#I hardly deserve gentleness and patience but please. please be patient with me.

[straydogged]

haven't even been able to force myself to get up and put pants on, much less deal w/ the debris on the bed or do dishes

[whumpeeblog]

TW: Slavery, Torture Mention, Death Mention, Pain, etc.

K, away on a decently long journey with A, chose to let N look after his estate and slaves for a period.

S shivered in her cell, sore from a recent beating. The vase had crashed with a menacing promise of punishment. But it had been an accident. Not only had the whip sliced her back, but the blades of knives and the threatening chokes of torture had harmed her feeble body. Weakened from the pain, S’s brain played pranks of mirages and lethargic daydreams.

Footsteps outside her cell. No. Please no. She had been certain that K was on a journey and she just wanted to be left to suffer alone. Perhaps it was a trick and now he would torture her again. Jingling keys toyed with the brass lock, and flickering light, too bright compared to the heavy darkness, crept into the cell.

K had instructed N, a close friend and distant relative, as to what each individual slave and prisoner would get for meals and work, as well as for torture. Burning hatred of cruelty towards any living creature stabbed at his heart. K had demanded the torture and work of the wretch in this cell, however, and he had to follow orders.

K had assumed S was too mangled to be recognized, and she knew the rules of speaking out of turn. N would never know it was her. He hadn’t seen her in nearly three years, and her rebellious spirit ran much more wild then.

Soft light dripped onto the figure shaking like a leaf in the corner of her cell. She was unrecognizable to him, just another slave. K had destroyed her, breaking her into something she was never meant to be.

N stepped into the cell, keys ringing in his fingers and a lit torch in the other. He set the flaming stick into a holder in the wall, then took another step. With each thump of his leather boots against the floor, the pain filled whimpers and sobs of the captive grew more desperate.

N crouched closer, and the girl sunk herself further into the wall, gritting her teeth to keep from crying out in pain.

Hardly a face, covered in bruises and crimson gashes, hung towards the floor. A mangled, broken body melted its way into the stone walls behind it. Muffled wails quietly rung in the dungeon.

N knelt towards the girl, preparing to lift her off of the floor. As his lean figure came nearer, S’s whimpers became more and more horrified.

S’s heart ached to scream for mercy, but there were punishments for that. She remained as silent as possible while failing to hide her trembling tears.

N’s kind heart stung for the child on the floor, her form crushed and shattered by her master. The last thing N wished was to hurt this poor creature, and the last thing she wanted was for him to touch her.

Gentle fingers softly caressed the abused face, feeling the pale skin shiver in fear beneath them.

“Look at me,” N whispered. Something about this prisoner was familiar.

S’s ivy eyes rose hesitantly, but the moment they struck N, his own eyes widened in shock and disbelief.

Those eyes were familiar. He had seen the tortured face many times before, but... it wasn’t possible. K had murdered her years ago. She had been tortured, then her head cut off, or at least, that’s what everyone had been led to believe. Couldn’t be. She was dead.

Dew drops clung to the long lashes that framed the eyes staring into his soul.

“S?”

The syllables startled the wretch and she grimaced and pinned herself even harder against the wall. All she wished was to hide away, to be ignored.

N’s soul broke with the realization that she didn’t remember him just yet. This had to be her, and he couldn’t hurt her, no matter what K threatened.

“Child, I’m not going to hurt you.” N cautiously brushed through her matted hair with his fingers in an attempt to gain trust.

S gradually recognized the man. N. The last time she had seen him failed to reappear in her mind. Perhaps he had changed. Surely this was a trap. Either way, K would return and N would give him a report on her, so she best remember her place.

Chains rattled as N removed the rusty collar tethering S to the wall. The chains connecting her ankles dropped. Tears fell throughout the entire process and she internally begged N not to hurt her.

She must obey him, and prove that she was a good slave, to avoid more pain. He couldn’t possibly be the same N who saved her life five years ago, or the same man who convinced D not to hurt her countless times.

A soft jolt singed S’s cut covered body, and whines escaped her as N lifted her body into his arms. Even his soft skin sent agonizing torment through her when he touched any of her wounds.

“Shh..” N cooed, almost fooling the girl with his gentle tone and soft eyes.

Whatever he was going to do to her, it would end in pain. He was just like K now, S was sure of it. K had been soft with her at times too, but he always seemed to run back to the realization of what a lowly wretch she was. She deserved the pain. She would beg for punishment, then perhaps N would tell K what a good prisoner she had been.

Although N attempted his best to lightly carry the girl, each step threw painful pressure on S’s injuries. She groaned. Groans transformed into sobs.

N couldn’t handle seeing the child in such torment. He set her down against a wall, then used his knowledge of the human body to provoke a pressure point, sending S into unconsciousness.

Unfamiliar sheets burned against bloodied skin as S shifted in her ending sleep. Eyes flushed open in shock. Green pupils stared into the crinkling brown ones above her, almost immediately shifting back down.

Oh god I made eye contact. I should ask for punishment. If I do, he won’t tell K and he’ll know I didn’t mean to. But if I talk, he’ll punish me.

The grieving child flinched in preparation for the sting that never came. Her skin jolted when tender fingers dragged themselves through her damp- wait damp?

Puzzled, S’s hand shakily lifted to slip through her slick roots. Had he- bathed her? Surely he must know she didn’t deserve such generosity. The sore wounds had been wrapped and cleansed as well. This tactic was familiar to her. He would show her mock kindness, healing her wounds, only to torture her again when her body was strong enough.

What if K hadn’t actually left, and he had simply sold her? This was a different castle after all... actually... she knew this place. D’s castle. These walls had distanced themselves for three years. And now she was back. The memory of her first visit haunted her. Her body flung to the floor. Her defiant screams of fear and pain. Before K broke her. Before she became what she was meant to be.

N’s words interrupted her thoughts.

“How are we feeling, lass?”

“Better, Master. Thank you. I don’t deserve your kindness.” The raspy voice barely croaked.

His tone tricked S into almost believing he wasn’t angry for the unwanted eye contact. Surely she wouldn’t remain unpunished.

“Dinna think ye were still alive after all these years. K w’d have us believe he’d tortured ya and killed ye. I can see he’s had his fair share of fun wit ya, hasn’t he?”

N’s velvet voice calmed S and she nodded, a saltwater drop searing a gash on her cheek. N’s hand drove towards her face, and his thumb wiped her tears as his palm cupped her trembling cheek.

“Hush, darling.”

“I’m sorry, Master. Forgive me. It’s not my place to cry.”

“No, no, you’re alright,” N cooed.

“I should be punished, sir. Please. I shouldn’t have cried before and I shouldn’t now. Please discipline me and teach me my place,” S’s whines for authority grew frantic. She had to be taught. If she wasn’t, she would forget what she was. They would have to break her all over again.

“No, love. Hush now.”

N grappled a chilly wet cloth. Frosty shudders danced through S when N dabbed her forehead with the rag. Her voice broke into a moaning tremor. All she wanted was to be punished. Sparing the pain now would create more torture later. Disdain blended with agony laced her high pitched whimpers when N’s soft hand guided the cloth against her face.

“I’ll make us supper. What’d ya like, lass?”

Utter confusion clogged S’s brain. He couldn’t have just asked her that. It must be a trap. She wasn’t allowed to eat unless specifically ordered to, hence the ribs that popped out with every intake of breath. She was merely a skeleton, hidden beneath a paper thin blanket of marred skin. S’s stomach was only given barely enough sustenance to pump her heart for a bit longer each day.

The few times that she had attempted to sneak food, S had been punished mercilessly, then given the opportunity to eat as a test of obedience. This must be another quiz of compliance. Although the punches of starvation beat her insides, S understood that the pain resulting from gluttony would be much worse.

Her new master’s patient gaze saturated her with concern.

“What do you want to eat, girl?”

“I’m ok, Master. I don’t eat a lot.”

That’s it. Perhaps he was testing her to see how much she required to continue breathing. If she showed she didn’t eat a lot or need much to survive, he would let her live. If she didn’t take much from him, he would keep her alive and let her serve him.

N stared through her pale body sorrowfully, a pang of guilt and pity trampling him like the wheels of a speeding train. The poor child. Someone had to help her. What had K done to her? What had become of his little lass? Where was the defiant young child who would have fought tirelessly for her innocent life? Was she dead, or was she simply hiding behind a submissive mask of the years of torture she had been subjected to? Patience for K was thinning. S belonged to him though. There was nothing to be done except show mercy to the captive while she was under his care.

K had ordered her torture when she was healed enough. N refused. Even if he did antagonize her, who knew how long her frail body could handle it?

“Come along, lass,” N softly demanded, whispering so as not to startle the girl. He gently settled his arm around S’s back, and she whimpered when his skin brushed against her freshly bandaged tissue. His strength assisted in hoisting her body upright, then he placed out both of his arms for S to use as leverage.

The hint wasn’t immediately taken.

“Place your hands on my forearms.”

Finally, an instruction. S’s sliced wrists snaked onto N’s tan arms, and with a groan, she lifted herself to stand.

“Go wait in the kitchen for me.”

S lowered her head and obeyed the order, limping out the door and down the halls. As she leaned against the walls for support, her delirious brain began to recognize the place. She had not seen these walls in forever, but they remained the same as they were two years ago. Her suffering body hobbled past K’s old suite, as well as D’s, and the years of torment came thrashing back. Pushing the tears in her mind aside, S slowly tripped down the stairs and into the main kitchen. The layout was similar, if not almost identical, to the entertainment, living, and kitchen area of K’s home.

Rather than hop towards the fridge and pick out a meal, S launched herself to her knees, and waited, head down and body prepared for any punishment or mere entertainment N wanted. The impending footsteps thumped down the staircase.

“What’re ye doing?” N’s bewilderment intertwined into his tone. “Git yerself up off da floor.”

S clamored to stand as tall as her crackling spine would allow her, but a slight slump in her body bent her like a weathered tree. Her right hand crossed in front of her to grasp her left wrist, a sign of submission and preparedness to be bound, if her master saw fit. Her head sank. She was do careful not to look her superiors in the eye. If she proved she was a good slave, maybe N would let her live, or at least make her death quick and painless.

Whether N’s intentions were to execute or torture S hid themselves. She had skimmed kindness and humaneness in his amber gaze, but she had witnessed the same thing from K before. He had shown her leniency many times, and she had even seen a tear shed once or twice, but he always ended up afflicting her again. She couldn’t trust those eyes, regardless of how promising and honest they seemed. Proving her worth would save her life, so she thought. She was a terrible slave. A wretch. An enemy who had been shown mercy. She deserved whatever awaited her in the dungeons; whatever waited behind N’s reassuring hand.

[enigma-im]

Who Are You

Prompt #9

Subject: Dirty talk Monster: Demon

                    Boring date made better by some dirty talking demon.

--------------------------------------

The boy goes on and on about God only knows what. The dull monotonous tone of his voice nearly lulls me to sleep if it wasn't for the damn clanking of his silverware every time he felt he told a joke. I try to give him a fair shot, I really try, but his habits and tedious stories bring hatred to my very being. Just make it through the dinner and I can honestly say I gave him a fair chance to captivate me with something- please, even just a little a nibble of captivation.

I pick apart everything he says, down to the tiniest potential hook to jump in with my own conversation but after a bit, I can't help but give up. Looking around the room at the throng of people is far more entertaining than this date. My ideas get lost in a whirlwind of thought. Chores and tasks I need to get done tonight weave through first, then daydreams hop aboard. I ponder a better night with a tall handsome stranger who can woo me with words then whisk me away to a night of screaming pleasure. What I wouldn't give to be thoroughly fucked tonight. To be held down and pleasured to the brink. What I wouldn't give indeed.

'such an imagination, almost makes the venture out tonight worth the hassle,' a rich voice says. I sit up, looking at my date who still drones on like nothing was said. I look around, not finding any source of the beautiful baritone.

'Oh, don't let me stop you. Please continue detailing a perfect night that has your dress used as a rope to tie up your hands while a dark dangerous lover pays tribute to your body,' the voice speaks again. fear drops heavily into my stomach, the worrisome idea that someone is delving into my head brings cold fingers to my spine. I stupidly ask the voice that seems to have settled in my mind to divulge its identity.

'I'm am but a bored soul, same as yourself, who is in need of some entertaining,' he answers,' I have been admiring you all night, watching you try to stomach the presence of that personified celery stick. Though his thoughts are as filthy as yours I find you two to be an extremely poor match. Would I be correct in guessing that he won't be seeing his fantasies come to light?'

I look over the 'personified celery stick' with disgust, 'not a chance'.

'That is fair, I doubt he could give you what you need anyway,' he chuckles. I find myself intrigued for the first time tonight, feeling playful even in the face of such uncertainty.

'Yea? What do you think I need,' I bait, leading into a more sultry conversation.

The voice chuckles again, no doubt pleased with where this is going. 'A woman like you need someone who knows how to give you what you deserve. To lead you in with promised seduction before being ravaged like a beast. To be lathered in heated kisses before being held down by a powerful lover who can take their fill without leaving you unsatisfied'. I startle a bit at my results, rightfully swayed towards this voice's ideas. He answers my rapt attention, ' I think I'm on the right track. Wouldn't you agree, doll?'

I reign myself in before making a slobbering fool of myself.

'tempting but I'm more of a leader than a follower,' I tease, 'why would I need a man to take control when I'm more than capable of taking what I want?' he hisses before laughing. The sweet sounds bring a grin to my face.

'you wish for a slave or a conquest,' he asks.

'Depends, which part do you wish to play?'

'Oh? Does my mistress allow me such a choice? How kind,' he purrs,' I will be your slave if that is what you so desire.'

I think about the idea, trying to let the words flow before he can catch the plan. The image of this stranger at my complete and utter control is appealing. Though the potential of being worshiped sounds better.

'For tonight I think I will let you hold the reins, but don't think you should ever forget who is really in control. So with your new freedom what are you going to do with me,' I bite my lip in anticipation. The potential too grand to ignore in the face of this craziness.

He growls, the sound sending pulses to my crotch. The primal eagerness of this voice is pressing more buttons than most others before him.

'Where does one start with such profound beauty? Perhaps with a kiss, gentle and tender, just the perfect start to an exciting night. To begin with, tasting the bits of flesh you allow visible in that generous dress,' he begins.

'Hardly the ravaging I was hoping for,' I poke fun.

'Patience, doll, why spoil the evening with frenzied attention when the night is still young,' he scolds,' now where was I? ah, the removal of that teasing dress. I do hope you don't like it because it will not survive the night. I know you will enjoy such a display of brute strength as I rip it off you.'

'I'd say I'm for the idea,' I smirk.

'I imagine you would,' he purrs,' with your body shown to me, I would take to resting you down in the bed before delving between those ebony thighs. Kick-off the evening with your first orgasm.'

'Confident aren't we? A man has never succeeded in bringing me to climax with only his tongue,' I bait again. His talk is pleasing but typical. I want the less explored avenues, the kind of lustful attention that makes people walk away on shaky legs and wear their runny mascara proudly.

'I assure you, doll, I am no man. You shouldn't be making wishes you don't want to be fulfilled,' he warns. His sultry voice sounding like the devil himself in my ear.

'I thought you knew me so well? Don't think I could handle something more physical?'

He is quiet for a moment, disappointment throbs in my chest until his alluring laugh rings in my ears.

'I think I can manage that. To use your body for my own pleasures while driving you past your own over and over again until you are hoarse. What I wouldn't give to see you face down ass up with my cock buried into your weeping quim. To smack your ass red while pressing your face further into the sheets. Quiet your screams while I ruin you,' he growls,' is that what you want, doll? To be completely debauched at the hands of a stranger who wants nothing more than to paint those insides white?'

I cannot think over the rushing of my blood. The boiling desire festering under my skin as images of an undistinguished man holding me down and pounding into me plays through my mind. It's alarming, its crude, it's…divine.

'Is that something you think you can handle,' he baits. The lure resting there as a promise and no longer just words. He lays the decision at my feet, eager but patient for my answer.

The strange man speaking in my head could be dangerous- most likely extremely dangerous. It's wise to not accept deals from captivating young devils. Best to turn back while the going is good and try to get my fill with the man in front of me. A simple choice, a smart choice

but when has anyone been smart enough to turn away deals with the devil?

I stand from the table, panting as I turn towards the open room. Across the way another man stands, adjusting his suit as he smirks my way. I return the grin with an eager gleam.

-----------------------------------------

The ‘to be completely debauched at the hands of a stranger who wants nothing more than to paint those insides white’ really just gets to me. Had some fun with this one. I channeled the power of @killerkissed to write it.

Complete series

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[baoshan-sanren]

Prologue pt. 2

to the fucking NieLan arranged marriage AU I can’t stop thinking about

pt.1 here

A few days later, she takes herself to Cloud Recesses.

She does not announce her intention to visit prior to arriving at the gates. There is something infinitely enjoyable about watching Lan QiRen become flustered when his precious hospitality rules are not being executed to the letter. It has been half a century since she had stepped foot in Cloud Recesses (her bones are no longer forgiving of the cold mountain winds), but she is not surprised to find an additional thousand rules carved into the rock. 

Oh, but if the Heavens were only to love irony above all else, they would love the Lan Sect above all the others.

Not much else has changed, except a distinct presence of two fluffy creatures chasing each other across the green lawns, a sight that is both delightful and utterly unexpected. She watches them for some time, her brothers patiently still behind her. There is a soft giggle from one of the serving girls, quickly stifled by her companions, but MeiLing does not find it improper. Rabbits in Cloud Recesses are indeed something to giggle about.

Lan QiRen finds her moments later, two elders at his shoulder. Only someone who knows him well can see his discomfort at her presence, and she does not intend to put him at ease.

He bows deeply, the elders behind him following suit.

“Pets are forbidden at Cloud Recesses,” she says, and watches Lan QiRen twitch.

Lan XiaoChun is not one of the elders sent to receive her. Not that she had expected his presence. He would have doubtlessly voiced his disapproval already, then withdrawn into some horridly stark excuse for living quarters, intent on meditating these unsuitable marriage prospects out of existence. The Lan men might be as strong as the mountains, but just like the mountains, it took an act of Heavens to get them to move.

“Lady Nie, you presence is an unexpected pleasure,” Lan QiRen says.

“It is an honor to welcome you,” the elder on the right intones. “Truly a delight,” the one on the left adds.

She huffs. They must think her a steamed bun, to blow so much hot air in her direction all at once.

“You must have had a long journey,” Lan QiRen goes on, “May I offer you some tea?”

Tea, she accepts readily. Unless the Gusu Lan cuisine has markedly improved over the last century, tea is likely to be the only palatable nourishment within these walls.

She lets them escort her to a cushion that leaves much to be desired in terms of comfort, and fuss over her until her patience starts wearing thin. The tea is passable, the conversation dull. But in the end, she is rewarded with the sight of the two boys she had come to see.

The eldest Jade of Lan is lovely to be sure, and built properly as all Lan men tend to be; their height and width of shoulder can hardly be matched in the cultivation world, and she had admired many a Lan in her day precisely for these attributes. His voice is gentle, and his smile distressingly genuine. She does not think he is soft, but he gives every appearance of pliability. That will not do.

The younger boy is eerily similar to his brother, but there is a type of stiffness to him that only the righteous youth of the Lan Sect could perceive as an admirable trait. His gaze is pale and cool, impossible to read. There is a dignity to his bearing that many men twice his age do not possess. He might do, she thinks, but neither is precisely what she wanted.

They both appear fragile in different ways. She cannot guess which one would be less likely to shatter under the onslaught of the infamous Nie temper.

After the boys are dismissed, Lan QiRen plucks at his beard, as if composing a long-winded song on the benefits and downfalls of the marriage union. MeiLing, who had never married herself, has no interest in hearing his thoughts on the subject.

“The younger boy seems suitable,” she says instead, and watches Lan QiRen’s forehead cloud.

“WangJi has received an offer from Jiang FengMian’s adopted son.”

Now, this is an unexpected development, one MeiLing may truly enjoy.

“Cangse Sanren’s boy?” she asks, and has the pleasure of seeing the old goat turn sour at the mere mention of the name.

“Of course,” Lan QiRen goes on, “the Nie Sect Leader takes precedence. An adopted son of the YunMeng Jiang Sect must give way.”

“I would not dare gainsay the Violet Spider,” she says with a smile that does not need to be faked, “After all, they are closer in age, and likely to be better suited. Do not worry yourself, Sect Leader, the older boy will do just as well.”

He talks some more, as men always do when there is nothing of value left to say. The decision has been made, and she takes her leave sooner than courtesy demands, citing the damp mountain air as the cause. In truth, she wants a meal that does not taste like boiled cabbage, and perhaps some of that famous Emperor’s Smile, none of which is she likely to see at Cloud Recesses.

She had spent very little time in the last few decades among the Sects and Clans, their petty squabbles always tiresome beyond belief. However, she dearly wants to see that stiff Gusu Lan boy navigate a marriage union with Cangse Sanren’s wild brat. She thinks this will surely be a type of entertainment worthy of any exertion.

--

MingJue takes the news better than she had expected. His temper tantrum only shatters a few stone posts, Baxia whipping over the heads of his cowering advisors. They scurry away as cowards that they are, and she is left to enjoy her tea without their irritating presence. MingJue paces and rants some more, his anger already giving way to complaints at the sheer inconvenience of it all, the ridiculousness of forging alliances through marriage, and the injustice of the system that requires he marry a person he has never met.

Well, fiddle·dee·dee, she thinks to herself. As if every Sect Leader’s daughter in the history of time has not already voiced those same complaints.

Finally, he settles opposite her, fury dissipating for the time being. They drink their tea in silence, a few brave servants shuffling back and forth. He is young still, and if he can only avoid fighting a war in this lifetime, she thinks he may have a few good decades before the inevitable comes.

She does feel for him. No son should ever have to bury his father so young, nor shoulder an entire Sect. But there is no use in crying over things that cannot be changed.

“The eldest Jade of Lan,” he says stiffly, “was to be the next Gusu Lan Sect Leader. Why would Lan QiRen allow this marriage to take place?”

She cannot help but snort at his words, “You are not stupid, child. If the Qishan Wen raise an army tomorrow, who would stand against them? The world at peace seeks philosophers and poets. The world at war seeks butchers. Take what is offered, and be grateful.”

“You give me two Sects to protect instead of one,” MingJue says bitterly, “and another burden I must carry. You will have to forgive, if gratitude escapes me at the moment.” “A husband should not be a burden.”

The incredulous gaze he sends her way is more explicit than any words. Perhaps it is a little bold of her to exalt the benefits of marriage. But she is old and can do as she pleases, and he is not brave enough to accuse her of hypocrisy.  

Another period of silence follows. The servants, decidedly more confident now, start sweeping up dust and carrying away broken stones.  

“He has agreed to this?” MingJue finally says, his gaze not meeting hers. “The Sect elders have agreed. The Lan elders have agreed. Lan QiRen has agreed.”

His palm meets the surface of the table with force, rattling the tea cups, “That is not the question I asked.”

She sighs. Such histrionics over such a small matter. She cannot see what difference it makes; the first Jade of Lan is no temperamental Nie youth that must be beaten into submissions. Those who willingly submit to three thousand idiot rules carved into a rock are unlikely to raise a fuss over an advantageous marriage offer.

“He has agreed to begin the process,” she says diplomatically, “the rest will be of your own doing. You cannot take back the offer made, without insulting the entire Gusu Lan Sect. But I suppose, if you are truly against this marriage, you can find ways to make yourself displeasing to him.”

This is not an option he has considered before, and she immediately regrets planting that thought in his head.

“You must know,” she says, her voice stern, “the first Jade of Lan has a sweet temperament, and an infinitely kind nature. He does not deserve to be mistreated simply because you cannot reconcile to an idea of marriage. If you cannot treat him with courtesy and consideration, tell me now. I will not force that child into a life of hostility and indifference.”

Renewed fury flashes in his eyes, “Do you take me for a savage?”

“I take you for a man who does not know how to harness his temper.” “I would not mistreat him,” MingJue growls, all thoughts of breaking the agreement apparently forgotten. “Good,” she murmurs into her cup.

Perhaps she should sit with the First Jade of Lan before this marriage takes place, and impart some wisdom. He may not be willing to pound his new husband into the dirt, but she could teach him a thing or two about swaying Nie men to his purpose.

[quickeningheart]

Twenty-Two

  Stoker was seriously contemplating building himself a new hideout. While the laboratory he kept well-hidden in the wilderness was large and well-stocked with equipment and supplies, it was becoming more and more difficult to come and go as he pleased without detection. He'd done his best to keep his whereabouts a secret, but Limburger was definitely onto him, if the amount of hired thugs constantly sent out to tail him was any indication. The goons might not have been particularly intelligent, but they were annoyingly persistent; Stoker knew that one of these days he was gonna slip up and lead someone right to his lab, and then everything he'd spent the last ten earth years trying to achieve would be sent straight down the proverbial crapper.

   Even the thought of all the work it would require to set up a new workshop was exhausting, but he couldn't risk his project by staying where he was, and he didn't want to move house to one of his other, smaller hideaways scattered across the country. Moving farther from Chicago—and therefore from his comrades—just didn't sit well with him.

   Which was why he found himself cruising down the ruined streets of the large warehouse district not far from Charley's garage. What had once been thriving industrial businesses were now nothing but empty husks of their former glory, ranging from mildly dilapidated to completely demolished. Not even the street gangs and city lowlifes bothered much with the abandoned neighborhood anymore; there wasn't any point as there was no longer anyone left to terrorize. Now they tended to hang out in other areas, living it up in the massive chasms edging the outskirts of Chicago.

   The result of Limburger's past handiwork, the Pits had become home to every sort of human criminal in Illinois over the past few years. Everyone knew it, including the police. Yet, for some reason, they never seemed to have enough of a reason to go in and raid the place. Stoker was certain that was the result of Limburger's handiwork, as well. He'd bribed the law enforcement and government officials to leave the Pits alone; in exchange, the Pit Boss left Limburger's extensive enterprise alone, and provided all the hired muscle needed to do his dirty work. It was a very beneficial business arrangement all around.

   While that knowledge really ground Stoker's gears, right now it worked well to his benefit. Nobody bothered with this district—including Limburger—which meant he had free access to the empty warehouses. And on the off-chance that anyone should get a little too nosy, they could easily be taken care of; after facing down squadrons of Plutarkian soldiers, a few stray punks were hardly any threat. He'd become an expert at setting alarms and traps. If Limburger sent more goons to trail him, they'd be in for some nasty shocks. He couldn't do much in the way of self-defense in the middle of the wilderness, but abandoned factories full of potentially hazardous junk was a different matter altogether.

   With a little planning and a lot of fortification, Stoker was sure he could rig up a decent laboratory to continue his work while he was on earth. A little careful rerouting would give him ample power needed to run his diagnostics, and he'd be right on the home turf, ready to lend a hand should the rookies need it. As much as it aggravated him to admit it, those hours-long rides between the city and his lab were really starting to wear on his body. It would be a nice change to not have his muscles and bones constantly aching from the strain.

   A sharp beep snapped him out of his inner musings, and he nearly lost control of his bike when it made a sudden veer to the left, narrowly missing the lone figure trudging down the middle of the street, who yelped with fright and scrambled out of the way. "Watch where you're going!" she screeched, and Stoker's eyes widened when he immediately recognized Alley's voice. He slammed on the brakes and made a sharp turn, coasting back her way. What was she doing, wandering these streets all by herself? True, he hadn't seen so much as a stray cat in the general vicinity, but still. She had to know that walking alone wasn't safe! Had something happened to her? Again? He chuckled and shook his head. That woman was a walking trouble magnet, and if he had any sense, he'd keep his distance.

   Too bad his sense always seemed to shrivel up and die whenever those gorgeous blue eyes turned his way.

   He pulled to a stop beside her, opening his visor to turn on the charm … and it was then that the distinct odor of Plutarkian hit him full in the face.

   He reared back with surprise and mild alarm; a soft whufff escaped before he could catch himself, and Alley scowled at him, not missing the flash of disgust that wrinkled his sensitive nose. She started to walk on, but he didn't give her a chance. He was off his bike in a second and blocking her path, frowning down at her. "What happened?" he asked, concern sharpening his tone.

   "Nothing," she snapped, her scowl deepening. He felt her defenses go up, preparing for a fight, and bit back a sigh. As much as their bantering amused him, she could be downright exasperating when she set her mind to it. And while he knew she had every right to be a little peeved at him for his behavior the night before, right now it was time to let bygones be bygones. He wasn't about to let her clam up on this subject. Not when her safety was at risk.

   "Nothing?" he repeated, one eyebrow raising. "I can smell Plutarkian all over you."

   "Then feel free to take yourself upwind." She attempted to step around him. Again, he blocked her path, and she glowered. "I'm fine," she insisted. "Get out of the way!"

   Stoker exhaled a deep sigh and tried for patience, resting his hands on her slim shoulders. "Alley," he began gently, and a startled expression crossed her face at the rare use of her name. "If Limburger did anything to you, hurt you in any way, you need to tell me. Please."

   Her brow furrowed and she glanced around nervously; it occurred to him that she never seemed to know how to respond when he was being serious with her, filing that information away for later consideration. "Did Limburger lay hands on you?" he pressed, and she winced when his fingers inadvertently tightened at the thought. He immediately gentled his grip, rubbing her shoulders briefly in apology.

   "He didn't touch me," she finally mumbled. "He just … caught me by surprise, and one of his guys came up behind me and forced me into his car."

   "Why didn't you fight back?" he asked, offering a wry grin. "You've got a hell of a right hook."

   "Yeah, well, wouldn't do much good against the gun in my back."

   A low growl erupted deep in his throat, making her eyes widen. He forced himself to calm down. "What happened next?"

   "That's nobody's business but mine." She tried to ease away, but he maintained a steady grip on her shoulders and gazed patiently down at her. When she stubbornly refused to talk, he sighed deeply and nodded toward his bike. "Hop on. I'll give you a lift back."

   "There's nothing wrong with my legs."

   "Just do an old soldier a favor and get on. Your cousin would skin me alive and use my pelt as a coat if she found out I'd let you walk through this neighborhood by yourself."

   "Fine." She huffed a sigh and stomped to the bike, started to swing a leg over the seat, only to stumble when the machine rolled smoothly forward. She eyeballed it cautiously and tried again … with the exact same result. She nearly fell that time, Stoker's quick reflexes the only thing keeping her from a pair of scraped knees.

   "Stop that," he scolded, scowling and giving the rear wheel a light kick. "What's got into you?" He was answered with a series of sharp beeps.

   "Your pet doesn't seem to like me," Alley muttered, backing away.

   "Hmm. Maybe 'cause you clocked me?" He winked. "She's kind've protective of me."

   "You deserved that and you know it!" she snapped.

   He sighed and scratched his head. "Yeah, I sorta did," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "Stuck my foot where it didn't belong, I guess."

   "Yeah. Straight up your—" Alley broke off with a yelp when the bike suddenly rolled backward, the rear tire missing her foot by mere inches. "Okay, that's it." She turned to stomp away. "No way in hell are you gettin' me onto that homicidal machine! I've seen too many movies with these scenarios and they never end well."

   "Now look what you did," Stoker scolded the bike. "Way to make an impression."

   It gave a sulky grumble in reply.

   "I don't wanna hear it." He waved it away. "Take yourself back to the garage and think about your actions. I'll walk." He strode after Alley, leaving the still-grumbling bike to roll off like a dejected puppy.

     ~*~*~*~*~

   They'd only been walking a few minutes more before they caught sight of Charley racing full-tilt up the street toward them, a panicked expression on her face. He easily deduced the cause of her fright, holding out his hands in a reassuring gesture as she approached. "Relax, we're both fine," he said.

   She came to a stumbling halt, bent double with hands resting on her knees for support as she gasped for breath. "You scared the crap outta me, Stoke," she scolded. "Your bike came roaring into the garage all by itself… I thought something had happened to you!"

   "Nah, just keeping a pretty lady company." He jerked a thumb in Alley's direction.

   Charley shot her an exasperated glance. "And do I even wanna know why you're here? I thought you were at the school."

   "Long story," Alley muttered.

   "She had a run-in with Limburger," Stoker supplied bluntly.

   Alley pursed her lips. "Okay, not that long."

   "What happened? Are you okay?" Charley started to look panicked again.

   "I'm fine." Alley's shoulders slumped. "We just talked, that's all."

   "After forcing her into his car at gunpoint," Stoker put in.

   Alley glared. "Feel free to take yourself back to the garage," she snapped, pointing in its general direction.

   "Alley Cat, come on. You know we're just trying to help," Charley coaxed, slinging an arm around her cousin's shoulder. "Just tell us about it, and maybe we can come up with a game plan."

   "I wasn't supposed to let anybody know anything," Alley sighed, head drooping. "If Limburger finds out I told…"

   "He'll have to go through us to get to you," Stoker growled, expression darkening. "And we won't make that easy for 'im. Trust me on that."

   "It's not him getting to me that's the problem," she complained. "It's what he won't do that has me worried."

   "Which is…?" Charley prompted.

   Alley sighed again. "Just lemme get back and take a shower to wash this stink outta my hair. I'll fill you in on all the gory details later." At their dubious expressions, she cracked a small smile and held up four fingers. "Scout's honor."

   "Alley Cat, that's still the—"

   "Oh, shut up."

     ~*~*~*~*~

   Feeling much more humane now that she could freely breathe without the lingering odor of Eu de Dead Fish in her nostrils, Alley sat down in the kitchen with the entire gang and related the story over plates of hot dogs.

   When she finished talking, there was immediate uproar, with all of the mice in favor of storming the tower and blowing it up again. Alley panicked at that. "I knew I shouldn't have said anything! You macho lunkheads are gonna ruin the whole thing and then I'll never get back into college!" she wailed.

   Stoker ran a hand over his face, sighing heavily. "So, seems like this is my fault," he muttered, scowling. "Limburger got suspicious of my actions, now Alley's the one sufferin' for it."

   "It ain't like you knew he was gonna target her," Throttle pointed out.

   "Yeah. If we're gonna play the blame game, you might as well point fingers my way. He targeted her 'cause she's related to me," Charley added.

   "Oh yeah! That's another thing." Alley glanced at her cousin, frowning. "He called me Parker. He knows my history. He deliberately dug it up for some reason."

   Charley tsked. "Now, what was that supposed to accomplish?"

   "Beats me. He seemed to think us not being blood related would���" Alley cut herself off, suddenly aware of four pairs of eyes fixed on her with varying levels of surprise. She raised an eyebrow at the gawping mice. "What?"

   "You … ain't related?" Modo ventured, frowning.

   Alley blinked at him, then glanced at Charley. "Didn't you tell them?"

   "Oh. I guess it never came up. Honestly, never even occurred to me to mention it." The mechanic shrugged with a grin.

   "What it?" Vinnie asked.

   Alley shrugged. "I'm adopted," she replied simply, and smirked when four furry jaws dropped. "Look, it's easy. My birth dad died when I was really little, like barely two. My mom met the Davidsons when her car broke down, and she and Charley's uncle hit it off and eventually got married. That happened when I was five. Dad officially adopted me just after that and I became a Davidson, too. I mean, it's all there in public records and all, but it ain't like it's right up there for anyone to just stumble over—"

   "—which means Limburger deliberately went digging around fishing for info about you," Charley finished with a frown.

   "Yeah. He seemed to think I'd be willing to help him because we're not 'really cousins'." Alley quoted the air with her fingers.

   "Heh. Typical Plutarkian family values," Stoker snorted. "They ain't exactly known for their loyalty to kin. Theirs is a fish-eat-fish world. Literally. Plutarkian clans are spawned in the thousands, and, well … you ever watch those nature shows? About the fish and insects that hatch and it's basically survival of the fittest from the get go?"

   The women gaped at him. "You mean they actually try to eat each other?" Charley looked disgusted at the idea.

   "Yep." Vinnie wrinkled his snout. "The ones who survive to adulthood are the lucky ones."

   "Yeah," Modo put in. "An' it ain't no wonder they're all the baddest, meanest species in the known universe."

   "They'd be somebody's lunch if they weren't," Throttle finished with a shake of his head.

   "Wow. That's enough to almost make me feel sorry for them," Alley said. She was met with blank stares all around. "I said almost," she huffed, then sniggered. "Given the size of him, Limburger's probably an only child by this point."

   "Ugh. And here I didn't think I could loathe the Plutarkians any more." Charley wrinkled her nose. "So, anyway, now that we know what Limburger is up to, what're we gonna do about it? He's gonna expect an answer soon. And he'll get suspicious if he doesn't get one."

   "I ain't just handin' over my plans," Stoker said firmly.

   "Well, nobody expects that. But I do want to know what these plans of yours are." Charley fixed him with a stern look. "They dragged my family into this mess, so fair's fair. If he's desperate enough to find out what you're up to, who's to say he'll stop with Alley? What if he decides to expand out and go after our parents as well? They have no idea what's going on over here. They'll never stand a chance!"

   "He's never gone after them before," Throttle said doubtfully.

   "He's never gone after my cousin before, either. Now that the idea's in his brain…"

   Vinnie placed a comforting arm around Charley's shoulders. "Time to fess up, Stoke. What've you been up to down here that has you wanderin' off all the time?"

   The old general sighed and sat back in his chair, considering. "No harm in telling you now, I guess," he grunted, before getting to his feet and stomping down to the garage. He returned moments later carrying a long cylinder tube, from which he pulled several rolled blueprints. He spread them over the table, using cups and plates to hold down the curling edges. The mice and Charley gathered around to examine the plans. Alley took a quick glance but quickly gave up; they were a bunch of layouts for what looked like a weapon of some sort, but the writing was all in an alien language. Judging from the growing astonishment and beginnings of delight spreading on the boys' faces, though, it seemed to be something amazing.

   "Stoke! This is—" Modo couldn't finish the thought, swallowing several times. His single eye was suspiciously glassy.

   "Does this mean…?" Vinnie breathed, looking awed.

   "We-we're saved," Throttle murmured, shaking his head. His eyes were wide behind his specs. "Mars will be whole again." He seemed dazed.

   Alley leaned in to whisper to Charley, "Is it a super laser or something?"

   "No," she whispered back. "It's no weapon. I can't make sense of all of it, but it seems to be some kind of a … a conductor."

   "I call it the Regenerator." Stoker glanced around the table, smiling. "It's a matter-conversion device that will hopefully restore Mars to its former glory. It can create water, food, plant life … the possibilities are endless, really. Right now, it's nothin' more than an idea and a bunch've parts and supplies I've been gathering. It requires very specific ingredients that are difficult to come by. Ironically, the most important ingredient—its power source—are tetra-hydrocarbons, found only on earth."

   "So you've been out searching for them?" Charley asked.

   "Yep. In the wilds. Deep in the mountains. They're rare, though. And hard to get to."

   "Why all the secrecy, Coach?" Throttle asked. "We could've helped you search—"

   "Negative, soldier." Stoker shook his head. "Tetra-hydrocarbons are dangerous to work with. Too much exposure can lead to nasty results. Mutation of cells and other such pleasant experiences. Not only that, I didn't want to get anyone's hopes up too high, in case it's a failure." He ran a hand through his hair and shrugged. "I can't make promises that it'll even work. But I had to try."

   Charley placed her hands on Stoker's shoulder and squeezed. "Stoker, in all this time I've known you, you've never let us down. When you say you'll do something, you always do it and succeed. Mars has faith in you. You will definitely be able to build your Regenerator and it will work."

   "No pressure!" Alley chirped, smiling innocently at her cousin's exasperated glance.

   "We definitely can't let the stinkfish get their greasy hands on those plans," Modo rumbled, frowning. "It'd be disastrous."

   "Well, couldn't it be a good thing?"

   All eyes turned to Alley, who squirmed under the sudden scrutiny. "Look, hear me out. I mean, this Regenerator is supposed to build stuff, right? Like natural resources?" She waved a hand. "Say it does work. So, the Plutarkians attack other planets 'cause they're on the endless quest for stuff for their planet. But if they had a machine that made endless resources, they wouldn't have to go out hunting down and stealing everyone else's! They could all go home and waste resources to their hearts' content and leave the rest of the universe alone. Happy endings all around! Yay!"

   Vinnie's jaw dropped. "Say, that ain't a bad idea!"

   "It does seem pretty logical," Modo agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

   "Nope, wouldn't work," Throttle grunted, earning a frown from Alley. "The stinkfish are fighters by nature. They're born straight into it and it's all they know. If Stoke's right and you can build anything with this machine, what's to stop 'em from makin' bigger, better weapons and ships and findin' some other reason to attack planets?"

   "Have to agree," Stoker added. "Aside from that, tetra-hydrocarbons aren't limitless. Their power would eventually run down, and as it's something the Regenerator can't recreate, earth would always be a prime target for Plutarkians. They'd tear this planet apart looking for new replenishment."

   Alley sighed and Charley patted her shoulder. "It was a good idea, though. Smart thinking," she encouraged.

   "It was, actually." Stoker rubbed his chin, eyes narrowed in thought as he stared down at the blueprints. "It might actually hold a bit of merit."

   "Uh-oh." Charley raised an eyebrow. "I recognize that look. What are you thinkin' now?"

   "I'm thinkin' I can recognize a good opportunity when I see one." Stoker glanced up, a sly grin curling his mouth. "Ladies and gents, I think it's time we set up a little trap of our own."

Next

[rawresparza]

It has been a crappy past few days, and I turn out to be not very good at being supported and/or comforted. But I suspect I'm not the only one. May I please prompt you to show us Rafael learning to be loved by Sonny? I bet it wasn't easy for him. Please and thank you?

HI, anon! I’m so sorry you’ve had a rough few days and I hope things have at least started to look up. I totally understand what you mean because I have a hard time in that regard, too, and sometimes I still struggle with it. I definitely agree Rafael would, as well. I hope this is at least a little bit along the lines of what you were thinking and if not, I hope it’s still okay. May the rest of your week be brighter

–

Rafael has had a grand total of approximately seven hours of sleep, forty-eight hours of a migraine, and zero hours of patience over the last three days and if anyone would bother to ask, he’d say he’s very much fed up with it.

Well, no, that’s not true at all. A number of people have asked, Sonny has asked him so many times he’d lost count, and he’d only responded with increasingly gruff versions of “I’m fine.” Sonny knows damn well he’s not fine, he hadn’t been fine when the defense had dropped a surprise fucking witness on this case and he hadn’t been fine when he’d popped prescription ibuprofen for the umpteenth time, even though it hardly ever works to get rid of the pounding in his head.

But he can’t slow down, he doesn’t know how, that’s not in his blood. Always keep moving, keep busy, that had been his philosophy as a kid because it’d meant maybe, just maybe, he could avoid a bad evening at home or a run-in with some older boy or another he’d mouthed off to that day. Either way, slowing down would mean risking getting caught in someone’s snare, and coming up with new excuses for his bruises for concerned teachers or the school nurse or even the ER doctors was never worth the trouble.

Upon deeper reflection, he supposes one could make the argument that at this point in his life, he’s really just running away from the very thing that could help him: taking a break, taking a breath, letting someone take care of him. He’s just not used to that and seven months into this relationship with Sonny, Rafael is a little concerned he never will be. Comforting other people has never been his forte and he’s even worse when it comes to being comforted but that’s why he’s never made any real effort to make friends. He’d had Eddie and Alex and even Yelina as a kid; but with friends like them, why would he dare pursue anything like that as an adult? Getting close to people had only ever led to getting hurt, in his experience.

Sonny had somehow managed to evade the walls he’d carefully built up around himself over the past couple decades, Rafael has no idea how he’d done it. A few invitations out to coffee then drinks then dinner, that absurd Staten Island accent murmuring sweet nothings in his ear, a kiss on a rooftop with a half-decent view of the Manhattan skyline, these are all things that had led Rafael down the path to his own demise; that is to say, he’d let himself fall in love. He doesn’t regret that, he could never regret that, but sometimes, Rafael feels like maybe he doesn’t deserve it.

This is one of those times.

With Buchanan and his piece of shit client looking all kinds of arrogant on the evening news, Rafael’s mood has taken a turn from bad to awful. He’d popped another two ibuprofen against the advice of his boyfriend–

“Did you finally hit up Fordham for your medical degree while I wasn’t looking?”

–and now he’s feeling especially petty because Sonny had been right, he shouldn’t have done it, especially not on an empty stomach. He’s had seven coffees and half a stale granola bar he’d found buried in his office desk drawer today. When Sonny had asked what Rafael wanted him to bring home for dinner, Rafael had lied and said he’d already eaten.

Why? He doesn’t know. Maybe he’s just always been a sucker for self-sabotage, old habits die hard. It’s easier to push people away than admit he could use the help.

He can feel Sonny watching him watch the news and it’s unnerving. His body betrays him, works against him, tenses up even though he doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he’s getting more and more irritated by the second, by virtue of the fact that Sonny is simply existing beside him. That isn’t fair, he knows that, but he also knows Sonny will earnestly try to offer any form of assistance possible and that’s the opposite of what Rafael wants. What he wants is to be left alone to wallow in his frustration, he wants Sonny to go back to his own damn apartment so he can get sufficiently buzzed off a few pours of the good scotch he saves for shittier days before hopefully getting another hour of sleep.

Instead, Sonny’s hand finds its way to the nape of his neck, fingertips playing with the ends of Rafael’s hair. It feels good. He’s not used to feeling good. Before Sonny, he’d barely remembered what it was like to feel at all. On better days, things between them are incredible, it’s like living in fantasy world compared to what Rafael’s previous, much more short-lived romances; but on days like this, he wishes he was still alone. At least he has the decency to feel bad about that, he supposes.

“You should turn that off,” Sonny says, tilting his head toward the TV screen. Rafael purses his lips, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening, but Sonny doesn’t heed the warning. “And you should eat something. Carmen told me she only saw you guzzling coffee during recesses.”

“Carmen’s not my mother and neither are you,” Rafael says. He doesn’t bother to hide his bitterness but Sonny doesn’t even flinch. It’s a little infuriating.

“No, I’m your boyfriend,” Sonny says patiently. Sonny’s fingers travel up over Rafael’s hair, webbing out over his scalp and pulsing just slightly at just the right pressure points. It sends a shiver down Rafael’s spine and his eyes flutter shut as a relieved sigh escapes him. “I’m your boyfriend, and I love you, and I really wish you’d just let me do something to help you. Feed you, hold you, tell you nice things, whatever. Anything.”

Rafael slowly blinks his eyes back open, still reeling a bit from how much tension has already left his body just from one gentle massage. But it’s not the massage, it’s Sonny. Of course it’s Sonny, it’s always been Sonny. “Okay. Tell me something nice.” It’s conceding without conceding, he’s really just testing the waters, but he turns the TV off anyway and his heart flutters in his chest when he’s met with a pair of dimples.

“I got the recipe for your favorite dish from your ma.” Sonny hesitates, studying Rafael for a reaction. “She said she used to make it for you when– well, when things weren’t so good at home. I’m sure it won’t be as good as how she does it but…” He trails off when Rafael straightens up in his spot on the couch, shaking Sonny’s hand from his head. “I’m sorry, did I overstep?”

Rafael catches Sonny’s hand before he can pull it away, shaking his head, a look of awe taking over his expression. “You called my mom? You did that for me?”

“You’ve just been so stressed out,” Sonny says, lowering his eyes sheepishly. “This case has been rough, I know, but you’re barely sleeping and I’m sorry, you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my life, but Raf, you seriously look like you might keel over any second. I just figured, if you won’t take care of yourself, I can do it for you until things get back to normal.”

Swallowing hard, Rafael considers Sonny’s words, turning them over in his mind, examining them piece by piece. It’s not a hard bargain Sonny’s driving, he suspects most people would be thrilled to have their significant others say something like that to them. It’s just that over the years, he’s developed a habit of being suspicious of those who extend kindness his way. He’s not proud of that but it is what it is.

Maybe it’s time he starts to unlearn that. Maybe it’s time he starts trusting Sonny not just with the good but with the bad and everything in between. It’s time he starts getting used to the idea Sonny isn’t going to run when things get hard

“It’s hard for me,” Rafael admits. “I’m not great at the whole asking for support thing.”

“No kidding,” Sonny teases, arching a brow.

Rafael’s smile reaches his eyes, genuine but brief before he takes on an air of sincerity again. “I want to be better at it. That might take time, but I want to let you in.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m very patient when it comes to gorgeous, green-eyed ADAs. Especially ones with really short fuses.”

“You’re going to take a dig at me while I’m opening up to you?” Rafael asks, huffing with mock indignance. Even as he does, he settles in next to Sonny, lowering his cheek to his boyfriend’s shoulder and smiling against the soft fabric of a Fordham Law shirt while Sonny’s arm drapes over his shoulder.

“To be fair, I complimented you in the same breath, so those clearly cancel each other out.”

They laugh together and it’s like the air has cleared. The room feels different. Sonny kisses his hair, and Rafael doesn’t even consider pulling away. He’s found an anchor in Sonny, a happy place in Sonny’s arms. Somehow, he’d stumbled into this, having no idea what to expect. Rafael had never imagined he’d be this fortunate.

“By the way,” Sonny says, “I picked up some kung pao and fried rice for you at the Chinese place we like. I’ll heat it up for you if you want it.”

God, he loves this man. With every last part of himself, Rafael loves Sonny more than he’d thought he had the capacity to love someone. It surprises him, every single day, the ferocity with which he feels for this one person because he’s never felt that with anyone else before. Sometimes he cringes at himself for throwing the word “soulmate” around in his head because that’s not like him, that isn’t a concept he’s ever believed in, but Sonny has a way of making Rafael believe in the impossible.

Tomorrow, when he’s back in court, he’s sure he’ll be pissy and snappy and anyone who crosses his path will suffer his wrath; but at the end of the day, he’ll remember he has this. He has Sonny.

That makes it all worth it.

[overdrivels]

The Way to a Heart (8)

/falls to knees

THIS CHAPTER IS DONE, GODDAMN IT. THANK YOU, @dickbutt-writes-again FOR YOUR ENDLESS PATIENCE WITH ME AND MY SCREAMING AND UNSURENESS HOLY FUCK

Thank you everyone for waiting, please enjoy Hanzo making a fucking ass of himself.

<<Chapter 7

The warehouse is busy with different people bustling around, chatting, carting items around into trucks, the thick smell of hot food (made even thicker by the steadily rising summer heat) hardly willing to remain contained in their boxes. A cap is pulled tight over your eyes and you remain by your truck tucked deep in the corner of the room, keeping your back to the rest of the crowd, pretending to inspect the ridiculously long handwritten list in your hands.

The loading takes a little longer than usual, but it can’t be helped. You had vowed not to make the same mistakes as the last few times and ordered more food just in case. (There’s a voice in your head that taunts you for your inadequate portion management that you quash with a childish ire.) This was for the protection of Overwatch. The shipments must be carefully timed and portioned out to avoid suspicion from customs and various markets here on Gibraltar. These long intervals you’ve picked masks your presence better and makes you more available to the agents.

You tell yourself it’s the most optimal solution.

(There are days that you truly regret having taken Overwatch’s reputation and wealth for granted in the past—abundance of ingredients to play with and test, an unlimited budget for the best of equipment and staff; it is the stuff of recent dreams.)

Asim comes out from the shadow of your fully loaded vehicle and closes the shutters behind him, leaning heavily against his empty hand truck, his tank top thoroughly soaked.

“All done, boss.” He wipes his brow with a gloved hand and brushes his curly hair out of his face. “Man, Argus is lucky. She doesn’t sweat.” Behind you in the middle of the room, Argus Twenty stands out like a sore thumb in her semi-formal wear, giving orders and instructions to various people like a conductor. “Me? I feel like I just took a bath.”

“She’s an omnic,” you reply flatly, frowning over the list, “and you’re still on therapy.”

He shrugs, a sort of self-satisfied smile on his face. “It’s still not fair.”

“You know what’s not fair? The price of fish,” you sigh, leaning heavily against your scorching truck. It shakes against the added pressure. “Even with negotiations and switching to a new vendor, we still had to eat an eight-percent increase.”

“Climate change,” Asim supplies bitterly. “You know it’s been bad lately, but it’s only going to get worse, they say, since the fish are migrating elsewhere and ruining a ton of businesses here. Do not get me started on cryogenically frozen fish or grains—that’s even worse. It’s hard just getting our share even with your negotiations.” He jerks his stubbly chin at the general direction of the rest of the warehouse. You turn just head slightly to see some people notice and wave, carts passing around them. A pang of welling pride and equally growing sorrow jolts your insides.

You smile at Asim instead, tugging the hat over your eyes further. “They like you.”

“It’s all your fault.”

“I can’t make people like you.” If you had that power, the world might actually be a much better place. “It’s all you. They like you for who you are.”

The man hides a shy smile into his fist, sealing it in there before looking at back at you solemnly. “If you hadn’t left, they would know you and like you, too.”

“I...I prefer it this way,” you say, resting your list against the lower half of your face. “I don’t regret my decision.”

Asim makes a noise of discontent. “Glad someone doesn't.”

“What was that?”

“What Asim means is that we'd wish you showed more consideration toward us.”

You wince at the sharp words and Asim give Argus a wave as she comes up behind you both, seemingly finished with her duties. She crosses her arms, staring steadily at you through the slits of her eyes.

“Sorry. I was really trying to keep this order lean, but…” You wave your hands helplessly before resting them over your mouth.

“No, not that,” the omnic starts. “It's just...it’s been several months since you have decided to lend your aid to them, dear." "And?" "Is it not time to return to us?”

Oh. This talk again. You frown, squaring up your shoulders. "They still need my help." "Until when? Until they've become established again or until they are dismantled?" You clench your teeth, sucking in a sharp inhale. "Please, my dear, the sooner you wipe your hands clean of them, the better."

“Argus,” you say exasperatedly, “you’re the one who said that you’ll go along with this. Please.”

“But not for this long. Two months, three, perhaps? This is too much. We have received rumors of more formers being taken by Talon. It’s only a matter of time...”

Is that why the agents are suddenly getting assigned missions? You will need to ask Athena about the details—it’s not your business and unrelated to your job, but...

“Argus is right, boss.”

You stare at Asim, the weight of something unpleasant in his eyes pressing down on you. “Come on, not you, too.”

“If Talon comes and gets you, everything’s finished.”

“I’m not an agent,” you remind him. “Chefs were never considered agents, so…”

Argus sounds far less patient now. “And under what basis do you believe Talon acknowledges such a distinction? What if they see you there and you become collateral? Will you wait until they’re all killed before you come back?”

Because there's always been that distinction. Because they're heroes. They're brave people who deserve better than a dogged death by an organization that thrives on the destruction of others. "I have confidence in their operations, and I'll stay there until they don't need me anymore." "And when will that be?” Beneath Asim’s accusatory glare, you open your mouth and draw a blank. You thought about this before. You pondered this before, but did you ever come up with an answer? Did you even want to come up with an answer? What did you tell Argus when you announced you'd be helping Overwatch?

"I don't know." The quiet confession leaves a terrible taste in your mouth. "You don’t—? Are you joking me?” Asim snaps, suddenly in your face. "I’m all about fighting for what I believe in, but not when so many people’s lives are on the line, when your life's on the line." "We were prepared for the consequences when I decided—" "When you decided! You didn't consult anyone else!”

“I consulted Argus!”

“After the fact.”

Your mouth hangs open at your omnic colleague.

“Listen,” Asim says, “I don't want you to give up everything so fast. You worked hard to get to where you are, to get”—he waves a hand at the warehouse—“all this established. There’s too much that can go wrong, the longer you keep this up. You know what the world will do to you if they find out?"

The unyielding pressure from both sides forces cruel words to shoot up to the surface, cocked on your tongue, words that would cut so deep you knew it'd kill them, but you barely manage to keep them trapped behind your teeth. Your heart races, your face flushes with the effort, and you force yourself to divert your eyes into the ground and collect your breath.

“I will take full responsibility when that happens,” you finally say solemnly, looking both of them in the face.

“Taking full responsibility by yourself isn’t even going to begin to cov—”

“—do you believe your life will cover the damage—”

The two of them stop abruptly, either having realized they’re causing a scene or there’s little point in continuing the argument. The omnic steps forward, a gentle hand on your tense shoulder, tugging gently at your sleeve where the embroidered image of a scaly heart sat.

“I apologize for being short, but we are concerned for you. Promise us. While you still have the chance, I ask you to please return to us. We cannot continue without you.”

"But…”

Asim holds you by the elbow, a stern look in his eye. “If it’s about the food and money, they can get it themselves. They’re not helpless. They don’t need you. You’re not being kind, you’re being selfish.”

For some reason, those words had more force than the ones before it, striking something so very tender inside you that you choke on the harsh insults and threats you kept stifled inside. They rise with such a vengeance and ferocious speed, you have to yank away your arm and turn away and seek refuge in the cabin of your vehicle. You vehemently ignore them calling your name in urgent, helpless whispers.

You slam the door of your truck closed, fumbling with your seatbelt, and drive off hurriedly through the door with your cap tipped low. Your eyes burn and your skin feels like it wants to burst. You ignore the fading figures disappearing from your mirrors, the feeling of longing and deep-seated sadness solidifying and demanding your attentions.

Overwatch is not a mistake.

What you’re doing is not a mistake.

This was the worst plan (or therefore lack of) that he has ever gone through with, Hanzo decided while wedged up in a precarious corner of the ceiling.

Weeks of saying "thank you" to a tray and the fading echoes of a bell is just a token gesture of his gratitude, but he cannot escape the solemn timbre of his brother's voice, urging him to show his appreciation properly.

And how does he show it? By breaking into the one place he is not allowed in. If he’s honest with himself, he knows he could still leave and pretend he was never here. But pride is so very selfish that it will take away everything from someone else and still never be satisfied. It is so destructive, it will even kill its host and leave behind nothing. Not even itself.

Hanzo knows that it is bad, that it is all-consuming in no productive way, but the thrill that it gives, the little bit of power it offers for just a moment is so very tempting—he’ll have control of his life for a fleeting moment.  (After the moment’s passed, well, that’s a different story.)

You’ll have to forgive him for this (if you catch him, that is).

Surprisingly, there are very few places to hide in the kitchen and even fewer with a good view of the Cellar door. The ceilings are much lower than that of the cafeteria’s, compact and spartan. Everything was set up neatly in rows that lead straight from one end of the kitchen to the other, a wide breadth of space between each station for people to come and go without bumping into each other, and a dim light that light up the bottom of these stations and counters. Racks that stood against the walls were all wiry and without anything more solid than the mostly transparent containers that filled them.  

There’s no doubt this space was meant to hold more than a single cook, but despite that, there are no obvious hiding spaces at all.

Even more surprising, Athena did not try to stop him, didn’t even utter a word or sound an alarm as he slipped his way in here with little more than the clothes on his back. Perhaps he had an ally in the AI yet. Or maybe she’s waiting for the opportunity to gather incriminating evidence before presenting it to all to see.  

He resists the urge to sigh; sound echoes surprisingly well in this space. (It's not particularly surprising—most of everything in here is made of metal.) Neither the subtle rub of fabric or the wink of an eyelash is able to escape notice here, and he doesn’t dare move from his chosen spot.

There’s no telling when you’d be back, but historically, you’ve never missed serving breakfast even for risers earlier than himself, which means that he has another hour and a half at most. It’s more than enough time to understand this space and plan out his next course of action.

Slowly, he runs his eyes around the room, eyes having adjusted well enough to see the details.

His eyes lingers around the door he knows is his target. It’s a little larger than the four transparent doors lined up beside it. Those lead to small rooms, lined with the same sort of racks that were out in the kitchen, but they were bereft of anything except for a stray box or two and a sack of something. One of them had something a few familiar boxes lined up at the front—the picture of an orange plastered on one and a cow on another. Drinks, then, but far too few to be able to sustain the base for even a day.

He narrows his eyes.

Is that all the food in the base?

No, it cannot be.

A base with people whose appetites are like Zarya’s and Roadhog’s should always be stocked with food. There must be more somewhere he’s not seeing. In the Cellar, perhaps? If you store alcohol in there, it’s not unreasonable to assume that it could store other food items.

No, he shouldn't think so far into it—if all of them have been well fed up until this point, there's no reason for him to think beyond that. It's none of his business.

He redirects his gaze back to the Cellar door.

There’s a biometric panel is integrated directly into the steel, barely standing out among the smooth metal. The door itself looks deceptively standard, but judging by the implements on the door frame, it's a little more sophisticated than it's made out to be. No hinges. No gaps. No seams.

He drags his tongue slowly across his lip.

It smells of a challenge, and reminds him of an old teaching from so long ago: if it exists, it can be killed or destroyed. It has not failed him yet. (Though, there’s a nagging in his heart wants to remind him of a time when that was not true.)

The question is how discreet he wishes to be. While he is no thief, his skillset is closely aligned with one as much as he loathes to admit it. He’ll have to get close to the door, conduct his reconnaissance to determine just how much effort will be required to break through it.

If it managed to stand up against even the covert operation division of Overwatch, it won't be any small amount of effort to get inside. And for that gunslinger to speak well of you, your skills must not be so terrible either. It would be pertinent to take caution, maybe learn a bit more about you from this environment.

Everything else is rather spartan in its own way with little to indicate what could be beyond that door—everything here has a purpose, no more and no less. The floors are lined carefully with black rubber mats dotted with holes. Pots and pans were stacked neatly beneath some counters, all surfaces are clear of anything extra, the sinks at the very far end of the room near the service window seem to be clear of dishes—those are all stacked and lined up in their rightful places.

Though, he can't help but notice on one of the shelves, among the meticulously lined drinkware, there seems to be a small gap where several cups should be. Something nags at Hanzo’s mind about that space, but he's unable to place a finger on it. Maybe because it’s such a careless contrast compared to the rest of the shelves where everything is ordered and neatly aligned, no space wasted.

If this was anything to go by, he may have just developed a profile of you: detail-oriented; tireless; meticulous, and if he were to interpret this with his few interactions, he could even say that you are a very dedicated omnic, following your program with utmost devotion. It’s admirable.

Though, there cannot be that much to do in a kitchen besides cook and clean, now is there? But if that were so, where are you now?

Looking at this place, immaculate despite the hectic image that the action of ‘cooking’ conjures up in his mind and the number of customers you cater to, spacious despite the single omnic it holds, his impression of this space itself is simply lonely.

He dismisses the thought with a grim viciousness.

Omnics do not get lonely.

You likely connect yourself to Athena, anyway, spying on everyone and their appetites. There is no reason to align his sympathies with someone who hides in the shadows, watching everyone with such attentiveness, compiling data to use for (or against) them.

Without warning, light suddenly floods the kitchen and Hanzo has to tighten his grip against the walls, rapidly blinking the stars out of his eyes while biting back a groan.

You must have returned.  

A childish excitement buzzes just beneath his skin at the realization, his heart pressing so hard against his skin, he feels like it will burst with the pressure. He forces himself to calm—there will be plenty to do in the next few precious seconds.

To his surprise, it’s the Cellar door that slides open with a hiss rather than the swinging doors that led to the cafeteria. The speed is surprising considering how thick the door seems, if the door frame was anything to go by, it must be at least ten or fifteen centimeters—thinner than some bank vaults he’s seen in his day, but thicker than any standard door by far in this base. The frame shows that the door is much wider than it initially seems. It seemed to sink into the wall  and will not be as simple as just slipping a piece of paper or jamming something in between the door and frame. Maybe he can get through from the other doors beside it? The ones that look like freezers?

From within the darkness emerges the beginnings of a shaky hover-trolley, stacked high with boxes that fill up the empty maw of the doorway with nary a gap. There’s a pause and a shuffle and one of the larger boxes shift. Hanzo dares crane his head out a little more. Are you stuck?

The trolley then comes through slowly and without the frame of the door holding everything in place, Hanzo can see how precariously everything is stacked. The room itself seems to take a sigh of relief when everything makes it into the room, wind rushing into the Cellar door. From his angle, he cannot very well see the person behind it. But the rapid speed at which the door closes tells him that you’ve stepped into the kitchen and the door will not remain open long enough for anyone to barge in after another person.

“Oh geez, I’m late, I’m late.”

That voice.

The faintest hint of an unconscious smile makes its way onto his face. He knows this voice. It is, without a doubt, you.

He’ll finally be able to lay his eyes on the elusive chef—you’ll no longer be a torso and a voice and a bell, but something he could finally put a face to blame if his food is inadequate. He’ll finally know the face of his opponent, the guardian of that rumored door.

“Come on, get it together, me. Allons, allons-y.”

Time seems to slow as the cart backs itself up just slightly and begins to turn. He hears the squeak of a boot against the rubbery floor, and a shuddering sigh. From behind the massive tower of boxes and containers, someone comes into view.

And Hanzo’s breathing stops short in his throat.

His thoughts dissolve into static.

You’re a person.

The archer watches numbly as you begin to unpack the cart, taking box after box and spreading them out onto the closest countertop with single-minded determination and practiced efficiency. While you’re not wearing a chef’s uniform, he’s sure it’s you. There’s a level of confidence in the way you navigate this space, placing things with a familiarity that no one should have unless they’re here often.

Vaguely, it feels as though he’s no longer in his own skin or even in the same reality he was just in mere moments ago.

You are a human.

Not a service bot.

Not an omnic.

He should not be surprised, but he is. Suddenly, he snaps back into his own body and Hanzo finds himself furiously reanalyzing all the information he knows, or thought he knew; the facts are quickly becoming lies.

The tinny echo in your voice could easily be attributed to the metallic (and lonely) nature of the kitchen. The disappearances are not for maintenance, but because you’re human and require rest. He is then reminded of those late nights when sleep escapes and taunts him like some mythical being and how you're always ready to prepare tea, and that you're already preparing breakfast for the early risers not even two hours later.

Even worse, he overlooked a ridiculously simple concept: omnics have no concept of taste, it is foolish. Their scant decades of existence on this Earth has not yet granted them the technological advancements necessary to distinguish taste, let along masterfully combine them into pleasing dishes that his stomach would not reject. For an Omnic to be a chef is not only ridiculous, it is laughable.

He wants to slap himself.

A disgrace.

The information clicks so cleanly that the implications behind it makes his head spin.

This was a terrible idea.

He should not have taken up the bet. For once in his life, he should have listened to his younger brother, of all people, and left this alone. His heart is not made of steel or stone, and he knows he has better manners than to take advantage of someone who works so hard for something so foolish as a crutch for his own inadequacies.

He glances at the service window, so far away, and back at you who is struggling to keep one of the glass doors open to carry in a large cardboard box.

For a moment, maybe to soothe his own conscience, Hanzo thinks of going down to assist you. It will invite trouble, accusations, and your ire. If these kitchens were as sacred as McCree makes it sound, then he should pretend he was never here.

‘Like a coward,’ his mind whispers.

Hanzo grimaces and makes the amateurish mistake of leaning his head back against the wall a touch too hard.

“Who’s there?”

It’s only due to years of practice and familiarity with those words from the mouths of numerous victims that does not react badly to the sudden spike in his heart rate, that he does not shrink into himself or otherwise even blink, only instinctively isolating his breathing to his throat and clearing his mind of unrelated thoughts.

“Hello?”

As if he’ll answer with a bit of goading, but the thought is endearing naïve.

Beneath your breath, but still ridiculously loud and tinny, you warn, “Jesse, I swear if that's you…”

Something in his stomach tightens and a chill settles into his chest, and he furrows his brow.

This is becoming risky. He has already gotten basic information regarding the door—there are more questions still (is the door protected by single-factor authentication or multi-layer? Multi-factor? Is it connected to Athena? Are there other security measures beyond the door?), but it doesn’t matter at the moment.

Hanzo waits, endures your slow searching gaze and various attempts to get him to speak until you’re turned around, away from the service window he plans to escape through. (The double doors leading into the kitchen from the outside are out of the question—they swing and there’s no guarantee his exit would not be heard or seen.) He moves carefully but swiftly along the wall toward his destination.

Maybe it was unfortunate timing. Maybe he’s lost his touch having been cooped up in this base without the urgency of needing stealth. Maybe you’re just that aware of your territory.

There are many ‘maybe’s, but it does not erase what happens next:

“Agent Hanzo!?”

Something heavy falls onto the ground, probably a package.

Hanzo curses to himself. Normal circumstances would have seen you dead, but these circumstances are far from normal—however, he does not intend to stick around long enough to find out what you will do. (Inside, he gives a brief goodbye to the pepperless-foods that he had the pleasure of eating during these past few months.)

The sound of metal clips the air from somewhere behind him as he drops to the ground and makes a straight shot for the window only two island counters and one static one away.

A sound behind him that sets off several alarms in his head makes him peek just underneath his arm and he’s surprised to see it: two wide steps and a lunge snaps up the distance between you both and you’re then in his space.

He finds himself moving without thinking, twisting onto the shiny metal surface that are now decorated with the imprints of his shoes to change direction, escaping a flash of silver that nearly clips him.

“My counter!”

To normal people, he would be an indecipherable blur at best. Only people accustomed to his speed, like Genji or Tracer, would be able to chase after him. It should be impossible for a chef who has never seen battle, who has not had to deal with anything faster than the flailing of a fish, who has been nurtured and protected in this self-made fortress.

He didn’t expect your head to whip around and follow.

He can see it now, a long silver ladle in your hand that strikes out at his foot. One flip puts him just outside your range, but it traps him against another counter and the spilled contents of a smashed box—oranges. He glances quickly to his side—the service window, his exit, is just a little distance away.

One strong leap and a jump is all it will take.

“The kitchen is off-limits, Agent Hanzo.”

Your voice is biting, a jarring contrast to the gentle and genuine concern you had shown up until this point. So, even a mouse will bare its fangs if cornered?

At this distance, he can finally get a very clear look at you and see the dark moons beneath your reddened eyes. There’s something slightly familiar about the gnarled look on your face, about the way you hold yourself despite your stance—squared into a straight line—that vaguely reminds him of the reflection that stands distorted in the head of the ladle you have pointed at his chest.

“Is that so?”

Livid may be the most appropriate word to describe you.

“Get out.”

Without waiting for him to comply or even an explanation, you shoot forward. He steps out of the way and then another when you twist and swing to follow.

One part of him that tells him to stay and test your strength. A more reasonable part tells him to take his leave peacefully now that he’s been seen. But there’s something, a pressure that bears down on his chest and up against his stomach that moves his feet, forcing him to watch and step out of your sloppy attacks.

Like an amateur, you broadcast your movements, your tight spirals are too wide and slow, the distance just slightly miscalculated and short of actually hitting him. Your steps are repetitive and predictable, hardly engaging, and too straightforward (likely the unfortunate nature of your art).  But the intensity behind those strikes and the sharpness in which they're delivered keeps him on his guard, forces him to retain focus. There’s a snarl to your lips and a burning in your eyes that, in his encounters with a mirror, seems far too familiar.

Faintly, in the back of his mind, he remembers a story from his youth of a master of tea ceremonies against a samurai and wonders if this is how the story really should've played out.

The ladle enters his space. His reaction, wholly instinctual and for a moment screams ‘DANGER’, makes him smash it out of the way with the back of his hand. The momentum leads it out. You go with it, swoop the ladle down under and up at his chin. He ducks forward, right into your zone and grabs at your attacking arm.

Your retreat is far quicker than he would've given credit for.

But it was too hasty, unpracticed.

He could hear the popping of joints; the result of a rushed and undisciplined movement. You’re wincing, heaving, but still angry—there’s something about that look that makes him wonder faintly of its origins and its target.

Was that all?

As brief as it was, the display of power and skill of your level could not keep out even the weakest of the Overwatch members (and of those, there are very, very few he would dare consider such).

It’s a betrayal of his expectations most foul.

He had expected a challenge, not an insult. Insults thrown at him should always be returned in kind.

A smirk makes its way onto his face.

Very well. Bring it. He will show you the difference between you both in skill—politeness and gratitude be damned. You attacked first and refused reason, after all.

Hanzo waits for you to regain your footing and stance, waits for the ladle to come back up and steady itself. It's not as though you're a true threat; you’re just a che—

A flash of silver and the scratchy sting on his face shuts his thoughts up. What a sight he must make. He can’t help but touch his face where his skin meets beard, and pulls away with nothing but heat that drops into him like a fireball, igniting him.

That was a good lunge and a good retreat and a good strike. It was a good reminder.

“Get out.”

His smirk turns a touch carnivorous.

Yes, that was more like it.

Your expression morphs into one of more focused irritation. It’s far from a proper look for someone facing him. Those who know the expectations of the battlefield should at least compose themselves, not let themselves get saddled with worthless thoughts and rush through their movements like a fool.

Hanzo wants to crush that attitude. If he is truly your opponent, then you need to see him as one, not as a target or punching bag.

What carelessness.

What arrogance.

No. He takes a breath to calm himself. There’s no reason to get riled over a mere cook. But he can’t deny the strumming in his veins that call for the absolute annihilation of a mere amateur who dares thinks that they could ever match a master. He will show you where that arrogance will lead. This will be quick, this will be a challenge between his patience and his pride—you do not fit this equation. You are, after all, just a cook.

An unspoken signal—maybe you could see the insult on his face—brings you darting forth again, weapon raised and jabbing. There’s not much he has to do beside mind his space, mind your range, and keep a close eye on you.

All your following attacks are careless, easy to dodge. What happened to that one that managed to scratch his face? Was it because he was standing still or because you had a moment of clarity? As the strikes come, he finds himself slipping deeper and deeper into his thoughts and further and further away from the reality at hand.

Where are you looking, he wonders. What are you attacking? What do you see? What are you trying to strike? Because it sure as hell is not him and it annoys him just a bit.

The ladle's head enters his reach and thoughtlessly, he folds his fingers beneath the rim and he yanks it. You pitch forward with a yelp. He nearly raises his foot to slam in into your jaw, but a moment of clarity forces him to slam it back down. No, getting lost in one’s thoughts is deadly, even if his opponent is hardly a challenge.

Almost losing your weapon didn’t deter you and you continue going after him, desperation coloring your attacks. What are you doing? If this drags on, there’s no guarantee that he wouldn’t crush you just to satisfy his pride, just to show he is superior and that your hands are ill suited to wield utensils made for cooking as weapons.

This has gone on long enough.

Once more, Hanzo lets the ladle punctures his space. He folds at the wrist, just under the ladle's head, redirecting it. You attempt a counter-parry, but with a firm chop, the ladle clatters to the ground, muffled by the rubber beneath your feet. To your credit, you do not attempt to pick up your ‘weapon’, instead choosing to retreat in one large step back. Are you giving up?

One inhale. You’re dashing forward again, swoop low to retrieve the ladle, and swing upward—too obvious. He steps inside your reach, pivots behind you. Adrenaline moving his limbs, nabbing your dominant hand and slipping an arm around your neck in a loose, but firm hold. His feet lock against yours. One false move and you’ll be thrown. The fact that you do not even bother detangling yourself shows that you know this much.

Not as foolish as he thought.

But he has won.

“Chef, cease this.”

His own voice, stern and sharp, bounces straight off the walls and equipment. Interestingly enough, he can see your spine straighten and body jerk as though fighting to follow and resist his request.

In a show of benevolence, he releases his hold slowly and steps back neatly. You turn, still alert, ladle held up steadily. Calm. He has won. There is nothing for him to prove anymore. “I do not mean any harm. I only came for tea.”

Your mouth twists and your expression slackens, but there’s no give to your posture.

“Truly.”

You narrow your eyes, and he thinks he’ll have to defend himself further when nearly a minute passes before the head of the ladle and your shoulders dip. He remains perfectly still while you slowly slip into a more neutral stance, the tenseness in your shoulders dissipating just a bit. Now that you’re calmer, it’s easy to see that you do not look entirely well. There’s a tremble in your hands that he hadn’t noticed before. A result of too much adrenaline? Weariness? Or something else entirely?

“If that is all,” you murmur, not quite meeting his eyes, “please wait outside.” You gesture at the door with a small swing of the ladle.

He blinks and tries not to let his surprise show.  

Is it that simple? Really?

“Will it be sencha today?”

“Ah, no. Moroccan mint.”

Naked surprise colors your face. For a moment, he thinks he sees the actual person behind the anger and the person behind the professional facade before it returns.

“I understand. With or without sweetener?”

“With.”

You nod and walk a short distance away, back never left exposed to him, and stop to face him once more. For a moment, he wonders what you’re doing before he realizes you’ve placed yourself between himself and the rest of the kitchen. It’s almost laughable—you do not have the skill to stop him even if you wanted to and you’ve just demonstrated that clearly. If he takes you out, there is nothing stopping him from accessing the Cellar door you’re protecting.

It’s almost disappointing. Almost enough to dampen his desire to uphold his part of the bargain with McCree. A treasure guarded by a weak guard cannot be so valuable.

He resists the urge to sigh. He’ll need to think about this later. The stack of boxes left forgotten and stray oranges on the ground catches his eye.

“Would you like some assistance with those packages?” he asks, gesturing with his chin.

Your face shifts from professional stoicism to shock to embarrassment to a poor attempt at maintaining your composure.

“Thank you for your offer, but I will manage. Please wait outside, I’ll have your tea shortly.”

“It would be no trouble. There are many boxes here.”

The makeshift weapon remains tight in your hands and determination begins to exude from your stance.

“I appreciate the offer, but this place is for chefs only. Please wait outside.”

A flicker of anger and irritation that he’s becoming far too acquainted with reignites inside his chest. Are all the members of Overwatch so unreasonable that they’d even jeopardize their own health? Reinhardt, you; who else on this base is so foolish?

“Do as you wish.”

At least he has gained information on the kitchen and the characteristics of the door; he’ll be better prepared for next time. (If the skill he saw tonight was the extent of your skill, he has nothing to fear. The cowboy’s warning were far too exaggerated.)

He’s keenly aware of your watchful gaze on his back as the door slowly swing to a close behind him. hen the swinging doors finally rest and he can hear you working, he lets out the long-suffering sigh he's been holding in up until now, deflating.

Well, that could have gone worse.

He loiters around the cafeteria, watching the sun crawl against the ground with static in his mind until the bell rings and a tray with a familiar teapot and teacup slides into view—deep down, as illogical as it may seem, he’s just a little disappointed that nothing accompanies his drink. It feels strange walking up to the window now that he knows what lies behind it. Like some type of magic or illusion has been ruined.

“Thank you for your patience.”

He nods, nearly forgetting that you cannot see it. “No, thank you.”

He doesn't know how he could have ever mistaken you for an omnic. Your voice is definitely nothing like Genji’s. It’s the illusion of the echo and the fact that you talk to a wall that must have confused him. And your hands—human hands—peer restly over the sill, tapping just as he’s about to pick up his tray. Do you often place your hands out in the open? Has he missed it all this time?

“Agent...Hanzo?”

“Yes, Chef?”

You take a shuddering breath before saying, “I...I apologize for the misunderstanding. I did not realize how important tea is to you. But the kitchens are off-limits to non-kitchen staff, so please understand.”

If he's playing the part of the fool, he may as well make it convincing. “It is inconvenient to wait on you for something like tea, Chef.”

The words draw a sharp inhale from you and tension to the air.

“These are rules, Agent Hanzo,” you say slowly, “I cannot allow that.”

“Rules set by whom?”

“The previous Head Chef.”

“If I am correct, this Head Chef is not here, and as such, you should make the rules.”

“I don't—I’m not—I…”

“Oh!”

Winston seems surprise to find anyone here at all, shifting awkwardly in the threshold between the hall and the room before he sheepishly pads his way in on his fists.

“Good morning, Hanzo. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Hanzo couldn’t say that he expected the same and nods curtly.

“Tea, huh? I guess everyone takes their breakfast different.” Hanzo has no time to correct him when the gorilla turns toward the service window. “Chef, what’s for breakfast today?”

Hanzo winces as you splutter, remembering that his antics likely led to a delay in your schedule. (Well, you refused his help and decided to challenge him despite your lack of prowess; it’s not entirely his fault alone.) He can’t imagine in the few scant minutes you’ve spent preparing his tea that you had managed to put away those boxes or even started on preparing breakfast.

“That’s, um, I didn’t—I’m very sorry, but…”

Hanzo couldn’t stand to remain, the awkwardness of the situation tugging at him and bids a hasty leave, yanking the tray out of the window. Perhaps too hasty or perhaps it’s karma, either way, he could not say it was not well deserved.

The teacup wobble precariously and falls off his tray, rolling against the window sill and smashes to the floor, the sound rippling and tearing through any other noise in the cafeteria. Winston’s mouth drops open, spectacles slipping down his face.  

“Oh my.”

Heat creeps up Hanzo’s neck as he chances a glance at the service window. Your hands are frozen in mid-air. He watches as they come down slowly and your torso inches forward, a dull ‘thunk’ accompanying an abrupt stop; he definitely does not feel something squeezing the air out of his lungs when a weepy voice whispers, “...are you kidding me?”

Chapter 9>>

[aloneiswhatihave1895]

Crossroads

(here you go, lovely Sherlollians. One-shot after the fateful “I love you” scene)

When Euros is finally taken away and Greg has asked all his questions, Sherlock and John are once more in a car together in silence. Blissful silence. After all that happened, he needs time to think, to process, to examine. What he needs is peace but as soon as John speaks, he knows he won't get it.

"So are we really not going to talk about this?" asks John.

He continues to stare out the window into the darkness. "Talk about what?"

"Molly," John says.

He realizes that he should have guessed John wouldn't forget about what he said - what they both said. "Molly's safe, John," he says, sending only a brief glance in his direction. "She was never in any true danger. You know that. Is it necessary for me to remind you that you were there?"

"No. It's not."

He returns to staring out the window. "Good. Then please give me the courtesy of silence."

"No," John says. "We still need to talk about it."

"About what, John?" he says. His patience is wearing dangerously thin, and he knows it is an inevitable result of all the stress they experienced.

"The 'I love you.'"

He sighs impatiently. "I had to say it, because it was the only way Molly would say the release words. Again, you know this. You were there."

"And it was necessary to say it twice?"

He swallows but he doesn't answer. Of course it wasn't necessary for him to say it twice. He said it once because he had to, or Molly wouldn't say it to him.  But before he even finished the sentence, he realized he meant it, that it was true. So he said it again. It was almost like he couldn't help saying it. His heart realized it the first time, but his mind didn't register the truth until he repeated it. Is that something John can understand? Maybe.

His silence gives John all the response that he needs. "You said it twice because you actually meant it. You love her, and you'd have to be an idiot not to see it. You love Molly Hooper." John lets out a halting laugh. "And here I thought you loved Irene Adler. But it was never her, was it? It was Molly. It was always Molly. That's why you asked her to help you fake your death, wasn't it? You couldn't bear to have her grieve over you."

"I'll leave you to your deductions," he says flatly.

He can't see John's face in the darkness, but he can feel the incredulous look on his face. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing," he mutters.

"Nothing?" John practically yells the word. "Listen, you cock, Molly loves you and apparently you love her too, and you're going to do nothing? Molly is in London right now, and you could be with her and be happy, and you're willing to throw that away? Do you realize how lucky you are?"

He examines all responses that he might be able to give, and none of them will be acceptable to John. "So what should I do, John?" he says sarcastically.

"I'll tell you what you're going to do," says John firmly. "After this cab takes me home, it's going to take you to wherever Molly's flat is. You will explain all about Euros, and then you're going to tell her that you truly meant it that you love her. You'll say that you're sorry that she had to hear it from you that way so you'll say it again. And since Molly is one of the kindest women in the world, she'll forgive you. Whatever happens next is between the two of you, I don't even care what it is." John looks at him seriously. "You are at a crossroads, Sherlock. You can't reverse time or take that 'I love you' back. Even Euros in all her insanity knew that. You have a choice to make, and so help me, Sherlock, you will do right by Molly. "

"John-....."

John ignores him. Instead he leans forward and tells the driver not to leave them both to his flat, but to take Sherlock to Molly's flat instead. He looks at Sherlock expectantly and he mumbles out her address.

Neither he nor John say anything else the rest of the drive. When they reach John's flat, John gives him a pointed look before he says goodbye.

And now he is alone - alone with his thoughts and worries that he may have finally pushed Molly just one step too far.

The ride to Molly's flat passes by far too fast. He still doesn't even know what he's going to do or say when he reaches her door. He doesn't need to knock; she's given him a key a long time ago. Besides, she's probably asleep anyway. It is the middle of the night, after all. But before he can even find the key, Molly opens the door herself wearing kitten pajamas, fuzzy slippers, and her dressing gown. He's never seen a more welcome sight in his life. Her eyes widen when she sees him and almost immediately they fill up with tears. "Sherlock? What-...."

According to John, he's supposed to explain about Euros first. But he doesn't. Instead he reaches out and pulls her into his arms, burying his face in her shoulder. She wraps her own arms around him. "What is it, Sherlock?" she says with far more sympathy than he deserves. "What's the matter?"

"I have a sister," he mumbles.

She stills in his arms and pulls away to look at him. "You have a what?"

"I have a sister," he repeats. "She's mentally ill."

Molly slowly blinks at him, processing the new information. "Sherlock, why don't you come in and tell me about it?"

Her encouragement is all the invitation he needs. They both sit on Molly's couch and the story pours out of him: Euros, Redbeard, Victor Trevor, Sherrinford, the torture games Euros put them through, Mycroft, Moriarty. All of it. But he isn't able to address the "I love you." Not yet. He only glosses over it when he mentions the coffin.

Molly sits patiently through the whole story. After he finishes, she stays silent for a long time. "Molly?" he says. "Did you-...."

"When's the last time you ate, Sherlock?" she asks him. "I think you need a good cup of tea and biscuits. Maybe a sandwich?"

He blinks at her stupidly and frowns. He doesn't understand her reaction - or rather, the lack of one. "Molly, did you hear what I just told you?"

"Of course I did," she says calmly. "I heard all about what Euros did to you, John, and Mycroft. But these sorts of things are always better to talk about with tea. At least, that's what my dad always said." She smiles despite the horror she's just heard, and he thinks that while John is the one who has fought in a war, Molly Hooper has fought her own set of battles. She's a different kind of brave soldier, but a true solider nonetheless.  "So what kind do you want?"

"What kind of what?"

"What kind of sandwich and tea do you want?"

"I don't know," he says blankly. "Whatever you make is fine."

"Okay, I'll be right back then," she says before she walks to her kitchen. He sits on the couch alone, wondering how she can possibly be so kind to him right now. He certainly doesn't deserve it. As he waits, unbidden memories of Molly come to the forefront of his mind:

I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee.

Black, two sugars. I'll be upstairs.

I'd say break it off and spare yourself the pain.

You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always.

I am sorry. Forgive me.

But you can see me.

I don't count.

If there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all....you can have me.

You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you.

What do you need?

You.

Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me was the one person who mattered the most.

I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper.

I can't say it. Not to you. Because it's true. It's always been true.

You say it first....say it like you mean it.

I love you.

I love you....

As he thinks through his past with Molly, he realizes everything that has happened, everything that he's done, everything she's done....they've all led the two of them to this point, the point of no return. John was right. They've both reached a crossroads, and neither of them can go backward. They can't rewind the clock or take back what they said. All they can do is continue to walk forward and he has the choice of how: together or separately.

And he knows which way he wants it. With new resolution, he rises from the couch and walks into the kitchen. Molly stands at the counter, humming softly to herself as she prepares two sandwiches. Without fully thinking about it, he comes behind her and slips his arms around her waist. Immediately her hands stop and her breath hitches.

"I love you," he whispers.

A strangled sound comes from Molly - a mixture of a choke and a sob. "Euros isn't here, Sherlock. You don't have to say it."

"Molly, please," he says softly. "Look at me."

Slowly she turns around to face him and lifts her eyes to met his. They are brimming over with tears once again and his heart clenches at the sight. Tread carefully, he can hear Mind Palace John say in his head. One bad move and you'll hurt her even more than you have already.  "I am sorry you had to hear it first like that," he continues with a grimace. "Terrible circumstances, I admit. Hardly ideal for a declaration, I concede." A single tear slips from her eyes and he gentles his voice. "But you also have to know that it's true and I did mean it. I do mean it. I love you."

Her gaze falters, but his eyes ask her - beg her - not to look away. Molly is the one who can see him, the one who always sees him. If she looks at him long enough, he has to hope that she'll see his sincerity. Molly searches his face for a long time and he lets her, hoping desperately that she'll find what she needs.

Finally her head drops and she nods slowly. "And I love you," she says, her voice hardly above a whisper.

Something tight in him that he didn't even know was there loosens, and he pulls her close to him, resting his cheek on her hair. His mind categorizes everything about this moment - the vanilla scent of her hair, the warmness of her arms around him, the faint hint of wetness from her tears on his shirt.

He doesn't know what the future holds for him or Molly, but he doesn't have any doubts in his mind that whatever comes they'll face it like they always have:

Together.

[yayasoba]

Mamae’Harel

Well the computer ate your ask when I drafted it so I had to redo it. I trusted you for Nyra.

Well since apparently Nyra will never be able to answer Tia’s questions for herself, here we go: a blast to the past. And oh, how so many secrets come to light.

May the Dread Wolf never hear your steps, she was always told. May he never catch your scent.

Well now he would quickly learn to fear hers.

Even after he left the Inquisition quite abruptly, Nyra still occasionally met him in the Fade. Even with the awkwardness that sometimes persisted after their arrangement ended, she missed her old friend. She never told anyone, even Tia. What good would it do? He was gone and didn’t wish to be found. She had tried occasionally on her own, but all her searches failed.

Now she didn’t care where she found him, living or dreaming. She wanted to tear him limb from limb.

“SOLAS!” she screamed, blasting a fireball - one of the few offensive spells she had - at him. He easily deflected it, calm in the face of her rage, but he would not so easily avoid her. “You lying bastard! How could you? We all trusted you! I trusted you!” She abandoned her torrent of fire to instead leap at him and start clawing at whatever she could reach. Of course, he was much stronger than her and trapped in his vice-like grip, she quickly drained herself trying to get free. Eventually, she stopped struggling and his restraining arms became a support to keep her from collapsing to the ground.

“Why?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper over the gentle breeze of spirits passing. Her eyes were dry, but she felt as raw as if she had been weeping for hours. It had been three years since she had felt so grieved, and that hurt mixed with her current pain until Nyra felt like it was too much to bear.

“I had no choice,” he said quietly, stroking her hair.

“Liar,” she whispered. “There’s always a choice.”

“This world was never meant to exist. I must fix my mistake.”

“Is that all we are to you?” Nyra asked, angry again. She pushed against Solas’s chest and he let her lean back enough to look him in the eye, though he did not release her. “Mistakes?”

He didn’t answer.

“So you would destroy everything we’ve worked to save,” she said, eyes dimming. “You would destroy even your friends in an attempt to bring back a time that is better left alone.”

“You told me yourself that you would use the knowledge of the Well to restore the elves. You said you would do whatever it took.”

“That is not the same, and you know it! I only wish for elves to be free and equal to everyone else,” Nyra protested. She would not let him twist her words. “I want for us to live in peace, where my children are not seen as less than anyone else. Why can’t you fight for that instead, Solas?” she pleaded.

He looked pained for a moment, but then his face hardened. “I will not speak further of this tonight. I have already discussed this with Tia, and expect you will try to change my mind with as much tenacity. However, I did not see you tonight in order to argue this.” He held a hand up when she tried to protest. “Our paths did not cross during the Exalted Council, and I missed you.” When he pulled her close at these words, Nyra didn’t try to pull away. When he began to sit, neither one let go, so while she didn’t end up in his lap, her legs rested over his as he kept her close to his side.

Hugging him back, she remembered a time when she had thought herself almost in love with him. However, though they could lie to themselves and each other, in the end his heart was Tia’s and her’s was Cullen and they had mutually agreed that they were much better friends than lovers. But he was one of her closest friends, even when their conversations began to happen less and less often, and she would always love him as fiercely as she did Ismae and Dorian.

“How is everyone?” he asked.

“We’re recovering from the Council,” she said. “Quite a lot happened there. I’ve been busy even before we got back trying to clean up your messes.”

She decided not to mention that Ismae and Tia were now romantically involved. Solas and Ismae held a burning hatred for the other, and Nyra knew it was only for her love of Tia that kept her from hunting Solas down and slitting his throat. She had no interest in piquing him with that information. Let his spies have the misfortune of giving him that news.

“How is Yvaine?” he asked.

Nyra instinctively knew this was the reason why he had come. With how fiercely she and Cullen protected their child, even his spies would have trouble bringing news of how his daughter grew.

“She is fine,” she said, lips thinning into a stern line.

It was common knowledge that Eyan was Solas’s child. However, Nyra had always been much more tight lipped about the identity of her daughter’s father. Everyone had assumed Yvaine was Cullen’s before she gave birth, including Nyra. Only Nyra and Cullen knew the truth afterward. Everyone else eventually came to assume it was some elf scout that Nyra must have had a fling with during the months she and Cullen were not talking. Little did they know that she, feeling quite heartsore at the time, took comfort in a very different pair of arms.

At first it had been just friendship, finding comfort in a kindred spirit, but eventually, with too much wine, it had turned into a mistake that Nyra didn’t try to rectify as quickly as she should have. Her only comfort was that she didn’t know the real story behind the end of Solas’s and Tia’s ended relationship until after she and Cullen had made up.

“Just fine?” he asked, frowning.

Nyra sighed. In the end, their enemy or friend, he was still concerned about his daughter. She shouldn’t feel bitter. She had a much easier time of it than Tia had, and Cullen adored Yvaine. Even though he knew about Solas before she gave birth, it had taken time for him to adjust. But now he loved Yvaine as though he was his own. He frequently paraded her around on his shoulders when he reviewed the troops, and spoke of her with such pride in his eyes.

“She is growing strong. She’s grasped the concept of talking, though she hasn’t quite figured out that she can occasionally pause for breath and let someone else speak.” Nyra chuckled as she remembered leaving Cullen to tuck Yvaine into bed, and how his bedtime story had been slow going as she stopped to question him every other sentence about things that may or may not have been relevant to the tale. “She has your curiosity, but none of your patience.”

He laughed softly. “In time, falon, she shall learn. I was not always as patient as I am now.”

They lapsed into silence, as Nyra began playing with the wolf jaw necklace. She had always been poor at keeping her hands still, which was a good thing as a healer. No healer hands were ever still when there were fools in the world.

“Why couldn’t you come back?” she whispered. “Tia misses you.” Ismae would murder her for even suggesting it, but Nyra knew that Eyan at least deserved to know her father. “We all miss you.”

He smiled wryly. “Not all of you.”

“I didn’t think the opinion of everyone mattered so much to Fen’harel,” she said saucily.

“It doesn’t. But I know when I am not welcome, and your cousin alone would be difficult enough to placate, even without the considerable support she would likely have. Do not worry, falon. We shall see each other again. Perhaps Yvaine will be old enough to join us then.”

“No, Solas,” she said, her voice hardening, though still quiet. “You are my friend and her sire, but unless you are at Skyhold physically, you will never see her. We have made enough mistakes behind everyone’s backs, and I will not bring her further into this. I will not give you access to my daughter’s mind. You gave both of your children up when you left three years ago, and unless you’re willing to come back into their lives permanently, I will not allow you to influence them. You do not deserve that privilege.”

His face grew dark, and for a moment Nyra understood why he had been so feared during Arlethan. Dread Wolf indeed. But the look passed, and he was once again Solas.

“I understand,” he said, “Perhaps one day. But not today.” He took her hands and helped her to her feet.

“You’re leaving.” Hardly a question, simply a personal musing. “It seems you’ve been doing too much of that, my friend.” Quietly, gently, she cupped the side of his face in her hand. “Please at least consider it. For Tia. For your daughters.” For me. I miss my friend.

“Perhaps one day, you will understand,” he said, his hand taking hers and squeezing it before he pulled it from his face.

“And perhaps one day, you will understand why I never will,” she replied. “Goodbye, my friend.”

In a heartbeat, his face was gone and she was awake. Nyra felt her husband’s breath tickle her neck, his snores faint tonight. Good. The lung infection was finally clearing. Carefully, Nyra nudged Cullen’s arm off her. The carpets muffled the sound of her bare feet hitting the floor, as she sneaked to the adjoining room.

Seeing Yvaine’s angelic face, peaceful in sleep, her long, pointed ears twitching as she dreamed, Nyra let out a frustrated huff. Even if Solas said he would leave her alone, it didn’t mean she trusted his word anymore.

Anyone named Fen’Harel had earned the title for good reason. The problem lay in the fact she didn’t have anything but his word to ensure that her daughter stayed free of him.

A strong arm pulled her against a solid, warm chest. She brought her hands up to Cullen’s arm, drawing strength from his steady breath.

“Did I wake you?” she whispered.

“I can always feel you being a nervous mother,” he murmured in her ear, chuckling. “And ever since the Exalted Council ended, you’ve barely left her alone. She’s safe as she ever was.”

“He thinks he’s doing good,” she said. “That he’s helping the elves. And yet he turns his back on his friends; on Eyan, the child that needed him.” They both knew the omission of Yvaine is intentional. She had her father already.

“Perhaps one day he will realize his mistake.”

“And if he doesn’t,” Nyra said, staring at her daughter with fierce love in her heart, “I will not let him win. I will not let him destroy our daughter’s future.”

He was a powerful opponent, she knew. In sparring fights there had been no question of who was the master of offensive magic. However, that was before he risked her daughter’s life. Now, there would be no weakness to her strikes. She would rain down fire and lightning to make Thedas tremble.

The Dread Wolf would learn to fear a mother’s scent.