#I did at least see two random ducks outside of my window in the yard area for christmas. and havent seen them since. So it's like.. hrmm..

[icewindandboringhorror]

Some (late) holiday photos of the boye~!

[daringyounggrayson]

whumptober day 5: misunderstanding + broken nose (AO3)

Working as vigilantes, Dick and Bruce have made a lot of enemies. Most people they fight just want to get away, maybe get a few punches in just to be able to say they did, but some have a vendetta against them. For these people, it’s not that they want to carry out their plans without worrying about the Bat intervening, it’s that their plan has become causing him and anyone he works with to suffer.

And tonight, they’re dealing with those people.

They enter a warehouse, and drug-filled darts immediately rain down around them. Dick flings himself into a back handspring to dodge them, then shoots himself into the rafters, trying to get out of sight. Bruce stays on the ground and looks around for their attackers, but the darts are coming from all over—booby traps, possibly operated by remote. Luckily, Bruce’s thick armor means he can afford to be seen, can afford not to dodge every single dart.

Dick drops some smoke bombs to give them cover, then escapes through a window. He does a perimeter check around the budling and spots their attacker. He crouches down and taps through the settings on his mask, using the camera to zoom in. He sees a tiny controller in the man’s hand—Dick was right, then, the darts are being released by remote.

Ensuring that no one else is around, Dick leaps out and takes the man down by surprise. He quickly gags him and ties his hands together before attaching him to a telephone pole. He picks up the remote, looking it over quickly before powering it down and taking it apart.

Bruce still hasn’t met up with him, so Dick radios him. “Batman?” he calls into the comm. “I took down the dart commander. What’s your status?”

No answer.

“Batman, what’s your location?”

No answer.

Dick pulls up Bruce’s location from the tracker in his suit and finds that he’s still in the warehouse. He doubles back and takes a peek through his escape window. Four armed men are circled around Batman, and one of them is poking him with some kind of metal pole. Bruce isn’t reacting at all—some of the darts must have made it through his suit, or maybe he’s hurt. Possibly both.

Either way, this isn’t good.

Dick crouches beneath the window, trying to think of a plan. He’s taken down four men at once before, but not while trying to defend an unconscious Batman. Plus, he doesn’t know what to expect. These guys could be metas, or they could be on some kind of venom. There’s a rumor going around that Bane’s been getting into retail.

Dick takes another peek: still no movement, but he needs to make a plan, and fast.

His priority is getting Bruce out of there. He sends Alfred an update, and Alfred informs him that Bruce’s vitals are fine, as if he were asleep. Once that’s done, Dick slips back in through the window and ducks behind a crate a few yards away from Bruce. He’s restrained now, but his captors are silent, waiting.

Dick freezes when he hears a truck pull up outside. One of the men moves to open the doors, and it slowly but surely makes its way in.

Heart hammering, Dick forces himself to stay still. Running in and trying to take them done now would be stupid. At this range, he’d be shot for sure, and besides, they have access to an easy getaway. He’ll have to let them take Batman.

oOo

After placing one of the darts in an evidence bag and calling the police to pick up the guy Dick tied to the telephone pole, he follows the truck on his bike. The secondary location ends up being an abandoned apartment complex about twenty miles south.

Dick quickly surveys the area and enters through a basement window. He sticks to the shadows as he follows the disembodied voices. So far there are only two men, and he takes them down with a couple of nerve pinches. He restrains them with zip-ties and moves on.

He takes a lucky turn down a hallway and finds the two more men guarding a room—that must be where they’re keeping Bruce.

Dick tosses a few more smoke pellets and charges at them, disarming them and taking them down in a matter of minutes. Once they’re tied up, he kicks the door down and runs to Bruce’s side.

“Alright, big guy, let’s get out of here,” Dick says as he works on freeing Bruce. He doesn’t look too bad; aside from the drugs, they’re probably looking at some minor bruising.

Dick cuts the rope connecting Bruce’s hands, and the second his arm is free, Bruce swings at Dick.

“Aah!” Dick yelps as the fist makes contact with his nose, cracking it instantly. He quickly presses his hand against his nose, and blood runs over his glove.

Bruce moves to take another swing at Dick, but this time Dick is ready, and he dodges it like it’s nothing.

“Batman, stop, it’s me,” he says in a firm, even voice. “It’s me.”

Bruce looks at him, really looks at him, but he doesn’t seem to recognize him. Not entirely. “Robin?” he asks with an unsure voice and a confused expression.

Dick forces a grin. “Who else would it be?”

Bruce doesn’t answer, just slumps over, unconscious.

oOo

It’s a struggle, but Dick manages to get Bruce out of the basement and into the Batmobile Alfred had directed to their location. From there, he puts his bike in the trunk and drives Bruce back to the Cave, where Alfred is waiting for them.

An hour later, they confirm that Bruce will live. The drugs in the darts were fairly harmless and were probably selected for their sedative properties. Bruce will probably feel a little hungover come morning, but it won’t be anything he hasn’t dealt with before.

Alfred sets Dick’s nose and forces an icepack on him, and then the two of them work together to get Bruce up to his bed, where Dick insists on watching him until he wakes up.

Come afternoon, Dick finds himself lounging at the foot of Bruce’s bed, snacking on some grapes and reading a random Hardy Boys book he found on Bruce’s bookshelf. He used to read them to Dick all the time when he was younger, and he still enjoys the series.

Bruce groans, and Dick shoots up, relief flooding him.

“It’s about time,” Dick says, flopping sideways to land by Bruce’s head. “You were asleep forever.” He’d been worried—more worried than he should have been, honestly. But it’s easy to catastrophize when the last time Bruce had been conscious he’d barely recognized Dick. Plus, the man had been asleep for nearly fourteen hours. It was disturbing.

“Dick?” Bruce is frowning at him, eyebrows pinched in confusion and maybe a headache.

Dick grins. “Who else would it be?”

Bruce pushes himself into a sitting position. “You’re hurt.”

Dick raises his hand to cover his nose, then drops it. “I’m okay.” He sits up. “How are you feeling? Should I get Alfred?”

Bruce ignores him, cups Dick’s face. “I hurt you.”

Dick shrugs, pushes Bruce’s hand away. “You probably thought I was one of the kidnappers,” he explains. “And who can blame you? You were drugged. It’s not your fault.”

Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, rubs at his temples. Dick hops off the bed and grabs the Tylenol, passing it to Bruce along with a water bottle. Bruce accepts them with a grunt.

Dick sits down on the edge of the bed. “Do you want me to get Alfred?” Dick asks again.

Bruce grunts. No.

Dick bites his lip, trying to decide if he should listen to Bruce or not.

“Don’t do that,” Bruce says, tugging on Dick’s sleeve until he complies.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Dick asks.

“I’m fine, Dick.”

It’s stupid. Dick knows Bruce is fine; this is probably the best shape either of them have ever been in post-kidnapping. But Bruce had been taken, and it had been Dick’s fault. Dick had left his side, and in those minutes he’d been gone, Bruce could’ve been killed. It would’ve been his fault.

“Does it hurt?”

“Huh?” Dick snaps his head around to look at Bruce.

“Your nose.”

“Oh. Not too bad. Can’t breathe out of it though, so that’s kind of annoying.” Dick doesn’t understand why Bruce feels so guilty. At least he can blame it on the drugs. Dick has nothing—he’d just abandoned his partner and didn’t even try to stop the kidnappers as they loaded him into that truck. “But if you want to be sorry about something, you should apologize for making me lug your heavy ass up a whole flight of stairs. My arms still feel like jelly—I could barely hold up my book.”

Dick grins to show Bruce that he’s joking, merely exaggerating at Bruce’s expense.

“I’m sorry that you’re not stronger. I’ll adjust your training regimen accordingly.”

“Hey!” Dick throws a pillow at him, and Bruce chuckles when it hits him in the face. Dick lies back down with an exaggerated huff. Then, in a quiet voice, Dick says, “Sorry I let them take you.”

“You did everything right, chum. You should be proud of yourself for handling things as well as you did.”

“You don’t know what happened,” Dick says, a touch of anger in his voice. “You weren’t even conscious.”

“No, but you got us home safely. That’s all that matters.”

“Yeah, well. I guess so.”

He knows Bruce has a point, but he still feels like he could’ve done more. Bruce probably feels the same.

Dick decides to shelve the conversation, for both of their sakes. They can deal with their guilt complexes another day.

He reaches for his book, asks, “Do you remember when you used to read me the Hardy Boys?”

“Of course.”

“Good, because I don’t want to start over.” Dick clears his throat and starts reading.

[now-im-a-belieber]

dinner and diatribes

a/n: Hello! I put it off as long as I could but I just HAD to start writing. So, Here it is, my first BoB fic! Any and all feedback is appreciated.

══════════════════

After graduating and settling into the swing of the life you wanted to live, the universe seemed to actively work against you.

You did not get accepted into the college of your dreams. And the underfunded local university you wasted away at was the bane of your existence. You could barely land a job with all the hours you were required to stick to campus, and only made enough money walking dogs and watering plants to pay for tuition and the occasional new outfit. 

When you started to see the light at the end of the tunnel, with a few hundred saved away, and some time opening up to find career opportunities, the chatter about war turned from gossip to gospel. 

In fact, you'd made it all the way to the opposite side of a fine mahogany desk for your first full fledged interview when your dreams were promptly crushed. The man meant to interview you rushed in with flustered news he'd only just found out himself. He told you the company was shutting down. All the nation's money was being sorted to aid in the war. The president had called for rationing to start. 

The man was near tears when he asked you to leave, replacing a goodbye with a hopeful wish you might be able to come back again one day. 

You marched home at a loss. And the worst thing of all, was the fact that you didn't seem to have anyone to talk to about it all.

The best of your friends had moved away one by one, well meaning phone calls only coming from a couple now and again. Some weekends you managed a stroll through the park with Janice Dean. And you hadn't missed a single one of Rudy Delacroix's card parties. But the one friend you'd always been able to call upon seemed ever less interested in being a part of your life. 

Joe was busy as everyone else, you knew. But when he started canceling long standing plans, and forcing smiles when you skipped up to ask him on a last minute adventure, you realized something must have been very wrong. 

Over breakfast you'd prod him for answers. He'd joke about the state of the world and steal what was left on your plate. So, nothing could have been too wrong. Right?

Joe always entertained your random stops by, and offered you drinks and listened to you complain about uni. He’d curse the place and drag you to pubs and sneak you into films and waste hours by the waterfront laughing about nothing with you. He’d go great lengths to help you forget your dreary days, even if just for a moment. But lately you noticed Joe had stopped trading his own complaints- the kind he claimedvno one else would tolerate hearing besides you. 

And then… he stopped talking at all. Right when you figured it was time to ask what the hell the matter was. Joe wasn't at his place last you swung by, like you so often did. He didn't come around yours like he so often managed. He didn't answer his phone when you rang, and a real worry sprouted through you when the next time you tried, the line went dead.

And then you did see Joe. At the local grocer. You spotted his profile across the aisle and moved to meet him. And he clearly saw you too. When he did, he moved the other way, and disappeared from the stall all together, leaving you to panic over what you might've said or done to upset him so.

You went about your mundane week with a heavy heart. While you seemed to lose hope in the very near future, the world spiralled out of control outside of your windows. And you had no one to talk to about it. Until Joe's mother called. 

"Come round for dinner, won't you love?"

"Of course, ma." You'd been calling the woman by her motherly title since you and Joe first fused at the hip some odd years back. Since then his family had included you in most every occasion they could manage. Until a certain someone up and broke tradition a week or so ago...

"Great! Joe didn't want a big send off but we all know he'll want you to join in the last big family meal before he goes.”

His mother chirped through a sigh that crackled from the other line. And in her all too casual remark lied a clear answer to the impasse you'd been facing. 

"He what?" You asked low, through your teeth, with a sense of urgency you'd never felt in life, till now. 

"He didn't tell you did he?" Joe's mother seemed to ask less more than she seemed to realize; and before you could think up the right thing to say, you slammed the phone down, grabbed your purse, and flew out the door. 

Of course this was happening. How had you failed to realize? You shouldn't have had to realize. Joe should have told you he was shipping out. Everyone seemed to be. But he should have said so. He'd always told you everything. From the embarrassing to the inconsequential, Joe hadn't held back from droning deadly details to you since he'd started. The fact that something this detrimental had been hidden away sent smoke from your ears as you marched toward his family's home. 

The windows across the little brick cottage were all opened, the late day breeze blowing you up the porch steps. You traded knocking for bursting in the door. There wasn't time left to waste. And the realization hit you all at once… but you had a mission to complete before becoming all too overwhelmed. 

Joe's mother ducked out of way, a tray of warm food in hand. She did not try and stop your storm through the kitchen. The only one you’d taken by surprise was Joe, who turned from the sink with eyes as wide as empty dinner plates. 

"You didn't tell me?" You seethed, heading straight for him. Joe started to back away, moving toward the patio doors with his hands held in a pitiful defense. 

"I'm sorry-"

"Sorry?!"

He kept moving. So you marched after him, out into the yard; shouting all the way asking how the hell he could've kept this from you. How you were supposed to cope with all the worry you’d feel the longer he spent storming the front lines. Asking, flippantly, if he’d tell you what it was all like, or if you’d have to find out from a soldier who'd come knocking to tell the last of Joe’s news.

"I said I'm fuckin' sorry." Joe boomed, stopping near the trees that lined his family's property. You didn’t regret your frantic interrogation but you wished voicing your worst fears of losing him for good hadn’t been what finally got Joe to say something like he meant it.

You halted when he did, stunned to silence. But only for a beat. You watched Joe sigh and bring his hands to his face. 

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?" You pressed, much quieter but with disappointment ever present in your tone. You stepped a little closer, willing your friend to speak up. At least now you could see he was trying too. Joe tossed his head back, and shifted his weight to lean against a dying tree. 

"I don't know." He shrugged finally. It wasn't what you wanted to hear, but it was more than you had in awhile.

"I-I guess I didn't know how to." Joe spoke in a tone you'd never quite heard him use before. A terribly hopeless croak. 

"Didn't know how to tell me?" You had to laugh a little. All you ever did was tell each other things. 

"Didn't know how to leave you." Joe pointed, like it was obvious. You watched his jaw clench as you were baffled into silence once more. But only for a second.

"Well it seems like you've only got one night left to figure out how." You wanted to cry. "Thanks for wasting all the time we could've spent figuring it out together." 

You started to turn, only to hide the tears stinging your eyes. But as you stepped aside, Joe wrapped his hand around your wrist and yanked you to face him again.

"I'm an idiot but I am not stupid enough to let you go." He said, still keeping his hold on you. 

"I panicked." Joe admitted, speaking softly all of sudden. "And I’m sorry. And I don't ever want anything like that to ever happen again. I won't let it." 

You studied Joe and the look on his face and the way his eyes searched yours so easily, so acutely. Part of you wanted to keep shouting, to really drive home how abandoned you’d felt. But you could see how he'd withered under the weight of knowing so. But you couldn't even begin talking about what was meant to happen next... it was all too overwhelming. For as long as you could remember, you'd never not been near one another. 

"I wished I never had to find out how shitty a day without you felt. I'll always regret bringing it on.

As your mind raced and your heart ached, your brow furrowed when Joe started to move away from you. His spare hand latched onto your other wrist. And he knelt.

"I didn't mean to leave you out. I never want to again." Joe emphasized each word as he strung them together. And after a long pause he spoke again. "So...marry me?"

You wanted to laugh. A good hearty nausea inducing laugh. You could admit to yourself that over the years, in the very depths of solitude, you'd secretly wished for a moment like this, with Joe. But never in a zillion years, least of all now, had you seen it coming. 

You felt Joe's grip tighten as you blinked, bending ever so slightly closer to meet his eye.

"You're fucking crazy." You said, a montage of this week playing through your head. 

"Please." Joe desperately whispered. He wasn't begging you to be with him. He was only hoping that the two of you might make your always being together official. How could you say no?

"Yeah. Yes, of course, Joe-" You finally let a small chuckle escape as your tears started to bubble over. And before you'd finished stammering acceptance, Joe sprung to his feet and lifted yours off the ground in a long overdue embrace. 

He set you down and caught his breath and you started to lean in with a new, unabashed desire to press yours lips to his. But the guy spoke up with a gasped realization.

"Oh, I have got some good news." He grinned, mischievously. You only rose a brow and waited for the penny to drop. 

"I don't leave for a week." 

You understood every possibility that came from his news, and found despite every grim reality closing in around the two of you that the future was full of blindingly bright silver linings. 

Joe lifted you off the ground again, this time as he moved to start back inside. You bargained for him to put you back down, as he carried you toward the kitchen.

"We're getting married!" Joe called to whoever might've been around to listen. 

"That was quick. And just in time for dinner." His mother chirped, as you were returned to solid ground.

"Quick? I've been tryin' to do that since sometime after highschool." Joe pointed, following as you sauntered further in the room, smoothing your clothes and hiding a blush. 

"I meant the two of you have spatted longer over the color of the sky." His mother held a whisk your way, while fixing her eyes on her son. "I'm glad you worked this one out in record time." 

Joe reached for your hand as you stood, listening best you could, all of your senses entirely preoccupied by the man at your side. 

"And have you finally come to this joyous conclusion?" His mother softened, abandoning her dishes to shuffle toward the two of you. She gave out hugs and squeaks of excitement and gasped before taking off around the corner. She beckoned the two of you to follow her, and after a shared chuckle you did. 

His mother was stood at the vanity in her room, waving the pair of you in. And after only a second of pilfering through draws, did she pull out a ring. She gave it to Joe and said it was his grandmothers. The spritely woman shot you a beaming wink before creeping out of the door she'd only just invited you into. 

Then it was just you and Joe. Like usual. At fucking last.

He said nothing as he reached out to pull you nearer. He bit back a smile as he slid the diamond on your finger. Joe broke your admiration of the thing by placing both his hands on either side of your face. And he kissed you like you always dreamed of being kissed. You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him back like you always secretly longed to do. 

You spent the rest of that night squished between him and his family at the dinner table, like usual. They celebrated your news. And there was very little talk of where Joe was headed. But when he brought up the war and his leaving, he held your hand under the table and you felt the hug of the gold band around your finger and couldn't find reason to worry too much. You’d have time enough for that later. You'd miss him. You already did, a little. 

But you'd gotten through the worst yet, and come out of it hand in hand. But before he left, till heaven only knew when, you’d officially and always be together.

[amethystpath-writes]

There is a legend of an enchanting princess who lives inside a giant tower, far away from civilization and deep in the forested mountains. They say that the birds bring her food and water, and every dawn and dusk she looks out her window for any wandering travelers. Every knight that has gone in search of her never returned.

But she is not a damsel trapped inside her prison. She is the guardian of its treasure, and will show no mercy to whoever dares attempt to take it.

(This is very random lol. Have fun!)

“It’s said the princess has hair of gold. Weighs like a normal head of hair, but anything but. And she’s alone- in the forest, surrounded by mountains. Do you know how many carriages have wrecked in the mountains? How many of them have fallen off into the seas?”

Gargon shook his head and tipped it back with a tankard held against his lips. Just a drop of ale left. With a sigh, he smacked it back down on the table and waved at the barkeep. He said to his friend while he waited, “Just myths. What princess gets left alone in a tower for years? Before you answer, I’ll tell you myself; none.”

The barkeep returned with a pitcher of ale and poured it into Gargon’s tankard.

Jemis, Gargon’s buddy, shrugged. “You might not think so, but I fancy the idea. And anyway, I misspoke a bit. The girl isn’t entirely alone. The birds- sparrows, robins, and hawks alike- bring her food. Either way, she stays on the lookout for travellers to find her.”

“Yeah?” Gargon took a swig of his drink. “What about dairy? Do the birds give her milk, too?”

“I don’t know, Gargon, but don’t you find it all even the slightest bit intriguing? Don’t you want to know for yourself?”

Laughing heartily, Gargon knocked his friend’s shoulder with his own. “You have a crush on the legend lady, don’t you?”

Jemis flustered, shoulders bouncing with uncertainty of what to say. His ears were becoming red; he could feel them heating up. “Of course not. I don’t know her, but I’d at least like to know she exists.” He smiled a bit. “And there’s treasure. Did I mention that part?”

“I’ll tell you what. You buy me half of the drinks I had tonight, and we’ll go out to find this forest-mountain princess with gold hair and bird friends. Maybe I can ask her where her dairy comes from.”

“Maybe use a different wording for that question when we get there.”

“Assuming she’s real. Are you paying?”

Jemis dug a pouch out from his belt, peeked inside, shrugged, and tossed it on the counter. “Paid. All of it. Can we go?”

Gargon held a finger up before closing his eyes and sludged his tankard back again, chugging the contents. Jemis shook his head; he was never one for drinking like his best friend was.

Slamming the tankard on the bar, Gargon stood, reaching behind himself and clapping Jemis on the back. “You ready, Sir Lancelot?”

You’d have thought the non-drinking friend was drunk by the way he practically fell from his stool. He followed after Gargon: one, because that was his adventure buddy, and two, because he was afraid Gargon would fall without assistance.

**

It wasn’t a long journey, but it was a dangerous one. Gargon nearly got swept away in a strong stream because his drunk brain stole his balance and common sense.

Jemis near regretted even mentioning the legend princess. But as the trip continued, he began thinking of the little joys; one such being that his friend was thankfully wearing his armour. Otherwise, Jemis listened to the birds chirping, and he imagined they were gathering berries for the rumoured girl in a tower. Why he was so fascinated, he had no idea. Fantasies were fun, and wouldn’t it be amazing to find that one of them was real? And if it was so nearby, why not chase it? What was the harm?

“You see that?”

“Hm?” Jemis stopped in his tracks and turned to look at his friend. Gargon was pointing, and though looking at a finger didn’t tell him where exactly to look, as Jemis looked in the general direction, he saw it. Stone. In just the near distance, maybe a hundred yards away.

“Probably some ruin.”

“I’ll tell you what ruin is, and it’s you ruining the moment, you arse. It’s the princess’ tower. The legend is true.”

Gargon grumbled something along the lines of, “You mad, scrawny lad.” He acted like a fifty-year-old man, but in all reality, both men were barely above the age of twenty.

“Come on, we should keep going.”

“Or we could make a shelter. It’s getting dark, Jemis.”

Looking up at the darkening sky, Jemis almost agreed. But they were so close, so close to that stone tower, so close to meeting the princess with gold hair. “We’re almost there. Surely, she will let us stay in the tower. You know there are wolves and the like out at night. It’s better to be in an already occupied tower than to lay in a tiny shelter made of twigs and leaves.”

Even drunken, Gargon shook his head with a huff. “I’m starting to regret making a deal with you.”

“Oh, come on,” Jemis began walking again, watching the ground, and stepping over rocks and twigs, and all else that the forest floor liked to use to trip people. “It isn’t a far walk. We’ll be there before the moon is up.”

“I can see the moon, it’s behind our heads.”

Jemis looked back and bit his lip. “Torches, from the- from the tavern we just left.”

“Right. Well, we are losing your so-called ‘daylight’ and gaining more ‘torchlight’ so keep walking before it’s gone altogether.”

And so, they walked.

**

The tower was…not very impressive, believe it or not. It was a sad, short thing in comparison to the stories- though still tall enough to see over the tress- with moss growing over it and with holes here and there. Still, Jemis fully believed a princess was hidden away inside.

“Well?” Gargon prompted as his friend just stood there in front of him, staring up at an empty window. “Are we going in or standing out as wolf bait?”

“We go in, of course.”

“Right. Sorry I had to ask. It wasn’t as if we were just standing and gazing at it. What was I thinking?” He huffed. “You know, this whole adventure has managed to make me sober and I’m not happy about it.”

Jemis shushed his friend as he walked towards an old and rotting wooden door. It heaved open and Jemis- in all his glorious skin and bone, fell to the ground, earning a bumble of laughter from Gargon. “Shut up,” he muttered, standing, and dusting himself off.

They took a look at the square room they were in. It was nicer than the outside, more cleaned up, even if there were… bundles of straw? Why was there straw? Jemis dismissed it shortly, figuring maybe it was just the birds. In any case, it was all only pressed up against one wall and it was hardly noticeable if you weren’t deliberately looking for interesting finds.

It was dark, the only light coming from the various holes of the building and slits between stones, which both Jemis and Gargon supposed were meant to be windows.

There were stairs in the back left corner. Jemis took the first step.

“I don’t know about this,” Gargon said with a hand clenched around his buddy’s arm. “We can’t see up there. Whoever- if there is someone- they have the advantage against us.”

Jemis scoffed, pulling his arm away. “It’s fine. I told you the myths. The only thing that is up these stairs is-”

“Hello?”

The men went still as their gaze shifted up the stairwell.

“Is there someone down there?”

Smiling, Jemis looked at Gargon, mouthing, ‘What’d I tell you?’

“Princess? I am Sir Jemis, and my friend behind me-”

“Sir Gargon.” Oh, now he wanted to speak up.

A chirp sounded above the men and a bird came flying down, swooshing above their heads and making them both duck before it retreated upstairs again. Jemis couldn’t help the smile taking over his lips. The legend was real. It was proving itself further, and further, and further.

“May we enter what room you are in, Princess?”

Silence followed for a moment, but then there was another chirp and the princess answered. “The man at the bottom of the stairwell, leave your sword.”

Gargon looked to his hip and squinted before glancing up at the staircase again. He placed a hand on his weapon but didn’t remove it from its scabbard. “It stays with me at all times.” Gargon slept with his sword. He wouldn’t give it to a dirty floor of an old tower when, especially when demand by some random girl who shouldn’t have even known he had a sword.

“Then leave my home.”

Jemis pressed Gargon with a glare. “Just put it down. It’ll be there when we return.”

He shook his head. Absolutely not.

The feminine voice said, “If you do not lay it down- or otherwise leave- I will assume you are just another one of them.”

“One of who, Your Highness?”

The bird came flapping down again, this time flying to the wall where Jemis and Gargon noticed the various piles of clumped straw. It took a bundle in its beak and began slamming it rather viciously against the stone floor. The bundle wasn’t soft as it hit the ground. No. It made a hollow- but also solid- sound.

Gargon’s eyes widened. “Are those…”

“Bones,” the girl upstairs finished. “I am no damsel in distress, but I do like company. Some men took that to their advantage when they saw me- with me being what I am and all.”

“Jemis, we’re leaving. Come on, I feel better about wolves than I do about being here.” He casted a nervous glance at the bird, still beating a bone against the ground. Gargon grabbed his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s g-”

“Hold on,” Jemis whispered, and he stepped forward, head tilting like he saw something he fancied or was curious about.

As Gargon looked up, he saw it, too. Gold. The most glorious gold he’d ever seen. He was never one for the precious metals; he liked jewels, mostly, but this…he didn’t even know his mouth was open until he caught a cool breeze with it and snapped his lips shut.

“Drop. Your. Weapon.” The princess stepped fully into view, right at the top of the stairwell. Her skin was golden, and her hair, as well. Not only this, but her eyes were golden, too. She was…she was beautiful. She was magnificent. She was unimaginable.

Gargon nodded, wrapping his fingers around the grip of his sword, and pulling it away before dropping it on the ground. “Yes, Your Highness. I apologize if I made you feel threatened.” He bowed, and Jemis followed suit in a rather dazed way.

“You are forgiven. Now, come upstairs and tell me some stories. I do not have the pleasure of hearing them often.”

Jemis nodded, but all he could think about was how true and yet how wrong the rumours were. The princess was real, and she did live in this tower, and she did have some odd relationship with birds, but the treasure…The stories were told as if there were piles of gold. No one said the princess was the treasure herself.

Gods, her eyes were so enchanting as she watched the two men climb the stairs. They were golden, yes, but not in a solid metal kind of way. They swirled as if the stars also pooled in her eyes and were being stirred in with the gleaming yellow and orange. The men were entranced.

The room they walked into wasn’t special. It was just like the downstairs minus the….the human bones…and there was furniture in here, which was nice. They all sat in individual chairs made of creaking wood.

“It isn’t often I have two knights come to save the day.”

“Oh, I- I wasn’t- I didn’t think-”

“He was unsure if you were real or not,” Gargon filled in. “No saving intended.”

Jemis nodded rapidly. “I mean, if you needed help then we could- but you are handling yourself, so I- so we don’t…um…I apologize.”

The princess hummed sweetly. “What about you, swordsman? Did you believe in my existence?”

“N-no. I did not.”

“You have a scar on your eye,” Jemis muttered, and he hadn’t meant to be heard, but he was.

Touching her brow, where the scar was most noticeable, she sighed, looking to Gargon. “You understand why I demanded you put your sword down, yes?”

“Of course.” Gargon looked away from the princess’ beautiful eyes, looking instead at his lap, then his buddy, and his lap again when he noticed Jemis simply ogling the girl. “I am sincerely sorry. I had no idea that you…I am sorry.”

She laughed, and both men felt themselves smiling at the sound. Like caramel or something sweet, Jemis thought.

“You two are the most apologetic I have ever met. Tell me, do either of you have precious loves at home?”

“We don��t! Do not. Uh. We do not, Princess.”

Her smile fell into something mischievous. She stood from her seat, walking over to Jemis, then walking behind him, allowing her fingers to trail around his neck as she stepped. “Do you desire a strong love in your life?”

“Do I? I-I think every-everyone does.” He couldn’t think with her golden skin touching his own rather bland skin. “Gargon! You- aha- you talked about settling down when we were in the tavern, didn’t you?”

No. He didn’t. He and Jemis never even came close to discussing relationships because neither of them wanted it. They were knights- soldiers. Love had no place for them even if they wanted it. Sure, romance was glorified in the stories, but it wasn’t real, not when you could be sent off to war at any moment. Love was a fairytale, and even with the stunning princess in the room, he still didn’t believe love was one of them. Jemis suddenly did, though. And it wasn’t right because this was the first time he ever fancied it.

The princess made her way to Gargon, doing to him what she did to Jemis, dragging her beautiful skin against his. “Your colour contrasts greatly against mine,” she whispered, her hand stopping at the base of his neck as she bent down to his ear. “I dare say you are as beautiful as I am.”

“Flattering, Your Highness, but unlike my friend, I have duties to fulfil.”

“Am I not allowed to flirt with a knight?” Her lips turned against his ear and he took a shaky breath. “And anyways, who said I had deeper intentions? At least with you.” The princess pulled away from Gargon and began a leisurely stroll towards the open-mouthed Jemis once again.

Gargon stood with a dry mouth. “Jemis, we need to return home. Thank you for allowing us to stay, Your Highness, but I-”

She brought a finger to her lips. “He cannot hear you now.” The princess giggled, and this time it sounded closer to poison than sugared treats. “Your mind is very strong, Sir Gargon. I might like to keep you for a little while longer. Sir Jemis, however…”

Her Highness sighed and did the same finger-around-the-neck that she did before. Gargon watched as his friend’s eyes snapped shut. His own eyes widened and without another thought, he ran down the stairs in search of his sword, but it wasn’t there where he dropped it before.

He turned, watching the top of the staircase, and wondering what the hell he should do. Gargon wouldn’t leave his friend- he could never, but without his sword…He turned back to the floor as he thought. Gargon could hit the princess, knock her out, but that…that wasn’t right. Why was the idea of shoving her through with a sword easier than manhandling her? It didn’t matter. Where was his damn sword?

“You have been the most fun knight, Sir Gargon. You came here for treasure, did you not? I could see it in your head, that little conversation you had at the tavern with your friend upstairs. You only agreed to come when you knew you would gain something. That changed, didn’t it?”

Gargon spun on his heel, backed up step by step until his back hit the wall. It was too dark to see the bones anymore, or even the bloody door. He was trapped.

Except, the princess glowed. Bright and beautiful, her golden skin shone like an ingot in the sunlight, only her glow was confined to her skin, it didn’t stretch- didn’t light the room. It was through the glow, however, that he saw the red covering her mouth.

Tears pricked his eyes. “Please- please tell me he- tell me he is alive.”

“Would it give you hope?” Gargon didn’t answer. “I think it would, so I will say it. Your friend is alive, but I am not quite sure for how long.” She tapped her chin as she stalked towards the terrified knight. “Humans bleed out very fast.”

“What…are you?” His voice was breathy, almost unwilling to come out at all.

“Treasure.”

His mind wasn’t so hard to break this time. She broke him down with the blood on her face from her meal upstairs- which she very much enjoyed. But, the treasure-seekers were always so much more delicious, and Gargon certainly was.

( @whatwhumpcomments )

[eddsworldshippinghell]

Forgive and Forget Ch8 - END

[Ch1][Ch2][Ch3][Ch4][Ch5][Ch6][Ch7] [Peru Fic] [AO3]

Here we finally are! Thank you so much to everyone that stuck with me through this whole process! I hope this ending is satisfying! 

~~~

Fingers in his hair rouse Tord from sleep. He isn’t quite ready to wake up and instead burrows deeper into the welcoming warmth at his side, unsure which of his boyfriends it is. He hears a soft giggle, and a kiss is pressed to the top of his head. 

Ah. Matt. 

“Good morning.” Matt murmurs, and despite his best efforts to pretend he’s asleep, a smile tugs at Tord’s lips. 

“Good morning beautiful.” 

He doesn’t need to look to know Matt’s cheeks are pink. 

“Edd is making breakfast.” Matt tells him, fingers never stilling their soft combing through his messy hair. “Tom is fetching coffee and donuts from that place you like downtown.”

“Mmm.” He hums, wiggling closer still. He finally peeks an eye open, heart thumping erratically at Matt’s soft smile. 

“Shall we?”

He answers by leaning up and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. When their lips part he flips onto his back to stretch before he wiggles out of the bed. Matt’s fingers brush his cheek before the redhead leaves their room, heading for the bathroom. 

Tord fumbles on the ground and winds up with one of Tom’s sweaters, and as he yanks it on steps into two random slippers - winding up with one purple and one cola print. 

As he nears the kitchen the now familiar flare of anxiety makes his heart rate stutter, but now that he’s used to it he pushes through and steps into the kitchen. The smell of bacon fills his head and helps ease the anxiety- the sight of Edd humming at the stove finishes the process. 

Content, he crosses the kitchen and slides his arms around Edd’s middle, pushing his face into the back of his shoulder and humming happily. 

“Good morning.”

“Good morning baby.” Edd beams, leaning back ever so slightly into Tord’s embrace. 

The Norwegian inhales deeply, the warm and familiar scent of Edd doing much to soothe the anxiety that forever lives in the back of his mind. Life is fragile -he’s always known that, he’s taken hundreds- and after what Stephan had done he isn’t sure that anxiety will ever leave him. 

Anxiety that something will happen to one of his boyfriends. Anxiety that this is all a dream, that he’s still screaming until his throat is raw in their bed and his mind is playing cruel tricks on him.

He inhales again and it helps him push that little voice to the back of his mind. 

“Well good morning gorgeous.” Tom’s voice pulls him the rest of the way out of his potential spiral and Tord giggles as arms wind around his back. 

The noise turns into a half shriek as Tom shoves his cold hands up the front of Tord’s sweater. 

“Tom!” 

Tom laughs delightedly, pulling him closer. 

“Ah, sweet payback.” He chuckles, tilting his head so he can press soft kisses across Tord’s cheek. 

He doesn’t know how, but Tom always seems to know when his mind is taking things in an unsavoury direction. Since he’d started seeing Veronica twice a week it was gradually becoming easier to halt those trains of thought himself- but his boyfriends helped tons as well. 

He probably would’ve had to have himself committed if it wasn’t for them. 

“What time is your appointment today?” Edd asks softly, stepping away from the stove to wind his arms around Tord, leaving the Norwegian sandwiched between him and Tom. 

Tord relaxes happily into it, heart warming. 

“One.”

“Perfect, I’ll drop you off after breakfast.” Edd offers. Before Tord can reply, Matt enters the room. 

“What time is your appointment?” He asks, and Tord blinks. 

“One.” He says again. 

“I’ll drive you, Susan just called me and had to move mine to today, it’s at one thirty.”

“Okay.” Tord agrees. 

Matt joins the hug eagerly, squeezing them all and pressing quick kisses to each of their cheeks before releasing them. Once he does, Edd scurries back to the stove so the eggs don’t burn. 

~~~~~~~~

“Good morning!” Veronica greets as Tord steps in, a warm smile on her face. He smiles back as he takes a seat on her couch. “How are we feeling today?”

“Good.” He replies honestly. “We had breakfast this morning.”

“That sounds wonderful. Any anxiety?” She asks softly, knowing very well about his kitchen door issues. 

“Yeah.” He admits. “It was easier to push through today, though.”

He thinks he sees something akin to pride in her eyes and the upward twitch of her lips.

~~~~~~~

“How did your visit with Alicia go?” Tord asks as he hears the front door open, head turning toward the noise despite the fact that he has no hope of seeing the door from his position sprawled upside down on the sofa. 

“Great.” Edd responds blandly, and silence swallows them until his head peeks down from between Tord’s legs where they’re hanging over the back of the couch. He beams down at his boyfriend. “I missed you.”

Tord grins, hands reaching up to cup Edd’s cheeks.

“I missed you too.” 

Edd leans down, fully intending to kiss Tord silly, only to withdraw with a shriek when cold hands are shoved up the back of his sweater. Tord howls with laughter as Edd writhes away from Matt, sputtering protests as Tom cackles by the door.

“Did you just have your hands in a bloody snowbank?!” Edd squawks, stumbling and falling into the armchair. Matt laughs delightedly.

“Yes.” He grins. “Eduardo and Mark are building a snowman outside.”

“Eduardo wants to talk to Tord.” Tom says after a moment, and the colour leaves Tord’s face.

It’s been nearly six months since he’d found himself on Eduardo’s doorstep. Eduardo had been genuine in his forgiveness- he hadn’t made a single negative remark toward Tord since. Not even a dirty look. On the flip side, he didn’t do anything positive either, aside from the occasional wave. 

“Did he say why?” Tord asks weakly.

Veronica was helping a lot -especially in terms of the Jon guilt, despite the fact that he couldn’t fully explain that situation- but he knows it’ll take longer than six months to stop feeling that familiar burning flare of anxiety when Eduardo is mentioned. Edd’s expression is guarded as he watches Tom for an answer. Tom shakes his head.

“No, but he promised it was civil.”

“You don’t have to go talk to him.” Matt says immediately, and Tord sighs heavily.

Deep down, he knows he doesn’t have to. He could refuse and Tom would go tell Eduardo that he wasn’t coming, and they’d move on. But he feels like he owes him this; Eduardo had listened when Tord turned up on his doorstep, the least he could do is return the favour and hear whatever he has to say- even if it’s to take back his forgiveness. 

“I know. But I think I should.”

“Okay.” Edd agrees, holding out a hand to help him up.

Once he’s on his feet Tom shucks his jacket and holds it out in offering. Tord grins, accepting the warm jacket and burrowing into it. He steps into his sneakers and steals Matt’s gloves and Edd’s hat from the bench seat by the door before stepping out into the cold. Tom murmurs a soft assurance before he closes the door. 

Eduardo is waiting by the fence, and surprise flits across his face when he spots Tord. Anxiety leaving a nasty taste in the back of his throat, he swiftly crosses the yard, shoving his hands in his pockets in an extra attempt at warmth. Snow is falling quickly, no doubt due to the storm they’d been warned of on the news this morning. As if sharing the thought, Eduardo’s gaze flicks upwards.

“Hey.” Tord says awkwardly, and Eduardo nods once.

“Hey. I wasn’t sure if you’d come.” 

“I figure I owe you that much. You heard me out when I said my piece, the least I can do is return the favour.” He explains. Eduardo nods again.

Silence swallows them for a moment as the snow falls and Eduardo studies his face, dark green thoroughly studying the lines in the Norwegian’s face. Tord’s gaze flicks to the side and his lips twitch upward ever so slightly when he catches sight of Mark in the window, determinedly pretending he isn’t watching. A full smile breaks out when Mark realizes he’s been caught and ducks behind the curtains.

“He’s watching?” Eduardo guesses, and Tord nods. “So are yours.”

Tord isn’t sure how to respond to that. He isn’t sure if it would be appropriate to look away and break whatever atmosphere has surrounded the two of them, so he doesn’t move. His hands shake slightly in his pockets, and he determinedly tells himself that it’s because of the cold and not because he’s scared of Eduardo.

“I…” Tord starts, but he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know where to begin. After a moment of hesitation his mouth shuts and he sighs softly. That seems to be enough to prompt Eduardo into speaking.

“I meant it when I said I forgive you.” He says slowly, and Tord awkwardly nods once. “At least… I thought I did. I do.” He pauses, huffing an aggravated sigh, and Tord shifts uncomfortably.

“Is everything okay?” He asks, and Eduardo nods once.

“I’ve been seeing someone. A therapist. He’s helped me work through… everything.” Eduardo admits, shoving his hands roughly into his pockets. “I meant what I said when I told you I forgave you, but he also helped me understand that I wasn’t in the right state of mind to mean that as much as I wanted to.

I forgave you because it was the right thing to do. I forgave you because I could see the guilt plain on your face like it was written in black marker. I forgave you because I didn’t want you to die guilty. I meant it.”

Understanding flashes across Tord’s face, and his posture instantly relaxes. Now that he knows why Eduardo had asked to speak to him his anxiety eases away, hands stilling in his pockets.

“I understand.”

“I’m in a better place now. I’m a lot better. There’s still a long way to go.” Eduardo’s gaze turns skyward once more, and Tord finds himself following the motion so they’re both gazing up into the dark clouds, snowflakes falling quickly across their faces.

“I know what you mean.” Tord says after a moment, and the first smile Tord has ever seen on Eduardo’s face tugs at his lips. It’s small, but it’s definitely there. It feels like a load off of Tord’s shoulders. 

“I know.” Eduardo’s gaze returns to Tord’s face, and Tord follows the movement once more. “I’ve heard you guys talking about therapy.”

“It helps.” He says lamely, and Eduardo snorts softly. Tord knows he’d understood what he meant.

“It does.” He agrees. “Look, Tord, I just wanted to tell you I forgive you. Sincerely. I forgive you. Edd was right when we fought, I didn’t know anything about you- and I still don’t. You’ve been through some fucked up shit, that ordeal with that Stephan guy painted a clear enough picture.”

At the mention of Stephan Tord’s stomach lurches unpleasantly, but he bites on his tongue to keep from speaking. 

“I understand that it was an accident. We both forgive you.”

Tord takes a deep, steadying breath. Unintended, a smile pulls at his lips.

“Thank you.” His voice is barely a whisper, and Eduardo nods slightly. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness-” Eduardo interrupts, voice firm, before he can continue that train of thought.

“Yes you do.” 

And Tord stops. Unbidden, Veronica’s voice passes through his mind. 

You have to let yourself be forgiven. You have to believe you deserve to be forgiven.

Taking another deep breath he nods once.

“Okay. Okay, you’re right. Thank you for forgiving me.”

The smile returns to Eduardo’s face, this time a little bigger.

“You’re welcome.” 

“Don’t forget the cookies!” Mark’s voice hollers from the doorway, and both turn just in time for the door to slam shut. Huffing a soft laugh, Eduardo rolls his eyes. He stoops, grabbing a plastic bag with a tupperware container inside it from the snow.

“Mark has been on a baking rampage this year.” He says, holding out the bag to Tord. “We wanted to share the riches. I thought it might mean more if I gave them to you instead of the others.”

Tord takes it, peeking inside to see an array of cookies through the clear lid of the container. His smile widens, almost hurting his cheeks.

“Thank you.” He says again, and Eduardo reaches over the fence to lightly squeeze Tord’s shoulder. 

“Enjoy. I’m going to head back inside.” Is all he says. 

Tord watches in stunned silence as Eduardo treks back toward his front door. The man glances back as he opens the door, and the two lock gazes for a moment. He nods once, and disappears through the door.

On autopilot Tord turns and makes his way back across the lawn, his original tracks through the snow completely gone, covered by fresh snow while he’d spoken to their neighbour. The door is pulled open by Tom before Tord can even reach for the handle.

“What did he want?” Matt asks before Tom can do more than open his mouth.

Still slightly bewildered from the unexpected exchange Tord lifts his arm, and all three of his boyfriends look to the bag.

“He gave us cookies.” He says. “And forgave me.”

A collective sigh of relief sweeps through the room, and Tom pulls the Norwegian into his arms as he flicks the door shut. Tord melts into the embrace, tears burning his eyes. Edd joins them, easing the bag from stiff fingers to set it on the bench by the door before joining the hug, and Matt is mere moments behind.

~~~~~~~~

“Over here!” Patryk’s voice calls as Tord steps into the cafe, and he smiles widely at the sight of his friends. All too familiar relief floods his veins as they beam at him, happy and safe from harm. 

“We ordered you a coffee.” Paul says as Tord slides into the booth across from them, and Tord takes a moment to bask in their presence as he murmurs a thanks.

He really doesn’t know where he’d be without them- and even a year after killing Stephan he doesn’t think that feeling will ever leave him. Without the two men in front of him he doubts he would still be alive- and he doubts the same for his boyfriends. Somehow amidst all the bullshit he’d put them through -all the bullshit they’d been through together in the Red Army- he’d found two of the most loyal men on this earth.

And somehow they’d been loyal to him, even in the moments where he hadn’t deserved it. Even when they’d almost been killed in Hawaii- even when they’d all nearly frozen and starved to death hiding in the Peruvian mountains they’d never wavered. They’d never left his side.

And even though things are different now, he knows they never will. 

“I’m sorry I missed last week.” He eventually says, referring to their weekly sunday brunch at this diner. “The damn car broke down Saturday night, and Tom needed it to see Mabel on Sunday.”

“Sunday?” Paul asks, arching a brow. “I thought it’s usually Fridays.”

“It is, she had a family emergency and had to cancel, but she didn’t want to miss a session so she rescheduled to Sunday.” Tord explains.

“Welcome back, boys.” Their usual waitress Eileen greets with a wide smile as she approaches the table, their drinks on a tray balanced on her left hand. “We missed you last week. Are we getting the usual again?”

“Yes please.” Tord replies as she sets their coffees down in front of them, leaving a fresh pot next to it. She quickly writes their orders on her notepad.

“Won’t be long.” She promises.

Once she’s gone, Tord turns back to his friends. Slightly uneasy his left hand lifts to play with the fingers of his right, and he doesn’t miss the way his boys follow the movement with their eyes. Neither dares to say a word after last time they’d mentioned his arm. After a tense moment he sighs.

“I’m going to tell the boys about my arm. And my… my face.”

“That’s great, Tord.” Patryk says earnestly, reaching his hand across the table to lightly cover Tord’s. Paul mimics the action.

“We’re proud of you.” He says, and Tord relaxes significantly, slumping back into the cushions of the booth.

“It seems almost stupid that I’ve waited so long.” Tord admits, and both shake their heads quickly, protesting in his defence. He chuckles softly. “Poor phrasing. It seems silly.” He amends.

“They won’t care.” Paul assures him, and Tord nods slowly. Paul shares a quick glance with Patryk. “We wouldn’t either, if you wish to take that rubbish off.”

Tord hesitates. He’s spent so long now with half of his face and one of his arms hidden behind faux skin- he isn’t sure if he can go back. His right hand lifts almost absently, fingers trailing slowly down his cheek. 

“I almost… forget what I really look like.” Tord admits slowly. “How cold my hand really is.”

At that Patryk laughs softly. 

“You’re a genius, I don’t think there’s anything you couldn’t do if you set your mind to it.” He says, and Tord cracks a small smile. “I’m not surprised they haven’t noticed; if I hadn’t helped Paul pull you out of the wreckage and seen the damage with my own eyes I would never in a million years guess that something had happened to you.”

“That my arm isn’t… human?” Tord mutters, lifting his right hand and flexing his fingers. He knows it isn’t real flesh, but it looks and moves just the same as his left hand. 

“If you don’t want to tell them you don’t have to.” Paul says, a complete contrast to his words the last time they’d spoken of his arm and face.

“Since the time of secrets has passed," Paul begins. "Do they know yet?" He asks, gently tapping his index finger on Tord's right arm where it lies on the table, and Tord yanks it back defensively.

"No. It's a fine lie, they don't need to know."

"Lie?"

Tord back pedals.

"Omission of truth!" He hisses, holding the arm tighter.

The two men share a glance.

"So they don't know about your face either?" Patryk asks gently, and Tord scowls.

"There's nothing wrong with my face!" He growls, and the two share another look.

They shrug slightly, recognizing that he's all but commanding them to back down, and they nod their heads.

"If you say so, sir."

Tord considers for a moment. Silence swallows them as Eileen returns, setting their plates in front of them with a cheery grin before she leaves to tend to her other tables. Paul and Patryk wait patiently as Tord debates his options, quietly digging into their tater tots.

“No.” Tord eventually says, dropping his arm to grab his fork and spear a sausage. “I likely won’t remove the disguise for good, but I at least want to tell them. I know every part of each of them, it’s only fair they can say the same.”

Paul and Patryk try not to show it, but Tord sees the flash of pride in their eyes and it further cements his decision.

~~~~~~~~~

He thought it would take him a few days to find the words, but the opportunity greets him as soon as he gets home. His boyfriends are all in the living room, sprawled across the sofa and armchair while Insane Zombie Pirates from Hell 9 plays on the tv. 

“Hey babe, how was brunch?” Tom asks as Tord leans down for a kiss. Tord smiles against the other man's lips.

“Great.” He says honestly. “I actually wanted to talk to you guys about something.”

Matt immediately pauses the movie and all eyes are on him. In spite of himself, his face heats up.

“What’s up?” Edd asks.

“Is everything okay?” Matt pipes up, and Tord quickly nods.

“Everything is fine.” He takes a few steps forward so he’s in the middle of the room and takes a seat on the floor. 

Three sets of curious eyes follow him as he crosses his legs. Slowly he lifts the hem of his hoodie -black and white checker print that he’d swiped from Tom’s closet before heading out this morning- and he sets it aside. His tee shirt is quick to follow, dropping to the floor atop the hoodie.

“Um… Tord?” Tom asks slowly.

The Norwegian clears his throat and takes a deep breath.

“I have something I’d like to tell you all. It’s nothing huge, I just… haven’t been entirely honest with any of you.”

Edd is the first to slide to the floor to sit in front of Tord, crossing his own legs. Slowly Tom and Matt follow his example, leaving them all seated in a loose circle. 

“You’re freaking me out a little.” Edd admits, and Tord shakes his head quickly.

“It’s nothing bad, I promise.” He assures them all, and the stiff set of their shoulders eases slightly as all three exhale a soft breath. “I’m just a little anxious.”

“You can tell us anything.” Matt says softly. Tord smiles.

“I know.” 

He takes a deep breath, allowing himself a moment to hype himself up for this. He decides before he reveals his secret he should explain a little bit so they aren’t confused- so they don’t think something has happened since Stephan.

“After the incident with the robot… when it blew up… I was injured.”

Guilt flickers across Tom’s face but he quickly pushes it away; he knows he was forgiven a long time ago. Beating himself up over it only hurts himself and his boyfriends.

“I would assume so.” Matt says slowly, clearly confused. “You were in an explosion.”

As if realizing the issue with what he’d said his gaze rakes quickly over Tord. In his peripheral Tord see’s Edd’s gaze following the same path as Matt’s. 

“Injured how?” Tom asks.

“My face was-” His voice falters slightly, right hand lifting so his fingers can just barely touch what he knows is scar tissue. He swallows. “This part of my face is- is scar tissue.” He forces out, fingertips tracing an area he’s long since memorized. 

He can see the confusion clear on their faces.

“But…” Edd says softly. He doesn’t continue, head tilting slightly to the side.

“My arm…” Tord makes himself continue, moving his hand from his face to hold it out between them. “It’s not human.”

“I don’t follow.” Tom admits.

“I’m a good inventor.” Tord hedges. At the look of confusion on their faces, Tord takes a steadying breath. “I didn’t want any of you to see me like that- I hated looking in the mirror. Hated seeing what I was, what I’d done to myself- the evidence of what I’d done to the three of you. So I covered it up. I… Invented what is essentially a false skin to cover up my- my flaws.”

Slowly Tom reaches out, and when he grasps Tord’s right hand he lets him. Slow fingers trail up his arm to his shoulder and then back down.

“It feels real.” Tom finally says, and Tord nods.

“It’s supposed to.” He agrees. He flexes his fingers. “I can still feel everything.” Tord answers their unspoken question. “What lies beneath might as well be human.”

“Can we see?” Edd is the one to ask, and Tord isn’t surprised. 

“Yes.”

Slowly he reaches up with his left hand, fingertips tracing the skin of his shoulder to find the seam that he knows from memory is there. His fingers dig in and he pulls. All three of his boyfriends watch in shock as a thin layer that looks unquestionably like skin is peeled down, revealing red and grey metal. 

He lets the false skin fall to the floor, and flexes his fingers once more. The skin of his shoulder is marred by scars where skin meets metal, the skin forever an ugly red. His arm is sleek and smooth, an improved version of the original arm he’d taken from the robot to attach as a temporary solution.

Where it meets skin the metal is a deep red, the band stretching only an inch or so away from skin before the arm turns a deep, steel grey. Plates of metal shift minutely as he moves his arm, all flexing together in a near perfect approximation of the human arm. There’s another red ring at the base of his wrist about an inch wide, and the palm of his hand is the same red colour. His fingers match the steel grey of his arm.

This time Matt is the first to move, hands lifting and question clear on his face. Tord nods in encouragement, moving his hand toward the redhead, and Matt’s hands are gentle when he grasps it. 

“I expected it to be cold.” He admits as he draws it closer, fingers sliding slowly up Tord’s palm to his wrist, and Tord shakes his head.

“It’s designed to match my body temperature.” 

“It’s kind of incredible, Tord.” Tom says, and Edd nods earnestly.

“You’re incredible.”

Tord’s breath catches in his chest even as a smile pulls at his lips. Edd gently claims Tord’s hand from Matt, tracing his own patterns across the metal, green eyes sparkling in fascination. Tom is last to take it, and he presses a soft kiss to the Norwegian’s palm.

“Don’t ever feel like you have to hide this from us.” Tom says, and Tord’s smile widens.

“Okay.”

“Can we see your face?” Edd asks gently, and Tord swallows his nerves to nod once. 

“Of course.”

He lifts his right hand this time, trembling with nerves as his fingers slide along his jaw, hooking just barely behind his ear. He pushes and prods until the seam comes loose, and with a deep breath he pulls it off. It falls to the carpet next to the skin from his arm.

He squeezes his eyes shut as it falls, scared to see their reactions- he knows they’ll love him no matter what, but he can’t overcome the small voice in his head telling him they’ll be disgusted by the scars painting the side of his face. He takes a deep, trembling breath, and almost jumps out of his skin when soft hands meet his face.

His eyes open on sheer instinct, locking instantly with bright green hardly an inch from his own. He swallows, and Edd smiles so beautifully Tord briefly loses his breath.

“You’re beautiful.” He says earnestly, and tears burn Tord’s eyes. A smile pulls at his lips and he swallows thickly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Come two voices from opposite sides. Edd huffs a breathless laugh and lunges forward to slot their lips together.

A soft whimper escapes Tord as Edd’s thumb gently traces the largest of his scars, spanning from the edge of his jaw to the corner of his eye. He presses back into the kiss without hesitation, hands lifting to cover Edd’s. 

“Quit hogging him.” Matt protests, and both men laugh into the kiss, breaking it for their foreheads to meet. Green eyes regard him with unabashed affection, and he swoops down to kiss him once more before he sits back, allowing Matt to grab him.

Matt draws him over, forcing Tord onto his knees in front of him, and Matt rises to the same position. His fingers are gentle as they trace his scars, and the affectionate smile never leaves his lips. Love is clear in his eyes, and Tord sags slightly into him. Gently Matt turns his head, leaning in to kiss every single scar, smiling against his skin even as tears overflow and slip easily down his cheeks.

“Are you okay?” Matt murmurs into his skin, and Tord nods earnestly.

“So okay.” 

Matt smiles wider and leans up, making sure to meet Tord’s gaze.

“You’re perfect.”

Tord’s breath catches again. Before he can reply Matt is capturing his lips in a gentle kiss, and Tord is practically falling into him. A strong arm wraps around his waist to keep him upright while Matt’s other hand remains gently upon his cheek.

When they pull back he smiles once more, and then Tom’s arms are winding tightly around him from behind. Tord laughs softly, breathlessly, sagging back against Tom’s chest.

“Guess it’s my turn to tell you how perfect you are.” He murmurs, and Tord’s heart squeezes.

He really has the best boyfriends in the world. Gently Tom turns him so Tord is straddling his lap. His land lifts to cup the Norwegian’s face, and Tord whimpers softly as he tips his head into it, eyes fluttering shut. His hand lifts to hold Tom’s hand where it is as he opens his eyes, and he almost closes them again, unprepared for the look in Tom’s eyes.

“You’re lovely.” Tom murmurs, and Tord’s cheeks flush a light pink. “You’re spectacular. Absolutely beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Tord whispers, and Tom’s grin widens.

“C’mere.” He murmurs, drawing Tord down slowly with the hand on his cheek. Tord goes willingly, sighing softly when their lips brush. “Tell us you’re beautiful. Want to make sure you believe it.”

Tord’s breath hitches, blush darkening. Swallowing thickly, he whispers back.

“I’m beautiful.”

Tom rewards him with a sweet kiss.

“You are.” He agrees before reconnecting their lips, and Tord sags into him.

All of this time he’d spent worrying that they’d hate his scars, but he should’ve known. All of the other things they’d accepted about him, he should’ve known they wouldn’t even bat an eyelash at his face and arm. 

Their kiss breaks only when Edd and Matt grow impatient and crowd in, turning the kiss into a clumsy group hug that quickly turns into a heap of limbs on the floor when they lose their balance. Laughter fills the house as the four of them wiggle into more comfortable positions, sprawled awkwardly on the floor with their movie long forgotten, and Tord mentally thanks every deity he can think of that he gets to have this.

~~~~~~

“Do you think she’ll remember us?” Edd asks, hand seeking Tords. He lifts their hands to press a soft kiss to the band of red circling his wrist, and Tord takes the opportunity to slip their hands and press a kiss to the gold band on Edd’s finger.

“If she’s still here.”

“Come on slow pokes!” Matt calls from the door several dozen feet away, Tom’s laughter following as he’s dragged inside. 

Tord and Edd take their time, walking slowly up the stone path to the front door. Just like last time a gust of air conditioning greets them, earning a sigh of relief from Edd. He removes his sunglasses to tuck them into the collar of his gaudy floral print shirt, beaming at his husband. His eyes flick over the room, skimming quickly over marble pillars and brown wall trimming to rest upon the ornate circular fountain in the centre of the room.

“I found Matt.” Tord chuckles and Edd follows his gaze to the right, recognizing the lounge area almost instantly. It’s furnished with the same white couches and black tables that Edd remembers, and sure enough the missing members of their set are at the dessert table.

Tom is filling a few glasses with juice from the jug at one end of the table, while Matt has a handful of cookies and is perched by the chocolate fountain on the opposite end of the table.

Laughing delightedly Edd lightly tugs Tord’s hand, steering them toward the check in desk set off to the left of the entrance. Behind the desk is a familiar blonde, hair styled into low braids instead of the pigtails she’d had last time they’d seen her. She looks up, as if sensing their approach, and recognition flashes across her eyes.

“Well well well, if it isn’t Tord and Edd.” She grins, immediately setting aside her book. “Welcome back, boys. It’s been a long time.”

“Too long.” Tord agrees. 

He startles slightly when a hand touches his shoulder, and Tom laughs softly as he sets a cup of juice on the desk in front of Tord. Another follows for Edd. He glances up, only now taking note of the blonde woman.

“Oh, Guinevere! Hey!” Tom greets, and she laughs softly.

“Welcome back!” Guinevere drags her keyboard closer and quickly begins tapping away. “Give me one second and I’ll get you four checked in!”

While she types and scans room cards, Matt approaches from the buffet and holds out a few cookies- an offering his husbands don’t hesitate to accept. Edd leans his head on Matt’s shoulder while he munches, and Tom fusses with the front of Tord’s own horrible gaudy flower print shirt that Edd had insisted he buy. You have to get one so we can all match he’d insisted, and Tord hadn’t been able to resist.

“You buttoned it wrong.” Tom snickers as he fixes it, and Tord grumbles idly, giving up his faux grumpy ruse only when Tom presses a sweet kiss to his cheek.

“Alright, so I just need your wrists for your executive bands, we can sign a few forms and you’re all set!” Guinevere announces, regaining their attention.

She’s swift as she attaches the gold bands to their wrists, and once they all have a band she hands them each a small stack of papers. While they sign them she activates the keycards, circles their accommodations on a map, and slides a paper with a list of activities scheduled for the week printed upon it into the bundle.

Once the sheets are all signed she collects them, staples them together, and hands them the small bundle she’d prepared.

“Alright, you’re all set for your stay. You’re in a different building this time, but just like your last stay we offer a complimentary shuttle service for our Executive guests and they’re available any time. There’s a pool behind your building, and the indoor pool is in building six. I circled your building on the map, and there's a list of activities we’re offering this week in there for you as well.”

“Thank you!” 

“You’re quite welcome. I’ll call ahead and have a tray of cookies sent to your room.” Guinevere winks at Matt and the redhead sheepishly giggles.

“Thank you.”

~~~~~~~~

“I think we have everyone in the world beat for the perfect honeymoon.” Edd sighs happily as he floats through the pool on his back.

Tord grins at him from where he’s seated on the edge of the pool, watching his husbands splash around. It had been a great idea to come to the indoor pool; with the late hour the entire building was empty except for the four of them. Just like they’d wanted.

“I’m glad you think so.”

“I know so.” Matt scoffs, and Tom chuckles.

“And best husbands.” He adds, earning laughs from the others.

“Agreed.”

“There’s a zipline on the other side of the resort.��� Tord says after a moment. “I might go over tomorrow, if you guys are interested.”

The other three immediately agree, and Tord’s smile widens. Slowly he flops back onto the tile ground, allowing himself a moment to simply bask in this experience. The last time they’d been to this resort had been one of the happiest experiences of his life, and now here they are again, married and spending their honeymoon goofing off in a pool with plans to zipline.

His hand lifts so he can admire his ring- something he does probably ten times a day. According to the court papers Tord is married to Tom and Edd to Matt, but it was a necessary formality; only spouse have visiting rights in hospitals, and they don’t have the luxury of pretending that that someday won’t be an issue. This way none of them will be shut out from each other in the event of emergencies.

Feeling hands on his knees Tord pushes himself up onto his elbows, meeting Matt’s gaze.

“Hello husband.” He greets, and a thrill runs through Tord. He’ll never tire of that.

“Hello husband.” He returns with a grin, leaning up to capture Matt’s lips in a kiss.

“Deep in thought?” Matt prompts, dragging himself out of the water enough that he can rest his elbows on Tord’s knees. 

“Just about the loves of my life.” Tord replies. Matt grins, ducking his head to press a to the middle of Tord’s thigh.

~~~~~~~~

Edd is waiting in the car for him like he promised when Tord steps out the door for the final time. He takes a deep breath, and it’s almost freeing. It’s been almost a decade, but he’s finally done with therapy. Veronica’s card is in his pocket, a reminder that if he needs her later on she’s there, but for the first time in years he feels confident that he won’t.

Edd greets him with a warm smile as Tord climbs into the car, eyes crinkling at the corners. He leans across the centre console to steal a kiss, and Edd chuckles softly into the kiss.

“Does that mean we get kisses?” Matt pipes up from the back, and Tord pulls back in surprise.

Before he can react Tom’s lips are pressing to his, and Matt is squawking a playful protest. Edd laughs as he edges the car out of the parking space he’d chosen, and Matt claims Tord’s lips in a quick kiss before they fall back into their seats.

“I’m proud of you.” Tom says, reaching forward to squeeze Tord’s shoulder. 

It had been a long road -and not an easy one- but they’d all made the effort to press through. Now, all on the other side of therapy, they feel better than ever. Tord had gone the longest, stopping after almost a decade. Edd had been around seven years, Tom and Matt around six. 

“Thank you.” Tord grins genuinely.

“Paul and Patryk are at the house setting up for the barbeque, Mark and Eduardo joined them right as we were heading out.”

“Perfect, I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

Things with Eduardo and Mark had been slow moving, but had a definite upward curve after Eduardo and Tord had spoken that day in the snow. They’d transitioned from occasional awkward waves to good mornings, trading occasional containers of baked goods and hovering by the recycling bins to chat for a moment in the morning.

From there came invites to barbeques, going on walks with coffees, and meeting Paul and Patryk.

Now all eight of them get together alternating weekends for dinner, rotating houses each week. 

When they pull into the driveway they can already hear Mark’s laughter from the backyard- a welcome sound to come home to. With wide smiles they all filter into the backyard. While Edd beelines to Paul and Patryk at the grill, Tom on his heels, Matt heads straight for Mark. Before Tord can do much more than stop to appreciate the view of his family Eduardo is at his side.

He holds out a cup -a rum and coke that Eduardo will swear up and down wasn’t made with diet coke and Tord will pretend to believe him- and Tord gratefully takes it.

“Congrats.” Eduardo says softly, and Tord bumps their shoulders together lightly.

“Thank you.” 

They fall silent once more, happy to watch their family goof off. Mark shrieks slightly as Patryk drops an ice cube down his shirt, and Paul throws his head back to cackle as Tom immediately throws the other brunet under the bus. Tord ducks behind Eduardo as the hose is picked up by the blond, just barely dodging the stream of water headed their way. 

Eduardo is less lucky.

Mark throws back his head and laughs, allowing Edd to wrestle the hose from his hands.

“Sorry babe!”

“He doesn’t sound very sorry.” Tord pipes up over Eduardo’s shoulder, and the other man chuckles softly.

“No, he doesn’t.” He glances over his shoulder to meet his friend's gaze. “Might be time for some revenge.”

Tord’s eyes flick to Edd as he hoses down Paul and Patryk and he grins wider. Edd laughs jovially, screeching as Matt and Tom approach on either side. Tord allows himself to watch his husbands, taking in the grey peppering through their hair and the crows feet by their eyes. God, he’s still so in love with them.

“I’m in.” He finally answers.

That’s all Eduardo needs to take off, beelining to Mark. The blond shrieks the second he spots his husband, turning on his heel to bail. While Eduardo chases him down Tord heads straight for Edd, swerving around Tom’s slow approach. Edd squawks in surprise as Tord’s hands cover his own.

“Tord!” He cries, and Tom and Matt dart forward.

With all three of them working together they manage to get the hose free, and Tord whirls right in time to see Eduardo with his arms around Mark. The blonds cheeks are flushed red with laughter as he pitifully struggles in Eduardo’s arms, and the other man laughs delightedly.

“Hose us!” He calls, and Tord doesn’t hesitate to soak them both.

Attention absorbed by their neighbours he doesn’t see Paul and Patryk until it’s too late and his arms are being grabbed. Tom grabs the hose and before Tord can even take a breath to protest he’s being soaked to the bone.

“This is a mutiny!” Tord squawks through his laughter.

The hose doesn’t get put away until long after the grass is soaked and everyone is thoroughly drenched, water dripping from their hair and clothes. While Tom wraps the hose up Matt wanders inside for towels. Patryk follows Matt inside to grab plates and cutlery from the kitchen, while Eduardo and Mark begin opening containers of salads and condiments on the picnic table.

Paul and Edd head right for the grill -this time to actually cook the burgers and sausages they’d bought- leaving Tord to lean up against the wall and take in the view. He never thought he’d get here.

He never thought he’d escape from under the thumb of the Red Army.

He takes in a deep breath, beaming as Matt presses a kiss to his cheek and shoves a towel into his face. As he dries his hair his gaze follows Matt through the yard, taking in the laughter filling their backyard as towels are handed out.

He never thought he’d get to have this, but he’s so glad he can. 

They’d had to overcome more obstacles than most people to get here, straining themselves and pushing themselves to their limits and even beyond to get through it together, but now that they’re on the other side he knows it was all worth it.

Looking back on it, he wouldn’t change a damn thing. He’d learned a lot from Veronica, but he’d learned even more from his family. He’d learned he was worthy of love, he was worthy of forgiveness. Eduardo rejoins him, offering another cup, and Tord chuckles as he takes it.

“Not diet?” He teases, and Eduardo smirks into his own cup.

“Of course not.” 

They’ve all come a long way since Tord had been lead astray by his armies ambitions, but now he knows the importance of learning to forgive and forget.

He nudges Eduardo’s shoulder gently.

“Cheers.” He murmurs, and the other man doesn’t hesitate to tap their cups together. Tord takes a swig, and almost cringes at the taste of diet coke. He chuckles softly, and the knowing gleam in Eduardo’s eyes says everything he needs to know.

He’ll forgive and forget the diet coke, too.

[sleekervae]

The Neighbour [0.1]

Masterlist

Everything had played out like the rising action in a horror movie. And before the whole world's eyes, life on Earth had slowed to a snail-like crawl. Covid 19 was ravaging through cities and countries faster than a salmonella outbreak at a restaurant even Gordon Ramsay couldn't attempt to save. It was terrifying to watch, and even more terrifying to see work and interaction dry up so quickly. Especially for those who relied on social interaction to stay sane.

Luckily for Remington, he happened to be stuck with his brother when quarantine measures went into full effect.

It was no big deal living with Emerson, if anything, it was relatively more calm with two out of the three of them sharing a space. Sebastian and Larissa were staying well and safe in their own house, popping by now and again at the gate to check in on his little brothers. No doubt, it sucked. The album was pushed back, the tour called off, the only thing keeping the hype for 'The Bastards' release was social media.

At least Remington had comfort in the fact that he wouldn't have to endure this quarantine alone. Living in his own house all by himself, he'd probably drive himself up the wall and find himself hanging off the rafters (literally).

Tuesday morning was bright and warm, as they tended to be in LA. Emerson was sat comfortably at the kitchen table, drinking his usual cup of tea and reading the depressing headlines coming out of the news. Pepper was curled up at his feet, snoring softly and her little marshmallow body rising steadily. The neighbourhood was quiet, it always was, but it was especially tranquil these spring days in April. He simpered sardonically when he read the latest quote from the president, promising that the pandemic would pass come July.

His attention was gripped suddenly when he heard the low squeal of car tires. The youngest brother glanced outside the window, his dark eyes falling over the little blue Waivecar that had pulled up at the opposing apartment complex. Those cars had been coming back and forth for the last four days, with the same girl coming and going. And at night, the apartment facing the house would keep the lights on until two or three in the morning, but she wasn't partying. The most noise this girl made was the hum of her radio drifting out of an open window.

Clearly, whoever she was, she was still in the weeds of moving. Perhaps when she was settled, Emerson would go by and introduce himself, make her feel welcome. Considering how warm the climate was, this particular neighbourhood had a tendency to be quiet cold and private towards neighbours. No doubt many of them weren't a fan of the band and their at home antics.

Emerson was startled when his brother came bounding in, dressed in the same moppy grey sweats he had been practically living in for weeks. Thank goodness he wasn't wearing his heelys this time around; the other day he had crashed into the couch and flipped over onto the cushions, nearly smashing his head on the coffee table.

"The guys will be by in about half an hour," he said. Emerson narrowed his eyes at his older brother.

"He says as we're under strict orders from the state health officials to not see anybody," he murmured.

Remington pouted, running a hand through his evidently growing blonde hair. He pulled up a seat next to his brother, "Hey, you were the one who said it's getting too quiet around here. And besides, it's not like we're coming from opposite counties. Seb lives like four blocks down from us,"

"I'm just getting a little nervous, is all," Emerson shrugged, showing him the article on his tablet, "The numbers are still going up,"

"And they'll keep going up until they find a cure. And while they're doing that, we're going to be in the backyard playing soccer and eating pizza," Remington smiled.

"Who said we're having pizza?"

"I did. I just decided,"

"Maybe I want Mexican? Did you think about that?"

Across the street in the fresh red brick and black-trimmed apartment, three floors up from the ground and in direct line of the sun sat Eva. The twenty-four-year-old literary bachelor sat comfortably at her newly furnished desk, typing away at her laptop that was due for a battery change -- Eva just hadn't found the time to physically take it into the store. On her right she had a lukewarm cup of coffee, on the left her speaker which was softly blasting Tove Lo's new album. All the while, her bony fingers flew over the keyboard, her big stormy blue eyes skimming the words that sprinted across her document.

Eva got by as a writer, not a novelist or a poet, but as a ghost writer. She was hired to write materials for would-be authors and journalists, all of whom either didn't have the drive or commitment to write to the extent Eva did. Surprisingly, she made some pretty good money just off that. And while that work tended to be dry and bleak, Eva had spent her free time writing various fanfictions -- mostly for Hannibal and Criminal Minds. She happened to be quite prolific on Tumblr because of her literary fantasies.

And while her work was often isolating, Eva didn't live alone by any means. She had her pale tabby, Pluto, to keep her company. He was snoozing on the couch, despite how often Eva had trained him not to do that when he was a kitten.

She had just returned from an early morning run from the grocery store -- having learned the hard way that despite the pandemic, people will continue to flock to the stores in droves and it's almost impossible to social distance within them. As if moving out of her old apartment wasn't hard enough, now she had to deal with hastily late movers, jumbled lease agreements, and a pandemic.

In the throws of bittersweet silence, Eva's concentration was broke when a shrill alarm had her nearly jumping out of her seat. It was only her phone, the screen lighting up with a 'Blocked' ID. Eva smiled wickedly and declined the call.

The young writer pushed her rolley chair away from the desk and did a stretch, her head turning towards the house across the street. She figured a couple of frat boys shared the place, they had a few of their friends over from time to time but they were relatively quiet. The most she would hear out of them is some smack talk coming from the backyard.

Pluto's head popped up from the couch, then he leapt onto the floor and trotted over to the window sill, hopping up to spy on the unfamiliar car that was pulling up to the house. Eva could hardly care less. There was a statewide order to see only a small group of people as little as possible, and as long as the neighbours wouldn't bother her, she wouldn't bother them.

It was a shame, as if having to meet new people wasn't difficult enough for her...

A few hours passed and soon the silence in the Los Angeles neighbourhood was broken by the grunts and thwacks of a backyard game of pool basketball. The boys and a few of their friends were all the more engaged in their game while their girls sat aside on deck chairs under the beating sun. Under the shade of the pergola, their friend Andrew was grilling some sausages -- beef and tofu -- on the barbecue.

Remington was taking the piss out of Sebastian for being all over his girl, but who the hell could blame the kid? There was a new rush of life in the guitarist's face whenever the topic of Larissa came up. The same could be said for Emerson and Shy. Remington wouldn't dare admit he was a little jealous of his brothers' happiness, so he'd settle for loving his brothers but torturing them at every opportunity.

Breaking out from the cold water, Emerson gripped tightly to the rubber red ball in his hand. Just as Sebastian came to take a running dive into the pool, he reared the ball back and hucked it at his older brother, nailing him square in the chest. Instead of a graceful dive, Sebastian flailed sideways and crashed into the water. The ball ricocheted onto the deck and bounced away towards the front yard.

"Oh my God!"

"Emerson!" Shy scolded, a little horrified and yet not surprised at her boyfriend's actions. Sebastian broke out of the water and shook his hair out of his eyes. It was more his pride and the laughter of his friends that hurt than the fading sting of rubber against skin.

Emerson meanwhile just giggled happily as he high-fived Remington.

"You guys fucking suck!" Sebastian glowered at the younger boys.

At the same time, Eva had given up on work for the day. As random as it was, she decided she'd try to make bread: the apparent trend that was surging during this quarantine. She bought all the things she would need this morning.

Stepped a few feet into the kitchen, she pushed open the window a brisk breeze flooding in and freshening up the air. Her attention was skewed to the house across the street, hearing some mild echoes of conversation and the thrum of a radio in the air.

She went to gather her ingredients and tools, however, as she turned to fetch an apron she realized something was missing: the patter of feet behind her. Pluto was usually Eva's shadow whenever he was in the kitchen, always the opportunistic cat he was. However, he wasn't on the couch. He wasn't in his bed. He wasn't snooping around in her closet or hiding under the desk.

"Where'd the ball go?" Daniel called, clinging to the ledge of the pool.

"I'll get it" Remington swam to the ladder and pulled himself out of the water. He shook out his sopping blonde hair, unintentionally shaking his ass in his colorful swim trunks. Their friend, Michael, whistled from the pool. Remington only smirked on him.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, hunny," he sassed, waving his hand and ducked off to fetch the ball.

Puzzled, Eva grabbed Pluto's favorite bag of cat treats and shook it, the sound was always able to bring him out -- when he was within ten feet of the treats. The fact that he didn't appear told Eva that he must've gone out the window once again to wreak havoc.

With an irritated huff, she switched out her house slippers for her sandals and hightailed it out with the bag of treats.

The red rubber pool ball had rolled across the grass and lodged itself into a bush at the fence. Remington was awash in frigid goosebumps, not even the California heat could will away the pool's chill quick enough. Nevertheless, he crawled down and retrieved the ball from the brambles, swatting off what little dirt he could. However, his fixation swerved to the complex across the street when he heard a heavy slam.

"Pluto!" a young girl came charging out of the apartment complex, dressed in a slightly wrinkled white t-shirt and her jaw-length hair swivelled smoothly around her face as she frantically looked up and down the street, "Pluto!" she was shaking a little yellow bag.

Remington looked up and down the quiet street, almost expecting to see Pluto the Dog standing at the corner like Cartoon Cat. He glanced down quizzically at the ball, then back at the young woman.

Eva rubbed the stress lines on her forehead out of pure frustration. This wasn't the first time Pluto ran off, he always came back. However, the damn cat would always find ways to stir up trouble; rowling up dogs, plucking fish from little ponds, scratching at hanging laundry.

"Pluto!!" she shook the bag of treats.

"Hey!" Remington called, waving his hand to the stranger, "You alright?"

Eva glanced at the owner of that soft, yet scratchy voice. She hadn't even noticed the bleach blonde kid standing in the glint of the sun. Eva crossed the street and stood a few feet from the gate, keeping more than two meters distance.

"I'm sorry. Have you happen to see a cat running around? He's a pale tabby, couple black stripes, likes to chew shoes," she shrugged.

Remington only shook his head, "Sorry. I'm afraid not," he smiled sheepishly, "Did -- did you say he was a cat?"

"Yeah,"

"And you named your cat 'Pluto'? Like -- the dog?"

Eva smirked, but shook her head, unable to help but glance at the tattoos that crossed over this boy's torso, "He's named after The Black Cat," she said, "You ever read Edgar Allan Poe?"

Remington smiled sheepishly, "Oh right, right! I haven't read that in a while, actually. He named the cat after the Roman God for death,"

Eva smiled pleasantly, not having pegged this boy to know so much about EAP, "That's right. I wanted a black cat to fit with the theme but the damn tabby stole my heart,"

"He knew what he was doing, obviously," Remington grinned, "I'll keep an eye for him though, if I happen to --" he was cut short however when he heard Pepper start yapping from the backyard. The yapping was followed by the clanging of metal and a screeching yrowl.

"What the fuck?" Andrew suddenly shouted, “Where’d this cat come from!?”

Panic flooded over Eva's face and Remington didn't think twice to open the gate and let her in. Social distancing aside, they two of them rushed into the backyard to find a tray of sausages had crashed onto the floor, the meat had rolled everywhere. Shy clung to Pepper as the little pomeranien yapped and growled incessantly at the scruffy tabby on the patio table, back arched and hissing at the dog while he guarded his captured sausage.

Eva was understandably horrified.

"What the hell happened here?" Remington asked, just as in shock over the mess.

"Cat came out of nowhere and dive bombed our lunch!" Daniel replied, having just crawled out of the pool.

"Pluto!" Eva ran to the table and scooped up the snarling cat, Pepper was still yapping away, "What is the matter with you?" she scolded at Pluto before turning to Remington and Andrew, who still wielded the metal tongs in his hand, "I am so frickin' sorry!"

"No, no, it's okay," Andrew shook his head, glancing at the lost sausages longingly, "I was kind of craving sushi, anyways,"

"It's no big deal, honestly," Remington assured her, "Five second rule applies, I'm sure,"

"It's been about thirty-seven seconds," Sebastian spoke flatly.

"Since when were you counting?"

Larissa was the only one who didn't seem annoyed or surprised at the feline intruder. She smiled warmly at the young girl, "Is this your cat?"

"Unfortunately," Eva grinned sheepishly, "I should know better. He's in a new area and he tends to get into trouble. Also, if anyone happens to lose a shoe, he did it, and I'm apologizing in advance," she pointed a finger at the now calmed tabby.

Shy smiled, "Well, Pepper's no better. She tends to think she's a way bigger dog," she held up and coddled the fluffy pomeranian. Eva smiled awkwardly, only now noting that she forgot to grab a face mask. And here she was: in a backyard full of strangers in a pandemic.

"Wait, I recognize you," Emerson said, "You just moved across the street, right?"

"Yeah, that's me. Eva," she nodded, "Great first impression, right?"

"You couldn't do any worse than Curcio over here," Sebastian grinned, "Remember the split pants?"

"You're going to hang that over my head for the rest of my life, aren't you?" Daniel glowered.

"Maybe," Emerson turned back to Eva, "I'm Emerson, that's Sebastian, Daniel, Larissa, Michael, Shy, Andrew... and you've already met Remington, I see,"

"The best looking one," Remington grinned.

Eva nodded, "Well, it was very nice meeting you all, I should get going, though. And again, I'm so sorry about the cat,"

Remington shrugged, "It's just sausages. We can get more," he assured her, "Here, I'll walk you out,"

"Thanks," Eva smiled, keeping Pluto close to her chest as she passed Shy and Pepper. Pepper gave one last fleeting bark as the cat passed by. Pluto simply licked his lips.

Michael couldn't help but lean over as he caught one last glance at the new neighbour, then turning to Emerson, "How come you get the pretty neighbour?"

The drummer shrugged, reaching over to grab the rubber ball that Remington dropped at the end of the pool, "Dumb luck?"

[alternative27angel]

Fox Hunt

Kinda miffed with ML’s choices for the miraculous’ powers, and just frustrated in general with their writing, so decided to dust this off.

This is just a rough draft, though. Trying to hammer out some more plot details first.

They say every person comes to a crossroad in their life. A choice of two paths, one that will become the best decision you ever made, and one that you'll regret til the end of your days.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng hadn't quite decided which path her current one could be considered, but scurrying around the edge of a tower in the dead of night wasn't what her fourteen-year-old self had in mind when she'd stopped to help an old man.

A pigeon giving her the bird-version of a side-eye wasn't doing her any favors either.

"Don't mind me, Jacques, just running a little errand." She waved distractedly as she made her way over to one of the filthier windows on this side of the building. According to the schematics, the third window from the right should be the one for the file room. Would be nice if she could actually see inside to confirm, though…

Guess all she could do was hope and pray for the best, then.

Shifting her flute into a narrower shape, she jammed it underneath window and quickly levered it open. Dust and metal flooded her nose as she took in the room. The large room with file cabinets and shelves. With walls and walls of file cabinets and shelves. All most definitely filled to the brim with documents and security footage.

"Well, it's definitely the file room…" With a sigh, she made her way inside and started scanning the labels for what she needed.

2001, 1999, 1997, 1995… 1993, there we go. Now, which of the 8 boxes could it be…?

Her ears caught the sound of footsteps echoing on a staircase, charging their way up to her floor. Why would they…?

A red light blinked out of the corner of her eye, and with a groan, she turned to look at the camera she didn't even think to watch out for. Oh, Trixx was probably loving this right now.

Time for Plan B. Well, technically Plan G, but it's not like anybody else had to know that.

Still trying to keep some level of stealth (if for no other reason than to salvage her wounded pride), she whisper-yelled the command, "Fox Sense," and tapped her flute against her head.

Immediately, a strong smell of plastic assaulted her senses, and her eyes were drawn to the box on the highest shelf. She crawled her way up and yanked off the lid, rifling through the tapes as quickly as she could without making too much noise. A shock raced across her palm, prompting her to look at the label on the tape currently in her hand.

15/03/1993 'Frelon Roi Goes Dark'

Gotcha.

Moving fast, she tossed the lid on, slid the box back into place, and leapt over to the window just as footsteps reached door. By the time the security staff burst into the file room, she was already outside and running across a roof two buildings over.

Giddiness overcame her as she realized that–despite screwing up with the camera–she'd managed to make a clean escape with her loot. And no birdbrain in sight! Looks like her luck was finally turning around-

Shwing!

Unable to help the little scream that escaped her, she quickly leapt back from the hardened feather embedded in the roof mere inches from where she'd been a second ago. A rustle in the wind was all the warning she had before a dark blue shape was dropping down on her from a nearby building, forcing her to fling herself off her own in an effort to get away.

Down in the street, she sprinted a few yards to put some distance between them before pivoting to face her pursuer, whom had quickly made his way down to the lower level as well.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, young lady?" drawled a familiar voice, casual tone belying the blackened eyes latching onto the tape in her hand and bringing a pinched look to his masked face.

If Marinette had any hope of getting out of this with the tape in her possession, she could not engage in a direct fight. Time and again, he managed to snatch every piece of evidence she had ever managed to find, and she couldn’t afford to lose this one too. They needed this.

A quiet beeping from her necklace reminded her that she was also on borrowed time. She scanned her surroundings as subtly as possible whilst distracting the Peacock.

“Oh, Jay Bleu. The sky is clear, the breeze is sweet, and the city of Paris is at peace. Can’t a girl just enjoy a beautiful night every once in a while?”

There was an alley two buildings down. Narrow spaces wouldn’t do her many favors, but if she remembered right, that alley was a shortcut to the Seine…

Taking a menacing step forward, Jay shifted a couple more feathers into his hands. “Young women need their beauty sleep, my dear. That’s why everyone is currently resting safe in their homes.” Sirens sounded in the distance, tugging a smirk onto his lips. “Well, most of them, anyway. I’m afraid someone has disturbed our esteemed officers’ sleep.”

“Well, that hardly has anything to do with me,” she blithely denied, keeping eye-contact with him as she slowly circled around him and tightened her grip on her flute. She had to time it right, or he would be on her in no time.

Jay Bleu rolled his eyes. “Fox, let’s not waste our time tonight. We both know how this ends. Just give me the tape and go on home, before your time runs out.”

She stiffened, just as another beep sounded in her ears.

A sigh escaped him, letting his eyes close briefly before he fixed her with a flat look. “Even if I couldn’t hear it, that necklace of yours is painfully obvious, blinking light and all.”

Almost there. “Come on, can’t you let me have a win for once, Jay?” she pleaded, lacing her voice with false sweetness. “It’s not gentlemanly to keep denying a lady like this. If you're not careful, girls might start hating you~”

He rolled his eyes a second time.

So close. She shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet. “Also, the name isn’t Fox.”

Almost.

She gestured at the pot of red flowers next to her. “It’s Camellia!” she stated, pride seeping into her tone as he took the bait, glancing over at it.

Now.

“Those aren’t-” Thwack! Her flute struck hard at his ankle, and down he went. “Shit!”

Not even pausing to see if he’d hit the ground, she made a break for it. First to the alley, which would hopefully have enough debris for her throw in Jay Bleu’s way. Then, it would only be a sprint to the bridge-!

A feather just barely brushed her cheek, forcing her to duck to the left and-against her better judgement-peer behind her. Jay Bleu had already gotten his feet under him and was pelting after her, a dark glare making his already intimidating gaze even more terrifying. She didn’t even hesitate to grab the nearest thing (a trashcan lid) and sling it at him.

The oof! behind her assured that she’d hit her mark, and she used the opportunity to put on an extra burst of speed, using whatever she could grab onto to fling herself even further away from her pursuer and leaving it lying in his path.

Another beep sounded, signaling that she had only two minutes left. If she didn’t make it, she was done for.

Desperation was fueling her as she burst out of the alley and sped out into the open. The cursing and crashing behind her said that Jay Bleu wasn’t far behind, so if she was going to do this, it had to be now.

Reaching into the pouch on her hip, she spun around and made eye-contact one last time with the boy behind her. Unable to resist, she smiled smugly and threw down the smoke bomb.

As smoke exploded into the air, she sprinted for the little bridge and promptly flung herself over it.

The Seine rushed up to meet her for just a second before she used her paw pads grab onto the side of the bridge and catch herself. She scrambled as quickly and quietly as possible to the underside and then waited.

Footsteps pounded overhead, reaching the middle and pausing as the boy gasped for breath. Nothing could be heard, save for the sound of his coughing every few seconds.

She held her breath and then suddenly remembered, wrapping one hand around her miraculous just before it beeped again, muffling the sound.

A few more seconds passed by, and the fox began to fear that her time would run out first. But someone must’ve been taking mercy on her, because after coughing rather hard one more time, Jay Bleu cursed and ran away, apparently having given up and simply deciding to try a random direction.

After waiting a little to see if he’d come back, she let out the breath she was holding in a big sigh of relief, shoulders beginning to relax. And just like that, orange light engulfed her and took away the fox guise, leaving simple Marinette behind.

Simple Marinette that had no way of holding onto the underside of a cement bridge.

She barely had time to scream before she fell into the river, a big splash erupting as she hit the water hard. She re-emerged, coughing and sputtering as she treaded water to keep herself afloat.

“Well,” she sighed, “that could’ve gone worse. At least I got...” Her eyes snapped open wide.

Video tape + water = OH NO!

Before she could begin to panic though, a deep, soothing voice called out, “No worries, Mari. I’ve got it.”

There, floating above her, was a little fox with large ears and slanted eyes glimmering with amusement. And in their paws was the video tape…!

Marinette couldn’t help her giggle of relief. She waved up at him in glee. “Thank God you’re here, Trixx!”

A chuckle responded back at her. “No no, you did all the work, Mari. We’re still  a little rough, but this is the proof that you’ve got what it takes.” They swooped down to hover just a little in front of her face, a foxy grin aimed at her. “Congratulations on your first successful heist, Camellia!”

Marinette’s responding smile was blinding as the reality settled in. She’d finally done it! She’d finally beaten Jay Bleu and recovered her first piece of the puzzle to finding the other missing Miraculouses. She could actually do this!

“Yes!” She thrust her fists up in victory. Maybe this was the right choice after all.

[tharroswrites]

Tiny Brilliant Suns

Kacchako Week 2018! Day Zero: Rainy Days (Posting a smidge early because I’ll be too busy tomorrow)

Read on AO3

“What the fuck are you doing?”

The words slipped out of him the way they always did around her—easy, unintentional, and infuriating as hell because it made him look like he cared.

It was Sunday and he was making his way back to the dorms from a solo training session in Gym Gamma, umbrella cocked above his head and blocking the worst of the heavy summer rain. She, on the other hand, had no umbrella, and stood in the downpour like she was egging it on—face turned upward and padded fingers splayed at the sky. Pools of rainwater hung suspended in the air above her, and she continually added to them, drops splashing against pink pads and sliding off, but upwards as her Quirk took effect. Her hair was plastered to her rosy cheeks and her shorts and tank top clung to her and made Bakugou warm all over in a way that had nothing to do with the humid heat of May.

She grinned when she saw him, like she was actually happy that he was there, and waved him closer.

And in spite of himself, Bakugou took a few more steps in her direction.

Magnetic.

It was really the only way to describe her. She was likeable, sure, and bubbly in the way that Ashido and the invisible girl (whose name, even after a year and a half, escaped him) were—’here-comes-the-sun,’ Kirishima called it. But with Uraraka, there was more. A polar opposite ferocity that shook him and thrilled him and always left him wanting more.

If Bakugou believed in things like fairness, he would say that this was not. He didn’t have a positive side, and he would never be the whole that she deserved to attract.

Without invitation, Uraraka ducked under his umbrella, her body almost pressing against his in the small space. She pushed her wet hair out of her eyes, still grinning as she looked out and up at her work.

“Practicing,” she said brightly, in answer to his original question. “It’s a good way to gradually raise the weight I’m lifting. This is better suited for upping my weight limit than going all out all at once, you know?”

“Sucks that it only works in shitty weather.”

Uraraka shrugged, unfazed by his negativity. “Nah. It just makes bad days a little brighter.”

He gave her his signature, derisive ‘tch’ and shook his head, leaving her there and making his way back to the dorms.

She deserved a whole, and she’d already found it in shitty Deku. They’d been dating for more than a month, and the whole class was over the godsdamned moon about it.

So Bakugou returned to his room and pretended not to think about Uraraka Ochako.

—

The next time it rained he watched her from the window. She was glowing and in her element and grinning like All Might as she struggled to lift just a bit more.

And Bakugou, secretly, allowed himself a smile, too.

—

The time after that he made an excuse to be outside—a trip to the supermarket that wasn’t entirely necessary as there were only two days left before summer holiday.

She was puking in a bush when he approached, her inevitable limit reached. He had shopping bags in one hand and his umbrella once more hanging lazily above his head as he slowed his walk just a tick in the hope that she’d be up by the time he reached her (because if he stopped while she was puking, it would make it look like he cared, and he was still working rather pathetically to convince himself that he did not).

She did straighten, pushing wet hair from her face and draining the water bottle in her hand. She wiped her mouth on the back of her wrist and turned, shaking herself and preparing to try again as clear drops ran down her face and trickled from her chin.

Heroes always try again.

It was something All Might liked to tell them when they failed.

And Bakugou, because he was an idiot, fished an apple out of one of the bags.

“Oy, Uraraka,” he called, getting her attention and tossing the fruit to her. “Working on an empty stomach won’t get you anywhere.”

Her eyes widened a bit and the corners of her mouth, which had been pulled down in concentration, tilted upward as she caught it. And, perhaps, she knew him a bit too well, because she didn’t thank him, didn’t comment on the novelty of the gesture. Instead, she bounced over and peered into his other bags as she took a big, crunchy bite from the apple.

“Are you cooking tonight, Bakugou?” she asked thickly; chewing and swallowing were an afterthought in the wake of her question.

“Haven’t decided yet. Does it matter? I don’t share.”

Uraraka quirked an eyebrow and took a second, pointed, bite from the apple.

“Tch. You know what I mean.”

She had a challenging glint in her eyes that made Bakugou’s mouth go dry.

“What would it take?” she asked, prodding him in the shoulder in a way that sent crackling electricity through him from the point of contact. “To get you to cook for me?”

He should have told her to fuck off. He should’ve said that there was nothing she could do, that there wasn’t a chance in hell.

But he was out in the rain because she was, and he didn’t think he could really deny her anything.

“Stop enough rain that I can walk from here to the dorm without getting wet. When you can do that, I’ll consider it.”

Uraraka looked from him to the building several meters away. “Who’s to say I can’t do that right now?”

“Can you?”

“No…”

“Then get to work.”

—

He didn’t see her during summer holiday, though when it rained, his thoughts drifted to pink cheeks and bright eyes and a strength that could move mountains.

—

Word through the grapevine was, or Tsuyu-told-Yaoyorozu-told-Jiro-told-Kaminari-told-Kirishima (no grapeface involved), that Uraraka and Deku had split.

The way Kirishima brought it up, showing up randomly at the Bakugou house under the pretense of wanting a training partner, made Bakugou wonder just how observant the spiky fucker was.

“You think I care, shit-for-brains?” Bakugou had grunted.

Face and arms visibly hardening, Kirishima smiled. “I think it wouldn’t be a bad thing if you did.”

—

When they started the second semester, her spark hadn’t dimmed. If anything, she threw herself into training with more wild intensity than she had before. Sometimes, during practical lessons, he could hear her muttering things like, “Be dedicated like Deku!”

That didn’t sit particularly well in his stomach.

But she kept trying, kept pushing herself, kept holding back the rain.

And Bakugou kept finding reasons to watch.

—

In December of their second year, Deku noticed.

Noticed the way Bakugou always seemed to ‘have plans’ when the sky turned grey. Noticed that Bakugou, who notoriously hated the rain, found reasons to go out during storms.

This noticing culminated, as it often did between them, in a messy, all out fight-slash-screaming-match that leveled more than half of Ground Beta and earned them both a bed in Recovery Girl’s office and a week of cleaning duty and suspension.

But the truth of all of it was, Deku hadn’t been trying to stop him.

“You’re better than me, Kacchan!” Blood and tears ran down his face even as he aimed a roundhouse kick at Bakugou’s head. “You’re better than me but you’re too much of a coward to admit how you feel about her. If you can’t do that, you’ll never deserve her!”

Bakugou dodged the kick, barely, and pivoted with a right hook at the ready. “The fuck do you know about how I feel?”

Deku, infuriatingly, let himself be hit. He staggered, doubled over, looked up at Bakugou. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“You just think I want whatever you have and you’re fucking wrong—”

“No.” His voice was hoarse, a ragged croak filled with more emotion than Bakugou was willing to acknowledge. “I saw so much in her because of you. The rest of us, even me, sometimes wrote her off, but you never did. You never let her kindness or her size fool you. You...you see her like the hero that she is, and it helped me see that in her too. It didn’t work between us because I think I somehow made her feel...less. I think with me she felt like she was always in my shadow. But you...you can share the spotlight with her and neither of you are dimmed because of it.”

“I don’t share—”

“Not with most people, no. But her...a true equal...you just build each other up and I’m sorry I ever got in the way of that.”

—

When the rain lashed at the windows of classroom 2-A, Bakugou sometimes thought he could feel her eyes on his neck as he watched it fall.

—

It was a month into their third year when she did it.

The rain started as a languid, icy mist that seeped from the February sky like a dying breath. It quickened, thickened, cold fog condensing into a freezing tempest.

Only two students were crazy enough to brave it. One, training. The other, pretending to do the same (“You should practice in your weakest environments,” he’d growled at Kirishima with less conviction than he would’ve liked).

Bakugou watched her from across the yard as he shivered and tried, at least, to sweat.

Uraraka danced through the downpour like some sort of ninja/ballerina hybrid, her hands moving above her head so fast he couldn’t follow them. And the rain parted around her, floated upward as soon as it reached her outstretched padded fingers.

“Bakugou!”

He tore his eyes from the graceful curve of her spine, along the thin, wired muscle of her arms—arms that, despite their size, contained an infinite sort of strength. The past two years at U.A. had melted away her baby fat, leaving her slim and chiseled and full of sharp edges where there used to be roundness, but her voice had never lost its easy warmth. It was a tone that he’d used to hate, until he’d learned how quickly it could become a wicked, challenging battlecry.

His eyes continued upward, passed the rough pads of her fingers (he remembered the feel of them from a few sporadic Quirk combination lessons and the uncanny way she had of touching him at random moments—a hand on his arm to get his attention, both hands on his cheeks as she squished them together in stupid attempts to get him to smile, her fingers woven through his when she thought he was knocked out on a bed in Recovery Girl’s office after she’d managed to drop a building on him during an in-class spar).

His eyes, moving upward still, found what she’d been trying to show him.

There, suspended in the air a few meters above her head, was a massive, cohesive bubble of rainwater, and he saw the path to the dorms was sheltered by it.

It was an effort, fighting the grin that threatened to spread across his face.

“The real trick,” Uraraka said, smiling triumphantly even as her teeth chattered against each other and she wobbled a bit with the stress of holding up so much. “Was figuring out how to get the new rain falling into the bubble to absorb in a way that keeps my Quirk active on both the new and the old, rather than the new stuff falling straight through.”

“It’s badass, Uraraka.” And it was.

Her eyes, somehow, lit up more than they had already, the stormy sky splashing them in silver.

“Come on then, let’s get out of this godsdamned cold before my fingers fall off and I can’t hold up my end of the deal.”

“You’re cooking tonight?” She raised her eyebrows as she wrapped her arms around herself and fell into step beside him. They walked under her anti-gravity umbrella, soft light refracting through it and making the space seem a bit surreal.

In spite of the cold, Bakugou’s face heated. He tried to play it off, shrugging and shoving his hands in his pockets. “I knew you’d do it eventually, so I’ve been buying extra.”

“Really?” She nudged him with her elbow, her whole face beaming like inside her lived a tiny, brilliant star. ‘Here-comes-the-sun,’ indeed.

“Why would I lie about dumb shit like that?”

“You wouldn’t,” she said, still grinning as she pulled open the door to the dorm building. “Your confidence surprised me, though.”

“Your regular routine is to practice until you puke and then keep going, dumbass. I’m not going to doubt a work ethic like that.”

He wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or the sudden temperature increase upon entering the dorms that caused Uraraka’s cheeks to go from pink to red, but either way it made the corner of his traitorous mouth twitch up into a half smile.

She was staring at him, her brown eyes slightly wider than normal as she continued to grin. When she realized this, she shook herself a bit, blushing deeper.

“Uh...I’m going to go find some dry clothes.”

“Good idea.” His voice was rougher than he intended, and he cleared his throat, nodding toward the giant water bubble outside. “You putting that down?”

“Oh! Right!” she went to the window and pressed the tips of her fingers together. “Release!”

The water crashed to the ground, splashing up against the door to the dorm and forming a small crater-like lake on the grounds. Uraraka winced.

“Oops.”

Bakugou shrugged. “Good thing you’re not interested in becoming a landscaper.”

She laughed. At a stupid joke he’d made. If Kirishima were here he’d probably pinch Bakugou to prove it wasn’t a dream. Uraraka bounced off to the girls’ staircase and he, hands still in his pockets, trudged up the boys’, feeling a warmth burning inside him that could make him sweat in spite of the icy damp of his clothes.

He returned to the kitchen first, his sweatpants and tank top warm and dry against his clammy skin. Uraraka appeared a few moments later as he was digging out a large pot from the back of one of the cabinets. She wore leggings and a sweatshirt—grey with Ryukyu’s blue-winged emblem emblazoned across it—and had her hair pulled up in messy twin top knots that came undone a bit as she hoisted herself up to sit on the counter and watch.

There were a few other people throughout the common area—Tsuyu, Deku, and Iida glanced in their direction briefly, sharing secret smiles that would’ve pissed him off on a different day. They soon gathered up their things and went up the boys’ staircase. Yaoyorozu and Jiro were on one of the couches, much too involved in each other to notice what was going on in the kitchen, and Todoroki sat reading a book in the far corner. It was almost like being alone.

“Whatcha making?” Uraraka asked, her eyes following him as he put the pot on the stove and went to the refrigerator.

He shot her a look. “Not telling.”

“What if it’s something I don’t like?”

Blankly, hoping it sounded like a simple, everyday observation, he said, “You like all food.”

She smiled, a hint of wickedness in it that caused his heart to stutter.

Before she could say anything, Kirishima came down the stairs, whistling, with Kaminari and Sero in tow. The latter two were arguing,

“Bastion took out White Wolf with his signature Ion Doubletake,” Kaminari was saying. “Not the Electron Wave. He debuted that move a year later in his fight with—”

He was cut off as Kirishima, without the faintest hint of subtly, slapped a hand across Kaminari’s mouth, jerked his head in Bakugou and Uraraka’s direction, and began trying to drag both of them back up the stairs. Sero caught on first, and helped Kirishima carry a confused Kaminari out of sight.

“What was that about?” Uraraka asked, though her cheeks had gone a bit pinker. “Uh...Bakugou? Did the cutting board insult your mom or something?”

He looked down, starting a bit as he realized he was digging the tip of his knife into the aforementioned object. “Idiots,” he said, because they were. And not just because they were getting heroes mixed up, but he could pretend that was all that irritated him. “Top Gun beat White Wolf. Bastion’s suit is modeled after the one Top Gun was wearing in that fight, but Bastion was still in school when White Wolf went down.”

A chuckle, a low rumble that rolled out of her like thunder, and then she was laughing, laughing as if all of his knife-wielding hostility was nothing but a gentle patter of rain in the face of her obliterating sunlight.

“What’s funny?” he asked, not able to look her full in the face for the brightness, and settled instead on her hands, which clutched her knees in her mirth, as he began chopping carrots.

“I just forget sometimes how much of a dork you are.”

“Oy!”

“Not in a bad way!” She pulled her hands from her knees to wave them in front of her face, grinning. “Besides, Kaminari was just wrong on all counts, Bastion debuted the Electron Wave first. He’s had more success using the Ion Doubletake, so people think he’s always used it, but he actually used the Electron Wave in his very first public fight as a sidekick versus—”

“Whiplash,” Bakugou finished with her, focusing intensely on his carrots and swallowing the sudden urge to kiss her or fight her or both. “And you call me a dork.”

She laughed again, lightly, and the corners of Bakugou’s mouth ached from fighting a smile. He dared a glance at her face as he pushed aside the carrots and started on potatoes, and found a soft smile there as she watched him. Her eyes darted away when he met them, her cheeks red again, but the smile remained.

The silence between them was easy, if a bit charged with a host of emotions that Bakugou knew he was feeling, though he couldn’t speak for her.

Part of his brain echoed back to him the words he thought the first time he’d seen her practicing in the rain—you’re not a whole. She deserves better.

The voice in his head that sounded like Deku countered with Coward.

“What’s with the face?” she asked, her voice a bit softer now as Bakugou dumped all the vegetables into the pot, adding broth, herbs, and chunks of beef for the spicy stew he hoped would chase away the wretched cold that still pounded against the windows—more ice than rain now that the sun was setting.

“Face? I always look like this,” he said, rearranging his features into his usual scowl as he placed the lid on the pot and went to stand beside her, his back leaning against the counter on which she sat, her knee just grazing the elbow of one of his crossed arms.

“Nuh-uh,” she argued, poking him in the shoulder. Finger pad on bare skin sent a shiver through him, though if she noticed, she ignored it. She didn’t press the matter, thankfully, and sniffled a bit as she said, “On a scale of one to Bakugou, how spicy is this going to be?”

“I’d call it a solid Uraraka,” he said automatically, feeling his face heat up again.

She beamed.

“That’s ah—”

“What?” he asked as she stopped mid sentence, a weird, scrunched up look on her face.

“It’s ah—ah—ah CHOO!”

The force of it must have activated her Quirk because it sent her to the ceiling, top knots flying out of their ties as she spun wildly heels-over-head-over-heels.

And Bakugou couldn’t hold back.

He was laughing. Cackling, howling. The doubled over, hands-on-your-knees-just-to-keep-you-upright kind of laughter that he rarely indulged in.

And soon, she was laughing too.

“Get down, dumbass,” he said a few moments later, though there was no bite in it at all as his breath was short and his voice didn’t sound quite right. “You don’t need to be getting sick.”

“It’ll be my own stupid fault,” she said, still chuckling a bit as she released her Quirk and dropped back down to the floor beside him. He pushed her toward the now-empty couches, and she allowed it, plopping down cross legged and grabbing the blanket he shoved at her.

When he returned to the kitchen to check the stew, she watched him over the back of the couch, her chin resting atop the cushion.

“I’m not gonna spit in it, you know.”

“Well I wasn’t even considering that until now,” she teased, and Bakugou could hear the smile in her voice even as he was turned toward the stove. “But this is a once in a lifetime opportunity! I don’t want to waste it.”

He didn’t respond to that, wondering if he should tell her that he didn’t want it to be the only time they did this. He could come up with some excuse, some higher bar she could meet to make this happen again, but he thought she might see through it.

A few more minutes past, and Bakugou deemed dinner ready, spooning the thick stew into two bowls and bringing them to the couch. He sat beside her, mirroring her cross-legged posture, and she un-cocooned herself from the blanket just enough to stick her arms out and take the offered food.

It was quiet, save for the rain on the windows, and dark, save for the light still spilling from the kitchen and the single lamp Jiro and Yaoyorozu had forgotten to turn off when they left. Bakugou worried, a bit, if she could hear the way his heart thundered in his chest as he realized that Todoroki had left too, and they were utterly alone together.

“This smells amazing, Bakugou,” Uraraka gushed, taking her spoon and blowing on the first bite. Her lips, pursed and a little chapped, drew Bakugou’s gaze, and he was thankful she was too focused on dinner to notice. She popped the spoon into her mouth. “Mmm,” she said, her mouth full. “So good.”

“Swallow, Uraraka.”

She shot him a playful look, but did as he said, smacking her lips a few times as she tested the aftertaste. “‘Uraraka Spice Level’ is perfect. Enough of a kick without ruining the other flavors. How did you know?”

“You’re one of the only other people who uses the hot sauce at the condiment bar in Lunch Rush,” he said. The truth. “I’ve seen how much you use.”

Her knee brushed his and she hid another smile behind her spoon.

The rain turned to snow, falling thick and fast beyond the window. Uraraka watched it, lost in thought, and Bakugou, for the hundredth time, wondered exactly what had led them to this—which events along the way added up to this uncertainty. Because he knew what he wanted, but he also knew why he didn’t deserve it (and that was saying something, as Bakugou had been raised believing that he deserved just about anything he wanted). And Uraraka...was she just being her usual nice self? With the smiles and the laughs and the—fuck all he hated not understanding something. He hated not knowing what to do.

He hated that he didn’t hate her for making such a mess of him.

“Weird to think this is our last year, huh?” Uraraka said this quietly, eyes suddenly downcast, the manifestation of whatever it was she’d been thinking as she looked out the window.

“Shit, it’s not like anyone’s dying.”

“No...but I mean it’s not like we’ll all see each other everyday anymore. It’s not like we’ll all be living together.”

“Eh, it’ll be fine.” This, with more confidence than he felt. He knew she’d be fine, at least. And he would too. He’d be Number Fucking One. He just hoped that alone would make him happy.

“Mostly...mostly I worry that you won’t stay in touch.”

His heart faltered at that and he tried to keep it from showing on his face. “Me?”

“Yeah. It’s not like you really like any of us. Why would you want to spend time with us if you weren’t being forced to?” She was looking into the bowl in her lap, one knee bouncing nervously as she chewed on her bottom lip.

He watched her, a wry smile cracking across his mouth as he waited for her to glance back up. When she did, he took a slow, pointed bite from his stew. “You proved me wrong about sharing. I’m proving you wrong about liking some of you dipshits.”

She smiled, but was quiet for a long moment, and Bakugou continued. “Besides, you shouldn’t worry about me. There are plenty of better people here you’d be happier hanging out with, even if most of them are shitty extras.”

It was her turn to take a pointed bite, using her eyes to gesture to the limited space between them. Her voice was little more than a breath as she said, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Their eyes locked, and such a fire burned in hers that Bakugou wondered if it had been there all along. If he’d missed it by spending so much time avoiding her face for fear of the sun that resided in it. A small, hesitant half-smile tilted at the side of her mouth as she took a shaky breath.

He was blazing, scorching as he had the first time he’d ever fought her, his nerves vibrating and his blood singing at the steel and nerve and challenge that shone from her eyes like a searchlight.

And the uncertainty inside him snapped. 

He grabbed the bowl from her hand, slamming both hers and his onto the coffee table with enough force that he heard one of them crack, but he didn’t care because his hands were on her face, pulling it to his. Rough, calloused fingers grazing across pink cheeks. His lips found hers, and a hungry sort of growl ripped out of her throat as she twisted her hands into the front of his tank top, pulling him closer still as she came up on her knees to tower over him. The moan, low and satisfied, that came from his own throat surprised him, and he slipped his hands from her face into her hair, rolling forward onto his own knees as her mouth opened up to him. He pulled her bottom lip between his teeth, sucking on it and caressing it with his tongue, and Uraraka’s resulting gasp brought a grin to his lips.

Her hands moved from the front of his shirt to his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle and holding him in place. He finished with her bottom lip, and she immediately imitated him, slipping his between her small teeth and running her tongue along it.

“Gods, Uraraka,” he groaned against her mouth, and she smiled, biting down a little harder as she did so. Her hands, like they wanted to be everywhere at once, slid into his hair, twisting it between her fingers like she was clutching a lifeline.

They pulled apart enough to breathe, hard and shallow, foreheads still pressed together, and her hands moved to his face, index fingers behind his ears and padded thumbs moving across his cheekbones.

“Don’t…” Bakugou started, wanting to say it and not wanting to at the same time as his own hands gripped her wrists, keeping her close. “Don’t kiss me just because you’re afraid of losing me.”

Uraraka’s eyes, which had been closed, fluttered open, still burning as they searched his. It surprised him, then, when she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him at every possible point. Her hand on the back of his head guided his face into her shoulder, and he didn’t resist.

Her own face was in his neck as she said, “I wouldn’t do that to you. Honestly...I—I’ve kind of wanted to kiss you since first year.”

“What?” He pulled back, his hands on both shoulders, holding her in front of him so he could search her brilliantly red face. “What about Deku?”

She shook her head, bit her lip, smiled like a single ray of sunlight through thunder clouds. “It just felt like that was what I was...I don’t know. What I was supposed to do, maybe? And it didn’t feel wrong, really, liking him. But there was always this sort of nagging at the back of mind...that maybe ...maybe it should’ve been you. But of course I talked myself out of that because what would you ever see in me?”

“What—”

“But then you did see something in me,” she said, cutting him off and bringing her eyes back to his. Her hands twisted back into his shirt, both as a means of comfort and as a symbol of her resolve in what she was saying. “You always took me seriously and treated me like an actual rival and that...it inspired me and it made me want to be better, to prove you right. You made me better, because you always believed I had the capacity to be better. And that was just such a...a positive influence for me. It meant more than anything anyone else ever did to help me grow.”

There were bright tears in her eyes as she smiled, and Bakugou crushed her back into his chest, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face back in her shoulder because he, for once, was at a complete loss for words. In a few simple statements, she’d destroyed the one argument he’d been having with himself all along. In a few words, she made him whole.

“Ah—ah—ah CHOO!”

Like a shift in the axis, the room was suddenly tilted and spinning end over end as Uraraka inadvertently sent them both to the ceiling with her second sneeze. Bakugou used a small pop of his Quirk to stop their whirling, his arm around her waist and her fingers in his shirt as they stopped upside down in the air.

He would’ve laughed, but her lips sealed themselves over his again, clearing his mind like a slate. And it didn’t really matter that they were floating upside down in the common area as he wrapped his other arm around her and brushed his tongue across her mouth. It didn’t matter that if he wasn’t sick already, he probably would be now as she tilted her head back and parted her lips, her own tongue dancing out to war with his.

And, annoyingly, it was like Deku had said. Bakugou and Uraraka weren’t dimmed at all by sharing a spotlight. Instead, the sun inside her seemed to multiply in his presence.

And they fucking glowed.

[jaeminlore]

Sing For You // Hong Jisoo

-

the prompts: (1) whenever I think of joshua i get this “boy next door” feel. but maybe have it where joshua or the reader has just moved to the neighborhood and the reader hears joshua play the guitar near his bedroom window and he starts to notice her and play songs that convey his feelings for her. (2) personally i would love a joshua scenario with a flirty josh and oblivious reader cuz!!!! why not!!!

words: 3834

category: fluff

author note: he’s not that flirty in this like maybe a subtle flirt. anyway this is for my older sister, for her graduation gift. I’m proud of you, you loser, and I hope you like this scenario. (good luck choosing between joshua and yuta now muahaha)

- destinee

-

When you and your family moved into that ugly green two-story house at the end of a cul-de-sac, you assumed there would be no one your age to hang out with. It was the summer after you graduated high school, and you were pleased to spend it leisurely, doing nothing but catching up on the latest Netflix series available. You would start working as soon as the summer was over, and so your goal was to spend as much time as you could enjoying being lazy.

The bedroom you chose was at the end of the hall on the second floor, far away from your parents’ room. There, you could watch Netflix on your laptop day after day, without a care in the world at who was outside (or inside) of your house.

Your mother was sociable, and always on the prowl for new friends she could chat with. That’s how she found Mrs. Hong, who conveniently lived next door along with her son, Joshua.

To say Joshua Hong was cute would have to be the understatement of the century, since he was downright princely in every sense of the word. Luckily, his bedroom seemed to be right across the yard from yours, so you were able to see him from time to time whenever he opened his curtains. He never seemed to notice you when he sat on his window seat to play his guitar. Sometimes, he would crack open his window and you could hear the experimental twang of the strings as he learned new melodies and songs. That wasn’t very often, though.

Usually, Joshua had friends over, and they would play in the in-ground pool in his backyard. You found out he had handsome friends too, and lots of them. Sometimes they picked him up in a beaten up old van. It obviously didn’t fit thirteen boys, so you always watched in amusement as Joshua would squish into the trunk with a few other boys. They were a wild bunch, and loud. They were the soul reason you bought noise-canceling headphones.

Some days, when you didn’t feel like Netflix or the internet, you would watch Joshua and his friends hang out, since it was rather comical to see them playing around. Especially when they had sleepovers at Joshua’s place. Apparently they were fans of truth or dare, unless Joshua really did have a boyfriend named Yoon Jeonghan, as he had shouted out for the neighborhood to hear one night. That was the first time you ever heard him speak, funnily enough. His voice was soft.

Soon, Netflix became boring to you as July found it’s way into the year. You found yourself at your window seat more often than not, watching Joshua as he fiddled with his guitar. He was quieter alone, away from the the hustle and bustle that his friends offered. With his and your windows cracked open, you could hear his gentle voice as he sang a familiar song. Without realizing it, your eyelids began to droop as you leaned against the window pane. Joshua’s soft voice sang you to sleep that night.

-

“She is the sweetest thing that I know…“ Joshua sang, ”you should see the way she holds me when the lights go low. Shakes my soul like a pot hole, every—dang it!”

He exhaled in frustration as he once again messed up the simplest of chords. Where there was a D, he had played a C. He had never messed up something like guitar chords. He could play a song by ear if he wanted to, as he had been playing since he was in middle school.

He blamed you. Ever since you had moved in a few months ago and he saw you going out to collect mail, his mind hadn’t been the same. He found it cute how you would give the mailman a wide smile whenever he brought a package for you. Often times he didn’t even have to wonder very long what it was that you were so happy to receive, as you would open the package right there in the front yard. He got to see your interests, which mostly consisted of miscellaneous fandom merch or something even stranger like a box of food from who knows where. Although once, you received a tin of cookies and Joshua had considered introducing himself right there just to take a few of those chocolate chip treats home with him.

The point was, Joshua found you rather interesting and pretty, but he was too shy to actually strike up a conversation with you. His mother told him a lot about you, because according to your mother you were always watching Netflix shows or making strange conditions in the kitchen.

Joshua had the developing desire to keep learning about you. He wanted to know more about you, outside of your mother’s opinions and his observant assumptions. However, he wasn’t very outspoken when it came to girls. In fact, he barely even talked to them in high school. Even now, in college as a struggling music major, he didn’t really talk to girls. He was too shy and uninterested. He had his entire life to find someone that made his heart race. For now, he just wanted to hang out with his friends. Your moving right across from him sort of wrecked that plan, however, as now he found his heart racing every time he saw you outside.

As he repositioned his fingers to play the song again, he glanced out the window, towards your house. His curiosity for you was quenched when he realized your window was right across from him, and you were sleeping against the partly-open windowpane. He quirked a smile at your sleeping form.

Had you heard him singing? The thought flustered him, as he wasn’t sure he sounded good. Sometimes he just fooled around on his instrument, and it probably sounded stupid. He wondered how many times you had heard him singing his heart out to Ed Sheeran songs. Then, he cringed as he remembered his favorite activity to do when he felt bored was to freestyle his own raps for whatever reason. Perhaps you would find them funny. That would be a plus, right?

Whatever you had heard, Joshua was going to make sure you heard only the best songs from him. From then on, he kept a mental note that you could be listening to his songs.

-

You were awoken bright and early the next morning, to the usual legion of boys shouting and yelling.

Did they not know it was morning?

Splashing was quickly heard along with loud voices, so you sat up begrudgingly and looked at your phone. You groaned, Who went swimming at the crack of dawn, anyway?

They were disrupting your precious sleep, and so it was only logical that you would disrupt their precious fun. As desperate times call for desperate measures, you got out of your bed and grabbed the Nerf gun that lay in the messy underside of your bed. After finding a spare dart laying around, you crept over to your window seat and hid behind the decorative throw pillows you had set on the cushions. You pushed open your window and aimed for the first boy you saw near the pool: a tall, dark boy busy slathering sunscreen on his shoulders. You pulled the trigger and grinned as your target met it’s mark.

“Ow! Wh—” he turned around quickly, and locked eyes with you.

You squealed in alarm and ducked behind your cushions.

“Joshua! Your neighbor just shot me with a Nerf gun!”

“Really?“

You peaked your head over your throw pillow and watched as Joshua pushed himself out of his pool and walked closer to your house, his brows furrowed as he looked at your window. Then, he opened his mouth without a sort of Aha! expression. “It’s really early. My mom told me her parents were on a trip so I just assumed she was with them. We should keep quiet.”

You sighed in relief as all the boys seemingly agreed and got out to get some sun instead.

If you were honest, you might have watched the shirtless boys tan for just a bit longer before returning to your bed.

-

”Cause I know that I let you down, but is it to late to say I’m sorry now?“ Joshua strummed his guitar rather recklessly to the Justin Bieber song.

His thoughts were that if he couldn’t speak to you, then he could very well sing to you. At least from his bedroom. He still felt guilty for waking you up on a Saturday at six in the morning. So he thought of the only semi-apologetic song he knew the chords to. If that was Justin Bieber, it would have to do.

He could see you even now, with your head against the windowpane, listening to him. You seemed to be listening casually as you scrolled on your phone, occasionally stopping to double-tap. When he stopped singing and playing, he chuckled softly because you had peeked up and looked over to his window, wondering why his voice had cut off abruptly. He quickly put his head down and waited until you went back to your phone before he looked at you again.

Was there a sort of unspoken communication between you two? He would sing and you would just listen along?

Joshua bit his lip in thought as he mindlessly strummed random chords. Maybe he could sing for you every night.

Before he could begin another song, his mother called him to help her make dinner.

“Coming!”

He went downstairs into the kitchen, where his mother was busy tossing a salad. “Can you cook and cut the chicken for me?”

“Of course,” Joshua said, moving over to the fridge to grab the chicken.

“What happened this morning?” Mrs. Hong asked as they both worked together. “I was drinking my morning coffee, listening to you guys play in the pool and then all of a sudden all the noise just stopped.”

“Oh, well apparently Y/n didn’t go with her parents on that trip, and we woke her up. She shot Mingyu with a Nerf gun to let us know that we were being too loud.”

Mrs. Hong giggled and shook her head fondly. “Maybe you should invite her over. She might be lonely during dinner.”

Joshua groaned and turned to narrow his eyes at his mother, “Are you trying to set me up?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Mrs. Hong shrugged her shoulders coyly, “but it would be nice for her to come over and you two to meet properly.”

“I don’t know…” Joshua mumbled, his ears turning pink at the thought that his mom might embarrass him before he got to even properly talk with you.

Mrs. Hong rolled her eyes. “I won’t bring out the baby pictures, just go and invite her over before she starts microwaving pizza pockets or something.”

“Yes, Ma'am,” Joshua sighed, making his way out the back door.

The walk from his house to yours felt rather slow for him. Especially since his legs seemed like lead, and his feet were dragging with anxiety as he thought of seeing you face to face.

He stood in front of your pea-green home and lifted his fist, knocking on the creaky screen door.

He heard quick footsteps from inside, and then the door was swung open. It was you, with a bright smile on your face until you saw him. Your smile quickly turned down in disappointment. “Oh. I thought you were the delivery man with my clothes.”

Joshua scratched the back of his head, “Ah… Sorry. I’m Joshua Hong from next door.”

“I know who you are,” you said sweetly. “I’m Y/n Y/l/n.”

“Yeah. Um, my mom wanted to know if you wanted to eat dinner with us? Since your parents are out and everything.”

“Oh!” You looked genuinely surprised. “I’m sorry, but I’m going out on a date with this guy from the mall. I don’t have his number to cancel or anything.”

“Don’t cancel!” Joshua said hastily, ignoring the frantic and nervous beating of his heart as he thought of you going on a date with someone else. “If you’re going on a date then go! Have fun,” he laughed awkwardly and turned on his heel, marching down the stairs towards his home.

He walked into the kitchen, his stomach turning as he saw his mother’s hopefully face. “Is she coming?”

“No,” Joshua sighed, going to take the chicken out of the oven. “She has a date.”

The two of them agreed not to talk about you any longer, as Mrs. Hong could sense the melancholic tone in her son’s voice. He was a bit hurt, but he wouldn’t mention it as he sat down to eat with his mother.

The two of them sat down and prayed before digging into their light dinner, easy conversation distracting Joshua from his worry about where you might be going and what you might be doing on your date.

The loud honking of a car suddenly jolted the two. Poor Joshua had been drinking water as it happened, and so he accidentally spilt some of it down his thin t-shirt.

“Go see what that is,” Mrs. Hong told him, her eyebrows furrowed in worry that there might’ve been an accident in their neighborhood.

Joshua obeyed and walked over to the window over the sink, dabbing his shirt with a paper towel as he did so. He peered out the window to see a sleek black car in your yard, honking. Suddenly your door opened and you came outside, your hair flying behind you as you ran over to the car.

“It’s her date,” Joshua informed his mom, “He didn’t even ring the doorbell.”

Mrs. Hong rushed over and tutted, shaking her head. “Where’d she pick him up?”

“The mall,” Joshua said spitefully. “What guy picks up girls at the mall anyway?”

Mrs. Hong patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go call it a night?”

“M'kay,” Joshua said softly. “Thanks Mom.”

-

You returned home later and tossed your bag onto your bed. You plopped into your window seat and sighed. Your date had been a jerk, and after flirting with the waitress, he had made you pay for the entire meal (which wasn’t any MacDonald’s by the way). After that, he tried to initiate a make out session in the front seat of his car, to which you politely declined.

You opened your window slightly, hoping to hear some of Joshua’s singing. You wished you had just stood the jerk up and stayed with Joshua and his mom. You were sure that dinner would’ve reaped more benefits than the one you had been on.

You heard the sweet melodies of a Shawn Mendes song, followed by Joshua’s soft voice. ”‘Cause I know I can treat you better than he can, and any girl like you deserves a gentleman…“

You suddenly looked up and met Joshua’s gaze for a second before he finally looked away, still singing.

Had he played that song for you? Did he know that it was a botched date or was the song just a coincidence?

Either way, you grabbed a blanket and curled up in your window seat, letting Joshua’s voice lull you to sleep.

-

The next few weeks were rather quiet, save for Joshua’s nightly songs. Each night was a different love song, and you liked to listen to them as you feel asleep, imagining he was singing to you. It wasn’t like the two of you hadn’t ever talked, but the words were nothing more than greetings from him, and occasionally his friends, when they saw you outside.

Your parents had returned, yet they were still put most of the time, working. You spent the morning cleaning up the house, and had finished well before noon. Out of boredom, you decided to make cookies.

After a few hours, you were surrounded by cookies and cookie dough, your music blaring loudly with whatever random Spotify playlist you had chosen. In your excitement, you hadn’t realized that you had made literally fifteen dozen chocolate chip cookies, and there was no way to eat them all.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of yelling and hollering outside. The boys! You could give them each a dozen to take home and you’d still have two dozen left.

With that decided, you put the cookies in individual ziplock bags and stuffed them all in one of your mother’s oversized grocery bags. You turned off your phone and pocketed it before leaving the house.

The boys were all near the pool again, as they had been since the early morning when you started your chores. With a few steps, you were outside the pool gate, opening the latch and letting yourself into what looked to be an intense chicken-fight competition. There were nine boys standing at the pool edge with their backs to you. They hadn’t noticed your presence, as they were too busy cheering on the four boys in the pool. You snuck beside one of them to see Joshua sitting on the shoulders of the boy you had shot with a Nerf gun just a couple of month ago. His hands were linked with another boy’s, and they both were straining to push the other off.

In the excitement of the other boys’ cheering, you played along. "Go Joshua! Take him down!”

Joshua froze at your voice, allowing the other boy to shove him into the water. Each of the boys turned to look at you, and the one in the pool was the first to speak, “It’s Nerf girl!”

Joshua resurfaced and pushed his bangs off his forehead. “Y/n?”

“Hi, Joshua,” you said with an awkward wave.

The boy you had shot spoke again, “Don’t think you’ve gotten out of the punishment, Shua. Jeonghan won so he gets to flick your forehead.”

All of the boys agreed, and so Joshua and the other three boys pushed themselves out of the pool. Joshua walked over to the towels and quickly wrapped one around his shoulders before making his way towards you. “What are you doing here?”

You shrugged and held up the bag. “I made too many cookie so I thought I would share. There’s a bag for each of you.”

Suddenly, Joshua’s punishment was forgotten as each of the boys scrambled to get their bag of cookies. They each thanked you, but you could hardly reply after seeing their handsome faces up close. When there was only one bag left, you pulled it out and handed it to Joshua with a soft smile. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, Y/n.” Joshua scratched the back of his head, “Do you want to come swimming?”

The thought of Joshua seeing you in your swimsuit made you blush, but it was hot outside and you were bored. “Sure. Let me go get my swimsuit.”

-

Joshua thought his ears were going to absolutely burn from the heat that crept up them. Your bathing suit made you look even more stunning, and Joshua was finding it hard not to stare as you smiled and laughed with the other boys. Everyone was taking a break to eat their cookies, which were no longer separated by dozens, but instead passed around and mixed up until nearly all of them were gone by you and the thirteen hungry boys.

“So, what’s it like living next to our Joshua?” Jeonghan asked you with a smirk as he leaned back into the lawn chair.

Joshua groaned, a cookie in his hand. “Guys… don’t bother her.”

“It’s okay,” you answered Jeonghan, ignoring Joshua’s pleas. “When you guys aren’t waking me up, that is. Actually, when you guys aren’t over at all, it’s quite pleasant.”

Jeonghan rose his eyebrows, “Hear that, Shua? She likes it when you’re the only one home.”

“That’s not what she meant—” Joshua started, but he was quickly cut off by all the boys’ suggestive cooing.

“Leave him alone,” you said, your own cheeks aflame.

Joshua found it endearing that you were sticking up for him. In fact, as the day progressed, and he talked more with you, he felt absolutely enamored with you to the point where he wasn’t sure he could hold it in any longer.

-

After you showered and cleansed all of the chlorine off of your body, you made your way to the window seat. As you dried your hair with a towel, you listened for Joshua’s song through your cracked window, ”Leave this blue neighborhood, never knew loving could hurt this good, oh, and it drives me wild. ‘Cause when you look like that, I’ve never ever wanted to be so bad, oh, it drives me wild. You’re driving me wild, wild, wild…“

The thought that he could be singing to you crossed your mind yet again, and before you could stop yourself, you pushed open your window and hung your head out. "Hey, Joshua!”

Having been staring at his guitar, he jumped when you called his name. The song stopped abruptly, and Joshua turned to see your head out of your window. “Yeah?”

You sent him a smile, “Can I ask you something?”

Joshua opened his own window all the way so he could hear you better. As he retuned his guitar to keep his nervous fingers occupied, he replied, “Shoot.”

“Are you playing those songs for me, or is it just a coincidence?”

Joshua’s eyes widened as he realized that you had caught on to his act. He cleared his throat, “A–Anyway, here’s Wonderwall.”

As he played his new song, he heard your laugh as it echoed across the way. “Joshua, stop! I wanna talk to you!”

Reluctantly, Joshua did stop. “Yeah. Okay, well, I guess I like you but I didn’t actually know how to convey it. I was sort of hoping my songs would charm you into liking me too.”

You smiled brightly, “Oh, they did. Especially those freestyle raps you sang about how much you wanted tacos.”

Joshua laughed nervously. “You heard that?”

“Yeah,” you answered, “It was cute, though.”

Joshua stared at your confident smile for another moment before biting his lip. “Would you like to go on a date with me tomorrow night?”

“I would love to, as long as you’ll keep singing for me. I expect a rap about how much you enjoyed our date as well.”

“You got it,” Joshua said. “Any requests before I head in for the night?”

You hummed in thought before replying, “How about Can’t Help Falling In Love by Elvis?”

Joshua’s cheeks turned pink. “Oh. That’s a good one. Okay. Right. Cool. Let’s go.”

He began to sing, and once again you curled into your window seat, listening to his soft voice conveying not only your feelings, but his own as well.

~the end~

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Can we please have some more "Our story?"

What happens after Claire calls Jamie in “Our story?”

anonymous asked: When will we get a continuation of “Our Story”, this is a really great fic and I can’t wait to discover if Jamie and Claire will finally meet after all these years apart. Thanks to all the writers, you’re each doing a terrific job with your own world and creation. Keep up the great work :)

[December 24th, 2007]

When another deadline flies by, Jamie is flying at 10,000 feet, Boston-bound with a mouthful of pretzels. He can almost see Geordie in his Glasgow office, fat fingers typing misspelled threats into a text: droppING representaton, beach of contract, an etc. etc. dripping with career-ending venom. But no matter. How could anything matter, when the sea is a sheet of blue glass below? When a woman—his woman—is waiting for the sound of his knuckles on the other side of her door?

Later that evening, Jamie’s rental pulls up outside Claire’s home. He does not move from his seat, but waits, wanting to see what fragments of life he can snatch from the trees, the waft of peanut butter from the swaying pinecones. The house is large and painted brick, with a mismatched patch of white above the garage. Roman Column instead of Lily of the Valley. (He imagines a man, Frank, on a ladder; Claire looking up, shielding her frustration from him and the sun). The grass is freshly cut, and Jamie knows that if he wanders to the back, he will find a garden. Marigolds sleeping until spring.

Jamie thinks, with a certain sense of awe, This is the place. This is the place and that is the yard and that is the door. Inside, there is the kitchen where she has eaten breakfast, the table where she’s done her taxes, the mirror that has fogged with her breath when she leans close. (He remembers being that close, once.)

Finally, he gets out of the car.

The slats of thin metal clank when Claire pulls at the blinds. She sees Jamie striding up the pathway, looking as impressive as he does on glossy paper, or in the intricate webbings of her late-night brain. She smooths her curls and her skirt to tame whatever has burst inside her. (Loneliness, that old friend—just a puff of smoke.)

The first thing Claire says when she opens the door is, “You broke your nose.”

There is no intonation at the end, implying doubt, or criticism (“You broke your nose.”). Rather, there is only quiet evidence that Claire has not forgotten, still knows Jamie and the once-sharp bridge of his nose, through and through.

And Jamie, seeing Claire, says, “Aye, and you’ve gone a bit gray.”

Similarly, it is not a question or an insult (he thinks she looks wiser, wants to see what she’d look like in all white), but merely a quiet recognition that time has passed, they are older, and he does not care.

“I’m assuming there’s a story to go with it.”

Claire squints, trying to mine the story from his face. The possibilities: a horse, riled by the teeth of flies. An angry lover, whose palm soars, its heel shoved outwards and up. It’s unsettling, almost, how Claire can only fill these blank spaces with assumptions.

“Aye, there’s always a story,” Jamie says.

With her face pinched this way, Jamie can read the years in the crinkles of her forehead. He sees the spot where the furrow is at its deepest, the place where she probably wonders, “What other parts of you have broken?” He wants to put his lips there, tell her about every splinter and fracture without speaking them aloud. 

Claire’s eyes travel downwards until they sparkle. Apparently, she has found something in the cut of his jaw because she puts a hand to her chin, saying, “I’m going to assume…an unfortunate encounter with a mountain lion? No. A bear. A grizzly. Are there grizzlies in the Highlands?”

“Nay, unless ye count Rupert,” Jamie replies and, as if on cue, a roar comes from a nearby porch. A man staggers towards an idled taxi, all hairy haunches and pale flanks in the streetlight. “Merry Christmas!” he shouts to no one, voice ringing with booze. He draws up when he spots Jamie and Claire across the way, and his lips are spit-shined when he puckers them, cooing, “Now kissssssssssssss!”

Jamie laughs quietly, so that Claire must work to hear it once the engine putters awake. (When she moves a bit closer, she does; decides it is still the best thing she’s ever heard.)

“Well, there appears to be a small population of them in Boston,” she jokes. “Now’s your chance. I’ll hold those flowers while you two go at it.”

Christ, he’d forgotten the flowers. 

“Thank you,” he says, placing them in her arms (the pulse of an old grief when she cradles the roses). “Make sure ye dinna crush them, mind. The woman I’m taking to dinner wouldna appreciate crushed flowers.”

“Better crushed flowers than a crushed date. Not much you can do with that.”  

Whether either of them realizes it, the four feet between them have become one, and if Jamie were to extend his arm, he could wrap it entirely around Claire’s waist. Instead, he jerks his head towards the car, and she follows him.

“But if a ghastly beast did break your nose, I’d love to hear about it.” 

“The story’s not as exciting as all that,” he replies, opening the passenger door, taking an extra second to admire the clumsy way she ducks inside. “Just a rugby match against the Mackenzies.”

“Beasts enough,” she says, once he’s in his seat. “Was it worth it?”

Already, the new-car smell has been replaced by hers: that fertile spring scent, moss and rain and opening flowers. Jamie rubs his nose and wonders if, after all these years, Claire’s green thumb would set it straight by simple touch. Crunch, click, wholeness.

“A broken nose in exchange for Dougal on his arse, doing the splits for all king and country? Worth it, I’d say.” 

“Oof.” Claire cringes. “Think I could die happy without that one.” 

“Aye, there’s a few other things I’d rather see…” Suddenly bold, Jamie lets his words become a suggestion. A flush blooms across Claire’s cheeks as she reaches toward the dashboard. 

“Easy there, lad.” 

Jamie notices how her fingers waver in the air, seem to yearn for the knob of his knee. But Claire freezes, suddenly self-conscious, and only turns the radio dial. When Joni Mitchell sings through the speakers, she hoots, “You’re still listening to this stuff?”

“Always,” he wants to say. 

“Better than what’s on nowadays,” he says instead, tapping the cracked CD case on the consul. “And my iPod broke.” 

“Broken nose, broken iPod…” Claire looks out the window and hums. (What other parts of you have broken?)

It’s as though the music is dragging them from Jamie’s car, pushing them into a crooked Edinburgh flat where a needle crackles and the record spins. The soundtrack of their newlywed bliss, “Blue”—forever playing in tune with the creak of their cot, the groan of the pipes behind their heads. Lying awake at night, they had dreamt aloud of the 70’s—of history—believing they’d both been born late, two souls adrift. (“If you could be anyone, who would you want to be?” they had asked each other. But whatever time or place, the answer was always, “Yours.”)

“So where exactly are you taking me?”

“That’s for me to ken and for you to find out.” 

“I do hope it’s at least remotely interesting,” Claire replies. 

“Jury’s still out. Awaiting yer judgment.”

“Hope you remember I’m a difficult one to please.”

“Not as difficult as ye think,” he says. Another suggestion. Suddenly, Claire remembers bubble wrap and a weightlessness where there was nothing but the flutter between her legs. Jamie remembers her face, gone slack, and her heavy-lidded sighs above him.

“No,” Claire says, “maybe not.” 

And when she smiles, it is just as Jamie remembers (the most beautiful, the best thing). He feels himself wrap and wind, like a red string, around her finger.

Jeanne’s, the place is called, a tiny French joint where a glass of water costs $2 and the tablecloths feel like spider silk. It is a short walk from Jamie’s hotel and a much longer drive to Claire’s home, out in the suburbs. Both of them silently agree to ignore the implications of these distances, shunting away thoughts of alabaster shoulders and muscled calves under a hotel bedspread. 

“So tell me,” Claire says, their meals ordered, “why this place?”

“You have to promise ye won’t laugh.”

“Promise,” she says (though she will giggle halfway through, a teenager’s star crossed giddiness). “I won’t laugh.” 

So this is what Jamie tells her: that he’d once looked up restaurants in Boston, and found this one. That he’d used it as a reference—a stage set in his mind, which he could place Claire easily inside, see her occupy. That, in knowing the menu and the wine list and the painting near the bar, his memory of her could be something more than memory. Something just short of real because there she’d be, ordering from the menu and the wine list, sitting beneath the painting that he’d memorized from the bookmarked Yelp page. (This, Claire understands. It’s why she used to read the articles, why Frank shredding her collection seemed like the greatest theft.)

There’s a synchronicity to their movements as they eat. When Claire reaches for the salt shaker, Jamie’s hand is already there, passing it to her. And when Jamie spills his whisky, Claire is already advancing with a napkin, blushing as she grazes his lap and feels a hardened promise in his trousers. At one point, there is a crumb at the corner of Claire’s mouth, and Jamie does not feel shy about telling her it is there, about flicking it away with his finger (but God, does he wish it was his tongue) when her own cannot seem to find it. 

“There.” 

They talk about everything: Sorcha the horse, the online forum, Laoghaire, Frank. The random moments when they were reminded of each other: a particular slant of light on a penny, a navigation system set to British English. They smile, they laugh, and begin to think that a span of fifteen years is no significant thing. No time at all.

But for all their honesty, they are skirting around the great, fat elephant. It squats in the middle of their table, fattening itself on the bread basket, until it grows too large to ignore. A breathing wall that Claire considers hopping, sticking one brave limb over the edge; testing, testing. Are ye sure about this, Claire? 

Their conversation halts when a fight breaks out beside them. A couple, much younger than they, lips curling with their fists. Everyone—Jamie and Claire included—braces for the smack of a cheek or the slosh of drink, but a waiter intercedes and guides them out. The combatants rush into the night, huffing a trail of hate that only lovers know.

Claire seems to wilt then, her shoulders and eyes lowering. The last bite of coq au vin is left untouched.

“I suppose we should….” She pauses, bullying a lone mushroom onto the table. “We should talk about some things.”

It is then that Jamie realizes what is to come and that—no matter how hard he wishes it wouldn’t—it must. He straightens himself in his chair, gives a noncommittal, “Mmm.” And only after Claire’s lips tremble does he realize his mistake: like so many years ago, he has not said the right words. 

“Ironic,” she says. “You seemed to have a lot to say about it in your books.” 

He stares at his plate. 

“You’re not going to say anything?” 

“Not here, no.”   

“Ever?” 

Jamie’s gaze falls further, to the floor. The hardwood is darker than in the pictures, he thinks. More mahogany than chestnut. Suddenly, he feels betrayed, like his picture-perfect stage was built from rotten planks all along.

When he finally looks up, he sees Claire’s empty chair, spots her back as she spins through the revolving door. 

“Wait!” he shouts (A word! A word!). He slams $100 onto the table and weaves his way to the entrance, rattled nerves rattling wine glasses. Once he’s outside, he finds Claire leaning against the building. Eyes like smothered coals in the full dark. 

“Mo nighean—” 

“Don’t say it,” she barks, so fiercely, that he shuts his mouth. “You don’t get to say that. Not yet.” (He had forgotten her fury, how her tiny body could hold so much of it, wield it carefully or recklessly whenever she wanted.) “You know, I’ve never heard you say her name since that day.”

Jamie thinks his gut has been sliced open. Believes that, if he looked down, he would see his liver, his intestines, his kidneys—a collection of his organs—soaking into the sidewalk. Streams of his blood trickling into five letters. 

No, he hasn’t said it. Can’t.

“Of course I remember,” he grumbles.

“Then what else do you remember?” she asks, but she gives him no time to respond. “Do you remember that morning, Jamie? The half-empty church? The too-full cemetery?” She shakes her head, laughing. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? Because you weren’t there.” 

“How was I to know what to do?” he yells, his own grief-rage pouring out. “I was 23, just a kid!”

“And I was your wife. You know, that person whose side you promise to stand by? But you weren’t standing by me, Jamie. You were in a bloody prison cell.”

“I did it for you. For her! We had no money, and I thought—”

“Which part did you do for us? The prison part? The not being at the funeral part? The let’s-just-make-another-child-and-things-will-be-better part?” 

“Jesus, Mary, and Bride. I’m trying to explain myself so that you can understand, if you’ll only give me the chance.” 

Claire takes a staggering step forwards, drives her index finger into his chest. She cranes her neck to look at him, unafraid. “No, I want you to understand first. I want you to understand what it was like, standing there, surrounded by “Beloved Mothers” and “Devoted Fathers.” All these people who’d lived long enough for that kind of stuff.”

She whirls away again, caught up in memory.

“And the priest, the damn priest! Jamie, he couldn’t even say your name right. Faith Eraser. Like some sick joke. I didn’t know who I hated more. Him, for not being able to pronounce it right. Or you, for having that stupid name.” She pauses, catches her breath so that her words don’t break when they hit the air. “In the end, I remembered: it was you who I hated more. Because at least the priest was there.”

“You’re the one who left. You’re the one who didn’t even try.” 

“I tried. I—” 

“Nay, give me just one second, because I think you’ve got it in yer head that ye somehow own this grief. The grief of—” He swallows. “Of Faith. But ye don’t. Ye werena there when I finally took the crib down, or when I brought all the wee clothes to the charity shop because I couldna look at them. I pretended—Christ—I pretended they were my niece’s because I couldna allow myself to think I had a daughter. That I was ever a father.” 

“You were a father. You still are.” 

“Aye, I ken that now,” he says. “It was too painful, though, at the time. To think of what I had, to remember what I’d lost. And then there were the phone calls, all the questions: Where’s Claire? Is she all right? When is she coming back? The worst of it all, really, because I didna ken the answers. Wasna sure you’d ever come back.”

Claire looks down, but he can see the beads on her lashes, the thin stream flowing down her neck, inside her collar.

“Why did ye leave? How could ye leave?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Back then I thought I did. You couldn’t look at the crib or the clothes? Well I couldn’t’ look at myself, or you, without seeing her. Remembering everything: how she felt, what she smelled like. What it was like to hold my entire heart in my arms, just for a moment, and then watch it break.” 

(She wants to tell him about the butterfly ears and about the sheets—Please, please just to remember—but is afraid of them, even now.)

“The day I came home, she was everywhere—on the walls, in the little flower mobile—and you weren’t. And then when you were, I would look at you and there’d be a split second, just a blink of time, where I’d forget. Because how could she be dead if she was still there, in the bones of your face?” Claire is sobbing now. Streaks of mascara under her eyes and snot from her nose. (Grief: such an ugly, ugly thing.) Jamie steps forward, waiting for her to shrink away, but she doesn’t. Welcomes his arms. “The moment after that—where I remembered again—was more painful than anything else. Y-y’know?” 

“I understand, Sassenach. I do.”

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I—I don’t think I should have left. Jamie, I really shouldn’t have left.”

“I’m sorry too. And I wish you hadn’t.” 

“God, we fucked everything up, didn’t we? Made a real fucking mess.” 

“Aye, perhaps we didna do—or say—the right things. But it’s nothing we canna fix.”

Claire’s laugh is mirthful when she says, “Fix? How can we ever be the same?” 

(Jamie was asked a similar question, years before, in a cabin up in the Grampians. He had doubted it too, then, thinking of nothing more irreparable than a speechless husband, a fleeing wife, and a baby who never cried. But that was long ago and before this night, where he is hugging Claire and feeling a ring beneath her blouse.)

“We can’t, Sassenach—but I dinna want to be the same. I dinna want to make the same mistakes.” His head bows, an oath. “I willna make the same mistakes.” 

“You’re really willing—”

“Yes.” 

“And even though—“

“Yes.”

“Will you stop bloody cutting me off?”

Jamie’s silence. Claire’s pointed look.

“Oh sorry. Wasna sure if ye were going for a dramatic extended pause or no’.”

Jamie grins, and it pulls at the corners of Claire’s mouth.

“You’ll forgive me?” she asks, then. Shy. “And trust me enough to know that I won’t run off? Because that’s what I do, Jamie. I disappear.”

“And I get too quiet, and I dinna say the right things—or anything—when I should. Too prideful, too ashamed.” 

“But you do, eventually. Say the right thing. The perfect thing.” 

“And you come back, Sassenach. Eventually.” Jamie tweaks her chin, brings his forehead to hers. “Can ye no’ see it? You are my courage, and I am your conscience. We canna be whole if yer no’ here to bring the words out of me. If I am no’ here to bring ye home.”

Claire rubs a sleeve across her eyes.

“Bloody writer,” she chokes, and he kisses her. (A second passes where they are 21 and 22 again, two young things dashing through the streets of Edinburgh. All this life ahead of them.) When Claire tries to break apart, he keeps her to him as if wanting, somehow, to fall into her.

“Are you going to write me into your bed tonight?” she asks, breathless.

“Is that a proposition?” 

“Merely the question of a curious reader.” 

“I thought I might drive ye home first and see where the story takes me. Dinna like working from an outline.”

“All right. Spontaneity’s nice. I like a good plot twist.”

“Are ye ready, then?”

Claire reaches for his hand, and he gives it to her. Jamie squeezes, she squeezes back. She leads him toward the car. He follows, holding the keys and her heart. 

“I’m ready,” she says. “Take me home, Jamie.”

(At her doorstep, Jamie will give Claire a Christmas gift: a vase wrapped in old hopes, tied up with a sweater ribbon. Because of this, she will say, “Want to come in?” and will allow him to shuck his shoes on the rug, kiss her in the moon-drenched foyer. It will be immediate—the dissolution of their separate mouths and the resurgence of a familiar knowledge—once Jamie’s shirt parts and Claire’s skirt drops. Blue stripes and liquid gold on the floor.

She will let Jamie lay her down—gentle, so gentle—in front of the fireplace. And Jamie will bend—reverent, so reverent—and lick the pale tributaries of her inner thighs, inching towards the most tender part of her. “Please,” she’ll say, and he will make her say it again.

“Please.”

There are old lines. Ones they will know, remember as a soft curve or a particular bulge of muscle. Theirs to re-meet, reclaim and own.

There are also new lines. They will cut their teeth on them, tasting each other’s now-bonier spines or the looser skin of their upper arms. Jamie’s hands will still be larger—so much larger—than hers, and he will grasp the soft side of her knees, spread, and sink. “God,” Claire will think he says, and then wonder if he’d ever prayed in an empty church. Found some kind of grace in religion, as she had done, during those lonely, intermittent years.

Claire will kiss Jamie’s jawline, remembering that he likes it. Jamie will nip Claire’s neck because he knows it makes her shiver. And they will both be happy when they see that they’ve remembered correctly, that he does, yes, still like it when she kisses his jawline and that she does, yes, still prickle with goosebumps when he nips her neck. Please. God.

Jamie will begin to move faster, pushing Claire up and up until stars fall into her open mouth, then pour out again onto his shoulder. The bite marks there will glisten. 

Not long after, Jamie will follow, the fullest kind of breaking. And this time—oh, oh, oh this time—she will hear his whisper. Not “God” at all, but: 

“Claire.” 

And maybe, she will think, her cheek finding his steadying beat. Maybe this is what God is. The sound of your name in a lover’s mouth. Your face inside his heart.)

[westelfirewing]

A Witch in the Wood

All at once Westel was awake. He hadn’t been ripped from sleep by fear, nor could he pin point any external source for his disturbance. He was simply awake. West rolled to his other side and reached across the expansive bed for his wife. Only cool silk greeted his fumbling fingers.  “Astoreth?”

Squinting through blue-black darkness, West sat up and peered around the room, void of any life save for him. Perhaps that was what had woken him, he reasoned, just Astoreth getting out of bed for some water. He listened for the whisper of her bare feet on the stone floor or the rush of sink water in the adjacent room. 

“Doll?” West called out again. The quiet merely swallowed up his words. Unease settled in his gut. 

A snap of fabric snatched at his attention. He turned to the windows, vast on their wall and wide open, inviting in a column of moonlight and a cool breeze. A particularly forceful gust of wind rustled and snapped at the sheer curtains and for a moment West was able to relax. 

The drapes billowed and its edges at the floor curled as if beckoning West closer, the shifting of fabric almost whispering his name. West found himself standing. Long, silent strides carried him across the room until he stood before the window, curtains curled lightly around his ankles. 

Outside, as inside, was quiet. The Duskflame-Firewing property was generous, but from here, West could see the majority of their land. The stillness coupled with the night created a surreal scene, as if West was peering into another world just slightly different from his own. He leaned forward, fingers gripping the window frame. 

Directly below was the garden, painstakingly planted and cared for by his own hands. He’d only begun to let a hired gardener tend to the flowers when work once again took him from Quel’thalas for weeks, months at a time. What was typically a vibrant scene was muted by nightfall, rendering the normally diverse landscape a monochromatic expanse of blues. Beyond the flowers, toys littered the lawn: dolls, foam weaponry, balls and wooden blocks, all the neglected victims of fickle children and the only signs that when light fell across the yard, there was life. 

Further out, West’s archery training equipment was clear and meticulously clean. Even from the bedroom, he could see the larger targets made for Anais worn and punctured a hundred times over in her practice. 

From the array of targets, his gaze shifted through the darkness along a map laid out in his head. Beyond gardens and toys and training stations, beyond the trees and out of Westel’s sight lay Astoreth’s sanctum. Though he seldom ventured out that way–West could count the times he’d gone down there on one hand–he could picture it clearly. A normal building to a stranger or the untrained eye, the sanctum had extensive barriers and security measures in place. No stranger or child wandering too far from her dolls would find their way inside. And nothing not of their world would find its way out. So Astoreth assured him.

Something disturbed the stillness. Just as West couldn’t pinpoint what had awoken him, he could not say for certain what he’s seen–or sensed, rather. It just was. The unease that had rested in his gut settled higher this time, tightening his chest and quickening his heart. 

“A lynx, probably.” He assured himself. 

West stepped from the window anyway and cross the room to the dresser beside Astoreth’s vanity. Quickly, he pulled on a light pair of pants and reached to the vanity for a hair tie. As West pulled his hair from his face a glimmer of captured moonlight drew his gaze. A pair of rings nestled among bangles and earrings in a small dish winked at him. Astoreth’s rings, he realized, both of which he’d presented to her once kneeling and once standing tall at her side. He studied them a moment longer. 

“Lynxes.” West muttered with a shake to jar himself back into action.

Forgetting the rings, West moved with swift, silent feet through his home’s darkened halls. At his children’s rooms, a pair of doors across the hall from each other, he was once more bid to stop. Normally, West would not be able to pass through this part of the hall without obstacle. By this time of night, a great white wolf typically stood guard against both nightmares and sneaky midnight snacks. 

Ithruiel was nowhere to be found. Even his tell tale tufts of stark white fur were missing. West narrowed his eyes as he peered down the narrow hall. As the passage curved into a corner, what little light that illuminated the area faded into shadow. Westel started towards those shadows but paused once more as if snatched by the collar of his shirt.

Should just check on the kids, he thought.

You’re being paranoid, he reasoned. 

Paranoid won out, if only to ease Westel’s mind. 

He nudged the boys’ door on his right open, then the girls’ to his left. All four were sound asleep, nestled beneath covers tinted blue in the night. Satisfied that at least his children had not vanished like wife and wolf, West moved on through the house, down the lavish staircase and ducked quietly out the back door. 

Once more, West found himself surveying his property through the purple-blue lens of a Quel’thalas midnight. From his window, though, the stillness had a serene quality, but now that Westel was a part of it, the surroundings felt wrong. His head swiveled back and forth as he walked, bare feet on dew dampened ground. It was as if he moved while the rest of the world waited, suspended in anticipation.

West passed through the garden, ears and eyes straining. He barely noticed that as he passed his flowers appeared to wilt. When he did, West figured it a trick of the shadows and moved on. 

Through the garden and beyond his archery targets, West stepped onto a path few knew to be there. It was not paved or lined with stones nor had it been worn down to dirt. A Ranger would recognize it for a path, though, in the way the grass was slightly shorter than the surrounding land and how the trees’ growth patterns were not quite as random as they appeared. 

The map in his head carried West’s feet along the invisible path, weaving between the trees and along spears of moonlight that pierced the leaves overhead. Perhaps, he wondered, Astoreth had come along this way too and with Ithruiel in tow searching for whatever was out here. 

“Lynx.” West reminded himself.

A snarl answered. Not a lynx’s snarl. Something else, something that had Westel wondering why he hadn’t thought to bring his bow and quiver or at least a dagger. Another snarl, closer this time, sent him stumbling backwards, barely managing to catch himself against a tree. West recognized it this time. Prowling somewhere in the dark was a fel hunter. 

A dream, thought Westel frantically. That could be the only explanation. The Burning Legion wasn’t in Quel’thalas. Quel’thalas was safe. 

The fel hunter sniffed and growled, growing closer but still somewhere out of sight. West couldn’t convince himself it was time to wake up. He ran. His feet dug into the grass and soft soil, pushing off with powerful strides. 

Perhaps it was the fear or an illusion of a blue night, but he didn’t feel he was getting anywhere until suddenly he stumbled out into a clearing. The fel hunter’s breath had been hot on the backs of his legs, putrid in the cool air, but when he finally looked back, it was no where to be seen. 

“The fel…?”

West lifted his hands to his head, fingers tangled in the curls had had escaped their tie, while he caught his breath. He turned and the Sanctum loomed directly over him mere paces away. For once, the forbidden building gave off a sense of safety that the forest did not. On shaky legs, West moved around to the front of the building and without a thought, pushed open the heavy, rune-marked door. 

The dim light of just two candles flickered with the breeze that following Westel inside. The flames cast shadows like tendrils across the woman standing across the room.

“Ast?”

Leisurely, Astoreth turned to face her husband. She wore heavy robes of a deep maroon. An ornate dagger hung at her hip.

 “Westel?” She asked, calm, quizzical. “What are you doing down here?”

West turned to gesture outside, but at some point the door had silently closed behind him. “Fel hunter.” He breathed, the panic from moments ago rising back into his throat. He’d left the children back at the house. “Ast there’s a bloody fel hunter out there! The kids–they’re asleep at the house–I left–we gotta go–” Westel reached for the door but Astoreth’s hand stayed him. He blinked in surprise. Surely she’d been farther away than that, but there his wife stood, staring up at him. Her fel-green eyes burned bright against the dim light. 

“Calm down, my love.” Gently she pried his hand from the door. “The children are safe as ever.”

“But–” He protested as Astoreth pulled him further inside. “Seriously, Ast, there’s a demon outside. You–y’don’t think the Legion has infiltrated here? We can’t–not again.”

Still quiet, Astoreth drew Westel close, her slender arms winding around his bare waist. 

“We’re s’posed to be safe here.” West continued, though her touch drew some of the tension from his muscles and he found himself relaxing somewhat in her arms. 

Maybe it wasn’t necessarily Quel’thalas where West felt safe, but with Astoreth. No matter what they faced, Westel had always felt secure so long as he faced it with his wife at his side. As if sensing his thoughts–and of course she did–Astoreth reached up with a delicate hand and cupped his rough, whiskered cheek. 

“Do you trust me, my west wind?”

For that moment, the unease and even the panic left his mind and West managed a small smile. 

“Always.”

Astoreth smiled back at him, her thumb tracing along his cheek bone. Her other hand thrust the cold blade of a dagger into his back. 

Outside a wolf howled and vicious snarls ripped through the quiet air. Something slammed against the door and clawed at the wood. A moment later, West heard another thud and more growls and snarls. A yelp. Silence. 

West clung to the sleeves of Ast’s robe, his legs growing weaker under him. She left the dagger deep in his flesh for the time being and carefully lowered Westel until he rested on his knees. His lower back grew wet and warm. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” she sighed, standing over him. “I should know better than to miss a man’s heart like that. You of all people know that I know where it is.” Astoreth turned from him. A grand flourish of her hand brightened the room, lighting candles both along the walls and lining the floor. 

His vision swam and West strained to maintain a clear view of Ast as she swept across the room, gathering things from shelves. He tried to speak. Blood drowned the words, the questions, and wracked his body with painful coughs. 

“Don’t fight it, West.” Astoreth admonished. “We are on a tight schedule.” 

West fought anyway, blinking hard against the darkness that crept into the edges of his sight and doing his best to remain upright. His thoughts turned frantic, trying desperately to stay above the waves of pain and….poison. The dagger still firmly lodged between his ribs was poisoned. Clumsily, he reached back, fumbling for the hilt. 

Ast made a noise, something between pity and humor. She stooped beside him and slowly withdrew the blade. West gasped as it tore through flesh and tissue all over again. The warlock leaned close so that her lips brushed the shell of his ear as she whispered his name–his name West realized in a panic. 

“Do not fight it,” she said again, standing over Westel once more. 

Between magic and poison, West couldn’t keep up his resistance. At once his muscles gave out and his body crumpled on the cool stone floor. He lay, spread eagle, in the middle of the sanctum, head lolled to one side so that only a candle filled his clouded vision. Painful coughs wracked his body. Thick bitterness filled his mouth. 

“A bit messier than I would have expected of you, Lady Duskflame.” Said a voice. 

West watched the candle’s flame stretch higher. 

“These things are never as clean as one would like.” Said another. 

He focused in on Astoreth’s soft hum of agreement. She was still close. West tried to move his hand, demanded that the muscles work just long enough so that he could find her. He lay still. Pearls of wax rolled slow down the taper. 

Maybe it wasn’t her, West found himself thinking. The demon outside–the Burning Legion–here. Maybe she was safe back inside with the kids. 

A hand, small and soft like hers, rested flat against his sternum. Something cold followed, resting lightly between his collar bones. West found a last burst of energy and moved his head just enough to see above him. 

It was her. Astoreth looked at him and smiled, a small quirk of her lips that had always been difficult to read. West’s muscles tired and his head fell to the side once more. The candle burned brighter. A drop of wax hardened, frozen in its tracks. Astoreth carved into his chest.

And all at once, Westel was awake. Without a thought he reached for his chest, leather clad and intact. He turned, reaching instinctively for Astoreth and his fingers found cold metal. Cearalaith sprawled beside him, half propped against the cavern wall of their latest shelter. They were in Azsuna, he recalled with some relief. West’s hand rested a moment on her plate legging as he watched her sleep, undisturbed apparently by his dreams or her own. 

“Firewing?” 

The voice, still unfamiliar, startled him. West’s head snapped to the side. Across from him, sitting beside the dying embers of their fire, the Illidari sat. Rogue wisps of auburn hair fell across her blindfold as her head canted just slightly in his direction, ears perked. 

“Sorry,” he murmured. Frowning, West sat up and stared across at Celeren. Didn’t she ever sleep? He wracked his brain for any moment that he could recall seeing her sleep in the past days. He could think of none off the top of his head. 

“It’s fine,” Celeren whispered in return. “We all have troubling dreams.” Her hand slipped into a pocket on her belt and she tossed something across the glowing embers at him. 

Too slow to catch it, West looked down at the small parcel that landed in his lap. Unwrapping it, he saw a small handful of chopped, bright orange mushrooms. 

“Just a small bite,” advised Celeren before going on to explain, “Bogblossom. Better in a tea…but dried like this will do the trick. Just stronger. But it will help.” 

Westel recognized the fungus now, the name pulling up old survival knowledge like an aged encyclopedia had been pulled from a shelf in his mind. He plucked up a bite sized piece of Bogblossom, tied the rest up carefully, and tossed them back to the demon hunter. He popped the orange piece in his mouth, surprised at its pleasant taste as he chewed. 

“…and what do you dream about?” Asked West, leaning back against the stone. 

Celeren chuckled softly. “I’ll tell you another night, perhaps, Captain Firewing. Sleep, for now.” 

He frowned and intended to press further, but already the Bogblossom was doing its work and he did not feel so inclined to fight against the coming sleep. Instead he slumped against the paladin beside him and felt her head gently rest atop his

————————

@easierbythree for mentions. 

[opaloremerald]

Chapter Six

I stared at Emilie from the Cinta table. It had been a full week since she had had the fever and ran away to the secret room.

             Emilie laughed, her hair falling in a black waterfall across her back. Her jewel-green eyes flashed as she ate her waffles. She is the exact opposite of Skylar. Mellow, middle class, a dark beauty. Luck nudged my arm, breaking me out of my daydream.

             “You got the hots for the Intercental shark?” he said, a smile on his tone. I flicked his head, taking down a gulp of my orange juice. Luck took that as a sign to change the subject, “You going to the village tonight?”

             “Yes, and isn’t it more of a town than a village? We went by it in the car,” I touched my wand, which was hidden in it’s little slit in my suit-jacket sleeve. I gave a little cough and felt the flat cat’s eye under my teeth shift ever so slightly to remind me that it was there.

             That was one reason that I didn’t like cat’s eyes. They were rough and always wanted to be recognized for the little work they did. The semi-valuable jewel barely made any liquid flame, though it was the only gem that could produce it.

             “To humans, the difference between a town and a village is the amount of people in it, to magic folk, it’s gaged by the amount of magic coursing through it. The place just a bit away is in fact a town to humans and a village to magic folk,” Jake said, referring to gargoyles, Elves, Mer, Dwarves, Goblins, fæs, dragons, and—I thought of that poor thing with the emerald I gave her—animas. Animas weren’t considered witches or wizards. Dragons were regarded with caution, but they were considered equal with humans.

             The headmistress, Headmistress Christopher, rose from her seat in the middle of the row of teachers. Her hair floated above her in an intricate cloud, with ribbons of fire or water or ice wherever you looked. The effect was hypnotizing.

             “Now I understand today is the first day off since Sunday, but I want to set some ground rules for our year ones and new guests,” she gave a flourishing wave in the general direction of me and my friends, “One: you cannot spend your days inside; At least six hours have to be spent outside a day. Two: homework is allowed, but not required. Studious people are important, but there is much more to life than your educations. Three: don’t do anything your upperclassmen wouldn’t.” At the last rule she gave a wink, obviously knowing what the students of Serpentine did when the other teachers weren’t looking.

After she finished her other announcements, the girls started to filter out. I saw Emilie slip into a niche in the back corner of the Dining hall, checking around her to see if anyone was following. I furrowed my eyebrows, meaning to tail her, but Luck seized my arm and pulled me away.

I frowned at him as we left the room, “What was that for?”

“Dragging you away from a bad idea, dude,” Luck led me up the staircase, “We have’ta change outta these fancy monkey suits if we want to fit in at that town. You do have casual clothes, don’t you? And one of those Jevos said to wear sturdy clothes because there’s a stable you can go horseback riding from.”

I sighed and summoned my map with a simple flourish of my hand, looking over the grounds section. I planted my finger on a building. “Serpentine Academy has stables, too.”

Luck laughed as I let Jake pour over the parchment, “But doesn’t it add a little more flair to do it in a forbidden place?”

I rolled my eyes, but agreed with my friend in that statement. My mother and father had always told me not to hoard gems until I was older, or try to breathe flame until my chemicals settled, but I had started to do so, not telling my parents and relishing in the feeling that they were wrong.

We arrived at our dorm room and changed into our human clothes, mine being jeans and a long-sleeved tee. I shoved a ball cap on my head and tapped my work-boot clad foot impatiently. “Luck! It doesn’t take this long for me or Jake to do our hair!”

The said boy was next to me, sniggering as he tried to flip his wand over his knuckles. I had seen Emilie do that all the time in classes. I wondered if it was her tic, something that she had always done. I had also seen her tapping her wand against her leg or a table, maybe it was something a dear friend or sibling had taught her. Or maybe I was reading to far between the lines.

I clicked my tongue, making sparks as I waited for one of my best friends to come out of the bathroom.

“The reason,” Luck said, coming out of the doorway and striking a pose, “is that not everyone has perfect I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-hair like you do.”

I whacked him over the head and started out the door. Luck was paused by the far window in our room, and I was about to yell at him to get on, but he beckoned me over. Luck pointed out the window and I sidled up next to him.

“Someone’s cocky,” he announced. Emilie was on a grey dappled horse, riding to the village. She bounced on the bare back of the mare and clutched her mane. My gaze was glued on the sight until Jake broke me from my trance.

“Speaking of cocky, we need to get to the village before we’re caught in our civvies,” He said and I drew up to my full height, a few inches taller than Luck. I nodded, brushing my hand over my wand in my back pocket.

“How far away is it from the academy? We might need to take horses too,” I said as I left the room, trying to forget how pretty Emilie’s hair had looked as she sprinted off of campus. Jake waved his hand in the air in a kinda-sorta way. I sighed.

             The stables were hidden away about one hundred yards into the west forest. Strangely, three horses were already tacked up and ready to go, a note on each bridle saying their name and that they were free to be ridden anywhere. I raised an eyebrow, but relished the feeling of warmth around me. It was a relatively cold day, but the sudden fall snow that had fallen last week was melted. The air outside the barn was fresh and crisp, perfect for riding. I took the reigns of a chestnut paint with buckskin splotches named Butter and led him out.

             I stuck my foot into the stirrup and hefted myself upwards. Horseback riding was one of the only things that my father let me do on our extensive property in Wales. I relished my time on my own horse, Fyre, who was a jumper. I squeezed my feet around Butter gently, getting him to start in on a walk.

  ��          Luck trotted out on a black mare with a star on her head and Jake came with a brown quarter horse. I gave a smirk to them. “You wanna race?”  

             Luck agreed immediately, but Jake took a little coaxing. His mother, who was very protective, never let him get on anything without a helmet on. Eventually he came around and maneuvered his horse, Fred, into racing position. I leaned down onto Butter and, as I called go, kicked him into action.

             I could see why they named him Butter; the horse’s moves were smooth and quick, soon leaving the others in the dust. I dipped my head, trying to keep my hat on as I thundered down the path down to the village.

             Somebody crouching down on the side of the road piqued my interest. Their hair was held up in one hand as they inspected something on the ground. The person had a notebook on one knee and occasionally referenced in it or wrote down something. I passed the person quickly with a slight dip of my hat.

             I beat both Luck and Jake to the village by a long shot. There were girls in groups around the town, but none of them talked to him or his friends. They seemed hands off and/or indifferent to us boys, mostly because we were in the Take of Cinta, which no one seemed to like.

             I dropped Butter off at the stables with a pat and reassuring words that I would come back soon. I saw the dappled grey that Emilie had been riding bareback digging her nose into a bag of oats. That meant she was in town, too. I wonder if her friends were here and if that was the only reason she came.

             I walked around the village, entering shops and smiling at the town girls. Giggles followed me everywhere and they increased when Luck and Jake joined me. We entered a leatherworking store and glimpsed a flash of a whitewash blonde head, a long and snakelike braid, and a waterfall of black hair.

             Emilie. I hadn’t talked to her since she escaped down the secret tunnel. I wondered if she was avoiding me. But why would she do that? Would she mind if I just came up next to her at a random store? Luck walked ahead of me, smirking at my indecision.

             “Hey girls!” the thin, transparent girl didn’t turn, and neither did the imposing one with the braid, but Emilie whipped around, her eyes widening at the sight of them. She turned back around immediately, but I saw the markings on her face.

             Two thin triangles underneath each eye. I tilted my head. Had she gotten a tattoo? Those weren’t allowed at Serpentine and she could get expelled if the headmistress thought it necessary.

             Emilie ducked her head as we came towards her group. The thin girl looked up at her with concern, but kept her conversation with the man behind the table ongoing. It looked as if she was buying something. Three bracelets were set out on a velvet stand and the man picked each up and examined them carefully.

             “Yes, these will do quite nicely with the other pieces we have here—adding that feminine touch, I see,” The man said as we came up to the counter, he glanced up as he put the bracelets underneath the glass, “What can I help you with, chaps?”

             Luck started to open his mouth, but I stopped him before he could make a comment about me staring at the back of Emilie’s head a minute before. “We heard you had some cool stuff and wanted to check it out”

             The man nodded, “Well, my name’s Levi, and I can’t help you as of now because I have to log in Ms. Smith’s items, but Emilie can help you. She’s got a part-time job here and needs to get in her hours this year.”

             Emilie stuck her tongue out at Levi, but hopped up over the counter and slid behind it anyway. Her head came up, green eyes flashing, “What would you like?”

             How had I not noticed how well she hid her French accent? “I dunno, maybe a bracelet or something.”

             I glanced beside me and saw Luck and Jake talking to Levi, the traitors. The sound of the glass top of the counter brought me back to looking at Emilie. Her green eyes were tilted up at me skeptically, but I looked down at the leather pieces she had set out for me. There was a thick leather cuff with a band of braided, thinner leather imbedded in the center, a round-braided one, and one with an emerald in the center. I fingered the emerald, thinking about how I gave the chipped gem to that poor anima, but set it aside. I still preferred opals. I looked at Emilie. Why is she so intriguing to me? I don’t even like her looks or her personality. No. She doesn’t like me either. She’s been avoiding me for the past week.

             I smiled at Emilie and said I didn’t want to buy any of them. I made my way over to Luck as she slid over the counter and said goodbye Levi. The thin blonde and imposing tall one both bid the man adieu and followed her out.

             “Come back again,” Levi called to us as we exited behind her. Emilie touched the tattoos on her face and winced as we passed her to get into the street.

             “What are they?” the thin girl asked quietly, not knowing I could hear her.

Emilie sighed, “Meré says its normal for a—”

She was cut off by a sharp yell. A man with long red hair was pointing at Emilie and her eyes grew wide with the attention the action brought. Everyone had eyes on either her or the red-haired man. My own gaze darted between them.

“Quel?” Emilie asked in shuddering French. The man narrowed his eyes.

“I know your kind. You can speak all kinds languages, don’t play dumb,” the redhead growled, stalking up to her. The witch’s small frame shrunk underneath the man’s imposing height and she didn’t meet his eyes. This was an Emilie that I had never seen before. She was—scared?

             “Je ne sais pas ce que vous entendez,” she said frantically, waving her hands, “je le promets!”

             The man raised up a hand and struck Emilie across her face. She visibly shook, but no one moved to help her, they all seemed frozen in place, not even breathing. I moved to stop the man, though it took all of my strength. As he lifted up his hand to hit Emilie again I grabbed his shoulder with my hand and wrapped my other arm around her.