#when he was more powerful and had more confidence he wasn’t inclined to take verbal abuse but post-TEC he can’t really find it in him to

[fissions-chips]

Thinking sad n’ angsty thoughts tonight-

Post-TEC Jon still hooks up with Valentine on occasion (given the state of things, he has no other solutions to his loneliness, and he can’t bear sitting alone in the Needle all the time).

And it’s one thing for Jon to wake up to an empty bed in the morning, to sit and smoke with someone who wants nothing, really, to do with him at all- it is another to sit in the lap of a man and let himself be kissed and touched, all while Valentine whispers of how he’s going to kill him. How he’s going to hurt him, the second the cameras finally shift their unblinking eye- how no one, now that Jon has done what he has and finally snapped, will give a shit.

Such a startling, saddening dichotomy. In earlier days, at least there had been some pretending- now, there is none, and Jon sits there and wonders why he tolerates it anymore, and knows deep-down that it is because he doesn’t think he’s worth any better.

[vydante]

Restart | 12

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Avengers x Male! Reader (romantically: multiple)

A/N: Missed y'all. I don't think I'm officially off of my hiatus, but I somehow managed to pull a chapter out of my ass after months of radio silence. I really did back myself into a corner with the last chapter, but hey, this is my story and I get to pace it however I want.

Sorry if things are worded weirdly, I'm writing them but they're going through one ear and out the other when it comes to comprehending what I actually wrote. No one will remember what happened, but that's okay. God, I really need a beta-reader... Anyways. Love y'all. XOXO.

Also, sorry if any of the formattings seems off. HTML doesn't really translate well over certain sites. (Tumblr, Quotev, Wattpad, and AO3 are now my main places for posting my works. Anywhere else, that's not me nor was it permitted by me.)

If you want a recap: You're in the process of jumpstarting Project Renaissance after realizing that you've just been doing basically nothing ever since you woke up in your old body. You've also taken to making video logs to report down your progress, and in the last chapter (that was in the POV of multiple video logs), it ended on a cliffhanger with Barnes being discovered and moved to a safe house.

This chapter takes place roughly after the last one. 

If you're currently binge reading this story, this recap is only because last chapter was updated... Roughly more than 7 months before this chapter. So. Yeah. :D

Oh, and let's pretend that either A. Barnes doesn't have a tracking chip in his arm OR B. he did, but you got it out during the whole rescue-escapade. That's my bad, I straight up forgot about that possibility until I was like, close to 4000 words deep into this chapter. Now we're at roughly 8k+... Hehe. Whoops.

_______

You're not gonna call Barnes, Bucky.

There's a personal touch to the nickname that bothers you. How awful it sounds in your ears, to call the former husk of a man a name he no longer recognizes. There's history to that name, both on writing and in memory, though only in sparsity. Plus, it'll be difficult for you to associate Bucky to Barnes. A man with an identity to a man without.

So after the whole debacle of getting him out of the mini-Hulk playbox and into decent dry clothing, when he asks what his name is, you quietly debated to yourself what to tell him.

"... Your name is James Buchanan Barnes," you'd eventually reply.

He doesn't comment on the resignation in your tone, but you're confident that he certainly noticed it- surely, the ticks of being the Winter Soldier was still there, no matter how disoriented he must be. But whether courtesy was something that he hadn't forgotten whilst his brain was refried over and over like leftover KFC wings or he was simply too exhausted to ask, you didn't care.

Granted, for a man who should have a lot of questions on his mind, he's definitely proven himself to be a man of very few words.

An hour goes by, and in the midst of you trying your best to build a solid standing between the two of you, he's said so few words that you could probably count all of them on both of your hands.

If it weren't for the nods of affirmation, you'd think that his averted gaze from you would have meant that he wasn't paying attention at all, but honestly, you knew better than to judge him for that if he actually wasn't actually listening in the first place.

Hell, he could tear up the walls to the high heavens and you still wouldn't hold him against it, so you were just thankful that he was so docile, for someone who could snap your neck if he felt so inclined.

Though, as it turns out confusion and disorientation wasn't the actual reason why he was being so docile, you belatedly realize as you're stood in front of a blank-faced Barnes. You're in the middle of trying to give him a basic tour around the house when he quietly interrupted your monologuing.

"Mission parameters," you echoed his words, though mainly to yourself. He nods, and for once meets your eyes. There's neither confidence nor surrender in his eyes, and that makes your stomach churn. Chances are, he probably saw nothing wrong with asking such a thing.

"You want me to give you- mission parameters. Like- like your handlers would?" You laughed incredulously, but the humor was replaced with subdued hysterical horror.

You were aware of what they were. Aware of the types of hunts his Handlers- bastards- would sick him out on. Aware of what he did without a second thought. You saw those files, if only briefly. That was more than enough for you to see the type of expectations that came alongside "mission parameters".

He nods as if you were stating the obvious.

God.

You opened and closed your mouth, and for a split second, once you got past the horror of being asked to tell him what to do, a subtle realization crawled up your spine. In the midst of your impromptu introduction and briefing, you never really made a distinction as to what role you were supposed to play in all of this.

So it shouldn't be a surprise for Barnes to assume that you're his new- what? Handler? Caretaker? After all, as far as you can assume, that's probably all he knows; all he was conditioned to grow accustomed to, to expect his every move to be dictated by some outsider with no care to the wants or needs that Barnes has.

(Hell, if you were to make a reach right now, maybe Barnes thinks he doesn't have wants or needs. That he shouldn't.)

(In the background, a part of you simmer in silence.)

With your jaw clenched, you make an effort to make your voice as even as can be when you ask him, "You don't need mission parameters, Barnes. You're your own free man. You can- can make decisions on your own. You don't need me to tell you what you need to do."

Pray as you might, there's something about realizing that you said the wrong thing right after saying said words that make you wonder what you did to anger the higher powers that be to put yourself in the situation you're in right now.

Barnes doesn't say anything, but his eyes says it all. Confusion. Realization. Grief. Detachment. His metal hand clenches, and you're man enough to admit that it made your heart stutter in fear.

"I...", he mutters, "... don't understand."

You swallowed.

This...

This is gonna be tough.

_______

It's difficult to explain what self-autonomy and freedom meant to a man who is only capable of remembering being chained and held on a leash like a rabid dog.

Thankfully, it was your winter break, so you had a manageable excuse for being away from "home" for a few days, but you only had so long to try and establish to Barnes that you're not going to be able to be there with him as often as you are now (and even then, the time frame was too small to even make any sense of attachment).

You knew for sure you couldn't always be there for Barnes, so one thing was certain: he had to meet DAHLIA. And thankfully, since the whole safe house was yours, not even your father knew that DAHLIA, your own A.I., would be uploaded into the houses' built-in hardware.

(While the hardware was built with the intention of housing J.A.R.V.I.S. there as a standard, he ended up "moving out" the moment that the house became yours. Something about "not intruding on a teenager's privacy", but you're more than thankful for Tony's afterthought, even if you did end up taking slight advantage of his consideration.)

And surprisingly enough, Barnes wasn't really bothered by the concept of DAHLIA as much as you had initially expected. Of course, he didn't really talk to her, but it wasn't like he talked much in the first place.

(On a side note, it looks like DAHLIA seems to like the house, all things considered... So there's that.)

(The original DAHLIA was never installed here, instead she ended up "living" in a retirement house of sorts in a wooded area of New York. She never said anything about the house, so it's... Kind of endearing, to see that she actually might prefer this house instead. And mildly insulting, considering you personally decorated the other house.)

You ended up spending nearly the whole night trying to establish even the most basic of guidelines: use the bathroom whenever he needed to (you initially said phrased it as "wanted", but he promptly cut you off saying "The Asset does not have wants," which, rude, but also sad); whatever is in the kitchen is available for him to eat whenever, where ever; basic hygiene; and the most important one- if he had any questions, his first source would be you. And on the off-chance that you're not available, DAHLIA is always online and ready to help.

He gave a tentative nod, but you're somehow not confident that he might have interpreted it wrong. You're hoping he doesn't do anything to prove you right.

"Alright. So. Any questions?"

He stares at you for a beat too long before shaking his head.

He's still giving non-verbal answers for the most part, but it's better than nothing. You internally sighed and motioned him to follow you deeper into the safe house.

Considering that it was already pretty late by the time you managed to beat those guidelines into his head (maybe that should be worded better, but you never claimed to be a lyricist; it is what it is), he might be just as tired as you are from how long the day has been.

(Granted, this dude has been "asleep" for who knows how long, but it's the thought that counts.)

"You know where I'm taking you to?" you asked, not really expecting an answer from him.

"No," he responds from behind you. Color you surprised.

You turned into the hallway and stepped up to an unassuming door. You opened it to reveal an equally unassuming bedroom. Muted colors, modern design; it reeked Pepper's doing, knowing that Tony isn't as decoratively-inclined as she is.

Hah, bet she didn't expect that instead of housing you or your dad, it'll go to a super-solder that wasn't Steve instead.

(Not that Steve would ever have a reason to step foot in here, but in this line of work, you'd be stupid to be 100% sure about something.)

You motioned him to come into the room and tilted your head to the bed.

"This is your bedroom, pretty much where you'll be sleeping. There's a bathroom right over there," you motioned to the door adjacent to the entrance door, "and I'll be in the room right next to yours."

Barnes takes a second to process it all, and with a quick scan of the room with calculating eyes, he nods. You absentmindedly scratched the back of your neck.

"I mean, there's plenty of rooms here so if you don't like this one, just let me know and we'll probably move you to another room-" you rambled, secretly trying to get a move on so you'd finally get some shut-eye.

(What? You're not perfect, sleep is heavily slept on in this day and age. Hah.)

(God, you're definitely going to hell.)

"-and you know how to use a toilet, right?"

The raised eyebrow pointed at you definitely proves that that was a pretty stupid question, but hey, you can't take any chances. You shrugged, a tired smirk threatening to form on your lips.

"Well then. Can I leave it to you to settle down for the night, or...?" you left it open-ended.

He didn't say anything in response, only stared at the bed in front of him. There was a pregnant pause, but he nodded at you. There was a strange tilt to his eyes, but you didn't bother to think further into it as you were just thankful that you could finally rest.

"Well then, good night Barnes. I'll come by tomorrow morning and we'll continue to, er," you thought about it, "work, on your situation."

You made a swift exit out of his room and immediately into "your" room, which was literally right next to his. You immediately discarded your clothes and with a brisk shower and teeth brushing, you promptly dropped straight onto the bed with an audible grunt, wet hair soaking straight into the pillow.

Pulling the plush duvet to cover your body, you reached for your phone to check for any messages you might have gotten.

(3 from Tony; he asked where you were. You told him that you're staying at a safe house and that you needed a small break. It wasn't wrong, but definitely an omission of truth. A few days would be fine, right?)

(2 from Rhodey; it's a picture of a Goodwill's, and there's a silhouette in a nearby window of some guy. "This you?" he asks. "No ❤️," you sent back.)

(63 is from the group chat that the Avengers are in- ah, make that 64 and counting. It's just a bunch of nonsense from what you can gather, but you briefly scrolled through it anyways.)

Turning your phone off, you smushed your face into the pillow and sighed, a terrible knot forming at the pit of your stomach. With an open ear, you tried to hear any noise that could come from Barnes' room, but considering that the walls were reinforced and he was already quiet as it is, all you could hear was the AC running in the background.

"DAHLIA," you huffed, eyes drooping, "keep an eye on him, wake me up if anything happens."

"Got it," her voice echoes from the ceiling speakers.

You quietly tucked yourself in bed. As the exhaustion finally started settling in your body, the last thought that lingered in your head was "Man, I hope nothing bad happens tomorrow," before you drifted right off to dreamless slumber.

_______

The next day was, to say the least, a little disconcerting, but a bigger improvement to be sure.

Right after waking up, you begrudgingly put on some daytime appropriate clothes and stepped out into the hallway. You knocked on the door that was right next to yours, and gingerly opened it when you didn't hear much of a response.

"Good morning," you tentatively greeted. Barnes was sitting at the foot of the bed when you knocked on his door. He mumbled back a greeting and stands up to your eye level.

His clothes are still the same from last night, and judging by the clean state of his bed, he either woke up earlier than you expected or he was sat like that the whole night.

You're not too keen on finding out which was the case, but you had to.

"Sleep well?"

You stepped out of the doorway and motioned him to follow you. Briefly glancing down at your phone to see just a few messages waiting for you, you opted to ignore them for now.

"I slept."

He quietly stated from behind you. He avoided saying if he slept well or not, but at least the damn Terminator slept. You mentally deflated a little; the bar was set so low for him, you're not too sure who it's more insulting to- you or him.

(Of course, it's to him, that shouldn't be a question. Your feelings don't matter.)

"We're gonna have to wing this a little, but uh, here's the general gist of what's gonna happen."

Stepping into the kitchen, you're taken aback to last night as he tentatively stands across from you from the kitchen island. Really, you'd opt to go to the living room, but you both radiate too much nervous energy to really sit.

You opened the refrigerator and sighed when all that greeted you was water and non-perishables. Right. You just got here, it's not like there's gonna be freshly stocked food in here 24/7.

"DAHLIA, order some fresh food and get it delivered today. Charge it on my debit," you mumbled quietly.

DAHLIA doesn't say anything, but the refrigerator lights flicker a familiar green hue that keys you in that she heard you. You raised an impressed eyebrow; what an unnecessary feature for a refrigerator to have. You closed the door and turned around to face Barnes.

"I'm here to serve as, say, a guide for," you gestured to him, "your... rehabilitation, of sorts."

"For now, I can't really offer any... Professional help, on a technical level. I'm not- that's not my area of expertise. I'm an engineer at heart," actually, you really liked other things more than being an engineer, but your fate of becoming the CEO of SI was sealed the moment you decided to live with your dad, "so we're going to have to make a compromise on that."

You shook your head.

"If you were anyone else, I'd point you to a shrink," Barnes gives you a confused stare.

"Therapist," you clarified. He nods.

"But quite frankly," Zemo's face flashes in your memory, "I don't trust anyone to properly... Well, I don't trust anyone when it comes to the mental health of you, and the Avengers too, of course."

Pausing mid-rant, you raised an eyebrow at him.

"You... do know who the Avengers are, right?"

He nods and begins to rattle off a pre-scripted monologue. His eyes are blank as he started speaking.

"A group of top priority, compromised of highly skilled individuals, enhanced or otherwise specified. Threat priority ranges from 5 to 9. As of now, 6 active-duty members and 1 reserve member. The Asset is to not engage under any circumstance and reveal-"

"Alright alright, I get it- that's," you're a little offended that you're considered a "reserve member", but that's not technically wrong, "That's a lot to unpack there, but yeah. You- whew, you definitely know who the- we are."

(You've gotten into the habit of distancing yourself from the Avengers the moment that you had become CEO. You're still working on that, but the word "we" still feels wrong on your tongue.)

There's a little more life that came back to Barnes' eyes after you had snapped him out of it, and it's a bit surreal knowing that Barnes just kinda... runs on autopilot when prompted. The image of Barnes being strapped down in a chair and forced to learn and recite those kinds of things by heart is both horrifying and a little funny.

(Do you think they had a set curriculum he had to learn by?)

"So yeah. The Avengers gotta be careful when lookin' for shrinks, and so do you. There's just too many factors that go into gettin' a personal therapist. So for now," you shrugged, "you're stuck with me."

"What are they?"

"Hm?"

"The factors."

You shrugged.

"Well, for starters, you're- you were, HYDRA's prisoner," the muscle around his jaw visibly clenches when you mentioned HYDRA, but you powered through, "so they'll definitely be interested in getting their fight dog back. They're good at blending in and good at getting their musty little fingers into every nook and cranny. I wouldn't put it past them to have one of their agents go undercover as a therapist for hire. So that's one factor: trying to discern who is and isn't HYDRA."

You raised a finger.

"Then there's the fact that because you're such a... shall we say, top priority, er, asset," that word runs bitter on your tongue, "even if your shrink isn't HYDRA, they'll definitely be targeted by HYDRA if it ever came to light that they have a direct link to you. So there's reason number two: loose ends, and the risks that come with it."

You raised another finger. By now, Barnes has a hard but contemplative curl to his lips.

"And then not to mention how unique your case it. Barnes, you've been a POW for decades. Your brain- no offense buddy, but from what I can tell, it's been fried to hell and back. I don't even have to do any fancy brain scans to know. And that's not even including all the other stuff they probably did to you, only God knows."

You shook your head.

"There's too much at risk for you to get proper therapy right now. But. It's not impossible."

You think back to Shuri, and how she and the other Wakandan scientists were successful in both removing the trigger words and rehabilitating Barnes.

Well, you're not sure about the last part, since you never interacted with the Barnes of your time, but you'd assume that they did help with his subsequent mental health. You wouldn't really put it past them- T'Challa was a nice guy, from your limited interactions with him way into the future, and Shuri was buzzing with ideas and energy. If T'Challa's sympathy for Barnes wasn't enough, then Shuri's crave to help and experiment would supplement the balance plenty. Vice versa, too.

So yeah, future-Barnes' mental health was most likely addressed during his time in Wakanda. And it was almost guaranteed to have been a success.

So you're still gonna hold a torch for the possibility that Barnes' can come out of this as a relatively well-adjusted guy.

Not to mention B.A.R.F. As far as you know, the R&D team assigned to that was still progressing smoothly, but the only downside to that was that it wasn't going to be until a few more years before it's "perfected".

You were never really involved in any way with B.A.R.F. since you were both prepping for SI and finishing college. Your dad was definitely more involved in it than you were, but it's not like you could ask him to pull a few year's worths of experimentation and knowledge out of his ass and exponentially boost the rate of B.A.R.F.'s progress, so.

Helen Cho suddenly sprang to mind, but you quickly threw away that thought. Your- well, Barnes'- issue was neurological, Cho was all about cell regeneration and is a geneticist. So unless somehow the issue crosses over with Cho's line of work, she wasn't a possibility either. There was also Strange, but as far as you've heard the man was pretty... abrasive, even as a wizard. Hard to get a hold of, and very... Hard-headed.

Well, all of that was second hand since it came from Tony, but still. Maybe you could pull Tony in for some clout, but that'll just make him suspicious. God, maybe you shouldn't have kept the whole "I'm actually from the future" spiel a secret, otherwise you wouldn't have to be doing all this crap alone.

Oh well. In for a penny, out for a pound.

You sighed, already feeling the dull thump against your skull starting to form.

"So what now?" Barnes asks. He's less tentative than he was last night, but still soft-spoken when he talks.

"Well, you're stuck with me, bud. I'll do my best to get you prepped for the actual rehabilitation, but honestly, that might take a little longer than you'd expect. So, we'll just- well."

You eyed the outfit he was donning, which was literally your clothes- so it was a few sizes too small for him. He doesn't really seem bothered by it, and if it weren't for the fact that he's sort of proved himself to be neglectful of voicing his own preferences, you'd be a little more inclined to appreciate the view of one very, very beefy super-soldier.

But alas.

Life never really works in your favor, so.

"We'll need to get a few essential things out of the way. Food is already on its way, I assume you aren't allergic to anything?"

He pauses, and there goes that familiar glaze forming over his eyes. You sigh, knowing that he was probably searching through his mental "data-bases" for any allergies, but thankfully it's not long as he blinks back into attention.

"None."

"Yeah, I could'a figured, what with your super-soldier serum."

(You're pretty sure that also makes him immune to cancer, but maybe that's just you glorifying it.)

"So: the food situation is cleared. Now, we need to get you some new clothes because, uh, those don't look very comfortable."

"Comfort does not matter. I am adequately dressed."

You snorted. Maybe it's better that you don't tell Barnes that he's wearing a Sharknado tee and some sweats that have "Eat this!" printed on his behind.

(And maybe it's better that you didn't remember that yes, these are indeed still your clothes.)

"Comfort does matter, my guy. DAHLIA, take some quick measurements."

The kitchen light dims and brightens, shining lime green into the kitchen. It lingers and turns back into that white-blue that sometimes makes your eyes burn when you've been up for too late into the night.

"Seargent Barnes' measurements are now on file. You two want to see the available catalog?"

Right where the kitchen island was, a panel opens up to reveal a hologram of a bunch of articles of clothing, all of which has been adjusted to Barnes' size- or an approximate at least, since there's some that's labeled X or XL.

"Barnes? You got anything you want to do right now or...?"

You gestured to the hologram in front of you.

His face contorts a little, not too noticeable at a quick glance. He doesn't look uncomfortable per se, but judging by the downwards curl of his lips, he's definitely not excited to see the hologram.

You flicked your wrist and it disappeared just as quick as it appeared. Strangely enough, his expression doesn't loosen up as his eyes flicker upwards to yours.

"Hey, that's okay. If it's the hologram, that's no biggie, we'll just move over to the, uh, TV in the next room over. C'mon."

You jerked your head and motioned him to follow you. His face laxes and he walks behind you without a word.

_______

You two ended up getting a lot done all things considered.

Barnes seemed pretty bothered by how many clothing choices there are, but when you asked if he wanted you to just curate a list for him, he easily relented. He was hovering over you the whole time, but you weren't too bothered by it as you were too busy browsing for him.

You went from site to site searching for clothes that screamed "The Winter Soldier", but all that was coming up was clothes in fifty shades of black and with no pizzaz. You did pass by a few Avengers-related merch (especially yours), but he said nothing when you added two or three into your cart, so he probably doesn't care. You did show him a lot of clothes that you thought would fit him, and he nodded to pretty much all of them.

By the time you were done looking for clothes, the doorbell had rung.

("That was quick," you reminisced. DAHLIA was quick to respond.

"It came from a nearby Walmart."

"Huh.")

Barnes' head jerked as his eyes were trained on the entrance door. You patted his arm, and his eyes glance at you.

"Relax, it's just the food. DAHLIA ordered some groceries earlier."

You stood up to go answer the door, and Barnes followed suit. You raised an eyebrow at him, but he doesn't really seem like he's gonna back down anytime soon.

"You know... You can follow behind, but you're gonna have to be in the shadows or something 'cuz, you know... Just- if someone's still at the door, don't let them see you okay?"

He nods, almost mechanically so, and you turned around and walked to the entrance door.

Opening the door, you were greeted with a few big boxes. You raised an eyebrow and glanced out through the door; there are no cars nearby, and DAHLIA whispers in your ear that the clearing's safe- not a single life signature anywhere.

"Barnes, the coast's clear," you called out, already reaching down to grab one of the boxes. You grunt, adjusting your grip before you lifted and turned around.

Barnes, having already popped out of whatever dark corner he was in, is already a few feet behind you.

"Hey, you don't mind helping me bring in those boxes, will you?"

You were already walking past him, but you barely caught the briefest flash of furrowed eyebrows before you saw him walk over to the door. You mentally shrugged, but placed the box in the kitchen and went back over to the door to get the other one.

By the time you were done setting down the box, Barnes had already closed the door and was standing under the arch connecting the kitchen to the main hallway.

You motioned him over, and he complied.

"What is inside?"

You're almost proud that you didn't jump. He doesn't talk much, but when he does it always startles you.

"Groceries, but I don't know what specifically. DAHLIA chose all of it. And by the looks of it, she chose a lot. So. You're gonna help me unpack and we'll probably- well, I'll probably make some food. You can help if you want."

Your back was turned to him, and you started unloading the boxes and their contents. Barnes doesn't move for a hot moment, but he squats down next to you and starts unwrapping the smaller boxes that were inside it.

"You don't mind if I put on some music, right?"

You glanced at him.

"I... don't. Mind," he mumbles, tentatively glancing back at you. You gave him a brief thumbs up and turned your attention back to

"DAHLIA, play something chill. Low volume."

_______

Pretty much, the whole day consisted of unpacking all of the groceries that had been delivered. You ended up pausing, having gotten tired of being awake without food in your stomach, and made some food for the two of you.

You tried conversing with him, trying to get him to at least feel more comfortable, and it... kinda worked. There are a few touchy subjects that he doesn't really seem to like talking about (he doesn't really vocalize his discomfort, but his flinches, no matter how minute they were, spoke louder than words). HYDRA, obviously. Anything revolving the Avengers put him off as well, among other things.

Really, most of the eating consisted of small talk and eating noises, but at least some of the tension in his shoulders had lessened by the time that you two needed to get back to unpacking. Hell, by the time that was done, Barnes' clothes had arrived.

(Oh, the benefits of being insanely rich. Say it with me kids: Thank you, Tony!)

You're usually a little apprehensive about buying clothes online, but color you surprised when not only did all of them fit; Barnes didn't have a single problem with any of them.

"You like 'em?"

You whistled when Barnes came out of his bathroom, now back in your clothes that you had given him originally. He tried all of them on, and you ended up buying him so many clothes that a lot of time had passed by the time he was done. You just sat on his bed, slowly collecting all of the clothes and ripping off the tags, damned if he didn't like one of them; you'll just take it instead.

"They're adequate," he nodded. In his hand were the folded clothes (A camo tee and dark sweatpants), and he set them onto his bed with the other folded clothes.

"Did any of 'em uncomfortable? Too tight, any of the fabric feels wrong...?"

You left the question open-ended as you helped him dump it into a laundry bin. He doesn't respond right away as if he didn't hear you. His eyes flicker over to yours.

"... No. They- I..." the muscle under his eye spasms, "I liked them..."

You grinned, "Glad to hear that, guess we got lucky that none of these was a dud, huh?"

The ghost of a smile that was on his lips appeared briefly, but it was gone just as fast as it had appeared.

Really, that had basically been the peak of the day before things had started to mellow out a little bit. But that was okay, you took whatever it was that Barnes gave, and if it was just the smallest smile you've ever seen on a man, then so be it.

Afterward, the day somehow managed to blend together and pass along like an exhale. Not much happened, since you couldn't really- well, offer anything that could scientifically and medically help him. So you opted to just- try to get him up to date as much as possible.

Honestly, by the time that you had gotten through the first three decades (starting when he was born), it was already pretty late into the night.

(He had a lot of questions, and you really didn't blame him. Hell, most of the more personal information really came from DAHLIA, because as much as you sympathized with the man, you really didn't care to learn about his whole entire biography.

But, at least you answered most of the history related questions. If you had to go through a few history college classes back when you were in college, then you'll be damned if you didn't at least make an effort to learn and internalize them.)

Barnes didn't really show any signs of exhaustion if the casual leg bouncing wasn't enough, but you sure were pooped.

(What? Unlike your dad (and most of the Avengers) you actually had a normal internal clock. For the most part, anyway.)

"Well, as much as I liked talking about prehistoric times," you sounded sarcastic, but you actually did like it, "I gotta sleep, I don't run on super-soldier energy like you do bub."

You stood up, stretched, and saw that Barnes was now standing up as well.

"Should I...?"

Raising an eyebrow, you huffed in good nature, "Go to sleep? Yeah, probably. We're not done with the History101 crash course, and we'll probably be talking about other things tomorrow as well," especially about the fact that you're not gonna be at the safe house often soon, "so we both need the energy for that. So, go clean up and get some Z's, yeah?"

"Oh."

He looked a little lost but followed you back into your shared hallway. Stopping in your doorway, you turned your head to glance at Barnes.

"Good night, Barnes," you nodded, not waiting for a response as you headed into your room. It was quiet and almost inaudible, but you still heard it with your ears before you had closed the door shut.

"... Good night."

You stood in your room, a sudden wave of both exhaustion and dread flooding your body. You shook it off though; it was just the nervous jitters hitting you at an inopportune time.

But really, you trusted your guts almost as much as you trusted Tony.

So as you brushed your teeth and did your business in the bathroom, you tried to quell the anxiety that was building up in your chest.

"DAHLIA, keep an eye on him."

"Gotcha, doll."

You sighed, dropped onto your bed, and hoped that whatever it was that might happen, you'd be prepared for it.

_______

And lo and behold, it didn't even have to be the next morning before shit all hit the fan when DAHLIA wakes you up in the middle of the night (3 A.M., to be specific).

"-oll, wake up! Barnes is having a panic attack!"

It takes half a second to process the fear in DAHLIA's voice. It takes another to process her words.

Fuck.

Scrambling immediately out the bed, you thanked whatever higher being there is that you were sleeping with at least some sweatpants on as you booked it straight to your door and right through Barnes'.

(Maybe you should have joined the football team, because that would have been one wicked tackle. Ha, yeah right, you know nothing about football.)

The lights were on, most likely DAHLIA's doing, and his bedsheets were clearly mussed up. He's nowhere to be seen, so your eyes jump to the joined bathroom door, and lo and behold, there was light bleeding through the cracks.

You quickly approached the door and opened it, throwing away the worry that he might have been absolutely naked.

The good news was that he wasn't nude.

The bad news was that he was hunched over on the ground, right in front of the bathroom counter, and he's gripping his head so tightly you would have thought his skull would have caved in.

Terror shoots down your spine like a lightning bolt, and you immediately rushed to the curled over Barnes, adrenaline rushing through you as a million thoughts ran through your head.

"Barnes!"

He doesn't appear to hear you, groaning and panting as he further curled in on himself. His muscles spasm, hard, and you're at a loss at what to do. He's sickly pale, and the sheen on his skin makes you want to vomit. His panting is shallow, and if you weren't sure if the glint that shone in your eyes was the reflection off of the marble floors or a puddle of saliva coming from Barnes.

You're not sure if touching him right now is a good thing, but you'll be damned if he wasn't your responsibility now. You reach out to him, wrapping one arm around his hunched back and the other trying to pry at his wrists.

(Would you have touched him, if you didn't have the reassurance that DAHLIA has your back?)

(Shut up.)

Maybe you were tensing up for him to go all "Winter Soldier" mode on you, but he's the one that tenses, even more, when you touched him. Thankfully, he doesn't resist your pull as his arm is limp the moment you tried to pull it back, but it doesn't change the fact that he's shaking, badly, and your mind is frozen in limbo.

"DAHLIA, what-"

You're at a loss for words, but DAHLIA, sweet DAHLIA already knows what you were about to ask.

"Sergeant Barnes was displaying elevated levels of anxiety, however, it did not seem to warrant any mentions. I thought-"

She cuts herself off, almost as if she was worried that she had made a wrong call. You swallowed, knowing that despite being a baby A.I., she's never done wrong by you- both in the future and now.

"You thought what?"

You try to rub Barnes' back as if he was a dog that had needed soothing. He groans, but you're not sure if you should interpret that as a hurt groan or a relieved one. You paused and moved your hand away, hovering it just inches away from his back, and his breath hitches.

Your hand dropped onto his back once again, and you could feel the muscles on his muscles spasm a little; his whimpers aren't as loud and painful (though, they're still more than worrying).

So, on the very small bright side, back rubs don't seem to be hurting him either. It's a small win, but a win for sure.

"You- my visuals were clear in the conclusion that you saw it. His discomfort. Your body language and expression acknowledged it but you refrained from addressing it. I- acted under the assumption that it was all under control..."

Something in your mind pauses for a pregnant second before your eyes widened.

"What?"

DAHLIA doesn't even get the chance to reply as Barnes jerks his hands away from yours and pulls at his scalp again. You lurched forward.

"Hey! No!"

You bit back a growl as you grabbed his wrists once again. You yank them back down to his sides as his body jolts, a sob ripping through him. You placed a hand on his chest and tried to boost him back up so he'll have his back against the bathtub that's behind him.

He offers little to no resistance as his back makes contact with the bathtub, but he's slumped into himself. He pulls his knees forward and curls his head into them. For a super-soldier, it's almost cute how hard he's trying to take up as little space as possible if it weren't for the fact that your heart was absolutely breaking at the sight of him.

"Oh, Barnes..."

In shuddered breaths, he mumbles something incoherent.

"...-an't, I- I- I-.... -can't..."

He shakes his head, jolting as if someone had shocked him. You rubbed his arm, glancing down at what you can now confirm to be a puddle of saliva, and then over to the trash can right next to the toilet. You're not too sure if you should get it just in case he decides to vomit, but you're ready to lunge for it the moment Barnes shows any signs of gagging.

"DAHLIA," you spoke at a lower volume, "what- when was he, um, uncomfortable."

"Two nights ago, roughly 22:00, when you told Sargeant Barnes that he was his own free man. Yesterday morning, 08:00, when you asked if he wanted to do anything prior to browsing the available clothing catalog. Right after, he was also discomforted by the catalog, before you offered to buy clothes for him. At-"

"That's- that's enough," you breathlessly muttered. DAHLIA doesn't say anything else, but the air has suddenly become heavier than you remembered.

Your head was almost dizzy with not only how many instances Barnes had been anxious in such a short time, but also at how you remembered each and every instance with startling clarity.

Barnes was anxious at the idea of freedom, but you put it off and opted to just give him a nickel tour of the house.

Barnes was anxious when you asked if he wanted to do anything before looking at clothes, but looked too relieved when you brushed over it.

Barnes was anxious at the idea of shopping for fucking clothes but was okay after you took over for him.

The taste of stomach acid burned your tongue, as yesterday's dinner threaten to rise at the implication of all of this.

"DAHLIA," you mumbled, "the- the rest of those instances- do they..."

You trained your eyes on Barnes.

"Do they all- follow the same... The same- pattern?"

DAHLIA was always in tune with you, even after the time jump.

"... Yes," she lamented.

"God..."

Now, you're not sure who that trash can would be really for; you or Barnes.

"Barnes..."

You murmured quietly. He flinches, and his shaking hasn't gotten any better.

"What- what was it? Was it- was it all too much? God, I'm so sorry, it probably was, wasn't it? I should have- fuck, I should have taken it more slowly, I-"

Barnes shakes his head, stopping you in your rambling. You blinked rapidly.

"Then- was it..." you paused, "... Was it the choices?"

It's almost expected that he doesn't answer you straight away, but he nodded anyway.

"I... It was- it was too much- I couldn't- I don't know- I-"

His breath shuddered with each word as if it hurt him to just even speak right now. You shushed him, ignoring the intrusive thought that it was akin to shushing an animal.

"Hey, hey, it's- it's okay. You'll be okay."

It's not much, what you're saying to him, and it's no surprise that they didn't do much anyway.

Honestly, you didn't know what to say at this point. There didn't even seem to be any phrasing in the known English language that would be able to comfort a man with as much baggage on his shoulders as Barnes, and briefly, just briefly, you wished that you were literally anywhere in the world, but here.

You tried thinking about anything that came from your (albeit limited) interactions with him between the past days that would help ground him, before something jolts you from deep within.

("What are my mission parameters," Barnes asked from behind you.

You paused.

"Mission parameters?")

You didn't even realize that you had said that out loud, but Barnes had tensed up even more before you could even take it back. He held his breath, audibly swallowing.

("You don't need mission parameters, Barnes. You're your own free man. You can- can make decisions on your own. You don't need me to tell you what you need to do.")

("I... Don't understand...")

You spoke on impulse.

"You... You need them, don't you? Mission parameters."

Immediately, you regretted even speaking up just as those words left your mouth.

While every fiber in your being hoped that it wasn't true, there was a small inkling in your head that already knew the answer to your question. It was the only thing that was barely even logical enough to make sense.

His apprehension of making a choice.

How uncomfortable in his own skin he always appeared, despite it even being just a few days.

How relieved he always looks, when the choice was already made for him.

His body tenses underneath your hand, but it's the slight bob of his head that makes your stomach drop. You thought- what a fool you were- you thought he'd be okay without being ordered around, but that was nothing but wishful thinking.

(What was the saying? It's hard to teach an old dog a new trick, was it?)

(Yeah.)

Looking at how only a few days of what you had originally thought was Barnes' newfound freedom turned out to be much more of a nightmare for Barnes, it might just be better for the both of you to push aside your comfortability and start making an honest-to-God investment into Barnes' recovery, even if that means that you had to take a step backward.

A very, very risky step backward.

It was a shot in the dark, but it was the only thing that you could place your bets on for now.

You just hoped that your aim wouldn't fail you now.

"Okay, well... How about this, Barnes, here's your main- your main mission, okay? Become a free man. Hey, no, look at me," you swiveled his head so he could look at you. His eyes were panicked, crazed, and irredeemably sad, but you had to make sure nothing crossed through your face so he'd know that everything will be okay. Your grip on both sides of his face was firm as you pleaded with him.

"Your only 'mission' right now? Breathe," ironically, his breath hitched, "If not for your own sake, then for mine."

You swallowed, heart stuttering as you looked into his glassy eyes.

"Please," you let your desperate prayer lingered in the air.

Maybe it was being given a task to accomplish after days of trying to figure out what to do with his supposed new "freedom", or it was how non-labor intensive and just... simple, his new mission parameter was, but it was almost instantaneous how all of the tension in his body dissipated into thin air.

Witnessing the moment of mercy upon grief through Barnes, no matter how brief or temporary it may be, was almost cathartic.

Almost.

(Perhaps you shouldn't be looking for absolution vicariously. But you were never really a good person, were you?)

_______

A/N: I've read a lot of WinterIron fics. While I have read a lot of interpretations about how Barnes would have reacted when he was freshly freed from HYDRA, this is how I choose to interpret it- one that would best fit the story for now. Next chapter, since I couldn't fit it in this chapter, is a special, but it is very much important and related to the story, and Barnes as a character. If you're familiar with some WinterIron tropes, this won't be too foreign of an idea. Not too sure about other ships/ stories, but. Ah, I'm rambling. Anyways, see you next year lol.

_______

Masterlist 

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Tagged: @unsolvetheheckoutofit @tonystanktheirondad @ludwigvonbaethoven @rspctot7 (if you’re not @/ fabledxmystery, so sorry for the mistag! LMK if it’s not you) @tolkoskott @klanceiscannon14 @deos-life (grr it won’t let me tag you) @kp1183 (kperla1183) @xyuriko-akamine (akabaneyuriko) @kettnerjanea​ @soldier-42 @daybreakmistakes @spnfanboy777 @crash-zite @jm-cy

[vercopaanir]

Keep Up

The Lovely Moons, Chapter 1

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Blind!Reader

Warnings: Nothing!

Word Count: 4.4k (Pt 1/2)

A/N: First official installment of this series. This takes place before Don’t Go Far. Thank you  so much who read and left me comments. I’m very touched. I wanted to really take some time with exploring a blind character who shares non-verbal similarities to the Mandalorian, and other ways of communication beyond eye contact. Anyway, thank you for taking the time to read it!

From the direction of the noise, you know you stand closer to the strange visitor, and you quietly set the tray down on the table between them. Your hands are confident, and your face is unflinching in the repetitive movements of serving, staring straight ahead even when the owner’s hand strikes out and grabs your arm with a meaty fist. You suck in a breath and go still.

“Unless you’re willing to pay a premium price,” his rocky voice chuckles across the table, nearly vibrating in your chest. “I can only imagine what kinds of uses a blind servant can have for someone like you.”

When you laid awake at night, you hadn’t considered your fate would be determined by handfuls of imperial credits. That your life hung in the balance between payments exchanged underhandedly in the back corners of the crowded cantina over watered down drinks became more believable, though, the longer you lasted in servitude. It was easier if you thought yourself not human, not one of the patrons who’s gazes followed your movements.

You couldn’t see them, but you could feel them. 

It somehow made it a little worse to your pride just the same, and a lot harder to ignore.

You would never be called a slave out in the open, because you knew the ramifications of such an error in this place. Others working alongside you knew, too, so not only did they try not to talk about you, but they avoided you at all cost. The laws of slavery were a prickly topic for some people, and those around you didn’t want to chance unhappy customers by a small slip of the tongue. You weren’t quite far enough in the outer rim to escape even honor, it seemed.

So, at night, you would think of your old life that was gentle and kind, and you’d pretend that you were still in your old room, in your old bed.

It wasn’t the hardest existence, you’d give them that. They treated you like some otherworldly thing, a blind woman who could wait tables and fetch drinks. As if a disability was a personality trait. Men’s underestimation typically worked in your favor, and you had learned that lesson well. It was not unheard of for workers to be punished for missteps, and you found it easy to claim the fault as your own. The wilting flower was not so far from the truth, once, and when you ducked your head and clasped your hands in apology, no one was made an example of.

As far as organic lives went, you were expensive. Not more than a droid, you figured, but still worth enough not to deal damage to, and anything that damaged the worth of property wouldn’t be tolerated. That was a bit of armor you savored wearing.

You stood near the bar using a rag to clean glasses. You couldn’t quite make out a lot inside the cantina, as it tended to be darker, but your impaired vision did afford you shapes and shadows. With more light, you would be able to make out more, but since arriving on this dusty little rock of a planet months ago, you didn’t feel motivated to exactly acclimate. You simply listened to the dull thrum of life around you, conversations rising and swelling, the clatter of glass and the slosh of drink. When the door would open, fresh air and light would blow in with bits of sand in the wind, and you could taste the dry climate sticking in your mouth.

Stacking the next glass carefully on the back of the bar, you became aware of someone coming to stand across from you. They didn’t speak, simply stood at the bar, and you wondered where the other girl was that usually took drink orders. A prickle rose up on the back of your neck the longer the stranger stood across from you, and you carefully refolded the rag in your hands, inclining your head upwards to the shadow.

“I’m looking for someone,” said the newcomer, his voice low and pleasantly modulated. Your eyebrows rose, and you hid a grimace when he spoke the owner’s name.

Never a good sign.

You paused, thinking of the back, dingy rooms where the man in question usually haunted, and you took a deep breath. “I can find him,” you answered levelly. You paused, laying a hand on the edge of the bar before turning away. “May I get you anything while you wait?”

There was a beat before he said, “No...thank you.”

Manners, you admired with a small smile. You nodded once and turned, but at the same time the absent barkeep in question came stumbling out from the back, knocking into you and overturning nearly every glass you’d managed to clean. It was such an epic sweep, you’d think later, that you still weren’t sure how she managed to break so many things and retain a job. 

Both of you went down like rocks and sprawled across the floor, shattered glass dusting your robes and laying like invisible teeth on the ground. You sat up, cringing when you could feel sharp pricks through the fabric of your clothes. 

“Are you alright?” you ask, reaching out a hand to the girl. You can make out her shape, though she can’t seem to be still.

“He’s going to end me for this!” she hissed, her voice laced with anger and shame, and the two of you begin sweeping the glass up hurriedly with your hands.

“Blame it on me,” you mutter, wincing when a shard pricks your palm. You pull yourself up by the bar, sweeping more of it with the sole of your boot to make a pathway. 

“I can’t do that.”

“You can, and you will,” you answer primly, turning and grappling for a serving tray. You pile the glass on it and begin chucking it into the trash. “Go find him, leave the mess with me.”

“But-”

“He has someone waiting for him.” Your whisper must draw her eyes up, and you nod your head to the side where you know the newcomer still stands on the other side of the bar. You’re not quite sure what makes her scramble away so quickly, but you’re grateful she does. As well-meaning as the girl is, you doubt she’ll last much longer in an establishment where she’s constantly underfoot.

You dust away as much glass as you can so you can kneel without impaling your knees, then reach up onto the bar for the rag you’d had. There’s a moment where you feel nothing but smooth wood, until a gloved hand bumps into yours. You freeze, blinking, but then the rag is pressed under your fingers. 

For some reason, the silent help makes you smile.

“Thank you,” you murmur and duck back down to use the rag to sweep glass up onto the tray. You can hear when the girl and the owner return, for he’s painfully loud and obnoxious to boot. The barkeep seems to be trying to explain away the accident with the glasses quickly and distract him with the fact he has a visitor, and she’s lucky he’s simple because it works like a charm. 

You don’t quite catch what he says under his breath, but you flinch back when he kicks some glass behind the bar, almost hitting you in the face. You turn quickly, brushing it off and growing irate. This isn’t how you wanted your day to go, kneeling on the filthy floor and dumping the tray into the trash again.

“Mando, good to see you in these parts again. Come with me.”

You rise up once they’re gone, sighing deeply and feeling tense. All the chaos that typically clamored in a cantina wasn’t good for your nerves or patience, you decided, tossing the rag in a bin to be cleaned later. You fetch a broom, now that the barkeep has returned and begins taking orders, and you sweep the floor so no one will step on any wayward glass. The chore is nearly done when she returns, sliding a tray towards you.

“Take it to the boss and the Mandalorian.”

Frowning, you slowly set the broom aside and turn to the tray, feeling the drinks to make sure they’re balanced before you lift it up. A Mandalorian. That would explain the modulated helmet, you supposed. You try to think of what you’d heard of them in the past, what you had read. If you remembered it right, they didn’t remove their face coverings in public, so the drink seemed...inappropriate.

Possibly even rude.

Moving with care, you thread the needle of tables and patrons, their shapes and shadows blending before your pale eyes. You follow the sound of the owner’s voice, loud and barking, and you only hesitate once.

“...not for sale.”

From the direction of the noise, you know you stand closer to the strange visitor, and you quietly set the tray down on the table between them. Your hands are confident and your face is unflinching in the repetitive movements of serving, staring straight ahead even when the owner’s hand strikes out and grabs your arm with a meaty fist. You suck in a breath and go still.

“Unless you’re willing to pay a premium price,” his rocky voice chuckles across the table, nearly vibrating in your chest. “I can only imagine what kinds of uses a blind servant can have for someone like you.”

This was not the first time he’d implied such things, and it was not the first time you’d had to school your face from cringing over the alcohol you served. Ire simmered in your breast, and bile threatened to burn the inside of your mouth, just the same.

A terse, modulated voice crossed the table in a quiet mutter. “Let her go.”

You swallowed as the fingers tightened around your wrist before they vanished completely, and you did everything in your power not to snatch your hand back. You let your arms fall to your sides, controlling every tense muscle, and curled your fingers at your sides. The silence that follows is cold and unforgiving, but you feel hot with embarrassment. 

The quiet sing of steel signals the Mandalorian standing from the table. You expect something more explosive, for the owner’s rudeness, but perhaps it wasn’t worth it to someone like him. Starting fights in bars with small minded men at the edge of the rim probably wasn’t on his to-do list, you imagined. 

You listen for the retreating sound of boots against the floor, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there is a firm clunk that hits the table in front of you, and suddenly all the heat that was blooming in your face drains.

“You can’t be serious,” the owner laughs, but the visitor says nothing. “This is a third of what I am owed for keeping her, much less buying her.”

“And you won’t find anyone else with the credits to make a better offer,” the Mandalorian answers shortly, impatience now evident through the modulator of his helmet. He leans down near the table, and you think he must be intimidating a sight to shut the owner up so quickly. “Not from anyone with a taste for it.”

Sickness curls in your belly as the moment stretches into silence, time keeping you hostage as the two men stare each other down. It must be difficult trying to glare at someone’s face you can’t see, you think, when you’re not used to it. The thought is ludicrous, but it’s distracting enough to keep you from falling apart in the middle of the crowded cantina while you’re being traded like cargo.

The quiet clatter of the credits inside a pouch is retracted from the table, and a lump grows in your throat as you realize you’ve just been bought. Paid for. 

It never felt like something that would happen, not again. 

“Get out,” the owner snaps, and you flinch at the words so ruthlessly directed towards you when you’d been ignored up until then. It was enough to make you take a step back, against your better judgment, but the Mandalorian was behind you and seemed to be made entirely of steel and iron.

“You forgetting something?” 

You hear a growl from the man still seated at the table before he tosses something onto the table, letting it clatter. You feel the man behind you tense before he carefully tucks away whatever was just exchanged. Your mind was reeling, trying to keep up with all the details.

Swallowing, you’re almost too nervous to move when boot steps begin walking away. The cantina’s noises swell around you, and it occurs to you that you’ll never have to step foot into the crowded, dirty establishment again.

You scramble to catch up with the man who just traded credits for your life, fighting past patrons and listening for the sound of armor. It’s a quiet slide of steel that would almost be drowned out by everything else if you weren’t paying attention. Stepping outside into the bright sunlight makes you wince, having been so used to the dingy shade of the bar, but you can see the Mandalorian’s own shadow fully for the first time.

Standing a few inches taller than yourself, his shape isn’t as bulky as you expected. It’s broad, in your sight, and even though there’s a hum and bustle of people coming and going all around you, he stands completely still. 

“Keep up.”

Then he’s walking off again, and you’re hurrying after him. The few inches he has on you has you huffing to keep up, and you’re so focused on not losing him in the crowd that you don’t have time to be overwhelmed by all the smells and sounds of the market. The sun is bright enough you can keep his shadow in your line of sight, and you’re grateful he doesn’t try to guide you by the hand. It feels like a small but precious dignity to stretch your legs and taste dust and dry air without feeling like you’re being led on a leash.

It’s when you pass from the market, then the city, that the noises of other organic life seem to fade, and all you can hear is the wind and the whipping of your robes and his cloak. 

Suddenly, he stops and turns towards you. Heart climbing into your throat, you curl your hands at your sides and ready for the worst, but what happens next is unexpected.

“I didn’t...did you leave...things behind?”

What?

Your face must betray your confusion, because he goes on. “Back there. Did you...you didn’t bring anything with you.”

You think of the spare dress you were allotted that felt rough and scratchy against your skin, of the broken comb and the lone, threadbare ribbon you used to fix your hair whenever you had work that needed a bit more elbow grease.

You shake your head quickly, and you both stand in silence. The arid surroundings make you feel hot beneath your clothes, and you wish you could gauge what he was thinking. Most people talk...well, most people tend to run their mouths around you. As if you needed everything narrated, simply because you couldn’t see.

In fact, the silence is a relief, like a balm you didn’t know you needed for a burn that you’d been ignoring for too long. 

You hear him grunt under his helmet, almost too quiet for the modulator to pick up, and he turns and begins to trek again. His boots hit sand, and you follow as gracefully as you can in soft soles that weren’t meant for anything more than being indoors. It’s easy to see him now, his general shape, and you can tell when he stops and when he starts walking again, giving you a chance not to fall behind.

There’s a long stretch of time, perhaps more than an hour, where you both walk in silence. You pull the hood of your robe up over the crown of your head, the sun beginning to sting and make your eyes sore and face burn. You’re watching his boots, following the path they make, but when you look up again, a large, terrifying dark shape looms in front of you.

You must make a sound, because he turns to see you hesitating, taking a step away.

The Mandalorian seems to consider something before approaching you, and when the breeze ruffles your clothes, you can smell leather and sweat off of him.

“Hold out your hand,” he says, then adds quietly, “Please.”

There’s a shift of fabric before you feel something small and cool press into your palm. “The trigger, connected to the transmitter chip they injected when you were...bought,” he explains to your baffled expression. 

The thing that could kill you instantly.

Your stomach drops and your ears begin to ring, holding the small round object in your hand. When you speak, your voice is hoarse with unshed tears. “W-Why…? What do you want me...to do with it?”

“Keep it,” he grunts, shifting his weight between his legs. “Until I can neutralize the chip.”

Your free hand drifts to your neck, blinking hard against the wind as it begins to pick up. Sand begins to dust your lashes and catch in your mouth, but his words have left your throat bone dry all on their own. “I don’t understand.” He didn’t respond, and you shake your head, dropping your sight level to where your hand holds the trigger. “Why-?”

“I don’t need a slave. I don’t want a slave.” You think you can hear a frown, somewhere behind the steel of his armor. “I need someone to help me on my ship, and I can pay you for the work.”

Confusion turns to shock, because it’s such a blow to what you thought would be a normal day that you can’t control the muscles in your body anymore. Your knees feel like they’ll buckle, and he’ll leave you there in the sand for the sad, small creature you feel like you’ve become. That this is all some kind of cruel joke.

When you don’t respond, that hesitation returns to his voice. “Unless...you wanted to stay...here.” 

“No. Never.” Your lip quivers, though you don’t think you’ll cry. You hope you won’t cry. You can’t quite understand what you’re feeling, but it’s visceral and causing you to tremble like a fever. 

There’s a quiet, metal tinged sigh, and you think it sounds as relieved as you feel. When he starts walking again, the muffled sound of his boots in sand change to striking against metal, and you’re careful as you step up, gingerly toeing up what seems to be a ramp. The large shadow looming ahead was a ship, you realized, only ever having boarded one once before.

When you reach the top, his voice is quiet. “There’s a step down.”

Heart thrumming in your breast, you reach out with a shaking hand to lean against the side of the door, your boots carefully settling on the metal flooring. Inside is just as dark and cold as a cave, but it’s a blessed feeling compared to the dry heat of the sun outside. 

“This is yours?” you ask, pushing the hood of your robe back and feeling sand fall from the cowl. You can hear a minuscule echo of your voice inside the metal walls. He makes a noncommittal grunt in your direction, moving about in the dim lighting. You hear the flip of a switch and the ramp behind you retracts, followed by the hatch closing you in true darkness.

Your orientation blurs, and your shoulders rise to your ears with tension. You wait for some instruction or command, but neither comes. As your nerves accumulate, all the questions you should be asking-What kind of work am I to do? How are you going to neutralize a chip that could kill me? Who exactly are you?-fall by the wayside.

You hear his boots walking away again, and you wonder if he’ll ever speak at all. Is he so used to people just answering to his silent expectations he doesn’t need to? The line of thought is enough to distract you from the shock threatening to overtake your system, and you trail unsteadily after him. It’s only a few paces, and you listen as there’s a snap of fabric and a short sigh.

“You’ll sleep here.” You feel him step aside, and you blink curiously, walking forward. It doesn’t seem to be a room as much as it is a nook, a curve in the metal framework of the ship’s hull holding a bed. You lay your hand down on the carefully tucked sheets, trailing your fingers up to a blanket that’s been folded at the foot of the cot. You turn towards him, trying to think where to begin with your questions, but he goes on. “I’m going to set coordinates for our next destination. It would...be best if you stayed here.”

“...alright.” You sit down, finding the mattress plusher than you expected and sinking back. The weight off your legs has you sighing, head falling forward in relief. You listen to a slight strain of leather-perhaps he’s flexing his hands?-before you hear his footsteps begin to retreat once more.

You suspect he’s unused to company. Of organic life being so close.

Before you lose the nerve, you call softly, “Thank you.”

There is a slight pause in his stride, but he doesn’t turn back or reply. He disappears, climbing a ladder into a level above you, and you’re left alone in the cool dark.

You realize, after sitting in the quiet and listening to the engines hum to life, that your hand still cradles the trigger connecting to the chip. That’s what he’d said, hadn’t he? You swallow, fingering the small object and thinking of the procedure you’d undergone when they implanted the device at the base of your neck. 

The Mandalorian said he’d neutralize it, and you wondered if there would be pain.

That didn’t scare you as much as the idea of something going wrong when he would take it out.

You don’t remember laying down on the cot, and you certainly don’t remember falling asleep. Perhaps it was the shock, but you fell unconscious into a deep, dreamless slumber, curled in the nook at an odd angle. A firm hand on your arm woke you up, and though it wasn’t a tight grasp, and he didn’t shake you, it was still unnerving. Just a solid touch, and your eyes flew open.

“We’ve landed,” he says, removing his hand and stepping back as you sit up. You blink, wishing half-heartedly there was more light to make out anything around you, but you don’t think any amount of light would have prevented the sudden dizziness you feel when you stand up. Your hand strikes outward, landing flat against the wall with a loud slap to steady yourself.

That same gloved hand cups your other elbow, and you swallow when he doesn’t let go. “The jump from hyperspace can be a lot if you’re not used to it,” he says. You don’t even remember the ship taking off, much less any kind of jump. You wait as your bearings come back to you, your weight swaying between the balance of your feet. When you don’t move, his fingers flex gently around the delicate bones of your arm.

“I...I might need...help,” you finally confess, your stomach unsettled and your head swimming lazily like fish in a pond. How long had you been asleep? 

The Mandalorian doesn’t say anything, but his hand leaves your arm to lightly brush your back. You focus on breathing and begin walking forward. He guides you silently through the ship, down the ramp once he opens the hatch, and onto firmer, rocky foundation. Not unlike an anchor for a boat being tossed at sea, you don’t question how you’re able to let him guide you. 

Such a thing was so...intimate. Even dangerous, being vulnerable this way. You don’t want to think about it, so you take a deep, steadying breath and begin asking questions. 

The conversation is nearly one-sided from how little information he gives you, but the answers are sufficient enough. You’re on a planet called Avarla-7, which means nothing to you. You’re visiting one of his associates. You slept nearly 9 hours.

“Oh.” You listen to the crunch of rocks beneath both sets of your boots, considering the chill in the air. “It must be very late, then.” An answering hum from under the helmet is the only confirmation you receive. Something tickles at the back of your mind, and you incline your head towards the Mandalorian that walks to your left. “I...expected to be put to work rather quickly.” He doesn’t answer your vague comment, and you frown gently. “What kind of work do you need from someone like me?”

His hand presses slightly into the middle of your back, a bit firmer as you crest a small slope, giving you stability where there is none for you to find at night. “We’ll talk about it later.”

A voice calls out, wizened and deep across the expanse of dusty rocks, “I expected you back sooner. You are getting slow in your age.”

Your eyebrows raise, and you hear your companion beside you sigh again-this time in mild annoyance. You slow your steps with him, and you become aware that you have arrived near a building. Perhaps a tent, you think, with the sounds of fabric flapping in the breeze, but the noises of wandering animals nearby makes you think it’s a farm. Your curiosity heightens as you hear approaching footsteps, short and direct until someone stops in front of you.

“You have come to fetch the child, then? He has grown restless in your absence.” 

A child?

The Mandalorian shifts beside you, and you think he must nod. “Yes. But I need to ask for your help again.” There’s a pause, and you can feel them staring at you. “She has a transmitter implant. Can you neutralize it?”

The associate steps closer to you, but you don’t feel threatened by the quiet approach. You fold your hands patiently, feeling steadier on your feet with the Mandalorian’s hand at your back. 

“I am called Kuiil. May I have your hand?”

It is not demeaning, nor implying you need the help, and in fact you feel safer suddenly than you have in...in years. It’s hard to describe, the forthrightness and honesty in this voice that makes you feel a burgeoning amount of trust.

You hold out your hand, and the receiving grip is gentle and polite. He turns, and you follow, feeling like a young girl trailing after your father again, when you still had capricious bravery and the kindness of everyone near. Then, he says, “I will not neutralize it. I will remove it entirely. You will stay here until you are rested. I have spoken.”

[finnofamerica]

Jealous - Thranduil x Reader

Summary: Thranduil is known to be a jealous king. How will he react when his son pretends to court the one he loves with the intent of making him jealous. 

Word Count: 1108

Date Posted: 04.29.2020

Note: A very special thanks goes to @gaia-writes-stuff​ for looking this over and helping me revise this. I really was a little over my head with writing Thrandy for the first time. Thank you so much again for helping me with this, I really appriciate it. 

|| Masterlist || Requested by @queenofmankind​

Thranduil was a jealous king. He liked what was his and he didn’t like anyone else to touch it. So imagine his surprise to find an elf maiden that he wanted to share his kingdom with. 

Thranduil was busy in his office when he was informed that there were urgent matters that he must attend to. 

“My Lord Thranduil, I am Y/n,” You bowed respectfully, “Lord Elrond sent me to help with trading between Imladris and Greenwood The Great.” 

Then there you were, sent from Imladris of all places, though it wasn’t uncommon for Lord Elrond to send people on matters that he was too busy to handle himself. Thranduil approached you graceful and slow, like a lioness stalking her dinner. 

“They don’t call it Greenwood anymore.” He spoke finally. If you were any sort of sensible elf you’d be afraid of him. However, his movements, his power, and his commanding tone did nothing to scare you. You held fast into your position and looked the Elf King in the eyes. 

“Perhaps not.” You mused, “But this forest was once a great place, and it can be again if you’re brave enough to try.” 

“You question my bravery?” He rose a brow at you. 

“Do you question your own, My Lord?” You returned his verbal volley. Just like tennis, the elves of Thranduil’s guard watched with interest. Very few were brave enough - or stupid enough - to stand up to Thranduil in such a way. He was a jealous, possessive king, to challenge him was to challenge his kingdom. “Do you question the bravery or ability of your own men?” 

You were challenging him. Thranduil stood rigid, oh he liked you. No one, not even his own son, was brave enough to stand against him like that - not since, well not since his late wife who had died in battle. 

“Very well then. You’re here about trading, tell me, what are your concerns?” He moved back to sit on his throne. He was interested in studying this brave stupid elf. 

It was long days that you worked with Thranduil over the matters of trading between your two communities and the kingdoms that surrounded. It was long days that were spent drowning in work, idle flirting, and subtle seduction. Thranduil would never admit that after you’d long gone to bed, he’d think of new problems to propose in hopes that you’d stay longer and not have to return to Elrond. He was not quick to love, so why should this be any different. 

. . . 

“Y/n,” Legolas joined you at the table where you were puzzling out a better trade deal with the dwarves of Erebor and the men of Dale. “It seems my father will not be joining you today, he sent me in his place.” 

“He is a king,” You smiled, “He has other more important matters to attend to, I’m sure.” 

But the King’s negligence didn’t end there. His meetings with you ceased though he watched you from afar, and he’d begun to blow you off when you sought him out. You began to feel worse by the day. You’d really began to think you were growing on the grumpy king, making progress. You were actually beginning to love the king, even if his humor was dry. 

“It doesn’t make any sense to me Legolas,” You confided in your new friend. 

“I really don’t want to hear about your romantic inclination toward my father.” Legolas grimaced. Legolas wasn’t unaware of his father’s feelings for you, it simply wasn’t like Thranduil to hide away from people. Then you smiled a smile that Legolas didn’t like, not one bit. 

“Whatever you’re thinking, I want no part of it.” Legolas protested. 

“Let’s make the king jealous.” You wiggled your eyebrows. 

“No. Why don’t you just tell him how you feel?” 

“You know well enough that he’ll never go for it. He needs to feel threatened to take what he wants.” 

“And if it doesn’t work?” 

“Then I’ll finish my work here and return to Imladris and Lord Elrond.” You reasoned. 

“Fine, but only because I don’t want to lose my friend.” 

“Thank you!” You pulled him into a hug in your excitement. 

From then on Legolas was attached to your hip, you went everywhere together, knowing that Thranduil had his eyes on you from the moment you’d first met. 

The thought of you falling for Legolas disturbed Thranduil. He hated it. He wanted you more than anything, and he didn’t want to lose you to his son. He was a king! He’d be slain in battle before he let Legolas stake a claim on something he wanted. Thranduil attended to his duties, though his thoughts were never far from you, plagued with jealousy. 

He never thought for a moment that you’d be walking through his kingdom with a courting braid in your hair that wasn’t his. Thranduil lost it, while he loved his son more than life, he couldn’t risk the torment of watching you day in and day out with his son. In love with someone who wasn’t him. 

You were working in the quiet of your designated office when Thranduil stormed in. You jumped from your chair in shock. Thranduil’s icy glare holding you steadfast in your place. You couldn’t help but step back as he approached you. 

“What is this?” He hissed, pulling the braid from behind your ear and into your line of sight. 

“That is a courtship braid.” 

“To my son.” His expression darkened and, for the first time since meeting the Elf-king, you might actually be afraid of him. “You walk these halls, Temptress, and you seduce my son right underneath my nose. Tell me, do you love him?” 

You grinned. “Not in the slightest.” 

“Then you waste him.” He growled, “You waste yourself.” 

“You’re jealous.” You reached up and pulled the braid from his finger and began to unravel it. Thranduil watched you carefully, eyes full of suspicion. “Face it, My Lord, my plan worked.” 

“What plan. Do not tell me you intend to marry my son for my kingdom.” 

“No. I intended to make you jealous, and even I can see that it worked.” 

“I am not jealous.” He leaned in, forcing you back against the wall. 

“You are. You’re a jealous king and you know it. You want what’s yours so badly,”  You challenged, tilting your head up to fully meet his eyes. You could feel his breath on your lips, fast and heavy from adrenaline and anger. “Then take it.” 

He crashed his lips to yours hungrily, needy. He intended to claim you undeniably. 

“You will be mine.” He breathed when he pulled away, lips brushing yours with every word. 

“You promise?” You smirked. 

Thranduil certainly did like you. He knew that he’d fallen and fallen hard for you. You loved your jealous king.

[its-pronounced-quoassoint]

Power Rangers AU-Chapter 8

Pairings: romantic Logicality, Prinxiety, Demus, Remile

This Chapter features: Logan centric, trans!Logan

This Chapter Warnings: talks of past violence, brief mention of PTSD, description of scraped hands, mention of past ‘possession’, talks of manipulation, some cursing, sympathetic Deceit and Remus

Credit for this AU goes to @when-day-met-the-knight (specifically this post).

If you would like to be added to the taglist for this fic please let me know in reply!

First Previous Next

Chapter 8-Renette

Logan still thought they should have brought Patton to a medical proffessional. Thomas had practice with typical medical proceedures from his own time as a Ranger, but Patton's collapse should have been treated more carefully. However, he also knew that taking him to see a real doctor could potentially reveal his and their identities. Logan complied with Thomas's instructions and allowed Patton to be taken back to Thomas's home. The team was frantic. Remus and Dee weren't speaking to anyone but each other and it was starting to get on Logan's and Roman's nerves. Yes, they may be good friends, or friends-with-benefits, or whatever they were, but they had to confide in the others. The risk they had taken of talking to Virgilius like that was too great to not at least ask Thomas about. Then when their plan-well it didn't fail, to be honest Logan didn't know what had happened-but the two's plan didn't have the outcome they wanted and now they were shutting everyone else out.

Finally they reached Thomas's house. Emile discreetly hurried them in through the back. Remus set Patton down on the couch carefully and the rest of the Rangers, plus Emile sat around the table. They all deactivted thier Ranger armor and looked around. Emile came over to Logan and sat down next to him, pulling up a first aid kit and silently asking for Logan's cooperation. Logan hadn't even realized how badly his hands hurt. He looked at his palms to see them scrapped and raw, bleeding slightly in a few areas. When had that happened? He asked himself.

Logan allowed Emile to begin the disinfecting. It didn't hurt as badly as he had anticipated.

"I'm sorry." Thomas croaked out. "There's been quite a few attacks since Roman and Remus became Rangers, but I didn't expect she'd-she'd do . . . that so soon."

"Thomas it's okay." Roman gave a weak smile. "Really, you couldn't have known."

"Yeah, but I could have given you a warning."

"Even with such a warning, we likely wouldn't have known the extent of her ability, and I'm assuming that was barely scratching the surface of what she can do." Logan winced a little as Emile pressed the cotton harder into his palm.

"What even was that?" Dee asked. Oh so he hasn't totally forgotten us? Logan rolled his eyes to himself.

"Joan and Talyn called it possession-"

"Any ghost can do that in less than one lesson." Logan heard Roman whisper. That must be some Broadway reference I have yet to learn, he thought.

"The Dragon witch, sometimes she would possess the Generals that attacked us. When we came too close to actually stopping them. She'd take over their body and that black cloud would leave us almost defenseless." Thomas continued.

"Did she ever do, ya know, that?" Roman grunted, likely referencing the Dragon Witch's verbal maltreatment towards them.

"Only a couple times. She never really took possession of her generals, and when she did she was never that mad. She acted impressed, almost proud. It was so unnerving. Like she wanted her generals to fail against us. We didn't know why." Thomas sagged back into his chair. "She's never really said any of those things before."

"So we should expect her to do it again?" Roman asked incredulously.

"If you keep trying to make Virgilius turn to our side, I'd say so." Thomas sighed.

Logan, Roman, and Thomas turned to Reus and Dee, they held somewhat guilty expressions, but weren't backing down.

"What the hell you two?" Roman finally broke the silence. "Why didn't you tell us you were going to do that?"

"You didn't seem too keen on the idea when I asked you the first time, Roman!" Remus crossed his arms and huffed.

"What?" Logan looked to Roman. "When did you talk to Roman-"

"Saturday. Dee read up to the second to last chapter at that point and we came up with the plan." Reus stated.

"Remus talked to Roman about it later that day but apparently he said Virgilius wasn't gonna be convinced and we were just wasting time." Dee growled. "Figured if that's what Roman thought you two would be even less inclined to do it."

"But you did it anyway! And look at what happened!" Roman gestured to Patton on the couch.

"How could we have known that was gonna happen!" Dee refuted. "We just figured if we talked to him long enough he might see our side. We could help him!"

"And if he didn't then we'd know not to hold back." Remus lowered himself further in his chair.

"Not hold back?!" Roman stood. "What so when we fight him you're just holding back!"

"Roman you don't get it. That's not him." Dee's voice simmered.

"You don't know him!" Roman harshly put it.

"Patton and the two of us are the only ones that have gotten this close to him. He just gives off this feeling it's-"

"Unnatural." Patton's soft voice said from the couch. "Pink Ranger deactivate."

The Rangers and Emile rushed over to him frantically. Logan felt the weight on his chest that he hadn't realized was there, get lifted off of him. Patton smiled a little, but his eyes showed a  protectiveness Logan was familiar with.

"Patton what-" Roman started.

"Dee and Remus are right. Virgilius, he's-well-I don't know what he is, but being so close to him, it just felt wrong. Unnatural. It doesn't feel right. He's just like what Dee said; a pawn in her game. She's using him and if he hasn't seen it already then he's going to real soon." Patton explained.

"Patton-"

"I think he needs our help." Patton looked to Logan, desperately trying to get him to understand.

"I think he's been using Downright as a message. I mean why else would he attack after each chapter is posted, he wanted us to read it for a reason." Dee said quiety. "Then the last chapter was posted and it was all about Richie and Eddie leaving Derry, it was such a strange choice, but after talking to Dee we realized there were two ways you could look at it. We didn't really know for sure if he wanted to leave the Dragon Witch or not, but asking him what he thought was the perfect way to really figure it out."

"If he thought what the writer did made snese, then we could be even more sure that he's coming to our side." Remus finished. "Then his explination, it just made everything click! He wants to leave just like Richie and Eddie left Derry! I mean come on it just makes so much sense."

"We were getting through to him! Thomas said she only possessed the Generals when they were about to lose, we didn't even start fighting!" Dee went on. "We were making sense to him and it scared her."

"Before she possessed him, he seemed so tired." Patton said. "His emotions were just so strong I could feel it! He was so tired of the fighting! I'm not making this up. I know what I felt."

"How?" Roman asked. "Pat you're so sure this was how he felt, but you don't know him."

"I could feel what he was feeling!" Patton tried.

"Patton has always been better at sensing people's emotions, and knowing how to help them in times of distress." Logan nodded

"Megan calls it my sixth sense. It's not a super power but I'm almost never wrong. I know what I felt, it-it came from him." Patton stated firmly.

"If you're so sure that's how he feels, then what do we do about it?" Thomas asked. "Knowing the Dragon Witch, she's just going to make him hate us more now that she knows you two tried to help him. He's not going to be as easy to sway."

It was quiet. Logan looked to Patton and sat next to him, allowing Patton to intertwine his pinky with Logan's. Patton moved to fully hold his hand, but Logan felt the sting of his scrapes and pulled away. Patton looked at Logan curiously, to which he showed Patton his palms.

"I hate her." Patton whispered for just Logan to hear. "You know I don't say that lightly, but it's how I feel. She shouldn't have said those things to you. I didn't like her before, but when she sa-said that, gosh it made me snap."

"Patton-"

There was a knock at the door, interrupting Logan. Everyone was still.

"I'll get it." Emile said calmly.

"Wait Emile!" Patton whisper-yelled after him.

Emile only waved off Patton's concern and strode to the door.

"Renette!" He exclaimed giddily, jumping into the person's arms.

"Hey Sugar." The person responded.

Emile was set down and he dragged the person into the room for everyone to see. A tall, built woman follwed him. Her dark skin and even darker hair complimented the rose gold color of her suit, and her boxbraids were up in a bun. Her overall look was proffessional and Logan admired it greatly.

"Renette." Thomas sighed, relieved.

"Sorry you had to wait so long Thomas. Every time I planned on arriving something got in the way. Luckily, I was here for this one, so less work on my part had to be done. I came over here as quickly as I could." She stated.

Logan then recognized her, she was a pedestrian that he had helped in the square.

"Sorry, but, who are you?" Dee asked.

"Right, oh this is long overdue." She adressed the rest of the room. "My name is Renette Rademeyer-"

"That's awesome." Remus remarked.

"Thanks I picked it myself." Renette chuckled. "And I'm going to be working with you all on behalf of the federal government."

"You work with the FBI?" Roman asked.

"With your part of the FBI." She clarified. "I'll be handling a lot of things for you boys like foreign affairs, and other aid you can provide, I'm a go between, and a form of mentor. Thomas has been doing good, but you boys need to get some real training in."

"Foreign affairs?" Logan asked.

"You've been doing a great job fighting Virgilius and whatnot, but that's not the only thing you can help with. Other places around the world need you."

"Like the Avengers. They didn't just defeat aliens, they stopped terrorists and stuff." Patton said.

"We have to fight terrorists?" Roman asked.

"Oh, no no. Fighting terrorists is far too complicated to send you boys in." Renette stopped him. "Mainly outreach. Helping people in other countries get food, supplies, help during natural disasters, that sort of thing."

They nodded.

"And of course there are other things that I have to speak with you all about. This may take a while, so please get comfy." Renette waited.

Roman the sat next to Logan, then Dee, then Remus. Thomas sat in a chair, and Emile on the ground, looking up to Renette happily.

"To start, there's the matter of none of you except Thomas have summoned your Zords yet, so we'll be working on that." She began. "And because of this, we aren't going to be asking for any outreach, but know that once you can consistantly summon them, your participation in world helping efforts will be madatory."

Logan and the others felt a twinge of guilt at that. The zords were a vital part of the Power Rangers and to deafeat the Dragon Witch they would definitely, need them. Thomas said it had taken a long time for any of the last Power Rangers to summon them, but that didn't make it any easier.

"Then there's the matter of publicity. Currently as I'd hope you know, mattel is coming out with a new line of Power Rangers action figures and other companies plan to make products in your images. Then there's movies, music, and other forms of entertainment about you. Since, technically the Power Rangers have been copyrighted, you will all be compensated. However, you will not be actually receiving any compensation until after you've become a legal adult and college fees are paid."

"I've been wondering about college." Logan piped up. "I don't plan to stay in Florida for college and if the Dragon Witch is still attacking-"

"I guess I should get into that now." Renette sighed. "While there's no demand for you all to go to college here, I would hope by the time you leave you'll be able to summon your Zords and arrive to the sight of the attack quickly. If not, other arrangements will have to be made. Whichever college you attend shouldn't be a problem."

"So um, what was that about money?" Remus asked.

"And movies?" Roman piped up.

"Yeah that too, but mostly the money."

"Well, the compensation you all will be receiving for items being made about you, will go into a fund for each of you to attend a college that you are accepted into. When the time comes to go to college, that money will be paying for all of it, and if it doesn't cover wherever you would like to go the government will handle the rest." Renette explained. "Also any explaination to your parents will be provided, so don't worry about that. Any questions so far?

"No? Good. Next we have to talk about any invites you as Rangers may receive. Movie screenings, parades, celebrity parties, lunches, news station interviews, possibly even public addresses." Renette went on. "You'll obviosly have to go as a Ranger so your identity isn't revealed. You will be briefed later about how to speak to the public, but really it'll depend on the situation."

"Are we gonna be invited to see Broadway shows?" Roman asked expectantly.

"I would assume so. Thomas, I believe you and Emile saw Hamilton in Chicago upon invitation, correct?"

"And Dear Evan Hansen in New York." Emile nodded.

"So yeah, I would expect that." Renette shrugged and smiled at Roman's happier expression. "As for celebrity parties, well, you're not encouraged to go to all of them obviously. If you are able to attend a party that you've been invited to, you have to run it by me first and get my approval. There will of course be consequences if these rules aren't followed. When it comes to the news, like with public addresses, we'll brief you on what to say beforehand."

There was a beeping from inside her suit jacket that Logan recognized as the same text tone he set for his own phone. Renette pulled her phone out and scrolled up, likely unlocking it. Logan noticed the case looked much like his own, but rather than black, hers was yellow and clear.

"My son needs me." Renette grunted as she looked at the screen. "I-I'm sorry boys this was supposed to be a longer talk, but I've got to leave. One more thing though! On friday, I need all of you here after school. We'll be taking you to meet with your therapists."

"Therapists?" Dee asked.

"Of course, you think we expect kids to fight aliens every week and not have some kind of PTSD? You're all mandatorily meeting with seperate therapists. You can figure out schedules with them when you all meet." Renette stooped down to give Emile a hug, pulling the boy up into the air and squeezing before setting him back down. "And so you know Sugar, Remy says 'hello', but in that caffeine pumped voice he gets."

"Aww!" Emile folded his fingers. "How's he doing?"

"Better. Renae and Roland are being way over protective of him, just so you know."

"Well, tell him I said hi and that the cappuccino machine in Mr. Richard's room doesn't work anymore." Emile replied. "It was good to see you Renette."

"Always a pleasure Sugar." She smiled and left for the door. "You too Thomas. We'll talk again soon boys!"

With that she was out the door.

"Who's Remy?" Patton asked, there was a tone to his voice that suggested he was subtly trying to say something else, but Logan didn't know what.

"Renette's son." Emile said happily.

"That was so weird." Dee remarked. "I mean she just walked in here, said she was our FBI agent and left."

"Why didn't you tell us we were gonna have to see therapists?" Roman asked Thomas.

"Well, they were still trying to find some for you all, and frankly it wasn't the right time."

"It feels like no one's talking in this team anymore." Roman pouted.

"Renette tends to just show up and leave a lot Dee, you get used to it." Emile shrugged.

Behind him Thomas mouthed 'No you dont'.

"I liked her." Logan decided to say, not quite intending for anyone to hear.

"Agreed." Patton said back, softly though so only Logan would get the response.

Logan smiled at Patton and looked back down. His own phone suddenly alerted him of a text message.

Nora Montgomery:

Mama's home.

We told her you were in bed already. Come in through the back, Lauren's ready to let you in whenever.

"Shit!" Logan stood suddenly. "I have to go!"

"What why?" Patton followed, standing as well.

"Lo, what's going on?"

"Roman, my mom's home." Logan breathed out.

"Shit." Roman agreed.

Taglist:

@tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors @maddarc @pheonix-inside-reblogs @thisismysanderssidesblog @almost-all-my-ships-are-gay @mostpeopleannoyme @the-smol-est @i-sexually-identify-as-a-mistake @nadja-chamack16@too-bi-too-function @rainbowbowtie @mistypelt1234 @tricksterangel25 @authorized-trash @echocw @stripestar128128 @coffee-mugz @slitherynchicken

[btshogwartsfics]

BTS at Hogwarts (Pt.5- Jimin)

A/N: I had a lot of fun doing this one. I love the idea of Hogwarts BTS, but Chim is just especially fun to write for! My bias is coming at you guys next! Enjoy! <3

JIMIN:  

House: Gryffindor

Patronus: Panther

Wand: Willow Wood, Dragon Heartstring Core, 9 ½ Inches, Supple Flexibility

Blood Status: Half-blood

Possibility of Being a Prefect: Yes

Quidditch: Absolutely

Best Class(s): Divination

Reasoning-

Jimin is a Gryffindor. My mind is made-up and you can’t do anything about it. Yes I can agree that he does have many traits of a Hufflepuff and at first I went back and forth between the two of them for our Chim. So while many of you may disagree with me on this, and that’s absolutely fine, I am firm in my belief that he is indeed a Gryffindor. I have also seen people argue that due to his ambition, he is no doubt a Slytherin. While again, I can see this, I think the things that some may see him as a Slytherin for, I see him as a Gryffindor for. I firmly believe that it’s not just the traits you have, but the traits you value that ultimately decide which house you belong to. He wants to do good and he wants to take chances and live a full life doing what he’s passionate about, but I don’t feel he would ever do anything he thinks is unjust and unethical. I fully feel Jimin would do almost anything for those he cares about and what he believes is right. He’s kind and considerate, but he is assertive and stands behind what he believes in. He may be kind and caring, but he is definitely fierce and chivalrous and brave. Although I do think a Hufflepuff can mess you up if so provoked and a Slytherin can absolutely have a soft side, I feel that those two clashing points in his personality come together nicely to mold him into an amazing Gryffindor. Change my mind.

The symbolism for panthers are guardian energy, assertiveness, understanding, intuition, artistry, aggressiveness and power. I feel that Jimin displays all these traits very well at different times and in different situations.

“Willow is an uncommon wand wood with healing power, and I have noted that the ideal owner for a willow wand often has some (usually unwarranted) insecurity, however well they may try and hide it. While many confident customers insist on trying a willow wand (attracted by their handsome appearance and well-founded reputation for enabling advanced, non-verbal magic) my willow wands have consistently selected those of greatest potential, rather than those who feel they have little to learn. It has always been a proverb in my family that he who has furthest to travel will go fastest with willow.”

“As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner. The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental.”

I hate to say it Jiminie, but you’re a bit short. Therefore I feel your wand would match and so I made it a bit shorter. Sorry.

Again, I’ve seen people say that Jimin would be a pureblood and I’ve seen people say Jimin would be a muggle-born, but I personally feel that he would be able to equally understand and empathize with both sides. It is for this reason I made (or headcanon) Jimin a half-blood.

Some Gryffindors (not all, I’m aware of this) tend to be a bit messy, but as I said there are exceptions to every rule. Not everyone in a certain house will act exactly the same. Jimin is an exception to this rule. As we’ve heard in interviews, Jimin hates Taehyung’s messiness (like Namjoon) and we also know that Jimin is a perfectionist. Due to this (being a perfectionist, I mean), I feel Jimin would strive to be a Prefect and possibly even Head-Boy after, even if he is playing Quidditch. I think it’s just in his nature.

Jimin would absolutely be a Quidditch player. Jimin has lots of muscle (even if Kookie is the muscle-pig) and I feel he also has a lot of strength. Because of this I think Jimin would be an excellent beater. I think he’d be good at other positions, too, but beater best. As a dancer, he is obviously athletic to a certain degree and I feel that would really help him out.

If you happened to read the last part of this (Namjoon’s part), then you will know that I admitted most of the reasons why I think a certain member would be good at this or bad at that is just a hunch. The same applies here.

Notes/Other:

Was strangely relieved when he got his acceptance letter

Like he grew up around magic and it was obvious he was a wizard but he was still somewhat afraid he wasn’t or like wasn’t good enough to go to Hogwarts

But of course he was

The Sorting Hat went through a bit of a hard time with this one but when it placed him in Gryffindor Jimin was honestly shocked

He didn’t think he was brave or courageous enough to be sorted into Gryffindor

Lowkey is scared that he don’t do justice to his house or represent it well enough

Not exactly bad at any class or another but he struggles to stay awake in History of Magic and ends up missing some of the notes and study material

Goes to Namjoon every time he forgets something and all he does is sigh

Can relate easily to all his friends has he basically grew up with the best of both worlds being a half-blood

Him, Tae and Jungkook get into trouble quite a lot being in the same year, but sometimes he has to admit they can get a bit too mischievous 

but most of the time he has no problem pulling a few pranks with them here or there

Most of the time Jimin will follow the rules unless he sees something he doesn’t agree with

Whether it be morally, academically or in any other way, Jimin does what he thinks is right and some teachers find it endearing and others find it frustrating

But they all love him anyway because he’s not entirely reckless (even though he very well can be) and has a least a sliver of self-control

McGonagall adores him

So so so happy that he’s a Gryffindor

Doesn’t give him special treatment but even the other students are starting to notice that she’s quite partial to Jimin

Tried out for Quidditch as soon as he could and immediately landed the beater position

Captain thinks he’s one of the best beaters Gryffindor has had in a while

When he plays against Hoseok or Jungkook nobody ever knows who is gonna win this time

It’s practically a coin toss with those three

Such a sweet teammate gosh

He always prepares snacks and makes sure every player has enough water before every game starts

Was probably offered the position of captain when their old one graduated but turned it down because he was worried he wouldn’t be able to fill his shoes and be a perfect captain and stressed about taking on that responsibility

The rest of the team was kinda bummed because they thought he’d do great but they understood and gave the position to someone else and didn’t press him about it

Chim really appreciated that

When not focused on winning the game, he’s extremely cocky on the Quidditch pitch but as soon as he’s off of it he’s back to being our little mochi

Doesn’t get many detentions because he secretly has all the teachers wrapped around his finger

But they’d never admit it

Unfortunately he doesn’t have any of the boys to hang out with in the common room so he spends most of his time either in the courtyard or the dining hall

Occasionally he’ll stop by the library to visit Namjoon and he may have gone into the forbidden forest with Tae and Jungkook once or twice… 

Loves Care of Magical Creatures class with Tae

All the little animals and even the big ones are just so cute to him

But he swears Tae might actually hurt himself one of these days

Doesn’t have any idea why but he’s really good at Divination and he loves it

Thinks it’s so cool and fun

Kookie doesn’t understand it and thinks it’s dumb, but he still manages to get good grades in the class

Not better than Jimin though and he loves to tell him

“I was good at Divination first” and “you only signed up because I did you copied me”

Trelawney always calls him out in class for it and uses him and his work as examples

He loves the praise but gets really shy and his friends love to tease him about it

Would be really great at dueling too if he tried

But he’s not really into using dueling spells and things unless it's for a good purpose or reason

like protecting his friends or anyone else in need (and self defense, but he’d rather use it to protect other people or a good cause)

A/N: I thank anyone who got to the end of this mess! I’m not the most organized person in the world, so I really appreciate it! <3 Jimin’s moodboard is about to go up and I will post Tae’s part and moodboard tomorrow! Kookie’s things will be Sunday! 

[analisegrey]

Februwhump Prompt!

“Where are you?” (Read on AO3)

Warnings: spoilers for C2:e49- Game of Names, spoilers for Caleb’s backstory, teacher-student relationship, power imbalance, manipulation, child abuse/neglect, Trent Ikithon (he’s his own warning), also my sincerest apologies to Mr. Tolkien.

Day 1

Trent’s voice in his mind is as cool and clear as ever, the distance doing nothing to interfere with the clarity of his Sending spell. “You will return to the estate at precisely six pm on whichever day you return. If you come back too early or too late the-” There’s a brief pause, and then, “-exercise will reset. If you don't return, I will assume you were not strong enough. Am I clear?”

Bren is still groggy, his head aching from whatever Trent had done to knock him out and bring him here, but he doesn’t keep his instructor waiting. “Yes sir.”

There’s no response, but he doesn’t expect one.

He’s known for awhile that even among the three of them, Trent has been singling him out for extra training, running him through mental exercises Astrid and Eodwulf are excused from; it’s only fitting for the boy who will become their team leader one day.

He’s not sure where he is beyond ‘in the woods’. He takes stock of what Trent has left him with- basic clothes, a hunting knife, one healing potion. He has no components with him, but that’s not really an issue; his preferred spells use mostly verbal and somatic components, so it could be worse. If it were Astrid or Eodwulf out here, they might have more of a problem.

He looks around, taking in his surroundings. There’s the quiet sounds of the woods- the rustling of the wind through leaves, the musical call of birds (finch, robin, bluejay, cardinal), and from somewhere close, the burble of water.

It’s not that late, he thinks, just past midday if the position of the sun is any indication. If he can figure out where he is, and what direction the estate might be in, he can conceivably finish this exercise today and have a late dinner with Astrid and Eodwulf. No problem.

So, first things first, he thinks, where are you?

He climbs a tree with little difficulty, the bark rough against his hands as he climbs. It’s been a few years since he had the time and inclination to climb a tree, but it’s a skill that comes back quickly. When he’s high enough up, he gets a look at his surroundings, and a better look at the sun’s position. He’s got a decent idea of where north is, and therefore where the estate might be. He’s seen maps of the area in Trent’s study, knows where the woods are in relation to the house, and thinks he remembers the path of the stream he heard before; with that added confidence he shimmies back down the tree and heads out.

He’s feeling pretty good about things until he gets to the front gate of the estate and Trent is waiting, arms crossed over his chest with a frown of blatant disapproval. “I specified a time, Bren. What did I say?”

“Six pm, sir.”

“And what time is it now?”

Bren pauses, glancing up at the sun. He’d thought he was pretty close, time-wise, but maybe not as close as he’d thought. He hazards a guess, “Five-thirty?”

Trent’s frown deepens, and it’s all Bren can do to keep himself from taking a reflexive step back.

“No, that is incorrect.” Trent’s words are cold and clipped, and Bren’s stomach twists in shame. “I am training you to become a powerful mage, Bren; not just a war mage to help protect the Empire, but the leader of your squad. That is a position that will require specificity and precision. You can’t just guess.” Trent's lip curls in disgust as he moves forward, and Bren straightens, shoulders back, forcing himself to maintain eye contact when what he wants most is to just sink into the ground and disappear. “A wizard of the level I am training you to be is neither early nor late. They arrive precisely when they mean to. You will do the exercise again.”

Trent puts a hand on Bren’s shoulder, and the world twists and warps around him, then abruptly goes dark.

Day 3

The easy confidence Bren had on day one has long since left him. He’s gotten better at finding directions without having to climb up a tree which is good; Trent has been leaving him further and further from the estate since the first day, always in a different location than the days before. When he wakes up the third day, he finds the healing potion he’d used the second day hasn’t been replenished.

“Perhaps you will learn be more mindful of both yourself and your resources. The exercise starts now.”

The day before he’d fallen down a steep incline he hadn't seen when the light had started to fade under the tree canopy, and hurt his leg. At the time, he’d thought it was an obvious need, but maybe he’d been wrong. He wonders now if he should have waited, should have tried walking on it. It’s possible it was only badly strained, and not actually broken, but it’s too late to worry about it now. He’ll just have to be more careful.

He locates the stream again and drinks his fill, letting the water take away the edge of hunger. He hasn’t been able to catch anything useable since the exercise started; he’d spotted a small rabbit the day before, and without thinking had tossed a Firebolt at it. His aim had been true, but it has practically incinerated the creature, rendering it useless. He’ll need to figure out something to eat, and soon, but he knows from his studies how long a person can actually go without food so long as they have water. He knows that while this is uncomfortable, and will eventually have negative effects, he isn’t in immediate danger.

He keeps a close eye on the position of the sun, tracking it’s path through the sky in his head from when he woke up, doing his best to gauge how long until sundown. The first day he’d been too early. Yesterday he’d been too late. He thinks he’s got a better grasp on it this go round, his sense of time improving.

When he arrives at the gate, Trent doesn’t even address him before stalking forward, his dismay evident in his expression. He clamps a hand down on Bren’s shoulder with bruising force, mutters a word, gestures with his other hand, and sends Bren off again.

The exercise restarts.

Day 6

Things are not going as well.

He’d gotten turned around somehow the day before, following the stream in the wrong direction for long enough that by the time he’d realized his error, he knew that there was no way he’d get back to the estate before dark. He’d spent the night up in a tree, far too tense for sleep, waiting in the cool night air for sunrise.

The morning dawns overcast and gray, and soon it’s raining, which is doing nothing to improve Bren’s mood. He’s cold, wet, and hungry, his irritation with the whole situation, with himself, a low-burning fire in his gut. He wants the exercise to be over and done with, to be inside, somewhere dry and warm, to have the company of his friends, his teammates. He takes a deep breath, centers himself, thinks about why he’s doing this. He needs to become strong, to be the leader that Trent thinks he can be. Trent wouldn’t have sent him out here if he didn’t think Bren was up to the task.

He’s so deep in his own head he doesn’t hear the movement in the bushes nearby until it’s too late. A sharp squeal rends the air, startling him from his thoughts, and something crashes from the underbrush, slamming into him at hip height. It knocks him sideways and to the ground, and the creature is on him almost immediately. Something sharp digs along the outside of his thigh, pulling a scream from him, but his training kicks in and he gets his hands up, thumbs hooked, a blast of fire shooting out as he casts. The beast tries to get out of the way, but isn’t quick enough, and the cone of flame catches it along one side, eliciting a pained noise. It rounds on him and he has a second to recognize it as a wild boar, though thankfully not a full-grown one, before it's charging again. He rolls at the last moment, evading the tusks it’s aimed at him. He gets up to his feet, though his injured leg threatens to give, and the forest around them goes still, the two of them just watching each other for a long, frozen moment. Then the boar charges again, and Bren unleashes the fire a second time, hitting it head-on. It drops, but its momentum carries its still-burning carcass through the mud a few feet toward him.

He has his hands up, still shaking as he gasps for breath, and he waits a moment to be certain it’s dead before he lowers his arms and moves toward it. The rain has put out most of the remaining flames, and he drops to his knees next to it. The outer layer of hide and bristle is burned, charred-through, and the scent of roast pig makes his stomach twist and pang. He has his knife out and digging into it before he can stop himself, tearing aside the skin to get to the cooked-through layers of flesh closest to the surface. There’s a part of his mind that worries this is a bad idea, that the pig as a whole isn’t cooked enough, that it will make him sick. That part of him is quickly subsumed by the rest of him which is starving and hasn’t eaten anything other than berries and roots in days.

By the time he stops, his belly is full, and he feels a bit queasy from all the blood, but it’s preferable to the yawning emptiness he’s been dealing with. He forces himself to get up, knowing that the smell of cooked meat and blood will draw attention from predators. He also knows that this boar wasn’t anywhere near full-grown, and there might be other ones, bigger ones, nearby, which he has no interest in tangling with. He wipes his knife off against the grass and tears off strips of his shirt to bandage the gash in the side of his leg before he gets moving.

It’s nearing dusk when he arrives back at the estate, and Trent is once again waiting for him, mouth pressed into a pale, turned-down line. “Bren, it is not-”

A flash of something, a sudden burst of stupidity, irritation, and brashness comes bubbling up out of him, and he does something he’s never dared before- he interrupts Trent.

“No, sir, it is not six pm. It is five fifty-five, but I am here precisely when I mean to be.”

Trent blinks at him, one elegant eyebrow arched in surprise as he takes in the soaking wet, blood-stained teen shivering yet standing tall before him. He takes in the sight, and after a moment in which Bren is convinced he’s about to be struck down or sent away, Trent smiles.

“Well done, Bren.” Trent stands to the side of the gate and gestures toward the house. “Come along. We’ll see to your injuries, and you can tell me about what you've learned during the exercise.”

Pride swells up on a wave of warmth in Bren’s chest, and everything he’s gone through in the past week- the exhaustion, the deprivation, the injuries and self-doubt- all of it has been worth it for this moment of praise, for knowing that- at least this once- he’s managed to live up to Trent’s high expectations.

Schooling his features to careful neutrality, he holds his head high, and steps through the gate.

[kivaember]

(This fic sorta reflects my current state of being l o l honestly, burn out is the worst fucking thing to endure and i am s u f f e r i n g from it so much. So I vented with this, and kinda explored a few of Aymeric’s other relationships.

Also for the fishing bit, Aza and his FC were pretty much doing this)

As always, Aymeric woke up at the crack of dawn.

It was to an empty bed, so he thankfully didn’t have to go through the torturous ordeal of untangling himself from Aza’s arms and slipping out without him waking up (impossible). He did so love his partner, but some days he he just wanted get to work on time without having to rush because Aza decided to imitate a rather clingy, amorous limpet.

The sun was just peeking over the twisting spires of the Holy See when Aymeric emerged from his home, dressed, fed and waiting for his coffee to kick in. His feet took him along the well worn path towards the Congregation of the Knights Most Heavenly (he needed to find a way to shorten that into something that didn’t sound so… cultish), the air almost pleasantly mild. It was ‘summer’ for Ishgard now, and that brought with it weak sunshine, gentle breezes and rain. It boded well for a possible thawing of the permafrost that clung to this land, though he doubted they would be able to reproduce their previous agricultural output for another few years yet.

The foot traffic was light this early in the morning, so Aymeric was utterly alone as he descended the steps from the Pillars to the lower levels of Ishgard. It meant he could break decorum a little and stifle a yawn behind his hand, feeling ragged to the bone. Gods, he always felt so exhausted when Aza wasn’t here. As distracting as his partner could be, he certainly slept easier when they-

-something abruptly jabbed him hard in his kidneys.

“Fuck-” he blurted in utter surprise, his foot slipping on the step and almost sending him on an embarrassing tumble, if not for the strong hand gripping his bicep. His lower back throbbed from the very painful jab he just took, and, face slightly red from embarrassment, regained his footing and turned to see-

“That’s another stabbin’ you coulda hand,” the ‘Mongrel’ smiled at him, all teeth, “C’mon, Lord Commander. I’ve told ya before about this route. Ambush points everywhere.”

Aymeric’s shoulders slumped, and Hilda kindly released his arm to give him a short pat on the shoulder, somehow making the gesture of reaching up not look too ridiculous.

“Lady Ware,” he sighed wearily.

“Hilda. I ain’t a lady.”

“Lady Ware,” Aymeric repeated, just to be contrary and because he got some vindication at watching her wrinkle her nose in disgust at him, “Thank you for scaring another five months off my lifespan. How many deaths is that now?”

“Two hundred an’ fifty somethin’ or other,” Hilda said, and jabbed him in the ribs again before he could move away, “Yer self-awareness is shite. It’s a miracle you ain’t been stabbed again, what with all them lords sharpening their daggers every time your back’s turned.”

“It probably has to do with the fact that you loiter in the dark corners they’d normally try to stab me from,” Aymeric said, his voice dry as dust, “The key to a successful assassination is not to do it with witnesses, you see.”

“Smarmy bastard,” Hilda said fondly, “Still, I can’t loiter in all the dark corners. I got a life outside of looking at your arse all day.”

“Duly noted,” Aymeric sighed, and inclined his head, “Walking the same way?”

“Yup,” Hilda said with a cocksure smile, boldly moving in step with him as they continued their way.

It was a queer friendship, he knew, if it could even be called friendship. It wasn’t a conventional relationship in the slightest, an alliance of necessity to smooth over any snarls and tangled between the Temple Knights and the newly established City Watch. Several knights, and lords, were somewhat disgruntled at these lowborn peasants suddenly having the power to enforce the law. Whilst the City Watch tended mostly to petty crime, freeing the Knights for more high-profile and sensitive cases, it was still a scrap of power long denied to those at the very bottom. Friction was inevitable.

Yet, during the beginning years of their wary and necessary alliance, a strange camaraderie started to form between them. Hilda jokingly said it was because he was now part of the ‘Orphaned Bastards Club’, but Aymeric felt it was more because they both believed the same things… and they really enjoyed thumbing their noses at the stuffier lords sitting pretty in Ishgard’s fledging republic. There were stark differences between them, though. Aymeric’s position was always privileged, member of the Orphaned Bastards Club or not, whilst Hilda scrambled at the bottom of society since birth. Friction there was inevitable too.

But they made it work.

Yes, they were both stubborn and passionate and clashed – often – but Hilda had proven herself to be a valuable ally, instead of the dangerous enemy she could have been. She worked with him to ensure a level balance between the Knights and the City Watch, she was blunt and honest enough not to hold back to correct him on his assumptions on what the lower class needed, and, more importantly, she was loyal to a fault.

He could do without the mock-assassinations whenever he went to and from work though. At this point he had a feeling she was doing it more to mess with him, rather than increasing his chances of surviving another assassination attempt.

“I see Lover boy’s outta town,” Hilda said casually, “What’s he up to this time? Savin’ another damn country?”

“He’s gone fishing with some adventurer friends,” Aymeric said.

The look Hilda gave him was worth the early morning scare, honestly. The disbelief, the slight suspicion that he was pulling her leg, writ across her face was deeply amusing, “Fishin’.”

“Mm, that is what I said,” he said with mock-innocence, “Something the matter?”

“He doesn’t seem like the type to fish,” Hilda said dubiously, “Requires a bit of patience, don’t it?”

“If there’s a promise of food at the end of it, you’ll find him surprisingly patient,” Aymeric said, “Also he fishes with Imperial grenades.”

Hilda let out a sigh that almost eased into a laugh, “’Course he does.”

The rest of the walk to the Congregation was pleasant in Hilda’s company. She told him a little of what the City Watch had been doing, what assistance they could do with, and in turn Aymeric told her about the new bills being proposed regarding a government funding project to properly equip the City Watch. Hilda had taken that last thing with a wry twist to her lips, just as aware as him that that bill would be bounced around in the House of Lords for as long as their constitution allowed.

“Best leave ya here,” Hilda said briskly as they stopped at the Congregation, “When ya see Aza, tell ‘im to swing by the Forgotten Knight sometime. Haven’t had a drink with him in a while.”

“I’ll pass on the message,” Aymeric promised.

Hilda clapped him on the arm, her fingers trailing along his forearm and pressing a crumpled piece of paper – discreetly – into his hand. With a two-fingered salute, the Mongrel prowled off in that confident strut of hers, disappearing into the early morning crowd that had started to stir.

Aymeric closed his fist around the paper slowly and turned away, tucking it casually into his breeches’ pocket. Another perk to his friendship-alliance with the Mongrel was information that would otherwise be denied to a Lord Commander part of the ‘class system’ all the commoners hated. What people wouldn’t admit or say to the knights, they admitted to the City Watch. But, whilst the City Watch’s powers were limited, Aymeric had more clout and influence. It was always a balancing act to work out on what he could action, but it made his life so much easier.

Honestly, it would have been a harder ordeal rooting out corruption, if it weren’t for her.

--

“Sir. Sir.”

“M’awake,” Aymeric mumbled into his desk, not lifting his head even when Lucia sighed somewhere above him.

“Lord Artoirel is here to see you,” she said firmly, “To discuss the Adventurer’s Guild Proposal. Remember?”

Aymeric made a noise better suited to some deep-sea creature being pulled out of a loch somewhere. The fucking Adventurer’s Guild Proposal. The bane of his political existence and the thorn in the House of Lord’s side. The last debate on it had descended into petty stonewalling, where no one had come out smelling pretty.

(Aymeric himself hadn’t come out of that debate well. In a flash of white-hot, temporary madness brought on by sheer frustration at the inefficiency their government was stagnating in, he had ended the ridiculous shouting match by flipping the Speaker’s desk and verbally flaying everyone present. It was the first time he ever heard the House of Lords stunned into terrified silence. It was then that Artoirel had, warily, suggested that perhaps they should all take a break and cool their heads a little while someone replaced the Speaker’s desk.)

“Should I take that as you cancelling the meeting?” Lucia asked him flatly.

“I’ll take it,” Aymeric said wearily, propping himself up and massaging his temples. A low-grade headache was beginning to throb insistently behind his eyes. He was so sick of reading things now. He should have ran away with Aza to throw Imperial grenades into a lake somewhere.

Lucia didn’t move, giving him a long searching look.

“Sir,” she ventured carefully, “When was the last time you took a break?”

Considering Lucia helped to micromanage his stuffed to the gills schedule, she should know exactly when he took a break. Better than he, anyways, where the days just blurred together in some nightmarish ordeal of holding a fledging republic together by his fingertips. Whilst it was more stable than it had been initially, somehow that meant more work bubbling up as people actually became efficient enough to start, well, working. Instead of just focusing on reshuffling their budget and trying to dismantle the Ishgardian war machine, they now had to juggle foreign policy, trade routes, commitments to the Eorzean Alliance, commitments to the Scions, immigration, social reforms, military reforms, economics, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Aymeric just didn’t have enough hands to manage it all.

“You tell me, Lucia,” he said in a rare show of snippiness, “When did I last have a break?”

Lucia straightened up and said, rather coolly, “Three months ago, sir, for half a day.”

Aymeric rubbed at his face and pinched at the bridge of his nose, letting out a very long exhale, “Right.”

“…I think,” Lucia said in a very neutral tone, “That you need a break, sir.”

Aymeric looked at the papers sprawled over his desk for a long moment. What had initially filled him with passionate determination now made him feel an intense dread. He was burnt out, he realised, and stressed to a cracking point, if his embarrassing blow up at the last House of Lords session was anything to go by. “Yes, I think so too.”  

“Conveniently,” Lucia continued, “An invitation from Lord Hien of Doma arrived this morning by Postmoogle. It seems they wish to express their gratitude for the contribution Ishgard made towards their reconstruction efforts. It asks for you explicitly by name.”

It was a testament to how tired Aymeric was that he didn’t immediately make the connection, “This is convenient…?”

“Sir, this is a thinly veiled attempt to curry further favour with Ishgard by inviting you to their city to be spoiled and bribed,” Lucia said bluntly, “While the other City States also made contributions to Doma, the engineers and architects we sent have been integral to rebuilding their city and their destroyed castle. No doubt they will want us to continue loaning such expertise until they no longer need it, and to do that…”

“Ah,” Aymeric said, enlightened, “I see.”

“I already sent an acceptance on your behalf,” Lucia said, proving that she was an angel sent down from Halone Herself. If Aymeric weren’t so exhausted, he probably would have gotten down on his hands and knees and thanked her from the very bottom of his heart, “I’m certain the Warrior of Light will be happy to accompany you.”

That was all well and good, except, “But, who will tend to my duties in the interim?”

“I can handle your Lord Commander duties, sir,” Lucia said, and inclined her head towards the door, “And I am sure Lord Artoirel can handle your Speaker duties, as he is your political second in command. You should start learning to delegate.”

Aymeric processed this for a long moment. Then;

“Lucia,” he said gravely, “Have I ever told you how much I appreciate you?”

The faintest curl to Lucia’s lips betrayed her smile.

“Yes, sir,” she said warmly, “You tell me every day.”

---

All things considered, Artoirel handled his sudden burden with good grace.

“You need the break,” Artoirel told him firmly, “I was beginning to worry that you would crash and burn before you started delegating.”

“I wasn’t that bad, was I?” Aymeric asked, although a sinking feeling in his belly told him that, yes, he had acted a bit like a control freak. He couldn’t help it. He had sweated blood and tears to get Ishgard to this point, and he was terrified that it was going to be cocked up by petty greed and ambitions running counter their fledging republic. There were so many things that could be taken advantage of – were being taken advantage of, where corruption could fester and grow if one took their eyes off it for too long, where their government could collapse in on itself like the unstable house of cards it was and erupt into a destabilising and bloody civil war.

Aymeric wanted this to go well. He needed this to go well. Yet… he was also falling into the trap of thinking it’d only go well if he micromanaged every single possible bit of it, which… which wasn’t all that different to how Father had ruled Ishgard. Just like him, he was all but strangling the government by gripping it so hard. The realisation felt like a knife to the gut.

No, wait. A knife to the gut would have been better, actually.

“You… need to delegate a little, yes,” Artoirel said diplomatically, “But no one can deny you have Ishgard’s best interests at heart.”

Aymeric rubbed his forehead, biting back ‘the Archbishop also had Ishgard’s best interests at heart’, because that was going to go down an emotional rabbit hole of father issues that Artoirel didn’t deserve to sit through.

“Right,” he said instead, bottling up that emotional upheaval for later. He planted his hands on the papers on his desk and pushed them forwards towards his soon-to-be-intensely-suffering-replacement, “In which case, I deeply apologise for the hell I am about to put you through.”

Artoirel looked briefly pained, though the expression quickly cleared into one of grim, determination.

“I’ll endure it,” he said.

Really, Aymeric sincerely hoped Artoirel won the next round of elections for the Speaker position. He was, apparently, a far better politician and man than he’d ever be. That was a bitter pill to swallow, surprisingly, but it was mostly relief Aymeric felt.

Lucia was right.

He was burnt out.

---

Lucia kicked him out of his office before it was mid-afternoon.

“Go home,” she told him, and physically blocked him from getting back in his office. After being soundly out-manoeuvred and cowed by Lucia’s stern glare, Aymeric had no choice but to slink back home feeling oddly out of sorts. He had no looming deadline he had to grind towards, no bills or proposals he had to manage, no patrol reports to review or inspections to prepare for or… anything. He felt almost adrift, and he barely remembered the walk back home.

(Hilda would have been scandalised at his lack of self-awareness. He was probably lucky she didn’t chance upon him. She might have drop-kicked him)

He spent his abrupt dearth of free time not preparing for his journey in less than two days’ time – but by lying on his living room floor. It was, actually, a very comfortable floor, and he now saw why Aza lied down on it so much. It was firm, but not uncomfortably hard, and was doing wonders for his aching back. Maybe he should make this a thing. Just spend an hour lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling, slowly dumping all the white noise in his brain so he felt semi-human again.

This was the state Aza found him in a few hours later.

“Aym,” his partner said, standing at his head and smelling faintly of damp and mud, “Are you having a moment?”

“Lucia kicked me out of the office,” he informed him, still disbelieving about that. Grateful, but disbelieving, because the last few hours had been blissful, albeit accompanied by the low-grade anxiety of knowing that he wasn’t doing anything productive, “To take a break.”

Aza laughed at that, crouching down. He was smiling, an adorable grin that flashed his sharp canines and made the corners of his eyes crinkle. Aymeric dreamily admired that lovely expression for a long moment.

“I told you that you were working too hard,” Aza chided him gently, “Did you just lie here the whole time?”

“Yes,” Aymeric said shamelessly, “How was fishing?”

“Great. We annoyed a kraken and fought it.”

Aymeric hummed quietly, finding himself smiling a little stupidly at how genuinely pleased Aza looked at that. Only he would find fighting a kraken a good outcome of fishing, “Did you win?”

“Of course!”

Not long after that he had an armful of Aza, stripped naked with his brine-smelling clothes in a pile next to the sofa. The smell of damp and mud still lingered, but Aymeric still inhaled it and found that tight knot squeezing his belly slacken and relax. No matter how stressed he became, he could always count on Aza just… making it right again. True, he brought his own challenges from time to time, but, Gods, they were worth it.

“You have a dopey look on your face,” Aza commented, the pair of them nose to nose, “I bet you’re thinking of something very schmoopy.”

“Mmm…” Aymeric smiled lazily, “I’m thinking about how much I love you.”

“Sap,” Aza muttered, but his cheeks were a little pink and he was smiling, “You always think about that.”

“Not always,” Aymeric said, “Sometimes I think about how beautiful you look. Or how amazing you are. Or how many Chocobos you’re going to adopt when we retire-”

“Fifty,” Aza said instantly.

“More like one hundred,” Aymeric said wryly, “Like you’d stop at fifty.”

“Point.”

“In short,” Aymeric concluded, “I think about plenty of things… but it is mostly about how much I love you.”

“I can see that,” Aza said, giving him an odd smile. For a moment, it looked as if he was going to say something, but then just sighed and closed his eyes, “I love you too, Aym. Even if you are a sappy dork.”

A companionable silence fell on them then. It wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable. Aymeric just basked in the warmth of his partner’s body curled against his own, the press of his forehead against his own, the tickle of Aza’s hair against his nose and bottom lip, just… listening to him breathe, feeling him in his arms, here, existing, slowly, Aymeric could feel the lingering tension in his body just…ease away.

Yes, he definitely needed that break. He hadn’t realised how bone-weary and burnt out he was until now. A few weeks longer and he might’ve self-destructed entirely, jeopardising everything he worked for and causing the problems he feared would happen, just from stubbornly micromanaging everything.

Doma would still be work, but it’d be relaxed work. He would have to schmooze and make friends, but he wouldn’t have to also juggle a thousand other things simultaneously. It’d be good for him to just decompress and figure his own life out, before wading back into the thorny battlefield that was Ishgardian politics.

“What’re you thinkin’ ‘bout?” Aza asked him sleepily.

“… work,” Aymeric murmured, kissing the tip of his nose, “You’ll find out later.”

“Hrm,” Aza was content with that, and he watched as his partner slipped off into a dozing slumber. He looked adorable. It was amazing how loving someone so much made even the simple act of sleeping seem like the most sublime thing on the planet. Aza was right, he was such a sappy dork.

For the first time in a while, his worries about Ishgard were… the furthest thing from his mind.  

[kkglinka]

I see many writers characterizing Blake Belladonna as fundamentally timid, receding, someone “who has always run” etc, and I think that's wrong, for a number of reasons. I strongly suspect that pre-Adam Blake was anything but those things — that they aren't character traits at all, but outward coping mechanisms. Before I explain, I want to establish that we're on the same page:

Abuse is a pattern of manipulative or controlling behavior. The majority of abuse is emotional and psychological, followed by sexual, then physical violence, with financial aspects mixed throughout. The vast majority of abuse is non-violent and hinges on things like gas-lighting, causing financial dependence, isolating their victim from potential support networks, entrapment and coercion. The only uniting factors among abusers are relatively high intelligence and narcissism. They typically appear like nice, likable, often charming and admirable folks to anyone who is not their victim — enabling their abuse through social disbelief. Above all else, they want their victim's attention and energy, no matter what form it takes. Even constant, focused hostility is a desirable response because the abuser feeds off the emotional attention.

The majority of their victims are not weak-willed or stupid. That is a social myth, one often fostered by abusers themselves, because it leave their real targets unguarded. Beginners will start this way, but for most experienced abusers, a weak person is boring. They don't provide much fight, much effort, much resulting attention. Instead, they often target “strong” people that they can manipulate, whittle down, force into emotional attendance, take all that energy for themselves, then bask in the achievement of gaining and maintaining control over such a challenge.

Adam Taurus fits the Sensitive/Passionate Man model of abuser. He's suave, handsome, a charismatic leader, persuasive enough to both gain numerous followers and manipulate them into achieving his goals. Oh, but he's so sensitive, able to cry in very artful restraint in front of certain followers, gaining sympathy, evoking empathy because surely he must be in pain; he must be the true victim. And suddenly everyone is coddling, reassuring — even the victim themselves — showering the abuser with attention and support.

Blake's aggressive avoidance (preemptively fleeing) of emotional confrontations in which she believes she will be blamed by someone she cares about, even for actions over which she had little or no agency, is consistent with severe emotional abuse and gas-lighting. In this scenario, the abuser holds their victim responsible for any displeasure they experience. Even in cases where their victim is clearly not at fault, they are guilty of insufficient compassion and sympathy, especially if the victim themselves is in any way demanding emotional comfort. For instance, an abuser might attack their victim until they cry, then condemn them for “trying to get attention.”

Contrast this avoidance with what we know of her formative years:

Given that no one suggested Chief Ghira Belladonna be removed or replaced in office during the attempted coup, I believe that his office is hereditary, which is in line with other aspects of the Remnant universe. I'm guessing that he stepped down from the previous White Fang political party, and became Chief, when an older relative died. I'm inclined to believe any formal royalty the faunus might have had were executed by the victorious human forces prior to the establishment of Menagerie, but that's the cynical historian in me. Regardless, the Belladonna's clearly have a high social status, which also explains a puzzle: Blake's obvious lady-like behavior, which didn't fit with the peasant orphan narrative.

If she comes from a political line of succession — if her family is the equivalent of old money — then she would have been groomed for her role as a political leader her entire childhood. Even if she's not a formal heir, her family name carries enormous prestige, a valuable asset. She would have been well-educated, any leadership abilities she naturally possessed would have been bolstered. Her political and social engagement with a wider community would have been encouraged, and she would have studied strategy, public speaking, crowd control, along with the more subtle “good manners” that are used to guide small groups.

Yet we also know she participated in front line, violent protests. In many noble families, civil or military service is a tacit expectation. It might be considered a civic duty to experience the full range of human/faunus conflicts, to witness front and center what problems exists and the effects they have on their people Given their own pasts, it makes sense that Blake's parents would train their only child — and possible heir — to be equally engaged.

We know she was passionate enough about her beliefs to fight tooth and nail over it with what seems to be a very loving, supportive, and respectful family. A runner doesn't draw that sort of line in the sand to the point of rejecting their own family. What she did, as a naive but highly principled teen, wasn't run away; it was run toward and to hell with anyone who wasn't brave enough to stand with her on the front lines. Altogether, this suggests a pattern of confrontational behavior — an angry idealist.

She would have been the perfect target for a charismatic man with political ambitions — and I'm sure her parents knew it. If she was trained to have all the skills I described, she would have been a very useful lieutenant. Given her age when she joined RWBY, she was at best sixteen when this, at least somewhat, older man charmed her away — young enough to groom. Fortunately, she had a strong enough formative period that she was able to overcome the gas-lighting and escape on her own. This is a very difficult achievement for any abuse victim, but next to impossible for someone already inclined toward passivity and avoidance.

Next we have Blake's initial conflict with Weiss during Season 1. Background narrative tells us that the two were engaged in repeated verbal debates before Blake finally loses her temper, accidentally revealing her race to someone she knows is a key (future) political rival. Only after she reaches that level of confrontation does Blake's abuse-related coping mechanism come into play, triggering immediate and irrational avoidance. That level of pnaic is an excessive and abnormal learned behavior — not a mere personality trait.

Back up, rewind, abusers isolate their victims. They lie and manipulate friends and family into abandoning the victim. They disrupt outings, invent excuses to cancel events, fabricate evidence and lie about their victim to that individual's friends and family. They make the victim look bad, irrational, hysterical, unreliable, cowardly...You name it, until the friends leave in frustration. A particularly vicious abuser might even arrange harmful events that the victim learns about but is unable to stop. I can easily imagine Adam sending Blake's budding friends on suicide missions or otherwise putting them at risk, to sever their emotional support. Consequently, Blake expects to be rejected by potential friends; expected to be rejected by her own family.

In real life, an abusive ex will often violently target a new lover or partner, sometimes attempt murder, because it's only when their victim's emotional attention shifts away that the abuser feels threatened. So running in response to her former abuser enacting demonstrable harm to a new loved one was completely rational.

Adam is strong, intelligent and calculating. You'll notice that he didn't “lose his temper” (abusers always remain in emotional control of themselves), but made a strategic choice to demonstrate his continued power and control. Given that he successfully disabled RWBY's strongest member, given that abusers will use almost any tactic to separate their victim from supportive networks, leaving was the most logical choice. Abusers don't stop until they're appeased or their entire system of control is destroyed.

Blake's actions really did protect the rest of her team by "giving Adam what he wanted", but you'll notice that she headed straight toward another support network. Good on her; that was a sound, strategic choice and in contrast to another maladaptive coping strategy: the urge toward self-isolation.

Another thing in abuse survivors is overcompensation. Yes, she felt irrationally guilty over Adam's malevolent actions and Yang Xiao Long's conscious choice — neither of which are within Blake's agency — but her entire relationship with Adam probably centered on his feelings, needs and desires. Survivors need time to attend themselves, and Blake never really did that. She went straight from putting all her energy into Adam and the White Fang into serving RWBY. She was bound to be overwhelmed by a need for self-care sooner or later...but abuse victims learn early on that no one will do emotional labor on their behalf. So again, we've got a learned coping mechanism rather than inherent trait, and one that was repeatedly challenged by Sun Wukong and both her parents.

What we really have is two people, Blake and Yang, who have spent most of their lives doing emotional labor for other people — for different reasons — and won't ask for any in return. One has been taught harsh lessons about how risky it is to expect any. The other convinced herself she was too strong to need any. But in this latest seasons we see both of them begin trying. In Blake's case, she needed to regain confidence in her own judgment enough that she was able to command her community (which achieved what she wanted). Her confrontation with Adam demonstrated how much having support makes a difference.

In Yang's case, she better start bloody well asking for what she wants instead of cavalierly dismissing her own emotional needs. Yeah, that's on her; it's not Blake's job to play guessing and appeasement games. That's unhealthy. You don't hold a partner responsible for your own feelings, especially if you've made no direct, honest attempt to communicate them — which is called emotional avoidance. So I was relieved to see her break down in front of Weiss, confessing that need, but even moreso when she finally allowed herself to get past that machismo and cry. Baby steps, y'know?

In conclusion, Blake is a passionate, confrontational firebrand who acquired maladaptive coping strategies consistent with gas-lighting and emotional abuse, and those should not be conflated with core personality traits. Also, she doesn't have psychic powers and I look forward to seeing Yang use her words instead of brooding.

[dent-de-leon]

One thing that bothers me with fanon is when people dumb Keith down. Like, this is a kid who was considered the best pilot of his generation at a military/space place; NASA's people are some of the smartest on the planet and the Garrison is so similar to them! But yet everyone think's he's not as smart as some of the other characters simply because he's more aggressive or because he didn't get the team chant Lance made.

LISTEN I LITERALLY SUFFER THROUGH “INTRO” TO ASTRONOMY AND ALL THE MATHING I MUST DO BECAUSE I CANNOT MATH AND!! KEITH WAS TOP OF HIS CLASS AT SPACE SCHOOL THAT BOY CAN MATH AND HE’S DAMN GOOD AT IT 

So he’s definitely book smart in my mind because I feel it would be difficult for him to be number one in such a prestigious academy otherwise. Particularly in its most competitive program (fighter pilot). There are of course other indications of intelligence, and the primary ones singled out are usually: musical-rhythmic and harmonic, visual spatial, verbal-linguistic, logical-mathematical, bodily-kinesthetic, interpersonal, intrapersonal, and naturalistic. So, let’s take a look at what Keith falls under:

Visual-spatial:  “Think in terms of physical space, as do architects and sailors. Very aware of their environments. They like to draw, do jigsaw puzzles, read maps, daydream. They can be taught through drawings, verbal and physical imagery. Tools include models, graphics, charts, photographs, drawings, 3-D modeling, video, videoconferencing, television, multimedia, texts with pictures/charts/graphs.” (source)

Evidence: Just take a look at Keith’s incredibly all encompassing and thorough assessment of data he’s gathered from the desert and this is incredibly clear. You’ll see pictures, charts, maps, visually illustrated points of how everything connects–it’s clear he’s a very visual learner. To the point where, when Hunk sketches out the Fraunhofer line, Keith immediately picks it out as a clear match for the mountain range. That demonstrates a true command of visual-spacial awareness. 

Verbal-linguistic: “Using words effectively. These learners have highly developed auditory skills and often think in words. They like reading, playing word games, making up poetry or stories. They can be taught by encouraging them to say and see words, read books together. Tools include computers, games, multimedia, books, tape recorders, and lecture.” (same source)

Evidence: Keith’s funny comment that, “I don’t think you’re using that word correctly,” seems to imply that he’s able to catch onto the meaning of unfamiliar words pretty easily. But more indicatively–“they can be taught by encouraging them to say and see words.” Words hold a certain power with Keith, as evidenced by the way he reverts to repeating Shiro’s mantra of “Patience yields focus,” whenever he needs to calm down and concentrate. He finds comfort in those words and hearing them. This seems to suggest an auditory inclination. 

Logical-mathematical: “Reasoning, calculating. Think conceptually, abstractly and are able to see and explore patterns and relationships. They like to experiment, solve puzzles, ask cosmic questions. They can be taught through logic games, investigations, mysteries. They need to learn and form concepts before they can deal with details.” (same source)

Evidence: Again, I think “exploring patterns and relationships,” falls under the work we see on Keith’s conspiracy theory board. And as previously stated, his rank at the garrison is most likely indicative of this. He’s also capable of abstract thinking–such as connecting with the desert’s “strange energy” as well as logic-based. The ability to put things together and “solve puzzles” is also clearly shown through how Keith is able to quickly address a situation and come to the right conclusion–such as how something wasn’t right on Naxzela and it’s connection to Voltron

 Bodily-kinesthetic: “Use the body effectively, like a dancer or a surgeon. Keen sense of body awareness. They like movement, making things, touching. They communicate well through body language and can be taught through physical activity, hands-on learning, acting out, role playing. Tools include equipment and real objects.” (same source)

Evidence: I don’t think this one really needs to be explained, because Keith is just deftly skilled when it comes to movement. He’s very fluid, moves quickly, is light enough on his feet to dodge enemies and sidestep disaster. The way he flies Red Lion with focus on speed and agility is a direct parallel to this. And I think that, just focusing on Keith’s own ability, the way he navigates the debris field when his suit is damaged is an excellent illustration of this

Intrapersonal:  “Understanding one’s own interests, goals. These learners tend to shy away from others. They’re in tune with their inner feelings; they have wisdom, intuition and motivation, as well as a strong will, confidence and opinions. They can be taught through independent study and introspection. Tools include books, creative materials, diaries, privacy and time. They are the most independent of the learners.” (same source)

Evidence: Keith is often very independent and in tune with his own feelings. And we know from his whole personal quest to uncover more about his identity that he’s very much an introspective person. Intuition is also a huge part of who Keith is, and we see this manifest as a kind of quintessence sensitivity–how he was able to sense Blue in the desert, how he was the only one able to connect with his Lion over a long distance, knowing he had to target Haggar’s ship during the whole thing with Naxzela, ect. 

Naturalistic: Seems to encompass environmental awareness. Knowing the lay of the land, practical outdoor skills and intelligence, a deeper understanding of the natural world, a more nurturing personality, ect. 

Evidence: Keith living on his own in the desert for a year and later saying that he likes the outdoors because it’s quiet. Seems to be more in tune with the natural world and has more than enough of a grasp of outdoor knowledge to live off the land if need be. Also, does exhibit nurturing instincts–a fierce desire to protect and provide for others 

So yes, Keith is very smart and in a number of ways. And I will 100% always defend that 

[boombitxh]

Scandal Ruminations 7X07

I think that I can finally, for once in my life, with clarity, can tell where Scandal is going! It took me ten thousand years to finally get here but for some reason once I reached the point of indifference I was finally able to objectively watch this show.

 Let’s face it, this show loves to tap dance on our very last nerve. First things first: For what it’s worth I don’t think that Quinn is dead. The actress gave no exit interviews to any press as is customary. I know she just had a baby but these interviews are arranged and conducted way ahead of time.

 I will start by saying this: Olivia still has a few stages to go through before she gets to where she’s going and I’ve identified the stages as follow:

 1)    The Catharsis: the breakdown of what’s left of this version of Olivia. It began this last episode as she grappled with her very own chewy center. She has one but she has deluded herself into thinking that she doesn’t. All the baggage she dropped on Rowan’s living room floor is the most self-aware moment she’s had in years! I found her statement to contradict everything she told Fitz in that 509 argument but I will delve into that later and how S4B & S5 are what bring us the Olivia we see today.

2)    The isolation: Olivia must spend time alone to come to grips with the choices she has made. The choices that affected her personally and the ones that affected her friends/family. This introspection will also serve as the foundation for what Olivia wants to do with her life. If you had asked me a week ago I would’ve told you she needed this introspection but I would have not been inclined to think that she was ready for it. Her moment of self-awareness, in which she acknowledges the root of her problems, her father, serves as the beginning of the breaking down and breaking through to move the show forward and onto her introspection.

3)    The penance: Olivia is not a very verbal person in terms of apologies, I mean I can count on my hand the few times she’s apologized. I think her making amends will be more about actions and less about words.

4)    The Rebuilding: Olivia will eventually power through and finally envision who it is she wants to be and what she wants to be doing. She looked so unenthused when Mellie was giving her the “No man between us” speech that I felt as if she was on the verge of quitting right then and there. The WH at the service of Mellie ain’t the place for her. She isn’t cut out to be command as we’ve clearly been shown. There’s only one place left for her to go: back to the white hat, whatever the white hat means for her from this point forward.

5)    The reconciliation: this applies to all aspects of her life, with Fitz (I was a skeptic but if they’re going to make second-rate Dabby endgame then what has been the point of dragging Olitz out all these seasons. Come on!) and the reconciliation with what we were introduced to as her initial family: OPA.

 I mentioned earlier how her speech to her father was the opposite parallel to what she tells Fitz in their argument in 509. Her words during that argument reflected her and were a deflection of her own actions that lead to that point in the relationship. In no way am I implying Fitz was innocent in all this. Olivia specifically hits Fitz where it hurts by saying she came from a palace compared to him but my oh my how the tides have turned and now she’s capable of acknowledging that she was emotionally deprived and made in her father’s image.

  Kidnapping Arc Revisited

 I am almost certain that Rowan was responsible for her kidnapping. Throughout the whole ordeal he behaved with such aplomb that no harm would come to Olivia and was so aloof that I have no doubt in my mind that he orchestrated the whole thing. It’s important to note that Quinn is wearing her ring when she is snatched in the elevator, thus leaving her ring behind for the crew to find is an intentional act that parallels Olivia’s kidnapping. Since Rowan snatched Quinn (although I’m positive it was Jake who physically did it because what other loyal goon does Rowan have otherwise?) As I was saying, since Rowan snatched Quinn I think the parallel is intentional and would connect him to both kidnappings.

 I think that Rowan orchestrated the kidnapping to further separate Olivia and Fitz. The kidnapping placed Fitz between a rock and a hard place and no matter what he chose he would disappoint Olivia, so by design this would further drive a wedge between Olitz since little Jerry’s murder was not enough to keep them apart.  

 Fitz was torn between two choices:

Not rescue Olivia -this would disappoint her and make her believe he never loved her and would have destroyed her confidence in his love. Keep in mind she tells the kidnapper that the President would be looking for her.

Rescue Olivia –As Fitz acquiesces to go to war to save one person this also shatters Olivia because Fitz makes a choice that she vehemently disagrees with. She does not want to feel responsible for a war, much less the lives that will be given in exchange for her survival.

Fitz would lose no matter what choice he made, and either choice would forever change him in her eyes, further driving a wedge between them. No matter what he chose he could not win and would be tarnished in Olivia’s eyes, between a rock and a hard place.

 Note that the S4 finale has Olitz reuniting but it is only possible because her father is finally locked away and out of her life. It is obvious that Olivia has not dealt with her PTSD at this point in S4 and all the trauma that remains bubbling beneath her surface comes to light in S5A.  

 Fitz’s marriage proposal under the worst circumstances possible triggers Olivia’s commitment issue which at that point in the story is not new.  Under the pressure of an impending wedding that neither of them were ready for at that point in time Olivia does what she knows will relieve her of this - she frees her father.  If her father is free Olivia is under his control, whether she knows it or not. Olivia’s PTSD reaches new heights when Fitz creepily moves her in without even asking and this is when it takes a drastic turn—Olivia is now caged and is reliving her prior traumatic experience. To free herself she severs all ties with Fitz, abortion included, and fully begins to live in her father’s image post 509.

 Motherhood & Babies

 Something that I’ve noticed for a while now is the consistent theme of babies and motherhood. All of which can be traced back to the very first season and I have confessed on here that I don’t think that Olivia wants to be a mother but it’s just so in your face that I had to stop and reconsider. It’s likely that Olivia thinks she won’t make a good mother, what could be called her family life has been nothing but torture so it’s not hard to see why she would think that, and that is further reiterated with her choice to have an abortion. HOWEVER, I have been having conversations with people analyzing the motherhood/babies theme for a few months now and it is obvious that on some level Olivia resents Quinn because she has a life that Olivia might’ve imagined for herself. In this season alone Olivia has touched her lower belly, like she did in 509 when she says there is no future for Olitz anymore, at least 3 times that I can easily remember. This is intentional

 After thinking about it for a while I came to two conclusions: One that I’ve discussed on here before, the idea that Olivia having a child would further advocate for choice in alignment with the social messaging of the show. Allowing the character to experience both ends of the spectrum re motherhood would cement the idea that women are in control of their bodies and should be able to choose when to take on motherhood if they so desire.

 The other conclusion is the fact that what Olivia has come to believe about herself & her abilities/lack thereof regarding motherhood are untrue. Olivia is the matriarch of OPA, it was her nurturing force that brought them together. She found all those people, took care of them, and put them back together! If that doesn’t stand out as one of the foundations of her mothering abilities, then I’m not sure what will.

 Now that makeshift family is sort-of broken, and notice that every single member has done morally questionable things, all their ugly has been exposed and their relationships deconstructed.  After they get over their final hurdle with this Olivia & Quinn situation they have nowhere to go but up. Notice that no one has said the words “over a cliff” in a while because they no longer have that sycophantic relationship with one another, and especially with Olivia. That wasn’t healthy, which is why the deconstruction is pivotal to change within this group of people.

 Extraneous Characters

 This episode confirmed my suspicions that Jake is working behind her back. My spidey senses tingled in the beginning of the season and I was right. Jake is not interested in bringing Olivia into the light, his only concern appears to be freedom. Therefore, he is participating in this whole charade with Rowan and undermining Olivia. He looks like he’s involved to the point where he is taking orders from both Rowan and Olivia, but at the end of the day he’s interested in freedom the same way other characters were interested in freedom this last episode. Rowan’s bones are just a sad euphemism for his freedom to take back command. Notice that Jake suggests Olivia kill Rowan because he is too weak himself and wants Olivia to subconsciously free him. That thing she told him about him needing her too much? It’s true. And Olivia gambles with her father until the very end so that she can prove that she is the one in control and free of him. The complete opposite is true; she is still his prisoner as she described how she was made in his image. Rowan has never stopped being in control.

 Now that I mentioned Jake it’s also important to mention that I’m sure his days on here are numbered. This last episode planted the seed in Cy’s brain that something is amiss. Using Fenton as a scapegoat was a bad idea; Cy is now questioning the intel Jake claims he had and he seems to be the only person who remembers that this asshole killed James in cold blood. It’s the perfect time for revenge.  Cy will help unfurl what exactly has been going on under the roof of this WH all along. THE TIME IS NIGH! PLEASE! PLEASE JUST GET RID OF JAKE!

Also, important to mention that Pryce of power guy was (is?) a member of the press just like James, it was no coincidence that Cy of all people has that discussion with Jake.

 Mellie ,*cue eyeroll* The most useless character on here that can’t do anything unless she is coddled and spoon-fed. She needs Marcus for advice, she needs Olivia to hold her hand every second, SHE is the one that’s President but in the end, she relents and decides to pick Fitz’s brain (and reports) to see how she should propose Criminal Justice Reform. No idea ever comes from her! EVER!

Her whole “we don’t need no man” speech was one of the creepiest things I’ve ever witnessed on this show. I’m not sure if it was the acting or what but I picked up on the strangest tension. And about men coming between them? Fitz was between them in the beginning, and he is between them now because Mellie is discussing and setting policy goals with Fitz instead of with her COS, especially after Fitz has been pseudo-banished. No man between them? LIES! It’s always the same man, now it’s just not in a romantic context.

 In the end this whole Rashad thing will blow up but I refuse to think that this bitch will have the satisfaction of firing Olivia. Olivia looks like she’s barely hanging on by a thread as it is, I want her to quit and reclaim her agency! For all the times that Mellie treated her like some whore that was responsible for serving her now ex-husband! And all the times she’s been dismissive of her this season! Or how she wants all sort of plausible deniability while Olivia gets her hands dirty as command! Enough of this kumbaya sisterhood shit, it’s fake, let’s end it!

 The only thing I can’t quite decide on is Rowan’s fate. The kill order is still standing; we were left with that cliffhanger… But I wonder if the show is gonna go down the whole patricide route? I’m not sure. It is obvious that Rowan and Olivia cannot coexist, for her to be able to live her life she needs to be free of him. It is no coincidence that she was somewhat functional the first two seasons when Rowan was not in the picture. Once he entered the scene her life started to spiral, culminating with this last episode in which Olivia unloads all her baggage and all the fingers point to Rowan.

   Last Few Words

 For the first time in a long time I am eager to see the show return. We only have 11 episodes left but these are all loose ends that need to tied up. For a long time, I resented the show because I felt as if the writing was constantly contradictory and I felt like it was impossible to interpret it. The characters would act a certain way but their words were the complete opposite and I just found myself running out of patience and not knowing what to believe. I had to reach a place of indifference to be able to interpret it. I in no way believe that all, if any, of these predictions will come to fruition and this may be more along the lines of wishful thinking perhaps. I want to fall in love with Olivia the same way I did at the beginning and I REFUSE to think that they will let her go out unhappy. Whatever her version of happy is then so be it, but she is not cut out to be Command.  The writing’s on the wall and we are reaching the end so everything tends to feel on the nose and too intentional for there to be coincidences. I’ve thought of other things that I did not include on here because this is so insanely long but would love to discuss and pick at other ideas. :) 

I think that we will come to find that Olivia has a deliciously chewy center. (And I’m sure Fitz can attest to that!)

[moiraineswife]

Why do you hate Tyrion?

Oh, where do I begin :’)  You do not know what you have Unleashed, nonnie (this is all going to be book based, and I’ll probably forget some stuff, BUT THERE’S ENOUGH IN MY HEAD TO FUEL THE FIRES OF MY RAGE) 

Short version: 

He’s arrogant, selfish, self-obsessed, self-pitying, and utterly without conscience or morals, he’s deeply misogynistic, a rapist, a killer, and he refuses to acknowledge his own flaws and shortcomings. 

Long version: 

-Even as early as AGOT he’s doing things that benefit him, and only him, without a single thought/care towards the consequences (because it’s not as though he isn’t intelligent enough to figure them out) eg: arming the mountain clans of the Vale which causes untold destruction and pain for the locals when they return with the weapons and armour he gave them as the price for his own skin. 

-Tyrion’s POVs are incredibly well written and constructed. A reader is inclined to view him as he views himself: an essentially good creature, who tries hard, and is halted and punished by the world for things he can’t help. Which...is not entirely true. 

I think it’s easy to get sucked into Tyrion’s POV, and the way that he thinks and acts. For the first few books, we very rarely get anyone’s opinion on Tyrion/view of Tyrion save Tyrion himself. 

It’s easy to get caught up in his assumptions of prejudice that the world has against him (and it’s easy to understand why he has these, I don’t deny that, but I just can’t get over it) 

If you actually pay attention, Tyrion assumes that everyone treats him badly/dislikes him etc because he’s a dwarf and they’re therefore prejudiced against him. Undoubtedly some of them are, but some of them have seriously good reasons for disliking them. 

See: Sansa Stark, who’s had basically her entire family killed by his, but Tyrion just assumes she doesn’t want him as a husband/won’t confide in him because he’s ugly. Disclaimer: IT’S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU BUDDY. 

Also see: small folk in King’s Landing, who are angry with him for clearing away their homes and livelihoods during preparations for war. Tyrion understands why Tyrion is doing what he’s doing: it’s a practical measure for the sake of the defence of the city but...The people whose homes he’s destroying don’t understand that. But he blames their hatred of him on their prejudice of him being a dwarf. 

This isn��t necessarily a surprising character trait, not given how he grew up (I would never try and argue that Tywin wasn’t abusive towards him...But that doesn’t give Tyrion the right to be abusive in turn) but it does fill him with a certain amount of self-pity, and it limits his ability to actually self-reflect and realise that, shockingly, not everything he does is perfect, and people can dislike him for seriously valid reasons: ie, he’s a little shit. 

-The way he treats women is, frankly, disgusting. 

His disgust at being outsmarted by Catelyn in AGOT comes from the fact that someone outsmarted him, but it’s more than that, it’s because she’s a woman. he even remarks on the fact that her scheme worked in a large part because she is a woman. 

The general language he uses to talk about women is...gross. He views most of them as sexual objects/tools for him/other men to use. His liking of Robert Baratheon because Cersei hated him sticks out in relation to this. Robert, who repeatedly emotionally, verbally, and physically abused his wife, humiliated her publicly, blamed her for his abuse of her, and raped her, makes Cersei reasonably despise him. Tyrion, instead of showing sympathy for his sister, decides he likes Robert, because hey, who cares if he’s raping an essentially defenceless woman, right? He’s pissing her off, too, A++++ bloke. 

He’s surprised, indignant, and irritated that even women are allowed to participate in the votes/discussions of the mountain clansmen, like, how dare. 

People rage against Cersei for her hatred of Tyrion but it’s....Not exactly unfounded. Ignoring her being a child who had just lost her mother, whose father was giving her no support, and was blaming her newborn brother, and the prophecy that made her fear that Tyrion would kill her. 

Tyrion has, in the books that we know of: poisoned Cersei, manipulated her, undermined her, schemed to take her children away from her without her knowledge or consent, threatened her children on more than one occasion, including threatening his eight year old nephew with beatings and rape if Cersei doesn’t do what he wants, would have gone through with whipping said eight year old nephew just to hurt her,fantasised about raping and killing Cersei,  to the point that this is his ‘terms’ for working with Dany when Illyrio makes the offer to him. So...yeah, Tyrion has reason to hate Cersei, but Cersei has just as much, if not more, reason to hate and mistrust Tyrion. 

He’s also raped a slave at Illyrio’s manse, fully aware that she’s a slave, fully aware that she does not want him to have sex with her, fully aware that she cannot say no to him, which is why he does it. And the way he treated the prostitute in, I believe, Volantis, forcing himself on her again, and using the fact that they didn’t have a common language and she didn’t understand him. 

His treatment of prostitutes in general is...gross af. He views them as objects without agency. He treats them like possessions: he’s bought them, he can do whatever he wants with them, they’re his now. And his self-pity over Tysha when he learns the truth about her is also...gross af. Like, this poor girl was gang-raped while he watched, and then raped her last, the man she loved and agreed to marry, and all he can think about is his poor self. Fuck that shit.  

Shae. 

Literally everything about the way that he treats Shae. An eighteen year old, lowborn prostitute, who was forced out of her father’s house because he abused her and raped her as a child, with absolutely no agency, power, or person to speak for her. 

Everything about their travesty of a relationship is an abomination from the get-go. Starting with Tyrion’s commands to her: that he’s not only hiring her for sex, but to essentially act as his partner. She’s to please him in bed whenever he wants, but she’s commanded to also laugh at his jokes, pour him wine, rub the ache out of his sore legs, mourn for him if he dies, etc, etc, etc. Like if you don’t understand that it’s fucked up of him to do that to another human being, regardless of how much gold he’s giving them, I don’t know what to say to you. 

Tywin flat out tells Tyrion not to take Shae to court with him. Tyrion takes her anyway, to spite his father, knowing full well that if they’re found out, he won’t be punished, but Shae will likely be killed for his disobedience. 

He’s incredibly controlling towards Shae throughout her time with him. He essentially locks her up in a manse “for her safety” he deliberately gives her ugly guards, so she won’t be ‘tempted’ by them, and only visits her when he wants to fuck her. He complains that she’s a child when she complains about this, and he’s paying her, why should she complain? Because Shae is not a human being with her own thoughts, feelings, and desires, clearly, she’s just a sex toy for lord Tyrion. He’s bought her, and paid for her, and can do what he likes with her. 

The way he treats Shae is a pretty good representation of how he sees/treats most prostitutes. Like an object. Like a thing that he’s bought and can use as he wishes. Shae is not a human being to him, she’s not a person, she’s a thing that he can fully possess and control because he’s paying her and it’s disgusting. 

Throughout their time together, Tyrion constantly dismisses her feelings/emotions, reminding himself that she’s “only a whore” that she doesn’t love him, and is in this only for his money. (And, reminder: Shae acting like his wife, telling him she loves him, wanting on him, and being only with him, is what he commanded her to do, and paid her to do, at the outset of this little arrangement) Yet he then kills her for being a prostitute and doing her job.

 Tywin hired her and she slept with him as she slept with Tyrion, because he was paying her, and she was only a whore doing her job. But when she wasn’t doing that for Tyrion, then she had to die. Nineteen years old, helpless, abused, used, and murdered by a cold, shallow, selfish little man who, again, wallows in self-pity and thinks only of himself in the face of another’s suffering. 

The entirety of ADWD is just...Tyrion at his worst/typical, without the illusions of being an excellent, poor unfortunate soul. He drinks, he uses whores, he rapes, he cheats, he manipulates, he lies, he kills, and generally does a whole host of Bad Shit with the sole aim of benefiting him, him, and only him. 

He’s an undoubtedly well-written character. He has, in many ways, a very sympathetic arc and narrative, especially with the way it’s written. But he has a huge host of problems and things that are..beyond redemption. And the way fandom moons over him, and fawns over him, and pities him, and forgives him for every little thing he’s ever done wrong because he’s just so hard done to, boils my blood as much as anything else. 

So, yeah, an abridged rant on: why I fucking hate Tyrion Lannister. 

[theateared]

That’s Sweet. ❜

Summary:  What’s a God to a non-conformist?

    “Why did you bring me here?”

    Churches were the antithesis of everything that he stood for.  That being said, he couldn’t deny that they were pretty places.  Though he considered the people who occupied them to be deluded and spiteful, he could appreciate a good story told in the form of a stain-glass window - fictitious or otherwise.

    Grace guided him keenly until they were sat side by side in one of the pews.  The dark wood was hard and unaccommodating beneath him, one arm raising to rest along the back of it whilst the other found purchase on the armrest.  Huron was home to some of the most beautiful scenery around but their buildings of worship were unfortunately dull.  Oftentimes, they weren’t even remodelled  -  even long after the place was scheduled for repairs.  It was seen as a disservice to Raku to up and change things.

    “I wanted to look at the art with you.”     “Ah.”

    His head inclined along with hers until his eyes could lock onto the mosaic depiction of Huron’s guardian.  Raku was a heroic little thing;  almost deer-like in its face with its large round eyes and its long ears.  It was shown in the centre of a bright ball of green light, plant life and animals appearing around the edges like smoke from a fire.  Edgar wasn’t sure how he felt about the deity.  Though he didn’t feel inclined to pick a fight with a God, he certainly would if there was any chance that he could win.  Gods were backhanded creatures, much like monarchs and government officials.  To him, they all had one thing in common:  corruption.

    Even so…  you look pretty.  I suppose that’s enough for most.

    “Do you have anything to confess?”

    Edgar’s eyebrows shot upwards, head turning in her direction.     “I’m sorry?”

    “This is where people come to confess their sins, no?  To answer to God?”     “I can’t do that.”     “Why not?”     “I don’t answer to God.”

    They sat in silence for a while, staring into the tiled static above, losing themselves in the myriad of colours.  His mind was beginning to drift.  It often did these days.  Though he tried to distract himself from her body warmth, from her scent, he could feel his focus slipping.  He was fighting a losing battle, trying not to fall in love with her.  You don’t do that anymore.  You’re not the same man.  All that ever landed you in was trouble.

    His eyes flitted downwards as he felt her warm palm on his knee.  Her fingers remained still for a moment before she squeezed gently, reassuringly, the bench creaking beneath her as she swivelled her body in his direction.

    “Damn it.  Well, I have something to confess to you.”     “What is it?”

    “I’ve seen you here on occasion.  I’ve seen you walking through the church gardens alone;  slipping in through the back door for some reason or other.  I always found it strange that a lye who has no affection for faith would willingly visit a church.  I started wondering about you...  about what else I don’t understand.  What else I don’t know.”     She paused for a moment, eyes unflinching as they searched his face.  She then let slip a feeble laugh, candid grin stretching across her face.     “I… thought I could get you to confide in me if we visited it together.”

    You just keep on surprising me.  You’re just so different.                                                                          Why do you even want to know about me?

    Edgar allowed a soft chuckle to leave him, sharp eyes softening somewhat as mirth left its twinkle behind.     “That’s sweet, Grace.”     As an after-thought:     “You wish to learn about me.  Have I finally caught your attention?”

    The woman huffed a brief laugh, hand pulling away from him.     “As if.  But…  what’s so wrong with wanting to know a little bit about who my leader is?”

    She seldom ever acknowledged his ranking when they were alone together.  Though she had learned the hard way not to defy him when it mattered, when they bickered they were equals. There was no reason for him to act as if he was above her when he was trying to win her affection.  In truth, part of the reason he even engaged in their verbal chess matches was because she was a wonderful distraction from his responsibilities.  For just five minutes, he was dragged down from his pedestal to share space with others in a setting that wasn’t modelled for business.  It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy being in power, he simply felt it necessary to take breaks.

    You make me feel more normal.  That’s dangerous.

    His head turned towards the front of the church.  The podium reserved for a preacher looked terribly bare in the dim light.  Of course she had chosen nightfall to drag him there, their only illumination being the glimmer of the moon.  On the bright side, it made him feel as if they were the only two creatures in the whole of Huron.

    “... what do you want to know?”

    Edgar found himself unable to look at her when he heard her head turn in his direction.  His face remained stoic despite her imploring gaze.  Had he looked, he would have been met with doe-eyed fascination.  His heart likely would have stumbled on its path to indifference.

    In a quiet voice:     “What am I allowed to ask?”

    “Whatever you wish.  So long as you accept that I can’t guarantee you an answer.”

    Much less an answer you like.

    He could practically hear the gears turning in her head.  It wasn’t every day that somebody was given permission to ask an Alpha questions.  They were very much a solitary breed;  it made no sense for them to share themselves with those of lower status.  He wouldn’t be surprised if she suspected trickery from him.  His statement very much read like a dare, one that was supposed to remain completely figurative for her sake.

    “... there’s something that’s been bothering me for a while now,”     she admitted softly. You’re doing the thumb thing, Grace.  I can hear you stroking it against your palm.     “Are you…  a purebreed?”

    He pondered the question briefly, heavy silence looming over her like a shadow.  Then, he shook his head.     “No.”     His ears perked in her direction when he heard a soft sound pass her lips.  It was likely that a lot of things were falling into place for her;  certain ticks that hadn’t made sense until now;  a superstitious hunch finally being grounded within the constraints of fact.  You’re smart, Grace.  I have no doubt that you suspected this much of me.     “I am a hybrid.”

    Before she could stop herself:     “Do you remember who you were?  I-In your past life?”

    I probably shouldn’t tell her that, he thought to himself.  I probably shouldn’t invite her to question me more.  There are things nobody should know about me.  Things that even Raku has shied away from.

    “... yes.”     The affirmation carried weight, though not one associated with grief.  If anything, the only thing that echoed within its syllable was a firm sense of finality.  Case closed.  Let’s move on.     “With that in mind, I have a question for you.”     He paused to swivel in her direction this time.  All at once, he appeared intimidating, blocking her exit like a cat would a mouse’s.     “Do you fear me, Grace?”

    Even if you don’t know what I’ve done, you now know that I was brought back as this sinful creature because our guardian decided that I was to atone for my sins.  Whatever my past life entails, it’s bad, and you know it.

    “... no.  I don’t think so.”

    She was gazing at him intently, as if trying to make up her mind.  Suddenly, he felt as if she had placed him beneath a microscope.  Even though his shadow swallowed her whole, and his eyes were dark and empty, and he surpassed her in the hierarchy by a mile, Edgar felt the slightest of urges to shy away from her line of sight.  He resisted with ease, remaining still and strong, stare neither hard nor soft as he waited for her to continue.

    “I mean…  I’m wary of you, but that’s not the same thing.  I don’t think respect can exist when fear also exists  -  and I do respect you, so I can’t fear you.”     Her body language became avoidant, body shuffling until she faced forwards once more.  She was all too aware of his arm behind her head now.  If I say something you don’t like now, will you reach over and choke me?     “... you’re a jerk, Edgar.  But you’re a good leader.  And, even though you’re a jerk…  you look after me.  And the rest of us.  The creed doesn’t suffer any because they have you to rely on.  And I…  I like that about you.”     She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.  He had the makings of a serial killer, that she knew even without delving into his history, but he looked so disarming in his nice coat and vest.  It was hard not to feel some sort of attraction to him despite their tumultuous relationship.  Maybe I do want to know you more personally.  Maybe I am interested in you.  Maybe that’s why we’re here.     “As far as I’m concerned, that you doesn’t exist.  I didn’t know you then.  I know you now.  I’ll judge you based on that.”

    When did it start raining?  It matched the flutter of his pulse as he locked eyes with her.  With an unrelenting calm, he held her gaze.  Your eyes are so blue…  like the ocean.  After what felt like a lifetime, Edgar scoffed softly, leaning back in his seat.  

    “You never cease to surprise me, Grace,”     he admitted, though he did so through clenched teeth.  If there was anything he hated doing, it was wearing his heart on his sleeve.  It hadn’t done him a lot of good in his past life.  It most definitely wasn’t wise to do so now when the game was meaner.     “Most would at least try to ask more of me.  Try and pick my brain a little.”

    “Maybe there’ll come a day where you tell me on your own accord.”     “And ruin this dreamy image you have of me?  Absolutely not.”     “The only thing dreamy about you is how far removed from reality your taunts are!”

    The Alpha gave way to a quiet laugh, a hand raising to cover his mouth.  He seldom ever smiled genuinely.  Though his face was almost always alight with a sharp-toothed grin, it wasn’t joy that it radiated.  Alas, she ignited something warm inside of his cobweb-laden chest.  She had for a while now.

    He glanced her way when her knee knocked against his gently.     “... let’s go.”     He remained seated, even as she rose from her perch.  Her flared skirt fanned briefly around her legs as she righted herself, arms sticking out in a borderline exasperated fashion before they fell back to her sides.     “Well, I’m not going to get anything more out of you, am I?  Unless you want to sit and discuss your gritty history all night like a good little church boy?”

    “It’s raining,”     he replied slowly.  Even without giving her a command, she followed the sweep of his eyes, sinking into her seat once more.  Edgar reached into his coat pocket, retrieving his pack of cigarettes and lighter.  The lit tip looked all the more perverse while housed by a church  He took a long drag, exhaling smoke unapologetically in the direction of Raku’s window.     “You have until it stops.”

    She gave him a puzzled look, though a smile tugged at the corners of her lips nonetheless.       “To do what, exactly?”

    He offered her a low laugh as he breathed in smoke.     “To convince me to confess my sins, of course.”

                             Perhaps I don’t answer to God but I could answer to you.

[worldguardian]

fic: small kindnesses

fic summary and notes: Rosa does her best to keep existing after the horrorshow that was Endgame, and finds herself receiving help from an utterly unexpected place. Featuring Zaros being generous? Getting in Rosa’s good books? The two are probably one and the same to him.

this fic was inspired by a reread of Zaros’ dialogue from FoTG and how he comes shockingly close to treating the World Guardian with Actual Decency (inasmuch as Zaros ever treats anyone well). set some time after Endgame and the various fuckery therein, this sort of ended up as an introspective piece more than anything else.

also I wrote the first half of this on the plane ride to Fiji and the second half on the plane ride back (mostly at ten o’clock at night after a twenty-hour day), so it’s pretty disjointed.

I hope you enjoy!

Silence reigned in the temple, a thick, unyielding silence that lapsed only for the break of voices or footsteps. Marble walls and features bounced those sounds but just as quickly returned to undisturbed stillness. The walls were too solid, the doors too reinforced. A conversation could be happening in one room yet be inaudible in the next.

Down one of those branching, subterranean hallways, past a sturdily locked bedroom door, the World Guardian sat crumpled in a chair, head bowed. One hand covered her face and the other gripped the chair's arm, knuckles white and tendons raised in exertion. Her chest rose and fell with short, shaking breaths, yet her eyes remained defiantly open, staring steadfastly between her fingers to the tiled floor beneath.

Such were the only outward signs of her struggle, combined with her greyed cheeks and lighter frame. The trailing scars over her eye stood out livid black against the pale backdrop of her face.

All Rosa could feel now was an interminable pressure, a shackle around her entire being that inched itself tighter every time she breathed. Any time she shifted, the pressure reacted, lancing through her body and into every nerve. Every time, she felt them respond slower.

He wasn't actively wrenching control from her; no, today he was apparently content to squeeze until she had no room left save for that within her own mind - and not even that.

Rosa drew a shuddering breath and clenched her teeth for the fifth time that minute. This wasn't something she would even muster the energy to fight; control was still hers - for now - but she had no way to resist, as mobile as an animal within an ever-shrinking cage.

Not that she had the faintest idea how to retaliate in the first place. How did you shift your own soul?

One that's half torn out, no less, she thought bitterly to herself.

Stop whining. You're still conscious, aren't you, Rosa? It could be so much worse. I could make it so much worse.

A shiver wracked Rosa's form and she straightened up enough to wrap her arms around herself, fingers digging painfully into flesh.

That voice. Every day, that voice, that stilled her heart and scattered her mind with the merest word. And her own was so quiet against it; a wailing child to the inevitable darkness.

On a normal day it had taken everything she had not to curl up and shut down at that voice. Now, it was her perennial companion.

More than anything else Rosa was struck by the overwhelming desire to sleep, but she knew that it wouldn't be her who woke up afterward.

She dragged a hand over her face, glaring sullenly at nothing, when something else caught her attention.

She felt another pressure, though this one insinuated itself throughout the entire room, and didn't make her very essence ache. For the briefest of moments, she felt her binds twitch, followed by the suggestion of muffled anger.

Rosa.

And then, in the blink of an eye and so slowly that she barely saw it happen, He was there. The Empty Lord, towering over her, countenance and presence so undisturbed and unruffled that Rosa half-wondered that He hadn't always been there.

The fixtures and details of her room retreated subtly around Him; regardless of where she steered her gaze, Zaros remained the centre of her attention, more ineffably real than anything nearby Him.

Half from shock and half instinctively, Rosa stood up, leaning heavily on the chair's arm as a fresh wave of vertigo took her. She was never sure how to speak to Zaros, or even how to react to Him. Personal visits were not exactly a frequent occurrence. Part of her thought it might be appropriate to bow; a larger part of her scorned that idea but nonetheless quailed at the thought of open rudeness. She settled for standing as firm as she could and nodding... politely.

You owe me no greeting, Rosa. I would not ask it of you in any case.

"I-I... thank you. Why are y-you...?" Her voice trailed into uselessness. Questions felt too direct; silence felt too brazen.

Zaros lifted one gauntleted hand and waved it languidly, in one easy movement dismissing Rosa's apprehension, yet somehow heightening it all the more. His expression was as opaque as it always was - not just for the covered face, but in His voice and demeanor. Rosa could never confidently intuit a single clear emotion from His words, not until the moment that it shook the world around Him. So much of what He was was beyond her.

So why was He here now?

I see your struggle, World Guardian. In this moment especially, you are subjected to an unbearable trial - I can see clearly what Sliske is doing to you.

And yet, you persist. Faced with a challenge that would have felled so many others, you hold the strength not only to deny him but to stand before me.

Rosa blinked, her vision threatening to blur again but still stolidly fixed upon Zaros. If a solitary meeting was rare, then such... praise was rarer still. For a heartbeat she was back on Freneskae, in that sheltered border between her mind and His, once again shocked at how...

... gentle He was.

She said nothing, at a loss for any appropriate response in the first place. The air hung heavy around her, pressing her for a reply, but Zaros seemed, if not understanding, then at least unbothered.

I feel I owe you an apology, World Guardian. You are central to all things, my own intentions most of all, and as such you are under my protection.

Yet I failed to foresee what Sliske would do with the Siphon, despite my own experiences with it. Further still, I have taken few actions to help you as you are now.

You don't say, Rosa thought to herself, but not too vehemently. She was sure He could hear her, sometimes. Vaguely, she imagined she could feel the rough-hewn violet shard around her neck buzzing.

I have been remiss in my duties to this world, and of all who have had to suffer Sliske's machinations, you have been impacted most, Rosa.

Where had this spiel come from? Rosa couldn't tell whether it felt hollow or genuine. She blinked, head pounding. She'd been so distracted in the conversation that she'd failed to notice the creeping numbness clawing its way down her arm. She clenched that fist, wrenching some feeling out of it before taking a breath in readiness to speak. Zaros inclined His head towards her, mask's eight eyeslits unfathomably deep and inscrutable. The motion faltered Rosa, and He broke the pause.

A verbal apology from me at this time would hold no weight and be little more than an insult to you.

You are aware that there are limitations to what I can do in this situation. Guthix's blessing protects you against many things, but it also stymies my efforts. I would release you immediately were it not for Sliske twisting those wards to his own gain.

So, World Guardian, in this situation I ask your permission and yours alone:

Will you allow me to ease your pain, to the extent of my ability?

Rosa stared up at the robed figure in front of her, taller even than a mahjarrat, and any words she might have had fled her. Of all the things she'd been expecting today, the Empty Lord Himself coming to her aid was not among them. Once again her memories skittered back to Freneskae, in the midst of a melee that she frankly had no right surviving. The flash of a wicked blade, the crashing impact of primordial, untamed magic, and yet, none of it proved fatal. She was gouged her whole body over and covered in smouldering burns, but never fell.

That had been His doing. Rosa hadn't gone into that battle alone; though at the time it had terrified her to do so, she had accepted Zaros' help against the onslaught of newly-dreamed muspah. She'd had no delusions of victory under her own power.

And here they were again: tiny, shattered World Guardian offered the assistance of a god.

She had no apprehensions this time. Anything Zaros did to combat this would have been infinitely better than the methods she'd invent by herself.

She took a breath.

"Yes. I will. P-please-- help me." Her voice shook and she loathed it, but she was long past caring anything for how she appeared to others. She wanted nothing but an end to it.

I shall.

Zaros leaned in, narrowing the distance between them, and lifted His hands. Rosa tensed in nervousness and shock.

One metal-clad hand could have held her entire head, but here both were cupped feather-light to the sides of her face. Almost unthinkingly, Rosa sagged into that hold, exhaustion eating bone-deep.

Warmth seeped through her mind and her vision hued purple. For half a moment, the world around her vanished, and she was aware not only of her own consciousness, but Zaros', boundless and incomprehensible, looming from all angles.

Oddly, it was almost... soothing.

Sight returned to her, as did everything else. Zaros was once again straightened to His full height, observing her impassively.

Rosa shook herself, feeling the vestiges of Zaros' power leaving her, then - stopped.

Silence. Blessed silence. No insidious ache, no unbearable weight dampening her every action.

Her thoughts were her own again. There were suspicious gaps in between each thought, but his voice was absent from them. Stunned, Rosa merely stood where she was, rooted to the spot.

"Wh-what did you do?" she asked, voice wavering.

I encircled your soul in a barrier. I am unable to remove him, but with your consent I can act freely upon your soul. This is all I can do for you at this juncture, Rosa; you will not hear him and he cannot reach you, but I have not reduced his presence. He may still wrest control from you, but you are sheltered now.

Tears sprang to Rosa's eyes and she covered her mouth, relief so strong in her expression that it bordered on disbelief. Her shoulders shook and for a moment it was all she could do not to weep. She swallowed ungracefully and bowed, all prior reticence forgotten.

"Thank you."

Rest. Be with your family, World Guardian.

His only reply was a choked nod. Satisfied, or at the very least finished with His work, Zaros folded His arms and left. One second His image flickered as if underwater, transparent and monochrome, the next He was gone.

The room jerked abruptly into focus in His absence, and Rosa's head swam for a second. The presence of a god was overbearing enough with the energy that streamed off of them in waves, but Zaros took it one step further. There was something primally unnerving about Him.

Still. She was by no stretch of the imagination ungrateful.

Rosa exhaled heavily and turned back toward her chair, only to startle at the sound of knocking behind her. Taking a moment to still her heart, Rosa moved over and opened the door, fumbling on the lock briefly.

There, stately and imposing as ever, stood Azzanadra. In contrast to recent events, his expression was soft.

"Rosa... are you well?"

Rosa almost smiled at him. Her energy failed her at the last second, but she managed a teary nod, for once simply tired instead of harried to defeat.

Azzanadra smiled for her. Strong arms wrapped around her shoulders and she slumped against him, all pretence gone. He was warm, and safe, and she fitted against his chest perfectly.

"Then please... let us take this time together. I miss you. We all do."

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

Thank you, Lord. She deeply needed a reprieve. I fear for her, mind and soul.

For now I can do little more than that. She must not be lost to this.

She is strong, but her will suffers dearly from this. She is truly grateful for what you have done for her.

I only desire that this will bolster her resolve long enough for a solution to be found. Watch her, Azzanadra, and comfort her.

I will. She has spoken to me... she is warming to your presence, Lord. I believe you offer her a certain measure of... confidence that we cannot.

I am glad.

[caiseboli]

00 / 00 / 16.

today marks the one year anniversary of the death of the only man yeonha’s ever really loved-- undeniably and irrefutably. she was a cliche, the daddy’s girl. always clinging to his side, but not in fear as a bashful child. she was brave and courageous even back then, a tiny little troublemaker, a ball of energy that’s never once even flickered let alone dimmed permanently or temporarily. she’d make herself comfortable and welcome in the center of the circle, her parent’s friends spread out all around her, greeting, welcoming and friendly. of course there were some undesirables too, leaving a scar on her young heart every time they mistook her as a boy because she acted like one and dressed like it too. an honest mistake turns into a repeated offense, thinking its funny enough to be repeated. those ones eventually show up less. their pride wounded, maybe guilty or embarrassed by being scolded by an elder. he’d never let yeon’s feelings go overlooked. stood up for her like a father should every single time.

visits to the grave aren’t anything new. many trips are taken, sometimes together as a pair, then occasionally come the instances where her mother goes on her own, letting out all her feelings and stress, telling her beloved, her now passed husband how her day went. her worries and her fears, how their only daughter is doing. things their child would rather not think about in great detail. sacred and secret, reserved only for their ears. she herself comes too, on bad days, overwhelming days, and good ones too. no matter the weather or the time, yeon’s gone through it all. confiding in the parent that now is unable to answer back no matter how many times she verbally or silently pleads. she’d like to think she can tell him of her hardships, because it’s not he who she has to be strong for anymore... but people always say things like, your loved ones are looking down on you. and what if they are? what if he was? still is? seeing over everything, noticing the thinly made cracks in her not so fragile bones?

even solid things wear down over time. nothing lasts forever, we all know that. he’d be happy, you know. a familiar voice, soothing, a mother’s reassuring tone. hadn’t asked or made the slightest inclination to show that’s what yeonha’s currently thinking about. but moms know, they always do. yeon’s always joking around.. saying her mom hates her, constantly trying to marry her off and get rid of her, but it’s never in any seriousness. she knows better, that her mom is glad to have her around to help out, that she’s still there to look after the only daughter she’s ever had. it just seems to come as a bit of shock this time around, hearing it in a moment like this-- when they’re bent over the grave of the main man who once was constantly, consistently in their life. he’d be so proud to show you off. our strong baby yeonnie, kicking ass and making a name for herself out there in the world. laughter ensues, because it’s not often her mother curses. 

she’s still quiet. staring at the headstone, fingers tracing over the engraving of his name like she still can’t believe it’s real even after all this time of silence. and it’s not like it passed without leaving any marks or changes in her behavior / actions. tough girl yeonha takes bruises and scratches, gashes with great strides. sprains and twists, all kinds of intense pain come from her favorite activities. not as much anymore, but they did before. all of those combined couldn’t add up to that feeling her chest and these thoughts in her head that she has when she’s out with her mom. it’s strange and not in a good way, only seeing one person sitting across from her instead of two. it hurts to think about how her mother must feel. to lose a lover so young, have to take care of their kid all by herself, constantly trying to look out for their child and worry about how she takes all of it in. it’s even more unbearable when you finally discover her guilty conscience. 

she’s not thinking when she finally speaks up. this past year has passed with so many concealed feelings. how yeon feels like she’s got the world on her shoulders, now, because dad isn’t here to take care of mom with her. because she’s really got to act like she’s made of stone, and feels nothing even when... for the first time in a long one, and sometimes even for the first time ever, she actually does. she has to be the rock. can’t cry, or be upset, or show fear. it wasn’t that hard for her before until she had to come face to face with these things, forced to acknowledge their presence, the lurking, hanging right over her head doom. “you know why i’m so distant, literally, these days?” she doesn’t know, because her daughter has never opened up to her about it. because it’s stupid, and crazy, and her mother can’t help her anyway. 

this time, she’s a little numb. dizzy and drowsy, in a daze, careless, thoughtless when she lets it slip along with a few necessary tears. she hasn’t cried since that day, not like this. hard and unwarranted, with emotion, true feeling because this is an instance that means something to her. “because i know it’s my fault he died. there’s something wrong with me, mom-- i didn’t mean to hurt him. i didn’t know i could do that.” if you need some backstory... yeonha here thinks she’s responsible for her dad’s death. she was holding onto him just an hour before his unexpected death. clinging like the leech she is--was, only with her parents, anyway. her father passes in the blink of an eye, and she’s traumatized. it’s not that far-fetched when you consider the entire circumstance. her and her mother return back home to an emptier house than ever before, and yeon locks herself in her room for days. convinces herself all of this was her doing, that she’s some sort of mutant from those superhero movies.

her mother doesn’t think too much of it. too heartbroken, and then just too occupied to really question the behavioral change. she’s young, it’s only expected at some point that your children are gonna stop clinging onto you at every chance they get. yeonha needs time, too. her father just died, and she was so close, practically witnessing it first-hand, the way the life left his eyes. her mom starts crying now too. yeonha-yah, i’m so sorry. mom is so sorry. but why? did she know all along? that this was gonna happen, that she was gonna develop some stupid, tv-show powers? any logical explanation seems to have left her brain. too hysterical for logistics. your father had been sick for a while. we didn’t want to worry you.. didn’t want to put a damper in your plans, crush your spirit, leave you feeling restless, unable to sleep because you know any day now your father just won’t wake up from his sleep. 

it’s all normal things. reasons she understands, wants to be mad about, but is unable. though she’s thankful they didn’t want to risk the chance of yeonha just completely giving up on everything she’s worked for, she’d have preferred to know what was going on. could’ve had the time to properly say goodbye and prepare herself for it. wouldn’t have wasted a whole year of her life, staying away from people because she was terrified she’d murder them. having to explain that whole story and getting written off because she’s fucking insane or she’s incapable now that she doesn’t like being touched. her mom isn’t the type of woman to take initiative, but she does this time. and she hugs her daughter for the first time in a full year, tight, warm, wet from tears, shaky from the nervous and distressed breaths. 

she’s upset, she’s hurt, she’s scared, but yeon still clings onto her mother for dear life. contented and quiet but still unbelieving and suspicious, it’s hard to change her mindset when it’s been this way for so long. yeonha will keep a watchful eye on the elder for the next few days. go through a lot of questioning and doubts, too. what if she’s just immune to her deathly touch? looks like she’ll have to finally put her strength to the test and slowly branch out. take some baby steps but actually progress instead of just saying she’s going to. test the waters, keep a close eye out for the reactions that follow her newfound actions. as time goes on, slowly but surely, she’ll learn to open up to her mom more. let her inside her head no matter how much she disagrees with it, because ultimately it’s healthy. they’ll talk more freely and openly about his passing, too. in good detail, she’ll be told about his condition and what he went through in his last moments. maybe they’ll even work together with some sort of awareness group. everything and anything to put the strong, younger girl more at ease. 

“i love you, dad.”

[docfuture]

Sparring Match, Part 1

     [My writing productivity has been poor for the last few months, for several reasons, and I'm still resolving some problems with The Maker's Ark.  I intended this fill-in as a short vignette, but it expanded into a two-part cliffhanger psychological mystery.  It takes place during The Maker's Ark, between Chapter 30 and Chapter 32.  The most recent regular chapter is here, links to my other work here.   I'm shooting for next week for Part 2, but it may end up being two weeks.]

      Yiskah hit the mat in the gym and rolled back to her feet facing Breakpoint.  "Well, that didn't work either," she said, and grinned.       He grinned back.  "Did for a while," he said.  "I had to wait until you attacked again."       He'd gotten past her defenses with a snap kick to the abdomen.  She'd been a little too careful guarding against a hand strike that had never materialized while recovering from her own blocked attack.       They'd been sparring for about half an hour.  They were both skilled martial artists, though their preferred styles differed.  They had about the same amount of experience, and Breakpoint was in superb shape for a physically normal human.       Up until a few months ago, Yiskah had been as well.  Now her body was superhuman, a side effect from a battle with an extradimensional being that was already the subject of epic poetry and mythology.  She was slightly faster than him, had more endurance, and was strong enough to lift the back of a truck one-handed.       She could also read minds.       None of that had affected the results much yet.       "Catch our breath before we go on?" she asked, wiping her forehead.       "Sure."       They walked over to the bench against the wall.  Breakpoint wiped his face with a towel before sitting down.  Yiskah took a drink of water before joining him.       At least I made him sweat, she thought.  Very few people could manage that.  She'd gotten in one very light tap right at the beginning, which he had acknowledged with a smile.  She hadn't been able to touch him since.       Breakpoint had golden tan skin, dark hair and eyes, and an easy, cheerful smile.  Speculation about his ethnicity was more a Rorschach test than a useful exercise, and he always replied 'American mutt' when asked about it.  He carried a crowbar when he was working, and his normal 'costume' was a coverall.  People who regarded his appearance as suspicious soon found out that the best possible result from pressing further was serious embarrassment.  Especially if they were a cop.       There were a number of crooked or excessively violent former law enforcement personnel in jail because of Breakpoint.  Early in his career, he had made that a hobby.  But word had gotten around, and they'd stopped taking the bait.  He'd started working with Jumping Spider fairly recently.       Yiskah found his mind an interesting contrast to Donner.  Both were self-confident and outwardly easygoing, but Donner had a consciousness of his own buried anger and potential to cause harm that kept him on edge during crises.  Breakpoint's danger sense let him stay more relaxed--it gave him time to think, and he used it.       "Thanks for the workout," he said.  "It's rare for me to get a real one, because... Well, you know."  He grinned.       Yiskah laughed.  "Yeah, I do.  And my pleasure.  Ready for the fun part, now that we're warmed up?"       "You bet."       They moved back to the practice mat and stood facing each other, about ten feet apart.       "All right," she said.  "We've established that danger sense beats mind scan, at least for hand-to-hand."       "It's close," he said.  I needed all my skill and reflexes, too.  If I didn't have those..."       "You do, though.  My slight edge in speed isn't enough to make up for the delay between your danger sense going off and my mind scan picking it up.  And you can vary your counters without thinking about them, which is key."       Yiskah smiled.   "But I can do more, and so can you.  I've put quite a bit of thought into the test mix for the rest, but before we start, be clear that there is no way to avoid the potential for privacy violation, acute personal discomfort, and both of us learning more than we really wanted about the other.  You okay with that?"       "Comes with the territory.  I've gone up against empaths, but never a full telepath--and I'd sure rather learn from you than a hostile one. This wouldn't work if it weren't--"       "--a little dangerous," she finished, and he grinned again.  "Okay, safety.  I should be able to pick it up, but if you want to stop but can't verbalize, tap me on the left shoulder.  Right shoulder is substitute for a hard counter you don't want to use because of potential damage.  Sound fair?"       "Got it.  I'm ready whenev--"  He stopped speaking suddenly, and his eyes narrowed.       "Heh."       Breakpoint looked at her intently.  "You aren't moving.  You aren't intending to move.  But you're doing something that's making my danger sense flash like a turn signal.  On and off.  Again and again.  What?"       "Planning to start an aggressive mind probe if your danger sense doesn't go off.  But it does, so I don't.  I'm just picking up your surface reaction with my scan, so I can't tell if the danger is diminishing with repetition.  Is it?"       "No."       "Interesting.  A fast probe is sufficiently obnoxious to set off your danger sense, even though you've never experienced one.  Which isn't terribly surprising, they're usually unpleasant even for me.  We've just verified that you can pick up purely conditional mental intent, if it's enough of a threat."       "Yeah.  Okay, it's stopped.  Now what?"       "Now I can try a whole bunch of formerly risky things more safely.  Because I'll be bringing you along, so anything bad will happen to us both."       "But it won't?  Because my danger sense will go off, your scan will pick it up, and you'll stop?"       "Exactly."  Yiskah rubbed her hands together.  "Now I'd like to see if your danger sense works on a constructed threat inside a mentally projected scenario."       "What kind?"       "Have you ever been on a stakeout where you've had to conceal your awareness rather than hide?"       "Yeah, a few times. I've--oh, cool."       They stood on the edge of a city park at night.  Several street lights kept them from complete darkness, but the illumination didn't extend to a nearby alley entrance.  They were both dressed for a night on the town, and Yiskah moved closer to take his hand.       "I know this place," he said.  "How are you--"       "I'm pulling it from your memories.  Everything you noticed will be here."       He frowned for a moment then looked to the side.  "I could have sworn that old fountain wasn't there when I first looked."       "It wasn't--until you remembered it."  She smiled.  "Here's the setup.  Our target is meeting someone down that alley, but he won't show if he doesn't get an all clear.  A not-very-bright flunky is coming out to check in a second.  But we're just a couple getting some air after a party--and clearly too involved with each other to bother with anything else."       She leaned back against him, half-closed her eyes and sighed contentedly.  He snorted, but put his hands around her waist.  They could both feel the sense of tension Yiskah was projecting as part of the test.       "Did Jumping Spider give you lessons?" he whispered in her ear.       She laughed softly.  "I wish.  Any danger?"       "Not that I can feel."       They discreetly observed the figure that stepped from the alley, looked around, then went back in.  The sense of tension dropped after he did.       "Scenario complete," said Yiskah, and their surroundings blinked again, leaving them back in the training gym, still in the same relative positions.  She closed her eyes the rest of the way and brushed her cheek against his.  "Any danger now?  Or unpleasantness?"       Breakpoint chuckled.  "Hardly.  What did you learn?"       "Something very important to me.  And very difficult to test ethically."       "Oh?"       "My water bottle is over on the bench.  Care to go get it for me?"       "Why?  I don't want to..."  He trailed off, and she listened as his mind raced.  "Oh, that was slick," he said finally.  "I never got a hint.  Are you suppressing my danger sense somehow?"       "Not a bit.  You aren't in any danger."       "It's still a little scary.  Is there anyone else out there who could manage what you just did?"       "I doubt it.  Until just now, I wasn't sure I could.  Certainly not anyone who isn't a full telepath and has to rely on verbal commands.  I'm being very careful not to tell you to do anything you aren't already inclined to do, or prevent you from doing anything you consider important.  And if I hadn't planned that--your danger sense would have gone off first."       "Huh.  It feels... worryingly pleasant, if that makes sense."       "Oh yeah.  So.  Using your other power, the one you have issues testing on people--how do you get free from mind control?"       "From you?  I wait.  You might monologue for a while, but eventually you'll just let me go."       "Hmm.  Any faster way?"       He was quiet for a moment.  "Nothing I'm willing to try.  You have some kind of multiple personality vulnerability, but it’s definitely dangerous to look closer.  How many of you are in there, anyway?"       "Heh.  Four at the moment--it should only be three, but, well..."       "Yeah.  Not something I'm willing to stir up for practice.  I don't get to see all the consequences--just the right place to poke."       Breakpoint's other power, the one that gave him his name, was weakness detection.  Like his danger sense, it was a limited form of precognition.  For inanimate objects, it told him the precise spot to strike to break or disable them.  For people, it was messier--and more dangerous.  Yiskah was sure it had more versatility than he'd demonstrated publicly, but he was reluctant to test it because of the risks.       "That's fine.  You've already given me several valuable insights.  So I'll let you go now.  In a way, it did work.  There."  She turned to face him again as he stepped back.       "Okay, what next?" he asked.       "I'd like to see how comfortable you are with my telepresence--in case you're doing fieldwork and want my help in a hurry..."       The next twenty minutes weren't as physically tiring as the sparring, but they were still a workout--just a less visible one.

      "All right.  Formal tests over," said Yiskah, after they finished the last one.       "Whoo.  Now that was mind-expanding," he said, as he sat back down on the bench.       "Fun, too."  She stretched, enjoying his reaction as he watched.       "Okay.  I got a little background danger spike, but it went away quick.  Now what are you doing?"       "Just what you see.  And mind scan.  You aren't as good at hiding your surface thoughts when we aren't physically sparring."       "I stopped trying--because you have to be doing that on purpose.  But I have no intent to offend."       "You aren't offending me.  At all."  Yiskah chuckled.  "Now... there's an interesting theory about how you could use your danger sense.  You know the one.  And why people find it so interesting."       He shook his head.  "It doesn't work like that.  It's not like mind-reading or telepathy.  It doesn't let me find the right thing to do.  Or even avoid the wrong thing--just the dangerous thing.  So it won't help with--"       "It could.  With someone capable of being dangerous to you.  And a lot of self-discipline, or at least self-awareness.  And who you are interested in, and trust.  Not a lot of people in that club.  But it's not empty.  Is it?"       "Ah... I'm not sure--"       "I'm sure it's worth trying.  You aren't because you don't know me well enough yet.  We can fix that."  She smiled.  "And then you won't have to wonder anymore.  We can test it.  Perfectly safely."       "Except for the dangerous part."       "Just like the rest of the tests.  What do you think of...?"       She sent a projection of a possibility--and felt him react.       "Um," he said.       "Is that an 'um, no' or an 'um, yes'?  Any danger?"       "No danger, but... right here?"       "Room is sealed, monitors are privacy locked, mat is padded.  And life is too short."       "Whoo.  Were you planning this from the beginning?"       "Oh yeah.  You have danger sense and I can read your mind.  We can skip past all the BS.  And I don't have to be careful every.  Damned.  Second.  Do you have any idea how much that turns me on?  So how about it?"       He stared back at her for a moment, looking for any sign of deception--and finding none.  "Sure."

      It didn't go quite how she had foreseen.  But he found a path that worked, for both of them, in a wordless exchange of desire and intent, balance and consent.  And pleasure.  She was content.

      The contentment stayed.  It was a rare feeling for Yiskah.  She knew to take such times as gifts, even when she knew how they would end.  She luxuriated in it as she dressed again, outside the shower.  Breakpoint had already finished his, so they spoke telepathically.       "I understand your caution," she sent. "I think your danger sense and weakness detection are part of a continuum rather than separate, just like my mind scan and mind probes. But your perfectionism was a little frustrating.  I was like 'I'm ready, already, go go go!'"  She sent her laughter along with the words.       "Danger sense only helps if I listen to it. Carefully."  ��    "Fair enough."       She returned to the main room.  He had changed back into his street clothes after his own shower, and was sitting on the bench, hands clasped in front of him.  He had the slightly wary expression of someone who thought everything had gone too well and was waiting for the other shoe to drop.       "So," she said, and sat down beside him.  She put an arm around his waist and leaned against him.  "Let's talk about your real worry."       He looked down at his hands.  "I'm sorry that I--"       "Not the shift in who you were thinking about.  That's not under conscious control--and I wouldn't expect or want you to hide it, even if you could.  It won't bother her, and it sure didn't bother me."  Yiskah smiled.  "When I was nine, Jumping Spider was who I wanted to be when I grew up."       "Ah."  More wariness.       "I'm talking about why you haven't done this with her.  Or anything other than fieldwork.  Yet."       "We've... considered it.  Twice.  And both times my danger sense went off."       Yiskah nodded slowly.  "Did you explain?"       "Yeah.  And the second time, it was clear it wasn't an outside problem.  She seemed pretty frustrated.  The warnings I get for social stuff aren't like the spikes I use to dodge physical threats--they can be really vague.  I didn't get what was wrong or how to bypass it.  But I'm not willing to ignore them."  He looked down again.  "Made that mistake before.  Not going to make it again."       "Any ideas why?"       "Yeah.  I really like her.  And it sure seems to be mutual.  But I've already started thinking about the long term.  Lots of ways that could go wrong.  I don't want it to.  And I don't want to jeopardize our work--we're going after Tabula Rasa, and I'm covering early warning for both of us.  I can't afford to lose my center in the field."       "Is there a reason you haven't just sat down to talk it over with her?"       "We haven't had the chance--we've been busy.  Covering for Doc, finding out what was up with Donner, and then the assassination attempt and Tabula Rasa.  Sure, we've had a little time here and there.  Enough time to have some fun, as she put it.  But not to start a talk that might help us figure out why it isn't safe--that could go anywhere.  I just don't know."       "Well, I can tell her to make the time.  This is not an issue that's going to get better on--"       "Stop!" said Breakpoint.       Yiskah had already picked up the warning from his mind, and changed her intent to contact Jumping Spider telepathically.  She frowned and checked with Prime instead.       "Ah.  Flicker crashed their meeting and... Okay, that definitely qualifies as dangerous.  I'm not going to joggle her elbow when she just called Flicker a bloodthirsty spoiled brat to her face."       "Still dangerous, not as bad," he said.       "Yeah.  Sounds like Flicker is getting briefed--and deciding whether to do something... excessive.  In the next ninety seconds or so.  Because of an old promise Doc made.  Prime--Stella--is talking to her."       As they waited, Breakpoint suddenly grinned.  "Do you begin to see the problem?"       "Oh yeah.  Same kind of one I had with Doc.  We aren't together anymore because he refused to take the time.  Jumping Spider understands the priorities better--she pounced on my idea of a sparring match.  And Prime and I owed her a favor for breaking a key link in her lead trail."       "Heh.  I wasn't sure quite what she-- Okay, danger level just dropped."       Yiskah checked in with Prime again and listened.  "Yeah," she said to Breakpoint.  "Flicker made up her mind.  So now I can..." She sent a mental contact request to Jumping Spider.       "Hel-lo," came the reply.  "Been having fun?  Do you like spending time with him?"       "Yes.  One thing I am sure of now; his difficulty isn't primarily sexual.  That was just the context that made the warning clear.  What's the real reason you haven't made time to talk?"       "I stalled, because if his danger sense went off for a talk before I determined how to deal with the problem, we'd be SOL."       "Thought so.  I can work with or around his danger sense--but I cannot directly fool it.  And neither can you.  That includes planning to change his mind about something he'd object to now.  If you might succeed--that's dangerous.  If it worked any other way, it would leave him vulnerable to manipulation.  I'm not sure if that's the driver, but--"       A mental sigh.  "It's not causing the problem, but if I can't fool him, there's no good way out.  So much for fun.  Could you check if he's triggered?"       Yiskah glanced over at Breakpoint.  "Jumping Spider wants to know if your danger sense is going off."       He was outwardly calm, but she could sense his tension.  "Bad news incoming.  Not anything I can do about it."       Yiskah switched back to Jumping Spider.  "Something wicked this way comes.  And it's you.  I don't like what I'm picking up of your planning."       "Neither do I.  He's been a good partner.  But he won't stay one if he wrecks himself--and I can't stop that.  Don't interrupt, but you'll have to pick up the pieces.  Are you ready?"       "I am.  You're doing a complete break?"       "Yes.  Fieldwork safety just went away, and a slow amputation is no kindness. I'd let him explain the details at his own pace.  I know I don't have the whole picture."       "Okay.  Any other advice?"       "Don't assume.  He's too good at hiding things, for the same reason he's so good at undercover work.  When he warns you how risky it is to use his weakness detection on people, listen.  And be aware that his danger sense is far more of a two-edged sword than most people realize."       "I've already seen signs of that.  All right."       Breakpoint had been waiting patiently.  Yiskah met his eyes.  "I'm sorry," she said.       "About what?  You haven't--"  He broke off as his phone rang.       "Hey."  He paused to listen.  "Yeah, I kind of figured.  We can just go back to--what?"       Yiskah watched as the color drained out of his face.  "But how are we going to catch--"  Another pause to listen.  "So you'll be working with DASI?"  He stared down at the floor.  "I can try the fieldwork on my own, but you're better at tracing leads, so-- Yeah.  No.  No, I didn't."       Breakpoint glanced at Yiskah.  "It went fine, but--"  More listening.  "There's another way.  I can alter how I--"  He clenched his fist--the first sign of frustration from him Yiskah had ever seen.  "It does work.  I've done it."       His hand relaxed.  "Oh."  He seemed to deflate and his voice became calm and quiet.  "Yes, I understand.  It's been a privilege and an honor to work with you.  Thank you."  A final pause.  "You too.  Bye."       He ended the call and stared down at his phone.  Yiskah picked up a short pulse of anger, followed quickly by a pulse from his danger sense, which turned the anger into bleak depression.  He put the phone away, moving slowly, then looked up at her wordlessly.       "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.       He started to open his mouth, then closed it again.  Instead of speaking he reached out with his hand and tapped her on the left shoulder.  He was in shock--but his reflexes still worked.       Yiskah had plenty of questions, but they could wait.  She put an arm around her sparring partner, and waited with him.

Next:  Part 2