#(i love him he sits on the same perch every morning to preen and then shifts between 3 separate watchposts)

[ariadne-mouse]

Me: *opens my bird ID app to catch a new call in my yard*

Local Territorial Hummingbird: hey. hey. hey. hey. hey. hey. hey. hey. hey. hey. hey. hey. heyheyheyhey. hey. hey.

Me: I fucking know can you shut up there is this new bird I'm trying t-

Local Territorial Hummingbird: HEYHEYHEYHEYHEY

[spiltscribbles]

Ahh I've always wanted to send a prompt. How about “Whoa. Easy, easy. I’ve got you.” with some sleep intimacy. Can I just say I love you and your writing.

~Notes: 😭😭 OH KY GOD SUGAR!!! You are so beyond adorable! I love you to pieces! And I do not deserve such kindness💜😘😘 So I at first read this as sleek Becs i am an idiot... so honestly this is 4700 words of pure smut😳😌😌 but uts early morning so it’s stilly sleepy intimacy kvdjhj Thank you for the prompt! But if smut isn’t your jam plz lmk and I’ll write you something else😣😣😘💜

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If asked to choose his favorite feature of Remus’s, Sirius reckons he’d have a difficult time with it, like to a ridiculous degree. It could easily be the dimple that shows up right on the apple of his cheek when he sports that glowing, reluctantly amused smile that only appears after Sirius or James have hexed a Slytherin prat right in front of him, and not even his Prefect sensibilities prove strong enough to scold them for it. Or maybe it’s the splatter of freckles that dance on the tops of his shoulders and the bridge of his nose right after summer hols, and he looks gloriously golden and it’s all Sirius can do not to kiss each one right in front of all the wizards congregated in nine and three quarters. Or maybe it’s simply the way he gnaws on his bottom lip whenever he’s thinking particularly hard on a subject— a habit usually reserved for potions lessons and when it’s a late night in the library and they’re both tucked away in a dark nook and Sirius has pushed Remus up against a bookshelf while stroking him in his trousers with intense precision. One corner of his mouth curled in challenge, dipping down to lick at that hollow on Remus’s long neck, tacitly reminding him that he best keep quiet lest Madam Pince has their heads on a couple of stakes she surely keeps beneath her desk for opportunities just like this.

Alright, if Sirius is being at all honest, it’s a frequently alternating list of all of Remus’s most splendid attributes, but at the moment, Sirius thinks there’s no question that in fact it’s Remus’s eyes that can ruin him with just a glance. His eyes that are a deep, vibrant green with flecks of amber that dance in their depths. Eyes that look like September, like the very start of their school term. Eyes that make Sirius think of the forest where Padfoot and Moony roam. Eyes that make Sirius think of fire lit common rooms and the taste of butterscotch on Remus’s lips, and such an overwhelming sensation of adoration that it could very well suffocate him if Sirius isn’t careful. It’s such a contrary color from the crisp and cool shades of emerald that accent the regality of 12 Grimmauld Place. Remus’s eyes are something warm and wonderful and where Sirius would gladly choose to get lost inside of for the next eon to come— Most especially if it’s a moment like this, with one of his hands knotted in Remus’s hair while the other one is busy thumbing small circles into his bare stomach. Where Remus is enthusiastically kissing Sirius back— fervent and famished and so fucking gorgeous— His arms loosely tangled around Sirius’s neck from where he’s lying beneath him, long legs bracketed on either side of Sirius’s narrow waist, and yeah, Sirius has always had three inches and two stone on Remus, but he often forgets that Remus’s lithe stature isn’t just for show— he’s got discrete strength beyond a normal wizard, and he chooses to fall under Sirius. Chooses Sirius who’s all hard edges and marble planes. He chooses Sirius simply on the merit that he’s him, and they’ve always been at least somewhat drawn to one another, even before either one of them really knew what it meant.

Sirius inwardly preens, presses more forcefully down against Remus and revels in the slight whimper Remus lets out just then, hands grappling Sirius’s broad shoulders just that bit tighter, keeping him close just that bit more desperately.

It’s remarkable.

The dormitory’s blessedly quiet this Saturday morning— James is off being a ponce on the quidditch field in preparations for their match against Slytherin in a couple weeks— the final one before they graduate and leave Hogwarts’ hallowed halls for the final time— And Peter had kindly buggered off after some not particularly well veiled threats waged by Sirius so he could get some alone time with his sodding boyfriend for Merlin’s sake. They have all morning to stay like this. Sirius can spend hours on end watching as the early light unspools in Remus’s hair— lacing into his curls and turning them a lovely tawny color— and he gets to revel in how Remus’s breath quickens every time Sirius bucks down and rubs their barely clad, already hard cocks against one another. And Sirius can whisper sweet nothings into Remus’s still sleep supple skin— sometimes filthy, and occasionally wicked, and always exultant— letting himself drown into the sounds that Remus moans out in turn, poetry if anyone were to ask him. And they don’t have to worry about nosey roommates or trying to keep quiet or staying inconspicuous from prying eyes that threaten to snatch this snapshot of bliss away from him.

If Sirius could stay in the slice of eternity for the rest of their days and beyond, he’d choose it every single time. And maybe that could be their future, their life after Hogwarts— far away from this looming war beginning to ravage their world as they know it, and divorced from the whispers of the Order that Dumbledore has created to fight against those barmy, blood crazed lunatics.

A future that’s normal and safe and glittering like the silvery film around their patronuses.

Remus would probably get a Muggle job, maybe in a University of some sort. Sirius always thought he’d make such a brilliant professor, make all the school kids mad with how he’s so brilliant and beautiful and compassionate. Sirius and James already know that they’ll both end up in the Ministry as Aurors, because of course that’s the job for a couple of dashing young lads such as themselves. He supposes by then Evans will have been convinced to stop the on again, off again nature of her relationship with dear Prongsie, but he knows that even if not she and Remus are as thick s thieves, she’ll never just let him get away from her friendship after graduation. So maybe she’ll come visit in their flat after her internship at St Mungo’s, and of course Pete is always terrified that if he doesn’t spend every waking minute with at least one of them that he’ll be forgotten, so he’d be there too. The five of them, bombastic and bright and babbling on a lazy weeknight with glasses of fire-whiskey and plates of take out and Remus perched securely into Sirius’s embrace, and everything being just as it should be. Something golden, something wonderful, something splendid.

But as he begins to nip at that point against Remus’s sharp collarbone that’s become his favorite through the duration of their nearly year and a half of dating, he wonders not for the first time if Remus has the same prospects— if he wants to spend countless mornings just like this and endless nights in a similar way, if he wants to pick up Sirius’s discarded socks and eat the dinners Sirius makes for them, if he wants to tumble so thoroughly with Sirius that they don’t even know where one begins and the other ends anymore. Sirius wonders if he wants any of that, or if Remus is planning to go back to Wales with his parents instead of taking up Sirius’s casually thrown around offers for him to stay in the London flat that Alphard had left Sirius along with the gold and the watch and all the expectations of doing better than the Black name has always meant.

And the possibility of that— the possibility of Remus not dreaming of the same forever as him— cuts Sirius to the quick, and he doesn’t let himself think about it, instead sits up on his forearms, so that he’s peering down at Remus now, and he cups the length of him over the cotton, squeezing to hear the melody of Remus’s gasp and grounds himself into the moment once more.

“You’re in a mood this morning,” Remus intones, more than a bit breathily while Sirius moves his hand to push beneath Remus’s pants from behind, cupping one of his cheeks for a good and proper squeeze.

“Mmm, careful, or else I’d think you don’t like this method of being woken up,” Sirius counters, feels himself preen at how Remus’s face dusts scarlet, though it doesn’t last long when Remus retaliates by tugging at his hair, beyond mulish looking at Sirius’s glee.

“You know, I do have to do some more research on that final paper for charms that Flitwick gave us,” he muses— the unrepentant tease.

“Are you sure of that,” Sirius asks, dipping back down to worry the skin of Remus’s earlobe between his teeth, while the pads of his fingers make a pedal soft trail to the cress of his arse, lighter than breath while he circles the small, tight entrance of him— just grazing around the hole with languid intent, occasionally dragging over the opening with a dry finger, never delving any deeper than that. And it gets it’s intended effect— namely, the balls of Remus’s heels pressing up against Sirius’s back, and him gasping out these guttural, maddening mewls as he tries to buck down, tries to finally get some penetration.

“Merlin, are you going to just tease me till those wankers get back, or will you finally fucking do something, Black.”

“I think I like keeping you on the edge, sweetheart.” Sirius retorts, punctuating the point with a small wiggle of the top of his pointer finger, the one now comfortably nestled inside of him.

“Absolute prat,” Remus fumes, though when he begins to try moving once more, Sirius stunts the action by lying his forearm against hiss lightly muscled stomach, pressing most of his weight there while he gives one final, goading push with his finger and drags his hand to instead rub against the expanse of Remus’s pale, thin thigh, wants to lap at the skin there but also doesn’t want Remus to win this little battle he’s waged— not yet at least.

“Well Maybe if you ask nicely?”

The twist of Remus’s features tells Sirius that he’s absolutely fuming, but also he won’t leave because he’s gagging for it just as much as him. “You’re the dog, if you don’t recall. Maybe I should make you beg to hump even my leg.”

“No need for such a wicked tongue, Moons,” Sirius sneers, hitches Remus’s legs higher on his waistline so that the head of his cock can graze at the concealed hole. “Just a please would suffice.”

Remus scoffs. “You’re mad.”

“I’m also very patient,” Sirius leers, begins thrusting only slightly, nudging at him and delighting in the flicker of emotions that flashes over Remus’s face— going from indignant to wanting to abashed and landing on a cool sort of resolve.

“Oi, if you’re all talk, I’m sure I can poke around in the library, see if Leon is still—“ The rest of Remus’s sentence is swallowed up by the frenzy of movement that clashes inharmoniously from one moment to the next. And suddenly Remus is lying flat on his front, with one of Sirius’s legs pressed unswervingly between his legs, an accioed bottle of lube in one of his hands while the other nearly tears Remus’s pants trying to drag them off.

“You’re such a little arse, Lupin.” He hisses, tossing the garnet to the side along with his own before he begins palming his prick with the Muggle lotion type substance Remus had brought along from after easter hols, when they had visited that brilliant little shop in Soho— and Sirius isn’t sure if he should be proud or simply smug at how it’s already emptied by half.

“You like how little my arse is, Black,” Remus retorts from where his head is now squeezed partially onto his pillow, punctuating the point with a small shake of his bum.

“Right, so that means I’d rather not think of the other plonkers who’ve seen it before I got my hands all over you,” Sirius snaps, not actually irritated— even if he hates the sight of Leon sodding Bennett more than anything else.

“It was just a joke,” Remus tells him, soft and sincere and away from that playful tone he was using from before.

“Yeah, you better have been,” Sirius says, but then dips down to kiss between Remus’s shoulder blades— to the left of where he’s got a hand spread across his back— just to assure him that he’s not actually upset.

“You’re brilliant you know. The best in every way, I hope you understand that,” Remus tells him, a bit quieter and a bit more reserved, in a voice that wavers only slightly with the nerves of the admission. “I’ve only ever been in love with you— And I know that it’s probably not the same, I know that you’ve had others and we’re only eighteen and—“

Sirius cuts him off with one single, quick smack against the width of his arse— an arse he can probably write a thousand sonnets and a million more odes about— and he returns to kneading at the muscle there. “Don’t be an idiot, Remus. You know I love you like mad, more than anything— you’re everything.”

“Oh. Oh, that’s good— Erm, I mean—“ Sirius can only see half of Remus’s face from this angle, and most of it is obscured by his curly fringe, but he can detect the pinkish flush feathering over his sharp cheekbone and the way he’s begun to gnaw on the end of his mouth, eyes half lit and hooded. And God, sometimes Sirius thinks that it’s the blind leading the blind with them as they dance along this precipice of the most precious thing either of them has ever held in their quivering grasps.

“Right convenient if you ask me,” Sirius says instead of something from the stream of soppy poetry he’s thinking about— the love sick lyrics dedicated to Remus and Remus alone. He doesn’t want to potentially fracture this single understanding that they’ve finally revealed to one another. Rather, Sirius scrapes another chunk of the slick, Muggle substance into his hand and cloaks himself completely before taking a bit of it against Remus’s arsehole, his insides melting like molasses once he feels the warmth of Remus cloaking him, the way Remus’s entrance is practically fluttering, practically trying to swallow Sirius whole.

“Oh, yeah— Just a bit more.”

“Shh, let me take care of you, Moony,” Sirius reproves with absolutely no heat, instead sounding more than a little horse as he adds another digit and watches as Remus expands beneath his touch, watches his long fingers being devoured by him— the bronze tan Sirius always sports during the warmer months melding into the pale patches of Remus that rarely sees sunlight— watches their jagged edges piecing together like a sacred tomb, and Sirius knows right then and there that he’d want to be lost in every facet of Remus for every eon to come, even when they’re nothing but cinders and ashes and wisps of starlight. He’d want this, he’d crave this. He’d always need this, need Remus in any way he’d take him.

“Oh— Sirius, please, right there.” Remus suddenly squawks, jolting forwards and grappling for either end of his fourposter’s wooden bars. “Pl— Please.”

Always beyond eager to watch his lover come undone, Sirius adds one final finger before crooking them inside of Remus, skimming the little nest of nerves found there, and repeating the action twice more before he hears Remus’s choked off demand, “Bloody hell, Sirius! Will you just give me what I want!”

“I thought you’d never ask, sweetheart.” Sirius absolutely beams, gingerly pulling out from his gaping and empty entrance so to lather himself one final time, kisses the freckle behind Remus’s left ear as he snakes a hand beneath his stomach to raise him up slightly. “Can you stay like this, baby.”

His arms still slightly shaking from when Sirius had been teasing his prostate, Remus nods resolutely, shuffling around so that he’s resting his chin on his forearms, and his back is arched so beautifully with his pert arse stretched back in an inviting fashion. “You just worry about making this last hour worth my time.”

Sirius sniffs, pats Remus’s behind with a tad bit more intensity than strictly needed. “You and that lip is gonna get the best of you one of these days, Moony.”

“Mmm, I’ll believe it when you actually begin proving as much,” Remus barbs, and God Sirius loves him so fucking much— feels his chest absolutely contract with the ferocity of it.

“Right, well, you just sit there, looking pretty. All right?” Sirius intones, cards a hand through Remus’s hair and tugs just slightly before letting go completely to adjust his position from behind him— both hands on either end of Remus’s waistline and his dick poking at his hole— and God the throbbing is becoming painful with how badly Sirius just wants to plunge inside, to fuck and pound and thrust into Remus until he hears his boyfriend— his partner— absolutely sing with pleasure. “You are beautiful, Remus, you know that, right? Know that I think you’re the most bloody gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen, that the scars just show how otherworldly you are?” Sirius emphasizes that final point by thumbing across the one skirting across the the side of his neck, stretching from the bottom of his ear and ending at the point of his collarbone. It’s the most prominent one, the only scar besides a scratch on his pinky that can’t be covered up by a trusty jumper or pair of corduroys. The one Remus is most sensitive about, and the one he probably hates nearly as much as the bite marring his inner thigh.

“Sirius, please. Just not now,” Remus implores, sounding like a blown out candle all of a sudden, and Sirius can’t have that. Doesn’t want him to feel anything close to shitty while they’re doing this, while he has him this way. So with an obedience he only has if Remus asks him for as much in his more cautious of cadences, Sirius clenches his jaw, and keeps the adoring words stuck to his teeth, and he distracts himself by finally moving forwards, and it’s like a blink of the eye wen suddenly everything around him goes hazy, feeling like a disillusionment charm has been cast with how everything feels intangible, floaty, feels unsubstantial in comparison to the hot, tight pressure of Remus wrapped around him, made all the more etherial by the sounds of Remus’s melodic moans and gorgeous gasps and the way he moves in tandem with Sirius, how he cants back to meet the electrical current of Sirius fucking into him.

And he isn’t sure who says what in the gargle of words being spilt between them, is pretty sure he’s saying something about how beautiful Remus always is for him and then Remus replying with something about Sirius giving more to him, giving him something harder, deeper, quicker, and then, somehow, Sirius has got both of remus’s wrists in his hand and he’s pressing them against the small of Remus’s back, and he’s slowing down, suddenly wants this to last so much longer, wants to keep Remus this pliant and open and uninhibited for him for just that bit more.

“Merlin, I love you,” he says, focussing on the sweat collecting into the divot of Remus’s pinched shoulder blades and leans down to lick over the spot. “So fucking much.”

“Me too, Sirius! Sirius, I love you too! Please don’t stop, please.” Remus begs, canting back and twitching his fingers, obviously needing some sort of friction, though Sirius doesn’t think he’ll give it to him quite yet.

“What if I do though?” He asks, affecting an innocent tone while he slowly pulls out of Remus, pushing inside with shallow thrusts now, giving him hardly more than his tip. “What if I keep you like this, wait to see how long it takes you to come off of this alone, untouched. Just by my cock teasing you like this?” Remus makes another, strangled sort of noise deep in his throat, and he shutters in a way that convinces Sirius he’s not completely opposed to the offer. “You’d like that, yeah? You’d like me holding you down like this and watching you absolutely go feral? Go unraveled beneath me? Hell, I bet you wouldn’t even mind if I kept you like this for the rest of the morning. If I fucked you stupid and didn’t let you come even then. Just plug you up with that naughty toy we got from that Muggle shop when you visited me over Easter in London. Trap my spunk inside and just keep you nice and open until I decide to give it to you once again— drag you to a bathroom stall or an empty cupboard and fuck you senseless. Bloody hell, Remus, you probably wouldn’t even last a minute, hmm?”

Remus stays quiet, doesn’t unclench that taught muscle in his jaw, but his pupils are blown and he’s completely flushed, and Sirius is so thankful he can read the smallest nuances of him, loves knowing how absolutely wrecked just the idea of that has gotten his beautiful Moony, the side of him that no one else could ever see. The side of him hidden by his aloof exterior and measured words when around others. No one else gets to see this hauntingly beautiful, desperate little thing he becomes under Sirius’s hand, how he’s strung to vivid colors by Sirius mumbling such wicked contemplations into the expanse of his warm, golden skin.

“Are you going to answer, love,” he asks, with a lecherous sort of grin, pounding into him with a lack of delicateness from before, only twice, only enough to get Remus writhing again. “Do you not want that?”

Remus squeaks as the top of his head grazes against the headboard from the impact, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut while his thin lips fall open. “I reckon— Erm, I reckon that would be all right. Just to try.”

“My lovely academic, has to give everything a go,” Sirius crows, returns to thrusting measuredly in and out of him, kisses the nape of his neck with soft reverence. “But you know, we wouldn’t have to sneak around like that in only a couple weeks. We’ll be graduated,” he twists his hips slightly and presses down a bit more viciously than the slow paces probably would’ve entailed, and Remus quite literally groans at the feeling of it. “I’ll have that bloody huge flat, and you could be there too. We could spend every morning like this, Moony my love. We could christen every sodding room on the first day alone, and then I’d make you some of that veggie curry you like and you can sit there with an ice pack on your bum after I’m done with you.”

“Oh— Hah, you think you’ve got that sort of stamina,” is all Remus manages out in response, his features going tight with hunger when Sirius retorts with a staccato of uneven thrusts inside of him, stopping only when he feels the release willing up his own body, doesn’t think he’s ready to end this conversation quite yet.

“With you in one of my T-shirts and nothing else?” Sirius asks, watches the way Remus’s toes quite literally curl when he slides inside his used hole once more, shaking Remus slightly with how he moves and thrusts and squeezes his wrists hard enough to bruise. “I bet I could get it up an infinite amount of times! THere will be studies invoked for the phenomena of my cock, Moony. Potions inspired that’d never work, because they could never get it right when I tell them it’s the sight of you waiting for me looking wide eyed and teasing— waiting to be debauched— that’s got me so erect. I’ll be a household name, you watch.”

“You— Oh, oh. Yes like that please Sirius just a little more— Hah, you’re a madman.”

Sirius leers, does as told and grabs forcefully against Remus’s biceps and pounds him flat on the mattress, fucking into him and thrills with all the different noises he’s dragging out of Remus, the way he can’t even form words amidst his groan. “Then you best stay with me, who knows what a madman could do all on his lonesome.”

Just because he’s always been a bit sadistic, Sirius stops his graceless rutting, lies nearly entirely against Remus instead, tugging on the back of his curls so that he’s got a better view of Remus’s gaze. “Wha— Oh, yes, fuck yes you plonker. Of course I want to move in with you, just wanted you to ask properly instead of beating round the bloody bush!”

Sirius feels his brows hike up, absolutely gleeful. “You wanton little slag, you just wanted me to use my manners, eh?”

Remus huffs, looking beyond grouchy. “Yes, yes, and obviously, like the contrary bastard you are, you decide to actually do as much when I’d rather you be beating inside of me., but thus is my fate being stuck in love with such a wanker.”

Sirius can’t help but cackle at the incredibly cross expression Remus has got painted over his features, and he pecks a path down his temple and down to the dip of his shoulder muscles in apology. “You know I’m not one for subtleties, Moony.”

“Humph, well how’s this for subtle. Will you just ruddy fuck me and keep this discussion on the back burner for afterwards?”

Always eager to please his boyfriend, Sirius gently presses him back down on the sheets and rises only enough so to continue the easy rhythm between them, only increased by one of his hands circling Remus’s blazingly scarlet cock, pushing him through the loop of his fingers every time Sirius rocks harshly into him, going speedier and speedier with every choked out plea coming from Remus.

“What about this for a wanker?” He asks snidely, snapping forwards especially roughly, and twisting remus’s prick only slightly in turn, knows how much he enjoys the contrast of that.

“Yes— Yes, yes, yes Sirius! Just keep going, please, love, please. God, I love you. Holy fuck.” 

And it’s not another thrust inside before Remus is spilling into Sirius’s palm and the contracted muscle pumps the orgasm out of Sirius himself.

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” Sirius groans in a voice that’s nearly completely faded, and totally pious, careful to move outside Remus’s overly sensitive hole, and still panting while he absentmindedly grabs for a spare vest. He mutters a labored aguamenti before he brings it to Remus’s behind and begins to dab gently at the skin there, smattered with lube and Sirius’s come and a good amount of wetness from his sweat.

“Oh,” Remus shakes, sucking in a breath and tensing at the sensation of the intrusion.

“Whoa. Easy, easy. I’ve got you,” Sirius assures him gingerly, tossing it to the corner when he’s finished, and can’t help but kiss the small dimples found right against the skin that cups over his arse.

“The, mmm. The house elves, Sirius. They don’t deserve that to deal with.”

Sirius only barely manages to hold back the roll of his eyes at Remus’s tendency not to understand how much those buggers enjoy any and all cleaning. Merlin, leave it too Moony to feel bad about something that someone wants to do for him. “I’ll grab it later, promise. Bin it o whatever.”

Remus only replies with a soft sound of consent, letting himself be gathered into Sirius’s arms properly, his head cradled against Sirius’s chest and Sirius’s arms wrapped around him while he kisses the crown of his tawny curls.

“You want a kip then?” Sirius asks amusedly, feeling his own eyelids beginning to droop.

“Hmm, yeah. That’d be nice. Then we can talk about that hideously orange breakfast table you’ve got in the flat. I bloody well won’t be living in any proximity of that monstrosity, Padfoot.”

Sirius can’t help the laughter that spills out, and he agrees to the conversation but demands that Remus call Winifred by name, lest she gets her feelings hurt.

“Madman,” Remus reiterates, completely fond as he dozes off, and when Sirius feels the breaths falling out of Remus’s lips even out, he thinks that them nestled into one another like this might be the only salvation he ever wants to know, the only sensation he could ever crave— The only sunlit snapshot he ever needs for the rest of his days.

[flowercrown-bard]

To give without knowing (12/?)

word count: ~10k

read on AO3

previous  / next /  masterpost

content warning: self-deprication, fear of abandonment

The tap room was smaller and quieter than the average one Geralt encountered on the Path. It was a nice change. People enjoying their quiet meant that Jaskier didn’t leave Geralt’s side too often to play and when he did, he was not once met with angry criticism or things being thrown at him.

Right now, Geralt was leaning back on the bench at the edge of the room, watching Jaskier perform with a quiet smile that no one but Jaskier would notice.

Jaskier was sitting perched on top of a table with some sailors banging on the surface in rhythm of the sea shanty they had requested. Today must be one of the rare days that they asked for more music than usual. Perhaps as a last farewell before going back to sea the next day.

Whatever the reason, Geralt didn’t complain, not when Jaskier had found such an appreciative audience.

This was so different from how Jaskier usually performed, but it was obvious that Jaskier was enjoying himself. His face was flushed and every once in a while he interrupted his singing and let one of the sailors improvise a new verse. As he sang foreign songs of sailors longing for their loves they had left behind on land, he kept glancing at Geralt.

It sent a shiver down Geralt’s spine and he couldn’t have torn his eyes away from Jaskier if he had wanted to.

Geralt wasn’t foolish enough to let himself believe that this eye contact meant anything. Jaskier just wanted to share this happy moment with his friend, nothing more. And it should have been enough, really. But there was no harm in imagining that there was more to it. If Geralt’s eyes lingered on the curve of Jaskier’s smile a little too long while he imagined what it would feel like to taste that smile, no one needed to know. Jaskier would never need to find out that for just this moment, Geralt let himself dream that maybe Jaskier wanted to kiss Geralt until his perpetual scowl turned into a smile of his own.

With the way Jaskier’s eyes were shining with joy when they found Geralt, it wasn’t hard to pretend that Jaskier didn’t want to ever look away from him.

But he did.

Vaguely, Geralt was aware of the door opening. It didn’t really matter until Jaskier’s eyes drifted to whoever had wandered in. His entire face lit up with the brightest smile and something cold settled in Geralt’s stomach. He had gotten too used to that smile being directed at only him that he had forgotten what it felt like to see Jaskier look at someone else like that.

Without meaning to, he turned to follow Jaskier’s gaze. The pit in his stomach grew when his eyes landed on the woman. There was no reason for him to scowl at her and will her to go away, but apparently the selfish part of him that wanted to keep Jaskier’s smiles to himself didn’t need a reason.

He wanted to get up, to disrupt Jaskier’s song and ask him to leave; anything to stop him from talking to her.

But as he watched the woman return Jaskier’s smile and wave at him, Geralt knew that it was already too late.

Which was fine. Geralt had no right to stop Jaskier from talking to others, especially not when the sight of them evidently made him happy.

Even in the dim light of the tap room, Geralt could see the woman’s strikingly blue eyes that were almost as bright as Jaskier’s. At least that was true for the one eye Geralt could see. The other one was hidden behind a strand of light blond hair that fell into her face. It was the sort of thing that Jaskier would be able to sing countless ballads about. The sort of thing he would take as a temptation. In his mind Geralt could already see Jaskier brushing the hair behind the woman’s ear before leaning in for a kiss.

Geralt’s insides twisted, even though he told himself that his worries were unfunded and unfair. Jaskier was just greeting her, nothing more. Even if he did kiss her, it was none of Geralt’s concern. Jaskier could kiss whomever he wanted. What was it any of Geralt’s business if that was anyone but him?

Despite his pathetic attempts to calm himself, the twist in his gut didn’t go away. His treacherous thoughts were bad enough, but the reality of the situation was so much worse.

Jaskier stopped playing mid-song. Jaskier never interrupted a performance – except, of course, for when Geralt came into a room bleeding and covered in monster innards, but that hardly counted. It wasn’t as if any attention would stay on Jaskier if Geralt appeared like that.

Now, though, Jaskier jumped from his spot on the table and left the sailors to continue the song on their own. He swung his lute onto his back and spread his arms wide as he walked towards the woman with purpose.

“A sight for sore eyes,” he declared with a grin.

Before Jaskier could reach her, she rolled her pretty eyes at him. “Don’t think you can distract me with compliments from the fact that you stopped playing as soon as I came in.” She quirked an eyebrow at him in a challenge. “Scared I’d leave again if I had to listen to you sing?”

Geralt’s frown deepened with every word and he gripped the edge of the table tightly to stop himself from getting up and putting himself between Jaskier and the woman who dared to insult him like that. Jaskier could handle insults well enough on his own, but that didn’t chance the fact that Geralt’s insides twisted at her words. Just moments ago, Jaskier had been brimming with happiness. He had been so excited about learning those new songs and having appreciative company to sing with.

Geralt’s chest clenched at the thought of Jaskier’s face falling at the woman’s words.

But Jaskier’s face didn’t fall. His shoulders didn’t slump and he didn’t turn tail in dejection. Instead he threw his head back with a hearty laugh, as comfortable as if he had known the woman for years. As if her words hadn’t been insults at all but intimate teasing, not unlike the way Geralt bantered with Jaskier whenever he asked him for a review for his songs. But that was their thing.

Once Jaskier’s laughter subsided, he breached the last bit of distance between himself and the woman and pulled her into a tight hug, kissing her cheeks.

Geralt couldn’t see Jaskier’s face when he pulled back, but he was certain he knew exactly how Jaskier looked at the woman. It must be the same way he had looked at countless other pretty people. The same way that Geralt looked at Jaskier.

Except contrary to Geralt, Jaskier was allowed to admire, to touch, to kiss.

This was... This was fine. Good even. Jaskier shouldn't have to admire from afar. He deserved to be happy. And oh, he looked so happy right at this moment.

And Geralt... He was happy for Jaskier. It didn't matter that his smile had turned into a thin-lipped line or that his hands were clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his own skin painfully.

When Jaskier gestured over to him and took the woman by the hand to lead her to Geralt's table, he forced himself to relax. He didn't know what to feel. A part of him was preening with satisfaction because Jaskier had remembered him even though he had the attention of a beautiful woman on him. Another bigger part of him wished Jaskier could have forgotten about him and went somewhere else instead. He dreaded what was surely to come. It was one thing to know what Jaskier was up to while he was out of sight. It was something else entirely having to sit at the same table and bear witness to how Jaskier looked at and touched someone else into he was Geralt longed for.

An ugly green-eyed beast reared its head inside Geralt’s chest and it took all of his willpower to stop himself from scowling at the woman who sat down next to Jaskier, opposite of Geralt.

Jaskier deserves to be happy. He repeated over and over in his mind. I can't scare her off. She’ll be gone by tomorrow morning anyway.

“Geralt, this is Essi. The second-best bard on the continent,” He gave Essi a playful smirk that only got wider when she elbowed him in the ribs, “and a dear friend of mine.”

Geralt’s clenched fists relaxed and the frown slowly disappeared from his face. Of course. She was a friend. Not everyone Jaskier met was someone he’d want to kiss – Geralt was living proof of that. The hint of a real smile tugged at Geralt’s lips. It was nice to meet a friend of Jaskier’s instead of an old lover for once.

Evidently encouraged by Geralt’s smile, Jaskier added, “Maybe you’ve even heard of her before? Though probably under a different name. She goes by Little Eye, for obvious reasons. She might be the second-best bard, but alas, even I can’t pretend that she isn’t the one with the prettiest eyes.”

Geralt almost opened his mouth to protest, when he froze. It was – no. It couldn’t be. This couldn’t be her.

With all his might, Geralt tried to keep the memory out of his mind, but the lines Jaskier had sung so many times, praising his beloved and longing for them – for her – came back to him unbidden.

Lines about blazing eyes that were beautiful enough that Jaskier wanted to spend all day looking into them.

How often had Geralt scoffed at those verses, not only out of jealousy? He had always thought that no pair of eyes could be remarkable enough for Jaskier to fall for them so deeply. But now here he was, attempting to make his friend blush with sweet words about her eyes.

He looked at Essi more closely, desperate to find something that would disprove his dreadful suspicion.

But Essi’s blond hair could surely be described as moonlight-strands and the way she moved was undoubtedly graceful, maybe even as deadly elegant and dancelike as Jaskier called it in his song. Jaskier’s rhymes for his beloved spoke of bravery and kindness. Certainly, no one who willingly followed Jaskier to sit at the same table as a witcher could be anything other than brave and kind.

With every second spend trying to find some flaw in Essi, some hint that she couldn’t be the one Jaskier had yearned for for who knew how long, Geralt only found more and more evidence – more and more reason for Jaskier to be fascinated by her, to adore her.

In one word, Essi was beautiful. Exactly the type of person Jaskier would fall in love with with naught but a glance. Geralt had seen such a thing happen countless times before, but foolishly he had hoped that he wouldn’t have to witness it again. Now that he knew what it felt like to fall in love, he didn’t think he would be able to bear seeing Jaskier do so again.

There had been verses about gentle and talented hands that created the most wonderful things– and what hands could be gentler than those of a bard who was able to create music out of thin air? After all, Geralt had stared at such hands before, craving their touch. Why wouldn’t Jaskier do the same?

And what better reason to come to the coast than to finally find the woman he had been singing about for months?

As if Jaskier had read Geralt’s thoughts, he said, “I’ve been meaning to visit her for ages.”

Essi lifted one perfect eyebrow in amusement. “Is that so? I was under the impression that you were avoiding me. Or rather, you were avoiding introducing me to your companion.”

Jaskier spluttered something unintelligible and rubbed the back of his neck, but he didn’t deny the accusation. Geralt’s heart dropped. He knew that Jaskier enjoyed his company, but he also had other people that were important to him. Loved ones that evidently he hadn’t been able to see in a long time because of Geralt.

Was it because despite liking spending time with Geralt, he was ashamed to be seen with him? Surely there was a difference between appearing together in towns were no one knew them personally and showing his friends who he was travelling with. Or had Jaskier hesitated to let Geralt meet his friends because he knew that Geralt would make them feel uncomfortable?

Hadn’t Geralt known that all along? That his looming presence was the thing that kept Jaskier’s beloved away from him?

Whatever the reason, Geralt had been the one who had kept Jaskier away from people that were important to Jaskier, even without meaning to.

He couldn’t ruin this for him, not again, not now, not when he had been so happy to see Essi.

Geralt couldn’t bring himself to thaw his smile, but he nodded at Essi in greeting. She didn’t seem to mind his rudeness. As if Geralt’s behaviour was perfectly normal and polite, she leaned forward and looked at him with barely concealed interest.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to meet you." Her cocked her head to the side and the strand of her fell away from her face. "You know, Jaskier normally doesn't hesitate to talk about the people he lo-"

Before she could finish that sentence, Jaskier cut in. "Ah, Essi, dear, could we maybe talk about that later?" His eyes darted between Geralt and Essi, while he tried and failed to look nonchalant. "Somewhere a little more private? Alone?"

Jaskier wasn't especially subtle in telling Geralt that he and Essi would need a room later nor was this his best attempt at flirting. If Geralt hadn't known any better, he'd even say that he wasn't flirting at all.

Except that Jaskier flirted with everyone. Almost everyone.

Perhaps he had known and courted Essi for long enough that there was no more need for subtlety. She certainly didn't seem to mind the clumsiness of it, if the widening of her grin was any indication.

"By the way, Jaskier, you're looking gorgeous today, as always." Jaskier gave her a confused look, but then he blanched and gave her the tiniest but still empathetic shake of the head that she ignored. "Wouldn't you agree, Geralt?"

Geralt's throat went dry. He couldn't - what was he supposed to say? He couldn't very well tell her the truth, that there was nothing as beautiful as when Jaskier laughed and that he didn't want to ever look away from his eyes when they sparkled with joy. He couldn't say that. Not to Jaskier and certainly not to the woman who probably got to see his smiles far more often than Geralt did.

So instead he just let out a grunt that came out more strangled than it should have. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Jaskier's shoulders fall, probably in relief that Geralt hadn't said anything incriminating.

Geralt didn't want to know how Jaskier would react if he had told him the truth.

Essi didn't seem to mind Geralt's non-answer. She was clearly having the time of her life watching Geralt squirm uncomfortably, for her attention didn't drift back to Jaskier as it should.

"So, Geralt, tell me about what it's like travelling with Jaskier. It must be wonderful to spend so much time with him. Surely something one would want to do for the rest of their life?"

It was wonderful. The best thing that had ever happened to Geralt. And lately, ever since Jaskier had started talking of how he would stay with Geralt, he has started to hope that he could have this. That he could keep Jaskier by his side for the rest of his life.

Now he wasn't so sure anymore. When Jaskier has said those things, there had been no pretty woman sitting next to him, implying that he could stay with her instead.

Geralt's jaw clenched and he did his best to ignore the sound of Jaskier drumming a nervous rhythm onto his own thigh.

He swallowed thickly and searched for what he could say that was close enough to the truth but far enough that it wouldn't make Jaskier uncomfortable in the presence of his conquest.

"It's... different. I don't think I'll ever get used to it."

How could he, when all he had known before were cold, quiet, lonely nights and sneers, shouts and stones?

Despite his best efforts to keep his tone neutral, his voice must have shown some of what he felt, for Jaskier let out a shuddering breath and Essi’s brows furrowed.

"That's it? Different?" she asked in disappointment. "But different how? What are the best parts of being with Jaskier? What do you love most about him? I'm sure there is a lot to love after all and –“

"Essi," Jaskier said quietly and his face was unreadable as he placed a hand on her arm. "Please." Something shifted in her expression. It became soft and almost protective. She put her hand on Jaskier's hand gave it a gentle squeeze as she nodded.

With seemingly no trouble at all, she steered the conversation in a different direction, but Geralt paid no attention to it. His mind was too preoccupied with the question that had sounded so innocent and that was so impossible to answer at the same time.

There was too much that he loved about Jaskier. The way he leaned against him while laughing about a particularly bad joke. The way he would quiet down when he noticed that Geralt needed it. The way he was dishevelled in the mornings, uncaring that he didn't look as perfect as he normally did. To Geralt he did then too. Maybe even more so than when he dressed up for balls or banquets. It wasn't Geralt's favourite part of travelling with Jaskier - it was impossible to pick just one - but the way Jaskier would blink up at Geralt in the mornings, maybe grumble a bit as he hid under the covers, might just be Geralt's favourite part of each day.

It made Geralt want to brush his ruffled hair out of his face and kiss him.

Gods, how Geralt wanted to kiss him. In the mornings when they were both barely awake, when his eyes shone during a performance, when it was just the two of them in a quiet forest clearing, when they were surrounded by other people and Jaskier was the only safety beside him.

It was just a fantasy - an impossible one at that, now more so than ever - but Geralt treasured it, even if all he could do was watch Jaskier and admire him from afar even as they were sat right next to each other. Even so, Geralt knew he wasn't allowed to look at Jaskier in the way he wanted to. In the way everyone else was allowed to, those people who might give Jaskier coy smiles and openly admiring glances until in return Jaskier gifted them with a kiss and his love.

Geralt wanted that. He wanted it so much it hurt.

But maybe he had something even better. Because Jaskier didn't stay with his lovers. They didn't keep his kisses and undivided attention for long.

Geralt, however, Geralt has had Jaskier by his side for years. No matter how alluring a lover was or how much they begged Jaskier to stay with them, he would always return to Geralt.

Some days, this knowledge was the only thing keeping Geralt's chest from splitting wide open when he watched Jaskier approach someone else with a smile and the clear intention to charm and fall in love. Knowing that Jaskier always came back, even though all Geralt could offer was friendship and a hard Path, might be what Geralt loved the most about Jaskier. It wasn't much but it had always been enough, just how Geralt for some inexplicable reason had always been enough for Jaskier to return to.

Except now it - he - might not be enough anymore. Jaskier obviously knew Essi, had clearly held her dear for a long while. And he had come back to her. From the way he looked at her now and joked with her easily, Geralt was sure that Jaskier would happily return to her again and again. Worse even, with his song Jaskier had unmistakably declared that he would want to stay with her forever.

Would Geralt now become one in a long line of people left behind heartbroken by Jaskier while he stayed with someone he held more dear, forgetting all about him?

Geralt had thought having to watch Jaskier fall in love would have been hard, but this was so much more painful. Jaskier was already in love. Maybe even with one who would finally drive him from Geralt's side.

Essi was stunning. She clearly was talented, if the way Jaskier had praised her before was any indication. She was someone Jaskier might just stay in love with.

Cold dread pooled in Geralt's stomach. It was just as clear that Essi loved Jaskier - and how could she not? She knew that Jaskier was beautiful, she already imagined living with him forever, just like Geralt did. Except he was sure that Jaskier wasn't imagining living with him forever, no matter what he said. With Essi however...

Geralt wanted him to stay. No matter how selfish and unfair, he wanted Jaskier to never leave him.

"And this is the first one I found after the bear broke."

Jaskier's voice tore Geralt out of his thoughts. His eyes left Jaskier's face just long enough to see that he had taken out the wooden bird Geralt had carved so many months ago. Essi's eyes widened.

"You found two of them?" she asked, her voice full of wonder. She hesitated for a heartbeat, asking Jaskier for permission with her eyes before she reverently touched the bird. Something inside Geralt grew hot and acidic at the sight. Luckily, Essi didn't notice. "They are so rare! Most people are lucky if they find one."

Jaskier's smile became smug and his lifted his chin. "Oh, my darling Essi, I have found far more than two. The others are in my room. I just like having the bird with me for good luck while I sing."

"How... Jaskier that's incredible." She took a sidelong glance at Geralt. "Is it because you're travelling together? A witcher and a bard, that must be something the fae would find interesting."

Jaskier hesitated before sharing a knowing look with Geralt, though Geralt couldn't figure out for the life of him what exactly that look was supposed to mean, what secret knowledge they were supposed to share.

"Well, I can't really tell why I'm getting all those gifts. But they appear more often when Geralt is happy. Or they seem to make him happier after I got them."

Essi's lips twitched. "Better keep him happy then."

Jaskier blushed furiously but didn't respond.

He didn't need to. Geralt spoke up before Jaskier could even think about opening his mouth.

"It's not about me. Those are for Jaskier and only him. To make him happy, not me."

Both bards looked at him dumbfounded for a second. Essi was the first to get a grip of herself, turning her attention back to the bird in Jaskier's hands. Jaskier on the other hand kept his eyes on Geralt, an unreadable expression on his face that made Geralt want to lean forward and trace the small crease between his brows with his fingers until it disappeared under his tender ministrations.

"Have you ever found any carvings, Geralt?" Essi asked him curiously.

He shook his head, grateful for the excuse to avert his eyes from Jaskier's burning gaze, though simultaneously he mourned the loss.

"I have no need for them. Witchers don't need luck. We don't get gifts." With a hint of bitterness, the next words slipped out before he could stop himself, "We don't get to have beautiful things."

He forced himself not to look at Jaskier at those last words. It didn't help that he heard his soft gasp anyway and that Jaskier's hand found his where it was balled to a fist in the table. He relaxed under the almost tender touch and it took all of his will power not to turn his hand and intertwine their fingers.

When he met Essi’s eyes, he tensed. There was something in the way she looked at him that unnerved him. Her eyes drifted to where Jaskier was touching him and then back to his face, searching. Then, her eyes widened in recognition and Geralt’s stomach dropped.

She knew. Somehow she knew what he felt for Jaskier.

Cold sweat tickled down his neck and he forced himself to pull his hand away from Jaskier’s touch despite how desperately he wanted to keep him close. With Essi watching him like a hawk, he knew he wasn’t allowed to indulge in this hopeless fantasy anymore. He wouldn’t hinder Jaskier’s happiness with Essi by making her think Jaskier would stay with someone like him. He wished Jaskier would want to. He wished Jaskier’s assurances that he did could be believed. And he had believed them. He had trusted Jaskier; he still did.

And maybe that was the problem. Jaskier had promised Geralt he’d stay by his side. Geralt didn’t doubt he had meant it. But now…either Jaskier would break his word and Geralt’s heart or he would keep his word and break his own heart.

Geralt knew which one he preferred.

When he had first heard the song about Essi, he had been torn about what he’d do if he ever met the object of Jaskier’s love. If he was being honest with himself, he still didn’t have a clear answer. A part of him still wanted to make sure Jaskier would stay with him. Another part that put a heaviness into his chest knew that he wouldn’t be able to do that. Maybe he wouldn’t be strong enough to tell Essi to confess her love to Jaskier, but he wouldn’t be able to do anything to keep them apart.

He wanted Jaskier to be with him, more than anything, but not at the cost of his happiness. Geralt couldn’t be Jaskier’s happiness. But maybe Essi could.

So Geralt plastered the hints of a smile on his face, trying desperately to ignore the way Jaskier’s face fell when Geralt pulled away from him and turned the conversation and Jaskier’s focus back to Essi where it belonged.

Too bad the only thing Geralt could think to say, was still related to his own aching heart.

“Have you ever found one of the fae-gifts?”

He cursed his own words as soon as they had left his lips. He didn’t know what answer he feared more. It was irrational and petty, but he didn’t want Essi to have one of his carvings. For years it had been none of his concern who kept hold of them, but now it seemed to be of utmost importance that Essi didn’t have one of them.

But maybe worse than that would be if she had never found any. True, Jaskier was protective of his collection, but he had given away the sheep to someone who was practically a stranger. There was no guarantee he would hesitate to give one of his animals to Essi.

Perhaps the bird, to compliment her undoubtedly beautiful singing voice. Or maybe he would give her the cat and make a play of words on a cat chasing a songbird or something of the sense. Surely not the fish, because Geralt couldn’t for the life of him figure out a way in which Jaskier could possibly give Horse to Essi without it coming across as an insult. The same was true for the snake.

Geralt’s stomach churned. He couldn’t even bring himself to think of the possibility that Jaskier might give away the wolf. The mere idea was enough for nausea to rise up in him.

So lost in his own thoughts, Geralt barely caught Essi’s reply.

“Sadly not. Not all of us can get so lucky as Jaskier.” She grinned at Geralt as if they were friends, as if she wasn’t about to take the most important person in Geralt’s life away from him. “Then again, he needs all the luck he can get and then some.”

Jaskier squawked in indignation, utterly undignified in the particular way he normally only was when Geralt complained teasingly about his music. “Excuse me? What is that supposed to mean?” He huffed and crossed his arms in front of his chest, but after a brief pause and a glance at Geralt that Geralt tried his best not to read anything into, Jaskier’s eyes softened. “I believe I can count myself very lucky. Probably the luckiest man on the continent.”

Geralt snorted before he could stop himself. The very notion of Jaskier being lucky was ridiculous. Jaskier didn’t need luck. He was charming and talented and beautiful. He had earned every single good thing that had befallen him.

Geralt on the other hand still didn’t have the slightest clue what had earned him Jaskier’s presence in his life. Out of the two of them, Geralt had no doubt that he was the lucky one.

Thankfully, before Geralt had a chance to run his mouth and voice any of his incriminating thoughts, the sailors from before called out for another song.

Jaskier looked at Geralt as if asking for permission to get up and play again. Geralt did his best to give him a look that conveyed that he was good enough and needn’t fear playing in front of Essi despite her teasing. It must have worked, for Jaskier picked up his lute again before turning to Essi.

"Will you join me?" The teasing twinkle was back in his eyes. "Play a little duet to determine once and for all which one of us is better?"

Essi snorted, her lips curling up. "I think we both know who is superior." She waved him off with a hand and a mischievous grin. "You go play first. I wouldn't want to take all the glory away from you without giving you a chance to get some applause first."

Jaskier hesitated, his eyes darting between Geralt and Essi.

"Fine," he sighed eventually when the shouts demanding another song continued. "Be nice, Essi."

"I always am."

It was strange that Jaskier didn't warn Geralt to not scare her off. Maybe he didn't think it would be of any use. After all, he had known Jaskier for long enough to know that Geralt's attempts at being nice weren't very successful most of the time.

Jaskier bit his lip for a second and looked down at the bird he had still clutched in his hand. Geralt's insides twisted. Any moment now Jaskier would hand the figure to Essi.

He didn't. Instead he held it out to Geralt, as if it was the most natural thing; as if there wasn't a pretty woman right next to him who would love to hold the figure in her hand.

Geralt's heart stuttered in his chest and he had to will it to slow back down when Jaskier gave him an indecipherable look.

"Take care of the songbird?"

Geralt enclosed the bird with both of his hands and his fingers brushed against Jaskier's as he slowly let go.

"I always do." Geralt's voice was more serious than the situation called for, but for whatever reason, Jaskier approved, for he gave Geralt one of his brilliant smiles before he left, a song already on his lips.

A lump formed in Geralt's throat as he watched Jaskier take his place in the middle of the room once more. His attention was so fixated on Jaskier that it took him embarrassingly long to notice Essi scrutinizing him curiously with her chin propped up on her hand.

When he finally noticed, she lifted an eyebrow knowingly and her lips twitched.

"Oh, don't let me stop you from watching him," she teased. "He is a bit pretty, isn't he?"

Geralt didn't reply, not knowing what kind of answer would be acceptable.

Still, something must have shown on his face, for something shifted in Essi's expression. Her gaze dropped to the songbird held carefully in Geralt's hands.

"He seems to think you need luck talking to me," she said with a nod to the bird.

Geralt's brows rose. "Do I?"

He was sure that he already knew the answer.

"That really depends."

Dread pooled in Geralt's stomach. "On what?"

"On whether or not you're planning on hurting him." Essi's eyes narrowed and the easy smile from before fell away, revealing a calm sort of sternness that would have intimidated any man who wasn't used to facing worse than an angry woman. It might even come close to the look Vesemir got before scolding the younger wolves. "Because if you do hurt him, no amount of luck in the world will keep you safe."

The words were clearly meant as a threat, but something unwound in Geralt's chest. "He's really important to you, isn't he?" he asked quietly. "You won't let anything happen to him?"

"Never," she said heatedly. "I'd fight the world before I'd let him get hurt. I'll fight you if you ever so much as think about hurting him."

"I won't," Geralt said and it felt like a confession.

He didn't have Essi's empathetic words, but he had this certainty in his chest that whatever he did, he would do everything in his power to keep Jaskier safe. Then again, travelling with Geralt was the most dangerous thing Jaskier could do. Even if Geralt would never hurt him, he couldn't promise that no harm would come to Jaskier as long as he was with Geralt.

A wry smile twisted Geralt's lips. "But I don't think you'll have to worry. We both know he won't be travelling with me for much longer."

Not if he could be with Essi instead. Geralt didn’t want to think about this possibility, but it wouldn't be fair towards Jaskier to drag him away from her. Geralt wouldn't stand in Jaskier's way, even if it led him away from Geralt.

"Why?" Essi asked with sudden urgency. "For years Jaskier had only talked about you but he refused to let me meet you. Why now? What has changed between the two of you?"

Geralt faltered at the question. His mind was racing, trying to come up with an answer, but he found none. Nothing had changed with Jaskier. He had been happy as ever.

It was true, he had sung more of those yearning love songs but that wasn't anything irregular. Nothing in his behaviour had even hinted at him wanting to leave Geralt anytime soon. If anything, he had been more adamant than ever to stay, touching him with increasing confidence and laughing with him more carefree than ever.

So if Jaskier hadn't changed that only left one conclusion. The problem wasn't Jaskier's changed feelings, it was Geralt's.

Though they hadn't exactly changed either. Geralt had just finally realised what had been there all along. He had finally found a word to the feeling that had been creeping up on him and ensnared him without him realising or resisting.

But Geralt had thought... He hadn't behaved any differently, had he? He hadn't said anything to let his secret slip and he hadn't let his eyes and hands wander to Jaskier too often. Or maybe he had?

He must have done something wrong to tip Jaskier off.

Fear's icy claws plunged into Geralt's chest. Jaskier knew. Of course he did. He sang about love and yearning constantly. If anyone were able to recognise Geralt's emotions, it would be Jaskier. Perhaps he had even known for longer but had been able and willing to ignore it as long as Geralt hadn't acted on it. But now that Geralt knew what he felt as well, maybe Jaskier was uncomfortable being around him? It was one thing being a witcher's friend, but it wasn't unlikely that even Jaskier drew the line at being loved by one.

An abyss opened up in Geralt's chest. Was this truly it? He didn't want to believe it, but it was the only explanation he could come up with that made sense.

Judging from his songs, Jaskier had been yearning for Essi for a while now. So what better excuse to get away from Geralt than to pursue his own love? If Jaskier broke Geralt's heart in the process and made sure Geralt would stay away from him because of his hurt feelings, then that was just an added bonus. Perhaps he even wanted Geralt's protection to get to the coast, a convenient way to get there safely.

Geralt couldn't imagine that was it, didn't want to imagine. Jaskier was many things, but he wasn't cruel. He was Geralt's friend and Geralt trusted him.

Or perhaps this was Jaskier's way of being kind, of letting Geralt down gently? If Jaskier showed him now whom he had to compete with - as if Geralt could ever have any hope of winning Jaskier's heart even without competition - then surely Geralt would forget about his feelings before he'd do something stupid like confess his feelings and make them both uncomfortable and miserable.

Well, if that had been Jaskier's goal, he had failed. Though not too long ago Geralt himself had thought that he would be able to get rid of this ache in his chest when he saw Jaskier with his beloved, he now knew better. He wouldn't be able to forget this feeling, whether he had his heart broken or not. And he didn't want to forget. He'd rather watch Jaskier be in love and still admire how his eyes softened when he looked at his beloved than never feel that warmth in his chest again, however painful it was. Jaskier was too important for him to just forget.

But oh, how painful it was. Right at this moment, as Jaskier sang if love and the fear of loss, his eyes drifted over to them - no, not to them, to Essi - so full of longing and aching and love.

How could Geralt not recognise the look when it was the same one he gave Jaskier when he wouldn't notice? When it was how he wished he could look at Jaskier openly? When it was how he wanted Jaskier to look at him?

But he didn't. He never would. Geralt could fantasise all he wanted that he was the one Jaskier's eyes were resting on with so much wanting, but he knew it wasn't the truth. He knew the real object of Jaskier's longing was sitting right across from Geralt, still waiting for an answer she wouldn't receive from him.

Maybe she already knew. Judging from the way she looked between him and Jaskier there was no hiding from her. It didn't matter anyway. Geralt knew he stood no chance against her. He was no threat to someone like her.

She must be aware of that too, for her eyes crinkled with a smile that unnerved Geralt more than any threat could.

“It must be the fae-gifts,” Geralt blurted out. It was an obvious and pitiful attempt to distract from what he felt, but it was better than letting the truth hang between them. It was better than giving Essi the chance to say it out loud. “He started finding them in spring. He said that those who find them will find their true love within a year.” And evidently Jaskier had known perfectly well where exactly he had to search for his love to find her.

Something shifted in Essi’s expression and for a moment she looked like she wanted to say something before her mouth snapped shut. There was a question in her eyes, then a realisation.

Geralt’s stomach sank and he was left feeling cold.

Essi hadn’t known. Somehow, through some miracle, she hadn’t known what Jaskier felt for her, even though his affection was as clear as day to anyone who bothered to look at him for longer than a second.

And now Geralt had brought forth her realisation. He didn’t know what was worse; the guilt of taking away Jaskier’s chance to confess his feelings properly or the fact that she now focussed back on Jaskier, a determined look on her face and stood up.  

“Excuse me,” she said, sounding not at all apologetic, “I believe it is time for me to join Jaskier.”

Geralt didn’t protest, though his fingers twitched to hold her back. Not that it would make a difference. It was already too late for him, whether Essi joined Jaskier or not.

Still, it was a special kind of torture watching her lean in close to Jaskier and whisper something in his ear that made his eyes widen and a blush spread across his cheeks.

Geralt’s mouth went dry when Essi started playing the intro of the next song while Jaskier still stood frozen, watching her, transfixed.

It didn’t take long for Geralt to understand this reaction. It wasn’t just that Essi was good, it was that the song she was playing was the song. The one about beautiful eyes and moonlit hair. The one about her.

Jaskier threw a helpless, almost panicked look over at Geralt who offered him an encouraging and apologetic smile that hopefully didn’t look as forced as it felt.

Jaskier accepted Geralt’s smile and silent apology with a small nod. Though he didn’t appear any less anxious, his voice was clear and full of feeling when he joined in the song, harmonising perfectly with Essi.

With a sudden jolt of his heart, a calm washed over Geralt that was almost enough to push the agonising burn in his chest away.

This was what Jaskier deserved, standing on stage with another bard. Someone who could be close to him and understand him in a way Geralt would never be able to. Someone who could compliment his voice with theirs just as they could give compliments to him; words that weren’t clumsy and almost insulting even as they were meant to make him feel appreciated. This wasn’t just what Jaskier had yearned for. It was what Jaskier deserved. Essi was.

They looked beautiful together. Like they belonged together. Whereas when Geralt stood next to Jaskier, the bard’s beauty only made Geralt’s flaws all the more apparent. No one would ever look at Geralt and think that he could belong to the beautiful, brilliant bard.

Essi however…she looked gorgeous. Someone Jaskier didn’t have to be ashamed of being seen with. As long as he was with her people would throw roses instead of stones and praise instead of insults.

Geralt averted his eyes. They fell on his own twisted reflection on a dirty window.

His jaw clenched. He wanted nothing more than to flee. He didn’t. There was no doubt that Jaskier would notice if Geralt stormed off, even if his eyes were trained on Essi and Geralt couldn’t risk ruining this moment for him.

When the song finally ended and the two bards returned to their table, Geralt let out a relieved sigh. Not that watching them touch and smile at each other this closely was any better.

But for some reason, Jaskier didn’t stay close to Essi. Instead he slid onto the bench next to Geralt, so close that their thighs were almost touching. Geralt had to resist the urge to breach the distance. It wouldn’t do to lean into him. Especially not now that Jaskier’s love was letting herself fall into a seat opposite him. Perhaps that was the reason why Jaskier had sat down next to Geralt; not to be close to him, but so he could better look at Essi. The gods knew she was more pleasing to look at than Geralt.

Especially now that she leaned forward and brushed the strand of hair behind her ear, revealing both of her sky-blue eyes that Jaskier was so enamoured with.

“So, Geralt,” she began and tipped her head to the side, “we need you to be our unbiased judge. Which one of us it better?”

Geralt risked a glance at Jaskier out of the corner of his eye. His cheeks were tinged with pink and his tongue darted out to lick over his lips, undoubtedly nervous that Geralt would say something wrong.

Geralt’s jaw worked as he frantically searched for an answer that would help Jaskier with Essi, even though a small treacherous voice in the back of his mind told him that this was his chance to say something that would let him keep Jaskier.

But that would never happen. Either he would lose Jaskier to Essi or he would drive him away by keeping him from his happiness. Either way he would lose him. The only difference was whether Jaskier would remember him with affection or disdain.

His hand clenched around the bird he was still holding onto tightly, as if it would fly away if Geralt weakened his grip. As if it was the most important thing in the world to keep for as long as he was allowed to. A poor substitute for the real songbird that was slipping through his fingers at this very moment.

“I think…” he said slowly, doing his best and failing miserably to avoid Jaskier’s anxiously expectant gaze, “I think that I might be the least unbiased person in this room.”

Essi’s smile grew wider. “You really like Jaskier’s singing, don’t you?”

Yes.

But Geralt was afraid that if he said as much as that one simple word, he wouldn’t be able to keep its true meaning out of his voice.

He plastered a sarcastic smile on his face, hoping against hope that it would be enough to fool the two masters of acting. “Maybe I’ve just heard him often enough to find him boring by now.”

“Boring!” Jaskier gasped in outrage and swatted Geralt’s chest. “How dare you accuse me of such a horrible thing.”

Jaskier’s indignation was familiar. Soothing.

Geralt’s smile became more real. “I said ‘maybe’.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at him. “Nice try to save that. You still owe me a better apology.”

“Oh?” Geralt leaned closer to Jaskier. He pretended not to notice the way their shoulders brushed. “And what do you want me to do to make it up to you?”

“Oh, that’s easy, my friend. You already know what to do.” Jaskier lifted his chin, a triumphant smirk on his lips. It took all of Geralt’s strength not to let his eyes linger on his lips. “Give us an honest review. Three words or less.”

 Us.

There it was again. That reminder that this wasn’t a moment Jaskier and Geralt shared. It was one that Geralt intruded on.

He drew back again, putting enough distance between himself and Jaskier so that they wouldn’t be able to touch accidentally.

“You’re good together,” he said in a hollow voice. Geralt swallowed thickly and pushed himself off the table. After a painful moment of hesitation, he let go of the songbird and put it on the table between the two bards. “So I’ll better leave you to it.”

Jaskier’s hand shot out and grabbed Geralt by the hand. “What do you – Geralt, where are you going?” Inexplicably, dejection flashed over Jaskier’s face and the fingers of his free hand started fidgeting. “I thought we wanted to go stargazing later?”

Geralt’s stomach twisted painfully as he gave Jaskier a meaningful look. “I don’t think I’m the one who wants to look at the stars with you.”

It was a lie. But Geralt had been telling a lot of them lately, whether with his words or by pretending with his actions. It was for the better. Geralt might want to spend the night with Jaskier looking at the stars and watch in wonder how Jaskier’s face shone in the pale moonlight, but Jaskier would be better off doing it with Essi who might find a way to describe to him how breath-taking he looked with the moonlight illuminating him.

Maybe when Jaskier left him, he would remember Geralt as the one who had helped him get into romantic situations with Essi. It wouldn’t have been romantic with Geralt. Jaskier wouldn’t have been as happy with him.

And perhaps there was a little pettiness involved as well as Geralt pulled his hand out of Jaskier’s grip and made his way to their room with pointed casualness.

As long as Geralt occupied their shared room, Jaskier wouldn’t bring Essi there to spend the night. It was a small consolation to know that they would go somewhere else to do what Geralt didn’t even want to imagine, but it was a consolation nonetheless.

It didn’t help keeping the images of the two bards together out of his head. All he could think about was Jaskier holding Essi in a lover’s embrace in a different room or maybe even underneath the moon. He would kiss her and whisper in her ear how beautiful she was, how perfect. Maybe he would even repeat the words of his song to her, intimately like a promise. And she would be allowed to return those words to him. She would be allowed to run her fingers down his back and pull him ever closer.

All the while Geralt would be alone in this room that was too big for one person. He stared at the bed in disdain and let himself fall onto it. It was too big. Too cold. Too empty. He should have shared it with Jaskier. They should have traded jokes and whispered stories before falling asleep within reach of each other and maybe entangling their limps as they slept.

Perhaps, if Geralt was lucky, Jaskier wouldn’t stay the night with Essi. Maybe after they were done, he would come back here and Geralt would get to hold him again, despite him smelling of Essi and the joy Geralt couldn’t give him.

It was a stupid thought. Jaskier wouldn’t return. He would spend the night with his love and in the morning he would only come to Geralt to tell him that he would stay with Essi.

It had been a while since Jaskier had last sought out company for a night. Geralt had known, of course, that it had only been a matter of time until Jaskier fell into bed with someone again. The thought hadn’t bothered him. Too much. But now, with her, it was different. From the way Jaskier had sung about her, his beloved wasn’t someone he’d forget after a night. She was someone he wanted to be with for as long as he’d allow him to.

Despite himself, despite his aching heart, Geralt hoped that Essi would keep him forever. She would keep his heart safe and if there was one person Geralt trusted to keep Jaskier happy, it was this woman who had threatened a witcher should he harm Jaskier.

A long breath that was almost a groan left Geralt and got lost in the too quiet room. He had to squeeze his eyes shut as if that could stop the pictures of Jaskier and Essi intertwined from forming in his mind.

It felt like hours of restless tossing and turning until he finally sat up. As much as he had wanted to find refuge in this room, it now felt suffocating to him.

Surely by now Jaskier and Essi won’t be downstairs anymore. They must have either found a bed to fall into or gone to the beach to look at the stars, like Geralt had planned on doing with Jaskier.

But wherever they were, there was little to no chance that Geralt would come across them. There would be no harm in going to the stables to clear his head talking to Roach. Or in trying to get drunk instead and dulling his thoughts until none of the ache and the poisonous images of Jaskier looking lovingly at Essi were left.

He shouldn’t have hoped that it would be so easy. Too lost in his own glum thoughts, Geralt didn’t notice Jaskier’s familiar heartbeat in the tap room until it was already too late.

Geralt should leave. But his body wouldn’t obey him. He stood transfixed in the shadows at the edge of the room and stared at Jaskier and Essi who sat in an even more secluded corner than before. Jaskier leaned heavily against Essi who whispered soothing nothings into his ears and petted his hair comfortingly. Lovingly.

Geralt’s stomach churned at the sight.

He knew he shouldn’t listen in. He didn’t want to.

But the look on Jaskier’s face was so strange. Geralt would call it heartbroken if he hadn’t known any better. Maybe it was just a trick of the dim light, but Geralt could have sworn that his eyes were red-rimmed. There was no reason for Jaskier to look like that. Geralt had left him alone with his love, he had made sure they could have a romantic night together. He had done all that he could. Jaskier should be happy.

Evidently, he was not.

“Thank you for listening.” Geralt had to strain his ears to hear the words Jaskier muttered into Essi’s shoulder. His voice sounded tight and choked. “I really needed this. It feels good to finally tell someone.”

“Why not tell him?”

Geralt’s breath got stuck in his throat at Essi’s words. It was the same question prodding at his own mind. Why hadn’t Jaskier come to him to talk about what bothered him so much? Geralt knew he was horrible at giving advice, but surely Jaskier knew that he cared. Surely, he knew that he could trust Geralt.

Then again, could he really? After all, wasn’t Geralt eavesdropping on him at this very moment? Hadn’t he toyed with the thought of whisking Jaskier away from his beloved?

“You know I can’t. He’s…he wouldn’t want to hear something like that.”

Geralt’s chest tightened and he had to press himself against the wall to not do something stupid like cross the room and assure Jaskier that he would listen to him, that he always would be there for him when Jaskier needed him.

“I think he’d listen to you,” Essi said softly and brushed Jaskier’s hair out of his forehead. Gently she lifted his chin so that he would look up at her. “You said you were friends, didn’t you?”

“Yes. We are,” Jaskier’s voice broke off. Their faces were so close and Jaskier looked so desperate. “But, Essi, I’m in love.”

He sounded so broken, so hopeless.

Geralt didn’t want her to say it back. He didn’t think he could bear it if she did, if he had to watch Jaskier’s face light up at her confession and kiss her.

What Essi said instead was worse.

“You always are.”

Essi smiled and Geralt’s blood turned to ice. She wasn’t taking Jaskier seriously. Yes, Geralt too had been consoling himself with the knowledge that Jaskier’s loves were fleeting more often than not, but he wasn’t the one Jaskier was in love with. If he was, he would treasure every second he was granted being loved by Jaskier, however briefly. And Essi who had Jaskier’s love, who had his trust, who had said she’d fight the world to keep him from hurting… she was breaking his heart.

“Not like this.” Jaskier looked so lost. So small. And yet, despite Essi’s dismissal, a bittersweet smile danced across his lips. “It has never been this beautiful. It had never hurt like this. Gods, it hurts. I’ve been in love for years and sometimes I think it might be requited, but then…we could be watching the stars right now. And instead I am a mess sobbing at your shoulder.” His voice became quiet enough that even Geralt could barely hear his next words. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You’ll fall out of love again.” Words meant to soothe made Jaskier wince like they were cutting into him like a knife.

“I don’t want to.” With a jolt, Jaskier sat up straight and stared at her imploringly, begging her to understand. “This time it’s different. I want to stay and I want to love and I…I don’t want to ruin what we have. It’s too important to me.”

“You won’t ruin anything,” Essi cupped his face with her hands, stroking tenderly across his cheeks with her thumbs. “I promise you. You are one of the most amazing people I know. You are a wonderful bard and an even better friend. Anyone who wouldn’t love you back would be a fool. You know how important you are to me. I wouldn’t lie to you about this. I promise.”

Jaskier was quiet for such a long time that Geralt began to wonder whether he would speak up again at all. A hint of hope flickered across Jaskier’s face and his voice wavered when he asked, “How could I not ruin it?”

“You could just say it.”

Jaskier let out a bitter laugh and a sour grimace twisted his lips. “What, just like that? I should just say I love you?” He shook his head and his smile became softer again. Geralt couldn’t see it from where he was, but he could have sworn that Jaskier’s eyes would be full of fondness as he looked at Essi now. “That’s not enough. That doesn’t even come close to what I feel. I want to say so much more. Words aren’t enough for this.”

Essi tilted her head to the side and one of her hands wandered back to Jaskier’s hair. “Why don’t you show it then?”

Geralt couldn’t do it. He couldn’t watch this anymore. He wouldn’t be able to bear watching Jaskier follow Essi’s advice. He couldn’t watch them kiss.

For once in his life, he wished that his heart was truly as hard as people said. Then at least it couldn’t shatter as it did now.

How foolish he had been to think that the ache in his chest would ever go away. Geralt doubted he would ever be rid of it. Perhaps it would be the only thing he would get to keep of Jaskier; a painful memory of what he had lost, of what had never been his to begin with.

Without another look at Jaskier, he pushed himself off the wall and fled.

---

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[incoherentbabblings]

Take Back the Cake, Burn the Shoes, and Boil the Rice (8/11)

Within two months there have been two murders of Gotham newlyweds moments after the ceremony. The only connecting factor was both brides wore the same designer’s work. Needing to establish who exactly is behind the crimes, Bruce enlists Tim and Stephanie to have the biggest wedding Gotham high society has seen in decades, putting a target on their heads not just for the killer, but Gotham society too. It goes about as well as you’d expect.

Ao3 Link Here!

“Tim? Open up.”

It was Steph, calling for him to get out of his slumber, but sleep still beckoned, so he rolled onto his back, breathing heavily. Her hand rose to hold his cheek, and the slight shake he felt as she did it made him open his eyes.

She was leaning over him, giving off enough heat to be a furnace, blonde hair creating a golden curtain around them. She was smiling, so Tim smiled back.

“Feeling better?” He asked.

“Yup. You have a way with words.”

“I meant your leg.”

“Oh. Nah, that hurts. Head too. I’ll live though.” She shifted, resting one hand next to his ear on the pillow, and then she moved down, placing her head on his chest. For a solid three minutes, they lay in silence, Stephanie draped across Tim, listening to his pulse. She sighed happily. To her, Tim’s heartbeat and it’s solid thumping was instantly calming.

“Yesterday was difficult.” She said, eyes shut.

“We all have them.”

“Yeah but –”

“I swear Stephanie Brown if you apologise one more time…” His voice was threatening, but only in a way that served to make her laugh.

“What will you do?”

“I haven’t thought of it yet. Too early in the morning.” He shifted, still too comfortable to rise. “Actions speak louder than words and all that…”

“I'll be better. I am better.” Stephanie murmured. She wiped at his eyes, displacing any crusty sleep that had formed. The thumb movement turned to her stroking his cheek, and she moved up, until their noses were touching. Tim went a little cross eyed and swallowed, and Stephanie laughed at his expression. Cheeks feeling warm, she asked,

“You still want me to come today? With you to work?”

“Always.”

Bashful all of a sudden, both Tim and Stephanie’s cheeks blushed pink, and to find a way out, Tim glanced at the clock, seeing it had gone eight am.

“Ah. Better get ready now.”

It was Stephanie’s turn to gulp. He kissed her forehead, then got out of bed.

“Can you stand? I guess I should have checked that first.”

Stephanie swung one leg out of bed, and then the left followed, much more stiffly than the other. She hoisted herself up, wincing a little. Biting her lip, she gave a soft curse, but then placed both feet firmly on the floor.

“Stand? Yes. Stand for long? Questionable.” She laid a hand on the bedside table. “Tell me what to wear. Are you wearing a suit?”

“God, no. It’s just a kids club. Jeans and t-shirt will be fine, Steph.”

She chewed her lip, a little uncertainty returning. “Okay,” She stated. “But I’m gonna curl my hair.”

Tim sat, quite content to just watch, as Steph perched herself on the lip of the bathtub, curling and pinning her hair just so, desperate to make a good impression.

 There was something genuinely impressive about watching Tim do something as banal as giving a little speech and unveiling a plaque, but Stephanie was a little in awe regardless. She spent much of the event a little smug at the thought that this handsome guy loved her. When the plaque was unveiled to much polite laughter and clapping (his dorky jokes were horrendous and she found herself smiling at every single one), Stephanie wobbled over to a younger group of kids whilst Tim and the adults spoke. They were sat in a semi-circle, a few with their parents. She collapsed with a slight grunt, ensuing her hurt leg stayed straight, and tried to smile brightly. A few gave polite smiles back, whilst one or two looked unsure of what she wanted from them. Stephanie recognized one of the mothers from Leslie’s clinic down the road. Half a bodyguard, half a receptionist. She was an actual hoot, and familiar enough of a face that Steph could at least find a way to break the ice with the parents and their children.

“Hi!” Stephanie chirped, directed at everyone.            

A young girl blinked, then scrambled upwards, yoinking on her mother’s hair.

“Mommy! She gave me candy last month!”

The mother winced, trying delicately to remove the sticky grip of a six-year-old from her hair. She looked to Stephanie the very definition of tired.

“I doubt it honey.” She soothed.

“Oh?” Steph asked, “At Amusement Mile? You were with your dad?”

“Yes! Cotton candy bigger than my head!”

“Yes!” Stephanie laughed. “Wow, what a memory you have!”

The girl preened at the compliment, whilst the mom’s shrew look turned a little softer. Leslie’s receptionist leaned over with a side hug. She was a large woman, both in height and weight, and it was in total contrast to her little boy, who was the very definition of a wall flower.

“You didn’t mention you were coming!” Stephanie was rocked from side to side, and she grew bashful.

“I know, I know. It was last minute.”

The little girl demanded attention back on her, and wriggled her way right into Steph’s face. “You’re getting married soon my mom says.”

“I am. A week and a half to go.”

The little girl giggled. “Are you wearing a tiara?”

“Flowers.”

“No! You’d look better in a tiara!” Then the girl, brazenly but also impressively, began to tug Stephanie’s curls. Her mother looked mortified, but her little girl just seemed exuberant. Stephanie let her be, besides, she wasn’t hurting anyone.

“I have a pretty big dress, we thought it might be too much…”

Another little girl gasped and began to crowd round Stephanie. She built a little audience as she talked, but the boys were uninterested in weddings, so did not engage.

Leslie’s receptionist grew a little sober as Stephanie indulged the children, “But you’re still going for the cathedral?”

“Yes.” Stephanie by that point had a girl clambering on her back. She tugged the girl upwards, trying to ignore the pain in her head. “The Dean thought it would be good, to show whoever did it that we’re not frightened.”

“Any idea of who did shoot?”

Stephanie only shook her head. “It’s supposed to be a happy moment, right? Think our stubbornness has kicked in.”

“You did well,” One mother cut in tentatively, “Sitting with Bishop Sherborne.”

Stephanie swallowed dryly, unsure of how to respond. “It shouldn’t have happened.” She adjusted the little girl on her back, holding her up higher. “So, you guys all go to the school round the corner, right?”

“Right!” Chirped Stephanie’s clingy monkey. “Mommy works a lot. At the hospital!”

“My mom does too!”

The three hours passed quickly enough, Tim doing a lot of talking with adults and Steph spending most her time with the kids and their parents. For the first time in a while, she felt comfortable. She could tell photos were being taken, but there was something reassuring about the validation of children. This part of his job Tim loved, and Stephanie could only agree. These were the people they were fighting to protect, not their own ego, and this was a good reminder. She understood why Tim had thrown himself into this job as much as he had Red Robin. If he was worried about forgetting himself, she hoped this job would have sufficed as a reminder.

A reminder of why he was allowing himself to forget.

Steph sighed, growing a little melancholy, as she hoisted herself off a chair, wobbling over to Tim. He was chatting to a man and a lady, one with a notepad, the other with a recorder.

She stood, off to the side, feeling awkward and unwilling to interrupt. She watched Tim for what felt like a long while. She watched his sharp eyes flitter from person to person, flashing with sardonic humour at every silly question, and how seriously he listened to people when they spoke to him. Tim was a good listener. Very non-judgmental. Even though she sometimes wondered…

His gaze caught hers, and with a tilt of his jaw, he beckoned her over. When she reached him, he gave her his arm to help her balance, and he supported her against every micro-aggressive comment that was thrown their way. It was only when Tim’s phone rang – Bruce on the line – that they had to bring the event (or at least their attendance) to an end.

When Stephanie waved goodbye, a member of staff approached.

“I’m so sorry, if this is presumptive…”

“No? No, can I help?”

“Just, if you have spare time…” Spare time was something Stephanie was having increasingly less of in recent days, although this leg injury had certainly opened her evenings for the next week. No doubt it would be taken up with catching up with college, which she had blatantly been skipping.

“I would love to come back. I can…” She looked around the space, “play with the kids or…”

“You volunteer at Leslie’s?”

“Yeah.”

“You can do some simple first aid stuff with them?”

Her first instinct was to laugh at the idea of showing a five-year-old how to do CPR, but then Steph remembered what kinds of homes these kids came from, and the idea of teaching them how to look after themselves and others suddenly made sense. She nodded her confirmation.

“Sounds good. I’ll see if Leslie has anything for kids that I could work on.”

“Just come in whenever you like to discuss further – one of us will always be about.”

Tim mouthed a thank you and off the couple went. As they left the building, Alfred was waiting for them with a car. Tim huffed. He had wanted to check on how Steph had felt coming with him, but Bruce had called and asked them to come to the manor. Stephanie, who for her part, was becoming a little unsteady on her feet, grimaced at the sight of the car.

“Where we going?” She asked.

Alfred’s moustache twitched imperceptibly. “Having seen your condition Miss Brown, back to bed for you.”

“I’m alright.”

Tim snorted, and Stephanie looked back to him, affronted. “I am! Honest.”

As if God had heard her, her leg gave way, with Alfred and Tim reaching to catch her. She made a weird noise as Tim tugged her back up, and she stood on one foot, the weaker tilted off to the side above the ground.

“I think, Steph, Bruce wants to speak to me privately anyway.”

“Oh.”

Alfred held out his arm for Stephanie to take. “I will drive you back down the road and get you in bed, then I’m afraid we’re off to the Manor.”

Gritting her teeth in a tense grimace, she took Alfred’s arm, and hopped down to the car. She looked back at Tim before she got in, and gave him as bright a smile as she could manage, trying to thank him.

When Alfred returned for Tim, the mood distinctly shifted without Stephanie there to lighten everyone up. Maybe Alfred shared Bruce’s opinion. For some reason Tim felt like he was being driven into a prison for death row inmates. A one-way trip.

Tim knew where this conversation with Bruce was going to go, but only if he let it. Tim had something else on his mind, one that had been a growing thought ever since Bishop Sherborne had died.

Bruce was downstairs, only half in costume, when Tim loudly trod down the steps. Damian was nowhere to be found, so Tim could only assume Dick had taken custody of him that day.

Whatever programme Bruce had been working on at the computer, he closed before Tim get could get a good look. Tim reached the control panel and waited for Bruce to acknowledge him. Bruce seemed to be deep in thought, for once not pretending to work on something else to occupy his time.

Tim waited.

“How is Stephanie today?” Bruce finally asked. A gentle question. Tim started, again taken aback by how openly Bruce cared for her. Ever since Bruce had seen Steph step into Batgirl, he’d been almost enamoured with her. No, not the right word. But Tim saw how he was trying to make up for past mistakes, and Steph, soft hearted no matter how much she would deny it, had allowed Bruce to do so.

“She’s better. I took her to the Park Row Community Centre this morning. They’ve asked her back to help with the kids. She liked it… I think.”

“Good. And her injuries?”

“She was tired at the end. Alfred took her back home.”

Something in Bruce’s face twitched at Tim’s casual statement of his apartment being Stephanie’s home.

“Do you understand what you did wrong yesterday?”

Tim turned away, seeing the pleasantries were over. “I told you once. This is me, for better or worse.”

“I don’t know if I believe that.”

Jesus, he was sounding just like Stephanie.

Dick had once said that people were not their worst moments. How he believed that whilst knowing Bruce for twenty years Tim didn’t know. Bruce was defined by his worst moments, and Tim supposed this was a growing similarity that he and Bruce shared.

Tim cracked his fingers, trying to keep his temper in check. His chest felt frozen, and his feet too heavy to shuffle.

“Do you really think I’m going to kill somebody one day?”

Bruce said nothing, only looked at Tim. Tim, in his jeans and t-shirt and messy hair. Tim, who was looking more well rested than he had in months, but who still looked so out of place within the manor and confused at his position within the family. He looked like someone who had just turned twenty and didn’t know what to do with themselves. Such a contrast to when he was thirteen and had forced his way into Bruce and Dick’s lives.

Tim seemed to take Bruce’s silence as confirmation, rather than the uncertainty it was. Suddenly he moved closer to Bruce, hands out imploringly.

“I know I’ve been… off… for months now. But I… I’m trying to get back on track.”

“Are you?”

Tim blinked, lowering his hands.

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me what’s been ‘off’ with you. And what you’re doing ‘to get back on track’.” Bruce glared like he knew Tim was just trying to weasel his way out of taking any responsibility for himself. Tim truly didn’t think he was doing wrong, so ignoring the flash of very hot anger he saw in Tim, Bruce tried a different tact.

“Did Stephanie say anything about last night? Does she know about Har—”

“Don’t.” Tim interrupted tersely. He was sneering now to which Bruce stared at Tim hard in response.

“Don’t what?” He wanted a specific answer, but what it was, Tim didn’t know. “If you’ve done nothing wrong then she should know. Right?”

Bruce was mocking him.

“Don’t use her to punish me! Just stop that with her. I don’t care if you think I did wrong or that I lost my temper. That’s my issue. And she shouldn’t hear about it from you to make me feel guilty.” Finally, Tim opened the floodgates, and he launched into a frantic and scattered rant. “I’m not the one who should be feeling guilty! You said you would solve this case and two months later you have nothing to show for it! Bishop Sherborne is dead, three couples are dead, Stephanie got hurt because of a mission assigned by you that is stressing her out and I’m the one trying to pick up the pieces! What the hell are you even doing? Why haven’t you caught this guy yet?”

“That’s not what we’re talking about, Tim.”

“Well I’m asking you! I’m telling you, hurry up!”

Bruce finally stood. Even with Tim’s late teen growth spurt Bruce still towered over him, and Tim couldn’t help but want to increase the distance between the two.

“Take a breath.” Bruce said. “Try to calm down.”

Tim jolted, suddenly aware of his stinging eyes and wobbly breath. Fuck. He grunted, and backed away, pressing his palms to his cheeks, hoping the pressure would cool him down. Bruce looked on, concerned. Tim was knee deep in denial and frightening him wasn’t going to make him see reason. Out of resentment of being told what to do, Tim’s chest continued to rattle with wet deep breaths.

“I’m not using Stephanie.” Bruce said.

“Yes… you are. And don’t…act like she’s not your golden girl right now and I’m…”

“You’re my kid, who I’m worried about.”

Tim snorted then sniffed, expression crumpling. Bruce watched and waited. Tim bit his lip, not sure what to say. Shuffling his feet, he moved to the desk and sat down on the surface, wringing his hands nervously.

“I’m sorry. For yesterday. I don’t want you to worry about me.” Bruce sat next to Tim, seeing they were getting somewhere. It wasn’t a proper apology, not for his actions, only their effects, but it was a start. “Steph and I spoke after. She said she worries sometimes too.”

“You don’t think we’re right to?”

Tim frowned, looking at nothing. He gulped, trying to get his thoughts in order, but Bruce was pushing every single one of his buttons, and his mind was frantic and flustered.

Remember how much you didn’t want to be Bruce but how much of him you admired and imitated, remember that Batman with a gun and how he made points you agreed with, remember trying to rationalise murder and how vindictive you felt holding Harkness’s life in your hands, remember how many times you lost your temper when Stephanie or her memory where threatened.

Remember telling Cassandra that you didn’t enjoy hurting people, remember the relief and joy you felt being hugged by Bart, Conner and Cassie when you called for their help after so long, remember train surfing with Dick and the pure joy it brought after the first time he called you little brother.

Remember sitting on Steph’s front porch, telling her you feared where Bruce was forcing your mind to go, cruel suspicious places that doubted the people closest to you. Remember her listening, eyebrows furrowed, as you told her you were quitting. Remember quietly asking if that meant she wouldn’t want you anymore, only for her to laugh in response at the ridiculousness of the question.

“My feelings about you aren’t based on the Robin suit.” She’d said.

You’d told her you were frightened, but you were getting back in the suit. She had passed no judgement, only very quietly nodded and said that she knew.

Tim lowered his head into his hands, not sure what to do. What to say.

“I’m miserable.” Tumbled out.

He couldn’t see it, but he felt and heard Bruce’s breathing stumble.

 Stephanie meanwhile had endured a very boring afternoon. After a long period of time on the sofa, leg elevated in the air, she stared through to the kitchen. Tim had a sad looking fruit bowl, filled with browning bananas and a slightly wrinkly bunch of grapes. She hoisted herself up, college papers falling to the floor, and toddled over, intent on munching on whatever she could get her hands on to stave off the boredom for a bit.

When Tim returned, she was wondering if the kitchen had a loaf tin so she could make banana bread. She smiled at him politely as he walked down the steps to the main living and kitchen area, a little oblivious to his mood.

“I really enjoyed this morning, you know? You have to take me along to other stuff like that. And your speech was so good! You are one charismatic guy, not to boost your ego… But it was just nice Tim! So nice!”

Tim had stopped near a side table, a good distance from her, as she praised him. He tried to smile, but he caught the panic in her expression as a response. Oh, he must have looked bad.

“Tim? What is it?” She pushed off the kitchen counter to give herself momentum. “What did Bruce say?”

Tim shook his head as Steph got close. She clung to his forearms, using him to hold herself up. “Tim? Tell me. Can I help?”

He was looking pale again, sad and withdrawn. “I messed up last night.”

“If you did that it was my fault first. You said it yourself, last night was difficult. No pity parties.”

“I was going to kill that man.”

“You… you wouldn’t have.” She pulled herself closer, trying to make Tim hold her. With one hand she reached up, the pads of her fingers touching his chin and lower lip. “You couldn’t Tim.”

He stared at her despairingly. “How do you know? You keep saying that you know me. Ever since we were kids you’ve said that. But I… I don’t. You don’t know what I…”

“Ssshhh.” She murmured, trying to calm him down. Her fingers moved from his lips to her own, then back again. Tim did not miss the kiss it implied, and his heart broke a little at the tender affection. “Oh Tim… You’re just going to have to trust me on that.”

“Easier said than done with you.”

“Rude.” She teased, but then her mood abruptly sobered, thinking of the past few weeks. “I think Tim, that the world really wants us to suffer sometimes.”

“Oh, I believe that.”

“But you help me. That’s what you do. Let me do the same?”

Stephanie leaned forward to rest her chin on Tim’s shoulder. It quickly turned into an embrace, Tim finally wrapping his arms around her and burying his face into her hair. They rocked from side to side for a while. Tim stared over Steph, looking straight at the piano sat next to the fish tank. Another memory came to mind, and things started to click into place.

“We help each other.” He said distantly.

Another soft laugh. “Well, we can try. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Stephanie pulled back, just a little, so that their noses were touching. There was something she had wanted from Tim last night, but, ever the gentleman, he had said no. Maybe he thought she was too loopy on painkillers, maybe he thought she wouldn’t want it in the morning, or maybe he thought she hadn’t taken their conversation to heart.

All Tim had done was show her how invested he was. She wanted to pay him back.

“Is it okay now?” She whispered.

“Huh?”

“To kiss you. For real?”

Tim narrowed his eyes a little suspiciously. “Don’t do something because you feel you have to. You don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want to.”

“With you in this space right now, Tim, I do want to… Do you?”

A shared breath passed, then Tim surged forward. God, how he’d wanted. The force of the kiss made Steph back up, tailbone smacking against the kitchen counter, but she squealed with delight, wrapping her arms around Tim, blatantly groping his shoulder muscles. He meanwhile had moved to holding her neck with one hand and an arm wrapped around her waist. That hand travelled down, down, down, to the thigh of her good leg. He hiked her up, so she could rest on the counter, legs spreading to let him get closer.

He then kissed her cheeks, her nose, and her mouth again, all the while Stephanie smiled in a way she hadn’t for what felt like a very long time. They kissed once more, open mouthed this time, and the movements got slower and heavier. When Tim moved away, down to her neck, she shivered, then pushed very gently at him to stop for a moment. If they kept going, they were about to start necking. Although she used to thoroughly enjoy Tim’s attentions when he was in the right mood, she didn’t feel ready to return to that stage with him, regardless of how good the whole thing currently made her feel.

He looked at her, pupils swollen and inky, and she shuddered.

“Just… just a kiss Tim.”

As if on demand, his pupils shrank back down to normal, and his breathing returned to steady after he gulped.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Her hand was in his hair then, scratching the base of his neck. She smiled widely, her eyes curving up into crescents. There it was, there she was, and Tim grinned back, causing her to giggle and pull him into another hug.

  The following days were increasingly hectic, to the point where Tim and Stephanie’s self-image issues had fallen to the side in favour of permanently being on the phone with Mrs Van Rijk, whose voice steadily went up an octave each conversation.

“I really have to protest Mr Pennyworth’s involvement.” She twittered. “I understand that there are rules for the manor regarding such receptions but to not have… and the weather forecast does not look good! It must move inside.”

Stephanie chewed her tongue. “I mean, he is the manager of the estate. What he says goes…”

Stephanie, who was being sewn into her dress for her next fitting, looked down at Rebecca, who was politely pretending to look focused on her work.

“Perhaps but he has to see that this is my area of expertise and I resent the roadblocks is he has placed. I understand the cathedral resisting the birds but you have paid for them so I need somewhere for them to fly that isn’t a torrential downpour.”

Rebecca sniggered. Stephanie stared out the window, desperate for the conversation to end.

“I think you’re better speaking to Tim about this Mrs van Rijk… he’s more likely to have an impact on Alfred than me.”

“But he is in a meeting!”

“…Can’t it wait a little?”

“No! I need certainty regarding the –”

Rebecca watched the comical look of distress on Stephanie’s features.

“Mrs van Rijk I am so sorry I need to… Yes. Yes, no I do think you are doing an absolute brilliant job… I just…Well… Yes. Yes. Please, I can call you… Okay. Sure. Whatever you think is best. Okay. Yes! No, I think the cake is perfect I am sure of it. And yes, the flowers. I’m sure the menu is… Good talk. Bye.”

Rebecca snorted again. “Problems in paradise?” She asked. Stephanie tried not to raise an eyebrow at how bitter she sounded. Tossing the phone onto her pile of clothes, she resented the tone of the question, and defended her wedding planner.

“She’s a gem, actually.”

Rebecca humphed, backing off. After a brief moment of inspection, she sighed, and got back on her knees.

“We’re nearly there. Hemming and tidying up edges, plus some detailing. But you wanna see yourself?”

Stephanie ran her fingers down her front, feeling the texture of the lace and the volume of the skirt. It was up there as the grandest thing she had ever worn, and that was counting her photoshoot gowns and the one she had for the pre-wedding dinner in a couple of days. Alfred had been fretting about that. It had been a while since the formal dining room had received any level of usage, and an army of catering staff had been called in for what felt like the biggest lie Gotham society had ever seen.

She tried to tell herself the food would at least be worth it. And Tim.

Stephanie sighed, thinking of him. Of how to help him.

“Stephanie?” Rebecca nudged, and Stephanie flinched, realising she hadn’t responded.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Yes. Let’s see.”

She listened as Rebecca fumbled around with a trio of mirrors, continuing to stare out the window, failing to pay attention to anything during this appointment. Rebecca had failed to ask after her and Tim in the aftermath of the shooting. Stephanie had asked about how she was coping, and Rebecca dodged the question and changed the topic. Stephanie could have written it off as her wanting to stay focused on the job in front of her. Stephanie was a client, not a friend, after all. And yet Stephanie had endured endless questions about herself and Tim, about the wedding and everything in between, as if it actually mattered to Rebecca, which Stephanie had all by now given up in believing to be true.

She was trying to be civil, the woman was still innocent until proven guilty, but every now and then the woman would be overly sharp, or snippy, or judgmental, and Stephanie’s temper would flare in response. She still had that gut instinct against patronising or dismissive tones.

“Okay, turn around, tell me what you think.”

Stephanie, who had put her hair up in a bun in the shape of an oversized doughnut peeked over her shoulder, at first trying to see the damage that was visible on her back. She tried very hard not to make a face at the sight of the lightening scars that ran up her spine. Leftover from electric shocks given because she apparently writhed and screamed in interesting ways. At least her waist looked tiny. And the skirt was luscious in its length and volume. A frothing river of fabric.

“You received your veil yet?” Rebecca asked, seeing how Stephanie was staring, nonetheless.

“There’s one, that’s been passed down through Bruce’s family, think we’re going with that one.”

“And your shoes?”

“Little mesh ones… with a bow. They’re cute.”

If Rebecca approved, she did not say. She gestured for Stephanie to turn around, so she could see the front.

Stephanie didn’t know what to say, think, or feel, looking at her reflection. The dress was beautiful, because of course it was (the cynical part of her hoped so at the price Bruce was paying for it). She could even admit to herself that she looked good in it. More than good. When her hair was done, makeup on, veil, jewellery… the whole thing, she had the feeling it might actually make people watching cry.

But it wasn’t what she wanted.

She could lie, she told herself. She was competent enough for that.

Besides, she truly did look beautiful in it.

So, she nodded, a little wet eyed, and smiled.

“Perfect.”

“Not quite.” Rebecca stepped up to be on the same level at Stephanie, dangerously close to invading her personal space. “I’m not sure how to say this…”

Stephanie laughed, trying to lighten the sudden oppressive mood. “Oh god, you’re going to make me lose weight, aren’t you?”

“I don’t think you want to get married.”

Stephanie blinked, not comprehending someone being that brash with her. Trying to keep her voice low, she murmured,

“You’d think I’d put myself through all this if I didn’t really love Tim?”

There was no falsehood in her statement.

Rebecca smiled, though it was pityingly. “I don’t doubt that. Haven’t met the boy so can’t speak for his side…”

Bitch.

“But yes, I think you love Timothy Drake.” She looked down to her right, musing aloud, “Love’s not enough sometimes.”

She struck a nerve, and Stephanie got sharp.

“What’s your point? Testing if I’ve got cold feet? If I want to spend the rest of my life with the first boy who ever…” She suddenly got so welled up that she choked. “Oooooo!” She bunched up the skirt fabric in her frustration, shaking it. “I can give this dress back if you’d prefer! I can get some fabric from Joann’s and make a little white dress and Tim and I can go to the local registry office. Is that what you want to hear? I’d marry him even if the entire world told us no. I’d marry him even if I knew Gotham was going to blow up tomorrow with all of us in it. And I know Tim would to. Because love is enough.”

It had to be, it had to be. That thought was the only thing holding her fragile ego together at that time.

A tense stare off ensued, until finally, Rebecca cracked and gave a sharp laugh.

“Good! Good! I like to test some brides, make sure they’re sure.”

Stephanie continued to stare, eyes wide, nostrils flared, as Rebecca tried to downplay and lighten the mood. After a bought of nervous laughter, Rebecca was saved by the ringing of her phone. As she turned away, Stephanie felt like ripping her way out of the dress. She stayed still though and tried to calm down. The words she had vomited out settled in to her mind, and she realised she had not exaggerated or lied any part of her speech. Come hell or high water, she wanted to be with Tim. And honestly, screw every single person who thought otherwise.

Guilt and pity turned to self righteous spite, and Stephanie smiled a little to herself, rocking on her heels.

That was a much more familiar and comforting feeling she was used to and thrived within. A solid and determined screw you buddy that motivated her every step. It was a little weird, but it got the job done on her day to day (and night to night) life.

Her shoulders feeling much lighter, she looked back in the mirror, dissatisfied with one aspect the most… She’d really wanted to wear her hair down.

Oh well. Maybe next time.

The thought came so naturally that Stephanie couldn’t help her startled laugh. Twisting her left hand to see the sparkles of the ring, she mused for a moment would she have liked instead for a wedding. A smaller engagement ring certainly. And a dress with much less of a skirt.

Still, this dress was on another level for most people of the world. She rocked back and forth and around in circles, enjoying the swishy noises that the skirt fabric made. Her movements grew exaggerated to make to the rustling louder and more sweeping, and her smile grew. She realised that she had almost forbidden herself from enjoying any part of this.

Like, okay, yes, the wealth on display was mind boggling and unnecessary, and yes she still felt supremely out of place at points, and yes the circumstances leading to her being here where messy and confusing and dangerous, but at the same time… the shallow part of her trembled with delight at how pretty the dress was. That inner ten-year-old who had stared at the Barbies for sale in the supermarkets, only for her mom to drag her away and deny her, had hit the metaphorical roof with joy at the chance to dress up.

She’d never had a dress made for her before. She’d had a go at pieces herself here and there, not counting the Spoiler suits, and she’d worn nice dresses in recent years, but this was honestly on another level.

Such lovely dresses and yet such ugly circumstances.

She glared holes at the door Rebecca had gone though in order to have another disruptive conversation.

Stephanie didn’t understand. Surely, Bruce would have caught the bad guy by now? It had been three months since the first set of murders. Whoever this person was, surely if they were that skilled of a killer, Batman would be dealing with higher profile deaths than random couples across the States. The only reason Bruce had taken an interest was Rebecca was a Gotham based designer, otherwise it would have fallen to the FBI or CIA or whomever to investigate. Bruce was the World’s Greatest Detective, right? Surely, he had it figured out by now?

Rebecca got off the phone and returned to the room, the tenseness now unbearable.

“I think I have everything I need today from you Stephanie. We have the last fitting the day before, bring the veil and shoes so we can see how it looks all together. I’ll make any last changes that night, then I’ll bring it round in the morning to Wayne Manor. Does that work?”

“Yeah… sounds good. The dress is truly beautiful Rebecca.”

Rebecca smiled and went around the back, lowering the little zip from Stephanie’s waist to her hips, allowing her to step out and get back in her shorts and sweater. Reverently, Rebecca moved the swathes of white fabric to a large tidy workspace. She wheeled over a mannequin and slipped the dress into place.

“A beautiful dress for a beautiful girl.” She said, indulgently. Steph sat on the floor to get her shoes laced on and tried not to look bashful.

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome. I’ll see you in a few days. The countdown begins huh?”

Putting on her backpack, Stephanie reached for the door handle.

“Sure does.”

[beesonestopcurioshop]

By the pricking of my thumb, something wicked this way comes.

Chapter 1: The Devil has a hold on me.

Photo credit: Google search.

Warnings: None I think? Maybe standard Peaky Blinders violence toward the beginning.

Note: So here it is! A little late, okay a lot late, but my nerves and an eight hour shift got the best of me. I want it to be great for you all! I hope you all like the beginning of this tale.

••

Thomas Shelby found himself stepping out of the Garrison. It was a quiet night in comparison to how the pub usually could be. They just had a small memorial for Danny Whizzbang. After putting on a show for the Italians, they had to keep face. It was chilly and rain had started to fall. He pulled his coat a little closer around the neck and began his trek back to Watery Lane.

He got little more than a few blocks away from the Garrison when he noticed a raven sitting on a lamp post. The same raven he had seen for about a week. He stopped to inspect it. It wasn’t an odd occurrence but this late at night it wasn’t common. The bird was looking at him almost like it was expecting him. He nearly felt the need to address it. Before he could, the bird flew off.

His trademark cigarette hit his lips and he continued to walk. Thomas almost made it to his destination when a mall flapping of wings grabbed his attention. Another raven was perched by the small home. The same raven. The white dot in its chest gave it away. His usual stone face furrowed a bit, and he looked around to gather his surroundings. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary except this bird. It cawed at him. It had to have been at him. He was the only other soul present on the street.

Thomas walked closer to it. Reaching his right hand out to welcome it. The animal looked at him carefully, sizing him up. To Thomas it felt like the bird was analyzing his soul. It just about stepped onto his hand when there was boisterous noise that brought him back to consciousness.

••

Thomas was still at the Garrison. He looked around to everyone. They all seemed warm and in various states of inebriation. It was as if no one noticed he had let his mind wander. He took out his pocket watch. He had an early day tomorrow. It was the day he would be gaining a horse for the races. It was the beginning of a new era for the Shelbys. One that would no doubt put his family on the map.

He gathered his things, mentioned goodbyes to family and friends alike, and made his way out to the street.

The air outside was cold. Cold enough to be brisk walking home and pull his coat tighter, but not cold enough to be catching his death. That was until the rain started. It was a light drizzle so he would be able to make it home before being drenched.

He got about three streets away from the pub and he stumbled upon a raven. On a lamppost. The same exact bird from his daydream at the Garrison and his week before this. His left eyebrow raised in suspicion. There was no way he had imagined this before at the pub, and the night before, and so on. He took in his environment and marched forward.

When he reached Watery Lane, there was the raven. It preened happily next to the abode he strived to make it to. He just wanted to smoke and get some rest. If it could be called that. The raven stopped to glance at him. Inviting him. Normally it would just be a bird and nothing more. However there was something very intriguing about it. It’s pull on him had him standing right in front of it before he realized he had even walked over to it.

Reaching out a hand to it, the animal inspected it wearily. It began to pleasantly hop on over to his hand. There was a loud bang of the door to his home, the children must have been at it again. The bird let out a startled caw in his direction and flew off.

That bird would haunt his dreams along with the shovels.

••

The next morning he decided he would discuss that occurence with his aunt. He needed some insight. Only the kind she could give.

“Pol? I need to speak with you for a moment.” Thomas held the door open to the meeting room in the back of the house for her and shut it as she entered. He went and sat at the table. His arms splayed wide, palms flat on the top, as he thought of how to go about asking. His brothers and himself had to get on the road so he had to be quick. He tried to find some natural balance. The lack of sleep and that damn bird had him feeling off, not that he would tell anyone.

Thomas Shelby was not an entirely superstitious man, but every now and again things could get under his skin and stick there. This avian follower was one that was just not willing to let go. It couldn’t be a coincidence that it seemed to be every single place he went. The same raven. White dot. Always lurking.

“What’s weighing on you? I can see it.”

“Ravens. What meaning do they bring?”

“Ravens?” Polly sat back in her chair with a noncommittal shrug. “Magic. Mystery. Wisdom. Caution.”

“Caution.” Thomas rumbled lowly.

“But also brotherhood. Messengers of the gods. Loyalty.” She sat back and assessed her nephew carefully. “What on earth has you thinking about ravens? Asking me for meanings?”

“One has been following me. While I’m sleeping and awake.”

“And how do you know it’s the same one and not just a regular bird? Murders of them flock to Small Heath, you know.”

“I know that Pol. It’s almost like a call to it. Like it wants me to find it.”

“That’s an omen, Thomas.” Polly sighed and left him to steep in his thoughts.

He leaned back against his chair and rubbed his hands through the hair at the peak of his head and let out a long, “Fuck,” of frustration at the lack of any more clarity than he started with.

••

Ellie plopped down on a small stool next to Johnny Dogs. It was time for a break. The horses had been groomed and there was a lull in pony rides to warm them up for the fair.

“‘Ey there Ellie! Resting your bones there for a minute from tha little tykes?” Johnny nudged her shoulder in a teasing manner.

“Those little hellions have given me a run for what little money I ’ave.” A peal of mirthful laughter tore through her rosy lips. She didn’t mind it at all. It brought them happiness and that’s what mattered. Her own on the other hand had suffered the past few days. Lack of sleep was beginning to get to her.

She worried her lip losing herself in thought. She had argued with herself on whether she should bring up the anxiety plaguing her recently to Johnny or not. It could help, or not solve anything at all. She hoped for the former.

“There’s been somethin’ eatin’ at me though, Johnny. Not to get all mystical but there’s trouble comin’, and it’s got my name on its breath.”

“Whattaya on about, bird?” He glanced up from his polishing a bridle in confusion.

“I keep ’aving this dream over and over again. For at least a week now.”

“The same one?” She nodded in confirmation. “What happens in this dream? Is there anything that stands out to you?”

Ellie however didn’t get an opportunity to explain because a black car came and parked not far from them. Out got two men looking far too fancy to be at the fair, a young boy of maybe ten or eleven. The third occupant opened the door and as soon as his feet hit the ground, it was almost as if she felt the vibrations of his first steps. The burden he carried. Goosebumps adorned her arms.

“And there comes the trouble.” She couldn’t decipher whether the chill was from the goosebumps or from the icy stoic stare that currently held her attention.

“And along came a man on a dark horse. A peaked cap, blades found along the seam. A black cloud trailing behind him.” She knew who they were. Talk ran fast around these hills. ”What can we do for you, Mr. Shelby?”

“We’re here to see Johnny Dogs.”

“Tommy, how the hell are ya?” Johnny asked as he started to close in on the leaders. Ellie looked between them. At the friendship that would have been clear to a blind man. “Ellie, be a dove and go fetch that horse for Mr. Shelby here.”

“Farthest thing from a dove, Johnny.” The chuckle that escaped her throat was low. Mostly for herself and the amusement of being called a dove.

One of the Lee boys had just finished grooming the horse in question. She traded off with the boy and nodded to him in thanks. She lead the horse to Johnny’s caravan to make a quick slip knot. She made a quiet nickering noise against the horse’s nose as she heard the men come up behind her. She felt her spine arch and moved to the front of the horse.

“So this is the horse?”

“And that’s the car.”

Tommy and Johnny seemed to have something up their sleeves. Both of them were intently checking out their prospective rides. Thomas greeted the horse with a gentle rub on its snout. It responded gently back, almost like they were talking.

“He’s strong you know. A little troubled sometimes, but a good heart.” Ellie mentioned. There was a small downward nod from the Stetson cap in front of her.

“And you are?” The low rumble almost echoed back at her.

“Elli.. Eleanor Byrne, Mr. Shelby. A friend of Johnny Dogs.”

His brother interjected about the horse for the car, and she thought she heard something about two up. She leaned against the caravan and crossed her arms with a playful smirk. This should be interesting. The coins clinked and hit the grass with a dull thud.

Ellie watched the few Lee men who were by the water settle up closer to them. Laughing. Immediately she was uneasy. Yes she respected the Lees but they loved trouble. You could practically smell it on them.

Thomas handed the keys over to Johnny and Ellie’s eyes widened.

“I knew it. I knew it. Tommy you bloody idiot.”

“Shut up, Arthur, I won. I promised Johnny a spin in the car if he lost.” Johnny took off toward the car. He stopped short when Thomas’ hackles raised at the Lee boys.

While Johnny tried to diffuse that situation, she slid the reigns into her hand and made her way to the front end of the caravan. No sense in having the horse get stuck in the middle. She heard Johnny mention that their grandfather was a king. That explained the natural way they held themselves. Hearing the slur about their mother come from one of the Lees, she told the horse to hold and walked back around the van. She made it with just enough time to see Thomas use his cap to slice the Lee boy in the eyes. Served him right. But she wouldn’t voice that opinion out loud.

Johnny tried to stop the ruckus but it was no use. It especially wasn’t after Thomas’ brothers joined in. Ellie wouldn’t have expected any less from what she had heard and seen around Small Heath. The horse came to stand at her shoulder while they stood there and watched the bloodshed. There really was no contest. The Shelbys were vicious.

Ellie reached behind her to pat the horse on the chest. She moved the reigns around his neck so he wouldn’t get caught up in them and gently muttered, “walk on.” They made the short trip to the truck the Shelbys had brought for him.

She unlocked the hatches and caught the door as it fell. She placed it on the ground softly as to not spook the horse. There had already been enough ruckus and his eyes looked a little too wide for her liking.

“Hey, come here boy. It’s okay.” One hand placed under the sturdy jaw and one grasped the muzzle of the grey beauty.

She began to speak softly. Murmuring encouragement and telling him about all the good things he was going to accomplish at the races for Mr. Shelby. She heard heavy breathing as the men made their way around to the back end of the truck to get the horse.

“I ’ope you don’t mind I got a head start on gettin’ him in there, Mr. Shelby.”

He locked eyes with her again, but didn’t say anything. Her right hand was still on the horse and she gripped his mane for comfort. There was definitely a weight that he carried. Not all of it was good. It jostled her around. She was sure that underneath the calm façade, he was really trying to gasp for air. He nodded at her.

She looked over to Johnny, “Johnny I’m gonna make my way to the fair with the other horses. You come round when you’re ready.” She looked at the Shelby men. “It was fancy meetin’ ya.”

••

“Miss Ellie please please??”

“Yeah Miss Ellie, give us one more go round!” The brother and sister duo she was walking around wiggled excitedly.

“Give us one more go round… what, Alexander?”

“You have to say please Alexander!” His sister Mabel chimed in.

“Please, Miss Ellie. From the both of us.” The boy had a sheepish blush across his cheeks in embarrassment for forgetting his manners.

Ellie laughed softly, “It’s alright, Alex. We’ll keep going. Then Miss Ellie has to take a quick break.” There was a chorus of disappointed awwwws from the two children.

She clicked her tongue to get Stevie to walk on. Looking up she saw a fox. This had been what she was going to tell Johnny about earlier. It had been in her dreams and while she was awake. She knew it was the same fox from the one cropped ear it had. It was everywhere. In her dream it would almost call out to her. Never speaking but a gentle tug.

Out further in the fields like this wasn’t out of the ordinary, but not every single time. Foxes usually tended to hustle away from folks.

Orange eyes seemed to entrance her. Stevie kept going but her steps faltered every other step. The fox’s gaze was definitely leveled on her. The level of intensity felt warm, inviting, but dangerously enticing. The fable of the fox and the crow came to mind.

Ellie shook her head and focused on finishing her job for the day. She clicked her tongue and Stevie sped up to a gentle trot. The children loved it and peals of laughter rang through the air.

••

“I’ll be back Stevie.” Ellie patted his chest before walking away. His turn down had been a struggle. He was grumpy from all the rides he participated in. ‘You’re really gonna love me on the way home then.’

A shot of Irish whiskey could be heard calling for her. She had earned it the past few days helping Johnny out. Her plan was to find that bottle she left here somewhere.

Her pack was around the front of the stable. A flash of burnt orange caught her eye. It was darting into the trees nearby. Her eyes rolled involuntarily. The trickster circling her was getting real old. The bottle toppled over and she snatched it up in an ‘aha’ manner. The first sip was greatly appreciated. It burnt and tingled in just the right ways.

The restlessness began to grind at her. Heading home was in her future. She had to find Johnny and let him know that she was on her way out, and thank him for letting her help. Stevie would be okay for a little bit while she went to find him. He would probably enjoy the silence.

••

“Bird! ‘Ello ‘ello! Thought ya left us!”

“‘Ello yourself Johnny. Glad I found ya.” Ellie smiled warmly in his happily inebriated direction and noticed the Shelby brothers with him. “Nice ya see ya again, gents.”

“I don’t think we caught your name earlier, love.” The youngest of the three mentioned.

“It’s Eleanor. You’re John, right?”

Thin light eyebrows raised into the cap that adorned his head, “Seems you’ve heard of us.”

“No one comes out of Small ‘eath and doesn’t know the Peaky Blinders.” A playful knowing smirk graced her lips as she took in the three men.

“What you doin’ all the way out here with the likes of Johnny Dogs then?” Arthur, the oldest, questioned.

“I was giving him a helping hand for the fair here so he wouldn’t get bogged down. Plus I needed time away from the city. Stretch me legs.”

“She’s an angel I tell ya.” She shoved Johnny’s shoulder playfully.

“Dats enough of dat. Farthest thing from it.” Raucous laughter followed from all but one.

Thomas stood quietly. Calculating. Trying to perceive her. His weighted stare caught her and a loud ringing in her ears accompanied the stare off. It was almost like the fox earlier. Shaking her head she continued.

“Now I ‘aven’t left yet, but I will be shortly. Givin’ Steve a rest before heading on. Just wanted ta find ya before I did.”

“Come ‘ere little bird,” Johnny wrapped an arm around her shoulders, “I’ll meet up wit ya soon.”

She giggled, “Yes, Johnny. If ya need anythin, just send word.”

Thomas’ stare squared on her again. The air became thick. If she had wings she would flutter away. Continuing to hold his stare she refused to back down.

“It was nice seein’ yas. Maybe we’ll run into one another.” She gazed at the others with a friendly smile. “But I should probably jog on if I wanna get to town before Christmas.”

She gave Johnny one last hug and waved to the leaders on the Blinders and made her way back to Stevie. It was beginning to rain. It was going to be a long ride home.

••

If you’ve gotten this far, I really hope I do this story justice as well as the characters already written and my Ellie girl. I can’t wait to hear what you all think! 🧡🐝

[orangetail-works]

A Phoenix and a Raven: Alphabet

Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to Disney, I am just playing around with them for a few.

A/N: I did a fiction similar to this with another couple from OUAT and it was pretty fun, though somewhat frustrating.  Twenty-six 100-word snippets of Diaval and Maleficent- little bits a pieces of their partnership and possible future.   Not all of them turned out the way I wanted it to, but I did enjoy it for the most part.  I didn't have a variable “x” word, so I found one that ended in x and went from there.  Happy reading.  

Alphabet

Attraction

Being a young raven searching for a mate in his parent's territory never led anywhere. He did as all ravens must: joined a small unkindness and continued his hunt.  Aerial tricks perfected and beautiful feathers preened, he was ready to find her.  His problem?  No attraction was held for the she-ravens that showed interest.  After leaving his unkindness, he was caught in a farmer's net.  A wisp of magic turned him human and he looked his savior in her wild eyes.  Something stuttered in his chest.  Something that made him wish she was a raven who felt attraction for him.

Branch

When Maleficent became queen of the Moors, her throne grew a branch so that he was in reach should she want to smooth a hand over his feathers.  A Rowen tree branch stayed empty for him when he came back from spying.  He thought it strange that there was no special branch at the nest. Most nights he was in the nest, just above her right shoulder.  She reached for him during nights she was lost to her night terrors and he calmed her with gentle clicks.  Those nights he was content to be without a branch to perch on.

Confusion

Maleficent once had all the confidence in the world.  Confidence in her curse, her revenge and that her decisions would protect the Moors.  Until she began to listen to her raven.  He questioned her decisions, made her think longer before she acted and always had a pesky way of not fearing her.  He confused her greatly.  From the way that he smirked at her attempts of intimidation to the way he would fly off to tend to the Beastie.  All of this should enrage her, but she couldn't help but feel confused at the warmth that spread in her chest.

Dismissal

After Stefan fell and Aurora was safe in the Moors for the night, Maleficent found her raven on his perch by the throne.  She didn't sit on the throne, but at the foot of it.  He jumped down and she turned him into a man to sit next to her.

“You are free,” she whispered.

Silence passed between them for the first time that she could remember.

“You're dismissing me?”

“Your vow is fulfilled.”

He turned to her and looked into her eyes, “And if I choose to stay?”

“Then stay.”

“For whatever you need.”

Equal

Many in the Moors and in the Perceforest Kingdom believed Diaval to be nothing but Maleficent's servant.  A  common raven that was gifted the forms of many other beasts at the whim of his mistress.  Truthfully, he had started out as such, but now his voice carried weight with both his mistress and the young queen that now sat on both thrones.  He brought an unobstructed prospective and insight untouched by human greed or fey fear.  He was the one who calmed their fears and heard their views before any council.  In more than one way he was always equal.

Family

It was hard for him to name.  His raven side wanted to call them an unkindness, a familiar group in want of survival.  His human side didn't feel that was right.  They were more than a group in search of the same things. Maleficent, Aurora and he were something greater.

“Mistress, what are we?” Diaval asked as the three of them took a rest at the one of the Moors many lakes.

“What a silly question,” Aurora giggled before Maleficent answered and looked at the both of them, “We're a family.”

He knew then nothing described them better.

Gift

“What's this?” Maleficent asked from her nest, a pendant in her hand.

“I found that,” Diaval answered, “Thought it was particularly shiny.”

“It is,” she turned the polished gem in her hand, “Where did you find it?”

“Perceforest after checking on Aurora,” he smirked as he saw her eyes shine at the dark green color.

“Why would you give me a gift?”

Diaval thought it obvious, “You need to learn more about ravens.”

Her head tilted in question.

He answered with a kiss to her cheek before she turned him back into his feathered self.

Humor

Diaval had many skills and talents, even when he was in his raven form.  He was an excellent flier, his smaller wings kept up with her in the air easily- even with his added flips and twirls around her.  Outside of her god-daughter, he was the only one able to comfort her with a rub of his feathered head against one of her cheeks.  But the true blessing that Maleficent thanked the gods for each day was the humor that he brought to her life.  If it wasn't for him, she wouldn't know what it felt like to smile again.

Imagine

There were nights where he would sit and wonder about things.  He did so mostly as a man as humans often thought on more things than ravens.  He thought on his fledgling and her blossoming relationship with the young Prince Phillip.  He imagined her future and how they would possibly bond to one another one day.  He imagined the little ones that would follow after- little blonde headed prince or princesses.  He then imagined other little ones with black wings and silky chestnut hair. He shook his head as his eyes landed on his mistress.  Imagining things could be dangerous.

Jealous

Human faces became familiar in the Moors as some made supervised trips for trade with the fair folk.  One lord came to see over his servants and became acquainted with Maleficent.  Diaval noticed the stories they shared with one another and it felt like he wasn't there.  At the end of a visit, Diaval was particularly moody.

“Don't be jealous,” Maleficent stated.

“Of what?”

“He has never given me anything shiny or shown off his flying abilities for me to accept,” she gave his cheek a kiss as his eyes widened, “Unlike a handsome raven I know.”

Kneel

Even when he considered himself a servant, he never had to kneel to Maleficent. Other fair folk did as she passed, but he was never required.  He bowed to her when he gave his vow and she never asked for anything more.  He paced at the base of the Rowen tree and fought with conflicting thoughts.  At the sound of her wings he turned to face her.  She landed and raised her brows at his presence.

He instantly knelt before her, “I'm not a fey, I'm not even a man... but I love you. With every fiber of my being.”

Lover

The thought of having a lover never came to mind after Stefan's betrayal.  Maleficent promised herself that she would never trust another that deeply.  Yet, here she was, wrapped in Diaval's arms, her head on his chest, ear pressed against him to hear his heart beating.  Her wings surrounded them both and sheltered them in their after glow of love making.  Her fingertips floated over his scars as her hand traveled up to run through his hair and pull herself closer.

His lips touched the top of her head in a soft kiss and she whispered, “I love you, too.”

Mystery

It baffled his mind.  Maleficent chose him as her mate despite the many others that would have died for the honor.  He asked her once as they laid together in their nest, “You need to help me with this mystery. Why me?”

She leaned over him, her chin came to rest on his chest to level her eyes with his, “Answer me this:  Why not the one who never failed me?  Why not the one who calmed my many fears?  Why not the one who chose to love me despite my sins?”

Instantly, the mystery was solved with her kiss.

Nest

The day had been long with the disputes between the new Dark Fey and how they were settling into the Moors.  All Maleficent wanted was to curl in her nest with Diaval and sleep into the late morning of the next day. She landed at their nest on the cliff side and her brows furrowed at the sight.  Her mate draped over the side of the nest, his hand held one of the many trinkets that he had given her over the years.  Their nest was covered in the little mementos.  She never saw anything more beautiful.

“Silly raven.”

Offspring

Maleficent couldn't believe how small Aurora's daughter was.  She held the bundle gently and hesitantly as she didn't want to harm the tiny babe.  Diaval came to her side and looked down at the babe in patience for his turn. Maleficent shifted the baby and handed her to Diaval as she went to tend to Aurora.  He eagerly tucked the babe into his arm.  Maleficent and Aurora both watched as he rocked the child with practiced ease. Then Maleficent couldn't help but wonder what he would look like holding a child with darker colored hair and two tiny black wings.

Partner

Diaval and Maleficent flew through the Moors in search of some special blooms to bring with them to Princess Rose's christening. They landed in a glen and a forest Dark Fey came from the side with flowers already in hand.

“Those are perfect!” Diaval shifted human and took the flowers.

“She didn't need her servant to take flowers.”

“Partner,” Diaval corrected.

“Mate, love,” Maleficent further corrected, “Those flowers are perfect.”

She then flew off and Diaval flashed a smirk to the stunned fey before he was back a raven and in the air after his partner.

Quest

Diaval never assumed to call himself a hero or much of an adventurer.  He loved his peace and quiet in the side of the cliff, wrapped around his mate in their glorious decorated nest.  But he loved his mate even more. So when she began to ask for her favorite berries in the early morning hours before the sun crested the hills, he didn't question it.  He shifted, found the berries and came back home.  There would be another quest waiting for him and he accepted it as an honored duty.  If she wanted mulberries, who was he to argue?

Real

As a young raven, he never would have thought that this would be his reality.  He didn't shift into his feathers too often as before, but she was worth every moment that he was without his wings.

“What if I told you that things were changing?” she asked.  He looked down at her and waited for her to continue.  She took one of his hands and laid it over her stomach.  His mind raced over what she really meant and what she was telling him.

“Is- is this real?” he smiled.

“Very,” she smiled back, “Very real.”

Stake

Months flew by in quick succession as Maleficent's stomach grew with the life in her. They moved down from the cliff to reside in the Rowen tree nest until she gave birth.  There was too much at stake for her to test fate. Aurora stopped by with Rose to hear news of her sibling.  The still young queen laid her hands on her mother's growing stomach and smiled at the kicks from the life inside.  Diaval would lay down his life for his family.  Any who dared to try to cause harm would be putting their own lives at stake.

Twilight

It was after the sun set that Maleficent noticed something was different.  With a grip at Diaval's arm and a look of subtle fear in her eyes, he knew it too.  With a yell down from the Rowen tree a Dark Fey midwife flew to the tree and helped to bring Maleficent down for the birthing. Diaval didn't leave her side, despite the threats of slow death by magic from his mate during the hard portions of labor.  Then in the twilight of the evening their daughter was born, her cry echoed over the Moors.

“Hello, Selene. Welcome home.”

Understand

Maleficent cradled her daughter in her arms as she walked around one of the lakes of the Moors.  She watched as Diaval worked with some of the mushroom fairies with their harvests on the other bank.  He had taken on more responsibilities after Selene was born.  He wanted Maleficent to rest and able to bond with their daughter without the stress of Moor business.  He would bond with Selene in the evening and every time he had a free moment.  The time he gave her by sacrificing his own showed her that he understood her better than anyone ever would.

Veil

“I don't understand why we need the veil,” Maleficent said as she looked at the cradle where her daughter laid in the plush blankets.  The babe blinked up with wide, hazel eyes as her tiny black wings fluttered at her back against the blankets.

“It is extra protection should the sun cut through the windows,” Aurora explained and balanced Rose on her hip, “Anything to protect my sweet, little sister.”

“She will be beyond spoiled between you and your father.”

Diaval walked into the room to look at the cradle and tilted his head, “Why the veil?”

Wind

The early morning found Maleficent in the clouds, the wind cutting through her hair as the recently risen sun warmed her skin.  Her feathers stretched to ride the wind current and she heard the small gurgles under her chin. She pulled the wrap down from her daughter's face so she too could feel the wind on her face.  Still much too young, her wings too underdeveloped to even try flying under her own power, this would have to do.  Diaval shot through the clouds under them and cawed as he circled the two of them as they rode the wind.

Unorthodox

The whole situation was irregular.  The last descendant of the mighty phoenix was mated to a raven and had offspring who was now trying to teeth on every fair folk who came too close to see her.  Diaval had to wrestle a few mushroom and hedgehog fairies from the grip of the baby even if she couldn't even sit up on her own yet.

“I bet she gets this from you,” he chuckled at Maleficent and plucked a hat from his daughter's grip, “Sorry, miss.”

“She got her wings from you, that's all I could have asked for.”

Youth

Diaval picked up Selene from her spot between him and Maleficent at her first cry.  He hushed her and pulled her to his chest as he looked over his shoulder to see that Maleficent was asleep.

He got to his feet and wrapped her tight in a blanket.  He rocked her as they paced the side of the nest.  Slowly the crying subsided and he moved them back to the nest.

“You don't need to take her every time.”

“You get her in the day, it's my time with her,” he yawned, “Energy is wasted on the young.”

Zero

Maleficent sat with Aurora at the same lake that they had frequented when she was still just a child.  Rose ran as fast as her legs could carry her with Selene toddling after her, black wings flapping haplessly behind her. Both Diaval and Phillip ran after their children through the shallow waters.  Aurora laughed lightly and looked at her mother as Maleficent watched content.

“So, tell me.  Do you have any regrets?” Aurora asked and looked back at the children and their fathers, “Now knowing this is how it all worked out?”

Maleficent smiled at Diaval and Selene, “Zero.”

[moonysfrexckles]

“I lost a sister.”

September 1977

She was staring again.

She knew because the rest of the world appeared rather abruptly around his head, and the din of the Great Hall assaulted her ears the moment she blinked. Lily cleared her throat, shaking her head to try and dispel whatever had been running through her mind and straightened up in her seat.

Honestly, she couldn’t quite pinpoint why she was staring at James Potter. Sure, he was pretty, with his dark hair, strong jaw, and hazel eyes that sparked every time the grin was lit at his lips. But he was also a bully. An arrogant, self-righteous bully-

“I can be better for you.”

Only Lily wasn’t sure that was true anymore.

After the incident at the end of their fifth year, when he’d chased her through the school and promised with sincerity ringed eyes to be better, he hadn’t accosted Snape once. Nor any other poor unsuspecting child as it was. For a year, Lily had been privy to a boy she had only seen snatches and glimmers of, and it surprised her.

Lily Evans had known James Potter for nearly seven years now. She had known he was in love with her for almost four. It wasn’t very difficult to figure out- for all his strengths, he was terribly obvious, and she’d had to get used to the lingering stares, the bashful smiles, the sudden comments and vies for her attention. At first, Lily had actually found it quite flattering. She’d blushed and laughed and gossiped, and then she stumbled upon him tormenting Snape, the latter stripped to his underwear in front of corridors full of people, and her stomach had felt heavy and light at the same time and she’d wondered how she could hope to fall in love with anyone so vile.

Regardless of any shows of civility they had attempted over the years, their relationship had always been a rocky one. She clashed with his arrogance, his foolhardiness, his ignorance, his easy-going earnestness that always seemed to get him off the hook, even with McGonagall. He clashed with her righteousness, her morals, her religion, her inexcusable belief that everybody deserved a chance, despite how they treated others. He found her increasingly irritating and loved her for it. She found him ever the bully and hated him for the fact that he didn’t seem to care.

Except that wasn’t true.

Her recent piqued interest in him wasn’t anything more than that. Lily was simply surprised that James Potter was human, after all. But she had to stop staring-

“That’s not fair, and you know it,” Dorcas was saying when Lily next blinked. She was spreading strawberry jam on her toast, surveying a flippant Marlene with arched eyebrows.

“What’s not fair?”

Marlene looked at her in surprise. “Well, it’s nice of you to join us! How was your trip? Did you get all the pining done you wanted?”

“I-” spluttered Lily. She closed her mouth and narrowed her eyes. “I was not pining.”

“You were. And drooling,” said Dorcas, taking a bite of her toast when the scowl was redirected to her.

Lily frowned. Absently, her eyes drifted back down the table.

“And we’ve lost her again-”

“What’s not fair?” Lily repeated, switching her attention to the two of them. They shared an amused glance but didn’t comment, allowing her abrupt change of topic.

“Nothing important,” shrugged Marlene.

“It sounded important.”

“It wasn’t,” Dorcas smiled.

Lily picked up her spoon and waggled it between them. She said warningly, “I know you’re both lying to me.”

“That makes three of us,” said Marlene sweetly.

“You’re infuriating,” Lily told her. She wasn’t particularly hungry and her cereal had gone soggy, so she pushed back the bench and climbed out. “I need to go to the Owlery anyway. I’ll see you in Potions.”

“No, you won’t. I’m in Herbology,” said Dorcas.

Marlene pulled a face. “And I might not turn up just to prove a point.”

Lily was already half way down the table, but they managed to make a small smile curl her lips. She didn’t stop but twirled round to face them, holding her arms out and singing, “Wankers!”

Marlene’s laugh carried around the hall, following her until the doors had shut behind her.

She didn’t stop as she crossed the entrance hall, jogging up the stairs in the direction of the West Tower. Her bag felt heavy on her back, and regardless of all of her books and quills and spare quills and ink, Lily thought the letter placed carefully on top of everything else was the weightiest.

Her eyes stung. She’d woken up earlier than usual that morning, before the sun had even touched the skies. Lily had sat up, leaning against the headboard, heart fluttering dangerously in her chest, and waited for the light to break through the slit in the curtains before she’d folded back her sheets, made her bed and slipped into the Common Room. She had sat on the crimson settee, staring into the fire. And then when her feet grew cold, she collected some parchment from her trunk and her quill and returned to kneel on the floor by the ash fire.

The paper had remained blank for some while. Every time she reached for her quill, her fingers would shake so violently that she gave up and traced the grooves of the table instead.

Every year, on this day, Lily would wake up early, having not been able to sleep, and stare at the blank bit of paper, wondering what acceptable thing you could write to a stranger on their birthday. Although, Petunia wasn’t a stranger-

Her sister was the first thing she remembered. Memories that were saturated and hazy, bleached with light and faded by time. She was her first friend, her first playmate, the first person to make her laugh. Lily knew that Tuney liked running around because the flimsy pain in her side always made her feel victorious. She knew that her favourite colour was peach because it was the colour of the dahlia flowers that grew by the stream in summer back home in Nottingham, and she liked liquorice tea when she was ill.

She wasn’t a stranger.

Lily just didn’t know her anymore.

She sighed into the warm palm of her hand, eyeing the blank paper with a frown. Forcing her hand to grip her quill, she sighed again and proceeded to write.

The letter was now tucked into her bag, sealed with the red wax and stamped with the Hogwarts crest Marlene had bought her for Christmas in her Second Year. Lily walked quickly. The Owlery was located in the highest corner of Hogwarts, the West Tower, separated from the rest of the school by a heavy wooden door, and set at the top of fifty three stone steps (she and Mary had counted them on their first trip there). The pillars stretched to the sky, holding up the roof, with nests and perches lining the walls. There must have been a hundred, maybe two hundred, owls, swooping in and out as they pleased, preening and plucking themselves, watching her with disinterested eyes.

Her mother hadn’t let her buy an owl, despite Lily’s sincerest efforts to convince her that they were a necessity in the Wizarding World, because she’d said it would eat her budgie. In the summer, she’d had to rely on her friends’ owls to be able to reply to their letters. Now, she’d have to use a school one.

It was cold up here. October was right around the corner, in the crisp wintry air, in the late dying of the night, and Lily made quick work of undoing her bag, offering the letter to the friendliest looking owl she could find along with a treat as thanks. She watched it as it took off, spreading its large wings and taking to the skies. She didn’t look away until it had disappeared into the clouds, feeling as though it was taking a crucial part of her heart with it, and even then, when the tiny black speck of undulating wings had faded away, she waited a few moments more.

Then, she tore her eyes away. The owls squawked above her head, cooing and nipping each other when they encroached on their nests. Lily swallowed and found that although her throat felt dry and rough, she could breathe a lot easier, like the air had cleared. She fastened back up her bag, swinging it onto her shoulders and checked her watch-

She froze. She was going to be late.

Lily swore, bolting down the stone steps, and bursting through the wooden door at the bottom. She quickened her pace, and noticed faintly that her heart felt significantly lighter as she rushed down the corridors to her Potions lesson, falling through the door and onto her stool just as Slughorn emerged from his office.

Marlene glanced at her, smirking at the pinkness of her cheeks and raggedness of her breath. She murmured, “Did you send it?”

Lily froze. She played for nonchalance. “Send what?”

“Whatever it is you send every year,” she explained simply, ignoring Slughorn as their professor set them their coursework task and let them get on with it.

She didn’t elaborate past that, and Lily was secretly relieved that her friend was never nosy when it mattered. She set her station up, laying out her notes and checking them once over to make sure everything was correct.

“What assignment have you chosen?” asked Marlene, sitting back in her chair and watching her friend tie up her flaming hair and bustle around their desks.  She’d already collected her ingredients, although she made no move to do anything of particular importance.

“I decided to merge the Draught of Living Dead with Altheda’s Potion,” replied Lily.

Marlene’s eyes narrowed and a small frown creased her forehead. “From Beedle the Bard? I didn’t realise that was a real potion. I always thought it was just a fairy-tale.”

Lily paused. A wry smile curled her lips and she said whimsically, “After finding out about magic, I learnt very quickly that fairy-tales are more often than not based on some semblance of truth.”

She smiled, squeezing Marlene’s fingers before she said, “I’m going to get my ingredients. Are you planning on starting any time soon?”

“Not particularly,” retorted Marlene, wrinkling her nose. “Though then again, I don’t tend to plan ahead. After six years, you should know that.”

Lily laughed, and she headed towards Slughorn’s cupboard. She made a mental checklist of everything she needed, beginning with the leftmost bottom shelf and working her way round like that, perusing each jar and vial with squinted eyes, chastising herself for not bringing her glasses and above all, cursing her Professor for the chaos of his disorganisation. She’d offered once before to put his cupboard in order for him, but Slughorn had laughed it off and said that he knew where everything was and that was all that mattered. Short-sighted and with the dim light of her wand, it took her longer than usually to find all of the ingredients bar one she needed, but she did so, pooling them into a bag she had transfigured from a pencil. She stood up from where she had been crouched on the floor, extinguishing her wand. Resolutely, Lily reached for the handle but before she could, the door swung open and a hard, tall body collided with hers, sending her grappling to press her bag firm against her leg lest she lose any of her ingredients.

“You haven’t seen any Chizpurfle fangs lying about, have you- oh, Lily. Evans, hi.”

James cut himself off, neck flushed, and Lily smiled a little at his flustered state. This particular cupboard, separated from the more general one due to the increasing rarity and expense of its assets, was perhaps a metre and a half squared in area, and Lily could feel every one of his breaths against her skin.

“Chizpurfle,” she repeated suddenly, eyes raking the shelves, chewing on her lip. “No, I can’t see it. Maybe Slughorn’s used the jar and didn’t put it back?”

He nodded, and she realised that in the few moments she’d been searching for the ingredient, his eyes hadn’t moved from her face. James coughed and said, “Thanks, yeah. I’ll check.”

Arms full of various sized vials with various coloured liquids, James turned and headed for the door. Lily swallowed and queried, “Are you making a Befuddlement Draught?”

He spun around, eyebrows raised. “A Wiggenweld Potion.”

Lily wasn’t quick enough to conceal her surprise and if the quirk of James’ lip was anything to go by, he noticed. She picked off the last sloth brain on the shelf and said lightly, “It’s a difficult potion, is all. Are you feeling up to the challenge, Potter?”

The hint of a smile that had threatened to spill across his face gave way to a grin. “You’ve known me for nearly seven years, Evans. You should already know the answer to that.” He paused, as if gauging how far he could push it, before James added, “Why? Are you impressed?”

“Maybe I just didn’t have that much faith in your ability,” retorted Lily, feigning her features to stop herself from smiling. She gave him a dainty shrug.

James’ mouth dropped open. Wounded, he cried, “How very dare you! The audacity! If my hands weren’t full, I’d challenge you to a duel.”

“You’d lose,” she warned him.

“Oh, Evans,” he said in a low voice and the smile dropped from her face. “I’m not the same foolish, skinny boy I used to be.”

“No,” she conceded softly, and James’ eyes changed too. She cleared her throat. “But you still have his legs.”

With James’ rich laugh echoing through the jars and making the spider webs shake in her wake, she edged past him and walked back to her table, beaming at Remus as she passed, who offered her a gentle smile in return. Lily laid out all of her ingredients, skim-reading her instructions to double check that she had them all before she began her prep work.

“So,” began Marlene, finally unloading her equipment from her bag. “You and Potter, huh?”

Lily’s head whipped around so that she could stare incredulously first at her friend, and then at the rest of the class, just to make sure nobody had heard. “No. Never. Not in a million years. Not if we were the last two people on the planet-”

“Okay, I get it!” exclaimed Marlene, holding her hands up in mock surrender. Lily relaxed a little. “You dig him.”

She jumped at the insinuation and nipped her arm. “Don’t freak out over dust, Marls,” she told her, lighting her cauldron. “We’re just friends.”

Marlene scoffed. “’Just friends.’ Chick, this is the same boy that’s been in love with you for seven years.”

“Four,” Lily corrected automatically. She blushed.

“Four that you know of- my point being why are you ruling something out that you’ve never even tried?”

Lily’s eyes drifted across the room almost instinctively, finding him out so easily you’d have thought she was drenched in coldness and he was the only morsel of warmth left in the world. She always found it bizarre how easy James was, easy to talk to, easy-going, easy to spot in a crowd full of people (although that last one was usually because he was the reason for the accumulation of an audience so she didn’t know if it counted).

“I’m not ruling anything out, Marls,” said Lily. “I just- it’s different now. Last year, he was different. And now we’re working together with all the Heads business that I can’t avoid him like I used to.” She swallowed, softening. “He treats me like a normal person. Not like a schoolboy crush, or an object, or an outsider. I respect that.”

Marlene didn’t reply, and when Lily glanced at her to check if her friend was still there, the other girl nodded slightly. She let out a whistle. “Must have been some apology.”

“I can be better for you.”

“I guess it was,” replied Lily vaguely, eyes straying to the boy on the other side of the classroom. He had his head ducked low over his work station, elbow tucked in as he added the ground up Chizpurfle fangs to his potion.

“What were you and Dorcas talking about this morning, anyway?” asked Lily curiously, pouring the infusion of wormwood into her cauldron and flicking her wand to increase the heat.

Marlene’s face tightened ever so slightly. To anyone else, the act would have been imperceptible, but Marlene was a character of grand gestures and melodrama, so every small motion seemed out of place on her, almost wasted. Maybe Lily had just known her for too long.

But she played it off, nonchalantly starting her potion. “Dorky has a date.”

The knife in Lily’s hand slipped and she looked at her. “A date?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Lily pressed her lips together. “What did you say?”

“I said she shouldn’t be stringing him along if she didn’t like him,” said Marlene, flicking her blonde curls over her shoulder and fixing Lily with a look.

“What did she say?”

“She said it wasn’t fair to assume she didn’t like him.”

Lily turned back to her potion and said lightly, “Well, at least she took your advice. She’s not ruling anything out until she’s tried it.”

There was a clatter of silver as a knife was abruptly dropped on the table. Marlene regarded her shrewdly. “Get back to your bloody potion, Evans.”

The two girls stared at one another, and Lily felt the smile tug at her lips. She tried biting it back, but they both gave way to laughter at the same time, sharing a grin before they got back on with their assignments.

Lily had always liked Potions. She liked the precision, the right and wrong of it all. You couldn’t argue with a set of instructions and if you went wrong somewhere along the way, you only had yourself to blame. She preferred subjects like that, where success relied on you and nobody could argue against it.

Slughorn made his rounds half way into the lesson. He made a beeline for her, beaming fondly, and asked which potion she had picked and why.

“I’ll say it again, Miss Evans,” boomed Slughorn once she’d told him and shown him her instructions, jovial voice alight with merriment. He ducked his head low as though he were letting her in on a secret nobody else could hear. “It’s a pity you weren’t sorted into my house.”

Lily smiled despite herself. She shook her head, scooping the pieces of the Sopophorous beans into her hand and then squeezing them into her cauldron. The juice hissed and spat when it reacted with the wormwood. “Professor, you and I both know a lion’s roar cannot be confined to a dungeon.”

Slughorn chuckled. “Perhaps not, but your ambition would thrive spectacularly.”

“My ambition is not your common ambition, Professor,” she replied, pausing to count in her head the seven counter clockwise stirs she needed, adding one clockwise stir for good luck. They both followed the motion with their eyes and when the potion shimmered and had turned the right shade of pink, Lily dipped her vial into it and held it between them. It glinted in the light.

“My, I never,” he mumbled in marvel, and the light cast glistening reflections to dance across his walrus-like cheeks. “Miss Evans, you’re the first student I’ve ever taught to brew this draught so successfully in under an hour! And to complicate it too! It’s a masterpiece!”

Beaming, Slughorn moved to take her assignment off her but she moved before he could, holding it out of his reach and ignoring the blush that hurried to her face..

“My ambition is my biggest act of bravery, sir,” said Lily solemnly. “I’m clever enough to know it, and foolish enough, it seems, to continue even when this world tells me I shouldn’t.”

She flicked her wrist back and held the vial out for him to collect. Slughorn stared at her for a few moments before his lips split into a smile beneath his bulbous moustache and he burst into that booming laughter that echoed around the room, bouncing off the stone walls and eliciting more than a few surprised glances. Lily smiled at him, before she vanished her draught and cleared her work station.

“Clever indeed, Miss Evans,” agreed Slughorn, and she felt a rush of pride fill her gut.

Lily spent the rest of the lesson finishing her Transfiguration essay, which transpired as spending all her time trying to move it out of the way quick enough before Marlene spilled something on it, or her potion bubbled over because she’d done something terribly wrong. They were dismissed when the lesson ended by a harried looking Slughorn who had had to put out a total of three fires and send Frank Longbottom to the Hospital Wing for minor burns when he added moonseed (which is highly poisonous and volatile) instead of moonstone.

“You were finished before everyone else had even collected their ingredients!” laughed Marlene, linking their arms when they eventually left the classroom. “You’re a wonder, woman, you know that? The least you could do is cushion our egos by showing us you’re human and get an A like the rest of us.”

“I’ve never gotten less than an E on any of my Potions, like the rest of you,” teased Lily, biting back a smile.

“Honestly,” said Marlene, throwing her hands up with all the melodrama she could summon. “I don’t know how you do it. It’s like Slughorn is in love with you.”

Lily pulled a face, prodding her friend in the ribs. “Marls, you’re disgusting.”

Marlene just grinned, unlooping their arms so she could throw hers around Lily’s shoulders to pull her close. She planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek.

“You know, I was just saying the exact same thing.”

The two girls paused. They spun around and their smiles dropped at the sight of Evan Rosier sauntering towards them. He was a sly boy, tall and slim, with immaculate dark hair that was always combed a certain way, and lips so shrewd it looked as though he was perpetually dissatisfied with general conversation, or perhaps it was life in general that tasted so sour to him. The green tie gleamed from his chest.

Lily’s eyes drifted just past him and her heart tightened in her chest. Snape skulked far enough away to be inconspicuous but close enough to remain affiliated. He loitered in the shadows. She quickly looked back at Rosier.

“Not the bit about McKinnon, though I do admit my stomach heaves at the sight of her,” Rosier continued. A muscle twitched in Marlene’s jaw. Her eyes rolled back into her head. If Lily hadn’t felt her entire body tense up then she would’ve laughed. His dark eyes flicked to her. “I meant the bit about Slughorn. You’re always been a bit of a teacher’s pet, Evans.”

“I’m flattered you’ve been paying such keen attention to me, Rosier,” retorted Lily. Marlene snorted. “Is there a point to all this or were you simply expressing your infatuation with me, because if that’s the case, I’m afraid I have to put you out of your misery when I tell you you’re not my type.”

Rosier let out a harsh, derisive laugh. He stalked closer. “Believe me, Evans, I wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole. Not even if my life depended on it.” He tiled his head in mock-consideration. “But I does beg the question. If you’re so willing to offer your services to me, who else have you offered them to?”

Any amusement or fleeting sense of victory died in her. Lily willed her tongue to say something but she could only stare at him, feeling a sickening heavy dread settle. The smirk that curled Rosier’s thin lips suggested he could feel it too.

“I always did wonder why Snape was friends with you,” he said. Lily’s nose twitched. “And now Slughorn. What, are you fucking him for extra credit? Spreading your legs like the freak you are-”

Something hot dribbled through her, something familiar and seething, and she stormed towards him, stopping only when their noses were inches apart, and she could feel every one of his rancid breaths fan against her cheek. Rosier’s eyes widened fractionally.

“What, Rosier? Threatened because a Mudblood is showing you up, again-”

“Rosier! What a pleasant surprise to see you here!”

Lily stumbled backwards at the abrupt arrival of James Potter. He strode towards them with all the time in the world on his side, like it was his castle and they were all entreating upon it. Sure enough, his usual companions were fast in his wake: Black, sauntering with his shoulders back, chin tipped daintily (or arrogantly) to the sky; Lupin, slouching, hands shoved deep in the pockets of a robe that was fraying at the edges and brushing the higher end of his calf; Pettigrew rounded the four off, scurrying along with a slight skip in his step to keep up.

“And Snivellus!” Sirius announced. “My, this is a party.”

A look as black as the greasy hair on his head crossed over Snape’s face, and he sunk deeper into the shadows, eyes trained on Sirius.

James took no notice. He smiled cordially. “What are you doing, Rosier?”

Rosier’s eyes flicked to him and back. “That is none of your business, Potter,” he drawled.

“On the contrary,” replied Sirius. He made an over-elaborate display of pointing at James’ chest. “He’s Head Boy. That makes everything his business.”

“He’s right,” said Remus genially. “In case you weren’t aware, ‘everything,’ quite literally, refers to everything. What colour your socks are-”

“What you do after hours,” added Sirius, counting them off on his fingers.

“When you’re accosting people in the hallway,” finished Peter. He raised his eyebrows knowingly.

Rosier narrowed his eyes at him, then he looked back at Lily. “It’s not an ambush. It’s a chat between a concerned student and his Head Girl, right Evans?”

His stare turned expectant. Lily didn’t break eye contact with James. “Right.”

A small frown appeared between James’ eyebrows but the space smoothed over quickly after and he smiled at the pair of them. “Well, I’m glad, but as your Head Boy, I must profess my concern over your truancy for your next lesson, Rosier. I’m sure Evans can give you a note.”

“No need,” Rosier replied. He smiled tightly. “I’ll explain the situation to Binns myself.”

“Perfect.”

Rosier gave her one last glance, and Lily met his gaze head-on, before he flicked back his cloak from his legs and turned on his heel. He jerked his head at Snape, who glared at them a final time before he followed.

“How obedient,” commented Sirius. James looked at him. His friend’s black eyes didn’t leave the two retreating figures until a few moments after they had disappeared around the corner.

Lily watched them both walk away. Her heart was beating horribly fast in her chest and she knew there was heat in her cheeks and neck because her skin felt to be burning. She wasn’t scared. She’d endured this for seven years, and whilst it was always an unfortunate occurrence, she was used to it. No. Lily was angry. In fact, she was furious.

Freak.

That word had also shattered some part of her, and she could feel the shards digging into her flesh, sending out darts of twisting pain. She didn’t know how to stop that, how to block out that word, that memory, and of all days-

Anger, she could control. She whirled on her heel and marched straight up to James Potter, prodding him in his tall, solid chest.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me,” she fumed. She didn’t know why but the ire was hot and writhing within her, and she couldn’t bite her tongue. Adrenaline coursed through her veins.

A genuine flash of surprise crossed James’ face and he shook his head quickly. “No, Lily. I was just-”

“Just what?” she demanded. Marlene touched her wrist, muttered her name, but Lily ignored her. “I’m not some little girl. I can handle myself! I have proved for seven years that I can handle myself!”

“I never said you couldn’t,” he murmured gently.

Sirius’ eyes flicked between them both, before he said in a low and quiet voice, “Why don’t we leave our Head Boy and Head Girl in private.”

“Good idea,” agreed Peter, and his transparency meant the concern and bewilderment was streaked across his face. “I’m sure they have lots of… Head business to do.”

Marlene closed her eyes in exasperation. Remus sighed. Nevertheless, the four of them left for Transfiguration, but not before Marlene squeezed Lily’s fingers.

Lily didn’t even glance at them. She kept her eyes fixed on Potter, because she thought that if she moved, she would cry.

“I’m fed up of people acting like I shouldn’t be here, like I can’t survive in this world. I can get the grades. I can do the magic. I belong here. I have proved that I deserve to be here-”

“Evans,” he said, a bit more forcefully, though the hurt still managed to seep into his voice and eyes. “I don’t see why you’re biting my head off.”

Lily swallowed hard. It scraped her throat. She traced the cracks in the stone floor and the curve of her shoes and then the frills at the hem of her socks and all the while, her heart grounded itself in her chest.

“Do you even know what it feels like to be an outsider?” she asked in a strangled voice. “To not belong? You’ve always had everything, Potter. You’ve always had friends and a place in this world, and I have to fight for that! Every day of my life, I will have to fight for that and you just have it handed to you on a golden platter, just like Black, just like Rosier-!”

She noticed the way he winced a little, and her shoulders slumped, heart dropping in her chest. She closed her eyes and counted to ten, imagined stirring counter clockwise and once clockwise for good luck until all the haze had disappeared from her mind. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean-”

James got closer, reaching out hesitantly to touch her arm. When Lily didn’t move away, he held both of her shoulders, rubbing her arms.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “What’s wrong? You hardly ate anything this morning.”

Lily sighed, reaching up to press her fingers into her eyes so her vision would go fuzzy before everything would clear up sharper. She peered at him. “You watch me eat?”

James’ eyes nearly popped out of his head. He dropped his hands and stumbled, “No. I mean, yes. That sounds weird. Not every day- I just-”

Lily looked away and laughed weakly. She prodded his chest. “I was messing with you.”

He visibly relaxed, a relieved grin slipping into place. He said, “I noticed you were quiet at the Head’s meeting last night too. Do you want to talk about it?”

She swallowed thickly, eyes darting to her feet. James stared at her, before he glanced down the corridor, licking his lips nervously. Then, he took her hand and started walking.

“Where are we going?” Lily asked, walking quickly to keep up with him.

“We are going for a walk,” he told her. “To clear our heads.”

“We can’t skip class!” she stressed, digging her heals into the floor so he couldn’t drag her along. “We’re Heads! It sets a bad example!”

“It’s McGonagall,” James replied in the same tone of voice. “Minnie is a real cool cat, you know? I’ll just tell her we had Head business. She’ll understand.”

Lily frowned, slowing down a little. “She’ll know we’re lying.”

James nodded, and he adjusted his grip on her so that he could keep them moving out of the dungeons and onto the grounds. “Sometimes, Evans, it’s not about the words themselves, but the implications behind those words, you know? Yeah, she’ll know we’re lying, but she’ll also know that we wouldn’t be using such an obvious lie if it wasn’t serious.”

“It’s not serious,” protested Lily.

James relaxed his arm around her once the October air had swallowed them and they were far enough away from the castle that she couldn’t change her mind and run back. It hung loose around her shoulders so there were still fair inches of open air between them.

He sighed. “Lily,” he began. “You’re beautiful.” Her breath hitched in her throat and she really hoped he hadn’t heard it. “You know I know that. I know you know I know that… But you are quite the ugly crier. Honestly, I think maybe the Giant Squid would be a prettier crier-”

Her mouth dropped open and she gaped at him for a second, before slapping his arm repeatedly. “Why, you chump-”

But she couldn’t stop the laughter from pouring from her, as James attempted to twist his body out of the way of her hits, mewling and complaining when her fists landed, catching her hand and laughing with her.

“See!” he said, waving her hand. “You have a beautiful smile.”

Lily pulled her fingers from his, shaking her head and unsuccessfully trying to bite back the smile tilting her lips. It broke out, however, blossoming like a meadow in spring, thriving in the light and heat of James Potter.

She followed him without another word as he led her further into the crisp, chilly grounds, skirting the lake and past Hagrid’s hut until they got to the Quidditch Pitch. Nobody was out here. They were all inside, basking in the warmth of log fires or working furiously in the classrooms. They skirted under the stands, the ghost of a million cheers falling deaf on their ears, steeping them in the peaceful silence of the day.

James didn’t stop. He walked away from her and laid down in the middle of the field, ignoring the way the cold seeped into his skin and made his uniform damp and freezing. He peered up at her, and patted the space next to him.

“Come on,” he said.

Lily didn’t have to be told twice. She laid down beside him, feeling acutely each blade of grass and drop of winter dew against her cheek, gazing up at the sky.

James’ finger pointed upwards suddenly. “That cloud looks like a dragon.”

A faint smile curled her lips. Sure enough, when she followed his finger, she could see the body, the curve of the wing, the stumps of the feet, the tail that dissipated into nothing.

“I suppose it does,” she agreed.

“And that one looks like a octopus riding a centaur.”

“Now, you’re just pulling them out of your arse.”

“No, no. Look,” assured James. He traced the clouds. “There’s tentacle one, tentacle two, tentacle three, tentacle-”

“It’s my sister’s birthday today.”

He fell silent immediately. Lily kept her eyes trained on the sky, trailing the tail of the dragon and wondering what the fire it breathed would look like, whether it would be the same fading white of the clouds that form its wings or if it would be the faded pink, still scattering from the break of that morning. James looked at her in surprise.

After a moment, he said, “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“No,” said Lily. “I don’t talk about her very much.”

Before James could say anything else, she continued hurriedly, “We used to play Pooh Sticks when we were younger. Oh- I don’t suppose you know what that is.” She laughed a little, tilting her head towards him and smiling brilliantly. “There is a stream at the bottom of my garden, and on a summer’s day, my sister and I used to go down the little bridge and drop sticks into the water and see which one would cross under the bridge first. I was… seven. Tuney was nine. We went to play.

“You get to pick your sticks, you see. You want to go for long ones- they cross the line first, thin enough to travel quickly but thick enough not to stray too far from the current. We were very competitive. We stood on the bridge and we dropped our sticks, shouting and screaming. I could see through the wooden cracks beneath our feet that Tuney’s stick was winning, so I tried to… make mine go faster. I acted as though I could push it along with my hand if I waved it frantically enough, screaming and yelling like a child-”

Lily broke off. James was staring at her. “I froze the entire stream, apart from my stick which skidded along the ice… First bit of magic I ever did was to win Pooh Sticks.”

She laughed and James smiled lopsidedly at her, though maybe that’s just because she was looking at him sideways.

“Naturally, my parents didn’t believe Tuney when she told them. So we kept it to ourselves- our little magical secret. I used to bloom flowers for her, Dahlias because they were her favourite, and make it snow in spring.”

“That’s advanced magic for a seven year old,” James told her.

Lily smiled at him. “Charms has always been my strong point.”

Her face hardened, became almost wistful, when she said, “I was nine when I first met Severus Snape. He held out his hand and created the same flowers I had always made for Tuney. They never got along. She would make jibes at his hair and clothes, and he would use magic to rip her new dresses. I always thought she was lying, you know. I thought she was jealous because I had a new friend and our magical secret was no longer just ours. It was only when I came to Hogwarts that I realised how cruel he could be, how malicious. My sister and I fell out a lot. We wouldn’t talk for days at a time.

“It got worse when I finally got my Hogwarts letter,” continued Lily. The story became difficult to tell, memory making her choke. Her face screwed up and she said in a small, wounded voice, “She called me a freak…”

James didn’t say anything. Lily knew he was still listening though. His body was warm and present next to hers, and every now and then, she would hear a breath escape gently from his lips. She closed her eyes and tried to inhale quietly, so he wouldn’t hear the way the air shuddered.

“Petunia moved out when she was 18. Now, she’s engaged to some hotshot in drills. I haven’t spoken to her since fifth year.”

There was a quiet between them. It settled over them like snow does in the fledgling days of winter, peacefully and comfortably, and neither one of them looked to indent it for a few moments.

Finally, James said, “Drills sounds like something that could kill you.”

Lily laughed loudly. Of all replies she had anticipated, she couldn’t say that was on the list. She looked at him. “I mean, if it has the grit and dedication, a duck could kill you, so I can’t exactly refute that.”

He looked at her, soaking in the amused smile still fading into her skin. James drew a line from each freckle to each hair in her eyebrows to every eyelash and fleck of gold in her eyes.

“We should be dancing,” he said suddenly.

Lily let out a short, surprised laugh. She tilted her head to look at him. “What?”

“Well, if it was my birthday, I’d want everyone to be dancing. It’s not a party if you’re not jiving.”

“James,” she was still smiling, looking at him with something shining in those wide eyes. James didn’t think he’d ever seen her look like that. He wanted to spin her around and make her laugh and immortalise that light in her forever.

James nimbly hopped to his feet, holding out a hand to pull her up. Lily eyed him oddly, but she took it nevertheless. She couldn’t have found him too weird, or maybe she did and it liberated her to realise she really wanted to dance with him in the middle of the Quidditch Pitch, when they were both bunking off school, on her estranged sister’s birthday.

There was no music playing, but James spun her anyway, and Lily laughed. It spilled from her lips, flying off into the air around them. He kept twirling her until her hair whipped his arm with the winter wind, and her laugh was one continuous squeal.

“James!” she gasped.

He pulled her into his chest then. The world danced for her, pirouetting and spinning, and James remained the one constant thing in her vision. She clutched onto his shoulders tightly, lest she lose her balance.

Lily didn’t think about the owl carrying her sister’s letter once that day. She didn’t think about the way Petunia would see it flying towards her bedroom window and freeze, breath trapped in her throat. She didn’t think about the inevitable tower of scrunched up paper balls in her sister’s bin that his year’s unwanted letter would add to.

And she most certainly didn’t imagine Tuney opening her window with trembling hands to let the bird in, stroking its head and staring at the nickname she hadn’t been called in five year, written in thick, black strokes on the envelope. She didn’t see Petunia smoothing out the creases in the parchment, running her thumb over the seal wax, soaking up the words as she read it, then read it again, closing her eyes for a few moments, before she crossed her room and kneeled on the floor beside her bed, where she would slide out an old musical box.

The music played as soon as she opened it, but Lily wouldn’t play that song in her mind or close her eyes and see the way the ballerina danced. She would therefore miss the hundreds of other letters all written in the same hand, with the same red wax seal on the envelope, wishing her happy birthday and telling her about everything: the boys; the magic; her new friend Marlene who wore a leather jacket instead of her cloak and got detention for it. And she wouldn’t see the way Petunia caressed the letter a final time before she locked it safely in her box and carried on with her life as though she didn’t have a sister, when she did and she always would.

[thegoldenplace]

The Woman Who Sits On My Shoulder

The woman who sits on my shoulder gets heavier and heavier every day. When I eat, she demands I feed her. When I bathe, she demands I wash her. The same is true when I cut my hair, when I brush my teeth, when I stain my nails with berry juice and alcohol from the basement. She wants to be beautiful, she says. I tell her she is. But she won’t believe me when she can see her skin sagging in the mirror - she says that one night while I’m sleeping she’ll steal the bones from under my cheeks and use them to prop her face into something more youthful. 

This is not to say that I don’t love her. Of course I love her. It just means that I don’t believe a word that comes out of her mouth.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I believe the important things. 

The first day I found her on my shoulder, my mother was sick. I could tell, because whenever I came home in the evening, she wouldn’t have moved from her bed. I had been trying for weeks to make her eat, but she would turn away every bowl of stew or hunk of cheese I put on her nightstand. It was after nearly a month that I was standing over a cart of herbs at the market that the woman settled on my shoulder and leaned into my ear to say, “Those yellowish ones look nice. I’m sure they’ll do the trick.”

Any other child might have screamed, but I had been brought up to be polite, so I simply thanked her. I wouldn’t have bought them except they were only thirty cents and smelled like sun, and when I put them over the meat that night, my mother ate more greedily than I had seen in a long time. So I believed her then. 

In the mirror that night, I looked at her.

“See,” she said smugly. “I told you so.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Where did I come from?” She was miffed. “Where did you come from? What a thing to ask. And aren’t you going to offer me somewhere to sleep? It’s very cold outside.”

“Well-” I looked doubtfully at my bed. “I suppose there’s room for the both of us.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. Her smile was stretching itself for the first time across her long teeth. “You won’t even know I’m there.” 

We slept, and the next morning, we woke. Again she helped me cook. Again my mother ate. Week after week, each day my mother seeming to get more color in her cheeks, each day the woman sitting heavier on my shoulder. It seemed an even enough exchange. When it was especially sunny, my mother would come out with me to sit in the yard. She never acknowledged the woman on my shoulder, but I knew she didn’t mean it to be rude - she just had very little energy, and I was glad for her to spend it on me, even if we were just sitting.

In that warm season, we were happy. She and my father and the woman and I would eat dinner together before the fire. I would tell jokes; my father would laugh, my mother would smile. The woman on my shoulder would whisper in my ear, “That went over well, didn’t it?” When the wood burned out, I would take a second bowl of food, “For her to be nourished,” I said, and the woman on my shoulder and I would go to bed and sleep with the windows open and the wind combing our hair. 

And then the winter came. The snow fell. My mother became sicker. She was weak - she couldn’t form words or lift her head to drink. I propped her up in a rocking chair by the hearth and made fire after fire - “Put a log down, now,” the woman on my shoulder instructed me, “it’s getting drafty.” - but her eyes still drooped, breath still shallow, and one day when the woman and I woke to the chill of frost through my open window, she had died.

A part of my father died too, I think. When I ask for a second bowl of oatmeal at breakfast now, “For her to be nourished,” I say, he replies that there’s no need to waste food on any of that nonsense and goes to throw the leftovers into the compost behind the house. So we wait for him to leave and then she and I walk into the woods, her wrapped in my mother’s old black shawl, looking for all the world like a proud raven. She likes to follow the stream down the mountainside and eat the little mushrooms and moss off the rocks. Whenever I ask if she’d like for me to make her an egg and toast instead, she smiles at me, big and horrible, and I can see all the places where the dirt is stuck between her teeth. I tell her to swish water. “You’ll never be beautiful if you keep doing that,” I say.

“Maybe not to you,” she says. Then she cackles. She has a cackle like a witch, but I swear she isn’t. I asked her, once. She gave me a look that nearly turned me to stone and said that it was a very rude thing to say to someone who was just trying to move gracefully through old age. Then, she made me paint her lips with cherry juice.

It isn’t like she replaced my mother, mind. No one can replace my mother. 

But she does comfort me. I’ve gotten used to her presence, her weight on my shoulder, her claw-like fingernails combing through my hair as we scrabble down the rocky mountainside on the way to the town or to the market or in search of a stray chicken from the coop in the yard. She whispers in my ear the guidance when I most need it, keeps my mind focused when it is most restless. “Don’t trip on the roots,” she tells me. “Watch your fingers on that needle.” “Close the windows for the storm.” And in return I stand as long as she wants in front of my mirror, leaning close to let her inspect every wrinkle and mole on her soft face. I braid her thin hair with dried flowers. I tell her she is beautiful when she asks and let her face shift into the proud, conniving expression that comes before she tells me something particularly off-putting, like that she is beautiful because she’s been collecting the hairs off my shoulders, or rubbing her face with my tears to restore the skin. I laugh then harder than I ever do. 

It feels like the winter goes on for longer than it ever has, but she teaches me to like the cold. When I go to close the window she tells me instead to put on another blanket, or to stoke the fire, and when we sleep she combs the cold out of my hair, and if I cry she brushes the tears over my cheeks and tells me when they frost that I match the earth outside, and isn’t it beautiful how I can do what the rain does, how pretty the weather looks on my cheeks over the rosy flush of winter. 

One morning I wake after the sun has risen and the snow throws light so white onto my walls that my room is flat and my bed is flat and I am flat and she is flat on my shoulder. We walk to the kitchen, my feet in thick wool socks against the cold floorboards and her perched on my shoulder, breathing clouds into the air like a child. I put the kettle on. 

“Hey, pet,” my father says from the table. He is eating toast and sitting in the chair next to my mother’s. The same cloth is down that was the day she died. He takes a bite and crumbs spill over it, too white against its rich red. I look down at the stove. The woman on my shoulder, so heavy now that I ache, shifts closer to my neck. I lean my head into her, feel her slow heartbeat and the coldness of her, and let my breathing deepen. 

“Hi,” I respond. My voice feels dry and cracked. “Want some tea?”

“I’ve got coffee,” he says. There is a silence. I busy my hands, taking a mug down from the cabinet, measuring tea into a diffuser, pushing the handle back and forth so that the mug bottom makes a scraping sound against the countertop. 

He clears his throat. “Want to go out today?”

My hand stills. The woman on my shoulder draws close again. “To do what?” 

“Just take a walk. It’s nice out.”

“It’s nice inside, too,” she whispers in my ear. “What does he know about that? Doesn’t spend time in this house with you, anyway.”

She’s right, I know. I say, “Maybe later.”

“Are you sure? Sun’s good right now. And you could bring your tea.” He nods to the mug. “Warm hands.”

“I don’t know.” I shift my weight from foot to foot. My breath is coming faster now. My eyes sting. I can feel myself hunching over, collapsing, bit by bit.

From my shoulder, the woman whispers, “You know you’d like it better if you stayed in with me. Let him go. It’ll be easy. We can go back to sleep-”

“The air’s real good on the mountain,” he interrupts. “Easy breathing. Nice to get something fresh and crisp in your lungs like that, pet.”

She says, “Rude of him to interrupt like that. As if I’m not even here. You know-”

He says, “I’ve been missing your company lately. Think it’d be good to talk about your-”

“Aren’t you tired-”

“-and how you’re coping with-”

“-into bed-”

“-what would be good for you-”

“-with me-”

The kettle screams. Hot water splashes onto the stove and cries out. They both quiet. With shaking hands I reach to turn off the burner and pour water over my tealeaves, straighten myself up, and force a breath into my lungs. 

“Another time,” I say. I am blind. I am directionless. I take my mug with the hot water and walk to my room. The woman who sits on my shoulder is as heavy as the entire world, but I carry her. 

When I am settled in bed, mug on the windowsill, she begins to preen. “Aren’t you glad to be staying in? I mean, goodness,” - she sends a reproachful glance towards the door - “a walk? In this weather? The cold is much better experienced from the inside. Everyone should know that. And besides, you’re tired - he should know that. He has plenty of other chances to spend time with you. He is your father, even if-”

I raise my head. “Stop,” I say, quietly, and she is so stunned by my asking that she does.

Later, when I wake up again, night has long past fallen. She is asleep, deep in the soft creases of my blankets. Her face is illuminated in a thin sliver of moonlight. I shift towards her and lean my head on my wrists and inspect her face. Wrinkles around her long nose. Moles on her chin and protruding cheeks. Thin lips, pale red, parting unevenly around her cold breath. Thick eyelids with blond lashes, lying flat on her pockmarked skin. 

Beautiful, I think, and then I sleep.

In the morning she is gone. 

The first breath of spring’s warm air comes through my window.

I bring my cold mug into the kitchen and ask my father as he sits at the table, “Would you like to go on a walk?”

The two of us stumble down the mountainside. The air is fresh and crisp in my lungs. I feel light, lighter than I have in a long time. The sun feels so bright. 

The absence of her weight on my shoulder throws me off-kilter, and I am at once happy and sad.

[darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts]

Devil’s Temptation pt14

Warning: Mob styling warlords

Masterlist

---

Chapter 14 – Visiting Hours

The thick leather glove felt a little cold on his skin. Over the years of use, it had become soft and supple, yet it was still thick enough for his pet not to puncture it with her lethal talons. Haguro hopped happily from her perch in the small aviary space he had designed for her in his private garden to his gloved hand. Her wings flapped a little as she settled flashing glimpses of her barred body. With dexterous fingers, Nobunaga laced the ankle jesses of the bird around his hand to keep her securely in place.

As Japanese sparrow hawks went Haguro was darker then most he had seen. She was no less beautiful for her uniqueness, in fact, it was something that drew him to her in the first place. She represented the spirit of what he wished for, freedom. She could cast out her wings and fly high over the world below. It must have been a wonderful feeling to know that you could travel so far and not have a care in the world.

Her ability to take down other birds in flight reminded him of the nature of things but it was her eyes. Those yellow orbs staring at him that reminded him he could just as easily be that prey. Maybe not by her claws, but he was always reminded of balance and the fact that someone might come along that was a bigger bird in his cerulean sky. I cannot let that happen.

Nobunaga took out a chicken portion from a bowl of fresh meat he brought with him for the hawk. She sunk her beak into it, yanking it from his fingers and placed it in one of her taloned feet so she could begin tearing parts from it to eat.

“Good girl Haguro.” Nobunaga cooed softly at his pet. The sound of the doors opening into the garden was followed by the heavy footfalls on gravel of someone entering.

“Sir?”

“What is it Hideyoshi?” Nobunaga called out as loudly as he dared without scaring the hawk. It didn’t take long for the other man to join him by the bird enclosure.

“I’m sorry Sir but I thought you would like to know that [Name] has left her room.” Hideyoshi announced sounding relieved. It was no secret that he tended to treat everyone around him like family. He was always more than ready to step in and be that big brother figure someone needed. When it came to [Name] it was no exception. There was no denying that she had been liked by all of his men for one reason or another, Nobunaga knew he was also no exception to that rule. She is certainly an interesting one.

“Fascinating. However, she was not a captive here so she is free to do as she wishes.” Nobunaga replied lazily without taking his eyes from his pet, handing it another piece of raw meat.

“Of course, sir. But that was not why I came.”

“Oh?”

“Mitsuhide has left and taken her with him.” Hideyoshi’s concerned voice gave Nobunaga pause.

“Has he now? What an entertaining girl she is.” Nobunaga smiled as he witnessed Haguro devour the last of her meal. It was true he had visited [Name] and told her something of Mitsuhide’s past but he didn’t expect such fast results. That would only happen if she still felt a connection strong enough to run to his side. Ignore her own pain enough to show empathy for someone who had done her wrong. What a soft-hearted… No, it’s not just her it's him as well. Could a brief encounter really result in such an unbreakable bond?

“You don’t seem surprised by it.” Hideyoshi had been studying Nobunaga in an effort to try to work out what was happening. It was something he prided himself on, reading between the lines and getting what was wanted for his boss. But since his return, it had been harder to read past the text and the margin for error seemed to cast foreboding shadows everywhere around them.

“At this point Hideyoshi I would say I have larger concerns than Mitsuhide and his pet. There is a decided lack of action being taken.” Nobunaga bent down with Haguro and released her jesses from his gloved hand. She happily hoped back to her low perch on the ground and began preening.

“We are doing all we…” Hideyoshi defensively began to protest but was cut off quickly by Nobunaga.

“Not action on our part Hideyoshi. On theirs. We have not received any kind of real movement against us and I have to wonder why. Apart from that press announcement, there has been nothing.” Nobunaga explained with mild frustration as he left the aviary and slid the catch back into place on its door.

“I did notice that myself. What do you think they are doing?”

“If I knew I could counter it but as I don’t, I can only play the different possibilities over and over in my head.” Nobunaga was irritated. It was one thing to be patient it was another thing entirely to sit and wait without knowing if anything was going to happen at all. And the one man who would be able to tell him definitively if something was headed their way was now AWOL. Mitsunari might know at least where his left hand had disappeared to in such a rush. I could ask if he knows where the girl might be. Then if anything is said I was only looking for her, not Mitsuhide.

“Do you think Mitsuhide took the girl to try to get information?” Hideyoshi’s question almost made Nobunaga wonder if Mitsuhide’s mind reading abilities had rubbed off somehow. No, it’s far more likely he came to that idea himself. He has always been focused on keeping an eye on the resident trickster. Personally, I would just like it if Mitsuhide was settled enough to be useful again. It really interferes with business when one of the tools isn’t working properly.

“For all, I know he could have taken her and eloped.” Nobunaga shrugged as he turned to walk away. The light-hearted joke of his caused Hideyoshi to audibly gasp and that reaction caused a little rush of pleasure to rise up in Nobunaga.

“Eloped!? You think they still? But she hates…”

“The older you get Hideyoshi, the more you realise love and hate are two sides of the same coin.”

---

Takahiro moved with all the grace and agility of an agitated cat. He wasn’t exactly jumpy but he was on edge. Time was ticking and he knew it was moving closer and closer to the time where he had to answer for his latest actions. If he couldn’t find her before the time came, his time was up in every possible way.

He pushed open the private room’s door quietly and stepped in. The smell of disinfectant assaulted his nose worse than it had when he came into the hospital, small confined spaces just seemed to help intensify the lingering smell of things even with ample ventilation.

“The doctor just left. They say he’s stable enough to start bringing him out of that coma.” Shin’s words did nothing to alleviate his worried thoughts. Takahiro had hoped that with the other medical condition the man had that it would complicate things enough to give him the bonus of more time. Damn you and your ability to somehow be strong enough to fight back old man.

“I suppose you already cast out the bait?” Takahiro stared at Shin as he asked. We don’t have time now… I don’t have time.

“Of course, I did. I just don’t know how long it will take to attract attention or if it will get the right attention. We still don’t know who or if someone has her.” Shin put a reassuring hand on Takahiro’s shoulder as he tried to comfort him without smothering. It would have been easier to do in the privacy of their own home but in public it was a lot more difficult. Besides Takahiro had never reacted well to people attempting to comfort him.

“Someone has her. If they didn’t, she would have been found by now.”

“There would be logic in that.” Shin nodded in agreement. He had been sitting there silently observing the man in the bed thinking about just that. If she had simply run, they would have found her fast. The fact it had been so long now meant she was hiding somewhere. Either that somewhere was with someone she trusted or it was someone who had taken her.

“As long as it brings her here, I don’t care. I do not lose what is mine.”

---

For the city that never sleeps there was also a hospital caring for its inhabitants. The main city hospital was as busy as ever when Mitsuhide swung his car into the parking lot. It was the largest medical facility in the city and also served as a training centre for medical students hoping to gain a future in medicine.

The ride hadn’t been as uncomfortable as he thought it would. She remained silent for the majority of the journey but it wasn’t unpleasant. She had surprised him. Why had she come to me like that? Attempted to talk to me and smooth things over a little? Was it her naivety and innocence that did that or was it something else? I can’t deny I still fell a strong pull in her direction. Did she feel the same? Could she? I have hurt her. Maybe that would be too much to hope for. The pain in her eyes crushed his heart in his chest when she stormed off. He couldn’t blame her.

Mitsuhide didn’t care for hospitals much. He liked the cleanliness and could appreciate the sense of order they had. But he always thought they were rather boring. All these interesting and fun little toys and all they are used for is to heal… something seems wasteful about that. It was no surprise that when they got hurt on the job, they were usually treated at HQ by Ieyasu. They couldn’t avoid having to go to the hospital at times when things were more than even he could handle. When that happened it usually involved paying a high price to keep it from the authorities.  

After going through a side door on the building they went straight to a desk that seemed like it was little more than a hole in the wall.

“Name?” A rather bored looking desk clerk asked in a lacklustre fashion. They had obviously caught them somewhere between the end of a night shift and hand over for whoever was their replacement for the morning shift. Can’t say I blame you for looking less than energetic given the hole they have you working in.

“Professor Saito, I’m with the University. This is my secretary. I received a call from someone here requesting I see a patient who was asking for me.” The shift in Mitsuhide was impressive, his tone and way he adjusted his gestures it was like he had morphed into a totally different person.

“I see. And does this patient have a name?” The clerk clicked around on what looked like a fairly out of date computer system in front of them on the desk.

“Well, I would assume so.” Mitsuhide’s little joke earned him a rather impressive unamused glare from the clerk which caused him to chuckle slightly. “My apologies, you see the patient I believe is suffering temporary selective amnesia and whilst they can remember some aspects of their life, they have very limited capacity on personal details. It was thought that if they knew who I was I might be able to help with identification.” [Name] stood frozen in awe at the performance. He made it all seem so natural and totally believable.

“Ah. Ok well, that makes sense. Your ID Professor?”

“Certainly.” Mitsuhide took out a card wallet that had several rather official looking laminated ID cards in it. Selecting one he handed it over easily. The clerk took it and clicked around on his computer for a few minutes, pausing to compare the image on the card with the man before them.

“Well, it all looks to be in order. Did you know where you are going?” The clerk inquired as they handed back the card.

“I think so… where was it, Miss Arai?” Mitsuhide’s natural performance had her so enraptured she nearly forgot she was involved in this too. Secretary… right I’m meant to be the secretary.

“I’m sorry Sir. I failed to make a note of that. The patient was recently brought here and…”

“You just can’t get the help these days it would seem.” Mitsuhide interrupted her before she could go so far as to blow her own cover in her panic. He gave a small eye roll with a tiny click of his tongue before turning to the clerk once more. “I’m sorry I do believe I might require a room number after all. A recent patient, one that is marked as a John Doe.”

“Of course, no problem” The clerk gave [Name] a sympathetic look as they searched for the required information. It was a look of a fellow office drone who was all too aware of what it was like to have a boss demanding so much you are bound to forget something minor at some point in the sea of requests.

After leaving the desk they made their way through the passages that were used by the hospital staff to shift patients between wards and treatment rooms without disturbing the rest of the hospital corridors. They weren’t as brightly lit as the rest of the hospital and they were cold. Heating the area was seen as pretty pointless as it wasn’t a place for people to congregate it was just a transition space, all the same, it was like someone had left the door to a large freezer open.

“You could have warned me you were going to pull that.” [Name] pouted as she walked next to him. He hadn’t expected her to seek him out back at HQ he certainly didn’t expect her to insist on coming along. In all honesty, even he didn’t know how he was going to get her in with him. It was her insistence of joining him that meant he had to formulate a viable plan as he drove to their destination.

“And miss you giving such an admirably flustered performance my dear? I wouldn’t dream of it.” Mitsuhide flashed her a playful smile and was pleased to see her cheeks turning pink. She was such an unusual creature she easily captured his attention. You are anything but boring my dear.

“Hey, those ID things.” [Name] spoke up full of curiosity.

“It is probably best if you don’t ask too many questions about tools of the trade my dear. All you need to know is I have need to enter and exit buildings sometimes and these allow me to do that without drawing attention to it.” Mitsuhide deflected her easily. The less she knew of the details the better it would be for her later. She didn’t need to know things like that.

“But if they check and call the university?”

“They will indeed find a Professor Saito on the faculty list. I do not teach classes I am a consultant and liaison between the university and its benefactors. After a long and distinguished career, I was given the honour of such a position.” Mitsuhide answered her as if he was talking about something as normal as the weather.

“Long and distinguished? How long exactly?” [Name] stopped walking.

“As long as it took me to gain access to their system and input some data, my dear.” Mitsuhide who had been checking markers and signs as they walked reached out and pulled open a connecting door to the private wards. “After you my dear.”

“You are terrible.” [Name] shook her head as she passed by him.

“Flattery will get you nearly everything in life my dear however at present we have work to do. I believe this is the room.” Mitsuhide compared the number to the print out he was given and after checking there was no one around and that the only person in the room was the patient he opened the door and went inside.

It was a few moments before he realised, she was not next to him.

“[Name]?” She was frozen in place looking into the room at the bed. Has she never seen someone ill like this before? “Something wrong little mouse?”

“It’s… that’s…” She looked as pale as the white sheets on the bed. What is it? Mitsuhide was acutely aware that this was not a normal reaction. Did she know this guy? If it is someone from Esshu then she might have seen him when she was with the CEO. Concerned Mitsuhide began moving back to her side. The sound of someone approaching reached his ears.

“So nice of you to join the party.”

---

[jacobbigdickseed]

i had an idea of what would happen if the deputy just took john to the ground instead of shooting him down and killing him, so this is what happens after I guess.

posted on ao3 as well 

there’s a read more, i promise, if it doesn’t show up on mobile i cannot apologize enough lmao

Fields of Holland Valley rolled passed, the truck going fast enough to blur them together so  they were more like smudges of browns and greens. Rook wasn’t planning on slowing down, not until the roads were barred by trees thick enough no one would be able to see them from the sky.

His radio crackled from its place in the center console and Mary May’s voice filtered through the static.

“Dep, I - please, just, if you can hear me - answer as soon as you can. If no one hears from you by tomorrow morning, we - we’ll just - “ The shaky breath she released into the speakers sounded more like popping bubble wrap than it did a sigh, but Rook knew it too well to mistake it for anything else. “Please, just get back here.”

He didn’t like lying to her. Even if it wasn’t exactly lying, the remorse crawled from his chest and into hands, curling his fingers around the steering wheel tighter. It was for the best, though, Rook had to keep reminding himself that.

He pried a hand off the wheel, reached for the radio, and shut it off. John Seed watched the movement, but didn’t say a word.

He’d been like that for well over twenty minutes; silent. It was a drastic difference from when Rook had first shoved him into the passenger seat, when he’d been hissing every curse from under the sun, struggling even though his arms were held behind him, bound by a complicated knot Rook had made from John’s own dumb fucking coat. The way his head lolled back and forth probably wasn’t a good sign, Rook decided. How John had been fighting and resisting before almost made Rook forget he had fallen a few hundred feet from the sky.

While there were a lot of things people could say about the youngest Seed sibling - a good amount no one would be able to argue against - being a bad pilot was not one of them. With the way Nick had knocked him, the plane should have dropped like a rock, but John had managed.

Still, he’d hit the ground hard. Rook wasn’t about to risk everything by driving a Seed to safety only to have him die to a concussion he couldn’t wake up from.

“You’re awfully quiet over there.” He looked away from the road for a second to make sure John could hear him. Sure enough, he was met with the other’s gaze, burning with exhausted rage. It made Rook grin. “Only so many ways you can tell someone you’re gonna carve their skin off, huh? I get that.”

John rolled his eyes - honest to god rolled his eyes - and kept them focused on the sky, like he’d rather burn his retinas from the setting sun rather than look at Rook. He still didn’t say a single thing.

“Seriously.” Rook turned his attention back to the road but kept the grin on his face because he knew it would irritate the other to see it. “What happened to the guy who could never keep his fuckin’ mouth shut, huh? Loved hearin’ himself talk? Couldn’t get through a night without you barking your shit in my ear and now you’ve finally got nothing to say?”

John remained quiet and when Rook spared him another brief look, he was still squinting up at the sky. Rook resisted the urge to knock the sunglasses that were still miraculously perched on his head down and over his eyes, just to be a nuisance; harder for John to ignore. He didn’t, afraid to find out if they actually could move from there or not.

Rook blinked and refocused his vision, remembering to return back to the task of driving.

“Why am I here?” John’s voice was quiet, most likely on account of the wheezing, rattling noise his chest made every so often.

Rook weighed his chances of getting the medical clinic near the Ryes’ house to accept them as patients without alerting the entirety of the county before he responded to the Seed. “I mean, that’s a little introspective, y’know? More soul searching for oneself rather than a topic of conversation, but if that’s what you wanna talk about,” he shrugged. “Unless you meant generally, then - “

“Just kill me,” the other groaned petulantly, mostly a whine but Rook could hear the underlying tone of genuine desperation. He was scared, shocked, confused, Rook could see all of it in the color of his eyes. Saw too much of it, his pupils like pin pricks from the intake of harsh sunlight, only leaving him with blue. John must have been searching Rook, too, found something he wasn’t fond of as well if the next shuddering breath he took was anything to go by.

Rook tore his gaze away again so he didn’t have to look at him.

John leaned forward as far as his bonds would allow, the muscles along his shoulders straining from the pull of it. He didn’t seem to care, or maybe everything else pained him much more for him to notice the duller ache of it. “Joseph saw this coming, all of it, no matter what you did - we knew what was coming. If this is the path you’re making, I’m supposed to be dead. Joseph saw it to be so.”

“That’s not - that’s not how the fucking world works.” Rook bit the inside of his cheek, breathed out through his nose; steadied. “He’s not a goddamned oracle or prophet - he’s just a man, how could he know what I would do?” He pulled the truck on a turn without slowing much, the brakes whined and the momentum pressed him against his door. The road was darker, hidden by the trees like Rook had intended, but he still felt cut open and bare for the world to see. The world and John fucking Seed. “I didn’t come here for that,” he confessed. “I was just a replacement for Williams ‘cause he called in sick. I wasn’t even supposed to be here. I never wanted to hurt anybody - never wanted to kill anybody.”

“Liar.” The way John said it, low and on an exhale, made the word come out like a hiss, like a curse. Rook flinched when he heard it, but only slightly. “You came down on our project like a plague. Dozens of our followers lay dead on the street by your hands and you’ve never batted an eye.” He jolted in his seat suddenly and Rook knew it was a subconscious attempt to grab at him, pull at his shoulders until the only thing he could see was John, only hear his voice, only feel the grip, like a vice on his skin. It frustrated him to be held down, so much so that he continued speaking through the grit of his teeth. “Never batted an eye and yet you still refuse to see. I carved it into you, wrote it across your chest so you would be reminded every,” he took a breath. “Waking,” another one. “Moment.” He let the silence sit between them for a moment, the air in the cab so tense it sat like lead in Rook’s chest. “You still don’t see it,” John whispered finally, then scoffed as if in disbelief, shook his head. “You don’t care.”

Rook veered off the road with a violent jerk, the tires kicking up dirt and mud until they finally rolled to a stop. He counted to three, looked at John, looked away, counted again. “I do care. But they - none of these people will stop until I deal with you. You and your family.”

“Dealing with us,” John repeated slowly, anger still evident in his voice. “This is dealing with us? Going on the run from my men and your own?” He punctuated himself by jerking his chin at the silenced radio between them. “If you were smart, you would have killed me. My chosen will find us. They’re trained - “

“I know, I know.” He sighed and leaned forward to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. “Trained hunters, best of the best, pros at what they do. I fucking know. I’ve seen Brother Jacob’s training grounds.”

When he finally lifted his head after a few more calming moments, he found John still hung forward, strung up by his seatbelt threaded through his coat’s tied up sleeves. He was staring passed Rook, outside his window, somewhere else entirely. It reminded Rook of just hours before, how John had been sat over his hips with a hand running over his bare chest, hot with Rook’s own blood. He spoke about sin then, too, but with the same far away look in his eyes; expression dazed as if he was remembering something he thought he had buried deeper than he had.

“Why am I still alive?” He asked again.

No matter how long he tried to hide it, the answer would never change. Obvious, like a puzzle he’d already solved time and time again, or a knife stuck through his skull. If he were a better man, someone with more worth and sense, Rook would have hesitated. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t. “I want to save you.”

John laughed something ugly, a rasp from his throat that sounded more like a cough. He slumped back in his seat, head thumping against the rest behind it. “I was already saved.”

In order to resist begging the other to understand the insanity in his defense, Rook switched gears and parked the truck so he could curl his fists over his knees. There were layers and layers of trauma and violence and conditioning Rook would have had to dig through to get John to see it. He imagined it would have been akin to hammering through concrete with only his hands. There were just too many reasons for John to be the way he is, but none of them made it right.

Rook heard the rumors of John Duncan when he spent enough time in the valley. It didn’t mean much to him until he found himself strapped to a chair in the man’s bunker. He told Rook about his upbringing, hesitated before he called the people his parents, went on to describe how they had beaten their faith into him until it was all he knew. The wrong faith. Joseph found him, had shown him that. John used prettier words when he recounted the tale, though; a stark contrast to the hand on Rook’s throat. Despite it all, Rook was enamored. And high, for lack of a better term, having just woken up from a Bliss bullet to his thigh. Whatever the reason, he soaked up every word and touch John gave him, leaned into him, never took his eyes off of him. John had noticed that, practically preened from Rook’s devoted attention. Hudson, who had been sat across the room from him, noticed as well. She screamed through her gag like she was begging him to come to his senses, but he hadn’t, not until John had left, dragging her with him.

Sitting in the truck now, Rook wondered if he ever truly did come to his senses.

He mimicked John’s busted laugh without meaning to. “I think we have different meanings for the word ‘saved’, then.”

John made a noise, almost a groan but cut off short so it was more like a thoughtful hum. “I wish Joseph would’ve just let us kill you all.”

“Yeah,” Rook agreed. They listened to the rumble of the truck’s engine, Rook tapping his fingers along to it. “What the fuck am I going to do?”

“The smart thing,” John suggested. Rook laughed again, because evidently he was not prone to choosing the smart thing and John goddamned Seed was not one to talk. “You have been cleansed in our rivers,” John continued anyway, pointedly ignoring his amusement. “I have exposed you to your sin. All that is left is for you to confess - to accept the Father’s word into your heart. He saw it like he had seen everything else; you, standing in the Garden of our new world.” He was back to staring at Rook with those large, desperate eyes, like all he needed from the world was Rook’s agreement - for him to say yes. “I just need to get you to see.”

That night, the night Rook thought back to so many times, where he received his second baptism was when things started making more sense to him regarding the youngest Seed brother. He remembered how immediate John’s muscles had frozen at the sound of the Father’s gentle-voiced scolding. Rook had never torn his eyes off of him, even though they stung from river water and Bliss, just so the image of John shamefaced and terrified would be hard to forget. He was still rigid when his brother brought their foreheads together, maybe even more so then. This one shall reach the Atonement. Or the Gates of Eden will be shut to you, John.

The intensity of John’s actions were driven by something deeper than the need to save as many as he could by way of confession, something more personal. Without Rook, there would be no John. He found himself staring at the letters scratched into the other’s chest and wondered if that had anything to do with it. If his sloth was the reason behind it all, as he would perish without the help of others. Maybe John was never clean himself, had yet to reach his own atonement - and Rook was it. To cleanse one would save the other, and together they would walk, side by side, to the supposed end of the world.

He hated that all of their madness started making sense to him. He wished John had just drowned him in that fucking river.

Rook breathed in deep, let it out as a long, suffering sigh that ended with a firm “fuck”.

“I wish you weren’t so fucking crazy,” he said at last.

John didn’t snap back like Rook thought he would. He kept staring, waiting, Rook realized, because it was the first time he didn’t dismiss his long winded speech with a fuck off as his definitive no thank you.

“Deputy?”

Rook returned his gaze back to him, like he always would. All of the Seeds had something magnetic about them, but John always had drawn him in. The bastard knew it, too, smiled something wicked when Rook didn’t look away; manic and large, fucking feral. His eyes were blue, made up of poems Rook wished he knew how to recite so he could put an exact pin on the feeling they gave him. If he had known the words to describe them, maybe it would have grounded him, set him steadier on his feet so it would’ve been harder for John goddamned Seed to knock him off them. He didn’t know them.

Rook was finding he didn’t know much of fucking anything.

lemme know if there’s any mistakes or if the read more didn’t fucking work i’m so paranoid about that shit

[kinessie]

i tend to lose myself - kinessie

so i actually wrote a fic for the first time in like two years, its short and slow and extremely self-indulgent, but i thought i owed you guys something after all the great support. so here we go, title is based on All Night by the Vamps

ao3 link

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Kinessa was a real night owl, a trait she picked up from her youth that carried on through her life. Every night she found herself asleep at a different point in the early morning, not entirely through choice, the bounty hunter’s mind just seemed more active in those hours.

The problem with the night was that everyone seems to become independent, there’s no one to talk to after midnight, you’re kept to yourself and your own emotions have space to roam free. Kinessa always struggled with this. She always had so much to say and express, though, bounty hunting taught her a lot about staying silent.

Pacing around her study with an open book in one hand and a glass of water in the other, Kinessa was pushing herself through another long night. She tried going to sleep at the same time as her partner, but the internal body clock of a night owl wasn’t taking kindly to being asleep at a measly eleven o’ clock. After making sure her girlfriend was sound asleep, Kinessa slipped out of bed, finding herself in her current situation in the study.

The book being read kept her interested, Exotic Birds of the Realm and its Regions, obviously one of Cassie’s books, still interesting. Kinessa read on about the Flame-tipped Wagtail, native to northernly Sun Spire. This bird is barely the size of my hand, but it’s still a fierce predator? Good job, little buddy. She thought happily to herself. The next page detailed on birds native to drier climates, Kinessa went to take a sip of her water but found that the glass was almost empty. Guess that’s a signal I should try and sleep again.

As she walked towards the bathroom, Kinessa heard a faint tapping from inside. She turned on the light and found a creature a few times bigger than the Flame-tipped Wagtail. Tapping its beak on the faucet, Zigs had never looked more determined in his life.

“Did I forget to fill your water bowl again? Shit, sorry Zigs.” Kinessa scratched the back of her head in embarrassment, Zigs was her toughest critic at the best of times. He let out his almost signature squawk of dissatisfaction and flew to perch on Kinessa’s shoulder as she let the water run.

Zigs sipped at the water, Kinessa looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was tousled more than usual, bags were prominent under her eyes, practically begging her to go to sleep. She adjusted the strap on her tank top which was slightly off the shoulder, “I’m really pulling off this disheveled look, don’t you think?” Kinessa said to Zigs, who ruffled his feathers in acknowledgement, but didn’t stop drinking.

After a moment longer of the water running, talons clicked against the sink to signify the bird was finished drinking. Kinessa turned the faucet off and scratched Zigs’ head, “We should both be off to bed now, it’s pretty late.” She read the clock outside the door, half past midnight. A flash of red swooped past her and down the corridor towards the study, the opposite direction of Zigs’ perch.

“Zigs! I said bed!” Kinessa turned off the bathroom light and walked back to the study, Zigs was tapping his beak at the sliding door to the balcony. The bounty hunter put a hand on her hip and sighed, “Alright, five minutes,” she opened the door and Zigs flew out. Kinessa stepped outside, the air was humid and the night silent. The door closed behind her with a loud click. I hope that doesn’t wake Cass.

Kinessa rested her elbows on the railing and looked out into the forest below. Zigs was perched on a branch, but it didn’t take him long to get bored of that and come back to sit next to Kinessa, “What I’d give to be able to fly like you, bird boy,” she chuckled, “being able to get away from all the bullshit of bounty hunting and maybe get a good nights sleep.” Zigs preened his feathers, “Now don’t get me wrong!” Kinessa smiled, “I love bounty hunting, but if I see one more bounty on an Aico then I’m gonna lose it."

Zigs looked up at her like he was prompting her to talk more, “Sometimes I wish everything was a little more domestic. All my life I’ve been told that all I’m good for is my keen eye. Put a gun in my hand and money on the table and I’ll do it. Thought that was gonna be my life,” she brushed a hand through her short brown hair, an anxious tick, “I left the military, I left the only two guys I considered my parents and went out into the world alone. I never suited being alone-“

Before Kinessa could finish her sentence, the balcony door slid open, she spun around to see her partner, Cassie, leaning in the doorway. Kinessa flushed, “Fuck, I’m sorry, I should’ve been quieter,”

“Nah, it’s fine, I wasn’t sleeping too well anyway,” the huntress shut the door behind her and stood next to her girlfriend, “looks like we’re all having a late night,” she petted Zigs, who was happily welcoming his owner. At least he likes someone. Kinessa joked in her head.

“So what were you two talking about?” Cassie asked, she put her arm around her girlfriend’s waist and pulled her closer to her side.

“Just talking about life and stuff, you wouldn’t imagine how much Zigs has to say! Did you know he was a war criminal?” The pair laughed. It fell silent once again, both women looking out into the distance, Zigs took flight, leaving them be.

Kinessa stopped staring at the trees to stare at Cassie. Her features were perfectly illustrated in the moonlight ; her bright eyes, the soft curve of her face, hundreds of tiny freckles that covered her nose and cheeks, “You’re beautiful.” Kinessa said simply.

Cassie turned her head and smiled so sweetly that the bounty hunter was in fear of catching toothache, “Thank you, although I think you’re the prettier one out here tonight.” Kinessa rest her head on her partner’s shoulder.

“I was talking earlier about how I kind of lost myself after leaving the military. No direction, just bounty hunting.” Cassie stayed silent, letting Kinessa spill out her emotions freely, “that was until I met you. You pulled me out of that just by existing, you actually saw me as a person with layers and feelings, not just a body with a gun. And I hadn’t had that in a long, long time.” She pulled her girlfriend into a hug, it was warmly accepted.

“I love you, Cassie. Thanks for all you’ve done for me, you are the most amazing person I’ve ever met, and I’ve never been more grateful to spend my life with another person.” Although Kinessa’s face was buried into her shoulder, she knew Cassie was tearing up. They pulled apart and her tears were wiped.

“I can’t think of spending my time with anyone else,” the huntress’ voice wavered, “you’re so much more than a bounty hunter, how people didn’t take the time to see that is beyond me. Now you have so many friends and people who genuinely care about you, and you’ve made me the luckiest woman in the Realm letting me stay by your side.”

The pair stared at each other with tired, but loving eyes. Kinessa leaned in for a kiss, but before she could, Zigs swooped in and perched on Cassie’s shoulder, “All worn out, Zigs?” she giggled. The bird squawked in agreement, “alright, let’s get you inside. We all need sleep,” she smiled at Kinessa.

“Yeah, come on bird brain!”

Zigs may have been tired, but he had enough energy to peck Kinessa in the head.

[madness-and-brilliancee]

Diana and Tarantism (with Lukas optional)

Me: *is a piece of trash for our baby oc’s and loves their friendship to death and will take any excuse to write them being cute*

@nerdworld01

Tarantism - The urge to overcome melancholy by dancing.

Di lands heavily on the hard stone path and winces as her ankle twists in a way that it’s not supposed to. She pauses, breathing heavily, and rolls it out as tenderly as she can.

Nyx pads up to her, meowing, but she waves him off. “I’m okay.” Her ankle is still twinging from the sprain a few weeks ago, but she ignores it. This wasn’t hard, she was just frustrated, and it’s not like she’s en pointe right now. Besides, she can always heal herself.

She can practically hear her instructor telling her to stop, but she dismisses the chiding voice in her head. Eos lands on her shoulder as she positions her arms in first, and gives a single, scolding hoot. Di grunts but doesn’t respond, choosing instead to do a slow glissade.

The owl flutters off her shoulder as Di moves, and Di ignores the disgruntled exchange between the two familiars as she slowly raises her leg behind her. She imagines soft piano music to dance to, but the faceless piano player becomes Athena rehearsing for her recital, and she immediately switches to a slow violin piece. She doesn’t need to think about her sisters right now.

See, the thing she probably hates the most is how empty it feels.

That’s the one thing she isn’t supposed to feel. Her house, her garden, her– they’re  supposed to be full. Full of people, full of life, full of passion (or as Elise would say in her case, full of salt). Anything but hollow. Quiet. Whatever she calls what she’s feeling now. This feeling makes her feel sick, and tired, makes her want to be anywhere but here.

She wants to curl up, as small as she can, in the warmth of her mother’s bed. She wants Iris rubbing her back, Ceres braiding her hair, Juno shuffling tarot cards. Her sisters, arguing in rapid Spanish over who gets the last tostone.

This isn’t a normal feeling. After years of being the youngest, watching her family grow up and move away, she’s gotten used to the solitude. Even not having her mother around has become relatively normal– she’s had to adjust quickly to running the shop on her own after all. Most days, she’s fine, even relieved to have a bit of quiet to herself.

But when that feeling comes? That wrenching, vacant emptiness that hits her like one of Maia’s hexes? It’s almost unbearable.

It leaves her aching, and tired, and even breathless. The only thing allowed to do that to her is dance.

So that’s what she does.

She throws herself into the leap, this time landing solidly on her feet, and only allows herself a brief moment to feel triumphant before continuing with the choreography she’d written for herself so many years ago. She knows she’s tense, even stiff, and there’s probably very little grace in her movements right now, but she doesn’t care. Right now, she just wants to feel something other than loneliness.

Nyx blinks his yellow eyes slowly as Di begins her turns. He can tell his girl is feeling off, especially when she just dismisses Eos’ words of concern. The owl is obviously not offended, just worried about their charge– she preens her feathers as she keeps an eye on Di, who ends the turn sequence and continues with the rest. It’s not helping, they both know it’s not helping. She’s only more tense than she was before, and she’s going to end up hurting herself. He wishes she would just stop, and listen, maybe breathe for a moment. But their girl is stubborn, and forcing her to–

Oh. Nyx’s ears turn backwards to the sound of a jingling collar and a familiar, chattering voice, and his tail twitches in relief. Diana might not listen to Eos and him, but there was always someone she couldn’t say no to. Eos hears the sound at the same time as him, and she turns her head to look in the direction of the voice before taking off to greet the newcomer. Nyx stays put, watching his girl lose her balance, grit her teeth, and try again.

He doesn’t move from his spot or turn around as the back gate swings open and a husky puppy–  Nyx swears he gets bigger every time Lukas takes him and brings him back– comes barrelling up to him. The white-blond haired man holding the leash has Eos perched on his shoulder and is listening to her hoot her concern, an expression of confusion on his face. His confusion drops as he sees Di drop from her arabesque, back turned to them, and hold her head in her hands.

Lukas unclips Thistle’s leash and gives him a gentle order to stay there, unsure if Di hasn’t noticed them, or is just ignoring him. She mumbles something to herself in Spanish as she paces away down the path, and Lukas comes to the conclusion that she’s just very distracted. He decides to speak up.

“Di?”

Like he shouted, she spins around with a gasp, dropping her hands away from her head and looking startled. She’d flushed and sweaty, but most importantly, her eyes are watery, and Lukas immediately grows worried.

“L-Lukas. I thought you were dropping Thistle off tomorrow morning.”

Lukas steps closer slowly. “I was going to, but I finished studying early today and thought you might want to watch a movie or something. Are you okay?”

Di turns around, rubbing at her eyes. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just tired.”

“… I’m-being-haunted-again tired, or tired tired?”

She lets out a short laugh and shakes her head. “Tired tired. No hauntings around here anymore.” Nyx licks Thistle’s ear briefly as the puppy whines, and gives Di a look.

Lukas takes Di’s laugh as a sign that she doesn’t want him to leave, and comes to stand next to her. She isn’t looking at him and he isn’t sure what’s wrong, but she’s hunched in on herself and it makes her look even smaller than normal. He nudges her a little. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He doesn’t say that he can tell she’s holding something back, even though he wishes she would talk to him. She does this sometimes, and it’s frustrating, but he can’t push her to talk about something she’s not ready to share. Di can tell he knows this, and it makes her blink rapidly before turning and burrowing her face in his chest. Lukas’ arms immediately come up to hug her tightly. He rests his chin on the top of her head.

They stay like that for a moment, their familiars watching in silence a few feet away, and Lukas waits until Di stops trembling before he pulls back slightly to look down at her. Di pulls back too and wipes her eyes. “What were you doing?”

Her voice is soft. “Dancing. I thought it would make me feel better, but I just– it–” She cuts off and Lukas nods. He thinks for a moment.

“You know, we never did another waltz lesson.”

This wasn’t what she was expecting, clearly, because she looks up at him in surprise. “What?”

Lukas is already pulling back a little and shifting so that his arms are in what he thinks were the positions she told him to put them in when she first tried to teach him to dance. His brow furrows. Footwork was so much easier than arms.

Di automatically moves to accommodate him, instinctively reaching up and correcting his hands before shaking her head, still confused. “I thought you didn’t want to.”

Lukas shrugs, then shoots her a grin and spins her around. She lets him turn her, frowning up at him suspiciously. Suspicious is better than sad, so he pokes at her and grins wider when she squirms. “You wanted to dance, right? But you’re upset about something, and it’s not helping, so I figure if you’re focused on something other than yourself, you might feel better!” She blinks.

“But…”

He waves her off. “C’mon! What’s the second lesson?” Di stares at him, and he looks at her expectantly.

“Okay.”

Lukas beams and pulls out his phone, pulling up the waltz she had told him to play the first time they did this. When the song starts, he bows dramatically and offers his hand. She smiles a little.

Di begins guiding him through the waltz, and he focuses on trying to remember what she had told him last time. His steps are better than before, and this time he can listen to what she ways about moving more smoothly. She’s focused at first on teaching him, then as she grows more relaxed, she starts adding little complications to the dance. He does his best to follow along, but she’s patient when he doesn’t catch on immediately. Soon she’s smiling fully, and he takes his as a sign to goof off.

Lukas switches the waltz music to something poppy, and he starts tugging her arm in a terrible dance routine he makes up on the spot. She laughs, startled, as he pulls her along.

Di tries to twirl him, and he has to crouch down to get under her arm, snorting when he realises she’s also standing on her toes to try and give him more room. It’s an awful attempt at a twirl, but they’re both laughing, so he spins her around dramatically until she’s exclaiming that she’s dizzy.

Thistle and Nyx are curled up at the door, Eos perched on a hook beside them. Thistle is watching with lidded eyes, a little sleepy, but Nyx is attentive. His girl is laughing again, which is all he wanted. He lowers his head onto his paws as Lukas suddenly dips Di and she shrieks in surprise before collapsing into giggles. She smacks his arm and says something rude in Spanish, to which he replies with something in Norwegian that Di obviously doesn’t understand. She sticks her tongue out at him, then tries to dip him. They both almost fall over.

They’re out there for a while, switching between songs and getting into a progressively more intense competition at who can be the worst dancer. Eventually, both of them are too tired to keep going, and end up sitting on the floor, leaning against each other and trying to catch their breaths. Di looks happy.

Lukas yawns and glances down at her. He doesn’t want her to go back to being upset, but… “Di?”

She hums in acknowledgment.

“I’m here, if you need me. Whenever you’re ready to talk.”

She looks up at him and nods a little. “Yeah. I know. Thanks, Lukas. I’m sorry about earlier.”

He shrugs. “It’s okay.” They’re silent for a moment. “So… what’s this I hear about you having a girlfriend?”

Di yelps and Lukas laughs.

[calgarysnow]

Breakaway Ch. 1

Chapter 1 - Girls and Boys

Charlie wakes up to the sound of her phone vibrating, she sees several texts, two missed calls, and a voicemail. All came in with in minutes of each other, around midnight. Rubbing her eyes Charlie sees she’s only just missed the last message. She opens the first one, annoyed with the sender. “I think we made a mistake some where along the way, I regret not trying to figure this out.”

“Charlie, just text me back. I need to talk to you.” 

“I’m a little drunk and reckless, I’ll come to you, please I wanna talk.”

“I want to give us another shot.”

“2 missed calls from That asshole who broke your heart”

“Charlie what’s happening babe?” her companion asks, the insistent messages drawing him too from sleep.

“Nothing that I can’t deal with in the morning,” she smiles. She turns her phone off as another call starts to come through and turns to face her bed mate. She presses a kiss to his lips, her fingers glide through his hair. She smiles into the kiss, still amazed that she’s here with this man. Never thinking he’d be the person she would end up with. 

As he hums and snakes his arms around her pulling her close she realizes she’s never been happier. 

Charlie and Barry have been friends since anyone could remember. They were inseparable from the moment Charlie’s family moved next door. It was the 3rd grade and Charlie’s dad had just gotten a new job and had to move to live closer to the company. Charlie remembers the fit her sisters threw when they found out. She didn’t really care, she didn’t really like any of the people who her mom made her go to playdates with anyways. She just knew her mom was friends with the other moms. So she didn’t really have any friends to leave behind. She only misses hockey, she doesn’t know if there will hockey in her new town.

It was their second day in the new house, Charlie was meant to be unpacking. Instead she had snuck out to the backyard, she’s swinging contented. He old house never had one of these. She’s startled when a voice says “Hey,” from behind the broken fence slat. Looking over she sees a bright eyed boy with wild curls waving to her. She smiles and jumps off the swing, “I’m Barry,” he tells her happily.

  “I’m Charlie,” she says approaching the boy. 

He sticks his hand through the fence, they shake hands. Then Barry disappears for a moment, but then makes an appearance climbing over the top of the fence. He drops down in front of her, “I was hoping for boys, but you’ll do,” Barry says with a smile. 

Charlie doesn’t know what to say, “Do you like hockey?” He asks a second later. 

“Yeah! I played in my old town.” The smile on her face is wide, she likes the curly haired boy already.  

Hockey is what sparks the conversation, but it does turn out that they’re fast friends. Charlie’s mother finds them both laying in the grass watching the clouds float by hours later. Both giggling and already thick as thieves. Barry’s mom had come by wondering if they had seen her youngest. She’s relieved to see both of them getting along.

Charlie and Barry are friends for the long haul after that day looking at clouds. They’re friends through when Charlie’s parents get divorced and her dad moves back to his home town deep in the mountains. They are friends when Barry’s mom get’s cancer and through her recovery. Friends even when they don’t get to play on the same hockey team anymore. 

They are especially friends when it’s the summer before sophomore year and they’re sitting under the stars when Barry tells Charlie he’s gay. “Yeah and?” Charlie asked when he finished stumbling over his words.

“That’s it? I spent weeks trying to figure out how to tell you and that’s all you have to say?” Barry squealed a look of shock on his face. 

“What did you want me to say? I kind of already had a feeling,” 

“I donno, ‘wow Barry thank you for sharing such an intimate detail of your life with me, I know how hard this was for you to tell me’,” 

“Shut up,” she shoved him lightly, “But thank you, for telling me.”

“Yeah what ever,” Barry smiles despite his eye roll. 

“I love you too,” Charlie kisses his hair. Barry mumbles his response, it sounds vaguely like I love you too. 

They go back to stargazing in silence, though now they both have wide smiles on their face.  

Charlie loves a lot of things in life, not just Barry. Her family, hockey, dogs and on occasion a good party. She’s pretty in like with her boyfriend too. She’s not sure she loves him yet, she feels like she should by now. Something nags at the back of her mind every time she she thinks of telling him.

Being pretty in like with him is the only reason she let him bring May along to party with them. “Jeez Charlie why is May here again?” Denny complains coming into the kitchen. He’s gesturing to where May is sitting primly on the couch sipping what Charlie assumes is just soda or water. May is too goody-goody to drink underage, or take part in any of the other activities at the party. She’s sat on that couch since almost the moment she arrived. Only Taylor stopping by to bring her a new drink or for a quick chat.  

No one else has gone out of their way to talk to her, most every one seems to be avoiding that half of the room entirely. The other attendants of the party aren’t exactly a part of May’s social circle. It’s not exactly a secret that May isn’t exactly well liked outside of her friend group either. 

Charlie wonders why May even wants to come to these parties. She never tries to talk to anyone, never drinks, and always unintentionally makes everyone miserable. May’s presence always results in Charlie and Taylor catching a lot of flack. They try to laugh it off, even when it hurts a little more each time. 

Charlie sighs and turns back to Denny. They’re all in the kitchen of this random classmates house. Charlie perched on the counter sipping a mostly flat and slightly warm beer. Berry leans next to her with Denny coming to lean on the other side that Taylor had recently vacated. He has a new round of flat beer for him self and Barry. “I don’t want her here just as much you guys,” Charlie tells them. The exasperation in her voice hangs between them. 

A football player Charlie whose name she doesn’t recall comes over, it’s clear he was eves dropping. “When will you stop fucking inviting her to things?” he snarls in Charlie’s face. 

Barry and Denny are quick to intervene coming to stand between the football player and Charlie. “Oh fuck off, what has she ever done to you?” Charlie snaps at him from behind her friends. 

This makes him angry, his face goes red and his fist clenches. Charlie doesn’t care. She’s not in the mood to deal with his fit. Annoyed Charlie hops of the counter, she pushes through Denny and Barry. She shoulder checks the jock on her way past, she hears him complain loudly. 

Barry is hot on her heels Charlie as pushes her way through the party. They both end up upstairs crammed into a tiny bathroom off a guest room. Charlie has her hands shoved under the freezing water and frustrated tears pricking in her eyes. It threatens to ruin the make up she’d worked so hard on, it adds to the feeling of being overwhelmed.

Barry leans on the counter closely watching over her out of the corner of his eye, arms folded over his chest. The ritual is well practiced over their years of friendship. Barry watching close as Charlie lets her hands ache under the water, until her joints lock up. He waits for one of two things, for Charlie to have enough and turn the water off him self. Or when the beds of her nails turn blue and he turns the water off for her.

It’s only a short while listening to the faucet run before it turns off. Charlie  doesn’t dry her hands relishing in the cool ache. She looks up at Barry, “How is this always my fault?” 

Barry doesn’t know the answer. He’ll never knows the answer. It’s painful watching the way their classmates and supposed friends rag on Charlie at these parties. This leaves him with little more to do than thumb away the tears in Charlie’s eyes and pull her close.

As senior year drags on it gets worse, there are more and more incidents like the one in the kitchen. Afterwards usually one of two things happens, May grows board and leaves alone or having convinced Taylor to go with her. The moment she’s gone all is forgiven and forgotten. But on nights like this one, where May is more stubborn and immune to comments than usual their classmates turn on Charlie. Who tolerates it longer than any other person would, or even should. Charlie will almost always end up in a bathroom trying to numb the pain.

Barry is thankful when Charlie slumps against him, her arms snaking around his chest. He presses a nose to her hair, her scent soothing his own anxieties now. He dusts her hair with soft kisses, until she starts to giggle. She pushes her face up, looking cutely up at him, “Thanks Flash.”

“I got you Kid.”

May only goes to these parties when her mother is on her case more than usual about dating and having fun in high school. “You’re never going to get a boyfriend sitting around the house like this. Why don’t you try to be more like your sister? Go to parties, have some fun make some other friends.” Her mother had read her this riot act again other night. Trying to get May to put her self out there, her mother didn’t like her friends, except Taylor. She had been nearly as devastated as May when Taylor had asked out Charlie. 

So the next morning to appease her mother May begged Taylor to get her an invite from Charlie to Greg Lawrence’s party. He’s the the captain of the boys soccer team and his parents are out of town. May knows everybody her mom would want her to hang out with is going to be there. She also knows that Charlie seems to know everybody and was already talking about dragging Taylor along last week.

May’s other friends are never invited, the choir and theater kids never invited to jock parties. She wonders what kind of stereotype teen movie she’s really living in. She does preen a little (read: a lot) bit when she brags about the invite to her friends. Lana and Missy looking jealous. The major down side of these parties is that she doesn’t have anyone to talk to. She and Charlie aren’t exactly friends. Barry is always stuck by Charlie’s side all night. Taylor always seems to have his own friends to talk to, only having so much time and patience with her. She ends up on the couch, feeling awkward and waiting for Taylor to swing by with more soda for her every now and then. 

May doesn’t like how long the music is, she especially doesn’t like having to watch all of her more popular and better looking classmates dance. They all look like drunken fools grinding and falling all over each other. May doesn’t even bother trying to find someone to dance with, not knowing the too sloppy and drunk classmates well enough.

She doesn’t know why she’s holding out so long at this particular party. She’s still hoping Taylor remembers she’s here and comes to sit with her. He’s been bouncing between Charlie and Danny all night. May’s almost reached the the point of being desperate enough to try and talk to Charlie. At least she’d have the chance to maybe get some face time with Barry.

Deciding against groveling to Charlie she decides to find a bathroom. She finds the one on the first floor easily, but is cut off by Clair Wilson and Ryan Masterson. Scoffing May makes her way up stairs to find another bathroom. Which she does easily enough. It’s at the end of the hallway, the door is open, and Charlie and Barry are occupying the room. They’re leaned against the counter and pretty wrapped up in each other. 

May is surprised, she knows they are close. That they’ve been friends for as long as anyone can remember. She remembers them showing up to Charlie’s first day at the new school holding hands. Everyone gave them hell for being boyfriend and girlfriend, neither of them seemed to care.

This is a level of intimacy May’s never seen before. She can see Barry’s lips moving as they are pressed to Charlie’s hair. It’s impossible to hear them over the noise of the party that floods the house. It’s a beat later that Charlie pushes her face up and gives Barry what May know Charlie thinks is a cute look. They grin at each other and laugh for a moment. They say something else that’s hard to hear and she watches as Charlie collects something off the counter. “Better get back out there, don’t want Taylor to come looking,” Charlie said. Barry doesn’t say anything just nods and looks annoyed.

Oh. May thinks, this is something other than friendly. She has to tell Taylor. Has to tell him that Charlie is cheating on him. Because May can’t watch another girl rip Taylor’s heart out. She won’t watch the person she’s in love with get hurt again. 

When the pair finally leave the bathroom May ducks into a dark bedroom. She doesn’t know what would happen if they saw her waiting there, but she doesn’t want to find out. After they pass she follows them back down to the party.

May feels sick to her stomach as she watches as Charlie goes over to Taylor and wraps her arms around his neck. Taylor’s face lights up as a kiss is pressed to his lips. May looks for Barry, she spots him in the kitchen next to Denny. He looks less than pleased to see the display happening at the foot of the stairs. 

She knows she won’t be able to get Taylor alone tonight, not with the way Charlie is hanging all over him. She decides that she’s had enough of this stupid party and Charlie’s stupid face for one night. She doesn’t bother Taylor as she slips out the back door.

It’s not long after she gets home that she gets a couple rapid fire texts from Taylor. T: I didn’t see you leave :(

T: It’s too bad, the party got really good!!

T: we’re playing spin the bottle, I had to kiss Oliver masterson *puke*

T: He’s not as cute as his older bro

May laughs for all of a second until she get’s a picture. It’s of Taylor and Charlie with their cheeks pressed together making kissy faces at the camera. May deletes the picture and ignores her phone for the rest of the night. 

[hownottofindaboyfriend-blog]

Date Nineteen. Mike.

I’m peddling at what feels like a hundred miles per hour. Sweat’s dripping into my eyes, burning my eyelids and fuzzing up the sight of the shouting, frenzied female instructor perched on the bike in front of me. She’s bouncing up and down with ease, her legs clearly devoid of human pain and limitation. My legs are numb. I can’t speak. 

‘Faster!” I hear her cry. 

I’m tempted to shout back ‘No’ but my lungs probably don’t have the oxygen capacity.

The woman to my right is coming to a grinding halt. The guy on my left has actually got off his bike, with a look that says ‘Fuck you all, you got me out of bed on a Sunday for this?’

‘KEEP GOING!’ the instructor barks. She looks at the man getting off his bike. He looks at her. I wonder if they’ll come to blows. If they do, I have money on the instructor. 

‘It’s not my fat you’re burning you know.’ She adds this as if for emphasis, as if this is the trick to keeping candidates in the class. I see through my peripherals the man reaching for his backpack and walking out of the revolving door. And then there were twelve.

Twenty minutes later, I am off my spin bike and walking towards Costa. At least, I think I’m walking. To be honest, I’m not sure, I’ve lost the sensation in my legs, yet my body appears to be travelling in the direction that I want it to go in (the direction of coffee and sustenance) which is enough for me. There’s nothing I appreciate more than a post-workout coffee; it’s almost worth the £3.50 charge and fifteen minute queue. I walk out clutching my beverage, the feeling in my legs slowly beginning to return when suddenly out of the corner of my eye I see Mike walking slowly towards me alongside two girls and a guy I’ve never seen before. 

I assess the situation and my appearance. Overall both seem pretty bleak. My hair is plastered to my face and frizzing. My face is beetroot and I have sweat patches under my arms. I could run. Or hide in Costa. Or continue walking. 

I choose the middle ground, sprinting back into the cafe where I pretend to examine the plastic wrapped tuna melts until I can be totally sure that Mike and his posse have officially moved on. Damn. I’d never considered the risks of casually making out with the attractive people living in your area: you can bump into them at a moment’s notice.

Coast clear, I amble home, stopping off at Gail’s to buy myself an extra large chia yoghurt pot and takeaway toast with scrambled egg. (I don't know how they do it but the chef’s at Gail's can make scrambled eggs better than any I have ever eaten. They’ve got that fantastic runny, snotty texture that scrambled eggs should have and which is difficult to achieve at home. There’s also a hint of cream and chive with- oh whatever, I’m digressing. Basically I got eggs and ambled home.)

Once inside I receive a message from Mike. Weird coincidence given that I’ve just seen him. I open it:

‘Hey you. How’s your weekend, fancy a drink tonight?’

I smile. A moment later another message appears:

‘I’ll pick you up at 8. Please don’t still be wearing that gym gear.’

Oh, bugger. He saw me?

***

Six hours and fifty nine minutes later I am scrubbed, preened, shaved, blow dried, fake tanned, waxed (a pre-booking which coincidentally fell on tonight, I swear) and ready for business. I’ve even got a new outfit on; this sort of ‘off the shoulder’ jump suit type thing from Zara which looked bloody brilliant on the hanger yet is unfortunately already giving me a wedgie. Still, discomfort aside, I’m good to go.

At fifteen minutes past, Mike arrives. Annoyingly he appears to be wearing the exact same outfit I saw him wearing that morning: pink t-shirt, faded denim shorts and flip flops. I know Aussie guys have this thing about wearing flip flops every day of the year although given the effort I’ve gone to for our date I feel slightly put out. 

I give Mike a kiss on the cheek hello and ask him where we’re headed.

‘It’s a surprise,’ he says. 

I smile back, curious to know where he envisages us getting in to when he’s dressed in a pair of shorts and sandals. But as we leave my street and turn to the left, walking up the high street I see Mike pause outside All Bar One. Why are we stopping? But Mike is opening the door.

‘Ladies first,’ he says with a smile.

This is where we’re going? But- but- we just had drinks here the other night. Is this meant to be funny?

I must look slightly disappointed. A lack of imaginative first date venue choice from Mike is a clear indication that little effort has been made, which would suggest that I fall into a ranking of ‘not too high’ in his thought process. It would also suggest that he's looking for something fairly casual when it comes to dating me. Either that or he’s forgotten that we’ve already been here which would suggest a high chance of amnesia on his part. In which case I should probably be concerned for him.

We settle in and Mike gets us some cocktails. It’s happy hour, 2 for 1 which Mike seems keen to make the most of which makes me feel a little nauseated: (there’s nothing like buying a girl a discount cocktail to make her feel extra special). I sigh and sit back in my seat, wondering whether the grand total of tonight’s bar tab will surpass the cost of my wax.

As we get talking, Mike is just as I remember him. Fun, quick and not at all serious. I ask him what his plans are for the summer. He tells me he’s keen to get to Ibiza and spend a few weeks out there if he can get the time off work. I shudder inwardly. The idea of Ibiza just doesn’t appeal to me. I love my sleep, a little too much,  and the thought of staying out on a dance floor until 6am feels more like a chore than a holiday. I can never understand people who go out clubbing all night and then continue on the following day. How do they have the energy? It seems odd to me, notably as this is probably the same population of the planet who’ll complain that they don’t have the energy to go to the gym. Weird. I ask Mike what he does for a living and almost drop my drink when he tells me he’s an accountant. The idea seems almost laughable, not least because I’ve yet to see this guy in a proper pair of shoes.

‘You’re an accountant?’ I manage, although what I really want to ask is, ‘You have a brain?’

‘I trained in Australia,’ Mike tells me. ‘It’s a steady living.’

I must say I’m suitably impressed: the man seems to be a curious concoction of ‘God-like abs’ and ‘brainy accountant.’

We swap stories about work and I ask him how long he plans to be in the UK. He shrugs, as if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind (given his laissez faire attitude to life it probably hasn’t)  but manages to say that he plans on being here until it gets boring. I'm tempted to ask him what he constitutes as boring (for someone with such a low threshold for it, becoming an accountant seems a strange choice) but instead I sit back and sip my drink, feeling slightly envious of his approach to life. I’d give anything to pack up and leave London one day, to explore living in another city or another country all together. I’ve never lived anywhere else and meeting people like Mike makes me conscious of the closeted, risk-averse existence I do lead.

The hours pass us by and then before we know it the bar is closing. Again. I’m tempted to call it a night but the thought of putting my newly waxed bikini line to waste feels a little depressing so I casually suggest that we continue drinks at mine. Yet Mike shakes his head.

‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘It’s a Sunday. I’ve got to get an early night.’

I blink at him sightly stunned. I don’t think I’ve ever had a guy turn down the offer of coming back to my place before. Not that I’ve made many such offers in my time, but still as suggestions go, it tends to return fairly positive feedback from blokes. Does he not find me attractive?

Mike pays for our drinks and we step out into the street where it’s started to rain, which is annoying as I don’t have an umbrella, my beautifully blow dried hair already threatening to misbehave. 

Mike gives me a kiss on the cheek, looks at me and smiles.

‘This was fun,’ he says. 

I nod my head in half agreement, unsure if it actually was. We’ve gone from cheeky snogs to respectful kisses on the cheek in under forty eight hours which is hardly my definition of fun. The man has also rejected the offer of a potential romp on my couch, which would suggest that he’s not only not attracted to me, he's repulsed. Or gay. Perhaps it’s the jump suit. Perhaps I’ll never know. 

As we make our goodbyes, walking off in separate directions, I have a clearer understanding of the experience when I get back to my flat fifteen minutes later. Mike is a foreigner and tonight’s date was clearly just his poor attempt to make a friend. For a moment I feel slightly touched (one can never have too many attractive, blonde, muscly friends to drink half price cocktails with) albeit frustrated that I put so much time and effort into my appearance for just a chum. Writing up this blog post as ‘Date Nineteen’ now feels a little deceptive.

[readbookywooks]

The Cry In The Corridor

At first each day which passed by for Mary Lennox was exactly like the others. Every morning she awoke in her tapestried room and found Martha kneeling upon the hearth building her fire; every morning she ate her breakfast in the nursery which had nothing amusing in it; and after each breakfast she gazed out of the window across to the huge moor which seemed to spread out on all sides and climb up to the sky, and after she had stared for a while she realized that if she did not go out she would have to stay in and do nothing--and so she went out. She did not know that this was the best thing she could have done, and she did not know that, when she began to walk quickly or even run along the paths and down the avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and making herself stronger by fighting with the wind which swept down from the moor. She ran only to make herself warm, and she hated the wind which rushed at her face and roared and held her back as if it were some giant she could not see. But the big breaths of rough fresh air blown over the heather filled her lungs with something which was good for her whole thin body and whipped some red color into her cheeks and brightened her dull eyes when she did not know anything about it.

But after a few days spent almost entirely out of doors she wakened one morning knowing what it was to be hungry, and when she sat down to her breakfast she did not glance disdainfully at her porridge and push it away, but took up her spoon and began to eat it and went on eating it until her bowl was empty.

"Tha' got on well enough with that this mornin', didn't tha'?" said Martha.

"It tastes nice today," said Mary, feeling a little surprised her self.

"It's th' air of th' moor that's givin' thee stomach for tha' victuals," answered Martha. "It's lucky for thee that tha's got victuals as well as appetite. There's been twelve in our cottage as had th' stomach an' nothin' to put in it. You go on playin' you out o' doors every day an' you'll get some flesh on your bones an' you won't be so yeller."

"I don't play," said Mary. "I have nothing to play with."

"Nothin' to play with!" exclaimed Martha. "Our children plays with sticks and stones. They just runs about an' shouts an' looks at things." Mary did not shout, but she looked at things. There was nothing else to do. She walked round and round the gardens and wandered about the paths in the park. Sometimes she looked for Ben Weatherstaff, but though several times she saw him at work he was too busy to look at her or was too surly. Once when she was walking toward him he picked up his spade and turned away as if he did it on purpose.

One place she went to oftener than to any other. It was the long walk outside the gardens with the walls round them. There were bare flower-beds on either side of it and against the walls ivy grew thickly. There was one part of the wall where the creeping dark green leaves were more bushy than elsewhere. It seemed as if for a long time that part had been neglected. The rest of it had been clipped and made to look neat, but at this lower end of the walk it had not been trimmed at all.

A few days after she had talked to Ben Weatherstaff, Mary stopped to notice this and wondered why it was so. She had just paused and was looking up at a long spray of ivy swinging in the wind when she saw a gleam of scarlet and heard a brilliant chirp, and there, on the top of the wall, forward perched Ben Weatherstaff's robin redbreast, tilting forward to look at her with his small head on one side.

"Oh!" she cried out, "is it you--is it you?" And it did not seem at all queer to her that she spoke to him as if she were sure that he would understand and answer her.

He did answer. He twittered and chirped and hopped along the wall as if he were telling her all sorts of things. It seemed to Mistress Mary as if she understood him, too, though he was not speaking in words. It was as if he said:

"Good morning! Isn't the wind nice? Isn't the sun nice? Isn't everything nice? Let us both chirp and hop and twitter. Come on! Come on!"

Mary began to laugh, and as he hopped and took little flights along the wall she ran after him. Poor little thin, sallow, ugly Mary--she actually looked almost pretty for a moment.

"I like you! I like you!" she cried out, pattering down the walk; and she chirped and tried to whistle, which last she did not know how to do in the least. But the robin seemed to be quite satisfied and chirped and whistled back at her. At last he spread his wings and made a darting flight to the top of a tree, where he perched and sang loudly. That reminded Mary of the first time she had seen him. He had been swinging on a tree-top then and she had been standing in the orchard. Now she was on the other side of the orchard and standing in the path outside a wall--much lower down--and there was the same tree inside.

"It's in the garden no one can go into," she said to herself. "It's the garden without a door. He lives in there. How I wish I could see what it is like!"

She ran up the walk to the green door she had entered the first morning. Then she ran down the path through the other door and then into the orchard, and when she stood and looked up there was the tree on the other side of the wall, and there was the robin just finishing his song and, beginning to preen his feathers with his beak.

"It is the garden," she said. "I am sure it is."

She walked round and looked closely at that side of the orchard wall, but she only found what she had found before--that there was no door in it. Then she ran through the kitchen-gardens again and out into the walk outside the long ivy-covered wall, and she walked to the end of it and looked at it, but there was no door; and then she walked to the other end, looking again, but there was no door.

"It's very queer," she said. "Ben Weatherstaff said there was no door and there is no door. But there must have been one ten years ago, because Mr. Craven buried the key."

This gave her so much to think of that she began to be quite interested and feel that she was not sorry that she had come to Misselthwaite Manor. In India she had always felt hot and too languid to care much about anything. The fact was that the fresh wind from the moor had begun to blow the cobwebs out of her young brain and to waken her up a little.

She stayed out of doors nearly all day, and when she sat down to her supper at night she felt hungry and drowsy and comfortable. She did not feel cross when Martha chattered away. She felt as if she rather liked to hear her, and at last she thought she would ask her a question. She asked it after she had finished her supper and had sat down on the hearth-rug before the fire.

"Why did Mr. Craven hate the garden?" she said.

She had made Martha stay with her and Martha had not objected at all. She was very young, and used to a crowded cottage full of brothers and sisters, and she found it dull in the great servants' hall downstairs where the footman and upper-housemaids made fun of her Yorkshire speech and looked upon her as a common little thing, and sat and whispered among themselves. Martha liked to talk, and the strange child who had lived in India, and been waited upon by "blacks," was novelty enough to attract her.

She sat down on the hearth herself without waiting to be asked.

"Art tha' thinkin' about that garden yet?" she said. "I knew tha' would. That was just the way with me when I first heard about it."

"Why did he hate it?" Mary persisted.

Martha tucked her feet under her and made herself quite comfortable.

"Listen to th' wind wutherin' round the house," she said. "You could bare stand up on the moor if you was out on it tonight."

Mary did not know what "wutherin'" meant until she listened, and then she understood. It must mean that hollow shuddering sort of roar which rushed round and round the house as if the giant no one could see were buffeting it and beating at the walls and windows to try to break in. But one knew he could not get in, and somehow it made one feel very safe and warm inside a room with a red coal fire.

"But why did he hate it so?" she asked, after she had listened. She intended to know if Martha did.

Then Martha gave up her store of knowledge.

"Mind," she said, "Mrs. Medlock said it's not to be talked about. There's lots o' things in this place that's not to be talked over. That's Mr. Craven's orders. His troubles are none servants' business, he says. But for th' garden he wouldn't be like he is. It was Mrs. Craven's garden that she had made when first they were married an' she just loved it, an' they used to 'tend the flowers themselves. An' none o' th' gardeners was ever let to go in. Him an' her used to go in an' shut th' door an' stay there hours an' hours, readin' and talkin'. An, she was just a bit of a girl an' there was an old tree with a branch bent like a seat on it. An' she made roses grow over it an' she used to sit there. But one day when she was sittin' there th' branch broke an' she fell on th' ground an' was hurt so bad that next day she died. Th' doctors thought he'd go out o' his mind an' die, too. That's why he hates it. No one's never gone in since, an' he won't let any one talk about it."

Mary did not ask any more questions. She looked at the red fire and listened to the wind "wutherin'." It seemed to be "wutherin'" louder than ever. At that moment a very good thing was happening to her. Four good things had happened to her, in fact, since she came to Misselthwaite Manor. She had felt as if she had understood a robin and that he had understood her; she had run in the wind until her blood had grown warm; she had been healthily hungry for the first time in her life; and she had found out what it was to be sorry for some one.

But as she was listening to the wind she began to listen to something else. She did not know what it was, because at first she could scarcely distinguish it from the wind itself. It was a curious sound--it seemed almost as if a child were crying somewhere. Sometimes the wind sounded rather like a child crying, but presently Mistress Mary felt quite sure this sound was inside the house, not outside it. It was far away, but it was inside. She turned round and looked at Martha.

"Do you hear any one crying?" she said.

Martha suddenly looked confused.

"No," she answered. "It's th' wind. Sometimes it sounds like as if some one was lost on th' moor an' wailin'. It's got all sorts o' sounds."

"But listen," said Mary. "It's in the house--down one of those long corridors."

And at that very moment a door must have been opened somewhere downstairs; for a great rushing draft blew along the passage and the door of the room they sat in was blown open with a crash, and as they both jumped to their feet the light was blown out and the crying sound was swept down the far corridor so that it was to be heard more plainly than ever.

"There!" said Mary. "I told you so! It is some one crying--and it isn't a grown-up person."

Martha ran and shut the door and turned the key, but before she did it they both heard the sound of a door in some far passage shutting with a bang, and then everything was quiet, for even the wind ceased "wutherin'" for a few moments.

"It was th' wind," said Martha stubbornly. "An' if it wasn't, it was little Betty Butterworth, th' scullery-maid. She's had th' toothache all day."

But something troubled and awkward in her manner made Mistress Mary stare very hard at her. She did not believe she was speaking the truth.