#I expect her to take a decent break between the end of tour and whatever is next

[kingofmyborrowedheart]

Why do I feel like the next era is coming sooner than I expect?

[downtonabbeyrevisited]

Season Two Episode Three

Conversion of the Abbey into a convalescent home for Officers is underway, ushering in a territorial battle that at times makes what is going on on the other side of the channel look like a mere scuffle. With the chain of command yet to be set, the floor is open for some of the best Isobel v. Cora v. Violet action that Downton has to offer. However, Isobel’s hostile takeover is slowed by a combination of O’Brien’s Machiavellian urges and Robert’s love of hierarchy. O’Brien tees up Thomas to take charge of Downton and coaxes him into the fray as he leans on an archway smoking his way into a wide variety of lung problems in later life. In an almost implausible about face (the key word for King Julian here is almost), Robert, Major Clarkson and Carson agree that Corpral Barrow is now trustworthy(ish), should be bumped up to the rank of Acting Sargent and be allowed to use the front door (although Carson remains unsure about the last bit). With Thomas in place and Major Clarkson at the hospital, Robert is on the hunt for another “tier” having looked at this microcosm of society and decided that there was not enough division. Evelyn Napier’s request to stay at Downton prompts Major Clarkson to enact border controls that would make Priti Patel look on in envy and neatly demonstrates the bind in which the Crawleys now find themselves. It is perhaps fitting, if predicable, that by the end of the episode Isobel and Cora are to share responsibility for Downton in what will remain the worst coalition of all time until 2015 when Cadbury will get together with Vegemite. Look it up. Trust me, it was rank. 

Having an equally tense episode is Lavina who, fresh from behind manhandled behind the laurels, is now under Rosamund’s microscope with Violet declaring her to be an object to be removed which is a bit harsh even for her. It is rumoured that Lavinia stole secrets from her Uncle for Richard Carlisle to publish as part of his uncovering of the Marconi Scandal, a historical event whose name is said loudly and clearly at least three times so that we can all Google it in the ad-break. Sensing a potential weakness, the Crawley women (who I am resisting the urge to call Robert’s Angels) dig deeper as Mary hunts out Lavinia to give her the third degree. Lavinia admits that she did start the uncovering of the scandal but not in the pursuit of a transparent and accountable government. Instead it was to save her father from financial ruin. And all of her sudden, in exposing corruption and hypocrisy just to save her own skin she has gone from being a Department of Health and Social Care security guard to Dominic Cummings. 

Violet’s concerns about the potential carnage that mixing ranks could let loose are not unfounded as Major Bryant confuses the Abbey with the Villa and Ethel takes one look at him and thinks “He’s a little bit of me”. Sadly/fortunately Ethel’s tucking in of Major Bryant’s blankets is halted by Mrs Hughes before Laura Whitmore can ask everyone to gather around the fire pit. 

Apparently more romantically reticent than Bryant is Bates, who has taken to hiding behind a tree in the Village on Wednesdays just to catch a glimpse of Anna, demonstrating a behaviour pattern that does not throw up any red flags at all. Richard Carlises’ network of spies find him in a pub in Kirkbymoorside which Anna describes as “odd” despite the fact that of all the things he has done (or is about to do) in this episode, let alone the Downton Abbey canon as a whole, this is definitely the most sensible decision he has made. It means he does not have to navigate the staircases that formed a fair amount of his plot in the previous season for a start. Rather than leave him be, Anna takes an alarmingly shiny bus to an almost forensically clean pub where she orders what turns out to be a very horrific looking glass of cider from an eternally conflicted Bates. Bates tells Anna his plan to divorce Vera and declares that he does not care about gender discrimination in the law. In return Anna shows off her attempt at using this week’s bit of new technology, the curling iron. Asked for his opinion, Bates replies that he would love Anna “however, whatever, wherever”, cleverly avoiding the question in a way that simultaneously shows the depth of his amour but also indicates that he thinks it’s hideous. 

Edith finds herself lacking purpose and direction like most people in their mid-twenties. Sybil, the annoying over-achieving younger sibling, tells her to work out what she is good at which turns out to be being a scribe, and getting books and carcinogenic substances for Officers. Edith’s quiet industry enables her to gain a good working knowledge of all the key protagonists on General Strutt’s tour which earns her a toast at Lunch. For Edith, this is the equivalent of getting an M.B.E. 

Another character looking to take advantage of General Strutt’s sojourn is Branson whose plans to be a conscientious objector are scuppered by a heart murmur. His flair for the dramatic takes him to the courtyard of deceit (a location looking to form an alliance with the tree of emotional conflict and the platform of romantic uncertainty) where he polishes headlamps and gathers intel about the impending visit. The lack of footmen leaves an opening for Branson to cause if not the downfall, certainly the minor humiliation, of the British Army. A cryptic “forgive me” note prompts some some Blair Witch style camera work to underline the sense of urgency as Anna pelts it downstairs. The costume department breathe a sigh of relief as Branson manhandled out of the dining room before he can upend a rather creative concoction which invites the question, how did he get so much ink? 

As William shows off his uniform, Daisy, coached by Mrs Patmore, continues to lead him up the garden path. William admits he is nervous about the prospect of facing the brutal reality of World War One and Mrs Patmore gently weeps across the table bringing her episode:crying ratio up pretty high even for something on a Sunday evening on ITV. Luckily, there is an opening for William to become Matthew’s solider servant which is good news for William and the budget as the exact same section of trench can continue to be used for both characters. Before he leaves, William proposes to Daisy and, naturally, Mrs Patmore accepts. Daisy’s “go on then” is hardly the most ringing of endorsements and her face resembling that of a rabbit who has taken a wrong turn and finds themselves on the fringes of the M4 cannot be reasonably described as elated. Daisy does manage to gather herself to delay the now inevitable wedding and so becomes possibly the only person in Britain who was not hoping for it to be all over by Christmas. 

Lang and his ever present mournful violin accompaniment continue to have a rough time of it. He repays Mrs Patmore’s kindness by outing Archie to the rest of the servants, causing her to leave the room in abject misery. But this reaction could also have been caused by the prospect of a mistimed crumble. It’s difficult to tell. Lang’s nightmare enables the women to bust through the hitherto impenetrable divide between the male and female staff quarters and it is clear that his days at Downton are numbered. Lang collapses as the General and his entourage retreat and his use as a plot device in this very much smoothed over view of the past is at its end. He is dismissed with a decent wage package and a good reference and is never to be spoken of again. 

Romantic declaration of the moment 

William and Daisy do not get this one as this is a coercion free zone. Instead Mary and Matthew get it. Matthew being back at Downton gives Mary the chance to stare at him longingly across a room but it is her decision not to rat out Lavinia as a reluctant whistleblower that earns their spot here. Only an almost unfathomable amount of love would make Mary place Matthew’s happiness above her own. 

Expressive eyebrow of the week 

Regular winner Carson claims the prize again this week. His blind fury at Branson’s then presumed to be assassination attempt is glorious. 

Wait, what? 

“Marmaduke was not a rough diamond” No-one called Marmaduke can be called rough anything. Sort of reminds me of a picture my brother showed me of his then partner’s friends when they were younger spelling out the name of their public school boarding house in gangster sign language. Zero self-awareness. 

“Acting Sargent I believe” Aloe standing by. 

“The bastard had it coming” I think I need to revise my previous curse word estimate. 

No particular quote for this bit but Branson delivering news from Russia made him seem like a man who had read the headline and maybe the first paragraph (at a push) of an article and is now holding forth on the topic, ready to take on anyone with a P.h.D in the matter. I do like Branson but increasingly it’s when he shuts up. 

The least believable bit of this whole episode was Isis being completely unbothered by an incoming pingpong ball. I once stayed in a friend’s house where an absolute catastrophe was disguising itself as a dog. She would eye up the limes on the sideboard expecting them to vault across the room. When any even vaguely spherical object did achieve airspeed velocity, she would lose it. And I mean lose it. 

General Strutt’s tour of Downton has an air of a politician doing a ward round. Should you yourself fear an encounter with our current premiere, you can pick up one of these cards from the News From Nowhere bookshop in Liverpool (other retailers may be available but this is the only place I have seen them). 

[loupettes]

I needed a little break from writing doomsday, and this came out today instead. I hope you enjoy some Nine/Rose fluff!

H I R A E T H

SUMMARY: Nine/Rose. After leaving the Doctor alone in his grief, Rose is still upset over what happened that day he left her and Mickey on that spaceship for Reinette. She goes to find him and confront him and her feelings, but runs into somebody she could never have imagined to instead.

TAGS: fluff, hurt//comfort, romance, missing scene

Read on AO3: hiraeth

***

They sat, Rose and Mickey, at the table in the kitchen, both sipping their tea now in silence. The tour of the TARDIS had been short to say the least, mostly because she couldn’t really focus on much else other than the love of her life having fallen in love with somebody else within the space of half a day, maximum.

She shuddered, and scrunched her nose to finish the last of her tea. Well, not the last; she still had a fair bit left, but it had gone cold and just tasted a bit like sewage water at that point, so she didn’t particularly see the appeal in spending any longer pretending it was still a decent cup of tea.

Funny, she thought. My life now resembles a cup of tea.

***

They sat, Rose and Mickey, at the table in the kitchen, both sipping their tea now in silence. The tour of the TARDIS had been short to say the least, mostly because she couldn’t really focus on much else other than the love of her life having fallen in love with somebody else within the space of half a day, maximum.

She shuddered, and scrunched her nose to finish the last of her tea. Well, not the last; she still had a fair bit left, but it had gone cold and just tasted a bit like sewage water at that point, so she didn’t particularly see the appeal in spending any longer pretending it was still a decent cup of tea.

Funny, she thought. My life now resembles a cup of tea.

She managed to not raise suspicion from the man opposite her when she sighed, but when her cup hit the table a little more forcibly than she had intended, Mickey raised his eyebrow.

“Take it it’s still not a good time to ask?”

Rose threw him a glare; she was still quite irritated by his smug-but-trying-to-hide-it expression. “No, it isn’t.”

His brow pinched, and for a moment he looked sorry for her. Not in a pitiful way, but in a... sorry kind of way — except, he wasn’t the one who should be sorry. He opened his mouth to say something, then decided against it.

“M’ gonna go for a walk,” she mumbled, the chair grazing loudly across the floor as she forced herself to her feet.

Mickey again looked as though he might say something, but again, thought better of it. But Rose was just irritated enough to ask,

“What?”

“Just… don’t go looking for him, okay?” he tried. “Give the man some space.”

Rose grunted. “He can have all the bloody space he wants.”

And with that, she left the kitchen. She was exhausted to recognise her feet were, unsurprisingly, steering her towards the control room, and she could feel with every step how regretful she was about to be if she reached that room. So she pulled every last piece of willpower she had left to stop in her tracks and think.

Should she go and talk to him? She folded her arms and chewed the inside of her cheek in deliberation. She was torn, because she wanted so desperately to talk to him — her friend above all else after all — but he had so horribly hurt her today that she was in half a mind to storm out of this TARDIS for good. She tried, she really did, to feel for him, and she took a step out of her own mind for just one moment to consider he had just lost somebody close to him. Even if her heart was breaking, it was at that thought that they shattered completely.

This was ridiculous, she thought, as her feet once more began to take her to the control room. He quite clearly wanted space, and Mickey only confirmed so much with his Manly Suspicions — seeing you right now isn’t going to make him feel any better.

She grunted, and her steps had a little more purpose to them now. Because it was so horrible to be the last person he wanted to see. He had never, not in their entire time together, been one to regret her presence, to make her feel like she was unwanted even just in a moment of grief.

Calm down, she thought, as she knew she was nearing the control room. The only thing that would make this a thousand times worse is if you burst into the control room in righteous rage.

So, she deliberately slowed down her pace as she wondered just exactly which approach she was going to take. But she found that, the closer she got to the control room, the less control she had over her intentions. So her footing sped up once more, and her heart pounded in her chest as she reached the control room.

She was more than disorientated, then, when the last person she expected to see was now standing in the exact same place as he was when she left him.

“Wha—”

He looked up at her with a frown, a frown she hadn’t seen in oh so many months, and she felt her heart sink to see that daft old, gorgeous, face. For a moment, she forgot that this was completely impossible, being so used to it these days after all, and her breath caught in her throat to see that terribly dusty old leather jacket, those baggy black scruffy trousers that seemed far too big for him and those eyes, good god those eyes were so bloody beautiful that she almost cried there and then to see them once more.

Those eyes that were currently looking back at her in utter bewilderment.

She shook her head and herself back to her senses. The Doctor quickly looked at the door at the end of the ramp and distractedly pointed to it, looking back at her once more in disarray. “What you doin’ there?”

His familiar yet somehow unexpected Northern accent seemed most alerting to her, and sparked the return of her own puzzlement.

“What are you doin’ there?”

“I just— you were— you said—” he stuttered, looking back and forth between her and the door. He seemed to only look to her for an explanation, which baffled her, because she was hoping he would explain. The two stared at each other in complete perplexity for a minute at least, before Rose was first to break the silence.

“This a trick?”

He blinked. “What?”

“This. You, here. The TARDIS trickin’ me or somethin’?”

“Why on Earth would the TARDIS be tricking you?”

“I dunno,” she shrugged, folding her arms and resting her weight on one leg. “‘Cos you were a right knob today and maybe she thought I wouldn’t strangle you if you looked like that.”

He was surely stupefied by the force of her words. “Bloody hell, I saved your life today and that’s how you thank me?”

Her mouth hung agape at that, and she quickly scanned her memories today and confirmed, very quickly, that he had in fact not saved her life at any point today. Not even when he stumbled into her’s and Mickey’s capture, drunk, and toyed with the droids for a bit while they held a rather sharp blade to her throat before pouring whatever was left of his wine onto their heads; she was still too furious to consider that ‘saving her life’.

“Oh, please,” she scoffed incredulously, “Do tell me at what point today you so valiantly came to my aid.”

He echoed her scoff. “I said thank you—”

“You did not you little liar!”

“Bloody hell, you’re a lot snappier than you were five minutes ago!”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t even here five minutes ago—”

“Which reminds me, what are you doing here?”

Her eyes narrowed at him; quite clearly, they were going to go round in circles asking questions unless one of them tried to at least figure it out. She took a deep breath, and spoke aloud her thought process. “Right. So, obviously we’re not talking about the same thing, unless you experienced today completely differently to me — which actually might explain your behaviour—” she stopped when she felt her spine pricking with heat, and shook her head “— never mind. And unless the TARDIS is playing tricks on me, and you’re still, well, you, then we’re not — this isn’t—”

She sighed in frustration, still trying to understand the concept of time being relative — whatever that means. The Doctor seemed only to understand her, and he nodded slowly.

“I’m going to go out on a limb here and say I didn’t just offer you to come with me, did I?”

Her heart sank; of all the emotions she was feeling, of all the frustration at being in a situation unknown, of having her first reaction to a man she missed with everything she had being bewilderment over the absolute love she normally had to see his face, her only response was to breathe a very unsteady and deeply sorrowful,

“No.”

He nodded, again slowly. “But— and I’m losing my other leg to this one now— I’m assuming you, at one point, in fact, do end up coming with me?"

Her lips pulled tight as she fought back against saying or indicating anything that might trigger some sort of paradox at having run into a previous him and altering their future, and she sort of expected she might spontaneously vanish at any moment. Her lack of response must have affirmed his question, and his eyes grew wide.

“Crikey. Right then.”

“I should—“ she started, pointing behind her to the door but not really able to move there just yet “— I should probably, erm…”

He looked back at her for a moment, his brow still drawn in concern, before he gave her the smallest, yet still most warm smile that simply melted her.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he whispered.

The relief she felt swept over her in a blanket so comforting that her feet all too easily took her to him, and she blurted, “You have no idea how much I needed to hear you say that.”

He grinned the most terribly beautiful toofy grin, but she didn't process in enough time — or care too much to do anything about — the look of slight panic when she practically tumbled into his arms, into a hold so comforting that she let out a small sob. She felt the relief, her whole body lightening and untightening to feel him, less skinny and tall and against the ever so soft fabric of a jumper rather than an oxford. She wished she could have seemed a little less desperate as she clung to him while he awkwardly — but sincerely — held her in return, but just having him there, against everything she understood to be possible, was the only thing she could possibly need right now and she felt alleviated.

“I’m probably breaking about eight hundred laws here but I literally don’t care anymore,” she mumbled, only half-jokingly, into his jumper, “You left me on a spaceship three thousand years into the future so you can fix it.”

“Oi!” he snapped, and she was relieved to hear he wasn’t actually annoyed. “I haven’t done anythin’, remember?”

She nodded. “You’re right, he can fix it.”

The Doctor had always known how to read her, even if she sometimes thought he didn’t. Even after little more than a day of having known her, to this him here now, he recognised her belligerence and only seemed to find it bemusing.

“You’ve got a lot of faith in him then, if you can think he can fix anything.”

She sighed deeply into his jumper, against the sounds of his steady hearts beneath her ear that sounded different somehow, like they weren’t quite hers yet even if they were beating for her now.

“I really miss you.”

The truth in her voice sounded, even to her, so very pained. She wondered what he must be thinking, why this woman whom had only just turned him down now clung to him in the most ridiculous of ways, close to tears as she told him she missed him. But he didn’t ask questions, instead he only felt it, straight away, by the way his arms ever so slightly tightened around her to more resemble a hug she knew was only hers, and one only he could give her. But she could feel him awkward beneath her nonetheless, and ever so regretfully she pulled away, but not quite able to stop herself from reaching her palm to touch the side of his face as she took him in. All those hardened edges, that stubble and those lips and slightly wonky nose.

“Oh, we’re— okay, so there’s an awful lot of touching between us in the future,” he remarked.

She giggled, and drew her palm away to sit on the jumpseat, patting the spot next to her. “Well, yes, I think we can say that—” she frowned, and stopped herself “—wait, can I say that?”

She looked to him for confirmation, and he shrugged. “Tell you what, if you start to fade out of existence, I’ll let you know, as long as you do the same for me. Deal?”

She chuckled, and shook the hand he had held out to her. “Deal.”

He sat down next to her, pinching his trousers and shuffling about to settle in a little more comfortably. She was relieved to know she hadn’t forgotten a single thing about him, which meant that she knew he was feeling most blindsided by her spontaneous and unprecedented visit, displaying a lot more familiarity with him than he, at that moment, had with her. For whatever reason, and she thinks she knows what, he was, for the time being at least, comfortable with putting aside his own reservations about the implications this might have on time and space if it meant that she could find comfort herself.

She gave him a shy grin. “So I turned you down then, hmm?”

“Great,” he tutted. “Nice to know it was me you said no to, and not the flying-through-space bit.”

She nudged herself to the side to bump his shoulder and chuckled. “Well, I’m here now, so you must have done something right.”

“Oh, I don’t know. From the sounds of it, I haven’t done anything right today.”

It was a suggestion, an invitation to continue, if she wanted to.

The sinking of her heart at the reminder of her today was terrible. So terrible, in fact, that she couldn’t find her words, and only shook her head sadly in response. The soft sound of his leather jacket as his chest rose and fell to his sigh somehow made it all that much harder. When he started to awkwardly pick at the stray cotton string poking out at the knee of his trousers, she managed to find her smile.

“Mention the time bit,” she whispered, turning to look at him, and he looked back at her with his eyebrow ever so slightly raised. “That’s what does it for me, in the end.”

He chastised himself, “I didn’t— I didn’t mention the bloody time bit— well, no wonder you said no.”

“You completely messed up with that one,” she chuckled, closing her eyes to the deep and flat way he said ‘wonder’, and continued, “Actually, know what else you messed up with?”

“Wish I hadn’t bloody offered to stay and listen, now—”

“The regeneration thing,” she scoffed. “Didn’t want to mention that that happens at any point, no?”

“Regenerat— bloody hell, I’m being confronted by a lot of my future in one sitting.”

Her eyes widened at that, perhaps having gone too far, but he grinned.

“Na, it’s alright," he assured her in response. "Promise. I’m not so unused to running into myself in the future, I know how this works, don’t worry.”

Her lips curled into a bashful smile, knowing full well he almost certainly knew the consequences of learning of one’s own future and that, in next to no circumstances, was it a good thing. Still, he had this thing about him, this assurance that he would, somehow, make it okay, and she couldn’t deny his invitation.

“You— I mean— well,” she flustered, realising this was much more difficult that she would have thought. “He... yeah, no, you—”

“Say ‘he’,” he encouraged. “It’ll make it easier, promise.”

Again, with that word, with the softness in which he delivered it, she felt this unravelling as her shoulders loosened where she could just be her. She didn’t have to worry about sounding all clever, like she knew what she was talking about, and now she didn’t even need to worry about the implications of something she’s been told can never ever happen, because he was with her. She could barely keep herself together with it all, with how much she just missed him and wanted him back.

“It’s been a bit… it’s been quite hard. Between us, recently,” she admitted unevenly, but once she felt the relief that came with uncorking the ridiculously tight pressure throughout her whole body, she was powerless to stop herself from blurting out the rest. “You regenerated not too long ago and sometimes I think you’re still the same, and sometimes you— he —” she adjusted, it somehow feeling better to say ‘he’, now “— does things that are so… not you.”

There was a silence in the control room, besides the familiar hum which had of course not altered even within this nonsensical situation. It kept her quite steady, actually.

“He sounds a bit like a prat.”

“You’re not wrong, there.”

“Tell you what,” he began, squaring his shoulders. “Since I’m him and he’s me, why don’t you tell me what he did. I’ll see what I can help you with.”

She snorted. “Told me I was gonna — and I quote — ‘wither and die’, left me stranded on a spaceship three thousand years into the future, fell in love with some posh French woman and picked her over all of time and space, to name just the ones over the last twenty-four hours.”

The Doctor was quiet, and she just had to glance at his expression at that. He did indeed look overwhelmed, as she thought he might.

“That definitely doesn’t sound like me — you sure you weren't just fooled into thinking he was?”

She snickered, although he wasn’t too far off her true musings at this point. “I think when you invited Mickey along, I should have clocked on.”

He really did jolt back in shock, then. “Rickey? As in that sad old sap out there, Rickey?”

“Mmm.”

“The one shaking like a bloody leaf and clinging onto your leg like a wuss?”

“That’s the one.”

He shuddered, and it only made her giggle more. “My god, what do I become?”

“Now you see my problem.”

“Alright, well, I can’t excuse the wither and die bit—” he paused, thinking “— nor the spaceship bit, I suppose. Or even the falling in love bit—”

“Fat lot of good, you are, then.”

“Oi! —” he poked her ribs “— You’re a lot less polite than I remember you being.”

Her smile was so wide that it ached; being here with him and laughing like before, before all the regenerations and the Sarah-Janes and the aristocratic French mistresses was a blissful healing of a wound she had long since thought had sealed up.

“I’m going to need some context over the wither and die bit,” he spoke quietly, a little jest still to his voice.

She frowned, honestly quite against the idea of reliving that conversation last night, and especially not when it was one with another, less recognisable, face than with the one next to her. “I dunno. I guess… I know what you—”

“He.”

She giggled, relieved, and he nudged her knee with his. “I know what he was trying to say, that his lifespan is a heck of a lot longer than mine, and it’s not as if it’s fun to watch us ‘wither and die’, as he so eloquently put it, but it still hurt. Almost like—” she scrunched her nose, thinking of what it was she wanted to say before she heard his calm and patient breathing, his breath and remembered who she was talking to “—like it’s so distasteful for him, that we grow old and all mangly and he just has to sit there and watch it and hope it gets over and done with quickly so he can move on.”

The Doctor was still beside her, his arms folded and leant back while she spoke. He seemed to be mulling something over, and when she looked up at him and saw his profile, his terribly large nose and sharp jaw, she all but melted into his side, tugging on his arm so that she could lean against him.

“He made me feel so bad for being human, and it’s the first time I’ve ever felt like that.”

He was trying to keep himself still beside her, and she knew he most probably felt a little uncomfortable at their proximity, but the fact that he was keeping so still for her reminded her just how much he cared for her in the first place — right from day one.

“Christ, give him a slap for me when you see him again will you?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

She thought about the two of them, if they could meet tonight, and only loved the idea of this him squaring up on the new one for daring to hurt a woman he had known less than forty-eight hours. And she grinned to know that he would, as well, because she knew just how important she had been to him right from the start. He didn’t need to say it, and she felt it even now with a new face, that she was still the most important person to him.

Well, up until today, she had.

“Alright, so you say the spaceship thing—“

“Yep,” she affirmed, punctuating the ‘p’ with an indignant pop. “Rode on a horse through a time window, severed all links with the ship and the future.”

“And you say Rickey was with you?”

“Yeah! Left us both behind.”

He thought for a moment. “How’d you know he didn’t think you were on the back of the horse and he was only trying to leave Rickey behind” — she couldn’t help but laugh at his old dry humour that he carried off so effortlessly, something else she only now realised she missed —“cos I can tell you that seems the only reasonable explanation to that one.”

“God will you stop,” she insisted through her giggles, “Rick—Mickey is not that bad!”

“And on that,” he continued, seemingly unwilling to stop despite her persistent chuckles, “I really cannot explain his decisions behind asking Mickey to join us, you’ll have to ask him yourself, sorry.”

He had such a wonderfully deadpan humour, this one, and for a bloke that wasn’t actually from the North, he certainly could have fooled her. To some, he came off as cold and unaffectionate, but to her, he was hers; she knew his humour so well and had grown so fond of him and the ways in which he made her laugh, knowing that he was doing it deliberately as often as he could only to make her giggle more.

“Alright, and what was that last one?” he asked after a moment. “Something about some French woman?”

Ah, yes. That.

Perhaps he knew exactly what by the way she flinched at his words, because he didn’t follow it up with anything at first. He chose his words well, it would seem, when he prompted,

“Something absurd about choosing her over all of time and space, if I remember you right.”

She fiddled with cuticles around her nails, only realising now how hard it was to talk about — or even think about.

“Something like that.”

And with her sigh, she released her hold on him, withdrawing back into herself at the way everything about her seemed to clench in pain. He wasn’t too unused to it all, then, when she felt his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. She smiled softly at the gesture that did indeed loosen her a little, but he seemed to notice that it hadn’t entirely when he tapped her shoulder to bring her to lean back against him.

“Well, I will admit this new bloke seems like an absolute git, but I know I can speak for him when I say he doesn’t fall in love very easily at all.”

She swallowed, her throat so painfully tight. “Yeah, m’ starting to think the same.”

He was quiet, and she was really fighting against herself to not fall completely back in love with a man she knew was gone forever. She did love him though, this him, and she missed him so much that the pressure inside her only seemed to worsen until, finally, he spoke quietly,

“Who was she, did you say?”

She didn’t want to respond immediately, though the name rested just at the tip of her tongue, echoing around her mind as it had been all day. So she took a moment's pause before she replied, “Someone called Madame de Pompadour?”

“Ah, yes,” he recalled. “Eighteenth century? Uncrowned queen of France?”

Rose sighed heavily, before nodding her head.

“Sounds average,” he dismissed. “Meet one of them every day, I do. Don’t think it’s quite like either of us to fall in love with somebody so ordinary.”

She had to remind herself, as she had done so many times over the last twenty-four hours, that she was indeed only that: ordinary. Nobody different, nothing that made her stand out from the likes of Sarah Jane or bloody uncrowned queens of France and certainly not one the Doctor, the last remaining lord of time, would so easily fall in love with.

“Anyway,” he cleared his throat, a welcome disruption to her morose thoughts. “I should probably, er, go and find, well, you— time, was it, you said? That’s what’ll do the trick?”

She sniffed, reluctant to let him go, but she did loosen her hold to allow him free. “Time,” she affirmed.

As he stood, and she too, it all felt far too formulaic for them, even if he had only just met her very recently. She couldn’t bear to let him go like this, to remember this meeting so sad, so she looked at him sheepishly with her arms hesitantly outstretched and said,

“Can I?”

He seemed to know exactly what she was asking when he pulled her in for a hug. It took them a moment of adjustment to settle; she being so used to his new more slender form, and he not being used to her at all. But when they did, when everything finally slotted into place and they were them once more, she exhaled and felt all that pain and anguish just… release. He didn’t take it from her, and she didn’t know where it went, but being here in his arms when she had thought she never could have been again felt like the most blissful recompense following such wretched and unjust anguish.

“I miss you,” she whimpered, holding on to him tighter.

“Rose?”

The sound of her name on his lips was a comfort in itself. “Mmm?”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Yeah?”

“That bloke of yours,” he paused, and she realised it was for dramatic effect when he whispered, “he’s actually me.”

She giggled despite herself. “After everything I’ve told you about him, you still want to assign your name to him?”

“He does sound a bit like a prat, I’ll admit, but he must have done some good things, too, surely?” She shook her head begrudgingly into his chest. “You wouldn’t still be here if he hadn’t.”

She smiled sadly, and reasoned, “I suppose he did regenerate for me.”

“Blimey,” he flustered, genuinely quite surprised by the sounds of it. “I’ve regenerated many times before, and for many different reasons, but I can tell you never for somebody else.”

She smiled; although she had never really known exactly what happened on satellite 5, she had only managed to learn from him that it was to save her life. He didn’t particularly like to talk about it, she gathered, not because he regretted doing so, but in a way she couldn’t quite decipher. Like he was afraid, almost — although of what, she wasn’t sure.

“You, Rose Tyler, must be quite extraordinary indeed.”

She held on to him only tighter as she felt his words find their home deep within her heart, in a way she knew they would never be able to be coaxed out of again by not even herself. And she knew the man she thought she was going to see tonight felt the same, really, if she was honest with herself. She realised, then, that she wouldn’t have been able to hear if he had said it in that estuary accent; it was specifically him saying it in this northern accent tonight that rang deep and true for both men.

And with that, she felt the imminent dread of knowing she needed to leave.

“I probably need to go tell him I’ve made some paradox, then,” she sighed jokingly, although a part of her wished she wasn’t. If she could only have this, this sweet memory of the two of them at a time where she needed to be reminded that it would always be just the two of them, then pulling away from him now might be less tortuous.

“No need,” he said, and then he tilted his head and whispered, “Looks like he’s already fixed it for you.”

She frowned, but even as she tried to process how he — the other him — could have possibly already done anything to fix this, her mistake, her desperate need to see her old friend and deepest love of her life just one last time in a time of such heartbreak, her heart swelled to know that of course he had.

“No paradox?” she whispered back, afraid anybody other than him might hear her.

He nodded, and she felt him kiss her hair. “No paradox, if he’s done it right. Now go, quick, before we find out if he hasn’t.”

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Love Cuts Deep

Chapter 12- Whatever It Takes

Summary: This is it, you’re finally going to help save the world and if all goes to plan, bring Bucky back in the process.

Warning: bit o angst

Masterlist

It’s been a solid month since Tony and Rocket have been crafting tirelessly on the construction of the giant time portal machine type deal, or whatever he’s calling it nowadays. And to your great surprise, as well as everyone else’s, the first test run with Clint was an undeniable success.

Compared to the first one with Scott, things have come a long way.

Clint was able to wander around in that alternate universe for a couple minutes without returning with so much as a single scratch. Thus boosting the teams confidence and excitement for the inevitable time heist that’s in the works. So as of now, everyone’s currently brainstorming as to how this will go about for the most successful mission possible.

“Okay, so the how works.” Begins Steve as everyone sits around the large meeting room, glass screens projecting info about the stones displayed in the background, “Now, we gotta figure out the when and where. Almost everyone in this room has had an encounter with at least one of the six Infinity Stones...”

Tony cuts in with his spout of knowledge, “Or substitute the word “encounter” for “damn near been killed” by one of the six Infinity Stones.” Damn straight, your ass got launched into a Wakandian tree last you saw those goddamn stones.

“Well I haven’t..” Interjects Scott with a puzzled look, confusion clear in his voice, “..but I don’t even know what the hell you’re all talking about.” Oh right, he missed out on all the fun while he was fucking around in the quantum realm.

Sitting on the table you shrug, “Be glad you’ve never seen them, those fucking space rocks will kick your ass if used less then kindly, but it doesn’t matter now. From my understanding we only have enough Pym Particles for one round-trip each.” You explain as they all listen intently, “And clearly these fucking stones have been in a lot of different places throughout history.”

Tony nods, “Our history. So, not a lot of convenient spots to just drop in, yeah?”

“Which means we have to pick out targets.” Adds Clint as Tony points in his direction, “Correct.”

Steve soon gains everyone’s attention once again, “So, let’s start with the Aether. Thor, what do you know?” Asks the blonde, all eyes turn towards the back corner of the room to find Thor slouched in an armchair, beer can in hand while the other one keeps partially hidden in his pajama pants.

A dark pair of sunglasses conceals whether he’s currently awake or not. “Is he asleep?” Wonders Natasha as Rodney humorously adds, “No, no. I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”

A few soft chuckles are heard as you listen intently to the god of thunder, “He’s alive, and most definitely sleeping off that last beer.” You muse as they all give a collective curious brow while you simply shrug, “I can hear his heartbeat, and it’s low enough to tell me he’s not dead.....Well, at least not yet.” You mutter, eyeing up the sleeping giant as an idea sparks into your head.

A second later you pick up a discarded empty beer can sitting right next to you on the table before throwing it at the snoozing god, the thin metal smacks against his forehead with that familiar pop of the can sound, falling to the ground with a crackly ting as Thor jolts awake. And back to the land of the living.

“Nordic Santa you’re up.” His head snaps in your direction as he gives a semi-awkward half grin. 

“Ah right, right, thank you angry one.” Points Thor with a genuine smile now as he quickly gets up before walking over to the screen depicting the red swirly like stone substance. Although soon he delves into the finding of the red mass, what it did to his former flame, that he took her to Asgard seeking help for her sickness, how he showed Jane to his mother, and then he immediately got sad and lost all motivation and train of thought on anything related to that stone.

Ah yes, personal trauma. It’ll do that to you.

Later that day when everyone was feasting on some Chinese takeout, Rocket began an in-depth explanation into where the Power Stone was found; by some guy named Quill who stole it from a planet called Morag. After some time later, Nebula revealed that the Soul Stone was retrieved from Vormir, the place where Thanos murdered her sister Gamora.

It’s been an interesting day to day the least.

Now here you are, slouched comfortably in a lounge chair you stole from the other room, flipping around a pocketknife as Natasha and Tony lay on the nearby table with Bruce sprawled out on the floor in all his Banner-Hulkness. Books scattered everywhere as the two Avengers keep comfortable on some decorative couch pillows as you listen to them brainstorm about the stones whereabouts.

Flipping the knife skillfully between your fingers an idea suddenly pops into your head, “Hey what about that time stone guy you were talking about earlier.”

Banner hums, “Doctor Strange.”

“Yeah, what kind of doctor was he?” Wonders Natasha as you mentally question the same proposition when Tony gives his quick witted answer. “Ear-nose-throat meets rabbit-from-hat.”

“Nice place in the Village, though.” Adds Bruce, Tony agreeing in an instant. “Yeah, on Sullivan Street?”

“Mmm....Bleecker Street.” Mutters Banner as Natasha interrupts, face shifting to realization. “Wait, he lived in New York?”

“No, he lived in Toronto.” Sasses Tony as Banner reveals the truth. “Uh, yeah, on Bleecker and Sullivan.”

Tony coming back with more playful sarcasm, “Have you been listening to anything?”

Suddenly it feels like a lights been switched on in your brain, “Guys.” You quickly implore as they keep silent to listen, “If you pick the right year, wouldn’t there be three stones in New York?” Their faces all collectively shift to astonished realization when Bruce quickly sits up to look at you. “Shut the front door.”

“Well at least someone is paying attention.” Quips Tony as Natasha smacks him with a book.

——

“All right.” Begins Steve as the whole team gathers in the meeting room, “We have a plan. Six stones, three teams, one shot.”

You nod, smirking with excitement, “Let’s get these fuckers and maybe end up saving the world while we’re at it.” He sends you a proud grin and within the next half an hour are the eleven of you suited up and standing in a large circle atop the glass of the giant time portal.

“Five years ago, we lost. All of us....we lost friends. We lost family. We lost a part of ourselves. Today, we have a chance to take it all back. You know your teams. You know your missions. Get the stones. Get them back. One round-trip each. No mistakes....no do-overs.”

“Most of us are going somewhere we know. That doesn’t mean we should know what to expect. Be careful. Look out for each other. This is the fight of our lives...and we’re gonna win.” Affirms Steve with a mutual nod, “Whatever it takes.” He gives one last look around the circle of familiar faces before nodding, “Good luck.”

Nudging the muscular blonde, he shares a small smile with you as you quickly return it, “You practice that last night?” Steve chuckles at your amusing comment while Rocket and Scott gush over his admittedly incredible motivational speech skills.

“Just thought the team could use the confidence boost.” Admits Steve as Bruce flicks the motherboards switches to get the time portal up and running. The machine whirs to life while everyone begins putting on their helmets.

Your slightly apprehensive gaze trails to your left where Natasha is standing, she gives a playful smirk as you force a true smile, “See you in a minute.” Chides the red head as you break out into a smirk.

“будь осторожен там Romanoff.” You add, shifting into your natural dialect that she’s all to familiar with, your actual words translating to “be careful out there” as you give her one last flash of a grin.

A hot second later, your body shrinks to the size of an atom as you feel like you’re entire body is free falling out of an airplane in some strange rainbow colored portal that shifts to shimmering diamonds and then finally a blue coral type texture as you find your teams designed route down some swirling tube of blues and bright white lights until at last you land in...

“Holy shit look at this place.” You mutter in absolute awe at the large golden pillars of Asgard, there was no fucking way you were missing out on traveling to this realm. And anyways, Steve kinda made it your task to keep the potbellied god of thunder in check as yourself and Rocket attempt to locate the Reality Stone with Lebowski as your generous tour guide.

Thor smiles fondly, proudly beaming at you with a rare form of happiness as he points towards the large cavernous halls of the royal palace, “Oh this? Yeah, it’s neat isn’t it, I grew up here....played games down this very hallway actually. Me and some friends used to spar one another as children down here with wooden sticks that looked like swor...”

“Thor.” Interrupts Rocket with an annoyed huff, “Remember why we’re actually here.”

You nod in agreement, quickly remembering the current mission, “He’s right. No time to dwell on fond memories, we need to find that stone before anyone sees us. And going by the logic of literally every time traveling movie I’ve ever seen, which admittedly isn’t a lot, but it’s enough that I know no one can see us. Especially you Thor, that would be a big problem for this timeline, so lead the way.”

“Yes, right on that, good point Y/N....okay um...” He looks around for a moment before pointing in the direction of choice, which is down a long spacious hallway, “This way, no ones gonna see us if we go by the dungeons.” Explains Thor as he quickly leads the way down the obnoxiously long hallway that thankfully is decently vacant.

After about five minutes of trekking around the castles interior, Thor guides you and Rocket down a long stairwell of dark grey stone until you reach the bottom floor. There are large basins of fire lighting the way down the lengthy hallway pass, he jogs past a couple golden tinged cells holding a few odd looking prisoners on your way out.

No doubt these fuckers look like they deserve it.

You pay them no mind as Thor hustles silently across the flooring to a door on the far end, though as you’re shuffling past another cell, your eyes land on the green and black clad slender body of a dark haired man laying atop his bed. Face focused towards the white ceiling as he tosses a cylindrical piece of metal in a repeated rhythm only done by that of an incredibly bored individual.

That must be his brother Loki, you draw into conclusion while racing out of sight of the trickster god while Rocket makes haste by your side. Kind of handsome, you think as an unknowing smile finds itself onto your face. God Y/N you truly are a desperate woman. No, just no.

Eventually, Thor leads your little team of three upstairs to some large balcony type area with a grand view of Asgard, the three of you keeping hidden behind one of the multitude of intricately decorated pillars as he eyes up a woman halfway out of a giant door while she accepts some clothing from a maid.

His bearded face lights up in joy as he points a finger towards the brunette woman, “Oh, there’s Jane.” Whispers Thor as she closes the door, the Asgardian maiden leaving and walking elsewhere down another yawning chamber.

“All right.” Starts Rocket as he stands on some ancient rock covered in unknown hieroglyphics before jumping down to face the two of you once the coast is clear, “Here’s the deal tubby. You’re gonna charm her, Y/N’s gonna keep watch, and I’m gonna poke her with this thing..” He shows some strange metal device with three silver prongs sticking out of it, “...and extract the Reality Stone, and get gone lickety-split.”

The optimism off of this creature never fails to astound you.

“Yeah, what he said.” You add with a shrug in Rocket’s direction as Thor sniffs before raising up a finger. “I’ll be right back, okay? The wine cellar is just down here...” Interjects Thor as he slowly begins walking away, clearly ready to abandon his part in the mission, “My father used to have this huge barrel of Aakonian ale. I’ll see if the scullery has a couple of to-go cups.”

“Hey. Hey!” You whisper yell, causing him to stop for the moment, “Aren’t you drunk enough already? Fuck that fancy wine we got better things to do.” You urgently vouch just as some doors loudly open nearby, immediately the three of you hide behind the stone of hieroglyphics and watch as a long haired woman leads the way, a multitude of servants in her wake as she says something about giving books to Loki from the library.

“Who’s the fancy broad?” Wonders Rocket as you raise an intrigued brow at Thor, his eyes never once leave the woman’s as he takes a steady breath, “That’s my mother.” Reveals the disheartened god, a sudden sadness lacing his very words that does not go unnoticed by you, “She dies today.”

Your breath catches in your throat at this sudden tragic news of great loss, you remember when you lost your own mother by the filthy hands of Hydra and how they helped you quickly forget about her. You didn’t have anytime to grieve or even question her sudden disappearance for that matter, “Oh, shit...that’s today.”

You share a nervous look with Rocket as Thor begins taking some deep almost panicked breaths, his emotions all rising together like a swelling storm as his face shifts to an afflicted pain, “I can’t do this. I can’t do this....” Rambles Thor with a shake of his blonde mane, eyes displaying panic, “..I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have come. It’s a bad idea!” Whisper yells Thor as he anxiously shifts from one foot to the other.

“Come here.” Beacons Rocket from his perch on the rock.

“No, no, no...” Deviates Thor as he waves his hands nervously in the air like he’s trying to flick some mud off of them, “I think I’m having a panic attack.” Worries the flushed faced god. 

“Come here. Right here.” Says Rocket as he points to the rock, an increase in irritation shifting the tone of his voice while Thor breaths heavily, clearly not on board with whatever Rocket’s going to tell him.

“No, no, no, guys I can’t...I can’t do this, I’m sorry but I’m not ready, I can’t...” Thwack, Thor yelps in surprise at your intentionally weak assault on his large bicep, “Y/N what was that for?” He half-offendedly demands, brows furrowed in confusion at the flash of anger racing across your sour glare.

“You think you’re the only one who lost people?” You snap as he lowers his head like a beaten dog, “What the fuck do you think we’re doing here? I lost the only person I ever loved, Rocket lost his whole family, gone, just like that.” You affirm with a snap of your fingers.

His face grows conflicted as you suddenly lose your heated aurora, face falling into a frown as you place a comforting hand upon his shoulder, “Thor, I know it hurts that you lost your mom...believe me I get it, but she’s gone. And there are plenty of people who are only kinda gone, and you can help them.”

Thor nods apprehensively as you share a small smile with him, “So if it’s not too much to ask, can you get your shit together for the next however long this is going to take so we can save the world?” 

Rocket chuckles before gaining the both of yours attentions. “Agreed. Now all you gotta do is make schmoopy talk to Pretty Pants and when she’s not looking, suck out the Infinity Stone and help us get our family back. Aight?”

Thor nods once more, face twisting into a saddened pain a he looks down to the floor, “Okay.” Mumbles the god of thunder weakly, face reddening as his eyes get glossy. You let him take a breath as he avoids your gaze at all costs, eyes beginning to water while he tries to play it off.

Giving his shoulder a friendly squeeze, your brows furrow in puzzlement, “Are you crying?”

He shakes his head, some tears slipping despite his verbal protest, “No.” Mutters Thor weakly as his tearful gaze finally picks up to meet you, “Yes..” Squeaks out the teary eyed god while his eyes flicker from the far wall to your face once more, “...Y/N, I feel like I’m losing it. I don’t, I don’t know what I’m doing...I just feel so...shit I don’t know anymore.” Admits the fearful Asgardian as he avoids your softening yet slightly annoyed gaze.

oh, Thor you sad motherfucker. I’ve been there.

Rolling your eyes you gently shake his shoulder for emphasis, “Listen to me you big lion, get your shit together! You can do this. You’re the god of thunder for fucks sake, you can do this Thor.” His face turns into a surprisingly more confident expression as he huffs with a self-assured nod. “I can do this.”

“Yeah...I can do this.” Repeats the Asgardian with a sniffle.

Smirking, you give his arm a friendly smack, “Good. Now let’s do this and get the fuck out of here.” You add before swiftly turning on your heel as you and Rocket lead the way to the door, reaching it, the talking raccoon tugs on your leg before you get a chance to open it. “What is it now?”

“Y/N, we lost him.”

“What?!” Realizing Thor has indeed slipped away and out of sight, you clench your fists in irritation, “Goddammit.” You seethe before looking down at Rocket, “Whatever, we’ll find marshmallow fluff later, let’s just get this stupid rock.”

——

Racing down the palaces golden hallways, your boots thud against the stony ground as Rocket runs on all fours right behind you, “I almost hope they catch you!” You shout in between the yelling of the royal guards as they hastily pursue the two of you down the hallway.

“We got the stone didn’t we!” Snaps Rocket as you pick up your pace. 

“We gotta make it back first you dumbfuck!”

He grumbles something unintelligible before you follow the beer tinged scent of Thor into another room, he’s speaking with his mother when they quickly turn around, “Oh, uh, hello...uh, queen something.” You mutter before Rocket practically smacks into the back of your legs. “I got the thing. Come on. We gotta move.”

Thor nods, speaking some last final heartfelt goodbyes to his mother before abruptly stopping the countdown to three just so he can summon his hammer. After a couple lengthy seconds, Mjolnir falls right into his strong grasp causing Thor to laugh and smile in excitement. “I’m still worthy! I’m still worthy.”

Rocket shares a look with you, “Oh, boy.” Mumbles the raccoon as you simply roll your eyes at the bearded Asgardian prince. A moment later the three of you are sucked into the time portal once again before landing on the glass of the time portal machine.

“Did we get them all?” You hear Steve ask in wonder as you hold your stomach from the jostling ride back.

“I think I’m gonna throw up.” You mutter as Rodney smiles in excitement at everyone around him and the stones in their proximity. “Are you telling me this actually worked?”

Taking a deep breath to steady your turning stomach, all eyes turn to Clint as he suddenly falls to his knees, face a mask of saddened grief that sparks panic in your heart. “Clint, where’s Nat?” Questions Bruce as your face falls.

Not her, not Natasha too.

Standing solemnly on the Facility’s large dock with the teams main Avengers in various places close by, you lean against one of the thin steel beams, a deep frown on your lips while your fingers anxiously play with Bucky’s dog tags around your neck.

“Do we know if she had family?” Questions Tony to no on in particular.

Steve swallows thickly, a couple free tear stains falling down the side of his cheeks, “Yeah. Us.” Mutters the blonde gloomily as you bite your bottom lip to keep from crying again.

“What?” Wonders Thor almost in disbelief as Tony gives him a quizzical look, “Yeah, no, you guys are acting like she’s dead. Why are we acting like she’s dead? We have the stones, right? As long as we have the stones Cap, we can bring her back. Isn’t that right?” Adds Thor, glancing between all of you before facing Tony again, “So, stop this shit. We’re the Avengers. Get it together...”

“Can’t get her back.” Interrupts Clint dismally, eyes still set on the open water beyond the compound.

Thor’s brows furrow in befuddlement, “Wh-what...”

“It can’t be undone. It can’t.” Insists Clint, voice slightly wavering in despair; Thor then starts chuckling at the absurdity of the whole shitty situation before rambling about space magic and that there must be another way. Clint on the other hand quickly gets heated about this and promptly snaps at Thor about some red floaty guy he met who revealed once the Soul Stone is taken, the one sacrificed can never come back. Ever.

Soon things calmed down again, though still a rather gloomy atmosphere still lingers like a persistent hazy fog even after they all left, leaving no one but yourself and Steve on the dock. He keeps a steady gaze on the rippling water as he lets his sadness take its course, this is indeed a heavy blow to bear.

Letting out a shaky breath, you move from the leaning against the beam to instead find a spot next to him on the wooden bench. Dog tags still clutched in your fist as you steal a glance at the tearful man. You’ve admittedly never seen him so upset, well, you both may have shared a good cry when Bucky was whipped from existence five years ago. That was the first time you ever truly bonded with anyone from the team, the first time Steve and Natasha showed you their vulnerability. 

And for that, you’ve formed a stronger bond with them that you’d never thought possible. They welcomed you into the compound like an old friend, always treated you with respect and gave you room when you needed it. And even when you didn’t want to be around anyone, they still forced you into playing cards with them anyways, among other dumb games. Which annoyingly so, is what your sad little self needed back then.

 But without Natasha, without her beaming heart and fierce attitude to keep fighting through the unknown and murky waters, you’re not even sure if this would all still be conceivable. Or if you’d even still be here with all of them for that matter, you might have gone on an angry warpath just as Clint did when everyone he ever loved was snatched from him forever. 

So why, after all this time and pain, is she the one who had to go? It’s not fare. And your heart feels broken all over again; sniffling, you swallow thickly before turning your head a little in Steve’s direction, “I didn’t know her for as long as you guys did.....but she was, really the best of us..” You laugh dismally.

 Voice shaky as you hold Bucky’s tags close to your chest, “..If not better. She was the first Avenger I ever met you know, the only piece of my past that didn’t try to murder me on sight, actually. I liked her. She was who I needed to get me through my grief, among other things huh...and uh...I will miss her.....a lot.”

Nothing is heard except for the low rustling of the nearby trees as a soft wind blows into your faces, Steve clasps his hands together, turning to you, “Funnily enough, it took me some time to completely trust her, but now....there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.” Mutters Steve with the flash of a genuine smile as he thinks fondly on Natasha, who you wish more then anything could still be here to celebrate the hard work of finding those goddamn stones.

It’s not fucking fare.

Swallowing thickly, you nod in agreement as more hot tears trail down your somber face, “The world will owe her their lives and never even know it.....but I will, we all will. Her memory will live on if I can help it, we owe her that much.”

Steve slowly nods, thumbs fiddling together anxiously as he mutters a raspy, “Yeah.”

You rest a comforting hand atop his broad shoulder as he shares a mutually dismal look with you, “We’ve already lost so much already and she fought for this like no once else did, we will avenge her Steve. I don’t doubt she knows it.”

-

Tagged: @diegos-butt @minigranger @bibliophilewednesday @holyhumorliteraturelight @lilacs-lavender @a-girl-who-loves-disney @starkssnarks @vikingqueen28 @bizarrebibitch @atomicpersonacheesecake @jmstz @staygoldsquatchling02 @marvelbros-oneshots @shawnartmendes @mischiefmanaged71 @jckie94  @iamasimpingh0e @mjaudrey  @thescarlettvvitch

[theydontknowaboutusimagines]

Still The One - Harry Styles Mini Series (Part 1)

*Kinda a companion to my series Outside the Rain... basically I didn’t like where I took that series, so I’m “starting over” with this one. It’s a bit of a flash forward about a year or so after where that series left off. You don’t necessarily have to read that series first, but you certainly can. 

I chose the title Still the One based on both song by the band Orleans and Shania Twain because I love both of these songs and I think both fit with where I’m going with this... hopefully. And... One Direction had a song by the same name too... so why not. 

**

“Like a cigarette without a light...like a whippoorwill without the night… a broken buzz that’s lost it’s high, oh baby that’s what I feel like,” you sang softly as you strummed the strings of your guitar.

You wrote down the lyrics into your journal. You had been itching to put this song… your feelings down on paper and you finally got around to doing it. Even though it was something you wanted, needed to do, it was also something that made everything you were feeling real.

It had been well over six months since you and Harry had ended your relationship. Technically, it was worded as a break, but it ended up being an actual breakup. Things had been going fine for the most part, but then 2020 happened and it all became too much. So, naturally, you pushed him away to the point neither of you were happy anymore. You even pushed your friends, the girls in the band you just reunited with, away.

Pushing people away, especially those you are closest with has always been your downfall. Whenever you’re feeling down or sometime of way, you rather deal with it alone because you don’t want to risk bringing down someone else. So, you just… push them away until they don’t want to bother with you anymore. Or they give you an ultimatum and you don’t choose them.

Which is exactly what happened with both relationships. Everything had been going great for you at the time. Your band was back together after you all took some time for solo projects and the fans were looking forward to you going on tour. But then, you injured your knee, putting the upcoming tour in jeopardy, which caused a rift between you and the girls. And it only got bigger and worse from there.

When it came to your love life, you were the happiest you’ve been in a long time. You met your ex, Harry Styles, at the Rock N Roll Hall of Fame, when you both performed and introduced Stevie Nicks that night. You and Harry had quickly hit it off and with the help of some nudging from your good old Aunt Stevie, you two got together. And you fell fast and hard.

And that’s exactly when things took a turn. With your knee injury, Harry had agreed to stay with you to help you out, but it was also around the same time that he had his own things he needed to do. You felt as if you were holding him back. Then there was a little mishap over an old photo, which eventually got resolved, but it also brought up some feelings that scared you.

So, with the mix of those two that then carried over into the hot mess of 2020, your abort mission instincts kicked it and well… now you’re in the exact place you had wanted all those months ago.

Suffering alone with a broken heart. Just when one injury fully healed, you brought another one upon yourself and honestly you didn’t know which one was worse.

You wrote half of the song when you finally couldn’t take it anymore. You had to stop and walk away. You put down your guitar, closed your journal, and went out to your balcony. You took deep breaths as you soaked up the remainder of the sunlight as the sun started to set and let the wind caress you.

All it would take is for you to pick up the phone and call him… call the girls… reach out and talk to them. But you couldn’t. Too much has been said and there’s been too much time that has gone by for a simple phone to make it all better. Besides, you don’t even know what you would say to any of them at the moment.

Especially to Harry. The second you hear his voice, you know you’d break down and wouldn’t be able to speak. And plus, did you even have the right to call him and expect him to even give you the time of day? You hurt him. You broke his heart just as much if not more than you broke your own. There’s a big possibility that he was over you, that he moved on, or that he was so pissed off at you, he didn’t want to hear anything you had to say.

And if you were being honest with yourself, the latter might actually hurt worse. The past few months, once the overwhelming feeling started to dissolve, you knew you had fucked up and of course, now you knew you royally fucked up.

Which meant Harry deserved to move on. He deserves someone who would choose him and wouldn’t push him away like you did, so with that being said, maybe…maybe it was time for you to let him go.

**

Punch after punch after punch, Harry strikes the punching bag in front of him. Sweat dripped down his face and chest as his arms burned with each hit. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm before going back to his punching fest. No matter how long he did this, no matter how long he went for a run, there was still this pressure built up inside his chest.

An ache that has been there for a while and no matter what he did, it wouldn’t go away. He even tried writing out his pain, but it only made it worse.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Jeff said from the doorway.

“Doing what?” Harry asked, chugging down some water.

“Sulking, feeling sorry for yourself, trying to beat the shit out of that bag to make yourself feel better,” Jeff mumbled.

“I’m working out,” Harry defends.

“That’s what you’re telling yourself, but it’s obvious,” Jeff said.

“What are you talking about?” Harry said, throwing off his boxing gloves.

“I get it, you’re still in love with Y/N and dealing with all of that shit on top of everything else, but avoiding what’s going on is going to work. You need to either try and reach out to her and get closure to whatever the fuck, or you need to move on, because this- this isn’t it,” he told him.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Harry snapped. “Do you think I enjoy feeling like this? I’m fucking tired of it! I thought… I fucking thought she was it for me, but once again I was too fucking blinded about falling in love, about wanting someone to come home to and look where it fucking got me.”

“You’re angry,” Jeff stated. “Let it out.”

“I can’t!” Harry snapped.

“Why not?” Jeff asked.

“Because I can’t be angry with her,” Harry sighed. “That’s the fucking problem. This… all of this shit would be so much easier if her breaking up with me was because she didn’t love or hell even if she cheated on me, but knowing she broke it off because she’s dealing with shit...I wasn’t enough for her. I wasn’t enough to help her. That’s my job… I’m supposed to be there for her… to help her… to protect her, and I fucking failed.”

“Hey,” Jeff rushed over, taking his best friend into his arms. “You didn’t fail. Y/N had her own issues, and she… I don’t know why she pushed you away, but that isn’t your fault.

Harry put his head into his hands, wiping away the sweat and the tears falling down his cheeks.

“I think...I think enough time has passed that you should reach out to her. It might be the best for the both of you,” Jeff suggested.

“I don’t know,” he sighed.

“The Grammy’s are in a few weeks, both of you are going to be there,” Jeff said. “Don’t you think it would be better for the two of you to hash this out before seeing each other for the first time on national TV?”

Harry sighed, knowing he was right, but he still didn’t know if he could bring himself to reach out to you just yet. He didn’t know if he could hear your voice and not break down. However, he knew he would have to face this eventually, but now wasn’t the time.

**

You were currently in your home studio laying down the track of the song you had recently written. You weren’t the best at mixing or producing, but you knew and were comfortable enough to make it sound half decent. At least until you could get some others to come in and work on it.

It took a few goes until you found one you were satisfied with. You downloaded and sent the demo to your crew.

“Okay, that’s enough for the day,” you mumbled.

You turned everything off before heading into your kitchen where you made yourself some food. Just as you were sitting down to binge watch another show, your phone rang. Your heart instantly sank at the sound of the ringtone, still after all this time, you got a bit anxious wondering who was on the other line.

Seeing Stevie’s name across the top brought both a little ease, but also a bit of disappointment.

“Hey, Stevie,” you answered.

“How’s my favorite goddaughter?” she asked.

“I’m okay,” you sighed.

“You don’t sound okay,” she noted.

“I’m just… going through it,” you mumbled. “I’ll be fine.”

“Aren’t we all,” she said. “But I also know that just because you keep saying you’re fine doesn’t mean you are.”

You sighed.

“Look, I’m back in town, why don’t you come over, spend a few days if you’d like, and we can talk through this because if I know you, you’ve been alone this entire time and that’s not good for anyone,” she said.

“How do you always know everything?” You mumbled.

“I’ve been around a long time and lived an interesting life, I know things,” she smirked.

“Apparently,” you sighed. “Fine, I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon.”

“I look forward to seeing you,” she smiled.

You sighed, ending the call, and wondered what Stevie had up her sleeve.

**

Harry finished up rehearsals before stopping by to get food. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he sat in the car driving to home, well the place he stayed at while he was in LA. Even though he lived there, he couldn’t bring himself to call it home. It felt too empty, too cold for it to ever be a home.

Just as he pulled into his driveway, got out of his car, and carried his bag of food inside, his phone started to ring. Everytime his phone rang, he silently hoped it was you calling on the other line, but if it was, he didn’t know if he could bring himself to answer.

But it wasn’t you, but it was someone close to you… and to him. Stevie. He thought about not answering it, letting it go to voicemail then maybe following up with a text that he’ll call her soon, but he knew it wasn’t fair to let his relationship with her be affected by what happened with you.

“Hey,” Harry answered.

“Hello there, how’s everything going?” She asked.

“It’s going,” Harry laughed. “I just finished up rehearsals.”

“For the Grammys right?” She asked.

“Yep that would be it,” he said.

“How are you feeling about that?” She asked.

“Nervous… and excited, ready to get back on stage,” he answered.

“It’ll be a great night, I’m sure,” she said. “But I know you’re probably busy, but I wanted to let you know I’m back in town and I would love for you to come over for dinner tomorrow night, as long as you’re not busy.”

“Um… I’ve got another rehearsal earlier in the day, but I could stop around for a quick dinner,” he nodded.

“Great, it’s settled, then. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

Harry hung up and sat down with his food. It wasn’t exactly unheard of for Stevie to call him up and invite him over for dinner. They’ve both done that plenty of times, but there was something going on with this particular invite Harry just couldn’t put his finger on.

But whatever it was, he would find out tomorrow.

**

And there’s the first part... not sure how often I’ll update since I am still writing the Sunflower AU series, but I’m going to try and post every other week at first. 

Let me know your thoughts! 

[vydante]

Restart | 12

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Avengers x Male! Reader (romantically: multiple)

A/N: Missed y'all. I don't think I'm officially off of my hiatus, but I somehow managed to pull a chapter out of my ass after months of radio silence. I really did back myself into a corner with the last chapter, but hey, this is my story and I get to pace it however I want.

Sorry if things are worded weirdly, I'm writing them but they're going through one ear and out the other when it comes to comprehending what I actually wrote. No one will remember what happened, but that's okay. God, I really need a beta-reader... Anyways. Love y'all. XOXO.

Also, sorry if any of the formattings seems off. HTML doesn't really translate well over certain sites. (Tumblr, Quotev, Wattpad, and AO3 are now my main places for posting my works. Anywhere else, that's not me nor was it permitted by me.)

If you want a recap: You're in the process of jumpstarting Project Renaissance after realizing that you've just been doing basically nothing ever since you woke up in your old body. You've also taken to making video logs to report down your progress, and in the last chapter (that was in the POV of multiple video logs), it ended on a cliffhanger with Barnes being discovered and moved to a safe house.

This chapter takes place roughly after the last one. 

If you're currently binge reading this story, this recap is only because last chapter was updated... Roughly more than 7 months before this chapter. So. Yeah. :D

Oh, and let's pretend that either A. Barnes doesn't have a tracking chip in his arm OR B. he did, but you got it out during the whole rescue-escapade. That's my bad, I straight up forgot about that possibility until I was like, close to 4000 words deep into this chapter. Now we're at roughly 8k+... Hehe. Whoops.

_______

You're not gonna call Barnes, Bucky.

There's a personal touch to the nickname that bothers you. How awful it sounds in your ears, to call the former husk of a man a name he no longer recognizes. There's history to that name, both on writing and in memory, though only in sparsity. Plus, it'll be difficult for you to associate Bucky to Barnes. A man with an identity to a man without.

So after the whole debacle of getting him out of the mini-Hulk playbox and into decent dry clothing, when he asks what his name is, you quietly debated to yourself what to tell him.

"... Your name is James Buchanan Barnes," you'd eventually reply.

He doesn't comment on the resignation in your tone, but you're confident that he certainly noticed it- surely, the ticks of being the Winter Soldier was still there, no matter how disoriented he must be. But whether courtesy was something that he hadn't forgotten whilst his brain was refried over and over like leftover KFC wings or he was simply too exhausted to ask, you didn't care.

Granted, for a man who should have a lot of questions on his mind, he's definitely proven himself to be a man of very few words.

An hour goes by, and in the midst of you trying your best to build a solid standing between the two of you, he's said so few words that you could probably count all of them on both of your hands.

If it weren't for the nods of affirmation, you'd think that his averted gaze from you would have meant that he wasn't paying attention at all, but honestly, you knew better than to judge him for that if he actually wasn't actually listening in the first place.

Hell, he could tear up the walls to the high heavens and you still wouldn't hold him against it, so you were just thankful that he was so docile, for someone who could snap your neck if he felt so inclined.

Though, as it turns out confusion and disorientation wasn't the actual reason why he was being so docile, you belatedly realize as you're stood in front of a blank-faced Barnes. You're in the middle of trying to give him a basic tour around the house when he quietly interrupted your monologuing.

"Mission parameters," you echoed his words, though mainly to yourself. He nods, and for once meets your eyes. There's neither confidence nor surrender in his eyes, and that makes your stomach churn. Chances are, he probably saw nothing wrong with asking such a thing.

"You want me to give you- mission parameters. Like- like your handlers would?" You laughed incredulously, but the humor was replaced with subdued hysterical horror.

You were aware of what they were. Aware of the types of hunts his Handlers- bastards- would sick him out on. Aware of what he did without a second thought. You saw those files, if only briefly. That was more than enough for you to see the type of expectations that came alongside "mission parameters".

He nods as if you were stating the obvious.

God.

You opened and closed your mouth, and for a split second, once you got past the horror of being asked to tell him what to do, a subtle realization crawled up your spine. In the midst of your impromptu introduction and briefing, you never really made a distinction as to what role you were supposed to play in all of this.

So it shouldn't be a surprise for Barnes to assume that you're his new- what? Handler? Caretaker? After all, as far as you can assume, that's probably all he knows; all he was conditioned to grow accustomed to, to expect his every move to be dictated by some outsider with no care to the wants or needs that Barnes has.

(Hell, if you were to make a reach right now, maybe Barnes thinks he doesn't have wants or needs. That he shouldn't.)

(In the background, a part of you simmer in silence.)

With your jaw clenched, you make an effort to make your voice as even as can be when you ask him, "You don't need mission parameters, Barnes. You're your own free man. You can- can make decisions on your own. You don't need me to tell you what you need to do."

Pray as you might, there's something about realizing that you said the wrong thing right after saying said words that make you wonder what you did to anger the higher powers that be to put yourself in the situation you're in right now.

Barnes doesn't say anything, but his eyes says it all. Confusion. Realization. Grief. Detachment. His metal hand clenches, and you're man enough to admit that it made your heart stutter in fear.

"I...", he mutters, "... don't understand."

You swallowed.

This...

This is gonna be tough.

_______

It's difficult to explain what self-autonomy and freedom meant to a man who is only capable of remembering being chained and held on a leash like a rabid dog.

Thankfully, it was your winter break, so you had a manageable excuse for being away from "home" for a few days, but you only had so long to try and establish to Barnes that you're not going to be able to be there with him as often as you are now (and even then, the time frame was too small to even make any sense of attachment).

You knew for sure you couldn't always be there for Barnes, so one thing was certain: he had to meet DAHLIA. And thankfully, since the whole safe house was yours, not even your father knew that DAHLIA, your own A.I., would be uploaded into the houses' built-in hardware.

(While the hardware was built with the intention of housing J.A.R.V.I.S. there as a standard, he ended up "moving out" the moment that the house became yours. Something about "not intruding on a teenager's privacy", but you're more than thankful for Tony's afterthought, even if you did end up taking slight advantage of his consideration.)

And surprisingly enough, Barnes wasn't really bothered by the concept of DAHLIA as much as you had initially expected. Of course, he didn't really talk to her, but it wasn't like he talked much in the first place.

(On a side note, it looks like DAHLIA seems to like the house, all things considered... So there's that.)

(The original DAHLIA was never installed here, instead she ended up "living" in a retirement house of sorts in a wooded area of New York. She never said anything about the house, so it's... Kind of endearing, to see that she actually might prefer this house instead. And mildly insulting, considering you personally decorated the other house.)

You ended up spending nearly the whole night trying to establish even the most basic of guidelines: use the bathroom whenever he needed to (you initially said phrased it as "wanted", but he promptly cut you off saying "The Asset does not have wants," which, rude, but also sad); whatever is in the kitchen is available for him to eat whenever, where ever; basic hygiene; and the most important one- if he had any questions, his first source would be you. And on the off-chance that you're not available, DAHLIA is always online and ready to help.

He gave a tentative nod, but you're somehow not confident that he might have interpreted it wrong. You're hoping he doesn't do anything to prove you right.

"Alright. So. Any questions?"

He stares at you for a beat too long before shaking his head.

He's still giving non-verbal answers for the most part, but it's better than nothing. You internally sighed and motioned him to follow you deeper into the safe house.

Considering that it was already pretty late by the time you managed to beat those guidelines into his head (maybe that should be worded better, but you never claimed to be a lyricist; it is what it is), he might be just as tired as you are from how long the day has been.

(Granted, this dude has been "asleep" for who knows how long, but it's the thought that counts.)

"You know where I'm taking you to?" you asked, not really expecting an answer from him.

"No," he responds from behind you. Color you surprised.

You turned into the hallway and stepped up to an unassuming door. You opened it to reveal an equally unassuming bedroom. Muted colors, modern design; it reeked Pepper's doing, knowing that Tony isn't as decoratively-inclined as she is.

Hah, bet she didn't expect that instead of housing you or your dad, it'll go to a super-solder that wasn't Steve instead.

(Not that Steve would ever have a reason to step foot in here, but in this line of work, you'd be stupid to be 100% sure about something.)

You motioned him to come into the room and tilted your head to the bed.

"This is your bedroom, pretty much where you'll be sleeping. There's a bathroom right over there," you motioned to the door adjacent to the entrance door, "and I'll be in the room right next to yours."

Barnes takes a second to process it all, and with a quick scan of the room with calculating eyes, he nods. You absentmindedly scratched the back of your neck.

"I mean, there's plenty of rooms here so if you don't like this one, just let me know and we'll probably move you to another room-" you rambled, secretly trying to get a move on so you'd finally get some shut-eye.

(What? You're not perfect, sleep is heavily slept on in this day and age. Hah.)

(God, you're definitely going to hell.)

"-and you know how to use a toilet, right?"

The raised eyebrow pointed at you definitely proves that that was a pretty stupid question, but hey, you can't take any chances. You shrugged, a tired smirk threatening to form on your lips.

"Well then. Can I leave it to you to settle down for the night, or...?" you left it open-ended.

He didn't say anything in response, only stared at the bed in front of him. There was a pregnant pause, but he nodded at you. There was a strange tilt to his eyes, but you didn't bother to think further into it as you were just thankful that you could finally rest.

"Well then, good night Barnes. I'll come by tomorrow morning and we'll continue to, er," you thought about it, "work, on your situation."

You made a swift exit out of his room and immediately into "your" room, which was literally right next to his. You immediately discarded your clothes and with a brisk shower and teeth brushing, you promptly dropped straight onto the bed with an audible grunt, wet hair soaking straight into the pillow.

Pulling the plush duvet to cover your body, you reached for your phone to check for any messages you might have gotten.

(3 from Tony; he asked where you were. You told him that you're staying at a safe house and that you needed a small break. It wasn't wrong, but definitely an omission of truth. A few days would be fine, right?)

(2 from Rhodey; it's a picture of a Goodwill's, and there's a silhouette in a nearby window of some guy. "This you?" he asks. "No ❤️," you sent back.)

(63 is from the group chat that the Avengers are in- ah, make that 64 and counting. It's just a bunch of nonsense from what you can gather, but you briefly scrolled through it anyways.)

Turning your phone off, you smushed your face into the pillow and sighed, a terrible knot forming at the pit of your stomach. With an open ear, you tried to hear any noise that could come from Barnes' room, but considering that the walls were reinforced and he was already quiet as it is, all you could hear was the AC running in the background.

"DAHLIA," you huffed, eyes drooping, "keep an eye on him, wake me up if anything happens."

"Got it," her voice echoes from the ceiling speakers.

You quietly tucked yourself in bed. As the exhaustion finally started settling in your body, the last thought that lingered in your head was "Man, I hope nothing bad happens tomorrow," before you drifted right off to dreamless slumber.

_______

The next day was, to say the least, a little disconcerting, but a bigger improvement to be sure.

Right after waking up, you begrudgingly put on some daytime appropriate clothes and stepped out into the hallway. You knocked on the door that was right next to yours, and gingerly opened it when you didn't hear much of a response.

"Good morning," you tentatively greeted. Barnes was sitting at the foot of the bed when you knocked on his door. He mumbled back a greeting and stands up to your eye level.

His clothes are still the same from last night, and judging by the clean state of his bed, he either woke up earlier than you expected or he was sat like that the whole night.

You're not too keen on finding out which was the case, but you had to.

"Sleep well?"

You stepped out of the doorway and motioned him to follow you. Briefly glancing down at your phone to see just a few messages waiting for you, you opted to ignore them for now.

"I slept."

He quietly stated from behind you. He avoided saying if he slept well or not, but at least the damn Terminator slept. You mentally deflated a little; the bar was set so low for him, you're not too sure who it's more insulting to- you or him.

(Of course, it's to him, that shouldn't be a question. Your feelings don't matter.)

"We're gonna have to wing this a little, but uh, here's the general gist of what's gonna happen."

Stepping into the kitchen, you're taken aback to last night as he tentatively stands across from you from the kitchen island. Really, you'd opt to go to the living room, but you both radiate too much nervous energy to really sit.

You opened the refrigerator and sighed when all that greeted you was water and non-perishables. Right. You just got here, it's not like there's gonna be freshly stocked food in here 24/7.

"DAHLIA, order some fresh food and get it delivered today. Charge it on my debit," you mumbled quietly.

DAHLIA doesn't say anything, but the refrigerator lights flicker a familiar green hue that keys you in that she heard you. You raised an impressed eyebrow; what an unnecessary feature for a refrigerator to have. You closed the door and turned around to face Barnes.

"I'm here to serve as, say, a guide for," you gestured to him, "your... rehabilitation, of sorts."

"For now, I can't really offer any... Professional help, on a technical level. I'm not- that's not my area of expertise. I'm an engineer at heart," actually, you really liked other things more than being an engineer, but your fate of becoming the CEO of SI was sealed the moment you decided to live with your dad, "so we're going to have to make a compromise on that."

You shook your head.

"If you were anyone else, I'd point you to a shrink," Barnes gives you a confused stare.

"Therapist," you clarified. He nods.

"But quite frankly," Zemo's face flashes in your memory, "I don't trust anyone to properly... Well, I don't trust anyone when it comes to the mental health of you, and the Avengers too, of course."

Pausing mid-rant, you raised an eyebrow at him.

"You... do know who the Avengers are, right?"

He nods and begins to rattle off a pre-scripted monologue. His eyes are blank as he started speaking.

"A group of top priority, compromised of highly skilled individuals, enhanced or otherwise specified. Threat priority ranges from 5 to 9. As of now, 6 active-duty members and 1 reserve member. The Asset is to not engage under any circumstance and reveal-"

"Alright alright, I get it- that's," you're a little offended that you're considered a "reserve member", but that's not technically wrong, "That's a lot to unpack there, but yeah. You- whew, you definitely know who the- we are."

(You've gotten into the habit of distancing yourself from the Avengers the moment that you had become CEO. You're still working on that, but the word "we" still feels wrong on your tongue.)

There's a little more life that came back to Barnes' eyes after you had snapped him out of it, and it's a bit surreal knowing that Barnes just kinda... runs on autopilot when prompted. The image of Barnes being strapped down in a chair and forced to learn and recite those kinds of things by heart is both horrifying and a little funny.

(Do you think they had a set curriculum he had to learn by?)

"So yeah. The Avengers gotta be careful when lookin' for shrinks, and so do you. There's just too many factors that go into gettin' a personal therapist. So for now," you shrugged, "you're stuck with me."

"What are they?"

"Hm?"

"The factors."

You shrugged.

"Well, for starters, you're- you were, HYDRA's prisoner," the muscle around his jaw visibly clenches when you mentioned HYDRA, but you powered through, "so they'll definitely be interested in getting their fight dog back. They're good at blending in and good at getting their musty little fingers into every nook and cranny. I wouldn't put it past them to have one of their agents go undercover as a therapist for hire. So that's one factor: trying to discern who is and isn't HYDRA."

You raised a finger.

"Then there's the fact that because you're such a... shall we say, top priority, er, asset," that word runs bitter on your tongue, "even if your shrink isn't HYDRA, they'll definitely be targeted by HYDRA if it ever came to light that they have a direct link to you. So there's reason number two: loose ends, and the risks that come with it."

You raised another finger. By now, Barnes has a hard but contemplative curl to his lips.

"And then not to mention how unique your case it. Barnes, you've been a POW for decades. Your brain- no offense buddy, but from what I can tell, it's been fried to hell and back. I don't even have to do any fancy brain scans to know. And that's not even including all the other stuff they probably did to you, only God knows."

You shook your head.

"There's too much at risk for you to get proper therapy right now. But. It's not impossible."

You think back to Shuri, and how she and the other Wakandan scientists were successful in both removing the trigger words and rehabilitating Barnes.

Well, you're not sure about the last part, since you never interacted with the Barnes of your time, but you'd assume that they did help with his subsequent mental health. You wouldn't really put it past them- T'Challa was a nice guy, from your limited interactions with him way into the future, and Shuri was buzzing with ideas and energy. If T'Challa's sympathy for Barnes wasn't enough, then Shuri's crave to help and experiment would supplement the balance plenty. Vice versa, too.

So yeah, future-Barnes' mental health was most likely addressed during his time in Wakanda. And it was almost guaranteed to have been a success.

So you're still gonna hold a torch for the possibility that Barnes' can come out of this as a relatively well-adjusted guy.

Not to mention B.A.R.F. As far as you know, the R&D team assigned to that was still progressing smoothly, but the only downside to that was that it wasn't going to be until a few more years before it's "perfected".

You were never really involved in any way with B.A.R.F. since you were both prepping for SI and finishing college. Your dad was definitely more involved in it than you were, but it's not like you could ask him to pull a few year's worths of experimentation and knowledge out of his ass and exponentially boost the rate of B.A.R.F.'s progress, so.

Helen Cho suddenly sprang to mind, but you quickly threw away that thought. Your- well, Barnes'- issue was neurological, Cho was all about cell regeneration and is a geneticist. So unless somehow the issue crosses over with Cho's line of work, she wasn't a possibility either. There was also Strange, but as far as you've heard the man was pretty... abrasive, even as a wizard. Hard to get a hold of, and very... Hard-headed.

Well, all of that was second hand since it came from Tony, but still. Maybe you could pull Tony in for some clout, but that'll just make him suspicious. God, maybe you shouldn't have kept the whole "I'm actually from the future" spiel a secret, otherwise you wouldn't have to be doing all this crap alone.

Oh well. In for a penny, out for a pound.

You sighed, already feeling the dull thump against your skull starting to form.

"So what now?" Barnes asks. He's less tentative than he was last night, but still soft-spoken when he talks.

"Well, you're stuck with me, bud. I'll do my best to get you prepped for the actual rehabilitation, but honestly, that might take a little longer than you'd expect. So, we'll just- well."

You eyed the outfit he was donning, which was literally your clothes- so it was a few sizes too small for him. He doesn't really seem bothered by it, and if it weren't for the fact that he's sort of proved himself to be neglectful of voicing his own preferences, you'd be a little more inclined to appreciate the view of one very, very beefy super-soldier.

But alas.

Life never really works in your favor, so.

"We'll need to get a few essential things out of the way. Food is already on its way, I assume you aren't allergic to anything?"

He pauses, and there goes that familiar glaze forming over his eyes. You sigh, knowing that he was probably searching through his mental "data-bases" for any allergies, but thankfully it's not long as he blinks back into attention.

"None."

"Yeah, I could'a figured, what with your super-soldier serum."

(You're pretty sure that also makes him immune to cancer, but maybe that's just you glorifying it.)

"So: the food situation is cleared. Now, we need to get you some new clothes because, uh, those don't look very comfortable."

"Comfort does not matter. I am adequately dressed."

You snorted. Maybe it's better that you don't tell Barnes that he's wearing a Sharknado tee and some sweats that have "Eat this!" printed on his behind.

(And maybe it's better that you didn't remember that yes, these are indeed still your clothes.)

"Comfort does matter, my guy. DAHLIA, take some quick measurements."

The kitchen light dims and brightens, shining lime green into the kitchen. It lingers and turns back into that white-blue that sometimes makes your eyes burn when you've been up for too late into the night.

"Seargent Barnes' measurements are now on file. You two want to see the available catalog?"

Right where the kitchen island was, a panel opens up to reveal a hologram of a bunch of articles of clothing, all of which has been adjusted to Barnes' size- or an approximate at least, since there's some that's labeled X or XL.

"Barnes? You got anything you want to do right now or...?"

You gestured to the hologram in front of you.

His face contorts a little, not too noticeable at a quick glance. He doesn't look uncomfortable per se, but judging by the downwards curl of his lips, he's definitely not excited to see the hologram.

You flicked your wrist and it disappeared just as quick as it appeared. Strangely enough, his expression doesn't loosen up as his eyes flicker upwards to yours.

"Hey, that's okay. If it's the hologram, that's no biggie, we'll just move over to the, uh, TV in the next room over. C'mon."

You jerked your head and motioned him to follow you. His face laxes and he walks behind you without a word.

_______

You two ended up getting a lot done all things considered.

Barnes seemed pretty bothered by how many clothing choices there are, but when you asked if he wanted you to just curate a list for him, he easily relented. He was hovering over you the whole time, but you weren't too bothered by it as you were too busy browsing for him.

You went from site to site searching for clothes that screamed "The Winter Soldier", but all that was coming up was clothes in fifty shades of black and with no pizzaz. You did pass by a few Avengers-related merch (especially yours), but he said nothing when you added two or three into your cart, so he probably doesn't care. You did show him a lot of clothes that you thought would fit him, and he nodded to pretty much all of them.

By the time you were done looking for clothes, the doorbell had rung.

("That was quick," you reminisced. DAHLIA was quick to respond.

"It came from a nearby Walmart."

"Huh.")

Barnes' head jerked as his eyes were trained on the entrance door. You patted his arm, and his eyes glance at you.

"Relax, it's just the food. DAHLIA ordered some groceries earlier."

You stood up to go answer the door, and Barnes followed suit. You raised an eyebrow at him, but he doesn't really seem like he's gonna back down anytime soon.

"You know... You can follow behind, but you're gonna have to be in the shadows or something 'cuz, you know... Just- if someone's still at the door, don't let them see you okay?"

He nods, almost mechanically so, and you turned around and walked to the entrance door.

Opening the door, you were greeted with a few big boxes. You raised an eyebrow and glanced out through the door; there are no cars nearby, and DAHLIA whispers in your ear that the clearing's safe- not a single life signature anywhere.

"Barnes, the coast's clear," you called out, already reaching down to grab one of the boxes. You grunt, adjusting your grip before you lifted and turned around.

Barnes, having already popped out of whatever dark corner he was in, is already a few feet behind you.

"Hey, you don't mind helping me bring in those boxes, will you?"

You were already walking past him, but you barely caught the briefest flash of furrowed eyebrows before you saw him walk over to the door. You mentally shrugged, but placed the box in the kitchen and went back over to the door to get the other one.

By the time you were done setting down the box, Barnes had already closed the door and was standing under the arch connecting the kitchen to the main hallway.

You motioned him over, and he complied.

"What is inside?"

You're almost proud that you didn't jump. He doesn't talk much, but when he does it always startles you.

"Groceries, but I don't know what specifically. DAHLIA chose all of it. And by the looks of it, she chose a lot. So. You're gonna help me unpack and we'll probably- well, I'll probably make some food. You can help if you want."

Your back was turned to him, and you started unloading the boxes and their contents. Barnes doesn't move for a hot moment, but he squats down next to you and starts unwrapping the smaller boxes that were inside it.

"You don't mind if I put on some music, right?"

You glanced at him.

"I... don't. Mind," he mumbles, tentatively glancing back at you. You gave him a brief thumbs up and turned your attention back to

"DAHLIA, play something chill. Low volume."

_______

Pretty much, the whole day consisted of unpacking all of the groceries that had been delivered. You ended up pausing, having gotten tired of being awake without food in your stomach, and made some food for the two of you.

You tried conversing with him, trying to get him to at least feel more comfortable, and it... kinda worked. There are a few touchy subjects that he doesn't really seem to like talking about (he doesn't really vocalize his discomfort, but his flinches, no matter how minute they were, spoke louder than words). HYDRA, obviously. Anything revolving the Avengers put him off as well, among other things.

Really, most of the eating consisted of small talk and eating noises, but at least some of the tension in his shoulders had lessened by the time that you two needed to get back to unpacking. Hell, by the time that was done, Barnes' clothes had arrived.

(Oh, the benefits of being insanely rich. Say it with me kids: Thank you, Tony!)

You're usually a little apprehensive about buying clothes online, but color you surprised when not only did all of them fit; Barnes didn't have a single problem with any of them.

"You like 'em?"

You whistled when Barnes came out of his bathroom, now back in your clothes that you had given him originally. He tried all of them on, and you ended up buying him so many clothes that a lot of time had passed by the time he was done. You just sat on his bed, slowly collecting all of the clothes and ripping off the tags, damned if he didn't like one of them; you'll just take it instead.

"They're adequate," he nodded. In his hand were the folded clothes (A camo tee and dark sweatpants), and he set them onto his bed with the other folded clothes.

"Did any of 'em uncomfortable? Too tight, any of the fabric feels wrong...?"

You left the question open-ended as you helped him dump it into a laundry bin. He doesn't respond right away as if he didn't hear you. His eyes flicker over to yours.

"... No. They- I..." the muscle under his eye spasms, "I liked them..."

You grinned, "Glad to hear that, guess we got lucky that none of these was a dud, huh?"

The ghost of a smile that was on his lips appeared briefly, but it was gone just as fast as it had appeared.

Really, that had basically been the peak of the day before things had started to mellow out a little bit. But that was okay, you took whatever it was that Barnes gave, and if it was just the smallest smile you've ever seen on a man, then so be it.

Afterward, the day somehow managed to blend together and pass along like an exhale. Not much happened, since you couldn't really- well, offer anything that could scientifically and medically help him. So you opted to just- try to get him up to date as much as possible.

Honestly, by the time that you had gotten through the first three decades (starting when he was born), it was already pretty late into the night.

(He had a lot of questions, and you really didn't blame him. Hell, most of the more personal information really came from DAHLIA, because as much as you sympathized with the man, you really didn't care to learn about his whole entire biography.

But, at least you answered most of the history related questions. If you had to go through a few history college classes back when you were in college, then you'll be damned if you didn't at least make an effort to learn and internalize them.)

Barnes didn't really show any signs of exhaustion if the casual leg bouncing wasn't enough, but you sure were pooped.

(What? Unlike your dad (and most of the Avengers) you actually had a normal internal clock. For the most part, anyway.)

"Well, as much as I liked talking about prehistoric times," you sounded sarcastic, but you actually did like it, "I gotta sleep, I don't run on super-soldier energy like you do bub."

You stood up, stretched, and saw that Barnes was now standing up as well.

"Should I...?"

Raising an eyebrow, you huffed in good nature, "Go to sleep? Yeah, probably. We're not done with the History101 crash course, and we'll probably be talking about other things tomorrow as well," especially about the fact that you're not gonna be at the safe house often soon, "so we both need the energy for that. So, go clean up and get some Z's, yeah?"

"Oh."

He looked a little lost but followed you back into your shared hallway. Stopping in your doorway, you turned your head to glance at Barnes.

"Good night, Barnes," you nodded, not waiting for a response as you headed into your room. It was quiet and almost inaudible, but you still heard it with your ears before you had closed the door shut.

"... Good night."

You stood in your room, a sudden wave of both exhaustion and dread flooding your body. You shook it off though; it was just the nervous jitters hitting you at an inopportune time.

But really, you trusted your guts almost as much as you trusted Tony.

So as you brushed your teeth and did your business in the bathroom, you tried to quell the anxiety that was building up in your chest.

"DAHLIA, keep an eye on him."

"Gotcha, doll."

You sighed, dropped onto your bed, and hoped that whatever it was that might happen, you'd be prepared for it.

_______

And lo and behold, it didn't even have to be the next morning before shit all hit the fan when DAHLIA wakes you up in the middle of the night (3 A.M., to be specific).

"-oll, wake up! Barnes is having a panic attack!"

It takes half a second to process the fear in DAHLIA's voice. It takes another to process her words.

Fuck.

Scrambling immediately out the bed, you thanked whatever higher being there is that you were sleeping with at least some sweatpants on as you booked it straight to your door and right through Barnes'.

(Maybe you should have joined the football team, because that would have been one wicked tackle. Ha, yeah right, you know nothing about football.)

The lights were on, most likely DAHLIA's doing, and his bedsheets were clearly mussed up. He's nowhere to be seen, so your eyes jump to the joined bathroom door, and lo and behold, there was light bleeding through the cracks.

You quickly approached the door and opened it, throwing away the worry that he might have been absolutely naked.

The good news was that he wasn't nude.

The bad news was that he was hunched over on the ground, right in front of the bathroom counter, and he's gripping his head so tightly you would have thought his skull would have caved in.

Terror shoots down your spine like a lightning bolt, and you immediately rushed to the curled over Barnes, adrenaline rushing through you as a million thoughts ran through your head.

"Barnes!"

He doesn't appear to hear you, groaning and panting as he further curled in on himself. His muscles spasm, hard, and you're at a loss at what to do. He's sickly pale, and the sheen on his skin makes you want to vomit. His panting is shallow, and if you weren't sure if the glint that shone in your eyes was the reflection off of the marble floors or a puddle of saliva coming from Barnes.

You're not sure if touching him right now is a good thing, but you'll be damned if he wasn't your responsibility now. You reach out to him, wrapping one arm around his hunched back and the other trying to pry at his wrists.

(Would you have touched him, if you didn't have the reassurance that DAHLIA has your back?)

(Shut up.)

Maybe you were tensing up for him to go all "Winter Soldier" mode on you, but he's the one that tenses, even more, when you touched him. Thankfully, he doesn't resist your pull as his arm is limp the moment you tried to pull it back, but it doesn't change the fact that he's shaking, badly, and your mind is frozen in limbo.

"DAHLIA, what-"

You're at a loss for words, but DAHLIA, sweet DAHLIA already knows what you were about to ask.

"Sergeant Barnes was displaying elevated levels of anxiety, however, it did not seem to warrant any mentions. I thought-"

She cuts herself off, almost as if she was worried that she had made a wrong call. You swallowed, knowing that despite being a baby A.I., she's never done wrong by you- both in the future and now.

"You thought what?"

You try to rub Barnes' back as if he was a dog that had needed soothing. He groans, but you're not sure if you should interpret that as a hurt groan or a relieved one. You paused and moved your hand away, hovering it just inches away from his back, and his breath hitches.

Your hand dropped onto his back once again, and you could feel the muscles on his muscles spasm a little; his whimpers aren't as loud and painful (though, they're still more than worrying).

So, on the very small bright side, back rubs don't seem to be hurting him either. It's a small win, but a win for sure.

"You- my visuals were clear in the conclusion that you saw it. His discomfort. Your body language and expression acknowledged it but you refrained from addressing it. I- acted under the assumption that it was all under control..."

Something in your mind pauses for a pregnant second before your eyes widened.

"What?"

DAHLIA doesn't even get the chance to reply as Barnes jerks his hands away from yours and pulls at his scalp again. You lurched forward.

"Hey! No!"

You bit back a growl as you grabbed his wrists once again. You yank them back down to his sides as his body jolts, a sob ripping through him. You placed a hand on his chest and tried to boost him back up so he'll have his back against the bathtub that's behind him.

He offers little to no resistance as his back makes contact with the bathtub, but he's slumped into himself. He pulls his knees forward and curls his head into them. For a super-soldier, it's almost cute how hard he's trying to take up as little space as possible if it weren't for the fact that your heart was absolutely breaking at the sight of him.

"Oh, Barnes..."

In shuddered breaths, he mumbles something incoherent.

"...-an't, I- I- I-.... -can't..."

He shakes his head, jolting as if someone had shocked him. You rubbed his arm, glancing down at what you can now confirm to be a puddle of saliva, and then over to the trash can right next to the toilet. You're not too sure if you should get it just in case he decides to vomit, but you're ready to lunge for it the moment Barnes shows any signs of gagging.

"DAHLIA," you spoke at a lower volume, "what- when was he, um, uncomfortable."

"Two nights ago, roughly 22:00, when you told Sargeant Barnes that he was his own free man. Yesterday morning, 08:00, when you asked if he wanted to do anything prior to browsing the available clothing catalog. Right after, he was also discomforted by the catalog, before you offered to buy clothes for him. At-"

"That's- that's enough," you breathlessly muttered. DAHLIA doesn't say anything else, but the air has suddenly become heavier than you remembered.

Your head was almost dizzy with not only how many instances Barnes had been anxious in such a short time, but also at how you remembered each and every instance with startling clarity.

Barnes was anxious at the idea of freedom, but you put it off and opted to just give him a nickel tour of the house.

Barnes was anxious when you asked if he wanted to do anything before looking at clothes, but looked too relieved when you brushed over it.

Barnes was anxious at the idea of shopping for fucking clothes but was okay after you took over for him.

The taste of stomach acid burned your tongue, as yesterday's dinner threaten to rise at the implication of all of this.

"DAHLIA," you mumbled, "the- the rest of those instances- do they..."

You trained your eyes on Barnes.

"Do they all- follow the same... The same- pattern?"

DAHLIA was always in tune with you, even after the time jump.

"... Yes," she lamented.

"God..."

Now, you're not sure who that trash can would be really for; you or Barnes.

"Barnes..."

You murmured quietly. He flinches, and his shaking hasn't gotten any better.

"What- what was it? Was it- was it all too much? God, I'm so sorry, it probably was, wasn't it? I should have- fuck, I should have taken it more slowly, I-"

Barnes shakes his head, stopping you in your rambling. You blinked rapidly.

"Then- was it..." you paused, "... Was it the choices?"

It's almost expected that he doesn't answer you straight away, but he nodded anyway.

"I... It was- it was too much- I couldn't- I don't know- I-"

His breath shuddered with each word as if it hurt him to just even speak right now. You shushed him, ignoring the intrusive thought that it was akin to shushing an animal.

"Hey, hey, it's- it's okay. You'll be okay."

It's not much, what you're saying to him, and it's no surprise that they didn't do much anyway.

Honestly, you didn't know what to say at this point. There didn't even seem to be any phrasing in the known English language that would be able to comfort a man with as much baggage on his shoulders as Barnes, and briefly, just briefly, you wished that you were literally anywhere in the world, but here.

You tried thinking about anything that came from your (albeit limited) interactions with him between the past days that would help ground him, before something jolts you from deep within.

("What are my mission parameters," Barnes asked from behind you.

You paused.

"Mission parameters?")

You didn't even realize that you had said that out loud, but Barnes had tensed up even more before you could even take it back. He held his breath, audibly swallowing.

("You don't need mission parameters, Barnes. You're your own free man. You can- can make decisions on your own. You don't need me to tell you what you need to do.")

("I... Don't understand...")

You spoke on impulse.

"You... You need them, don't you? Mission parameters."

Immediately, you regretted even speaking up just as those words left your mouth.

While every fiber in your being hoped that it wasn't true, there was a small inkling in your head that already knew the answer to your question. It was the only thing that was barely even logical enough to make sense.

His apprehension of making a choice.

How uncomfortable in his own skin he always appeared, despite it even being just a few days.

How relieved he always looks, when the choice was already made for him.

His body tenses underneath your hand, but it's the slight bob of his head that makes your stomach drop. You thought- what a fool you were- you thought he'd be okay without being ordered around, but that was nothing but wishful thinking.

(What was the saying? It's hard to teach an old dog a new trick, was it?)

(Yeah.)

Looking at how only a few days of what you had originally thought was Barnes' newfound freedom turned out to be much more of a nightmare for Barnes, it might just be better for the both of you to push aside your comfortability and start making an honest-to-God investment into Barnes' recovery, even if that means that you had to take a step backward.

A very, very risky step backward.

It was a shot in the dark, but it was the only thing that you could place your bets on for now.

You just hoped that your aim wouldn't fail you now.

"Okay, well... How about this, Barnes, here's your main- your main mission, okay? Become a free man. Hey, no, look at me," you swiveled his head so he could look at you. His eyes were panicked, crazed, and irredeemably sad, but you had to make sure nothing crossed through your face so he'd know that everything will be okay. Your grip on both sides of his face was firm as you pleaded with him.

"Your only 'mission' right now? Breathe," ironically, his breath hitched, "If not for your own sake, then for mine."

You swallowed, heart stuttering as you looked into his glassy eyes.

"Please," you let your desperate prayer lingered in the air.

Maybe it was being given a task to accomplish after days of trying to figure out what to do with his supposed new "freedom", or it was how non-labor intensive and just... simple, his new mission parameter was, but it was almost instantaneous how all of the tension in his body dissipated into thin air.

Witnessing the moment of mercy upon grief through Barnes, no matter how brief or temporary it may be, was almost cathartic.

Almost.

(Perhaps you shouldn't be looking for absolution vicariously. But you were never really a good person, were you?)

_______

A/N: I've read a lot of WinterIron fics. While I have read a lot of interpretations about how Barnes would have reacted when he was freshly freed from HYDRA, this is how I choose to interpret it- one that would best fit the story for now. Next chapter, since I couldn't fit it in this chapter, is a special, but it is very much important and related to the story, and Barnes as a character. If you're familiar with some WinterIron tropes, this won't be too foreign of an idea. Not too sure about other ships/ stories, but. Ah, I'm rambling. Anyways, see you next year lol.

_______

Masterlist 

_______

Tagged: @unsolvetheheckoutofit @tonystanktheirondad @ludwigvonbaethoven @rspctot7 (if you’re not @/ fabledxmystery, so sorry for the mistag! LMK if it’s not you) @tolkoskott @klanceiscannon14 @deos-life (grr it won’t let me tag you) @kp1183 (kperla1183) @xyuriko-akamine (akabaneyuriko) @kettnerjanea​ @soldier-42 @daybreakmistakes @spnfanboy777 @crash-zite @jm-cy

[xyzcekaden]

🚍 unsuspecting sunday afternoon 🚍

by me, xyzcekaden! a pokemon fanfic about when the one you hate to love is made for you

How capable is the human heart now?

fandom: pokemon, gen 3, advanced generation characters: ash, may, steven stone in a “supporting” role ship: advanceshipping genre: romance, angst themes: friendship, pre-relationship, slowburn, 6+1 if you squint setting: modern, hoenn, pokemon universe lite word count: 4.6k rating: T

read it below, on ffnet, or on ao3!

A/N (9.7.201): So this has been in my drafts since about April 2020 😅 Sure, I'm happy to finally share something new with the small yet strong advanceshipping fandom; but more than that, I'm relieved this document can no longer taunt me with its incompletion, hahaha. Do let me know what you think! Especially with this opening formatting; I'm trying something new. :)

Nothing sensitive in the fic, but the characters are all adults so it felt fitting to rate it T. Title taken from the song of the same name by the Backstreet Boys, and its lyrics/sentiments are interwoven throughout. The narrative is inspired and framed by monstaxnight's anonymous ask. If you recognise it, it doesn't belong to me. Thanks for reading!

~~~

fall for someone whose body would start fires

On a Saturday, May asked Ash to come over the next day. “I need a second opinion on something,” she had said. “It’ll be super quick.”

Of course, ‘super quick’ means Ash has enough time to set his switch up on May’s gigantic living room tv and play a few rounds of his favourite fighting video game while she gets ready for something or another in her room. He always acts like he has better things to do than help her with her sundry weekly ventures, but they both know he’d rather do ‘nothing’ with her than ‘something’ on his own somewhere else.

“Okay, Ash, are you ready?” May’s voice rings out. “Yeah,” he answers distractedly, strategically button smashing.

“So I kept the jeans from this last outfit, but this top I just got two weekends ago and haven’t had a chance to wear yet,” May narrates as she exits her room. “I had the, frankly, brilliant idea of using the jacket from Outfit 1 and pairing it with those heels you paid for for my birthday, et voila!”

The clacking of heels stops at the entrance of the hallway. “What do you think?’

Ash redirects his attention to May. His avatar dies on screen, just like his voice dies in his throat.

“You, um, you look great.”

In actuality, May looks smoking hot, but that’s not new for either of them. His best friend is supremely attractive, and he knew it and had no problem acknowledging it normally. This time, however, May doesn’t just look physically great, she also looks like she feels like she looks great. He doesn’t know how much sense that makes; but there is decidedly something different, and Ash feels a strange sense of dread in his chest.

May beams, taking the inarticulate response in stride. “Well that’s a winning endorsement if I ever heard one! Now let’s just hope Steven has as great of a reaction.” She turns to one of the many full-length mirrors stationed around her condo and reviews the outfit with a critical eye.

This brings Ash out from his stupor. “‘Steven’?” he repeats as he sits up on the couch. “You’re going on a date?”

“It’s not a date,” May replies in a tone that clearly conveys that she would not be opposed to it turning into a date. “My dad is having dinner with an old business partner, and the guy’s bringing his son along, so me and Max were invited, too. We were kinda friends back when we were young, but it’s not like we’ve kept in touch or anything. I just figured I should make a good second first-impression… You know, for my dad’s sake.”

Ash can tell the last bit was just something she’s telling herself to rationalise why she’s trying so hard, and it doesn’t sit right with him. He slinks back down on the couch dejectedly and halfheartedly starts a new game.

He finds himself wondering how often they hung out and how much whatever-that-number-was-teenth impressions were worth. He hopes it’s a lot.

~~~

fall for someone who always runs from his kiss

“… And I was right! They were roommates!” May boisterously ends her story, almost losing her ice cream to physics as she wildly gesticulates.

They’re just strolling around the park that’s honestly nowhere near either of their apartments; but over the years, it became their park anyway. They didn’t even set plans to hang out today, but it kinda just happened―a recurring theme in their friendship, admittedly.

For his part, Ash hides a smirk with a lick to his own ice cream, not bothering to say or do anything to protect her treat. If she hasn’t learned by now, she never would. “Oh my god, they were roommates,” he deadpans instead.

May sends him an unimpressed smirk and lightly smacks Ash’s shoulder. He yelps. She yanks her hand back as soon as she realises, but the damage is done.

He blinks down at the cold, vanilla, rainbow-sprinkled stain before raising his gaze to meet May’s equally stunned one.

They stare in silence for a moment, then May cracks a conciliatory grin. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry?”

He shrugs it off easily. “I probably deserved it,” he says, making peace with the knowledge that his previous unwillingness to protect her ice cream from any accidents is the undoubted origin for his current poor luck. He nods toward the path. “Shall we?”

“We passed by a restroom a little bit ago. We can clean you up,” May disagrees, tugging on his arm in the opposite direction.

“‘S fine,” he argues as he tries to continue walking forward.

“Ash, it’ll stain!” She tugs harder.

“It’ll be an improvement!” He’s overpowering her, but not as easily as he’d like.

“Why are you being such a butthead about this!?” She’s pulling with all her strength now, this being a matter of pride to her at this point.

“Come on, May!” Ash heaves one last time.

They tumble head over feet onto the ground, but that’s not the reason Ash feels like his world has turned upside down.

May’s body weighs comfortably on his, his hands naturally settle on her waist with hers on his chest, and his brown eyes bore into her blues. Their ice cream has fallen… somewhere, but Ash doesn’t concern himself with that considering this is the closest they’ve been since they first met.

They’ve been toeing this line since then, too.

I’m gonna do it, he thinks to himself.

He closes his eyes.

He leans in.

May scrambles away.

Ash sits up and blinks at the sight of May’s confused, furious eyes. “Ash, what are you doing?” Her voice croaks like her throat is dry. It makes him clear his own before dumbly responding, “I was trying to kiss you.”

“Why??” she asks, her voice strangled. He pushes himself off the ground warily as he watches her hold herself, bite her lip, shake her head in a panic; and somehow in all of that, he understands.

“I thought it wasn’t a date.” Ash tries so hard not to sound accusatory, but her wince in response proves it didn’t work. It also proves his fear correct.

He turns, hiding as if the people walking by could discern his transgression and shame by the sight of his face alone. Besides, his mind can conjure up an image of her running away just fine on its own.

Ash notices the remnants of their impromptu outing splattered on the ground near his feet. He picks up what he can and stomps over to the nearest trash bin, throwing it in as hard as he can to let out some of his frustration.

He hopes he hasn’t gone and screwed everything up.

~~~

fall for someone whose lips belong to someone else

They don’t talk about it, and then it’s too late.

“Ash, this is Steven,” she tells him softly, as if it could make up for how it feels like the sight of her arms wrapped around the guy’s torso and his arm casually thrown over her shoulder assaults him every time he blinks.

“Steven Stone. It’s great to finally meet you. May speaks of you highly,” Steven introduces with a dignified air. Not pompous, no; he is just someone who was raised being told that he was going to do important things and who happened to believe it.

They shake hands, and Ash’s fingers feel cold, a marked contrast to how there’s something in his chest that’s burning.

Inside the restaurant, the waitress asks if a table is okay, and no one asks for a booth instead. In his seat, Ash is neither directly in between nor directly across from the newly-established couple, and he wonders if this is where all his luck went into.

Lunch goes better than expected.

Ash was prepared to hate the guy, but what is there to hate? Steven has a decent sense of humour, loves pokemon but loves rocks even more, and is COO of the biggest enterprise in Hoenn. He is a safe, sensible choice. This guy isn’t going to break May’s heart.

As the meal winds down, Steven offers to pay for everyone; but Ash still has his pride. In the end, he manages to negotiate paying for just his own plate and drink, knowing he has no right to battle for the privilege of paying for May’s.

He wouldn’t even do so on a typical occasion anyway; but as far as Ash is concerned, Steven’s presence throws all of the friends’ typical rules of engagement out the window.

They say goodbye and part ways in front of the restaurant.

A few steps later, Ash snaps his fingers as he recalls something. He turns around to remind May of their movie plans in a few days, and he is met with the sight of the couple sharing a sweet kiss on the corner while waiting for the light to change.

Steven could never break May’s heart, but he sure can break Ash’s.

Ash turns back and continues walking. He hopes May can remember on her own.

~~~

fall for someone whose touch is way too much

May insists that nothing has changed between them, but clearly something has because Ash doesn’t remember ever being so anxious about her proximity before.

He had always been aware of her, though. Always. When your first meeting is saving the other from getting run over by a tour bus, you quickly develop the habit of keeping track of where the person is at all times.

Between his athleticism and her natural proclivity towards tactileness, casual physical exchanges quickly became their norm: hugs and high fives, friendly elbows in the rib after a good joke and sharing a blanket as they watch a movie, (lingering touches on the shoulder and holding hands even after they’ve escaped a crowd… or did he make those up?).

They were controlled yet unmistakably affectionate markers of their relationship.

But now?

When she shifts one centimetre closer to him in line at the mall food court, he accidentally overpays by fifty pokeyen out of distraction. When she grabs his fork out of his hand to try a piece of his takoyaki, he jerks so hard at the contact that he spills his soft drink all over the table. When she pats him dry using flimsy food court napkins with a joke about ice cream in her voice and fondness in her eyes, he needs to claim a rapid-onset fever in order to give himself an excuse to cut their lunch short immediately.

These innocent touches have been an ever-present facet of their friendship since basically the beginning; and even when he realised he was in love, they hadn’t affected him like this.

Things are different now, despite what she says.

Well, maybe not things; maybe just him.

He had allowed himself to revel in their familiar touches when she was single because he could, because there was no one else that she was supposed to be able to make feel like this. Even if the feeling wasn’t meant for him, it wasn’t meant for anyone else either.

But now.

He can’t, in good conscience, allow his heart to rush and his smile to form and his hand to squeeze back. It wouldn’t be fair to May, not when she’s trusting him with her friendship and he’s taking more from her than that.

Even though he’d like nothing else than to keep that closeness, to go back to how it was between them before, this is the way it has to be now. He just hopes she can understand.

~~~

fall for someone he doesn’t want to feel for

On sleepless nights, he wonders when.

He knows the who, what, why, and how; but the when eludes him.

...

They were both breathing heavy, attention focused on the spot of the road where the girl would have flattened like a pancake if it weren’t for his quick reflexes and hero complex.

The clapping of a few passers-by snapped them out of their shock and into the realisation that he still had her protectively cradled to his chest.

They quickly broke apart, and he took the time to wave off the praise from the gathered crowd while she checked her purse to see if everything was inside.

“You got everything?” he asked after people’s attentions finally turned back towards their own lives.

“Yeah, I do,” the girl replied, and her voice was rather cheery considering the ordeal she just survived. (He would later learn that was her default.)

“Great,” he said, genuine yet awkward.

They continued staring at each other. The adrenaline from their brush with danger hadn’t worn off yet; his heart was still beating very fast.

“So, um, have a good day,” he bade after it was clear neither of them had anything more to say. He made to return to his errands, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

“You saved my life, and you’re just gonna walk away?” she asked incredulously.

He blinked at her. “I’ll be honest; I wasn’t aware there was an after-action protocol for this sort of situation.”

She was incredulous for only a second before she giggled at him. “The least I can do is buy you lunch to say ‘thank you.’”

“Well, I’ve never turned down a free meal,” he accepts with a grin.

She giggled again then stuck out her hand. “My name’s May.”

“Ash.”

...

No, it wasn’t then. Nor was it during the meal they shared, nor at the bar where they happened to see each other that weekend, nor while they were escaping from the bar fight that she accidentally instigated that night.

...

“Is this going to become a running gag? Will I have to constantly be saving you from trouble you unintentionally get yourself into?” Ash panted after he directed her to duck into a nearby alley.

“Hey, as far as I’m concerned, this automatically makes me the most interesting friend you’ve got,” May countered.

He took one extra second to check no one was following them then cut a glance at her. “I don’t know about you, but most of my friends have my number.”

She rolled her eyes with a smile. “Smooth.” They switched phones and exchanged numbers.

“Better memorize that by heart,” he jested as he handed her her phone back. “Don’t wanna waste your one phone call at the station just because you mixed up the last two digits by accident.”

“If the next time you hear from me is because I went and got myself arrested, just leave me to rot. I must have earned it,” she smirked.

...

Luckily, the next time one of them reached out to the other wasn’t to bail the former out of jail. May invited him to a pool party for her birthday, where he handily won a water balloon fight and impressed everyone by fixing the grill for their barbeque. Their friendship continued to progress naturally: movie nights that turned into impromptu sleepovers, brunches that turned into walks around town. Several shopping trips and video games and hikes later, they were each other’s best friends. It was basically inevitable.

So when? When would he have had the chance to fall in love with her?

...

“Hello?”

“Ash, you picked up!” she sounded surprised―happy, but surprised―and he winced. He knew he’d been blowing her off a little more often lately, but making her think he’d turn down her phone call?

“Heh, yeah, sorry about that,” he said, betting on the hope that she somehow implicitly understood everything he was apologising for. “Is everything okay?”

For an extended second, she was quiet, then she said, “I need to tell you something.”

His hackles rose, and he started grabbing his keys and putting on his shoes. Maybe she finally ended up in jail. “Where are you? I can be there in ten minutes, maybe twenty with traffic―”

She giggled, and he paused. That was her nervous giggle. “May?” he asked, still wary but not about to race out of his house with only his boxers on.

“No! No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just… Steven told me he loves me.”

His breath left his lungs.

“And I told him I love him back,” she continued.

All the adrenaline that had surged through his body only moments before completely left him at her words, and his limbs locked up instead. He felt cold.

“Hello?”

He didn’t even realise he had sunk to his knees until he meant to take a step back towards the couch. He just slumped onto his butt. “That’s―” He had to clear his throat. “That’s gotta be recent.”

He could slap himself. He sounded as dead as he felt. He tried again: “I mean, that’s great news, May! He’s a lucky guy. Yeah.”

She sighed with relief. Could Steven tell what her sighs meant over the phone? ”I’m the lucky one, I think,” she said happily, and that was his last straw.

“Heh, yeah, well,” he sputtered out, just to have something to say. “Listen, since you’re not in danger or anything, uh, you actually caught me at a bad time, so I gotta go. I’ll catch you later, yeah?”

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

“Wait, Ash! Before you go!”

He held back a sigh. “What’s up, May?”

“It’s just… You’re right; it is recent. You’re actually the first person I told.”

“I’m honoured.” He couldn’t help the sarcasm that spilled out, but he backtracked quickly. “I mean it. Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course, Ash; I tell you everything. At this point, it’s like I have to; nothing would ever feel real otherwise.”

He shut his eyes. He really couldn’t take this anymore. “I know what you mean. Same here.”

She made a cute sound, a quiet little ‘hmm,’ and that was when the first tear spilled out. “Alright, I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’ll text you later!!” she promised.

“Later,” he repeated, both an echo and a goodbye; and finally, blissfully, he ended the call.

...

When, when, when?!

That was supposed to be one of the sweetest moments of her young adult life, and she called on him―trusted him, even―to be happy for her. When did he get to the point where he couldn’t even do that? Instead, he recalls it now as he struggles to fall asleep, playing the memory at half-speed over and over again in his imagination, and all he does is hope.

He desperately hopes it’ll stop hurting so much.

~~~

fall for someone with the sweetest rebel heart

When he finds out he didn’t get the promotion he was vying for at work, there’s no one else’s comfort he sought but May’s.

“I’m sorry that happened, Ash,” May soothes as she rubs rhythmic circles into Ash’s back. They’re in her condo, noticeably nicer maintained than Ash’s flat, side by side on the sofa. It is the first time he’s let her touch him in weeks, and he really needs it. “At least now they know you’re interested? It might be your turn next time.”

Ash snorts but nods anyway. He’s usually the type to look at the bright side, but it would be an understatement to say that he is simply disappointed. After all the L’s he’s been taking in his personal life, he had been hoping at least something would go his way professionally.

May continues, “Just make sure not to let this setback actually set you back. Keep putting your best foot forward, and I know you’ll win those guys over… just like you did with me!” She ends with a wink, trying her hardest to inject some levity into the situation.

Just like that, Ash’s mood sours even more. “You can’t say that to me, May,” he angrily replies as he shuffles out of her hold.

“What are you talking about?” she pouts as she feebly tries to get him to lay back against the couch so that the cold air can’t get under the blanket they are sharing.

“I didn’t ‘win you over,’ clearly.” He shrugs off her touch and scoots away. He has spent so long trying to keep his bitterness inside, but he doesn’t have the emotional wherewithal to regulate himself right now. He’s tired of trying to get over things that make him upset.

May frowns, the furrow between her brow getting deeper as she sits up straight on the sofa. “Ash, why are you talking like that? I meant, like, how we became friends, obviously. I didn’t grow to love you by accident.”

Ash stands then, balling the blanket up and throwing it back on the couch. “I bet Steven wouldn’t be too happy to hear you say that.”

She follows suit, her voice elevating in volume as if to match. “I bet Steven wouldn’t appreciate being judged by someone who’s only met him once―despite my efforts otherwise, might I add.”

“I bet Steven would love to hear his girlfriend say she loves another guy.”

“I bet Steven isn’t dumb enough to think I can’t love you both.”

“You don’t love me, May!” Ash finally explodes.

He has never raised his voice like this, not to her, but he’s tired. He’s tired of loving someone he can’t have, he’s tired of hating himself for it, and he’s tired of the guilt when he takes it out on her despite all his attempts not to.

She looks like she’s torn between yelling right back or kicking him out; and before she could make up her mind, he collects himself enough so he could bring his voice down. He states simply, “Not the way you love Steven.” Not the way I love you.

He doesn’t say it, but he can tell she hears it anyway. He clears his throat and turns around, trying to hide without running away. “Hearts don’t work like that,” he murmurs into the room.

He makes to leave, but May’s hand on his shoulder stops him. She forcibly turns him back to face her, and Ash is shocked at the determined set to her face. Her eyes, bluer than a water stone and twice as powerful, hold him as captive as they always have. “You listen to me, Ash Ketchum.” Her tone brokers no argument. “If you thought for a second that I stopped loving you because I fell in love with Steven, you clearly underestimated what my heart is capable of.”

Her grip on him tightens, as if making sure he is still with her in the moment. “It’s big enough for the both of you; and if that’s not the way hearts are supposed to work, then I’ll just be the exception that proves the rule.”

She pulls him into a hug then, like locking that promise between them, and he dares let himself hope she means that.

~~~

fall for someone whose heart needs sewing up

Ash wasn’t expecting a knock on his door this late at night, and he definitely wasn’t expecting to see a beautifully made up May Maple standing in the hallway, mascara-tinged tears and runny nose notwithstanding.

"Steven is moving to Alola to support Devon Corp’s expansion," is all she said, but even that much is hard to make out through her watery voice.

The news sinks in, and Ash’s heart feels like someone moved it three centimetres to the left: still there, still functional, but not at all where he needs it to be.

"You’ve always talked about going to Alola," is the only way he could respond, thinking of all the times they’ve imagined taking a week off and vacationing in the tropical region. He won’t, can’t let himself think about anything else or else he’d break down.

In his heartbreak, he cannot recognise May's tears, which are too raw and too loud to be that of someone bearing regrettable news. These are the tears of a confused, broken heart.

"Ash, I'm not going," she sniffles, still stiffly standing outside his door. "He asked me not to."

Finally understanding that he misunderstood, Ash is even more disoriented than he was before. "Why would he do that?" he asks, obviously still trying to wrap his mind around what the hell was happening.

"I don’t know!" May yells while clenching her fists and stomping a high-heeled foot. It is the most movement she's made since he opened the door. "I demanded a reason, and he spewed nonsense at me! He said―" and she stops. Her whole body slumps back into stillness but without the stiffness of before. She continues quietly, "He said he didn’t want to see what I’d look like with my heart so far outside of my chest," like a guilty confession. Ash is at once reminded of their almost-fight a month ago, and he still isn’t sure what this all means.

He almost asks, Why wouldn’t he believe your heart was right where you were? or How capable is the human heart now? but he doesn’t.

Instead, he finally welcomes May inside. He sits her on the couch and helps her take off her heels before she wraps herself up in the blanket he keeps there―a blanket he only has, he remembers, because when she first visited his apartment, she insisted his couch needed one. She doesn’t just hold the blanket around her shoulders; she hides her entire frame within its folds. He merely sits on the couch next to the lump and places a solitary hand on top, unsure where it was resting yet hoping it is providing comfort nevertheless.

He wonders if May ever let Steven see her like this, the way she needs to shut out all stimuli as if to physically recreate her darkest moments. He wonders why he loves that she does that, even though it causes him so much selfish pain to be close enough to see her like this but shut out from her healing.

"I don’t think I have a boyfriend anymore," May says at length, voice dampened by the space and fabric between them.

It would have been the happiest news of Ash’s adult life if it weren’t for the extreme melancholy that laced her tone as she said it out loud.

He squeezes his hand into a fist on top of the blanket, his signal that he’d like to hug her if he could.

"I would have missed you if you left." Ash gives a nonsequitur-confession in response. May burrows deeper into the blankets and says nothing.

Instead, she reaches a hand out from a heretofore unseen opening in the fabric and holds on to his other hand tightly.

Ash stares at her slender knuckles, made paler from her firm grasp, and stops hoping.

He gently plies her fingers from his palm and tries not to feel guilty about the shocked, embarrassed way the hand pulls back into the blanket as he leaves her there.

The love of his life needs compassion right now. This is not his opportunity to sweep her off her feet; this is not his second chance.

He returns from the bedroom, settles back into his place on the couch, and forces May out of the blanket.

~~~

May jerks her head up, shocked and angry and still embarrassed from her rejected attempt to seek Ash’s comfort, but she is quickly mollified into confusion. The expected sight of Ash’s lit up form in his lit up living room ends up being no different from the blackness from which she thought she was rudely taken.

It is so dark under the extra, larger blanket that she can’t even see Ash’s nose even though she can sense his head is mere inches from hers.

His hands find hers in the darkness and squeeze. Relief flashes through her as she finally surrenders to the deep, thick slice of heartbreak.

May wants to see his face, but she settles for a hug.

[jovialyouthmusic]

Silver Service

Has Bastien finally run Anton to ground? Drake returns to Applewood to find his mentor absent.

Word Count 3289

A/N  warnings - a little implied smut. Not suitable for under 18s

11 Making Plans

Anton scowled as he looked out over the ground far below the airplane.

‘Why the hell are we travelling by this beat up old piece of shit? Why aren’t we in a jet – what happened to the helicopter?’ Claudius cleared his throat

‘Funds are low, Sir’ he said ‘We had counted on everything coming together after the coronation, but the gunman put paid to it all’

‘I’d like to know who hired that amateur – he should have hit his mark instead of botching the job’ he snarled

‘We’re still trying to find out, Sir’ he answered ‘and that’s not easy considering the King’s guard have him under lock and key’

‘Why the fuck don’t we have surveillance?’ he raged ‘What do I pay you for?’

‘I’m sorry Sir, since the botched assassination the Guard are on high alert. They’ve had staff at all the significant houses re vetted. We’ve still got one or two operatives but they daren’t make a move until they need to’

‘How about that bitch Lucretia?’ he asked

‘She’s at Applewood, where the King and Olivia retreated when the Palace was evacuated. That seems to be the base of operations right now, the head of the guard and his woman are there – and Walker and the American woman too. Apparently the whole court are touring Cordonia, attending charity events at any Duchy that cares to host one’ Anton rose an eyebrow

‘That could be turned to our advantage. We need to pay close attention to the itinerary’

-------

Damien hit the tarmac running. They had decided landing at the same airfield as Claudius would be too risky, so an SUV waited to take himself and James there as fast as possible. The fact that they had travelled by jet and the others had been in an ordinary prop plane meant that they had some time in hand. A second vehicle tailed them, and they set off at breakneck speed, calling Bastien to keep him up to date.

The roads they had to travel were narrow and little used. They needed to get close to the airfield and wait for them to leave. Their luggage had tracking devices, so unless they got wind of that, all they had to do was to follow at a distance and maintain surveillance of their destination. Simply arresting them straight away would mean that they would miss out on discovering his power base. From the location of the airfield there were a number of possibilities – they may be based in Valtoria, Portaviera or the Commery Isles, presuming that they didn’t travel any further afield.

They had the advantage of the Charity tour under their belt. They had locations set but the itinerary was still fluid. Bastien planned for the tour to go as close and as soon as possible to Anton’s location so that they could either force him to act and make himself vulnerable, or make their own move to take him out.

Damien had little idea of the terrain and geography of Cordonia, so was relying on James to keep him informed. They parked the SUV in a field entrance half a mile from the airfield, out of sight of the only road that serviced the tiny runway. That road lead to a wider main road, where the other SUV waited to cover the least likely direction that Anton was likely to take. They expected him to make for the road to Valtoria, where another road junction would determine whether he was aiming to go further to the coast at Portaviera, or further still to the Commery Isles.

James told him that the duchy of Valtoria currently had no Duke or Duchess, as the childless Duchess had passed away a few weeks ago. She was reclusive and little was known of her affiliation for or against Constantine, so there was a possibility that Anton might be making for that location. The nobility at Portaviera was known to be sympathetic to Liam, so the last prospect of someone sympathetic to the Sons of the Earth was Lord Neville Delacouer in the Commery Isles. He had been a staunch supporter of Constantine, and appeared to pay allegiance to the new King, but he was an unpleasant character. He often said one thing to the new King’s face and another to other members of the council of nobles when discussing Liam’s ideas of admitting commoners to the Council.

He breathed a sigh of relief when his phone pinged at the presence of the tracking devices planted at the Monaco border. Half an hour later, a car passed the road end, and James eased out to follow at a discrete distance - out of sight but within signal range.

Half an hour later, the car bearing Anton Severus made the turn toward Valtoria.

-------

‘Valtoria, you say?’ Liam said thoughtfully. ‘I was considering who to award the Duchy to now that Duchess Van Hausen has passed away without an heir. The manor is still occupied by her staff and they’re maintaining it until it has a new owner. I suppose if she sympathised with Anton, he might make use of the estate.’ He turned to Bastien ‘Has the staff been vetted recently?’

‘We’ve made our best efforts, but with the recent funeral arrangements it’s been difficult, and she was so reclusive that we didn’t even have a list available. I’m uncertain as to whether to back off or go ahead with the checks. If we don’t do the same as we are with the other duchies, it might make him suspicious.’

‘At your discretion, Bastien’ Liam replied ‘I trust your judgement. Just let me know what you’re doing and I’ll give you whatever funding you need’

‘Thankyou Sir. I had planned to send the charity tour where Anton was going, but it’s a bit tricky as there’s nobody available to arrange an event for Valtoria’

‘Don’t they have the annual lantern event coming up?’ Liam said ‘We could contact the majordomo at the Manor and suggest we use that to raise money for their chosen cause’

‘Excellent Idea, your Grace’ Bastien said ‘I’m sure I can involve Nazario. I’ll contact him and we can start making plans’

------

‘So our first stop is Valtoria?’ Sophia asked Bastien as she stacked the plates from their dinner to go back to the kitchens. ‘It all seems rather last minute’

‘It is, the date of the festival is fixed and it’s fortuitous that it’s only two days away’ answered Bastien ‘That gives us time to reconnoitre the manor before the Court arrives.’ Sophia stopped and looked at him intently.

‘Us?’ she questioned ‘You said you’d step back from active duty’ He sighed.

‘I have to be nearby’ he said ‘I can’t do everything remotely from here, if communications break down it could be catastrophic, no matter how much I trust my men’ Sophia crossed her arms and glared at him. He shrugged ‘I’ll be in a surveillance van away from the action, but close enough to follow in when the coast is clear’

‘And when do you judge that the coast is clear?’ she asked tartly. He got up and stood in front of her, taking her hands in his and looking intently into her eyes.

‘Sophia, you have to trust me. I’ve been doing this for a long time. You’ll be safe here, I’ll assign you your own guard – James is with Damien right now’ She looked down in defeat.

‘I’m sorry Bas, it just makes me feel nervous. I can’t lose you now’ He let go of her hands and rubbed her upper arms before drawing her to him.

‘I promise I’ll come back to you’ he said as she nestled into his broad chest and her scent rose to him. ‘This is my job, and when Anton has been neutralised I can rest easy – and so can you, and Liam and Olivia as well.’ He squeezed her tight ‘Believe me, I don’t want to lose you either, and this is the best I can do to protect you as well as my King and my country.’ She drew back and looked up at him

‘That’s what you said before’ she said in a small voice.

‘I have Damien to help me this time, as well as all my men.’ Bastien went on reassuringly ‘He’s got a good reputation – he’s the best man for the job. We have the advantage this time too. We know where Anton is and if we move fast enough he won’t be ready for us’ She smiled wanly

‘When are you going?’ she asked

‘Soon, Lewis will call when we’re ready to go’ he said, and took her over to the couch, sitting and drawing her down next to him, wrapping her in his embrace. She rested her head on his chest again, and this time he inclined his head so that his chin rested on hers and her hair tickled his nose. He took a deep calming breath which she subconsciously copied. He felt her warmth and closed his eyes to commit every sense of her to memory so he could recall it when he needed the strength to remember his purpose. He felt the vibration of the phone in his pocket. Lewis was calling him away.

------

Riley held on to the door handle of the SUV grimly as Drake barrelled down the track toward the tarmacked road. She knew rebuking him for rattling her around like an egg in a carton would do no good – in fact he might show off his driving skills more, so she gritted her teeth and endured. He chatted amiably as if his driving was the most natural normal thing in the world.

‘You really showed some skill catching fish for dinner’ he said ‘Next time I’ll leave you by the lake and I’ll go off after bigger game’ A vision of him coming back down the track with a deer across his shoulders briefly flashed through her imagination, and she shook her head to get rid of the image. She wondered whether it would be better not to tell him outright that roughing it had been a little harder than she had imagined.

It wasn’t that she liked her creature comforts – a decent bathroom for one – but a little more concession to modern life would have been nice. At least the bed had been comfortable, she told herself.

Ah, the bed. A smile flickered across her face and fixed itself as she remembered the times between the fishing and cooking and hiking. Their limbs entangled, lips grazing over bare skin, fingertips caressing, stroking and pressing. Waves of pleasure that seemed to go on forever before ebbing away leaving the glow of satiation, only to begin again just as she thought they were done. Those times were incredible – she could forgive him anything in return for what he gave to her without holding back anything. She gave her all in return, and the memory of former lovers faded into insignificance.

At last they turned onto the main road, and she breathed a sigh of relief. He turned up the music and started to sing at the top of his lungs. She laughed at his choice and couldn’t help but sing along with him.

‘Country roads, take me hooooome to the plaaaace I belooooooong’ but even as she sang, laughter bubbling up under the words, she couldn’t help but wonder where ‘home’ was – for her, for Drake…did they belong together? It hadn’t been long since they had admitted their feelings for each other but she felt as if she’d met her soulmate. Could she make her home here in this odd little country? Would he follow her back to New York if she asked? Would he want to go back to where he was born, in Texas? What would they do to make a living? She looked over at him and he grinned back at her before paying attention to the road again. She resolved to put her thoughts aside for now and go with the flow.

They drew into the courtyard at Applewood, and Drake frowned.

‘There’s not many vehicles here’ he mused, looking at the row of parked cars, noting that the limos were still there, but all but one of the SUVs were missing. That meant Liam was still there, but a good portion of Bastien’s men were elsewhere. He couldn’t make sense of it, and went straight to the security suite. He found Phillipo there, widely recognised as Lewis’s right hand man, just as Lewis was to Bastien.

‘What the hell’s going on – where’s Bastien?’ he questioned him as he looked up from his desk.

‘Walker’ he acknowledged ‘Mr Lykel is out in the field’

‘I thought he wasn’t on active duty anymore’ he quizzed him ‘Didn’t he send James and Damien out to do that?’

‘Captain Lykel said to give you this’ he said, handing him an envelope. He tapped the side of his nose in a gesture he knew the Guard used in situations where it was possible that others could overhear them. He frowned and opened his mouth, but the other man shook his head to caution him to silence. He nodded and took the envelope, going back out into the courtyard to Riley. She raised her eyebrows in query and he took her hand.

‘Let’s go for a walk’ he said ‘I need to think’ he showed her the envelope, pressing his finger to his lips, and they set off toward the orchard. Once there, he leaned against the trunk of a tree and opened it, Riley watching but saying nothing, aware that he needed to concentrate. The note was handwritten, and he recognised Bastien’s neat square letters.

Walker

I still cannot be certain that I have discovered all of Constantine’s covert surveillance devices so send this to you in the strictest confidence. Look to see if the seal has been tampered with. There is a small possibility that others may know of any remaining devices and have use of them. Use the utmost discretion as to who to discuss the contents of this letter with and destroy it as soon as you can. I have faith that you know who you can trust, but be cautious.

Nazario and James have tracked Severus and two other men to Valtoria. You know the state of affairs there. In two days’ time the Lantern festival will be held, and Liam and Olivia will attend with the rest of the court. Before then, I go with the Guard to flush Anton out and neutralise him. I plan not to take an active part, but you know these things sometimes change.

If I know you as well as I might, I know your first thought will be to follow me. I urge you to stay where you are and protect Riley and Sophia, and help if you can to observe and protect Liam and Olivia. Take note of anything and anyone that appear suspicious. I trust you to do the right thing to protect those you and I hold dear. If by any chance you do not see me again, do what you can for Sophia. If all goes well, by the time the lantern ceremony takes place, Anton will no longer be a threat.

Take care son

Bastien

He sat and stared at the letter before handing it to Riley to read. He stood and paced while she read it and when she had finished, he took it back and tucked it inside his shirt.

‘We need to find Sophia and talk to her’ he said.

------

There was a note of panic in the voice of the person on the other end of the phone.

‘The lantern festival, your Majesty? We haven’t held that for years. The Duchess didn’t like strangers in the grounds after the Duke passed on’

‘I thought it would be appropriate to revive it in celebration of the change of monarch. You know, letting go of the old and making a wish for the future.’ Liam explained levelly. ‘I know it’s asking a lot, but all the other Duchies are arranging charity events. Surely as a loyal Valtorian you’d wish to raise money for a worthy cause in your area? I’d heard the orphanage needs some renovation’

‘Of course your Majesty, it’s just that it’s such short notice’ The woman, Gladys, claimed to be head of staff at Valtoria Manor. She had submitted a list of all those on staff, and Bastien had put one of his men on to vetting them properly. So far nothing suspicious had come up. All were from families who had been born in the Duchy. There were no examples of criminal records and none of the names cropped up as sympathisers of anti Monarchy groups.

‘Are you able to offer accommodation?’ he asked ‘I know the Duchess was rather – reclusive in her latter years, but I remember visiting it as a child and staying in the state rooms’

‘I – of course all the rooms were maintained properly even after we closed the gates to guests, but I’m not sure if we have the linen or bedclothes…’

‘Send a list of what you need to my head of household. Now the Palace is closed for renovations we have plenty to spare, or we can provide funds to buy new. If staffing is a problem, I can send a team to help with the organisation of the festival. Some of the other venues are taking advantage of their expertise.’ He drew himself up into his regal posture, even though she could not see him. It changed the timbre of his voice as he continued – deeper and more commanding but with an air of sympathy. ‘Gladys, I’m sure you understand that after the attack at the coronation, Cordonia needs some positive news and goals. I sincerely hope I can count on you to help your duchy make a contribution’ There was a short silence at the other end of the line.

‘Of course your Majesty, I’ll do my best’

‘Excellent, I’ll send someone over to help you’ He ended the call, smiling in triumph.

--------

Damien took control of his breath, steady and even as he approached the driveway of Valtoria Manor. It was well that he was a good mimic, and ever since he had landed in Cordonia he had listened carefully to the people around him. It helped that he had Bastien as an example of the accent in the preceding years. He didn’t expect to pass as native to the country, but explain that his Cordonian parents had moved to America when he was young, hence the faint accent and sketchy knowledge of their culture and customs. He hope it would be enough to make anyone he encountered comfortable with his manner of speaking. The gates were closed and he drew the car level with the intercom, getting out and pressing the call button.

After a short while it crackled into life, and a woman answered curtly

‘Hello – state your business please’

‘Hi, you’re expecting me I hope. King Liam asked me to come and help you organise the lantern festival. He’s recently taken me on staff to assist with all the forthcoming events.’ There was a short silence before the gates swung open and he got back into the car to drive in. Bastien had suggested he wear a wire, but he refused, saying it was too risky. He did however have a listening device in the car, and he spoke quietly as he swung the vehicle into the courtyard to see a woman stepping forward to meet him.

‘Nazario to Lykel. I’m in’

Next Chapter 12 Just Desserts?

[izzy-b-hands]

Ink

Consider this like a future snapshot in the Get Down timeline, all the way up into current times. The reader (our same trans reader from You Send Me) has kept up the poly monogamous relationship with the band, as well as working as part of the road crew in addition to various freelance work in the downtime between tours. In this particular captured moment, it’s Roger to the rescue to give the reader a few moments of relaxation.

Also, written a bit because I’m in love with his tattoos, and would die to have a chance to talk ink and the stories behind them with him. 

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

The agreement was fairly simple; Roger split his time as he wanted and as he was able between yourself and Sarina, more often with Sarina. It worked out well though, since you spent a great deal of your time on various tasks for your own career, writing for yourself and others and for the various freelance assignments you took on whenever Queen didn’t need you for tours.  

But on occasion, nights like tonight were good. 

Sarina had texted you to let you know he was on the way, but it was still faster than you expected that your doorbell rang. 

“You need a break,” he said as he walked inside, and took stock of your less-than-clean flat. “Have you done anything aside from work in the last few days?” 

You tried to casually tuck away the pile of first, second, third, and onwards handwritten drafts that were stacked messily on the floor near the couch. “Of course I have!” 

He gestured to the basket of clean laundry in the hall. “You do know laundry doesn’t count, right? That’s just different work.” 

“It’s necessary work, like the writing,” you protested weakly. 

“Right,” he said. “But have you sat down and done...nothing? Watched a show, taken a breath, relaxed?” 

You shrugged. “How important is that answer, really? How about I get us something to drink, and you sit down?” 

“With that, you made it even more important,” Roger replied. “What about food?” 

“No,” you muttered weakly, but he was already at the fridge. “In my defense, I have a lot of rice, and it has to be eaten up eventually...” 

“Dinner, a movie, and relaxing,” he said, shutting the fridge door, shaking his head at the lack of contents in it. “Those are your only goals for tonight, alright? No arguing with me.”

“I don’t argue,” you said. 

He smirked. “Really?” 

You opened your mouth, then paused. Any rebuttal was just that-arguing. And you truly didn’t want to argue with him. It wasn’t that relaxing sounded bad, but all the same, you had work to do, and the flat could seemingly never be clean enough-

His hands slipped to your waist and interrupted your train of thought. “You aren’t saying anything, but you’re doing it now, that thing. Where you want to argue, but you don’t, and there’s one hundred other ‘buts’ in your head, running at a million miles a minute. Let yourself stop for the night, take things one minute at a time.” 

You nodded, but he laughed. “Your laptop is still on, isn’t it?” 

“In my room. I’ve got I don’t know how many things open right now, for work, and then just for myself, and a coworker needed help on something and I couldn’t say no, you know how it is-” 

“Go turn it off,” he interrupted, and gave you the gentlest push towards your bedroom. “Go on. Then you come back out here, and we’re figuring out dinner. Actual dinner, real food, not rice and whatever sauce you’ve had in the cupboard for the last year.” 

“It was only six months old!” you shouted down the hall. “And I froze the left overs, so it lasts that long!” 

“You’re lucky you aren’t sick!” came his reply, and you knew he was at least slightly right. In theory, most things kept decently when frozen, but leftover sauces like alfredo maybe weren’t meant to be in that category. Or used with rice, for that matter. 

You saved your various drafts as quickly as you could, your laptop fans whining and hot to the touch, and attempted to spruce up your bedroom before heading back out to him. 

He had laid himself on your couch, the stack of drafts retrieved from where you had shoved them almost underneath it, a few pages of them in his hands. “These are good. Just because, or for something else?” 

“Someone else,” you said. “A commission that I’m behind on, actually. It needs work.” 

“I think maybe you need to take your eyes off of it for a few days,” he said. “Because to me, who has literally never seen it before, it’s good. And you know I don’t toss that out for everything.” 

You shrugged. “It’s getting there.” 

He sighed. “Come lay down. Come on, look at you. Tense as can be, tired. The world won’t end if you lay with me for the next ten minutes.” 

You settled down beside him on the couch, and tried to relax, to stop the constant running tally of things you needed to start, needed to finish, needed to fix so that they could be considered finished. 

“I can feel your heart speeding when you’re overthinking things,” he whispered. “Just a few seconds, for me. Think of nothing.” 

“I don’t think I can do that,” you admitted. 

“Then think of something other than work,” he said. “What about the last time all of us went to Japan, hm?” 

“That was nice,” you hummed. “Busy, but what tour isn’t?” 

He nodded. “In particular, I’m thinking of the afternoon you fell asleep in the garden of that house we rented. Do you remember that?” 

“Vaguely,” you smiled. “I was so out of it the rest of that night though. But it was a really good nap. Not too warm or too cold, and the rain...” 

“I won a decent amount off of Adam with that,” he chuckled. “He was so sure the rain would be the thing to wake you up. I told him that was a bad bet to make; he was so confident though...ah well. He’s learned now, hasn’t he?” 

“That I can sleep anywhere if I’m tired enough?” you asked, fighting to keep your eyes open. 

“Yeah,” Roger smiled as your fingers traced the lines of the tattoo on his arm. “Speaking of...what’s a round estimate of the hours you’ve slept in the last week? Fully slept, I mean, not interrupted by work or anything else.” 

You held up a hand.

“Five?” 

“Give or take a few,” you mumbled. 

“Jesus,” he sighed. “You know, you can sleep now. Dinner can wait.” 

“But you’re probably hungry, and if you give me a minute-” 

He shushed you, and his other hand dropped over your eyes. “Rest, old man.” 

“I’m not old,” you protested. “I’m younger than you by a bit, and you aren’t old.” 

“I’m not old?” he laughed. “I’m certainly not young.” 

“You’re always young to me,” you murmured. “All of you. Freddie and Jim too, if they were still here. Young and ready to get into trouble. Just because your hair has gone white or gray, doesn’t matter. All I see are those young men, somehow made of boundless energy and talent and intelligence, who I could keep up with on a good day if I made an effort.” 

“That makes you young then too,” Roger said decisively after a moment. “Family might argue with us some on this-” 

“Young people that haven’t gotten old enough to understand this yet,” you interrupted. “They’ll learn.” 

“You say that,” Roger said, and you felt him slip his arm from under your neck as he got off the couch. “And yet you still don’t eat enough, or sleep enough, or take enough breaks.” 

“I’ll learn eventually too,” you muttered, eyes still shut, aching back curled against the couch to fill the open space he left. “Are you coming back? I won’t be able to sleep if you don’t come back.” 

“I think you’ll be able to,” Roger said. “But yes, I will.” 

---

He didn’t keep his promise, but the scent of warm food made you forgive him. 

“I thought this might be a decent alarm clock,” he said, helping you up off the couch despite your protests. “Pizza, because then I know you’ll have leftovers to eat for the next few days.” 

“If you send Sarina over here with food-” 

“I don’t send her, she sends herself,” he said. “You know that. Like it or not, everyone keeps their eye on you when they can. Hell, if I sent a group message out to everyone now, you’d probably end up with food for weeks.” 

“Oh lord, please don’t,” you said. “It would be very sweet, don’t get me wrong-” 

“I know, I know,” he interrupted. “But then they’d worry over you and you don’t like it when people worry over you. I won’t, but you might get another pizza sent to you randomly next week.” 

“Randomly? And anonymously too, I’m sure?” 

“Well I don’t know if Brian would tell you or not that he was doing it, but he might, if only to tell you that I told him to send you one,” Roger grinned. 

You shook your head. “You’re all ridiculous, you know that?” 

“Ridiculous out of care for you,” he replied. “And there’s nothing you can do about it!” 

The to do list that had been wracking your brain slowly melted away as you ate, and if he had asked, you would have had to admit that you did need this. To have someone dear to you there, with good food and time to rest. 

After, when the food had been put away and a random show turned on your TV for background noise, you lay again with him. 

This time, in your room on your bed, your head on his shoulder, one hand tracing the lines of his tattoos again. 

“Never told you much about these, have I?” Roger mused. 

“No. But I’ve never sat down and told you all about any of mine,” you replied. “I mean, I told you all when I was getting them or what it might look like. But I don’t think we’ve ever had any sort of intensive meeting about the stories behind them, or any of yours.” 

“We ought to,” he said. “I know I’m not normally one for it.” 

“I have to admit, I didn’t think I’d ever hear you wish for something like that.” 

“But...I don’t know. Would be nice. I mean, some of those you got before you met up with us, so we really have no idea the story behind them. Though I’m starting to think you just like toying with mine!” 

“I can stop,” you said, your finger stilled where it was on his hand. 

He shook his head. “I like it. But I’ve never seen you do that with anyone else, not any of the boys you met up with after you and Freddie cooled down that had tattoos.” 

“None of those boys were all that good,” you tutted as you resumed your tracing. “Or worthy of something that intimate. Freddie always told me I had a habit of getting carried away with the first cute thing I saw, then being frustrated when they weren’t interested in anything more stable. He was right, and he knew it, but I should have told him so more.” 

“He knew, even if you didn’t say it,” Roger said. “Or you wouldn’t have been in his circle of friends, or kept on as road crew. You know that just as well as I do. He didn’t suffer a fool, and he knew you were up to the work of being his friend, and friends with all of us.” 

“Do you think he’d have any?” you wondered. “By now? Maybe of the cats, if anything...” 

“I don’t know for sure,” Roger said. “He didn’t much like things like that, doctors and dentists and all of that, unless it was necessary for his health. But then again, you don’t much like those things either, and you’ve got some. Maybe you would have convinced him, or I could have gotten him to my artist.” 

“Just a bunch of old ladies, covered in ink,” you sighed. 

“Excepting Brian and Deaky,” Roger said. “Now that would be the real test for you. Could you convince them to get something done?” 

“Make it a band and crew bonding thing,” you replied. “We could all get one, something to symbolize touring so long. So many years, so much hard work. I don’t know exactly what, but I figure if we could make Freddie feel comfortable with it, he could help us convince the others. Adam as well; I think he could easily talk us all into something like that.” 

“Maybe we’ll have to do that anyway,” Roger said. “We have time to think on it, at least. Figure out a design, offer it up to anyone on the crew who wants to get it with us.” 

“Brian might just agree to it then,” you said. “But Deaky? I wouldn’t want to bother him, but I’d feel bad not offering it to him as well.” 

“He’s never gotten mad at us for messaging him about sillier, lighter things,” Roger said. “At worst, he would ignore it and not answer, and that would be answer enough. Who knows? He might surprise and reply back with a picture of the design done. After all, what have we all got to lose at this point?” 

You let his arm wrap around you and pull you close, and tried not to think about that, about the fears that occasionally raced through your mind as to what exactly you had to lose, what they all did, what everyone did, with the state of the world. 

“Nothing except some blank canvas,” you replied. “And I don’t know about you, but I think I’d like to die absolutely covered. Not a square bit of free skin.” 

“You’ll have to learn to take breaks then, so we can keep you going long enough for that,” Roger said. “Now, I’m simply too tired to go back home, and I daresay I might be too tired for the next few days...” 

“Sarina told me you were spending the next week with me, to keep an eye on me and make sure I eat and sleep or whatever,” you smiled. “You can be tired with me.” 

“And you’ll actually rest, and relax?” 

“For you? I could manage it,” you replied. “Thank you, Roger. For everything.” 

“You don’t have to thank me, you know that,” he smiled. “It’ll be thanks enough to hear you snoring.” 

“I do not snore!” 

“Arguing that since 1978,” Roger tutted. “There’s no shame in it, it’s very cute.” 

You groaned and pressed your face into his chest. “I’m snoring extra loud, just for that.” 

“And you’ll make me all the happier,” Roger laughed. 

You couldn’t be sure if you actually did snore or not, but you were confident it was the best sleep you had gotten in weeks. 

The food helped, and the break, but more than anything, you knew it was Roger’s presence that let you finally rest. 

And that was why your next tattoo would be something for him, and you were going to be sure to let him know. 

[deamstellarus]

In Viata Asta (3)

Pairing: Stucky x Reader Word Count: 6k Warnings: Uhm…none? Maybe injuries and language?

A/N: Sorry this update is so late! My work schedule was shit last week so I was behind on editing and posting. So! I thought posting a little early would help make up for it, and it’s the longest so far? Also yes I know, this gif doesn’t have that much to do with this update but I love how it looks.

Series Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

You woke up to murmured voices and mechanical beeps. You were in a bed in a very white room. You could only assume it was the infirmary of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Several IVs were attached to your arm. A woman with long dark hair in a bun and a white lab coat jotted something down on a clipboard beside you, then took her leave silently. Something was making your brain feel hazy. Your bets were on the strong antiseptics in the air, but it was more likely whatever pain meds they were feeding you. Your hand was bandaged now, your back probably was too for how tight it felt. You started to sit up in bed.

“You don’t want to do that, zvezdochka. With your luck, you’d probably pull all your stitches.” Natasha sat next to your bed in an uncomfortable chair, staring intensely at the screen of her tablet. She set it down on the small side table next to you, and pushed a button on a remote. Your bed shifted you into a seated position. She held a white cup with a straw to your lips. You drank greedily, the cool water soothing your dry throat. 

“How long...?” You croaked. 

“Only twenty-four hours. You lost a decent amount of blood but we got you back soon enough.”

Then why did it feel like you were laying on fire?

“Your back was practically shredded from the rocks.” Had you said that out loud? “You needed a few stitches but you’ll be fine. The boys should be back in a few minutes with snacks, if you’re hungry.”

You nodded. Or tried to; your neck was stiff. Natasha went back to her tablet, so you closed your eyes for a few more minutes before Steve and Sam’s voices echoed through the otherwise quiet space.

“Look who’s up. Miss Rough and Tumble.” Sam’s toothy grin lit up the room.

“How are you feeling, Blue?” Steve’s ocean eyes were filled with concern. He looked perfectly okay. As if he hadn’t almost drowned in an evil river. Stupid super soldier serum.

“Just peachy, Cap.”

“I thought we had a deal.”

“Sorry… Steve.” You smirked. Your stomach grumbled. Loudly. He chuckled and plopped the white paper bag he held on your lap. You opened it, smiling to yourself when you found a couple buttery croissants and one of those twisted glazed doughnuts. Natasha was giving away all of your secrets it seems. You chose a croissant, biting into the warm, flaky pastry. It was glorious.

“I see you still can't go very long without getting yourself into some kind of trouble," a familiar voice said. 

"Sorry, sir,  I—" Steve started before you cut him off.

"To be fair, I was doing fine on my own until these hooligans showed up." You muttered, mouth full, lazily gesturing to Steve, Natasha, and Sam, who stared at you indignantly.

"Don't be like that, Baby Blue!"

Fury looked unimpressed. "Excuses are—"

“...just lies we tell ourselves to justify doing something poorly." You finished his phrase, then swallowed. "It's nice to see you too, Nick."

"Nick?" Sam gasped.

"What, did you think his name was just Fury?"

"He doesn't exactly like when anyone calls him that," Sam grumbled.

"Aww, Nick! I knew you were going soft on me." 

Fury grunted, but eventually relented and came over to pat your shoulder until you flinched at his touch.

"Heal up, Agent. We’ll talk about the incident when you’re standing on your own two feet again," he said as he walked to the door.

"Not an agent," you called after him.

"We'll see about that." He threw out.

You pouted. You knew it was unbecoming of you, but this is what you'd been dreading. You didn't want to come back to S.H.I.E.L.D. That time of your life turned out to be so traumatic you ended up in a cabin by yourself for two years. But the reality is, you knew he'd get his way in the end. He always did.

__________

As far as doctors went, Dr. Alexandra Marks was patient and kind, and clearly had years of experience dealing with agents that tended to make reappearances in her infirmary. She was thorough with her diagnostics and made sure to emphasize what you could, but more importantly could not, do while you were in the recovery phase. Stitches, a heavy dose of fluids, and an advanced topical solution to help “speed up cell production”, and you were patched together the best you could be. Supposedly, they had a machine that was designed to generate skin, called the Cradle. It could have prevented the scarring, but it was out of commission due to an update or something. To be honest, it sounded too much like a cross between a crazy science experiment and a magic trick. Just the thought made you wary.  

“While you’re still lucid, I need you to give me a report of what happened,” Natasha said after Dr. Marks and the boys left. She attached a keyboard to her tablet, pulling the kickstand out so the whole thing could rest on the bed tray. “It’s just better to do this while it’s still fresh in your mind.”

“Yeah, I know.” You frowned at the screen. Blips of the incident flashed through your mind. “Honestly, I’m not too sure what I actually remember. It feels like it’s all a blur.”

“Any little detail helps,” she pushed. “Anything at all.” 

Weren’t those guys just Hydra goons though? But if that were the case, then why did it feel like there’s something more to this?

“What aren’t you telling me?” 

Her face went through a series of micro-expressions that you would have missed had you not known to look for them.

“Is it not Hydra that came after us?”

“We don’t know. But… it doesn’t look like it at this point.” She sighed. “Just write the report for now.”

“Okay.”

So you did. Any little thing you could remember from the men to the river, you included in your retelling. For the most part, you didn’t remember the men standing out in any way more than they seemed out of place in the general store. The majority of the normal clientele wore flannels, sweatshirts, or thick hunting jackets. The sleek black jackets and black caps they’d been wearing made them stand out. That being said, everything was nondescript, no labels, no logos. Pretty generic bad guys if you were being honest. The only thing you could think of was the small tattoo on the side of one of their necks, but you hadn’t been close enough to see the actual design. 

Maybe that was just you being paranoid and projecting. The tattoo was probably just a tattoo. 

A couple hours later, Dr. Marks released you, with a promise that you wouldn’t do “anything unnecessary like your troublemaker friends.” You snickered at that.  

Natasha gave you a tour of what you now learned was the Avengers Compound in upstate New York. Apparently, S.H.I.E.L.D. has been running part of the agency out of the side buildings that were part of the campus since they re-established, while there was still a segment in D.C. She pointed out the different buildings and rooms during the brief tour, but you were distracted, rightfully so, by the sheer amount of agents that gave you judgemental stares the entire way to the main Avengers building. You steeled your nerves; you wouldn’t give them anything more before you could physically defend yourself.

You stepped into an elevator after Natasha, the smooth doors sliding silently shut behind you. You allowed your shoulders a break from the stiff, upright posture you’d taken.

“You alright?” Natasha asked.

“Yup.”

“Ignore them. The most fun the majority of them have is over rumors and gossip.” Natasha said. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., third floor please.”

“Of course, Agent Romanoff,” a voice responded from above.

“A.I.?” you questioned. Natasha nodded. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. is one of Tony’s creations. She’ll help you with anything you need.”

“Huh, well thanks in advance then, F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

“It’s my pleasure… I cannot find your identification in any system, miss. What shall I call you?”

“Oh, you can call me Blue?”

“Very well. Enjoy your stay, Blue.”

The doors opened, revealing a hallway that lead to the left and right of the elevator and seemingly wrapped around the perimeter of the building. In the center, you were able to look down over a common area of sorts, with a variety of couches, tables, an oversized TV, and a kitchen off to the side. Natasha turned to the right, passing several doors before she stopped.

“This is your room.”

The door in front of you was a glossy white with a biometric scanner to the side. 

“Put your hand to the scanner,” she said. You did. A blue light shone through your hand, then with a soft click, the door slid open. The room was bigger than you thought it’d be, but knowing who owned the building, you didn’t expect anything less. There was a plush bed on one side of the room, a desk with a swivel chair on the opposite wall. Tall windows allowed natural light in the space. A fluffy rug and long drapes helped make the room less cold and clinical. But that wasn’t what drew your attention the most. 

Draped across the bed was the plush purple blanket Clint had bought you when you were first brought back to headquarters. It was so, so soft. On top of that was your green duffle bag. It was the one thing you took with you everywhere. It stayed stocked and ready for if you needed to leave at short notice.

“Thank you, Natasha.” 

“Of course,” she nodded.

"No chance of me going back to the cabin, huh?" You asked. Because as lonely as it had been there, it was yours, for the most part, and had become your safe place.

She shook her head. "Sorry, Blue. It wasn't discovered yet, but now they've seen your face, they know you're in the area. We can't take that chance."

You knew that, of course. She only confirmed it.

“There’s an ensuite bathroom behind that door, and a walk-in closet next to it,” Natasha pointed out. “It’s not the cabin, but it’s a good place to stay. You’ll like it here,” You nodded. 

She pulled you into her arms, her hands holding you like she didn't want to let go. 

"You scared me, zvezdochka," she whispered into your hair. 

"I know. I’m sorry.” It was rare for her to show so much emotion. As long as you’d known her, Natasha had always kept her feelings hidden.

A cough at the door disrupted the mood. 

“What does a guy have to do to get the famous Widow to hold him like that?” The man leaned against the door frame, dressed in jeans and a vintage band t-shirt. It seemed far too casual for such a well-known billionaire.

Beside you, Natasha pulled away and rolled her eyes. Like a switch, her blasé facade was back in full force.

“Tony, this is Blue. Blue, Tony Stark,” she introduced.

“What kind of name is Blue?” 

“It’s a nickname,” you said.

“Uh huh.” He squinted at you. “And your real name would be?”

“Leave it alone, Stark,” Natasha growled.

“I just find it strange that not only is there no record of her in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s database, but I can’t find her anywhere. Not a name, a city, a school, medical record. Nothing.”

Natasha bristled. Her eyes were narrowed slits. “I said leave it alone, Stark. She’s a personal friend of mine and Barton’s. Leave it alone.”

Tony glared at Natasha for a moment before yielding. 

“Fine, but we’re talking about this later.” To you, he said, “Welcome to the compound, kid.”

He took his leave, and Natasha shook her head. 

“He doesn’t like when he doesn’t know everything about something or someone. Unfortunately, he will get his way eventually. He’s pushy, but it comes from a good place.”

“Don’t worry about me, Tasha. I can handle him. Besides, I am living under his roof for now, he has a right to know what he wants to know.” 

“Only if you want to.” She puts a hand to your shoulder, before she walks to the door. But his inquiry did make you wonder…

“Why isn’t there a SHIELD file for me, or at least Agent M?”

“It may have gotten...lost when I released the files to the public.” 

“You deleted mine instead of yours?” You remember she had a list of aliases, most from before she joined “the good guys.”

She shrugged. “It was time for a new chapter anyway.” She waved it off as if it meant nothing, but she risked her own neck so you could remain nameless.

“Thank you, sestrenka.” She was always looking out for you.

“Dinner is at six. You’ll meet most of the rest of the team then. Take a nap, you look like you need it.” She winked.

“Tell me the truth, how bad does it look?” You tilted your head, indicating your back.

“Eh, it’s just a few stitches.” With that, she left, copper curls bouncing behind her. And really you had no choice but to take a nap like she said. Especially when the bed looked that comfortable. __________

Natasha lied. That was your only thought as you looked at your body in the mirror of your bathroom. It was not just a few stitches. Forty-seven in total. You cringed as you read off the report FRIDAY supplied. Hearing it from Dr. Marks, and reading it off the report, hadn’t quite prepared you visually for the reality of your injuries. From what you could tell, your back was covered in black zig-zags, reminiscent of Frankenstein's monster. At least as much as you could see that peeked out from underneath the white bandages and gauze. Plum-colored splotches covered your body. In addition to your back, your right hand also received six stitches, and your sprained ankle was now wrapped. And there were bags under your eyes. You looked awful and felt like a walking bruise. 

“The meeting will be starting in fifteen minutes, Blue,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice startled you.

“Thanks.” You’d have to get used to never quite being alone alone. 

Dinner passed by pretty well the night before, by your standards at least. Tony had apologized for his aggressive questioning, with a nudge from Pepper Potts, however wary of you he may still be. That was alright for now. Steve and Sam had taken the initiative to make you feel included in the conversations, though you were more content to observe the people around you. You were introduced to Col. James Rhodes, who had a dry sense of humor and held himself like a military man, and Dr. Bruce Banner, whose alter ego was a stark contrast to the mild-tempered man that had sat beside you. By far, the most fascinating member you’d met was Vision, an android with an English accent who reminded you vaguely of a curious child. 

Now you were heading to a meeting Fury requested you attend. A loose-fitted tee and a pair of sweatpants and you were on your way out the door, wishing you’d had the forethought to have packed makeup in your duffle bag. While you never needed it on the mountain, it would have helped make you look marginally more presentable and less dead. Especially on the walk through the interconnected buildings to the conference room where you stuck out like a sore thumb. Maybe Natasha could take you out to pick some things up soon.

You cracked the door open. Eight and a half pairs of eyes followed you to the empty seat next to Sam. You were the last one there. Of course. Fury stood at the head of the table, Maria Hill next to him, arms behind her back. She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at you. Steve, Natasha, Tony, and three agents in uniform filled out the rest of the table. A projection screen behind Fury exhibited pictures of several men you didn’t recognize. 

“Now that we’re all here, let’s begin,” Fury said. He pointed between two of the five pictures on the screen. “These two men matched the facial recognition we were able to get off the cameras at the general store where the Captain and Agent M were first shot at, amongst civilians. There were no casualties in the store.”

You squinted. The men looked familiar now, especially without the hats to obstruct their faces. In the right image was the man you’d known to have the tattoo. Now that you could see it, on the left side of his neck, the small symbol looked like three triangles overlapping.

“They were found dead in their vehicle on the side of the road, SUV wrapped around a tree. This is confirmed with the reports Captain Rogers and Agent M gave upon arrival.” He pointed to the next two images. “These two were killed on sight by the extraction team in search of the Captain and Agent M.” He pointed to the last of the five head shots. “This last man was interrogated briefly by Agent Romanoff before he was terminated.”

“So were they Hydra agents from the mountain base?” Steve asked, confusion clear on his face.

“Not exactly,” Fury said.

“He wasn’t Hydra,” Natasha said. “He said Hydra was a group run by hot-headed leaders with imperfect ideals. He said what they were was bigger and better than Hydra could ever hope to be.”

“And who are ‘they’?” Steve pressed.

Natasha shrugged. “He didn’t say, just that there were more of them and now that they had a ‘confirmation,’” she made quotes with her fingers, “they’d have all they needed soon enough to execute the program. He didn’t elaborate on what the program was or what exactly they’d confirmed. But before I could really press him for more, he killed himself. Cyanide tooth capsule.”

“Long story short, we’re led to believe these were not Hydra agents that tracked the two of you down. There were no markings on the body that would express allegiance to the group, nor did any declare their motto.”

“So what are you saying?” Sam questioned.

“I’m saying there is another organization who has at least one of the two of you as their target of interest and until we know who they are, you need to watch your backs.”

“No offense, sir,” one of the agents began. “But what would terrorist organization want with her?” She was pretty, blonde, and had an intense look about her. She wasn’t outright rude, she had a point at least; you’ve basically been in isolation for two years. Besides, she had to be more than capable to be in this room to begin with; that didn’t mean her comment didn’t irk you. You pushed down the urge to get defensive, and schooled your face into a neutral mask.

Simultaneously, all eyes were on you.

“At the moment we’re not quite sure,” Fury admitted. “Agent M’s official history within S.H.I.E.L.D. is otherwise non-existent as far as the database is concerned. However, that doesn’t mean no one would recognize her if they worked under S.H.I.E.L.D. before the disbanding.”

“You think this group is a bunch of ex-S.H.I.E.L.D., ex-Hydra rogue agents?” Steve interjected.

“Anything is possible,” Fury said. “For now, it’s best to assume Rogers was the target and Agent M was just an additional person of interest by proxy.”  

“Keep your eyes and ears open for anything that could be related to this organization.” Maria advised. “If there really is another large-scale terrorist group among us, it’d be best to nip it in the bud as soon as possible.”

After the briefing, Fury held you back, as most of the others left the room. Maria relaxed by his side, her shoulders not quite as taut.

“You’re reinstated as an active agent, effective immediately, Agent M.” Fury held your gaze with his good eye. 

“I never said I wanted to come back to S.H.I.E.L.D.. In fact, I distinctly remember telling you I never wanted to be put in that situation again.” You glared back. The fingers on your left hand dug into your palm.

“We all have to do things we don’t want to do.” His large hand cupped your shoulder. “Just because you run away from something, doesn’t mean it goes away. You are good at what you do, and I refuse to let you waste your skills anymore.”

“But I—” He cut you off. 

“You’re not the only one who’s lost someone, Blue.”

He rarely called you by your nickname. It was always ‘Agent.’ You sighed. As difficult as Fury has always been, he’d never given you bad advice. He was the one who fought for you to stay and train to be a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in the first place all those years ago. 

And yeah, maybe he was a tad softer on you than on the others. You’d seen him as a father figure of sorts. If he thought you should be reinstated and otherwise get your head out of your ass, then you really couldn’t argue.

“Fine.”

“I knew you’d see it my way.” Fury smirked, patting your shoulder twice heading towards the door. “As soon as you’re cleared for it, you’ll start training. Rest up. This little incident tells me you’ve lost your touch.”

__________

You sat on a couch in the common room a week later, skimming through the data, searching for anything you could connect to an unknown terrorist group. Without a name, it was hard to even associate what little frays you did find, and you were led to dead end after dead end. You set the laptop on the seat beside you and pressed the heels of your palms to your eyes. You looked to your Stark-issued phone for the time. It was well past midnight. This wasn’t the first time you’d been unable to sleep this week due to your mind racing about the implications of an unknown group trying to bring devastation for whatever reason they’ve deemed justifiable. The bad feeling in your gut only intensified the more frustrated you got at the lack of information. You really wanted to punch something, but you weren’t cleared to do more than brisk walking, lest you pull a stitch and elongate your recovery period.

You went to the kitchen and poured yourself some water. The cool liquid did nothing to soothe your restlessness. So instead, you paced the halls, a habit you picked up since you arrived. You passed the entryway to the lab. More specifically, Tony and Bruce’s lab. The other common occurrence you’d noticed every night were the lights in the lab always being on this late in the night. It seemed like Bruce usually went to bed early in the evening, preferring to start his day earlier than most. Which left Tony as the only possible night owl. 

You hesitated by the door before pulling it open and wandering through the cool-toned lights in the lab. Classic rock played softly through the speakers. Tony stood at table at the far end of the room, back hunched over. He was poking at something that caused small sparks to shoot from the device. His masked face was probably still too close to the object. 

You pulled out a stool from a neighboring table smoothly, just enough to make some noise, not enough to startle him. The masked tilted up, then focused once again on the task at hand.

“Not asleep, Agent M?” He said with an ever-so-slight sneer.

“You can call me Blue, you know.” Tony hadn’t warmed up to you like you’d hoped in the past week. He’d been distant, always in the lab. Natasha assured you that was normal for him though, so you took her word for it. 

“Do I know that?” He snipped. He worked in silence for a few moments, then he put down his tools and flipped up his mask. His eyes were rimmed in red, most likely from exhaustion. “You know, I just find it odd that everything was all fine and dandy until Rogers and Co took a trip to Washington State. Now there’s a new terrorist organization we have to look out for, and you show up with no official identity in any database on the planet, and one word from Fury and we’re supposed to just be okay with that? I’m not exactly a big believer of coincidences.”

“Just ask what you want to know, Stark. I don’t want to always feel like I’m tip-toeing around you.” Because it was annoying. 

“What’s your history with S.H.I.E.L.D.?” 

“Natasha and Clint were on a mission, found me as a teen in an abandoned warehouse. Brought me back to S.H.I.E.L.D.. I was an agent for three years.”

“What made you leave?” His gaze shifted elsewhere.

“Bad mission. I lost people I cared about.” His eyes found yours. “And with Hydra discovered inside the agency and S.H.I.E.L.D. dissolving, I just got out while I could.”

He was quiet for a long time. Absently, you twirled a random screw between your fingers.

“Tell me about the mission.”

You squeezed your eyes closed, sighing deeply. You recalled your worst nightmare like it was yesterday. You opened your mouth to begin when he put a hand up.

“Sorry. You don’t need to tell me.” He waved you away. “I can be insensitive when I’m tired.”

“It’s alright, I understand. Long story short, it went really, really wrong, and I couldn’t handle it anymore. I was young-”

“You’re still young, kid,” he quipped.

“-and I already couldn’t remember my past. Losing people, people I was especially close to, was too much.” Your breath shuddered. “I didn’t want to have to go through that again, so I left. Fury kept tabs on me, same with Natasha and Clint. But I swore I wasn’t going to be an agent anymore.”

“And now, here you are.”

“Here I am.”

Tony nodded. He got up unexpectedly, shuffling over to a hidden cupboard that housed a coffee maker. He came back with two mugs, steam spirals swirled in the air. You took a sip. Minty.

“It’s a peppermint blend. Some candy cane Christmas bullshit I got in a ‘thank you’ basket over the holiday. It’s barely coffee, not even caffeinated, but it tastes nice. Supposed to help clear the mind or something.”

You shrugged. Because it was good.

“So… you don’t remember your past?”

“I don’t even remember my name.”

“That must be tough.”

“Mhm,” you agreed.

“Listen, I’m sorry for the rough start. Genuinely. I spend so much of my time trying to do the best to defend against the bad, that I sometimes jump to conclusions and can be…”

“Overly suspicious?” You supplied.

“Yeah.”

“No worries, Stark…”

“Tony.”

“Tony,” you smiled. “I would have thought the same thing. I mean hell, I almost embedded a knife in Captain America’s head when I first met him.”

“I want to do that sometimes and I’ve known him for years.” He chuckled into his mug.

“So we’re good?” You didn’t want to just assume. A heart to heart doesn’t always form a friendship, but at least maybe you’d be on good terms now.

“We’re good, kid.” He smiled, a genuine grin on his lips. “Come on, you can help me test this new version of my gauntlets.”

Huh. Maybe you were wrong. __________

Another week passed before you were cleared for active duty. The scarring was… definitely there. Harsh, red lines spider-webbed around your back. Apparently, it healed faster than Dr. Marks anticipated, especially without the cradle. She seemed convinced the shorter recovery time meant there was a high chance the scarring would fade quickly as well. You weren’t exactly a vain person, but it didn’t look pretty as of now. At least you could cover it up easily. 

You were placed into a random group of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, Group C apparently, and were given a schedule that listed off times for hand-to-hand combat training, weight training, endurance training, and shooting practice. You were convinced Steve loved to see you and the other recruits suffer as he pushed you all to run the laps of the course around the compound. The first day, you were dead after three miles, collapsing on the ground when the muscles in your legs gave up and lying on gravel sounded like a better idea. Steve only ordered you to get up and run again. You might have grumbled something about seeing if you’d ever save his life again.

Now you were able to keep up with the group. You found it a necessity, as you’d overheard in the locker room how they didn’t like you because you were “definitely sleeping with the Captain” or why else would you be there. You’d caught a stink eye more than once, and decided you had to push harder and tune them out. The chatter was useless. You knew the truth, so their opinions didn’t matter, but you didn’t want Steve to be accused of favoritism. He didn’t deserve any unnecessary backlash. 

By far, Natasha was thrilled to have you in training again. 

“You’re having too much fun with this Natasha,” you groaned from the mat. 

You were constantly being thrown by her, taunted that you’d lost your reflexes from being out of practice. You always ended up sore and bruised after a session. The snickers of the other agents really pissed you off, but you couldn’t exactly bite their heads off. Plus, even when you were in your best shape, you weren’t always able to out-Natasha Natasha; you’d only done it a few times. You knew first hand the rest of the agents in the room couldn’t do that. And you’d out-fought enough of them to know that.

“You’re making it easy on me,” she pulled you to your feet. “Maybe you should practice with someone with a little less agility for now?” She tilted her head to Sam, who’d over heard as he sauntered in and pulled a bitch face at her.

“Oh that’s low, girl. Real low.” But he joined you on the mat anyway.

Sam’s strikes were powerful and quick, like a boxer. He shuffled his feet, throwing punches at varying intervals. You dodged and blocked what you could. He got in a few hits before you picked up his pattern. That was the problem with most people in hand-to-hand. The body naturally wants to move in a rhythm, just like in running, but it’s too predictable in fighting, which is one of the reasons it was so hard to fight Natasha. She was slippery as a snake and it was hard to anticipate her next moves at the speed she moved.

You swung your arm out, your fist clipping him in his unprotected ribs, jumping out of range after. He stumbled back. You took the opportunity to rush him, diving low last minute to the space beneath his legs. You half-turned in your crouch and kicked your leg out, knocking him off balance and crashing into the mat. Finally.

“Adequate,” Natasha complimented. “But I’ve seen you do better. That was sloppy.”

You nodded, panting. She was right, but you’d take then win. It would take you a while to get back to what your skills had been, but even you had to admit. The ache of your abused muscles was actually rather nostalgic. __________

It was well after dinner when a knock at your door had you sitting up, causing the ice packs to tumble off your body. You sighed.

“Come in!”

Natasha stepped in, eyeing the ice packs. 

“Have we been too rough on you?” She teased. You didn’t take the bait.

“Nah. Just not used to it yet.”

Natasha nodded. “Just wanted to let you know Clint and the others are almost here. The quinjet should be landing in five, if you want to join us.”

“Of course.” You stumbled off the bed, and slipped your shoes on as you followed her to the hangar.

The hangar was cleaner than you would have thought. Relatively spotless and spacious. You and Natasha joined Steve, Sam, and Vision by the marker number 1 just as the rumble of an engine made the quinjet known. The noise echoed loudly in the space as the jet landed smoothly in its spot. The engines cut off, and with the high-pitched whir of the propellers winding down. The door opened down into a ramp. At first, no one came down, then there was a stumbling, mummy racing down the ramp toward you. Clint scooped you up into his arms, twirling you around, rambling a mile a minute.

“I thought Tasha was messing with me when she said you were here!” He was shouting in your ear, but you couldn’t get a word in edgewise. “When did you get here? How long are you staying? Wait! Are you back for real?”

“Barton, I’m pretty sure she can’t breathe.” Natasha’s voice cut through his excitement.

“Oh, right.” He plopped you down. You staggered before you caught yourself.

“It’s good to see you too, Robin Hood.” 

His eyes flitted over you, not overlooking the bruises from training this week.

“Geeze, you look awful. What happened?” 

“What is with the two of you?” You looked between him and Natasha. “You can’t just tell people they look awful when they’ve been beaten up. Besides, you’re one to talk,” you sassed. Clint was covered in butterfly bandages and deep purple bruises. “Can’t you go on one mission without coming back like you belong under a pyramid?”

“‘S not my fault.” Clint scratched the back of his neck. You stared at him pointedly. “Well, not all my fault.”

“Some things never change.” You grinned.

“Blue, this is Wanda Maximoff.” Natasha held her hand out to a girl around your age, with long auburn hair and sparkling green eyes. She looked at you hesitantly.

“Hi, I’m Blue.” You did a little wave, then immediately regretted it for how dumb you probably looked. 

“It’s nice to meet you.” She enveloped you in strong arms. She had an accent you couldn’t place, but it wasn’t so thick you couldn’t understand her. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you from Natasha and Clint. It’s nice to match the face with the name.”

You smiled, because she seemed very sweet. You could already see yourself being friends with her. You noticed Vision hovering just behind her, and when she pulled away, her hand reached back to find his. That was cute. You also now had questions, but that was for another time. You certainly weren’t close enough to just ask anyway.

Behind you, Steve was embracing a man with shoulder-length brown hair. He looked just as built and strong as Steve, maybe an inch shorter in height. Steve’s eyes were closed, his lips were moving, speaking too low for you to hear. The intimacy of their moment had you assuming they were more than friends. Definitely together. You wondered if the public had that knowledge, but it was more than likely not. The media would probably have a field day with that info.

Steve opened his eyes, meeting yours with a smile before he stepped back and called out to you.

“Hey Blue! Come over here and meet Bucky!”

His companion turned around and the breath caught in your throat. You did a double take. After all these years, you never thought you’d see him again. Maybe you’d dreamed you’d find your long lost friend, hoping that you both hadn’t changed too much to pass each other on the street someday without realizing. But you would recognize those eyes anywhere. 

Before you could open your mouth, he spoke. 

“Ingeras?” _________

A/N: Just now realized I haven’t given any translations for words so far, but I will from now on!

zvezdochka (Russian) - little star sestrenka (Russian) - sister, sis ingeras (Romanian) - angel

_________

In Viata Asta Taglist:  @rvgrsbrns​ @artsyspacebee​ @thelovelydreamer17​

[queen-scribbles]

Under Belafa’s Gaze

kiss prompt 30. Under a full moon for @haledamage 

Kei kicked down my door and turned this into a full-on fic. Who’s surprised? No one? Yeah, me neither. She and Tekēhu are so fun ti write together to should be illegal. :P But I’m glad it’s not.

---

Never in her life had Kei encountered so many steps strung together until she came to Neketaka. The long flights of stairs everywhere made even a leisurely walk a decent effort, and she wasn’t sure if that was more amusing or irritating. Not that it mattered, currently.  Tekēhu was leading the way up to Periki’s Overlook with the certain stride of a man on a mission. Clearly any leisure on this outing would wait until they reached their destination. Speaking of which...

“Where exactly are we going?” she asked, skipping over a couple steps in one stride to walk next to him.

Tekēhu chuckled and reached for her hand. “Ah, but that would be telling, Captain.”

Kei shook her head as she slipped her hand into his. “I’ll know soon enough anyway.”

His eyes glinted in the growing moonlight when he turned to look at her. “All the more reason for me to preserve the mystery while it lasts, I say.” 

She laughed at his playful stubbornness and gave up. He was plainly excited about whatever he was planning, and far be it from her to wipe that smile from his face. Unknowns were hardly the worst thing in the world.

Besides, it didn’t take more than a handful of steps into the distract to be obvious they were heading for the Watershapers Guild. Kei bit her lip around a smile but didn’t say anything as Tekēhu guided her in that direction, freeing his hand from hers to instead press the small of her back as they passed through the front door. They didn’t even slow on the main level, instead heading for the stairs.

“Planning to give me a private tour?” she said, raising a brow suggestively.

He gave a sly grin and leaned in close to murmur, “I’d say that’s better left for your cabin, wouldn’t you, Captain?” He ever so lightly nipped her ear before he pulled back briefly rendering her speechless. A fact which only made his grin widen as they stepped out onto the balcony.

Kei gave a low whistle at the view of rising moonlight glimmering off the ocean, but Tekēhu was still walking, guiding her around the side. Her curiosity piqued now, she let him lead her along, until they came to another set of stairs, shorter and more functional than the beautifully crafted flight inside. She held back ever so briefly at the bottom.

“You know, kith lured to secluded sports rarely meet good ends,” she said glibly.

Tekēhu paused and turned to face her, his eyes almost luminous now in the ever-increasing moonlight. “Ekera, Watcher, you sound nervous,” he teased, pulling her close and running a finger lightly down the curve of her jaw.

Kei smirked and played along, leaning into his space until she’d backed him into the wall. “Just well-acquainted with the workings of the world,” she said, her chin unconsciously tipping up at his tone.

He chuckled. “Rest assured, my intentions where you’re concerned are the farthest thing from ill.” The kiss he pressed to her lips was almost chaste, especially for him, and another chuckle rumbled in his chest when she followed as he pulled back. “Now, now. I thought patience was a virtue, beloved.”

Kei scowled at him(with a noticeable lack of real heat) for throwing one of her mantras back at her, but stepped back on her heel and gestured up the stairs with a near-sarcastic flourish. “Alright, then. Make it worth the wait.”

Tekēhu brushed his thumb over her cheek once more before resuming course up the narrow flight of stairs. “Ekera, Kei, that sounded like a challenge.”

“Not a challenge,” she said coyly, following him up. “Think of it as a chance to hone your craft, dearest.”

He laughed at that as they reached the landing at the top of the steps. “Touché,” he said, and slid back the door’s simple bolt lock.

The room--attic?--had a thick enough coat of dust to make her sneeze(twice), and Kei wrinkled her nose. “How long since anyone’s been up here?”

Tekēhu shrugged as he headed for the large, shuttered window along the Guild’s back wall. “Quite a while, I suspect. This room,my lioness, is not our goal.”

“Well, that’s a--Ah-CHOO!--a relief,” she said dryly, then crossed the remainder of the room in two hurried strides when he swung open the shutters and started to step through the frame. “Abydon’s Bellows, Tekēhu , what’re you doing?!”

“Making this worth the wait,” he replied with a playful grin, pausing when she grabbed his arm.

“Are you allowed to go out there?” Kei pressed, not letting go.

Tekēhu chuckled, finished ducking through the frame, and slipped his arm through her grasp until her palm rested against his. “I am the favored of Ngati, I can go where I wish.”

“I’m sure the rocks down there will take that into account,” she deadpanned. But she left her hand in his and stepped through after him. Despite the slope of the main roof, there was a flat part, almost a walkway of sorts, on the outside of the window. It wasn’t wide--two or three feet at most--but she could figure what he intended. “So what makes this worth the wait-”

The question died an abrupt death when she lifted her head, gaze caught by the view over the ocean cliffs that dropped away below them. Belafa was full tonight, the moon’s reflection pure and bright as it rippled over breaking waves. Stars twinkled far as the eye could see, a glittering carpet of silver points set against the velvety purple-black sky.It was breath-taking. Literally. For a long moment, Kei just stared, vaguely conscious of Tekēhu ‘s steadying grip, before she tore her gaze from the sky to his expectant face.

“Oh,” she said simply, at a loss to be more eloquent.

He smiled and carefully moved a short distance down the walkway, pulling her with him. “Worth the wait, dear Watcher?”

“I’ll say,” she snorted as they--just as carefully--sat on the ledge and turned their gazes back to the sky. “But time alone with you always is.”

Tekēhu beamed and reached for her hand. “You flatter me, Captain...”

“And you love it,” Kei finished for him with a grin, lacing her fingers between his.

He gave another chuckle and didn’t deny it. They sat there in silence, shoulder to shoulder, as the minutes passed. If possible, it seemed Belafa grew brighter as it continued its ascent.

Kei shifted, pressing them even more closely together, as she murmured, “You know, I’ve never sat on a roof before.”

“Never?” Tekēhu raised a brow but didn’t tease.

She shook her head and rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand. “Never had the opportunity.”

“I am pleased to be your company on your first time, then.” There was no missing the sly mischief in Tekēhu’s voice, and had they been closer to the ground, Kei might’ve shoved him off the roof.

As it was, she rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. “As am I,” she admitted with a small laugh. “It means I get you all to myself, with very good odds we won’t be interrupted.A precious resource, as things stand.”

“Ekera, I like the way you think,” he grinned, raising their intertwined hands to kiss the back of hers, lingering and with feeling.

“And I like you,” Kei countered, leaning in to kiss him. She’d waited long enough. Their hands broke apart, his bracing against the roof for balance and hers digging into his hair. The anemone-like locks wriggled in response to her touch, curling around her hand to tickle her palm. She laughed softly into the kiss at the sensation before they broke apart.

“This is good to know,” Tekēhu said. The delight in his eyes was mesmerizing.  “For I very much like you, as well.”

“That is a relief,” she teased. “So it would be safe to assume no objections to me doing that again?”

His grin widened and he lightly rested his forehead against hers. “Quite the contrary, I say. I will only object if your stop.”

Kei happily obliged, and the splendid view went unobserved for several long minutes as they each did their best to leave the other breathless.

With great success on both parts.

[lassieposting]

How about the Lucifer OT3 for the domestic ship meme? 😁

domestic ship meme!

send me a ship and i’ll tell you:

who reaches out to new neighbors

a lot of the time, it’s lucifer. he’s a) incredibly sociable, b) nosy and c) faster than the other two, and demons are incredibly territorial, so if there’s someone new in the neighbourhood he wants to investigate immediately. he’s very friendly, but he flirts with the neighbours, or tries to make deals with them, or turns up with Fun MuffinsTM, so he’s a bit of a menace. chloe is pretty savvy and if she’s around she can usually grab him before he makes a break for the door, otherwise she and dan end up making the Lucifer Apology Tour. 

who remembers to buy healthy food

chloe and dan are both pretty responsible about this; they’re parents and have to feed trixie. dan is more inclined to be a health nut, because he’s very into staying in shape and eating healthy is a big part of his lifestyle. they both like to (get trixie to) try new foods, but neither of them have a lot of free time, so even their healthy meals tend to be chosen for being quick and easy to prepare. lucifer doesn’t shop for himself - he has a fancy grocery delivery service for that - but he also eats out a lot at various expensive restaurants whose owners owe him favours, so he doesn’t need to “shop” often. when chloe and dan stay over it’s always a toss-up whether his fridge will be fully stocked or empty except for wine, whip cream and strawberries. 

who remembers to buy junk food

lucifer, ably assisted by trixie. he’s a decent stepdevil, but he thinks showering your kid with money is good parenting. he snacks a lot as it is, bc supernatural metabolism + celestial young adult = constantly hungry, and trixie knows that if she says she’s hungry or suggests something new for him to try, he’ll take her to the store for a snack raid. he’s got a big sweet tooth and never says no to desserts and unhealthy junk. 

who fixes the oven when it breaks

dan. chloe can do basic DIY - put up a shelf, change a fuse - but fixing the oven is a bit beyond her. lucifer is useless; he doesn’t repair things at all, he throws them out and buys a new one. he does very much enjoy watching dan when he’s sweaty and a bit dirty and wearing a tool belt, though, so he hangs around and leers and makes unhelpful suggestive comments while dan is working. 

who waters the plants/feeds their pet(s)

lucifer is banned from looking after anything that can’t speak for itself for the foreseeable ever. he’s allowed to watch trixie occasionally, because trixie can and will remind him to feed her/take her to school/etc, but he’s too selfish to watch something that isn’t at least semi-independent. if they had a pet dan would look after it for the most part, and chloe is the only one who has any plants - she keeps a couple succulents, including the one on her desk at the precinct that lucifer doused with scotch that one time. 

who wakes up earlier

dan usually wakes up earliest; he goes to the gym to work out before heading to the precinct for 9. during the week, chloe wakes up next, because years of being a parent and doing the school run has made early mornings a habit, but at the weekends she’s happy to sleep in. lucifer is very much a night owl, and does not do early mornings. he doesn’t have to be at the precinct as early as the other two, since he’s a civilian consultant and not a detective, so he has a bit more leeway to stay in bed and doze. he does try very hard to get them to stay and cuddle with him though. sleepy lucifer is a snuggler. 

who makes the bed

lucifer is the only one who really cares about bed tidiness. dan doesn’t bother making it at all. chloe will straighten the comforter if she’s not in too much of a rush, but lucifer fluffs pillows and does hospital corners on the sheets and is just generally fastidious and overly tidy. 

who makes the coffee

lucifer. when he first started working with chloe, he realised he could offer to do a coffee run as an excuse to get out of doing paperwork. his memory’s on the scary side of eidetic, so he remembers all the hot beverage preferences for their entire department, and he’s loaded, so he always goes to the fancy, ridiculously overpriced coffee shop no one else can afford and usually comes back with donuts. eventually it just becomes a habit. 

who burns breakfast

chloe is a decent cook as long as the dish is simple and doesn’t take long to make, but she’ll put something on to boil and then get distracted by whatever case she’s working on and completely forget about whatever’s on the stove until it boils over or the fire alarm goes off and she has to go rescue it.  dan is a pretty good cook, but he doesn’t hold a candle to lucifer, so normally luci will make the dinner and chloe and dan will alternate washing up and putting things away. drying the dishes is trixie’s job. 

how do they let each other know they’re leaving the house

dan shouts bye from the door once he’s got his jacket and shoes on; chloe usually shouts bye back and lucifer’s normal response is “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” chloe gives cheek kisses before she leaves the house, and reminds whoever’s looking after trixie to do whatever they need to do for her that day (lucifer because he needs reminding, and dan out of habit even though he’s a perfectly capable caregiver). lucifer usually wants a hug before he goes out, mostly because having people who are willing to give him that kind of affection is still a big novelty and he’s living for it. 

how do they greet each other when one of them gets home

dan and chloe have lived together before, for years, so usually they just come in, toss their keys on the side and call out “hey”. living with other people is still new to lucifer, though, so he gets very excited when someone comes home; it’s an opportunity to get kisses and cuddles. when it’s him coming home, usually he just bursts in already talking about something that happened to him while he was gone, sometimes mid-sentence. 

who brings home little gifts like flowers/chocolates more often

lucifer is the classically romantic one. he’s always picking up takeout from dan’s favourite vietnamese place or bringing chloe lemon bars or surprising them with a candlelit dinner on the penthouse balcony. neither of them really expected him to be the romantic type, but it makes a lot more sense once they realise that most of his knowledge about human courting practices comes from movies and TV. 

who picks the movie for movie night

if trixie is with them, she usually picks; otherwise, they take turns. this was implemented because chloe kept getting outnumbered - the boys both like action films like body bags and the weaponizer with plenty of nudity, explosions and unrealistic fight scenes. chloe’s not really a fan. 

their favorite kind of movie to watch

chloe likes comedies and dan likes action films. lucifer’s favourites are also action films, but he usually picks a horror for movie night. not because he has a particular fondness for scary movies, but because chloe will end up pressed into his side and he loves that of all the strange, comfort-seeking behaviours humans have, she cuddles up with the devil. he’s used to people being terrified of him. being seen as a protector is new and thrilling.

who first suggests a pillow fort

technically it’s trixie, and she’s horrified that lucifer’s parents never taught him to make one. he hates missing out on shit so he brings it up on date night cause he wants to see what the big deal is. 

who builds the pillow fort

dan is in charge of actually building the pillow fort, and chloe is in charge of furnishing it with plenty of blankets and cushions and soft cuddly things. lucifer lounges on the couch and “directs”, which is what he claims he did when the demons were building his palace in hell. once the chloe and dan have finished building the damn thing, they then fuck him in it, which is very pleasant if not the original intended purpose. 

who tries to distract the other during the movie

10000% lucifer. he lasts all of five minutes before he’s trying to undress someone. it’s always risky taking him to the movies because he’ll inevitably want to make out/give head/get head in the back row. chloe is surprisingly easily corrupted and makes a game out of how long she can edge him for; if he makes it to the end of the movie, he gets a reward. 

who falls asleep first

unexpectedly, it’s lucifer. he’s just spent six months (for dan and chloe)/thousands of years (by his count) in hell, with nobody to watch his back. he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep for a very, very long time; he’s been constantly watching his back, heading off rebellions and assassination attempts and game of thrones-level political bullshittery. with chloe and dan, he’s safe. he can get his head down and sleep knowing that at least one of the three of them will wake up if there’s danger. also between them they fuck him till he’s ready to pass out so yeah, he crashes first

who is big spoon/little spoon

dan is very much a big spoon, which suits the other two just fine. lucifer will be the big spoon for chloe, because he knows she likes cuddling into him, but he’s a little spoon at heart. he loves being held. he likes tucking his head under dan’s jaw and dozing off to dan’s fingertips stroking his back. chloe will also switch, because she loves how soft and affectionate lucifer is when she’s cuddling him, but she prefers being the little spoon. 

[honeyedlashton]

“Waiting for you to take the show.”

Word count: 1814

Warnings: language. (Should I even make that a warning anymore?)

A/N: I was in the mood for some domestic Lashton, so basically get off my back. It’s so cute. I don’t really have a substantial plot. I have extreme writer’s block for some reason smfh. But the idea was cute, so I’m here. This is basically just fluff. Like the whole thing. Every single bit. So enjoy some pretty much entirely mindless fluff.

———————————————————————

“Ow, Ash, that hurts.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Luke answered through gritted teeth. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Ashton continued cleaning Luke’s injured fingers with the peroxide and a cotton ball. Thank god he’d had the foresight to buy a first aid kit. He applied the Neosporin, and secured the band-aids on the cut fingers.

“There. It should be good as new by morning,” Ashton kissed each bandaged finger softly and looked up at a pouty Luke.

“Thank you, Ashy,” Luke sounded tired.

“I don’t mind, baby,” Ashton assured him and put the kit away. “How were you supposed to know the guitar string would break?”

Luke cuddled up to him when he sat back down. He was still somehow able to fit his large frame in Ashton’s arms, so Ashton held him close. He kissed Luke’s forehead and rubbed his shoulders, trying to think of something, anything he could do to take Luke’s mind off of it.

“What if we went to the beach later, hmm?” Ashton offered. “If you wanted? We always have a decent time at the beach.”

“Okay,” Luke agreed softly.

Ashton couldn’t be convinced that having Luke live with him wasn’t the perfect set up. It was like touring again, or back in the early days when they all lived together. Except this was just he and Luke. With Calum and Michael only a phone call away.

The idea was to heal each other—though at first it was just drinking and fucking to forget about what was going wrong in their lives for a little bit. But as time progressed, they started untangling their assorted issues, one by one. It was gentle, and slow, and like trying to unravel a tight knot. But they were getting somewhere with it at the very least.

But it hadn’t been enough yet. Luke was still going through it mentally, and Ashton felt somewhat helpless at times. He felt so useless when things were bad. But he stood by him unflinchingly, because he knew things were going to get better.

Ashton suspected the pain had somewhat subsided in Luke’s fingers when he heard him sigh quietly. Ashton played with Luke’s growing hair, wrapping the curls around a finger so he could see the way the ringlets looked. He loved Luke’s hair like this, and it was only getting longer, and more beautiful. He especially loved when they went to the beach and Luke’s curls got all big and wind blown. Maybe that’s why he suggested it, now that his mind had wandered.

Petunia gave a huff from where she was sleeping beside the couch. She was awake now, Ashton gathered, and Luke perked up at the sound.

“Is that my pretty girl?” Luke smiled and looked over from where he lay on Ashton’s chest, and held out his arm to her. “Come here, piggy baby.” Ashton was basically just holding Luke up now.

Petunia’s nails clicked as she trotted over at Luke’s call. “My baby,” Luke hummed and leaned over to kiss her on her nose.

“Hey, pig,” Ashton whispered softly and stroked her back and sides fondly.

“Did you have a good nap?” Luke asked, holding her whole face. “I hope so, darling.”

Petunia just looked at the windows where Luke had drawn all over them in bright red expo marker.

“Dad, I’m hungry,” Luke pulled a fake voice for her. “And I’m not gonna look at you till you offer me f-o-o-d.”

Ashton giggled.

“Laugh all you want, Petunia and I have an unspoken routine: she ignores me till she gets hungry, then she cuddles me when she’s fed. It’s a really good system.”

“You’re a lot like that too, you know,” Ashton smirked. “You only love me after you’ve raided my kitchen.”

“So what do you call this, then?” Luke smirked and gestured to how he was lying on Ashton.

“Some strange swap in the multiverse,” Ashton smirked, “unless you’re actually hungry.”

Luke considered it. “I mean, I could eat.”

“I honestly don’t know why I expected you to say that you weren’t hungry,” Ashton sighed. “Get up. I’ll make you some food, I guess. But only because you’re injured.”

Like got up and examined his fingers. “Oh, I’d almost forgotten.”

“Well don’t tell me that,” Ashton smirked. “I’m the one giving you food, remember?”

“Oh yeah, I’m so injured. I honestly don’t know how I’ll make it through the night.”

“That’s it. That’s the drama I’m looking for,” Ashton teased and went to the kitchen. “You want leftovers? Eggs? A sandwich?”

Luke and Petunia followed, and Luke perched himself on the island counter. “Surprise me.”

Ashton decided on sandwiches. Luke kissed him softly as a thank you when he handed it to him, and dug in immediately.

“Alright, Piggy,” Ashton said to a very patient, but very expectant Petunia. “You hungry, girl? You want some food?”

Petunia must have recognized the tone and the words, because she practically pranced at Ashton and huffed excitedly.

“Well, come on then. Let’s get you fed, princess,” he giggled.

And once everyone was occupied with chewing, Ashton felt at peace.

“Stop stealing my chips, you bastard,” Ashton swatted Luke’s hand away.

“Please?” Luke practically begged, “one more, I swear.”

“Yeah, I gave you one more, three chips ago. Now you’re just robbing me,” Ashton pointed out.

Luke made a pouty face in response.

“Luke, don’t do that. Don’t pull the face. There’s a whole bag over there.”

“I don’t wanna walk. I just want one last chip.”

“I have a hard time believing this is the last one.”

“Ashy... Baby,” Luke grabbed Ashton’s hand, and looked into his eyes. “Please?”

Ashton sighed and pushed the plate towards Luke—who kissed him in excitement and gratitude. “Whatever, get off me,” Ashton added melodramatically but leaned into Luke’s hug.

“Thank you, Ashy,” Luke continued, kissing his cheeks and jaw. Eventually, he settled down and ate the chips gratefully, and Ashton sat on the floor to spend time with Petunia, who nuzzled him now that she was fed.

“All you Hemmings’ are the same,” Ashton smiled fondly. “You only love an Irwin when food is involved. But I’ll forgive you cause you’re so fat and cute.” He kissed her forehead and scratched her back till she rolled on her belly, and then he scratched that too, cooing soft words to her.

Ashton looked up at Luke to find him videoing them. “No flash photography,” He held up a hand to the camera, “Leave Piggy alone, please.”

Luke just giggled and adjusted his position to point the camera at them again. Ashton tried to block the camera, again. And when they both were giggling messes, he tried to grab the phone from Luke’s hands entirely.

“Civilians can’t film her without her permission,” Ashton attacked Luke by tickling him. “It’s against the law!”

Luke fell to the floor in a fit of laughter, practically writhing out of Ashton’s hands. Even Ashton was laughing uncontrollably now. “Stop stop, Ash, I cant breathe,” Luke practically wheezed.

“Shoulda thought about that before you broke the law,” Ashton teased, but slacked up. He kissed Luke’s smiley and blush blown cheeks.

Luke caught his breath, and kept his grip on Ashton’s shirt so he’d stay in place right over him. “Every time you tickle me we end up in a compromising position,”

“Yeah well maybe if you’d keep your legs closed...” Ashton teased, and smacked the outside of Luke’s thighs from where he rested between them.

“Are you calling me a slut?” Luke said in obvious mock offense. His eyes got that teasing twinkle, and the corners of his mouth were twitching.

“Indirectly,” Ashton smirked. “Why? Are you gonna deny it?”

Luke bit his lip on a smile, “fuck you.”

“Actually, I’d rather fuck /you/,” Ashton smirked.

“Mmm I’m sure you would,” Luke’s flirtatious tone practically told Ashton that he’d rather that, too.

“Am I that predictable?” Ashton hummed.

“Yeah, kinda,” Luke looked up at him, and widened his legs to accommodate Ashton more comfortably.

“Careful, Lu.”

“What?” Came the innocent response and lip bite.

“If you think I won’t fuck you here on the kitchen floor, you’re wrong,” Ashton nearly growled. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Mmm. Good, it’ll keep me warm,” Luke rubbed one of his calves up Ashton’s legs.

“Such a slut,” Ashton shook his head fondly and kissed Luke. He felt Luke’s arms circle around him, pulling him down to deepen the kiss.

The sound of familiar clicks and pants came around the kitchen island, and Ashton felt a cold wet nose hit his cheek. He broke the kiss and giggled. “Petunia’s obviously not having this.”

Luke laughed at the displacement, and how Petunia was pretty much shoving her head between theirs, “Petunia’s eyes say: ‘dads chill out. It’s cuddle time.’”

“They say: ‘dads, chill the heck out, I eat in here.’” Ashton giggled got off of Luke to cuddle both of them. “I’m starting to think making out on the kitchen floor is a bad idea. Every time we do it we get interrupted.”

“That’s right! I forgot Calum called us last time.”

“When it’s not one child, it’s the other,” Ashton smirked.

“She’ll fall asleep soon,” Luke sighed petting her soothingly. “Pretty baby wanting to cuddle with us. So sweet. I love you.” Ashton was about to make a quippy comment when Luke turned to him, “and I love you.”

Ashton hummed. “I love you.”

“What will we do at the beach?” Like asked examining the bandages on his fingers.

“Get you some ice cream, write our names in the sand, swim...” Ashton kissed Luke’s forehead, “Whatever you want, baby.”

“I wanna swim. And write our names in the sand. And eat ice cream. Get a double scoop and I’ll share the cone with you. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Ashton took in this moment, and the moments just before—the smiles and happiness and giggles. He would trade everything he had to keep that smile on Luke’s face. There was nothing more gratifying than seeing his band mate—his best friend, his /soulmate/—with a genuine smile again.

And he knew the moments like this wouldn’t last forever, but he would hold him through a million bad days for the hope of one good one.

“Hey, Lu?”

“Hmm?”

“Stay here forever.”

There was a slight pause. “Okay.”

Ashton leaned onto Luke’s shoulder and got an excited lick from Petunia right across his nose.

“I want you here, too, Piggy,” Ashton assured her.

“Thank you for taking such good care of me, Ash,” Luke sighed softly and leaned onto the top of Ashton’s head.

“I’d bandage your guitar injuries every day if you wanted me to.”

“And make me food?”

“Only because you’d be injured.”

Luke giggled.

“C’mon then,” Ashton got Luke up and smacked his bum. “I want to see how nice your ass looks in swim shorts again.”

“Okay, okay.” Luke laughed, and turned to Petunia. “C’mon, Princess. Maybe we can convince daddy to get you some ice cream, too.”

And they definitely would.

[lizzytheauthor]

Hey-o, not sure where I’m gonna upload my writing yet, probs google drive but I haven’t gotten around to it yet, so here’s the prologue to the new thing! Also, this is going to be horror, so if you are unnerved easily, or don’t handle horror easily, you might want to avoid this. There will be themes of questioning reality, loss of time, loss of free will, and more. I’ll try to tag what’s applicable this prologue is (mostly) tame though.

Prologue

“You know, you’re lucky! This center has only been open for about a month. People are already raving about how it’s going to ‘revolutionize the field of psychology’. It’s booked straight through the next year.”

I continue staring out the car window. Whatever this state worker thinks is comforting...well, clearly she’s never actually talked to a kid before, or rather, taken note of their reactions.

“’Completely cured in two weeks of less!’ Doesn’t that sound great?” she continues.

She’s practically begging for me to feed into her. I don’t.

“Well, I’ve already taken a handful of kids there, and they have seen remarkable improvement so far.” she pauses, to see if I say anything.

I see this, center? No, this looks more like those old crazy houses in the horror films. The kind that have ghosts around every corner. The bronze plaque on the gate reads, ‘The Institute of Revolutionary Hypnosis’. Two weeks and I’ll be cured? Sounds unlikely. How can you ‘cure’ someone of the trauma of seeing...I don’t buy it.

We pull up and get out of the car. I look up at the building, and spot a woman staring at me through the window, 3rd floor up, long brown hair or black? It’s a bit creepy, but I suppose you find those kinds of people here don’t you?

“Come on, now, please?” I hear a tinge of irritation in her voice. Which she quickly tries to mask with that please at the end.

It only comes off as bitter to me. I’ve always been good at reading emotions though, maybe to others they wouldn’t see it.

As we walk towards the door I see two very large, very intimidating, men on either side of the double doors, which also seem larger than normal. Maybe. Between them is a lady, she seems young, but still older than me.

She lets out a far too cheerful, “Hello! You must be…?”

The social worker answers for me, “Ah, this is,” she reads her clipboard, “Ralph Gingham?” she looks over at me for confirmation, I nod. “He’s scheduled for treatment, you should be expec-”

“Yes! Ralph! We’ve been waiting for you. C-PTSD, right? Probably some other things rattling around in there too, eh?” the receptionist lady says this with a smile that seems off. I don’t like how happy she is discussing my mental illness. This whole exchange feels off and artificial. Like they are both read the lines for a play, and I’m trying to guess the blanks.

“Yea, I was under the bed when my parents were killed. I guess it fucked me up or something.” I can’t help myself, maybe it’s their cheerfulness. I can’t stand the happiness of everyone around me, while I’m…

“Well aren’t you a cheery one!!” she interrupts my thoughts with the statement. Not a question. “Well, let’s get started with the tour! I can take him from here.”

Almost imperceptibly, I feel like I see her wink, at the state worker. No, maybe not. I don’t know. Maybe. Who knows?

We enter the lobby, past the large men. I get the feeling I won’t be getting past them if I think about fleeing. It’s large, and mostly empty. There’s a desk, with a chair and a computer, and a phone. The typical stuff you would expect from a reception desk. Some potted plants scattered around, although they look fake. Nothing offensive, and perfectly normal.

“So, let’s start! I’m sure you’re dying to see where you’ll be staying for the next two weeks!” Every word out of her mouth feels rehearsed, very well rehearsed.

“Uh, sure. I guess.” As we walk into the first hall, it only just occurs to me that none of my stuff is here. Wait, “Oh, hold on. My backpack, I left it in the-”

“Oh no worries, I’m sure you can handle two weeks without your game boy!” she sticks her tongue out at me, and I’m immediately offended. “All your clothes, food, entertainment, everything! We supply it here. No pesky outside communication to disturb your thoughts, your recovery.”

I have no reason to trust her, but I can’t exactly go running out the front door. So, I guess that’s that. I’m excommunicated from the world for two weeks.

We walk through the hall, I think I missed what the receptionist said. I feel like we’re heading towards a cafeteria, but that’s all that is, a feeling. The hall is spotless, no smudges, no cobwebs, nothing. I’d swear it was painted yesterday, but as I drag my hand across the wall, no paint comes off on me.

I bump into the now stopped receptionist.

“Excuse me, could you not do that?” she asks me.

“What?” I feign ignorance, though I know she’s talking about my hand along the wall.

“The uh, dragging your hand. Hitting the doors bothers the other...roommates” the pause she has before roommates bothers me, but not nearly as much as the fact that I didn’t notice any doors in the hall before. Normally if I drag my hand along a wall I can feel the gaps for a door, or something.

I didn’t with this hall. I decided to just listen to her, and walk obediently by her side.

“Thank you!” she resumes her cheerful tone and her quickened pace.

We enter the cafeteria, and it’s tidy. Not quiet, but not loud. The first thing I notice is that the people in here seem to be of widely varying ages. Some old ladies, some younger boys.

“I didn’t realize everyone here was so...varied.” I say.

“Oh yes, there’s no issues between roommates, since the treatment just works that well. Honestly, we cure you after just two or three sessions, but we need to keep you for a little longer to make sure nothing comes back.” she points to a sign in the cafeteria, ‘Days since last incident: 439’

“I thought you just opened last month?”

“I don’t know where you learned that, but no, we’ve been open for 439 days,” she pauses, smiling at me, “as you can see, we’ve never had an incident. And we don’t expect that to change any time soon.”

I don’t believe her. I don’t know, maybe I don’t believe the social worker. Who knows. I’ve never heard of this place either way, and I can’t exactly look it up, can I?

We make our way to the line workers, the people serving the food. All of them are smiling as they work, which doesn’t seem. I don’t know, it seems off, but not overtly so. “Hi Miranda,” one says with a wave.

“Hey Brian, how are you feeling today?” neither of them breaking their smile

“Fantastic! Here for some food?” it was just then that he notices me, “Oh! Hello sport. How are you?”

Miserable, actually, thanks for asking.

“I’m good. Thanks.” the words leave my lips, but they weren’t mine. Maybe they were? Miranda gives me a look, it makes me feel like she’s happy that I said that.

“Wonderful, always great to hear. Want some pizza? It’s pizza Friday!” he says this with such conviction, I believe him.

I could’ve sworn it was Thursday though. Maybe the days are just blending together, I’ve never been great with dates, even in school.

“Uh,” I look at Miranda.

“He can have a slice, we do have a schedule to keep though.” she says, glancing at her watch.

I happily accept the plate, with a slice of pizza. Maybe I’m just hungry, that’d explain some of the off-ness, right?

We continue walking, we exit the cafeteria, and enter a different hall. I think. Honestly, I can see myself getting very lost here, “Hey, Miranda. What do I do if I get lost?”

She responds, “Oh, you won’t get lost, I promise. This tour is very informative.”

Never breaking her cheerful attitude. She certainly seems confident. This place must take in other types of mental illness? Certainly not everyone is great at navigating this place. I mean, I got lost my freshman year of high school over a dozen times. My high school must have been at least half the size of this place, if not smaller.

On the second floor it’s just...doors. So many doors, and halls.

“This is where most people sleep, obviously the caretakers won’t be sleeping here, but all the roommates do.” Her use of caretakers unnerves me.

“Caretakers? Why do you keep saying roommates? Will I have to share a room?” I can’t stop the questions. They just kinda spill out of me.

“Oh, a quizzical one. The doctors, the watchers, me. That’s what I mean by caretakers, just people who will be taking good care of you.” she pats my head, which makes me feel condescended to. “As for the sharing a room, yes, you will. Just one, we have two people to each room. Most people like the company.” She smiles at me again. “Trust me, you’ll love them.”

Each door has a number and a plaque next to it, with two names each. Seems similar to the hospitals I’ve seen. We walk through a couple hallways, and we stop at room 39. I read my name, ‘Ralph Gingham,’ and underneath, the name, ‘Pete Mozzato’.

“Here’s your room!” she opens the door as she says this. This Pete isn’t here, so I guess he’s out and about. “Pete is really swell, I think you’ll get along nicely.”

“How old is he?” I ask. Again, without thinking.

“He’s 19, same as you.” she gives a brief pause, “We don’t segregate people during relaxed activities, like eating, or playing, or such. But we do try to match each person with a person the same age for sleeping arrangements. ‘It helps the circadian rhythm’”

She says this, but I don’t really understand, nor do I think that’s true. Either way, at least I’ll have someone who can relate to me somewhat.

“And that’s it! You’ll see that we have some decent outdoors equipment, and activities, in the back. Kinda hard to miss those.”

“But, I feel like I haven’t seen a whole half the building, let alone the 3rd floor!” I may have raised my voice a bit.

“Hush, hush. No need to raise a fuss. The third floor is for treatments, you’ll see it plenty. The rest is just other rooms. You’ll see there’s bathrooms scattered about, and you know where the cafeteria is. You also know where there’s activities. That’s all you need.” she walks into my room, expecting me to follow.

And I do.

“I’m sure you’ll want to relax a bit, your schedule is printed on the calendar on your half of the room, Welcome to The Institute of Revolutionary Hypnosis!” She closes the door behind her as she says this. I want to go open the door and yell at her, but I don’t.

Schedule says my first ‘treatment’ is at 9am. I look at the clock, on the wall above the door, and see that it’s already 8:01pm. It’s strange. I didn’t even notice the sun going down, but a glance out the window confirms it. Guess I’m here, let’s hope this helps me.

[probably-writing-x]

You are the reason

~~~Based on You Are the Reason by Calum Scott~~~

With tight gripped knuckles on the sheets, you bolted upright from your slumber - sweat beading on your forehead and your heart racing beyond normality. You settle your head back against the headboard and push your hand to your chest to calm down the fear, relaxing yourself to no longer be panicked. It wasn't the first time this had happened. In fact, it wasn't even the first time this week. Always the same dream, each getting a little bit worse. You'd be trapped behind glass or held back, always fighting against whatever it was to get to Shawn. He'd be panicking, eyes wide with fear as he struggles with everything in him to just take one breath. As his chest got tighter, so did your restraints - pulling you further and further from any chance of helping him.

You groan and run your hands over your disarray hair. It was hopeless to wish sleep upon yourself now. So, with your phone flashing to reveal the time as 03:07, you drag yourself out of bed and pad through to the lounge of your apartment.

Shawn was the reason for all of this. The reason you woke up in a nightmarish panic and why you'd spent three nights of this week sat at the island in your kitchen instead of sleeping.

You take a deep breath and click onto your Instagram, instantly being greeted by a photo Josiah had recently posted of Shawn on tour. Him. He was the one responsible for you feeling like this. But, god, you wanted him to come back.

The two of you had broken up only five months ago. It was your fault. You weren't understanding enough and you asked for too much of his time and you couldn't find the balance between accepting his work and loving him as your boyfriend. You argued, screamed, cried and, eventually, it ended. It all fell flat against the Toronto skyline and Shawn packed up to go on tour. You hadn't seen him since, only glimpses in photos and videos that his team posted.

You should've done something differently. You should've gone with him and fixed this. You should've -

There was no hope. Every time your mind went running a thousand miles an hour, you knew it would always get you back to one place. That you wanted him back.

He felt like your lifeline. He stopped you from breaking and picked you back up again when you got close to doing so. He was the reason, the one behind it all.

The truth was, you'd go through a million miles to take it all back. To change every mistake, fix up the pieces of the relationship you were adamant would be a forever. You'd do everything in your power, break through impossible terrains to reach that heart of his and never let it go.

You needed to be with him. You needed to see and hold him and promise that, in another million days, you would never hurt him again. You needed to make it clear that he was the reason behind all of this.

~~~~~~

"Hey, dude, did you see this?" Brian flops down next to Shawn and sticks his phone in his friend's direction, "We're missing all the decent parties now we're not home,"

"You mean you are," Shawn rolls his eyes, taking the phone and swiping through the endless photos, "Do I even know these people?"

"Yeah that's -" Brian stops instantly as soon as Shawn swipes onto the next photo and he's met with a face that he definitely didn't expect to be hit with like that.

(Y/n). She's got a red cup in one hand that she's holding out proudly to the camera, laughing with crinkles next to her eyes. She's dressed in a simple royal blue romper Shawn remembers her buying - he told her that the colour brought out her eyes but, really, anything she wore would always bring out the piercing beauty he found in those eyes.

Before he knows it, the phone starts to shake in his trembling hands. All because of her.

"Sorry dude, I didn't know she wa-" Brian quickly takes the phone back and locks the screen to quickly erase the photo, "I mean she rarely goes to those parties and I-"

"It's alright," Shawn shakes his head, "Just a photo,"

"I know but-"

"I'm fine," Shawn assures, standing up from the couch on the tour bus and residing back to his cabin bed on the vehicle.

You always had that effect now. That surreal feeling that his heart was bleeding out in his chest and breaking into unfixable pieces right beneath his skin. Every single time.

He settles his head back against the rattling wall behind him and takes a deep breath. The only person that could ever cure any feeling like this was her.

"Fuck," He mutters under his breath, running his hands to the back of his neck and hanging his head low.

He woke up every day wishing for one single thing. Wishing every single time that he could just turn the clock back. He'd do it all differently. For starters, he'd never ever let himself break that golden heart of yours. He'd make sure he still tried even when you two were at your lowest. He'd make sure he carried you out of your darkest moments even if his own actions had caused them. He'd tell you he loved you more and he wouldn't let his selfishness get in the way of ever proving to you how much he didn't deserve someone so good.

He'd spend every day making you feel safe, loved, cared for. He'd do it all differently. Because he was the one that broke you in the first place. He was the one that broke what the two of you had and, God, that killed him.

It didn't matter how far away he was. He'd still drop everything to get to you. He'd get the next flight, cross the Atlantic and land directly at your door in the hopes that he could say everything he wished he could've said before. He'd make those words fix it all.

He needed to see you.

~~~~~

Fuck. Maybe this wasn't a good idea. You had your keys in one hand with your passport and phone, your earphones shoved into your ears, a duffel bag in the other hand and an open car door in front of you. And you stepped through.

"To the airport please," You say quickly, running a hand through your hair.

"In a rush, miss?" The driver frowns, setting her foot on the gas to start driving out of your street.

"Something like that," You sigh, leaning your head back against the headrest and taking in a deep breath.

This was your last chance.

Your leg trembled beneath your hand as you awaited your arrival. You'd just about make the final check in, hurry through security and, in a matter of a few hours, you'd be flying across to London to hopefully resolve exactly what your heart been desiring.

Twelve hours and you'd be there.

~~~~~

"There has to be an earlier flight!" Shawn groans, running a hand through his tugged out curls.

"There's nothing man, and you still need to do the show tonight," Connor points out, scrolling down the screen on his laptop to show Shawn all the possible flight times.

"This is (Y/n) we're talking about!" Shawn raises his voice a little, "I need to see her,"

"Right," Connor swivels in his chair to face his friend, "And, if she's that important, you can wait another twelve hours before getting that flight to see her,"

Shawn sighs and drops back down onto the couch. Twelve hours and he'd be there, waiting to board his flight to you and only you.

~~~~~

Half a day had never felt so long. You'd barely slept on the flight and, with disheveled hair and puffy eyes, you dragged yourself off from the flight and through passport control before reaching the lounge and trying to find any sort of exit in an airport that felt so unfamiliar.

"(Y/n),"

But that voice. That voice would always be familiar.

You turn around and see as Shawn stands up from one of the chairs in the airport.

"What are yo-" He starts, "Am I- Are you- Am I seeing things?"

You can't help but smile, only a little, at his words.

Seeing him, face to face with you, you realise exactly what you were about to get yourself into.

It had been months. His hair was longer now but everything else just the same - warm eyes, chiseled face, flushed cheeks. He's every part of the boy you loved. The boy you love.

"I-" He begins but stops himself as he steps the large stride between the two of you.

His hands reach up to cup your cheeks and he leans down to kiss you longingly. It isn't hesitant but you know he's terrified of how you will respond. His hands don't want to hold you too intensely but they want to be strong enough to trust himself when he thought you were there.

"I came to find you, I needed to see you," You comment breathlessly when he pulls away as you grab at the material of his tshirt on his chest.

"It's been way too long (Y/n), god I've missed you so fucking much," He shakes his head.

Both of you look desperate and messy in the middle of this airport lounge but you dismiss it completely.

Your eyes are filling with tears and you're beginning to tremble in his touch.

"Shawn, I came because I had to tell you-" You begin but your words are quivering in every syllable, "I-"

"I know, I know," Shawn encourages, holding you a little tighter, "God, I was about to forget tour just to find you,"

You swallow the lump in your throat, "Okay but this is it now, you and me. No more fighting, no more running,"

"No more tears," Shawn mumbles, wiping his thumb across your cheek to erase the tear stains left there.

"We can fix all of this, we can make it work," You state and hearing the words seems to solidify what you'd been telling yourself for so long.

"Come here," Shawn says, pulling you impossibly closer to him and wrapping you in his embrace tighter than he ever had before.

He buries his head into the crook of your neck and inhales the lingering scent of your shampoo, mixed only with the scent of the perfume he'd bought you many moons ago.

This could be fixed. Because, here you were, at some ungodly hour, gripping onto him and him holding you close enough to trust thay he'd never lose you. And it was all because of him.

~~~~~

Tags: @imarypayne @sunshine112 @bringmethehorizonandpizza @supernatural-girl97 @vibhati123 @butithasntkilledyouyet @faefictions @carisi-sonny @trap-house-homiecide @spiderrpcrker @tommydaspidey @oneblckcoffee @darlingtholland @fanficparker @xxtomxo @httpfandxms

[capnjay21]

bring walls down, hear my sound 3/3

Ten happy years after the events of 'the boy that stood by the sea', and Henry Cassidy is no longer the little boy he used to be. Unused to the unpredictability of raising a teenager, his sudden wayward behaviour becomes a source of mystery to all the adults in his life. When things begin to spiral out of control, Killian and Emma must decide what sort of parents, and partners, they wish to be - of course, where Neal Cassidy is involved, nothing is ever simple.

link to the boy that stood by the sea || ao3 || part one || part two

Rating: T A/N: So it's actually been two years since I updated this story. I'm not sure if any of my readers will still be around, or interested, but nonetheless I am excited to finally put the conclusion out into the world!

As it's been a while, I will reiterate the content warning for the last chapter which still applies - there is a discussion regarding a miscarriage Emma underwent a few years prior, which is an important event for her and Killian and in this narrative. As ever, please take care of yourselves, but I hope you decide to continue!

Now without further ado, here is my 13.5k finisher! (PS, I know Coney Island doesn't open in the winter, but please dispel that tiny bit of realism for this chapter!) Enjoy! <3

-/-

Henry has been in New York for four days.

 Neal keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to decide to go home or for Killian to ring and demand that he be sent back to Boston — he’s more than aware he’s living on borrowed time. Truth be told, for the first time in a long while he really feels like he’s doing the parent thing, making sure the boy gets decent meals every day and leaving work early enough to come home and spend time with him.

 In fact, he’s beginning to wonder what made this so hard ten years ago.

 It was such a long time ago now, he remembers the sensations and emotions far more than how he actually behaved when Henry lived with him full time, before Emma had stolen his car and entered their lives. It had been such a colossal struggle, trying to balance his work life with Henry, all pushing boundaries and guilt, god, so much fucking guilt, until it had reached breaking point that night on a beach in Maine. No matter how hard he had tried, he just couldn’t reconcile the two things that he loved most, this little boy who had needed him there and this job, the only thing he had ever wanted before Henry was born. It had ended in him letting one of them go.

 He doesn’t regret sending Henry to live with Killian permanently. That had always been the right decision. What he does regret is missing out on time spent with him; the lazy mornings and sun-soaked afternoons, the science projects and parent-teacher conferences. Neal never had a reason to go to the library without Henry tucked into his side, but then, he had to remind himself, it wasn’t like he’d been around enough to take the boy there when they were together. Although he gave both Killian and Emma a hard time on the phone after the yacht incident, he knows Henry had a better life with them than he could’ve ever given him.

 He just can’t work out why. Now, it’s the easiest thing in the world. He can’t wait for the end of the day to come so he can be back at the flat playing video games, or taking him out to eat or touring him around the best attractions New York can offer. They’re making up for years of lost time, and he can’t bear to waste a single minute.

 His priorities have shifted; he realises that now. Better late than never.

 And god, it’s so much better.

 If he could redo that decision on a beach in Maine, hell, every decision he’d ever made before that, it would not be the job that he would keep. Nor the boy he would lose.

 That said, with this newfound clarity comes something else — maturity. At thirty-fucking-nine it’s about time. Henry is his son, sure, but four perfect days don’t make up for sixteen years of emotional and oftentimes physical unreliability. Killian is the one who had been there, Killian is the one who is probably sat at home in Boston worrying himself into the ground, thinking he isn’t worth it. Killian is the reason this boy is such a bright spark in Neal’s otherwise empty life.

 Well. It doesn’t have to be empty. He just has to go home.

 (And so does Henry.)

 As long as he knows that, as long as he’s aware of it, it feels okay. But he doesn’t want to let go of this yet, these longing, desperate days. He wants to know how it feels to have everything.

 “So, you got work today?” Henry says brightly around his cup of coffee, eyes wide and expectant.

 It’s Monday. Neal has a conference in the morning, two meetings and a sales briefing.

 “Nope,” he says, taking out his phone to text his assistant that he won’t be in. “Day off.”

 “Wow.” Henry’s eyebrows have shot to his hairline. “I didn’t realise you had those.”

 It’s not said bitterly, but it could well have been. It could have been and it would’ve been entirely fair. But Henry is sweet and good and always forgave him, even when he didn’t deserve it.

 “Very funny,” Neal sticks out his tongue, setting a plate of scrambled eggs down in front of the boy. He reaches into the microwave and emerges with the cheese he’d melted ready to drizzle on top.

 “Cheddar?” Henry queries.

 “Gouda.”

 The boy grins. “Good, I was just testing you.” He takes the bowl from him and begins to smother his eggs. Once he’s done, he uses a fork to begin mixing it all together. “So, what’s on the agenda for today then?”

 It’s so easy, being with Henry like this. It’s so fucking easy, which is what makes this so fucking hard.

 “Henry,” he starts, before hesitating. The tone of his voice probably alerts his son to the nature of what he wants to say, and he looks up from his breakfast. Neal merely meets his gaze sadly, lifting one shoulder in a half shrug. “When are you going home, kiddo?”

 Henry’s face falls, and he looks younger than he has in four days. More like a little boy by the sea trying to make an impossible choice. “I thought we said no outsider —”

 Neal shakes his head. “Not gonna work this time.”

 They’ve spent days running in the opposite direction to their responsibilities, from the people who care about them — he supposes it’s a comfort, in a sense. In his quieter moments he’d always been afraid that when Henry became a man, he’d see nothing of himself in him; he just wishes he’d passed on a more redeeming quality than the tendency to ignore his problems with more conviction than he confronted them.

 Whatever happened back in Boston, he has to face it. Neal can’t be the place that Henry runs to, as much as he wants days like this to never be over.

 When Henry speaks, his voice is quiet, the furthest yet from the confident young man that turned up on his doorstep.

 “Can’t this be home?”

 A bachelor pad in the middle of New York City, the safe haven they’ve turned it into. Neal’s heart melts, if only under the weight of the knowledge that no, of course it can’t.

 He smiles sadly. “You know I’d love nothing more.”

­­

“Then let’s make it happen!” Henry urges.

 Before Neal can reply, his cell begins to buzz across the countertop. For a terrifying moment he thinks it might be Killian, finally coming to hold him accountable, but the pair of them look over to see Tink’s name flashing across the screen. Neal’s stomach clenches tighter. God, he wants to be the responsible adult they all deserve, but fuck if it doesn’t make him feel like shit.

 Wordlessly, he reaches over and turns off his phone. Henry watches the movement intently.

 “Why aren’t you answering her?”

 After all, they’ve already lifted their embargo on no-outsider-talk.

 Neal readies himself to tell his son everything, but the words that leave his tongue don’t resemble the confession he had meant to impart.

 “Do you remember that time I took you to Coney Island?”

 Old habits die slow and brutal deaths.

 Henry looks wary at the sudden switch of conversation, but he plays along. “I wasn’t big enough for most of the rides.”

 The boy had only been eight, and a short eight-year-old at that, and the day had been such a dramatic failure that he couldn’t hand Henry back to Killian fast enough to break from the shame. Of course, Henry had babbled on about how amazing the cotton candy and the spectacle of the entire day had been, thanking his father profusely and Killian had looked suitably impressed. Neal didn’t dare confess to the contrary. Undoubtedly, Henry’s optimism and his father’s realism remember that day excruciatingly differently.

 Neal shrugs. “You would be now, wouldn’t you?”

 It’s a dare. They’ll see how long they can push this.

 Henry grabs his coat, and they decide to keep running.

 -/-

 There was Emma, thinking her couch hopping days were finally behind her.

 Thankfully, David and Mary Margaret’s couch is infinitely superior to any she’s put up with before.

 Almost buried under an abundance of pillows and soft blankets as the white gold of morning begins to creep past the curtains, Emma is grateful she didn’t think to go anywhere else. Truthfully, the night prior is a blur. All she knows is it left a yawning hole in her chest, a dead weight that begged to be lifted but had settled rather firmly in the crevice where her heart usually lay. She’d gotten up to try and convince Killian to come back to bed, come back to her, and somehow it had ended with them spitting fire at each other about Henry, and then — well. Then it had been marriage and children and missed opportunities and apparently a colossally poor level of communication between them that she hadn’t even realised existed.

 It’s exhausting to even think about. She feels emotionally drained, devoid of energy, and wants nothing more than to sink into the Nolans’ sofa and never emerge.

 As a gentle knock sounds at the door, she senses this is not to be the case.

 “Emma?” Mary Margaret pokes her head around the door, a tentative look on her face. When Emma merely grunts in response she slips inside, closing the door behind her with a gentle click. “I bring gifts,” she says, waving a mug topped with whipped cream in front of her as she comes to rest on the arm.

With great difficulty, Emma drags herself into a sitting position. “Is that cocoa?”

 “With cinnamon,” Mary Margaret promises, and Emma eagerly reaches for the cup. “And cream. I thought I’d push the boat out for this one.”

 “Please, don’t mention boats,” Emma grimaces, but thanks her friend fondly as she hands her the mug. Any kind of nautical reference is far beyond what she can handle right now. She takes her first sip and it’s warm, and heavenly. Mary Margaret had introduced her to the wonder of adding cinnamon to hot chocolate, but she’s yet to brew one that tastes even half as good as her friend’s.

 Taking delicate sips from her own mug, Mary Margaret allows her this — a few peaceful minutes of silence, letting her make the first move. She’d never met anybody who treated her quite as tenderly as her, except perhaps Killian. With a jolt of nausea threatening to rise, she lowers her mug. Something was made tender by Killian last night, but it feels more like battle scars than hot cocoa.

 “Do you want to talk?”

 Emma sighs. It’s not as if she thought she could avoid this conversation (turning up with red-rimmed eyes on your best friend’s doorstep at nearly three in the morning did somewhat merit an explanation), but she was at least hoping to get in a few more hours of sleep.

 “Not… really.”

 Mary Margaret turns from where she is perched on the arm, angling her body towards her. “I take it you and Killian had a fight?”

 Putting it mildly.

 “It wasn’t just a fight,” Emma says tiredly, “it was the armageddon of fights. You could have measured it on the Richter scale, I mean it.”

 Her friend’s expression twists with sympathy and Emma looks away, picking violently at loose threads on the blanket she’d been given. Even now, with her roots down and her life as settled as it’s ever been (the previous night notwithstanding) she isn’t comfortable with anyone, no matter how well intentioned, pitying her. It takes her right back to life in the system and teachers who were happy to condescend to her, but not to do anything about it.

 Unaware of her ire, Mary Margaret continues. “What was it about?”

 “Henry, me and him, just…” Emma waves an absent hand. “Everything.”

 “Henry’s still in New York then?”

 Emma nods. “And ever since he left — hell, before he left, with all that stuff with the yacht, Killian’s been totally… I don’t know, out of it. Not himself.” It feels good to tell someone, to hopefully find at least some validation in the way she’s been feeling; to have someone else recognise that things haven’t been right, Killian hasn’t been right, and it’s not all within her imagination. “And I tried to call him out on it and suddenly we were arguing about what terrible parents we’d make and the fact that we never got married.”

 Mary Margaret’s eyebrows jump to her hairline. “Wow.”

 Wow didn’t quite cover it, in Emma’s opinion.

 “Bit of a one-eighty, right?”

 Her friend hesitates for a moment, taking a small sip of her cocoa as she does so. “I’m not so sure.” At Emma’s surprised look, Mary Margaret’s gaze slips to her mug, as if trying to work out how best to put her thoughts into words. “Listen, I don’t know your relationship even half as well as you do, but it seems to me like… this is the first time you guys have ever really experienced each other without Henry.” She shrugs, a pensive rise in her shoulders. “The first time there isn’t a third variable to consider; it’s just the two of you. Maybe it’s just about finding a new rhythm.”

 Emma turns over this new assessment in her mind. She’s spent weeks roiling in doubt, watching Killian slip further into himself, and last night had felt like the final challenge — she hadn’t been enough to bring him out of it, she’d just become collateral damage. Mary Margaret was right, throughout their entire relationship Henry had always been there. They’d fought before, sure, but they’d always had Henry to think of, and they’d never wanted to make the boy feel the way he had when she and Neal had been together. They kept everything as open and honest as they could, and she knew Killian always tried to explain things to him when they disagreed.

 Their entire life together had been coloured by Henry. Wasn’t he their rhythm?

 “After ten years of the old one?” Emma let out a long, uncertain breath. “I don’t know If we can, I feel like last night proved that.”

 I just added it to the long list of things I was giving up because I wanted to be with you!

 “We wouldn’t even be together if it weren’t for Henry, I know that much.”

 Without Henry, her marriage to Neal would have just disintegrated with nothing to show for it but wasted time. Without Henry, Killian might never have entered her life. Without Henry, she might not have fought for her own little piece of happiness, she might never have recognised what she deserved.

 Could she still do it without him?

 “But if your relationship is so dependent on Henry…” Mary Margaret bites her lip. “I don’t want to say it, Emma.”

 She doesn’t need to. “Maybe we shouldn’t be together at all.”

 The mere notion of it takes the fight right out of her and she sinks back into the cushions. Her mind is abuzz with doubts and truths she refuses to acknowledge, and wordlessly her friend lifts the blanket and snuggles in beside her. Even in the midst of her heartache, her entire body warms as Mary Margaret wraps an arm around her shoulders and allows Emma to rest her head in the crook of her neck. She’s always been jagged edges to Mary Margaret’s softness, but maybe if she stays here long enough she can absorb some of her strength.

 “I love both of you,” Mary Margaret says gently, “but your happiness is the most important thing. However you find it.”

 I’m pregnant, she wants to tell her.

 Instead she curls in closer, and begs the sun to stop rising.

 -/-

 “You look exhausted, mate.”

 Killian rubs his eyes tiredly. “I didn’t sleep.”

 Barely half an hour after Killian had informed the Rabbit Hole WhatsApp chat that he wouldn’t be coming in today without providing any further information, Robin had arrived on his doorstep armed with coffee and a full monty breakfast from the café down the street in his arms. Given the café down the street didn’t usually do breakfasts to go, Killian had regarded his friend with amusement and allowed him inside. It felt good to have somebody else in the apartment — it made the walls seem closer, the space not as empty as it had been throughout the night.

 Currently, he sits only prodding at the meal hurriedly dumped onto a plate as Robin fusses around in his kitchen, filling two glasses with water before bringing them over. He had correctly deduced that coffee probably wouldn’t be conducive to productive brain function, not with how wired Killian already felt. Every time he shut his eyes he could see Emma, coat thrown over her dressing gown, the door clicking shut behind her. Sleep had been entirely unobtainable.

 “Sounds like a hell of a bust up,” Robin says with sympathy, handing him the glass.

 Dutifully, Killian takes a few large gulps. The liquid only gathers in his gut, churning, lending discomfort to his already turbulent, weary state. “It’s like I was floating above my body, you know?” he brushes his hair from his eyes, the strands greasy from being ruffled all night. God, he needs a shower. “I was watching myself saying these things that I didn’t mean and flinging them at her like — like somebody that isn’t me.”

 Robin drops down into an armchair, watching him carefully. “Have you called her?”

 His heart clenches.

 “She asked me not to.”

 “Well, you know women.” His friend’s mouth quirks upwards. “Whenever Regina tells me not to call her it’s only because she wants me to. Secretly, mind.”

 Not Emma. Emma doesn’t play games. “Believe me; she doesn’t want me to call.”

 The open hurt, the wide eyed-astonishment. The staggered look she sent him when she realised just what it was he’d said — all of it replays and replays unpleasantly like the scratch of a broken vinyl. Miserably, he stabs a rasher of bacon and shovels it in his mouth, not wanting to see the sympathy in Robin’s eyes. He doesn’t deserve it.

 “Couples fight, Killian,” he offers gently, “it happens.”

 He shakes his head miserably. “Not like this.”

 Either Robin concedes or he just has no idea how to respond, the effect of which being they sit in silence for a few comfortable minutes. They both just watch Killian push the food around his plate with his fork, the only sound the scrape of the utensil against china. Fuck, he can’t do a single thing right. Henry, Emma — somehow he’s managed to drive them both away, and he has no clue how to fix it. At least he knows where Henry is, still safe in New York with Neal, but Emma? He could hazard a guess at her going to Mary Margaret’s, but she could just as easily have found herself in August’s apartment. A hot flush of jealousy unlike anything he’s felt in years surges up without his consent. August has never been a threat, Emma had assured him of as much the first and only time he’d ever gotten silly over it, but at that moment his every irrational thought is crawling for sunlight.

 Gods, what is he doing now? Doubting her? What the bloody hell is wrong with him?

 “Maybe it’s because of Henry.”

 Wrapped up in his own thoughts, for a moment Killian had forgotten Robin was even there. At his bemused look, the other man shrugs and carries on.

 “You know, him not being here. Perhaps your relationship has been about him for so long, it’s struggling now that he’s gone.”

 Killian frowns. There’s some sound logic behind it, but it doesn’t sound right. It’s enough of an oddity to give him pause. “I don’t… I’m not really sure about that.”

 “Makes sense, doesn’t it?” his friend continues, exuding a nonchalance that, if Killian is honest, slightly winds him up. “The only reason Marian and I stayed together so long was because of Roland. By the end, my feelings for her were built entirely around our son, it just took me a while to realise it.”

 “But that’s different,” Killian insists, before he has a chance to even think it through.

 Robin’s eyebrows raise as he lifts his glass to his lips. “How?”

 “Because —” he falters, but the power of the words in his rebuttal surge forward regardless. “I love Emma. I fell in love with her for her, not Henry. Hell, she was married to my best friend. If I wanted something easy, some scapegoat for love, I wouldn’t have picked this.”

 “But if it’s this hard,” Robin presses, shrugging lightly, “maybe it just isn’t meant to be.”

 “I don’t believe that,” he says fiercely, sitting up straighter in his seat as he angles more towards his friend, agitation spurring his movements. “We should be together, Emma and I. All this — all this crap doesn’t change anything about how I feel.” In his distraction, one of his hands finds its way into his hair and runs through it, tugging sharply at the ends. “I love her. Her strength, her vulnerability — and I love her walls. I love being the one to break them down. It doesn’t matter that our journey has been slower than most, or more complicated than most, because we are always moving forward. We’ve fought for our love and we’ve won, and I am not giving up just because it got hard.”

 If he had been paying attention to Robin, sitting on the opposite armchair, he might have noticed the way the other man’s grin widened, his eyebrows climbing closer to his hairline the more Killian rambles on. Once he’s done, Robin drains the rest of his glass and drops it down onto the table, spreading his hands.

 “And you’re telling me this, because...?”

 His friend’s mischievous expression is the only confirmation Killian needs that he’s been goaded into something. Still, he’s not sure he cares.

 Robin helps himself to the remainder of his breakfast, while Killian practically falls over himself in his haste to get dressed and out the apartment.

 -/-

 After some persuading, Mary Margaret finally convinces her to eat something and even ushers her into some fresh clothes as the morning wears on. The frilly collared cardigans of Mary Margaret’s wardrobe aren’t exactly her style, but at least they fit — she’d left her flat in only a coat and her dressing gown, and although that worked reasonably well for her escape at two in the morning, she can’t imagine going back dressed the same way.

 God, going back. Emma doesn’t even know how to consider it.

 Unfortunately, with it being a Monday morning, Mary Margaret has a class to teach at Hopper’s Elementary and only has time to ensure Emma manages to force down a bagel before she regrettably departs, but David has the morning off and she is assured she can stay as long as she wants. The man seems to sense she isn’t in a particularly talkative mood, and keeps her company in silence after trading a few polite enquiries about Henry’s wellbeing — he’d been one of the first people they’d called when they discovered him missing, so it’s only natural he should be anxious to know the boy is okay. Grateful for the company, she answers his questions as best as she can without letting her heart seize too much.

 After a few hours of warm distractions, watching re-runs of Friends on the Nolan’s ancient television set, the buzzer for the apartment goes.

 David sends her a reassuring smile as he stands, heading over to the intercom.

 “Who is it?”

 “David?” Killian’s voice stutters to life over the static, and Emma’s chest tightens uncomfortably. “It’s Killian, sorry to disturb you. I was hoping — is, erm, is Emma there?”

 David looks to her apprehensively, ready to take his cues from her. She doesn’t want to talk to Killian, not with her conversation with Mary Margaret so fresh and with so little time to prepare herself. Still, it would feel worse to lie. Emma merely shrugs, helplessly, and David scratches the back of his head

 “She — uh, she doesn’t really want to talk right now, Killian,” he settles on, biting his lip.

 “That’s — that’s okay,” Killian continues hesitantly. “I mean, it’s fine. Would it be alright if I just — talked?”

 David turns to her again, but she doesn’t know what to tell him. She’s more than acquainted with how determined Killian can be when he wants to, and if she’s honest there are very few things she can think of that he can say that would be worse than the night before. It seems only mildly ludicrous to have their first interaction after the argument be over the intercom at David and Mary Margaret’s apartment, but she can’t help it — she can’t face him, not yet. Not when she is still trying to decide how she feels.

 “I’ll just talk and she can listen, or — or she can not, if she doesn’t want to, but I’ll be here, outside, just… talking.” After a moment’s hesitation, David locks the switch that keeps the line open. Taking that as some kind of affirmation, Killian clears his throat. “So, uh, here I go.”

 David, ever the considerate one, gives some weak excuse for re-arranging the shelves in his bedroom, but Emma’s arm shoots out to stop him. She could do with the support; she doesn’t want to listen to this alone in case she isn’t ready for what he wants to say. Without a word, David drops down onto the sofa beside her.

 “I, erm, I didn’t sleep,” the voice crackles through the speaker. “Not a wink after you left, I couldn’t. That’s not relevant. Ugh, I, um.” He lets out a sharp, frustrated sound. “Listen, a friend helped me realise — or, he reminded me, I don’t know — that a man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets. So maybe I deserve to lose you because I don’t know who I’ve been fighting for these last couple of weeks — because it hasn’t been you, and it hasn’t been Henry.”

 He pauses, and Emma listens intently. David links their fingers together.

 “I’ve been a damned fool, Emma, I’ve been a coward and I’ve let my demons get the better of me. It’s like you said — you said children need to make mistakes in order to find out what matters to them, but I’m prepared to argue that kind of self-education carries well into adult life. Because you matter to me, Emma. I love you. I have loved you since the first night you yelled at me and I love you all the more for continuing to do so when I’m being a prat. These past ten years have been the best of my life, and there isn’t a thing I would change.”

 Emma shakes her head fiercely, reaching her hand up to cover her eyes as she knows they must be watering. He did want things to be different, that’s what he said. Apparently, he’d spent ten years giving things up for her, compromising for her, and the idea that she’d been holding him back from some great happiness is perhaps what had shaken her the most. They were in this together, that’s what she’d thought. Killian doesn’t stop, however, uncertainly continuing to speak over the intercom, the tendrils of his voice clutching tight around her heart.

 “I know that, given my behaviour last night, you may believe me to be speaking in untruths, but I swear I’m not. Every single decision, every single moment has led us to where we are now and that place means everything to me. I’m not unhappy. I’m not unsatisfied, quite the opposite. And I’m sorry if I ever made you think otherwise.”

 The speaker crackles, a little bit of distortion as he collects himself.

 “I’ll never stop fighting for us. Never again. I — I hope you know that.”

 Silence, and David pulls Emma close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

 “So anyway, I guess, uh, feelings shared. You can go back to... Friends, I suppose, given it’s a Monday morning. Or maybe David and Mary Margaret don’t like Friends. I never asked. Bloody hell. I’m - I’ll go now. Just,” he sighs again into the speaker, “come home soon, my love.”

 She slowly disentangles herself from David, and reaches for her coat.

 -/-

 After lyrically vomiting into the intercom system, Killian doesn’t really know what to expect.

 He’d hoped, of course, for some kind of reaction or response, but he’s never been one to push for it where Emma is concerned. When it became evident that no answer would be forthcoming from the speaker, he had reluctantly stepped away; only becoming more embarrassed once he realised a man poking through his mailbox for a suspiciously long time had, in all likelihood, listened to the entire spiel. Face entirely aflame, Killian had departed the building out into the early Boston morning.

 It had rained the night before, the entire street awash with muddied concrete and the stench of wet asphalt, but Killian isn’t ready to go home yet. Point of fact, he’s just declared he won’t be giving up on he and Emma without a fight, so returning to his apartment would appear to nullify the entire notion. He thinks about stopping somewhere for a coffee, but after patting his jacket down he belatedly realises he didn’t bring his wallet out with him. After Robin’s needling he had been so fired up that he hadn’t exactly considered that Emma might not be ready yet for what he had to say. He only knew he was desperate to say it.

 For lack of a better idea, he sits down on the kerb.

 Considering his options, he waits, staring out into the city traffic and remembering the first time they met, the distrust to the chorus of car horns and loud, angry pedestrians in front of Henry’s old school. It’s only a few blocks from here, where Mary Margaret works. He muses on walking there and back just to clear his head a little, to observe how much of it might have changed in the last ten years, but just as he’s convinced himself it would be a good way to procrastinate, the door to the building opens behind him.

 His eyes lock with Emma’s, sparkling jade and bright with unshed tears, red-rimmed, and he immediately jumps to his feet. Uncertain of what to expect, he just waits for her to speak. When she does, it’s with a gentle tremble in her bottom lip, after she takes a shuddering breath.

 “I don’t want to stop fighting for us either.”

 When Killian steps forward to fold her tightly into his arms, she returns the embrace with equal vigour.

 -/-

 Luna Park boasted only a smattering of attendees, January not exactly a conducive time for regular theme-park goers, but the crowds were substantial enough to hide Neal and Henry from each other. They had spent over an hour amongst the rides, swapping only idle chatter and suggestions for what they should do next, a dead weight hanging over them like a cloud from the overcast day descending into the city. Neal knows what he has to say, Henry is waiting for him to say it. Their conversation at breakfast hovers between them, unresolved and deadly.

 It's a stark contrast to how the last few days have been — at least he thinks it is. Maybe all along they were aware there was an expiration date on easy.

 As the clock edges nearer to midday, Henry is leading his father through the crowd in the direction of the Ferris Wheel, boasting about how cool it would be to be sat on the top on exactly the stroke of twelve, but Neal catches hold of his hand and slows him to a stop. He suggests taking a break by the beach instead, and Henry reluctantly agrees; they both know what happens when they talk.

 It isn’t the same as that beach in Storybrooke.

 The breeze from the ocean stings with the sharp bite of winter, and the sand underfoot is far thinner and grainier than Maine had offered. Although almost deserted, the distant sounds of the park quietening behind them, a few gulls flock towards the edge of the coast, rising and falling with a flutter as the tide washes in, and out. It’s enough to bring back the memory of watching his boy ask for something he couldn’t provide, and it’s enough to spur him into action.

 Henry stares out into the ocean, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

 After a few moments they sit, uncaring for the way they disturb the sand.

 “I am glad you came to me when you needed somewhere to go,” Neal starts, and it’s as safe a place as any. “That after all this time you can still trust me.” Even if he doesn’t deserve it. “But I do want to know why — and I need to know why because I trust Killian and Emma to be your home, to take care of you, and if they aren’t doing that then I can change it. Just say the word Henry and I will change it.”

 Killian and Emma are twice the parents he will ever be, but if Henry breathes a word about not wanting to be with them — he would raise hell on earth to make it happen.

 “They’re fine,” Henry says quietly, to Neal’s surprise. The boy picks up a stick from the sand and begins to push patterns into it. “They’re great, they always have been.”

 Neal shakes his head, not understanding. “Then why did you come?”

 Henry mimics his uncertainty. “I wanted — I wanted to get to know you. You as a person, as Neal. Not this… this thing that towered over me for years.” Neal swallows, and Henry finally turns to look at him. His chestnut eyes are round and as open as they have ever been. “You terrify me, do you know that?”

 Whatever he had imagined Henry might say, it certainly wasn’t that.

 The beach, in Maine. The rush and fall of the waves. He can hear himself responding to that very fear as if it were yesterday, and not ten years prior.

 I’m sorry. Henry I’m sorry, I don’t want you to be scared. I’m an… I’m a massive idiot.

 “You had so much power over me for so long,” Henry continues, and Neal realises how much easier it is to stare out into the sea than to truly acknowledge what his boy is saying. “I would have done anything to impress you, I agreed with anything you said. I wanted you to like me. I wanted you to want to keep me.”

 Neal hangs his head.

 “I love Killian and Emma so much, but you? God, I can’t even explain it.”

 “I get it,” his father says quietly.

 Henry finally turns to look at him, his mouth curved in a doubtful line. “Do you?”

 “Henry, you could be describing verbatim how I talk about my old man.”

 That family fucking resemblance he’d always been hoping for; there it was.

 Neal knows how it feels to fight and fight when the other person isn’t fighting back. The realisation that he wasn’t, that he couldn’t, is what made him let Henry go in the first place.

 “Tink is pregnant.”

 Henry tenses up at his side. Neal’s gaze drops down to the sand, not realising he’d been curling her name into the earth with his finger. Fuck, he loves her. Like he’s never loved anyone. And this is how he’s treating her?

 “She hasn’t told me yet, not officially. But I found her test. It’s why I’m out here,” signing up for every conference and meeting on the other side of the country that he could, “I’m scared shitless, buddy.”

 Henry opens his mouth. “Dad—”

 “I fucked up so badly before — you know that, right?” He’s almost afraid to hear the answer. “That was all on me. I couldn’t be there for you growing up because I wasn’t ready, I made shitty choices. I was selfish. And do you know what the worst part is?” Mutely, Henry shakes his head. “I gave up on us.”

 The moment he’d realised just how tricky this balance was going to be, he’d given up. Maybe Henry had a better life because of it — he liked to think that. Of course, he’d never really know. Still, when he looks across at Henry now, a healthy boy with a heart the size of the entire state, it’s impossible not to recognise that something incredible has taken place.

 He feels the humiliating sting of something behind his nose, so he turns his gaze back to the skyline and the gulls that sweep across the tide.

 “And I missed the whole goddamn show. You’re perfect, Henry. You’ve never needed to impress me.” Neal tries valiantly to keep the tremor from his voice, but isn’t entirely certain he succeeds. “The fact that you’re sitting here, a whole person who can love and forgive as easily as you do blows my fucking mind, and it all happened without me.”

 Henry shifts from where he sits, sending a scatter of sand up into the air.

 “It wasn’t —” he starts.

 “Not again,” Neal continues firmly. Determinedly. “Never again. I’m going to be there for this kid and for Tink, every fucking step of the way. I’m ready now and I — I think I needed you to help me realise I could do it. Thank you, Henry.”

 When the silence stretches for a few, painful beats too long, he considers how he might have better phrased that particular confession. Once he looks over at Henry, the boy barely meets his eyes for a second before turning away, shaking his head as he roughly stumbles to his feet.

 “I have to go.”

 Neal blinks in surprise. “Henry?” He’s already halfway up the beach before he can stand. “Henry, wait!” Although he jogs back up to the entrance of the park, Henry’s signature scarf has already disappeared into the crowd.

 Shit.

 -/-

 "When was the first time I yelled at you?"

 Emma speaks quietly into his chest, although he can feel her smile in the curve of her mouth pressed against him. Killian edges the sheet further down the bed, baring Emma’s back so he can continue to trace absent star patterns into the slope of her spine. They speak only in low tones, neither wanting to disturb this bubble of peace they have finally won; warm, sated, and basking in the late morning sun.

 He smiles at her question, pausing before answering just long enough to press a kiss to the top of her head.

 “I’m surprised you don’t remember,” he says amusedly. “Let’s see. I came by to Neal’s apartment with Henry, we’d known each other for — oh, I don’t know. A few months, maybe more? I wanted to see if you could babysit because I’d been lumbered with an extra shift at work.”  

 “Oh god, right,” Emma shifts as she remembers, pressing her lips briefly to his bare shoulder. “It was the day Neal and I moved into our new place, and I was locked out.” She gives him an apologetic look. “I was such a monster to you, I’m sorry.”

 Killian chuckles gently. “You weren’t a monster.” Emma merely raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps a little monstrous. But I got a free cake out of it, so you won’t hear me complaining.”

 “A vanilla apology cake.”

 “My favourite kind.” Killian tugs her closer and she obliges, curling her leg over his beneath the sheet. “You looked so beautiful that night. Sitting in the Rabbit Hole with Henry asleep on your lap. You were just — I realised you were everything I hadn’t known I wanted. Until you drove away to the home of my best friend.”

 Instead of replying, Emma straightens up. Killian lets her go, hand drifting down her back to rest near her hip, and she bites her lip. Something she usually does when she’s uncertain. When her eyes flicker to his, he knows.

 “Killian.”

 Abruptly Killian stands, reaching for their discarded clothes.

 “That’s a tone that suggests I’ll need pants for this conversation.”

 She takes the shirt he holds out to her and slips it over her head. “I think if last night taught us anything… we’ve been misunderstanding each other for a while. So let’s just — talk. Communicate.” Killian re-joins her on the bed, pausing slightly to brush some of her loose hair behind her ear. It shines in the dusty sunlight. “That’s what healthy couples do, right?”

 “Definitely needed pants.”

 Emma laughs despite herself, but shoots him a look warning him to take this seriously. So he takes a deep breath, and after a few moments he decides to go first.

 “I… love the life that we’ve built together. What I said today — I meant it. But if it’s possible to have it all with you, I do want it.” Emma nods, urging him to continue as she brushes a hand down his arm. “I want to move out of the city. Get a house somewhere. A white picket fence, a stunning view of the sea — I want that. I want to marry you, have a kid of our own, maybe two if it's not too late. I love you, Emma,” he assures her, “but I want to share more than just this place and a bank account.”

 When he finally turns his gaze back to her, he can see the sad crease in her brow.

 “And you assumed I wouldn’t want those things too.”

 He hangs his head. “I’m sorry.”

 “You hurt me yesterday.”

 “I know,” he says quietly, reaching for her hand and bringing it to his mouth to kiss. “I’m so sorry. I was a fool, and I never should have kept these things to myself, let alone exploded at you. It was bad form.”

 Emma watches him before nodding, firmly. “Okay.” He turns her hand over to kiss her palm. “I forgive you.” It lands with gravity, and a tension he didn’t even know he had been harbouring releases itself. “My turn.”

 Killian moves to let go of her hand, but Emma holds on tightly.

 “Six years ago, I was pregnant.”

 Killian’s heart stops. “Love, you don’t have to —”

 “I was pregnant and I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know how you were going to react, I was trying to find the right moment…” Emma winces, shaking her head. “And I left it too late.”

 He wants to say something, anything, to find the right words to reassure her — but none will come. Instead he feels suspended, his pulse racing. They’ve never spoken about it out loud, not a single word. In moments he is back in the waiting room at the ER, confused and distressed and waiting for her to return, to tell him what happened, instead of letting him make inferences.

 Don’t make me go through this again.

 “We lost a child, Killian.”

 She grips his hand tighter, and he watches as a single tear curves its way down her cheek.

 "Our child."

 It isn't like he hadn't known. From the moment he lifted her from the bathroom floor he had known, somewhere in his restless heart, the truth she refused to confirm.  Knowing it, though, and feeling it; they had always been entirely separate entities.

 Henry had been ten. As emotionally mature as he had always been, it had still taken him a while to come to the same realisation that Killian had the moment he left the hospital; that Emma wasn't quite okay. When he'd started to pry, Killian had packed him off on a three week holiday to California with Neal, at little protest from both parties. By the time he'd gotten home he had forgotten the whole thing, and Emma was almost back to her old self.

 Killian hadn't allowed himself to consider, truly consider, just what had happened that day; in the months that followed Emma's accident he had forced himself to focus on her, on Henry, on his every effort to get their lives back to normal. Henry made it to school on time, Emma found herself spoiled by date nights, surprise gestures, anything to divert attention from the way she had withdrawn into herself. His iron focus had allowed him to leave his own grief behind and blame it on Emma's reluctance to talk.

 That had been a coward's way out, and on some level he had always known that.

 In his dreams, he did things differently. In his quieter moments, he had found himself down the dizzying path of considering the way things might have happened, if fate had been a little kinder.

 (In his heart, a little girl turned six last June.

 She had golden hair and eyes like forget-me-nots.)

 Emma's nails dig into his palm and he is wrenched back to the present.

 "I want you to understand something," she is saying, and he pulls himself back to focus on her words, "you can't predict these things. It was nothing you did, it was nothing I did. It wouldn't have helped if you'd known."

 Killian feels a gasp of air dart for escape through his throat; he thinks he might have been holding onto that breath for six years.

 Emma wipes her eyes with the sleeve of his borrowed shirt. "I'm sorry I never told you that.”

 Killian nods silently. When he doesn't speak, she slides across the bed to him, and his arm instinctively reaches around her shoulders. "Okay?" she presses.

 "Okay."

 "But most of all I — I am so sorry for never letting you grieve. For closing myself off, for letting it go unsaid." He would catch her staring out of windows, not responding until the third time he called her name. More often than not he found her curled up with a blanket on the sofa rather than in bed beside him, the distance between them substantially more than a couple of rooms apart. “We should have done this together.”

 “Aye,” he murmurs, and he kisses a tear from the corner of her mouth, “we should have.”

 They talk for a long time after that. For how long exactly, Killian couldn't say, he only watches as the sun slowly sinks to kiss the top of the Boston skyline, casting longer shadows across the bed. Their bed, their life. The life that had taken a decade to build, with a foundation far stronger than the demolition attempted the night before.

 “We’ve been doing this all wrong,” he whispers into her shoulder, as the afternoon fades into beams of orange light.

 Emma turns to him curiously. “What do you mean?”

 It’s with determination that he faces her now, with the fight that had left him the moment he awoke to find Henry’s untouched bed.

 “Let’s go get our son.”

 -/-

 It’s just gone 8pm by the time Emma’s beaten up bug has gotten them to New York, and Neal had been frantic as he opened the door to them.

 “He’s gone,” he had said, “he won’t answer his phone. I’ve already called the police.”

 Although her stomach had plummeted, her steadfast grasp on Killian had been all she needed to keep a level-head. If she paused for one second to consider the multitude of disastrous scenarios that could have happened to Henry after he left Neal on the beach she’s certain the sheer power of that tide would overwhelm her — perhaps the same could be said for Killian. Perhaps it was a testament to how far they had come over the last twenty-four hours that he immediately took charge, barking orders for Neal to check the public library one more time while he and Emma combed four blocks in every direction from his apartment.

 For all his absence over the last few weeks, his confidence is like a sedative to the swell of panic within her.

 She can’t stop thinking about the time the boy had vanished as they watched the Christmas lights turn on. Only that time Emma had miraculously found him happily perched on a hotdog stand, waving about his new light up sword and pretending to be King Arthur to the amusement of the vendor.

 (Enquiries were made at various stands she came across. None had seen a lanky brunette in his teens skulking about.)

 Her phone buzzes, and Emma reaches out a hand to give Killian pause as she checks, hoping it will be from Henry but certain it’s from Neal.

 Nothing at library. No1 seen a kid. Whats the plan??

 “He’s not there,” she winces. If possible, Killian’s expression turns even grimmer. “Now what? We’ve already checked all his old haunts.” Henry hadn’t lived in New York for many years, not since Neal had moved to California, so their best idea had been his favourite places to go when he was much younger.

 Killian rubs his face with one hand, and it’s that moment Emma realises how unbelievably tired he must be. His eyes are tinted red and rimmed with dark circles, and exhaustion has aged him beyond his years. Even his skin appears sallower than normal. Guilt claws at her when she considers he was probably up half the night much like she was, and she can’t help but feel responsible.

 Emma reaches for his hand, squeezes tight. “Maybe we should head back to Neal’s apartment. He’s bound to head back there eventually — and if his phone is dead then it’s better we’re there.”

 “If something unspeakable hasn’t happened to him already.”

 Unspeakable is certainly the word for it.

 “This is my fault,” Killian laments, “if I hadn’t been so bloody stubborn he could have been home days ago. I’m a sodding idiot.”

 “If you are then we all are,” Emma insists. “Henry is our responsibility.” Not just Killian’s, not just Neal’s. Theirs. “And we’d be better off just working as the team we should’ve always been instead of wasting time blaming ourselves and each other.”

 Somewhere along the way they had splintered, and the fractures had found their way to Henry — the very storm they had believed they were protecting him from had found its epicentre in their insecurities and their inability to communicate. The only thing left to do was make a course correction and continue to try their best. Realise their mistakes, move forward.

 Pray they aren’t too late.

 “I just wish we’d come here sooner. I wish I hadn’t driven him away to start with.” He sighs heavily, turns back the way they’ve come. “But you know what they say, if wishes were horses—”

 “Beggars wouldn’t bother making wishes?”

 Even as she says it, the lightning bolt of realisation crashes into her with a force that has her tugging back on Killian’s hand to stop him in his tracks.

 She knows exactly where Henry is.

 -/-

 Even at night, the plaza is packed with people. Tourists huddle together and alternate between staring up at the entrance to the library, lit with large floodlights that winked in and out for a display, and watching the fountain spurt behind them. Many stand at its edge, offering pennies into its depths for the opportunity to ask for something in return.

It’s no wonder Neal would have missed him as he charged into the building — he’d never really known Henry to be more interested in what the waters might offer than the curling pages of a beloved tome, but Emma remembered. At a time in the boy’s life when she hadn’t really known how much she could lay a claim to, this spot had been theirs. Fleeting, gentle, but full of hope.

 The three of them scan the crowd frantically — and it feels as if they all lay eyes on him at the exact same moment. Henry is perched on the edge of the fountain, hands gripping the stone on either side of him, body angled towards the water. An immense wave of relief rushes through Emma once she recognises him, and she considers how achingly long it feels since she saw him last. So much felt like it had changed even as she tried to claw her way into keeping it the same.

 Killian takes her hand; she knows he must sense it too.

 His lips part as they approach, a deep breath being drawn in. Yet it’s only a soft word that comes out. “Henry —”

 “What the hell were you thinking, running off like that?!” Neal brushes past them furiously, and Henry visibly starts at the sudden intrusion on wherever his mind had been wandering. It’s a staccato movement that pulls him right back in front of them. “I have been worried out of my mind for you! You could have been kidnapped, you could have died, anything could have—!"

 Neal cuts himself off for the sheer horror of it, and Henry takes the pause as an opportunity to bite.

 “You’d have noticed, then?”

 It’s light, but it’s a thinly veiled accusation. For a moment Emma considers that there is more to the past few days than Neal has told them.

 Neal, for his part, appears to stifle a retort. His hands clench and unclench at his sides.

 He settles for a warning. “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”

 Henry lets out a puff of air, a frustrated noise, his body angling away from his father in a visible snub. As his eyes start to sweep the crowd Emma can feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention, as the boy’s gaze lands on she and Killian. If he is surprised he does a good job of hiding it. It lasts scarcely a second, his eyes flickering first from her to Killian, before turning determinedly back into the fountain.

 Killian, after squeezing her hand once, lets go.

 He closes the distance and sits beside the boy.

 Henry flinches away, shuffling an inch in the other direction.

 “Please, just leave me alone.”

 “I want to talk.” Killian’s response is quiet, but firm.

 “I don’t.”

 “Henry…” Neal admonishes from his position at the side, and Emma finds herself frowning at the tone — since when did Neal become that parent? The one advocating respect and chastising for the contrary?

 It doesn’t feel — earnt.

 Maybe she is being unfair.

 Henry looks up at him sharply, eyes narrowed. “You don’t get a say in what I do.”

 Neal gapes for a few moments, before his expression sinks into something apologetic he directs at Killian — Killian acknowledges the attempt with a barely perceptible nod, but his attention is entirely on Henry.

 “I’m sorry.” In the piercing January air, his words turn to ghosts. “For the things I said before. They were spoken in anger and not a day will go by I won’t regret them.” For all his sincerity, Henry continues to stare forcefully into the water. Emma had always found Killian impossible to ignore, not when he was light and soft and steady, but the boy doesn’t appear to have much trouble doing just that.

 “Will you look at me, please? Henry?”

 She watches Henry not even react, lashes low and downcast; watches the concerned edge begin to furrow Killian’s brow, his confidence rapidly deteriorating, and she’s about to step in when suddenly all she can think about are the gimmicks they would use when Henry was a kid. How one time he refused to listen to any instruction from either parental figure unless it was spoken like Yoda, how they’d adopted it into their every conversation until Henry frustratingly couldn’t get any help with his homework without talking in circles and he’d begged them to stop. How they had begun starting every sentence with ‘please’ and ending them with ‘thank you’ to freak Neal out by pretending new Massachusetts state grammar laws demanded it.

 Emma considers these, and reaches into her jacket for her cell phone.  

 Moments later, Henry’s pocket begins to vibrate. Once he pulls out his cell and frowns at the screen, his shoulders twitch, as if he were resisting the urge to turn and face her. After a few pensive seconds he slides his thumb across the screen and lifts it to his ear.

 “It’s the glass, isn’t it?” she says immediately.

 Henry’s pause is dubious. “Excuse me?”

 “The partition,” she continues, “the reason you’re not hearing us. We have to use the phones or we can’t talk through the glass.”

 The boy’s shoulders drop and she hears a long exhale through the speaker, like a breath of laughter. He understands.

 “I’m not in prison, Emma.”

 “You got arrested, didn’t you?”

 “And you think I’d waste my phone call on you?”

 Emma smiles although she knows he’s not looking. “Wentworth Miller was busy.” She doesn’t want to lose this brief bite of connection, so she hurries to continue. “I used to bring you out here when we were in NYC together, remember? I’d tell you to wish your problems away.”

 Finally, Henry turns. His gaze lifts and his eyes lock on her. He’s hurting. She can see it. Can feel it in her bones.

 “Yeah.”

 “Did it work?”

 Henry lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t have a penny.”

 Without a word, Killian rummages in his pocket and finds one, holding it out to him. After a moment, and watching only his outstretched hand, Henry takes it.

 “Talk to us,” Emma pleads.

 The seconds extend like an unfurling bloom; slow, and heavy with anticipation.

 Then, by some miracle, he begins to talk.

 “It was so easy before. Making wishes, I mean. I know you probably thought I was wishing for a new bike or a trip to Disneyland or… I don’t know. Stuff kids want.” Like raindrops, what begins as a few drops slowly develops into a downpour, as he turns the penny over and over in his hand and keeps his gaze firmly fixed upon the water. “And don’t get me wrong, I wanted those things. But I didn’t wish for them.”

 Emma doesn’t want to interject, but she had never felt as if he were wishing for something as trivial as a bike. Not when he had held those pennies in his tiny hands like they were precious stones, as if he carried more value in his palm than a thousand gold bars. Henry had always been wishing for something more profound — she had known it like she knew the curve of his smile.

 “Wishes were too — too important for those things. So I did what I’ve always done,” Henry scratched the back of his neck as he paused. “I listened to you. All of you. None of you ever stood by the fountain like I did, and it didn’t seem fair, so I listened to your wishes so that I could make them for you.”

 He hadn’t understood half of them at the time, he says, but he lists a few — for Neal to close an important deal, for Killian to find the perfect birthday present for Liam, for Emma to catch the ‘bad guy’ she was looking for. Emma watches, stunned, as he lists the exact conditions of a case she had decided to gently let Henry in on that she had forgotten completely about; it was near on seven years ago that she had sought out the bail jumper Ryan Marlow, but here Henry was pitching her the particulars in perfect detail. Henry, who had been wishing ardently for her success at age nine, with a penny she had picked out of her purse.

 “Happy endings,” he says quietly, “over, and over, and over. I was obsessed with them.”

 A beloved tome, the curling pages of Once Upon a Time clutched tightly to his chest for years.

 He doesn’t have to remind them.

 “But to me, a real happy ending needed certain… well, conventions, I suppose. A wedding, a kid, a perfect home in a castle in the country.”

 Killian’s words ring in her mind, and as if he knows the direction of her thoughts the man’s eyes rise to meet hers, and she notes the usual brilliant blue has been usurped by a duller, ashen colour. She feels the same tight clutch inside she knows he must, a softer yearning, the paralysis of something sweet and sad all at once.

 A white picket fence, a stunning view of the sea.

 How alike the pair of them are, even now.

 Henry’s brows have knitted together. “I’m not a kid anymore, I know — better than anyone — that the world doesn’t work that way. But in a way, none of you got any that. Hell, you and Killian have been together for a decade and you still live in Killian’s bachelor pad. And then I realised the common denominator.” His shoulders appear to quiver, and Emma notices a muscle in Killian’s right wrist twitch, as if it had wanted to reach out to him. She herself wants nothing more than to rush forward, wipe the concerns away from him as if he were six again and had merely scraped his knee. “You’ve spent so much of your lives putting me first that the most you hoped to wish for was less traffic at the intersection on 23rd Street. And that just — it just —”

 He is mute for a moment, words slipping out and away before he can form them, and Emma realises with a jolt that what she had mistaken for a kind of melancholy was in fact fury. Henry trembled with minute rage; at the penny in his hand, the fountain in front, at the stars concealed by the dark curtain of night above them.

 “God, it was so frustrating to realise. Mortifying, even. And every good thing you did just made it worse. Every kind word, every thoughtful gesture.” He lets out a heavy breath. “It was like drowning in lukewarm water.”

 So he stayed out late with some friends. He walked the length of the wharf, twice, before picking the prettiest, sturdiest yacht he could find and barking instructions for how to get it out of the harbour for those who dared to follow. For the wild, outrageous, cleverness of it. For the joy and the heartache of nostalgia and the wind in his hair and the way Violet Mogan’s cheeks had flushed when she laughed.

 For the way that Killian had arrived at the precinct, powerful yet immensely disappointed.

 Got everything? He had asked, quietly. Let’s go.

 “I just thought if I could get you to stop looking at me like I hang the sun, then it might not be too late for you to build something together. Not a castle, maybe, but something just as strong. And I have Dad,” he flickered his gaze at the other man, before dropping it back bitterly to the penny in his palm. “Or I thought I had Dad. Turns out my wish for him was the only one that came true.”

 It’s a quill, Daddy says it’s magic. It’s for telling stories. He says I have to write him a happy ending.

 “Just a little too late for me.”

 There is the chime of nail on copper, and in the space of two heartbeats the penny arcs into the fountain with a gentle plop.

 No one seems to know what to say.

 Henry drops the phone from his ear and jabs at it with his thumb, cutting off the call with Emma. She had forgotten they were still connected that way at all, how rapt her attention had been on him.

 And all she can think is — what an idiot.

 She realises she must have said it aloud as all three of the men before her startle; Henry from his perch on the fountain, Killian from beside him and Neal standing a few feet from them.

 Hastening to clarify before more hurt feelings are thrown around, she doubles down.

 “I just mean — Henry, your logic is way off. We’re your parents.” All three, no matter how distant. “We are always going to look at you like you put the sun there, even when you’re at your most bratty. That’s love, kid. We love you.” It was easy to say, now, easier to admit than it had been for most of her life. But then, this was the boy who had taught her how to do it. “Nothing you can do will change that, not boat stealing or,” she scrambles for something else, “or even hanging out with that little shit Malcolm.”

 “Language,” Henry responds instinctively. At Emma’s exasperated stare a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. They thought they had been losing Henry — in that instance she realises he had been there all along. “He is a bit of an asshole.”

 Emma crosses the distance between them, kneeling down in front of the boy and taking his hand firmly. Perhaps on another day he would’ve been embarrassed, a sixteen-year-old holding hands with an adult like that, but in the force of the last few days he just clutches her back tightly.

 “But you’re right,” Emma continues seriously. She won’t do him the disingenuity of trying to claim a falsehood now. “There are steps Killian and I haven’t taken. Important ones. As it happens, we’ve been misunderstanding each other for a long time now.” With her free hand, she reaches for Killian, finding his fingertips already reaching back for her. “But that’s nothing to do with you. Do you get that?”

 Henry nods, but the movement is hesitant.

 “I mean it, kid. Look at me. Do you understand?”

 He does. A visible weight seems to lift. Maybe he just needed someone to say it out loud.

 To her surprise, Neal settles down on his haunches beside her, gentle in a way she is unaccustomed to seeing from him. Like he can sense the gravity of a moment and he doesn’t wish to disturb it — like a beach in Maine, and a little boy who had asked so quietly for what he wanted that his father had given it without reproach.

 Turns out my wish for him was the only one that came true.

 “Henry,” he picks up where Emma has left off, “I’m — you clearly needed someone this week, and all you got was this giant… playmate.” He considers himself with an air of obvious frustration. “And then I made it worse. You’ve never needed to try hard for me, you know that, right? You’re number one.” He lifts a single finger to illustrate it. “You’re number one. And about earlier…”

 Emma does not know what happened earlier, Neal had been light with the details; just that they had been at Luna Park and Henry had run off. Whatever it was, the weight is palpable as Henry stiffens a little before her.

 “You left before I could finish. Yeah, I’m going to be a dad again, but you know what that means? You’re going to be a brother.”

 Henry blinks; like he hadn’t even considered it.

 “And that was something I was really hoping you’d want to be.”

 Neal bites his lip, waiting for his son’s reaction.

 He needn’t have worried. Henry was warmth, and love, and he always would be.

 “I do,” he said, then softer, “I’m sorry.”

 “Me too,” Neal smiled ruefully. “I always am with you.”

 The air bristles with something unsaid, and Emma stands. Maybe Neal also senses it because he too moves away, and as casually as she can she looks to Killian now for his thoughts. Silent as he had been throughout the exchange, his mood is difficult to read; Emma can identify some of the reactions she had seen, remorse, sadness, pride, and she leans on the turmoil she knew had been churning inside him since the first moment they had found Henry gone. But he has fortified, this she knows. He just wants to put them all back together.

 Henry, perhaps in contrition, almost refuses to look at him.

 If Killian takes offence he doesn’t show it. Instead he smiles, a watery, delicate thing.

 “You’re my best friend in the whole world, bug,” he says. “I’m half a man without you.”

 Henry’s eyes shut tight and for the first time, Emma can see a bead of emotion roll down his cheek.

 “Please come home.”

 It happened so quickly that she almost didn’t see it; but the next moment Henry was in Killian’s arms, shaking and murmuring apologies into his shoulder. The older man was shushing him as if we were a child again, assuring him all was forgotten, and his relief was palpable in the manner with which his fists clenched into Henry’s coat and the tightness of his eyes pressed closed, supressing a stronger tide.

 Emma looks down, the moment almost feeling too private to intrude upon, and Neal does the same. Unconsciously her hand lifts to her stomach, to the barely perceptible swell that has begun there; she has to tell him, but not now. She wanted to let him have this first. He deserved it

 “What I said,” Henry croaks, and from the corner of her eye she can see he has pulled back, has his hands resting on Killian’s shoulders and is looking at him directly. “What I said before I left —”

 You are not my dad!

 “You are,” he nods determinedly, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. “In every way that matters. You are. I’m sorry.”

 Killian simply pulls him back in, closer, and the night feels just a little bit brighter.

 -/-

 A rerun of Jurassic Park is the only thing on the TV by the time they make it back to Neal’s apartment, most of the selection near midnight having dried up considerably as most prepare for bed before work the following day. Arrangements are made, and rather than attempt the near four hour drive back to Boston tonight Killian and Emma had volunteered to take the sofa while Henry spends a final night in his old room. However, the unspoken word among them is that none are quite ready for sleep yet, and had switched on the television for wont of something easier to focus on — something light, something arbitrary — something with a few more scales than the monsters they had been battling away today.

 Killian sits with his arm around Emma, Henry on her other side leaning against her and slumped across the remainder of the sofa with his gangly legs stretching for the arm of Neal’s chair, where his father has been poking at the holes in socks much to the boy’s exasperation.

 “Honestly. You know you don’t have to wait for Killian to buy you socks anymore, right? If you go to a store they’ll actually give you some in exchange for those green wrinkly notes.”

 Henry snorts. “I don’t have any ‘green wrinkly notes’. When did you think I’d have time to get myself a job in between all my community service?”

 “Nice try,” Emma says, “it was only twenty-five hours, and the last I checked you were nearly done.”

 “Only twenty-five hours? Did you pay off the judge or was this just a really shitty yacht?”

 “Can we not debate the particulars, please?” Killian admonishes. “I’m trying to watch the folly of man and a twenty-foot lizard tear devour a bloke on a bog.”

 A brief pause where, suitably chastened, they realise it’s probably not appropriate to be making so light of the whole thing.

 “And it was a Pershing 80 he stole, anyway. Even a used one would go for over two million dollars.”

 At the indignant looks and protests from the others, Killian merely grins and shrugs, holding up a hand to shield his face as Henry flings a cushion over his shoulder in his direction. Emma declares that she’s going to the kitchen for more popcorn, and just as Neal asks her to get him a portion his phone rings. Killian catches a glimpse of the screen before he picks it up.

 ‘Tink calling…’

 He offers an apologetic smile to the pair of them as he heads out into the hallway, his voice briefly floating back towards them even as they try and pretend their ears aren’t pointed towards the sound.

 “Hey, baby. Yeah, I’ll be home soon — tomorrow, even. First flight I can get. It’s been a bit of a crazy week. For you too? That’s great. I can’t wait to…”

 It trails off into a low murmur as he shuts the door behind him.

 Killian watches Henry carefully for his reaction. The news that Tink was pregnant had come as a shock to all of them, not least to Killian, but it had clearly had a profound impact on Henry as it had only contributed further to his spiral. He seemed calmer now. A small smile had pulled at the corner of his mouth as he watched his father retreat into the other room, something proud and full of warmth. Maybe Killian can relate to some of what he must be feeling.

 They had all waited a long time for Neal Cassidy to grow up, Henry most of all; maybe they were finally seeing it happen.

 Henry turned back to the film, and Killian tossed the cushion back onto the boy’s stomach to get his attention.

 “So,” he starts brightly, to the backdrop of little Tim’s daring rescue from the jeep trapped in the tree. “What’s her name?”

 Henry pretends not to understand, but Killian knows he does. It’s something of a relief. He can still read this boy like the book of fairy-tales he used to tote around in his oversized backpack.

 “Who’s name?”

 Killian raises his eyebrows suggestively.

 “Well if it’s dating tips you need, lad, I know my way around women.”

 “Oh god.”

 “Not so long ago I was just like you, young, spritely, ready for my first brush with a lady’s—”

 “Stop, do not finish that sentence.”

 “Charms,” Killian concludes, feigning an aghast look at what Henry might have presumed. This earns him another cushion to the face.

 It’s such a relief, to be able to needle Henry in such a way, back to the easy companionship he had enjoyed for most of the boy’s life — but it feels different, too. Not exactly negative, he decides, but a change has certainly come about. Perhaps they could never make it through something like this entirely unscathed, but he realises as the moment passes by that there will be some things Henry will choose not to confide in him. An odd notion. There had never been anything Henry couldn’t tell him before.

 But to his surprise, he felt that that would be okay. He was growing up, and it was about time Killian realised it. He couldn’t cart him around on the back of his bike to a museum anymore, but they could find their peace in other ways; like he and Emma, their rhythm would change but it could grow and blossom into something even better if he just let it. For the first time he is almost looking forward to what the next stage of Henry’s life might bring them, instead of longing for the treasures the past had held.

 “Violet.”

 Killian glances over in surprise, observes that Henry’s ears are scarlet as he keeps his gaze fixed on the television screen.

 “Her name, I mean. Violet.”

 Killian smiles, although Henry can’t see it.

 Maybe he’ll get to keep the little boy by the sea just a short while longer.

 Deciding not to put Henry through any further embarrassment, Killian stands. “That’s a lovely name,” he tells him, and leaves the door open for him to talk about it any time he wishes. “And I’m sure she thought your Grand Theft Marina was very impressive, if nothing else. I’m going to go see about that popcorn.”

 He leaves Henry in the sitting room, passing Neal quietly in the hall before crossing into the kitchen. Emma is there, watching the microwave humming as whatever is inside rotates slowly. She turns to watch him as he enters. Dropping a quick kiss to her temple, he reaches past her for a couple of glasses and a bottle of wine from the cabinet. Neal’s taste for wine had grown over the last ten years, but he had still never quite acquired a taste for Sauvignon Blanc the way that Emma had — those he kept around for her, for special occasions, and Killian quite felt this merited a glass or two.

 Pouring three glasses, two for himself and Neal, and just as he was about to pour the third Emma blurts out to stop him —

 “I’m pregnant.”

 Killian freezes. The microwave pings its conclusion loudly into the kitchen.

 “So, uh, no wine, I mean. None for me. I’ll just, um, I’ll have juice. Or whatever Henry’s having. Do you think Neal has coke? I’ll just go ask—”

 “Wait just a —” Killian blinks, “you’re —?”

 She nods, biting her lip.

 “I figured I’d be better off not waiting for the perfect moment anymore and just… picked the next one.”

 Killian can’t wrap his mind around it. She’s pregnant. The thought spins back and forth around his head, ricocheting heavily and sending him spinning. For a moment he almost imagines the room swimming out of focus, Emma standing uncertainly by the microwave looking to him for his response — for his approval or, if the way doubt flickers across her expression, possibly his rejection. Through every dizzying sensation its that which pierces through, and before he can even consider his own feelings properly he is in front of her, dazed, kneeling and pressing a kiss to her stomach.

 Elated, he decides.

 Elated is how he feels.

 It’s almost impossible to comprehend. Unbridled joy bursts forth inside him and he is invincible — Henry in the next room, howling with laughter at something Neal had said, Neal, growth and hope, and Emma. The only woman he would ever wish to bear his child, forgiving him, cherishing him, giving him the only life he had ever wanted, and more life beyond.

 Emma’s fingers tangle in his hair as he kneels before her and he thinks he is trembling, breathing deeply as a few tears roll down his cheek. He doesn’t even think to be embarrassed, it’s been such a long, long road to get here. Her fingers squeeze and he looks up, as always awed by her and her strength. Through everything that had happened over the last few days, she had been carrying this knowledge with her with a steadfastness and fidelity to her own spirit — even when he was at his worst, she had not let him deter her when she had far greater things to be frightened of.

 She’s crying too, he can see that. And as if she can read his thoughts, she murmurs, “I’m scared.”

 Killian shakes his head. “I’m not.”

 He stands, brings her hands to his mouth and kisses each one delicately.

 This, he has to make sure she knows.

 “I know we face an uncertain future, but there is one thing I want you to be certain of.” A press of his lips to hers and he is unconquerable. “I will always be by your side.”

 She breathes out, deeply. “So — you’re happy?”

 “Irreparably.”

 At this she laughs, and his heart still melts at the sound. He tugs her in for a strong hug, lifting her off the ground and her joy is as palpable as his own. She peppers kisses across his jaw and he whispers that he loves her, and his reward is a smile the breadth of the sun. They hear Henry from the next room calling them in for his favourite part, the ascent over the electric fence, and he sets her back down. After reaching past him for the rapidly cooling popcorn, Emma gives him a final wink over her shoulder and departs back to the sitting room.

 Pregnant.

 He wants to dance on the countertop and yell until his throat is hoarse and run a thousand miles just for the thrill of it.

 As he follows, the scene in the sitting room makes his bubble of happiness only swell; Henry catching popcorn in his mouth with the same enthusiasm as cherries thrown across the bar in the Rabbit Hole, Neal acting as pitcher with the bowl of popcorn and Emma choosing opportunities to intercept. There is something decidedly special about it.

 There needn’t be castles, or weddings, or meadows upon meadows of wildflowers. Nor swords, magic, dwarves or palaces made of glass. No, Killian decides, none of those ornaments or flourishes are needed — happy endings are far from how they appeared in Henry’s storybooks. He has his own suspicions now about how they present themselves.

 In unremarkable, fugacious moments. In the gentle shapes of people who love, are loved, and continue to be brave.

 Happy endings, the real ones, look a lot more like that.