I’m actually reaching out on a personal favor. See another young man I know says they met a while back.”

“Oh, is it the band that came through a few weeks ago?” Caleb immediately picked the cheer back up.

“Yes, I’m glad you remember,” she responded, surprised.

“How are those boys doing?”

“Oh, they’re just fine. I think they’re gonna be a success.”

“Good to hear it,” he said. “Listen, no harm done. I own a swanky little club just in the south of town. I would be delighted if you gave me a visit, and I’d be happy to chat.”

“Sounds great, thank you,” Victoria smiled, unable to believe how easy that felt. “I can stop by tomorrow evening.”

“Wonderful. If it isn’t too much, I’ll make you a reservation.”

“Well, I can’t say no to such generosity!” It had been a long time since Victoria had gone on a night out. This was a much needed vacation, and if it killed two birds with one stone, all the better. She said goodbye and decided since she was practically getting everything she needed at the club, the rest of the day would be spent treating herself for once.

Willie skateboarded up the driveway and only just remembered Caleb’s rule about the pool in time to hop off before pulling off his helmet and going around the back. He took the back route into the house and dropped a number of grocery bags on the counter. One of these days he would age out of the foster system and not spend the morning being Caleb’s errand boy, but for now he just laid Caleb’s credit card on the table and went outside toward his shed.

Opening the door, he saw Caleb standing in the middle of the room, looking around at all of his drawings. Paper covered most of the walls now. Faces with no names to them, locations with no map to their destination - only snippets of a past life. Willie couldn’t stop drawing them. There still weren’t many memories returning to him, but any detail was an important one. He hadn’t drawn this much in ages, since before he found Sheldon. The backwards dream had become a recurring one by now, and there was still very little that he understood about it. Still, he had so many scenes made out of it that he could almost recreate the dream in a very rough animation.

“Hi C-Caleb,” Willie stammered. This never happened. It made him immediately nervous.

“What a collection, William,” Caleb said, not exactly sounding like an awed patron in a museum. “I mean, the sheer volume of work that went into these is absolutely mind-blowing.”

A small pebble of pride rose in Willie’s chest.

“Really?.... Um, thank you.” He couldn’t suppress his smile.

Caleb held up a hand and looked down at his well-manicured nails, and then back up.

“I just don’t understand why I look so hostile in this one,” he said, pointing to the picture in question. “And that one. And all of these in this corner.” His gaze returned to Willie with unprecedented menace.

Willie immediately shrank away, his mouth gaping open.

“Well...I..they’re from a dream.”

“A dream?” Caleb repeated, not liking what he was hearing.

“Yeah, I think it was a memory.”

Willie watched the man straighten his posture, a calculating expression on his face.

“Are these all memories?” Caleb asked after a tense moment, casting his eyes about the room.

“I think so,” Willie said hesitantly.

Caleb lifted a hand and grabbed the bottom of one. It was the first one WIllie had done of his dad sitting inside the truck and smiling at him.

“Hm,” was all that he said for a second.

And then he tore it in half.

Willie made toward the picture in alarm, feeling a part of him inside being torn just the same, but was stopped as Caleb held a hand out.

“Ah ah,” he said. “What have I told you about becoming your own person regardless of the past?” He took a handful of another drawing and ripped that one too.

Ignoring what Caleb said, Willie lunged forward to try stopping him anyway. Caleb was faster, grabbing his shirt and tossing him backward into the wall. He couldn’t help but begin crying.

“But these are my memories, why would you - ” he sputtered, lost for words.

“Because, William,” Caleb continued loudly, pulling as many as he could off the wall and shredding them into smaller pieces. “Your history? The one full of loss and being shuffled here and there? That is all that awaits you. You know it’s the truth; that’s how you ended up here. I offer you the opportunity to become a new person, and I can’t allow you to spoil yourself with reminders. And besides, those little friends you not-so-secretly made a few weeks ago have started snooping around in my business, and I can’t have that.”

He didn’t even pick anything up, he just left paper strewn all over the floor and walked all over it. As he made for the last wall, Willie made one more attempt to overpower him. He leapt onto Caleb’s shoulders and tried to pull him back with all his weight. A fist landed in his eye and he slacked his grip. Caleb wrestled him onto the bed and held him down, a crazed look in his eye that Willie swore he’d never seen no matter how familiar it felt.

“I don’t understand, what do they have to do with it? Why can’t I have friends?”

“I’m doing this for your own good,” Caleb hissed at him. “You” - he reached up and touched the scar on Willie’s head with his finger - “You got a reboot and you know how many people are lucky enough for that? You should thank me. Unfortunately, you can’t have friends when they send someone asking me questions about that little past of yours. That’s just asking for trouble.”

All Willie could do was hold his eye and lay back as Caleb tore up the last of the drawings. Once he finished, Caleb patted himself off and made his way out the door.

“Clean this up,” he told Willie. “And don’t bother doing any more art.”

As the door shut behind him, Willie scrambled onto the floor to search for just one of the drawings. Shuffling through smudged pieces of paper, he saw a few tears drop onto his ruined work. Eventually, he held the picture of his father in two pieces in his hands. Sobbing, he tried to hold them together evenly, but Caleb’s work had made that hard to do. His only hope was to try drawing it again, but he was already terrified of what Caleb’s reaction to that would be if his first one had been this.

A piece of another drawing caught Willie’s eye from underneath. He recognized Caleb’s snarling face from the dream and was surprised at how well it captured what he’d just witnessed. His mind went back to the way he knew the look in Caleb’s eyes. Suddenly, the awful realization dawned on him: he finally understood the dream.

Victoria walked into the club that evening, glad she had taken the time to look and feel fresh. This place was clearly up to snuff and then some. A live band played with dancers scattered throughout, all in bright, sparkly, feathery getup. A tall man with neatly styled dark hair was mesmerizing the crowd as he sang, keeping the energy high. As she was led to a table, Victoria simply sat and watched, greatly impressed with the talent.

Once the man’s solo finished, he bowed, gestured at the band to play on without him, and exited the stage. To Victoria’s surprise, he took the seat directly across from her.

“Ms. Victoria, you look so lovely, how are we this evening?” he asked with a charming smile. “I’m Caleb Covington.”

“Are you kidding me?” she started. “That was you up there? You’re a man of many talents; I’m already dazzled.”

“Oh, well, I hope that remains a constant while you’re here,” he said. "But you came to ask me about some other things, what were they?”

“Yes, I had some questions about Willie.”

Willie sat outside the bodega, unwilling to move for a while. He felt like everything inside of him was empty, as if Caleb had possessed claws and dug everything out until he was left hollow. The many ideas that had risen in his mind in the past few hours were all too much, all at once. If he dared, was he sure he could handle everything that might come his way? Every time he’d heard that ridiculous speech about starting over, becoming his own, yada-yada, he hadn’t considered any of the options he was now contemplating.

He’d already done some things. Already bought some things. Now he got up to collect Sheldon and held him tightly as he nodded to Escobar, who saluted him back. The man had said he didn’t want a dramatic thank you. Stuffing the items he purchased in his bag, he kept a hold of Sheldon as he skated off into the darkness.

“So, you see, Willie isn’t missing. He was abandoned,” Caleb was saying to Victoria. “Poor thing has struggled to adjust. I’ve dealt with some handfuls in the past, but I really have been doing the most for him, and he’s been with me for more than three years. I think it’s really sweet of those boys to raise a concern, and I hate to be a dead end, but that’s the truth of it.”

Victoria sat, nodding in acceptance.

“That makes a lot of sense, Mr. Covington, thank you for providing that for me.”

“Oh, call me Caleb. We’re all friends in here.”

“Okay, then, Caleb,” she corrected. “What got you into foster care?”

He put a hand over his heart and a fond look came over him.

“The youth are just full of so much magic, and I hate to see that their parents have chosen to lay it to waste. I’m the one who takes some of the tougher cases so I can bring out the best in them. You see that young man over there, Dante?” Caleb pointed at one of the dancers. “Classic rebel when he was young. You wouldn’t even know, he’s turned into such a gentleman. There’s a few more here and there in the club. I call them my graduates.”

“Well, I will tell you,” Victoria said. “When I first talked to you on the phone I wasn’t expecting you to be so generous. But now I can see that it’s just how you are.”

Caleb shot her a playful smile.

“Victoria, no need to butter me up. I do have some tight business practices to keep up.”

Fluid poured over every inch of the shed. Willie had made sure it was more than enough to get things going. He’d made sure to get the essentials: food for himself and Sheldon, a few changes of clothes, and a stash of money he’d taken from the safe in Caleb’s bedroom. The man shouldn’t have given him the combination in the first place.

Stepping out of the shed he looked at it one last time. What a sad, lousy existence. Living to perform for this man who shut him up inside this little thing and he had actually called it home? The further he was into his plan, the bolder he began to feel. He remembered when he had missed getting into the Pearl and that feeling of wrongness that had made him so frustrated. This feeling he had right now? It was so right. It was so right it drowned out anything scary about this whole idea.

He looked back at where he had put Sheldon on a small leash and tied him along the fence around Caleb’s backyard. It was definitely a safe distance. Then Willie pulled a box of matches out of his pocket, lit one, and looked at the flame for a minute. He held it just over the threshold of the doorway so it would land inside. It was so weak, like he had been ever since his accident. But he knew it was going to become so powerful, and he desperately hoped that he could retain some of that power for himself.

“Clean this up, Caleb,” he said, and he let his fingers go.

Victoria had stayed just a little longer to enjoy more food and music before standing up and heading toward the door. Caleb saw her on her way out and made her stop for a moment.

“It’s been a lovely night, and I’m grateful for everything you told me,” she said to him.

“Well I’m glad you took the opportunity to see what I have here,” he replied. “If you’re ever in the city again, please stop by. We’re always partying and putting on the best show.”

“Oh, I most certainly will,” she said, smiling as she made her way outside.

Someone tapped on Caleb’s shoulder from behind. Wordlessly, he turned to see who it was and why it was important.

“Sir,” one of his servers said. “You have a phone call. It’s the fire department.”

“What?” Caleb spat as he went to pick it up.

Willie sped along on his board the best that he could with Sheldon in his arms. He carefully made it down the ramp onto the freeway, controlling his speed as well as he could. He could picture Caleb now, just getting back to his home, eyes wide as he came upon the blaze. It was a very strange feeling, but right now Willie chose to focus on his newfound freedom. The cost wasn’t the matter right now. Freedom was all that was going to take him and his cat as far as they could go. The destination for now was Los Angeles.

[redrobin-detective]

hope is the promise of future happiness

its 11am, I’ve not dressed or done anything and I got hit with The Feels

XxX

Izuku had walked by the shop, stopping and staring and wondering, for almost two weeks. He stopped again, as he had most every day walking home from school, to stare at the new sign that had recently been hung up in the window. 

‘Takazawa Fortune Tellers: now offering precognitive services! Temporarily transport your mind into that of your future self! By Appointment Only, inquire inside.’ He mulled around the words in his head as he let the crowds carry him away again. Izuku kept his head low so the conflicting emotions weren’t obvious on his face. There was a decent amount of precognitive quirks but most were vague and not helpful in the long run. Any quirks that were useful were immediately snapped up by heroes and other government agencies. The chances that a small town psychic could tell him anything useful was low but...

Izuku rubbed lightly at his red and peeling palms where Kacchan had blasted him 2 days ago. Most days all he felt like was a pile of burns, bruises and depression. He was 13 years old and he was miserable every day of his life with no end in sight. If only he could find something, anything, to tell him that tomorrow would be better than today.

He nervously pulled at his lip as he muttered quietly to himself. But what if the future was worse than the present? What if he was still alone, still unhappy, still a stupid, quirkless Deku? What would he do if there was no future for him, some future him deciding enough was enough and-

Izuku shook his head, to clear it of such dark thoughts. He walked past a store filled with TVs, all bearing All Might’s grinning face as he gave a brief interview following a villain attack early this morning. The sound was off but Izuku knew the steady rumble of his hero’s voice better than his own. Watching that smile, that easy care and confidence All Might radiated eased some of the tension off Izuku’s shoulders. As long as All Might was there to spread peace and joy, the future couldn’t be all bad. No matter what, he would be Izuku’s future, a guiding light to lead him to where he needed to be.

It took him another week to work up the courage to enter the shop. The little bell when he opened the door might as well have been a blazing alarm, it almost caused him to run right then and there.

“Welcome to Takazawa Fortune Tellers, you’re here for the precognitive services, correct?” The secretary at the front said with a small smile. 

“Oh well I uh how did you-”

“Mild telepathy, lets me know people’s intentions,” the woman explained, tapping her temple. “That and I’ve seen you stopping and staring at the sign for almost a month.” Izuku ducked into the collar of his uniform and considered running again. He could find a new way home from school, possibly change schools altogether, maybe a new country?

“Please don’t go,” the woman said with a light laugh, “in fact, you picked the perfect day to stop by. We’re booked up for months but our last appointment was a no show so we have an open slot right now. We’re not supposed to take walk-ins but, well, you’ve been waiting for this a long time, haven’t you?”

Izuku flushed but the woman stood up, “I guess destiny brought you at the right time, I’ll let Kenma-san know you’re here. Please sit and fill out these forms while you wait.” 

It took all of his inner strength to shakily grab the clipboard from her and begin signing his consents, each making him more nervous than the last. Waiving liability in case he didn’t like his future. Accepting trauma from anything unpleasant he may see. Paying the full amount in the event he was dead in the future and thus could receive no predictions. 

“She’s ready for you now.” Taking a deep breath and summoning All Might’s brave smile in his mind, he handed her his completed forms and made his way to the back room. It was a small, almost claustrophobic room with heavily scented candles and dark mood lighting. A woman dressed in elaborate robes with a veil over her face was sitting at a small table. She gestured to the empty chair.

“You’re younger than my usual clients,” she said in a weathered voice, it was hard to tell if she was old or simply worn down. Izuku found himself sympathizing. “How old are you, young man?”

“13,” Izuku squeaked.

“A good age, you have your whole life ahead of you,” she nodded holding out both of her hands. “Now, here’s how this works. My quirk can transport you into your body at twice your current age so when you are 26.” Izuku tried to wrap his mind around being 26, an adult with a job but found he couldn’t. His palms began to sweat. “You will be transported to a time, 13 years from now, when your adult self is asleep so there’s no struggle over dual consciousness. You will be able to see, hear and feel your immediate surroundings but not interact much. The more you try to assert control the more your future self will awaken. Once they’re awake, you’ll be transported back to your current body. You don’t need to worry about privacy, I will only be facilitating your transfer and won’t be able to see anything you do. Understand?”

Izuku nodded, he wouldn’t be able to see or do much if he was confined to wherever his future self was sleeping. It was seemingly innocuous and yet...

“You do understand that, if between now and then, you’ve died that the transference won’t work. Are you prepared for that possibility?” She said cautiously. Having already come this far, he nodded. “Alright then young man, lets see what the future has in store for you. Take my hands and let your mind go as blank as possible. Close your eyes and the next time you open them, you will be in your future.”

Izuku grasped her hands, supple and firm leading him to believe he was correct that she wasn’t as old as he first believed. He tried to quiet his thoughts but it like wiping a white erase board in permanent marker. There was so much to fear, so much to worry about in his future. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed, for once in his life, his hopes weren’t painfully crushed. 

He opened his eyes and saw All Might. Specifically a really nice framed All Might poster featuring the hero back to back with a skinny blonde man hung on a wall. It looked like it was signed by someone but he was too far away to read what it said. The date at the bottom of the poster was 6 years from the current year. Well, he was alive in 13 years which was nice to know. The relief that echoed through him was surprising, had he really believed- No, no time for that. He didn’t know how long this would last so he had to make his observations now.

Izuku was in a large bed lying on his side facing a wall, the All Might poster was the biggest and most obvious but the whole wall was covered in various pictures and posters. A smaller poster with explosions on it caught his eye and he couldn’t help but smile. Looks like Kacchan made it as a hero after all, he felt bitter, just a bit but overall was happy for his well former friend. Another had a girl in pink floating standing next to someone who looked like Ingenium. It’s not surprise he maintained his fanboy habits even as an adult. It was comforting in its familiarity. 

Speaking of which, he observed what he could see of what was most likely his home with some surprise. It was clean but still comfortably lived in. It was also quiet large with some nice, traditionally Japanese furnishings. Much more than a quirkless salary man could probably afford. The bedside table next to him had a clock, which flashed 0547 in bright green letters, a cracked phone he assumed was his and a worn and ripped notebook. It read Hero Notes vol 25. 

Izuku instinctively reached for the notebook only to falter. His shoulder hurt, it ached and pulled from what felt like a recent injury. But that didn’t surprise him nearly as much as the scars covering his right hand and forearm. They ached, the way old wounds did, something he would always be aware of but would get used to. What the hell did his future self get up to? He briefly latched onto the idea that he had become a hero but quickly discarded it. Quirkless people didn’t become heroes, he probably got a career as a quirk analyst or something which is why he could afford such a nice place. It wasn’t a bad life from the looks of it.

He clenched his scarred right fist hard, not a bad life still wasn’t anywhere close to his dream. Izuku felt a stirring in the back of his mind and he carefully relaxed his hand. Right, he couldn’t wake his future self, not until he was done. Before he could wonder what else he could do, an arm brushed against his back before draping over his side as another body pressed close to him.

“Too early, go back to sleep,” a soft voice mumbled sleepily into his back.

Izuku froze, so conditioned to hands hurting him but the arm instead just held onto him lightly, like they didn’t want to let him go. It was cool to the touch but it felt good, like chill breeze on a warm day. Oh. He stared down at the pale arm gently embracing him until his vision became blurred. Oh. Izuku had been so prepared to accept a miserable future, even one where he didn’t exist. The idea that he was happy, that he was loved? Even more than being a hero, that had seemed too impossible to even dream about. 

He grasped the cold hand and intertwined their fingers like it was his only lifeline. Izuku sniffled, holding onto the hand until he blinked and found the only hand he was holding was that of the fortune teller. She let him grip her fingers as he composed himself, re-orientating himself back into his small, unscarred body.

“Are you alright, my boy?” She asked gently.

“Yeah,” Izuku said through his tears which probably didn’t help his case. “Really yes, I saw-” his breath hitched. “It was good, it was so good and I never thought- I couldn’t imagine someone like me could have that.” She relaxed and gave his hands a squeeze before letting go. 

“I’m glad, most people who cry during my sessions don’t do it for happy reasons. Take your time to calm down, Nami-chan will help you when you’re done. After that, your future awaits you.”

“Yeah,” he cheered, sloppily wiping his tears. No matter how bad things were now, they would eventually lead to the cozy home, the wall full of pictures and comforting hand around his side like it belonged there. He would wait a lifetime for that, 13 was nothing.

(luckily he didn’t even need to wait that long for his future to begin with a fated encounter, a question and a promise that his dreams could be reached)

13 Years Later

“‘zuku, you okay?” Shouto asked sleepily from behind him. 

“Yeah, why?” Izuku questioned as he blinked himself back to awareness feeling a bit muddled and out of it. 

“You’re gripping my hand pretty hard,” Shouto said pushing himself up onto his elbow, “also you’re crying.”

“Aren’t I always crying?” Izuku joked turned to look at his beautiful sleep rumbled boyfriend. Shouto just gave him a thoughtful look. “I’m fine, look,” he responded wiping the tears away. “I just, I think I was dreaming and you know how emotional I get.”

“Was it a nightmare?” Shouto asked settling himself back down into the bed, cuddling close on one of the rare days where one or both them wasn’t patrolling. 

“No, no, I don’t think so,” Izuku said shaking his head. He can’t be sure but he thinks he’d been dreaming of his past, of that sad, quirkless boy he’d been. If only there was some way he could tell that kid that things would get better, better than he could have possibly imagined. With the feel of Shouto’s dual temperatures pressed up against him, Izuku looked over at what Shouto called his Wall of Worship as if supporting his friends and colleagues was a bad thing.

All Might’s poster, the exclusive one of a kind poster his mentor had presented to him upon Izuku’s graduation as always drew his gaze. Too far away to read it properly Izuku still had memorized the words from the moment he’d read them, etched onto his heart.

To my boy,

Your bravery and kindness have inspired me from the moment we met. I cannot wait to watch you shine. Your future begins now. 

All Might Yagi Toshinori

[jaskiersvalley]

You are the one who got me hooked on Eskel/Lambert and now I can't stop writing them together how did you do this to me, shipping by osmosis

Yes! Welcome to this small ship (a whole 46 stories on AO3). But our numbers are slowly growing. And I will also point you in the direction of @ohnomybreadsticks for some quality content, especially when slipping Cahir into the mix too (canon? What’s that?). To celebrate your joining of this ship, I have a really still idea to bestow upon you.

Arriving in a town with the promise of a contract, only to find another witcher had already been by was always annoying. Even worse when the locals had chased said witcher from their midst without payment and rushed into hurriedly packing his things. At least the locals let Geralt and Jaskier pay for a room as long as they moved on from the village the next day. They even gave them the same room that had been sullied by the previous witcher. For some reason, Geralt had stiffened upon entering the room, as if met by a familiar scent but he refused to elaborate so Jaskier shrugged. If it was important, he would find out. The next moment, his attention was taken up by a leaf of parchment poking out from under the bed. Curiosity piqued, he grabbed it in a rush even though he knew Geralt wouldn’t have gone near it anyway.

“-makes things bearable. I do hope he’s okay. While I keep an ear out for whispers of him and know I cannot walk my Path and his at the same time, I worry. Winter cannot come soon enough. Even if I can’t hold him like I’d want to, I can at least make sure he can take it easy and actually enjoy being alive for a change. I’d do so much more-”

It was too intimate, probably an entry from a journal that was falling apart. Jaskier’s hear squeezed at the idea of a witcher who was so obviously in love with someone that sounded like another witcher. Maybe he needed a bit of help in romancing the love of his life. Jaskier knew what it was like, to love a witcher and not be loved in return. Maybe he could help spare someone this miserable fate.

Finding a charmed bird was quite difficult and cost a good chunk of coin but Jaskier deemed it a worthy sacrifice. The pigeon would track the intended recipient of a letter and could be used as a way to communicate over long distances.

Dear Witcher,

I am but a humble bard who happened upon a page of your journal. Your plight sings to my heart as we both seem to love someone who walks the Path and we can but quiver in our boots and hope they return to our side after each separation. While return they do, our beloveds don’t seem to realise that we would bestow upon them more than our care as friends. May I offer you solace and friendship through these letters, as one fool in love with a witcher to another.

Jaskier tied that, along with the page he had found, along with a feather from one of his hats to the pigeon. It went its way and Jaskier could only hope his offer was taken for what it was, a genuine, heartfelt companion for the broken hearted.

It took two weeks for the pigeon to return, a fresh piece of parchment tied to its leg.

Bard,

This is a most unexpected letter, I didn’t even realise I lost a page from my journal. It’s almost full now and seen more than its fair share of battles. Thank you for returning it. As for the matter of its content, I would love to say it’s none of your business and never speak of it again. Yet, despite my best caution, I am intrigued to find another who claims to love a witcher. If you’re struggling for his affections, may I suggest you feed him? While my wolf is fiercely independent, he does always look so touched and bashful when presented with little delicacies he wouldn’t have treated himself to otherwise.

Best of luck on your quest to win a fortified heart, Witcher

It was a most exciting development, not once did the mysterious witcher tell Jaskier to stop contacting him, or even dishearten him. Instead, Jaskier had been given a hint on how to woo Geralt. New tactic in mind, Jaskier set about buying sweet cakes and pastries whenever he could and presenting them to Geralt. At first, it was met with offended bafflement but, slowly, over time, Jaskier could see the hopeful glances. Even better was when, out of the blue, Jaskier was presented with a blueberry tart - his absolute favourite.

Dear Witcher,

Thank you for your help. My own wolf has mellowed and seems appreciative, if confused, by the sudden treats. He even returned the gesture. Something I’ve found he likes is his hair being played with. Mustn’t call it brushing or styling! But a quiet night by a fire, fingers carding through his hair definitely help him relax. It’s such a beautiful sight, so much power and raw strength tamed by nothing more than gentle touch. Maybe, when you next see your wolf, he might enjoy an evening with his head in your lap too.

Tell me more about your wolf though, what’s he like? I know I suffer when I cannot sing about the heroic deeds and virtues of my wolf. As a bard, thankfully i have an outlet so my heart doesn’t burst with love. But I wonder who you have that will listen to your adorations.

May your Path lead you to your wolf’s heart. Bard

Letters went back and forth between this witcher and Jaskier. Any questions about the witcher himself were ignored or not quite answered and Jaskier could appreciate that. He did learn a lot though, this witcher was kind, he was much like Geralt in that he wouldn’t take payment if there was true suffering without the means to fund the services of a witcher. There were also a few self-deprecating comments which led Jaskier to believe that the man he was exchanging letters with was shy, probably quite a gentle soul that was hardened by decades of life as a witcher.

There was one time Jaskier fretted over his pen pal. A letter had arrived, it had splatters of blood and was written with by a shaking hand. Short and to the point, so much so that Jaskier could have wept.

Bard - treasure your wolf and hold him close at night. They’re getting colder and longer. When he’s hurt, sing him a lullaby of old and even when it looks hopeless, you can be his guiding light. Remind him he’s never alone while he’s got you. Don’t let him waste your beset years together just because he’s a fool who cannot see all you have to offer.

That night, Jaskier pulled his bedroll closer and was surprised when Geralt easily allowed him to press close. Jaskier held his wolf not just for himself but for the mystery witcher who was likely injured and alone somewhere out there in the big wide world.

The exchange of letters continued. Jaskier learned about the witcher’s wolf, that he was dedicated to the Path even though he cursed it and the life he had before that too. It really sounded like whoever this sad wolf was, he had led a life of anger and disappointment. No wonder he couldn’t let in this other witcher and accept the love shown, he probably had no frame of reference for what love looked like or how to deal with it.

My dearest Witcher,

Winter draws closer and I have been invited to accompany my wolf to his home. There, I will get to meet his family which is rather nerve-wracking. I’ve heard a few stories of his brothers and while I hope they will find me to their liking, I still worry. Maybe I will use your suggestions in moderation and bring them treats as well as be a quiet but steady presence, should they need a confidant.

I do hope your winter goes well and you are able to hold your wolf in your strong arms at long last. Be honest with him. If he is as cautious with his heart as you say, and as kind under all his snark and bluster, I should hope that he will either accept all the love you have to offer with a bit of huffing. Or he will be gentle but clear in his boundaries of what his heart can and cannot offer.

Keep in touch over this winter, I have grown fond of you and your thoughtful words. Bard

Trekking up to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier didn’t think he’d get a pigeon until stashed away in the keep. Winter was cold and harsh, it made him worry for his pigeon. Or rather, their pigeon because Jaskier had noted at the bird always came back so cared for, once or twice it even had the remnants of a flower collar around its throat. Sometimes it had been given a nice bath, the soft perfume still gently wafting from its wings.

Jaskier had no idea what to expect of Kaer Morhen. It was large, ominous and cold. Drafts whipped through it and made fires flicker. Introductions were made, Jaskier nodded at Vesemir, Eskel and Lambert. He didn’t miss the way Geralt looked between the two younger witchers. Obviously there was something going on there that was unusual but Jaskier didn’t know them well enough to probe.

Bard,

I’m safely back at the my winter home, surrounded by family and more. I say more because one of my brothers has brought a bard back with him. They reek of each other and it’s almost disgusting how in love they seem. The bard himself is so young. A bright ray of sunshine in this dreary old place. I don’t think these halls had ever echoed with song before. It’s annoying on some level but at the same time, his cheer and seemingly open adoration of all things witcher is disarming. Somehow, I get the feeling you would like him. If I can find out more about him, I might try and send him your way. Makes me wonder what it is about bards and witchers but now there are two pairs at least on this continent. Maybe I should shuck my swords and take up a lute if I want to keep my own wolf happy.

Stay safe and warm, hold your wolf close on these cold nights. Witcher P.S. I took your advice and laid my heart bare. I no longer sleep in my room and have never been happier.

Upon reading the letter, Jaskier squealed in delight. His witcher friend had a wolf to hold and love. Even if their Paths took opposing directions, they now both had someone for return to, to fight for.

My dearest Witcher,

Your letter was the best news. I am so pleased you and your wolf have found solace in each other. Long may your love last and may you keep each other safe. And please, do let me know of this other bard. I would love to meet him. As long as it isn’t that talentless hack, Vadlo Marx, imitating me once more. If it is, please do the world and your witcher brother a favour and snap his neck. Everyone will thank you for it in the long term, trust me.

I’ve only managed to fall in love with my wolf’s family. They’re a quiet, reserved bunch but absolutely endearing. And let me tell you about the love between two of them. I don’t think I’ve seen a love more true or pure. There’s so much I want to ask them about how they found peace with each other, how they manage out in the world without each other when on the Path. If I glean anything useful, I will be sure to pass it onto you and it might help ease your burdens when a new season rolls around.

Have a happy winter, Bard

Carefully, Jaskier fixed the letter to the pigeon and opened the window. However, the cold must have frightened it because it took off towards the door, flying through the keep with Jaskier running after it, yelling. They ended up in the kitchen where Eskel was lounging against the counter while Lambert kneaded some bread.

“Oh hello,” Eskel cooed at the pigeon and held a hand out for it to land. Grinning, he plucked the letter off with practised ease. “You came back a lot quicker than expected. Less than a day.”

Which was when Jaskier burst into the kitchen, huffing and puffing, glaring at the pigeon. He scooped the bird up from Eskel’s palm with a stern glare. “You are a little brat. Now look what you’ve done, lost my letter too. What are we going to do with you?”

Only listening with half an ear as Eskel read his letter, he paused and looked up at Jaskier in surprise.

“Bard?”

Realisation made Jaskier drop the pigeon. “Witcher? Which can only mean-” he turned to look at Lambert, “-wolf?”

“Which makes Geralt...” Eskel trailed off and let out a gruff huff as Jaskier launched himself at him in a hug.

“I am so happy for you!” Jaskier laughed brightly and Eskel could only return the hug, a smile of his own slowly blossoming across his face.

[like-rain-or-confetti]

Ghost of You (Alec Volturi x Reader)

WARNING: Death! Dark Themes! Mentions of possible suicide!

(Inspired by Simulacra) 

You lay lifelessly on the forest floor. Your knees dirty, dirt buried under your finger nails. He made sure you were dead. You didn’t move, you didn't breathe. There was no heartbeat. You were peacefully silent. Carlisle looked down at your body with a frown on his face. "Carlisle?" Carlisle turned to see Bella, who in turn was then exposed to your body. She gasped, recoiling immediately. She couldn't take her eyes off you. You looked as though you were just sleeping. One of your hands draped across your stomach. However your other arm gave a very different story. It was sprawled out flat on the forest floor with your phone mere inches from your fingertips. "What happened?" Bella felt tears well up in her eyes. Carlisle moved closer to your body picking up your phone before hurrying back and moving towards Bella. "Go and find Edward and then call your father." Carlisle said, putting the phone in his pocket. "Are they...?" "Go. Now." Bella pressed her phone to her ear, barely feeling Edwards fingers rest against her back. "Dad? You've got to come to the woods there's... it's (Y/N). They're dead." 

Carlisle couldn't stop his frown as he watched your body be lifted into a body bag. Arms folded over each other ever so slightly. "So Bella and Edward found them?" Charlie shifted to stand beside Carlisle. Carlisle nodded. "Yes." He had to lie. Charlie couldn’t know he was with the body- not Edward and Bella. "Is there any chance you could make a guess on the time of death?" Carlisle numbly shook his head. "Not for certain, there isn't any decomposition but they're pale so it could be a matter of hours." "Well, we'll get an autopsy and see if we can piece together what's happened." Charlie stated. "How do you do that? If you don't mind my asking?" Carlisle turned his gaze to Charlie. "I'm a doctor, I see so many brutal injuries and conditions. So much worse than (Y/N) looks, yet even now i stand here and don't know what to say or do." The question made Carlisle seem human but that wasn't why he asked. Carlisle knew the secret of his profession. He had lost many patients. He knew you personally though. Whilst you looked somewhat unharmed, Carlisle was finding the image difficult to stomach. Charlie had basically watched you grow up. He knew you since you were born and he, at best, seemed unphased. "I try to focus on it in one perspective. I'm the Chief of Police. People need me right now to keep everyone in the right direction. I'm going to be needed composed for now but when I'm just Charlie Swan, I'm going to feel the loss just as much as everyone else. Their parents, my neighbors- my friends- they're going to need their friend when I have to tell them what has happened." Charlie put a hand on Carlisle's shoulder. "I'll take it from here. Don't worry about this." Carlisle nodded. "Take care of yourself, Charlie." "You too. Oh, and one more thing. When you found them, did you move them or anything else on the scene?" Carlisle shook his head. "No, they haven't been moved since I've been here." Charlie nodded before walking away. Carlisle stared at the empty space you were once in. Now he had to tell Alec the news. The news he'd never want. 

Jane stared at her brother who hadn't moved from his desk. "Alec...Alec please say something." It had been three days since he found out you were dead and Jane could see her dear twin was suffering, even if he didn't show it. "Did you know they don't immediately bury the dead anymore?" Alec spoke up but didn't turn to look at his sister. "They put the bodies in a large kind of freezer. Tight, enclosed spaces for people allocated like drawers." "Alec..." "(Y/N) didn't like small spaces, did you know that?" Alec continued. Jane swallowed, biting her lip. Jane moved to crouch beside him, taking his hand and lightly giving it a kiss as he continued. "You know, when the masters told me I laughed. I don't know why I did, but I did. I didn't find it funny. I just couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe that i could go through any more pain. Haven't I suffered enough?" Alec's gaze lowered slightly. "I'm angry at them...at (Y/N). Although I know it’s not their fault. I stood there thinking. ‘how dare you? How dare you leave?’ Then it hit me why I feel so angry towards them. I don’t know how they died.” Alec looked at his twin. “I wasn’t the most loving or approachable person at times but…Jane do you think they would ever…?” Alec trailed off, unable to say the words. However, Jane knew immediately. She firmly squeezed his hand. “No. You two weren’t perfect but you two loved each other very much and I know they wouldn’t never do such a thing. Especially not because of you.” Alec laughed bitterly and quietly to himself. “ 'loved’? That’s the issue isn’t it, sister?” “What do you mean?” “A matter of days ago, they stopped loving me. Yet I still love them.” “Don’t think of it like this was a choice, Alec. (Y/N) died. They didn’t stop loving you because they wanted to. They stopped loving you because they can’t. They’re dead. Besides, perhaps there’s more to death than we realise. Perhaps they still do love you.. wherever they may be.” Alec scoffed. “You don’t want to hear it. I know.” Jane continued. “You and I aren’t very compelled by such things as the 'afterlife’ but if it’s what you have to say for now. Then so be it.” Alec’s empty and unfeeling facade cracked ever so slightly, eyes darkening even more than was thought possible, the red in his eyes no longer visible. “I don’t want to let go and I feel like I have to.” “Alec, you’re already letting go. It’s alright. It’s still early days, you’re going to feel a lot of things but when you’re ready, you’ll say goodbye. No one forces you to let go of someone after they die. You do so on your own.” Jane admitted she wasn’t the best at advice or anything of the sort. However Alec knew that, and for his sister to simply let him speak was enough. Jane rose to a stand. “Be hurt Alec, let yourself feel everything you feel. It’ll be better that way. Just give it time.” She bent over slightly to kiss her brothers forehead before leaving. 

A few days had passed and Carlisle had arrived somewhat unexpectedly for Alec but Aro, Caius and Marcus appeared to have been expecting him. “It’s good to see you all again, even if under such sad times.” Carlisle greeted solemnly. “Yes, dear friend. It is a very sad time indeed.” Aro slowly nodded, his hands clasped in front of him. “I trust your coven are doing well through these difficult times?” “We are doing our best. I can only hope the same goes for the Volturi.” Aro cracked a smile. Carlisle turned to meet Alec’s pitch black eyes. He nodded in greeting. “Hello Alec, I give you my condolences.” “Hello Carlisle. Thank you for the gesture.” Alec replied without a hint of emotion but his eyes spoke volumes. “You also have my apologies. I was unable to bring any of (Y/N)’s things for you. Their death is still in early days of investigation, so all of their things are being inspected.” Carlisle said, guilt in his eyes and sympathy. “You don’t have to worry, Carlisle. I wouldn’t want you to trouble yourself so. I appreciate the sentiment but it’s not your job.” Carlisle nodded. “However, i did get this.” Carlisle dug into his pocket and pulled out a phone. “It was at the scene but I took it before any services arrived.” “Their phone?” Alec tilted his head. “Phones are more advanced in the recent years. They can take photographs, play music, notes, messages, videos. I haven’t looked but I’m certain that a lot of their life is documented in here.” Alec gasped and was inches in front of Carlisle immediately, staring at the device in his hand. Carlisle dug into his other pocket. "This should charge it up. You’ll have to plug it in every now and then for the battery but other than that. It was the best I could do.” “This…” Alec swallowed. “This is more than I could have ever asked for. Thank you.” Carlisle smiled a sad smile and nodded. “Of course.” Carlisle held out the phone toward Alec and Alec could barely move to take it. The possibility that even a piece of you was left in the small device was gut wrenching but also releasing the most wonderful feeling of comfort and relief that just maybe he got to have a memory of you after all. 

Alec stared at the charging phone the whole time. When he had plugged it in, it had a ‘50%’ battery. Finally it hit '100%’ and he remembered which button Carlisle said turned it on. He pressed down on it and it vibrated in his fingertips. Unexpectedly, what he saw made Alec squeeze his eyes shut and cover his mouth, barely able to stifle the noise that escaped him. After a moment he opened his eyes. Your picture smiled back at him, your face angled  up slightly towards a light source with your eyes shut. The phone began to load each application and ran 'anti-virus checks’…whatever that meant. He vaguely remembered Carlisle telling him it was a touch screen. He didn’t really know what that meant either.  So he broke the phrase down and tapped the screen. Nothing. He quickly glided his finger across the screen and a box popped up on the screen asking for a password.

The password seemed to be four digits…that he didn’t know. The receptionist suggested your birthday or birth year. He tried both and hadn’t gotten anything. The receptionist hummed in thought. “Four digits you say?” Alec nodded. She sighed and her gaze passed Alec and drifted to her desk. Immediately she did a double take on Alec. “Let me see. I think I’ve got it.” Alec handed it over, peering around her. “What do you think it could be?” “Your name.” She answered. “But I can only type numbers?” Alec frowned. “Yes, so look, there’s tiny letters under the numbers. So if we spell your name then perhaps that’ll be it? I have a niece around your age, she does the same thing with the boys she falls head over heels for.” Alec said nothing but to his surprise it worked and the phone unlocked. 

Slowly things began to reboot, his thumb accidentally touching the screen to see your music playlist. He saw an arrow at the bottom left and tapped it bringing him back to the home screen. He tapped again and found your pictures. Alec’s jaw twisted slightly. There were many pictures of you, your friends, your family. None of him, Alec nor the Volturi allowed it. So his life with you was hidden. These pictures only showed the first half of your life. Although some wouldn’t open. Carlisle didn’t mention any damage so Alec wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking at. Suddenly, Alec no longer had access to your pictures and was taken back to the home screen. Instead he found your messages. 

He felt this was a bad idea. He was never one to pry. He trusted you and you trusted him, he felt as though he'd be breaking that trust. However he reminded himself of something very important. You were dead. The messages meant nothing now. Silently he tapped the icon and your messages appeared. 

His eyes were immediately caught by your mother's name. When he opened it he smiled. Your mother loved you to the end of the universe and she had no problem letting anyone know.  There were more family members with their own messages were just as casual- none of which expressed so much love as your mother's did. 

Then there were the Cullen's messages. He went through every last one of them and wasn't surprised by their contents. They were all the same. Disapproval for being with Alec. Edward especially seemed to be eager to pick arguments as the messages always grew heated quickly. Alec was glad that you defended yourself and seemed to disregard him and the rest of the Cullen's. That being said, it seemed as though these conversations didn't end on good terms. In fact, Alec remembered you saying that you were not friendly with the family before you...were gone.  Suddenly a tired sigh ran through his ears.  Alec looked up, no one was around. He grew uncertain as to whether he had sighed and not realised it but the sigh didn't sound like him.  Alec was quick to consider it his imagination, if not himself.  The messages could make him sigh, they were so exasperating.  All the messages in the phone had a contact name. All but one.  The messages from the number were brief and your responses gave the very strong impression that you were not friendly with this person. 

Marcus sat Alec down. “I know how you’re feeling.”  “Were you angry with Didyme?” Alec suddenly asked. Marcus was silent.  “I’m angry with (Y/N).” Alec admitted. “Why?” Marcus asked.  “Because they changed everything. They changed the impossibility of any decent humans. They weren’t decent- they were the best. They stayed long enough to change everything i thought i knew and then left. That means another human has hurt me and this hurt, it’s killing me. It kills me and i cant even hate them for it. i can’t bring myself to regret them, i cant bring myself to wish i had never met them because i would do this over and over again just to have a moment with them.”  “Alec,” Marcus said with a pained look. “I’m so sorry.”  “Master...is that really the only thing you can say to me right now?” Alec put his head in his hands. Marcus responded. “It’s the only response you’re ready for right now.”  “What?”  “Alec, you don’t want to hear that (Y/N)’s death isn’t your fault.” Marcus began.  “Because that’s the point!” Alec cried. “I did everything right! I did everything i could and they died anyway!”  “I know, and that’s why i’m sorry.” Marcus said.

Alec was laying on his bed, the phone in his fingers before he sat up sharply. There was an unknown number in the phone, all of the Cullen’s numbers were saved except Carlisle and Esme’s and Alec was told that Carlisle was the one who found you. None of the Cullen’s approved of your relationship with Alec, their relations with the Volturi strained but surely Carlisle wouldn’t have... Alec couldn’t finish the thought. A noise escaped Alec’s throat, dropping the phone in his lap, he slapped his hands over his mouth. Jane was by his side in moments. “Alec...?”  “Jane...” Alec managed out, his eyes pitch black. “tell me, they said, that Swan girl found Carlisle over (Y/N)’s body right? Right?” Alec asked as Jane wrapped an arm around him. “Yes, why?”  “He gave me the phone.” Alec whimpered.  “Alec...” Jane said quietly.  “He gave me the phone, the only thing left! He- he gave it to me when he didn’t have to and now i think i know why. He feels guilty!”  “For what?” Jane turned her brothers face, forcing him to look at her.  “The Cullen’s didn’t approve of (Y/N) and I. Our covens hadn’t forgiven each other. He...he killed them, Jane. He killed my (Y/N).” Jane was silent, watching her brother and Alec continued. “He wanted the human girl gone before she saw (Y/N). He was the first to find them and he gave me the phone, why would he do that? Why would he risk that if he didn’t feel guilty? We know him Jane, we know him. He feels guilt easily. Jane, he killed my (Y/N).” Jane pulled Alec into a hug as he sobbed although no tears would fall. Alec continued. “There’s an unknown number - his number wasn’t saved. (Y/N) was to meet the person in the woods and not tell anyone and Carlisle found them! It was Carlisle!”  “Alec...” Jane whispered. “We have to be certain. We need proof.”  “How?” He asked. “Stay here, alright? I know what to do. Give me the phone.” Alec struggled, unable to hand it over.  “I’ll give it back, I promise.” Jane took the phone from him gently. “Where’s the unknown number?” Alec showed her. “Stay here, okay? I’m going to check the number.”  “How?” Alec asked.  “Carlisle had called us before so we’ll have a record of his number. We’ll know if the number is a match.”  Jane explained before leaving.

Jane returned with the phone about twenty minutes later. “It’s not a match.” Alec stared at his sister. “It’s not?” Jane shook her head. “No. Whoever was communicating with (Y/N)...it wasn’t Carlisle.” 

Alec needed to spend some time alone in the woods and so he did, taking the phone with him. He propped his back against the tree, sitting on the forest floor, looking through the phone. A new picture had resurfaced, blurred green, grey and brown slanted lines. Another picture had nothing but brown and orange leaves, dirt and twigs. The last picture was of nothing, pitch black. However Alec discovered a video. One he hadn’t seen before. 

“I’ve to meet him here.” You said, the camera shaking and the forest floor cracking with every step you took. “I don’t know wh-” The video cut out momentarily.  “He called me, told me to come.” Your voice said as you put the hone down despite you lowering the phone to show brown, orange and green blurs from the forest floor.

The phone suddenly cut off, moving back to the home screen. However suddenly something wasn’t quite right. A number pad came up and to his shock, Alec watched as a number was typed in. One new number at a time, before the loud speaker was activated. The phone began to dial all by itself. Alec couldn’t look away, the same unknown number had been dialled in and the phone was now ringing without Alec touching it. Much to his horror, someone answered.  “Who in the hell is this?” A male voice said, a familiar one. Alec’s eyes darkened, he recognised the voice. His mouth twisted. This whole moment was so surreal, it never really hit him what he was hearing. Instead of him responding another familiar voice spoke for him.  “You can’t forget me yet!” The voice was distorted but undoubtedly and completely yours.  “W-what?” The man staggered.  “Do you remember my face!?” Your voice yelled.  “Got you.” Alec finally said and there was a pause.  “What?” The man responded. Alec responded out of a stiff jaw, seeing red. “I’m coming for you, Vladimir.” 

Jane moved to Alec’s side. “Are you prepared for this?” Jane asked, her hand resting on Alec’s shoulder.  “Yes, sister.” Alec nodded.  “We’ll get him, he won’t get away with this.” Jane promised him. “I’ll make him pay more than i ever have with anyone else.” Alec looked at his sister with a smile. “I’m counting on it, because I intend to make him pay for ever second. We’re going to enjoy this.”  “It’ll be fun and it’ll be for (Y/N).” Jane agreed.  “He’s not getting out of this alive. I wont stand for it.” Alec said.  “No one lays a hand on them without paying the price and no one hurts my brother.” Jane finished. Alec wrapped his arm around his sister before pressing a kiss to her cheek. 

Vladimir was met with Demetri and Felix first, then the twins, all four boxing him in. Jane grinned tossing Stefan’s head to the side.  “Saving the best for last.” Felix grinned maliciously.  “I told you, i’d find you.” Alec growled, his eyes darkening my the minute.  “But while we wait...” Jane smiled at Vladimir before he fell to the ground in agony. Screaming and wailing. Jane’s smile grew, her stare down at him piercing. Alec watched with eyes full of hate. “I want to rip him apart.” Alec finally said amidst Vladimir’s screams.  “We can’t- not until Aro gets here.” Demetri stated, watching Vladimir. Alec was quiet for a moment.  “Nevertheless...” Alec trailed off and in a matter of seconds he lunged grabbing Vladimir’s arm and bending it back in a horrific way it shouldn’t ever bend before completely ripping it off. Vladimir’s screams became more hysteric. Alec dropped the arm beside Vladimir and a few seconds later Aro, Marcus and Caius had arrived. 

“Jane...” Aro said lightly and Jane broke her stare looking to Aro.  “Master.” She acknowledged. Vladimir curled up slightly on the ground, groaning in pain but no longer under Jane’s control. Aro put a hand on Alec’s shoulder and nodding to him, silently asking Alec to trust him. Finally, Aro turned to Vladimir. “Well Vladimir, you’ve certainly gotten yourself into a lot of bother.” Vladimir chuckled amongst his groans of pain. “Good. That was the plan.”  “I hope you still think it’s worth it when you’re nothing but ashes. You understand we simply cannot let you live don’t you? The Volturi don’t give second chances.”  “You don’t scare me.” Vladimir said ruefully.  “What did you do to them?” Caius spoke up.  “To the human?” Vladimir laughed again before turning to Alec. “You want every little detail? You want to know why? Idiots. All of you.”  “Jane?” Caius turned to Jane but Vladimir interrupted.  “You took my mate from me. I want you to know the pain I've felt for a millennia. So when i heard the witch twin had grown attached to a human? The opportunity was too good. After some time and observations, i tracked them down and pin pointed them. When i found the human, I started sending messages. Of course they tried to figure out who i was through the process. Stupid human thought it was one of the Cullens.”  “What did you do to them?” Caius pressed. Vladimir turned to Alec. “I told them to meet me in the woods, telling them i’d reveal who i was.” 

Vladimir was approaching behind you quickly, watching as you put your phone back in your pocket. You barely got the time to turn when a twig snapped behind you before you were kicked to the ground the phone falling out of your pocket and landing among the fallen leaves. It lit up for a moment before turning black. You yelped and Vladimir grabbed you, rolling you over and pinning you down. You screamed and tried to struggle and get him off but to no use. Vladimir grinned pinning your arms down.  You looked terrified. You didn’t know who he was as you were scared for your life.  “Nothing personal, little human. I have to teach your little boyfriend a lesson.” Vladimir knew how he would kill you, it wouldn’t be quick. “It’ll all be over soon, trust me.” 

Confusion along with terror clouded your eyes and Vladimir suddenly wrapped his hands around your neck and squeezed. You gasped, beating at his arms and trying to claw his hands away from your neck but to no use, he was a vampire and significantly stronger. You couldn’t do anything.  “You’ll be found little one. I promise.” Vladimir smiled down at you as panic set in. Your legs kicked under him but to no avail. Your hands failed in attempt to grab anything on the ground. Your outstretched hands brushing against your phone but only nudging it further away. You clawed at Vladimir once more before noticing you were growing weak. Your struggling became weaker and more like twitching. 

Vladimir couldn’t help but smile. “Damn, did it feel good seeing the light fade from their eyes. Now you know what it’s like-” Alec lunged with a scream. Demetri grabbed Alec hauling him back as Alec screamed over and over again. Jane hurried to her brother, trying to get through to him. Alec didn’t respond continuing to scream, his eyes black and full of rage and agony. He couldn’t handle it, knowing the agony you must have endured for minutes. The torture it must have been to struggle to breathe. He couldn’t forgive, he couldn't contain himself. He couldn't say anything and instead could only scream. 

Bella was immediately thrown off to see the Volturi in the Cullen’s sitting room. Edward urged her to sit down. Bella eyed Alec, Aro, Marcus and Caius on the opposite couch. Alec’s eyes never leaving the floor whilst she had the leaders gaze’s boring into her. Edward sat down beside Bella, taking her hand. “It’s been... what’s happening?” Bella finally asked. “The Volturi...Alec figured out how (Y/N) died.” Edward said gently. Bella stared at him and Edward continued. “A long time enemy of the Volturi is the Romanian coven. There is a man in that coven called Vladimir. Bella, Vladimir killed (Y/N).” Bella was still for a moment before shaking her head. “No...no that cant be right. They- they’d never hurt anybody. Why would they be killed? How did they die?”  “(Y/N) was killed as an act of revenge, to hurt Alec. He didn’t have any interest for their blood which is why their wasn’t any wounds but the bruising suggests that...(Y/N) was strangled.” Edward explained. “I didn’t see any bruises- no! No they just- they just stopped breathing! It happens! I didn’t see any-” Bella shook her head. “Bella, the bruises are there, they’re even more prominent after...” Edward trailed off. 

Bella suddenly leapt out of her seat, staggering back under her back hit the wall. Edward immediately reached for her as she doubled over, gagging as she did so.  “It’s okay.” Edward rubbed her back as she covered her face.  “It can’t be. Not (Y/N). Not (Y/N).” Bella shook her head.  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Edward pulled her in.  “No...” Bella sobbed into his shoulder. 

Emmett, Jasper, Felix and Demetri created a bonfire where you body was found. The Volturi and the Cullen’s gathering together to pay their respects and final farewell that night. 

Alec looked down at the flames of the bonfire, the Cullen’s and the Volturi surrounding it. The final goodbye to you. Alec slowly pulled the phone out of his pocket, hearing a beep. He unlocked the phone seeing a small ‘1′ highlighted in the notes app. He opened it to see one had been made only seconds ago. He opened it and swallowed.  ‘Set me free.’ It said. 

Suddenly an urge over took Alec, telling him what he had to do. He tossed the phone into the bonfire.  Sap from the branches snapped and spat slightly but as he looked up, he was met with your gaze directly across from him. You smiled at him, the breeze flowing through your hair and he stared in disbelief. Alec looked around to see if anyone else could see you but they didn’t seem to notice you. When he shifted his eyes back to where you once stood he found you were gone. He exhaled feeling you were finally at peace and since you were, he could be too. Marcus moved to Alec’s side and Alec nodded, silently assuring Marcus he was okay.

[imjustthemechanic]

The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter Part 3/? - Miss Lake Part 4/? - The Stewardess Part 5/? - An Assassination Part 6/? - Fallout Part 7/? - Face to Face Part 8/? - Deals, Details, and Other Devils Part 9/? - Baggage Part 10/? - Private Funding Part 11/? - Just Passing Through Part 12/? - Party of Four Part 13/? - Resolute Part 14/? - The Wreck Part 15/? - Body Snatchers Part 16/? - Out of the Frying Pan Part 17/? - A Miracle Part 18/? - A Matter of Circumstance Part 19/? - Nome Part 20/? - The Future Part 21/? - A Hero’s Welcome Part 22/? - Up to Speed Part 23/? - Expect Further Delays Part 24/? - The Welcome Wagon Part 25/? - Fugitives Part 26/? - A Reluctant Accomplice

Agent Russel probably doesn’t deserve this.  Probably.

-

The next day, when Agent Russel showed up for his tuna melt, it was served to him by a woman in the same uniform any of the other waitresses wore. As she set the plate in front of him, another came to refill his coffee cup.

“Thanks, ladies,” he murmured, raising the cup to his lips.

“Don’t mention it,” said Peggy.

Agent Russel looked up with a start.  His brown eyes darted from Peggy to Kay and then back again, and his expression suggested he was seriously considering screaming.  Peggy sat down across from him at his booth, and Kay took the seat next to him, blocking his escape.

“Not a sound,” said Peggy.

Something under the table went click, sounding suspiciously like a gun being cocked. Kay, her hands invisible, gave Agent Russel a dazzling smile.

“So you two are working together,” Russel said.

“Don’t look so nervous, Ned,” said Kay.  “You’re flirting with two waitresses at once.  You should be a happy man.”

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Your help,” Peggy replied.

“Why would I want to help you?”

“Because we’re the ones who found Captain America,” said Peggy.  “Doesn’t that suggest we’re the good guys?”

“I don’t know who are the good guys in this,” Russel admitted. “Last time I saw you,” he pointed at Peggy, “you were going home in protest because Thompson was working with her,” his finger moved to Kay, “and she drugged and robbed me.”

“I apologized,” said Kay.

“Now suddenly you’re on the same side?”

“Kay persuaded me that we always have been,” Peggy said, though that still wasn’t totally true.  “Remember those numbers I mentioned she gave me?  Those were the key to the Captain’s location.  Kay is not a spy, she’s a defector.  She has information for us, and she thinks she knows how to get more out of Olga Barynova.”

Russel nodded slowly, although his expression remained skeptical.  “And where does she come into this? Because she says you let her out of prison and flew her to Los Angeles yourself.”

“Did she say why?” asked Peggy.

 “We haven’t been able to get that out of her,” Russel said.

Peggy laced her fingers together in front of her.  “I’m afraid it’s true that I let Miss Underwood out of her cell,” she said, “but I did so with every intention of returning her to it, and because I needed a service I felt only she could provide.  I’m sure you’ve heard of Whitney Frost?”

“Yes…” said Russel slowly.  “She’s that actress who went nuts and murdered her husband, right?”

“There’s a bit more to the story than that.”  Peggy leaned in a bit closer.  “Let me explain.  You can check what I say with Daniel Sousa and Edwin Jarvis, and they will tell you the same.”

Russel looked around, and then opened his briefcase to get a notebook. “All right.  Let’s hear it.”

Peggy tried to be as quick as she could in describing the situation, but it was not a simple one and it took a while.  They probably went on significantly beyond the break two waitresses would have gotten, but it was essential that Russel get details he could confirm if he liked.  In particular she described how they’d dressed Dottie for the mission, how Mr. Jarvis had observed that she was an excellent dancer, and what they’d been able to learn as a result.

“Unfortunately, Miss Underwood is better than you are from escaping the trunks of cars,” Peggy finished, “and we haven’t seen her since.”

“Uh-huh,” said Russel.  “If any of that is true… well, freeing her was still a stupid thing to do.”

“Yes, it was,” Peggy said, “and I regret it every time I hear she’s committed another robbery or ended another life.  However,” she gestured to her companion.  “Kay thinks she knows what Dottie’s trying to accomplish, and if she’s correct we can get good information from her.  We obviously can’t get in to talk to her because, as you already noted, we’re supposed to be in jail with her.  But you can.”

Russel frowned, thinking.  “What are you two up to?” he asked.  “What are you trying to do?”

“Make the future a little better than it’s stacking up to be,” said Kay.

“If we can find out where Dottie and her ilk came from, we can shut them down and make sure we don’t see any more like her,” Peggy said.  “And possibly free American prisoners of war, as well.”

“What would you need me to do?” Russel asked.

“For now just deliver a message and bring back her reply,” said Peggy.  “Kay has a page written up.  She’ll give you a translation if you want it.”

Kay took the paper out.  “If you do this for us, not only will you be potentially saving lives, but I will personally go see your wife and tell her you were supposed to be investigating me and that’s the only reason you had a drink with me, and try to convince her to take you back.  I can’t promise miracles,” she added, “but I’ll do my best and my best is pretty damned good.”  She offered him the page.

He made no move to take it.  Instead he just sat there, apparently lost in thought.

“Agent Russel,” Peggy said, “what was your first impression of me?”

“Of you?”  He looked her over.  “That you were very, very… devoted… to getting your job done.  But my first impression of her,” Russel looked at Kay, “was that she was harmless and flighty, so I’m not sure I trust those anymore. Can I have twenty-four hours to think it over?”

Peggy didn’t want to give it to him.  Twenty-four hours was time to think, but it was also time to tell Thompson and Masters they’d been here.  Could they afford that?  Twenty-four hours from now, Steve would have left New York on the beginning of the publicity tour Masters had put together.  If he still wanted to rescue his friend from captivity in Russia, were they going to have to chase him across the country in order to give him their information?

“Can I have your word you won’t go straight to the police?” she asked.

“I am the police,” Russel reminded her, “but yes.  I think there’s more going on here than you can see on the surface, but I don’t know which side of it you two are on… especially when you’re pointing a gun at me under the table.”

Kay smiled at him and brought her other hand up to show him a bolt mechanism from a disassembled doorknob, which she’d used to make the metallic click.

“Well,” Peggy said in an American accent.  “We’d better get back to our shift.  See you tomorrow, Mr. Russel.  Same time, same place.”

- 

They spent a second restless night in the Pine Barrens.  Kay busied herself with some knitting needles and yarn she’d bought in the town, producing some intricate-looking lacy thing Peggy couldn’t begin to identify.  Her thoughts were a mystery.

Peggy herself spent the time thinking about what they were going to do if this didn’t work.  It seemed to her that they’d have to find Steve, but she really didn’t want him to get involved in this mess.  Daniel was in it with her whether she liked it or not, as was Mr. Jarvis, but she would have liked to keep Steve safe.

That was a strange thought, wasn’t it?  Steve had always been able to take care of himself, even when he’d been only five foot four, yet Peggy’s urge was to protect him.  Was that one of those ‘motherly instincts’ men insisted all women had, or was it just that Peggy wanted to keep everybody she loved safe? She’d failed with Michael.  There was a part of her that still thought, no matter how irrational she knew it was, that if she’d only joined the spy corps earlier he would still be alive.  Was she trying to make up for that?

What would happen if she just disappeared?

She’d wondered that from time to time, like when Anna Jarvis had been shot… wouldn’t the people she loved be safer if Peggy weren’t around?  Without her, Daniel and Mr. Jarvis wouldn’t be in trouble right now.  She was the one who’d involved them in the situation with Dottie.  The problem with that thought was that the trouble had already come to them.  If she were to vanish, they would still end up in prison or worse on the strength of Dottie’s testimony, or perhaps have their fates dangled like carrots to encourage Peggy to return.  She couldn’t stand for that.  She’d gotten them in trouble, she had to get them out of it.

Which meant she’d better come up with a backup plan in case Russel wouldn’t help.

- 

They scoped out the Automat very carefully before returning the next day, making sure there were no suspicious fellows hanging around watching who came and went.  Peggy saw none, and Kay agreed with her.  They went inside and changed into Angie’s spare uniforms, Kay putting a few safety pins in hers so it would look like it fit.  When Agent Russel arrived, they took him his usual and sat down across from him.  This time, they did not bother with sound effects.

“I didn’t talk to the police,” he said.  “But I felt like I had to talk to somebody… so I talked to Captain America.”

Peggy’s heart started beating a little faster.  “How on Earth did you manage that?” she asked.  Steve and Masters had left New York early that morning. They’d heard it on their car radio.

“I told Jack I wanted to meet him in person because he’s always been a hero of mine, Jack talked to Masters, and Masters let me in,” Russel explained.

“Wow.  I’m momentarily glad I didn’t kill him yet,” said Kay.

“Please stop that,” Peggy told her.

“If you want something fun to do on your weekends,” Kay said to Russel, “take a look at what Vernon Masters was up to around… oh, 1943-ish.”

“Do you know something I don’t?” Peggy asked her.  A foolish question, really… Kay always knew something nobody else did, or at least, she acted that way.

“In this case, no,” Kay replied, “but I have strong suspicions.”

Peggy shook her head and brought things back to Russel.  “What did he say?  Steve, I mean.”

“Well, he told me to call him Steve,” Russel said, “which was a little like meeting one of your schoolteachers as an adult and having him tell you to call him by his name.  I told him what you were asking me to do, and… he said he doesn’t know about Miss Lake, himself, but he trusts Peggy Carter with his life and I should do what she asks.  He seemed pretty sure you know what you’re doing.”

Peggy had to chuckle at that.  “He has such faith in me,” she said.  Of course, she had faith in Steve, too… he’d always done the most recklessly foolish things imaginable, but he’d always managed to make them work in spite of everything.  “Thank you, Agent Russel.”

“I still don’t know what’s going on here,” Russel admitted, “but I don’t think Captain America would involve himself with traitors.  I read the file the FBI gave me about you, and I remember thinking there must have been some kind of mistake.  That was my instinct from the beginning.”  He glanced at Kay… the woman who’d given him cause to doubt his instincts.  “What’s this message?”

Kay unfolded it and handed it over – a page of pseudo-Cyrillic accomplished with an ordinary English typewriter and going over some of the letters two or three times.  “I think I know what she wants.  She’s amassing money and blackmail material.  She’s going after the mob now because she wants to force a diplomat with criminal connections to smuggle her back into the USSR.  If she tries to go there legitimately, or even secretly but without protection, she’ll be shot.  She needs to enter the country unnoticed, and then she’s going after the people who made her.”

“For what?  Revenge?” asked Russel.

“Exactly.”

“And you’re going to let her do it?” he guessed.

“On her own she can’t,” said Kay.  “She’ll never get that far, or she’ll be caught, and she’ll just disappear from history. But if I’m right, it gives us a bargaining chip.”

“I see.”  Russel tucked the message inside his jacket.  “I’ll deliver it this afternoon, and if she gives me a reply, I’ll pass it on tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Agent Russel,” Peggy repeated.

They left him to his lunch then, and returned to their stolen car to go back into hiding.  Kay still hadn’t broken her habit of checking for seat belts when she got in.

Halfway through New Jersey, she suddenly asked Peggy, “have you see Frankenstein?  That was made in the thirties, wasn’t it?  Or read the book?”

“I haven’t,” Peggy replied.  “I’m not one for the cinema, and the very idea of the book put me off.”  As a child she simply hadn’t liked horror stories, and as an adult she’d seen far too many of them in real life to enjoy them in fiction.

“I have,” said Kay.  “Several more versions, too, and most of them miss the point.  The creature couldn’t help being what he was.  The monster was the man who created him.”  She sighed.  “Everyone treated the creature as a monster, until he decided that was the only thing he could be.”

“Do you believe that of yourself?” Peggy asked.

“I think Barynova might,” Kay replied.

[joachimnapoleon]

Meet the Bonapartes--Louis (2/4)

(Part 1 can be found here) (And here are links to Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 on Pauline)

***

Napoleon's plan to marry Louis to Hortense was met with a marked lack of enthusiasm by both parties. Aside from having acquired a jaded view of women (possibly as a result of the affliction he suffered in Italy), Louis also happened to be in love with someone else. Prior to the wedding, he would write a twenty-page letter to Hortense containing what was essentially his life story, and in which he confessed his love for a woman named Sophie, describing her, and his feelings for her, in great detail. Hortense, meanwhile, had acquired a negative view of Louis, because of his behavior in an earlier failed love affair between him and one of her cousins. However, Hortense claims, she was willing to give Louis the benefit of the doubt, and dismiss "his conduct toward my cousin" as "merely thoughtlessness on his part." Her former mentor, Madame Campan, visited Hortense to speak in Louis's favor. Hortense was not entirely convinced. "Louis seems to me to be kindhearted and good," she conceded to Mme Campan, "but I do not like the disdain with which he pretends to look upon women and which often appears in his conversation."

[Hortense de Beauharnais]

But Napoleon was adamant about the match, seeing in it a strengthening not only of the ties between the Bonaparte and Beauharnais families, but also as a safeguard for a potential Bonaparte dynasty. "We may never have children," Napoleon told Josephine (according to Hortense's memoirs). "I brought Louis up myself; I look on him as a son. Your daughter is what you cherish most on earth. Their children shall be our children. We will adopt them, and this adoption will console us for not having any of our own." But Josephine, who had initially favored the idea, grew increasingly ill at ease over the marriage as the wedding approached. Hortense also claims that Louis's older brother Lucien poisoned Louis's mind against her, after his own request to marry her was shot down by Napoleon. "I do not know what he said," Hortense writes, "but Louis became uneasy." It was then that Louis wrote his twenty-page letter to her and "begged me in return to describe my past life to him in full. It would have been difficult for me to give him any striking facts on the subject and, when I returned his letter, in accordance with his request, I merely replied that for a long time my life had been known to him."

"If your popularity and society have not spoiled you," Louis replied, "you must be an angel. There can be no middle ground. You must be all good or all bad." Hortense took this as a compliment. "I could not suppose that, admitting the existence of the two alternatives, his opinion could be otherwise than favorable."

The marriage contract was signed on 3 January 1802 at the Tuilleries. Napoleon provided Hortense with a dowry of 250,000 francs, to which Josephine added another 100,000. The civil service took place the next day, and the nuptial blessings were held afterwards. After Cardinal Caprara had blessed the newlyweds, Joachim and Caroline Murat came forward, and requested to receive a nuptial blessing as well, as their marriage had taken place before the religious ceremony was reinstated. "This double ceremony left a disagreeable impression on me," writes Hortense. "The other couple were so happy. They were so much in love with one another.... I felt as though all the happiness lay on one side, all the unhappiness on the other."

The "honeymoon" period was almost nonexistent. Napoleon had flown into a rage at Louis over complaints Louis had made about the marriage not being announced publicly. The personalities of Louis and Hortense never quite managed to synchronize on any level. Louis found fault with Hortense over the most trivial things, and Hortense could barely disguise her increasing dislike for her husband--or the fear his unstable, unpredictable behavior had begun to instill in her. 

My nerves gave way. Only tears brought relief. My husband, touched and affected by the sight of my grief, sought to console me, but the harm had been done. My only sentiment towards Louis became one of fear. I dared no longer smile or speak in his presence. It always seemed to me he was on the point of losing his temper.

Nevertheless, the couple's first child--Napoleon Charles Bonaparte--was born the 2nd of October, 1802. Another son, Napoleon-Louis Bonaparte, followed two Octobers later. The Pope himself officiated the ostentatious baptismal ceremony at Saint Cloud.

[Napoleon Charles Bonaparte, first child of Louis & Hortense]

Napoleon continued to show favor to Louis; but Louis occasionally had a different view of these "favors" than his older brother. He saw Napoleon's appointment of him as governor of the "Department beyond the Alps," which would have required his relocation to Turin, as a form of exile, and refused to leave for this new station until after Napoleon's coronation as King of Italy. When the time came, he pleaded ill health and did not accompany Napoleon to Milan for the ceremony. Suffering from acute rheumatism, he had temporarily lost the use of his right hand. By this point he was something of a hypochondriac, and often imagined his illnesses to be far worse than they actually were. His doctors recommended mud baths in St. Amand. Napoleon, still clinging to the idea of making a soldier of Louis, gave his brother command of a reserve corps in the Army of England which would enable him to set up his headquarters close to St. Amand to take the suggested cure. He departed with Hortense and their two children. The mud baths seemed to improve his health.

During the 1805 campaign, Louis remained in Paris as Grand Constable. To everyone's surprise, after his initial reluctance to take over the role of military governor, he displayed remarkable energy. He was not yet aware that Napoleon was in the early stages of preparing him a throne. But rumors soon spread that the Prussians were planning to invade France via the Netherlands. Napoleon ordered Louis to form the Army of the North, to defend the northern departments, as well as Antwerp and the Batavian territories. Louis arrived in Antwerp the day before the battle of Austerlitz; in spite of the war coming to a rapid end, he received orders from Napoleon, via Marshal Berthier, to stay put in Holland. He was also instructed to make sure the Dutch covered "all the pay and supplies of the Army of the North; it must also buy and supply you with all the artillery and transport horses you may need... the Army of the North is not to cost the Emperor anything."

Despite Napoleon's orders, Louis handed over command of his new army and headed back to France upon learning of the peace of Pressburg. Napoleon was not pleased by the unexpected meeting with his brother in Strasbourg. The Emperor finally confided to Louis his intentions of forming a kingdom in Holland, but did not yet go so far as to say that he intended Louis to rule it.

But Napoleon could see only two viable options for Holland: it must either be annexed to the Empire directly, or preserve its independence by accepting an imperial prince--Louis--as its king. The Dutch government were reluctant to forfeit their republic, but recognized that resistance to Napoleon was futile. They assented to the rule of Louis, with the understanding that no French officials would be appointed except in the king's personal household (Louis would break this promise soon enough), that freedom of worship would be maintained, and the current system of Dutch law left in place. Once these points were arranged, Louis was informed by Napoleon that he was to be King of Holland. Louis himself had little choice in the matter.

Louis was initially reluctant to take the throne, but soon warmed to the perceived advantages of being out of his domineering brother's direct grasp. Hortense, meanwhile, dreaded the idea, as well as the visible change in Louis's demeanor.

I admit that my husband's calm manner surprised me. I did not believe he was ambitious, yet I recognized that he was well pleased with what had occurred. Until then every change had been a source of annoyance to him. But now he enjoyed the idea of becoming his own master and, what was more, becoming my master at the same time. No longer would any social decorum, any sense of obligation restrain him from exercising his rights over me. Freed from the proximity of his brother he had no longer any cause to fear him.... For a moment I had the idea of flinging myself at the Emperor's feet, revealing all the torments I suffered with my husband, and begging permission not to be obliged to follow him into a foreign country where nothing would restrain those traits in his character, which I knew so well and dreaded so intensely.

The official Dutch "offer" of the throne was presented as representing nine-tenths of the populace. The formal proclamation of Louis as King of Holland took place at the Tuileries on 5 June 1806. He was solemnly reminded by Napoleon that he was still a French prince. In his response, Louis spoke of his pride in having worked to defend the Dutch people from invasion the year before, the honor he felt in being called to rule over them. He assured Napoleon that his people--he was now referring to the Dutch--would feel love and gratitude towards the Emperor and France.

[Louis Bonaparte]

Louis and Hortense left Paris a week later. The Dutch gave them a joyous reception as they made their way through the country, every small town vying to outdo the other. Hortense held a dismal view of it all. "The martial escorts, the honors, receptions and speeches only wearied me." At one point, she remarked darkly to Louis that the receptions were similar to those the French had held to celebrate the arrival of Marie Antoinette.

Though he had been thrust into the role against his will and accepted it with some reluctance, Louis was determined to be a good king to his subjects, and take care of their interests--which would inevitably put him at odds with Napoleon, just as it would for Murat in Naples years later. "From the moment I set foot on Dutch soil," the newly-crowned Louis declared to his legislature, "I became Dutch." "Which explained in a sentence," writes biographer Andrew Roberts, "the problem Napoleon was to have with him over the next four years."

***

Sources:

Atteridge, A. Hillard. Napoleon’s Brothers, 1909.

Broers, Michael. Napoleon: Soldier of Destiny. 2014.

Broers, Michael. Napoleon: Spirit of the Age. 2018.

De Beauharnais, Hortense. Memoirs of Queen Hortense, Vol I.

Masson, Frédéric. Napoleon et sa Famille, Vol I (1796-1802), 1907.

Roberts, Andrews. Napoleon: A Life. 2014.

[fleckcmscott]

Things Past

Summary: Arthur shares a childhood memory with Y/N. She sees it differently than he does.

Warnings: Mild angst

Words: 2,645

A/N: This was an anonymous request! Thank you for sending it to me - it was a real challenge. A big thanks to Karen, too. Not just for beta-ing, but for helping with the basis of the memory in question. (I had an idea but hers was much better.) 

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

Y/N was clad in her robe and brushing her teeth when Arthur entered the bathroom, flashed her a half-smile, and sat on the side of the tub. A mix of nicotine and cologne hung in the air. He must have smoked half a pack if he was trying to cover up the scent. The flexing of his bare toes on the dark tile floor, and the nibbling of his thumbnail caught her eye in the mirror. Once she rinsed, she grabbed a piece of floss and sat next to him, situating herself so they were hip to hip.

They were fast approaching five years together. Arthur and she still found respite in each other's presence. In shared warmth, not only in the familiarity of their affection, but also in the meeting of lips and bodies during lovemaking and otherwise. And in their companionable silences, which continued to hold a tacit acknowledgment that he could tell her whatever he needed, whether he uttered a simple word or two, or the rare paragraph.

Arthur appeared to be somewhere in the middle of that range of need now. It was evident in the tightness of his back as she put her palm on it. Rubbing gently, fingertips tracing his spine, she sought to bring him out. Like she had back when he'd sat on her sofa with his journal, a stand-up fresh off his first performance. The morning she'd realized she'd fallen in love with him.

His sigh let her know her attention was working. "Dr. Ludlow wants to talk about when I was a kid," he murmured. "I won't know what to say. I barely remember anything."

The subject of his childhood was seldom discussed. Even after his mother had passed away last spring; he'd been silent when they'd picked-up her belongings at the home. (He'd thrown out everything besides the periodic letters and photos Y/N had sent, stating "I like reading I make you happy.") They had never gone over the details in the Arkham file. He'd told her he hadn't and wouldn't look at all of it. He'd seen the headlines, scanned the psychiatric interview, touched the adoption certificate. That had been enough.

While he'd guessed she'd looked at Penny's records, she hadn't disclosed that she'd eventually read all it contained. Had learned the details of his neglect and abuse. Had seen the photos of his emaciated, bruised body. Her throat constricted as they flashed in her mind's eye. It was a mercy he wasn't aware of everything that had occurred. Even if his unconscious knew.

Of course, if he asked her, she'd answer any questions he had. Tell him all of it. But she didn't want to burden him. Or for him to feel shame, an unwarranted reaction her experience reading family cases had taught her was common. The two of them would keep doing what they always had: deal with the residual effects of his past, the symptoms of his illnesses together, as best they could. And for what she couldn't help with, he had his doctor and his journal.

"You can say whatever you want." Y/N bunched up the floss and tossed it towards the trash can under the sink, groaning as it bounced off the rim and back at them. "You could bring back some classic parts of your act. The one about how you hated school," she said, nudging his side. "And how the other kids were too unsophisticated to see what a sweet, funny boy you were."

He retrieved the plastic thread and stood up, threw it away. At his scoff, she realized her attempt to lighten his load hadn't worked. "That was, what? Over thirty years ago?" Then he turned to her, his thumb stuck in the waistband of his pajamas. "We have our life now. Why should it matter?"

Reluctance to admit one's past affected the present was understandable. She'd denied it to herself when she'd first moved to Gotham. Burying herself in her work had been enjoyable. And it had had the convenient side effect of allowing her to avoid processing the ways caretaking had changed her. Starting a relationship with Arthur had forced her to stop and take a breath, to examine its impact. It had done her good. She was certain it would him, too.

"Arthur." He took her proffered hand without pause and stepped to her automatically. She pressed her mouth above his navel, laid her cheek against the warm skin of his belly. "I'll be right here for you." The caress to her hair was featherlight and her hold on him tightened. "You've put so much work into yourself. This is difficult but you can do it."

Bending to her, he kissed the top of her head. "Go to bed. I don't wanna keep you up."

"It's all right if you do. I happen to like your company." At last, she succeeded in getting a chuckle out of him and a playful swat to her thigh. But he withdrew and wished her good night. Heading into their bedroom, she heard the click of the lamp in the living room, the opening of the door to the fire escape. He'd be outside for some time, she assumed. Quickly, she got one of his sweaters and brought it out to him. Though he raised a brow at her, his eyes were full of fondness. She slung the wool shirt over his shoulder and pecked his jaw before taking her leave.

~~~~~

Occasionally, Arthur would call her office before leaving for an appointment. He'd never say he was thinking of skipping a session. That he was having doubts they were working at all. That tough days were infrequent yet harsh. His flat tone and pauses clued her in, though. He'd been calm when he called today, and she'd kidded with him until his mood had buoyed and he'd said he was going. Promising a date night, if he felt up to it, had helped.

Currently, Y/N was in line at Marchetti's waiting for take-out. Wanting to catch-up on the evening news, she grabbed a Gotham Journal from the newsstand. Since the murders of Thomas and Martha Wayne in a robbery six months ago, Gotham's malfeasance appeared to have gotten worse. Reports of small businesses being cited for minor code violations, while establishments run by people with the right name and enough money were left to their own devices, flourished. Construction strikes had become more frequent, which she would normally support. But they had a way of ending as soon as the city placed a higher bid. The chief of police had been photographed hobnobbing with a crime boss, but the mayor had taken no action.

On top of it all, the Wayne Foundation, that thorn in her side, was drawing back many of the initiatives it had begun after increasingly austere program cuts. Including services at that damned medical center in Otisburg. They couldn't run out of funds, the board claimed. With the continuously sluggish economy, returns on their investments weren't what they used to be. The organization needed to ensure the Wayne's son would be taken care of.

Y/N didn't buy those excuses. She had nothing against the boy - she couldn't imagine losing her parents at such a young age. But how many mansions, gazebos, and toys did a child need? The skeptical part of her, the one that always suspected an angle, wondered if the increase in the city's corruption and the Wayne Foundations machinations were related...

Stop it, Y/N. Quickly, she shoved the paper back in its spinning rack. If she thought about it too much, she'd find a way to stumble into an investigation she couldn't ignore. While she'd be ready for one and relish it, she didn't want to focus on that tonight.

Their order was ready in about twenty minutes. Arthur and she had gotten into the habit of getting two individual pizzas, borne of his limited willingness to experiment with toppings. Normally, he was happy to take her recommendations, but he insisted cheese was just as good as any other kind and liked to have it to fall back on. She'd gotten Hawaiian for herself. If he was in the mood to eat, she was sure they'd split them.

Happy notes from the Sinatra live album she'd gifted him for his most recent birthday hit her as she opened the apartment door.  It was a pleasant surprise. Arthur only listened to the LP when he was doing all right. (It had prompted him to tell her of his wish to go see him in concert together, and he didn't want to taint that with negative thoughts.)

Upon peeking around the corner from the kitchen, she spotted Arthur in his writing nook, scribbling hurriedly and tapping his feet to the beat. He was obviously engrossed, but she didn't think he'd mind if she interrupted. Soon she approached his desk, plates in hand. "Knock, knock."

A gentle snort as he put down his pen, "Who's there?"

"Delivery service." She propped her hip against the edge of his desk, and placed the food next to his journal, along with a paper towel. "You owe me a tip."

"I do, don't I?" He angled his head up and pulled her in for a quick kiss. "Thanks. I've only had coffee since this morning. Just been working on my material." Swallowing, he flipped back a page in his notebook. "How did the little boy learn to get home?" His green eyes met hers, a hiccup of laughter in his throat. He allowed about three seconds before giving her the punchline. "Step by step by step by step."

Her features softened and her grin drifted away as she absorbed what he'd jotted. In the past, his act had contained references to his childhood. References which could have been based on recollections, figments, or both. This was an observation in joke form, as his jests tended to be. "That's clever." She reached to brush a chestnut wave from his forehead, deciding to ask what she'd been curious about since she got in. "I'm glad you're doing so well. I take it therapy went better than expected?"

Nodding, he gave her a tight-lipped smiled, dimples on display. "Mhm." She moved to sit more fully on his desk, straightening as she secured her paper towel to the neckline of her blouse. They munched quietly, glancing between their slices and each other. It was clear he wanted to tell her more. After he finished his first bites, he shifted in his chair. "I remembered something nice."

A weight rolled off her shoulders, and the corners of her mouth turned up. "That's wonderful."

"Yeah." His teeth worried his thin bottom lip, his gaze going to his plate. "I was at school late - maybe I got in trouble for laughing. Penny was supposed to get me. But I think she forgot, so I had to walk home... It was dark. I hadn't gone that far by myself."

With every word he spoke, Y/N's elation ebbed, replaced by sympathy. But she didn't stop him. "The next day was the same. My mother wasn't there." He still switched back and forth between her name and that title, though he used the latter less and less. "I buttoned my coat and tied my shoes on my own." The satisfaction reflected in his expression contrasted with the pain welling in her. "The steps were icy, but I didn't fall once."

A hitched chuckle left him. "Penny stared at me when she finally answered the door. She couldn't believe I remembered the way home. Then she picked me up." His eyelids fluttered. And the beam on his face was blinding. "She said I was a good boy and told me I was big enough to walk home from then on. She gave me a quarter for a movie." His voice became small, as small as the boy in the story. "I think she was proud of me."

Y/N kept her stare fixed to the floor. Her chewing had slowed, then halted completely. A question nagged at her, even as she assumed the answer would hurt. "How old were you?"

A slight shrug in the corner of her eye. "Six? Seven?"

It shouldn't have stunned her that what he'd introduced as "nice" was to the contrary. But she was gutted. The implications behind it tightened her chest. Was it the last time his mother had held him? Had he gone to the damned movie theater alone, too? Why the hell had the city given him back to Penny?

She'd spent a lot of effort helping him learn that it was okay to be angry and upset sometimes. That he didn't have to lie to her about how he felt. That he didn't have to hide if things were too much for him or he had a bad day. And here she was, doing her best to paste on a smile for him. The difference, she supposed, was that it was to protect him. Not to lie to herself.

She didn't want him to have an inkling regarding the tumult she'd experienced in the last five minutes. That this memory wasn't ideal. Telling him how to feel about it would be crossing the line from honesty into cruelty. There had to be a truth in this she could be happy about. And following some pondering, she found one. He had so few memories from his youth. She supposed he'd been fortunate to retrieve one he considered positive, even though it broke her heart.

She permitted herself to sniff once, blinked a few times at the carpet, and looked to him. "I'm glad you have that to hold onto." Thank god she'd managed to keep her voice from wavering. She distracted herself by squeezing his hand, then brought his knuckles to her lips. "You deserve it."

After a sharp exhale, Arthur moved his palm to hold her shoulder and drew her to him. "You know how you needed me to get into NCB studios? To do your job?"

Twisting to put her plate on the desk, she couldn't stop her giggle. It hadn't been her job - it had been the opposite, frankly. "Of course."

"You're like that for me when it's hard." It was a simple comparison, but she thought it was one of the most beautiful she'd ever heard. She pushed her lips to his, titling her head to deepen the connection and cup his cheeks.

He loosened himself from her grip and grabbed the paper towel she'd tucked into her shirt. Laughing, he tried to wipe away the grease she'd gotten on his face. Y/N plucked the napkin from him and weaved her fingers into his silky hair, imploring him not to care. She looked down at him, unable to stop a smile from forming.

Damn, she was a lucky woman. How did he manage to cheer her, even with the ache lingering in her breast? She'd have to be extra sweet to him in the upcoming days. Hug him tighter, longer, until he pushed her off and shook his head with a smirk before pulling her back in again. It would soothe her, allow her to deal with the mixed emotions she felt at his recollection. Ensure his joyful mood stuck around and make him happy.

She'd start tonight. "We can skip Gotham News and watch whatever you want." She tapped his chest. "You pick."  

"I like watching the news with you." He grinned, then. "But I rented a movie. A comedy from the thirties. There's dancing."

Comedies were much more his cup of tea than hers. But she'd watch anything to sit next to him, to see joy in his eyes, to hold and be held by him. She nuzzled at him and kissed his cheek. "I'm sure we'll love it."

~~~~~

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[the-general-hux]

@finishwhxtyoustartxd

Armitage Hux rested his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger side window. His parents had stopped talking hours ago, his mother was asleep in the front seat and his father was driving with white-knuckled fingers crimped around the steering wheel. Hux shared the backseat with luggage that wouldn’t fit in the trunk of their rental sedan. His knees pressed against the back of the driver’s seat and he longed for chance to stretch out his legs. His eyes blinked open and shut as he looked out the window at the endless procession of trees.

Traffic slowed down and his father spat out a string of curses at the other drivers’ abilities to keep stopping distance on the rain slick road. The air smelled damp, even through the filter of the air conditioning. A small town appeared and a sign declared it Bayport. Perhaps the settlers had never heard of redundancy, Hux thought. A smiling whale spouted a flourish of water on the sign. Hux gritted his teeth and put in his headphones.

Tourists crossed the highway, oblivious to oncoming traffic and the increasing frequency of his father’s cursing. A bead shop. Souvenirs. Weed shop. Rinse and repeat. Hux caught a glimpse of some amazing biceps in front of a coffee shop and he wrenched his neck to see if the potential face matched the muscles, but his father turned a corner and Hux lost his sight line. He huffed out a sigh. Probably just a tourist, maybe one of those bikers that cruised up and down the Oregon coast. Doing what? Whale-watching?

They pulled into a driveway that was marked with a jaunty lighthouse, Driftwood Cove. They named the rental house. Of course they did. His father stopped the car, turned off the ignition and announced. “This is our home for the next month. Let’s try to not kill each other.”

“No promises.” Hux said and his mother shot him a warning look. “Fine. You work on your book, you work on your paintings and I’ll work on growing a thick coat of mildew.”

“Now darling, it’s not that bad. The ocean air is marvelous for my health and I only have so much time with you before you go off to college and leave me behind.”

Forty two days, six hours and twelve minutes, Hux thought as he got out of the car. He sighed again and nodded because that was what you did when your sick mother guilt tripped you. This wasn’t his idea of a beach holiday. The sky was painted in shades of blue and gray, the whole landscape looked angry and battered into submission by the relentless coastal wind. Then he turned to the ocean. There was a haze covering the entire Pacific Ocean, as far as he could squint. “Twelve hours in the car and I can’t even see the fucking water.”

Hux claimed the room at the very top of the rental, it had a window overlooking the ocean and a stupid sign. “The Crow’s Nest.” He dragged his luggage up the stairs. The whole room smelled musty and forgotten. He sat down on the edge of the queen bed and flopped backwards, staring at the rafters. There was no need for a bed this big in such a small space— Hux scrunched his face up in disgust. Do not think about how many people have had sex in your bed, just don’t. That way lies madness, Hux thought. I am not going to look under the mattress pad.

“Boy!” His father hollered up the stairs, “Come help your mother with her junk!” Hux blew out the breath he was holding and descended the stairs.

It started to rain.

It continued to rain for three days. Drops splattered on the window panes and wind shrieked through the eaves. Hux made a bet with himself about how soon the roof would fly off. It was even money. He curled up on the bed, surrounded by fifteen decorative pillows that some poor soul had embroidered with seagulls and a two year old copy of People magazine. He’d read it cover to cover three times. Cellular service was complete shit and WiFi was apparently an alien concept in rustic vacation rentals. His father’s laptop had not survived the road trip and Hux’s had been commandeered, so no jerking off to his carefully curated archived amateur Alpha porn. The television downstairs had a dial to change the channels. All three channels.

“I’m going to start talking to myself. I am. I’m going to start talking to myself and go find a great white whale to have a battle to the death with. Honestly, it’s inevitable.” He could go talk to his parents. See what they were doing— Hux shook his head. Mother was sleeping, exhausted from her medication and Father was writing. He could write for days at a time, eating what was brought to him and pissing in a milk jug by his desk. He had a bestselling series, it was Regency romance of all things and the royalties were sending Hux to a very good school.

“Yet another thing for me to grateful for.” Hux told a decorative seahorse on the wall. “I have to get out of here. I have to.” He grabbed his coat and one of the guest umbrellas from the hallway. “I’m going out!” He called to his father who grunted in response and waved him off.

Hux made his way down the driveway towards the town center. He paused in front of the map of the town, drawn in a cartoon fashion that made the library and the police station look like equally jaunty places to visit. His sneakers squelched with wetness as he made his way to the coffee shop. It seemed like ages ago that he’d caught a glimpse of those glorious biceps. Everyone was wearing shapeless polar fleece and practical galoshes that he coveted with an practical intensity he’d never truly felt before.

He ordered a hot milky tea, something to chase the cold away from his bones and wrapped his fingers around it. “It's June,” he reminded himself and the counter girl smiled at him and then at his Omega Pride lapel pin. “It really is June, isn’t it?”

“It usually clears up by now. It’s not so bad. Just remember to take your vitamin D pills until the sun comes out again.” She pulled another shot of espresso after that bit of unsolicited advice. Hux pushed his sopping wet shock of red hair out of his face. He was not a natural sun worshipper, but the next time he saw the sun even he might offer up a few prayers of gratitude.

Hux wandered over to the small shelf of used books that lined the back wall. A hand lettered sign read, “Lending Library”.  Out of habit, he looked for his father’s name on the spines of the books. Only one volume this time. The fourth. Savage Unbroken Hearts. Hux couldn’t read his father’s writing, it was far too intimate an act. It was worse than the time his father had walked in on Hux taking a selfie, wearing glitter and a rainbow thong. Hux cringed at the memory and selected a paperback space opera that boasted about galactic conquest. He sat down at a table and thumbed through the yellowed pulpy pages. The previous owner had scrawled his name in childish block letters on the interior cover. Ben.

The counter girl gave him a plastic bag for the book and Hux stepped out into the rain. It wasn’t going to defeat him. “You hear me?” Hux muttered to the weather as he made his way down the boardwalk. He rolled his eyes at the tiny salon and a candy store that was only open on the weekend. He paused in front of a photograph studio that specialized in pirate portraits. Skywalker Studios. Tourists grinned in tawdry costumes and posed in front of pirate flags. Rain dripped from the tip of Hux’s nose and he snorted in disdain. There was a 90% chance that his mother would drag them all in here for a souvenir portrait.

The beach access stairwell was just beyond the photography studio and Hux gripped the guardrail as he wrestled with both the slippery seagull shit smeared steps and the wind that threatened to steal his umbrella. The ocean was surging, the tide rolling in. Hux stared out at the dark, seething waters and felt begrudging respect for the power and intensity of the storm. Also for the warning signs posted all over the beach. Rolling logs that could kill you. Rip tides. Sneaker waves. Tsunamis. This was not the ocean that was in the brochures. Icy spray hit him in the face and he blinked saltwater from his lashes.

There was a man strolling along the pebbled beach. Long dark hair whipped around his head. What kind of Alpha bullshit was this? It was a stereotype of course, but the only person who would have the sheer ballsy stupid confidence to be walking on that beach would be an Alpha. A shameful thrill trilled up the back of Hux’s neck and he tasted the salt on his own lips.

The man reached the stairwell and as he ascended, Hux hid behind his Driftwood Cove umbrella. The man paid him no mind as he passed, Hux peeked out from beneath the umbrella shade. He swallowed hard as he caught the hint of a defined, youthful jawline, speckled with interesting moles that reminded Hux of constellations. The man unlocked the door to Skywalker Studios, stepped inside and flipped on the OPEN neon sign.

Oh god dammit. He wasn’t going to follow that weirdo guy, no matter how broad his shoulders were, no matter how bored Hux was, no matter— he stood on the steps of the photography studio and pushed open the door.

A bell jingled announcing Hux’s presence as he folded up his umbrella in the entry way. “Just a moment!” A deep voice called out from behind a curtain. “Be right out!’

Hux looked at the puddle of rain water accumulating around his feet and he flushed with embarrassment. He glanced to the side at a mirror for the tourists to check their costumes. His hair was plastered to his head, water dripped from his ears. No, no, no this was a mistake—

The broad-shouldered stranger walked out in a muscle baring tank top, drying his hair with a towel. The lack of fabric made one thing painfully clear to Hux’s libido. This was the owner of the Glorious Biceps. He wrapped the towel around his hair in a makeshift turban and looked at Hux. For a long moment, the Alpha’s plush pink mouth fell open as he took in the bedraggled, soaked ginger making a mess of his shop floor. If the Earth could open up and swallow me whole right now, that would be just dandy, Hux thought. He turned to leave.

[bro-stoevsky]

Could I please request Hartving and the class differences prompt? Love your writing!

oh friend. please understand i tried with this one. i really tried. like i have seen the terror approximately 5,000 times and i still started this fanfiction by googling “hartnell the terror” so that’s the level of sophistication you’re dealing with. this is my first attempt at writing either of these guys and I hope you like (don’t mind?) it! thank you for this prompt & sorry in advance

Tears Into Thy Bottle

In which Tom Hartnell’s brother dies under mysterious pre-canon circumstances, Irving tries to do a Good Deed, and no one is happy for even 30 seconds. 

Tom Hartnell removed his brother’s things from his sea chest one by one, feeling miserable and invasive. The chest had been left in disarray; the unruly boy who came home so many times with mud on his knees had, in the end, not even had a clean shirt to be buried in.

Hartnell took out trousers, the badly-folded coat John had worn on land, a pipe, and another pipe. Shoes that would not fit him and shirts he did not need. When he came upon a silhouette portrait of a woman he looked it over, curious, for a name, and his heart throbbed when he recognized their mother. He would have to be the one to bring her the news. He would tell her that her firstborn son had carried her portrait from Gillingham to the end of the map, and kept on carrying it.

“Alright, Tom?” He tore his eyes from the portrait, noticing belatedly that someone had put a hand on his shoulder. It was Harry Peglar of the foretop, quiet and tactful. “Mr. Armitage is here for you, Tom.”

“Mr. Armitage?” said Hartnell, not understanding what the gunroom steward would want of him or what interest he might have in a dead man’s old clothes.

“Mr. Armitage,” Peglar affirmed. “He has a message for you.”

Armitage was indeed there waiting, wringing his hands. “I’m awful sorry,” he said, “but Lt. Irving would like to see you, Tom.”

It made less and less sense. “Lt. Irving? What could he want with me?”

Hickey laughed. The crass, rude caulker’s mate had been somewhat in John’s orbit, at arm’s length but never entirely rejected, and he had come for his share of the dead man’s tobacco.

 “What couldn’t he want, that one? I’ll tell you what I think: you on your knees,” Hickey paused for a long time as he puffed on his pipe, grinning as he held everyone’s attention. With visible relish he reached his conclusion: “In prayer.”

All at once, Hartnell’s friends hissed at him.

“Can’t you show some fucking respect,” said Gibson. “His brother’s just died.”

“And the good lieutenant will pray for his soul,” Hickey replied.

“See what the lieutenant wants,” Peglar advised, “and I can keep my eye on John’s things. I’m sure you won’t be long away.”

Hartnell nodded, rising to follow Armitage up and aft to the officers’ cabins.

“Lieutenant,” said Armitage as he knocked on one of the doors. “Tom Hartnell is here for you sir, as you asked.”

The door slid back. Hartnell knuckled his forehead.  

“That will do, thank you, Mr. Armitage,” said Irving. “Mr. Hartnell. Will you come in? I’m afraid there isn’t much room, but I should like to speak privately to you.”

“Aye, sir,” said Hartnell, and stepped inside. It was the finest and most rarified place he had been aboard the ship, and it disappointed him to discover that the cabin was miserably small, little more than a bed and a cramped writing desk. Irving’s bed was neatly-made and there was a writing set on his desk, a sheet of unmarked white paper waiting for him. Hartnell searched these items for a clue in Irving’s purpose and could find nothing.

Irving shut the door behind him. “I grieve for your loss,” he said, meeting Hartnell’s eyes. “Your brother was a good seaman and well-liked. Will you accept my condolences?”

“Of course, sir,” said Hartnell, uncomfortable. He had known that Terror’s third lieutenant had a serious, searching gaze, but to have that wide-eyed attention pointed toward him at close quarters was unnerving.

“You do not need to stand,” said Irving, himself taking a seat at his writing desk. There was nowhere else to sit except the bed, and Hartnell hesitated at taking that liberty. “Please be at your ease, Hartnell. I’m sorry I can’t offer you a chair, but the bed will do you just as well. Are you—have you had your rum? I could call Mr. Armitage back.”

“I have had it, sir.” And more besides—the bosun having seen fit to measure out a final tot for John. He sat down on the bed, and the frame creaked. “There is nothing else I need.”

They passed a moment in silence. Irving laced his fingers together and separated them. “Death is harder to bear when it comes far from home,” he said. “It should not be so but it is. Would it comfort you for me to say that it matters not a whit, how far we roam? For our true home is in Heaven, and on Judgment Day your brother will not be forgotten.”

 It was not comforting at all, and in fact Hartnell did not like to think about Judgment Day or any of the other more dreary Christian aspects. “Thank you, sir.”

Irving sighed. “But I haven’t eased your mind a bit. I can tell from your face. You know, I asked Lt. Little for permission to speak with you, and his reply was, ‘If it please you, only don’t frighten the boy with your talk.’ And of course that’s just what I’ve done.”

“It would have to be worse than that to frighten me,” said Hartnell.

“Good man,” said Irving. His face did something that was nearly a smile, and it made his gaze less uncomfortably luminous and more congenial. “You know it was never my intention—is never my intention—to be such dismal company. Of course it would have been better for me to have said something more benign, your brother is on a cloud somewhere looking down on you.”

“You would not be the first to tell me so,” Hartnell admitted. He had, for the better part of the afternoon, been assured that John watched over him and sang in a celestial choir and would guide them all to the Passage.

“I know it. And you have all my compassion. It is only that I think it is a hard world, and it does us no good to pretend it is not governed by hard philosophy.”

This was altogether more speech than Hartnell had heard from an officer in his entire career at sea. He looked at Irving and was reminded that this man was very near his own age, and the only officer to wear a beard, very probably to obscure the boyishness of his features. From his conversation, it was clear that he did not find much sympathy with his views from his fellow officers—at once the tiny room and the privilege of privacy seemed horribly lonely.

“You make sense to me, sir,” said Hartnell, a little unsure who was being comforted.

Irving smiled completely. “You are kind to say so. But I had asked you here in the hope that I might provide you a more practical service. I do not know when we shall next have the opportunity to post the mail, but when we do, it will be better to be prepared. Should you like to send a letter to your mother, I will gladly take it down for you.”

“Sir?” The blank sheet of paper and the inkwell was explained, then.

“Your mother—she is living, yes? I thought I had seen it in the purser’s log.”

Hartnell saw her in his mind’s eye. He wondered if it was possible she did not already know what had happened. Surely she did. Surely the mystical powers bestowed by motherhood had alerted her already to calamity. And if not, John would have found some way to inform her.

“She is living,” he affirmed. “But sir, I can read and write.”

Horror dawned on Irving’s face. “I had not thought,” he said. “But of course you can. It was not my intention to insult you—I shall not take more of your time. Will you please express my consolation to her?”

Hartnell felt his face flush as he realized his misstep. He had contradicted an officer, the very thing that above all was not done in the sea service. For even young, even lonely, Irving was the third lieutenant of their ship and his word was as God’s to the ratings. But Hartnell’s mind was soft and fatigued with grief and he had not reacted correctly.

He tried to revise his story: “I should not have said that, sir, forgive me. I mean I can read and write a little, but not very well. I should be glad of your help.” He wondered, in the back of his mind, how Irving proposed his mother to read the letter, if she had indeed raised an illiterate child. 

Irving’s smile in response was enough that Hartnell was ashamed to have thought any ill of him. Young, he thought again, and lonely.

“Is this time convenient?” Irving asked, already wetting his pen.

Hartnell thought of his brother’s sea chest—the mess that John had not meant anyone to see, the junk that had turned in the space of a few hours into relics of the dead, the heartbreaking portrait of their mother—he had no desire to return. He had no desire to see any of it again, to dole it out to their friends, to hear the caulker’s mate make his crude remarks. “There is nowhere else for me to be,” he replied.

Irving gave him that shy look again, and wrote something on the sheet. “I am writing an introduction,” he explained, “in case she does not recognize the writing. And then you may say what you like, and I’ll write it down.”

“Can you start out with, ‘My dear Mother—’ or, ought I to put our location at the top?”

“I have already done so. ‘My dear Mother,’ it is a very good beginning. What then?”

“And then—I should go to the point. ‘I have terrible news,’” he tried to think of how to put this terrible news, but he could not take his mind away from the sea chest. He thought of his mother, darning one of John’s shirts, complaining that he was too rough on them. He thought of her portrait, which John had never showed him. “‘Terrible news, Mama,’” he repeated again, and when he tried a third time his voice broke and he began to weep.

Irving set down his pen. “Hartnell?” he asked, and there was a scrape of his chair as he crossed the step or so to the bunk. “Hartnell, let me get you a handkerchief—I have one—” there was a clattering of things around the desk, and then Irving was handing him a white square of fabric.

“Forgive me, sir, ” said Hartnell, wiping at his eyes and his nose. “I should return to the fo'c’s'le. I am not fit for your company. You have been too kind already.”

Irving sat down beside him, and after a minute’s hesitation took Hartnell’s hand in two of his own. “There is nothing to forgive. Come now—come now, your brother is with God.”

Grief did nothing to dull Hartnell’s other senses, and he realized that Irving’s palm was damp. He thought, distantly, of the propriety of their position, and Hickey’s crass remarks, and he was not compelled by these objections. It did him good to feel another living person beside him, someone whose attention was only on his comfort.

“Do you think so, sir?”

“I am certain,” said Irving.

They sat in silence for some time as Hartnell reeled himself in and regained his composure.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said again, looking at the handkerchief. The initials J.I. were embroidered on it. “I can wash this.”

“Do not trouble yourself,” Irving replied. He withdrew his hands. “It is a gift. As for the letter—I should have seen I was keeping you from your mates. Perhaps we shall try again tomorrow.”

“Of course, sir. But you’re not keeping me from anything.”

Irving stood up, and paused during his step to the desk. He looked at Hartnell again—shy, round-eyed and eerie—and he nodded with satisfaction. “Stay then, and we will finish your letter.”

[ask-de-writer]

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 36 of 83 : World of Sea

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SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 36 of 83

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

copyright 2020

written 2007

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users   of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may   reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information   remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in   my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  PART 1 is here

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Chapter 12: Poison

Tanlin saw Kurin’s collapse from across the square.  She got grimly to her feet and went to the Grandalor’s booth.  There she told Barad what she had seen.  In a small group, including two bound prisoners, they went to their boats and returned to the Grandalor.

As soon as she saw Kurin collapse Sula beat the “general quarters” drum call with her hands and was surrounded in moments by her sailors.  Gathering Kurin into her arms, she began issuing orders. “Miklot!  You run to the Longin’s Captain.  Mord is his name. Tell him that Kurin has collapsed, and we are taking her to the Dark Dragon’s sick bay.  Any from the Longin who wish may visit.  Go!”

“Pollet, get a fast boat for us and bring it, now!”

“Narsan! Find Doctor Worran and have her meet us in sick bay.  Move!”  

The sailors moved.  Those with no other orders, formed a human shield, and escorted their Captain and her charge to the waiting boat.  It was a slender six oared shell, and under the power of Sula’s crew, it skimmed across the water like a flying fish, hardly seeming to touch the sea.

At the side of the Dark Dragon, an emergency sling was already waiting. Sula put Kurin into the sling’s stretcher and secured her.  The Captain herself went up the big piece of cargo net slung over the side as a crew ladder, steadying the stretcher until they were on deck.  Doctor Worran directed two crewmen to take the stretcher with Kurin in it to sickbay.

“What happened to the child, Captain?” she asked silently, her flickering fingers taking the place of words.

Replying the same way, Sula signed, “I hope, only fatigue.  She has had a very busy Gathering, with little sleep, due to the foolishness of Captains, myself included.  She looked tired.  We traded jests and she collapsed.  That is what I know.  I fear worse.  I saw that boneless collapse too many times during the wars.  She feels hotter than she should.”

They entered the sick bay and Doctor Worran began to examine Kurin.  Her hands busy with the examination, Doctor Worran spoke softly, “Light fever, lax muscle tone, weak, shallow breathing, poorly coordinated pupillary response.  Exhaustion or not, she is in trouble.  Thank the Dragons that she’s not coughing blood.”

Turning to her aide, she directed, “Tell the duty cook that I want the sweetest fish broth he can make.  Fast.  Also tell off two of the watch to bring buckets of the coldest water we can get, they have to let the buckets sink as deep as the lines allow.  Thank you, Calis.”

Calis was back shortly, with the soup.  She signed, “The galley was making a sweet and sour sea grass soup.  They strained out the sea grass and sweetened it more.  They set a pot aside for us.  The men are sinking buckets, now.”

The Doctor raised Kurin’s head and spooned a little broth into her mouth.  Some dribbled out, but she did swallow.  She was still spooning broth into Kurin when the sailors of the watch showed up. “Ma’am, we brought your water, as ordered,” one said, both hands carrying buckets. Turning to Sula he added, “Captain, there’s a bunch of folk in small boats as wants to come on board.  What shall I tell them?”

Sula signed silently, “Invite them to the deck.  They may come visit only a few at a time.  She is one of their own and important to them. Us, too.  This is Kurin, the Dragon’s Daughter.”

The sailors stared in disbelief.  One signed, “She’s so small.  All that I’ve heard, I thought she’d be — — bigger — — somehow.”

Sula’s fingers flickered, “I felt the same, before I met her.  She has wisdom, intelligence, and skills far beyond her Gatherings.  Now, go and invite our guests aboard.”

Kurin’s fever was not dropping, so the Doctor wrapped her in a blanket soaked in the cold water from the buckets.  Kurin began shivering and tried to pull into a fetal position.

“Good,” said Doctor Worran.  “She is no longer fully lax, but her breathing is still weak.”  Feeling Kurin’s forehead, she added, “Her fever is broken.  She needs more broth, as soon as she is able to swallow.”  She held Kurin close, regardless of the wet blankets, and began spooning in more soup.  At first Kurin was swallowing by reflex only.

“Ugh!” the child whispered, trying to lift a hand to push away the spoon, “It’s too sweet.”

“Kurin, can you open your eyes?” the  Doctor  asked, her voice carefully neutral.

“Sure, I’m just tired and cold.  Mainly tired.  I want to sleep.”

“Just open your eyes and look at me, Kurin.  Have a few bites more of soup, and we will let you sleep as long as you want.”  Her black eyes looked carefully at Kurin’s unevenly wide pupils and unequally tracking eyes.  She nodded to herself grimly.  “Bring me the ray spine extract, now!” she said quietly as an aside to her startled aide, “Then get Captain Mord in here.  I have news that will not wait.”

She added a carefully measured part of the liquid that the aide brought to the soup and spooned it into Kurin’s mouth.  Kurin almost spat it out, but Doctor Worran stopped her with a light yellow hand.  “I know that it’s bitter, but you must have it.  It is a medicine that will help you to rest.”  Kurin pulled a bit of a face, but obediently ate what she was given.  She did fall asleep quickly.

“Get dry blankets and set up a fresh bunk for her.  Then get a crewman to clean up this mess, and caution him to be quiet.”  Doctor Worran turned at the entry of a worried Captain Mord.

“What is the matter with Kurin, Doctor?  I was told by people who saw her collapse that she was exhausted.”  He looked at the wet mess in the sick bay and went on severely, “This does not look like the way that we treat exhaustion.”

With some asperity, Doctor Worran said, “Neither do we.  It is how we treat Ord poisoning.”

“Ord! Those things kill in minutes!  There’s no antidote that I know of,” now he was looking horrified.

“True, Captain, if you are unfortunate enough to be stuck by one.”  She put her head in her hands, and rubbed her forehead, breathing deeply before she went on.  “The poison is much slower if it is eaten in food.  A quick stab of a spine into any of her food or drink would do.  There is no betraying taste and all that the spine leaves to mark its deadly intent, is a small hole, invisible in many common foods.  She could have been poisoned anytime in the last half day. Fortunately, there is an antidote to the poison, if there is time to give it.”

“Did Kurin get it?  I have never heard of it before,” said Mord, plainly upset.

“I have given it to her.  If she is lucky, we were in time.  I had to be sure, before I gave it to her, because the ray spine extract that counters Ord is also a deadly poison but it will release the grip of the Ord toxin on her system.  She is already breathing more easily.” Doctor Worran looked both angry and sad.  “She will have a bad few days, however it goes.  I think that she will live.”

“We are lucky that you had the antidote in your supplies.  We owe you much.  The thanks of the Longin will not be intangible.”

“Luck had little to do with the antidote being in our supplies, Captain,” Sula said.  She had been wisely staying back, out of the way, and letting her crew do their work.  “The Corlis fleet requires every ship to carry it.  Ord was used as a weapon in the Boren Current wars, about ten Gatherings ago.”  Grimly, she added, “I helped to track down the ones responsible and we cast them adrift in small boats, with Ord contaminated supplies from one of the ships that they killed.”

“I see.  Captain Sula, it was generous of you to allow us to come aboard and be near.  Kurin has many friends, both on the Longin and off.”

“Only those from the Longin will be allowed aboard my ship.  Somebody tried to kill her, and may have succeeded,” Sula said, jaw set.  “I will have provisions distributed to your folk who maintain vigil and sleeping quarters will be arranged.  Come to my cabin with me.  We can wait there for news.”  She led the way to her cabin beneath the raised and partially enclosed bridge, near to the bows.

Entering Sula’s cabin, Mord saw that it was decorated with many woven and embroidered hangings.  On the bow-side wall was an embroidered hanging of Dark Iren with his Orca whales about him.  In places framed by the design were three plaques.  Each simply said, in inlaid letters of iridescent shell, “For Meritorious Service To The Corlis fleet” The first had the number nine in it, the second, twelve, and the last had fifteen.  Over the whole design was embroidered, “Dragons grant that we need never suffer another such victory.”

Mord let himself down onto one of Sula’s many cushions.  Already certain, with no evidence, of who was behind Kurin’s poisoning he lapsed into pleasant thoughts and dreams as he waited for news.  He pictured the Grandalor capsizing in a storm.  He thought of them hard on a reef, sinking slowly, with none to help but hungry Strong Skins.

Suddenly, things that Mord had heard clicked together with the tapestry on the wall.  “Wars?  You have fought more than one?” he asked incredulous, shaken at the thought.  He noticed the lace-making cushion and equipment.  The layout had Kurin’s unique stamp.  

Sula seated herself on a nearby cushion and said grimly, “Three of them and, I hope, never another.  We still keep the old combat catapults and a magazine of ship destroying ammunition.

“Since the second war, all Corlis fleet ships are armed for battle.  Dragons please!  Let me live my days without ever needing those weapons again!  I never want to see another ship destroyed.”  She was weeping silently.  “I have killed too many already.”  

TO BE CONTINUED

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[qqueenofhades]

"And when he comes home years later, she cries again because he’s more like Asher than ever, scars littering his body and shadows behind his eyes, a soldier and a man and everything she didn’t want for him." (I'm too lazy to write it but since we're all up in our Feelings tonight...)

Paris, France

August 30, 1997

There have been sirens droning for hours outside, on and on and on, as Maria Tompkins Flynn’s hand shakes where she tries to hold her drafting pencil, to put the final touches on the mechanical engineering plans she is putting together for her guest lectures at the Sorbonne. She tries to concentrate, but she can’t, and finally she throws it down, gets to her feet, and walks out into the dim living room. Picks up the remote and switches on the TV, as if there might be some explanation for all the ruckus outside, just in time to see an aerial photograph of a crumpled black car, a sea of flashing lights, motorcycles and cameras, and a scrolling news ticker. LA PRINCESSE DIANA DANS IN UN ACCIDENT DE VOITURE, the screen reads. CONDITION INCONNUE.

At that, Maria’s breath goes out of her a little, and she has to sit down hard. She hopes the poor woman’s all right – it’s not fair what that family has done to her, driving her out of her homeland and her life like this, hounded at every waking instant, and Maria, who knows a little of being forced into exile, losing everything, unable to go back, cannot help but sympathize. She glances out through the fluttering gauze curtains, then looks down at her shaking hands – she is not that elderly, she is only fifty-two, but age seems to have nothing to do with it. She has been living here since her adopted homeland crumbled into factionalism and war six years ago, and took her son’s heart with it. I have to do this, Mama, he insisted, during the rage and desperation of their fighting, as she gave everything she had trying (and failing) to convince her fifteen-year-old son not to enlist in the army. I have to go. Dad would have wanted it.

(How dare he use his father against her like that, Maria thinks, twisting the wedding ring that has worn a groove into her pale, fragile finger, the ring she has not taken off for ten years. It is a decade so close to the day – September 14, 1987, five days after Garcia’s twelfth birthday – when she kissed her husband for the last time. Asher said that this would be a brief mission, he should be home by Sunday, and then vanished into the ether. The KOS, the Yugoslavian intelligence service – there is no more Yugoslavia, but there are all of its secrets – is still so heavily classified that Maria has never been able to find out where he was sent, what he was doing, or how he met his fate. She and Asher agreed that he would tell their son what his job really was when Garcia was sixteen. Instead, she has been left in limbo, and he still does not know the truth.)

Maria sits down, gets up, wonders if she should turn the television on yet, if Princess Diana is doing better. They must have taken her to the hospital, truly? Her poor sons. They are teenagers, they are not ready to lose their mother. William is fifteen years old, isn’t he? The thought gives Maria a jolt. That is too young, too young to lose a mother, too young to fight, too young to go to war, and it is how old her own son was, when she lost him, in some demented reverse, some funhouse mirror, down the rabbit hole, gone and gone and gone. She has not heard from him in almost six years, since he enlisted in the HV, then sent a jumbled letter about going onto Bosnia. As if one war was not enough, he must find another? He survived one, he runs headlong into the next, and –

The knock, when it comes, almost makes Maria spill her tea. She was not expecting visitors tonight, and she wonders if it is her neighbor, Helene, asking if she has seen the TV. She is not sure whether to answer it, but it seems uncharitable not to, and she makes her way into the front hall, unchaining the deadbolt. The walls and floors in old Paris apartments are very thin; she can often hear every sound from down the hall, and tries to walk quietly. She opens the door an inch. “Oui? Comment vous – ?”

And then, she stops. Because she cannot be seeing right, she is afraid to believe, some part of her thinks it must be a ghost, on this night that feels so thick with bad omens already. Because he’s standing there in the corridor, in a pullover sweater and battered blue jeans, his hair thick and dark and unruly and badly in need of a trim, a healing scrape of some kind on his face and the slightest hint of silver by his temples. He is ten days away from his twenty-second birthday. He looks at her – looks well down, he has his father’s height and bearing and nose and eyes, and for a moment Maria’s heart stopped for an altogether different reason, that faint and foolish hope forever that her lover will come home to her – and says, “Hello, Mama.”

Maria stares at him, stares at her son, her living, breathing son, and discovers that her own breath is shriveled in her throat. She makes only a wheezing sound as if her wind has been knocked out. “Garcia?”

He ducks his head, almost abashed. It’s a boy’s gesture, but nothing else about him looks like a boy, no matter how young he is in years. He carries a dirty duffel bag and his knuckles are battered. He says, “Can I come in?”

Maria steps aside by reflex to admit him into the apartment, too dazed to protest. He moves as if he’s uncomfortable in an enclosed space, glancing up sharply when lights cross the wall as if it might be a sniper’s sight. If he is aware of Princess Diana’s accident, he does not say so. He perches on the couch, Maria goes to make another cup of tea on the stunned thought that one should do that when one’s son appears out of the clear blue sky, returns and hands it to him. Garcia nods his thanks and takes it, sipping tersely. She stands there, staring at him, his bent head, his careful motionlessness. At last she says, “Sarajevo.”

He looks up at her, hearing the recrimination. The decision he made to go to Bosnia even when the war in Croatia was done, rather than come back here, to safety, or even stay in the new republic the people had carved out. He looks apologetic, but not guilty. “I needed to,” he says simply. “It was not over.”

Maria looks at him, that thousand-yard stare in his young eyes, the way his index finger on his right hand curls as if around the ghost of a trigger. To look at your son and know beyond all doubt that he has killed people, possibly more than he can count, makes her want to fall like a leaf on the wind, to curl up, to crumple. Since he was so injudicious as to use Asher against her when he enlisted, she is almost tempted to do it again now. Asher was a very proud Croat, he never forgot that. Yet he was – at least while Tito lived – fiercely loyal to the Yugoslavian experiment, the ideal of a unified Slav utopia, a better country for all the people, no matter their race or religion or ethnicity. But after Tito died in 1980, the economy began to crumble, and the country slowly splintered, Asher grew increasingly disillusioned with the Serb-dominated leadership, became more and more sympathetic to the idea of Croatian independence. Maria cannot think he would ever have agreed to send his teenage son to war, would have done everything to forestall it. But Asher himself joined the KOS at the age of nineteen. She is afraid there is too much wildness in their blood, these beautiful, haunted, passionate Flynn boys who can never stay blind to injustice for long. She is too afraid that her beloved husband would not, if Garcia had insisted upon it, have ultimately said no.

Garcia sips his tea a few moments more. Maria moves to sit next to him, as the sirens and lights continue to go by outside, and she sees a muscle move in his cheek. “Sarajevo,” he says, as if continuing their earlier conversation. “There are rumors that Kosovo is going next.”

At that, Maria feels the tiny bloom of hope that opened inside her begin to crumble into dust. She knows what that means, even as she was somehow clinging to the foolish idea that he had come back to give up the war, to stay. It means he is going back. It means that is the next battle, and he means to be there. What is this? Some brief visit to ensure she sees his face one last time before he runs back like Asher, if he disappears as well, if he –

“You could stay,” Maria says nonetheless. “Here.”

Garcia shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Three wars, then? Three? You’ve already had the one! That was for your – for our home, and you won it! Then Sarajevo, now Kosovo! Those aren’t even yours! Garcia, you don’t – ”

“Dad would have,” Garcia says stubbornly. “Dad would have understood.”

“Don’t you dare speak about your father like that to me.” Maria’s blood burns hotly in her cheeks, her heart close to smashing. Asher would never have supported the brutalities of the JNA, the Serbian atrocities, even in the name of holding together a Yugoslavia already lost, but she cannot stand to admit to Garcia that he is right. “How dare you even – ”

And with that, before they have ever even said hello to each other, before there has been any recompense for those six lost years, her grief and her frustration and her heartache burns through Maria like a poison, and she does something she instantly regrets, would give anything to take back. She raises her hand and slaps her son, her sweet boy, her child, across the face.

For a moment, Garcia looks stunned, and then as if he might rage. But what he does instead is even worse. His face slowly crumples, his head falls, and his eyes well up with tears. He must have taken all manner of worse punishment in the war, in the wars, and stood them without flinching, but at that, he breaks. He clenches his jaw, as if trying to stop the sob rising out of him, but he fails. His chin quavers, and he lets out a sound that Maria would burn down the whole world never to have heard him make, to never have been the cause of it. “My baby,” she whispers, horrified, thinking he will shove her away, but instead he falls into her arms, his face buried in her shoulder. “Sweetheart, Garcia, Garcia, my baby, no. No, no, no. Sweetheart, no.”

Garcia cries silently for almost five minutes, all the tears he has not shed before, for all the mortar shells and blasted buildings, the dead friends and the butchered civilians, the horrors that have aged him a hundred years already. It shakes and shakes out of him and Maria cries and coos and rocks him in her arms, though he is still twice the size that she is. She kisses his tumbled hair, like she did when he was very small and still prone to climb into his parents’ bed when he had a nightmare, sometimes when his father was there and more often when he was not. Maria rubs his back and cradles his head and kisses his face all over, as he clings to her arm and keeps sobbing in a way he can never do before the others, and she tries to sing him a lullaby, but her own throat is too choked up to manage. Her tears fall thick and fast into his hair. She feels as she did when the officer came to the door and told her in stilted English that he was very sorry, her husband would not be coming home. She wants to fall down and let her bones melt to dust and become one with the earth and sky.

Garcia cries until he is spent, as Maria notes a whitish scar braided on the back of his shoulder and does not ask, as her sore heart hurts even more. Then he rests there without a sound, limp and heavy, a toddler asking to be carried back to bed, and she gets him up – her hands do not shake at all this time – and guides him back to her room and puts him on her bed, and sits by him until he falls asleep, which takes only moments. She looks at the lights of Paris on the face of her sleeping child, the one thing left in the world that she loves, having lost two husbands and a son and two homelands, and wonders if you ever find the way out of it, this huge dark echoing place, this breathless grief. She smoothes a faint furrow out from between his brows. He does not wake.

(Garcia goes to Kosovo.)

(Princess Diana dies.)

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

December 29, 2020

Heather Cox Richardson

There is definitely a feeling of change in the air. For all his continuing insistence that he won the 2020 election, Trump is a lame duck.

Today’s complicated fight in the Senate over the one-time stimulus payment of $2000 illustrated that Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-KY), not Trump, now controls the Republican caucus. Trump originally refused to sign the Consolidated Appropriations Act of 2021, the bill that contains the coronavirus relief measures, because he claimed he objected to its meager $600 stimulus payments. Six hundred dollars was the amount his negotiators had demanded, but he suddenly said he wanted them to be $2000. Democrats in the House jumped on Trump’s demand for the higher payment and they passed a measure on Monday to increase the payments to $2000.

Trump had attacked the bill largely because he is angry at McConnell and Senate Majority Whip John Thune (R-SD) (a whip keeps party members in line behind the party leader) for acknowledging Biden’s victory in November. He was trying to illustrate his power by refusing to sign the bill at all. But Sunday night he gave in without winning anything, and yet continued to say he wanted higher payments. The House was happy to give him what the Democrats had wanted all along, but today Trump lost the showdown in the Senate.

Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer (D-NY) introduced the measure, but Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-KY) killed it. This enabled the two embattled Republican Senate candidates from Georgia both to support Trump and to claim they wanted higher payments, all without actually having to vote for the higher payments. McConnell bested Trump all around: he had no intention of raising those payments no matter what Trump tweeted... and he didn’t.

Trump’s influence in Washington is waning in other ways, too. Yesterday, the House repassed the National Defense Authorization Act over Trump’s veto. Trump claims to object to the bill for a number of reasons, including that it will require that military bases currently named for Confederate generals be renamed, but this is the measure into which Congress put the Corporate Transparency Act I wrote about a few days ago. It will undercut the country’s plague of so-called shell companies, which enable money laundering and other criminal activity because they are owned and operated in secret. The new measure will require that all owners and operators of such companies be clearly identified.

This will likely impact the Trump family, which uses shell companies.

There were other rumblings today that Trump’s post-presidential life might have some sticky places. The Manhattan District Attorney’s Office has hired forensic accountants to help investigate Trump and his businesses. This investigation is a criminal investigation. New York Attorney General Letitia James is in charge of a civil investigation into Trump’s businesses.

But the big thing which showed momentum is moving away from Trump is that President-Elect Joe Biden is forcefully criticizing the Trump administration for its failure to plan for distribution of the coronavirus vaccine.

With more than 330,000 Americans dead of Covid-19 and infections spiking, Biden today noted that the Trump administration has fallen behind on vaccine distribution. The effort got off to a poor start as the administration delivered fewer doses than it had promised and initially blamed Pfizer for a “miscommunication,” only to have Pfizer state that it had “millions of doses” in a warehouse but had received no information about where to send them.

The administration promised to vaccinate 20 million Americans by the end of December, but yesterday, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported that it had administered just 2.1 million doses in two weeks, although that number is likely somewhat low because of lag times in reporting. At the current rate, Dr. Leana S. Wen writes in the Washington Post, we can expect to achieve herd immunity in 10 years.

The administration at first refused to share information with the Biden camp about distribution, claiming there was a plan, even though, when finally part of discussions, Biden said “[t]here is no detailed plan that we've seen, anyway, as to how you get the vaccine out of a container, into an injection syringe, into somebody's arm.”

Health and Human Services Secretary Alex Azar responded that Biden’s claim was “nonsense.” “[W]e have comprehensive plans from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention working with 64 public health jurisdictions across the country as our governors have laid out very detailed plans that we’ve worked with them on. We’re leveraging our retail pharmacies, our hospitals, our public health departments, our community health centers.” Azar said the distribution process was being “micromanaged and controlled by the United States military, as well as our incredible private sector. We do hundreds of millions of vaccinations a year. We’re leveraging the systems that are known, and that work here in the United States.” Azar assured Fox News Sunday host Chris Wallace that, as soon as the vaccines were approved, the government would be shipping them “to all of the states and territories that we work with. And within hours they can be vaccinating,”

It turns out Biden was more right than Azar. The administration planned simply to get the vaccines to the states, and then leave to them the problem of actually getting the vaccines into people’s arms. But state Departments of Health are strapped for money after trying to manage the pandemic for nine months, and had been allotted only $6 million apiece to make the distributions happen. (The new Consolidated Appropriations Act that Trump just signed has significantly more money in it for distribution.)

“The Trump administration’s plan to distribute vaccines is falling behind, far behind,” Biden said today. “As I long feared and warned, the effort to distribute and administer the vaccine is not progressing as it should.”

Finally stung, Trump tweeted tonight that “It is up to the States to distribute the vaccines once brought to the designated areas by the Federal Government. We have not only developed the vaccines, including putting up money to move the process along quickly, but gotten them to the states. Biden failed with Swine Flu!” (Biden was not in charge of the Obama Administration’s response to H1N1 in 2009, which broke out three months after Obama took office.)

Biden promised to invoke the National Defense Production Act, a law that permits the president to require companies to produce goods at the same time that it guarantees them a market for those goods, to speed up the production of supplies necessary to distribute the vaccine quickly. “I have directed my team to prepare a much more aggressive effort, with more federal involvement and leadership to get things back on track,” he said.

But he warned that we are behind and, breaking with the Trump administration, warned that things are going to get much worse before they get better. The spike in infections along with the fallout from holiday gatherings means we will see high cases in January and high death tolls in February. It will be mid-March, he warns, before we see improvement. “The next few weeks and months are going to be very tough, a very tough period for our nation — maybe the toughest during this entire pandemic,” Biden said. “I know it’s hard to hear, but it’s the truth.”

“We are going to get through this. Brighter days are coming,” Biden said. “But it’s going to take all of the grit and determination we have as Americans to get it done.”

—-

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON