#//He hopes he will never break the lad's heart the way each loss of his friends had almost broken him

[intcrastra]

I like to think Jing Yuan once hated being teased with little nicknames by the others in the High Cloud Quintet, especially of 'A-Yuan', out of embarrassment in being treated as the youngest of the lot.

Nowadays, he desperately wishes to hear that very nickname the most, if only once more, by his ( now former ) friends. No matter how impossible that may now be.

[bunny-hoodlum]

Asynchronous With You: Chapter 1

ship: naruhina

rating: teen (maybe mature later)

tags:  Modern Day AU, Foster Siblings, Family, Angst, Unrequited Love, Poor Communication

summary: An awkward journey full of self-denial and missed moments between two foster siblings. Perhaps their love will find the right timing someday.

(The way overdue long-form version of the Foster Sib AU I wrote for @szajnie for Secret Santa 2020.)

music: Asynchronous With You by burokkurubeats & my playlist

He wasn't the first child.

Somehow he had expected to be.

A girl his age, age six, and her older cousin had already been living here for a year now.

They had family, they were just… deemed unfit.

Maybe they'll take them back, when they get their act together. He doesn't know. He only knows he doesn't have the luxury of hope that they do.

Nobody was coming back to get him.

And he had nowhere to go back to.

The foster lady with the ruby red eyes showed him his bedroom.

At first, Naruto thought Hinata and Neji were close, so much so that no one could ever be closer.

Then he thought it was their tactic to keep others out, self-preservation in blood.

Hinata was nice enough, but she never strayed far from Neji.

That was because he never let her.

She wasn't just fiercely loyal to him. She was scared of him.

He tried to get Neji in trouble. Kurenai-obachan needed to know. But Hinata stopped him. She told him not to split them apart. That she didn't mind Neji bossing her around. She would never be okay if she didn't know where her cousin was.

So he tried. But it was hard. He still picked fights with Neji.

That didn't make Hinata happier, either.

He still thinks it's Neji's fault when she finally breaks down, telling them both off before running to her room.

He runs after her, but she won't let him in.

He goes to his room and talks to her through his wall. He has to press himself flat against it, straining to hear any sound.

Could she hear him, too?

"I'll leave Neji alone, okay?" It's a bitter promise, because it makes him feel like he's surrendered when he did nothing wrong. But part of him also feels tired of this pattern day in and day out. He'd rather spend his time better.

The silence stretched passed the point of comfort, and he pictured tomorrow, a tomorrow where Hinata may hate him. Enough to shun him in his own home. And would he really do what he's always done to others to her? Would he really go that far for attention?

His unconscious concerns spilled out, running through his fingers before he could stuff the words back in and swallow them. "Hinata… can I bug you instead?" He flinches and freezes, and he waits.

It's faint, but he heard her.

"Sure," she said.

His shoulders lowered as he slouched down the wall, the tension leaking from his body and he smiled.

Their early years would be shaped by a secret language shared between the two of them from that moment on, where a pinch on the arm and a retaliatory swat was a polite exchange in the morning. Where a "missing" item from their bedrooms was an excuse to search the house together, and where a stolen item was an invitation to enter each other's bedrooms. Hinata really liked to show him her new collection of pressed flowers, and he really liked to show her his latest Gachapon figurine. Whenever that happened, it was usually one of those new things that went "missing" shortly after.

It wasn't that Kurenai-obasan didn't spoil him as much as them, he could have new things all the time, too. But she hadn't been planning on taking him, she hadn't been prepared for him. If he wanted more things, Hinata would have to have less.

And the time he could spend with her was more than enough for him.

____________________________

Halfway through their grade school years their secret games waned. Being in the same grade helped to keep them in touch throughout the day, but at lunch time she was Neji's, and after school she was Neji's. That's just how it was.

But they were maturing. Their experiences were expanding. They had so much to talk about.

But how could they? It had to be at bedtime. And because it had to be bedtime, they had to be quiet.

He got the idea to drill a hole into their bedroom wall so that way they could easily whisper and not get caught.

That was one of his first thrills: vandalism.

"I think you mean 'home improvement'," Hinata giggled.

He had to process that.

He never realized until then that he still hadn't considered this his home.

Thanks to Kurenai-obasan, he had food in his belly and a roof over his head. He had a bed, some video games, and a safe route to school.

Thanks to Neji, he had a model of masculinity. Not a role model, mind you, but a model nonetheless. Some things about Neji were cool, even admirable. And other things he would never do in his life. They were both abandoned, confused and alone, sure. But it was always annoying how Neji couldn't help but look back. Naruto always had to look forward.

Maybe the way they both did things was equally imperfect.

He smiled to himself, as this is where he had to thank Hinata, for she kept them both grounded and present. Because that's how she lives her life, like each day is a gift not to be squandered.

Who cares about being hurt yesterday? Who cares about what hasn't happened yet?

Right now, at this moment, he was home.

This was his home.

____________________________

Girls at school always cupped their ears when they were eavesdropping. They cup their mouths when they're telling secrets or bad-mouthing others.

Hinata cups her ear around the hole in their wall when he's telling her stories. And she cups her mouth when she's telling him hers.

Her ears are sensitive, so he tries to watch his volume. He forgets himself when he gets excitable.

Her breath tickles and teases a memory from his brain, one that fills him with both sadness and relief.

When he tries to sleep, he searches for the root of this feeling.

The next day on television, there's a mother murmuring her baby to sleep.

He adopts that image as his own forgotten memory.

And the following night, Hinata's soothing whispers confirm that he had a mother once, and she used to sing him to sleep.

____________________________

Hinata's a wimp.

He loves the girl, but at school she is a gosh damn trouble magnet.

He jumps in front of her bullies, fists blazing, and he loses.

A lot.

But he gets to pick fights again. He gets to be cool from time to time. And when he gets better, he becomes the best. He gets a reputation!

By the time they reach fifth grade, he doesn't even have to raise a fist.

A well-aimed death glare is enough.

When Neji's graduation forces the two cousins apart for the first time in their lives, the older Hyuuga undergoes a personality shift.

He expresses legitimate concern for Hinata.

Maybe it's been there all along.

They're both standing on the empty landing just outside of their elementary's gymnasium where the remainder of the proceedings were taking place. Neji's stare, heavy with expectations and ultimatum, bore down on his little shoulders.

"You're the only one I can ask."

"Yeah, don't worry. I got this!" Naruto flashed his patent overconfident grin, and this time not a hint of condescension passed across Neji's face.

His heart thumped wildly when he and Neji returned to the gymnasium, with Neji returning to his position amongst the other students in the center of the room. Family members lined up against the walls in foldable metal chairs, a spattering of pride and loss playing out across their faces; Their children were growing up.

When Naruto took his seat, he stole a glance at Hinata on the other side of Kurenai-obasan. Her gentle profile seemed to unlock something inside of him. Waves upon waves of warmth filled his body, pulling him in deeper into a languid pool of contentment.

He would be her protector from now on.

He would be her brother.

____________________________

He never noticed how their paths lead each other further and further apart.

Their daily routines had remained the same.

Aside from a few exciting developments.

Like Kurenai reconnecting with a childhood friend. The man was a Marine and a chainsmoker, but he seemed cool.

Or how Naruto happened to find a collection of discarded skin mags behind the pool storage room at school. They now safely occupied the space beneath his bed.

There was also the neighborhood shrimp squad of grade-schoolers who loved to call him 'Boss' whenever he came over to play.

Or that time he was hanging out with Sasuke, and unusually the stoic lad had insulted a group of delinquents before he did at the local arcade.

Sasuke may have taken out four guys by the time Naruto took out one, but he still got the win.

But way, way before all of that something had really surprised him: Hinata becoming Deputy Class Rep to their own Haruno Sakura.

She was volunteered for the position based on her equally outstanding grades. Or, at least that's what they had believed.

Over time, it became apparent that they had volunteered Hinata to be Sakura's foil. Hinata was considerate and much more approachable. If the students wanted something, they went straight to Hinata first.

But then her unchanged nature became more detectable.

Like he's said before, Hinata's a wimp.

She crumbles at the slightest disapproval.

She implodes when she's convinced she could do better. When she thinks she's failing.

So halfway through their first year, she started to get abused. Girls and boys alike tried to strongarm her into making their lives 'better'. Making her fetch their lunches and dumping cleaning duty on her every day, then throwing her words back at her when she tried to complain. They'd say, 'But it's what you signed up for', and 'Isn't this your job? Don't you care about your classmates?'.

Somehow Sakura never noticed. He tried to tell her, but she didn't take him seriously. He tried to tell the teachers, but they acted like he had no evidence.

Liars! They just didn't want to get involved! What good are teachers if they don't help their students?!

Some weeks later, the following exams were posted outside the classroom.

Sakura was number two, just below Ino. They were always competing for the top, always unevenly dethroning the other.

Hinata was number three. Always suspiciously number three. And he was dead last.

Hinata could rise to the top, but she never tries.

He always tries, but he can never seem to rise.

He realized then that he hasn't been doing enough as her brother.

Compared to her, he has no future, no potential. It wouldn't be a waste if he took on her burdens.

He can take abuse, because during those first six years at a state-run orphanage, abuse was all he knew.

He realized what he had to do. Resiliency was one of his best traits, after all.

The following day, he took Hinata's place as the class slave. He fetched their lunches, got them drinks whenever they asked. The only thing they never asked him to do was their homework. Because… yeah.

Nobody knew they lived together.

If they did, well, he might've been forced to copy Hinata's assignments all the same.

He never noticed how their paths lead them apart, how their daily routines boxed them into two different social spheres never to overlap.

He was still her brother. Her protector.

But by high school, he'd also become the embodiment of trouble itself.

And he couldn't let that stuff disrupt her life.

____________________________

Naruto’s sprawled belly-down on the sofa playing on his Vita handheld when Kurenai-obasan calls out to him as she’s emerging from the laundry room.

“Naruto, I’ve stared at this hamper for three weeks,” She drops the hamper at her feet with a weighty thump for emphasis. “Are you going to do it or not?”

“I just forgot.” He surreptitiously powers off his game and abandons his handheld on the sofa as he ambles off the couch.

He’s dramatic when he slouches his shoulders and drags his feet, head lolling backwards in anguish. He hauls the hamper back inside the laundry room. He doesn’t look when he opens the washing machine and dumps his clothes into the drum. But the pile is sticking up. He tries to smash it all down, but he can’t. It’s already full.

“Crap.” He scoops out his month-old laundry in four armfuls and disposes them at his feet. He reaches in to grab the damp garments sticking to the sides of the drum, then begins to throw them into the dryer. At least that’s empty.

He doesn’t notice the butter yellow hoodie with white polka dots on the kangaroo pocket. Or the frilly linen top that needs to be dried on the line. Or the no-show socks with rabbits on them.

Once the drum was cleared out, he hurled his fermented clothes into the washer and started up both machines.

He went back to his game for several hours. Kurenai had to remind him to dry his clothes as she delivered the dryer’s contents to Hinata’s room. This was because Hinata was at cram school.

As he moved his items to the dryer, he recalled how Neji had done cram school too before moving onto a prestigious high school deep in the city center.

Naruto never knew whether to be jealous or not. School work was utterly useless and he didn’t envy the workload of overachievers, but maybe that was only because he couldn’t handle it. Maybe if he were smarter, he’d appreciate it better. Or maybe he’d figure out more ingenious ways to skip it all.

He played his game in the laundry room, waiting for the final ding to go off. He used the same dirty hamper to gather up his clean clothes and dragged it inside his room, where he promptly dumped it all out on his bed. Fresh laundry was intoxicating and he didn’t fight the urge to belly flop into the softener-drenched warmth.

He deeply inhaled as he sank into the heat. His cheek felt particularly nice against this satin material.

His left eye opened a peek. Vanilla and lavender stripes met his eye, with a rose lace and ribbon trim along the waistband.

He shot upright, his face no longer hot from the laundry, but hot with horrified embarrassment. He stared at the garment like it might come to life, jump on him and eat his face. It hadn’t so far.

‘It should be fine to pick them up, right?’ He thought with his frozen hand stretched out.

Why was he acting weird about this? They used to mix their laundry up all the time when they were younger. It’s actually how Hinata acquired a love of hoodies in the first place, because she loved to wear the beige one Obasan got him. She can pull off softer colors, but he can’t, so it was easily hers from that moment on.

He plucked up her panties by their corners and held it away, like it were an envelope full of Ricin, and he gazed at it mindlessly. Somehow they were exactly what he expected Hinata to wear, they were girly and cute.

Pale skin flashed before his eyes, a taboo image of Hinata in these panties, lifting her pleated uniform skirt up had startled him and he dropped the undergarments with a yelp.

Did he really just imagine her that way?

Naruto tried to smack the stupid from his mind until his cheeks burned with physical pain, then with everything he could muster, he snatched up the pair and ran for her bedroom, adding it unceremoniously to her hamper of clean clothes.

He pretended to be asleep by the time she got home.

He ignored the sweet voice that slid through the hole in the wall until she gave up and stopped calling him.

There was simply no way he could hold a conversation with her after that experience.

And to think he had to rely on his skin mags to purge him of his sin.

____________________________

Weightlifting was doing wonders for him.

For starters, it was taking his mind off of his libido.

For another, his physique was changing. He was starting to sprout up, too. Hinata’s former bullies were starting to learn some new feelings, like reluctance and fear. They eventually moved onto the freshman to enslave, leaving him alone to finally live his final year of middle school the way he always wanted.

The more he did weights, the more girls started to look his way, not just at Sasuke-teme.

Life was looking good!

Is what he thought when he was hanging out on the roof with Sasuke and two Ojou-gyaru types. One girl was straddling Sasuke while Naruto spooned the other girl from behind.

A dire thought hit him when he realized only six months remained until graduation. A choice he had been overlooking was rapping its knuckles against his temple, and he could hardly shoo it away.

“Hey.” Naruto turned his head towards Sasuke.

“Hn?”

“Where are you going for High School?”

Sasuke turned his head up towards the sky. He was pensively silent. Then he shrugged. “I’m going to stay here.”

“So you’re going to Konoha Normal High?”

“Just like everyone else.” Sasuke said.

‘Everyone else’ didn’t include Hinata, and he was supposed to stick close to her.

How suspicious would it be if he chose to follow her to her high school?

What if he couldn’t? What if she was following the same path as Neji?

Neji would be there until her senior year. Was his responsibility to the both of them over already?

Naruto would later get a text from Obasan that she would be spending the night with Asuma.

K-Obasan: There’s curry udon in the fridge.

He narrowed his eyes at the text.

Just because you add noodles to leftover curry doesn’t make it a Naruto-approved dinner!

“Udon’s not even the same thing!”

His steps slowed in the school corridor. It was enough for his rooftop date to catch up with him.

“Your face looks weird when you’re glum.” She giggled as she poked his cheeks.

“Yeah, well, I just realized I’m about to go home and no one’s going to be waiting for me.”

“Oh?” She circled her arms around his own and leaned in close. “Good for us, huh?”

His eyes widened with realization. A goofy grin stretched across his face, the corners curling lasciviously.

‘Yeah,’ he thought, ‘I’m owed this.’

____________________________

Author Note: I'm forgoing the one-shot because I still don't have that kind of discipline. ;D I'll definitely try to finish this short story to the end. I had received some good title suggestions for this story, but I ended up going with another song name because I can't seem to do anything else. ¯\_༼ ಥ ‿ ಥ ༽_/¯

I'm still going to try to adhere to the canon of the original fic to the best of my ability. I would totally declare this new canon, honestly, but then it'd be a Secret Dating fic with smut and it would never line up with what I already wrote. 😓

Anyways, I hope you liked this so far!

[mystical-flute]

Hustling For the Good Life (SFWeek Day 3)

No Curse (Our World) AU or Season 3 AU

@mysteryandnonstopfun

AO3 || FFN

Emma’s stare was harsh and aimed in the direction of her parents and Regina. “We can’t.”

There was absolutely no time to argue. Pan’s curse was steadily drawing near, the sky already taking on a dark, ominous hue, swallowing up the buildings and people that had called Storybrooke home for twenty-eight years.

“Emma, you have to go. It’s the only way to keep Henry safe!” Snow protested.

Neal turned away from the small family, and looked at Belle. “Are you going to be okay, Belle?”

“Don’t worry about me. Your father would want you and Henry to be safe, Bae,” she said. “Besides, Snow has been kind enough to allow me to stay with them… if we’re able to get back to their castle.”

So much was unknown about what was going to happen. Neal was worried he might throw up.

He put on a brave smile that he knew neither of them bought.

“You guys need to hurry!” Ruby suddenly cried, glancing over her shoulder at the purple storm clouds racing toward them. “It’s almost here!”

Neal squeezed Belle’s hand and turned to Emma and Henry. “Let’s - let’s get to safety, then.”

He should have been happy that the life he and Emma deserved to have was within his grasp, but like everything with magic, the price was too damn steep, and it wouldn’t be worth it.

They might not remember Storybrooke, but he knew the pain in Snow, David, and Regina’s eyes would never leave.

“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” he said, passing Regina on his way to the bug.

“Just keep Henry safe. Please.”

“You know we will.”

Neal gave Hook one final glance, and a single nod of acknowledgement before he got in the passenger’s seat once Henry was safely in the back. He and Emma clasped their hands over the gear shift, the familiar rumbling of the bug almost making him smile as Emma began to drive.

None of them took their eyes off the mirrors as their loved ones -

“Em? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” he asked, glancing at her. “Allergies acting up?”

Emma took her hand off his, using it to wipe her eyes before she pulled to the side of the road. “No - sorry. I just got a little overwhelmed at the thought of our apartment in Boston. We’ve lost everything, Neal. Our clothes, our furniture, our pictures - ”

“But not our lives,” he said, rubbing her back. “Emma, we’re lucky we weren’t home when the fire broke out. We can replace the stuff, but we can’t replace each other.”

Henry looked up from his game. “I’m not reenacting those baby pictures.”

Neal snort-laughed. “You don’t have to, bud. But just be aware that your mom and I might take a few extra pictures of you for the foreseeable future.”

Henry scowled, rolling his eyes, and immersed himself in Zelda again.

Emma chuckled. “New York then. Almost home.”

---

“It’s a boy!” the doctor announced, Henry’s cries cutting through the air.

“Healthy pair of lungs on him,” the nurse chuckled, rubbing him down. “Oh darling, it’s okay. Let’s get you to Mama, hmm?”

Emma and Neal, two terrified eighteen year olds, were in shock as the nurse laid him in Emma’s arms.

“H - hi baby…” Emma whispered as his cries slowly died down and he stared at them with wonder in his dark eyes. “I’m - I’m your mama… and that’s your daddy…”

The first year had been rough, of course. They lived in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment in Tallahassee, waitressing and whatever else they could find. They clawed and saved whatever they could, to give Henry more than what they’d had.

But more important than things, was love. Henry had two parents that loved him more than anything in the world, which is much more than Neal or Emma could say for themselves.

They were happy, most of all. Yeah the apartment was a squeeze, and there were on and off issues with bugs, but through it all, the three of them were happy.

They married when Henry was three - a small ceremony in Boston after they’d moved there for Emma’s job. He’d gotten a better job not long after that, as a photographer, and he was really, really good at it, like Emma was good at tracking down criminals.

And so the little family moved up in the world. From a one-bedroom apartment to a two bedroom, they could buy new toys and clothes for Henry instead of hoping they found something at a thrift store or garage sale. It finally felt like they were where they were meant to be.

Emma’s twenty-eighth birthday came and went, and Neal felt a twist of guilt in his gut when August’s voice echoed in his head.

The problem was, Neal hadn’t heard anything from August. No postcard, no email… nothing. No information as to where this supposed curse was?

So how was he supposed to get Emma to her supposed destiny if he didn’t know where he was going?

He had a job, a family. They couldn’t just drive across the country and hope they got lucky.

Then there had been the fire, the spring after Emma’s birthday. They’d been on a camping trip in Maine, Neal taking photos of the coast and Emma insisting Henry needed less time in front of the screen, when they’d gotten the call.

Everything in their apartment was gone, the building itself almost totally a loss.

He’d been transferred to New York.

So they’d started over, again.

New York had been good to them - incredibly so.

The magazine he’d gotten a job with had offered to pay for their rent for two months while they got new furniture and settled into the city.

Henry was thriving in school, making friends and joining the art club. It was everything Neal had ever hoped for.

And after they’d settled in, new furniture and wardrobes abound, they had received a call from one of Emma’s contacts with the NYPD. A two year old girl had been found in an abandoned apartment. No family that the cops or child services could find, and the girl didn’t say anything other than her name - Audrey.

So they’d taken her in, adoption paperwork being expedited given the strangeness of the situation.

All she had to her name was a pink baby blanket, not unlike the one Emma had.

It felt like fate, adopting Audrey the way it happened.

Or something else, but Neal pushed that thought aside as he situated her in her chair, watching as she carefully fed herself.

Emma slid into the seat next to her, a plate in her hand.

“Busy day today?” she asked.

“Nah, just editing the pictures from the Elton John concert last night. I can do it from here,” he said with a shrug, glancing over at a knock on the door. “I got it.”

When he pulled the door open, he’d wished he hadn’t.

“Baelfire.”

He felt the color drain from his face. “Hook. What the hell are you doing here?”

To his shock, Hook actually looked relieved to see him, like it hadn’t been 200 years since they saw each other. Like they had actually been friendly last he saw him. “I came to get you three, Baelfire. To take you home.”

“Home? You must be insane. I am home.”

“Emma’s parents need help, Baelfire. So does your father.”

His eyes narrowed. “Did August send you?”

Hook’s face radiated confusion. “Who’s August?”

That was a no, then, and that didn’t make Neal feel any better about Hook being here. He shouldn’t even know what he looked like - he’d been fourteen when they last saw each other! “Why should I believe you? After everything? And why would you give a damn about my father?”

“He saved my life.”

Neal laughed, then winced when he remembered Emma and Henry were only feet away. “Why would he save you ?”

Hook shrugged. “I was collaterally saved.”

“As always,” he spat.

“Dad?” Henry called. “You okay?”

“Just a second, Henry!” Neal turned back to Hook and narrowed his eyes. “Get lost. Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it.”

Hook sighed, holding out a piece of paper. “Fine. If you change your mind, I’m staying here.”

Neal frowned as he took it, watching Hook disappear back down the hall. How had Hook been able to get a hotel room?

This was weird, and despite his instincts telling him to stay away from anything related to the Enchanted Forest, Hook had mentioned Emma’s parents. If they were involved in this, maybe there was more to Emma being left on the side of the road.

So, with Henry at school, Emma at work, and Audrey at daycare, Neal did what his brain was yelling at him not to do, and wandered to the address Hook had given him. To his surprise, it wasn’t a hotel at all, but an apartment building. He was let in no problem, and stood in front of the door.

Why was this familiar?

He pushed the door open, and resisted the urge to toss his keys on a nearby table (why had he wanted to do that?). Instead, he picked up an envelope that caught his attention, dropping it in shock.

Why was his name on it?

He left the envelope on the floor, glancing again around the apartment, and his heart stopped.

The yellow dreamcatcher he and Emma had snatched was hanging from a window. Rushing to it, he lifted it into his hands, afraid it would break.

It should have burned in the fire. How was it here?

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Hook’s voice rumbled from the doorway.

Neal spun around. “Hook, what the hell is this?”

Hook didn’t answer, instead, he pulled a vial of blue liquid from his pocket and held it out. “Your memories of the past year have been erased, Bae.”

“Neal.” He made no move to take the vial.

Hook sighed. “Neal. Please. You have to trust me.”

“Why?”

“It’s like I said - Emma’s family is in danger. A witch is plotting something against her parents. I only just escaped in time before they were sent back to Storybrooke.”

Neal bit his lip and looked around the apartment again. That might explain why he never heard from August, but getting Emma to do anything regarding her parents would be worse than pulling teeth.

He took the vial and drained it, lurching back in pain when the memories began to flood in.

Oh no.

Neal’s eyes were wide with horror as they settled down, and looked up at Hook again. “Killian…”

Killian grinned. “There you are, lad.”

“How’s Belle?”

Killian had a hesitant look on his face. “She’s… as well as she can be. Your father is alive, Bae, but he’s missing, and with Emma’s parents in danger - ”

“The witch might have something to do with it.” She probably had something to do with it, really. “What about Emma and Henry’s memories?”

Hook pulled out two more vials, his face sad. “I’m sorry I had to wake you up, Bae.”

He sighed, remembering the devastation before they’d crossed the town line, Emma’s tearful, almost childish refusal to leave her parents, and the broken look Regina had tried to hide when Henry wasn’t looking. “Don’t be. This is… going to be for the best.”

What it meant for him and Emma, time would only tell.

The Bug was quiet as they raced through the night, back to Storybrooke. Hook, Henry, and Audrey were asleep in the back, but Neal was wide awake.

“Emma…” he said quietly. “About us - ”

Her head snapped over, visible confusion on her face. “What about us?”

“I mean… the marriage, the amount of love we have for each other - ”

“False memories or not, the love I have for you is real, Neal Cassidy,” she said. “I was going to meet you at Granny’s, give you that second chance before Pan’s curse. Although… I guess that was a second chance too.”

Neal smiled, relieved. “So you wanna stay married to me?”

Emma smiled back. “Neal Cassidy, I’ll marry you in any lifetime.”

[cassiabaggins]

Happiness Takes Its Sweet Time

A/N: written for @midearthwritings​ rewriting challenge! My quote was “Because happiness takes it’s sweet time, doesn’t it?”

WARNINGS: THIS STORY CONTAINS DISCUSSION OF MISCARRIAGE AND DEPRESSION. PLEASE DON’T READ THIS IF THAT UPSETS YOU. I WON’T HOLD IT AGAINST YOU!!!

Wordcount: 1k |||| Masterlist

Summary: Cassia has always wanted to be a mother, but now she must deal with the trauma of miscarrying two children, and her feelings of failure that result from that.

Cassia has wanted to be a mother since her own died. Perhaps it was her way of coping with Belladonna’s death, but she was twenty-five, mere months after her mother passed, Cassia met one of her cousins’ newborn infants and something inside her… settled. Holding that little life, that tiny, innocent, vulnerable babe, she knew that someday, she wanted that. She wanted a child. 

She thought, for a while, that the child would be fully hobbit, that she’d meet some nice lad who didn’t mind her quirks, and they’d settle down in a homely little burrow and have several children before too long. But then… then she met Fili. And she couldn’t imagine having a family with anyone else. She still can’t. 

It's been four years. Four years, two months, and some days, since she married Fili, since they began trying for a child, and Cassia is still not pregnant. It feels like a lifetime, a lifetime of waiting and hoping and she feels like a failure. She wants a child more than she can think, more than she can breathe. It leaves a deep, tearing ache in her soul. They try, she and Fili, of course they do. She wants a babe and he wants to give her one, but to no avail. Twice she had been with child, and twice she had lost them, among tears and bleeding and pain. Gladiolus and Hyacinth she had named them. Remembrance and Regret. Those are funeral flowers in the Shire, and thus the names stick. She still visits them every day, tiny graves on the Mountainside, decorated with carved stone headstones and beds of flowers.

Cassia's lady-in-waiting, Eir, has a baby girl, little Sif, bright eyed and curly haired, her chin covered with the merest wisp of a beard, and Cassia dotes on the babe, begging for her friend to bring her with her to work. Eir happily complies. But just as little Sif's darling laugh and chubby cheeks soothe the ache in Cassia's heart, they also sharpen it, to a burning, cruel lance twisting deeper with each moment. That could be her babies laughing and toddling and stumbling over their first signs. It could be her child sucking their tiny thumb and laughing when their chubby belly is tickled. But it isn't. And she feels so broken.

Fili finds her sobbing alone in bed one evening, curled up amongst the blankets, long after Eir and Sif had gone home. He hates to hear her cry. Cassia isn't meant to cry. Her face is made for smiles and her voice for laughter. He moves across the room to her and sits on the bed beside her.

"Mizimelûh," he says gently, pulling back the covers and placing his hand on her shaking shoulder. "Cassia, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"

Cassia rolls half over to look at him. He looks tired, worn from his kingly duties, and she feels guilt rising like bile in her throat. What right does she have to be sad? 

"It's nothing," she says, sitting up and wiping at her eyes. "I'm fine." She sniffles and offers him a smile. "Are you hungry? I can make you supper."

"I already ate," Fili says, waving his hand dismissively. This is a lie, but whatever is troubling his Cassia is far more important than his hunger.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm fine," she repeats with a little smile, "truly, Fili. I am. You've had a long day, let me—."

"Cassia." He interrupts, cupping her cheek in his hand. "Please don't lie to me."

She shakes her head. "I'm not, Fili, I promise, I—" she breaks off as his thumb caresses her cheekbone, gentle and warm, and she can't stop the tears. They drip hotly on his fingertips as he moves his other hand to cup her other cheek. His tenderness breaks her apart. "I want a baby!" She wails, surging forward into his arms.

Fili catches her easily, pulling her close against him. "Oh, Cassia," he whispers. She cries stormily, with heavy, choking sobs, pouring out all her grief and hopelessness into his shoulder. He feels the loss as keenly as she does, the emptiness, and every single sob and whimper that spills from her is pure agony, and he wants to cry, too, but he can't. He must be strong for her, so he holds her close and strokes her hair.

After what seems like an age, her tears quiet and she pulls back a bit, but stays near him, basking in his warmth. 

"Feeling better?" He asks softly, knowing she more than likely isn't. 

"No," she says. Fili sighs sadly. After a moment of silence, she speaks up again, her voice hoarse from crying.

"I feel like we'll never have a baby, like I'll never get to hold my child in my arms," she says.

Fili strokes her hair out of her eyes. "A child will come, Cassia. You must be patient."

"Patient. Right." She scoffs bitterly. “Because after all, happiness takes its sweet time, doesn’t it?”

He frowns. Cassia is many things, but bitter is not one.

"Cassia…"

"There's something wrong with me, isn't there," she whispers. 

Fili stiffens. "What? Cassia, there's not—."

"I'm broken," she says, looking down at her hands. "Aren't I?"

"No, Cassia, you aren't broken!" He insists, holding her close. 

"How would you know?" She spits, shoving him away. "How would you know?! You're never here! You're never around! You barely even KNOW me anymore!" She buries herself in the quilts. "Why did you even marry me, anyway?"

Fili watches her, feeling hopeless and hurting. After a long while, he places his hand on the back of her head, rubbing gently. He feels like that's all he can do, just show that he's here. The worst part of it all? He can't do anything. It's in just nature to help, in his heart to protect her, to keep his Cassia, his One, safe from all harm and sadness… but he can't. Not this time. And it hurts. It hurts and it hurts and it hurts, just as much as losing the babies did, just as much as losing Thorin did. It tastes like bitter failure. 

Cassia was right. Happiness really does take its sweet time.

[colehasapen]

Eternal - Star Wars (One Shot)

There's a Mandalorian in Anchorhead.

Ben Kenobi hears about it during a trip for supplies into Mos Eisley, slipping unnoticed through the crowds. Its when he passes two settlers that the whispers reach his ears as two women speak to each other in nervously quiet voices, talking about the Mandalorian in black and blue that lingers like a frightening phantom or a bomb primed to explode, asking around about 'the desert hermit', and Ben falters.

There's only one Mandalorian welcomed on Tatooine, employed by Jabba the Hutt and unwilling to share his coin pouch, and Ben knows that Boba would warn him if something changed about the Imperial bounty on his head. Boba was a good lad in need of guidance and advice - hardened by the world and tragedy far too early, and still so young in so many ways, despite his complaints that he wasn’t a child anymore. It hadn’t been easy to win the boy’s trust when he had come to his hut all those years ago, arrogant and angry and intent on collecting the massive bounty on his head himself, but Ben had worn him down - a part of him needing a young soul to guide and nurture to feel some sort of control in his life - and the child had been so desperate for a connection to his father’s culture that even Ben’s poor substitute was enough. Boba would have warned him, had he known, because as angry as he was at the world, the young man held tight to the things he considered as his, and as much as he complained and claimed that he didn’t like Ben, the youngster had yet to actually do anything to get his bounty. In fact, he actively kept other hunters away.

So when he hears the rumours of a Mandalorian bounty hunter that wasn’t Boba poking around looking for him, Ben adjusts the bags in his hands, carefully pulls his hood over his face, and calmly slips off the main market road and into the nearest alley. A simple mind trick has the youth gang gathered in the shadows splitting up and heading home to rethink their life choices, and Ben slides into their place, wedging himself between two dumpsters. It’s hard now, to slip into meditation and expand his senses, knowing that he’ll be met with the yawning Darkness in the Force and the lack of the Light of his fellow Jedi in the galaxy, it’s easy to find himself slipping endlessly without a tether until he doesn’t know who he is anymore, but little Luke Skywalker is a calming beacon of light, a sun among dead stars, and his presence in the Force chases off the clinging Darkness and makes it easier for Ben, as broken as he is, to focus.

Mandalorians are surprisingly easy to find in the Force, if one knows what they’re looking for - an indistinct mass shielded by the beskar they wore - but they’re also as rare to stumble upon as a trained Force Sensitive, hunted and scattered almost as much as the Jedi are. They’re a threat, and the Empire made an example of them. A warning to any others of what would happen should they try to fight back against the Emperor. Anyone who could be outwardly identified as Mando’ade had at least a little beskar on their person, even Satine had weaved it into her headdresses, and it was a connection to their lost culture and home that they guarded jealously, even as the Empire collected any and all of the rare metal it came across, often through violent means.

Even the smallest amount of beskar worked to make a Force signature unidentifiable, and for people like Ben, who had worn and owned beskar, the imprints the alloy left on the galaxy around it is easy to locate.

He finds the headache-inducing Force signature in his hut. A fuzzy, staticy spot in the Force with only the faintest of traces of nostalgic emotions sparking among their mind, and the familiar signature of Ben’s lightsaber reaches out to them, an excited greeting like an old love had finally come home.

 

 

Alpha-17 comes out of the rise of the Empire with his sense of self intact through sheer dumb luck - apparently all those explosions Alpha had powered through came with some sort of perks, beyond the general sense of awe and fear his inability to die inspired among the brats. He stubbornly avoids the same fate his fellow Alpha-classers meet, staying too useful as a trainer for it to be worth putting down or in stasis as he bides his time and plans his escape.

There’s nothing he can do for the younger troopers, and he’s forced to come to terms with the fact quickly when he sees the blankness in the eyes of the men he had trained. It’s a punch to the guts, one he can’t show, when he passes Havoc and Blitz in the hall and they show no familiar recognition to him or each other - they’re silent, blank, and unrecognizable from the cadets Alpha had thrown around during training. It feels like he’s drowning when Cody shows up and there’s no personality, no burning fire, in his blank eyes as the tactical genius and determined field commander is assigned to a glorified desk job to give a natborn whelp the rank he had been so proud of. There’s none of Wolffe’s feral determination to protect, or Bly’s gentle kindness - and both of them disappear quickly, taken away quietly in the night for decommissioning when they break. So many empty faces and cold eyes, and sometimes it feels like Alpha is choking.

He had raised all of them, and it hurts to see them as walking corpses - it hurts more that he can’t help them.

So Alpha bides his time until he sees an opportunity and takes it. Fox is killed on a mission with Lord Vader, and a new Purge Trooper is needed to replace him - who better than the trooper that had trained him? Alpha adds the clever little cadet and broken man he had known to his remembrances as he puts on his new armour - black-painted beskar’gam, because Vader’s personal death squad were the best and thus needed the best - and marches to face his fate.

They’re hunting surviving Mandalorian commandos when Alpha sees his chance to shed the helmet of a clone and strip out of the ugly red pauldron of a purge trooper, to take up a buy’ce and a new identity. To the Empire, Alpha-17 dies on Concordia, one victim of many to fall in the mines, body buried by tonnes of rocks that would be his tomb. But Alpha lives, he survives, and he finally does the one thing he had always dreamed of doing, but never did because he had vod’e to protect and refused to be like Spar and leave them all behind.

He deserts.

His brothers and sisters are as good as dead now - in fact, death would probably be preferable to what had become of them - and Alpha lets himself disappear. He becomes nameless, faceless, but this time it’s a choice - he becomes ‘ Mando ’, a ruthless bounty hunter with a hatred for Imperials. Any stormtrooper he comes across is put down with a quick, efficient, shot through the head because Alpha doesn’t know anymore which are vod’e and which are the poorly trained natborns that replace them. The Empire only makes half-hearted attempts to kill him, at best, because he’s good at what he does and the Guild doesn’t want to lose him.

He uses his new contacts to listen for any possible Jedi sightings, because he knows that his jetii is still alive. The massive bounty on the General’s head isn’t just for show, afterall, and Alpha knows that the smug sheb is too dramatic to just roll over and die when he could continue living just to piss people off.

Alpha’s already lost everything else - his brothers and sisters, his rank, his purpose - he doesn’t want to lose the only man he’d ever loved too.

Their relationship hadn’t been the steadiest - Kenobi had been his superior, a Jedi that he served because he had to, but then Rattatak and Ventress had happened, and a professional respect had turned into something more through their captivity and recovery. After that, Alpha had been promoted and reassigned to Kamino as a trainer, and he had been answering to a different Jedi General instead. They had taken any moment together that they could, because their duties had led them on different paths, and it hadn’t been easy, because Alpha was a cold bastard at the best of times and Obi-Wan’s inability to properly express himself had come between them, but they had always tried to do better by each other - but it was all gone now.

And maybe Alpha wants more. He wants the stability and support Obi-Wan had always offered him after the loss of everything he had ever known, and he wants to offer it in turn - to have a purpose again. But Alpha is a realist, he knows that it’s not likely that he’ll actually find his lover out there in the galaxy if he doesn’t want to be found as much as Alpha wants to find him, so he keeps his goals a little more realistic. He passes his information anonymously onto the fledgling Rebellion, throwing them what he knows on the postings of vod’e , hoping that what little he can do will help, so he keeps his ear to the ground and continues to give the information onto the Rebellion.

It’s the news about Boba working for Jabba the Hutt that has Alpha flying to Tatooine, intent on hunting his brother down. He hadn’t seen Boba since before Geonosis, before everything had gone to shit and Aurra Sing had gotten her claws into the boy. He’d be nineteen now, Alpha knows - an adult, but still young in the way the other clones aren’t, despite being the first, and alone. He knows his little-big brother can take care of himself, that he’s talented and deadly, but he’s also one of the few free clones that exist, and Alpha wants to at least check in on him.

It’s on Tatooine that Alpha first hears the name Ben Kenobi, and hears the legends of the crazy hermit living in the Dune Sea. The native Sand People of the planet call him a mournful god and they leave offerings so that misfortune isn’t brought upon them. The settlers call him either a crazy old man or the wizard of the wastes. There’s only one thing everyone agrees on - don’t anger the man who lives in the desert. More than one story about thugs trying to shake him down for money includes coming back not fully the same, and Alpha recognizes the description of a mind trick when he hears it.

He’s one of the few people who knows Obi-Wan’s connection to the name Ben, the story behind it, and it’s in meeting young Luke Skywalker and his aunt that Alpha knows that he found him.

 

The Force holds no warnings as Ben approaches his hut, just the opposite in fact, as it tugs on his robes like an excited child and urges him forwards, but Ben still palms his blaster as he pushes the door open and steps inside. There’s a man sitting at his table, helmetless, and he looks up when Ben closes the door behind him - in his hands, Ben’s lightsaber sings in greeting for the first time in a long time, since it had gone quiet all those years ago, love and the feeling of home chasing away the silence of blood and tragedy.

His bag slips from numb fingers.

Bottomless brown eyes so dark they’re closer to black meet his gaze. They’re fathomless and deep, drawing him in and drowning him in their depths, holding so many emotions that he feels like he’s choking even as he breathes. The handsome bronze face is older than Ben remembers, with more lines and scars than before, and tight black curls are splashed with gray - he’s a decade older than he was, but his face is still familiar and comforting - frightening too, because it brings back the memories of bodies young and old killed in their home by those they trusted, and makes the thousands of broken bonds in his soul ache with the weight of emptiness.

He stares, hand falling away from the blaster at his hip, and the man stands. The armour is different, but Ben recognizes the pattern painted on the black beskar, now accompanied by splashes of gold stating his desire for vengeance for everyone to see, pauldron missing and a shorter kama swinging around his knees.

“General.” The man states, voice gruff and Concord Dawn accent strong, though it’s so much more hesitant than Ben ever has a memory of hearing. His lover was never hesitant, not even when they had first started their secret little rendezvous; he was always assured, confident, and strong - even when chained and brutalized. “ Cyare. ”

Ben shudders, blinking but unable to tear his gaze away from those dark eyes, and his voice breaks when he speaks. “I haven’t heard that in a long time.”

He tries for humorous, and it falls short, but even then the other man smiles, a sad, quiet little thing that spoke of grief and heartbreak and exhaustion.

He’s real.

He’s here .

“Haven’t said it either.” Alpha-17 flips the lightsaber in his hands, stepping closer and closer still until they’re chest-to-chest and in each other’s space for the first time in years, and Ben shivers. “Thought you were always telling those brats of yours that their weapons were their lives.” The man says gruffly, and with a click the weight of his lightsaber is added to his belt, but even then Ben can’t look away from Alpha’s gaze. The other man doesn’t seem intent on looking away either, and large, warm hands linger on his hips, making heat travel from the touch and circulate through his body.

“Hello Alpha.” Ben whispers, reaching between them to grip the edges of his armour, to press his fingers around them to seek out the warmth of another living being for the first time in a long time. He can’t make his voice louder than a shaky sigh, throat tight and heart pounding in his chest.

Alpha continues to stare like a dying man who had seen the other side and wanted more, leaning into his touch until there was no space left between them. “ Su cuy’gar .” He says, awed, like he couldn’t fully believe it, and his fingers spasm, drawing the former Jedi even closer to him, as if he would vanish if he let go. The armour presses uncomfortably against him, but Ben can’t bring himself to care as Alpha presses their foreheads together, noses touching, and every breath mingling. “You’re here.” Alpha says, “I found you.”

“Yes.” Against all the odds, he had.

“ Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum .” His voice is hushed, reverent, and Ben chuckles wetly for lack of what else to do.

“I haven’t heard that for some time either.” He says, instead of what his head is telling him, that he’s undeserving of such sentiment, as he leans into the pressure on his brow and closes his eyes. He can’t cry, not anymore - he has no tears left to shed.

“You’ll hear it for as long as I breathe.” Alpha vows, and Ben shudders again at the truth of that statement that rings in the Force like a bell. “As long as you’ll have me.”

“You’ve become awfully sentimental, my dear.” Ben chokes, and Alpha huffs, breath fanning against his lips.

“After everything - I think we’ve both earned a little sentimentality.” The man murmurs, and Ben laughs wetly. “ Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum , cyare .”

Ben doesn’t want to let go.

“Stay?” Ben asks, clinging to his lover just as tightly as Alpha clings to him.

“Of course.” Alpha promises, hands sliding away from his hips to cradle his face instead, thumbs brushing oh so gently under his eyes - hands that could destroy droids without issue and kill without hesitation, but had only ever been soft when they touch him. “I said darasuum , didn’t I, ner cyare ?” Ben’s eyes flutter open, meeting Alpha’s deep gaze once more, seeing the love and truth in those dark pools, and -

Oh .

Wet, burning tears drip from his aching eyes, sliding down sunburnt cheeks and over Alpha’s strong fingers, a dark contrast against his pale skin, and his lover tilts his head, gently capturing his chapped lips in a silent promise.

Darasuum .

[literatehiss]

Trust Fall - Blood & Family

cw: Physical Violence & Injury The Lukas’s are upset with Peter over the failure of his ritual, Simon and Elias are displeased with their reaction. Read on AO3 here That fucking Archivist.

Peter coughed, wincing at the pain in his ribs and the blood that bubbled up between his lips.

Damn Eye bastards could never leave well enough alone could they? His ritual could have worked, it should have worked. All it took was one bitter old woman to ruin it.

It had cost so much money.

It was by no means enough to really disrupt the families finances, but it was enough for them to notice, to be irritated. If he bothered to do the maths it would have only really been a few years worth of his allowance. It didn’t matter. He had wasted all that money and they were angry.

He was always a disappointment, they had hoped he would be a good choice for the head of the family when he was young, the powers of their patron had come so naturally to him, but he just wasn’t quite good enough. A few scattered friendships, his relationship with James or Elias as he was now calling himself, a too cheery disposition. It all weighed on him as proof that he was useless, just like his uncle had said, over and over again as the men he had hired took their time making sure he was ‘properly regretful’ for what had happened.

Peter was lucky really. They didn’t really care. He had received his punishment and everyone would be back to ignoring him as per usual by the end of the week. If he lasted that long. Well, ok, now he knew he was being morbid, he had survived worse after all.

He was aware that he was leaving smears of blood on the walls of the apartment hallway as he stumbled and dragged himself to the flat he sometimes shared with Elias. His on-again off-again husband wouldn’t be at home, it was the middle of the work day after all and Peter had dragged the fog of the Lonely around himself like a thick blanket, enough to keep himself from Elias’s ever present gaze. His fingers were numb with cold and blood loss as he fumbled with his keys.

The apartment was cold, sterile. It wasn’t due to any real aesthetic reason, they were both simply not at home enough to both making any personal touches. A spark of hot pain lanced up his side and he fell into the wall, his teeth gritting as he dragged himself pitifully to the large black sofa that sat in the living room.

He had never been so glad Elias had convinced him not to go with the white sofa, they would never have got the blood stains out of it.

He slumped onto the leather with a huff as the impact winded him. Peter closed his eyes to block out the sunlight streaming in through the huge windows that took up the entirety of the eastern wall of the apartment. Exhaustion hit him quickly after that and he drifted off to sleep, arm still clutched around his chest protectively, unaware of the being stood at the window.

Half-way across London, Elias Bouchard received a phone call.

“Why is Peter lying half dead in your apartment Elias?” He couldn’t be sure whether it was the words or the fact that Simon Fairchild sounded so serious, that made his blood chill.

“What?!”

“Oh so it wasn’t you. Thank goodness, I was thinking of having to do something quite unfortunate.” The phone clicked off abruptly.

“Wait. What?”

Simon really wished he had bothered to get a key for Peter’s new flat, he had always had one for all his other places, just made it easier, and these weren’t the sort of windows you could just keep cracked open ‘just in case’. But Elias ‘liked his privacy’ which was the funniest joke the other man had ever made as far as Simon was concerned. Multiple lifetimes with varying interests had lead him to have at least a passing knowledge of how to break open locks but it still took him far to long to get the door open. He could barely see Peter through the fog the other man had summoned around himself, but he could see the blood pooling on the couch and dripping slowly onto the floor. The bright red a shock against the monochrome of the apartment.

Simon waded through the mist, placing a nervous pair of fingers to Peter's pulse. Alive, if weak. His presence probably wasn't helping matters, the Forsaken could heal Peter far faster than any vague attempt on his part to give him medical attention could ever provide. He couldn't just leave him though. Couldn’t just abandon the young man he had seen grow from a scared little child to a depressed and irritable teenager to a proud and confident adult that had enough power to be able to attempt his own ritual, even if it had been disrupted and failed so spectacularly.

Simon had always been so very proud of him.

He levered Peter up to slip his coat off him, throwing it in the sink with water and salt, might as well try and stop the blood staining the thing, god knows how fond Peter was of that coat. Blood had clotted and dried into his shirt and jumper and Simon ended up rummaging through the practically unused kitchen for scissors to cut them off him. Peter winced and shifted as he tried to gently pull the fabric away from his wounds.

Wiping away the blood proved to be a trial all of its own, immediately flowing again each time he managed to wash it away. A palm to his lad’s forehead proved him to be burning up, by which he was starting to reach the same warmth as someone who hadn’t accepted the Forsaken into their heart, which was a startling difference in temperature. He kept the floor to ceiling windows open and made a stiff breeze flow into the room. Far too cold for the average person but it should keep Peter at just the right level of corpse-like cold. He felt the skin under his fingers suddenly shift as Peter’s ribs snapped back into place. A disconcerting sensation but one that Simon was thankful for, knowing it meant that Peter was healing. The fog was starting to fade, the most life-threatening of the injuries having fixed themselves.

He knew the Lukas’s would be upset with Peter but this was a bit much surely? He had never wished so fervently that he had tried to persuade Peter over to the beautiful Vast when he was younger, before it became too late. He couldn’t imagine hurting any of his own protege’s, not like this, not even if they had truly disappointed him. He was just about to consider dragging Peter into a cold bath when the front door of the apartment violently slammed open, crashing against the wall with an almighty bang. A panting and sweating Elias stood in the doorway, suit jacket hung over his arm, eyes wide in alarm.

“What happened?”

Elias was panicking. He really wasn’t expecting to get a call from Simon on a Wednesday afternoon accusing him of attacking Peter. Apart from the mild hilarity of the thought of him being able to take down a man double his size and weight, he was also alarmed that he hadn’t noticed anything. He rushed out of his office, flying down the steps towards the lobby of the Institute. A body slammed into his own, the form of his Archivist standing in front of him, faux concern and sharp interest glittering in her eyes as she stopped him.

“Elias you seem to be in quite the hurry. Is there a problem?”

He pushed forward and grabbed her shirt

“Gertrude if I find this was you I will kill you myself. I didn’t do anything about you destroying his ritual but this is just unnecessary.” She frowned and he immediately was shown that she wasn’t the cause of Peter’s injuries. He pushed her to the side, her own surprise the only reason he was capable of doing such a thing. Elias stormed past, ignoring the calls of Gertrude and Rosie behind him.

London was a miserable place to travel through if you were trying to get anywhere in a hurry. He had a car but the thought of using it to get home in any sort of reasonable time at this hour was laughable in this traffic so he pushed his way to the nearest tube station, something he normally only did when his car broke down or he was particularly hungry. There was nothing like being packed in with so many people for sucking up all their trauma.

Right now all the people were getting on his very last nerve.

His jacket got caught on the door of the tube as he ran out and rather than stop he just pulled and pulled until the fabric ripped. Slinging it over his arm, he ran towards his rarely used flat, finding the door already unlocked he slammed it open.

Fog curled around his feet, emanating from the figuring lying on the couch and staining it with his blood. Simon was sat next to him, a handful of fabric pressed against a wound on Peter’s side.

“How is he? What happened?”

“I have no idea to be honest Elias. I thought it might be Gertrude but we both know he wouldn’t be alive if it was her”

“No it wasn’t her. I think it was the Lukas’s, probably Nathaniel organised it.”

“Oh dear. Yes I thought as much.” Simon said with an exasperated sigh that said a lot for how long he had been allied with the Lukas’s.

Elias reached for the Eye to tell him how Peter was doing but it just pushed back against him, angry of him using his powers to help someone rather than just watching, observing.

It took two days for Peter to wake up. the Forsaken protesting against their intrusive presence. Elias took time off work for the first time in a decade to watch over him. When his cold blue eyes eventually pried themselves open, it was to see Simon sat on the floor next to him, playing with something on his phone while he could hear Elias complaining down a phone to some poor employee.

“S’mon?” he mumbled, the fog of the Lonely already trying to whisk him away, misty tendrils wrapping around him.

“I’m here lad, don’t worry.”

“Hurts”

“I bet. Nathaniel? Conrad?” A shrug.

“Th’ watched. All of ‘em. Hired people.”

“Didn’t even have the balls to it themselves I see.” This was spat angrily from over his shoulder by Elias. A familiar ringed hand came over the back of the sofa and stroked fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes and rested in the company of his two favourite people. Not that he would ever tell Elias that, the man’s ego didn’t need the boost, he would get simply unbearable. He listened to their hushed talking before slipping back to sleep.

The Lukas’s never knew that anyone found out what they did to Peter. They never linked the sinking of so many of their ships or the dropping of so many of their investments to that day. When a cousin that was brought before Court suddenly found a rush of evidence against him, well he should have been more careful. It wasn’t as if their longest allies would turn on them like that. They weren’t the type to keep in contact so if the hired men they had used went missing? Well that was none of their business. What happened to those men? Well Elias and Simon would never say, but the only one who was ever found was curled up crying at the top of Everest with his eyes clawed out. Peter stood at the stern of the Tundra, smiling as he watched one of the Fairchild’s ships pass his own as he pressed a kiss to his newest wedding ring.

[scapegrace74-blog]

Saorsa, Chapter 22

A/N  Here is the next installment of Saorsa.  At long last, after dragging things out for 21 chapters (21!), I’m finally sending Jamie and Claire on their honeymoon, with all the bow-chicka-wow-wow that implies.  Although it’s pretty tame, by my smut standards.  Why am I still writing?  Go read it!

Rather than link to all previously posted chapters, I’ll just direct those of you wanting to catch up on your Saorsa-reading to my AO3 page, where the fic is posted in its entirety.

Thank you to each of you liking and reblogging!  It does my little fanfic writer’s heart good.

The honeymoon was Claire’s idea.  After two weeks of painfully polite coexistence in which she felt they were both acting the parts of a newly married couple for an audience of two, she suggested the getaway.   Jamie had never heard of such a thing.  She insisted time spent cloistered away from their everyday lives was now the norm for newlyweds, and he begrudgingly agreed.   They left as soon as Murtagh returned from his visit home to the Isle of Lewis.

Jamie was an uneasy automobile passenger, and he refused to learn how to drive, so it was Claire who navigated onto the ferry that crossed the narrow channel to the Isle of Skye.

“Are you alright?” she asked as Jamie clutched the door handle in a white knuckled grip.

“Aye.  Jus’ no’ fond of ships, is all,” he answered, eyes pointed out the windshield as though he could bring the looming island closer with the strength of his stare.

“Just a few more minutes, an duine agam,” she assured, taking his clammy right hand in her left.

“Who’s been teachin’ ye Gàidhlig, Sassenach?” he asked, distracted from imminent sea sickness.

“Murtagh.  Just a few words, here and there.  I thought it would be useful, so I could speak it to the baby once he or she is born.”   As it usually did, her free hand came to rest on the softly rounded swell of her belly when she spoke of her child.

There was silence from the passenger’s seat.  She glanced over only to be met by a look of stunning intensity.  She felt naked before so much bridled emotion, but she could not break away.  The only movement between the two of them was the clenching of a muscle high in his jaw.

“Claire, I…”

Whatever Jamie was about to say, it was interrupted by the shunt of the ferry as it met the shore.  They both looked away, and the moment was gone.

The drive to their inn at Dunvegan was shrouded in low-lying clouds.  She could just make out the lower slopes of mountains robed in snow.  Jamie had once again fallen silent but seemed content to gaze at the passing scenery.  She parked carefully on the side of the main road in the tiny village, just two lines of tidy single-story stone cottages, a café and their inn.  

Jamie rose awkwardly from the car and stretched before walking to the boot to gather their shared suitcase.  As he did, a pair of women exited a nearby cottage, talking in loud, animated voices.   He froze, then spun around.

The women turned right at the pavement and continued walking and chatting.  Seeing the tall, handsome red-haired man standing near their path, they both uttered a polite “feasgar math” before continuing on their way.

“Feasgar math,” he responded belatedly, bowing slightly at the waist out of habit.  He turned around, slack-jawed, as the scene came into sharper focus.  The signage above the café and inn was in Gaelic.   There were horseshoes hung above every door and tartan decorations festooned a nearby fence.   Sheep bleated from the fields beyond.  Apart from their car and another parked across the street, nothing in view would have been out of place two centuries before.

She stepped onto the pavement beside Jamie and touched his chest.

“You see?  The Highland culture did not die.  It fled, far to the north and over the sea, but it survived.  Here,” she gestured around them.  “And here,” pressing her hand against his breastbone.  “It takes something tremendously resilient to face that sort of hardship and endure.”

Jamie’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.  She could see that he was struggling against tears.

“Come on.  Let’s check into our room, and then you can show me around.”

The matronly innkeeper greeted them in a waterfall of Gaelic, to which Jamie answered in kind.  He seemed taller suddenly, although perhaps it was the low, timber-beamed ceiling that made him appear so.   She heard him say “Claire Fraser, mo bhean”, while looking at her with pride.

If the innkeeper thought it strange that the tall Scot and his obviously pregnant English wife were making heart-eyes at each other across her lobby, she did not let on.  She led them up a steep stairwell into a hallway so low that Jamie had to duck to avoid banging his head.  At one end was a gabled room with a merry fire already lit.  It wasn’t large, having room for just an immense four-posted bed, two wooden chairs facing the fire, and a window with views across the slate roofs to the slate-grey sea beyond.

Thanking their hostess and promising to come downstairs later for tea, they stood facing each other from across the room with nervous expressions.  It was strange.  They had shared the laird’s bed chamber in the days since their wedding, but the idea of being alone in this strange room felt more intimate.  There were no routines or distractions to mask the fact that they were now man and wife.

Jamie spent an inordinate amount of time placing their luggage on a low stool, and then stared out the window like he was searching for answers.

“Did you want to take a walk down to the castle?” she suggested timidly.

“Aye,” he agreed eagerly.  “Tis a braw day for a ramble.”

She glanced at the fine drizzle that had begun to fall, shrugged and grabbed her Macintosh.

**

Jamie was like a giddy schoolboy upon entering the ancestral seat of Clan MacLeod.  The castle itself was not open to visitors, but they had the grounds to themselves.  He capered about the battlements, pointing out one feature after another.

“What eejit built those turrets?  They’re no’ big enough for a wee lad to enter, ne’er mind a marksman,” he commented, looking up at the main stronghold’s façade.

“I imagine they were added recently, merely for decoration,” she replied, smiling at his outraged tone.  “I understand the current Chief Macleod made significant improvements, prior to the war.”  Jamie replied with a truly Scottish noise that expressed dubiousness and concession in a single, guttural sound.   He spun around, taking in the whole view.

“I always heard it was the bonniest castle in all of Scotland, but I dinna believe it.  Now that I see it wi’ my own eyes, weel…”  Jamie scuffed his boot on the gritty rock, looking guilty for a moment.  “I still prefer Lallybroch, ye ken, but this, this is…” he trailed off, at a loss for words.

Jamie face grew pensive, a deep furrow bisecting his brow.

“What is it?” she asked, stepping closer.

“It’s only… Tormod MacLeod fought on the side of the English at Culloden.  I didna ken it at the time, but I read in yer husband’s books that the MacLeod attacked the lands of Jacobite supporters after the Rising, causing much suffering.  And yet here their laird abides, twa hundred years on, while the Frasers are nought but names on graves…”

She stepped towards him, wrapping an arm carefully around his broad back.

“Listen to me, James Fraser.  You fought bravely for a cause that you believed in, even though you knew the odds were overwhelmingly against you.  There is honour in that, and honour is stronger than any castle wall.   Also, you are my husband now.  I’d thank you to remember that.”

He wrapped an arm around her slim shoulders in return.   “Duly noted, Sassenach.”

They stood there in the drizzle, leaning slightly into each other until she interrupted the moment with a vital clarification.

“Oh, and Jamie?  I never said that a laird lived in this castle.”

He leaned back to gaze at her face, eyebrows lowered in confusion.

“Flora MacLeod of MacLeod, twenty-eighth clan chief of the MacLeod since her father passed away in 1935.”  She grinned smugly, watching the perplexity transform to amazement on his expressive face.  He let forth a burst of laughter.

“Dhia, I hope she looks fairer in a kilt than Tormod.  That man was a hairy beast.”

**

After a light meal of crusty bread, sheep’s milk cheese, dried sausage, and tea for Claire (“why do ye English insist on polluting water wi’ wee leaves, Sassenach?”), they retired to their room to warm themselves in front of the fire.

Jamie was quiet again, pulling at his lip as he stared into the flames.  She sensed he was working something through in his mind and gave him room for silence.  She allowed the warmth and crackling pop of green logs lull her into a state of suspended awareness.

“I havena been entirely truthful wi’ ye, Sassenach, and tis vexing me greatly,” Jamie began without taking his eyes from the fire.   Her stomach dropped, trying to imagine what fact was so awful that even his absolute candor bowed to the demand that it remain unspoken.

“When I asked ye tae be my wife, I told ye it was on account of yer bairn, how t’would be… practical for me tae be its Da, and tae help ye in the running of Lallybroch.”

“Yes.  I remember,” she said hesitantly.  “It’s a little late for second thoughts, Jamie.  The Catholic Church isn’t any fonder of divorce than they were two hundred years ago...”

“Ifrinn.  That’s no’ what I mean at all.  Christ, Claire, would ye let a man speak for once!”  He rose and began pacing the small room in tight circles.  His speech hurried to catch the cadence of his steps.

“Tis no’ that the reasons I gave were untrue.  Tis just that t’werenna the only ones.  No’ even the main one.  I asked ye tae be marrit, weel, because I wanted tae be yer husband.”

Running out of words, he stopped near the bed and looked at her.  At his apparent inability to continue, she ventured, “You are my husband, Jamie.  And I’m very grateful for…”

“No’ a husband in body.  Only a husband in name.”

“Oh,” she breathed.  “Oh!”  She felt her cheeks reddening, even warmer than the glow of the fire.  “Are you saying that you would want to be a husband… in body… to me?”

“Aye.  Och, look at ye, Sassenach.  What man wouldna want tae lie wi’ ye?  I’m only mortal.”

She tried to imagine how she looked to Jamie.  She was wearing a practical cotton dress, cut a little loose to accommodate her expanding waist.  Her cheeks were no doubt flushed from the walk in the rain, the fire, and Jamie’s sudden revelation.  She was certain her head was surrounded by a veritable Gorgon of curls.

His confession expelled, Jamie was once again able to meet her eyes, and what she saw there ignited a spark inside her that she was certain had been extinguished forever.  She rose gracefully and made her way to where he was standing.  In her stocking feet, she had to look up into his face. When she did, she felt electricity prickle her skin.

“Well, it is our honeymoon.  I suppose it would be the… traditional thing to do.”

Her hand came to rest on Jamie’s damp linen shirt.  Underneath, she could feel his heat and the tremor of muscles held tightly in check.  A broad palm cupped her hip.

“I dinna mean this verra minute, Claire.  Ye can take yer time tae consider.   And wi’ the bairn…”

She ignored him, plucking gently at the fabric.  “Your shirt is damp.  You’ll catch a chill.  You should hang it… by the fire…” she finished as he disposed of the offending clothing in a single move.  Her hand now was free to rest against bare, gold-hued flesh.  

She paced a tight circle around his body, stopping behind him where the firelight and shadows emphasized the lacerated surface of his back.  Jamie’s shoulders stopped rising and falling as he held his breath, obviously nervous for his scars to be so closely observed.  Before he could comment or grow restive, she pressed a careful kiss along his spine, teasing her fingertips over the sensitive skin of his flank as she completed her turn.

“Yer dress is wet as weel, Sassenach.  I wouldna wish ye tae fall ill.”  His voice, deep normally, was positively cavernous, pulling her pulse deep into her belly.

She spun away and lifted her hair from her neck, presenting the zipper.  After a moment’s pause, Jamie’s fingers fluttered across her nape.

“What do I do?” he asked in an entirely different tone.  Gone was his brash confidence, and she reminded herself anew that he was only twenty-two, five years her junior, and came from a world unaffected by modern notions of love or sex.  Not wanting to embarrass him by calling attention to his inexperience, real or perceived, she determined that if Jamie was in want of guidance, he’d ask.   As he had just done.

“You pull downwards on the little tab.  It’s called a zipper,” she whispered back.  A metallic tearing noise, and her dress loosened.  Moist breath blew against the tiny hairs of her back, causing them to rise in greeting.

“Verra practical wee fastening, Sassenach,” he muttered as the garment cleaved in two, held up by the precarious slopes of her shoulders.

She turned back to him, and the sparks in his eyes rivalled those in the hearth, hot as ingots with a pulsing blue glow.  A ratchety breath stuttered from her lungs.

“Ye dinna have tae do this, mo bhean ghaoil.  Imma verra patient man.  I’ve already bided twa hundred years just tae meet ye.”

Her lips twitched at his beautiful, though not entirely accurate gallantry.

“Mo bhean ghaoil?” she asked as she let first one, then the other shoulder dip.  Her dress fell easily to the floor.

“My beautiful wife.” The words withered away to air as the vision of her body unfolded before him.  Undulating ribbons of amber and shadow caressed the ivory of her skin, broken by the pale satin of her long line bra and maternity girdle.

“That’s where ye’ve been hiding yer corset,” Jamie muttered, half to himself.  They were both drawing hungry lungfuls of breath, the space between them fraught with an oncoming storm.

Very slowly, as though certain she would startle and flee, he raised an outstretched hand until it met her breastbone with the pressure of a feather.  She could feel the tremors that shook within him as he dragged each fingertip downward until they gathered in the warm valley between her breasts.  The air in the room suddenly felt thick, too heavy to breathe.

Just as it seemed Jamie’s hand was about to venture below the edge of her undergarments, a memory assaulted her addled senses.  Jamie, unknown to her as anything other than a mysterious and gravely injured patient, lay sleeping on his side in her room at Lallybroch.  He was still fevered, and she had lowered the sheet to his waist, allowing night air to caress his wounded back.  The firelight caught the powerful lines of his shoulder and pectorals, lighting each russet hair that bisected his torso so that he glowed like a lazy sunrise.  She had been flooded by a sudden desire to know where that trail of hair led.

“It’s my turn,” she asserted, reaching for the belt holding up his trousers.

The buckle clattered to the floor without heed as Jamie pulled her roughly upwards into his descending mouth.  It was a kiss without introduction or politeness, a tactical assault on her senses launched through the breach of his open mouth.  It bore no relation to the few chaste kisses they had thus far shared as man and wife.  She had evidently pushed him past the breaking point of his ingrained courteous behaviour.

They parted, stunned speechless, wet mouths agape.  He angrily pushed his trousers past his hips and the two collapsed onto the high mattress in an inelegant flop, limbs battling and grasping anywhere for purchase.   Her legs fell open instinctively to cradle the long, muscular arc of his body.   A cool button nudged her inner thigh.  Calloused hands pushed desperately on the unyielding structure of her girdle.  A coarse abrasion between her legs.  Heat.  And then an urgent plunge, both familiar and foreign.

His forehead was pushed into the pillow above her shoulder.  Untutored, laboured grunts echoed in her ears.

“Jamie,” she gasped.  “Jamie, you’re crushing me.”

He rose immediately onto his elbows, relieving the grinding pressure on her chest, but seemed unable to halt the tidal surge of his body into hers.   In a moment, it was moot.  He froze, letting loose a shuddering moan that scaled his spine one vertebra at a time.   Collapsing sideways onto his back, his face was a portrait of mute astonishment.

She lay beside him, staring at the beamed ceiling, and tried to gather her thoughts.  It wasn’t as though she hadn’t invited this very thing.  And while the… encounter had been ephemerally brief, she could not deny that she’d enjoyed it.  Enjoyed being the recipient of so much passion, no matter how short-lived.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jamie’s ring finger bouncing, tapping a morse code of disquiet against his chest.  Awkwardness was a palpable third presence in the bed between them.  She wanted to say something to ease his nerves, but words floated away as she tried to wrangle them into coherent sentences.

“Claire, I… please tell me I didna hurt ye.  Ye or the bairn.”

His quiet anguish snapped the cord that had been holding her tongue still in her mouth.

“No.  Jamie, of course not.  I would have said something, if you had.”

“I didna ken it would be sae… fierce,” he confessed.

That certainly answered her earlier question about his prior experience.  She couldn’t help feeling a flutter of… something… deep in her belly at the thought.

“It can be.  But my body is designed to protect the baby.  It will probably become more awkward, as I grow larger.   I’ll tell you, if anything doesn’t feel…nice.”

Jamie rose on an elbow, peering down at her.  His face was now alight with novice curiosity.

“Ye liked it then?  Men gossip about these things, ye ken, and I had heard that most women dinna like it.”

It was too late, and her nerves were too taxed to launch into a conversation about female sexual pleasure and a man’s role in assuring it.  She hazarded it was a better lesson to learn by example, in any event.  But she didn’t want him to go to sleep disappointed in himself.

Instead she told him the truth.

“I did like it, Jamie.  Very much.  I’m tired now, but perhaps in the morning…?”

He grinned like a Cheshire cat.  Shucking his trousers carelessly, he splayed naked across the bed with his hands tucked behind his head, looking for all the world like a piece of toppled Grecian statuary.  It suddenly hurt to breath.  The simmering warmth low in her belly threatened to burst into flame, but she was truly exhausted.   What she needed most was sleep.

Turning modestly aside, she unhooked her bra and unzipped her girdle before quickly donning a white nightdress.  She could feel Jamie’s eyes run over the bared skin of her back.  

“Cuir stad air do cheann, Sassenach,” he said softly as she once again settled beside him.

He lay behind her, fingers trailing through her hair and down her arms like spider webs.   She fell asleep to his quiet Gaelic mutterings, a lilting lullaby.

**

an duine agam - my husband

feasgar math - good afternoon

mo bhean - my wife

mo bhean ghaoil - my beautiful wife

Cuir stad air do cheann - Rest your head

[voidandradiance]

all you get is | 2.5k

tw for andor having a typically bad time.)

the choice to leap is not much of a choice at all. the cloying shadows and shining servants are at his heels, as they always are. all his life has been spent hiding and fleeing and hiding and fleeing. his footfalls pound in time with his racing heart, and he runs. he runs far and fast, and he flies from his pursuers.

flies. ha.

he's not doing any flying now.

even after being freed from the inertia, he has not had a moment to rest. his aunt had not been able to stay and care for him; his father had sent soldiers, and mianite had sent trackers, and the god's terrible ally had sent shadows. they had all followed him after they had split up, or so he hopes. he had fled to the thick forests, then the wild seas, and had been pursued every place. he had run to the corners of the world, and was still found.

he had hidden in his uncle's dimension, but found little respite in the burning fire and dead, cold inhabitants. his uncle had been able to hold off his pursuers, at least, closing the portals until he could emerge. but the follower of ianite is not meant to withstand the nether, especially not with an opposing bias. he had caught his breath, readied the healing potions he could, and set off running once more.

now, his boots send clouds of dust up from the endstone he races across. his grandmother's realm is kind to him; the endermen hide him amongst their hordes, and the magic hums in his hollow bones. his pursuers are slowed, but not stopped. his grandmother has no champion, and the balance of the world is shattered; she is dying. she cannot protect him. she can hardly protect herself.

andor is hungry, and hurting, and so very exhausted. his back screams and his lungs ache and his feet bleed. he has not eaten more than a few bites in days, nor slept more than a few moments in weeks. if there was no trace of ichor in his veins, he would be dead a dozen times over. there is so much that a mere mortal boy would not have survived. this has proved, if nothing else, that his divine heritage has given him more than his stolen wings.

mianite stands unopposed, as missing as the gods' champions all are, but andor refuses to die quietly. when his too-bright, inhuman blood is finally spilled, the entire realm will know.

he comes to the edge of the island, and skids to a halt. only moments later, there is a clatter of arms and machinery behind him. he turns, slowly.

from the line of men and machines steps the man who he least wants to see. the lieutenant, the man who stalks the edges of his nightmares. alister, the devout and unquestioning servant of mianite. al, the older boy who had let him sit on his shoulders and played with him and alva as children. "it's over," he says coldly, as if they had never known each other, had never laughingly fought with fallen sticks, as if he had never held andor up to reach the lanterns at the harvest fair when they were seven and twelve and young and whole and free.

andor takes a breath. "i know."

silence hangs between them, and then he steps forward. andor steps backwards on sharp, frightened instinct, and the cold, cruel lieutenant laughs. "look at you now, princeling. no place to run, no place to hide. no weapons. nobody to save you."

"i raise no sword," andor says, and the words taste like ash and blood on his lips where they had once been fire and hope. "i wear no armor."

that sword, that sword that had left its mark on his back twice and again, is drawn and raised and pointed at him. he can barely suppress his flinch. its wielder smirks. "your loss," he drawls. "don't make this any more of a chore. there's no way out, now. you've got nothing."

true.

andor feels his lips curl up into a bitter smile before he even fully realizes what he's about to do. they respond to it, which they should; he is backed into a corner, up against a drop into the void, and he should not be grinning as they close ranks around him. "i don't," he agrees quietly. "look at me. no plan, no help, no defenses worth a damn. you know what else i haven't got?"

the lieutenant narrows his eyes. he does still remember what a wild grin and challenging tone mean. good. andor hopes that this moment itches under the man's skin for the rest of his miserable life. "what would that be?" he asks, sneering.

"anything left to lose," andor says, and steps back with intent. there is no stone beneath him, suddenly, and the broken thing in his chest suddenly soars. they rush to the edge, but even as their faces shrink, he can see the shock in al's eyes. the shock, and the fury.

no, the choice to leap is not much of a choice at all.

the cold void embraces him, the dark emptiness rushing up around him, and it's almost like flying again. he almost feels a brush of attention from ianite.

and then he knows blinding light.

then he knows nothing. it's better than knowing pain.

he plummets into the sea, and the fall knocks the breath from his lungs, and the salt stings his wounds and scars and eyes. he kicks up anyway, well-practiced at forcing himself to move, the son of a port town and the grandson of a sailor and the grandson of the sea goddess. he drags his exhausted limbs into sweeping strokes, and breaks the surface of the water.

the air is sweet and clear and it burns his lungs, and his heart pounds in his chest, and his head swims with the sudden barrage of sound and color and wild magic and warm breezes and gentle currents. the shimmering, sparkling sunlight dances on the slight waves, and warms his face like it hasn't since he was a child.

in hindsight, perhaps that was less to do with him, and more to do with the gradual corruption of the god of the overworld.

wherever he is, it is not his home. the opposite side of the world, perhaps, or even another one entirely. he had leapt into the void, after all, without any hopes of where he would land. he hadn't thought of where he was running towards, only what he was running from. it's alright. this wild, strange place seems to be bright and warm and welcoming enough.

all he has to do is avoid drowning.

she holds out a hand to shake. her skin has the blue-tinted cast and strange chill of the sea's dead. "captain capsize," she says, grinning. "don't mind the rot, my goddess made sure that all the important things are still intact. i just sunburn badly."

that, at least, is easier than he expects. a ship comes, and the captain pulls him out of the water, and she orders her crew to find dry blankets and a decent meal, and gently asks his name. nothing left to lose. "andor," he says, and then defiance flares in him. "andor conway."

andor knows that he can hardly breathe, knows that his eyes are wide and his jaw is dropped. "your goddess?"

"aye," capsize agrees, smile falling. "i helped free her. problem?"

"no," he says hastily. "no, no, i've just- i've never known- there weren't exactly any others who followed her. ianite. or-"

she sets her hands over his, sorrow and understanding in her ink-dark eyes. "ianite," she agrees, cutting off his worries. "where are you from, lad? not ianarea."

he takes a breath, braces himself. the reputation of the kingdom has not exactly been a positive one. "dagrun," he says, and surely enough, she stills.

"dagrun," capsize says. "i know that name. dagrun, port town, built for ianite by her husband?"

andor nods.

"shit," she hisses, and then leans back to shout to the upper deck. "red! we're going to the mainland. now."

the skipper turns the wheel without complaint. "is this about the kid?"

capsize raises an eyebrow, and her brother shrugs and turns away. it is an easy acceptance, casual trust, and andor misses alva so sharply that for a moment he can't even breathe. they had loved to go sailing, laughing and childish and not dead and not broken. he's not quite sure why his chest aches so suddenly.

but the undead woman sighs, and tucks a pair of rather coarse but blessedly warm blankets around his shoulders, and makes sure that he eats the oversalted but filling meal that she has found, and andor could weep in relief. her sleeves are rolled up to her elbow, and purple flashes at her wrist, and it is the most wonderful thing he has ever seen.

andor falls asleep under the protective gaze of an undead pirate, in a strange realm where he does not know a single soul. the waves lap against the hull of the ship. it is the safest he has felt in weeks.

they spend two days at sea. capsize hesitantly explains what this realm has endured; dianite working with the shadows to imprison ianite, the young champions who had freed her, her own death and return. the fact that he is not the first to fall from the sky. the fact that four others had been ripped from their lives and brought to this realm by unknown forces. the fact that one of those four is a man named spark conway, husband to another ianite, king in another realm.

andor holds his composure by a thread.

they land on the shores of the apparent mainland, in the shade of a towering tree, rolling hills and steep mountains visible in the distance. capsize smiles, and leads him to a staircase almost hidden by vines. they're going to see ianite's champion, she says. with the way her magic seeps into the air around them, in the trees around and the stone underfoot, he can believe it.

capsize follows the path between violet flowers and weeping willows, and comes to a stop before a young man who can't be more than a few years older than andor is. "sparklez, mate," she says, as the man smooths the dirt over whatever he's just planted. he looks up, and grins, standing upright and brushing the dirt from his knees. "how have you been?"

"fine," the young champion replies, and rests his hands on the fence of his garden, leaning forward and grinning. "how about you? i didn't think you'd be back for weeks. something happen?"

capsize nods at him, and the champion glances over to andor, his eyes going dark with worry. no, he probably isn't going to make the best impression, not looking like this. "the lad's name is andor conway," she says, and the champion's gaze snaps back to her, understanding immediately. "do you know where the old man is?"

"not at the moment, no," the champion admits. "but i can ask. inside first, though. you both look like you ought to sit down."

"mate," capsize sighs, but she's smiling. the champion grins, and jumps his own fence, waving them into the sharply angled birch house and at a pair of sleek wooden chairs. capsize sits, and watches him expectantly. andor does the same.

the champion closes his eyes, and then suddenly the goddess's ambient magic flares into focus. andor inhales sharply, but keeps his mouth shut. ianite is strong, here and now. she is strong and alive.

"at home," the champion says after a few moments. "but it'll be dark before we get there. you're both welcome to stay here for the night."

and stay they do, as the champion finds them food and spare beds, as they make awkward conversation. they ask gently prying questions, and andor answers as vaguely as he can, enough to both tell the truth and avoid discussion of the inertia. he hides behind a mouthful of bread when he can't make himself speak, and they all know it, but nobody comments.

they talk into the night, but eventually andor falls asleep in a spare bed in a stranger's house in a strange world. it is still far safer than he had felt in his own realm, in his own home.

in the morning, he is confronted by one of the last things he expects to see. there is a teenage girl standing and arguing with the champion, her arms crossed and brow raised, bickering half-seriously over some petty thing involving horses. her dark hair is pulled back, and her wings gesture as her arms stay folded, and he can't help but ask, "alyssa?"

she startles, and then stares, then steps forward. "andor?"

his chest tightens. "hey," he says lamely, and then suddenly his old friend has flung her arms around him in a clinging hug. he can't help his flinch as her hands land on his shoulders and waist, but at least she doesn't touch the jagged wounds. he all but crumples around her, because they had been best friends, separated only by distance and two months of age. he had been eight when she and her father had vanished; she had been seven. and yet, here they are, clinging to each other.

"andor," alyssa breathes. "how did you get here? are you alright? what happened, how in all the gods' names did you find this place?"

he opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. he takes a deep breath instead of speaking, because he can't, and that makes her shift her hand.

and they both freeze.

"andor," murmurs his best childhood friend, her hand gently patting at his lower back, where there should be folded limbs and shining feathers under her touch. she pauses, and leans back, and looks him in the eye with a wide, frightened gaze, her grip tightening steadily on his arm. "andor, where are your wings?"

he closes his eyes, and shakes his head slowly. gone, that's where they are, incinerated at best and kept as trophies at worst. taken, torn from his back, stolen by a god and cut by someone he had once called a friend. "don't. don't ask."

her hand lands on his cheek. "andor," she whispers, stunned and horrified, and then surges forward to throw her arms around him once again, now tucking her own wings around him protectively, as if she could shelter him from what's already over and done. "i'm so sorry. i'm going to find a way home just to go kill whoever did this to you, gods, i can't believe- i'm sorry, andor."

she is still shorter than him, and yet she clings to him, wraps him up in her arms and wings and worry and care, pulls him into an unhesitant, unashamed embrace. there is no reluctance, no awkwardness, just old friendship and genuine worry.

and that shatters something in him that nothing else has.

he clings desperately, and can't stop the building tears.

[supremeuppityone]

Author’s note: This was written for Klaroline Bingo @klaroline-events. Prompt: Pain. As an Original, Klaus thought he understood death. But it took meeting one brave human to show him how little he actually knew.

Warning: The angst is back. This idea came to me when I had a health scare earlier this year and I wasn’t quite ready to work through it until now.

Chapter 121: Special Care

“Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome.” ― Isaac Asimov

           Klaus was a selfish man. But he couldn’t be selfish about this. This was not about his pain. He watched Caroline’s blue eyes light up as she cradled the delicate blue flowers he’d given her. It was foolish, but he imagined that his gift brought color back to her cheeks. She was far too pale. Klaus had met Caroline when he was traveling through the Andes, searching for a powerful shaman to assist him with locating the final ingredients needed to break his hybrid curse. He’d been in a right strop when he tore through the mountain village, dripping blood and chunks of flesh, and it wasn’t until he’d paused at a stream to wash off some of the gore that he heard the sweetest, most sarcastic voice.

           “If you keep scrubbing that hard, you’ll rub off all your glitter.”

           From her impish grin, he assumed his expression was quite comical, but for the first time in centuries, he found himself at a loss for words.

           “You’re a vampire, right? Seriously?! How do you not know about Twilight?”

           For the first time since that half-witted shaman had betrayed him, he burst out laughing.

           And that was the moment his life changed. Because Klaus had never met a human so full of life like Caroline was. But Caroline was dying. As he thought of the pain she’d endured, he could feel his temper flaring, wishing he could unleash his fury at this indifferent world.

           “Stop it, Klaus,” Caroline’s melodic voice commanded, taking him by the hand and leading him out into the garden. “It’s not your job to be angry at my cancer. Trust me �� I’m angry enough for both of us.”

           He watched her fussily arrange the brightly colored flowers in the lopsided vase she stubbornly kept from his disastrous pottery lesson, frowning when he noticed how her knees started to shake. He guided her to the plush daybed, mindful of his supernatural strength as he felt how painfully thin she was underneath her gauzy dress. “Trust me, sweetheart, I was furious at the world ages before you came along.”

           “Yeah, but I’m special. Something about beautiful and full of light, blah, blah,” she said with a wink.  “And before when you were pissed off, you’d just slaughter a village until you felt better, but this is different.” Her voice took on a more serious tone, and she slid her gaze away from his. “It’s metastatic breast cancer. I have tumors throughout my body. I can’t be cured; the best I can hope for is to keep up my herbal treatments here.”

           He shook his head, doing his best to quell his anger. None of this was her fault. He knew when she’d first been diagnosed in the States, she went through the conventional chemotherapy before moving to targeted therapy treatments, but each time the cancer grew back. Finally, she’d exhausted all of her options, and instead pursued a variety of alternative herbal therapies that eventually led her to Argentina. “The kenaf seed extract and aromatherapy seem to be working,” he murmured, placing a kiss to her temple.

           Caroline laced their fingers together, a familiar note of caution in her voice as she gently reminded him, “It’s true in lab trials, the extracts killed cancer cells better than some of the other herbal supplements I’ve tried. But with metastasis, there’s peaks and valleys — sometimes the disease is stable, and other times it progresses.”

           “But you’re stable now,” he blurted out, hating the uncertainty in his voice.

           Her smile was sunshine and joy and all of the sweet promises Klaus fervently wished he’d known centuries ago. How different his life would’ve been. “It’s like I reminded my doctors when they tried to talk me about of moving down here. It’s about the quality of my life, Klaus.”

           They were distracted when a vibrant blue and green hummingbird appeared, hovering over the orange and yellow bell-shaped flowers. He heard Caroline’s heart flutter in excitement, and he did his best to ignore her shortness of breath.

           Turning away, he observed the hummingbird, an odd sense of peace washing over him as he observed, “Such an extraordinary thing, mercilessly beating its wings just to stay alive. I’ve never witnessed a creature with such fire in its soul, fighting to earn every moment of its life.” He glanced back at her, his gray gaze intense while his voice was barely above a harsh whisper as he said, “Except for you.”

           “Are you always so charming,” she asked dryly, reaching up to poke at one of his dimples. “Or, do you normally let your dimples do all the work?”

           Klaus gave her an indulgent smile. He loved her sheer cheek; the way she never backed down from him even after she saw what he was. She was glorious. His equal in every way. “Let me turn you,” he pleaded, “my blood can heal you, and then you can be with me.”

           “Ask me tomorrow.” She laid her head on his chest, palm resting over his heart. “I’m always surprised that I can feel your heartbeat. It’s strong — like you.”

           “And I can hear yours,” he replied gruffly, her erratic pulse sending him into a panic that he did his best to cover up with a smirk.

           “Isn’t it amazing?”

           Klaus found himself leaning into the warmth of her embrace, protectively draping his body against hers as they watched the hummingbird flit from one flower to another.

           Amazing.

                             _______________________________________

           “You’re going to drop me,” Caroline said with a giggle, her voice muffled against his shoulder and Klaus cradled her against him.

           “Nonsense, love. Even as a lad, I carried deer that weighed more than you. Even some of our goats.” As she rolled her eyes, he hastily added, “But you smell much better.”

           “And I smell bullshit.”

           Her delighted giggles made his heart feel like it was breaking and healing all at once. They came to a stop at the blanket he’d spread out on the dock, and he carefully laid her among several pillows. Lake Lacár was a magnificent sapphire blue today, and Klaus knew he’d always see Caroline’s fierce gaze reflected in its still waters. Gesturing to the wicker basket, he said, “I thought you’d enjoy a picnic.”

           He shyly handed her a glass, pleased that the witch’s freezing spell had kept the smoothies the perfect temperature. “This has ginger in it. I thought it would help with your nausea.”

           She beamed at him, taking a sip and nodding enthusiastically, “Delicious. You’re too good to me.”

           He ducked his curly head, cheeks reddening slightly. “Many things have been said about me over the centuries, but ‘good’ never was one of them. I’m not a good man, sweetheart.” Snorting derisively, he added, “I’m not even a man.”

           Setting aside their smoothies, Caroline huffed impatiently. “Who the hell cares? I certainly don’t. You’re smart and tough and fiercely protective. You’re basically a Rottweiler with dimples.” She leaned forward, briefly brushing her lips to his.

           Every time they touched, Klaus felt as though his soul was sinking into hers a little more, and he welcomed how his loneliness seemed to vanish. He cupped her cheek, thumb lightly grazing the sharpness he found there. “And you are a cheeky minx.”

           Caroline grinned, gazing across the water at the people paddling their kayaks. “Hey, when you finally get around to breaking your curse, will you take on more wolfy characteristics?” She placed her hand over his heart, her voice endearingly curious as she questioned, “I mean...do you feel your wolf now?”

           Klaus was stunned — no one ever had asked him that before. “Being cut off from my wolf is...hurtful. Sometimes I fancy I can feel it move through me, but I’m never sure. My birthright is there, trapped in my blood and bones.” He sighed heavily, “And it’s beyond my reach.”

           “Nothing is beyond your reach,” she swore vehemently, “you’re Klaus Mikaelson. You’re the man who survived an unspeakable, violent childhood and now has powerful supernatural creatures as his minions.” She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, dryly adding, “And you fearlessly attempted to teach me how to make alfajores.”

           “And then generously replaced your oven and repainted your kitchen.”

           Caroline playfully elbowed him in the ribs. “Okay, seriously? The first two fires were your fault. The third and fourth ones...meh, we’ll call it a draw.”

           Lips curling into a devious grin, he kissed her soundly, delighting in the tiny surprised squeak she emitted as he ran his hands down her back. He winced slightly as he felt the harsh ridge of her spine. She shuddered in his arms, and at first, he was alarmed that he’d hurt her, but then she moaned against him, dominating the kiss and he was lost within her.

           With a gasp, she finally pulled back, resting their foreheads together. A hitch in her voice was apparent as she said, “Just need to catch my breath.” Klaus found it endearing when she giddily told him, “I can feel my pulse. It’s racing! Isn’t that amazing?”

           “Amazing,” he agreed, cursing his supernatural hearing that told him her heart was pounding far too haphazardly. Needing reassurance, he lightly touched her chest, the feel of it moving with every breath both a blessing and a curse. “Will you let me turn you?”

           “Ask me tomorrow.” Caroline’s sunshine smile always filled him with warmth. He refused to see how her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

           When a jewel-toned hummingbird briefly hovered over the blue flowers near the edge of the water, her eyes lit up excitedly. “Do you think it’s the same one from the garden? Aww, he’s alone again. I hope he finds a friend soon. Everyone needs someone.”

                            _______________________________________

           Klaus knew something was wrong the moment Caroline didn’t answer her door. The morning felt different. Everything did. He took the spare key from the hideous ceramic frog she’d insisted on buying when they visited the village market because ‘it looked lonely.’ He loathed the panic in his voice when he called out, “Caroline?”

           He found her lying in bed. And far too still. And he could smell —

           No.

           Cursing his supernatural senses, Klaus flashed away, unable to be in her room a moment longer. That wasn’t Caroline anymore.

           Needing to feel close to her, he found himself in her garden. She loved being surrounded by flowers and once she’d grown too weak to tend them, she’d enlisted his help to keep everything blooming. Suddenly, a blue-green hummingbird flitted to the vibrant, bell-shaped flowers, and despite his sorrow, his lips quirked when he saw the hummingbird had brought a friend. Caroline would’ve liked that.  

           Caroline was gone. But she didn’t have to be. There was magic Klaus could use; a powerful coven was cheaper than buying an election these days. The right promises of power and protection coupled with the proper threats and even the most discerning of witches would pledge their loyalty.

           He clenched his fists, trembling. She would be whole again. Ageless and beautiful. And his. Except Caroline never wanted to be anything more than what she was. Human. All she’d ever wanted was more time. He saw it in her earnest gaze and bittersweet smile every time she rebuffed his offer. ‘Ask me tomorrow’ was her way of telling him she craved another day at his side as a human.

           Klaus was a selfish man. But he couldn’t be selfish about this.

[ezratm]

      * chicago’s very own ezra calhoun has been spotted on madison avenue , with a striking semblance to brandon larracuente ! you may know them as @calhoun or hitting the front page of tmz as calhoun curse ? the neighbourhood singer calls off third engagement in as many years . according to tmz , you just had your twenty - third birthday bash . your chance of surviving new york is uncertain because you’re imprudent , but being astute might help you . things that would paint a better picture of you would be a beat up telecaster slung over your shoulder , a clenched jaw as you try to play nice ( and fail miserably , ) a sharp tongue hiding the fear of ending up alone . ( cis man + he/him  ) +  ( teddy , 18+ , she/her , cst. )

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 : homelessness mention , drug mention .

𝟎𝟎𝟏.  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐒  :

ezra  is  the  eldest  of  five  ,  half  of  his  siblings  having  a  separate  dad  and  the  other  half  being  unsure  of  who  their  dad  is  at  all  .  their  mom  has  never  stayed  with  a  guy  for  longer  than  a  few  months  ,  a  year  being  the  usual  cut  off  before  it’s  onto  the  next  or  revisiting  the  old  .  either  way  ,  this  level  of  dysfunctionality  makes  a  lasting  impression  on  ezra  .

the  revolving  door  of  guys  telling  him  “ call  me  dad ”  left  him  with  the  feeling  that  perhaps  he’d  never  be  able  to  rely  on  another  man  in  his  life  ,  stepping  up  to  be  the  man  of  the  house  much  before  he  ever  knew  what  that  role  entailed  .  he  finds  his  mother  passed  out  far  too  often  ,  laughter  shared  over  dinner  yet  the  billowy  white  wisps  leaving  her  mouth  from  a  small  glass  pipe  on  the  balcony  when  she  thinks  he’s  not  watching  .  he’s  the  one  helping  siblings  with  homework  ,  packing  shoddy  lunches  with  whatever  food  stamp  goodies  they  can  get  their  hands  on  ,  making  sure  everyone  gets  to  the  bus  on  time  while  his  mother  is  semi  -  conscious  in  their  bathroom  .

there’s  guy  one  that  lasts  ,  daryl  who  enters  when  ezra  is  13  .  he  sends  ezra’s  mother  into  a  spiral  ,  enabling  her  past  the  point  of  daily  function  and  rendering  her  a  full  -  blown  junkie  while  he  mooches  off  the  little  savings  she  managed  to  scrape  together  .  ezra  acts  out  to  all  hell  ,  a  plague  of  any  classroom  he  inhabits  ,  mouthing  off  as  if  to  blow  off  the  steam  from  a  home  life  that  forces  him  into  silence  .  he’s  a  tyrant  in  the  classroom  but  a  savior  at  home  ,  where  a  wisdom  beyond  his  years  leads  him  to  show  up  to  his  siblings’  parent  -  teacher  meetings  as  the  only  “  grown  up  “  in  their  lives  who  truly  gives  a  shit  .

he’s  17  when  a  row  so  horrifying  with  his  mother  ,  siding  with  a  man  practically  dragging  her  down  to  hell  ,  forces  ezra  onto  the  streets  for  some  sort  of  reprieve  .  he’s  heartbroken  to  leave  his  siblings  but  finds  some  comfort  in  the  next  eldest  girls  being  equal  parts  brilliant  and  responsible  .  as  a  final  fuck  you  to  the  man  who  ruined  his  only  source  of  stability  ,  he  steals  daryl’s  most  prized  belongings  :  among  them  ,  a  limited  edition  signed  nirvana  cd  ,  and  a  rosewood  martin  acoustic  guitar  ,  more  suited  for  display  than  use  considering  the  price  .  

he  hops  from  shelter  to  bench  to  shelter  throughout  most  of  california  and  doesn’t  talk  much  about  what  he  has  to  do  to  survive  .  with  all  the  time  in  the  world  to  lounge  about  ,  he  learns  how  to  play  guitar  from  other  street  buskers  in  exchange  for  protection  in  numbers  ,  and  before  he  knows  it  ,  he’s  able  to  afford  a  long  term  hotel  in  los  angeles  by  playing  on  a  busy  corner  .  he  sings  as  if  his  life  depends  on  it  ,  and  at  times  ,  it  does  ,  but  before  long  ,  he’s  being  recognized  in  the  bus  station  he  plays  in  .  he’s  18  when  someone  posts  a  video  of  him  singing  “  creep  ”  by  radiohead  on  a  corner  which  sends  him  viral  ,  a  talent  agent  quickly  taking  him  off  the  streets  and  shoving  him  into  a  recording  booth  .  they’re  based  in  chicago  ,  and  fly  him  out  ,  cementing  his  love  for  the  city  that  gave  him  his  break  .

he  brings  along  a  couple  of  lads  he  had  met  on  his  travels  ,  some  fellow  vagabonds  ,  some  simply  guys  he’d  met  throughout  his  time  in  la  ,  and  before  long  their  debut  ep  “ i’m  sorry ”  catapults  them  to  radios  and  a  local  tour  .  by  the  time  their  full  length  album  drops  ,  the  neighbourhood  is  one  of  the  world’s  biggest  international  touring  acts  ,  a  push  of  indie  meets  pop  with  grunge  and  hip  hop  influences  .  

ezra  calhoun  ,  a  true  rags  to  riches  story  ,  indulges  perhaps  a  bit  too  heavily  in  the  lifestyle  he  has  suddenly  been  thrust  into  ,  becoming  something  of  a  media  frenzy  for  his  unpredictable  nature  .  sternly  keeping  his  personal  life  out  of  social  media  but  writing  open  -  hearted  love  songs  to  each  conquest  he  lands  (  as  well  as  being  a  rather  high  -  profile  serial  philanderer  ,  )  he’s  a  curious  contradiction  ,  stumbling  about  onstage  with  eloquent  penned  lyrics  yet  stepping  offstage  and  being  caught  up  in  every  scandal  in  the  book  .  shattered  engagements  ,  cheating  scandals  ,  drug  busts  ,  sloppy  performances  ,  ezra’s  more  and  more  a  liability  with  a  short  fuse  ,  risking  almost  as  much  for  the  team  behind  him  as  what  he’s  worth  .

he  doesn’t  try  to  use  his  past  as  a  sob  story  to  fuel  him  moving  forward  ,  but  anyone  who  knows  what  he’s  seen  growing  up  can  see  how  it  takes  hold  of  him  in  adulthood  .  he’s  every  bit  a  mess  as  what  his  aesthetic  would  make  him  seem  ,  destructive  to  a  fault  and  with  a  mouth  on  him  that  gets  him  in  as  much  trouble  as  it  gets  him  out  of  .  though  he  is  as  responsible  of  a  brother  as  his  siblings  could  have  asked  for  ,  his  notoriety  now  is  credited  to  the  chaos  he  causes  seemingly  just  for  fun  .

truly  little  to  no  moral  compass  as  at  this  point  ,  he  tells  himself  that  he’s  been  through  enough  shit  that  he  deserves  whatever  indulgences  he  chooses  to  give  himself  .  he’s  a  hedonist  through  and  through  ,  a  philanderer  as  if  it  keeps  him  breathing  ,  and  a  naturally  addictive  personality  ,  ezra  is  all  points  of  a  powder  keg  ready  to  blow  .

𝟎𝟎𝟐.  𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘   :

ezra  has  one  degree  of  separation  before  he’s  got  a  superiority  complex  ,  readily  staring  down  anyone  who  crosses  his  path  with  unflinching  eye  contact  and  a  flexed  jaw  .  everything  to  him  is  a  confrontation  and  one  he  makes  an  effort  to  come  out  unscathed  by  .  if  it’s  not  his  biting  wit  fighting  his  battles  for  him  ,  he’ll  engage  in  a  fist  fight  ,  though  he  hopes  to  make  that  his  last  case  scenario  .  he  goes  off  his  mind’s  whims  and  desires  and  does  so  with  little  prudence  for  the  sentiments  of  others  .  slack  jawed  and  eye  rolling  ,  ezra  is  a  bad  attitude  with  little  to  lose  ,  and  has  a  habit  of  butting  heads  with  those  who  stand  in  his  way  .  

people  point  out  the  interesting  dynamic  of  someone  so  aggressive  also  being  the  one  who  pens  albums  packed  with  love  ballads  .  between  sex  jams  and  bare  -  alls  detailing  the  sentiments  he  feels  over  connections  he  has  ,  ezra  may  seem  hidden  away  emotionally  but  is  really  more  prone  to  reveal  his  feelings  than  most  .  he’s  disconnected  and  aloof  at  first  when  simply  entertaining  himself  ,  but  truly  engages  with  only  a  few  who  can  get  him  to  tap  into  that  vein  of  passionate  energy  that  keeps  him  from  being  a  useless  waste  of  space  and  create  something  beautiful  .  if  he  can  sense  the  energy  taking  a  negative  turn  ,  he’s  every  bit  the  kind  of  smart  ass  to  get  the  last  word  in  and  end  up  in  a  street  fight  over  it  (  something  he’s  no  stranger  to  given  the  brand  of  guitar  he  so  proudly  carried  with  him  during  his  time  on  the  streets  .  )

he  seeks  out  whatever  makes  him  feel  good  and  seems  to  still  be  hiding  whatever  hole  was  left  by  his  mother’s  abandonment  ,  of  whom  he  hasn’t  talked  to  since  he  left  home  .  he’s  in  constant  contact  with  his  siblings  ,  but  this  isn’t  enough  to  quell  the  resentment  within  him  from  the  loss  of  his  one  sense  of  stability  .  this  explains  his  long  string  of  failed  relationships  and  a  tendency  to  act  on  impulse  ,  setting  fire  to  whatever  good  thing  may  come  to  him  (  although  with  his  tastes  ,  he  doesn’t  often  chase  the  good  things  .  )

𝟎𝟎𝟑  .  𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃  𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒  :

link can be found in the source 🤍

[yukiwrites]

Byleth, Thinking of the Future

Thank you so much for the support as always, @xpegasusuniverse! I got a bit carried away with this one, heehee, I hope you like it!

Summary: Right after the shocking scene at the Holy Tomb, the students were overwhelmed with questions as they watched their beliefs shatter right in front of their eyes. Amidst the confusion and questions, Byleth approaches Edelgard to ask why she had been so secretive...

Commission info HERE and HERE!

______________________________

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 -  Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8  - Part 9 - Part 10  - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15

Byleth, Hanneman and Manuela herded the students back through the elevator, the atmosphere around them once of absolute shock, understandably so. Claude walked beside the young Professor, his expression serious.

“Hey, Teach, those things you said back there…”

“All true.” Byleth said in a low voice, looking back at the astonished Blue Lions as they made their way out of the large underground.

“I’ll need more than that, Teach, come on. Can we go to your room to talk?” The young man looked back to his lifeless classmates, “there’s too many people around to talk freely.”

Byleth simply shook his head slowly. “On the contrary. I want to talk to all of them -- all of you -- he looked straight to the heir of House Reagan, “at the same time. I can’t allow doubt to be sown right after the truth was revealed.”

“Okay, I understand that much, but you do know that that was a bold statement, right, Teach? Do you have any plans about what to do from now on with all this new knowledge? Lady Rhea was in a rough shape down there, so this is the future of the Church we’re talking about here.”

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Byleth looked away from the inquisitive young man.

“No, no, wait,” Claude let out a nervous smile, patting Byleth’s shoulder carefully. “You didn’t think this through at all did you, Teach?” He snorted, cold sweat rolling down his temple, “I don’t think you know the scale of the scandal you just brought up, man.”

“Believe me, Claude,” Byleth’s voice deepened an octave, making the young man’s hairs stand on end. “I know more than anyone the scale of the things I just said.”

However, it was true that Byleth didn’t have an immediate plan of how to tackle the matters of the Church for the moment -- he simply wished fervently for the truth to be known; for his friend’s suffering to be noticed and grieved instead of glorified that… he was at a loss for the moment.

He had Sothis’ memories, yes, but he was but a human with the consciousness of the Goddess -- his vessel couldn’t hold the almost infinite power the Fell Star had brought along with the records of her life. Meaning he might have had her memories and a faint intent of how she had been leading mankind alongside the Nabateans, but it wasn’t as though Byleth himself had the practical experience of it, so he had to actually think about the consequences of his actions.

He had answered Edelgard’s question about the future of the Church -- it had been a subject that was marinating inside his mind for quite a while as well, though he had never given it proper attention to the development of it to actually see it blossom. There needed to be a reform.

How could one start to dismantle the base of a belief that had been rooted in a nation for centuries? Would he start preaching about the misdeeds that had been perpetuated through generations of Archbishops that were most likely controlled by Rhea from the backstage? Would he be able to uphold such a task at all while still pursuing the true enemies he should be setting his eyes on?

He had promised Sothis he would hunt down the remnants of Those Who Slither in the Dark and he would do so until there was nothing left of them to grieve. But he was only one man. Could he lead the hunt and change the people’s hearts at the same time?

Claude’s single question had made Byleth doubt his entire resolve, to the point that the Professor felt Sothis’ absence even more keenly.

She would have been the one to scold him and bring this subject to light before anyone else. She would be there, pulling his ear inside their shared mindscape to force him to think through his actions and those they affected while still grumbling that she would of course help him throughout it all.

The Professor sighed, shaking his head. “I’ll answer your questions, Claude, but we need to gather everyone-”

“Dear Professor, I don’t think now is a good time, as eager as I know that some of my students are to listen to your explanations.” Manuela approached with a worried look. “The news was too much to take for some of the kids, so I’ll be taking them with me to the infirmary. I think others need their space now more than they need answers to questions they don’t even have yet.” She glanced back at the pack of soulless students. “Give them some time to gather their thoughts and come up with their own questions, okay?”

Hanneman scratched his mustache uncomfortably, not wanting to admit that there were people who could turn away from new knowledge so readily, but agreeing that what a greater part of the students present needed was time to sort their heads. “As it stands, I will have to agree with Manuela on this one. Let us disperse the class and come back at this on Monday, how does that sound?”

“what?” Claude whined from Byleth’s other side. “You want me to wait two days to get the answers I need? Can’t I just go back with Teach and ask the stuff I want to know now?”

“Don’t be selfish, young man. Lead your House back to their quarters; look at how crestfallen they are.” Hanneman scolded his House’s Leader, gesturing with his chin to the Golden Deers’ expressions. Some were so shocked they looked like rag dolls while others were thinking deeply of how such knowledge could affect their lives -- only one or two looked like they were mostly fine with the situation, whichever it would be.

The same could be said about the other two Houses, though perhaps the Blue Lions had taken more damage since Faerghus had always had close ties to the Church, so most of its citizens were devout believers.

Edelgard observed everyone’s reactions carefully, not daring to approach Byleth like Claude did so as not to draw attention to herself. In two days, they would reunite, at the Blue Lions’ classroom, it seemed, so the Imperial Princess had time to think her options through until then.

Thankfully or not, Hubert had returned from the trip to the Empire in record time -- proving that the new teleportation magic they had painstakingly acquired was indeed a necessity for their plans to work properly. Edelgard filled Hubert in on the happenings at the Holy Tomb, urging him to follow her to the Blue Lions’ classroom early on Monday so they could bear witness to how strong Byleth’s resolve was in changing the Church.

Depending on his answer, Edelgard could have the upper hand in the upcoming invasion. She already had much more information than she had ever managed to dig through on her own over the course of her life just by watching that pathetic scene between the wailing Archbishop and the young Professor. Edelgard had had a faint idea of how the Crests came to be, but to think it all was linked to the bodies of the goddess and her children… Amusing.

The classroom, although usually on the empty side since it was rather large for the small amount of students it usually had, soon became packed with people from the other two Houses. There were plenty of places to sit at, of course, but Edelgard and Hubert chose to stand close to the door anyway, wanting to look over the students’ reactions to the Professor’s answers.

“As all of you are aware, we’ve gathered here to clear up any misunderstandings you might have had after that happening at the Holy Tomb.” Hanneman placed himself in the middle of the teacher’s desk, looking over the students’ eyes. “We all know how sudden everything was, so don’t be afraid to speak up and we’ll do our best to give you satisfying answers.”

“So you knew it all, Professor Hanneman. How didn’t you break after I spent the whole day asking you about it… Should I have haunted you in your sleep too? I know how well that would’ve ended…” Linhardt muttered from the front seat, a place he would usually never take but quickly took due to the severity of the situation.

“Believe me, lad, it was a living nightmare, as I made it clear for the past 30 times.” Hanneman exhaled in exhaustion, taking a step to the side to allow for Byleth to take the center of the stage. “The Professor here is the one who has the core knowledge of it all, so Manuela and I shall monitor the questions: raise your hand if you want to ask something and we will make a tally.”

Several hands filled the space, followed by a furious scribbling from the part of the two older professors, each taking into account the students of their own Houses while Byleth memorized the Blue Lions. Evidently, the first one to get the question was Claude.

“Can you tell us in detail about the origin of the Hero’s Relics and the Crests Stones? Are they related to the Crests per se at all? And-”

“One question at a time, lad, be patient!” Hanneman interrupted his House Leader, raising both palms in a placating manner. “We have all day to answer everything you all want, but one person at a time, alright?”

Flashing a dissatisfied pout, Claude crossed his legs under the table. “Yeah, alright. So?”

Byleth took a deep breath. “As I said before, the Hero’s Relics are weapons made out of the bones of the Children of the Goddess -- the Nabateans as they called themselves at the time.”

“Nabateans…” Claude muttered under his breath, nodding his head as though he understood. The name was murmured all over the students’ mouths, though Byleth hadn’t stopped speaking yet.

“The Goddess descended into the world and created the Nabateans from her own blood -- then they all started to impart their knowledge on the humans to help them prosper.” The Professor spoke as though talking about a legend, though all of the present were aware of the true myth passed along the religious carols, and it differed greatly from what he was saying. “Some humans started to feel intimidated by how powerful the Nabateans were and waged war upon war against them, wanting to topple the beings they saw as gods… But such wars nearly destroyed the world.

“Some of the defeated humans left bearing a large grudge, promising revenge, but Sothis had to focus her powers on healing the land instead, leaving it to her children to look for the stragglers. Some of them never returned, being the first prey to the experiments of Those Who Slither in the Dark.”

Edelgard’s hand twitched inside her crossed arms at the mention of the experiments as she narrowed her eyes.

Byleth continued. “Exhausted from healing the land, Sothis had no choice but to leave the land to her Children and retire to the place we saw as the Holy Tomb to rest and regain her energy -- but it was then that the tragedy of the Red Canyon happened: The enemy ambushed the weakened Nabateans, killing them with weapons made out of the blood and bones of their siblings, using these very same weapons to kill Sothis and forge,” Byleth took his sword out of his belt, “the Sword of the Creator.”

“Bloody hell,” Claude leaned on his chair, digesting all of that information. Ignatz was holding his chest as though in physical pain, tears clouding his vision -- and the same could be said about Marianne and Mercedes, being comforted by their closest friends.

“Through the experiments, the enemies realized that they could acquire the power of the Nabateans by drinking their blood -- and that was how the power known as ‘Crests’ were bestowed to the humans who weren’t born from the Goddess. It is also the ancient Nabateans’ crystalized blood that composes the rare Crests Stones -- it’s because of them that the Crest-bearers can wield the Hero’s Relics… Though I should leave the technical details to Hanneman here, if you all are interested.” He took a step back to allow the Crestologist his five minutes of fame.

“Well, as you all know…” Hanneman adjusted his monocle, picking up a piece of chalk to start writing on the board.

Manuela nudged Byleth’s shoulder, “are you sure about this? He’s gonna keep talking all day.”

“It’s fine, I just think he’s better at explaining the relationship between the Crests Stones and the Crest bearers. Besides, no one’s complaining.”

“For now, at least.” Manuela shrugged.

Byleth gave an once over around the classroom, his eyes meeting the Imperial Princess’ by the door. After she had made that radical-sounding comment at the Holy Tomb, the young woman had been oddly silent. Now, however, she looked paler than usual, as a frown covered her brow.

“Don’t you think Edelgard is behaving a bit strangely?”

Manuela glanced at her House’s Leader, looking back at Byleth. “She had been grumpy ever since I had to revoke her permission to return to the Empire, so I suppose it might still be about that?”

The young Professor narrowed his eyes, still in a staring contest with the Imperial Princess. “I’ll go ask her what’s wrong.”

“Wha- Byleth!” Manuela pulled his sleeve, whispering gravely, “if you leave, it will truly turn into a Hanneman-only class, you know!”

“Don’t worry, I’m only going to talk to her; I’m not going anywhere.” He flashed something akin to a smile, patting his colleague’s hand before circling through the desks towards the door by which Edelgard stood. “You seemed to be interested in the explanation I was giving earlier. Do you have anything to ask?”

Edelgard shifted her weight to one leg, looking up at the tall young man. “Only one thing: How do you plan to handle this situation with the Church? The power of the Nabateans can no longer rule over the humans, but right at the heart of this Monastery, lies the strongest one of them… She’s not mentally stable, either. What do you plan to do?”

“I’ll protect Rhea from whatever I can. It’s the least I can do to fulfill a promise.” Byleth replied without hesitation, though looked to the surly Hubert beside Edelgard before continuing, “there is much to be done in regards to the distribution of information, but first I’ll have to deal with Those Who Slither-”

“Enough. That is all I needed to hear.” Edelgard turned on her heel to leave. “It is a shame, Professor. I thought that we could have been allies in this.” She muttered as her white hair fluttered behind her small figure.

Hubert shook his head in disapproval. “To think there was so much potential. Perhaps later you’ll realize the true meaning of your statements, Professor, though by then it might be too late,” he smiled derisively before following his liege, leaving a suspicious Byleth behind.

What was the true meaning of Edelgard’s question? Byleth had so much to think about, he could barely sort his thoughts by himself, missing his mindmate so very dearly each time he felt overwhelmed.

Sighing, the young Professor turned back to the classroom filled with Hanneman’s voice, clenching his fists to resolve himself. One step at a time. First he would clear the students’ doubts, then he would think about what to do next.

If only he had the power to see what was going to happen instead of being able to go back a few moments in time… Perhaps then he would’ve been able to predict the preemptive strike the Empire would deal to the Monastery a few weeks from then.

[wistfulcynic]

Their Way By Moonlight: Broken (Chapter 16)

In which the chapter title says it all, really. 

For @thisonesatellite​​ and @ohmightydevviepuu​​ and @katie-dub​​, YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID 😘😘😘 (and shoutout to @winterbythesea​​ for filling the gaping holes in my video game knowledge) 

SUMMARY: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time Emma is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from Henry and anyone else who might  help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Killian have the ability to share their dreams, and are working together in secret to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from a new and dangerous foe.

Rating: M

AO3

- 

Broken: 

All her life Emma had loved to sleep, but she wasn’t the biggest fan of naps. Sleep, to her, involved putting on comfy, loose clothing, making the room as dark as possible, burrowing into her pillows and blankets and letting oblivion wrap her in its soothing embrace for at least eight hours, preferably more. Obviously, those perfect conditions didn’t happen often, but still a girl could dream. 

Naps, she felt, were like fast food sleep. They met her most immediate needs but left her feeling heavy and groggy and a bit gross. Exactly the way she was feeling now. She peeled one sticky eyelid open and groped for her phone, groaning when she saw the time. Ten past six. She’d slept for over two hours, and Neal would be here in less than one. Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, she tried to force her foggy mind to focus. 

A burst of triumphant laughter sounded from the living room, followed by a dramatic groan. 

“Right, you’ll pay for that,” snarled Killian’s voice. 

“Oh yeah?” Henry crowed in reply, “Who’s gonna make me?” 

Emma heaved herself up out of bed and went to the curtain that separated her and Killian’s bedroom area from the main part of the apartment. She peeked around it and grinned at the sight that met her eye. Henry and Killian were on the sofa, controllers in hand, playing what was apparently a very hotly contested game of Battlefront II. 

She thought back to when Killian had first begun attempting to play video games with Henry in New York, hampered by his missing hand and his general bafflement as to why anyone would want to sit for hours in front of a flickering screen, shooting imaginary bolts of light at each other. He seemed to have gotten over that in the past year, she thought, and now with his modern prosthetic he was able to manage the controller and navigate the game deftly enough that Emma had a sneaking suspicion he might be letting Henry win. 

Although, she thought, as Henry racked up another kill, pumping his fist as his character respawned into Han Solo and Killian’s eyebrows snapped together indignantly, maybe not.

She pushed aside the curtain and went to sit on the arm of the sofa next to Killian, who flashed her a brief smile before returning his attention to evading Henry’s digital assault on him. 

“Hey, guys,” she said, unable to resist letting her fingers sift through Killian’s hair. She still found it difficult to go too long without touching him. “Who’s winning?” 

“The lad has a temporary advantage,” Killian replied grudgingly. 

“Temporary my ass.” 

“Language,” Killian rebuked, and Henry snorted. 

“That’s rich coming from Mister oh bloody hell,” he retorted. 

“Perhaps, but when you swear in front of your mothers I get the blame.” 

Emma chuckled and Killian paused the game, looking up at her with the soft, adoring smile that never failed to make her weak. “How are you feeling, love?” he asked. “Rested?” 

“Yeah, I guess.” She shrugged. “Kinda groggy. Do you think I have time for a shower before Neal gets here?” 

“Aye, a quick one.”

“And you don’t need me to help with anything?” Emma looked around the apartment. It was as neat and tidy as ever, the way Killian always kept things.  

“No, everything’s prepared for dinner, it just needs cooking. Go have your shower, then Henry and I should probably freshen up too.” 

“What? I’m fresh!” 

“Your mouth is, perhaps,” said Killian, quick as a flash. “But as this is meant to be a nice meal, please indulge me by putting on a shirt that isn’t covered in dog hair.” 

“Ugh, fine.” Henry rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. Neither could Emma.

“What about that nice grey one I got you?” she suggested. 

“Mom, I outgrew that like six months ago.” 

“Oh.” The little flare of loss and regret was familiar now, but no less sharp. “Okay.” 

Killian squeezed her knee sympathetically. “It has been replaced by another nice grey one, however,” he said. “Which I happen to know is clean and ironed and hanging in your room. Wear that.” 

“Fine,” sighed Henry. “Can I finish kicking your arse at Battlefront first, though?” 

“You can try,” said Killian.

~

They were making dinner together. 

Mary Margaret knew it was happening, she was here, she was experiencing it. She could smell the rich aroma and hear the sizzle of frying onions, could hear the rhythmic sound of knives on a chopping board as she and David sliced mushrooms and minced carrots. Hell, she was the one doing the mincing. But she still couldn’t quite believe it. 

It had been David’s idea. When they finished their lunch at Granny’s that afternoon he’d walked with her back to her office, as slowly as they could get away with, then lingered even longer by the door. 

“This was fun,” he said. “I had fun. Did you?” 

The thread of uncertainty in the question squeezed Mary Margaret’s heart and set her mind racing. What if—she could barely entertain the thought—what if David felt as she did? What if he wanted the same things? What if he was just as unsure of her as she was of him? 

What if—this was the scariest what if of all—what if she actually told him what she wanted? That’t she’d like to give their marriage a real shot?  

What would happen then? 

“I did,” she replied, slightly breathlessly. “A lot of fun.” 

David’s smile widened. “We should do it again.” 

“We should,” she agreed, as her heart raced faster.  

“Like tonight.” 

“Tonight?” 

“Yeah.” David nodded eagerly. “Let’s eat together tonight. Let’s make dinner.” 

“Make dinner? I can’t cook!” 

“Me neither. It’ll be fun. Half raw and half burnt maybe, but, you know—” his eyes seemed to bore into her “—ours.” 

“Ours,” she repeated, wishing she could draw some air into her lungs. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” he echoed. 

She nodded. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” His smile was so soft, his eyes warm. “I’ll get some stuff. Ingredients and things, and I’ll—see you at home.” 

Home, thought Mary Margaret, letting her eyes caress his ass as he headed back down the street, then jerking them away when she realised what she was doing. Maybe they could actually have one. 

And so now here they were, standing next to each other in their kitchen, chopping vegetables and browning meat in an attempt to make spaghetti. 

“Shouldn’t be too hard, right?” said David, opening an old cookbook he’d unearthed from the back of a cupboard. “We just follow the instructions.” 

They browned their meat and added their veggies and a can of tomatoes, several pinches of herbs and a generous glug of wine. The aromas were amazing and the kitchen warm and steamy and Mary Margaret took off her cardigan, draping it over a chair, and when she turned back David was watching her, his gaze hot and almost tangible on her bare arms. She caught her breath and he seemed to catch himself, his eyes flying to hers, their gazes catching and holding, lingering as they began to move towards each other, slowly as if in a dream, drawn by the tug of attraction they could no longer ignore. David’s fingers gently traced her cheek and hers gripped his shoulders, and when their lips touched—so softly at first then harder, growing desperate—it felt right and natural and like coming home, and also sent the sharpest spike of lust through Mary Margaret’s belly that she could ever remember feeling. 

She couldn’t remember it, yet it was so familiar. This was familiar. David’s lips on hers, the silky slide of his hair between her fingers, the breadth of his shoulders, the firm comfort of his arms around her making her feel safe and  treasured. Loved. 

Then his hands slid over her hips to cup her ass and all she could feel was the frantic certainty that if she didn’t get him naked, right now, she would die. She sank her nails into his shoulders and rolled her hips against his, swallowing his moan and adding her own as he hoisted her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist and then—

“Wait—wait,” Mary Margaret gasped, tearing her mouth from his. She was still a sensible woman, no matter how lust-drenched she felt, and just enough of that sense remained to remind her not to burn the kitchen down. She leaned over and turned off the burner beneath the bubbling spaghetti sauce, then wrapped her arms tightly around David’s shoulders and kissed him fiercely, telling him with her lips what she couldn’t put into words. What she felt for him, and everything she hoped that they could be.  

When they broke apart he stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time, like she was his sun and moon and stars and everything in between. 

“Mary Margaret,” he breathed. “I want—” 

“Me too,” she gasped against his mouth. “Me too. Let’s—upstairs?” 

The icy blue of his eyes had never been so hot. “Fuck yes,” he said. 

~

That evening Archie returned to the small, draughty room he rented in the boarding house where most of the mine workers lived. His body felt as exhausted as it always did after a double shift, his mind as fallow. He collapsed onto the small sofa that doubled as his bed with a sigh and let his head fall into his hands and his eyes fall shut. 

The cushion beside him shifted and sagged as Pongo leapt onto it, his tail swishing across the threadbare cover. Archie looked down at the dog with a faint smile that grew wider as Pongo covered his chin with sloppy kisses then settled down to rest his head in Archie’s lap, gazing up at him with warm brown eyes full of trust. Trust, and love. Archie’s heart swelled in his chest and the worst of his exhaustion seemed to lift, lightened as all burdens are by the presence of a friend. Tears prickled behind his eyes as he stroked Pongo’s silky head. 

“Good boy, Pongo,” he said. “That’s my boy.” 

~

“Your love does not see them. He sees you.” 

Oisín’s words rang in Regina’s ears as she stood examining her reflection in the mirror in the loft’s small bathroom. Carefully she applied another coat of lipstick then brushed a tiny crumb of mascara from beneath her eye. She’d managed to resist the urge to put her glamour spell back on but not the one that had drawn her into the market on her way home from Emma and Killian’s to pick up a stash of land-without-magic cosmetics. It was all well and good to talk about trusting people with the truth of her appearance but did have standards, after all, and no intention of going on a date with nothing whatsoever on her face. 

She gave herself a final once-over just as a knock sounded at the door and took a deep breath to quell the butterflies in her belly. It didn’t work, not even a little, and they fluttered more frantically than ever as she went to open it. 

Robin—no, John, she reminded herself firmly—smiled when he saw her, a smile that had warmed and softened considerably over the past few weeks. 

You look lovely, Regina,” he said, producing a bouquet of wildflowers from behind his back and offering them to her, almost shyly. She caught her breath. He’d brought her flowers before, many times during their slow, cautious courtship, but always from the florist. Tasteful, professional arrangements that a banker would choose, nothing at all like this handful of blooms he’d clearly picked himself. 

“Where—where did you get these?” she asked, taking them from him and breathing deeply, barely stopping herself from burying her face in them. 

“Ah.” He looked a bit abashed. “From the woods. If you don’t like them—” He reached for the bouquet but she snatched it back, cradling it to her chest. 

“I love them,” she said. “They’re just… different from the ones you brought before.” 

“Indeed. It was the most peculiar thing,” he explained, stepping into the loft as she held the door for him and following her to the kitchen where she took out a vase and filled it with water. “Every morning I go for a run, as you know. Always around town, along the same route. But this morning—I don’t know what it was but I just felt the need to get out of civilisation, into nature.” He shook his head wryly. “I’d barely had that thought when I found myself jogging down the road that cuts through the forest on its way out of town. I was feeling brighter than I had in some time, lighter somehow, and then I noticed a footpath leading off the road and into the trees, and on a whim I followed it. It led through some dense trees and then opened into a little clearing with a tiny rock pool surrounded by the most stunning wildflowers.” He caught her eye and smiled. “They reminded me of you.” 

Regina flushed with pleasure at the casual sincerity of the compliment and returned her attention to her flowers, arranging them in the vase and admiring their colours in the fading glow of the evening light. 

“So I took note of the location and went back there just now to collect some for you,” he concluded. “Do you really like them?” 

“They’re beautiful,” she replied, looking up again to see he had moved closer to her—so close—close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek and hear the hitch in it, see his pupils dilate as he too became aware of just how close they were. 

They’d seen each other nearly every day since she’d asked him to lunch, sharing coffee and meals and conversation but only rarely touching. Touches between them when they did occur were gentle, restrained. Cautious. 

(“Regina,” said Emma, coming up behind her as she stood by Granny’s outer gate, watching Robin return to work after their first lunch date. “I’m really glad you’re happy. But… don’t forget he’s cursed, okay?” 

“As if I could,” snapped Regina. “It’s kind of obvious in the way he doesn’t remember me.”

“That’s not really what I meant.” Emma shuffled her feet, her face the picture of both deep discomfort and grim determination. 

“Well what did you mean?” 

“Just that he—he doesn’t have control of himself. He can’t make decisions like he would if he weren’t cursed.” 

Regina frowned. “Are you saying that un-cursed he wouldn’t be interested in me? Because I can assure you—” 

“No! That’s not—look—” Emma crossed her arms over her chest, clutching her jacket sleeves so hard her nails left grooves in the red leather. “Don’t sleep with him, okay?” she burst out, flushing at Regina’s outraged glare but barreling on. “I know it’s none of my business and believe me, I really don’t want to be talking about it, but just—don’t. Cursed people can’t consent, and—” she took a deep breath “—I know that’s something my parents had to deal with after the first curse.” 

Regina scowled, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the twinge of guilt that needled at her. She’d cursed Snow and Charming to those lives with full intent to hurt them as much as she could, and while she wasn’t precisely sorry for it her own recent experiences had given her a new perspective on what she’d put them through. 

Things between her and Robin hadn’t exactly been friendly when the curse struck the Enchanted Forest, and while she’d had a whole year to think about that he had not. She’d spent those moments of the past year that weren’t consumed with her fear for Henry’s safety thinking about Robin and the way she’d treated him, wondering what might have happened if she’d been less scared, if she hadn’t let that fear make her so snappish and bitchy to him. Emma was right. Un-cursed, Robin might not wish for her to touch him. 

That thought hurt far worse than she’d expected.)

But she wasn’t thinking about that now, not with him so close and leaning closer… not when her heart was pounding and her breath short… not when his lips touched hers and she just… melted into the kiss. Melted into him, unable to think of anything now but how right this felt, how right they felt, and how profoundly she wished she hadn’t fought against it for so long. She felt consumed by him, by them and by this moment, and neither Emma’s words of caution nor her own regret, nor even the ominous shifting and creaking of the magic in the air around them could pull her attention away from it. 

~

When Belle arrived home she carefully removed the books Killian had lent her from their bag and placed them on the small table in her living room, taking a moment to let her fingertips trail over them, across the cloth bindings and the leather ones, tracing the titles and the authors’ names, and the illustrations on their covers. They all looked so fascinating she couldn’t wait to dive in and lose herself in the tales they carried within their bindings. And she knew exactly where she would begin. 

(“It’s an adventure tale,” Killian explained as he handed the book to her, his eyes twinkling at the way hers widened and her hands trembled with eagerness. “A heroic quest to rescue a prince and reunite true loves.” 

“Ohhh,” Belle breathed. “That sounds wonderful.” 

“I figured you might like it,” Killian’s grin was warm. “I can tell already that you have excellent taste.”)

Belle made herself tea in her favourite cup, the one she saved for the most special occasions, and carried it carefully to her sofa, curling her legs beneath her and tucking a fluffy blanket around them, and a plump pillow behind her back. She sipped the brew with a contented sigh, and then she opened her book. 

~

Neal Cassidy was no stranger to disappointment. It was always there, clinging to him like the smell of stale cigarette smoke he carried home with him each night from the Rabbit Hole, harsh and acrid and never wholly gone even when his clothes were freshly washed. The disappointment was the same, ever present, hovering in a cloud around his head, wherever he was, for as long as he could remember. 

He’d had dreams once. At least, he thought he had. He must have, everyone did. He’d had dreams and he’d had a family—or at least he’d had a father, though he could barely remember the man, no more than a hazy impression of a hunched form and a plaintive voice. 

I love you, son. 

But that was a long time ago, impossibly long it sometimes felt, lifetimes ago. He was alone now, and had been for—well, for as long as he could remember. He worked as a janitor because he could do no other job, he drank alone because that’s what everyone did in Storybrooke. Each night the Rabbit Hole was silent but for the blaring music that was always on its speakers, patrons scattered throughout the dingy room, staring into their drinks and pretending the rest were somewhere else. Possibly pretending they were. 

He worked as a janitor at the town hall, every day the same, sweeping and mopping and scrubbing, always under the sharp eyes of Mayor Green. Eyes that watched him more closely than a mayor really ought to watch a janitor, and with a smug, triumphant gleam that made him itchy and uncomfortable. 

And then one day Mayor Green was gone, replaced by Mary Margaret Nolan. Deputy Mayor Nolan with tentative determination in her eyes, who greeted him with a kind smile and didn’t watch him as he worked, and who one astounding day had called him into her office to inform him that he owned the pawn shop. 

(“It belonged to your father, apparently,” she said, “and he left it to you. I’m sorry I only found the records yesterday, they must have gotten lost. But the pawn shop is yours, and if you’d like to open it again, well, more business in town wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“Um.” Neal’s head was spinning. He didn’t know the first thing about running a business. And yet… “Yeah, sure. I can try.” 

When he unlocked the pawn shop the next day it was dark and dusty, with that stale smell places get when they’ve gone too long without exposure to fresh air. Neal stood in the doorway feeling the full weight and scale of the task that lay before him and how very poorly equipped he was to tackle it. He was seriously considering locking the place back up and never thinking of it again when a voice spoke behind him. 

“Hi,” it said. “Are you gonna open this place?” 

Neal turned. He didn’t recognise the boy—not surprising as he didn’t recognise most people in town—but his bright, cheerful expression lightened Neal’s heart and gave it an odd twinge. 

“Uh, yeah,” he replied. “I’m gonna try. I guess.” 

“Cool!” exclaimed the boy. “Can I help?” 

Neal frowned. “Shouldn’t you be in school or something?” 

“It’s Saturday.” 

“Oh yeah.” Neal didn’t know much about kids but he was pretty sure this one was still a bit young to be going around talking to strangers. “Um, where are your parents?” he asked. 

“My dad’s at work,” the boy replied, like he was expecting just that question. “He owns a bookstore.” 

“He does?” 

“Yep. I helped him get it set up, so I know what needs to be done. I could help you too.” He shrugged. “You know, if you want.” 

Neal kind of did want. He wasn’t sure just how much help the kid could actually be, but just the idea of having someone around, of not having to do everything by himself, made the weight on his shoulders seem lighter. Still, a kid he didn’t know… “You sure your dad wouldn’t mind?” he hedged. 

“He won’t,” said the boy decisively. “But I can call him if you like, to be sure.” Again he sounded like he’d been expecting exactly this development. Neal’s frown deepened. He wondered if he was being played somehow, though he couldn’t imagine how or why. 

“Yeah, why don’t you do that,” he said. Let this play out, at least.  

The boy took out his phone and tapped on its screen, then held it to his ear. “Hey, Dad,” he said. “I’m at the pawn shop. Yep.” His eyes flitted to Neal’s face and then away. “There’s this guy who’s gonna get it open again and I offered to help him but he wanted to be sure it’s okay with you… uh huh… yeah… okay.” He looked up at Neal. “My dad wants to talk to you.” 

“Oh. Um, sure.” Neal took the phone from the boy. “Hello?”

“Hello,” said a voice, a deep, smooth, accented one that gave Neal another odd twinge, less pleasant than the one inspired by the boy. The voice was friendly, but it made Neal tense, his fingers flexing on the boy’s phone. “I hope my son isn’t troubling you,” it said. 

“No.” Neal had the oddest urge to contradict everything this voice said. “He’s not.” 

“Good. He sometimes lets his enthusiasm overwhelm his common sense. If he’s bothering you, feel free to send him away.” The voice was light and careless and Neal bristled at its lack of concern for the kid’s feelings. 

“He’s not bothering me.” Neal glanced at the boy, who was listening intently.“He offered to help, and actually I could probably use it.”

“Excellent.” There was a hint of amusement in the voice now that Neal found deeply objectionable. He scowled. “Well, let me know if he causes you any trouble,” the voice continued. 

“Sure thing,” said Neal shortly, and handed the phone back to the boy before he snapped and said something much longer. The boy took it back with a bright grin. “So I can stay?” he asked. He listened for a moment, then sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know. Okay. Okay, bye!” He ended the call and stuck the phone in his pocket. “I’m Henry,” he said, holding out his hand. “Henry Jones.” 

Neal took the hand, feeling that twinge again as the small fingers wrapped around his own. “Neal Cassidy.” 

“Nice to meet you, Mr Cassidy,” said Henry. “So, where do we start?”) 

Henry Jones turned out to be just as enthusiastic as the voice had warned, bright and cheerful and actually very knowledgeable about running a shop. As was his dad, Neal discovered, when the man arrived later that day to pick up his son. Neal had ignored the funny twist in his gut at the sight of them hugging and forced a smile as the man—Killian, as he introduced himself—cheerfully inspected their progress and answered a lot of the questions Henry hadn’t been able to, and even some Neal hadn’t thought of yet. And Neal found himself taking the man’s number, almost gratefully, and even calling it, just once or twice, whenever he hit a snag he hadn’t anticipated. 

Though he liked Henry very much Neal had weirdly mixed feelings about Killian Jones. He couldn’t seem to quell the hostility he felt deep in his gut whenever they met, the twisting anger and resentment that at most times simmered low but at others flared so high they licked right at the edge of hate. This despite the fact that the man was never anything but perfectly nice and helpful and by all appearances the kind of loving father Neal wished like hell he could remember. He tried to like Killian, he almost liked him. But that gut reaction was too troubling to ignore.  

And that was how he came to find himself at ten minutes before seven p.m. walking straight past the Rabbit Hole and towards the harbour, turning down the small street where he could see the sign for Jolly Roger Books hanging from a wrought iron hook above the shop’s wide doorway, swinging gently in the chilly evening breeze. 

Neal set his jaw and rang the bell, and a minute later Henry’s cheerful face appeared. “Come on in, Mr Cassidy!” he said, pulling the doors open. “You’re right on time.” 

~

It was a typical night at the Rabbit Hole. The bar’s interior was smoky and dark though the sun was still in the sky outside, adorned with neon signs in precisely the wrong colours and a ceaseless blare of music from the speakers. Not bad music, not exactly, but bleak and melancholy and a strain on the ears, and just loud enough to make conversation impossible, should anyone wish to converse. 

Generally, no one did. 

A handful of patrons sat at random around the dark and grimy room, staring into their drinks or off into space, not looking at each other, not so much as a civil nod. This was not the place for civility.  

It was a typical night and no one expected otherwise, none there hoped for any more or less from their drinking place or from their lives. 

And then the music stopped. 

It stopped abruptly, with no hiss of interference or record scratch, just silence that fell with the grace of an anvil and was in itself so deafening that it took a moment for those present even to register the change.

The town records clerk was first to notice, rousing from his reverie and frowning as he looked around, his eyes meeting the confused gaze of the librarian sitting one table over to his left. 

“What happened?” he asked. 

The librarian shrugged. “Maybe it’s broken?” 

“Wouldn’t be a bad thing if it was,” said the clerk, and the librarian snorted. 

“Maybe they’ll switch it for something good,” another voice chimed in, this one belonging to a man the clerk vaguely recognised. Did he work for the bank? No… the insurance company, maybe? 

“Let’s hope so,” the librarian agreed. 

“I hope so,” said a fourth voice from behind the clerk’s right shoulder. “If I never hear that whatever-stank again it will be too soon.” 

“Hoobastank,” supplied the librarian, and they all groaned. 

“Even the name’s bloody awful,” said the clerk, and the other men all nodded their agreement, sliding their chairs ever so slightly closer as they did, drawn by the unifying power of a shared grievance. 

On the other side of the bar a similar conversation was occurring. 

“Finally, I can hear myself think,” growled Leroy, still glaring at his beer like it had done him a personal wrong, but doing so in peace and quiet at least. 

The man down the bar to his left sneezed, startling the man down the bar to his right, who had been dozing into his mudslide. “What?” said the sleepy man. “Wha’s happ’nin?”

The sneezy man wiped his nose with an enormous handkerchief. “Something’s wrong with the music,” he said. 

“What music?” asked another man from further down the bar, blinking wide, guileless eyes. “Was there music?” 

“Of course there was music,” growled Leroy, glaring at the dopey man. 

“Loud music,” agreed the sneezy man. 

“Kept me awake,” muttered the sleepy man as his eyes drifted shut. Leroy snorted. 

They all turned to look as the door to the back room opened and another man entered, wringing his hands anxiously and blushing bright pink, the sweat on his forehead glistening beneath the neon glare of the bar lights. 

“Um,” he whispered, far too quietly to be heard over the faint buzz of conversation that now filled the bar. He tried again. “Um,” he said, slightly louder. 

Leroy felt a flare of anger oh his behalf. This bashful man was just trying to get their attention and no one was taking any notice. 

“HEY ALL OF YOU,” he shouted at the very top of his lungs, turning so that the men at the back of the room would be sure to hear him too. “THIS GUY HERE IS TRYING TO TELL US SOMETHING,” he continued, pairing his bellow with a nasty glare that killed every last conversation in the room. “WHY DON’T YOU JERKS SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO HIM?”

The bashful man was pinker than ever but he nodded gratefully at Leroy. “Um,” he said for a third time, and every ear in the place strained to hear him. “I—I’m so sorry, but the music seems, ah, to be, er, broken.” 

“What’s wrong with it?” called the clerk. 

“I don’t know,” the bashful man confessed. “I can get someone in to look at it tomorrow, but it’s too late to do anything tonight. I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” said the librarian. “I’d rather talk with this group of scoundrels than listen to another note of that shit.” 

A chorus of “ayes” and “huzzahs” rose from the men around him, the clerk and the insurance man, and several others who had gathered around them to raise a pint in merriment together. Men whose day jobs left them drained and hopeless and who now preened in delight at being referred to as “scoundrels,” knowing it was as far from the truth as anything could be and yet feeling that somehow, deep in a place they hadn’t known they possessed, that secret place that brought them dreams of forests and campfires and glad camaraderie, scoundrels they might actually be. 

“Doesn’t bother us—achoo!—either,” said the sneezy man, who had moved to sit next to the sleepy man and nudge him with a gentle elbow whenever he began to doze off. Leroy noted that the dopey man was now flanked by two companions, one white-whiskered with round, wire-rimmed glasses and the other wearing a broad grin that Leroy suspected ought to annoy him but instead made him feel like he’d found something long missing from his life. The happy man raised his glass to Leroy, and Leroy raised his in return.

“Doesn’t look like there’s a problem here,” he told the bashful man. “Why don’t you join us—” he’d meant to say join me, but the us he spoke instead felt far more right “—for a drink?”

The bashful man looked over at the group in the far corner, now laughing uproariously and toasting each other’s exploits, then back at Leroy. “Okay,” he said. “I’d like that, I think. Thanks.” He smiled shyly. “Thanks for everything.” 

“No trouble at all, brother,” replied Leroy. 

~

Neal followed as Henry raced up the winding staircase to the third floor and burst through the door to the apartment. Through it Neal could see Killian standing in the middle of an open-plan living space with his head bent towards that of a blonde woman, whispering in her ear. Their pose was unmistakably intimate, his hand curled around her waist and hers resting lightly on his chest, their heads touching. They turned when he entered the room and both smiled, strangely rigid smiles, Neal thought. 

The woman’s face he could swear he recognised, though he couldn’t place it, and vague recognition definitely shouldn’t make him feel so angry at the sight of them together, or cause a stab of jealousy to pierce his gut when Killian’s fingers tightened on her waist and he pulled her almost imperceptibly closer. 

So why did it? 

Neal forced his emotions down and returned their smiles in kind and Henry, seemingly oblivious to the odd tension in the room, said, “Mr Cassidy, this is my mom, Emma.” 

“Your mom!” Neal cried in astonishment, then wondered why he was astonished. 

“Yep!” Henry’s bright grin faded slightly at the look on his face and Neal attempted to smooth his features as Emma stepped forward and offered him her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. 

“And yo—” Neal began, when he realised in a flash of memory where he’d seen that face before. “Wait—did you say Emma? Emma… Swan? The sheriff?”

“That’s right.”

 He could place her now, sitting at the end of the table at the town council meetings, sighing and tapping her pen impatiently. Neal frowned again as he tried to remember what he knew about Emma Swan. It was… not much. He didn’t know much about anyone in Storybrooke, and for the first time that felt wrong. He stared at her as he strained to remember, watching as she toyed absent-mindedly with the chain around her neck, the ring on her wedding finger catching the light. 

“You’re married?” he shouted, and that gut feeling flared again when he saw her glance back at Killian, silently seeking support from her husband. 

“Yeah, we—” Emma began, but Neal interrupted her. 

“No,” he said, forcing the fury and jealousy down again and making an attempt to smile. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Of course you’re married. Henry’s parents.” 

“Yeah,” Emma smiled in relief and from the corner of his eye Neal could see the tension drain from Killian’s stance.  “Hey, don’t worry about it. Come in and sit down, Neal. It’s okay if I call you Neal?” 

“Sure.” 

“Do you want a beer or something?” 

“Yeah, thanks.” Neal was starting to think he needed a hell of a lot more than a beer, but it was better than nothing. His gut was roiling and his head felt stuffed with cotton balls, and there was a distant buzzing noise in the back of his mind, like white noise from a broken television. He tried to force himself to think, to remember more about Emma, about Killian, about all these things that seemed to be teasing at the edges of his mind, but the harder he tried the louder the buzzing grew. He gave his head a hard shake and then another, and ignored Emma’s surprised look when she returned from the kitchen in time to catch him doing it. She pasted on a smile and handed him a beer. 

“So Henry tells us you’re reopening the pawn shop,” she said, sitting next to him on the sofa and taking a pull from her own beer. She smelled like flowers, clean and sweet, and gods, he could swear it was familiar. Her scent slammed into him like a Mack truck, carrying memories of something he could feel but not touch, as powerful as they were indistinct. Why couldn’t he remember? 

He gulped his beer and tried to concentrate on her question. “Yeah. I guess,” he said. “Kinda sudden, I know. I just found out recently that the place used to belong to my father.” 

“Oh?” Emma’s voice rose a bit too high on the question. 

Neal frowned at her. “Uh huh. I don’t remember much about my papa—er, I mean my dad. So it was a pretty big surprise to find out about it. But Henry, he’s been a major help with everything. I probably couldn’t have done it without him.” He looked at Emma and warmth bloomed in his chest. “Thanks for letting him come by.” 

“Of course,” she said with a smile. “But you know, with Henry it’s sometimes hard to stop him.” 

“That’s what, um, Killian said.” 

“What did I say?” asked Killian, perching on the arm of the sofa next to Emma as Henry came to sit on the floor. 

“That sometimes when Henry decides he wants something there’s not much we can do to stop him,” Emma replied. 

“Aye, unquestionably,” said Killian. “The lad is a force of nature when he sets his mind on a thing.” 

There was so much pride in his voice as he said it, and so much pleasure in Henry’s answering grin, and so much love on Emma’s face as she looked between them and her fingertips absently traced patterns along Killian’s thigh as his played with the ends of her hair, and suddenly it was all just too much. They rose up and they choked him, all the feelings between these three people and the ones churning in himself, and it was too much and too strong and too confusing, and the buzzing in his head was so loud he could barely think straight. 

Blindly he set his beer down, hoping he managed to get it onto the coffee table, and lurched to his feet. 

“Is everything all right, mate?” Killian’s voice hovered just at the edge of his consciousness, and the mate made Neal want to punch him. 

“I’m fine,” he growled. “I’m just—not feeling very well. Think I should go.” 

“Oh.” Emma stood as well and approached him cautiously, taking him gently by the shoulders, her hands warm through the fabric of his t-shirt. She tried to catch his eye but he evaded her. 

“I’m really fine,” he said, stepping back. “I just gotta go. Maybe we can do this another time.” 

“Well, if you’re sure,” she said. 

“Are you sure?” Henry asked. He was clearly trying to be calm but his eyes were so disappointed, and again Neal felt a surge of emotion that was far too strong for the circumstances. He shouldn’t care about disappointing some kid he only met a few weeks ago. But he did. He did. 

“I just—I feel like—” he stammered, groping desperately for the words he needed to say, to explain. And then Henry stepped forward and hugged him. 

Henry hugged him, and Neal’s arms came around the boy in return, automatically, naturally, like they’d done it before. He looked down at Henry’s eyes, big and brown and so damned familiar, so different from the clear green and blue eyes of his parents. 

Was that even possible? 

“I—” he tried again, but Henry interrupted. 

“Please stay,” he said. “I don’t want you to go.” 

“I—damn it.” Neal snarled. He wanted to go, wanted to run, fast and far away from all of this mess and tangle of emotions hot as fire and memories thin as smoke. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear for Henry to be disappointed in him. 

“I’ll stay,” he said, and the world exploded. 

~

Sleeping curses broke elegantly, the Dark Curse dramatically, but this odd chimaera of a hybrid curse, cobbled together from odds of this and ends of that, bound by Oz magic and twisted through the mirror world… this curse shattered. It burst into shards like the very mirrors that made it possible and Emma, Regina, and Zelena gasped in unison as they sensed its fracture. There was no burst of light, no gasp of awakening, just a sharp shock and then memories and then…

The world blurred, shifted, settled, and then snapped back into focus. The colours and shapes and sounds of Storybrooke were themselves again, the breeze through the town was warm and welcoming and the trees in the forest tall and straight, their eerie menace wholly gone. 

Emma looked at Killian, eyes wide. 

“What is it, love?” he asked, reaching for her and pulling her close. “What was that?”

“I think…” Emma lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think the curse just broke.” 

“Really? How do you know?” 

“I—I felt it. I felt it shatter and its magic is… well, it’s everywhere.”

Neal was staring at Henry, blinking rapidly, then a huge grin split his face. “Henry?” he said, pulling his son in for a bone-cracking hug. “Oh my God, Henry. I’ve missed you.” 

“Um.” Henry was still reeling from what had felt like an earthquake. He looked past Neal to where Emma and Killian were standing with their arms around each other, whispering frantically, then his eyes lit up with triumph as the pieces fell into place. “Have you?” he said. 

“Yeah, kid.” Neal loosened his hold and ruffled Henry’s hair. “I did. I—wait.” The smile faded from his face, replaced with a scowl as he turned to Emma and Killian. “What’s going on here?” 

They exchanged a look. “What do you mean?” asked Emma. “You were cursed—” 

“Yeah, I know that, but I mean you—you two—” He gestured at them, his scowl deepening as they unconsciously drew closer to each other. “You aren’t actually—it was the curse for you too, right? All this is just the curse.” 

 “No, mate,” said Killian gently. “We weren’t cursed. Emma was briefly, sort of, but Henry and I never were.” 

“Then you’re really—” Something dark and angry flared in Neal’s eyes. 

“Yeah,” said Emma. “We’re married.” 

“You married him,” sputtered Neal, almost choking on the words. “The pirate? The one who fu—” he broke off with a glance at Henry “—who took my mother away. Him, of all people.” He stared at them, shaking his head, then gave a bitter, grating laugh. “So much for your word, huh Hook?” he said. “You remember, your word that you gave me, to back the hell off and give me a chance to be a family with my son and my—well, her.” 

“A lot has happened since I made that promise,” said Killian, as calmly as he could when the nasty curl of Neal’s lip was making him wish he was wearing his hook. “A lot has changed Bae.”

Neal hissed an angry breath. “Don’t call me that.” 

“Neal, then,” Killian amended. “As you like. We have much to discuss, lad, why don’t you—” 

“I’m not a lad,” snapped Neal. “I’m as old as you are in this realm, maybe older. I’m not that boy you knew.” 

“You’re right of course. I’m sorry.” Killian’s voice was genuinely contrite now, his expression sorrowful. “I do know that. Sometimes I just—forget.” 

Emma’s arm was still around his waist and she squeezed him reassuringly. “Look, I know there’s a lot we need to talk about,” she said. “And I promise you, Neal, we will explain everything. But right now the curse has just broken and people are going to be confused. So can we table all this, please, until we’ve had a chance to figure out what we have to do?” 

“Do for what?” asked Henry. “Isn’t the curse broken?” 

“Yeah it is.” Emma shivered at the sharp, dangerous feel of the magic that had come untethered by the shattering curse. “But that’s not necessarily the end of our problems.” 

“So what do we need to do?” asked Killian. 

“I’m not sure yet. Let’s start by finding Regina. And my parents.” 

-

@katie-dub​​​​ @kmomof4​​​​ @teamhook​​ @stahlop​​​​ @mariakov81​​​​ @snowbellewells​​​ @thejollyroger-writer​​ @jennjenn615​​ @tiganasummertree​​ @lfh1226-linda​​ @winterbaby89​​ @ultraluckycatnd​​ @resident-of-storybrooke​​

-

[ruminativerabbi]

When A Torah Falls to the Ground

I don’t believe I had ever heard of Rabbi Israel of Brno until earlier this week. Or maybe I had heard of him, but without knowing who he was or having read any of his surviving works. Born around the year 1400 and gone from the world in 1480, his life span covered almost the entire fifteenth century. And he had, to say the least, a tumultuous life, on one occasion being imprisoned by the authorities after someone lodged a blood libel against him by claiming he had kidnapped a Christian youth to make some sort of ritual use of the lad’s blood. (That story actually has a good ending—or at least it did for Rabbi Israel: his accuser eventually recanted and was subsequently executed. But they still only let the rabbi out of jail once he formally renounced any future effort to secure compensation for the injustice done him.) I mention him, though, not because of any of those details, but because he is apparently the earliest authority to suggest that the correct way to respond to seeing a Torah scroll, or even a pair of tefillin, fall to the floor is to take the incident as a sign from Heaven for the community to consider its deeds, to spend time in repentance for known and unknown sins, and to fast as a way of atoning for the misdeeds of individuals in the community and of the community itself.

This was an almost natural development of an earlier idea mentioned in the Talmud, where a well-known text enumerates the specific instances in which, after having rent one’s clothing in grief, the tear may never be sewn up: when mourning the loss of a parent and the loss of one’s primary teacher of Torah, when gazing on the site of the destroyed Temple in Jerusalem, or when expressing one’s sense of deep loss after having witnessed the burning of a Torah scroll. (There are others too.) The commentators focus on each instance separately, in the case of the Torah scroll wondering if the law is different if the scroll is burnt accidentally or intentionally, if one actually sees the incident or is merely present in synagogue when it happens, and if it is completely or only partially destroyed. But Rabbi Israel of Brno (pronounced Bruna by the Jews of the time) was the first to decree that the proper response even just to seeing a Torah scroll fall to the ground, let alone to seeing it burnt to ash, is to fast as an expression of sorrowful repentance and to take the incident neither as happenstance nor accident, but as a word from Heaven to the community that the time has come for it to consider its ways and devote time to asking the most monitory of all self-directed questions for any Jewish community: whether the community itself is worthy of having a Torah scroll in its midst. Not whether they can raise the money to repair or replace the damaged scroll. Not what procedures they should put in place to guarantee that this kind of accident never happen again. Not, and least of all, whom they should blame for the incident having happened in the first place. Instead, Rabbi Israel suggests that a far more disorienting question be asked: whether this incident can successfully inspire the community to look deep within to consider how privileged its members are to own a Torah scroll in the first place, let alone a dozen of them, and to ask what exactly they have done to make themselves worthy of that privilege.

These are not stress-free questions to contemplate. The urge to wave the whole incident away as a mere accident, thus as something to be regretted but not taken all that seriously, is intense. And hiding behind the whole question of how to respond when a Torah falls to the ground is the even deeper, far more anxiety-producing one regarding the way in general that God speaks to the world, to us all, to each of us. Are the circumstances of our lives—the things that happen to us, the successes we celebrate and the setbacks we endure, the accomplishments we achieve and the failures we regret—to what extent is any of these things, let alone all of them, meant to bear meaning beyond the obvious details of the event itself? Shelter Rockers know that I often speak from the bimah about the concept of personal destiny. And that concept too is part of the larger discussion here. Are the big things that happen to us part of God’s plan for our lives? What about the less big things, about the twists and turns along the road of life we all experience? What about individual incidents—arriving at the site of an armed robbery when the robber was already fleeing the scene instead of ten minutes earlier (this happened to me in college), being in a minor airplane accident that led directly to meeting your future spouse in a specific setting and at a specific hour (ditto), having the bus you’re on break down in the middle of nowhere on Erev Yom Kippur thus guaranteeing that you spend Kol Nidre evening in a chilly field of purple flowers instead of in shul (also)—what about incidents like that? Is that how God speaks these days to whomever will listen? (And if so, then why not far more clearly, as in ancient times when prophets wandered the world proclaiming the word of God forcefully and clearly?)

As many readers already know, we had the terrible experience last Shabbat of seeing a Torah scroll fall from the Torah-reading table to the ground, whereupon it rolled down the stairs to the floor of the sanctuary and ripped almost in two. It was, to say the very least, a heart-stopping moment…for me, certainly, but also for everybody present both physically and virtually. I’ve known that Talmudic passage mentioned above about rending our garments in the style of mourners when we see a Torah scroll for decades. (Just for the record, the text is clearly meant to reference an intentional act of desecration.) But I don’t think I ever really understood it until this last Saturday—or rather I understood it intellectually but not emotionally or viscerally.

Of course, the physical thing—the parchment and the ink, the gut used to sew the panels together and the wooden handles—is just the vessel, the pot: the “real” Torah is constituted of the words themselves, how they sound and what they mean. So here too it feels like it should be easy to look past the physical thing and feel secure that the words themselves were safe. But that’s not at all how it felt. I remembered, somehow, that we don’t rend our garments on Shabbat, so I didn’t make that error. (And also that law applies solely to acts of intentional desecration, not accidents.) But it was still a chilling moment, one that no one present is going to forget easily or even possibly at all.

We have been responding, I think, in a positive manner. Each morning we have been adding the 130th psalm to the worship service, the same psalm we add in between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur as a way of inspiring repentance born jointly of serious introspection and trust in God’s saving power. As soon as Chanukah is over, we will be adding in Avinu Malkeinu as well, the extended supplication recited on fast days and also on the Ten Days of Repentance between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. A week from today, on Friday, December 25, we will be observing the Fast of the Tenth of Tevet—a relatively obscure fast day generally ignored by most but this year to be imbued with the hope of a whole community that through the traditional media of repentance—prayer, fasting, and giving charity to the needy—we achieve a state of atonement for whatever flaws in our personal behavior, or in our communal comportment, that led to this signal being vouchsafed to us all.

The sages of old understood the universe to be an organic whole composed of disparate but intricately interconnected pieces, something of the way the human body consists of many different bits and pieces that are distinct yet intricately interrelated by virtue of being part of the same organism. That being the case, the thought that happenstance be alive with meaning is not that far-fetched. Whether the Creator always speaks through creation seems unlikely. (I broke a glass bowl Sunday when I was emptying the dishwasher and found the incident to be suggestive solely of my own clumsiness.) But that creation—and not solely the physical universe but the universe of deeds, events, and, yes, accidents—that creation can serve as the medium for the Creator’s tweets, that seems entirely reasonable to me.

In the wake of the incident, I received many, many emails offering to help both with repairing the scroll and with interpreting the event. All were heartfelt and helpful, but I would like to quote in closing just from the one written by Stuart Stein. “The Torah scroll,” Stuart wrote, “is ultimately words on parchment wrapped on wooden spindles. The Torah’s message and meaning stay firmly and permanently secure in each of our hearts, thus forming part of who each of us is. And from that perch it simply cannot fall.”  I couldn’t have said it better myself!

[ficsandcatsandficsandcats]

Thank you for your kind words! i've been trying to think of more Valdo requests, cuz you write him wonderfully, & i have a cute one (i hope) maybe Valdo & plus size reader have been friends for a long time & she's totally in love & he writes all these beautiful songs about these women & she's jealous(inside) & somehow it comes to light that the songs are about her & there's love confessions (shocking i know haha!) cuz he's like "wait no it's always been you!" Thanks so much! I hope you're well!!

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Valdo x Plus Size Reader Word Count: 1,605 Rating: G Taglist: @heroics-and-heartbreak​ @whatevermonkey​ @mycat-is-mylove @mynamesoundslikesherlock​ @kemmastan​ @magic-multicolored-miracle​ @writingstudent​ @mlleecrivaine​ @coffee-and-stories​ @amirahiddleston​ @ultracolorfulnerdcollection​ @astouract​ @your-not-invisible-to-me @daydreamer-in-training @morelikebyesexual a/n: Yess Valdo would be equally enthusiastic about lovers of all body shapes and sizes and you know we love a good Confession. Enjoy! xo

“Y/N!”

Your entire body lifted with your heart at the sound of Valdo’s voice speaking your name. You turned from where you’d been standing in the square and there he was. Curls somehow never mussed despite his long travels, not a single hair in his mustache or goatee out of place. The blazing, emerald eyes alight with excitement as he wove his way through the people and made his way to you. He scooped you up into a hug, nearly lifting you off of your feet, a reminder of how deceptively strong he was.

“Oh you are a sight for sore eyes,” he sighed when you both reluctantly pulled away.

“How Long are you in town this time?” you asked, trying to temper your excitement before you could be crushed by hearing that he would only be there for the night.

“I’m not sure,” he replied enigmatically, “It depends on how this latest song is received.”

You tried to keep your face from crumpling into disappointment. If that were the case you’d be lucky if he stayed overnight. His music was always incredibly well-received and you took his words to mean that the better it was lauded, the more quickly he’d want to spread it around to build word. You’d been friends for years and you’d watched him get his first instruments and create a name for himself around Cidaris. You knew that his success would take him away from you but you tried not to begrudge it. His happiness mattered the most to you and if that happiness was found elsewhere, who were you to be upset?

“Come on,” he said after a few beats of silence, “Buy an old friend a drink.”

“You’re the traveling celebrity, you’re buying,” you teased. He fell in step beside you and slung an arm around your waist. You stiffened slightly, not expecting that, and he removed his arm and wrapped up around your shoulders instead before you could protest that it was alright. Something was odd, even for Valdo, and it made you feel uneasy. You tried to shake it off and focus on the time you got together.

“So tell me of your journeys,” you asked, “New sights? New sounds? New, notable companions?”

You nearly bite your tongue at the last question, trying to sound like you were casually curious as a friend and not desperately pining for him, praying that he’d say he’d seen no one though you knew that was very unlikely. Valdo was quite popular and though you’d never had the pleasure you had extrapolated a great deal from watching him playing, thinking of the things those nimble fingers could do as well as the soft, full lips. He had a wickedness about him that told you that he’d be up for anything and that he could inspire the same level of open-mindedness in all of his partners. Gods knew you couldn’t think of a single thing you wouldn’t open for the man in front of you. He looked at you oddly and you worried for a second that you’d said that out loud but he shook his head.

“Plenty of sights, though none as sweet as your face. Plenty of sounds, though none as compelling as my voice. No companions,” he answered. You schooled your face to stay impassive as he said this though your heart sang. It was a temporary balm, you knew. Soon there would be another. As though he’d read your mind again he pulled out his journal where you knew he wrote his lyrics. You knew where this was going. All through your friendship growing up he’d read to you lyrics of his latest “muse” and you’d been forced to listen and sigh and pretend you weren’t envious of whoever could stir him to create.

“Is that the song that’ll decide your fate?” you asked, gesturing to the journal.

“It is,” he replied. There was a strange energy about him. A nervousness that was rare to behold in the usually very confident, if somewhat smug, troubadour. “It’s a ballad but I need help writing the ending.”

“Oh?” you asked, more surprises every second. Though he happily showed you the results of his work he rarely let you in on the process, insisting that he needed to be alone with his thoughts to truly decipher what his muse had inspired. You thought it sounded like pretentious horseshit but you left him with his methods, his success speaking for itself.

“It’s the story of a couple who met as youths. He, a stalwart, handsome, ambitious lad and she a witty, kind, breathtakingly gorgeous woman,” he explained.

“Hmm yes, they always are aren’t they?” you muttered under your breath.

“What?”

“Nothing, go on.”

“Well the pair grow very close, so close that all who see them think that they’re in love but the tragic truth is that the man pines alone, uncertain if his long-held affections are returned,” Valdo continued.

“I do love a good yearn,” you admitted.

“Yes, and now, after years of roaming and parting and returning and nearly confessing and losing the courage he decides that he must confess his love or go mad!”

“A logical solution,” you said with a little nod of your head, “It seems the conclusion is clear.”

“Ah yes but where I need your help is in discovering her answer,” he said, eyes staring at you with a strange intensity. Your brow furrowed in confusion.

“Well I don’t know, Valdo, does she love him?”

“I don’t know, Y/N… does she?” he asked the words meaningfully giving you an equally pointed look and you felt like you were being read a riddle that everyone else knew but you were oblivious to.

“You’d probably need to ask her?” you offered.

“I… am…?” Valdo’s voice grew uncertain and the pair of you gave each other equally puzzled looks.

“Valdo I promise I’m not trying to be daft but… it almost sounds like you’re saying I’m the woman in the story and that’s ridiculous so what is it you’re asking here? If you should talk to the woman in your song? Sure, go for it, why wouldn’t you?” you exclaimed, growing frustrated. Valdo blinked a few times, visibly flustered and taken aback.

“Y/N you are the woman in the song!”

“What?” you cried, choking on your ale.

“Of course! This song and every other I’ve ever written. It’s always been how, could you truly not know?” he asked incredulously. You gaped at him and thought back to the songs he’d written, trying to find a scrap of lyric that proved it couldn’t be you. You were used to hearing songs where you were written out by the casual mention of a slender frame or lithe body. Whenever a bard sang about lifting his lady into his arms the dream was dashed and you could not longer project yourself into it. It had been a bit lonely and sad, never hearing a heroine whose petite shoes you could walk in, but as you thought back through Valdo’s you realized that was never the case. He never spoke of his lover in diminutive terms. He talked about her beauty and her softness and her genius. Valdo could see you thinking, considering his words with confusion but no longer arguing which he took as encouragement.

“Y/N if I’ve not spoken plainly, know it wasn’t out of any embarrassment or lack of feeling, rather the opposite. I felt so deeply and strongly that I feared the loss of you if I spoke up. But not trying and leaving you is much more painful than knowing and salvaging the friendship. So I come to you, Y/N, without pretense or lyrical camouflage, and I ask you – what does the heroine of this song, the song that joins the lifelong operetta of my heart, answer?”

“Well she… she would be a little taken aback, because she spent her whole life thinking that every song was about some new muse, getting more and more jealous with every one but also hoping that her friend who she loved was happy. And then she’d be afraid that it was a dream because everything he was saying is everything she’s been longing for him to say and she’s learned that women who look like her don’t get a love worthy of song. But she’d want it to be true so badly she’d nearly be willing to just say fuck it and let her heart break upon waking, just for the joy of feeling loved by him for just that once,” you answered, a lifetime of feeling poured out in a rambling series of sentences that you feared were only somewhat understandable and barely coherent but Valdo caught the meaning and crossed over the table to get to you, nearly knocking over your ale in the process but you couldn’t care less.

“Then the song shall end with the man assuring her that it is very much real and that he never wants to be parted from her again, whether that means she travels with him or he stays with her he cares not. Because at the end of the day where she goes, he must follow, for only with her does he experience true, unfettered, blissful happiness,” he replied, green eyes scanning your face as if seeing it for the first time and trying to capture the moment forever.

“I think the song should end another way,” you argued.

“Oh?” he asked, “How?”

You answered him with a kiss that he could never translate into words but would spend the rest of his life trying to describe anyway.

[seriouslyhooked]

You Look Good (A CS NYE story)

A/N: Hi everyone! I just want to start by wishing you all a happy New Year! This story is actually one I have been working on for a while, and I had stalled out with writing it. A long long time ago a reader asked for ‘You Look Good’ by Lady Antebellum and I love the song but just couldn’t get inspired, and then today I realized a good way to engage with this song was through also engaging with the holiday. So, this is a CS AU oneshot where Emma and Killian are both on holiday get aways in paradise with their friends. They happen to see each other from afar and… well, you’ll just have to read it to see how it goes. Thank you all for reading and thanks to the very patient reader who suggested this song!

“Now this, right here, is the life.”

The words from his friend Will should have been grating, especially since the rest of the men on this boat were all actually pulling their weight this afternoon on the water while Will was lounging about. But still, Killian couldn’t help but agree.

Being out here on the sea was infinitely better than life in the city, especially in the dead of winter when New York was 25 degrees and covered in ice. There the air was frigid and sharp, and here it was clean, crisp, and glorious. The sunlight that had been gone from the north for so long was out in full force here, and the sand and the waves underneath a clear blue sky were the perfect remedy to anyone’s winter woes.

Even with the frozen temps, at home everything was driven by competition and hectic chaos. Business in New York was cutthroat, something he’d learned as the CEO of his own business. There were no breaks. If you wanted to be a success you worked like a dog and you never slowed down, but out here there was a gentler pace of living that held no less purpose even in its quiet calm. It was easy to get caught up in how much more vibrant the world seemed out in these kinds of open coastal spaces, and how much more possibility floated about in the air out here, but soon enough they’d all head back to reality. That was just the way things were. No matter how much he and his friends may enjoy their annual holiday trip to the tropics, they always returned home, waiting and wishing for the next year to end and call them back again.

This trip was a tradition for the four of them, starting way back when Will, David, Graham and Killian had met in college. David had a friend of a friend of a friend who had a place on a sunny island where summer lasted all year long and the rest was history. Things had radically changed since those good old days, what with all of them having time consuming careers and various responsibilities, but the peace they all found out here on the ocean had never waned. This was a critical time of respite for the lot of them, what with Graham taking time off from his police work, Will leaving the run of his bar to his staff, and David leaving the hospital to the care of other residents. But Killian couldn’t help feeling that each year they were getting closer to the loss of this tradition, or at least a substantial change in the way it came about.

It was only a matter of time before his friends started settling down, and when that day came it was unlikely that their girlfriends or wives would embrace a weeks-long guy’s trip especially during Christmas and New Years. It would no longer be realistic to put their lives on hold for such a long stretch, and Killian understood that. For his part, he would actually welcome such an addition to his life, a woman who would miss him too much to want to be apart at this time of year, but he had to be realistic. So far experience had shown him that finding such a match and meeting a woman who he could truly see forever with was a long shot. It would take a miraculous woman to truly speak to his heart, and only that kind of love would entice him into marriage and the whole happily ever after thing.

“You’ve got that look again, Killian,” David joked and Killian raised his gaze to his best mate who looked smug and all-knowing.

“I haven’t got a look,” Killian responded, prompting David and Graham to laugh.

“Sure you do,” Graham quipped. “The dreamy, brooding one. That one women eat up because they think you’re grappling with the universe’s big questions.”

“Maybe I am,” Killian quipped and after a moment they all laughed.

“Nah you’re just worrying,” David explained. “You’re thinking that this might be our last run out here, and you’re probably right, at least the way we do things now.”

“He’s right?!” Will asked, his genuine concern manifesting as a shriek. It was like a banshee, and the harsh tone was so shrill Killian winced.

“Well, yeah. Next year’s gonna be different. I don’t know about you all, but I’m finding my girl. I’ve got it all planned.”

“You’ve planned it out?” Graham asked with a smirk. “And how exactly did you do that, Doctor Nolan?”

“That’s for me to know and her to find out.”

David’s adamant refusal to elaborate prompted some more ribbing from the others, but it only reminded Killian about how sure and true his instincts were. He sensed that this tide was shifting, and he believed David was right. Not about the having a plan to find the woman of one’s dreams– that was bull shit. There was no way one could plan to find a love strong enough to build a life around. But when he said this year was going to be different, Killian found he genuinely hoped that would be true and that hope carried him through the rest of their afternoon out on the water.

By the time they pulled back into port, docking their sailboat in the marina they’d come to know well, Killian was no closer to answers about what he wanted and when it might come. He tried to take solace in the beauty that was the sky at this time of day, with sunset silhouettes dancing, painting lazy, wayward clouds that hung over this seaside place. The shades of pink and orange and gold could never be recreated back home, but while he appreciated the sight, it did nothing to truly calm him. He was restless still, but he supposed that was normal for the last day of the year, and the final few hours before a brand new start. People had a tendency to get antsy in these final moments, and even in paradise it seemed that was to be his fate.

“Well lads, it’s time for the age-old question – Captain Jack’s or Odie’s Place for New Year’s this evening?”

No one answered Will’s eager question as they got into the jeep they’d rented for the two weeks, and that was likely because they didn’t care. Either place would suit their purposes. They wanted a decent meal and a few drinks to get them through to the new year. Other than that, there was little consideration to be had.

“All right then, driver’s choice,” Will responded, hopping into the vehicle and hardly waiting for any of them to do the same before he tore off onto the main road and raced towards their vacation villa.

Absentmindedly Killian watched the scenery around them, noticing the way the docks gave way to the bustling town beside it. The island was particularly busy this year, a sign that perhaps their secret haven might not be so secret after all. Years ago it felt like they were the only foreigners here this time of year, but alas it seemed to be a new and wide-spread trend. Some people were here with families, others on trips that mirrored theirs, but none of these people really mattered to Killian. At least until…

The first thing he noticed about her was her golden hair, which reflected the iridescent light of the year’s last sunset in an almost ethereal way. It was pulled back, likely from hours spent at the beach, but soft and wavy tendrils hung loose, shielding parts of a face so stunning it made Killian’s heart skip a beat and then another. In the three seconds that they were passing her, Killian swore he took in every little detail of this woman – nay, this vision – memorizing her like she was the answer to his every prayer. Her lithe form, her perfect face, the way the smile she was wearing met her eyes and the essence around her that was light and happy. She was an angel dressed in a yellow sun dress, an impossibly gorgeous woman the likes of which he’d never seen, and in an instant he knew that he’d regret every moment he lived from this point on if he didn’t get a chance to know her.

“Stop the car!” Killian yelled as he finally got his wits about him. His eyes stayed on her as Will braked a bit but kept driving.

“What the fuck -?”

“Pull the car over, Will. Now!”

David’s intensity matched Killian’s and if he were able to think of anything outside this girl Killian would wonder why his friend was so animated too, but as the car slowed down, Killian hopped out of the side, and raced back down the street. She was only a little while back, but this place was packed with people and there were hotels and storefronts all around. She could be anywhere, and the realization that she was lost to him damn near gutted the sense of hope he’d suddenly found.

“What the hell is up with you two?” Graham asked, appearing beside Killian and Killian shook his head.

“I thought I saw her,” Killian confessed and he continued to look out through the stream of people, but she didn’t reappear.

“Saw who?”

“The one.”

“The one?” Graham scoffed. “Wait are you serious right now? This isn’t just some sort of sun-induced hallucination?”

“I don’t know,” Killian whispered, fear clinging to him that maybe that’s what she was. Surely now that he thought of it no one could be so perfect or call to him so quickly. Maybe Graham was right? But then he saw her again, this time across the square from where he was. He started moving towards her, and as if she could feel his attention she stopped, looking at him and halting him in his tracks. God she was incredible. She was stunning and remarkable and every other good thing and when he saw her he forgot to breathe. All he could do was stare and enjoy the rush of adrenaline that came in realizing she was doing the same. She was caught too, snared in by this connection between them, whatever it may be.

“That’s her!” David said and Killian looked over, suddenly feeling very territorial and jealous. It didn’t matter that this was his best friend. This woman was off limits. She would be his, at least he hoped. God did he hope.

“Back off David.”

“Not the blonde, dumb ass, her friend.”

Cursing from David? Wow he must be just as caught up as Killian, and when Killian looked back over to the woman who captivated him he saw she had a girl beside her. She was brunette and petite, with a blue dress and the same beach-ready look, but she didn’t hold a candle to his girl.

“Aw shit, not now,” David groaned and Killian looked to see what he meant. Fuck! The end of year festival was happening, and now a sea of people were swarming in, dancing away the bad of this year and ringing in the new one. It was, admittedly, a very cool ceremony, but only when one wasn’t trying to meet the girl of their dreams. Instead the dancing and the noise made Killian agitated, but he couldn’t get around it, and by the time it was all over and they were free to move again, both women were gone and Killian was left feeling stunned and defeated.

“They can’t have gone far,” David said, scoping out the area but there was no sign of them. Eventually they changed tactics, with Graham questioning a vendor selling flowers down below. Killian listened as his friend asked questions about the girls but to no avail and so Killian did the same at other markets and shops. It was crazy, but finally one woman selling bracelets by the beach drive said she’d seen them.

“They came to look at my wears. Fancied a few pieces too, but said they forgot their wallets back at their hotel. They promised to come back tomorrow and get them. Said it would be their last day at the beach. Usually I don’t believe tourists when they say these things, but they had such honest eyes. Good things come to people like that.”

“Did they mention which hotel?” David asked, sidestepping the woman’s local superstitions about ‘honest eyes,’ and the woman shook her head.

“Nah, love. They did say they had to get back to the north side of the island though and there’s not many places out there. They likely at the resort.”

“Which ones did she like?” Killian asked, surprising the woman. Slowly a smile of understanding crossed the woman’s face and she gestured to a woven bracelet with a golden hue and a swan charm. It was unique, even in an array of one of a kind bracelets. “I’ll take it.”

“And I’ll take whatever else they looked at.”

It was a small consolation in all of this, and again, it defied rational explanation. This was somewhat crazy on both Killian and David’s parts, but hell if he could stop it. He wanted to have a piece of her with him, even if it was something she’d never gotten a chance to have. It felt a bit better to have this tiny trinket, and it was even more miraculous to know that tomorrow they’d be at the beach and were planning to come back here.

“So that’s that then. We’ll just be sure to get out here early tomorrow.”

Graham said the words, convinced that everything was now all set, but still Killian felt restless. Tomorrow was better than nothing. He’d been afraid he’d never see her again only a few moments ago, but he also hated the idea of waiting. Now that he’d seen her and he knew she was out there, Killian was eager to meet this woman who entranced him. She had him under her spell and she’d never so much as said a word to him.

“Captain Jack’s,” David said to Will, confusing their friend in the process. “You asked which bar and it’s Captain Jack’s.”

“If you say so, mate,” Will said as they all filed back into the car.

“It’s on the north side of the island,” David said to Killian and Killian agreed it was the best place. It wasn’t a surefire plan, what with the resort being an all inclusive, and them not being one hundred percent certain they were even there, but it made Killian feel better. Upping his chances of finding this girl was all he could ask for and they were doing just that by going north.

The next few hours passed with painful slowness, and by the time they got to the bar Killian was a bit of a wreck. It didn’t help matters that all of this was uncertain. She might not come, she might not like him, hell she might already have someone. That last though in particular scared him half to death, but he had to believe that his instinctive reaction meant something. He’d never felt this way, losing himself at first sight like this. It would be the cruelest trick of fate if she was taken, and if she could never feel the same… God he hated to even think how much that would hurt.

“I feel like my hearts going to give out any second,” David said standing next to him and casing the place with the same intensity. “I know it’s crazy but… she’s just gotta be here, man. I don’t want to wait until tomorrow.”

Killian completely understood, and he was going to try and say some words of encouragement, however half-assed they would be but then something caught David’s eye and his friend’s whole demeanor changed. The excitement that pulsed off of him and the adoration told Killian that she was back and his own heart leapt at the prospect. If her friend was here, surely the girl he wanted was here too, right? But when he looked he only saw three brunettes, and the girl of his dreams was nowhere to be seen. This was upsetting in the extreme, but he waited patiently, knowing at the very least David’s girl could tell her where she was.

Funnily enough, the girl who had caught David’s notice was staring at him with almost the same level of intensity. She gazed at him for longer than strangers should, and then she blushed, and that was all it took for David to start moving towards her. Killian followed, noticing the other two women as he did.

“You think he’s the guy?” one of them whispered. “The one from the festival?”

“Oh totally. Look at her, she’s losing it. I just wish Emma was here to see it. Maybe she’d find her guy too.”

Emma – that must be his siren’s name. He heard it and it just clicked inside of his very being, like it belonged with him all this time. He wanted to say it aloud over and over again, to say it in the heat of passion when he’d kissed her senseless or driven her wild with need. But more than that he wanted to see her again.

“Where is she?” he asked, killing David’s attempt at a smooth first greeting and not giving a damn. “Emma, your friend. She was with you at the beach today.”

“Yes, she was,” David’s girl said. “She’s outside. She said she needed some air.”

Completely neglecting his manners Killian rushed off with only a quick, ‘thanks.’ Outside was a loose description of where she could be. At the front of the bar there were people milling around, but his feet took him to the coast, the place where he would go if he needed space. Out here in the darkness there were yellow lanterns and twinkle lights set up, and the pale glow of the moon, but none of it was needed. For there, with her feet in the waves and her hair whipping in the gentle breeze was his woman, radiating her own kind of light that could never be replicated.

Killian stood rooted to the spot, watching her, for longer than he could really know. Any real coherent thought fled the moment he saw her again. Well, the shape of her really, for in the dark, and from the back like this she was a silhouette, dancing at the shoreline, feet bare and hair flowing in the night’s breeze. Killian didn’t know if the music she swayed to was something she could hear from inside the bar or a melody from her head, but either way he stood transfixed, stunned by not only how beautifully she moved, but how freely she expressed herself. This moment was a snapshot into this woman’s very soul, and it was a happy one, a carefree one that didn’t give a damn about the noise or the buzzing all around them. This girl, Emma, just… was, and Killian couldn’t help moving closer, craving the chance to see this siren’s face.

“Come here often, love?” He asked, his voice carrying across the evening air, the slightest tremble discernable in his tone. Emma, for her part, didn’t even flinch, just shook her head without looking at him, as if he and his question were an afterthought.

“Definitely not as often as you use that line,” she quipped, and he couldn’t help himself. He laughed at her boldness, and he knew she was right. It was a line, but damn if he could come up with anything original. She stole the air from his lungs and the sense from his mind. He was lucky to have uttered anything at all.

“Forgive me, that was bad. Let me try again. Are you interested in a partner, or is this more a solo escapade you’ve got going here?”

Now Emma whipped her head towards him, and whatever he’d felt for her before ramped infinitely. She was a beautiful woman from any distance, but up close that was even more undeniable. Her soft, full lips tormented him because all he wanted was to claim them and see them swollen from his kisses, and the smattering of freckles on her skin spoke to lots of time out here in the sun. Her hair was hanging lose now, curled and silky, tempting his fingers which craved the change to run through it, and the dress she wore now was red and fiery, a complete transformation from the pale, pure yellow of this afternoon. He caught her scent on the air, a hint of lavender and something else he couldn’t place, but her eyes did the most damage, striking him with a blow of recognition and interest he never could have expected.

“It’s you.”

“Aye, love, it’s me.”

“Sorry about before. A couple of guys have come up to me and some of them forget that no means no.”

“Someone was bothering you?” Killian asked, his anger rising as he looked around for signs of dead men walking. Who would dare to bother his Emma? Oh shit, now he was really losing it, thinking of her as his when they’d barely even met. Only the gentle touch of her hand on his arm could pull him back.

“It’s okay, I can handle myself. I’ve been doing it all my life.”

He hated to think that she had to be her own defender, when she should be protected and provided for in every way she wished, but he loved the feel of her hand on him. Even when she removed it, realizing she’d touched him and pulling back with a little bit of embarrassment, he could feel her branded on his skin. And he liked it A lot.

“But how did you find me?” she asked, letting her happiness at seeing him slip when she probably didn’t mean to. “I mean, I saw you earlier, in town, but I thought you were gone…”

He reached out for her hand and she let him take it, creating a rush of pleasure as they made contact again. It emboldened Killian, and it made him feel more alive than anything else ever had. “I tried to find you earlier, but in the craziness I lost you. I admit I thought you might have been a dream. It was hard for me to imagine you could even be real.”

“But now you’re here. How?”

“Fate, destiny, and perhaps a little help from a local vendor.”

Emma’s eyes shone with wonder and he heard her gasp as he pulled the bracelet he procured earlier and presented it to her. “For you, love.”

“I don’t usually take gifts from strangers,” Emma said as he tied the strands of the trinket together, sealing it around her wrist. He smiled at the fact that he hadn’t introduced himself yet. He was forgetting himself, but thankfully, Emma didn’t seem to mind too much.

“My name’s Killian. Killian Jones. And you are?”

“Emma. Emma Swan.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Emma,” he said, meaning it more than he’d ever meant anything before.

“Yeah, you too,” she said and Killian’s chest swelled with pride. He was still holding onto her, his thumb running against the underside of her wrist as he felt her delicate skin. Her pulse beneath him was rapid, matching the beat of his own, and when he looked back up to her, her eyes were on his lips, torn between hunger, intrigue, and still a little bit of wariness. He wanted to kiss that worry she had away, to show her there would be no reason for fear, not where he was involved, but that might be taking things too fast. He needed something, anything, to show her he could be trusted or to give him just a little more time in her company.

At that moment the music changed and the song filtered over the stereo outside was slower and written out of love. It was intimate and seductive, and for Killian it proved the perfect opening. “So, love, about that dance… would you do me the honor?”

Emma smiled at him, setting him alight as she stepped into his arms, fitting like the piece he’d been missing for too long. It felt amazing to hold her close and sway back and forth with her. One song blurred to another, and another, until truth be told he was so lost in her he couldn’t tell how much time had passed. In the meantime they talked, they danced, they got to know each other but not just with words. This was a blending of two souls, and, if his suspicions were right, the evolution of a love at first sight story that would endure long past this trip.

“I can’t believe you live in New York too,” Emma said as they were finally walking back to the party to rejoin their friends. It was nearly midnight, but it felt like no time had passed at all. “What are the chances?”

“I couldn’t tell you that, love, but I will say I’m glad for it.”

“Oh yeah?” she asked, her face a little flushed from their closeness. He stopped their walking, pulling her into his arms and tilting her chin up so her eyes met his.

“Aye. It makes the whole asking you out thing a bit more manageable. Not that distance would have stopped me. I’d have made it work, no matter how far away you may be.”

“You want to ask me out?” she asked, her voice hoarse from emotion and her eyes wide at the prospect.

“I want to do much more than that, love. And it’ll be more than one date I’m after, you can rest assured. But it’s a good place to start, don’t you think?”

“Hmm, maybe,” she said before smiling at him and edging a bit closer so her lips were mere inches from his.

“You’re not convinced?”

“Well, I kind of like the idea of starting with a chance meeting, some moonlight dancing, and a New Years’ kiss…”

Growling out his own approval Killian crushed his lips to hers, tasting her sweetness and savoring every bit of it. She was magic made real, and the feel of her on him, chasing the same high and the same bliss from being with him that he got with her was life altering. Lightening could strike them now and he’d never know, not when he already felt so much with Emma. This was the first kiss they’d ever shared and yet Killian knew it would be the last first kiss either of them ever had. This was the beginning of a new forever, and Emma was right, this was the best kind of start their story could have.

“I was thinking the kiss would come at midnight,” Emma said when they broke apart, her breathing ragged and her green eyes darker from the desire she was experiencing. “You know that’s kind of the tradition.”

“So you’re saying we should wait then? No more until -,”

He couldn’t get the words out before Emma was pulling him in for another kiss, and that was just fine by him. And as the rest of the night sped by, and the year changed from the old to the new, Killian was certain that this lucky happenstance would be something much bigger, and that this time next year and every year thereafter he and Emma would still be together and happy and whole.  

…………

On a boat, on a beach In the water, in the sand, in the back of a bar Cold beer in your hand Breaking hearts, breaking necks When we rolling down the street, heads turning all day when they see you with me I'm thinking everybody better stand in line 'Cause they need to know that your body's coming with me tonight They're like, "hey, who that there with the shades?" Like oh, the way you move to the bass Hold up Whole room gets to spinnin' from the second that you walk in And baby you look good all day, all night You look good, so fresh, so fine You look good, got everybody watching you like cameras in Hollywood Baby you look good Aw baby you look good Black dress, 2 the 9s, New Year's in a pent From the floor, to the roof, make the skyline spin Yeah, you're killing me boy in your black-faded jeans Ain't gotta work hard when you're smilin' at me Like, "hey, who that there with the shades?" Like oh, the way you move to the bass Hold up Whole room gets to spinnin' from the second that you walk in And baby you look good all day, all night You look good, so fresh, so fine You look good, got everybody watching you like cameras in Hollywood Baby you look good Aw baby you look good I'm thinking everybody better stand in line 'Cause they need to know that your body's coming with me tonight They're like, "hey, who that there with the shades?" Like oh, the way you move to the bass Hold up Whole room gets to spinnin' from the second that you walk in And baby you look good all day, all night You look good, so fresh, so fine You look good, got everybody watching you like cameras in Hollywood Baby you look good Come on baby you look good You look good Baby you look good

Post-Note: So there we have it. Just a little CS insta-love fluff to get us through the end of this year. Like I said, I hope you all have the best end to your 2019 and a wonderful start to your 2020. Thank you all so much for your kindness, support, and friendship this year. Looking forward to next year and wishing you all the best decade to come!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9,Part 10,Part 11, Part 12,Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18, Part 19, Part 20, Part 21, Part 22, Part 23, Part 24,Part 25, Part 26, Part 27, Part 28, Part 29, Part 30, Part 31,Part 32, Part 33, Part 34, Part 35, Part 36, Part 37, Part 38,Part 39,Part 40, Part 41, Part 42, Part 43, Part 44, Part 45,Part 46,Part 47, Part 48, Part 49, Part 50, Part 51, Part 52, Part 53,Part 54,Part 55, Part 56, Part 57, Part 58, Part 59, Part 60,Part 61,Part 62, Part 63, Part 64, Part 65, Part 66, Part 67, Part 68,Part 69,Part 70, Part 71, Part 72, Part 73, Part 74, Part 75,Part 76,Part 77, Part 78, Part 79, Part 80, Part 81, Part 82, Part 83,Part 84,Part 85, Part 86, Part 87, Part 88, Part 89, Part 90,Part 91,Part 92, Part 93, Part 94, Part 95, Part 96, Part 97, Part 98,Part 99,Part 100, Part 101, Part 102, Part 103,Part 104, Part 105,Part 106, Part 107,Part 108, Part 109, Part 110,Part 111, Part 112,Part 113, Part 114, Part 115,Part 116, Part 117, Part 118,Part 119,Part 120, Part 121, Part 122, Part 123,Part 124, Part 125,Part 126, Part 127, Part 128,Part 129,Part 130, Part 131,Part 132,Part 133, Part 134, Part 135, Part 136, Part 137, Part 138,Part 139,Part 140, Part 141, Part 142, Part 143, Part 144, Part 145,Part 146, Part 147, Part 148,Part 149, Part 150, Part 151,Part 152, Part 153, Part 154, Part 155, Part 156, Part 157, Part 158,Part 159, Part 160, Part 161, Part 162, Part 163, Part 164,Part 165, Part 166, Part 167, Part 168, Part 169, Part 170,Part 171,Part 172, Part 173, Part 174, Part 175, Part 176,Part 177, Part 178, Part 179 , Part 180, Part 181, Part 182, Part 183, Part 184, Part 185, Part 186, Part 187, Part 188

[juniperwindsong]

Dragonology 101 (10/10)

Summary: There's no fanfare or applause, no sudden beam of light that shines down onto Felix as he makes his decision; the way such a life-changing decision really deserves, he thinks. There's just the instant when he knows what he's going to do, as surely and with as little wonder as if he had made the choice long ago and only just now remembered to inform himself.

"Last minute cramming, Rosier? Most unlike you!"

Felix looks up from the letter he's engrossed in, startled by the voice of the girl perched on the very edge of the bench beside him. Her hands wring together in her lap nervously, and her lips twitch in the rough facsimile of a smile. But, like all the other seventh years waiting to take their Defense Against the Dark Arts practical exam, it's an expression she's almost forgotten how to make. The faces in the small room run the spectrum from anxious to down right terrified, and the girl next to him isn't the only one whose hands are shaking.

Tilting the parchment away from the girl's prying eyes, Felix makes a vague sort of grunting noise hoping to dissuade any further questions when he hears his name called from the doorway. He re-folds the letter carefully along its well worn creases, and slips it into the pocket of his trousers where he imagines he can feel its slight weight against his leg. Standing briskly, he and four of his classmates follow the wizened NEWT official into the Great Hall.

It's lucky he's excellent at practical examinations, Felix reflects, as he's never revised so little for a test in his life. In spite of the fact that he has not practiced or even opened a book in the last two days, the counterjinx he casts is flawless and receives an enthusiastic nod from his suitably impressed examiner.

Kettleburn assures me you excel under pressure...are uniquely qualified...asserts that you subdued the Common Welsh Green practically single handed... One of his favorite phrases from the letter drifts through Felix's mind, and he swells with pride, deflecting the examiner's hex with such force the man stumbles.

"Well done, Mr. Rosier!" the NEWT official gushes after the exam has concluded. Felix thanks him with as much modesty as he can muster. "I must say, I've rarely seen anyone so composed during a NEWT. May I ask what career path you are planning to pursue?"

Felix's self-satisfied smile withers as nerves attack his confidence for the first time that morning. He mumbles something noncommittal and scurries away from the hall as quickly as dignity allows.

Students are milling about just outside the entrance, rehashing their performance and comparing comments from their examiners. Felix skirts the edges of the crowd to avoid being hailed by anyone he knows and makes a beeline for the open castle doors. The grounds are full of laughing underclassman, unburdened by exams, basking in the warmth that has finally arrived after the unreasonably long, cold winter. Students lay sprawled out on the grass, propped under trees, or splashing each other merrily at the edges of the Black Lake, but Felix passes them all without seeing, focused entirely on the letter he's retrieved from his pocket and unfolds carefully as he walks.

The letter arrived two days before, and since then Felix has carried it with him everywhere. He's afraid to leave it in his room, cannot bear to keep it even as far away as his school bag, for fear it might vanish. No matter how real the now well-worn parchment feels in his hands, part of him is still convinced it's a figment of his imagination.

Felix's legs move without guidance from his brain, which is just as well since his brain is too preoccupied at the moment to be bothered with anything quite so trivial as where he's going. He's peripherally aware of sloping, uneven ground under his feet, and the sounds of merry laughter behind him growing fainter. He scans the cramped, uneven handwriting, searching feverishly for that line he has memorized and yet is compelled to see in print every few minutes.

"...my pleasure to offer you a position as my junior field assistant on an expedition the Reserve is sponsoring in Peru..."

A joke, Felix thought the first time he read it; it's someone's horrid idea of a joke. Only who could have thought up such a thing? No one except Kettleburn and Juniper knows about his adventure of the last term, and the letter references the Common Welsh Green and the Reserve specifically. He's considered more than once whether this might be some misguided attempt of Juniper's to trick him into pursuing Dragonology. But that's quite the elaborate scheme even for her. And besides, it isn't her handwriting. He's double-checked.

Felix thrusts aside branches and skirts clumps of overgrown grasses, dimly aware of a change in the light but unable to ascribe any meaning to it. The letter is real, then. It has to be. As unbelievable as it seems, he's spent two days considering every other possibility and nothing else adds up. He holds in his hand a real opportunity to study dragons out in the field. A once in a lifetime offer from a respected Dragonologist who chose him without an application, without NEWT scores, without even meeting him. Just based on Sparky's now legendary origin story and Kettleburn's recommendation.

It's everything Felix has never let himself even hope for; a longing relegated to the deepest recesses of late night fantasies; a very literal dream come true. And yet, Felix vacillates between overjoyed and overwhelmed. Because the choice it requires of him is so daunting it leaves him dizzy and weak in the knees.

Felix picks his way through the tightly intertwined branches without conscious effort, as though it were second nature. Which it is. He realises where his feet have led him only when they stop just at the edge of the valley where he spent half of the last term. The best half, he thinks. Maybe the best part of the last seven years. He drops to the ground, suddenly exhausted, and surveys the ditch in front of him. With the dragon gone, it seems so much larger.

How can he accept? How can he not accept?

For a moment, Felix permits himself to imagine what it would be like to say yes. He swings his legs over the side of the ledge, allowing a thrill to course through him at the thought of making his dream a reality, living out a true adventure. He tries to picture himself deep in the wilds of a South American rain forest, tracking the Peruvian Vipertooth with nothing but his wits and his wand, but fails entirely. He has no frame of reference for this. Even after pulling down every book on geography the library contains (astonishingly few), his only impression of Peru is a small dark green space on an old fashioned map.

Felix wonders briefly if the library at home might have anything more informative, but that thought sends his heart sinking into stomach. Because equally hard to picture as life in Peru is the conversation it would require with his father. It wouldn't even be a conversation, he thinks, kicking restlessly at the earth wall beneath him. It would simply be his father's deadly quiet voice and his swiftly drawn wand reminding Felix who is his and where he belongs, and Felix passively accepting this the way he always has.

The writhing in his stomach at the thought of his pre-destined future is horribly familiar, but now it's accompanied by something different, something stronger: a wave of grief that breaks over his head with such intensity it forces his eyes shut. Felix grips the grass beneath his fingers tightly. He knows what loss feels like now. He didn't before. Can he live forever with the loss of this? Everything's he's ever dreamed of handed to him so perfectly?

He can't decide. He's run through these arguments so many times the last few days they feel as creased and faded as the letter itself. Felix wishes there were someone he could talk to about it who could offer perspective. He knows Juniper would listen, if he managed to track her down, but the last thing he needs now is for his awkward feelings for her to over-complicate a situation already fraught with difficulty. Besides, Felix knows exactly what she would say, can even picture how she would look saying it. The voice in his head urging him to go sounds remarkably like hers. And the other voice is his father's. He needs a new voice, someone whose answer isn't predetermined.

Glancing back down at the letter, Felix's eye is caught by that phrase, Kettleburn has assured me....

-

Felix treks out of the forest and toward the Care of Magical Creatures paddock just as a group of third years are finishing their final exam. Students in red and green ties run frantically about the enclosure attempting to round up what looks like a small army of nifflers. He can see Barnaby Lee toting an armful of the struggling creatures toward a large open box, and Liz Tuttle balancing a niffler on each shoulder, plying them with treats. Grinning slightly to himself, Felix wonders if this is part of the exam or merely another creature prison break. Kettleburn stands off to the side, laughing heartily, which offers no additional insight.

Not wanting to be recognized by anyone, Felix takes his time approaching the paddock. He waits for the teenagers to deposit their nifflers, then gather up their things, laughing and chatting happily with each other as if they haven't any real cares at all. It's like looking through a window into a different world, Felix thinks wistfully, one where the weight of the entire future isn't hanging ominously over anyone's head.

"Well, if it isn't my aspiring Dragonologist! How are you, lad?" Kettleburn exclaims jovially as Felix clambers over the perimeter fence and enters the paddock. A few lagging third years look around to see whom Kettleburn is referring to. Felix feels his cheeks heat up, and he tugs at his collar in a hopeless attempt to shield his face from recognition.

"Fine, Professor, thank you," he answers uncomfortably. He shoots a look at the now clearly eavesdropping third years, so curious to know what could bring a seventh year out of the library on NEWT week. Kettleburn follows his gaze, then gestures at the gaggle of students as if shooing them away.

"Go on, you lot, off to dinner then!" Reluctantly, they hoist their bags onto their shoulders and trot back up to the castle.

Kettleburn twists from side to side to make sure there's no one else still hanging around before saying in an unnecessary whisper, "If you're here about that dragon, I can tell you he is doing swimmingly at the Reserve!"

For the first time in two days, Felix finds something to distract him from the letter. "Have they been able to fix his wing, then?"

"Not to my knowledge no," Kettleburn's moustache droops a little as he frowns, "But he did have his first flame a week ago! Very momentous occasion, so sorry you couldn't be there. Though from what I hear, you'll soon be seeing as much dragon-fire as you could hope for. Congratulations, by the way!"

"Oh..." Felix flounders for something polite to say that won't betray his indecision. "Yes. That is - thank you, sir."

"Well, was there anything I could do for you, lad?" asks Kettleburn. "Not harboring any other dangerous creatures are we? Haven't perhaps found that old yeti of mine?" He sounds rather hopeful, but Felix shakes his head.

"No sir. I...I actually wanted to ask you a question about the letter I received from the Reserve-"

"Hang on," Kettleburn interrupts, limping quickly around Felix to where the box of nifflers has begun to shake alarmingly, the creatures inside working together to capsize their prison. The professor steadies the box before it tips and places his hand firmly against the top to prevent any nifflers from popping up that way.

"Mischievous little blighters. Hate to keep them cooped up, but they're in time-out you see. Gnawed through my favorite leg when I wasn't watching." Kettleburn casts a glance back at Felix, hand still keeping the protesting box as still as possible. "What were you saying, lad?"

"I was just saying..." Felix struggles to regain his train of thought. "The letter I received mentions that you recommended me personally."

"Of course!" declares Kettleburn proudly. "Never met students could handle a dragon the way you and Miss Windsong did for so long with so little disaster! I had a hard time convincing anyone at the Reserve I wasn't exaggerating!"

Felix watches as tiny fingered paws begin to poke through the cracks at the top of the box, and he has to work hard not to crack a grin, the tension constricting his chest easing slightly.

"Yes sir, but...before that."

"Before?" repeats Kettleburn distractedly as he pokes the nifflers' paws back into the box one at a time.

"Before you found out about the dragon," clarifies Felix. "When I asked you if you had any contacts in dragonology, you said... you thought it was an excellent career choice for me?"

Kettleburn finally draws his wand and flicks it toward the top of the box wordlessly, making it go still. He straightens up, brushing off his kilt.

"I did indeed."

"But...why?" Felix asks unable to keep his voice casual or unconcerned in the face of the question he's been dying to know the answer to since November.

"Why?" Kettleburn fixes his one eye on Felix in a critical stare, as if deciding whether or not he's joking. But Felix has never been more serious in his life. "Do you know what most dragonologists have in common, Mr. Rosier?"

Felix shakes his head.

"Well, they all look a good bit like me." Kettleburn waves his replacement arm up and down the length of his body, indicating his many missing limbs. "You see, wizards who work with dangerous creatures generally have an excess of enthusiasm but lack what you might call self-preservation. You need a decent bit of both to be successful, but Magizoologists, and Dragonologists in particular, tend to put a premium on the former. We're a passionate bunch - have to be! But it does tend to shorten your life span and your number of natural limbs," Kettleburn concludes almost wistfully, regarding his own wooden leg which Felix notices is riddled with tiny niffler-sized toothmarks.

"But you, lad!' Kettleburn adds, pointing his claw at Felix. "You have something else."

"What?" breathes Felix, eager as a child on Christmas.

"Why, a good bit of common sense!" Kettleburn exclaims, arms spread wide as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Let me ask you, what do you think would have happened to Miss Windsong had you not been there to assist her with that dragon?"

Both the professor's answer and his follow-up question surprise Felix. He casts his mind back to the previous term, trying to imagine what each interaction with Sparky would have been like for Juniper alone. She did visit the dragon on her own for nearly a month before he joined her. And she was admittedly, more careful when approaching the dragon than Felix had ever seen her with anything else. But what would have happened once she decided Sparky needed exercise? Felix had orchestrated every successful part of that plan. Would she have tried to shrink the dragon like she first suggested? He doubts she could have managed it on her own, but if she had, if she freed Sparky from the ditch and led him to the grasslands by herself? Felix remembers the murderous look on the dragon's face and he feels suddenly queasy.

"I gather that you were rather the sensible one between the two of you," Kettleburn asserts. "And a dragonologist with a degree of sense is a rare find indeed. It would make you an impressive addition to any team. Not to mention increase your chances of survival by a good deal."

Felix turns this over in his mind. It's a perspective he hasn't considered. As much as he loves dragonology, it hasn't occurred to him that he might bring something unique and necessary to the profession. It makes his decision somehow bigger than just himself and his family.

Kettleburn limps toward Felix. "Dragonology isn't exactly a glamorous career, lad. It's dirty and tedious and pays precious little, and you'll see more than your fair share of danger. And it isn't the sort of thing you can change your mind about halfway through. You have to be determined, dedicated, able to withstand a great deal of hardship." The tall professor claps his good hand to Felix's shoulder encouragingly. "But it seems to me that a young man who's spent half a year secretly caring for a dragon with no hope of any reward but a great deal of risk including expulsion, on top of a seventh year's class schedule and NEWT studies- that's a person who's positively born for dragons. I can't imagine you won't make a name for yourself."

There's no fanfare or applause, no sudden beam of light that shines down onto Felix as he makes his decision; the way such a life-changing decision really deserves, he thinks. There's just the instant when he knows what he's going to do, as surely and with as little wonder as if he had made the choice long ago and only just now remembered to inform himself. He isn't going home. He isn't going to worry about what his parents want him to do or become. He's going to Peru to be a dragonologist, to make a name for himself, and start making the people who actually care about him proud for a change.

Kettleburn stands back and surveys Felix, slightly concerned. "Not having second thoughts, are you lad?" and Felix smiles, a real, joyful smile with no hint of a smirk, like the sun emerging from behind clouds.

"Not at all, sir. Thank you. For everything."

-

An easy decision, then, in the end. Felix crafts his acceptance letter flawlessly in one draft, as though he's known the whole time what his answer would be and has been composing the reply in his head. He sends the letter off the same day, and as he descends the owlery stairs, he feels like a brand new person.

Much less easy is the letter to his parents. An hour after Felix begins, the floor is littered with parchment and his hair is on end as he struggles to find a way of explaining what to them will be brand new and bizarre information. Nothing he writes will make them understand, he's sure of that. It's quite possible they won't even believe it. He imagines his father's indignant reply will accuse him of some NEWT induced madness, perhaps even in the form of a howler in an attempt to scare him to his senses.

Eventually, Felix writes the simple facts of the matter and seals the letter before he can reconsider. There will be fallout, he has no doubt. But somehow, now that he's made his decision, that knowledge is less frightening than it used to be. It's simply another hurdle in the way of his goal, one that he will inevitably overcome.

Only it's not a letter or a howler that arrives at school the morning Felix prepares to sit his final NEWT in Potions. As he makes his way to the Great Hall along with the other seventh year Slytherins, all quizzing each other frantically in hushed tones, he hears a voice saying his name from somewhere behind him. The voice isn't loud, but it carries with ease over his classmates susurrations. It's a quiet, deadly voice that Felix would recognize anywhere, even if he's never expected to hear it here at Hogwarts before.

Felix whips around in thunderstruck horror to find his father. He stands outside the door to Snape's office, the professor himself hovering just behind him. Felix notices distantly that his head of house seems even more displeased than usual and he addresses Felix's father in his most politely venomous tone.

"Mr. Rosier, your son is due to sit his final NEWT momentarily. Surely, this can wait."

"Absolutely not." His father's voice does not increase in volume but broaches no argument. Students around Felix are turning to stare and he can feel a heat rising in his cheeks that would keep a salamander content.

Snape's eyes flick once to the hallway around Felix before saying smoothly, "Then this conversation should be moved elsewhere." He jerks open the door to his office and waits pointedly beside it. Felix's father gives his son one last empty-eyed stare before stalking into the room leaving Felix to follow.

Felix uses the dozen steps to the dungeon to steel his nerve against the rise of instinctual panic within him. He's faced down a dragon, he reminds himself fiercely, why is his father so much more frightening? Kettleburn assures me you are excellent under pressure, he repeats like a mantra. But for some reason, he cannot harness that acumen that has brought him so far. He has no plan of attack against his father, no way to defend. He never has.

"What is this rubbish?" His father murmurs dangerously as soon as the door snaps shut behind Felix. He brandishes his son's letter in two fingers as though it were something filthy.

Felix takes a deep breath. And then another. Kettleburn assures me...

"It's a letter," he says simply. He doesn't intend this remark to sound as sarcastic as it does, but his father's eyes flash with fury and his hand creeps toward the pocket of his robes. Felix suppresses his involuntary twitch.

"No. It isn't," his father contradicts. "It's raving nonsense is what it is. 'Dragons and South America'," he utters contemptuously, glancing down at the offending words. "You consider this some sort of drollery, I assume? Perhaps if you tell me the name of the person who put you up to such a joke, you might be spared the more severe repercussions."

Snape doesn't keep chairs or sofas in his office for students to sit on leaving a large amount of open floor space, yet Felix's father seems to fill up the entire room with his presence, trapping Felix against the door. His heart is pounding so loudly he cannot hear himself think.

"It's not. A joke," he stammers. The weakness in his voice feeds the cold fire in his father's eyes. Deep breath. Focus. "As I explained in my letter, I received an extraordinary offer to accompany a highly respected Dragonoligist on an expedition in Peru. This offer is time sensitive and rare. I would be amiss not to accept it."

In almost eighteen years, Felix has never once seen his father speechless. Furious and raging, yes; cold and deadly, often; but never with his dark, empty eyes so round and wide, and his mouth hanging slightly open like a fish. It changes his father's aspect entirely. And Felix can hear Juniper's voice in his head, He's just a parent. He's not infallible. And he feels the fear begin to leak slowly from him like air from a balloon.

"What...is this madness?" Felix watches his father struggle to collect himself, can see wheels turning behind his eyes as he tries to regain control of the discussion. He suddenly turns and jabs a finger toward Snape, seemingly desperate for someone to whom he can attribute blame. "Where have you been in all this?"

Felix is impressed to find Snape entirely unintimidated by the fuming man in front of him.

"This is as much news to me as it is to you, Mr. Rosier. Your son has never confided in me any particular interest in Dragonology." Felix notices his father is several inches shorter than Snape. In fact, Felix thinks his father might actually be an inch or two shorter than himself. The image of his father in his head has always been like a statue, towering over him from a height Felix will never reach. It's strange to realize how small he actually is.

"No, I haven't. But it isn't new," Felix declares, his voice stronger. Both men turn to stare at him. "I've always been passionate about dragons. And this year I had the opportunity to interact with one and discovered I have quite a talent for it." He does not neglect to infuse his voice with the pride he feels is justified. "Professor Kettleburn was suitably impressed and recommended me to a friend he has at the Romanian Reserve. They believe I am uniquely qualified, and I was offered the position personally without an application or test scores. I've decided to take it."

Felix's father begins that slow saunter forward that Felix knows so well and alarm bells sound in his brain. But now he can see that his father is just another beast, his calculated steps merely an intimidation technique. His father's hand flicks lazily to his wand, but Felix can focus through the fear. Excellent under pressure...uniquely qualified. He tenses his muscles precisely, ready to dodge whatever spell his father chooses to throw, the same way he's dodged the snapping jaws of a dragon.

"You listen to me." His father's voice is barely a whisper. "This is a childishness I believed you were finally above but I see I have overestimated you. You are far too old to play these games-"

"You're right," Felix interjects calmly. He can hardly believe himself, because he has never done that before. Never even considered doing so. But like every other new and dangerous thing he's done this year, it comes with an incredible rush of excitement. "I am a legal adult now which means you cannot keep me from accepting this position. I can make my own decision regarding my future, and this is what I've decided."

His father might have turned to stone, he's so deathly still. Felix wonders if it's the confidence infused in his tone or simply that his father hasn't been contradicted by anyone in recent memory. Felix sets his face with grim determination, like a certain fourteen year old he knows so well. It's a look that doesn't yell or threaten, simply refuses to be cowed. But he's still himself, and so there's a smirk in it as well.

"Obviously, I would prefer that you see how this can be mutually advantageous. A position like this takes our name out of the spot light, yes, but it's still a position that carries prestige. It might be everything we need to repair the damage to the family reputation you caused." His father blinks, the first sign of life from him. "But if you cannot see that, nothing changes. This is what I've chosen."

Something shifts in the elder Rosier's face. The frozen features seem to melt slightly and a look that Felix recognises crosses his face briefly. He's seen his father look that way at Evan many times, but it isn't a look he ever seen directed at himself. It's respect.

"Well," his father pronounces finally, face now a careful mask. "I suppose congratulations are in order." He gives his son an infinitesimal nod, and if Snape suddenly began singing Celestina Warbeck in the background it would not have surprised Felix more. "It seems you've found yourself a bit of power. You might not be the waste of a name I considered you." His eyes meet Felix's in the closest thing to approval that Felix has ever experienced from him as he closes the distance between them.

"I will allow you to have your lark, for now. But know this, Felix," and he sets his hand briefly upon his son's shoulder. "Power without direction is meaningless. And often disastrous. The time will come when your power will need to be harnessed to a cause greater than yourself. And far more important than dragons."

And with that final pronouncement as his only farewell, his father sweeps from the dungeon, leaving Felix to somehow right the world from where it's been turned upside down. Felix is as dazed as if his father had hit him with a stunning spell, and he would be mortified if he had any concept of the slack-jawed expression of disbelief on his face.

"Mr. Rosier," Snape's voice drifts toward him from somewhere faraway. "You will need to proceed to your potions NEWT if you do not wish to receive a failing grade."

Felix nods dazedly, and exits the office as if he's floating. He wanders up the passage, legs moving of their own accord as his brain tries to comprehend the last ten minutes. In seventeen years of seeking his father's approval, is it possible he's found it by standing up against him?

Once again, Felix is thankful that he tests so well, because he has never been more distracted during an examination.

-

Click. Felix shuts the door to the horseless carriage carefully behind the last of the excitedly chattering first years. He scrutinizes the thinning crowd of students waiting to be ferried to the Hogwarts express to be sure he hasn't missed anyone, when he hears his name being called. Felix turns to see Barnaby Lee practically falling from the window of a nearby carriage in his attempt to flag Felix down.

"Felix, over here! Please?"

Shaking his head ruefully, Felix makes his way to the carriage and clambers in, settling himself beside Barnaby, much to the younger boy's obvious pleasure. It isn't until he's already seated and the carriage has begun to move that he realises the opposite seats are filled by Rowan Khanna and Juniper Windsong.

"I can't believe you won't be back next year," Barnaby laments, his face, always full of exactly what he's feeling, now the picture of dejection.

"Slytherin has other prefects, Barnaby. They'll help you with anything you need, that's their job." Felix tries to sound reassuring, but he can't focus properly. It's the first time he's been this close to Juniper since they said goodbye in the common room weeks ago, and he's acutely aware of her eyes on him.

"Yes, but not like you," Barnaby objects. "You never call me stupid or complain when I don't get things right away, like the other ones do. I don't know how I'll pass any of my classes now."

"You can revise with us!" Rowan blurts out, leaning forward excitedly in her seat.

"You wouldn't want to revise with me," replies Barnaby, sadly. "I'll just slow you down. I never understand anything. It used to drive Merula mad."

"There's nothing wrong with taking it slow, " Juniper chimes in. "Everyone struggles with something. Rowan's no good with creatures and I'm rubbish at Transfiguration. But we help each other. No matter how long it takes."

"Really?" Barnaby's face reflects earnest curiousity.

"Of course," says Juniper with a light, good-natured laugh. "That's what friends are for." And Felix has no time to glance away from her before she catches his eye, as if searching for his approval.

Felix feels like he might burst from the swell of pride and fondness he feels for her. He nods very slightly.

"Looks like you're in good hands, Barnaby," he says, giving the other boy a small smile of solidarity. "But if you ever need any particular advice, you can always write me."

Barnaby's face lights up again. "Really? Are you staying in London, then? You could come visit us sometime!" The younger boy is nearly bouncing in his seat with the force of his excitement. Felix has to work immensely hard to keep his smile from growing out of control.

"No actually, I have a job lined up in Peru," He says this casually, flicking back a loose piece of hair from his forehead and basking in the impressed looks on everyone's faces. Including Juniper's.

"What's that?" asks Barnaby confused.

"You mean 'where's that?' and the answer is it's a country in South America." Rowan answers promptly before anyone else can get a word in.

"But...that's so far away!" Barnaby exclaims, his eyes wide with concern. "What are you doing there?"

Felix takes a moment to savor his next words. "I'll be joining a team of Dragonologists working with the Peruvian Vipertooth. They're the fastest breeding dragons and they terrorize the locals if left on their own, so there's always a small team there responsible for keeping the population in check. Should be a good experience."

There's a brief silence before Barnaby and Rowan jump in with half a dozen follow-up questions, each talking over the other and eager to hear more. Felix answers them non-nonchalantly, explaining that he's meeting the expedition team at the Three Broomsticks instead of taking the Hogwarts Express back to London, all as if they were discussing nothing more exceptional than History of Magic homework. He keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the two of them, refusing to glance at Juniper except from the very corner of his eye. She's too blurry to read an expression from, but the silence she maintains is not like her at all.

They reach the station in what feels to Felix like record time, and as he climbs out of the carriage he feels nerves begin to buzz within him pleasantly. He watches the students around him rush for the idling train, calling to friends and searching for empty compartments, and feels a pang of homesickness for this moment he will never have again.

Then Barnaby pulls Felix into a crushing hug from behind, and he can't stop himself chuckling. The boy is four years younger than Felix, but just as tall and already broader. There are tears in Barnaby's eyes when he pulls away which alarms Felix slightly, so he turns to wave and nod at Khanna already making her way toward the train to save seats. Barnaby follows her, lifting their collective trunks easily.

Finally, Felix has no choice but to turn his gaze to Juniper. She's still standing by the carriage watching him, face entirely unreadable, which is odd in and of itself since Felix now considers himself an expert in interpreting her expressions.

"Well, farewell then," is what Felix begins to say before Juniper cuts him off.

"Felix, are you serious? You're really going to Peru? To study dragons?" It's that chaotic way of speaking she resorts to when she can't string a full sentence together. And there's no way he can prevent his smile from broadening now.

"Yes. Kettleburn's friend from the Reserve made me an offer."

Juniper simply stares. Then she crosses the distance between them in the space of a heartbeat and flings her arms around Felix's neck, pulling him into a hug with much the same force as Barnaby's in spite of the fact that she's half as wide and nowhere near as tall. Felix is overwhelmed by her scent, and the feel of her closer to him than she's ever been. But before he can begin to think what to do next, before he can even hug her back properly, she's let go.

A heat like dragonfire radiates from Felix's cheeks. "What...was that for?" he slurs dazedly, rubbing the back of his neck.

I"m just..." Juniper breaks off, shaking her head. She seems as overwhelmed as Felix feels. "I'm just really, really happy for you." The grin plastered to her face is so wide she has to hide it with her hand.

And Felix smiles back, still red but now betraying some of the building excitement he feels for what's ahead. If there's anyone who truly understands what this means to him, it's Juniper. And in spite of his promise to himself that he would keep his distance from her until he left school, he's glad she knows.

"Will you write?" asks Juniper, "When you can, I mean. I know you'll be busy, I'd just... like to hear about it."

"I'll try," Felix replies noncommittally. Juniper nods as though she understands the reason for his reticence, but she can't possibly. He hopes.

"You're going to be great," she declares simply, and Felix's smile morphs into his customary smirk.

"Of course I am."

Juniper rolls her eyes. "Of course," she agrees, only half mocking.

Rowan calls down from the train, now billowing steam back across the nearly empty platform, and Juniper starts. She sprints toward the train, stopping at the stairs to shoot Felix a final lop-sided grin before climbing into her compartment. The three newly graduated third years wave down to Felix as the train begins to move and he waves back, the lump in his throat surprising him.

The earth-shattering excitement of the last weeks has prevented Felix from really processing that this is it; he's truly leaving Hogwarts forever. He's no longer a student, no longer a child, but a fully-grown wizard about to begin his real life. Felix has spent most of the year picturing this moment with dread, but everything's changed now. The next stage of his life is no longer a black spectre looming ahead of him, but an adventure the likes of which he never thought he'd see. He can feel that tremendous pounding of his heart in his chest that means he's about to attempt something new and dangerous and incredible. Felix lets the familiar sensation wash over him, and he smiles as he takes his first step toward the Three Broomsticks and into his new and unexpected future.

-

A/N: Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, I’d love to hear it. If you want more Felix and Juniper, check out the sequel, Necessary Monsters, or view my HPHM Fanfiction Masterpost here.