#Ao3 has cool line separators and I had to use an accent?!

[platypanthewriter]

Switch Your Partner Round And Round/END

Part One here

for @ihni​

Steve jerked in his hospital bed as Billy slammed back into the room, stalked over, and braced himself over Steve’s face.  “You saved me from a burning car,” he hissed.  “Even after—after I kicked your ass.”

Steve blinked up, the horny gay body he was in noticing the shine where Billy’d bitten his lip, and remembering how his muscles had felt, warm and heavy, pressing Steve into the bed.  “Mrhm?” he grunted.

“I kept screwing with you,” Billy whispered, and to Steve’s bewilderment, he recognized the sound of his own voice trying not to cry.  Billy leaned closer, grabbing a handful of Steve’s hospital-gowned shoulder.  “You knew I—you knew I was trying to k—to kill those kids,” he said in that shaky, raspy voice Steve tried to hide.  “You saved me, you pulled me out—”

“...wasn’t gonna let you burn to death,” Steve whispered back, his traitorous borrowed body actually starting to tear up.  He opened his mouth again, and Billy kissed him, clutching at his hair, and running a shaking thumb along Steve’s jaw.  

“Wanted me bad enough to climb out of your wreck and come over to mine,” Billy whispered, again, and a tear fell from his eyelashes.  “Saved me from the monster, kept me from—” 

Steve made a startled grunting noise as their teeth clonked together in Billy’s urgency, and Billy sighed, slumping to bury his face in Steve’s neck. 

“The hell am I supposed to do,” he whispered, his breath as warm as the rest of him.  “Wheelers are gonna drop me right at your door.  Where the hell are your parents?”

“Where the hell are your parents,” Steve shot back.  “Just—just get me some clothes.”

“What am I supposed to say?!  They’re gonna know,” Billy hissed, lifting his head to prop himself up on an elbow.  “Maybe if I just get in, get out.  And come back here.  I’ll be back in an hour or two.  Don’t pine away without me,” he said, leaning in to kiss Steve’s temple—which was unfair, Steve wanted to complain, having to resist the one person lurking at his bedside, worried.  

“I’m not pining,” Steve muttered, trying not to strain towards the hand tracing slow circles on his chest and stomach.  “Not gonna...asshole.  Why the hell.”

“You saw Billy Hargrove in a burning car and thought it was worth risking your life to get him out,” Billy whispered, leaning in for a slow kiss as Steve sputtered.  

Steve couldn’t talk for a minute, as Billy Hargrove kissed him and touched him and he resonated with it, like the little hammer dulcimers at the toy store—kids grabbed them all day and played Christmas songs on them in July, and the dulcimers had no say in it at all, Steve thought, grabbing the back of Billy’s head and angling him, the better to kiss away his laugh.

“Pulled me out of a burning car,” Billy whispered again, like he still couldn’t believe it.  “I’m that hot.”

“Hotter on fire,” Steve mumbled nonsensically, and shoved at Billy’s shoulder.  “Parents won’t be home.  Bring me a fucking burger.”

“Can do.” Billy kissed him again, and Steve arched into it, wondering in the back of his brain whether it’d still feel good, touching Billy, when whatever insanity wore off and they were both back in the right bodies, and Billy was just someone who he saw around town, sometimes, slamming people into walls.   If it’s just insanity, Steve thought, why would I imagine Billy Hargrove is so good at kissing?!

 He woke again with a grunt of pain, as something thudded into his bed.  

“What are you doing,” came Max’s voice, and Steve squinted blearily up at a middle-aged man with a tight smile.

“Waking him up,” the man said.  “Wonder what his mom would think, her baby boy growing up to get in a car crash drunk, and wind up handcuffed to a bed.  Maybe she always saw that in you,” he told Steve, who stared back at him, suddenly breathstoppingly relieved Billy was at his house, probably trying outfits.  

“What?!” he replied, glancing at Max, who looked away, swallowing.

“I hoped we’d get here soon enough to thank your Good Samaritan,” the man—it had to be Billy’s dad—said, shooting a glance at Max, who hunched her shoulders.  “Takes some kind of kid to save someone like you.”

“Not Max’s fault,” Steve protested, the only thing he could think of to say—Max shot him a startled glance—and the man turned back from regarding Billy’s bed to face him.

“You’ve got a lot to say all of a sudden,” he laughed.  “You got liquored up and almost killed a bunch of kids, and you didn’t even manage to die right, did you?  And now, you got a lot to say.”

“Shut up,” Steve told him, his vision going blurry.  “What the hell is your problem?  I could’ve died, and—and you—you show up and—piss off, christ.  What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Me?” the man laughed, as Max grabbed Steve’s arm, taking shallow breaths, but Steve wasn’t too worried about what the asshole would do, with nurses checking in on the hour.  Billy’s probable dad stepped closer, leaning in like Billy did, with a similarly threatening smile.  “What’s wrong with me?”

“Yeah, you, you asshole!” Steve shouted back, wincing as he braced himself up on his elbows to yell properly.  “I’m gonna get my stuff and move out, jesus.  As soon as I can move.  What the hell?!”  A tear dripped down his cheek, and he sniffled, wondering in passing whether Billy was so goddamned mean to cover himself crying over every third sentence.  “You’re my dad, right?!”  

Steve glanced at Max, raising his eyebrows, and she blinked back, swallowing and nodding.  Steve growled with incoherent rage.  “You—you just—jesus, you make a kid and then tell him he should die?!  Die yourself, asshole.  Go to hell!  Get out of my room!”  Billy’s dad stared, his mouth open, and Steve narrowed his eyes.  “I’m ringing for the nurse,” he gritted out.  “Get the hell out of my room.”

Max sniffled, but he glanced at her and saw she was covering a grin, her eyes red and watery.  Billy’s dad was immobile with rage, but between Max dragging at his arm, and the nurse showing up, he was pushed to the side, and when the nurse was done fiddling with Steve’s bandages, the man, and Max, had vanished.  

“Everything okay in here, sweetie?” the nurse asked, and Steve wondered how many people called Billy Hargrove a sweetie and survived.  

He took a bite of Jell-O as he considered—it was cherry—and stared into the cup.  “You found me cherry,” he whispered.

“I had them make it special, hon.”  She beamed at him, and Steve beamed back at her, then registered why she had some misconceptions about Billy's personality.  

He cleared his throat.  “Uh, th-thank you.  Um, that was B—my dad.  He said he wished I’d died, so I, uh, I yelled at him.”  It’d been weirdly satisfying, yelling at Billy’s dad.

“He what?!”  She spun to stare at the door.  

“It’s okay,” Steve told her.  “I’ll, uh, I’ll go stay with my friend there.  That pulled me out of the car.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, glancing worriedly at Billy’s neatly made bed.  “How old are you?”

“It’s okay, his parents won’t mind,” he reassured her, trying to keep his mouth from turning bitterly downward.  

 When Billy returned, Steve was pretty sure it was past visiting hours.  “I couldn’t get away,” he whispered, knocking at the end of Steve’s bed, gentler than his dad.  “Had to convince the sheriff that Steve Harrington wasn’t pressing charges,” he said, lifting the blanket to slide in next to Steve, who watched, still disbelieving, as Billy Hargrove, in Steve's body, curled around him and buried his clean-shaven face in Steve’s neck.  “Had to escape Wheeler,” he mumbled.  “She wanted to know,” he paused for emphasis, “—whether I was a mindflayer.”

Steve snorted.  “Whether you were?  Why—”

“Well, you, right now,” Billy slid his finger between Steve’s wrist, and the handcuff.  “Got the handcuff keys from the sheriff,” he whispered.  

“Well, uncuff me,” Steve hissed back.  “I’m ready to stop pissing in a bowl, dude.”

Billy shoved the keys into Steve’s hand, muttering against Steve’s neck.  “...you’re just gonna book it, aren’t you.  Shoulda handcuffed us together.”

“You—you’re not getting away that easy,” Steve snorted.  “You think you’re done?  You’re gonna help me take a shit, asshole—” he told Billy, trailing off into a growl as he sat up, and his eyes watered with the ache in his lungs, and the scraping feel of the sheets and bandages against his burns.  

“Easy there,” Billy breathed, sitting up to uncuff Steve from the bed, and sliding an arm around his waist.  “...you gonna make it?  I can grab a nurse.”

“You can grab a bedpan,” Steve muttered, glaring at him, and Billy laughed.  “You can fucking clean my bedpans,” Steve told him, hissing into Billy’s warm, solid shoulder as the world spun around him after so long lying flat on his back.  

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Billy replied, steadying him as they inched towards the bathroom. 

“Screw you,” Steve mumbled, slumping on the toilet in relief.  “...how come I gotta be cuffed?  You were—you’re the—Billy.”

“You wanna cuff me to something?” Billy asked, and Steve went still, staring up at him.  

“Kinda, yeah,” he said, eyes narrowed, and Billy laughed, leaning in for a kiss and banging their teeth together as Steve shoved his chest.

“Get the hell out!” Steve smacked him away, feeling his face heat at the idea of Billy handcuffed to a bed.  “Shut up, jesus christ, go away.  Trying to pee, come on—”

“Tell me when to come get you,” Billy told Steve, leaving him alone with a really, really cold toilet seat.  

Steve’s hands—Billy’s hands—trembled as he grabbed toilet paper, and he glared down at their tanned, shaking fingers—first murdering people under the mindflayer’s control, now useless when he needed to wipe his ass.  “Might as well cut ‘em off,” Steve muttered, wondering what it was like, watching from inside as your hands killed, or what it was like watching another stranger use them, the next day.  He flexed them, and the punching joints were stiff.    

“Come back!” Steve yelled when he was done.  “Get in here!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Billy called back, sliding back inside.  He used  Steve’s own eyeballs to roll his eyes at Steve, which seemed unfair.  

“Sorry I can’t give it back,” Steve told him, as Billy swore and yanked them away from falling into the sink.  

“What,” Billy muttered, sliding his arm around Steve’s waist again.  

“Sorry took your body,” Steve said, already exhausted.  He turned to grab Billy’s shirt with his free hand, so they were chest to chest.  “Got it back from the—uh, the...thing, and now I have it.”

“Uh,” Billy laughed, turning them towards the bed like they were dance partners.  

“Promise I won’t murder anyone in it,” Steve told him, and Billy flinched, and took a shaky breath.  “Keep it safe.  Keep you safe.”

Billy tipped him back into bed, and curled alongside him.  He took a breath like he was going to talk, then sighed.  “Mmm.”

“Mmn,” Steve mumbled, relaxing into the warmth.  “I mean it.  I mean, I—I yelled at your dad,” he told Billy, grimacing, and Billy shot back upright, his nose thunking into Steve’s jaw. “You live with me now,” Steve added, rubbing his jaw, and hoping he sounded reassuring.  

“...what,” Billy mouthed, then cleared his throat, pinching his nose as his eyes went red and shiny.  “He doesn’t want me back home?  He threw me out.  Fuck.”

“No, he—he didn’t.” Steve yanked at his still-handcuffed hand—in the back of his head, he thought Hopper could get on clearing Billy a bit faster— and then raised the one full of tubes, squeezing Billy’s shoulder.  “He didn’t, I—I, uh, I guess I...stole...you?  I told him you’d live with me.  Come home with me.”

“Jesus,” Billy gulped, choking on a laugh.  “How can you like me this much.  Love at—love at fucking—first sight?”  He sniffled.  “Shoulda kissed you in the shower.  Wasted all this time.”

“Ah.  Uh—uh, hum.  Hrm.” Steve bit his lip, liking it as Billy slumped against him again, pressing kisses under his jaw, and wondering whether he’d still like it, when he wasn’t in Billy’s gay-ass body.  Whether he’d have been flattered, if Billy’d tried to dance with him at the party, instead of being so...Billy.  He had a deep, uncomfortable suspicion that he’d been hoping anybody, ever, would be as delighted he existed as Billy was right now, and tried not to think about what that would mean, if they switched back and he didn’t want Billy’s callused fingers against his skin.  

Billy sighed.  “It’s in case we can switch back, isn’t it,” he whispered, and Steve kissed his hair, squinting at it in the dark.  

“Nah, it’s—I mean, some, maybe, but your dad’s got—he shouldn’t be a dad, if he’s gonna—the hell did you do to my hair, Hargrove.”

“Took a shower,” Billy breathed, laughing into Steve’s shoulder as Steve cupped the back of his head with still-shaky fingers.  

“The hell did you use, Ajax?  Why’s my hair crunchy?!”

“I used the shit in the bathroom!” Billy laughed harder, sliding an arm around Steve’s waist.  “The shampoo in the shower!”

“Which bathroom?” Steve asked suspiciously, and at Billy’s “I don’t know, the chintzy one,” he groaned until he ran out of breath.  

Billy snickered, squeezing him gently, and Steve swallowed back the guilt of letting someone think he loved them, and lifted his head to kiss the person who’d tried to kill him the night before and then crawled into bed with him hours later.  Billy hummed against his mouth, and Steve could feel him grin.  “My hair looks worse,” he whispered.  “You been rolling around on it.  You look like you got raised by wolves.  S’all knotted...Tarzan.”

“So I’ll brush it later,” Steve said, shrugging.  The fight with Shitty Dad Hargrove had worn him out, and Billy wanted to lie on top of him, and breathe warm and damp against his neck, and Steve never, ever wanted him to stop.   No wonder Billy’s so goddamn thrilled, he thought.  After a lifetime of being Billy Hargrove in that house, he thinks somebody finally loves him.

“Don’t go out in public,” Billy muttered against his shoulder.  “Wear...bag over your head.”  He growled as Steve started snickering, and grunted into Steve’s shoulder, groaning.  “Look like a poodle.  You can’t brush curls, you gotta—”

“What?!” Steve found Billy’s ear in the darkness, and grinned at the heat coming off it.  He gave it a lick, and Billy laughed, lifting his head for a kiss.  

“Hey, hero,” he whispered against Steve’s mouth.  “This what you wanted?”

“What?” Steve asked again, his brain comfortably blanketed away so he could doze in warm bliss, half-listening to Billy muttering in his ear.  

“This what you wanted so bad you yanked me out of a burning car?” Billy whispered, his forehead hot against Steve’s jaw.  

It wasn’t like anyone was going to find out Steve hadn’t particularly wanted to rescue Billy, he thought, as his stomach clenched.  It wasn’t like there was paperwork.  He hadn’t shaken Robin awake, and told her, “I’m gonna get Billy out, so I can run him over again,” even if he thought she could probably guess.  He lifted his entubed arm and squeezed Billy against him, kissing his hair, and felt like cheating spouses probably did, knowing there wasn’t concrete evidence against them, but also knowing any hint would break someone in half.  “I kinda don’t want to change back,” he whispered, the best he could do, and Billy burst out laughing against his shoulder.

 Sneakers squeaked outside, the door rattled, and Billy was off the edge of the bed and in a visitor’s chair before it creaked open.  Steve was waiting for the nurse to come in, wishing Billy’d fix his hair—his best feature, which was all flat on one side, from the heat of Steve’s shoulder—when Max’s face popped around the edge of the door.  

“What the hell time is it,” Billy grunted, rubbing his face.  “The hell are you doing here.”

Max stared at him.  “What are you doing here?!” she hissed back.  “Go away!”

“He’s fine,” Steve told her, wishing he’d listened earlier, and he and Billy had come up with some kind of code.  “He’s, uh.”

She pointed at Billy—to her knowledge, Steve—and made an irritated kettled boiling noise.  “Why is he here?”

“I’m bringing him water,” Billy said, in Steve’s body, blinking big brown eyes like a dumb cow, and Max glared.  

Stop it, Steve mouthed, and Billy batted his eyelashes again, opening his eyes wide and innocent.  Steve huffed a sigh, rolling his eyes, coincidentally in perfect unison with Max.  "He's helping—"

“I need to talk to my brother,” she hissed at Billy.  “Buzz off.”

Billy stood, stretched slowly, and finally laughed as Max shoved him outside, and Steve was left alone with a fierce little girl who thought he was her awful brother.  He tried to think of Billy responses.

“Billy,” she gritted out, crossing her arms at the foot of his bed.  “How’d you know who I was?”

“...what?” Steve asked, unprepared for that one.

“Look.  I figured it out,” she hissed, and Steve squinted at her, wondering whether she was weirder than he thought, or he’d just had too many painkillers to follow a conversation.

She pushed the curtains back, peering around, nodded, and shuffled a few inches closer.  “I know you have amnesia,” she whispered, and his mouth fell open.  “You had to ask me who your dad was,” she pointed out, counting off a finger, and he winced.  She counted off another.  “Steve Harrington’s being nice to you.  I guess you told him?  He hates you!  Didn’t he say?!  He just, what, feels sorry for you now you don’t know who he is?!”

What Would Billy Do, Steve tried to think, imagining a WWBD bumpersticker.  “...I don’t—he doesn’t fuckin’...hate me,” he protested feebly.  “Probably?”

“You beat him up,” she whispered, grabbing a chair and pulling it close.  “So bad.  You kicked the shit out of him.  How come you—eugh.  He’s seriously letting you stay with him?  At his house?  Really?”

Steve opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, wondering whether Nancy and Robin would believe his body had amnesia.  “Uh, would he...lie about that?”

She steepled her fingers, eyes intent, and Steve fought the urge to laugh.  “I don’t think so,” she decided.  “But he’s dumb as rocks, god.”  

Steve wanted to object, biting back a laugh, but she took a shaky breath, swallowing, and he bit his lips together to listen.

“And—um, it’s—probably good you don’t, uh.  You—you better not try and—change your mind?  He’s...he’s really pissed.  At you.  You should, um, you should get your stuff when he’s not home, he’s—he’s so angry,” she dropped her hands to her knees, swallowing.  “It’s—you were right,” she whispered, in a strangled voice.  “To—to tell him.  Tell him off.  But uh, just, just be careful.”

“His, um.  My dad?” Steve asked, watching Max’s knuckles whiten, and her shoulders hunch.  

She nodded.  

“We’ll get you out too,” he promised impulsively.  “You can’t stay there, we’ll figure something out—”

“This is so weird,” she cut him off, squinting into his face.  “You—you’re you, but you aren’t you, do—do you think you’ll come back?  Have you remembered anything?”

“Uh,” Steve said, and the door opened.  Billy stuck Steve’s face inside, watching them.  I never look that innocent, Steve thought, annoyed.  “Max figured out I have amnesia,” he said, and Billy stared for a long second, and yanked the door shut again.

“We need a plan to get your stuff,” said Max, and Steve wanted to hug her.  

“At least my sister’s cool,” he told her, grinning, and she stumbled to a halt mid-sentence, staring back at him.  Her cheeks went so red her freckles faded.

“...shut up,” she mumbled.  

Before she left—she had to skateboard back and climb in the window, she explained, and it would have been funny, if she hadn’t kept setting her jaw, and flinching from sudden movements—Steve had her grab her actual brother from the hallway, so they could tell him the plan.  Billy sat on the edge of the hospital bed to listen, and Steve hauled Max against both of them in a hug that left both Hargroves tight-shouldered and red-faced, muttering thanks to each other.

“Thanks, Max,” Steve called, as she left, and she stared back for a second with a grimace, but threw him a salute.

“She’s a good kid,” he told Billy.  “You could, y’know.  Get her some water too.”

Billy snorted, leaned in, and kissed Steve’s face until he was too turned on to argue, then sighed.  “Yeah, I’ll—I’ll think of—something.  I don’t know.  I didn’t think she’d...show up, like this.  Horning in.  Like she...I—yeah,” he groaned against Steve’s neck, and sighed.

Steve squirmed, wishing Billy would pick a topic and stay with it, because switching back and forth between “sibling relationships” and “touching Steve’s dick” was distracting.  And kinda gross.  

 When they released Steve-in-Billy’s-body, Billy was waiting to fill out the paperwork, wheel him out to the car, and help him into the house.  It looked lived-in, for once, Billy’s shoes in a pile by the door and a mess of homework on the table, and Steve turned back to the guest in his house—the guest in his body—and pushed him back against the door for a soft kiss.  Billy’s smiles looked more uncertain in Steve’s body—or maybe they just were more uncertain, away from the father that hated his guts, and the monster controlling him.  

I love him, Steve thought, frowning, and wondered when he could know it was real— they had to change back eventually, he thought, and what was he gonna say if he’d gone on one knee already, and all he could think about was boobs?  He grimaced, and Billy blinked at him, still pinned against the wall.  “I missed you,” he said instead, and Billy’s smirk widened again.

“I left for a shower, dumbass,” he said, and Steve kissed him again, then nearly fell over, and Billy got an arm around him and dumped him on the couch.  “Made your stupid cherry Jell-O,” he called over his shoulder, stalking off into the kitchen, and Steve’s brain spun wildly.   Maybe I just really love him, he thought, groaning into his sleeves and staring at the wall.   Maybe I’ll love him no matter what.  Fight his dad for him.  Fight his scary dad for the man who shows up for me.  And brings me Jell-O.

“What are you muttering about?” Billy asked, dropping next to him with a bowl of quivering red gelatin dessert, and Steve’s lungs shuddered.  

His sinuses stung with tears, and he realized he was about to start dripping—not just tears, but snot too, as an exclusive bonus.  “You made me cherry Jell-O,” he rasped out, trying not to sob, and Billy swore and ran off, returning to shove a roll of toilet paper into his hands.

“What the shit,” he hissed, shoving wads of toilet paper at Steve’s face.  “What the hell, what the fuck, Harrington, it’s Jell-O—”

“It’s cherry,” Steve sobbed.  “Your body sucks, what the shit, asshole—why am I bawling over Jell-O—”

“Makes me feel better about some things, actually,” Billy muttered, yanking Steve against his shoulder.

~

Nancy knew Steve wasn’t fine.  Steve Harrington wasn’t abrupt with his ex-girlfriend’s mom, or difficult for Dustin Henderson to talk to—and he definitely didn’t ask Billy Hargrove to stay, acting excited about it, like they were going to stay up doing each other’s hair.  She stopped after work to pick Robin up—Robin griped the whole way about the ice cream you suddenly want, when you don’t work at an ice cream shop anymore—and they picked up Kentucky Fried Chicken, and gallons of strawberry, jamocha almond fudge, and mint chip.  

Robin dropped into the passenger seat and dug a spoon out of her purse, blew on it, squinted at it, and dug in to the mint chip.  She met Nancy’s sputter with a flat stare.

Steve opened the door looking as stiff as he had ever since he’d had to use his car to nearly murder the boy lying on his couch, covered in bandages.  “Y’know, he was going to kill us,” she whispered, as they got plates out in the kitchen.

“Yeah, I noticed,” he said, his shoulders hunching.

“Everything—” She waved her hand at the front room, where Robin was still eating ice cream while she interrogated Billy.  “Everything that’s going on, it’s—it’s not your fault, Steve.  You don’t have to keep helping him.”

He stopped to frown at her.  “...I know that,” he said, unconvincingly.

“It’s not,” she hissed again.  “It’s not your fault you had to plow into him—”

Steve coughed, biting his lips together, and she reached out to squeeze his shoulder.  

“It’s not your fault his car caught fire.  It’s not your fault his dad is—is a shitheel—”

“Wait.” Steve flinched.  “Wait, what—what did m—what did his dad do?!”

“I heard about it from Max.” She dropped her voice to a bare whisper.  “He showed up at Billy’s bedside in the hospital.  He told Billy he—he wished Billy had died.  But—” She cut off, yelling at herself internally as her lecture had exactly the opposite effect she wanted, and Steve’s eyes filled with tears.  He leaned back with a thud against the counter, and she didn’t know what to do— it seemed stupid to hug him, and she found herself shoving the fried chicken tub into his arms, babbling, “—but it’s okay, Steve, you’ll make sure he’s fine, right, he’s staying here, right, I didn’t know you were friends—”  

To her bewilderment, he elbowed away, half-running to the front room, and Billy.

“The hell is going on in here,” Robin said, poking her head around the corner.

“I’m terrible,” Nancy squeaked under her breath.  “They’re friends?!  I didn’t know they were friends, shit, I’m so sorry—”  She followed Robin and Steve back out to the front room, kicking herself, but also trying to figure out what was even happening, that Steve Harrington would start to cry about it.

He’d gone to the door to the porch, where he was wiping his eyes and fumbling with the knob, and when he couldn’t get it to open—he was so upset he couldn’t figure out the lock, Nancy realized, digging her nails into her palms—he swung a fist at the door.  

Robin yelled, caught his arm, stalked close, and yanked the KFC bucket away.  “The hell are you doing, moron, you’re gonna break your fingers—what’s wrong—”

Steve stiffened, and then snorted a laugh.  “I ff--it’s—”  He was trying not to cry, which made it worse that he couldn’t stop, and Nancy stepped closer, wondering whether it’d be more awkward to turn her back and give him some privacy, or shove a wad of paper towels in his face, when he started snickering wetly through his sobs.  “I secretly cry all the time,” he whispered, and Robin visibly shuddered.  “I do,” he told her, looking delighted.  “Cry into my pillow!  I’ve got so many feelings—”

“Does baby need some hugs,” Robin hissed back at him, and he laughed harder, with big tears rolling down his cheeks.  

“Baby needs a pacifier,” Steve wheezed, as Nancy stared, but Robin just groaned, rolling her eyes, and threw her arms around him.  It looked like half a hug, half a wrestling hold.

After what felt like minutes—and was probably seconds—of Steve’s muffled gasping, Billy staggered up from under the blanket on the couch, steadying himself against the wall.  “What the hell,” he whispered, and Steve laughed harder.  

“Getting in touch with my feelings,” he said, sounding smug, and Billy growled at him.  

Nancy stepped closer between them, as Billy stomped up, angling himself between Robin and the door, and leaned to bump shoulders with Steve.  She got herself wedged in the mix of awkward-leaning-that-wasn't-quite-a-group-hug, and had the sort of realization you have when you fight secret monsters with your friends—that she was always going to be close to these people, in a way she’d never be able to explain at parties.  As soon as Steve could breathe again, he scrambled away from them—though he accepted the ice cream Robin shoved at him, eyeing her warily.

“Come on, you think I don’t remember which ice cream to get you?  You think I’ve never seen you be a moron before?” she asked dryly, and he grinned, glancing at Billy, who was scowling back.  

After some extremely stiff chatting, though, he said he was going to go to sleep.  Nancy did feel better, as Billy—of all people—ushered her and Robin out, whispering, “I’ll keep an eye on him, I promise.  I—I owe him that.”

“Yeah, you sure as hell do,” Robin told him, and he laughed.

~

That night, they were finally alone, after three days of getting interrupted by nurses, and people that said they were worried about Steve going home alone, but never argued when he said he was fine.  Billy’d sat in the visitors’ chair after hours and scoffed, nudging Steve’s butt with one toe, and said, “Can’t leave you by yourself, dumbass, you’d cry.”  

He kept bringing it up, annoyingly.  “You cry when I went home for a shower?” he whispered against Steve’s throat.

“I might, in this dumb body,” Steve told him finally, unbuttoning his shirt on his body, with Billy inside it.  “You’re built like a sprinkler system.”

“Shut up.” Billy leaned in for a kiss, watching his face, and Steve laughed. 

“You even cry in my body," he whispered, grinning into Billy’s kisses.  “I bet you don't even want to change back—you won’t be able to make out with yourself.”

Billy choked, coughing.  “...no,” he managed, his cheeks going even more red.  “You blush, asshole,” he gritted out.  “I hate it—”

“Your feet stumble,” Steve whispered back, running his knuckles up Billy’s side and watching him shiver.  “No wonder you gotta think so damn hard about basketball.”

“Your mouth stumbles,” Billy hissed.  “I sound like a fucking moron.”

“God, I know.” Steve leaned in to kiss Billy’s collarbones, and Billy burst out laughing.  

“You into morons?”

“No!” Steve shot back, snickering, and slid his arms around Billy’s waist, tilting them so they fell facing each other on the bed.  “No, it’s just.  It sucks, being dumb.”

“Mmn,” Billy hummed consideringly against Steve’s shoulder, and burrowed his face in to kiss skin.  “Worked out pretty good for me.”

“You’re not dumb,” Steve told him, fairly sure.  

“Some dumbass fell in love with my hot bod,” Billy told him, scooting up the bed to grab Steve by the back of the head and stare into his face.  “Some moron.  Pulled me out of a burning car, this—this idiot.”

“Oh.” Steve tried not to wince.  “Yeah.  That.”

“‘Yeah, that,’ he says,” Billy parroted, and Steve stuck out his tongue.  “You know…”

Steve waited, then raised his eyebrows.  “My tongue being dumb, or you stuck?”

“You know it’s not your fault, right,” Billy said thickly, swallowing.  “None of this shit.  And I’d rather be in your body than a monster in mine.”

“Hell yeah, you would,” Steve snorted, his tongue for once faster than his brain.  “Uh.  Wait.  What?”

“Nothing,” Billy said quickly, yanking Steve into a clumsy kiss.  Steve gentled him with both hands, closing his eyes to imagine what Billy was supposed to look like, instead of staring into his own eyes like he was licking a mirror.  

“I’m gay now, let’s fuck,” Steve whispered, and Billy breathed wrong, so they had to stop kissing for several minutes while he hacked and choked, pounding his chest.  

“The hell is wrong with you, Harrington,” he whispered, but Steve was laughing too hard to answer.

 Steve was starting to mark time in awakenings.  Not days— he was sleeping several times a day, and he had no idea what time it was, most of the time.  He half-awakened, briefly, to notice his ass hurt, and let go of the warm bulk against him to pat at his own clean shaven face.

“Shit,” he mumbled.  “Not gay anymore.”

“What,” came Billy’s voice.  

Not Billy’s-voice-through-Steve’s-vocal-cords, though that had a distinctive sound too, but Billy’s normal voice, the one that followed Steve around at school, and threatened Lucas, and beat Steve’s face until he slurred on waking up.  Steve’s spine tightened, and his heart started pounding.   It’s okay, he told his body, Billy thinks I’m in love with him, and I like it.  I let him think it was true.  He swallowed, rolling onto his back to take a deep breath.

“Harrington,” Billy said, and the bed shifted as he crawled to turn on the bedside lamp.  “Harrington?”

“Shit,” Steve whispered, afraid to open his eyes.  

“We switched back,” Billy told him.  “Harrington.  Steve.  C-c’mon.”

“I thought that might work,” Steve said, keeping his voice light, and wondering what kind of terrible person it would make him if he just kept his eyes closed, and kissed Billy Hargrove, and pretended everything was fine.   Maybe I don’t have to be gay, he thought wildly.   Maybe I can just want the person around, I can—we can be friends who jack each other off, it’s not dishonest, it’s not any more dishonest—

“Is that why you brought me home,” Billy whispered.  “Just—you thought you’d—fuck me gone?”

“Shit, no, don’t go anywhere,” Steve choked out, rolling to thud his torso against Billy’s knees and wedge his face under one, smooshing his cheek and mouth against the bed.

“...what are you doing?” Billy asked, turning to lie cautiously alongside him.  “Do—what do you want, Harrington—”

“Don’t go away,” Steve told him, gathering him close with both arms and inhaling the smell of boy—deodorant, and aftershave, and cigarettes saturated into Billy’s hair.  He smelled a little sweaty, and Steve felt himself drifting close to sleep again, in the contented haze he’d had in his hospital bed, using Billy’s bulk and warmth as a sedative.  Billy’s heart was pounding, and he’d started to shake, so Steve took a deep breath and pulled back, opening his eyes.  

Billy’s eyes were red and watery, his lips red from biting, and Steve pulled him into a kiss without any thought.  

“It’s okay,” he whispered, running his fingers through hair that looked like it belonged in a metal band.  “Sorry.  I want you, of course I want you, you’re you, you’re Billy,” he rambled, and Billy leaned their foreheads together, taking shaky breaths.  “Love you,” Steve told him, this time for sure.   Shut up, he told the voice in his head saying you’ve been sort-of dating for three days.  It sounded suspiciously like Nancy.   I’ve known him like six months, he told it.   Shut up, I know what I’m doing.  

“Jesus.” Billy swallowed, closing his eyes.  “Scare the shit out of me, why don’t you.”

"Yelled at your dad for you," Steve told him.  "I mean.  Sorry.  He pissed me off, talking like—talking about his kid like that.  About you."

"What'd he say?" Billy asked, his voice husky, and Steve kissed his mouth, and his cheeks—they warmed as Billy smiled—and his teeth as he grinned. 

"He didn't say anything true," Steve whispered back.  "Goddamn—goddamn asshole bullshit liar."

"You think so?"

"I know so," Steve hissed back.  "You made me cherry Jell-O," he told Billy, thinking it hard at the doubtful voice that had been in the back of his head, telling him Billy wasn't lovable, and neither was he.  "I mean," he tried to explain, over Billy's wheezes of laughter, "—that's not why—you just—you're Billy, and you l—you want me because I'm Steve, and—and he's wrong, about you.  E—everyone is.  I was—I was wrong about you, you—you're good, you're worth the bullshit—"

Billy yanked him close, squeezing him until his ribs creaked, and Billy swore.  Steve froze, listening to him mutter.  "God, fucking—it hurts, ow.  Shit.  Don't set your car on fire, it hurts—"

"Careful, damn," Steve told him, running cautious fingers for the first time over Billy’s skin with him in it. 

Billy blew air through his cheeks, glancing down at his bandages.  “Wanna go again?” he asked, and Steve kissed him, lingering to breathe against his mouth.

"I could be real gentle," he offered, and Billy nodded, squirming closer on the bed with a grin.

“They’re not too bad, mostly,” he whispered, “You got me out in time.”

"Yeah...but I'll be careful," Steve told him, as he slid his hand down Billy’s side again. 

“Yeah, sure,”  Billy whispered back, grinning, and Steve laughed, stopping to concentrate on kissing him until he couldn’t breathe for panting.

 Later that night, Steve awoke to go to the bathroom, found himself sporting a mustache and mullet again in the mirror, and groaned.  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

[pocketseizure]

The Flower Thief

A young boy comes to Hyrule and meets a princess with a terrible destiny.

Or, Ganondorf visits Hyrule for the first time as a child and falls in love with the green and beautiful land, even as he is warned away by the woman who will become Zelda’s mother. 

This story was written for Ties of Time, an Ocarina of Time and Majora's Mask fanzine, which you can find on Twitter (here). The story is also (on AO3).

. . . . . . . . . .

Ganondorf had never been beyond the mountains separating the desert from the plains. The road from the fortress to the waystation was, if not well-traveled, safe enough for a child in the company of an escort. He’d crossed the bridge leading to the canyon pass a few times, always pausing to peer down through the railings at the great river rushing along the gully below, but this was the first time he was allowed to accompany a caravan through the Gerudo Valley pass and into Hyrule.

He thought he knew what to expect from Hyrule. He’d heard all manner of stories from travelers, and he was given Hylian books to study as he learned the language. Yet as the red earth and dry gravel gave way to healthy swards of grass, he could not open his eyes wide enough to take it all in. There was so much green, so much luxury. 

The climate changed as the caravan traveled east. The mornings were cool but not cold, and the days were warm but not hot. The sun was veiled by clouds that drifted like floating islands across the blue sea of the sky, dappling the light into gentle shadows.

Ganondorf was not prepared for the rain. Everyone took notice when the afternoon became dark and the air grew heavy, but no one seemed concerned. He was familiar with the storms that pummeled the open desert, fierce and veined with jagged lightning, and he was afraid of what the blanket of clouds might portend. He was even more afraid of the disdain of the adults, however, so he held his tongue. If he cried when the first drops fell on his skin, each tiny splash as soft as the finest silk, his tears went unremarked.

Vast fields spread before him as they rode east. Brightly colored wildflowers pushed their way through the tall grass on leafy stems, and the wind was fragrant with the sweet smell of growing things. The caravan turned north at the first ranch they encountered, skirting along the low fence marking its perimeter. Ganondorf was amazed to find that the crooked and neglected fenceposts were made of wood. He realized that, to the local farmers, timber must be far more common than stone. As their party joined the main road, the trees grew larger and the flowers became even more colorful. The early summer greenery seemed almost blasphemous in its profusion. Stalks of young wheat swayed in the breeze, and cows dotted the rolling plains.

At last, upon ascending the crest of a low hill, Ganondorf saw Hyrule Castle, its spires stretching bravely into the sky. This architectural feat would have been impossible in the desert, where the gale winds would quickly strip the tiles from the towers if lightning didn’t strike them first. The town spilling down from the castle walls was just as bold. Roads and houses spread along the wide valley of a river with no regard for how disaster might strike and send the water roiling from its banks at any given change of the weather. Hyrule was, he thought, a miracle.

Once the road approaching the castle town began to grow crowded, one of Ganondorf’s aunts pulled him aside as they watered their horses. “You must dress as we do,” she said. “The people of this kingdom are guided by superstition, and they will not look kindly on someone that they cannot fit into the stories they tell themselves. You will be in danger if anyone learns that you are different from us, and we may not always be able to protect you,” she warned him as she twisted his hair into a high ponytail and secured it with a jeweled band.

Taking care not to be noticed, Ganondorf exchanged his robes for loose pants and a sleeveless tunic. He had learned to appreciate being seen as special, but there had always been a part of him that wanted to dress like the girls his age. The thought occurred to him that perhaps it was only in Hyrule that he could be normal. Ganondorf resolved to use this situation to his advantage. He would break off from the group as soon as it was expedient to do so.

The women shed their travel cloaks in Castle Town as they merged into the throng of people converging in the central market plaza. Zora and Gorons jostled for place among the Hylians in front of the stalls, and Ganondorf spotted the leafy foliage of a few Deku Scrubs and even the broad shoulders of a Moblin. Almost no one paid any mind to the group of Gerudo that gradually split apart as they went their separate ways. A few people paused to cast glances in their direction, especially men, and Ganondorf’s companions seemed to enjoy the attention.

Ganondorf kept his own cloak drawn around his narrow shoulders. The bearded faces of Hylian men were strange to his eyes. He was disturbed by their large and clumsy hands, whose thick fingers sprouted coarse hair. Ganondorf didn’t want to attract their notice, and he was much more interested in seeing than being seen. He watched a team of laborers eating at the base of a tree emerging from the paving stones of the plaza, throwing their breadcrusts into a bed of flowers overgrown with weeds. In an alley leading away from the market, a woman emerged from her townhouse to throw water onto the cobblestones before whisking the puddle into a drain with a broom. And then, wonder of wonders, a fountain burbled its lazy jet of water toward the sky with no other purpose than to provide a pleasant breeze for the cat napping on its stone rim.

All of this was fascinating, yet Ganondorf was not satisfied. He wanted to see something even more rare and beautiful. If the town below the castle was filled with marvels, he could scarcely imagine what treasures might be contained within the castle itself.

It was not difficult to sneak past the guards posted along the outer wall. They were slow and he was small. Just to be safe, Ganondorf used his modest measure of magic to quiet his footsteps while shifting the color of his cloak to reflect his surroundings. He had a fair amount of practice evading the watchful eyes of his mothers and aunts, and he liked to think he was skilled at avoiding detection. Or perhaps it was simply the case that the soldiers standing at the castle gates did not expect anyone to enter. Perhaps they assumed that no one would dare.

The courtyard on the other side of the outer wall was surprisingly pedestrian. Wooden crates were piled near the servant entrances, and a small moat ran between uneven patches of grass that had been trampled by men and horses alike. Ganondorf challenged himself to make his way beyond the castle’s inner wall, which was somewhat trickier but not beyond his abilities. There wasn’t much to be seen here either, nothing more than a few narrow walkways lined with mossy stones sunken into the spongy earth between overgrown shrubs.

Ganondorf was disappointed. The curving rows of proud cypress trees surrounding the Gerudo fortress and the tiled mosaics glittering under its shaded awnings were much more impressive. Ganondorf paused at a muddy puddle lingering in the shadow of the castle’s mold-spotted wall. He debated whether to continue on or turn back, wondering if perhaps Hyrule’s beauty lay more in its wilderness than its towns. He decided that he had seen what he’d come to see. There was no need to remain here.

As he turned, Ganondorf caught a breeze that carried a sweet fragrance unlike anything he’d ever encountered. Intrigued, he followed the scent along the inner wall of the castle until he found himself at the gate of a secluded courtyard garden. 

Tall bushes with glossy leaves separated the garden from the bare stone of the castle walls. Each of the bushes bore a profusion of white flowers as large as his palm. The scent was stronger here – richer than jasmine and as fresh as the sky after the rain.

Before he was aware of what he intended to do, Ganondorf found himself slipping his knife from the sheath at his belt to cut the thick woody stem of one of the flowers, whose petals spread elegantly from the golden shimmer of the nectar at its center. He had never seen anything so beautiful before, and he wanted to hold it. He sliced through its stem and watched as tiny beads of sap welled from the incision. As he withdrew his hand, clutching the flower alongside his knife, Ganondorf heard the soft murmur of a woman’s voice, quiet but resonant.

“He’s a good man, I think,” the voice said as it grew louder. “My honored mother wouldn’t have chosen him if he weren’t, Hylia rest her soul. He’s kind, and he has a strong will. And that’s the problem; that’s precisely the problem. He will make a good king. But then what need will there be for a queen?”

Ganondorf watched as a young woman stepped into the garden. The deep chestnut of her hair was accented by her dress, which was dyed with an indigo as deep as the sky at twilight. A white-haired woman of the same age trailed along behind her, as silent as a shadow. 

“Tensions are mounting at our borders,” the woman continued, “and Hyrule does not need a king. Hyrule needs peace. I will do what I can, yet I worry about the signs in the stars…”

Ganondorf knew he should flee, but the princess was so beautiful in her garden that he couldn’t help but stare. It was like a scene from a fairy tale. He was transfixed.

A moment later the spell was broken, but it was a moment too long. Ganondorf pulled his foot back to retreat, but the princess’s Sheikah attendant was on him like a cat at the slightest hint of movement.

“What have we here?” she murmured, her voice as soft as velvet. “Such a pretty girl, with such a sharp blade.” The Sheikah bent his hand so that the bones of his fingers twisted. Ganondorf dropped his knife but managed to hold on to the flower.

“A girl after my own heart,” the princess remarked with laughter in her voice. “Bring her closer, Impa, if you will.”

The Sheikah released Ganondorf, but not before giving his hand another painful squeeze. The warning in her touch was clear. Ganondorf understood that he was trapped, utterly and completely. He waited for panic to rise in his throat, but it never materialized. He realized that he might be forced to remain here, with soft grass under his feet and the delicate scent of white flowers lingering in the air. Perhaps such a fate would not be so terrible.

“On a tour of the castle, were you?” the princess prompted.

“Who sent you?” the Sheikah hissed with narrowed eyes. “Tell us and you might survive.”

The princess raised her hand, and the Sheikah fell back.

“How do you find my castle?” the princess asked as she gestured to the flower in Ganondorf’s hand. “Do the gardenias please you?”

Ganondorf knew that neither force nor speed could extricate him from this situation. Words were the only thing that had any chance of saving him, but his tongue was like lead in his mouth. He could only gaze at the princess, who seemed to glow in the pale sunlight. His fingers tightened on the flower.

The princess saw this and smiled. “It seems a shame for us to keep all of these gardenias to ourselves,” she remarked, switching to fluent Gerudo. “We can stand to part with one. I hope you will consider it a gift, but take care not to touch it. Its petals will blacken at the slightest contact with your skin. The flowers cannot survive after they’re removed from the plant.”

She began to reach out, perhaps intending to draw Ganondorf’s hood away from his face, but she allowed her hand to drop to her side. “We will release you,” she told him, “but you must not be caught on your way outside the castle. Nothing will protect you should one of the soldiers find you within these walls.”

The princess smiled again, but her eyes were like ice. “There is nothing here to be stolen that cannot be freely given,” she said, “but remember always, child – Hyrule does not take kindly to thieves.”

Ganondorf did not need to be told twice. He turned and ran, bending to snatch his fallen knife from the grass as he fled from the princess and her garden.

He was careful not to touch the gardenia as he made his scurrying and surreptitious way back outside the castle, but the flower’s petals were already tinged an unhealthy shade of gray by the time he was able to stop to catch his breath. They had begun to curl at the edges, and their sweet smell had grown sour.

Now there was no reason not to touch the flower. Ganondorf stroked its smooth white petals and touched his nose to the golden center of its blossom as he crouched against a dirty wall in a back alley of the market. Even as its petals spoiled before his eyes, the gardenia was divine in its beauty.

Ganondorf used his knife to cut away the rest of the wooden stem and tucked the flower into an inner pocket of his tunic. He wanted the fading flower and the memory of the castle garden to be close to his skin. The furious beating of this heart had slowed now that the danger of being caught had passed, but Ganondorf was still haunted by the cold eyes of the princess.

He would have to be more careful next time.

[bonjour-rainycity]

Double Heart | Chapter One ~ Cosima

|previous part|

Pairing: Haldir x OFC

Rating: G

Word count: 2100

Warnings: None

**Read on Ao3 under the user “bonjour-rainycity” if you like!**

A/n Thanks for the love on the prologue <3 also, this is the first time I’ve scheduled a post, so please let me know if something looks weird!

Translations: Av-‘osto = Don’t be afraid // Odúlen le natho = I’m here to help you // Pedil edhellen = do you speak Elvish

I was right — the peace deserts me instantly.

A sharp pain pierces my chest, my lungs ache, and my brain throbs inside my skull. A man leans over me. His long, dark hair tickles my neck. He is beautiful and smiling, but I do not know him. Fear quickens my breath. I try to jerk away from him, but he keeps a firm pressure on my shoulders, holding me in place. He meets my wide, panicked eyes with calm, reassuring ones of forest brown.

“Av-‘osto. Odúlen le natho.”

What? I shake my head at him, fear temporarily making room for confusion. The words he speaks, which had proven so irresistible when I was under the weight of the water, now sound only strange and indecipherable.

I stare at him, uncomprehending and very much on my guard.

His brow furrows, and, when he speaks again, it is with a note of hesitation. “Pedil edhellen?”

“I don’t think she does.” Another voice—confident, commanding—comes from my right. I turn my head just in time to see a tall man in peculiar armor slide off his horse. He takes quick strides towards me, then crouches near my side. “What is your name?”

I find myself momentarily silenced by his proximity, as well as his eyes. They are a clear ice blue—beautiful, depthless—but cold and calculating. They hold none of the warmth the other man’s eyes do, only suspicion. As much as I don’t like behind held to the ground by him, I turn my head, searching for the deep, honest brown I met upon awaking.

He meets my gaze with a soft smile. “Do not feel fear, we are not here to harm you. We found you unconscious and alone near the river, and stopped to help.” His voice is light, unsure, and strangely accented, placing emphasis on the wrong part of the words, but I am pleased that I can understand him now. As if to illustrate his point, that I am not in danger from them, he releases his hold on my shoulders and allows me space to sit up.

“Slowly,” he cautions. “I worry you have hit your head.”

That would explain the pounding. I grimace, supporting myself on my forearms, and turn my head to observe my surroundings. It’s all very green and brown, I suppose, though vibrant, not at all like the waters I found myself trapped under. Tall grass, puddles of mud, a river behind me. I see no roads or signs to indicate where I am.

The man to my right answers my unspoken question. “You are near the Gladden Fields on the bank of the River Anduin.” I recoil. None of those words mean anything to me. I search my mind, trying to conjure up an image, a memory, anything that would give me context as to where I am.

But I come up blank.

“I will ask you again,” the man continues. His voice is hard, completely devoid of patience, and though I don’t exactly want to, I find myself turning my head to look him in the eye. “What is your name?”

Well, that answer, I know. “Cosima. What’s yours?” I raise an eyebrow, unable to stop myself from challenging him a little. I don’t like his attitude, how he acts like he doesn’t have the time to deal with me. He is the one who stopped, after all.

“So she does speak,” an amused voice remarks from over the shoulder of the brown-eyed man. I jump, not previously noticing the two others—blond like the man to my right—who sit high atop large horses.

Okay, that doesn’t seem right.

Fragments of memory come to me, brief flashes of tall buildings, busy sidewalks, and honking yellow cars.

America.

The name comes to me just as my own did—suddenly and detached from other clues. I piece together what I can, and am left with only the feeling that this is wrong. There should not be deserted, untouched land, nor men in armor who travel on horseback.

I should not be here, I realize. Wherever ‘here’ is….

The blond to my right stands, and I shrink back, intimidated by his height. The sword at his hip and the bow on his back make me even more wary.

“I am Haldir, Marchwarden of Lothlórien. The ellon to your left is Baranor, a healer respected by the Lady herself. The ellyn on horseback are Rumil and Orophin—my brothers, and wardens of our realm. Where do you come from? Were you traveling somewhere?”

I don’t recognize half the words he says. Their language and phrasing is unfamiliar to me, which gives me reason to believe that I am not in America. My limited worldview expands slightly, and I become aware of the existence of other countries, vast seas and expansive continents. A theory begins to take form. I must be in another country. Perhaps I was traveling, and hit my head, and now I’ve gotten separated from my group. Though, I don’t have any memory of a group…perhaps I will remember them in time. I did hit my head.

Haldir clears his throat impatiently.

“I…think I’m from America. Do you know if I’m close? Or at least which country I’m in?

For the first time, I see the irritation in his eyes break, giving way to something akin to concern. “You are in Arda.”  

I wrack my brain, searching for anything that even remotely sounds like Arda. Africa? Armenia? Nothing helpful comes to mind.

Baranor, still crouched at my side, brings a gentle hand to my temple, brushing his fingers lightly over the tender skin. He notices my wince, and turns back to Haldir. “She definitely hit her head. Her mind is not fully with us…I think that, as she heals, she will speak with more sense.”

“Excuse me,” I huff, annoyed at his assessment of me and them talking as if I weren’t here. “You’re not exactly making much sense, either.”

Haldir purses his lips but gives no other indication that he’s heard me. He turns to his brothers and the three of them engage in quick conversation in that language I do not know.

I keep the three of them in the corner of my eye—just because they haven’t hurt me yet doesn’t mean I should let my guard down—and catch Baranor’s attention. “I can’t remember much—anything, really.”

He nods, looking at me with clinical concern. “I guessed as much. You remember your name and seem to have some idea where you are from, even if I do not recognize the realm. It’s better than nothing—encouraging, even. I believe your memories will return to you with time.”

That’s something, at least.

The one called Rumil hops off his horse and swaggers up to me, crouching low like his brother did. “Are you human?”

I recoil. What kind of question is that? “Of course I’m human.”

He shakes his head, a coy smile on his face. “Do not say, ‘of course’. There are many races in this realm, some much more interesting than the race of men.”

I swallow, pieces of information that I’ve gathered since waking clicking into place.

I don’t want to ask.

Asking might mean confronting, and I’ve only just woken up. I’m not ready for that.

But I have to. Because I’ve woken up in an unfamiliar place with people who don’t speak my language, don’t seem to know anything about the existence of my country, travel on horses, wear armor and, Rumil has just tilted his head to the side, revealing an ear that comes to a point. I bring my hand up to my own ear, checking. Yep. Not pointed.

A sinking feeling settles in my gut. I gather what courage I can. Just ask. There’s probably a perfectly normal explanation. Maybe they’re playing a trick on me. “Are you…not human, then?”

His teasing smile never falters and he gives a sort of mocking bow. “No, my dear lady. You have the pleasure of encountering four of the eldar. We are elves from the realm of the Lady Galadriel. We have been here long before the time of man, and we will be here long after.”

This is ridiculous.

I push myself to stand, Baranor rushing to help. The world sways before me, and I wilt against the cool surface of his chest place. He holds me awkwardly—trying to keep as much distance between us as possible while still supporting my weight.

“I’ve hit my head,” I mutter, trying to fight through the fierce onset of dizziness and nausea. “I-I’ve been in some sort of accident, or had a strange reaction to medicine. Or maybe this is a bizarre dream, and I will wake up and laugh at myself and all this will have been in my imagination, or…or…” My breathing quickens, and I bring a hand to my forehead. My hand is so cold. Is it meant to be that cold?

I pitch forward, and Rumil darts a hand to grip my shoulder and keep me in place. His teasing smile disappears, and he turns to Haldir, looking alarmed. He calls out in that unknown language, and I can’t help but roll my eyes, though the motion makes me feel worse.

“Come on, you’re in my dream, so you can at least speak a language I understand!”

Baranor twists to study my face, his frown deepening. He joins the indecipherable conversation.

“Not you, too,” I whine, glaring accusingly at him. Stupidly, I had already come to see him as a sort of ally. All four of them ignore me which is quite rude, considering they’re obviously talking about me. Their discussion grows heated—they’re arguing.

Dark spots dance in my line of vision and I groan, wanting to lie down. Baranor tightens his grip around me, and his voice rises in volume. Does he have to be so loud?

Haldir barks out something that sounds very much like an order, and I focus long enough to see him mount his horse. Rumil releases my shoulder, sparing me the quickest of looks before returning to his own steed. Before I can process what’s happening, Baranor uses his grip on me to guide me towards the tall chestnut stallion.

I guess his intent.

“No!” I begin to fight against his hold. “I don’t want—”

“Hush now, it will be alright,” he soothes, his hands tightening on me as I try to get away. “We do not know of the realm you speak, but we are on a journey to a trusted friend—a wise friend—who may be able to help you. We will take you with us.”

I go stiff in his arms, weighing my options.

I have no reason to trust his word. But they haven’t hurt me yet, and the fact remains that I have no idea where I am. I probably wouldn’t fare any better on the riverbank. I don’t have food, or supplies, or a map. And traveling with them would allow me to see more of the landscape. Maybe we’ll pass a city, and I can sneak away. And from there…

Well, that’s a problem for later.

So, resigned to my situation for the time being, I nod. Baranor gives me a look of relief—I imagine he has no desire to lift a kicking woman onto a horse—and releases my shoulders to kneel and lock his hands together. I don’t particularly like heights, and this animal is much too tall for my liking, but everything about this day has been absolutely insane. I may as well get on the unpredictable beast. Baranor pushes on my foot as I pull on the horses’s mane. A second later, I’m sat firmly on the animal, Baranor in front of me. I look down to see how high up I am—a clear mistake, especially given the dizziness that hasn’t quite receded—and immediately wrap my arms around Baranor’s stomach. It’s difficult, given the armor he wears, but I manage, seeing as it gives me extra insurance that I won’t go tumbling to the ground.

“Get my attention if you feel faint,” he murmurs, taking the reins in his hands. “There is a canteen of water near your right foot if you get thirsty.”

And, before I can contemplate if I have the core strength to reach for the water and stay on the horse, we’re off, racing along the riverbank and leaving behind any chance I have of turning back.

A/n Thanks for reading! As always, comments, likes, and reblogs are so appreciated. Let me know if you would like a tag! See you on Thursday with Chapter Two :)

|next part - to be posted|

|masterlist|

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Double Heart tag list: @lainphotography @fangirl-nonsense @themerriweathermage @thophil2941btw

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[fourthwallhateclub]

Help me

Description: Emma is with Phoenix when she is kidnapped, can Bravo set aside their emotions in time to save her, or will they be too late...

A/N: I wrote some things like this over on Ao3 under “FourthWallHateClub”, this will eventually have a second part but with my ADHD I don’t know when that will happen 🙃 please feel free to send feedback on the fix, I know it’s shit but I live for shit so 🤭

@rebelreblogs

Emma's POV

Darkness... Floating... Silence... My eyes fluttered open and started to adjust to the light... where was I? The door slammed open,

"You're awake!" Was that... was that an Afghan accent? Then it all came back to hit me like a freight train...

48 hours before hand

"Sup Dalton." I said.

"Shut it Hayes." He said pissed off.

I turned to Mac with a questioning look, "Who pissed in his coffee?"

Mac smirked, "Don't take it personally, he's not pissed with you, he's pissed with Maddie. He was on his way to a football game with one of our old delta buddies when he got the call."

"It's..." I glanced at my watch, "1300 hours?"

"We we're gonna have a few beers!" Dalton groaned.

'More than a few.' I mouthed to Mac, he just coughed to stifle his laugh.

Matty walked in, tapping the glass creating a privacy screen, and clicked a button bringing an image up on screen. "Amir-Botzwat-Asharu."

"10 of clubs..." I breathed out in disbelief.

"International arms dealer, drug trafficker-"

"and grade-A prick." Jack stated matter-of-factly.

Mac snorted, "You can say that again."

"The guys been evading Phoenix since it was OPS, us personally for years, why are we concerned about him now?" I wondered.

"What's this got to do with us, CIA took over the case, why now?" Jack asked.

"If you’d let me talk, you’d know,” Matty said sarcastically, “He recently kidnapped and murdered an American. Phoenix have had him on our radar for a while now as you’re aware but the higher ups refused to green light the op to take him out, saying CIA had it handled. That all went to hell when their undercover agent was exposed, they shot him and put a bounty on everybody CIA affiliated."She said.

"We're on their SOS list Matty, we outrank some shitty little 'bounty' list." I said.

"Regardless, you, Dalton and MacGyver leave for the Middle East at 1600 this afternoon so you arrive at night, get your affairs in order because the big men upstairs say you don't leave till the jobs is done. You'll be properly briefed on the plane, but there are more pressing issues, you guys have up to date parachute qualifications right?"

"I don't like where this is going..." Jack mused.

"Me either..." Mac agreed.

"As much as I hate agreeing with you two shmucks, me three..." I said.

"Well whether you like it or not your jumping from that plane, there's no where for it to land where you'll keep your cover. Unless you want to walk 13 miles to where you'll be staying?" She challenged.

"WE'LL JUMP!!" We said in unison.

She smirked, "That's what I thought."

"Okay... where exactly are we going in the Middle East, and where are we staying?" I asked.

"You are going to Afghanistan."

"Fucking Trashcanistan?!? You've got to be kidding." Jack screeched.

Ah Dalton and his hatred for that place... he would get along with Uncle Sonny, man has a fear of bloody everything...

"SHIT!!" I yelled.

All heads snapped to me, "What's wrong Hayes?"

"Um... where exactly would we be staying?" I asked biting my lip.

"Navy base in J-"

I laughed nervously, "Would that be in J-Bad by any chance?"

"Yes, why?" Matty asked.

"We have a little problem..." I mumbled.

"And what would that be..." She mused, raising an eyebrow.

"My uh- my family was spun-up there a few weeks ago." I said.

"What do you mean Em?" Mac asked.

"I mean my family, is Bravo team. They are currently in the Middle East, and are stationed in J-Bad for the foreseeable future. What do we do?"

"I'm assuming that they were not among the people you told about your job?" Matty asked.

"No ma'am. Mac, Dalton, Bozer and Riley are the only ones who know..." I answered.

"You arrive at night anyway, you cover your tracks and stay as hidden as possible, don't talk to anyone and stay away from the sailors. Nobody is to know what you're doing there or who you are... to them you three are Black Rose, Hunter, and Eagle." Matty said.

"Yes ma'am."

"Well... get out of here."

We didn't need to be told twice, we were running out the door and to the squad room.

"What the fuck do I do?!?" I yelled as we entered the room.

"Want a hug?" Mac asked opening his arms. I nodded and walked into him tucking myself into his figure, "You'll be ok."

Jack's POV

"Wait! Is your dad the Jason Hayes, like Bravo 1, the legend?!?" I screeched.

"Uh- yeah.." Emma said pushing away from Mac and scratching her head.

"That explains a lot..."

"What do you mean?" She was confused.

"I mean, having worked with your father, I see where you get it from."

She laughed, "You are so old."

I gasped, "You mean we are so old. Mac and I worked together in the Army."

“No. You? You're old enough to be my dad. Mac? Is old enough to be my big brother." She laughed.

"Yeah, and we'll protect you like it too." I said hugging her shoulder.

"You won't have to do anything if my family spots me. I'll be on the first plane out of there and back home, complete with a tracker and navy seal protection detail. They'll never let me out of their fucking sight." She grumbled.

"You'll be ok. Let's get ready to rak out." I said.

"You're right."

I walked into my office and grabbed my rucksack and duffel. I met them back in the main room.

"List it Hayes."

She groaned, "Why???"

I smirked, "We're acting like the older brother and dad we are."

She rolled her eyes but spoke anyway, "I made sure my camping gear, fatigues and survival gear was in my bergan, along with Guns, ammo, knife and spare phones," we looked at her weirdly, "What? I'm sick of Mac breaking my shit. Dalton and I spend way to much fucking time at the Genius Bar creating new and inventive covers to explain what Mac does as is."

Mac raised his hands, "You got me."

She smirked, "I know I do, anyway, I grabbed my go-bag, passport and fake ID's."

"What's in your go-bag." I quizzed.

"Toiletries, Clothes, Cash, Raincoat, Matches, Lighter, Laptop, Flashlight, MRE's, water purification tablets, rope, duct tape, whistle, batteries, knife, and First aid kit. Why do we keep doing this?"

"Good, and we do it because we care." Mac said kissing her head.

“Ugh! Let's go." We headed out to Mac's truck and dumped our stuff in the back. She hopped in the back and we drove to Mac's place.

"Bozer!" Mac called.

"Sup guys." He said bro hugging Mac.

"We're heading out, I need you to take care of some stuff for us." Mac asked.

"Yeah ok, let me grab some paper." He said.

We walked into the kitchen and told him what we needed, Mac didn't need to worry because he lived with Bozer, so Em went first, "My rent is due first of the month, it auto pays but I need you to check on the seventh if I have mail just in case it didn't go through. I need mail collected on the 7th, 14th 21st, and 28th. Plants need to be watered but that can be done when you grab my mail, if anything happens there is a contact sheet folded in the draw of my desk, it'll tell you who to call, in what order. You good with that?"

"All good Em." He said with a smile.

"Thanks Boz."

"Your welcome, Jack anything you need." He questioned.

"I live next to Emma so same as her just no plants to water, if you could check on my place when you water Emma's plants that would be great, and there is a contact list in the box on top of the CD rack."

"Cool, I got it."

“Thanks Boz." Mac said walking back into the room with his bag.

"It's all cool man." He said.

We walked to the door before he called out, "Be safe, I want you back in one piece."

"We'll try Boz."

~Time skip brought to you by Sonny’s Bam-Bam~

We'd been briefed and where currently in our hammocks grabbing what sleep we could before we hit the ground running.

"Drop zone is up in 35."

"Let's go kids." I commanded with a laugh.

We packed up our hammocks and pulled on our jump suits. I strapped my duffel to the bottom of my bergan and grabbed my chute. Strapping my Bergan to my back I pulled the parachute over the top. I walked over to the ramp and waited for Mac and Em to join me.

"2 minutes to the drop zone"

"Ready ladies." I yelled over.

"We're coming." Mac laughed.

We attached to the central line and clipped in, we watched as the light turned on and the ramp lowered,

"5...4...3...2...1..."

The light turned green and we jumped. My drill instructors voice went through my head. Breathing Dalton... in for 2... hold for 4... out for 3... parachute in 3, 2, 1. Pull the cord. Release the parachute. Move your body vertical. Feet pointed down. Legs slightly apart. Hit the deck in 3...2...1. Land crouched. Bend knees and run forward 20 yards. Unclip and pull.

Emma and Mac landed next to me and we packed up our chutes.

"Base is roughly 1 click 228 degrees north east." I said.

"Comms up?" Mac asked.

"Yeah they are." Matty answered.

"Good." I said. "Let's go."

We moved our bergans to our fronts and held our duffel bags. We broke out into a jog eager to get out of the heat. Arriving at the 'base' we were met with our assigned CIA handler.

"Agent Jayden Riggs." He said offering his hand.

I shook it, "I'm Eagle, this is Hunter and she's Black Rose."

"Real names?" He asked.

"That's need to know." Emma answered.

“What do you mean, I'm your handler?"

"Look Riggs, we don't like spooks ok. We work alone, off our own intel. It's important our identities remain a secret." She answered shortly, that's my Hayes.

"Alright then, let's get you set up in cabins, Black Rose, you'll be separated from the men." He said as he started walking away.

"What?" I said.

"Gender sensitivity. Men and women are separated." He said like it was obvious.

"Yeah no, she stays with us. We don't care about gender sensitivity." Mac said before I could, reel in the big brother before you get yourself in trouble Mac.

"It's protoco-"

I cut him off, "Screw protocol, Black Rose stays with us."

"Of course." He relented.

He led us to a cabin as a humvee pulled up, out climbed 6 men and a dog, all in fatigues, before I could see anything else Emma pushed us into the cabin and slammed the door shut behind us as we collapsed onto the floor.

"What was that??"

"That! Was my family." She helped us up.

Jason's POV

We were on night patrol in a neighbouring town to J-bad, we'd been out for 6 hours and it was 0300. I decided it was time to head back.

"Let's move out."

We walked back to the humvee and climbed in. We'd been driving for about 15 minutes when we saw three figures drop from the sky.

"What the hell is that?" Sonny asked.

"I'll find out." I said keying my comms, "Havoc base this is Bravo 1, we've got three parachute jumpers coming towards base."

"Copy that Bravo 1, I'll find out." Blackburn answered, a few minutes later he keyed his coms again, "Stand down, their friendlies."

"What do you mean their 'friendlies'?"

"I'll find out."

I rolled my eyes, cryptic much. We watched as they landed about 5 clicks ahead of us and packed their chutes away, then started running towards base.

"We're not far out now. We'll talk when we get in." I said.

We got to the base gate and rolled through, getting out I saw three figures standing outside a cabin glance at us before one pushed the others into the cabin and slammed the door. Weird. After we dumped our gear in the shed. We walked into the team room where Eric and Mandy were waiting.

"Who were they?" I asked.

"Apparently they work for some government agency, they're following a lead on a case." Mandy said.

"Which agency?" Brock asked.

"I don't know guys. I don't know..." Eric said.

"Why did they jump Eric? Why not just land on the airstrip?" I quizzed.

"Apparently they're meant to be discreet. Nobody was supposed to know they're here." Mandy said.

"Well they did a crap job of that." Ray said.

"Actually Ray, you guys weren't meant to be out tonight, had base been on routine nobody would have seen them come in." Eric spoke.

"Well that's creepy." Clay said.

"What do we know about these guys Mandy?" I asked.

"Two guys, one girl actually." She stated hint of amusement in her tone.

"A girl?!?" Sonny yelled.

"What? Don't think women can do the same jobs as men? Or are you just worried she's going to outshine you." Lisa interrogated.

"No but if she gets snatched we'll be the ones collecting her." He grumbled.

"So? If she's snatched it's going to be for bad intel, and unfair conditions. Not because she's a woman." Lisa challenged.

"Enough! What do we know about them?" I yelled.

"Their handler couldn't tell me much, mainly because he didn't know a great deal. However, their code names are Black-Rose, Hunter and Eagle. Their handler doesn't know their real names and I suspect that's by design." Mandy spoke.

"Ok. First off those why do those code names ring a bell, Second what do we know about the organisation they work for?" Clay asked.

"Honestly? Nothing. None of my bosses know who or what they are and the further up I went the more I was told to stop digging." Mandy said.

"So what do we do?" Trent asked.

"We stay away. We don't talk to them, not only for your safety but for theirs too. You see them walking you say nothing, although I suspect given all the trouble they went to so they weren't seen while getting here, we won't be seeing an awful lot of them." Eric mused.

"Alright then." I said clapping my hands, "We need to sleep." I turned to Eric, "I trust if you find anymore information that could be of use you'll speak to us?"

"Of course." Eric said nodding curtly before walking out of the room.

[imnotcameraready]

more than beliefs (5: mother knows best)

A/N: still trying at this ! i still don't own any tables so honestly, writing has been kinda hard :') but i'm still up to a polished chapter 7 and know VERY well what is happening in chapter 8, so we're looking pretty good. i wrote all of chivalry chapter by chapter so.....hoping this goes well :'D

WARNINGS: manipulation, plotting a murder, paranoia description, blunt force trauma, assault, amnesia, blood, graphic description of violence — this chapter’s the first doozy! if i missed anything, please let me know!

Words: 4378

AO3 link!

enjoy!! <3

“Now, this might be a controversial opinion, but the second Little Mermaid movie is a top-tier Disney sequel,” the Director said, idly mixing a teaspoon around in his hot chocolate.

Roman scoffed. He was sitting on the Director’s couch, wrapped in a blanket while they watched 2005’s Just Like Heaven starring Mark Ruffalo and Reese Witherspoon. The Director had suggested they watch something from Disney, but while Roman loved the whole library of Disney movies lining his shelf, he couldn’t choose which one he wanted. To his surprise, the Director didn’t have a favorite, either. He’d said he was fond of the cookie-cutter damsel in distress narrative of older Disney stories, which Roman tried (and failed) to take offense to, but did agree that many modern movies like Big Hero 6 had interestingly complex and developed stories.

“I just prefer the expansion on oceanic lore. And I’m a sucker for a good parental storyline, when the former protag takes on the motherly role.” The Director took a sip of his coffee.

“And here I thought you weren’t one of my creative advisors,” Roman said with a smirk, crossing his arms upon his pillowy throne.

The Director scoffed, and as he rolled his eyes Roman could have sworn that he was blushing. Maybe he was embarrassed. “Just because I’m not David doesn’t mean I can’t have opinions on works of art,” he sounded dejected—Roman guessed that was fair. The Dragon and Damsel and Child, most obviously, had strong opinions on art yet no artistic inclinations.

It was still up in the air if the Thief did. It didn’t seem like he had many opinions on things that weren’t consequential to Roman’s direct safety, but he was very quiet. Roman didn’t rule out the possibility of the Thief just not wanting to share that information with him, which was….well. Unfortunate.

Roman wished he got to know his advisors better. Ever since they were separated from him, Roman feels like he’s been at the grinding stone with them all. The Thief had spent the whole wedding either swearing or screaming suggestions angrily, and when he wasn’t, he was comforting an incredibly distraught Bard. The Damsel and Playwright tried to help the most but... He had barely even seen the Artist outside of their creative sessions. He had barely seen the Dragon or Child, period.

The Director was an interesting one. Roman had everyone’s phone numbers, because, well, he wasn’t about to use carrier pigeons. Though that might be super cool to try one day. But the Director was just about the only advisor to casually reach out to him. He would send Roman memes. How did he even get memes? Roman and Remus had created an Imagination-version of the internet, so it was likely from their co-sponsored Imagination Tumblr or something. The Director putting in the effort and time to think of Roman during such small instances was what made Roman feel more comfortable here, though. That’s what made him trust the Director with these sorts of situations. Almost made them closer...

Was that selfish? To favor one part of oneself over others? Surely not. It was similar to recognizing flaws, or pimples and blemishes. Not to say any of the others were blemishes. Drats, even Roman’s internal monologue was demeaning to himself.

“Do you want any more coffee? I’m going to go refill,” the Director’s voice jolted Roman out of his stupor, and he looked up with wide eyes.

“No, I’m okay,” and after a small beat, he added, “Thank you again for housing me. I can’t imagine what Phillip would want to say after yesterday’s debacle.”

The Director scoffed. Roman snuggled into his blanket more, listening to the Director pour himself another mug and reply. “Anytime, Roman,” he chuckled, then put on one of the most outlandishly fake accents Roman’s ever heard. “I live to serve~”

“Sto-op,” Roman groaned, throwing his head back and shooting the Director a glare—well, glaring at the kitchen door. There were walls around all of the rooms here, unlike the Mind Palace.

The Director laughed even more when he returned, sitting on the couch with his legs crossed on the cushion. He held his mug in his hands for a few seconds before talking, tone much more sober.

“I do have to say. I’m surprised I was the one you came to.” The Director’s voice is a little more quiet. “I thought for sure you would have sought comfort with Cadence or Gavin before me.”

Roman blinks. “I guess….I didn’t want to be judged again.” He looked back down at his lap, at the blankets piled up there and his own coziness. “Every time I come back after an argument, or after making a fool of myself, it seems everyone has an opinion on how poorly I handled a situation. None of them really acknowledge….It must have been….”

He’d been a little confused about it, too. The trust issue.

“Janus has strung my emotions along enough for it to be fair that I don’t trust him,” Roman said, voice soft as he tried to put how he’d been feeling into words. “Right?”

That was as close an explanation as he could get to. Because it all boiled down to the trust issue, in his understanding of the situation. As much as Patton wanted him to let go of the situation, Patton was focusing on the mustache quip rather than the whole trust thing. Janus knew Roman had wanted to go to the callback. But Roman also wanted to be a good person, if that’s what Thomas wanted. Thomas wanted to be a good person so Roman also wanted to be a good person.

But when being a good person directly went against Thomas’ dreams, Janus stepped in. And sure, he argued that they weren’t supposed to be self-sacrificial, but wasn’t that a hero’s job? When did a hero ever get to keep anything before sacrificing everything? Isn’t that what made sense?

Janus didn’t even do a good job at explaining it, not until all the damage had already been done. This was different from just giving Roman the perfect set up for a theater display, this was Janus pretending that he wanted what Roman wanted. This was Janus pretending to be his friend but wanting Thomas to...be a bad person?

He didn’t understand. Maybe Patton was right. Maybe Roman just didn’t understand. And that’s what made his disgruntlement so confusing, because in his heart, Roman knew Janus was trying to help, he knew that, he understood. But then why did it hurt so much?

“Oh, honey, he’s gone way past that. Don’t gaslight yourself into thinking he’s been helpful,” Macbeth’s icy voice cut through the thoughts wrangling Roman’s mind.

The Director was so self-assured. It was comforting. He was sitting on the couch, arms crossed as he explained.

“And Patton, Logan, turning around just to say you should let it go and listen to him after he’s lied nine times out of ten?” the Director threw his head back and let out a sharp “Hah! No, your anger is rational. And defensible.”

“Why won’t any of the others agree with that?”

The Director starred at Roman for a minute. Just a little too long. His eyes seemed to press Roman into a corner, under a box. Scrutinized.

They both knew that “others” wasn’t a reference to the other Sides. The Director kept his distance from Roman’s other advisors, he knew that, but Roman didn’t know how far. The Director wasn’t the kind to just watch them, was he?

“They all have their opinions. About Disney and otherwise.” He took another drink of his coffee then shook his head, standing up, motioning for Roman to follow, “May I show you….something. Without you thinking I’m crazy?”

Now, that’s always a fairly worrying question to hear. “No, no, I trust you,” Roman said with a slight grin.

The Director must have been able to see how it waned, because he chuckled, smiled back. “I think we’re all a little zany. But that’s the charm. Phillip is undoubtedly the scariest, as much as Draco tries. The Prince, Damsel, whichever you want, has a noticeable villain complex.”

Wait, what?

The Director raised his hands in mock defeat. Showing his hands, like he were trying to assure Roman that he wasn’t being suspicious. But the hairs on Roman’s neck rose. He led Roman to the door just besides Roman’s room. When he first started visiting the Director, he explained that this was his study. Roman had never gone in. Because, you know, when you respect someone you also respect their privacy.

“I’ve only ever spoken to Marlowe, but, you know. I’m the Director of players I can never meet. I had to take notes,” he added the final part quietly.

He glanced over the combination button pad on the door. Roman hadn’t noticed that. What room would require a combination lock? And who would be….Was it to keep him out? Or someone else? Maybe the Playwright, the Director mentioned he’d been over before. Keep anyone out, it seemed.

“I….notes?” he was flabbergasted. What the fuck was happening?

“Yeah.” The Director opened the door slowly and motioned for Roman to follow.

Inside were papers. One wall was a large tackboard, photos and sticky notes and papers pinned up, connected with lines of colored yarn. Roman felt his mouth fall open as he inspected it. There were notes on all of his advisors, all seven of the others, even some of people Roman didn’t know. There was someone with four eyes. Someone with antlers. Who were they? How did this all fit together?

Why in Athena’s name did the Director have corkboard notes on the other advisors? That was a lot more than a little weird.

“I...You’re wonderful, Roman. So productive and pristine and princely, as you deserve to be. But there are some areas where you can stand to improve.” Roman was probably only processing some of the Director’s words as he rolled up his sleeves and pulled out a metal stick, one that looked oddly like a wand.

He held it in one hand, and suddenly it extended, until it was a pointer. The Director held both ends of it and watched Roman for a reaction, a response, something.

“I would have to agree,” Roman stumbled over his words a little, eyes still glued to the notes—there were some by the Child that read ‘Naive/Trusting/Problem?’—before he slowly turned back to the Director with a weak grin once again. “I mean, I might be pristinely princely, but those P alliterations don’t include perfect. No one’s perfect.”

“It may be an unattainable dream, but we’re well familiar with those. We can only strive for improvement! And when improving you and yourself, that means making changes to them,” the Director gestured up at the wall of photos, of the parts of Roman’s self, and smacked the Child’s photo with his pointer. “I actually only thought I would be reading these notes, so forgive me for any, er. Sharp language.”

Roman knew that self-improvement meant adopting new mindsets, but he had no idea that putting parts of himself into characters involved changing them as well, though it did make sense. Self-insert characters had to change if you were changing the self that was being inserted. Right?

If he wanted to improve….it made sense. He had to change himself, including the facets of himself.

“That’s fair,” Roman murmured, “Okay. These….You could take these notes to the other advisors. Surely they’d accept it?”

“At this point, I don’t know who would kill me faster,” the Director scoffed, then gestured at the Damsel’s notes, a cluster of sticky notes and drawings and photos of the Damsel at a well enough distance that it was closer to stalker-ish. “Phillip wouldn’t want competition. Marlowe agrees that he can be quite standoffish when threatened, and a newcomer claiming to be one of Roman’s advisors? Someone who doesn’t have his respect in a royal manner?”

The Director pointed to the Thief now, a even more grave expression adorning his face. “And Eric. Tell me you think he would accept a newcomer of any kind. Just tell me. Especially near Gavin. And the Child himself probably wouldn’t like me.”

Well, that sounded off. Roman leaned on the wall besides the door, back against his hands as he continued to inspect the wall. There were notes on the other advisors’ behaviors, their antics.

For some reason, Roman could almost imagine Janus or Logan doing this. It was something close to weird and something else close to endearing. Was that weird?

“Why not? Gavin’s pretty trusting.” Roman didn’t look away from the wall as he replied.

“In fairness, he might like me, but I don’t know if I could ever come around to liking him. He’s the root source of all our issues, especially our present issue with Janus, Patton, Logan. Even past issues with Remus, if I’m remembering them properly. What Gavin represents allows us to be easily swayed.”

That got Roman to look away, look down at the Director. He was glaring up at the Child’s photo with something fierce, which startled Roman enough. I mean, that was a whole child there. What would inspire this much hatred?

“Really now?” Roman wanted to know.

“He gets us to let our guard down. It’s at Gavin’s behest we take chances, but it’s that same honesty that leads us to broken promises, taking in lies like they’re candy. I don’t know what I would do with him,” the Director sounded disappointed.

That was a fair analysis. All of the advisors—the Playwright, the Thief, the Child, Bard, Artist, Dragon, Damsel, Director—they all represented different parts of Roman, similar to how the Sides represented parts of Thomas. In theory, they worked together. In practice, that was far from the truth, but Roman knew for his sake that they were trying their best.

They all oversaw different parts of Roman’s psyche, too. The Playwright, for example, was most similar to Logan in that he represented Roman’s research and organization, on a creative and egotistical level. The Playwright—Marlowe—could be trusted with knowing how many liters of blood were in the human body as well as every one of the Sides’ favorite karaoke songs, even the exact time and date they met Nico.

The Child was Roman’s belief, his ability to dream. It was fair to assume that that made him the most naïve part. Perhaps it was even a fair conclusion that the debacles with Janus were caused by what the Child represented.

Roman hadn’t thought of it like that. The last time he’d talked to the Child, Gavin, about the situation, he had seem incredibly disappointed.

He’d never stopped to ask what the Child was disappointed in, though. Was he disappointed in Roman? Or in himself? Did the Child know he was the one who had pushed Roman to trust Janus? Did….There was no way that this was….the Child’s fault. Was it?

“Huh.” Roman’s voice echoed emptily to himself. A pit opened in his stomach, something difficult to grasp. The root cause of his burdens couldn’t be his ability to dream. His dreams themselves, his hopes, his beliefs. He….he was the daydreamer, the creator. That couldn’t be a flaw, could it?

The Director watched him, but Roman hardly noticed. It was only for a few seconds, too, of stoic silence before the Director interrupted his thoughts with a huff, looked across the board. “This is quite a bit of insight at once. Maybe we should finish the movie.”

“Director?”

Roman and the Director both turned to the open doorway, the later slapping a hand over his own mouth immediately. With a flick of his wrist, the door closed quietly, clicking just loud enough for the both of them to hear. They also heard the Playwright in the living room, footsteps echoing faintly on the stone floor.

“Director?” the Playwright called out again.

“Fuck,” the Director whispered. This must have been an unplanned visit.

“What? We can just go out and say hello,” Roman said back, though his demeanor and body language spoke of worry, almost fear.

The Playwright was well known to be a pacifist. And the Playwright knew about the Director, knew about Roman knowing the Director. He was a little surprised to find that the Playwright didn’t know the Director’s name was Macbeth, but Roman knew the Director to be a man of secrets.

“He doesn’t know I….He doesn’t know you’re here. He barely knows we talk,” the Director looked around the room and pressed a hand to one of the walls, “Fuck. How are we going to get him out?”

The rock beneath the Director’s hand morphs into a doorway and he opens it. The Playwright was standing in the living room, close to the front door to the home. He looked up at them both, eyes widening when he met Roman’s. Before Roman could say anything, even think of something to say, the Playwright spoke with ease.

“Roman’s here? Thank goodness. Virgil’s come looking for him,” he gave Roman a small smile, strained but caring all the same.

“Ah.” Roman stiffened. Virgil came looking for him? In the Imagination? Why? How? He didn’t have his own passage into this space yet, how’d he get here?

He didn’t want to talk to Virgil. As supportive as he’d been, especially when it came to taking care of Thomas, there were still some areas where Roman wanted to be alone, wanted to process his thoughts alone. Virgil was...vindictive. Which was a strong word to use, but an apt one. Virgil’s distaste in Janus made it hard for Roman to form his own thoughts, which was why he often tried away from Virgil as much as Patton.

He wasn’t ready for that kind of confrontation, and the Director must have been able to tell, because he physically looked like he didn’t want Roman to go.

“I actually didn’t expect to find you here, though I’m not entirely surprised,” the Playwright must not have been privy to these feelings, glancing between the Director and Roman, shock still gracing his features.

“Really now,” the Director said, tilting his head, “Why not?”

“I just didn’t know Roman had met you, but of course, even I’m not as omniscient as Creativity himself,” the Playwright stepped closer, reaching toward Roman. “You have to come up, though. Virgil said everyone’s worried.”

Roman starred at the Playwright’s hand, unsure of what to do with the gesture. He knew everyone would be worried, on a baseline. Closed doors didn’t do well around the Mind Palace, especially his, especially after his splitting incident, but that didn’t mean he had to cater to everyone else’s worry. He was allowed privacy.

Before he formulated a response, though, the Director placed a hand in front of Roman. His smile toward the Playwright turned sour, lips pursed in a mix of thought and anger.

“He doesn’t have to go see Virgil if he doesn’t want to.” Roman felt some of the tension in his shoulder alleviate at the Director’s statement, as basic as it was.

The Playwright, on the other hand, didn’t seem to understand. He looked between Roman and the Director again, surprised even further by how familiar they seemed. There had been a fair amount of transparency in Roman’s relationships with all of the other advisors that there must be some dissonance to see him be so familiar with someone he hadn’t even expected Roman to know. Something about that surprise, the bait and switch, the lie, felt fulfilling.

“It wouldn’t be difficult to alleviate Virgil’s worried and tell him to leave again,” the Playwright explained slowly. “I’m sure, if Roman told him he wanted privacy, he would understand.”

“I’m sure, if Virgil could understand that, then he wouldn’t have tread where he shouldn’t. You can’t make him do anything.” The Director’s voice grew darker, hand unwavering.

“Make him?” the Playwright sounded so confused.

Roman was also confused where the Director’s notion came from, but it was validating to hear reminders that Roman’s decisions were his to make. But nothing in the Playwright’s tone was forceful.

For a moment, it seemed as though the Playwright would drop his confusion.

Until he took a step forward, toward the Director and Roman, with one hand outstretched. Roman didn’t know what he’d been planning, but he knew the Playwright wasn’t a sporadic man. He hated adding physicality to situations where debate and discussion could suffice. So, in hindsight, it was likely the Playwright was reaching out to make peace.

The moment passed in mere seconds.

He was taller than the Director by a noticeable few inches, so the Director bent his knees. He pushed Roman behind him with his outstretched arm, acting faster than either Roman or the Playwright could react to. The Director stuck his leg out and grabbed the Playwright by the fabric of his shirt, behind his neck. The Playwright, surprised by the sudden movements, tripped on his leg and let out a sharp gasp of surprise.

Besides them was the living room coffee table. As the Playwright fell, the Director redirected his head toward the table, shoving him away from Roman.

It felt very spur of the moment, and it happened in a true moment. The Playwright let out a scream, sharp and fearful, before his forehead collided with the edge of the metal table. He fell beneath it unconscious. Blood pooled at the Director’s feet as he stood back up.

Roman’s hands shot to his face immediately, as soon as the Playwright started falling, and he could only stare in horror at the scene. The Director, too, seemed shocked at his own reaction. He starred at his blood-stained socks for a little while, breathing heavy enough for Roman to hear. It must be the adrenaline.

“I,” the Director’s voice caught in his throat.

Roman watched. Just watched. The Director swallowed, turning around to face Roman with a mirroring horrified expression, eyes wide with surprise. “You have to make him forget.”

“What?” Roman’s voice was strained, almost a whisper, and he cleared his throat to repeat. “Excuse me?”

What kind of request….?

“If Marlowe remembers this, we’re fucked. He knows you’re here. He’s going to think I attacked him. I-I did attack him,” The Director took a slow breath, turning to look at the body on the ground before shaking his head—unable to look. “David is going to kill me.

“Make him forget. He can stay here. For a bit. We can figure this out,” he put his hands up towards Roman. “We-The other Sides’re gonna follow Virgil. We both know that. And, uh. Only Marlowe knew I was here. So we’ve got time to figure out how to, uh. Play this off.”

Roman starred at him with wide eyes. The past two days had been such a long mess, he didn’t know what to do. Physically, he could remove the Playwright memories. He’d be a blank slate of a character, only backstory. What would that do? The Playwright’s backstory was that he was the Playwright. He didn’t have some elaborate parent-death or chosen-one-esque story that he could fall back on. Poor bastard wasn’t even the one who had Roman’s memories prior.

But the Director was right, in a way. If they wanted more time to think about everything—the other Sides were looking for him? How did Virgil get in here? Why would he be looking for Roman, it wasn’t uncommon for him to stomp away from a verbal duel, why now?—then they couldn’t have the Playwright ratting them out.

When he manipulated the Imagination directly, his powers were red. Remus’ were green. It was distinctive. So when Roman sank down, put a hand on the back of the Playwright’s head, his hand turned red.

It blended in with the blood.

Roman felt vile. He had to do this, or else the others would find him. A quiet, dull part of his mind told him that didn’t matter but….he didn’t want to be found. He didn’t.

He pulled gently, as though tugging the thoughts out, and something glistened red and gold as he did. Then, Roman let it go, and it disappeared. It reminded him a little of Dumbledore pulling his own memories out in Harry Potter. Roman didn’t feel much the chosen one, either, though.

“There,” he said quietly.

The Director let out a soft breath. It didn’t sound like either of them knew what to do, to be fair. Maybe the Director hadn’t even expected this.

“I’ll….here.” The Director looked up and pointed at the wall behind the couch.

The couch scooted forward a little, enough for there to be a walkway behind it, and the room simultaneously pulled away from the couch. Then, a door formed on the wall. It clicked once, then swung open. Another room.

Roman stood still, staring at his hands—was that magic or blood?—while the Director leaned down to pick the Playwright up. The man hadn’t moved since being bludgeoned by the table.

“Under the sink in the bathroom is a first aid kit,” the Director said, voice stoic, taking the reins on the situation, “I’ll make him a bedroom and bandage his head. Then he can stay for a day or two. We must figure out what to do, about the other Sides and about Marlowe.”

That was fair. He’d only stay a little.

Dimly, Roman remembered that this was the Imagination, he mastered this world, so he could technically get rid of the Playwright’s wound. He could get rid of his memory and the wound and send him right back to his home, right back to the Artist, good as normal and none the wiser.

But….something in the back of his head stopped him. And the Director pulled him into the other room faster than Roman could overcome whatever clouded thoughts were plaguing him.

[j-pankratz]

these streets are yours

Yenalt, Past Geraskier, Past Almost-Yennskier, and a sort-of-but-not-quite Past Geraskefer. 2896 Words. Tags for Major Character Death, Grieving/Mourning, and Unresolved Romantic Tension. Major Character Death is important and, though gentle, permanent. ao3 link here

x

It had been nearly a year of luteless evenings.

Jaskier had passed in the way lucky humans (exceedingly lucky, in his case) do; warm, safe, in his own bed, with those who cared for him nearby. He’d also had the decency to go during a cool spell in the summer, meaning they could all gather outside for the funeral, mourn him properly, the way he’d wanted: a going-away party.

It had been beautiful; his students from all over had paid tribute, sung songs, played their instruments; tales had been told, Jaskier’s favorite pieces had been played. The annual festival Jaskier had become a patron of made promise to keep his memory alive. Oxenfurt had announced they would set up a fifth scholarship in his name, Jaskier having established the first four himself. All those he held dear had been able to attend, and by the end, it had truly felt more like the going away party he’d wished for rather than a somber elegy. A long line of former lovers had come as well, which had been amusing, to say the least.

It had been… good. It was a good funeral. They’d done as he asked, and he would have been proud.

“Is there such thing as a good funeral?” Geralt had asked.

The wind has whispered through the trees for the rest of the year in ways that sounded suspiciously like the tuning of a lute, to Yennefer, at least. She was projecting, she knew. But it was hard not to, when so much of the little world they’d built for themselves at Corvo Bianco had involved Jaskier, down to the accent tiles in the kitchen, a brilliant touch of cornflower blue running along the walls. The hanging chair in the backyard, wicker and worn now, where he’d sit and play for them while they watched the sun. The library that was filled with so many of his own works, and so many of his favorites.

All of it felt like ghosts now. He had only barely left, but felt so far away already, and yet he was right there in everything they owned, touched, did, said.

“As good as a funeral can get,” Yennefer had replied.

He’d grown old. He was a ripe 94 when he passed, and they’d both privately suspected he had wanted to go sooner than later at that point, as it became harder and harder to play. Not that Yennefer had ever had much insight into how the bard thought; they were… friends. Occasional lovers. Not like he and Geralt had been, though— and not that she’d ever minded, of course. Geralt had brought the mage and bard together, and neither had ever forced it further. Which, Yennefer admitted, had given her a deep respect for the bard she hadn’t been expecting to form. Yes, they’d been friends.

She’d expected Jaskier’s death to be difficult on Geralt. Of course it would, the two had been attached at the hip for decades, they were best friends, lovers, tied together so deeply she wouldn’t begin to try and decipher it, just as he had stopped trying to decipher her and Geralt. What she hadn’t been expecting was the loss to be such a blow to herself.

But that was death, wasn’t it? Knocking your breath away as someone else loses theirs. If he couldn’t breathe it, what use was air at all?

It was a stupid thought. But it lingered in her nonetheless.

Almost a year had passed, then, in the way grieving time always passes; both as molasses and the wind, heart-stoppingly slow and so quick they lost weeks to the ether. But it was summer again, and the birds were singing, and the sun cast the vineyard in a warm and pleasant glow, and the breeze carried the sweet smell of grapes to their porch, and Geralt had been spending increasingly more time in the study.

She’d peaked in a few times, just to see what he was up to— she could only ever see his back, it wasn’t reading, wasn’t writing, wasn’t… whatever she had expected. Instead, Geralt stood in front of the bookcase on one wall, where there was a waist-high counter of sorts, separating the top shelves from the bottom, which were reserved for larger, heavier tombs. He wasn’t looking at a book, though, or even staring ahead blankly as he had so often in the weeks after the bard’s death. He was staring at something small in front of him, lying on that counter, and for the life of her, Yennefer had no idea what it was.

The days were long and the evenings were heavy, and as one tumbled on past another, Yennefer became increasingly frustrated that she could not figure out what was preoccupying Geralt so. It was small, smaller than a book, so it wasn’t one of Jaskier’s poetry collections. Nor could it be the memory album Ciri had put together for the bard’s 85th.

He just stared. More than once, she could see him take a shuttering breath against tears. A handful of times, she’d crept in once he had left, looking for… something, some clue of what had been paining him, but she’d found nothing.

Weeks drew on. Geralt was increasingly agitated and trying hard to conceal it. He must have known she’d been spying, but neither had dared say a word. There was no bar, now, to break the tension. Well, something had to give.

Another evening, another opportunity for Yennefer to peak through the door ajar, to see her witcher’s back, his gaze drawn down, in the middle of a deep breath. The softly lit room made him appear almost as a statue, his sharply defined body looking smoother. She watched for a while, the steady rise and fall of his back and shoulders, the faded loose chemise he wore, his hair dropping around his shoulders and toward his face. She’d think him peaceful if she didn’t know any better. She did, of course. She tended to.

After a minute or two of just looking, (a gift she admitted she often took for granted, after everything they’d been through,) Yennefer pushed the door open just a bit, and it creaked in greeting. Geralt didn’t stir, but took a deeper breath than usual, and she only waited a moment before slowly stepping into the room.

“May I?”

Geralt went stiller, if at all possible, before raising his head and tilting it in invitation. She crossed to him, wrapped her arms around his middle, and planted a soft kiss against his back, burying her head in his shoulder.

“Hi,” he rumbled softly.

“Hello,” she returned with another small kiss. Geralt lifted his arm and brought it around her shoulders, and she tucked in neatly to his side. She looked down at his hands, and finally, there, the culprits lay. Two small strips of fine quality parchment, worn from how often Geralt had held them. Each had a fine filigree along the edges, and along the top read, “Toussaint Annual Bardic Festival”. Below, in neat calligraphy, one ticket read “Geralt of Rivia”, and with a slow sinking in her stomach, Yennefer read the next, identical in all ways save the center, which in small letters read “in memory of” above the gentle curl of the name “Jaskier, Julian Alfred Pankratz”. The bottom of both strips read two dates, the first a week and a day from then, the second a week later.

“Tickets,” Geralt sighed. She hated herself for not having figured it out before. Geralt and Jaskier had gone to the local festival every summer for thirty years, and she hadn’t even realized it was time— how had she forgotten? She’d never… gone, to be fair. She’d heard stories and had made the journey with them more than once, but it was Geralt and Jaskier’s time, and she’d let them have it to themselves. He’d let her have the autumn harvest markets with their witcher, so it’d only seemed fair, but now her heart ached to know she’d never seen the streets of Beauclair cleared, the frivolous banners hung, the tawdry vestments, the excruciating recitation of poetry— she’d never seen it with him. She never would, now, never see his eyes light up at the sights and sounds, the great wave of applause from fans as he bowed after a new song.

Were those tears? Fuck.

It was stupid. The only thing they’d shared was Geralt, after all. And Corvo Bianco. And, to a lesser extent, Ciri. And, she supposed, over 50 years of history. And friendships. And sometimes, a bed.

That was nothing. That should be nothing, to her.

“We usually go together,” Geralt says, as though that needs explaining. But he’d barely talked in weeks, so she let him go on. “He worked so hard to give patronage. Took him years. Was really proud of it. We’d already been going for years at that point, usually stayed the whole week. It was… tradition, you know. Made me promise…” he took a shuttering breath, “made me promise to keep going. Every year. Don’t know how I can, really, those streets are his. That whole place was just… his, you know? They ate out of his hand. It was,” Geralt laughed, and it was thick and wet, “it was something to see.” She could feel the lift of his arm as he ran his shirtsleeve across his eyes, but Yennefer’s eyes were trained on the tickets. She couldn’t look away.

No wonder Geralt had spent so much time in here.

“So, I’m supposed to go to this, and there’s a ticket for him, and it’s just…” she felt him shake his head. “I don’t know. It’s all his, it always was, I don’t know what the point is. They came… a month ago? Something like that, and a note that they’d be sent ‘in perpetuity’, as a gift for his support. But how can I…” The stood in silence, and Yennefer held to Geralt tighter. For her own sake, really. The world had begun to feel… drifty.

“I want to do right by him. But I’m just supposed to go, year after year, and watch as they forget him? As he fades away? It’s a fucking curse.”

“Sometimes I’m afraid I’ve forgotten his laugh,” Yennefer admitted, and she felt like a fucking child, and couldn’t bring herself to mind that, much.

Geralt nodded. “Mm. Or the— the way his nose wrinkled if something had—"

“Green peppers,” they said together around a laugh.

They stood there, wrapped in each other, and Geralt let a hand come up to stroke Yennefer’s hair as she tucked her nose into Geralt’s chest, on what she belatedly realized was one of the bard’s old chemises. “Let me give you something,” Geralt mumbled, and Yennefer opened up her mind, drew up, and went to go digging in his. But the memory he wanted her to see didn’t need to be dug for at all; he was practically throwing it at her, and she found herself enveloped in the sights and sounds of the streets of Beauclair all done up for the festival. Bright banners hung from windows and beside her, someone was selling some warm pastry out of a stall. She turned and there was Jaskier, maybe 60, that touch of gray dusting his temples that had so quickly taken over his whole head. His eyes were bright and shining and he was rambling on about something. He beamed, bright as the sun, and she felt the ghost of his touch as he wrapped a hand around her— around Geralt’s— upper arm.

She opened her eyes back to the dim study, and it was like a bubble has popped in her chest. She pulled away to look up at him, his eyes still cast on the tickets in his hand.

“Take me instead,” she said before she could even think to say it. “I’ll go. Show me everything I never got to see with him.”

Geralt looked down at her, frowning slightly, and for the first time that night they looked at each other, and she saw his face was full of warring grief and pain and hurt and confusion. There were two tracks of dried tears there, and she wondered what her own face looked like, at that point. She hated not knowing. She must look a mess.

“I don’t…” he sighed. “You’re not much for poetry,” he said, sounding more like a question.

“I could be,” she insisted.

“I just…” He took a deep breath, and she could practically see him trying to arrange the words just right for her. She’d grown more patient with him, something she’d learned from Jaskier. “I don’t know if I can go if you’re not enjoying it. It’s always been… his, and he was so happy there. I don’t want… I don’t want to taint it. With my sadness. Or seeing you… not enjoy yourself.”

“We’re going to be sad,” she said plainly. “We’re going to be sad, that’s just how that is. But… it was his. So there’s a piece of him there, and we can enjoy it. I won’t spoil the fun, and I wouldn’t ask to go if I didn’t think I would have a good time. I know I’m not a replacement for him—” she raised her hand to stop Geralt before he interrupted, “—nor do I need to be, nor do I wish to be, nor would I ever presume to be. It won’t be the same. But he wanted you to go— and if you want to go, I want to go with you. I want to enjoy it.”

Something in her nose stung. Geralt swallowed thickly. This shouldn’t have been anything.

She closed her eyes and remembered the memory Geralt had given her, recalled her own of Jaskier’s ramblings and smiles and soon she was tumbling through them, remembering even their spats and quarrels and it overwhelmed.

Wasn’t she supposed to be above this?

“Nothing,” she suddenly remembered Jaskier saying once, “is above song, or poetry. Some things are above words, but that is exactly why we write.” It had been a cool day in Oxenfurt, and on a whim she’d snuck into one of his guest lectures, and stayed behind after to give him a purposefully difficult time. It had all been barbs for a while, but had ended up turning into a real conversation, something they did not often permit themselves.

“So,” she’d asked, “what, is writing just an approximation of something so… big, grand, you can’t name it? What’s the use of words at all, then? There are other ways to convey something that don’t bother to use words at all. Surely they’d be more fitting for such things.”

He’d smiled widely. “We sing, write, tell stories, because after it’s all over, when we’re gone, you can carry it with you. You can’t carry a massive painting around and share it with someone else, and even if you could, it wouldn’t be the same. When you sing, you participate in the story, Yennefer. It’s never about the words. It’s about the people inside of them, and behind them. It’s about carrying someone else. Someones, really. Everyone. The whole world as it is, and was, and everyone to come.”

She hadn’t had much to say to that. She didn’t really get it, then, much as she thought she had.

And now, here she was. Bastard. Probably chuckling from beyond the grave. Smug as shit with a grin to match.

“Okay,” Geralt finally said. “Yeah.”

“We can?” Yennefer asked, yet again feeling so young and so… eager. She wanted to see the damn festival, now. Wanted to revel in it and let Jaskier be right, wanted to be carried by those songs and carry them with her in return.

“Yeah,” Geralt smiled, and his eyes crinkled in a way she hadn’t seen them do in ages. He nodded and tried valiantly to sound serious. “There are these fried pastries there, we’ll have to get some. Requirement, actually. For entrance. Multiple times a day.”

“Oh, of course. And we have to pick up some new volumes for the collection. Legally, we must,” she agreed soberly.

It was only a moment before they broke again, and she buried her face in his chest, in the warm linen of Jaskier’s old shirt, felt Geralt’s arms come to circle her, and the two began to rock side by side in something approaching a dance. They stayed like that, swaying silently as the crickets and cicadas of the valley chorused away, filling the room with a natural music and rhythm she’d grown to appreciate recently.

“I miss him,” Geralt whispered into Yennefer’s hair. She could feel him crying again. “I love him, I miss him, I miss him so much, fuck.”

“I know. I know.” She tangled the shirt in her hands tighter. Cradled the back of Geralt’s neck with another hand. And soon they were smiling again, not in spite of the grief, but because of it.

At some point, Geralt slipped the second ticket into her hand, and she looked down at it, and could not look away. Toussaint Annual Bardic Festival, in memory of Jaskier, Julian Alfred Pankratz. She read it over and over, until it sounded to her like a song.

[nostalgic-pancakes]

one day (i know that you will be there)

Summary: Here, have some fluffy transbur :D

Pairings: gen everyone, with a specific focus on crimeboys

Read on AO3

Word count: 2070

Warnings: None? I guess? Tell me if there are any, but I don’t see them

Other notes: Part of @noorahqar‘s BANGER discord server Pride Event!

Please DO NOT send this to the CC’s or even imply that this exists because No, Thank you

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Sometimes, it feels like it's okay. Nothing's wrong at all and in fact, Wilbur is happy.

Other times it feels like he's stuck in his own skin, a place he can't get out of.

Wilbur doesn't really know what's going on with his gender. He's always been cis, it's all he knows we it's his comfort zone. Even while his life was being wholly upended by YouTube, and Twitch and life in general, Wilbur's gender was always a constant- the one thing he never worried about or spent too much time on. It was his gender, and it was just kind of...there.

Sometimes when gender is part of the conversation, people display confusion when Wilbur talks about his gender like something separate from him that was tied on and is just there now, like a bit of hair that can never stay in place, but isn't necessarily a bother, either. But isn't gender like that for everyone?

Well, according to the one and only Tommyinnit, no.

"Well… for me, my gender is pretty malleable. It's more of a fucking... fucking abstract concept than a feeling? I'm a little detached from mine, but not as much as that, Wilbs."

"Then what is your gender like?" Wilbur asks. It's late on a Friday night, and Wilbur had ended up visiting Tommy's flat out of mostly impulse, living just under a kilometre away from his sibling these days. They're in the living room, splayed out on the floor talking about anything and everything in the dark, too quiet to wake Tubbo and Ranboo.

Wilbur’s not agender- he has a gender that he keeps around, even if it stays reasonably sectioned away from the rest of him.

Tommy hums, an older tune that Wilbur can't place as he fiddles around with some wool scraps ("Cabbages!" Tommy insists indignantly) leftover from the cardigan they had just finished when Wilbur walked in. It's a burgundy colour that's probably going to be matched with one of Tommy's longer cream skirts to University Monday morning.

"My gender is a… a kind of vibe? I guess? To me it feels like skirts doing that cool swoosh thing in the wind around you while you walk or eating Tubbo's chicken soup and that feeling I always got after a Dream SMP stream. It's weird, but that's my gender I guess." And that is weird. It's weird as fuck, but Tommy's gender sounds really fucking cool so Wilbur tries anyways. Tries to imagine what his gender, the amorphous entity that it is, feels like to him.

It's hard, at first, but then Wilbur starts humming. He's always done better with auditory concepts than visual or tactile ones, strumming tunes together that tie in with his latest hyperfixation.

So Wilbur hums. He starts with 'White Wine in a Wetherspoons' and then 'Cause for Concern' with a little bit of 'Your new Boyfriend' thrown in for posterity as it all starts to come together. Tommy starts tapping his finger on the plywood floor, creating a small beat.

His gender feels nice, actually, and not just the neutral burden that the universe has him carry around. It begins to feel like the warmth in Wilbur's chest when someone says "Hey, don't stop. Tell me more, this is interesting" to even the most niche fixations that Wilbur has ever had, like the different types of bricks or the historical fashion one he had at the same time as Tommy and they made dozens of Pinterest boards together (1830’s hairstyles his beloved). It feels like Phil calling him 'Son' in that chamomile accent, like everything will be fine. It feels like the tipsy laughs he and Niki share when getting drunk together and it sounds like the quick, comforting 'bzzt bzzt bzzt' of Tommy's sewing machine running on the other side of the flat while Wilbur makes them breakfast because they and his flatmates are fundamentally incapable of looking after themselves.

It's really a pretty nice gender, actually. So when Wilbur closes its metaphorical pouch and clips it back onto his metaphorical backpack, he feels lighter, warmer inside than before. Is this how Tommy feels sometimes?

The tapping stops and Wilbur realises that Tommy's fallen asleep, surrounded by scraps of cabbage on a fairly cold plywood floor. This will not do. Thankfully, Wilbur has gained enough arm strength to reasonably carry the nineteen-year-old to his bedroom, carefully avoiding sewing pins that Tommy will clean up frantically in the morning. Tubbo and Ranboo are asleep as before, in the same place, huddled together on the lowest bunk covered in blankets, with just enough room for another person.

Tommy fits in perfectly, head on Ranboo's shoulder and the rest of him swathed in blankets to protect from the cold. It's started to show fairly heavily outside so going home is not possible. Therefore, Wilbur stays.

The guest room still has some of his shit from the last time he stayed over, around a week ago. Piling a thick-ish duvet on top of himself, Wilbur sleeps, more at peace than he's ever been.

-

Monday morning, Wilbur tries out pronouns. He was spending the weekend in a bit of a haze of filming and social interaction and talking to Elodie, his editor, in order to have most of this week free.

He's back at home with pronoun dressing rooms loaded on Firefox, a Geoguessur stream finished and a free day with spoons to spare. It is time.

First- she/her.

This is Wilbur, the site reads, She's 27 years old with a penchant for making songs. She also really likes hanging out with her sibling, Tommy and her best friends on the Dream SMP. She still ships DNF.

Oh. Oh wow. She/Her works pretty well actually. Wilbur likes that for herself.

Next- they/them. This is not as nice, but it's also not bad, necessarily.

Fae/Faer- this one is pleasant enough.

Everything else is okay, Wilbur supposes. She figures that just knowing that he/him isn't the only answer is good enough for herself.

The first person she tells is Tommy, on a phone call during one of his frees.

“Okay, so he, she and fae, right?” they ask, rolling the pronouns around like the colorful hard candies sold in packets of two hundred each, muttering small sentences, barely audible to the phone mic amongst the dozens of student voices around him, pitter-pattering like sleet on cars heard from a cozy living room.

“Yeah. pronouns change by the day. Please don’t interchange them.” Wilbur confirms, short and soft.

“Oh that’s really fucking cool. What are they today? Does anyone else know? Do you have names you want to be called instead?” Tommy asks, orange-sweet in his kind concern and slowed down questions as to not deflate the souffle in Wilbur’s brain.

“Uh, she/her, and no, not yet on the knowing and the name thing. I’m going to tell Phil and Niki, then Dream, probably. Wish me luck.” Wilbur answers, the ‘wish me luck’ thrown in more as a formality than anything, but she’s still nervous, thoughts spinning in popcorn-crunch circles, pop pop pop about how it could go wrong and even if Tommy and Ranboo were accepted, perhaps that courtesy won’t be extended to her. Tommy, the absolute fucking legend as always seems to have figured that much out.

“Wil. Wilbur. Wilby. Big Dubs- It’s going to be fucking fine, you’re popcorn-popping again and while that’s one of your idiosyncrasies and I fucking love those, you are also freaking the fuck out. Everything will be fine, alright?”

“Idiosyncrasies? Where did you learn that? Is ‘The Tommyinnit’ learning new big words?” Wilbur teases, to mask her affection just a little bit, even as it seeps out of her voice like honey in a sopapilla, warm and sticky and sweet.

“Don’t fucking patronize me.” Tommy retorts, instinctive as it’s been for the past few years now, no bite behind their words. “I’ve got South Asian Lit now- call us in the evening?” he asks, because Tommy, Tubbo and Ranboo are a single unit in the evening. Do not attempt separation till after midnight. Wilbur laughs, a small thing only audible to her sibling over the phone.

“Course. You can tell them yourself, if you want.”

“Okay. Now I need to walk like, three buildings or some shit, so I’m hanging the fuck up. See you later?” Tommy’s voice is softer towards the end, cotton candy and Wilbur melts, just a little bit.

“Okay, bye Tommy.”

“Bye Wil. Good luck.” Tommy hangs up a few seconds later, the last thing on the line that Wilbur can hear being Ranboo’s steadily louder voice as end catches up to Tommy, and Wilbur keeps the phone to her ear for a few seconds more, before putting it on charge and loading up Discord, to find Phil and Dream on VC 3 together, Tubbo and Purpled occupying the beloved VC 2.

Wilbur joins the call, taking in a deep breath and letting it out, and taking a sip of lukewarm tea. Earl Grey, probably taken from the tea box Phil gifted her on Christmas and prepares herself.

“Ay, H’lo, son.”

“Hey, Wilbur!” Dream’s voice, chirpy and crisp as a freshly-picked apple registers first, just before Phil’s comforting chamomile and Wilbur is at ease very quickly, because it’s Dream and Phil. It is literally impossible for things to go wrong.

“Hi! I just came on here to tell you something.” Wilbur starts. After hearing noises of agreement, like popping candy, Wilbur starts.

“Um, so on Friday, Tommy and I did some soul-searching. Well, I did most of the searching. And uh, I figured out that I’m technically genderfluid, but my gender is a series of abstracts and I use he, she and fae pronouns.” It’s quiet for a second, before Phil responds.

“Hey, that’s pogchamp, mate. What pronouns are you using right now? Are they interchangeable?” Dream makes a noise in agreement, in questioning.

“Thanks, and uh, she/her, and no. not interchangeable. I use certain pronouns until I don’t.”

“Oh, that’s cool! Should I update your pronoun role in the Discord to ‘ask for pronouns’?” Dream finally says, and in typical Dream fashion, it’s by getting straight to business. It’s ridiculously endearing, even five years on, knowing everyone’s little quirks and idiosyncrasies (thanks Tommy for reminding her that the word exists) that it’s still possible to be endeared by them, and that they’re all still endeared to her.

“Yes please, Dream. Thank you. I’ll make a small announcement on the server myself, but thanks.”

“No problem, Wilbur! We’re glad you’re happy.”

“What the green-bitch said, mate.” Phil responds, and Dream turns on his camera for that only, just to show that he isn’t actually wearing green- he’s wearing a blue T-shirt, blonde hair mussed about enough to show that he did not comb it when he woke up. His face still has some sleep leftovers, but he’s awake enough to pay attention, and he’s smiling at Wilbur, mouse clicking very fast to change her discord role, and it shows up a few seconds later with a purple dot. ‘ask for my pronouns’. Wilbur is smiling like an idiot, and she turns on her camera, Phil following suit as she starts laughing a little wetly and all of this sinks in.

Wilbur is gender-fluid. She loves herself, her family and the little pouch still strapped to her backpack. Phil is whispering things into the mic soothingly and Dream is grinning at her, and it just feels so good. The bad feeling in Wilbur’s skin just isn’t here today, and it feels like it won’t be around for a while yet.

With slightly blurry eyes trying to see through her glasses, Wilbur makes an announcement with the @everyone turned on.

Bitchbur (she/her today): @everyone I’m here to announce that I’m genderfluid! You can either ask me my pronouns or I’ll just change my nick. The name’s still Wilbur. That’s about it.

Replies start coming in, nothing but messages of support and thumbs-up emoticons, and Wilber closes her eyes, leaning back in her chair, laughing a bit more. She’s so happy that she managed to accept herself, and find acceptance in everyone else on this server. She probably won’t come out to the internet for a while, or even to some of her real-life friends but that’s okay.

She’s got everything she needs right here.

[sohin-ace]

Josuke - Phone Buddies

This is cross-posted from Wattpad and available on AO3.

Enjoy~

"Yare yare daze, I'll pay, don't bother."

Jotaro was in a generous mood as he decided he would pay for the meal he shared with his uncle and grandfather today. He took out his wallet and got up to pay for the order, but right as he opened it and got the cash out, a small picture fell from it.

Josuke noticed it but as he was about to call Jotaro out to tell him, he was already far gone to the cash register.

Josuke took the picture in his hands and decided it wouldn't hurt to take a sneak peek. Also, he wondered what kind of photo a man like Jotaro could have tucked so preciously in his wallet.

The picture showed two smiling girls. One little girl with her hair styled in twin buns and a cute dress with butterflies on it, and right next to her, a very pretty H/C H/L haired girl with beautiful E/C eyes that was holding the child close to her.

Josuke's eyes widened upon seeing the picture and was astonished at how pretty you were. Were you Jotaro's family?

Jotaro had never mentionned a teenage girl in his family. Josuke already knew about Jolyne and even though he had yet to see her in person, he figured she was the child in the picture.

But you? Who were you? He suddenly became so curious. Were all girls living in America this cute? He blushed at his own thoughts.

"What the hell are you drooling at?" Jotaro grumbled as he came back.

Josuke subconsciously wiped his mouth at the remark and got up, handing him back the picture.

Jotaro's expression shifted slightly and his brow furrowed as he didn't expect to have lost such an important photo.

"W-who is she?" Josuke stuttered as he pointed at the picture, now in the hands of its owner.

"That's my daughter Jolyne and my sister-in-law, Y/N."

"Y-your sister-in-law? How old is she? She's very pretty..." He mumbled the last part, quite embarrassed to ask Jotaro these intrusive questions.

Josuke rubbed the back of his head as he looked away, obviously flustered. Jotaro was quick to catch on what was going on in this hopeless romantic's mind.

"She's around your age, and yes she's single. Let's go now." The taller male huffed as he turned around to leave, Joseph already waiting outside.

Josuke gasped loudly, a deep blush adorning his face as he trotted close behind.

"Wha- I wasn't even gonna ask that!"

Ever since that day, Josuke couldn't stop thinking about Y/N, the girl never leaving his mind. He was so curious and infatuated with her, he really wanted to know more about the mysterious girl.

Even if he knew the distance separating them was a big obstacle, he couldn't help but find it even more intriguing.

Jotaro of course had quickly noticed how dreamy Josuke had become ever since he fell upon that picture and sighed at the teenager's helplessness.

"Here. Call her in the morning before 12 or at midnight if you're still awake."

Jotaro came in one day and slammed a piece of paper on the table in front of Josuke, making the boy jolt and forcing him out of his train of thoughts.

He looked at the paper and on it was a phone number, most likely yours, and Josuke's eyes widened. He jumped from his seat and called out to his comicly older nephew who was already leaving.

"Wh- Really?! Oh my god, Jotaro you're a real man!Thanks!!"

Jotaro only dipped his hat while muttering his catchphrase and just like that, he left the scene, his good deed done.

Josuke's palms were sweaty and his heart was beating fast as he dialed the number and listened to the anxiety inducing bipping sound on the phone.

Yes. Tonight, he was calling you. He would know about you and, even if he didn't expect a relationship out of this, at least he could make a friend, right?

But what was he supposed to say? Were you going to find him weird? You never heard of him after all, and he suddenly had your phone number. What if he messed up? He was fairly good at English, but what if his accent was too strong and you couldn't understand him?

He didn't have time to fret any further as you finally picked up the phone, making his heart jump.

'Hello?'

His breath caught in his throat. Was that you? That was your voice right? This felt so unreal.

'Hello? Who is this?' You questionned and Josuke finally managed to blurt something out.

"H-hi! This is Y/N, r-right?" He stuttered uncontrollably and his hands were shaking.

'Get a grip, Josuke, that's so uncool for a guy like you!' He thought to himself. He wished Okuyasu would be there to give him a boost of confidence and some much needed bro support.

'Yes, it's me! Who's asking?'

Your voice was so sweet in his ears, he didn't expect that much honey in a single person's voice. A few words from you and he could already tell you were a kind person.

"I-I'm Josuke Higashikata! You don't know me, but I'm a relative of Jotaro." He was now calmer after introducing himself, the awkwardness fading slowly.

'Oh! Hi! It's so good to hear from Jotaro's family!' You chuckled lightly. 'How is he? Is he next to you?'

You sounded so happy to have news and his heart was restlessly hammering in his chest. But that was bad, the conversation was shifting towards Jotaro, he had to say something.

"Oh yeah, yeah he's fine, he's not here at the moment, it's pretty late in Japan..." He didn't know what to add. He was so shy, it was killing him.

'Oh I see, that's good. When you see him, tell him to give us a call, Jolyne misses him a lot!'

"Sure, I'll tell him!" He had to say something interesting, and quick, before you figured out how much of a weirdo he was. "U-um... So Y/N... You're... You're 16 right? Just like me!"

'Yes! I'm still in highschool. It's good that we're the same age Jojo. Oh- you don't mind if I call you Jojo? That's how my sister calls Jolyne.'

He blushed at the cute nickname. He wasn't very used to be called Jojo but coming from you it was almost tearing at his heartstrings.

"I-I don't mind!" He squeaked in an embarassingly high-pitched voice that he would have rathered not let you hear and you giggled.

'You sound so sweet! I wish we could talk more often, I'm sure you're a very nice guy!'

He wanted to scream at your cuteness but instead he resolved to balling his fists. Without even needing to meet you he was already falling hard in love with you. But at the same time it broke his heart that you two couldn't meet, or at least not until a very long time.

"Y-you too Y/N... You sound like my type of girl." He paused at his own words when he heard you gasp on the other end of the line.

'WHY THE HELL DID I SAY THAT WHAT THE FUCK ??!!!' He pulled at his precious hair as he cringed. Oh he messed up, just as he predicted. He goofed.

'J-jojo...! Y-you... Really? You think so...?'

You were embarrassed, but you couldn't deny that you were touched by his words, your heart racing as well as your thoughts. Nobody had ever said that to you before, and the mere thought of a boy, as far away as he was, liking you made you blush.

"I-I'm sorry! That... That was too much! Oh my god..." Josuke panicked and facepalmed, feeling so freaking dumb and not knowing how to save the situation.

'N-no it's just...' You trailed off thinking carefully of your next words. 'Maybe... I sound nice on the phone, but the reality may be disappointing, you know?'

"Huh? What do you mean?"

'I'm probably not as pretty as you imagine... Don't get your hopes up.' You laughed nervously his eyes widened at your words.

"N-no way!" He stopped himself before he could say something he would regret.

He couldn't let you know that he saw your picture. The last thing he wanted right was to seem like a major creep and that he only called you for your looks when he actually started to really like your personality.

He also sensed that you probably didn't have the best self-esteem, so disappointing you was out of the question.

"I... I truly believe you'd be nice to me if we met, regardless of what you look like. Also, if Jotaro trusts you then there's no way you can be a bad girl."

'R-really...?' Your heart skipped a million beats at his reassuring words and soft voice and you were glad he couldn't see you fidget in your seat. 'Ah, thank you Jojo, it's really sweet of you.'

He bit his lip and silenced himself from fanboying. You were just melting his heart by the second and he swore if you kept speaking with that airy voice, his brain would short-circuit.

'Actually... I think Jotaro has a picture of Jolyne with me on it, if you're ever curious of what I look like.'

"O-oh, really? I mean... Yeah, I guess I could ask him." He feigned ignorance and tried to keep his cool. "Should I send you a picture of me too?"

'You wouldn't mind? I kinda want to see what you're like, Josuke.'

"Oh, you won't be disappointed, I'm handsome as hell." He teased and you couldn't help but laugh at his boasting confidence.

'Ooh, I know I won't be, Josuke. I'll like you either way. I'm a simple girl.'

Oh no. Oh no. Your words had sent the boy reeling yet again, making his heart ache painfully in his chest and leaving him gaping in his seat like a fish out of water.

That was bad. So bad. He really didn't want to fall in love with you, but he guessed that was a huge failure on his part.

Why did you have to be so kind, so soft, and so far away? Did you feel the same way about him? Or was he the only one suffering in his bedroom right now?

Before he could add anything, he heard the phone beeping ominously, signaling his time with you was almost up. Damn, time flew way too fast.

"Y-Y/N, I'll have to hang up soon. I only bought two hours of phone time towards America."

'Ooh it has already been two hours? Aww man! It was so nice talking with you Josuke. Let's talk again like this soon, okay?'

You tried your hardest to conceal your disappointement, but at the same time you were hopeful to talk with him again in the future.

He was the only person that ever tried this hard to talk with you, and you managed to completely forget to ask him why he even called you in the first place.

You shrugged it off thinking that Jotaro must have talked about you to Josuke and tried to get him to make a foreign friend. If it was the case, you'd have to thank your brother-in-law, as you were really charmed by the young Japanese teenager and couldn't wait to learn more about him.

"Sure! Take care, Y/N..." He spoke softly to the phone, feeling all light and tingly inside.

He couldn't see it, but you were blushing at his sudden deep voice and tone.

'Goodnight, Jojo.'

He lingered a little bit, the phone still against his ear, then hung up. He sighed and held the phone close to his chest, his lips stretched in an unfaltering giddy smile.

"Oh my gooood..." He crossed his arms over his desk and buried his face in them, heavily flustered, your voice still echoing in his mind.

He took deep breaths to calm his excited heart. He couldn't even call his best friend Okuyasu and tell him what happened, it was already 2 A.M.

He knew he would regret having to wake up so early for school tomorrow, but the lack of sleep would be so worth it.

He just couldn't wait to speak to you more.

Do you guys remember when we had to buy cards with codes on it to call outside the country?

At the end of your limited time your phone would bip or tell you 'Time's up bitch, you have 5 min to say goodbye to your family'.

And it was so hard to say goodbye.

Damn, I feel old. The 90's man...

[scythian-andromache]

chains around my demons

a The Old Guard (2020) fic Relationships: Andy & Nile & Joe & Nicky, Nile & Quynh, Booker & Quynh, background Joe/Nicky being immortal husbands Rating: T (swearing, canon-typical violence) Summary: Every night, Nile dreams of Quynh. Every night, it's the same vision, the same terrifying dream. And then one day, suddenly, it isn't. Ft. low-key found family and escaped!quynh

also on [AO3]

***

Desperation. Rage. Insanity.

None of it is new. She dreams of it nightly, Quynh’s last moments perpetually invading her sleep. Each time she screams, slams against her iron coffin desperately, drowns. Over and over again. Nothing new under the sun.

None of it is new. She wakes with a gasp, the visceral fear, anger, fraying senses lingering like an acrid taste in her mouth, gripping her as her own adrenaline pumps furiously through her veins, before her body finally adjusts to her physical reality.

None of it is new. She blinks, and she’s underwater. Blinks, and she sees Quynh’s scream, a cloud of bubbles escaping, the last air in her lungs. Blinks, and feels the bite of the metal as Quynh’s fists pound the door to the coffin. Blinks, and Quynh is still, feels the life leave her, feels her eyes roll back in her head. Blinks, and Quynh is screaming, pounding the coffin door, feeling it budge—

That’s new.

She wakes up, already in a sitting position as she heaves a breath. In front of her is Andy, shaking her roughly.

“Andy—” she gasps, trying to realign with reality, trying to tell her that her dream about Quynh was different tonight.

“C’mon, kid. We’ve gotta go,” says Andy.

“But—”

“No buts, it’s time to move,” the other woman says, handing her a loaded Glock.

From the other room, there’s a crash, and the thud of feet, seven—no, eight—separate sets of footsteps advancing through the house.

“Fuck,” hisses Nile, because there’s no time to put on combat boots, and this is absolutely going to hurt. She’s up in a flash, gun aimed at the doorway, and takes out one, two, as the tac-team comes storming in.

There’s a flashbang, and in her disorientation, just manages to throw herself in front of Andy as the pop – pop – pop of their guns go off. (In the background, there’s the sound of measured shots from Andy’s gun, calm and deadly, and the more explosive ring of Nicky’s sniper shots.) She dies, still painful but not nearly as terrifying as the first dozen times, and eleven seconds later, feels one of the bullets push out of her skin. Coughs, and spits out another. Feels her skin knit back together for the three through-and-throughs.

“Right, time to go,” says Nicky’s voice through the haze, and Andy grips her arm and pulls her up. On the floor are eight dropped bodies, the remains of a once-elite squad.

“Copley’s going to have a field day with this one, but he deserves it,” Joe snarks.

They always have go-bags on hand, and it’s only a matter of grabbing a few things to clean out the space. Nile gets to put on shoes, this time, and then they’re out, screeching away from the carnage in Andy’s beat up Citroën. Four immortals, back in the wind.

*

It’s nearly forty-eight hours, five countries (six if you count Luxembourg, which none of the rest of them seem to), and three continents before Nile gets the chance to sleep again. Sure, she catches a few winks of sleep in transport, but never deep, never enough to recoup her energy. Nile, after all, is not yet used to getting the rejuvenating sleep on nose-diving cargo planes that Andy, Joe, and Nicky seem to achieve, even after six months of this life.  

Only when everything’s over, when Copley’s wiping yet more footage and the four of them are at one of Andy’s safe houses—this time in Bangkok—does Nile gets the chance to sleep again. In the interim, she died seven separate times, and frankly, dying is exhausting. She’s surprised she’s still standing. She’s out like a light, and sleeps soundly for the first time in weeks. No dreams, no visions, no dying Quynh invading her thoughts at every turn.

She awakes naturally, to the sound of clinking dishes somewhere nearby, and the alluring smell of coffee.

God, how long has it been since she’s had coffee? Four days? Five? Too long, in her estimation.

“The sleepyhead awakens,” teases Joe.

“Good morning, bambina,” greets Nicky, a cup of coffee already in a mug for her. “Yusuf, hayati, she is only a baby,” he scolds gently. “They need sleep.”

Joe hums. “There are tamr to break your fast and a plate of pancakes in the fridge.”

Nile blinks, and goes to retrieve the pancakes. It takes a moment for her brain to catch up and supply the fact that the dates on the table are also meant for her, if she wishes. “Shukran kteeran,” she says, conscious of her accent as she thanks Joe; she’s been making an effort to learn more than English, high school level Spanish, and the few words of Pashto that she speaks ever since joining up with them.

“My pleasure,” says Joe fondly.

“Where’s Andy?”

“Where is she ever?” By now, Nile knows that’s code for ‘out and we don’t know where.’

“We are going to Wat Arun, later,” says Nicky. “If you’d like to join.”

Nile only vaguely knows what that is, but it would be nice to do something that doesn’t involve shooting or dying.

“Sure.”

They have a very enjoyable afternoon touring the temple—not a single bullet in sight, much to Nile’s pleasure—and Joe and Nicky tell her the story of the first time they came here, when it was being built more than four hundred years ago. Joe and Nicky narrate back and forth with the practiced ease and fluidity of people who know intrinsically how the other thinks, and their comedic timing is unparalleled. Nile finds herself laughing more than she has in weeks, and it feels good. For a few breathless moments, she feels weightless, like everything might just work out, despite the fact that she’s immortal and the world has become infinitely more complicated for her to navigate.

As good a time as she’s having, she ducks out in the mid-afternoon, making excuses about still being tired, so that Joe and Nicky can gallivant around the city alone, instead of with a third wheel. When she gets back to the safe house, Andy is still gone, and she finds that she actually is tired. It takes very little to fall asleep again.

Desperation. Rage. Insanity.

Shit, this dream again.

Wait—no, it’s the wrong flavor of each.

Desperation, but the fiery, yearning sort of a goal not yet accomplished, not the despairing, scrabbling misery of before.

Rage, but calm and white-hot, not the frenetic rage of a cornered animal.

Insanity, but an ordered sort of chaos, not the entropic fraying of a mind from endless, repeated trauma.

All of this is new. There are no bubbles, no pounding hands on unyielding iron, no screams, no death.

Instead, there is rocky coast. The flash of a café, an umbrella filled terrace. The feel of a deep lungful of air, bright and fresh. A cool, salty breeze. An undercurrent of rippling, deep anger.  

“Oh, a baby,” says a voice, and a face comes into focus. Quynh, she realizes, slightly gaunt, but with eyes that are a thousand meters deep. She tilts her head. “Two babies.” She grins, razor sharp, like a predator and—

Nile wakes with a gasp.

The light is low, the sun set over the horizon, only the last lines of pink and orange still lingering in the sky.

Every nerve ending in her body is on fire, adrenaline pumping, because those eyes, those fathomless, bottomless eyes are still imprinted in her vision.

“Andy,” she croaks.

“Calm down, kiddo, you’re all right.” Joe and Nicky must be back from their sightseeing and/or shenanigans.  

She feels cold. She’s not all right.

“Booker,” she gasps, trying to convey her fear. Two babies, Quynh had said. Her and Booker. Two people—new immortals—for Quynh to dream about, now that she isn’t dying every three to five minutes.  

“Traitorous—” a word falls out of Joe’s mouth that no longer exists in any living language. Nile’s not sure she could replicate its rasping consonants even if she tried, but she gets the message loud and clear.

“Quynh is alive and I think Booker’s in danger,” she says, in a rush, heart racing and eyes panicky.  

Nicky takes her hand in his. “I need you to breathe with me, Nile. Deep breaths. In, and out.” He coaches her through several cycles, until it no longer feels like her heart is going to gallop out of her chest. He says something to Joe in a language Nile doesn’t understand, and he leaves the room, presumably to do whatever it is Nicky asked of him.

“What you have gone through, seeing Quynh every night, it is something I do not wish to imagine,” says Nicky softly. “I am blessed to have met her, to not see her every time I close my eyes. I know this is difficult, but I need you to tell me everything you have seen.”

“It’s different now,” Nile says, taking another shaky breath. “Before it was just—endless drowning. Every time. But I—before everything happened, I felt the coffin door move. I was going to tell Andy but—” We all died a couple of times and ended up here. She falters, but Nicky seems to understand. He squeezes her hand, so casual and reassuring in his touch.

“Just now, I saw her in a town. I—I don’t know where. But it was like she was aware I was seeing her. She said two babies, and the look on her face…” Nile trails off, unable to describe it. She’s not sure she’s ever felt her own fear so viscerally, not in Afghanistan, not in the cargo plane with the dead/not-dead pilot, not even at Merrister. Quynh is out for blood, and there’s something in her bones that tells her this is a primordial force to be feared.

“Quynh has been trapped for a long time,” says Joe, who has returned. “You don’t spend that long alone and in pain without it changing you.”

“We need to protect Andy,” says Nile, rationality starting to creep back in. Quynh may be a threat to them—to her or Booker—but she’s a threat to now-mortal Andy most of all.

“Protect Andy from what?” says Andy, who has reappeared as if by magic, as if the invocation of her name summoned her.

“Quynh has escaped,” says Nicky, flatly, and all of the color drains from Andy’s face.

*

Booker is extremely drunk. His body, dreadful regenerative thing that it is, metabolizes alcohol out of his system much faster than the average person, so he’s gone through three fifths of rum in an attempt to dull his senses.

He’s never stopped dreaming about Quynh, exactly, but the dreams which had been so dull and infrequent for so long showed up again full force after just a few weeks of exile from the rest of the group. He’s tired of it. He just wants to sleep peacefully, for a little bit.

Booker stumbles into his apartment, bleary eyed and praying that this dull feeling will last long enough for him to fall asleep. He thinks maybe he could just pass out in the kitchen when he lays his eyes on a ghost.

Merde.

The dream has come to him apparently, and he’s unprepared. He doesn’t want to watch her drown again.

“Booker. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

It’s Quynh, very much alive and very much free.

*

“You can’t be serious,” snaps Nile, upon hearing Andy’s intention to find Quynh.

“I must face what I did to her,” insists Andy.

“She is out for blood, Andy. Yours. You gotta play this one smart.”

Andy grips her arm, looks her dead in the eye. “You know how I left her. There is a penance to be paid.”

“Joe? Nicky?” Nile says, looking for back up, but they seem to defer to Andy’s stupid choice.

The eye roll Nile gives them contains multitudes: I can’t believe I’m doing this and you’re all idiots and so help me, the sheer dumbassery here is unparalleled.

“Goddamn it,” she huffs. “Okay, fine. Here’s what I know.”

They spend the rest of the evening plotting their course back to Europe, where they’re sure to find both Booker and Quynh, maybe together or maybe not. Nile swears she’s going to protect Andy, even if she has to die a hundred more times. The other woman has grown on her, and besides, she’s one of only four—now, maybe, five—resources that Nile’s got. She can’t die permanently now.

*

Quynh has already blown up an old safe house of Andy’s on a bluff in the nearby Scottish highlands that she remembers from before her drowning before Booker sobers up enough to try to do something about it. (In retrospect, he should’ve just shot himself; it probably would have been a faster reset.)

He catches her sitting on a rock, watching the blaze, back resolutely to the sea. She probably never wants to see it again, and he can’t say that he blames her.

“I’m going to kill her,” Quynh promises venomously. “I’m going to kill her at least a dozen times in a row.”

“She’s not immortal anymore,” says Booker, as casually as he can.

“Even better,” Quynh spits, but he sees something flash in her eyes.

He knows that look. He’s too well acquainted with that look. It’s the fear of being left alone, like she already has been for five hundred years. (Well, he hasn’t been alone for quite that long, but sometimes it feels like it.)

“Will that sort of revenge really make you feel better, do you think?” he asks conversationally, and is rewarded with a throwing star to the chest. He drops, dies, blinks, coughs, and stands back up, the freshly expelled throwing star falling into his hands. (Ah, so it did reboot all the alcohol out of his system. At least he won’t have a hangover, for however brief a time.)

“I think it’ll feel excellent,” says Quynh, but he doesn’t believe her. Even in his misguided efforts to find the cure to their immortality, he never wanted to be the one to snuff out the life of one of his friends permanently. He’s never felt more regret than when he shot her, when he realized she wasn’t healing.

He sighs heavily. “It doesn’t feel as good as you think it will.”

“You are a child,” Quynh says dismissively, “still gumming at the teat of time. You have seen nothing.”

Booker closes his eyes, tries not to be get angry. He’s been alive half as long as she spent drowning. He hasn’t seen nothing, but Quynh is old. Even his two hundred years must feel like a few grains of sand in comparison to her—what, two thousand years? Three?

“If you want to be angry,” says Booker, thinking that this is the least he can do after what he did to his friends, “be angry at me. I dreamed of you drowning, and I didn’t try very hard to find you.”

Quynh narrows her eyes. “She betrayed me. Have you any idea what that feels like?”

No, he’s just been on the other side of it.

“Besides,” she says. “I was already planning on killing you a few more times today. This changes nothing.”

She pulls a gun seemingly from nowhere, and puts three rounds in his chest. It takes him a little longer to regenerate, this time, and she finally gets a few moments of peace and quiet.

*

“That was Copley,” says Andy, ending the call. They’re at Joe and Nicky’s apartment in Paris—a proper apartment, not just a safe house like Andy’s church, the one that got practically blown to bits in the Merrick debacle. “He says there was a bombing in Scotland yesterday.”

Nile’s eyes widen, but Joe is just wearing a get to the point face. Andy scowls. “It was one of mine. She’ll come for the cave next, I bet.”

“We could keep the Rodin here, in the meantime,” suggests Joe glibly, earning himself another pointed scowl from Andy, but it doesn’t faze him in the slightest. “I’m just saying that it’s a masterpiece, and we all know what Quynh is capable of. It would be a shame to lose such a work of art.”

They end up moving three crates of “knickknacks” from the cave to the Paris apartment. (“What the fuck,” murmurs Nile. “Is that a Van Gogh, too?” Joe happily informs her that it is, and that it’s also probably the least valuable thing in the crates. Nile is suitably horrified.)

There’s a fourth crate that doesn’t fit in the Citroën, and when they go back to the cave, they find it already occupied.

Quynh has a battle axe and a stick of dynamite; Booker is perched on the crate. He gives the smallest little wave to Nile as they walk in.

What ensues is not entirely clear to Nile, because apparently the primary language that Quynh and Andy communicate in is not English. It’s entirely unsettling to not be in the loop as she listens to the two of them ping-pong back and forth, until Quynh starts yelling, at which point Joe and Nicky start yelling too, and for a couple of minutes it’s utter chaos.

Maybe not understanding gives Nile an edge, though, because she’s concentrating so hard that she sees Quynh’s hand twitch before anyone else, and before she even knows what she’s doing, she’s taking a flying leap to body-block Andy as three daggers come out of nowhere and meet her torso. She lands with a hard thud, and—as seems to be the norm, lately—dies.

By the time she comes back to consciousness, there are five faces staring down at her. Quynh and Andy are no longer fighting, at least for the moment.  

“There was a different poison on each dagger, so I think technically you died four times in a row,” says Booker cheerfully.

“Super,” says Nile, groaning. It certainly feels like she died four times over.

“Quynh has decided that for today, she’s not going to kill Andy,” adds Nicky helpfully. “And says that she’s sorry for killing you.”

Nile narrows her eyes at Nicky.

“Maybe I’m editorializing a little,” he admits. “But the first part is true.”

Nile hauls herself into a sitting position and assesses the situation for herself. Andy’s face is ghostly pale, and she’s staring at Quynh like she’s both her nightmare and her salvation, but at least she’s alive. Booker looks vaguely amused; Nicky looks tired; Joe looks relieved. Quynh’s face is inscrutable.

“I’m Nile,” says Nile cautiously.

“Hello, second baby,” says Quynh, smiling sharply. She says something else, but she’s speaking Middle English, which is almost unintelligible to Nile. Five hundred years drowning really puts a damper on language learning, it seems.

“Excellent, introductions are out of the way,” says Nicky, crisply, cutting off any scathing reply Nile might have. “Can we go eat something now? If another argument is going to break out, it’s probably best we all have full stomachs.”

“And we’re going to trust her. Just like that.” Nile’s voice is flat. “Five minutes ago you were all arguing and then she killed me and now she’s okay.”

Joe shrugs, soft and elegant. “Someday you’ll understand,” he says, and it irks her, the insinuation that she’s a child and not the fully grown adult she’s had to be since the age of sixteen. 

Maybe in a thousand years she will understand, but it still seems unfathomable to her now.

Nile heaves a long-suffering sigh. They theoretically know what they’re doing. What’s one more ridiculous decision in the grand scheme of things, right?

Maybe the six of them will beat the odds, and figure things out together. Crazier things have happened. 

***

[thedistantstorm]

Project Compass 17

Read along on AO3 Here

<< Previous Chapter <<     >> Next Chapter >>

This time: Thrawn and Ezra receive their orders. Tensions rise.

Next time: Vah’nya teaches Ezra something new. Thrawn miscalculates.

-/

Vah'nya hugged the last of the departing Navigators before they separated, the younger girls bound on a shuttle for Csilla to be sent to their next training assignments. When the shuttle hatch hissed closed, she stepped back beside Ivant, who was also dressed in uniform.

"I wish we could keep them all," She said. "I feel like they would be more successful, even if they aren't good candidates for the project. It feels like admitting failure."

Ivant put a hand on her shoulder. "I know," He said. "Perhaps in the future we'll be able to focus on a larger group, but for now it isn't feasible. Besides, that many navigators on a ship with a human in command was dicey enough. The Admiralty wasn't happy about it in the first place, even if you were the one actually overseeing them. For now, we've gotta try to fly under the radar."

"I know," Vah'nya turned her head into the cool breeze, enjoying the contrast of it with the warmth of the sun. She liked Copero's temperate climate, though she far preferred the eerie perpetual twilight and crystalline views of Csilla. "It is better that they think little of us, for now."

"Yes," Ivant agreed. "And it is safer if we do not have more Navigators aboard should anyone target us."

"You think they will," Vah'nya accused, but there was no heat behind her words. She was thinking the same thing. There were already infiltrators aboard their Admiral's ship…

Eli nodded, his lips set in a grim line. "I have no doubt they'll try."

-/

The remaining few days they spent docked on Copero were pleasant, more or less. The remaining Navigators, Vah'nya, Un'hee, and four other girls of miscellaneous age, spent a great deal of time apart from the others in a library on the uppermost level of the estate that overlooked much of Copero City. By the time it was over, Ezra found himself almost looking forward to the lessons and structure that came with the CDF's military.

Really, it’s more likely that he’s looking forward to being occupied. To action and learning. To purpose. The reprieve was nice, but Ezra truly didn’t know what to do with time that was his own anymore. At least, not unless that time came in brief, precious moments between his responsibilities. He found himself slipping away to a secluded corner of the Mitth estate to pass hours in mediation several times. He didn’t necessarily feel more centered for it, either. If anything, the slight information he’d learned from Vah’nya as an explanation for having his traumatic vision gave him the impression of pressure. He couldn’t help but feel like something was coming.

They returned to their quarters midway through the second shift. The Compass was slated to follow the Steadfast for the next week, according to the orders on his datapad. That seemed pretty standard. Ezra checked his message logs. There wasn’t much. Standard communications and notifications, an odd message here or there from some of the younger soldiers that Ivant had suggested he train with when Thrawn was unavailable. He wouldn’t call them friends, exactly, but since Vah’nya was the only other person around his age that he talked to, it was something.

Thrawn was pensive as they went about their shared space, and Ezra was content to slouch on the small sofa in their common room, reading some holonovel in Cheunh that would probably be a lot more interesting if he didn’t have to constantly open a new tab on his datapad to look up some wildly descriptive word.

A small, urgent ping jolted him from his most recent hunt for knowledge - really, the Chiss language was absurd, Ezra thought to himself - and he tapped the page to bookmark it before he closed it and pulled up what was surely updated orders.

Before he tucked into reading the message, he heard Thrawn moving around in his quarters. He'd approached the doorway to the common room, the one right across from the sofa, no doubt already having read the orders. Ezra didn't need to look at the Chiss to feel the anticipation wash over him.

Ezra scanned the directive. “Second shift?”

“That was your takeaway?” Thrawn asked mildly. His eyebrows didn’t even go up, but on a more overtly expressive sentient, he suspected they would have by now.

He kicked his legs to sit up from where he lay, gesturing to the tablet. “I mean, obviously we’re going to be on the bridge. And my lessons are discontinued - wait. They’re discontinuing my lessons?” His voice rose, pinched. “I can barely speak semi-fluent Cheunh!”

“Your accent does need some work,” Thrawn agreed, “And you still stress incorrect syllables on most words you do know-”

“Yeah, thanks for the vote of confidence, buddy,” Ezra rolled his eyes.

“But that is why you have a translator,” The Chiss finished. “I also happen to know the mechanics of every item you could possibly be tasked with. I suspect such skills will be a valuable resource to you.”

“Yeah,” Ezra huffed. “I know it will. But why the bridge crew? And why second shift? We’ve always had first.”

“Perhaps the assignments rotate,” Thrawn speculated. “However, for the Chiss, this is the preferred shift. It allows for a decent lie in, and is the one during which the more experienced staff as well as the Commander are at the helm. In the Empire, it would have been Aurek Shift. In any case,” The far more experienced Chiss took on his dry, patented teaching tone, “I don’t suggest that you ask our superiors as to why your assignment has changed. I am sure they have a good reason.”

“I’m sure Ivant has a reason. I just don’t understand why this is happening now.” He slid an innocent look in Thrawn's direction. “All of a sudden we’re being stationed on the bridge during the busiest shift of the day. Seems suspicious to me, is all I’m saying. We spend a couple of days in close quarters, and then, all of a sudden we’re made to report to the bridge every day?”

Thrawn didn’t roll his eyes, but he did give Ezra his best unimpressed glower. “I do not think it matters, so much as we will be able to determine what is going on with the situation with the Grysks. That was our primary objective in bringing you to the Ascendancy, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“How could I?” Ezra shuddered. “I’m not looking forward to it, but they clearly need to be dealt with.”

“Quite,” Thrawn agreed. “For now, I would suggest you consider the best way to rearrange your schedule to accommodate your newly altered sleep schedule.

“Yeah, okay, fine,” The young Jedi shrugged, then gave Thrawn a look. “But still, I gotta know: D’you think this is because you made up with Eli?”

The Chiss’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I do not know what you mean,” He said.

Ezra smirked. “Right. Well, all I’m saying is now you two are friends again - or whatever, I heard all about your after hours breakfast thing - and now we’re being put out into the open. I’m wondering if you earned his trust back.”

Stroking his chin, Thrawn turned away, considering for a moment. “No,” He said slowly. “I do not believe he trusts me. In fact, I believe he trusts me less.”

“Why?” At this, Ezra frowned, confused. “You two talked. I heard it was a good encounter.”

Thrawn inclined his head. “It was perfectly neutral. Amiable, even. But the Captain will not tell me anything related to his mission,” Thrawn’s eyes had a pensive aloofness to them that concerned Ezra, just a little. “By keeping us - me - closer, he dictates the flow of information surrounding a project he very much did not wish to speak about during our… discussions,” Thrawn added, having had enough time to process the emotionally challenging portions of said discussions and review the rest for the relevant clues and patterns.

“And you need to know what his project is… why, exactly?”

“I believe that Captain Ivant’s project is precisely what is preventing you or I from being involved in the kind of affairs that I suggested bringing you to the Ascendency for. We are not engaging the Grysks because the Chiss are on the brink of civil war. Perhaps Admiral Ar’alani is keeping me here under Captain Vanto because she doesn't want me to create an incident.”

“You? Create an incident,” Ezra huffed under his breath, then met Thrawn’s gaze, brow furrowed in confusion. “It doesn’t seem smart to start a war among the Chiss when the Grysk are so close, though. And I don’t really think you’re after that. You just left one civil war - er, you know.”

Thrawn’s eyes flashed. “Indeed,” He said. It was true. Thrawn did not desire war. But battle is in a warrior’s blood, is the natural way of things. And battles were indeed on the horizon, for all of them.

“Okay,” Ezra sounded almost convinced. He rose from the couch, picking up his discarded datapad. “Here’s my counter argument,” The Jedi said, looking up into Thrawn’s calm blue features and contrasting crimson eyes. “We could ask Admiral Ar’alani to transfer us over to the Steadfast. That way, you can have your Grysk battles, and Ivant can keep on with his project and chasing after pirates or whatever it is we’re actually doing.”

“An interesting proposal,” Thrawn allowed, “But I was asked not to intervene with their plans.” He crossed his arms. “So for now, we must watch, and see what information we can glean.”

-/

There was a sense of hostility on the bridge. It wasn’t obvious, exactly. At first, it seemed more like things were busy, like they were in the midst of an urgent campaign. Which, in a way, they were. They were following the Steadfast at a safe level of distance, and, despite what Ezra (and to a lesser degree, Thrawn) thought, they were not after pirates. They were trailing several Grysk vessels. Three smaller, one midsize, with the idea that there was a much larger ship or base somewhere nearby.

Admiral Ar’alani checked in with Captain Ivant every second hour. So far, they were only tracing emissions and the occasional debris found from decimated freighter vessels in the sector. They weren’t anywhere near the core worlds of the Ascendancy. Ivant had explained to a curious Bridger that they currently traversed his equivalent of the mid-Outer Rim territories. It did not seem like a terribly daring venture, but there was a very real cause for concern, any threat that cropped up would necessitate a swift strike.

And when the need rose, Thrawn admittedly found himself impressed. He hadn’t seen more than a cumulative shift of bridge operations in all the months since he and Ezra had been stationed aboard the Compass. And it had never been in battle.

There was no hesitation. No second guessing. He’d known - had seen this evolution of his former aide - and yet it was nothing compared to the real thing in combat. Every time Thrawn would pick up on a tactic, identify a pattern, Ivant was already there, adjusting his battle plans, anticipating the next move with startling accuracy.

Vanto was calculating. Merciless. Steady-handed.

Thrawn found it enticing.

This was a man who knew his enemies. Who had seen what was inside their minds. Where Thrawn could deduce and analyze patterns, could process the pieces he’d seen in his extensive military career and put together an appropriate plan to negate their efforts and overtake them, Ivant flipped tactics as easily as breathing. It was clear he’d taken what he’d learned throughout the course of his own experiences and put it to good use, his adaptability a helpful tool to overcome the gaps in his experience. And, of course, whatever calculations he made were swift and accurate. At more than one juncture the Admiral herself had called upon him for lightning-quick computations and analysis.

It was not to say that all his orders were carried out to perfection. There were degrees of error. Commands not executed with the level of finesse delicate situations such as these required. These were noted, Thrawn realized. There was a sharpness to Ivant’s gaze. No facial heat, and only a mild flaring of the nostrils when something had the propensity to result in disaster, but it was rare.

And then came the day in which one of the lieutenant commanders attempted to override his command. Thrawn understood it was a risky maneuver. It wasn’t one he would have attempted himself, but a subordinate must trust and obey his superior’s commands without question if success - and therefore, victory - is to be achieved.

“Lieutenant Commander Vres’mad’indi,” Ivant said, when the action had resolved, and recovery teams from the Steadfast and Compass had been dispatched. There was no inflection to his tone. It was almost a purr.

It drew Thrawn’s - and the other officers’ - attention in an instant.

“What in the hell are you doing?” His voice crested, and there it was, the lilt, the residual Wild Space drawl bleeding into otherwise flawless Cheunh. “I gave you a direct order.”

“If we roll the ship at this velocity, we will not be able to-”

“Which part of my order to roll the ship immediately was lost on you?” Ivant’s fists clenched and unclenched, then fell loose at his sides. His eyes burned despite their lack of luminescence.

The Lieutenant Commander’s eyes were dull, but there was defiance written into his posture. “The Steadfast’s plasma spheres were being launched!”

“Do you think I was unaware of that detail?”

The Chiss under Ivant’s scrutiny grumbled under his breath. At the helm, Vah’nya twitched microscopically before bowing her head.

“If you have something to say,” Ivant said, drawl retracted, “Say it. It’s nothing you won’t say the moment you’re out of sight.”

“A human does not deserve this place,” He snarled. “Your kind are a blight on our people. The Chiss do not need you or your endangered sorcerers.”

Ivant nodded. “I see. Have you shared your opinions with the Admiral?”

He straightened, red eyes blazing now, fury just barely restrained. “I have.”

“And here I stand,” Ivant said, gesturing to his place on the command walkway. “A suggestion, Lieutenant Commander: If you do not like my orders and do not feel comfortable asking me, take it up with the Admiralty or the Aristocra itself after the action has ended. If you ever endanger my ship and its crew again, a public dressing-down for insubordination will be the least of your concerns.” He turned his back, shoulders falling loose with released tension. “If you’d been monitoring the board, you’d know that the Steadfast was moving upward to point seven-three. When we rolled, the shield deviation would have put us just far enough beneath our flagship that we would have been out of range of the plasma bursts.” He turned to his second who stood beside his command chair, watching the situation with heavy eyes. “Get him out of my sight.”

“Yes sir,” Newly minted Commander Wes’las’handi dipped his head and approached the insubordinate Lieutenant Commander. “Come along, Lieutenant Esmadi,” He said. Thrawn noted that a low, displeased note hidden in his tone. Around them, the bridge settled back into standard after-action activity. Ezra remained stiff beside him, no doubt feeling off-kilter as he happened to be human, too.

Esmadi threw up his hands and held them out in front of him. He’d leave the bridge of his own volition. Prideful, all the way to the end. Thrawn wouldn’t be surprised to hear of the man’s transfer and demotion for such a stunt. He took a moment to scan the rest of the faces, to note the reaction and posture of everyone else on the bridge, trying to get a glimpse of how far down this discontent went. Typically such officers weren’t alone.

“Commander Esmadi is a new transfer from the Steadfast,” Ezra said into his thoughts. “Navigator Vah’nya told me yesterday.”

“I see,” Thrawn said. “He took Commander Slasha’s place following his promotion,” He speculated. Ezra nodded. “Do not put yourself in a situation where you are alone with him.”

“Yeah, I don’t plan to.” Ezra said. “I thought everyone on the bridge was loyal to him,” The Jedi murmured.

There were many kinds of loyalty. Loyalty to a person, an organization, a belief. There were many reasons for loyalty. Loyalty to a person was earned. In outsiders like Vanto, it was possible to find divides in which an individual was loyal to the greater whole - in this case, the Ascendancy - but not loyal to their commanding officer, a human outsider.

Vanto’s eyes met his, and one eyebrow went up in a silent question. Thrawn frowned. At that, the Captain approached. “Your thoughts, Commander Thrawn.”

Unlike the previous days and weeks before, there was no childish mouthing of ‘Commander Thrawn’ from Ezra who always managed to position himself in Ivant’s blind spot. Thrawn was careful to speak softly. “Is this a frequent occurrence?”

At that, Vanto laughed, his anger from the situation already fully diffused. His smile was almost fond, remembering something, eyes crinkling at the edges with new lines brought on by age and stress. “Not anymore. We’ve had some personnel changes since we docked,” He raised his eyebrows. “Happens. They get over it or move on. The Admiral loves pulling them back into her remedial programs.”

“I recall,” Thrawn said. “How much of a threat is this to Bridger?”

Ivant inclined his head to the Jedi. “None,” He said, but his eyes said something else entirely. His eyes were guarded, cautious. “They may meddle with him,” Ivant whispered in lilting Basic the rest of the crew did not understand, “But their ultimate target will be me.”

[wistfulcynic]

Osaka-shi Serenade 1 / 4

This is the most personal thing I’ve ever written. I just need to say that up front. It is personal because it is basically the story of how my husband and I met and fell in love, tweaked for Captain Swan. It... works surprisingly well, actually. I had no idea I was living in a romcom until @thisonesatellite accused me of having a “meet-cute.” But I have to admit, she has a point. It was kinda cute. It’s MUCH CUTER with Killian and Emma, though, because you know what those two are like. 

I also have to accuse thank @captainsjedi and @teamhook among others for insisting that this was a good idea, and genuinely thank @distant-rose and @thisonesatellite for beta-ing like champs and the treasures they are. Also tagging @thejollyroger-writer @winterbaby89 @shireness-says @searchingwardrobes @darkcolinodonorgasm and @kmomof4 because they were foolish enough to ask for it (and also @katie-dub because she is the best). If anyone else is feeling foolish and would like a tag, please let me know. 

Summary: When Emma Swan’s high school sweetheart betrays her she runs away, as far as she can get… all the way to Japan. She tells herself it’s not running, it’s an adventure, but when she meets a handsome Englishman as broken as she is, will she be brave enough to embark on a new adventure with him?

Rating: M (for later chapters) 

On AO3

Part One: 

She wasn’t running away. 

Well okay she was technically, but she was also going on an adventure and that sounded a hell of a lot better. 

Plus the fact that the interviews had been held in Boston which would normally be too far to expect her rickety Bug to travel and too expensive to get the train on her waitress income, but that they were held on a day she just happened to have plans to be in Boston anyway, catching a ride with Ruby on her annual shopping trip and spa day, well that had to be fate. 

And who was she to argue with fate? 

The same fate that had seen her pass the last class she needed for her BA just in time to allow her to check that final box on the application form, to qualify for the visa that she needed for the job that would take her as far away from Neal Cassidy as she could reasonably get without leaving the planet. 

There weren’t English language schools on Mars or she would have fucking considered it. 

But Japan was far enough really, and as she stood in the Osaka airport fighting off jet lag and trying to make sense of the signs that really may as well have been in Martian for all the help they offered her in finding where she needed to go to catch the damn bus, she wasn’t entirely certain she hadn’t landed on another planet after all. 

It was all so different. 

Just as she was about to give up in despair, curl up on her suitcase and take a nap in the middle of the goddamn arrivals hall she heard someone speaking her name. 

“Emma Swan?” 

Emma turned to see a young woman with a clipboard and an expression of polite inquiry. 

“That’s me.”

The woman smiled coolly, making a decisive movement of her pen on the clipboard. “I’m Belle, I’m here to take you to the bus.”

“Oh thank God.”

Belle looked up and her smile warmed. “Yeah it can be disconcerting at first,” she said. “Don’t worry you’ll soon get used to things. We’re just waiting for one more person then we’ll head for the bus stop. Here’s your ticket. Don’t lose it.”

Emma clutched the small ticket tightly, noticing even in her highly sleep deprived state that beneath the Martian letters there was a small illustration of a bus. 

Helpful, she thought. 

She swayed on her feet and allowed the airport to blur around her as Belle’s voice said “Walsh Ozman?” and she vaguely noted the presence of a gangly man about her age. He gave her a once-over and a leer that she would have found inappropriate even when she hadn’t spent the past twenty four hours marinating in plane grunge, and Emma was just too tired and too overwhelmed for that kind of bullshit. She turned her back on him, picked up her suitcase, hoisted her carry-on onto her shoulder, and followed Belle out of the airport into the muggy Japanese night. 

The air smelled different here, thought Emma. 

The bus ride into the city was excruciatingly long, the scenery insanely confusing. All the buildings looked alike, tall and grey and adorned with balconies on every floor, their railings strewn with plants and strung with laundry, and Emma began to panic. She was a small town girl after all, despite the occasional weekend in Boston, and she’d never been in a city like this before. 

What if I get lost? 

She breathed deeply to calm herself and tried to focus on Belle’s words. You’ll soon get used to things. Emma hoped like hell she was right. 

Walsh leaned over the back of her seat bringing his face way too close, breathing rank breath over her cheek. “So. Where you from?” he asked, in a voice she supposed he thought was sexy. 

“Maine,” she said shortly, not looking at him. 

“Cool,” he said. “Lobsters. I’m from Fresno. That’s in California.” 

“I know.” 

“Northern California,” he elaborated as though she hadn’t spoken, winking at her. 

Emma ignored him, pulling her scarf up over her nose to filter out the smell of his breath and pretending to go to sleep. She imagined she didn’t smell too great either after flying across the freaking Pacific Ocean (not to mention the whole of the USA) but really you’d think the asshole could at least brush his teeth before hitting on her. 

When they finally arrived at the bus terminal Emma thought she had managed to sleep a little bit. They were met by a dark-haired man who introduced himself as August and smirked as he spoke Japanese to the bus driver, and by a cheerful, petite woman with an accent Emma had never heard before who told them to call her Tink.

“Don’t ask,” she said with a laugh. “At least not yet. I’ll tell you the story someday over a beer.” 

“You two are gonna be living on different subway lines,” said August, and Emma breathed a small sigh of relief. “Emma, you’re on the Sennichimae line, that’s the pink line, so you go that way.” He pointed to their left. “Tink will go with you and help you get settled in, give you your keys and everything. Walsh, you’re on the red line, Midosuji, so you come with me.” 

Emma was immensely glad to find herself with Tink, who was bubbly and cheerful though sometimes Emma wasn’t entirely sure what she was saying. 

“Where are you from?” she asked as they sat in the subway car, wincing a bit to herself as she repeated Walsh’s question. Without the smarmy intonation, she hoped. 

“Oh, I’m a Kiwi.” 

“A what?” Emma frowned at the image of Tink as a fuzzy brown fruit. Maybe exhaustion was making her hallucinate, she thought. That could happen, right? 

Tink laughed. “I’m from New Zealand.” 

“Oh, wow. Is it really cliché if I mention Lord of the Rings right now?”

“Yep. But don’t worry, I’m used to it.” 

They got off the subway at Imazato station. 

“Remember that name,” said Tink. “If you ever need to get a taxi home, don’t try to give them your address. Just tell them the name of the subway station, it’s a lot easier.” She pointed to a building across the street from the station entrance. “That one’s yours.”

Emma noted with relief that it wasn’t a skyscraper, though still far taller than any building in Storybrooke. It was also painted off white, with the balconies in red. It was pretty. 

“Does every place have a balcony?” she asked Tink. 

“Oh, yeah. It’s the only way to get some outside space in the city. People use them for growing pot plants, drying laundry, all sorts of things.” She led Emma into the building and pressed the button to summon the elevator. “You’re on the fifth floor, so you can walk up if you want, but…” 

“Yeah,” Emma agreed. “Maybe some other time.” 

“You’ve got two flatmates but they’re at work, they both work the night shift,” said Tink, opening the door. “The MM Centre is open 24 hours.”

“Yeah, they told me I’m working the 3-11 pm shift, but I was a waitress for years so I’m used to those kind of hours.” 

“Mm hmm,” said Tink, but she was distracted, looking around the room. “They should have… ah yes here, they’ve left you a note. And a towel, that’s thoughtful. I suppose you didn’t bring a towel.” 

“Um, no,” said Emma. 

“Most of us don’t. It’s one of those things you just don’t think you’ll need. But you’ve got bedding supplied for you, a futon and some sheets.” 

The apartment’s front door opened into a short hallway with the bathroom door leading off to the right and the main living space in front. The main room was sparsely furnished with a plain, worn sofa and a television sitting on a small table. A sink, refrigerator, and kitchen cabinets lined one wall and a dining table with three chairs stood along the one perpendicular to it. Emma noted to her relief that there was also a microwave. Red curtains hung at the sides of the large sliding glass door that separated the room from the balcony, and there were three other doors, also sliding ones, made of thin slats of wood that criss-crossed each other to form small window-like squares which held what looked like thick, cream-coloured paper. 

Tink slid open one of the these doors and gestured to the room behind it. “This one’s yours.” 

Emma’s eyes widened as she took in the room. It was small and simple, the walls a basic off-white, but it had big windows on two of its walls, a spacious looking closet behind more of the thin wooden doors, and the floor was covered with densely woven straw mats. The air inside smelled fresh and sort of grassy, like a late summer day in a hay field. It made Emma feel peaceful. 

“You really lucked out with this place,” said Tink. “Really close to the station, and you’ve got tatami in all of the bedrooms. A lot of the apartments NOVA puts us in have lino floors and they are nowhere near as nice. Gross in the summer. Sticky.” 

Emma nodded, wanting to ask Tink how long she’d been in Japan but when she opened her mouth all that came out was a jaw-cracking yawn. 

Tink laughed. “I’ll let you settle in now and get some sleep. Here’s your starter pack.” She handed Emma a blue folder with her name on the front. “There’s instructions for how to put the futon together and also a map of the city and a subway map and directions to the Centre. You’ve got nothing scheduled for tomorrow, which is actually now today, but on Monday you need to be at the Centre at nine to start your orientation. All the info’s in the pack. Here are your keys. Any questions?” 

Emma had loads, but she shook her head. They could wait. 

“Cool. I’ll leave you be then. Sleep well.” 

“Thanks.” 

After Tink left Emma stared at the futon instructions for a solid five minutes without her brain absorbing a single molecule of the information they contained, until finally she threw them along with the rest of the orientation pack on the floor and simply unfolded the mattress, wrapped the sheet around herself and fell asleep. 

——

It turned out that Belle was right. Emma did, eventually, get used to things in Japan. It took far less time than she’d feared, due at least in part to that first day when she’d woken up completely disoriented to find both her new roommates asleep and her stomach practically caving in on itself. 

Reminding herself that this was an adventure and she’d sworn to be brave, she had grabbed her map and headed out into the streets of Osaka in search of food. 

And gotten hopelessly lost. 

The streets were a cacophony of noise and colour, honking cars and bicycle horns, bustling people, flashing neon signs. Emma tried to stay on what looked like the main road —the one with the most lanes, anyway— but as she walked along it her attention was caught by a brief flash of green in her peripheral vision, soft and natural against the dusty greys and blinding neons of the city, and on impulse she went to investigate. 

Around a sharp corner and down a narrow alleyway she discovered a tiny structure she would later learn was a Shinto shrine; simple and ancient and made of wood, with a pointed roof that curved up at the ends and an ornate metal decoration at its peak, about the size of a telephone booth. Lush green grass edged with dense, thorny bushes surrounded it, bisected in one direction by a winding brook made lively by mossy stones and in the other a cobbled path leading to the shrine from the street, which crossed the brook via a tiny wooden bridge painted orangey-red. 

Emma approached it with awe, wondering again if this could be a hallucination, this haven of peace in the urban chaos. The quiet was blissful after the noise of the street, and almost surreal in its contrast. She took a deep breath, inhaling the sharp, piny scent of the bushes and the fine mist of the brook and felt herself relax. 

As lovely as the shrine was, though, she couldn’t eat it, as her stomach reminded her with a thunderous growl that almost echoed in the little garden. She went back over the bridge and down the path but when she emerged into the street she couldn’t remember which direction she’d come from. All the streets looked… well, not the same exactly but there were no landmarks her mind could latch onto, just a jumble of houses and signs written entirely in Japanese, and Emma realised that she had stumbled into a neighbourhood where most tourists didn’t venture. 

She chose a street at random and headed down it, looking for anything that might be a restaurant or grocery store, but though she passed quite a few places that had signs hanging in front of them and wooden doors that looked like they might lead to eating establishments, she didn’t have the confidence to just push through one, in case it turned out not to be a restaurant at all. She had literally no idea of what she was looking for. 

Eventually, the small street she was on intersected with a wider one and on the corner was the first thing she’d seen that was unmistakably a place to eat, if the large sign with pictures of food on it was any indication. It had a bright red awning with wisps of delicious smelling steam emanating from beneath it, out of a small kitchen area just visible behind wooden bar lined with stools, separated from it by a curtain made of clear plastic strips. Emma approached hesitantly, trying not to stare at the enormous bowls of soup and noodles that a Japanese couple were slurping enthusiastically at one end of the bar. 

 A man emerged through the plastic curtain and said something to her in rapid Japanese. 

“Um,” stuttered Emma. “I’m sorry, I don’t…” She tried to think of a way to explain what she wanted using sign language but her frazzled brain would not cooperate. 

One of the people from the end of the bar looked up, a young woman with a glossy, chin-length bob. She smiled at Emma and said something to the man from the kitchen, who nodded in response and shouted “Hai!” then disappeared, returning moments later with a steaming bowl of soup, a pair of wooden chopsticks, and a white ceramic dish containing a small towel rolled into a cylinder shape. These he placed in front of Emma, bowed to her, and left again. 

“Please,” said the woman, pointing to the towel then rubbing her hands together. “Please.” 

Emma picked up the towel and unfolded it. It was warm and damp and had a clean, refreshing scent. She wiped her hands with it, and then, following the woman’s mimed instructions, her face as well. 

At the woman’s urging she sat and picked up the chopsticks, pulling them apart with a sharp crack and then staring at them helplessly. 

The woman laughed, but it was a friendly laugh, and she held up her own chopsticks to show Emma how they should be held. After a few attempts she managed to hold them securely enough to transfer some noodles into her mouth and slurp them up, and when the broth slopped everywhere and dripped down her chin she laughed too. 

Nothing had ever tasted so delicious. 

The woman pointed at herself, directly at her nose. “Naoki,” she said, widening her eyes and nodding. “Naoki.” 

“Uh.” Emma thought she understood, and pointed to her own nose. “Emma.” 

“Em-ma,” Naoki repeated. She indicated the man sitting next to her. “Masahiro,” she said. 

“Whoa, okay,” laughed Emma. “Um, Masahiro?”

“So, desu-ne!” cried Naoki, and Emma took that to mean approval. 

She ate the rest of her noodles and broth messily and with relish, and when she finished she pulled a 1000 yen note from her pocket and offered it to Naoki, who firmly waved it away.  

“Thank you,” said Emma, meaning it from the bottom of her heart. “Er, arrigato.” 

She returned the 1000 yen to her pocket and took out the map of Osaka, frowning as she struggled to unfold it. Masahiro tugged on a corner and gestured for her to give it to him. 

Emma handed over the map. 

He spread it out on the bar and removed a pen from the pocket of his jacket, then appeared to think hard. 

“Home,” he said finally. 

“My home?” said Emma. She remembered Tink’s advice about giving the name of the subway station. “Um, Imazato? Imazato station?”  

“Imazato eki,” said Masahiro. “Hai.” 

He drew a large X on the map and pointed to it. “Imazato,” he said. “Imazato eki.” 

“Okay,” said Emma. 

Masahiro traced his pen through the confusing web of streets on the map than drew a circle. 

“Koko,” he said. “Here.” He slid the map back to her and pointed down the street. “Imazato,” he said. 

“Imazato that way,” said Emma. “Got it. Thank you. Thank you both.” 

Naoki and Masahiro both stood, and bowed to her. She attempted a small bow herself, feeling foolish, then headed in the direction Masahiro had indicated, following the path he’d drawn on her map until she spotted the pink sign for Imazato station. 

“Thank fuck,” breathed Emma in profound relief, and thank fuck she’d remembered the name of the station. 

That experience taught her not to be so afraid of getting lost, or trying new things even when she had no idea what she was doing. Or asking for help. All of which she needed to do repeatedly as she settled in to her new country. 

Gradually she began to adjust, to spot landmarks and develop routines, and she had begun to feel fairly sure of herself about a week and a half in when she got on the subway after her shift along with a whole crowd of other English teachers she’d yet to speak to. 

The car was packed so she slid into the corner and pulled out a book, holding it in one hand while the other gripped the railing for balance. It was a good book —the latest Terry Pratchett— but before she could really get into it she was distracted by raucous laughter from a group just to her right. 

“I don’t know what you’re on about, mate,” said a voice, a deep, rich one with a British accent that could curl your toes. “This is a very expensive tie. It cost a hundred yen!” 

Emma looked up, trying to get a glimpse of the speaker. She was pretty sure he’d been joking —he must have been joking, even she knew 100 yen was only about a dollar, and she’d only just got here— but his tone had been very dry and also she wanted to see if his face matched his voice. 

“Look,” the voice continued. “It’s 100% silk. It says so right here on the label.”

“Oh and labels never lie I suppose,” retorted another voice. 

“This one better not. I paid a hundred yen for this tie, I bloody well expect silk for that price!” 

Laugher rose again and as Emma watched the small group shifted and the speaker’s face came into view. She caught her breath. 

“What are you alleging, exactly, Graham? That someone took a cheap polyester tie and put a ‘100% silk’ label on it?” The speaker’s eyes glinted with mischief and she was now certain he was joking. 

His eyes were also really blue. 

“Whoever would do such a nefarious thing?” he continued, adopting a look of angelic innocence so patently false that Emma snorted with laughter. The group turned to look at her. 

“You’ll have to excuse Killian,” said the lone female among them, a young woman about Emma’s age with long, brown braids and friendly eyes. “He’s never had to own a tie before.” 

“What, never?” asked Emma, as though she hadn’t just bought suits for the very first time, to meet the dress code of this job. 

“Never needed one,” said Killian with a shrug. “Except for funerals, and I threw that one away.” His blue eyes clouded briefly with a flash of pain that Emma felt echo in her own soul. She knew that pain, firsthand. But it was gone almost before she could register it, replaced by the teasing glint. “So I went shopping for one the day I arrived and found these very reasonably priced one hundred percent silk ties at the hundred yen store, but Graham seems to think I’m not entering into the spirit of the dress code.”

“Look, I don’t like wearing suits any more than you do,” said Graham, in another accent Emma couldn’t quite place. She’d heard more versions of English spoken in the past ten days than she’d ever imagined existed. “But I’m prepared to put in a bit of effort.” 

Emma had to admit that his effort was impressive. Graham’s suit fit him perfectly, and his shirt and tie were beautifully matched. Killian on the other hand wore a suit that even to Emma’s untrained eye was obviously made of cheaper fabric, the fit a bit awkward and the tie carelessly knotted. 

“Why?” challenged Killian in a voice that aimed for casual but only reached defensive, and a tense silence fell.

“Look, mate I didn’t mean—” Graham began hesitantly, but Killian cut him off. 

“It’s fine,” he said, making a short chopping motion with his hand. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Emma had no time to wonder what all that could be about because the woman jumped in, trying to lighten the mood.  

“Hey!” she said brightly, pointing at the subway ticket that Emma was using as a bookmark. “Is that a single day ticket?” 

“Um. Yeah?”

“Why don’t you get a monthly pass? It’d save a lot of money.” 

“I didn’t know I could.” 

“Oh yeah! NOVA will pay for it, you just have to buy it and they’ll reimburse you. And little secret, if you put Umeda as your transfer station you can use it on all the subway lines and city trains, so you won’t have to pay for transport at all.”

“That sounds great, but I don’t really know how—” 

“Oh, no worries! I have to renew mine, I can go with you! I’m Anna, by the way. I’m from Canada!” She held out her hand. 

“Emma. Er, from the US.” 

“Great to meet you!” Anna shook her hand energetically. “And these, as you’ve probably deduced, are Graham and Killian.”  

“Yeah. Hi.” Emma smiled at the men, who nodded. 

“Hey, I’ve got an idea! We’re going to Nara this weekend with a Japanese friend of mine. Why don’t you come too! We can meet early and get your monthly pass before we leave!” 

Emma was beginning to wonder if Anna was able to speak without exclamation points. It was a bit intense. But she couldn’t help liking the bubbly Canadian and Graham and Killian were both smiling at her, and she had promised herself to be brave. 

“Okay,” she said. “Sounds like fun.” 

——

It was fun. In addition to Anna, Graham, and Killian there was Anna’s friend Kayoko and two other teachers, one a round young man who informed Emma she would have to call him Smee. 

“Because my name is William, but he’s named Will,” he explained. “So. To avoid confusion, you know.” 

He turned out to be a short, very talkative man with an accent Killian insisted was also English, though it didn’t sound much like his own. 

“Will’s from London,” said Killian apologetically as they left Nara train station and headed out into streets that were noticeably less crowded than those in Osaka. “I’m afraid he doesn’t know  any better.” 

“And where are you from?”

“Somerset.” At her blank look, he elaborated. “It’s in the West Country— southwest England. Pirate country.” 

“Pirate country?”

“Aye, lass,” he said in an exaggerated pirate voice. “Pirate country, arrrr!” 

She laughed. “You’re making that up.”

“Would I?”

“Yes.” She’d only known him a few days but she was absolutely certain he would. 

“Okay, maybe I would, but I promise you this is a real thing. The pirate accent is from Bristol, and Bristol is in Somerset, or at least it was. Don’t mock my heritage, love.” 

“I wasn’t—” she began indignantly, then caught the twinkle in his eyes. “Hmmph,” she huffed, trying not to smile. “I’m not your love.” 

“Pity,” said Killian, holding her gaze for a breathless moment and then Graham called his name and he turned away. 

They made their way slowly towards Tōdai-ji temple, along the wide paved pathway that cut through the grassy and tree-lined field called Nara Park, where dozens of small deer frolicked in the grass. 

“Oh, look!” cried Emma. 

“Yes,” said Kayoko. “Famous deer. You want to feed them?” 

“Can I?”

“Many people do.” Kayoko led them to a wooden stall along the path where they each bought a bag of round wafer-like discs which they cautiously offered to the deer who came running up to greet them. 

“They like the food,” Kayoko informed them. “But they bite.” 

“Mind your fingers,” murmured Killian in Emma’s ear. 

Emma held out a disc to one deer, who ate it politely. 

“They don’t seem that— oh!” Emma jumped as another deer barged past the first and butted her hand with its nose. “Okay.” She took out another wafer and offered it to the second deer, and then a third, and before she knew it she was surrounded by a crowd of furry brown faces and out of food. 

“I don’t have any more,” she informed them, holding up her empty hands, but the deer butted their noses against her pockets and her bag, and she was beginning to wonder if they might actually attack her when a large, warm hand enveloped hers. 

“Come on, lass,” said Killian, amusement in his voice. “Let’s make a run for it.” He pulled her through the crowd of deer and and together they dashed back to the pathway, laughing breathlessly. 

“Thanks,” said Emma. “I was starting to fear for my life.” 

“Aye, me too.” 

He let go of her hand but the electric tingle of his touch remained, buzzing across the skin of her palm. She looked up to find him watching her with a slightly dazed expression. Then he blinked, and smiled his flirtatious smile. 

“Shall we go see this temple, then, love?”

“Still not your love,” said Emma, still breathless. “But yeah, let’s go.” 

As they walked the group mixed and mingled and Emma learned that all of them had been on the same two planes and had arrived together in Japan a month ago in the same “wave.”

“And we’ve sort of hung out together ever since,” said Anna. “Who was in your wave?”

“I’m not sure I had one.” 

“Didn’t anyone else start along with you?”

“There was only one other person when I got here, this guy Walsh.” 

“Oh. I think I’ve met him. Ew.” 

“Ew is the word.” 

“But you didn’t have a group or anything? No group meeting the first night you arrived?” 

“No. They took me straight to my apartment the first night and I fell asleep.” 

“Huh, no wonder you didn’t know about the monthly pass. That’s kinda weird. I don’t know anyone else without a group.” 

Typical, thought Emma. I’m alone even when I’m not supposed to be. 

 Anna caught the expression on her face and looped their arms together, giving her a bright smile. “It’s probably just because you started so late in the year,” she said. “But never mind, you’ve got us now. We’ll take you under our wing, little chickadee.” She laughed and Emma joined in, unable to resist. Anna was weird, but it was a nice weird. 

Kayoko turned out to be an amazing tour guide. Her English was a bit stilted but she had immense knowledge of Japanese history and culture. Tōdai-ji, she explained, was an old Buddhist temple, still in use, and inside it was the world’s largest bronze statue of Buddha. The group listened attentively as she spoke and took pictures of everything she pointed out and Emma actually spotted Killian round the side of the Buddha with a tiny notebook and pen, scribbling rapidly. 

“Are you taking notes?” she asked, amused. 

“No.” He quickly stuffed the notebook into his jacket pocket. His off-duty clothes were a vast improvement on his work clothes, she thought. Jeans that hugged his ass and a t-shirt that skimmed his torso and a leather jacket that moulded to his shoulders. Chin unshaved, hair messy. He looked damned good. 

He also looked embarrassed. 

“You were, weren’t you?” she pressed. 

“I wasn’t—” 

“Let me see that notebook, then.” 

“No.” 

“Because you were using it to take notes.” 

“Look, if I admit I was taking notes will you let it drop?” The tips of his ears were pink and he was rubbing nervously at a spot behind the right one, his expression anxious. Emma felt a stab of guilt. She’d thought they were just joking around. 

“Of course.” She took a step back. “I’m sorry.” 

Killian shrugged, burying his hands in his jeans pockets. “It’s all right, lass. I just— the notebook is something I don’t really want to talk about just yet is all.”  

He looked vulnerable without his cocky, flirty grin, vulnerable and a bit lost. She felt the weirdest urge to touch him, to take his hand again, to see if the electricity that still tingled on her palm would reignite. 

“Okay,” she told him. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

His worried expression melted into a bright smile with no teasing twinkle, just warmth softening the blue of his eyes as he held her gaze. 

“Emma! Killian!” Anna’s voice rang out through the hush in the temple, followed quickly by the woman herself. “Kayoko says there’s a good restaurant nearby, do you want to go get some lunch?”

“Sure.” Emma forced herself to turn and nod at Anna though her heart was thundering. 

“Sounds lovely, lass,” said Killian, his eyes still on Emma. 

Anna’s lively smile slipped as her eyes darted between them but she quickly fixed it back in place. “Well come on!” she cried and after some slightly embarrassed shuffling Emma and Killian followed her. 

—

Killian sat next to Emma in the restaurant, casually, elbowing her as she sipped her miso soup. 

“So what to you reckon to this Japanese food, then, love?” he asked. 

“I like it,” said Emma. “I don’t know what it is I’m eating half the time, but it’s all been amazing.” 

Killian laughed. “I know what you mean,” he said. “Have you tried takoyaki yet?” 

“No, what’s that?”

“Oh, you’ve got to try takoyaki!” cried Anna from across the table. “They sell them in the park in front of Osaka Castle, we should go!” 

“Okay,” laughed Emma. “But what are they?”

“Octopus balls,” said Smee, and the whole table sniggered. 

“Okay what am I missing?” demanded Emma. 

“Takoyaki are octopus tentacles,” explained Killian. “Cooked in batter in this special mould that forms them into ball shapes. It’s an Osaka specialty.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. They love their octopus balls here, right Kayoko?”

“Takoyaki is very popular food.” Kayoko confirmed. “Very traditional.” 

“Everyone loves a good octopus ball, mate!” said Will, winking at her. 

“Well, all right,” said Emma, reminding herself that she was here to try new things. “It can’t hurt to try.” 

— 

The takoyaki was disgusting. Emma spit it into her napkin and the look on her face had Killian doubled over in laughter. 

“Ugh,” she said, “No. The taste isn’t bad but you can feel the tentacles on your tongue, with those little suckers…” she trailed off with a shiver of horror. “Not for me.”   

Killian took the oblong wooden bowl containing her five remaining takoyaki and poked one with his toothpick. “I love them,” he said, popping it in his mouth. “Mmmmm.” He chewed with exaggerated relish. “Tentacles. Delicious.”

Emma made dramatic gagging noises and Killian nearly spit out his own mouthful when he started laughing again, so loudly that the other people visiting the castle turned to stare.

Osaka Castle rose up behind them where they stood on the dusty gravel path that led to its main entrance, bright white in the slanting light of the early December afternoon, the gilt decoration along its swooping green roofs glinting in the sun. Emma couldn’t believe it was December already; the week since their trip to Nara had flown by, though not a day of it had passed without some small flirtation between her and Killian. A wink, a teasing remark, a shared sip of vending-machine coffee or a bite of a mochi sweet. Something was brewing between them, and though it was still far too early to say what exactly, whatever it was had butterflies dancing in Emma’s belly whenever she saw him.  

Anna, who had been sharing her bowl of takoyaki with Smee, watched them with her habitual smile a bit strained around the edges. 

“Don’t you like it, Emma?” she asked, and the edge in her tone had Emma looking at her in surprise. 

“Nope,” she confirmed. “Definitely not my thing.” 

“More for me,” said Killian cheerfully as he polished off another. “Next we’ll try you on sushi, see how that goes. What do you say, love?” His grin was warm, his eyes glinting with a flirtatious challenge that Emma could not resist.

“Sure why not,” she replied, looking at him through her lashes with a smile that was decidedly coy. “I’ll try anything once.” 

 Killian’s eyes went wide and Anna’s smile grew a bit more strained. 

“Anything?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow coolly though there was a faint flush across his cheekbones. 

“Anything.” 

Killian cleared his throat. “Good to know,” he said. 

Anna stabbed the last takoyaki in her bowl and chomped it forcefully. 

When they had finished eating the four of them took a walk around the castle before heading back to the subway station. 

Emma fell into step with Anna as they walked. “Hey,” she said, bumping the other woman’s shoulder in a way she hoped was friendly. Aside from Ruby she didn’t have a lot of female friends, and this was slightly new territory for her. “Is everything okay?”

“Sure! Fine!” Anna replied brightly. “Why do you ask?” 

“You just seemed… a bit off, I guess.” 

“Well, I’m not,” said Anna, but the edge in her voice was back. “Just… don’t push anything with Killian okay?”

“What?” Emma gaped at her. “What are you talking about?”

Anna shook her head. “Nothing. It’s— it’s nothing. Never mind.” 

She moved ahead to walk with Smee, leaving Emma frowning in bafflement behind her. 

— 

Takoyaki may have been a disaster for Emma but sushi was a triumph. Three days after their trip to the castle she, Killian, and Smee went for lunch at a tiny restaurant tucked away in the famous covered shopping street of Shinsaibashi-suji, beneath a flashing neon sign in the shape of a sinuous dragon. 

The sushi was made fresh in a kitchen on the left side of the restaurant, and served on little plates that moved around the room on a conveyor belt, going in and out of the kitchen area through a curtain made of plastic strips exactly like the one Emma had seen at the ramen place her first day in Japan. 

550 yen (700 for the men) bought as much sushi as the luncher could eat plus miso soup and a drink. NOVA teachers had an unofficial running competition over how many plates they could eat in one sitting, though not one of them had yet managed to match the old Japanese men who could frequently be found sitting in the corner eating sushi for hours on end, their stacks of plates growing so high they had to be cleared away lest they topple over. 

Emma tried the salmon and the tuna, and the whitefish and the rolled omelet and even the eel. 

She did not try the octopus. 

“Can’t tempt you, love?” teased Killian, waving a crinkle-edged piece of sushi in front of her nose. 

“I can see the suckers from here,” said Emma. “They are no less horrifying for being sliced thinly.” 

Killian chuckled and ate the sushi with a hum of enjoyment. Emma smiled as she watched him. He was wearing another of his awkward suits and cheap ties since they had to head to work as soon as lunch was over. He was freshly shaven, too, which made her a bit sad, but the dress code at their job was a rigid one. 

They worked at the NOVA Education Group’s Multi-Media Centre, which was an enormous concern spread over three floors of a thirty storey building. Each day they arrived on the fourteenth floor where they clocked in using paper punch cards and swapped out their street shoes for slippers. 

Slippers in the office was a Japanese tradition Emma could get behind. As someone who had worked as a waitress for years, anything that kept her feet comfy while she was working was in her mind a very good thing. 

After clocking in and changing their shoes they sat down at the picnic-style tables where they spent their mid-shift breaks, and scanned the huge screens that hung from the ceiling for their names. The screens told them what their seat assignment was for the day, floor and cubicle. 

“I’m on sixteen,” said Emma on the day they tried the sushi, about three weeks after her arrival in Japan. She had managed ten plates and felt like she might explode at any second. Killian and Smee, who had eaten fifteen and nineteen respectively, seemed no worse for it. She scowled slightly as they came up behind her. “What about you guys?” 

“Fifteen,” said Anna.

“Me too,” said Smee, and Graham and Will were on fifteen as well. 

“I’m on sixteen,” said Killian. “Walk up with you, love?”

Emma’s scowl smoothed out. “Sure.” 

They took the stairs, preferring to avoid the elevator whenever possible. It was fast enough all things considered, but there were thirty floors in the building and they only had to go up two of them. Arriving on the sixteenth floor they discovered that their assigned cubicles —rectangular wooden tables separated into two squares by wooden dividers and equipped with a desktop computer and a bulky grey connection device that sat atop the monitor— were across the aisle from each other, meaning they could lean their chairs back and talk before their classes started. 

“What’ve you got?” Killian asked. 

“Hmmm.” Emma scrolled through her students’ class records, looking for one that neither of them had completed. “I think today I’ll talk about animals.” 

“And I shall be practicing expressing anger,” said Killian. 

“Ooh, I like that one. The roleplay can be hilarious.” 

“Well I’ve only got one student assigned. So it looks like we’ll be roleplaying together, Kouki and I.” 

The classes they taught consisted of between one and three students who used their own connection devices, provided as part of their NOVA package, attached to their own home computer or television to connect to the system which then directed them to their assigned class. It was a bit like a closed internet system —intranet, Killian insisted it would be called— and it allowed their students to take classes at any time of day or night and from anywhere that had a screen and a phone line they could use to connect. The week before Emma had taught a man who worked as a forest ranger and lived in a remote cabin on top of a mountain. 

The teacher’s job was to select a class to teach —preferably one that all three had not done before, though this wasn’t always possible. Students bought packages of hundreds of classes, and if they weren’t able to advance to the next level after completing all the classes at their current one, they would do those classes over. Emma had taught students who’d done the same class three, four, even five times. 

Five minutes before the class began the teachers opened the classroom and waited for the students to connect. When they did, their faces appeared on the screen in one of four boxes that it was divided into. Three boxes for the students, one for the teacher. The beginning of the class was announced by a bell that rang for ten seconds through the MM Centre and also over the system. When the last peal had finished chiming, the teachers turned on their cameras and greeted their students. 

If the students did not connect before the class began, they were blocked from it and their devices would not work until their next class. If no students appeared, the teacher could close the class and have a free period. 

Emma opened her class and read through her students’ past reports until the five minutes were nearly up. When only a minute remained, she looked at her screen. “No one’s here yet,” she said. 

“How many are you expecting?” 

“Two.” 

Well, here’s hoping,” said Killian, and they put their headphones on as the bell began to chime. 

When silence fell and Emma’s screen remained empty of students, she gave a sigh of relief and closed the class. She enjoyed teaching, far more than she’d thought she would, but a free period was always nice. 

Picking up her book she leaned back in her chair and began to read. A moment later Killian’s chair tilted back as well and she smiled when she saw him doing the same. 

“No show?” he mouthed at her. No talking was allowed during class time, except to students. She nodded. “Same,” he mouthed, then indicated her book. “What are you reading?”

Emma held up her Terry Pratchett, still the same one she’d been reading on the day they met. Normally she was a much faster reader but she’d been so busy exploring Osaka that she hadn’t had the time. 

A broad grin creased Killian’s face and he held up his own book… also by Terry Pratchett. Emma grinned in return, and when he gestured for them to swap books she agreed readily. 

Killian read the blurb on the back of her book then opened it, frowning slightly when he saw what was written on the inside cover. He looked up at her. 

“What?” she mouthed. 

He took out his notebook, the one he’d had in Nara, and scribbled something  on a piece of paper. Ripping it from the notebook he handed it to her. 

Is your last name Swan? it said. 

Emma was confused for a minute then realised she’d introduced herself to her new friends simply as Emma. It was weird to think she’d been hanging out with Killian practically every day of the past two weeks and he didn’t even know her name. 

She didn’t know his either. 

It is, she wrote back. What’s yours?

Killian took the note and smiled, scribbling briefly before returning it. 

Swan suits you. Mine is Jones. Do you think that suits me?

Killian Jones, she thought. It did suit him. 

Nice to meet you, Killian Jones, she wrote. Can I have my book back?

His eyebrow rose as he read. Of course, Swan, he wrote back. Provided you’ll allow me to borrow it once you’re done. 

Sure. And can I borrow yours?

Most definitely. Terry Pratchett should be shared. Which characters do you like best? 

I like Death, wrote Emma. And Susan. 

I’m partial to the wizards of the Unseen University myself. And of course the Night Watch, he replied 

Carrot ❤️❤️ wrote Emma.

Nobby ❤️❤️ wrote Killian.

Emma laughed, earning her a glare from the supervisor. 

They passed notes back and forth for the rest of the class time, and when the break between classes arrived Killian came over and leaned on his arms on the wall of her cubicle, continuing their discussion for so long that he had to almost dive back into his own to get his class prepared in time. 

Despite their daily flirting Emma and Killian had never actually spent that much time just with each other before, but unlike what often happens when a group dynamic abruptly becomes a pair one, there wasn’t any awkwardness in their conversation. Instead it felt comfortable, natural, but with that ever-present frisson of electricity that had Emma’s skin buzzing and the butterflies in her belly doing somersaults. Killian flirted a lot less than she’d come to expect from him but charmed her far more, letting more of himself —his intelligence and enthusiasm, the softness under the innuendo— show through, and by the time they went downstairs to meet their friends for dinner Emma felt that their casual friendship had turned an invisible corner. She liked Killian, more than she’d liked anyone in a long time, but beyond that she could feel a potential between them, a possibility for something big and serious that was thrilling but also terrified her.  Could she handle it, so soon after the disaster of Neal? Did she even want to? 

The look in Killian’s eyes as he offered her half his red bean paste bun at dinner, the look in them when she accepted, the way he smiled when her own eyes widened in delight, made her think that maybe —maybe— she did.  

Notes: I was in Japan in 2006-7, so that is when this fic is set. I haven’t been back since and I’m sure a lot has changed. I hope anyone who has visited in the past 13 years will forgive me any small inconsistencies in my memory or for places I describe that no longer exist. In short, please don't @me, I apologise in advance. 

Also, all the OUAT characters here are standing in for people I actually knew in Japan, meaning in some cases I’ve had to tweak them a bit. It’s quite important for Anna’s character to be from Canada, for example. Again, please forgive me. 

Thanks for reading 💕💕

[redrobin-detective]

Street Kids Do it Best

“I had a fight with B, needed to get out, let me crash with you for a few days,” Jason shrugged, hiking his backpack high on his shoulder. Billy Batson blinked and then decided it was totally worth it to die by Batman’s hand in order to spend time with his best friend.

Now edited and up on AO3

The sound of knocking at his door instantly awakened Billy and sent him into panic mode. He was an incredibly light sleeper and had trained himself to wake up when anyone walked by the hallway outside his door. The fact that someone was able to get all the way to his door to knock meant he was dealing with someone who knew how to move without being noticed. None of the people he hung with in the city knew where he lives and, even if they did, they wouldn’t be stopping by at just past 4 am. He supposed Toyman or Monsieur Mallah wouldn’t waste time knocking but tell that to his paranoia? He grabbed a baseball bat he’d found at the dump and held it at the ready in front of the door.

“Who’s there?” He demanded in his deepest voice, trying to channel Batman as best he could.

“It’s Goldi-fucking-locks, now let me in dipshit,” Billy relaxed instantly, lowering the bat and opening the door to reveal Jason Todd, his best friend and also the latest Robin. He looks almost bored with Billy’s attempt at defense but when you live with Batman, everyone else kind of pales in comparison.

“Jay, jeez you scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here anyway, B didn’t tell me about any uh work stuff,” Billy added, holding the door open for Jay to come in. He noted immediately that Jason was on edge; his eyes wouldn’t stop casing Billy’s one room, broken down apartment and his free hand was twitching against his thigh. The other hand was tightly wrapped around the strap of an overfilled backpack. Billy has a bad feeling about this.

“I had a fight with B, needed to get out, let me crash with you for a few days,” Jason shrugged, hiking his backpack high on his shoulder as if he hadn’t asked Billy to hide him from the World’s Greatest Detective and probably the World’s Most Paranoid Over-Protective Father. Of course that wasn’t the real issue here.

“A fight? What was it about?” Jay’s frown deepened at the question so Billy diverted. “Please tell me you at least told someone where you were going. Batman’ll rip my arms out if he found out I kidnapped his sidekick, how’d you even get here?”

“Drove my bike to Bludhaven and used one of the Zetas there to get here, made a couple of other stops to throw off the trail.” Jay said clinically, dumping his bag on the floor and flopping onto the bed, making himself comfortable on Billy’s pillow. “And I’m not a total moron, I told Alfie. He saw I needed to blow off some steam, said he’d keep the Bat off my back for a day or two but don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair by then.”  

This is way too much for Billy to comprehend at 4 in the morning so he joined his friend on the bed and rubbed at his eyes. He’s seen Clark do this when dealing with Batman and some of the Titans with Nightwing so he guess it was just a Bat thing.

“Let me get this straight,” Billy drawled, “you decided you wanted to leave your fancy mansion in order to slum it with me for a few days, practically inviting the goddamn Batman to wring my neck, because you’re in a pissing contest with him?”

“Pretty much but I brought food, the good shit and B will never know I was here,” Jay countered. Unlikely but whatever, he’s too tired to think about this right now.

“Fine, but the sun’s not even up and Captain Marvel had a busy day yesterday so I’m going back to bed,” he dramatically rolled over on top of his friend, eliciting a squeak of protest. But he already gave Billy one heart attack tonight and was totally messing up his schedule which is probably why he was letting Billy use him as a giant heat pack.

“For what it’s worth Jay, it’s good to see you,” Billy murmurs into Jason’s chest.

“Shut the hell up and go to sleep, Batson,” Jay growled back but he didn’t protest the contact. Content, Billy let himself drift back to sleep still curled up in his friend’s side.

XxX

Billy woke for the second time that day considerably more comfortable than the first time. For one thing, he was warm which was unusual considering it was February and he didn’t remember his pillow being this soft… or breathing. He peeked open one eye and saw Jason watching him with a bored look.

“About goddamn time, I lost feeling in my arm hours ago, probably gonna have to chop it off now,” Jay said, pushing Billy off of him. Billy himself just shook his head to catch up, right, Jay stayed the night er morning, was gonna stay in Fawcett until Batman tracked them down and killed them both. Cool.

“You coulda moved me,” Billy yawned as Jason rolled out his arm.

“You looked like shit kid, you clearly needed the sleep. You gotta take better care of yourself or you won’t be doing anyone any good,” Jay sneered.

“You’re barely six months older than me,” Billy frowned but Jay got up and stretched anyway.

“Might as well be six years, I see how the Cap acts out in the field with all his ‘aw shucks’ charm. It’d be sickening if it wasn’t so goddamn genuine.”

“At least I’m wearing pants, Mr. ‘I like to feel the wind on my bare thighs,’” Jason turned and stared at Billy with an intense expression which Billy returned. It lasted a solid 30 seconds before Jay cracked and grinned at him. Billy returned the smile; this is why they were best friends.

“Alright fuck, way to hit below the utility belt,” Jay said, still smiling slightly as he ruffled his wiry, slightly curled hair and looked out the dirty window. Now that he’s more awake, Billy saw Jay is wearing a sweat stained t-shirt and tight black work out pants which he wore under his costume when it was cold out. Did he come straight from patrol? Jay got pissed at Bruce all the time but he’d never shown up at Billy’s doorstep with a packed bag before. This might take more than a few days separation to heal but there’d be time for that later.

“How about some breakfast, there’s a shop up the street that sells uneaten food off plates for 1/3 the price,” Billy chirped.

“I’m not making you spend your meager savings in addition to putting up with me,” Jay rolled his eyes, his Gotham accent coming out especially thick as he grabbed for his bag and pulled out a Tupperware. “I told you I brought the good shit, Alfie made those obnoxiously sweet fruit crepes you like.”

“Please tell Alfred I would die for him,” Billy responded automatically as his mouth watered.

“Me too man but I won’t pass that one, he’d just get all sad,” Jay smirked and conversation kind of died off as they attacked the lukewarm crepes with mismatched forks. It tasted heavenly and Billy closed his eyes, letting him enjoy the sensation of eating amazing food prepared just for him. Jay could have had these baked in front of him, fresh and warm with a glass of sparkling water or whatever rich people drank. He chewed thoughtfully, looking at Jason through his bangs. He’ll open up eventually, Jay was terrible at hiding things that upset him and Billy could be patient and wait until he was ready to talk. That’s why they worked so well together.

“Alright, what’s the plan, Bill?” Jason asked, wiping off some blueberry from his face with his arm. Jason was the only person who called him Bill; he said Billy was too childish for someone who could punch out Superman. Billy liked his name but he couldn’t deny a thrill of pleasure at having a special nickname from his best friend.

“Um I didn’t really have anything to do today so why don’t I show you around Fawcett,” Billy shrugged.

“Yeah but like show me the real deal,” Jason stressed. “I don’t want to see the clean tourist shit, I want to see what you deal with every day. Wanna make sure you’re taking care of yourself out here plus I gotta prove that I still got the stones after almost a year living the high life.”

“Uh okay,” Billy said, quirking an eyebrow. It was weird but considering that it was Jason, it could have been way worse. “Let me get dressed and we’ll head out.”

Their day ended up being pretty uneventful. True to his request, Billy dragged Jay along to his usual haunts: the diner where they let Billy sit even when he didn’t buy anything, the nice ladies on the street corner selling their wares, the library where Billy tried to catch up on his studies, the homeless shelters where Cap went for information and Billy got food if he really needed it. Jason acted his usual self: sizing up everyone they saw and spoke to, asserting himself to anyone who even thought about hassling them. One older teen looked like he was gonna go for Jason’s bag when Jay flipped out a big-ass switchblade Billy knew the Big Bat didn’t authorize. Billy is a notorious pacifist in their little community; he knows going to have a lot to answer for being seen with someone like Jason.

Jason bought them hot dogs with the frankly ridiculous amount of money he brought with him and they sat on a park bench and munched in silence.

“You got any work lined up tonight, you know, for the big guy?” Jay questioned through a mouthful of hot dog. Billy shook his head because his mouth was also full but he didn’t like talking with food in his mouth unlike some people. Honestly, which one of them lived in the fancy mansion again?

“Sweet so you and I can go out,” Jason grinned and Billy almost choked.

“Woah,” he wheezed, catching his breath. “Woah are you insane? I thought you were trying to keep a low profile? I can’t have Rob- you know who running around Fawcett, what would people say?”

“I didn’t say Cap and Robin would go out,” Jay whispered under his breath, still with that animated, half crazed look in his eyes. “I say you and me throw on some cheap masks and take out some baddies the old fashioned way, no powers, no fancy toys, just our fists.” And Jason’s grin is all fire and teeth and Billy can instantly see why Bruce took one look at this crazy kid before deciding to bring him home. What was he getting involved in, being friends with Bats?

XxX

“Jay, I don’t know about this,” Billy whispered, incredibly uncomfortable in his friend’s slightly too big work out pants while gripping his wooden bat. He went out fighting bad guys all the time, yeah, but unlike Robin he was used to being a 7 foot tall god, not a scared kid in borrowed clothes and an itchy domino mask.

“Don’t say my name,” Robin, and he was Robin right now no matter what he’s wearing, warned. He stood tall, weight perfectly balanced for ass-kicking, playfully spinning a piece of pipe they’d found lying around. Billy, meanwhile, felt terribly exposed and had literally no training in street fighting. He should have called Batman when he’d had the chance, too late now.

“What am I supposed to call you then?” Billy spat back but kept his voice down.

“Well try not to call me anything first off but I guess Rob works if you really need my attention, you can be Marv,” Jay grinned and Billy felt his eyebrow twitch in annoyance. Normally that’d get at least a good-natured groan but he’s not exactly happy with his best bud right now. He was going to suggest, once again, that they head back to his place and do something notlikely to get them beat up and in trouble but Jay’s smile smoothed out into something serious. He held up a hand to be quiet and then stalked forward, not making a sound and clinging to the shadows like he belonged there. Billy watched him go with an incredulous expression, how the hell was he supposed to do that? He tried his best, creeping after Jay but he knew he was too loud and too noticeable compared to the other boy. This is why he was not the street rat chosen to be the new Robin.

“Hey ass-lickers!” He heard Jay say confidently, Billy stepped forward and found his friend confronting no less than 6 guys in ski-masks with a crowbar jammed under a window to pry it open. Amateurish compared to what Rob and Cap have dealt with but those adults were more than enough to do serious damage to a couple of street kids. Well to him anyway. “You’re about to have your butts handed to you.” Jason didn’t waste any more breath on the meat heads, immediately diving into the fray and unleashing some wicked martial arts on the criminals who sure as hell weren’t expecting it. Billy would almost feel bad for them if he wasn’t terrified and angry at the same time.

“You little shit,” one robber hissed, ducking away from Jason and speeding towards him. Billy planted his feet and swung his baseball bat with all his might into the man’s side. While he hunched over and wheezed, he brought the bat down again onto the back of his head and he went down like a lead balloon. His heart swelled with victory as he gave the bat a little spin. Not bad considering it was his first proper bad guy taken down as regular ole Billy. Of course, Robin has taken down all the others by the time Billy got the one. Jay finished tying up his goons and gave him a thumbs up.

“Way to go, Marv, felt good, didn’t it?”

“No,” Billy frowned as the brief high crashed down around him. He looked down at the groaning man at his feet then at the bat in his hands. It suddenly felt a lot heavier than it had earlier that morning. He wasn’t used to his fights being this, intimate. “This isn’t what being a hero supposed to feel like.”

“Yeah well it is for us mere mortals,” Jay sniped, “Don’t get on your high horse, Cap. You live on these streets; you know how ugly shit can get and sometimes you gotta get dirty to take care of it. Now come on, help me drag these suckers out to the sidewalk and we’ll keep going.” Billy pursed his lips and did what he was told but already his stomach was twisting with nerves.

Luckily it turned out to be a quiet night in Fawcett; they stopped one attempted mugging, kicked around a few drug dealers and returned a lost toy to local girl. Billy gave thanks to the Gods he knew exist but still wasn’t sure he believed in because he’s not sure he could have dealt with anything bigger tonight. They’re on a rooftop and it’s clear his partner wasn’t as relieved as he was by the peace. Jay had the same restless energy he’d had when he first arrived that morning. It took some convincing but Jason eventually, reluctantly, agreed to turn in for the night. He remained sullen all the way back to the apartment, changed into his nightclothes and fell into bed without saying a word. Billy did the same, he’d grown used to Jay’s mood swings and he knew sooner or later, the Boy Wonder would crack. He slipped underneath the covers next to Jason and watched his friend angrily rub at his eyes.

“Feel better?” He asked quietly.

“No,” Jay hissed, “fuck, no, I’m sorry Bill,” he covered his eyes with one arm. “I shouldn’t have made you go out like that. You ain’t like me, that’s not your scene. You’re better than that and I was annoyed enough to try and drag you down to my level.”

“There are no levels, one is better here. We’re both just dumb kids Jay, but I accept your apology anyway,” Billy said before letting a few moments pass. “What did you fight with Bruce about?”

“Fuck, I don’t want to talk about it,” Jason cursed before turning his back to Billy. Billy huffed sadly but decided he’d simply try again in the morning. He was just getting comfortable in bed when Jason spoke again, quietly this time. “B said he loved me for the first time.” Oh Jay, Billy thought fondly, Only you would get upset about that.

“Oh really?” He coaxed and Jason turned onto his back again, his arms crossed protectively across his chest. He rustled his legs under the scratchy blanket like an angry cricket before continuing.

“We’d just got back from patrol, cracked a big case we’d been working on for the past week. I said something that helped B figure it out so I was riding pretty high, y’know? Alfie made those lemon scones he knows I’m apeshit for and B ran his hand through my hair and said, well, said the L word.”

“That’s great, Jason,” Billy said warmly, genuinely meaning it. It’d been so long since anyone had said those words to him but he’s still happy for his friend. Jason is amazing and deserving of love and Billy is so glad he’s finally receiving it.

“I freaked out,” Jay huffed. “Got skittish, you know the way I do. Bats turned back into an awkward potato and said some things that set me off. I screamed some stuff at him that I uh really shouldn’t have. Real deep shit about him and Goldie’s fucked up relationship and how I’m just some weak attempt at replacing him. B started getting mad, I got even madder and I just left which doesn’t make things any better, I know, but I did anyway.” Jay sighed and scrubbed at his face.

“I came back ‘bout an hour later, all filled with apologies and overheard the big guy complaining to Alfred about how he just doesn’t get me, how it was never this hard with Dick. My head was still kind of fucked up so I wasn’t really thinking when I grabbed my Go bag and left again. Was halfway to the ‘Haven before I realized they’d flip if I just disappeared so I called the house and told Alfie I was visiting you and I’d be back in a few days. He at least seemed to understand me,” Jay grumbled the last part.

“To be fair, you’re kind of a mess Jason, not even Batman can be expected to figure you all out,” Billy teased lightly and was rewarded with a light chuckle.

“You know it, Big Bill.”

“I know this may seem kind of sudden but Bruce does love you,” Billy whispered, scooting a little closer. “It’s obvious every time he’s with you. He brings you up all the time in League meetings; he’s like stupidly proud of you.”

“I mean I guess I know but it’s just so weird,” Jay said, pulling up the blanket a bit. “I mean, I came to him with a suitcase full of problems and that’s not even factoring in all of B’s bullshit. I just don’t know how to deal with people actually, y’know, liking me. Plus we all know I don’t fit in there.”

“Jay…”

“Nah shut up it’s true. I’m not fucking Dick Grayson with his award winning smile and magnetic personality that just makes everyone better, made Batman better. Fuck, I guess,” Jay sighed heavily and curled in a little on himself. “I’m just afraid I’m gonna screw it all up. Bruce… he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me and he’s out there doing honest to god good shit, as both Bruce and Batman. I just know I’m going to mess it up, mess him up. He’s too goddamn soft, if he really does love me, he can be hurt by me and I’d rather go back to the streets than drag one of the only good men I know down.”

“Jason,” Billy said, closing the distance between them and setting his head on Jay’s chest, wrapping his arms around his friend and listened to his fast beating heart. “I can’t speak for Batman but all I know is that we love you, warts and all and it would be a privilege to be hurt by you because that means we got to have you in our life.”

“Fuck man, no wonder that wizard guy gave you superpowers,” Jay mumbled in a watery voice. He brought a hand up and tightly gripped Billy’s and they cuddled like that for a long while, just feeling each other with all their faults out to bear because there was no one else to judge them for being less than the ideals they strived to be. It was so freeing just to be for a change and Billy relaxed into his friend’s absurdly warm body.

“You know the same goes for you, Bill,” Jay added on after a bit, sounding half asleep. “You got a lot of people who love you, including me, Alfie and B who know who you are under the cape. I want you to have your freedom but fuck man you deserve so much better than this shithole. You know you just need to say the word and B will have you in the Manor in a heartbeat. We could be brothers, much better than the awkward thing me and Dick got going on.”

“Thanks Jay,” Billy muttered. “I know you and Bruce mean well but Fawcett is my home and I’m happy here. I have my normal friends, my job as Captain Marvel, the League, you; I don’t need any more and besides,” he gently kicked Jay from underneath the covers. “We’re already kinda brothers; don’t need any papers to tell me what I already feel.”

“Christ you’re sappy,” Jason huffed but he sounded a lot better than he had earlier. “I’m going to sleep before you make me vomit with all that sweetness.”

“Night Jay,” Billy grinned but he suspected Jason was already asleep. He probably didn’t sleep much at all yesterday; Jay was someone who let issues keep him awake and as soon as they were solved was out like a light. He was kind of dumb that way but Billy loved him anyway. With Jason asleep, he took the time just to watch his friend. The way his whole face just completely relaxed, how many teeny tiny freckles he had all over his nose and cheeks and spotting down to his neck and collarbone, how long and thick his eyelashes were, highlighted by the moon.

Billy thinks he might have a little crush on his best friend, is it weird to think your bro is kinda attractive? The Wisdom of Solomon he has when he’s Cap tells him that it’s just Billy’s loneliness latching onto one the only true relationships he has with someone his own age and turning it into something more. Still, all that seemed so far away when he’s half on top on a boy who’s the most wonderful asshole he’s ever met. He decided to stop thinking about stuff he can’t figure out and let himself enjoy the moment, falling asleep himself, warm and with the undeniable knowledge that he is loved.

XxX

Billy was woken up by the sound of violent cursing. He bolted up out of bed for the second day in a row and turned to see Jay’s face twisted in a snarl as he held a note. He peeked over his friend’s shoulder and recognized Bruce’s neat handwriting, ‘Let me know when you’re on your way home.’ It was folded with Jason’s name written on the front, obviously left near Jay’s portion of the bed for when he woke up. Billy scrubbed at his eye, he probably should be more mad about Batman breaking into his place but he’s growing desensitized to the level of bullshit that comes with Bats. He and the others should form a support group.

“I thought Alfred would hold him off longer,” Jason grumbled, throwing the note across the room.

“Probably just wanted to make sure you were where you said you’d be. I bet he was real worried when you didn’t come home,” Jason hummed, still annoyed but with a note of understanding in it. “You know, he didn’t make you go back with him. He’s trying to give you the space you asked for, you can stay as long as you need to.”

“Nah,” Jason breathed out. “I can’t keep sponging on you and I need to own up to the things I did and said the other night. I’ll treat you to breakfast then head out.”

“If you insist,” Billy said, stretching out his limbs. “But seriously Jay, stop by anytime. It’s nice to see your dumb face outside of League business where we gotta act like a wise god-like adult and the perfect little sidekick. Just like, tell Batman where you’re going next time.”

“No promises Captain Lame-o,” Jay answered in a mocking tone with a little salute and Billy pushed him over. He loved having Jason Todd in his life. There weren’t many other kids his age who knew not only what it was like to be a superhero but also dealing with all the shit that comes with being out on your own at a young age. So yeah, one of these days Jay was going to talk him into something that got them into massive amounts of trouble and B’s totally gonna ream him for willingly hiding his son away from him. But it’s totally worth it to spend some time with his best friend

[shookethbrooketh]

seven days

day two: part one

summary: dan is stuck in the wrong timeline. one day, he kisses phil goodnight. the next morning, he’s completely alone. he doesn’t even recognize where he wakes up, and little details in the world around him have changed. he has no clue what’s happening or where to go next in an effort to fix it; all he knows is that he has to find phil.

genre: sci-fi, a lil bit of angst, happy ending

warnings: none (for now)

fic word count: 4.3k chapter word count: 2.3k

written for the @phandomreversebang ! inspired by the awesome moodboard/edits by @maybeformepersonally ! beta’d (beginning to end) by @i-might-just-leave-soon !

read it on ao3

Sadly, however, there were a few things Dan didn’t know as he dozed off that evening. He didn’t know about the reminder on the phone he’d neglected all day making sure he, or the him that used to live in this timeline, didn’t forget about his first day on the production of Queer Eye. And he surely didn’t know that while he slept, as the clock struck midnight, the world began to change around him. It was like he slept in a protective bubble, holding him in place as the timeline disassembled and reassembled around his body. At 12:01, his entire universe had changed once again. Dan slept through that night in bliss ignorance until he was woken up and his world turned upside down once again. 

“Daniel!”

“Hmm?” Dan blinked his eyes open, and before he had time to rub the sleep out of them, he spasmed into an upright position, hitting his head on the back of the bed frame. 

He found himself in a hotel room with a man in overly done makeup standing over him. Everything from the day before rushed back to him, and it took all he had not to shout out, “Who the hell are you?” 

“You need to start getting ready for VidCon! Your meetup is today!” the man shouted at him. His voice was loud and shrill, and Dan would have given money to not have to hear it. 

“Okay, okay, give me some space!” he moaned, pushing the man back a little bit. 

“Alright, just be ready in an hour,” the man said, leaving through a door into a conjoined room. 

“An hour? Who needs an hour to get ready?” he asked himself, wandering into the bathroom. “Oh, FUCK!” Dan shouted, taking one good look at his face in the mirror. It was caked in makeup, but it had clearly been a bit smudged by sleep. “Oh, no,” he breathed, fear entering his confused mind. He rushed to find a phone back by the bed and ended up seeing an iPhone XR. “Shit, that’s gotta be expensive,” he said, opening it immediately with facial recognition. Immediately he found and opened YouTube and went to his own channel, something he was more than used to doing in his normal life. What he found was exactly what he feared: he was this timeline’s James Charles. 

Dan groaned, rearing his head back to the ceiling. “I don’t know how to do makeup!” he muttered, dragging himself back into the bathroom. On the sink was a collection of at least 15 different types of makeup. “That explains the one-hour wakeup call.” 

His eyes darted back and forth from blush to mascara to eyeliner to foundation as if looking at them each enough would show him what to do with them. Finally, an idea struck him. Unless YouTube was a completely different beast in this timeline, “Daniel Howell makeup tutorial” would be a fruitful search. It only took him a few seconds to find someone to teach him how to do his own makeup routine, and he was on his way. 

It took Dan about half an hour to do the makeup, and he was quite thankful that the Dan whose body he’d woken up in was wearing makeup already because if he hadn’t it would have taken him twice as long or more. He threw on some actually mildly tasteful clothes and grabbed his VidCon badge; at least he knew how to live this person’s life. 

Ready to go with twenty minutes left, Dan sank back into “his” bed and put his head in his hands. “Why the hell am I in another timeline?” he said, stressing a word every now and then just to exasperate his anger. “I’m never gonna find Phil at this rate.” 

He closed his eyes, attempting to hold back tears. He was sure a rich makeup YouTuber would have waterproof makeup, but he wasn’t willing to take that risk. Thousands of separate thoughts were running through his head, each of them desperate, but one stood out over them all: Dan did not want to go to VidCon. 

VidCon was one of his favorite places; it legitimized all his life choices and made him feel as if he was truly valued by the world. However, he’d never been to a VidCon without Phil in his life, and he didn’t particularly want to. He had fantasies about this VidCon--doing a meetup with Phil with both of them out and proud, hugging their fans tight and supporting them the way they supported the two of them--but now that was all gone, and he was left with a pound of makeup on his face and a bunch of people who didn’t even know him for who he truly was. 

His “friend” and apparently manager, whose name he eventually learned was, ironically, James, retrieved him and led him to the venue. He was lucky for that; he obviously hadn’t been told ahead of time where the meet and greet was, and between his height, his makeup, and his assumed fame, he had a feeling it wouldn’t be wise to mingle with the fans to find directions. 

“Aight, you’ve got a few minutes until the meetup; you can hang out here,” said James, leaving him in a sort of a green room. There was a wall in between them, and he could still hear the screaming fans. He’d never met fans alone before, and he was honestly a bit scared, especially without knowing what sort of fanbase the him of this timeline appealed to. He spent an immeasurable amount of time in his own head, searching aimlessly for something to calm his nerves. If only Phil were there with him…

Suddenly, a thought hit Dan. Maybe Phil was there with him. He’d yet to research the Phil of this timeline, so there was nothing telling him that he wasn’t still a YouTuber or that he wasn’t just halfway across the convention center. Dan whipped out the phone in his pocket and searched “Phil Lester” on Twitter for a second tie, and deja vu struck as he once again came up empty handed. 

“Damnit!” he cried out, but he had no time to mourn, for James had just thrown open the door and informed him that it was time for the meetup. Dan, taken by surprise, threw his phone down and jumped up. “Cool, let’s go!” he responded awkwardly. James furrowed his brow for a moment before eventually deciding to ignore Dan’s odd behavior and simply turning on his heel and leaving. Dan took a deep breath and followed, leaving in the opposite direction in which he came in, and he found himself behind a classic meetup photo background. This, at least, was something he was comfortable with. He put on his performer’s smile and stepped out from behind the curtain. 

Dan had certainly endured screaming teenage girls before; after all, he’d done two tours full of them. But this was a completely different animal entirely. It took all of his strength to smile and wave rather than double over with his hands over his ears. At this point, Dan was losing hope that his otherworldly counterpart wasn’t involved in some ridiculous controversy. 

At that moment, it dawned on the theatre kid still dwelling inside him that he probably should have researched his role before stepping out onstage. He was meant to put on a face and pretend to be someone else, and he hadn’t even a clue who he was to be. 

Before he even had enough time to think, the first fans were stepping up to meet him. Now, Dan had done over a hundred meetups, and even on his worst days, he’d always been attentive to each fan and been careful to make each one’s time the best thirty seconds to a minute they’d ever had. This time, however, was a bit different. 

Sure, he tried his best to act normal, but he quite simply wasn’t. He felt as if he was a fraud, given that technically he sort of was. No matter how much effort he put forth, these people were getting cheated out of meeting their idol. Well, hopefully they’d never know the difference. 

As a general rule of thumb, Dan had decided to go through the meetup emotionless. This was a bit difficult, as he and Phil had planned to, in their VidCon meetup, connect more emotionally to their fans, especially their LGBT+ fans, than ever before. But these people weren’t really his fans, and it was difficult for him to emotionally invest himself in speaking to people who didn’t really love HIS videos. Besides, he needed to keep his eyes on the prize: get through this meetup, then go back to looking for Phil. 

As the queue moved closer, he noticed one black-haired head sticking out above the others. His eyes widened, and his eyes focused on the back of a head facing someone else in the line. “Hi!” someone shouted, and his attention was forced back to the fans meeting him at that particular moment. Suddenly it became even more difficult for him to focus on the fans; he had to see the tall, Phil-like man’s face, but every time he looked up the man was facing the other direction. He felt as if the world refused to let them near each other, even though the chances that it was actually Phil were little to none.

Finally, he reached the front of the line, and the girl he’d been engrossed with conversation in poked him. “It’s your turn!” she whisper-screamed, and he jumped. 

“Oh!” he exclaimed, absentmindedly turning forward, and Dan’s heart skipped a beat. Sure enough, the face looking back at him was the face he’d fallen asleep beside every night for nearly nine years. The only difference: the man on the other side was none the wiser. 

“Oh my goodness, hi!” he squealed through a broad smile. Dan was almost taken aback by it; the Phil he knew wasn’t exactly a squealer, and he definitely didn’t have an American accent. He was quite the different Phil, but he certainly was Phil; there was no doubting it. Phil started speaking again, his words slurring together with nerves. “Iknow it’s sorta odd for youta meet afan who’sactually older thanyou but I hope you don’t find me tooweird…” he trailed off, clearly absolutely terrified to be speaking to Dan.

At this point, time seemed to completely stop. Dan had seen Phil like this, sure, but never for something as simple as a meetup. It completely blew his mind to watch Phil absolutely lose it over the chance to meet him. Phil, the man who he’d known for ten years. Phil, the man who he’d kissed countless times. Phil, who was supposed to be standing beside him on the other side of the meetup, was instead sweating through his clothes because he loved Dan so much. Inside his head, Dan chuckled. He had no idea. 

And Dan had no idea how to respond. There was no response to the person you love more than anyone or anything else in the world completely forgetting you. He wasn’t really sure what to do except for what he always did. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I promise,” he said, wrapping his arms around Phil. This wasn’t abnormal, as he’d done it for every fan thus far, but this time, it lingered a little longer, and it started much sooner than it should have. Still, he kept Phil close for more reasons than he could even begin to identify. Just having Phil there comforted his woes from the last day and a half, filled him with the love he’d always felt from Phil, and encited pure fear in him that he’d never see Phil again, all at one time. Finally, after what felt like only a millisecond but was clearly too long to be appropriate for a creator meeting a fan, Dan released Phil, and he was relieved to find that he was smiling. 

“Thanks,” Phil said, taking a deep breath. “I’m Phil, by the way.” It wasn’t until then that Dan really took Phil in; he was wearing his glasses, which brought a grin to Dan’s face; every universe’s Phil should wear his glasses constantly. It’s what everyone who encounters him deserves. He wore an outfit that reminded Dan of something he’d wear to their own meetup. It was interesting, Dan thought, how some fundamental things about Phil refused to change, even in an alternate universe. 

“Do you have something you’d like me to sign?” he asked. Phil nodded and handed over a pride flag. A burst of relief shot through Dan; Phil was still the same Phil. “I-I’d like to give you this, too,” he said, shakily handing over what appeared to be a drawing. As soon as Dan finished signing the flag, he snatched the drawing as if it were the Holy Grail and examined it; it was a picture of Dan, with every intricate detail drawn out. His dimples were deep, and every curl on his head was intentionally placed. He wore science-themed makeup, and Dan wasn’t even exaggerating when he said it was the best fanart he’d ever seen. “I’m a scientist, so…” 

It was like he was falling in love all over again. “Wow, Phil...This is amazing. Absolutely amazing. I had no idea you could draw like this!” 

“Well…” he stammered, “I don’t think you really know me at all.” 

“Oh, yeah, right,” Dan let out, disappointment evident in his voice. At this point, even Phil’s radiating awkwardness had dissipated into pure confusion. Dan had to think fast, and, through some miracle, he did. “Did you post this online? I’d love to show it some love.”

“Oh, yeah!” Phil said, confusion immediately being replaced by excitement. He was clearly still a bit nervous, but he seemed much more comfortable around Dan. That was a start. “I’m on Twitter @AmazingPhil.” Dan almost winced. How dumb could he be? He made a mental note: next time, search the name AND the handle.

“I’ll definitely check that out,” Dan said, beaming. “Thank you for this.” 

“You’re welcome,” Phil said, and the VidCon employees were ushering him on. Dan wanted to yell at them, to keep him there forever, but there was only so much he could do. 

“Have a great day!” Dan shouted as he watched the love of his life walk out of it clueless. He sighed, and muttered under his breath, “I love you.” 

[searchingwardrobes]

If Found Please Call

This fic idea wouldn’t leave me alone, so I stayed up until one am writing it. Hopefully it’s not a hot mess. Based on my own experiences as a not-so soccer mom.

Summary: Emma Swan wasn’t trying to give Henry’s soccer coach Killian Jones her phone number. She was just sick and tired of her kid losing his water bottles.

Rating; G

Words: 3,000 +

Can also be read on Ao3

Tagging @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @kday426 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @bethacaciakay @teamhook @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @winterbaby89 @jennjenn615 @onceuponaprincessworld @ohmakemeahercules @distant-rose @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines

Emma Swan doesn’t ask for a three and a half bath house or high-end SUV. She doesn’t need to take her son for a week at Disney World at the Grand Floridian. But she would like for once to be able to just say yes to the little things without doing mathematical gymnastics in her head. Henry’s currently begging her for a water bottle to take to soccer, and damn it, this shouldn’t be such a big deal.

But she’s a single mom and pinching pennies just seems to be part of the deal. She doesn’t even have the added bonus of a child support check. Scratch that, having Neal in their lives wouldn’t be worth the pennies he’d most likely throw their way.

You’d think a water bottle wouldn’t be a major purchase. But first of all, this is no ordinary water bottle. This is a metal Thermos with a flip top straw that promises to keep beverages cool for twelve hours. And since Emma bought one for herself to take on stake outs, she can attest to the legitimacy of that claim. With ice still rattling around inside.

But, they aren’t cheap, at least in Emma’s opinion. She spent twenty-five bucks on hers. Henry wants a slightly smaller one, which is twenty, but that’s still a lot for a water bottle. Especially considering how many water bottles she’s already bought for the kid that he’s promptly lost. When she points this out to him, he naturally begins his debate skills which are surprisingly well-honed for a twelve-year-old.

“But this one is special, so I won’t forget it.”

She raises both eyebrows. “Special how?” Aside from keeping drinks ice cold for twelve hours.

“It’s an Avengers one.”

She crosses her arms and purses her lips at that. They’ve had this debate so many times. Her son is crazy about all things Marvel, while Emma is strictly a DC girl. She maintains that Superman and Supergirl alone could have defeated Thanos. One holds him down, the other yanks off the gauntlet, they use their heat vision to destroy the thing, and bing-bang-boom, the Justice League is home by dinner. Mary Margaret maintains it has more to do with her taste in tall and dark Tom Welling or Henry Cavill as opposed to the blonde and muscled Chrises of the world. Not that Henry’s picked up on that particular aspect of her Superman obsession.

“You can check that I have it after practice, I swear,” Henry quickly changes tactics to avoid another Avengers vs. Justice League argument.

She rolls her eyes, and Henry’s mouth is open for his next argument before she can speak. Being a single mom and having the job she does, she’s enlisted the help of every one of her closest friends to make sure Henry gets where he’s supposed to be and is supervised. Emma herself can barely make sure Henry’s got his cleats and shin guards, much less keep up with a water bottle. She certainly can’t expect David or Mary Margaret or Ruby to remember. Aside from that, she’s pretty sure Henry has left past water bottles all over Storybrooke park, not just on the soccer fields. He has a bad habit of running off to do the myriad of things boys do while waiting to be picked up. Last week, David found him and his friends playing in the creek by the parking lot. She’s pretty sure water bottle number 12 is floating its way to the Atlantic by now.

“But the environment, Mom! Remember those YouTube videos of all the plastic water bottles?”

Well, shit. Now he’s gone and pulled the “we need to save the environment” card. And yes, she was horrified at the mountains of disposable water bottles in the landfills and the beaches covered in hundreds that had washed ashore. Hell, it’s why she bought Henry the other dozen water bottles that he’s lost. And she takes waste seriously, really she does, but she’s trying to raise a kid here. If she carries the weight of the world too, she’ll end up mumbling in a corner somewhere. So when Henry kept losing the reusable bottles she kept buying, she had given up and starting buying cases of water at the grocery store to keep in the Bug. That way, her kid stayed hydrated without constant nagging.

“Henry,” she groaned, rubbing at the tension headache mounting behind her right eye, “I want to be green and all that, but you’ve lost every single reusable bottle I’ve gotten you. And none of those cost as much as this one.”

“We’ll put my name on it!”

“Your name was on the last one. Fat lot of good it did when you dropped it in the creek.” So much for saving the environment.

Henry rolled his eyes and it was way too familiar for her comfort. “Coach got onto us for that, remember? No more playing in the creek.”

Henry’s coach, Killian Jones, was the envy of every other soccer team in the rec league. He was British, and apparently, that automatically meant he knew more about soccer than anyone else in Storybrooke. Not that Emma would know. She was the farthest thing from a soccer mom. All she knew was the ball went into the net, and if the goalie didn’t stop it, they scored. No, that wasn’t right. Henry told her it was a keeper, not a goalie. God, she was awful at this sports mom thing.

Other parents cheered specific instructions to their kids from the sidelines, but Emma didn’t know enough to do that. She just clapped and yelled for the kids to “go.” Emma couldn’t even yell the other kids’ names. She missed so many practices, she hadn’t learned any of them.

“It’s okay, Mom,” Henry had told her. “Sometimes the parents are yelling stuff that’s wrong anyway. I think it annoys Coach Jones.”

If the man was annoyed, he never showed it. There had been so many games when Emma was thankful her son had gotten on his team, and it had nothing to do with his superior British knowledge of the game. He was calm and collected, while other coaches got red in the face and way too intense. He smiled and encouraged the boys, while other coaches yelled things at their players that made Emma cringe. Not that Coach Jones didn’t get loud, but it was to call out instructions to his players or to cheer them on.

Of course, some of the other single moms (and some of the married ones) were glad to have Coach Jones for other reasons. The man was easy on the eyes, there was no doubt about it. Some of the available women had even made rather obvious advances on the man, which he seemed to deflect with easy grace. But not Emma. What little romantic life she had was kept completely separate from Henry which made his coach off limits. Her romantic life was kept on the surface level too, but that was neither here nor there.

“We could add a phone number.”

Emma shakes her head to clear it of thoughts of Coach Jones and his blue eyes, easy smile, and how good he looks in soccer shorts. What were her and Henry talking about again? Oh right, the water bottle.

“You know,” Henry repeats, shaking the Avengers Thermos at her, “if found, call?”

Emma thinks about the mountains of plastic bottles in landfills, guilt rising up. She thinks of how much easier it would be if she didn’t have to buy a case of water every time she went to the store and how much space would be freed up in her tiny Bug without all those bottles of water. She looks into Henry’s eager face, and she caves.

“Fine.”

“Yes,” Henry cheers, pumping his fist.

As soon as they get home, Emma gets out the masking tape. Careful to avoid the Avengers logo, she labels it “Henry Swan. If found, please call 555-0980.”

****************************************************

It’s a week later, and Emma is on another stake out. She’s just received a text from David that he’s dropped Henry off at the apartment. She’s got Ruby lined up to head over at nine if Emma’s still working. Knowing her son’s taken care of relieves some of the tension she’s been carrying in her shoulders, and she relaxes a bit while still keeping her eyes trained on the apartment building across the street.

Her phone rings, and she frowns when she sees Coach Jones flash across her screen. She only has his number saved for when he sends out texts to the team about when the games are, what color jerseys to wear, and alerting them if a game gets rained out. He doesn’t have to, most of the other coaches assume the parents follow the team portal on the rec website, and Emma is incredibly grateful that he’s so considerate. It’s one less thing she has to stress about.

But he’s never called her, and seeing his name now has her going into immediate mom-panic mode where she jumps to the worst possible scenario. She imagines Henry getting bullied by some of the bigger players. He can’t have been injured at practice, or David would have told her, but what if Coach Jones noticed something more subtle? She saw a movie on Netflix about a figure skater who kept coughing at practice and ended up dying of a rare throat cancer.

She shakes her head at her own ridiculousness and answers the call. “Coach Jones, is everything okay?”

“Oh yes, Ms. Swan, I didn’t mean to worry you,” he assures her in his smooth accent. “I just have Henry’s Thermos here.”

“Oh,” Emma replies, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, “thank you. He’s always forgetting his damn water bottles.”

Coach Jones chuckles. “He’s not the only lad on the team that has that habit, I can assure you.”

Emma bites her lip as his accent wreaks havoc with her hormones. Are all British men so eloquent?

“Shall I bring it by?” he continues.

“Um, no,” Emma says, “I’m working still, and I don’t feel comfortable -”

“Say no more, Ms. Swan,” he cuts her off, “I understand completely. Tell me your place of employ and perhaps I could bring it to you there.”

“That’s a bit complicated . . . I’m . . . kind of on a stake out.”

“Stake out?” he asks, and she thinks he sounds impressed. “Are you a cop?”

“No,” Emma says, a smile lifting the corner of her mouth, “I’m in bail bonds.”

“A bounty hunter?”

Emma laughs at the awe in his voice. “In a way.”

He whistles and his clear admiration makes Emma’s chest swell with ridiculous pride.

“No worries,” he tells her, “now that I’m thinking on it, there’s no reason why I can’t fill it up for Henry myself and bring it to the game Saturday.”

“Could you?”

“I’ll set it on my kitchen counter so I’ll be sure to remember,” he assures her. But it isn’t that she thinks he’ll forget, she’s just still, after all these years, surprised at random acts of kindness, no matter how small.

“Thank you, Coach Jones.”

“Please, Ms. Swan, it’s Killian.”

“Then it’s Emma to you.”

“Goodnight, Emma.”

“Goodnight, Killian.”

*************************************************

When Emma and Henry arrive at the soccer fields on Saturday, Coach Jones, as usual, is already there. He waves as soon as he sees them and jogs over with Henry’s Thermos in his hand.

“Thanks, Coach,” Henry says, taking a swig. Then he’s off to join his teammates on the other side of the field.

Emma swallows a lump in her throat when Coach Jones – Killian – lingers. He ducks his head and scratches behind his ear, and Emma can’t help but think that he’s gathering his courage. She’s suddenly petrified that he’s about to ask her out. Oh God, does he think she put her number on Henry’s thermos as a roundabout way to get him to call her?

“I must ask for your forgiveness, Emma.”

She blinks. Of all the things she thought he might say, that wasn’t it. “For what?”

He rubs at the scruff on his jaw. “I have all parent numbers saved as a group on my phone, just for team communication. I have a strict policy not to socialize with parents. It might make others believe I’m playing favorites you understand.”

“Of course,” Emma says, narrowing her eyes. Where’s he going with this?

The nervousness seems to fall away and his gaze becomes not only sincere, but a bit intense. “But after I called you about Henry’s Thermos, I saved your number as just Emma.” She can see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “And I must confess, I've thought of calling you again many times.”

Emma commands her lips not to turn up in a smile and fails miserably. “I see.”

“I didn’t ask permission to have your number in a social compacity, and for that I apologize.”

Emma shrugs one shoulder. “No need. It’s just a phone number. We’re both adults.” Her lips continue their rebellious ways and she add, “And I don’t think just a phone call or a text here or there would be called socializing. Do you?” Is she seriously standing on the sidelines of her son’s soccer game and flirting with his coach?

Killian’s smile broadens to a full grin, dimpling his cheeks. “Aye. I believe you’re onto something, Swan.”

“I thought I told you. It’s Emma,” she says. So she’s flirting, okay?

He winks. “I didn’t say Ms Swan, now did I? The name suits you.” Then he’s jogging backwards towards his team.

Yes, she’s flirting with Henry’s soccer coach, and he’s flirting right back. The scariest part is that she isn’t scared at all. She’s so screwed.

***************************************************

It’s six weeks later, and Emma has lost count of how many text messages she has received from Killian Jones. She’s also talked to him on the phone almost daily, sometimes for hours on end. He hasn’t so much as touched her, they haven’t even been on a date, and already she’s falling hard. But they both agree that officially dating is out of the question as long as he’s Henry’s coach.

Which is why she’d giddy with excitement today. And simultaneously feeling like the worst mother in the world. Because today is Henry’s last soccer game. Maybe. If they lose, the season is over. If they win, there will be one more week of practice, then two weeks of tournament play that involves some complicated system that is ridiculous in her opinion for a rec league of twelve-year-olds. Is she a horrible mother if she doesn’t want to wait three more weeks to jump Henry’s coach? Oh God, she is. She’s a horrible mother.

She also has to talk to Henry about dating his coach. She may be breaking all her self-imposed rules of romance (yes even the one about keeping things surface level), but Henry still comes first. He’s bouncing with excitement in the passenger’s seat as they drive to the soccer fields, making her feel even more conflicted with each passing moment.

“If we go to the tournament Mom, there’s a trophy for the top three teams. I mean, we all get participation medals, but a trophy is something else!”

Emma bites her lip thinking of Henry’s disappointment if they don’t make the tournament. Three weeks, Emma, it’s only three more weeks . . . so she changes her prayers to whoever is listening that Henry’s team wins after all.

“Henry,” she says when she parks the car, “I need to ask you something important.”

“Okay . . . “

She takes a deep breath, “Would it be okay if I date Coach Jones? I mean, once the season is over?”

Henry frowns, and Emma’s heart beats erratically. If her son is upset by the prospect . . .

“Can he still be my coach next season? Cause I wanna be on his team again, and you can request a coach -”

Emma lifts her hand. “Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it, okay?” Although, she doesn’t think it will be a problem if they’re already in an established relationship when the season starts. Wait, she’s totally getting ahead of herself, and she never does that.

“Well, will you ask him before you go on your date? To be sure?”

Emma smiles softly at him. “Is that really the only thing you’re worried about?”

Henry shrugs. “Yeah, I guess so. I mean, it may be a little weird, but he is really great.”

“Yeah, kid, he is.”

**********************************************

The team is packed into Granny’s to celebrate their win. Even though it means three more weeks before she can go on her first date with Killian, Emma can’t help but get swept up with Henry’s enthusiasm. You would think they were going to the World Cup the way the boys are acting. She catches Killian’s eye across the sea of boys shoveling french fries into their mouths, and she knows that taking these kids to the tournament means a lot to him, too. He tears his blue eyes away from her to engage with the boys in front of him, congratulating each of them on how they contributed to their big win. Emma slides away, letting them have this moment.

She finds herself seeking solitude in the hallway near the bathrooms, though the boys are still a dull roar out in the dining room. Someone selects “We are the Champions” on the jukebox, and soon a chorus of warbly prepubescent boys are belting out the tune.

Killian finds her there. He reaches out to touch her elbow hesitantly, and at her soft smile, he rubs both her arms with his hands. She steps away from the wall and closer to him.

“I’m sorry our date is delayed, love.”

Emma shrugs, pushing aside her disappointment. “How can I not be happy for Henry, though? And what about you? I saw you on the sidelines. Are you sure this is just rec soccer? Because you seemed really into it today.”

He laughs, his blush rising to the tips of his elf-shaped ears. “I’m pretty excited, I won’t lie.” He takes a step closer and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. The ghost of a touch is enough to send a shudder through her. “But I’m more excited about our date.”

Her eyes dart from the blue of his eyes down to his lips. “I know we said we couldn’t date while you were Henry’s coach. But I’m not a sure a kiss would -”

He captures her mouth with his before she can finish the sentence. Emma practically loses her balance with the passion and heat of it, grasping onto his soccer jersey with both fists. He presses her against the wall as he deepens it, and Emma thinks she might just rip those soccer shorts off here and now. She whimpers slightly when he pulls away, chasing his lips, and he presses his forehead to hers.

“I was going to ask if I had been too forward, but evidently not,” he teases her.

She doesn’t answer him, she just yanks him close again. If he keeps stealing kisses like this, the next three weeks may not be so bad after all.

And she needs to remember to thank Henry for that phone number idea . . .

[trashcanmarvelfan]

Best. Job. Ever. 7/12

Summary: Reader gets a job on the set of Spider-Man: Far from Home for the 3 weeks they are shooting in New York City as what she thinks is a production assistant, but a twist of fate has her reassigned as Tom Holland’s personal assistant. As she & Tom grow close during filming, will their budding friendship turn to more or will they go their separate ways after filming concludes?

Warnings: Language, but that’s pretty much it? This is basically a PG-13 rom-com. (Legal) alcohol use as well but since it’s legal do I really need to tag it?

Word Count: 2255 for chapter 7.

Author’s Note: As this was written WAY before Spider-Man: Far from Home was released (actually before Avengers: Endgame was as well) I’ve kept plot details and which scene was being shot on what day extremely vague. Also, I’m American but tried to write Tom as British as possible, although I do think he’d try to stay(ish) in character and use as much American slang as he could while he’s still playing Peter.

Chapter-Specific Author’s Note: None?

Requests are always open!

Cross-posted at AO3.

The next morning Y/N knocked on Tom’s door after making her usual coffee run and was looking at her phone when the door swung open. “Hey, you...” She paused as she looked up into ice-blue eyes. “...are most definitely not Tom.” She glanced at the room number again just to make sure that in her non-caffeinated state she hadn’t accidentally knocked on the wrong door. Nope, right room.

The guy grinned as he eyed her up and down. He ran a hand through his dark, curly hair. “No, darling, I’m not, but in this case I certainly wouldn’t mind the confusion,” he said in a crisp British accent.

Y/N blushed. Ah, this must be Harrison. Damn, are ALL British guys total hotties? She was starting to regret not googling him when she had the chance, thinking at the time that doing so would've been kinda creepy and stalker-ish. At least she would've known what he looked like.

Tom appeared behind him. “Hey, there you are. Come on in.”

The guy that Y/N presumed was Harrison stepped from the doorway and gestured for Y/N to enter.

Tom put a gentle hand on Y/N’s back as he introduced them. “Haz, this is Y/N, my assistant while I'm filming in New York. Y/N, this is my best friend, Harrison.”

“Ahh, so you're Y/N,” Harrison said knowingly. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Y/N glanced at Tom curiously before shaking Harrison’s hand. “Nice to meet you too,” she said, missing the glare that Tom shot Harrison in the process.

She handed Tom his coffee before turning to Harrison. “I didn't know you'd be around this morning, otherwise I could've also got you a coffee.”

Harrison laughed. “Thanks, love, but I can fetch my own coffee. I'm not a diva like this one.” He gestured towards Tom jokingly as he grabbed the to-go cup that was already on the desk.

Y/N laughed as well. “I honestly don't mind getting Tom's coffee in the morning and dinner at night. I'm already getting stuff for myself anyway, so it's nothing just to order extra.”

“And she does it all without complaint,” Tom joked. “Careful Haz, you might be permanently replaced as my best friend and assistant.”

Harrison pretended to be hurt. “I’m wounded. After all I’ve done for you and after all our years of friendship, you’re willing to just replace me like that? It’s because she’s prettier than me, isn’t it?”

Tom pretended to think for a second, then shrugged. “Basically, yeah.”

Harrison gently punched Tom in the shoulder. “That’s cold, mate.”

Y/N laughed. “While I’m flattered, I don’t think I could ever really replace you. The bromance is way too strong.” She grinned as her phone chimed with a text. “James is here. Ready to go? Need me to grab anything?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you yet -- Haz is going to come join us on set today,” Tom said. “I've already got it arranged.”

“Oh, ok, that's cool. You guys ready to go then?”

They all headed towards the elevator and as they were waiting for it to arrive, Y/N turned to Harrison.  “While Tom’s busy filming we can swap all of our horror stories about how much of a nightmare it is to be his P.A.” She playfully nudged Tom.

“Aww, Y/N, not you too,” Tom groaned as the elevator doors opened and they stepped in. “I knew it was a bad idea to get the two of you together.”

Y/N turned and gave Harrison a high-five as the doors closed.

Harrison nodded approvingly. “I like this one.”

They made their way downstairs and to the waiting car. “Morning Mr. Holland, Miss Y/L/N,” he greeted.

“Morning, James,” Y/N replied.

“Sorry we're late,” Tom chimed in. “We've got an extra passenger today. This is my best friend, Harrison Osterfield. He’s in town for the weekend.”

James shook Harrison's hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Likewise,” Harrison replied. “Shall we?”

Y/N climbed into the car, followed by Tom, then Harrison.  

Y/N mostly kept quiet during the ride, letting Tom and Harrison talk and catch up, until her phone chimed with an email alert.

“Ok, hmm,” Y/N said, looking at the revised schedule she had just been sent. “Because of Wednesday’s and today’s schedules getting swapped due to the rain on Wednesday causing continuity errors and not being able to film outside, it looks like it won’t be as crazy tight of a day as originally planned. So instead of having to run straight to hair & makeup as soon as we arrive on set you guys should have about 45 minutes to relax in your trailer while I get your croissant. But the even better news is that you should be done around 3 pm instead of 9, so you guys will have plenty of time to hang out tonight.”

“Awesome,” Harrison said as they pulled up to the set.

They all climbed out, thanking James and wishing him good day.

“So I’m gonna go grab your breakfast from craft services, Tom, and meet you guys back at your trailer if that’s okay. Harrison, you want anything? Croissant? Bagel? Toast?”

“I’ll take some toast if you don’t mind,” Harrison replied.

Y/N nodded. “Ok, I’ll see you guys in a bit.”

She turned in the opposite direction of the trailers to head to craft services, greeting various cast and crew members as she walked.

She grabbed a pastry box and placed a few croissants and a couple of pieces of toast inside.

She made her way back to Tom’s trailer and knocked before poking her head inside. “Hey, guys, I have your breakfast.” She entered and set the box down on the table, taking a few mini jars of jam out of her pockets and setting them down as well. “Harrison, I didn’t know if you wanted jam or not with your toast so I went ahead and grabbed a couple of different kinds just in case, along with some butter.” She grabbed a croissant for herself before having a seat next to Tom.

“You, darling, are an absolute peach,” Harrison said, biting into his toast.

“She is pretty great, isn’t she?” Tom agreed, slinging his arm around Y/N and giving her a quick squeeze.

Y/N shrugged. “Thanks. I try.”

“So, Y/N, tell me about yourself,” Harrison said.

“Oh, um, well…” Y/N gave Harrison the same basic background information that she had given Tom upon their initial meeting. “So, you two met… at school?” she asked.

“Yeah, we met at school and hit it off straightaway, became best friends,” Harrison said.

“Flatmates, too, for a bit,” Tom added.

They chatted until it was time for Tom to go to hair and makeup. Harrison went with Tom to say hello to everyone while Y/N made her way to set to see if anything needed to be done before Tom began his filming for the day.

After lunch Y/N had been talking with one of the production assistants when Tom and Harrison walked up, joined by Jacob, who was flying out to California for the weekend after they filmed the final scene of the day.

“Hey guys,” Y/N said as Jon called for everyone to get in their places. “Ready to get back to it?”

Y/N and Harrison stood to the side as Tom and Jacob took their marks, Jon calling action on the background extras, then action on Tom and Jacob.

Tom and Jacob ran through the scene several times but Jon wasn't quite happy with it. After the fourth time of Jon calling cut, he told everyone to take five. “Hang on, something’s not right,” he muttered. He thought a moment. “I think we need a few more extras.”  He pointed at Y/N and Harrison, who were talking with Tom and Jacob. “You two. I need you in this scene.”

Y/N's eyes widened. She pointed to herself. “Us?”

Jon nodded. “I need you two to walk across the background of this shot towards the cafe’. Act… couple-y.”

As he turned to call for hair and makeup, Y/N turned back towards Tom and Harrison.

“Well, this is an interesting development,” Harrison said cheekily, slinging an arm around Y/N's shoulder.

“Yeah, I wasn't expecting to suddenly be in the movie, even as an extra with no lines and only a couple of seconds of screentime,” Y/N joked. “If this even makes it into the final cut.”

The stylist came by and dusted the same translucent powder she used on Tom on both Y/N and Harrison's faces and gave Y/N a brighter shade of lipstick before declaring them camera-ready.

“Ok, Y/N, Harrison, you're going to cross behind Tom and Jacob as they're walking down the street,” Jon called out, settling back into his chair. “I'll cue you.”

Everyone got into their places and he called for quiet on the set.

“And… action!”

Tom and Jacob walked down the street, reciting their lines.

Harrison turned to Y/N. “Ready for your big debut?” he joked.

“As I'll ever be,” Y/N replied nervously.

Harrison squeezed her hand reassuringly. “You'll do fine.”

“And, cue Harrison and Y/N!” came Jon's voice.

Y/N and Harrison walked across the street to the coffee shop, Harrison's arm around Y/N's shoulder as she snuggled into his side, her hand on his and their fingers linked.

“Cut! That's exactly what we need, but let's do it one more time to make sure we've got it.”

They reset and this time when Jon called action, Harrison pulled Y/N closer as they stopped in front of the cafe’ and placed an affectionate kiss to the side of her head.

“Cut!” John checked the footage. “ Perfect. That's a wrap on today, everybody. Have a great weekend and I'll see you all on Monday.”

While Tom went to go change out of his wardrobe Harrison wandered off to go make a phone call, so Y/N decided to run to the coffee shop situated inside the bookstore on the corner of the street that they had been filming on. She signaled to Harrison to get his attention, pointed down the street, and mouthed, I'll be right back.

Harrison nodded. Ok, he mouthed back.

Coffee?

He nodded again. Thanks.

Y/N had gotten their coffee orders and was walking back with them when she saw Tom and Harrison talking.

Tom's face lit up as he spotted Y/N. “Y/N, there you are.”

“Hey, sorry. The line was longer than I thought it would be, probably since the cafe’ is closed today.” She handed Tom and Harrison their coffees and threw the carrier into a nearby recyclables container before taking a sip of her own coffee as they walked to meet up with James to head back to the hotel.

“So what’s up, guys?” she asked.

“Haz and I are planning on going out to a club tomorrow night,” Tom said.

“Oh ok, cool, have fun,” Y/N replied. “Which one? I’ll call ahead and reserve a VIP table for you.”

Tom shook his head. “Oh, no, that’s not necessary-- wait, actually, yes, that would be brilliant, thank you, but-- What I mean is, would you like to join us?”

Y/N’s eyebrows raised. “Are you sure? Harrison’s only in town for a few days, I wouldn’t want to interfere with boys’ night out or anything.”

“We'd love to have you come,” Harrison assured her. “It’ll be loads of fun.”

Y/N thought about it for a second before nodding. “Okay, then.”

“Brilliant,” Harrison said. “We’ll come ‘round to yours at what, 6 tomorrow night? That sound good?”

“Yeah, 6 is fine.”

Y/N called the club and left Tom’s name for the VIP list, making a table reservation as well before hanging up.

“Ok, we’re all set,” she said as James pulled up. They greeted James and loaded into the car.

They talked about dinner plans and agreed upon a sushi restaurant near the club for dinner beforehand.

The car pulled up to the hotel and they all headed towards the elevator, dropping Harrison off on his floor and heading up to the 10th.  

“Are you sure it’s ok that I come with you guys?” Y/N asked Tom once they were alone.

“Yeah, it’s totally fine… unless you don’t want to?” Tom replied uncertainly.

“No, no… I mean I do, I just don't want to be a bother or a third wheel in case you guys want to be each other's wingman or something.”

“It’s not a bother at all,” Tom replied, giving her hand a squeeze as they stepped out of the elevator.  “Honestly, I'd really like you to come out with me and Harrison tomorrow. He and I have all night tonight and all day tomorrow to hang out and I'd really like the two of you to get to know each other.” He grinned. “Besides, you have yet to experience New York nightlife and what better way than with two English blokes from London?”

Y/N smiled. “Okay, if you're totally sure.”

“Ok, then it's settled.” Tom grinned.

“I better go see what I brought that I can wear to the club so I can figure out if I have to go shopping tomorrow,” Y/N said, taking a step back towards her room. “See you later?”

Tom nodded. “See you, Y/N.”

[lord-of-shadows]

A New Life (Kitty Reunion Ch. 3)

chapter 3 is here! check it out on AO3 or read under the cut. this one takes place three years later, and it mainly revolves around kit’s love for cordelia and some wholesome family moments :)  words: ~2k. read ch. 1 and ch. 2. enjoy!!

CHAPTER THREE

The cold wind was blowing in Kit’s face as he held Cordelia in his arms, walking up the familiar path to their quaint home at the top of the hill. 

He and Cordelia had just gotten back from Kit’s friend’s house, who also had a little sister two years older than Cordelia, but Kit deemed Cordelia (who was two) old enough to play with her. Kit met Trisha the summer after his sister was born when he was out on an emergency store run late at night (Tessa had run out of diapers for Cordelia, and unlike Magnus, she refused to magically steal more). As he exited the gas station, Kit noticed a night-clad figure following the mundane girl, and he instantly glamoured himself. Before the mysterious man could make a move on the girl, Kit had knocked him out—he admitted, he may have used too much force for a mundane, but it had been so long since he last experienced fighting crime; he had a love-hate relationship with how it always sent a feeling of adrenaline and exhilaration through his bones. The girl thanked him, but true to Devon’s residents, she immediately began to question him as to why she has never seen him before (everyone knew each other and their dog in this town). Then, after realizing that Kit was new and didn’t know that many people, she invited him to hang out with her friends that weekend, which Kit, at first, did not know how to react, but Jem and Tessa encouraged him to make new friends, and so he did, and after that, he became close friends with the other Devon residents around his age.

Kit realized that despite knowing a lot about his new friends, they didn’t know much about him, except the little story he curated: He was from America—Los Angeles, to be in fact (to which they always ask him about Hollywood and celebrities), and his parents had died in a car crash a few years ago (true that his parents died, but he couldn’t necessarily tell them it was because of faeries and demons), and so his British aunt and uncle adopted him (this was believable, since Tessa and Jem did have London accents, and they didn’t legally adopt Kit, but it was close enough), and now they ended up here, in the small town of Devon.

They always extended their condolences, but Kit found that the memory of his father didn’t hurt as much like before, and even though Tessa and Jem told him the truth about his mother, he used his grief to fuel his training, although he still couldn’t access that electric white light he unleashed while fighting the Riders of Mannan. The power had vanished as quickly as it appeared, and no matter the amount of training he did with Tessa or sometimes even Magnus, he couldn’t unlock it again.

Hopefully, he never had to. Though he was loathed to admit, it was pretty cool.

Cordelia was playing with his sleeve, babbling excitement about the Christmas lights Trisha’s family had already strung up on their house; even though Christmas was a mundane holiday, Tessa and Jem thought it would be a nice family tradition for them to partake in the gift-giving and spirit of it, and Kit recalled that Tessa had told him to return home early since they were planning to set up their decorations that day. It wasn’t like Kit could forget, with Cordelia mentioning it every two seconds.

Cordelia’s happiness filled Kit with child-like joy—he never did celebrate Christmas, his father deeming it a waste of time and believing there was no such thing as the spirit of Christmas since everyone in the Shadow Market was miserable anyway, but he was glad that Tessa and Jem found the holiday worthwhile. He wanted the best childhood for Cordelia, different than the one he had so that when she looked back as an adult, she would be filled with memories of fondness and love, not loneliness and death.

He entered the house, drawing an Open rune on the door, feeling the wards opening and closing all around him—and was met with Jem leaning against the counter and Tessa sitting on the couch, hunched over with a pen in her hand, small frowns on their faces, stress evident in their postures.

“I know Christmas decorating is no easy feat,” Kit said, a furrow between his eyebrows as he set down Cordelia on the floor, who proceeded to run straight to Jem. “But why the tense shoulders?”

Jem bent down to pick her up, the stress alleviating slightly, and let out a long sigh before sitting next to Tessa on the couch, and as Kit got closer, he realized she seemed to be focused on writing a letter to someone.

“Here,” Jem said, picking up a folded paper from the coffee table, handing it to Kit. “Read this.”

Kit sat in the armchair across from him, opened the letter, and began to read:

To Tessa Gray,

I apologize for reaching out to you on such short notice, but there has been strange activity concerning dark magic occurring around the ley lines here in Los Angeles. When Emma and Julian were on patrol yesterday, they noticed that a blight similar to the one a few years ago was taking over the land once again, but this time, it seemed to be spreading at a much faster rate than before. We have contacted the Unseelie King, and he claims it is affecting the Faerie lands as well. He tried to contact the Seelie Queen, but no response has yet been obtained. We contacted Magnus; there does not seem to be a warlock sickness again, but he says that a similar blight is appearing in New York too. We request your help immediately in investigating this issue, as we are not sure how much time we have left. We await your arrival.

Aline Penhallow, Head of Los Angeles Institute

“It’s happening again?" Kit said incredulously, glancing at Tessa. She was finished with her letter, folding it neatly before releasing it, the embers floating away with the unseen wind.

She nodded. “I have my suspicions on what may have occurred,” she said, her hand reaching up unconsciously to rub the sleeplessness from her eyes, “But it will be beneficial if I could see it myself.” She turned to Jem, who was looking at her with worried eyes. “The letter I sent was to Catarina Loss, to see if she has any insight on this occurrence, as she is more knowledgeable with this type of magic. I know she is teaching at the Scholomance though so she may not be able to help.”

At the mention of the Scholomance, Kit tensed, but Tessa and Jem did not seem to notice, caught in their own wordless conversation. He wondered if this is how he seemed like with Ty in the past.

Enough. It’s been three years, and yet, he still couldn’t stop thinking of him.

Dark magic, Aline had said in her letter. Kit shivered, his memory going back to that night in Alicante. He finally did tell the truth to Jem and Tessa about why he ran away but never told them what exactly he and Ty were doing—he knew there was no way they knew what happened, but sometimes, he felt that Tessa could easily see past through his lies.

Jem looked at him, concern still written on his face. “Christopher, Tessa and I have decided to leave to the Los Angeles Institute tomorrow. But don’t worry,” He added, seeing the panicked expression on Kit’s face, “We will not force you to come with us. The problem is we are not sure how long we will be gone so we will be bringing Cordelia. Helen and Aline can take care of her while we are away.” Kit knew Helen and Aline had adopted a faerie girl around Cordelia’s age from the excessive amount of photos Dru and Emma sent him—Nene, Kit believed they named her, after Helen and Mark’s faerie aunt—and something in the back of his mind thought it was a good idea for Cordelia to be around more kids her age, but Kit felt fear rise in him from being separated from his little sister. He could hear Tessa saying that it was okay if he wanted to stay since they trusted him well enough, and if anything did happen, he had the ability to summon them immediately with the little trinket they had given him.

“Also,” He heard Jem say quietly, “Tiberius will not be returning from the Scholomance until a few days before Christmas. I assure you, we will be back home by then.”

“I’ll go,” Kit decided, straightening in his chair. He could bear seeing Dru and Emma; besides, Emma made sure to visit them each May for Cordelia’s birthday, so it wouldn’t be much of a problem. Dru would be another hurdle, but Kit was sure he could handle it since they often texted each other and talked on the phone. But Ty? That was a whole other story—he hadn’t seen or communicated with the other boy in years. And yet, the thought of him still makes your heart race. Kit inhaled. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he saw the other boy again.

And he didn’t know if he wanted to find out.

“Great!” Tessa said, clapping her hands together. “Then it’s settled. We will leave tomorrow night so we can arrive in Los Angeles by the afternoon.” Right. Kit almost forgot about the ten-hour time zone difference. It was a pain when texting Emma and Dru. “I will go ahead and pack Cordelia’s things. You best get packing as well, Kit.”

“But Christmas lights?” Cordelia asked, thumb in her mouth, words sounding more like babbles, but Tessa managed to understand her anyway.

“How could I forget?” Tessa feigned shock. “How about you and Papa go set them up, and Kit and I will join you later?”

“Yay!” Cordelia cheered, crawling out of Jem’s embrace and grabbing his hand, Jem shooting Tessa a helpless—and panicked—smile before being whisked away outside.

Kit laughed silently, but his mind wasn’t paying attention to his sister’s antics, as it was currently consumed by thoughts of Los Angeles—he was going to be in the Institute’s winding halls again, going to witness the loud breakfasts and vibrant beaches and laugh with the others again—

Except Ty wasn’t going to be there, his mind added. He should feel grateful, and he was, but he could feel disappointment creep up in him, and he knew he couldn’t deny the truth, that he wanted to see Ty again.

Kit felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to find that Tessa had moved over to him, a caring look on her face as if she had a motherly instinct that something was wrong. Kit let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Christopher,” Tessa said gently, using his real name, one that she only reserved for when she was being serious with him. “I know this will be difficult to face. But trust me, they will be excited to see you again. You are missed.” She cupped his cheek, and Kit leaned into it, a warmth rushing over him—an extremely young memory of his own mother doing this to him flashed in his mind, of her holding Kit close and singing softly when he couldn’t sleep. His head hurt. “If at any point you feel overwhelmed, let me know, and I will send you back home.” Kit nodded. Suddenly, they heard a crashing noise—Tessa’s eyes widened as she pulled back, her fingers sparkling—before Jem opened the door, calling in the midst of Cordelia’s hysterical laughter: “Everything is okay! Just got—” Sounds of struggle could be heard. “Just got tangled in some lights—” The door shut abruptly, and Kit and Tessa looked at each other before bursting into laughter.

Her hand covered her mouth, and Kit’s cheeks began to hurt. “Oh, by the Angel. Forget packing. Go help Jem and Cordelia instead. It seems as if Christmas decorations are too much those poor souls.” Kit could hear Tessa mumble as she walked away, a smile evident in her voice, “Whatever will I do with them…”

He held back a laugh, shaking his head as he got up, pushing back thoughts of Los Angeles. He’ll worry about that when the time comes tomorrow. Right now, it seemed like there was trouble right in their front yard, chorused by Jem’s playful yells and Cordelia’s bubbly laughter. With a grin on his face, he joined the chaos outside.