#I guess when you consider his method of dealing with a haunting is to ignore it and hope it just goes away

[preparetobemildlyentertained]

reading summer sons and going absolutely fucking INSANE over the levels of repression this one man contains

[taexual]

i’d love you to stay but that’s simply insane // JJK (7)

  jungkook is an uncontrollable lead vocalist of the campus band, and you’re a goal-oriented top student that’s known his rich and complicated family since childhood. you don’t want anything to do with each other, until each other is exactly what you want to do.

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader

genre: college au

warnings: angst + some cute bonding

words: 5.3k

    chapter seven

You returned home to your parents that weekend, always grateful that they lived only an hour from campus. It was always nice to go home – especially when your thoughts were in chaos – but with your return here, you were also reminded of the issues that made you glad you’d moved out in the first place.

Despite returning home on Friday night, you only saw both of your parents at the same time for Sunday night dinner – right before you went back to your dorm – because they were the sort of people who didn’t know how to quit working. You often felt like you’d inherited their drive but you prided yourself in firmly believing that if your kids visited you from college for the first time in the whole semester, then, unlike your parents, you’d take the weekend off and give them your undivided attention.

You felt like this was where you differed from them most – they rarely prioritized relationships over achievements – but, in the middle of dinner, you found out that the concerned look on your mother’s face – that appeared there after a phone call she’d gotten right before sitting down by the table –  wasn’t caused by a business deal going wrong but, rather, by her best friend.

“She said that Jungkook didn’t show up for dinner,” your mother said, chewing very thoughtfully. “They’re all going out of their minds.

This wasn’t the first time that your mother mentioned Jungkook’s name over dinner, but she used to be more careful about it before. However, now that Jungkook’s mother informed her that you’d visited him at the hospital, your mother was convinced that you and him have reconnected – if only she knew... – so she felt much more comfortable bringing him up.

“Why?” you asked. “It’s not the first time he’s done that, I’m sure.”

“Well, no, but ever since he got into that accident,” your mother paused as she said this, looking at you pointedly – she was mad you hadn’t told her you visited him – and then carried on, “he made a deal with his parents to show up for dinner every Sunday night. And he missed this one.”

“Well,” you said nonchalantly, even though, admittedly, the look in his eyes when you’d last seen him haunted your memory, “it was bound to happen sooner or later. You know what he’s like.”

“They were really worried,” your mother continued and, slowly, it started to seem like she was subtly asking you for something.

“They shouldn’t be,” you said, choosing to ignore her pleading eyes instead of outright questioning what she expected you to do about this. You had a feeling you knew what her answer was going to be. “I don’t doubt that he’s fine.”

Your father cleared his throat suddenly. “Do you know where he is?”

You looked at him in confusion. “No. How would—”

“Well, then you can’t not doubt that he’s fine,” he stated. Sometimes he was just as frustratingly un-father-like as Jungkook’s father was. “Something could have happened to him.”

You looked down to your plate, considering your options. You could attempt to turn back the time and never come home this weekend. Or you could do what your parents clearly wanted you to do and try to find Jungkook even if it meant stepping over your pride by reaching out to him first.

Hesitantly, you lifted your eyes to meet your mother’s hopeful gaze. “Do you want me to call him?”

“Would you, dear?” she asked but she was really telling you to just do it, please.

“Of course,” you said and excused yourself from the table.

You had to take a few obligatory deep breaths in your bedroom before you could pick up your phone. In all honesty, you’d have rather climbed out of the window and returned to campus on foot – surely you’d make it in time for your classes on Monday – but you knew you’d never forgive yourself if he actually got himself into some more trouble and you stayed away, too prideful to check on him.

Unfortunately – or, perhaps, fortunately; you were yet to decide – Jungkook didn’t pick up your call. Not the first, not the second, and not even the fourth one. His phone was turned on, though, so it was almost like he was ignoring you on purpose, and you started to think that this may have been his way of getting revenge after you ignoring his calls a few days ago.

He hadn’t given up when you refused to answer, though, and showed up at your dorm – a lot of good that did for you two – so you felt like you somehow owed him to keep trying, too. This frustrated you, however. You weren’t even calling to apologize – although it was possible that he thought you were and that was why he wasn’t answering – you just needed to let his parents know that he was alive since, clearly, he didn’t care enough to do so himself.

Sighing, you tried to come up with a different way to reach Jungkook and then remembered that Inna had mentioned she’d gotten Yoongi’s phone number at Parental Advisory’s last party. Thinking that this was worth a shot, you texted your roommate, asking her help.

True to her nature, Inna inquired why you needed Yoongi’s number before she sent it, but she agreed to wait until you got back to the dorm to hear your explanation.

Realizing that this may have been bordering on stalker behavior, you dialed the number of Jungkook’s bandmate and prepared to get laughed at because he was probably just passed out drunk like any other weekend.

“Yes,” Yoongi said when he picked up your call, his voice oddly high-pitched. “It’s me.”

Confused by his unusual method of answering the phone, you double-checked the screen to make sure you were really connected and this wasn’t his voicemail, before you stuttered awkwardly, “hi, I’m Jungkook’s friend. I was—”

“Jungkook’s friend!” he repeated excitedly. He did not sound sober. “So good to hear from you.”

You sincerely doubted he knew who you were, but you had no time to get into that.

“Yes, well, do you know where he is right now?” you asked.

“He is present,” Yoongi said and then elaborated after a moment, “he is here.”

“Here?” you couldn’t understand. “As in, home? At your house?”

“We’re having a jam session,” he laughed, his mind elsewhere now. “Well, we were having a jam session. Now we’re having a smoke session.”

“A smok—are you high?” you asked, standing up from your bed. “Is Jungkook—”

“He is present!” Yoongi repeated, so excited to help. You wondered what was it that they were smoking that got him so disoriented and cheerful. “Are you really his friend?”

The question took you off-guard. You didn’t know how to explain your relationship with Jungkook to a sober person, so even trying to explain it to someone who was so very obviously high seemed impossible.

“Yes,” you ended up saying. “Could I talk to him?”

“I don’t see why not,” Yoongi said.

“Okay,” you said.

“Okay,” he repeated.

You waited for Yoongi to pass the phone but the silence on the other end didn’t seem to end. You had a feeling he didn’t understand what you had asked him to do.

“Yoongi?” you tried.

“Yes,” he said right away. “It’s me.”

You could have strangled him in that moment. “Could you please put Jungkook on the phone?”

“No, I can’t do that,” he said.

You groaned. “Why not?”

“He left.”

“He left?” you repeated, exasperated. “Where did he go?”

He didn’t reply again. In his defense, he shrugged – it’s not his fault you couldn’t see him.

“Yoongi?” you said again.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s—”

“Where did Jungkook go?” you repeated quickly before he could give you the break-down of who you were talking to one more time.

“I don’t know,” he said with a sigh. “I’m tired. I’m going to get some food. Do you want some?”

“I—Yoongi, hey, listen,” you continued even though this was clearly an uphill battle. “I need you to find him.”

“Find him?” Yoongi repeated, seemingly puzzled by this task you’d given him.

“Yes,” you said and slowly spelled it out for him, “find him, okay? Find. Jungkook.”

“Yes,” he said. “That would be nice. He has the bong.”

“Okay, yes. Find the bong.”

“The bong!” he screeched and you heard excited shrieks follow in the background of the call. You couldn’t even begin to guess how many people were there. “Oh, the bong is right here. Funny.”

He giggled for the next half a minute, not letting you interrupt. Your sanity was hanging on the edge of a cliff.

“Yoongi,” you tried, only for him to wheeze and start giggling again. “Yoongi, so is Jungkook there, too?”

“No,” he replied through laughter. “But the bong is!”

Everyone cheered on his end once again.

That was your breaking point.

“Nevermind,” you said. “Stay safe, okay?”

You didn’t wait for him to reply – or, God forbid, start giggling again – before you hung up the call and left your bedroom in a huff.

Your mother was the first one to notice that you’d left your room but she closed her mouth right after opening it when she saw your frustrated expression.

“Is everything okay?” your father asked since your mother was struggling with words.

“I’m going back home,” you announced, grabbing your sneakers from the hallway and sitting down on the floor to put them on. You looked up to see your parents exchange a confused glance. “Will one of you drive me?”

“Of course,” your mother finally spoke. “B-but did you get a hold of—”

“No, but I know where he is,” you said, your irritation evident in your voice, “I’ll go over there and drag his—tell him to call his parents.”

Your mother looked at your father one more time after your near slip-up – you never swore or used any language that was even remotely foul around your parents – and was about to suggest you stayed home instead, but when she turned back around, you were already putting your coat on.

“Perhaps it’s enough for them to know that he’s okay,” your mother said, careful now. Suddenly, she seemed to have no trouble remembering how big of an impact Jungkook used to have on your emotions when you were still friends – the smallest argument with him would have you slamming doors – and, more importantly, what an emotional mess you’d become when he decided to stop being friends. “You don’t have to look for him.”

“I don’t know if he’s okay,” you said, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. Your mother looked even more worried when you looked at her again. “I mean, he probably is, but just to make sure—”

“Are you okay?” she asked. She had these caring moments sometimes – well, to be fair, she’d never forgotten to check on you when she could tell that you were suffering, she was just usually more of the cold-and-calculated type – and they always took you by surprise.

“I’m—no, yeah, I’m fine,” you told her. “I just—well, I haven’t seen him this whole week and the last time we spoke, we didn’t part on good terms. He had this look in his eye that was, I don’t know—I get that it sounds stupid but he just looked like—”

Your mother extended her hand, placing it on your arm in a comforting manner.

“Let’s go,” she said, accepting your concern as valid even if it was caused by something as trivial as ‘a look in his eyes’ that you couldn’t properly articulate. “You can check on him and then call me, so I can update his mom.”

You felt a little awkward saying goodbye to your mother when she let you out in front of your dormitory several hours earlier than she was supposed to. You told her you’d walk to Jungkook’s place on your own, not wanting to make this weirder by having her to drop you off there, even though she insisted.

Waving at her as she drove away, you turned towards the Parental Advisory house, hoping to lose your discomfort on the way there.

However, if you’d felt a little awkward before, you felt properly pathetic on the doorstep of where Jungkook lived. You could see the light inside so, obviously, someone was home – but in what state? Would they even understand that someone was at the door once you rang the bell? – and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to let your presence be known.

This was wrong. You regretted coming and couldn’t help but feel embarrassed in advance because Jungkook – or one of his band members – was most likely going to kick you out for showing up here.

You completely forgot the irritation your hopeless phone call with Yoongi had caused you to feel, and this rescue mission no longer made any sense to you. Jungkook was probably fine, smoking with his friends, not at all worried about the anxiety he’s caused his parents.

Probably.

“Something could have happened to him,” your father had said and, with a deep breath, you finally got over yourself and knocked on the door – not just because of Jungkook’s stressed parents but because of your own distress, too.

The door opened almost as soon as you knocked – as if the person on the other side had been waiting for someone to come – and you were met with Jungkook’s red eyes. For some reason, you were expecting Yoongi to open the door and had already prepared a very slow request to take you to Jungkook - all so it’d reach the more sober cavities of his brain - so now you were almost completely speechless.

“I, uh—h-hi,” you said distractedly.

Jungkook watched you in confusion for a moment or two. “Did you say you were coming?”

“No, I’m—no. I didn’t,” you replied, giving him a once-over to get an idea of what you were going to have to deal with. His eyes could have been red because he wasn’t sleeping. But also because he was high on something. “Are you okay?”

What you really meant was, are you sober enough to understand what I’m saying?

“I’m fine,” he said with a scoff. “Did you come all the way here to ask me that?”

“Actually, yeah,” you said and then cleared your throat. “Your mom called mine. She was worried about you. Apparently, you, uh, skipped dinner?”

Jungkook just nodded to himself – realizing that you weren’t here by choice, you were here because of his parents – and then sighed. “It’s fine. I just didn’t feel like playing a responsible son tonight.”

“You could have called,” you said, lowering your eyes and mentally preparing yourself for a yet another don’t-tell-me-how-to-live-my-life speech from him.

“I could have,” he agreed instead and then opened the door wider. “Do you want to come inside?”

You lifted your gaze again, the invitation catching you by surprise. You thought that perhaps Jungkook actually was high – otherwise, why would he invite you in? – but, in all truth, he seemed sober, just very very tired.

Coming inside wasn’t a good idea. You hadn’t planned it. Hell, you barely planned what you were going to say to him and you certainly didn’t think the conversation was going to progress this much.

And yet you found yourself shrugging your shoulders.

“Yeah,” you said, your tongue loosening itself from your brain. “Yeah, okay. I’ll just—I’ll text my mom so she can let your parents know you’re alive.”

He rolled his eyes at this but moved to a side to encourage you to come in. You walked past the threshold and stopped as soon as you entered, typing a text message to your mother. When you put your phone away, the two of you found yourselves awkwardly situated on opposite ends of the hallway of his house.

“I’m glad it’s you my parents sent as a search party for me,” Jungkook said when you looked at him, “and not the police helicopters.”

“Ah,” you said as you contemplated how to explain why you came without making it sound like a big deal, “your parents didn’t send me. It was my decision. I tried to call you but you weren’t picking up and then I called Yoongi—”

“You called Yoongi looking for me?” he asked.

Funny how just a few days ago you thought that Jungkook and Namjoon having a face-off outside of your dorm room had put you in the most uncomfortable position you’d ever been in. Right now, having to tell Jungkook how you went through every possible measure to find him – just hours short of actually calling the police, really – you felt much worse.

“I did,” you said, swallowing your dignity since there was barely any of it left anyway. “But he was no help at all. So, I had no choice but to come.”

You and him both knew that you had a lot of other choices – completely ignoring his absence, for example – but they weren’t the ones that you’d picked.

Trying not to make it obvious how pleased he was that you’d done all this just to find him, Jungkook looked around the hallway as he respectfully waited for the smirk to disappear from his lips. Then, he focused on you again.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” you replied.

The smirk returned and he couldn’t fight it anymore. “Did you really think I was dead?”

You inhaled sharply before admitting, “I didn’t know what to think. Last time I looked away from you for one second, you drunkenly crashed your car into a pole.”

“It was a tree trunk, I think.”

“It—is that really the part to focus on?”

“No, sorry,” he snickered. “I get it. You think I’m out of control when left unsupervised.”

“I don’t think,” you disagreed. “I know.”

He just smiled at you for a while after you’d said this. You were about to ask him what the problem was when he finally explained.

“That is the most you thing I’ve heard you say since we started talking again,” he said.

“Well, falling off the grid has been the most you thing I’ve seen you do, so we’re even,” you replied, avoiding his smiling eyes so you could remain cool and collected.

“Do you want to go inside?” he asked then. “I mean, into the actual house. I don’t think I’ve ever spent this much time in my hallway.”

You had agreed to come inside but this second invitation suddenly cleared the way for more doubts.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” you said. “When I called Yoongi, he seemed to be in the middle of a very unusual, uh, social gathering.”

“It’s not that unusual,” Jungkook said as he turned around and walked towards the kitchen, expecting you to follow after him. Naturally, you did. You always did, for as long as you could remember. “And you’re not interrupting. You’re my guest.”

“Oh, what an honor,” you couldn’t help the sarcasm, automatically imagining him saying this to plenty of other people that he’d brought here before.

Jungkook glanced at you over his shoulder. “It’s not?”

You countered, “should it be?”

“Yes,” he replied, pulling back a stool by the kitchen island for you to sit on while he headed for the fridge. “We don’t have guests over during weekdays. It’s sort of an unwritten rule. But you’re always welcome here.”

He shrugged when he said that last part – to make it seem nonchalant – but his lowered eyes proved how nervous he got when he found himself in the middle of saying it.

“Thank you,” you said and, just as Jungkook opened the fridge to get you two some drinks, your phone buzzed with a response from your mother. She had sent a three-paragraph text message, thanking you for what you did on behalf of Jungkook’s parents, herself, and, basically, the entire nation. “Your mom needs you to call her tomorrow when you’re free.”

“Sure,” he mumbled from inside of the fridge. Yoongi had hidden all the soju bottles – it seemed like a funny prank to him – and Jungkook was too focused on finding them to fully register anything you were saying.

So, to confirm that he’d really heard you, you asked, “are you going to do it?”

He finally located the green bottle and pulled it out. “Do what?”

“Call your mom.”

“Oh,” he didn’t want to say no to you, so he shrugged and said, “sure. We never have anything to talk about but, yeah, I’ll call her.”

You sighed because, even though you’d already told him this when he was at the hospital, he still didn’t seem to get it.

“When it comes to you, it’s not so much about having things to talk about,” you said. “It’s about simply knowing that you’re doing okay when you disappear out of the blue.”

“It wasn’t out of the blue,” he argued, hitting the base of the bottle against his elbow before opening it.  

“It was,” you disagreed. “You’d told them you’d come and then you didn’t show up.”

Jungkook paused before reaching for a drawer where they kept a set of shot glasses.

“They just,” he said and a tired sigh passed his lips mid-sentence, “they expect so much from me. And it’s like they know I won’t deliver, so they’re turning me into a huge disappointment before I even do anything.”

“They’re not,” you said but you were uncertain. “They want what’s best for you and, okay, sure, they expect a lot from you but all parents do.”

He gave you a doubtful look. “Do they?”

“Yeah. Mine do, too. They’re never proud of anything I do unless I’m the only one doing it. Unless I’m setting an example,” you said.

Jungkook lowered his eyes because he knew that, of course. He knew about your family almost as well as you knew about his and yet, in a roll of self-pity, he had forgotten that you didn’t grow up being coddled -- like most of the other kids in the suburbs where you grew up -- either.

“How do—how did you grow up like that and didn’t turn out like me?” he asked suddenly. The bottle of soju sat still in front of him, momentarily forgotten.

You didn’t like the self-deprecation in his question – even despite having some similar thoughts – as you said, “you’re not all bad.”

“No, you know what I mean,” he said. “If it weren’t for my parents, I probably wouldn’t even be in college.”

This surprised you. “You don’t want to be here?”

“No, I—I don’t know. I don’t know what I want,” he admitted, his words an echo from when you talked to him at the hospital. “But I’d appreciate some time to figure it out. Now, it’s just like I’m only here as an obligation to our stockholders before I inevitably join the company.”

You didn’t really know how to counter that because, essentially, that was really what this was. Jungkook’s family had always prided itself on their good education and even greater ambitions, but now, for all the kids in his family, going to college has become a mere formality to prove that they deserved their place in the family company.

“Looks like we’ve found our core difference,” you said finally as Jungkook poured the soju into shots and passed one to you. “I actually want to be here. I’m not here for my parents, I’m here for me. For my own dreams.”

Jungkook tried not to sound jealous as he said, “you don’t have your whole future decided for you.”

“That’s right,” you said, your voice laced with tones of irrational bitterness. You knew it wasn’t Jungkook’s fault he was born into a family that had a legacy. A family that could have made your dreams come true. “I don’t.”

“I didn’t mean it like a bad thing,” he clarified quickly. “I was just saying how y-you get to decide who you are. You get to build yourself, create your own business.”

“That—see, that’s just it,” you said with a sigh and gulped down your soju shot. Jungkook followed suit. “I’m just like everyone else here, ambitious and yet uncertain.”

“At least you’re ambitious,” he said. “I’m just uncertain.”

You smiled sadly. “If only we could trade places, right?”

“Yeah,” he said and then added with a scoff, “I’d love to see my father try to order you around.”

“He wouldn’t have to,” you said indignantly. “I’m a very obedient daughter.”

“Hmm, yeah. I know you are.”

You were too focused on his hands as he poured soju into shots so you weren’t looking at him as he said this, but when you raised your eyes, the teasing grin on his lips covered his words with a flirty layer.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, which was, obviously, the wrong thing to do because your stomach was already sizzling with an approaching fire and, as Jungkook’s smile widened, it completely burst into flames.

It was like you were thirteen again, watching him ride bikes around the neighborhood with his friends. Every time he’d drive past you, he’d turn to look at you and he’d give you a smile – his most special one, the one rarely anyone got to see from the moody teenager that he’d become – and you would stay awake the whole night after that, thinking of it for weeks to come.

You really shouldn’t have come here tonight.

“Nothing,” Jungkook said and, as he passed you another shot of soju, the two of you fell quiet.

Coated in silence, you considered if maybe -- as long as you remembered not to let your past feelings take over -- you actually could develop a new, genuine friendship with him. And then, even if he did choose to end it abruptly again, you wouldn’t be as hurt as you’d been the first time. You’d be fine. It would hurt because losing a friend always hurt but it wouldn’t hurt as much as losing someone you were in love with would.

You both downed your shots without looking at each other and, with the alcohol now in your veins, the comfortable silence around you started to get heavy.

Both of you were thinking. Remembering.

Finally, after a while, Jungkook could no longer resist bringing up the last time he’d seen you.

“So, uh, how was that project?” he asked, leaning on his elbows on the island as he remained in his spot opposite you.

You weren’t following. “What project?”

“The one you were doing with that guy,” he said. “Namjoon.”

The way he said his name was ridiculously exaggerated – as if somehow Namjoon was now his number-one nemesis – and you snorted, not yet realizing the gravity of his question. But Jungkook’s face was completely somber when you looked at him.

“Uh, the project is fine,” you said, coughing to ease the tension in the air around you. “We gave the professor a progress update this week, and we’ll be able to present it in a few more weeks.”

“I see,” Jungkook nodded. “So, are you going to see him again after you wrap the project up?”

“I don’t know. I mean, we’re in the same class—” you could tell you’d said the wrong thing by the way his gaze darkened. “Uh, but we’re not dating or anything. He’s just a colleague. We’re barely even friends.”

He liked this answer better as he stood up straight and considered where to go from here. You beat him to it, however.

“What happened to you?” you asked. The question just slipped.

That caught him off-guard. “Sorry?”

“I mean, what have you been doing since I’d last seen you?”

You were afraid of the answer and Jungkook could tell. When you saw his concerned expression, you realized he could tell, so when he spoke up, you weren’t sure if he was telling the truth or just making light of the situation for your sake.

“Nothing much,” he said. “I stayed at the house with the other members most of the time. We found ways to occupy ourselves as I’m sure Yoongi showed you.”

“Oh, yeah.”

He laughed. “I didn’t get into trouble if that’s what you’re asking.”

Now you knew he was lying. But ignorance was bliss and you decided not to push him any further. It was sort of futile anyway – it wasn’t like you could go back in time and prevent him from making whatever dumb decisions he'd already made.

“I-I’m sorry I was a bitch to you that morning,” you said then.

Your plan to move on and forget all about him instead of apologizing for the way you’d acted was long abandoned. Clearly, the universe wasn’t going to give you two a break from each other now that you’d started talking again, so you needed to make this right.

“W-when I saw you at my dormitory, I mean,” you explained but Jungkook  already understood. “It really wasn’t my place to make assumptions about—”

“No, I understand,” he stopped you. “I mean, I can imagine the way I must have looked coming out of her room that morning but, uh, for whatever it’s worth, I didn’t actually sleep with that girl. I think I passed out as soon as I walked through the door of her room.”

You recalled the conversation you’d overheard in the library and, so far, the stories seemed to match. Curious now, you brought your tongue over your dry lips and tried to get to the bottom of this even though you feared what awaited you at the foundation.

“Why did you go to her dorm in the first place?” you asked.

You didn’t think he’d actually say it but he took a deep breath and almost forced your heart to collapse with his words, “I went to see you. She—The girl mentioned her dormitory and I remembered that you lived there. I obviously underestimated how drunk I was, though. I don’t even know how I’d planned to find your room.”

Why? your mind was screaming. Why did you want to see me? What were you going to say to me once you did? What were you going to do?

But you cleared your throat and nodded.

Understanding that there was nothing else to be said – because there were only so many times you could have apologized to one another before your feelings for each other became unbearably obvious – Jungkook jumped on the island, sitting down on it and turning to you.

“So, hey, we’re doing a gig next Friday,” he said. “Will you come watch me play?”

You were probably – definitely – over-analyzing the question, but he didn’t ask you if you’d like to come. He asked if you would. And, you cursed yourself for even coming to this seemingly far-fetched conclusion, but it sounded like he needed you there.

“Yeah,” you said, swallowing. “Inna was probably going to drag me there with her anyway.”

Jungkook hesitated. “That’s good. It’d be better if you came because you wanted to, but me and my bruised ego will take it.”

You chuckled, not meaning to tease him – or leave him wanting more, or whatever else it seemed like you were doing – but, rather, wanting to show him – and yourself – that you could control the feelings that were waking up from a long hibernation.

You could control them and not make them obvious.

“I do want to come,” you said and then, in the most heartbreakingly sincere way, added, “I want us to be friends.”

Jungkook nearly flinched but he nodded wholeheartedly, trying to play his unexpectedly painful disappointment off.

“Right,” he said. “I, uh—that’s what I want, too.”

But it wasn’t. Not really. And it became quite clear to him that he had gotten ahead of himself with his feelings -- you weren’t going to meet him halfway because you were so far behind.

I want us to be friends, was what you’d said. But I don’t want to be with you was what he’d heard.

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[memoirsofratasum]

Aeromage Sanna: Whisper in the Dark

The flight of Bangar Ruinbringer has not gone unnoticed by the Pact. All three organizations have been combing the Far Shiverpeaks for his and his followers’ trail. Normally a charr army of even a moderate size would have left signs behind, but the weather is hindering the search. Back when I was in college for climatology, the extreme weather patterns that high in the range was considered a mystery as they didn’t follow the known formulas. I think it’s obvious in hindsight they’re due to the Elder Dragon Jormag.

The Vigil has a fort in that area of the Shiverpeak, Jora’s Keep, that I’ve heard members claim would be a good hosting ground for further searches. When Priory airships were getting fueled and prepped for colder weather, it seemed like a simple idea to use the fort to continue the search. I was assigned for the trip, as expected. Too much experience in wilderness search-and-rescue to be left behind. But I was surprised when Tarnn said he was staying behind. He was going back to Tarir to assist in translating some newly discovered Exalted glyphs, something he hadn’t worked on in years, and that it might help in getting a promotion to magister or an equivalent rank. I didn’t think anything of it at the time and wished him good luck. It wasn’t until later that it hit me that this was the first field assignment in who knows how long that we weren’t assigned together. 

We were briefed in the air. This was not, as we had suspected, about Bangar. The Pact commander had gone on head to Jora’s Keep, but instead of a warm welcome all they found was a dead fort. All of the standing Vigil members had been killed by one of their own. The normally observant Vigil hadn’t expected it and so they had no defense. To make matters even worse, General Soulkeeper was missing. Warmaster Jhavi Jorasdottir is the only known survivor and the Vigil needs to re-establish itself in the area. So the other organizations are helping them figure out what happened and get the Keep back up and running, especially important with the Sons of Svanir at their doorstep.

To say it was chilling might come off as a pun but that couldn’t be further from my intention. When we disembarked from the airship, the Keep had an almost haunted aura to it despite all the people rushing around. Everyone I passed during the briefing tour seemed to be slightly distracted, constantly looking over their shoulder or startling as if hearing something just out of range. The only person who looked to be fully present was Havroun Weibe, a servant of Raven. He isn’t officially a part of the Pact, but as Raven has a strong presence in the area he is highly respected. My own raven Stratus even emerged from his warm space in my cloak for a headscritch from the havroun.

After the tour, we Priory members were warned to not leave the keep without dispensation from our superiors and we were told to use question anyone who left the fort on their own. Apparently there has been an issue with people leaving their posts for the wilderness with only the lucky being found alive. At first it seemed to be desertion or an over-eagerness to take the fight to the waiting Svanir. But the survivors seemed delirious, saying they were being whispered too and watched. They say Jormag itself is trying to confuse our people in order to weaken us.

Because of this I wasn’t allowed to explore Bjora Marches liked I wished. A chance to study the extreme weather up here would have been a dream for college-me, and even though my career has changed to the medical profession, I was still disappointed that I was walled in. I was to spend most of my time cooped up indoors caring for the injured, the sick, and the cold. The buildings looked to be in disrepair despite having been fully occupied until recently. The wind whistled through the planks of the infirmary, sounding like whispers if you weren’t paying attention. It’s obviously ridiculous, it’s just the mind finding patterns that aren’t actually there.

The noise seems to be disturbing my patients though. Some ask me if I’ve heard someone speak, others just stare off into space, not aware of me trying to get their attention. I just need to remain calm. But that damn wind! I can barely hear myself think! The quartermaster tells me that there aren’t enough supplies to patch up the holes in the wall right now and that the stone surrounding the keep has been keeping the worst of the weather at bay and that it’s probably not wind I hear. I’m an elementalist, I think I’d know wind when I hear it! Ugh, I’ll just have to deal with it. The quartermaster wouldn’t have been so dismissive if Tarnn was here, I wouldn’t be so alone then. I’m kinda here by myself here in the infirmary. I mean sure, there are the other medics but they’re busy. And there are the patients but they come and go and aren’t really there. And- but I have Stratus. He starts getting flappy and cawing when my mind wanders like this, he probably wants attention. It’s nice to have him with me. But he’s still just a bird.

I try to ignore that whistling whisper through the planks as I work. I’m just feeling lonely and letting it get to me. Maybe I should reach out and get to know some people around the campfires. But all of these reports of people saying they are hearing voices is scaring me a little. If it is the Jormag mesmerizing them, what are they being told? To attack us? That already happened once. What were they thinking manning this Keep so soon with the threat still out there?

Maybe I should get out of here.

What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t desert my post. I’m needed here.

Only to wind up with a dagger in my back? It’s not like I don’t know how to take care of myself out in the wild, the cold wouldn’t be an issue. I would just need to get back to Grothmar Valley…

Grothmar? I’m not sure if I want to depend on the hospitality of the Blood Legion. The festival had been tense enough and they had been under orders to be friendly. Now? Forget it, I’d be skewered just for the sake of releasing pent up frustration. 

That whistling air is getting louder. I can’t think. It’s this damn infirmary. I need to get outside, too many walls around me. Just a few minutes, just enough to clear my head. That’s all I need.

It’s cold out. It’s always cold. There aren’t a lot of people on watch, most of them are by the fire. Pact and adventurers were streaming in and out of the gates on their colorful mounts. An asura in a parka wouldn’t be unusual. I don’t need to alarm anyone. It’ll be fine. It’s just for a minute.

I stepped out of Jora’s Keep for the first time since we arrived, but that whistling whisper in my ears didn’t go away. I needed to get further away. There is a well worn path and the sky is overcast so there isn’t any glare. I wish I could see the sky more clearly though, blue sky against the white mountains would be lovely.

Maybe a little further I can find a new angle to see from.

Snow is falling. I should reattune myself to fire to stay warm, or to water to equalize myself with the cold. But I don’t. I don’t know why. I feel like I can’t be bothered. I’m not going to be out here long anyways, what does it matter?

Why is it not quiet out here? Snow is supposed to be muffling, but it seems as if the whispering wind is louder than ever.

My head hurts. 

A small spell could fix that. But why waste the energy? It’s nothing to complain about.

It’s getting hard to see, a blizzard is starting. That’s fine. I’m an elementalist, I was born for this weather. I don’t need to see to find my way.

I can barely make out a small cliff face on my right and I feel as if I’m on an incline. I should turn around. Eventually. But not yet. I just got out here, and I haven’t found the quiet yet.

I trip on something hard and metallic. I catch myself on the edge of a stairstep. It was so sudden that whatever I was thinking about is gone completely. Looking up, I see the outstretched wings and well sculpted face of Raven. 

And suddenly a fog is lifted from my mind. Everything came back to me in a sharp painful focus. I had wandered away from the Keep, done the exact thing we had been warned about on the first day. The dragon must have gotten into my head, under my skin, and now I was out alone in the Frozen Pass. Thank Alchemy and the Six that by chance I literally stumbled into a Raven Shrine. Or maybe it wasn’t by chance. I don’t want to think about it. Already I feel warmer under the shelter of the wings. But I can’t stay out here, I need to get back to the fort, I’m needed there. If I can trust my bearings I should be at the Western Shrine. Jora’s Keep should be a straight line across the snow. My jackal could cut the trip in half and I’d trust her nose more than my sense of direction right now.

A familiar caw takes my attention and I see Stratus flapping frantically through the snow and into the shelter of the shrine. He fluffs his feathers a little when he lands on my wrist and wastes no time in claiming my parka hood for himself. I didn’t even realize he wasn’t with me, I had just left without a thought. He must have been following this whole time even though it was so cold out.  I guess I have two ravens looking out for me.

My jackal doesn’t need any direction from me as she gallops for the Keep, the light of the Raven beacon directly ahead. In hindsight, it was obvious that Jormag was enticing me. I had assumed they used verbal words in the mind, that’s what others said it was like. But an Elder Dragon wouldn’t be confined to just one method. A subtle touch, non-existent wind just on the edge of hearing could keep anyone from thinking clearly. I shouldn’t blame myself for falling for it. 

We reach the gate and I’m prepared to answer to my magister about my disappearance, but I think I go unnoticed as the keep is oddly invigorated with a nervous energy, no one is standing still. Warmaster Jorasdottir is barking out orders to the Vigil members and the rest of us are trying to stay out of the way. The scraps I overhear is that General Soulkeeper has been found and the Vigil is going to “bring her home.” But no one is offering up any further details, just that it’s a need-to-know “Vigil business” right now and they’ll have an official announcement for the rest of us later. 

I don’t know what the announcement could possibly be, but it will be good to have Soulkeeper back. She’ll get everything back to order. 

[atopearth]

Hakuoki: Kyoto Winds Part 9 - Souma Kazue Route

Really happy to get to see how Souma joins the Shinsengumi since he didn’t have the best welcoming from them in the beginning and he hasn’t heard anything good about them in Edo either, so this will be interesting! He always seemed so dedicated and faithful to the Shinsengumi after he joined so I’m wondering what made him change his mind. I guess patrolling with Harada and seeing how the Shinsengumi really is should be enough to change his mind haha! I mean, from how Kondo handles himself by being a leader that can admit his wrongs even to others supposedly “lower” than him, and seeing how organised the Shinsengumi are and how dedicated they are to protecting the peace in Kyoto with his own eyes, it’s hard to doubt their sincerity towards protecting Kyoto. Even if their methods may seem rough on the outside, they are doing what the police should do, which is stopping these ronin from bullying the townspeople, and regardless of how badly it looks on the outside, they are doing what they think is right and what they believe to be the most beneficial to the people of Kyoto.

HAHAHA, when Souma passionately declares to Chizuru that they should work hard as underlings together and become honest and upright people just like Harada and the rest, and then when he squeezes her muscles to check whether swordsmanship really isn’t her thing🤣 Sorry to disappoint you Souma but this one is a weakling lolol. Ooh so Kondou invited Souma to join the Shinsengumi because Souma left his domain since they didn’t want to fight for the shogunate. Too bad he doesn’t join yet~ I guess similarly to Iba, Souma was disappointed in his peers in the shogunate army who were happy to be reserves and be stationed on standby and not need to fight at all. I guess for someone who is passionate about fighting for his beliefs, it is pretty disappointing to be together with these people… After all that, I’m not surprised that he’d come to the Shinsengumi, since they accept people of all kinds as long as they have the heart and strength to fight for their beliefs.

I was always never really sure what Souma’s role was in the other routes, so I’m glad to finally know that he’s actually Kondou’s page (in training) haha! And loll Kondou wants Chizuru to teach Souma stuff she’s learnt as Hijikata’s page??? Has Chizuru even learnt anything?? Has she done anything? Loll. So cute how Souma is so passionate to learn from Chizuru and even calls her senpai! Damn, Okita is the one training Souma and Nomura huh? It’s true that they need to toughen up though, so I guess the ruthless Okita that has high expectations for sword skills is a good choice haha, especially since they’re pages, so they’ll be one of the closest people to Kondou, so they have to be reliable! I find it kinda funny that they don’t care about how Chizuru isn’t training with them, especially since she’s obviously weak but is also a page lol. Wow, I know Saburo (Itou’s brother, was it?) is suspicious of Chizuru’s identity since she popped out of nowhere and no one knows much about her but the captains watch over her, but stilll, pulling her kimono to check if she really is a man is very rude regardless of what sex she is! Hehe, I liked how Souma came to her rescue and even won in a verbal fight since personal conflicts aren’t allowed in the Shinsengumi, so if someone like him whose a captain did something like that, he’d definitely get a worse punishment than Souma and Nomura! You go, Souma! Also really glad that the guys have accepted Nomura and Souma to an extent and have revealed to them that Chizuru is actually a girl lol. Lmao when they kept indirectly insulting her by saying that it’s rude to think that she could possibly be a girl😂😂

Seeing Saito and Heisuke leave is always saddening, but to see through Souma how difficult of a decision it is to leave everything you know, everything you’re familiar with, your comrades and everything you once believed in to pursue something unknown but possibly more akin to your beliefs is definitely a very hard but brave decision. Souma had to leave his domain, his life, his hometown to pursue what he believed to be the spirit of a warrior and that’s why he appreciates that he’s finally found that in the Shinsengumi after he felt so lost and dejected from losing his home and yet unable to find this spirit. It’s always so reassuring to see Souma go and protect Chizuru even though he’s probably not that strong. It’s gonna get increasingly more difficult for me to like Kazama at this rate lol, especially when he relentlessly slashed Souma and mocked him for protecting Chizuru because of some stupid pride, I was so angry and so worried and hurt for Souma, I was so scared that he’d really die right there😭 I was really touched when he stood back up and told Kazama that he’s protecting Chizuru with his life because he made a promise between men (with the Shinsengumi) that he would protect Chizuru no matter what😢😢 So glad Sanan came in time…

Now that I think about it, I’ve never chosen the option where Chizuru assists with Itou’s assassination, which I must admit is in such bad taste to witness, especially considering that although I do not like Itou’s personality or the way he acts, I do think that he is very knowledgeable and knows what he’s talking about when it comes to the advancement of Japan. It’s kinda saddening that they killed him in such a distasteful way by getting him drunk as if they were friends seeking his knowledge and then killing him afterwards. Tbh, seeing Miki (Itou’s brother) come to the Shinsengumi for revenge with his wounds but still bearing an extreme hatred to all of the Shinsengumi for doing such a thing really made me feel so uncomfortable. Regardless of the reasons for needing to kill Itou, there’s no doubt that it was done in a dirty and disgusting way and the thought of it haunts me. Miki’s hatred is justified, his disgust, his pursuit and everything, it’s just so hard to watch. Sure, they were planning on assassinating Kondou as well and probably if Hijikata didn’t do this, Kondou might have been killed, but that doesn’t mean the whole act was “acceptable”, instead, it just shows that this was an era where if you wanted your beliefs and convictions to prevail in the end, you couldn’t be too picky about the methods used. Since Souma wasn’t able to deal with him alone before Miki ran off, it seems inevitable that Miki will be back.

It was really sweet of Souma and Chizuru to offer to make Heisuke dango and buy him sake every day when he lamented that now that he’s a Fury, he won’t be able to go to tea houses or anywhere as he used to since he’s considered dead to the world. It’s not surprising that no one would want to talk about the Roshigumi (former Shinsengumi name), Serizawa (former head captain that was the boss of everyone) and Ibuki (Serizawa’s page) considering everything that transpired. Although Kondou and them ended up killing Serizawa because his methods and everything (extortion, violence towards Ibuki etc) became impossible to ignore, he was the one that used the dirty methods to keep them and their group alive at that time. And I see, Ibuki probably never left despite the abuse by Serizawa because he felt indebted to him since he was the one that picked him off the road when he had nothing else. Serizawa was also the one who introduced the Water of Life into the group and probably one of the first Furies they had to kill… It’s such a dark past… It really must be fate that Ibuki was the one who gave Souma that wood block in the beginning featuring Serizawa in his Fury form intending for Souma to sell it for money since Souma had none, and it was because of that that he ended up meeting the Shinsengumi themselves and ended up here now being one of them.

Hearing Okita’s story of the past was really heartwarming when Souma sincerely believed that Kondou truly is a warrior in spirit considering how he and the others follow their beliefs and protect everyone they can. Honestly, hearing Okita say thank you was just so..sweet? It felt like he really appreciated that Souma felt that way and that their way of living was recognised. I can also understand better why Okita and others may not have looked at Souma fondly since he abandoned his “warrior” status to become “nothing” like them when they’re working so hard to become a “warrior”. But really, Okita entrusting Kondou’s safety to Souma is already reflective enough of how much he has come to acknowledge Souma, as Chizuru said, Kondou’s so important to Okita, so him approving of Souma guarding Kondou is a big thing! Hearing Kondou talking about how compromising your values is scarier than death, and how as long as he can live the life of a warrior and die honorably like that, he’s fine with a death like that…it breaks my heart to think about how his death really ended up being like😭😭 I honestly completely forgot about Kondou’s shoulder injury that ended up changing him, so when he suddenly got shot, I was so surprised, especially since you never really see it in the other routes.

Souma must have felt so terrible when he told Okita about Kondou, Okita entrusted him with his protection and this happens… I honestly didn’t expect to cry when seeing the flashback of Souma telling Okita… When Okita said he had no right to blame Souma when here he was sick in bed not able to be beside Kondou when he needed him, it was so hurtful...but the worst was when Souma told Okita to punch him for not being able to protect Kondou properly and he did, but he was so weak from the tuberculosis that there was no strength behind his punches.. Just imagining how painful it must be for someone as strong as Okita to lose the strength to protect the people most important to him and slowly die must be killing him on the inside so much, how aggravating and painful must it be for him to watch on the sidelines doing nothing but stay in bed? Just thinking about all that just makes my tears keep flowing😭😭😭 I’m glad Chizuru was there to comfort Souma, with his guilt of not being able to protect Kondou and then seeing Okita like that must be so difficult for him. The pinky promise that he’ll stand by her until the end was so cute though, I’m glad he’s also acknowledged her feelings of wanting to stay and fight beside everyone.

The moment Souma escaped with Chizuru and then bumped into Miki and his men, I knew he’d have to become a Fury. I guess it was expected since Souma’s swordsmanship was apparently lacking according to the others, so it was inevitable, but yeah, it’s always saddening to see the guys succumb to this pain. I’m not surprised that Souma let Miki escape, I’ve always found it difficult to face Miki’s hatred for the Shinsengumi, mainly because it’s so…justified? If I were Miki, I’d vow to get revenge too, not only was Itou his brother, someone he respected, his leader, but he was also killed in such a abhorrent way that thinking about it pains me so. Souma’s sentiments that he probably would have felt the same in Miki’s shoes if Kondou, Hijikata or Chizuru died in that way just resonated further the idea that we can talk about all these ideals, all these hopes for the future that require sacrifices and fighting, but in the end, regardless of the reasons, the fact that they killed someone’s family is something undeniable. Maybe it would be seen as naivety on Souma’s part considering that every time they go to war, the moment they kill anyone, they are killing someone’s family, but I think seeing it so first hand with someone he knew is just so much more confrontational and shocking. I thought that’d be the end of it but nope, Kazama has to appear every time to torture our favourite boys, like please!! They’re just making it harder for me to do his route in the future!! Anyway, even though Inoue and Yamazaki were already on the verge of death from their wounds, so you wouldn’t call it completely a sacrifice for them to fight Kazama to allow Souma and Chizuru to escape, but nevertheless, they could have died much more peacefully, so yep, still hate Kazama! Yamazaki is too precious to me, I can’t stand that he must die in this way :( The helplessness of Souma and his anger for being powerless against Kazama is always something frustrating to see for all the guys😢 And I agree with Souma, the future in Edo may turn out bleak but it’s important to never give up in their hearts because when you do, that’s when you’ve really been defeated. The cutest thing was Souma saying he’d protect Chizuru forever in his sleep, it’s always so adorable how he calls her senpai.

Overall, I quite enjoyed Souma’s perspective, I think his story really reflects understanding the spirit of the Shinsengumi and living it. He started off as a person who detested them, to respecting them and fighting alongside them, and I think that progression and transition was done nicely in the sense that alongside him, I could feel the strong emotions and thoughts that the Shinsengumi were very respectable people that followed their beliefs regardless of whether the odds were in their favour or not, they were warriors who fought to the death for what they believed to be right and for the best and I think seeing Souma recognise it through his eyes made the story engaging as a viewer since it felt like we learnt everything about the Shinsengumi alongside him and it made his emotions very relatable. In terms of the romance, there isn’t much yet, but I do find it very adorable how much Souma respects Chizuru as his senpai and how adamant he is towards protecting her since it was a duty delegated to him and because he regards her as his important senpai I guess hahaha. I think Souma’s earnestness in his route really warmed my heart in his route.

[spooky-ghostwriter]

Dressed to Kill - Chapter Fifteen

<– Previous Chapter

Next Chapter –>

Tsukiko lay in her bed, lazily watching Shiba Kariki gleam in the sunlight. As she'd hoped, Stiletto had been able to spare a hanging mount, and now the sword rested peacefully on the wall. Her trailer already felt much less empty, even with merely 28.2 inches of sword and sheath.

She couldn't stare at the sword forever. There was something bothering her.

Finally, she pushed herself off the bed. She grabbed Shiba Kariki off the wall as she passed it, making her way out of the trailer.

It only took her a few steps in the grass before Galen noticed her.

“Morning, Tsuki,” He said, walking in tandem.

“Morning,” said Tsukiko, not breaking stride.

“Are we going to try working Shiba Kariki into our act?” Galen asked, eyeing the sword.

“Wasn't planning on it. Mom and Dad freaked out enough about the knives during Stiletto's show. I don't need them worrying about me getting disemboweled during my own shows too.”

“Oh.” Galen stopped, then hastened his steps once more when he realized Tsukiko was going to continue moving.

“So then,” Galen tried again. “You're going to practice with Shiba for dryad attacks, right?”

“I'll have to get around to that at some point,” said Tsukiko. “I'd rather use the Tank Top for most dryads, but I'll make sure I can use Shiba too if I have to.”

“Okay, fine,” Galen said dully. “I'll just ask – where are you going that you need a sword for?”

“Right here.”

Magician Trailer One stood before them. Galen recalled their first visit some time ago, and how Tsukiko had found a seventh Religalia in it. He also recalled that Tsukiko hadn't had any need for a weapon last time they'd entered.

“I'm still lost,” said Galen.

“Remember how I picked the lock last time?” Tsukiko asked, putting her fingers on the door. “Well, I came back later, and there was this.”

A chain sat wrapped around the door handle, keeping the door from moving. A lock hung, grasping several of the links. It was not a key lock, but a combination lock with a five-digit code.

“I guess they noticed you went in before,” said Galen. “In fact, they might know it was you specifically. You can pick a key lock, but I'm guessing you can't get through this.”

“I can't pick it, no,” Tsukiko admitted, tossing the sheath of Shiba Kariki. Galen caught it automatically.

“Whoa, wait – ” Galen stammered. “Don't!”

“Oh?” Tsukiko asked, readying her stance. “Why not?”

“Well, I'll ignore the fact that we're clearly not supposed to be in there, since I'm guessing you don't care about that yourself.”

“Good. I don't.”

“But you're planning on swinging your family's most treasured possession into a metal chain?” Galen asked. “It's not a thick chain, sure, but do you really think Shiba will be all right?”

“Well – ”

“And I have to ask anyway, why chop your way into the trailer in the first place?” Galen asked in exasperation. “You already looked around. What good does it do to look again?”

“My mom almost died the other day,” Tsukiko said, tightening her grip on the sword's handle. “You heard about that, right?”

“You mentioned it.”

“I figured I would have. Now, that got me thinking. I couldn't use the Bow Tie on that dryad because the arrows went through the vines, and it's the only Religalia I had on hand at the time. It's the only one I can wear all day, even during shows and stuff.”

“The High Heals?” Galen suggested.

“Clearly you've never tried walking in heels all day.”

“Can't say I have.”

“Anyway,” Tsukiko said, “The point is, I want these dryads dealt with. I want them dead and buried and gone so I can go back to thinking about clothes for comfort and style instead of which ones I need to make sure no one around me dies because I chose the wrong outfit.”

Galen didn't have a good reply to this.

“And this trailer has in it one more Religalia,” said Tsukiko. “Ol' Vercy has a habit of not telling me everything I need to know, and the first Religalia he did tell me about was a tank. An actual tank. That makes me think that maybe this one that he didn't bother telling me about is the most powerful Religalia yet.”

“Or maybe it's the worst one and there was no point telling you about it,” said Galen. “It could just be a really sucky magic costume.”

“We'll see,” said Tsukiko, brandishing her weapon. “I'll just cut a hole in the door instead of the lock, and then we'll figure out how it works and what it does.”

“Can't we just ask Vercy?”

“Not if we want an answer.”

“Tsuki – ”

Tsukiko brought the sword upwards. She prepared to swing, but a pressure stopped her arm. She saw a strong hand gripping her forearm. Her vision followed the hand, and she saw that it was Vercingetorix who had stopped her, not Galen.

“I really wish you had've just asked,” Vercingetorix said, in the tone of voice Tsukiko recalled from teachers annoyed with her for sleeping in class.

He sighed.

“But perhaps I should have been more upfront with you,” He admitted. “If you promise not to take your sword to any circus property, I'll explain the Religalia in this trailer.”

Vercingetorix let go of Tsukiko's hand. She sheathed the sword.

“Deal.”

“Come in too, Galen,” Vercingetorix gestured for the boy. “You're also able to use Religalia, so this is as relevant to you as it is to Tsukiko.”

Galen moved closer as Vercingetorix held the lock in his hand. He couldn't help but see the combination; 6-2-0-1-4.

2014, He recognized. Three years ago, perhaps? June of 2014?

Still lost in thought, he followed Vercingetorix and Tsukiko inside.

The air felt more breathable to Tsukiko than the last time she'd entered the trailer, but she heard Galen expel a dry cough. Tsukiko's own throat felt a little itchy, but she managed to suppress her own coughs. Vercingetorix didn't seem the least bit affected by the air

“I assume you've heard of our previous stage magician,” Vercingetorix said. He clicked the light switch, but the bulb only flickered for a moment before returning to darkness.

“Freya the Magnificent!” Tsukiko said, a hint of excitement in her voice. “I saw some of her old videos. She's amazing at quick-change stuff. I'd like to meet her some day.”

Vercingetorix paused.

“I see you haven't heard everything.”

He sighed once more.

“Freya is dead. She died... about two or three years ago.”

Galen looked at his feet.

'About' two or three years ago? No, Galen thought. I'm sure you know exactly what day in June it was when she died.

He looked over at Tsukiko. She was equally silent, perhaps embarrassed by her excitement over Freya's performances. Vercingetorix didn't seem to mind, or was already so focused on his memories that Tsukiko's words hadn't affected him.

Instead, Vercingetorix stepped over to one of the framed pictures on the wall, rubbing a finger through the years of dust.

“We first opened the Alesia Circus twenty years ago,” He said. “At the time, there were only five performers – Ravindra, Stiletto, Henry, Pierre and Freya. I worked to manage the acts, and also played the assistant role as needed, and we hired whoever was available as short-time crew members. It was a modest organization, but that actually worked in our favour. We toured not only across North America, but even across Europe and Asia. It was only when Pierre's collection of animals grew that we began focusing our efforts on the one continent.”

Tsukiko and Galen began to wonder what this had to do with anything, but they let Vercingetorix reminisce.

“When we first opened the circus, Freya had a single Religalia – the Tank Top. During our travels, she acquired a few more. She never mentioned where she got them, and I never dared to ask. They were the greatest secrets of her stage magician ways, and as I always do and always will, I respected her secrets. Each Religalia took her performances to new heights, and that was enough for me.”

Vercingetorix walked slowly to the other side of the trailer, towards the black cloak on the mannequin.

“At the time, we never considered using our arts to fight. It was unthinkable. But when the first dryads came, we had no choice.

“The first attack came as a complete surprise – naturally, I suppose no one could have expected it. Whatever the case, we were unprepared. There were many deaths, most of which were audience members. If it hadn't been for Freya, it would have been a massacre, but she and that Tank Top saved all the lives she could.”

He looked up at the robe's hood, as if it contained a face listening to his story.

“We modified our performances so that they could be used for battle. It was not too difficult of a task, considering Freya's artillery, Ravindra's flames and Stiletto's weaponry. The dryads continued to come, and we were able to fight them on even terms. We managed to get through the next several years without any casualties, staff or guest. It had become a normal part of our routine.

“Freya missed the days of peace and harmony. We all did, of course, but Freya was such a kind soul. I believe the lives she failed to save on that first day still haunted her. So, after studying the Religalia, she came to a conclusion – she would construct her own.”

Vercingetorix held the robe by the hem and looked at the torn hole in its fabric.

“This Religalia is Freya's creation. I couldn't bring myself to ask about the process, and I regret not having done so. I have no idea how she was able to create a Religalia. The most horrible part is that this robe contains none of the joy or kindness that I associated so dearly with Freya.

“Tank Top. High Heals. Bow Tie. Jumper. Cargo Pants. Boxer Shorts. Each one of them has such a childish name. Freya found it hard to talk about any of them without a faint smile on her face – all of them except the one she created herself.

“This Religalia was fuelled by Freya's desire to annihilate all the dryads,” said Vercingetorix. “There is no joy or humour in this outfit. It is simply called the Death Robe.”

Tsukiko felt a chill run down her spine.

“Each Religalia has a unique method of activation,” Vercingetorix continued. “Swiping the hat of the Tank Top, for example. Freya believed that the Death Robe's method was more...” He paused, thinking of the right word. “Esoteric.”

“What is it?” Tsukiko asked.

“We don't know for sure,” said Vercingetorix. “But Freya believed that, if she were to die wearing the robe, she would gain some power necessary to destroy all the dryads in one fell swoop.

“Of course, we never tested it. How could we? I forbade her from using the Death Robe, even wearing it. Then, years later, we were caught off-guard in a dryad attack. Freya had been safely using the Tank Top, but I was caught by a Venus flytrap monster. Horrible creature.”

He turned, still not facing Tsukiko and Galen, but no longer facing the robe either.

“Freya changed from the Tank Top to the Bow Tie. She killed the fly trap in an instant and saved my life. But the other dryads took the opportunity. They caught her while she was worrying about me.”

Tsukiko and Galen could hear the wavering in his voice as he continued.

“It was a horrible wound. I tried to get her to a hospital, or at least to get the High Heals, but she stopped me. She told me that she was ready to test her creation. And then she showed me that she'd been wearing the Death Robe all along, folded beneath the Tank Top.

“And so, she died.” Vercingetorix concluded.

“What happened?” Galen asked.

“Nothing,” Vercingetorix practically spat the word. “The Religalia did nothing.” He slammed his fist into the wall of the trailer.

“We at the circus used to be able to wear Religalia, you know,” Vercingetorix muttered. “It was rare, but Stiletto healed Freya's minor wounds on occasion, and I used the Cargo Pants and Boxer Shorts myself. But that day, all of our beliefs in the impossible were shattered.

“And the worst part is, I can't even blame the dryads for her death,” He said. “It was me. All me. It's supposed to be a manager's job to keep everyone safe. But in that moment, I had a choice between forcing someone to heal her with the High Heals or allowing her to test the Death Robe. I believed that she'd come back, without a scratch on her, with some godlike power that would make the rest of the battle a farce. I believed that with all of the conviction in my heart, no matter how impossible it sounds! And still...”

He trailed off.

“I'm sorry. I got a little off track,” Vercingetorix said, clearly trying to force some calmness into his voice. “The point is... I never told you about the Death Robe because I never wanted you to make the same mistake Freya did.”

“Why not get rid of it altogether, then?” Tsukiko asked.

“Get rid of it?!” Vercingetorix demanded, suddenly almost yelling. “This was something Freya believed in enough to die for! You want me to throw it in the trash with the half-eaten candied apples?!”

Tsukiko had paled; the man's face was only inches away from hers, and filled with fury.

Vercingetorix composed himself.

“Forgive me,” He muttered. “Perhaps I'm still clinging too tightly onto the past. But I can't – I simply can't – dispose of a Religalia.”

“I understand,” Tsukiko said softly. “Thank you for telling me about all this.”

Vercingetorix nodded halfheartedly.

Tsukiko could tell this was a painful subject, and she regretted ever having brought it up. Still, she would have regretted it even further if she brought it up without getting something from it, making the whole endeavor pointless, and so she forced herself to ask another question.

“Vercingetorix,” said Tsukiko, “When Freya was talking about the Death Robe, or... just in general, did she ever mention the phrase 'cold blood, cold steel'?

She braced herself for this question to inspire another fit of anger in Vercingetorix, or some other strong emotion.

Instead, Vercingetorix simply looked confused.

“Cold blood, cold steel?” He repeated.

Vercingetorix shook his head.

“I've never heard that phrase before,” Vercingetorix said. “What makes you think it has something to do with the Death Robe?”

Galen continued to stay distinctly silent, deciding to let Tsukiko reply however she thought was best.

“I kind of... uh... tried it on,” Tsukiko admitted hesitantly. “Sorry about that.”

“Ah,” Vercingetorix said. “That day that Galen was standing outside...”

Galen awkwardly cleared his throat.

“But even simply trying it on wouldn't explain where that phrase came from,” said Vercingetorix. “You didn't manage to activate it, did you?”

“No. I don't think so, anyway.” Tsukiko said. She prepared to explain everything about the voice, but it only took her a few words to say it properly. “I heard a weird voice whispering 'cold blood, cold steel' while I was wearing it.”

“I'll look into it and let you know if I find anything,” Vercingetorix offered. “But I have no idea what that could mean.”

Vercingetorix, Tsukiko and Galen all gave the Death Robe a glance; one of both curiosity and concern.

[lyricsaboutcats]

      Summary:  When Mordin comes down with a cold, it's up to Shepard to take care of him. (Mordin/Femshep, ME2)

Mordin Solus sat on a light green medical bed, feeling deeply affronted by the situation he found himself in. Karin Chakwas had just finished taking his temperature after poking and prodding him very thoroughly. He recognized his own methods instantly and narrowed his eyes at her.

"You've got a cold, dear," she was saying to him, tutting as if he should know better than to ever catch one. She turned away and opened a cabinet. "I'm going to prescribe eleven milligrams of dextromethorphan and bed rest for the remainder of the day."

Her voice echoed kindly around him in the Normandy's medical bay. Too kindly, for how chilly the thermometer had been in his mouth and how sterile the lights above him were.

Mordin's eyes narrowed further.

And the bed squeaked as he shifted with annoyance. "No need," he said. "Well enough to keep working. Propagated a bacteria culture myself this morning. Bacillus ryskosis. Very interesting. " He took a breath, ignoring how the air scratched against his throat and how cold he felt. "Not contagious," he added with a smothered cough.

"Mordin," Shepard said, "I'm not letting anyone on this ship work when they're sick."

She was leaning against a counter nearby, watching everything with a troubled expression and her arms crossed. Her freckles had faded with pale concern, matching the cast of his own face.

Mordin's eyes fell back to normal at the sound of her voice. But he waved her concern away with a gesture of his hand that immediately retreated to cover another cough. There were endless things to do as the only research scientist on the Normandy. He had samples to cook, and more bacteria cultures to propagate. And, more importantly, the Collector database wasn't exactly going to analyze itself.

His mind raced through a fog as he thought about all of it. The simple truth of the matter was that he was brilliant and he was harried, and he had places to be that didn't involve inconveniences like sitting around in bed all day. So Chakwas and Shepard would just have to understand, despite the way they were both looking at him.

The bacillus ryskosis would also have to understand, despite its lack of a functioning neural network.

So Mordin stood up to leave, slipping past the combined protests of the human pair, hurrying until he was only a few feet away from the medical bay's entrance. But as his pace grew faster the world began to wobble in his vision, slowly turning sideways.

He took a painful, frustrated breath and immediately leaned against a counter to steady himself.

Shepard paled even further. Her face wobbled at the edge of his vision like everything else. "Is he really going to be all right?" she asked Chakwas.

"Oh, he'll be fine," Chakwas answered. "But doctors are absolutely terrible patients," she added. "I know because I'm one of the worst. He might need supervision to make sure he rests properly."

And then Chakwas gracefully held out the vial of liquid dextromethorphan to Mordin. He began debating under his breath if it was more embarrassing to take the vial or keep clutching the counter like he was enduring an earthquake.

He stared at the vial for a moment. "Would have prescribed four milligrams," he said, but took it.

"Only so you could keep working," Chakwas replied with a knowing smile. "Now, I'm assigning Shepard to make sure you get your rest. I'm sure you won't mind."

Mordin blinked down at the vial, then glanced at his free hand still clutching the edge of the counter. Chakwas obviously thought that she was sweetening the deal before she thoroughly knocked him out. But the truth was that it was very important to Mordin, lone research scientist of the Normandy SR-2, that Shepard didn't worry about him. He made a point of not letting her take care of him at all.

He wasn't concerned with himself, or the dust on his uniform and the long hours he kept. And if he could have just hidden in the lab and then come out again when he felt better, as bright and quick as usual, that would have been ideal.

He glanced uneasily at Shepard, who remained pale and watched him with fracturing patience. "I'll pull rank on you if you try to go back to work, Professor Solus," she said, lifting her chin slightly.

Mordin smiled a little at that despite himself. She never pulled rank on him about anything. "Understood, Commander," he said.

Chakwas nodded with approval. "Doctor's orders," she added. "You'll feel better when you wake up."

Mordin sniffed with an air of outnumbered dignity, then drank the medicine. It tasted like cherries.

Shepard smiled at him. "Come on," she said and helped him up.

Mordin's eyelid's wavered as she led him to the elevator. "You're going to take a hot bath," she was saying to him, with the same firm voice that she used to convince strangers to pour out their deepest secrets to her. "And then I'll bring you some tea. Gardner probably has some civvies in the storage deck that you can wear as pajamas until you feel better."

And as the elevator ascended Shepard unhooked his weapons, then his omni-tool, frowning while she thought about something. She paused for another moment, then reached up and took his silver audio-input device off of his shoulders. Mordin's eyes widened as she unceremoniously turned him around and yanked the entire thing from its place on his back.

Mordin glanced over his shoulder and down at her, trying not to smile and beginning to fail while she manhandled him. "Realize the subdued state might be tempting, Shepard," he said. He cleared his throat with a wince. "Try to restrain yourself."

Shepard raised an eyebrow at him, holding everything in her arms. "Excuse me?"

He couldn't help himself, not even with every word burning against his throat. He turned around again. "Intent to undress on full display," he explained, a little proudly. "Understandable, of course. Human hormone cycle. Attractive salarian pigmentation. Problematic considering the bacterial circumstances."

Shepard smirked and looked up at him through strands of red hair. "Mordin, I don't think you need to worry, " she said, almost teasingly. "I'm very good at not even trying to kiss you, remember?"

"Indeed," he agreed with a dip of his head. "The very best."

But, if Shepard was going to kiss anyone at all, it would have been him. Mordin felt a little smug about that. He was obviously her favorite.

And having her fuss over him wasn't as bad as he thought it would be, even in such a state. On the contrary, it was vaguely endearing. They entered her cabin. And after he took a long shower, breathing in hot steam and feeling a little regretful about the lost potential for the world of science that day, Mordin found himself in Shepard's bed wrapped in every warm blanket she had. The white jellyfish in her aquarium drifted like clouds nearby while she tucked him in.

Mordin said, "Worrying, Shepard. No need for it."

Her hands hesitated, clutching military issue gray wool. She looked embarrassed suddenly and pulled them away. "You're right," she said. "I don't ever know what to do when people get sick."

"Understandable," he replied. "Can't shoot a cold. Penchant for destruction mostly useless. Feelings of helplessness lead to irritation, lead to worry."

Shepard nodded. "My usual strategy is to drown people in omni-gel or find you and release an antidote into an H-VAC system, I guess."

He smiled at that. "Good strategy."

She patted his chest affectionately, and then stood up. Mordin watched her go until he was alone in the blankets with a click of the door sliding closed behind her. And it was in the silence, with nothing more than the gentle burble of the filters in the aquarium, that Mordin acknowledged how terrible he felt. His head pounded with pain and he felt vaguely dizzy. The medicine had yet to take effect.

The bacillus ryskosis was truly a villain, he thought. It would be prudent to eradicate it from the galaxy when he felt better. He glanced at the door again, wondering if Shepard would set aside funding for the endeavor. He knew she probably would.

He calculated the costs and then the equipment needed until she came back. And Shepard carried a steel teapot on a tray from the mess. She set it on the nightstand next to him and poured him a cup of tea. "How are you feeling?" she asked as she handed it to him.

Mordin held the hot cup carefully in his bare hands. He patted his throat with a finger.

Shepard frowned. "Still? Even with the medicine?"

He nodded. His throat felt like sandpaper, and he drank the tea in a single gulp.

Shepard sighed, then looked around the cabin. "Well, we should probably get you something to do so you don't go completely stir crazy. I don't have a vid screen in here, but I could get you some music or something."

Mordin looked down at the empty cup, tapped his finger on it. At any other time, he would have said yes to music. His thoughts were racing through his brain without distraction or outlet. But he shook his head, unsteadied by even the simple movement. Percussion would have ended him. Worse, he might be tempted to sing along.

Shepard took the cup from him and set it on the nightstand. She tucked the blanket over his shoulders again. "It's strange to see you so quiet," she murmured. "I don't think I've ever seen you just... not talk."

Mordin took a breath. "Don't like the silence," he managed to say, pushing through the pain and trying to hide his unease. "Troublesome. Lots of thoughts. Ideas. Regrets. Prefer to get them out during the day."

She glanced at him. "Does it work?"

Mordin tilted his head as he thought about it. Sometimes it worked.

Sometimes.

Shepard nodded at the unspoken answer and sat down at the edge of the bed. Mordin knew that she wasn't a stranger to being haunted by the past, if her own tendency toward a lack of sleep was any indication. "Do you want me to talk for a while so you don't have to?" she asked him.

He glanced at her in surprise. Shepard was more of a listener, in his experience.

His throat was already beginning to throb from the exertion of speaking at all. "Would enjoy that, actually," he still said.

Shepard smiled and said, "Do you care about the subject?"

Mordin shook his head, clearing his throat again. He shifted beneath the blankets and his hand slipped along his own bare side before he settled it on his stomach. Bare skin met bare skin, etched with lines. Mordin hesitated, thinking about it, and then left it there. It was an unusual sensation without the gloves.

And he felt as if he was sinking for a moment, lost in blankets and pajama pants and the waning relief of the hot tea. Vulnerability wasn't a feeling that he was used to, or enjoyed in the slightest.

"I wonder what I should talk about," Shepard said to herself. She settled next to him and distracted him with a shift of the mattress. Blankets began to accumulate around her while she tucked herself in with him. "I guess I could tell you about when I became a Spectre. You missed that part."

Mordin felt his interest pique and took his hand away from his stomach, settled it at his side again. And then Shepard, usually a quiet person in favor of listening to others, began to tell him about it. She leaned against his shoulder.

"The whole thing started when Nihlus boarded the Normandy. Joker thought he was really suspicious." She paused, frowned a little at the memory. "I agreed with him, even though I regret it now. I'd never met a Spectre before, didn't have much experience with turians. When we went to the Citadel I'd never even been to the Presidium before."

The warmth of the blankets combined with her voice and surrounded him. It was low, with a soft pitch of affection whenever she smiled at him.

Listening to her was soothing. And, halted by his own forced journey into silence, Mordin began to travel with Shepard's words, walking along the Presidium with her while she marveled at the lake and the embassies for the first time. She described the Council chambers to him, and then the restaurants full of executives and diplomats. And Shepard explained to him quietly, almost aimlessly, about a bar called Flux where a volus named Doran had taught her to dance. She laughed a little when she remembered it.

"He taught me all of my best moves," Shepard said, glancing at him with a dry smile that was very self-aware.

In the slowing fog of his thoughts, Mordin almost felt that he was looking out the windows of Flux with her. He had never been there. He supposed that the medicine was finally taking effect, stronger by the moment.

The watery lights of the wards trembled as he watched them, veiled by both of their reflections on the glass. "Will have to send a thank you note for the entertainment," he said.

Shepard raised an eyebrow. "Hey, No talking, Mister."

Mordin glanced over at her and smiled. "Apologies."

She shook her head a little but smiled up at him. Then she placed her hand over his mouth in the cabin, willing him into silence, and winked at him in Flux. "So," she continued, leading him toward the neon evening of the wards, "When we couldn't convince the Council that Saren had shot Nihlus, we went looking for clues."

Mordin closed his eyes and listened. Shepard led him through the alley and the firefight to save Tali, then headed to C-Sec where she pointed out the orange tinted trees that grew without sunlight. They stepped into an elevator where tinny music played on the speakers.

Mordin reached out as they ascended, unsteadied by the idea of percussion, and took Shepard's hand in the blankets.

And when he tried to open his eyes again, the cabin was made of dim shadows and the gentle noise of the aquarium mixing with her voice. It was soft and insubstantial. Mordin wasn't quite sure if Shepard was still talking, or if he was dreaming in broken fragments. He knew that he was still holding her hand.

He reached out, placing his other arm over her to anchor himself, cupping her shoulder. In the haze, her voice paused and then continued again.

"Mordin," she was saying quietly to him, "are you all right?"

He settled against her, with his head resting against her collarbone. He could hear her heart beating at eighty-one beats per second. He closed his eyes.

The jellyfish floated like clouds above the Presidium's lake while she continued the story.

And it was during the second Council meeting that Mordin fell completely asleep, holding onto Shepard beneath the blankets while he watched her in the growing crowd of the Council Chambers. Shepard stepped forward to become the first human Spectre in history, and Mordin finally lost the battle against the eleven grams of dextromethorphan.

He really would have prescribed four milligrams, he thought as he faded.

He relaxed completely and drifted to sleep. Here was Shepard's red hair, he thought as he did so. The smooth fabric of her shirt, pressed against his skin. The sound of very soft breathing that he had come, over time, to associate so closely with her presence. The smell of the tea on the nightstand.

And Shepard saved the Citadel while he slept next to her.

He knew that she would.

Mordin dreamt of clouds against a blue sky above red trees. And when he awoke a few hours later, he took a deep breath. The cabin greeted him with its firm and less medicated reality. He noted that the air didn't scratch against his throat anymore. It was a simple matter to dig himself out of the blankets and pillows and sit up. He didn't even feel dizzy.

"Salarian physiology," Mordin said to himself, feeling smug at the advantage. He would be able to go back to work now.

In fact, he remembered that it was just about time for the latest samples to be done cooking down in the lab. He moved to get out of the bed, theorizing that if he was quick enough he might even have time to create a few extra ocular flash-bang implants for the crew before evening. His uniform lay waiting for him, draped over the couch. He picked up the black and red undersuit, and then the dented armor stained with dust. He picked up the shoulder speaker.

But Mordin looked down at everything gathered up in his arms, then back to Shepard. She was fast asleep beneath the pile of blankets, breathing softly and steadily.

He hesitated as he watched her. Mordin had always been impressed that the various biological uncertainties and impossibilities that made up Shepard's existence could combine in such a way in private. She was a hurricane of precise, tactical violence out on the battlefield. She was kind on her ship, a little temperamental but still beautiful and intense. He had never been surprised that she was the first human Spectre, nor that someone would go to such lengths to save her from the fate of Alchera.

They must have missed her, he thought to himself. He would have. Shepard was, after all, very good at not even trying to kiss him.

But occasionally he would point to his cheek, leaning over in the lab, and she'd kiss him there. After all, if Mordin was ever going to kiss anyone at all, it would have been her.

And so he watched her for a moment, blinking slowly. Then he left the uniform with its dust on the couch and headed back to the bed. He sank into the blankets again and pressed his forehead against hers.

Shepard opened her eyes, still mostly asleep. "Mordin?" she said quietly.

Mordin wrapped his arms around her, smiled when she did the same. "A pleasant occupation," he began singing very softly to her, "for a rather susceptible professor..."

Doctor's orders, he decided.

[ladylynse]

@v01db1ad3​ and anyone else who wanted to see more of that SupernaturalxDoctor Who fic of mine-- I took two runs at the second chapter. The first one is the one I was going to run with, the second was the first possibility I’d considered.

Sam Winchester knew full well that Dean was heading back to Bobby’s, but he didn’t know what Dean planned to tell their friend. Bobby had sent them out to the site of the haunting, sure, since they were still in between leads when it came to figuring out how to stop the apocalypse. And because the house in question had quite a few flights of stairs, it meant he or Dean wouldn’t necessarily have heard if anyone else was poking his nose into the haunting. And if Bobby had heard that anyone else was interested, he wouldn’t have called them in.

But, Dean had a point. Bobby would know if the man was a hunter, though they both doubted that, and he would have a better idea than them as to what the guy might actually be, assuming he wasn’t simply an extremely eccentric human. As much as he hoped that that was the case, though, Sam doubted that it would be the case. Not with their luck, at any rate.

Of course, considering that the man was still unconscious, it would be just their luck if he was completely innocent and he managed to create some lawsuit around the injuries they’d caused him. That would be all they needed, on top of everything else. Henricksen may be dead, but that didn’t mean that the FBI didn’t care about them. They still had to watch it. That meant, essentially, that they shouldn’t be pulling stupid stunts like this.

“Do you even have a plan, Dean?” Sam finally asked.

“Course I do, Sammy,” came the chipper answer.

“A plan beyond driving to Bobby’s?” Sam clarified, not bothering to hide his doubt.

There was a pause. “Bobby’s got a safe room,” Dean finally said.

“So you’re planning on locking him up. Dean, what if you’re wrong? What the hell are you going to say to this guy?”

“Well, if he knows about the apocalypse,” Dean countered, “he ought to know that the world’s not all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows.”

Sam was sorely tempted to argue, but he couldn’t, not over this, not when they had to stick together to get through everything alive and in one piece. He could only hope that their passenger remained out cold. Considering the speed at which Dean was driving, it would be a short trip, but considering the music which Dean was blaring, remaining unconscious would probably be quite a feat.

When they did make it to Bobby’s without the man coming to, Sam had to wonder whether that was a good thing or not.

“What the hell do you two idjits think you’re doing?” Bobby demanded, seeing them manhandle the unconscious man out of their backseat and into his house. “Does it look like I have a flashing sign overhead reading ‘Hotel: Vacancy’?”

“We ran the basic tests,” Dean said, meaning they’d tried everything from holy water to silver. “But we needed to know if you recognized him.”

“As what?” Bobby asked bluntly.

“That’s what you need to tell us,” Dean replied, dropping the Doctor on the floor.

Bobby glanced at the man and moved his wheelchair forward for a closer look. He harrumphed when he noticed the goose egg on the side of the man’s head. “How long has he been out?”

“Entire trip,” Dean answered.

Sam still felt uneasy about that, so he continued, “But we need to know if you recognize him, Bobby. Do you know who he is?”

“Did you think I’d let you leave him on the floor if I knew who he was?” Bobby retorted, shaking his head. “Get him down to the safe room, since that’s obviously your plan, and then check him over and see if you did any permanent damage. He looks like you walloped him something good. And then see if you can find a wallet so you’ll know who we’re dealing with. We can check missing persons reports and work from there.”

Sam glanced at Dean, wondering when exactly he was going to tell Bobby Cas’s reaction, but Dean just picked the Doctor up under the arms again and looked pointedly at him. Sam grabbed the man’s feet and they hauled him down to the safe room. He looked him over while Dean went through the man’s pockets. As far as he could tell, they shouldn’t have done any lasting damage, but that meant that the man should’ve woken up by now.

“Man, this guy has a load of junk in here,” Dean said, pulling out a stethoscope. “How’d he even get it all in there?”

Sam ignored that. “Did you find any ID?”

“Nothing I’m inclined to trust,” Dean said, tossing a thin black wallet at him.

Sam caught it and opened it. “Driver’s licence? What’s suspicious about that?”

“C’mon,” Dean said. “Just look at it. John Smith? That just screams fake ID.” Sam raised his eyebrows, thinking of some of the names they’d used for their fake IDs, and Dean added, “He’s not carrying a passport. Why would he carry his driver’s licence and not his passport?”

Sam frowned and looked at the driver’s licence again. “This is from South Dakota,” he said. “He doesn’t need to be carrying a passport.”

“What?” Dean grabbed the wallet back from him, frowning. “There is something seriously freaky going on here,” he said, “because that was definitely not a South Dakota driver’s licence a minute ago.”

“Or maybe,” Sam said, taking the wallet back, “you’re just seeing what you want to see. Look, I get it. You want some reason to justify kidnapping him. But we haven’t ruled out that he’s not just another hunter.”

“Bobby doesn’t know him,” Dean said bluntly, as if that settled the matter.

“Yeah, but maybe he’s just getting started,” Sam reminded him. “Everyone has to start somewhere.”

Dean glowered at him but didn’t argue. “Fine. Have Bobby run the licence number. Let’s get what we can on this guy.”

“And, what, you’re just going to sit here and watch him?” Sam asked, both eyebrows rising now.

“He’s still got some stuff in his pockets,” Dean said. “I can feel them with my fingertips. I just can’t quite get at them.”

Sam glanced at the pile of stuff Dean had already extracted. “Seriously?

“I’ve seen weirder things than deep pockets,” Dean said. He glanced at the pile again, then picked up some sort of silver tool and handed it to Sam. “And see if Bobby knows what that thing is.”

Sam took it and turned it over in his hand. He pressed a button on the side and the blue tip lit up. “Fancy penlight?” he ventured. Dean gave him a look, and Sam gave him a different one in return. “And what if this is just a big mistake? What’re you going to do then?”

“It’s not a mistake,” Dean said.

“You sure about that?”

“He knows about the apocalypse,” Dean repeated. “If nothing else, we can find out how, and maybe he’ll lead us to something we missed. I—” Dean broke off, and shook his head. “Just go see what you and Bobby can find out about this guy.”

XXXXX

The Doctor moaned when he became aware of his aching head. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been in that split second before he’d blacked out, and he suspected that that was because his body had immediately decided to repair itself because he would’ve done more damage if he’d just gotten up and started going somewhere again, but—

Hold on.

He hadn’t moved. That was the point. He hadn’t moved.

But he didn’t have to open his eyes to know that he’d been moved. He was, for one, not sprawled uncomfortably over any amount of wooden steps.

This couldn’t be good.

This was getting to be dangerously close to becoming involved. No. Bad. No. He had to figure out where he was and get back to the TARDIS and get away from here. No finding out what that angel had meant by a storm building. Angels were like that. Cryptic. Pompous. Reminded him a bit too much of—

Still. Not getting involved. Whatever this was, whatever he’d been dragged—quite literally, he’d guess—into, he hadn’t been pulled deep enough that he couldn’t just be on his way and forget about it. Well, maybe not forget about it, but stand aside and let it happen, like he should. This wasn’t his war. He didn’t have to fight. He could all too easily end up leading them down the wrong path if he tried, and he wasn’t about to let that happen. So, no. Not getting involved. He should leave. Leaving would be a good idea. Yes, leaving. Now. Right now.

The Doctor sat up and opened his eyes, and then decided he’d probably have to leave a little later than right now.

“Dean, wasn’t it?” he asked, looking at the man who was sitting on a chair in front of the door, blocking his exit. Not that his exit could have been particularly swift, anyway, seeing as he could spot a fair portion of his belongings scattered on a pile on the floor. And the fact that the door was closed, and quite possibly locked, and he couldn’t see his sonic screwdriver in the pile, meaning that they’d taken it. He risked a glance upwards, noted the fan and the design of the grating, and then took a better look around him. There wasn’t much here in terms of all the comforts of home, but it would be adequate, he supposed, for a while. But the curious thing was all the different sorts of symbols that seemed to be everywhere, and what they meant.

Well, at least it told him that the humans definitely had a good start when it came to handling most of the supernatural things they came across.

Trouble was, a good start wasn’t always good enough.

They’d dealt with the haunting, though. Maybe not in the same way he would’ve, but their method had, most certainly, been effective and, clearly, practiced. These two were experienced. They probably dealt with the unexpected nearly as often as he did.

Unfortunately, that would probably make them a good deal harder to fool.

“You thirsty?” Dean asked, apparently choosing to ignore the Doctor’s question since the answer was obvious. He offered the Doctor a flask.

The Doctor eyed it warily, looked back at the man, and decided it was in his best interest to have some. “Yes, thank you,” he said, taking it. He sniffed it first, then tasted it, but couldn’t detect anything harmful, so he took a few swallows and handed the flask back. Expensive flask, though. Looked like it was made out of silver.

Dean muttered something, but capped the flask and put it away. “So what were you really doing?”

The Doctor knew what he meant. “I told you before,” he said. “I was watching, that’s all.”

“What the hell for?” Dean demanded.

The Doctor figured now was not the time to try lying through his teeth. He was rather rubbish at it in this regeneration. Sometimes he could get it, yes, but those times seemed to be a lot rarer than they had been in previous regenerations. “I just wanted to get an idea of how you handled things like that,” he answered. “Really. Nothing else.”

“Why?”

“Because, like I said before, things seem to be on the path that’s going to greet the coming apocalypse, and I wanted to know how people like you were going to handle that.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “People like me,” he retorted, “are doing our best to stop it. What about people like you?”

The Doctor swallowed. “There aren’t any other people like me.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah? Then what’s your plan, Smith?”

Oh. They’d found his psychic paper. He wondered what it had said. “I’d rather you just called me the Doctor,” he said.

“And I’d rather we weren’t heading for the freaking apocalypse,” Dean shot back. “How’d you find out about it?”

The Doctor shrugged. “I noticed the signs. Didn’t take much to put it together.” He saw Dean’s suspicious look and added, “I can’t be the only one who’s figured it out, can I? You know about it, after all.” Dean mumbled something, and this time the Doctor caught it. “You what?” he asked, astounded. He’d known two brothers had, collectively, started the apocalypse. He hadn’t known that it was these two, specifically. Bit thick of him, really. Should’ve realized that the minute the angel turned up. Especially because the angel was the thing that made him know, without any doubt, that these two particular hunters of the supernatural had known about the apocalypse. Not that he didn’t think others didn’t know. If they were clever enough, they’d be able to put two and two together, too. But he still didn’t know the whole story, didn’t know how much everyone knew, and he wasn’t confident enough, this time, to act before he knew more than he did.

“You heard me,” Dean said. “So, yeah. Does that change your plans any, Doctor?”

The Doctor blinked at him, rather startled by how Dean had snarled his name. Evidently his first impression hadn’t been the best one. “No, I just…. I didn’t expect it, that’s all. Hadn’t thought it was you two I’d dropped in on.” He paused. That…was not good. Well, not good in terms of him trying not to get involved, because apparently he was more involved now than he’d thought. “I have to go.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“Away,” the Doctor answered. “Well, back to wherever we came from and then away. Doesn’t matter where, so long as it’s not here.”

“And why’s that?”

“It’s like the angel said,” the Doctor told him. “Cas, I think you called him. I’m not supposed to be here.” He frowned. “No, wait, that’s not what he said, was it? He said that I wasn’t supposed to be here. Not that I’m not supposed to be here.”

“And there’s a difference in that?” Dean asked, looking like he very much doubted it.

“Oh, yes,” the Doctor replied quietly. “A very important one. But, thing is, there shouldn’t be. It should be, plain and simple, that I’m not supposed to be here, never was, never will. But from the sounds of things, that…changes.”

“Well, that’s just fine and dandy, isn’t it?” Dean commented, settling back in his chair. “Means you’ll have plenty of time to answer questions, now that you are supposed to be here.”

“What?” the Doctor gaped at him. “No, no, no, you’ve still got it wrong. I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Yeah, and you just said that changes, so now you are supposed to be here, and while you’re here, you can answer a few questions.”

“What?” the Doctor repeated. “No, regardless, I can’t, not any more than I already have. I’ve got to go. I really should not get involved. I can’t. I just…can’t.” He started to shove his belongings back into his various pockets. “If you could just fetch the rest of my things, I’ll be going.”

“I don’t think so.”

The Doctor glanced at Dean again, not liking his tone. “And why not?” he asked.

“Because I’m calling the shots, not you, and you know more than you’re telling.”

And this was the other option for that second chapter:

“Dean, where are you planning on going?” Sam finally asked. He shot a nervous glance at their passenger in the backseat, who was currently trussed up and gagged and still unconscious. At least he’d managed to stop Dean from shoving the man in the trunk, but he had to wonder exactly how hard the man had hit his head.

“Anywhere but here,” Dean answered. “I want to put some distance between us and Cas’s storm.”

“But we have no idea what he meant. It’s probably not actually a storm.”

“No, but I’m not going to bother taking a chance, because our luck hasn’t been the greatest lately, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Dean, I’m not stupid. What the hell were you thinking back there? I mean, he’s a bit weird, sure, but so are we, when you compare us to people with normal lives! That’s no reason to kidnap him.”

“He knew about the apocalypse.”

“Yeah, and he wouldn’t be the first person to find out about it in one way or another.”

“But he knew we were trying to stop it.”

“Anyone in their right mind would try to stop it!”

“Well, I didn’t get the impression he was, did you?”

“Cut the crap, Dean. You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying to you.”

“Well, you’re not telling me everything.”

“I don’t have to.”

“Dean—”

“I’m serious, Sammy. It’s for your own protection.”

“What? Come on. You can’t—”

“Look, I didn’t want to kill him, but I didn’t want him to get away, either. I need to get some answers out of him.”

“Yeah, and shooting someone and kidnapping them is always the best way to go about that.”

“You don’t understand, Sam.”

“So tell me, Dean. What the hell is going on? What is it with this guy?”

Dean drove on in stubborn silence. Sam didn’t think he was going to relent, but finally he did. “Dad was on this hunting trip, back in ’86. Tracking down a werewolf in Craven, Indiana. Freaking thing didn’t act like a werewolf, though. Smarter than they usually are, too, Dad said. Switched up the victims a bit, didn’t take them from the same places. Didn’t even always take the hearts. Dad wouldn’t’ve known for sure if he hadn’t seen the freaking thing change.”

“What? Dean, they—”

“And then,” Dean continued loudly, “this lunatic comes along and starts interfering, nearly getting Dad and him torn to pieces, babbling on like they should’ve locked him up and thrown away the key, but then he does something, and then the thing’s gone before Dad can even kill it.”

“What, and you think this is the same guy?”

“Description fits.”

“Dude, it’s been over twenty years.”

“Yeah? Well, if the guy is what I think he is, twenty years isn’t much more than twenty days to either of us. Maybe even twenty minutes.”

Sam stared at his brother, and the realization clicked into place. He groaned. “Tell me you’re not thinking—”

“If the shoe fits.”

“Then how is seriously pissing him off going to help matters?”

“He’s different from the rest of them,” Dean countered, avoiding Sam’s question. “I want to know why.”

“Dean, if we don’t know for sure—”

There was a muffled groan from the back. Sam glanced over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. “Great.”

“Well, if you would’ve let me lock him in the trunk—”

“Just pull off up there,” Sam interrupted. “We can find someplace a little less exposed for this confrontation. He’s still groggy, but he won’t be for long.”

A few minutes later, they were facing a suspiciously clear pair of brown eyes that regarded them—and the gun that was pointed at their owner—with something that bordered mild interest and something else that Sam couldn’t quite pinpoint. Still, as the Doctor was securely tied to a tree, Sam removed his gag.

“Thank you,” the Doctor said. “Mouth’s a bit dry, though. Do you have any water?”

“What are you?” Dean demanded, finger on the trigger. He’d flicked the safety off long before.

“Right now,” the Doctor replied, wincing a bit, “sore. You wouldn’t happen to have a bit of ice, would you? I think I’ve got a very nasty bump on my head.”

“Stop playing games. Who the hell are you? How do you know about the apocalypse?”

“Well,” the Doctor started, drawing out the word, “I did tell you who I was, and that hasn’t changed. And as for the apocalypse, well, I’m not exactly the only one who knows about it, am I? It’s all right there, if you connect the dots.”

“Then maybe explain how the hell you know about us.”

“And what makes you think I know about you?” the Doctor asked, entirely too cheerily for a man tied up and facing the barrel of a gun.

“The fact that you screwed up Dad’s hunt a few years ago,” Dean snapped. “John Winchester,” he added, seeing the Doctor’s face. Sam almost hoped the man would gape at them and ask what they were going on about.

He might have preferred that to the response they received.

“Oh.” The Doctor’s forehead wrinkled. “Right. But it’s been more than a few years, hasn’t it, for you? I mean, that’s the thing that alerted me to this mess in the first place, once I ran into your father when he was going after something he really didn’t know anything about. But I was curious as to why he’d gone after it in the first place, so I started looking into things, and then I realized precisely how delicate everything is. I don’t particularly fancy going in without knowing anything, since things do tend to turn sour before I can right them, and all too often people die when that happens, so I was just trying to get some more information before I go in so I don’t muss things up. And I’ve told people this loads of times, and they never listen, so all I’m trying to do is take my own advice. I know when to stop, sometimes, at least when it comes to this sort of thing. Usually. I mean, I can learn, can’t I? But I was trying. I was intending to, before you went and shot me and kidnapped me. But I wasn’t out long, was I? How far did we get? Because I need you to take me back there, right now.”

“So that was you Dad ran into?” Sam asked, just for it to be confirmed.

“Seems like,” the Doctor agreed, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

“Then do you want to tell me what some nine hundred year old he-witch wants with us?” Dean hissed.

The Doctor blinked at him. “I wasn’t talking in my sleep, was I? Because even if I was, you’re still jumping to conclusions. I’m not a warlock. I haven’t even met a real one yet. Wouldn’t even say they are real, except that I think you might have met one, judging from that comment, and I’ve come across enough impossible things in all my years to believe that I could miss something like that, even if I don’t like to admit it.”

“Then explain yourself,” Sam said, crossing his arms and looking at the Doctor. The man could very easily be lying, but Dean had certainly been right about one thing—the Doctor most certainly wasn’t some poor sod caught up in something he didn’t understand.

The Doctor sighed. “I’m a time traveller, all right? Finding that alien werewolf your father was hunting—I just did that, not two days ago. I hadn’t meant to run into anyone. I was just tracking it down before it muddled up your history. I gave it the choice, the chance to leave, the offer to take it away somewhere where it wouldn’t hurt anything, but that didn’t end so well.” He looked mournful for a moment. “No one ever seems to take me up on it, and I do mean it, every time. I do.” His face hardened again as he added, “But they know that what happens after they refuse is on their heads.”

He twisted a bit in his bonds, as if trying to see if he could wriggle out of them. But there was no chance of that, of course. The Doctor was operating on a futile hope. After a moment, he continued, “I had a very interesting conversation with your father,” he admitted. “And I saw something, too, just behind the eyes. He’d had his memory wiped at some point. Now, you know as well as I do that that’s not the work of humans, not in this day and age. So I started investigating. And then I realized what was going on right under my nose.” He frowned. “It’s funny, you know. I seem to find something wrong every single time I land in America. Never something this big, though. Well,” he added, reconsidering, “that’s not quite true. But the universe survived into the 21st Century, didn’t it? Time didn’t collapse into itself. That time it was partially my fault, though. And this time, it wasn’t. Not even indirectly. So, technically, I shouldn’t lift a finger to stop it. Hence me not being involved.”

“You can stop this?” Sam asked immediately, uncrossing his arms. Dean, on the other hand, seemed to expect the worse; his expression hardened.

“No,” the Doctor said. “I can’t. Even if I wanted to. I have to let things play out. I was just curious. I wanted to know what really happened. But I also wanted to reassure myself that you lot could handle it. I didn’t trust myself to track down a confrontation with a demon or two. For one, they might realize who I am, and for another, I don’t know if I would be able to walk away without stopping whatever they were doing. And I don’t know enough about the paths that can be taken for this to play out correctly for me to walk into something like that and be able to walk out again without changing it. I don’t go places to muck about in history. If I’m not popping in for a visit or a bit of fun, I’m trying to stop something terrible from happening and correcting the timeline. And it’s not so simple as looking. Never is that simple, no matter what you think. So far, I can only discern three paths, and don’t ask me what they are, because I can’t tell you. Thing is, though,” the Doctor added, changing the subject. “Your angel friend. What was his name again?”

“Castiel,” Dean replied.

“Castiel,” the Doctor repeated. “Castiel. No, I don’t remember him. Haven’t run into him before. But, yes. This Castiel isn’t exactly walking the straight and narrow, is he?”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked slowly, studying him.

“Let’s just say I’m not the most popular person with those angels of yours,” the Doctor responded. “He…should have known more than he did. Or, if he did know, he would have done something else. They aren’t exactly the most pleased with me, after that chat I had with Gabriel all those years back. I might’ve come off sounding a bit…supportive. Encouraging. Well. Not exactly. Just…it’s sort of hard to…discourage something you’ve….” He trailed off, clearing his throat. “Still. Done now.”

“Gabriel?” Sam repeated. “Gabriel, as in the archangel Gabriel?”

“Oh, yeah,” the Doctor confirmed. “And, well, he’s still around now, I expect. Granted, it has been a while since I ran into him, for both of us. Not as long for me personally, I expect, since unless he’s been jumping about, it’s been a few thousand years, linear time.” He pulled a face for a moment. “Funny fellow. Liked to have a good laugh. Bit of a practical joker. But that was just his way of…. But, yeah, during that conversation of ours, mentioning this and that, I might’ve given him the idea for the whole….” The Doctor trailed off, frowning. “Then again. What’s the date?”

“What’s it matter to you,” Dean asked testily, “if you’re not going to do anything anyway?”

“It always matters,” the Doctor replied evenly. “Always. I can have all the time in the world or I can have none at all, depending on the situation, so, yes, the date matters.”

“March 18,” Sam answered finally. The Doctor raised his eyebrows and continued to look at him, and he added, “2010.”

“2010,” the Doctor repeated. “Yes. It does smell like it, doesn’t it? But do you want to know what it isn’t, this year? It’s not the end of the world, oh, no. I’ve been there. This year is not meant to be the end of the world. And, as I understand it, you two have to ensure that.”

“And why is it always on us?” Dean demanded angrily. “Why do we have to do it? Why do we have to lose everything and everyone?”

“You still have each other,” the Doctor pointed out quietly.

“Yeah, but for how long?” Dean asked, finally flicking the safety back on the gun and putting it aside. “We manage to hold out for a year, then? And in 2011, the world ends? And it’s all our fault? If you’re a time traveller, tell me why we have to do this. Out of everyone else on this planet, why us? Why do we have to do everything?”

“Did you think,” the Doctor asked softly, “that you were the only ones to ever face those decisions? The only ones to ever hold the fate of a world in your hands? The only ones to ever desperately search for another solution because the proposed one is too terrible to consider? The only ones? Ever? In all of time and all of space?”

BONUS (AKA the way I almost started this fic, diverging from the Doctor’s thoughts at the start of the fic):

Sometimes, it really was better if he just stepped back to observe something.

And that wasn’t something he liked to admit.

But he was afraid that if he got involved, he wouldn’t know when to stop.

Donna had been right. Observant, her. She’d been right all along.

And look where it had gotten her, thanks to him.

Still, if he was going to observe, it didn’t mean he had to do it from the sidelines. Granted, he was quickly gaining evidence as to why he should have done it from the sidelines, but a bit of practical experience never hurt anyone. Well. Not usually. Well. Least not him. Except for that one time, but he didn’t like to count that. Really, how was he to know that if you simply—

“Dammit, man, are you deaf and blind? Run!”

Right. More pressing matters. Practical, hands-on observation, that was him. And he was terribly good at running. Practice. Plenty of it. Loads. Tons of practical experience. Which happened to be coming in quite handy now.

“This is brilliant,” he breathed, glancing over his shoulder at their pursuer. “Never met an actual ghost before. Well, didn’t really think they…. Well, I mean, you can’t say that the Gelth—”

“Shove it,” the man snapped. He rounded the corner, nearly skidding into the manifestation again. “Shit.” It stood between him and what the Doctor assumed was a safe house of sorts, even if it did just appear to be an old storage shack, seeing as it was surrounded by what looked like a rather large circle of salt. The man fired at the manifestation, but it vanished and appeared beside him, leering at him. The Doctor watched with interest.

“Get moving,” the man shouted. “Get behind the salt line. Don’t ask questions. Move!”

“Right, right, yes.” The Doctor stepped over the line as the man continued to battle the manifestation. He’d lost his shotgun now. Not that the Doctor approved, because a gun was a gun whether or not it was sawed off, but it had been his only weapon. At least, that’s what he’d thought until the man snatched up a rod from the ground and took a swing at the ghost. It vanished when touched, reappearing in another spot. “Need some help?”

The man grunted, but didn’t answer the Doctor. “Dammit, Sammy, hurry it up,” he muttered.

“Is it gone yet, mister?”

The Doctor looked down; the voice had come from somewhere in the vicinity of his left elbow, just behind the entrance to the shack. “Oh, hello,” he said, turning around and crouching down to look at the boy who cowered in the shadow. “What’s your name?”

“Timothy,” the boy replied. “What’s yours?

“Ah, Tim-Timothy-Tim, hello! I’m the Doctor.” He looked over his shoulder, but the man was still battling with the ghost. “And it’s not gone yet, Timmy, but you see that man there? He’s going to get rid of it for you. No more nightmares.”

“You’re not the man he was with before,” Timothy pointed out. “Where’s he?”

“I don’t know,” the Doctor replied cheerfully. “How say I find out, eh? But first, you tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Hiding,” the boy answered. “He told me to hide.”

“Oh? And where’s your family? Why aren’t you with them?”

“I ran away,” Timothy answered softly. “They didn’t want me any more.”

“Oh, I don’t think….” The Doctor trailed off as he got a better look at the lad. “Well. Surely you’ve got grandparents…cousins….” But the boy was shaking his head, and the Doctor didn’t have the heart to go on. Humans. Brilliant, or terrifying. Sometimes both. “Tell you what; I’ll help you find a nice home to go to until we can sort out—”

The man slammed into the wall of the shack, knocked unconscious by the blow. The Doctor lost his footing and slipped backwards, one elbow breaking the salt line. The manifestation was suddenly there, looming over them. And before the Doctor could so much as reach for his sonic screwdriver, the ghost had reached the child.

And the Doctor wished he didn’t care so much about not crossing his own timeline, about messing about with events that way, but he didn’t know, now, whether or not poor Tim was supposed to die then and there or if it was his fault. For all he didn’t really believe in the lore with the salt and such, others clearly did, and he knew the power a belief could hold. It held its power here. So when he’d broken the protection, he’d cost the child his life.

The Doctor watched in silence as the ghost burned up, knowing with heavy hearts that it was too late. He couldn’t get close to anyone anymore without harming them. He was right not to travel with someone now. He should have seen it earlier. He should have stopped before. But he was selfish. He’d wanted the company.

He didn’t want to be alone.

“Dude, did you get the number of that bus?” the man on his right groaned. The Doctor looked over at him. He should go. He should really go. He didn’t want to get involved. He hadn’t meant to. Observation. That’s all he’d come for. Just some observation.

Still. The man was hurt. And he couldn’t walk away from that, resolution or not. And it wasn’t like he was completely ignorant in human medicine; couldn’t have that, not when he travelled with them all the time. Had travelled with them all the time.

“Easy there,” he said, reaching in his pocket for his stethoscope. “You’ll have a nasty bump on your head after that one. Calling it a goose egg won’t do it justice.”

“What the hell happened?” The man opened his eyes and focused on him. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m the Doctor,” the Doctor replied, thinking that perhaps he oughtn’t get his sonic screwdriver out and scan the man now that he was fully conscious. Seeing as what he’d been after, he might not take kindly to it. He fitted the stethoscope into his ears instead, listening to the man’s heart.

The man opened his mouth to snap out some retort, but was interrupted by someone else. “Dean?” came the call. “You coming or not? Have you got the kid?”

The man—Dean, the Doctor surmised—bolted upright. “Where is that kid?” he asked, looking around. His eyes found the body. “Shit.”

The Doctor pocketed his stethoscope. “I wasn’t fast enough,” he said softly. “I couldn’t save him.”

Dean looked at him grimly. He’d seen far too much death for his age, the Doctor figured. He was already hardened to it. “Forget it. You can go back to your own life and pretend none of this happened, Doc. Everyone else does.”

“You don’t,” the Doctor pointed out.

“Dude, it’s my job. I’m crazy enough to do this all the time. Forget it. You wouldn’t understand.” “Well. I’d like to think that I know a bit more about fighting monsters than the average person on the street,” the Doctor said, getting to his feet. He offered Dean a hand, but the man didn’t take it, pulling himself to his feet on his own.

“Fine. You think that. Just don’t go provoking any more of the things in the dark, got that? Leave it to someone who knows what they’re doing.”

The Doctor blinked in surprise. “Hold on, you think I’m the reason the ghost started haunting people again?”

“Well, it was pissed before I showed up, and it sure wasn’t little orphan Annie who did it,” Dean replied evenly. “And you didn’t seem all that surprised to see it.”

“But…I…what…no!” The Doctor shook his head. “I didn’t do anything. I was just watching, I swear. Promised myself that I wouldn’t get involved and for once, I didn’t.” He paused. “Well, until now. But I can still uninvolved myself, so I’m not inclined to count that.”

“Dean?”

“Back here, Sam,” Dean yelled back. He glared at the Doctor. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you better stop meddling with things you don’t understand, got that?”

“But I’ll never understand them unless I meddle!” the Doctor exclaimed. Then he frowned. “Wait, that didn’t come out right. I’ll never understand….” He trailed off and shook his head. “Look, I didn’t do anything to cause that manifestation to want to harm me. It’d’ve gone after me if I had, wouldn’t it?” Without giving Dean a chance to reply, the Doctor pressed on, “And, see, I’m fine. Not a scratch on me. It didn’t want revenge on me, so clearly—”

“So you’re blaming the kid.”

“Yes. Wait! No! No!” The Doctor groaned. “No, I’m not blaming Tim. I’m just saying that he probably happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

[babineni]

awakened/fooled

My take on the first encounter between Atton and my Exile, Illa, on Peragus.

Warning: it’s from Atton’s POV so... PTSD mention, I guess? Also it’s longer and probably worse than I thought it would turn out and I haven’t exactly proofread it so read it at your own risk

Atton wasn’t sure how long it’s been since he has seen anyone. At first he thought that the miners of the Peragus facility simply switched to more drastic interrogation methods and at some point they’d show up with a nicely packed tray and some questions. But they didn’t show up. And they didn’t respond to his shouts either. The scoundrel only heard a few things since he got locked up: some droids, some screams, some explosions, but even those sounds stopped after a while. He had nothing to listen to except for the buzzing of the force field, the sizzling of the force cage around him and his own thoughts.

Or at least, that’s what he had until the force field turned off.

Atton turned to face whoever came to rescue him. Or kill him. If he had to be honest with himself, a part of Atton wasn’t even entirely convinced that this wasn’t some elaborate trick his starved and thirsting mind was playing on him. Once the door opened, he became even less convinced.

She couldn’t have been real. The woman standing in the doorway wore nothing but her underwear. She held on to her vibroblade loosely but with confidence. She looked at Atton with curiosity and relief, not with the scorn the scoundrel has grown used to in the last few days. He couldn’t guess the color of her eyes through the lights of the force cage and yet, something about those eyes reminded him of hyperspace. Of flying. The woman had her hair gathered on one side, revealing the curve of her neck on the other. Her light, slightly damp hair was flowing down over her shoulder, reaching below her breast. Half-dried kolto stuck some of the strands to her skin, which was littered with old, barely visible scars. Her body was built for speed and endurance, but Atton could also tell that she could swing that vibroblade with power. That she was a fighter, maybe a survivor, even. It has been long since the last time he has seen a woman like her. Which is why he found her haunting in a way. But at the same time, her presence also comforted him.

The woman took a few steps closer to him and Atton soon realized that he wasn’t imagining her. The realization stunned him for a split second, but once the initial shock passed, he also realized that this woman might’ve needed saving as much as he did – and chances were, she deserved it more than he did.

‘Nice outfit…’ he called out to her, trying to mask his thoughts with a cheeky tone ‘what? You miners changed regulation uniforms while I wasn’t looking?’

‘You’re not one of the miners, I take it?’ she said, ignoring Atton’s attempt at flirting.

‘Nope… and I guess, neither are you.’

‘No,’ the woman shook her head. ‘How did you manage to end up in there?’ she pointed at the force cage with her blade.

‘Oldest story in the book: I broke one security regulation or another. But in my defense, these regulations are crazy. I tried explaining that to the miners as well. Before they stopped feeding me, I mean.’

‘Oh. I think I found a holorecord on that… and on mining extremely reactive fuel,’ the woman went to the console controlling the cage and stood her blade against its side, ‘they were right to worry, if you ask me,’ she said as she tried to slice the console. ‘But jailing you was a bit of an overreaction too, I suppose.’

‘That’s what I’ve told ‘em too,’ Atton chuckled while he watched her learn her way around the cell’s systems, ‘glad to finally meet someone who knows how to listen.’

‘If you knew how seldom I hear that,’ she sighed the words into the empty air, then turned off the force cage with a few button presses.

Atton stepped out of the cage and stretched for a moment. He tried shaking the soreness in his legs off as he made his way to his rescuer’s side.

‘I’m Atton, by the way. Atton Rand,’ he offered his hand with a smile.

‘Illa Vehn. A pleasure to meet you, though I wish it was under different circumstances,’ her handshake was gentle and firm. Atton liked the warmth of her hand against his. But her name… he knew he heard it somewhere before, but he couldn’t remember where or when. Somehow he got the feeling that it was for the best, that it was better to just enjoy her touch and to get lost in the details of her face.

‘Illa…’ Atton said, testing the feel of her name on his lips, as he reluctantly let go of her ‘not to sound ungrateful, but care to explain what’s going on here?’

Illa shrugged. ‘There’s not much I could tell you. All I found out was that the droids have been reprogrammed to kill the miners. And then I found you. Actually, I was hoping you would answer me that very same question.’

‘The miners are dead? All of them?’ Atton didn’t have any particularly positive memories about his captors but he didn’t wish death on them, especially not at the hands of a bunch of droids.

‘I don’t know, I couldn’t reach the other levels of the facility. But on this level…? Yes, everyone’s gone. I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry? I wasn’t exactly friends with them,’ the scoundrel reached back to rub a sore spot on his neck.

‘I know, but dealing with death is never easy, especially when there’s so much of it at once,’ Illa sounded tired all of a sudden. Almost as if her words carried the weight of her own experiences with death.

‘I’m fine,’ Atton lied, but it wasn’t the miners’ fate that disturbed him. It was the show of sympathy. It was the unconditional kindness expressed towards him. It was the fear, the guilt and the hatred she evoked in him. ‘What about you? Are you alright?’ he asked hoping that the answer would give him a reason to think of… anything else.

‘I… yes, I’m starting to feel alright,’ Illa seemed surprised by the question, ‘I’m a bit disoriented, that’s all.’

‘Then I guess, we should see if we can reach anyone on the-‘ Atton turned to leave the cell but he felt his forearm being grabbed.

‘Not so fast,’ Illa said, ‘you’ve been in that cage for who knows how long without food or water. The med bay is not that far, I want to make sure you’re alright.’

‘I told you. I’m fine,’ the scoundrel peeled her fingers off him.

‘I’ve heard you the first time, but I don’t think it would do any of us any good if you passed out from dehydration. Please.’

Atton couldn’t tell if he found Illa’s insistence annoying or sweet. Regardless, he felt he… couldn’t say no to her.

‘Fair enough. If you don’t think it’s a waste of time…’

‘It’s not. Besides, I think there are a few things that I’ve missed when I’ve been there,’ Illa picked up her blade and set off. The scoundrel took a moment to admire her posterior but then he quickly caught up with her. He noticed how strangely she walked, how heavy her steps were and yet she still moved swiftly. He even had to spring a little to reach her.

‘What exactly do you think you’ll find there?’ Atton asked, eyeing the droids that Illa neutralized through either reprogramming or simply scrapping.

‘I don’t know. The patients were dead too but I didn’t look through the consoles thoroughly enough,’ Illa’s answer also sounded like a scolding directed at herself. ‘I’m sure, if I look again, I’ll find some hint at who might have done this.’

‘What about the-‘ Atton stopped before he could finish his question. Illa stopped as well a few paces ahead of him and turned back with a questioning look. As the scoundrel looked at her, things started to make sense to him. He remembered the miners talking about an unconscious Jedi being treated in the med bay. He remembered when the local leadership refused to sell her to the Exchange. But other memories also resurfaced: memories that were older and a lot more painful. ‘Shit… you’re her, aren’t you? You’re a Jedi.’

The look on Illa’s face barely shifted and yet, for a moment, Atton could’ve sworn he glimpsed the agony of the whole galaxy condensed in her. She looked away from him, trying to compose herself.

‘I haven’t been one for a long time,’ she said, turning back to him, ‘but yes, I’m her. I hope it won’t be a problem.’

‘You hope it won’t be a problem?! It caused all of this! You caused all of this!’ Atton snapped at the… Jedi. He should have seen her for what she was the second she set foot in his cell. Instead he turned a blind eye to all the signs and allowed himself to feel… something for her.

‘I know,’ Illa sighed apologetically, then continued on her way to the med bay.

The scoundrel’s heart sank. He cursed the Jedi and their hypocritical ways of sacrifice and responsibility. He cursed Illa for actually believing in them. He cursed himself for being unable to get mad at her, for being unable to channel the hatred in him towards her. He cursed whomever it was that had him stuck on a planet-sized minefield with her. The situation, his emotions, everything seemed like a cruel joke played on the two of them.

Atton knew his outburst didn’t help either.

Illa was already busy with the consoles when Atton reached the med bay. He approached her more awkwardly than he would have liked. The Jedi, however, still looked at him with tenderness.

‘I… I’m sorry,’ Atton said, ‘I shouldn’t have said that. It was really unfair to you.’

Illa smiled as an answer. ‘Consider it forgotten.’ She used a console to open a door right behind her. ‘According to the requisition and treatment logs, there should be still plenty of medpacs left,’ she entered the small room and looked around the containers, ‘as well as some emergency rations,’ the Jedi picked up a bottle of water from a cylinder and tossed it to Atton. ‘Help yourself,’ she said as she watched the scoundrel catch the bottle with ease.

Atton made his way to the container while Illa made hers back to the console. He carefully took a sip out of the bottle, enjoying the touch of water against his lips, then emptied the bottle in merely seconds. He picked out an energy bar from the cylinder that was sticky from all the sugar and still tasted mostly like yeast, but Atton quickly finished it as well. Then he took another bottle of water, and closed the cylinder so he could sit on it. This time he drank slower, savoring each drop as he watched Illa from afar. He imagined each sip as another kiss he wanted to leave on her body, on her old scars and on the ones she hasn’t received yet.

It was a painful duality he felt for her: he was mesmerized by her, every instinct he had told him to help her, to protect her, but at the same time he couldn’t help but feel gripped by fear and self-hatred around her. That was part of how Atton knew he felt more than lust. He was familiar with lust, once he could use it like it was a shield or turn it on like a stealth field generator. Love was different: it hurt, it exposed him, it was beyond his control. All he could do was making sure that this time things would end differently for the two of them.

Atton decided to play along with the foolish joke played on him. He rejoined Illa at the console and a part of him almost wished she really was a dream like he first thought.

[minijenn]

Swap Mable ❄️ and Swap Dipper 🍳? (Couldn't resist!)

(Frostbitten for Mabel, Fried for Dipper) (Decided to setthis in the context of what would be the Swap version of Wanted, only sort ofan AU of it in which the twins end up going to Homeworld alone and they don’tend up escaping from the Diamonds. Which leads to Yellow and Pink taking outtheir fury about what happened to Blue Diamond on them, which leads to a…pretty sadistic and messed up form of punishment… Either way, I couldn’t stopthinking about this idea, so here it is! Enjoy the IMMENSE amounts of CrystalTwins angst in this!)

Mabel shivered for what seemed like the thousandth time,biting back what would have been a scream of agony as she pressed her hand toher practically frozen leg and paid no mind to the hissing steam that rose upas a result. In truth, she had never really had to deal with genuine frostbitelike this before, even despite having a brother who could freeze over an entirebuilding if he really wanted to. Usually, her and Dipper equalized each otherquite nicely when it came to their powers, to the point that neither of themwere ever really that effected by them. But the Diamonds hadn’t let themequalize each other this time; instead, they had forced them to break past whateverboundaries usually kept them safe, forced them to use the full force of theirelemental powers on each other, forced them to wound each other in ways morepainful than anything any Homeworld soldier could have possibly inflicted uponthem.

At the abrupt conclusion of their disorderly trial, it hadbeen clear that Yellow Diamond had lost her patience. Her violentdecommissioning of both the prosecuting and defense Zircons had been one thing,but in her uncontrollable fury at being accused of Blue Diamond’s demise, shehad managed to halt what would have been the twins’ only chance at escapebefore their plan could even be put into action. While Pink Diamond hadimplored her to calm herself, to be more rational and focus on seeking outanswers instead, the yellow matriarch had staunchly refused, fiercelyproclaiming both twins as guilty for the crime their mother had committed andsentencing them to what she only referred to as something “far worse thanshattering”.

Said sentence was carried out before both of the presentDiamonds and the highest members of their respective courts, with powerfulQuartz soldiers being the ones to enforce it, even if it was something thetwins were the ones essentially carrying it out themselves. Dipper and Mabelhad both had tried, so incredibly hard, not to hurt each other, but the odd,unknown probes, almost akin to Gem destabilizers, being used against themessentially forced their powers out of them. Neither of them had any control asthey were forced to make contact with each other in this unstable state, withDipper inadvertently pressing his ice-coated hand to Mabel’s leg first. Herscream of pain was equivalent to his cry of panic as he tried his hardest torip his hand away from her, only for the ice to spread and turn even colder andthicker as it covered her leg. And then, with her leg completely numb,completely frozen, and completely in agony, her fiery hands were pressed hardagainst his arm, instantly burning him on contact, though despite their unitedcries of anguish and desperation, she was not allowed to let up. The Gemwarriors ensured that they remained touching, with Mabel’s unquenchable flamesscorching Dipper’s arm until the entire length of it was burned raw and red andruined.

However, it was clear from the stunned, bewildered, and evensomewhat alarmed reactions to this display that these results were not what theDiamonds had been expecting. They had likely figured that exposing the rebels“Ruby” and “Sapphire” to the full force of their respectiveelemental powers would have cracked, maybe even shattered them completely. Butdespite this sadistic method of torture, one that was meant to have themdestroy each other, both of the twins remained, though neither of them in avery good state, physically or emotionally, after going through all of that.And so, with the Diamonds wanting to get to the bottom of the mystery of whytheir punishment had failed, the twins had been momentarily tossed aside toholding cells, though not without the reassurance that they would have tosuffer through this all again soon enough. Not that they really needed to,seeing as how they were both going through a lifetime’s worth of sufferingright now.

And so Mabel sat with her back against the wall of her cell,her chin buried into the collar of her sweater and her lightly-flaming handstill pressed against the ice covering her leg. As numb and intangible as itfelt right now, she couldn’t even entertain the thought of walking, even if shewanted to. Really, escaping or trying to get out of this predicament was thelast thing on her mind, instead replaced with a desperate, almost primal urgeto warm herself up, to chase away the unfamiliar, nearly painful chilling coldthat seemed to fill her entire being, lest her flame go out altogether. Thenagain, considering what she had just done to her brother, regardless of itbeing unintentional, perhaps that was exactly what she deserved.

“D-Dipper?” Mabel spoke up for the first time inwhat seemed like ages, her voice dry, small, and shaky as a result of herongoing trembling. She placed a hand against the wall behind her, hating thatthey had to separate the two of them like this, hating that they forced them tomaim each other like this, hating every single part of this with every fiber ofher being. “Dipper, a-are you ok?” She tried again, forcing her voiceto be a bit stronger this time, even if strong was the last word she would useto describe how she currently felt. Her question was only met with silence ashallow and empty as all of the other cells surrounding them. “Dipper,I-I… you got hurt really badly, probably even worse than me… So… so Ineed you t-to let me know if you’re still there… p-please…” Onceagain, he gave her nothing, something that frustrated and worried her evenmore. “Dipper, come on! You gotta answer me!” Tears were starting toslip down her cheeks, especially as she remembered that last glimpse of him shesaw before they were thrown into their different cells: barely conscious, hishat gone, hair frayed, face flush, his mouth hanging agape in a silent groan ofagony, and worst of all, his arm burnt to the point that it was barely evenrecognizable, his hand limp and useless as his skin seemed to shine a brightand angry red, his appendage forever damaged beyond repair, all because of her.“Dipper, I-I’m sorry!” Mabel cried louder, a choked sob escaping heras she pressed harder against the wall, ignoring the sting of pain her leg gaveher in protest. “I didn’t wanna burn you, you know I didn’t! I neverwould! They—they made me do it, I couldn’t stop it! I’m not mad at you aboutwhat happened to my leg, so please, please, Dipper, don’t be mad at me!You said so yourself: we have to face this together, so I can’t loseyou, especially not now! S-so, please just say something already so Ican know that you’re-”

“M-Mabel…” Dipper finally spoke, his voice sosoft and weak that she barely even managed to hear it. Still, it was enough tofinally give her a mental image of what he probably looked like on the otherside of that wall. He was more than likely lying down, probably in too muchpain and exhaustion to even prop himself up against the wall as he instead layon his side, his burnt arm stretched out upon a layer of ice in a meagerattempt to ease the searing agony. He was listless, his eyes continuallyfluttering open and shut and his breathing shallow and weak and silent tearsslipping down his cheeks as he clenched his teeth tightly against the pain,only for him to find no escape from it. And really, her imagination wasn’t toofar off, with the only thing she had missed being the absolutely haunted lookin his eyes as he stared at the wall in front of him.

“I-it’s about time, bro-bro,” Mabel remarked withthe most of a smile she could muster, which really wasn’t much at the moment.“How are you holding up over there?”

Dipper was silent for a moment, and she briefly thought hehadn’t heard her until he quietly said her name again. “Mabel…”

“Dipper?” Mabel questioned with a concerned frown.“W-what’s wrong? Y'know, I mean, aside from the obvious.” She let outa small, sardonic laugh at this in the hopes of cheering him up, but was onlymet with a tight, somewhat hysterical sob on the other side of the wall.“Dipper, seriously, you n-need to tell me what’s wrong,” she said,more solemnly this time as another shiver ran down her spine. “D-do youneed someone over there with you? Because I’ll break this dumb old wall down ina heartbeat if you-”

“Mabel,” Dipper interrupted, her name soundingbroken as he said it for a third time. “I… I saw it…”

“Saw what?” Mabel asked, knowing he was referringto his future vision. “All this crazy junk happening? W-well… that’s ok.I mean, in a way, we both kinda knew what we were getting into when we agreedto turn ourselves in. And I-it’s not like there was really a lot we could do tostop this from-”

“No,” Dipper corrected, still speaking so slowlyand softly that she had to almost press her ear to the wall to hear him.“I-I saw it…”

“Dipper, you’re not making any sense,” Mabel shookher head. “What did you see?”

She heard him let out another pained sob, and this time, shewasn’t so sure it was because of his burnt arm or something else entirely.“I… I saw what they’re going to d-do to… to…”

“To… me?” Mabel guessed with sudden worry as sheattempted to fill in the blank he had left.

“No, to me!” Dipper exclaimed, his voicesuddenly quite loud, loud enough to convey just how rough and hoarse it wasfrom screaming. “I saw it… T-the Diamonds… they’re… they’re goingto… I’m gonna… I’m… I…” He trailed off fearfully, unable to evencome up with the words to describe the terrifying vision he had seen.“Mabel… I… I’m n-not going to make it…”

Mabel was stunned into silence upon hearing this, her eyeswide and her jaw dropped as she tried to make sense of what he had just toldher. He wasn’t going to make it? What did that really mean? Was he implyingthat perhaps help from home was on its way and that he just wasn’t going to beable to come along? Or did he mean…? “No,” she whispered at first,but her voice was quick to grow in volume as her panic rose along with it.“Dipper, no! Y-you… you’re not… you are gonna make it! Yourfuture vision… it’s gotta be wrong somehow!”

“It’s not wrong!” Dipper retorted, both frustratedby her denial, something he had already let go of in regards to this vision.“Mabel, you know my future vision is never wrong about this sort of thing,so just face it! I-I… I’m going… I’m going to die…” He said it soquietly he barely even heard himself, but he had still managed to admit thehorrific truth to himself for the first time regardless. And as soon as he did,the tears refused to stop coming, even for a minute, almost as if knowing abouthis demise in advance was even worse than not seeing it coming, which it wasworse, in so many ways.

Mabel herself was finally in tears by this point, a handcovering her mouth as she shivered more than she ever had before. Every singlepart of her was against believing what he had just told her, and instead wantedto believe that they would escape this disaster, that they would make it backto Earth and live safe and happy and free together just like they hadbefore. And yet, fate refused to set either of them on such a blissful path.Instead, it had set them on a path of pain, misery, and even death, all becauseof something their mother, or mothers rather, had supposedly donethousands of years before either of them were even a thought.

And yet, as unfair as it all was, it made perfect sense, atleast from Homeworld’s perspective. During the trial, it had been very clearthat the Diamonds believed that Sapphire was the mastermind behind BlueDiamond’s shattering, with Ruby only serving as her loyal accomplice. Garnetwas barely even a thought for the Gem matriarchs. Instead they placed the fullblame for their fellow Diamond’s demise, as well as the war in general, uponthe blue Gem’s shoulders, or, more specifically in the present, upon theshoulders of her innocent son who had come to stand in her place. It only madesense that, thinking Dipper to be Sapphire, the very Gem who had cost them boththe Earth and Blue Diamond, they’d want to shatter him or kill him or doanything in their power to just get rid of him entirely. But it was more thanlikely that they’d do it in a way that would turn both of them into examples tothe rest of Homeworld, to demonstrate just what happened to those who opposedthe Diamonds’ power. Destroying both of them would be enough to do that, sure,but destroying one of them, and then keeping the other one alive and deeplyscarred by that loss, would be an incredibly potent, perpetual reminder thatstanding against them always ended in devastation. And it seemed as though,based on whatever vision Dipper had seen, that he was the one the Diamonds haddecided on destroying, as much as Mabel wished that it had been her instead.

“W-when…?” She finally asked, knowing that nomatter how long it took, losing her brother would be something she would never,ever be ready for.

“I… I don’t know…” Dipper admitted morosely ashe finally sat up against the wall, cradling his burnt arm with his other,ice-covered one. “Could be any time now, I guess… Who knows? Maybe it’salready started…” He sighed, glancing down at his arm, which was noweffectively nothing but dead weight thanks to the burn would that covered everythingfrom his shoulder to his fingertips. The Quartz soldiers had made sure thatMabel had been incredibly thorough when she had burned him, not just in scale,but in intensity too. In fact, the only reason why they were finally ordered tostop was because he had blacked out from the pain, and this was by far thelongest bout of consciousness he had had since then. Even still, the agony theinjury caused him was constant, with the only form of relief he had for itcoming in the form of his ice, which did very little to ease it away. Needlessto say that even if he had access to some form of medical help, it probablywouldn’t be able to do much for a burn like this, meaning that as much as hehated to even think about it, his arm was better off gone entirely than thestate it was in now. He figured that if the Diamonds really wanted to besadistic, they’d end him as slowly and painfully as possible, and having noneother than Mabel burn him up one piece at a time before crushing his gem wouldbe more than enough to satisfy their bloodlust.

“D-Dipper… you… you can’t… w-we… we haveto…” Mabel swallowed hard, wishing that there was no wall to separatethem and that she could just hug him until she was inevitably forced to let go.“What am I supposed to do without you…?”

“Mabel… I wish I could tell you but… I can’t seeanything past… well you know…” Dipper said, shaking his head sadly.And it was true. Beyond the moment of his own demise, which was really the onlytangible thing his foresight was giving him at the moment, his future visionsaw nothing but darkness where there was usually light. Perhaps just anothersign that his death was indeed on the horizon.

“This is so messed up…” Mabel muttered, far toooverwhelmed to even be angry with their hopeless predicament. “We’re just kids,Dipper. Kids who didn’t even do anything! Why do you have to—todie because of something our moms did thousands of years ago?!”

For once, Dipper didn’t have an answer, knowing that therereally was no logical answer to what was happening now. So instead of focusingon the present, or even really the future he knew was coming, he decidedto comfort Mabel with the future he hoped she could have. “Oh! Wait,Mabel, I just had another vision!” He exclaimed, knowing this was a lie,but a necessary one, given the circumstances.

“Really?” Mabel asked with newfound hope, sittingupright as she turned towards the all as if she could really see Dipper throughit.

“Y-yeah…” Dipper began, forcing a smile as hecame up with something off the top of his head. “Um… The Gems! They….they’re gonna find a way here and they’ll come, with Connie and Steven too,a-and… and they’ll take you back home. And then… e-everything will beok…”

“But it won’t be…” Mabel mumbled dejectedly, notfully believing this ‘vision’. “Because you won’t be there…”

“N-no…” Dipper admitted, glancing down as herealized that he’d likely never get to see the Earth, or Connie, or Steven, orRose, or Amethyst, or Pearl, or anyone else he cared about ever again. “Iwon’t be… I’m sorry, Mabel… I wish I could-”

“Dipper, please don’t…” Mabel practicallybegged, knowing that it was far too soon for him to be listing his finalregrets. “I… I can’t… Y-you’re… you’re too…” By this point,she was so overwhelmed with emotions that she could do nothing but break downinto a hopeless round of loud, miserable sobs, ones that Dipper found himselfechoing, albeit a bit quieter.

“Mabel… I… I know this is gonna sound crazy,but…” Dipper trailed off, wiping a few of his tears away as he smiledgenuinely. “I’m so, so glad that, out of anyone who could be herewith me right now, you’re the one I get to spend w-what I have leftwith…”

As soon as he had finished saying this warm, bittersweetsentiment, the wall beside him suddenly burst open, a sizable hole created init courtesy of Mabel’s gauntlet. Unable to bear the distance between them anylonger, she dragged herself through it, her leg still frostbitten and uselessas she crawled over to him, not even paying his bewilderment any thought as shesat up and locked him in a secure embrace, taking care not to touch his damagedarm all the while. She knew that someone had likely heard the crash and wouldbe there soon to separate them again, but at the moment, she couldn’t begin tocare. “Dipper, I don’t care what I have to do or who I have to face,”she began in a tense, but determined whisper, the fire in her eyes returning infull force. “Future vision or not, I’m not going to let you die. We’reboth gonna get off this planet together, get back to Earth together, andeverything’s gonna be ok, just like you said. And that’s a promise, bro-bro,one that I’m gonna keep, no matter what.”

For a moment, Dipper couldn’t even think of anything to sayin response to this as he instead let out another small, shaking sob. He knewMabel was being far too optimistic, just as she always was and something hecould never be because of his ability to glimpse into the future. And the onlyfuture he could see was one in which his life came to a brutal, dark, andpainful end, with no other alternatives or escapes whatsoever. And yet, evendespite what his future vision had presented to him in cold, hard, completely certainterms, a part of him still dared to hope that perhaps his sister’s predictionfor the future was correct instead. That they would escape, that they wouldfind their way home, that he would survive, regardless of the guarantee he hadgotten that he wasn’t going to. It was really nothing more than a dream for himnow, but a very pleasant one, one that he was grateful for at a moment likethis. Which was why he slowly returned Mabel’s hug as much as he could, stillso relieved to know he would be facing his death with her by his side. And whoreally could tell? Perhaps they could still defy what fate had in store forthem yet, just as their mothers had done thousands of years before them.

 (Well, wasn’t that uplifting! And by uplifting I mean SOUL CRUSHING???? Hahahah can’t resist the angsts when it comes to the Swap AU, mostly because its just such an angsty AU in general. Kinda derailed from the original prompt a little for a different kind of angst here, but hey its still in there all the same. And boy if this ain’t fucking long as shit, over 3,500 words yeesh. Still, totally worth it because well fuck you guys, did you even READ this delicious Crystal Twins angst I just wrote???)

[cyberpink]

Uncommon Questions for OCs and their creators: Ferron Rift

in response to @bright-witch‘s ask. There was just so many questions per character so I decided to break them down by character so it’s easier to read/tag. Thanks for asking! : )

(Under a cut so I’m not clogging up anyone’s dash!)

QUESTIONS FOR YOUR OCs

What’s the maximum amount of time your character can sit still with nothing to do? Quite some time. The longest he’s ever held still was for a job he did back in Hammerfell-- stealing a trinket back for a wealthy noblewoman spurned by a former lover. He stayed hidden in the attic without moving for nearly an entire day.  He does enjoy the feeling of stretching his legs, though.

How easy is it for your character to laugh? He doesn’t laugh that much unprompted. He appreciated a well crafted joke, but he’s not like Reilya (She likes to fill silences with habit. He prefers solitude.) 

How do they put themselves to bed at night (reading, singing, thinking?) He likes to think and plan out his next day before going to bed. Being prepared makes him feel more secure.

How easy is it to earn their trust? Very, very difficult. There are only a handful of people in his entire life that he has trusted. If you think you earned his trust; you’re probably wrong and he’s lying to you.

How easy is it to earn their mistrust? He pretty much distrusts you upon the first meeting. You have to earn his trust, and it’s not an easy feat. 

Do they consider laws flexible, or immovable? Laws are pretty much meaningless if they get in the way of his (and Reilya, by extension) survival.

What triggers nostalgia for them, most often? Do they enjoy that feeling? Certain foods. Flaky pastries usually do the trick. Nostalgia makes him sad and he tends to get lost in it.

What were they told to stop/start doing most often as a child He is born under the Thief and has natural born affinities for stealth and other sneaky thief things. It made him sort of a pariah even when he was young. Both of his parents were fearful he was going to go down a path that a future heir of a noble family shouldn’t be involved in. So he was encouraged pretty strongly by his parents to train into knighthood-- against his own wishes. Like Reilya, he also has the affinity for magic, however his skills lie in the restoration arts rather than destruction. He would’ve liked to have become a healer rather than a knight, but I guess his parents had other plans. The joke’s on them I suppose, because his natural talents in thievery AND the healing arts is what has kept both him and Reilya alive for all of these years.

Do they swear? Do they remember their first swear word? He doesn’t curse, like ever. 

What lie do they most frequently remember telling? Does it haunt them? There are too many to count now. 

How do they cope with confusion (seek clarification, pretend they understand, etc)? Ferron has an inquisitive mind and he’s always trying to piece together all the puzzle pieces. He will either ask for clarification or start reading between the lines and look for clues elsewhere. 

How do they deal with an itch found in a place they can’t quite reach? Interesting question. He’d probably scratch it himself with something he found, I suppose. He doesn’t like to ask for help xP

What color do they think they look best in? Do they actually look best in that color? Black, brown, dark greens. I think he does, but he also looks pretty great in bright red too, I think. His complexion and dusty brown hair make it pop.

What animal do they fear most? I can’t really say he outright fears many animals. He’s hunted so many times and he feels like once you understand an animal’s nature there’s nothing left to fear. One animal he really doesn’t like to tangle with are wildcats.

How do they speak? Is what they say usually thought of on the spot, or do they rehearse it in their mind first? Ferron is on the shy side, and speaks a little awkwardly at times. He’s either too blunt or struggles to be assertive when he needs to be.

What makes their stomach turn? Thalmor. Big cities. Guards. Pretty much anything involving the possibility of being noticed. He really doesn’t like standing out in a crowd and does what he can to blend into his surroundings. 

Are they easily embarrassed? Sometimes-- usually only when it concerns sex and romance.

What embarrasses them? Besides the above? Anything that points out his feelings of inadequacy. 

What is their favorite number? 13. 

If they were asked to explain the difference between romantic and platonic or familial love, how would they do so? Similar to Reilya; both forms of love are irreplaceable, precious things, that must be protected at all costs. 

Why do they get up in the morning? The most practical of reasons -- to survive. Over staying your welcome in any place leads to trouble.  Philosophically -- to see justice be served for his namesake.

How does jealousy manifest itself in them (they become possessive, they become aloof, etc)? He’s already pretty aloof. It gets magnified x10 and he gets really quiet. He doesn’t like admitting weakness so good luck getting him to talk about it.

How does envy manifest itself in them (they take what they want, they become resentful, etc)? He gets very bitter, sad, and angry all rolled into one ball and gets distant and sometimes even a little mean. He’s really quite sensitive about all things that remind him of all he’s lost. 

Is sex something that they’re comfortable speaking about? To whom? He’s not super comfortable with just outright talking about it with just anybody. He still doesn’t get Reilya’s candor in that regard. 

What are their thoughts on marriage? It’s not something he’s thought a lot about. The idea of marrying someone seems so far off to him. Who would want to marry an outlaw anyway? Someone who has very little to offer a partner?  There’s too many complications. He’s much more interested in salvaging his family’s name and getting revenge for all the crap the Thalmor has put him and his sister through. It would be a disservice to any potential lover to be tied to him.

What is their preferred mode of transportation? By foot, but for long distances horses are a must. 

What causes them to feel dread? When things don’t go according to his plans. He doesn’t like surprises.

Would they prefer a lie over an unpleasant truth? A lie works just as well as the truth in his opinion, unless he knows the person very well. He’s gotten so good at lying it’s become second nature to him.

Do they usually live up to their own ideals? Not quite. He wants to do good but has gotten so wrapped up in what he’s lost and he’s so willing to fight to win that back that he would do just about anything to get there. 

Who do they most regret meeting? So many people, but no one in particular.

Who are they the most glad to have met? Bauther. Bauther is another OC of mine; He’s a former Imperial solider who fought during the Great War. After the signing of The White-Gold Concordat, he remained critical of The Aldmeri Dominion and eventually left the Imperial army just a few years after the treaty was signed, deciding to remain in his home of Hammerfell, where he used his skills he learned in the army as a Mercenary-for-hire. They met after Ferron attempted (and failed) to pick his pocket. He’s a really gentle-hearted guy, and after realizing the kind of situation Ferron and his little sister were in, he decided to take the boy under his wing. First he helped Ferron find more respectable work, and they eventually become partners for a time whilist helping them stay under the radar. Bauther became somewhat of a role model for Ferron; Bauther and his Argonian wife Grisha are one of the very few people he places trust in.

Do they have a go-to story in conversation? Or a joke? He will talk your ear off about Reilya like a proud parent. Otherwise he’s really not one for idle conversation. 

Could they be considered lazy? Not at all. He trains with his bow just about every day.

How hard is it for them to shake a sense of guilt? My friends, Ferron is nothing but a bundle of guilt and regrets. 

How do they treat the things their friends come to them excited about? Are they supportive? He is silently happy, but doesn’t usually get involved unless asked. He likes to sit back and let his friends/companions do their own thing. He doesn’t want to get in the way. 

Do they actively seek romance, or do they wait for it to fall into their lap? He will insist he’s too busy for love. I’m sure when it happens, he won’t be expecting it and he won’t know how to handle it. 

Do they have a system for remembering names, long lists of numbers, things that need to go in a certain order (like anagrams, putting things to melodies, etc)? I guess if I had to pinpoint a method, he’d probable use the Keyword method. It’s simple but effective.

What memory do they revisit the most often? He has two: the night his parents “mysteriously” died, and the night his family home burned to the ground. Both are very painful memories for him. 

How easy is it for them to ignore flaws in other people? Easy, if those flaws are beneficial to him; difficult if they prevent him from accomplishing what he’s set out to do.

How sensitive are they to their own flaws? Painfully so. 

How do they feel about children? He adores children. Can’t get enough, actually. They’re so cute, and say some really goofy stuff. It’s hard not to smile around them.

How badly do they want to reach their end goal? To see the Aldmeri Dominion pay for everything they have done to his family: for the death of his parents, for using his own uncle against him and his sister before they could barely comprehend politics, for branding them both as criminals and denying them their birthright; he would do just about anything. And honestly, despite the fact that Ferron is shy and soft-spoken, that is why he can be terrifying. 

If someone asked them to explain their sexuality, how would they do so? He’d shrug. Say something along the lines of, “Why do you care?” and probably never answer the question because he’d find it amusing to keep you guessing.

QUESTIONS FOR CREATORS

A) Why are you excited about this character? I find his struggles super relatable. He has sacrificed so much to keep his sister safe and would go to the ends of the earth for the people he cares about. He’s always fighting his upbringing of feeling like the black sheep of the family, trying so hard to do his parents proud while also staying true to himself. It’s a hard balancing act and even though he doesn’t quite get it right, it’s still kind of admirable that he’s trying. It’s also just fun to write a complete and total Edgelord character once in a while. 

B) What inspired you to create them? When I was creating Reilya’s TES backstory, I realized it was super unrealistic for a 12 year old sheltered child to be able to survive on her own while on the run from a tyrannical government. So the idea of Ferron was born through that.   C) Did you have trouble figuring out where they fit in their own story? For the reason above, yes. It took a while for me to craft him his own voice and narrative, I guess.  D) Have they always had the same physical appearance, or have you had to edit how they look? Ehhhh.. a little bit I suppose. He’s basically the same in essence though. But now, with freckles! E) Are they someone you would get along with? Would they get along with you? I think we’d get along really well. We both like the quiet and we're both night owls :^) F) What do you feel when you think of your OC (pride, excitement, frustration, etc)? I want to protect him and I want him to be okay. G) What trait of theirs bothers you the most? His martyrdom and low self-esteem. I wish he could value himself more and not be so quick to sacrifice himself for others. : [  H) What trait do you admire most? Haha, I guess all of the things I said in answer A!!!!  I) Do you prefer to keep them in their canon universe? Yes, he’s always been canon to the TES: Skyrim universe. J) Did you have to manipulate or exclude canon factors to allow them to create their character? Besides small details regarding political affairs in High Rock, not too much .  There is some changes I have made to Dawnguard canon, but the vampire clan in that expansion isn’t really that fleshed out anyway, so I don’t think it’s a big deal.

[fucked-up-cinnamon-rolls]

I need to talk about school, why it's such a struggle for me and why it might impact my RP-ing.

It's under a read more due to possible stalking and suicide baiting.

Yeah. It's that serious.

As you probably know, I am English, fourteen and non binary - I use the name Soul, which is taken from my common username, IHaveNoSoul13 (or @ihavenosoul12 on Tumblr).

However, I have also started to use the name Tristan (it's an amazing and aesthetically pleasing name, which is why I use it). I also joined an LGBT+ club called Space that's going down in town so that's a positive.

But I digress.

Anyway, there's this kid called Josh (look, there's millions of Joshes out there and this is in a small town in England, plus he's being horrible. I can't be arsed to change his name) who is my Maths, Science (three classes -  Physics, Chemistry and Biology) and History classes. He sits kind of near me and tries to talk to me in all of them, or yells my name (not my preferred though), or something similar.

I avoid him and try to ignore him because I'm fucking terrified of Josh. His smile is so... sinister, even though it's not. His eyes have this devious look that lightens up with mischief whenever he sees me or we make eye contact, and that makes me feel so small. His voice is recognisable and everything about him just screams terrifying to me.

He's not done much though - touched my stuff (I don't like people touching my stuff), tried to talk to me, asked me if we can be friends/best friends (I said yes out of fear and in hope it'd leave me alone), said that we were already friends/best friends, asked me to be his girlfriend (... nice misgendering there...), said I was and tried to sit next to me.

But one time - one time though - he's walked with me. He asked me questions I didn't want to answer - how my day was, where I'm going, how I'm doing, where I live, if I want a hug (oh yeah, he tries to hug me - I don't like being hugged by strangers/people I don't like) and stuff like that. I turned a corner and got into the car that was taking me home and he went the other way though.

Someone in a Discord chat called him a borderline stalker but I feel like that is a bit of a heavy label to give to a fourteen year old boy (he's probably only a bit older than me) who probably doesn't realise he's scaring me and that it's really creepy to do that.

I should have said something earlier - he's been doing all this for about a month? Maybe two? I don't know. It was around April though.

I've tried telling him to fuck off in not so kind words and I'm currently ignoring him - I'm considering just giving in and letting him hug me and all that, but I know that I shouldn't. It's either that or aggression, which will just get me in trouble and let him get off scot free - perhaps he'll even continue to do it. Either way, it probably won't end well. If you guys could give me advice (through messaging me privately or replying to this), it'd be helpful, but chances are that I've done it.

Anyway, that's one half of it.

The other part is solved but still haunting me.

So I, as a person who struggles to cope with the idea of death not being under my control (so suicide would be the best way for me to go - I'd choose my fate) and as a person who requires attention to feel good enough and validated, make a lot of suicide and homicide jokes. I recognise that it's bad but it's my current (destructive and horrible) coping method.

I'm like fourteen, death is a freaky thing to be thinking about, but whatever.

Anyway, so while I make these jokes to cope, I am not okay (or comfortable) with being told to kill myself and being told about how he'd murder me (which would take my death out of my control, which is why I'm making these horrible jokes). He would tell me how worthless I am, how I seek attention (yes, buddy, that's literally the whole point) and other stuff.

My friend, who is also his friend, would sit between us and listen to my horrible jokes and this guy telling me to kick my own bucket.

One day, I just snapped. It hadn't even happened that lesson, I guess a lot had happened that day and that was on my mind. I ended up throwing stuff (a paper towel roll and my pencil case, which he comically handed back) at him, leaving the class and telling him that I hoped he died.

Not my best moment, I know.

I've apologised to him since then and today I explained why I needed to make those jokes and making a deal to him - I'd try to quietly murmur my jokes to myself and he'd attempt to be civil. We passed notes to each other, had a short conversation about how one of my characters in my series was muscular (he's been begging me to have a character with a six pack for him, that is when he wasn't telling me to jump off a cliff, and we reached a compromise) and he gave me a double chocolate Maryland cookie for letting him cheat on the test.

I'm still a little upset about it but I realise that I'm as much in the wrong as him.

There's probably other stuff going on in my life (I had an anxiety attack, threw the seat of a chair and a bucket full of water at Year Tens and got pushed into a railing and hurting my hip and maybe my head during that - I think they were trying to push me off the stair thing - during the last ten minutes of lunch, but I won't go into that).

Anyway, I need some advice about Josh and I needed people to understand why my RP might be not so happy and how I might be slow with RPs and such.

I don't want to stop rp-ing though - it's an escape, allowing me to indulge in the lives of my muses and to develop them accordingly - so this isn't a hiatus post. I'll be reblogging this to all my RP blogs so all my RP partners are aware.

Yes, I may be posting this for attention.

Just a little bit.

Please give me attention.

Anyway, this has been a vent-y post and I hope you can understand.

[reddragdiva]

in which canon Harry Potter characters meet their HPMOR versions

Meeting Your Not-So Fun-House Reflections

by Kronecker Delta

Hogwarts had been in something of a conundrum following the sudden and unexpected duplication of several students. Aurors had arrived and quickly surmised that it hadn't been a frightful misuse of time turners... nor any sort of chronomancy on the books.

Ultimately they agreed with Dumbledore's suggestion to put up the doubles together to keep track of them till they could fashion a counter spell and send them all home.

Though that led to its own complications...

"So Harry, what does my counter universe double do for entertainment around here? I noticed that you seem to have a surprisingly small amount books in your room. Did you commit the entire works of our favorite sci-fi authors to memory? I had considered doing that myself of course, but I decided against the endeavor based on the fact that so few of them properly understood the implications of the work they were doing. Heinlein in particularly did not understand the disservice he performed by writing in such a method that he..."

Harry Potter nodded along, dazed and completely baffled by the constant string of nonsense coming out of the mouth of his other self. He'd heard the question at the start, but everything after that seemed to be just talking about himself. Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres of course, not Harry Potter. To at long, long last the conversation slowed down and he found his own eyes staring at him waiting for an answer.

"Uh... I like quidditch I guess? They made an exception for me and I'm-"

"You like quidditch!!!" Harry snarled out like a dark and terrible curse that could curdle milk and cause miscarriages across the county. "But... how? It's a completely nonsensical sport! Not even one with decent tactics and strategy like... like..."

Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres didn't actually know of any sports really, but he was hardly going to admit that to this invalid that shared his genetic structure.

"Like football? American football? Uh... chess?" Harry at last guessed in vain, hoping that the fit his other self was now undergoing would come to a stop.

"Yes! Like chess, at least that sport as some measure of Rational skill involved!"

Harry could hear the capitalization in the word rational, but for the life of him couldn't tell why it was there. "So, do you hang out with Ron then and play chess?"

"What, that insipid quidditch loving idiot? Of course not, he hardly as a reason to exist. No, my best friend is Draco and we..."

Harry wasn't listening. Instead a new voice came from within. A terrible dark presence over shadowing his soul. It was unmistakable by its putrid smell.

Too sweet syrup and crisp bacon followed in its wake. His inner Dudley spoke, "What an utter prat. Are you going to take that from him?"

Harry shook his head, trying to dispel that force. Interrupting the other Harry mid anti-Ron rant, "Come on quidditch isn't that bad... I play seeker and-"

Only for himself to be cut off as he was grabbed by the shoulders and shook "YOU PLAY IT!?! Are you well... have you... oh dear Bayes, you must have taken a hit to the head. My alternate self is a retarded invalid from a sports injury!!!"

"Come on Harry, don't be a little wuss! Lay into this loser... I bet he'll just break down and start crying from just a tap!" Dudley was getting harder to ignore as not-Harry pawed his head looking for the signs of a fracture while muttering out curses that the nanobots weren't ready yet.

It was going to be a long week before they fixed this...

"So... me, how are things going for you," Hermione asked.

Her Ravenclaw self smiled and began to list off her accomplishments. "Well I'm the top of all my classes, just like you I presume. I excel at wand work and theoretical studies," she said as Hermione nodded along. Finding it somewhat nice to have someone to talk to that mirrored herself so closely.

"Oh... and I might be dating Harry. Are you dating Harry?"

Or maybe not.

"Wha... what?! No, why would I... what?"

"Oh, well everyone in the school decided that we were the two smartest students, and since he's clearly the hero they decided I should date him."

"So... just don't?" Hermione said, still not grasping what she was hearing. Not entirely sure she could grasp it honestly. She wasn't even sure she wanted to. "Why does it matter if they think you're dating?"

"Because it ties me to Harry, which is fine I suppose. He's quite smart... a little scary sometimes but-"

"Wait, scary?"

"Well, Harry just doesn't like to be wrong you know? Or to have anyone disagree with him ever," the Ravenclaw Hermione said staring off into the distance with a haunted look in her eyes.

"And you think you should date him?"

"Do I have a choice? He is the hero after all."

Hermione didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"So how are things working for you," Malfoy asked. Receiving a wicked sneer of a smile from himself in return.

"Quite well most honorable son of the House of Malfoy."

"Nice... I've got to remember that one. Little wordy, but I can work with it," Malfoy thought. Now that there were two of him he could...

Except there were two Potters and two Grangers and...

Okay, so maybe numbers weren't on his side. But who didn't ever want to have a friend that was basically just themselves?

"So what have you been up to in your world anyway?" Malfoy asked Malfoy.

"Well, I managed to form a friendship with Potter. Which should increase my standing and that of my family... father approves of course," he answered. Surprising Draco not because of what he said but how he said it. He'd of course tried to integrate himself into Potter's good graces as well. And then failed. But This other him spoke of it in an odd way.

That just didn't sound right.

"Good, so he's not hanging around Ron Weasley then?"

"Ha! By Merlin, he's certainly not! I haven't even seen that poor worthless boy around anywhere. Perhaps a moving staircase swallowed him up and ground him into a fine paste without anyone noticing?"

Draco shared a laugh that he didn't quite feel. He didn't like Ron at all... but having such an unpleasant end described to him was a little stomach churning. He decided to change the subject.

"So how did you get to be friends with Harry anyway?"

"Oh, that was easy. We met when he was buying his school supplies. He got me with a bit of social manipulation by pretending to be someone other than himself to put me off guard. But I managed to recover without having to threaten him," Malfoy said, while a Draco's eyes widened in horror. "Then we met at the train. Had a good laugh at Ron's expense and spent the whole train ride over talking."

"That's good..."

"Oh yes, he's quite agreeable. We shared a good laugh over that bitch Luna Lovegood and her stupid paper too. Told Harry how I plan to rape her one day."

Draco's world was suddenly very, very small. There was his right hand, five fingers curling around his wand. The wood warm to his quivering touch. His heart pounding in his chest. And before him there was a monster masquerading as himself. It was a demon wearing his own skin... and it was close enough for those shiny white teeth to rip out his throat.

"Th- that's quite good. Quite good indeed," Draco said, suddenly wishing he was anywhere but there. In detention with Filch, being chastised by his mother for flying a broom inside the house... being reprimanded by Snape. Hell, he even wished he'd been sorted into Gryffindor.

And as he bravely kept from running in terror, he even sort of deserved it. "So... how about I go get us something to eat? You are our guest after all."

"That sounds wonderful," Malfoy said.

At which point Draco calmly left his room, walking with care so as to not show the weakness he felt in his legs. Till he hit the commons room and began running towards Snape's office. Desperate to warn someone.

Crabbe and Goyle looked over to Crabbe and Goyle. It was a long mutual stare of respect.

"So, we understand that you two wanted to discuss how to be a good minion."

The other pair nodded to the first.

"Well, I think we need to introduce you to a little muggle comic book called Batman, and some of the examples within," Mr. Crabbe began to count them off on his fingers. "Two face is great for a number of reasons, Penguin is good example of who you'd like to work for, and of course reading about the Joker is full of safety tips."

"Indeed, Mr. Crabbe. We've found that copying the way it teaches you to deal with bosses with big egos and bigger plans to be quite... illuminating."

"It will also show you how to keep your cool when the boss decides to go on some rant about how he hates a dame and wants to kill her for no reason," Mr. Crabbe replied, looking like he wished to break character.

The other two shared a glance, and after a moment concluded together who their alternate selves had been speaking of. "Malfoy's never... ever done anything like that."

"Not even once... no plans to trick people into his house and..." Goyle gave a motion with his thumb around his throat that was universally understood. "Does he even have his dead bird collection?"

The pair of horrified faces shaking their heads together started the gears turning in Mr. Goyle's and Mr. Crabbe's heads. After a moment they asked, "So... do you think your parents might like to have twins?"

[ravenvsfox]

14. “How can I hate someone that I’m in love with?” Andreil. I am ready for angst (such Christmas spirit, wow)

14. “How can I hate someone that I’m in love with?” (Hi there I combined this with another request, so this is the sequel to my 99 prompt with Neil getting hurt !!)

“All they had in the tooth-rotting section at the corner store was coffee crisp and triple fudge so I got both,” Neil announces, shouldering their door open with his hands full of ice-cream tubs and an array of keys.

He’s taken to wearing them on a lanyard like a school teacher, and Andrew knows he does it because he wants them at hand, near his heart. Renee bought him a fox charm and it hangs between the key to the court and the first one Andrew ever gave him — he’s memorized the shape of it without trying to.

Kevin glances at Neil over the screen of his laptop and stands immediately, walking wordlessly to his room. He retreats to his bedroom whenever Andrew and Neil are in a room together, lately. ‘A precautionary measure’ he’d sneered when Nicky had asked.

“Is that okay?” Neil says, suddenly standing above Andrew, head cocked.

“It’s acceptable,” Andrew replies, and opens his hand. Neil presses the triple fudge into his palm, and produces a plastic spoon from the shopping bag to balance on top.

“I figured you wouldn’t want to wait,” he explains, mouth quirked.

Andrew ignores him, hooking his finger in the plastic seal and breaking it apart. Neil collapses into the couch next to him, tossing his feet up over Andrew’s lap and dropping the bag on the carpet. Andrew looks at him. “It’ll melt.”

“Eat fast,” Neil says, and grabs Andrew’s first spoonful for himself.

“I should’ve let the FBI take you.”

“You should’ve,” Neil says seriously, “Now I’m your problem full-time.” He leans in enough that Andrew can see the chocolate in the corner of his mouth, the complicated relationship between his freckles and his burns —

“Andrew!”

He’s yanked back to the present by Nicky’s frantic voice, a high discordant thing like a wrong note in a bad piece of music. The rest of the foxes crest over the slant of the hallway, a wave of good intentions that pushes Andrew back into the wall and takes his breath. He can’t deal with them, he can’t escape to somewhere else when prying voices are trying to keep him here. He can’t be fighting to see Neil with foxes holding his hands behind his back.

“What’s the news,” Allison asks when they’re close enough, looking uncharacteristically haggard with her lipstick wearing away and her shirt untucked.

Andrew shakes his head.

“He’s not…” Dan starts to ask, horrified, and Andrew’s fists clench so hard his knuckles crack.

“No,” Matt says firmly. “The monster would be ripping this place apart.”

Andrew produces a knife instantly, and renee catches his wrist, eyes hard and terrible above her smile. “You’re going to get yourself kicked out of the hospital.”

He hates it, he hates it, because it’s the only thing that could’ve made him stop.

He drops the knife on the floor and Renee quietly stoops to pick it up and pocket it.

“He’s going to be okay, Andrew,” Nicky says earnestly, skirting carefully around Renee to stand in front of him.

“He’s survived worse,” Kevin agrees, an old haunted look on his face.

“Don’t,” Andrew says. It’s all he can manage.

There’s a knife in his chest and Neil has the handle; if he dies now the blade never comes out. If he dies it won’t matter how much armour Andrew puts on, the knife is already in, always.

“It must suck to be in love with a bullseye,” Allison says, and Dan shoots her a look. “It’s Baltimore all over again,” she continues. Her mouth is a smile put on backwards. Her coping method is to take the thorns out and face them in the opposite direction.

Renee easily stands between Andrew and Allison but Andrew waves her off. “How can I hate someone that I’m in love with?”

“Love and hate are brothers,” Aaron says darkly, kicking at a chair viciously before meeting Andrew’s eye.

“Oh yeah?” Allison says. “Which one are you?”

“Allison,” Renee warns, grabbing her hand.

“I’m tired of them. I’m not listening to this backwards hyper-aggressive shit they do when Neil’s dying next door.”

“Renee will not be enough to save you if you keep talking,” Andrew says evenly. “None of them will be.”

“That sounded a lot like a threat,” Allison says cooly, stepping forward so that her front is pressed into Renee’s back. She’s still a wall between them, but Allison’s starting to look more and more like a battering ram.

“How observant,” Andrew says. It’s actually affecting him for once, this messy thing the team does: hurting each other so there’s someone that feels the same way they do.

Allison tries to step forward again, towering over Renee and Andrew in her 6-inch stilettos. Renee digs in her heels just as a grizzled doctor in navy scrubs steps up warily to their group.

“For Neil Josten?” he asks, eyes darting between them and settling on Andrew with hazy recognition.

“That’s us,” Matt says, stepping forward and putting one placating hand on Allison’s shoulder.

“He’s in surgery now, stable at the moment,” he starts, and everyone looks at each other, daring someone else to be the first to risk relief. “One of his broken ribs caught his lung, and that was causing his difficulty breathing. Obviously the break in his arm was pretty messy, but it’s been set now, no worries there. The worst of it is his ruptured spleen, which triggered some internal bleeding; one of our best is trying to fix that up right now—“

“What are his credentials?” Kevin asks, arms crossed.

“I beg your pardon?” The doctor looks towards the doorway he came from and back again, clearly intimidated.

“The surgeon.”

“He’s an attending,” the man says slowly. “More than qualified. Neil’s in good hands.”

“Is his arm going to heal?”

“His arm,” the doctor repeats.

“Is he going to be able to play exy again?” Kevin asks frankly.

Andrew takes him to the wall by the neck so quickly that no one can even react.

“Ask another useless question,” Andrew dares, and pulls Kevin away from the wall so he can slam him back into it. One by one, brutal hands come to his elbows to peel him away. He lets go of Kevin, shakes them off, and stalks right up to the doctor instead. His rage is so present that the 10 inch height discrepancy between them tightens into nothing. “When can we see him?”

“He’s only just gone into surgery, so I’d come back tomorrow—“

Andrew closes his eyes and presses a new knife up into the doctor’s ribs, blind.

“Andrew, holy shit,” Matt says. There’s the usual shift of the air in the room when everyone seems to re-realize what he’s capable of.

“When can I see him,” Andrew amends, pushing in enough that the blade breaks through his scrub top.

The doctor has his hands up in an instant. “There are policies, I can’t. I’m sorry I can’t break them,” he says, panicked.

“Who can?” Andrew asks, and recoils at the feeling of his teammates’ hands on him again. He steps back, shoulders taut, stomach twisting.

“Take it up with the head of surgery,” he says quickly, backing away. “Neil’s holding up for now, but he’s in rough shape. Prepare yourselves.” He disappears behind the ‘staff only’ door as fast as he can, darting looks over his shoulder the whole time.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” Aaron asks, eyeing the door.

Dan sighs. “Wait, I guess.”

“I’ve heard this is a good place for that,” Nicky jokes weakly, pointing at the ’waiting room’ sign in grey and white.

Andrew leaves the room immediately, ignoring Kevin calling after him, Allison saying something sarcastic, his brother’s eyes on his back. He kicks the door to the stairwell open and climbs until he runs out of stairs. The rooftop is off limits but unlocked, so he walks out into the evening, one arm band uncomfortably light without a knife, his mind uncomfortably full without Neil.

He walks to the very edge and looks down, considering the way the fear tastes completely different from the one he’s been grappling with since Aaron called him. Losing Neil isn’t the same as losing himself off the edge of a rooftop. A fear of heights is a kind of deadly anticipation, but Neil in surgery is like already falling and making contact with the ground over and over again.

He needs him alive, but everything Andrew has is breakable, and he should know that by now.

He stays on the roof for a long time, crosslegged on the precipice of a fall, his cellphone face-up at his side.

It’s well into the night when he gets a text from Aaron, just a single word:

Alive.

Andrew gets up so fast he almost topples over the edge, and he feels a burn of relief he shouldn’t be allowing himself to feel.

Baltimore was bad because he was learning a feeling he’d never had before. But he’s been living with it now: the persistence of feeling, the weight of someone next to him in bed that he had invited there. Neil dying now, after giving him that, would drive him off the next roof he found himself on.

He walks back down to recovery, dodging gurneys and fast-walking nurses. There’s no security posted at the door, and it’s almost too easy to slip through into a room full of post-surgery patients in various stages of drug-induced sleep.

It’s impossible to miss the shock of auburn hair against crisp white pillows.

Neil is closest to the window, his face shockingly pale in the 4 AM dawn that’s trying to wriggle its way into the room. It’s unnerving to see him so silent, just another face above a nondescript gown.

Andrew’s own face twists, he can feel it. Everything condenses to the eyes that aren’t open, the elbow to wrist encased in plaster, the new scar down Neil’s front where there were strange hands in him.

He walks to his bedside and tugs on his hair. “You’re a liar.”

All those ‘I’m here for good’s and ‘where would I go’s are all exactly as empty as Andrew thought they were.

If Neil were awake he would say, “you knew that,” or something equally banal. He would make Andrew want to speak, to prove him wrong. He would extinguish this pointless fire in Andrew’s chest.

The door behind him opens and a woman walks in with her eyes down. Andrew doesn’t look away from Neil’s lax face, but he can still sense the moment the person notices him, the shuffle in her halting steps.

“You can’t be in here.”

“I’m staying,” Andrew says, unfazed.

She makes an indignant noise. “Leave or I’ll call security.”

Andrew makes a go ahead gesture, and combs his hand through Neil’s hair. She walks straight back out of the room with a self-righteous boost in her step.

“Wake up,” Andrew says at Neil. He stays still and sick and unreachable. The nurse comes back in with a guy in uniform, both of them looking stern, coming at him with their arms raised. Andrew lets them come. “I’m staying,” he repeats.

The woman makes a tsk-ing sound. “He seems stable.” She picks up his chart and frowns. “He’s not going to come out of anesthesia for a while yet. We’re going to have to ask you to go back to the waiting room until he’s fit for visitors.”

“If he’s breathing, he’s fit.”

“I think we’ll decide that,” the woman says, and holds out her hand like he might take it.

“I’m,” Andrew says looking at her hand and then back at Neil, “staying.”

“Jeff,” she sighs.

“Alright son,” the security guard says, reaching for Andrew. He neatly dodges his slow hand and takes the guard’s legs out from under him with a swift kick. The woman is out of the room before he’s even properly hit the floor, calling out shrilly into the hallway for reinforcements.

It takes more security than they have on the whole floor to wrestle Andrew out of the room, and when they do it is only as far as the waiting room again, back into the relieved and disapproving arms of David Wymack.

“You keep him under control or he’s going to be escorted from the premises,” someone says, Andrew’s not keeping track of who. It’s clear Wymack’s been negotiating because that’s all the reprimanding he gets, manhandling and insult-flinging aside.

“Your starting striker got run over, did you hear?” Andrew asks, and Wymack frowns.

“I heard. I also heard he survived, but that doesn’t seem to have had any effect on your crazy.”

“Breathing does not equal surviving,” Andrew says. “I will believe it when he can tell me himself.”

“You know he’ll just lie,” Wymack says, mouth twitching.

“I can hear the ‘I’m fine’s now,” Nicky jokes.

“How did he look?” Matt interrupts, eyebrows low and furrowed.

Andrew considers, looking at the wall when he replies, “unresponsive.” It’s clipped and unhelpful, but it’s clearly more than anyone expected, from the way Matt nods and shrugs and Wymack raises both eyebrows.

They fall back in line, sitting and fetching coffee and watching the clock. Mid-morning meanders back into the hospital, and the noise goes from a lapping tide to a choppy sea.

It’s 10 AM before some intern comes to fetch them, glancing at Andrew over and over as they explain the situation: how Neil had woken up an hour ago in extraordinary pain, how they’d doped him up and he’d fought against it, trying to stay awake for reasons they couldn’t understand.

“Which one of you is Andrew?”

Andrew says nothing, but everyone looks at him. The intern looks horrified. “Oh, well. He’s asking for you. All of you, but we said he could choose two visitors to start and he just said, well. You. Your name. He’s a little dopey.”

The foxes start to react but Andrew’s already walking past the intern, she has to sprint after him to keep up. “Wait hey, I’ll— I mean, I’ll take you there.”

She steers him in the opposite direction, past a handful of swinging doors and through the labyrinth of identical hallways.

His steps get faster the longer he walks, and he’s starting to think the knife in him is actually a hook on the end of a reel that Neil’s winding up.

He bursts into Neil’s private room all at once. He catches a glimpse of Neil’s focused brows, his too-blue eyes narrowed, and then his face opens all the way up, a pull on a bow that comes all undone.

“I survived,” he calls out, wiggling the fingers in his left hand at Andrew. His face is untouched by the chaos of his latest near-death experience and Andrew can’t stop looking at it.

“For now.”

“For you,” Neil says, voice hollow like the gaping rafters of a cathedral are hollow. It’s the meds, Andrew knows. It’s the morphine pulling ideas at random from Neil’s head, but he looks so calm and self-assured that Andrew can’t help putting their foreheads together.

“Stop. Doing this.” His voice is so heavy. He almost can’t carry it on his tongue.

“How else would I know how much you care,” Neil says, not really joking at all. Andrew doesn’t reply, he’s busy smelling the tang of blood and feeling his anger becoming unwieldy in his hands.

“I hate you,” Andrew says fervently. “I wish you had died.”

“I know,” Neil says, moving his face so that their cheeks are pressed together. It’s the only point of contact Andrew had offered and Neil is milking it. “You’re going to have to deal with me for a little longer.”

“And what if I’m done?”

He feels Neil’s ghost of a smile against his cheek. “You’re not.”

Andrew’s eyes burn and his chest shakes with rage and he holds Neil’s head like it’s everything that matters.

(It is, it is, it is.)

[ghostmartyr]

SnK 89 Thoughts

“Someone once asked me if I had learned anything from it all. So let me tell you what I learned. I learned... everyone dies alone.

But if you meant something to someone... if you helped someone... or loved someone... If even a single person remembers you... then maybe you never really die.

And maybe this isn’t the end at all.”

The above is a quote from the fifth and final season of Person of Interest. If you haven’t seen it, don’t worry; I’m about to quote something else that maybe five people will recognize. Also it doesn’t matter much. I just ran into a snag with coming up with how to start this post, so I went with the old-fashioned method of taking someone else’s words.

For the other quote, I have something not nearly as long or haunted.

“I will remember those who have been forgotten.” --The Stormlight Archive

Throughout the series, one of the recurring plot threads that I’ve been perfectly happy to ignore is the one that touches on the subject of memory.

Humanity has no memory of life beyond the walls.

Titan transformations interfere with memory.

Grisha tells Eren to learn to use his powers from the memories of others.

Frieda regularly wipes Historia’s memory.

Eren and Historia both have dreams of incidents that their waking selves can’t remember.

The cavern built by the Founding Titan, combined with the touch of royal blood, allows for the recovery of memories.

To an unknown extent, nomming a Titan can transfer their memories to the power’s recipient.

Memory has had a part to play since the very first volume. Most prominently in its absence. There’s enough amnesia going around in the series to get a soap opera up and running. Haunting every step our heroes take has been the knowledge that someone has the answers to this world, and they’re out of reach.

First, it was the basement. Grisha.

For a little while, Ymir, as one of the few big friendly giants they knew.

Next came the Reisses, with the introduction of the Founding Titan.

Eren slipped into that same arc, holding the Founding Titan but unable to access large swathes of its capabilities because he doesn’t have the blood for it.

As a metaphor, it’s already pretty nifty, but the literal truth of the situation is that the people who can provide the most help are dead, but never truly forgotten. They are remembered.

Grisha remembers his sister. He remembers Eren Kruger. He remembers Dina. He remembers Zeke. He remembers a world the common citizens of Paradis have never known. He does everything he can to pass on that knowledge.

The Reiss family sacrifice one member every thirteen years to keep the Founding Titan’s memories alive within their house. In turn, the Founding Titan remembers its hosts, keeping them alive for whoever comes next.

The Survey Corps doesn’t have magic Titan powers as a tradition, but they follow the same principle, as put forth by Erwin before his dying charge:

“Those brave fallen men and women! Those poor fallen men and women! The only ones who can remember them... are us, the living!! So we will die here... and trust the meaning of our lives to the next generation!

That is the sole way... we can rebel against this cruel world!”

And before any of that, there is Mikasa.

“If I die now... I won’t even be able... to remember you.”

People finding their reason to keep fighting has always drawn fiction’s attention. Angst calls to a lot of writers, as well as readers, and loss is such a universal concept that of course it’s going to be covered in all its gory detail long after everyone is sick of death.

When Mikasa loses Eren in Trost, you can see the light go out. You don’t really believe she’s going to die, since hey, we’re a protagonist down and she just got a flashback, but everything we know about her says that this feels like an insurmountable loss. She has Armin, but in her head, all she knows is that her family’s gone. Again.

It’s a tragic sequence in either medium you go with. I’m partial to the anime, because I love the music cues in that scene.

Then, as the story requires, she finds her way back to her feet.

Everyone remembers the line about the world’s beauty and cruelty, as well they should. It’s a beautiful line, thematically perfect, and come to think of it, Mikasa should probably get a medal for how well she introduces the prominent themes of this work.

When she makes the decision to live, however, it’s rooted in Eren’s memory.

That always felt a little weird to me, so it’s more memorable than it already was. She continues with lines about fighting, and winning (I think I said this last month, but just because Mikasa was only following Eren to the Scouts doesn’t mean she doesn’t belong there as much as any of the other chaotic dreamers), but the sticking point is wanting to remember Eren.

He’s dead.

His memory shouldn’t be.

This is the scene in the anime that forever sold me on the series. Back then, that particular line was more of an odd fascination than anything else, a touch of uneven humanity buried under the other phenomenal moments--Mikasa missing Eren, but loving him too much to let go of everything he is to her.

Just like their first meeting, Eren keeps her alive long enough for her to find herself, and what she’s willing to fight for.

So we have this incredible scene, and volumes and volumes later, it’s only now that I fully appreciate how tightly woven together all of the important moments are.

When you think about it for a fraction of a second, everyone is constantly dying in this series. Often not people we care about, but there’s a lot of death.

With so much of it, it makes sense that the memories of people they hold dear have so much power. They’ve learned to make the most of life, and that includes the pieces that come after death.

That’s the romantic view of it that really has nothing to do with Titan powers.

Now, on the subject of Titan powers, Eren’s managed to fall through one barrier of being an incomplete Founding Titan holder; he can relive the memories of stories he’s already familiar with.

That... is far from where we want the kiddo to be.

Before this extended flashback sequence with Grisha and Kruger, Eren’s memory troubles were primarily devoted to his father murdering an entire family, being eaten, the injection that was the focus of both those things--and a random shot of Frieda brushing her hair.

It’s difficult to tell how much of that flash to Frieda is a narrative cheat. He doesn’t remember it afterward. It does come after Historia recites her sad backstory to the class, but Historia doesn’t remember her sister at the time. Eren could be having headaches and leaving out all sorts of people, but we’re only going to see the relevant ones.

Still, Frieda’s the only one of the bunch that Eren doesn’t have a clear link to, and she shows up during a time where everyone is discussing the significance of the Reiss family.

That would seem to imply that the memories of the world that Eren is carrying around respond to outside stimulus. Which I guess we already knew because of the cavern and the touching, but there, we were given specific, mystical reasons. This seems more down to earth.

Making it less helpful, naturally. It’s not like they can go to Marley and kick off yet another kidnapping arc, only with them as the kidnappers, and hope someone says something that unlocks another chapter of Eren’s memory books.

Which would be why royalty’s back in play in the main plot. One day I might get to that portion of the post.

Getting back to the pages that spawned all of these words no one cares about, to the surprise of me, Kruger’s last words to Grisha are some of the most interesting in the chapter.

Kruger and Grisha have no idea who Mikasa and Armin are. Kruger is unconcerned, having been dealing with magic in his head for quite some time. He assumes that they’re the carry-overs from someone else’s memories.

This is where, if you wanted to, you can make it really convoluted.

Hiiii.

Reincarnation has been a fun theory ‘round these parts for a while, with the taunt of Ymir’s name only inspiring more detailed versions.

We now know that even if Ymir is Ymir’s reincarnation, no one actually believes that to be true--anymore.

Someone was still willing to present her as such, and believed in her enough to feel betrayed when he believed himself to be wrong, so it’s fair to say that some number of Eldians are willing to believe in their god being reincarnated. All things considered, that doesn’t really mean anything, because this manga is willing to let people believe all sorts of things.

But in the same chapter, we have a bitter old guy telling his predecessor that they’re doomed to repeat a horrible history again and again, and thinks of Mikasa and Armin’s existence as a memory, not a premonition.

So like. If you wanted to, a case could be made for and EMA reincarnation trio getting consistently roped into this, sometimes accompanied by Ymir.

A safer bet is probably just that super special awesome Titans have premonitions in addition to remembering everyone who ever was, and assume that those premonitions are things that have already happened, not things that will again.

Honestly, this is something that doesn’t interest me that much. I’m positive that this has something to do with why Eren sees an older Mikasa in his dream as a child, but what it means is still up in the air.

The straightest line through the plot is that Kruger is seeing through Grisha’s eyes before he gives Grisha the serum, seeing what Grisha will say when he passes it on to the next Eren. Supporting that is that this Eren has no clue who Mikasa and Armin are, but Grisha certainly does at a later point.

Future vision is always the simplest answer.

But like I said, if you want to bring the reincarnation madness--you have a very clear invitation.

Anyhow, as uninterested as I am in... large portions of that, the part right before Kruger brings up cycles of suffering is what I like.

“Make a family. You need a full household once you enter the walls. [...] Your wife. Your child. Even someone on the street. It does not matter. Love someone inside the walls. If you can’t, we’re doomed to repeat it all again. The same history. The same mistakes. Again and again.”

At first it sounds like Kruger’s telling Grisha to run off and get hitched and make babies, but the rest of the discussion makes the blood component secondary. It isn’t a matter of making children; it’s a matter of family.

Make a family.

Love them.

That’s the way out.

Grisha finds Carla and has Eren, but he also has Mikasa.

Eren and Mikasa have Armin.

The three of them have the 104th.

The 104th has the Survey Corps.

If you look at what happens to the mainland Eldians at the time of Grisha’s transformation, you can see the difference. Kruger watches dozens of his people die, participating in their deaths and torture for the greater good. Grisha loves his wife, but sees his child as a tool.

Love doesn’t bind these people together. A shared cause, sometimes, but Kruger doesn’t watch Grisha lose everything and hug him, or help him through it. They’re callous and straightforward.

I don’t know if Kruger is being literal or figurative about the cycle their world is stuck in, but the Survey Corps has started a broken kind of family. Somewhere inside all of the hard choices and death, there is love. There is a group of people who will fight for each other.

With the politics involved, I’m sure nothing can be that simple, but their hearts are all in the right place. They aren’t so consumed by their cause that they’ve close themselves off to everyone. A good portion of them still cry over killing traitors.

It seems safe to assume that Grisha has not designed the perfect battle plan, but he loved Eren, and Carla, and Mikasa, and whatever cruelties followed, that love has done them a lot of good.

It could turn out to be more significant than that, or it might not. We shall see.

Though know that if it turns out that the main plot truly is reincarnation madness + time loop that can only be stopped through the Power of Love...

...

I’m... not actually sure I could be upset if that happens. It sounds amazing.

Basic point: A family can be an Eren, Armin, and a Mikasa.

Moving on to something besides the last three pages now, we scurry back to Mikasa and Eren getting special treatment because they make up a fifth of an entire military branch.

There isn’t much to say on that topic; keeping the kids disciplined is good, but everyone involved knew that the punishment wouldn’t convince them out of fighting for Armin, so they might as well move on and do something productive.

Levi and Hange bickering is life, though.

Even if they’re temporarily going with the, “We’ll just let our main weapon be crazy and call it puberty,” line. I don’t think either of them believe it, and everyone’s going to have to sit down and have the memory discussion at some point (wherein Eren will realize that he fails at lying), but for right now, I think Eren’s potential lack of stability is a discussion for a less hectic day.

Drifting back over to horrible things, Mikasa is... doing about as well as one might expect during this phase of the “My family is all going to die again,” arc.

Mikasa’s tell when it comes to family worries is always holding her head in that way. It happens after Carla’s death, and it happens after Reiner and Bertolt successfully steal away Eren.

Armin and Eren are--okay, Eren’s probably right for once about emotions. I don’t think things have fully sunk in for them. Mikasa, though, is living out her worst fear again. Trapped in a cell by herself, she only has herself. She can make do with that, but she never wants to, and she certainly doesn’t want to be forced into it by losing the people she loves.

Whenever Isayama decides to make Mikasa the focal point of an arc (I refuse to believe it won’t happen), things are going to be rough.

Other horrible things include the entire world not being a safe place for Eldians. No one wants people who can turn into giant monsters around unless they can be useful, and even then it’s a stretch.

So we’ve gone from our heroes being locked inside a series of walls, surrounded by monsters, to those monsters turning out to be their own people, to their own people often being monsters, to other people, but still humans, definitely being monsters, and really, it’s a much worse monster problem than anyone had planned for so what do.

Presumably, it’s things like this that led to the First King locking everyone up in the first place.

The nice thing about this flashback sequence is that we have one very simple solution for the Reiss/Fritz situation: The King likely changed his name.

Now, whether that’s actually true or not remains to be seen, but for the time being, everyone’s running with there being one royal blood line, and it not being at all weird that it’s now the Reiss line, not the Fritz. And considering new plot developments, there’s probably not much reason to look accusingly at the situation any longer.

Royalty is royalty by whatever names they dream up for themselves. That’s the story.

I think the most interesting piece of the flashback is that the First King made a vow with the Founding Titan. Somehow, he managed to communicate with his own Titan, and forge a psychic promise that has lasted over a hundred years.

Does that mean that Titans are sentient inside their hosts?

Is that what Armin sees in his dream?

How much can they control the hosts without explicit requests or permission?

I’ve gotta say, even though his Xtreme Pacifism w/ brainwashing is obviously not something a person should be doing, and obviously disagrees with the theme of fighting to win, everything we hear about the First King makes me want another flashback arc.

Not right now. Geez, no.

But one obviously needs to happen.

It was funny enough when he dragged a bunch of his people to an island, locked them inside, told everyone outside they couldn’t have his toys or he’d set his colossal army on them and they’d all die.

Now it has the companion piece of him saying that maybe they all deserve to die if they can’t stop fighting for five seconds.

This person is clearly related to Historia.

From the outside, he’s obviously made some very sketchy, probably not altogether helpful moves, and played with the lives of people in ways he had no right to.

From a character perspective, this is a person who actually had enough conviction to break all tradition, kill anyone who could remember that tradition, set up a contingency plan for which the word “overkill” is perhaps designed, and did it all because he thought that everyone deserved to die if they abused their power--oh, and he also put in a safeguard so that for over a hundred years, all of his successors would find it impossible to color outside his lines.

No other character or group in this manga has been so ruthlessly effective. You can even scrap the ruthless part. This is an individual who used his hammer, made everyone else a nail, and called it a day.

While being scornfully judgmental.

In a peace-out kinda way.

This is where the story gets even more interesting.

The world is going to want our guys dead. They’re too dangerous to keep alive, and having Titans without the Founding one isn’t the prestige boost it once was.

The Founding Titan is the best protection they have against extermination.

Eren makes the leap fandom’s been making for months. The last time he made the power work, it was while he was touching a titan of royal blood (hey look, a reason for Kruger not to give the Attack Titan to Dina!). That might be how to trigger it.

There’s only one person left in that line.

She wouldn’t eat you, Eren.

This is about touch, but the positions are still neatly reversed. Eren’s making the same choice she does--for slightly less selfish reasons. The question is if everyone else can be okay with that, and whether or not Eren will be able to justify putting humanity at risk to keep his friend.

Or maybe he’s wrong about his guess, and he’ll just end up swooping around the woods with Historia on his back. She’s short, she could totally be a Yoda.

Mikasa, Armin, and Hange clearly know something’s up. Really, it’s all about how far they’re willing to push. Can they kill the Queen to save their people? Is it even necessary? Outside of necessity, is is an action they’d be willing to participate in?

We’ll probably find out!

Though Armin’s attention in particular makes me slightly antsy.

“I haven’t lived an especially long life... but there’s one thing I’m sure of. The people capable of changing things... are the ones... who can... throw away everything dear to them. When forced to face down monsters... they can even leave behind their own humanity. Someone who can’t throw anything away... will never be able to change anything.”

Hi, Armin from Chapter 27! Please don’t foreshadow unpleasant things!

Many things in the direction this story takes are unknown. We don’t know for sure what kind of ending we’re getting, or which message will prevail in the end.

Personally, I’m an optimist. Armin talks about throwing things away in the seventh volume. Way too many paragraphs in this post talk about how people have survived by doing the exact opposite.

I want to believe that if it turns into a battle of ideals, being better than the monsters will prevail. Forming families and loving them.

But boy howdy is this an uncomfortable playing ground to feature that in.

And that’s it from me.

Time to wait impatiently for the next month.

.

.

.

.

Oh yeah, Historia read Ymir’s letter.

I suppose I’m supposed to say something about that.

Right.

HOW THE HELL CAN ALL OF THIS FANFIC NONSENSE EXIST IN THE SPACE OF SO FEW PAGES.

Do you have any idea how long it took me to realize that this latest instance of Ymir being an overly dramatic idiot is actually canon? Sure, she jumps off towers into hoards of monsters, and makes up lies in the middle of kidnapping her girlfriend, but I’m choosing to believe that the translation is accurate in representing Ymir’s writing style of horrific floweriness to play off how sincere she’s about to be.

ALSO: “I am about to wow you with a romantic tale.

It starts with me starving to death and ends with me getting stoned.”

THAT IS THEIR RELATIONSHIP. STOP POINTING OUT REASONS WHY REINER DOESN’T HAVE A GIRLFRIEND AND START WONDERING HOW THE HELL YOU HAVE ONE.

I’m mostly sure that this was done the way it was so that Isayama wouldn’t have to deal with too much Ymir speculation in the wake of revealing the ancient Ymir. The fact remains that Ymir plays up her tragic tale of woe as a love letter, and this is like a good third of why Historia has trust issues.

More seriously, this ties in to what the rest of the chapter wasn’t about, but I made it about: Memories.

Ymir believes she’s about to be very dead (we all have future vision now). She can pick what she tells Historia. She chooses her life. She chooses to tell the girl she loves, the girl she finally got to be herself with, all of the pieces that came before them. She tells her what she was. She glosses over all of the whys, and just tells Historia what she experienced.

She tells Historia the full truth about how they’re alike.

She tells her about her suffering.

She���s willing to admit that she finds the world incredible. All of her cynicism about what happened to her and how little it matters melts away, and all that’s left is freedom, and a life that she doesn’t regret.

Except for the part where they aren’t married.

You do not understand how much I enjoy Historia’s reactions to things.

Ymir gives Historia her whole history to remember her with, not just the parts they shared. She calls it a love letter, and brings up marriage so abruptly that no wonder Historia is confused, and while those are true expressions of how she feels, the romantic part of it is that Ymir wants Historia to know her. She wants to apologize, and let Historia know that them being incomplete is her only regret--and she wants Historia to know her before she’s gone. Even after she’s gone.

Historia’s the person she loves, and the person she wants to be with. She can’t be with her, but she can be remembered by her.

Yeah, that’s such romantic way to be SO UNBELIEVABLY UNHELPFUL.

Historia’s reaction is really the only correct one.

“You play it off the moment you feel embarrassed. How am I supposed to understand like this...?”

HOW ARE YOU BOTH SO BAD AT THIS.

Ymir, protip: stop bringing up marriage only when Historia is on the brink of tears.

Historia: SHE LIKES YOU.

I’ll admit to being dedicated to my belief that Historia does not have the first damn clue what Ymir wants from her, and this sequence really only makes that dedication stronger.

Historia probably understands Ymir better than anyone else on the face of the planet, but she doesn’t understand herself, and as a consequence, I don’t think she really gets how she and Ymir work, except that they do.

In the days before Ymir’s departure, Historia is still perfectly willing to believe that Ymir is only hanging about because of her family, but in the days after Ymir’s departure, Historia tells Connie in no uncertain terms that she knows Ymir. In the immediate aftermath of Utgard, she tells Hange that she knows her well.

Historia really does know Ymir--well enough to claim it as Krista, as Kristoria, and Historia.

That’s different from having faith in someone’s affection for you, and that’s where a lot of Historia’s confusion in their relationship comes from. On the one hand, she knows Ymir, and knows that she’s someone Ymir chooses to hang out with.

On the other hand, no one’s ever wanted her.

Ymir makes it more difficult by skating around her feelings so well that even when her glib remarks are serious, it’s hard to take them that way. She places implications of romance on either side of a story that’s clearly hard for her to let out. It can be read as lightening a heavy mood, or just the truth, and Historia is so terribad at trusting in a relationship that it’s like handing her a toddler’s slot toy and telling her the sdklj goes in the sdklj hole.

YOU’RE BOTH SIMPLE IDIOTS. STOP PRETENDING YOU’RE NOT.

I mean, that’s one facet of her response.

The other one connects to something a little further back.

“Ymir saw the real me… the me that chose the Survey Corps. The me that even I didn’t know about. But… after Ymir disappeared, I stopped understanding who I am… and what I want.” --Historia, 54

Ymir is still gone.

Historia has learned to understand pieces of herself, and she can be her own person, but the truth is that she only really feels secure in herself when she has Ymir, and Ymir isn’t here. Ymir might never be here again.

Ymir gives Historia her memories.

She doesn’t tell Historia who she was in them.

Ymir’s the only person who has ever had the ability to remember Historia Reiss correctly, and if she’s gone, and she never explains it, how is Historia supposed to know who that is? How’s she supposed to be the value the person she loves sees in her if she can’t recognize it?

These two have no idea what they’re doing.

They never really have, but they always knew that if they were together, somehow, that worked.

Now they aren’t.

The result is that we have the second time in the series that Historia’s tears actually fall. She tears up plenty, but the tears only make it past her eyes twice.

The first time is when he father hugs her, and tells her she’s wanted.

This is the second time, and it’s both cheeks, not just one.

Neither shot provides a clear view of her eyes.

That, obviously, is reserved for when Ymir and Historia are reunited.

(Let me have my dreams.)

Alright, having long since passed the point at which people will give up and go read something else, I... think that might actually be it.

Let the waiting commence.