#I have a lot of fond memories from about a decade ago but that’s plenty of time for DA to have become irrelevant

[inga-don-studio]

I’m (slowly) plotting out which sites to start repping my art -and hopefully a forthcoming art shop- on, and I was wondering if DeviantArt is worth the effort.

I haven’t touched my old account in years, even before DA made a lot of the UI changes that pissed everyone off, but since it’s been a while I’m wondering if they’ve improved any? Are they worth spending what few spoons I have on getting set up & running an account again?

[gaycrouton]

A.D. Skinner, Babysitter

COWRITTEN WITH @monikafilefan

Desperate for a date night, Mulder and Scully ask the one man they can trust to babysit their daughter. Eager to help, Skinner agrees despite his inexperience with children. How does he handle a night alone with a child who was a perfect mix of his two most rambunctious agents?

fluff | family | 5.7k | ao3

He'd served in 'Nam. He'd been an Assistant Director at the FBI for several decades. He'd been in charge of the X-Files division, which had achieved legendary status according to the newbie whispers in the halls of the Hoover Building. Yet Walter Skinner was certain this was the most anxious he had ever been for an assignment.

"Could you babysit Katherine this Friday?"

He knew Katie, adored her, but babysitting wasn't in his repertoire.

It wasn't that he didn't like kids, he just didn't have a lot of experience with them. When he was with Sharon, it was apparent they both had reservations about starting a family together. Then when Arlene finally made a move after years of back-and-forth, they just had so much they wanted to do, so much life left to live, and a kid just never seemed to factor in. He didn't have a large family, neither did she, so he just never spent much time interacting with kids.

And Mulder and Scully's daughter was a little… strange. Strange in a wonderful way that he loved, but strange nonetheless. Her first word was "boo" and she toddled around with Mulder's were-monster action figure for a whole year after that. Her favorite snack was yogurt with bee pollen until Mulder introduced her to hull-free sunflower seeds. Skinner didn't want to think about what kind of mess that had made. He'd even watched her pull a full-grown lizard out of her diaper during her second birthday party, much to her mother's horror and her father's amusement. Then again, what else could you expect from a baby born on Halloween with Mulder and Scully as parents? He could only imagine the shenanigans that took place on a daily basis in that home.

He'd arrived early, and was just standing in the living room as his favorite former agents scrambled around the house, still in the process of getting ready for their date. Scully had mentioned on the phone that they usually used a teenager who volunteered at her hospital, but it'd been months since she went to college and they desperately needed a Katie-free night to themselves.

Skinner hesitantly agreed.

He'd visited plenty of times over the years — hell, he'd helped Scully procure the place back in '05 — so he made himself at home. Skinner stared at the framed family photos perched front and center above Mulder and Scully's fireplace as his mind replayed fond memories of the last six years. Photos of loved ones, some he presumed were a part of Scully's family, a few of himself, one of Doggett and Reyes — or more accurately, Uncle John and Aunt Monica.

Skinner sighed. His heart went out to Mulder. His family and his closest friends were dead, all he had was Scully, and the few people who he couldn't quite shake.

The last photo, propped up by a snowglobe, brought a smile to his face. A young man with Mulder's floppy hair and Scully's bright eyes was smiling while holding Katie as a baby, a young man Skinner himself had once held twenty-something years ago. He then realized he was wrong; Mulder had made a family for himself, and it was just as unconventional as he was.

"Skinner?" Mulder slapped a welcoming hand to his back and smirked. "You good? Well-rested and ready to be tested?" he joked.

"You two have given me decades of practice in that arena." Skinner rolled his eyes. "A mini Mulder, I can handle."

"Ah Skinman, I knew you had it in ya."

"Mulder, don't scare off the first sitter we've had in six months," Scully scolded while sliding her very small feet into very pointy heels. "Please make sure she's sleeping by eight. She's been excited all day for this, so I hope she's not too wired during bedtime."

An irrational sense of pride started to bloom in his chest at her words. "Katie was excited for me to babysit?" he asked.

Mulder rushed past him, yanking at his tie, presumably noticing the blood red stain. "It was cute until she threw up from how excited she was," he snorted. "Nothing like rinsing curdled milk and spaghetti sauce off dress shoes."

Skinner cringed, glancing down at the white sweatshirt he'd worn. "Lovely."

"Kids are full of surprises, Skinner," Scully teased. "Especially Mulder's."

"Hey," Mulder chuckled, sliding the cleaner yet gaudier tie around his neck before pressing a kiss into the crown of Scully's head. "She's only half mine."

"Uncle Skinner! Uncle Skinner," a young voice screamed, followed by tiny footsteps bounding down wooden stairs.

He turned just in time to feel a forty-pound child slam against him, a pair of tiny arms circling his left leg. He looked down and saw a heap of curly, auburn hair burrowing deep into his side. A pair of big green eyes and rosy cheeks beamed up at him as her chin prodded his hip, and he nearly melted right then and there.

"Well hello there, Katie girl," he boomed, bending down and swooping the little one into his arms.

They'd had a learning curve trying to think of how to introduce him to the girl since he first met her as a newborn in the hospital. Mulder and Scully still had a bad habit of calling him 'Skinner' even though he'd insisted for years 'Walter' was fine, and he definitely wasn't going to have a toddler call him by his last name. Both Mulder and Scully's parents were gone, which caused Mulder to jokingly ask if he'd be 'Grandpa', much to his personal chagrin. After more deliberation, he was now Uncle Skinner, and it was one of the best titles he'd ever had.

"Uh, whatcha wearing Katie?" he asked, rubbing his hands along her side and feeling a weird furry texture.

"Yes, Mulder. What's our child wearing?" Scully asked in a tone that told him this was not the first time the conversation had been brought up.

"She really likes Werewolf of London," Mulder stated in lieu of explanation, clearly finding it more amusing than his wife.

"Rawr!" the little girl growled next to him, baring her baby teeth.

"Katherine, don't bite Uncle Skinner," Scully chastised preemptively. Then, turning to him with a pursed smile explained, "Yes. Our child is going through a werewolf phase. Other six-year-olds at her school live in their Elsa costumes, but Katie prefers her fursuit."

"Better than Mulder's ghillie suit," Skinner murmured. He didn't know what an Elsa was, but it looked like their offspring was taking after Mulder.

"I wanna show you somethin' in my room!" she declared, gently pulling on the fabric of his sweatshirt.

"Honey, don't pull," Scully reminded lightly while trying to fasten an earring. "And we need Uncle Skinner for a few more minutes, okay?"

"But he's here for me," Katie argued softly, hopping up to wrap her arms around Skinner's neck and rest her wild-haired head against his bald one.

"She has a point," Skinner stated pointedly. "You two need to get your ass-sscessories on… so you can get your butts in gear."

"Nice save," Mulder chuckled, fumbling to get his foot into his puke-less dress shoes.

"She's already had an early dinner, but since she threw most of it up, it's okay if she wants a bigger snack than usual later. She gets one around seven," Scully explained, slipping her coat on.

"We usually watch some T.V. then," Mulder supplemented.

"She's already had her bath, so you don't need to worry about that unless she gets really messy," Scully added, as if that was a rather likely outcome.

Mulder dug around in his pockets for his keys as he explained: "The emergency contacts are on the side of the fridge. We're pretty far out and the fire department's closest, so if anything happens I'd just lie and say a fire was involved so they get here faster."

Skinner chuckled as Scully playfully slapped Mulder on the arm in reprimand, casting Skinner a glance and shaking her head with a smirk.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, Katie and I are going to manage ourselves just fine. Won't we, Katie?" he asked, turning to the little girl.

"Mhm!" she replied before giggling.

"You'll call us if you need anything?" Scully bit her lip and adjusted the band of her purse.

These were two of the most reckless agents he'd ever had to deal with, and seeing them dissolve into anxious worry just reminded him that he was holding their miracle in his arms. It brought a sentimental smile to his age-worn face. "I promise."

Scully nodded and turned to leave, but on second thought quickly scampered over to them so she could press a kiss to her daughter's head. "Have fun with Uncle Skinner, okay?" she murmured, her eyes crinkling with adoration when looking at the girl much like Mulder's were looking at his women.

"Mommy, get yer butt in gear," the girl mimicked in a squeaky voice.

"Good to see the Skinner influence already taking effect," Mulder chuckled, swooping in to kiss the girl's head before turning and playfully kissing Skinner's temple.

"Ack," Skinner shivered and tried not to smirk. "Get outta here you two. Say bye to Mommy and… your dad," he stammered, unable to refer to Fox Mulder as Daddy in any context.

"Bye-bye," Katie squealed with the flap of her hand, bidding adieu to the most nervous parents he'd ever seen.

When the door shut and they were finally alone, Skinner turned to the girl and asked, "You said you have something to show me?"

5:00pm

An outer-spaced themed bedroom. He should have guessed.

He hadn't been upstairs in a long time, but glancing around the room, it was obvious she was in the transition between a nursery and a little girl's room. There was an oddly familiar mobile of stars hanging from the ceiling above her bed, a child height chart etched into the door, a small white desk nestled in the corner with what looked like school work laying underneath fat markers and long yellow pencils. This was where her little mind expanded and her personality grew.

Skinner smiled, spinning in a circle, taking it all in. In the middle of the room was an impromptu beauty salon. A collection of dolls were lined up at the foot of her bed, some with elaborate clips and bows in their wiry hair.

Creepy.

"Let's do our hair…" Katie exclaimed, her enthusiasm faltering as her attention drifted upwards. Her mouth comedically dropped into a small 'o' as she realized her mistake. He chuffed a laugh and sat down carefully next to her. "Um, it's okay!" she said meekly, reaching up and clumsily rubbing the expanse of his bald head to comfort him over his perceived loss.

It was endearing to see the little girl try to spare his feelings over the loss of hair he hadn't had since the eighties.

"We can do our makeup like Mommy!"

"I don't know how to do makeup, sweetie," he apologized, hoping the heart-shaped box under her arm full of pink blushes and glittery glosses would be used on one of her many baby doll's faces instead of his own.

Undeterred, Katie promptly dumped the box of play makeup in a colorful pile between them. Her eager fingers dug through it, spreading each girly item around like spilled skittles.

"This is Daddy's favorite!" she exclaimed with a proud grin, holding up some silver shimmery eyeshadow.

"Is it now?" he chuckled, amused to imagine Mulder in this position.

Skinner obeyed, unable to deny Mulder and Scully's little girl anything, and lowered himself to her feet.

"I'm gonna make you pretty," Katie squealed in delight as her sweaty little hand lifted his chin. "Daddy says Mommy don't need makeup, but she still paints her eyes and wipes creamy goo on her cheeks."

He smiled down at her carefully swirling the spongy brush across the silvery powder. "I'd bet my badge your dad loves your mom either way."

"Shh, Uncle Skinner, no talking," Katie scolded as the eye shadow brush swiped unevenly under his brow and dragged roughly across his temple. Her button nose was scrunched in a familiar way that Skinner recognized instantly as a Scully trait.

"Of course," he said seriously. "Sorry."

"Now make your mouth like this," she instructed, puckering her plump lips into an incredibly adorable pout. And dear God, that was a spitting image of Mulder if he ever saw one. "You can have purple lips and I can have pink."

"Fanks…" he slurred as the cold lip gloss covered every inch of his mouth and tickled his mustache.

As awkward as it may have seemed for a grown man with a bad back and aging goatee to sit cross-legged on the floor as a kindergartner painted him pretty, Skinner felt nothing but love.

6:00pm

"Hey, Katie?" he called out. His mouth still felt sticky with a glossy residue that he couldn't seem to wipe clean. But at least he was spared the glitter, thank God.

"Hmm?" she replied while putting the makeup into random drawers around the room.

"What happened to all of your stuffed animals?" Skinner asked, his eyes scanning all the fluffy creatures. All of them in one way or another were stitched together, each looked like a variant of Frankenstein's monster.

"They needed sur… sur-ger-ree," she explained, stumbling on the word.

"Surgery?" he offered.

"Mhm!" Katie skipped her way over to the giant pile of melded fluff. "My alien stuffy had a hole in her belly so Mommy pa'formed sur-gee-ree. But then Mommy went to work and Daddy did sur-gee-ree on everyone else so alien wouldn't feel sad."

Skinner shook his head. "Somehow that does not surprise me one bit."

"This is Rex, and this is Meister, and this and this is Goop, and these birdies are Rob and Laura. They're married!"

"Rob and Laura, huh," he chuckled. "Of course they're love birds."

As she was showing him her treasures, he glanced up and saw a row of some more family photos on a floating shelf. In one in particular, Mulder had his arm slung around Jackson's shoulders in the front yard, both men's hands shoved inside baseball gloves as Scully held Katie on her hip, the wind ruffling their strands of coppered hair. It was during one of the young man's occasional visits to see his 'new' family that had never stopped loving him. Everyone was smiling.

Everyone was happy.

Wanting to see what he was looking at, Katie stood up on the bed and looked towards the wall. After her dark green eyes scanned the photo to her liking, she tossed Skinner an endearing grin and said, "My Jackson likes my room too!"

The statement made his old heart swell.

He turned and watched as Katie started jumping on her twin-sized bed, the springs creaking underneath the pressure. "Careful there, little monkey. I know your mom's told you what can happen if you jump on the bed, she's had to do a lot of surgery on people who've bumped their heads."

"This is what Mommy and Daddy do when they pray," she blurted, the bulky blankets shifting under her feet.

"What do you mean?"

"After I go to bed, I hear Mommy and Daddy jumping on the bed and she starts talking to God," she innocently explained.

Realization dawned on him and he felt his face color instantly. "Oh," he squeaked. "That's… nice."

While he was still trying to figure out how to navigate the situation, he looked away for a second, only for his attention to snap back at the sound of a thud. Katie no longer was on the bed and it took a muffled groan for him to realize she was on the hardwood floor.

"Katherine!" Skinner rushed around the bed, nearly slipping on the fallen stuffed animals, and knelt at her side. "You okay, Katie? Don't move."

"Owww…" Katie's little lip trembled as she pointed to the red scrape forming across her knee.

"W-what do your parents do when this happens?" he stammered frantically.

"Um, they put a band-aid on it," she whimpered. "The Scooby Doo ones."

"Right, right. Of course." Skinner stood, his back cracking loudly, making Katie snort out a giggle.

The knot in his gut loosened at that. Kids don't giggle if they're seriously hurt, right? God, Scully would shoot him. She'd shot the man she married, for Christ's sake.

"All right little monkey, I'll go find Scooby Doo."

7:00pm

"Hello?" Mulder replied from the cell phone speaker.

"Is everything okay?" Scully's subdued voice called in the background.

Skinner could hear elegant music filter through the phone and pictured their concerned faces. He cringed, feeling a little guilty now.

"Hey, I'm sorry to call and interrupt your evening. Everything's fine. Katie's telling me her bedtime routine involves watching The Twilight Zone. I just wanted to confirm if that's true?"

"Hiiiiii!" Katie yelled towards the phone.

"Hi, Katie Bear," Mulder chuckled.

"Your dad says hi," Skinner relayed, directing his voice towards his feet where the little girl was playing with his socks. She looked up at him and made a dramatic gagging face, squishing the end of her nose as if to avoid smelling his feet.

"Skinner, what's wrong?" Scully asked, presumably having taken the phone from Mulder.

Skinner sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, regretting his decision to call. "I just wanted to confirm if Katie's allowed to watch The Twilight Zone?"

A second exasperated sigh was her response before adding, "Yes. Mulder's been showing her some 'classics' and she's become infatuated with it, unfortunately. I appreciate you calling to confirm."

"Of course," he replied. "Sorry to interrupt your night, I just didn't want to be responsible for any nightmares."

"Her favorite episode is 'The Eye of the Beholder.' The disc should still be in the player," Mulder added with glee.

"Wait, I want to say goodnight," Scully blurted.

It sounded like they were clamoring over each other to get to the mouthpiece, and he couldn't help but laugh at the thought of his two most rambunctious agents turning into doting parents. It looked good on them.

"It's for you," he told Katie who took his phone excitedly.

"Uncle Skinner can't use a hair tie becau-because his hair is missing!" she exclaimed in excitement, her pearly whites on full display. "But he's still really pretty!"

He chuffed a laugh, blushing as muffled raucous laughter erupted from the other side. After a series of 'I love yous' she ended the call by assuring her parents that she would make sure Uncle Skinner didn't get too scared. "I'll protect him," she assured confidently.

Skinner would take it to his grave, but he hated The Twilight Zone. He watched it when he was a kid and it scared the shit out of him. Even when he was reading Mulder and Scully's case reports over the years, he sometimes got the heebie-jeebies when they exceeded the creep-factor of this godforsaken show.

After they'd settled on the couch and they were about ten minutes into the show, he felt a familiar, irrational sense of unease brew in the pit of his stomach. "This doesn't scare you at all, Katie?" he asked, turning to the girl, a bit hopeful it did.

"Daddy says it's better I see monsters when I feel safe. That way we can talk about them so I'm not scared when I see them for real," she explained slowly, playing with the popcorn they were sharing.

Of course Mulder's preparing his daughter to encounter monsters as a when scenario not an if. But he supposed her parents knew as well as he did that most of the world's monsters were men in plain sight.

"That's very smart of him," Skinner praised. "Your dad's a great man." Then he leaned towards her and whispered, "But don't tell him I said that. It's way more fun to tease him."

Katie smiled at being the recipient of an adult's secret and nodded her head vigorously. An eerie sound on the television caused him to jump slightly and he turned to see a monstrous face wearing a medical uniform.

"Uncle Skinner?" Katie murmured, patting his knee.

"Hm?"

"It's okay if you're scared. We can talk about it so you feel better," the little girl explained.

He wanted to say he wasn't scared, but he enjoyed seeing the girl mimic Mulder and Scully's parenting by repeating things they'd clearly told her before. "What does your dad say when you're scared?"

"He holds my hand and makes me feel safe cause he's so big," she stated, grabbing his hand with her much smaller one — her whole palm only able to wrap around two of his fingers. "Then um, then he," she stammered, getting distracted for a moment.

"He what?" Skinner prompted, trying to keep her on track.

"He'll talk about the monsters. Sometimes they're more scared of us than we are of them," the precocious girl explained. "Like, um, they," she started, pointing a greasy finger towards the screen. "They're scared cause she… cause she looks different, but different isn't bad."

"That's true," he nodded, impressed that Mulder's lesson on monsters was simultaneously teaching her to embrace difference.

"We're all different," she wisely mused, kicking her legs out on the couch, her dainty feet nowhere close to the floor. "That's what Mommy says."

He looked down and caught her staring at his head again with a pensive look, and he made a mental note to tell Mulder to make her watch Star Trek: Next Generation so she could see another bald person.

"Your mom is usually right and your dad knows it. Does he ever get scared?"

"Daddy don't get scared unless Mommy or me get sick or hurt," she replied with a shrug.

Skinner grimaced as he looked at her knobby little knee, adorned with a Velma and Daphne Band-Aid. He knew the kid was perceptive. She hit Mulder's weakness right on the nose. He'd seen that fear in full effect far more than he ever hoped.

"But Mommy always makes him feel better by tellin' him he's being silly," she told him. Then offered, "But Mommy don't get scared so easy. She's a doctor so she makes it all better if we're sick or hurt."

"Your mom's a tough lady, that's for sure," Skinner chuckled as they watched the black and white monster creep across the screen. "Just ask your dad."

8:00pm

After years of thinking Mulder was going to send him into an early grave due to stress, he realized his daughter might just finish the job.

He'd lost her.

Well, she had to be hiding somewhere in the house, but she wasn't answering him and he was starting to panic. He'd turned on the porch light to glance outside, but other than a homemade rocket sitting on a bench, there was nothing out there but acres of land.

"Katie, olly olly oxen free! Please come out, you win," he called, frantically pacing the halls to find the girl.

"What's an oxen," a soft voice questioned from right behind him.

"Holy shit!" Skinner yelped, grabbing his pounding chest as the barely three foot tall girl squealed a laugh. "You're a really good hider, Katie. You scared me."

"You said shit!"

"Well now you said it too, so we'll both be in trouble," he explained with faux worry, clasping his hands together at his waist.

She sucked her lip in between her teeth and nodded pensively. "I won't tattle if you don't," she murmured.

Skinner could tell this wasn't her first bargain and it wouldn't be her last.

"Deal," he agreed. "Where were you? You scared me when I couldn't find you."

"I was following you, but I was on my tippy toes," she explained, pointing to her pink painted toes. She wiggled each one against the hardwood floor and he couldn't hold back a rumbling laugh.

"All right, then, you sneak. Ready to get into your pajamas? It has to be warm being a werewolf," he asked.

The kid was wildly independent. Skinner just stood nearby and supervised as she brushed her hair and teeth before getting changed, running into her bedroom with more energy than a child going to bed should ideally have.

With her blue nightie on, he could see a familiar gold cross dangling on her chest. "Do you need to take that off when you sleep?" he asked, pointing to it.

"I need to pray with it on so he hears," she replied.

"Ah, I see." Skinner found it interesting that she was learning Scully's faith, but with some of Mulder's eccentricities being she was treating a cross like a homing device for a direct line to the big man himself. "I'll give you some privacy while you do that. Call me when you're done, okay?"

"'Kay, you can go in Mommy and Daddy's room and jump on the bed if you wanna," she explained, crawling underneath her sheets.

"Maybe later," he dismissed before taking a step out into the hall, looking at some of the photos on the wall as her sweet muffled voice hit his ears.

"Hello God, it's me Katherine," the mini Judy Blume greeted. "Thank you for letting me have such a fun day. Mommy and Daddy kissed me and loved me, and Uncle Skinner and I had lots and lots of fun."

A small smile tugged on his lips at the innocence of the girl. He had no doubts Scully and Mulder worried every day about ensuring she was safe and happy, and just being her parents was clearly doing exactly that. He'd never met a happier kid. He paced the hall as he listened to her pray for her family, including himself, and some of her little friends at school. Suddenly he realized that he was purposely included in this moment of her young life, that she wanted him to be, and he couldn't tamp down the warmth blossoming in his chest.

Eventually, she wrapped it up by saying: "G'night, God. Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite."

9:00pm

There was a monster in the living room.

She had seen all the movies with Daddy and this sounded like a bad one. If she had to guess it was for sure a wolf beast because of how it was growling. She wanted to close her eyes and hide, but Uncle Skinner was down there and he was a scaredy-cat. Plus she promised Mommy and Daddy that she'd protect him.

Katie slid her feet over her bed until her socks hit the carpet. Reaching on her nightstand, she grabbed the necklace Mommy gave her in her fist and put it over her head before grabbing the pink flashlight Daddy used to make creatures appear on the walls with his fingers.

Gulping quickly, she tippy-toed her way down the hall, sitting on her butt as she scooted down one stair at a time. The monster was getting louder, and she thought her heart was going to explode like her rockets outside.

"Uncle Skinner, I'm here," she whispered into the living room.

She scanned the nightlights around the room to find either the creature or Uncle Skinner, but she wasn't finding anything. Scrunching her brows, she walked closer to the couch, hearing the roaring getting louder. She wished she'd put on her werewolf costume, then maybe the creature wouldn't notice her.

Closing her eyes, she squeezed her cross and focused as hard as she could…

Hi God, It's me, Katherine. Sorry to bother you. I'm scared, but I need to save my uncle cause he gets really, really scared. Can you protect us? Thanks. Sorry to wake you up.

Opening her eyes, she took a confident step forward and turned quickly so that the light was shining on the recliner.

Her mouth fell open in shock.

Uncle Skinner didn't say he could roar! He looked like he was asleep, but she was pretty sure he must be h-hibernatin'. She let out a breath and glanced around the room, grabbing Mommy's colorful blanket from off the couch and crawled up Daddy's recliner to sit by Uncle Skinner. She only managed to cover one of his long legs, but she nestled into his side and turned the flashlight off as she yawned.

She'd keep him safe!

10:00pm

"Is that… Skinner snoring?" Scully giggled as a muffled, rumbling sound came from the other side of the door.

Their keys jingled as they tried to sneak a peek through the window.

"I want to see A.D. Skinner sleeping like a baby," Mulder chuckled, quietly pushing the door open and guiding Scully in with his palm at her back. He flicked on the light and immediately felt his lip pout at the endearing sight in front of him.

Scully gasped lightly before whispering, "Oh, Mulder."

Laying in the recliner was his old boss, one of the most ornery 72 year olds he'd ever met, snoozing soundly while holding his sleeping daughter at his side. Katie looked content and peaceful, despite the snoring happening right next to her.

"Hang on, I need to take a picture," he whispered, tip-toeing close enough to take a couple dozen pictures of the sleeping duo.

Mulder squinted down at Skinner's mouth. "Is that…?"

"Lip gloss?" Scully finished, "Yes."

Yeah, these were frame-worthy photos for sure.

He felt Scully's arms slide under his suit jacket, her head nuzzling his chest, and he suddenly felt the urge to ask Uncle Skinner to babysit again next weekend.

"Mulder," Scully murmured, nodding to the camera.

He spun it around and tenderly pressed his lips to hers as the flash captured the moment forever.

Mulder brought the phone closer to them and he flipped through some of the photos, causing a domino effect of Scully's laughter, followed by Skinner waking up with a jolt.

"Sorry, sir," Scully whispered towards the disoriented man.

"Don't call me, sir," he playfully chastised. He looked around gaining her bearings, and they both witnessed the smile of affection that spread on his face when he noticed the lump lying next to him.

He removed the blanket from himself and tucked it around the sleeping little girl, cocooning her so he could hold her as he stood up, the various creaks and pops making Mulder worry for the future of his own knees.

"I can take her," Mulder offered, holding out his arms as Skinner carefully passed her over. While doing so, Mulder couldn't ignore the distinct purple hue on the older man's lips. He knew that particular shade of Katie's makeup palette was especially difficult to remove.

"Purple looks good on you, sir."

"Very funny, Mulder. I hear you look good in Kiss Me Sweet Silver," he retorted. "Yes, I read the label."

"What can I say, silver brings out my eyes."

"Thank you, Skinner," Scully said, handing him a tissue as a peace offering. "She looks like she had a great time."

Skinner smiled fondly down at little Katie curled up and sleeping soundly, her pouty mouth parted and thick lashes fluttering. "She wasn't the only one."

Scully started rummaging through her wallet and as soon as a bundle of twenties came out, she was stopped by Skinner placing his hand over hers. "Don't you dare," he warned.

"But you did us such a huge favor," she lamented.

"You've done me countless favors over the years," he refuted. With the glance Skinner cast at their sleeping daughter, Mulder had a feeling he meant more than just favors done during their years on the X-Files. "You try to give me any money or if you send me anything through the Venmapp or Casho or whatever the hell they use nowadays and I'll write you up."

Scully slowly set her purse down with an indulgent smile, and Mulder knew his wife was already intending to pay the man back through baked goods.

Mulder and Scully watched as their old boss made his way to the door. His once rigid military posture had curved over time, and was slower than he used to be, though his pride wouldn't show it. The man who had reamed them out so many times over the course of three decades had warmed and softened, a supervisor turned their greatest friend.

Skinner cleared his throat as he slipped on his shoes, and both of the former agents tensed in an involuntary reflex. A muscle memory anticipating a verbal lashing.

Instead, the older man turned around and gruffly stated, "You know… it's not good to be cooped up all the time. Haven't you spent enough time in your life doing that? You two need to get out more, live the years you've lost. You both have my number. I'm usually free in the evenings."

Mulder smiled softly. "Admit it. You just want a free makeover."

Skinner grinned at that and nodded. "Gotta keep the marriage exciting for Arlene. Besides, the girl needs some sane influence in her life."

Scully reached over to tuck a strand of Katie's crimson hair behind her ear and whispered, "Uncle Skinner is welcome anytime."

[dhwty-writes]

Toss a Coin to your Lover

I finally cracked. After months of reading (who are we kidding, inhaling) Geraskier fanfic, I finally wrote an one-shot. What inspired me to do it was this extremely heartwrenching post by @clown-of-rivia, who kindly gave me permission to write this. And write I did! I typed half of this at 2 AM on my phone because I couldn’t sleep until the words were own and the other half in the last 3 hours. It was a lot of fun, honestly!

Best you read the post mentioned above first to know the context but basically what happened is that Geralt and Jaskier slept together and Geralt (like the absolute idiot he is) put some money on the nightstand the next morning and left (because he couldn’t imagine himself worthy of love that is not bought). Here’s what happens after. It’s angst but with a happy ending, don’t worry. Enjoy!

Read on AO3

Jaskier stared at the coins on the nightstand for a very long, probably an embarrassing long time. Alright, definitely an embarrassing long time. But in his defence, the sun had barely risen and he'd frankly had the best sex of his life - and that ought to say something - so he thought he ought to be forgiven.

He'd be very glad to say that, when reality had finally caught up to him, the first thing he'd felt was rage. Alas, that was not the case. Because despite what other people thought, despite his infamous reputation as an exceptional (and intermittent) lover, despite everything, he actually cared about sex. His flings were seldom only a fancy to sate his needs; he was genuinely, truly, deeply in love with his usual bedfellows.

And Geralt? Geralt wasn't his usual bedfellow. He wasn't anything like his usual bedfellows. Jaskier fell for people easily and had been even more prone to do so in his youth. He had been in love with Geralt from the first moment he saw him. And over the years the feelings hadn't subsided in the slightest.

He was not ashamed to say that at this point he loved Geralt with all his being. Melitele's tits, he'd spent the last two decades traipsing after the damned witcher, composing ballad after ballad to his glory and beauty and virtue and finally - finally! - he'd thought Geralt had understood.

And then-

This.

Disbelievingly he stared at the money on the bedside table.

So, naturally, Jaskier felt hurt. He wanted to curl up and cry for days as he'd done after his first heartbreak, a lovely stable hand his father had sent away after catching them in the hay.

But then- resignation. Because he'd always known. 'Death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.' In some way he'd even been prepared for it, as much as one can prepare for such an eventuality. But not like this. This wasn't fair, this wasn't how it had been supposed to go, his heart not only broken but shattered into a million pieces, like the beautiful painted glass vase he had broken all those years ago in the Countess de Stael's manse. Beautiful even in shambles, yet dangerous to everyone who dared touch the shards.

He exhaled forcefully, clinging to the feeling of glass cuts on his hands, clinging to the pain, the sting, the bite. Finally, the rage kicked in. That was better than heartbreak, that was something he could use as a weapon, wielding words as lethal as any sword, as sweet as honey and as beautiful as a field of poisonous buttercups.

He stuffed the coins into his purse and got up to get dressed, seething and too furious to even attempt buttoning up his doublet. It wasn't as if Geralt hadn't seen that before. He had and he had loved it and then he had thrown coins onto Jaskier's nightstand and left. The audacity!

And the audacity to just leave! Jaskier was of half a mind to not go after Geralt after all because wasn't that a pitiful sight? The great poet Jaskier in the role of the scorned lover, running after his witcher with desperate need? But then again, he was just too angry and he needed to have words with Geralt. Oh, and what words they were about to have!

'Errands to run,’ Geralt had said and Jaskier scoffed in disbelief. Because now, apparently, the witcher had gone craven, Roach and her master long gone when he peered into the stable. 'Good,' he thought, 'so he's afraid.' And he ought to be, really. Jaskier wasn't about to just stand idly by and let the love of his life leave - he had been much too persistent over the last two and a half decades for that.

So, he tightened the straps of his lute case and his bag and set out to do what he did best: Not composing or singing or giving exceptional blowjobs (although he certainly excelled at all of those tasks), no, no, no; what Jaskier did best was tracking a certain whitehaired witcher of his, no matter how little he wanted to be found.

A few pointed questions and sweet words later, he was on his way, huffing and puffing while running to match the speed of a horse and trying to compensate the head start Geralt and Roach had gotten – and praying, Melitele, please, that they hadn't galloped away because then would take days to catch up to them – yes, he spoke from experience, one of his not so fond memories from the beginning of their friendship when Geralt had still thought he could shake the bard. He had learned better quickly, though now it seemed he had forgotten the lessons learned half a lifetime ago.

Luckily, though, he hadn’t galloped away, as Jaskier caught up to him half a day's march later while he was watering Roach by a creek. Good. That was good. That meant that his white wolf wasn't completely averse to being found. Still, the sight of the peaceful tranquillity - as if nothing had happened - only fuelled his rage.

'How dare he?', he thought. 'How dare he be calm when I am furious, how dare he find peace while I am aching, how dare he hurt me and not hurt in turn?'

Oh, but that wouldn't last for long. No, Jaskier would see to that.

"Geralt!" he called even though he knew that the witcher had to be long aware of his presence. Still, he hadn't deemed it necessary to acknowledge him, not turning, not even raising his head. The nerve of this! "What errands lead you to the middle of nowhere?"

The witcher flinched and looked up, his brows furrowed. It was a look Jaskier had long learnt to identify with pain. 'Good,' he thought, although he felt a little guilty, 'he shall hurt, too. Just like I do.'

"No answer?" he asked flippantly. "Fine. Then I'll do the talking. As always. You better sit down, witcher, because we will be here for a while. And you will listen." Geralt didn't move. Fine for him.

"What the actual fuck," he began his tirade, "we're you thinking, you cursed witcher?" He flinched but Jaskier didn't care. He was bitter and battered and broken-hearted and it was Geralt’s fault!

"What do you take me for?" He shouted and dug for the coins in his purse. "Some common whore? Some- some common travelling bard who will just as easily fall into bed for some coin as fall into song?" He probably shouldn't care that much but even if he was now famous enough to normally elude such propositions- as well as the need to accept them - it still rubbed him the wrong way decades later.   

"For years I've kept you company, for years I've sung your praises. 'Toss a coin to your witcher', indeed. Here!" One by one he hurled them in Geralt's general direction. "Have some coins! Have plenty of them because trust me, I’m not wanting for money! I’m not wanting for anything, to be precise! I could easily retire to Oxenfurt to teach or to basically any court on the Continent to make a home. Easily, do you hear me? I do not need your pity! I do not need you to pay me!"  

He had run out of Geralt's coins to throw and while he could certainly bombard him with his own money, he was actually quite protective of his earnings. So, he reverted back to verbal assault: "Is that what that was to you last night? Another night of paid company you like to indulge that you could just leave behind come morning? What were you even thinking? That you could finally shake me of after years of travelling with you?"

He gasped as a terrible thought came to his mind. "Is that what it is? You try to insult me so that I finally stop following you? Because then you have succeeded, Geralt. This insult is-"

"Jaskier," Geralt said, the first time he spoke since his arrival. It sounded weak. Broken. Pleading.

"No!" he answered. "No, I'm not finished with you, yet! You humiliate me, Geralt. For years I've endorsed your terrible bedside manner but this is a step too far. Really, I'm at a loss for words! I woke up with a wonderful afterglow to see you leaving and was worried for you. Turns out I shouldn't have been because apparently this night has no impact whatsoever on you. You're as calm as- as- I don't even know! See what you do to me? I'm a poet! A minstrel! A pretty little wordsmith, yet you make my words fail me. My weapons, my craft, my only asset, my-"

"Jaskier, please," Geralt interrupted him and to his shame tears rose to Jaskier’s eyes, "I didn't want to hurt you!"

"Then why did you do it?" he yelled, choking on the tears. "Because guess what, Geralt, I'm hurt! I'm really fucking hurt!"

"I'm sorry. Last night was a mistake."

"Oh, great," he scoffed. "First you add injury to insult. But sure, why not add insult again?"

"I shouldn't have made you do this."

"Made me?" he howled. "You didn't make me do anything! Fuck, I kissed you because Melitele's tits, I've been in love with you for so long and I just couldn't take it anymore!" His voice broke on the last syllables and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to quell the tears. "Shit-!" he croaked weakly. He hadn't meant for it to go this way, he was angry and he wanted him to feel the fury, not to crack down before him, show him his weakness, show him just how helpless he made him feel and-

He gulped down air, in a hope to stifle the violent sobs that shook his body. Oh, how he ached to curl up in a lover's embrace, to be held and comforted and yet Geralt was the one to reduce him to the blubbering mess. It was fucked up. It was so fucked up. Fucked up to run after him, fucked up to yell at him, all so very fucked up.

Still, he calmed down. Slowly. But still, he did.

When he was only sniffling a bit, he lowered his hands and found Geralt staring at him, unmoving, unblinking. Then he said: "No you're not."

"What do you mean, I'm not?"

"You're not in love with me. You can't be."

He scoffed. "Do you now claim to know my heart better than I do? Do you think I cannot judge whom I love? Do you think me an imbecile, Geralt? Incapable? Weak? Whatever it is, tell me! Better tell me now!"

"I think you are insane," he growled and Jaskier gasped, "to think yourself in love with a witcher."

"What, you absolute idiot, do you think have I been doing the last twenty-odd years? It hasn't been a deterrent all that time, so why should it be now?"

"Because you can't love me, Jaskier," he roared, the first time he had actually raised his voice at him since the djinn. "Because I am a witcher and can't love you back and demanding your affection would not be fair!"

"Denying it is equally unfair!"

Geralt growled and turned away, obviously displeased by something though Jaskier couldn't tell what it was.

He was still angry and he wanted to continue yelling, yell how Geralt paying him wasn't fair, how Geralt leaving him wasn't fair, how- But somewhere in his rage-clouded mind a voice of reason spoke up, granting surprising clarity for just a moment.

He clung to that clear thought as if for dear life, letting the fury dissipate until he was thinking again, and not just feeling and hurting. "Geralt," he said cautiously now, "why did you pay me?"

The witcher scoffed and ducked his head. "I had to pay you something, didn't I?" he mumbled almost too quietly for Jaskier to hear. "I mean, you were expecting something. No-one would bed a witcher without- without recompensation."

Jaskier stared at him abhorred. "Why on earth would you think that?" he asked with disgust dripping into his voice.

"Because it's always been like this!" he answered exasperated. "Women love me only for the money and even then, they cannot look at me while taking me to bed. Yen could, but-" He winced. "The djinn- And you, Jaskier. You don't have anything like that. But I had to give you something. I could never ask a sacrifice like that of something without-" Jaskier watched with astonishment as the witcher's voice broke. "What else do I have to offer you?"

"What- what else would do you have to offer me?" Jaskier gasped and spluttered trying - and failing - to find any words.

He just grunted and took Roach by the reins as if he was about to walk away - again.

"No!" He stepped in and ripped the reins out of his hands. "No, you do not get to flee! You stay and listen to what I have to say." He just stared, watching the bard as he started pacing. "What do you have to offer me, Geralt?" He asked bristled. "Why, what indeed? It isn't as if you have made me famous, ensuring my wealth and livelihood. It isn't as if you've saved my life countless of times, putting yourself in harm’s way right from the very beginning when you didn't even know - or like - me. It isn't as if you listen to my endless ramblings, as if you replace my lute strings when I need to, as if you lend me your coat when I'm freezing or carry my bag when I'm tired. It isn't as if you've nursed me back to health after illness and injury alike. It isn't as if you've rendered me completely speechless last night. No, none of that has ever happened."

He ducked his head. "That's nothing."

"That's everything."

His head snapped up. "Well, I'm still a witcher!" he shouted but Jaskier didn't flinch nor waver.

"And when have I ever cared about that?" he shouted back. "My love for your mind and soul and heart has been free for as long as I know you. Why would you think that my love for your body wouldn't be?"

"You mean it," Geralt said his voice full of surprise.

"Of course, I do, you big dumb oaf! That's what I've been trying to tell you for the past half hour. What else am I supposed to do to convince you that you are worthy of love and softness and care? What else am I supposed to do to show you that I've been giving you all of this for half of my life without asking anything in return? I never needed to ask! I've been paid in turn thousandfold. Not in money, Geralt, in actions big and small. I thought-" He choked on his tears, "I thought I've been paid in love, too."

"Witchers can't love. Witchers can't feel at all."

"Stop telling yourself that lie. I've known you for twenty years, Geralt. When you're happy you smile, when you think I'm funny you huff a laugh, when you're angry you shout, when you're sad you shut me out and when you're hurt you lick your wounds. You hide it, of course, but you haven't been able to hide it from me for a long time. And I know you love people. You love your brothers and Vesemir and you love Yennefer in some way and Ciri, too. And I think you love me, too. Don't hide your love, witcher. Not from me. Never from me. You're just scared. A coward. Scared to get hurt and scared to hurt me."

"I'm not craven," he growled.

"No?" Jaskier crossed his arms. "Prove it."

Geralt looked at him quizzically. Jaskier raised an eyebrow. A challenge. An invitation. A plea. And just like that, Jaskier could see the witcher break. It was plain as day, the little crack in the facade, the little gleam in the eyes and then, suddenly, he was being kissed.

There was a desperate sob caught in Geralt's throat when they kissed, the anguish and agony overwhelming Jaskier and making him stumble a few paces back. Geralt kissed as if he'd never kissed before, frantic and fierce and forlorn, as if he feared that Jaskier would pull away, as if he waited for eventual rejection, revulsion, rebuke.

And that broke Jaskier's heart again, maybe even more so than the coin. No, Geralt could have paid him all the coin in the world and it wouldn't have hurt half as much as the onslaught of- of- decades of loneliness and loathing and longing that choked him.

He was still angry - he was sure that he would continue being angry and hurt for quite some time - but that didn't matter right now. Right now, all that mattered what that he loved Geralt. And his beloved witcher, his dear white wolf, his revered companion, friend, lover was hurting, too. Because he hadn't been able to even imagine being worthy of the affection Jaskier gave him so readily, so freely, so effortlessly. Oh, and how much affection he had to give!

He raised his hands gently to cup his cheeks, wiping the tears away with both his thumbs and leaned into the kiss. The desperation faded away, as did the agony, to be replaced with tenderness and love. He reached for Geralt's hands to place them on his hips, whispering quietly between kisses: "It's okay, it's alright. Hold me, embrace me, I've got you." He placed a tender hand on Geralt's chest, manoeuvring them until they reached some rocks beside the creek to sit down on. He cradled his witcher into his lap, carding his fingers through his hair and kissed him, wishing that he never had to stop, hoping to pour all the unsaid words, all the undelivered confessions, all the unsung ballads (that he definitely did not have ready, no) into the slow movements of their lips.

When Geralt pulled away and leaned their foreheads against each other he was almost disappointed. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'm sorry, Jaskier, I'm so sorry, I never meant- I never meant for any of this, I never meant to hurt you, to insult you, to- I just don't- I don't know how to- I want to make this good, make this good for you, and-"

"Shhhh," he made soothingly. "I know. I know, my love, my witcher, my dear heart. And I forgive you. You know I always do."

"I don't deserve-"

He pressed a finger to his lips. "No," he declared. "None of this nonsense anymore. I've yelled my throat sore trying to convince you otherwise. What else am I supposed to do to prove it?"

"Kiss me again," he begged, "A thousand times. Maybe I'll start to believe it then."

To his own surprise, Jaskier laughed. "That, my dear, I can do." He pecked him on the lips. "One," he said. "Nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine to go."

To his even bigger astonishment Geralt of Rivia, the witcher, the white wolf, smiled. Widely. "Hmm," he made. "I think I like that. Do it again?"

He did. "Two."

That earned him a quiet chuckle and a quivering sigh. "I love you," Geralt whispered. "I really do."

Jaskier smiled, too. "I know. I love you, too."

He buried his face in the crook of his neck and Jaskier's breath hitched. "I'm not good at showing it yet," Geralt said and Jaskier had to keep himself from squirming at the tickling sensation. "I'm shit at showing it. I can't promise you that I won't hurt you again. I've never done something like this before. But I will try. For you. Anything for you."

"Oh, my love," he sighed, his heart beating quicker. "And what a wonderful adventure that will be. A tale of love and woe, of-"

"-death and destiny?" Geralt interrupted him and looked at him, a sly smile on his lips. "Heroics and heartbreak?"

Jaskier gasped. "You remember!"

"Of course, I do. I never forget anything important." He opened his mouth to protest and Geralt quickly spoke: "Do you think it is a story worthy of a ballad?"

His expression went soft and his heart warmed. "No, Geralt," he said and kissed him again. "This is the stuff of an epos. In a thousand years they will still tell legends of our love. There will be novels and plays and songs, and- oh Geralt, I love you, so much it hurts."

The witcher pulled him close. “I love you, too. I love you even if I don’t show it. I love your singing, your dramatics, your fancies. I love that your hair is soft and that your body is unscarred and that your hands are always gentle. I love that you never smell of fear. And I still can’t believe any of this.”

Jaskier smiled and kissed him again. “Three,” he announced.

“Do it again?”

He laughed. “Always.” And so, he did. A thousand kisses and a thousand more. To make his witcher believe. To make his witcher stay. To love his witcher.

Because he always had. Jaskier, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove, strolling minstrel, master poet, bard loved Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken since the moment he had first laid eyes on him. And now he got to show it to. Now he received love in turn. And in the end, that was all that mattered.

[hey-hamlet]

BNHA AU Ideas : The Original Sin

Also on AO3! 

TL;DR: 

Midoriya Izuku is born incomplete, part of him lacking in a way that makes him abnormal - inhuman. When he turns nine, this changes.

( shamelessly based of the young loki storyline in marvel comics a while ago with the title stolen from there as well. Look - "I am the crime that can not be forgiven." is a baller line ok.)

Midoriya Izuku is born blue and silent. There is no gentle rise and fall of his chest, no pulse, no movement. The Doctors whisk him away in a blur of activity – they tell Inko they will do everything they can. They do not expect a happy ending.

20 Minutes later, Izuku begins to breath on his own. With no previous reaction to treatment this spontaneous respiration is shocking. They expect major brain damage, only to see the infant open his eyes and squint in the bright light of the room. He yawns. They cheer.

They return him to his near hysterical mother’s room. He’s hooked up to countless monitors, but they assure her its just a precaution. She is warned he may have some form of brain damage that will become apparent as he grows, but he is alive and healthy and that in itself they can promise.

Inko cries – her son is alive and he is smiling and that’s all she could ever ask for.

Izuku grows up strange. As a baby he rarely cries – so rarely in fact that Inko can’t stand to have him sleep in a different room, so scared her near silent son will drift away without her knowing. He never does. He seems to understand her from day one as she tells him stories about heroes and dragons. His little hands wipe her tears as she cries. She doesn’t know how, but her son is special.

He doesn’t speak a word until he goes to daycare and meets a firecracker blonde, upon which he shows he can speak far better than most of his peers.

Despite this he seems somehow – lacking – to the other children. Like he’s missing something he needs to be one of them, to be human. They hurt him and push him and take his things. He does not cry.

The only child mostly unaffected by this is Katsuki. He still admits Izuku is a “weirdo”, but he’s smart and fast, sure on his feet with dexterous hands. He seems somehow older and younger than all of the other children in a way that makes adults baby him, but children fear him. Katsuki will not be scared.

Katsuki gets his quirk first. It’s bright and colourful and everything they expected from him.

He asks Izuku about his quirk. His looks into the middle distance for a moment before smiling. It’s small but bright as ever. “Mine will be late.” He then frowns, looking down at his own two hands. They seem ever so small at the moment. “Not sure why.”

Inko asks if he wants to go to the doctor, to see if he has a quirk. Izuku shakes his head gently. “I have one – I know I do. It’ll be late though.” Inko asks him if hes sure, but she trusts her son. He’s much smarter than they remember to give him credit for.

Still, the others don’t believe him. He grows up labelled quirkless with all it brings. Katsuki stays by his side, the quiet and kind boy is something different from the extras - he knows this as well as he knows the sun will rise. They make an interesting pair. One quiet, calm, too knowing, the other brash and loud. They are both whip smart.

Izuku has an eye for quirks better than anyone, always teasing out their mechanisms and probably limitations faster than someone with decades of experience. Katsuki is convinced this will prove to be an aspect of the elusive quirk that refuses to show itself.

Izuku dreams of horrors he has never seen – blood on his hands and quirks at his fingertips. He feels powerful but oh so alone. In the dark on night when he retches silently into his bin, the feeling of hot blood still so real under his shaking hands, he vows to be nothing like the man in this dreams.

Never again.

Izuku is nine when it happens. Katsuki is dragging him through the forest excitedly, hands warm and gently crackling in his own. His head begins to ache.

What started as a nagging irritation quickly shifts into a blinding pain worse than anything Izuku has ever felt in his life. He stumbles to the ground, clutching as his head and he screams and sobs, tears hot down his face.

Katsuki has seen Izuku cry plenty – but never from pain. Not when they got their shots, not when the bully from two grades about them slammed his fingers in the heavy oak door, not when he felt from the tree Katsuki had begged him to climb; bone sharp and pink through his skin. Katsuki wraps his arms around his friend and screams for help.

The screaming stops. Izuku slumps. Katsuki panics. He can feel his friend’s breath on his shoulder but he will not wake. Katsuki can only hold his friend and hope.

All for One had known this day would come. He had known All Might would kill him – it was only a matter of time. That’s why he had a plan B.

A quirk he’d stolen nine odd years ago, creating a shell his mind and quirk would snap to upon his original body’s death. It would kill the original holder of the body, ideally leaving nothing more than an empty shell of a person he would become should he die. He felt some what bad knowing he had killed an infant before it got to draw it’s first breath, but the feeling was fleeting. He had work to do.

He watches Izuku grow. He always had a link to the boy – something about him being an extension of himself making it ever so easy to find him. The boy’s soul – because what else could it be – is stubborn. Parts of it linger in the body, only growing stronger as he ages. He can’t help be grow fond of him. The boy is almost like a son to him, in some strange and twisted way. A creature that should have died but refused to at every turn. All for One could empathise.

That’s why, them All Might’s final blow falls, he feels a flicker of sorrow. Izuku would be no more soon, simply a body he would wear as a puppet. There was no choice though. His work was not yet done.

All for One / Izuku finds themselves in a world of pain, two souls waring for life in a body that can only hold one. What astounds them the most is that Izuku is winning.

All for One plunges them into darkness – away from the pain, so they can talk. They have a time limit though, they are tearing the small body to pieces from the inside out.

Izuku doesn’t want to force All for One out – that will kill him. All for One doesn’t want him dead either. They strike a deal : Izuku will keep his own body until he dies, All for One’s quirk his to use (though the man will keep every quirk he’s personally acquired close to his chest). When Izuku dies – as he will, All for One insists, because the boy wants to be a hero – All for One will take control. They agree.

Izuku opens his eyes and smiles. What once was dull green is now bright and electric, flickers of crystalline white running through them. Izuku feels whole – normal. That makes Katsuki worried most of all.

He explains everything to his only friend – everything he knows. Its not a lot admittedly, only that there is someone else in his head now – their quirk his to use, and that when he dies he will no longer be himself. They do not tell Inko. They train – they will become heroes.

All Might meets Izuku under the bridge, a scraggly man trying to wring his neck as he screams incoherently. All Might knocks out the man before asking is Izuku has seen the villain he was looking for. Understanding blooms in the child’s eyes and suddenly the man on the floor is liquid once again. All Might feels deathly cold.

Izuku gets his autograph, the strange man sharing his mind griping idly about the “blond buffoon” as he insits on calling All Might. Izuku doesn’t mind, ecstatic to meet his hero. He doesn’t miss the flinch on All Might’s face when he lets the man’s quirk flow back into him, but he brushes it away. Everyone is scared of his quirk, its nothing new.

As All Might is distracted by memories long after the boy leaves, the slime villain slinks away

Izuku saves Katsuki, clutching the boy’s own quirk in his gentle grasp, pulling it into his own fold ever so gently, never truly severing it from the blonde. The villain recoils from the blasts as Izuku pulls his friend. All Might swoops in.

Later he asks to train the boy – revealing his smaller side. He says nothing of One for All. He is considering it but he is so scared of any possible connections to All for One he dares not mention it. Izuku takes this with a smile and open arms.

Other stuff:

Izuku is told about One for All a few months in to training because All Might sees his boy is good and kind and nothing like the monster the thought he could be. Izuku immediately goes on about all of the good someone with All Might’s quirk could do, never once assuming it would be his to use. That makes up All Might’s mind – he will pass it to him.

Izuku calls All for One Zero. For All for One it’s kind of a pun about he is One for All wielder number 0. He starts calling Izuku Ninth, or Niner just before he get’s One for All – Izuku thinks it’s a pun on his name.

Izuku can both take quirks and borrow them. Taking them severs their connection from the wielder, borrowing them is just like holding them for a second – they snap back when he stops paying attention. Borrowing is faster and easier and can be reversed without contact. Taking means he will keep the quirk even if he is knocked out or stops concentrating – he tries to avoid doing that because it hurts to give them back and he doesn’t trust himself to do it no matter how guilty stealing something would make him feel.

All for One is actually big soft on Izuku and really doesn’t want the boy dead. He chats to him a lot, offers to help him cheat on tests – which Izuku never takes – and subtly heals their shared body while Izuku sleeps. He wants to kill the children who hurt him. Izuku can’t bare the thought.

All for One and Katsuki get along like a house on fire, even if their interactions are all mediated through Izuku serving as a mouth piece, and its scary. Katsuki and Inko were the only people he told about Zero until All Might. Others in 1A find out at various points in time.

Izuku eventually finds out about the weird quirk hes a part of and has a crisis knowing he is not the Izuku that should have been born into the world. He tells his mother, expecting her to hate him, but she only smiles. "You're still my son - I couldn't ask for anyone better."

[bbugyu]

a dragon's kingdom

he never wanted to stop learning about you, and you never knew how much you needed him by your side.

part one | part two

wc.5009 | smut, fluff, hurt/comfort, royal au, princess!reader and knight!cheol, penelope is the best character, sex constantly, it's called the honeymoon stage, unprotected sex, lots of it, lk impreg kink?, confessions mid-coitus, oops she pukes (not during sex oh my god), food consumption, mentions of death & mental instability, lots of crying

why do i care so much about lore and names and backstory and motivation. anyways i've created an entire world if you wanna know about literally any person that is offhandedly mentioned in this fic i can give u their origin story, including he horses. this part is really story heavy but also pretty sex heavy so have fun!!! also im in love with seungcheol but what's new.

*

"this feels strange."

you hummed, pulling out a pair of pants from a drawer and holding it up to seungcheol. "what do you mean? wearing someone else's clothes?"

he shook his head no, looking around the bedroom you had brought him to with the promise of clean pants. you had gone through all the rooms, you told him, as you led him through the castle wearing a light tunic tucked into a pair of trousers. you'd collected the clothes you liked, that fit you, and brought them to the tower, but there was plenty that didn't fit your criteria, and you were pretty sure he would fit into the clothes in the third bedroom to the left of the kitchen, past the main dining hall, a room you had discovered to be a counselmen's quarters. "you've been gone for so long, but i was at the kingdom only yesterday."

you looked to him, folding the pants over your arm. "what's it like now?"

a wash of realization caught seungcheol off guard. "my god, you've missed so much."

he changed, insisting you looked the opposite direction despite the fact that you had already seen all of him only hours earlier, and you fiddled your fingers and joked about peeking, but only stole a glance when you heard him buckling a belt that had also been found in the room. you exited the couselmen's room and he helped you onto his horse, leading her down the hall in the direction you told him. you patted down calliope's black mane as she walked alongside seungcheol, listening to him describe the castle ground and all the changes that had been made in the last decade.

"the statue, in the fountain?" you nodded when he looked at you. "it's all three of you now. they added you and the queen probably six months after your disappearance."

"that doesn't sound like father."

seungcheol paused, looking up at you. "i didn't know the king personally until only a few years ago, but he's not the ruthless leader you knew him as any more. your loss changed him."

you should have been more interested in your own father, but you couldn't help the way your mind wandered to fond memories of the flowers and gardens. "are there still lilies?"

"yes, of course," he said. "one of the back gardens was planted in your honor, right by the gates. i've never seen so many colors of lilies in my life."

you were quiet for almost too long, and seungcheol looked to you, immediately noticing the tears welling up in your eyes. "does mother go there often?"

"hey, hey hey," he instantly mounted his horse behind you, wrapping his arms around you and kissing your shoulder gently. "yes. every day."

you inhaled sharply, blinking your eyes rapidly to quell the tears. "she used to love roses," you started.

"she still does," he confirmed, and you didn't even realize that you had mourned for her as though she were dead.

"there's a garden here," you continued, wiping at your eyes and rubbing the moisture away on the pants you wore, seungcheol's hands resting on your stomach as he listened to you. "it was almost dead when i found it, but i take care of the roses there. i'll show it to you later."

seungcheol nodded and pressed a kiss to your cheek, making you smile vaguely. 

"there's a stable, also," you said, sniffing your nose. "you might recognize the horses. i suppose we should bring them back with us, as well."

he faltered. "from past missions?"

"only three," you clarified, gently nudging his steed around a corner towards the kitchens. "most of them ran to the fields, but three have stayed. i've named them. one had letters carved into its armor plate, but it was damaged - i could only read valerie."

"valkyrie," seungcheol said immediately. "tan colored horse, correct? with a white diamond on her head."

you turned in his grip. "yes, exactly!"

his stomach felt heavy suddenly. "she was captain varian's steed. he trained me for years, his mission was last fall."

"i'm sorry," you said, lacing your fingers with his on your lap as you recognized his loss. you thought of a year ago, when you had found the horse. you did your best to remember who had come at that time. "though it may not be consolation, i believe he was the one penelope ran from the grounds."

seungcheol's fingers tensed between yours. "she-"

"didn't kill him," you finished. "he was a good man."

he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding in relief, his forehead landing on your shoulder. "he was."

"i wasn't sure the horse was his, though i kept it in case he returned. the forests around here are deadly, but there's a village nearby, so i had hope..." you pursed your lips, thinking of how blasé you had always been about the men that failed to save you, not thinking at the time of the people they knew before they came. "i should have done more."

"you did what you could have," seungcheol reassured, his lips on your shoulder as he curled his arms tighter around you. "thank you for telling me."

you relished in the feeling of his arms around you, sighing as you let your head fall back against his shoulder. "i didn't realize how much i missed human contact."

you felt his breath on your neck when he let out a short chuckle. "i've never had it like this."

"neither have i," you said, adjusting to look him in the eye. he was only a breath away, his lips, his jaw, his neck. he had only arrived that morning, but your attachment to him could never get greater than it was now. you wondered if you glowed like he did in this moment - radiating gold in the streams of light from the afternoon sun. "i like it a lot."

a dimple showed itself on his cheek, and you smiled back at it. he kissed you gently, and your shoulders raised at the goosebumps it gave you. "i do, too," he said, running his lips across your cheek and down your neck.

"seungcheol," you sighed. "we just took a bath."

"and you smell divine," he said, smiling against your skin. you laughed at him, mostly because of his near flat out refusal to bathe with you earlier. 

"i've drawn a bath," you had said, wearing only a satin robe as you returned to the main room. "i'd be happy if you joined me."

seungcheol was laid out on your bed, blanket covering as little as it had to, an arm laid over his face as he did his best to recover his soul after you had pulled it straight out of him twice. "go ahead," he replied, fearful of what seeing your form again would do to him. "i'll make sure no one bothers you."

you laughed, crawling onto your thick mattress to bother him a bit more. "my knight in shining armor, making sure none of the inhabitants of this abandoned castle bother me while i bathe."

"anything for my princess," he said, rolling his head towards where you laid, prodding at his chest.

"anything?"

he saw the mischief in your eyes, and god, he hated how easily he fell under your intoxicating spell. but he only hated it for a moment, before you led him into your candle-lit washroom, the flames glinting off the glistening tiles of your tub and a view of the surrounding forest through sheer curtains. all he could do was sigh in resignation as you held his hand, letting the robe fall off your shoulders.

during that bath, your name sounded like a song coming from his lips, and it fell upon your blushed ears in the most delightful way. you had never even imagined what the first time hearing your name in someone else's voice in eight years would be like, but you couldn't stop replaying that moment in your mind.

"there should be apples in a basket right inside the door of the pantry," you said, pointing to a door as you lit the candles in the kitchen. seungcheol went to the door you gestured to and grabbed a few of the red fruit, biting into one. you walked over to the window and drew the curtains, letting the sun in. you usually left them open, but the rain in the evening before made you even sadder than you had already been this week. now, opening them back up, it felt like a fresh beginning. 

"i have eggs," you said, tapping your cheek, realizing you truly didn't know how to entertain guests. "lots of fruit and vegetables. there's a whole field of potatoes."

seungcheol smiled as he approached you. "whatever you want, i'm not picky. i am going to give calli some apples, though."

you nodded and smiled when he planted a kiss on your cheek, then took another bite of the apple. you watched him trot up the steps to the hall where his horse waited, and you looked around briefly before deciding to wash rice and stoke a fire.

you didn't know how to cook before you came here. you still didn't, really, just the bits of things you remembered watching the cooks in the kitchen when you and your best friend were hiding from your fathers, but it had been enough for you to learn, alone, with only a young dragon as a mentor. meat scared you still - you tried to slaughter a chicken as a seventeen year old and you were so scared of undercooking it that you had roasted it dry - but you had learned how to work with everything that popped up in the plotted fields behind the castle. with the addition of horses, you had been able to take spare jewelry you found to the village and trade for some things you needed - hay and oats, mostly, to care for them - and some things you missed, like rice and cheese. you grunted lightly as you set the heavy cast iron bowl of rice and water over a stovetop, settling the wood lid on it as seungcheol returned.

"how can i help?"

you stared at him for a moment. "you want to help?"

his eyebrows raised. "yes?"

"sorry," you said suddenly, shaking your head as you squeezed your eyes shut. "this is still weird."

he laughed, leaning against the stone wall. "take your time, princess."

"how are your knife skills?"

he pouted and shrugged. "i manage."

you laughed, walking to the pantry to retrieve some vegetables. "do you like squash? they grew like crazy this year."

you checked the rice periodically as it boiled, and you stir fried the vegetables that seungcheol chopped for you. you found another rice bowl - you had never needed more than one - and filled both with rice before frying two eggs.

"i can't believe you've been alone all this time," he said later, pulling a spoon from his mouth. "how did you learn to do all this?"

you told him about your afternoons spent in the kitchen as a child, being more of a nuisance than anything. he laughed when you told him that you had tipped over a pot of stew into the fire below, extinguishing it and creating a thick paste as the stew mixed with ash. you had gotten banished from the kitchen for a year only a few months before you were taken, but you supposed you had picked up some translatable skills during your other visits. 

he asked you about your captor, the mad king that had instilled fear in your kingdom's people with your kidnapping. you told him that king edgar was driven to madness by a cruel curse, and you met his true self only after you had arrived to his kingdom - the kingdom whose people abandoned it in fear of the dragon - where he broke down and clutched you. you reminded him of his own daughter, he had said, a beautiful princess by the name of penelope. he said he never knew what came of her, but you knew she was the one that had been cursed.

"the dragon," seungcheol started, his breath catching. no wonder you shared such a close connection with her.

you nodded. "he thought he was crazy for hearing her voice in his head. she was trying to tell him the whole time."

you were quiet when you told him that the late king's madness is what killed him, only a year after you had arrived.

it was his idea to send calliope back to the kingdom with a letter. he was positive she would make it on her own - she had made the trip several times, despite the king forbidding seungcheol from attempting to save you until now. "scouting missions," he explained when you raised an eyebrow at him, his tone unconvincing. he understood why you wished to stay, and he really could not deny the allure of living in a private castle with you for a little while, but he worried that his delayed return would make everyone assume the worst.

"i could write a letter," he said, to tell them what had happened and that you needed time to wrap some things up here, gather the things that should come back with you. "or you could, my princess, if you're hoping for a more dramatic return."

you were laying in the grass, watching the sun reflect orange against the clouds as it began to set over the horizon, using seungcheol as a pillow. you hummed, rolling to lay on your stomach and plucking a blade of grass to inspect. he watched you, and tucked your hair behind your ear as you thought. "you should write it, i think. they might come to collect us if i do. should we send her off in the morning?"

he nodded at you, his hand still on your cheek. you leaned your head into it, craving the way he held you suddenly.

there were countless days where you had lain similar to where you were now, in the grass clearing surrounded by red rose bushes, the earliest times spent sobbing until your throat was sore and your eyes swollen while you came to terms with being truly alone here. now, though, you laid with your savior and lover, and his presence alone changed the atmosphere. suddenly, these roses that were a source of painful memory for you had an air of romance to them.

"should i tell them?" you wondered aloud. "that i chose to stay all these years?"

seungcheol's thumb glided across your cheek bone. "do you think they would understand?"

your eyebrows crinkled. "you know them better than me, now," you said, ripping the grass in your fingers to pieces. "i know mother would, but i'm not sure about father."

"i think he would," he said quietly. your eyes met his. "heartbreak breeds empathy. i'm sure he would even forgive king edgar if you told him his story."

you considered that for a moment. "maybe i should write the letter, then."

with calliope in the stables, penelope flew the two of you back to the tower for the evening so that you could figure out what all to write, but it was back in that garden the next evening, laying in that same spot, where seungcheol's fingers dug into your waist as you rode him, the sky painted pink and purple behind you. your hips rolled on his, your blouse unbuttoned too low and your pants discarded somewhere they shouldn't be, and you watched his neck stretch against the green grass, a bruise from your biting the previous day showing itself directly over a bulging vein. he filled you in a way that felt new every time, and you sighed, your hands against his bare chest pushing yourself up off him, only to sink down again repeatedly.

his hands tensed on you as he groaned, trying his best to hold out for your second release, but you were making it incredibly difficult for him. you leaned back, palms on his thighs as you lifted yourself off him, and you would never forget the erotic noise that fell from his lips as you seated yourself deeply.

"princess," he groaned, his hands hungrily running down your thighs. "i won't last much longer like this."

the title read more as a pet name, and you couldn't help but clench at the need in his voice, making him choke. "god, me neither."

"please," he gasped out, eyes pleading. "please, can i-"

you nodded desperately, and it took him only seconds to sit up, crossing his legs behind you, cradling you in his arms as he rolled his hips up into you. your jaw dropped in a silent moan, and it took a moment for your vocal chords to catch up, but it wasn't long before you were making all sorts of embarrassing noises for him.

"baby," he panted, his lips pausing their work against your throat. "oh, god, i'm gonna cum."

"yes," you begged. "please. please, seungcheol."

he groaned into your neck, and you whined as you felt him shoot into you, spurring your own orgasm. your throbbing walls milked him dry, and the two of you were panting as you came down, clutching each other in a garden.

you were grateful that he didn't comment on the way you practically waddled the rest of the evening, but you never noticed the proud look on his face whenever he watched you. he did that to you, he thought. and you wanted him to do it to you again and again and again.

each morning, when seungcheol woke with your bare form draped over his side, he felt like the luckiest man on the planet, and you couldn't help but smile when you woke to his quiet and gentle ministrations against your neck, his hands warm against your skin as he pulled you closer to him.

"my darling," he muttered against your throat, adoring the way you felt in his arms, and his honey coated voice made you drunk with desire despite the sleep in your eyes. "when will i ever get enough of you?"

you giggled as you reached for him, making him moan when your hand made contact with his member. "perhaps we'll slow down in a year."

seungcheol thought that sounded okay, but when you wrapped your warm mouth around him, it suddenly sounded too soon.

there was clothing you would miss too much, you told him. the tunics you wore as comfort for years, the most beautiful dress you had ever seen, and god, the trousers. you had never been allowed to wear them before, but the convenience of fewer, less cumbersome layers proved itself again and again, especially now that you had a reason to undress more often.

"i think you look beautiful," he announced matter of factly, seated in the floor only two feet away from you, when you said offhandedly that the dresses probably suited you more. "now and always."

you smiled at him as you folded the clothing into saddlebags. "you're not so bad to look at either," you said, letting him lean over the pile of clothing to kiss you.

the more seungcheol told you about the kingdom, the more you itched to return. you missed the trees and parks surrounding the castle grounds, the cobblestone streets that you would secretly wander down, and you especially missed the way people would smile at you and ask if you were away from the castle alone.

"of course," you would reply, exchanging coin for a snack of bread despite the baker's insistence that you take it for free. "do you think the guards would have let me if they knew?"

the people were your main reason to return. you thought of the citizens that you hadn't seen in so long. you wondered how the children you remembered coming into the world had grown up. you wondered how the shops managed. you asked seungcheol about some, the ones you could remember, and he happily told you the bakery a few blocks away from the back garden gates of the castle was doing well.

you missed your family. with the promise of seeing them soon, your heart ached, even if you had felt spiteful towards them in your youth. you would never agree with everything they did - thus was the nature of an ever evolving world - but you couldn't help but remember the times they had laughed with you. while they had expectations for you, they still cared for you. they still raised you. they still loved you unconditionally.

you missed everyone you saw every day, all the other inhabitants of the castle. your cousin, whose parents died in war when he was only a child, but always had a devil may care attitude anyways. the cooks and help you bothered, but always laughed at your antics. your handmaiden, who had always kept a close eye on you, even if she never told the king about your secret excursions. you thought of your father's right hand man and closest friend, advisor kim. you thought of his son, whom you had been raised with in the castle. he had always been your best friend, your beacon of common sense, and your slightly reluctant partner in crime. you spent much of your long years away daydreaming about his laugh and hugs.

"mingyu," you said, trailing off slightly. you were sitting in the shade of a tree, watching seungcheol throw knives at a target. "is he well?"

"advisor kim?" he adjusted his posture, grunting slightly as he put a telling amount of force behind his throw. "as well as he can be, i suppose. we don't speak much."

"not advisor kim," you said, brows furrowed. "his son. he's around our age."

seungcheol looked to you, his eyes softening. "oh, princess, i'm so sorry." he paused as he kneeled before you, putting a hand to your cheek. "mingyu's father passed six years ago. he's been the king's advisor ever since."

he held you as you sobbed against him, mourning the man you had referred to as your uncle for most of your childhood, and your heart shattered as you thought of all the loss mingyu had endured.

he was smart, and it made sense to you that the king asked him to succeed his father, though you thought it a little cruel. mingyu had always been the most well read person you knew, and was the reason you had decided to make a mission of reading every book in your stone prison. he always had excitedly told you about the latest novel he'd read, or what he had learned in the political journal he'd snuck from his father's office, eyes shining and baring the wolf-like grin you adored. you never understood it back then, but now, having reread most of the books you had access to, you couldn't wait to get your hands on anything he would recommend to you when you could ask him in only a few short days.

you asked that you spend an afternoon with penelope, and seungcheol respected your time with her, despite the boredom that itched at his legs while he sat in your tower alone. he counted your paintings for the umpteenth, wondering how had you done this for so long. he decided he would go check on the horses.

you asked penelope if she truly wished to stay. "we could find someone to help you," you said. "i'm sure father has someone that can reverse the spell."

sweet princess, her warm voice rang in your ears despite her never opening her mouth. i've no family, no subjects, and no sense of humanity. 

you chewed on your cheek, knowing your wet eyes gave you away. "you have me."

she chirped, nuzzling her nose against your arm. and for your companionship all these years, i am grateful. but punishing the wicked is my duty, i have accepted my fate and so should you.

"i accept it," you said, wiping at your face with the sleeves of your dress. "but i'll remain unhappy with it."

penelope's sweet giggle was your favorite thing to hear in your mind, for you could almost imagine the woman that it once belonged to. do visit sometime. though i'd prefer if you left the knight at home.

you laughed despite the tears streaming down your face, and your hand ran over her snout. "you would like mingyu more, anyways."

there were three horses to bring back with you, but only two riders. due to this fact alone, seungcheol told you it would likely take a full day to return to the kingdom.

"maybe longer," he thought aloud, his wandering eyes finding yours as you leaned against a post in the stable. "we might have to camp a night."

"leave in the morning, arrive the next?" he nodded at your question. "that's not awful. it's hard to believe that i've been this close to you this whole time."

seungcheol agreed with you, wishing that he had gone against the king's orders and found you sooner, especially when your fingers fiddled with the collar of his shirt. "if only i had known how close i was to bliss, i would have been by your side for years."

you sighed, content, and wrapped your arms around his torso, your cheek landing on his firm chest as he leaned into you.

the first time the phrase i love you came from him, he was curled over you in your bed. your hands were digging into his hair, his lips were slotted over yours, and you were trying your best to ignore the stinging in your eyes as he pushed into you again, the words hushed against your mouth.

you looked up at him, shellshocked, but he never took your silence as judgement. "i love you," he repeated. "more than i've ever loved another person."

a moan was forced from you with a combination of his words and his movements, and it jump-started your confession. "i love you, too, my knight."

his forehead rest against yours, slick with sweat, as he slowly drove himself into you. your thighs ached, partly from the repeated trips up and down the stairs as you packed, but mostly from the way he gripped the backs of them, pushing them until your knees were nearly at your shoulders. the angle let him too far into you, you thought. if anyone were to die from feeling too much pleasure, it would be you, in that moment, as seungcheol bit at your lower lip and muttered sweet nothings into your mouth.

after nearly a decade of ruling a lonely kingdom, you were so close to returning to the castle in which you were raised. you had set the chickens free from their coop, your horses were prepared for the journey, and your stomach ached at the thought. your nerves got the better of you as you emptied your stomach of its contents behind a tree.

"it's okay, my love," seungcheol said, his hands pulling your hair behind your shoulders and rubbing your back. "i'm right here."

"damn shame," you choked out, catching your breath. "i really enjoyed that breakfast."

he did his best to not laugh despite your joking tone. he stayed by your side as your head swam, and asked if the ride back should be delayed.

"no," you shook your head, accepting the water he handed you. "if we stay a day, i'll make excuses to stay forever. i'll be okay."

he recognized the defeat in your words. despite the weakened state you had woken up in, you were right. this place felt like paradise, and you never wanted it to end, but you had a kingdom waiting for you.

penelope watched over you both, laid out in the grass as you made your final preparations, and you wrapped your arms around her neck as you held back tears.

"i'll visit. i promise."

seungcheol wrung his fingers behind his back as he watched you speak with her quietly. he could never quite shake his fear of the majestic being (he had squeezed his eyes shut and clung to you whenever she had flown you two to the tower), and he had a feeling that she disliked him due to their first impression, but he knew you loved her like a sister. then, the dragon's deep firey eyes moved to meet his, her voice creeping into his mind for the first time, causing a chill to run up his spine.

protect her in my stead.

he put a hand over his heart and nodded, and when the dragon broke eye contact, he felt as though he finally understood her.

seungcheol kept a close eye on you as you rode river, a horse he couldn't remember the original name of, but that you named after the location at which you found him. he vaguely remembered the man that rode him before, but he was one that seungcheol had never liked much. every time you swayed slightly, he insisted on taking a break so you could lay down, but you waved him off, not wanting to delay your return any more than you already had.

"oh, dear seungcheol," you said, a smile on your lips. "you will be such an empathetic king one day. good thing i'll be there to make the hard decisions."

he couldn't argue - he never could. you were wise beyond your years and more observant than the people he debated against at home, most of which with whom his arguments ended in him threatening to fight. but with you, he always understood the deep thought and logic behind your words. you had a way of speaking that calmed conflict instead of fostering it, and for that reason alone, he thought you were destined to rule, and he would happy to be by your side as you did.

[samwpmarleau]

1) It doesn’t fit with GRRM’s track record to introduce something as monumental as this, let alone so late in the game, and have it be what it says on the tin. For Aegon to actually be Elia and Rhaegar’s son who miraculously appears at the 11th hour to save the day doesn’t fit at all. Also, unfortunately, GRRM’s presentation of his characters of color is absolutely abysmal. While he debunked the theory of Dany blowing up the Water Gardens (THANK GOD), that doesn’t mean he’s going to magically treat Dorne how it deserves to be treated. A lot of the “evidence” I’ve seen about Aegon being real hinges on GRRM actually doing right by his characters of color and their associated storylines, which is … not likely.

2) The Golden Company was founded by Bittersteel, the #1 Blackfyre supporter who kept trying to make the Blackfyre cause succeed even long after Daemon was dead. The GC has been faithfully pro-Blackfyre ever since, and was even led by a Blackfyre, Maelys, in the Fifth Rebellion as well, which was not all that long ago.

3) The GC has never broken a contract before — in fact, their words have been “as good as gold” since the very beginning when Bittersteel founded it — so why would they now? They would only break a contract for blood (“some contracts are writ in ink, and some in blood”), for a Blackfyre. They broke the contract so they can help put Aegon on the throne and finally complete what Daemon and Bittersteel began.

4) The GC met with Viserys and Dany and laughed them out of the room. Why would they then be all gung-ho for a different Targaryen? Viserys wasn’t even a madman or pathetic when he met with them (Dany was still “a little girl”), Robert had only recently gotten the throne and therefore it was at its most vulnerable, and Viserys was well-known in Westeros as the Targaryen heir. If they were going to support a Targaryen, it would have been Viserys. Or Daenerys. Yet they didn’t. So why support Viserys’s alleged nephew instead? They would only do so because the Targaryen was only nominally one, in reality a Blackfyre.

5) Illyrio specifically says the Blackfyres are extinct in the male line, meaning they are still around, only through the female line, such as Illyrio’s late wife Serra. Aegon being Illyrio and Serra’s son would explain Illyrio’s fondness for the boy, why he’s so sad to see him go, and why he’s so invested in putting a “Targaryen” on the throne. Additionally, he found Serra as a sex slave in a Lysene brothel — quite a long ways down from the favored son of a Targaryen king. It would make sense for Illyrio, who loved her deeply, to in her memory restore what was “stolen” from her family.

6) Illyrio has a trunk full of children’s clothes, despite the fact that he’s supposed to be childless. Good clothes, too. (Those clothes are also blue, the color Aegon dyes his hair. Maybe a coincidence, maybe not.)

7) JonCon notes that Rhaegar’s eyes were “a deep purple, darker than this boy’s,” implying to us the reader that Aegon is not Rhaegar’s. It’s also a hint that JonCon has suspicions that Aegon is not the real deal but is in denial, because if Aegon isn’t real, then that means Rhaegar really is lost to him forever and he can do nothing to avenge him.

8) I’ve seen the argument for “sun’s son” being Aegon but it doesn’t make sense. Asha is called the kraken’s daughter, for one, despite being a Greyjoy in her own right, so yes, it tracks that Quentyn can be called the “sun’s son” despite being a “sun” himself (and it just has better rhythm). Plus, if he weren’t the “sun’s son,” how would he instead be the “mummer’s dragon”? He’s not a dragon, he’s not a fake, nor is he being controlled by a mummer, whereas that fits for Aegon. And in Dany’s HOTU vision, there’s a cloth dragon swaying on poles above a cheering crowd — how would Quentyn fit that either (especially since he’s dead)? But Aegon would. This is also in the same passage as “slayer of lies,” mind you. Aegon is the lie to be slain. The other people in the prophecy are pretty clear as to their identities, so why would “sun’s sun” and “mummer’s dragon” be riddles?

9) The Blackfyres and their rebellions have been developed more and more through the years, including an entire Dunk and Egg book about the second one. Would be a bit odd to completely drop that thread, no? The Third Rebellion didn’t even happen until late in Aerys I’s reign, so it’s not like the Blackfyres will play a central role any time soon in D&E. In the main series, however, they would. Plus, GRRM wrote the D&E book about the Second Rebellion while he was also writing ADWD, and it’s in ADWD that history lessons about the Blackfyres are repeatedly brought up.

10) The parallel between Aegon and Jon. Jon is a real secret Targaryen raised without knowing his true identity, whereas Aegon is a fake secret Targaryen raised without knowing his true identity.

11) There’s plenty of the “human heart in conflict with itself” that GRRM loves with him being fake. Dany gets another family member, the son of her beloved brother Rhaegar — only to find out Aegon’s a fake. JonCon raises a child for over a decade, the son of his beloved Rhaegar, redemption for losing at Stoney Sept — only to find out Aegon’s a fake. Dorne (Doran specifically) gets a piece of their beloved Elia back — only to find out Aegon’s a fake. Aegon himself has believed his whole life that he’s Elia and Rhaegar’s son, the heir to the throne, has gone through many hardships to get where he is — only to find out he’s been lied to since day one. Those are all very real, very poignant beats.

12a) The supposition that Elia would save her son but not her daughter — Dornish Elia, who would value her daughter just as much as her son — is nonsensical to me. I CANNOT get behind that one bit. Maybe I can justify Elia being willing to sacrifice someone else’s innocent baby if it meant saving her own (though that’s a horrible and heartless thing to do), but I CANNOT see a justification for her saving Aegon yet not Rhaenys. 

Moreover, if the baby weren’t Aegon, why would Elia be so willing to die for it? If it weren’t hers, if she had been pragmatic/cold enough to trade her baby for someone else’s, why on EARTH would she not have left that baby in the nursery and gone with Rhaenys, her actual child? The men Tywin sent had a reputation even back then and had scaled the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast. Elia would be dumb as a bag of bricks to think they would spare “her” son and Rhaenys, or possibly even herself. If they were to magically spare “Aegon,” great! Everyone’s happy (except Tywin). But why would Elia take that risk? No. She would only tell Rhaenys to run away yet stay with Aegon because he was her child and she had no other choice.

12b) If Elia switched the babies, then why don’t the Martells know anything about it? They were involved in a Targaryen restoration, Oberyn even went to Essos to sign the betrothal pact between Arianne and Viserys. Yet none of them know that their nephew is alive? If Elia really did take the pains to switch the babies for her son’s safety, why would she not have involved her family? At the very least, by having whoever she sent Aegon with even just hint to her family that he’s alive? But they know nothing. Zilch. They put their eggs in Viserys’s basket, then Dany’s, who are at best Elia-adjacent.

12c) Who would even be able to do such a thing as switch out the babies without a soul being the wiser? Varys, probably, but there is no way in hell Elia would entrust her son to him. Far beyond simply being a shady person in general who is out for himself and himself alone, he was the one who purposefully whispered in Aerys’s ear about invented conspiracies and betrayals. He made Aerys more paranoid, more dangerous. To the detriment of Rhaegar, Elia, their children, and the realm at large. Varys is the entire reason Aerys went to the Tourney at Harrenhal in the first place, because he convinced him that Rhaegar convened the tourney to meet with a bunch of lords in order to depose Aerys. Varys directly and gleefully contributed to Aerys’s further descent into tyranny.

Elia wouldn’t have trusted Varys as far as she could throw him, certainly not with something as precious as her child, not even if she were desperate. Even if she did trust him for some insane reason, how is Varys so powerful as to find a lookalike for Aegon but not for Rhaenys? Surely it’s easier to find a black-haired, brown-eyed toddler than a silver-haired, purple-eyed baby, no? Or why couldn’t he direct Elia to one of the many secret passageways so she could escape with the kids rather than this convoluted baby swap? Or any number of other things? At every turn, Aegon (but not Rhaenys!) being spirited away by anyone, most especially Varys, doesn’t hold up. Hell, why would Varys help Elia? What does he have to gain by not only helping her but egregiously undermining Aerys? Aerys whose ear he’s been meticulously whispering into, Aerys who’s the only reason Varys is at court and has power at all? Agreeing to and orchestrating the baby swap runs counter to everything we know about him.

13) Aegon being real means Elia and Dorne are essentially dealt two blows. We and they spend all this time believing her son was brutally murdered in King’s Landing. But then, psych! He’s actually alive! They get their hopes up, the wound is opened all over again, only for him to … be brutally murdered in King’s Landing. (Or possibly elsewhere, but likely KL.) Why is that better? What would be the point of Aegon being Elia and Rhaegar’s son if he’s just going to die like his “cover story” says he did? Actually, they’d be dealt three blows, really, given that Quentyn died as well in the pursuit of Targaryen restoration. Things are going to be painful enough without having Aegon be the real Aegon.

14) JonCon didn’t come to be Aegon’s caretaker until Aegon was 5. In other words, he wouldn’t recognize whether or not this Aegon is the one he saw as a baby. But because he’s so personally invested in Aegon being the real deal, he doesn’t question it too much. The result is that JonCon, who is well-known to have been close to Rhaegar and thus Elia (proximally, not emotionally of course, what with him hating her and all), him caring for the boy lends viability to the story. Which we see in action by Doran believing, or at least being willing to listen to, JonCon’s letter.

15) The Toynes have a very negative history with the Targaryens (and Barristan) but a positive one with the Blackfyres. Would it not make more sense for Myles Toyne to align himself with a Blackfyre rather than a Targaryen? Myles, who was the one who put his seal to the secret pact?

16a) It’s been 84 years. Even R+L=J, which is as much of a sure thing as you can possibly get, is disputed by some in the fandom. Some people believe Ashara Dayne is alive, and a subset of those go so far as to say she’s Jyana Reed. Some people have some theory about the Boltons being vampires. Like. It has been so long since the last book that things that would have been surprises or interesting twists have been examined to death, so by now they seem “too obvious.” Ten years ago, Aegon being real would undoubtedly have been a much more believed thing, because we’d have just recently been told it. But now? There’s been ample time to parse everything out and to determine that no, he likely isn’t real. Same for R+L=J. Ten years ago, or longer, Jon being revealed to be the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna would have been a bombshell. But now? It’s obvious as fuck. So to circle back around to “Yep, Aegon is real!” ignores the fact that it’s supposed to be a smokescreen and a twist.

16b) Related to this is GRRM’s own words. There’s an SSM where he’s asked whether Rhaenys and Aegon are really dead. He affirms that Rhaenys is but hedges for Aegon. Why? Not because he’s saying Aegon is real, but because he’s introducing the Young Griff arc. If he were to say, “Aegon’s definitely dead, too,” or “Aegon’s definitely alive,” that would completely spoil the tension and truth/untruth of the storyline.

Do I know that Aegon’s a fake? Obviously not, since we don’t have the books. But the evidence points to it being extremely unlikely that he’s the real deal. Like I also said, however, I’m not sure it really matters whether he is or not. So far as he knows, he’s truly Elia and Rhaegar’s son. His name is Aegon, he was raised to be a king, he seems to be quite a decent young man (people who cite him tipping over the cyvasse board can suck it), he will probably ride a dragon at some point, and so on. At the end of the day, who he’s biologically related to doesn’t seem super relevant.

[carryonsimoncarryonbaz]

New Fic!!

Honey For The Bees

A gift fic for my dear @giishu ! Based on late night conversations about fancasts, post-Wayward Son Simon and Baz, bee necklaces, and communication issues. I promised you something like this a while ago, my friend—better late than never?

Summary: It's not been quite a year since their trip to America but Simon and Baz are in a much better place as far as things are concerned, particularly their relationship. A morning trip to the market sparks some good memories for Simon but inadvertently sets in motion some angsty thought spirals for Baz. A Saturday morning set in the spring after Wayward Son, with moments of misunderstanding, but far more capability to talk things out than they've ever had before.

Simon

I like to come down to the Spitalfields market on weekends. To grab fresh falafel wraps and Thai fruit tea for myself. Decadent donuts for Baz, what with that insatiable sweet tooth of his.

And I could use the exercise–it’s the first sunny day we’ve had in weeks and I don’t mind getting out of the flat for a bit.

Penny’s holed up in her room, cramming for finals. Said she’d been up all night but the pillowcase creases on her face argued against that, I’d say. She’s a bit wound up about it all. I’m glad she got some sleep.

I promised to bring her a chai if she spelled my wings away.

I’m only taking two classes this spring term, so I’m not as spun up as she is. I’ve stayed on top of my work. It helps having Baz come over to study at our place most nights. It’s distracting as hell but he’s such a swot he won’t actually let me get side-tracked. He raps on the table with a “ focus now, Simon, or we’ll be here all night” and puts his work aside to run through my lecture notes with me. Baz can make anything sound interesting.

Merlin, I love him.

I always know we’re done for the night when he raises that eyebrow of his and gives me one of those long, cool looks that does nothing but get me all hot and bothered (he knows it too, the insufferable prat), and then starts to put his laptop away. “Time for a break, Simon.”

That’s usually when Penny snorts and says something rude, if she’s at the kitchen table with us, then escapes to her room with an eye roll and a put-upon sigh. I’ve caught her winking at Baz as she goes though, so I know it’s all just for show.

I don’t let it get to me. I know she’s almost as happy to have him around as I am.

I don’t object to her hiding out in her room, mind you. Study breaks with Baz involve a lot of snogging and I’m not about to complain about that.

And lately, more often than not, they involve Baz spending the night.

In the months since we’ve been back from America we’ve been working up to it, little by little. Back to Baz spending the night. To me holding him in my arms as I fall asleep. To late night kisses and morning breath ones too. To the comforting sensation of his back against my chest and my arm wrapped around his waist, face buried in the silky waves of his hair.

My hand splayed over his chest, feeling the slow, steady thrum of his heart.

The slide of our mouths, the firm grip of his hands on my hips, those elegant fingers finding their way down . . . fuck, I can’t be thinking of that now. Not in the middle of a bloody Saturday morning market.

Baz spent the night at his place last night, working on a group project. Probably why I can’t keep my mind off the thought of him this morning.

I missed him.

I shake my head and shove my hands in my pockets. I’ve got to keep my wits about me. Donovan’s will run out of those Nutella donuts he’s so fond of, if I don’t hurry.

It’s when I’m leaving—my belly full of crusty falafel, Penny’s chai in one hand and the box of donuts in the other—that I see the little stall to the side. I’m not sure why I stop. I don’t usually look at much other than food, not unless Penny or Baz are with me.

But something’s caught my eye. The shape of the pendant hanging at eye level.

It’s a miniature bee, exquisitely crafted in a warm, gold-toned metal, wings caught midair. It makes me think of the fat bees on Baz’s shirt—the one he was wearing the first time I saw him wrap his mother’s scarf over his hair, when we were in America. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sight, not even when I’m a cranky old codger in a care home.

I wish I had a photograph of it.

The pendant is small but surprisingly detailed, set on a chain that looks sturdy enough for the likes of me.

I don’t think about it much anymore, the cross I used to wear. It’s in a box, tucked away at the bottom of my dresser. Baz wouldn’t let me get rid of it. Said relics shouldn’t be binned. That’s not the real reason he wanted me to keep it around. I know I won’t ever need it, not with him. But if it makes him feel better knowing it’s there, I can live with that.

I touch a finger to the bee. The vendor eyes me, a questioning look on his face.

“How much?”

“Fifteen quid.”

That’s not bad. I can manage it.

Having only two classes leaves me with a fair bit of time on my hands. Baz signed me up for some sessions at this martial arts studio—it’s run by someone Fiona knows from her herbalist days, so they’re not so fussed about my dragon bits, so to speak. I took a few classes last term and now I help out there. Get paid for it too.

I tap the bee pendant, making it swing. Makes it almost seem as if it’s flying.

“I’ll take it.”

“You want it in a box, have it look nice?”

“No, I’ll just wear it.”

I put Penny’s chai and the donuts down at the edge of his display table and hand over the money. The chain’s long enough that I can slip it over my head and tuck it under my hoodie and shirt. The motion comes so naturally still, the almost-not-there weight of it on my chest deeply familiar.

My cross used to make me think of Baz. I’d think about why I was wearing it, think about him being a vampire, think about all the things that made me so obsessed with him, not understanding any of the impulses simmering beneath the surface.

This makes me think of the noonday sun glinting off those huge sunglasses of his, the tilt of his head as he adjusted that blue scarf, the smoothness of his shirt in my hands as I pressed him against the car.

Yeah, this is a hell of a lot better.

Penny’s taken over the entire coffee table when I get home, laptop in front of her as she leans against the sofa, books and notebooks and papers scattered around in piles.

Baz is curled up on the far end of the sofa, sock-clad feet just behind Penny, his laptop balanced on a cushion resting on his thighs.

He looks up when I walk in. Probably heard me scrabbling with my keys, what with those super senses of his.The smile that comes over his face is instant, lips curving up, eyes wide and happy.

Not guarded. Not questioning. Not even a glimmer of that wistfulness he’d try so hard to hide. Fuck, it’s good to see that. Just reminds me again how far we’ve come.

I bend down to press a kiss to Baz’s forehead, right on that aristocratic brow of his, as I walk by him on my way to the kitchen.

Yeah. I can do that now.

Baz’s eyes close and he leans into it every time. I love that even more.

I set Penny’s chai on the kitchen counter. There’s no safe space on the coffee table, not the way she’s got things piled everywhere.

I've just set the donuts on a plate when I feel Baz’s arms slide around my waist and the weight of his chin on my shoulder.

I lean back against his chest.

I can do this now too.

“You caught a whiff of the Nutella, didn’t you, you tosser. I was going to bring you a plate.”

Baz turns his head and brushes his lips over the edge of my hoodie, breathing his words into my skin. “I’d rather stay in here.”

I turn in his arms and then it’s him snogging me against the counter until Penny comes in search of her chai.

“Nicks and Slicks, how many times must I tell you two, not in the kitchen! You have plenty of places, not to mention a room of your own to defile, Simon.”

I attempt to disentangle myself from Baz’s embrace but he keeps his arm firmly wrapped around my waist, so I may as well just lean into him. “Why are you yelling at me, Pen? Baz is the one who followed me in here.”

“Traitor,” Baz says and slides his cool fingertips under my hoodie and shirt to pinch my waist.

I used to be sensitive about that too, but the martial arts sessions have me back into near fighting form again.

Baz has this way of running his hands along my sides. A way of resting his head on my belly and nuzzling his cheek against the roundness there that feels positively worshipful, so I can’t really let myself get fussed about it.

Well, I mean, I do get fussed about it, in a totally turned the fuck on kind of way.

Which I don’t need to be, in the middle of the kitchen, with Penny glaring at me.

I hold out the plate I’d put together before Baz distracted me. “Have a donut?”

She frowns.

“Go ahead and have one, Bunce. Simon doesn’t believe in defiling food--it’s far too wasteful.” Baz plucks a donut from the top of the pile. “They’re Donovan’s Nutella. It’s a crime to even profane them with your thoughts.”

It should be criminal to look so sexy eating a fucking donut. The way Baz licks that trace of filling from the corner of his mouth is positively pornographic.

Penny takes a donut and glares at me again. “Ugh, Simon, keep your eyes in your head.” She takes a bite, chews, swallows, and then apparently decides she’s not done giving me shit. “I never thought we’d find anything to divert your attention when there’s food around, but apparently I was wrong.”

She winks at Baz, which is completely unfair.

Because now he’s blushing a bit and blushing Baz is even harder to resist than Baz with chocolate hazelnut spread dotting his lips.

Except he’s just taken another bite of his donut, so now it’s both, and I can’t be faulted for leaning in to lick it off his lower lip which ends up with me giving him a bit of a chocolate laced snog.

“That’s it, I’m out,” Penny says, taking the rest of her donut and hightailing it out of the kitchen. “Refrain from doing unsanitary things on the counters!”

“Merlin, Penny!” I can feel my face heat up.

“Duly noted, Bunce.”

Baz rests his forehead against mine. I trace my finger down the buttons of his shirt, letting my hand rest against his stomach, gently rubbing circles there. I know he likes that.

“You are an absolute menace, Simon Snow. Seducing me in full view of Bunce, with donuts and chocolate kisses.”

I slip my fingers between the buttons of his shirt, his skin cool against them. He likes that too.

And I like that intake of breath that comes from him when I do.

“No one should be seducing a vampire in our kitchen!” Penny shouts from the other room. “Common decency in common spaces!”

“For Crowley’s sake,” Baz growls. He takes a step back and adjusts his shirt, face still a shade brighter than usual.

I did that. It’s a heady sensation every time. That he wants me and this is real.

That we’ve made it.

“Are you going to have a donut, or are these all for me?” Baz plucks another donut from the plate and proceeds to lick sugar from the top of it, just to drive me mad, the wanker.

“Dream on.” Two can play at this game and even though I had falafel at the market I can never say no to a donut.

Particularly when I can fuck with Baz while I eat it.

I stare right at him as I slowly lick at the sugar topping. His eyes widen. Good . I take a bite, chew it ever so slowly, swallow. His eyes immediately go to my throat before darting back up.

I hollow my cheeks as I suck some of the filling out.

“Fucking hell, Simon!” He’s on me, pulling me to him by my belt loops. He takes a bite of the bit of donut that’s nearest him, sugar crystals catching on his lips as he does and sending more of the filling my way.

And now we’re reenacting that scene from Lady and The Tramp with this fucking donut.

Read the rest here at Ao3!!

[idontknowwhatsarcasmis]

Old Acquaintances Made Anew

A Morriana fanfic

Hellooooo!! And I’m back in the DA fandom! Hope you’re all keeping safe and reading and writing loads in this quarantine! Stay at home guys! ^^

I started writing this story… sooo many years ago I don’t even remember! Anyways, I know this has been written many many times, buut I wanted to present my take on these two lovely ladies meeting in Halamshiral. I do hope you guys like it, cause I am really proud of it and had quite a bit of fun writing it!

Also, I have already started a second chapter, on Morrigan’s POV back in Skyhold after this, but wanted to see if you guys liked the idea first!

So, do let me know yeah?

As aaaaaalways, thank you brother for beta-reading it ^^

Enjoy!

Ao3

Ff.net

Xxxx

“A distraction would help.” Ellana said, biting her lower lip.

“What kind of distraction? There are plenty of them around here.” Cullen said, looking around in displeasure.

Leliana held back a smile at that, and saw both Ellana and Josie doing the same. The Inquisitor shook her head however.

“No, no. It needs to be something bigger. That’d draw most people’s attention.” She paused and looked at her other two advisors to see if they had any ideas.

Leliana started considering what she could let slip to whom that might entice a duel, but didn’t manage to get far before she was interrupted.

“Oh!” Josie suddenly said. “I think I know what can happen.” She seemed excited (and… scared?) as she looked at Leliana.

Leliana narrowed her eyes slightly.

“Yes?”

“Well, it would positively draw everyone’s attention, and might even leave them quite a bit distracted afterwards.” She said, looking away while biting her lip.

“Josie…” Leliana’s voice was a warning.

“I’m listening.” Ellana said.

“Well,” Josie started, slow at first but gaining traction as she spoke. “As we’ve told you, Your Worship, everyone was staring at you and Lady Florienne while the two of you danced. Another high member of the Orlesian society and a high member of the Inquisition dancing once more might do the same.” She completed, almost casually. So casually, that it made Leliana freeze in place.

She couldn’t possibly mean-

“That’s an excellent idea, Josephine!” Ellana exclaimed excitedly, looking around the room, as if trying to find who could be the centre of attention. “Did you have anyone in mind? I think the only people here that know how to dance properly would be Vivienne, Cass and Dorian, aside from the three of you. Vivienne would not be a novelty really. And I was thinking of taking the other two with me… besides, I think either might do more harm than good down there.” She said with a small frown on her face, likely imagining Cassandra or Dorian insulting someone beyond repair while sharing a dance.

Which, Leliana mused, was very probable.

Still, she was quite sure that they were not who Josephine had in mind.

“Actually, Inquisitor. I did have two people in mind.” The ambassador started and paused to bit her lower lip, eyes darting quickly between Leliana and the Inquisitor.

“Oh?” She asked, eyes also finding Leliana. Less subtly.

“Speak your mind, Josie.” Leliana said. She had a good idea of whom Josephine wanted her to dance with. As much as she loathed to admit, the idea actually did have merit. Getting it to work would be another matter entirely, however.

Then again, 10 years was a long time…

“Well, it so happens that we have two veterans of the Fifth Blight here tonight. One of our own, and one of the Orlesian society.

Ellena looked confused as understanding dawned on Cullen’s face, his eyes now also focused on Leliana.

“Two?”

“I’ve told you I’d had dealings with her on the past, Inquisitor.” Leliana said, barely moving her lips.

“Deal with wh-Morrigan?!” She exclaimed a bit too loudly, and flinched at the look Leliana and Josie gave her. “Sorry. Morrigan? You know Morrigan from the Blight?” She asked in a hushed, excited whisper.

“Yes, we were both companions of the Hero of Ferelden. We fought side by side for many months.” Leliana said, her voice as if of its own accord taking a story telling intonation as she scanned the room, looking for red velvet.

As she focused back on Lavellan, however, she couldn’t suppress a small smile. The Inquisitor was always very excited to hear more about her time with Mahariel.. Lavellan probably heard a lot about her before in her clan, but it was different to have a first-hand account. It was not often, Leliana thought, that a Dalish elf was at the centre of history. Well, at the positive centre of history.

“You did?” Ellana looked like she was about to ask more when Josie cleared her throat, looking at her pointedly. “I-I mean, that is wonderful, though! Surely a dance between you two would draw everyone’s attention! I mean, I wish I could see it…” She mumbled the last part, and the three advisors smiled softly at her.

“While a good idea in theory, I am unsure if it’ll work in practice. Morrigan and I haven’t spoken since the Archdemon was slain. Even then, we never talked much. She… was rather reclusive. Mahariel was the only one she would actively speak with.” Leliana said, eyes once again sweeping the room in search for the witch. “Also, as far as I know, she never cared for dancing, either.”

Josephine tsked at that.

“Really Leliana, that was years ago. She’s been at court long enough to have picked up some steps. Celene would not suffer any member of her court to not know the basics, at least!” Josephine said ,and Leliana conceded her point. “Besides, as you said, you haven’t seen each other for a decade! I doubt Morrigan would not want to catch up.”

Leliana raised an eyebrow at that, face blank.

“W-well, she wouldn’t dare reject the Seneschal of the Inquisition in front of all these people? We are honoured guests!” She tried again.

Leliana maintained her expression. The Morrigan she remembered would have no qualms whatsoever about doing exactly that.

Josephine was suddenly looking very uncertain, and was about to say something when Ellana interceded.

“Well, I think she might surprise you, Leliana! When I talked to her before she seemed perfectly polite. Celene will likely be watching you two, so she won’t have to be concerned about any murder attempts during the dance, and I really need this distraction. I might be gone longer than before this time.” she said with a small, hopeful smile, and Leliana felt her icy heart melt a little. Ellana reminded her so much of Mahariel sometimes.

She so missed her dear friend.

Rolling her eyes, Leliana let out a small sigh.

“Well, time is of the essence, no?” She said, glaringat the whoop and smiles she received from her companions. “Wait for her to take my hand, if she does, before vanishing. You two” she said to Josephine and Cullen, “go to different corners of the room and look pointedly at the dancing floor once I, hopefully, get there. We want to attract as many people as possible. Ask one of the servants to spread word.” Leliana instructed as she started to push and pull at her uniform, trying to make it look more proper.

Stupid, ridiculous uniforms. Presenting a united front was one thing. Wearing this? It was an outrage. It’d help her play her part when asking Morrigan for a dance, however, so at least that.

The others nodded in agreemnt, and Cullen and Lavellan moved away to play their parts. Josephine, however, stayed behind. Leliana raised an eyebrow.

“Are you alright?” She asked, barely moving her lips.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Leliana felt her brow furrowing.

“Well, you seem nervous.”

“I…” Sometimes she forgot that Josephine knew her from before she had been the Left Hand. “It’s nothing, Josie, don’t worry. Go, time is of the essence.” She said, with a small smile. With a quick squeeze of her hand, Josephine motioned to the main balcony with her chin, before she made her way across the ballroom to the opposite side.

Slowly, Leliana looked to where Josephine had pointed. Right there, by the Empress’ side.

Leliana closed her hand into a fist. Was she nervous? Why, by Andraste’s name, was she nervous?

Visions of lingering glances flashed before her eyes. Words that were, day by day, week by week, less and less cutting and more and more teasing. Fond.

Taking a fortifying breath, Leliana minutely shook her head to focus, and started walking towards her target. She made sure her steps seemed casual, but wide enough to draw attention at the same time. People needed to be watching her as she approached the other woman.

When she was but a few steps away, Leliana finally was able to actually admire the ensemble Morrigan was wearing. The sight almost made her step falter. Red velvet. Gold details. Low on the front. Another vision entered her mind, one that almost made her skip a step. Maker’s breath. What was Morrigan playing at?

Another step made her come close enough to the Empress and her advisor to call the attention of those nearby. As the two women turned to look at her, something flashed in Morrigan’s eyes.

Time for a trip down memory lane.

“Your Majesty, my Lady.” She said in a clear and (appropriately) loud voice, taking a deep bow.

“Sister Nightingale!” Celene exclaimed, nodding her head and giving her a large and warm smile. Out of the corner of her eyes, Leliana saw Morrigan giving her a small courtesy, and her lips twitched upwards. “What a pleasure to have you at court once more. It has been quite a while.”

Leliana allowed her smile to become  larger.

“Too long, your Majesty. I’m afraid my duties have kept me away for longer than I wished.” She said, making sure her voice sounded just the right amount of sad, as if she were trying to hide it.

“’Tis all for a good cause, I hear. With your Inquisition, now.”

The voice washed over her like the first ray of sunshine on a cold winter’s day. An inexplicable tingling sensation spread from the tip of her fingers to the other.

All of which Leliana promptly ignored.

Morrigan’s voice hadn’t changed much. The same tilt. The same way of saying ‘tis’. The same tone that tried to impress on you that she knew much more than what she was actually saying. Leliana felt her smile become that bit more genuine as she directed her gaze to her old companion.

“Indeed. Being the seneschal to the Inquisition is a very busy job, but one I take to proudly.” Leliana said.

“I’m sure.”

Their eyes lingered on one another, but Leliana could not for the life of her figure out what was on the witch’s mind.

“Oh, allow me to introduce you-” Celene started, only to be interrupted by Morrigan.

“There is no need, Your Majesty. Sister Nightingale and I have known each other for many, many years.” Morrigan’s voice carried like velvet around Leliana, just like it had all those years ago. Her tone as she said her title, though, made Leliana want to wipe that smirk off her face.

Leliana could feel more and more eyes being drawn to them as the witch took a small step closer in her direction.“Indeed, your Majesty. There was a time when we travelled together. When we fought side by side with the Hero of Ferelden to defeat the Blight.” Leliana said, letting her old bard training take over as she turned to look back at the Empress. “Alas, circumstances made it so that our paths were separated shortly after we emerged victorious. Your magnificent ball, however, has presented me with an opportunity I have long since waited for.” Leliana let a happy and grateful smile grace her lips as Morrigan’s eyes almost imperceptibly narrowed.

“I’m very happy to hear that, sister. What opportunity have I unwittingly given you?” Celene asked.

“To make an old acquaintance anew. If you’d allow me, Your Majesty, I’d beg you to let me take your advisor from your side for one dance. It has been many years, and I find myself wanting to not let this opportunity go to waste. You’ll be able to keep your eyes on her all the time, of course..”

The fact that that line did not taste at all like a lie on her tongue was something that Leliana would stash away for later analysis.

Celene laughed, delighted. “Oh, but I would love to see such an event! As much as I’ve been trying to impart on Morrigan the importance of enjoying oneself on the dance floor, I have yet to succeed. Perhaps you’ll fare better than I did.” With that, their whole entourage focused on Morrigan, whose eyes had not left Leliana and were by now more perceptively narrowed. To her surprise, however, Leliana did not see anger there. What she saw exactly, she wasn’t sure, but it wasn’t anger. Nor disgust.

Clearing her throat for effect, Leliana extended her hand and gave a bow, eyes never leaving the witch’s.

“Well then, will you do me the honour of this dance, Lady Morrigan?”

Leliana more felt than saw that most of the eyes in the ballroom were on her hand at the moment. If this was a few years ago, she’d be exhilarated… as it was, she was rather glad for the gloves on her hand that’d certainly prevent Morrigan (should she actually take her hand) from feeling just how nervous she really was.

Which was ridiculous. 10 years. She was hardly the same ‘girl’ she’d been last time they’d seen each other. And yet here she was, as enticed as she had been back then with the mysterious Witch of the Wilds. As nervous as she’d been the first time they’d been left alone at camp. The first time Leliana realised that she had developed quite the crush on the younger woman.

But it had been 10 years. Lingering looks and teasing words had long since been lost to time. It was ridiculous to still be feeling this way.

“Well,” Morrigan smiled. A small  smile, for sure, but clear for everyone to see, and if Leliana was not very much mistaken (or counting too much on wishful thinking), quite the genuine one. “If I must.” She said in her usual brusque manner, making all those around them chuckle and Leliana’s smile reach her eyes. As their hands touched and Leliana straightened, her heart did double time, and she had to fight to keep a blush from rising to her face.

“Shall we, then?”

“I did just accept, did I not?”

“Indeed, you did.” Morrigan did. Which in and off itself was sign enough that Leliana was far too out of her game and need to get back to it

“Well, by your leave then, Your Majesty.” Morrigan said, exaggerating on her excitement for appearances’ sake, taking back control over her emotions.

“Oh yes, this is delightful! Go ahead!” The monarch clapped her hands, drawing even more attention as she went towards the balustrade to look down at the dance floor.

Taking a small, fortifying breath, Leliana started making their way down the stairs, Morrigan’s fingers gently clasped on her own.

Soon after they took the first few steps, Morrigan broke their silence. Morrigan did. Which in and off itself was sign enough that Leliana was far too out of her game and need to get back to it

“So, I assume you’ll be the one leading?”

Leliana almost laughed at that, but stopped herself just in time, letting only a smirk spread on her face.

“Well, I was planning to. If that’s agreeable to you, my lady?” She asked casually.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

She could just feel her rolling her eyes at that, even if Morrigan had apparently learned to keep herself from actually going through with the motions in open view.

“The whole point of going to the damned dancefloor, aside from drawing attention to us, is that so no one can hear us. Stop the court talk.”

Leliana did laugh then.

By now they had reached the centre of the dancing floor, and Morrigan stopped right in front of her.

“How should I talk then?”

“We’re in a ball in Halamshiral! How many times have I heard you screeching about these situations?”

Leliana chuckled at that as she placed her free hand on Morrigan’s waist, the other grasping Morrigan’s more firmly.

“You want me to screech?”

“Of course not! But it is unusual to see you not making a single comment about everyone else’s clothes.”Morrigan said, placing her hand on Leliana’s shoulder, closer to her neck than one normally would.

Leliana masked her dry swallowing by giving the witch in front of her a once over, a playful smile coming up on her lips.

“I could start that right now with your dress, if you’d like.”

“Never mind then.” Was her immediate answer, though Leliana felt  Morrigan relaxing at that. Humming satisfied, she let herself join in her calm as they started the first slow, easy steps of the song.

“’I’d sooner let Alistair dress me’, I believe were your actual words.” She laughed as she picked up their pace slightly.

“I really didn’t mean what I said before. Go back to being your weird formal self.” Morrigan quipped, making sure to place a scowl on her face. She couldn’t fool Leliana though; she’d been on the receiving end of her real scowls far too many times to not be able to recognize them.

“I did describe these exact details for your clothes, no? 10 years ago! Did you keep me in mind during all these years? Did you miss me that much as well, my dear Lady Morrigan?” She wasn’t even trying to mask the tone of her voice, and barely even realized what she’d let slip.

Despite what Leliana had told the Inquisitor earlier about masks and playing a part, she’d been right; Leliana had felt more like herself here than she had in years, and even more now, with Morrigan in her hands.

It couldn’t be helped, she supposed; she brought her memories from other times… happier ones, perhaps, even with the Blight. That year travelling with the wardens and their merry little band had been the best year of her life.

“Blast and damnation, Leliana. Go back to making small talk. ‘Tis a better use of your time and mine.”

Leliana openly laughed at that, heart beating as fast as it ever had, throwing Morrigan on a little spin before bringing her back.

“That’s the first time you’ve said my name to me. Ever, I think…”

If Leliana wasn’t paying so much attention to their steps, they’d be both on the floor then and there. As it were, she managed to plunge them in the classic and very dramatic swing dip. By the gasps and coos from all around them, she had managed to do so successfully, and they had indeed managed to gather quite a lot of attention.

“Careful now, Morrigan. We wouldn’t want you to crease your pretty dress, yes?” She asked, and there it was; that famous glare that she so fondly remembered. Though it did lack the actual ill intentions behind it.

A very hard pinch on her neck made her quickly pull Morrigan out of the dip. She picked up the pace, making Morrigan work to keep up as she went for some of the more daring manoeuvres.

“I’m surprised that all your time away from the court didn’t make you lose your touch at dancing, Sister Nightingale.”

“I’m surprised you’ve acquired such skills at all, Arcane Advisor.”

She was sure Morrigan would have shrugged had they been doing anything else.

“One does what one must to survive.”

“Indeed.”

Their words went silent for a few seconds as they spun faster and faster around the dance, the only sound coming from their mouths being a slight panting.

“How’s Kieran?”

Something fiercely protective flashed through Morrigan’s eyes at that.

“I hope he adapted well to the court?” She continued quickly, watching as Morrigan relaxed once more.

“Yes, though he did prefer to have a wee bit more freedom. ‘Tis fine though, he’s doing well.” She said softly as Leliana spun her. Morrigan didn’t need to ask her how she knew of her child. She certainly assumed that Mahariel had told her, and that the name had been learned by spies. Which was true.

“Anything on Mahariel?” Morrigan asked, as if reading her mind (she used to be quite good at that).

“Not for a few months now. You?”

“Not for a few years.”

As the song drew to a close, Leliana smirked once more.

“You ready for the grand finale?”

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed at her.

“What are you planning, bard?

Instead of answering, Leliana quickened up her pace, twirling Morrigan under her arm, spinning her away and then back in to finish with a low and daring dip, following after her so close that their faces were just a scant inch apart, right as the song finished and a truly thunderous applause started.

“Now, that wasn’t too bad, yes?”

“I hate you, bard.”

“Not yet, you don’t.”

“Wh-“

Before Morrigan could finish her phrase, Leliana, in a show of courage and impulse that she could simply not explain, closed even more the distance between their faces and pressed a very deliberate kiss on the other woman’s cheek, right in the corner of her lips.

Not wanting to give her a chance to recover and kill her on the spot, Leliana pulled them back to their standing position, taking one step back for a small bow. Morrigan automatically answered, before lightly, very lightly, taking back her hand and directing them to the stairs, under the sounds of animated and awed conversation. On any other circumstance, Leliana might have allowed herself to be quite proud.

As it was… well.

The silence remained between them until they were halfway through the stairs, and Leliana had started to seriously doubt herself. Her hands, which had begun to dry, were going back to being quite clammy.

“You’re ridiculous, Leliana.”

The spymaster could have laughed with relief at that.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my dear Morrigan!” She said, smirking as she saw the other woman actually rolling her eyes. “Also, second time.”

Her hand being crushed was quite worth the exhilarating feeling she was experiencing at the moment. It had been far too long since she’d felt this alive.

As they reached the top of the stairs, they made a show of bowing and speaking rather loudly.

“Thank you for gracing me with your company for this dance and for the riveting conversation, Lady Morrigan. It was indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance once more.” Leliana said, daring to bring the other woman’s hand to her lips for a brief kiss, barely touching her skin.

Morrigan’s eyes rolled again, a cross between an amused smile and a scowl on her face.

“The pleasure was all mine, Seneschal. It was good to converse with you once more. ‘Twas good fortune that fate brought us together once more.”

“May it not be the last time, my Lady.”

With a small smile for an answer, both of them turned away at the same time. But before Leliana could take more than one step, the witch spoke once more.

“I did, you know?”

Leliana stopped, turning around only partially. Morrigan was looking at Celene.

“Pardon?”

“Miss you too.”

Leliana froze, mind completely blank as she watched the witch make her way back to the empress.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, half hidden by the column behind her, rethinking everything that had been said on the dance floor.

Before long, what felt like a distant voice brought her out of her own mind.

A very, very excited voice.

“Leliana, that was amazing!” Josie somehow managed to sneak up behind her, Cullen right by her side. “Every single eye on this palace was on you! People actually rushed from other rooms for this!”

“They really did. Some of the guards even left their posts for it.” Cullen said, a small smile on his face.

Well, Leliana supposed, still utterly distracted, mission accomplished.

Now what?

Xxxx

Mission accomplished on all accounts, apparently. Lavellan had performed admirably, and pulled off something Leliana was not sure could ever actually happen. Brialla and Celene governing together was quite something. She allowed herself a small smile; Mahariel would have been proud.

She sighed as she overlooked the gardens, allowing herself to relax a little. Everyone was actually enjoying themselves on the ballroom now since all the mess was done with.

Light steps sounded behind her, but just a she began to tense up, she felt it. The smell of magic. Of wood, fire and wilderness that seemed to still be with her even after all these years away.

Morrigan.

Her heartbeat doubled again, but instead of nervousness, she felt light. Relaxed, even. Happy that she’d been reached out to.

“And here we are once more. Following a Dalish elf in events that shall change and shape the world.” Morrigan said.

“We also have a qunari, a dwarf, another elf, and a warden.” Leliana let an amused smile play on her lips as she leaned her hip against the balustrade, half turning to face Morrigan as the witch came to stand by her side. Rather closer than necessary, but Leliana would certainly not complain.

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “And from what I heard, you also have an older mage that thinks she knows better than everyone else.”

Leliana let out a short laugh at that.

“We have you for that, my dear Lady Morrigan.”

Leliana was sure that the glare she received would have sent many running for their lives. Not her though.

Morrigan scoffed at her lack of response.

“I don’t think I know better than everyone else, bard. I know I do.” She said simply, and Leliana rolled her eyes.

“Of course.”

The two paused, looking out of the palace, to the far distance.

“And I’m not old.”

Leliana laughed at that, turning to look at Morrigan from head to toe, in a very deliberate way. The same way she had 10 years ago, which had almost earned her a fireball to the face for her trouble. Now, though, the only heated response seemed to be on the witch’s cheeks.

Was that a blush?

Leliana smirked, but said nothing.

“What?” Came, predictably, the cutting question.

“No, not old indeed.” She said lightly. “The years have served you well.”

“Stop your games, Leliana.” Morrigan said, rolling her eyes. Leliana allowed her smile to become truly open and genuine at that, wanting to hide nothing at the moment.

“It is no game, Morrigan. Also, third time.”

Blush still in place, Morrigan turned to face her.

“Are you gonna keep count now?”

“Is it going to become  a common enough occurrence for me to not have to?”

The question was not only about the name and they both knew it. Is this where they’d part ways once more? Or would they fight together again, side by side?

“Perhaps it shouldn’t. Maybe I’ll return to calling you bard. Or Sister Nightingale. Seneschal, even.”

Leliana felt a happiness she hadn’t felt for a long time settling deep inside of her.

Side by side it was.

She took a small step closer to Morrigan, their knuckles now brushing.

“I’ll stop counting, if you promise to keep saying it, Morrigan.” She said in a whisper, a little tremble in her voice at the boldness of her request.

Morrigan stopped for a few seconds, just looking at her. A look with so much feeling behind it that it reminded Leliana of how Morrigan had looked at her right before the fight against the Archdemon.

Without realising what she was doing, Leliana grasped Morrigan’s wrist as if to stop her from leaving again.

Once more, it seemed as though Morrigan had been reading her mind, because instead of recoiling as Leliana was expecting, Morrigan simply covered her hand with her own.

“Good. Seeing as I’m to live in Skyhold for the foreseeable future, it’d get tiring quite quickly.” She said, her dry tone failing to mask the fondness in her voice.

With a light squeeze on her hand (so light that Leliana thought she might have imagined it), Morrigan turned around and walked back towards the door, back to the party and to Celene’s side. Just before the witch crossed the threshold, Leliana recovered her senses, ignoring the blush on her own cheeks.

“I’m looking forward to working with you once more, Morrigan.”

The witch stopped.

“So am I. I guess wonders never cease.” She turned to meet Leliana’s eyes for one last time that night “Good night, Leliana.”

And with that, she was gone.

“Good night, Morrigan.” Leliana muttered to the empty balcony.

She turned to look over the gardens once more.

Morrigan had awoken something in her today, and she had no idea how the witch would feature in her day to day routine and responsibilities back home. This whole night had been almost an out of body experience for her; As if she was ten years younger again, flirting with danger, politics, lies, deceit, and with a wild apostate. And she’d loved it.

But tomorrow, they were to head back to the Inquisition. To Skyhold, where she was not a seneschal, but the spymaster. Where her responsibilities had weight, where her actions counted to their minimal details.

It had been a dream… a wonderful dream (full of murder, treachery and lies, but such was their life, and such was where she thrived in), but it had come to an end. Tomorrow, things would be back to normal.

Supposedly.

Leliana sighed.

What had she gotten herself into.

[undermounts]

Bound―Chapter 3: Common Ground

Summary: While traveling to Rome, Diana learns about Gaius’s life alone in Europe and is forced to confront the weight of her decisions.

AO3 | Masterlist

Pairing: Gaius Augustine/Diana Leigh (BB MC)

                           Somewhere in Northern Italy, 2042

The following evening, Diana sat with her arms folded across her chest, nestled in her oversized coat as she slouched in her seat, feet propped up on the seat across from her as the sparsely populated train car gently swayed from side to side. Gaius sat opposite her, looking perfectly normal as he gazed out at the Italian countryside that passed through the window in a dark blur. Their weapons sat in a nondescript black sports bag, one typically used for baseball bats, beneath his seat.

It was still bizarre, seeing Gaius in the modern world. Diana realized that most of her memories of Gaius were not her own but those that she had gathered as the Bloodkeeper and all of those visions had taken place long before her time. Whatever personal memories she had of Gaius usually involved fighting for her life, so there was never time to note just how out of place he was.

“Stop that,” he huffed, not turning away from the window.

“Stop what?”

“Staring.” Gaius rolled his eyes, directing his attention to her at last, gaze cool. “Weren’t you the one who said it was rude?”

Diana frowned, shifting in her seat. “Sorry. It’s just… weird. Seeing you here.”

“Perhaps you should have considered that before proposing I come along with you,” Gaius scowled, turning back to the window, slouching down in his seat and folding his arms. If Diana didn’t know better, she would have assumed he was pouting.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” she amended, brow furrowing as she tried to find the words to explain it properly. “I meant that it’s weird to see you―”

“In pants?” Gaius supplied, eyebrow lifting.

“...Essentially, yeah.” Diana shrugged, pursing her lips and glancing around. Although no one seemed to be paying them even the slightest bit of attention, she lowered her voice, so that only he could hear. “Gaius, so many of my memories of you are the ones I saw in fragments. Decades before I was even born.”

“Is this your way of calling me old, Diana?” His tone was flat, but Diana noticed the way his lip quirked ever so slightly. He was teasing her.

“You said it, not me,” she said innocently, before shaking her head, serious once more. “But you know what I mean.”

He hummed. “I suppose I do. But if I’ve learned anything over the course of my arduous existence, it is how to adapt to the changing times. Just like Kamilah and your Adrian. Just as you will continue to do.”

Just like Kamilah and your Adrian.

Diana winced but didn’t bother to correct him.

She directed her gaze to the window, but instead of a moonlit countryside, she only saw shadows and her own reflection.

“What’s it like?” Diana asked, setting her feet on the floor and sliding into the seat next to her so that she sat directly in front of Gaius, nestled against the wall of the train. “Rome?”

“Never been?” Gaius faced her fully now, their knees just barely touching.

“No,” Diana sighed wistfully. “I thought one of the pros of being a vampire was having an eternity to do whatever you want, but I’ve never had the time. It seems that I only get to travel when I’m on some sort of mission or running for my life.”

There it was again, that nearly imperceptible quirk of his lips. Good to know he could appreciate the irony as well.

“I have… fond memories of Rome,” Gaius admitted. “I spent quite a bit of time there in the early years after I was Turned. I watched it become an empire, watched it fall. I went back a while ago; a lot has changed, but you would be surprised how much is still the same. There is a lot of supernatural activity there―vampires, werewolves, and the like.”

“Wouldn’t it be smarter to go away from hotspots like that?”

“That logic is the exact reason why we are going. If someone is searching for you, say the Daughters of Rheya, they should expect you to steer clear of populated areas. As long as you conceal yourself,” Gaius said with a very pointed look, “it should be a perfect place to lie low until you figure out where we’re going next. And there should be plenty of activity for me to keep tabs on.”

“What, like, vampire attacks on humans? Werewolf and vampire territory wars?”

Gaius scoffed, rolling his eyes. “No. Well, occasionally, that first part. But all sorts of creatures, minor but still troublesome, occupy the city. I try to visit every few years to make sure they don’t get out of hand.”

Diana nodded to herself, tucking this information aside. Rome was heavily populated with vampires, werewolves, and other supernatural beings. Gaius made rounds across Europe, single-handedly watching over an entire continent. She supposed that after nearly twenty-five years of seeing the impossible, none of this should have surprised her. And yet, she couldn’t help but feel as if there was so much she didn’t know, so much of the world she had neglected to see while she was content in New York. Diana frowned; there was one more thing…

“Were you alone this whole time?” Diana asked. She couldn’t imagine wandering around for twenty years, much less on her own.

Gaius simply said, “Yes.”

Her frown deepened. “Didn’t you ever get lonely?”

He fixed her with an odd look as if he either didn’t understand how the question was relevant or why she cared to ask. “There was not a second that went by that I didn’t feel alone, Diana. But what can I do? There was no one I could ask to accompany me, no one I would have asked to do so.”

“Why?” Diana shook her head. “There weren’t any other vampires that wanted to join you?

Gaius pursed his lips as if something about what she suggested was distasteful. “People want stability, humans and vampires alike. They want safety. Most would not consider traveling around Europe in search of murderous beasts to provide either of those things.”

“Then couldn’t you have done something else? Something where you didn’t have to be alone all of the time?” Diana asked. When she had sentenced him to live, she had not given him specific instructions on how to do so. She hadn’t even allowed him to live on the condition that he atone but merely given him the chance to do so.

Gaius’s gaze suddenly went flat, his face a stoic mask. When he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral, devoid of emotion. “With or without Rheya, I am a killer. Do not be mistaken. At least now, I can try to kill the right monsters this time, if it will provide protection to those who need it along the way. I would not subject anyone else to that sort of life with me. So if loneliness is part of the price I must pay in order to atone, then so be it.”

A chill ran down her spine at that. While his expression, seemingly impartial and aloof, reminded her so much of the Gaius of the past, his words were a far cry from who he used to be. It was this difference, more than anything, that unnerved her the most. Perhaps removing Rheya’s influence on him had broken Gaius more than she had thought.

Despite everything, she couldn’t help but feel some compassion for the man across from her.  It occurred to her briefly that this could have been part of some scheme, that he was playing up his guilt to deceive her. But for what? The threats to both humans and vampires had gone, and if it came down to a fight, Diana knew how to win. Nevertheless, she could feel his remorse as clear if it were her own. Without even touching his mind, she could sense that he was telling the truth.

“You’re more than just a killer, Gaius,” she said softly, studying his countenance. “Fighting might be what you are good at, but it’s not the only thing you have to do. I think… I think you owe it to yourself to find out what else is out there for you.”

Gaius stared at her, brows drawn together and lips pulled down into a frown. He shook his head and Diana realized that this was the most honest they had ever been for each other. Willingly, at least.

“I don’t understand you,” Gaius confessed after a long moment had passed. “You gave me a second chance on the basis that I would have the chance to atone. That rather than face death, I would face the truth of what I have done. And now that I have, you seem uncomfortable with the notion of it.” He leaned forward, gaze intense and searching, although Diana noticed that she found nothing menacing about this gesture as might have before. “Tell me, Diana. You know who I am and what I have done. You set me off to do some good in the world. Do you not think me deserving of punishment along the way?”

Diana opened her mouth to respond, but paused, realizing she didn’t know what to say to that. There had been times, even within the last twenty years when she had seen some of the lasting effects of Gaius’s misguided ambition, and in her anger, had momentarily wished she had made him suffer just a little bit more.

“I don’t know,” she breathed, surprised that her answer was more complicated than it should have been. Diana sighed and set her forehead against the window, watching the lights of a nearby station grow steadily closer. “Truthfully, sometimes I think I should have punished you somehow. But there’s another part of me that thinks you have already suffered enough.”

When she glanced over at him once more, Gaius was no longer looking at her, but at some distant point inside the train, although she could tell that he wasn’t really seeing. His eyes were distant, lost to some memory she was not privy to.

Diana closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted, mentally and physically. Why did every conversation with Gaius have to be so… taxing? Beyond that, it had been a while since she last fed. Even if she didn’t need blood as often as the average vampire, it still helped keep up her strength, and she didn’t think it would be exactly appropriate to pull out one of her blood packs in public.

“When was the last time you fed?” Gaius murmured and Diana opened her eyes with a start, slightly unnerved that she had just been wondering the same thing.

“I had a blood pack on Adrian’s plane about a day ago,” she shrugged.

“So you do still need it. Blood,” Gaius observed, giving her a look of appraisal. “Rheya fed regularly with me and Xeno, but in your memory, she made it sound as if she only needed it to gain power.”

“I can go without it, but it doesn’t exactly feel great.”

“Hmm.” Gaius hummed, eyes roaming to the sparkling lights visible through the window. “I recognize this town. When the train stops, we’ll have about an hour to find something. Does that work for you?”

Diana licked her lips, running her tongue along the sharp points of her incisors. “Perfect.”

***

The moment they were a safe distance away from the train station, Diana unshouldered her pack and unzipped it, searching for a blood pack when she felt a hand on her shoulder, stopping her.

“Not that,” Gaius said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “I know where we can find something better.”

They were stopped in a rural farming town, surrounded by pastures and rolling hills. Diana followed Gaius down a nondescript country road, their path lit only by the moon overhead. She scrunched up her nose; mixed in with the scent of fresh grass and dew was the unpleasant tang of fertilizer.

“Where are we going?” Diana asked, glancing around. All of the houses were behind them; only farms lay ahead.

Gaius shifted the sports bag that held their swords from his shoulder to hang across his back and shrugged. “You’ll see.”

Before long, Gaius suddenly turned off the road and heaved himself over an old wooden fence, landing in the field on the other side. Hesitantly, Diana followed, taking Gaius’s offered hand as she climbed over the post, although she was quick to drop it once she landed, mud squelching under her boots.

“Gaius, what―”

“Patience,” he murmured, leading her away from the road and up a hill, seeming to have no trouble with the muddy ground that was sucking Diana’s feet down. Diana was relieved when the ground became more solidified near the top of the hill, although her spirits quickly dropped when she heard it. The reason they were here.

“Oh no, you are not serious.”

“It’s better than those sacks of blood,” Gaius quipped, and although she couldn’t see him clearly in the dark, she had a feeling he was rolling his eyes at her. Diana sighed as he continued on to the other side of the hill where familiar shapes roamed.

Cows.

Diana swore but followed anyway. Fresh blood, no matter where it came from, had to be better than the packs.

“You do this often?” she huffed as they stopped beside one of the hulking animals. It seemed to pay them no mind, nonchalantly grazing, its tail swishing in the breeze.

“It’s not often that I find random humans that are willing to let me feed on them, especially when I’m in the middle of nowhere,” Gaius shrugged, reaching out and trailing his hand along the cow’s wide neck.

Despite her misgivings, Diana felt her fangs dig into her bottom lip, ears immediately picking up the animal’s powerful heartbeat, the blood rushing through its veins. Stepping forward and resting her hand against the cow’s flank, she looked to Gaius. “Will it… mind?”

Gaius scoffed. “If you’re asking me if the cow consents, you don’t need to worry. We’re barely more than pests to it. She’ll just be tired afterward, that’s all.”

Diana swallowed, petting the cow’s hide as if she could apologize for what they were about to do. “If you say so,” she mumbled, and then sank her fangs into its neck. On the other side, Gaius did the same, the cow merely grunting in surprise. Diana was pleased to find that its blood tasted pretty much the same as a human’s aside for the slightly bitter taste of dirt from its hide. She drank deeply, feeling strength return to her bones, the familiar tingle of her power once again awakening beneath her skin.

A minute or so later, she pulled back with a gasp, hunger thoroughly sated. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she stepped back unsteadily, nearly overwhelmed with how refreshed she felt as she pricked her finger and sealed the puncture wounds she had left.

“Better?” Gaius was standing beside her, watching her curiously. She hadn’t noticed when he had finished feeding or when he had come so close.

“Yeah,” she breathed, running a self-conscious hand through her hair before settling her hands on her hips. “That was…”

“Filling?” he supplied.

“Humbling.”

Gaius smirked, exhaling a small huff through his nose. Diana supposed it was the closest she could possibly come to ever seeing him laugh.

Before she could truly come to appreciate this odd moment of camaraderie, simple as it was, Gaius’s face fell, lips tightening into a grim line. He swung the long black sports bag over his shoulder and withdrew his gladius, its sharp edge glinting in the moonlight.

“Gaius, what―” Diana started as she turned around, following his gaze. Her mouth dropped open, heart seizing in her chest. “What the hell is that?”

Barely discernible against the dark sky was a large black figure, vaguely shaped into the form of a dog. Tendrils of night wicked off its edges, as if it were made from shadow and darkness itself. Diana would have thought what she was seeing was merely a trick of the light, her mind simply seeing danger where there was none, if it hadn’t been for its eyes . White, glowing orbs burned at the center of the darkness like twin flames of heavenly fire. And they were staring right at her.

Diana took a cautious step back, snatching the bag from Gaius and retrieving her own sword. “Gaius?”

“It’s a Black Shuck,” he said quietly, deathly still and eyes trained on the dog as it remained approximately twenty feet away, unmoving. He held his sword out in front of them with one hand, the other stretched out before her, the gesture almost protective.

“Okay,” Diana nodded, glancing once more at the figure. “But what is it?”

“It’s a sort of spectral hound,” Gaius supplied as he studied the dog, expression focused. Calculating. “Shucks are said to be malicious omens of death, although there are many accounts of them being companionable creatures, especially to maidens and lost travelers. Some are more helpful than threatening. But they’re native to East Anglia… This one is either lost, or it’s here for a reason.”

“So what kind of Shuck is this?” she breathed. “The good or the bad?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Wonderful,” Diana said, her voice flat as she gave in to her instincts, readjusting her grip on her sword. She willed her heartbeat to slow, settling into that killing calm. She’d fought plenty of monsters before and come out on top. She would do it again if she had to. She was one of the most powerful beings to ever walk the earth. She would not die in some random pasture because of some dog.

Gaius’s concentration broke and he glanced over at Diana, as if sensing the change in her demeanor. If Diana had been paying attention, she would have seen the range of expressions that flurried across his countenance. Surprise, confusion, recognition, fear, and concern. It passed like a shadow, leaving only traces behind as Gaius focused once again on the creature before them.

He took a step back, the arm he extended before Diana encouraging her to do the same. “Slowly, now, Diana. If we can leave without a fight, no one has to get hurt―”

As soon as the words left his mouth, the Black Shuck’s gaze shifted from Diana to Gaius, and it snarled, crouching down as if ready to attack. Diana cast her senses out but could find no trace of the Black Shuck’s presence. There was no power, no energy, no mind or life force for her to control.

“Gaius,” she murmured, voice eerily calm. “I don’t think we’re getting out of here without a fight.”

Diana let out a long breath and held her sword out before her, sensing all of the life forms around her, the cows grazing nearby, the creatures that burrowed into the ground beneath her, and Gaius, a pillar of strength and stability beside her. She heard the crunch of hard-packed earth underfoot and felt the air shift, the tension snap, as the Black Shuck snarled and lunged.

Diana shifted her stance, digging her feet into the ground as she brought her sword up in preparation for a devastating blow when she was suddenly thrust to the side. She stumbled, arm falling to the side, sword missing its target as the Shuck rushed by her in a dark blur and launched itself at Gaius.

Diana barely turned in time to see Gaius toss his blade to the side and throw his arms up, burrowing his hands into the shadowy, shifting fur of the hound. As the Shuck barreled into him, Gaius spun with it, hurling both himself and the beast away from Diana in a tangle of shadow, fangs, and claws.

“Gaius!” Diana shouted, snatching his gladius from where it had fallen in the tall grass. What the hell was he doing? She ran down the hill where Gaius and the Black Shuck had tumbled away.

“Diana, don’t!” Gaius’s voice came from amidst the shadows and she felt a wave of his presence wash over her, a manifestation of his insistence. “It’s trying to protect you.”

Diana didn’t have time to process what that meant, how it was possible that Gaius had exerted some sort of psychic will over her as she raced towards the fight, two vicious shadows in the night. As soon as she was within a few feet of Gaius and Black Shuck, she paused, locating Gaius in the fray. He was bloodied and flagging. That creature never should have gotten a single blow on him, unless Gaius let it.

Diana faltered. Gaius was letting the fight go on. She watched for a moment, noting how he was pulling his punches, doing just enough to project himself and fend off the hound, but careful not to actually inflict serious harm. But why?

The Shuck lashed out, gnashing its teeth mere inches from Gaius’s neck and Diana snapped out of her thoughts. She grit her teeth and closed her eyes. If Gaius wasn’t going to end this, she would. Diana reached out with her power and found Gaius’s presence. She could sense his pounding heartbeat, the blood rushing in his veins. She used this, anchoring her power to his body, and yanked.

Gaius came tumbling away, crashing to the ground at her feet with a grunt. His eyes widened as he pushed himself to his elbows, reaching out towards Diana. “No!”

She ignored him, calmly striding towards the Black Shuck, which now faced her, silver eyes flaring. It did not waver, staring her down as she approached. Diana gripped the swords in her hands, both hers and Gaius’s as she towered over the shadow beast, blood singing with the anticipation of another threat neutralized. The Black Shuck snarled once, then backed away, whimpering.

Something inside of Diana delighted in the sound and snarled, Good.

She raised both of the swords above the creature, prepared to put the dark dog down.

“Diana!”

She glanced over her shoulder, prepared to tell Gaius to just be quiet―

And then she wasn’t in her body. She was on the ground, watching herself from behind, a hand that wasn’t hers outstretched before her. Diana saw herself through Gaius’s eyes, saw her rigid posture, locked in an executioner’s stance, two swords of different makes and eras gleaming silver in the moonlight. She saw her own face, blank and perfectly impassive, dark eyes staring back at her. There was no rage, no fear. Only detached indifference.

Diana came back to her body with a gasp, legs weak beneath her. She once again saw Gaius over her shoulder, his expression alarmed, as if he had sensed her mind merge with his too. Diana tore her gaze from his, once again facing the cowering shadow hound before her. All around her, she felt fear. From the Black Shuck, from Gaius, from herself.

She lowered the swords in her hands, breathing hard. The Black Shuck’s ghostly gaze met hers and she finally sensed its presence, sensed its will. This was not a malicious creature. She felt its intentions, its desire to help and protect.

It had come to protect her.

Before Diana could do anything, the Black Shuck disappeared, dissipating into shadows and wisps of darkness.

“Why?” she asked, her voice faraway in her own ears. “Why did it want to protect me from you?”

“It seems that even mythical dogs know what I have done. It must have thought I was a threat to you. Shucks tend to have a soft spot for wandering women,” Gaius huffed, but Diana had stopped paying attention.

Diana collapsed to her knees, blades falling to the ground, forgotten. She had been prepared to kill the Black Shuck in cold blood. Even before she had sensed its truth, it had backed down, unwilling to fight her. And Gaius had urged her not to get involved.

She had lost herself, given into warped instincts and the power in her veins. She had become… detached.

Diana frowned, eyes falling to the ground. Was this how it began? How power set her apart from everyone else? Not all at once, through pain and anger like it had for Rheya or Gaius, but slowly, as she gradually lost touch with the things that kept her grounded. As she gave pieces of herself away, bit by bit to the immense power at her disposal. Was this why she had started having those dreams about the artifacts? Why she had wanted to go alone to Europe? Why… why she and Adrian had grown apart?

You’re different, Gaius had said. He had known right away.

She heard grass crunch underfoot behind her and turned around, hands shaking in her lap.

“Come on, Bloodkeeper,” Gaius said softly as he stood over her, expression surprisingly tender as he extended his hand. “You’re okay. Let’s get back on that train.”

Diana closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to center herself. She would not lose herself. She had made the right decision before, had resisted the temptation to give in to power. She would do it again. Diana looked up at the night sky, the stars twinkling overhead, and nodded. She took his hand, gathering the fallen swords with the other. “Let’s go.”

Gently, Gaius took the blades from her grasp and set them back in the bag, slinging it across his back. They walked together, side by side, back to the train station, and Diana tried hard not to think about how for the first time in years, she was afraid.

                          Note: Check out the Black Shuck here.

Tagging: @bigmemesplz, @somin-yin, @bachelorettebound14, @mkamra2355

[pernatius]

Lost in Space Part 7: Ch 2

Previous 

Summary: After finding Syco, the duo finds an unsettling, new reality.

Lost in Space on Tumblr

Lost in Space on ao3

Syco’s eyes are as blue as the sky. No, they’re as blue as the ocean, and just like the ocean, I could get lost in them. It’s not because of fondness. It’s because of curiosity. They’re mysterious. The longer I look into them the deeper I go and the darker it gets. As we look into each other’s eyes, I remain at their edges before I hit and am trapped at their rock bottom. “No, we’re not. Sure. Okay. We have a common goal. Maybe we’re similar here and there, but we’re not equals. We’ll never be because I’m not and I don’t ever plan to be like you.”

Standing back up, dirt tumbles down his poofy, red-stained pants. “I won’t force you to believe what I see, but open-mindedness is the key to winning this war.”

Going straight into it, “You put nanites into me.”

“I ordered my men to do so.”

“Why?”

“Insurance.”

“How about my friends? Khavas? Why am I not like them?”

“I’m not surprised you have a very good eye. You’re right I could’ve turned you into just another mindless lackey, but I didn’t,” he motions to his head, “Whatever is up there is keeping you from that. The strong win wars, not the weak.”

“Another question. Where are they?”

“Ask as many questions as you want. None of us are currently in any rush, but to answer your question they’re with the Virmus’ current commander, Commander Knox, and the rest of my men fighting the war as we continue on this back and forth.”

“What? How far away are they?”

He tilts his head. He blinks. He pauses. Then, he looks back at me. “Last time we were in contact they were in Quadrant Thirty-Nine fighting two factions. I think that was about four hours ago.”

“Are they okay?”

“Of course they’re okay. I’m mad, but not mindless and especially not heartless. By now Commander Knox, a better strategist than me, should be signing a treaty between us and the other two factions. Both are the weakest factions but protect a pivotal solar system. It has the greatest minds in the known universe.”

“Then, why are you all the way out here? Wouldn’t it be smarter for you to stay with Knox?”

“Commander Knox,” he corrected me before continuing, “You remain to be worried about your friends. They can heal just like us. So, I’m here to increase our numbers with the less impulsive factions, the ones who can actually think before acting. Commander Knox and I could’ve switched places, but his heart doesn’t compensate for his mind.”

I made sense of his words, “You know how to talk and he doesn’t.” 

Before he’s able to reply one of the Tauvoxes that threw Saamuki and me come running up to him. “Commander,” he interrupted Syco. 

“Captain.”

“We picked up another ship heading our way.”

“How long do we have?”

“Two minutes.”

“They’re incredibly fast. They have plenty of fuel to spare. Interesting. Order for the others to beam us.” Now the captain’s eyes move to me and then to Saamuki. “Now, captain,” Syco continued with annoyance. 

With the wave of the captain’s hands, a screen appeared before him and he typed just as fast as Saamuki’s typing skills, if not faster. Neither I or Saamuki get to ask before a familiar feel, a familiar pull, and a familiar tractor beam pulls everyone but Commander Raubtier and his men. Them, on the other hand, salutes Syco before they teleport. 

As soon as our feet touch Syco’s flight deck, I feel an uneasiness in the pit of my stomach. The feeling came from both reliving the memory and the unnatural way of moving from one place to another, one dreaded place to another. So, I fall to my knees and struggle to get back up. 

Saamuki looks at him and he takes her worry for the wrong reason. “Your ship will be accounted for once I assess the situation and destroy it.” 

From down below the platform all of us are now standing on, one of the Tauvoxes handling one of the ship’s many computers points out to Syco, “Commander Syco, an incoming transmission from the incoming ship wants-”

“Accept it. I’d like to see the face before I cut it from its body.”

Appearing overhead, a screen appeared. In it, it showed an alien with a crab-like exoskeleton, and guessing from the badges pinned on the right side of his chest is the commander of the now arrived ship. Small tentacles attached to his upper lip moved with every new expression as he worded, “Syco, are you insane?”

“Commander, I know it’s been a decade, but there’s no way you’ve forgotten the obvious answer. You were the one that spread it across the universe, after all.”

This gets a smirk out of the sea creature-like commander. “I’m not playing games, Syco.”

“Neither am I.”

The other commander’s amused face fades. “Then, you’ve truly become insane. Even your predecessor would be ashamed of what you’ve become.”

An eye roll from Syco is followed by, “Get on with it, Cala.”

“Syco, stop this right now. You have yet to comprehend the consequences of your plan. End your war or I will be forced to end you.”

For the second time, I hear Syco laugh. “I’ll see you outside, Cala.” With the transmission ended, Syco turns to the captain from before. The captain salutes. “You are now my second-in-command. For now, you will be in charge of keeping this ship stable as I proceed with my final battle with Commander Cala and that Commander Raubtier is ordered to proceed.”

“Understood, Commander Syco, but are you sure you wish to go alone? Commander Cala is said to be-”

Syco places a hand in front of the recently appointed second-in-command, “I am well aware of the rumors and I know most are true. I have witnessed first-hand, but I don’t plan to go out there alone.” The spotlight is brought back to me when he turns to me. “When I defeat the Lords, I will give you back your friends, but for right now something is slowing that down. Help me defeat this obstacle and you’ll be rewarded with time and the rest of your questions that need answering.”

I can feel her eyes on me, so I turn to her. We spoke without words being said. “But I’m coming too,” Saamuki added. 

“I wouldn’t think otherwise,” Syco responded. 

There we were, the beginning of where it all truly went downhill. I was trying to fight against him at that time, but now I’m fighting with him. I saw him as my enemy when we stood in front of each other. I still do, but now, as we’re standing beside each other waiting for what’s to come inside our spacesuits as Cala descends towards us, I’m seeing him as an ally. Oh, how things have changed in such a short amount of time. He orders us while still facing ahead, “You with the blue fire stay behind us. Shoot whenever you find an opening and, human, you’re with me, but don’t get in my way. I’ve been waiting for this rematch with Cala.” I can hear the strain of his gloves as he tightens his fists. 

Cala smashes onto the ship with such a force it causes the metal around him to bend and crack. The quake that came with it brings the two of us—not Syco—to lose our footing. Once I regain it I see that even with the distance between us Cala is massive, easily four times bigger than Syco. Speaking of four, two arms sprouted out from his back. Green ooze was shot out in the process. Cracking his knuckles and neck he lets out, “This is your last chance, Syco.”

The subject replies, “Merciful as ever. No, but thank you, though. I’ve been waiting for years for this, Cala, and I don’t plan to wait any longer.”

“Then, I pray your last moments will satisfy the bloodlust your people have.” Every step Cala takes is another rumble and more of a reason for my heart to race. The crown remains a crown. When his fist collides with Syco’s, the crown becomes a staff. It’s not what I wanted. The two struggled for dominance. Pushed Cala off of him and then barreling towards him, I’m finally able to make the two-handed sword. 

Cala’s fist comes smashing into Syco’s face. If I was in his position it would’ve easily shattered my skull. While his blood drips down the glass of his helmet I swing. Cala dodges it but isn’t able to dodge Syco’s counter. Syco’s fist is sent into Cala’s stomach, causing the two to just be a foot apart. This would’ve made Syco an easy target if it wasn’t for the swinging of my sword. My sword connects with his left arm’s exoskeleton, but when his second left fist aims for me, Saamuki’s blue fire hits him, forcing him to be pushed away from the two of us. 

Grunting as he wipes away the burn from his face, “When did you start believing in teamwork, Syco?”

“A lot has changed since we last clashed, Cala.”

“Is that so? Let’s see how much. Let’s see what will happen when I finally stop going easy on you.”

One moment Cala was ten feet away from us, brushing the aftermath of Saamuki’s attack off of him. The next he’s inches in front of Syco, slamming his knee into my teammate’s face. The attack causes him to fly past Saamuki. As Saamuki tries firing, which Cala dodges with ease, he transforms all four of his hands into blades. It’s a technique I’m familiar with, and one I’m going to get too familiar with. All four of them fly at me. The nanites have gotten me accustomed to the weight of the sword, but not against four times as much. They hurl at me with such a speed my senses can barely keep up with. I’m able to deflect some of them with my sword, but not all. He cuts into my suit and then into me. I see my blood floating out of me as far off in the distance, above us, I see Cala’s and Raubtier’s ships blasting each other. It’s a magnificent light show filled with explosions and all the colors of the rainbow, but one I wished I was farther away from. 

I was able to block his upper blades, but not his lower blades. Frozen in shock as he has the other two sunk into my abdomen, I watch him begin to pull me apart. Moving the sword would land his upper blades into my eyes. He was a cat. I was his mouse. He trapped me in a dead-end, literally. Then, as more of my blood floated away from me, Saamuki defies Syco’s orders. She returns to the fight by coming all too close to him with blue flames encircling her fists and then, floating, proceeds to swing left and right. With glowing blue eyes bursting out of her angry ones she causes Cala to stumble backward, letting me go painfully, and him being unable to counter. His blood splatters with each hard hit. “You are a sin that must be cleansed,” The Speaker spoke out of Saamuki’s mouth. 

Hand clutching where Cala wounded me, a feeble attempt to force the blood that’s yet to spill out of me to remain inside of me, Syco regained consciousness and stepped next to me. “Things keep changing, but they always go back to being what they were,” I turned to him as he continues with, “Can you turn that into a long-ranged weapon?”

“I-I can try.”

“To win a battle you first have to remember to breathe. Focus, human. Don’t ever let your emotions get the better of you.”

He moved as if he wasn’t just hit with a force compared to a truck. Between Saamuki’s punches is Syco’s. Both can hold their own against Cala who seems to barely have weakened. They dodge his blades with ease. They moved as one, moving with fluidity. As for me, I looked down at my sword. I look into the blade lying underneath its fire and into my reflection. 

Breathe in. 

Breath out. 

I tighten my grip on its handle. Raising it, pointing it at Cala who’s too busy with Saamuki and Syco, I watch the sword be transformed into a bow. My other hand touched its string and pulled it back. I can hear and feel it stretch underneath my grip. An arrow made out of fire manifests between my middle and index finger. I can hear it crackling. I can feel its heat. 

Breathe in. 

Breath out. 

Then, I let go.  

[xathia-89]

From a Fire in the Woods

Introducing my new OC: Caitriona as having been showcased in @muggzc amazing stuff (go check it out). This is her beginnings, and she is a pain in the ass. 

Thick black smoke was filling the air, the sound of screams and pleading of lives surrounded her. They'd fought so hard, moving every few days and making ends meet by posing as gypsies, but something had given them away as her legs were burning from her running. Her black hair was braided out of the way, but her pale amethyst eyes were full with the acrid smoke. They were destroying every part of their existence, as her survival instincts were her only thing right now.

Her parents were gone, they had been some of the first to be killed. She knew they were looking for her as she leapt over a fallen tree, desperate to find somewhere to hide.

She heard a mix of foreign languages before she ran. They were a mix of Parisian, Viennese, Florian and Roman. She knew enough to know who was after them as she squirrelled away under the fallen tree. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her arms wrapped around her body as footsteps came and went.

She knew all of the horror stories. It was all the village elders would talk about around the campfire, but she had always written it off as a story. It was designed to stop them straying too far, but now she could see it was all a watered-down story to the reality she was experiencing.

"Mademoiselle?"

She kept herself perfectly still. She didn't want to be found, she would end up dead if she was thought to be alive.

A soft hand, brushing her face in surprise and making her flinch. He gently scooped his arm around her shoulders and then under her legs, making sure not to knock her head.

"I know you are awake," his voice was soft. "I won't let them hurt you."

She didn't want to open her eyes and let him win. The Parisian was spoken fast and furiously, it soon became apparent that they didn't know each other all that well since the man sighed once they had passed the initial questioning of the camp guards. She barely knew any of the language, she knew what words to listen out for, and not one of them had been uttered in the conversation just gone. She knew what he was and he likely knew what she was, but he must have a hidden agenda.

He had someone else hold her before she was passed up to him. He had her settled in front of him on his horse and then waved himself off. The lack of resistance told her that he was an important one, possibly one of the principal families. Which only confused her.

"We are not far outside of Paris, I have a house here where you can sleep and rest up. Then you have a lot of questions for me to answer, I am certain. But you need to eat and sleep first."

True to his word, he didn't ask her anything. They arrived, and he gave her plenty of space. It was a substantial house, several bedrooms and even a private lake, which made her stare in awe. She was used to sneaking into places like this to bathe as the man gave her all the space.

"There is one other resident here," he informed her. "But he is on the top floor. I will leave you on the ground floor and instruct him to leave you be. I will get you some clean clothes, and I will have no doubt that you have already seen the lake, so I will leave you to it. I will be in the first room after the entrance when you wish to find me."

It was beyond puzzling. He should have killed her on the spot, but he was actively helping her past those who he should be calling his allies. He was living up to his word so far, but she couldn't let her guard down.

The lake was cold, but it took the dirt and ash off her. Her clothes were ruined now she had a chance to take a look at them, which made her a little sad. It was the only physical connection she had, and there was no way to salvage them before she reluctantly dragged herself back to the manor. Her stomach was complaining violently, it had been a couple of days since her last meal. The pursuit had been brutal.

She stood at the front of the house, her head tilted to the side before the sounds of Paris filtered past. It was all behind a barrier, designed to keep them out, and the residents of the house inside.

"I promise you that you will come to no harm," he was watching her. It was unsettling. "I arrived too late to help properly. For that, I apologise."

"How do I know I'm just not going to be your food supply?" She couldn't help herself. She felt like a trapped prey.

"Because I would rather end myself. Though I am certain, you know exactly how to. Besides, your blood is poisonous to us. That's part of your charm. We can't feed off you."

It made her pause and frown.

"I see that fact has slipped from memory. My mother was killed by a village elder of your clan. She fed from a witch, and it seemed to spark ruthless anger. I was away to tend to her. Do you remember anything leading up to the pursuit? The other vampires won't tell me what happened."

"We've been on the run for a few days. Stopping to change horses and drink enough to keep going, we haven't been able to get any food. I just remember seeing my parents sounding the alarm that we were under attack. All of the older adults were constantly coming and going beforehand. I was trying to get the herbs to pay for our next meal without needing to steal."

"I am sorry for your loss. I have had some bread, meat and cheese prepared for you. It is warmer insider," he gestured, his arm showing her the way.

He was pleasant enough to keep his distance as she did eat. Her magic told her it was safe before she couldn't help but delve in like a starved animal. He watched her from the doorway, a bottle of blood in hand.

"I still don't know why you are helping me," she said, pausing in her feasting.

"Because I had the means to save you all. And I didn't. I selfishly chose to spend time with my dying mother, who had no chance of being saved."

"That still doesn't mean you need to do this. You could kill me before I kill you."

"I have need of your magic, and in return, I will give you protection."

"Why my magic?"

"Your bloodline is talented. I need some help to make sure I can protect any more residents I do so happen to pick up."

"I will have a long list of requirements for you then."

"Then I believe we may be in business. May I know your name? I am Monsieur Le Comte de Saint Germain."

"Caitriona."

A smile. And it wasn't looking at her like she was food. "Then I believe you are in need of sleep after this. We will discuss the details later on."

True to his word, anything she wanted was gifted to her. She had a small apothecary on the outskirts of Paris, he furnished her out, and he would pay for anything that needed repairing. She had never known such luxury. She had someone chopping wood for her, the blacksmith would repair anything without coming to her for payment. She would also find out that Le Comte would give the butcher, fishmonger and farmers an advance for the week to supply her. She found herself mostly on her own, she worked on her magic to Comte's means. He rarely came to her, only when she had sent word.

Then she found her first patient. A woman was heavily pregnant, but the child has died in her. It was too long for her to bring him back, but the mother was in danger of death as well right now. She delivered the child and gave her all of the potions to ensure the woman would recover and even deliver a healthy baby for her next time.

Word spread quickly. Some accused her of witchcraft, but Caitriona snorted and gave them a show of the herbs she used. The loudest complainers would usually be on her doorstep in time. A relative dying she could help, she made sure to learn some incantations from the Bible, covering up her work as that of God's will. She could save the dying within reason. She knew when it was time to help someone along their journey and when they had more living to do.

The years passed into centuries.

She was stood in front of her finished product, next to Le Comte. Two intricately carved wooden doors, it had taken her decades of work, and she had been missing on more than a few occasions much to Comte's misgivings until she always returned.

"What is this?"

She was holding out something seemingly insignificant, a small charm made of silver by all appearances.

"The only thing to guarantee that you can travel freely between the two points in time. I have no way of guaranteeing where you come out on the other side, but I will promise that you will find what you are looking for. Anyone else travelling with you will need to be touching you, or they may get lost for all eternity, and even if I was to go looking for them, then I could not promise to find them."

"Where does it exit?"

It's a fixed point in La Louvre. Humans will pass the door by without a wish to use it. But I've also installed a protection feature," Caitriona paused and gestured to the large and ornate hourglass. "You can only use it once the sand has fallen through. Otherwise, you risk doing irreparable damage. Once you have passed through, you have 2 days to come back, and the door will not unlock from the other side until another turn has been completed."

"Thank you."

"Mm, I wouldn't thank me just yet. I can still kill you with my blood."

"If you do so you will be hunted until you are dead. I know my kindred know I am harbouring a witch from all that time ago. I have had demands from the Da Vinci family to pass you over."

"Caterina can suck a goose. Her son will be of more interest, I don't know entirely when he will be born, but I know the two of you will become fond of each other."

"I am sure that we will see."

[terribleco]

Ghost Town

Coventry has never been a skate mecca, but fun can definitely be had on a skateboard in the city of peace and reconciliation. With that being said, over the last couple of years, some of the great spots I, and many others, grew up skating have been removed by Coventry City Council. With no plans for a new skatepark from the council, it can feel like the skate scene is constantly being slapped in the face with the number of places to skate dwindling. I spoke to some of the Cov locals about some of their favourite long gone spots, in an attempt to understand why our dead spots, no matter how innocuous, are part of skateboarding history. 

Header photo by Ryan Bradley.

I grew up skating in Coventry in the early 2000's. By the time I had started skating, the spots had been skated for decades prior, but still had plenty of life left as the new boom of skaters entered the city. The spots have always had a rough and raw quality to them, but then again that was part of the charm. Banks, ledges, rails, stairs, even the odd street transition - but all of them had a common aesthetic of a city that had been rebuilt and reimagined through a brutalist lense after the second World War. The spots are decent enough to get the attention of Stereo's Carl Shipman, Darkstar's Joe Hinson, and the respective Get Lesta and Baghead crews: so it stands to reason that they are most certainly important in British skateboarding history. 

Andy Clare, one of the OG Cov Street skaters, is the owner and operator of Spray Station - a graffiti shop in Coventry’s Fargo Village. He's a lifelong skateboarder in the city, having seen new spots crop up again and again. He remembers many of the spots from the 90's era, many of which were still present when I started skating, and only recently were demolished:

"Brickies was great, I grew up skating those banks and loved it there despite the terrible floor and smell of piss. The balcony spot (aka Virgin Wall rides) was fun with good flat, grindy ledges and steep banks. The marble bank/wallride behind the west orchards escalators was great, and there used to be some big square wooden benches too."

P: Gaz Taylor boosts a melon out of Brickies for his “New Blood” article in Sidewalk.

Brickies, aka The Brickworks, was my favourite spot in the world. So much so, I wrote an obituary on this very blog when it got demolished last year. For many of us who grew up in Coventry, Brickies was endless fun: lip tricks, bank tricks, raw, unforgiving ground, and the openness of a skatepark made it the perfect challenge for anyone who enjoyed riding a skateboard. 

Gaz Taylor was part of the same generation of skaters as Andy, and has been skating in Coventry almost as long as I've been alive. Consistently adept at tackling the street spots in the city, he even got snapped doing a melon at Brickies in an issue of Sidewalk. Brickies wasn't his only favourite place to skate though:

"There was a flat bar outside the Belgrade theatre next to the fountain, about knee high.  Perfect for learning rail tricks on. I remember it used to shoot you off the end at speed as it was slightly down hill, that was really fun. Also, the old banks at Cov and Warwickshire Hospital were really good fun, that was a very long time ago though."

Ryan Stanway was one of the first skaters I met down the Memorial Park, before Terribleco was even a thing. Despite meeting at a skatepark, he is largely a street skater, and knows the spots of Coventry better than the back of his hand. He remembers one of the most infamous stair sets in Cov:

"Pigeon Shit has to be up high in the list of spots. It was the first decent sized set of stairs I landed tricks down when I was younger. There always used to be massive session there with 20 plus people all trying stuff." 

P: Moose throws a Varial Heel down at Pigeon Shit. Photo by Ryan Bradley

Pigeon Shit was a stairset in a "golden triangle" of spots in Coventry: an area surrounding the University where you couldn't walk for more than 10 seconds without encountering more skateable architecture. It was a long 4 set, merging into a 5 set as the landing was on a slight hill, and had a knee high ledge running along the right hand side. The ledge was battered from years of abuse at the hands of trucks and BMX pegs alike, but it didn't stop people like Kris Vile, Josh Walters, Ant Smith and others getting bangers on it. Josh's last trick in my vid "Batface" saw him getting a FS Tailslide Bigspin out on the ledge, and the same video saw Ralph Cooper close out his part with a switch hard flip down the stairs at Pigeon Shit. It was a proving ground for any half decent street skater in Coventry. 

Ryan Bradley, a regular contributor to this blog, lives out in the Warwickshire village of Cubbington, but his real home is at the street spots in the centre of Coventry. A regular of the scene for more than 15 years, Ryan's memory of street spots is pretty similar to my own. He remembers some of the more obscure spots and lesser remembered favourites:

"The pyramid spot at the old precinct entrance, next to New Look was so tight back in the day, and got so rinsed, especially by Tony Lui. The old blue fountain with transition at Belgrade was cool from what I remember, and was pretty fun to skate around in. The double death set, with the double rail that was right next to Brickies was great too. Obviously gotta mention Brickies itself, just because so much shit has gone down there for so long. There was a road gap on the hill in between the Boy's club and Gosford Street at the University library: I remember Duffman trying to conquer that, and I’m pretty sure they filled that in."

Some of the spots Ryan brings up were incredibly gnarly and were rarely skated. The double death rail didn't see many tricks go down on it, but Stan Byrne caveman boardslid it in the 2013 Terribleco video "Concrete Jungle". The road gap at the University library was like something straight out of San Francisco - a hill bomb spot with a gap over cobbles about the width of 1 and a half cars. The only person I know to have cleared it is Tony Lui. Finally, the old precinct pyramid spot was a small, whippy bank spot, which saw plenty of quick footed lip tricks go down from Tony Lui, Harry Myers, Kyle Smith and a wallie over the whole thing by Joxa. 

P: Tony Lui boosts a FS ollie out of the Pyramid Bank spot. Photo by Ryan Bradley

New spots (at the time) like the Herbert were popping up a lot, replacing old 1960's architecture. It was a reminder that the city had been evolving and changing long before some of us even considered standing on a skateboard, or even before we were born. Gaz Taylor remembers dozens of spots I had never even seen in my time skating:

"Manual pads in Whitefriar's car park were popular in the 90's. Barrack's car park had some rad free standing painted curbs, and some small banks shaped like half of a pyramid that we used to use to get air out of. There was a small rail outside the transport museum with no run up, that was good for cave man slides."

"In the late 80's there was a mini ramp in the woods in Canley next to Tesco, built by Phil Hunt. I remember it had bright orange coping on one side and bright green on the other side. The paint would stay on your trucks for a while after. Safeway's car park on Holyhead Road had some rad slick curbs and some mud gaps. That was one of the main hang out spots for skaters in the early 90's too. Grindable window ledges of the Coventry tax office building were very good fun."

P: An after dark session at the Virgin Wallrides. Photo by Ryan Bradley

This article was inspired by the demolition of the concrete benches at the Littern Tree spot - named after the pub nearby. Current skaters in the scene mourned the loss of the spot, but speaking to sources who have had an eye on the redevelopment a brand new hub of spots is planned. Old spots are great and we miss them when they're gone, but there's a lot to be said for the excitement of new architecture and the spots that are yet to be. 

Nostalgia and history are powerful things, and they definitely contribute heavily to skateboarding. The cyclical trends, the feeling of skating a park you haven't been to in 10 years, and the stories people tell of what trick was done at which spot. No matter what new spots are planned for Coventry, the old spots like Brickies, Virgin Wallrides, Littern Tree and Pigeon Shit will live on through what we remember about them, and of course the footage we got along the way. 

The Brooklyn Banks, Wallenberg, Hubba Hideout: These are all legendary, long gone spots that skateboarders talk about in hushed tones, but they don't compare to our own personal spots we grow up skating, and miss immensely when they are gone. I would give my left nut for the chance to skate Brickies again, without a shadow of a doubt. For every local spot that gets demolished, it takes fond memories of a whole skate scene with it. Everything is temporary, so skate your spots whilst you got 'em. 

[nikxation]

This Is the End of Us I Swear

Summary: It’s been a month since the science fair accident, and for both Stan and Ford, moving on has proved harder than either of them would have thought. Decisions are made, words are said, and in the end, both of them just do what they think will make everything right again.

Based on Glendale by Clans and this art  by @julientel.

Tags: 10k, Canon Compliant, Hurt No Comfort, Based on a song, based on fanart, Pre-college, post-science fair, Stangst, might write a second fix-it chapter one day, seriously this is just pain, (more warnings listed in notes before fic on AO3)

Link to AO3

~ ~ ~

The sun is just setting behind the horizon, the sky’s final rays of colored light fading into the black. Small pinpricks of light peak between the clouds, the last of the neon lights on the boardwalk finally flickering out. The streetlights themselves are only a few minutes from waking up and chasing the growing darkness back into the alleyways. The occasional car chugs down the street, the asphalt crunching under its tires. It’s quiet, even in the Pines residence where Ford, having spent the majority of his day packing, just barely manages to shove his favorite advanced calculus book into the last moving box and tape it shut.

Ten boxes are all he was allowed. Sure, he did the math, and he knew they could fit fifteen in the car if they were very careful about how everything was stacked and how full the boxes themselves were. Eighteen if Ma just stayed home instead of insisting on coming to see him off to his new home for, God forbid, the next four years. Eighteen boxes would be plenty space to fit everything he would need plus maybe some non-essentials like changes of clothing. Hell, he could fit a significant number of textbooks in fifteen boxes if he was very careful about maximizing every micrometer of space.

Pa limited him to ten, no arguments. Ma insisted on packing six of them herself, leaving him with only four boxes for his essentials.

A tragedy, to be sure.

The entire day was spent weighing the pros and cons of each combination of textbooks until he reached what he knew was the best option given his limiting circumstance.

It’s still heartbreaking looking at all the texts still lining his shelves and knowing they probably won’t last for long in Pa’s house, probably to be sold or trashed within the week.

He hoists the last box up, grunting at the weight because of course textbooks are heavy, but he never really considers how much fifty pounds is until he’s staggering across the room awkwardly with it in his arms. Fifty pounds isn’t a lot, is it? It always seemed effortless when Stan would bench twice that—

The box thwumps on the carpeted floor at the bedroom door, stacked with the other nine, all ready to be packed into the car come tomorrow morning.

It was strange how vacant the room had felt after the first box had been packed. Not so long ago, every square inch was covered with knick-knacks and pictures and life. But the more he took and packed, the more barren it felt. With every random item he uncovered from days long gone by, the more it felt like setting aside some small part of him to either be forgotten again or left behind. A subtle nostalgia, a longing tinged with an inseparable bitterness he only wishes he could forget or move past.

And now that the packing is finally done… Well…

There’s something to be said for a half empty room.

Well, half of a half, if the empty bottom bunk is anything to go by.

A three-quarters empty room, so to speak.

He stares at the bare mattress on the bottom bunk for a moment, stains and tears on full display since its sheets were ripped away and stored in some remote closet of the house just under a month ago. It’s almost as jarring as the empty room, has been since the day Ma came in empty-handed and left with a bundle of cloth and a wobble to her voice. He usually tries to avoid looking at it for long. It makes something uncomfortable twist in his gut, something that he tells himself is betrayal because he’s afraid if he thinks about it for too long, he’ll realize it’s something else, something he doesn’t think he can handle.

He gives the box of textbooks a soft kick to line it up with the others before turning back and climbing up onto his bunk.

He really ought to stop thinking about the room as only half his.

There are a few graphs and diagrams pinned up on the wall next to his bunk that he thinks he could fit inside his bookbag to take along with him, so he starts the methodical task of unpinning it all. The wall is thoroughly covered in layers, some pins holding up multiple pages, some tables hiding in the back that he’d forgotten about. It’s a stroll through memory lane in the same way that the rest of this day has been.

He pulls out a pin holding up a resistor band diagram, but something behind it slips out behind the bedrail and slides straight to the floor. He huffs, considering leaving it but then immediately deciding that’s a bad idea, since he’s not entirely sure what it is and it might be something important. So he clambers back down from his bunk, fully prepared the shimmy himself under the bed to find whatever it is that fell.

It didn’t go straight to the floor like he thought it did. Instead, it landed on Sta—the bottom bunk. Facedown, probably the size of a four-by-six photograph, a bit worn around the corners.

It’s probably not as important as he initially thought.

The moment he flips the paper is a rude awakening, digging up deeply entrenched memories of hot days on the beach and splinter-covered hands and sun-burnt shoulders and tales of treasure and adventure. It’s a small spark of warmth in his chest, a sun beating down an a pair of boys climbing around the shambles of an old boat, the hot sand between their toes, the reflection of the sun off the crashing waves blinding them, the raucous screams of the seagulls drowned out by their laughter.

He forgot he still had this picture.

It’s strange, the exact memories it brings back. Like him bartering with an old sailor for a rusty anchor while Stan snuck around and grabbed a throw ring. Or Stan crawling inside the hollow boat and coming out with at least three different kinds of bugs caught in his hair. Or Ma finding out about their newest project and insisting on taking a picture of them with it. Stan taking his hand and hoisting him up onto the deck before clambering up to the highest point on the boat and posing like it’s where he belonged. A breeze grabbing the makeshift sail not even seconds after the picture was taken, shaking the boat enough for Stan to lose his balance and fall back into the sand, sputtering with laughter while a worried Ford hopped off the boat and helped him back up.

He smiles at the softness of it all, at the comfort and freedom of happier times. Simpler times. Times before colleges and science fair projects and grandiose expectations and disappointments. Back when their biggest concerns were having enough sunscreen and being home in time for dinner. Before it all fell apart.

He glances from the dilapidated boat in the picture out to the rebuilt one just barely visible in the darkness outside the window, docked down at the pier. It’s only a day’s worth of work away from being ready to sail. Just need to seal off a few small leaks in the hull and patch the tear in the sail. Leaps and bounds further along than the remains of the boat in the picture. A decade of afterschool work culminating in an empty, almost-finished boat bobbing on the waves.

He hasn’t set foot on the pier since the incident.

It’s all so different now.

He hates that he almost misses him.

He tells himself it’s just the adjustment period. Eighteen years of falling asleep to someone else’s snoring only to be replaced with sudden, deafening silence. Eighteen years of four people sitting at the dinner table now becoming three, the other side of the table empty and left unset. Eighteen years of someone at your side leaving a gaping hole in their place when they’re gone.

It has to be an adjustment period.

Because how could he miss the person that betrayed him?

That stabbed him in the back and ruined his future, all in the name of treasure-hunting?

He couldn’t.

He can’t.

Pa keeps telling him that he’s going places, that he’s got a bright future ahead of him, that his brother was just dragging him down. He tells him that he wishes he’d kicked him out sooner, then all of this would have been avoided.

Couldn’t just screw up his own life. Had to go and screw up yours too.

Pa tells him to forget and move on. To go back to his room and keep studying.

And he tries. He really does, because that has to be the right thing to do. That has to be the best way forward.

He should hate him.

And part of him does.

Part of him recoils at the mention of his name, some seed of anger burning red-hot when the fond memories give way to thoughts of broken science fairs projects and shattered trust. It coils and churns in his stomach, fueled by the acceptance letter to Backupsmore and his father’s disappointed scowl when that’s the only acceptance letter that arrives and the random items still hiding around the room that don’t belong to him and the name mix-up at graduation and the folder of maps and guides still on the bookshelf of that damn boat…

Part of him is angry. Rightfully so.

And yet…

The photo creases slightly in his hand.

His insides burn, and he tells himself it’s anger because the other thing, the thing that he pretends doesn’t exist, remembers how desperate and alone Stan looked that night out on the sidewalk with a bag on his shoulder and his hand raised up towards the window. It remembers and it remembers and it remembers. And it burns.

It has to be anger, because at least that makes sense, and at least that doesn’t keep him up at night staring at the ceiling and hating how quiet the room is.

It’s what he tells himself.

But even then, he still hates that hot coal of resentment in his chest, a heavy weight still dragging him further and further down. He hates feeling this way. He hates how, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to forget and move on. Hates it with every fiber of his being.

It’s in the past so why won’t it just stay there?

The pier lights finally kick on, bathing the dock and the Stan O War in flickering fluorescent white. It’s a shadow looming on the waves, still docked peacefully as if nothing ever happened, as if the whole world wasn’t just flipped on its axis. As if everything was still alright.

Simpler times.

Distantly, he wonders if that boat was ever really his dream, or if he was just happy to be living it with Stan. He knows there was one point when he did want it, can remember it the same way he remembers the sand between his fingers and the taste of the sea air. But then they told him he was smart and that he had a future and that he could go to college and that he could change the world.

Somewhere along the line, his priorities changed. And Stan refused to see it, to accept it.

It’s been almost a month, and that boat is still just sitting there, a reminder of everything that went wrong, of how empty everything suddenly feels, of the remnants of a future left for him, and he hates it, hates Stan. He has to, right?

He has to.

The weight sinks lower in his chest and burns and burns and burns.

He’s angry. He has to be.

And it’s Stan’s fault.

Him and that stupid b—

Something… clicks in his head. Like a moment of clarity, suddenly telling him exactly what he needs to do, that it’ll make everything better. Make everything even.

He doesn’t think about it too hard.

He just shoves the picture in his pocket and leaves the room, making a quick stop by the kitchen on his way out the front door.

~ ~ ~

The treasure-hunting business has been… lackluster, to say the least. Apparently, gold is some kind of “rare metal”, which really throws a wrench into his whole get-rich-quick scheme.

Stan’s been driving since sunset, the window rolled down so he can taste that familiar salty ocean breeze as he makes his way down the coast, the wind pulling at his hair and roaring in his ear as he sails down the highway. The north end of the state had been a complete bust. With the help of his totally-legally-acquired, not-at-all-stolen metal detector, he’d only managed to scrounge up a couple dollars’ worth of coins, a few cheap wedding rings that he pawned, and a surprising number of fake teeth. All in all, he barely had enough money to feed himself and keep gas in the Stanleymobile, and even that was pushing it at times. So now he’s heading south to try out the bottom half of the state.

Not that he’s hesitant to leave New Jersey altogether or anything.

As if staying in the state will make his circumstances seem a little less real, a little less permanent.

The sign welcoming him to Glass Shard Beach whizzes by, momentarily caught in his headlights before disappearing into the encroaching darkness behind him.

It’s been a month, and he still has a hard time believing everything that happened actually… happened. There’s this part of it that still feels unreal, like it happened years ago or just to someone else altogether. It feels like he’s driving home instead of through what used to be his home. Like he should be pulling up to the pawn shop and heading upstairs, giving the cat a pet while Ma shoots him a devilish smirk as she works the person on the phoneline, Pa silently reading the newspaper in his chair, the floorboards creaking in a familiar pattern as he heads up to their bedroom, Ford reading some textbook on his bunk, laughing at whatever ridiculous story Stan has to share from boxing practice before they head down to the beach to work away the last of the sunlight fixing up the Stan O War.

When he finds himself on an all-too-familiar road by the boardwalk, it’s almost second nature to slow down as the Pines Pawn sign rolls into view. He knows he should just drive past without a second glance, because screw them all. But at the same time, he’s almost… curious? And maybe that home-sick part of him is saying just one peek wouldn’t hurt anything, and then he’d be on his way again, off to make his fortune, make them rue the day or whatever.

He ignores the hunger pains in his gut as he slows the car to a crawl on his way past, peering out the passenger window cautiously, ready to nail the gas and book it out of there if he’s spotted.

Ma is sitting in the upstairs window like always, phone up to her ear while she twirls the cord and the sucker on the other end of the line around her little finger. Pa is downstairs cashing out the pawn shop, counting down the money in the drawer for probably the third time of the night. Everything looks… normal. Peaceful. Not a thing out of place or out of the ordinary.

His chest aches when he realizes almost nothing seems to have changed since he left.

He isn’t entirely sure he expected anything different, but seeing it in-person still hurts more than it has any right to.

Their His The bedroom light is on, but the room is empty. From this angle he can barely make out the mostly bare walls and bunks, leaving him wondering if Ford already left for college.

Or wherever he ends up going, since Stan really screwed that one up for him, didn’t he?

There’s a chance he’s still in town.

His stomach churns at the thought of seeing his twin again. As hurt as he is by everything, as much as the memory of Ford closing those curtains stings, he still misses him. He misses that feeling of always having someone at his side, through thick and thin. He misses feeling wanted.

Though, if Pa’s words are anything to go by, then maybe he was wrong about that feeling from the start.

He takes it all in for one last second, telling himself that this is it, he’s not coming back, this is the last time. He keeps telling himself that for another second. And then another. And another.

It’s not until Pa pauses from counting the money that he finally startles back into gear and pulls off before the old man looks out the window, barreling down the street way over the speed limit because, suddenly, it’s the very last place he wants to be.

How bad would it look if Pa saw him sitting out here?

He’d look stupid. He’d look like even more of a failure, as if he was too scared to leave, as if he just came crawling back like a dog with its tail between its legs in defeat. He’d be admitting they’re right about him. He’d be giving up.

Would they even let him come back?

He shakes the thought off.

It’s been a month, and he’s not done yet. He’s on his way to success yet, he can feel it. Pretty soon, he’ll be rolling in all the cash Pa could ever hope for, and then he can rub it in their faces, make them regret ever kicking him out and abandoning him.

He’ll show them.

His stomach growls again, dragging him back to reality for the moment. He only has a dollar and some spare change in his wallet, which won’t buy him very much food-wise. And the owners of the local convenience store have known him for as long as he can remember and know to watch out for his “tendencies”.

He’s going to need supplies.

It’s almost completely dark now, the moon barely a sliver in the sky, the saltwater spray from the ocean coming off the boardwalk as he coasts alongside it. Out on the water, a barge stands barely lit, far out on the waves, a pinprick of light on an otherwise dark and desolate sea.

It gives him an idea.

~ ~ ~

Ford still remembers the day they first pulled the Stan O War out of that cave, the memory a spotlight in the fog of distant and long-forgotten days.

They’d spent a good hour trying to scrounge up enough rope to haul it out, one of them always stationed right outside the cave to make sure no one went in and claimed their find. And when they finally got the rope, it took them another hour to figure out the best way to tie it up and pull, breaking off a few more chunks of the decrepit boat than either of them would care to admit. But once they got it moving, it was, well, smooth sailing from there. There was a bucket of paint, he doesn’t remember where they got it, but he remembers the debate they had before finally settling on the name and painting it on the side. He remembers the terrible sun burns they both had that night, and how Ma had to cover them in almost half a bottle of aloe. It didn’t even come close to stopping them from going out again the next night. And the night after that.

The first year or so, it had been their own personal playground. They’d play pirates or adventurers, taking turns coming up with monsters to fight or treasures to find (or, in Stan’s case, hot mermaids to win over). The little half-boat had been their home away from home, a safe haven for them and only them.

Then they actually started rebuilding it.

Suddenly, what had been a call to adventure was now becoming a reality. The dream to go out and explore the unexplored and find the unfindable was finally looking like it was coming true. All with his twin at his side.

Building that boat gave him some of his favorite memories.

And then things changed.

Dreams changed.

And now he’s sitting on the deck alone, the soft splashing of waves and the gentle knocking of the hull against the dock the only sounds outside his own thoughts swirling in his head.

He was resolute when he first left the house, sure of what he had to do. But the walk here gave the doubt time to settle in, made the weight in his pocket seem impossibly heavier.

It doesn’t make any sense.

It should be easy, but…

He remembers when they sanded the deck, how they had to choose between the electric sander or the water-proofing epoxy because Stan’s part-time job at the gym couldn’t cover both. The subsequent weeks were spent sanding the entire boat by hand with the little hand radio buzzing in the background. He gently runs his hand across the glossy wood, remembering the splinters and cuts they both got every day. They’d always been so sure it would be worth it.

Was it?

Ford had considered building something to make the process easier, their own homemade electric sanders. But Stan had talked him out of it. Said it would come out so much nicer if they did it themselves, that it can’t take that much longer to do it by hand, right?

Stan always liked doing things the hard way.

Well, that’s not true. He found shortcuts wherever he could, cut every corner possible to get to where he needed to go. That’s why he always managed to almost make it through school with straight Cs.

But things that he cared about, things that meant something to him, he always took his time on, took the extra minute to be careful with.

Too bad he didn’t care too much about your future, then.

His nails scrape against the deck, his shoulders drawing together around him.

He still can’t for the life of him figure out why Stan did it, what drove him to sabotage his entire future. It couldn’t have been an accident. Stan would have warned him. He would have come clean before the science fair. It had to be on purpose.

Right?

It had to be on purpose.

Because Stan has to care about his treasure-hunting and his own dreams more than he cares about his brother’s.

Because if he’s wrong, then…

Then Stan…

That stone in his chest sinks a little deeper, burns a little hotter.

He shoves himself to his feet, steadying himself against the railing as the boat sways slightly underfoot.

He has to be right.

Because he’s not sure if he can live with being wrong.

And no matter how much his chest hurts, he guesses the result was the same no matter if he meant it or not. Because either way, he’s going to some worthless school where he’s going to have to work ten times harder just to get anywhere in the world.

And Stan…

Stan was going to leave home anyways. Stan had no plans on staying anywhere near Glass Shard Beach and is probably already hundreds of miles away doing absolutely fine. This was just a hiccup for him. Ruining Ford’s life was nothing more than a speedbump. He got kicked out, but he was probably a month away from leaving anyways.

Ford had his dream stolen from him.

And Stan—

Carefully, he climbs up onto the railing of the boat and steps back onto the dock, digging his hand down into his pocket.

This boat is Stan’s dream. Not his.

He pulls out the matchbook he grabbed from the kitchen, fingers fumbling at he pulls out a single match.

An eye for an eye, right?

He strikes it, the matchstick catching with a hot spark. The single flame is warm in his fingers, dancing side to side in the light ocean breeze, the cheap wood already burning down, blackening and curling in on itself in the heat.

He ruined you.

He deserves this.

Before he can second-guess himself again, he tosses the match onto the deck.

~ ~ ~

Stan’s thinking about those food rations they stored in the hull of the boat, trying to map out how many days he can make them last if he’s careful.

He smells the smoke moments before he pulls into the parking lot at the top of the boardwalk.

Barely gets the car turned off before he sees the flames and starts running.

The boat is already halfway gone, the fire spreading across the entire deck and making its way up the mast, panic settling into his bones as he books it towards the pier.

There’s a shadow of a person standing in front of it, and all he can manage is to scream something, he can’t even remember what, and the person startles and then runs. By the time Stan makes it down to the pier, the person is already halfway down the beach, and there’s no chance at catching them, so he turns his attention to the boat.

I can save it.

I can fix this.

There are sirens in the distance. He can barely hear them over the crackle and roar of the flames. There’s a bucket on the deck of the only other boat docked, so he grabs it. Gets to work.

There’s so much of that span of time that’s a blur, a sequence of repeated motions all a backdrop to his frantic thoughts.

Lay on the dock to reach the water.

I can do this. I can do this.

Scoop as much as you can into the bucket.

How could this happen? Did that person standing here have anything to do with it?

Stand up.

What if I can’t save it?

Pour it on the flames.

He’ll never forgive me.

Repeat.

Never.

Everything’s a rush. The fire spreads across the entire deck, no matter his efforts. No matter how much water he heaves onto it, it just keeps growing, spreading, the smoke burning his lungs the way cigarettes never could, stinging his eyes, heat radiating through the air around him.

He keeps working.

I have to save it.

I need to save it.

If I save it, maybe he’ll forgive me.

The wood creaks and snaps over the sound of the flames, charred and crumbling. But he keeps working.

If I can’t, he’ll never forgive me.

Useless. Worthless. Mistake.

It’ll be the end of us.

Bucketful after bucketful, flames creeping to the top of the mast, the sails turning to ash, everything crumbling and burning right before his eyes and there’s nothing he can do to stop it but keep working.

He’s getting another scoop of water, and the bucket slips from his fingers, getting pulled down beneath the surface faster than he can react. It disappears into the black waters, pulling a curse from him.

I can still do this.

He’ll start scooping with his hands, if that’s what it takes.

But then someone grabs him, and it’s the first time he realizes how close the sirens are. They pull him away from the flames. Instinct kicks in. He’s kicking and screaming to let him go, he needs to do this, he can’t let it burn down, he can’t let it disappear, it’s all he has left, let him go—

A group of people run by in the flickering darkness as the other person keeps dragging him back, and something in his brain finally connects the sirens to the people around him, some of the panic settling into relief when he sees the long water hose the ones running down the pier are carrying.

Because there’s this inkling of hope that it’s not all lost. That it’ll be salvageable.

And then they’re blasting water at it, and his blood runs cold.

It’s almost an instant reaction, the twist in his gut at the sound of cracking wood as the mast bends to the side under the force of the water, then snaps completely and splashes into the waves.

And then he’s screaming at them, begging them to stop because can’t they see they’re making it worse? They’re destroying it. They need to stop. He needs to make them stop.

He’s flailing against the arms holding him back, throwing blind punches even though nothing’s connecting, and his insides feel more and more hollow the more steam they fill the air with and the more the boat creaks and groans.

Something finally connects, and the arms let him go, and then he’s running again, every pound of his feet on the dock lost in the hiss of the water battling the flames, battering the boat.

He hasn’t made it far when a resounding crack splinters through the air, freezing his feet in place.

Through the swirling mist, he sees the entire boat list forward, quickly taking on water. His feet are rooted in place as, within a span of seconds, the entire front half of the boat is submerged. And the back snaps in half. Falls into the waves behind it.

He doesn’t feel his knees hit the wood dock.

What’s left of the Stan O War sinks beneath the waves, a few broken boards the only things marring the surface of the otherwise now undisturbed sea.

And just like that, it’s gone.

It’s just… it’s just gone.

And he doesn’t even have the barest hope that there’s any way to bring it back.

Hands grab him again and pull him back up, but it’s all numb, the voices around him hollow and muffled, a million miles gone. He can’t look away, gaze locked on splintered wood and ash, eyes burning from the smoke and the saltwater that might be seawater, might not.

It doesn’t feel real.

It can’t be real.

Because if it is…

His throat catches, seawater rolling off his cheeks in rivulets, leaving trails in the ash and soot covering his face.

Because if it is, then I really did ruin his life, and there’s nothing I can do to fix it.

Something inside him breaks at that, crumbles, the hands on his shoulders finally turning him away from the wreckage.

His insides collapse into themselves, and it’s all he can do to stop the rest of himself from following suit, to keep himself walking away from the very last semblance of hope he had to fix everything.

This is the end of us.

~ ~ ~

Ford’s running as fast as he can, his lungs heaving with every step, sand and glass shards kicking out behind him, the roar of the flames dying out the further and further he gets. It isn’t until they fade into the sounds of the waves lapping against the shore that his legs finally give out and send him to his hands and knees under the weight of what he just did.

He’d stood there watching as the fire caught, watching as the epoxy coat on the deck bubbled and charred until the wood underneath finally started to burn. He watched, waiting for that feeling of relief as the fire spread, the air getting warmer and warmer, the smoke slowly getting thicker and thicker. He thought he’d feel better about it, thought it’d cut the final string tying him and his brother together and finally let him be free of him. But instead, the fire inside him just fizzled out as the flames crept higher and higher. And he kept waiting and waiting, hoping for something new and better and good to take its place inside him, to feel the vindication he’d sorely been hoping for when he finally tossed the match on-board.

Nothing came.

There was only a distant voice, yelling at him to put the goddamn fire out what are you doing? And that had sent him running, because common sense reminded him that arson is a crime, and something about the voice clawed at his insides so deeply that he was afraid to realize why. So, he ran. And he ran and ran and ran, hoping in vain that at some point the weight pushing him further and further into the ground would lift, would let him breathe. That maybe some of the fire would come back, or something, anything but this emptiness, this detachment.

The first law of thermodynamics states that energy is neither created nor destroyed, only transferred.

He wonders if that’s why that fire inside him died the higher the flames got on the boat, leaving nothing but ashes behind. Or, he wonders, if this is one thing that science can’t solve.

He doesn’t have an answer for any of it.

He’s on his hands and knees, the fire flickering in the distance, all his anger spent and gone and leaving him numb and cold and feeling something heavier than gravity pulling him towards the center of the earth.

His arms tremble under it, tears stinging his eyes.

How did Stan do it?

There are sirens in the distance, his chest shuddering with every breath of briny air.

He wants to feel satisfied with what he did, but instead it just feels like he scraped out his insides, tearing himself to ribbons and swearing he was doing it to someone else, like he’s ripping open the same poorly healed scars over and over again, hoping he’ll finally heal whole for once. Telling himself that it didn’t matter that it was also years of his own life spent working on that boat, that it still meant something to him. What mattered was that it meant something to Stan. He shouldn’t feel a damn thing.

But Stan’s not here to feel anything; it’s just him.

Just him.

Alone.

How was Stan able to do it so easily?

Every moment, the guilt tears at him more and more, and he swears it can’t get any worse, it just can’t. But then he remembers exactly why he lit that match, and it makes something vile turn over in his stomach because how could he do that to his own brother? How could he ever do that to someone he’s supposed to care about? And then every moment feels like a new low, some fundamental boundary shredded by a blinding moment of anger. An utter betrayal that cuts him to the core when he realizes its consequence, some combination of shame and remorse gripping his throat and squeezing when he remembers how he wanted Stan to feel.

The light behind him dies off, the last flames flickering in the distance, dancing off the glass shards scattered in the sand around him before disappearing into the darkness.

How was Stan able to completely ruin him and not feel a damn thing?

None of it makes sense. A voice that sounds eerily like Pa tells him it’s because Stan is useless, a con, some punk that only cares about himself and doesn’t give a shit about any of them. But that doesn’t settle right in him, doesn’t feel like the boy that yelled at the bullies that threw rocks at them and blew off a date to drive him to a science convention out of town and came into their room after an argument with their Pa with a swollen eye and pretended it was nothing. It doesn’t sound right, but neither does that same person ruining his one chance at a future and then playing it off as no big deal.

It doesn’t make sense.

It doesn’t make sense that Stan would do this to him. It doesn’t make sense that burning the boat down hurts so badly. That he suddenly feels more alone than he ever has, crouched on that beach and surrounded by a black sea and an empty boardwalk and knowing that has nothing to do with the hollow feeling inside his chest, aching like it’s lost some vital piece of itself.

It doesn’t feel fair.

This was supposed to help.

Instead, all he’s left with are tarnished memories and an amalgamation of confusing emotions that all just boils down to pain, pure and simple.

He shouldn’t have done it.

Hell, he regrets coming out here at all.

It feels like hours before the wailing sirens finally go quiet, and he shakily pushes himself to his feet, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as he begins the long walk home, the pack of matches left behind lying in the sand.

~ ~ ~

There are little things that Stan never really thought to miss after he left. Little, every-day moments that aren’t necessarily significant, but still fall somewhere in the realm of normalcy and routine and fill some little gap in his life. Gaps that are small enough to not notice once they’re empty.

The flipping of book pages late at night. The small bit of light filtering in the window from the streetlights outside. The way the boxing mat moves and yields underfoot. The shift of his gloves when he throws a punch because they’ve always been slightly too big. The feel of sanded wood dust between his fingers. Hauling the toolbox out to the Stan O War every day to work. The smell of the shop the day after Pa gets the floors waxed. The tinkle of the bell on the door when someone walks in.

That last one ushers in the thought of the rest.

Hearing that bell when he cautiously walks into the pawn shop the next morning, it makes him wonder about all the other little things he’s forgotten to remember, forgotten to miss.

“What part of ‘you’re not welcome here’ did you not understand?”

Or just simply forgotten on purpose.

“Nice to see you too, Pops,” he says, aimlessly glancing around the shop, feigning interest in the various wares (most of which were here when he got kicked out left). Mostly, it’s just an attempt to avoid looking at the man standing behind the counter.

“If you think you can just come crawling back here after—”

“I’m not,” Stan says, his voice hard. “Just had to come and make sure Ford’s okay before I head back out of town.”

“Course he’s okay,” Filbrick says. Stan can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief that Ford wasn’t somehow tangled up in the fire. That he’s alright. That he maybe doesn’t know about it yet. “No thanks to you.” Stan bristles.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

Do they know he was there? Do they know he couldn’t stop it?

“It means he barely managed to get a scholarship to some run-down nothing school thanks to what you—"

“I’m not talking about the science fair! I’m talking about—”

The backdoor of the shop, the one that leads up to the apartment, opens. The tell-tale creak rings another bell in the back of his head, some other forgotten detail of his life that he’s not entirely sure what to do with. He turns at the sound and immediately locks eyes with a distorted reflection of himself.

“What do you want?” Ford’s knuckles white where they grip a backpack slung over his shoulder, but he seems almost confused, his brow ever so slightly furrowed. The door clicks closed behind him, seeming impossibly loud in the now-silent room.

“Hey, um.” The look throws him off, considering he was expecting hate or anger or even an immediate dismissal. Then again, maybe confusion makes sense too. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Why wouldn’t I be okay now that you’re gone?

He doesn’t think that’s what he meant, but it doesn’t make the comment sting any less.

“There was a fire,” he says slowly, “down at the pier.”

It’s almost imperceptible, the way Ford’s eyes widen ever so slightly at that. Stan knows he’s the only one that would ever notice it, even if it’s not entirely the response he would expect.

He’s not sure what he would expect at this point.

“Pa, there are still a few boxes upstairs,” Ford says, watching Stan for another second before turning to the man still behind the counter. “They’re a bit too heavy for me. Would you mind bringing them down? I’ll watch the shop.”

Pa doesn’t have to have his glasses off for Stan to know the exact looks he’s giving them: a judgmental squint, probably aimed more at him than Ford, a quite calculation running through his head before he grunts out that he’ll be back in five minutes. He gives Ford a semi-awkward pat on the shoulder before heading upstairs, the door clicking shut behind him.

Ford faces back towards him the moment the door closes, his arms crossed in front of his chest, hands tucked in his elbows. His eyes are glancing around, refusing to meet his own.

“You, uh, going somewhere?” Stan asks, not entirely sure how to break the silence that settled back over them.

“Why are you here, Stan?” Ford’s still not looking at him, his voice tighter than it was just a minute ago, yet somehow impossibly exhausted, detached.

“I just… I was driving through and happened to go by the pier last night. The Stan O War was on fire.” He watches for a reaction, waiting to see if Ford knew, if he cared. But there’s nothing. No waver in his expression, not even some acknowledgement of what he said. Just his eyes still looking anywhere else in the room. “Just wanted to see if you were nearby, make sure you weren’t hurt or—”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you know what hap—”

“No.”

“And you weren’t anywhere near—”

“I’m fine.”

The silence settles again, the air tense and uncomfortable between them. There’s an enormous elephant in the room. More like a couple, if he’s being completely honest. Neither of them seem willing to address them. It only makes the atmosphere seem that much heavier.

“It’s been a while, huh?” Stan says, not able to stand the quiet any longer. “Over a month by now, right?”

“Twenty-seven days.” He states it plainly, like one of those facts from a textbook. Cold and detached and simple.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. That sounds about right.”

Ford’s eyes seem to have settled, his gaze locked on something behind him, just to the side of his head. Enough to see him without having to look at him.

He won’t even look—

“Basically an eternity for us, huh?” Stan says, an awkward laugh forcing its way out. “Don’t think we ever went more than an hour without seeing each other before and now—”

“Was there something else you wanted to say to me, or was that it?”

“I…” It takes him aback, the iciness in Ford’s tone, the way his arms pull closer to his chest just the slightest bit. “What?”

“You came here to check on me?” Ford asks, his voice so flat it barely registers as a question. “That’s it?”

“I mean, yeah I guess?” Ford’s still not looking at him, and it just sinks something deep into his chest, leaving him floundering to say the right thing. “I was worried, you know?” It doesn’t feel like enough. Must hate me for not saving it. “But I tried to save the boat and everything. By the time I got there, there wasn’t much I could do.” He sees it, Ford’s arms tensing as he clenches his fists, his teeth grinding down. He’s saying the wrong things and he knows it, so he switches gears. “Look, I mean, I get if you’re mad at me for not stopping it. But the hull still seemed partly intact. I can, like, stay in town a while and help you fix her if you want. Not that you probably don’t hate me now, but I’ll stay out of your way and—"

“Get out.”

That ache in his chest drops like a weight, and suddenly he’s drowning.

“W-what?”

“I have nothing left to say to you, Stanley.” His fists fall to his sides, shoulders squaring back, his eyes still locked behind him. “So get out, and don’t make me say it again.”

It’s a slap in the face, one that stings all the way down to his core. He knows this is going badly. Doesn’t take a genius to see that.

Isn’t this what you expected when you walked in that door?

But he can’t let it end. Not like this. Shouldn’t it matter that it was an accident and he did everything he could? Shouldn’t it matter that he didn’t mean to hurt him?

“I came here to try to fix things,” Stan says, but Ford just blinks at the wall behind him, swallows.

“I don’t want you to.”

There are a million questions buzzing through his head, “when”s and “why”s and “how”s colliding and fracturing all while he sinks further and further down. He tries to grip back onto that anger from the first night, the night they threw him out onto the concrete with next to nothing and he swore the world would never see him coming. He tries to grab onto that righteous fury again, but it just slips through his fingers, lost in the backache from sleeping in his car and the suffocating silence and the stomach pains from so many days with barely enough money for food. Instead he just finds himself longing for everything that was, for the smell of Ma’s cooking and Pa’s annoyed grunts when they came in late at night and the jingle of the pawn shop bell and most of all—

“Please Ford,” Stan says. “I miss us. I can’t let everything get thrown away just over some stupid mistake! Just let me try to fix this.”

“A ‘stupid mistake’?” Ford scoffs, lowering his head with a shake. “Your ‘stupid mistake’ ruined everything. You ruined my life, Stan. There’s nothing left to fix.”

“But it was all an accident!” he says. “I didn’t mean to bump the table, and the boat was on fire when I got there. And I know, I know there’s nothing I can do about your college, so at least let me try to fix the Stan O War for you, and then maybe—”

“Would you shut up about the stupid boat already!” It’s practically a shout, the first time he’s raised his voice like that at him, his fists visibly shaking and his eyes locked on his shoes. Stan takes a small step back.

“W-what did I do wrong?”

“What did you do wr— are you kidding me?” And for the first time, Ford meets his eyes. Stan expects to see seething anger there, bubbling fury that shakes his entire frame as it threatens to boil over. He expects flames. But instead, he’s met with a detached coldness, solid ice that pierces down to the bone. “All you ever cared about was that stupid boat and your stupid treasure hunting! Did you ever stop to think about what I wanted? No, you didn’t.”

“I thought we wanted the same thi—”

“I let you drag me into your dumb, idiotic dreams that are never going anywhere. But not anymore. I’m done, Stan. I’m not letting you—you— hang on my coattails anymore. I’ve got a future ahead of me and I’m through with letting you keep me from it. There’s nothing left to fix because there is no more ‘us’. Get it? So just leave already.”

Every word stings, cutting deeper and deeper until Ford finally seems to take a breath, and Stan’s left feeling like the entire weight of the ocean is crushing into his chest.

Is that really how he felt?

He thought the boat, all of it, was their dream. He thought it was the future they both wanted the moment it was possible. That’s what Ford had said up until the science fair. Was he wrong? Did he really make Ford this miserable? Did he really hate him from the beginning? Were they really—

“I didn’t—”

“And you know what?” Ford says, voice shaking, bordering on hysterical. “I’m glad you couldn’t put out the fire, because I was the one who started it in the first place!” Stan swears he feels his heart stop in his chest, something in the back of his throat seizing. “So at least this once you didn’t screw up something for me.”

“Y-you burned—?”

“And it was the best decision I ever made,” he says. “Dumb adventures, treasure hunting, that boat, you. I’ve moved on. It’s all behind me now. I have a future ahead of me. So just leave me alone and, for once in your goddamn life, get out of my way.”

It’s all your fault. All your fault.

He’ll never forgive you.

Never.

This is the end—

“Stanford, I’m sor—”

“Get out.”

“Sixer please—”

“I said get out!”

The shout dies as fast as it escapes Ford’s lips, but it leaves Stan’s ears ringing. He’s stuck in place, the world revolving around him and Ford glaring holes through his skull and everything feeling all too real and not quite real enough as that ache in his chest claws at his insides, tears him apart.

It’s too quiet.

It’s too quiet, but his head is buzzing, and there’s no way this is real, but it is. It’s more real than the day he got kicked out.

It’s too quiet, and his insides are screaming that this is wrong, this is his nightmares come to life, that it can’t of all fallen apart that easily, that it can’t be over, that this can’t be the end.

But it is.

And it hits him with a sudden, startling clarity.

All the derision and hate from his father, he never saw it in Ford. But maybe it’s always been there, and he was just fooling himself by thinking otherwise. Telling himself that if no one else wants him, then his twin, the brother he’s quite literally spent his entire life with, would have to care about him. That he must be willing to go to the ends of the Earth at his side, together against the world, forever and ever.

He never realized “forever” only lasted until the end of high school. That maybe he was more alone than he ever thought.

The shock subsides, but it leaves something bitter in the back of his throat, the rock lodged in his chest twisting like a knife, the very last shred of hope he had of fixing things between them withering and dying.

He takes a step back and grits his teeth through it.

Because none of this changes the fact that he’s still going to make his millions. That he’s still going to rub it in their faces. That he’s going to make them regret ever kicking him out and doubting him and thinking he’s nothing but a waste of space, a walking mistake.

He tells himself for the hundredth time that he doesn’t need them.

That he’ll be fine on his own.

Because if that’s how he really feels, then—

“Fine,” Stan says, straightening his back and swallowing down the pain scraping its way up his throat. “If that’s what you want, fine. I’ll never bother you again.” And he turns on his heel, the bell jiggling as he yanks the door open, sunlight and ocean air barreling in. “Have a nice life, Stanford.”

And he walks.

~ ~ ~

Stan’s not sure how he made it to the car, let alone how he already made it this far down the highway. It’s all a blur, thoughts and memories lost to the tears already streaming down his face. He wipes at them with his arm, but more and more come to replace them, dripping down his cheeks, his chin, onto his shirt. He feels hollow, like someone scooped out his guts and left him to rot, but the tears just keep coming and coming, the knot in his throat slowly getting tighter and tighter.

All it takes is a sign whizzing by outside.

Leaving Glass Shard Beach.

Thanks for visiting!

It’s like a dam breaking, the agony and the hurt and the betrayal and the anger all coming up in a rush that he tries so hard to choke back down, to bury like he’s always done, like he was always taught to do. But it’s like holding back a hurricane inside his chest, and there’s nothing he can do to stop the sobs that force their way through and catch in his throat, tears falling heavier than raindrops and threatening to drown him.

It’s really over.

It’s really the end.

He bites down on his lip to try to keep it in, but more just keeps bubbling up.

He knows he shouldn’t be crying like this. Not here, not now. Hell, not ever. He’s the strong one.

One of what?

It’s not supposed to hurt this much, to feel like such an utter rejection, to be impossibly worse than the first time a month twenty-seven days so long ago. He’s supposed to be tougher than this. He’s supposed to take any punch, any pain the world throws at him, and grin back with bloody teeth and not a care in the world. This shouldn’t—

And then he’s angry, angry that Ford would do this to him, would treat him like garbage after everything they’ve gone through. He’s angry that his brother tossed him to the side the moment he got a better offer. He’s angry that one mistake cost him everything he ever knew, and Ford just closed the damn curtains. He’s angry that Ford decided to burn down the boat, their his dream, everything inside of it that he could have used or sold to keep himself alive. He’s so angry at Ford, at his dad, at that dumb school, at all of it.

Somehow, he’s the angriest at himself for going back and hoping things would be different.

He’s angry that he was dumb enough to think he still had a brother.

“Stupid,” he says between strangled sobs, his throat constricting around the word.

He’s angry that he’s still crying over something he can’t change.

He’s angry that, even after everything that happened, he still feels guilty for hitting that table.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Every word is punctuated with his hand smacking the steering wheel, each one harder than the last. As if it’ll get the anger out. As if it’ll make him feel more in-control again. As if it will make it all hurt just a little less if his hand stings a little more.

“Stupid Ford.” Smack. “With his stupid school.” Smack. “And his stupid project.”

His palm is tingling.

It’s nothing in comparison.

Did he ever care about any of it in the first place?

Was all of it a lie?

That angers boils, a tight pressure behind his ribcage that still feels suspiciously like devastation, like heartbreak, but he tells himself its anger because then at least hitting something should make it go away.

So he wails on the steering wheel, cursing every god under the sun and everything and everyone that ever wronged him. And it feels good at first, giving the hurt somewhere else to go for the time being. Venting the frustration and the pain and the wrongness of it all. So he curses and he screams and he punches that damn steering wheel until his hands feel raw, and he’s yelling at Ford for starting that damn fire and Ford for hating him all this time and Ford for pretending he wanted a brother and himself for believing it and himself for wanting it and himself for hoping and dreaming and thinking he was finally going to get to be happy when of course that’s horse-shit because why would anything ever turn out alright for him and Ford for still getting everything he ever wanted and himself for still feeling proud at that and Ford for thriving while he’s barely surviving and— and—

He’s better off without you.

His throat hurts, and he’s still choking back sobs through it all, tears soaking his cheeks. His hand connects with the steering wheel one more time, but it’s almost hesitant, tired. He can feel himself crumpling inwards, everything caving in, as if now that everything he ever had is gone, there’s nothing left holding the last pieces of him together, the last bit of anger draining out and leaving him nothing in its wake.

He’d be better off if you—

A car horn wails, but he knows it wasn’t him, and he blinks up through blurry eyes to see another car heading right towards him.

It must be some kind of instinct that has him yanking the wheel to the side. The car jerking back across the median. Off the side of the road. Everything jolting as he slams the brake on the shoulder. The tires squealing before everything finally stops.

There’s a long moment, as the blare of the other car’s horn fades into the distance, tears still streaming freely, when all he can do is sit there. He doesn’t know how his brain can simultaneously feel like it’s full of cotton and full of bees, his heart slamming in his chest.

His hands are trembling as he fumbles the car into park.

And then the moment breaks like shattered glass.

“Shit,” he breathes, his voice wobbling, still wet with the tears dropping from his chin. His hands find the steering wheel, squeezing the fake leather until his knuckles turn white so that they’ll just stop shaking. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He tells himself he’s angry. He tells himself, because the other thing is more than he can handle right now. More than he think he’ll ever be able to handle.

Should have just driven by when you had the chance.

Maybe he’d hoped he could fix things. Maybe he’d hoped Ford would forgive him. Maybe he figured there was no way he could make things worse anyways.

Maybe maybe maybe maybe maybe

Maybe he was wrong.

And just maybe when he’d thought he couldn’t get any lower than rock-bottom, he’d gone and dug himself a deeper hole.

He supposes that’s what he gets for hoping.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

But it did. And it went to hell, just like everything else you touch.

He knows he’s a screw-up in every meaning of the word, but he never thought he’d manage to mess up the one thing in this world that actually mattered.

He never thought he’d lose—

He can’t even finish the thought, because that makes it true, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle that, either.

Shouldn’t have gone back.

Shouldn’t have gone back.

Shouldn’t have—

He rests his forehead on the steering wheel and just tries to breathe, one stuttering breath after another.

He tells himself the water still spilling down his cheeks is rain or ocean brine or something other than what it is.

He tells himself it’s just anger.

He tells himself he doesn’t need any of them.

He tells himself things will be better one day.

He tells himself a lot of things.

But just below the surface, he’s well aware that every single one of them is a lie.

So he just sits there on the side of the road, alone, and… tries to breathe.

He just tries to breathe.

~ ~ ~

He’s already turned around long before the bell on top of the pawn shop door rings to announce Stan’s exit, has already slammed the door to the apartment behind him. He takes the stairs two at a time, and he faintly swears there’s something wrong with his legs, some slight wobble, something wrong with more than that.

He doesn’t think about it too hard.

When he comes into the living room, Ma is sitting on her window perch, watching him, and he tries not to register the hurt in her creased brow, the slight tug downwards in her lips. Pa is in his armchair, face hidden behind the newspaper. He doesn’t even look up when Ford comes in.

He makes a beeline to their the his bedroom, his eyes following the familiar treaded path in the carpet to the stairs. That way he can’t see Ma’s disappointment, Pa’s—

“Son,” Pa says, voice gruff. The word is a command, one that stops Ford in his tracks with his foot on the first worn stair, his spine going rigid. He hears Pa flip the page of his newspaper, the beat of silence stretching for far too long before— “I’m impressed. Glad you finally got up the nerve to kick that no good, low life—"

He doesn’t remember the rest, only the sound of the bedroom door clicking closed behind him as he breathes out a long, low sigh. The wood door is hard against his back as leans his whole weight into it, his mind buzzing numbly, the thoughts in his own head still blissfully absent, hopefully left behind in the pawn shop until they dissipate and stay forgotten.

He has too much to do now. Too much to worry about.

He can’t afford to think about certain things too hard.

His chest feels tight, so he takes a deep breath in, closing his eyes to feel the air filling his lungs. He never changed out of his clothes from last night, the smoke still embedded in the fabric of his shirt. He can still taste it in the back of his throat, bitter and raw.

He pushes himself off the door, aiming towards the center of the room, determined to do one last check to make sure he got everything of value. But something catches his attention when he moves, giving him pause. There’s something in his front pocket, bending and slightly pressing into his leg. Confused, he reaches in, fingers gripping and pulling out the piece of paper, smooth to the touch and thick enough that it—

…

Something twists harshly in his gut, something that registers as guilt.

He tells himself not to think about it too hard, but the thoughts still drift up from the shop below like smoke. Every word, every glare, every bit of cruelty replaying and overlapping and reverberating in his head like some discordant canon. The utterly destroyed look on Stan’s face seared into his memory. The taste of acid on his tongue as the words trapped inside his head finally spilled out.

He only ever cared about the boat. Not about you.

Not about you.

Only his treasure-hunting.

You were just convenient.

He tells himself not to think about it. To move on.

If that’s what you want, fine. I’ll never bother you—

He stuffs the picture back in his pocket, trying to forget the pair of twins smiling up at him, standing proudly on the remains of an old boat, carefree and naïve.

There’s just too much to do, too much to worry about right now.

He tells himself it’s all for the best anyways.

He swallows past the lump in his throat and moves to pick up the last packed box, purposely turning away from the empty bunk bed as he heads out of the room.

For the best.

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

He doesn’t look back.

[holy-honeybees]

Snowdrift

AO3

Rating: T+ (for swearing)

Summary: Three friends and  their dog get lost in a snowstorm while investigating the paranormal. Amidst swirling flurries of white, some lose their way and get lost in their memories, others lose sight of their friends and loved ones, and an unforgiving winter quickly fills in the footprints one would follow to get back home.

A/N: I started this back in November but sadly never finished the work. I was thinking of holding off till it started to snow again, but figured now was as good a time as any to try and finish this.The title is taken from Snail's House song "[snowdrift]" which you can check out here!

The last bit of fluff before the storm!

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter One

Chapter Four

Mystery woke slowly the next morning to the sounds of hushed conversation, wriggling out from under Vivi’s arm as the heaviest sleeper of the group continued to snore away. He stretched out his hind legs, giving himself a good shake before blearily regarding the two young men deep in conversation. It would figure that the ghost, who technically didn’t need sleep, and the insomniac, who pretended that he didn’t need sleep, would be the first two up. The disguised kitsune mused momentarily over who had been the first to rise before discarding the train of thought as largely pointless at this ungodly hour of the morning. Instead, he trotted over to the rear doors of the van and, having long ago discarded all pretense of being a semi-normal dog, gripped the handle in his teeth and opened the door to the outside world.

“Mystery, wait—” The warning came too late however, and a sudden gust of wind wrenched the door out of his grip, tumbling him headfirst into a snowdrift as he lost his balance. The kitsune struggled for a moment to right himself, only to find he was buried almost up to his haunches in the snow. It would quickly be approaching Vivi’s knees, a height that Mystery was quite familiar with, having spent most of the human’s lifespan at the same level. The cold didn’t bother him much, with his thick fur coat providing protection from the freezing temperatures, but the prospect of having to hop through the snow was simply embarrassing. He had been just about to shift to his natural state when a large hand grasped him by his scruff and hoisted him back into the van, pulling the door shut behind him. Back on solid ground, Mystery quickly shook the loose snow from his pelt. He could see Arthur shivering in the corner, the icy blast of air he’d unintentionally let inside severe enough to even wake Vivi from her slumber. The girl mumbled sleepily and rubbed at her eyes.

“Good morning,” the kitsune deadpanned. Vivi glared at him, though the expression lost some of its heat by the way she was squinting as her eyes adjusted to daylight.

“Arthur and I were just talking about the situation outside,” Lewis said.

“The situation?” Vivi mumbled, putting forth a valiant effort to stay awake.

“The snow hasn’t let up at all,” the ghost said, “In fact, the van’s almost buried up to its wheel wells.”

“According to the radar, it doesn’t look like it’s going to be stopping anytime soon either,” the mechanic explained, gesturing to his laptop screen as he turned it to face the others. There was a large patch of icy blue stationary in the middle of the screen.

“Unless the satellite image froze again…I think the weather is starting to mess with the van’s internet connection,” Arthur muttered.

“So we’re snowed in?” Mystery surmised. Lewis and Arthur shared a look before nodding their heads.

“We were discussing possible solutions before you guys got up. With the snow so deep, the van won’t budge.”

“I could make the van ‘go ghost’ to see if we can get past the snow that way, but, well…” Lewis spared a glance to the mechanic who’d paled at the reminder of the monstrous purple semi-truck.

“It’s not the best idea,” the ghost concluded, “And the nearest town is still miles away, too far to walk,”

“Why don’t we just stay here?” Vivi suggested, already settling back into the blankets on the floor.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Arthur frowned.

“Not for forever, just until we figure out a solution we can all agree on or until we become unstuck. We’ve got plenty of supplies,” Vivi yawned. Mystery thought it must be exhausting being so optimistic and loved the young woman all the more for it.

“I’m not sure hot cocoa counts as ‘supplies’,” Arthur said, “but we do have enough food for at least a couple more days.”

“What about your ghost hunt though? You were so excited to go,” Lewis said.

“I’m excited to spend time with you dorks,” Vivi snorted, “Besides, yesterday was fun. We can teach you how to make a snowman now that you’ve mastered snow angels.” The specter huffed a fond-sounding laugh.

“I suppose that settles it then,” he said, Arthur nodding in agreement. The three turned to look at Mystery for his acquiescence.

“I have missed the snow,” the dog conceded.

“Good,” Vivi mumbled sleepily, her eyes already drifting shut again, “We’ll try to head out later today if the snow melts some. Otherwise, we stay until tomorrow. Just think of it…as a…snow day…” And the blue-haired girl was asleep once more, snoring away as if she’d never been disturbed.

“I better let my parents know about the delay. As if my dad wasn’t already worried enough …” Lewis sighed, shaking his head, “Would it be okay if I borrowed your laptop again, Arthur?”

“Sure, for as much good as it will do you with this crappy internet connection,” the mechanic shrugged, “The radar image either keeps freezing up or there’s a particularly stubborn snow cloud that’s decided to park itself right over top of us. I’ll check to see if I can get a better signal after another cup of coffee.” Lewis narrowed his eyes at his friend.

“What? The instant stuff isn’t that bad,” Arthur joked weakly.

“Yes it is,” Lewis replied, “And it’s not so much the quality of it that I’m worried about but rather the quantity of how much you drink.”

“Oh, come on! This will just be my—”

“Fourth cup,” Lewis interrupted, giving the mechanic a withering look, “I’ve been counting.” Arthur squawked in indignation, and Mystery barked out a brief laugh before turning back to the rear doors, leaving the two young men to squabble over what an acceptable caffeine intake should be for the jittery mechanic.

“Uh, Mystery? Looking to do a repeat performance from earlier?” Lewis said.

“I have to go outside,” the kitsune replied.

“W-Why, is there some-something out there?” Arthur asked in alarm.

“No, I just have to…” Mystery put his ears back in embarrassment, “Go.” There was a moment of silence in the van before the ghost and the mechanic broke into a fit of laughter. Vivi mumbled in her sleep and turned to her other side.

“Oh man,” Arthur said, wiping at his eyes, “Sometimes I forget you’re still kind of a dog.”

“Here, let me get the door for you,” Lewis offered. The kitsune grumbled in annoyance at the two young men’s antics. It appeared they weren’t just children in Mystery’s eyes after all. With Lewis propping the door open, the dog leapt from the van gracefully, landing in the snow in his kitsune-form so as to not get stuck again, his six tails lashing about in the wind. To his dismay, he saw that the indentation from where he’d landed minutes earlier had already begun to fill in, quickly losing its definition as the snow continued to pile on the ground. He would be very surprised if the Mystery Skulls managed to leave their temporary resting spot today.

“Just let us know when you’re ready to come inside, okay?” Lewis said. Mystery gave him a curt nod before trotting away through the snow to find some privacy, hearing the door of the van click shut behind him as he made for the tree line in the distance.

The kitsune truly had missed the snow, and it had been decades since he’d had a proper winter that reminded him of home. He admired the way his breath fogged around his snout in short bursts, thinking of centuries worth of winters spent in Japan. He wondered if he was growing old and senile, reminiscing the way he was, or if it was just his softer side showing. Oh, how the other yōkai would laugh if they could see you now, Mystery mused, passing between barren trees with snow-laden branches. A lot had changed since he’d first met Vivi’s ancestor and been subsequently defeated by her. He was no longer the feared and respected fox spirit he once was. But it was a change for the better, if for the company alone, the three young humans he’d come to think of as his pups. Mystery knew he would go to great lengths to protect them, having failed to do so before. The world was a dangerous place, something Mystery, as one of the dangerous things in it, was well aware of. He had thought that by playing the role of the unassuming mascot he’d been protecting them, but it had nearly cost him everything. The kitsune had chosen to keep silent when he knew they were walking into danger. He thought he’d had everything under control, that if it became absolutely necessary to intervene, he would be fast enough.

He was wrong.

Mystery had wondered if the cave would be the end of his little pack. By some miracle, fate had brought them back together though and allowed for reconciliation, which was more than he could have hoped for. Now, he would give his six tails just to keep his pups safe. As far away as he was, the kitsune could still sense them clearly, would be able to sniff out their souls from miles away if he had to. The burning, electric purple scent of Lewis, so different now from his once muted yet strong mulberry color. The familiar blue that was comfort, love, home, Vivi, the ephemeral sparks of her magic potential flickering through the blue like frost on a window pane. Arthur’s sunshiny yellow pulsing like a beacon. Even as the mechanic had healed in body and mind after being possessed, the damage done would leave Arthur vulnerable for the rest of his life, unaware that his soul was broadcasting an enticing signal to the supernatural.

Mystery thought back to the day before uneasily. Arthur had been so sure he’d seen…something in the road. Mystery had checked then to see if there was anything out there that could pose a threat to his pups and had come up empty, but perhaps the jumpy mechanic’s worried nature was beginning to rub off on him. Over-confidence had cost him dearly in the past, and it was a lesson the kitsune had taken to heart. Mystery pushed the boundaries of his senses to their limits, concentrating hard until he was confident he had encompassed a wide enough radius around their present location for his extrasensory search. Like last time though, he came up empty. There was the purple, yellow, and blue, his own strong red scent, but not another living thing for miles, and no supernatural entity he could detect waiting in the shadows. Besides the colors he was so familiar with, everything was as tasteless, scentless, and colorless as the snow Mystery waded through. Satisfied with his thorough search, the kitsune shook himself free of his troubled thoughts along with the fine layer of snow that had gathered on his pelt. He took care of his business before heading back towards the van and the blended colors of the souls he loved so well. They’re safe this time, he told himself, even as the feeling of being watched prickled at his skin and caused the fur along his back to stand on end.

---

As Mystery had predicted, the Mystery Skulls were not to depart that day, everyone preparing to spend another night on the floor of the van instead. The snow continued to fall, adding further inches to the foot or so already on the ground. The wind had picked up as well, now violently swirling outside. As the snowstorm increased in intensity, so too did Mystery’s feelings of unease. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched despite knowing that they were the only ones out here. The dog eyed the door to the van warily, and though nothing had passed beyond the rear windows except for more falling snow, Mystery still couldn’t force himself to relax. Had he any less self-control, he might have even let out a whine.

An unexpected, hesitant touch to the back of his head startled the dog badly, causing him to leap to his feet. The hand quickly withdrew as Mystery whipped around to look at the source of the touch, only to see Arthur staring back, eyes wide with panic. The kitsune couldn’t fault the young man for being afraid of him, particularly when Mystery had been the source of the mechanic’s impromptu amputation, but it still hurt whenever Arthur jumped at his presence or eyed him warily. This had all been so much easier before he’d come clean about the truth of his existence, when he could just ignore what he’d done, what he was. The kitsune wondered if he had kept his secrets to protect himself from their fear and rejection as much as he’d done so to protect the Mystery Skulls themselves. Arthur still raised his hand though and, extending it slowly, bridged the gap between them. The mechanic patted his head and Mystery did his best to ignore the tremors he felt running through the young man’s hand as he leaned into the touch.

“Y-You okay, pal?” Arthur asked in a quiet voice, “You seem kind of tense.”

“Just eager to get going again,” the fox spirit reassured as the mechanic continued to pet him, “Tired of being cooped up in the back of the van for so long.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but Mystery didn’t want to reveal the true cause of his unease, certain it would further unnerve Arthur. Vivi and Lewis were in the opposite corner of the van, chatting amicably as Vivi composed an email to send off to her parents while they visited her Granny Yukino in Japan. The ghost and the girl were blissfully ignorant of the troubled conversation he and Arthur were having. Vivi’s enthusiasm for their so-called “snow day” had yet to wane, and Lewis was more than happy to just go along for the ride. Mystery would prefer to keep it that way rather than worrying his pups any more than he already had. Arthur continued to stroke his fur as Vivi concluded her email and got up to pass the laptop back to the mechanic. He paused to give a final scratch behind Mystery’s ears, just the way the dog liked, before receiving his laptop with both hands. Mystery would have loved for the petting to continue, childish comfort as it may have been, it had helped settle him significantly. There was no one out there, no danger to his family. Just the wicked winds of winter howling outside. Accepting that, he contented himself to just lay down and listen as his humans talked.

“Any word on how your Granny is doing?” Arthur asked.

“She’s still recovering from her fall, but she’s tough as nails,” Vivi replied proudly, “Mom and dad are just there to make sure she doesn’t overdo it on her own. She has a hard time just taking it easy.”

“Still, I’m sorry about the timing, it’s not fun being on your own for the holidays.”

“It’s alright, I’ve got you guys to keep me company!” Vivi said, unwaveringly cheerful, “Besides, me and Mystery are this close to cracking the secret to my mom’s fried chicken recipe. It has to be in the dredging. I think we’ll have it perfected just in time for dinner on Christmas Eve! It won’t be so different from any other year that way, I just won’t have to fight my dad for the last drumstick.”

“I’m looking forwards to being able to cook Christmas dinner for my family again,” Lewis said, “It’s one of the few days the restaurant is closed, so it’s nice to see mom and dad relax and put their feet up for once. Plus, I make a mean lasagna.”

“Heh, I think Uncle Lance gave up on cooking for Christmas after that year he tried to do one of those beer can turkey recipes. Hell, the fire chief might’ve expressly forbidden it. I think we’re doing Chinese takeout again this year.”

“At least orange chicken is something normal to eat…” Vivi teased.

“Hey, don’t bring Surf’s Up Pizza into this!”

“It’s so nice to be able to see the restaurant decorated with poinsettias again,” Lewis said distractedly. He had a wistful expression on his skull, seemingly unaware that he’d even spoken aloud until he noticed Vivi and Arthur staring at him intently, their playful argument abandoned.

“Mom always decorates the restaurant with poinsettias around Christmas. I…I never thought I’d get to see it like that again,” Lewis confessed. Vivi smiled at the ghost warmly, giving his arm a little squeeze before she turned her attention to their other friend.

“What about you, Artie? Lance do much decorating at home?” She asked.

“I don’t think Uncle Lance is real big on Christmas. The only Christmas movie he’ll even watch is Die Hard. I think he only decorates ‘cause he knows I like it,” Arthur began, “Growing up with my dad though…we were on the road pretty often and spent a lot of nights in the car, even on Christmas. Not a whole lot of room for a tree in there, but he’d always make sure to get one of those little tree-shaped air fresheners to hang from the rearview mirror. We’d set our presents up on the dashboard under it.”

“You don’t talk about him a whole lot,” Lewis said.

“Y-Yeah, I try not to think about it too much,” Arthur replied, making an attempt at a casual shrug, “But…ever since it started snowing, it’s been hard not to think about it. I haven’t seen snow since I came to live with Uncle Lance, so I guess it’s just bringing up old memories.” The mechanic rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly, seemingly caught off-guard by his own admission. Mystery nosed tentatively at Arthur’s hand and was rewarded with a few more pats to the head and a small smile from the young man. Over the tops of his glasses, the kitsune could see Vivi and Lewis exchange concerned glances.

“Well, I don’t have Die Hard with me, but how about a movie?” Vivi suggested, eager to offer a distraction to try and lift their spirits. Without waiting for a response, she pulled the bag she’d packed for the trip into her lap, digging through it fervently.

“Duet’s not real big on commercial, non-secular holidays. So far, The Tome Tomb has remained unspoiled by those tacky Christmas stations you hear in most stores this time of year. I’m actually not sick of Christmas yet,” Vivi said as she rummaged, “Aha! Here it is, the best Christmas movie of all time!” She displayed the DVD case to the others with a flourish. Mystery perked up as he saw the familiar title.

“A Nightmare Before Christmas?” Arthur said, his smile now returning in earnest, “That would be your favorite.”

“I watch it every year with Mystery! Things have been so hectic lately, I haven’t had a chance yet though. What do you guys think?”

“So long as I don’t have to listen to ‘Feliz Navidad’ for the rest of our road trip, I’m happy,” Lewis replied.

“We should still have enough charge left for a movie,” Arthur said, handing his laptop back to Vivi. It was all the encouragement she needed, and with a whoop of excitement, the young woman quickly popped open the CD drive and inserted the disc. They all crowded in front of the small screen, glum mood from moments earlier all but forgotten. Vivi wasted no time in piling the blankets on top of her friends, making sure they were all sufficiently cozy before finally pressing play. Mystery curled up on Vivi’s lap as the movie began, his chin resting on Arthur’s knee as the mechanic resumed stroking his fur. The four of them chattered happily about plans for the holidays and the upcoming year, joking and laughing as the DVD played. Eventually they lapsed into a comfortable silence and began to doze before the movie even finished. As usual, Vivi was the first to nod off, though she was quickly followed by Arthur to Mystery’s surprise. Lewis, seeing them fast asleep, bade the kitsune a quiet good night as the black coffin he rested in materialized in the back of the van, disappearing just as quickly once its occupant was inside. With all of his pups resting for the night, Mystery surveyed the warm scene he’d found himself a part of. Arthur finally looked relaxed, a bit of drool dotting the corner of his mouth, and Vivi had cocooned herself entirely in blankets, except for an arm that had been flung around the mechanic’s waist in her sleep. Mystery chuckled fondly before he spared a final glance out the window, still seeing nothing but snowflakes flicker past the glass. Just as the credits began to roll, he finally curled up in the blankets at Vivi’s side and joined the others in sleep.

Outside, something colorless as snow stood poised to strike.

[doomedandstoned]

Nicolas Perrault from Rage of Samedi Taps Deep Emotion in New Solo Effort

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

By MelLie

NICOLAS "SCRIOS" PERRAULT -- some of you may have heard this name in the course of the German monster sludgers RAGE OF SAMEDI. German multi-instrumentalist, producer, live audio engineer, creative head in general, and bad-ass bassist of the aforementioned band. Often these artists are mostly referred to us in connection with the bands in which they play and we often know too little about their individual personalities and the solo projects they have to offer. Ashes on our heads!

After six years of walking the path of self-discovery and working on his authenticity as a solo artist, Nicolas has now announced the release of his first full-length album 'Shadows Cast At Dawn' (2020) on May 20th. That's why we should jump at this perfect opportunity to get a foretaste of the new album and take a closer look at Nick Perrault as "singer/songwriter" (a term that somehow doesn't entirely fit him).

With the song "Fires Within," Nick not only offers us a gloomy soul plough, but also a glance into his own soul. It is a gritty absolution punch, with abysmal soundscapes that deal with depression and anxiety. Emotional, melancholic, but in no way melodramatic -- a puristic and minimalistic-looking audio-active encounter with the emotionally frozen world and the breakout of those soul-damaging shackles. Like the Last Judgement runs Nick‘s throaty, heavy, powerful voice through the song and manifests itself like a memorial at the edge of the abyss into which the listener seems to look. This musical work is further underpinned by the impressive video-artwork, which was also created by Nick's own artistic hand.

I hope I have made you a little curious about the excursion into a border area of this heavy genre, which generally receives less attention here, and about the artistic work of Nicolas Perrault. Enjoy the ride through the abyss.

'Fires Within' music video

An Interview with Nicolas Perrault

By MelLie (Doomed & Stoned & Sunday's Heavy Tunes)

First of all, a warm "welcome", on behalf of Doomed & Stoned and our audience, Nick. It's only been a few months since you answered my questions as part of the gang of Rage Of Samedi! But this time, you are in the spotlight with your solo project! It‘s nice to have you here again!

It's an absolute honor to get to do this twice in a single year, so thanks for having me!

Nick, of course I have created my own impression of you in the process of preparing for this interview - at the latest now you still have the chance to escape! (laughs) How would you describe yourself? Who is this guy Nicolas Perrault?

I'm a multi-instrumentalist, tattooer, live audio engineer and producer and slightly sociophobic. So pretty much your average vegan straightedge dude who refuses to get a real job.

What made you decide to sell your soul to the "Devil Of Music"? In other words, how and when did you realize that you were burning with heart and soul to dedicate your life to music?

I've always played instruments, starting with the recorder, then organ and piano, bass, drums, guitar, bagpipes, and everything else. Way back when I joined my first band (a grunge/punk three-piece) and first picked up a bass, I realized I had a lot to say and music quickly became my outlet of choice. So about 18 years ago, but I didn't think of it in terms of a career yet, that only happened roughly six years ago, so I dropped out of university and started to work on my solo project.

You have left some very manifold and genre crossing footsteps on the pilgrimage through your personal music history: PTAH (doom), MOONSAIL (depressive pop-blues), and THRENODIA (black-metal) in former times are on my mind, current side projects are WILLE ZUR MACHT (avangarde) and you are the bass-riffer of Germany's blackened sludge doom monster RAGE OF SAMEDI! To what extent were these different musical influences and band experiences important for your progress as solo-artist?

I've spent a decade and a half working in bands, which would usually split up after a while, when the band became more serious and the others decided they'd rather pursue "real" jobs. So after a couple of those, I grew tired of waiting on the right people and just started working on my own. But every now and then I'd want to experiment with different genres, so I'd start a new project. The reason I'm now releasing under my actual name is that I didn't want to be stuck in one genre. I don't regret any of it, as they shaped who I am and the music I play now.

At the mention of your solo project, I could see the glint in your eyes. May 20th is the day! Let's light a sparkler for a minute! After three released EPs and six years of working as a solo artist, 'Shadows Cast At Dawn' will sail into the world as your first full-length album, which you even produced under the name of your own label Yew & Holly, right? What thoughts shoot spontaneously through your head right now?

Yup. I'm just incredibly excited to finally release this thing! It's been nearly six years and about eight different entire recordings, several changes to the track listing, heck- there are two tracks on the album that I only wrote this year! It's been a long, tedious journey and I'm glad for everything that happened along the way, because it made the final version of the album so much better!

Nick, let's turn the spotlight on the background information for your new album now. How would you describe your it to someone who has never heard your music before and which instruments play a major role?

A genre defying journey through post-modern life in a capitalist reality, focussing on depression and anxiety. Almost all of the songs are two sets of drums, a minute string section of violin and cello plus baritone guitar and vocals, that together create soundscapes so vast you might mistake them for an assassin's creed map.

Listening a little deeper into your work, one does not miss your natural fondness for philosophical thinking -- correct me if I am wrong with my assumption. Where do you get your inspirations from? And is there a message you want to convey to the listeners?

Well, I did study philosophy way back when. I tend to use naval imagery to paint a lyrical picture of depression and bipolar disorder, as a means of sharing the way I experience the world. It's likely not the most accessible thing you will ever hear, but it's a sincere expression of myself and that's really all I can offer.

"Fires Within," btw. Also one of my personal favorites of your album - is the amuse-gueule for our listeners What is the meaning behind this song and what moved you, writing the lyrics for this song?

"Fires" is all about setting boundaries and tearing down unhealthy relationships. If you have people in your life that hold you back instead of supporting you, ditch their ass! They're not worth the time and will poison any creative endeavor. Everyone knows at least a handful of these negative feckers and so did I. I spent years trying to help them get through their shit, but whenever I needed them they'd be more interested in getting drunk.

It's an unburdening from dead weight we carry, a cleansing, if you will. The chorus says "look not towards time, it brings only decay and destruction " and I think this is key to ridding yourself from negativity. Focus on your ultimate goal, that transcends trends and mood swings, that lives beyond time, and let it guide you. Don't stray too much from the path, or these negative influences will be right there waiting to cut you down.

"Fires Within"

Call upon the wind To wipe the surface clean He brings the rain and with it Absolution To carry with it the dust And bittersweet memories lost

Look not towards time To save your soul from fires It brings only decay and with it Destruction The fires burn from within Feast on the sand and it's running thin

Turn away from everything you hold dear To keep yourself safe from despair Cause all they bring is but loss All that remains is darkness when they are all gone Darkness that stretches like shadows cast from a new dawn

I would like to make a short swerve to the album cover. It is the wonderful artwork of Maryland based illustrator Luke Martin (Suburban Avenger Studios) who counts some famous musicians among his clients (Foo Fighters, Queens of the Stone Age, Arctic Monkeys, Red Hot Chili Pepper and others). How does the artwork relate to "Shadows Cast To Dawn"?

I've been a huge fan of Luke's work for years and a while ago he posted this picture to his Instagram. I was looking for something very specific to use as an album cover at the time. I needed it to evoke claustrophobia and a feeling of being safe inside whilst at the same time showing an outside, detached from the rest, just out of reach.

So imagine my jaw dropping as I saw this picture for the first time. It just struck me. So I wrote Luke, if he'd sell it. He had never sold a photograph before (plenty of awesome illustrations, though) so needless to say, I was very happy he did. He basically captured exactly what I had conceptualized -- that it's an actual photograph just makes it even better, as the concept is very much abstract but now has an actual physical representation.

The title "Shadows Cast At Dawn" was something that I had floating around in my head for ever. So when I began to work on the album that became the working title. Since I've worked on it for so long, that title has- in a way- effected everything I wrote, so it seemed to fit perfectly by the end.

Is there a special favourite place where you prefer to let your ideas mature? - a kind of soul-flyer place? I know you live in a small, rather idyllic place and not in a vibrant artists' metropolis! Whereby this way of living has advantages as well as disadvantages for an artist, right?

I love forests, oceans and mountains, so I'm pretty much alright with any surroundings, as long as I can escape civilization from time to time. Living out in the countryside allows me to focus, as you pretty much know where to find people, if you're looking for company but at the same time, you know where you are less likely to be found.

Sure, I need to travel a lot more to get anywhere and there aren't as many connections to be made face to face, but digitalization has granted us loners access to that aspect of life from the comfort of our homes, so I'd say it really depends on what you need to stay sane.

With the release of this album, you could now realize one of your dreams. Do we have another sparkler to light? What else do you have in the works? Are there any future plans that float in space? Or do you still carry around another big dream in your head?

I've already started recording for the next album, so fingers crossed that this time it won't take as long. Apart from that, I really want to tour the world, but circumstances aren't exactly ideal for that, at the moment. Apart from the music, I also tattoo and paint and hope to be doing more of that alongside music in the future. So if y'all wanna get some ink, hit me up!

Thanks a lot Nick, for giving us a deeper insight into your solo project and the things that move you! It's been very entertaining having this conversation with you here. We all will keep our eyes upon Nicolas "Scrios" Perrault in anticipation of your success!

Thank you very much, Mel, it's been my pleasure!

Leave Me To The Waves by Nicolas Perrault

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[icanthelpbut-love-you]

I am short of breath standing next to you

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Alec’s eyes are already scanning as he steps through the portal, searching for a glimpse of his fiancé in the crowd of guests surrounding him – an amalgamation of every possible downworld denizen imaginable, mingling so-far harmoniously. Alec had been dubious that they could all play nicely together, but Magnus had assured him that the thrill of securing an invite to the wedding of the High Warlock of Brooklyn and the Head of the New York Institute – the event of the century he had called it, much to Alec’s chagrin – would be enough to keep everyone on their best behaviour. Apparently he was right. As usual.

Speaking of Magnus, it’s clear he hasn’t yet arrived. Not that Alec really expected him to have; he’s most likely still getting ready, putting the finishing touches to an outfit that will undoubtedly make Alec weak in the knees. Admittedly, he’s cutting it a little fine, but Alec can’t help being endeared by Magnus’ inability to resist a dramatic entrance and shakes his head even as hopeless adoration courses through him. It’s unbelievable how Magnus’ little habits, things that would utterly incense Alec coming from anyone else, only make him fall further in love.

That being said, they will be having words if Magnus shows up late to their wedding of all things, Alec’s fondness for his quirks be damned.

As the portal shuts behind him with a flourish of green sparks, Alec muses that it’s been quite a while since he has had to use a portal conjured by anyone other than Magnus (perks of being engaged to a warlock). And honestly, it was surprisingly unpleasant.

Without realising it, he’s grown used to the sensation of Magnus’ magic, an extension of the man himself, and the way it creeps through his veins in a pleasant buzz that never fails to make him shiver. Don’t get him wrong, the warlock who had offered to make the portal from the institute for him – one of the many, many friends of Magnus’ that Alec has been meeting one after another in rapid succession for the past few hours – had been plenty good-natured and the portal itself conjured expertly. But the familiar sound of the portal opening and the muscle memory of stepping through as he’s done countless time before was jarring when paired with completely foreign magic, which had felt disconcertingly like it was sizing him up, prodding at him inquisitively with a few static shocks of lime-green energy. Knowing how intensely protective some of Magnus’ friends are, he wouldn’t be surprised if that was exactly what it was doing.

Now he’s given up searching for his fiancé in the crowd, Alec allows himself to stop and take in the sight before him. The dense surrounding forest opens up into a circular glade, grass soft and vibrant green beneath his feet and branches reaching endlessly up until the canopy opens to reveal the clear pre-evening sky. It’s a place they’ve visited before, on one of their early dates and many times since. They’d happened on upon it completely by accident, Magnus evidently much more nervous than he’d seemed on the surface based on the way he’d portalled them into a forest in the middle of nowhere several kilometres from the town he’d been aiming for.

Magnus had recovered quickly though, declaring with great enthusiasm that the glade was simply perfect for stargazing. So that was what they’d done. Alec vividly remembers lying with his head pillowed on Magnus’ shoulder as Magnus pressed close to murmur the names of constellations in his ear. As much as he’d tried to concentrate, Alec couldn’t help but be transfixed by Magnus’ face as he’d pointed out each star, eyes awash with unbridled excitement and the glitter brushed across his cheekbones shimmering in the starlight, every bit as captivating as the shining galaxies and nebulae spilling across the inky sky.

Leaning up to steal soft kisses every time Magnus stopped speaking to so much as take a breath, Alec had successfully coaxed Magnus down to join him in his distraction until all thoughts of stargazing were abandoned in favour of making out lazily on the grass.

The glade holds a special place in Alec’s heart. Not just because of the memory of the hours they’d spent kissing and talking and revelling in each other’s presence, but because it was the first time Alec can remember feeling like he could just be, existing for once fully in the moment wrapped in Magnus’ arms and idly playing with his fingers as they looked up at the stars. It was the first time he’d felt the beginnings of something more, far too early to be love but maybe the beginning of it, the possibility of it, and the first time (but by no means the last) that Alec wondered breathlessly how this was something he was allowed to have, these moments imbued with magic he’d never believed could exist outside of myths and epics, let alone in his own life.

And, based on the way Magnus had lit up when Alec suggested the clearing as a potential wedding location, knowing exactly where Alec was talking about with no need for elaboration and agreeing immediately, Alec thinks that it might mean something similar to Magnus too.

He makes his way around the rows of chairs lined up across the glade, gradually filling as guests find seats in preparation for the formalities beginning, sitting scattered throughout the rows in haphazard clumps in the absence of an official seating plan. Far too much work when there’s so many complex relationships between guests – particularly the warlocks, who are liable to suddenly unearth decades-old grudges when the fancy strikes. Far easier to let everyone sort it out themselves and embrace the controlled chaos that brings.

Another thing notably lacking is any pathway down the middle of the chairs, he and Magnus having decided to forego either of them walking down the aisle. Entirely predictably, Alec had found himself uncomfortable with the idea of that much attention focused on him alone, and Magnus for his part had been unable to hide his glee upon pointing out that he’s had his turn already.

“Besides,” he’d said conspiratorially, “Given our track record I doubt I’d make it past halfway.”

Alec had only laughed. Between Magnus slyly delegating the more mundane parts of wedding planning, citing that Alec was after all far better suited to the task given his greater experience, and Izzy snarking that she hopes this time there’ll be no devastatingly attractive men bursting through the doors halfway through, Alec is resigned to the reality that he’ll never live down his ill-advised almost-marriage to Lydia.

So, reaching the front row of chairs, Alec lingers, waiting for Magnus so they can step up to the altar together. Altar is probably too rigid a term, although Alec doesn’t exactly have a better one in his limited wedding-related vocabulary; arbour maybe, but even that doesn’t really do it justice. He and Magnus had supposedly agreed on simple set-up for decor, but Alec has a sneaking suspicion that was mostly to placate him at the time.

This is definitely not simple. But Alec has to admit it’s absolutely stunning. The altar is the statement piece of the entire clearing, set a few feet in front of the trees that border it. Branches and vines wind their way up around the trellis as though it grew from the very ground itself – and with the number of warlocks and faeries in attendance, for all Alec knows it might have – twisting together in knots that weave upwards in a swooping arch before reaching back out to join the canopy. The dark earth tones of the branches and rich forest green leaves fanning out around them are offset by clusters of vibrant sunflowers. They spiral up the sides, just a few lower down, almost obscured by the foliage arranged carefully around them, and increase in number upwards until the they cover the curve of the arch in an explosion of warm saffron-yellow. Clusters of tiny orange flowers peek out between them, making the darker amber at the centre of the petals pop.

They perfectly match the golden embroidery swirling across Alec’s tie, the focal point of his otherwise understated blue suit, as well as the boutonniere firmly pinned to Alec’s lapel – a single small sunflower nestled between a few glossy, curling leaves. He’d been more than a little sceptical initially; sunflowers, from his limited understanding, are a little loud and a lot cliché. However, when he’d voiced his concerns, Magnus had simply taken out his phone and offered it wordlessly, having evidently preloaded a page in anticipation of Alec’s resistance. Upon reading the words written there describing the flower’s meaning – devotion, happiness, adoration, longevity – Alec’s protests had died in his throat. Magnus had smugly patted his cheek before reclaiming his phone and continuing their previous conversation without so much as a hesitation, and that had been that.

He watches now as Izzy fusses over the positioning of a few blooms that must have gradually worked their way loose, playfully scolding Jace for jostling another when he tries to help and threatening him with some incredibly creative uses of a seraph blade if he so much as looks at any of the other decorations. Maybe not so playful then. Alec might have to keep an eye on that.

To his credit, and contrary to popular opinion, Jace must have some level of self-preservation instinct after all because he raises his hand in surrender and steps over to join Alec. He looks almost tentative.

“Congrats man.”

Alec inclines his head in acknowledgement, smiling softly as Jace bumps their shoulders together. Somethings never change, including Jace’s total lack of emotional coherence.

“You know I’m proud of you, right?” Jace continues and Alec looks up so fast he’s pretty sure he might have given himself whiplash, “I don’t say it enough but if anyone deserves some damn happiness it’s you.”

“A few months ago I was convinced I was never going to feel anything through our bond other than fear,” he says, serious in a way Alec rarely sees him, “It got to the point where I barely noticed it anymore because it was so constant, lurking just below the surface no matter what else was going on at the time, like you were barely holding it down by sheer force of will or something.”

Jace trails off, and Alec swears that he almost sounds choked up.

“I could see it was eating at you but I had no idea how to even try to help, and the worst part of it was that there were just these… moments where I could physically feel you collapsing in on yourself.”

He stops for a second, as though to compose himself, then seems to shake it off.

“And now you’re this beacon of ridiculous joy,” he laughs and shoves Alec good-naturedly, “Seriously, I got stuck on an overnight stake-out the other day and even then I couldn’t stop grinning the entire time because it was literally rolling off you. I could probably cruise through on your second-hand happiness alone for a few months at this point.”

Alec’s floored, completely speechless and unexpectedly touched as he listens to Jace use up what must be his emotional maturity quota for at least the next month. Whatever it is, it runs out then because Jace’s voice turns sly.

“You know, between our bond and some of your drunk ramblings I have all the material I need for a killer best man speech tonight.”

Alec doesn’t doubt that. In fact, between them Jace and Izzy probably have enough of Alec’s intoxicated text messages screenshotted to back up just about anything they decide to share. With that the moment’s well and truly dead, but the sincerity of Jace’s words still echo in the air so Alec pulls him into a one-armed hug before he hurts himself with any more over-compensatory macho posturing. As he said, some things never change.

It’s beyond amazing the difference it makes when everyone at your wedding is actually happy you’re getting married. Last time, the mood was so sombre anyone would have thought he’d invited them to a funeral. And honestly, if he’d gone through with it he might as well have. But now everyone is laughing and chatting, and part of him still can’t believe he can have this all with Magnus, a man who’s more than anything he could have come up with in his wildest of daydreams.

There’s the sharp whoosh and snap followed by the sound of footsteps crunching softly on the forest floor behind them and Jace nudges him, unnecessarily, like Alec can’t identify the sound of a portal and that familiar residue of magical energy in his sleep, like he hasn’t been finely attuned to every whisper of noise since he set foot into the clearing, and Alec turns and –

Oh. There he is.

Alec’s heart skips painfully and he has to stifle the urge to shift and tug at his collar, feeling abruptly like there’s something stealing the oxygen from around him before it can reach his lungs.

“I- I can’t breathe.”

He can hear the awe in his own voice, barely above a whisper, and he’s struck once more by how utterly different this is from last time. This time, Jace can snort and elbow him in the side and call him a sap, all light-hearted sarcasm and none of the poorly concealed worry. This time, he can let his gaze linger, eagerly drinking in the sight of his fiancé walking towards him. This time, he can feel the pure joy he’s come to associate with Magnus where it sits bright and steady and undeniable in the marrow of his bones.

Nothing’s the same, except the way Magnus takes his breath away.

He’s absolutely stunning. Sure, Alec had anticipated that but… wow. Magnus is dressed in the same blue suit and white shirt that Alec himself is wearing, complete with an identical boutonniere. But Magnus’ jacket is embellished with intricate gold filigree, swirling across the labels and flowing down his torso and over his arms in a way that makes it all the more difficult as Alec attempts to draw breath. It’s the exact same patterning as on Alec’s own tie and it makes moisture prick behind his eyes as he swallows thickly.

He needs to have a serious talk with Izzy about meddling. And boundaries, for that matter. The one tradition Magnus had insisted on (in character in a way that Alec should not have found anywhere as endearing as he did) was that they not see each other’s outfits until tonight, so Izzy had gone shopping separately with each of them to make sure they were ‘coordinated’. Naively, Alec had assumed that meant she was there to make sure… actually he hadn’t really asked considering even the basics of suit shopping were already deeply overwhelming for all they eluded him, but maybe to make sure the colours didn’t clash too badly?

He should have realised she’d use the opportunity to scheme, especially when she’d so vehemently insisted on this specific design for his tie. Briefly, he wonders what it would be like to have siblings that aren’t overly invested in his love life. But given Magnus’ reaction, eyes widening as he scans Alec, tears collecting in the corners and making them shine, he can’t bring himself to be even slightly annoyed at his sister’s deviousness. Not when the end result is this: a clear statement to everyone who sees them. Blue and gold, warlock and shadowhunter, beautifully and irreversibly intertwined. Two parts of a perfectly complementary pair.

They’re close enough that Alec can see the same shade from Magnus’ jacket picked out with careful precision in his makeup, a dusting of gold shimmering in the inner fold of his eyes. Everything about this man is perfect-stunning-incredible and automatically, Alec leans in to place a kiss on Magnus’ lips. Only Magnus shifts at the last minute, in a way that can’t be anything but deliberate. The kiss lands on his cheek and Alec pouts. Magnus tuts admonishingly.

“Kissing the groom before the wedding, Alexander? Surely you know that’s not allowed.”

Magnus almost manages to pull off a scandalised tone as he says it, but his eyes sparkle with mirth and there’s an infuriatingly coy smirk on his lips. Infuriating because it takes all Alec’s willpower not to kiss it off him and Magnus knows that. And there’s that ever-present electricity between them, the constant flirting and banter that has come so easily since the very beginning.

Giving an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Alec takes Magnus’ hand in his own instead, brushing his lips over Magnus’ knuckles. It’s the next closest thing he can get to actually kissing Magnus, to allowing the adoration bubbling up inside him an outlet. And if it makes Magnus’ cheeks darken with a slight flush, throat bobbing in a way that never fails to capture Alec’s attention and smirk fading as he looks like Alec has just shaken his entire world… well, Alec’s not above a little playful revenge.

With Magnus’ hand in his, Alec notices the distinct lack of rings. It makes him smile fondly, remembering the struggle it had been getting Magnus to relinquish the Lightwood ring long enough for them to actually use it in the ceremony. It had taken more than a little coaxing, whispers that after today he won’t ever have to take it off again, to convince him. And though Alec knows it’s mostly for show – teasing Alec is quite possibly Magnus’ favourite pastime – he could also see the hint of earnestness obscured by Magnus’ over the top whining. Magnus would never come out and say that he doesn’t want to give up the physical reminder that they’re getting married – even for a few hours – when it’s still all so surreal. He doesn’t have to say it. God knows Alec can barely believe it himself, had struggled to overcome his own reluctance to remove the ring Magnus gave him, keeps thinking that it must be an incredibly vivid dream conjured by his subconscious to taunt him because no way, his life can not be this perfect.

But apparently, it can. Because, though admittedly it has had a lot of practice, his subconscious could never so accurately reproduce the faint scent of sandalwood that lingers around Magnus or the exact feel of his hand clasped in Alec’s or the gentle familiar buzz of magic that sings just below his skin.

“By the angel – Alec!”

He starts at Izzy’s voice, exasperated and very clearly concealing laughter. Willing down a blush at the realisation he must have just been staring into Magnus’ eyes, completely oblivious to her saying his name, he manages to turn away long enough to look at her sheepishly. The sarcastic flourish when she waves expectantly towards the altar ignites a deeply-programmed childish urge to respond by flashing her a crude gesture (courtesy of growing up with Jace). But his hands still clasp Magnus’ and when he looks back at his fiancé, looks at the utter joy practically radiating off him, he completely loses that train of thought.

Feeling Magnus’ restlessness – and isn’t that a concept, to know Magnus well enough that he can see his emotions so plainly – Alec almost expects it when Magnus raises his free hand and flicks it absently, cobalt blue sparks shooting mesmerizingly from his fingertips, dancing and glowing in the space between them. Gradually they fade, but rather than dispersing Alec feels as though they’ve simply taken up residence somewhere in his chest instead, warming him to the core. And it’s so Magnus, the way he both sheds nervous energy and tries to cover up the nerves themselves with these little bursts of raw magic. God the sheer power that implies, that Magnus has so much magic roiling in his veins, so responsive to his emotions, that he has to burn off the excess at times like this, it… it does things to Alec that are less than ideal for a formal (and distinctly public) event.

He forces himself once more to draw his eyes away from Magnus before he becomes side-tracked yet again. Instead, he casts his gaze outwards, searching to see what this particular spark of magic has manifested as. It’s his turn to stare with wide eyes this time as he takes in the sight around them, jawing slackening in awe. Night has started to fall in the space between one breath and another while he’s been captivated by Magnus, the last rays filtering through the branches and setting the grove ablaze with golden light and soft shadows. The first stars glint above them. Briefly Alec thinks that somehow Magnus has brought those stars down to meet them, before he realises how ridiculous that is (although maybe not, given Magnus’ sheer strength and his penchant for outrageous romantic gestures). At least the audible gasps from the people around them mean he’s actually seeing this and isn’t so deliriously happy that he’s become starry-eyed.

Tiny points of light fill the canopy above them, weaving through the branches, wrapping whimsically around the altar and painting the sunflowers with a flickering glow that makes their petals dance like tongues of flame, and illuminating the defined angles of Magnus’ face. Alec’s not sure when his gaze wandered back to his fiancé. But now he’s powerless again, transfixed by the way the lights strike the gold of Magnus’ eyeshadow and catch the soft happiness gleaming in his eyes.

It’s one of the more productive results of Magnus’ errant magic, he has to admit.

Taking a steadying breath, Alec steps forward to stand on shaky legs under the trellis with Magnus by his side, hand still clasped tightly in his own. At some point Raphael and Catarina have moved to take their places behind Magnus, the former valiantly mustering his trademark bored expression when he sees Alec watching him, as though Alec hadn’t just caught him exchanging a proud look with Catarina. He senses more than sees Izzy and Jace at his own back, feels Izzy lean closer to him.

“At least I didn’t have to invite Magnus this time,” she whispers, voice dancing with mischief, and he glances sideways to fix her with a deadpan look.

“If you had to invite one of the grooms to the wedding, I think we’d have bigger problems on our hands,” he snarks back under his breath and hears Magnus huff a laugh. Trust Izzy not to miss an opportunity to poke fun, even as he’s seconds from getting married. He can feel himself relax a little though, some of the nervous tension draining at the familiarity of their banter, and is hit by sudden gratefulness towards her. Of course it’s deliberate – his sister knows his tendency to overthink better than just about anyone with the exception of Magnus – of course she notices that he’s overwhelmed before he realises it himself and immediately does her best to put him at ease.

Brother Zachariah steps forwards and the last of the chatter from the crowd seated in front of them dies down.

“We are gathered here to witness the union of Magnus Bane and Alexander Lightwood,” his voice projects into Alec’s head, “When they are ready, Alec and Magnus will exchange the vows they have chosen to prepare.”

There’s a ripple of interest through the rows of seats. Vows generally aren’t something that shadowhunters do at weddings; between the Wedded Union rune and exchanging tokens (often rings but not always), any gestures beyond that are considered excessive. But Alec is well beyond worrying about the Clave’s pompous dismissal of emotion. He’s getting married to the love of his life; at this point not even a demonic invasion would be enough to stop him from giving Magnus all the beautiful promises he deserves. Brother Zachariah inclines his head in invitation, and Alec grasps Magnus’ other hand to turn them so they’re facing each other, losing himself in Magnus’ eyes.

“Magnus,” he starts.

“Alexander,” Magnus responds, matching Alec’s sincere tone teasingly. Alec is momentarily thrown, before shaking his head and grinning helplessly as Magnus arches a brow, as if to ask what he’s waiting for. Composing himself, he tries again.

“Magnus I’m – I’m not a smooth talker, you know that. Not like you are. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve always had this ability to… the way you can these paint vivid pictures and craft entire worlds from your words alone is practically an art form.”

“That’s not something I can do. Especially when I’m around you.”

He pauses to chuckle breathlessly, overtaken by nostalgia.

“When we first met I wasn’t… I could barely string together two words if you got too close. I like to think I’ve got a bit better since then –”

Jace’s incredulous scoff prompts soft exhales of laughter from the seated guests and yeah, that’s probably fair, but Alec would appreciate it if calling out his inability to function around his fiancé could wait until after he manages to stumble through his vows. He huffs and turns to level an unimpressed look at his parabatai (who is a picture of innocence) before turning back towards Magnus.

“What I’m trying to say is I’m not great with words, but I’m going to try now because there’s some things I need to say that it’s really important to me that you hear, because it’s vital you understand how much you mean to me.” The words tumble out in a rush, and he can’t quite bring himself to meet Magnus’ intense gaze, knows there’s no way he’ll get a single sentence out if he does.

“I’m not sure how familiar you are with shadowhunter mythology, but there’s this old proverb that shadowhunters have a single great love, that we love one person with unmatched intensity for our entire lives.”

From the way Magnus’ expression twists into one of mute astonishment, it is in fact not something he’s familiar with at all.

“I never believed it, honestly it… it wasn’t something I could afford to believe, so I convinced myself it was nothing but a…” he trails off and shrugs abortively, hands flexing around Magnus’ in an echo of the way they’d normally be gesticulating wildly as he searches for the right words, “… story? A baseless wives-tale, I guess, something I could easily dismiss.”

“Then I met you,” he can’t help the wide smile spreading across his face nor the blatant awe he can hear colouring his tone, “That was nothing short of a miracle.”

“You’ve changed my life in every possible way, you challenged me to take control of my life, took my greatest fears and transformed them into something I treasure above anything else. I’ve never felt more at peace than I do falling asleep next to you every night – even if you are an unapologetic blanket hog.”

He pauses, both for effect and to let Magnus finish spluttering at the unexpected teasing. Making sure Magnus is looking at him again, he gazes steadily into his fiancé’s eyes as he continues.

“You’re my one great love, Magnus. I can feel it written in my bones. And I will cherish you with every second that makes up my future and every atom that makes up my body.”

The words tear a soft gasp from Magnus.

He looks undone. His chest is rising and falling irregularly, each exhale catching slightly in his throat and making him shudder. His lips are parted as he looks at Alec with unbridled wonder, before he shakes himself and seems to remember that it’s his turn to speak now.

“For someone who’s not supposed to be good with words that was one hell of a speech, Alexander,” he declares a little shakily, chuckling wetly. He’s clearly trying to be subtle as he blinks away the moisture threatening to spill over onto his cheeks, but he still has to take a second to compose himself before he can say anything else.  

“When you’re as old as I am, new experiences are something of a rarity.”

It’s something they’ve talked about before, the worrying tendency of warlocks to stagnate as the years drag by, to get set firm in their ways and refuse to stray away from the familiar. How Magnus has spent decades as a connoisseur of exciting new experiences, desperately trying to outrun the clock and still finding himself becoming gradually jaded.

“But being with you, everything feels new.” Magnus’ eyes are bright with wonder, as though he can hardly believe it even as he continues, “The world itself is the same, but the way I look at it has changed, I’ve changed, I’m seeing these things that once seemed so dulled by time in a new light. Everything’s brighter – all the good, beautiful things dialled up, and ugly parts of the world fading away for a while – all because of you.”

There’s pressure building behind Alec’s eyes, mounting with the overwhelming emotion surging through him at the idea that he could possibly have changed Magnus’ life for the better in the same way Magnus changed his. It’s not the first time Magnus has said things along those lines, but in this moment, with Magnus baring his heart and staring into Alec’s eyes with burning sincerity, Alec thinks he might actually be able to believe it.

“This,” Magnus says, gesturing between them with their joined hands, “Was never something I anticipated. It’s terrifying, honestly, because surprise is not an emotion I’ve been familiar with in a long time. But you’ve always been able to sneak past my walls without even trying; I’ve never had a defence that could keep you at bay.”

“Loving you makes me want to dive headfirst into the unknown as long as you’re by my side. And Alexander, I will never stop loving you for as long as I live.”

That’s what does it. The dam breaks, and Alec can feel tears sliding down his cheeks, breath stuttering as he stifles a loud inhale that teeters on the edge of becoming a sob.

Somehow the ring is grasped in his hand, presumably pressed there by Izzy or Jace during the few seconds that Alec’s brain had ceased to function in the aftermath of Magnus’ earth-shattering declaration. Magnus is holding its pair, free hand swiping a few stray tears from under his eye (careful not to disturb his eyeliner) before reaching out to cradle Alec’s. Someone’s trembling as Magnus slides the ring onto Alec’s finger, but Alec can’t tell who it is. Most likely, it’s both of them. Without preamble he reaches for Magnus in turn, guiding the ring along his slender fingers.

The moment stretches out and Alec is aware only of the indescribable relief coursing through him at the sight of the sliver band finally sitting in its rightful place on Magnus’ left hand, combined with comforting weight of the ring resting on his own, and Brother Zachariah’s words, “I now pronounce you one,” reverberating through him.

Finally, Magnus tugs him close, not bothering to wait for prompting, and Alec falls into him. Magnus captures his lips and it feels both shockingly new and perfectly familiar all at once. Alec gasps when he feels the cool metal of the ring, not yet fully warmed by Magnus’ body heat, as Magnus’ hand reaches up to cup his jaw, thumb caressing along Alec’s cheekbone. Pressing impossibly closer, Magnus swallows the sound, tilting Alec’s head a little so he can deepen the kiss. Alec obliges, a desperate edge to the way he pulls Magnus’ lower lip between his teeth and slides his hand up Magnus’ arm to grip his bicep.

Muffled by the rushing in his ears, Alec hears Jace wolfwhistle behind him. He feels Magnus’ lips curve up in an involuntary smirk and Alec doesn’t so much as react to his parabatai’s antics except to tighten his grip on Magnus’ arm, savouring the feel of his fiancé against him. By the angel, his husband.

They break apart after a few moments more, breathing heavily. Alec’s eyelids flutter open and he’s met by the sight of Magnus’ real eyes, unglamoured, an intimate sight for him alone. Forehead pressed against Magnus’, Alec is close enough to see the darker gold radiating from his dilated pupils and be enthralled by the way the champagne flecks at the edge of his irises catch the light. Pulling back slightly, Alec can hear the shuffling of people starting to get to their feet, migrating to the edges of the clearing to mingle. Or to gossip, would probably be more accurate, if downworlders are anywhere near as bad as shadowhunters are.

He is just stepping away, half a mind to tug Magnus away to a more private location for a few minutes, when gentle music starts to play, whispering through the branches and filling the air with a soft melody. An expectant hush falls.

“You better not think you’re getting out of dancing with me,” Magnus murmurs in Alec’s ear, pressing up against his side as he leans in.

Alec chuckles deep in his throat, putting up a token resistance even as Magnus’ hand on the small of his back guides them both forwards, towards the centre of the glade which is now miraculously clear of chairs.

“You sure you’re up for that?” Alec teases, “I distinctly remember you complaining non-stop about your poor bruised feet after Havana.”

He’s been practicing with Izzy (and, on one memorable occasion, Jace) for weeks. But Magnus doesn’t need to know that.

Magnus feigns indignance, pulling back a little so Alec can see his face properly when he raises his eyebrows and faux-pouts. The effect is significantly lessened by the tenderness Alec can see sparkling in his eyes and the soft upturn of his lips.

“No amount of bruising – or number of left feet for that matter – would be enough to make me miss out on our first dance as husbands.”

“Okay,” Alec breathes, spinning Magnus in to face him and dropping a hand to grip his waist, relishing the look of shocked delight that overtakes Magnus’ face, “Let’s dance, husband.”