#(also: osse rolling his eyes in the distance)

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent calendar 5: Sand

Warnings: fire (visual), typical Silm level of impled violence.

Turgon knelt on the sand, pondering Lord Ulmo's words.

He would resist Morgoth the longest... His memory went back to the happier times, when the Enemy—then hidden back behind politeness and fair looks—always had seemed to avoid him. Yes, of course the hope came from the West, all came from the West, but it felt good to be a weapon of this hope.

He would resist.

He left the beach, contemplating the armor he had to make and the city he would soon move to. His city. The mightiest, hidden, impenetrable. Beautiful.

Turgon sat on his throne, amazed by the young mortal's words which seemed as powerful as if said by one of the Valar. (They had been said, it didn't feel that long ago. But this was his home, and it was mighty, hidden, impenetrable and beautiful.)

He would block the secret door.

Yes, that should do it.

Turgon hid in his tower, staying behind like— there was only one king who would not come to the battlefield. Better not to think about him now.

The Noldor would surely win, the city was mighty and beautiful.

Turgon knelt on the sand again, in the shallow water. Gems covered the brilliant shore, but his robes were now simple. (How long has it been?). The waves tickled his chest.

"I am a fool. I was utterly stupid. And vain, cowardly, and somehow unable to understand the simplest instructions. I have gotten all the people who trusted me killed. Except the ones my daughter saved but not thanks to me. I was a fool."

The sea roared and water sprayed his face as he spoke and spoke, but there was no answer. So he spoke further, closing his eyes to stop the tears from coming.

"I refused to listen, to care about anything outside my tiny hiding hole and I thought I was safe, I was willing to abandon everyone else and yet— And you had told me all that. In detail. And yet. I—"

A mighty wave slammed into Turgon and enveloped him save only his face. "You were a fool. But you are my fool. I forgive you."

He opened his eyes and cried into Lord Ulmo's arm, tears mixing with the seawater. They embraced for long, until the tide changed and the sun rose, painting the beach in gold.

[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

Remembering You (Hugo Stiglitz x Reader)

Requested by @mbluxaeterna

@owba-chan @war-obsessed @inglourious-imagines @tealaquinn @struggling-bee @frozenhuntress67 @kwyloz @sodapop182 @marlenemarauders @what-the--curtains @taikawho

Let me know if you wanna be added to the IB or OUATIH taglists! :) _______________________

Normally....you would have been thrilled to meet the basterds. Hell, you could have made an unstoppable team, had they encountered you at any other possible moment in time. But of course, it's now. Now, when you are a lone, rogue soldier. Now, after you've lost your team. Now, when everything around you is oh-so-incriminating.

Naturally, they took you in for interrogating, and cuffed you. "You gon' tell us who you are, or you gon' keep on lying?" You rolled your eyes, "I've told you a million times. I am not a nazi." The fact that you'd been accused of it was enough to make your skin crawl. "Then what are you doing out here, alone?" Donny prodded at you with his bat, which was meant to be threatening given its fame...but it really just annoyed you. "Same as you. Killing nazis." "Got a pretty lil German accent there," Aldo snorted some tobacco, and went on matter of factly, "So-" You rolled your eyes, "I'm sorry, really. But you have a German right there, and an Austrian. How is an accent indicative of anything?  Especially now?" You looked around. Surely, they knew all about double agents, especially those like you. "So you're trying to say you're just some kid wandering around with all these guns and knives," Omar held up your pack with all the evidence, "And you expect us to believe you?" "Pretty much." You shifted a little to sit with your legs crossed beneath you, though your hands were still cuffed. You understood their lack of trust...but also...you were a bit more than annoyed now. "I wasn't alone the whole time." You relented. They were with the OSS, and definitely not traitors. What harm would it do to tell them? It may just save your life, after all. "I was part of a team. We were called the Double Eight." Aldo didn't hesitate, "Never heard of it." He turned, almost smirking, "You boys heard of it?" A chorus of 'no sirs' and laughs rang out, and you rolled your eyes, "Of course not. Some of us are better at being undercover than others." An uncomfortable silence blanketed them, and you sighed and went on, "There were eight of us. All of us double agents, double crossers," you smiled fondly remembering your teammates, "Double trouble... Best of the best in what we did, worst of the worst to the nazis, recruited by an American officer working for the OSS." Aldo narrowed his eyes. "Oh really?" "Really." You held your ground, and held your head up high. You heard one of the boys, Smitty, ask Donny, "You think it's true?" Donny then turned to you, "Who was in your team?" He often prided himself for knowing things about agents stationed around Europe, people in resistances, and allies. He was a bit of a networking king...so if any of the basterds could tell, it was him. "A Jewish girl from Poland. Halina..." You smiled softly, though your heart broke for her. You were the one who helped her family escape...but you couldn't help her in your last mission. "She could make and break any code." "And there was Andrej. Big, tough Andrej," You shook your head remembering his loud, bellowing laugh, "Jewish kid, no older than you." You gestured to Hirschberg, "He was Serbian. He was a good strategist." The mission to recruit him was one of the earliest, (and toughest) because he was so damn stubborn. "Ruslo..." You sighed a little, remembering his kind eyes, "Romani guy. Recruited when we passed through Croatia. Didn't need a map when that boy was around." You shook your head with a gentle smile, "Then there was Konstantin. Writer and intellectual, defected from the Soviet Union. Good spy." You glanced up at, and almost imperceptibly whispered, "Good man." Omar looked around, "Kid's gotta be telling the truth." WIcki frowned a little, "How do you know?" Omar shrugged, "Konstantin is the most soviet-spy sounding name I've ever heard." Donny narrowed his eyes and nodded, "Right. Almost too perfect." Aldo rolled his eyes, "Go on." You smiled a little, remembering the unbreakable bond your team had. One even stronger within it, "We had an Italian rebel, he was an escaped political prisoner. His wife was a Spanish anti-fascist rebel. Marzio and Carmina..." Names that axis troops in the mediterranean were terrified off. You took a breath, "Our leader was an American...if you would believe that." You smirked a little, "Shelby Hellberg. Shell-Hell, we called him." You glanced off into the distance. Toward the east, where your last mission together had been. You sighed, knowing you'd never see them again, no matter how many times you passed through there. "And you." Aldo remarked, hardly believing a word you'd said. "And me." You nodded with a smile. What more could you do? Hirschberg shifted a little, rifle still in hand, "And who's you?" "Y/n L/n." You spoke with a sly shadow of pride in your lips, "After all, every team needs some muscle." Donny looked you over incredulously, "You were the muscle?" You challenged him with a simple smirk, "Why? You wanna test that theory, big guy?" You meant it,  Donny was quite a bit taller than you, but you could definitely take him down. You'd taken people bigger than him down before, after all. The basterds didn't realize that just yet. But, Hugo kept his eye on you the entire time, thinking about every word you'd said, and the way you'd said them. He'd run with spies before, he knew their ways and webs. You were unlike any of the agents he'd known before. And still, he thought he'd seen your face somewhere before. And he said so, abruptly, without any explanation. "You look familiar." The way he said it...the way he looked at you was not in an accusing manner. He meant it. You went with your default response. You smiled suavely, thumb and finger sitting square beneath your chin as you remarked, "I just have that kind of face." Hugo nodded, and looked away, though he still kept trying to remember. "So, will you let me go? I do have a mission, you know. I'll be terribly late. Madrid is a long way from here, after all." Donny spoofed, "Nice try, a real agent wouldn't have told us all that." "You asked." You reminded Donny with an eye roll. Donny retorted, "So if a nazi asked, you'd tell 'em too." "No, because THEN IT'S A NAZI." Hirschberg piped up then, "How do you know we're not nazis," as if he really got you. Even Hugo and Wicki rolled their eyes. You rolled your eyes, "Because you're basterds." Aldo seemed amused, and humored the boys, "Says who?" "Says that accent. Sorry, but it's not one many people would strive to imitate." The basterds laughed. It had been so long since someone had gotten away with making fun of his accent. "Besides, everyone knows the Bear Jew. And, everyone knows about Hugo Stiglitz...And the Little Man." Donny chuckled, "Wait, who's the Little Man." "Oh, it's-" Before you answered, Utivich stepped closer to you, "Is that...blood?" "...Oh right..." You glanced at your side, with a slowly growing red stain. "When did that happen!?" "Just before you happened." you shrugged. Hugo crouched by you, "Were you stabbed?" "Oh... most definitely." You were somehow so blunt, and so stoic. Shock is one hell of a drug. Donny, who was slowly being convinced that you were telling the truth, quickly looked around for a cue, "Why DIDN'T YOU SAY SO?!" Before you could answer, Hugo practically flung toward you with a medic kit in his hands. He didn't say a word, but he kept looking up at you. He looked you in the eyes, and it wasn't something he normally did with anyone. You couldn't shake the feeling that he was trying to see into your eyes...almost as though he was trying to dig up a memory that was not his own. The basterds went about with their day. Aldo sent a few of the boys along with a message asking the general if the OSS could confirm or deny your claims. In the meantime, the rest of the basterds scattered around. A few went to get supplies and food, some of the others went out to gather a few scalps here and there to pay off their debt to Aldo. Only Hugo remained, of course 'to keep watch.' But he was busy disinfecting and stitching your wound. "Wer hat dir das angetan?" 'Who did this to you?' "Würden Sie mir glauben, wenn ich es Ihnen sagen würde?" 'Would you believe me if I told you?' He smiled a little, which you heard never happened. You raised your eyebrow, 'Why are you helping me, Hugo?' 'If you're not who you say you are, then we need answers. But if you are you, then...' He trailed off into what was barely a whisper, and glanced up at you. By now, he hardly thought you were a nazi... But that still left him with a thousand questions. Number one being...Who were you, really? The basterds came back, slept in their tents. You were still handcuffed, left outside. In the middle of the night, Hugo's eyes shot wide. He had been dreaming, which was relatively rare for him, even before the war. But this dream was much more of a memory. He'd never been much of a sports fan, but there was one night, just before the start of the war his friend Klaus had recently become a manager and promoter in boxing, and invited Hugo to a match. Your match. He made his way outside, and found you, with your cuffed hands behind your head as you laid on your back, and looked up to the sky. You glanced over at the approaching figure, then back at the sky. He stopped a few feet away from you, "Du warst ein Boxer." 'You were a boxer.' You dismisively hummed. He was silent for a moment, then stepped a little closer, tilting his head, 'I remember you. You used to-' You shook your head.

He crouched by you, and took your hands abruptly. You looked at him, confused though....you certainly didn't mind.  Still, he wasn't holding your hands for the hell of it. He was studying the discolored memories of a glorious past in every scar from every victory, loss, and draw. 'It was you.' 'Was.' You conceded with a sigh, 'A long time ago.' 'Do you remember a promoter named Klaus?' He sat down, and wondered aloud, 'I wonder where he is these days...' You cleared your throat, ' Oh...you know....we...um...' 'Had a falling out?' He raised his eyebrow and chuckled a little. It was his way of asking if you'd had a falling in. You blushed a little with a smile, 'Well, yes...but it was so long ago.' Hugo was silent for a while, then asked, 'Is he...' 'Dead, deadweight, or a nazi?' He nodded once, again raising his eyebrow. He wanted the answer to all three. 'No, no, and definitely not. He's a spy for the OSS, too.' You smiled at Hugo, who seemed relieved. He didn't have many friends to begin with before the war. He always wondered what he'd do if he made it to the end. 'I'd like to see him again. I owe him something.' Hugo said with a chuckle. He'd bet Klaus that you'd lose your match...and you didn't. 'After the war, perhaps.' You chuckled and Hugo nodded, 'Perhaps...' You were quiet again, then he commented, 'I saw you sparring, once.' 'Congratulations,' you stopped smiling suddenly, and turned away from him as much as you could, 'good night.'

'Wait.' He shifted to sit directly in front of you. 'What?' 'You...disappeated.' 'They used footage from my matches as propaganda against my will. I left the ring, I left my family, I left Klaus, I ditched my contract, and I lost everything.' 'Where did you go?' 'Doesn't matter.' 'What did you do?' 'What are you, the gestapo?' You rolled your eyes at his sudden interrogation, and he grunted at himself and mumbled, 'Sorry..' He started getting up, thinking perhaps he had crossed a line. You sighed, cursed at yourself wordlessly, and then called out 'I worked as a bouncer in a club in Munich. Nice place. Nicer when we started hiding people where no one would think to look. I got rid of nazis that were too close.' 'Not bad,' He smirked a little. You didn't. 'It wasn't enough.' 'So what did you do? You were recruited, weren't you?' 'Same as you.' You smiled a little then, and he did too. For once in his life, Hugo's hands felt warm... He looked down, and saw he was still holding your hands. You didn't seem to mind. He let go suddenly, and uncuffed you. 'You're not a nazi.' 'Oh gee thanks,' You chuckled a little as you crossed your legs beneath you. He mumbled again, 'Sorry...' You smiled and shook your head, reaching for his hand, 'We can never be too careful, I suppose.' 'I suppose not,' He sighed, and his eyes wandered as he sat back against a tree. 'You're not going to sleep?' You smirked, and again said, 'We can never be too careful...' Of course, you meant you didn't want the other basterds to catch you without your handcuffs, and for Hugo to be in some trouble, Hugo thought you meant the fact that you were deep in enemy territory that was the trouble, 'It's safe here,' He promised you with his eyes, a slight nod, and a squeeze of his hand. 'We thought that not too many years ago, Hugo...' You sighed, remembering the day before the world turned upside down in 1933...you were just a kid then. Hugo turned to you, 'You're hurt.' 'You knew that already.' 'But you're hurting...' 'Who isn't, these days?' You laughed a little,  but he didn't. 'Let me see.' 'Fine.' He shook his head as he let go of your hand, and went for the medic kit again. As he took care of you and your wound again, he asked 'What happened to your team?' The sky was a cool dark blue, with a tinge of orange in the horizon. It would be sunrise soon... 'It was just before dawn, about a year ago. We were ambushed. From then on, I've been on my own.' 'I'm sorry.'

You didn't tell Hugo that the nazis weren't looking for your team. They were looking for the Basterds, who had just broken Hugo out of prison. 'Don't be...' You looked up at him, and for a moment, you realized you'd had enough talk of the past. 'Where will you go?' 'What do you mean?' 'After this. After the war.' He smiled, 'I don't know...The world is a big place.' He smiled and looked at you, and you understood he didn't want to go back to Germany either. 'Where will you go?' You shrugged, 'Wherever I'm needed, as always.' For reasons neither you or HUgo could comprehend, he murmured, 'What if I needed you?' You kissed him softly, 'Then I'll be there.' **** "Well....that checks out." Aldo held up a letter from the general, demanding they let you go immediately, while also chewing Aldo out. Donny shrugged, "Well, we're sorry kid..."

You laughed, "I know, I know." You glanced over at Hugo, "Can't be too careful these days." Hugo smiled, though the basterds didn't see. You turned, and started walking west, deeper into the forest. "You're leaving? Just like that?" Omar was asking what half the basterds were wondering. "I told you, I have a mission in Madrid...and I've been set back a few days." Hugo shook his head, "But you're hurt!"

You smiled softly, as you stepped back toward him. "I'll be fine," your hand grazed over his for a moment, "You'll see." He smiled quietly as he watched you go, then Hirschberg gasped, "Is Hugo smiling?!" "No." Omar rolled his eyes, "Great you ruined it." Smitty shook his head, "I didn't even get to see." Wicki asked, "Did Y/n ever say who the nazis call the Little Man?" Smitty shrugged, "Huh...guess we'll never know."

***Months Later Aldo was pacing around. They'd recently lost Andy, Simon, and Michael. Now, the basterds needed some extra firepower, and had nowhere to turn to. At dawn, they'd be moving toward a nearby village for their mission. Hugo was looking east, as the first splash of red and orange began to glow in the distant horizon. "What are you lookin' for, Hugo?" Aldo turned, taking a sip of watered down, stale, coffee. They then all heard footsteps. Boots over fallen leaves. A face peered through some low hanging branches, glad to have stumbled upon them. "Y/n!" The basterds had never seen Hugo run so fast. And they were even more shocked when they saw him wrap his hands around yours. "Klaus lässt grüßen, mein Lieber." 'Klaus sends his regards, my dear.'

Hugo smiled, and held you. You'd heard quite a few rumors in the past few months about the basterds. And seeing their faces now... Seeing Hugo... You knew where you were needed.

[ghostbustermelanieking]

a dozen different lives

summary: Five lives Mulder and Scully shared.

written for a fic prompt by @o6666666 and an anon from a soulmate au prompt list: 19. the one where soulmates are reincarnated and keep finding each other throughout their different lives. it got a lot longer than i expected, so i decided to make it a separate post. 

i borrowed a couple of scenarios from my tfwid rewrite, but they don’t necessarily exist in the same universe, and you do not have to read that fic to understand this one. there are also references to tfwid and triangle. in researching the historical portion of triangle, i discovered that the OSS didn’t exist until 1942, but in the TXF universe it existed in 1939, so let’s say that it does here, too.

---

i.

The match is made by their parents. An arrangement that will be beneficial to their families and all of their neighbors. He is skeptical, initially, of the idea of an arranged marriage—although he has been told by his mother and many other people that love is a luxury—and he can tell, as soon as he sees her, that she is, too. But still, skepticism is not necessarily a way out, and they are married that day.

That night, together inside their new home, he offers to let her have the bed to herself. “I do not want you to be uncomfortable,” he says, “since we are strangers despite our new connection.”

Relief washes over her face, and she smiles. She has a beautiful, face-splitting smile. “You are quite kind,” she says, sitting in the edge of the bed. “I believe I will accept your offer, although I do not know if it can last forever. I know that children are expected from this union.”

“It can last as long as we like,” he says. “I would prefer to get to know you, if that is all right.”

She nods, her hands folded primly in her lap. “I would like that very much,” she says.

And so she takes the bed and he sleeps in another room.

When he came up with the idea the day before, he had expected the distance to remain, perhaps for the entirety of their lives together. But that does not seem to be the case. When she shares breakfast with him in the morning, they have a lively conversation, and hope blooms within his heart.

---

Throughout his life, he has seen many unhappy marriages that he knows were arranged. That he knows there is no love in. His parents are an example. He had expected the same thing out of his own marriage. But that does not seem to be the case. He has been getting to know his new wife, and he has begun to care for her. Maybe even to love her. She is incredibly intelligent, maybe even moreso than him, and they often stay up late nights talking and telling stories. She can make him laugh, harder than he's ever laughed before. She is beautiful, radiantly so. She still sleeps alone, and he would never suggest that she does otherwise unless she wanted to, but the way she smiles at him when she says good night makes him melt.

He is not sure that she feels the same way until one night when they fall asleep by the fire. They fall asleep lying next to each other on the ground, and when he awakens, she is curled up next to him with her head on his shoulder, her hair loose and waving. He lays there for longer than she should, waiting until she starts to stir beside him to move. Her face grows red when she sees him looking at her, and she murmurs an apology, avoiding his eyes. He feels ashamed, as if he has overstepped, until that night after dinner. She covers his hand with hers and says in a soft voice, “Perhaps… you could join me in the bedroom tonight, if you would like. It is your bed, after all.”

His heart leaps in his throat, almost involuntarily. He says, “It would be my honor to do so.”

Later that night, she falls asleep curled in his arms. He thinks to himself that it may be the most blissful moment of his life.

---

They spend much time together. Perhaps more (as people like to comment) than a husband and wife should. They go for long walks each day and spend their nights chatting by the fire. She will often accompany him when he is partaking in his duties, and will often offer her own opinions on the matter. They find excuses to spend more time together. He is tempted to explain to people that it is because they are in love, and that is the simple truth of it. He wants to spend time with her, as he should, since she is his wife.

He muses, sometimes, on how fortunate he is. How he could've connected so strongly with a woman who was strange to him not two years ago—how he could've gotten as lucky as to be paired with her. It feels as if it is a miracle.

After three years of marriage, their first child comes. It comes with a bit of a scare, as all births do—he fears, of course, that he will lose her, or the baby, or both—but it is fortunately an easy birth. His wife lives, although she is weak for a few weeks afterwards, and so does the baby. He is so grateful that he nearly weeps at her bedside, kissing her sweaty temple and repeating his thankful mantra: that he is so happy that she is okay, that he does not know what he would have done if he had lost her. He feels as if he is the most fortunate man in the world.

---

Later—years later, when their children are nearly grown and they have been living together for what seems like an eternity—she will take his hands and tell him, “I must admit something to you; I was not at all sure about this union prior to meeting you.”

He laughs with ease. “I will admit the same thing,” he tells her. “It feels so foolish now, to view it in this manner.”

She narrows her eyes at him in a jovial warning. “I was afraid you would be cruel, or quite different from myself. I hated that I had to marry a man I had never met.”

He had felt the same way. He clasps her hand close and listens attentively.

“But you are right,” she continues, looking up at him with the same loving look in his eyes that always brings him to his knees. “Those thoughts seem foolish now. I cannot imagine ever having married anyone else but you. I…” She falters a bit, looking back down. “I find it hard to express, sometimes, the depth of my love for you.”

His chest swells with the same care he has felt for her since that first night they spent together, and he takes her hand and kisses the back of it. “You should not find it difficult,” he tells her. “You make it known. I feel as if the two of us have always understood the other's feelings… and I do understand yours. You need not feel as if there is something lacking in the way you express yourself to me… truthfully, you do not even have to say anything out loud. I know. I would always know.”

She smiles at that, and moves forward until she is leaning against him. He winds his arm around her and leans down to whisper into her hair. “And I love you,” he says, “more than words can say.”

ii.

She has seen the woman before, the one with the fiery hair: at the river when they gather to wash clothes. She has not spoken to her before tonight, but sometimes, when she begins to tell the stories she makes up at night, stories she tells her cousin of fairies and goblins and spirits, she sees the bright-haired woman rolling her eyes, almost playfully.

Now, now their village is ablaze, and she is certain that her family is dead. They were inside the house; the only reason she was not was because she was mending the laundry outside. Her father angers when they burn the lanterns too long, and so she had been mending by the moonlight, and she'd fallen asleep, and woken up with heat on her face and to her little cottage on fire. She had screamed her family's names and they had not answered. The fire spread to the dry grass at the edge of the house, flaring up dangerously close to the edge of her skirt, and God help her, she had ran. She had not known what else to do, where else to go; she did not want to go alone.

And so it was. She had run through the heat, through the burning houses and fields, firelight flickering in her eyes and her skirt clutched in her hands so she would not trip. Until she ran directly into the bright-haired girl from the river. She was her nightclothes, the white of the shift stained with soot, her face smeared with soot and tears, her sunshine hair streaming down her back. She regretted, then, ever describing the girl's hair as fiery.

Neither of them had said anything. They had both been crying, and they were both terrified. The girl had wordlessly reached for her hand, and she had taken it. They both began to run together.

And now, with the inferno far behind them, their pace has slowed to a walk. The girl's hand is cold, as is the night, the freezing wind whipping around them and pushing at their hair. They have never spoken before tonight, but now they whisper to each other in the night as they walk together up the lonely road. The girl speaks of how she escaped, how she had smelled the smoke and felt the heat and slipped out of the window before thinking of her mother, her widowed mother who was the only one inside their small house. The girl cries, and she cries with her, wiping her tears and leaving smudges of ash along her cheeks. She tells the girl of her lost parents and her cousin, a ward of their family who had become like a sister to her. They walk through the moonlight, shivering in the cold.

---

They reach the next village by morning. When they walk into the marketplace, they see the whispers of the men and women at their informality: two peasant girls, one in her dressing gown with her hair loose and uncovered, their faces smeared with soot. When they tell their story, the villagers demand to know why they are the only survivors. They send a rider to go and examine the village, to find whether or not they are telling the truth. There are whispers of witches in the crowd, and she begins to feel for her life all over again. Until an employee of the lord of this manor system spots them and takes pity on them.

They are taken to the manor, being warned repeatedly that they must pray that the lord has much pity as the servant has, that orphans such as them would be fortunate to give such an honor as to work for the lord. There are things she wants to say in response to this, but she bites her tongue and stays at the bright-haired girl's side. Her tongue has gotten her in trouble many times. She does not know what she would do if they were turned away.

But they are not. The pity does indeed extend to two poor orphan girls. The lord remarks that they may start as scullery maids, and that they should learn their duties quickly, and that they should be grateful for the opportunity given to them. They both thank him meekly, heads bowed, although she notes a spark of defiance in the other girl's eyes.

They are shown to a small room with no window, with an even smaller bed that they are to share. And then they are put straight to work.

---

The work is often larger than the work that she used to do in her father's home, alongside her mother and cousin, but it is not that different. Still, she does not take to it quickly, and is often scolded or struck for mistakes. The other girl takes to it quicker and sometimes helps her, offers suggestions in the dark of their shared room. They rise at dawn and to to sleep late at night. Often, she falls asleep with enough space between the two of them that would be considered respectable and wakes up curled up at the other girl's back. Sometimes, she will find the other girl curled up against her as well, her bright hair falling across their faces. It is strangely comforting in a way that initially makes her feel guilty, but she reminds herself that she and her cousin used to sleep close to conserve warmth.

Often, she will have violent nightmares and wake up crying out for her mother, her cousin. The other girl will often press a hand over her mouth, simply to prevent her from crying out too loud—the first time she had woken up screaming, the cook had come into the room and slapped them both, warned them not to wake her again, lest they wake the lord and his family—but then she will calm her. She strokes her hair, wipes her tears away, and whispers, Shush. Shush. You are all right. It is enough to calm her, to lull her back to sleep. The other girl holds her hand as she drifts off.

When the bright-haired girl wakes up crying out, she will do the same for her.

---

As the years pass, the work becomes easier. The punishments and scoffs and cruel words lessen. She grows closer to the other servants, finds a companionable nature in some of them. But the bright-haired girl from her former village remains the most companionable, her truest friend. They often stay up much later than they should, whispering together in the dark. Her friend often urges her to tell her ghost stories, despite not believing any of them. She urges her friend to tell her own stories. They whisper together when mending clothes, when doing the laundry, when drawing the water or changing the bedclothes. They occasionally braid each other's hair in the morning, pick up the slack on each other's chores, share their rations when necessary.

They still sleep curled close together. It is often too cold to do otherwise. Her friend will often reach for her hand and clasp it in hers. Sometimes they will sleep with their arms around each other. Sometimes her friend freezing feet will press against hers. Sometimes she'll wake up with her face in her friend's sunshine hair.

---

The first time that the girl kisses her, in secret in the dark of their room, it feels like they have done something wrong. They both feel guilty the next morning; they avoid each other's eyes, work in silence, slip into bed in silence. She feels guilty, yes, but she also feels embarrassed for her avoidance of her friend.

But she finds she cannot stop thinking about it throughout the days, when she does her chores, in the quiet moments where there is no one to talk to. She keeps thinking of the softness of her friend's lips, of the way she whispered her name just before. She is remembering once when her cousin told her of a kiss with a boy by the river, the way it made her feel. Her cousin said that she was in love. She always said that she had not understood.

The truth of it is that she has lost everyone else she loves in the world, and her friend is all she has left. She loves her dearly; she has known that for years. There is no question of that. (The truth of it is that the two of them go rather unseen. Even their other friends among the servants do not seem to notice them. They do not cry out in their sleep anymore, and so no one comes into their room at night.)

She kisses her friend next, secretly in the dark of their room once again, her fingers tangled in her hair. (Her friend makes a small, surprised sound in the back of her throat, her mouth parting, her fingers clutching tightly at the shoulders of her shift.) It happens again and again, night after night. The guilt lessens each and every time she does it.

---

When the stable boy, the one she has often had conversations with when drawing water, proposes marriage if their lord permits it, she immediately declines.

iii.

She meets him when they are children. Her family lives next to his, and their mothers often do the chores together: hang the laundry, care for the livestock. And so they are often herded along with their mothers to be watched while they work. They begin to play together at a young age, for almost as long as she can remember. The first time he convinces her to run off into the woods while their mothers are distracted, she thinks a part of her knows she has found the right person to spend time with. They come back hours later to their furious mothers and a spanking, both covered in dirt and her dress torn, but she doesn't care at all.

From then on, they are always spending time together, getting into trouble together. She's always afraid he's going to want to play with someone else, but her older sisters have no interest in playing, and his brother is still just a baby. So it's always just the two of them. They get into so much trouble that her mother says, daily, that he is a bad influence, that it's unladylike to run around so and she should sit down quietly like her sisters. But there are no other children around for them to play with, and she refuses to be discouraged. Eventually, their mothers mostly give up.

---

“I want to go places,” he tells her at age ten. They've snuck away from their chores (they usually end up doing chores together; she has no brothers, and since she's always been a bit of a tomboy, her father encourages her to do the chores normally intended for a boy), and they're sitting by the river. He's throwing stones into the river, trying to skip them; she's reading a book from her father's library. “I want to travel the world, and fight pirates, and have adventures.”

“That sounds quite interesting,” she says absently, turning a page.

He throws a pebble; it hits the back of her book, and she looks up at him. “You could come with me,” he says. “You could be my first mate.”

She laughs, rolling her eyes at him. “First mates are not girls,” she tells him. “And besides that, why should you be in charge?”

“Captains aren't girls, either,” he says stubbornly, “but perhaps you could be the first.”

“Aye, perhaps I could be,” she says absently, going back to her book.

He reaches out to tweak her left braid, and she looks up. “I do not want to travel with anyone else,” he says seriously. “Please come with me. You can be the captain, if you want.”

She blinks in surprise, smoothing her mud-stained skirt. “Perhaps I shall,” she says, smiling teasingly at him. “Someday, when we are older.”

He smiles right back. He throws a handful of pebbles into the flowing water, splashes her with a kick of his foot, and she squeals indignantly and splashes him right back.

---

When they get older, talks of marriage begin, of course. Their two small farms have grown into a slightly larger settlement, and there are suddenly more young people around them. Her oldest sister is betrothed, and will be married in the fall, and her other sister begins to whisper. “Are you not betrothed as well?” she asks her with a giggle.

She doesn't want to speak of such things, she tells her sister. She's being incredibly silly. But the older they get, the more she begins to think about it. It is almost involuntarily, but she begins to think about it. When they're mucking stalls together, or hunting, or caring for the cows and pigs. When he's giving back the books she gave him, or telling her stories, or climbing up onto the back of her horse (that she rides bareback despite her mother's horror at how unladylike it is), holding onto her waist and laughing wildly in her ear as she drives the horse into a gallop. They still spend too much time together; her mother tells her again and again that it isn't proper. They are nearly adults, nearly at the age of marriage. They should not be spending so much time alone. But it doesn't matter to her. She's never been much of a listener.

One night when they are seventeen, she wakes to a flurry of pebbles at her window. He's standing in her yard with a lantern flickering across his face, squinting up at her. She's downstairs in a minute, the two of them slipping together into the stables.

They sit together in the loft, brushing aside the hay in case the lantern falls. He hands her half a piece of bread, fresh-baked by his mother, and she inhales deeply, smiling. They chew for a few moments in silence before he bumps his shoulder against hers. “I have learned some news that I wanted to share with you,” he says.

She looks over at him, raising her eyebrows at him. His tone suggests that it is not good news. “All right,” she says.

He takes a deep breath. In, out. He reaches out as if he is going to touch her knee but pauses, pulling his hand back. “I—” he begins before pausing abruptly, clearing his throat several times. “My parents,” he says, “have made a match for me.”

She freezes, her shoulders tensing. The bread, unnoticed, falls out of her hand and below to the floor. “Oh,” she says. “That… that is fortunate.”

“Yes.” His feet are swinging in the air. He isn't looking at her. “It… it is to that girl we often see at the well. They believe her family will be advantageous to have a link to.”

“Indeed.” She swallows, almost painfully. “I… I should offer my congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly. He reaches out gingerly, again, and does touch her knee with soft fingers. “I… Do you remember when we were young? The things we wanted to do?”

“I do,” she whispers, her eyes half-shut. She swings her own feet. She feels foolish, scrubbed raw, although she could not explain why if she was to be asked. “You wanted to travel the world.”

“I wanted you to come with me,” he says. He taps her knee through her nightgown with one finger. “I… I think about that sometimes. It's tempting to hold onto those childhood dreams.”

Her face goes red-hot, and she shuts her eyes all the way. She feels so foolish, so childish. Like maybe she should have listened when her mother told her that she should not be spending so much time with him anymore. Or when her sister asked if they were betrothed. She wonders if he's ever seen her as anything more than a sister, or a childhood memory. “Yes,” she says, rubbing a hand over her face. She will not cry. There is no reason to cry. Someday she will be married and he will be married and all of this will just be memories. She scoots across the edge of the loft, puts her feet into the rungs and swings herself around so she can descend. “I am very happy for you and your engagement,” she says, swallowing hard. “I'm sure the two of you will be very happy together.”

He sits up a little straighter in the flickering lantern light. “Wait,” he's saying, “wait, don't go…” But she's already gone. She reaches the bottom of the ladder and slips out of the stables, back into the house. She wipes her eyes as she creeps up into her bedroom. She lets herself cry.

---

There is a distance between them following this revelation. They still spend time together, still work together, but there is a distance between them. She feels insecure now, like she has revealed too much, pushed the boundaries. He is as quiet and respectful as she may have expected. They do not discuss the impending wedding, where he will live, if it will be far. They do not discuss it at all.

Her mother begins to speak of a match for her, and she always grimaces at the prospect. She's tempted to say that she'll never be married, but that feels too silly and unbelievable. She had never really considered marriage until recently, and never with anyone besides him. Thinking of it now just leaves her embarrassed, and so she refuses to speak of it. She does the same things she has always done, throws herself into her work and pretends that nothing is wrong.

She must do a bad job of hiding things because he begins to ask, nearly daily, if she is all right. After weeks of replying with a simple, “I am fine,” she loses her resolve and snaps, “And what do you presume is wrong, exactly? Why do you care for my feelings so deeply?”

The way he draws back from her with hurt in his eyes, as if she has slapped him, tells her she may have gone too far, after months of long silences and irritable responses. He mumbles a quick apology and turns away, is gone before she can offer an apology of her own.

They begin to avoid each other. She arranges her chores so that she does not have to work with him. She begins hiding in her room with her father's books (another unladylike habit her mother often comments on, reading) instead of venturing out. Her second sister, now betrothed herself, tells her that she is being silly and she should simply tell him how she feels. She tells her sister that this is ridiculous. She knows he does not feel the same way about her. If she is going to make amends, than she will have to work to preserve their friendship and nothing more. (And even their friendship will ultimately fall through, because it will not be appropriate, once he is married, for him to retain a friendship with a young, unmarried woman.) She tries to tell herself, once again, that she is growing up and a natural part of growing up is losing your childhood. And he is everything she can think of when she thinks of her childhood.

She does not know what else to do. She reads the books he lent her years ago, and greets his fiance as politely as she can muster at the well, and she tries not to think about attending his wedding someday.

---

One day, weeks after their last encounter, his father comes to their house. She foolishly thinks it is about the rift in their friendship, but of course, it is not; he has come to tell her that his son has gone on an extended hunting trip with some of the other men in town, and he wonders if she would mind taking over some of his duties. She's immediately shocked; she had no idea that he was even gone. He has gone hunting plenty of times before, although it's usually with her and they've never gone overnight; her mother would have died with shame. She is a little hurt, but she has no right to be; she reminds herself that she has initiated the distance with him. She tells his father she'll do his chores.

There has been talks of the war; she has heard whispers of them when merchants come through. A few of the valiant men in the growing settlement have volunteered to enlist in the army. But it is largely limited to the coast, and they are far from the ghost. They have not seen any battles, any deaths. It is so far off that they can nearly forget it is happening. And she has forgotten that it is happening, until she gets the news.

A lone member of the hunting party scrambles into town several days later, frantic and terrified. He tells them that the enemy came across their party when they stumbled across a fort. That they took everyone in the hunting party (aside from him; he escaped into the woods) hostage. That they are taking them to the coast, and there were discussions of whether or not they should be killed.

She is instantly horrified, as is the rest of this town. The men gather to discuss negotiations to get the party back, but the general  consensus seems to be that they have no power in this situation. The most they can do is try to get in touch with their country's army, to see if they can organize some sort of rescue, but the best thing to do, they tell the families, might be to give their sons up for dead.

She won't accept that. She refuses to accept that. She sees people who are distressed, his fiance distressedly twisting her handkerchief in her hands, almost theatrically, and she doesn't understand it because he isn't necessarily even dead yet. How can they give up on him when he is still alive somewhere, and he needs help? She cannot understand it. She tells her father that they need to go to find him and the other men, that they can't just leave them for dead and rely on an army of people they have never met to save him, and her father tells her sternly that there is nothing that they can do and she should let it go. That she should not think of these things, especially about another man's fiance. Her mother tells her that she needs to forget it, and she should take this as a sign to stop this unladylike behavior that has been going on too long. She can't understand their dismissal, after so many years with him. She's grown up alongside him, he's as much a part of her life as any of her family, and she doesn't understand how her family, his family can just dismiss it. She saw his little brother at the meeting, and he was as angry as she is, protesting the abandonment of his brother, but his parents and his fiance seemed to have dismissed him as dead. She cannot understand it. She needs him to be safe, she needs him to come home.

Her sister whispers to her, “If you truly love him, you could go for him.” And as much as it is her instinct to deny it, she cannot get the suggestion out of her head.

She slips downstairs that night, steals some food from the kitchen, her father's gun she used for hunting, and slips out the door. She takes her horse from the stable, climbing onto its back, and rides off into the woods without another thought. She is going to get him back.

---

She rides for days, her hair flying out behind her and tangling in the wind, her cloak flapping around her. She is headed towards the coast, towards where the man said they were taking the hostages. She doesn't exactly have a plan, which worries her a bit, but she doesn't know that there's a feasible one. She just knows she has to try.

She stops through many towns on her way, and they all have no information, until she reaches one nearly fifty miles from home. There, she finds a unit of soldiers, and finds one who knows of the hostages. She gets information by lying and telling him that she is his fiance; shame rises in her throat, but she pushes it back, tells herself that she is doing it for him and no one ever has to know.

The soldier tells her that there is an attack planned on the fort where they are being held, and that they may be released during the attack, if they are still alive. He directs her to the area where the fort is and advises her to steer clear of the battle.

She rides in the direction he advises, thinking as she goes about all the things he's done for her and she for him, about all of the promises they made and the adventures they planned that seem childish now. She tells herself that whatever happens after this doesn't matter, as long as he gets out alive. She doesn't care if he gets married or doesn't get married or goes off to travel the world; she just wants him to be okay.

---

She gets there in the midst of the battle, which is almost a relief; she would be willing to charge into the midst of a fort to rescue him, but she feels as if doing so would just get them both killed. She can't get anywhere near the front lines, to her frustration, so she stays at an inn nearby, waiting in the pub to hear news. As soon as she hears that the fort has been captured, that their army is victorious, she slips out to the stables, takes her horse from its stall, and rides straight to the front.

The edge of the fort is crawling with soldiers, enemy prisoners, bodies that have not been moved. She picks through, ignoring the questions and jeers of soldiers, until she sees a cluster of men she recognizes, sitting along a log with blankets around their shoulders. She sees men she recognizes, men she's talked to, and then she sees him—the back of his head, overgrown and shaggy, the slump of his shoulders, and she calls his name. She pulls her horse to a stop as he turns towards her, slides to the ground and begins to run towards him. Shock dances over his face as he stumbles to his feet, the rough blanket slipping from his shoulders, a beard beginning along his jaws and his eyes wide. She calls his name again, running to his side, touching his jaw with gentle fingers. There's a bruise along his face, his eye swelling, and rope burns around his wrists, and he looks so small and whole and she's so happy to see him. She resists the urge to wrap her arms around him. “Are you all right?” she whispers.

He nods, his jaw clenched. “Those bastards were plenty rough, but I'm all right… What are you doing here?” He touches the side of her face with the rough palm of his hand; he almost looks as if he's going to cry.

“I’ve come to find you,” she says firmly, not leaving room for questions. She reaches up to touch the spot beside his blackening eye, and he winces. “What did they do?” she whispers.

“What anyone would do with any hostages… You traveled all this way?” He is staring at her in astonishment. “You have come so far… for me? After everything?”

Her nose stings, her eyes burn; she feels as if she's going to cry. “Of course I came,” she whispers, and smiles. “I am your traveling companion, remember? Your first mate?”

“You are the captain,” he whispers, and smiles back at her. “You… I can't believe you…” He cups her cheek, stroking it with one thumb. He leans down and kisses her softly. She kisses him back, her mouth falling open under his; his hands are on her waist, holding her close, and she cannot believe it. They have never kissed before. When his lips touch hers, it feels as if the horrific scene and all the soldiers around them have fallen away.

When he pulls away, he seems a bit dazed. “I… thank you,” he murmurs.

“I would do it again,” she whispers, taking his hands. Her traveling companion. Her dearest friend.

He looks down down at their joined hands, their tangled fingers. “I… I know that I am betrothed,” he says hesitatingly, “but… I do not wish to be married. At least not to her.”

She sniffles. She squeezes his hands.

“I… I think I would prefer to be married to someone else,” he says.

She dips her head to rest her nose against his knuckles. She whispers, “I think that is very wise.”

He pulls one hand out of hers and lifts it, sliding his thumb under her chin and tipping it so that he meets her eyes. He is looking at her in that soft way he used to when they were children and she helped him to climb a tree, when she first came outside after a long, nasty illness that left her bedridden at age twelve, when they had accidentally fallen asleep in the stables at fifteen and had to sneak back into the house without getting caught, that way he'd looked at her when she first woke up. “Shall we go together?” he whispers. “You can still be the captain, the way I promised you.”

Her answer is her lips against his again, when she rises on her tiptoes and takes his face in her hands and kisses him. They will go together, wherever they go, and this is the way it was meant to be.

iv.

She meets him on accident. It's because of the dead-end job that her father got her, a secretary job for a government official that she's only working at to save money to attend college. A reporter apparently has an interest in interviewing her boss, and she's sent instead. He seems as annoyed as she is at the entire prospect, but after a few minutes, she figures out that he's not really annoyed with her. “I think that's pretty demeaning to the both of us, don't you think?” he asks, and that warms her to him considerably.

He doesn't end up interviewing her, but they end up talking for hours. She slips up and complains about her job, about the lapse in her education, about years of basically being ignored or overlooked, and he doesn't chide her or laugh in dismissive amusement. He listens. He offers stories of his own frustrations with reporting, with the dead-end assignments his boss gives him, and she laughs despite herself. She likes him, almost without having to think about it. When he asks her to dinner after the non-interview, against her better judgement, she accepts.  

They take it slow, at her insistence. As much as she likes the guy, she doesn't want to rush into anything. She doesn't want to be duped by some guy who's not looking for anything serious. But that doesn't seem to be the case here. He seems to like her, genuinely like her. He doesn't talk down to her, he asks for her opinions on things. He starts wanting her to come along on his jobs, to do some investigative reporting. She should probably say no, but she's always been a sucker for an adventure.

She doesn't do it on purpose—she used to tell her mother as a child, rebellious and furious, that she would never get married—but she finds herself falling in love with him.

---

“You should quit,” he tells her one night in his apartment, nights that have started becoming more frequent now. She used to feel guilty about those nights, but she's a grown woman, and besides that, half the building has gotten real fed up with her late night phone calls. “You're better than that job, sweetheart. A million times better.”

She laughs, her head on his shoulder. Maybe a little bitterly, but it's hard to be bitter when he's touching her this way, his hand on her spine. “I don't know what else you think I could get,” she says. “You got any ideas, you let me know.” College is starting to look like a dimmer option, considering how little money she makes. She always wanted to go further than this, than being somebody's secretary, but she doesn't know if she really can.

“You could do it, hon,” he says, stroking her wild hair. His eyes are sparkling in the dark, and he's grinning at her like she's worth a million bucks. That's what he tells her all the time: You look like a million bucks. “You could change the world.”

---

In 1938, he proposes. He doesn't do it in the big, public way that she's heard about girlfriends getting proposed to—he does it in the doorway to her apartment, when she's groaning and pulling her heels off, swearing she's going to give up dancing, at least to swing music, and she turns around, and there he is with the ring. She says yes, of course, because what else is she going to do? She loves him, and she wants to, and she says yes, laughing and nearly crying. He scoops her up and whirls her around, right there in the hall in her sock feet, and she gasps out something about her reputation, even though it's long been ruined, and then she kisses him right there.

They make plans for a wedding—a small one, of course, neither of them can afford a big one even with her father—and plans for a life, a little apartment in DC and a real story for him and a real job for her and maybe children someday, everything they've ever wanted. She tells him that he's daydreaming, and he tells her anything can happen. What if there's another war? she whispers, because she still remembers the aftermath of the first one, her mother crying over her younger brother who was drafted and died somewhere in a trench overseas, she never got over it. What if that happens to them?

Neither of them want to say there won't be another war. They've been reading about every horrible thing happening overseas; they both lost people in the Great War. He lost his father. So he doesn't say that. Instead he says, I'd come back to you. Or you'd come with me.

Oh, baby, she whispers, I don't think it works like that.

It could. It could, you know. We'd find each other.

She wants to believe him. She wants to believe him badly. She kisses him instead and tried to picture the future. A good future.

---

In the end, Europe goes to war but America doesn't. And she goes to war before he does. Her boss comes out of his office and smiles too toothily and tells her that he has a little job for her, that he's seen her potential, that he knows she can do it. It's work for that new government agency, the OSS. He wants her to go on a ship to Europe, the Queen Anne; he wants her to pretend to be the wife of a scientist, an important scientist that they need in Europe, so that no one will suspect who he is. It'll be like she's protecting him.

She wants to tell her boss that she has a gun, that she could actually protect him, but she doesn't dare protest. This is the best opportunity she's had in ages, the only opportunity to do something important. America isn't in the war, but she's been reading about the Allies overseas, the fight they've been fighting, and she knows she wants a part in it. She doesn't see any choice to accept.

Later, that night, she goes to her fiance's apartment. She feels the need to apologize, apologize over and over again, but he tells her not to be ridiculous. Tells her that this is important, that this is the type of thing that she was meant to do and that he's proud of her. “Just be careful,” he tells her with a wayward grin, holding her hand. “If you're serving as somebody's bodyguard.”

She shakes her head with amusement and tells him that she's hardly a bodyguard, she's simply there as this man's cover story, and that's all. He shakes his head in response and kisses the top of her head. You'd sock someone's lights out if given the chance, sweetheart, I know you would.

She packs the nicest things she owns—which isn't much; she has to borrow things from her roommates, and even calls her mother out of desperation. She packs her revolver, too, sliding it out of sight under her clothes. If this person is important as her boss has hinted, then she's not going to just stand there passively as his cover; she's going to take action, if she needs to. He sits on the edge of her bed and teases her and tells her she's going to save the world. She rolls her eyes at him; she has no idea whether or not this will be important, but she doesn't feel important. She feels like a doll.

The night before she leaves, he comes to her apartment. Her roommates are out at work, working the late shifts in a factory, so it is just the two of them. She's already told him he can't come with her to the docks. He puts on the radio, on a slow song that makes her shiver, and the two of them sway together there in the tiny sitting room. “It's odd,” she tells him, “but I feel like I'm leaving for a lot longer. Like I'm not going to see you for a while.” It's ridiculous, that she feels this way, but she knows the danger. She's headed for war-torn Europe with a man who's essentially a weapon. She could be walking into danger.

He shakes his head, holding her closer as they move. She can hear his heartbeat under her ear. “It won't go like that, sweetheart,” he whispers. “It can't. You're going to be amazing, and then you're going to come back home, and we're going to be married. All right?”

“All right,” she whispers, his coat scratchy underneath her palms.

When he leaves, he pauses in the doorway, turns around and kisses her sweetly. “I'll see you in a few weeks,” he says.

She breathes out shakily and touches the side of his face, smiles up at him. “See you then,” she says.

When he's gone, she takes off her engagement ring, reluctantly, and slides it into a pocket on the side of her suitcase. She hates to do it, but she doesn't want people seeing it and asking too many questions. She swears she's going to out it back on the second she gets to England.

---

The scientist she's traveling with is a lot kinder than she expected. He doesn't seem to think she's incapable of actually protecting him, although he smiles a little indulgently when she tells them about the revolver. He promises to keep a respectable distance from her, and he asks her questions about her wedding plans. They schmooze it up with the rich people every night, and she retires to her room afterwards, slips her ring on her finger and writes a letter to her fiance. It's not exactly idyllic, but it's okay. It's all perfectly okay, and she keeps telling herself that it can bring her new opportunities, a way to move up in the world and get herself a better job, when the Nazis show up. And right behind them, a man in ragged clothes who claims to know her, who calls her Scully. He claims he knows about the scientist, which is enough to terrify her, but then the Nazis start killing people in an attempt to extract the information. They almost kill her, more than once, push her to her knees beside this man who calls himself Mulder and put a gun to her head, and all she can think of is the bed in her fiance's apartment, the ring tucked into the side of her suitcase, his face when she said yes. How he told her that she'd come home. How badly she wants to see him again.

They almost kill her, and then they don't, and this Mulder guy pulls her away from the ballroom and through the ship, talking about time travel and Einstein and almost getting killed a couple more times. She'd hate him if he didn't, somehow, remind her of her fiance. A more arrogant version of her fiance. He insists that she has to turn the ship around or he won't exist, or history will go the wrong way, and then he grabs her and kisses her. Kisses her hard and passionately, but sweetly.

She forgets herself for just a moment and kisses him back, before she remembers herself and tears away. She socks him hard across the jaw, and winces at the instantaneous stinging of her knuckles. She's furious, fuming, and so distracted that when the Mulder guy turns around and jumps right off of the ship, she has no idea how to react. She throws the life preserver into the water, searches the black, churning waves for him because goddamnit, he does remind her of her fiance, and he may be an arrogant ass, but she doesn't want him to drown. But he never reappears. He's disappeared, with the answers to all her questions with him.

She shakes her head hard and turns away from the deck. She slips back inside and finds the captain and convinces him to turn the ship around. The passengers somehow subdue the Nazis as they re-enter the Bermuda Triangle. She finds the scientist and takes him back to her room, locking the door and loading her revolver. The scientist holes up at the desk, scribbling on sheets of paper and muttering under his breath. She sits on the bed, slides her ring back on and holds the revolver in her lap and wishes for home.

But she never gets home.

---

They’re adrift for days. Weeks, months. She loses track of time. The water is black, and the sky is always dark, and it’s so foggy that no one can see where they’re going. The climate is all wrong here, she thinks, they’re supposed to be in warm waters. The sailors comment that they should’ve reached land a dozen times by now. She stops keeping track of time.

She remembers what that man, Mulder, told her: that they were in a time warp, or something like that. She doesn’t believe in such ridiculous things, she tells herself a million times, but how, then, have they not gotten home yet?

She keeps writing letters to her fiance, even though she knows she cannot send them. She wears her ring all the time now; it doesn’t matter what people think. She sits at the foggy window and looks out into the nothing, her head against the cool glass. The scientist tries to console her, but she doesn’t listen. She draws absent shapes in the glass, shuts her eyes and wishes for somewhere else. She wishes for him.

She dreams, sometimes, when she can sleep. Dreams and wakes up clutching her ring so hard the stone has left an imprint in her palm. She dreams of him looking for her, hiring investigators who search and find nothing, who tell him she is dead and leave him screaming furiously in their faces. She dreams of him crying for her, refusing to go to a funeral her father arranges, refusing to give up even when multiple people tell him that there’s no hope. She dreams that America enters the war and he enlists, hoping that he will be able to find her somewhere overseas. He writes her letters that he will never send. She wishes, again and again, that she could tell him that she is alive, but she’s not entirely sure that she is. She cries herself, crumpling her handkerchief in her fist and wiping cold tears off of her cheeks. She halfway wishes she’d jumped off that ship after that Mulder man, so she could’ve swam home if nothing else.

She dreams, some time later, that he dies. He dies, bleeds out on a beach in France, and she wakes up screaming his name, and there is no one to hear her. The halls are empty, the ballroom is silent. He is dead, and she thinks she might be, too, and there is no way to find him or to go back home again.

She dreams, once, that he comes to the ship. That he walks into the full ballroom, looking lost, and she runs up to him and he picks her up and whirls her around, the way he did when she said yes, and he holds her so tight. He's kissing her again and again, kissing the tears where they fall, and he tells her, I told you, I told you we'd find each other. It's so vivid she almost thinks it is real.

Later, she lies on her bed, watching the ceiling, as drowsiness overtakes her. She is so tired. She's thinking of Mulder again, for reasons she can't quite explain; she can't stop thinking of how much he reminded her of her fiance. He was an ass but he acted as if he knew her, as if he cared about her… or someone who looked like her. He looked a little bit like her fiance, when they were kneeling beside each other on the ground or just before he jumped or right after he kissed her. He said, It's me, Mulder, and he called her Scully… he called her Scully…

v.

“Scully,” he whispers. “Hey, Scully.”

On the other side of the bed, she grunts—her Mulder, please don't wake me up grunt. He curls a little closer to her in bed, stroking a hand over her forehead. “Scully, are you awake?”

“I am not,” she mutters irritably.

Mulder leans close and presses his lips to her forehead. She swats his shoulder lightly, but he can feel her irritation melting away. She opens one eye to stare at him. “What is it, Mulder?”

He lays his head on her shoulder, winds an arm around her waist. “Do you ever think about reincarnation?” he asks softly.

She opens both eyes now, runs a hand over his arm. “Not since that case in ‘96,” the says. “With… the cult.” She's dancing around a subject she knows is somewhat sensitive. “Besides,” she adds, rubbing that same hand over his shoulder, “I don't particularly believe in it.”

“Oh, really.” He rests his chin on her shoulder, turning on his stomach to look at her. “Not even a little?” he teases.

“Not even a bit,” she says seriously. She ruffles his hair, leans down to kiss him lazily.

He nuzzles his nose against hers. “What about the idea of soulmates?” he whispers.

She reaches out to touch his cheek, to cup the side of it. “Mulder,” she whispers back, “what are you thinking?”

He shrugs. “I've just been thinking about it,” he says. He runs his fingers through her hair, scratching her scalp in that way she likes. “What if… what if soulmates were real, or if reincarnation was real. What if we'd been reincarnated?”

“Well, according to that hypnotism session you participated in, you have been,” she points out. “Remember that?”

He shakes his head. “I don't buy it,” he tells her. “I think that if I've been reincarnated, I've been with you.”

“Well, that was what you said when you were regressing through past lives, Mulder,” she says. “I was your sergeant, remember?”

He shakes his head. “Not like that,” he says.

“Well, then, like what, Mulder?” she asks, persistent.

He shrugs. He lays his cheek on her breastbone. “You'll think I'm cheesy.”

“Mulder, I already know you're cheesy,” she teases. When he doesn't say anything, she nudges him. “Hey,” she says softly. “What is it?”

He sighs a little, his hand spread over her stomach. “I've just been thinking about it,” he says, teasing a little now. “What if we're soulmates? What if we have known each other in past lives, what if we were meant to find each other in this one?”

He can feel her smirking. “You're right, Mulder, that is pretty cheesy,” she says, and he chuckles, leaning up to kiss her underneath her jaw. “In all seriousness, Mulder,” she tells him, her voice solemn now, “I don't believe in these things. But I think we're as much soulmates as anybody else is, if you want to use that terminology.”

“You're such a romantic, Scully,” he teases.

She rolls her eyes. Leans over to kiss him gently. “If you don't mind me asking, Mulder… why is so important to you?” she murmurs. “Why do you want to believe we've been reincarnated so badly?”

He shrugs. “I don't know,” he whispers. “It wouldn't really change anything… but it's a nice idea. That we've known each other for so long. That I'll never really have to lose you, because I've found you before and I could find you again…” He slides up the mattress to kiss her hair gently. “It's just comforting, I guess.”

“Mmm.” Her voice is sleepy again; she snuggles into his side. “You're sweet, Mulder,” she murmurs.

“But you don't believe me,” he says good-naturedly.

“Oh, I don't know.” She yawns, her face half-buried in his neck. “I don't know, Mulder. If anyone could find each other again and again, through multiple lives… it's us.”

“That's true,” he mutters.

She kisses him, right there at his pulse point. “I love you,” she mumbles. “Now let's get some sleep.”

“I love you, too,” he says. He's loved her for as long as he can remember, and if it's at all possible, he'll love her until the end of time.

[drizzitwrites]

Football RPF Linear Challenge - Day 2: First Conversation

clI technically wrote this yesterday as the end of the bit on first impressions, so today I had intended to write the scene that I envision coming after that one. It wouldn’t be in the same fic, as that fic is intended to follow the Five Times format like I did for “Five Times Christian Eriksen Helped His Teammates With Their Problems”. What I worked on yesterday is the opening scene of part 1 of the sequel to that, which will be called “Five Times Christian Eriksen’s Teammates Helped Him With His Problem(s)” and is basically five vignette sorts of scenes of Christian figuring out and coming to terms with his feelings for his teammate.

I also wanted to tell their getting together story from Vincent’s POV, so some of it was going to parallel what happens in that fic, but looking at the same situations and conversation through Vincent’s lens, as it were. Basically, what I meant to write today was a scene that came after this initial terribly awkward meeting where Jan and Mousa are being trolls and Toby is going along with them (for now) and while Christian was off in the dressing room calming himself down, they invited Vincent to join them (Mousa, Jan, Toby, and Christian) for dinner. Except no one has told Vincent that Christian will be there and Christian doesn’t know they invited Vincent so they get to have SURPRISE! Awkward Conversation 2.0, and that’s what I meant to write today.

Instead, I spent FOUR HOURS writing close to 4000 words of Vincent’s POV of the exact same first meeting and conversation on the training pitch between the two that I wrote yesterday.

It started out well, but I lost steam at the end (because I have been writing for FOUR HOURS), so it probably needs some work and is making leaps in logic that no one can follow but me.

But I did it and here it is from my fingers to your eyeballs uncut and unedited and filled with Vincent waxing poetic and being deep in his feelings, as usual. Also, I went deep into MY OWN FEELINGS about the KNVB and Dutch football. Not sorry.

Truthfully I haven’t even read through it so possibly it makes no sense at all.

Enjoy.

"Dank je, wel--um, I mean...thank you," Vincent said, climbing out of the black cab and stepping onto the curb.

He took a moment to stare around himself at the scene before him--street filled with people talking and laughing together in the evening sun, the hiss of traffic and occasional shout or horn blast from the street behind him. On all sides of him brick and stone buildings boasting columns rose up out of the sidewalk, and he scanned around to look for the right one.

The nearly hour-long ride from his hotel room near the Enfield Training Centre had been slow and traffic-laden, but uneventful beyond that. Vincent, who'd spent the last few years of his life in and around Amsterdam, thought he'd gotten used to heavy traffic--there was a reason everyone in Amsterdam owned a bicycle--but it was only when he'd looked up the route on his phone and saw that the distance from Enfield to here was only half the distance of his daily half hour commute from his apartment on the outskirts of Amsterdam to the training complex in Alkmaar that everything sunk in.

This was London. A single city the size of the entire Randstand in Holland. Buzzing with the energy of over eight million people. A far cry from his childhood in Oss or even his more formative years at the football academy in Rotterdam.

London. Home to English football. Tottenham Hotspur. The beautiful club he'd dreamed of joining for so long, and now here he was, meeting some of the legends of AFC Ajax for "a celebratory dinner and drinks."

He didn't know what he'd been expecting when he rocked up to the much-lauded Enfield Training Centre to make his commitment to Spurs official, but he didn't think it was this. He'd been through this process only twice before in his short career, and of course it was different this time than either of the previous affairs.

At Almere, he'd been reluctant and reserved, knowing he was making the right decision not helping him resent it any less. He'd ended up there after making the most difficult choice of his entire life to that point--admit failure and walk away from the sport he'd loved since the first moment his father had rolled a ball to his feet or graciously accept that things hadn't worked out the way he'd planned and regroup in the lower leagues. He'd chosen the latter, and while it had been the correct choice, and one that had re-kindled a fire in him that he thought had long since died, although at the time it still felt an awful lot like admitting defeat.

Instead, he'd turned up at the club ready to do his time, prove himself, and escape as quickly as possible. He was better than lower-league football. He'd lifted a trophy at Feyenoord and then promptly been told he no longer had a place with the club. He'd been nineteen years old and ready to set the world ablaze, then been forced to drag himself into a club whose existence he'd barely registered and pretend he was honoured to be representing them.

His attitude had changed swiftly, of course, once he'd settled in, and he'd honestly enjoyed his time in Almere and still treasured many of the friends he'd made in those three years. It hadn't been what he'd wanted at the time, but it had turned out to be exactly the opportunity he needed to find his feet, get his head back on straight, and focus on moving forward in an environment where there wasn't such a constant, crushing pressure to give more and push harder and get ahead. Not that they weren't expected to give their best--Vincent could never been accused of not putting one hundred percent into his training every day--but the expectations placed on even the top players at Almere City were nothing compared to those placed on you at a club like Feyenoord.

When AZ had come calling, Vincent's Almere teammates had bid him goodbye with smiles and wishes for the best, and he'd bid them all the same. Almere was never a club anyone planned to stay with for long, so no one had any hard feelings about any of them moving on. Vincent would miss his friends there, but it was time for the next step in his career, the Eredivisie, and he was ready to take the league by storm.

At AZ, everything had been different. The club had sold much of its first team from the previous season and brought in a fleet of new signings, all of them learning to re-adjust to life at their new club together. Everyone had been unsteady and uncertain at first, all of them getting to know their new surroundings, finding housing, and exploring the city together, all of them trying to figure out where they fit in within the city and the culture. Vincent, along with many of the new signings, had settled in Haarlem, and they'd all formed fast friendships as they met up for meals and explored the town.

And now, London. Tottenham Hotspur. Vincent's stomach had been in knots and his heart pounding so hard he thought it might be audible even on the videotapes being recorded of him putting pen to paper. He'd been so nervous in his post-signing interview that his mind had gone blank of all words, Dutch and English alike, and his only memory of the moment was of him saying the words "beautiful club" on repeat for lack of anything else.

A beautiful club in a beautiful city with his beautiful teammates.

That wasn't the reason he'd chosen Spurs, or so he told himself. Sure, it happened to be where a certain ex-Ajax player currently plied his trade, but it wasn't about that. He'd wanted the opportunity to play in one of the best leagues in the world and train at a top-class facility along with top-class players. At Spurs he could learn and improve every day. He'd be pushed harder than he had been in years, maybe harder than ever before, and he was ready for the challenge. Pochettino had spoken with him and convinced him he was just the sort of player Tottenham was looking for, and, coincidentally, Tottenham was just the sort of team Vincent was looking for.

That Christian Eriksen happened to play there was just an added bonus.

It hadn't occurred to Vincent that after signing his contract and giving a few interviews and promotional photos, he'd actually be expected to speak to Christian Eriksen. Intelligently. As a teammate and a peer.

Instead, when he'd stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine and found his eyes automatically drawn to the too familiar twisting, turning run he'd spent far too many nights laying on his bed and watching on repeat, rolling the recorded footage back over and over again and memorising every shape, line, and detail of Christian's lean, beautiful body, he realised he'd possibly made a grievous error in judgement.

He was Christian Eriksen's teammate. Christian Eriksen whose post-match interviews he'd nearly committed to memory. Christian Eriksen who made Vincent's legs weak and his blood rush from his head to his groin with nothing more than the way he moved his body on the pitch. And now Vincent would be here, every day, doing his level best to somehow manage to co-exist on the training pitch with that body live and in-person, darting around defenders to find the best angle and passing the ball to Vincent's feet and...oh, he wasn't ready for this.

But he'd gotten through it, somehow. Had forced himself not to stare at Christian and only Christian, his straw-coloured hair dampened with sweat to a honey brown, clinging to his temples even while the front still stood up in its characteristic quiff. Instead, Vincent had forced his face into what he hoped was a pleasant smile and carefully tried to keep a polite distance, fumbling through his English as he provided the usual platitudes about how glad he was to be joining the club and how much he was looking forward to the coming season. All of it true, of course, but none of it really resonating through the blood pounding in his temples and the voice in his head screaming about how much more striking Christian's wide, almond-shaped eyes were from only a few metres away.

And then...Vincent surrounded by new teammates, all of them shaking his hand and clapping him on the shoulder and welcoming him to London and to Tottenham. The handshake, he'd learned, was one of Pochettino's hard-and-fast rules. Everyone on the team was expected to greet everyone else with a handshake at the start of every day, a way to build camaraderie and fellowship among them all. The names flew at him from all sides, and he'd known many of them already, of course--Michel Vorm, who Vincent already knew from his short time with Oranje over the past few months,  Dele Alli and Eric Dier and the famous Harry Kane, revered AZ club legend Mousa Dembele with ex-Ajax phenoms Toby Alderweireld and Jan Vertonghen not far behind. And from there...

“You have to meet Chris,” Jan said, not even bothering to look back as he reached behind himself and tugged another teammate forward to join their group, and oh, god, Vincent was not ready for this.

His heart resumed trying to slam its way out of his ribcage and his vision went a bit black as his legs threatened to stop holding his weight at any moment. Mouth dry, body trembling, and he was more glad than ever that he'd not had time to eat a proper meal yet that day, because he wasn't at all convinced it wouldn't all be threatening to come back up. And wouldn't that make for a fabulous first introduction. "Hello, sorry my first act as your teammate was to vomit all over your boots, it's just that I think I've been a bit in love with you since I was sixteen years old and I'm not at all sure how to process any of this."

Instead, Vincent swallowed down the rising panic coursing through his entire body, hoped the wide smile threatening to take over his entire face didn't make him look like some sort of maniac, and stuck out a hand towards his new teammate.

He must not have looked overly threatening, because Christian--and here Vincent was already thinking of him as Christian in this overly familiar way, as though they were long-time friends or something--flashed him a shy smile in return, and it was all Vincent could do to hold himself together.

Breathe, Vincent. He's your teammate now. This stupid teenage crush was all well and good when you were sneaking about trying to pretend you absolutely detested all things Ajax, but you're not a teenager anymore and those days are over. You'll never make it here if you can't get past whatever this is and start acting like a god damned professional.

That harsh truth was all well and good, but it didn't mean Vincent's palm wasn't sweating and his knees weren't about to spontaneously give out from underneath him at any moment. He'd have to hope Christian either wouldn't notice or would think the slight sheen of sweat and the slick skin of his palm was just due to the heat of the day.

And then Christian's hand slid into Vincent's own, and Vincent's body hummed and buzzed with the feel of it, his mind spinning with all the times he'd imagined this--well, not quite this, so much as something a bit less appropriate for two people stood on a practice pitch surrounded by teammates, but that was perhaps beside the point. The feel of Christian Eriksen's skin against his own. Long, slender fingers brushing against Vincent's palm. Heat seemingly radiating from Christian's hand and spreading up Vincent's arm to his shoulder and eventually into every centimetre of Vincent's body.

“Uh…Christian. Eriksen. Chris. Good to meet you.”

He spoke in English, and it took Vincent a moment to even register the words. Voice so familiar in Vincent's ears, as though they'd shared thousands of conversations throughout the years instead of just a few mumbled words in passing.

Christian stared up at him, blue eyes wide, and from this distance, Vincent could see that they were shot through with flecks of grey and green and gold and so much more dazzling than he'd ever noticed before, and he had to force himself to look away a bit, changing his focus to stare down at their still clasped hands.

And oh, right...handshake. Doe normal, Vinny.

He forced his hand into motion, pumping Christian's arm up and down with perhaps a bit too much vigour, but he figured it was probably better that than standing there holding onto a teammate's hand while staring mesmerised into his eyes.

“I know this," he managed to say after a few seconds of trying to kickstart his brain into remembering how to form words. "That is...you are Christian Eriksen. So of course I know.”

Not his best work, really, but he supposed he should be glad anything came out of his mouth at all besides 'Hello, I think you're absolutely gorgeous. I'm not asking you out or anything, don't worry, it's just that it's something I've been thinking about for years now and I thought I should let you know.'

Still, Christian was looking a bit baffled and slightly overwhelmed at this point, so Vincent took a deep breath and started over. For whatever that was worth.

“Het spijt me," he said, the apology coming out in Dutch on instinct before he remembered that this was England.

"I was...at Almere for a time, " Vincent said by way of some kind of explanation. "I saw you play...with Ajax. You were...I...um...remember you. It is...an honour to meet you. I am looking forward to playing together.”

Not much better, but hopefully he'd saved himself from coming off as some kind of weird stalker and maybe at least earned himself a downgrade to oddly endearing superfan.

Except...he realised at that moment that he was still shaking Christian's hand and had been for a bit too long for it to come off as casual.

He released it, then flashed Christian an apologetic smile and dropped his eyes to the grass in between them, trying to regain some measure of composure--not that he was sure he'd had any in the first place, at least since the start of this conversation. He ended up, instead, staring at the fluorescent yellow and orange of Christian's boots. Which...was better than returning to gaze into his eyes, he supposed.

“I…” Christian said, dragging the word out a bit, as though uncertain of how to follow that up. Vincent didn't blame him. Nothing about this conversation was going the way Vincent had imagined it.

Which...didn't surprise him, really, but still. Every time he'd thought about his first real conversation with Christian, Vincent had remained cool and calm and composed--a bit distant and detached, as though he'd been about to do something else, but might as well blow it off for a brief exchange with someone moderately interesting. He'd been confident and alluring and had ended their brief exchange with the perfect witty send off, and hopefully an exchange of contact information so they could continue the conversation at a later date.

Instead he'd managed to linger too long over a handshake while his palm positively dripped with sweat, stare into his new teammate's eyes for a beat too long, and stumble through a litany of English words that made him sound like a bit of a twat.

Honestly, even though they were teammates now it would be a miracle if Christian ever initiated a conversation with him again.

“That’s...well...thank you?" Christian said, the end bit coming out as more of a question. Probably because he was beyond baffled by this entire situation. Vincent didn't blame him in the least. When he glanced back up at Christian--he might as well start getting used to carrying on what passed for a conversation while looking him in the face if they were going to be teammates--his expression was blank, his head tipped slightly to the side, his blue eyes wide as he worried his bottom lip between his teeth.

And damn, if Vincent wasn't going to have a hell of a time adjusting to that, he thought, as his blood once again started migrating towards his groin. He was still clad in a simple white t-shirt and jeans that had started out tight and were growing tighter by the second. Thankful, he supposed, that at least he hadn't been expected to change into training gear yet where the slightest sign of arousal would be more than apparent, he shifted his weight slightly in an attempt to at least re-adjust into a more comfortable position.

"Welcome to London," Christian said at last, releasing his bottom lip and quirking his mouth into a strained-looking smile. "And Spurs. Jan and Toby are also from Ajax, so...”

He trailed off, glancing around himself a bit as though seeking out his friends and former teammates. A buffer between himself and this oddly over-eager new teammate.

“Oh, yes, I know this," Vincent said. It almost certainly didn't make him come across as any less of an obsessed fan, but at least maybe he could pretend it extended to the entire club? And oh, Vinny, what would your friends think of you now? 'Yes, of course I love Ajax. What a club. My only regret is that I was never fortunate enough to be chosen as een Godenzoon.' Honestly, it was enough to make him a bit disgusted with himself.

Best change tactics before he got too far down that road to have any hope of getting himself out again. He may have long since lost any loyalty he'd once had to Feyenoord, but he'd rather quit playing football on the spot than proclaim his allegiance to Ajax.

“It will be nice to have friends here who know Amsterdam. I was not raised there, but I enjoyed my time in the city. I am so thankful to come to a club where I can feel like I have a piece of home as it were. You know?”

“Ja,” Christian responded, catching Vincent by surprise as he shifted their conversation into Dutch.

Not that Vincent wasn't well aware of Christian's proficiency with the language. He spoke it nearly as well as Vincent, judging from the promotional videos and post-match interviews he'd done during his time in Amsterdam.

“Let me know if I can help with anything,” Christian continued, his face and tone pleasantly neutral--one teammate welcoming another to a new city. “Where to eat, shopping--although that’s not really my thing, but I can try--if you want to know the best neighbourhoods for your house or anything. I mean, it’s not like I get out much, but I’ll do what I can.”

He'd always loved listening to Christian's Dutch--soft and silken and fluid, with the slightest hint of a slur around the edges of the syllables. It was no different now, although his accent had shifted a bit during his time in London. Still, Vincent was captivated by it, and found himself staring at Christian's lips as he spoke, much the way he'd always done when watching Christian's interviews on the screen.

“Your Dutch is good.”

And, honestly, Vinny? A mere, 'thank you for the offer, I will let you know' would have been fine. You were both finally starting to settle in a little bit and you had to go and make it uncomfortable again.

Thankfully, this actually earned him a surprised "oh"  and a small smile from Christian whose eyes flicked up to meet Vincent's once more before quickly darting away once more.

“Thank you. I feel it’s important to learn the language wherever you’re playing, so I worked on it a lot before I moved to Amsterdam. These three still correct me all the time, though.”

He tipped his head towards the trio standing behind him--Mousa, Jan, and Toby all of whom, by report, were seemingly inseparable both on and off the pitch.

“Because your pronunciation is terrible,” Toby teased and the others all laughed.

Christian opened his mouth to respond, but slammed it shut as Vincent dropped a hand to his shoulder. He hadn't meant to reach out for him like that, it had just sort of happened, his body moving on instinct, sliding into the sudden lighthearted ease of banter and teasing of the conversation.  It was an overly forward gesture, considering they'd only been speaking for a few moments, and Vincent readied himself to yank his hand away and offer profuse apologies as he felt Christian's breath hitch in surprise and his body tense. But Christian didn't pull away, so Vincent let his hand remain.

“Never listen to Belgians on the right way to pronounce Dutch,” Vincent told him, “I think your pronunciation is just fine.”

And, Godverdamme he definitely hadn't meant to sound that flirtatious. Once again, instinct had taken over and it had slipped out, his tone teasing and flitting and light and definitely not the right way to speak with anyone you were just meeting unless you planned on trying to take them home at the end of the night. Here Vincent was, trying it on with a teammate, no less.

He felt the hot flush creep into his cheeks at the thought, letting his hand drop from Christian's shoulder.

Christian's eyes widened even further before he ducked his head and stepped away from Vincent and towards the safety net of his friends.

He flicked a desperate glance to the side, swiveling his head slightly until his eyes fell on yet another teammate--this one with dark hair and a pale, squareish face. He reached out a hand towards the man and tugged him closer, much the way Jan had done to him what felt to Vincent like hours earlier, but in reality couldn't have been more than a few minutes.

The other man, for his part, let out a startled yelp and a shout of "oy, what the--?" but Christian seemed to pay him no mind. He all but shoved the man towards Vincent, all the while angling around to put the other man squarely between himself and Vincent.

“I...thanks," Christian said, his eyes still wide and his shoulders hunched in. "Um. Have you met Ben? You two should meet. I...I have to go, I’m sure I’ll see you at training this afternoon.”

With that, he'd flashed Vincent an awkward sort of half wave and then nearly tripped over his feet as he turned to jog quickly away towards the training centre, leaving Vincent, the three Belgians, and this new man--Ben, Vincent guessed--staring at one another in confusion.

No one said anything for a few moments until Ben flashed Vincent a dazzling grin full of perfectly straight, white teeth, stuck out a hand, and said in lilting English, "Well, that was something. Ben Davies, nice to meet you."

[olicitysecretsanta]

The Key to Success

Disclaimer: Arrow does not belong me. All rights belong to DC Comics, The CW, and those persons associated in the creation of the show and comics.

The Key to Success by RedPens&GreenArrows Fandom: Arrow Rating: M Characters: Oliver Queen, Felicity Smoak, William Queen Pairing: Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak (Olicity) Tags: Romance, Smut, Family, Fluff, 6x03 missing scenes, Olicity Secret Santa 2017

Summary: When did Oliver decide to give Felicity the kiss to his apartment? And what transpired after? Missing scenes from Arrow 6x03.

A/N: Happy Holidays lovely Arrow fans!! An extra-special shout out to @green-arrows-of-karamel, this fic is your gift, and I’m excited to finally share it with you and everyone else. Thank you for being an awesome member of this fandom, you’re blog is wonderful, and also thank you for being an admin. for this year’s OSS! I hope you enjoy this little fic, it was fun to write! May you holidays be merry and bright! (Also there might be a small easter egg/call out to an Outlander episode from this scene. Have fun finding it!) xo

                                            <——-<<

Oliver heard the front door slam announcing William’s arrival home from school. He was reviewing some notes for the city council meeting tomorrow, but the loud shout of ‘Oliver!’ snatched his attention and he sprinted from his desk. Fearing the worst, Oliver nearly bowled over his son in the living room. However, the gigantic grin that greeted him immediately calmed his worries. Oliver placed a hand on his chest and blew out a deep breath. His heart raced beneath his fingertips.

“What’s up, buddy?”

“Look! I did it! I got the ‘A’!”

Stapled sheets of paper were shoved in Oliver’s face, and it took him a few seconds to focus the rows and rows of numbers and symbols and make sense of what they meant. William passed his math test. A grin rivaling his son’s spread across Oliver’s face.

“William, that’s great! And you know what, this deserves a place of honor.”

Turning, Oliver walked across the room towards the kitchen.

“Oliver, really…” William weakly protested.

But nothing stopped Oliver from holding that test up to the fridge and placing a magnet right in the middle. The bright, red ‘A’ stood out in the corner. He smiled back at his son, his expression shining with a deep pride. William replied with a roll of his eyes.

“I don’t care if you think that it’s lame, or you’re ‘too old’ for your work to be on the fridge. You worked your butt off for that ‘A’ and I’m proud of you.”

William looked down and shuffled his feet. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“And hey,” Oliver said while clasping William’s shoulder, “Never hesitate to ask me for help. Even if I can’t help you, I’ll do whatever I can to find something or someone to help.”

Remaining silent, William nodded and the lingering awkwardness between the pair began to rear its head.

“Alright,” Oliver clapped his hands hoping to break the tension. “This calls for a celebration. The pot roast has about an hour left, so what’s your favorite dessert? I’ll whip it up and pop it in the oven while we eat dinner. Cookies? Brownies?”

William perked up at the suggestion. “Chocolate cheesecake brownies?”

Oliver paused. “I’ve never made them, but I’m always up for a challenge. Chocolate cheesecake brownies coming right up.”

William smiled. “Cool. I’ll just start on my homework.”

Swinging his backpack onto his shoulder, he headed for his room, but stopped at the threshold.

“Hey, Oliver?”

“Yea, bud?”

“Could you thank Felicity for me the next time you talk to her. She was a really big help.”

Oliver’s mouth ticked up in a small smile. “You got it.”

With a quick nod in thanks, William disappeared into his room and the door slid closed.

His smile grew once William was out of site and Oliver glanced at the test again. It was as if all the puzzle pieces clicked into place. He mentally debated for weeks when would be the appropriate time to give Felicity the extra apartment key. But seeing Felicity and William get along  so well, there was nothing left holding him back. Watching her quirky genius and his inquisitive mind work together, Oliver swore nothing felt so right. Not since he saw Felicity cooing over a newly born J.J. Diggle had Oliver felt such longing. He once more saw the future he wanted, and now it was just within reach.

Setting the brownie mixture in the fridge to chill, Oliver walked back to his home office and opened the top right drawer in his desk. He picked up the key and smiled at the silly, geek emoji keychain he found when grocery shopping the other week. Tomorrow he would pick up a gift box and stop by the loft. It was time to grab onto his future, and hold on tight.

>> ——- >

“… His life will be better with you in it. Just like mine.”

“Are you sure… that’s what you want?”

“I’m sure.”

If Felicity was one to swoon she would most likely be headed to the floor right now, hoping that Oliver would catch her sudden descent. However, the man in front of her didn’t make her swoon – at least not physically – he just turned her on something fierce! Her dormant libido awoke from its year and a half sleep with a vengeance, and demanded immediate attention. So, as Oliver stepped forward for nothing more than a hug, Felicity launched forward and crashed their lips together. Everything spiraled deliciously from there.

Their kiss sparked the smoldering embers of their feelings, turning them into a fiery blaze. Stepping closer to Oliver, Felicity pushed at his leather jacket, needing it off. She wanted more of him; craved the feeling of him beneath her fingertips. Their movements became frantic and needy. With all the grasping, and pulling, and gulps of air it was only a matter of time before they became the victims of gravity. Oliver bumped into a cluttered end table and sent them both tumbling onto the new red loveseat.

Felicity squeaked in surprise as they fell, but once landing safely both she and Oliver burst into laughter, realizing just how caught up in the moment they were. Sharing a smile, Oliver cupped Felicity’s neck and lightly caressed her cheek.

“I’ve missed you,” he spoke softly. He eyes sparkled with adoration.

Felicity’s tongue peaked out and wet her bottom lip. She fought against the gigantic grin threatening to take over her face. “Yeah,” she agreed, closing the distance between them. “I’ve missed you too.”

This kiss started more slowly. However, the fevered itch clawing in both of their bellies fanned the flames, and they were back at it within seconds. Clothes became a hindrance to what they really wanted, so Oliver sat up with Felicity straddling his lap and made quick work of her bra and pajama top. Following his lead, Felicity ripped Oliver’s shirt up over his head, breaking their lip-lock, then scooted off of his lap to divest herself of her pants and underwear.

Oliver, dazed by lust, took a moment to gaze upon the gorgeous woman standing before him. Once he was able to focus, his breath caught in his throat and he unconsciously wet his lips. His eyes traveled from head to toe, taking in everything like it was the first time he was seeing her. Felicity shifted on her feet, but she wasn’t nervous. Having done this all before, there was no reason to be shy. This wasn’t a beginning, but a reunion, a reconnecting. That butterfly feeling might remain, but she wasn’t scared of it this time.

In a blink, Felicity found Oliver had gracefully moved to stand right in front of her. His chiseled chest drew her attention as it rose and fell with every deep, shuddering breath. Itching to touch him, her fingers ghosted over the hills and valleys of his torso. Oliver gasped and his body trembled. Felicity’s exploration didn’t get much farther as he lifted her into the air and began to move. Her arms and legs automatically locked around his body, and her gaze was now captivated by the intense, heated stare Oliver gave her. This would have been her swoon-worthy moment if her feet were touching the ground.

Feeling herself being lowered to the ground, Felicity wondered where exactly Oliver moved them. However, once the smooth, stretchy spandex started conforming to her body, she smiled and mentally congratulated herself on the brilliant idea of purchasing this oversized bean bag chair.

“Curtis is going to be upset when I tell him he isn’t going to want to sit on this thing anymore.”

Oliver cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll buy 15 of them for his own house if you promise to never say another man’s name right before we have sex.”

Felicity giggled and bit her lip. She missed their banter. A lot.

Hovering over her, Oliver smirked, ending the moment by continuing where they left off. He released her bottom lip from her teeth by pulling it free with his own, and then plundered her mouth like a man starved. Moaning, Felicity’s hands carded through his hair and her hips rose to seek that delicious friction when she discovered he was still wearing his jeans. Ripping her mouth from his, Felicity tried to gather her words when Oliver turned to his second favorite past time of making out with her neck. What did she want to say again?

“Pants,” Felicity panted. “Pants off, now!”

Oliver grunted as he attempted to balance while removing the rest of his clothing. It was uncoordinated and bumpy, causing Felicity to giggle before she knocked his hands out of the way and took care of the button and zipper herself. They smiled into their kiss as Oliver finally rid himself of his jeans and boxers.

Wrapping her legs back around him, Felicity skimmed her hand down Oliver’s stubbled jaw. “Don’t go slow, and don’t you dare be gentle.”

A second later, Felicity’s head flew back as she cried out. Oliver obeyed her demand with vigor. It may have been over a year since ‘chinese and wine’ in the bunker, but it was as if they never parted. With Oliver’s fast, steady pace and him once again attacking her neck with kisses, Felicity felt centered. She was flying, yet completely grounded. This was right. This was home.

Oliver lost himself in the feeling. He never expected the evening to take this turn, but he wasn’t about to bite the hand feeding him. The woman he loved was in his arms again and no way in hell was he letting go. Since the craziness on Lian Yu and suddenly becoming a single parent, he felt the weight of stress and panic slowly closing in. But as long as he had Felicity beside him, he knew he would be able to make it through the other side. She was his light, his beacon. Problems seemed easier when they were together.

Grunting, Oliver tried to stave off his orgasm, which was approaching much faster than he would have liked. Reaching between their bodies, he found her slick, little bundle of nerves, and circled rapidly with his thumb.

“Oliver!” Felicity cried, then kissed him with every emotion coursing through her body.

Her nails dug into his skin as she scraped her fingers across his back. Like a master musician, this man always knew how to play her body like a fine instrument, and good Google had she missed it!

Oliver wasn’t going to let this end until Felicity joined him, so he ramped up his pace. When he felt her begin to flutter around him, he stopped holding back. Grunts and screams meddled with the hum of electronics throughout the room, and the pair flew over the edge together. Completely boneless, they collapsed and sank further into the plush cushion of the beanbag chair. Oliver’s hot, heavy breath panted against the side Felicity’s neck and did absolutely nothing to cool her wet, sticky body. The temperature between their bodies seemed to reach sweltering levels, but Felicity didn’t want him to move. Didn’t want this moment to end just yet.

With much effort, Felicity managed to move her arms around Oliver’s back and head, hoping to keep him there a few seconds longer. However, her movements appeared to shake Oliver from his post-orgasmic stupor. His head shifted, and he began a trail of kisses starting at her shoulder, up her neck until he reached her lips. The kiss was slow, and lazy. It brought flashes of beach beds, and Bali sunsets from Felicity’s memory. Tightening her arms and bringing her legs into the mix, she really didn’t want this to end.

Oliver found himself lost in the moment as well, forgetting where he was. Felicity was in his embrace and that’s all that mattered. Shifting slightly so he wasn’t lying completely on to of her, their post-coital peace was interrupted by a sudden beeping near Oliver’s feet. Felicity’s face scrunched as she tried to place the source of the sound.

“Is that one of mine?”

“No,” Oliver strained as he pushed himself into a sitting position. “It’s mine. It’s William.”

Reaching for the crumpled pile of his clothes, he pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket and checked the new text message. Felicity sat up and curled around him, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah… he’s just wondering if I’ll be home soon. We’ve sort of have this evening tradition now before he goes to bed. We turn a game on TV, and if he feels like talking, we talk. It’s been… good.“

“I’m glad to hear it. You two deserve to know each other and be a family.”

Oliver looked at her and smiled. Felicity melted inside seeing him so happy.

“However, it seems that I’ve lost track of the time.”

His smile turned into a smirk, and Felicity hid her responding smile against his skin. They shared a look before Felicity finally tilted her face up and touched her lips to Oliver’s. When they separated, they were nothing but smiles.

“I hate to hit and run.” Oliver winced at how horrible that sounded.

But Felicity just laughed. “It’s okay. It’s not like we planned this or anything. And it sounds like William needs you.”

Slowly they stood and began to dress. Stealing looks and small smiles, their movements were comfortable and unhurried. Finally, Oliver slipped on his leather jacket and turned to a now clothed Felicity.

“So…”

“So…” Felicity parroted.

“I guess I’ll just…” Oliver gestured toward the door.

Felicity grinned and took a step toward him. “Thank you for the key.”

Oliver took a step towards her. “Thank you for accepting it.”

Their arms wrapped around each other and they shared another soft kiss.

“Looks like I’m going to need to find an excuse to stop by soon,” Felicity teased as they continued to hold one another.

“Well, I heard the Mayor might be having some personal computer issues…”

Felicity groaned dramatically. “Did you go to the coffee shop in the bad neighborhood again?”

Oliver chuckled and shook his head, grinning ear to ear. “Hey,” he nudged her slightly, “you know you don’t need an excuse to come over.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Good night, Felicity,” Oliver said softly.

“Good night.”

With one final peck of the lips and a flirty wink, Oliver was out the door and heading back to his son.

<——-<<

Felicity danced and hummed along to the song on the radio as she drove through downtown Star City heading towards her apartment. The sun had set long ago, but instead of manning Team Arrow from behind her computers, the team was given an unexpected early night. With no chatter from the police department or any immediate threats to the team, Digg made the call for everyone to go home. If something came up the police couldn’t handle, Felicity’s system would alert them.

Slowing to stop at a red light, Felicity froze mid-head bob when she realized what intersection she was stopped at. A left hand turn would put her right at Oliver’s door. A smile spread across her face. Maybe the mayor had some time for her to look at his computer problems tonight. Felicity giggled to herself. Plus, she should probably check that her key worked. Leaving no time for second-guessing, Felicity quickly turned left as soon as the light changed green.

Thankfully, Oliver’s new apartment had its own parking garage, so she didn’t have to find parking on the street, and 10 minutes later she was standing outside his door. Key poised just outside of the lock, Felicity took a deep breath. It wasn’t that she was nervous, but her stomach swooped with excitement and uncertainty. Would Oliver and William be in the middle of something? Would she feel unwelcome? Maybe today wasn’t the day to do this. Shaking her head she steeled her nerve; she needed to stop overthinking. Slipping the key in, Felicity unlocked the door and slowly pushed it open.

Greeted with the fading smell of a delicious dinner, Felicity’s eyes immediately locked on to Oliver. With his back to her, Felicity stood a moment in the doorway to admire the way his body moved as he washed dishes. That man definitely knew how to fill out a well-tailored button-up shirt, and boy, had she missed seeing that everyday. Especially when he was relaxed and had his sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

Shaking her head, Felicity pushed the door open further and the low squeak of the hinges caught Oliver’s attention. His head swung around to see who the unexpected guest was.

“Felicity,” he breathed. The bright grin that spread across his face threatened to blind anyone is close proximity.

His smile was so full of happiness and excitement that Felicity couldn’t help, but mimic with one of her own. “I hope this isn’t too late.”

“No!” Oliver quickly dried off his hands and moved out of the kitchen towards her

“I just… I heard the mayor was having some computer problems, so I thought now was as good a time to stop by as any.”

Oliver’s smiled never faltered as he cocked a teasing eyebrow. “Well, the mayor is very appreciative that you are willing to make house calls.”

Giggling, Felicity dropped her gaze. Now her stomach fluttered with nerves. Where the hell did this come from? But she couldn’t ponder the thought for long when Oliver’s hand cupped her chin and tilted her face back to his.

“I just wanted to see if my key worked,” she whispered, lost in his crystal blue eyes.

“I’m really happy you’re here,” Oliver whispered back.

Like two magnets, the pair drifted together until their lips locked and their arms wrapped around the other. They lost themselves quickly. Not because the kiss was heated or leading to… other things, but because it felt like coming home. The first steps to their new beginning together.

“Felicity?”

The new voice startled the pair, and Felicity ripped her mouth away from Oliver’s, staring at him wide-eyed with fear. Slowly they turned to face William as he looked back at them with confusion painted across his face.

“H – hey, William.” Felicity gave a small wave, still trapped in Oliver’s embrace.

“Were you stopping by for dinner?” William spared a glance at the now clean kitchen, “Because we already ate.”

“I – uh, I… um.”

“Have you eaten dinner yet?” Oliver jumped in and saved Felicity’s fumbling. “We have a ton of leftovers and I’m more than happy to heat some up.”

Felicity opened her mouth, an excuse right at the tip of her tongue, but the words refused to come out. Because, the thought of leaving just yet made her heart feel heavy. She wanted to spend time with her boys. Wait, her boys?

“I would love some.” No more overthinking. The tension drained from Felicity’s shoulders as she smiled up at Oliver. “You know I’d never say no to your cooking.”

William brightened at her words as well. “If I brought my homework out to the table, would you mind taking a look at it? I have a couple of questions.”

“Sure, I can totally multitask.”

Sitting around the dining room table, Felicity slowly devoured Oliver’s delicious meal, while guiding William through his latest algebra assignment. The kid was bright; he just needed to trust himself a little bit more. Oliver sat to Felicity’s right, sipping his own glass of the wine they were sharing. He didn’t talk as they worked, because watching his son and his – girlfriend? – bond would never get old. Oliver thought he knew true contentment in Ivy town, but he was wrong. This, right here, was what he wanted for the rest of his life.

“I’m lucky you stopped by tonight, Felicity. I think I’m getting the hang of this.”

Felicity smiled. William definitely inherited his father’s charm.

“Actually, bud, Felicity might be coming around more often now. Is that okay with you?”

Sliding his hand across the table to grab Felicity’s, Oliver gave her a loving smile before turning to William.

Shrugging, William played with the pencil in his hand. “Sure, Felicity’s cool.”

“Aww.” Felicity gave him an adorable pout. “Where were you when I was in middle school?”

William blushed and ducked his head.

“So, have you finished all your homework?” Oliver asked as he began to clean up Felicity’s dishes .

“Yep.”

“Alright, well I did promise you could stay up and watch the Seahawks game if you finished early. Put your homework away and I’ll grab the snacks.”

“Cool. Are you going to stay for the game, Felicity?”

The lilt of excitement in his question made her laugh. “No. Sorry. Sports and I don’t understand each other.”

“I could always try explaining the game to you again,” Oliver teased.

Felicity rolled her eyes at him. “You just enjoy watching my eyes glaze over.”

“It doesn’t happen often, it’s fun it when it does.” He winked.

Turning back to William, Felicity ignored Oliver’s teasing. “I also have a long day tomorrow, so I should probably head out.”

William nodded. “Okay. Well, have a good night.”

“You too,” she called after him as he headed for his room.

Now alone with Oliver, she directed her attention back to him and found he still wore a laughing smile. “It’s not funny. Sports are boring.”

“Sports are only boring if you don’t understand them.” He bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud.

“Exactly, sports are boring!”

Shaking his head, Oliver set Felicity’s dishes in the sink. “I’ll walk you out when you’re ready.”

After grabbing what little belongings she had, the pair made their way to the door.

“Thanks for dinner.”

“Thanks for coming over.”

Leaning forward, they shared a quick kiss.

“You know,” Felicity feigned a deep thought. “I think I might pop by more often.”

“I think you should.”

They chuckled and shared one last kiss.

“Goodnight, Oliver.”

“Goodnight, Felicity.”

She slipped out the door, and made her way down the hallway to the elevator.

“Felicity!”

Pivoting at Oliver’s call, Felicity found him leaning against the door jam watching her walk away.

“Would you go to dinner with me?”

Her forehead crinkled. He wanted to go on date? “Wait, like a date?”

Oliver grinned as he pushed off the door jam and walked towards her. “Yeah, like a date date.”

He was teasing her again.

“But, Oliver we kind’ve did that bit already. And – in case you forgot – things didn’t end so well.”

Now standing in front of her, her grabbed her hands. “Eh, I’m liking my odds this time around.”

Felicity was a little stunned, but Oliver’s smile was contagious, so she couldn’t help but join him. “Any idea where you want to go?”

“Hmm… I’m not quite sure yet; however, I do have one request.” Leaning in close, Oliver’s lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “Wear something red.”

THE END

[gamelyplanet-blog]

Before CoD: “Medal of Honor”, a personal retrospective PART I

The bloodiest war in History that engulfed the entirety of mankind; the Second World War, one of the most fascinating and terrifying moments in human history has been talked about, portrayed by and reenacted in every art-form at some point; video games have not been an exception. Though the original Call of Duty remains the quintessential War World 2 shooter, it was not the first series to approach and treat the Great War with such reverence. Infinity Ward, the makers of Call of Duty, did in fact start their careers with a game in another series about World War II: Medal of Honor.

The Medal of Honor series has been a mainstay of the shooter genre for about twenty years now, starting its life in the original Sony Playstation. Not simply a pitch out of nowhere in a safe and established IP or a clone of a more popular game as it’s customary these days, Medal of Honor is actually the brainchild of none other than Steven Spielberg himself. It was Spielberg, while getting ready to release his 1996 war epic Saving Private Ryan that tasked the electronic entertainment division of Dreamworks (his own company) to work on a pitch for a World War 2 game. The developers had a herculean task ahead of them; they had to tackle an entirely new subject matter in a genre mostly foreign to it and they also had to ease the concerns of WWII veteran organizations that thought the game would be disrespectful schlock. After patience, talks, changes and an internally-circulated and very well-received demo, Electronic Arts funded the project and released the first game in 1999, simply titled Medal of Honor.

Even without the influence from Saving Private Ryan and Spielberg’s involvement, the original Medal of Honor is interesting. Not many first-person-shooters originate on consoles and especially not back then. Sure, there were versions of Doom, Wolfenstein 3D and Quake from the SNES to the Playstation, but they were all ported over from the PC versions. The successful shooters that originated on consoles were usually tie-ins to large movie licenses, such as the Alien games and, of course, 007: GoldenEye for the Nintendo 64. It’s more than a little significant that Medal of Honor was a Playstation game first and foremost; it came at the right time on a system that changed gaming forever. The Playstation took gaming into the mainstream and helped rewrite the dated notions of what the entire medium could achieve; it was the system thanks to which in the eyes of normies video games stopped being glorified children’s toys and became a real form of entertainment and/or art. In this regard, the original Medal of Honor is the perfect mirror of the very system it was first released on; Dreamworks and EA proved that shooters weren’t just about grey corridors and energy weapons, gore and killing monstrous aliens; they could be historically accurate, with high production value, entertaining but also educational and centered around one of mankind’s darkest and most important moments. That the game didn’t just disappear, but also spawned a sequel on the same system and eventually became a large IP for EA across multiple platforms makes that original endeavor very important for gaming as a whole.

Steven Spielberg on the set of “Saving Private Ryan” (With Tom Hanks in the background)

Medal of Honor places the player in the shoes of Jimmy Patterson, an agent working for the OSS, that is the Office of Strategic Services, parts of which eventually became the CIA. Patterson is tasked with a variety of solo missions, infiltrating Nazi strongholds and doing anything from locating documents and MiA Allied troops to taking down German super-weapons.

Realism and film roots proved a wonderful mix that works even now, in the game’s old age. Medal of Honor’s gunplay is satisfying. Despite its technical limitations, the weapons feel authentic, in weight, look and sound; it sounds like a given in the modern, military-infested shooter genre, but it was a breakthrough approach at the time. The lone wolf protagonist angle allowed the developers to show less and make use of lighting and shadow techniques to work around the hardware’s limitations and so most missions take place at night or inside claustrophobic German complexes, making it a great and serious looking title. There is era-appropriate artwork during loading screens in the style of propaganda posters, the title screen is a 1940s style war room instead of a simple menu with a logo and even the save/load screen is designed to look like a personnel file. The attention to detail to make the game feel like it’s taking place during the second world war is extremely impressive even by modern standards and the fantastic soundtrack that accompanies players throughout the meaty campaign bolsters the already strong atmosphere and gives off the feeling of a true cinema period classic that you get to partake in.

Where Medal of Honor really still shines is in its enemy AI. The German soldiers aren’t just dumb obstacles charging at the player like most videogame enemies; they spot the player and immediately use tactics. They crouch, they go prone, they roll to dodge, they choose the best position for cover, they even throw grenades back at the player. In rare occasions, Germans will even jump on grenades and cover them with their bodies to contain the explosion and save their comrades. Enemy AI in Playstation games simply wasn’t like this; even compared to the majority of Playstation 2 games, the Germans in Medal of Honor react realistically and complexly. Of all the things that are hard to design in a game, smart AI is probably at the top of that list, making Dreamworks Interactive’s achievement all the more significant. 

Of course, a game like Medal of Honor hasn’t aged flawlessly; the controls are a little stiff, as the game was released for a system, which didn’t even have controllers with analog sticks yet. The aiming and moving are locked to the D-Pad and in situations that the player has to quickly react to unseen threats, the game feels a little rigid. The enemies are also bullet-sponges and if more than one of them are on screen at the same time, the player is unlikely to leave the encounter completely unscathed. 

For all that’s great about the enemy AI, it occasionally glitches and it can be inconsistent, particularly in regards to the enemies’ field of vision; the view distance is understandably low, considering the hardware, but the Germans can sometimes spot Patterson from afar, before the agent and by extension the players can see them.

Lastly, there are no checkpoints in the original version of the game; much like every first person shooter of that era, if the player’s health bar hits zero during a mission, they have to start over again.

Playing the original Medal of Honor in 2017 remains a satisfying and humbling experience; not only does the game still play well enough, but it’s also a link to the past, History in game form. It’s interesting; Dreamwork’s title was one of the first shooters, especially on consoles, to try and educate people in History, but because of its origins and what it represents for gaming, it has become history itself, even if it is only in its own little niche. Those were the days that spawned everything we consider a rule in gaming today, much like the NES library did for gaming in the ‘90s; Medal of Honor is a representative example of the entire 5th console generation, from the way the market worked, to the type of game that was popular, to the involvement of big names from other forms of entertainment, to innovation and polish; it was the era of growth of the entire industry and that’s something engraved on Medal of Honor now-wrinkly skin.

From Steven Spielberg’s brain and his idea for a loose tie-in to his movie, to a multi-million dollars franchise for one of gaming’s biggest publishers, it’s hard to look at the original Playstation title and not see the amount of work, attention to detail and talent that went into making that game. By the time the WWII shooter subgenre had started becoming saturated and dying out, that first game was a distant memory in the minds of most people, assuming they had even heard of it before; yet, even to this day, it’s easy to see and recognize how many genre-defining foundations and tropes Medal of Honor alone created and established.

Next: Medal of Honor: Allied Assault

Note: Medal of Honor is available for purchase via the PSN “PSOne Classics” section for play on Playstation 3, Playstation Portable and Playstation Vita systems.

[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

Signs of the Times (DonnyxReader)

Requested by @baldwin-iv

@owba-chan @war-obsessed @inglourious-imagines @tealaquinn @struggling-bee

Let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist :)

Note: Dialogue that is italicized means the characters are speaking in French or German 

It had been a rather long mission. You, Donny, Wicki, and Hugo had been assigned to it on your own. Given the OSS' projections, no one should have survived that mission. But also given the skills needed to do it, and the objectives, the four of you were basically what Aldo called 'an all-star team.' You had all made it without so much as a scratch on yourselves...though all the nazis that got in your way couldn���t say the same thing.

After two months, the four of you were sitting in a French cafe one afternoon as a reward, just before heading back to the others.

To avoid raising suspicions from possible informants or traitors laying around, you spoke in German with Wicki and Hugo.... If it was absolutely necessary, you'd whisper to Donny in English.... And he'd write his answer on a napkin because that man could not whisper to save his life. After all, you could take the basterd out of Boston, but you couldn't take the Boston out of the basterd.

Someone else walked into the cafe.

Someone drawn to the comfort of his language...

A Gestapo major: Dieter Hellstrom.

He heard the boys and assumed they were German soldiers that were off duty.  Then he heard you speaking to a waiter in perfect French. Dieter assumed you were a French collaborator. Most likely giving the supposed soldiers some Intel....but of course soldiers spotting some civilian as attractive as you could just be making some small talk.

They were soldiers after all...

And so was he.

He sat between Hugo and Wicki, across from you and Donny. "Entschuldigen Sie mich. Sicherlich verschwendet jemand, der so umwerfend ist wie Sie, keine Zeit mit diesen Fahnen!"

'Excuse me. Surely someone as stunning as yourself isn't wasting time with these ensigns!'

Dieter laughed at his joke and patted Hugo and Wicki on the back. Hugo scowled and Wicki forced a grin.

You gave a false, welcoming nod and smile, noting the insignia on his uniform. "This is Private Becker and Sergeant Vogel..." It would've made no sense to make Donny a German soldier... He couldn't speak German and it would blow your cover. So...you panicked.

You gestured to Donny, "Mein bruder..."

Donny forced a grin. An inherently murderous scowl as you explained, "He does not speak German. He's worse than I am..." He noted the French accent as you spoke in German, and nodded.

Dieter shrugged, "ça va, je parle français."

Dieter could, unfortunately, speak French...

You lied again.

"He's...he's mute!"

Dieter raised his chin a little and looked Donny over with a squint. He frowned a bit, then nodded and shook Donny's hand.

Donny made certain his iron grip hurt Dieter.

Dieter chuckled nervously as he pulled his hand away.

You shook his hand next, "Major."

He smiled a little still not letting go of your hand "How rude of me. My name is Dieter. And yours?"

He kissed your hand as you gave him your name.

At that moment, Donny would break Dieter if he could. If only looks could kill...

Meanwhile... Dieter was completely enthralled by you. He winked back at Hugo and Wicki as he chuckled, and spoke to them "You win some you lose some, boys."

It was his way of ordering them to move to another table and back off.

As of that moment, in Dieter's mind, you were his.

You gave a reassuring glance to Wicki and Hugo. Wicki cleared his throat and stood up, saluting Dieter. He glanced back at Donny with a look that screamed "don't blow this for us."

Hugo simply smirked a little seeing the boiling blood and flaming jealousy in Donny's eyes.

Dieter looked back at you once he was satisified by the distance they'd gone.

"I'd apologize to your brother if I seem too forward, Y/n... But I don't think he'd understand me, would he?" Dieter laughed a little.

You clearly weren't amused, but at that moment Dieter was blinded by his lust.

Still, you chuckled a little. Not because you liked Dieter but because you knew Donny. And you knew damn well this would not end well for that nazi.

Dieter rambled on, stumbling over lines and flirts until he was practically out of breath and burning red. "I apologize if I seemed insensitive it's just been a while since anyone so charming....has well..."

You stopped paying attention as Dieter droned on.

Meanwhile...Donny was clenching his fists. His right fist was wrapped around a knife under the table. His left fist restsed on the table, his knuckles turning white. His leg was shaking as he tried to control his rage.

He didn't understand a word Dieter was saying, but he knew he was saying things a man shouldn’t say to another man's love. Ever. In any language. Rules were rules under every flag and alliance.  

Just as Donny was about to snap, Dieter caught sight of the time.

"I must be going... Meet me here tomorrow night, at seven? They have some good strudel here."

You smiled "Ja."

Dieter nodded and quickly built up the courage to lean over the table. He planted a slobbery mess of a kiss on your cheek. You scrunched up your nose. You knew he said it'd been a while, but judging from that disaster of a peck, it must have been ages. Donny's eyes were those of a madman, wild with jealousy.

The moment Dieter stepped out the door everyone took a breath of relief.

"Ugh..." You wiped some of Dieter's messy kiss away from your cheek with your sleeve. Donny was eerily silent...

You smirked at him, "If it's any consolation to you, he's a terrible kisser."

Donny grunted as he slammed the knife into table, driving the blade halfway through.

"Hey..." Your voice was soothing to him as you rested your hand against Donny's cheeks.

He started ranting and muttering vulgarities under his breath.

You sighed. You were the only basterd that was not be scared of Donny when he got like that. Everyone else was good at hiding it at that point...but at that Hugo and Wicki were petrified, and kept their distance.

"Hey. Look at me, Donny."

"What." he growled as he finally turned to you, eyes piercing deep into yours, practically huffing like a wolf.

You looked right back into his dark eyes until the smoke seemed to fade.

He took a breath...he lowered his eyes in shame. "I'm sorry...."

You smiled softly and eased his raging heart. "He'll be back tomorrow night. You and the boys wait outside."

He immediately sunk back into his jealousy. "What and watch that fucken kraut kiss you? Yeah. Ok." He scoffed and crossed his arms.

You rolled your eyes. "Ok. And you get a scalp." You patted him on the chest. And he uncrossed his arms and smirked a little.

"Deal, baby?" Feeling your hands resting against his face made him calm down.

His heart melted when you gave him a kiss.

His breathing slowed.

He unclenched his fists.

He even smiled a little.

The next night, Donny hid in some trees, and basically had to watch you go on a date with someone else. A nazi, no less.

He almost went on a rampage when Dieter leaned in to kiss you.

But...you put your finger against Dieter’s lips.

"Lets get out of here."

Dieter's mouth dropped as he fumbled to gather his things.

He practically ran outside with you, pulling you by the hand.

And ran into Donny.

"Oh...your brother... Damn."

Donny looked to you, his eyes more expressive than any word could ever be as he signed to you and Dieter.

As a matter of fact, Donny really did know ASL. One of his childhood friends was deaf. In fact, that kid was still one of closest friends, but that was a story for another day...

It wasn't French sign language but it would do. Dieter couldn't tell the difference.

Besides... Donny was signing profanities directed at Dieter and no one knew...

No one but you.

You nodded with a sigh and rolled your eyes.

Dieter looked to you, annoyed and practically whining about the sudden appearance of your 'brother,' "What did he say?"

"He'll walk me home from here."

Dieter muttered under his breath but had to admit "Well... he's doing what any older brother would do, isn't he..."

You smiled a little, holding Dieter's decorated lapel, "Can't blame him can you, major? Me and a handsome soldier like you..."

Donny's eyes and signing intensified...

Donny pulled you away from him and Dieter asked "May I come along?"

You and Donny looked to each other and smirked. You clued him in, "That's the plan."

Dieter smiled and blindly followed into the forest that you somehow convinced him was a short cut. Dieter had his arm around you, as you both followed Donny into the woods.

"Bit dark here... If your brother wasn't butting in, I think you and I could-" his hand started slipping from around your shoulders, down your back.

Donny swung around, grabbed Dieter by the collar, and tore him away from you.

Donny understood enough.

"Lets get one thing straight, pal." Donny was dangling Dieter a good five inches off the ground, "I aint Y/n's brother and I aint mute. Your turn to set the goddamn record straight, pal. What would you do if I wasnt here? Huh?!"

Dieter was struggling against Donny, but there was no way he was reaching his gun. You had been leaning against a tree. It really was the closest thing you got to going to the movies... You smirked a little as you lit a cigarette. "Boys?" You puffed some smoke out as you watched the spectacle unfold.

Wicki and Hugo emerged from the trees. Hugo tossed the bat to Donny.

Wicki took Dieter's gun and Donny threw him against the ground.

He crouched over Dieter like a leopard prowling over it's prey. "You still don't know who we are, do you?"

Dieter's eyes widened as he saw the bat.

"You're the one they call the Bear Jew..."

He looked back at Hugo and Wicki... He knew they looked familiar.

He snapped his head toward you, barking like a rabid dog, "AND YOU. YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A-"

Donny had been practicing his swing for a minute or so...

 He stopped and looked at Dieter. "Careful what you say about Y/n. Might make your final moments a bit more pleasant, major."

Dieter roared in German.

Donny didn't need to understand.

"Suit yourself, you fucking home wrecker." Donny tilted his head side to side as he cracked his neck and stretched.

He swung his bat.

It was a most unpleasant death, to say the least.

But you had to admit... Dieter had it coming.

So you walked on with your boys, back to the rest of the basterds somewhere in Nazi-Occupied France.

Donny was covered in blood drops. But...what was new?

He had his arm wrapped around you, bat swinging from his hand as you swayed together through the forest. A scalp around his belt.

Jealous as he was...sometimes it was a bit endearing. Sometimes it was annoying.  Sometimes it was deadly.

But as you looked at batter from Boston, you smiled as you saw the satisfaction in his smirk and the love in his eyes.