#Chapter II: The Softest Echo

[demaparbat-hp]

For the Spirits—Chapter II: The Softest Echo

Either way it helps to hear these words bounce off of you

The softest echo could be enough for me to make it through

—Bandito by Twenty One Pilots

.

The Crew came to this tavern as regularly as one could when chained to the seas. It was a lovely little thing, full of dusty travelers and homely patrons who knew not to ask questions. A colony, so they had drinks imported all the way back from Home. At least they helped it feel like home and, when in exile, one learned to appreciate places like this.

Taku always did his best to stay at least relatively sober—that's why he had the best drunk stories to tell. With the way Jee was drowning his sorrows in beer and glaring at everyone around him, this one was bound to be quite the anecdote.

[weartirondad]

And You Would Smile (And That Would Be Enough) 5/6

5 times Tony helps pull Peter away from an anxiety built cliff and the 1 time Peter is on his own. (part i, part ii part iii, part iv, part vi)

FF.net I ao3

Peter’s vision was swimming.

He blinked once, twice, three times before the world shifted again and came back into focus.

The teenager was standing in a dark corridor with coppery walls. Or where was the taste in his mouth coming from? His left hand reached out to touch his mouth only to find his skin hitting the cool fabric of his Spider-Man suit. He must be wearing the mask, he realized, and let his hands drop to his side at his find.

If he was in the suit then he must be on a mission. There must be something more important going on than finding out where the coppery taste was coming from.

Peter narrowed his eyes, frantically beating heart settling when his suit complied with the movement. There was always a scarcely audible whirring to be heard when the suit’s eyes moved. It was familiar. Calming. His suit was working so he had to be relatively safe. He was Spider-Man after all and he had a suit with the latest Stark technology.

Some of the fear that had taken up residence in his stomach left his body with his next exhale.

“Hello?” he called out and flinched when his voice echoed through the empty hallway, bouncing off the walls until eventually fading into silence once more. “Someone home?”

His feet started moving, hesitantly at first and then more decisively when nothing bad seemed to happen. The sound of his footsteps lingered in the air, making a weirdly uncomfortable melody that trailed behind him and raced him to go faster, to reach the end of the hall.

Peter knew that he had to reach the end of the hall. There was a soft blue light coming from the door this corridor led to and that light felt important. It was his mission to reach the light that was pulsating at a steady frequency. Somehow, he felt that the light needed his protection.

He had almost reached the door with the light when his enhanced hearing picked up on a painful huff. With the scream the light pulses became more erratic, too, urging him on. The sound sent chills through his entire body and, when his brain registered just why the voice sounded so familiar, it ripped straight through his heart, leaving him feeling raw and helpless.

“Tony?” he called, his wobbly voice echoing from the walls, mocking him in tiny whispers from a million different directions. He strained his ears to pick up on a reply but there was nothing.

He had almost convinced himself that his senses were playing a trick on him when the sound came back, a lot closer and sounding a lot more in pain. The light stuttered slightly before returning to a steady but faster pace.

Without a second thought he ran the last distance until his hand was on the door knob, his last obstacle before reaching the blue light and his mentor. He thrusted the door open with all his might, not caring when the wood splintered and the force took it off its hinges.

There, separated from him through a glass pane, sat Tony. The light of the arc reactor in his chest filling the room with an absurd calm considering how weakly it fluttered just then.

For an unbearable second Peter was afraid it would fade completely.

But Tony was still breathing, although the rales that he picked up on through the pane didn’t sound very encouraging. He ran forward, willing the blue light to keep pulsating and his mentor to look up.

“Tony!” he screamed, fists hitting the glass pane over and over again, yet it wouldn’t budge. Not even a crack in the smooth surface. The refraction of light through the glass looked mockingly beautiful. As if it was any condolence for Peter as long as Tony was still barely breathing. As long as he still looked mostly dead.

“Please, Tony! Look at me,” he cried again, not caring about the tears that slipped out and ran down his cheeks. His hands were busy trying to make it through to his mentor.

Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. Please –

A shudder went through the billionaire’s entire body then and there was nothing he could do but pray for the light to keep glowing and – oh god, his limbs were flailing uncontrollably and his head kept hitting the hard cot until the spasm died done.

Peter screamed. Tony looked up. Their eyes met.

“Tony!” he tried again to get through to the pane, not knowing how much the older man could pick up. His eyes widened and at first Peter was so sure it was in recognition but then he tried to scramble away from him in fear, rattling at the metallic cuffs constraining him to the cot and Peter had to watch in horror when he struggled enough to turn the cot on its side. Tony fell but he didn’t seem to care, fearful eyes still looking up at Peter.

“No! I- It’s me, Tony!” he cried out, pulling off the mask in a swift motion but before his mentor could see his face, his attention was otherwise occupied

Captain America had entered the room, lips curling up in a humorless snarl that made a shiver run down Peter’s spine. He looked positively evil when he turned to look at Peter for the fraction of a second before squatting down next Tony to all but throw the cot back up again.

Tony’s fear was replaced by anger. His eyes were flashing with unadulterated rage in a way Peter had never ever seen and his fists were curling at his sides, struggling to fight free once more.

“I trusted you,” he spit out but Captain America only laughed when Tony coughed up blood and gunk.

Before Captain America could get a word out, Peter was yelling again, doubling the forces of his punches against the glass until – finally – a crack.

“Don’t hurt him,” he kept screaming, “Don’t you fucking touch him. Don’t- Tony!”

Without batting an eye Cap slammed down his shield onto the weakly fluttering light and Peter, still on the other side of the pane, could do nothing but watch and scream and riot when it flickered before going black.

The American superhero was towering over the lifeless form of the man that had become his family and, without so much as looking at Peter, he turned and left Tony behind.

Peter was frozen.

Then he crumbled.

“No!” He cried out over and over again, to no avail. “No, Tony! Tony! Don’t! Noo-“

Suddenly there was a strong grip on his shoulders but he was too far gone. He didn’t want anyone to comfort him. He wanted Tony to be alive. He wanted-

With all his might he struggled against the other person’s hands until he heard a curse.

“Dammit, kid.”

“Tony.”

“Right here, buddy. Go on, open your eyes. Admire the shiner you gave your old man.”

The teenager came back to himself slowly, blinking warily against the bright lights until he could get his eyes to focus on the person in front of him. The air left his lungs in a painful gasp. “Tony.” Before he could grab at the man, he was already sitting down beside him, inviting Peter to curl around his upper body. Which he did without hesitation.

He was still shaking and the image – it had seemed so real, so final.

Tony held him while he cried, his heartbeat steady and not connected to any sort of blueish light. It still had time. So much time.

Tony was really here. He could feel the calloused fingers against the soft skin of his neck and smell the motor oil and his cologne. He could hear his even breathing and the very real taste of his salty tears. And when he blinked, Tony was looking at him with the softest expression he had ever seen, only marred by the deep lines of worry on his face.

“Better?” he asked after a moment and Peter nodded but didn’t make a move to uncurl from the billionaire.

“You wanna talk about it?” The voice didn’t really leave room for him to actually deny. Postpone maybe but not completely deny.

He shrugged instead and settled his cheek more firmly against his mentor’s chest, letting his eyes drop close to the feeling of being secure and both of them being away from harm.

“Saw Cap hurt you,” he mumbled into the soft fabric of Tony’s t-shirt, half hoping the man hadn’t heard him, half hoping for reassurance that the guy clad in the American flag hadn’t really done any harm.

“Oh buddy, you’re having nightmares about that now?” Tony’s voice was soft but sad as his fingers skillfully rubbed the nape of his neck, “I told you it’s going to be fine. I thought me allowing you to tag along would help you relax a little. Maybe it was a bad ide-“

“No,” Peter interrupted him, arms coming up to hold onto his mentor back more tightly, “No, it’s not a bad idea, I promise.”

“Okay,” Tony said reluctantly but didn’t further comment on it, opting to distract him from the lingering horror of his nightmare instead. “You wanna go in there as New York’s favorite vigilante in spandex or like a normal human being?”

Despite himself Peter cracked a smile. It faded the second he remembered the fear in Tony’s eyes in his nightmare. He shuddered. “N-not in the suit,” he said quietly, “If that’s okay?”

The older man paused the massage on his scalp, clearly trying to figure out what was wrong with the suit, but eventually shrugged and resumed what he was doing. “Sure thing, kiddo. I’ll introduce you as my genius intern who’s freaking out about meeting the Avengers for the first time. We might be able to score you an autograph.”

“You suck.” Peter slapped Tony’s chest lightly, his words holding no force. “I’d like going in as Peter Parker,” he yawned, making himself more comfortable in Tony’s hold. He smiled when the other man adjusted his position, clearly not intending to leave Peter alone for now.

“Sleep, kid. Tomorrow’s gonna be a big day for both of us.”

---

I'm sorry! Peter was supposed to meet the rest of the Avengers in this chapter but I couldn't physically bring myself to write the words. I tried like three times but it just wouldn't work. I'm really sorry because I know people were looking forward to that but I would've messed it up and I kind of actually liked the dream sequence so I'm leaving you with this. x

[aelixandra]

Dreaming On Your Feet: Chapter 10

Read on Ao3!

Summary: Aelin Galathynius is one of the newest company members of the Rifthold Ballet Theatre, and she is eager to make all of her dreams a reality. She has the talent, the ambition, the walls no one can get past, and the thick skin that no one can get under. Except for new principal dancer Rowan Whitethorn. He’s arrogant, talented, and infuriating - and they just might have more in common than they think.

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Chapter 10: Dress Rehearsal

It was late morning, not too long after warm-up class. Aelin stood atop a carpeted block in the costume shop, patiently waiting as the seamstress, Elide, assessed the fit of this particular dress. Despite her slight limp, Elide was constantly in motion when she wasn’t seated at a sewing machine, her bright eyes catching every detail and noticing frayed edges or loose buttons – often before they became frayed or loose.

Elide walked around to stand in front of Aelin again. “Everything looks perfect to me,” she said, “but how does it feel? Any discomfort anywhere?”

Aelin smiled at her. “I think you’d have seen anything by now,” she replied, causing a faint blush of pride to rise in the seamstress’s cheeks. “But can I take it into the studio and try a couple of things with it on?”

“Of course! Do whatever you need to do.” Elide went over to the shop door and pushed it open for Aelin. “It’s not every day that a first-year corps member is about to become a star overnight!”

Aelin’s stomach churned at Elide’s words. The pressure she was feeling had only increased over the past few days, and tonight was dress rehearsal.

Her last chance to get everything right.

Before she had a thousand people watching her. . .

Aelin managed to give Elide a small, tight smile before she headed down the hall towards the main studio.

She heard music.

Act I of Giselle again.

She peered in the corner of the window and smiled when she saw the dancer inside.

Rowan was going through some of his choreography – and he, too, was in his costume, his tunic and tights.

The tunic was made of tan-brown fabric with accents looking like darker laces on the front. The long sleeves belled slightly on the shoulders but hugged the rest of the arms, cream-colored fabric in the folds of the bell. It was Albrecht’s peasant costume, made to look like the clothes of a simple, common man.

But as Aelin took a few moments to watch Rowan dance, she remembered that the man in the costume was anything but simple and common.

He was just going through the steps; not trying to act, just getting a feel for the costume.

A costume that, Aelin observed, fit him extremely well.

The lines of his legs, his broad shoulders, his elegant arms.

He was rehearsing one of the Act I pieces, and he was just about to the part where Giselle pulls him in to join the dance.

Fighting a smile, she silently entered the studio and ran over to him just as he turned around to see her.

Surprise flashed across his face before it settled into a quiet happiness – even playfulness.

An expression that loosened some of the tightness in her stomach.

And they danced.

----------

Beautiful.

That was the first word that flashed through his mind when he turned to see Aelin there, pulling him into the next section of choreography.

The deeper blue of the bodice brought out her eyes, and the soft white and pale-blue layers of the tutu skirt breezed around her legs like waves, rolling and swishing with her every movement.

It fit her perfectly.

And as they danced together, Rowan noticed that Aelin seemed calmer, freer in her dancing than he’d seen her for a while.

Well, there wasn’t a problem in the world that couldn’t be solved with the right outfit.

Neither of them said a word as they finished the piece, Rowan lifting Aelin onto his shoulder, Aelin looking down at him from above, her turquoise eyes unreadable.

He set her down again, gently, her pointe shoes not even making a whisper of sound.

Aelin turned to him. “I think the costumes look good,” she said finally, brushing a tendril of hair off of her face.

All Rowan could do was nod. “They feel good, too,” he replied. “Nothing loose, nothing from my tunic catching on you.”

“Elide does her job well.”

“She does.”

He hadn’t meant to say it so quickly. He hadn’t meant it like that.

But when the surprise in her eyes made them brighter, when the faintest blush stained her cheeks a lovely shade of pink as she hastily bid him I’ll see you later . . .

Maybe he had meant it like that after all.

----------

Enormous.

The Rifthold Opera House was enormous.

And maybe that still wasn’t even the right word.

Aelin had gotten to the theatre early before warm-up class, and now she stood alone on the stage, taking in the cavernous space that loomed before her.

Rows of plush, red velvet seats filled the space. There was the orchestra level of seats, plus an additional four balcony levels and side boxes. The ceiling was gilt with gold, casting a warm, luxurious feeling over the entire room.

And the chandeliers.

There were four, smaller chandeliers that framed the sides of the auditorium, miniature versions of the one that hung from the center of the ceiling.

It took Aelin’s breath away.

Curlicues of gold stemmed from the center, fanning out into multiple circles, in layers like a cake. Faceted crystals hung from each curl, catching the light from the soft yellow bulbs that grew from the chandelier like flower buds.

As Aelin studied that chandelier, she no longer felt small.

She felt the warmth of the light, felt it beckoning in welcome as if to say, I’ve been waiting for you.

She belonged here.

And for tonight, and the next three nights, this stage belonged to her.

“It’s incredible,” breathed a familiar voice from behind her.

She didn’t look as Rowan came to stand beside her, looking up at the magnificent chandelier.

They stood in silence for a long time, gazing at the chandelier until their breathing unconsciously fell into sync.

“I used to imagine what it would be like to stand on this stage,” Aelin said in a low, reverent voice, breaking the quiet. “To feel the heat of the lights on my face, the fabric of a gorgeous costume against my skin.” She swallowed. “To dance like I always dreamed of dancing.”

He was silent, letting her say whatever she needed to say.

“When . . . when Sam died, I didn’t know if that would ever happen,” she admitted. “But he taught me that whenever I was feeling nervous or anxious, I should say one thing over and over again.”

She felt his gaze shift down to her. “And what is that?”

She looked up into his pine-green eyes, the eyes that knew and saw every part of who she was. The eyes that had never once wavered.

She matched his gaze. “My name is Aelin Galathynius,” she said, “and I will not be afraid.”

Emotion simmered in Rowan’s eyes, something akin to pride. A warm smile spread across his face, uncoiling a tightness in Aelin’s chest. “I will not be afraid,” he echoed.

She couldn’t help from smiling in return as he added, “Fireheart.”

----------

This might have been the easiest dress rehearsal of Rowan’s life.

Everyone was prepared, patient, and even enjoying themselves.

It had certainly never been like this at Doranelle.

It had only been a couple of hours, and they were already moving on to Act II. The backdrop had been changed from the Rhineland village of Act I to the eerie, ethereal forest of Act II. The stage was mostly lit with deep blues, and a dry ice machine finished filling the stage floor with ghostly mist. And upstage right lay the most important set piece of all:

The cross bearing the name GISELLE.

Rowan stood in the wings on stage left, watching the orchestra conductor, Emrys, strike up the start of Act II. He watched as Myrtha, danced by a soloist named Kaltain, glided across the stage into her variation. Next were the Wilis, the corps de ballet of women, entering in a beautiful dance, no smiles on any of their faces.

As they danced, his eyes wandered to the wings on the other side of the stage.

The breath left his lungs when he saw the figure preparing for her entrance.

Aelin was in a calf-length white tutu, short butterfly sleeves capping her shoulders. The layers of her skirt looked as though they had been fashioned from layers of the softest clouds, as though the moment you touched them, they would evaporate. She had redone her hair after the Act I mad scene and finale, pulling it back into a low bun, sections of hair covering her ears. He could see the tips of the small, white flowers of her headpiece when she looked down, rolling through her feet before the music for her entrance began.

He watched as she crossed her wrists at the level of her waist, in the pose signifying the Wilis, and stepped out onto the stage.

He blew out a breath, even as his body went completely still in preparation for his entrance.

Three thoughts crossed his mind before he danced Act II, each one fading as his music neared.

First, Aelin truly was not afraid.

Second, she was beautiful. No – in this costume, the soft layers of white, she was breathtaking.

And third. . .

He was in trouble.