#But I suppose there's a very high chance she recognized the resemblance to Wake too so that alone could have piqued her curiosity

[dammit-tazmuir]

Hold on. Harrow never actually learned about Gideon's origins, right? She'd checked out by the time Gideon learned and like... there was a lot going on when she finally woke up. There might be more that happened after Alecto also woke up that we just haven't seen yet, but as far as we know she's just now finding out about it or hasn't quite yet. But I just noticed—

Harrow the Ninth, Chapter 49

Nona the Ninth, 24

Gideon has Wake's jaw (among other features) and John's eyes (I assume shape too) and brows. Harrow subconsciously fucking clocked the resemblance. (Edit to clarify: Like, she saw Wake's face, and by then she'd remembered Gideon, but subconsciously clocked "this is almost Gideon's face, this part is spot on, but these parts are Wrong." But given one of the AUs...)

Anatomist Mercymorn, who knows the human body beyond mortal comprehension and who has been close to John for 10,000 years, who had actively worried the new Ninth baby might have been John's kid, saw a young woman she knew to be the Ninth's cavalier who looked strikingly like Wake and suspiciously wasn't decomposing, and still didn't recognize John's features or think to check her eye color. She was so absolutely convinced Blood of Eden must just be incompetent and wrong that she barely looked.

Yet Harrowhark, who had specifically forced herself to forget Gideon existed, still recognized enough that when she started to remember her brain supplied the Divine Highness suitor AU. Truly one of the most down bad characters of all fucking time.

[agreatperhaps12]

There are a lot of misconceptions about Warren Peace. Five times Layla Williams saw through the bullshit, and one time Warren returned the favor.

happy holidays, @katiewont :) 

Misconception No. 1: Warren Peace loves a good fight.

Warren Peace does not go looking for fights. Fights find him.

See: Stronghold chucking a lunch tray at him the first week of class. Dumb and Dumber challenging them to Save the Citizen. Stronghold’s date going full supervillain at homecoming and nearly dropping a school-size anvil on an unsuspecting suburb.

That’s just the highlight reel for September.

When another villain interrupts Warren’s History of Heroism midterm with another school invasion, Warren’s first thought is: Could everyone around here chill for five fucking seconds.

No. Literally, not ever. See: three weeks later, when Warren is standing in line for lunch with the entourage of freshmen he’s long since given up trying to shake off. It has not even been five minutes since Warren and Stronghold defeated their latest challenger at Save the Citizen, and Zach is already doing a clumsy live-action replay.

To Stronghold, “Did you see his face when you were like?” Zach swings his arm with the spectacular confidence of someone not standing in a very crowded cafeteria. To Warren, “And then you were like—” Zach mimes shooting fireballs from his fists, complete with sound effects. “Totally brutal. You looked scary, bro.”

“He always looks scary,” Ethan says, smiling at Warren like that’s a compliment.

Warren glares down at his tray. He and Stronghold have been defending champions of Save the Citizen for over two months, Hero Team every time. He doesn’t get how people are still managing to make him feel like the bad guy about it.

“How was play-pretend battle?”

Layla has emerged from the crowd to stand beside Warren, with a smirk that makes a stupid something flutter behind his sternum. Layla stopped coming to their Save the Citizen matches after their dozenth victory, because “violence should be the last resort in any hostage situation” and “Save the Citizen completely undermines a valuable opportunity for Sky High students to learn strategic negotiation skills.” Warren doesn’t know what she does with the free period. 

Take me with you, he thinks.

“The match was epic,” Zach says. “Will got to throw a car.”

A bashful smile overtakes Stronghold’s dumb, Labrador face.

“And Warren almost barbequed Evans,” Ethan says.

Jesus, could they shut up about it already.

“Really,” Layla says, eyes on Warren while he pays for his food.

“Yeah,” Warren says, in a deadpan to rival Magenta. “It was epic.”

Layla frowns, but instead of launching into the pacifist manifesto that Warren is expecting, she holds up her bagged lunch says, “Want to eat outside?”

Before Warren can answer, Stronghold says, “Outside?” like he’s never heard of such a place. “It’s freezing out there.”

“It’s almost forty degrees,” Layla says, “and I had to come in early to finish a project, so it’s been over—” She checks the clock. “—five hours since I’ve felt roots under my feet. I’m eating outside.”

“Okay, but like.” Stronghold glances at Warren. “Do… you want me to come?”

“No, you’ll just be a baby about it,” Layla says gently. “Warren doesn’t get cold, do you?”

She looks to Warren for confirmation of a fact that Warren is one hundred percent sure he’s never told her. He shrugs to hide his wrong-footedness.

“Great.” Layla claps a hand on Stronghold’s shoulder and uses it to steer him toward the others, who are already sitting at what used to be Warren’s personal lunch table, once upon a time. She shrugs on her jacket, flips her hair out, and looks to Warren. “Shall we?”

Warren follows her outside warily. Sitting down across from her at the picnic table closest to the edge of school grounds, he says, “So, what is this, exactly?”

Layla pauses in uncurling her lunch bag. “What do you mean?”

Warren shrugs. “We don’t really hang out. Alone.”

They did, a little. Back when Layla was using Warren to make Stronghold jealous. But that pretty much ended with the homecoming debacle—after which Layla and Stronghold spent a few weeks trying to get their romantic relationship off the ground, decided they worked better as friends, and went back to normal.

“What are you talking about?” Layla says. “We hang out at the Paper Lantern all the time.”

It’s true that Layla eats at Warren’s workplace a few nights a week, when her mom is too busy with day-saving to make family dinners at home. But Layla is always doing homework, and Warren is always doing Work work, so, “I don’t think that counts.”

“It does,” Layla says confidently. It’s the kind of confidence that only Layla can pull off, because rather than coming across as arrogant, she gives the air of a mysterious woodland nymph, whose secret knowledge mere mortals wouldn’t understand.

“Okay,” Warren says, because he has precious little personal experience to back up any assertions about how friendship is supposed to work. “But this isn’t the Lantern.”

Layla raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to go back inside?”

“No,” Warren says. He doesn’t want Layla to leave, either. There’s a sureness about her that Warren finds comforting. She’s never been afraid of him—probably because she could kick his ass. Warren likes that about her. But he also likes to know where he stands with people.

By way of explanation, Layla says, “Did you know that when you get stressed out, literal steam comes out of your ears?”

“What?”

“Mm-hmm.” Layla pulls an apple out of her lunch bag. “A little. It’s easier to see when your hair is pulled back.”

Warren brings a self-conscious hand to the rubber band he used to tie his hair up during Mad Science Lab.

“It happens a lot when Zach is doing his Save the Citizen play-by-plays,” Layla observes. “Thought I might spare you an entire lunch of that.”

“Oh.” Warren’s hand drops into his lap, blind-sided by the unexpected kindness. “Thanks.”

“Any time.” Layla maintains eye contact while taking a bit of apple. Warren shifts in his seat and drops his eyes to his pizza. “You could tell Coach Boomer to assign Will a different partner,” she says after a moment. “Save the Citizen isn’t mandatory.”

Yeah, except it kind of is. No one’s ever voluntarily stepped back from a winning streak like Warren and Stronghold’s. Benching himself would never be worth all the extra side-eye in the halls. Not to mention the explanation he’d have to give Boomer. What kind of superhero-in-training refuses to fight?

Except for the one Warren is currently sitting across from, of course. Who’s looking at Warren with such doe-eyed earnestness that it almost squeezes a “Yeah, maybe” out of him. But Layla is a difficult person to lie to, so he says, “I thought we weren’t going to talk about Save the Citizen.”

Layla sits up a little straighter. “Right,” she says. “Consider it forgotten.”

“Thanks.”

Not that Warren doesn’t trust Layla, but she is the kind of person to press points she thinks are important. Before her mind can cycle back to Save the Citizen from some other angle, Warren says, “Sorry I dragged you outside in the middle of November.”

Layla tilts her head to the side. “You didn’t drag me. I dragged you.”

“Yeah, but for me,” Warren says, and there’s that stupid fluttering feeling again.

“And for me,” Layla says. “I wasn’t lying about needing to get out for a bit. Being inside all day, with the linoleum and cinderblock.” She wrinkles her nose. “It’s creepy quiet, when you’re used to feeling everything alive around you.”

He’s never actually thought about it, before. How Layla has her finger on the pulse of something so vast and intricate, even when she’s not bending it to her will.

“Even in November?” Warren says. “Isn’t everything, like… dead?”

Layla laughs. “No. Just taking a long nap.”

“Huh.” Warren looks around the grey-brown landscape of the schoolyard, with its bare branches and faded grass, with new eyes. It’s a nice idea, that all these lifeless-looking things are just waiting to wake up.

Misconception No. 2: Warren Peace doesn’t give a damn about his bad reputation.

Anyone who dyes a single streak of hair, wears fingerless gloves, and walks around like he’s got nothing to prove has something big to prove.

For Warren Peace, that is: I do not give a fuck about my family legacy.

Before starting high school, Warren figured a couple kids might recognize him, by name or by strong family resemblance. But Warren’s dad had already been locked up for a long time. It wasn’t like he made the news anymore. Worse came to worst, Warren thought he might have to field a few awkward questions about it.

Homeschooling did not prepare Warren for how big a household name Barron Battle was.

The first week of school was all open seats around Warren in class and at lunch, cold and curious looks over shoulders on the bus, “Check it out, that’s Barron Battle’s devil spawn” and “I can’t believe they even let supervillain kids in.”

It was treat or be treated like dirt, and Warren chose the former.

Fast-forward to junior year, and Sky High students know Warren Peace for the asshole he is, rather than the asshole his father was. Warren is comfortably back to pretending like his dad doesn’t exist. It mostly works.

Except during a History of Heroism unit on the most notorious villains of the twentieth century, when Warren’s class is staring at a PowerPoint slide that depicts the leveled Brooklyn neighborhood where Barron Battle and the Commander had their final showdown.

Warren ignores his classmates’ not-so-covert glances as Mr. Magnificent rattles of statistics like ‘seven dead and dozens injured’ and ‘nearly one billion dollars in damages.’ Magnificent has to pause his lecture to silence the white noise of whispers that has swelled up, and Warren wants to sink through the floor.

It’s like the first week of freshman year all over again. Warren is projecting I don’t care vibes so hard, there’s a good chance he’ll spontaneously combust.

What feels like an eon later, the classroom lights come up. Warren shoves everything into his backpack and heads for the door before anyone can try to talk to him. As usual, Layla is out of Hero Support early and waiting in the hall to meet Warren for lunch. Her patent sun-bright smile slips as Warren escapes the classroom.

“Whoa, where’s the fire?” she says.

“What?” Warren stops up short. “Nowhere. There’s no fire.”

“I was kidding,” Layla says, and winces at herself. “Poor choice of words. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Warren rakes his fingers through his hair. “I can’t come to lunch today. I have to—work on something.”

Normally, when Warren is feeling like shit, there’s nothing he’d rather do than sit with Layla in their little oasis of calm at the schoolyard picnic table. But right now, Warren needs at least thirty minutes to pace around the empty auto shop classroom, literally and figuratively cooling off, before he subjects himself to more human company.

“Okay,” Layla says, hugging her notebook to her chest and looking at him critically. “Are you—”

“Yeah. It’s—whatever. I’ll see you later.” Warren shoulders his way through the crowded hall toward the shop room, head down.

Smooth, he thinks at himself. Very smooth.

Shut up.

Warren assumes the first chance he’ll have to apologize to Layla is the next day at lunch. But when Warren shows up for his shift at the Paper Lantern at five, Layla is already sitting at her usual table. Weird, because Layla usually doesn’t come to the Lantern on Thursdays. Weirder, because when she does come, she typically arrives sometime after eight, when the dinner rush has mostly cleared out.

“What can I get you?” Warren says, drawing his pencil out from behind his ear as he approaches Layla’s table. They do try to maintain some appearances of an employee-customer relationship, to appease Mrs. Zhou.

“Hmm.” Layla examines the menu. “I’d like one kung pao tofu, one green tea, and—” She looks up at him. “—for you to explain why you fled your History of Heroism class today.”

“I didn’t flee,” Warren says. “I stormed out.”

“All right,” Layla agrees easily. “Why did you storm out of History of Heroism?”

Warren crosses his arms. “None of your business.”

“Okay.” Layla holds out her menu.

Warren blinks. “What?”

“You’re right, it’s not my business,” she says. “I just thought you might want to talk about whatever it was.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay.”

Warren squints. “Okay…”

“Okay,” Layla says again, and flaps the menu in her hand.

Warren takes it slowly, waiting for the catch. But Layla just pulls a binder and notebook out of her backpack. “Honey with the tea, please,” she says, and clicks open a pen.

“I know,” Warren says, and leaves Layla to her homework. He spends most of the next half-hour trying to untangle why he feels disappointed rather than relieved.

The thing is, Warren sometimes gets a “What was that about?” or “Dude, what the hell happened back there?” from classmates after he goes nuclear. Like after his cafeteria fight with Stronghold in September. Those questions always feel voyeuristic. Prickly and probing.

With Layla, though, the question feels less invasive and more inviting. For the first time, Warren wants to explain himself. He wants Layla to understand. He doesn’t want her to see him as some moody, unapproachable asshole. But he also doesn’t know how to approach her, or the subject, now that he’s already shut it down.

He’s been talking himself in and out of going back over to Layla’s table for ten minutes when Mrs. Zhou sidles up to the pass-through window where Warren is brooding.

“If you’re going to stand around making eyes at your girlfriend, take your fifteen and go over before the dinner crowd arrives,” she says.

Warren’s face heats, and he looks around to see whether anyone is in earshot, even though he’s pretty sure none of Mrs. Zhou’s whitebread suburban customers understand Mandarin. “She’s not my—never mind.”

Deciding he’d rather be having any other conversation besides this one with Mrs. Zhou, Warren forces himself to walk over to Layla’s table and sit down.

“We learned about the Barron in class today,” he says, abandoning any attempt at preamble, “for a lesson on notable supervillain takedowns.”

If Layla is surprised by Warren’s sudden attempt at conversation, she doesn’t show it. She hooks her pen through the spiral of her notebook, closes it, and waits for him to continue.

“Magnificent was showing pictures from the last time Dad and the Commander fought in New York,” Warren says, “and people were looking at me like I was involved somehow, even though all that shit went down when I was still in diapers, and those people have been in my classes for three years, like—I know, we all know Barron Battle is my dad, why can’t everyone fucking get over it already—”

Layla lays a hand on his forearm, cutting Warren off and drawing his attention to the fact that his clenched fist is smouldering like a hot coal. “Shit. Sorry.” Warren shakes out his hand, and Layla pulls back. He wishes she wouldn’t.

Layla waits for the red glow of Warren’s knuckles to dim and then says, “Mr. Magnificent is an idiot. It was totally inappropriate to include your dad in a presentation, especially without asking you first.”

Warren shrugs. “A lot of people’s parents end up in his presentations,” he says. “They’re just usually on the right side.”

“He still should have asked you,” Layla says. “Also, you helped save the entire school in September. If people still think you’re anything like your dad after that, they’re idiots and you shouldn’t care what they think.”

Warren wants to say “I don’t.” What comes out is, “This is high school. Everyone cares what everyone thinks.”

“I don’t,” Layla says.

Warren wants to contradict her, but from what he can tell, Layla genuinely doesn’t. “You have to care a little,” he says.

Layla raises her eyebrows like oh, yeah? and points to her characteristically Whoville-style twist of braids and glittery clips. “You think these hairdos made me a lot of friends in middle school?”

“I didn’t go to middle school.”

“Well, they didn’t,” Layla says.

“Then why do you wear your hair like that?”

“Because I like it.” Layla twirls a stray piece of hair around her forefinger. “And I don’t need to be one of the pretty girls to feel good about myself.”

“You are pretty,” Warren blurts, and immediately has to suppress the urge to set himself on fire.

Layla’s eyes go wide. The last time Warren saw her blush this deep, he’d just called her out for crushing on Stronghold. But instead of straight-up embarrassed, this time Layla’s blush is weirdly, shyly pleased. “You think so?” Her chin is tilted down so that she’s looking up at him through her eyelashes, which is not fair.

“Me?” Warren points at himself, like an idiot. “I don’t—I mean, I do, but it’s not just—you are pretty. People know that. It’s an objective fact.”

“Really.” Layla’s cheeks are still pink, but her smile has a playful slant now.

“Yeah,” Warren says, more defensively than he intends. Christ, he was so much better at this when they were fake-dating, when none of Warren’s smirks or swagger could mean anything. Now, without the protection of pretense, everything feels altogether too personal. Warren is not good at personal.

“Thank you,” Layla says, and bites her lip in hesitation before tacking on, “you’re pretty, too.”

Whatever that comment is—reflex, or politeness, or something else—it is officially too much. “I have to get back to work,” Warren says, overloud in the quiet restaurant, and bangs his knee on the underside of the table in his haste to stand up.

“Okay,” Layla says, trying to hide a smile behind her hand. Before he can turn away, she adds, “Warren,” and points to either side of her head.

Warren stares at her blankly for a second before he catches her drift, yanks his hair down from his ponytail to hide his surely steaming ears, and practically runs back to the kitchen.

Misconception No. 3: Warren Peace thinks he’s got the best power.

“I feel like I should warn you,” Layla says as she turns the key in her front lock, “my house is kind of crowded.”

Warren frowns. “I thought you were an only child.”

“No siblings,” Layla says. “A lot of roommates. You’ll see.”

What Warren sees is a menagerie that would do Ace Ventura proud.

“Watch out for the—everything,” Layla says, leading him through a flock of peacocks, a few dogs and several cats that slink by too quickly to count.

“Why… is this?” is the only semi-coherent question that Warren can formulate as he shoos a parrot from his shoulder and shakes his pant leg free of a fox’s jaws.

“You’re not the only one who has to live with your parent’s superpower,” Layla says.

Layla’s mom, apparently, is a zoolinguist. The only place in the entire house not overrun by furry or feathered residents is Layla’s room.

“Wow,” Warren says as he crosses the threshold.

Layla’s bedroom is situated on the back corner of the house, and the two external walls and ceiling are all paneled glass. Presumably to usher in maximum sunlight for the greenery that crowds almost every inch of space besides Layla’s bed and desk. Warren has to shed his winter coat immediately to avoid overheating in the humidity.

“Yeah,” Layla says. “Sometimes I forget how weird it is. Will’s the only friend I’ve ever had up here.”

Layla is the only friend Warren has ever had in his room—which she immediately declared “entirely predictable,” on account of the punk rock posters plastered across his walls. Layla’s room is way more predictable, if you ask Warren. Or at least, Warren would have predicted this, if he’d known literal greenhouse was a legitimate option.

“It’s nice,” he says. “Peaceful.”

“Isn’t it?” Layla takes Warren’s coat and hangs it on a hook behind the leaves of an elephant ear plant. “Mom had the place renovated before we moved in. I think she figured, if she was going to let every animal in the neighborhood have the run of our house, it wasn’t fair to exile my plants to the backyard.”

“Do they all live here all the time?” Warren says, pointing at the floor to indicate the veritable petting zoo downstairs.

“Some of them,” Layla says. “Mom is good at finding homes for most. I think donations from her fans are single-handedly keeping every shelter in the city afloat.”

It’s rude to ask about superheroes’ secret identities, but context clues give Warren a pretty good idea who Ms. Williams might be. Charismatic Megafauna is basically a one-woman PETA operation, liberating animals from factory farms and delivering them to free-range pastures as often as she commands her elite squadron of apex predators to take down baddies. She’s a more controversial figure than the Commander and Jetstream, but she does have an extremely dedicated cult following.  

“Her power sounds amazing,” Warren says.

“Most of the time,” Layla says. She collects a watering can from beside her bed and begins to fill it with a knee-high spigot beside the door. “But there’s a lot of animal suffering in the world. It can get exhausting for her to be tapped into it all the time, you know?”

Warren pauses to consider. “Yeah, I guess that would be overwhelming.”

Layla turns off the tap and carries her watering can to the closest table laden with potted plants. “Everyone’s superpower looks spectacular on the news,” she says, with a very un-Layla-like smile. “No one’s around to see it when your power makes you so sad you can’t get out of bed.”

“Except you,” Warren guesses.

Layla drops her not-really-smile. “Except me.”

Warren shuffles along the row of plants beside Layla while she waters them. He waits until she finishes refilling the can and starts a new row before asking, “Does that ever happen to you? Your powers getting you down.”

Layla studiously waters a flower with orange starburst petals. “Plants have more…auras and vibes than thoughts and feelings,” she says, and tickles the flower under one leaf. The plant visibly perks up under her ministrations, and Layla smiles. For real, this time. “Their pain doesn’t feel as sharp to me as animals’ pain does to my mom.”

“But,” Warren prompts.

“But sometimes, yeah,” Layla says, and moves on to the next plant.

Warren casts around for something comforting to say, but comes up with nothing better than, “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Layla says, “but it’s the exception to the rule. Most of the time, I wouldn’t give up feeling this—” She rubs her fingertips over a browning leaf to paint it green. “—for anything.”

Warren shouldn’t be jealous of Layla’s powers. Especially after she’s just admitted what a burden they can be. But Layla has also just confirmed what Warren has long suspected: Superabilities, even the ostensibly powerful ones, are not created equal. Warren’s pyrokinesis is, fundamentally, a weapon. A blunt tool to wield when the situation calls for violence. Layla’s power, on the other hand, seems more like a sixth sense. A trapdoor to another plane of reality.

How much of Layla Williams’s worldview draws on the alien insight of plants that no other human being, least of all Warren Peace, could ever possibly understand?

Layla interrupts Warren’s inferiority spiral with, “I’ve never talked about this with anyone but my mom.”

Warren watches Layla coax a stem into standing up straighter. “Not even Stronghold?”

He should not take as much pleasure as he does in Layla’s dismissive laugh. “Especially not Will.”

“Why not?”

“For a long time, he didn’t have any powers, and he was so jealous of mine, it seemed mean to complain about them to Will.”

“And now?”

“Now, he’s in the honeymoon phase with his new powers,” Layla says, “and it seems mean to bring him down.”

Not even Warren believes Stronghold can be that fragile. “I’m sure he’d get over it.”

“Maybe, but, you know. The things we do for our best friends,” Layla says, with a what can you do shrug, and returns to the faucet for another refill.

“So, why tell me?”

Layla chews the inside of her cheek. “I guess because you already have a complex about your own powers the size of Texas, thanks to your dad.”

“What?” Warren balks. “I do not.”

Layla squints. “Don’t you, though?”

“No. I—shut up.” Warren looks away, feeling hot all over.

Layla bends down to turn off the tap. A moment later, her hand on Warren’s shoulder startles him into looking back at her. Her big, brown eyes are wide with sympathy. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not upset,” Warren snaps.

“Okay.” Typical Layla, letting him feel whatever he’s going to feel and say whatever he’s going to say and refuse to throw hands about it.

Warren’s spark of anger sputters and dies. He huffs out an exhale. “It’s not only about my dad,” he admits, quietly, mostly to the floor.

Layla’s hand remains on his shoulder while she waits for an elaboration. Warren very carefully does not acknowledge it in any way, for fear it might stop.

“Fire is...useful,” he says. “But it can only destroy things. I can’t create. Not like…” He waves a hand around Layla’s room. “All I’m good for is fighting, and sometimes I wish—” Warren shoves a hand through his hair. “I dunno. It’s stupid.”

Layla’s hand squeezes his shoulder. “First of all, you are not your power,” she says. “No matter what Boomer or anyone else says. Second, fire is creative. It creates light and warmth.”

“If I’m ever transported back in time to an era before electricity, I’m sure that’ll be extremely handy,” Warren says, aiming for wry and not quite making it, because the tickly feeling that flitters to life in his chest whenever Layla says nice things about him is going wild.

Layla rolls her eyes. “Third of all, you do not need a superpower to create and nurture things.” Before Warren can stop her, Layla has pushed her watering can into his hand.

“What?” he says. “I don’t know anything about plants. I’d probably kill them all.” He holds the watering can out to Layla, who does not take it.

“Don’t act like you don’t have a book of Keats in your backpack right now,” she says. “If you know ‘To Autumn,’ you already know the most important things about plants. Everything else is technicalities.”

Warren gives her a doubtful look.

Layla sighs. “Trust me. Which you should, because I know literally everything about plants, and I’m a very good teacher, and I would not let you hurt any of my babies. Okay?”

Layla holds out her hand, and Warren has to channel all his concentration into keeping his cool enough that he doesn’t burn her when he takes it in his own. Layla grins, and Warren feels a little light-headed with the thrill of it.

“Come on,” she says, and pulls him toward the row of potted flowers where they left off. Warren follows, as helpless as any of the flora around them to resist the benevolent force of nature that is Layla Williams.

Misconception No. 4: Warren Peace doesn’t get scared.

This illusion is at least partly on purpose. Part of the do not fuck with me ethos Warren has been cultivating for the better part of three years.

In reality, plenty of things scare Warren. Like the idea that everyone is right about him after all, and he’ll end up on the Superheroes Guild’s Most Wanted List someday. Or that deep down, a kernel of grudge in his mother resents Warren for taking so closely after his father. But those are more midnight-existential-crisis concerns than acute fears.

Warren gets scared during battles, too. But the initial kick of adrenaline always seems to knock his consciousness clear of his body, such that he spends most of the fight controlling the firestorm of his fists from somewhere above the action. He usually doesn’t realize how freaked out he is until after the fact, when his brain plugs back into his body and he thinks, huh, my hands won’t stop shaking.

It’s rare that Warren feels, in real time, the bass-drum beat of his heart and a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. But that’s exactly what happens every time he gets close to asking Layla out on a date.

He’s come close so many times. He’s had the tickets in his jacket pocket for weeks. But the prospect of actually asking Layla invites the prospect of Layla saying no, and Warren—can’t.

Sometimes, he can almost convince himself that she would say yes, despite the fact that Layla is kind, beautiful, mystical Layla, and Warren is social-pariah, problem-child Warren. Like last Tuesday, when Layla said “you’re such a disaster” with such heart-stopping fondness, while she pulled a rubber band from Warren’s hair to replace it with one of her own, more comfortable fabric hair ties. Or last Friday, while they were watching a movie at Layla’s place, and she tucked her socked toes under Warren’s thigh on the couch. Or yesterday, when she held her hands out over the picnic table for Warren to warm her pink fingertips between his palms.

And always, in the back of Warren’s mind: “You’re pretty, too.”

But whenever Warren opens his mouth to ask, his tongue goes dry and his palms go damp. It’s such a stupid thing to be afraid of, it makes Warren want to close his head in a locker. Worst case scenario, Layla turns him down. They’d still be friends. She wouldn’t be cruel. She’s Layla. But Warren isn’t used to having so much of himself caught up in another person. The idea that Layla isn’t equally caught up in him provokes a strangled, withering feeling in the pit of Warren’s stomach that he can only imagine would intensify tenfold after the actual rejection.

So, Warren’s been procrastinating.

But time is running out.

It does not help that Stronghold’s flock of freshmen is currently obsessing over Winter Formal like a bunch of… well, freshmen.

“You guys asking anyone?” Zach says at lunch, one day when freezing rain is lashing Sky High too hard for even Layla to sit outside. Zach hooks an arm over Magenta’s shoulder, as if to underline the fact that she’s already spoken for. Magenta rolls her eyes but doesn’t shrug him off.

“I would ask Larry,” Ethan says, pushing steamed vegetables around on his plate with his fork. “If I could stop going full-puddle every time he looks at me.”

Layla and Magenta make sympathetic noises.

“I think I’m gonna ask Abby,” Stronghold says, eyes cast over at a table where Warren assumes this Abby must sit. He hasn’t bothered to keep up with Stronghold’s latest romantic fixation. They’re already two—three?—full crush cycles past Layla. Warren can’t believe he ever felt threatened by a kid with the attention span of a housefly.

“She’d totally say yes,” Magenta says. “I overheard her about how hot you are during the Shapeshifting Students Association meeting.”

“Really?” Will says, at the same time Layla goes, “Magenta!”

“What?”

“Gossip.”

“Okay, Mother Williams,” Magenta says. To Will, “We’ll talk later.”

Layla looks intent on pressing the matter, but Ethan says, “Do you have a date, Layla?”

Everyone turns to Layla, except for Stronghold, whose eyes inexplicably flick over to Warren—who glares him into dropping eye contact.

“No,” Layla says, unconcerned.  

“Not yet,” Zach says. “Just a question of who asks first.”

Warren’s heart stutters, and he swallows back a “What?”

Luckily, Stronghold has less restraint. “What?” he says, like he wasn’t ogling another girl 0.2 seconds ago.

Zach looks at Stronghold like, Are you kidding? “Layla’s hot,” he says slowly. Magenta nods in agreement. “Chen, Robinson, and Feinstein are all thinking about asking.”

“And those are just the ones we’ve heard about,” Magenta says.

“Where are you guys getting this intel?” Ethan says. “We’re your only friends.”

“You can hear a lot from the inside of a locker,” Zach says.

“Or from the vents,” Magenta adds.

“Who’s still shoving you in a locker?” Layla says, frowning at Zach.

“Don’t deflect,” Magenta says. “Who are you going to take?”

“I don’t know,” Layla says, very pink and very determinedly acting like she’s not. “I didn’t know I had options until right now.”

Warren didn’t know he had competition until right now. In his defense, he deliberately pays as little attention as possible to rest of the Sky High student body, except for the five freshmen who invaded his space last fall and refused to leave. But of course other guys want to ask Layla.

Fuck.

“What about you, Bucky Barnes?” Zach says, throwing Warren an upward nod. “Got your eye on any hot junior goths we don’t know about?”

Warren scowls. “No.”

“Warren’s too cool for school dances,” Magenta says.

Stronghold frowns. “He took Layla to homecoming.”

“Only to make you jealous,” Layla is quick to correct.

Warren’s eyes snap over to her, but Layla isn’t looking at him. Just stabbing at her salad with her fork and letting her hair partially obscure her still pink cheeks.

An uncomfortable, sour feeling settles in Warren’s stomach. He makes himself look back at Zach. “I don’t do school dances. I have a thing anyway.”

“What thing?” Magenta says.

“A thing,” Warren says, with enough finality that even Zach knows better than to push it.

That is, until Stronghold corners Warren at his locker after final period to ask, “What thing do you have to do instead of Winter Formal?”

Warren continues loading books into his backpack. “A thing.”

Stronghold, in a bid for Warren’s full attention, shuts his locker door. As soon as Warren turns a glare on him, the kid goes bug-eyed.

“I am so sorry!” he says, reaching out to open the locker, only to remember that, duh, it’s Warren’s and he can’t. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Warren must be spending too much time with Layla, because instead of picking Stronghold up by his shirt collar, he merely swats Stronghold’s hand away and unlocks his locker.

“It was only—I know someone who was hoping you’d ask them to Winter Formal,” Stronghold says, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Warren fixes Stronghold with a flat expression. “You’re not my type.”

For an aspiring superhero, Stronghold flusters extremely easily. “Wh—not me!” he says, and then leans in and lowers his voice. “You know.”

Warren, who is not in the business of getting his hopes up—no matter how many summersaults his stomach is doing—raises his eyebrows.

“Layla,” Stronghold murmurs, so low that Warren has to read his lips.

Summersaults, cartwheels, handsprings. Warren’s stomach is performing a full-on gymnastics routine. “Did she tell you that?”

“No,” Stronghold admits, and Warren’s stomach immediately flops. “But I am something of an expert on Layla Williams.”

Warren, who has an entire September’s worth of evidence to the contrary, makes a psh noise.

Stronghold squares his shoulders and ticks off on his fingers: “She hangs out at the Lantern all the time. She eats lunch with you, alone, every other day. The way she talks about you—”

“She talks about me?”

“Dude.” Stronghold lays a hand on Warren’s shoulder, looking so delighted with the irony that it takes everything in Warren not to ignite. “You’re so stupid. She’s totally into you.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Right.” Stronghold’s hand immediately slides off. “Seriously, though. If you don’t ask Layla to the dance, someone else will.”

“Noted,” Warren says, like he isn’t already tying himself into knots over that exact possibility.

“You’re gonna ask her, then?”

Warren heaves a sigh. He can’t believe he’s about to confide in Will Stronghold, of all people, but at this juncture it seems like the path of least resistance. “I have tickets to something that night, and I want to ask Layla to go with me.”

Stronghold has the audacity to look innocently perplexed. “So, why haven’t you?”

“I’m, you know.” Warren pushes back his hair. “Waiting for the right time.”

Stronghold looks dubious. “It’s a date, not a prom-posal.”

“I know that,” Warren snaps.

Stronghold blinks, and something seems to click in his head. His expression goes slightly amused and, even worse, sympathetic. “You’re nervous.”

“I am not,” Warren says, but it sounds like a lie even to his own ears. “I’m just waiting for the right moment.”

“Okay, well.” Stronghold blows out a breath and puts his hands on his hips. “Any chance the right moment might be, like, today? Around now-ish?”

Warren narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Because Magenta texted me five minutes ago that Andrew Chen is standing next to our bus, waiting for Layla.”

Warren’s heart lurches. “You should have led with that, Christ.” Guess he’s doing this now. Is he really doing this now? He has to, so he is. Warren slams his locker and swings his bag over his shoulder. “Where is Layla?”

“Magenta said she stayed after class to talk to Mr. Boy about—oh, okay, then. Bye! Good luck!” Stronghold calls after Warren’s retreating figure as he strides off down the hall.

Warren is so preoccupied with figuring out what he’s going to say to Layla when he finds her that he nearly runs into her as she exits Mr. Boy’s classroom.

“Warren,” she says, blinking up at him in surprise. “Hi.”

Warren, who suddenly feels like he’s stepped on stage with no lines prepared, takes a second to remember how to breathe before he gets out a “Hi.”

Layla stares up at him expectantly. Right. He’s supposed to say more words.

“I wanted to talk to you about something.”

A pucker forms between Layla’s eyebrows. “Sure. I actually wanted to talk to you, too.”

Warren clenches the tickets between sweat-damp fingers in his pocket. “Okay. Do you want to…” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the mostly empty hallway.

“Okay.”

Layla follows him out into the hall, and they stand in semi-awkward silence until Warren says, “You first.”

“All right.” Layla tucks her hair behind her ears. She already looks embarrassed. Not good. “So, I might be way off base here, but I get the feeling you’ve been working yourself up to asking me to Winter Formal?” Her voice lilts up like a question, but she must find all the confirmation she needs in Warren’s expression, because she immediately continues, “and I just wanted to make it clear that you don’t have to.”

When Warren opens his mouth, “Oh” is all that comes out.

“Yeah.” Layla hooks her thumbs through the straps of her backpack. “I know school dances aren’t really your thing—and they’re not exactly mine, either. So I didn’t want you to think homecoming set some sort of precedent, that you have to ask—”

“I wanted to ask you,” Warren says, finally unsticking his throat.

It’s Layla’s turn for surprised silence. It takes a full two seconds for her to get out, “You did?”

“Yeah, but—not to the dance. Here.” Warren pulls the tickets out of his pocket. His thumb has smudged the ink of the top ticket, so he hands the bottom one to Layla. “Town hall is holding a fundraiser gala next Saturday to raise money to build a park on an empty lot in my neighborhood.”  

Layla takes the ticket in both hands and stares down at it.

“There’s going to be food and music and dancing,” Warren says, heart rate accelerating. “I think they’re going to auction off dedications for benches and flower beds and stuff. There will probably be a couple boring speeches by some government officials, but.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “I dunno. It sounded like it could be fun.”

Layla still hasn’t said anything, and Warren’s heart is throwing a fit in his ribcage, so he adds, “It’s the night of Winter Formal, though. So if you wanted to go to the dance with someone else and hang out with your friends, I totally—”

“No,” Layla says, looking up at him with bright eyes and a wide smile. “I’d love to go.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Warren says, too overcome by the cold flood of relief pooling in his gut to say anything more substantive than, “Cool.”

Layla carefully slots her gala ticket into the front pocket of her backpack. “Took you long enough,” she says, angling a teasing smile at Warren. “I couldn’t take another week of you opening your mouth like you were going to ask me something and then not saying anything.”

“Thank Stronghold,” Warren says, wondering what his life has come to, that those words just came out of his mouth. Must be the generosity of giddy relief.

Layla’s nose scrunches up in tickled confusion. “Why?”

“He warned me that Chen was gonna ask you to the dance this afternoon,” Warren says. “Sort of lit a fire under my ass.”

“But Andrew—” Layla breaks off with a laugh and shakes her head. “Will.”

“What?”

Layla takes Warren’s hand and starts walking them down the hall. “Andrew Chen’s been sick with the flu all week,” she says. “He’s not even here today.”

Warren’s mouth hangs open for a few seconds. “Stronghold.”

Layla laughs again and swipes her thumb across the back of Warren’s hand, and a great, soft warmth blooms in Warren’s chest.

Well. If he has to be indebted to Will Stronghold for something, this is as good a favor as Warren could have asked for.

Misconception No. 5: Warren Peace is not a touchy-feely person.

Warren himself would have sworn by this one, until a month ago. He has never, in all his life, considered himself a cuddly person. By any stretch.

It turns out that in order to identify as a cuddly person, you need someone to cuddle. Or, more specifically, someone you have permission to cuddle.

Dating Layla Williams finally gives Warren that permission.

He expected it to be harder, weirder, more awkward to transition from being someone who looks at Layla and thinks I want to put my arm around you, to being a person who can actually reach behind her back and curl his fingers over her hip bone.

It’s not hard at all. The first time Layla kisses Warren, up on her toes with her hands fisted in the lapels of his suit, in the dark of her front porch after the fundraiser gala, there’s a shift. A gravitational kick that sends them into closer orbit around one another, so that now it’s routine for Warren to wrap Layla in his jacket and tuck her into his side as they walk. Steal her hand to press her knuckles to his lips. Knock his knee gently against hers under their picnic table.

“Who knew Warren Peace was such a cuddle bug,” Magenta says, tipped back in a papasan chair to peer at Warren upside-down.

Warren is sitting on the shag carpet of Stronghold’s basement with his back against the couch to let Layla play with his hair while they talk over a movie. She’s just tied off an elaborate braid, so now his cheek is resting against her knee while she twirls the fine hairs at the nape of his neck around her fingers.  

“Call me ‘cuddle bug’ ever again and I’ll roast you like a marshmallow,” Warren says, too sleepy and comfortable to put any real heat behind the threat.

Magenta, true to form, doesn’t so much as blink. “Hate to break it to you, but an elegant Dutch braid kind of undermines your whole tough-guy act.”

Warren simply shrugs. It’s an occupational hazard of dating Layla, spending a lot more time around her—their?—friends outside school. Warren resisted at first, but at this point, it’s more exhausting to continue holding them all at arm’s length than to let them have the run of his life.

“Layla, in general, kind of undermines his whole tough-guy act,” Zach says. “You know he wrote her a poem for Valentine’s day.”

“Read her a poem,” Warren says. What else was he supposed to do? He couldn’t very well get Layla clipped flowers.

“That’s still sappy as hell, dude,” Ethan says.

“It was very sweet,” Layla says, leaning forward to plant a kiss on Warren’s forehead.

Warren unsuccessfully tries to bite back a smile.

“He’s preening so hard right now, oh my god,” Magenta says.

“Shut up.”

“Don’t tease him, or he won’t come back,” Layla says, but Warren hears the smile in her voice.

“Please. He’d go anywhere you go,” Magenta says, and as Layla’s fingertip traces the shell of Warren’s ear gently, always gently, Warren doesn’t even attempt to contradict her.

+1 Misconception: Layla Williams is a just happy, go-lucky hippy chick.

Outside Layla’s bedroom window, everything green is tucked under snow and the weight of waiting for spring. On the other side of the world, everything is burning.

Record-setting wildfires have raked Australia for weeks. Neither Layla nor her mom can directly feel what’s happening to the outback. But Layla knows her mom must sense it like she does, every time a singed koala or graveyard of splinterlike tree trunks appears on the news: a gnawing sensation that something on the far edges of her mind is vanishing into smoke.

The worst part is knowing there’s nothing Layla can do. Even if she had the means to get to Australia, there’s no way to salvage the aftermath of a forest fire. Layla wields incredible power over living organisms. But it’s like conducting an orchestra. Not much to be done if the entire ensemble is already dead when she takes the stage.

Actually, the real worst part is knowing that the inferno currently eating up Australia isn’t an outlier. The warming world is parching landscapes and revving up hurricanes, and every weather-related threat to her beloved biosphere is only going to get much, much worse. It makes Layla feel horribly, inescapably small.

To avoid sitting around the house and chewing her nails down, Layla takes on more volunteer shifts at the animal shelter. Helps Magenta with outreach for the Shapeshifting Students Association. Spends a couple Saturdays with the local river cleanup volunteer crew. Cooks dinner on the nights her mom is actually home. Overstudies for an exam in Hero Support.

It’s all a good distraction, but at the price of exhaustion. Layla feels emotionally sore. Like she’s been doing the psychological equivalent of running springs.

Case in point: “Layla?”

Layla blinks herself out of her middle-space-stare at the picnic table. “Hmm?”

Warren frowns. “I said, are you coming to the Lantern tonight?”

“Oh, no,” Layla says, and winces her apology. “Will’s coming over to study for Hero Support.”

“Why? You’re gonna ace that thing.”

“I promised Will I’d help him review.”

Warren’s frown deepens.

“What?”

“You should take a break,” he says.

Layla hides a yawn behind one hand and waves the other dismissively. “I’m fine.”

Warren gives her a flat look. Most of his expressions are pretty flat, but Layla has gotten good at reading the subtleties. This one says, quit your bullshit.

“What?” she says.

“You—” Warren spends a couple seconds struggling to find the right words. “Your hair is in a ponytail.”

Layla replays that in her overtired mind, wondering whether she heard correctly. “Excuse me?”

“No sparkly clip things. No scrunchies. You didn’t even do the thing where you wrap a little piece of hair around the elastic to hide it,” Warren says, as though that clarifies anything. When Layla’s expression makes clear that it does not, Warren sighs. “Babe. You’re exhausted.”

“Am not,” Layla says, and feels totally betrayed by her own body when the words are stretched out by a yawn. “Coincidence,” she says, in response to Warren’s unimpressed eyebrow-raise.

“Layla.”

“It’s fine,” she insists.

“Take a break,” Warren says, more insistently. “Stronghold can survive cramming for one exam on his own. Let baby bird learn to fly.”

“He’ll drop like a rock,” Layla says mournfully.

“Probably,” Warren says. “But you don’t have to be there for everyone all the time.”

Layla studies her bitten nails. “It makes me feel better.”

Warren’s ever-warm hands take hold of Layla’s, making her look up. But whatever he has in mind to say is interrupted by the bell. Warren gives her fingers a brief squeeze before releasing them, so that they can collect their things.

“Tell Stronghold to find himself another tutor so you can have a night off,” Warren says, hooking an arm over Layla’s shoulders as they head for the front doors. “Please.”

Layla does not. Which is why, when she says “come in” to the soft knock on her bedroom door at eight o’clock, she expects Will. Instead, she gets Warren, hovering on the threshold with his usual carefully concealed uncertainty, like he’s a vampire who has to wait to be invited in.

“What are you doing here?” Layla says, sliding off her bed. “I thought you had work.”

“Got someone to cover my shift,” Warren says. He’s holding what looks like a magazine. “This was more important.”

“What is… this?” Layla says. “You know Will’s going to be here any minute.”

“No, he’s not,” Warren says. “He’s at Magenta’s”

Layla narrows her eyes. “What did you do?”

“Told him to go find another study partner,” Warren says. “Since you’re already prepared.”

Layla crosses her arms and sinks her weight into one hip. “I told you, I want to help.”

Warren adjusts his grip on the magazine. Layla hears the paper stick to the sweat on his fingertips, but his determined expression doesn’t change. “Then help me.”

Layla blinks. “With what?”

Warren holds up what turns out to be a gardening catalog. “I want to get my mom a couple of indoor plants for her birthday,” he says. “Something pretty but doesn’t require a lot of attention, because she’s gone so much. I thought maybe you could help.”

Layla stares at him. “I love shopping for potted plants,” she says slowly.

Warren exhales a short laugh. “Uh, yeah, I know. And you are a good teacher, so.”

He rolls the catalog up between his hands and looks at Layla with guarded hope that shoots a bolt of affection like heat lightning straight through her stomach. She needs to sit down.

“Come in, then,” she says, and ushers him through the door. While Warren is taking off his shoes, “Just so we’re clear, you are not going to make a habit of rearranging my schedule behind my back.”

Warren stands up straight, dead serious. “Got it.”

Layla indulges a smile and leans up to kiss him. “I’ll forgive you this time, though.”

They sit on Layla’s bed, flipping through Warren’s catalog, as well as a stack of magazines that Layla has pulled out from under her desk. Warren loops his arms around her waist and hooks his chin over her shoulder, listening intently while she explains the care and keeping of flowers. It’s comfortable and easy and requires just enough idle attention to avoid falling into a slump. Layla could do this forever, she thinks.

Not an hour later, Layla is lying with her chin propped on her hands, which are folded over Warren’s chest, struggling to keep up conversation through yawns of increasing frequency.

“You can go to bed, you know,” Warren says, dryly amused, and tucks a strand of hair that has fallen out of Layla’s loose ponytail behind her ear.

“I might fall asleep right here on top of you, if you keep talking about it,” Layla says, closing her eyes and pillowing her cheek on her hands.

She feels, rather than hears Warren’s hitched inhale, and suddenly feels more acutely awake than she has all week.

Three seconds pass before Warren murmurs, “You can. If you want.”

Layla very carefully keeps her body relaxed and does not open her eyes to avoid breaking the fragile moment. “Mmm-kay,” she says, and adjusts to find a slightly more comfortable position. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Warren says, one hand splayed between her shoulder blades, his other thumb smoothing the hair back at her temple.

Layla is so keenly aware of every point of contact that she thinks she might stay awake after all. But within minutes, the soft touch pulls her down into sleep.

[curiosity-killed]

a bow for the bad decisions: chapter 18

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(on ao3)

With my blood—                              —my soul as compensation,                                 Kill them all for me. Kill them all! Wei Wuxian, take revenge for me. Blood fills his nose, that familiar perfume. Cold presses into the edges of his bones, stone grating against his elbows and skull. Dragging his eyes open, he gets a hazy glimpse of a dirty floor and scorched blood. Oh, he thinks muzzily, so it worked. Only — destroying the Seal was supposed to kill him. He’d known that from the start, from the very moment he handed over a fistful of his own soul to bring it to life. If he’s alive, then— “Stop playing dead!” 

A heavy foot slams into his chest, rolling him hard onto his back. He scrunches his eyes at the nausea that swells up in his throat as that grating, shrieking voice continues on. What a lot of courage, he thinks, kicking the Yiling laozu. Getting a hand underneath him, he pushes himself up to his knees before a hand is in his collar, yanking him up. The kid has to be in his late teens, though his juvenile sneer suggests someone younger.

“Whose land do you think you’re living on? Whose rice are you eating?” the kid spits. “Everything you own should be mine anyway!” Leaning as far back as he can manage, Wei Wuxian tries not to grimace at the spittle hitting his face. Given how utterly exhausted this body is, it’s not difficult to simply go slack. His head’s still spinning, cottony pressure throbbing at the backs of his eyes. “How dare you tell Father and Mother? Did you really think anybody would listen to a lunatic like you?” What the hell, Mo Xuanyu? Wei Wuxian thinks as the rest of the meager possessions in the shed are trashed and he’s thrown back to the ground. The brat and his minions storm out of the shed and leave him alone in a circle of dried blood. Scowling at the closed door a moment longer, he exhales in a rush and rubs at the ridge of his brow with the heel of his palm. He pushes the hair back out of his face and eyes the array painted on the floor. It’s with a sinking feeling that he recognizes the pattern. He remembers this, in the way he remembers anything from that year when he tries to focus on it — hazy, half-there, a muddle of ideas with great black blanks in between. Picking up a tattered pile of papers, he winces at the too-familiar scrawl and groans. “Since when am I a ‘sinister ghost,’” he complains to the empty shed. “I just have a bad reputation.” A jolt of pain cuts through his arm and he flinches before reaching over to pull back his sleeve. Four ragged cuts bleed sluggishly, deeper than a physical wound. He scowls down at them, before groaning and flopping onto his back on the floor. “Mo Xuanyu, you brat,” he says into the dusty quiet, “you got the wrong person.” He’s not a vengeful spirit. He’s not even sure how much of a spirit he is — he remembers resentment, remembers the Seal burning through his chest, clawed hands ripping through his chest. Sitting up, he shuts down that line of thought. So he probably did die, after all. That’s. Well. He gets up to find water and something to hold back his hair. If he remembers right, the xianshe should have summoned him into Mo Xuanyu’s own body, but it’s his hands that reach for the bucket he finds in one corner alongside a workbench that makes his Demon Subdue Cave look as orderly as the Gusu Lan library. It’s his face that looks back, gaunt and pale as a ghost. Grimacing, he plunges his hands in and breaks up the reflection. He finds a set of dark robes, shorter than he’s used to wearing but not coated in old blood and dirt at least. Stripping down briskly, he pauses to eye the ruin of his chest and stomach in mild dismay. Deep lacerations cross back and forth over his skin, blood smeared across their edges both from being used as the ink pot for the array and from the rub of the robes against them. His old scars are there, under the blood. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or not to see the marks of his history peeking pink beneath all that red. His hand falls to touch a thin white line low on his belly, and he frowns at it as he pokes at his memory. He doesn’t remember this one. When he’s dressed and his hair tugged back in a high tail, he turns to examine the room he’s in. Even ignoring the cursed array in the center of the floor, it’s not exactly impressive. Filth has accumulated in all the corners, and the shabby bed he finds more closely resembles a rat’s nest. His day doesn’t exactly improve after that. It’s one thing to get dragged back to life, he thinks, and it’s another thing to get dragged back to life and then immediately blamed for murder. Again. He scrambles back from Madam Mo’s outstretched hand and swears at Mo Xuanyu for pulling him into this. The little Lans are competent, at least, and aside from the one threatening to punch him when he snagged a lure flag, they’re better company than the Mo family. He doesn’t really want them to get murdered by the cursed arm lunging for their necks. With a glance to check that everyone’s attention is on the sword formation the juniors are using to try to keep the arm at bay, he steps up next to Tong and Old Man Mo. “Still sleeping?” he murmurs into their ears before clicking his fingers, drawing up a burst of resentment. “Time to work.” Well, he thinks as he watches them go tearing after Madam Mo, at least I’m still good at this. He’d wondered, briefly. Resentment has been a steady pillar of his body for so long now, he doesn’t remember what it’s like to not be pieced together with it. Waking to find that his body hummed with quiet spiritual energy and only traces of that seething black had been nearly as disorienting as waking in a circle drawn in blood. After that, he’s too focused on the fight to pay much attention to anything else. Fresh as they are and angry as they are, the Mo family makes for strong fierce corpses — and they’re still torn and shredded by this arm. Even the Lans’ warded robes only temporarily hold it back. He’s reaching for the resentment around them, trying to coax something out of the shadows and the earth, when a familiar chord cuts through the night air. Even exhausted, the Lan juniors cheer. “Hanguang-jun! Hanguang-jun!” Wei Wuxian brightens, turning instinctively toward the sound of the guqin. Sure enough, Lan Zhan alights on the roof across the courtyard with his guqin out before him. Another chord rings out across the manor, flattening the fierce corpses and leaving the cursed arm groping across the dirt as if it can’t quite get purchase. Tucked against a pillar, he watches as Lan Zhan suppresses every tendril of resentment in the courtyard. He still looks just the way Wei Wuxian remembers him, though maybe a little older, a little sterner. “Still wearing mourning clothes,” he laughs to himself. Something eases in his chest at the sight of him, as if at least one plank of this unsteady world is solid beneath his feet. Lan Zhan’s alive and whole. As much as it hurt in the moment, at least that means his plans worked here. He slips away into the night and doesn’t let himself look back. He makes it to the feet of Dafan Mountain without any more reunions with his past and with some level of success in not thinking at all about his first life. He doesn’t really sleep during the few days, partially out of an irrational conviction that he’ll close his eyes and not open them again and partially out of a slightly more rational dread of his own nightmares. As much as he’s been avoiding trying to think about his last memories before he woke up in that shed, he’s not an idiot. The Seal was never going to let him go gently. Still, he’s relatively pleased with himself as he crosses the mountain, and he makes the mistake of thinking that this is easier than he’d expected. Of course, it’s at that moment that he stumbles across a gaggle of cultivators caught up in a spirit net. “Help! Help— oh. It’s you.” The dismay’s a little unwarranted, he thinks as he sets his hands on his hips and leans back to eye the nets. He doesn’t have any way of helping them down, but that doesn’t mean they have to look so disappointed before he’s even admitted as much. Before he can say anything, there’s the sound of running steps and he yanks Lil Apple’s reins till they’re tucked back in some bushes out of sight. Even with Mo Xuanyu’s hideous mask covering his face, he doesn’t want to risk being identified. The cultivators in the nets groan; one woman tilts her head back as if to beseech the heavens. “Rude,” Wei Wuxian murmurs to Lil Apple. The donkey, as usual, shows no sympathy. “You!” Peering through the leaves, Wei Wuxian spots two teens in cream and gold. The taller one reaches up to jab at the captured cultivators with his bow while the girl scowls at the whole scene. “Why is it always you idiots!” she yells. “You’ve broken ten of our spirit nets. Don’t you have any shame?” Ten? Wei Wuxian grimaces reflexively. The Jin really don’t ever change. “Young master, please let us down,” the cultivators chorus. The boy scoffs, bringing his bow down to cross his arms. There’s something familiar about him, though Wei Wuxian can’t quite place it. The girl shares features with him, similar enough to be a sister or at least a close cousin. His nose wrinkles at the thought of little Jin cousins terrorizing the countryside. “You can stay up there till we find the spirit-eating monster!” the girl huffs. “That way you won’t be in our way anymore.” Her brother flicks his ponytail over his shoulder and sets off away from them. “We’ll let you down once we catch it,” he says. “If we still remember.” What a brat. Wei Wuxian’s eyebrows raise a little, but he has no chance to think further before Lil Apple, that shrieking traitor, brays and tears off directly at the Jin cousins. “Ahh stop! Stop it, come back!” Wei Wuxian wails, to absolutely no avail. The two Jins have stopped short, twisting back to stare at him. He stumbles to a halt as Lil Apple finally jerks free of his hands and gallops into the woods. He’s going to kill that donkey. He doesn’t know how donkey tastes, but he’s eaten worse. “Oh, it’s you,” the boy says, crossing his arms over his chest. “What are you doing here?” He’s slung his bow over his back and eyes Wei Wuxian with disdain, but beside him, the girl has bristled like a cat thrown in water, her hand going white-knuckled around her own bow. “Eh?” Wei Wuxian manages. “What, did you lose all your memories after you were kicked out? And what’s with that mask?” the boy scoffs. “Huh, so you did lose your mind after all.” Well that’s an interesting detail Wei Wuxian wasn’t expecting to find out. He eyes his robes curiously, probing at the thought. Jin Guangshan must have led the siege at the Burial Mounds, and if his bastard son brought Wei Wuxian back, well. He stifles a laugh. “What are you laughing at? Show some respect!” the girl snaps. “Disgusting lunatic.” “Hey,” he calls, “I’m your senior! Where are your manners? Who raised you?” The girl takes a step forward, lips pulled back in a snarl, but her companion pulls her back with a hand on her shoulder. Wei Wuxian has about one breath to feel accomplished with his scolding before there’s a gleaming sword pointed at him. Oh no, he thinks a little tiredly. Not again. “You!” the boy yells. “How dare you speak to my sister like that!” The boy’s quick, he’ll grant. He lunges, swinging out with a slash that would cut Wei Wuxian’s throat if he didn’t sway to the side. He lets him have his fun for a few moments, dodging and slipping out of the boy’s increasingly irritated reach. It’s a good lesson. The kid clearly could use a reminder not to draw his sword on strangers. “Not bad!” he chirps, bending back to dodge the blade and plucking a leaf as he goes. He could keep this going for a while, but he doesn’t actually want to stay here all night and he’s not sure how long it’ll be till the sister jumps in as well. With a little spark of resentment, the leaf splits into a paperman, and he tacks it to the boy’s back with a quick call for a nearby ghost. In seconds, the boy is facedown in the dirt and groaning beneath the invisible weight of gluttony. Humming, Wei Wuxian steps neatly back to him and leans down to pluck up the discarded sword. He weighs it in his hand a moment, trying to figure out why the gilt and jade look so familiar. “Don’t touch that!” the boy yells, a frantic note entering his voice. “Mo Xuanyu, how dare you! Let me up!” The girl races over, tugging on her brother’s shoulder as if that will do any good. She glares up at him, all venom. “What did you do? Undo your curse! Let him go!” she demands. Rolling his eyes, Wei Wuxian adjusts his grip and flings the sword out to cut through the spirit nets. It’s not as neat an arc as Bichen, he notes with mild dissatisfaction, but then it’s been years since he wielded a sword. “Mo Xuanyu! Just wait till my uncle hears about this!” the boy yells. Wei Wuxian snorts, turning back to them with his hands on his hips. “Your uncle? Why your uncle and not your dad?” he asks. “Who’s this uncle?” “I am.” Oh. His feet are rooted to the forest floor, lips parted in soft shock. Anger rolls off Jiang Cheng, a violet stormcloud with Zidian already sparking on his wrist. Wei Wuxian can’t help but stare. If this is Jiang Cheng’s nephew and niece, then — then— shijie. He takes half a step forward before freezing. Fuck you, Wei Wuxian! Go to hell! He takes a step back, crooking his finger behind his back to peel off the paperman. It’s nearly to the safety of his hand when it’s tugged away by spiritual energy and crumpled in Jiang Cheng’s hand. His sneer’s the same, which is less comforting when it’s directed at Wei Wuxian. “I’m going to break your legs!” the kid — shijie’s son — Jin Rulan — yells as he scrambles to his feet. “Break his legs?” Jiang Cheng asks, shooting Jin Rulan a scathing look. “Is that what I’ve taught you all these years?” Of course, it makes sense Jiang Cheng would help raise their nephew after Jin Zixuan died. It explains why the swords looks familiar, too. Wei Wuxian never got too close to Suihua, but he saw it often enough during the war. Gnawing guilt chews at the base of his stomach. “You should’ve brought Fairy, Jin Ling,” the girl — his niece? — says now. “She could bite him and drag him back to Jinlintai for xiao-shushu.” That’s incentive enough for Wei Wuxian to turn tail and bolt from this unexpected reunion. It’s one thing if Jiang Cheng hates him, but he’s not sticking around to find out if the dog does, too. “Stop! You can’t run!” He most definitely can and is going to. His body doesn’t feel quite right even after a few days, like it’s just a little off from what he remembers. He’s more than willing to blame that when Jin Ling lunges for him and he trips, wobbling for a split second as the blue glare off a blade flashes just over his face. He falls hard, twisting almost enough to catch himself on his hands and exactly enough to crack his chin into the ground. Wincing, he lifts his head enough to find white boots directly before him and the edge of familiar white robes. Fuck. He lays his head back down. “Lan-er-gongzi,” Jiang Cheng greets, voice all cold venom, “you truly live up to your reputation of appearing amidst chaos. You had time to come to such a remote mountain today?” Having given himself two breaths to press his forehead into the dirt and wish Mo Xuanyu had never thought to summon him, Wei Wuxian pushes himself up on his hands and knees and scoots backward in as ungainly and hasty a retreat as he can manage. Jiang Cheng doesn’t spare him a glance as he stalks up to Lan Zhan, stepping too close for propriety or Lan Zhan’s comfort. Wei Wuxian frowns but barely manages to keep from protesting. It’s not like Lan Zhan needs him to protect him after all. “Are you here to steal all the credit from us or to look for someone?” Jiang Cheng asks, strangely snide. “You’ve been all over the place these thirteen years. Aren’t you done yet?” “Jiang-zongzhu, what do you mean by that?” one of the little Lans from Mo Manor — Lan Jingyi, Wei Wuxian thinks — calls out. The kid earns a small mark in his favor in Wei Wuxian’s estimation, more than making up for almost decking him over the lure flag the other day. He can’t think of a single Lan disciple who would have spoken out of turn like that before. Good for him. “What do I mean?” Jiang Cheng scoffs. “Hanguang-jun, you know what I mean.” If Lan Zhan does, he doesn’t show any sign of it. He isn’t really showing any sign of hearing Jiang Cheng at all; from where he’s still stuck on the ground, Wei Wuxian can’t catch any emotion on Lan Zhan’s face. “Young Master Jin,” the nice Lan — Sizhui — says, “the night hunt is supposed to be a fair competition between cultivators. However, you have set up so many nets that others can hardly proceed for fear of being trapped. Doesn’t this violate the rules of the hunt?” “They got caught because of their own stupidity. It’s not my fault,” Jin Ling retorts. “Anyway, why bother talking about it? We can talk after I catch the—mmph!” The slant of Lan Zhan’s gaze and the sudden, distressed muteness are familiar enough Wei Wuxian isn’t sure whether to laugh or wince in sympathy. He’s a little surprised, now that he thinks about it, that Lan Zhan never tried using the silencing spell to stop Wei Wuxian from playing Chenqing. It would have made it easier to tote him off to Gusu, for sure. The thought makes his stomach sink, and he regrets it even as a Jiang disciple comes racing up to them. She’s a gangly young woman and sketches a haphazard bow in her haste. “Zongzhu, a blue sword just destroyed all the spirit nets Jin-gongzi set up!” she reports. “Lan Wangji!” Jiang Cheng snaps, teeth bared. Lan Zhan doesn’t bother meeting Jiang Cheng’s gaze, holding himself as still and implacable as marble. Wei Wuxian bites his lips to hold in his laughter. It’s not really funny to see them fighting, but — well, he’s dealt with Jiang Cheng’s temper for nearly twelve years. There’s nothing that gets under his skin faster than refusing to react. It’s easier to think about that than to think about what Jiang Cheng said, about thirteen years. He focuses on the familiar irritation that flashes over Jiang Cheng’s face as he gestures for the two kids and the Jiang disciple to go before him, leaving Wei Wuxian alone with Lan Zhan and his little juniors. “That Jiang-zongzhu!” Lan Jingyi bursts out. “Who does he think he is?” Lan Zhan glances at him, disapproving, and the kid recoils with a look of mortification. Right, what was that? Rule two-hundred-thirty-something: one must not talk behind others’ backs. “Young Master Mo, we meet again,” Lan Sizhui says, leaning down to offer his hand. “Are you alright?” “Ah yes, still here thanks to you it seems,” he jabbers, his voice rising in something he refuses to call panic. He was trying to get away from any reunions, not fall face first into them. Lan Zhan looks at him for a long moment but makes no move to step closer. He turns to the juniors. “Return to your positions,” he says evenly. “Try your best but do not take unnecessary risks.” “Yes, Hanguang-jun,” they all chorus, saluting properly. There’s a moment, after they turn to leave, where Lan Zhan stands still and Wei Wuxian almost thinks he’ll say something. Has he recognized him so quickly? Surely not. If it’s really been thirteen years, Wei Wuxian’s probably just a faded memory by now. Maybe that’s it — that the combination of demonic cultivation and Jiang Cheng and all of it reminded Lan Zhan of his old friend for a moment. When the Lan party has been swallowed by the trees, Wei Wuxian flees in the opposite direction. Forget whatever beast it is; it’s not worth it anymore. He’s going as far away from anywhere he knows and then he’ll figure out what Mo Xuanyu wanted him to do or he won’t and his soul will be destroyed and never able to reincarnate again. He might be panicking, a little. Then, he encounters the ghost in the cemetery and hears the rumors, and Wei Wuxian might be an idiot, but he hasn’t forgotten the last time he came to Dafan Mountain. It had been hard enough for Lan Zhan and him to seal the statue back then, and now there are actual children going up against it with no idea what they’re facing. Of course, it turns out that his niece and nephew didn’t get any of their mother’s good sense, and Lan Zhan’s baby juniors missed out on his preparedness. “You didn’t restock signals?” he demands. “How could you not restock such an important item?” He combs his hands back into his scalp and tries not to scream. If they were his shidis, they’d be running laps for a week. He’s about ready to scold Lan Zhan himself; as their shixiong, he ought to have taught them better. They’d seemed so competent at Mo Manor! Letting out an aggrieved groan, he snatches Lan Sizhui’s sword before the boy has time to do much more than yelp in surprise. He sends a brief apology to the memory of Chenqing as he hacks out an improvised dizi from the bamboo and tosses Sizhui back his sword before he starts to play. As he raises the flute to his lips, an arrow flashes through the evening sky, a white flare through the statue’s forehead. “Jin-guniang! Jin-gongzi! Be careful!” Lan Sizhui calls. Shijie, Wei Wuxian thinks as he closes his eyes, what in the world have your kids been learning? The noises the dizi makes can barely count as notes, and Lan Jingyi gripes about the sound, but Wei Wuxian ignores him. The music itself is only a vector, only conveying his intention. He pulls on every thread of willpower he has, flings out his call to anything powerful and resentful enough to take the statue down. The goddess is a seething blot of anger and hunger in his senses, and he presses around her, pushes his lure out further, farther. Come to me, the garbled song says. Wake up and rise. He can feel her bearing down on Jin Ling, can feel the bright pulse of energy as the kid unsheathes his father’s blade and aims up. Come to me. Every scrap of energy is pressed into the call, every thin thread he can dredge up. All at once, there’s an answer. “The Ghost General! It’s him! It’s the Ghost General!” Wei Wuxian’s eyes shoot open, dizi dipping down in shock. Wen Ning shoots up from the ground, catching the goddess in her brittle chin. Something’s not right, though. Heavy chains swing from his wrists and ankles; his eyes, when Wei Wuxian catches a glimpse, are black as ink. Horror twists through Wei Wuxian. He’d sent Wen Ning away to protect him, to prevent him from getting caught by the sects. Who did this to him? Who could? He doesn’t have time to wonder further. With the statue destroyed, the cultivators turn on Wen Ning himself. He’s flooded with resentment, the energy rippling off him in gales. Without his own control, he’ll turn on anyone who tries to attack. Steadying himself, Wei Wuxian draws in a breath and reaches for the first calming song he thinks of. As discordant as the melody is on this dizi, it still thrums with gentle suggestion. It’s me, he says through it. Wen Ning, it’s me. Calm down. Blurry memories flit through him with the notes: Lan Zhan’s voice low and gentle in the dark of a cave, a gentle hand on the side of his face, red lanterns glowing soft in the night. Taking careful steps backwards, he lures Wen Ning away from the cultivators already yelling for Jiang Cheng. If he can just get a little further— A hand wraps around his wrist. Startled, Wei Wuxian nearly drops the dizi as he starts to pull out of the grip, but he freezes. Lan Zhan’s hand is warm and broad, his amber eyes wide as he stares at Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian’s lips part, though he doesn’t know what he’s going to say. “Zongzhu, the Ghost General went that way!” Shit. Taking up the dizi, Wei Wuxian starts again even as Lan Zhan doesn’t release his grip. He presses more urgency into the melody, urges Wen Ning to flee and hide. At last, he flings himself away, and Wei Wuxian allows himself to draw in a much-needed breath. The hand around his wrist tightens, clenches almost painfully. “Ah!” Wei Wuxian yelps before twisting his hand to flip their grip. “Don’t chase him!” He holds Lan Zhan’s wrist too tightly, but Lan Zhan makes no move to break his grip. There’s something open and trembling in his expression, something almost like awe. Wei Wuxian can’t look away, suspended there with his hand on Lan Zhan and time a distant idea far removed from them. “Zongzhu, he’s the one who summoned the Ghost General,” the gangly Jiang disciple from earlier announces. Breaking his gaze from Lan Zhan, he turns to see Jiang Cheng only a few paces off. There’s something about his expression that’s a little off, a strain that Wei Wuxian doesn’t recognize. “So you’re back,” Jiang Cheng says, spits. “And you went running to him? Wei Wuxian!” Zidian flares to life, unspooling in his hand, and Wei Wuxian can’t help but flinch back. The fern-like scars furled across his back tingle with the memory of pain. Before he can move, Lan Zhan has stepped before him, his guqin summoned to hover under his hand. A single chord knocks Zidian aside mid-stroke, the clash of spiritual energy sharp enough to resonate through Wei Wuxian’s ribcage. Watching from the sidelines, he can’t help gaping a little. Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan really have progressed while he’s been gone. Zidian and Wangji were both powerful enough in his memory, but the way they flare and respond to their masters is like something out of a story. Something, nameless and heavy as a stone, sinks in Wei Wuxian’s chest and he forces it away. Good for them. He backs away carefully before he pivots and starts to flee in earnest. “You’re going to run away now?” He gets no further warning before Zidian is burning a caustic lash across his back and he’s flung into the dirt again. He cringes, gritting his teeth through the pain. It doesn’t hurt as much as he remembers from Madam Yu’s enthusiastic punishments, but it still burns worse than a hundred wasp stings. He scrambles to his feet, rubbing at his back. Mo Xuanyu was recognized by Jin Ling and his sister; maybe he can pretend long enough to deter Jiang Cheng. Anyway, his shidi really ought to have better manners. He’s a sect leader, for heavens’ sakes, and he’s not in his own territory. “Who do you think you are! Just because you’re a rich sect leader, does that mean you can go about whipping people as you like?” he scolds. “Take off your mask!” Jiang Cheng yells. Wei Wuxian is briefly tempted to stick out his tongue, and then, because he’s supposed to be crazy anyway, does it. “No! You’ll be shocked to death if I do,” he calls back. “Jiang-zongzhu, please stop,” Lan Jingyi protests, stepping forward. “Wei Wuxian’s body and soul were destroyed when he died. You killed him yourself, didn’t you?” Jiang Cheng breathes in sharply, eyes briefly widening with hurt, and Wei Wuxian frowns. He died when he destroyed the Seal. Jiang Cheng didn’t— Jiang Cheng, fear and anger snarling across his face— burning — Wei Wuxian, you promised. He stumbles, exhaustion finally catching up to him, and the memories flood in. He wakes slowly, to the solemn chords of the guqin. He can’t count the number of times Lan Zhan insisted on playing Clarity for him during the war; he recognizes it now even in its last notes. As it fades into quiet, a new song begins, one that tugs deep in Wei Wuxian’s chest. It sounds so much better when Lan Zhan plays it. Opening his eyes to the dark wood ceiling, he swallows and breathes through the tear slipping down into his hairline. “It’s really been thirteen years,” he says softly, letting himself take the weight of that understanding. “It feels like a dream.” Even with the river-rush of his memories running through him, there are still patches missing. He remembers dying, but the moments before it are scattered and disordered. He remembers parts of Qiongqi Pass, but so much of it is drenched in red it’s hard to discern the details. When he thinks of that year in the Burial Mounds, it’s hard to tell where reality ends and the nightmares begin. “You’re awake,” Lan Zhan says gently and resumes playing. Drawing himself up to sit with his back against the frame of the bed, he listens to Lan Zhan and tries not to think too much at all. The song curls into a gentle close, and Lan Zhan rests his hands over the strings to still them. He doesn’t look up, his gaze carefully fixed on some point a few strides before his guqin. “These thirteen years…” he starts. “If I say I don’t know where I was these thirteen years,” Wei Wuxian says, “will you believe me?” Lan Zhan swallows before dipping his head in a slight nod. “I believe you,” he says. He speaks quietly, but such surety runs through his voice that Wei Wuxian feels both as if the breath has been knocked from him and as if he might start crying. Ridiculous, he thinks and of course it’s in Lan Zhan’s voice. He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs. “I don’t remember a lot, I think,” he admits quietly, resting his chin on his knees. “But I remember what I said to you.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Lan Zhan still, hands tensing over his guqin. A twinge of pain and guilt aches in Wei Wuxian’s chest. So much for giving Lan Zhan an out, an opportunity to go make his life away from Wei Wuxian. Now he’s back, crashing into the peace Lan Zhan has surely cultivated in the intervening years. Thirteen years is far longer than they ever knew each other; what delicate balance has he created in that time that Wei Wuxian is now wrecking? “That day we ran into you in Yiling, the last time I saw you,” he says. “I’m — I’m sorry, for what I said.” Lan Zhan is still painfully still in his periphery, as if carved from jade. When he speaks, it is as if he is picking his words carefully, delicately. “That day in Yiling,” he echoes. “The last time you saw me.” There’s almost a question in his voice, and Wei Wuxian turns to him a little, frowning. Lan Zhan still doesn’t look to him. “Yeah,” he says. He swallows, forces himself to go on. “I — I thought I was protecting you by pushing you away but I was…it was wrong of me. I’m sorry for the way I treated you.” Lan Zhan’s chin lowers a little, but there’s a tension in the corners of his mouth like frustration or maybe dismay. Wei Wuxian’s brow wrinkles. Was it too much? Maybe he’s being too forward, assuming that he mattered enough to Lan Zhan to hurt him. Even as he thinks it, he knows that probably isn’t true. It’s just…well, it has been thirteen years. Maybe Lan Zhan doesn’t care for an apology so late. “Mm,” Lan Zhan says to his guqin. “It is forgiven.” He rises, robes cascading down like the white froth of a waterfall, and steps around the table to come to the bed where Wei Wuxian’s still curled. Perching on the edge of it, he studies Wei Wuxian’s face for a long moment, as if he’s searching for something. “What, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian teases around the knot in his throat. “Did you miss my face that much?” “Yes,” Lan Zhan says quietly. “I missed all of you.” Blinking, Wei Wuxian can only manage a strangled, ‘oh.’ He can feel the back of his neck warming, startled by the sincerity, and he looks away as he clears his throat. He’s not actually sure where they are, except that the simple style of the house and the familiar cloud patterns suggest somewhere in Cloud Recesses. “Eh, Lan Zhan, where are we? I don’t recognize this place,” he says. “The jingshi in Cloud Recesses,” Lan Zhan answers, unperturbed by the change of topic. “My home.” The heat rising up the back of Wei Wuxian’s neck suddenly has less to do with Lan Zhan’s sincerity and more to do with the realization that he’s in Lan Zhan’s private home, in his own bed, and apparently Lan Zhan is utterly fine with this.    “Cloud Recesses? But what if Zewu-jun finds out?” he protests. “It doesn’t sound like people are lining up to welcoming me in.” “Brother already knows,” Lan Zhan says. “He greeted us when we arrived. He…understands.” Wei Wuxian glances sidelong at him but decides he isn’t ready to unpack the emotional depth contained in that one word. He skirts away from it, already feeling raw and bruised. “And Lan-laoxiansheng?” he prods. “Has he finally forgiven me for disrupting class?” It’s the least of his sins against the Lans, but at least that means he can poke at it a little without fresh blood. “Uncle is not sect leader,” Lan Zhan says. The corners of his lips twitch in the faintest hint of amusement. “I believe Lan Jingyi reported that a Young Master Mo aided in their mission and was brought here for healing and protection.” “Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian gasps, scandalized and delighted, “you’ve learned how to be sneaky! I really have been a bad influence.” Breathing out a soft huff, Lan Zhan looks down at where his graceful hands rest in his lap. His gaze flicks up to Wei Wuxian, still soft in a way Wei Wuxian hasn’t seen it in — well, in years. Not since that last visit. “Wei Ying is good,” he says firmly. “You should rest. You were exhausted.” Wei Wuxian wrinkles his nose at that, but he can’t deny the soul-deep weariness weighing him down. Still, as Lan Zhan starts to rise, he reaches out on impulse and catches the edge of one white sleeve. “Hey, Lan Zhan,” he says with a little smile, hopeful, “sing for me?” For a moment, he thinks he has really overstepped. Lan Zhan stands still and straight by the bed, expressionless. Then, the line of his lips relaxes just-so, his gaze softening as he gives a single nod. “Mm,” he says, brushing a hand featherlight against Wei Wuxian’s shoulder. “If you’d like.” He goes back to the guqin instead of staying beside Wei Wuxian on the bed, which wasn’t quite the plan, but Wei Wuxian can’t find it in himself to complain as he nestles back into the bed and Lan Zhan begins. With Lan Zhan’s voice lilting in his ear and the soft thrum of the qin strings humming through his bones, he finds he’s not afraid to close his eyes.

[the-four-disaster-bastards]

How long have Elgor and Alteir known each other and how did they meet?

((They’ve known each other for about 50 years at this point. By now, they pretty much may as well be married, but it certainly didn’t start that way. Here’s a rp with @renegadenephilim of how their first meeting played out!))

—–

     Most can agree that the Earth is a desolate, dark place, razed by the hoards of demons that roam it. Light itself seems to struggle to reach the planet, and even when it does, it rarely offers comfort. The harsh sunlight that beats down on the Ashlands is proof of that, leaving little of that desolate realm and the broken skyscrapers that border it trapped under heat so thick that it warps the air.

     Such heat should be stifling to all that attempt to move through it, but for one particular runaway frantically climbing the broken flights of stairs that still line the inside of one of the dilapidated skyscrapers, it could hardly matter less. Many don’t dare to climb so high, where they could be picked off by the remaining Hellguard who still patrol the skies. If he can just find somewhere high enough to hide himself from the hoard for a while, he stands a chance of survival.

     With every flight he climbs, with every bit closer he gets to the sun, another one of his scales turns gold. That might concern him, if he wasn’t so worried about hiding himself.

     Another few flights of stairs finally take him to the roof, where there’s just enough left of a storage room at the very top of the building for him to squeeze into. He pushes the door open and forces himself through its frame, ignorant to how the sunbeams shining in through the holes in the ceiling seem almost opaque in how bright they are. He has enough space to huddle in the corner and keep himself out of sight, and that is what matters.

     That is, until his tail sweeps through one of the rays of light, and is met with a burning sensation across the skin that came in contact. The demon hisses and brings his tail closer to himself, only for his eyes to go wide when he sees the change in color to his hide.

     "What in the nine circles…?“

     He tilts his head skyward and gazes into the strange, unearthly light. It yields no answers for him, instead leaving only a split second for him to react as its luminosity increases exponentially, bathing everything it touches in burning white.

     There’s no scream, no roar, or no sound of impact—just a brilliant sunburst that encompasses the entire tip of that skyscraper, large enough to be seen from miles around, burning brighter than the sun for the crucial few seconds that it lasts.

     While there are, fortunately, no Hellguard close by enough to be of any concern, there is one former member of their armies whose eye is caught by the brilliant light.

    He notices it only as a glint off the weapon he sharpens at first, but then it becomes far too bright to be natural, in a way that is all too familiar. From where he sits in one of the half-ruined buildings across from the source, he turns his white-blue gaze upward, and finds, to his chagrin, that the light is so bright even he now has to squint against it.

    Perhaps that shouldn’t surprise him, but the presence of the golden light itself does. Why would it be here, so far away from any place one would expect it?

     He takes it upon himself to investigate. He takes to the air with redemption cannon in hand, just in case.

       Fortunately for him, it becomes evident that the weapon he carries will not be necessary as soon as the ruins of the skyscraper’s peak are reached.

     The being caught in the epicenter of the light lies motionless on the ground, taking only the slow, shallow breaths that those without consciousness can take. There’s no evidence of a struggle in the area, but the wounds he’s sustained might have suggested otherwise in any other place.

     Fragments of scales and tinted bone surround the being’s body, as if they were forcefully shorn away from him by the light. His hands and feet are bloodied, yet still shimmer with the remnants of the energy that just burst throughout the sky. This same energy crests the back of his head and the tip of his tail.

     Most striking is the damage–if it can be called that–to his wings. Blood runs down them in thin streaks, acting as lingering evidence of the transformation they’ve just been dealt. They now faintly resemble the build of the Destroyer’s wings, save for the golden membranes that bind them to his back and tail. Those too glow with the same heavenly light.

    It’s obvious that this creature used to be a demon from his horns and animalistic features. Now that he’s been touched by the light, however, it’s hard to say what he should be called.

     The fallen angel hovers a short distance away from the unconscious demon, pointing his weapon almost without thinking.

     Every bit of ingrained instinct in him is trained to kill demons on sight. Uncountable years of combat have made it second nature, if not first nature. It’s almost everything he knows; it’s almost everything he’s ever done.

     But he doesn’t shoot.

     This demon–if he can still truly be called such–has been touched by divine light. For what reason, the angel could not begin to fathom, but he would know that reason if he could.

     At his wordless command, he summons the only companion he has left in these uncertain times. As if materializing from shadow, a griffon-she-wolf-hybrid steps forth, sniffing at the demon cautiously. She, too, is more than familiar with killing demons, and the smell of this one’s blood makes her go tense, as if about to attack.

    “No,” her handler commands. “We’re taking him with us.”

     The beast’s canine head snaps up to look to her companion, as if looking for confirmation that she understood the order correctly. The look she gets in return confirms that, yes, she did.

     She shifts her taloned feet uncertainly, but ultimately obeys. With her handler’s help, the demon is carefully, gently lifted onto her back, and they depart, returning to the hideout they’ve holed themselves up in as of late.

—–

     Some time passes before he begins to show the first signs of consciousness again, but sure enough, his breath hitches in his chest after being shallow for so long. The ringing of his ears is the first thing that stirs him, but its effects are not enough to rouse him completely. The splitting headache that grows more pronounced with each throb in his skull prevents that.

     Altael doesn’t know that he’s been moved, nor does he know that his body is no longer the one he started out with. He can barely feel anything save for his head, and even that sense is limited. Try as he might, he can’t find the strength to open his eyes yet.

     The only thing he has the strength to do is exhale a weak, quiet groan, and even that is hard to hear above the ringing in his eardrums.

     "Hm,“ his impromptu caretaker hums at hearing the first signs of wakefulness from the demon after so many hours, musing mostly to himself. “Perhaps you’re not dying just yet after all.”

     He sets the blunt end of his lance to the floor and stands, at which his beast companion’s canine head snaps up to attention. The floor creaks faintly with the weight of the angel’s steps as he comes to the side of the makeshift bed the demon lies atop.

     He’d managed to wrap up the worst of the wounds with bandages, but he could do little else with any certainty on his own. Perhaps now that the stranger is beginning to stir, there is more he could do–but he has questions first.

     "You. Can you speak yet?“

       In his dazed state, Altael doesn’t entirely recognize the words being spoken to him, nor does he recognize that he should be concerned that he’s no longer alone. The pain in the base of his skull is still his most predominant concern–all else is second to it for now.

   Still, he manages to roll his head to the side with another quiet grunt. The movement makes the ringing of his ears grow louder, but he still attempts to open his eyes and track the source of the noise that pierces through the constant drone.

     Eyes as golden as his wings slowly crack open and blink, but there’s no focus or recognition to be found in them. His vision is too blurred for him to make out anything but this stranger’s outline, but at least he doesn’t look like a demon.  He hasn’t been brought back to the horde. That means he can still work through whatever this situation is, whenever he regains his wits. That’s a good start.

     “Rrrgh…” His first attempt at speaking only comes out as a pitiful growl that might have been another groan if he could have worked his voice up. Another few seconds pass before his second attempt at speaking.

     "…What?“

     He might be able to speak, however simply, but his ability to hear and process words isn’t entirely there yet.

     "So, that’s a definitive ‘mayhaps,’” the angel standing above him decides aloud, shrugging and nodding. “I suppose I couldn’t have expected much better just yet.”

     He turns, his long feathers ruffling slightly with the movement. He pulls a chair up close by the bedside and sits in it somewhat heavily. His lance remains in a loose grip at his side.

     "It appears as though you won’t be moving anytime soon,“ he observes. “Hopefully you’ll be talking sooner.”

      He can vaguely tell that quite a few words were just spoken, but there are very few he can definitively make out before the sound of his captor sitting down in his chair makes him flinch and close his eyes. Each new movement and noise he processes wakes him just a little further, regardless of whether or not he really wants to be awake yet.

     "Head hurts,“ are the next two words he strains to push out, in an attempt to justify his slowness to respond. Though he hasn’t spoken much yet, his voice seems tinged with a slight accent.

     He draws in a deep breath and brings his hand to his face to rub at his eyes, only to find that his fingertips feel…odd, to put it mildly. This must be a side effect of whatever head wound he was dealt to put him in this state–why else would his hands not feel like his own?

     The angel actually gives a faint chuckle at that.

     "I would imagine all of you hurts,” is his amused response. “A demon touched so directly by holy light should be thoroughly dead.” He leans forward, now unsure whether he’s talking more for his own sake than for the sake of actually receiving an answer to his questions.

     "I would ask you why you aren’t, but you don’t sound quite well enough to be interviewed.“

     Is that what happened to him?

     This revelation manages to stir Altael a little further, enough for him to put actual effort into making his eyes focus again. He starts by looking at his…his paw. This is not his hand, so why is it attached to his arm?

     Much to the protest of his head and wounds, he pushes himself slightly more upright, enough to give the rest of himself a look over. His legs seem to have suffered in much the same way, and where that flame on his tail came from is entirely beyond him. Then he catches sight of the golden membranes affixed to his tail.

     He follows these up until he sees where they connect with what once were his wings, but are no longer shaped as they used to be. Flexing the one splayed out at his side confirms that it is his, unbelievable as it may be.

     “Is…that light what did this to me?” He hesitantly asks, apparently more concerned by his new appearance than the angel he’s keeping company with.

     "I can only assume so,” is the fallen angel’s uncertain response. “I didn’t witness any transformation firsthand; I only saw the light from a distance.” He drums his armored fingers along the hilt of his lance.

     "You’re fortunate I found you before the Hellguard did.“

     It’s only now that Altael chooses to size up the one who will either turn out to be his savior or his captor. Any angel is enough to set him on edge, even when fallen, but this one seems surprisingly…docile.

     And alone. He’s never seen a fallen angel that was without similar company. Everything he knows of the angels who scorn the light tells him that they’re rarely without their flock. Is this one truly on his own, or are their more lying in wait?

     Altael’s train of thought is betrayed by how his body goes tense, but he makes no attempt to flee—yet.

     “Is there a reason you decided to bring me here, instead of killin’ me?” He surveys the rest of the visible hideout before he speaks again. “…wherever here is.”

     ”‘Here’ is not far from where the light touched you,“ the angel assures him. “As for why I brought you here, I have questions you can’t very well answer if you’re dead.” He pauses, putting a curled finger to where his helmet covers most of his obscured chin. His white-blue eyes narrow, dimming their glow slightly.

     "Although, it… doesn’t sound as if you know what exactly happened to you, or why.“

     Well, that’s encouraging. He’s only alive so he can be interrogated.

     Altael breathes out a rumbly sigh and lets some of his tension fade, though not all of it. There may be little point in doing anything but cooperating, since he certainly can’t fight in this state–and even if he could, he has no idea where his weapon is. For all he knows, his spear could still be in that building.

     "You’re right, I don’t.” He gives himself another good look over. Once again, his eyes settle on his new wings. “Ain’t never heard of a demon touchin’ the light ‘n lookin’ different instead of dead.”

     "Nor have I,“ the fallen angel agrees in a disappointed sigh. It was a longshot, but he’d sort of been hoping maybe this was something the demon might know about. His hand moves from his chin to the back of his helm.

     "But there must be some reason to it, yes?” he presses, perplexed. “I imagine you want to know more than I do, even, er…” He pauses.

     "… I suppose I should ask your name, if you have one,“ he states out of formality.

     It’s Altael’s turn to give a dry chuckle at that. Perhaps it’s rude to laugh, given that he might owe this angel his life, but he’s at a loss for what a better reaction would be to this mix of politeness and ignorance. That contradiction strikes him as amusing.

     "Do you think they don’t give us names in Hell?” He asks out of amusement rather than offense. Before the angel can answer, he speaks again. “It’s Altael. Legion Champion and battle strategist…”

     His voice trails off, and his smile goes with it. Too much has changed now for him to retain his titles, hasn’t it?

     "…Former Legion Champion might work better, now that I think of it.“

     "Eligor,” the fallen angel states in a very similar tone of voice to that last detail about the demon’s status. “Former Storm Warden of the Hellguard. Not that the former part is difficult to ascertain.” He sniffs disdainfully, wings twitching. He can’t help but notice, ironically, that their names almost sound as if they should belong to the opposite race.

     "Are you a deserter as well, then?“ he guesses.

     "Only recently,” he confirms with a shallow nod, “It’s why I was runnin’, before…all this.” That statement is accompanied by a gesture to the rest of himself–which he still can hardly believe looks the way it does.

     "I figured I didn’t have long ‘till someone found out I was gone, so I thought I’d lay low in that skyscraper. Look how well that turned out.“

     "Indeed.” Eligor shifts in his seat. He considers asking why a Legion Champion would desert Samael’s forces, but ultimately thinks better of it. Regardless of how much he may or may not have helped Altael, he’s not owed a life story.

     "Well,“ the angel decides, rising to his feet somewhat heavily, “I suppose that would mean we’re not enemies, at the very least. Technically speaking.” He makes a small shrugging gesture.

     "I’d been waiting until you awoke before attempting to treat your wounds any further. Truth be told, I’m not much of a healer at all, let alone for a race I’ve never tried to heal.“

     Technically allies is better than outright enemies, but he knows better than to fully trust Eligor, even given their circumstances. Whether or not there are more fallen angels nearby is unclear, nor is it clear if there’s anyone he reports to. The last thing he needs is for more people to know of his continue existence.

     But that doesn’t mean he won’t take the extra help while it’s still in reach.

     "You’ll…have to tell me what is and isn’t damaged. Lotta my body still feels like it’s asleep.”

     To confirm this, he flexes his new paws again, invoking more of that uncomfortable pins and needles feeling–but somehow managing to unsheathe a set of claws he was unaware he still had. He raises one glowing brow at this sight.

     "…Those’re new,“ he observes somewhat bluntly.

     Eligor squints at him.

     "You… didn’t have claws before?” he asks incredulously. “I find that hard to believe.” He looks the demon up and down, half-turning as if to step away.

     "Exactly how different were you before?“

     Altael sheathes and unsheathes his claws twice more to grow accustomed to the motion before he answers Eligor. His look of incredulity is met with one much like it.

     "Of course I had claws, they just didn’t look like this.” He turns his wrist so he can inspect them a little better. Their curvature is more pronounced, just as their ends look much sharper than they’ve ever looked before. He might actually be able to use them for self defense now, as opposed to intimidation.

     "I also had hands instead of paws. Can’t fathom why the light decided to take ‘em from me.“

     The angel doesn’t really know how to respond to that. He’d sort of assumed the only major change the divine light made was adding a golden color among all the black and red. He didn’t realize there were any major anatomy changes.

     "Your wings.” He gestures to the limbs, venturing a guess based on what he knows of the typical Legion Champion. “Were they always right-side-up?”

     It isn’t unheard of for a demon to have actually functional wings, but it is rare. Even then, it’s usually only a trait observed in demons who were once angels.

     “They most certainly weren’t,” Altael answers assuredly, as if that’s the one thing he still knows to be true of himself in the midst of all of this confusion and change. “That’s what’s so strange about this–I barely look anything like I did before.”

     He brings his paw up to feel at his face again. His horns still seem to be intact, as does his nose and mouth, along with the scars that frame them. That confirms that his general facial structure hasn’t changed, but until he can find a mirror, he won’t know for sure if his transformation was only applied from his chest down.

     "Really?“ Eligor asks mostly rhetorically, his gaze scrutinizing. This whole situation is even more unorthodox than he’d originally thought. Ironically, he gets roughly the same idea Altael has–getting him a mirror to figure out exactly how much has changed.

     "Wait there,” he directs more than requests, turning his back to the demon to step toward an open doorway nearby. He points to his beast companion at the far end of the room, then back to Altael.

     "Marchosias. Watch him.“

     And with that, he leaves, the cyan glow of his wings being the last of him to disappear beyond the doorway. The griffon-wolf obeys the command dutifully, padding over to take her handler’s place sitting upright by the bedside.

     And he’s gone. Lovely. He wasn’t very at ease to begin with here, but now that there’s a large canine griffin sitting just a foot away from him while he’s in a weakened state, he couldn’t unclench his neck muscles even if he tried.

     He looks the beast in the eyes. Then he looks to the door. Then he looks to her again.

     What is one supposed to say to break an awkward silence with a fallen griffin, exactly?

     Marchosias, for her part, looks quite at ease. Her posture is attentive, but neutral, and thanks to her canine face–rather than avian–her relatively relaxed expression is easy to read.

     She tilts her head to one side, regarding the demon with curiosity. One of her ears angles backward as the sound of something heavy being dragged comes from the direction her handler left in, but her ice-blue eyes remain fixed on Altael. Her long, fluffy tail drags across the floor as it sways from one side to the other.

     She’s not yet very familiar with this stranger, but if her master is letting him be here, then she figures he’s probably okay.

     He can’t quite fathom why he feels so inclined to do this, but he tilts his head in the very same way that the she-wolf does, first at her, then at the loud sound coming from beyond this room.

     If he’s dragging a weapon in here to kill him with, it seems to be giving him some trouble. Not that he thinks he would do that so spontaneously after this.

     "That better not be his gun,” he mutters to no one in particular, sounding only mildly disdainful of that possibility.

     That theory is disproven momentarily, when Eligor backs out through the same doorway and the object he’s dragging is revealed to be a large, framed mirror about as tall as he is. It looks as if it was meant to be wall-mounted, but met a milder version of the unfortunate fate the rest of Earth did. As a result, a crack runs across its reflective surface, but it remains otherwise in one piece, which is more than what can be said for most fragile objects made by humans.

     "When I fell,“ he explains without the slightest prompt or even a hint of strain in his voice, “the first thing I wanted to do was see how much had changed.”

     Marchosias moves aside as her master positions the mirror before Altael. He remains to the side of it, holding it upright by keeping one hand on the ornate frame.

     "So. How drastic is it?“

     There’s a long duration of time where Altael is completely silent as he takes himself in, bit by astonishing bit. The face that stares back at him is only barely his own, and the body it’s attached to is more animalistic, more rounded, and more flecked with gold than it ever was before now.

     The glow that comes from his wings is so unnatural to him that it almost makes his skin crawl. Why is the glow that adorns the feathers of the soldiers of Heaven radiating from his membranes? Why does it crown his head and the end of his tail? Why is he, being what he is, the source of it?

     "It’s…quite drastic,” he answers quietly, his voice weighted with uncertainty and dismay at what he’s become.

     Eligor hums pensively at that.

     "It was the same for me,“ he offers sympathetically, the feathers of his wings ruffling briefly. “It could have been much worse, however.”

     Having worked under Samael’s command, perhaps Altael knows that as well as anyone. If there is one horribly perfect example of how far even an archangel can fall, it would be The Blood Prince.

     "Can you tell how badly you’re wounded, at least, and where? Other than where your bandages are bloodied, that is.“

     "Mmh…something definitely happened to my head,” he posits, putting his anxieties surrounding his new form to the side for the moment. There won’t be much he can do to find more answers to his questions if he isn’t in good health.

     He flexes his paws to work some more feeling into them. They’re sore, but he can feel no wounds splitting apart from the movement. Unfortunately, attempting to flex his wings does not yield the same results. Moving those both stings and aches at the same time, especially around the bases.

     "My wings, too,“ he adds, curling his tail closer to himself out of reflex. "Feels like they got torn out and stuck back in.” For all he knows, that could be exactly what happened to him. It’s gruesome to imagine, but he can think of little else to explain their shift.

     Eligor could almost believe that really did happen.

     "You won’t get very far trying to go anywhere, in that case,” he observes somewhat unnecessarily. “Perhaps you are blessed, at least, in that it was not someone else who found you.” He sets about the task of dragging the oversized mirror back to its original place.

     "A fallen flock would have been unlikely to take you in,“ he elaborates, gradually moving farther away. "The Hellguard would have killed you on sight.” He knows that to be a definite fact. “And if you’re a known deserter, then even your own hoard happening upon you may have been your end.” Another dry, almost humorless chuckle echoes from beyond the doorway.

     "You and I may not be so different–neither of us is spoiled for allies right now.“

     ‘Thanks for the reminder of how desolate my life has just become,’ is what Altael might say if he wasn’t wounded and in this stranger’s care, essentially dependent on him until he’s healed, but God, is he tempted to. He at least waits until Eligor has left the room to reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose.

     "So you’re suggestin’ an alliance?” He calls out after him, only to wince as the sound of his own voice makes the ringing in his ears rear its head again.

     Some ally he’ll prove to be, barely able to speak or move yet without causing himself pain.

     "That I am,“ Eligor calls back over the dragging sound from the other room. Once the mirror is back in place, he returns near to the makeshift bedside Altael seems to be restricted to for now.

     "Or at least, I’m offering you a place here, and what help I can give you, in exchange for allowing some further prying as to what happened to you, how, and why.” He shrugs, as if that’s about the most plain way he can put it. It’s not the strongest grounds for an alliance, by any means, but it would at least be a fair enough trade.

     "I imagine you’ll want to know the same, once you’re in any state to go looking for answers. One way or another, unless you plan on crawling out of here rather than walking, it looks as though you have time to think on it.“     He doesn’t necessarily enjoy the idea of being bedridden in a stranger’s home, but it’s easy for him to decide it’s for the best when weighing it against his other options. As an enemy to the horde and the light alike, with very little means of currently defending himself, he must take aid where he can get it.

     And if Eligor is just as curious as he is to understand why light returned to a barren, broken Earth for just long enough to touch him, then he sees no reason why he shouldn’t allow him to help search for answers.

     "If you’re sure this is something you want to pursue, I won’t stop you from helping me. I just can’t guarantee there will be any definite answers out there.”

     He especially can’t claim to understand the mysteries of the light, and if someone who used to dwell among it even seems stumped, he isn’t optimistic that unraveling this will be easy.

     "I can’t say for certain, either,“ the angel concurs, "but it is worth trying. For now, though, you’re in need of rest, and perhaps an effective painkiller.” He turns, once again stepping away into another room. Some sounds of shuffling various containers soon follow.

     "We don’t have much here, Marchosias and I,“ he speaks up from across the hideout-made-home, "but what we do have, you’re welcome to.”

     As if to confirm her agreement to that sentiment, the wolf-griffon turns her head to face Altael with her mouth hanging open in that relaxed, almost-smiling expression a canine at ease often has. Her long tail wags slowly as her handler passes by once more, this time holding a glass half-full of a glowing green fluid. He offers it toward Altael.

     "This should help.“

     Altael doesn’t delay in taking the vial of healing fluid from Eligor, not even long enough to thank him first. He brings it to his lips and tips his head back and downs the entire thing in just a few large gulps. He takes in a deep breath once he’s emptied it, then breathes it out in a relieved sigh as soon as he feels his headache beginning to fade.

     "Thank you,” he says at last, “For that, and for the shelter.” Soreness still tugs at his weary limbs, but with some of his clarity restored, he already feels that much better. The golden flames atop his head and tail brighten as a reflection of this.

     "I can’t say I’ve met one of the Fallen who was quite so generous,“ he observes after a few more moments of silence, with a tilt of his head that betrays his own curiosity. He leaves that statement open ended, should Eligor decide to elaborate more on the nature of his willingness to help.

     "Nor have I,” Eligor sighs, speaking without looking his guest in the eye. He reaches a hand over to pet Marchosias behind the ears, at which she closes her eyes in content.

     "I fell because my views and values are no longer aligned with my former comrades and superiors,“ he explains. "This violation of the truce, this Apocalypse—I can’t support it. The humans didn’t deserve this.” He gestures to the space around them.

     "And those who have fallen farther than I… They might like to think themselves different from the Hellguard, but right now, I can’t agree. Both sides seek only to benefit at the expense of what has happened to this realm. Both sides, as they stand now, are devoid of honor.“

     He can check that off as another first for today—a fallen who fell for a noble reason. More intriguingly, he seems to have fallen for the exact same reason he deserted his own horde.

     “Mmhm,” he nods in agreement, lacking the lengthy words Eligor possesses to articulate himself, yet sharing in his sentiments. “That makes two of us, I reckon. I left my legion for the very same reason.”

     He shifts position again, this time a little closer to sitting up. His tail curls around his legs as he pulls them closer to himself and lets his gaze fall to the floor. It’s odd, speaking so candidly about this after so long keeping it to himself, though he can’t deny that he enjoys this strange freedom.

     “Bein’ a strategist in the horde…I feel as if I was one of the only ones puttin’ any thought into the carnage we were spreadin’. Might’ve been why it was so hard to stand.”

     Eligor gives a thoughtful hum at that. Before today, he never would have imagined a demon who didn’t enjoy carnage might exist.

     This one really is different, then.

     "Could that, perhaps, be why the light chose you?” he ventures.

     "Erm…“  Truth be told, he hadn’t really considered the possibility of his morality being a part of this. He’s heard plenty of tales of demons deserting their posts, but almost all of them end in death–certainly not a physical change in their appearance.

     "I’ve never heard of a demon bein’ touched by the light before, regardless of why they left their posts,” he refutes, though he doesn’t sound too sure of his words, “And even if it was, I’ve still got plenty of sin on my conscience. It’s not like I went my whole life secretly bein’ some beacon of morality.”

     He’s been intelligent enough to be above senseless violence himself, but there’s still plenty of bloodshed that was orchestrated under the structure of his military planning. Just a few hours of finally taking action against it can’t have been all it took to redeem him…

     …Could it?

     "I know it’s supposedly easy to fall from grace, but I’ve never heard of it bein’ easy to rise to it.“

     "I haven’t, either,” Eligor agrees. “But then, the Creator works in mysterious ways.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I thought it worth considering.” He shifts his wings to resettle and fold them to his back.

     "We’re not likely to get very far merely speculating,“ he points out, turning away. "Get your rest. Call for me if you need anything.”

     It seems that regardless of whether he wants for it to or not, this conversation has decidedly ended for now. The angel has a point–there’s little he can do now if he has no answers beyond attempting to restore his strength. Perhaps then he’ll be able to ease some of the dead weight that he’s become on this unfortunate fellow.

     "Very well.“ He eases himself back into a more relaxed position, rolled onto his side with one of his wings awkwardly folded over himself. Strange as it is to have them be so large now, their warmth is at least pleasantly comforting.

     Though he closes his eyes, he does not drift into anything close to a restful slumber. Too many questions without answers still weigh on his mind for that, and instinct dictates that he should never lower his guard in the company of the enemy.

     Even if the company of the enemy has been quite beneficial so far.

[modestlyabsurd]

Wallflower's Diner (Loki x Reader)

The old familiar ding-a-ling of the entrance bell. You hear it every morning when you clock in for work, and all day long during your double shifts; it sings its welcome for hungry people as they come into the diner.

Wallflower's was a little twenty-four hour hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon with a nice, artfully modern atmosphere. Regulars among newcomers come in every day, greeted by a happy person and the smell of food cooking, but what really reeled them in was the tasteful, down to earth decor and style. Natural light shines through wall to wall windows. 

Happy green succulents and wildflowers sit on tables in abstract pots and vases. Bright murals of inspiring quotes swirling above skyscrapers color the walls, inside and outside. The tables were covered in reusable cloths with uncolored pictures of birds and cityscapes, and each table gets a box of washable markers to color with while they wait for their food. Even the to-go boxes are decorated with intricate designs. 

Landing a job at this gem was something to be appreciated - and you did. 

Even though you had to work double shifts five or six days a week to support yourself - the cost of living for a young person in New York was far more than you expected - you loved working at Wallflower's. It was such a happy place. 

Some days you worked the kitchen, some days you worked the front house. Today you worked the kitchen. And since it was one of those mornings where frankly you didn't feel like waking up at five o'clock, at least you wouldn't have to deal with the public. 

The morning breezed by smoothly as you sliced bread, cut fruit and vegetables and mixed pancake batter. Breakfast tickets started piling in at six o'clock. Soon, the kitchen smelled of coffee, omelettes, sweet pastries and fruity smoothies. You and the rest of the staff were popping out orders and washing dirty dishes like clockwork. A few people even dropped coins and bills into the tip jar on the order counter. 

You recognized some of the regular orders and thought of the faces belonging to them while you cooked. One came in that made you smile upon reading it; breakfast burrito with scrambled eggs, peppers, cheese, sour cream and avocado (extra crispy, smushed down flat). 

And before your mind can put it together, here comes a flash of blue as Peter Parker runs in the kitchen, peeking into the ticket window. "Hey Y/N!" he pants, resting his chin on his propped up elbows on the window. He resembles a puppy in the most ridiculous way. 

"Hey Pete! What on earth are you doing here this early?" Peter usually came in after school hours to pick up a snack - a strawberry mango smoothie on most days - so seeing him before school even began was unusual. 

"We were outta milk, so I couldn't have any cereal." 

"Really? I'd die." 

He laughs, "I know right? And plus I haven't had a breakfast burrito in a while so it works." 

"How's Aunt May?" you ask while pouring eggs onto the griddle, thinking fondly of how much she cares about Peter and how much she really deserves a vacation. 

"She's good. She's been worried a lot, though. About the internship." 

The internship for Tony fuckin' Stark. Man, that kid got blessed. 

"I'm sure she is - I mean, she's probably not ready to let go of you yet, dude. And you have been a little more stressed out lately," you fold the pastel yellow eggs on top of each other in a roll and add a dash of seasonings - onion, cayenne, parsley - just 'cause he's special. 

"Yeah, but I'm fine. She literally has nothing to worry about, I grab coffee and sweat towels for a team of superheroes. How is that dangerous?" 

You cock your eyebrow. He thinks he's slick. He has no clue that you know he's Spiderman on the weekends, and that's what he does for Tony Stark. 

But it's fun to watch him stammer and stutter sometimes when you're onto him. 

"It depends on the superheroes, I guess. What are they like, anyway? The Avengers, that is," you ask inquisitively. 

"Oh man, Captain America is so cool. He talks about his life back in the forties all the time, about the radio stations, the sports, and sometimes he talks about his time in the war and it helps me with history tests - b-but don't tell anyone that! That's cheating!" 

"You're such a goody two-shoes." Of course, so were you. It's a part of why you and Peter became friends. "Don't worry, I won't tell. What about anyone else?" you say, generously sprinkling the cheese onto his unrolled burrito. 

"Uh, oh! I - ah," a waitress places another ticket above his head. After watching to make sure she left back into the dining area, he leans even closer into the ticket window. "I'm not supposed to tell anyone this." 

"Spill the tea, Parker." 

He stares as you carefully roll his burrito up with gloved hands, fighting with himself. He promised Happy he wouldn't tell, but he wants to tell someone so bad! And he trusts you. You've been there for him; you've talked to him for your entire hour-long break of your twelve hour shift when he failed his driving test. You've helped him study at the library before. You've even given him food on the house, which he knows is on you. You're a few years older than him, but he really considers you a friend. 

As his face becomes sweaty from steam and his stomach growls at the sight of his breakfast crisping up, he gives. 

"I met Thor the other day." 

"You what?!" 

"Shh!" he smiles hugely, "be quiet! Yes, they came from Asgard two days ago." Both yours and Peter's eyes have grown wider by at least two centimeters. 

"Thor?!" 

"Yes Thor! The real Thor! And Loki." 

Your heart sank a mile. 

That can't be right. 

"Wait, his brother? The one who tried to take over Earth? Loki? He's here too? Why is he here?!" you hiss, flipping the burrito violently, the questions tumbling out before Peter has time to answer them. 

"Hold on, hold on! Wait! He's good now! He's different! He doesn't want to kill anybody!" 

"You talked to him?!" 

"Yes! Well, I didn't really talk to him much, but he did say hi to me when Mr. Stark introduced us. Then he disappeared for the rest of the day." 

"Not suspicious at all!" 

He chuckles at the whisper-yelling you're both doing. Thankfully, he'd expected such a reaction. "C'mon, I know it sounds crazy, but Thor says he's had a change of heart. Maybe he's worth a chance, y'know? I mean, he hasn't hurt anyone yet. Well, actually he did - " 

"I don't even wanna know," you close your eyes and wave your hands, dismissing the thought of whatever it was. 

"It was just a prank! It was actually pretty funny." 

"I'll take your word for it, loser." You wrap his extra crispy, smushed down flat food in some recycled paper, then drop it into a bag with whimsical designs all over it. You write on it with a sharpie, You're really not a loser. "Actually, y'know what? I wanna know all about this later. It sounds too good to be true." 

"Believe it, babe. Keep the change!" He throws five dollars at you and it lands on the hot griddle and before you have time to berate the little rat for contaminating and for calling you babe, he's running away. The door ding-a-ling's as he bolts through it. 

You're left, picking up the bill off the stove before it catches fire. The burrito only cost a dollar and some change, so that was a fat tip; especially for a cook. 

You pocket the money, shaking your head and smiling to yourself. "Have a good day, loser." 

~

Aside from the usual lively, tiring high you get from working, talking with Peter was the highlight of your day. It left you eager to know more about the Avengers and their stories, about history, about Asgard, about space, about everything. 

You kept having to stifle a nagging emotion - anxiety? fear? maybe just nerves - when your mind pulled to the fact that Thor's brother Loki is on earth at this very moment. Only by grace were you not affected by the attack on the planet years ago, but the damage was done regardless. You were merely lucky. 

The disgust and disdain wanted to take over and sour your outlook, but pure curiosity overpowered that. Peter claims that Thor vouches for Loki now. He's biased, you think to yourself, before the angel on your shoulder pipes up, So are you. 

By the time you realize you're having a mental conversation with yourself, the countertops are wiped sparkling clean and ready for the five o'clock turn of shifts. The natural light had moved, casting longer dramatic shadows in different patterns across the checkered floor and painted walls. 

Part of you was a little bummed that Peter hadn't returned after school to pick up his usual smoothie. You'd really wanted to learn more of the Avengers and the mysterious Loki. If only you could ask May, but Peter said he wasn't supposed to tell anyone and by the sounds of it, he hadn't. You clock out at five-fifteen. Alas, you'll just have to wait.

~

Thank heavens the next day wasn't a double shift, since you were waiting tables. Although you still had to wake up at five in the morning. 

The sun shined through the diner windows in warm yellow rays, a nice contrast to the brisk morning chill. The week had ended, taking some of the initial hustle and bustle with it. Rush hour didn't start until afternoon hours on weekends which gave you and your co-workers a bit of down time to relax.

But to your surprise, a hostess flags you down in the kitchen as you're pinning an order to the ticket window. She pulls you by the arm out of earshot and says, "There's a party out there and they asked for you to be their server. By the way, it's the Avengers."

You stare at her, but you don't see her.

"Huh?"

"The Avengers are here."

Breaking yourself out of your anxious stupor, you roll your eyes incredulously. "Quit lying. It's the Delgado's, isn't it? With their prim and proper etiquette and - holy hell."

You peek over the bar.

It's the Avengers.

Habitually you begin counting heads. So, it's not all of them; there are six heroes and you only count five heads - is that Peter? - sitting along the makeshift party table toward the shadowed back of the dining area. That's definitely Peter, with Thor, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers and Jesus gremenies Loki is out there too?!

Only when a sharp pain shoots from your bottom lip do you realize you're chewing it, thinking of all the ways to curse Peter later. 

In a rush you thank the hostess and pat down your waist apron to make sure everything's there, then you're standing at the front of the table overlooking the civilian-dressed Avengers.

Your usual, partially rehearsed introduction goes exceptionally smooth. "Hey guys! Welcome to Wallflower's! My name is Y/N and I will be your server this morning. Is this your first time here?" 

Tony Stark who sits at the end like a throne speaks up, "It is, thanks to the kid, here," he mumbles, elbowing Peter in the arm. "He says he knows you." 

"Yes, unfortunately, I do know Mr. Parker - " 

"Hey!" Peter suddenly stops petting the succulent centerpiece at your fake cringing, making the whole table laugh and smile. All but one. Beside Peter. 

One of the two sitting closest to you. 

"Well, I dunno what all he briefed you on, but as you can see your table is a giant washable coloring book," they look down, suddenly noticing all the little swirls and blank spaces empty of color. You pull out small boxes of assorted washable markers from your apron and while you pass them around, realize you don't have enough for everyone. 

"That might be the niftiest thing I've ever seen," says Steve Rogers. Captain fucking America! He's already drawing on his space. 

You beam at them, "Yeah! It's one of my favorite things, getting to see the way people draw and color on their tablecloths. But it looks like I'm one box short for you guys, so I'll bring one more with your drinks. Everyone know what they're having?"

The first three, Tony, Peter and Steve, order their fountain drinks without a problem. The last two, however, haven't the first idea what a Coca-Cola or a Sprite is. Peter takes it upon himself to try and explain the concept of carbonated drinks, but fails miserably. Leaving Thor and Loki with even more confusion.

"Do you serve alcohol?" Thor asks innocently, making you nearly bubble over laughing.

"I'm afraid not. But we have coffee, sweet iced tea, orange juice or just plain water if that'd be better," you look between them, and you can't hold Loki's gaze for too long. It's intense, almost invasive; unlike the blond brother's lighthearted aura. 

Immediately Thor answers, "I'll have black coffee. Very hot, please."

You take a mental note of that request, a stupid smile covering your face. Then you look to Loki, who is now choosing to stare intently at his menu. "And for you, sir?"

He contemplates his answer as if he's being interrogated.

"Plain water will be fine."

As soon as you're out of their view, you scramble away to the kitchen with a rush of unreleased adrenaline coursing through you. Your mind's racing, your heart's beating and you're pouring the heros' drinks like a mad person. Hell, you almost spilled hot coffee on your hands from shaking so much. 

The worst part was it came from you fanning over the Avengers.

You reminded yourself to focus. It was a rather slow afternoon - especially considering the circumstance that would presumably bring people to see - but there were still three other tables you had to tend to.

On your way back to the dining room you almost forget to grab another box of markers before your hands are full with the drink tray. Weaving through a couple customers and other waitresses you make it to the long table.

You circle the table to sit everyone's drinks in front of them. Everyone's locked in a childlike trance as they color and doodle on the tablecloth; you glance around and notice the one who isn't. No one gave Loki any of the markers.

"Here's your markers as well," you lean over and extend your hand with the box to Loki. He averts momentarily from staring at your face to the markers. His mouth opened and closed, not sure of what to say. So he extends a frighteningly pale hand and takes them. 

He accidentally brushes his fingertips to yours.

You both jerk away.

Damn, his hand is freezing, you thought, hiding your hand behind your back and flexing a fist; it lingered like a static shock.

He's gotten wide-eyed now, nearly apologizing. You can't help but feel bad for snatching your hand away like that.

"Cold hands means a warm heart. A-at least, that's what they say," you stutter. Loki retorts, looking down at his markers.

"You must be quite cold-hearted then."

"Loki!" Thor scolds. Although the others were now giving him dirty looks, you sensed not a bit of malice in his comment. In fact, your cheeks were heating up a great deal. 

"Please, Y/N, don't mind the asshole," Tony says waving his hand in Loki's direction.

"Oh believe me, I've dealt with far worse just this week. Being called cold-hearted is a nothing," you assure them. The genuine grin on your face is helping a lot. "Are we ready to order?"

With that, you scribble each of their orders down onto your notepad before gathering the menus and making way back to the kitchen. The steamy heat hits your face like a splash of cold water. Exactly what you need.

You almost want to giggle out loud at the fact that you're semi-nailing being the Avengers' waitress. They're happy, they're comfortable, they're talking with each other. Coloring the table, still. You glance their way as you cover your other tables' refills and cheques and notice that every time you do, Loki looks up at you. Piercing enough to make you quickly avert.

The clock ticked away, closer to your thirty minute break. As much fun as you were having, the anxiety level was up there. Your mind went back to how you'd seek revenge at Peter. Maybe you'll add a big splash of lemon juice to his smoothie on Monday. Or cayenne pepper. That would be entertaining.

Once you get out of the groove, the nerves crawl up. So you occupy yourself by clearing off a couple of finished tables, balancing them on your arms to the kitchen to be washed. When you get there, the cook is placing the last plate of the team's order on the counter. Perfect timing, you think to yourself.

Defying all odds that have previously proven you a clumsy mess, you singlehandedly bring out all five plates into the dining room and make it to their table. Instantly, the markers are forgotten and the smell of toasted bread, sweet tomatoes and fresh herbs arouse the guys from their drawing. Tony, Steve and Thor are practically drooling from hunger, Peter makes grabby hands for his food.

Loki's food is served last, following the order in which it was taken. You set his plate in front of him, covering whatever he'd been diligently drawing.

He looks up at you again, meeting your eyes, and holds them there for a second longer. 

"Thank you."

That feeling in your hand earlier? It's back, but now it's spreading through your sternum.

"You're welcome."

You find yourself still staring even after he's dropped his grateful gaze to his plate. 

Air shoves its way into your chest.

"Alright! Please enjoy, and you guys just let me know if you need anything." A round of muffled appreciation sounds come from the team as they've already began shoveling.

What am I feeling? Pre-heart attack symptoms?

People are clearing out, leaving only the team and two others dining. This gives you a chance to do some cleaning up before you take your break. And a chance to sort your thoughts.

Is he mind-controlling you? No way, that couldn't be. There's no way he'd be going places like normal people with them if that were the case. But that sure is how it feels. Like you can't get rid of the thought. The coldness. The way he holds your gaze.

Who knew that simple eye contact could arouse so many feelings?

It also feels completely and morally wrong. Love at first sight is a farce, let alone with someone of Loki's caliber. He likely looks at everyone like that. A manipulation tactic. It's not even the first time a customer has tried sweet-talking a waitress. Of course, calling someone cold hearted is certainly a unique way of sweet-talking.

But it was the way he said it!

You're no fool. You know when you're being flirted with. Or are you? Who said that one innocent comment is flirting? You very well might be a fool at this rate.

Beads of sweat have bubbled on your forehead. You wipe them on your forearm. 

Before you know it, your section of the dining area is clean. Spotless, even. You take the rag to the back to be washed with the dishes. Glancing at the clock, a sigh falls from your lips; you let another waitress know you'll be taking your break.

Being on your feet for four hours straight left them aching. Sitting on the curb was a great opportunity to stretch your legs out and pop the muscles in your back as well. You revelled in the breeze fanning your flushed face, watching the city bustle by. People on their phones, texting or talking, bums smoking cigarettes.

You stared at the scuff marks and worn spots on your boots. Distracting. From the fluttering in your chest. What an strange feeling. Warm, exciting. Queasy. Longing. All somehow from a single touch - a mere meeting of the eyes. I must be insane.

The shrill ding-a-ling of the door brings you back to reality.

Thumps hit the door behind you. Footfalls rumble the concrete and before you process it, men come barreling out and run down the sidewalk. One takes off in flight in a wisp of blond hair. It's then you realize that was Thor, and the rest of them following in their inferiority.

Tony Stark then leisurely exits Wallflower's, hands in his pockets. As if none of that happened.

Dumbfounded. That's the word.

You raise your head to look up, since he's blocking the sun from your back. "Uh, shouldn't you be with them?" you ask with a nervous chuckle.

"Probably. But I had to make sure you got this." He hands you a small white envelope with the Stark Industries logo on it. Without another word he begins strolling away toward the others, now a few blocks down.

Huh. You already miss them. Him especially. Dammit.

You open the envelope and inside is a flat stack of green. Twenties? You count them, trembling.

A three hundred dollar tip?!

~

Upon further investigation, you found their plates cleaned and strewn about the table from the dramatic exit. As you took them, you looked at everyone's drawings and colorings. Peter had nearly colored a paisley print in reds and purples, Steve had began a detailed doodle of Wallflower's Diner from the outside (he never finished the sign), Thor and Tony had the absolute messiest pictures ever, and Loki.

Goodness gracious, Loki.

He'd written admiring adjectives beginning in letters that spelled your name in loopy, beautiful handwriting. He'd began drawing intricate filigree around it, but didn't get a chance to finish. You traced the designs, engulfed by the artistic quality. Overwhelmed with sudden emotion. Breathless. No one's ever done anything like that for you...

So you're not insane!

Maybe you'll reconsider taking revenge on Peter...

[lizzieraindrops]

Your chance to make the sun rise thrice (Chapter 2)

a river that still runs (8803 words)

Beth Childs has come to Helsinki to meet her best friend Veera for the first time in the Herbs on the windowsill universe, an alternate timeline where the original Helsinki massacre was prevented and DYAD routed by Clone Club Alpha’s successful publicity stunt back in 2001. Veera Suominen and Niki Lintula survived and decided to live in a little apartment together as qpp’s. Numerous Leda clones worldwide are now in contact via a secure online network that Veera maintains. 

Note: This chapter is a bit heavier than the rest of the AU. Beth is still struggling with a lot of the same challenges in this universe, even if the events causing them are somewhat different because of such early canon divergence. But the whole point of this story is that things can end up okay no matter how rough it's been. She's getting the help she needs and she's gonna be alright. That said, warning for soft discussion of past abuse, the effects of trauma, depression and anxiety, and some suicidal ideation. And of course, lots of love and learning how to heal, with support from her best friend.

Fun fact: Veera's username is 3mika, and she always sets her font to the precise warm turquoise of hex color #2299aa. She thinks she's hilarious, and she's right. 

Also on AO3  |  Playlist  |  Aesthetic sideblog

Part 1: Herbs on the windowsill

Part 2: Someday colors

Part 3: Your chance to make the sun rise thrice  |  Chapter 1  |  Chapter 2  |  Chapter 3

***

Beth wakes on a squashy couch that isn't hers. Morning-soft sunlight pours through the window above her, bouncing back off the walls to fill even the shady corners with a warm secondhand glow. Her limbs are soft, splayed under unfamiliar blankets and sinking into the cushions. She doesn't move yet.

The apartment. Helsinki. Beth's really here. She holds herself still, letting the truth sink into her. She half expects the usual anxious tension to clench her into a ball the instant she moves a muscle, but it isn't there. Neither is the invisible weight that so often pins her immobile. She still wakes frequently with both of them holding her body hostage, keeping her muscles unmoving but restless, even in sleep. Right now though, they're gone. She just lies there, soft beneath the window.

It's quiet but not silent. The occasional car on the little road outside chuckles as it passes. A soft rush of water echoes through pipes in the walls, running toward an early riser in another unit. These sounds fall strangely on Beth's Toronto-bred ears, isolated in the stillness of this of this little apartment on the outskirts of the city. Still, the early-morning atmosphere settles comfortably into her jet-lagged bones, murmuring a rhythm for her to sink into. The temporal upheaval of a transcontinental red-eye and a series of exhausted naps yesterday have left her a little unbalanced. And yet, here she is waking up with the day, and the ground under her feels so much more stable than she’s used to.

Beth breaks her stillness with a deep, deep breath that she can feel expanding all the way down to her feet. She stretches, too, but soon pulls the toes that get exposed back underneath the warm, scratchy blanket. The cushions of the old couch creak a little in complaint as she shifts, but her limbs remain supple. For a time, she just observes the sensations. Then, her awareness spreads beyond the couch and the window to the rest of the room.

All around her, an oddly blocky pattern covers the walls. It's one of the first things she noticed when she walked into the apartment yesterday afternoon. The pattern isn't wallpaper like it appears at first glance, but actually a multitude of small photographs. Most of them are unframed, but taped up in crisply aligned rows. In them, she sees the same face infused with a hundred different lives. Just above her, a sleeping, slack-jawed redhead with bulky headphones around her neck sprawls on the very same couch Beth's laying on now. A few rows down, a brunette and a blonde with their long hair in matching wild waves are leaning all over each other and grinning like devils. One of the few framed photos shows a girl with a hospital-short buzz cut and a delighted expression, sitting in front of what looks like a mouthwatering strawberry shortcake. Beth can see at least six others in the background behind strawberry girl. Among them are Mika with her unmistakable scars and Niki with her bright blonde hair, their arms around each other's shoulders.

Morning light glances off the glossy surfaces of the photos on the west wall. The particularly bright reflection off one of the framed photos draws Beth's eye. With a tiny jolt, Beth recognizes one of her own selfies beneath the glass. In it, she's wearing the same old turquoise blue sweatshirt that's spilling out of her suitcase next to the couch right now. Underneath it, she's wearing her track gear, so the photo is at least two years old. She'd had to quit cross-country so she could try to get the shitshow her life had become under control. She vaguely recalls sending it to Mika a long time ago. It's strange to think that her presence has been in this apartment for so long.

She's here. In Finland. Staying with Mika – Mika - and Niki. Far, far away from everything.

Sprawling on the couch she slept on with a sigh as if she hadn’t a care in the world, Beth can't believe she's really gone and done it. She's run so far away that there's an ocean between her and her problems. It’s so much better than she's dreamed, even if it's only for a little while. It’s worth it, even though she'll be going back far too soon. For the first time in years, it feels like she’s where she’s supposed to be right now.

It had all started out as foolish idea she'd floated one Saturday morning, months ago. She hadn't been serious at all. She'd woken up so relieved at not having to get up and go to work, until she remembered her weekly therapy appointment with a hopeless groan.

Putting off the genuinely daunting prospect of hauling herself out of bed, she reached out to snag her phone from on top of her dresser, checking to see if she'd heard from Mika overnight. After all, Helsinki was nine hours ahead, so Mika had already seen most of the day that was just beginning for Beth. They talked so often these days, since they'd first made contact over two years ago. Rarely a day passed without touching base. But there wasn’t anything since Beth had checked last night. She took it upon herself to send the first message of the day.

runwaterblue: god, i dont wanna get up and deal with any of thsi shit today

After her world fell apart, after finding out about Project Leda, after realizing that all her nightmares and more were real, after her father...

runwaterblue: wish i could come visit u and get away form everything for awhile

Mika replied almost immediately.

3mika: you can

It was evening in her time zone, but to be honest, Beth had no idea if she had anything resembling a regular sleep schedule. The girl was always online.

3mika: though you really should go to your appointment. you always feel better afterward

runwaterblue: howd you know i have therapy today

3mika: you always have an appointment saturday afternoons

runwaterblue: yes but how do you remember that? i cant evne remember my own appts lmao

3mika: you mentioned it months ago when you switched from sundays to saturdays

Beth shook her head with a smile. Mika was so good with details.

3mika: anyway. you’re welcome here, if you can get here

3mika:  it would be great to see you

3mika: Niki wouldn't mind. we've had a bunch of Ledas visit us here, it's always fun

3mika: except that one time Dani and Ary got into a fight over football. some French-Italian team rivalry thing. that was not fun.

Beth laughed. It was funny how Mika was so good at making her do that, even on days like these. She leaned back against her pillow and held her phone over her head without sitting up, being careful not to drop it on her own face. She'd done that before. More times than she'd admit.

runwaterblue: i was kidding. id love to visit, but idk how id get there

runwaterblue: u should see the americans go off abt their football lmao. they're nerly as bad as the hockey freaks here

3mika: pls no

3mika: no more sports. it was a year ago and I’m still exhausted

3mika: sports are banned in this apartment.

Beth snorted. Mika wanted nothing to do with sports of any kind, and with Beth's athletic record, the topic had become a point of mutual teasing between them.

In so many ways, they were such different people, DNA be damned. Mika was reticent where Beth was outgoing. (Or at least, Beth had been. She was never quite sure how to think of herself these days.) Clone drama aside, Beth had been a pretty average Canadian high schooler. She got reasonable grades, played a few sports, and kept mostly out of trouble because there would be hell to pay if she didn’t. Mika was a brilliant homeschooled autistic orphan who had been raised in near isolation by her guardian after surviving the hospital fire that marked her skin for life. Beth mostly listened to pop music, and where no one else could hear, the occasional classical symphony. Mika held fast to Finland's weird obsession with death metal and dabbled in literally everything else.

And yet, Mika understands Beth like no one else does. And it's not just because they've both been through all this Project Leda bullshit. Though Beth doesn't know what she would have done without Mika to help her through that, too.

Beth won't ever be able to forget the moment that everything changed. Recognizing a her own face from the mirror on the evening news stopped her in her tracks, as something in her gut caved in with the hollow certainty that it wasn't her. Then face after face flickered before her, a flipbook barrage of déja vu. Blonde and smiling. Scarred and pensive. Braids and piercings and a rakish grin. Beth was rooted in place as people she had never been wearing things she had never worn said things she was never supposed to know.

That utter strangeness on the screen immediately seeped into her life like an oil slick into a river, tainting every thing she thought she knew with clinging uncertainty. Her father was inexplicably even more upset about it than Beth was, yet adamant that they shouldn't look into the matter. But it was already too late to stop herself from thinking. With slow horror, the truth of what exactly his behavior must mean dawned on her. And yet, even with the desperate growing certainty about who her Leda monitor must be, it was hard to believe that he could be anything other than her plain stern father.

He was always a bit strict and overprotective - probably well more than a bit, she realizes these days. But she’d thought that's just what it was like to be a cop's daughter. He'd never done anything really extreme, nothing beyond the firm discipline any kid could expect. He was just not a man to be trifled with, that was all. So until everything she thought she knew shifted that day and threatened to topple every assumption she’d built her life on, she had never truly dared to cross him.

Outright daring him to say to her face that he wasn't her monitor was probably considered a step beyond trifling. He did not take it kindly.

Two months later, Beth and her mother were living in an apartment on the opposite side of the city. It took two months for the two of them to lay plans to leave together, for good. For two months, her every move was watched. She spent two months knowing there would be hell to pay if she didn't give the performance of a lifetime pretending everything was fine, even while sirens blared inside her day and night. Two months was more than enough to teach her things she never wanted to know about the hidden marks fear leaves on the body.

Even after she finally escaped, her life was in tatters and nothing made sense. It wasn’t just the sudden jarring discovery of Project Leda, or the crisis it had forced her to confront. It was learning that, deep down, she had known that she’d never once felt free. She’d unconsciously kept herself from knowing to avoid exactly that conflict of wills that she’d known she would lose.

Trying to come to terms with what had happened and how it changed everything, Beth was continuously losing her balance. Questioning which parts of her life had been screwed over by her father and which by being part of some ridiculous supervillain science experiment was like trying to stand on two kickboards in a pool. She couldn't find her footing, and all she could do was try and stay afloat. She had to repeat her whole junior year of high school that she lost to this shitshow, while starting over at a new school, and only barely scraped her way into senior year. Now that she knew how honestly terrible she'd been at judging who in her life she could trust, it was as hard to talk to old friends as it was to make new ones.

Therapy helped her start sorting out what she was feeling, and how the environment she’d grown up in was really not the healthiest. She hadn’t realized how much she’d learned to doubt her own perceptions. That made constructing any kind of new understanding of her situation an uphill struggle. And of course, her therapist couldn’t help her confirm anything about a human experiment that was so illegal it had been an international secret. As she continued to stumble forward, Beth even started doubting her former certainty of the identity of her Leda monitor. She questioned herself and everything she knew until she wanted to scream with frustration or weep with confusion. The floor of the counselor’s office could have been mopped with her tears. It was, quite literally, driving her mad.

So, finally, Beth had taken up the invitation on the banner of every Leda news feature to "Contact the secure, clone-run Clone Youth Group Network (CYGNet) for answers by emailing info@cygnet.org."

She wanted something concrete that would help convince her brain to stop reenacting these head games that warped her reality. It still insisted on playing through the patterns it had been taught, even in its teacher’s absence. She needed something that could brace her against the ideas that she was really just paranoid, overreacting, accusing, that this was all her fault for making a big deal out of nothing. Even with his other faults (cruelties, her mind whispered) aside, at least his involvement with Project Leda was unforgivable, and she wanted proof of it. Maybe if she had that, she could stop being mad at herself for not wanting to forgive. And if anyone had that proof, CYGNet would.

Maybe it was just because of the sheer blunt honesty about her motives, or the inescapable vulnerability of the message Beth sent, but Mika had replied to her within a day. And she'd been so gentle about it, too, enough to make Beth later question where the stereotype of autistic brashness came from. Then again, over email, Mika had all the time she needed to compose her thoughts and lay them out as softly as she wanted. She didn't have to spit them out as fast as she could to keep pace with a quick and painfully overwhelming world.

Hi Beth Childs,

I'm so sorry for what you had to go through. I still don't know how they got away with doing things like this for so long. I suppose people will always find ways to be cruel. But we've survived this long, and the whole point of CYGNet is to help us all heal. The experimental network has been dismantled, and we are assembling resources to help us. We've brought mental health professionals on to the project to develop custom programs for our needs. We can make them available to you, if you are interested.

I attached scans of some of your files that we recovered from DYAD. There are a few case reports with the signature of the person you asked about, spaced throughout your lifetime. There are also financial records with his name in the list of paid employees. He was without a doubt part of the Leda monitor program. I can provide all of the documentation that we have related to you, if you like, but I thought that would be too much all at once. I know these are hard to look at, but I hope they help let your mind rest. They are very real, and every awful thing we have experienced was also real, no matter how they tried to convince everyone that we were making it all up.

Please take your time with these, and stay in contact if you want to. You can join our mailing list, if you want to know when we have new information or new resources available. We're here for you.

And hey, if you just want to talk to someone who knows what it's like to deal with all of this, I'm here, too. You can reach my personal inbox or IM me at wiz.of.dos@cygnet.org. It'll be okay.

-Veera

Beth had started crying before she even finished reading the letter, much less opened the attachments. She cried so often these days. She only knew why half the time. But this time, it felt like the tears were extracting some of her pain as they left her, instead of just overflowing from the unending wellspring of her directionless distress. All of this was real, and someone else knew it.

Though she was grateful beyond measure for her mother’s untiring support, they were each other’s too-close, ever-present reminders of what they’d survived, trying to act like they weren’t, trying to convince each other and themselves that they were okay. Beth had needed something else, too, something until now unnamed.

This was a handhold, a backstop Beth didn't know she'd been desperate to find. It wasn't just the confirmation of what she’d concluded about her father. The ability speak plainly to someone she didn't feel the need to pretend around was an exhale of a breath held too long. At least one person in the world not only understood, but really and truly didn't want or expect her to act like any of this was normal or okay, or that she would ever be the same again.

Veera – or Mika, as she often went by online – made good on her offer of a sympathetic ear. Their correspondence started off with awkward, grammatically correct messages about the less painful details of their lives. Mika told her about the farmer’s market three blocks away where she went walking early in the morning before it got busy, and the plant stand there that her best friend and roommate Niki (also a Leda) had to ask her to stop buying so many succulents from.

At first, Beth tried to chatter like she used to, but there were no safe subjects. What had happened had touched all of her life. Normally, she’d talk about school, or sports, or her friends. But she was trying to start all over again at a new school with all the struggles that came with it. She didn’t have the time or energy for sports anymore, and talking about them hurt, now. Running used to make her heart sing. But no matter how she tried, there was no joy in the motion anymore. To top it all off, it was as hard to connect with old friends from her old life as it was to try and make new ones. She spent most interactions either doubting her own character judgement or dreading the moment people recognized her Leda face from the news.

She didn’t know how to talk about any of it to anyone. Maybe she could have if it had been just the clone thing or just the dad thing. But the two were inextricably entangled, and she still couldn’t even explain it to herself. It was all unbelievably horrifying, and any time she tried to be honest about it, people ended up disbelieving or horrified. Shocker.

Maybe, though, it wouldn’t be weird to talk about it with Mika. Mika already knew the worst. Beth didn’t have to hide that hurt from her to keep from shaking her world, or to keep her dismissal from hurting Beth. Maybe that’s what was hurting the most: the feeling that even after escaping, she still had to pretend to be okay. That compulsive stifling feeling choked her whenever it bubbled back up. On her bad days, a simple “how are you?” could reduce her to a blank face plastered over a raw tangle of emotions held motionless her own iron grip.

But Mika mentioned having bad days, too. Days came where she was too scared and nightmare-weary to do anything but make herself some tea and soak up some sunlight in the safety of home. Beth could casually say things like after those two months, i still twitch every time i hear a door open, and i wish my body would quit feeling like it doesn’t exist, my legs feel numb. It barely broke the surface of what it was like in her head, but was discomfiting enough for people that she held her tongue at school.

Sometimes, Beth got tired of constantly thinking about all this shit and tried to lighten things up. On one comically disastrous occasion of cultural exchange, she liveblogged Mika her attempt at eating the infamous Scandinavian lutefisk, along with an audio recording of the incoherent horrified noises she made after tasting it. In return, she received a recording of someone, presumably Mika, laughing harder than she’d ever heard anyone laugh before. It made Beth smile. Not many things did, back then.

Slowly, as the formality fell away from their transcontinental conversations, their heavier stories seething below the surface seeped in. Beth had been in therapy long enough now to know that she couldn't just recklessly unload on people the way she did in counseling sessions. But a counselor couldn't always provide the same kind of unspoken solidarity that someone in the same boat could.

Bit by bit, slipped into the chats that were becoming a daily occurrence, they talked about monitors, about what the experiment had really all been for, why that both was and wasn’t important, and how they'd discovered they were a part of Project Leda. Putting words to the pain hurt, a lot. But the ability to lay out long-unspoken truths in front of each other, knowing they were believed in the way that only people who have shared something can, was a healing kind of pain instead of the festering one Beth had been living with.

The two of them had more in common than they'd thought, growing up a world apart. Beth's experience raised under the subconscious wariness of her father's hovering thumb felt a lot like what Mika described growing up largely isolated with her former guardian. But sometimes, whenever they realized that something they'd both thought was normal was pretty not, they got a good laugh out of it despite the weight of their pasts. Mika seemed somewhat accustomed to her normal being considered pretty weird, so she usually took the revelations in stride better than Beth did. Beth wouldn't find out for at least a year after meeting her that it was because of her Asperger's, since it was a topic Mika seemed quite sensitive about.

Mika explained it once, in a conversation full of long pauses on her part and watching the typing icon disappear and reappear on Beth’s. The way she put it, it just meant that her brain worked a bit differently than most people's, processing sounds and sights and all the information it took in at different speeds and with different emphases. The difference could turn everyday things like the sound of a refrigerator running into a splitting headache, or something as simple as the soft texture of her favorite jacket into a kind of bliss. That alternative way of processing also extended to things like words and emotions as well. Sometimes, it took her longer than the world was willing to wait to process them into something that made sense. It often made communication tricky, trying to compensate for the gap in mutual understanding with most people. The world and the people in it could be so overwhelming sometimes, so fast and bright and full of noise and uncertainty and bewilderingly arbitrary social conventions. But the biggest challenge was other people expecting her to do everything the same way they did, ignorant of the fact there were any ways to exist other than their own, and completely oblivious to the fact that she was already putting in at least twice as much effort to communicate with them as they were with her.

And yet, even coming from such a different perspective, Mika gets it. Beth says sometimes i dream of drowning and its not a nightmare and i wake up not knowing how to feel, and Mika says I still dream of burning and wake up not knowing which fires are real, and they both say yeah. And they sit there across the world from each other knowing these things, knowing that it doesn't fix anything. And yet, it does change something. Nothing's any better, really. But somehow, the knowledge that someone else understands makes it a little easier to bear.

And that's just it. Somehow, without ever even having seen her face, Mika sees Beth clearer than anyone. All of her, all the ugly parts she hides so that they can't hurt anyone, and all the good parts that she also hides so that nobody can hurt them or take them away from her. Mika sees all of that and then just tells Beth another story about the Northern Lights she sees on the regular. Apparently, in Finnish, they’re called "fox fires." Beth hardly ever sees the aurora, living relatively far south in a bright city. But her stories about life in the metropolis by the lake intrigue Mika as much as the tales of the twisting green lights do her. And Beth can talk about something lighter again while not having to pretend that the heaviness isn’t there, too, even while she’s just once more trying and failing to explain poutine. For her, the weight never really goes away. But the effort of pretending she’s not carrying it takes more out of her than the weight itself. Mika understands that.

Maybe that’s why Beth had talked it over with Mika first, even before her mom, when she was considering taking a gap year after she hopefully managed to finish her senior year of high school. (God, it was so hard to think about English or math or whatever when just that morning she’d woken from a nightmare about being back in a not-home house that she never escaped.) Beth's mom had been so unbelievably supportive of Beth's recovery, even while she herself was adjusting to the wrenching change in both of their lives. It was both inspiring and a little intimidating. If her mom managed to run a household and raise a daughter all on her own, even while trying to heal from her own trauma, how could Beth not do her utmost, too? She was grateful to be able to talk to Mika about it, to get a reality check from someone who both understood her situation intimately and didn't make Beth feel that pressure of expectation. In the end, Beth did decide to take a year or two off before considering college, and her mom was again nothing if not supportive. Beth figured, after this entire mess, she deserved some time to herself to work on sorting her shit out, and her mom agreed.

After graduating with reasonable if not flying colors, Beth worked a series of part-time and odd jobs that didn't stress her out too much, letting herself focus on her own healing. In between her mom's support, seeing a counselor regularly, and the security of having a friend she could really trust, Beth felt like she was making progress. Slow progress, sure, but progress, nonetheless. Considering that she had seventeen years' worth of lies to unbelieve and emotional trauma to finally acknowledge, Beth figured that there was only so much she could do in the three years she'd had.

Her days were still hard. Getting sleep and waking up and eating and even just existing were still so fucking hard sometimes, and it was horrible. Some days, the thinnest sheet trapped her in bed like it was a car pinning her down. It felt so stupid for such simple things to be so hard. But then her therapist would remind her that that’s what mental illness and trauma was, that this was what the wounds in her mind and heart made her feel like. And once in awhile, sun broke through the shadows, and she had a day that reminded her what an okay day felt like – that okay days existed. That more might.

Now, she’s here, lying in a bright living room so far from home, with her dearest friend in the next room. She’s comfortable, except for the knot in her neck from sleeping oddly on the couch. The soreness pales in comparison to the usual tensions that are so strangely absent. Beth can’t remember the last time she felt this okay. She’s not steeling herself to go to work. She’s not dreading the next conversation with her mother that goes quiet as they both remember awful things they don’t mention. She’s not bracing herself for the next time her brain runs rampant worrying about whether she’ll run into the subject of her restraining order somewhere in the city and have to wonder if he'll honor it.

None of that reaches her here. There’s something about this quiet little pocket of space. It’s overrun with a proliferation of potted plants, from the sprawling lacy-leafed monster in the corner, to the fern peeping out of the kitchen, to the vine cuttings spilling out of an oddly familiar leaf-shaped glass bottle on the sill. Sunlight streaks through leaves and windowpanes and across the colorful patchwork of rugs on the floor. In the midst of it all, Beth is held by a palpable aura of gentleness. It holds her so softly that she doesn't need to hold herself in. It's like the layer of caution that she always keeps wrapped between herself and the rest of the world has simply dissolved away. In this moment suspended in morning light, she is okay.

She feels safe.

The realization undoes something in her. She feels the tears starting, and she expects the taut tension of involuntary stifling that always comes with them to return. But it doesn’t. She lies still and soft on the couch with the water creeping over her cheeks, breath occasionally catching but flowing freely. She savors it in the quiet.

The soft thunk of an ill-fitted door opening breaks into her odd reverie. Mika’s up. Beth sniffs and scrubs at her eyes halfheartedly, but she can’t hide them right now and she doesn’t want to. Mika notices immediately, and comes trotting over with quiet steps, leaning forward all concern.

"Beth," she says softly. She shifts from foot to foot like a nervous cat, watching Beth with enormous eyes. Beth has never met anyone else with such an intense stare. Or maybe it's just the fact that Beth knows beyond all doubt that she's being looked at by somebody who really sees her in her entirety. It's like she's staring right into Beth's soul. But Mika was able to do that long before they saw each others' faces. They've shared so many thousands of words over screens and seas, so many emotions that have gone otherwise unspoken, so many too-early mornings and too-late nights on the fringes of each other's dawns and dusks.

“What’s wrong?”

Finally, a flash of that sick tension runs through Beth’s body. It’s been okay when Mika has asked that before, when it was just silent letters on a screen. But out loud, the question falls on her ears like every well-meaning inquiry she’s ever had to scramble to find an acceptable answer for. The strain begins to cinch tight around her again like coarse ropes across barely-healed skin, ready to compel her to replace the truth with something safer. Her arms and legs tied, she begins to freeze, railing against herself for tainting the softness, the safety of this place.

"Beth." Mika says again, softer but more urgent.

In the gap between thoughts created by hearing her name, Beth seizes the chance to redirect them to the present. She clings to the welling in the corners of her eyes, the warmth of the sun caressing her back. The leaves of trees whisper outside the third-floor window in a mild breeze. The brightness spills over the sill and across Mika’s asymmetrical, half-craggy face and lights up tufts of her short hair as she steps closer. The couch dips as Mika sits down next to her, tilting Beth toward her.

Without meeting her eyes, Mika lifts a hesitant hand that hovers in the air between them, uncertain yet reaching. Her gentle palm falls onto Beth's forearm as softly as a floating leaf. The fingers curl around Beth’s arm just below the wrist, firm but not tight. Comforting.

The softness surrounding Beth seeps back into her, saturating her. As the memory fades like a ripple into water, the tension slackens. But it leaves her shaky, with traces of a familiar ache in her neck muscles, one that goes deeper than the simple stiffness from the couch. She sucks in a few unsteady breaths while Mika gives her arm a gentle squeeze.

“Sorry,” Beth says in a small, awkward voice.

Mika tilts her head. “Why?”

“Uh, I didn’t mean to bring all – this mess, in here.” Beth rubs the back of her neck with her free hand. “It’s so... soft, and okay, and – I don’t wanna ruin it,” she says, trailing off into a mumble.

“Hey.” Mika moves her hand from Beth’s arm to her shoulder. When Beth looks at her, she’s looking right back. Mika's eyes dart down to the floor for a moment, but then return to hold Beth’s with deliberate steadiness. “It’s alright. It’s like this here because we wanted it to be safe to be messy. You’re not ruining anything.”

“... Oh.” She’s steadied by Mika’s fingers curling around her shoulder, by the tendrils of sunlight spreading across her head and back and arms. Mika’s voice is small but steady, and somehow it comes from the same throat that makes that huge pealing laugh. It’s so strange how they sound nothing alike. Until yesterday, Beth hadn’t heard her voice since the lutefisk incident. They’d mostly kept to text and pictures. It had seemed easier, the way it gave them both plenty time to think before they spoke through their different uncertainties. Beth was already planning her trip before they realized that they’d never actually called each other. By that point, it sounded like more fun to meet in person the old-fashioned way.

"I'll make you some tea." Mika abruptly stands and lets go of her. Beth is sad to lose the contact. She flits across the room toward the kitchen in her soft cotton pajama pants, complemented by yet another black graphic tee for yet another Scandinavian metal band Beth's never heard of. Or at least, she'd never heard of them before Mika, who has something to say about all of them, and now Beth knows more than she'll ever need to.

Mika moves in and out of view behind the half-wall that separates the little living room from the kitchen. The fronds of the fern on the counter make a green rustling as she brushes by them. It sends soft feathered shadows waving across the wall opposite the window. Beth hears the rush of water boiling out of sight, and soon sees steam rising from the mug that's being handed to her.

"It's hot," Mika says unnecessarily. She sits down next to her again, this time leaning into Beth with her arm. Beth’s glad for it.

"Have you ditched the bags and gone loose leaf?" Beth says, eyeing the fragments of bright green leaf free floating in her mug.

"It didn't come in a bag. It came from the window."

"The window?"

"It's basil tea. For the fear and pain. Five large fresh leaves in two hundred and fifty milliliters water. We grew it here."

Beth takes a cautious sip. It's surprisingly sweet, and the savory smell of the steam rising from it curls into her sinuses. The aching in her head and neck begin to relax. It's unfamiliar, but it feels like home should, just like everything else here.

"Thanks," Beth says. On an impulse of craving closeness, she leans her head onto Mika's shoulder with a sigh. The sensation of contact deepens as Mika leans against her, too.

Beth holds the cup close, fingers wrapping around its warmth. She takes another sip and gets a bit of leaf stuck in her teeth. The way she scrunches up her face trying to dislodge it pulls a tiny laugh out of Mika.

“You don’t have to be okay here,” Mika whispers. “You can just be. That’s what we do.”

Beth finds her eyes wet again, but she smiles while she sets her mug down and wipes them away. “Kinda already wish I could stay here,” she says with a chuckle.

“... That’s probably not impossible.”

“Really?” Beth asks wryly. “Not even twenty-four hours, and you’d already be willing to put up with me?”

“Twenty-four hours and twenty-seven months.”

Beth melts a little even while waving the idea aside. “I wasn’t serious.”

“I know, but... weren’t you looking at the school here?”

“I mean, yeah, but... really, my mom just thought I deserved a break to get away for a little while. She’d saved up a bit, and I didn’t want to make it a big deal or anything, but she really wanted me to. She knew I wanted to come see you. Checking out the school was mostly an excuse. I know it’s a great place, but... I don’t really think it’ll help with what I wanna do.”

“What do you want to do?”

Beth sighs and leans back, looking at the ceiling. Mika follows her so that they’re still shoulder to shoulder, and pulls her feet up to tuck them in cross-legged.

She flounders for a moment, trying to find where to begin. She hasn’t told anyone this yet.

“This Leda crap has been kind of awful, right? It’s screwed so many of us up. But there’s only, what, a few hundred of us? And that’s not the only reason things get messed up.” She swallows. Her eyes trace irregularities in the ceiling: a knot in an exposed wooden beam here, a sealed and repainted crack there. “Kids like me are a dime a dozen. There’s so many people out there going through hell, just because they got stuck with people who are hurting so much that they hurt other people. And then they go on and hurt more people. It’s a cycle that’s really fucking hard to break.”

Breaths that have become harsh force her to pause and let them lengthen again. A touch on her knee draws her eyes down to a hand resting on it palm up, offering. Beth takes it. Mika squeezes her fingers in reassurance.

“When I was little, I wanted to be a cop like my dad, did you know that?” Mika, eyes wide, shakes her head. “Yeah. That was always my plan. I used to think he was so brave. Wanted to be just like him.” She shudders. Mika grips her hand, steady. “Even if I could do it better than he did, the system is still full of people like him. It’s broken. I couldn’t – I can’t end up like that. I can’t keep being a part of this shit. I want to actually help people.

“I never thought about it before I met you, but the people you brought in to do therapy programs and all for CYGNet? They’re amazing. The stuff I’ve gotten from them has helped me so much. And I don’t know what I’d do without my regular therapist. These people really help people like me. Like all of us. Those are the kind of people I wanna be like.”

Beth’s voice drops and becomes small and secretive, but firm. “I’ve been looking at the social work programs at home. There’s some really good ones at the uni near where mom and I live now. And that’s the city where I grew up. I know how things work there. I know it won’t be easy, but. I could really... do stuff.”

Silence stretches. Beth looks at Mika, only to be completely thrown off by an expression she can’t make heads or tails of. “What?”

Mika’s face is blank yet soft, only barely hinting at her thoughts in the faintest crinkling of her eyes. It’s funny, how quiet her face is most of the time. Beth never would have guessed, going off her online impressions of her. Mika’s so expressive and eloquent with her written words. In person, she is much more subtle. But even after only a day spent around her, Beth is already starting to see how her movements speak volumes in a language of their own. The flickering of her hands flares to life with excitement. The casual shake of her head tosses her hair out of her eyes even when it’s not in the way, like she’s clearing the slate of her mind. And much like Beth these days, she goes very still and tense when she’s getting uncomfortable or overwhelmed, the way she did after a particularly loud whistle at the train station. It shows in her shoulders. They’re soft now though, and she just watches Beth and squeezes her hand once more.

“You’re really amazing, you know,” Mika says.

“Wh- huh?”

“Well.” She looks away and turns their hands over, but doesn’t let go. “After the awful things you’ve been through – nnnh! Don’t pretend,” she says, looking back sharply as Beth begins to protest that she didn’t have it that bad. Mika knows her so well. Beth can’t help but laugh a little. “After all that, you just want to help people. All I ever want to do is get away from them, most of the time.”

Beth quirks a brow at her with a bemused grin. “Really? Because setting up and running an organization that provides mental health resources and extremely important information to a few hundred people is a really shit way to not help people.”

“I never talk to most of them! And CYGNet only has one hundred and thirteen members, not hundreds.”

Beth rolls her eyes with an exaggerated motion. “Yeah, so, you’ve somehow convinced, what, a whole freaking third of a huge group of scared strangers to trust you?”

“A lot of that was Niki and the press team, she’s way better at talking to people th–”

“And you’ve been careful enough and clever enough to keep them and all the information you got from DYAD safe and secure? I can’t even imagine the organization and, and cyber-security and whatever the hell else you put into all this. That you still put in. And look what you’ve done. You’re helping so many people. You found something only you could do, and do it really damn well.”

Mika looks down into her lap, half her face flushed. The raised ridges and swirls of the scarred side are pink, but not as dark. Her shoulders curl in a little, but she doesn’t pull her hand away from Beth’s. If anything, she holds on a little tighter.

“You don’t have to like talking to people to help them. You don’t have to be someone you’re not,” Beth says gently, then pauses as a new thought occurs to her. “Why did you talk to me?”

Mika gives a tiny shrug, eyes still downcast. “You reached out to me. Most people are scared, or suspicious, or hard to talk to, but you were just... honest. You told me exactly what you needed, even if that meant sharing your painful secrets with a stranger. I...” She trails off, looking toward the closed door of Niki’s bedroom. She blinks slowly.

“It reminded me of something Niki said a long time ago. When we first met. We didn’t trust each other at first. But when things got bad, we needed to, and she just... We’d only known each other for a day. She told me a true story that people had called her crazy for, and trusted me to believe her. And when I told her about... my Asperger’s, about being autistic, she just told me something about herself, too, another thing that a lot of people get cruel about when they know. This was back before she came out, too. She was hardly out to herself, then, really. But she told me anyway. ‘Secret for a secret,’ she said.”

“She’s really special to you.” It’s not a question. How could it be, with the sheer softness of love rounding out every syllable and making Mika melt into the couch and into Beth’s shoulder.

“She’s... yes. She’s my family.” Mika looks out the window, and the bright light dances over her nose. “I don’t remember ever having one.”

Beth slings an arm around Mika’s shoulders and smiles as she curls closer into Beth’s side. “Looks like you’re part of a pretty big one, now,” she says, waving a hand at the dozens of photos on the walls circling them.

“I guess so.”

“No need to guess. The evidence is right there. And I’m right here.”

Mika turns those huge eyes on her again. She’s done that multiple times now, even though Beth knows she rarely looks people in the eye. Eye contact is too much, most of the time. She describes it as too intense, too distracting, too intimate. Meeting those eyes – so like Beth’s own, but filled with such a different kind of light – Beth thinks she understands a glimmer of it. If every eye she met were as overwhelmingly expressive as Mika’s, Beth probably wouldn’t meet them all either. It keeps taking her by surprise, coming across their eloquence in an otherwise quiet face. Caught by that gaze, every emotion that lives in it touches Beth. Right now, it’s soft with adoration but shaded with a gradient of doubt. The width and depth of Mika’s eyes reveal a clear view of a vulnerable, aching, healing heart that spent eleven years starving for the love it needs and still hasn’t forgotten the famine.

It might be breaking Beth’s heart. No wonder Niki is always showering her with hugs and kind words and gentle hands on rounded shoulders. Maybe one of these days, Mika will have spent long enough finally getting to soak up all that affection that she won’t look at Beth like this when she says the simple truth.

“Hey. Here I am. Really.” Beth’s voice is a little choked up. She pulls Mika into a proper hug with both arms. Mika squeaks in surprise at being squeezed so emphatically, but returns it all the same. God, but she gives the best hugs of anyone Beth’s ever met. All contact and even, firm pressure and steadiness. “It’s so damn good to see you. I can’t believe you’re...” real, Beth thinks but doesn’t say. I can’t believe I didn’t imagine you. I can’t believe you’re just as kind as your words. I can’t believe how good it feels to be around you. “I can’t believe I’m really here.”

Mika doesn’t say anything. For a moment, one of her hands leaves Beth’s back to fiddle with something, then comes back to give her a little squeeze that Beth returns.

Beth’s phone buzzes a notification behind her on the little glass-top table next to the couch. The table’s wooden base is a round blob carved into the shape of a very fluffy and very ugly sheep with curly horns. Beth’s arms loosen from their embrace as she turns to look at it, bemused. No one but Mika really messages her except for her mom. But if it’s morning here, it’s about time for bed at home. She checks it, just to be sure she’s okay.

But it’s not from her mom.

Mika reaches out to gently grasp her forearm again as Beth shoots her a quizzical look and opens the message.

3mika: I'm glad you're here.

Beth's heart quails.

To think, that her darker days might have kept her from ever being in this moment. Beth might never have gotten to this point, hurt but healing and here. Here, she's seven time zones and an ocean away from the cycle of pain she grew up in, barely aware she needed to escape. She might well feel safer right here in this crossroads of time and place than she has at any other in her entire life. It's a realization that's as humbling as it is nourishing.

Already, the distance this journey has taken her has given her so much perspective. She wasn’t sure, before, whether the work she’s been considering was just a response to what she’s been through – or just a way for the cycle to keep her within its spiral. But she’s seen what Mika can do, what Beth could do one day, if she keeps on.

It won’t be easy. She’ll go back, and deep-seated memories will try to drag her back into small dark places. But being here, even for only a few hours, has already changed her. She can change, and she can grow, and she is already tapping into new strengths that her past has yet to reckon with. She is here, right now, in spite of all of it. And today is not a dark day.

“Me too, Mika. I’m glad to be here, too.” Beth’s tongue stumbles over the name, because she’s never said it out loud before, only read it on a screen.

Surprise sends Mika’s eyebrows up and her eyes wide again, like she’s never heard it before, either. Maybe she hasn’t. She tilts her head again like a question, touching her ear and looking at Beth.

Beth grins. “Mika.” A smile blooms on that curious face, lighting it up. She’s the one who pulls Beth into a hug this time, and it’s both fierce and soft. When she lets go, she leans into Beth’s side again and they stay like that, arms over shoulders and comfortably curled up together, soaking in the warmth of each other’s presence like leaves drink in light. The simple sweetness and companionship of it soothes Beth’s heart, seeking its way into the aching crevices. It’s an odd feeling, both seeping inward and flowing outward, trickling all the way through her until it warms her cold toes in a way that feels both new and strangely familiar.

A long, sleepy yawn announces that Niki’s awake now, too. Soon, she comes out of her room stretching her arms over her head. Mika reaches a hand out toward her to wave in greeting, though she leaves the other arm draped over Beth’s shoulders. Niki smiles at them. That kind smile, too, adds to the warmth washing through Beth. Her feet practically itch with it, and with a growing sensation of déja vu. She fidgets her toes against the floor as Niki walks over to brush Mika’s outstretched hand like a touchstone.

“How'd you sleep? Isn’t that couch the comfiest?” she says to Beth.

“Well, I’ve got a crick in my neck, but I still slept better than I have in years.”

Niki turns her sunny smile on Beth. “Good to hear it. Weird, though, I nap there all the time and my neck’s always fine. Huh. Anyway, I think I might make waffles. You two want some breakfast?”

Mika nods, but doesn’t let go of Beth yet. Beth is lost in thought, trying to remember what that light, floating feeling in her feet reminds her of.

“Sweet.” Niki ambles toward the kitchen and bends down with pursed lips to peer at the fern perched on the counter. “Hmm. You still look a little pale. Let’s get you some more sun.” She brings the plant over to the living room and is fussing over settling it on the sheep table when it clicks for Beth. A physical memory washes over her, for once welcome. She lets it fill her, refreshing like a deep breath of cold morning air her lungs are suddenly hungry for. She flexes her calves and ankles, her legs remembering the joy and freedom of stride and strike. Her bones are finally recalling how they once carried her with ease, even while they're adjusting to the new weight of who she's become. Fully alive again for at least this moment, her soles are practically prickling with the desire to eat up ground.

“How about you, Beth? Do you like waffles?” Niki asks, fluffing the fern’s crinkly green leaves. Mika squeezes her shoulder.

Beth grins and plants steady feet on the blue rug in front of the couch. “Save a few for me? I think I might actually go for a run first.”

[fandoms-consume-me]

Arranged Pt. 5 (Arthur Pendragon x female!Reader)

Summary: You are a free spirit learning to be a queen one day. Your first time accompanying your father, the King, on a diplomatic trip was meant to simply be a chance to observe. Little did you know that the universe had much different plans. You find yourself attracted to the heir of Camelot, Arthur, even though he is to marry another-one of your good friends, Princess Dulcina. The marriage is the doing of kings and queens, without the approval of the participants themselves. Can two star-crossed lovers overcome fate?

Warnings: mention of death

Characters: Reader (Y/N), Arthur Pendragon, Uther Pendragon, Lady Morgana, & several OCs (including but not limited to: Princess Dulcina, Viscount Cadby, King Pellinore, and Queen Aethelgyth)Pairings: Arthur Pendragon x female!Reader; Arthur Pendragon x Princess Dulcina (forced)

Word Count: 1,228

Catch up: Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4

Skip ahead: Part 6

SORRY IT TOOK SOOO LONG! I FINALLY GOT A SECOND TO WRITE AND NOW IT’S DONE (NOT PERFECTLY BUT IT’S COMPLETE). LET ME KNOW IF THERE’RE ANY MISTAKES!

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That night, as you took off your shoes, a horde of maids came bustling in. You recognized some but others were unfamiliar. 

“Hi,” you said, unsure why they were in your room. You thought you had been clear about your ability to do things for myself. Any confusion you had was immediately cured when your mother followed them in. 

“Dear,” She started, smiling at you softly, “I thought I asked you to act like a lady.”

“You did, Mother.”

“Then may I ask why you dismissed your maids?” 

“You know that I can dress myself, Mother,” you told her. Both of our voices closely resembled the ones we used when talking to precious diplomats. 

“That news can spread: a princess refusing maids. How fast do you think it will spread in the servants’ quarters?” She asked. The maids that had filed in before her looked at the ground in shame. “I thought I asked you to be perfect. The perfect lady.” She paused and looked at you, seeing for the first time how much it took for you to be perfect. “Accept your maids’ help and avoid crazy viscounts.” She told you before returning to her own chambers. 

You sighed and smiled at the girls left in your room. 

“Well, I suppose you’re stuck with me,” you grinned tiredly at them. “I’m Y/N.”

“We know, your Highness.” One spoke up, a slight tinge of pity in her voice.

“Of course you know.” You laughed mirthlessly, “I don’t know your names, though.” 

“I am Breaden,” one of the shortest girls spoke up.

“My name is Ebba,” another followed.

“Myla.”

“Nyssa,” the last said. You took them all in, wondering if you would get used to having their nimble hands working on you. Myla seemed like the oldest; her reddish hair was pulled back in a messy braid and her face clearly had seen its fair share of worry. You stopped examining them when a yawn pulled your attention away. 

“Lovely to meet you all, Breaden, Ebba, Nyssa, and Myla.” You bowed your head to them before continuing, “I am so sorry to be rude, but since you all are here, would you mind helping me…” You gestured to the lacing tying you into the organza. 

Immediately they all jumped into action, one untying the back, another removing your tiara and hair pins. One disappeared only to return moments later with your nightgown. Breaden stretched herself out as much as she could to turn down your bed—and succeeded in seconds. 

Within five minutes they herded you into your bed and elected the maid to stay behind. Ebba, you thought, was the one to stay, settling down in a corner with the last lit candle. After the shortest time you felt myself drift closer and closer to sleep, barely hearing when Ebba rose and left. 

You did hear, however, the loud pounding on the wooden door. You was jolted up from your peaceful slumber as more knocks sounded. You groaned and ran a hand through your hair, sure it looked like a mess. You could never get the waves to keep from tangling while you slept. 

You grabbed your robe from where it draped over your changing curtain as another knock come, louder this time. You huffed in annoyance as you pulled the robe over your thin nightgown and secured it. When yet another knock came you had to bite your tongue to keep from calling out. 

You yanked on the door, struggling to pull the heavy wood open. When you did get it open, however, you was met by Prince Arthur.

“Hello,” you said, trying to blink the sleep from your eyes. This was one of the two people your mother especially wanted to impress, and, as you was already on very thin ice with her, you realized you should not be standing in front of him in a nightgown and robe having just woken up.

“I’m sorry,” he said, a strange strain in his words, “did I wake you?” 

“I was hardly dozing off,” you lied with a smile. “What time is it?”

“Yes, I suppose I did wake you,” he laughed, “It’s nearly one in the morning.”

“Would you like to come in?” you asked.

“Yes.” You moved out of the way for him, still far too tired to think he might have had a reason for waking you up. 

“Prince Arthur,” you started, crossing your arms in front of your chest as you walked away from the open door. Without a word he strode back over and shut it. You scrunched your eyebrows in confusion at his behavior but didn’t say a word about it. “Did you see Viscount Cadby tonight after the feast?” 

“You noticed his absence?” He asked, seemingly relieved. 

“Yes. How could I not? you will not soon forget the man who told me your future love is to be doomed from the start.” You shrugged, sitting on the edge of your bed and motioning for him to take a seat across from you on a chair.

He sat, looking uncomfortable. “I came here to tell you…”

You cocked your head in anticipation, waiting to hear his reason for waking you up. 

“Viscount Cadby is dead.” 

The words hung in the air as you tried to process them. You had never known someone to die. All of your grandparents were dead before you was born, and you was protected from news of death on the streets. 

The prince could tell that you was struggling with the information and decided to elaborate, “He was executed before the feast tonight.”

“Before the feast? I spoke to him moments before the feast began. You were there!” You said, trying to understand the impossible. 

“I was.” He confirmed, “But both of us had walked to the gardens seconds after he spoke.” My silence prompted him to carry on. “My father had overheard his song to you and decided that it would not be tolerated. Guards seized him and brought him to the dungeons where my father oversaw the execution.” 

“Because of the song?” You asked, realizing that the man was dead because he had been in contact with you. 

“Because of his belief in magic.” 

Wetness began to accumulate on your eyelashes as the thoughts sunk in. A man was executed because of you. If you had not been there, he would never have sung that song.

“That man died because he sang a song to me?” You asked tightly. 

“No.” Arthur assured you, “He died because he sang of old magic. He broke the law by uttering such words.”

“Thank you for telling me,” you said, standing up. You walked numbly to the door, and began yanking it. When you turned back to him, he had not moved. You tucked your arms tightly around you before forcing a smile on your face. “I appreciate how patient you’ve been in telling me this. I do apologize, but I believe I must be getting to sleep.” Somehow you made your voice normal, airy even, as your arms held you together. 

Arthur passed you, saying goodnight before walking off. 

Once you’d secured the door you sunk down to the ground, your arms no longer enough to keep the pieces together. Sobs racked through your body as the voice in your mind repeated over and over: You’ve killed a man.

                                                           {-}

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Keep Reading: Part 6

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@hellboundblogger