anavelblack

[mayordea]

time to post more artfight attacks

a double header! here's artekkiesu's Francis and Emiko as a revenge attack! this was the first attack i made that netted over a hundred points, awesome AF Profile

amelie for @mymhilda, she's just one of the sweetest characters i've drawn 🫶🏻 AF Profile

sona for @pavlinadraws !! as usual i am naturally drawn to floral imagery.. AF Profile

@tonightatsix's unnamed octopath scholar oc!! nice to see octopath ocs in artfight, so i had to draw her. done as a revenge! AF Profile

and last but certainly not least, the one and only kikyuune aiko for @mystsaphyr! i've actually drawn her before for song fanart without being too familiar with her at the time, but i've definitely fallen in love with her as of late and i'm happy to draw one of her base designs ^^ AF Profile

with all that, i've hit 35 attacks and got a spiffy achievement for it. maybe i'll be tempted to make it to 40, but idk i think i am officially resting my laurels regarding artfight. maybe i'll get jumpscared by an attack i'll feel obligated to revenge but idk if thats gonna happen ^^" still, it's only halfway through the month so no guarantee i'm quitting yet, but i wanna focus on creating other things ya know!! mainly my own oc stuff.. :3

[dharmafox]

Just had a Karakasa thought that made my hair stand on end irl. It could turn out to be hella spoilery, and it involves spoilers from the manga and from a Nakamura interview that was only released to backers, so I'm going to spoiler tag it and put it under a cut.

So we've been talking about Kitagawa being a ghost and about her being connected to the Karakasa's origins. Up to now I've been assuming that the Karakasa is an amalgamation of everyone and everything that's ended up at the bottom of the well, but maybe that's not strictly true. I don't doubt those things are involved in its creation, but the Karakasa itself could be just one thing, and/or one person: Kitagawa.

There's a definite precedent in the series for a single person or even thing to be the mononoke, and in fact that's usually the case. They're also usually dead: Tamaki, the Zashiki Warashi, Ochou (probably), the dead wood in "Nue," Setsuko. In fact, Genkei in "Umi Bozu" is the only (apparent) exception.

The facts as we know them so far are these:

(1) There's a high probability that Kitagawa is a ghost. Here's @purplealmonds's post going over a ton of clues that this is the case.

(2) Kitagawa is connected to the creepy doll. Based on:

a. The fact that she gets swapped out with the doll in the scene @purplealmonds pointed out:

b. The fact that she pops up pretty much instantly in the manga when Asa discovers the doll in a cupboard. She might even say here that the doll belongs to her, but I can't read Japanese, so... (This is actually the first thing that made me think she's a ghost—there's just something very ghostly about the way she pops up on cue like that and about her whole vibe in that scene. Unfortunately I can't find the relevant pages anymore—I think the chapter must be behind a paywall again.)

(3) The doll is connected very closely to the Karakasa. In fact, the umbrella that's almost certainly at the root of the Karakasa belongs to the doll. Nakamura revealed this in the backers-only interview and all but explicitly stated that the umbrella is behind the Karakasa (I mean, of course it is—it's a spooky umbrella).

(4) Kitagawa is especially closely linked with umbrellas. She appears with one in this scene that echoes the beginning of "Zashiki Warashi" and she appears ominously indoors with one (again, as @purplealmonds noted):

Without knowing more, I can only speculate about the exact connections among Kitagawa, the doll, and the umbrella, but they're clearly all intertwined. Objects as manifestations of people's souls seems to be a big theme in this story, so the doll could be a manifestation of Kitagawa's soul, or the umbrella could be, or both. Perhaps they were all separated by the Ooku and have been clinging onto the physical world trying to reconnect—with their grudges being fed by the additional objects and souls being discarded into the well.

At the very least, Kitagawa's doll's umbrella must be the origin of the Karakasa. But the real mononoke may not be the possessed umbrella. In "Umi Bozu," the real mononoke is Genkei. In "Nopperabou," it's Ochou. In the end, the real mononoke isn't a youkai or monster—it's the human who's been in plain sight the whole time.

[aemiron-main]

who do u think nell is, if not holly

HELLLOOO, ANON!! :DD

So, the simplest answer is that I’m not definitely sure who Nell is, and that I’m certainly not convinced that she’s Definitely Holly. Sure, there’s totally a chance she could be Holly but the ages don’t line up.

I also think she could be Jane (which, James has talked about on his page re: the difference between El vs Jane).

And I ALSO think she could be Daughter Virginia (who is likely Karen Wheeler) OR a younger version of Mother Alice.

But wait, who are Daughter Virginia and Mother Alice?

Well, I’m guessing you’re the anon from this post that James tagged me in, so I’m going to quickly explain the Daughter Virginia and Mother Alice stuff to you (which, you can also find more posts about it in my Creeler section & Edward section of my pinned post).

So, basically, in S4, we get closeups of two newspapers about the Creel murders- the Weekly Watcher and the Indianapolis Gazette.

The Weekly Watcher talks about Henry Creel, his father, Victor, his sister, Alice, and his mother, Virginia.

However, the Indianapolis Gazette talks about Edward Creel instead of Henry, and while Victor is still Edward’s father, Edward’s mother and sister are swapped compared to Henry- Alice Creel is listed as being Edward’s mother (aka “Mother Alice”) and Virginia Creel is listed as being Edward’s sister (aka Sister Virginia).

In one timeline, Alice Creel is Victor Creel’s daughter- in another timeline, she’s his wife, and vice versa for Virginia Creel.

So, how does this connect to Nell and to the Wheelers?

Well, like I said earlier, Nell might be either a.) Daughter Virginia from the Edward timeline or b.) a younger version of Mother Alice, as as far as we know, on the surface, we’ve only seen Daughter Alice and Mother Virginia in the show- we don’t actually know for sure what Daughter Virginia or a young Mother Alice would look like.

And what about the Wheelers? Well, there’s a chance that Karen Wheeler is Daughter Virginia, explaining all of Karen’s connections to the Creels and specifically her connections/parallels to Virginia Creel despite obviously not being the Mother Virginia that we see in-show. She’s not Henry’s mom, Virginia, instead, she’s likely Edward’s sister, Virginia.

I hope this helps explains things a bit, anon- I didnt include many specific examples/pieces of evidence in this response because theyre all in my pinned post sections & I just wanted to answer this quickly, but that’s how there’s these two other possible Creel girls for Nell to be, without technically introducing a “new” character because Daughter Virginia and Mother Alice a.) have already been mentioned in the Indianapolis Gazette and b.) seem to likely be alternate timeline versions/Twinners of existing characters.

So, to come back to your question, who do I think Nell is playing? I’m not entirely sure, but these are my options (in no particular order):

-An older version of Holly (involving more timeskip/time weirdness, hence the age discrepancy)

-Jane

-Daughter Virginia (she would also likely require timeskip/age weirdness, as the girl seems to be dressed in 80s clothes versus Daughter Virginia being a child in the 50s, just like Edward, although we never get firm ages for Edward or Daughter Virginia, but then there’s also all of the late 70s anachronisms in TFS (see: this post, this post, and this post) that could be playing into this/there’s a set precedent in TFS re: stuff that’s supposedly happening in the 50s but has references to stuff that didnt exist until the late 70s & also clothes that are closer to 70s and 80s clothes than 50s clothes)

-Younger Mother Alice (this one would also involve age/time weirdness, as Mother Alice was an adult with her own children in the 1950s, so if we were seeing her, we would be seeing Edward’s mother when SHE was a child, before Edward was born)

Again, I hope that helps explain things, anon!!

[strawwritesfic]

Student!Remus Lupin x Female!Reader: Secret

Summary: Some things really are better left unsaid.

Rating/Warnings: All (references to illness and werewolves; Sirius and James as Shippers on Deck; Sirius & Remus friendship; Gryffindor!Reader)

Challenge: “115 Word Challenge” by BonitaWolfSpirt on Lunaesence Archives.

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Secret

“Eh, Remus?”

A soft voice broke the stuffy silence of Hogwarts’ library. Night had fallen; curfew was near; Remus had thought he was the only student that remained cramming for the following morning’s Potions exam. The rest of his friends had returned to Gryffindor Tower long ago. He almost thought he’d imagined the voice, but when his tired eyes dragged upward, he found you standing next to his table. You frowned in the steadily-fading candlelight.

“Oh, hello, [Name].” A thin smile was offered to you as Remus gently closed his book on antidotes. “What are you doing up so late?”

“I could ask you the same question,” you replied.

“Studying.”

“So close to curfew?”

His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Why not?”

To his great concern, your frown only deepened. Had he said something wrong? He must have, for instead of bidding him goodnight and leaving to check out your things before the library closed, you pulled out the chair next to him and took a seat.

“Remus, you don’t look well.”

He blinked owlishly at you, relieved that in the darkness you could not see the red creeping into his face and that Sirius was not nearby to make a mountain out of a niffler mound. A nervous finger stretched out the worn collar of his ill-fitting robes. “I feel fine.”

“You’ve got bags under your eyes again, and you’re all pale.”

“Oh, that. I’ve told you before, I always look like this.”

At least so close to the full moon, Remus always looked like that. The following evening, he’d be running through the forest with James and Sirius and Peter—but you couldn’t know that. You couldn’t know why he looked sickly every few weeks either. Keeping you in the dark might have been easier, unfortunately, if you hadn’t taken a sudden interest in him at the beginning of the term.

“Not always.” Scowling, you crossed your arms over your chest.

“Often enough to be always.”

“And that’s supposed to make me not worry?”

Yes, Remus decided, he was very glad that Sirius and James weren’t there to hear this. Your [color] eyes gleamed at him through the dimness. By then, his blush had climbed high enough that his ears burned.

“You shouldn’t be worried at all,” he answered as he tried to pick his book up casually, despite the lengthy pause that had preceded his reply. He didn’t manage it quite fast enough and saw your eyes narrow before he got his back on the page.

You didn’t move. Somewhere in the back of the library, an old grandfather clock ticked off the minutes. For all of Remus’ running his eyes across the words, not a single one sank into his mind. He could concentrate on nothing but your closeness, your staring at him…and something Sirius had said earlier that very year:

“So, I spotted you and [L Name] walking to class together today.”

“So?”

“So? That’s the third time this week!”

“She had a question about the Transfiguration homework, that’s all.”

“Didn’t look like a homework question to me.”

“Meaning?”

“You two looked…cozy.”

“There’s nothing cozy about that corridor in the middle of winter.”

“She’s clearly in love with you, Moony! When are you going to ask her out?”

“How about never?”

“Never! Why never?”

“You know why never. She can’t know my secret.”

“You can take a girl out without telling her your whole life story.”

“Well, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

“Actually, I would.”

“You want me to be miserable.”

“I want you to be happy. You deserve that.”

“I’m not going to ask [Name] out. There’s no point in encouraging her.”

“Suit yourself. An afternoon with you in Hogsmeade might cure her of her interest, at least. Think about it, Remus, won’t you?”

“You don’t feel warm.”

Remus blinked hard and found himself back in your company in the library. You had a hand pressed to his forehead and another frown pulling down your lips. Embarrassed, he brushed your hand away, avoiding your gaze once more. “It’s because I’m fine, [Name].”

Was it his imagination that your cheeks darkened that time? Suddenly shy, you gathered your books into your arms and quickly cleared your throat. “Right.” Your voice sounded oddly high as you turned toward the door. “Sorry to have bothered you, Remus. Goodnight.”

He watched you go with an odd sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. No girl had ever shown an interest in him before. How could they, with Sirius and—to a slightly lesser extent—James always hanging around? While the rest of his group, including Peter, dated and fell in love and experienced heartbreak, Remus had watched on, telling himself that he preferred to be alone. That he deserved to be alone. That even without the werewolf problem factored in, his shabby appearance would drive any woman away. He could not provide after Hogwarts, could not support a family. Better that his hopes not rise only to be dashed. Better to be alone than a destroyer of happiness.

But then there was you: walking him to class, giving him homemade Pepperup Potions after the full moon, stolidly ignoring James’ and Sirius’ incessant teasing.

Remus realized he might not have been as okay with being alone as he’d once thought. Maybe Sirius was right. Maybe one date wouldn’t get anyone hurt.

Books forgotten, Remus stood and walked briskly toward the hall. “Library is closing, Lupin, dear,” said the librarian. “Don’t you need your things?”

He didn’t hear her. As soon as one foot was safely inside the corridor, he broke into a trot. So close to curfew, the halls were mostly empty. No sign of you lay up ahead, and he worried he might not spot you until after you’d re-entered the tower, upon which all hope would be lost, as he wouldn’t dare do what he was about to do in front of his friends, and it wasn’t likely he’d work up the nerve to ever try again.

By the time he reached the corner around which the entrance to the Gryffindor common room sat, he was sprinting. So close to his time of the month, exerting himself did not feel good—but it was worth it, for as soon as he rounded that corner, he saw you preparing to give the password to the Fat Lady.

“[Name]!” he called. To his relief, you paused. Better still, you did not look angry once he arrived, panting, to stand in front of you.

“Remus?” you said, bewildered. When he could not answer for gasping for air, you crouched to look at his shining face. “What’s wrong? Do you need the nurse?”

“No!” With a great deal of effort, he straightened and managed to quit wheezing. Your confusion did not vanish, but neither did you rush him to explain himself. You waited politely until he was able to say, “I wanted to know if…if you’d like to go into Hogsmeade with me this weekend.”

Astonishment showed so plainly on your face that Remus thought he must have mistaken your intentions. Sirius was not often wrong about women, but he was often wrong about everything else. Could you be the first combination of both? When you rearranged your expression into a furrowed brow, his conviction deepened. Then you said:

“Will Potter and Black be there?”

“Er…” Lying would certainly not set this whole affair off on the right foot. “Probably. But I’ll try to convince them to stay out of sight at least.”

Your answering smile was radiant. “Then I’d love to.”

Remus heard you fine, but even after all his effort, he could not be sure. “You…you will?”

“Of course. I’ve only been trying to get you to ask me out since September.”

He beamed at you. You smiled right back. Several minutes of standing like that in happy silence were interrupted by the Fat Lady impatiently clearing her throat.

“Well?” she said.

Starting, you turned your attention back to the painting. “Sorry! Password’s Devil’s Snare.”

“Thank you.”

Slightly dark in the face, you looked back at Remus as the Tower’s entrance appeared. “Shall we?”

“After you.”

Going in first himself seemed a better idea after clambering in to find his trio of friends lying in wait right beyond the opening. They grinned wickedly at you and Remus in turn.

To your credit, you only gave them each a cool nod before heading for the stairs. “Potter. Black. Pettigrew.”

“Hi—Hi, [Name]!” Peter squeaked.

Only after you’d disappeared did Remus relax—not that James had any intention of letting him do so. He and Sirius caught each other’s eye in such a fashion that Remus almost began to regret what he’d just done. Almost.

“So,” said James. “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” Remus answered, and was rewarded with seeing Sirius’ face fall with disappointment.

“Nothing?” he repeated.

“Just studying for the test. I’m tired. Think I’ll turn in.”

He could only imagine their expressions after he stepped past them. A small smile worked its way onto Remus’ face. For once, he had a good secret to keep. He felt good, despite the moon in his dormitory window beaming almost fully fattened far above, and it was all thanks to you.

[ethersierra]

Characters Out of Context

➥ Include one character quote — of your choosing ⁠— from each chapter of your WIP (or as many chapters as you’d like).

➥ Give absolutely no context, save for what’s between two parts of an interrupted sentence, should that occur. You may mention who said it.

Tagged by @liltaz-asatreat

Thank you for the tag!! I've only got one WIP so far and it's only 4 pages of a word doc but I will still share from what I've got :) It's been a while since I've opened it to be honest but this is reminding me how fun it was (and also how I need to edit it)

Chapter 1

Joshy shrugged and pushed himself off the counter to fully stand up, returning to his task of dish drying. “Well, people are always lookin’ for work, what can I say. You might find a team in the most unlikely of places.” 

“Pfft as if. What, like I’ll turn around and a group of folks will just be waiting there to take me on? No way, not happenin’.”  

From behind her, Amber heard the telltale bell ring as the front door swung open. “Oh, for the love of cod!”

 Chapter 2

“Okay, Devo. I like that. I'm seein‘ a name on here that I'm also really excited about, and I'm just gonna take a run at it, if you don‘t mind.”  

A name that he’s excited about? Well shit, Amber wasn’t anticipating two fan encounters today but she supposed her reputation precedes her. Fixing her posture, Amber uncrossed her arms and began putting one forward to introduce herself. 

“Zoox?” 

Amber tensed in embarrassment, immediately dropping her arm and returning to her previous stance. 

“Actually, my real name is, uh, Fish Sticks Goulash,” she heard the Brinarr say from his seat beside Devo. And, honestly, she couldn’t tell if he was joking. She hadn’t realized it until then, but she never actually caught the guy’s name. 

I think that Gab's tagged most everyone, BUT I'll tag @voidfishbitch and anyone else who feels like doing this! (Apologies if we're mutuals and I missed tagging you, I've only seen a few people talk about WIPs :P)

[moonlight-frittata]

I Don’t Need a Mechanic

Overwatch: Dva and Brigitte (a few others make appearances)

Word count: ~5500 

My take on when Dva meets Brigitte and the first month or so of them getting to know each other on base.

---

Six months Hana Song had been a part of Overwatch, and during that time she set a very strict precedent that no one, not even Winston or Athena the AI was allowed to touch her mech, Tokki. So seeing the back of someone inside the cockpit as she entered the Watchpoint Gibraltar hangar made her blood boil. 

“Excuse me!! What the hell are you doing??” 

The person’s body jerked, their head banging against the low roof of the cockpit ceiling they wedged their torso inside. Hana heard a short mumble of something incomprehensible and a long, thick ponytail of red hair retreated from the mech in a hurry. A very tall, buff young woman around Hana’s age emerged blushing with a sheepish grin.

“Ah! I’m so sorry, I couldn't help myself. I’ve always wondered what these Korean models looked like up close. But in hindsight I really should have asked first.”

Her accent was European, but it was hard for Hana to place with any real certainty. Could have been Scandinavian, remembering some of the players from Finland she competed against back in her pro days. 

“Yeah, you should have fucking asked.” 

The crimson hue on the tall, possibly Finnish trespasser’s cheeks faded and she held her ground, not scared off yet by D.va’s harsh tone.

“Right. Won’t happen again, I promise,” she said. 

Dva scoffed a bit and pushed past the buff intruder to look inside the mech to inspect if anything was out of place. A moment of stuffy silence passed between the two and Hana hoped the other girl would get the message and leave.

“I’m Brigitte Lindholm by the way.”

Hana let out an audible huff as a familiar freckled face appeared looking through the glass on the other side of her heads up display.

“Oh. Yeah, Fareeha warned me a new girl was joining,” Hana replied from inside the cockpit while she busied herself checking Tokki’s systems. 

“And you’re Hana Song, right?” Brigitte continued lightly, clearly unperturbed. “Or do you prefer to go by D.va?”

Hana paused at the mention of her gamer tag turned call sign. 

“It’s Lieutenant Song, actually.”

Brigitte raised an eyebrow at the curt reply, her smile fading to a neutral expression. It only dipped for a moment though as she extended her hand. 

It was an awkward gesture to shake hands from inside the mech, even though the front of the cockpit was partially open near the joysticks. Hana looked at Brigitte’s outstretched hand and gentle smile on the other side of the glass. Was this a joke? She pursed her lips and sized Brigitte up for a few tense seconds before reaching out. The grip was firm and Hana’s hand practically disappeared in Brigitte’s large palm.

“Lieutenant Song. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Hana sighed and rolled her eyes, a little of the bluster going out of her at the sincerity in Brigitte’s tone. Satisfied that no harm had come to the mech, she backed out of the cockpit.

“Just call me Hana. That rank doesn’t really mean anything here anyway. Lena will probably make fun of me if she hears you calling me Lieutenant.”

Brigitte walked back around Tokki to join her, a lingering hand tracing over the pink exoskeleton as she moved. “I’m surprised she doesn’t make you call her Captain.”

“Oh, she’s tried.”

Brigitte laughed. 

“Sounds about right.”

D.Va chuckled for a moment, briefly disarmed by the new stranger, before she remembered how this person was rudely poking around her stuff only moments before, and snapped back into her gruff demeanor. 

“Lindholm, you said? Like Torbjörn Lindholm?”

Brigitte sighed, clearly used to this connection.

“Yes. Genius engineer of Overwatch 1.0, founder of Ironclad Industries, husband to Ingrid, and father of way too many children, including yours truly.”

“So, you grew up in an Overwatch family?” Hana asked as her full attention focused on Brigitte for the first time in their conversation.

“You could say that,” Brigitte said. She picked up a silver ratchet resting on a nearby worktable, spinning the head around between her fingers and levering the handle back and forth, testing the weight distribution of the tool in her hand. 

Hana could tell there was more to the story than her new teammate seemed willing to let on. She found it interesting that Brigitte, who had been all candid smiles a moment ago when she was caught somewhere she shouldn’t be and oversharing to someone she just met, was now hand waving around the subject.  

Overwatch kids are pretty up their own asses about 1.0 normally. Wonder what her deal is...

This was what Hana was known for back in her pro days. Seeing a flaw in an opponent’s defense and breaking it wide open. But she needed to remember she only just met this girl, who would soon be her teammate. Maybe save that for another day. 

“Well, Lindholm. As long as you stay clear of my mech, I don’t see a reason we should have problems working together. What’s your specialty?”

Brigitte perked up at the change of subject.

“Support. Both base level engineering support and in the field. I've got my bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering, and I’ve been working on Reinhardt’s gear for over a year now. Angela - I mean, Dr. Ziegler, is training me to be certified as a field medic.” 

“Tough job. Think you can handle the gore?”

A wry smile pulled at Brigitte’s lips, her head shaking back and forth in a small, bemused gesture as she placed her hands on her hips. 

“You don’t pull any punches do you, Lieutenant Song?”

D.Va crossed her arms, holding eye contact with Brigitte who matched her gaze with amusement. 

“The best shot caller in the world is just a loud piece of shit if her team isn’t up to the same standard. So yeah, I like to know who has my back and if she can handle herself.”

Brigitte regarded D.Va for a moment, her jaw working back and forth as if chewing on the approach she wanted to take in response.

“I’ve been patching up Reinhardt for a while now. If I’m honest though, I’m scared it’s not going to be enough one day. But that’s not what I need to focus on, and instead I’ll do the best I can to support the people here.”

The plain way Brigitte shared her apprehensions left Hana uncomfortable. She couldn’t imagine telling someone out loud she was afraid, especially on her first day. Though in truth, she herself felt scared shitless half the time while doing this work.

Brigitte’s smile was back. Did it ever leave that pretty face? It did suit her though, framed by the freckles and warm brown eyes. If this girl wasn’t built like a literal tank of 6 foot something muscle, Hana might have more apprehension about sending her out to fight Omnics and Talon. 

“Well Lieutenant Song, I think I’ve taken up enough of your time with my intrusion. Fareeha and Winston will be missing me very shortly for the rest of their planned orientation schedule,” Brigitte said as she carefully placed the ratchet she previously picked up back on the workstation, breaking the spell of awkward silence.

D.Va smirked, feeling tension leave her shoulders to match Brigitte’s playful demeanor. 

“Mmm, well now I understand why you were hiding down here.”

“Yes they are indeed quite enthusiastic and thorough with their material.”

She gave a wink and started to walk away, turning briefly to call over her shoulder.

“I noticed there was a small coolant leak under the left fusion cannon. Might get a bit sticky on the left hand.”

“Bye Brigitte, enjoy your 300 page orientation manual quiz.”

Brigitte waved once more and turned around, already so sure and familiar with the layout of the hangar and the base.

She’s just another Overwatch kid, and just another nosey engineer trying to get in my mech.

Hana lingered by her workstation, picking up the ratchet Brigitte had been fiddling with and thinking over their brief encounter again. 

Would this girl be a liability on the battlefield? Brigitte looked strong on the exterior, but then, so did Tokki. If you took away the mecha armor, inside was just a squishy human target bullets and fire could cut through like paper the second she was exposed and vulnerable.

Hana took a deep breath.

She walked around to the left fusion cannon and did indeed see the signs that a coolant leak was backing up inside the casing. Pretty subtle to spot with minimal visible damage to the exterior. 

Not bad, Lindholm.

D.Va pulled her headphones on, turning to her latest loop of pop songs to blast while she went to work removing the panels on the cannon to replace the broken coolant line. The task felt good, and helped her mind drift to thoughts other than her conversation in the hangar.

---

Hana didn’t see much of Brigitte the next few weeks. The new recruit was busy with training and learning mission protocols expected of field agents in addition to shifts with Mercy in the clinic to  fulfill the certifications Brigitte was required to complete. Hana would see her sometimes at dinner, often in a spirited conversation with Reinhardt or Lena. It seemed to take Brigitte no time at all to fit in amongst the old guard, but it seemed that’s what being the favorite niece of pretty much every person here would get you. 

Hana would half listen to their stories, always feeling awkward and out of place amongst their banter. Overwatch was like a family, but she was more like the stranger invited as someone’s plus one. Everyone seemed to have an ingrained familiarity with each other. A single word could trigger a whole series of anecdotes every person around had some personal insight to add on to. 

Remember this! 

Oh how is so and so?  

Damn, that was 5 years ago already? 

Even on her squad in Korea, she never had what they people here seemed to have. Dae-hyun was a close childhood friend and followed her into the MEKA squad, but the other pilots were a different story. There was always a bit of friction and distance with the rest of her teammates because of their history as pro-gamer competitors forced into an arrangement as teammates. It never really gelled beyond cordial coworker relationships. Hana’s celebrity status didn’t help either, only adding another barrier between herself and the others. The fame of D.Va closed her off in access to most people unless they were on the other side of a screen, and then they only saw a polished up version of herself. 

Not exactly the best way to get close to people.

Sometimes she was curious to learn more when she heard the Overwatch stories, but she always stopped herself before saying anything. It was easier to pull out her phone and queue up a game. Easy to pull back and ignore them, and usually they left her alone to do it.

She was okay with that. She was okay with keeping Hana and D.Va separate. She was okay with only polite greetings and trite platitudes. She didn’t need to know about the times from before, or what her Overwatch teammates did on the weekends. She just needed them to listen to her in the field and leave her room to make her plays. Like every time she started a new game, she didn’t have to focus on the past, or what others thought, she just had to focus on the objective in front of her. It’s what got the job done and what kept her alive.

---

Brigitte kept her word to stay out of Hana’s mech. She set up her own work station on the other side of the hangar where she worked on Reinhardt’s gear as well as her own. Hana would sometimes see the blue flash of a shield out of the corner of her eye over the hum of diagnostic scans or smell the burn of sparks from welding. 

One day curiosity got the best of her when she heard the loud, repetitive pounding of a hammer on metal and she wandered across the hangar. 

“You’re doing that by hand?”

Brigitte stopped working when she heard the voice behind her, the deafening echo silenced on the metal shoulder guard she was beating against.

“On this armor I do. Reinhardt’s gear is special from the time it was made. It has to be maintained with some older techniques.”

“Why?”

Brigitte looked at her surprised for a moment then laughed, loud and warm. 

“You know, I wondered the same at first. It’s a bit of the way this armor is made, modern techniques can be too harsh on it, interestingly enough. Too precise and it becomes too fragile.”

“That doesn’t sound true,” D.va said.

“Oh, questioning my methods huh? Well, maybe the truth is more I didn’t originally have the right gear out in the field, and Reinhardt didn’t have much modern tech either, so the only way to do it was by hand. But it’s nice actually to keep doing it this way, I like getting my hands dirty with it. Helps me relax.”

“See that I believe.”

“Well, I’m glad I have your approval, Lieutenant Song.”

D.Va rolled her eyes, but smiled a little.

“I told you before, you can just call me Hana. Although, I do like the respect of authority.”

“Lieutenant suits you.”

Hana smirked a little at the complement, turning to pick something up on a nearby table. She picked up one of Brigitte’s gauntlets, slipping it on her hand. Her arm sagged under the weight, the glove coming up well above her elbow.

“Is it exhausting wearing all this armor? How do you run around with it on? I can barely lift this thing.”

“There’s movement assist when the unit is turned on. But I mean, I think I can handle it.” 

Brigitte smirked as she made a show of flexing her well defined arms, and Hana couldn’t help but gawk a bit before she turned back to fiddling with the glove. 

“Um, yeah I uh, noticed you seem to be in good shape.”

“Oh yeah?” Brigitte was smirking, clearly enjoying the slight fluster she was causing in her new teammate. Hana put the glove back on the table and gave Brigitte a light shove on the arm.

“Oh give me a break, you know you’re buff. Do you even own a shirt with sleeves?”

“I’m very familiar with OW 2.0’s handbook, and the dress code is quite lax about on-base personal attire. But, mostly I just like hearing you complement me.”

Hana rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m glad you’re strong enough to move your ass around in this armor so you can protect my blindspots while I’m doing all the real heavy lifting.”

Brigitte laughed again. Hana couldn’t help but smile too at the warm sound. Brigitte’s whole face lit up, and her eyes crinkled around the edges. No wonder she was the favorite niece.

“Fair. I’ve seen your battle footage and some news clips when you were back in Korea. You’re so strong, I doubt you even need me.”

“Ah, another fan of D.Va. Well, who can blame you,” Hana said with a flick of her hair. She continued to walk around Brigitte’s workstation, picking up random pieces of armor. Brigitte didn’t seem to mind.

“Actually Reinhardt was the real die hard D.Va fan. We used to always have a stash of the instant noodles with your face on them in our rig. Great shelf life. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you for an autograph yet.”

“Well he’s one to talk! Did you know, when I was a kid there was a Reinhardt special edition line of noodles? I remember I tried them once and they had such a weird flavor. It was like ketchup and curry powder or something. He had a pretty big fanbase in Korea actually.”

“Hah! I didn’t know that, but I’d believe it. There’s been so much Overwatch merchandise over the years, I’ve lost track. They were such celebrities back in the day.”

“Yeah.”

Hana knew a thing or two about having her image used for propaganda. She wondered for a moment what it was like for Brigitte, growing up amongst the same environment, but removed from the center of it. An image of her laughing in the cafeteria with the old guard flashed through her mind. She decided it must have not been too bad, and refrained from asking the question.

“Okay well, I’ll leave you to your meditative, hammer time. I need to get back to my mech anyway, I’ve got a mission tomorrow morning,” Hana said, turning to leave. Brigitte let out a long sigh, slumping into a chair. 

“Oh, it must be nice to leave the base.”

Hana stopped in her tracks, curious again, hearing such an outburst from Brigitte. She turned around and poked one of Brigitte’s large muscles near her shoulder.

“Oh come on, don’t be dramatic. You’ll be done with your training block soon. Fareeha is just, really particular before she lets anyone out on a mission. It took almost two months, and me breaking every score in the simulators for her to let me out in the field.”

“I know, I know. It just sucks sometimes feeling like everyone is being overprotective of me. I can handle myself, I’m not a little kid.”

Hana couldn’t help but give a little hmphf sound, her lips pulling down at the corners. 

“Yeah, I get that feeling. You can’t speed up time though, you just have to grind it out.”

Hana wasn’t normally one for listening to whining, but she thought Brigitte looked quite cute while she pouted, her arms crossed tight against her torso and her lip jutted out. It was hard not to laugh at the sight a bit, but Hana held her tongue. She really did know how it felt to want to prove yourself.

“Hey come on, there’s plenty of work you’re doing here that’s valuable. And when you’re ready, you’ll get called up and out there with the rest of us.”

Brigitte took a deep breath, seeming to blow out the negative feelings in one dramatic sigh. When she straightened up in her chair she seemed to be in better spirits, smiling at Hana again.

“You probably know better than anyone how to do that. Thanks Lieutenant, I’ll try. Let me know if my hammering gets too distracting. I can always go find something else to do.”

“It’s fine. I hardly noticed.”

“Well in that case, I’ll just be over here until dinner time.”

---

A few days later Hana almost threw her computer across the hangar. 

“Why is this piece of shit so useless!”

The MEKA diagnostic program she used to keep Tokki up to date was crashing every five minutes when she tried to run a scan of the system. It had slowly been degrading the last few weeks and after the latest mission it apparently decided it had enough. She tried every trick she knew, both from working on the mech for years and everything she could think of on her personal gaming rig, but she only had rudimentary coding skills and was vastly out of her depth.

“Everything okay?”

Brigitte’s gentle voice called out from a few feet away as she had stopped her own work to come see D.Va’s meltdown.

“Everything’s fine. Except I’m going to have to go throw this piece of crap, and then myself, in the ocean.”

“Sounds like a costly solution. What’s going on?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine, I don’t need anyone’s help.”

She could feel Brigitte’s sympathetic look burning into her cheek and hated it.

“Okay no problem. I’m around though, just let me know if you want an extra set of eyes.”

Hana stared at the email she had sent to Dae-Hyun the day before that still had no response. She knew her mech’s hardware inside and out, but he was the one who really handled all the intense computer program internals. She was out of her depth here and needed him to call her so she could get this thing working again, but he wasn’t answering. Maybe he was deployed somewhere or too busy with a social life now that she was gone. 

She had decided to come here for Overwatch. So maybe she should trust Overwatch.

“Brigitte, wait a minute.”

The other girl paused and turned, only having walked a few feet away from D.Va’s workstation.

“I could probably use some help here, if you’re still offering?”

Brigitte smiled, but it was more muted than her usual mega watt grin. Hana appreciated that she wasn’t making a big deal about it. 

God, why is this girl so nice.

“Definitely.”

Brigitte walked around the workbench where Hana set up her computer station and listened to the general description of the problems. As Hana started clicking through screens to show the protocol she usual ran, Brigitte held up a hand to make her stop.

“I understand what you’re saying, but looking at the text, I can’t read Korean. Does it have a translation setting?” “I doubt it. This thing was only meant to be used by the Korean MEKA squad.” Hana felt her stomach drop at how quick her hopes of getting this programming running were already dashed.

“Well lucky for us, Overwatch has some very robust translation tech we can utilize.” “Really? It’s not the AI is it? I’ve been so resistant to letting her in my computer.”

“That would be one possibility, but there are some more localized options we have. I’ve had to do this once or twice on one of my papa’s projects.”

“How long will it take?” “Don’t know! Could take a while, I’m not going to lie to you, especially with your program already acting buggy. But don’t worry Lieutenant, we’ll sort you out.”

Hana groaned, already having major doubts about letting Brigitte mess with her tech. But she didn’t have a lot of options, and this was probably the least embarrassing choice on the table at the moment. 

Brigitte moved back and forth between D.Va’s workstation and her own across the hangar, gathering cables and a laptop she would use to debug the system. Hana watched over Brigitte’s shoulder for a while, monitoring her work to get the translation program working on the MEKA diagnostic software. 

“Where’d you learn to do this type of thing?”

“Back in college. I had to learn a certain amount of coding for my major, but I helped out Winston some in his lab on campus and he taught me a lot of tricks too.”

“Jesus, is there literally anyone on this fucking base you don’t have some personal connection with?” 

Hana stepped away from the computer and dropped down into an empty chair with a huff, spinning the chair on its axis in erratic circles.

Brigitte stopped typing and watched Hana’s tantrum. “It bothers you that I’ve got a close connection to Overwatch?”

Hana did not reply, but crossed her arms and let out a frustrated sigh. Brigitte’s gaze held her for a moment but eventually shifted back to the computer screen as she seemed to weigh her thoughts on how to respond.

“Why did you leave the MEKA squad to join Overwatch?” she asked finally. “It doesn’t have the best history as an organization, you know.”

Hana stopped spinning to look at the side of Brigitte’s face, who’s eyes were still trained on the laptop screen. “Well it’s better to actually be in a fight than on the sidelines.”

Brigitte stopped what she was doing and turned to face D.va. “You’re the best pilot in the MEKA program. Why would you be sidelined?”

Hana let out a bitter laugh. “Best pilot? I was more than that. I was the face of the fucking Korean army! Which eventually meant I was too valuable to be an actual soldier.” Hana stood up walking to the end of the workbench, reaching out to touch one of her mecha’s guns. She couldn’t see Brigitte, but she could feel the other girl watching her.

“I got real banged up in a fight with the Gwishin. Like, probably should have died kind of banged up. I was out of action for months. After that, the army realized they couldn’t let the poster girl for their success stories die in an actual fight. So they moved me off the Busan base and deployed me to lead baby fights happening inland, but whose sole purpose was really just a photo op.”

Hana balled her fist in anger at her side, remembering how awful it hurt seeing images of herself on television in all those epic battle sequences, reporters singing praises of heroism, only to know the real truth that it was all a fabricated lie. She couldn’t stand it.

“So when Winston and Lena came to my apartment and asked me to join the new Overwatch, it was a no brainer. My piloting skills are too valuable to just be sidelined in a studio with a green screen.”

The MEKA squad team was fairly understanding when she told them. The same couldn’t be said for her commanding officers, but as D.Va, the amount of influence and money at her disposal proved sufficient for a smooth enough transition.

“I believed this was my shot to get back in the fight. So even if there’s some bad history there, this is a new chance for me, and I am ready to deal with any fallout.” 

Text whizzed by in the background of the computer screen as the console spat out a continuous stream of logs from the program Brigitte fired off as she listened in silence. 

“I never liked Overwatch. I still don’t,” Brigitte finally said.

Hana turned to face her, very confused. 

“Really? But, you’re like, one of the legacy kids.”

“All that means is I know more of the gritty details and seen firsthand the way people I love were chewed up by this place.”

Hana’s brow furrowed in thought, crossing her arms as she focused on Brigitte. Hana had been so taken in by all the happy scenes in the mess hall and around the base, she hadn’t even thought about the implications and complications that must have been a part of Brigitte’s life. She was so good at always putting on a bright face, how could she have known? 

Brigitte took a deep breath, looking weary as she took a moment to gather her thoughts. 

“When I was a kid, it was like I was one of those audience members you talked about. I was told all the best stories about heroes and villains, and it so happened that my family were literally starring as those heroes. But when I was a little older, I started learning more about history, and the other side of things. The PETRAS act. In fighting and war crimes. Blackwatch. Angela’s medical tech weaponized against her wishes, by my own father it turns out. Winston and Tracer buried under so much red tape, I’m honestly surprised they were ever allowed to leave a military base of their own free will. And Reinhardt... He’s a lot like you, I think. Brave, loyal, too stubborn to be just the face of a movement without putting his own skin on the line. Not when there’s something bigger than himself he believes in.”

A deep sigh, and an almost painful expression crossed her face.

“So no, I don’t like Overwatch. But I also can’t sit on the sidelines while they risk their lives, knowing I can help them. They’re my family. So here I am. Family can be complicated, ya know?” 

Before Hana could come up with something to say, the computer dinged behind them. Brigitte tapped on the keys, reading quickly when a smile crossed her lips. 

“Look at that, perfectly legible Swedish.”

“It’s fixed?” Hana hurried over to look at the computer screen.

“Well, the translation program is running. Now I need to actually debug your diagnostics program.”

“Ughhhh, I’m never going to leave this place.”

Brigitte chuckled. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it done. Feel free to go get some dinner if you want. This will take a while.”

“No way I’m going to leave you here all alone!”

“I promise I won’t touch Tokki.”

“It’s not...it’s not that, Brigitte. I just don’t feel right strolling off to dinner while you’re stuck here fixing my shit.”

Brigitte smiled.

“Okay. I definitely don’t mind the company.”

---

Hana tried to keep up with what Brigitte was talking about as she debugged the code. And she could follow along, for a while. Eventually she was way too lost to feel useful, and didn’t want to distract Brigitte while she was fixing the issues, so she retreated to a nearby futon against a wall. It was well past midnight, and Hana’s eyes were starting to droop. Brigitte drank one of the Dva branded nano cola energy drinks a while ago and seemed to be completely in the zone. 

The next thing Hana knew there was a strip of bright light in her eyes as the sun started to stream in through a window in the hangar. Hana stretched to pull out the discomfort her back protested with from not being in her bed, but it was really not that unfamiliar, considering some of the positions she’d fallen asleep at her gaming computer before. A blanket was draped across her body she didn’t remember picking up when laid down on the futon. She was all alone in the hangar and her watch told her it was just after 5am. 

“Brigitte?”

No one answered.

She sat up, noticing an unopened water bottle and energy bar laid out on the ground beside her futon with a little sticky note.

“Give it a go, Lt - Brig”

Hana scooped up the rations and dropped in front of the dark screen of her laptop. When she started up the terminal screen, her diagnostic programming kicked off like it normally did. All in Korean. 

The screen showed exactly where an electric circuit was tripping in the defense matrix grid of the mech, which had been glitching in the field the last few days. Hana noticed the parts and tools needed to complete the fix laid out on the workbench neatly, but when she poked her head in the mech, it remained untouched.

She smiled to herself.

“Kept her word to stay out of Tokki. These Overwatch kids are too much sometimes.”

D.Va pulled the panel off her mech and got to work.

----

At dinner that night, Hana spotted Brigitte in the mess hall with Reinhardt, Tracer and Winston. Brigitte gave her a wink when she noticed her. Hana got her meal and sat beside her, leaving her phone in her pocket for once.

“Thanks for the help with Tokki, Brigitte. Works like a charm now.”

“It was my pleasure, Lieutenant Song.” Brigitte’s smile was kind, her expression gentle and warm. Hana noticed this close up Brigitte’s eyes were lighter around the edges, and she had a few more freckles on her left cheek than the right.

“Did I just ‘ear you call ‘ana Lieutenant?” Lena cut in. “She’s ‘Lieutenant’, but I can’ get none of you to call me Captain? Double standards round ‘ere, I tell ya what.”.

“Well, Hana was a more recent officer in her respective position, while you have been discharged from the RAF for several years now.”

“Who’s side you on Win!? Those ranks don’t expire!”

Brigitte chuckled, whipping her head around to look at Tracer’s shaking her hand dramatically in the air, eyes downcast in an over acted, scandalized look. Hana also let out a small giggle.

“Your rank on the flight simulator scoreboard sure did,” Hana said, poking her tongue out with a playful smirk at Tracer. Brigitte, Reinhardt and Winston all laughed.

“She’s got you there, Lena,” Brigitte said.

“The youth of today. Ruthless.” Tracer grabbed a fist over her heart as if shot in the chest by a bullet.

“You know, back in my days of Overwatch…”

Reinhardt started in on one of his specially tailored stories for whatever situation was at hand, this case a very detailed recount of the first time he granted a field promotion in the Crusaders. Brigitte sighed, correcting inaccuracies she heard along the way, giving a wink to Hana when Brigitte’s presence in the story was pulled into the story much later on.

Lena took up the torch after that, remembering a time she accidentally flew into restricted airspace and managed to sweet talk her way out of being shot down. They all took turns sharing more elaborate one ups from their time before Overwatch. Hana even volunteered a story, sharing the time she convinced Dae-hyun to set Tokki up to stream a battle with the omnics. She broke her single day subscriber count in under one hour.

They all laughed well into the night, and for the first time Hana really started to feel like part of the team.

---

Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment if you enjoyed!

[moodr1ng]

hi can u reblog my campaign? It’s the pinned one! Need financial aid Thank u 📷hi can u reblog my campaign? It’s the pinned one! Need financial aid Thank u 📷

ive been getting a lot of these recently and i usually delete them but i think a lot of people well-meaningly fall for and spend money on fraudulent gofundmes that could serve actual mutual aid. so heres what makes me immediately go “this is a scam” and not “oh no, lets help this person”

1. account has a basic bio with very little info to look like a person, but no real effort has been expanded on this facade. you wont find any indication of a personality, or of any time being spent customising the blog or making it look good. it’s a basic tumblr blog with a three word description.

2. account appears real if you scroll down it once or twice… then you realise that all the posts on it were posted recently (maybe even today), and theres only a couple pages worth of them to fool a casual onlooker onto thinking this is a blog that has been posting for a while and not an empty new blog. upon further inspection, youll find the content of the blog is just reblogs, usually very generic popular posts or posts all on the same subject, all reblogged from the op. this helps us figure out the person doesnt follow anyone or have any actual interactions with anyone, but just goes through the recommended page or through tags to reblog a bunch of arbitrary posts to fill up the first page of the blog.

3. account of what exactly is happening, what the amount of money needed is, or updates on the situation are either vague or inexistant. this is probably because not giving a deadline, a goal amount, or situating the post too clearly makes it easier to keep it up looking relevant endlessly, never having to make new posts or explain how the situation is evolving.

4. you receive these copy pasted asks not from any long time followers or acquaintances, but from strangers, even though youre not a popular blog, so there’s no indication you have any reach and theres no specific reason to select you out of anyone. this is probably because your post or your reply to a post has been getting big recently, so it just kind of looks like maybe you have followers? this is mostly a red flag in the context of other red flags already established, since real gofundmes might also use this technique.

5. a great amount of “proof” is given for the supposed need, but most of it is just contextless pictures which could have come from anywhere. often, you can just reverse search the picture to find it belongs to a completely different person. this happened to me recently with an ask very similar to this one where, after back searching the image, it turned out the op had stolen the pictures of someone’s actually sick, hospitalised toddler, copy-pasted the real parents explanation of the childs illness, and just change her name. i had to contact the father on Facebook to let him know pictures of his seriously ill child were being stolen by scammers to make money off of. if it seems like something must be real because what kind of person would lie about this - just think about the kind of person who would use the pictures of a sick little girl in a hospital bed they dont know just to steal money.

6. despite the tons of supposed photographic proof, what exactly is happening is often not clearly described or given any context, probably because coming up with a coherent, specific story is too much effort.

7. there is no sentiment behind the post, no personal posts preceding or following it, not even an acknowledgement that the tumblr was clearly created for the purpose of posting this gofundme, which would actually be more trustworthy. there is very clearly not a real person here, just a very low-effort façade.

8. op will almost never address accusations of scamming - like someone being falsely accused probably would - because not addressing it just means the people coming to the blog to reblog the scam post wont see any of the criticism and wont question the post either.

many people running these scams probably actually need the money. so im not like, mad and pissed that theyre getting it. many probably have reasons for the scam that they can at least justify to themselves. but it doesnt make it ok to take peoples money under false pretenses or, often, to use illnesses, disabilities, violent homes, and other situations people actually face as a story to get quick cash off of. if you get sent these asks, it may make you feel useful, perhaps even flattered that it was sent to you specifically, and you want to be a good person, so you boost the post or even donate. and thats great instinct and intention on your part! but please take a minute to make sure the blog is even remotely credible and not an obvious fake, and use your money and reach for causes you can better verify are actually helping the people you want to help.

[nalgenewhore]

masterlist - part one - part two ½

“Oh, I could fucking snap that pretty little neck of yours.” 

Elide smirked and crossed her arms, “Keep it in your pants, Salvaterre. We’re still at work, baby.” 

From the other side of her office, Lorcan sent her a glare that could freeze Hellas’ fiery realm. He crossed the room in two large strides. His long, glossy hair was in disarray. Elide practically choked on her desire to smooth it back for him. She glanced around, quickly averting her eyes from Rowan’s pointed look. His fiancée beside him wore a delighted expression, almost as if she wished she was snacking on something right about now. “Lochan, c’mon. Listen to me. If we settle now, it’ll only allow big tech corporations to completely demolish software start-ups. You know I’m right.” 

“If we push, we could end up with nothing and bankrupt our client! If we settle, that leaves Nox and Luca with enough money to further their technology.” She stood up and braced her hands against the glass surface of her desk. “Lorcan, I know that you want to set precedent–”

“It’s not about setting precedent, princess,” he snapped. “I don’t give a fucking shit if people know my name or not. I’m doing the right thing here and it’s insulting that you don’t see that.” Lorcan dropped the papers on her desk. He stepped back and ran his hands through his hair before twisting his locks into a messy bun. “You’re fucking impossible, Elide.” 

Elide’s spine straightened, “ I’m impossible? This is my case and since the second I asked you for help, you’ve been–”

“You’re fucking it up, Elide! You’re scared of losing and leaving those kids with nothing so you’re playing it safe and–” 

“I am not playing it safe , Lorcan. I’m playing it smart. This is what we learned in school. It’s how we’re supposed to do it.” 

He scoffed, his words cutting, “Yeah, according to a second-year class. I never had you pegged as a coward, Elide. You’re scared and you’re hiding behind a gods-damned book . You know, I really used to think you were cut out for this, but I’m not so sure anymore.” Tears burned her throat. Elide flicked her watery eyes to the wall of windows and focused on the glittering city lights. Lorcan inhaled sharply, as if realising what he’d just said. “Princess, shit, I’m–”

“You’re not sorry, don’t you dare lie to me,” Elide whispered. She looked up at him, “You want the case that bad, Lorcan? Fine. It’s yours. Enjoy it, you bastard.” She shoved the case file box to him so hard that it slid off the smooth surface and on pure reflex, Lorcan caught it. Elide didn’t look at anyone while she strode out of her office. 

She took the elevator up to the roof and walked across the gravel-covered roof to the railing. Elide leaned against it and then, because she couldn’t help herself anymore, she let a sob fall from her lips. Elide buried her face in her hands. 

She cried softly until she heard the heavy metal door drag against the gravel as it was pushed open. Elide raised her head and hastily wiped her eyes, “If you’re here to grovel, I don’t want to hear it, Salvaterre.” 

“He’s not. Aelin’s chewing him out right now.” 

Elide turned, sighing softly. “What are you doing out here, Rowan? I want to be alone.” A gust of cold wind blew over her. Elide hugged her arms around herself and tucked her chin into her chest to conserve heat. 

Rowan walked closer and draped her heavy wool coat over her shaking shoulders. “I thought you might be cold. Might want some company, too.” He opened his arms and Elide leaned into him. “Yeah,” he said as he folded her into his warm chest and rested his chin on her head. “I know, Ellie.” 

“Every time,” she sniffled, pathetically, “every time I think we- we’re getting somewhere, we fight and- and lose whatever progress we’ve made. He isn’t even mine and I keep losing him.” 

“I know,” Rowan said, his brogue strong and comforting. Unbeknownst to Elide, his face was set in a deep frown, all directed at the man who sat floors below them, being berated by a woman he towered over by at least a foot. 

After a few minutes, Elide stepped back. She accepted the tissue Rowan procured and wiped her mascara tracks away. “I guess I should go back and… figure this out. Are you and Ae staying?” 

“No, we’ve got dinner with my parents.” 

Elide nodded and looped her arm through his elbow, “Let’s go, then.” Rowan wisely didn’t try to dissuade her and escorted her back down. Aelin was waiting by the elevators, her coat and scarf on. She carried her gloves and bag in hand and stepped up to hug Elide good-bye and fuss over her hair. “Ae,” Elide said, “I’m fine, really. Go, have dinner with Ro’s parents. I’ll call you tonight.” 

“Alright. But if you need me, I can ditch those losers and come over.” Rowan cleared his throat and arched an unimpressed brow. Aelin sent him a loved-up grin and kissed Elide’s cheeks, “Bye, honey.” 

“Good-bye, Elide,” Rowan said. 

“Night, you two. Say hi to your parents for me.” 

“Of course,” Rowan nodded his head and guided his fiancée into the waiting elevator. 

Elide turned on her heels and slowly walked back through the empty office to hers. She looked through the glass wall and saw Lorcan. He was sitting on the low, modern leather couch and bent forward with his forearms against his thighs. 

When she walked in, Lorcan shot to his feet, his eyes wide. “El, please, listen to me. I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t- I was- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. None of it is true, you have to believe me. You- you’re an amazing lawyer, Lochan. I’m so fucking sorry.” 

“I know, Lorcan. Really, I know. It’s not the first time one of us has said something we didn’t mean.” 

Relief flooded his face, “Ok, um, yeah. That’s good.” He flashed her a rakish grin. Elide felt her own smile grow at the sight of his. She wasn’t too stubborn to deny that Lorcan was attractive and quite possibly the most attractive man she had ever laid eyes on, but when he smiled… she could only describe him as beautiful. “And, listen, I know you think we should settle, but–” 

“Lor,” Elide laughed, “let’s order dinner before we get back to it, ok? I’m starving.” 

Lorcan loosened his tie and lifted his eyebrows, “You aren’t trying to wine and dine me just so I’ll agree with you, right?” Elide just hummed noncommittally and walked to her desk. She leaned back against the edge as she picked up her phone and dialed the number to their favourite restaurant. He laughed and sat down, “Right, like that would ever happen.” He paused, waiting for her response. “Right, Elide?” 

“Hmmm? Oh, yeah, never.” Never. Never. Never.  

She hated that the thought of them never being together made her heart crack. After she put in their classic order, she sat down next to him and they read briefs in a comfortable silence. 

An hour later, their dinner arrived. Lorcan sat down on the carpeted floor and rested his back against her couch. Elide kicked her heels off and sat down against the matching armchair, perpendicular to Lorcan. 

They spread out their papers around them, interspersed with boxes of Chinese takeout. Elide rested her feet in his lap, her brow furrowed as her eyes flicked back and forth across the page. Lorcan didn’t say a word and laid his hand on her ankle. His thumb soothed circles over her skin, “What is it?” 

“I think we should push.” 

“Lochan–” 

“You’re backing down, really?” There was a fluttering sound as she dropped the package. “Stop doing that. I told you I was fine and you’re right. If we settle, it’ll only allow other corporations to go after and attack small developers.” 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” 

She narrowed her eyes in warning. “If we settle–” 

“No, no, not that,” he said, smiling at her, “the thing before that. I’m what? ”

Elide rolled her eyes and flicked his nose with her index finger, “You’re right . I should’ve listened to you earlier.” 

Picking up a box of sesame noodles, Lorcan passed Elide her vegetarian dumplings. “What are you thinking?” 

Elide took the box and picked up her chopsticks to pinch one. She lifted the dumpling, but didn’t eat it. “About what?” They both knew he wasn’t talking about the case. 

Lorcan dropped his head back against the couch cushion, “Anything.” 

“I’m thinking that… this is nice. Being with you. I like it.” He looked at her and Elide frowned defensively, “What, I like your company. We don’t always have to fight.” 

“I know,” he said softly. “I like it too.” Her pale cheeks pinked and they shared a gentle grin. 

Elide poked his thigh with her toe, her heart pounding, “Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

His eyes were so dark, Elide swore she could get lost in them and willingly, too. Lorcan rubbed his hand up and down her shin, “I’m thinking maybe I don’t… hate you. Maybe I’ve never hated you.” 

She could barely hear herself think, blood rushing through her ears. Slowly, Elide rose onto her knees and straddled his lap. Lorcan didn’t say a word, merely steadying her hips as she shifted. “Well, maybe I’m tired of pretending we wouldn’t be great together.” 

Lorcan lifted a hand to cradle the back of her head and pull her close. They both leaned in and the tips of their noses bumped together. Her hands were surprisingly steady as she gripped his collar and tugged him that much closer. Their lips were a hair’s breadth apart when he whispered, “Let’s stop pretending then, hmm?”

+*+*+*+*+*+*

an: tee hee 

@mythicaitt @werewolffprince @schmlip-scribble  @empire-of-wildfire@ladyverena @ttakeitbacknoww @shyvioletcat @alifletcher2012 @tswaney17 @ourbooksuniverse  @flora-and-fae @thesirenwashere @queenofxhearts @maastrash @mynewdreamwasyou @cursebreaker29 @empress-ofbloodshed @b00kworm @hizqueen4life @silversprings98 @amren-courtofdreams @minaidss @superspiritfestival @sanakapoor @ireallyshouldsleeprn @spyofthenightcourt  @thegoddessofyou @more-espresso-less-depresso-xx @claralady @neonhellas @darlinminds @readingismyonlyhobby​ @autophobiaxx​ @silversprings28​ @myshadowsingeraz​ @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln​ @elriel4life​ @always-in-a-daydream​ let me know if u want to be added/removed from the tag list !!

[spencers-renaissance]

Start With This

Summary: Luke accidentally hurts Spencer because they are both hopelessly stupid, but when Spencer's faced with a dangerous situation there's nothing he wants more than Luke. Calling him turns out to be a very good decision.

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Misunderstandings, Making Up, Getting Together

Pairing: Luke x Spencer

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: implied/mentioned sexual assault, more detailed cw on the end notes of the AO3 post <3

Read on AO3

Luke knows he’s getting obvious. His subtlety has completely thrown itself out the window, his dignity’s in the wind, and he’s so, so painfully aware of it all. 

He was probably in love with Spencer before he even met the man: his reputation had preceded him -- as he’d told him that first day in the briefing room -- and the way his friends talked about him, the gentleness he seemed to possess along with the dynamite intelligence of a 187 IQ had his stomach fluttering as he walked in to meet him for the first time. And hadn’t that just sealed the deal. 

Spencer’s face as he walked into the room feels like it’s been permanently burned into the back of his eyelids ever since. He’s not sure what he’d been expecting but it certainly wasn’t someone so adorable. He’d been so open and welcoming and they’d hit it off straight away, every look shared between them, every joint task on the case in Arizona had him buzzing with excitement. If he could spend every waking moment with Spencer, he would. 

And he’s been so good at keeping it under wraps, but lately the looks the girls and Rossi have been sending his way are a bit too… knowing. Like they see right through him. It’s terrifying, really. He’s never had a bad coming out story, mostly because he didn’t until his late twenties when it was much less taboo to be gay and he was surrounded by people who cared far too much about him as a person to care about who he fucked. But he’s also never had a crush on a coworker before, not even a friend, so to be under so much scrutiny in a situation that feels so out of his depths is overwhelming to say the least.

The next case they take on, then, he takes extra caution to be subtle. He volunteers to pair up with others before Emily can assign him something with Spencer; he ignores the looks he directs his way and leaves him behind to room with JJ while he pairs up with Steven. Maybe it’s even more obvious, maybe the looks he’s getting now are far harder to deal with than the ones before but he’s made his bed. Now he’ll lie in it.

And he’ll pointedly refuse to acknowledge the hurt looks Spencer is shooting his way. It’s better to ruffle a few feathers now and get over his crush than ruin such a good friendship and drive a wedge through the team, even if his gut twists and his heart protests as Spencer furrows his brow and looks at his feet.

★

Spencer is fully aware that his chances with Luke are slim to none -- he’s not delusional -- but boy does it hurt being avoided like the plague. It takes him back to school, when he was either politely ignored, mocked from a distance or straight up bullied, when nobody could associate themselves with him without risking a beating of their own. 

As soon as the case is over, he declines Emily’s invitation to go for a drink at her place with the rest of the team, instead opting to go out by himself. There’s a small, hole-in-the-wall joint a few blocks from his apartment that he’s been to a few times; it’s low-key and reasonably quiet, and the food is nice, too. It’ll do him good, he thinks, to get out of his head a bit with a few drinks and a book or three. He’s met the guy who owns the place a few times, and no-one pays enough attention to care that he’s reading a book at a bar instead of solemnly staring into a pint or gyrating on the dance floor, neither of which especially appeal to him.

As predicted, the bar is quiet, so he orders a drink and some nachos and heads to a table in the back. He used to hate bars; so full of people and germs he tended to avoid them at all costs. Now though, he finds the background noise soothing, the chatter and music a comforting backdrop to his own isolation. And on days like today, after difficult cases and tricky emotional minefields to navigate, it’s the perfect setting to sit quietly and read, far more preferable than the deafening silence of his apartment. 

For some reason, though, he simply cannot get his mind off Luke. He was so hopelessly gone for him and it was making everyday tasks that much harder. Even psyching himself up to get out of bed and go to work was proving more and more difficult: knowing he would have to face the man he loved so much who clearly did not love him back was bordering on psychological torture at this point. 

His one saving grace, though, was that he’d always been able to take refuge in the fact that they were friends. That even if he could never have Luke kiss him or take him on a date or sleep in his bed, he could have his friendship. He’d have the warm smiles and hugs and inside jokes and that would be enough. But now even that was seeming like a farflung pipe dream. Had he figured him out? Did he realise Spencer’s feelings for him and feel disgusted? Violated even? 

It’s only after Spencer’s been reading the same page over and over for nearly 10 minutes that he gives up and orders another drink. If he can’t distract himself, he may as well drown his sorrows now he’s here. 

And drown them he does. He finally stumbles onto the pavement outside the bar in the small hours of the morning feeling a little dazed and confused, and he squints his eyes as he tries to get his bearings. He lives round here, he knows that much, but where? He’s looking around for a taxi when a man he’d seen sitting not far from him in the bar approaches him. 

“Hey, baby,” he grins, checking Spencer out as obviously as he’d been doing inside.

It takes Spencer’s mind only a few seconds to recognise that he’s in a potentially vulnerable or dangerous situation but he can’t for the life of him sort through his muddled brain fast enough to figure out the correct response, here. Instead he stares dumbly at the man in front of him, trying to not look as scared as he feels. 

“You looking for a good time?” the man asks, reaching a hand forward to pet crudely at his face. Spencer wishes his flinch wasn’t so obviously borne from terror, but he’s sad and drunk and confused so all he can do is shake his head aggressively and back away. “Aww, come on. I’m a catch, I promise.”

Spencer jumps back further, his back hitting a brick wall as he finally finds his voice. “No, leave me alone, thank you,” he says, trying to sound firm but only sounding scared shitless. The man is huge, Spencer is not, and the street is quiet. Spencer does not like any of these variables, let alone a cocktail made from them. 

The man laughs cruelly, but before he gets a chance to respond another beefy guy he recognises from inside the bar comes over, cigarette in his hand, and clocks the situation. “Oi,” he shouts aggressively, approaching the two of them. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Dude said no.”

“Oh yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?”

Before Spencer can blink, the beefy guy punches his assailant square in the eye, causing him to cuss them both out before telling Spencer he isn’t even worth the trouble and leaving to lick his wounds. “Hey, you okay?” the beefy dude asks, voice much softer when talking to Spencer. “You need me to call someone?”

At this moment, the only person Spencer wants is Luke. He’s shaken up and so sad, and even if Luke is sort of the reason for that, he has to try, right? Maybe… maybe he just was having a bad day and it isn’t Spencer at all. He could call JJ but even her cuddles wouldn’t scratch the itch that’s burning away at his skin, so he finally shakes his head at the guy looking at him with concern. “No, no it’s okay,” he says slowly, voice catching a little. “I know who to call.”

★

Luke also says no to Emily’s invitation, instead heading back to his own place and cracking open a bottle of wine before plonking himself in front of the team and appreciating the cuddles Roxy chooses to bestow on him. He throws in an oven pizza sometime around 11pm and eats it, laughing humourlessly at the scene for a moment. God, if his colleagues could see just how pathetic he is Emily would have to boot him off the team. 

The wine and the warm temperature of the room have him dozing off on the sofa by midnight but he’s woken up abruptly by his phone ringing not long after. The clock on the wall says 1.50am so this is either a case or an emergency; blearily he picks it up to see Spencer’s name on the screen and he can’t slide his finger to answer it fast enough. 

“Spencer?” he asks, voice full of concern. 

The only reply is a choked off sob, making Luke sit up on high alert. “Spence, what’s wrong?” his voice is gentle but determined, he wants to know what’s wrong so he can fix it damnit.

“Can you-- Can you come and get me?” Spencer asks tearfully. He sounds hesitant like he thinks Luke might say no or be angry with him which doesn’t make any sense. He’d never feel like that, not for anything Spencer needs from him. 

“Of course,” he reassures him, gently, still a little bewildered by the absurdity of it all. He springs into action and leaps off the sofa, slipping into some trainers and grabbing his keys. “Where are you, Spence? I’m on my way to the car.”

Spencer rattles off an address before he says, “Wait, don’t go, can you stay on the phone with me?”

Luke’s heart damn near melts at that but he obeys and stays on the phone with him, mumbling platitudes and promising he’s on his way the whole five minute drive until he pulls up in front of the address Spencer gave him, immediately spotting the younger man hunched down against a wall. He parks the car quickly and rushes over, crouching down in front of Spencer and gently pulling his head away from his knees so he can look into his eyes. He immediately recognises he’s drunk and sighs internally, hoping this won’t be too impossible. 

“Hey, Spence, what’s going on?” he asks earnestly, holding onto the man’s forearms partially to help steady himself and partially to offer a noninvasive point of contact for Spencer. 

“Sad,” Spencer says, looking into Luke’s eyes with wide, honest eyes. “You’re angry at me.”

“What?” Luke asks incredulously. “I’m not angry at you, Spencer.”

“Yes,” Spencer nods enthusiastically. “You wanted to work with other people on the case today. You were ignoring me.”

He’s not quite slurring his words but it’s close, and if Luke wasn’t so concerned about the situation at hand he’d find it adorable. “Oh, Spencer, no,” he protests, a sinking feeling in his chest. His own insecurities and fears had got the better of him and he’d managed to make Spencer feel bad about himself. “That was unrelated and not your fault at all, okay? It’s complicated and definitely not a conversation to have on the ground outside a bar at 2am, but we can talk about it somewhere else if you’d like. Do you want me to take you back to your place?”

Spencer looks back at him. “No, don’t want to be alone, please don’t leave me on my own, Luke,” he says, eyes wide in fear this time, not honesty. 

“Okay, okay,” he placates him. “Would you like to come back to mine?”

Spencer launches forward to hug Luke, burying his face into his neck and Luke takes the opportunity to relish the feeling of Spencer’s lithe body against his own, the intimacy he craves so deeply finally being awarded in a small way. “Should I take that as a yes?” he chuckles.

As soon as they get into Luke’s apartment, he gets to sobering Spencer up. He’d managed to pry the number of drinks he’d had out of him in the car, and as soon as they get back he butters him some toast and gives him a glass of water to drink on the sofa while he fills up another glass and grabs some advil. 

“How’s that, Spence, are you okay?” he asks softly as he joins him on the sofa where Spencer is dutifully munching down the toast while late-night TV plays in the background. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, smiling up at Luke, already looking more lucid than he did on the street, though he suspects part of the reason was he was scared and a bit disoriented then and now feels safe. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Spencer,” he smiles back, patting his knee affectionately as he pours him another glass of water. “Have your toast and another glass of water and then you can have a shower, if you like. It’ll help ground you and warm you up a bit.”

Spencer’s compliant through it all, which is obviously desirable, but he’s also quiet. He takes the hoodie Luke chucks his way without comment and slips it on -- Luke very pointedly does not think about how good he looks -- before looking to him for his next direction. 

His eyes are much clearer now and he seems far more sad than drunk, so Luke steers him back to the sofa and hands him a blanket. “Hey, Spencer,” he says, waiting for him to look up before continuing. “What’s going on? Why did you need me to pick you up?”

Spencer fidgets with the blanket as he answers. “Well, I went to the bar to stop thinking, like distract myself, but it didn’t really work so I just decided to have some wine instead, which was really nice and I liked the fuzziness, but then when I left there was this man. He came up to me and was trying to… like he was trying to ask me to sleep with him,” he risks a quick look up to check if Luke is listening to him but averts his eyes from the intense stare when he realises he is. “But I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to do and I panicked but then this man came out of the bar and he punched the other guy and helped me but then I called you so he didn’t have to do anything else.” His voice is nervous as he talks, clearly unsure of himself from the way he darts around from point to point, his typical eloquence evading him. 

“I’m sorry, Spencer,” Luke says, earnestly. “I’m sorry that happened to you but I’m even more sorry that you were sad enough to drown your sorrowsbecause of me. Tomorrow, I promise we can talk about this and I’ll explain everything, but right now I think you should sleep. You can take my bed or the sofa tonight, whichever one makes you feel more comfortable, and then I’ll make you whatever you want for breakfast in the morning and we can chat. How does that sound?”

Spencer looks satisfied for now, cocking his head to the side. “Hm, can I have pancakes?” he asks.

Luke laughs fondly at that, leaning forward to ruffle Spencer’s hair lightly as he tries not to read into it when Spencer leans into his touch. “Are you kidding?” he teases. “You’re looking at the pancake maker extraordinaire right here.” He relishes Spencer’s giggle at that, pleased at how relaxed he looks now he knows Luke isn’t angry at him. “Pancakes in the morning. For now, where would you like to sleep?”

“The sofa’s fine,” Spencer says softly, a small smile playing over his face as he follows Luke with his eyes as he stands up to collect some blankets and pillows. “Thank you, Luke.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he smiles back, and hands him the extra blankets and cushions. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

★

Spencer wakes up to the sound of dog paws on wooden floors and is momentarily confused -- he does not have a dog nor wooden floors -- before the events of last night flood into his head with a crashing wave of humiliation. He sits up abruptly, blinking his eyes against the soft grey light of the gloomy day, and looks around until he meets Luke’s eyes where he’s sat drinking a cup of coffee at the dining table. 

He knows he’s flushing an embarrassing shade of red but he can’t help it, this whole situation is so bizarre. “Good morning,” he finally says.

“Morning Spencer,” Luke says, hiding his far-too-wide smile behind his coffee mug. “Did you sleep okay?”

He just nods and hums in response, before excusing himself and rushing to the bathroom for a small semblance of privacy. Looking in the mirror, he splashes his face with some cold water and fiddles with his hair until it’s sat the way he wants it to before taking some deep breaths in a vain attempt at composure. He’s sort of in love with Luke, being in his apartment like this is mildly intoxicating. 

Eventually, he surfaces back in the main living area where Luke’s already started on the pancakes. “Hey, you good?” he calls over his shoulder as he flips the pan, a delish smell intoxicating the kitchen.

“I’m good,” Spencer confirms, joining him in the kitchen for a front row seat of Luke cooking. Chatting menially together as the pancake stash slowly builds, Spencer gathers all the toppings at Luke’s direction before they move to sit at the table and start tucking in, both trying to ignore the rising tension at what they both know is coming.

“You’re being so nice to me now but all throughout the case you barely looked at me, I mean you couldn’t even share a room with me in the hotel,” Spencer says after a few moments of silent apprehension as they have their first bites. “Is it… is it because I’m gay?” His voice drops to a whisper, face contorting from confusion to apprehension, feeling a little nervous that Luke might get angry now he’s reminded him of it.

“What, no, Spencer, of course not,” Luke says defensively. “God, I’m not a homophobe. The exact opposite, actually. I’m gay, too.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” Luke puts his knife and fork down and runs a hand over his face as he psychs himself up. “That’s the problem. The truth is, I’m into you, Spencer, very much so. And I’m fully aware that you’re my best friend and you won’t feel the same way, so… that’s a problem. The others were starting to realise so I distanced myself, but it has nothing to do with you, it’s all me so please don’t blame yourself, alright?”

“Oh.” Spencer’s brain is short-circuiting.

“I’m sorry, I just needed to explain why I acted like that.” Luke apologises, sitting forward again. “I know this is probably making you uncomfortable, I can drop you back or call you a cab or something--”

“No,” Spencer says suddenly, snapping back into action as the information finally processes. Leaving right now is the last thing he wants. “No, I’m fine. Sorry, I’m just caught off guard. You… like me?”

“Well, yeah,” Luke smiles, a little awkwardly. “If you want to put it like that.”

“Oh.” He pauses for a moment as everything finally clicks into place. “We are both very stupid.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because the primary reason I was sad and drinking at a bar alone last night was because I am very much in love with you and feared you were pushing me away. That I’d lost my chance forever,” Spencer explains. “I don’t have much experience with relationships, so I didn’t know how to deal with it and when you started acting distant I did the same and… ran away, I guess.”

Luke’s glad that Spencer’s eyes are clear this morning and his eloquence is back or he’d fear he’s still somehow drunk out of his mind still and has no idea what he’s saying. “Oh.” It’s his turn to blank on a response. 

“To be honest, Luke, I don’t know where to go from here,” Spencer laughs, a little awkwardly.

“Let’s start with this,” Luke says, getting up from his seat across the table and sliding into the chair next to Spencer, bridging the gap between the two before he kisses him gently. Spencer’s hand reaches forward to grip the front of his shirt, kissing back with just as much trusting desire as he feels Luke smile against his lips. They part at the kiss’ natural conclusion, pulling back to look at each other, tense awkwardness replaced with a new understanding of one another. 

“Yeah,” Spencer smiles. “That feels like a good start.”

It’s a good start, but it’s by no means the end. The heaviness that had weighed between them for so long finally lifts and the lightness that replaces it means they both breathe easier, finishing their pancakes in between shy, cautious looks and shameless giggles. “Do you have anything you need to do today?” Luke asks as he washes their plates up, Spencer perched on the kitchen counter next to him. 

“Nope,” Spencer says, smiling at the implication of such an answer. 

“Well, what do you feel like doing?” he asks, wearing far too cheeky of a grin for Spencer to avoid leaning down and planting a kiss on his lips. 

“Hm,” Spencer ponders, looking out the window at the rainy day. “I think movies and snacks would be perfect if I have you as company.”

“You smooth little thing,” Luke teases, poking Spencer’s side with a wet finger and delighting in the giggle that escaped his lips. “That sounds perfect to me.” He washes the frying pan last and quickly wipes down the kitchen before they head to the sofa, arms piled high with all the crisps, chocolate and cookies they can find in his cupboards. Spencer also digs about in the freezer and finds a pint of ice cream to share, which they feed each other bites of later in a sickeningly sweet, cliched moment of tenderness.

Luke chooses the first movie, picking out a Marvel film that Spencer ends up actually enjoying, though Luke can’t exactly say the same about Spencer’s choice, an obscure period piece from the 1960s. Still, he cuddles him close and pays attention to every minute. If it matters to Spencer, it matters to him. 

And if wasting the day away with movies, snacks, and heart to hearts turns out to be exhausting enough that Spencer just has to stay the night again, this time sharing Luke’s bed with him and Roxy, then they’ll just have to make the absolute most out of such a terribly inconvenient situation. And they’ll deal with how to hide a 2 night love-fest from a team of profilers in the morning, because they’re far too oblivious to realise they already know.

Tags: @johanna-swann @pretty-b0yy 

[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

Shelbys at Somme: Chapter 13

Thomas X Reader

Word Count: 1641

Summary: Y/N is determined to get a job and Thomas is going to tag along whether she wants him to or not.

by @adventuresintooblivion

The next morning preceded much the same of Thomas leading Y/N downstairs only to have her slip away. This time however, she only made it down a couple blocks before she was approached by a rumbling noise. Thomas’ care suddenly stopped beside her, the owner casting her a cheeky grin as he leaned over to shove open the door.

“You plan on walking all across Birmingham?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, “That was the plan.”

Thomas patted the seat beside him. “Having you disappear on me two days in a row? We can’t have that now can we?”

Gingerly, Y/N crawled into the car. She couldn’t quite hide the sheer awe on her face as she marveled at the interior. 

“Never been in a car before?” Thomas ducked his head down to hide the fact that his grin was only widening. The vehicle was one of the few objects he actually took pride in.

“No.” Y/N shook her head. “The Old Man was stingy with his. Said walking around like the common man built character, you know after he drove his a mere block away to make a point.”

Thomas tightened his grip on the wheel, “So, where to?”

She began twisting the thumb of her gloved hand, “I’m not sure. I was going to go out and look for work but last time I did this all the dance halls worth a damn wanted ten bloody pages of recommendations and work history. Can you believe that? I’m in my twenties. I barely have one and that’s if I could get a hold of everyone.”

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel a moment before putting the car into gear. “I’ve got a few ideas. Though, I could just pay you for-”

“No. We’ve talked about this several times. My sole income will not be playing at the Garrison.” 

Thomas shrugged as the automobile ambled down the narrow streets. The dirt slowly gave way to cobblestones as they entered the city proper and with the dirt followed the crowds of factory workers. Now they were surrounded by other cars and carriages made of stained mahogany.

While Y/N had spent most of her life in Birmingham, coming to this side of town was still an adventure. Here shops opened and closed with the fashions, not because of economic strife. What had been a macron shop only two months prior now housed milliners. It wasn’t until they were parking that Y/N realized where they were.

“Isn’t this the place where I played the first night?”

Thomas nodded, “Honestly, I’m surprised they didn’t request you again.”

She grumbled, “I think it might’ve had something to do with that little scene you caused.”

“Really?” he paused beside the door leading inside.

Y/N shrugged, “Even on this side of town ‘Thomas Shelby’ still holds quite the reputation. But I think it’d probably be best if you stayed out here.”

Thomas clutched his breast in mock horror, “You honestly think I’d do such a thing as to put your career in jeopardy?”

“You’ve sacrificed more for less.”

“When?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Y/N glared at him. “Maybe that brandy shipment I’d been working on for three months.”

Thomas chuckled, “That was almost four years ago.”

Y/N jabbed her finger at his chest, “It would’ve paid enough to get the whole company brand new shoes! And you showed my best hiding spot to Hopper, so you could get your cigarettes.”

“Fine. I’ll wait in the car.” He held his hands up in mock surrender.

A few moments later Y/N strode into the restaurant, Pearlescent, to find the host bent over a pile of paperwork. She cleared her throat to get his attention, causing him to jump.

“I...I’m sorry Madame but we aren’t open yet. We will begin service at 3PM.” he stuttered as he stood. The words left his lips were rehearsed and stale.

Y/N bowed her head, “Hello, I believe we met a couple months ago. I was one of the entertainers for the VIP lounge.”

The Host’s brow furrowed for a moment before realization dawned on him, “The girl who is friends with a Shelby. I thought I told you to never come back.”

“You did, but I figured it was a good time to make the rounds again. In fact, I think I would like to work here again.”

He laughed in her face, “Why on earth would I permit that?”

She grinned, “Well, as you can see, I’m currently standing in front of you alone. It’s been a couple months so your patrons would’ve forgotten my face, even if the incident didn’t quite leave their memory. My friend, The Shelby, really wanted to come inside with me. He actually gave me a ride here.”

“Are you threatening me, Miss?” The Host narrowed his eyes.

“Oh no.” Y/N shook her head. “I’m just letting you know that this particular Shelby will actually listen to me if I ask him to wait outside. Or come in.”

The Host paused for a long moment, “What exactly were you hoping for?”

Y/N grinned, “Three nights a week. I can play most instruments and I can sing. I expect fair pay, though I’m willing to negotiate if a free meal is included on the nights I work.”

He let out a deep sigh before gesturing towards a door on the back wall, “Come to my office and we can debate particulars.”

〜

Thomas lay across his seat staring up at the ceiling of his car. He tugged on the hem of his coat, preventing more of the cold air from creeping in. It wasn’t until he’d sat back up that he noticed a nearby tea shop. He usually wasn’t much of a tea lover but in weather like this he could definitely make an exception.

A bell rang to announce his arrival. This shop was much nicer than anywhere he frequented. Bright colors combated the dreariness of the overcast sky. The thick omnipresent blanket held at bay by floor to ceiling windows. 

A small counter was set farther inside away from the cluster of tables that dominated most of the floor. Their walls were lined with shelves, displaying dried bags of loose leaf tea all ornately decorated. Behind the counter stood a stout woman, with deep lines carved into her cheeks from smiling.

“Welcome to Brandy’s and Bobbins, what can I interest you in, my dear?” Something about the woman’s voice reminded Thomas of honey, soothing and sweet.

Reflexively, Thomas rubbed his hands together. “Dunno. Don’t typically fancy a place like this.”

She smiled knowingly, “But it’s a cold day outside and we could all use a cuppa to remind us that the world is right again.” She set about busying herself with finding the right mixture. Glancing at labels and barely reading them before shuffling on to the next.

“So what’s your typical drink? Whiskey?”

Thomas blinked, not exactly sure what alcohol had to do with tea, “Rum mostly. Champagne for special occasions.”

She nodded, “And your lady friend.”

He could feel heat rising in his cheeks as he answered, “She’s more of a whiskey kind of girl.”

The woman beamed at him in the reflective surface of a rather large kettle, “I know just what to make you.”

Thomas raised his eyebrow but didn’t question the woman further. Instead he strode around the shop. Everything seemed a little too delicate for him to touch without crumpling even as his fingers brushed over fine metalwork. It wasn’t until there was a faint click on the counter that he returned his gaze to the front of the room. Two cups of tea steamed cheerily, one what seemed to be in disposable paper and the other in classic porcelain.

“Is… that paper?” Thomas asked.

She nodded, “Some mad lad in the Americas came up with it not too long ago. It’s expensive to get a hold of them but everyone loves them.”

Thomas pulled out his wallet and began to pay, “Have some opinionated customers?”

“Oh, you have no idea. We get all sorts in here from parliament members to textile merchants from Belgium of all places. Hell, we even get that new Inspector in here almost every day. I have to buy these almost exclusively for him.”

Thomas paused a moment while paying, “The copper?”

She nodded as she totaled everything up and made change, the smile never leaving her face. “Oh yes. He always asks for this one tea that’s always been popular with irish folks.”

He thanked her for the tea before sitting and drinking his own. After taking his first sip, he had to admit it was definitely one of the better ones he’s had. With a little sugar he might even go so far to say it was almost perfect. It wasn’t until he caught the look of absolute glee on the older woman’s face that it dawned on him that she actually loved what she did.

When he was done he mumbled his thanks and returned to the car with the paper cup held gingerly between his hands. As if seemingly by magic, Y/N appeared out of the Pearlescent as he stepped onto the curb.

“Job achieved?”

Y/N was practically bouncing with excitement, “Job achieved.” 

They both climbed into the car before Thomas remembered what he was holding. “Here.”

Her hands wrapped around the cup, confusion turning to bliss as the warmth seeped into her hands. “This is amazing. What is this?”

“Tea. In a paper cup.” Thomas answered as he merged back into traffic.

Her brow furrowed, “How on earth?”

“Don’t ask me. As far as I’m concerned it might as well be witchcraft.”

“Says the man that says he’s part Gypsy.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, “Romani.”

[iamnightduchess]

WIP: Chills (T, Modern AU)

Summary:

A grieving mother finds herself confronting the shadows of her guilt, the long overdue failing of her marriage and memories of the one who could have been the moment they wheeled in an injured soldier from Marley straight into her operating room. The day she saved the life of Vice Commander Braun of Marley’s prized Titan unit was also the day he saved her own lost soul in return.

More often, memories may be lost forever but the heart never lies. He still makes shivers dance down her spine heading down to her feet just like he used to do twelve years ago and his heart still beats as hard for her the same way. Even when he can’t ever remember why. ReinerxMikasa. Modern + SnK HighSchool (Attack on High School Caste) AU.

Ship(s): Reiner x Mikasa (ReiKasa)

AU: Love Like This

-----

Snippet:

June 9, Present Year

Trost Military Hospital, Paradis

The sounds of her boots stepping hurriedly on the polished floors resonated against the clean, white walls of the hallways in hollowed echoes. A voice caught her dead in her tracks as soon as she turned into the corner leading into the more secluded operations wing of the hospital’s main building.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Jeager?” A young man, who seemed to be waiting anxiously near the entrance to the operating theatre DM05, approached her as soon as she came into his view. From his security tag and the embroidered emblem on his coat, it was very apparent that he is the personnel from Marley that she’s supposed to be liaising with on the emergency procedure she was called in for.

After quite some time, she casually corrected this stranger’s greeting underneath her breath. “It’s actually Dr. Ackerman now.”

“I’m sorry?” Perplexed, the man, still apologized for his potential blunder yet his tone remained polite despite the obvious confusion in his tone. “Also, I'm very sorry, I might have a misguided notion that the famous neurosurgeon in Paradis would be a--”

She turned her head to the side. “Some old, bearded guy with a bad sense of humor?” She couldn’t hold back the untimely humor laced with cynical sarcasm within her own voice.

She could see the other young man began to swallow a metaphorical knot nervously down his own throat and his trickling sweat didn’t help her observation either. “You’re not wrong actually. The original Dr. Jeager, my foster father, had been the famous one. Not me.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Jeager, I mean Ackerman. I got confused.”

“No harm done.” Even she would be confused at her own status. She shook her head, dismissing her own earlier persistence in wanting to be addressed with her own maiden name again. A stranger doesn’t need to know her personal issues or the status of her marriage.

But she really needed to sort this shit out with the administration before more people get confused.

Nevertheless, she prompted for the attending personnel to continue his words.

“Thank you so much for scrubbing in. I’m Marcus Daniels, the attending physician for the patient. We apologize for this short notice but since it’s summer break, all of our neurosurgeons are away for volunteering or break. Rest assured, we have received the signed disclaimer from the patient’s next of kin, his mother, along with the referral from Marley’s Military Hospital. The paperwork has been received by the administration. We’re good to proceed with the emergency procedure.”

The raven-haired woman shook her head, disregarding the standard same ‘ole assurance from the Medical Officer who was tasked to accompany the Marleyan patient currently in between life and death on that table inside her Operation Theatre. Her patients’ lives take precedence before any incidents that could warrant a potential lawsuit. She gestured for the MO to follow suit as she put on the green scrubs and surgical cap available inside the prep room. “Walk with me, Daniels. Give me a brief of the patient. How long ago was the initial contact?”

“Male, 31, a military vet from Marley’s prized Special Ops Unit. The reported time of the initial impact was twelve hours ago. Patient’s BP is stable, X-ray did not display any shrapnels, bullet’s still in one piece but the bleeding unfortunately, had begun to spread to the patient’s medial temporal lobe since six hours ago….and...well….”

They stopped short just in front of the door that leads to the main wash area of the operating room. Her nose picked up the overwhelming scent of industrial disinfectant coming from behind that door. Her eyes leered back at the MO, her forehead creased in reaction to the other man’s trailing words. She did not like that tone or even the single last word of his sentence at all. “What is it?”

“Ma’am, the First Response team had to perform an emergency resuscitation and this could not be just an on-site training incident. There was an excessive amount of Paxil together with alcohol from the patient’s digestive tract. Patient was under the influence right before he went in to support the unit’s rookie training. Bloodwork confirmed this.” The young man, who looked like he’s only several years younger than she is, could only shook his head in absolute empathy.

Paxil and liquor are a deadly mix. The patient must have been aware of his own prescriptions. There was an immediate flash of concern upon her face before she pressed for a confirmation to her impulsive suspicion; asking, “C-PTSD? ‘Intentional’ incident?” She couldn’t possibly be discreet if she’s dealing with more than just the life of a war veteran on the line. An unstable patient with self-harming tendencies requires a much delicate approach especially if the injuries sustained by the patient would require a full invasive craniotomy to stop the source of bleeding from the bullet.

The MO shook his head in return. “We can’t rule that out or in yet without looking into the patient’s psych eval records. Those files are sealed by the Psychiatric unit in Marley, Dr. Jea-Ackerman. We’d need a referral from your Psychiatrist here to access those files after for the patient's recovery.”

“There’s no time to waste then.” There was a short pause in her words as she pressed a digital button on the room’s intercom system. “Nurse Rheinberger, Dr. Ackerman in OT-DM05. Code Blue. Requesting assistance to page Dr. Ian Dietrich, Psychiatry to support emergency neurosurgery a.s.ap. Over.”

She turned her head back to the young MO and inquired as a formality, even though she was very aware that the patient had been placed under anesthesia. “Patient’s name?”

“Uhm…” Daniels flipped open the paper folder in his hands and read the patient’s name out loud. “Braun, Reiner.”

She stopped dead in her tracks, her heart skipped not one but two immediate beats and she could feel it hitting hard against her chest. “Come again?”

“Reiner Braun, Dr. Ackerman. No middle name.”

There are a lot of people with the same name. “Birthdate?” It’s just not possible.

“August 1, 19xx.”

Her hands stood frozen against the door of the operation theater. From where she stood, she could see the motionless body hooked on multiple wires connecting to a life support system on top of her operation table from between the clear glass screens.

“Doctor?”

She looked back at the other man but not before blinking back the shock-induced tears gathered inside her eyelids. “Please get Dr. Dietrich here. Now. It would be against my protocol to operate on a patient with past or existing personal attachments without a senior physician’s supervision.”

“You know the patient?”

“Yes…He was...” Her words trailed unfinished, which only roused the other person’s curiosity although it was none of his business. “Just go. NOW.”

“Sorry, sorry!” The man quickly disappeared behind the main door in a flash leaving her behind with a much needed space and air to breathe.

Oh my God, Reiner. What happened to you?

She rushed towards the faucet and hurriedly splashed her face with the cold water just so she could hide the stubborn tears already running down her cheeks.

Out of all the times, why now? Why here? Why do their paths cross again after six years - with him; his life barely hanging on a thread right now on her very own operating table?

She can’t fuck this up. Never had she ever did before, but never had she ever performed a procedure on someone she personally knew. There are just too many reasons why and too little time for her to be caught in another mulling.

[anika-ann]

Errare Humanum Est - Pt.22

What Happens After 2 AM... Doesn’t Hate To Be a Disaster

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2)  x Supernatural

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader    Word count: 4420

Summary: Celebrations are in order! And when it comes to the Avengers, it’s always ‘the more the merrier’.

Warnings: swearing, brief angst, nightmares, guilt trips, attempt at humour, fluff

Story masterlist ༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Tony took off, too eager to try and get in touch with his friend via intergalactical channel. You almost felt sorry for not witnessing it, but as the biggest excitement tuned down, everyone once more invested in their own business, you and Steve were the only ones left in the kitchen – and were approached by Natasha.

If you didn’t know better, you’d say the spy even looked shy in her supposedly casual stance.

“Hey, uhm… you guys mind if I ask someone to tag along?” she threw to the open as if it wasn’t a big deal. Her plan didn’t work, because you nearly fell off of the stool with how quickly you spun to her fully.

One corner of her lips twitched at your clumsiness, but then she casted her gaze down, only making your eyebrow rise.

“Oh?”

“It’s just… a friend.”

Riiight. She was so full of shit. A teasing smile slowly spread on your face and you exchanged a meaningful wordless conversation with Steve who had insisted on him cleaning up.

“A friend, you say?” you pried, unable to hide the suggestive tone – and not even trying. She shrugged it off, clearly downplaying it once again.

“For now. A little flirting here and there maybe…”

She fooled no one, but you were in too much of a light mood to torture her and actually call her out on the fact that unless she was thinking about getting serious, she wouldn’t have wanted to introduce the mystery person to the team.

“Good for you, Natasha,” you noted instead and you might have imagined it only, but her ‘casual stance’ eased for real. “As for me, I’m all for it. I might be glad to take some attention off me.”

“And vice versa,” she pointed out and it dawned to you just how sneaky her planning was. It shouldn’t surprise you – she was a spy after all and one brilliant woman to begin with.

“Smart. I’d love to meet them.”

“I’m sure he will be too. Thanks. Uhm… Steve?” she hummed in his direction, just to make sure he was alright with it too.

The man in question raised his hands as if he wanted to say it was not his decision to make – and sent a spray of tiny drops of water your general direction with that movement. You snorted at that unattractively.

“I think it’s safe to say it’s her party, so it’s her call,” he stated with a grin and dried his hands.

“Then I say yes, of course he can come, Nat-- I meant-“ not Nat. You wanted to bit your cheek at the silly slip, probably caused by hearing the name so often, but the redhead smirked.

“Nat’s fine. I’m still honoured, by the way. Naming yourself after me...”

“Would have done it again in a heartbeat,” you reassured her with a matching smirk, relieved. She winked at you and at Steve, spinning on her heels and walking away. It was the spur of the moment what you blurted out before she could leave. “And Nat? He’s a really lucky guy. I hope he knows that.”

“Thanks,” she threw over her shoulder almost carelessly, but once again, you knew better. Natasha Romanoff felt like any other human being, only she didn’t show it as often as you for instance.

You glanced at Steve as he circled the bar and you exchanged a brief smile with him. You simply couldn’t stop smiling today. You couldn’t say you minded.

Steve’s fingers found your face and hair, caressing softly and his lips brushed yours. It seemed he couldn’t stop touching you today. Once again, you couldn’t say you minded.

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

You were purposely postponing the inevitable question of what was coming next; and Steve didn’t push you. It was as if the two of you had made a deal about working out worries and obstacles later, except you hadn’t.

Chances were that Steve was avoiding the topic, because there was so much to go over and you couldn’t quite blame him. Should you go public with your resurrection? Or was it safer and overall better to keep you hidden? Perhaps you should tell at least your family and friends? What about you having a job – you couldn’t exactly sit around all days long doing nothing. The paperwork if you officially came back. The scandal. Were you even allowed to tell anyone about such thing as coming back from the dead?

Oh yeah, you were very much happy that Steve was ignoring the obvious problems in making as expertly as you were.

So, you idled. You cuddled, you watched movies, stole kisses, you spied on him while he trained with his teammates (after you spent about twenty minutes on a treadmill and decided you had to either focus on running or on ogling Steve, choosing the latter, obviously) and momentarily was searching for recipe for the best cookies, because why the hell not bake when having the time on your hands.

Relaxing for the whole day, you did not expect the sudden burst of thunderclap and lightning that followed. You jumped in your seat nearly falling off of the bar stool for the second time that day and shot Steve, who was sitting on a couch with an actual cookbook, a puzzled look.

He sighed when Tony passed the room, a grin plastered on his face.

Right. Calling Thor. God of thunder. Apparently, it worked.

“Brother Anthony. Where is the fight?” the thunderous voice demanded from the hall, your chest vibrating with the decibels of it.

“There’s no fight,” Tony responded light-heartedly. “Party is in order.”

“A party?”

“Yep,” Tony hummed, clearly amused by the shock he had caused his friend.

“You’re… you’re doing well then?” the god lowered his voice a fraction, but still was loud enough for you to hear him clearly despite the pair not being in the room with you. “How is the Captain? I requested of Heimdall to watch over him, but Loki orchestrated an escape from his prison, so I was too preoccupied to visit sooner.”

Oh. Oh. Even Thor knew just how harsh life had been to Steve lately. Also, you forgot how strangely he spoke – orchestrated, who did ever say the word orchestrated in a casual converstion?

You spared a glance at the Steve, not surprised he didn’t meet your gaze, truly engrossed in the book all of sudden. His skin paled a little, besides his ears that turned an uncomfortable shade of red as if they were on fire.

You bit your lip and decided to say nothing. What was there to say, really? He had been mourning; you wouldn’t exactly expect to find out he had been playing the welcome committee during Thor’s last visit, whenever that had been.

“See for yourself, Point Break.”

You rolled your eyes at Tony’s dramatics, and watched the God of Thunder himself, the walking rock he was, basically tiptoe into the room, eyes instantly focused on Steve. You remained graciously unnoticed. It was almost as endearing as hilarious.

Steve lowered his book (laying it down without bothering to mark the page he had been ‘reading’, while avoiding your gaze really) and stood up, offering a short hug to the God, who was adorably perplexed at such behaviour.

“Hello, Thor. It’s good to see you,” Steve welcomed him warmly, lightly patting his friend on his back. Tony watched amusedly as the men retreated, one of them utterly confused, shooting him a not-so-subtle puzzled look.

“Brother Steven, you-- look well! I am pleased to see that you are feeling better…”

“Use that famous beyond-eyes eyes of yours, Thor,” Tony snorted in laughter, gesturing vaguely around his own face. “I imagine you’ll be surprised at what you’ll see.”

To your surprise, Thor actually examined Steve with an absent gaze, blinking after few seconds, understanding mixing with confusion on his face now.

“Oh… you are… bonded,” he let out in disbelief, quickly switching to warmer voice. And nope, he still hadn’t noticed you. The corner of your lips twitched. “I am happy for you, brother. I could sense your sorrow for your soulmate during my last visit here without taking as much as a glance at you. You deserve another soulmate, one that can make your heart equally happy. I hope you do not feel unfaithful for you love again – I believe you still carry your love for your past partner in your heart and her soul knows that even in afterlife.”

Steve smiled at him, sad tones in the otherwise wide smile. “More than you know, Thor. But thank you. Would you like to meet her? She’s why we are celebrating and why we invited you to join us.”

“Of course. I’d be honoured to meet your lady-“

“You can,” you made your presence known at last, causing the God to snap his head to you at instant. You offered a grin and a tiny wave. “Hey, Thor. Long time, no see.”

The poor Asgardian stared at you incredulously, his eyes wider than Steve’s and Tony’s smiles. Then he shook his head, joining all of you in the lifted spirits.

“…now I understand why Heimdall had that secretive smile on his face when I was leaving… my lady! I am delighted to see you alive!”

He crossed the room in swift strides, nearly making you back out with how fierce he looked at the moment. But he wouldn’t punch you, right?

Nope, he wouldn’t.

Instead, he pulled you into his strong arms, lifting you a foot above the ground, squeezing you in a bone-crushing hug that brushed your tender ribs. You were so surprised you didn’t even hiss in pain. He released you as quickly as he embraced you, greeting you with his typical kiss on the back of your hand. Was there a hint of red in his cheeks as if he was embarrassed at the open display of friendly affection that preceded his gentleman’s manners?

You shook off the thought quickly, dropping a little curtsy to entertain your company. You met Steve’s eyes behind Thor’s enormous shoulder and he squinted at you playfully as if he was warning you to stop what could be considered flirtation. You winked at him, earning a gape from him and a chuckle from Tony.

“But… how?” Thor’s voice brought your attention back to him and you saw nothing but wonder on his face. “I can see your spirit, it is still glowing magnificently, clear of dark forces that could have tried to bring you back to life despite the natural order. This must have happened differently… how?”

“It’s a long story, Thor. Can you stay?” you asked hopefully, pleased by the warmth in his eyes when he nodded.

“To celebrate your return, the reunion of soulmates with one of the strongest bonds I have ever had the chance to witness? ...with pleasure, my lady.”

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Asking Thor to join was a good plan. The Avengers had introduced some of the board games they knew to him, highly amused by his frustration during monopoly; to be fair, everyone but Tony was frustrated, so no one was mad when the game ended; with the billionaire’s victory, naturally. But it wasn’t just that; he also got Steve tipsy thanks to some special liquor that was meant for ‘no mere mortals’ and Steve with his cheeks red and a smile more relaxed than you had ever witnessed was a sight to behold.

Also, Thor wasn’t the only special guest. Sam had joined you; Natasha’s special friend. It was very much clear he was special and not only because of their body language. He proved to be worthy of being her man by surviving the grilling he was put through; you didn’t blame Natasha that she had chosen this occasion of all to introduce him, because naturally, there were enough distractions… like you coming back from dead… and such.

You came to like Sam immediately. He was another person to join your verbal combat with Clint and Tony, he was funny, but somehow knowing the limits of everyone despite barely meeting them and he was another person who was giving away the friendly vibe that was impossible not to love. He was an amazing match to Natasha, who was used to hiding her feelings, making her crawl from her tough shell. Match made in Heaven. He was a therapist, a former soldier and apparently their encounter was a story they wouldn’t share until they were completely trashed. You couldn’t wait.

The family-feels-filled party was officially ending at two a.m. You were dead on your feet by then, which resulted in Steve nearly carrying you to your common suite, earning a streak of ‘awww’ that registered even in your sleepy brain. You had no care in the world, curling in Steve’s embrace on the bed and falling asleep as soon as you felt his arms relax around you.

You didn’t quite count on the retelling your story about what preceded the re-encounter with your soulmate to cause your dreams going off rails; again. Snapping your eyes into the dark, your heart was hammering in your ribcage, the remnants of a nightmare slowly leaving your mind.  Sparing once glance at Steve’s fast asleep face, you carefully wiggled away and went to brush your teeth. Instantly recognizing you wouldn’t fall asleep any time soon, you decided to wander the Tower in your pyjama, a thin sweater over your shoulders.

Maybe a tea would make you good, calm your restless brain?

Heading for the kitchen and common area, you didn’t expect to find the light on; and you sure as hell didn’t expect Samuel Wilson being the person occupying it.

“Hey,” he greeted you in low voice and a tired smile on his own. “Can’t sleep?”

You couldn’t help the sigh that was drawn to your lips. “Nope. I didn’t want to wake up Steve, he could use a few hours extra, not less.”

“I bet,” the man hummed thoughtfully, motioning for you to sit in a kind offer. You shook your head and gestured towards the kettle.

“Tea?”

“Nah. Thanks.”

You went to make a cup for yourself only then, keeping the talk up. “What about you?”

“Nat’s in the shower. Woke me up.”

“Then what are you doing here?” you teased him with a chuckle and his face scrunched as if he tasted lemon and was not expecting the taste.

“Nightmares are kind of a moodkiller.”

“Ah,” escaped your lips intelligently as you sat beside him, placing the tea on the table. Honestly, you weren’t surprised at how brusque he was after the evening you spent together, but at the same time, you were – a little. You offered him a half smile. “She looks happy though. You do that.”

He smiled a tiny smile back, but his crinkling eyes said more than the curl of his lips. “I hope so, ‘cause I’m trying. Nat’s amazing. She could have anyone, but deserves the best. For some reason, the Universe seems to think it’s me.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,“ you hummed, recalling the feeling way too clearly. Sam’s eyes bulged then, guilt and shock and only then you realized what he said. Oh. Oh.  The Universe. Natasha was Sam’s soulmate. Now you understood why they ended up not sharing their meet-cute yet. “Your secret is safe with me, just in case you wonder. And I can see the two of you being soulmates. I mean… at least you used to be a soldier, like her. And you still help people.”

You could feel his relief rolling off in waves. It was quite funny how afraid he was, probably having been promised death delivered by Black Widow if he shared. Then, his eyes turned curious, gentle brown wondering.

“You’re still self-conscious about your soulmate?”

“No!” you blurted out automatically, hesitating when his eyebrow rose, calling you out on your bullshit without words. You huffed. “Yes? I mean… no. It’s just-- sometimes… I guess it was just being confronted with it again when I met him for the second time… like, second time, the first time. It kinda hit me again. That our worlds are so different, mine’s so… plain and normal., while his… well.”

Getting it out felt good, but your admission sent the room into heavy silence, soaking through your skin, making you question whether you had told him too much. Why did you even say that? To Sam, of all people? You had just met him tonight!

You must have scared him off. Freaked him out. Now he was about to leave and tell on you and he would never talk to you-

“Did Natasha tell you what kind of therapy I do?” he asked kindly instead, causing you to release the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You shook your head, intrigued, happy to learn more about him and ignore the silly overshare slip you had managed.

“Soulmates,” he said simply, your heart stopping at the single word. What? … like… what exactly was he doing? Huh? “I deal with people who lost their soulmates. And I spent a good portion of time digging into relationships, soulmates-related or not… and I can tell you that sometimes when people are exactly the same, they are a disaster in making.”

Well. That was loop that returned to your case faster than expected. “What… uhm, what do you mean?”

“I mean that I’m not in the battlefield anymore, but maybe… I could be good for Nat. Grounding. Just like you can be good for Steve, be exactly what he needs,” he explained, his eyes locked with yours, not releasing you; yet, you didn’t feel trapped. Damn, he was good. “Do you feel that you two… work?”

You blinked at the sudden stupid question. “Of course I do.”

He grinned victoriously and you realized you just proved his point, so you chuckled self-depreciatingly.

“That’s because it’s not always about being the same in every aspect of your lives. It’s not about similarity – it’s about completion. About two people who simply fit. From what I saw so far, from what you told me, you two fit. That’s what’s important.”

Yeah, it seemed the Universe’s choices in soulmates were pretty swell; Sam was one of the kindest and most amiable people you had ever met and Natasha deserved nothing less.

But now, it wasn’t about Nat and Sam; no, Sam had spoken to you about this for your benefit. You smiled at him softly, reaching out and squeezing his hand for a short second. He returned the courtesy, letting your mouth speak your mind.

“Thank you. I… I think you two do as well. I guess it was just heavy dreams and everything that happened…” you shrugged, already feeling calmer. You couldn’t recall what particular dream was making you lose sleep tonight, but it left you with a strange feeling in your stomach that now seemed to resolve into nothing.

Sam shrugged, huffing with an undertone of bitterness that quickly disappeared.

“Well, we sit here at four a.m. Both of us. Every single person in this building has shit to deal with. You’ve been blown up – you came back from death, much like Steve did, in a way. He’s seen you die on top of that. Nat’s past is a case of its own and… and I saw my soulmate fall from the sky and for some reason I’m blessed with another… I’m just a firm believer in handling that kind of things together, that’s why I lead group sessions rather than individual ones.”

Your lips parted at his admission. He had lost his soulmate? For real? And he found the strength to deal and to help others? Yeah, Nat definitely deserved this guy. You just hoped neither of them would have to go through losing one another – in battlefield or anywhere else.

“Nat… is your second?” you pried carefully, only making certain.

Judging by how absent his gaze grow for few moments, she was.  

“Yeah.”

As if talking about her summoned her, she appeared in the door behind Sam’s back, observing silently and motioning for you not to babble out on her when you noticed her.

“Oh. Uhm… I’m sorry for your loss,” you whispered honestly and Sam smiled at you sadly, but undeniably grateful for such simple words.

“Thank you. I guess… the Universe does have a strange sense of humour. She came to me to help Steve, because she knew I lost my own and could relate and that’s how we found each other. It clicks in a weird way and I’m glad it seems to be working out so far.”

No way. Shit. Natasha had been… looking for a therapist for Steve? Just how bad Steve had been? The icy fist squeezing your heart gave you enough of an answer. Bad enough. You tried to silence the irrational guilt that gnawed at your stomach; it wasn’t exactly your fault, was it?

Curiosity was also knocking at your door, but you repressed it as well. As much as you’d like to ask whether Sam ended up having a session with Steve despite usually doing group ones, it felt wrong. Not to mention that Sam was a respectful and respecting man, who probably wouldn’t answer anyway.

“Yeah, it does,” you agreed with his musing instead, your own mind set off. “I thought it was rare to have two soulmarks and here we are.”

He snorted in an unattractive amusement. “Well, I have thought the same as you. And yet here we are. With you, coming back from the death as if two marks weren’t rare enough on their own.”

“That’s fair. But I suppose that… who else than people who spent smaller or larger part of their life saving the world deserves more than one chance at happiness?”

“True that,” he said with a light curl to his lips despite his eyes flickering behind you for a fraction of a second.

Letting your mind wander, you continued speaking, paying no mind you must bore him. “Or maybe it’s getting less rare. Maybe it’s part of something bigger, what we have yet to understand. Something… something might be changing. Cosmic…or maybe I’m just babbling. It’s just a feeling, something is in the air. A change.”

“That’s some heavy conversation to handle at four a.m,” a new voice spoke to the silence that had settled after your monologue and you whirled around, nearly jumping out of your skin.

“Steve!” you yelped, shocked and embarrassed. How much had he heard? Oh god…

Steve only shrugged and exchanged a look with Natasha, standing in the other doorway, which caused Sam to turn to his soulmate as well.

“Yeah, no shit,” Nat agreed, smirking.

“Hey, Nat,” Sam hummed, clearly less embarrassed at being eavesdropped on than you were.

“How about we cut this short and actually try to get some sleep?” she offered, carefree.

“Yeah, try,” you mimicked wryly with a sigh.

“We can try together,” Steve coaxed as he walked to you, running his hand through your hair tenderly. “Come with me, doll?”

How could a girl resist a sleepy supersoldier, when he combined his puppy eyes with being shirtless and inviting her back to his bed?

Couldn’t. The answer was: she couldn’t. You were a girl; hence you stood no chance.

“Sure,” you mumbled in a slight haze, before you managed to look back at your loyal listener. Sam had a smirk on his face, seeing what a goner you were for Steve, but his eyes were still kind.  ”Thank you, Sam. Must be that face of yours, making me verbally vomit my emotions.”

“Did you just compliment my face?” he asked, fake-shocked and turned to his own soulmate, scandalized. “Nat, watch out! She might wanna steal me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were her,” Natasha grinned at him and he chuckled, comeback prepared.

“And why is that?”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile turned fond and you felt like you were missing something. Ah, private joke perhaps?

Not that you cared much as Steve squeezed your shoulder lightly, his thumb slipping under the sweater you hadn’t bothered buttoning up, caressing your bare arm.

“You’re so corny,” the spy snickered.

Sam stuck out tongue in response, at which Nat placed a palm over her chest in theatrics. You chuckled and rose to your feet.

“Well, this looks like the right time to leave. Night, guys!”

“Please, as if you are about to sleep! You fool no one!” Sam called after you and you would swear you heard a slap after that, making you giggle.

Steve wrapped his arm around your shoulder, pulling you to his side and pressing a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering in your hair then.

“I thought we agreed that we fit perfectly,” he hummed, only a trace of accusation in his warm timbre.

You sighed and curled up to him as close as it was possible while walking.

“We do. I… it really was just a strange dream, I guess, and this… whole thing. I saw it from a new perspective, you know? Basically an outsider who had no clue how soulmates worked at first. I went through the shock of you being my soulmate twice.”

“Ah, so you thought I was too handsome-“

You slapped his chest playfully as it instantly started shaking with hushed laughter, showing you he was only joking. You snuggled into his warmth, hoping your face didn’t quite had on display that yeah, he wasn’t that wrong. It was exactly that and like twenty other things about him and that was before you even met him. You didn’t expect him to ever understand that, not really, but Sam was right; you worked as a couple, or you liked to think so. Nothing else mattered.

Reaching your room, he released you from his embrace only to keep his hand on your shoulder to spin you, making you face him. You reluctantly raised your gaze, meeting his soft smile.

“I love you. You’re my everything and we are meant to be. Well, at least I believe that,” he mused, a fraction of doubt flashing in his eyes until you shook your head and planted a kiss right to his lips, feeling the smile widen. “If you’re not convinced… well. I’m making it my newest personal mission to prove it to you.”

Your eyebrow rose in challenge at his suggestive tone. “Are you, now?”

You couldn’t imagine saying no to that, but truth to be told, you were getting tired again; after spilling the beans to Sam, sharing your worries and getting them out of your chest, you felt like you would be able to actually fall asleep again.

“Yeah, doll. And I think I’ll start right in the morning after we get some sleep.”

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Epilogue

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Thank you for reading! (Potentially for leaving likes and reblogging)

There’s an epilogue left (full chapter-length), but you know me – I’m considering a short bonus chapter that I’m not sure will fit into the timeline – just something for fun, I guess. We’ll see.

[galli-writes]

(Click here to read on Ao3!)

fandom: Teen Titans

pairing: BBRae

genre/warnings: AU - Canon Divergence; Implied/Referenced Abuse, Abusive Parents, Childhood Trauma, Graphic Depictions of Violence

additional tags: Angst, Family Issues, Friendship/Love, Protectiveness, Slow Burn, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions

summary:

There are a few things that Beast Boy knows for certain:

He’s 21….and a total lightweight. He’s a vegan (but not like…a pretentious vegan). He’s not going to be single forever.

And the Teen Titans are the only family he’ll ever need.

a/n: Hello! I am bad at updating. Please forgive my sins.

Chapter 6: The Invitation (words 5,129)

The TV buzzed in the background, images flashing against the rising sun. Beast Boy stared at the screen without really looking at it as he poured some orange juice into a glass at the kitchen counter. His hand shook ever so slightly as he took a sip, and he tried to convince himself it was purely from a lack of sleep. But he knew that was only part of the problem at best. As he looked around the room, he locked eyes with the eerie monkey statue, still on display, and put his glass down with a hard swallow.

Beast Boy never brought up Galtry. Raven hadn’t mentioned him either, though that was probably less intentional. Even so, with each day that passed, his conviction only grew stronger. It had to have been Galtry. It just made sense. Didn’t it?

Beast Boy set his glass back down on the counter--and it was a good thing too, because if he had still been holding onto it when the doorbell rang, it definitely would have shattered on the floor.

Everything in the room went still for a moment. At the other end of the counter, Robin suddenly looked up from his phone, finishing off a bite of french toast. Cyborg had turned away from the TV, looking toward the door and then down at a screen on his arm in mild confusion.

“Uh...Well damn.”

“What is it?” Robin asked, already starting to get up to answer the door.

“I’m looking at the cam now,” Cyborg continued. “Whoever that was, they sure left in a hell of a hurry.”

Beast Boy tried to turn his attention to the TV again, and was able to do so with some effort. Above him, men and women wearing either red or blue aprons dashed around a kitchen at full speed. Pumpkins and fall leaves decorated the scene. A smiling scarecrow was pegged in the corner next to one woman’s prep station. At that moment, the host was asking a contestant about her pumpkin spice cinnamon rolls, which were already in the oven. It wasn’t the most creative approach to the challenge, but it was only the first round. So playing it safe was still acceptable.

Then the screen cut to commercial. Beast Boy looked back down at the counter, suddenly shoved back into reality. A reality that became all the more treacherous when he heard Robin returning--and heading his direction.

“Who was it?” Cyborg asked casually, turning back to the TV.

“I’m...not sure,” Robin said slowly. “But they left this. Beast Boy--”

“Huh?” Beast Boy nearly jumped, feeling Robin next to him now.

“It’s...for you.”

“Me? ”

Robin handed him a small card, which he took willingly despite himself. His name was unmistakably clear on the front flap. Well, not his name, but the name of someone he knew was supposed to be him. Galtry’s name wasn’t present, but it was clearly his handwriting--an elegant cursive Beast Boy had regrettably memorized by now. Even so, he had to squint to make out the words on the front of the card. He flipped it over. In slightly more legible text, there was a time and address. The lack of a date could only imply today.

“Any idea what it is?” Robin asked.

Beast Boy knew his curiosity was well warranted, but he froze under Robin’s expectant gaze.

“I mean....it kinda looks like an invitation or something,” Beast Boy said, trying to avoid eye contact. “But I’m not sure how we’re supposed to RSVP.” He managed a small, unconvincing laugh.

“Do you know who it’s from?” Robin continued, in the same awfully unassuming tone.

“No.” Beast Boy shrugged, pocketing the card. “I don’t.”

And that wasn’t technically a lie.

***

The forecast for the night showed more rain—this time enough to warrant a flood watch. Residents of certain parts of the city were advised to stay inside and avoid driving altogether.  Unfortunately, this didn’t apply to the restaurant they were to meet Galtry at. Of course it had been decided that Beast Boy wouldn’t be going alone, and for that he was grateful. In truth, he didn’t really want to go at all. But given the circumstances, Robin had decided the matter was ‘probably worth looking into.’ And Beast Boy knew better than to disagree.

In his room, Beast Boy knelt before a pile of clothes, rummaging through them without a clear goal. He didn’t know what he was going to wear--what he was supposed to wear for something like this. Probably something pretty nice if he was going off of Galtry’s handwriting alone.

Eventually, he came to the decision that the clothes on the floor were too wrinkled anyway. And when he couldn’t find anything reasonable in the closet, he turned to the dresser in desperation. He barely kept any clothes in there, but there had to be something . He yanked open the bottom drawer with some effort, finding nothing but a collection of mismatched socks, useless knick knacks--and a picture frame he’d intended to keep buried.

The picture was of course the same as it had been the last time he’d seen it. His own dark, disheveled hair contrasting with his mother’s blond waves. His father’s tight smile and focused gaze. When he was younger, people had always told him he ‘had his father’s eyes’. So dark they were nearly black. Beast Boy caught a flash of his reflection in the glass frame. His eyes were still quite dark, but in the light they betrayed a subtle green glint.

He frowned. With a new sense of purpose, Beast Boy got up, the frame tight in his grip as he turned his back on the mess surrounding him.

In the common room, he quickly found a small box of trinkets with ample space to house the frame. Using some discarded bubble wrap, he neatly repacked the picture, tucking it away next to some old books. Beast Boy glanced around the room, searching for something he could use to seal the box up for good. With a few carelessly ripped off pieces of packing tape, he folded the box shut and shoved it back with the rest of them.

And immediately afterward, a stream of guilt flooded over him.

One curse at a time, he ripped off more and more tape to finish off the rest of the packages before he changed his mind. With some effort, he pushed them into a neat pile at one end of the room. He would have to ask Dr. Galtry—whoever he was—to come have them picked up as soon as possible.

“What’re you doing?”

Beast Boy jumped slightly, taken off guard by the sound of someone’s voice. He took a breath to steady himself and turned around.

It was only Raven.

“Oh, uh, nothing,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “Just...cleaning.”

Raven simply raised an eyebrow in uninterested disbelief. She was standing next to the fridge with a can of ginger ale in one hand and a hefty book in the other. Neither of those things were particularly remarkable for Raven.

But what was strange was the way she was dressed. Opposed to her usual baggy sweaters and leggings, she was wearing jeans and a cardigan over a blouse he’d never seen before. It even looked like she might be wearing makeup. Real makeup that had clearly taken more effort than her everyday eyeliner.

“So I guess you heard about dinner tonight, right?” he asked only now realizing he was staring.  

“Yeah. Sucks for you guys,” Raven said plainly, taking a sip of her soda.

“What do you mean?” Beast Boy said, genuinely puzzled for a moment. “You ’re not coming with us?”

“I have...plans.”  

Beast Boy eyed the book in her hand. “Sitting in your room reading doesn’t count as plans.”

“ Real plans,” she said defiantly, tossing the now empty can in the recycling.

“Well you’ll have to reschedule,” another voice said suddenly, short and stern.

Beast Boy and Raven both turned around to find the rest of their friends approaching from the nearest hallway, Robin at the lead.

“I can’t,” Raven replied, her tone just as sharp and uncompromising.

But Robin didn’t budge. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, arms crossed against his chest. “But this is official Titans business, and you know what takes precedence. That’s all I’m gonna say about it.”

Raven frowned, but she didn’t put her book down. She merely stuffed it into her purse, which was much too small to properly contain it.

“Uh...car’s all ready out back,” Cyborg said, gesturing to the garage with some hesitation.

Raven sulked past them without a word, not even bothering to try and call shotgun.

The drive was awkward and uncomfortable. At least for Beast Boy.

At some point he realized Starfire was talking to him about the latest Netflix series she’d been binging. It was a clear effort to distract from the all consuming depressive aura of the back row. Beast Boy nodded at the appropriate moments, but couldn’t even remember the name of the show two minutes into the conversation.  

Raven didn’t look up from her book once during the entire trip. But it was obvious she was only pretending. Beast Boy couldn’t help but notice that she never once turned the page--and Raven was a fast reader. He didn’t mean to notice the slip of paper tucked between the pages--didn’t mean to see what was scribbled on it. The messy, half-cursive script was almost illegible, but it was clearly a reminder of some sort. A date, a place, a time--the last of which was circled aggressively in dark ink.  Beast Boy made a conscious effort to try and stare straight ahead. He didn’t want to be caught staring again. But of course, it was hard not to notice things like that when you were sitting right next to someone.

What plans did Raven have? ...Not that it mattered to him, of course. Whatever Raven did in her free time wasn’t any of his business, really. Even still, it was hard not to wonder what could be important enough to pull the world’s biggest introvert out of her room. In an actual put-together outfit no less. Then, for a brief moment, a disarming thought flitted through his mind. Hypothetically, in a world where Raven actually dated people, it would probably be safe to assume that she would never tell any of them about it. And why should she? But more importantly why should any of them care ? He didn’t.

Of course, the thought was utter nonsense to begin with. Raven had always made it abundantly clear that she had no interest in being in a relationship. Unless of course she’s been lying.  

Beast Boy began to feel a pit forming in his stomach for the millionth time that week. Just letting his mind wander as far as it had made him feel guilty--like he was prying into things that were none of his business. He tried to shift his train of thought to something-- anything --else beyond the uncomfortable terrain he’d stumbled into. And he didn’t know why it was so uncomfortable. Maybe it was because now he couldn’t stop thinking about the state of his own love life. At least Raven had the angsty brooding down pat. Any time he felt bad for himself--which was a little too often for his liking--he imagined he looked less like the lead singer of a pop punk band and more like a toddler who’d spilled their cheerios in the backseat of mom’s minivan. Right now he would have leaned up against the window and stared into the coming downpour like someone in an early 2000s music video...had he not been stuck in the middle seat again.

As they drove, Robin talked briefly of a ‘plan’ he’d been constructing in the event that things went south. Starfire and Cyborg seemed engaged enough, hyping themselves up for what they’d decided was going to either be a five star meal or an equally satisfying smackdown. But Beast Boy couldn’t find it in him to join them. Outside, the rain was picking up fast. The gray clouds above had brought on the night of their own accord, and even the thousands of city lights couldn’t entirely pierce through the darkness. Beast Boy slunk down further in his seat, sticking his hands deep in his pockets. In doing so, he realized abruptly that he had never actually changed clothes, and a familiar card was still tucked away in his pocket. Unfortunately, no amount of fiddling would make it disappear.

It was easy to recognize when they’d arrived at their destination. The traffic came to a complete stop, as cars—and even a limo or two—fought for a spot on the narrow strip of asphalt in front of the shimmering building before them. People poured out of the vehicles like liquid gold, as men in suits and women with designer handbags scrambled for the attention of the underpaid valet workers.

“Well this looks like...fun,” Cyborg said, hands gripping the wheel tighter, despite the utter standstill.

“I think we might be a little under dressed,” Robin said, peeking out the window and then down at his jeans and flannel. He sounded much less like a boy about to embarrass his family at the yacht club and much more like a detective who was going to blow his cover.

“Well I guess it’s too late for that now,” Cyborg said, automatically pulling up in line next to a man dressed in valet attire weilding a crisp black umbrella.

“Good evening, sir. May I have the name of your party?”

“Uh...” Cyborg hesitated.

Without thinking, Beast Boy reached for the card in his pocket. In a matter of seconds it had acquired some impressively deep folds and a slight tear in one corner, but it was still easily readable and recognizable. He leaned forward and silently passed it to the man like he’d been rehearsing the action for months.

The man’s eyes widened instantly. “Oh, of course. Dr. Galtry has been expecting you.”

A brief moment of silence hung in the air between them as Cyborg continued to grip the wheel.

Beast Boy stared straight ahead. The tension was palpable. For everyone else, the sound of Galtry’s name must have conjured some form of excitement. Good or bad. Some sense of progress in unearthing a mystery. For Beast Boy it only stirred up the guilt surrounding how much he’d withheld.

“If you would—“ the man said, clearing his throat slightly. He nodded toward the driver’s seat as he spoke. “I would be happy to take care of your vehicle.”

“I...uh,” Cyborg hesitated again, his hands gripping the steering wheel even tighter.

“That would be great, thanks,” Robin interjected from the other side. Cyborg shot him a quick look of doubt, but it was quickly followed by a sigh of resignation as he let go of the wheel.

From the safety of the covered curb, Beast Boy watched with his friends as the man stepped into the driver’s seat and fumbled for a moment with the controls.

“Be safe, baby,” Cyborg half whispered as the car disappeared into the fray. And despite all of the nerves clouding his mind, Beast Boy couldn’t help holding back a smile, patting his friend on the shoulder in consolation.

The inside of the restaurant was just as extravagant as the exterior suggested, even more so as the former had certainly been dulled by the weather. Immediately upon entering through the crystal double doors, Beast Boy found himself brushing shoulders with men and women who looked like attendees of a red carpet after party. The entire building—which was completely packed beyond any sense of personal space—was littered with dark wooden tables, velvet curtains, and chandeliers. Light bounced around the room off silver plates and platters carried around by elegantly dressed waitstaff. Even from the distance of the foyer, the scene was simultaneously beautiful and nauseating.

“The party for Dr. Galtry?” A young woman’s voice rang out from behind a tall podium in the corner of the entryway. “We have you in our private dining--” the woman started, pausing as she looked up to meet the group before her. Her eyes grew wide and a clearly unscripted smile came across her face. She had to be in her late teens or early twenties--and was one of the youngest people in the room.

“Sorry,” she said, the smile still on her face. Her brilliant emerald jewelry sparkled as she began to move. “Um...If you’ll just follow me right this way.”

Weaving through the tables turned out to be even more dizzying than just looking at them. And with every step, Beast Boy felt more and more like he was walking straight back into the cave of a hungry beast hoarding its jewels. When they finally came to a halt, it was in front of a large wooden door at the back end of the restaurant. Like the den of a sleeping dragon, this area of the restaurant boasted an even greater number of precious gems and wrinkle lines.

“Dr. Galtry will be waiting for you all inside,” the young woman said, nodding her head slightly.

An awkward beat of silence passed as she continued to stand there without turning to leave, her eyes darting down to her feet.

“Sorry, I know this is like, super unprofessional, and I know you guys are busy, but I was just wondering...if I could maybe get an autograph?” she said quietly, the words spilling out a million miles an hour. She was looking up now, and despite referring to the entire group, it was clear her attention rested on Starfire.

“Certainly!” Starfire smiled.

As if by magic, a small receipt notepad and chewed up pen had already appeared in the young woman’s hands.

“I love your bracelet by the way,” Starfire beamed, taking the pad of paper and beginning to doodle on it.

“Oh, this?” the girl laughed nervously. “Thanks. I mean, it’s nothing really.”

Starfire handed the paper back with a smile, the pad now feverishly adorned with hearts and stars surrounding her signature.

The young woman seemed to be beside herself with joy. She managed another clumsy string of thank yous before disappearing into the crowd again.

There was another long silence.

“I hate it here,” Raven said abruptly, shattering any lingering sentiments of the preceding interaction.

The look on Starfire’s face was more than enough of a response.

“I’m not talking about the girl,” Raven huffed.

Beast Boy looked around. It was true. The suspicious glares were more than enough to tell that the rest of the diners weren’t fans. Maybe coming here had been a mistake.

“Is it really--? Oh, yes, finally!”

Beast Boy blinked hard, a smooth but animated voice bringing him back into the room.

“I’m so glad that you all agreed to meet me here,” a man said, approaching them eagerly.

Suddenly everything seemed to blur. The motion of the restaurant became nothing more than a swirling backdrop of light. For the third time that night, Beast Boy caught himself staring. He looked just like his picture. Too perfect to be real--and yet there he was. Black hair, dark eyes, perfect smiling complexion. The only indicator of his age was the shadow of graying stubble around his chin--and even that looked somehow manicured and intentional. But he walked and talked and was standing right before them just like any other human being. It felt like being in a dream. Or a nightmare.  

“I’m so sorry. I had to step outside to make a phone call,” the man continued. “Galtry. Dr. Nicholas Galtry,” he said, proceeding to shake each of their hands with an unprecedented force. “Really, it is an honor meeting the rest of you.”

“The...rest of us?” Robin asked, wiping his palm on his pant leg.

The man stopped short, a look of pure bewilderment washing over his face. “Oh...don’t tell me you didn’t get my letter?” As he spoke, he turned to look at Beast Boy directly.

“So you’re the letter guy?” Cyborg said, with a somewhat forced laugh.

“I had hoped Garfield might at least mention my name,” Galtry said, slowly.

For a moment, Beast Boy felt the same sense of crippling guilt returning, coupled with the discomfort of hearing his ‘name’ spoken aloud by someone he didn’t know. Or didn’t know well . He was still deciding.

“Well, I’m sure you all must be tired, called out like this on such short notice,” Galtry continued. “Again, all of my apologies, but I just couldn’t wait any longer to speak to you. Here, let’s go inside, shall we?”

The private dining room certainly was private. Almost to the point of being soundproof, which Beast Boy found to be more of a concern than a comfort. Robin automatically sat the closest to Galtry, which was unsurprising but still a relief. Beat Boy opted for a spot in the middle of the long table, where he reasoned he would be least likely to garner extra attention from their host.

Just then, the door swung open again, and another member of the wait staff entered to pour water into the intricate crystal glasses before them. He then proceeded to take drink orders—a cherry coke for Beast Boy and pinot grigio for Dr. Galtry.

“So,” Galtry said, swirling his wine like he was on the cover of a food magazine. “I understand you all have been on Arsenal’s trail for some time now.”

The room went still. Until, of course, Robin eventually broke the silence.

“Arsenal?”

The question would have sounded redundant on anyone else’s lips. But Robin said it with such confidence that it was Galtry who looked embarrassed.

“Oh. Of course. I’m sorry. I had assumed you were familiar with them.”

As one waiter exited, two more replaced him, setting various cutting boards piled high with expensive cheeses and sausages down the center of the table. Galtry sliced a piece of smooth white cheese off the cutting board, spreading it on a piece of toast without even looking down. “They’ve been causing me trouble ever since I first got here.”

“You sound like you know ‘em,” Cyborg said, his eyes resting on Galtry as he skewered his own kebab of sausage rounds.

“Unfortunately,” Galtry grumbled, mostly to himself. “They’ve been after some research of mine for some time now. I don’t pretend to know why. I’m not sure they would even know what to do with it if they were to get a hold of it.”

“What exactly are you researching?” Robin asked tentatively.

Galtry looked up at him suddenly, an expression akin to embarrassment flashing once more across his face. He was clearly not the type of man accustomed to having to introduce himself.

“I’m sorry. I’m getting a bit ahead of myself, aren’t I?” he cleared his throat. “I haven’t even properly introduced myself. That’s what happens when you frequent limited social circles your entire adult life,” he said with a short laugh. “Right now I hold a position as Research Chair for the department of Genomics at the University of Pretoria. I primarily conduct research regarding the development of new gene therapy technologies.”

“Why would the genes need therapy?” Starfire asked, already on her second round of charcuterie.  

Galtry fought back a bemused smile. “It’s not literal. Though that would be something, wouldn’t it? It’s a type of medical procedure,” he explained. “The sort of thing that would help us treat genetic disorders like cystic fibrosis or even reverse the production of cancer cells. The details are a bit...complicated,” he said thoughtfully, looking into his glass.

“As for my being here in Jump City, I admit it’s a bit of a surprise even to me. The U.S. Northeastern Scientific Board regularly invites me to present my work at their annual symposium, which is usually held in Gotham. But I understand there’s been somewhat of a crime spike there recently. And criminals do love the smell of science they don’t understand,” he said with a sardonic smile.

“You’ll have to excuse me for being so blunt,” Robin interjected. “But what does this have to do with us exactly?”

“Well that's a simple question with a rather complicated answer,” Galtry said, a slight frown coming across his face. “The less complicated aspect has to do with Arsenal themself. When I learned that they had found some opposition after following me to the states, I knew I would have to meet with whoever was tracking them. Lucky for me it turns out you all are pretty famous around here.”

“Well I wouldn’t say famous ,” Cyborg said, barely pulling off airs of humility.  

The doors swung open a third time as if on cue, this time letting loose a small string of waiters, each steering a cart laden with different shapes and sizes of covered plates. One was placed in front of each person at the table with expert precision and lifted dramatically to reveal the contents. Beast Boy was more than surprised to find that his dish was completely different than everyone else’s—stuffed mushrooms that looked like they’d been specially prepared. He didn’t remember mentioning that he was a vegan, and had the harrowing thought that maybe he had reached a stage where people knew without asking.

“So how do you know Beast Boy?” Starfire asked, head tilting slightly to one side like a puppy.

It was the question Beast Boy had been dying to hear the answer to--though he knew he would have been incapable of asking it.

“Of course. That’s the other half of the matter. And a bit more complicated,” Galtry said, rubbing his hands together meditatively. “The simple answer is that I was a friend of his parents’. Back during their tenure at the University of Pretoria.” There was a soft smile on his face, but it didn’t seem to exude any kind of joy. “Small world, isn’t it?”

“But all of those artifacts...all of their belongings--you sent those?” Robin tried to clarify.

Galtry nodded. “After their unfortunate passing, I was designated Garfield’s legal guardian by the court that sorted their affairs. They were always very private people, and I was the closest acquaintance they had. Their son was supposed to inherit their entire fortune--the only problem being...well...no one knew where you were,” he said, looking directly at Beast Boy now. “Seeing as you had still been under close medical watch at the time of your disappearance, it was the general belief that you had died somewhere in the jungle shortly afterward. But because there was never any actual proof of that being the case, the money was never dispersed by the government or anyone else. Instead it’s in a bit of a state of limbo held by those same officials—where it’s been utterly useless given the circumstances.”

Galtry looked down at the table, shaking his head. “I had just about given up hopes of ever finding Garfield—you wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to find someone once they’ve essentially erased their given name from their identity. Even through legal means. Surprisingly, the small detail of him being green didn’t help very much either,” Galtry said with a small laugh. “I only recently learned it was even an aspect of his...condition. The side effect hadn’t quite developed completely before he disappeared.”

Galtry spoke to his friends as if this was knowledge Beast Boy had always possessed and merely neglected to share with them, which, as far as he knew, was not the case. Though the historic tirade made him wonder just how much of his life he had forced himself to forget.  

Galtry shook his head once more. “There were always flitting rumors of what had really happened to the Logans’ son, but I was always too stubborn to believe them.” A small ironic smile crept over his face as he looked directly at Beast Boy. “You have to understand. I’ve dedicated my entire life to the sciences. And, quite frankly, your very existence seems to defy its most basic principles.”

The silence that followed was unlike any other that had filled the air that night. There was a certain quality to it that went beyond discomfort. Beast Boy felt himself instinctively clench the sides of his chair as he struggled to keep his expression neutral. Galtry’s words felt eerily like a compliment, and somehow that made things worse.

Robin cleared his throat suddenly, making a point to stand from his seat. “Thanks for the meal, it was really delicious. But this is all a lot to take in. We’ll need a little more time as a team to consider whether or not we can help you.”

“I completely understand,” Galtry said with a smile. “Especially considering we’ve only just met.” He folded his hands in front of him, like a compassionate leader about to make a compromise with some of his disheveled citizens. “If you all would like to know more about what it is I do, I would be more than happy to show you around my lab this weekend. Perhaps a better understanding of my work would convince you?”

“We’ll have to think about it,” Robin repeated in the same definitive tone.

“Of course,” Galtry said automatically. As if this were a dance he’d done many times before. “Here,” he rose from his seat. “For now the least I can do is see you off.”

The man known to them as Nicholas Galtry made his way through the door, exiting the restaurant the way they’d come in. But this time, Beast Boy noticed that it wasn’t the green skin and glowing eyes or robotic arms and legs that captured everyone’s attention. It was Galtry. The doors were opened for them as if on cue, valets and restaurant staff trailing behind them without Galtry so much as lifting a finger. When they got to the outside of the restaurant, Cyborg’s car was already there, running and ready to go.

“I could really use your help,” Galtry said, passing the keys from the valet’s hand to Cyborg’s. “I hope I’ll be hearing from you soon.”  

The second they were in the car, the doors shut tight behind them and a quiet voice broke the heavy silence.

“Did I mention I hate it here?” Raven mumbled, the first words she’d said since they’d met Galtry. The only words she’d said all night.

Beast Boy didn’t say it, but he had been thinking the same thing. Though maybe hate wasn’t the right word. Not exactly.

He turned to look out the back seat window, and watched as Galtry watched them drive away.

[eirian-houpe]

Darkness Falls On Hyperion Heights - Chapter 1

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings<br />Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold

Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin|Detective Weaver, Wishverse Captain Hook | Detective Rogers

Additional Tags: Angst, Supernatural Elements, Hyperion Heights (Once Upon a Time), UST, Smut

Summary: When Librarian and Scholar Belle French arrives in Hyperion Heights in search of an artifact stolen from the British Museum and to enlist the help of Detective Weaver in that search, events in the Heights go from mildly intruiging to dangerously terrifying. Can Belle and Detective Weaver find the truth before time runs out?

Chapter 1 - The Coming of the Storm

Thunder rolled overhead and Detective Weaver turned up the collar of his jacket against the rain. They were huge, fat, tepid globules that fell from a slate gray sky that was fast becoming almost black, and not yet the sheet of water that was promised in the weather forecast. Weaver knew that - as they would have said in his native Glasgow - it was in the post.

He took a long, lasting look along the street opposite to Roni’s Bar. Daytime drinking for the next few days, if he wanted to be social, which was rare. He was on the late shift, six till two, not that he ever really stopped working. One thing about Weaver above all else, he was always on the go - always watching.

With a sigh he turned and hurried into the forty-second precinct building, where he almost immediately bumped into his partner. Rogers appeared to have been waiting for him, pacing the foyer for some time, judging by the look of relief that came over the desk sergeant’s face, and the way Rogers’ shoulders slumped as he sighed when he set eyes on Weaver.

“You do know what time it is, right?” Rogers said by way of greeting.

Weaver glanced at the clock. “Had to call in and see a guy before coming in,” he said absently

“One of your CIs?” Rogers asked.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but… yes.”

“Of course it’s my business. I’m your bloody partner!”

“Then start behaving like one instead of my mother.” Weaver retorted. The day was not getting off to a good start.

“There’s someone waiting for you, in our office,” Rogers said.

“So you’re out here,” he emphasized his words with cutting motions of his hands, “instead of in there talking to them… why?”

“Because she didn’t want to talk to me. She was polite enough about it, but made it pretty obvious that she would only talk to you.” Rogers answered. “Said she came straight from the airport, and judging from the number of suitcases we had to stow in the interview room, plans on staying quite a while.”

Weaver sighed, and shaking his head said, “All right. I’ll see what she wants,” he began to head toward his office, then shot back over his shoulder, “Mean time, Rogers, how about some coffee? It’s fuckin’ miserable out there.”

He ignored Rogers’ huff and headed into his office, snatching up a file from the basket on the door and flipping it open as he went through the doorway without raising his eyes from the paperwork.

“Detective Weaver?”

It was the accent that struck him first, and drew his eyes up from the file. Then, the breath went out of him in a rush. He couldn’t have said what he expected, but she wasn’t it. She was dressed in a golden yellow, floral patterned dress, which fit the curves of her body perfectly, and flared at the waist - he noted as she stood up to offer him a handshake - to fall loosely about her thighs to just above her knees. The dress was sleeveless, and probably afforded little protection from the chill that had settled in with the storm.

Remembering himself a moment later, he flipped the file closed and took her hand in his to accept the handshake. He hadn’t been wrong about the dress.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It seems as though my partner neglected to tell me your name, Miss?”

“French,” she answered, not taking her chilled hand from the warmth of his. “Belle French.”

“Well, Miss French, please don’t keep standing on my account.” He dropped the file into the tray on his desk, and turned toward the door. “I can get you some cof—.”

“Actually, I’d prefer tea,” she interrupted adding somewhat bashfully as he turned back to look at her, “if you have it.”

“O’ course,” he said, and sticking his head around the office door he fixed the nearest uniform with a baleful stare and ordered. “You, find Rogers’ and get him to bring a tea along with my coffee.” He was about to head back into the office when a thought occurred to him, and he added, “And tell him from me, none of that shite he fob the suspects off with either. Something halfway decent. Go over to Roni’s if he has to.”

The startled young officer nodded, with a half terrified expression on his face, and scurried away to do as he was told, even before Weaver ducked back inside the office.

“You certainly have a way with words, Detective,” Miss French said as he returned to his desk.

“So I’m told,” he answered, settling himself into his chair, leaning back slightly to once more take in the small brunette in front of him, unable to ignore her obvious beauty, and seemingly having a hard time not to be affected by it as well. He cleared his throat after a while and asked, “So, what brings you to Hyperion Heights?”

He watched as Miss French picked up a leather satchel he hadn’t noticed, set it on her lap, and rummaged around in it for a moment. Then, she handed him a photograph.

He looked down at its glossy surface, taking in what looked like a large black arrowhead, laid on a piece of cloth next to a measuring tape. Its length from tip to the chipped butt end was five inches long. The surface of it seemed to shimmer, to ripple in a way that made him feel deeply uncomfortable for no reason he could put his finger on. Still, he wasn’t sure why what was obviously an archaeological artifact, had anything to do with him.  

“Very nice, Miss French,” he said, handing back the photograph, glad to be rid of it, and forced himself to resist the urge to wipe his hand on his jeans. “But I don’t see what this has to do with the Hyperion Heights Police Department.”

“It’s not, Detective Weaver,” she said by way of an answer. “It’s not very nice at all. Most people that have been in its presence are profoundly disturbed by it… and it’s been stolen.”

“Stolen,” Weaver echoed at just the moment that the junior officer brought in a tray with two steaming mugs, a little jug of milk and a small bowl of sugar with a spoon stuck into it. He nodded to the young officer, and then gestured to the tray of beverages set down on the table. “Help yourself,” he said to Miss French. Then waited while she poured a drop of Milk into her tea. Only once they both had their drinks, and she had wrapped her hands around the mug in a way he found strangely endearing, did he prompted her to go on.

“Yes,” she said, confirming the object in question had been stolen. “From the British Museum. I work there.”

“Then surely the police department you should be informing of the theft is the London Metropolitan,” he suggested, “Not a force half way across the world.”  He stopped as she shook her head.

“They weren’t interested,” she said.

“So, what, you thought you’d go chasing after it by yourself?” he found he was holding his breath.

“Detective Weaver,” she began, and he thought she sounded as though she was being overly patient with him. “The missing item is priceless. An ancient artifact of enormous archaeological and anthropological significance, and despite its… reputation,” he cocked an eyebrow at that but she continued unperturbed, “I could not let the theft go without investigation.” She pulled a journal of some sort out of the same satchel as before, that she still cradled on her lap, and set it on top of his desk beside the photograph. It was obviously well used, many of the pages had been turned time and time again, and in places cuttings almost spilled from the book where their folding had become less than perfect. “So yes,” she went on, and sounded irritated, “I went ‘chasing after it,’ as you so eloquently put it. I have spent months and months investigating numerous dead ends and some more promising leads that have left me with more questions than answers.”

“So why here?” he asked. “Why me?”

“Because those investigations led me to this little neighborhood of yours,” she said. “And you, sir, like the artifact in question, have a rather large… reputation, which most certainly precedes you.”

**

It had taken perhaps another thirty or forty minutes to persuade Detective Weaver to agree to look into the case and to provide her with whatever help, whatever leads he uncovered, but Belle wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t going to hold her breath.

He talked a good talk, but something within her knew that he had no intention of walking the walk to go along with it.

Belle rubbed her eyes with a sigh, and looked around at the hotel room she was in. It was basic at best, but at least it was clean. She could have looked further afield for a better hotel, closer in to Seattle’s city center for example, but she didn’t want to be so far from where the trail had led her, and so had settled for the only hotel that was available in Hyperion Heights itself.

She sat down on the side of the bed, and then, as she was wont to do lay back and curled up on her side and pulled out the notebook from the satchel that she had set beside the bed, along with a pen. She opened the journal to the next blank page - and noted that she would soon need to purchase a new journal - and began to chronicle her meeting with Detective Weaver; her impressions of him, and the next steps she might have to take in search of the stolen head of the Spear of Camlann.

It had been a complete accident of fate that had brought her to Hyperion Heights. For almost six months, no matter what avenue of investigation she pursued, the trail had gone cold and she began to think she would never be able to find the missing artifact. Then, while cataloging the Dark Ages exhibits and texts, she came upon a truly obscure version of the Arthuriad of which, in all her years as a scholar and archaeologist, she had never previously been aware.

To be certain that she hadn’t taken herself off on a fool’s errand, she peered again at the badly reproduced photograph that showed the text. It was written in the English of the Dark Ages, and the hand that had set down the account was spidery at best, and in places took many moments to read the intended words, even though she had already written a rudimentary translation in the later pages of her journal.

Swá fæder ond dóc dyde beadu æt gefilde Camlann, se táhspura Caliburn áhniend clēafan wiðinnan bodiġ Mordredh, swá héafod ahyfend gardena wiðinnan Brytenwealda…

Belle stopped squinting at the photograph, setting it down as she sat up and reached for the note book in which she kept all of her findings and flipped to the page on which she had written her translation, and beneath, her more detailed thoughts on what she had read.

Anyone that knew the Legend of King Arthur, in any one of its many forms and re-tellings knew of the rivalry that grew between father and son even after they were partially reconciled against Morded’s mother - Arthur’s sister, or half-sister in some versions - knew that both the King and the pretender had been mortally wounded on the field of Camlann. Before she had discovered this text, however, Belle - and she suspected few others - had known of the damage wrought to each of the weapons involved in the final battle, nor that the tip of each had lodged with the bodies of the two men. Nor did many know that each had been removed and preserved. Belle had known nothing if it until she had unearthed the fragile pages in the archive of the British Museum, apparently as forgotten as the artifact itself.

She flipped the page of the book to the next page, on which she had reproduced and translated the words on the page which spoke of the anguish of the author as he documented his dismay at having to bind the woman he had loved to the blade he had made of the broken portion of the sword of legend…

“In order to contain the darkness wrought inside of her,” she murmured, reading aloud the words she had written, letting her thoughts go as she did. “Never shall I forgive myself for my lack of foresight which allowed this - which I allowed. I can only hope that my intervention is in time, and that the balance of its power, in the tip of the Spear is enough.”

It was far fetched at best. She was not a superstitious person, and certainly had cause enough throughout her life to abandon childish games, belief in Santa Claus, fairies, and the existence of magic, for good or evil at an early age. However, something about this account, and about the chain of access that showed who had viewed this document, when and where, had somehow made a believer out of her. Investigating living persons was, after all, a far easier undertaking than piecing together the events of something over 1500 years ago.

Turning the page once more, she stared at the drawing she had made - a copy from the pages she had studied - of a dagger with a wave edged blade, highly decorative along its length, beside and around the etching of a name, which as she looked, she could have sworn the letters swam, wavered and changed.

[shireness-says]

Another Page

Summary: Belle doesn’t go looking for love, but that doesn’t stop love from finding her. A 5B Divergence ‘verse snippet. Rated G. ~3.7K. Also on AO3. 

~~~~~

A/N: I’m back! Remember when I threatened to pair Belle up with someone plucked from literature? This is that fic. I just really want her to get a happy ending, okay? 

Super thanks to @snidgetsafan for helping me come up with this and plot it, and then beta-ing last minute. Seriously, she’s the best. 

Tagging the interested parties/those I’ve been whining to: @thejollyroger-writer, @spartanguard, @phiralovesloki, @profdanglaisstuff, @optomisticgirl, @ohmightydevviepuu, @thisonesatellite, @let-it-raines, @scientificapricot, @aerica13, @welllpthisishappening, @kmomof4, @snowbellewells, @searchingwardrobes, @teamhook, @winterbaby89, @katie-dub. I’ve probably missed folks, but I don’t even remember my own tag list anymore. 

Enjoy - and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

The unfortunate truth is that it was probably always going to come to this - Rumple waging war on Storybrooke. Today, Belle and her unborn son are just an excuse.

That doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel guilty that other people have been dragged into it.

She barely even knows the man who has been asked to guard her inside the library as David and Robin hold down the proverbial fort outside and Killian, Emma, and Regina face Rumple elsewhere. Well, at least she barely knows him personally; his literary reputation, small as it is, has preceded him. 

Colonel James Fitzwilliam, commonly called Fitz. Young, courteous, and handsome (or so she’d say if she were looking, and didn’t have a million other concerns on her mind). She knows he arrived with the rest of the inhabitants of the Land of Untold Stories almost 2 months ago now, doing his best to keep all his compatriots organized and calm amongst the chaos of their arrival (Rumple’s doing, of course, and Belle should have seen it earlier as the distraction tactic it had been). All he’d offered as his reason for stranding himself in the Land of Untold Stories was a desire to escape all the expectations his family had placed upon him; Belle supposes she can understand that. Whatever the case, he seems… honorable. Level-headed. Capable of endearing himself even to Emma and David, enough for them to recruit him into their fledgling sheriff’s department and assign him to watch over Belle as her ex-husband does his best to tear the world apart outside to try and seize her back into his grasp and control. 

“I really am sorry,” Belle says softly, and not for the first time. 

“I can’t imagine why,” Fitz says mildly as he peers out the front windows. Things are blessedly quiet here for now, but that will undoubtedly change at any moment. 

“This is all my fault.”

Fitz turns back to face Belle. “Perhaps I’m mistaken - I was under the impression that the Dark One was responsible for this current…  tension, shall we say.” It’s kind of him not to say attack, even if that’s a more accurate word; she could do without that particular reminder. “Are you actually the rampaging maniac I’ve been warned about? Because if so - I must say, madam, that your rampaging needs work.”

He says it lightly, as a joke, but Belle has trouble finding the humor in it. “The maniac wouldn’t be, as you say, rampaging if it weren’t for me. He’s doing this because he thinks he can steal me back.”

“That may be so,” Fitz shrugs, “but from everything I’ve heard, he would have found another reason to strike. The only difference would have been your compromised safety, and I can’t believe that you believe you deserve that. Let alone your child.”

“But maybe if I hadn’t been so willfully blind - if I hadn’t been so quick to trust that he’d changed — ”

“There’s no use fixating on such things,” he tells her firmly. “Maybe things would have been different; maybe they wouldn’t have. But you wouldn’t have your child if things didn’t happen the way they did, and I have to believe that your son or daughter will be a bright spot to come from all of this.”

“Son.” Fitz’s brow wrinkles in confusion at Belle’s declaration, and she abruptly remembers that he’s still so new to the Land Without Magic that he doesn’t know yet of all its new technological capabilities. “There are machines now that can tell before the baby is even born. It’s a boy.”

“That’s wonderful,” he smiles. “This realm will never cease to amaze me, I’m sure of it.”

“It is wonderful.” Inside her belly, the baby moves and kicks, as if he knows they’re discussing him. 

Fitz gentles his tone for a moment. “You deserve that, Ms. French. Every bit of happiness that little boy will bring to your life. I know this is all a mess, but he came from it too, and no one blames you for a moment. You shouldn’t blame yourself either.”

Belle blinks back tears at his kindness, choosing to focus on the easiest bit of it. “You know, after all this, I think you should call me Belle.”

“Belle, then,” he smiles. “Well, Belle, I think this will all be over soon, and you’ll have so many good things ahead of you.”

“I hope you’re right.”

——— 

All things considered, it’s a very good day. 

Sure, bits of her body she didn’t know were capable of pain are sore, and no one has ever claimed that hospital beds are comfortable, but Belle has a son now. And he’s perfect. 

Her greatest fear in all of this has been the prospect of having to do it all alone, but if the last hours are any indication, that’s not something she has to worry about. The people of Storybrooke had seemed determined to collect her and her son into the fold, starting with Emma and Ruby holding her hands throughout and a parade of friends (who just might be family now) coming to check on Belle and meet little Gideon. 

(It’s a little fanciful, she knows, to name the baby after one of her favorite books, but Belle has room for a little fanciful in her life. Besides, she’s determined that her son be all the “handsome hero” that she needs.)

Of all the people she expected to drop by, however, James Fitzwilliam isn’t one of them. He looks very out of place in the hospital - this tall, solid man, who shuffles his feet as if he’s not sure how to act in this setting. 

“I’m sorry to intrude,” he hazards, but Belle waves him off with a cautious smile.

“You’re not intruding at all,” she assures him. “There’s been several visitors today. It’s rather nice, actually.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he smiles back, before thrusting a bouquet towards her. “These are for you.”

Belle thumbs at the soft yellow petals, delicately. “Daisies,” she murmurs.

“Sheriff Swan’s son seemed determined that roses would be a bad idea. These looked… cheerful.”

“They are, thank you.” Bless Henry for his advice; roses are still tainted for her, at least for the moment.

“I take it this is the little one?” Fitz asks, nodding towards the cradle at the side of her bed. Her son lies inside, happily asleep, lips making little sucking motions in slumber.

“Yeah, that’s him. Gideon.” Belle can hear the soft awe in her own voice, but finds no reason to temper it. 

Fitz bends over the cradle for a closer look. “He’s a handsome lad,” he decrees with a wide smile. “I see a lot of you in his features. You must be very proud.”

“I am. Thank you.” Truthfully, she sees a lot more of Rumple in her son, but they’re comforting words to hear all the same. Gideon will grow to look like his own person in time, anyways. 

“I know you must be tired,” Fitz says, “but I wanted to drop by, just for a brief moment, to congratulate you. Especially after our little adventure holed up in the library,” he winks. “You’ll let me know if you need anything?” 

Belle nods, and Fitz nods back, almost like a nervous tic.

“Good. Well then, I’ll be…” he jerks his head towards the door. 

“Thank you for stopping by,” Belle offers. This has been a bit of an odd visit, but cheering, somehow. 

“Of course.” Fitz is nearly out the door before he turns back around to say one last thing. “I’m happy for you, Belle. No one deserves this more than you do.”

And then he’s gone.

(The flowers don’t last forever, of course, but Belle takes care to press one between the pages of a book to preserve it just a little bit longer.)

———

Belle has never been much for "going out", whether by circumstance, inclination, or lack of invitation. It seems like she's been rushing, rushing, rushing, ever since she first stepped out of the asylum beneath Storybrooke Hospital and into the town proper. There's been monsters and demons and death and criss-crossing the realms and a baby, of all things, but little to no going out. Belle could probably count the instances on one hand.

But there's high reason to celebrate this time. Emma is finally getting married, after all, and Ruby has arranged a bachelorette party. Belle is a little wary about any Ruby-planned event, but at the same time, she's excited. It'll be nice to have a little break, to experience the concept of a "girl's night" for herself.

It's less clear how she ends up asking Fitz to babysit. Truthfully, it would have made more sense to leave Gideon with Killian and Charlie, or David and the rest of the Charming brood, or even with Granny. Gideon is so very fond of the colonel-turned-deputy sheriff, however, which is probably why Belle finds herself asking the favor without any prior thought.

(She's rather fond of him herself, she must admit. In the past few years, their acquaintance has strengthened into a strong friendship, built upon morning breakfasts at Granny's and his easy willingness to assist at the library whenever she needs and quiet movie nights in her apartment below the clock tower when she just needs some low-key adult company. Fitz is always there, with his easy going smile and his gentle sense of humor, happy to help and never asking more of her than she can give.)

(More and more lately, she's found a new kind of excitement and nerves brewing whenever Fitz is around, but Belle is doing her best to ignore those feelings.)

"I'm sure you must be busy on a Saturday night, and I know it's a lot to ask - it's perfectly fine if you say no -" she'd rambled, but Fitz had cut her off with a gentle hand on her arm and a warm smile.

"It's really not a problem," he'd assured her. "I'd be happy to watch the boy."

Sure enough, Gideon had squealed with glee and rushed across the room with all the boundless energy a boy just shy of two years old can possess as Fitz had appeared in the doorway. His giggles had filled the room and warmed Belle's heart as Fitz had swept her son up into the air and upside down. 

"Go have fun," he'd said. "We'll be fine here."

And she does have fun. There's dancing, and drinking - so much drinking - and plenty of laughter. Belle just might like this going out business; she's certainly not opposed to a repeat sometime, if they can arrange it with all of their wild schedules. There'd been passing concerns throughout the night about how Gideon is doing, but she trusts Fitz with her son. She's sure they're having a lovely time, and Gideon is long since sound asleep. 

She expects a quiet home after climbing the stairs to the little flat above the library - which is more treacherous than usual with her balance compromised by the combination of a variety of brightly colored drinks with ridiculous names and high heels - and she's not surprised to find it. What's more surprising is to see both Fitz and Gideon curled up on the couch with the tv playing softly in the background, her son plastered to the older man's side. 

It's such a simple, domestic little thing, to see how comfortable Gideon is with Fitz; it shouldn't affect her the way it does. Gideon is a trusting child, anyways, by some miracle of fate, immediately everyone's best friend. What really melts her heart is to see the protective arm Fitz has slung around his waist and the soft smile he wears, even in sleep. He's happy to be here, just existing with her son in the heart of their domain. It's jarring in the best way, near revolutionary. 

She loves him, she realizes in that moment - loves the way he's always there in his unobtrusive matter, that he fits into the little family unit that she and Gideon comprise. The problem is that a friend can do those things too, and even if Belle knows her own feelings, she can't speak for his, and her heart is still too fragile to try.

She tries to pry Gideon out of Fitz's arms as gently as she can to properly put him to bed, but Fitz wakes up anyways as his arm falls away.

"Sorry, darling, we got a little caught up in a movie," he whispers with a sheepish smile. Belle tries to ignore the way her pulse picks up at the little endearment, though she can’t help but sway - a combination of her drunkenness and a sudden surge of emotion. Fitz’s hand quickly flies out to brace and steady her, pulling himself to a sitting position as he does so. "Do you need any help?"

"That's alright, I've got him." By some miracle, her whisper doesn't shake as it trickles out. "Thanks for doing this."

"It was my pleasure, truly," he assures her, prying himself off the couch. 

They stand for a quiet moment, just staring at each other. Can he feel this same tension, these same feelings? She's not nearly bold enough to ask; maybe he can just see it in her eyes.

But no such luck. "I'll let you get to bed then," he says to break the silence. "I'll see you tomorrow? A late breakfast, perhaps?"

"Tomorrow," she agrees. "Goodnight, Fitz."

"Goodnight, Belle."

Even if he doesn't live here, the apartment feels emptier without him in it. 

——— 

Fitz comes by every morning to help Belle with the outdoor book drop, rain or shine, 8:30 AM, unless he’s ill or caught up with some kind of inescapable deputy business. He’d started after Gideon was born, when it seemed like half the town had taken a turn helping her out at the library when she was exhausted with her newborn and still couldn’t lift any weight. Nearly four years later now, it’s their routine, and if pressed, Belle will admit that she treasures these minutes they share each morning, retrieving books, checking them back in, and sorting them back out at the circulation desk. If he has time, Fitz often even stays to help shelve them.

(There’s something especially touching about the way he so carefully handles each volume every step of the way, especially knowing that he’s not much of a reader.)

Belle needs his help more when the weather is accommodating, but she loves watching him on sunny days like this, where the early sun shines in his hair like burnished gold. He’d cut his hair a couple of years back, and as fitting as the short ponytail at the nape of his neck had seemed, he’s impossibly handsome with his hair cropped short at the sides and just long enough to bounce and swoop at the top. 

(She’s got it bad, truly, and none of the bravery required to act on it.)

Maybe the sun on his hair hypnotized her. Or she finally just burst with feelings in a display of foolishness. Whatever the case, even as Belle feels like she’s watching a car crash in slow motion, she can’t stop her mouth from blurting out words like some terrible word vomit.

“Ruby thinks I should start dating,” she declares suddenly. Like that was even remotely a thing she planned on saying.

(It is the truth, at least; Ruby does think she should start dating. The fact that Ruby thinks she should start dating Fitz is the real crux of the issue at hand.)

Maybe anyone else would miss the way that Fitz stutters for a moment, his entire body freezing up before he continues unloading books. Then again, Belle isn’t most people, and she’s almost painfully aware of his every breath and movement after nearly five years spent dancing around one another.  It gives her a bit of hope, that maybe she isn’t quite so alone in this pining. “And what do you want, Belle?”

She shrugs casually before reaching in beside him, their arms brushing along the way. “I’m not really sure, truthfully. Gideon and I have always been fine by ourselves.”

“But?” 

“It would be nice, wouldn’t it? To have someone to care for me like that,” she replies wistfully. “It’s easy to feel a little lonely, when everyone else around here seems to have found their true love, their person.” Are you my person? Would you ever want to be?

“You’re not alone, you know.” Fitz’s voice is almost too casual, like he’s trying to conceal something else. 

“I know.” She lines the books up neatly on the cart as an excuse not to meet Fitz’s eyes, spines facing upwards. “I’ve never really done it before, though. Dating. Or even really proper courting like we might have done in the other realms. There was nothing really ordinary about what happened between Rumplestiltskin and I. There was a little in between when Rumple was banished beyond the borders, and I tried to move on, but… Will was never properly much for dating. A quick drink and kissing behind the bar? Yes. Courtship? No. Maybe it’s foolish, but I’d like to at least try. Be taken to dinner and pampered a little. I think I deserve that.”

“You do,” Fitz tells her gently, prying her hands away from where they’ve been nervously alphabetizing. “And it’s not foolish.”

“I don’t know that anything will come of it,” she says, blushing in the face of his compliments. “I’m a bookish single mother with enough baggage for a world tour. That may be too much for many men.”

“But you do want this? Dating? That’s a step you’re ready to take?”

Belle inhales, gathering her courage in a great breath before nodding. “I do.”

Fitz visibly swallows, as if he’s got his own nerves. Still, he squeezes her hands where they’re still clasped in his. “Then I’d like to be the first to take you to dinner. If you like.”

Belle can feel a smile start to spread across her face, her eyes crinkling as her mouth catches up. “You’d want that? Truly? Not just to be kind?”

“Truly,” he nods. “And very much. I’ve been terribly smitten with you for a long time, Belle, but I never wanted to overstep my bounds. I didn’t want to be some pushy bastard so soon after everything he did.”

He doesn’t need speaking. It’s terribly considerate of Fitz, and maybe even necessary. After all, it brought them here.

“Would it be horribly forward of me to kiss you?” Belle murmurs, stepping further into his space as happy, anticipatory butterflies take flight in her stomach. 

“Maybe,” he smiles back. “But I say we make our own rules.” 

“Then I’d very much like to kiss you.”

(And reader - she does.)

———

“Darling, could you spare a minute?” Fitz calls from the bedroom. “This tie is giving me trouble.”

It’s such a simple domestic request, but it still sends little flutters of happiness through Belle’s veins. Even after three years together, and four years before that as friends, Fitz is still ever inch the gentleman in every way. Loving him is warm, and gentle, and comforting. Loving him is home, in a way she hadn’t realized was possible.

Home these days, at least in the physical sense, is no longer the little apartment above the library, but a cheery yellow bungalow on a quiet street lined with lush trees. It’s a good place for Gideon to grow up, with a peaceful backyard and kids just next door right around his age, but it’s a perfect space for the three of them to grow, too - her, Gideon and Fitz. There’s space for a small study lined with bookshelves, and a spacious bedroom for a young boy to make his own, and a bright kitchen for family meals - not to mention, a master bedroom far enough removed from young ears at the top of the house in a converted attic space.

Climbing those stairs now, she finds Fitz fiddling with his necktie in the full length mirror they keep along one wall. It doesn’t look like he’s struggling that much with the garment, but it is lovely to see the way he practically lights up when she walks to him. 

“Now I know you’ve had to deal with much more complicated neckties than this,” she scolds lightly, reaching for the silk ends. “You just wanted to see me.” 

“Guilty as charged,” he admits with a smile. “But can you blame a man for wanting to see his wife, especially when she looks so beautiful?”

(That’s a welcome change, too - a ring and a white dress and so many other promises that she’s confident, finally, will be honored as a personal gospel.)

“Kiss-up.” Still, she blushes. 

“Just honest.” He leans in to softly kiss her forehead, perfectly in reach with Belle lifted up on high heels. 

“Nervous?” she asks, pulling the last loop of fabric through and down.

Fitz shrugs. “Not particularly. It’s just a formality, really. Why, do you think I should be?”

“Not at all,” she smiles back, tweaking his lapels for good measure.

And he shouldn’t be. Because this really is a formality; just a piece of paper. Fitz has been Gideon’s dad for years, happily, and both her boys had been ecstatic when she suggested they make it official. Today is just the day that a judge makes it official, with a small party with their friends to follow. 

“I love you,” Belle murmurs. It’s still wonderful even to say the words - a warmth and a peace that suffuses her entire soul.

“And I love you,” Fitz echoes back, leaning down for a brief kiss. It’s not anything particularly involved, but that’s nice in it’s own way - comforting, a promise that there will always be time for more and later and anything they want. 

It has to be short, too, because Belle can already hear feet pounding up the stairs. “Are you ready yet?” Gideon demands. His soft brown hair has somehow been tamed into submission, and she’d wrestled him into a nice shirt just before Fitz had called her upstairs. 

“We’ll be down in just a moment, bud,” Fitz tells their son. “Go ahead and wait by the door, we’re right behind you.”

As the footsteps rush back down the stairs, he offers her a chivalrous arm. “Shall we, darling?” 

“We shall.”

The rest of their life is waiting, after all. 

[nauseateddrive]

SUSPENDED by Alan Swyer

About to head off to conduct an interview, Pete Tarcher winced when a call came from his soon-to-be ex-. “How busy are you?” Suzanne asked before Tarcher even had a chance to say hello.

“Very. I've got a crew meeting me in Burbank.”

“Tell 'em you need to reschedule.”

“Because?”

“Jeremy's about to be suspended from school.”

“Let me call you from the car.”

Driving west toward Santa Monica, Tarcher listened uncomfortably via Bluetooth while Suzanne briefed him about their son's predicament. Then he asked an even more uncomfortable question. “Sure he wants me involved?”

“He thinks the world of you.”

“Sure has a funny way of showing it.”

“Kids take sides when their parents are going through divorce. Plus –”

“Yeah?”

“How'd you get on with your Dad when you were that age?”

“How well do he and I get on today?”

“I rest my case,” replied Suzanne.

After hanging up, Tarcher found himself contemplating the ways in which he and his son were different yet had much in common. Whereas Tarcher, proud of his New Jersey roots, was willfully outspoken and, when necessary, eager to get in someone's face, Jeremy was very much SoCal: soft-spoken with a winning kind of shyness, except when playing baseball, where he was a smiling assassin.

It was athletics that had long served as the primary bond between father and son, with Tarcher spending countless hours mentoring Jeremy in sport after sport. Though soccer, basketball, and football were part of his early years, it was always baseball that took precedence. Initially that meant Tarcher playing catch before school, pitching Wiffle balls to Jeremy in the backyard, and hitting ground balls to him at different parks. Once Jeremy turned nine, frequent trips to a local batting cage known as Slamo were added.

It was at Slamo where Jeremy, whose classmates, post-Little League, embraced computer games rather than team sports, formed friendships with kids who shared his zeal. That in turn opened the door to travel teams. The ensuing tournaments, first across Southern California, then farther away as well, often requited overnight stays, intensifying the ties between father and son.

Upon entering high school, Jeremy promptly had an experience that mirrored one from Tarcher's youth. While getting ready for fall baseball practice on a Tuesday afternoon, Jeremy was confronted by two vatos who were in the process of shaking him down when into the locker room stepped Junior Hernandez, co-captain of the team by day and reputed gang member.

“What the fuck you doin'?” screamed Junior when he saw what was happening.

“Be cool,” replied one of the toughs. “The motherfucker's white.”

“White or not, he's my teammate!” snarled Junior, ready to do some serious ass-kicking.

That, in a different sport was a reenactment of what happened to Tarcher, whose savior was Victor Washington, captain of the basketball team and heavyweight Golden Gloves boxing champ of New Jersey.

In another way as well, Jeremy followed in his father's path. To gain acceptance from his teammates and other in-groups, he assumed a double-life: a wild and crazy jock who, without calling much attention, happened to be in the school's Honors Program.

One person not fooled by Jeremy's protective coloration was his freshman English teacher, Ms. Vaughn, who was also the adviser to the school paper. Recognizing a talent that he himself might have otherwise not acknowledge, when Jeremy misbehaved in class one day, she issued an ultimatum: serve a week's detention, which would mean missing fall practice, or join the newspaper staff. Starting as second-string sportswriter, Jeremy rose to sports editor by his junior year, which yielded a peculiar series of omissions. Since reporters were not allowed to mention themselves in their stories, as Jeremy progressed from the youngest member of the varsity to its star, the sports pages carried more and more tales of game-winning hits, and shutouts thrown, with no mention of the player responsible for the heroics.

Little surprise that by his senior year, Jeremy requested, then demanded, a transition from sports to features, which inevitably led to the call from Suzanne that had Tarcher racing across town. 

Pulling into a visitor's spot in the high school parking lot, Tarcher walked purposefully toward the administration building. He nodded to a security guard he knew from attending countless baseball games, then to a couple of students he recognized, before stepping into the principal's outer office. There he immediately received a frown from his son, who was seated unhappily on a wooden bench.

“You don't have to be here,” Jeremy grumbled.

“I don't do anything because I have to,” answered Tarcher. “I'm here because I want to be. And for the record, it was your Mom who called me.”

Without another word, Tarcher approached the reception desk. “Pete Tarcher for Anne Marceau,” he announced to the woman there.

“She's expecting you?”

“You bet.”

The receptionist picked up the phone and spoke softly for a moment, then faced Tarcher and pointed. “She's –”

“I know,” said Tarcher. As he headed toward the appropriate door, out stepped a well- dressed black woman who smiled.

“I just saw the film you made about the criminal justice system in San Diego,” Anne Marceau stated with a smile.

“If you're trying to butter me up,” replied Tarcher, “this is not the time.”

“Come in,” said the principal, ushering Tarcher into her office, then closing the door and motioning for him to take a seat. “How much about this situation do you know?”

“Let's assume I know nothing, so you can start at the beginning.”

Anne Marceau took a deep breath. “You're aware of your son's article?”

“Like I said, assume I know nothing.”

“Jeremy wrote an extended piece about a day in the life of a tagger here at school.”

“Was it informative? Well-written?”

“Not the point,” insisted Ms Marceau. “Aside from the fact that tagging is gang-related –”

“Not always –”

“Largely. This is something I know a lot about.”

“And I just fell off the turnip truck?” countered Tarcher. “Which one of us created the LA County Teen Court system?”

“Then you know what a scourge graffiti is.”

“I also know that street art is the most exciting form of artistic expression today.”

Anne Marceau took a deep breath. “You're not being sympathetic.”

“While you threaten to suspend my son? What exactly do you want?”

Anne Marceau stood and paced for a moment before again addressing Tarcher. “For Jeremy to divulge the name of the tagger who's anonymous in his article.”

“And if not, he's suspended?”

Anne Marceau nodded.

“So you're telling me that Jeremy will wind up with a black mark that could influence not merely the colleges that are recruiting him, but also the pro scouts who have been coming to see him play.”

“There are consequences in this world.”

“Want to talk about consequences?” Tarcher asked, rising to his feet. “Ever heard the word retribution?”

“I-I'm not sure I follow.”

“Didn't you say just a little while ago that tagging was gang-related?”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

“Let's suppose the guy Jeremy followed is a gang member. Think he's going to shrug if outed? Take it in stride? Turn the other cheek? You're talking about putting my son in harm's way!”

“No need to raise your voice,” said Ms Marceau warily.

“Oh, yeah? Tell me what point you're trying to make.”

“That there's a lesson to be learned.”

“And that lesson is that it's okay to be a rat?”

Anne Marceau cringed. “That's not the way I see it.”

“I don't care if you see it as red, green, purple, or blue. That's the message you're sending. So please listen to me carefully. There's no way in the world you're going to force my son to become a rat. Are we clear? I mean 100 percent clear?”

Anne Marceau took a moment to gather herself. “Okay,” she then said. “I'll consider your point. Are we done?”

“No such luck. How about something called freedom of the press? That doesn't figure into this?”

“I-I think you're making more of this than necessary.”

“Am I?” asked Tarcher. “How do you think the LA Times will respond if they hear about this? Or the local news stations? Or maybe it could even go national.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I don't threaten. I take action. As you pointed out, I make documentaries. Know what? That gives me far better and far different access than if I were, say, an orthodontist, a car mechanic, or a lifeguard.”

“You're making me very uncomfortable.”

“Well guess what,” said Tarcher. “I'm just getting started. Here's the really awkward news. Much of what I do is muckraking. Get my drift?”

“I-I'm not sure.”

“Then let me explain. It might be really interesting to make a documentary about a school that prides itself on teaching kids about their rights, then punishes them when they use 'em.”

“Mr. Tarcher –”

“I'm not finished yet. Here's what's going to happen. If my son is suspended, the first thing I'm going to do is reward him with a trip. Maybe Catalina while he's missing school. Or even better, Hawaii. Understood?”

“Pete –”

“Then I'm going to use every resource at my disposal to make the world aware of what transpired, as well as who's behind it.”

“Please –”

“Next, I'm going to explore what other students have had their freedom of expression abridged. Why? Because the more I think about it, the more I can see a documentary like this appealing to Netflix, or HBO, or maybe PBS.”

Anne Marceau sighed. “What exactly do you want?”

“You're an intelligent women. What exactly do you think I want?”

Still seated on the wooden bench in the outer office, Jeremy looked up as his father emerged from Anne Marceau's office. “So?” he asked.

Tarcher eyed his son for a moment, then spoke. “Let's just say that Koufax is still the greatest lefty ever, Greg Maddox the best righty, and Tony Oliva the best natural hitter.”

“That's all?”

“And the sun will come up tomorrow morning.”

With that, Tarcher headed toward the door, only to have his son follow.

“Wait,” said Jeremy. “I-I don't know what to say.”

“Then maybe it's best to say nothing.”

Jeremy took a moment to reflect before speaking. “Thanks,” he then offered.

“For?”

“Coming. And helping. And being my dad.”

“I'm here when you need me.”

“I know,” stated Jeremy. “But that doesn't mean I'm not still upset at you.”

Tarcher studied his son for a moment, then smiled. “Likewise.”

Back on the freeway, Tarcher couldn't help by think about the contrast between his professional and personal experiences. Because he made documentaries – about the criminal justice system, Eastern spirituality in the Western world, breakthroughs in the treatment of diabetes, and even boxing – most people assumed that he was showing the world as it is. Yet Tarcher knew full well that with his films he could exercise significant control thanks to the people he chose to interview, the questions he asked them, and above all the choices he made during the editing process by sequencing and selecting the sound bytes used.

In real life, in contrast, control ranged from minimal to none.

That made real life – and especially his life – infinitely harder.