#//I hope this works!! ;-; I feel like Veer would just ignore all consequences and want to speak to Goldie first

[wrvtchedhearts]

@anhedcnias ft. Rhodes @ the park

Veer did not easily care for others. There was a threshold of importance one had to overcome in order for them to regard anyone as valuable enough that they would change anything about their life to fit them. At times, not even their parents fell in that category. But this kid.

Mujhe yakeen nahin ho raha!

This kid only existed, and Veer felt like he could move heaven and earth for her.

Though he had reservations as well. As he sat at the bench in the park watching the girl spin around, falling, getting back up, chasing ducks. She was perfect, a creation of his chaos and Rhodes’ beauty. Precious, tiny, he could pick her up and carry her around for days. This he knew.

But alas. She was connected to someone Veer did not know how to trust anymore. The real fear of getting send back always hung over him, like an immense shadow of a hawk that might swoop down at any second. Set its claws into him, scoop him up and throw him back into that tiny cell.

His dark eyes studied Rhodes as she got distracted, a call to someone, whomever. And he sped along the paved path to the girl, his back to Rhodes, hunching down beside Goldie. His child, a creature made from him. Partly at least.

Up close he saw the similarities better. “You must be Goldie,” he said, studying the girl. “You are adorable.”

[lo1k-diamonds]

Too Sweet 💜 Chapter 5 - But who wants to live forever, babe?

PAIRING: Demon!Yoongi x (f)reader

SUMMARY: Coming from unabashed wealth has its perks — like never having to lift a finger in your life. When that suddenly changes, you end up at a crossroads: how far will you go to have everything you want?

WORD COUNT: 10.5k

GENRE: Crossroad Demon AU (Sloth), smut, angst

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: break-up talk, feelings of abandonement, (f) masturbation, tension, talks of death

A.N. You deal with the consequences of your wishes and your time ends. I hope the ending tracks and hits 💜 (The song mentioned is Ruin my life by Zara Larsson.)

Masterpost | Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad | < Previous Chapter

You screamed.

You rolled around in bed, tossing the sheets, kicking the air, screeching some deep anger, or maybe a form of agony. Yoongi couldn’t tell exactly; all he could do was look at you. He had stayed with you all night, making sure to give you comfort while you slept hanging onto him with your rigid fingers. Yet when morning came, he vanished from your eyes as he had vowed he would, and you weren’t taking it well.

“Yoongi.”

What started like a soft call that touched him in ways he didn’t understand became a cry for help before turning into a hateful shout. He didn’t take it personally; if anything, it reached a little deeper. You were probably feeling like you had lost everything, but you had decisions to make. He wanted you to realize that this was an opportunity: to stop counting on him and to make something of your last year on earth as a human.

He didn’t think your first instinct would be to cross your apartment and go straight to the liquor cabinet, grabbing a cigar and a bag of blue, small pills while you were at it. He sighed as he observed you, but did nothing to stop you.

You put everything on the glass coffee table in the center of your living room and ignored the red velvety couch, kneeling in front of it while you poured the whiskey messily. He saw you putting two pills in your mouth before you gulped a half glass in one go. It wasn’t that he was disappointed in your reaction or regretting his decision; more like he thought you knew it wouldn’t work.

You sat for a moment, letting it all sink in before you reached to grab the cigar, but you didn’t make it. You veered to the side and vomited everything you had taken in seemingly agonizing convulsions, before you fell back, panting. 

He wasn’t surprised when people knocked on your door, and neither were you. There would always be someone around to cater to your needs, as per your first wish. You simply sighed, saying you were fine before you grabbed the cigar and walked to the balcony. Yoongi followed you out, keeping his eyes on you while you faced the morning sun shimmering on the cityscape. He always liked how you looked, especially the way your cupid’s bow perked up as if asking for a bite. Your normally light eyes were dark with your thoughts, and your bed hair made you look even more aery. He hoped to see you rally, but you scoffed and put the cigar in your mouth, lighting it up in a quick succession of experimented gestures.

He didn’t even blink; you tried, but in an instant, you were coughing the smoke out, about to gag out of disgust. Someone who was cleaning inside came to check on you and you raised your hand for them to go back inside and eyed the cigar. He saw the moment your eyes lit up in realization — you had asked for this yourself. You asked to be free of the addiction, you couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen or force it upon yourself again.

He tilted his head, observing every microexpression. Technically, you could if you tried really hard. He thought you might, just out of spite, refusing to learn anything from all the sacrifices you had made, but then you rubbed your empty wrists and he pursed his lips. Your attachment to him could be something of an addiction too, and as you muttered his name, he closed his eyes.

No matter how much you called, he would never come to you. Well, at least not that you knew of. He would be there when you called, beyond the reach of your eyes, seeing you adjust and adapt to a life without him. He could feel your time ticking, he could see the sand grains falling in the narrow opening of the hourglass — why couldn’t you?

You spent a week crying, cooped up in your apartment, before you decided to rekindle a glimpse of normalcy in your life — the daily massages. He saw your determination as you made your way to the appointment you had missed for the last seven days, and wondered how you’d react when you made it there.

You staggered when you crossed the door of the spa on the first floor of your building. Jimin got up from the green armchair in the waiting room and extended his hand to you, and you took a step back. Yoongi could instantly see on your shoulders the weight of defeat, of regret. Your breathing changed with the anxiousness tensing you up despite Jimin’s pleas.

“Please, I— I just want to talk to you.” 

He looked hurt, too, with sunken cheeks and lifeless eyes. Now that he was looking at you, his heart beat a little faster, but he was still lost. Yoongi thought you saw it through your own hurt because your eyes watered, and your fingers twitched out of concern. You had rejected his offer when he tempted you with Jimin, but maybe now, faced with him, you’d change your mind.

“Okay,” you agreed. “Let’s talk somewhere else.”

You guided him inside the spa and asked for an empty room that turned out to be a meeting room. Yoongi followed you and Jimin in silence. He didn’t care, he couldn’t be bothered, but he was curious about your decision. He wished you could see that, despite the spell, Jimin could bounce back if he was given the right incentive. Love took many forms, as many as there were hearts, and still some. Alternatively, you could just make the best of it and enjoy his affection and company for the time you had left. What you couldn’t do was tell him the truth and let him decide, so he wondered if you’d consider a white lie just so you could give him a choice. A false choice.

You took a few steps away from Jimin and ignored the supposed harmony of the room, with its lowered window blinds and light wall colors with bamboo wavering under an imaginary wind. Instead, you looked resolute.

“I’m sorry,” you started, and Jimin’s breath shook. “I’m sorry I couldn’t fix it, and I’m sorry I haven’t returned any of your calls. I’ve been— I’ve been trying to figure myself out.”

He nodded and licked his lips, and Yoongi pulled a chair to sit down. He guessed Jimin wasn’t dumb.

“Okay. And what did you conclude?”

“I’m still going through it but,” you looked down, selecting your words. “My decision hasn’t changed. I know it might not make sense to you, but I need you to trust me.”

“Trust you?” Jimin looked bewildered, “I do! I do, but— this doesn’t make any sense to me! You want me to just trust that ending things is— Is what? Something that needs to happen?”

“Yes.”

“Why?!” He stepped to you and you stood firm. Jimin respected the distance you imposed, and Yoongi thought he truly was a great guy. Better than Yoongi ever was, at least. “I don't get it! Is it your fault I fell in love with you? Sure! But why is that a mistake? Why does that need fixing?”

Your lips trembled and Yoongi saw that you couldn’t speak. You wanted to tell him the truth, but you couldn’t.

“It doesn’t matter, I— I couldn’t fix anything.”

“Of course not!” He was angry and hurt, “You thought I’d forget you that easily?!”

“That’s not what I—”

“I fucking love you! You thought I’d just forget the person I want to spend my life with?!”

You glanced up to the ceiling with tearful eyes, and Yoongi could almost read your thoughts — you wished he could.

“I never said that,” you finally breathed.

Jimin’s jaw twitched, “No, but you don’t believe me.”

“I do.”

“No.”

“Trust me,” your lips trembled. “I do.”

Jimin ran his fingers through his blonde hair and shook his head, “No. I can see it in your eyes,” his voice sounded tight with anguish. “You hear me, you see me, but you don’t. It’s as though I’m screaming mute, and you’re nodding just to accommodate me.” That shook you visibly, and Jimin insisted, “All I want is for you to actually listen.”

You gripped your hands and nodded, and Yoongi supported his head on his hand.

“I knew from the moment I saw you, there was something about you.” His eyes were locked with yours and you gulped. “Call it fate, attraction, love at first sight— I don’t know, and I don’t care! I just knew, and everything was perfect ever since. You and I— I don’t think it’s even contestable how much we fit. I don’t need to draw you a picture because you know. You feel it too.”

You stayed quiet, and Yoongi couldn’t decide if that was a dick move or self-preservation.

“So when you tell me you want to end things, it’s like nothing makes sense! Nothing!” He insisted, voice wavering with the tears in his brown eyes. “Because I know you love me too!”

“You’re right, I do,” you acceded, and it looked to Yoongi like you were opting for the truth. “But I’m not your future.”

“How can you say that?!” Which would upset Jimin, of course.

“Because I know it’s the truth,” your lips curved in a beautiful small smile and Yoongi almost cursed. It would be easier to make the man hate you if you didn’t look heavenly without trying. Jimin would be a stupid man to let you go. “I believe there’s another fated love out there for you. I wish you find each other and live a happy, wholesome life together.”

Jimin shook his head in aversion and confusion, “No!! What the hell are you—?”

He stopped and Yoongi rubbed his mouth. You were saying goodbye and it was quite firm.

Jimin became livid, “If I made a mistake, I—”

“You didn’t,” you countered firmly, stepping forward. “I don’t want you to think that for a second.”

It was the first time you gave him something and Jimin couldn’t help himself, “We don’t have to marry.”

“It’s not that.”

“How can you say that?!”

“Jimin—”

“I mention it, and suddenly you want to end everything! I should have never said anything!”

“No, I’m happy you did,” you stepped again to face him, and you were earnest. “It opened my eyes to the decisions I was making, to— to the way I was living. It’s not about you. I’m not ready, Jimin.”

He looked hopeless, “What?”

“I’m not ready to— to live such a grand love,” you smiled sadly as you said it, and Jimin’s voice wavered as he protested with your name. “I screwed it up for myself, and for you by extension. I know what I’m doing, so won't you please trust me?”

Jimin’s desperation overturned in the tears streaming down his face and Yoongi got up. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“I’m sorry,” you finally raised your arms to offer a hug, and he let you, hiding his sobs in your neck.

You kept comforting him, and Yoongi had to admit it was sweet. You managed to appeal to his senses with a truth that he couldn’t defy. Yoongi could see it in the way his shoulders shook in sorrow — he respected you as a person and your decision. Even to Yoongi, it would always be elusive if Jimin genuinely loved you or was compelled by demonic magic, but that right there could be undeniable proof of authenticity. Hellish magic had a way of warping things, of distorting them, especially feelings. Jimin could have turned out to be obsessive, but he respected you enough to end things. 

“I’ll still be your biggest fan, no matter what,” you promised, still well in his embrace.

“You don't have to lose me,” he pulled away to face you, and Yoongi nodded — there it was. “I don't want you to! We could— We could stay friends or—”

“I can’t handle that,” you confessed, brushing his hair to the side.

He pursed his lips and saw your arms letting him go before he asked, “Will I ever know why you’re making this decision?”

You pressed your lips, but you never answered his question.

Yoongi was proud of how you handled your mistakes regarding your fated love, but he kept checking in on you. At first, you kept calling for him multiple times a day, and he always went to you, even if you never knew. He was there the day you tried drinking again, only to shatter the glass against a wall, and when you tried gambling all your money away only to have more pop up the next day, miraculously.

Because he was always there, he saw the moment you stopped crying and peeked your head out of the sheets, facing your empty wrists. He was sitting on the bed next to you, and your wet, puffy face still revealed to him the extent of your thoughts: he wasn’t coming. It was the way you pursed your lips in irritation and sorrow, not knowing he was right there next to you, right before you sat up and decided to grab your phone and call someone. 

Something changed for you that day, as though a switch was flipped. He never knew exactly what, only that you took a quick shower and headed out with determination. He followed you; you met with friends and tried being lively, and he thought it was sincere. He just couldn’t wrap his head around what it was that comforted you enough to get out of bed.

Time passed and although you’d only call for him once daily, he’d still accompany you for far more than that. You were finding your structure, trying to find things you liked and could dedicate yourself to, and there were green flags all around, but still. He kept showing up, always with an urge, a twitch he couldn’t shake off.

Time passed differently for him, and he was afraid of missing something important. That was why he was now facing the window of that luxurious gentleman’s den — which was really a demon den — while drinking his neat whiskey and ignoring the other demons in the room. A month into stepping away from your life, he found himself more invested than ever before, choosing to see you on the window instead of his reflection. He didn’t even notice his breath caught at the sight — you had been contacting people, but now you were finally at a music label. Standing in front of a studio assigned to you to give it a try, your hand was hovering above the doorknob, hesitating. His heart was racing as if he could rush there and grab your hand around it, taking that step with you.

His lips twitched when you grabbed the doorknob. Then, upon seeing the room, you took a deep breath and entered it. His eyes teared up.

“Are you checking on that soul again?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling that victory close to his heart. He probably shouldn’t feel that way, but he couldn’t think about it right now.

“I personally wouldn’t want to keep snacking on the same soul but…”

Yoongi turned and took his glass to his mouth, seeing Hoseok shrug on the chestnut leather armchair. On the chair next to his was Namjoon, who had originally asked the question; meanwhile, Taehyung was contemplating his options from the liquor cabinet.

“We all know some are sweeter than others,” his tone was velvety right as his tongue peeked between his teeth and he reached for a bottle. “Maybe Suga here was just lucky with this one.”

Yoongi finished his drink, the one from his private collection that, unbeknownst to you, you had helped curate, and placed his glass on a nearby table. The heavy carpet in shades of yellow and black muffled his steps as he gathered a new drink from the four Taehyung was serving.

“Hmm,” Hoseok twisted his nose before he accepted the drink from Namjoon. “There’s something about someone who is too sweet.”

Yoongi didn’t reply nor indulge in their conversation. Instead, he moved back to the window and took another peek: you were sitting down in front of the console, but your eyes fell on the piano inside the recording room, and you couldn’t stop yourself. He watched with bated breath as you sat down, placed your fingers over the keys, and pressed. His heart thrummed in response, and he blinked.

His reflection showed instead, including the unshed tears in his dark eyes, and he was bewildered. He hadn't shed tears in forever. Why now?

“If I didn’t know better… I’d say you’re in love.”

Taehyung’s voice was cloying, the impossibility of his suggestion beyond a tease and far into the realm of absurdity. So it was no surprise the whole room laughed and Yoongi's lips twitched with derision.

He took the glass to his lips, swallowing the bitter choice — he knew he couldn’t love.

Regardless of how many whiskeys Yoongi drank, all made him twist his nose. He couldn’t help it — all carried an acridity that offended his palate, or maybe it was just him trying to recall a fond taste that nothing could match.

The reason for his bitterness came down to the irrationality of his actions. The other demons would tease him at times about his attitude, and it was not that he cared — every single one of them had their illogical moments too. The problem was that he didn’t know why he was acting like this, but he had been giving it some thought.

The tears — it was the moment he was forced to admit it, but there was more. You had accused him of breaking the rules, and he couldn’t deny it, though he was sure you didn’t know how far he had gone. Giving freebies was frowned upon, but preventing you from making stupid wishes? Unheard of. No one would bat an eye at his refusal to take you earlier, as that was against good practice, but fucking you until you took a wish back? Everyone would lose their minds if they knew.

Which they wouldn’t, and although he didn’t care, he still went to you to figure it out. You stopped calling him daily and three months in, you looked well. He observed you leading your life, chatting, sleeping, or scrolling on your phone, with a sense that was unfamiliar and didn’t clarify anything for him.

Not in the beginning, but as he observed you, he ascertained a few things. You knew his name, but he wasn’t worried about it at all. He didn’t believe you’d use it, as you hadn’t, and you never wrote it down or uttered it to anyone else ever since. He didn’t fear you’d take your own life or ruin your life; you were doing well now. So what was it that made him look at the window again and instantly take a look at you?

He closed his eyes, forcing the scent of the cigar to pull him back to the demon den where he spent most of his downtime, like now. Anything to curb the need to find out where you were because one glimpse showed him that you were nervous about something, and now he was unsettled.

“Here.”

Yoongi heaved a deep breath, letting the exquisite combination of woodiness and leather of the cigar’s fume scratch his tongue before turning around. Jin was holding a neat whiskey for him to take.

“Why are you so obsessed with this human?” Jin asked, and Yoongi took a sip, grimacing instantly. It wasn’t right. “She’s already yours.”

Jin sat down on an armchair and the invitation for Yoongi to sit beside him on the other one was clear. They were alone, and Yoongi wouldn’t have bothered sitting or replying if that wasn’t his mentor.

He sat down, “She is.”

His tone was low and quiet, and the way he instantly took another sip didn’t go unnoticed by either of them.

Jin scrunched his nose a little, then suddenly gasped, “Is she related to June?” Yoongi nodded and Jin laughed wholeheartedly, “Ah, that one.” His smile danced on his lips for a moment. “I must confess I still remember her, even almost a century later,” he licked his lips. “Lucky you to get her descendant.” Yoongi didn’t answer, his eyes were fixed on his drink. “Is she leaving offspring?”

“No.”

“Oh. Such a shame,” Yoongi could tell Jin meant it. “June had a very sweet soul, it was a total contradiction to her personality,” he smirked, licking his lips again. “Her great-granddaughter would too.” Yoongi still didn’t budge and Jin looked away, “I’ve always had a sweet tooth.”

Yoongi remained impassive, though he was remembering your sweet taste. Your soul belonged to him, no one would ever be able to take it, steal it, or touch it, and so he was at ease.

“I can see you do too.”

Yoongi thought about ignoring Jin, but in the end, all he did was take another bittersweet sip. “Not sweet enough.”

Jin grinned and drew the glass to his perfect plum lips; no, he could guess no one would ever compare to you.

Something echoed in the air, like a doorbell chiming, and both demons knew automatically where it was coming from and whose turn or turf it was. 

Jin kept drinking, and Yoongi nodded, “You can have this one.”

Jin swallowed harshly as his eyebrows shot up. Yoongi could be going through whatever that was, but to refuse a soul was—

He got up and Jin understood without words. “Alright.”

Yoongi took a deep drag from his cigar before vanishing, releasing the smoke as he transposed planes all the way to you. Your soul had called to him at the same time, and if the other soul sounded like a bell chiming, yours sounded like a piano brightening the fluttering wings of a butterfly — quite simply irresistible.

He found you in a studio room with a man, each of you in your own chairs, listening to a string melody coming from the speakers. You were wearing something comfortable, as you did when you went to the studio these days, and were looking down, rubbing your wrists gently as you listened in silence.

I miss you pushing me close to the edge, I miss you

It was your voice, your song, and suddenly the excitement was looking to burst out of him.

You set fire to my world, couldn't handle the heat

Now I'm sleeping alone and I'm starting to freeze

Baby, come bring me hell

Let it rain over me

Baby, come back to me

His grin widened as he heard you, and he let his head fall back, closed his eyes, and enjoyed it.

I want you to ruin my life, you to ruin my life, you to ruin my life, yeah

He loved that the piano set the tone of each verse, that a quick beat mimicked a racing heartbeat, and that it was exulting. By the time the bridge was repeating, he opened his eyes to look at you, and something overheated inside him, like a motor about to explode. You wanted him to bring you hell and ruin your life, and little did you know how much he wanted to grab you, kiss you, and do just that.

He didn’t because the man in the room shook his head in disbelief, “You call this a guide track?”

You shrugged, “Yeah, why not?”

“This— We could record it, but your vocals are—” He seemed incredulous that you were simply staring at him, not seeing it. “It’s good! There’s emotion, and your range is beautiful! If you want to rethink starting a career as—”

“I don’t,” you raised your hand firmly. “All I want is to be free to create as many songs as I please.”

The man sighed and Yoongi lowered his eyes. “Okay, well. I won’t fight you.” You nodded and meant to pass on to something else, but he continued, “But I do want to ask… If you’d be okay with Jimin singing this.”

You stopped and looked at the man, who was in all likelihood a producer, and hesitated.

“I know you guys ended things, but he said he’d like to listen to anything you make.”

Yoongi’s lips twitched in a knowing smile as you thought it over. You had stayed away from Jimin, who had surprisingly respected your decision and done the same. You were both fated to love and care for one another in your own ways, so Yoongi wondered what your response would be: a firm no, or a ceding yes.

“You can give it to him to see if he’d like it, on the condition that he doesn’t know it’s mine,” you decided. “I don’t want that to be a ruling factor on whether he picks it.”

“He’ll know as soon as he hears it.”

“You can tell him I just recorded the track.”

The man opened his mouth to continue giving you arguments but decided to stop there. Your gaze was resolute both in your decision and the wish to move on to work on something else, and the producer got up and left, resigned.

You put black headphones on and started working on something else while Yoongi stared at you. He could hear it in the back of his mind — you asking him so beautifully for him to ruin your life — and it made him want to get on his knees and hold you.

That was the moment that your surroundings hit him and everything made sense, like a card slotting in place. He wrapped his arms around you, placing his chin on your shoulder as you hummed something. You couldn’t feel him, but he could feel you, and he closed his eyes. You breathed music, you were the kind of muse he couldn’t deny, and he got it.

He wasn’t just proud that you were finally free from your shackles, fulfilling your soul’s desires, he was living it as well. There was an inevitability to it all. The way you two resembled one another, at least the human he once was, pulled a chord inside a heart he didn’t know he had. How else could he justify always going back to you? Pushing you to do better? Getting annoyed when you swerved from the path and avoided your true calling? The color and melody of your soul that he could see so clearly and held so dearly?

He just wished for you to make it. Because if you did, then maybe a part of him, the human remnants, would feel vindicated too. 

But that couldn’t be the only reason why. He breathed in the sugary white raspberry scent seeping from your hair, feeling the compulsion, demonic or otherwise, to own you. To at least be a part of you in any way he could, and as you experimented with effects and chuckled, he almost turned you to face him to kiss you desperately.

He remembered his reaction when you asked for that human, Jimin, to love you. Yoongi had made a mistake that day — he got too involved. He knew that you’d encounter Jimin at that party, and he wasn’t able to resist seeing it happen. He had the distinct impression that your soul didn’t change as much as it should have from such a life defining encounter, but it didn’t matter because when you called for Yoongi, you had Jimin on your mind.

It was no coincidence that Yoongi had gripped your flesh and fucked you onto that mattress, wishing to leave his mark on you. It was not by accident that he didn’t go to you in those six months that you were with Jimin, that he purposefully eradicated you from his mind and was bitter at anything remotely sweet. He thought he had become stupidly attached and even mocked himself for it — as if he, a demon, could get pussy whipped or something. But now, he could see it — and it was so simple.

If you had met as humans, you would have been explosive. He would have loved you madly. A part of him wished that would have happened.

He chuckled; of course, it would have been a disaster. He left you to your creations in that studio room, and his consciousness stretched as he made his way back to his plane. With both your addiction problems, you both would have probably died fairly quickly. But it would have been mad and passionate, and you would have birthed amazing, unparalleled music.

Unfortunately, none of that mattered. He was a demon, you were never alive at the same time and you had a fated love. Maybe that was why he gave you what you wanted and stepped back. If experiencing a bit of fated love would snap you out of it and make you live the rest of your life, then he’d do it. And he did. Only to realize that it hurt you, that helping you made things worse.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. He could only shrug; he was a demon.

But that was when he realized that by trying to help you, he was feeding your spiral instead of helping you get out of it. Leaving and never showing up again was the best he could have done, right after refusing your last wish. 

He couldn’t give you what you wanted and had refused to see why for so long, but not anymore. He couldn’t steal your last opportunity to fulfill yourself and reach a little bit of happiness. He couldn’t punish you and take away the little time you had left, he wanted to see you fly. For his own selfish reasons, maybe, but also just for the sheer pleasure of it.

And now you were where you should have been all along, releasing bits and pieces of your sweet soul. He was proud, even if he hadn’t done anything, or arguably, made it all harder. Part of him hated that he ever offered you a deal, but if it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else.

Now you belonged to him. You wouldn’t consume each other in your love to make amazing music as humans, but fate was not unkind. Soon, he’d have you to himself. For now, however, he would have to be contented with just visiting you and listening without partaking.

That was how he found himself in yet another visit. This time you were in your apartment, windows open with the curtains almost floating in the air. He chuckled, seeing that it was late morning, and you were still in your bed, but then he heard something.

Your moans were short and sweet, almost like a hiss, and he stopped at the sliding doors of the bedroom. His gut twisted and he scowled at himself. The human remnants of his soul were always the strongest near you, as he had come to realize, but maybe it had come the time to squish them. Maybe seeing you with someone would effectively rid him of that annoying trace.

Doors meant nothing to him, he just passed right through, only to stop in surprise. You were alone.

He got near you and kneeled on the bed, swallowing dryly at the sight. You were naked over your black silk sheets, facing up with your legs parted and a hand giving you the rubbing that was making you squirm and huff. He ate the image of you like an animal starved, watching your slick drip down onto your sheets as you bucked your hips to intensify the feeling. 

Inadvertently, his hands found their spot atop your knees, but he controlled himself in time so that you wouldn’t feel it. It was hard for him, though. Your breathing was intensifying, your tongue peeking between your teeth, while you raised your free hand above your head as if you wanted it pinned down. And fuck, did he want to give you everything you desired. Just the sight could drive him mad; he knew how much of a vice you could be, tightening around him mercilessly. He knew how sweet you tasted and how easily he could brighten your soul just by ramming his cock inside you and making you see stars.

He was burning, going mad, delirious from keeping himself at bay for so long. With every moan, he thought the next would be the one to break him. He fought himself with all his might, the claws looking to snatch you for eternity extending and barely grazing your skin, until finally you gasped.

He saw you squirming in pleasure, moaning anxiously as you rolled your hips, coaxing him to drool and leak like crazy right before you. 

When you settled down, he almost cursed you. You couldn’t know how crazy you rendered him; insane and mindless, and he wished he could do the same to you. He wished he was driving you up the wall, but you were but a fickle human. It had been six months since you last saw him, you’d have forgotten him by now, and—

You chuckled with your forearm over your eyes, “Kitten.”

You pulled your knees away as you rolled to put your feet on the floor and step away. The sound of you showering and singing was carried all the way to him, but he was still as you had unknowingly left him: kneeling on your bed, frozen with his head hanging low. 

Six months passed and there were still six more to go, and yet… he was the one you were thinking about.

He pulled the hair out of his face and took a deep breath, your perfume and arousal still hanging in the air, then bit his lip. Something was happening inside his chest, something he didn’t know was possible, and he couldn’t help a sneer. He blamed the single human heart string still left inside his heart, the one that only you could pull.

He never knew he could feel this way, but he was counting down the days. He regretted nothing, and he could wait. The best whiskeys had to sit in barrels for a long time until they matured to perfection. Six months wasn’t long, and he had your music to fill his ears. He could wait.

You woke up with a ping from your phone and as you stared at the ceiling of your bedroom, you let reality dawn on you — that was it. You sat up and pulled the AirPods out of your ears before you rubbed your eyes and let the muffled sounds of the city reach your ears. You couldn’t sleep the night before, both in excitement and nervousness, so you had decided to close your eyes and listen to music, finding comfort in the lullabies and soundtracks you had composed over the last year. Some could have stayed up doing crazy things in their last hours on earth, but not you. You had planned your last twenty-four hours to make sure you did everything you wanted and needed to, and sleeping, even if only a few hours, was fortunate.

You reached for your phone and your chest filled with relief. Finally. 

You got up, put a black silk robe on, and got to your piano room — a fairly recent addition to your apartment, all things considered. You had worried for the last couple of months that the one thing you had decided to do and leave behind wouldn’t become official on time, but you just received good news: you succeeded.

You walked into the room with dark wood floor and floor-to-ceiling windows letting the morning sun and skyline comfort you, and then you sat on the red velvety piano stool and took a deep breath. The nonprofit organization you had founded and coordinated for a year to ensure equal treatment and protection of professional rights in the music industry had been finally officially recognized by the government. This meant that it could provide counseling to professionals and fight for their rights, whether economical, social, or legal. Your shoulders relaxed as you let the worry dissipate from your body; that was one of the items on your bucket list. Now, you could get started on the others.

Your fingers touched the keys, but you didn’t press them. This was a very important moment for you, and it couldn’t be rushed. You had spent the last month composing multiple melodies and accompaniment to what you had hoped to create today: your last song. The only testament that mattered in the end; the only way you’d be able to leave behind the truth to anyone who would listen.

You made sure the microphones were close to the piano soundboard and turned the recording on before adjusting yourself. You closed your eyes, trying to let the moment take you. It would be the last piece of your soul that you’d leave behind, and you wanted it to be as genuine as possible.

You started delicately on keys with more treble, softly pressing them as a chick would chirp after hatching from its egg. You were born in a loving nest, innocent to the world around you darkening as sickness ravished your mother. You matched your innocence with darker tones, establishing a baseline you didn’t quite understand at the time. Yet, everything would take its toll, even on you. As your mother lost the ability to grow your family, it caused a rift. 

You tried to reach out to your parents but soon discovered that you were surrounded by tutors and incentivized to learn as many skills and talents as possible, not so you could make them proud, but so that you’d fit a list of requirements for your solitary standing. They didn’t congratulate you for your swimming medals, prizes for winning obstacle tracks in equestrian competitions, or trophies for your ballet performances. You would strain yourself trying to achieve the highest graces, have good grades, and excel in your piano lessons, but your parents never showed to your recitals or school meetings. Your nanny assured you they saw the videos and bragged about it to all their friends, and you wondered why they wouldn’t celebrate with you, then. The void grew between you and them, and you never learned to fly properly. Rather, you learned nothing could bridge the gap, neither the good nor the bad; they just weren’t there.

You pressed the keys more softly, trying to push the melody from lower to higher registers in an attempt to fill the emptiness inside your chest. Because although your parents never cared, the piano was always there for you. It didn’t hurt you, it listened, and it always let you echo your thoughts. You thought you had found your calling, and you pressed the keys gently, tentatively; the more you tried and delved into the world of music, the surer you became.

But you were naive. The piano was good and tried to keep you safe, but there was this spiral, and you thought it would lead you up, into a higher understanding, into love, but it went down, and down. So low you became spent and graceless, dwindling like a flame smothered by a cup. You needed something to help your broken and abused soul surrounded by nothing but darkness.

You found it in sparks. Sparks and sprinkles, as exciting as the higher keys you were pressing, but equally fleeting. They were a boost, a thrill, a euphoric moment of rapture, and a delusion. Because as those notes became ever ephemeral, so did your semblance of control. The void in their absence imposed grueling efforts to keep you afloat, and you struggled.

Your fingers pressed the keys desperately, oscillating between highs and lows as you tried to keep your head above water. You weren’t good, you were never assembled properly, you had no purpose, and sooner or later, you had to leave the nest. You didn’t expect to be kicked out coldly and at the same time thought it was fitting, seeing the lows you had reached.

Then, the register of your life changed because, in a turn of events, you had a choice. A choice of grand potential for a hefty price. You had no idea what you were doing, only that you wanted to be in the comfort you had known all your life, so you made a deal to ensure you wouldn’t lose what you knew, perpetuating the same vicious cycle that had kept you stuck and in the dark.

However, something unexpected came with that deal — someone. Someone who filled your baseline with shades of blue in a baritone range that tried balancing your deregulated soprano cries. Your life became lavish but eventually guided, and despite your mishaps, he was there. In spite of your mistakes, flaws, and petty decisions, regardless of his enabling role — he was there. 

But you didn’t know better. You refused to open your eyes, attempting to replace one addiction with another until you made the most egregious mistake.

You paused in an attempt to find the right key. Love was like the first sun rays of morning, and fated love was like a summer day. Yet, you knew and valued neither. You couldn’t recognize it from the bubble you were in, and so you twisted your red string of fate until it became feeble. Exhausted of integrity, there was nothing left, and you lost it all. It took a sizable fall for you to realize that life couldn’t be lived without hardships, that struggle brought purpose, that love was worth burning for, and that fate was but a potential course of action. You had picked your love over a year before fate presented itself, and you should have known better than to threaten and push him away.

But there was hope. You realized it the second you recalled the look in his eyes right before a tender last kiss and goodbye — you were given a chance. Because although there was a price to pay for your blindness and recklessness, your potential never waned. It took you a moment to see it, but now you were finally free. There was freedom in solitude, in living for yourself and deciphering what could make your last year worth it rather than living for someone else, or dreading anyone else, including yourself.

That was why your song would end on a high note — on a hopeful spring morning about to dawn. Not for yourself, but for the roots you planted. For others to have opportunities in your wake.

Your fingers stopped, and you looked down, feeling the smooth key surfaces almost as if they were part of you. That was where you wanted your story to end, that was what you were able to tell.

Before heading to the studio room, you stopped the recording and brushed your hand over the piano in a last goodbye. You put your headset on and spent the next hours mixing the other melodies and instruments with yours. You didn’t eliminate mistakes or fill the pauses — you wanted everything exactly as you expressed originally.

Because of your preparation and how long you had spent envisioning your legacy, you finished the song quite rapidly. You were happy with it and right on time for your daily massage.

You smiled and waved at everyone on your way to your appointment, asking your masseuse trivial things before you started. You had since learned her name, that her grandmother was sick, and that she had gotten that job by accident when another professional had failed to show up during recruitment. You had become intrigued with hearing other’s stories, searching to learn and live other experiences through them, since you wouldn’t have the time to do it yourself.

During the relaxing time of your massage, soothed by the ringing of the Tibetan Singing Bowl and the water streaming peacefully from the speakers, your mind wandered. Today was about closing chapters, and you were well on your way and had decided not to bother Jimin. You had spoken with his manager since Jimin had chosen songs of yours to perform and kept in touch. You knew that he was holding up well and although his manager never mentioned it directly, he didn’t have to. Whenever Jimin was seen in public, even now, a year later, he still had the pendant you gave him on your three-month anniversary. You remembered him fondly and suspected he did too. Whenever you crossed paths, he was gentle and never once imposing or invasive — he respected your decision and didn’t hate you for it, which you were grateful for. You’d like to believe he found comfort in the thought of you, as you did of him, and that his love could one day transform into affection for a close friend. Maybe it already had.

It was a good outcome for such a colossal mistake — not caring for him or meeting him, but forcing him to feel something that, in the end, might not have happened to begin with. You realized in hindsight, after processing your feelings and decisions, that you had made your choice before you acknowledged it. Just as you revealed during your song, you had chosen Yoongi before fate presented you with Jimin. And you didn’t do it just by taking the deal, but because you depended on him, opened yourself to him, and yearned for him long before you were aware. Jimin was a calm ocean, whereas Yoongi was a succession of massive waves you were eager to surf.

You probably should have never fallen for him, never made the deal, never looked at him twice, never let yourself feel cradled and safe in his presence, but it still happened. And maybe it had been for the best too, because you weren’t sure you would have ever met Jimin or composed any lullabies otherwise. You had become a person so lazy that you refused to get clean, preferring to die on a hill from dehydration and cardiac arrest rather than yield and fight for yourself. Yoongi cured you so you could see past it, and maybe Jimin could have as well, but you doubted you’d live enough to meet to him. You were even too lazy to wait for his love to bloom naturally — it could be that the person you had become just didn’t deserve him altogether.

As you got back to your apartment, you mused over every little choice that led you to the big decisions down the line. You were in love with a demon and about to be taken by him and still, you were nothing but calm. What did that make you? You shrugged and left the elevator — you felt how you felt, it was a bit too late for regrets.

“Ah, miss.” You nodded at the maid who usually tended to your needs, Vera. “The organization has just sent something in for your approval.”

She stepped aside for you to enter your apartment, the black silk robe rustling at your passage. You noticed the big frame on your red velvet couch and went in that direction, pulling the white sheet over it to reveal a portrait. A big portrait of you with a fairly gentle expression, glistening eyes, and long hair falling over your shoulder. Behind you, there were depictions of recording rooms, concert halls with orchestras, and on the corner, a grand black piano that you brushed your fingers over.

You analyzed the drawings around your figure more than your face and noticed something was missing. The portrait of your great-grandmother came to mind and your lips twitched. Unlike hers, yours didn’t involve darkness, but she had portrayed something important that yours lacked. Maybe you could ask Yoongi to add it before taking you.

“What do you think?” You asked Vera, whose wide blue eyes displayed her shock at being asked.

You chuckled; she couldn’t seem to get used to it.

“You look splendid!”

You pursed your lips, “But what about my legacy?” She blinked, caught off guard, and you pointed, “What represents me — does it make sense?”

“Of course!” She stepped forward to your side, and you waited patiently for her analysis. She was shorter than you, but delicate in her mannerisms. At about your age, you hoped she’d have a long life ahead of her. “They could have added children or the cartoons. You know, the ones you develop the soundtracks for.”

“Children?”

“For the lullabies.”

You chuckled, “Well. It might have made it goofy,” you shrugged, though a smile adorned your lips the whole time. “It should be serious, after all. The first of many.”

“You’ll probably have another one done down the line,” Vera mused. You were quiet but your eyes on her were just enough to pressure her to explain, “This is just the beginning of the organization and your leadership will last for many years.”

Your lips twitched; she was endearing, but there would be a new president of the organization very soon. 

“Thank you, Vera. It can stay there while I think about it, but in case anyone asks, it’s perfect.”

Vera nodded and left after probing whether you’d like brunch or lunch, and you refused both, much to her disappointment. You didn’t want her to find you dead and had tried to give her the day off, but she had declined — yet another thing you would bring up with Yoongi.

You glanced at the portrait again and nodded. You were happy everything was set and prepared for your inevitable passing. All your wealth would be left to the non-profit organization, all jobs associated with you would be secured, and your presence would linger in the cartoons and music spread all around, immortalizing you, in a sense. Not that you wanted that, but you did find joy in hearing your melodies played, regardless of the medium, and found the thought that it would outlast you comforting.

You sat by your desk and faced the blank sheets of paper before you. You had thought long and hard and, despite being estranged, decided you should leave something to your parents too.

You thought it would be harder to put your feelings to paper, but it was surprisingly easy. There was no point in grudges or accusations, or in causing pain or reopening wounds. You wanted them to have peace.

You started with your father’s, remembering the letter he had left you the day he kicked you out.

I know you probably regret it, but I wish you didn’t. Your efforts gave me a chance I was not ready to take. As a parent, that was all you could have done. In the end, I’m still thankful for all the opportunities that brought me here, even the ones I couldn’t appreciate before.

Then you wrote the one to your mother. It took you a moment to begin.

How difficult it must have been to suffer for so long to keep the promise to not let me go through life alone. I wish I could erase the pain that both the cancer and the loss of a child marked on your heart. I wish you had not seen me grow to become yet another pain. As always, I wanted to make you proud of the kid you had, or if not, for you to at least remember me. I’m sorry I failed to see that there was no way you could have forgotten. The right way to make you proud was to be happy; I lost track of that somewhere. I wish for you to know that I’ve found it, somewhat. I hope you know I’m happy, and that you can find happiness in that too.

You took a third paper sheet and thought of Jimin. You were afraid of how the news would impact him, and so you kept your message simple.

Please be happy, mimi. I wish for that with all of my heart.

Unlike your parent's letters, left folded and addressed over your desk, Jimin’s stayed in your hands. You looked at the clock and sighed, getting up to sit on your bed as you faced the city out of the window. Asking Yoongi’s opinion could prove unwise, but he would know. You hadn’t seen him in a year, but you trusted the demon you knew — the one who wouldn’t lie to you.

You quite simply waited for him like this. None of what you had done had changed anything — you still sold your soul, committed your sins, and were ready to be taken. You were more nervous about Yoongi’s thoughts on how you spent your last year than anything else. You pressed your lips; you wanted to make him proud.

You didn’t notice the clock pointer rushing over the twelve, only the growling. You turned to the slid-open doors of your bedroom to find Yoongi there, standing in his black suit, looking at you. Your eyes watered at the ethereal sight; not that you could have forgotten, but he was even more breathtaking than your memory could do justice. And he was there, just like he promised.

You glanced at the dogs, each by his side, black fur shrouded in mist with red glistening eyes trained on you. They were growling loudly but didn’t show signs of impatience, and you smiled.

“Legends speak of hounds that chase people like me.”

“They won’t chase you,” he said, and your heart shook.

“I wouldn’t run.”

Tears ran down your face as you got up with Jimin’s letter still tucked in your hands. You weren’t sad per se; you were very happy to see him again.

He entered the room, walking in your direction, and you couldn’t keep your eyes off him. Despite your cry, he didn’t seem worried. Rather, he seemed impatient.

“Did you finish all your business?”

Your lips twitched in a smile, and you wiped your cheeks, “I knew you’d ask.” You raised the letter in between you two, “It’s for Jimin. I… don’t know if I should send it.”

“Do you want me to?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to make things worse for him,” you confessed, unsure on how much you should reveal. Gazing up into his eyes, you knew you didn’t have to go into details. “I just wanted him to know that I wish for him to find happiness, but I don’t know if it will make sense to him. You know, when I pass.”

Yoongi was silent, and you raised your eyes to him. There was no judgment on his delicate features; if anything, only understanding. “I can make it look like something sudden that you could be somewhat aware of. Like an aneurysm or a stroke.”

Your lips parted in surprise, and then you considered it, “The drugs… would have made it possible, no?” Yoongi nodded. “And that would justify why I’m leaving a letter like this. Okay, that’s a good idea,” you agreed, though you instantly filled your chest with air. You wondered if it would hurt. “Do you think it will help him? To deal with my— death?”

“I think he’ll be mad about it forever,” he revealed, shifting on his feet. 

“Why? If it was something unpreventable and sudden like this, shouldn’t it be…”

You couldn’t find the words, and he didn’t wait for you, “Whatever little time he could have had with you, he would have preferred it. Especially if you knew your days were numbered.”

You chuckled bitterly, “Then it doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” he interrupted as you shifted the letter between your hands. “To receive a letter means you thought of him. Thought to give him closure. He will hate it because he had no control over it, but he’ll be comforted by the fact that you thought of him. Love… takes many forms.”

You smiled, “Okay, then let’s do that.” You placed the letter over your nightstand then turned to him, “There are… a couple of things I’d like to ask of you.”

He sighed, but you could see through his exasperation; he wasn’t annoyed, he expected it. “Yes?”

“Could Vera not find me dead? I don't want to traumatize her.”

He frowned, “Vera?”

“My maid.”

He blinked before chuckling, “Sure.”

“And… could you give my portrait a final touch?” He raised an eyebrow, and you pointed out of the room at the couch, “You’re missing in it.”

“This one?” He asked, and as you blinked, he was holding the portrait. 

You hummed, observing his reaction as he gazed upon that depiction of you. He took longer than you would have expected, going over every little detail. You couldn’t help your nervousness; it was as though he was evaluating your performance. Not of the painting, but of your life. You bit your lip with curiosity.

“And I’m missing?”

He glanced at you, and you nodded before he returned to the image with pursed lips. He was taking his time, and you couldn’t have guessed his thoughts — your cupid’s bow was much perkier than that.

“How should I do it?”

You mused about it and let your head lean against his arm as you observed the painting. “Something blue.”

His eyes stayed on you before he rubbed the portrait with his thumb ever so slightly. A shade of blue under the piano replaced its shadow, and you smiled. You felt incredibly at ease — now it was complete.

You straightened up and nodded, and in a second the portrait was over your couch again.

“Thank you.”

“Ready?”

Your smile widened, “Yes.”

You became deaf to the growling, the city noise, or even the thumping of your heart as you faced him. Your eyes drank every microexpression on his marble skin as you waited with bated breath for him to touch you. You didn’t know what was supposed to happen, only that you’d belong to him, and that was enough. You could only hope you’d get to feel his touch before dying, that you could remember the ache inside your chest at your longing, and that you’d see him again.

The back of his finger touched your cheek and your breath caught. The way he was looking at you entranced you and made you forget about everything that wasn’t your reunion. His dark eyes glistened with something you couldn’t decipher, but that had a sweet flame licking up your stomach to your chest, only to tighten its hold when his thumb brushed over your lips. You held your breath, unable to do anything that could stop this when he suddenly leaned in and crashed your mouths together. He raised you to him by the waist, lips voraciously devouring you, your taste, and your every breath. You met his hunger, gripping his dark hair so he’d stay forever on your lips, and you believed then that maybe he had been waiting for this just like you.

You didn’t want your kiss to simmer out, but his hand on your neck reassured you when he pulled away. You could see hunger and maybe even desperation in his glistening dark eyes, but then he blinked, and you knew it was time. He only needed one nod to press your lips ardently again, and you let go. You melted in his arms, guided by his taste and tongue as you abandoned your volition. Whatever he decided was what you wanted as well as long as he never let go, and he wouldn’t. You trusted him absolutely.

The flames of your desire and passion were rampant in you, without a semblance of weakness, not now that he was holding you. But you were used to your fervent yearning, so you didn’t understand when it went beyond your threshold until a second too late. Your heart beat intensely and your nails sank into his flesh, and as your mind flooded with dopamine, all you saw was white.

You woke up utterly dazed and confused, so nauseated you couldn’t distinguish above from below. But as you trashed around, trying to free your limbs and breathe, you realized you were on an expansive bed, fighting silk sheets. 

You sat up with your long hair falling messily over your face and frowned. You were in a wide bedroom with a tall ceiling with celestial scenes depicted and a large chandelier with black candles hanging from it. Over you, were black silk sheets just like the ones you liked, and over them and around you, red velvety pillows and blankets. The walls were dark, just like the floor, and to the side, the floor-to-ceiling windows let an unnatural shine in. You had no idea where you were and as you touched your chest and neck, you noticed your familiar black silk robe. Then you touched your lips, remembering just how frantically you were kissing him and—

You pushed the covers and jumped off the bed, running straight for the door. Tears were threatening to stream down your face not because you regretted or because you were frightened, but because you were alone.

Yoongi.

Your heart called out to him as you dragged the tall mahogany door open and rushed out. The whole mansion had dark walls and paintings whenever there was no door or on the ceiling, and you kept running until you found the central staircase. You looked down and, finally, your heart jumped; you took support on the banister and rushed downstairs until you could reach the first floor.

The stairs ended on a wide, several-floor high hall with only glass as walls. In it, at its center, was a red circular carpet with a black piano. It was as though Yoongi was waiting for you because as soon as your bare foot stepped over the carpet, he started playing.

You held your breath, unsure of what that meant or what you could say, but you still neared him. Slowly, your anxiety melted and your brow furrowed. What did he mean, he’d been waiting?

It took you a second to realize what was happening. He kept playing, eyes closed and head hanging back, and you observed him. You almost opened your mouth, but then you understood. You sat by his side on the long stool and pressed the keys with higher treble a bit tentatively, and he eyed you.

Your lips pursed as you retorted his glance, and then his music. You had been waiting too, you wanted to talk to him.

He heard your notes with closed eyes, and you saw him visibly relaxing before he played his reply.

I knew you’d be the one.

You froze, unable to press any keys, and just looked at him with wide, tearing eyes. He turned to you, reaching to cup your cheeks before pressing his lips to yours, and you were strangely revitalized, swimming in peace.

When he moved away, you asked him, “What now?”

“Now, I have you.”

[trollol360]

396, 397, 399

398

"Toshinori Yagi: Rising/Origin" Just that title. Embrace it. Take it in.

"Let me be your pupil." He doesn't even have a quirk and he wants to train under Nana's wing. Also, the multiple flashbacks throughout the fight are amazing (plus, the people have been wanting to know Toshi's backstory for ages!!)

"Superacid Injection: Pinky" Eighth move; Mina.

"Aw, just after rewinding some damage... You're dissolving away now?!" Toshinori literally injects acid into All for One. It's a brutal way to do damage; get him from the inside out. Toshinori is a just person, and he doesn't kill, but it seems like All for One just tips him over the edge just a little. He lets his attacks be a bit questionable because it's fucking All for One. Who the hell would defend his ass? Toshinori has smashed his skull to pieces and now injected acid into his body to dissolve him inside out. Both attacks are villain-esc, but that does not make Toshi a villain.

"All Might..." Again. All Might, not Toshi.

"I'm 'trash,' right? So much for that theory!!" Despite All for One being so damn certain he could get rid of Toshinori so easily, he keeps on getting proven wrong (and I live for it).

"Let me assist you." "Without a quirk? Ridiculous. (Quit following me)" "Please, I mean it." "Go defend a three-meter radius with that rusty pipe of yours. Good luck." A three-meter area is another way of saying home/loved ones. Nana's using her quirk right in front of him, because not only are they physically apart, but biologically as well.

"My family was killed a while back." ORPHAN TOSHI. Also, he says a while, not long ago. Chances are that it was recent, but he didn't feel entirely loved by his own family.

"Mine too. But I don't have the luxury to join your little quest for vengeance." Nana's too busy working as a hero to get revenge (something Toshi deals with later on).

"I just can't accept a world... Where those who take from others come out on top. And then those who've had everything stolen... Their grief turns to hatered, in an endless spiraling cycle." Toshinori could've very well become a villain, but he doesn't. He's not bitter or resentful. Yes, he's upset at All for One for bringing up Nana during Kamino, but he doesn't let him/it overwhelm him (with sadness).

"Yeah? And what's your solution?" Nana seems to lose hope for society, but then Toshi shows up.

"I want to make the world a place where everyone can live with a smile. And for that... The world needs a symbol." "A symbol of what?" "Of peace. Even with plenty of new buildings... And visible restoration efforts... People have been living in fear for a while now. Their hearts and minds are shrouded in darkness." The shot doesn't change until Toshi says peace. We don't see how fucked up the world he grew up in is until he talks about wanting to bring peace to everyone.

Nana looks at her hand. She knows she can pass One for All down.

"So you would put on a grand display of power?" "Everyone's got a tough enough time with their own three-[meter] radius. So yes. I would step up. A quirkless guy like me... Has no role otherwise." Toshinori was quirkless. He would've been ignored or killed, and he probably knows/knew that. Yet, he still wants to protect everyone. To be kind to them and provide the safety that he never had.

"All for One is even closer to U.A. now!! But he's veered off course!! He's pursuing All Might instead!!" We're shown why All Might put himself up and in the way of All for One. He wouldn't have chased anyone else, but he's fixated on Toshinori right now that he's lost sight of his actual goal.

"Fractured ribs. Full-body contusions." If his rib fractures are severe, the can cause breathing issues (like Toshi doesn't struggle with that already). When untreated, rib fractures will lead to serious short-term consequences (severe pain when breathing, pneumonia), but rarely death. Full-body contusions are bruises by direct and/or multiple blows (no doubt from Toshi flying through the air and some buildings).

"Respiratory malfunction." The one time Toshi has lost his smile (so far) throughout this fight. No doubt he's remembering the damage All for One did to him. Malfunction means it's failing to function in a normal or satisfactory manner (but, it can be fixed).

"I, too, was once brimming with youth." "The man we knew as All Might... Could not live his life any other way." Toshinori is out looking the very same rooftop where he talked to Deku. While Toshinori and All Might aren't directly the same, they're still part of on another. There's Toshinori in All Might and there's All Might in Toshinori.

"Is he even younger now? Maybe he's not aware of it? Better not probe or he might come to his senses. He had to use quirks to expel the Pinky Superacid from his body, but the strain is hurting him. Does taking damage speed up the rewinding process?" Toshi is still figuring out how to better fuck up All for One, not just emotionally, but far more physically too. It's similar to the Nomu incident at the USJ; when it got dire, All Might figured out how to distribute the force of his punches to override shock absorption. He's analyzing the changes in All for One because of him.

"Haha... Hahaha. Hahaha. HAHAHA! Don't stop now, Hercules! Keep it coming!!" Every. Single. Flashback. Is. Toshinori. Not All Might. But Toshinori.

"To be of service to others... What a joy! Fight on! Together!!"Toshinori bases himself on how useful he is to others. He doesn't say it's a joy to help others but to be of service. He still views himself below everyone else, like the same quirkless boy with no other role or place in the world. While All for One is physically de-aging, Toshinori is mentally, getting back in the mindset he had pre-One for All. He's selfless to the point that it's damaging (literally). His own life, his health, and his happiness aren't considered (rarely even by his friends). Because, to him, it's not important. It never has been. Toshinori has always had this sacrificial mindset. He's always been like this and now he seems worse than ever. He's happy, yes, but his own self-worth is at rock bottom because he isn't fighting for himself. He's fighting for everyone once again.

"Thrusters: Uravity... And Ingenium! Full throttle!!" Ninth and Tenth; Ochacko and Iida.

"You hear me?! To victory!" Not to the end. To victory. Toshi's victory. Everyone's victory.

"... He's fighting!" Aura Might is so pretty, and he senses that Toshinori is in battle. Not Deku, but Aura Might.

"All Might!!" "Midoriya, kid!!" It seems like they're able to communicate, or at least sense each other. Toshinori is still smiling (despite the fact that he's spitting out blood). He won't choose to give up. He won't give up. HE WON'T FAIL.

[olivinesea]

Space Is Only Noise If You Can See, pt.3

Part 1 Part 2

a/n: Surprise! Next part’s here. A bit shorter but no less traumatic so don’t get comfortable. TW major character death, guns, suicide, violence, you’ve got the picture. I’ll do my best to get the final part to you in a timely manner. ~2k

The hits keep coming.

The street was quiet when he got there thirty minutes later. No ambulance or police with their colors flashing across the front of the house. He thought it was odd but it barely registered when everything in his life was a little off. He ran up to the front door and found it slightly ajar. He pushed it open cautiously, uncertain what he would be met with on the other side. It had grown dark, the sun replaced by much weaker street lamps. He felt around for the light switch, knowing he would regret this action.

He sucked in a breath when the shadows were lifted, every gruesome detail just as he remembered. The blood. There was so much blood. He reached up a hand to wipe it away from his eyes. He was numb, unable to look at anything but Morgan’s body, cold and lifeless on the floor. The scene replayed again, this time in Morgan’s entryway, the setting a little different, the results all the same. He had never been able to save them.

The thought of the others, the rest of his team who he’d watched get murdered hundreds of times, reminded him that JJ was there. She had called him, that was why he was here, not a case, not a killer. He wanted to call out for her but it felt wrong to raise his voice in such close proximity to this horror. Instead he carefully stepped around his friend, not looking for fear he would fall to his knees and try to force the life back where it belonged. If he could bring Derek back by returning every drop of blood to the emptied veins, he would spend eternity gathering what had been spilled. If only the world allowed for that kind of trade.

He made it around to the kitchen but found it empty, as were the other rooms on this floor. While he searched he called 911. He didn’t understand why they weren’t there yet, they should be there by now. When he questioned them, the dispatcher told him there’d been no reports made about that address. He quickly relayed the basic details, even more eager to find JJ and discover what had happened between her call and his arrival. He frowned as he hung up, confused. As a precaution, he pulled his gun from its holster, nerves lighting up. JJ wouldn’t have left surely. He crossed the hallway again, this time heading for the stairs. He didn’t know why, there was no reason for her to have gone up there. But there was no reason for any of this. So he climbed to the second floor, placing each footstep carefully on the polished hardwood.

He found her in the master bedroom, curled up on Derek’s king-sized bed, her back to him. The relief he felt upon seeing her dissipated quickly. Something about her form was too still. He approached, apprehensive but also hopeful that the room might dissolve around him at any moment. This had the same feeling as his nightmares, perhaps it was only that. He'd never hoped more that his mind was tricking him.

As soon as he touched her shoulder, he knew. Everything was wrong. The weight of his hand made her body fall back until she was face up, head resting on the pillows. Her blue eyes were open, blonde hair loose around her, some of it caught across her face. He brushed it back, feeling the chill of her skin, the precious warmth already fled. There was no blood but he spotted an empty pill bottle in her hand. His mind fought against what he was seeing, so far from the correct order of things. She had only called him half an hour ago. How was there even time for this to occur? He pulled the bottle from her hand and felt the world spin faster. He blinked, chasing away the errant lines crossing his vision but the words on the label remained the same. The block type informed him that it once held opioids prescribed to one Aaron Hotchner.

He couldn’t imagine how it had ended up here, couldn’t even remember when he had gotten the prescription. It could have been after any number of injuries. He never took more than one or two before his body reminded him how sick they made him feel. The pain relief was never worth the sweating weakness and nausea that accompanied it. He usually tried to decline when they were offered but somehow he regularly ended up with one or two bottles mixed in with his too large assortment of other medications. He worried about it, knowing Jack was getting older, getting taller, might become curious about such things. He knew it was irresponsible to have narcotics he was not keeping track of somewhere as accessible as his medicine cabinet. But he never imagined this would be the consequence of that uncharacteristic lapse in judgement.

He stared at the small orange bottle, dwarfed by his hand. He didn’t know what to do with this information, had no idea how to process its meaning. Stunned he backed out of the room, out of the house completely. Everything he found inside there was upside-down and he needed air. He stood on the porch, looking vacantly out at the street, gun in one hand, death in the other. He rubbed the bottle continuously with his thumb as the ambulance and cop cars began arriving. His thumb caught a little every time it met the edge of the lid, scraping his skin against it, trying to remember when he even got it. When it disappeared.

An officer approached, weapon drawn, demanding he identify himself, wary of the gun dangling from the large man’s fingers. With effort, Hotch focused his eyes on the stranger, distantly registered the man’s anxiety. He gave his name and slowly moved to pull out his credentials. Hotch tried to answer his questions but all he could remember was Morgan getting shot by Mr. Scratch. Or did he shoot him? His words veered into incoherence and the officer became alarmed. If he hadn’t seen the man’s badge, he’d have a hard time believing this was BAU Unit Chief SSA Aaron Hotchner.

“Sir? Were you injured? I think you need to get checked by the medics,” he said. He took Hotch’s gun from him and steered him in the direction of the ambulance. Hotch didn’t mind him taking the gun, what good was it? His gun couldn’t protect him from the phantom tearing through his life, destroying everything that was good. He doubted a medic could help either.

Hotch was sitting on the bumper of an ambulance, continuing to ruminate when Dave arrived. The medic, after determining there was no physical injury to the man, left him there with instructions to stay put until someone came for him. Hotch hadn’t thought about who was listed as his emergency contact.

“Aaron! What happened?”

Hotch looked at him with wild eyes. He was terrified for Dave, certain now that this was the dream come true. Peter Lewis had gotten inside not only his mind but his life and was ripping the pieces apart slowly.

“Dave you can’t be here! You have to go,” he stood up and put his hands on Rossi’s chest, as if to push him away. Dave grabbed his wrists, eyebrows drawn together, confused by this reaction. Hotch curled his hands into fists and ducked his head. “Please,” he begged, “please Dave, it’s not safe.”

“Aaron, look at me.” Anticipating a bad reaction but doing it anyway, Rossi took hold of his face with both hands and forced the other man to meet his eyes. “What is going on?”

But Hotch was past reason by this point. The words he got out didn’t make sense to Rossi who only heard snippets about coffins and blood and Scratch—but that case was months ago, surely this was unrelated. He didn’t like to think that Hotch had been hiding something about that night for this long but he wouldn’t be surprised by it either. He thought about how Hotch’s confusion had lingered long after the doctors said the drugs’ effects should have worn off. How he had stopped asking for confirmation of details from that night yet he would occasionally lose focus, be half a step behind in conversation.

Rossi looked quickly over at the house, now swarming with officials, drawn to the crime scene like summer moths to lamps. He wasn’t needed here and Hotch very much needed to be somewhere else right now. Dave didn’t know what was happening in his friend’s mind but he knew the chaos of the scene around them wasn’t helping. He waved over an EMT to inform them he would be taking Agent Hotchner home, would ensure his safety. The medic gave no argument, there was nothing wrong with the man that they could see, only that he might be in some sort of shock over finding his colleague’s body. There was no reason for him to be their responsibility, they were happy enough to let someone else take over.

Rossi managed to lead Hotch back to the SUV, even more concerned by the fact that he didn’t resist being guided by a hand on his back. Didn’t try to shrug off the outward expression of concern. If Aaron was too distracted to notice physical contact, something was urgently wrong. Dave thought about this as he opened the door and gently pushed the other man into the passenger seat, giving non-committal responses to Hotch’s continued warnings that he needed to get away, that he needed to get everyone away.

“Put on your seatbelt,” he instructed after getting in himself and seeing it was still undone. Hotch stared at him blankly and he had to actually reach across and grab the restraint for him. Thought it bruised his heart, Dave ignored the way Aaron recoiled from his sudden nearness. He hated to see this side of Hotch, it reminded him how hard the man must work all the time to suppress his reactions, how much effort he went through to hide parts of himself he deemed unacceptable.

He straightened up and secured his own seatbelt before turning the key. He paused, not sure where to take them. Hotch was quiet now, seeming to be lost in the lights that danced across the front of Derek’s house. Dave decided to call Garcia, to update her and see if she had any updates for him. He had rushed from the office after receiving a call from a worried officer about one Agent Hotchner found disoriented at a crime scene. There had been little time to share details. Dave tried not to think about how he was using the term “crime scene” to describe Morgan’s home.

Rossi put his phone on speaker as he shifted into drive. He decided the first stop should be to Aaron’s apartment to check on Jack and see if he could get the man to calm down enough to make some sense. As soon as Garcia answered, he regretted calling her. She was in a panic, news of what had been found had reached her. Normally able to work, even through big emotions, this was all too much for Penelope. She was nearly as incoherent as Hotch was when he’d found him.

“Okay, okay, listen Penelope. I’ve got Hotch, I’m taking him home. Why don’t you call Emily? She’s supposed to have landed by now I think,” Dave was trying his best to stay patient. Honestly, he didn’t know what any of them should do but this manageable instruction seemed to calm Garcia a little.

She sniffled. “Emily, right, of course. I’ll call her right now, sir.”

“Great, thank you Penelope. Let’s just try to stay focused on getting everyone safe. I’ll call you when we get to Hotch’s place.”

“H-how is he? How are you?”

Dave looked over at Hotch who was still quietly brooding. Rossi could almost hear Hotch’s thoughts racing, trying to find a way to get ahead of whatever was happening. It was actually encouraging, he seemed more lucid than before. Dave opened his mouth to tell Garcia everything with them was alright for the moment. But that was the moment a truck slammed into the driver’s side door, sending the SUV spinning wildly through the intersection.

~Part 4~

[devnicolee]

The Chosen Ones (6)

Warnings: Slow burn, angst 

Word Count: 9,150

Pairings: M’Baku x Original Character

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

A/N: This took forever... slowly realizing I am a slow writer lol also this story was only supposed to be 5 chapters. It is going to be more like 8. Someone teach me how to write shorter stories and chapters lol Enjoy!

Asha gingerly opened her eyes to the darkness of her bedroom, her deep red curtains blocking the sunlight she knew tried to shine through her window. She stretched her arms and legs slightly, grimacing at the soreness that still coursed through her bones. She closed her eyes again, focusing internally to feel her powers once again at full force. The panther inside was rested and rejuvenated... ready for a new day. After years of begging to be rid of them, it was unnerving and terrifying to have exhausted them the way she did last night. She was slowly coming to realize that even in her lifelong hate of her powers, she still relied on them to catch her if she ever fell. Last night was an example of what would happen when the safety net was not beneath her. That was enough to force the young princess on her journey to accepting her powers, even without her conversation with Bast.

She thought back to her conversation with Bast briefly but refused to let her mind spiral too far down that black hole.

It is too early to dissect that, she determined silently. She would need a cup of strong coffee… maybe Jabari rum, to process that. 

She lazily rolled over to her side, eyes still heavy and tired, deciding to fall back into the unconscious world for a bit. Quiet moments passed before she opened her eyes again, coming face to face with the slumbering giant in her bed. Her eyes widened with shock as she took in M'Baku's resting form and deep, gentle snores.

I must have been more tired than I thought last night, she thought to herself, knowing that if she had all her wits about her... she certainly would not have forgotten falling asleep with the man of her dreams under her covers.

The desire for more sleep vanished like a flash of lightning. Small flashes of the night before appeared in her mind like a movie. Him carrying her to the fire, her asking him to stay in her bed, his heavy arm pulling her close to him, the warmth of his chest, him saying he would care if she died.

I would care. 

How could three simple words carry so much weight? Perhaps because aside from her siblings, no one had ever said it about her before. She loved him... She was in love with him. And she never felt it more strongly or deeply than last night when he held her in his arms. They hadn't done anything... hadn't even shared a kiss but that was intimacy unlike anything Asha had ever experienced. Staying like this with him was far more appealing than the drama she knew waited for her outside her bedroom's vibranium-enforced walls. 

She could see it now: waking up to his soft snores in the mornings, the thumps of his strong heartbeat against her ear as she laid on his chest, his strong arms wrapped around her to keep her close and safe, his natural body heat keeping her warm. She wanted it... craved it. And she thought nothing could top waking up in his bed that morning in Jabariland? This beat that by miles.

Her fingers ran up and down his bicep, feeling the strong muscle beneath the surface that gave him his sculptured figure. His eyes opened slowly at her light touch, the warrior inside crushing the heavy sleeper he once was as a child. A smile crept across his face as he took her in for the first time that day, a sight he certainly could get used to. He decided that there would be no better way than to start his days than with this woman by his side.

"Good morning," he said, his deep voice raspy and somehow more sexier than normal to Asha. 

"Good morning," she answered back, a sly smile on her face.  A silence fell over the two for a few moments as they just laid and stared at each other. Asha looked away, the intensity in his eyes too much for her. The joy of waking up with him was slowly morphing into dread. It was unfortunate that she could so clearly articulate the feelings she had for him to herself but the moment she had the opportunity to say them to him? She clammed up and shut down. The sun was up and a new day meant they would have to talk... about their complicated feelings, what they could be to each other, what it would mean for their families, their tribes. Asha didn't even know if she was still engaged... though she figured it was a safe guess to assume that arrangement had ended. 

She knew she wanted to choose M'Baku and figured he felt the same. After all, why would he still be here if he didn’t? But still, she dreaded asking... dreaded revealing her true feelings only to be disappointed. Asha's life was a series of moments where she thought things were going well and life veered down a hill of ragged rocks. Hasani was a great example... something she thought could work out only to be sadly mistaken. She was tired of expecting smooth sailing only to be met with rough seas and disappointment. She wanted desperately to believe this would be different, but her fear was real. She didn't know which conversation she was dreading more: the one with her brother and sister or the one in front of her right now. 

"W-we should probably get up, yes? I need to talk to my brother and sister. I-I should have called them last night," Asha said quickly, stumbling over her words a bit. Ultimately, she chose her siblings, that crisis seemed less daunting than whatever was going on between them. Besides, it seemed selfish to focus on building a new life with someone after lighting her old one on fire. It was her duty to help put it out first. 

She watched a look of surprise and disappointment flash across his face as she sat up to get out of bed. But to his credit, he did not voice it. He didn't want to get around her family and lose the opportunity to finally talk about them. He knew what last night meant for her family and he felt for them. But he also knew that last night meant the end of her engagement. M'Baku was not as selfless as he hoped to be so he couldn't help but see all of this as another barrier between them falling, granting them a clearer path ahead. But as T'Challa rightfully reminded him, selfishness was not Asha's way. They would need to deal with the consequences of last night before she would ever consider their future.

"Yes. Your sister left these for you, since yours were destroyed."  

He handed her a delicate set of new beads, which she quickly slid onto her wrist as she muttered a soft thank you. They blinked purple for a few moments when they touched her wrist, resyncing themselves with her information. 

M'Baku quickly excused himself to go back to his own guest room and change his clothes, allowing Asha to do the same.  

Asha used the new set of beads Shuri left with M'Baku to send messages to her siblings, mother, and Nakia, asking the group to meet her in T'Challa's office in 15 minutes. She was desperate to see them, to talk to them. Guilt rose like bile in her throat as she contemplated what to say, the appropriate apologies and explanations she needed to give for her reckless actions. Her father always said she would be the downfall of their tribe and she always vowed to prove him wrong. She had quite spectacularly failed at that. She knew they would ask about her flying adventure and she was not quite sure on what to tell them. Would she tell them of her near brush with death, her visit to the Planes, her conversation with Bast... her desperate attempts to stay there?

No... she quickly decided. 

The rest? Maybe, Bast seemed to believe there was some quest she had to fulfill and she had no earthly idea what it could be. Perhaps the other two-thirds of the Golden Trio could help her decipher Bast's riddles. But she knew she could never tell them that she tried to choose death, that would be hard to admit and even harder for them to hear. 

Once dressed, she walked outside her room to find Alexis waiting. Her guard did not even attempt to hide her jubilation at seeing the Princess alive, well and whole as she quickly swept the girl into a tight hug. Despite her surprise, Asha returned it with equal vigor, tightly wrapping her guard and confidant in her embrace. 

"Don't ever scare us like that again," Alexis stated sternly in her ear, though there was a plea buried under Alexis' usual abrasive tone.

"Never... I promise," Asha said back. It seemed Alexis decided that her stern warning would do and let the young girl go. Asha smiled at her before the two started toward M'Baku's guest quarters. 

M'Baku emerged from his door as soon as his guard knocked to alert him of Asha's arrival, having been ready moments before. The two shared a smile but no words, having just seen each other, and continued on the journey to T'Challa's office. 

Asha tried her best to ignore the stares and hushed whispers of the palace staff they passed. She knew what it meant. Her powers were no longer a palace secret... the thing many knew of or suspected but dared not talk about. Now, she imagined the secret was free and circulating through the palace and country like air, being soaked up by person after person after person. She felt exposed, naked… particularly without her rings she completely destroyed. 

However, she was determined not to let them get to her. Where yesterday's Asha would have shrunk into the shadows and hid in her room, today's Asha forced herself to hold her head high. It was difficult, she found herself desperate to hide at moments. But every time she did, a voice whispered to her and reminded her that she was a child of Bast. If Bast would not tolerate her kneeling before her, she certainly would not accept her cowering before anyone else. 

Asha knew the true transformation into the person Bast wanted her to be... the person she was apparently meant to be would take time. One meeting with Bast, one night would not change how she felt about herself, or stop her desire to run away from who she was. She knew she was still miles away from where Bast wanted her to be and where Wakanda apparently needed her to be, but she would celebrate any small step in the right direction. 

They rounded a corner and found themselves face to face with T'Challa's unmanned office door. She didn't announce her presence, simply opening the door to find her favorite people in this world huddled around T'Challa's desk. She didn't get a word out or even cross the threshold of the office before a speeding ball crashed into her and almost knocked her off her feet. There was no need to look down and figure out who it was, only one person in her world hugged like a mini cannonball.

She wrapped her arms tightly around her sister before pulling back to hold her face in her hands. Shuri looked as though she aged years in that one night. She looked up and found similar looks of worry and exhaustion on everyone else's face, bags and worry lines that could not be hidden by their wide smiles at seeing her.

Shuri seemed reluctant to let her go but finally did, giving her brother the chance to wrap her in a bone-crushingly tight hug.

"We are glad you are ok," he said.

Just hearing his voice, the voice of her first and fiercest protector caused tears to spring up to her eyes. She hid them as best she could but she knew the dam wouldn't hold for much longer. The round-robin of hugs continued with Nakia and Okoye before Asha turned back to face her brother again.

Her right hand fidgeted with the long sleeve on her cardigan, her apprehension and nerves clearly on display. They calmed slightly at the soothing circles M'Baku rubbed into her back and his presence so close to her as she tried to overcome the tightness in her vocal chords. When she finally looked up at T'Challa again, he was shocked to see tears streaming down her face. 

"I-I am so sorry T'Challa," she whispered. "Running away like that... scaring you all like that. I-it was selfish and i-it was wrong. A-a-and I never should have provoked Elder Shani in the first place. This is all my fault, I feel horrible. I am just... please forgive me." 

"Why in Bast's name are you talking about? You can't think any of us blame you for this?" Shuri asked, her confusion painted clearly on her face.

"How could you not? After what I said to her... and fleeing like that? I mean I broke a window for Bast’s sake." Asha's eyes bounced between the two, searching for a hint of anger or disappointment, searching for the reactions she had built up in her mind. But she couldn't find any of it.

T'Challa chuckled, "You mistake us for Baba, Asha. We are not him... unreasonable and apathetic. Nothing you said to Elder Shani was untrue or wrong. It was your right to speak up as my advisor. Elder Shani made a choice and those choices are not your fault, nor are they a reflection of you. We were worried about you, of course. But we certainly do not blame you. We will have to speak about the window though," he added with a smile, winking at her.  

"Quite frankly, you did us all a favor," Shuri added, waving off Asha's concerns with her hand as she hoisted herself up slightly to sit on T’Challa’s desk. "Keeping that secret was killing you, hurting the tribe's reputation with all those lies. Now, we don't have to worry about that anymore. The laws are gone. You can set things on fire to your heart's content and no one can hold it over our heads again." 

Asha nodded slowly, "I know not everyone feels that way... where is mama?" she asked, acknowledging the absence of a key member of the Panther Tribe.

Asha tried not to feel affronted by the fact that she almost died and her own mother had not come to see about her. She knew it was long past time to accept her mother's lukewarm reception of her. She always thought of her as an ally but as she grew and analyzed her childhood, she recognized that Ramonda was merely an extension of her husband. She would never fully love Asha as a mother should. But for reasons unknown, or rather that she did not yet want to admit, she still held hope that her mother would be more to her. And she was always disappointed. 

T'Challa and Shuri could not control their immediate reaction to share a dark glare with each other. Asha appreciated their attempts to hide it and put on for her benefit. But she knew it was just that... an act.

"Mama said she would see you later. Don't worry about her. She is glad you are alright," T'Challa managed to say, though lying was never his strong suit, with a failed attempt at a reassuring smile on his face.  

"It is high time you two stop lying about things for my benefit. I know, just as well as you do, that, at best, she is begrudgingly happy about my survival," Asha snorted, eyes rolling as she settled down on the couch across from T'Challa's desk. 

"But we are not here to discuss mama... we are here to discuss the other woman who hates me. How bad is it?" Asha asked, moving on to more important matters than her mother's indifference toward her. Jitters coursed through her body as she waited to hear of the damage her stunt brought upon them. She felt M'Baku's weight settle on the couch next to her, his presence forcing some of those jitters to melt away.

M'Baku stayed silent throughout their meeting, feeling like an outsider in a family reunion. He felt assured in his presence knowing Asha indeed wanted him there. Her body gravitated toward his, leaning into his side the moment he sat down on the couch. His hand instantly found its home on her knee, her fingertips grazed his arm gently. It was so natural, he almost didn't realize it and wondered if she even noticed it herself. The intimacy of their soft, effortless touches were not lost on him or the other occupants of this office. He imagined it looked as if they had been in love for years, that was surely how it felt to him. Except, he didn't know what they were... in love, yes. In sync? Not so much.

T'Challa leaned against his wooden desk, suddenly looking older, the burdens of a king etched on his face. He rubbed his eyes like an exhausted child and folded his arms across his chest before answering,  "It is, unfortunately, as we feared. Elder Shani has launched a campaign against the Panther Tribe. She has already gathered a group of vocal anti-mutants to support her and told anyone who will listen the truth of your status and the web of lies built to hide it. If it is any consolation, it seems to us that most of the country is enraged by the lies and secrets, not your actual status."

"The River Tribe and the Jabari are firmly behind us. The Mining and Border Tribes are still on the fence, refusing to signal support either way. We believe she will use the King's Exhibition tomorrow as her moment to publicly demand another challenge," Shuri added. 

"Can she do that?" M'Baku asked.  

"Technically, yes. It hasn't been done in a century and has always failed. But the majority of the Council can demand another challenge for the throne if they have sufficient evidence against the King. If she convinces the mining and border tribes to join her, she will have her majority." 

"Our best bet is to remind the Mining and Border Tribes of the long-term implications of another challenge. If we strip T'Challa of his powers to challenge for the throne, it will be the end of the Black Panther. The last of the herbs runs through his veins," Nakia offered from her spot by the window. 

Asha's head lulled into her hands, her soft moan of exasperation muffled through her fingers. She loathed to think about it, but her father was right. The truth was out and their tribe was beginning to crumble. 

"Your engagement to Hasani has been called off, not officially. But we have no reason to uphold our end of that bargain when she did not uphold hers. It is nothing we cannot handle, Asha."

Asha nodded, slowly standing and pacing by the couch. Her fingers twisted among themselves as she walked, thinking. "Ok. So how do we stop her? What do we need to -"  

"No, there is nothing we need to do. Shuri and I had a long conversation last night and we decided that whatever comes of this, wherever this takes us... it is no longer your concern." 

Her pacing ceased, her hands fell to her sides as his words hit her. There was no malice, no intention of harm in his words... not even a hint of harshness. And yet, the words felt like a slap to the face, a slight. "T'Challa... what? What is that supposed to mean?"

He walked up to her, taking her hands in his firmly, ignoring her immediate instinct to rip them away. He saw the flickers of hurt in her eyes and needed to explain. He felt responsible for all this carnage that surrounded them. M'Baku was right. T'Challa always did the easiest thing when it came to his sister, never taking the leap that would actually free her. It was his determination as her big brother to free her, no matter the cost to him or their family. And it was time she stopped lugging around the weight of the consequences alone.

"It means that our parents laid the fate of our family... our legacy at your feet and that was unfair. Forced you to carry a weight alone that is all of ours. Your life has never been your own because of that. We will not do that any longer. As king, the fate of our family and tribe is my cross to bear. The rest of this life is yours... to experience something different, choose something different." His eyes lingered on M'Baku for a moment for he knew, even if his sister didn't yet, that life in Jabariland was that something different she needed to explore.

Asha was rarely at a loss for words but she couldn't think of anything to say. What he offered, she desperately wanted to accept. After all, it is what she always wanted. To be free of this place and all that came with it. But after her conversation with Bast, she now worried that her heart's desire was not her destiny. She was born into this family for a reason. If her destiny was to live happily in Jabariland, Bast could have put her there from the start. But no... she was here and that meant that whatever she was meant to do in this life, she couldn't turn her back on her role for good. After 15 years of believing she had to get rid of her powers to truly be in this family or that she had to leave in order to be free, she now actually saw a path in which she could have both.

She squeezed his hand before replying, "I love you both... more than anyone in this life. And I appreciate this, truly. But we are our family's present and future. So we share the burden of leading this country and its people. I can no more dissolve myself of the responsibilities that come with that than you can. I cannot leave here and pretend I do not care what happens to our family." 

"But you said you couldn't stay here anymore?" Shuri asked. 

"I did say that... before. But I don’t know how true that is now. Before I d-didn’t see a lot of choices.  I wanted so desperately to be loved and wanted in this life. I just wanted to be like you two... you both live lives that are vibrant, filled with your passions and joy... filled with hope. It always hurt to watch you both live the lives you so richly deserved while I could not. But when I got back from Jabariland, days spent watching what my life here could have been like, I realized I couldn't ignore that pain anymore. I couldn't be satisfied with a half-life anymore, which is why I took the easy way out and ran. But you two are my family and this is my home. You two are in this world so I do not have a desire to choose a different one.”

T'Challa nodded, understanding, "We just want you to find happiness, Asha. Even if it is not with us... even if it is not here." 

"The only happiness I have ever known has been with the people in this room. I can find some more happiness outside these walls and not turn my back on our family at the same time. I thought I couldn't but Bast showed me that I could, made me remember that you all are worth that. You are the reason I came back."

"'Came back?'" Shuri repeated slowly, confusion evident in her tone and on her face. "What do you mean?"  

Asha bowed her head, internally frustrated at her slip up. She thought about lying but that wasn’t them. She, Shuri and T'Challa were different. She always felt like they would never understand the depths of her sadness and pain. But they proved her wrong time and time again. They might not have understood fully but they never stopped trying, never stopped listening.

"Um... well, when I fell, I went to the Ancestral Plane." 

The air in the room became thick with tension as her words sank down upon them. T'Challa's body went rigid, his shock and anger clear in his facial expression. Tears welled up in Shuri's eyes. M'Baku leaped up from his seat, immediately tugging on her elbow to turn Asha's attention toward him.

Asha's body was tired of crying, exhausted of it, and yet the look of rage and pain in his face made her throat tight and tear ducts active again.

"You died?" he whispered, words barely above a whisper to keep the shakiness out of his voice.  

"How are you here?" Okoye asked as the only person who managed to maintain their composure, though her face did seem harder than usual. "How is this possible? No one but the Black Panther can visit the Planes and return." 

Asha scratched her head, unsure on how to explain something that she didn't fully understand herself. Scientifically, she knew what happened to her should not have been possible but what about any of this was scientific? It was all determined by Bast and she did not adhere to the rules of man. 

"I don't know. Truly. Bast said I wasn't dead but that the fall was an opportunity for her to speak with me. She did say that it was my choice of whether to stay or return here. I chose to return."

"Bast? The Bast?" T'Challa whispered. 

"Yes... The Bast... Panther Goddess of Wakanda and all that. You talked to her on your trip to the Plane yes?" Asha asked, confused as to why her brother looked more shocked than the rest of them. It was a known fact that the Black Panther visited the Ancestral Plane when they were given their powers. T'Challa visited twice, once more than any Black Panther before him. It was always Asha's assumption that the protector of Wakanda met with the Goddess that gave them those powers during that crucial visit.

"No. No, I didn't. I spoke to Baba, both times. And only Baba. I have never heard of a panther speaking directly to Bast, aside from the first Black Panther of course."

What is so special about me? Asha wondered silently to herself. 

If she was being honest, meeting Bast had not seemed like much of an honor initially to her. But Asha's anger at her was unparalleled, her frustrations having built up for years with no release. It was hard to find joy in a meeting sullied by such pain and anger. 

"So what happened??" Shuri demanded, loudly, tapping Asha on the arm to pull her out of her own head. 

"When I woke up, I thought it was just a dream. I have dreamed about the Planes since I was a child and had not realized it. She showed up. I yelled at her, demanded she let me stay in the Planes," Asha admitted sheepishly, "And then she told me that Wakanda needed me to save its future and the legacy of the Black Panther. That is it. There were a lot of words but she did not offer many tangible actions," Asha added at the end, voicing her frustration at the cryptic messages her goddess gave her. 

"Unless she told you how to make me immortal or gave you new seeds to grow more herbs, I am not sure you or anyone can save the legacy of the Black Panther. The mantle will die when I die." There was a sadness in his eyes that Asha had only seen in her own, an acknowledgement that he would indeed be the last of a centuries-long tradition. "Wakanda's only protector will be gone forever."  

"Perhaps not forever..." M'Baku whispered. Asha could almost see the light bulb in his head going off as he addressed the full group for the first time since they walked in.

Everyone's attention shifted to the Mountain King, eyes wide with skepticism. The same question oscillating in all their minds: What did a Jabari know of the Heart-Shaped Herb?  

"What do you mean?" Asha asked. 

"I have had this reoccurring dream about the heart-shaped herb since I was a child. Except, the herb was on the top of a mountain, covered in ice, in Jabariland. I would try to seize one and panthers would surround them and I would wake up. The same outcome every single time. I believed the dream was my sign to challenge for the throne. But I continued to have the dream after Challenge Day. What if it means something more?"

"I don't see how that can help us, Lord M'Baku," Shuri muttered, rolling her eyes. "Those were just dreams. You all have never found herbs in Jabariland. There are none. We have searched... There are none in the wild in all of Wakanda."

"Yes, we have yet to find herbs in Jabariland, that is true Princess. But we have not searched all of Jabariland. There is a small mountain range on the border of the Land of the Heart-Shaped Herb, land that no Jabari has set foot on in almost a century. Its forest is impenetrable. It is forbidden. Truthfully, I haven't thought about it in years until just now. Last night, King T'Challa said that your priestesses refuse to go to the Hall of Kings because they are attacked by visions and voices, yes? Our scouts used to report the same phenomenon in those mountains. Even the Chosen are not immune."

"You think there are herbs there?" Nakia said? "I don't understand why Bast would put herbs outside of Wakanda?" 

"Technically... she didn't put them outside Wakanda. We did. Old maps of Wakanda show that the land that is now the Land of the Heart-Shaped Herb stretched into the mountains. The Taifa Ngao simply thought the mountain and river's natural fortification made the easiest barriers between the territories, an easy break between the two that would not confuse anyone. But in doing so, part of the forest of herb ended up in Jabari territory. Bast said that she and Hanuman were aligned on many things... maybe it is protecting the last of the Heart-Shaped Herb?"

"This is all speculation. What proof is there to any of this? And how can we find them when the forest drives you to insanity?" 

"You cannot believe these are coincidences? These dreams are real. Think about everything that has happened... Killmonger, reuniting Jabari with Wakanda, Asha meeting with Bast? All of it had to be for a reason. This is the reason. There are herbs in Jabariland and Asha is meant to lead us to them. She is not a Jabari, she is not a Chosen... she is... something else. She may be the only person who can do this." 

Heads turned to Asha as she contemplated everything M'Baku said. She could not deny that the pieces fit together as he described them. If there were herbs left in this world, M'Baku may have just drawn them the road map directly to that garden. They owed it to Wakanda to find out the truth. And he was right… she was something else. She was A Gift. 

"Then we go. We search for it. Today," Asha declared, determination set on her face. 

"Today??" Shuri called out incredulously, laughing lightly at the absurdity of this plan. "You can't be serious? You literally died last night and now you want to go hiking? Are you on drugs??"

"Yes, I must agree with Shuri. Not because I don't believe you may be right. B-but you cannot run off into the forest off M'Baku's word and a hunch, Asha. it is not safe." 

Asha shook her head. "It is not just M'Baku's word... it is Bast's too. She said I was to build last bridges across Wakanda, T'Challa. This is it. This is what she wants me to do. The herb and the Black Panther are what stopped Wakanda from tearing itself apart centuries ago. It is the thread that has held us together for centuries. Without it, we will just tear each other apart again. Bast doesn’t want the Black Panther to die, it would be the end of her people. If the Jabari lead us to the last of the wild herbs and give us the opportunity to cultivate them once more... no Wakandan could ever deny their place in this country again. If a mutant helps us preserve the legacy of the Black Panther, no one would ever question their existence again. They would have to recognize them as Bast intended, as gifts to her people. Brother... you have done what was once thought as unimaginable: bringing mutants back into the light, bringing the Jabari back into Wakanda. The Warrior Shaman went into the wilderness to save Wakanda then. This is how we save Wakanda now." 

T'Challa stared at her intently, processing her words. He knew she was right, knew the puzzle pieces did in fact create this clear picture and path forward. However, he wished she was not the one that had to do it. 

"We need the herb before the King's Challenge tomorrow evening. This is how we will convince the Mining and Border Tribes to maintain their allegiance to the throne. Are you sure you can do this, Asha? It won’t be an easy journey alone." 

"Yes," she answered without hesitation. "And I won't be alone." 

***

The ramp of the Royal Talon thudded softly into the soft ground of a clearing in Jabariland, allowing Asha and M'Baku to descend into the frigid air. They looked like an odd pair, he in traditional Jabari hiking clothes. Asha, who had never done true hiking in her life, was in a borrowed pair of boots, leggings and a light jacket. A freezing Jabari day felt like a nice cool day to her. Both had backpacks filled with supplies and blankets, courtesy of Shuri who had also never hiked but seemed to think it was a week-long affair. 

"Are you sure you want to do this?" She asked M'Baku as they stepped into the soft and undisrupted snow on the ground. The Talon dropped them off at a spot already halfway up the mountain, giving them a head start. Unfortunately, the thick trees would not let them get any higher. 

"Do you want to do this?" he countered, already knowing the answer. "No one wants to walk into a forest filled with magic. But this is my duty. I will nott turn back on it." 

“How do we know that you are immune? From the creepy voices and dreams?” Asha asked, concerned for his mental health. 

“We don’t. I guess we will have to wait and find out.” 

Asha gave him a side glance. The man didn't look scared but there was such silence in him since they got on the plane and certain tension radiated off him that she was not used to. She wondered if this was how he wore fear.. This was certainly a new side of him she was experiencing.

"You said your dreams put the herb at the top of the mountain yes?" 

"Yes, we should get started. It will take us a great deal of time." 

The further they walked, the more Asha understood why people did not come here. Even without the voices and visions, which she was sure would be terrifying to the average Jabari, the trees were so thick and hunched over that they blocked out almost all of the natural sunlight along their path. It seemed as though night had fallen the moment they stepped foot out of the clearing. But so far, M'Baku's theory seemed to hold true. Asha heard nothing except the chitter chatter of forest animals, the swaying of trees, and a mixture of her and M'Baku's breathing. 

Silence followed them easily as they walked for the first stretch, neither needing to stop or fill the space with unnecessary conversation. They just walked upward, toward the garden they knew was waiting for them. Occasionally, Asha threw a glance toward M'Baku, wondering what he was thinking of, wondering if they should use this free time to finally talk. 

"It seems you were chosen in a different way, Lord M'Baku," she mused aloud as he used his knobkerrie to knock low-hanging branches from their path. 

He looked back at her, eyebrows raised in speculation. 

"How do you figure that?" 

She laughed lightly, her childlike laughter filling the quiet forest as they went. "Well, you said this journey drives everyone else insane. Yet here you are... mind clear enough to continue the journey. Why do you think that is?" 

Her question was met with silence but she could practically hear the wheels in his head churning, thinking about her words. 

"Here we are... the only two people in all of Wakanda who could make this journey? You are doing something even T'Challa could not. You are saving the legacy of Wakanda." 

"I don't serve your God though. Bast would not use me as a pawn in her plans." 

She had fallen behind him slightly, his long legs allowing him to take greater strides than her. She sped up and he slowed down slightly so they could walk side by side and better engage in conversation. 

"Bast and Hanuman are not mutually exclusive. They exist together. They are aligned in many ways. She told me so. Who says Hanuman doesn't want to protect the legacy of Wakanda too? If he didn't, why would he have urged you to fight for us against Killmonger or rejoin Wakanda? I don't think this is just Bast's plan... I don't know.I think it is their plan? " 

"You seemed to know a lot about Bast for someone who doesn't pray," M'Baku countered, not to be contentious but trying to understand. He still remembered their hike her first morning in Jabariland... she had said she was done with all that. 

Asha sighed, "I was. But I spoke to her, laid my frustrations and grievances at her feet and she listened, without judgement. She pushed me, challenged the things I always believed. I don't know. I stopped praying because I thought she stopped listening. But she never did, she just knew I was asking for the wrong things." 

Silence fell over them for a while before M'Baku responded, "You truly believe I was chosen for this?" 

A small smile settled on Asha's face. His tone, the look in his eyes was of a child wanting to be told he was good enough... worthy enough. Asha wondered if this was the great juxtaposition of their relationship - both grew up wanting what the other had and neither appreciated what they had. Neither thought they were chosen when their worthiness was so clear and evident in the other’s eyes. In reality, it seems they were destined for this task and perhaps destined for each other.

"Yes. I do. I know you have never felt like it but it is clear to me. Your dreams... your leadership in this tribe. Those are no coincidence. Hanuman and Bast could have chosen anyone to have that dream and wander this mountain and find these herbs. But they chose you. That means something." 

The weather was getting colder, the winds stronger, the higher they walked up the mountain. The loud winds forced their conversation to die off as it howled loudly around them. Even Asha was starting to feel the sharp bite of the cold weather. It was not enough for her to regret her choice of light clothing, her internal furnace just had to do a bit of extra work. 

The sun started to set, stealing the minimal light they had on the path. The darker it got, the more ominous the walk got as well. Not long after, snow started to fall on them, growing heavier by the second. 

"How much farther?" Asha asked quietly. 

"A few hours. But soon we won't be able to see anything with the snow. We should find shelter." 

Asha looked around wildly, incredulously. "Shelter? Where? We are on an uninhabited mountain, M'Baku. Where in Bast's name would we find shelter?"

"I d - sh!" M'Baku quickly silenced her and himself as he heard rustling in the trees by Asha. Asha had little time to think before he pushed her behind him and raised his knobkerrie. 

However, Asha was no damsel in distress, she was a fighter. She moved from behind him and summoned flames around her hands, though they struggled to stay alive due to the cold winds, ready to strike whatever came out of the forest at them. 

They both stared into the black abyss between the trees beside them. First there was nothing, the pair starting to let their guard down. But before they allowed themselves to relax too much, Asha let out a soft gasp. Where there was nothing but black, there were now two amber eyes staring back at them. 

M'Baku raised his weapon higher but Asha lowered hers, allowing the flames to cease and held his arm with her normal hand. She couldn't explain it but she knew this wasn't dangerous. Whatever the creature was, it would not hurt them. She took a step forward despite M'Baku's urgent whispers to not get too close. As she moved with bated breath, a paw emerged from the darkness, giving way to a full-grown panther slowly walking toward her. 

M'Baku stood stunned as Asha dropped to her knee before the Panther. This was a message from Bast... they were on the right track. 

The panther stared at her for a moment before turning and heading back through another set of trees. Asha immediately fell into step behind it. She felt her body tugged back by a strong grip and turned to find M'Baku looking more fearful than she had ever seen him. 

"Panthers can't survive up here. It shouldn’t be up here. What are you doing?" 

"I am following it. You have to trust me, M'Baku. You just have to," she begged him, eyes pleading with him to let her follow this animal. All the senses in her body yearned to go after it for she knew it was leading them exactly where they needed to go. 

M'Baku didn't understand why following a wild panther would help them, unless she desired a trip back to the Planes. But he knew his logical brain was simply trying to overpower the feeling in his gut that agreed with her: the panther knew the way. 

He let go of her arm and nodded, both quickly catching up to the panther who was waiting for them a few paces ahead. They followed it, snow heavily falling and winds whipping their faces for 10 minutes. Asha's resolve never wavered, this panther knew where it was going. 

Sure enough, minutes later, just as M'Baku was cementing his idea to demand they return to the path, the panther stopped in front of the mouth of a cave. It flopped down onto its belly, licking the snow melting on its limbs while Asha and M'Baku walked past it. It was dark and damp but it was shelter, a reprieve from the harsh winds and snow outside. 

They huddled inside, shielded from the winter elements outside. 

"This will do for the night. Do you want to make a fire? I can go get wood," M'Baku offered. 

Asha shook her head, sliding her backpack and sleeping bag she didn't think she would actually need off her shoulders. 

"The sleeping bag is insulated. It heats up according to your body temperature. And I can make heat if we need it. Are you cold?"  

M'Baku shook his head but couldn't hide the obvious judgement that clouded his eyes, knowing exactly what made the sleeping bag operate like that. 

"Sorry, I forgot you all distrust vibranium. I shouldn't have men-" 

He shook his head, silencing her. "It is fine, don't apologize. I suppose I must get used to vibranium if we are going to be a part of Wakanda." 

They both unrolled their sleeping bags next to each other before sliding in. Silence fell over them as they stared at the dark gray, damp walls of the cave, listened to nothing but their own breathing and the soft drops of water dripping onto the floor. 

Asha wondered if he felt it too, the urge to finally talk. She wondered if the spirits haunting this mountain were finally attacking her brain, for she had wanted nothing but to avoid this difficult conversation since she woke up this morning. But this felt like their time, their moment. 

Bast and Hanuman pulling the strings yet again, she thought to herself. 

There were no interruptions, no distractions. They had all night. They were in their element, in the mountains where the rest of the world fell away and they could be the best versions of themselves. 

Another stolen moment? she wondered. But she knew that wasn't it. This was the first interaction that didn't feel stolen, it felt as if it was designed for them... made for them.

Asha felt like so much of the last few weeks were destiny, her love for M'Baku included. Asha was in love with him, she wanted him and would choose him if he was still willing to have her. All signs pointed to that, after all, why else would he go on this journey with her? If this was truly Bast's plan, why waste her opportunity? Suddenly, she had no desire to go another night without being his if that was the path she was on. They... she wasted so much time already fighting for something that she didn't even truly want.

But first, she knew there was something she needed to say, apologize for. She rejected him, for good reasons at the time, but it was rejection nonetheless. And he was still here, still fighting for her and her family without any assurance that she wanted him in return. It was a selflessness she questioned whether she actually deserved. 

"Can I say something?" she inquired, her fear of broaching this subject evident in her voice. Thankfully, without a fire for light, it was pitch black so she knew he couldn't see it. Her question was met with silence but she took that as permission to press forward.

"I-I'm sorry."

He side-eyed her suspiciously in the darkness, not understanding what the woman beside him had to apologize for. 

"I am sorry for choosing him. I thought I had good reasons, thought it was the right choice. At the time, it felt, he felt, like the only choice. Yet, I still pursued something with you, knowing I couldn't choose you. That wasn't fair. I-It was selfish. And I am sorry." 

There was silence for a while. Her anxiety was at an all-time high as she waited with bated breath for him to say something, say anything back to her. She wasn't even sure what she wanted to hear. 

"I want to see you. Like that first night." 

It was a simple request, one that didn't need additional explaining. Asha's small hands curled into tight fists. Unlike that first night where she had little control over her body and her powers, she had grown since then. The flames instantly grew large enough to swirl themselves into a tight ball, vibrant oranges and yellows dancing in an invisible encasing. 

She pushed the ball out and it floated away from her, dancing gracefully through the darkness as it slowly illuminated the cave around them, bathing them in a soft glow. Her hands repeated the motion until the cave was filled with light and heat of her own making, sourced by a dozen balls of fire.

M'Baku stared up at them for a few minutes, just as mesmerized by them and her as he was the first time around. He watched them gently float through the air, their heat warming him in a way his sleeping bag never could. He looked over at her, illuminated by her own magic, looking like the goddess he knew her to be. 

"No it wasn't fair. But I also pursued you when I knew you were taken. That was equally selfish. But I do not want nor will I accept an apology. The path was rugged but it got us here. I wouldn't change it." 

"Except maybe the part where I almost died. I would happily change that," she added. She smiled at the belly laugh M'Baku let out at her words, which echoed throughout their makeshift shelter. His smile and laugh filled her soul in a way no else could ever have. 

"Yes, definitely that part. So the journey got us here. Where is here?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I want you. I choose you, I know that much. But everything else... what this means for us, the Jabari, Wakanda? That I don't know." 

"Why does that matter?" 

She shifted to her side, looking at his profile. 

"B-because you are the leader of your tribe, I am the princess of our country. What we do with our lives has greater implications than our happiness. You said it yourself. If our happiness had anything to do with it, we wouldn't be here. It is our duty." 

He shifted to sit up slightly, his hand reaching out to find hers, interlocking their fingers together. 

"Yes. But our lives are still our own. All the other things work out on their own. They should not stop us. They won’t stop me. I want to be with you." 

Asha smiled, "So we are really doing this? You wish to date me? A vibranium-obsessed lowlander?" she teased. 

M'Baku couldn't help but notice something else under her teasing tone, uncertainty. She still needed confirmation that he wanted her. He would give that to her every day for the rest of his days if it helped her. 

He tugged on her arm, beckoning her to join him in his over-sized sleeping bag. She slid in next to him at his prompting, warmth spreading through her in new ways as they laid skin to skin. His knuckle stroked her cheek as he stared at her for a few minutes. 

"Yes. Because I am in love with you, Asha Udaka. I have been since the moment you walked into my throne room and will be until my last breath." 

His rough thumb wiped away the tears that fell down her face. 

"I love you too," she whispered, feeling the weight of holding that in lift off her shoulders. It felt good to say it, even better to feel it freely and openly. Asha had never felt this light before... weighed down by secrets of her powers, of her family, of her love for him. In a few short weeks, she went from being crushed under the sheer weight of it to being free from them all. 

His lips quickly captured hers before she could say another word. It started out gently but soon turned desperate as the couple tried to make up for lost time, tried to cram weeks of subtle touches and looks into this moment. M'Baku quickly shifted his body weight to be on top of her, her legs instantly wrapping around his waist as they kissed. His lips made their way to her neck as his hands roamed the rest of her willing body. She let out a breathy moan as he sucked her neck and his hands massaged her thighs, inching dangerously close to her core. 

Despite her heart literally doing back flips in her body, her logical mind couldn't help but demand she pump the breaks on this lust-filled tryst in the woods. She wanted him... Bast, she wanted him more than she wanted anything in this world. He was her drug and she was officially an addict. But he would be her first and she had heard enough from Nakia and Okoye to know that the first time can come with some unpleasantness among the pleasure. It only took two days in Jabariland to know that this was not his first time. She heard the staff gossip as she moved through the Great Lodge, the Lord of Jabariland knew his way around a woman's body and had many opportunities to practice. She was somewhat embarrassed by her lack of experience compared to him. But she knew enough about him to know, if he knew, he wouldn't judge her. He would just slow things down to put her at ease and ensure she was comfortable. And she wanted that. 

"M'Baku," she breathed, pushing against his shoulders. "M'Baku, wait." It was almost painful to ask him to stop, it went against every natural urge and instinct in her body. 

He immediately stopped, his hand coming to her face to cup her cheek, his eyes instantly apologetic. He took it too far, he knew it. He had just wanted this so bad, yearned for her like no other woman in the world. But after only agreeing to date five minutes prior, he should have known she wanted to take it slow. 

"I-I am sorry, Asha. I lost my head for a minute. That was inapp-" 

She captured his lips, kissing him deeply before sucking his bottom lip and breaking it off. 

"It is not that. I enjoyed it and I want to continue. I-it is just that, I have never been with anyone before. I thought you would want to know before w-we do this." 

M'Baku sighed, the better man in him winning out as her words sunk in. Regardless of how desperately he wanted this, this was not the way. He shifted them so they were both laying on their side again. Asha looked perplexed and slightly put out, taking his abrupt ending as rejection. 

"Why did you stop? I want to." 

"I do too. But your first time... our first time together, should not be in the cold on a hard cave floor. That is not what I want for us. We have waited this long, one more day until we get back to a real bed will not kill us."

Asha sighed, partially with relief that his reasoning was not rejection. 

He chuckled before kissing her on the forehead before she settled on his chest, her own sleeping bag cold and forgotten. 

“Good night, usana. Sleep well,” he whispered. 

And she did, going to sleep truly at peace for the first time in years. 

****

A/N: I mean FINALLY! These two are finally free and ready to stop tiptoeing around each other. We love to see it! Thanks for reading! 

Tag list: @destinio1 @muse-of-mbaku @jellybean531 @skysynclair19 @ashanti-notthesinger @gloriousgam3r @archivistofwakanda @leahnicole1219 @mygirlrenee

[enby-hawke]

Chapter 6 Summary: Malcolm and Leandra finally have the night to themselves or do they.

Warnings: Racism, Mageism, Gamlen’s an asshole, and songs

Word Count:10,037

A03:

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Malcolm was nervous, gut-nervous, like he’d just come from a Fade jump and his stomach was still doing all the roller coaster flips, threatening to empty out his hard-earned dinner. It didn’t help that the mountains of half-eaten food piled in the dumpsters were starting to turn along with the pungent aroma of the fish stew that gave the alley a rather wet smell. He couldn’t help but feel that this was a terrible place to meet Leandra. This held none of the grandeur of the Palace, the walls defaced with graffiti that had yet to be painted over. And since no one important usually came back here, they wouldn’t bother to for a while. The dumpsters were leaking what Malcolm hoped was just leftover soup, still dripping and draining down the gutter into the sewers below. Hardly romantic.

As the minutes dragged on he made wet tracks into haphazard circles as he found new anxieties that weren’t there before, seeds of doubt cracking into his confidence. What if he was not worthy of her? It wasn’t that he was an elf, though that difference did come to the forefront of his mind often, but what could he possibly offer her to sway her from the lover that already claimed her. He was a mage in the Circle, which meant he had no means to provide for her. He couldn’t compete with the wealth of a billionaire, couldn’t take her to the finest restaurants in Kirkwall to sample cuisines from far lands, couldn’t woo her with expensive gifts like bouquets or beautiful jewelry. He couldn’t even afford the suit the Circle loaned him. Would this night be all he had? Would she have her fun with him and go back to her wealthy fiance, and live her charmed life, and leave him with a broken heart?

And she would break him. He could feel it. He would spend the rest of his days aching for a taste of her lips. His hand clenched and unclenched, feeling so empty without her hand. He clenched it once more and punched the wall, the pain of the brick against his knuckles enough to shock him back to his senses. “You are not a coward!” he growled at himself.

But the seed of doubt rooted deeper. What if this is all she wants from him? A good time. A new experience. What if she didn’t see him as a man willing to love her but some plaything?

The door opened behind him and Malcolm wouldn’t say he jumped, but his feet definitely left the pavement. He straightened himself out to hear the alley suddenly echoing with a bounding argument broiling between Leandra and another man who looked similar to her in the way their scowls matched, but his eyes were not starry black but a shocking blue against his tawny beige skin.

“I’m telling you this is a bad idea. Now let’s go home before we’re caught.”

Leandra snarled, her face more akin to a warrior than a prim noblewoman. “Oh, please, you’re lecturing me?” she snapped her hand back from his muscled grip. “I thought you’d be more supportive considering all the times I’ve covered for you and Mara.”

Another woman in a red dress the same color as the man’s suit followed close behind, trying to keep the two of them apart, but it wasn’t working. Her cat eyes were pulled in a glare as she stayed close to Leandra’s heel. “Gamlen, for Maker’s sake give it a rest.”

Malcolm didn’t know who this man was to Leandra, but he didn’t like how handsy he was being, jerking her arm this way and that in forceful attempts to get her to follow, and Malcolm’s temper quickly snapped as he raced forward to defend Leandra.

“Hey, what’s your problem, asshole?” He balled his fists, rolling up his sleeves as he glowered up to the taller man, knowing he couldn’t use magic but he reckoned he could bet his Ferelden pride he could throw a better punch than a prissy Kirkwall nobleman.

The man looked down at the shorter elf’s stature and snorted, utterly unimpressed as if a kid had challenged him. “Run off, rabbit, this doesn’t concern you.”

Malcolm snarled ready to swing but Leandra instinctively put herself as a shield between the two men, “Malcolm, wait!”

Malcolm pulled himself back from the momentum, almost tripping over himself as he tried to veer direction. He was dazed in that moment, off-balance first by the sudden realization that this was the very first time she had ever said his name. He was so puzzled about how she even managed to remember it with dream fog he almost didn’t realize Carver had just walked through the door and had witnessed most of the exchange.

Carver walked up to Malcolm and pulled him back with force so Leandra, the man and he were now a good distance apart. “What are you doing starting fights?”

“Did I start a fight?” Malcolm shook himself back to reality, a new glare settling at the man who was holding Leandra’s wrist hostage. “Or did he?”

“Yeah, Gamlen, what’s your fucking problem?” the woman marched up beside Leandra as if to protect her.

Malcolm was about to say something else when Carver slapped the back of Malcolm’s head, not hard enough to hurt but the metal of his gauntlet still made a satisfying thwack. “Use your head. This is not some Circle brawl where you’ll get detention. Assaulting a nobleman has real consequences, Malcolm.”

The pushy man made a satisfied smirk at being defended, before it quickly dropped. “Wait, this is Malcolm?”

Malcolm’s ears twitched, not liking the accusatory way he used his name.

Leandra looked at the man as if she was pleading him not to say whatever was about to come out but still he just gawked at Leandra as he pointed at Malcolm with the force of a smack. “Are you kidding me? He’s an elf!? Are you trying to kill Mom and Dad?”

And there it was, the metaphorical elephant in the room that had plagued Malcolm’s thoughts had been spoken aloud and was staring him in the face. So this man was her brother. How unfortunate. He could see the resemblance now in the shape of their eyes and flat of their noses, and Malcolm suddenly felt self-conscious. Already her family disapproved of him, and he didn’t realize how badly he wanted their approval until now, but he knew how ridiculous it was to even have the expectation. He knew the raw ugly truth about how people would look at their relationship, but he wasn’t looking at her brother’s grimace, but at Leandra.

Her shoulders snapped back as her fury exploded like cannon. “When did you ever care what Mom and Dad think!?”

The other woman also didn’t look pleased with Gamlen’s confession. “Did you forget my grandfather is an elf?”

“Mara…” Gamlen sputtered. “It’s not the same. That’s your grandfather. You’re practically human.”

Mara’s smile turned chilly as she cocked her head at the statement, squinting her eyes. “Am I?”

The man sputtered again as Malcolm crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels thoroughly enjoying himself now. The man seemed to understand that this was the wrong answer but from the look of his face everyone could tell he was confused about why. “I mean…it’s not only that. He’s a mage, too.”

“And we have family that are mages,” Leandra countered.

His head was turtling into his shoulders as the two women stared him down with equally withering glares, but still Gamlen pleaded at them to listen. “Think this through, Leandra. You’re practically married. Do I have to remind you tonight was literally your Betrothal Ball. Think of how selfish you’re being.”

Leandra was tiny for a human woman but she had the ferocity of a warrior when she was angry, and it spilled out in a gushing tsunami at the accusation of being selfish. She shoved the other man off of her. “I supported you!” she cried and then shoved again, “had your back against mom and dad at every turn, and now I’m supposed to self-sacrifice and play good child so you can do whatever you want?” Gamlen balked at every shove, not expecting Leandra to fight back so fiercely, and he held her wrists as she attempted to hit him in the face but she was much too short to get a good swing so she started jabbing her heels into his legs. “When is it my turn? When do I get to be happy?”

Malcolm covered his mouth in amusement as the tiny woman beat back her brother with shorthanded swipes looking oddly like a housecat trying to beat back a confused crocodile. Her temper was beautiful, like the oncoming rage of a storm, leaving him in awe of her.

At the sound of Malcolm’s laughter she dropped her shoulders suddenly looking sheepish.

“Oh don’t stop on my account,” Malcolm grinned at her. “I’m enjoying the show.”

She looked at Malcolm with wide eyes suddenly uncertain and shy and she tucked a loose strand of hair that had come undone behind her ear, trying to look prim again. 

Malcolm was disappointed. He would have liked to see at least one more kick.

“I like Malcolm,” she announced, not quite able to meet Malcolm’s gaze though her voice remained steady. 

Malcolm blinked a couple of times unsure he had heard right, but then she marched up to Malcolm and picked up his freckled hand like it was the most precious thing in the world. “I want to explore what that this means,” then she glared back at her brother over her shoulder. “So can you kindly butt out?”

Malcolm didn’t mean for a laugh to escape. Maybe he was relieved to hear her say that. Maybe it was because that furious expression didn’t quite match her soft personality. And then her anger softened into a shy smile when he squeezed her hand in silent thanks, her whole demeanor suddenly demure again.

Malcolm could see the man confused, as if he didn’t expect her to take such a strong stand.

Leandra ignored her brother, her attention only on Malcolm. “I’m so sorry. I hope my idiot brother didn’t spoil our night.”

The smile that was already on his lips pulled wider. Our night.

She then glared at her brother. “He won’t join us.”

“Fine!” Gamlen barked. He snapped his fingers. “Mara, we’re leaving.”

Mara snorted. “You sure? Cause I think I’m going with Leandra, tonight.”

Gamlen narrowed his eyes, his voice taking on an edge of possessiveness. “Mara, we’re publicly together now. I know we don’t always agree but you’re supposed to be on my side, not Leandra’s.”

Mara laughed which seemed to confuse Gamlen and she took Leandra’s other arm and wrapped herself around her. “You’re just my boyfriend. Leandra’s my best friend. Get the hierarchy?”

Leandra looked utterly disappointed in Gamlen. “Need a shovel for the hole you’re digging?”

This time Carver joined Malcolm’s laughter. He had been standing silent the whole time, making sure Malcolm’s temper didn’t get away with him again, and he didn’t bother to hide his amusement as he met Malcolm’s gaze. “She’s a keeper,” Carver nodded approvingly, earning a pleased but flustered blush from Leandra.

Gamlen turned his scrutiny on Carver. “Aren’t you a templar? What are you doing letting this mage off his leash?”

Malcolm bristled at that, but Carver just placed a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, a squeeze reminding him to behave. Still, it was a friendly enough gesture that Gamlen seemed uneasy by it, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of this dynamic. “It may be a long leash, but believe me, there’s still a leash.”

Malcolm grunted at that, hating how true his words were, but Carver continued, “I know you have your doubts about mages, and I know fully the dangers that magic can bring, but Malcolm has opened my eyes many times to the wonders magic can bring.” He let his hand drop from Malcolm’s shoulder but didn’t lower his proud gaze. “He is a good man, a better man than many who serve under me and I’m proud to call him a friend.”

He had never heard Carver talk about him in such a way so to hear him come to his defense made him swallow a lump that suddenly crept up his throat like a frog, but it was apparent that Carver’s pretty words were not swaying Gamlen, though he looked like he was losing some of the fight out of him once he realized that he had no ally to turn to. So he resulted in sulking, hunching his shoulders and jutting out his lip which made him look like a mannish baby. “This is still a bad idea.”

Leandra nodded. “Noted. And ignored.”

“Then I’m coming with you,” Gamlen argued. “If only because someone needs to watch out for you tonight. He’s clearly got you under some sort of spell.”

Malcolm’s shoulders raised at the accusation. Gamlen was glaring at their intertwined hands with a sneer he couldn’t contain like she was touching a dirty animal. He was suddenly overcome with the overwhelming feeling like he would taint Leandra. Stories about how mages seduced their lovers by altering their minds with blood magic or how elven men tricked and stole the innocence of naive human women recounted in his head and though he thought he would have some sort of reply to that he found the words caught in his throat. Instead he held back a tremble as he struggled not to act on his temper and punch the man senseless, only to prove that he didn’t need a spell to rub that sneer off his face. But then even that was a trap, for it would only prove that he was uncivilized as the humans claimed elves to be even if humans never seemed to show much civilization.

There was no way he’d last the night.

Leandra glared. “As if! You’re being a real ass.”

“Well, how are you going to stop me?” the man’s voice took on a childish challenging tone as he dug in his heels.

Leandra groaned, knowing her stubborn brother wouldn’t take no for an answer. What brought on this bought of overbearing protectiveness she didn’t know, but she wanted to spend the night getting to know Malcolm, not bickering with her little brother.

“Fine, but if you say anymore idiotic things to Malcolm I won’t hesitate to knee you in the balls,” she huffed as she started dragging Malcolm and Mara around her annoying brother. “And you're taking your own cab!” she added with a snap.

They started marching out of the alleyway and out into the street where they found that the place was swarming with Guard and Templar cars in flashing red white and blue lights bathing the streets in headlights so that they all seemed exposed and Leandra froze at the thought of suddenly being caught and marched back to her parents.

“Follow me,” Carver spoke from behind them, and then marched past them as if there was nothing amiss about what they were doing.

Leandra dropped Malcolm’s hand and put some distance between them at the sight of the crowd that clearly saw them. Malcolm’s stomach dropped in disappointment. Though he knew an elf and a human holding hands would only invite more stares it didn’t keep his heart from aching, wishing just for a moment that he was human so that she wouldn’t let go.

The templars and guards glided around them without notice all seeming to have their own agendas and orders to carry out. There were news vans swarming the front of the Palace trying to make sense of what was happening and they took great care not to get in their line of sight.

Malcolm had a sinking feeling as he followed Carver, thinking that he’d return to his duties and let him have some peace with Leandra. Well, he and Leandra’s friend, who invited herself, but he knew the hierarchy. As they approached an armored vehicle with reinforced wheels and a red Chantry sun impaled a sword, the symbol of the templars, Malcolm realized another was joining the night. It seemed his leash was shorter than he thought, tonight.

Carver opened the door gesturing for the ladies to go in with a respectful bow.

Mara’s eyes gleamed in mischief as she inspected the back of the templar’s car, the armored barriers seeming more fit to housing dangerous apostates than escorting Kirkwall nobility. “Are we in trouble, Officer?”

Carver’s eyes crinkled in a smile but his face remained neutral. “Simply making sure you all get home safely.”

Mara bounced into the backseat. “This standard?”

“Perfectly,” Carver allowed a small smile.

Leandra, too jittery with all the people about quickly ducked behind Mara without a word, grateful to be out of sight.

Carver blocked Gamlen’s push forward so Malcolm could snag the seat next to Leandra and shut the door behind him.

Gamlen scowled, trying to look intimidating but Carver had a few inches in him and was in full armor and gear and didn’t bother to even look in Gamlen’s direction as he got into the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

Gamlen tried to get into the passenger’s seat but he found that it had been locked. Gamlen pounded on the tinted window demanding to be let in.

Carver rolled down the window only enough so Gamlen could hear him say, “I thought the lady told you to get your own cab.”

Gamlen’s face went slack with shock, his blue eyes glassy as he was not able to process what was happening. He could hear Mara and Gamlen’s laughter peeling out from the window, mocking him.

Even Leandra barked out a short laugh before she clapped a hand over her mouth, burning in shame. “That is not necessary, Lord Carver.”

But Carver was already pulling off from the sidewalk, a shellshocked Gamlen watching as they left him at the curb.

There was a satisfied smirk on his lips that no one else could see. “The silence might give him some time to reflect on what he said.”

But it seemed like silence wasn’t what Gamlen wanted. Mara’s phone started to ring, Gamlen’s ringtone, which was a high stringed addictive pop song that filled the cabin.

“With a taste of your lips I’m on a ride.”

Mara sighed raggedly knowing the tantrum that was sure to come. She clicked the button to answer, cutting the music and with a curt voice she said, “I’m not interested in anything but an apology.”

“Apology!?” his voice boomed loud enough from the speaker. “You should apologize. You ditched me and laughed!”

“That’s right,” Mara confirmed in a sing-song voice. “You’re being a hypocrite.”

“Mara-”

But she quickly cut him off with a snarl that was unlike her, “I’m turning off my phone. Maybe if I’m in a good mood I’ll text you where we’re at.”

Then she cut off the rest of his tirade by ending the call and did just that.

She then threw her head back in her seat, her face reddening as she muttered a string of curses under her breath.

Leandra looked at her friend feeling torn. On one hand she couldn’t excuse her brother but she felt her heart ache at what she thought might be the end of their relationship. She knew her brother was better than this and she hoped that somehow he’d find a way to fix this. Still she felt shame like somehow it was her fault the whole wonderful night had been left uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” she said guiltily.

She found Malcolm touching her hand, unsure if the gesture was welcome, but just his hand being close made her fingers wrap around them to keep him there, hoping Malcolm didn’t think less of her. 

“It’s not the worst thing I’ve heard. They get more creative in the Circle,” he said it like a joke, but there was tenseness in the admission.

Leandra didn’t like the thought of that. She knew what her brother said was ugly, and yet to know it was not the worst experience he’d had made her squeeze his hand, the words to comfort him failing her.

“So I’m curious,” Mara’s voice cut between them. She leaned forward so Carver could hear her better through the bars that separated them. “How does a templar and a mage get so chummy?” There was mischief in her curiosity and Malcolm couldn’t help but feel like Mara was scrutinizing him, judging his every move, but unlike Gamlen, she seemed to have not come to a conclusion yet.

“Carver’s not a prick,” Malcolm explained which brought delighted laughter from Carver, a soothing sound like water bubbling over a brook.

“It’s easy to be friends with Malcolm, as long as you can handle some honesty,” Carver echoed back.

“Have you been friends for a long time?” Leandra asked.

“I watched him grow up,” Carver answered as he wove through the streets of Hightown. “He’s always been a bit of a scamp.”

Mara’s eyes lit up. “Ooooh then you’re the one to ask for all the juicy details.”

Malcolm suddenly felt uneasy, not sure exactly what Carver would share.

“That’s true,” Carver admitted freely. “I do have a few stories, but I’ll let you get to know him yourself. I plan to mostly stay out of the way tonight and let you all enjoy yourselves.”

Malcolm found himself sighing in relief. Carver was a true friend.

Mara started leaning on Leandra as she gazed at Malcolm, and he felt strangely like she was a cat and he was her new toy. “So who are you Dream Guy?”

Malcolm found the nickname brought a smile to his lips, especially with the way Leandra was reddening.

“Just an elf from Ferelden,” Malcolm summarized. “Not anyone special.”

“Ferelden?” Leandra asked. “You’re far from home.”

Malcolm nodded grimly. The homesickness burrowed in his gut. The food at the ball was delicious, but he found he missed his mother’s cooking, lechon at Satinalia, pancet at celebrations, adobo, dinuguan, even lumpia. Being a lone elven Ferelden in a Marcher state that kissed Orlais ass with the rest of the world was terribly isolating. It almost seemed fitting that it was an Orlesian that claimed Leandra. They claimed everything Malcolm knew.

Leandra seemed keen to know more. “What about your mom and dad?”

“My mom’s might be somewhere in Ferelden. I haven’t seen her since I was taken by the templars when I was 8.” Admitting this so freely felt odd to Malcolm. They weren’t exactly secrets but he kept his memories close to his heart, but Leandra wanted to know. “I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

Leandra could sense there was more to the story. Malcolm’s eyes were far away, watching the lights of Hightown’s neon bathing his dark skin in a heavenly glow.

“You don’t know what happened to her?”

“I mean when I was in Ferelden’s Circle I got a letter or two, but…” Malcolm sucked in a breath not admitting how the templars took those, too. “Nothing since Kirkwall.”

Leandra stroked his thumb with hers. “What about your father?”

At the mention of his father Malcolm’s whole body went rigid and his breathing got shallow. “Better off forgotten,” he muttered as he stared dully at the window.

The high cityscapes of Hightown receded into the bridge that was thankfully not filled with the usual traffic at midnight. Malcolm’s eyes were far away as his eyes passed over the neon marketing sign and art and competing billboards that seemed to permeate every corner. Kirkwall was a loud city, even at night, but the city seemed to be holding its breath. The high-tech architecture that was just on the other side of the bridge seemed to just die off into the archaic city of Lowtown. There were still ads and graffiti and neon signs on every street, but Kirkwall elite had not seen a purpose of modernizing most of Lowtown, except for the subway system that most of the inhabitants used for travel, so that the sounds of trains running through tracks was a constant echo across the stone. The snaking networks wound through the city but stopped at the bridge that connected Hightown. Lowtown only had so many major streets, the main one connecting to the Lowtown market where shops were piled on top of each other like shoeboxes, mimicking the cityscapes of Hightown but with the grace of a graffiti-filled dumpster. The city cleaners didn’t extend to Lowtown so debris covered the street, the car dipping into the cracks of the concrete and swerving to avoid potholes.

Leandra wanted to know him, but it seemed that poking at him only brought up painful memories, and it was already a painful night. She had no idea how she could even fathom what he went through. He was always carefree and smiling, but now he looked brittle, like he would break if she pressed him too far.

So she tried to change gears. “I have family in the Circle.”

“Oh?” That made Malcolm perk up, curiosity in his golden eyes, and his shoulders relaxed as he realized the interrogation was over.

“A niece in Ostwick, a nephew in Markham, and another nephew in Kirkwall.”

Malcolm seemed much happier to continue this conversation. “What a small world,” he hummed in amusement. “Well tell me about the one in Kirkwall. I might have met him already.”

Leandra was pleased that he wanted to know her family. “His name’s Isaac. He only came to the Circle last year around spring.”

Malcolm placed his free hand on his chin as his eyes reached up into his skull as he tried to summon a face. “Isaac…Isaac…” The name sounded familiar. “Wait does he like to make a lot of truck noises?”

“Yes!” Leandra jumped in her seat in excitement and then blushed when Mara snickered.

Malcolm smiled as he recalled the little guy, suddenly seeing the family resemblance in their eyes. He had life just like Leandra did. “We call him Lil’ Garbage Man. He’s the funniest dude.”

Leandra shook her head though a smile was on her face thinking of how horrified her Mother would be at the nickname.

“You call my nephew Lil’ Garbage Man? Why?”

“Cause he makes garbage truck noises when he busses people’s trays. Dude seems to have a blast doing it.”

Leandra laughed imagining the look on her parent’s face if they had heard that. “My nephew is bussing people’s trays?”

“Isaac is helpful and compassionate. He might be a little odd to people but he has a very good heart,” Carver’s voice came from the bars. “In fact, if you would like to see him, I think I may be able to arrange that.”

Leandra’s eyes widened pouncing on the chance. “Can you? I haven’t seen him since he was taken.”

“I’ll add you to the allowed visitors list in Isaac’s file. It shouldn’t be a problem,” Carver’s voice was steady and comforting, like a sturdy oak giving shade. “You’ll still need to come after Mass. There’s no way around that.”

Leandra felt positively giddy. She had tried to get on the visitor’s list before but Chantry policy only allowed immediate family members. The bastard father who abandoned him had more rights to see Isaac than she did, and she had given up on that cause for the moment but to just be offered as a gift was more than she had words for. She found grateful tears prick her eyes. “Bless you, Lord Carver.”

Carver chuckled. “I think at this point you may just call me Carver. At least in private.”

Leandra wiped her eyes before the tears could fall. “Do you think I can smuggle in a gift?”

Carver hummed on his answer noncommittally. “Toys will be taken if he’s not careful to hide them.” But he didn’t say no.

Leandra considered this as she brainstormed what she could bring. Nothing too big. It had to fit in her purse.

Before they knew it Carver pulled up to what looked like a ratty old bar. It was originally called The Caged Canary, but half the light bulbs were burnt out so it spelled Cage Cry with the ‘The’ blinking in and out.

Malcolm chuckled. “Here?” he asked Carver.

“It’s private and she liked your singing,” Carver replied. Malcolm could hear the smirk in his voice.

Leandra looked at the bar that had so many flyers plastered on the wall it looked like a Chantry board. There was graffiti layered upon layer, sometimes over the flyers, some beautiful mosaics and art pieces of colors. Birds behind bars seemed to be a theme throughout the patterns. It was a chaotic sort of art, the kind that would make her parents sneer, but Leandra found it beautiful, the many hands working together to make something so utterly unique, like a thousand memories cased in time speaking at once. “What is this place?” she found herself asking Malcolm as Mara started shuffling out of the car.

“A karaoke bar,” Malcolm said nonchalantly as he watched Leandra’s face which quickly drained of color.

She froze in the car as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to leave. “Oh, no, I’m better at playing the lute than singing,” Leandra blubbered, suddenly mortified at the thought of making a fool of herself in public.

Malcolm grinned. “Karaoke is not about sounding good, it’s about having fun.”

“Well, no one’s going to have fun once they hear me sing,” Leandra protested.

Mara peeked in the car from the other side, ganging up on her with Malcolm with a conspiratorial grin. “You should do more things you’re not good at, my lady. It will be good for you.”

Leandra pouted as Malcolm offered his hand to help her out of the car. She reluctantly took it, knowing once she did there was no going back.

Carver started pulling out his phone as he approached the group. “The address is 369 Copper Avenue if you would like to invite your brother,” he looked at Leandra as he said this and she was already pulling out her phone to text the details.

Then Carver’s eyes slid to Malcolm as he fished out his wallet and pulled out a sovereign bill and handed it to him.

Malcolm resented being handed money like a kid but it wasn’t like he was allowed to have money like a normal person. That didn’t stop him from finding his ways, but he hadn’t expected to go on a date tonight and didn’t bring anything with him. So he took the bill feeling like a teenager being chaperoned on his first date.

“I need to make a phone call. You can go ahead and order a round of drinks with the booth.”

Maker, at least he could drink. “You going to join us?” He wasn’t sure what he was hoping for.

But Carver said, “I have some reports to catch up on but you have fun.” Then Carver walked off into a corner to take his call in private.

Malcolm led Mara and Leandra into the bar which was smaller than anticipated. There was a TV with the news reporting on the incident on the Viscount’s Palace, speculating attacks and calling it the worst haunting of the new century. The bartender who was a pallid man with graying hair raised an eyebrow at Malcolm’s fine suit and the ladies’ gowns which were much richer than the sticky floors and peeling dull brown faded wallpaper that decorated the environment. 

Malcolm marched up to the bartender with confidence as the ladies inspected the furniture that had looked like it hadn’t been changed out since the place was built.  The grout of the floor was uneven and chalky. 

Malcolm placed the bill on the cracking counter and said, “A room and all the drinks this can afford.”

Would this afford much? He didn’t exactly know the prices on things.

The bartender looked at the bill and took it without question, though he was curious about the party’s outfits he seemed more interested in their money. “Room 3,” He leaned his head to point to a dark cove where a line of rooms were waiting. “And for the drinks?”

He looked to Leandra, who looked to Mara who said, “Shots. Tequila. Vodka. I don’t care.”

“You got it,” the bartender chirped.  

Malcolm led them down the corridor, jealous of the way Mara openly leaned on Leandra’s arm. He could tell the two women must be close and he felt in some ways there was a bubble between him and them.

“Charming place,” Mara cooed as she looked at the posters of different singers lining the walls, flowing locks and colorful makeup and costumes crooning into microphones. “You bring all your dates here?”

Malcolm chuckled. “The only time I’ve ever gone here is with Carver or Charlie,” he said.

He opened the door to the room for them which was a cozy little setup with a boxy couch that wrapped around the room, a table in the middle with a thick booklet, and a screen with a few microphones.

“Boyfriend?” Mara prodded as she passed Malcolm, cat eyes gleaming.

“Brother,” Malcolm countered.

Leandra perked up, trying to corral some of Mara’s teasing with a question of her own. “You have a brother in the Circle?” Her voice was hopeful and she gathered her skirts and took a seat on the square couch fully listening. 

Mara plopping beside her to take a look through the booklet, the laminated pages cracking and yellowing.

“Not a blood brother,” Malcolm explained. “We just grew up together.”

 Leandra tried to mask the disappointment in her eyes.  

He took a seat, close but not too close. He glanced at her hand which was relaxed at her side, tempted to reach out and grab it, but with Gamlen in his head he just clenched his fist.

“So what would you sing?” Leandra leaned over as Mara flipped through the selection as she tried to find something that she recognized.

The bartender came in holding a large tray of liquid amber and set it on the table without a word.

“Well first we’d get drunk,” Malcolm said, suddenly needing the liquid courage and he grabbed one of the glasses and knocked it back, the burn welcome and warming him, soothing his frazzled nerves.

“Smart man,” Mara grinned as she grabbed two glasses and handed one to Leandra without thinking. “But you’re breaking the party rules. We’re supposed to cheer before we drink.”

Malcolm reached for another glass with a chuckle. “I can just grab another drink.”

Mara gleamed at Leandra holding up her glass as she said. “To Leandra. She’s the most badass woman I know.”

Malcolm grinned at Leandra’s fluster as he held up her glass to match Mara’s praise. “She definitely is.”

Leandra clinked glasses with them and knocked back the liquid before coughing which brought chuckles out of Mara and Malcolm. “That’s much stronger than wine.”

Suddenly Leandra’s phone rang and she looked at the cell phone to see that Senhel was calling. In confusion she answered it thinking it was an emergency.

“Leandra Gloriana Amell,” the voice of her mother shrieked on her phone. “Do you have your Father and me on ignore!?”

Leandra grumbled, she was just starting to have fun. “Mother,” she hicced. “I thought I told you I’m resting.”

“You are certainly not in your room!”

“I’m at Mara’s.”

“Don’t lie to me. I sent Sylvain to fetch you and you’re not there.”

Mara and Malcolm looked at each other as Leandra slunk into the couch, looking ragged and tired. “Fine,” she snapped, her voice sounding like a tight thread. “I’m out having a drink with Mara. Because it’s been a night. And I deserve it.”

“Leandra Amell-”

“Goodnight, Mother. I’m turning off my phone,” then she powered down her cell and threw it back in her purse with a huff.

“Another drink?” Malcolm offered.

Mara was beaming at Leandra. “After standing up to the wicked witch of Kirkwall let’s have three.”

So they did, clinking their glasses each time as they knocked it back in unison, the alcohol starting to make them feel giddy and loose.

Finally Mara picked up the microphone and waggled her eyebrows. “Alright we’re supposed to be singing, right?”

Leandra and Malcolm cheered, raising more glasses sharing a grin.

Mara plugged in the song and with an upbeat piano that was as spunky as she was. She wiggled her hips as she grooved with her microphone, getting into it, her face goofy and carefree for the first time that night. 

“Why men great til’ they gotta be great,” she sang loudly and proudly off-key.

“I just took a DNA test

Turns out

I’m a hundred percent 

That bitch

Even when I’m crying crazy

Yeah I got boy problems 

That’s the human in me

Bling! Bling! Then I solve ‘em

That’s the Goddess in me

Malcolm and Leandra danced in their seats and Mara gave them a show, belting her frustrations into the mic and only slightly tripping over the words with her drunken tongue. The mistakes only made her laugh which made everyone laugh. Then she grabbed the mic with both hands, her face twisting in anger as she kicked off her red strappy heels so they bounced against the couch and wall, belting out with flourish,

“You could have had a bad bitch

Non committal

Help you with your career

Just a little

You’re supposed to hold me dooown

But you’re holding me back

And that’s the soooound

Of me not calling you back.”

Soon Malcolm and Leandra were trying to sing along to the chorus, though Malcolm didn’t know the words to this one. Still, Mara was fun and it was nice to see Leandra with that beautiful smile. He thought her laugh was the most gorgeous sound in the world and he’d never tire of it. 

They were all thoroughly enjoying themselves so much that they didn’t notice that Gamlen had now perched himself at the door and listened to the man-hating song, a bouquet of what looked like store bought roses in one arm and a box of expensive fine truffles in the other, but Mara at one point noticed him, the song fading from her lips as the music continued and quickly wrapped up.

The silence was awkward and no one knew what to make of it. Everyone was staring at Gamlen but Gamlen was only staring at Mara. 

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I was an idiot.”

Mara huffed putting down the microphone with a thud, feedback shrieking through the speakers.

“No denying that but do you even know what you’re sorry for?”

Gamlen rushed forward and placed the gifts in Mara’s arms which she reluctantly accepted. “I was an ass. You told me that enough.”

Mara blew out air, ruffling her bangs. “But the comments you said about Malcolm said a lot about what you think about me.”

“I don’t-I would never,” he sputtered. “I just…Being an elf never seemed to matter to you before.”

Mara glared. “Of course it matters to me. I might not have the pointed ears, but Lolo is all I have left after the car accident. You know that.”

“Of course,” Gamlen said. “Of course it’s important. I just…” he blew out a ragged breath, his eyes flicking to Malcolm. “This is all so fast. Leandra just met him tonight.”

“But you heard Leandra, she likes him. This is not your decision to make.”

Gamlen looked like all the air had been taken out of him as he struggled to find an argument but failed.

Mara looked at Malcolm who seemed to have gone quiet at Gamlen’s presence. “I’m not the only one who deserves your apology.”

Gamlen looked conflicted as his eyes snapped to Malcolm who was knocking back another drink. Gamlen clenched his fists, as he looked over Malcolm, the disgust still clear in his eyes but from the look on Mara’s face she wouldn’t let this go.

Through clenched teeth he said. “Sorry,” but he spat the word out like a curse.

Malcolm discarded his glass and picked up another, feeling slightly drunk and still very very pissed off. “I don’t know, did I hear an apology?”

Leandra crossed her arms, matching Malcolm’s glare. “No, I don’t know that I did.”

Mara dropped Gamlen’s gifts on the table like she was dropping trash in a bin. “Care to try again?”

Gamlen’s eyes widened in fear and he swallowed his anger as he tried to suppress his glare at Malcolm. “Fine, fine. I’m really really sorry.”  

“For…” Malcolm drawled looking into his glass of amber liquid.

“For being an ass,” Gamlen chewed out.

“And…”

Gamlen narrowed his eyes, flicking to the other women for help but they simply waited expectantly for his answer. He wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to add. Apologizing wasn’t exactly something he did voluntarily.

He looked for Leandra to help but found her usual warm expression cold, but still she added, “And he won’t do it again.”

Gamlen bristled at that, seeming reluctant to actually say those words, but with Mara glaring at him, too, he repeated, “I won’t do it again.”

Malcolm grinned at that, all teeth. “Now that’s an apology.” Then he made a cheering motion at Gamlen and knocked back his drink.

Mara sniffed and sat down beside Leandra, satisfied but still seething. Gamlen followed her like a sad puppy and when he sat down next to her he tried to hold her hand but she snapped it back, still angry.

Malcolm sighed, feeling sloshed by now, but with Gamlen being so close he felt himself tensing like a stretched rubber band ready to snap. Still, getting the asshole to apologize was at least slightly satisfying even if Malcolm didn’t believe a word of it.

Leandra brushed his hand, bringing him out of his churning thoughts. Her eyes looked worried as she bit her lip, seeming unsure. “I’d love to hear you sing next.”

Malcolm did have a song in mind already, one that he heard long ago but didn’t have any meaning to him until meeting Leandra, but his eyes flickered to Gamlen who was sulking in the corner, unsure if singing it would bring more ire.

Leandra seemed to sense his hesitation and she was suddenly rambling as if she was nervous. “You don’t have to. I mean I can definitely try singing a song with Mara if you’re not feeling up to it.”

Mara leaned over to Leandra with a grin on her face. “What are we singing?”

Gamlen snorted. “You’re singing?”

Leandra glared. “Shut up! As if your voice is any better.”

“At least I know when to keep my mouth shut.”

“Not when it counts,” Malcolm’s unfiltered drunken thoughts blurted out which brought another laugh from Leandra and Mara and a scowl from Gamlen.

Malcolm smirk softened at Leandra’s laughter and he watched her with soft eyes.

She stopped when she noticed he was staring, his honey eyes drawing her in.

“I’d love to hear you sing.” Malcolm said in a voice so genuine she could only swallow.

Leandra dropped her eyes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I mean you’re going to have nightmares.”

“I don’t know,” Malcolm grinned. “Since meeting you it feels like I’ve been living a dream.”

She blushed deeply, her breath stuttering, a pleased smile forming on her lips as she choked on what she said. “I guess I’m drunk enough to sing.”

Mara cheered and Malcolm and her clinked glasses in a celebratory drink.

Leandra and Mara took the stage, their eyes on the screen as they huddled together.

A slow ballad filled the speakers, soft and sweet, just like Leandra was. Mara opened her mouth widely inhaling but as soon as the countdown signaled for them to start only Leandra’s voice sang out,

“Wise men say

Only fools rush in

But I can’t help

Falling in love with you”

Leandra’s eyes flew in panic as she realized that Mara was not singing along but looking at her with a smirk as she was forced to either stop or continue. Her eyes flew to Malcolm’s like a moth to a flame, her voice trembling in uncertainty. 

She was not as terrible as she claimed, not a singer’s voice sure, but Malcolm found he could listen to her all night. He watched the rosy glow of her cheeks as her eyelashes fluttered, looking so uncertain and vulnerable.

“Like a river flows

Gently to the sea

Surely how it goes

Some things were meant to be.”

Malcolm hoped that was what she was telling him, and his gaze turned so intense she could not bear the scrutiny, her voice shaky and faltering but she finished the song to the end. Malcolm and Mara then burst into applause as Leandra shyly tucked hair behind her ear.

She glared at Mara but there was no anger in her voice. “Traitor.”

Mara shook her head in laughter as she took her seat beside Gamlen.

Leandra sauntered up to Malcolm, closer than ever. He could feel the warmth of her body and smell the alcohol on her breath. She playfully grabbed his arm and brought him to the stage and pushed a microphone in his hand. “Ok, now it’s your turn. Better make it good.”

Malcolm was nervous, but the way she was smiling at him he couldn’t help but smile back. “I aim to please, my lady.”

“Well, then do it,” she commanded cheekily. “Please me.”

Malcolm’s eyes darkened at this challenge. Her cheeks were so rosy he had to resist cupping them, her smile brilliant as she sat captively in attention. He felt shaky with nerves, his stomach doing that warm flutter. He plugged in the song, a soft drumbeat pulsed through the speakers as he gazed in her eyes, feeling like there was no one else in the room. His heart sped up, aching to have her. His honeyed voice crooned through the speakers, begging her to accept him.

“I wish we were both someone else

So you wouldn’t be somebody else’s

I don’t want to lie here by myself

Ain’t afraid to say I’m selfish.”

“Don’t wanna lie to you, Don’t wanna promise something

Knowin’ I can’t come through, toast over this discussion

More of ignoring the rules, too close and then we’re touching

Now we’re both confused.”

Leandra found herself rising to her feet, her heart feeling the same ache in the lyrics. His hand seemed to beckon her to him as he looked at her with a yearning that made her feel alive.

“Something in the way you smell

Something in the way touch me

Maybe it’s the way you wrap your arms around me

Makes me wanna lay you down, Tell you all the things we could be

Tell me that you need me now, even though it’s not allowed.”

Leandra couldn’t help herself if she wanted to. Malcolm’s honest words crooning at her had her grabbing his tie before he could reach the chorus again and she answered him with a hungry kiss. He tasted strawberries and alcohol and her taste coated his tongue until he was lapping it up greedy for every drop of her. Hungry. That was the only way that could be described when their lips met. His hands snaked up her back untangling her braid loose as she held him captive by his tie, pulling him closer by his curls as they devoured each other, the beat still pulsing in the background. They stumbled, trying to find steadiness as their mouths refused to part, tripping into the table and almost knocking each other over.

Mara hooted encouragingly at the kiss and she tried to get Gamlen to join her in a cheer but he looked like he was trying to look anywhere but at his sister. When Malcolm had backed her into a wall and it was clear that they wouldn’t stop, Gamlen finally snapped and said, “Leandra!”

Malcolm pulled away, surprised by Gamlen’s shout but she held onto his tie and stuck out her tongue like she was five. “Grow up, Gamlen. I’ve watched you and Mara dry hump since tenth grade.”

Malcolm barked out a laugh, lipstick smeared across his lips. Then Leandra pulled him in for another sweet kiss. “Sing me another,” she asked against his lips.

The night seemed to go much better, the laughs easier, and after Malcolm sang a few more songs they went back to rotating. Gamlen mostly sulked throughout the night, giving a tight-lipped glare as Malcolm and Leandra shared kiss after kiss, feeling bolder and handsier, but other than some huffs he didn’t do much more to ruin the night.

Before they knew it Carver crept through the door, his face amused at the state of Malcolm’s lipstick smeared face as he and Leandra were cuddling in the corner sharing a drunken snooze, Leandra cradled on Malcolm’s chest.

Gamlen sat in the corner, tight-lipped, the same scowl he carried all night plastered on his face.

“So you all had a good time,”

Leandra and Malcolm stirred, both yawning and blinking.

Mara saluted drunkenly from the couch, in a fit of giggles. “Yes, Officer. Mission succeeded.” He had interrupted her from eating Gamlen’s apology chocolates, a pile of used wrappers piled on the table among the many, many drained glasses.

“Very good,” Carver had a satisfied smile on his face. “I’ll need to take you back to Hightown now if Malcolm’s going to make it back by First Bell.”

“Nope,” Leandra shook her head with a yawn, her words a little slurred. “Nope. No, my parents will kill me if they see me like this. Take me to Mara’s.”

Mara yawned and covered her mouth. “Good idea. You have the day off so we can just sleep.”

Leandra jerked, suddenly realizing, “Oh, no! I have a Cleansing today!”

Mara cocked her head. “What time? Maybe we can grab a nap?”

Leandra chewed her lip picking herself up from Malcolm’s hold so she could look through her bag for her phone.

It was full of texts from her Mother and Father. She scrolled through the lectures and threats to find that her Cleansing was early and not only that but the Du Lancets would be participating and the Guillaume would be at her side tomorrow. And then the bubble popped.

“Oh, how am I going to presentable by 10 am?” Leandra’s voice was filled with panic.

“Don’t worry, I’m on the case,” Mara patted her chest confidently. “As long as I can pass out as soon as I’m done.”

“You’d have earned it and your raise,” Leandra pulled herself upright and wobbled in her heels.

“Easy there,” Malcolm automatically moved to steady her and she placed her hand on his chest as she willed the room to stop spinning. He sat her back down allowing her to lean on him. 

“Something greasy will work wonders,” Carver said helpfully.

“I’ll whip up a bacon breakfast when we get home,” Mara yawned. “And lots of coffee.”

As Mara stretched she looked at the templar with renewed interest, the man seeming more like a statue to her than a person and she eyed him from head to toe. “Not going to sing at least one?” she said in a sing-song voice, her cat eyes gleaming with mischief. “Malcolm tells us you have quite the voice.”

Carver smiled, chuckling. “We don’t really have time.”

Malcolm was looking for any reason to make the night last just a little longer. “Oh, c’mon just one. For old time’s sake?”

Leandra blinked her doe eyes, batting them like a weapon. “Oh, please,” her words crashed together clumsily. “You’ve been alone all night, Ser Carver. I’d love to hear you sing.”

 “I’m tired,” Gamlen snapped. “Let’s go.”

Maybe it was the fact that the other three were pleading, their drunken stupor making the consequences of the night still seem far away. Or maybe Carver wanted to have one more opportunity to get under Gamlen’s skin, but he smiled wider than he did all night, fully coming into the room and headed for the stage, crooking a motion to Malcolm to follow him. “I’m only singing if you join me, Hawke.”

Malcolm pushed himself off the couch eagerly. “Deal,” he said grabbing one of the extra mics from the stand as Mara and Leandra cheered, no more alcohol to toast with but they still raised their hands up in the motion.

Carver plugged in the song and a high energy guitar riff started streaming. Malcolm grinned as he recognized it. Carver’s energy seemed to change, his stiff shoulders relaxing as his warm coffee eyes gleamed at Malcolm, still remembering how Charlie was there the last time they sang this. He raised the mic, a raspy baritone ringing clear and beautiful like a deep bell, belting the lyrics with confidence.

“She’s got a smile that seems to me

Reminds me of childhood memories

Where everything was as fresh

As the clear blue sky.”

His eyes flicked to Mara, his hands cradling the mic as the beat rocked. Their eyes met in a strange crackling energy that Gamlen didn’t seem to notice cause he was too busy sulking. Carver watched as her slow gaze inspected him in curiosity, following the lines of his armor.

“Now and then when I see her face

It takes me to that special place

And if I stared too long,

I’d probably break down and cry.”

Malcolm joined him for the chorus, harmonizing with him so beautifully that it brought goosebumps to the ladies skin.

“Whooooa, Sweet child of mine,

Whooooa, Sweet love of mine.”

Then Malcolm’s honeyed voice took over, his eyes meeting Leandra as he sang with a smile, his face smeared with Leandra’s kisses, light and life in every bounce of his step.

“She’s got eyes like the starriest skies

As if they thought of rain

I’d hate to look into those eyes

And see an ounce of pain.”

Her hair reminds me of a warm safe place

Where as a child I’d hide

And pray for the thunder and rain

To quietly pass me by.”

Carver joined him again for the chorus, his soothing deep voice weaving around his melody as they repeated, their gazes meeting in boyish mischief. 

Then soon the guitar break came and both Carver and Malcolm went into ridiculous scatting, mimicking the riffs as they pretended to play invisible guitars. When the lyrics came back they echoed against each other, the melody getting more complicated as they each broke into their own renditions, bouncing and dancing on the stage as they pushed each other, a couple of boys roughhousing. Leandra and Mara couldn’t stop laughing at their silliness, the song stretching on and on never seemed to end until Carver and Malcolm kept singing back to the other.

“Where do we go?

Where do we go now?”

It was the question in Malcolm’s mind. His eyes stayed drawn to Leandra, asking her. 

Then the song wrapped up with the same high energy and Leandra and Mara rose to their feet cheering drunkenly. 

“Bravo!” 

“Bellissimo!”

“Encore!”

Gamlen’s scowl looked like it had been carved into his face and would stay there forever. He glared at the two men as they made exaggerated bows at the ladies’ applause.  

“Now can we go?” Gamlen snarled.

Carver’s proper demeanor was back in place as he put away the microphone with care. “Yes, I believe that is best.”

"Wait, wait, wait," Leandra reached through her bag for her phone and turned it back on. Ignoring the new messages, she then went to her camera. "We need to commemorate the night."

Malcolm and Carver looked at each other. 

"I'm not sure we should be leaving more evidence," Carver's voice said nervously. 

Leandra blinked her eyes pleading. "Please, it won't leave my phone. I just need something to remember the night was real."

That was all the convincing Malcolm needed. He grabbed Leandra's waist pulling her in for a pose. She blushed and snuggled in closer, holding out the phone, their faces framing the screen.

Carver looked like he wanted to protest more but Mara grabbed his arm. "C'mon Officer, loosen up." He seemed flustered as the small woman led him. "It's just a selfie." She then motioned Gamlen to join her. "You too, Grumpmeister." 

Gamlen looked irritated to see Mara casually touching Carver's arm and so stormed up and claimed her with a possessive grab on her hip and yanked her to him. 

Mara seemed annoyed, but said nothing as they all huddled in close for the camera so their faces could fit. 

It flashed, and they all blinked, temporarily blind. 

"Sorry," Leandra said as they all peered at the picture. 

Carver was caught in the middle between Mara and Leandra looking out of place in his armor, his face grim like a statue. Mara leaned on Gamlen but her face was closer to Carver, smiling a model's smile as she posed expertly. Gamlen's face was cut off slightly, his ugly glare caught as he stared at Malcolm and Leandra pressing cheeks, her lipstick had left a clear trail of where she claimed him and they shared the same ecstatic smile.

Malcolm wanted something to remember the night, too. He grabbed Leandra's phone and texted himself the picture. He handed the phone back. "Now you have my number." 

She gazed at her phone blushing as she realized he inserted himself as "Dream Guy."

They left the club, the sky still dark among the high buildings, but there were still signs of the bus moving for the early commute. Carver drove them to Mara’s place in Midtown which bordered the edge of Lowtown and Hightown, a cut of suburbs that were newer and had a cookie cutter like appearance. There was already a car in the driveway, a nice but older SUV that had been handled with care. The streets were dark except for the street lights that marked the houses in neat little rows, flowering shrubs and gardens filled with knick knacks differentiating them.

Malcolm got out of the car and helped Leandra out, their hands not unlinking as she stepped out.

Mara pushed out of the templar car still yawning, Gamlen following quickly behind. “You can go to my room, but don’t be loud and wake Lolo.”

Gamlen nodded, keeping close to Mara as she dug through her purse for her keys. He cast a glare in Malcolm’s direction when he noticed he was holding his sister’s hand but he kept to his apology and said nothing, following Mara into her house.

Leandra and Malcolm’s stroll was a languid shuffle as if they slowed down the moment it wouldn’t end. Still Mara’s porch approached and it did.

“When can I see you again?” she asked shyly as she squeezed his hand harder instead of letting go.

Malcolm’s heart fluttered, his voice eager. “I’ll break out as soon as I’m able.”

Leandra seemed conflicted about that. She placed her hand over his heart, lines of worry streaking her face. “Don’t get in trouble on my account.”

Malcolm grinned cheekily as he leaned into her face. “I am trouble.”

He captured her lips in a hungry kiss, not knowing when he’d be able to taste her next. Their lips moved unhurried and slow, their fingers exploring over their clothing under the arch of the porch. One minute passed, then two. It seemed there was not enough time in the world to memorize each other, and they were soon interrupted by Carver’s loud but abrupt honk.

Malcolm grinned against her mouth. “See you soon,” he promised and he dashed off and hopped into the front seat of Carver’s car.

Leandra didn’t go inside until the vehicle pulled away from the driveway and disappeared down the street.

[80alleycats]

Dee Day Thoughts and Analysis

Preface: For those who don’t know, I’m a homoromantic asexual woman of color (mostly black).

Anyways, unlike many folks on Tumblr, I did not have too much of a problem with this episode. It did feel kinda..”eh”...and it could have been much better, but I had some laughs and laughed more with this episode than last week’s episode.

Here are my thoughts on the controversies of the episode. They might help some hate the episode and/or RCGMegan less:

1. Yellow/Brown Face – When I first saw those costumes I was like “Oh, we’re doing that again.” But it didn’t surprise me too much. This has been a part of the show for a long time and the racist caricature characters are “old” characters (i.e. known to the audience and not new caricatures created for shits and giggles), so I’m kind of shocked that people are so shocked by this.

I love RCGMegan, but RCGMegan are just…white as fuck. As a person of color, my standards are low for white people. (I HATE that this sounds racist but y’all know what I’m talking about) Like, I can’t even be mad about it. I’m just glad that there were attempts™ to point out the racism and the shittiness of Dee’s characters, which is something they’ve always done as well.

I think RCGMegan really meant well. It’s PURE SPECULATION but it’s possible that that’s why they hired Pete Chatmon, a black man, to direct the episode. White people sometimes think that if they add a person/people of color to their group and they don’t say “PLEASE DON’T DO THIS THIS IS FUCKING DUMB” what they are doing is okay.

And even though this is PURE SPECULATION on my part, I think RCGMegan’s wellmeaningness is one of the reasons that Pete Chatmon chose to do the job and posted on Instagram that he had a good experience working with RCG and co.

I think RCGMegan were attempting to be “silly classic hijinks” Sunny but also “woke” Sunny but they are…white as fuck and sometimes just do not “get” it. (I get the vibe from interviews that they mentally/emotionally separate the show from themselves and from reality.) I hope they learn to chill out with the yellow/brown/red face one day because, even ignoring the racism issue, it’s SO BORING, but I don’t expect them to because…they are white as fuck. Some white people figure it out and stop doing awkward shit. But some just…don’t. Especially when they have a long history of doing questionable things.

For a person of color to be a fan of this show, we/they have to accept the nature of this show or just stop watching it. Those are the only real choices and both choices are valid.

I’ll admit that I think the “Asian driver” joke was actually somewhat funny because the purpose of the joke was to highlight the phenomenon of white people acting like they aren’t racist when they actually are and are too stupid and delusional to realize it (i.e. benevolent racism). I love attempts™ at highlighting benevolent racism because of the subtle and insidious nature of it.

__

2. Predatory Gay Mac – I get where people are coming from, but I feel like Mac’s homosexuality wasn’t the joke. I feel like the joke was that Mac was being a goofy idiot who happens to love Dennis, but can’t always express it properly. (example: Mac trying to get Dennis to get on stage with him so he could maybe kiss him…which is the kind of harebrained scheme you’d expect from a goofball 1st grader with a crush and not a full-grown 40 year old man)

Mac’s behavior in this episode was similar to Charlie’s messy over-the-top behavior towards the Waitress in previous episodes.

There was also the dual joke of Mac trying to “one-up” Charlie and so veering into accidental innuendo territory. (example: Mac repeating the comment Charlie said to Dennis about wanting to get in Dennis’ pants)

Also, it’s canon that Mac is often gross when it comes to sexuality in general and I think they were playing with that as well (example: the social network episode where Mac asked the distraught woman about where to find her leaked nude photos).

Everyone in the gang is gross when it comes to sexuality. I feel like a lot of fans forget that Dennis and Dee are canon rapists who usually rape the opposite sex (and Dennis has literally sexually assaulted Mac before even though he considered it a prank). Being an equal member of the Gang, I’m not surprised the writers decided to pass the baton to Mac this episode and even then Mac’s behavior in this episode was fairly tame (in the context of this show LOL).

And FINALLY, even though Dennis protested Mac trying to get them to kiss, I never got the vibe that Dennis was extremely uncomfortable. I think it was just supposed to be a typical “Dennis is annoyed at Mac because Mac is being stupid” reaction. Mac gets on Dennis’ nerves sometimes, but Dennis loves and accepts him and all his weird and stupid behavior. I don’t believe it’s even possible for Mac to make Dennis extremely comfortable. Like, these two are pretty much a hivemind…

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3. Charlie and Dennis Kiss Scene - I TOTALLY GET THE DISCOMFORT WITH THIS. And while the second kiss was actually a surprisingly good kiss (Charlie and Glenn can ACT), the scene wasn’t really funny. It was just like “Why? What am I supposed to be getting from this?”

One criticism I’ve seen is that the scene was saying two men kissing is gross (i.e. homophobia). But I don’t think that was the purpose. It honestly reminded me of the awkward attempted kiss scene between Mac and Dee when they were playing characters in one of the lethal weapon episodes.

Another criticism I’ve seen is that Dee (who, as we know, raped Charlie) forced two child abuse victims to kiss. VALID CRITICISM. But when it comes to the characters: they just don’t give a shit. Charlie still hangs out with Dee and considers her a friend (which is COMPLETELY different than how he sees Uncle Jack). Dennis loves her and hangs out with her. Notice that they were more concerned with coming across as homophobic (which is so, so stupid but typical of them) and they hated that they had cheese breath.

And keep in mind that even though it was Dee Day and they were “supposed” to do what she says, they didn’t have to. They treat Dee like garbage 364 days of the year with little remorse and she always come back to them. I feel like the implication is that they CHOSE to do the kiss, considered it gross but didn’t consider it a big deal, and would not compare it to their child abuse experiences.

Dee’s behavior analysis: The previous season’s Mac/Charlie/Frank orgy with the Dennis doll that she watched permanently fucked her up. Like, she knows she’s making the Gang uncomfortable, but she’s lost the ability to comprehend how abnormal her behavior is. Boundaries are gone in her mind. In her mind, she’s simply teasing them and they’ll be fine no matter what happens.

I know people identify with the characters because of their personal experiences and I get that. I get that people have strong feelings about these characters and it’s totally understandable and valid. But I think we have to be careful not to project too much on the characters and instead try to keep in mind how the characters are instead of how we think they are. Like, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia has a ton of dark elements, but it’s a relatively upbeat show that often doesn’t take itself too seriously.

This is PURE SPECULATION but I got the vibe from the second kiss that “someone” (possibly Megan?) wanted to do a CharDen scene but needed to do it in the spirit of IASIP (awkward situations + the Gang willing to do anything if they are passionate enough about it) and that scene was the result. It’s also possible that it was the result of some kind of RCG “in-joke” that they didn’t realize might not translate very well on the screen to certain audience members.

At the end of the day, I think it was just supposed to be a goofy “lolwut the Gang is so wacky” scene and it’s not meant to be psychoanalyzed the way certain things on the show are.

 __

4. Dennis Without His Make-Up – I get people’s concerns about this. But the show has occasionally made fun of Dennis’ self-esteem issues concering his looks throughout the show, so this is nothing new. I feel that the scene was designed to make you feel sorry for Dennis, but also it was supposed to just be classic Sunny. Like him hitting on the congresswoman wasn’t just funny because he looked “off,” but because he just kept saying weird and awkward shit to her (similar to the scene in Season 13 where he was trying and failing to hit on the fantasy baseball woman). 

And keep in mind that the rest of the Gang kept reassuring Dennis that he looked fine even after the scheme, which was sweet. The same cannot be said about Dee. She’s received a lot more abuse from the Gang and only scraps of affection and reassurance from them to the point where she always lights up when they show her basic kindness. If Dee (and we) can handle Dee’s abuse, Dennis (and we) can handle Dennis’ abuse. And, as mentioned above, he did not have to remove his make-up. He chose to do it and he chose to deal with the consequences of that. But he’ll be fine.

 __

5. There was not enough focus on Dee – 100% agree. Nothing else to add. LOL.

[lokilickedme]

I knew it had to happen, but something in me was holding onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, we would escape unscathed.

(under the cut because LONG STORY and mentions of the cult and family drama)

Most of you know about us leaving the cult-slash-”religion” late last year and about our current year of learning how to be real people.  About my mother veering wildly back and forth from disowning me to shunning all of us to reestablishing contact/pretending-like-nothing-ever-happened and back to shunning again, sometimes all of the above in the space of a single week.

At this moment in time that situation is somewhere in limbo.  I have several texts from her I haven’t responded to.  There is a text from a cousin (who is a devout member of the cult) that I also haven’t responded to.  I’ve ignored a couple of phonecalls.  I’m doing everything in my power to let these people know that I’m done with them, with their twisted warped devotion to that twisted warped religion, to their vicious willingness to pretend like I’m dead to them until they want something of me...at which time I’m suddenly un-shunned and the texts/calls begin again.

I’m so done.

And I thought I had gotten my point across, because a few months went by without being bothered.  And then...

Suddenly we’re invited to a “family dinner” taking place on December 25th.  Why December 25th?  Well, the premise is that it’s the one day that everyone will be off work and able to get together.

Let’s see here...The Mother is retired, doesn’t work.  My one living brother works for himself three days a week and can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants (and he lives with The Mother as well).  The aunt/uncle/cousins that comprise the rest of the family?  All but one of them are currently disabled due to various surgeries/injuries/illnesses (they are a huge batch of batshit hypochondriacs and drama queens who love nothing better than emergency trips to the ER for mysterious illnesses that almost always turn out to be indigestion or something).  So...the need for this “family dinner” to be on December 25th for the purpose of “everyone having the day off work” is, frankly, bullshit.

You know why December 25th was likely chosen?

Because they know we have plans for that day, and that they’re plans THEY do not approve of.  They know we’re “faithless apostates” now and that as such, nothing is stopping us from doing holidays.  So this particular date was most likely chosen to make sure we don’t get to do our thing.

We can just choose not to go, of course...but do we want the consequences?  Because there will be consequences, trust me.  And they will be epic.

We have a beautiful little stack of gifts we want to open that day and we’d planned to have a nice family day at home.  It’s our first Bootleg Christmas.  We don’t want to spend it around people who will be back to shunning us again the following week.

So I told you all that to tell you this:

Little has been randomly telling me all week that he doesn’t want to go to the family dinner.  He says he feels nervous about it.  He’s 7 and is oddly empathetic to the point where if he says he feels negatively about something/someone, I trust him without question.  I’ve been telling him we’ll see...so this morning he comes to me and says “Mom, I’ve got something to tell you, please don’t get mad okay?”

ME:  I won’t.  What’s going on?

LITTLE:  I don’t want to go to that dinner.

ME:  Me neither, bud.  We’ll see though.

LITTLE:  If I licked the floor at the Goodwill, would I get sick?

ME:  Ew, yeah no don’t do that.

LITTLE:  But would I get sick and we wouldn’t have to go to that dinner?

ME:  Yeah probably.  Oh...wait...*realizes we were at Goodwill two days ago*

LITTLE:  You’re not going to get mad, remember?

Long story short, yeah he says he did it.  My little man, taking one for the team.  And frankly if he’s that willing to risk the bubonic plague to avoid the family dinner, I’m willing to text my mother a big fat NO THANKS WE HAVE PLANS.

God I love my kids.  This past year has been a learning experience, and one of the things I’ve learned is that children have surprisingly accurate bullshit meters and can sniff out crap that grownups sometimes overlook simply because we’re used to it.

I’ve also learned that Little is crazier than I thought.

[ninwrites]

Shadowhunters 3x16: On Clary’s Actions and the  Consequences For Those Around Her

No, I cannot confirm that there is actually anything coherent here. Just my rambling thoughts, collected as well as I could. For the record, I don’t hate Clary, I just don’t think that the writers consider the impact of her actions on the people around her and I’m getting more than just a little tired of it. Please read at your own discretion.

Also, shout-out to @magnusbicon for encouraging this & @izzybabewoods for the inbox message that started it all. you’re enablers in the very best day and this wouldn’t exist without you.

Here’s the thing.

 In season one, the majority of Clary’s arc was quite self-centred. And that’s fine. For all intents and purposes, she is the main protagonist, and the reason we’re introduced to the rest of these characters - the Lightwoods, Simon, Magnus, Valentine, even the Clave - is through Clary’s connection and interactions with them. As the audience, we’re following her into this new world, and it’s as she learns things that we become aware of them too – we’re not just watching her go on this journey, in a way, we’re going on it too. If Clary wasn’t at the focus of the season, we’d miss out on important knowledge that helps with our understanding of the shadow world and the characters that inhabit it – because it is quite a large and complex world.

 Then comes season two. Jocelyn comes back, who – as much as I adore Luke – is mostly concerned with Clary, and rightfully so. This is her daughter, who she chose to keep in the dark about the shadow world, there’s a lot there to catch up on and to mend between them, and Clary needs somebody who she (supposedly) will listen to, to counteract her rash and impulsive behaviour, because as much as she’d love to think that she knows everything, Clary at this point really has no idea what world she’s come into. There’s a part of her that has already made up her mind about the shadow world, about Downworlders and Shadowhunters and her role here, and whether it’s right or wrong takes the backseat, leaving the season’s arc as the driving force. Or, rather, her part in it. Because – and here’s the bit that frustrates me the most – the character arcs, the desires of others, their hopes and goals and wishes all fall second, or third or somewhere closer to last, to whatever Clary wants. Despite not actually being brought up as a Shadowhunter, she manages to sustain quite the assumption that she is the most important person in the room, and therefore, that whatever she wants comes first.

 Sometimes, this is a good thing. Often, the line is blurred.

 Her intentions often come from a good place, with the consequences falling short because of her impulsivity more than an inherent ill-will. Look at Simon – he’s still in the show, yay! Only … he did die. I’m not saying that I would have done any differently, but from a factual standpoint – it is Clary’s desire to have her best friend back that turned him into a vampire, and by a tenuous, albeit valid thread, it is because of Clary that Simon was coerced and manipulated by Camille; homeless; all of the back and forth mess with Raphael; got turned into a Daylighter; got coerced into joining the Seelie Queen’s court; turned Heidi – and we all know how that turned out; got the mark of Cain; lost his mother; bit his sister; lost the mark of Cain. I’m sure there’s more that I can’t remember, but again, I’m not saying that Clary is the sole person at fault here. However, I am saying that all of this is – per the butterfly effect – because she didn’t think about the consequences past not wanting to lose her best friend. Additionally, I’d argue that through most of the above, Simon didn’t have the support from Clary that he deserved, or that she should have given. In that respect, the relationship between them feels awfully one-sided, and has since the first episode. There are moments, of course, but they’re becoming even fewer and further in-between.

 I could probably write a whole thing on Clary’s relationships with people she supposedly cares about (*cough* Luke *cough*), but I’m getting off point. I want to talk about 3x16 in particular.

 Firstly, the rune power. Maybe it’s just me - though I have a sense it’s not - but Clary’s rune power is getting a few miles north of the city of Absolutely Fucking Ridiculous, and veering towards Overused/Abused county.

 (Does that metaphor make sense? I have no idea).

 Anyway. Being able to just suddenly make a portal to Edom that doesn’t just summon Lilith, but literally pulls her from Edom – from essentially the cage that Asmodeus put her in using Magnus’ magic, which has already been hinted to as just as powerful, if not more, than a Greater Demon – without any resistance? Really? Seems a bit unrealistic to me. Because, either this means that Clary is actually an Angel, for all of the power that she apparently wields, or that she’s more powerful than Magnus, and actual Greater Demons. I personally chalk it up to convenience from the perspective of the writers, but that’s just me. Back to the rune – the idea that Clary has this power at all is already a bit of a stretch, especially with how willy-nilly the writers are when it comes to using it, but now it’s reached a point that is just nonsensical. No Shadowhunter is this powerful, not even the great Clary Fray.

 Then, there’s the part where Clary is the first Shadowhunter to possess this power, as far as we know; there is nobody that has the prior knowledge to train her, so again – for the sake of convenience, I’m sure – it’s something that apparently just comes to her as naturally as breathing. Which – okay. Fine. They don’t exactly have time to show a montage of her learning how to deliberately create these runes. I get that. But that doesn’t mean they have to render this power unreasonable. Creating portals? Cool. Realistic. I don’t actually mind that, even if I think it got a little to Clary’s head. The sunlight rune? Pretty cool, I won’t lie. I liked how that came about – there was a heightened emotion to the moment, it made sense that a rune would manifest under such stressful circumstances. But Clary just deciding that, because she wants this rune to exist, it instantly will? It will work, just by the strength of, what, her willpower? I know it’s quite strong, but this logic isn’t. It’s ridiculous. It doesn’t make sense. It’s cheating for the sake of an easy plot, without minding the six-feet deep holes left behind.

 Now, I’d also contend that as helpful as this power is, it doesn’t magically fix everything around her. Sometimes, it makes things worse. Such as during 3x16.

 The biggest thing that pissed me off about Clary in 3x16 is the fact that she decided they all had to do whatever they could to get rid of this rune, because she was sick of it and couldn’t handle it, so that must mean that everybody else has to turn all of their attention and focus towards her, regardless of whatever they were doing before. And what are we told this is prompted by? Her snapping at Simon; (which, by the way, wasn’t as harsh as I think we were supposed to believe. Clary going through PMS probably would have resulted in the same reaction. It was snappy, and angry, and a little rude, but not … evil. Simon looked more shocked than anything. Maybe if she’d snapped at everyone, it would be more believable. But like a lot of this episode, this felt a little bit like a cop-out.)

 Mere steps from this conversation, Magnus was lying unconscious because of magic that wasn’t his, that he’d sold his apartment for, because he didn’t feel like he was worth being alive, worth existing, without his magic, that his magic was all that made him special – which, he’d sacrificed for Jace, no less. Granted, Clary likely wouldn’t have known about how Magnus felt about losing his magic, but I do find it hard to believe that she wouldn’t have even realised that losing it at all would have been an incredible trauma for Magnus.

 Then again, it does feel like Clary only cares about Magnus when it suits her. It’s harsh, but I sometimes wonder if she’d care more if Magnus had died, or if she’d just be upset because she’d lost a resource. This mostly stems from how she’s written, I’ll admit, but it’s still how I feel.

 And I think canon backs me up here. After all, look at what Magnus has gone through at the end of 3A and into 3B alone.

 He sacrificed his magic to Asmodeus, the man who abused and emotionally manipulated him, who probably made him commit heinous acts, of which murder I’m sure wasn’t off the table, all after having to grovel and endure soul-crushing humiliation at the hands of aforementioned abuser, who he most likely had gotten comfortable with the idea of never seeing again, all to save Jace from Lilith’s control (only to return to see the love of his life bleeding out with no way of saving him – I don’t blame this on Clary, but it is a factor that has affected Magnus. How could it not?) After Magnus returns, mortal, mundane, barely half of the man he used to be – his feelings, not mine – he’s ostracised by Lorenzo and ignored by the rest of the warlocks from Lorenzo’s command, excluding Catarina, his only friend at this point. Just there, he’s given up everything for Jace, and whilst it’s possible that Clary doesn’t know, it seems a little far-fetched to assume that Jace wouldn’t tell her. If he did, it seems a bit unfair for Clary not to consider that, but then, there’s almost an assumption that sacrifices made for people that Clary explicitly loves – Jace – matter more than the people who made the sacrifice.

 Then, because he felt so empty and lost without his magic, Magnus had to forego his pride and dignity to ask for Lorenzo’s help – his mortal enemy, basically, who has always disliked Magnus – selling his apartment in the process, his home, only to then be rejected by the magic, resulting in him having to give it up to not die. Because of that, he has to go through the process of losing magic again, even if it’s not quite the same as his own, which would have teared his mental health to shreds, and completely destroyed any progress he’d made towards feeling better, feeling more like himself. Now, I do believe that Magnus understood the weight of the transplant and all of the ways it could go wrong, which just makes this even more painful, because he felt that dying was a better alternative to not having his magic – if it weren’t for Alec, and Catarina, and Madzie, I don’t think Magnus would have had the strength to give Lorenzo’s magic back. Yes, there’s an argument to be made that he only did it for Alec, but I personally think it was Alec’s insistence that he couldn’t lose Magnus – wouldn’t, lose him - that prompted Magnus into remembering that they were people out there who cared for him, and loved him, even if it’s impossible for him to understand why. Depression warps a person’s perception of themselves anyway; add on all of the trauma Magnus has undergone, and in such a short period of time, and it makes sense that he’d find it easier to do this for somebody else, than for himself. I don’t think this makes his decision or his reasoning any less valid, but I’m getting a little off topic here.

 Magnus doesn’t know who he is without his magic, and in this episode especially, but not solely, it doesn’t feel like Clary cares – because without his magic, he can’t help her, and if somebody can’t help her, they cease to matter.

 (Again, this is my perception.)

 Speaking of people who only matter if they can help Clary – let’s talk about Cain. ‘Cause I haven’t seen a lot of discussion on him, and I feel like he deserves the attention.

 Cain has lived with this guilt of succumbing to Lilith’s manipulation and killing his own brother for longer than I think it’s possible for us, as the audience, and the characters of the show to understand. You can see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice – he carries this burden with him, and it’s suffocating. Inescapable. He couldn’t get rid of his mark, so cruelly named after him, and now he’s stuck living in a sewer, living off rats, because he’s dreadfully invincible. I have no doubt that he still felt Lilith’s hold on him, like a shadow, constantly creeping around him, that sensation that there’s something over his shoulder, something behind him ready to attack, but there’s not, there never is, it’s just him and his guilt and the sick crawl of Lilith’s voice taking hold of him, the drowning ache that never leaves, because if he’d been stronger, his brother might not have died.

 The last thing he wanted – or needed – was to see Lilith again.

 I can’t even imagine how that would have felt. Seeing the woman who destroyed you, knowing that nothing could ever keep her locked away, that there was no cage that she couldn’t break out of – he probably felt her power leaking out, creeping under his skin, whispering to him even as the direction of her voice was focused on the others. From the moment she addressed him, she had him hooked. Just as he knew she would. Because he warned them – he told them he wouldn’t do it. The only reason he helped was Simon – because he related to Simon, because he could see the guilt in Simon and knew that was no way to live, because he wanted to save Simon from suffering a fate as bad as his own. Cain trusted Simon. Because Simon trusted Clary. And now, he’s stuck with his abuser, because the plan failed just as he’d told them it would, because once again, Clary only thought about what she could gain out of this, and not how it would affect anybody else.

 Because when Clary wants to jump, she doesn’t take the time to notice who could be supporting her fall.

 You know who often has to take the fall for Clary’s actions? Alec.

 I cannot see the actions of this episode as anything less than taking advantage of the fragile situation that Alec was in, for Clary to get what she wanted. The love of his life – and I refuse to believe that Clary doesn’t recognise that, for all of my complaints I don’t think she’s actually stupid – was lying unconscious in the infirmary, and really, none of them could be certain that he’d be okay, that there wouldn’t be further consequences when he woke up. Because, again – he was unconscious!! And Clary, honestly thought – hey, there’s this rune tying me to my psychotic sibling and it’s torturing me so instead of formulating an actual plan and thinking through options to get rid of it, I’m just going to go ahead and summon the mother of demons, to get rid of it for me, and darn the consequences. Never mind the fact that the Head of the Institute has yet to hear of this plan, let alone sanction it - he’s too busy worrying about the health and well-being of his unconscious boyfriend, so why bother him about it and get clearance on a dangerous mission like this, when we could just, go ahead and do it anyway.

 (Because even in this fragile state, Alec never would have sanctioned it.)

 Clary doesn’t take a second to think about the consequences this could have on Alec, and she never really has when it comes to missions; the only thing she has ever considered is how it can benefit her. Stealing the mortal cup from the Institute? Sure, why not. It’s super dangerous and can be turned into a weapon if in the wrong hands, and is locked away for a reason, but rules are made to be broken, right? Season one, whilst frustrating, could be brushed off as Clary just not quite understanding the power structure – sure, Jace did, and he should have done more about making it clear to her as opposed to just going along with her plans because he was thinking with his stele, but again, season one.

 And, sure, there’s that bit in 2x10 where Alec has spent the entire night searching for Magnus’ body in the Institute because, despite his best wishes, he can’t deny the possibility that Magnus is one of Valentine’s Downworlder victims, and Clary remembered that they portalled in – cause, Magnus made the portal, as far as I can remember – but she lost him after that, and hadn’t even thought since then about his whereabouts, or his safety, or even considered that he might have DIED. But, you know. Season two.

 This is season three. The second half, for that matter. And Clary is still thinking with herself in mind first, without even a second to regard how it affects others. If the Clave find out that Shadowhunters under Alec’s supervision took a traitor’s weapon, adjusted it so that it was capable of electrocution and used it to trap a Greater Demon – and Lilith, at that – only for her to end up escaping, all whilst he was preoccupied with his warlock boyfriend/technically making threats to the High Warlock which could, if Lorenzo was so inclined, damage relations between the Institute and the High Warlock – well. To say that they wouldn’t be impressed would be quite the understatement. He could lose his title over this. And then what? Who is going to save their asses from suspension/the silent city then? To be quite crude; if the Clave find out about this, and then pair that with Alec and Isabelle’s investigation into Project: Heavenly Fire, Alec would be fucked. They wouldn’t give him the Institute after that, and he certainly would no longer retain the reputation he spent so long building back up after his not-wedding. I don’t know if Alec would care that much about his reputation, he seems quite content with just doing what he wants and letting people’s opinions be exactly that – their opinions. Of no matter to him.

 However, that doesn’t automatically make them go away. There would still be people dying to see Alec fail, to see him crash and burn, to talk shit behind his back because of their own feelings towards decisions he’s made, both in power and before it.

 Clary doesn’t think about any of that – about anything, really, that doesn’t involve her. And it’s fucking exhausting. I want to like Clary, so badly, because she is a badass character and there’s a lot to admire about her. But I can’t love her when she’s so selfish that other characters are consistently suffering because of it. When sacrifices are made and her response is to completely disregard them in favour of achieving something that she wants. When episode, after episode – season after season – she’s allowed to just do whatever she wants without care to the consequences and how it affects others.

 Clary could be a fantastic, game-changing character. As it is, she feels more like a petulant child who throws a tantrum when she can’t get what she wants, and refuses to listen when she’s told something that she doesn’t want to hear.

 I hope my opinion of her improves over the season. But I won’t be holding my breath.

[lizzybeth1986]

Quick Thoughts on TRH Book 1 Chapter 5

• Now that we are five chapters into this story, now seems like a good time to get the masterlist of this series out! 😁 Which I will be doing shortly after this QT is up. If you've missed the other chapters, you'll be more easily able to find them all there! I'll also be reblogging my TRR series masterlist sometime this week, since my TRR Book 1 Chapter 5 chapter is close to getting finished as well.

• I'm hoping to get this one out early, it's an extremely light chapter for the most part. It's practically filler, filled with little vignettes between the characters here and there and mostly diamond scenes. The heavy stuff inevitably seems to be left for the actual Walker Ranch (sigh).

• Here are the tags to block if you don't want my QTs to clog up your dash: #long post, #trh quick thoughts, #trh qts, #trh qt reblogs. For now a friend of mine is helping get the read-mores on the main posts, until Tumblr actually does something to make them work on a phone again.

• TW: Brief mentions of the Dr Ramirez scene in Hana's playthrough, and infertility.

• Screenshot Credits:

Hana - @pixieferry

Maxwell - Abhirio's YouTube channel

Drake - @thefirstcourtesan

Liam - Well, me

• Besides being mostly filler stuff, this chapter had a lot of diamond scenes. Two outfit changes (one OOTD and one lingerie for the LI), a group scene and the book's first character scene (Liam).

• A few people I know have been asking me about the differences between "character scenes" and "LI scenes" (and indeed a lot of people were confused by my use of these terms in my Book 3 QTs). So once I get to my general thoughts section, I'll elaborate on those.

• Title: The Open Road

Alternative Title: Enjoy The Fillers, Dear Fans, Coz You Got A Walker-Storm Comin'!

• We're now on our way to the States, barely days after we got back to our own estate. The Council is looking after stuff in exactly the way they have since we left for our honeymoon, except that now it's lost all its core group members besides Olivia. Her, Hana and Kiara must probably share whatever few brain cells exist in that Council between each other.

• If you've unlocked the "casual clothing" scenes for the LIs in Book 2 (Liam's t-shirt, Hana's crop top, Drake's Henley and Maxwell's muscle shirt and Bubbles necklace), that's what they'll be wearing on their journey this chapter.

• Maxwell is now the self-appointed Royal Entertainment Committee.

• Bertrand WOULD be freaking out about spoons.

• Our OOTD today is an off-shoulder crop top with floral designs, and ripped shorts - paired with a blue and pink statement necklace and a few bracelets. Esther DuPont and literally every other MC is more confident about pulling this outfit off than I will ever be.

• Maxwell suggests the outfit in the Liam, Drake and Hana playthroughs, and Hana suggests it in Maxwell's.

• First Stop: Our old workplace in NY! Our manager is no longer around (probably got fired lol) but Daniel is! Or as I still like to call him, Not-Henney 😂

• Hana is so cutely excited about visiting the place where it all begin, a place she must have till now only heard about in the other LIs' stories. Sigh. Wish we'd brought her here earlier.

• Not-Henney has issues with how little attention Maxwell gave to the MC's origins. @callmetippytumbles points out that there's not much you can expect from an author who put his face on the cover of a book about you. Cmon, Not-Henney.

• Told you "Things are Great" would become a meme.

• He now asks what the experience of being an actual Queen/Duchess is like. You can go for the funny route (glam parties that'll make Beyonce jealous. Oh idk, does Beyonce like an overabundance of apples?), the realistic route (speaking about everyone's expectations weighing on you), and the romantic route, which brings out some cute responses in both Not-Henney and the LIs, ranging from delight to awkwardness.

• Oh snap. The paps are here.

• We make a run for it (in two options, with Daniel's help), and keep driving. Somewhere in the middle of the conversation, the MC mentions a motorcycle when speaking about Drake, which makes me wonder in we will end up having a motorcycle scene in Texas itself. I mean, the writers did mention being excited about a scene featuring one in their livestream.

• Maxwell picks the next stop, and it's that engagement barn we built for Liam, apparently. Or the house of Robert, Steve Tennyson's (PM) dad. Where he has found the "biggest ball of string". Only Joy and Hope, my corgis, seem even remotely happy about this.

•

...Okay Maxwell.

Hana needs to roast people more. Roast EVERYONE in that friend group and EVERYONE in that court!

• Fun Fact: This chapter was released on the 50th anniversary of the historic 1969 Apollo 11 moon landing 😁

• As proven from this scene, the few brain cells this group collectively has, all belong to Hana.

• It's now time to check out what the group brought as provisions:

MC: Nothing, she's only here to ask what everyone else brought

Drake: Jerky

Maxwell: Tequila (!!)

Liam: IDK Esther I thought a four-course meal would just fall upon our laps from the heavens

Hana: ME! Bring cookies that I've NOT warmed by the fires wrought from the bowels of the deepest hells??? BLASPHEMY.

As always Hana saves everyone's ass this fine day. I actually quite like this bit with Hana, because it veers a tiny bit more towards "perfectionist" than just simply "perfect". Hana would be the kind of person to worry excessively over being a good hostess, since that's something she's been learning since she was a little girl (remember the tea scene in the flashback).

• We now stop by at Washington DC - Hana's suggestion - because she wanted to look at the cherry blossoms. I was quite chuffed about this when I found out coz I always used to have her down as more of a "plum blossom" girl, and this is pretty close 😁

• That little bit in DC where speaks of the area as "a marvel of both nature and civic engineering" is a nice touch, since Liam has always been associated with monuments and national legends.

• THE PAPS?? AGAIN????

• ...If my spouse and I have to spend ALL our time answering questions about babymaking, where are we going to find the time to babymake, mediapeople? Ever thought of that? Huh? Huh??

• This option is hands down the best fucking option in this chapter lol:

YOU'RE ALL SUCH DORKS ISTG

• We're now in a small town where Liam wants to mingle and be one with the locals. He's not been very successful in doing this in Cordonia (where people can literally look at his face and figure out who he is), but because it's the US and not many people might recognize him here, his chances of not being caught are better.

• This is the first character scene in the new series. It's pretty alright, not a lot of insights or anything, just a simple scene where Liam gets to not worry about acting like a royal, occasionally acknowledge his privilege, be charmingly naive, order milkshakes, and listen to the MC's insights on how she will bring up her/their kid. He does mention it opens some new perspectives on understanding his people, but I'm not sure we'll get to see much of what learnings he will put into action because, yknow, Cordonian commoners are practically invisible.

• This scene is also proof that you can take Liam out of the court but you can't take the court out of Liam.

• It begins with what the MC calls "a sidewalk hello", where she can either guide or massively troll him. The first two options are awkward as hell (I did like the bowing one though lolol coz she tells him he's probably made someone's day with his "courtly manners"), and the third is for Liam to simply ignore the other person and stare at his phone.

• Next scene involves getting Liam to buy groceries...coz he's never brought groceries. Why would he Esther he has a staff.

• They have a choice between fruit, nachos with everything on them (and they weren't kidding about "everything") and chocolates. I chose fruit.

• You also get some cute tidbits about Liam's life growing up in the palace. Here are the important ones:

- Constantine and Eleanor agreed they wanted Liam to be self-sufficient but "disagreed on how far to take that principle" (given what Liam says about her in one of the other options, I'm guessing Eleanor wanted to take it a lot more further).

- Liam can make spaghetti carbonara!!!

- Laundry: So there was this one time Leo and Liam played tag close to a champagne tower at an event, and it fell down. Eleanor insisted they "clean up the mess [they] made. A reasonable lesson in decorum and consequences". I kinda like this little crumb of info considering there is so little we know about her.

- Eating leftovers: Liam used to have sleepovers at Jackson and Bianca's quarters, and he tells us he was "proud to help Drake's mother microwave the leftovers" coz to his little mind he thought that was cooking 😁 I know, I know, I believed my mom when she put a tiny bit of coffee powder in my milk and told me it was actual coffee haha.

- Doesn't know how to do dishes. He knows soap and water is involved lol.

• The final part of the scene involves Liam treating himself at a diner with (what else!) a milkshake, while casually chatting with the MC about how she feels about the simplicity of her past life, and the way she plans to bring up her (or their) own child.

• Liam not immediately understanding that utensils are self-serve reminds me of Hana's confusion at the idea of a McDermots not having wait-staff.

• The MC has options for how to respond to Liam's question about bringing up a child - 1. I'd like my child to be practical and aware of their role, they don't need to learn how to fold a bed sheet or do dishes. 2. I want my child to have a bit of both worlds so that they're more flexible in their approach. 3. My child should be acutely aware of what the common person in Cordonia goes through if they're going to have to rule fairly over them. These three options in some way allow you to imagine what the MC would be like as a mother, and what upbringing this 'heir' might have.

•

I've never actually seen YOU make much of an effort to find out in Cordonia.

• There's also a tiny bit about Regina that follows this optional dialogue if you're married to him, which I really like: Liam states to Esther that those are "wise words from the wisest queen I know", following which she points out that he's lucky Regina hasn't heard it. Liam's response to that is: "after all this time, I think she'd agree with me". Regina's kinda grown on me over the series, and I do hope we see her again!

• Overall the scene's alright. It's there, it's cute, it's filler like the rest of the chapter. Only time will tell if it will actually result in anything in the future, which kind of leads me to wonder what Character Scenes are going to look like going forward (now that the LI scenes mostly perform the function for both characterization and romance). But the biggest takeaway right now for me is what Liam has to say about his parents, and optionally about his mother. I think that may point towards something later on.

• LMAO @ the random stranger in the diner optionally thinking Liam's brother might be Thor. Leo would be pleased 😂 Also a nice touch to see her recognize us again at the lingerie store if we buy both scenes!

• We now have a scene featuring the couples in their hotel bedroom, where the LI and MC have either had a bit of a wild night, or where the MC has just finished her at-home fertilization procedure (if the LI is Hana). There's a little chit-chat here and there about the moments they have now and about privacy, but it's different in the case of Hana.

• You finally get the chance to ask about how she feels, and this is the response:

• That's it then, I guess 😒 I'm honestly not surprised, given how much in a hurry they were to have Hana concentrate on the MC in the doctor's office itself. I'll expand more on this later.

LIAM. YOU FOOL. I'M WEARING IT RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU.

• Honestly I don't see the point in having the MC suggest the lingerie in Liam's playthrough (the others basically make the suggestion instead, and they say "well, you're wearing that", instead, implying that they're talking about what she has on already) if they're not going to code it properly.

• The actual lingerie scenes are pretty cute! And fun! And comes with cool dialogues options, and this:

• NOW I know why Hana's lingerie was head and shoulders above the rest. SHE WAS THE ONE WHO CHOSE IT.

• So here's a rundown of all four LI scenes:

- Liam: The clerk from the store (who was also the girl who noticed Liam in the Incognito Scene if you bought that) recognizes Liam and the MC, freaks out and closes the store so they can shop in full privacy. The rest of it is cute playful banter, like expressing surprise at this being Liam's first time at a lingerie store. She then chooses black silk boxers with a golden baroque design. LMAO trust the MC to get him a Versace. 😂

- Drake - Tells the MC he likes it when she takes the lead. The MC then gets to ask him whether he would be down to wearing handcuffs or pink feathers. To the second option, Drake claims that he would "wear a tutu and crown if you told me you had a thing for the sugar fairy". LMAO they really are desperate to show us how much they learned from the "pink cake" fiasco. Pity how they couldn't teach themselves to treat their one female LI with respect. Anyway, the MC chooses red silk boxers with polka dots (!!)

- Maxwell - This scene is a fever dream from start to finish. Maxwell is happy and excited and SUPER SUPER enthusiastic, asking the MC to drop a beat so he can break into a dance at the store. The MC chooses blue silk boxers with squid designs on them. EVEN MAXWELL CANNOT CONTAIN HIS SHOCK. (PS: This scene marks the third appearance of "release the kraken!" 😄).

- Hana - Hana has apparently seen shops like these from the outside but has never been to one (same sis same). She speaks of how she never had anyone to do it for, which is why she is so happy about it now coz she can do it for the MC. A sweet, simple conversation. The difference here is that Hana knows what she wants, and chooses the lingerie herself: a beautiful lace and fishnet number with garter belt and stockings. She looks amazing and part of that is because unlike her friends, she realizes that her wife has deplorable fashion sense.

• It's now the next day, and Drake tries really hard to hoodwink everyone into making his "next stop" the Walker ranch, but the Royal Entertainment Committee threatens him with an "intimidating interpretive dance performed by me" (is he going to jump out the car and sing Kiki Do You Love Me too?). It's enough to scare Drake into picking a nicer stop.

• It's now time to listen to some tunes!! Everyone squabbles a little over what music to choose and the MC gets to pick either of them:

- Hana's Choice: A piano concerto that Liam loves, makes Drake cry and Maxwell go all happy-sleepy.

- Liam's Choice: Chartbusters. "Top 40s". Drake is surprised coz the last time they drove together, Liam made him listen to 52 versions of a single Bach sonata, to which Liam cheekily responds that doing so made him figure out which one was Drake's favourite.

- Maxwell's Choice: Some song that Maxwell did a deejay mix to, and apparently Liam (and presumably Drake) lent backing vocals to. Going by Liam's advance apology it must be pretty fucking terrible.

- Drake's Choice: Classic rock tunes that he can do air-guitar to. Liam concedes it has rhythm, Drake responds that it has rhythm and attitude. He tries to do air guitar in the car but Hana, panicking, reminds him that he's the one driving.

- What Would Have Been Bertrand's Choice/We Shall Drive In Silence!: Apparently when the MC says this, Maxwell says that she channeled Bertrand so hard "he flashed before my eyes". The MC reasons that if no one wants to listen to anyone else's music they might as well be quiet. Maxwell tries to bring up other alternatives such as playing his kazoo-tar, at which point EVERYONE agrees that silence is golden.

• This bit is one of my favourites in the chapter. Probably the second after "say cheese" haha.

• It's Hana's turn to drive and Maxwell is helping her by asking she carve that path from her heart. Which she does, even though she has mentally memorized the next twelve steps she needs to take.

• Liam drives, explaining when the MC asks that Drake was his first driving instructor (Drake had his licence already and they may have used a royal golf course or two for practice runs).

• Maxwell finds a new waypoint: Thrilltown. His reasoning is quite poignant (everything is changing, the MC and LI - in some cases him - will be having a child soon and everyone will be busy in their respective roles, when will everyone be together like this again?). The rest of the group comfort and reassure him, stating that they will probably see more of each other now. In any case...perhaps to Maxwell this is like a last hurrah to the carefree life he used to have.

• We start with choosing rides. Maxwell and Drake choose The Accelerator, which Maxwell describes as "fast. furious. and it uses gravity at speeds that Thrilltown can't legally release to the public!". Hana and Liam choose the "gentler" option - the carousel - which has you ride unicorns, griffins, dragons and other fantastical beings.

• I'm surprised the writers don't have him react even a little to the carousel, considering one of his scariest experiences took place on one (Book 1 Chapter 16). Just show him say "yeah...I'll pass" or show some emotion or other. It's like that armoury scene in his playthrough of Book 3 Chapter 11 where Madeleine could mock Liam about his feelings for the MC and Maxwell is pretty much sitting there not reacting. It's so lazy. I can't.

• Carousel with Liam and Hana: I loved this one, very cute. The carousel has fantasy elements and mythical animals, things that both Liam and Hana love. The MC gets to sit on a phoenix (like her optional Valtoria sigil!), Liam on a dragon (like the royal family's old crest! Dom would be proud) and Hana on a unicorn (which suits her particular style of whimsy). It's cute and fun and sounds exactly like the kind of thing Liam and Hana would enjoy.

The Accelerator with Maxwell and Drake: They call it EXTREME, and it lives up to its name. Maxwell is ecstatic obviously because he's a thrill-seeker and a ride like this is completely in his wheelhouse. Drake gets caught red-handed handed actually enjoying the ride.

• We try out something called The Vortex of Terror, where Liam challenges his friends to not scream up until the end of the ride. Ironically he's the first one to cave 🤣🤣

• "I accept your terms, Liam...as long as you're prepared to lose". Badass enough to challenge the king of the country xD (considering the way that ride goes, I think she was right haha).

• I need more Competitive, Sarcastic Hana outside of cute group scenes.

• One of two people can win this challenge: either the MC or Hana. If the MC wins, she gets to hoist herself on the LI's shoulders towards the next ride. If Hana wins, she perches herself on top of Drake's because he's pretty damn tall.

• Our last ride is called "Lover's Leap" and it's pretty much the romantic portion of the group scene, really.

At the end of it, the LI brings you a green candy drink, and then lets you know how this trip to Thrilltown is representative of their journey together and the change the MC has brought to their lives.

• Both Hana and I have no freaking clue what Liam means when he says "I call shotgun" before they head out.

• Lol @ Cordonia having its own version of "Ninety Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall". And of course it's going to feature Cordonian Rubies 🤣

• We now reach the ranch, where those of us who didn't marry Drake meet his mother Bianca for the very first time (in every other playthrough she is called "The Rider" and in Drake's her sprite is addressed by name).

• There ends the chapter, on a 'suspicious' note, the kind that seems to sound like things are suspicious but they're probably not. Bertrand's head must be exploding from the lack of spoons.

General Thoughts:

• It's a good thing this filler chapter exists, even if it's mostly inconsequential fluff, because at least that's one chapter less to deal with BertVannah and Drake and his family.

• It's also pretty expensive because the writers knew their crowd by now and know that that crowd is willing to spend.

• The scenes were in keeping with the mood of the chapter - light and fluffy, lots of friendship and some amount of romance. I ended up liking the free short scenes more than any of the diamond ones this chapter honestly.

• So...on the outset, it seems good that the MC is able to check on Hana, post the visit to Dr Ramirez. Hearing Hana's answer, however, brought back every issue I've ever had with the way they've written Hana.

I mean, sure, not everyone reacts the same way to such painful news. I understand that. But here the writers are basically using Hana to minimize what she's going through. They use her to dismiss her own pain with "oh that's okay, I'm just happy that at least you can carry that baby". All that proves is that the female LIs' experiences and pain mean nothing in front the MC's needs.

I've spoken before about the numerous times Hana's pain had been brushed aside or her space eaten into, to favour particular characters, and this just happens to be a repeat of the same formula. This is especially bad because it proves that the only reason they put Hana through this kind of hell in the first place is so that only the MC can carry the child. Her condition isn't allowed to be anything else other than a plot convenience: not an opportunity to open a conversation on this, nor to help develop her as a character. It's merely a narrative device meant to make coding easier. It's dismissive, lazy and reeks of a deplorable lack of care. And again I have to ask, why put her through this if you're so desperate to ignore it afterwards??

• The other big problem is that considering the gravity of that situation, why is checking on her an option rather than actual default dialogue?? If you choose the option to continue talking about playlists instead, the topic just never emerges again. Again I have to ask, what the hell kind of wife is the MC? I mean even before they got the news, the MC was pretty much doing nothing. She wasn't planning for Hana, she wasn't thinking much in terms of what to do for her, everything seems to just revolve around her even in a scenario where either one could have been a mother.

• The lingerie scene seems to me to have elements of a type of diamond scene in the flagship series - the ones where we could buy new casual clothing for our LIs in NY. The LI requires a new look, the MC suggests for a change and often picks out something that she thinks would work (some of her choices - like Liam's pants or Drake's sunglasses are...questionable 😅), and from then on this would be their option for ultra-casual occasions. The one casualwear scene that is different from all these is Maxwell's: he gets his sleeveless shirt and Bubbles necklace at a shop in Coney Island, during the group scene (I think part of this was that they were attempting a step-by-step LI-upgrade because they were a new couple at that point...which was why his first 30 diamond scene was during the Gala, after they'd been together for a little while. Still doesn't excuse all the ways they ignored his background and history though).

The main difference between the casualwear scenes and the lingerie ones is that the first dealt put the MC and LI in different situations and dealt with different issues (therefore was a scene of its own) and the second really just revolved around the lingerie. Perhaps the lingerie scene would be what you'd call an 'extended outfit option'? As opposed to something that's a scene all on its own?

• I was actually quite surprised we got a character scene in this series. Given how much they'd drastically cut down on them in favour of beefing up their LI scenes more, I was fully expecting not to see them. I do prefer them to the LI scenes sometimes, because my LI is not the only one I want to be keeping tabs on, and I do want to know what's happening in their lives.

• What is the difference between the two? I hear some of you ask. Well, good question because I'm about to launch into one of my long-winded explanations again.

• Diamond Scenes in TRR/H: I've been holding off on writing about these, since I believed that the series probably had done away with character scenes and preferred to use LI scenes for both romance and development. With this chapter, I now understand that's not the case.

• So...simply put, the difference between an Character Scene and an LI scene, is that the first focuses on the same character in all playthroughs (eg. no matter who you are romancing, if you buy these scenes it's Hana who will play Snow Angels with you, or Drake who will go fishing with you), and the second focuses on who you are engaged/married to (eg. If I'm romancing Hana, I will not be going to the movies with Liam. If I'm romancing Maxwell, I will not be having a cake testing session with Drake).

During Books 1 and 2, when the MC wasn't altogether exclusive with any LI as such, each character would have their own specific scene which expanded further on their characterization and gave the MC a chance to learn more about them. Most of the romance in these scenes were by choice, with the exception of a few lines here and there. The writers tried to continue this way of formatting diamond scenes even beyond Liam's proposal, but the amount of backlash from the portions of the scenes that involved the MC cheating on her confirmed LI...kind of made them backtrack on this plan quite a bit.

Book 3 switched the format up a little. It was similarish in a lot of ways to RoE, except that unlike that book (where the other two would disappear once you got engaged to one), we were also friends with the other LIs. Besides outfits and plot development scenes (such as the one in the Nevrakis replica armory with Olivia and Gladys) and group scenes, the book also offered two types of scenes for the reader to connect with the characters they liked:

1. LI Scenes: These scenes are meant for the LI the MC is marrying, and are coded differently based on that. This kind of scene was first used in the series in the first chapter of Book 3, where the MC and LI could comfort each other in the safe house. The initial chapters had a similar approach to the scenes as RoE Book 3 (where Mr Sloan, Leo and Dean all ended up sounding like each other), in that the dialogues sounded pretty cut-and-paste, with little to no actual variations beyond a few things (an example of this was how - in the Book 3 Chapter 6 Spa Scene in Applewood - all the LIs spoke of being "dumb in love" with the MC - which suited certain LIs, but sounded extremely jarring on others.

During Book 3, a high number of complaints about the series revolved around this copy-paste routine for the LIs, mostly because the characters were so different from each other, and wouldn't speak the same or even have the same experiences. Around Book 3 Chapter 8, major shifts began to happen in the way these scenes were written, starting with the Movie-going Scene in Castelserraillian. Post that chapter, and the hiatus, there was a significant decrease in the number of individual character scenes, and an increase in both number and quality of the LI scenes. It is very possible that they found juggling both stressful and dialed back on one to personalize the other further.

2. Character Development Scenes: These were scenes with the LI that you got regardless of whether you were marrying them or not. This scene would be viewed over all playthroughs, with differences based on whether you were marrying them or not. If you were not marrying them, these scenes would appear neutral and the romantic options would simply not be there, or be replaced by more neutral ones. Examples of such scenes include Drake's Cordonian Waltz Scene in Fydelia (Book 3 Chapter 3), Liam's Gastrodiplomacy Scene in Castelserraillian (Book 3 Chapter 7), Hana's Polo Scene in Portavira (Book 3 Chapter 5) and Maxwell's Armoury Scene in Lythikos (Book 3 Chapter 11).

The most important thing to remember is that these scenes are expected to be coded differently (according to your relationship with said LI), not only by adding romantic options for the MC to choose, but also in the actions of the characters by default. For instance, the Fydelia Cordonian Waltz scene in Drake's playthrough incorporates - by default - all the sensuality you should be finding in this waltz, while his friendly playthrough is merely the MC teaching him the basics so they have an edge over Neville. By default, if you buy the Gastrodiplomacy scene as Liam's fiancée, the chocolate souffle you sampled with him would feature at your wedding reception.

I say the scenes were expected to be coded differently, because very often they were not. In a lot of cases the only proof you'd have in those scenes that the LI and MC were even together were from the MC's actions. For instance, even though Hana was going to be a duchess on marriage to the MC, the same as Drake - only Drake got to speak in detail about it. This opportunity came for Hana very briefly only by Chapter 14, well past the midpoint of Book 3.

• So when Book 3 began the formula was mostly "leave the character scenes for developing the LI's issues or getting them to teach something, and concentrate on nothing else but the romance for your LI scenes". However this wasn't exactly workable given how different each LI was and therefore how odd some of their dialogue sounded. The dial back is understandable (though, as someone who has looked through various playthroughs in this book, I can tell you the imbalances found across character scenes were on a whole different level).

• Why I've elaborated on this is to give context to a question I now have about the narrative: what are the Character Scenes going to look like from here on out? Post the hiatus, they would vary - they could be mostly plot-driven, or fun and light but not much depth or variation, or fun and light, and also opening up diverging conversations based on your relationship. Now that they seemed to have locked down some format in this book at least, what's it going to sound like?

The Liam Character Scene today was fun, light, had default differences based on whether you were marrying him or not, but ultimately had very little to give to the story other than a few facts about Liam's home life and (in a way that expands on what we already know about her and her dynamic with Constantine) his mother. What exactly does he learn? What new insights is he getting as a King who self-admittedly exists and operates in a "statesman's bubble"?

It also remains to be seen whether buying this scene will have any effect of future events - like Liam's Applewood Tour Scene, where his retelling of King Fabian's story had an impact on our conversation with Kiara's mother Joelle. I'm probably going to keep track on how these character scenes are being written in this series, considering that we already have a pretty good idea of how their LI scenes are done.

• Twice I've seen Eleanor associated with pasta. In Book 1 Liam mentions simple tomato pasta as a childhood dish that reminded of his mother, and here shortly after he speaks about his parents he mentions knowing to cook spaghetti carbonara. IDK what that's supposed to mean but I'm bringing it up anyway. I'm mean, what if it's a part of Auvernese cuisine 😂

• I guess that's it for this week! Time for me to scram and finish my Book 1 Chapter 5 QT too before the next chapter drops!

[thescarletofarose]

The Consequences of His Actions

Chapter Five

The sound of cutlery hitting fine china clinked through the dining room. The atmosphere was as tense and awkward as the car ride, occasionally broken by the polite comment or observation. 

“How are you enjoying the dish?” Adrien asked.

“It’s delicious,” Marinette responded. “Are you enjoying your meal?”

“Yes, it’s great.”

The conversation trudged on in a similar fashion throughout the courses. Oblivious to the tension or just ignoring it, Emilie had requested a formal meal to show optimal hospitality. Dessert finally replaced the salad plates, and Emilie observed the kids with amusement as they sighed in relief. She took a sip of her freshly given coffee to hide the smile that tugged at the corner of her lips.

“Marinette, I hope you don’t mind that I chose dessert for you,” Emilie said, setting the cup down. She delicately brought a bite of parfait to her lips. “I tend to prefer sweets over cheese.”

“Of course not. My parents run a bakery, so naturally I’m fond of sweets as well.”

“Excellent.” Emilie’s eyes slid to the silver plate being placed in front of Adrien. “I heard that you’ve become quite fond of Camembert, Adrien. I asked the chef to swap your dessert for it.”

A pungent smell erupted from the platter as the gooey aged delicacy was revealed. Adrien’s stomach clenched as he held back a gag. With a strained smile, he turned to his mother, “Y-you recognized? How thoughtful...”

Ever so slowly, Adrien brought a small bite up to his mouth. He willed his facial features to not betray him as he slid in the cheese. The tough exterior gave way to an explosion of unwelcomed flavor. A whine escaped as he chewed, and Adrien had to force his grimace into a smile as the two ladies gave him a questionable look. He swallowed hard and held up his thumb. “Delicious as usual, mom, but I think I’ll have to hold back. After all I am a model, so I should watch what I eat.”

Emilie nodded and the plate was immediately removed. Adrien watched the hired hands remove the cheese, not yet used to their new presence. Since Nathalie’s indefinite departure, his mother had brought on a small team of people to take care of the abandoned duties. Adrien felt a twang of sadness. He and Nathalie had not been especially close, but he had hoped she would have said goodbye first. 

“So Marinette,” Emilie began, waiting for the targeted girl to finish her bite of dessert, “tell me about yourself. What are your plans after school? Will you be getting a government job?”

“I’m hoping to be able to pursue a career with fashion. I really enjoy designing clothes and making them,” Marinette answered. Her eyes brightened and her cheeks lightly colored. “I think it would be great to even come out with my own fashion line one day.”

Adrien watched Marinette’s reaction with a soft smile. He absentmindedly thought about what kind of clothes she would design. Would she wear her own designs? Would she create men and women clothing? What if she made a matching sweet-heart line for couples? Adrien felt his face warm at the thought.

“What are your intentions with my son?”

Adrien nearly fell out of his seat. He glanced at Marinette who was doing her best to not choke on her dessert. Emilie gently dabbed her face with a napkin, mercifully allowing them a moment to recompose.

“I-I…,” Marinette stuttered. Her face was the same color as the strawberries within her parfait. Adrien was sure his face matched.

“Mom, I really don’t think that’s an appropriate–”

“Nonsense, Adrien. As your mother, I should know the type of people with whom you’re associating. Isn’t that right, Marinette?” Emilie asked. She fought the urge to grin at the sight of the girl squirming in her chair uncomfortably. Watching their awkward and strained interaction during the dinner made it clear that the girl had feelings for Adrien. The effortless control she had could have made her purr. Emilie blinked innocently. “I’m sure your mother would do the same for you.”

Marinette squeaked in agreeance. Her face was so red, it was unclear if she was breathing or not. Emilie’s lips twitched and she decided to be merciful. 

“Speaking of, I understand your family runs a bakery?”

Emilie threw the question as a life preserver and like a drowning victim in turbulent waters, Marinette latched on with desperation.

“Yes! Both my father and mother.”

“Oh? How nice, and what are your parents’ names?” Emilie asked, slowly reeling the unsuspecting girl into her boat.

“Tom Dupain and Sabine Cheng.”

Adrien sipped his coffee while watching the interaction, feeling more relaxed now that the topic of conversation had veered. He could still feel his heart racing, and he hoped he didn’t look as frazzled as he felt.

“Cheng. That’s Chinese, yes? If you don’t mind me asking, have you always lived here or have you been to China?”

Marinette gently pushed her now empty dessert glass to the side. “I’ve always lived in France. My mother lived in China though.”

“Really?” Emilie brought a hand to her cheek in feigned surprise. “It must have been so long since she’s seen her family then.”

Marinette shook her head. “Not as long as you think. She actually visited home a couple years ago. I wasn’t able to go because I was busy with school.”

Emilie leaned back in her chair and folded her hands. She regarded Marinette coolly, concealing the glee within her. “Interesting. Did she go alone?”

Marinette furrowed her brows in thought. “I think she went with a friend, but I really don’t remember.”

“Mom,” Adrien chimed in, “didn’t you go to Tibet a couple years back as well?”

Emilie waved off his question, her jovial mood quickly disappearing. She could feel a headache beginning to form. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean anything. China is large.”

“Actually, Tibet is where my mother’s family lives,” Marinette said. “Why did you travel to Tibet, Mrs. Agreste?”

“Work,” Emilie replied, resisting the urge to clench her teeth. A sharp pain began weedling its way through the right side of her temple. She dug her nails into the back of her hands and gave a tense smile to the young girl. “If you will excuse me, I suddenly feel unwell.”

Adrien got to his feet, his brow knitted in worry. “Are you okay? Should I do anything to help?”

Emilie held up a hand, and Adrien sat back down. She fought to keep her smile from slipping into a snarl. “No need, just ensure that your friend gets home safely.”

“It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Agreste,” Marinette said as Emilie stood up. “Thank you for having me over for dinner.”

Emilie chuckled and made her way to the door. “Believe me, dear, the pleasure was mine.”

Silence fell once more as the two seemed to remember the events leading up to the dinner. Marinette fiddled with her napkin, her mind going wild. It felt like a dream; Adrien had asked her to his house for dinner. It was something she had wanted, Adrien approaching her first, but had resigned to the fear that it would never happen. Though he had introduced her as his friend to Mrs. Agreste, Marinette’s heart couldn’t help but hope. She made eye contact with Adrien, and her face heated up. Guilt immediately began eating away at her. Turning away, she bitterly laughed and said, “I should get going. It’s getting late, and I’m sure my parents are expecting me.”

When his mother left, Adrien had wanted to continue talking, but he couldn’t help but feel doubt upon noticing her uncomfortable expression. Instead he fell into the awkward silence, unsure of what to say. He watched her squirm in her chair, each quiet second a punch to his gut. Marinette had accepted his offer to dinner, but that didn’t necessarily mean she had wanted to come. She made sure to go out of her way to check on him after his father’s arrest and has been nothing but caring and supportive. Agreeing to dinner could have been her just trying to be kind despite feeling uncomfortable. Adrien bit his lip, nauseated at the idea of having taken advantage of her kindness.

“Of course,” Adrien muttered. The two got up, and he led Marinette to the family car. He held the door open for her before going around to the other side. Buckled up, both looked out their respective windows, and the ride began in an unsatisfying silence. 

“I feel like I should apologize.”

Marinette and Adrien blinked in surprise, not expecting the other to say the same. Marinette opened her mouth, but Adrien held up a hand.

“Let me go first,” he said.

Adrien wasn’t sure how comfortable Marinette was around him, but he had to at least tell her he was grateful. “Marinette,” he said, “I feel like I’ve been taking advantage of your kindness.”

Marinette frowned, caught off guard. “Why would you think that?”

“You’re such a kind person. You have always been ready to help those in need, no matter the problem. You gave me the courage I needed to return to school after my father’s… arrest.”

Marinette’s cheeks pinkened as he continued, “I asked you to dinner because I wanted to spend more time with you, but I didn’t consider if I was asking for too much.”

Adrien stared intensely into Marinette’s eyes, desperate for her to accept his gratitude. “I like spending time with you, Marinette, and I want to spend more time with you.”

Marinette’s eyes widened, her mouth flopping open like a fish. “I-I…” she said, trying to pull herself back together, “I like spending time with you too.”

“Really?” Adrien visibly relaxed, a relieved smile slowly forming. “I’m so glad to hear that.”

Seeing his happy face, his eyes lit up and looking only at her, Marinette’s heart warmed. She found herself continuing to talk, wanting that expression to last forever. “It’s true. I felt bad because I knew you were hurting. While I was getting enjoyment out of the time spent with you, you were needing someone supportive. I felt like I was taking advantage of you…”

Adrien shook his head, laughing. “I’m glad we had this talk, Marinette.”

“Me too,” Marinette said. She nervously bit her lip and meekly asked, “Does this mean we’ll spend more time together?”

Adrien grinned. “I hope so. When would you like to hang out again?”

“I’m free tomorrow,” Marinette blurted. Her face turned a bright red. “U-unless that’s too soon.”

The car slowed to a stop. The teens looked out and saw the white building of the Dupain-Cheng household and bakery. Marinette reached for the handle, but Adrien gently grabbed her hand, stopping her. 

“I have a photo shoot at the park early tomorrow morning. We could meet up there once it’s done?”

Marinette smiled, her heart fluttering at the touch. “Yeah, I’ll see you there.”

Marinette climbed out, thanked the driver, and watched the car pull away in a daze. Once it was gone, she entered her home, feeling light-headed and giddy. Her mother was in the kitchen, and turned around to greet her when she entered. 

Sabine had a cup of coffee in her hand but set it down to hug her daughter. Pulling back, she saw the goofy grin on Marinette’s face and smiled knowingly. Teasing, she asked, “How was dinner?”

Marinette sighed. “He wants to see me tomorrow.”

Sabine chuckled and opened a cabinet to grab a second cup for Marinette who plopped onto a stool. “I’m guessing that means it went well?”

Marinetted nodded, fondly remembering the car ride home. “It was a little awkward at first. I didn’t expect to meet his mother, but she was really nice. Once we got to talking, everything got much better.”

A crash startled Marinette out of her daydream. She jumped up to see broken porcelain around her mother’s feet. ‘Mom, are you okay?”

Sabine stared at her hands, seemingly not registering that the cup had fallen. Marinette darted over and began picking up the pieces. The movement jerked Sabine into action, and she stopped Marinette. “Don’t,” she said, “you might get hurt. I’ll get a broom.”

Marinette threw the shards in her hands away and sat back down while her mother cleaned up the mess. Sabine focused on the repetitive movements of the broom, oblivious to her daughter’s concern. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Marinette asked as Sabine dumped the remaining pieces into the trashcan. The older woman feebly smiled.

“I probably just had too much coffee.”

Marinette hesitantly nodded, accepting her mother’s excuse. 

“You should get to bed, dear,” Sabine said, kissing the top of her head. “You were out late tonight.”

As if on cue, Marinette let out a yawn. At the mention of her bed, her body immediately felt heavy. She sleepily hopped up and hugged her mother goodnight before trudging upstairs. 

Sabine watched her go before sitting down. An unpleasant feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. She ran a hand through her hair, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. Her hands were shaking as Sabine picked up the mug she had been using and took a sip of her coffee. It was cold.

[sasorikigai]

Scorpion Playlist; Roaming Untethered Hellfire 

Disturbed - Inside the fire: End your grief with me. There's another way.

Disturbed - The Vengeful One: He is observing the chaos, taking in the lack of raw humanity. It's as if the entire world's fallen in love with their insanity. Hear the innocent voices scream as their tormentors laugh through all of it.

Morbid Angel - The Vengeance is Mine: The power is in me, hellspawn in aeturnum. I burn with hate to rid this world of the nazarene

Slipknot - Duality: I have screamed until my veins collapsed. I've waited last, my time's elapsed.

Slipknot - The Devil in I: Your station, is abandoned. Fool you cause I know what you've done. Sensation, deprivation. You should've burned when you turned on everyone.

In This Moment - Big Bad Wolf: You see I am the wolf, And this dirty, little piggy lives.inside of me. You see every now and then, I forget which one that I want and which one that I need.

Death - Infernal Death: Existence fading into ashes. Burn those bodies to infernal death.

Ashes Remain - End of Me: Torn apart by this affliction. locked up inside myself. This life is much too young to fadei ran away from the pain. 

Papercut Massacre - Lose My Life: You would give your life tonight. The sky is burning The fear consuming. I'll live forever if I lose my life tonight. 

From Ashes to New - Stay This Way: Everything inside of me is what it is, it's not changing. For you, for you; to myself, I stay true.

From Ashes to New - My Fight: Broke my trust and watched me bleed, ignored my pleas and squashed my dreams.

Imagine Dragons - Believer: You're the face of the future, the blood in my veins, oh ooh The blood in my veins, oh ooh. But they never did, ever lived, ebbing and flowing. Inhibited, limited. 'Til it broke up and it rained down. It rained down, like. 

Demon Hunter - More than Bones: I will send to you a passage far beyond my time. Hear my fury echo through your cold.

Seether - Broken: 'Cause I'm broken when I'm lonesome. And I don't feel right when you've gone away. You've gone away. You don't feel me here anymore.

Evanescence - My Immortal: These wounds won't seem to heal, this pain is just too real There's just too much that time cannot erase.

Thrice - Black Honey: I keep swingin' my hand through a swarm of bees. I can't understand why they're stingin' me, But I'll do what I want, I'll do what I please. I'll do it again 'til I've got what I need.

Nine Inch Nails - My Violent Heart: Into fire you can send us from the fire we return. You can label us a consequence of how much you have to learn.

Marco Tica - This is the End: (instrumental) 

Hanzo Hasashi Playlist; Seeking Reconciliation with His Own Humanity

Leader - Warrior Inside: I'm alive, a revolution, lies inside. I'm alive, no longer, will this hate, divide and I'll stand. I will fight, just to survive, I won't be denied, I'm a warrior, inside.

Lamb of God - Embers: Only embers remain, refusing to fade. There's still light to find our way. Only embers remain, black turning to gray. There's still light to find our way. Only embers remain. 

The Wreckage - Breaking Through: Don't tell me everything is all right (I know you know). Don't tell me how to live my life. I'm breaking through tonight. 

Godsmack - Under Your Scars: wish you were here right beside me. So i could watch you sleep, hold you body closer, breathe you deep and everything feels broken when you’re not next to me

Linkin Park - Iridescent: Do you feel cold and lost in desperation. You build up hope but failure's all you've known. Remember all the sadness and frustration and let it go, let it go.

Falling in Reverse - It’s Over When It’s Over: I've got my life laid out in front of me like roads drawn on a map. I've had so many times where I slipped off the beaten path. I took the time to see the picture and for what it's worth. I'd walk a thousand miles without my shoes to make it work.

Spoken - Through It All: Through it all, we've been thrown in the fire. We've been lost in the flame - But we will rise from the ashes again. All our hearts have been broken, we´ve been burned by the flame. But we will rise from the ashes again.

Nine Nich Nails - Mr. Self-Destruct: I take you where you want to go. I give you all you need to know. I drag you down, I use you up. Mr. Self Destruct. 

Nine Inch Nails - The Hand that Feeds: Just how deep do you believe? Will you bite the hand that feeds? Will you chew until it bleeds? Can you get up off your knees? Are you brave enough to see? Do you wanna change it?

My Darkest Days - Save Yourself: Save yourself, from a life, full of lies and a heart full of pain and sorrow! Save yourself, from the choices, I make, 'cause nothing but failure follows me. Save yourself, save yourself!

Cam - Burning House: I had a dream about a burning house. You were stuck inside I couldn't get you out. I lay beside you and pulled you close and the two of us went up in smoke.

Cult To Follow - Leave It All Behind: Suffocate everything. They complicate everything. They steal your fate everyday but you can't believe it. Take yourself far away from nothingness. A million miles from emptiness.

Hollywood Undead - Lion: I am a lion and I want to be free. Do you see the lion when you look inside of me?

Ashes Remain - Without You: Even if you take it all away, I'll wait, for you. Even when the light begins to fade, I'll wait, for you. I'm so desperate calling out your name. Meet me in this broken place.

Fable - Killing Our Memories: The sky is breaking me tonight. I wish that you were by my side. The world keeps falling under me. I wish that you could see.

Skillet - Rise: All I see is, shattered pieces. I can't keep it, hidden like a secret. I can't look away from all this pain, in the world we've made.

The Veer Union - Bitter End: I won't ever surrender like that. I know better, to ever fall back. The enemy was living in my head, I ripped it out and left it there for dead.

Starset - Carnivore: All my life they let me know. How far I would not go. But inside the beast still grows. Chewing through the ropes.

Pelican - Strung up from the Sky: (instrumental)

[neuxue]

Wheel of Time liveblogging: The Gathering Storm ch 48

It’s like reading a reaction-gif summary of the previous chapter except every gif is just pain and also made of words instead. With bonus prophecy.

Chapter 48: Reading the Commentary

Min sat in Cadsuane’s small room, waiting—with the others—to hear the result of Rand’s meeting with his father.

Yeah about that.

A low fire burned in the fireplace

And a much less low (bale)fire burned in Rand’s hands…

Mix that with Min’s discomfort around Rand lately

The fact that even Min feels ‘discomfort’ around Rand is uh. Telling.

Though perhaps, just maybe, he turned a corner of sorts in that last chapter. Via attempted patricide, but whatever works.

Then again, maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part and he’s gone off to incinerate someone else instead.

But the pattern of the narrative points more towards the former, I think.

Min’s uncomfortable about Rand, and a very different sort of uncomfortable about Cadsuane—or perhaps ‘ambivalent’ is a better word. Cadsuane does not make for an easy ally, but she does have her talents, and their aims do align even if just about everything else about them differs.

So Cadsuane’s planning and Min’s reading commentaries on the Prophecies of the Dragon. This ought to be interesting.

One line in [the Commentary] teased at her, a sentence mostly ignored by those who had written commentary. He shall hold a blade of light in his hands, and the three shall be one.

OH OKAY PROPHECY INTERPRETATION TIME. HERE WE GO.

The blade of light seems like it has to be Callandor, especially given Rand’s own musings about it last chapter.

And the three shall be one…the first thing that comes to mind is the fact that Callandor can only safely be used in a circle of three. Which Rand currently sees as a box, as strings tied to him, as a trap…but flip that around and it’s an image of balance and unity and trust. So that’s definitely an option.

Or maybe it’s something else entirely; maybe the ‘blade of light’ is another reference to ‘he shall slay his people with the sword of peace’ and the three that shall be one are…maybe the three major groups of people? The Aiel, the Seanchan, and the ‘wetlands’? That feels like a bit of a reach; the three people in a circle to use Callandor safely seems more likely.

Though apparently various scholars fall more on the nations side of things and tend to think it’s about three major cities or kingdoms. In that case I’d side with my own choice of three rather than just three wetland nations, but either way if that’s given as the default opinion in the text it’s almost certainly wrong, so I guess we can throw that one out.

Min, no, you’re not useless.

And what of Min’s own relationship with Rand? She was still welcome in his presence; that hadn’t changed. But there was something wrong, something off. He put up walls when she was near—not to keep her out, but to keep the real him in. As if he was afraid of what the real him would do, or could do, to those he loved…

Rand, fix this. Min Farshaw deserves better.

But now he has been brought directly to that point of crisis, to looking down at his own father and weaving the balefire that would erase him from existence, and thinking, truthfully, that it is no more than I’ve done before. His own fear of that exact fate brought him to that point—so was he right to be afraid? Or is it the fear that made it into a near-reality, as he fought so hard to deny it or prevent it that he ended up in a war with himself that made it into not just a possibility but a near-inevitability?

It’s perceptive of Min, though, to recognise that he’s not keeping her out but trying to hold himself in. Even Rand can’t quite see it that way, because he is in effect locking himself into a box of his own making and calling it liberation.

And it would be so easy for Min to be hurt by it and think it was directed at her, think that he was indeed trying to wall her out; that’s a pretty common response from anyone who’s being kept at a distance by someone they care about. But Min is Min, by which I mean she’s fucking incredible, and so she sees past that and to the truth: that this isn’t about her; it’s a war of Rand against himself and she is a casualty, not a cause. And not just that, but she sees the reason why, and sees much closer to the truth of what it’s doing to him, and instead of being angry or offended she’s trying to find any way she can to help him.

Again, Rand, Min deserves better and you should thank her profusely when you uh…sort some of your shit out.

He’s in pain again, she thought, feeling him through the bond. Such anger. What was going on?

Do you really want to know?

Still, it’s more than the flat nothingness he’s felt when committing atrocities in the past. Because that’s what that last scene was: a shattering of the ice, and a point of collision of everything Rand’s tried to hold at bay, a collapse of all those walls and barriers and a flood of the feelings he’s tried to suppress. But hopefully it’s an implosion rather than an explosion; Rand’s been externalising his pain without really…acknowledging that he’s doing it for so long, when what he needs to do is actually deal with it and with everything else about himself he’s been trying to ignore or suppress.

She had to trust in Cadsuane’s plan. It was a good one.

The sad thing is that it really is a good plan. By which I mean it has—on paper—a good chance of succeeding at Cadsuane’s goal of getting Rand to re-learn laughter and tears (well, a better chance than just about anything else at this point), but it also is simply good for Rand himself. He needed to see Tam, and Tam is someone who can offer him the kind of help and support and love he so desperately needs but can’t ask for. And Tam, as his father, is going to see him as Rand, the boy he raised, rather than as the Dragon Reborn who owes salvation to the world. It’s a good plan because while there is of course a motive outside of simple concern for Rand’s wellbeing, it’s not a trick or a trap even if Rand sees it as such. It’s just…something good for him. Something he and Tam both want and need and should get to have.

And the fact that it fails precisely because it’s Cadsuane’s plan is sort of a cruel twist and yet at the same time a fitting case of catastrophic consequences.

Cadsuane and Rand get along like oil and water. Or perhaps like flint and steel, striking sparks when they interact simply because of who they are.

Cadsuane’s intentions are good—she wants to save the world and she has, at a few points, actually said out loud (and she cannot lie) that she is trying to do what is good for Rand, not for her or for the White Tower or anyone else. She’s trying, in the best way she knows how. And she’s right about so many things: that he needs to relearn laughter and tears, that he cannot face the Last Battle as he is now, that in many ways he still is just a boy and he’s lost and without direction or guidance, that like it or not he carries the task of saving the world, that he’s becoming too cold, that balefire is dangerous, that he needs to see his father.

Her aims are good, and even some of her reasoning for how to accomplish them is fairly solid. She tries putting Rand off-balance and making it clear that she is not going to be cowed by the simple fact of who he is…which again comes very close to being exactly what he needs. If she fears him he will not respect her, and if she doesn’t push him he will never listen to her.

But it falls apart when it comes to her specific methods. She means well, and her follow-through is almost what he needs…and then veers off in the opposite direction. It’s part of why I appreciate her so much as a character, I think, because that’s such a fascinating dynamic to watch. And it’s a fascinating way to show absolute failure: by anchoring it in very good reasoning and insight and perception and logic, and letting it come very close to something that will work, and then just…swerving away at the last second. It’s frustrating and agonising at times and yet feels so much more real than if she were just hopelessly misguided from the start.

Instead, it comes down to personality and communication and trust, as so many parts of this series do. It’s a conflict of personality and a misunderstanding of motive and a lack of communication; two strong personalities shouting at each other across a room and refusing to budge, rather than taking a step towards where the other stands and meeting somewhere in the middle.

So when she fails it doesn’t feel like the cheap failure of a plan that was stupid and doomed from the start, the way you often see in fiction. Instead, it feels like the frustrating failure of an intelligent, capable woman who tried her best and executed a plan that could have worked but that fell apart because of a chance word and a clash of personalities and a problem of methods.

Though I wonder.

Did she fail? I’m framing it as if she had, but in a way…she was right that Tam was, probably, exactly the person Rand needed most to see. The one person who might be able to get through to him, and force him out of the mindset he’s in one way or another. And…well, he sort of did, I think. Could anything else have brought Rand to that point? Would anyone else have survived that moment where he came closer to that last line, to repeating Lews Therin’s last deed? Would anyone else, watching Rand weave balefire in terror, have caused him to question, and at the last moment make a different choice?

It’s certainly not the precise outcome Cadsuane might have intended or expected or hoped for, but…was it really a failure?

And the other side of the question is: if this does work, and if the result of all of this is somehow Rand coming back to himself (or some version thereof), does it really matter who gets the credit? Would it be Cadsuane, for orchestrating this, or Tam, for being exactly who Rand needed and also just an all-around excellent father, or Rand himself, for holding back, or anyone else all the way along the chain of causality?

In the end, can any one person take credit for what ultimately has to be one man’s choice?

I guess we’ll just need to see what the actual aftermath of that last chapter looks like. After all, Rand made…I think…the right choice in that moment but what comes next? Does the collapse continue, and can he pull some of himself out of it intact? Or will he turn away again and drag those walls up again and set another city on fire? Personally I lean towards the former but we’ll see.

What were Rand and Tam discussing? Would Rand’s father be able to turn him?

That’s…still an open question at this point, I think. But it looks like maybe yes. Kind of. Perhaps. Just about. Indirectly. By way of balefire and internal crisis and memory of the worst moment of his last life. You know, as you do.

“Cadsuane,” Min said, holding up the book. “I think the interpretation of this phrase is wrong.”

Round of applause for Min! Imposter syndrome who?

Seriously, stating outright disagreement with the opinions of a well-respected scholar when you’re the equivalent of an undergrad is hard. Especially when your audience is Cadsuane.

Beldeine seems to take the standard view that Min is an undergrad and therefore has no idea what she’s talking about. Well, Beldeine, unfortunately for you Min is on the protagonist side of the narrative so she’s probably right.

Nobody could humiliate one more soundly than an Aes Sedai, for they did it without malice. Moiraine had explained it to Min once in simple terms.

That alone is astonishing: an Aes Sedai explaining anything in simple terms is practically unheard-of.

Aes Sedai would be very good at the icily professional business email of shame.

“And why,” Cadsuane said, “is it that you think you know more than a respected scholar of the prophecies?”

“Because,” Min said, bristling, “the theory doesn’t make sense. Rand only really holds one crown. There might have been a good argument here if he hadn’t given away Tear to Darlin. But the theory doesn’t hold any longer. I think the passage refers to some way he has to use Callandor.”

“I see,” Cadsuane said, turning yet another page in her own book. “That is a very unconventional interpretation.” Beldeine smiled thinly, turning back to her embroidery. “Of course,” Cadsuane added, “you are quite right.”

So while we’re on the topic of Cadsuane’s methods…

It’s a harsh challenge to Min, especially as it plays directly into what she must know are Min’s insecurities about her position as a young self-taught scholar. At the same time…actually, I think the main reason I don’t have any problem at all with this is because I’ve had professors like this. The ones who push you in precisely the places where you’re most uncertain because they want to see if you can create a strong argument against the exact challenges you’d get from the field as a whole. It’s a case of ‘this is what you’re going to face if you publish this, so you’d better be prepared for it and have a sound argument’.

Does Cadsuane have to say it the way she does? No. But in a way, this is her giving Min a fighting chance to prove herself. Cadsuane is old and competent and walks a line between highly confident and arrogant, but she does listen to young people and unconventional ideas when she genuinely thinks they have merit. It isn’t always easy, and she absolutely has her biases that prevent her from being fully open-minded, but she is capable of changing her mind. So she’s giving Min a chance here, because she believes in giving people what they deserve. She’s not going to dismiss Min on the same basis Beldeine did; she’s going to credit or dismiss Min based on how sound her ideas are.

Cadsuane’s methods often centre on challenging people, and pushing them in directions that make them uncomfortable, and yeah there are all kinds of problems with that and she sometimes comes down on the wrong side of it. But at other times there’s value in the way she does it. It’s just that, like anything else, taken to extreme or excess it’s a problem, and it’s not a one-size-fits-all solution, and she’s a flawed person like most people so sometimes she fucks up by letting her own confidence/arrogance carry her across the line from challenging and somewhat abrasive into unnecessarily harsh and somewhat abusive.

Anyway, Min seems to have acquitted herself well in this mini thesis defence here, but…it makes me wonder if it’s too simple a win to actually be correct.

“Through a great deal of searching I discovered that the sword could only be used properly in a circle of three. That is likely the ultimate meaning of the passage.”

As soon as a character says ‘that’s probably what it really means’, I begin to doubt. Especially because there’s sort of a rule of threes, here. We get the first explanation from the scholars’ interpretation, which is there to be proven wrong. Then you get the protagonists’ first interpretation, which is usually closer but ultimately also either wrong or incomplete. And then at some stage you get the third and ‘true’ explanation, in which everything comes together.

Sanderson holds to this particular rule of threes in his other work, so the pattern seems especially…likely, here.

So what else do we have three of? Past, present, future would be an interesting one. There’s the trio of Elayne, Min, and Aviendha but that doesn’t seem to fit here. There are far more than three people in Rand’s head at this point or else I’d have posited an outside guess at Rand, Lews Therin, and Moridin.

There are a lot of dualities in this series, but fewer trios than one might expect from epic fantasy. I blame the gender binary.

But seriously, there are so many opposing or balanced pairs—Light and Shadow, Creator and Dark One, saidin and saidar, salvation and destruction, White Tower and Black Tower, men and women, what hand shelters, what hand slays?, chaos and order, Rand and Lews Therin…it’s a series that deals with this idea of balance, and of what happens when one side of a balanced system is thrown off, and of how to find that balance between opposing or antagonistic forces without erasing one or the other. Which is fascinating and all, but right now I need sets of three.

I guess there’s technically the True Power along with saidin and saidar.

Okay actually that’s interesting. Rand has channelled the True Power, after all. And according to Lews Therin, his attempt last Age failed because ‘we used saidin, but we touched it to the Dark One. It was the only way! Something has to touch him, something to close the gap, but he was able to taint it.’

And Rand touching the True Power, while it certainly served to turn that scene into…*waves hands wildly in the direction of everything That Scene is*…that, seems like yet another of those things, like Callandor, that should have some further purpose. What good does dragging your character to that point of absolute horror do, if it can’t then be flipped around later into some kind of key?

Well, I mean, it causes great pain and suffering for the character and thus for the readers, which really is plenty of purpose in and of itself and I’m sure as hell not complaining, but. My point is. That right there is a loose end that, used correctly, could be part of a really satisfying twist or tying-off.

But then how does that relate to Callandor? Unless it’s just that he needs to be in a circle of three, and thus allowing flows of saidin and saidar to be controlled, and then he separately but alongside that channels the True Power as well? Hmm. When I try to put it all together it doesn’t fit as well as I thought it would. So either I’m wrong or I’m still missing something.

But it would fit with the rule of threes I was playing with earlier (first answer characters come to is wrong, second is closer but incomplete or slightly incorrect, third is a late realisation that brings it all together) in that it would allow Min and Casuane to be partially but not completely right: Rand needs to be in a circle but there’s more to it somehow.

Maybe.

Nynaeve is in the room as well, being Nynaeve. In case anyone was wondering.

And…what was that vision that was suddenly hovering above Nynaeve’s head? She was kneeling over someone’s corpse in a posture of grief.

Min was just thinking about Lan so that seems like the connection we’re supposed to make here, which of course makes me doubt it. I also am still holding on to my certainty that Lan is going to live (denial? What are you talking about?). And the fact that this is appearing suddenly, given that we know exactly what’s happening in another part of the palace, suggests that it’s related to something Rand has just done or decided, something that has tipped the future towards this outcome.

And that makes me think of Egwene’s own dreams, and Min’s other viewings, of Rand and corpses and funeral biers or pyres, and mourners. Which of course brings us back to that whole question of what happens to Rand? Thanks, Aelfinn, for your clear-as-mud answer on that topic.

At one point, when all the Forsaken were coming back in different bodies, I thought maybe Rand had a chance of something similar, especially as there are definitely some lines that seem to point in that direction…but so far that seems like the Dark One’s domain, so now I’m not so sure. Maybe to live, you must die really does just mean he has to die in order to be part of the cycle of rebirth again. Or maybe he could be reborn immediately, and given a chance to live in peace in the world he has bought with his sacrifice? Or, with Egwene’s dream of a funeral pyre, some sort of phoenix-like death-and-rebirth healing or renewal of body and soul? It would fit the Fisher King theme we’re working with: the land renewed and changed and maybe healed, and so the Dragon getting the same, through some kind of cleansing fire type thing. Rising from his own death, finally healed of the wounds he has carried and thus taking part in the renewal, but no longer recognisable as who he once was, because this will be a different Age and the man who had to play that role is effectively dead (at peace), allowing Rand al’Thor to have a life?

I don’t know. I predict metaphysical fuckery, and beyond that I give up.

“Cadsuane,” she said. “This is still wrong. There’s more here. Something we haven’t discovered.”

“About Callandor?” the woman asked.

Min nodded.

“I suspect so as well,” Cadsuane replied.

Well at least they agree with my little rule of threes.

Oh hi Tam.

“What have you done to him?” he demanded.

Cadsuane lowered her book. “I have done nothing to the boy, other than to encourage him toward civility. Something, it seems, other members of the family could learn as well.”

“Watch your tongue, Aes Sedai,” Tam snarled. “Have you seen him? The enitre room seemed to grow darker when he entered. And that face—I’ve seen more emotion in the eyes of a corpse! What has happened to my son?”

Oh, Tam.

He’s furious here, and it’s directed at Cadsuane, and perhaps rightly so…but I think there’s another layer to this, which is that he has just seen his son, who seems barely alive and is surrounded by darkness and Tam had to stand there and talk to him and still feel powerless to help. He’s grieving.

And it’s an excellent counterpoint to the Tam we saw last chapter, because it’s a way to almost watch the scene again through his eyes. We saw him filtered through Rand’s, and we saw him careful and gentle and offering anything he thought Rand might take. He pushed Rand a bit, towards the end, but even then he was absolutely the father trying to help his wounded child.

Here, though, we see Tam’s side of it. We get his impression of Rand, we get his shock at the darkness that surrounds him—a shock he absolutely could not let Rand see.

We see his pain now, when he tried so hard to hide it in that last scene for Rand’s sake.

Tam al’Thor is a good parent and this hurts.

And I also really like how the love that pushes Rand to this breaking point, to the point of repeating but then rejecting Lews Therin’s past, is the love between parent and child rather than, say, the love he feels for Min or Elayne or Aviendha. And it’s not even the second cliché of a mother’s love; it’s the bond between an adoptive father and his son. I mean sure, that comes  up plenty in the genre as well, but it’s just nice that that’s the tipping point. It’s something a little different and it’s lovely.

Tam took a deep breath, and the anger seemed to suddenly flow out of him. He was still firm, his eyes displeased, but the rage was gone.

Tam was the one who taught Rand the trick of the flame and the void, after all. And he’s using it here because now he’s feeling more than he can deal with; it’s all too much all at once. But he knows, too, how to steady himself.

“He tried to kill me,” Tam said in a level voice. “My own son. Once he was as gentle and faithful a lad as a father could hope for. Tonight, he channelled the One Power and turned it against me.”

I am emotionally compromised.

And he’s not even angry at Rand for that, because it’s all so wrong, and so instead it’s just pain. Pain for Rand’s own pain, shock at what Rand has become, grief for the boy he was who—by his own words and Tam’s acceptance—may as well be dead now, and something almost like disbelief that they could have come to this. I think he even knows that it’s not really personal, but that doesn’t make it better. This is his son except he’s so lost and broken that Tam doesn’t know how to bring him back.

Because at this point Rand is the only one who can do that. If he chooses to.

The words brought back memories of Rand looming over her, trying to kill her.

But that hadn’t been him! It had been Semirhage. Hadn’t it? Oh, Rand, she thought, understanding the pain she’d felt through the bond. What have you done?

This is precisely the distinction I tried to make last chapter, but it gets harder and harder to hold those things separate, and now Min has to wrestle with that and face what Rand has just done of his own volition, and that’s twice now that he’s almost killed those he loves most, and the first time he was controlled by Semirhage, but what does it mean that he almost did the same now?

Does it help, Min, that he’s asking himself that exact same question? What am I DOING?

There’s so much pain in these chapters it’s overflowing the book and I’m FINE.

Of course Tam went immediately off-script. That feels like a genuine flaw in Cadsuane’s plan; she shouldn’t have given him a script at all. She should have known that wouldn’t help, that Tam and Rand needed to be able to just…talk.

“I don’t know what you did to him, woman, but I recognise hatred when I see it. You have a lot to explain to—”

On the one hand, Tam does certainly have cause to be angry with Cadsuane. On the other hand, Rand’s state of mind is not Cadsuane’s doing, any more than it’s any single person’s doing. It’s the result of two years of torment and responsibility and trying to endure the unendurable.

But then, can you fault Tam for being angry, and looking to any target he can find? This is his son, and what he’s just seen is horrific, and he has to do something.

In short, we’re all emotionally compromised.

Except Rand, who has simply compromised his emotions.

Cadsuane calling Tam ‘boy’ is…grating. Though she does have several centuries on him. Still.

“Cadsuane!” Nynaeve said. “You don’t need to—”

“It’s all right, Wisdom,” Tam said.

HE CALLS HER ‘WISDOM’. I mean, with a second or so to think about it, of course he does. But given all she’s struggled with, and her entire character arc of growing beyond Wisdom of Emond’s Field and finding her strength and authority in a world so much larger than her village, and learning to make her place and claim respect in her own right…it’s just really lovely for her to get this nod from Tam. To him, she is still Wisdom, and he accords her that respect without even a moment’s hesitation.

It’s like Rand said: Tam is one person who hasn’t changed. He’s a fixed point in a world where so much is uncertain and so much is shifting.

Tam stared [Cadsuane] in the eyes. “I’ve known men who, when challenged, always turn to their fists for answers. I’ve never liked Aes Sedai; I was happy to be rid of them when I returned to my farm. A bully is a bully, whether she uses the strength of her arm or other means.”

…fair enough.

And it’s good to see someone challenging Cadsuane on that point, especially someone like Tam who can sustain that challenge. He’s like Gareth Bryne that way: he’s damn near unflappable, and she can’t get a reaction out of him through her usual tactics. It’s the sort of thing a character like her needs to run into sometimes, because the thing with Cadsuane is that she’s been on top for so long, and in the Aes Sedai power structure that means no one challenges her. And so there’s no check on arrogance that can so easily creep in to what once was simply confidence, no pushback when she takes something too far. That’s not good for anyone.

“Didn’t we warn you that Rand had grown unstable?”

“Unstable?” Tam asked. “Nynaeve, that boy is right near insane. What has happened to him? I understand what battle can do to a man, but…”

Ow ow ow this hurts.

(I feel like the whole second half of this book, and especially the last several chapters, have been basically just…[not pictured: me, trying to walk quickly across hot sand sprinkled liberally with broken glass and burning coals, mostly failing and going ‘ow’ a lot]).

One thing that stands out here is how differently Tam responds to Rand’s…‘instability’…than so many other characters do, or would. Because once again, he responds entirely as a parent, above all else. He doesn’t shiver in fear of what this might mean for the world, or simply stop at stating that Rand hardly seems sane as if that’s all that needs to be said, or suggest a course of action. No, he just asks, calmly but with this undercurrent still of loss and something like desperation, what has happened. He hasn’t seen Rand in years and now he sees this, and he wants to know what has hurt his child.

It stands out especially given that Cadsuane’s next statement is to tell him that’s irrelevant. Because she is one who looks to the world first, and the person second. (And I’ve said this before, but her viewpoint absolutely has its place as well, but it’s that as well that’s important. You also need people like Tam or Nynaeve who look to the person first).

Tam knows what PTSD looks like and this is something else, and he’s angry, yes, but mostly I think everything about his response in this whole scene is just a manifestation of…shock and grief and confusion and pain at seeing his son hurt in a way that he doesn’t even know how to identify, much less help.

I am not a parent, so I could be completely off-base about all of this, but this seems like it has to be right up there with a parent’s worst nightmare: to see their child so hurt and so far gone and to be helpless to do anything at all to save them. I mean, Rand outright said that the Rand Tam knew, the Rand Tam raised, was dead. And Tam just had to stand there and take that, and again I’m not a parent but even I know that no parent should have to bury their child, much less stand there and watch him bury himself.

And that feels like the root of Tam’s responses here: his gentleness with Rand; his pushback when he thought he had just enough of Rand’s attention that maybe, maybe Rand would listen; his horror at watching Rand weave balefire because I think he was just as afraid for Rand as of him in that moment; his uncontrolled anger at Cadsuane when there’s no other way to release what he’s feeling; his shock and confusion now as he tries to figure out what has happened to his son.

This is not Tam al’Thor’s best day, is what I’m getting at here. He rescued an infant from the slopes of Dragonmount, only to find that some part of that child never truly left that mountain and everythign hurts and nothing is okay and I would like ten million more chapters of this please.

“If you’d explained to me how he regarded you,” Tam said, “it might have gone differently.”

He’s probably right, there. That’s one she really should have been more open about.

But she has a point, too: there’s no use going over the woulds and shoulds and maybes. And…I have to wonder if there was really any way for that conversation to end other than it did. If it hadn’t been the mention of Cadsuane, it could just as easily have been something else that set Rand off. A rage in him fit to burn the world, and he holds it by a hair. That’s more true now than it was even when Cadsuane first said it; he is unstable for all that he thinks he is cold and controlled, and he has almost no limits on what he is willing to do (except perhaps one), and that whole conversation was, in retrospect, a time bomb.

Because at this point, given how far he has gone, I don’t think anyone could truly just…call Rand back in a single conversation. I think it has to come from him; and I think with all the walls he’s built and all the damage he’s done to himself, with this war he’s been fighting against himself as much as on the field, a violent moment of crisis might really have been inevitable, and possibly the only way to force him to face that.

So passing blame around like a hot-potato is…an understandable part of the process, because they’re human (silly mortals), but ultimately probably not going to accomplish anything.

“This is what we all get,” Min said, “for assuming we can make him do what we want.”

The room fell still.

Okay so.

On the one hand, this is a great line, and to a certain extent I agree…

But. On the other hand, it feels a bit…I don’t know. Cheap? Simplistic? Not quite true? Because at least three of the people in this room are among those very very few who do actually look at Rand as a person, as the person he was, rather than as the Dragon Reborn, saviour and destroyer of the world. Nynaeve followed him out of Emond’s Field, with the others, and followed him into a dream battle and said ‘at least let me heal you’ because there was nothing else she could do. Min has stood by Rand through most of the series purely because she loves him, and when so many other people’s perceptions of him were changing, she told him ‘I see you, Rand. I see you.’ Tam al’Thor is Rand’s father, and hasn’t had a chance to do much for him directly, but he hiked to Tar Valon to try to find him, and then specifically stayed out of his way because he thought that was the best thing he could do for him.

These are not people who have been trying all along to manipulate Rand into doing what they wanted.

And even this…this is an intervention, more than anything else. When your friend, lover, son, former babysittee, whatever is willing to annihilate cities, I think it’s fair to step in.

What help would they be to him if they just stood by and watched his descent this entire time? What good would it do anyone—Rand included—for them to never push back when they thought he was going too far, to never question his decisions? It’s like I was just saying above regarding Cadsuane: it’s not good for anyone to live unquestioned and unchallenged, especially if they hold that kind of power, authority, or influence.

And when talking to someone stops working, when reasoning with them stops working, when begging them stops working, and when, again, they’re ready to annihilate entire cities…yeah, you’re going to have to look at other options.

But none of them started at that point, and they’re some of the few who really haven’t been manipulating him to their own ends in general, and so this feels a bit…unfair, I guess.

I love Min, but I’m not sure I completely agree with her here. It would be a very true and very fair statement if made in just about any other company, but to Nynaeve and Tam? Not sure I buy it.

That said, in light of everything happening, I think everyone’s entitled to a bit of unfairness and anger and shock and all the other emotions flying around because hell, I’m emotionally compromised and I’m just the reader.

“He opened one of those gateways right on the balcony. Left me alive, though I could have sworn—looking in his eyes—that he meant to kill me.”

It has to mean something that he stopped himself. That has to be the turning point we’ve been waiting for. It’s too perfect a mirror/inversion of The Last That Could Be Done for it not to be…right?

Also someone please just sit Tam down with a giant mug of hot chocolate. This genre is not easy on parents even when they survive the first chapter, as it turns out.

“I’ve seen that look in the eyes of men before, and one of the two of us always ended up bleeding on the floor.”

Wow, okay, uh, sure, that’s…a line. Damn. There’s a whole conversation to be had here about swords and ploughshares and men who have seen too much and yet find a peaceful life for themselves in the aftermath but I don’t have much more than an ‘in this essay I will…’ for that so I’ll leave it for now.

But I think, in that exchange, it’s Rand who is left bleeding.

That moment tore open the wound he’s been trying to stifle and ignore, the gaping wound in his past life that led him to his own suicide once and that he is now forced to remember but has never been able to process. How the hell do you even begin to process something you never did, except a past you did do it, and suddenly you get that just…dropped into your brain and it’s yours but not yours and is it any surprise Rand has ended up where he is?

It tore that wide open by forcing Rand to face it head-on (no more than I’ve done before) and face it as himself rather than as a memory of a past existence that he can try to shove away. And it tore down his walls and threw emotions like knives at the shields he’s been trying to hold up and even if he’s not bleeding physically, he is absolutely bleeding.

And so is Tam, if we’re talking metaphorically here. That conversation was not without casualties.

“Ebou Dar,” Min said, surprising them all. “He’s gone to destroy the Seanchan. Just as he told the Maidens he would.”

But that would mean closing down anything that might have come of that conversation and realisation, shoving it all away back behind those walls of ice, and I’m no more a therapist than I am a parent but I’m pretty sure genocide is not a recommended coping mechanism for…uh…anything.

“Light preserve us,” Corele whispered.

Rand’s been evoking that reaction a lot, lately. It’s become something of a repeated chapter ending the way ‘Tarmon Gai’don’ echoed throughout Knife of Dreams.

Next (TGS ch 49) Previous (TGS ch 47)

[lokisgame]

Enchanted Forest [3]

[part 1] [part 2]

A/N this part was hard to get right, and you can thank my beta for patiently listening to me ramble about a story she doesn’t even like. Sorry this took so long, life happened, you know. 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Mulder pulled on a t-shirt with a pair of sweats and fell into bed, face first, between cold sheets and pillows. Who could have thought that, what felt like winning the lottery a few hours ago, turned into probably the most monumental clusterfuck of his adult life.

As he tied his signature tie, trying to control the giddy grin, he was convinced, that his luck was finally turning around. By some stroke of luck, Scully’s call for affection fell right into his lap, if you pardon the expression. It was karma, divine justice, destiny written in the stars. He practically grew wings on his way to Georgetown, imagining himself fulfilling her every desire, voiced or intuited, saw her naked and satiated, looking at him as if he was the best lover she ever had, the last lover she’d ever want.

Now alarm clock on his nightstand showed 1 am and he was too wired to sleep, too weird out to jerk off, and too sick to eat. Whirling thoughts searched for an outlet, and the best way he knew to direct them, was to go for a run, even if at the moment it seemed like running away from his problems.

Wearing a hoodie over a sweatshirt against the cold, he locked the place and took the stairs down, heading for the park a few blocks south.

The night was cold and humid, wind carrying new weather to D.C.

"Wind of change," he thought morosely.

He could handle misunderstandings, arguments, even awkward silence, but what if this night went beyond anything they went through so far. Thinking what it could mean, what changes he might be facing, almost made him sick with worry.  

It was Scully, he knew perfectly well that she didn't pour milk into her coffee, without thinking about consequences. Of course she would be stunned, once he dropped a bomb on her like that. As revelations go, this was probably the last thing she'd expect, convinced he was a porn-obsessed loner, which wasn't untrue. To be honest, they rarely talked about their love-lives, with his being what it was and hers too scary for him to even contemplate. He had nightmares about calling her place, only to hear a guy pick up the phone, and sometimes, after he woke up from one of those, he'd call her for real, just to make sure she'd pick up, as childish as it might seem.

The escort job gave him release, escape, even some measure of affection, but not connection. To women he met, he was a fantasy, while to him, Scully was a fantasy and reality. He saw her fierce, strong and proud, but also playful, caring and vulnerable, he knew her, he wanted her, with everything that she was.

Now he found himself wanting to move past this night, hoping, she'll forgive him this false start and let things between them stay, as they were.

He circled the park and picked the long way back, breath turning into puffs of vapor in the yellow glow of the streetlights. A block from his place, a cab stopped by the curb and two young women stumble out of it, giggling and more than a little drunk. Mulder veered around them, without breaking the pace, ignoring whistles and laugh echoing after him. He didn't look back, or care for that matter.

He ignored the elevator on his way up to the apartment and leaving the running shoes by the door, he went straight for the bedroom and fell back into bed, where sleep finally took him in.

________________________

Startled out of sleep, gasping, Scully realized, that the wet and warm pressure against her mouth was just a dream. Sensation of tender flesh molding itself to her lips faded quickly, leaving her body deliciously limp. She felt herself wet and without thinking, reached down finished, what the dream only promised, a shudder of pleasure and sweet release, then fell back asleep. It wasn't the first time, it sure wouldn't be the last. That night his eyes were deep green with a hint of gold woven through the iris.

Night brings counsel, as her grandmother used to say.

When Scully woke up the next morning, her rebel streak won and she no longer felt mortified, but grinned, pulling the sheet over her head, laughing at the odds.

Of all the crazy gifts Missy could come up with, and all the men she could choose from that list, she chose the one, she knew for years. The one night she tried to be adventurous, life threw her a curve ball, in form of Mulder, the escort.

It couldn't be about money, if she could afford a reasonably comfortable living. Neither did she ever get the impression, that there was anything in Mulder's life, other than the X-files. Granted, they spent so much time working together, that they rarely felt the need to hang out after hours, but when she visited or called, he usually was home to let her in or pick up the phone. How did he manage to reconcile the unpredictable schedule and the amount of travel with his other... How should she call them, engagements? His other employer had to be very flexible.  

"Oh my God, what am I doing," she said to herself, "picking apart Mulder's erotic schedule."

That train of thought felt a little too personal, no mater how close they were, so she pushed it away and got up, starting on coffee before heading into shower. Checking the answering machine on her way, she found no messages.

Sunday ritual usually filled her with energy, fueled by prospect of a day to herself, doing whatever she wanted, but today her mind kept wandering and wondering.

The man at the agency said, that Mr. Fox came highly recommended, so he had to be working for them long enough to build a reputation, still she never noticed anything suspicious. There were perhaps days when he seemed more relaxed than his usual self; were those the days after? Was that what he got from it, instead of money? And more importantly, why didn't he go about it the way most single men did?

Mulder was quite attractive, even she wasn't blind to it. He would have little to no trouble finding a date if he wanted one, but on the other hand, she knew him well enough to know, that superficial relationships weren't his thing. That's probably what puzzled her most. Why a man who trusted no one chose to offer himself to strangers in such an intimate way.

The water began to grow cold, so throwing her head back, she made quick work of lathering her hair, rinsing it and stepping out of the shower, wrapped up in a towel.

Steam covered the mirror and wiping it, she paused for a second to look at the woman on the other side of the glass.

Even if staying in shape was a job requirement, she didn't feel unattractive, she liked herself, within her limits. She wasn't a willowy, runway beauty, but she had good tits, slim waist and a nice ass. Her usual pantsuits for work were a choice, and not designed to hide anything either. She wasn't there to prove herself as a female, but a professional, and if that required of her to follow dress code, she could live with that. She never tried to hide her femininity, wore skirts and indulged in lace lingerie if she felt like it, but she never stopped to think, how Mulder might feel about her, in those terms.

Even if he was hiding his side job, assuming no one was forcing him to keep it a secret, last night he chose to see her and the implications scared her a little.

She might think he was strictly professional about it, if not for that one last look he gave her, before leaving. The hurt she saw was honest and real. She rejected a man who knew and trusted her, and even if she understood that she wasn't obliged to do anything, their history made the hurt echo inside her. She might have said no to an escort, but she hurt a friend, and the thought was like a bucket of ice water.

She dressed quickly, grabbed some toast and a cup of coffee and took out the file folder from her bag. They still had a flight scheduled for tomorrow morning, and the case should be above their private mess. Camping out on the sofa, with a blanket against the cold over her lap, Scully tried to focus on work, and it worked, until her thoughts wandered off again.

She couldn't say yes, just like that. She couldn't just sleep with him, pretend he was a stranger. It was Mulder. What if it was lousy? What if it was good? What if it was fantastic? That made her lips twitch up a little. To be fair, she couldn't rule out any possibility. In any case, things would inevitably and irreversibly change. Heck, even the fact that she knew about the job, changed things. She always thought, Mulder was his work, now, he had a life she knew nothing about, and she had questions. Who was real, Mulder or Fox, for example.

Stirring feelings made her restless, pacing the room from the couch to window, so she made herself stop and peer outside, just to break the cycle. She heard wind howling between bare branches, bending them almost mercilessly, yet unable not break them. The trees yielded, strong in knowledge that once the wind passed, they would most likely still be there.

Guided by instinct, Scully opened the window and took a deep breath, accepting the cold, damp wisdom of nature. This was Mulder and before she decided anything, he deserved at least a chance to explain himself. After all, she wasn't a stranger to him, either.

[qqueenofhades]

the tangled web of fate we weave: iv

part iii/AO3.

The incredibly stupid (and rather terrifying) situation that Master Sergeant Wyatt Logan has presently found himself in goes like this.

Something feels off about the botched operation the instant he gets off the phone with Neville, and since Wyatt is still technically the official personnel assigned to this case, if he doesn’t want to drop it, he doesn’t have to. He stands there in the middle of the pickup curb at LAX, being jostled to every side by passing travelers, until he decides he should, if nothing else, get out of the way. Heads back to his car, stares through the windshield for a long moment, then takes out his phone again. Sorry babe, he texts Jessica. Order some pizza and invite some friends. Don’t think I’m making it home tonight.

With that, he tosses the phone into the passenger seat, trying to ignore the twinge of guilt. Jessica knew when she married a serviceman, especially one in special ops, that it would be a lot of long separations and unexplained absences, and she’s held up admirably thus far, but she has to be wondering when the buck finally stops. So is Wyatt, for that matter. They need this. They love each other a lot, but they’ve become different people during his last three deployments. A relationship can’t survive forever on Skype calls and care packages.

Putting that out of his head for now, Wyatt turns on the engine, pays the exorbitant parking charge, and rolls into downtown L.A. He can’t help wondering if he’s been outsmarted and the mark is going to turn up at the Burberry store now that a potential accomplice has given him the all-clear. But how would a relatively routine drug runner, or even mid-level member of the mob, be privy to the classified details of a Delta Force sting arranged just hours ago? Their counterintelligence is good, but not that good. And while tons of information isn’t exactly par for the course in this job, they usually at least give you a name. Even a fake one.

At that, Wyatt makes a decision. He isn’t hauling all the way back to San Diego tonight, and he’s gonna drop by Bam-Bam’s. Dave Baumgardner, given the nickname for his enthusiasm for certain parts of the job, is on leave, but he lives here. Has a nice bachelor pad in Westwood. His dad is rich, because Bam-Bam definitely does not make enough money to afford it by serving in the army, even in a specialized unit. At least Wyatt can get a second pair of eyes on this, judge if there’s actually a wrench in the spanner, or he’s just being paranoid. Everyone in their line of work knows it happens eventually.

Traffic is a crawl up 405, because aside from all the other reasons for L.A. to have terrible traffic, there’s a Los Angeles Tech Convention and some billionaire bigwig named Connor Mason is the featured attraction. Has all kind of gizmos he’s wheeling out for public display for the first time ever, so this place is Nerd Mecca. In Wyatt’s opinion, it’s bad enough they keep inventing new iPhones every year. Who needs all that?

He sighs, reminds himself not to be quite so curmudgeonly, and makes it to Westwood with only two minor road-rage incidents. Pulls up in front of Bam-Bam’s place, parks, and heads up the walk. Technically the term for what Bam-Bam is on is “paid administrative leave,” because there’s still some question about whether his actions on the Abu Dhabi mission were entirely necessary. This is, also in Wyatt’s opinion, a dog-and-pony show. The U.S. government pays David Baumgardner to kill people, and the legality isn’t something they’re concerned with except when it appears in the press. It does occur to him to wonder if this is a great place to be asking advice, but hell, he’s here now.

A few moments after his knock, Bam-Bam opens the door, holding a sweating Budweiser bottle and looking surprised. “Hey, Logan! What the hell are you doing here?”

“Complicated,” Wyatt says briefly. “You gonna let me into your beer and porn den, or what?”

Bam-Bam smirks, gives him a bro clap on the shoulder, and leads him into the kitchen, where he twists the cap off another cold Bud and hands it over. Wyatt takes a long swig, leaning against the counter, then follows Bam-Bam out to the porch. Here in an airy, comfortable suburban backyard, it feels as if he might definitely be overstating things, but no point chickening out now. As economically as he can, he explains his hunch. The fact that he can’t be sure, but this feels like a setup, and not in the right way. Bam-Bam might be trigger-happy, but he’s a good soldier. Wyatt trusts his instincts.

“Huh,” Baumgardner says, when he finishes. “That is a little weird.”

“Okay, so it isn’t just me?”

“No, that does sound off the ranch. Not even this guy’s name or who he’s supposed to be working for – ‘Ndrangheta, Yakuza, plain old Mafia, Big Pimpin’ dealing weed down in Compton?” Bam-Bam takes another slug of beer. “Who’d you piss off?”

“Nobody,” Wyatt says. “Far as I know. This all came out of nowhere. Yesterday I thought I was finally going to have a real weekend with Jess, today I’m here with… this.”

“Just send her a dick pic.” Bam-Bam finishes off the Budweiser and chucks it expertly across the lawn into the recycling. “Tide her over?”

Wyatt gives him a cold fish stare, as he doesn’t think that any woman, not even his wife, just magically needs his genitals to appear in their life. “Good thing I don’t ask you for romantic advice, you dog.”

“Whatever.” Bam-Bam shrugs. “Anyway, what are you planning to do about this?”

That catches Wyatt short. He doesn’t actually know. Critical thinking is a valued skill for a solo operative, but independent thinking, less so. A soldier follows orders, he doesn’t start yanking at threads and veering off on tangents and trying to rewrite the script, thinks he knows better than the brass and can do whatever he wants. Finally he says, “Should we call someone?” You never know. Pestering the boss could do something.

“Guess you could try? I’d call my dad, actually, but he’s at some retreat up in the Bay Area this weekend.” Bam-Bam’s rich daddy, Rick, is a defense lawyer in Orange County and makes gigabucks shielding even richer assholes from the consequences of their crimes. In other words, if there’s a big bust afoot, he might know something about it, albeit on less official channels. “Leadership development potential, or whatever.”

“Can you call him anyway?”

“Because my Delta Force buddy thinks something smells a little fishy about one of his jobs?” Bam-Bam gives Wyatt a weird look. “This is still classified, remember?”

“You don’t have to tell him it was me. Just put it in general terms.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna work. Anything else?”

Wyatt racks his brains, trying to recall the paperwork he skimmed through quickly to get to the operational summary. This is probably a cautionary tale about why you should actually read it. “I think there were initials? Dunno if it corresponded to the guy at all. G.F.? And something about an unauthorized investigation.”

“Shit.” Baumgardner’s eyes widen. “Garcia Flynn?”

“What?” That catches Wyatt off guard. “Who?”

“He works in the NSA. He’s from somewhere in former shithole-Soviet land, he’s been in Eastern Europe for most of that time. I met him a few times, actually. He’s about the one guy who could take me in a shooting contest.” Bam-Bam sounds proud of this, which Wyatt finds worrying – is this the guy they sent him into LAX to take down, solo op, civilians to every side? “Anyway, though, that’s not why I thought of him. My dad was just talking about him earlier. Apparently Flynn’s lost his marbles, and that worries people.”

“Your dad’s work colleagues? Flynn sounds like the exact kind of client they love.”

“You think anyone from Orange County is gonna defend a possible Russian mole?”

“Yeah. Probably have three on the payroll already. Is that what they think he is? A mole? How the hell is that too controversial to tell me?”

“Look, man, I don’t know. This is probably on shaky confidentiality grounds anyway, but you and I are on the same security clearance, so…” Firearms-related or otherwise, David Baumgardner has never been bound too strictly by an exacting observance of the rules. “You wanna stay and play some Halo, or go and do your fucking job?”

“Probably the latter, huh? Not all of us get to sit on our ass and stuff our face right now like you.” Wyatt slugs down the last of his beer and stands up. “Do you have anything else you can think of? Anything at all?”

Bam-Bam considers, frowning. Then he says, “I think my dad knows that tech guy who’s in town for the convention. Connor Mason. If you wanna pull rank and flash a badge at him, pull him off into some back room and scare him, he could be helpful. Not sure, though.”

“Yeah, I’ll get a last-minute ticket to that and haul the keynote speaker off the stage in front of ten thousand hyped-up nerds?” Wyatt looks at the ceiling, then blows out a breath. “Not like I got anything else to try. Thanks, buddy. Hope they let you out of the doghouse soon.”

With a quick hand-shake and bro-hug, he lets himself out, gets back in the car, and drives to the packed convention center, which involves subjecting himself to I-10 at peak evening hours and thus takes approximately eighty-one eons. It takes him several more after that to find a parking space, which is practically in Chavez Ravine, and he heads to the door and asks to speak to the security staff. It takes (more) time, but he finally gets the head honcho, introduces himself quietly as Delta Force, and says there may be a security threat that he needs to speak to Mr. Mason about. Yes, he knows that Mr. Mason is scheduled to give the kickoff speech at 7:00pm, which is nineteen minutes from now. It’s urgent.

The security guys look at each other, but after Wyatt repeats “credible security threat” a few more times, one of them slopes off to get Mason. He arrives fixing his cufflinks and the microphone pinned to his lapel – twelve minutes to go – and clearly angry at the interruption. “They said there was some bloke who wanted to talk to me? Now?”

“That’s me, Mr. Mason.” Wyatt clears his throat, with a significant look at the others ordering them to scuttle off. “This won’t take long.”

“It better not.” Mason is a bald black British guy in a very expensive suit, who has not gotten to the level of success that he has by tolerating fools. “Well?”

Wyatt checks that they’re alone. “Do you know a Garcia Flynn?”

It’s a good thing Mason wasn’t trying to take a drink, otherwise he definitely would have done a spit-take. He takes half a step backwards, as if Wyatt has turned radioactive. “I’m sorry,” he manages, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. “Who did you say you were with, again?”

“I didn’t.” Wyatt takes a step of his own, in case Mason tries to bolt. “You’re the one in the hurry. Tell me what I want to know, we can make it quick. Well?”

“You’re… not…?” Mason’s eyes search Wyatt’s face, as if trying to uncover a mask, a sudden reveal. “Is this some attempt to punish me for not attending the…? I’ve told them, many times, that the work is on schedule, and…”

“What work?” Wyatt asks. “On schedule for who? Not attending the what?”

Mason’s eyes flick from side to side again. He scrutinizes Wyatt carefully, then asks all of a sudden, “Scientia potential est?”

“Is that Latin?” Wyatt is more baffled than ever. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“So you’re not.” Mason seems to have been checking something. Rather belatedly, he hitches his professional, P.T. Barnum smile back into place. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. …?”

“Smith.” Wyatt is pretty sure Mason is lying out his ass, but he’s not sure how to force him, short of tackling him and dragging him off to a broom closet for the old shock-and-awe routine Bam-Bam recommended – and that is definitely a bad idea. “You really sure you don’t know anything about Garcia Flynn? Really sure?”

“Absolutely.” Mason almost sells it, too. There’s a moment more in which they stare at each other, and then there’s a harried knock on the door.

Mason turns away to open it, and a young African-American man in a MIT sweatshirt sticks his head in, looking frazzled. “Mr. Mason, what the hell? Your cue’s in five minutes!”

“Yes, Rufus, of course. My apologies, I was unavoidably detained by G.I. Joe here.” Mason tweaks his cuffs, stares back at Wyatt, and turns on his heel with a slight, sarcastic flourish, marching out after his – assistant, aide, graduate student, whatever Rufus is. Wyatt has about five seconds to decide if he is in fact going to throw his weight around – he’s not a cop, and if he’s going to hold Mason for questioning, he needs something to, you know, actually question him about. Mason seems like a smarmy dick, but that’s not illegal. But who the crap do he and Rick Baumgardner both know that makes Garcia Flynn a potential problem for them? They’re both rich, successful corporate types. Bam-Bam said that Flynn’s in the NSA. Has he gone black hat, exploiting security loopholes in their servers and threatening to hold their trade secrets for ransom? Sophisticated cybercrime? But then why wouldn’t Mason want him taken down? Or does he, but he doesn’t want to tell Wyatt how he knows him?

Yeah. There’s something really fucking fishy going on here, it’s not just Wyatt’s imagination. As Mason and Rufus vanish down the corridor, he blows out a breath and tries to work out what to do next. He can’t tap Bam-Bam for any actual action, he’s still on leave, and that would land Wyatt’s ass in hot water right next to him. And yet again, the question remains. Action against who? It feels like kickboxing with your own shadow.

Wyatt thanks the security guys, assures them the threat has been dealt with (which is a lie, but he doesn’t know what else to say), then hikes back to his car, pulls out his phone, and scrolls down to the encrypted numbers, the ones you don’t call except on (hopefully) rare occasions. Once it’s been picked up and he’s gone through the various steps of verifying his identity, he is finally transferred to whatever Lovecraftian horror that is the NSA switchboard room, insists he has the proper clearance to three different people (you’d really think the U.S. government would be better at sharing intelligence and coordinating between departments, but nooooope) and finally, finally gets someone to tell him that yes, Garcia Flynn is an agent on active roster. As far as they know, he still is, but he has missed a scheduled check-in and reassignment. That was supposed to take place today. This afternoon, at the Tom Bradley International Terminal in LAX. At the Burberry store. He didn’t show.

At that, Wyatt feels a goose walking over his grave, as the saying goes. What the shit. He was sent to arrest – as far as Flynn’s bosses know – an agent still on his regular assignment, a fellow high-level, elite operative, but why? Someone who has been, apparently, making trouble for Rick Baumgardner and Connor Mason’s chummy corporate buddies? Mason assured Wyatt that the work was on schedule – what work? Did Wyatt just stumble into the middle of an attempt to whistleblow a whistleblower – stop Flynn before he can pull the clothes off whatever emperor he is trying to disrobe? What. The fuck.

It takes Wyatt several more minutes of cajoling, but he finally convinces the NSA lackey that he’ll try to get in contact with Flynn, put him off his guard, and see if there’s anything he can extract about this very, very puzzling situation. The lackey gives him the company phone number that they have on file for Flynn, and Wyatt jots it down on his hand. He thanks the guy, then hangs up.

Wyatt isn’t nearly stupid enough to call a potential hostile on his own government phone, especially since that could lead to him getting tracked. So he starts the car, wearily girds his loins for his – what – fourth go-round with L.A. traffic for the day, and drives off to the kind of totally reputable establishment on Sepulveda Boulevard that sells burner phones that can be bought with cash. By the time he’s done that, it’s getting quite late, and Wyatt is starving, so he makes an In-n-Out run. He scoffs it down, buys a second burger for the road, and sits in the restaurant until he’s pretty sure the traffic will only be mildly exasperating rather than hellmouth terrible. Then he trucks out, gets back in, and drives off to a deserted high school parking lot. According to the dash clock, it is 11:23 pm.

This is probably a horrible idea. The guy could be full-on, off-the-ranch insane. Or – almost more frighteningly – he couldn’t be.

Wyatt checks that the number on his hand hasn’t gotten too smudged, and dials.

Lucy is getting changed into the Walmart pajamas when she hears Flynn having a terse conversation through the door. He’s keeping his voice down, so it’s hard to make it out, but it sounds like it’s important. God, not something else, not now. This has already been the absolute hell of a day, and she just wants it to be over. Please no more.

She combs out her tangled hair and brushes her teeth with the toiletries he also got, which was nice of him. So was the rescue, if that’s what Lucy wants to call it. She had everything under control, or so she would like to think. Told Cahill five minutes, and then… well, then she was somehow changing for an evening party with his serried social set, they were telling her how great she was, and she kept swearing that she was about to make a run for it somehow. And then out of nowhere, dragging her back into the library with its mounted deer head, scaring the life out of her and yet making her never so grateful to see anyone, Flynn. He keeps doing this. Turning up, and saving her. The last several times, from situations he put her in in the first place, but still. And that car with Benjamin Cahill and company, that wasn’t him. That was something else entirely, and Lucy didn’t like it.

She clenches her hands,which briefly seem inclined to tremble, and looks at herself in the mirror. She is a little pale and wan, dark smears of washed-off makeup lingering beneath her eyes, but she still seems like her. She waits until Flynn has finished his conversation, out of her usual polite instinct not to interrupt someone else’s private business, then steps out of the bathroom. “Who was that?”

Flynn jumps, then puts down the phone, which he has been glaring at as if expecting further information, or just because he’s annoyed. “You should probably go to sleep.”

“Maybe.” Lucy folds her arms. “Who was that?”

Flynn considers her, then gets abruptly to his feet, which is a fairly imposing thing for him to do. “You aren’t working for Rittenhouse,” he says, half as a statement and half as a challenge. “Are you? Some play-pretty-and-ignorant act, some very deep cover?”

“I am not working for Rittenhouse!” Lucy bristles. “Didn’t we settle that? Would I have left with you, or just gone to take a shower, instead of – I don’t know, calling someone and tipping them off where we are?”

“I was gone for a good twenty minutes or so,” Flynn points out. “I don’t know that you didn’t call someone.”

“I didn’t. Here, check my phone if you like.” Lucy thrusts it at him. “Besides, if you really thought I might be some kind of deep-cover agent, why did you rescue me?”

Flynn opens his mouth, realizes he doesn’t have an answer, and shakes his head brusquely. He takes her phone and scrolls through it, tosses it down on the bed, and finally says, “That was a Wyatt Logan. Friend of yours?”

“For the last time, no. I have no idea what is going on with any of this!” It’s close to midnight, Lucy’s exhausted, and this day has been, to say the least, a bitch. “Do you have anything else to interrogate me about, or can I go to sleep?”

Flynn briefly looks chastened, mulls another response, and jerks his head at the bed; apparently the Emperor has given permission. Lucy marches over, turns the covers back, and crawls beneath them, determined to put up a brave front but feeling shaky and small. Why, why has her mother kept this from her? Was it for her safety? It must have been for her safety. Realized that Benjamin Cahill was up to his eyeballs in whatever bad news Rittenhouse is, and cut Lucy (and later, Amy) off for their own good. It still hurts, but at least that way, Lucy can make sense of it. When she gets back to Palo Alto, hopefully soon, she’ll call her mom and clear the air, see if there’s anything else Carol needs to tell her. Maybe she can even help Flynn with this hell-bent investigation of his. Must know firsthand how sketchy they are. Maybe put him onto a few leads.

That is Lucy’s rational historian brain at work, the part that wants to cycle the kaleidoscope pieces together and see the big picture, the best outcome. And yet, all she can think of is Henry Wallace, all the times she called him Dad, and he never gave her any reason to think that was anything but the truth. How much did he know? All this time raising another man’s daughter – did he ever resent her? Did he truly just love her that much? Lucy wants beyond anything to see him again, to know. And yet obviously, she can’t. Lucy the historian understands all this, but Lucy the daughter is broken-hearted.

She sniffs, once and then again. Can feel a wetness soaking into the pillow under her cheek, and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. There can’t be many worse places to have this breakdown. Not yet, not yet. But another tear escapes, and a third.

Lucy thinks she hears an uncomfortable cough, and isn’t sure if she wants Flynn to notice this or not. She’s not really sure that he’d have anything particularly comforting to say, since his whole attitude about this seems to be “I told you so.” Why the hell did he come after her, then? Track her all the way out to the literal Rittenhouse in the middle of nowhere, but still won’t entirely relinquish his belief that she might be in with them somehow? Ugh. What the hell. This man is beyond frustrating.

Despite herself, Lucy slips into an uneasy haze, seeing as Flynn has apparently decided that the best strategy to deal with this is to sit very still and pretend he’s a tree. Yet again, if she was thinking that he might offer any comfort or …comfort, she’s mistaken. It’s really a good thing that she didn’t actually kiss him that first night.

Satisfying as this may be, it’s still hollow, and since Lucy doesn’t have Amy’s lap to put her head in, she could at least do with some brief moment of human connection or support. But if Flynn’s not offering, she’s not asking, and pulls the covers up tighter. If Rittenhouse comes barging in here during the wee hours, it is decidedly not her fault.

When Lucy opens her eyes again, the light is grey, the room is quiet, and the clock on the bedside table reads 6:43am. Flynn has dozed off on the other bed, still dressed, the same way he slept on her shitty couch back in her apartment, and nobody has been murdered, so there’s that. Lucy still feels like she’s been hit with a hammer, and could probably sleep another six hours at least, but she’s not sure if they’re going to have to pick up and bugger off somewhere else. It’s Sunday, maybe that will help with the traffic. It’ll still be at least two hours back to the Bay Area, though. If that’s where they’re going.

Lucy groans, closes her eyes again, and steals another forty-odd minutes of precious slumber, before she’s woken by the sound of Flynn moving around. She lies still and pretends to be sleeping, until he says gruffly, “Lucy, I know you’re awake.”

Ever the charmer, her knight in shining armor. Lucy sits up slowly. She has not had a ton of time to go to the gym recently, and yesterday was the most workout she had in months; she can feel it down to her toes. “Other people say good morning.”

Flynn’s mouth twitches, as if he’s almost about to smile, until he catches himself. “You should probably get up.”

“Oh? And what have you been doing all night?”

“Thinking.” Flynn pulls off his shirt, wads it up, and tosses it on his unmade bed. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Lucy was about to shoot back some remark about how she can’t see that going well – if he’s going to prod her, she’s going to prod him – but she’s momentarily distracted by the sight of his torso. Broad shoulders, heavily muscled arms, and several rugged scars – whatever the majority of this man’s career has been spent doing, it is not just annoying nearly-completed PhD students in California hotel rooms. There is a small, puckered, pinkish circle that looks like a bullet wound, and a few others that look like knives. She doesn’t know how old Flynn is – maybe mid-to-late thirties, seven or eight years older than her – but he’s clearly lived a hard life. Unwelcomingly, unnecessarily, her fingers flex, and her breath hitches.

Flynn catches her looking, and his tongue flicks out briefly to touch his lips. “Yes?”

“I thought you were taking a shower,” Lucy says, as coolly as she can. “Or are you still afraid that I’ll call Rittenhouse if you turn your back on me?”

Flynn arches an eyebrow at her. This man does have a remarkably expressive face, even if it mostly is employed for various permutations of smug, sass, smirk, and son of a bitch. “What, were you planning to come in? Only room for one in there, I’m afraid.”

With that, he strides to the bathroom and shuts the door, for all the world as if he just virtuously turned her down from making a move on him – which, obviously, did not actually happen. Lucy rocks back and forth on the bed, fighting an urge to scream, then gets up, gets dressed, and wonders if she can go down to the continental breakfast by herself, or Flynn will come tearing in and terrify some yuppies. Which might be amusing, at least momentarily, but will then result in even more headache and hassle to sort out.

It takes a while, but they finally eat (though Flynn, to judge from his dark looks at the buffet tables, doesn’t think much of Holiday Inn Express’s culinary selections), check out, and head back to the car. Lucy is not enthused to see it. “Are we going home yet?”

“No.” Flynn gestures her to get in, but she doesn’t. “I couldn’t keep you safe there.”

“Who said that was your job? Can’t you call someone? Whoever you work for?” Lucy folds her arms. “Get me a protection detail, so I can go back to my life, even if someone has to babysit me? However this is ordinarily handled?”

Flynn looks frustrated that she isn’t just taking his word and following his orders. Finally he says, “It’s… last night. When Logan called. There’s been some kind of complication. He said he was supposed to arrest me, at LAX. I don’t know what’s been decided on, but first they ordered me to drop the investigation and now Rittenhouse is trying to – ”

“What? Your bosses ordered you to drop it, and you didn’t see fit to share that with me?” As if he was going to share anything. “So what, we’ve been off the grid and against orders for at least the last twenty-four hours? It was one thing to be on the run with you when you were working on some official government business, now you’re off that too, and – what? I’m supposed to just trust you and get in the car?”

“Lucy – ” Flynn looks exasperated, as if he has genuinely never considered how insane he and all his plans sound. She’s gone along with it thus far, because she didn’t really have a choice, but before they head any further away from home, off into whatever planet he lives on, she needs solid answers. “Don’t make this difficult, just – ”

“Oh, me? Me? I’m the one who should not make this difficult?” Lucy catches sight of a nice retiree couple eyeing them from the hotel portico, and waves reassuringly. She might try to run for it right now, but all her books and her computer are still in the car, and it does not seem beneath Flynn to hold them for ransom. “Either we go home, or you explain a hell of a lot more about who this Wyatt Logan person was and what he told you.”

“He – ” Flynn rolls his eyes viciously. “It’s not a conversation for right here. Get in, and I promise – I promise – ” he repeats, seeing her look deeply dubious – “we’ll drive around a bit and I’ll tell you. Yes or no?”

Lucy hesitates, then jerks the car door open and gets in with as much icy dignity as she can muster. Muttering, Flynn does the same, pulls out with only a slight grinding of the gears, and keeps to his end of the bargain in puttering around at 30mph on some residential streets. As he does, he provides her a doubtless still-very-abridged version of what he learned. Wyatt Logan is a soldier of some description, though he didn’t specify his exact branch of service. He was sent by person or person(s) unknown to arrest Flynn at LAX, which is where he was supposed to go instead of staying with Lucy. Given that Flynn’s boss told him to go there, either he didn’t know that the rendezvous had been compromised, or he did. In short, someone highly placed in the U.S. government has ordered Flynn taken off the Rittenhouse investigation, and has gone to the lengths of sending a fellow special-ops guy to apprehend him. In short, Flynn can’t trust anyone back at headquarters, or know who they’re reporting to. That’s why he can’t just call in for backup and let someone else take it from here.

Lucy stares at him. If Flynn isn’t lying about this – and lying isn’t really his way, rather brute-force application of the unvarnished truth with all the subtlety of a speeding freight train – then that, obviously, is worrisome. “Why would he call and warn you?”

Flynn shrugs. “Dumb decency. Some people have it. But he wasn’t told either, he smelled a rat, so he did some digging.”

“How did he find out it was you?”

“I’m not sure. Wouldn’t say.” Flynn flashes a grim smile. “Had to play some of it close to the vest, after all. Said that he asked a few people. I assume someone like him, it wasn’t just the local hot dog vendor. So then. Do you see the problem?”

“You’re not willing to just drop me off back home and…” Lucy has no idea what the ordinary protocol would be, it’s a little outside her area of specialty. She doesn’t want to be kidnapped by Rittenhouse again, obviously, but she also doesn’t want to be joyriding around with a possibly-ex-NSA agent who’s managed to push the envelope too far even for them. “They couldn’t have had some good reason for pulling you off the case?”

Flynn looks at her flatly. “You’ve met who I’m after. Do you think so?”

Lucy hesitates. Yes, Rittenhouse was obviously creepy, there was a Waco-compound vibe to the party, and to have all these powerful, accomplished, wealthy people suddenly swanning out of the woodwork and offering her a dream job clearly came with a major catch. But… political parties and lobbying groups and other business conglomerates might be distasteful or even unethical (shock, horror, politics are dirty) but that still doesn’t make them strictly or flagrantly illegal. “I don’t know. I need more evidence.”

“Need more evidence.” Flynn makes a derisive noise in his throat. “That’s a historian’s answer.”

“I am a historian, in case you forgot. And I need to be back to Stanford by Tuesday, I have a class to teach.”

For a moment, Flynn looks as if he can respect this commitment to professional responsibility, even if he has no intention of honoring it, himself. “Why did you want to be a historian?” he asks instead. It doesn’t sound entirely like pleasant small talk. “Though it’s better than dropping out of college to join a band.”

Lucy flushes. That is the first reference he’s made to the fact that he saved her life seven years ago. But as to his question, she isn’t even sure she remembers consciously choosing. Just that it was implicit in her mind ever since she was a little girl, that she was going to study history and follow in her mother’s footsteps. That time with Jake was the only time she came seriously close to deviating from the plan, and Flynn is the reason she returned to it. Well, indirectly, since if he hadn’t come along, she would have been six feet under for a while now. “I just… always knew that was what I was supposed to do,” she says, after a pause. “My mom was… well, she is very… she just wanted what was best for me. She pushed me a lot, and that time when… when you saved me, that was when I’d decided I was going to tell her that I could live my own life, and not just mimic hers. But when I almost died, it… it seemed like a sign. That it had been a mistake. So I continued.”

“Do you even like it?” Flynn asks. Bewilderingly. “Or is it something else she made you do?”

“Of course I like it.” Lucy stares at him. “Really. If I hated it, I wouldn’t have gotten this far, even for my mother.”

She isn’t altogether certain about that. Just because she’s not sure she could live with her mother’s disappointment, her constant remarks about how Lucy isn’t really doing everything she could be. And she – she does want this, she can’t think of anything else she wants to do with her life, and frankly, if you’d be happy doing anything else apart from getting a PhD in history, you should probably do that. But that’s odd to think about, almost unsettling. If Puff the Tragic Wagon hadn’t gone off the road, and she hadn’t almost died, and Flynn hadn’t saved her, would she have gotten to her mother’s house, told her the plan, and followed through on dropping out of Stanford and running off with Jake? Or would she have wilted at the first sight of her mother’s disapproval, called the whole thing off, and continued as normal anyway? Does she actually have it in her to defy Professor Carol Preston, who red-penned her homework assignments from the age of nine? Who used to open up her laptop and go through her college papers and just delete whatever she thought wasn’t strong enough?

Lucy starts to say something else, then stops. “What about your mom?” she says instead, not sure why she’s inviting more intimacy, but determined to learn something about this man, half guardian angel and half obnoxious, dangerous, stubborn liability. “You said she was American, but you were born in Croatia.”

“She was.” Flynn rolls to a precise halt at a stop sign, then continues. “From Texas. She worked at Lockman Industries in the aeronautics and engineering division. She was in Houston during the moon landing, actually. A very talented woman.”

Lucy glances at him. She’s always up for hearing more about talented women. “What was her name?”

“Maria.” Flynn’s mouth shapes around it as if he hasn’t said it in a while. “Maria Thompkins. She died a few years ago.”

It’s plain that he would rather not keep talking about the subject, and they drive for a few minutes, going nowhere in particular. They make a few loops around the Windsor main drag, until Flynn says, “All right, I’ll take you home. But if anything happens on the way, or when we get there, then – ”

He sounds so grumpy and yet so worried that Lucy can’t help but smile. Impulsively, she reaches out to put a hand on his where it grips the gearshift. “I’ll be fine, Garcia.”

He blinks. His fingers tense under hers, for a moment as if they might turn and take hold. She gets the sense that people don’t often call him by his first name; it’s either Flynn or Agent or something else curt and formal. He’s still looking down at her. The air feels thick. She hasn’t quite let go.

“Lucy.” It sounds half as if he was trying to say something else, and half as if it just spilled out, as if he wanted to taste it. It lilts on his tongue, he looks at her from under his eyelids, and – Lucy doesn’t know what might have been about to happen. And for that matter, doesn’t get a chance to find out.

She’s aware of a flash, a glint, from the car that’s just pulled up next to them at the stoplight. Is aware, in a horrible, too-slow way, of Flynn realizing what it is, and slamming her down. In the next, the entire world has exploded in Lucy’s ears.

Flynn spreads his arms, sacrificing the chance to go for his own gun in order to shield her, and she hears him grunt as he straight-up takes two shots. All she can think about is those scars she saw this morning, how there was at least one bullet wound, and –

At that, Lucy moves. Reaches over, half-climbs into the driver’s seat, and hits the accelerator, trying to steer with one hand and thinking madly that she has to get them to a hospital. She can barely spare a moment to look in the rearview mirror and see if they’re being followed; all her attention is for him. “Garcia?” she says frantically. “Garcia!”

He grimaces, pressing a hand to his side. It wells up red. “Shit.”

“Don’t talk. Don’t talk, all right?” Lucy looks madly from side to side. She can see a sign for an urgent care, but she isn’t sure how well-equipped they are to handle a drive-by shooting. There’s probably a proper hospital in Santa Rosa, but how bad are his wounds? She tries to look, then has to swallow hard and turn away; blood has never been her strong suit. And if they go somewhere that needs ID, if that’s the exact thing they don’t want to do –

“Lucy.” He sounds somewhat squashed; even aside from being shot, their impromptu driving arrangement is making it hard for him to breathe. “There’s… a kit. In the back. Pull over somewhere, I’ll – ”

“You think you’ll fish two bullets out of you by yourself?” Lucy snaps. “We are getting someone to take care of you!”

Flynn opens his mouth, grimaces, and stops. The left shoulder of his shirt is wet red. He looks like he might pass out, and Lucy decides to hell with it. The urgent care it is. She veers them into the parking lot, slams on the brakes, and hauls Flynn out with a considerable effort. Once she has gotten him inside to the very alarmed receptionist, Flynn is just in command of himself to grouch, but someone takes hold of him and he vanishes into the back. Lucy drops into a chair, covered in blood and shaking. What the hell. What the hell.

She doesn’t think she’s going back to Stanford today.

[presumenothing]

Oh my god, dude.... Soul mate ask... Can I ask for 23 KaiShi (I'm so in love with this pairing, you've ruined me.)

(soulmate AU prompts)

regret nothing until it is too late, then regret e v e r y t h i n g

this turned out more ai-centric than anything else lmao, mea culpa. scenes not in chronological order, will probably rework/expand later bc i feel

.

23. the one where once you meet your soulmate, it’s physically uncomfortable to be apart from them for too long.

.

v.

In most regards, Ai supposes, she could have done worse than having the Kaitou Kid as her soulmate.

It might’ve been Edogawa instead, for starters, and while that isn’t in itself a problem it’d still mean seeing more dead bodies than she really cares for.

(Though if Kuroba tries to talk her into moving to Ekoda again, Ai isn’t going to be responsible for what she does in response.

It’s mostly his fault that they ever met anyway, so as far as she’s concerned he can either move to Beika or deal with the consequences.)

iv.

Shiho has never put much stock in the concept of soulmates.

She’s well-acquainted with the scientific evidence, obviously. Extensive research in the field continues to be ethically controversial, but studies have sufficiently demonstrated the correlation between separating certain pairs of people for extended periods of time and the associated physiological effects: increased heart rate, shallow respiration, heightened levels of cortisol. The evidence is convincing, though the particulars differ, and no rigorous theory of the bond has been developed thus far.

What she questions are the psychological effects people often discuss. Nothing ludicrously precise as telepathy – those claims had been thoroughly debunked in the ‘80s, even if urban legends still circulated to this day – but instead a whole host of subtler effects, with the most commonly cited one being empathy connected to strong feelings.

It seems fallacious, though, to assume that such a bond would entail any emotional connection, beyond the effects of cognitive dissonance working to smooth over a relationship enforced by proximity.

At any rate, as far as Shiho’s concerned, her soulmate – if she has one, since the conditions make it difficult to conclusively prove whether or not every individual has a soulmate – is better off staying away from her, for both their sakes. The last thing she needs is to be bound down geographically, let alone to any single individual, and unless her hypothetical soulmate is in the Organisation as well she doesn’t see how the situation can be tenable anyway.

(She rarely spends time around people anyway, so it’s not like it matters all that much, really.)

iii.

If nothing else, being an elementary schooler means that people assume by default that she hasn’t really thought much about the concept of soulmates yet, let alone had a chance to meet her own.

Ai is more than fine with that. She still believes that the entire phenomenon of soulmates is more trouble than it’s worth, and becoming Haibara Ai has only served to further cement that opinion, if anything.

(The professor had asked her about it once, near the beginning, followed a few days later by Edogawa when he’d stopped tiptoeing around her like a bomb set to explode at any moment. The detective hadn’t bothered couching it as an indirect question, of course, but she understood the intent all the same, as well as their relief when she’d answered in the negative.

You couldn’t very well sever a bond with just a change of name, after all, and Edogawa is very fortunate that Mouri Ran isn’t his soulmate, because there wouldn’t have been any hiding from that.)

ii.

Akemi doesn’t share her opinions, of course.

Shiho watches her sister talk animatedly over dinner, eyes alight with excitement, about an old school friend of hers who’d just found her soulmate, and wonders if she should hope for Akemi to find her own as well.

(Sometimes, she wishes that she’d thought to ask.)

i.

Ayumi and the others are chatting about soulmates during lunch break one day, Edogawa chiming in every now and then with the occasional correction when their chatter veers too far from the facts, when Genta asks, “How d’you even know so much about soulmates anyway, Conan-kun?”

Edogawa laughs in the way he does whenever he’s trying to redirect someone’s attention. “Ah, Ran-neechan and Sonoko-neechan talk a lot about it, that’s all!”

The kids nod, satisfied by this answer, but it’s like a switch flicks on in Ai’s mind – because Genta has a point, and Ai can’t believe she hasn’t noticed it before.

She knows almost everything Edogawa has mentioned so far, that much is true, but that’s largely because she’d just about gone through the existing literature with a fine-toothed comb to check for anything that could potentially interfere with the apoptoxin’s effects.

Even so, Edogawa’s mentioned details that even Ai herself isn’t aware of, and while she can testify to the fact that teenagers talk incessantly about the possibility of meeting their soulmates, as far as she knows neither Mouri nor Suzuki have found theirs yet.

She does at least wait until they’re out of the Detective Boys’ earshot before asking the increasingly apparent question. “You do have a soulmate, don’t you, Edogawa-kun?”

He’s clearly prepared for it, though, because he doesn’t even hesitate before answering. “I told you, Ran’s not my soulmate.”

…Edogawa is a terrible liar. Nevertheless, Ai looks away, pretending to drop the subject as she thinks – it has to be someone in the know, and the answer is startlingly obvious once she thinks about it.

Ai can feel herself smirking. She can’t help it. “So, how is it, having Hattori-kun as a soulmate?”

That makes Edogawa choke on the orange juice he’s drinking, which is all the confirmation she needs. Serves him right for forgetting that he’s not the only one capable of detective work here, Ai thinks with vindictive satisfaction.

(Then, of course, Ayumi manages to convince her to attend a Kid heist less a week later, and – well.

Ai believes in karma even less than she does soulmates, but the irony is almost enough to convince her otherwise.)

0.

The rooftop is freezing.

It’s not snowing, at least, but the gusts of biting wind aren’t much of an improvement.

Today’s heist is the third she’s attended so far, though Ayumi had still been surprised when Ai said that she was planning on coming along – she’d promptly proceeded to power excitedly through the afternoon’s classroom cleaning, dragging the boys along in her wake.

(Ai had ignored Edogawa’s obviously amused glances all the way to the heist site. His deductions aren’t completely off-track, after all, since she is developing an interest in Kid, if not for the reasons he apparently assumes.

It’s not at all surprising for an elementary schooler to be a Kid fangirl, after all, and Ai’s been careful to cultivate her attention gradually enough to avoid suspicion.

At any rate, it’s almost a blessing in disguise that Ai’s bonded to one of the few people even less likely than herself to want a soulmate known. Kid, at least, might not have enemies that would cheerfully take a soulmate ransom if given the chance, but Ai isn’t planning on taking risks either way.)

She tightens the scarf around her neck, grateful that she’d thought to dress in warmer clothing today, and tries to occupy her thoughts with figuring out whether she can gauge Kid’s proximity from how she’s feeling.

As a distraction from the weather, it’s resoundingly unsuccessful, but her mental map narrows abruptly just as Kid slips through the roof access door, jams the lock firmly closed, and turns towards her.

(His cape flares dramatically with the motion. Ai gives him an unimpressed look.)

“Good evening, ojousan.” The magician doesn’t sound surprised, but that means little for someone who isn’t fazed by Edogawa’s soccer missiles. “Should I assume that your presence means what I believe it does?”

“I certainly hope so,” Ai says, her tone perhaps more curt than the situation calls for, but she’s been waiting for a long time and it is cold. “You might not agree, but I’d hate to be stuck with someone of subpar intelligence.”

Amusement flickers across Kid’s expression. “That’s a tall order, but I’ll do my best. Does tantei-kun know?”

It’s a question Ai expects, so her answer comes readily enough. “I haven’t told anyone, but I’d give it three weeks at most before he figures it out, though the sheer unlikelihood of this situation might throw him off for a while longer. Either way, I don’t have any plans to assist Edogawa-kun in catching you with this, to answer your actual question.”

“The inadmissibility of soulmate bonds as evidence in court notwithstanding, I suppose?” Kid asks lightly, and Ai shrugs. It’s not like either of them actually believe that the detective would do anything based on such a tenuous thing without amassing further evidence, anyway.

“If you get caught on your own, that’s frankly none of my business,” she replies blithely, crossing her arms. “Though at least you’d have a regular visitor in prison, if that’s any consolation.”

Kid hums noncommittally as he holds tonight’s heist target up to the moonlight. “Not that I wouldn’t appreciate the company, hypothetically speaking, but if you could consider bringing chocolate?”

Ai raises an eyebrow – she hadn’t pegged the magician to be a chocoholic, though perhaps she should have, assuming that he kept up an active civilian life alongside his night persona – when there’s the recognisable crackle of Edogawa’s shoes powering up in the near distance.

Kid somehow manages to cross the span of the rooftop in the few seconds it takes for a soccer ball to force the door open, revealing Edogawa behind it, dart watch already aimed and ready to fire.

Before the detective can say anything, though, Kid smirks visibly under the shadow of his hat and speaks, loud enough to be heard over the wind even from several metres away. “Looks like you got beaten to the punch this time, tantei-kun!”

Edogawa glances over at her in disbelief, though his watch doesn’t waver from its target. “Haibara? How’d you manage to get up here so quickly?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, meitantei-san?” Ai quips right back, already turning to leave. “I’d be more worried about your quarry getting away if I were you, though.”

The detective blanches at the reminder and turns back immediately, but Ai doesn’t need to look over her shoulder to know that Kid’s used the distraction to slip away – on his glider, probably, from the vague sense of steadily increasing distance between them.

She tucks her hands back into the welcome warmth of her coat pockets as she glances up anyway, her gaze tracking the white triangle across the night sky.

“Better luck next time, Edogawa-kun,” Ai says with a complete lack of sincerity, and leaves him alone on the rooftop, staring after her in confusion.

(She doesn’t miss the smooth edges of a card in her right pocket, of course, but waits until Agasa fetches them home before taking it out.

Black ink stands out starkly against the plain rectangle even in the dim moonlight – one sentence followed by a Kid caricature:

Don’t be a stranger! O_^

Ai rolls her eyes – if Kid is actually expecting her to follow him across town he’s got another think coming – before putting the card away in her top drawer and locking it.

The feeling from earlier is faint now, not registering as discomfort so much as an indefinable pressure, but as far as she can tell, Kid has mostly stopped moving some considerable distance away, though she can’t pick out the direction he’s in.

The scientist in Ai is increasingly tempted to study the boundaries of this, now that she has herself as an immediately accessible test subject, but she contents herself with the one experiment she can run immediately.

Ai silences her other thoughts as completely as she can, and focuses her mind on one sentence.

Don’t leave your heist targets with me, Ai thinks, emphatically, with all the annoyed exasperation the sentiment deserves.

She’s fully planning to drop the jewel in Edogawa’s school satchel once she gets the chance, obviously – no one needs to know that it was in her left pocket at some point, and it wouldn’t be the first time a heist target has been returned to Nakamori-keibu via detective.

But still. It’s the principle of the matter, and if Ai has no choice but to attend Kid heists regularly now she’s going to do it on her own terms.)

.

(“Are you alright, Kaito-bocchama?” Jii asks in concern when Kaito shivers, and he can only shrug cluelessly in response – the Blue Parrot is warm, the chocolate in his mug more so.

None of it explains why he’d felt a sudden chill down his spine, unless Akako is up to something again.

Kaito really hopes she isn’t.)