#I mean it goes so well it has the same amount of syllables and everything

[vicvinegarandhughhoney]

Can I lay by your side?- Prompt: Seizures

Fandom: That '80s Show

Pairing: Corey Howard/June Tuesday

AU where Corey has epilepsy, and Tuesday comes to terms with what that means when she witnesses a seizure for the first time.

Read here or below the cut

Corey's been staring at the same Metallica record for nearly two minutes. Tuesday knows this because she's been watching him for that amount of time, studying the glazed look in his eyes with concern that only builds the longer he remains like this.

Her first thought, admittedly, is that he might have taken something. After all, he's been staring at the same spot for a while as though he isn't seeing the same thing there as she is. Maybe he's hallucinating? Maybe he chanced his luck on a few more magic mushrooms than usual before his shift, and voila! Spacey Corey! Hell, it could even be that he smoked a little too much weed- he does look almost stoned…

When Corey’s zone-out session officially reaches the two minute mark, Tuesday decides that whatever it is, she needs to intervene somehow. She sets down the pile of records she was organising and hops over the counter, suppressing the urge to wrap him in an embrace from behind (if he's tripping, it's probably not the best idea) and instead placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 

“You okay, babe?”

Nothing. It's like he didn't even hear her. His eyes are still fixed on the Metallica vinyl, expression emotionless. 

Tuesday swallows back a sudden surge of panic. “Corey?”

He blinks, and at last turns to meet her gaze. Something in his eyes just… isn't right, though. It's like he isn't all there. 

“Core?”

At his name being called again, he blinks. Snaps back into reality from whatever void he's been floating in. 

Except… no. This isn't Corey zoning out. Tuesday can tell immediately by the slightly panicked look in his eyes when he meets her gaze that something isn't right. 

“Talk to me, sweetheart.” She urges. 

“I…” He inhales sharply, then runs a shaky hand down his face. Even this one syllable seems slurred. “I can’t…” His sentence goes unfinished, trailing off into a deep sigh, so deep that his eyelids flutter closed and Tuesday is worried for a moment that he's about to pass out. “M… s-shit… seizure.”

Her stomach drops at his words. 

“You’re gonna have a seizure?”

Corey nods, and Tuesday well and truly panics. 

She's known Corey for six or so months now, and it's only during the last of these that they've been dating. They’ve had discussions about all sorts- aspirations, favourite flavour of ice pole (her lemon, him cherry), their respective childhood- usually laying in bed together or drowsily watching TV. Casual talks just like Tuesday’s heard are normal between couples. 

There was one chat, though, which was explicitly more important than the lazy discussions they typically had. Corey had sat her down one evening, pretty early on into their relationship. He looked nervous. Like he thought she was about to bolt out the door the moment he started speaking to her. 

“I, uh. I have a thing.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah. A brain thing. A disorder. Illness. Whatever you wanna call it.”

“I… like what? Like- like a cancer?”

He’d rouged. “Oh, no. God no. I don't think so, anyway. It's- it’s epilepsy. It isn't… it isn't some big bad degenerative disorder, but that doesn't mean it isn't… messy… sometimes.”

“Messy?”

“Yeah. Complicated. Difficult. D’you… do you know anything about epilepsy?”

Tuesday had shaken her head. God, she wished she could have been more informed for him. She wished she could have made it easier, saved him the task of laboriously explaining everything to her. 

By the end of their talk, though, she'd been a little more confident about the subject. She knew that epilepsy was characterised by seizures, and though Corey did have the scarier ones (tonic-clonic, he’d called them), they were usually preceded by smaller ones. 

“It’s like the wiring sparking before the whole system shuts down. It's localised. Focal.” His voice assumed a vaguely professorial air. Tuesday listened, enraptured, to his lecture. “In my case, it looks like I’m just zoning out. They’re called absence seizures. Like ‘absence’, but French, I guess.”

“So how do I know whether you're actually zoning out or whether it's one of these seizures?”

Corey smiled sympathetically. “The aftermath is a pretty strong clue. I’m told that once you've witnessed a few, you get an eye for them.”

Tuesday hasn't witnessed a few. She hasn't witnessed any, until now, and the fact that Corey is probably about to have a ‘big one’ right in front of her is frankly terrifying. 

She breathes in deeply, pulling herself back to the here and now. “Okay. Okay. What- what do you need me to do? You should- you should lie down, right?”

“Mmm…”

“Are you- are you gonna go to the break room? It might be a little easier but-”

“C-can’t.” He murmurs in response, already lowering himself shakily to the floor just a metre or so away from the shelves. His blinking is growing more and more languid as he adjusts ever so slightly to get comfortable, and Tuesday remembers him telling her something about cushioning his head during that long discussion they had. She shrugs off her green jacket and rolls it up. 

“Here,” she says, kneeling down next to him and gently lifting his head to place the jacket beneath it as a makeshift pillow. “Is- is that good, Core?”

He hums and it's clear she isn't going to get much more from him verbally- especially because his eyelids are starting to flutter. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart. It’s… it’s going to be okay. I’m here.”

A small, pained whine bubbles up from his throat. His neck is starting to twitch a little. As are his hands. 

It must be terrifying to lose control of your body like that. To know that for the next few minutes, there's nothing you can do except let things happen. 

When at last his eyes fall closed completely and consciousness leaves him, Tuesday can't help feeling almost relieved in spite of the accompanying harsher motions. The fear in his eyes had been too visceral for her to stomach. This unnatural shaking is hardly easier to witness, of course, but at least he doesn't appear to be as aware of his situation as before. 

The bell on the door tinkles and Tuesday realises she's neglected to shut customers out for the time being. She curses and lifts herself up just enough to spot someone beginning to browse the shelves on the other side of the store, completely unaware of the medical incident occurring mere footsteps away. 

“Margaret!” she shouts to the back office. 

“What?”

“Can you- can you come out here please!”

There's the sound of footsteps from the back office, and Tuesday looks up to see Margaret standing in the doorway. She’s wearing her typical ‘one is not amused’ expression that is usually eye-roll worthy (except in situations like these, of course, where a little care and attention is definitely needed). 

“What?”

“Corey’s having a seizure.”

Tuesday's never seen a person's entire demeanour change so quickly. In an instant, Margaret’s features are softening, and she hurries to escort the single browsing customer out of the door with not a snide remark in sight. She seems genuinely concerned. 

“Okay,” she says as soon as he's gone, pulling the shutters on the door down. “Are you timing?”

“T-timing?”

“The seizure, are you timing how long it's lasting? We need to time it, Tuesday.”

Right. Of course. Corey definitely told her about this during that long conversation they had, and Tuesday flushes with shame at forgetting it. Thankfully, before she can even apologise, Margaret is pressing a button on her watch and turning her attention back to Corey. 

“You’re okay, Corey. It’s going to be alright.”

Her voice is so gentle. So gentle. The hand that she usually disgruntledly shoos customers away with now comes up to rest on his shaking shoulder, her brows knitted with motherly attention. 

“We’re both here with you, Corey. Nice and easy. It’ll be over soon, sweetheart.”

Tuesday hopes she's right. It's only been a minute or so, but to her it feels like a lifetime- God knows how long of an eternity it must feel to him. His cheek is flush to the floor now, eyes closed but lashes fluttering. Every so often, a low whine escapes the back of his throat like that of a wounded animal, the convulsive motions making it sound even more pained, like he's choking on his own fucking saliva. 

“Keep his head tilted up.” Margaret says calmly. “That’s it- just like that. Makes it easier for him to breathe.”

Easier? God, when did it get difficult for him?

She finds out quickly, her eyes moving to Corey’s chest. Amongst the jerking movements she makes out the irregular rising and falling for each breath. Starts to count them just to give herself something to do until all this is over. 

1.

A second passes. Then another. It feels as though everything is moving aside from his-

2. 

His lips are a little blue. Tuesday's only just noticed that. She reaches out a hand to rub against his trembling shoulder, waiting to feel another choking exhale before-

3. 

4.

5.

The breaths come in quick succession, and for a moment Tuesday sighs with relief. Until… silence. 

She waits another second. Two. Three. Still, amidst everything, she can't make out the movement of his chest. Her eyes widen with concern and she looks up to Margaret, only to find hers flash with panic as well before it's hastily concealed. 

“Corey?” Margaret calls. “Corey, sweetheart, take a breath for me.”

She reaches around, making a fist and rubbing against his sternum as if to encourage the reflex herself. 

“Come on, Corey. Breathe. You’ve got to breathe.”

Tuesday joins in now, too- her hand comes up to his jaw, her cheek to the ground in front of him so she's at his level. Desperation makes her voice tremble. 

“Breathe, Core. Breathe. Please.”

The rigidity dissipates for a second, and Corey takes a breath. Tuesday and Margaret immediately exhale theirs. 

“Good boy, Corey.” Margaret manages, smiling a little in a way that hides how close she was to tears. “There we are. Nearly over now.”

Tuesday’s gaze flits to the watch. “How long?”

“Nearly three minutes. It's starting to slow down now.”

If Margaret hadn't pointed it out, she would never have noticed, but it's true- the violent jerking motions are growing more and more infrequent with each second that passes. They fade into twitches, ones that Tuesday feels beneath her palm as she strokes his back, then stillness. Blissful, blissful stillness. 

She waits for him to wake up, for the lucidity to suddenly reappear in his eyes, but instead she's met with yet more unconsciousness. The only difference is that this time it almost resembles… 

“Sleep, Corey. That's it. We’re going to be right here when you wake up again.”

His breathing is slow and even now, a far cry from what it has been. Tuesday’s hand moves from his jaw to his forehead, brushing the sweat-damp hair back as she raises her eyes to meet Margaret's. 

“He’s… he's asleep now?”

“Mhm. Will be for a good few minutes. Then he’ll wake up. Then he'll probably go back to sleep again. He won't be back with it for a few hours, and even then he'll be exhausted.”

Oh. 

“I’m going to call Katie to come pick him up- I know you'll want to take him home yourself, but she's got a lot of experience with post-ictal Corey. You can always come with them.”

“Post… post-ictal?”

Margaret smiles faintly. “Yeah. Post-seizure.”

This is evidence enough that Tuesday is wholly unprepared for taking care of Corey right now, as much as she might wish otherwise. She sighs, and nods. 

“Alright. I'll come with them.”

“Thought so.” With a small grunt, Margaret pulls herself up from the floor she was kneeling on. “Right, I’m going to make that call.”

Tuesday doesn't quite know why her heart skips a beat. Perhaps it's the sudden responsibility. “Is- is there anything really important I need to do?”

The reply she gets is simple. 

“Just talk to him, Tuesday. Talk, and comfort, because when he wakes up, he's going to be confused and scared half to death.”

With these words, Margaret leaves her alone with only the faint sound of music playing in the background of the store and Corey’s almost-snores. She settles back on her haunches, heart still racing in her chest even as she observes this new stillness. 

“It’s… it’s alright, Core. I’m here.” 

Her hand begins to rake through the curls hanging limply over his forehead, soothing both herself and (hopefully) her boyfriend with the familiar motion. It's hard to tell whether it's comforting for him, of course. It's hard to tell anything at all when he's so unnaturally quiet. 

Distantly, she can hear Margaret's voice on the phone. 

“Just over three minutes… no… not as far as I'm aware… no, he didn't throw up… mhm… yeah, Tuesday's with him right now. We’re just waiting for him to come round.”

As if on cue, a small groan issues from the floor in front of Tuesday, she looks down to see Corey’s brow furrowed as if in pain. 

“Hey,” she greets, voice soft, ministrations softer. “You had a seizure, sweetheart, but you're okay now. You're alright.”

He sighs deeply, nostrils flaring. Shifts until the palms of his hands are pressed against the floor like he's about to attempt lifting himself up. 

“Easy, Core, easy. Don’t try to move just yet.”

Usually, her efforts to subdue him physically would be pointless- in the weeks they've been dating, he’s lifted her up for fun multiple times- but now it only takes a single hand to his shoulder for him to sink back down, exhausted and defeated. He looses another little groan, and Tuesday realises that he's trembling. Her heart plummets right to her feet. 

“Hey, it's okay! I promise you're alright, sweetheart.”

Slowly, she lowers herself to the floor beside him and moves to face him, taking a slightly-too-cold hand in hers while her other hand continues to card through his hair. His eyes open half-mast, frightened though still a little glazed. 

“Just talk to him, Tuesday.”

“You’re- you’re at Permanent Record right now.” She tells him, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb. “And Margaret- she’s in the back calling your sister so she can come pick you up. I’ll stay right here with you, if- as long as you want me to, Corey, okay?”

He blinks slowly. Hums. 

Draws his free hand shakily up to his face to wipe his mouth, then lets it flop back down to the floor. Even this small movement has him breathless. Shaking again. 

“It’s okay, Corey. I’m here. Your sister’s on her way. You’re safe, sweetheart. Everything’s okay. I’m right here.”

His eyes don't leave hers the whole time she speaks, and Tuesday can only hope that he's understanding some of it. What she knows for sure, though, is that Margaret was right. 

Corey’s terrified. 

Aside from the trembling- almost shivering, now- there are tears beginning to form in his eyes. Tuesday hasn't seen him cry like this before. Ever. 

For a moment, her mind races trying to conjure up a solution from her conversation with Corey, or perhaps something Margaret said could help. There was a pamphlet she read too, and maybe… God, if she could just remember-

Fuck it. 

As gently as possible, she sits up and begins to manoeuvre Corey towards her, tentativity dissipating the moment he begins reaching for her with the same desperation she feels. It takes a few moments, but soon he’s laying against her, her arms wrapped around his middle while she whispers reassurances into his hair. It feels good to hold him, to feel the tension in his muscles loosening within her embrace. 

“Shh, you’re alright. You had a seizure, but you're okay now. I’m here. Your sister’s coming. Everyone's here to look after you, Corey.”

After a few minutes, Margaret emerges from the back room. She smiles when she spots the two of them. 

“See? I told you he'd fall right back asleep.”

Tuesday hadn’t even noticed, but now that she peers round, she sees that her boyfriend’s eyes are closed, and he's breathing deeply and evenly. Fast asleep in her arms. 

“Katie’s on her way.” Margaret continues. “Won’t be long now.”

Tuesday hears Katie before she sees her. The bell attached to the door tinkles urgently, and then there are hurried footsteps across the tile until golden curls and a concerned face follow them into her eye line. Usually the very picture of politeness, Katie doesn't offer a word to Tuesday before kneeling down at her brother’s side, and frankly? Who could blame her. 

“Oh, Corey.”

There's more conveyed in those three syllables than could be contained in a thousand-page book, especially when they're immediately accompanied by her hand smoothing back the hair on his forehead just like Tuesday had done. 

“We're gonna get you home, alright, Core? Nice and tucked up in bed before you know it.”

The smile she levels his way is wobbly. Of course it is- Corey’s so still in sleep that it would shake anyone's resolve. She spends a few more moments soothing him, then turns her attention to Tuesday. 

“The car’s parked just outside, so all we have to do is get him out there and into the backseat. Daddy's at home- that means we don't have to worry about getting him out of the car and into bed.”

“I think I can help lift him if you can get his legs?”

“Deal.”

**

Somehow, with their combined effort, they manage to lay Corey out in the back seat of the car. Katie takes the driver’s seat (‘I sure am glad my licence came through’) while Tuesday sits with her boyfriend’s head settled in her lap. The drive is thankfully only a short one- the easy commute is one of the things that drew Corey to the job in the first place- and soon they're pulling up into the driveway. To his credit, RT’s already standing outside waiting for them. 

“Alright, Corey.” he says, gentler than he's ever been as he leans over to lift his son from the back seat. “There we go, my boy. Your Dad’s got you now.”

In the months that she's known Corey, she's come to dislike his father. He's stingy, lazy, and all the ‘ists’ rolled into one- misogynist, racist, chauvinist etc etc. He doesn't look after his son often enough, because as a woman that's Katie’s job (and before her, it was his ex-wife who bore the task). For a moment, though, while she watches RT gather Corey in his arms and slowly retreat to the house, whispering assurances all the way, she doesn't hate him as much as usual. 

For a brief few seconds, he's simply a father carrying his son to his bedroom, just like he used to when Corey was tiny and fell asleep after a long car ride. 

Tuesday stays sat in the car for a while, the ghost of her boyfriend’s warmth still lingering in her lap while she tries to grapple with the day’s events. It's only when Katie comes out from the house after following RT in that she blinks herself out of her stupor and opens the car door.

“You okay?” Katie asks. It’s a testament to her personality that despite the worry she must feel for her brother, she's still taking time to enquire about the welfare of his girlfriend. 

Tuesday plasters on a fake smile and nods. “Yeah. Is… is Corey alright?”

The answer she receives is delayed by a few seconds that only deepen the pit in her stomach. 

“He’ll be okay. It’s just… well, he was seizure-free for a month or so and I think this one coming out of the blue has taken its toll on him a little. Physically and mentally.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Katie smiles, a sliver of the usual bubbly joy she exhibits, but an expression of quiet gratitude nonetheless. “He’s exhausted, but I think he'd appreciate you being there. Why don't you just go up to his bedroom and stay with him a while? It would be nice for him to know that this whole thing hasn't scared you away.”

Tuesday frowns. “Scared me away?”

A sad nod. “Unfortunately some of his… previous girlfriends… weren't super understanding. They're ready to accept him when he's just a cute guy with nice hair, but the moment he starts becoming a real human being with real struggles, they leave. He's ‘too much’ for them.”

“Oh God.”

“One of them- Hannah, I think her name was- well, he was at her place and they were watching a movie when he realised he was about to seize. She freaked out and kicked him out of her apartment because she didn't want him to ‘puke on her carpet’ and he ended up having the seizure out in the hall completely by himself. Luckily a neighbour heard some commotion and came out to see what was going on. She was the one who phoned the number on his bracelet from her apartment and told us what had happened- well, what she knew about it, at least. He’d hit his head during it as well, probably when he first lost consciousness, and when Mommy and I got there we ended up taking him straight to the ER. He needed stitches.”

“Jesus.”

“It was a good thing we went there as well, because he had another seizure at the hospital. They think it was stress-induced, you know, because of his girlfriend's reaction. He ended up staying the night.”

Tuesday swallows, heart sinking. “I had no idea.”

“I know- now come on, go and cheer my brother up so he knows you’re way better than any of those… unkind ladies.”

Katie takes her by the hand, marching her through the front door and up the stairs to the right until they reach Corey's bedroom. The curtains are closed, and nobody is in there except him. Tuesday takes a step in. 

“If you need anything, just come downstairs.” Katie whispers, disappearing before Tuesday can ask a single question more- not that any immediately spring to mind. The room settles into a silence only interrupted by the sound of Corey’s gentle snoring. 

It's odd to hear. He’s normally quiet as a mouse when he sleeps, but the knowledge that post-ictal (is that the word Margaret used?) Corey isn’t doesn't really surprise her. She's sure she would sleep a little differently after the medical equivalent of an electrical short-circuit in the brain. 

There's a seat pulled out at the side of the bed- perhaps it was where Katie was sitting while Tuesday was having a short existential crisis in the car. She lowers herself into it and watches Corey sleep for a few seconds. Brushes the curls from his forehead. 

Her presence must register somewhere in his unconscious mind, because he soon begins to stir, tired blue eyes opening to look at her. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” she greets, still stroking his hair. “How are you feeling?”

He swallows. Opens his mouth then closes it like he's remembering how to speak properly again. “Mm… tired.” His voice is hoarse. 

Tuesday hums. “I’m not surprised. Just take it easy, alright?”

His eyes close briefly. “Takin’ it… easy.”

“You need anything?”

There's a pause, before he exhales a deep sigh and presses his cheek deeper against his pillow. “Just… you.”

Tuesday feels a swell of pride. “Me?”

“Mhm…”

Reluctantly, she pulls herself away from stroking his hair and instead crosses to the other side of the room where she can slip beneath the covers of his bed. The side sans Corey is of course cold, but it smells like him, and the moment he feels her shifting towards him he rolls over and envelopes her in a slightly shaky bear hug. 

“Mm… love you, Tuesday.”

She swallows past the emotional lump in her throat and strokes his hair as he settles with his head beneath her chin. “Yeah… I love you too, Corey. No matter what.”

The trembling strengthens for a moment and Tuesday can feel dampness seeping into the top of her shirt- right where her boyfriend’s face is pressed, conveniently buried away from her view. 

“It’s alright, Core.” she whispers, like it's a secret between only the two of them. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

They remain there until the trembling begins to subside. Until the gentle snores start anew. 

Until Corey is sound asleep in her arms without fear that she'll loosen her grip. 

[faunina]

yessss, the chintz poem and translation, two things that I love!!! I've already seen a couple of german translations in the notes, but I wanted to give this a try myself

Das Frauchen füllt sein Haus mit Tand

Um der Sache treu zu bleiben, fick ich ihn am Boden.

Thankfully the jump from one germanic language to another means I can keep the sentence structure practically as is. Now for the word choices:

Das Frauchen: a diminutive of "Frau", which can both mean simply "woman" as well as "wife". I thought a diminutive nicely expresses what the narrator thinks of her (aka not much, he doesn't consider her a serious rival because altho he might not have the vows and the rings and the marriage, the husband clearly prefers (fucking) him). I was thinking of using "Fräulein" first, which is also a diminutive but nowadays used chiefly derogatively, but this gets tricky because Fräulein historically referred to unmarried (usually young) women, making it ambiguous enough that it could instead be talking about a young daughter that has taken over leading the household or something. Further points: I chose "das" instead of "sein" because I would have to choose one or the other AGAIN in front of "Haus", and I wanted to avoid the repetition, and emphasizing that it's HIS house but "the woman" (derogative) felt more poignant than HIS woman but "the house" (neutral). Final point: "Frauchen" is also commonly used to refer to the female owner of a dog! Which could imply that the narrator thinks the wife has her husband "on a leash", since it's his house but he's clearly not putting his foot down regarding what she does with it

Tand: one of the many, many german words for "useless worthless pretty little things that are a waste of money". There's nothing innately exotic about it and maybe "Kitsch" would be a better translation for the cultural context of chintz, but I just liked it better :P Tand also has a bit of a more elevated feel to it because it's quite an archaic word. Whether you use Kitsch or Tand doesn't change the syllable count either, but I think I just like the harder consonants of Tand to end the first line with

Um der Sache treu zu bleiben: definitely a tricky one!! "to keep it real" is a crazy difficult concept to translate (as others have mentioned), so this phrase is maybe closer to "to stay true to the spirit of things", which brings up a whole barrage of bew questions - what "spirit of things", the chintz? The Fakeness that the wife injects in every facet of her marriage? I think I like that idea best - her husband fucking other men in their shared home is CERTAINLY not the spirit that the wife is TRYING to embody, after all she's trying to keep up appearances of a wealthy and "everything's good and fine" kinda life. The narrator however sees how she invests in this lifestyle by buying an overflowing amount of cheap imitations and goes "alright, you want fake? I can give you fake. Fake fucking marriage, watch how faithless and debauched I can make your husband". And another fun thing: You can "stay true" to the spirit of things, but "treu bleiben" is also the phrase you would use to express that you are, for example, staying true to your partner. Which, you know. Precisely not what is happening here.

The rest of the the line ("fick ich ihn am Boden") is basically just a word for word translation of "I fuck him on the floor" - english "fucking" and german "ficken" stem from the same roots etymologically and are similarly crass words for sex. I used the contracted "fick ich ihn" instead of the proper "ficke ich ihn" both for a more colloquial, vulgar tone and for the syllable count, and "on the floor" is maybe more properly rendered as "auf dem Boden", but again, "am Boden" fits better vis-a-vis syllables.

Lastly: meter! The original is of course an almost perfect, even iambic pentameter. My version isn't, but I still love how it ended up - the first line is just four nice little iambs, but the second line consists of SEVEN trochees.

I don't think I was quite able to translate the extreme tonal shift between the two lines as it exists in English, and the consonantal alliterations didn't entirely carry over either, but now thanks to the shift in length AND meter, it's still JARRING to read this and try to jump from one line to the next.

Finally, I'd like to give shout outs specifically to @sympathischeufos for the "am Boden", because I was definitely inspired by their use and explanation of it in their translation. And also @tainbocuailnge and their translation for the use of present tense in the first line!

Translation thoughts on the greatest poem of our time, “His wife has filled his house with chintz. To keep it real I fuck him on the floor”

It’s actually quite tricky to translate. Because it’s so short, each word and grammatical construction is carrying a lot of weight. It also, as people have noted, plays with registers. “Chintz” is a word with its own set of associations. Chintz is a type of fabric with its origins in India. The disparaging connotation is from chintz’s eventual commonality. Chintz was actually banned from England and France because the local textile mills couldn’t compete.

Keep it real” is tremendously difficult to translate – it’s a bit difficult to even define. It means to be authentic and genuine, but it also has connotations of staying true to one’s roots. Like many English slang words, it comes first from AAVE. From this article on the phrase:

“[K]eeping it real meant performing an individual’s experience of being Black in the United States. As such, it became a form of resistance. Insisting on a different reality, one that wasn’t recognized by the dominant culture, empowered Black people to ‘forge a parallel system of meaning,’ according to cultural critic Mich Nyawalo…The phrase’s roots in racialized resistance, however, were erased when it was adopted by the mostly-White film world of the 1970s and ’80s….Keeping it real in this context indicated a performance done so well that audiences could forget it was a performance.This version of keeping it real wasn’t about testifying to personal experience; it was about inventing it.”

One has to imagine that jjbang8 did not have the origins of these phrases in mind when composing the poem, but even if by coincidence, the etymological and cultural journeys of these two central lexemes perfectly reflect the themes of the poem. The two words have themselves traveled away from the authenticity they once represented, and, in a new context, have taken on new meanings – the hero of our poem, the unnamed “him”, is, presumably, in quite a similar situation.

Setting aside the question of register, of the phonology, prosody, and meter of the original, of the information that is transmitted through bits of grammar that don’t necessarily exist in other languages – a gifted translator might be able to account for all of these – how do you translate the journey of the words themselves?

In my translations, I decided to go for the most evocative words, even if they don’t evoke the exact same things as in the original. The strength of these two lines is that they imply that there’s more than just what you see, whether that’s the details of the story – what’s happening in the marriage? how do the narrator and the husband know each other? – or the cultural background of the very words themselves. I wanted to try and replicate this effect.

Yiddish first:

זייַן ווייַב האָט אָנגעפֿילט זייַן הויז מיט הבלים

צו בלייַבן וויטיש, איך שטוף אים א��פֿן דיל. zayn vayb hot ongefilt zayn hoyz mit havolim.

tsu blaybn vitish, ikh shtup im afn dil

This translation is pretty direct. There is a word for chintz in Yiddish – tsits – but, as far as I can tell, it refers only to the fabric; it doesn’t have the same derogatory connotation as in English. I chose, instead, havolim, a loshn-koydesh word that means “vanity, nothingness, nonsense, trifles”. In Hebrew, it can also mean breath or vapor. I chose this over the other competitors because it, too, is a word with a journey and with a secondary meaning. Rather than imagining the bright prints of chintz, we might imagine a more olfactory implication – his wife has filled his house with perfumes or cleaning fluids. It can carry the implication that something is being masked as well as the associations with vanity and gaudiness.

Vitish – Okay, this is a good one. Keep in mind, of course, that I’ve never heard or seen it used before today, so my understanding of its nuances is very limited, but I’ll explain to you exactly how I am sourcing its meaning. The Comprehensive Yiddish-English Dictionary (CYED) gives this as “gone astray (esp. woman); slang correct, honest”. I used the Yiddish Book Center’s optical character recognition software, which allows you to search for strings in their corpus, to confirm that both usages are, in fact, attested. It’s a pretty rare word in text, though, as the CYED implies, it might have been more common in spoken speech. It appears in a glossary in “Bay unds yuden” (Among Us Jews) as a thieves cant word, where it’s definted as נאַריש, שרעקעוודיק, אונבעהאלפ. אויך נישט גנביש. אין דער דייַטשער גאַונער-שפראַך –  witsch – נאַריש, or “foolish, terrible, clumsy/pathetic. not of the thieves world. in the German thieves cant witsch means foolish”. A vitishe nekeyve (vitishe woman) is either a slacker or a prostitute. I can’t prove this for sure, but my sense is that it might come from the same root as vitz, joke (it’s used a couple of times in the corpus to mention laughing at a vitish remark – which makes it seem kind of similar to witty). I assume the German thieve’s cant that’s being referred to is Rotwelsch, which has its own fascinating history and, in fact, incorporates a lot of Yiddish. In fact, for this reason, some of the first Yiddish linguists were actually criminologists! What an excellent set of associations, no? It has the slangy sense of straightforward of honest; it has a sense of sexual non-normativity (we might use it to read into the relationship between the narrator and the husband) – and a feminized one at that; it was used by an underground subculture, and, again, the meaning there was quite different – like the “real” in “keeping it real” it was used to indicate whether or not someone was “in” on the life (tho “real” is used to mean that the person is in, while “vitish” is used to mean they’re not). It’s variety of meanings are more ambiguous than “keep it real”, which can pretty much only be read positively, and it also brings in a tinge of criminality. Though it doesn’t have the same exact connotations as “keep it real”, I think it’s about as ideal of a fit as we’ll get because it’s equally evocative of more below the surface. I also chose “tsu blaybn vitish”, which is “to stay vitish”, as opposed to something like “to make it vitish” to keep the slight ambiguity of time that “keep it real” has – keeping it real does< I think, imply that there is a pre-existing “real” to which one can adhere, so I wanted to imply the same.

The rest is straight-forward. “Shtup” is one of a few words the Comprehensive English-Yiddish Dictionary (CEYD) gives for “fuck”, and I think it has a nice sound.

Ok, now Russian

женой твой дом наполнен финтифлюшками

чтоб не блудить с пути, ебемся на полу

zhenoy tvoy dom napolnin fintiflyushkami.

shtob ne bludit’ s puti’, yebyomsya na polu

In order to preserve, more or less, the iambic meter, I made a few more changes here – since Russian, unlike Yiddish, is not a Germanic language, it’s harder to keep the same structure + word order while also maintaining the rhythm. I would translate this back to English as:

“Your house is filled with trifles by your wife. To not stray off the path, we’re fucking on the floor”

So a few notes before we get into the choice of words for “chintz” and “keep it real”. To preserve the iamb, I changed “his” to “your”. This changes the lines from a narration of events to some outside party to a conversation between the two men at the center. Russian also has both formal and informal you (formal you is also the plural form, as is the case in a number of other languages). I went with informal you because I wanted to preserve the fact that his wife has filled his house not their house, as someone pointed out in the original chain (though I don’t think that differentiation is nearly as striking in the 2nd person) and because it’s unlikely you’d be on formal you with someone you’re fucking (unless it’s, like, a kink thing). I honestly didn’t even consider making it formal, but that would actually raise a lot of interesting implications about the relationship between the speaker and the husband, as well as with what that means about the “realness” of the situation. Is, in fact, the narrator only creating a mirage of a more real, more meaningful encounter, while the actual truth – that there is a woman the husband has made promises to that he’s betraying – is obscured? that this intimacy is just a facade? Is there perhaps some sort of power differential that the narrator wishes to point out? Or perhaps is the way that the narrator is keeping it real by pointing out the distance between the two of them? there is no pretense of intimacy, the narrator is calling this what it is – an encounter without deeper significance?

Much to think about, but I actually think the two men do have history –  i think the narrator remembers the house back when it was actually only “his house” and was as yet unfilled with chintz. We also don’t know what they were calling each other prior to this moment. This could be the first time they switched to the informal you. 

Ok moving on, I originally translated it as “твой дом наполнен финтифлюшками жены”. Honestly, this sounds more elegant than what I have now, but I ultimately though removing the wife from either a subject or agent position (grammatically, I mean) was too big a betrayal of the original. The original judges the wife. She took an active role in filling the house. If she were made passive, that read is certainly a possible one – perhaps even the dominant one – but it could also read more like “we are doing this in a space filled with reminders of his wife and the life they share” – the action of filling is no longer what’s being focused on. Why do I say the current translation is inelegant? I feel you stumble over it a little, because it’s almost a garden path sentence. This is also an assset though. “Zhenoy tvoy dom napolnen” is a fully grammatical sentence on its own, and it means “Your house is filled by your wife” – as in English, the primary read is that the wife is what the house is full of. If the sentence makes you stumble, perhaps that’s even good – we focus, for good reason, on the relationship between the two men, but in a translation, the wife is able to draw more attention to herself.

Ok, chintz: I chose the word “финтифлюшки” (fintiflyushki), meaning trifle/bobble/tchotchke, because it, allegedly, comes from the german phrase finten und flausen, meaning illusions and vanity/nonsense. Once again, I like that the word has a journey, specifically a cross-linguistic one.

Keep it real: this one, frankly, fails to capture the impact of the original, in my opinion, but allow me to explain the reasoning. “Stray off the path” implies, again, that there is some sort of path that both the narrator and the husband were on before the wife and the chintz – and one they intend to continue taking, one that this act is a maintenance of. It brings in a little irony, since the husband very much is straying from the path of his marriage. “Bludit’“ can also mean to be unfaithful in a marriage (as, in fact, can “stray”). The proto-slavic word it comes from can mean to delude or debauch – they want to do the latter but not the former.

As for register – “shtob” is a bit informal. I would write the full version (shto by) in an email, for example. The word for fuck, yebyomsa, is from one of the “mat” words, the extra special top tier of russian swears, definitely not to be said in polite company (and, if you are a man of a certain generation or background, not in front of women; it’s not that the use of mat automatically invokes a male-only environment, but if we’re already thinking that deeply about it. But while we’re on the topic, i will say that in my circles in the US, women use mat much more actively than men (at least in front of me, who was, up until recently, a woman and also a child).)

Ok i think that’s all the comments i have!

[eye-of-the-hawk]

(insp)

I know I’m late to this (comparing Sombra’s Rime skin to one of my fave vines ever) but when my sister and i were laughing about this the other day, i realized i have never seen a symmetra version ??? even tho it fits so well ??

[1kook]

commercial break ; THREE

this is a netflix & chill drabble kook’s pov during their argument in d&b !

summary; But Jungkook loves the sun. warnings; post-fight, drinking, heart ache :( miscellaneous; everyone say thank u kim namjoon 🤩 word count; 1.5k

notes; a lot of people wanted to know his thoughts during the iconic d&b fight scene so here’s the closure we all needed </3 

He knows he’s said the wrong thing the second the last syllable departs from his lips.

Jungkook doesn’t mean it, that much he knows right away, but even still… there’s a silent moment of shock between the two of you, one where even he is surprised by his own tongue.

You move first, phone whipping across the room.

Now Jungkook has seen a lot of scary things in his life. He’s seen horror movies and walked through a cemetery at night once. He’s come home way past curfew and had to face the wrath of his normally lenient father. He’s sat front row in his first ever college seminar. Yet none of that fear, that anxiety, that dread, compares to the level of emotion he feels wrap around his throat the moment you get up.

“___, wait,” he calls out frantically, hands shaking the further and further you get. He has to tell you he doesn’t mean it, that he would never mean it. But how do you follow up a statement like that? Even when he catches your eyes, beautiful irises colder than the bottom of the ocean, he doesn’t know what to say. He stutters through an excuse he wouldn’t have believed himself and watches you slip further away.

Jungkook can’t let you leave, not when you’re so hurt and he’s so confused, but what else can he say? He doesn’t know, and when you angrily send him back inside he feels every bit the scolded child. Funny how that works.

He calls and calls until he realizes the muted hum from upstairs is the phone you left behind. He’s crazy and in love, desperately scouring through your social media accounts for a sign you’re safe and home. (You were on Twitter three minutes ago, so that’s a relief.) But even then he can’t relax, turning his own words over and over in his head.

Jungkook values a lot of things in your relationship. There’s a beautiful understanding that comes with being in love, a new sense of comfort he’d never felt before. You make him feel warm and in love, keep him grounded when the world threatens to swallow him beneath its surface. You care for him and he for you.

Where those thoughts had come from, he didn’t know. All he knew was that one minute you were picking at the edges of his patience, and the next he was shooting a dagger into your chest.

Self-reflection, Namjoon had always said, the key point to understanding oneself. Usually, that’s followed by some tips on yoga, on calming the mind, but his leg won’t stop bouncing and there’s a boa constrictor wrapped around his throat so that zen mentality will have to wait for now. A harsh exhale, foot thumping against the floor.

Carefully, he unscrambles his thoughts.

There were times you were childish and, for the most part, Jungkook didn’t mind. You brought out the most beautiful things in life with just your laughter alone. You roped him into doing things he never could enjoy growing up, which made him rekindle his love for old hobbies. If sunshine was a person, Jungkook is sure it was you.

You were bright and ever-burning, always with a mission in your head, even if it was something as small as cleaning your windows that day. A star, he thinks, except your smile alone garners the power of ten supernovas combined. The amount of joy and euphoria you’ve brought him this past year was immeasurable. You made him smile, even when you were tired, rising every morning and setting every night dutifully just like the sun.

But too much sunshine could be hot, scorching even.

His mom had mentioned it once, very early into your relationship, how you were a little too childish for Jungkook. He had angrily defended you, stormed out of his parents' house like he was ready to leave them all for you. (Would he? He likes to think so.) But a mother’s advice always haunted one the most.

Yes, your youthful outlook made his life colorful and bright, but there were times he found himself wondering what it would be like to have someone… not as outgoing.

Someone plain and always collected. Someone who would gently remind him of his deadlines, and watch all his favorite documentaries with him. Someone like him, he supposed, who matched his interests perfectly.

It sounds awfully boring.

It sounds terrible to be damned to such a dull life, especially now that he’s had a taste of you. You, who brings laughter and sunshine everywhere you go, his amazing other half. He’d hate it if you always did what he wanted— he loves when you pick at everything he likes because you let him do it back! Jungkook’s head was a never-ending spiral— that much he’s known from a young age. But with you in his life, it became fun and exhilarating. Gone was the dark tunnel and in its place was a twisty slide with loops and turns that defied all laws of gravity. It wasn’t a scary place anymore and it was all because of you.

You, who he might possibly lose forever. His own negligence was to thank, an inability to voice small issues until they piled up and became this big, warped monster that no longer pertained to his original frustrations. It was an ugly thing, so twisted and vile, taking the thoughts he seldom had and weaponizing them against you.

Was that it? Had those mindless thoughts been the root of today’s brash decisions. Jungkook wants to blame it on that, but part of him knows it’s his own inability to share his feelings that led to that spontaneous outburst. There were obviously some things he still needed to work on, but pinning it all on you, his dazzling ray in the sky, was the worst move he could have made. Self-reflection, he repeats to himself.

His heart is still pounding in his ears, drumming obnoxiously loud as if it wants to torture him for his actions. His phone rings across the room and Jungkook lunges for it, hoping and praying it’s you.

It’s not.

It’s just Namjoon calling to wish the two of you a happy anniversary. “You two having fun?” he teases before Jungkook can get so much as a greeting in.

“Hyung,” he chokes out hoarsely, glancing down at the ground. “I-I said something to ___,” he whispers even though there is no one here to hide from but his own crippling thoughts. “And I don’t think she’s coming back.”

His voice cracks a little. He hides it with a gulp so dry it hurts. “What?” Namjoon asks. “What do you mean?”

Jungkook sighs, running a hand over his eyes. “Are you busy right now?”

—

“You need to go to bed,” Namjoon tells him, ambling the two of them up the stairs. Jungkook snorts, sliding against the entire wall on the way up.

“I refuse,” he announces. He has to pause on the next step because he’s pretty sure there’s about four of the same step whirling before his eyes. Beside him, Namjoon sighs. “Hyung, I can’t see.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes, deciding the stairs are too much of a hassle and guiding them back to the living room instead. “Couch,” he informs him before rather carelessly dumping him onto it. “Listen,” he begins, crouching down beside Jungkook. “It’s like, 4 AM… and I have work tomorrow. So I’m going to leave,” he says, slowly pointing in the direction of outside. Jungkook nods, even though Namjoon is definitely pointing upside-down backward. “Okay, JK?”

“That’s me,” he agrees, letting his head slump back against a throw pillow. Namjoon groans.

“That is you,” he concedes. “And you need to sober up before you try talking to ___ again.”

The mere mention of your name turns a switch on inside him. “Can’t,” he whines, features twisting up together. “She hates me. Will cut my balls off.”

Namjoon goes to protest but eventually stops himself. “Yeah, well. Probably.” Jungkook wails at his friend’s poor attempt at consoling him. “Sleep a little and then head over to hers, okay?” He pats him on the cheek once before finally making his exit.

Jungkook can’t believe this. How embarrassing. If you saw him right now, you’d clown him for getting this drunk off wine. But he truly understands it now. It was the devil’s drink, so sweet and cooling only to suddenly slap him across the face with his own insobriety. Oh, his head was going to ache badly later.

Well, that was a problem for later’s Jungkook, he decides as he slinks off the couch and back into the kitchen. There’s a new box of cherry vodka he’d bought just for tonight—or last night, technically—because he knows it’s your favorite. And well. He misses you so much he’ll do anything to feel close to you again.

He’s not sure how long he sits on the floor, swing after swing going down his throat until he’s got three extra fingers and a new middle name. Just that when the sun finally filters through, so warm and bright, he finds himself missing you again. His feet take him out the door before he can think twice.

The morning rays bring with them a wicked headache that almost has Jungkook throwing up into his bushes. Part of him, the last droplet of reason, tells him he should change. He’s wearing the same clothes from yesterday and they reek. Furthermore, the sun is hellbent on soaking up every inch of his black clothing.  

He should change if he doesn’t want to suffocate in this heat, under this blazing sun in the sky.

But Jungkook loves the sun.

He walks on.

—

Copyright © 2020, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[daniclaytcn]

dancing in a snow globe 'round and 'round

title: dancing in a snow globe 'round and 'round

Summary: Eddie mock-glares at him. “You’re a coward, starting something when you know I can’t retaliate since you’re holding your niece.”

Buck smirks smugly. “This little one will protect me,” He says and bends down to nuzzle her head, making her burst out into giggles. Eddie has to look away abruptly, something inexplicably warm and fuzzy building in his chest, a feeling of want so strong he thinks his heart might burst.

ao3 link

a/n: look at me, jumping back into the writing game after i don't even know how long. thank you @malikjavaddzayn for reading this as i wrote it and being so sweet!

also tagging: @evaneddie @matan4il

As Eddie lets himself into Buck’s apartment, he is instantly greeted with the high-pitched wails of a crying baby and the sight of his best friend looking minutes away from beginning to cry himself as he bounces his niece in his arms. Eddie bites back a smile, closing the door behind him.

“I thought you said this was an emergency,” He teases. Buck looks up, his expression morphing from one of relief to a glare.

“Make yourself useful and help me,” Buck all but whines. “She won’t stop crying and I don’t know what to do, I tried feeding her and it didn’t work. Her-her diaper doesn’t need to be changed and I-I don’t know, am I hurting her? Why did Maddie let me babysit? I’m terrible at this!”

“Alright, alright,” Eddie quickly goes to Buck and gently takes Baby Joy out of his arms. Buck lets go hesitantly and his eyes become comically wide as Joy begins to quiet down almost instantly when Eddie cradles her in his arms.

“You’re kidding me,” He says, looking betrayed. “How did you do that?”

“You’re stressed out and panicking,” Eddie says patiently. “Which means you’re stressing her out in return. Babies can sense that sort of thing, you know.” A smirk appears on his face. “Unless she just prefers me to you,” He looks down at Joy, cooing at her. “You prefer me to your Uncle Buck, don’t you, honey?”

“I hate you,” Buck grumbles, sinking down into the couch. “I’ll have you know that I’ll always be her favorite.”

“I’m surprised Albert isn’t fighting you for that title.”

“Hah! He can try.”

“Where are Chim and Maddie, anyway?”

“Date night,” Buck replies, reaching out for Joy again, sighing in relief when Eddie gives her back and she doesn’t immediately start crying again, instead just reaching up and fisting her little hand in his shirt. He all but melts, smiling dopily down at her. She really is a little angel when she isn’t screaming loud enough to wake half of Los Angeles.

“It’s their first night out since Joy was born,” He continues, looking up at Eddie now that he’s sure Joy’s not going to throw another tantrum. “I offered to babysit, and, well…”

Eddie looks amused as he sits down next to Buck, stretching his arm over the back of the couch, his thigh pressing into Buck’s. “Just because she happened to have a crying fit while you happened to be babysitting doesn’t mean you’re terrible at this, you know. Babies cry sometimes. It’s been known to happen.”

Buck pouts at him. “Stop making fun of me.”

Eddie tries to keep a straight face and fails miserably. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Careful not to dislodge Joy, Buck picks up a couch cushion and throws it at Eddie’s face. Eddie mock-glares at him.

“You’re a coward, starting something when you know I can’t retaliate since you’re holding your niece.”

Buck smirks smugly. “This little one will protect me,” He says and bends down to nuzzle her head, making her burst out into giggles. Eddie has to look away abruptly, something inexplicably warm and fuzzy building in his chest, a feeling of want so strong he thinks his heart might burst.

It's been a while since Eddie had come to the long overdue realization that the feelings he had for his best friend might not have been as platonic as he’d thought. It had dawned on him, ironically enough, while he had been dating Ana Flores. As smart and kind and pretty as she was, no amount of time they spent together had ever made him feel as at home and carefree and…safe, even, as coming back home after every single date with her, to see Buck either on his couch playing with Christopher or waiting with a cup of coffee and a soft smile long after Chris was in bed. The moment he’d started realizing that was the moment he started noticing everything else, the way they were constantly in sync in everything they did; be it tiding up Buck’s living room after movie night with Christopher or out in the field, doing their jobs and saving lives. The way he gravitated to Buck, constantly in his orbit, wanting to share any piece of good or exciting news or even random trivia with him, first, and no one else. The way watching Buck with his son sometimes moved him so much, he’d need a moment to compose himself, to hide the feelings he felt must show so plainly on his face, clear for the world to see.

After that, he had to break up with Ana. And he still hasn’t done anything about his feelings, because, well…

Well, Eddie has never claimed to be brave when it comes to matters of the heart. There’s a reason why Buck has teasing called him ‘emotionally constipated’ more than a couple of times.

There’s a knock on the door, bringing Eddie out of his musings. Buck perks up.

“I ordered us some pizza before you got here,” He says and nods to his wallet on the coffee table. “Could you go get it?”

Eddie is relieved to do so, convinced that he won’t be able to conceal the extent of his affections the longer he keeps watching Buck with Baby Joy. As he takes the pizza from the delivery guy, he hears Joy begin to fuss again and doesn’t even need to look over his shoulder to know that Buck is panicking. He can’t help but chuckle.

The delivery guy peers around the doorway and smiles at what Eddie presumes is Buck with Joy. “Newborn, eh?”

“Yeah,” Eddie laughs fondly as he pays him. “She’s got quite the pair of lungs on her.”

The delivery guy shakes his head with an endeared smile. “Looks like you and your husband have your hands full.”

Eddie stills at the innocuous remark and before he can say anything, the delivery guy has bid him goodbye and left. He closes the door slowly, frozen in place.

It’s not an unreasonable assumption, he thinks. Hell, it’s probably one he would make himself. It shouldn’t be that surprising that people look at him and Buck, with a baby between them and automatically think they’re together. He wouldn’t be surprised if the same thing has happened whenever Buck has joined him and Christopher on any of their outings.

No, what is surprising, somehow despite the fact that he knows he has feelings for his best friend, is how desperately he wants it to be true. How much he wants Buck to be with him and Christopher, the three of them a family; how easy it is to envision it and scarily enough, how easy it is to go even further and see them many years along the line, still together, possibly even with another child-

“Eddie?” Buck’s voice sounds in equal parts amused and concerned. “Are you just gonna stand there with the pizza all day?”

Eddie turns to face him. Joy seems to have calmed down, since Buck has placed her back in her crib. Taking a step towards him, Buck must see some of the existential crisis playing out in Eddie’s head right now on his face because he quickly takes the pizza from him and sets it down.

“Hey, man,” All traces of amusement are gone from his face now. “What’s wrong?”

There are a number of things that Eddie wants to say. That he should say. He knows he shouldn’t jump into something without thinking about it properly, especially after the disaster that was him moving too fast and too recklessly with Ana.

And yet.

This isn’t just anyone. This is Buck.

And Eddie isn’t even perfectly sure that Buck even feels the same way, but-

He’s never felt quite so compelled to just go for it, to throw caution to the wind and be brave for once as he does now.

Slowly, Eddie sways into Buck’s space, cupping the back of his neck and pressing his forehead to his. He feels Buck exhale sharply, stiffening for a brief moment, before melting into his hold.

“Eddie,” Buck breathes, his voice breaking on the last syllable.

“Is this okay?” Eddie whispers, not quite sure what it is that he’s asking permission for.

Is it okay for me to touch you? Is it okay for us to cross that line? Is it okay that nothing is ever going to be the same again?

Are you sure you want me, baggage, demons and all?

Buck responds by closing the space between them and kissing him.

It’s soft and gentle and sweet, somehow both hesitant and confident at the same time, so much like Buck himself that Eddie smiles into the kiss, joyful laughter caught in his throat as he pulls him closer. They keep it at that, mindful of the fact that there’s a baby less than five feet away from them, not even kissing after a point but just swaying together, breathing in each other’s air.

“So, this is new,” Buck murmurs what may be twenty seconds or twenty years later.

Eddie hums. “Feels like we’ve been dancing around it for a lot longer than we’ve both realized.”

Buck chuckles. “I wasn’t sure if you felt the same way.” He admits. “And…I guess I was scared, too.”

Eddie pulls away slightly to look at him. “So was I,” He says quietly. “Hell, I still am. But…” He pauses momentarily, trying to find the words. “I think we can be good together. We are good together.”

Buck’s responding smile is like sunshine personified and Eddie can’t help but kiss it, lingering softly, just because he can.

“I guess we’re really doing this then,” Buck says, breathlessly when they part.

As if on cue, Joy begins to fuss again and Eddie laughs at Buck’s groan.

“I think she’s hungry,” Eddie says. “And our pizza is getting cold.”

“But we’ll talk later, right?” Buck asks, rather anxiously. “We need to figure this out-and work-and Christopher-“

The fact that Buck’s already thinking of Chris makes Eddie’s heart swell. “We will,” He assures him, taking his hand in his, smiling when Buck interlinks their fingers. “One thing at a time.”

Joy makes another disgruntled noise and Buck finally nods, his smile returning as he turns to check on her. And Eddie-Eddie cannot be happier.

And maybe, for once, he gets to keep this.

[albaitross]

poise and demeanor and power - unchanged yet ever so fractionally glowing, ascending to the heights of one who has some amount of experience in looking downwards. but it is not the kind of person who looks down even as their own feet remain planted in the earth, it is the kind of person who looks down because they themselves exist above the world itself.

or something to that effect. perhaps you're wrong with your judgment, as fanciful as you like to be. but you will make a modest bet on the guess anyway.

"Kratos." an acknowledgement and a test of the syllables. your smile doesn't falter despite it all - growing instead. so, so very amused, and still so. even though the smart thing would be to bow your head a bit, show some humility... well, as the mythos go, it was hubris that brought low the heavenly messengers; the morning star, the brightest pinnacle of the sky, was unceremoniously tossed into the earth's dregs for the simple sin of pride. supposedly. 

supposedly.

the thought sharps your smile for a second - too sharp, a little bitter. but it's a passing thought so it's an equally passing feel, and your mere curiosity for the present resumes its primary place after.

"What a fine name, my good sir! In my homeland, there's a figure of myth with that same name - a divine figure meant to embody the idea of strength, serving the king of all gods as a hound of his rule. Ignoring any unpleasant details, it is a name connoting power. A good name for a good child, yes?"

you laugh, the sound tinkling like a nymph's chimes. "And a child you might just well be, in the eyes of the vast, endless expanse of all in existence. Or are you as old as the nothingness between worlds? Older than the primordial origin of the universe itself? If you are, I'll have to excuse myself there - not even I'm that old. But from what you've said so far, I'll take a guess on my spinning bottle and say you aren't. Not nearly, at least. You're at least an old-sounding middle aged old man, and old enough to have known what war truly means."

idly, and somewhat performatively, you stroke your chin, a thoughtful gesture. "All the more reason, in that sense, that I must play games, Mister Oldie Knight Guy. Even if you're super wise and super smart and super experienced - with age comes stagnancy, the curse of predictability and habit and safe choices. It would be a practical thing if you learned to loosen up some more. But in my sole case, I just like having a fun time by—as you put it—regularly getting a rise out of people, and some more! Not to say the mask is false, per say."

you shrug. "Youths like me should just enjoy life to its fullest after all, before we lose the ability to. Though that doesn't mean it can't be regained - and the same goes for you too. As you say, there'll always be something that remains, so maybe your lost childhood innocence and wonder is somewhere in there too. Maybe? Can't know without finding out.

"So why not play the game for a while? Spin the bottle, trade questions and answers. Maybe you'll rekindle the joy of discovery and the innocence of learning. Remember what it means to be a man again - not that you really need that much of a nudge to do so, if you ask me, Mister Rusty Hair Man. Because I'll have to disagree and say there's no such thing as a man who ever transcends themselves—man will always be so, if not in skin than in their heart and soul." a pause. tone dropping quieter, for the briefest of heartbeats - "A man who isn't a man is just a monster otherwise."

"Anyway!" —cheerful! "Pleaaaaase won't you humor my silly little jokes to pass the time, Sir Taller Old Man? Or are you really so much in a hurry that you'd rather just have everything be so boringly straightforward? Liiiive a little!"

his  smile  withers  to  nothing  ,  right  before  the  young  women's eyes.  how  long  had  it  been  since  kratos  was  seen  as  young  , since  someone  met  his  prose  and  otherworldly  gaze  back  with  its  own?  (  too  long  to  keep  track  and  far  too  long  for  him  to  care  for  the  specifics  ):  weather  the  spoken  tongue  is of  god  or  beast  is  irrelevant:  kratos  can  tell  that  she  ,  too  ,  plays  the  same  part  in  this  play  on  life's  ever  moving  stage  (  in  this  fabrication  upon  fabrication  ):  the  women  is  no  more  ordinary  than  he  and  ordinary  is  a  word  not  used  amongst  his  vernacular  often.  modern  man  would  give  them  wolves  among  sheep  (  a  shepherd  amongst  its  own  herd  ):  devils  in  the  presence  of  heaven  ---  angels  at  the  gates  of  hell  (  they  do  not  belong  here  ):  mayhaps  ,  neither  belongs  anywhere.  what  was  a  coward  made  god?  nothing  more  than  what  still  remained  buried  under  false  holy  skin.  these  where  the  people  that  interested  kratos  the  most  after  living  for  aeons  and  aeons  ---  individuals  that  kept  him  guessing  ,  individuals  that  kept  his  blade  sharpened.

listening  to  her  is  easy  and  following  her  strange  mannerism  is  just  as  well.  once  ,  long  ago  he'd  once  been  like  her:  so  young  ,  so  wild  ,  so  free:  a  knight  who  wanted  to  do  right  by  the  people  and  end  a  thousand  year  war  of  senseless  bloodshed.  but  ,  that  was  how  the  mighty  and  righteous  always  began  (  so  full  of  hope  and  life  and  optimism  ):  the  realities  of  the  world  had  a  knack  for  knocking  one  down.  to  taking  all  emotion  but  grief  and  depression  ---  stripping  any  ability  for  one  to  see  color  ,  for  one  to  hold  any  laughter.  ❝  man  may  always  be  man  young  lady  but  some  do  forge  a  path  beyond.  not  all  that  one  does  is  always  foretold  by  how  they  began.  ❞  it  is  here  that  kratos  crosses  his  arms  over  his  chest  (  to  feel  the  feel  of  his  arms  ,  nothing  more  ): people  that  came  from  the  same  worldview  may  have  boarded  the  same  ship  home  but  both  would  have  the  harbor  as  they  say.  ❝  much  more  than  studied  wisdom  i  can assure.  it  is  no  different  than  an  illiterate  man  learning  to  read  and  do  script  or  a  youth  learning  the  rules  of  the  hunt.  a  piece  of  the  identity  before  will  always  remain.  ❞  it  is  here  that  his  arms  unfold  ,  his  arm  extending  to  pop  itself  on  his  waist  the  same  side  as  his  concealed  blade.

❝  kratos.  ❞  surname  unneeded  and  it  is  here  that  he  hovers  for  a  lingering  moment  ,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  curl  of  her  lashes  then  on  her  smiling  lips  (  her  expression  something  oddly  twisted  ,  a  look  that  vaguely  reminded  him  of  a  mithos  slipped  deep  into  madness  ):  her  voice  was  sugary  sweet  but  still  eerie  ---  seemingly  slithering  like  the  tongue  of  an  unbecoming  garden's  snake  in  eden.  ❝  any  other  details  are  unimportant.  do  these  quirks  of  yours  regularly  get  a  rise  out  of  others?  or  would  this  be  ,  as  you  said:  one  of  many  varieties  of  face  paints  to  wear.  ❞  it  is  more  statement  than  question.  curiosity  make  itself  clear  in  the  dark  of  his  irises  ,  he  moves  a  bit  closer  towards  her  and  his aura  grows  even  grander  (  makes  him  seem  even  taller  ):  casting  a  downward  glare  at  her  self-satisfied  expression.  ❝  i  cannot  say  that  i  have  ,  young  lady.  my  youth  was  spent  during  a  time  of  war  and  not  much  time  for  leisure.  why  make  it  a  game?  why  not  simply  ask  and  i  can  do  the  same.  if  you  do  not  wish  to  answer  ,  you  have  the  right  not  to  speak.  ❞

[butterbeerblurbs]

a lovely day to do nothing (with you) (f.w.)

💌 : days where you have nothing to do, you would love to spend it with fred.

📝 word count: 759 words / fred weasley x reader / 🌸 fluff galore

💬: honestly, if i have a day off to do nothing, i too, would like to spend it with fred weasley.

for someone who has the same amount—if not more—of enthusiasm as himself, fred always found it amusing that you had a bigger lazy bone than he did. there are days where you wanted to do everything you could possibly do in a day; things on your to-do list being checked off one by one like a scoresheet of victory. on the flip side, there are days where you longed to do absolutely nothing. you know, bask in the feeling of being... free. not having to worry about anything or to feel anxious about any deadline that would pop out of nowhere.

days like that come rarely, considering you’re such a self-driven person that even fred has to pull you back sometimes. so when days like that do come around, fred is all the more willing to encourage you to do just that.

nothing.

plus, what better way to spend the day of doing nothing, than to do nothing with-”freddie?” your voice is soft as it gently taps into said boy’s ears. 

“yes, love?” his voice follows yours onto the same wavelength, delicately sounding your eardrums despite being so close to you. the pair of you had found a comfortable position out on the field where it wasn’t occupied. quidditch didn’t start until a couple of hours, which lead the outdoors where you currently lay as quiet as it could be.

“fancy doing anything?”

“y/n,” he sounds offended.

“hm?” you look up to him, and a small chuckle leave your lips because he even looks offended.

“are you seriously asking me that when you know bloody well know that i know that you know the answer to that already?”

his grin overtakes his face at the sight of yours contorting in confusion. the crinkle by his eyes appear when he’s smiling too hard, now laughing at the way your brows meet together with a small pout.

“you know very well i have no idea what you just said,”

he sighs dramatically, using his free hand (that’s not currently holding you close, the same one you’re laying on top of) to place it by his forehaed, “ah, my dear y/n, it means...” he’s dragging out the last syllable to his hanging sentence, peeking to you cheekily as you stare at him in anticipation, brow raised. fred keeps going with his ‘sss’ until you roll your eyes.

“days like this are hard to come by, love,”

"that’s still not an answer, weasley,”

he scoffs a laugh and it goes quiet for a split second. your breath hitches when he swiftly rolls the pair of you over and he’s pressing his weight down on you. smirking, he dives down to press a kiss on your lips. relishing in the way you whine against his lips at first, but soon melt under him, almost sinking deeper into the ground but he’s keeping you up. he pulls away with a satisfied grin, enjoying the view of you breathless and with swollen lips like you’ve just been kissed (i mean, yeah?) that it always tempts him to do it again, and again, and again.

when he gives you a moment to breathe, he rests his forehead on yours, chuckling at how you’re trying to force air in your lungs, keeping yourself collected with your arms around his neck as he hovers above you.

“jeez, freddie. a little warning next time would be nice, i almost suffocated,” you let out an airy laugh and like a switch, it makes fred kiss you again. it’s not until you hit him a few times, trying to push him off but you’re a laughing mess, having no strength to do so. he always has you weak when he kisses you like that, and you have him weaker when you smile at him like that. he decides to give it a rest and lay back down by your side, pulling you close until you’re snug against him. he kisses the crown of your head and rests his head there.

“we shall lay here until the quidditch teams start to shove us away,” he coos, one arm banded around you, the other stroking the side of your head tenderly. you snort against his chest, fingers fiddling by his side, “....you mean your brother and the rest of your team?”

he lightly pokes your cheek, shrugging, “same thing.”

yep, today was a lovely day indeed. a lovely day, to do absolutely nothing, with fred weasley. and you wouldn’t change it for anything else in the world.

[yeojaa]

Can I request more smut for A&A couple?? I love sexy jay and jinny RYFUIOOIDEWETYUKOJK

[ read angels & airwaves ]

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  explicit.  tags.  gamer!jjk deserves his own warning.  but also cockwarming and a gross amount of love between these two.  wc. 1.5k.  beta reader.  @hobi-gif because she is the pb to my j.  author note.  this is probably less sexy and more soft, but i hope you enjoy and i’m sorry it’s so late! ✨ 

He’s playing Overwatch - unwinding after a long day, dressed down in sweats and little else - when his chair starts rolling back, pulled by an invisible hand.  (Luckily, he’s only in queue, not yet matched into a game.  It’s easy for him to leave, exit out of the waiting screen as he continues his journey away from the desk, releasing his hold on his mouse, letting his keyboard hand fall into his lap.)  Feigned surprise trips across his expression, a subtle widening of his eyes, the softest hm? slipping like sandman’s dust from his lips.

“Play with me,”  you say in that way of yours, deceivingly sweet, lilting like the chorus of his favourite song.  (He thinks that’s what you’d be if you were anything else, played over and over in his thoughts, quiet in the background of his everyday life.  A kind reminder of your love, of your giggles and that cheekiness you offer in spades.  A heartfelt melody in A minor.)

(Jungkook wants to write something for you - because of you - he realises.  Of course he does.)  

He echoes your words back, pairs it with a quirked brow and a sing-song laugh that makes his eyes crinkle, long grooves dug into the bridge of his nose.  Sunshine pours between his teeth, lights up his entire face.  “You wanna play?”

Your answer is a shake of your head, freeing tousled strands from the haphazard bun you wear - the one that goes up any time you’re half-asleep (or gaming or simply too lazy to do anything else) - too many pieces askew to be sophisticated.  (It’s cute still, one of his favourite looks on you.  Messy, sleep-addled, real.)  

“I want you to play.”  The way you enunciate, throw heavy meaning into your words has him curious, chin canting when you round the chair, step to the side and brush a delicate hand through his crown of curls.  You push velvet away from his face, tuck it neatly behind his ear and smile so prettily he swears his heart might leap out of his chest.  The same hand falls over his with meaning, your own eyes the size of saucers.  Were you trying to communicate as if you were psychic?  He thinks you must be when you stare for longer than you need to, mouth pulling and pursing adorably, a wavering wall against whatever you want to offer but won’t.

When he relents, it’s with his hand curled around your wrist and a gentle tug of you closer.  (Because he always wants you closer.)  “Let’s play then.”

It takes you no time at all to settle into his lap, legs dangling around the back of his gaming chair, arms locked around his neck.  He imagines it isn’t the most comfortable position in the world but, well, Jungkook’s not going to complain that his girlfriend wants to cuddle.  Can’t even fathom the thought when you’re so warm and your weight feels like some sort of top-tier blanket.

“Good?”  

You simply nod into the small of his neck, cheek cold against his shoulder.  Maybe you’re just tired.  You haven’t been sleeping well the last few nights, if you could even call it that.  They were more midday cat naps, laid up in his arms on his free days.   

(Don’t worry, you’d said.  He did, anyway.)

When he wins his next three games, he thinks you might be a lucky charm - his own personal blessing, all his good karma offered in the form of victory.  The headshots are clean, the flashbang-right-click combos flawless.  Gold damage is his the entire time;  he’s racking up gold medals left and right with you there with him.

(It’s almost as good as when you play together, your damage boost enabling him to obliterate the enemy without worry.  Granted, the Mercy on his team isn’t bad either - but she’s no you.  Not the girl that makes his heart pitter patter in his chest, play some silly crescendo that feels like a sugar high.)

But then he begins losing, missing shots that should be easy, sends them into the dark, strangely distracted.  He doesn’t realise by what until it’s too late and the next roll of your hips makes him whine, the sound tripping off his tongue in a whimper.  

“Angel.”  The word is practically choked out, broken despite being only two syllables.  You’re still snuggled into his chest, seemingly innocent, unaware of the tension that grows, turning bone to brimstone.  He’s half-worried he’s getting riled up over nothing - turned on by only your closeness - when he feels the damp of your teeth, the sharp edge tickling over muscle.  For what it is, it shouldn’t flood his stomach with heat, have electricity tracking up his spine as if struck by lightning.  “What’re you doing?”

“Play with me.”  You repeat the words into his hair, thread them between the midnight strands as you stamp a sweet, chaste kiss right below his ear.  He thinks he might be able to resist you - until you’re tugging lightly at one of the silver hoops that line his ear, laving your tongue over the sensitive spot that has him seeing stars.

He parrots the words back to you but it isn’t a question this time.  More a promise, tenderness turning his smile soft, needy, utterly in love.

“Let’s go to bed.”  Not because it’s late - though it is, half past two in the morning now - but because he wants to feel you wholly, watch you fall apart in the comfort of your bed.  No more distractions, just the two of you.  Just how he likes it. 

“No.”  That surprises him, throwing him off his axis.  He’s halfway to a pout when you press a kiss, steal his brattiness away with one sweep of your lemon-lined mouth.  “You keep playing.”

Oh.

The time you take to slide his sweats down - taking his boxers with them, fingers hooked into the black band that hugs his hips - should be criminal.  It’s as if you’re doing it on purpose, tugging the material down carefully, balanced above him by his hands on your waist.  

(He steals the softest touches while you’re there, thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts, fingers laying themselves into the rungs of your ribs.)

When they’re halfway down his legs, he kicks them off, lets them gather in a pile somewhere by his feet.  Forgotten - because he’s got much more important matters to attend to.  “Your turn,”  he hums - almost begs - when you settle back against him, straddling him as you had before, still dressed in his favourite grey shirt and your plain black thong. 

“Nope.”  You’re smiling down at him, more devil than angel, smile so sinful he feels his cock twitch against his stomach, hard and leaking pre-cum from the tip.

“But—”

The turn of your head further dislodges strands, has shadow throwing your features into muted light.  That’s not what has his attention, though.  

It’s your hand dipping between you, curling light around his length.  Pad of your thumb massaging over his head, slicking arousal until the glide is easy.  With a gun to his head, Jungkook couldn’t help himself from moaning, a keening sound that tickles your cheek and has heat flooding his own.  (You’ll be the death of him, he swears.)  “Baby, please—”

“Play,”  you repeat. 

He does, rolling himself forward, finding his mouse and keyboard with trembling hands.  

It’s cruel, what you’re doing.  (It’s also everything he could ask for, offered by the hand of the girl he loves most.  Even through the haze of desire, there’s affection that paints him pink, lights him up like a Christmas tree.)

(All he wants to do is fill you, fuck you full until you’re coming apart, crying his name out in that breathy way that drives him wild.  Playing his favourite song again again again.)

But he’s a good boy for you - always is - so he says nothing as he queues once more, tries his damnedest not to make a sound when he feels the press of his cock against your cunt, the heat that engulfs him when you take him in one fluid motion.

It’s as if his brain short circuits, as if you’ve rewritten all the code that makes him who he is.  He chokes a sound - a whine, a laugh, a cry - when you sink fully into him, curl those arms back around his neck.  You’re absolutely perfect, wet and warm.  Split wide open by how deep he is, clit flush against his pelvis, velvet walls yielding to the fullness.  

Whether he wins or loses his next games, Jungkook doesn’t care.  He’s already got everything he could ask for. 

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle

[hotchley]

that’s okay

Oh my god it’s out before midnight!! Are you proud of me?? Once again, it has not been proofread, but that’s fine, this is for fun! Also, the same line where Aaron says he doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore is also where I lost the plot so erm... yeah

Once again: little plot. Not much point. Low-key hate the ending. May have fucked up Hotch’s character. But I had fun writing it so we’re just... yeah we’re going with.

Title comes from That’s Okay by The Hush Sound (would 10/10 recommend), and I have to thank Caitlin ( @themetaphorgirl ) for that one because I was sat there like: I have everything but a title and then I remembered That’s Okay and was like AHA

Trigger Warnings: trauma, trauma responses, child abuse, religion, religious trauma

read on ao3!

When he finishes his speech, he meets Erin's eyes, determined and angry. At her, for pushing him and doubting his abilities in the one place he felt like he could maintain control in. At Jason, for once again putting him in a situation where he has to take the fall and piece things back together. Because he has to play this stupid game of politics. At the team, because it is easy. 

But most of all, he is angry at himself because he shouldn't be angry at them. He shouldn't be angry at Jason or Erin. He shouldn't be angry, because anger means he's creeping closer and closer to the line that separates himself from his father and if he goes too far, he will lose everything and he won't be able to come back. Ever.

"Aaron," she says, and his glare loses its power. She says his name, his first name, like it means something. With a gentleness that he had never felt before Haley softly repeated it to herself, as though she was trying to test out each syllable before she got too close.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "That comment about your son was unfair. I know you love them all equally."

She shakes her head. "Don't apologise. You know I don't enjoy doing this. Undermining you like this. Asking these questions, saying these things. But if we are both going to keep our jobs, then I have to."

At that moment, she is not Strauss. She is Erin, just another victim of bureau politics, trying to keep her head above water. It's what causes Aaron to reply, instead of just walking out.

"I know," he says. "I know."

"Why don't you ever let Jason take the fall for his mistakes? I'm not an idiot, I know these things aren't your doing. He's a grown man. He can accept the consequences that come with acting the way he does. You don't need to take them."

She doesn't understand. He does. He needs to take them because taking punishment is the only way he can atone for the multitude of sins he commits every single day. He needs to take the blame because he is the only one that can come back from it. The only one that can be replaced with ease. 

He needs to take the blame because it reminds him that this, just like everything he has been stripped of in his life- his childhood, his ability to love, his warmth, his innocence, his faith in both something else and humanity- this can and will be taken from him the moment he puts a foot wrong.

The Bureau, much like the small town in Virginia that he will never refer to as home because he never once felt safe, not even when Haley held him with gentle and unblemished hands, does not show anyone mercy. Least of all those that dare to speak out against injustice.

"I do. Jason Gideon is nothing without the BAU. I can't take that from him," he says. 

He hates to be vulnerable with her, but she is the only one left that he truly trusts. That remembers the boy he was when he first joined. That knows the lock on his drawer is not because there is alcohol, but because he keeps the file with his incomplete profile of George Foyet in there.

"And you?" she asks.

"And I?" 

"What are you without the BAU?"

And isn't that the question he wishes he knew the answer to? He is not a father, he knows that much. A real father wouldn't have hesitated to transfer after Jason returned. A real father would kiss their son goodnight without feeling guilty and hug them without fear. And he is not a husband. On a technicality, he is, but even he can see that Haley isn't happy. The day where she leaves will be sooner rather than later, and he will be powerless to stop her.

A part of him doesn't want to fight. It will be easier on both of them if she leaves before the inevitable happens. Before the pieces of himself he gives up to do this job become irretrievable. Before he is more than just his father's mirror, he is his father's son. 

Before the job he is nothing without ruins her life beyond repair.

"I don't know," he confesses. In some strange way, he feels like a child again. Being asked by the priest what he thinks his punishment for lying about what really happens in the Hotchner family home should be, even though he wasn't lying. He was never lying. They were all just too afraid to confront the truth.

The same way he was.

"Get some rest. I'll speak to the Director and other higher-ups. You'll have a job to come back to. I promise."

It is an impossible promise, one she may not be able to keep, but her tone is gentle and her words soothe him the way a parents' declarations of love never had, so he simply nods and exits her office. 

He doesn't look at any of the team when he gets back to his office. He doesn't bother to knock on Jason's door to make sure he isn't looking through the Book of the Damned. When Derek calls his name, he speeds up, knowing that out of all of them, he owes him the most answers, but finds himself completely unable to give them.

Haley doesn't know that he is returning. He doesn't have the energy to tell her. As he turns onto their road, he is almost tempted to keep going. Past their house. Past her sister's apartment. Past her parents' house and his father's grave. Past everything that keeps him grounded.

The idea of giving into temptation was something drilled out of him long ago. So he turns into their driveway, wondering what the neighbours will say when one of them inevitably moves out. Will they find it sad, that the young couple they had all hoped would last, had fallen apart? Will they wonder what the final straw was?

Haley is still in her work clothes when he enters the living room. She had already picked Jack up from his daycare on her way back, and her son- as far as he's concerned, he's nothing more than the sperm donor- babbles away happily as he plays with the toys his mother and aunt had picked out for him on their last day out together.

"You're back early," she says, without any malice. 

"Strauss told me to get some rest," he replies. "How are the students?"

She smiles at the mention of her class. "Glad to have me back. Excited for your next Southern treat, because no matter how many times I tell them I also lived in that town, they only want it if you made it."

"Well you moved there for your junior year, so I can understand why," he jokes, but instead of wiping away the bad memories of the case, it leaves him more exhausted than before.

"Aaron, what happened today?" she asks him, so attuned to his moods and feelings that he often wonders why she doesn't become a profiler.

"It's nothing," he tells her. No matter how many times she begs for him to tell her why he wakes up in the middle of the night, to share why he can't touch her without showering for a longer amount of time than can be healthy, he won't.

"You don't need to say specifics. But please don't lie to me."

"I'm sorry. I- can we eat first?"

Her mouth parts with shock. Of course they can eat first. She would do whatever was needed if it meant he would finally, after so many years of being married, tell her the truth about his job. She understood his need to keep it a secret. But when he came home, looking more defeated than he had at sixteen, she worried.

He puts Jack to sleep before climbing into bed beside her. She puts her book down- she hadn't really been reading it, just holding it to give her something to do- and turns so she's laying on her side. Absent-mindedly, she starts drawing circles on his stomach. His hand trembles as he removes it, placing it on the bed sheet.

"I profiled the team today," he begins.

Haley sits up properly. "I thought you had a rule against that."

"We do. But Erin… pushed. And before I knew what was happening I was sharing information about all of them. Things that- I don't know if they know that I know. And Erin is too good to use it to blackmail any of us but she isn't a profiler. They'll realise she knows."

"What did you tell her?" is all she says. She knows her husband. Knows how he takes everything personally, and how he will hold himself to unreachable standards because he was never allowed to be anything but perfect, and anything less than that is failure.

He tells her, in almost perfect verbatim, the same words he told Erin. Towards the end, his voice starts to get choked up. She knows he stutters when he feels under pressure or anxious and she knows he hates it. So instead of speaking, she takes his left hand, clasps it with both of hers and rubs circles over the knuckles.

For a moment, he stops speaking, staring at their interlocked hands instead with a look of slight wonder. Like even after all this time, he still couldn't believe he got to touch her. That she wanted to touch him, in spite of his devils and darkness.

It gives him the strength to finish.

"And you?" she asks, after it becomes clear he won't offer any more information as to why it hurt him so much.

Her question is an echo of Erin's, and he closes his eyes, giving himself a few moments to get lost in his head, where it is not necessarily safe, but is where he can be alone and not pretend to be good. 

"And I?"

"What did you say about yourself?"

"I said that if she could find someone better, then I wished her luck," he says, voice completely flat and monotone.

Haley tries to not be offended that he is speaking to her like she is an officer of the law, or a suspect, instead of her husband. "Why didn't you say more?"

"More?"

She nods. "You're feeling guilty because you profiled the team, but you didn't. You shared the pieces of them that make them human. That make them good agents and even better people. You didn't say anything like that about yourself. Why not?"

"Because I'm not like them. My trauma- I'm just not like the rest of the team, okay?"

"I know enough about trauma to know it affects every person differently, so I won't dispute that one. But if you're saying that you're not like the rest of your family, not team, then what are you like? Because from where I'm sitting, you are."

"I'm not," he repeats, growing slightly agitated.

She needs him to understand he is. "Aren't you?"

"No." this time, there is venom in his words. But it doesn't frighten her. It never has. The only time his words have such hatred injected into them is when he's afraid of himself. She's never been afraid of him. She never will be. Because to her, he is good. He is trying.

"How?" she pushes one last time.

And the dam explodes.

“I’m not soft! I’m not beautiful or kind or good or any of the things those stupid, stupid motivational quotes say! I’m not- I’m not like the others and all I want to know is why. Everyone else is good. They’re light and sweet and good. We’ve all been- we all have trauma. Why can’t I- why am I different? Why did mine make me violent and scared and- why can’t I move on?”

It was not what she was expecting. It was not what she thought he was going to say, and now she doesn't know what she is meant to do. She doesn't know how to piece him back together. Not this time. Not when his words are a confession he has been clinging to since the day he met Spencer.

"Aaron," she begins, for lack of other words to say.

"Don't," he cuts her off. "Please. Just don't. I can- I'll sleep in the guest room. You shouldn't have to deal with me when I'm like this."

"You're having a bad day. It's what I signed up to deal with," she says.

He shakes his head. "Not like this. Not like- Haley, what kind of father avoids his son the way I do because they're afraid? What kind of man doesn't know the difference between safety and happiness? How broken am I if my twenty-five year old subordinate can move on better than I can?"

"You're scared. You're a victim of child abuse. It's not- it's normal that you feel like this. I think. Aaron, I don't know. I don't know what kind of person this all makes you. But when I look at you, I see the man I married, the one so terrified of everything, thriving. I see someone that suffered atrocities that nobody should ever be put through fighting with everything they are, to break that cycle. I don't know how to make you feel better, but I vowed to be honest with you. And this is me doing that."

"You're the first person to tell me it wasn't my fault," he whispers. "Everyone else always said that I must've done something to deserve it."

"You were a child Aaron. You all were."

It was the wrong thing to say. 

"We were all children, but they're all better. They haven't closed themselves off. They- I see them, with their unfailing faith in humanity and it hurts. It physically hurts. What am I doing to them? What happens when the evil they see outweighs the goodness?"

"It's okay, Aaron," she laughs, because if she doesn't, she will cry and she will not do that. Not in this moment. "It's- the trauma and the hurt and the heartbreak doesn't always give you faith. It doesn't always make you a better person. Yes, they are still positive and happy and beautiful and good, but so are you. It's just buried somewhere. Because sometimes the trauma just hurts."

He stares at her eyes, and she sees the tears that had been threatening to fall since he got into the bed start to spill over. With one cautious hand, she wipes it away. She counts it as a win when he leans into the touch without flinching.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you," he whispers.

"That's the beautiful thing about love. We are all entitled to it. It's just about whether or not we'll take it."

"I don't know how to stop being so broken," he adds.

"You're not- people are not broken. Not ever. They are damaged by life and the terrible things that other people do, but they're never broken. Not beyond repair. Do you hear me? You are not broken. You never were. You were just hurt. But there are so many people that love you. That want to help you. All you have to do is ask."

"I know. I just- I wish he didn't have such a tight hold on me. I wish I could be more like Penelope. Or Derek. They're so beautiful, with their faith in love and goodness. Derek didn't have anyone. Not in the way I had you."

She didn't have to ask to know who he was talking about. "He was your father. Even despite everything, he took time off work when you had chicken pox and played with you when you were old enough to remember the snow."

"I know. I don't know what I'm saying anymore. Do you think I'll always be like this? Cold and unapproachable and full of darkness?"

"The only people you are ever cold and unapproachable with is unsubs. Suspects. And there's nothing wrong with darkness. There's no light without it." she can't say anything more than that. Not without lying.

"You always know what to say," he says to her, hesitantly pulling her closer towards him.

She smiles. "It's because I love you."

His own smile fades, and he doesn't reply, instead brushing her hair off her face. She tries to not let it sting. The words had never been something said freely in his house. Never used to actually express love, only as a plea for mercy. There are a few minutes of silence, and she think he's finally fallen asleep. 

Then he speaks.

"Haley, what if I can't save them? I've already failed once. What if this, part of me, means the next time they need me, I can't be there? I can't save them?"

She thinks her answer over for a few minutes.

"Sometimes the way to save other people is to save ourselves. You need to save yourself first. But listen to me." 

She can tell he's fighting sleep now, so she speaks quickly.

"There is nothing wrong with you. Yes, you are flawed and you make mistakes, but that is because you are human. We all make mistakes. We are never perfect. You are not the only one to screw up. But this part of you-" she places a hand over his heart "-this part of you is not broken. It is not wrong or anything that you were led to believe it was. You are exactly what and where you need to be. And I love you for that."

"Do you promise?"

She swallows. "Of course I do." 

She's not entirely sure whether she's lying, but he drifts off with a smile, so she decides she doesn't care. There are certain lies she is willing to tell, if only so her husband has one night of peace.

Thinking of him as her husband is painful, because she knows it is only a matter of time before one of them snaps. Before this balance he has fought so hard to achieve topples like Jack's building blocks. She knows which way it will topple. She isn't angry.

But the balance hasn't toppled yet. It won't for a few weeks. So maybe it is wrong, but instead of pulling away, she lets herself hold her husband, the steady beating of his heart sending her to sleep.

She is right though. Even when she's no longer there, he knows she is right. That sometimes the pain is not poetic or character-building. Sometimes, it is just pain, and the only way forward is directly through it. It is not easy, but it is possible.

Everything is possible, so long as he lets himself feel without guilt.

[irradiate-space]

Burgess Meredith (narrator): "Well, goodbye, ma'am."

Ma'am: "Goodbye. It's been very nice meeting you both." [shakes hands with Meredith]

Meredith: "Glad to have met you, I'm sure."

Ma'am: [to Black Soldier, shaking his hand] "Funny you should come from Birmingham, too, isn't it? Have you come to by Birmingham, you's come to my home and have a cup of tea with me," [turns to Meredith] "both of you."

Meredith: "Thank you, we will."

Ma'am: "Good bye, and good luck." [shakes Black Soldier's hand again]

Soldiers both: "Bye-bye."

Meredith: "Well, where y'goin?"

Black Soldier: "Well, I think I'll get some cigarettes."

Meredith: "I'm short, too."

Black Soldier: "Well, I'll get some." [exits]

Meredith: "Good." [to camera now] "Now look, men, you heard that conversation. That's not unusual here. It's the sort of thing that happens quite a lot. Now let's be frank about it. There are colored soldiers as well as white here, and there are less social restrictions in this country. Just what you heard: an English woman asking a colored boy to tea. She was polite about it, and he was polite about it. Now, look, that might not happen at home, but the point is, we're not at home. And the point is, too: If we bring a lot of prejudices here, what are we gonna do about them? Well I —" [salutes to two brass who walk in] "Say, do you know who that is? That's General Lee, head of the Services of Supplies. You know that he's got a lot of colored troops under him and they're doing a big job over here. And I happen to know that General Lee comes from Kansas, and that his family fought for the Confederacy. Let's go and see what he says about it." [gestures for one moment]

[Meredith goes to talk to General Lee; Black Soldier sees them talking and looking in his direction.]

General Lee: [calling Black Soldier over] "Soldier!"

[Black Soldier comes over, salutes were exchanged]

Meredith: "And so, we were wondering how the General felt about" [glances meaningfully at the Black Soldier] "him and me, sir."

General Lee: "America has promised the Negro real citizenship, and a fair chance to make the best of himself. When the Army needs Americans to fight for the country, it picks Negros along with whites. Everyone's treated the same when it comes to dying. And so the Army wouldn't be true to America, if it didn't try to live up to the promises about an equal chance."

Meredith: "You mean that we have to get over our prejudices?"

General Lee: "You don't get over a prejudice that easily. There's no use pretending we're different from what we are. But we can try to live up to our American promises. I'd go further in saying: We can't do less, and still feel ourselves patriots. We have promised to respect each other, all of us. That's one of the reasons that makes our world worth fighting for. But you're all together, in this small country, with the same surroundings, the same amount of pay to spend, the same sort of places to spend it, and we're all here as soldiers. Everything we do, we do as American soldiers. Not Negros and white men, rich or poor, but as American soldiers. It's not a bad time, is it, to learn to respect each other, both ways."

[Meredith nods; salutes exchanged; General Lee and retinue exeunt]

[Black Soldier digs out cigarettes; gives Meredith one. Meredith digs out matches, lights Black Soldier's cigarette first. fade to black.]

----

The film continues with a discussion of currency and taxis, and why you shouldn't trust fast-talking men to hold your money while they explain it to you.

A note on General Lee's pronunciation of "Negro": It's not "KNEE-grow" /ˈniɡɹoʊ/. It's closer to "NIH-gruh" /ˈnɪɡɹə/ which Wiktionary notes is the Southern pronunciation. You can tell that it's "Negro" because of the consonant-vowel order: nVgrV. All of that is to say: It still sounds weird, because when I learned the pronunciation from Americans, they pronounced it with a more noticeable break between the syllables.

Some shallow searches reveal that "Negro" was the politically-correct term in the 1940s, capitalized. If that is really the case, then the contrast between the narrator's "colored" and General Lee's "Negro" is therefore quite weird. The narrator is out here preaching racial equality, and then General Lee out-progressives him!

I'm calling the other soldier "Black Soldier" because I can't find any acting credit for him. He is entirely uncredited, even by postwar researchers.

just pinged to this from the subject of "the history of black people in the UK did not begin at Windrush".

i worked on a kids local history project once and got particularly attached to a guy called James Jarvis Wiggins

his was just one of several documented black families living in the small town in northwest england that the project was about in the 1800s (and there were more 'coloured' people whose names and specific ethnicities are not recorded)

but he seems to have been quite a Character; I mean the photo oughta get it across - he seems to have had That Exact personality; funny, larger than life, and been loved by everyone in town for it.

he came over from Virginia in a timeframe that suggests he might've been born into slavery

he pitched himself as 'The Great American Herbalist' when he wrote a book

he became a pillar of the community who ran a successful apothecary and had a comfortably middle-class lifestyle, including employing an assistant from another local 'coloured' family who went on to marry his daughter

the wedding received glowing coverage in the local newspaper - which (having read the 1800s newspaper article myself) did regard the skin colour of the happy couple as a novelty worthy of note, but with zero negative implicature whatsoever - paraphrased, it's saying "Daughter of successful businessman and local legend gets married to his apprentice. This will be the first wedding in our little town where both bride and groom are black, isn't that interesting? Now back to gushing about how lovely the wedding was."

[porcupine-girl]

Untamed Fic Rec List

Look, most of these are reasonably popular fics already, so if you’ve been in this fandom for a couple months you’ve likely read them. Which is not how I normally do rec lists, but I’m new enough to Untamed that I’m still reading through all the fics by authors I know from other fandoms plus ones that have been personally recced to me, so I haven’t made it into the deep dive of underappreciated fics that I normally like to rec.

It doesn’t help that one of these recs is 445K, so for like two weeks straight it was basically all I was reading.

BUT if, like me, you are rather new to this fandom and its fics, here are some good ones:

The Same Moon Shines Series by sami

This is the 445K behemoth, made up of 23 works, and is technically made up of three interrelated series. The first fic, which establishes the whole universe/multiverse, is 139K on its own. Basically, decades into the canon future, WWX invents time travel.

He goes back to being born, but is reborn with all his memories intact. And he fixes, like, fucking everything and it’s so, so fucking satisfying. Everything’s not perfect though - for example, he like lowkey (highkey?) traumatizes LXC by showing him his previous life via empathy and that has some consequences eventually. Featuring ace poly JC/LXC/WQ triad.

Then in a cracky subseries, appropriately called “ridiculous future bullshit”, we assume that the main six from this universe (WWX, LWJ, JC, WQ, LXC, JYL, & Lan Sizhui) all achieve immortality and find out what they’re up to in the modern day, where they’re revered in the Five Nations (this does a great job of staying in the canon world instead of ours) but of course white Western assholes do things like try and make a disney movie called Hanguang-Jun and the Yiling Patriarch where they marry LWJ off to a girl.

And then in a third subseries, which so far has only one WIP fic, we go back to the canon universe, find out that JC and LWJ were stuck there watching WWX disappear in his time machine array (so WWX actually split off into another universe, he didn’t rewind his own), and so they get into the array having no idea what it will do but wanting to chase down the asshole they love. And so a third universe is born, where they are both born with their memories but WWX is not. I absolutely love seeing how different their priorities are from WWX’s in terms of what they want to change in their new life.

(Also: This is technically a MDZS fic that usually goes with novel canon over show canon if there’s a discrepancy, so if like me you haven’t read the whole novel you might need to look up some plot points now and then.)

The Vermillion Ribbon by @unforth

AU where Wei WuXian was taken in by Wen Qing and Wen Ning’s parents instead of the Jiangs. LWJ (who is the POV character) is a super DUPER dick to him at first, like even moreso than in canon, but the speed with which he regrets his choices is breathtaking and extremely satisfying.

LWJ is a VERY unreliable narrator. He has absolutely no idea what is going on with himself or anyone else at any point in time. Eventually he at least becomes self-aware of this fact, and can at least go wait am I missing something? I think I’m missing several somethings but fuck if I know what. Wei WuXian not understanding this about him leads to some miscommunication, because WWX doesn’t get that LWJ needs absolutely everything spelled out to him in single-syllable words with crayon drawings and y’know, WWX isn’t going to be straightforward anytime he can pretend he’s TOTALLY FINE :D :D :D instead.

LWJ’s friendship with NHS is magical, and NHS in general gets 810% more opportunity to scheme and plot pre-time-of-NMJ’s-canonical-death than in canon and is honestly living his best life. It’s also valuable for LWJ to have a scheming friend because, aside from realizing he misjudged WWX, this is how he starts to figure out that he’s a dumbass who has no idea what is going on ever. But he can count on NHS to always be ten steps ahead, so it’s okay.

(ETA: I’m sorry, I made unforth feel like maybe LWJ was too dense, and no, he’s very much not stupid in general. Like, honestly the fact that he becomes so self-aware of the things he’s bad at, and does things like trust NHS to always understand the stuff he’s missing, makes him come off as very intelligent. It’s just in the specific realm of understanding anything that people say or do that isn’t 100% honest and straightforward that he is just entirely hopeless in a rather relatable way, and like I said, WWX’s go-to is hiding any and all pain so that is a bad combo.)

The Fire Lapping Up the Creek by notevenyou

This diverges from canon when WWX is on his way to Jin Ling’s one month celebration, but doesn’t bring Wen Ning along. So when Jin Zixun attacks it goes very poorly for him, poorly enough that Jin Zixuan thinks he’s dead and it’s reported back at Carp Tower as such. Sending LWJ into a dissociative state. He manages to break through to reality just long enough to find out that Jin Zixuan took WWX’s body back to the burial mounds and left it with Wen Qing, and to get on his sword and go directly there. Thankfully, it turns out that WWX is not dead, but only just barely so.

So LWJ stays there, because now that he spent some amount of time (he isn’t really sure if it was like five minutes or two hours, because dissociation) thinking WWX was dead he now knows that he should never, ever be anywhere but with WWX.

Honestly, it almost feels like a spoiler to say WWX doesn’t die, but there’s no major character death warning while there IS one for graphic violence so it’s not a chose not to warn either, so that’s technically not a spoiler. But things are touch-and-go for him for a very, very long time. And the romance is a slow burn with pining galore. And you get to see LWJ teaching A-Yuan to play the guqin, so like imagine being WWX and you wake up from almost dying to see that going on in your cave.

Velle: to will, to wish by @aerlalaith

This one is actually canon-compliant, and as it’s both quite a bit shorter and more straightforward, plot-wise, than the others, my writeup will be short but that doesn’t mean I loved it any less. Basically, it’s the process of LWJ deciding to adopt A-Yuan in the aftermath of WWX’s death. It starts just after he’s been beaten for turning against the other cultivators, and at first it’s mostly his grief and both physical and emotional pain. A-Yuan starts slipping in to visit him. and LWJ isn’t sure if he’s really okay with that at first.

Of course he becomes very okay with it, but the Lan elders and Lan Qiren and all aren’t just going to be like “ok sure you can barely walk you should def adopt a four-year-old of unclear origins who may or may not have something to do with your demonic dead boyfriend and the evil people he helped, that’s cool,” so it’s not that simple.

There’s a followup fic where, years later, LWJ chooses the courtesy name Sizhui and Xichen gives him shit for it.

save a sword, ride a socialist by sysrae / @fozmeadows

Continuing on my grand tour of Untamed fics by my fave writers from other fandoms, I get to enjoy having overlapped with foz on a third straight fandom which is just fabulous. I totally thought I wasn’t gonna read AUs and then this asshole comes along and writes AUs, which is not playing fair.

I especially love this because it’s modern day but much like ridiculous future bullshit it’s modern day in (more or less) a canonish world, not our world. So like, they fly on swords, but not long distances because it’s easier to take a train or drive rather than use up all that spiritual energy.

Lan Qiren and Jin Guangshan miss the old ways, though, and they think the best ancient tradition to bring back is arranged marriage! Because that will go over well with today’s youth. They try to make LWJ marry Mianmian but he’s like “um I’m gay” and LQ throws a hissy fit about that so Jin Zixuan (who is LWJ’s bestie and is fucking hilarious) hatches a plot for LWJ to cause LQ to stroke out by bringing WWX to Lan Xichen’s birthday party as his fake date.

But when LWJ and WWX meet up to talk this over, LWJ is instantly fucked because WWX has a small child with him and it turns out that this small child is the orphan he adopted. He doesn’t notice he’s fucked until a few days later, though, when WWX comes over for “kissing practice” and they fuck and he calls Jin Zixuan all “I think I caught a feel, what do?” and JZX is like idk, you’re a moron, don’t ask me to clean up your moron messes. And the next day LWJ buys a car seat.

Lan Wangji heard about Jack 110% Zimmermann and said “challenge accepted,” is what I’m saying here. And now I’ve written as much about this 33k fic as I did about the 445k, so I’ll shut up before I just recount the entire plot.

[douxie-casperan]

a memory of their father :)

The first few months behind the looming walls surrounding the castle’s innerworkings were proving stressful to say the least. Everything was so different to what Douxie had grown used to from the clothes he was expected to wear, the strict rules he was expected to follow and court manners which he was having additional instruction on multiple times a week on to ensure he could only ever give the best impression. When asked why this was so important the answer he received was a simple one, it is better to put your best foot forward than start on the back and have to work even harder to reach the same place. Prodding for clarification because that didn’t make much sense, after a small sigh he was informed that should anyone regardless of status discover his origins after he had already proved himself with a willingness to adapt it should not hurt his personal standing with them. Politics of the Court are like an ever evolving yet constant game of chess and by doing some of the leg work himself it would improve how people would interact with him more than relying entirely on his title of apprentice to carry him through.

To the now 10 year old it still sounded a bit silly but if it would help make life easier in the long run and given who said it, he didn’t see any reason to argue though he could not wait for those lessons to finally be over lest his head simply fall off from the amount of information he was being expected to memorise just to blend in.

Now for him the biggest novelty of being in Camelot as a citizen (?) was never having to worry about food after a lifetime of it being a constant worry and in how the kitchen staff sometimes snuck him a little bit extra for his plate or pouch and fussed as if he was one of their own. He always did try to be polite if he saw any of them, maybe that had something to do with it? Then he’d managed to try so many brand-new things already too! Lumbolls were possibly one of his favourites, those and the ryschewys though in both cases they are a bit on the special side in not being made often but whenever he got his hands on either after splitting them in half to share with Archie just like they used to while savouring each and every bite down to the last tiny pastry fleck.

His day to day duties when not indulging his ever growing sweet tooth weren’t quite what he had been expecting but he took to them with great enthusiasm anyway with an underlining fear of seeming ungrateful at the unique chance he’d been given accompanied if he did otherwise. These were often in the form of cleaning with a broom or scrubbing with a brush where directed, fetching enchantment ingredients required from the stores or occasionally elsewhere, sorting the books on shelves to finding one that might be needed and more often than not simply carrying things or acting as an extra pair of hands when the wizard needed. He didn’t mind particularly, it felt like he was being useful with the knowledge that if anybody asked he could truthfully respond that he was an errand helping the nerves. Sure they might have used the odd opportunity to do some exploring where they probably shouldn’t have been but knowing the terrain was important as was a quick escape route when knights are wandering around. Being a bit late from going the long way was a much better option than running into any of them, if the life before now had proved anything it was that being cautious was wise, the ones who disappeared were usually the ones that relied purely on luck and didn’t have at least three places to bolt for if things started to turn…

He wasn’t about to let his fear of where a mistake could lead him hold him back from doing anything but he wasn’t exactly about to ignore it completely either. Week by week his mental map was growing and most simply assumed he was getting better at navigating the halls which was true in a sense at least.

The other important note was how use of any form of magic was not permitted unless under the strict supervision of his regular lessons which included the cuff being held in Master Merlin’s workshop as a precaution both as much for himself and any who might realise it was more than for mere decoration. He was also told that if he stuck to this very important rule while being careful about how much he said beyond the closed door he would be allowed to keep his familiar with him if with an additional request that he posed as a cat. In both cases neither would be forever, it was simply important to keep up appearances and thus help ensure their safety in turn. Both figured the room they had been given Archie would be allowed to stretch his wings but they were always careful just in case someone might barge in and hoped might even be allowed to while being tutored as well soon. They were allowed to talk as long as there was no risk of being overheard mind, it was such an ingrained habit at this point neither could figure out why it needed to be brought up in the first place.

Today though was one of those that felt like the work was never done thanks to a chore list longer than a horse’s leg designed to keep him out of everyone’s hair while a big meeting was going on about things he didn’t have the privilege to hear even a hint of. Presently that left him on his hands and knees scrubbing away at the floor that had suffered more than it’s fair share of feet tracking through and was starting to become unsightly as a result with a cat, sans glasses just in case, pointing out any spot he missed while enjoying his own opportunity of being leisurely in the quiet afternoon sun. While he works it is the man who had been so curt in the morn who is currently occupying his thoughts, the same who felt like a as enigmatic now as he was the day they had first met.

"Hey Archie, is this what having a father is like?" Douxie asks suddenly out the blue whilst sounding a mite unsure, his previously focused expression turning into a frown that stares down at the brush he is holding.

"Or parent even, I don't really have any point of reference."

“Hmm? Ah, you are referring to the Master Wizard I presume.” He gets a nod in return and is given rapt attention by his charge.

“Certainly strict as one I would say and he does at least appear to have your interests at heart even if his methodology I cannot say I always agree with.”

“How so?”

“While there are times where your exact pronunciation matters such as spellwork for instance needing to be very precise and yours can lapse at times, he seems to act like any of the descriptions of usage is somehow beyond your reading comprehension unless a single sentence is stretched out by the syllable then repeated over and over until we’re all positively bored of hearing it. Quite a contrast given he still expects you to transcribe extracts to improve your handwriting ability,” comes an answer with a tail twitch.

“You will struggle to say some words in the expected manner which is more than fair but that does not mean you are unable to read anything put in front of you when it is the common language you are already used to.”

“Oh.” Douxie’s brow knits together in thought as it did make sense but there had to be a reason, never he did was without one, he’d come to realise that already.

“Unless it is something I should not be seeing yet?”

“Perhaps, it is not the impression he is giving me however. I do wonder however if he’s stalling deliberately? We are being kept in the dark there might be something else going on we are yet to be aware of.”

“Well he is the Master Wizard that must mean you have a few secrets and I am sure we will find out eventually!” He says taking a moment to give his arms a good stretch, a firm shake then goes back to scrubbing humming away a little as he does.

“It has only been a few months so far, maybe being mysterious is his big thing and it is all a test.”

“Indeed, we just might yet.”

It was late eve by the time he was finally finished with everything which had culminated in locating an older tome documenting the usage of tools from his sneaky glance at the first few pages though he darted away at the first sign of footsteps coming. Merlin had returning bringing a distinct lack of tension in his shoulders compared to what had been there for what felt like weeks causing the pair to look at one another confused not daring to say a word. The meeting is not mentioned nor is any question directed in regards to what had been accomplished either which was very unusual when he seemed to be keeping tabs on what sorts of things they had been up to when not under his feet. After checking that what he had asked was not sitting on the bench with a satisfied sound that could almost be taken as relieve, his cloak sweeps round as he takes the few steps to place a hand on the young boy’s head with a smile akin to the one he had once given at the gates causing him to blink a little bewildered.

“Well my boy, it would appear your patience has paid off. From tomorrow how do you feel in regards to learning some real magic?”

Douxie’s grin could not have been any wider if it tried.

[dothwrites]

15.06 coda--ocean of silence

There is an ocean of silence between us. And I am drowning in it.--Ranata Suzuki

---

“And check your damn messages.” 

The words stick in Dean’s throat, vicious and painful. They manage to worm their way through, but there’s so many other words that want to claw their way out--What the fuck are you doing in fucking Idaho, why the fuck didn’t you listen to your messages, come back, God’s back and we need you, come back, God’s been writing our story all this time and I have no idea which way is up and which way is right, come back, we need you, I need you, I need you--

But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say any of it. Instead, he says “Check your damn messages,” and punches the end call button before he can say any of the words begging to escape. 

---

Castiel waits until he’s sitting in his cabin before he checks his phone. 

For weeks now he’s been watching the messages pile on top of each other, not bothering to check them. He didn’t want to feel that pang in his chest when he realized that none of them were from Dean. 

He feels it now, scrolling through the messages--Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam...Something, foreign and hot, clogs in his throat. If Dean had cared, just enough to send one single message, just some hint that he cared, even a little...

He listens to Sam’s voicemail from one week ago. He can hear the barely restrained emotion in Sam’s voice, present in the tiny wobbles and the small hitches of his breath. Sam says that Chuck, that God is back. That he never really left. That Lilith is back. That everything--Jack, Rowena--was all for nothing. 

That he lost everything. For nothing. 

Again.

If I stay, nothing changes, he’d said, but if he goes back, then nothing changes. From whichever way he looks at it--nothing changes. In the end, God will still be there, Jack will still be gone, and Dean...Well. Nothing will change. 

Just hearing Dean’s voice on the other end of the line, hearing the particular way that Dean’s voice shaped his name--Cas. Until Dean Winchester, he had always been Castiel. There had never been any other option. Then he met Dean, talked to Dean, and immediately, Dean began chipping away at him, starting with his name. It wasn’t until years later that Castiel looked at the shape of himself and didn’t recognize what he saw. It wasn’t until years later that he realized that Dean Winchester had molded him, with the care and precision of a master sculptor, into whatever Dean had wanted to see. And Castiel, whoever that angel had been, was lost forever. 

---

He drives back to the bunker. In the end, he doesn’t know what else to do. Get back in the game, he’d said, arrogant in the moment, still riding high on the release of his rage. He forgot that he’d closed that door behind him and thrown away the key. Not literally--the key to the bunker still sits in the pocket of his coat but. 

When he drove away, he’d honestly never expected to see the bunker again. And now...the gravel road is still the same, winding down to the forgotten entrance. Out here, there’s no light pollution, and Castiel’s headlights cut through the darkness to land on the figure of a woman. 

Something hot and unpleasant clenches in Castiel’s chest. Ridiculous, given their circumstances, but...The woman turns around, suspicion narrowing her eyes as her hand goes to her waist. Castiel catches a glimpse of a gun tucked into her waistband. Not a civilian then. 

He gets out of the truck, but leaves the headlights on her so that she has to squint to see him. It gives him the advantage, however brief. He just hopes that she’ll think before shooting him. His grace...well. He might not recover so easily from a gunshot as he once did. 

“Hello?” The woman doesn’t answer his call. A vague rush of foreboding prickles through Castiel’s body. His blade rests in his coat sleeve, heavy with intent. “Hello?” he calls again, louder. 

“Hello?” answers him. There’s a thickness to the voice, a slurring of the syllables that means--

Castiel shifts so that the light illuminates his body instead of silhouetting him. “Hello?” he asks again, making sure to face the woman directly so that she can see the movement of his lips. 

“Who are you?” she asks, never moving her hand away from the gun. 

“Castiel,” he answers. 

The tension in her posture relaxes and her hand falls away from the gun. “Oh.” Her eyes fall on him again, with a different kind of consideration. “You’re Castiel.” Her mouth twists as she takes him in--the holes in his shirt where the bullets tore through, the blood spattered on his shirt and neck. He can feel it on his face, pulling unpleasantly at his skin whenever he moves. He’d done his best to try and clean himself before he left, but it had been a quick job. As for his clothes--he didn’t have the infinistirmal amount of grace that it would take to clean his suit. He’s been carefully ignoring that fact, and he continues to do so with a neat little mental sidestep. 

“You’re an angel?” the woman asks. Skeptisicm is in her tone, and Castiel doesn’t blame her. He’s a skeptic as well. 

“A poor excuse for one,” he answers. He doesn’t realize, until he sees the quick flash of pity in the woman’s eyes, how pathetic that sounds. “And you are?” he asks, swiftly changing the subject. “I thought I knew all the other hunters but I don’t--”

“Eileen.” She extends her hand and Castiel takes it. Her shake is firm and strong, her skin warm. “Eileen Leahy.” 

The name sparks the faintest recollection of a memory and though Castiel doesn’t pull away, his hand jerks in her grasp. Eileen’s eyes sparkle at him, mirth dancing in their depths at his reaction. “You were dead,” Castiel says, because he remembers now. Eileen, who was killed by the British Men of Letters. Eileen, who Sam always spoke of with fondness and regret. Eileen, who stands in front of him now, whole and vibrant and alive, while so many others are dead and scattered into dust. 

“Weren’t you?” she asks. 

Despite everything, a smile breaks across Castiel’s face. “I suppose so,” he answers. “It seems to be a recurring theme for...” He stops himself before the words tumble out of his mouth. A recurring theme for residents of this place. 

He can’t say that. He’s not a resident here anymore, if he ever was. “For hunters,” he finishes lamely. Eileen’s expression tells him that he’s not really fooling her, but she doesn’t press. Once again, Castiel is grateful for the strange generosity of humans, the way that even though they can be harsh and cruel, petty and thoughtless, they’re also so gentle and careful with veritable strangers. 

“So why are you out here? I thought that this was normally the time that humans spent sleeping.” 

Eileen shrugs, glancing up at the stars. “Being dead for a few years--Sleep is kind of overrated at this point?” Her fingers flex in the fabric of her jacket as she turns in a slow circle. “Plus, i just like it out here. In there, it’s...”

“It can be stifling,” Castiel answers. The underground nature of the bunker, the way that two human men can take up so much space. The way that a single human can force his presence on an angel until they crumple underneath the weight of it. 

Eileen nods. A faint smile crosses her face as she looks around the bleak landscape surrounding the bunker. “You miss this,” she says, more to herself than Castiel. “The breeze, the smell. The feel of it.” She looks at him, a little shyly. “Do you want to go in?” she asks, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the door. 

“No,” Castiel answers, settling down on the steps. 

“I’m fine staying out here for a while.” 

---

After an hour passes, Sam comes outside to find them.

He’s obviously not expecting any company, dressed only in a thin shirt and pajama pants. He didn’t even bother to put shoes on before he came outside, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. His hair is tousled and sticking up in the back. Castiel wonders what’s between him and Eileen, that he would leave his bed and sleep to search for her. 

“Hey, I woke up and saw that you--” Sam pauses, his eyes lighting on Castiel’s form. He blinks away the slumber as his posture straightens and awareness filters back into his expression. “Cas.” His tone is carefully neutral. “I didn’t know that you were here.” 

“I just got here a few hours ago.” Eileen’s eyes flick back and forth between Sam’s face and his. Even though she can’t hear the obvious tension in their words, she can pick it up through the blatant discomfort in their body language. 

“I’m going to go back inside,” she says, and before either of them can say goodbye, Eileen bolts back inside. Castiel is left with Sam who has a strange mixture of longing, worry, and irritation on his face. 

“Did you get my messages?” he finally asks, leaning against the wall. Castiel wonders if he should stand, but nixes the idea. Even the thought takes too much effort. 

“I listened to them earlier.” 

“And why...” Sam is losing the fight against his irritation. He blows out a short breath and folds his arms against his chest. He seems incapable of looking at Castiel for longer than a stretch of thirty seconds. “Why didn’t you answer? Where were you?”

Irritation bristles its ugly head. Castiel grits his jaw to keep all of his roiling, seething anger inside. Sam Winchester doesn’t get to question him like this, doesn’t get to make demands of him; it’s not like he’s...

“I needed to be away. From here.” Castiel bites out the words. 

Sam finally looks at him, bleak frustration in his eyes. “Because of Jack? Cas, we all miss him. But it’s complicated and...”

Castiel’s anger and grief explode outward, a volcano finally reaching its critical state. He stands up, coat swirling around him as he stalks to Sam. He forgets his lingering weakness, the jelly state of his graceless body as he stands within an inch of Sam. 

“Complicated? You miss him? You and your brother were the ones who tried to lock him away from the world for all eternity, and when that didn’t work, you were the ones who put a gun to his head. And now you have the...” Castiel’s mouth works for a second as he tries to find the correct word, “the arrogance, to come to me and tell me that you miss him? That you’re sad that Chuck finished the job instead of you?” 

“Cas, that’s not fair,” Sam tries, but Castiel can tell by the fraying sound of his voice that he’s on the end of his tether as well. “You don’t understand--Jack killed Mom and--”

“No, I understand very well the Winchester definition of family,” Castiel spits out, then stops, chest heaving. He feels raw on the inside, like something came through and scraped its claws through every part of him. 

He never should have come back. He sees that now. 

If Castiel had actually reached out and slapped him, Sam could not look more confused or hurt. His mouth hangs open and his eyes reflect a sort of helpless pain that Castiel can identify with all too well. He knows what it feels like to have the people you took for granted in your life suddenly shift and change until you no longer know how to navigate through the new sharp edges. He knows what it feels like to get cut to ribbons on someone. 

“What...what the hell happened?” Sam finally asks, rubbing his jaw. “Cas, what...why did you leave?” 

And there it is. The question that he should have been asking all along, now delivered, too late to help anyone. 

Castiel doesn’t want to punish Sam. That’s never what this was about, but he can’t, he can’t...He can’t sit here and pour out the ugly remains of his life, his hopes, he can’t sit there and be a willing participant in his own humiliation. 

“Ask your brother,” Castiel says instead, petty and cruel. He heads towards the door of the bunker, hating the claustrophobic nature of the place but needing to escape this conversation. His hand on the doorknob, he pauses to look back at Sam. “I’m here to help with God because it’s my fight too. I can’t sit on the sidelines and watch because I have a responsibility. But after...However this ends, I’m leaving after.”

He goes into the bowels of the bunker, leaving Sam alone outside.

---

Dean is caught in the middle of a dream. 

Ever since they got the news that Chuck was back, he’s been dreaming more than usual. Normally his dreams are just strange, fever-pitch things. They’re enough to leave him gasping in a cold sweat, but not enough to linger over his day. These dreams though...these dreams wrap around him like a cold, forbidding blanket, and shadow every action that he makes until finally, he falls back asleep, only to dream again. 

Tonight, it’s more of the same. He’s racing through a forest that happens to look a hell of a lot like Purgatory. He’s hunting something. He doesn’t know what it is, but he knows that he wants to find it and destroy. He wants to dig his fingernails into this thing and shred it apart, until nothing’s left but the blood and gore on his hands. His blood thrills with the chase and all that he hears is just the sound of his feet racing through the undergrowth and the ragged sounds of his breath ripping through the air. 

Ahead of him, a rustle. Dean pours on the speed, his gun a promising weight in his hand. The tension of his finger as he squeezes the trigger, the recoil traveling up his arm, the satisfaction of hearing the bullet hit and watching the blood spray--Dean races ahead, hunting the creature that no longer bothers to be subtle. Now it’s running, straight in front of him, in a futile attempt to escape. 

There is no escape. Not here, not from him. 

Dean launches himself into the air, arms reaching out to grab the fabric of the thing’s coat. He brings it to the ground and they roll, scratching and clawing at each other, but there was only one way that this story was ever going to end. Dean springs to his feet, his quarry still on the ground, and if he were able, he’d throw his head back and howl his triumph to the night sky. 

He shoves his toe under the body and rolls them over. There is nothing but triumph as he looks into Castiel’s eyes. 

“Dean,” he tries, hands held up in surrender, “Dean, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to--”

Dean holds the gun up. He looks down at it, heavy in his hands. The Equalizer. Cas’ eyes flick to the gun, but then he keeps them on Dean’s face, open and earnest. Pleading. 

“Dean, this isn’t...This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, this isn’t you--” 

Cas’ voice tapers off to nothing as Dean places the gun against the skin of his forehead. His heart is pounding hard in his chest--excitement, horror--Whatever it is, Dean’s drunk on it, on the power to be found in the simple act of stroking his finger over the trigger. 

“Dean. Please.” Cas never takes his eyes off Dean’s face, and that trust, that faith, after everything that--

Dean squeezes the trigger, watches the blood and gore explode from Cas’ head, watches those bright blue eyes film over, watches the body slump--

---

He wakes, gasping, terrified, sick. He retches but nothing comes up, only the sick taste of his own horror. Just a dream, but the words sound empty both in his head and in the quiet air of his bedroom. Just a dream. It was just a dream. 

He didn’t kill Cas. He would never. 

But the dream was so real, with Cas kneeling, pleading...And the smooth feel of the gun jumping in his hands, the way that it was so easy to squeeze, the satisfaction of watching Cas’ body jerk, watching the quick spray of blood--

“Fucking christ,” Dean mutters. With quick, convulsive movements, he jerks his robe on and ties a sloppy knot. Obviously he’s not going to get any more sleep so he might as well...Do something. That has his feet and hands moving. 

Sam would suggest that he should exercise, but Sam is an asshole who eats granola and gets to have the person he loves in the same zipcode with him, so what the fuck does he know? 

Dean walks out of his room and closes the door quietly, just in case Eileen or Sam are sleeping lightly. He starts down the hallway, lost in the memories and the might-have beens, and he doesn’t see the other person in the hallway until he bounces off of them. 

He staggers back, an apology already on his lips, when he looks and--

“Cas?” he croaks, his heart thundering in his chest. 

He blinks to clear the last remnants of sleep from his eyes and then he looks-- “Why are you--” There’s blood, too much of it, it’s on Cas’ shirt and his coat, and his face, and there’s, oh god are those bullet holes in his shirt, and that’s too much blood, bullets in Cas and it’s too much blood--

“Dean, it’s fine. It’s not mine. I’m fine.” 

Dean realizes that he’d been speaking aloud, his hands clutching at the lapels of Cas’ coat in some desperate attempt to assure himself that this isn’t his dream, that Cas is still...That he’s...

“It’s not my blood. I’m fine. Look.” Cas takes his hand, in those sure, capable fingers, the ones that have put Dean back together more times than he can count, and guides it to his chest. Dean’s fingers catch on the ragged edge of Cas’ shirt, where the bullets went in before finding smooth, unblemished skin. Whole. Intact. 

Cas’ skin is warm to the touch and Dean drinks in the sensation before the full weight of reality hits and he realizes--This isn’t for him anymore. Touching Cas, getting to check him for injury--That isn’t for either of them. They both made sure of that. 

“You’re back,” Dean says, unnecessarily, but needing the moment to gather his defenses around him. He clutches his robe tight to his body like that’ll make a damn bit of difference, but it’s just one more layer between him and the rest of the world. 

Cas takes a step back. It’s hardly anything, but it feels like everything, in the deliberate distance that he puts between them. “Yes,” he says, his voice stiff in a way that it hasn’t been in years. “Considering the circumstances...I didn’t think that there was another option.” 

Dean jerks his head once, bitterly. “Right. The circumstances.” Because why else would Cas come back? Cas leaves because he wants to, because it’s time for him to move on, and comes back because of the circumstances. Because at the heart of it, Cas is still the duty-bound angel. “Well. We’ll try not keep you too long.” 

What have you been doing to get yourself shot, are you ok, where have you been, why couldn’t you have at least texted Sam to let him know that you were fine, why couldn’t you text me and let me know you were fine, why couldn’t you stay, why couldn’t you understand that I still wanted you around, why couldn’t you just wait, just for a little bit until I was fine again--

“I know that you’ve got stuff to get back to,” Dean says instead, like he’s possessed, like someone else is in his chest, saying these things that will make Cas flinch. 

He does. Cas still flinches, which means that Cas still cares, no matter how much he tries to pretend that he doesn’t. And if Cas still cares, that means that...Dean doesn’t know what that means. 

“I’ll try not to overstay my welcome.” Why did he ever teach Cas the nuances of sarcasm, the way that the English language can be manipulated to wound? 

Cas turns away from him, like he did that one night, like he does in some of Dean’s nightmares, the ones where he’s begging Cas to stay and Cas looks at him, coolly pitying, and says, I think it’s time for me to move on, and then he leaves, like all of this was never more than a pit stop for him along the way to bigger and better things. 

Something in Dean’s chest breaks. It shatters into a thousand pieces and then he’s lurching forward, hands reaching for Cas. He manages to grab a piece of his coat, but the tug of fabric is enough to stop Cas. “What Dean?” Dean didn’t know that angels could sound exhausted, but Cas does, Cas sounds like he has the weight of centuries and the weight of Dean pushing him down to the ground. 

“I...I don’t know,” Dean says, and there’s something liberating about the acknowledgement that he’s been floundering for these past three weeks. “I don’t...I don’t like when you’re gone,” he says. There’s more, but it’s all too raw, too painful, too true to say. If he says that, if he apologizes and confesses, and all the rest of it, then Cas will know, and then...Then, when Cas leaves after that, Dean will know that it was always him, that Cas was always leaving him, and Dean doesn’t think that he’ll survive that. 

Cas says nothing; he doesn’t even bother to turn around. Dean inches closer and Cas could leave if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. Infinitesimally, Dean moves forward until his forehead is resting on Cas’ shoulder. Cas stiffens underneath him, but he doesn’t move to shake Dean off. Dean stays there and breathes in the scent of Cas’ coat, which smells like something damp and wild, and then the scent of Cas, which smells like something fierce and unforgiving. 

The moment is fragile, so achingly vulnerable, that it’s no surprise when Dean ruins it. “It’s good that you’re back,” he says, and he means it in the way that he can’t sleep well when he doesn’t know where Cas is, in the way that he thought that he was never going to see Cas again, in the way that his heart lifted to hear Cas’ voice, even in those bitten off, reluctant syllables, in the way that this feels like a second chance, and then he says, “We really need you”, and everything shatters. 

Cas pulls away and leaves Dean cold and bereft. Now, when he turns around, his face is that angelic mask that Dean hates so much, the one that Cas hides behind when he’s feeling too much, when he becomes too human for comfort. 

“That always seems to be the case,” Cas bites out, short and bitter, and how did this go so bad so quick? Where were the warnings? “I’m here to help, because this is my fight too Dean. I was here when it started and i don’t get to sit on the sidelines and watch. But after...” Castiel shakes his head. “If I stay, nothing changes.” 

He walks away, leaving Dean standing in the middle of the hallway. For the second time, Dean watches him go and doesn’t say anything. For the second time, Cas never pauses or invites Dean to change his mind. 

Dean stands in the hallway until Castiel disappears, until he confirms that Cas isn’t coming back. Then he slinks back to his room, despair and defeat dogging his steps like two faithful hounds. He closes the door and wishes that the noise of the latch clicking didn’t sound so final. 

He curls up on the bed and starts scrolling through his phone. He needs a hunt, something that will consume his mind, something that will take him away from the bunker, away from Cas, away from the ruins of his failure. 

“Huh,” he says, as he lands on something that looks promising. 

---

Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.--Anais Nin

[scrappydooisfoundaliveinnebraska]

“TA-TA-TA! Purple Flowers!”

Are you horrified? Disgusted? Offended? Irritated beyond belief? I’m guessing...no. After all, people don’t run away screaming when they hear fan fare playing, nor do they groan loudly if someone utters ‘purple flowers’ in their presence. What about Puppy Power? Now that’s a different tale. Sometimes people just aren’t amused by ‘Puppy Power’. But why? Purple Flowers has the same amount of syllables, sounds similar, and said in the same intonation is inoffensive. What is it? I’m going to put forth a theory: Gen Xers don’t dislike Scrappy because of Puppy Power, they dislike Puppy Power because of Scrappy.  Now in a world where Scooby didn’t exist and you yelled Zoinks, you’d probably get weird looks, right? But Scooby does exist, and people are familiar with it, and Shaggy’s pretty popular, so you’d be good. Now if Scrappy yelled “Zoinks!” as his catchphrase, I bet that his haters would probably cry foul just like they do with “Puppy Power”.  And, as it goes, Puppy Power wasn’t that bad of a catchphrase. What? You want to know why? You want to know how you can rate a catchphrase?  Well, the thing is, you can’t. It’s impossible to.  But I still think it has a two things that I appreciate personally,

None of the involved words have become obsolete or a naughty word in the course of forty years.  The Whizzer was a super hero from a while back whose super power was Super Speed.  And he was yellow. Are you laughing yet?  Think about it for a second. Just imagine the whizzer, whizzing around in a bright streak of yellow, repulsing villainous speeds with just a whiz or two... OK, if you don’t get it now, there’s nothing I can do.  Point is, the whizzer has hit minor memetic status because his color and his name, in our modern culture, makes everything very, very funny. 

Well, it’s always nice to make people laugh, but I think it’s also nice when your work can at least be taken the way you intended to. See, Scrappy’s catchphrase wasn’t slangy or obscure, meaning in the past 39 years or so, some kid will listen to his catchphrase and won’t think “HEHE He said POWER!” (At least, I hope not)  Scrappy playing his own fanfare music and even miming a trumpet noise is really cute in an adorkable kind of way.

[liadanswhisper]

A single thread.

[[I preface this with the following: This is a story from one of my characters, Rebekah Grey, who I have started playing in the New Haven by Night sim in Second Life. Rebekah is a character I have played in several incarnations over the years. This incarnation of Rebekah is a Mage, a devoutly Christian member of the Celestial Chorus, one of the Nine Traditions in the Mage: the Ascension setting. This is a story showcasing Rebekah's faith and how it relates to her ability to warp reality herself - because that's what Awakened Mages do: they warp reality with the power of their belief. Read on if you are still interested. :) ]]

The TV buzzed quietly in the corner as Rebekah stirred the vegetables sautéing in the cast iron skillet she'd brought with her from Louisiana. Humming under her breath, the brunette inhaled the delicious aroma of herbs and spices she'd used to season the veggies, then reached over to check on the chicken breast baking in the oven. As she straightened, though, she heard the oddest noise. Her brow furrowed as she turned in the direction she thought she heard it. There it was again - something discordant, something off. Frowning, Rebekah carefully turned the burner off under the vegetables and stepped away from her stove, padding quietly into her living room. Reaching for the remote, she went to turn off the TV, only to notice it was showing static instead of a normal program. Frowning, she checked a few channels, but it was all the same - snow and static. Flipping the TV off in favor of the quiet, she turned slowly, listening again for the discordant note. After a moment's thought, she whispered a prayer for sight-beyond-sight,  and the room lit up as her vision shifted to see the threads of Prime all around her. At first, everything seemed normal, but then she caught a glimpse of one of the windows out of the corner of her eyes - solid lines of Prime coated every surface. "What in the..." Taking a deep breath, Rebekah walked to the door and opened it carefully...only to see the same solid wall of Prime between her and the outside. Blinking a few times, she closed the door and walked back into her living room before she began to pace, her socks making little sound on the carpeted floor as she muttered under her breath. How could this be happening? It didn't make any sense - she'd been so careful, she'd been so discreet. It all felt too much like a trap she'd heard about the Technocracy springing on unsuspecting mages who caught their attention. With natural panic beginning to encroach on her mind, the brunette picked up her pacing once more, her arms folded across her chest in a defensive posture. Wracking her brain, she tried to come up with any way she knew of to get around such a construct, but even after digging out the books her mentor in Louisiana had given her, she came up empty-handed. Frustration building, she finally clenched her fists at her side and ranted for a few minutes, stomping her feet a time or two as she expressed just how done she was with the entire situation. But when her rant had petered out, she was no closer to a solution to her problem, and was left staring at her closed front door with a frown. And then she heard it again - well, not again, because this sound was different. A single, dulcet tone that echoed quietly in the silence, that shimmered in the corner of her eye. Green eyes strayed to the book on her table, bound in green leather with a green silk placeholder hanging out of the bottom, the pages edged in gilt. Of course. How could she have forgotten? Sinking to her knees in the middle of her living room, Rebekah pressed a hand over her heart as she bowed her head, murmuring in softly-drawled tones, "Father, I know you see me. I know you hear me. I need your wisdom now. I know you are here with me. Please, help me." It was simple, as prayers go, and yet it settled her mind as nothing else she'd tried had done so far. As she knelt there in silence, listening for the voice she knew so well, another song began to trickle into her mind, and she found herself humming the tune. Humming soon turned to singing as the Chorister began to ground herself in her faith, trusting that the answer would come to her. "God of Your promise, You don't speak in vain, No syllable empty or void. For once You have spoken, All nature and science Follow the sound of Your voice. "And as You speak, A hundred billion creatures catch Your breath, Evolving in pursuit of what You've said. If it all reveals Your nature, So will I." It was so close, she could almost feel it. The threads seemed to inch closer and closer in her mind, the answers she needed just beyond what she could touch. And as she sang, she gained confidence, her gentle soprano filling the air around her.

"I can see Your heart In everything You say, Every painted sky A canvas of Your Grace. If creation still obeys You, So will I.

"If the stars were made to worship, so will I. If the mountains bow in reverence, so will I. If the oceans roar Your greatness, so will I. For if everything exists to lift You high, so will I."

And then it came to her, as the words slipped from between her lips - the Point of Origin, where All Things Are One. The Source, the Foundation upon which everything else is built. For all things follow the will of the One.

"If the wind goes where You will, so will I. If the rocks cry out in silence, so will I. If the sum of all our praises still falls shy, Then we'll sing again a hundred billion times."

What has been woven can be unwoven. All it would take was a tear, the smallest of tears, and then the threads would unravel. And in that instant, what was prayer and supplication and praise in the midst of frustration became a Working. Tears filled Rebekah's eyes as she was abruptly filled with a mixture of gratitude and determination, calling upon the last Rote her mentor had taught her, to make manifest the will of the One in a world that no longer believed, her song weaving and reinforcing the glowing weapon taking shape between her fingers.

"God of Salvation, You chased down my heart Through all of my failure and pride. On a hill You created, The Light of the world Abandoned in darkness to die.

"And as You speak, A hundred billion failures disappear. Where You lost Your life so I could find it here. If You left the grave behind You, So will I."

Raising her head, the brunette Singer stared at her door, a dagger of pure light gripped between her hands. Slowly, carefully, she pushed herself to her feet with one hand, taking a deep breath and gathering herself, though her song did not waver, not once.

Rebekah wasn't at all sure what would happen when she used the dagger on the construct. She was certain it would collapse, but she wasn't fully sure what that would mean for her. In a way, each step she took towards the door was a step of faith, a declaration that she would see this through to the end, no matter the cost - she would not be trapped again.

"I can see Your heart in everything You've done, Every part designed in a work of art called love. If You gladly chose surrender, So will I."

The Chorister walked to the front door and threw it open, before raising her dagger and plunging it into the glowing wall of Prime she could see in front of her. It didn't give.

At least not at first. Which wasn't entirely surprising - magick takes work. Defeating evil takes work. Rescuing the lost takes work. So this would take work, too. But Rebekah had been through far too much to give up just because this wasn't easy. Instead, she sang all the louder, the hours of work and practice at singing while doing physical activity standing her in good stead in this moment - her breath control was near-pristine.

"I can see Your Heart Eight billion different ways, Every precious one A child You died to save. If You gave Your life to love them, So will I."

The knife slipped through as the last word echoed around the room, slicing a hole through the construct imprisoning her. There was a sound like a thousand glass panes shattering, and the brunette was thrown across the room, vaguely registering the door splintering into fragments before her body slammed into the coffee table, causing it to break in half before she rolled onto the floor. Stunned for the moment, she just lay there, darkness encroaching on the edge of her vision, her fingers still curled tightly around the glowing dagger that helped free her. As she lay there, staring up at the ceiling through rapidly-blurring eyes and panting for breath, she murmured, "Like You would a hundred billion times. But what measure could amount to Your desire? You're the One who never leaves the one behind."

=======================

Rebekah sat up on the floor, clutching at her chest and panting for breath as she looked around wildly. Nothing was out of place, everything pristine. No food on the stove or in the oven, no sign she'd even used her cutting board. The TV was switched on to a local news channel, the door was closed and not splintered from the explosion. It was as though she'd just laid down to take a nap. She glanced over at the small, innocent-seeming box lying on the floor next to her, the one that had opened, she remembered now, but was currently closed. Scrambling away from the box, she pushed herself to her feet, running a hand through her hair and murmuring, "What...in the world was that?"

[fragilevixenfic]

Chasing Your Silhouette

Read on AO3

Rating: M

Classification: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, UST, RST, Post-Episode Zebras, Flashbacks

Summary:  They’d learned each other’s quirks and intricacies on the job—but when did it become over the line? When did physicality become a detriment to them once they’ve taken off their shields? When did they realize the line in the sand no longer existed? (This is meant to take place a couple weeks after “Zebras” – had to assume a timeline, I don’t remember actual dates)

Notes: “Sometimes a change of perspective is all it takes to see the light” – Dan Brown

Mild description of sexual assault/violence (purely as a device not as an action) – it is not meant to trigger. Please proceed with caution.Also, I’m definitely on the EO ship but I don’t necessarily ascribe to the idea that Elliot would ever cheat on his wife. Creative liberties have been taken to alleviate such issues. Eli was never conceived and the marriage has never recovered since the initial separation in 2007, the status of their marriage is unresolved but in limbo. Don’t come for my head.

No one else can disarm me

No one else has your light

-Edward Gamper “Stranger Love”

               “Put your gun down.”

               It couldn’t be real.

               The blood, the wound duct tape around Elliot’s wrists and across his mouth, the click of a bullet sliding out of the clip and into the chamber. The only sound that inspired any sense of clarity was the thudding of Olivia’s heart in her throat as she stopped dead in her tracks. She tore her focus off of Elliot for just enough time to bear witness to O’Halloran’s lifeless eyes. She walked right into it and let her guard down as the distress in his eyes pulled back her layer of protection. How could she be so stupid? Stuckey had her in the wrong spot and Elliot had already begun to pay the price as the punctures and slashes continued to bleed through his striped shirt.

               “Okay, Dale. Okay,” Olivia blinked and relinquished her sidearm, the shaking of her digits barely noticeable as she kept them extended.

               Don’t flinch. Don’t flinch. Do not flinch.

               Her inner mantra was stuck on repeat as the reminder of O’Halloran’s corpse laying just feet away and her partner hung in the balance as some sick offering to the one holding all of the cards. She couldn’t tell if it Stuckey or herself that had everything to gain. She knew she had everything to lose. The line began to blur as the business end of Elliot’s gun got a little closer and Stuckey’s stance became a little less sure; he was shifty, aching to pull the trigger. Stuckey was capable of burying a bullet in the middle of her back, or her head, and leaving her for dead in the middle of the tech lab. Collateral damage. She was in the way. Her head was swimming, battling against the current as her blood pressure skyrocketed.

               Think…What would Elliot do?

               “What are you doing here, Liv?” Stuckey had disappointment flaring from behind his rage as he digested her arrival. “I didn’t want to have to hurt you, too.”

               “Then, don’t,” Olivia’s voice wavered, the scenario playing out in a dozen different ways as Elliot’s muted breaths were audible from across the room.

               “I don’t have much of a choice now,” Stuckey had that gun aimed high and true, inspiring nothing less than a hefty dose of tension as she swallowed more of her fear. “You’ve seen a little much.”

               “Let’s all calm down,” Olivia’s method of reassurance was hovering between collected and methodical as her chest heaved, opting to pivot to look him in the eye with a certain level of assertion. “Okay, Dale? Just relax. Because you did good. Really good.”

               “What?” The confusion was real but he held his ground and stared her down.

               “Well, I think it’s pretty clear what happened here, right?” Olivia didn’t think about it as she chose the only feasible way to undo what had already been done as she made a gesture toward O’Halloran’s body on the floor then Elliot in the chair. “One of Harrison’s crazy followers must have gotten in here. He attacked these two, you found the bodies, you secured the crime scene, and then you called me. Right?”

               “I did?” Stuckey’s eyes couldn’t stay still as Olivia weaved the careful tale for him, desperation in her eyes.

               “That’s what I’m going to tell Cragen,” Olivia nodded, squeezing the last bit of calm from her expression as she elevated her eyebrows and made eye contact with Elliot. “And then, you can finagle the forensics so everyone else believes it, too. SVU hero is killed in the line of duty. It’s perfect.”

               God, I’m so fucking sorry.

               Olivia knew it was a mistake to look at Elliot but it was a necessary evil to drive her point home. He would’ve done this and more if it were her in that chair; that fact was never in doubt. He’d been through the wringer and now she was twisting the blade a little further into him to really make it count. She’d give her life up to save his and that was the more acerbic part of the situation as she pushed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. It wasn’t like refusing to take the shot but it almost felt worse as the silence from Elliot was deafening. He would just have to trust the method even if it betrayed every fiber of his being.

               “You’re lying,” Stuckey’s finger was lingering a little too long over the trigger, his tone elevated as he stared her down. “You’re lying.”

               “You think that you’re the only one whose life is hell because of this prick?” Olivia didn’t waver with every syllable as she began to back up and let the first heavy-handed slap bite hard on Elliot’s skin before it blurred into the second and third strike as she read him the riot act. “…’Liv, do this. Liv, do that.’ I’m sick of it.”

               “No, don’t,” Stuckey wanted him muffled but Olivia’s wheels were turning as the panic set in. “Don’t!”

               “Sick of it,” Olivia muttered and gave the tape a firm, unforgiving tug from her partner’s lips. “I want to hear him scream!”    

               “Don’t you touch me, y—” Elliot’s growl was cut short with Olivia’s hand pushing against the knot of his tie as she wrapped her fingers around the material of his shirt and pushed her knuckles into his Adam’s apple.

               Olivia’s knees cried out, yearning to buckle as she let the words slip free, the effort to keep a domineering stance faltering with every breath while towering over her seated partner. “Did somebody say you could talk?”

               “Both of you, shut up!” Stuckey’s face was red, the adrenaline pumping as the agitation nagged and nipped in the air, pushing the envelope a little further as he tested the boundaries. “Hit him again.”

               Elliot’s eyes were locked on Olivia’s. There was an immeasurable level of strength hidden beneath the glaring amount of vulnerability she possessed—it’s what made him choose her too many times. It’s what made her everything that he needed right next to him. It’s exactly what drove him crazy. Her eyes glassed over and her lashes twitched as she held onto her control. She didn’t need to say ‘I’m sorry’ out loud. It had already been scrawled all over her face as she gradually blinked and exhaled slow. They were stuck in a perpetual nightmare and the aggressive show was becoming difficult to maintain. He could see it in the depths of those deep, brown eyes. All he could do was narrow his stare and will her to finish what she’d started.

              A means to an end.

               “Don’t do it, bitch,” Elliot muttered and squeezed his fingers against the chair, bracing for the inevitable as Olivia’s hand met his face again, encouraging a little more than a groan in the process, “Don’t hit me ag—”

               Olivia cut him off and gripped his neck, pressing the curve between her index and thumb against his windpipe to keep him from speaking. “No more orders out of you, pal!”

               “I don’t believe you,” Stuckey was breaking, finally, and Olivia had finally gotten underneath of his skin. “I don’t believe you.”

               “If you knew half of what this prick has done,” Olivia had her index directed firmly at Elliot, digging deeper as she rationalized every word and let them move her, cutting open another wound as each phrase became an excruciating plea, “Somebody needs to take him out. I just didn’t know you felt the same way as I did. I never had—anybody that I could trust.”

               “Stuckey, don’t listen to her, she’ll turn on you the way she’s turned on me,” Elliot talked right over the top of her, adding to the torment that they were inflicting on each other as they laid it on thick and went to the extreme.

               “Dammit, just shut up!” Olivia shouted and glared, sweeping her index at Elliot as Stuckey took particular offense to the outburst.

               “We told you to shut up!” Stuckey pistol-whipped Elliot across the left side of his face, throttling him solidly before aiming the gun at Olivia.

               Olivia’s voice was ragged as Stuckey kept the gun trained on her, the wretchedness breaking free as she kept talking. “And when this son of a bitch is out of the picture, I’m going to need a new partner.”

               “What about Cragen?” Stuckey’s eyebrows went up, attracted to the notion.

               “I’ve got Cragen wrapped around my little finger, the same goes with Munch and Fin,” Olivia was hopelessly clinging to getting him to lower the barrel as she held up her finger and attempted to ignore Elliot’s disapproving groans. “Dale, if I say the word, you’re it. Think about it, Dale.”

               “I like the sound of that,” Stuckey tilted his head and smirked, his focus off of Elliot entirely as he nodded eagerly.

               “You like it because we get each other…We’re connected,” Olivia knew how contrived it sounded but her body told a different story as she held out her hand and softened her facial expression to drive the point home, “We’re connected.”

               “We are connected” Stuckey was still teetering on apprehension but his grip on that gun was softening, his enunciation faltering.

               “Yeah,” Olivia reached for his hand, moving just close enough to graze his fingers and get him to hold hers with a semblance of affection.

               Come on, come on, come on.

               “Let’s take care of the third wheel,” Stuckey rubbed her fingers and nodded his head as he started to move toward Elliot, a determined look on his face.

               “Wait, just wait one second,” Olivia was at a turning point as recklessness took over and she forced a smile while her fingers smoothed across the top of his hand, tugging Stuckey’s focus back to her, “I want him to watch.”

               The knock at the door nearly took her breath away and elicited an involuntary gag as a wave of dizziness washed over her while she stood at the sink with the water still running. She splashed herself again with more urgency and wiped away the stray droplets as she turned the spigot until the flow stopped. That was all she needed tonight. Instant replay of one of her less graceful solutions that had the palm and back of her hand sore for two days. Olivia would’ve liked to admit that she knew why it was still rolling around in her brain but she couldn’t pinpoint it even as the knocking continued with a little more urgency than the first time.

               “Liv, a bathroom break shouldn’t take this long. Are you ready for round two?” Elliot opened the door and raised an eyebrow at her as she palmed the porcelain, staring at her reflection in the mirror. “You can do whatever you’re doing later. Russell is getting antsy and whining about sweat pooling in his asscrack.”

               Olivia shook her head and scoffed, the smirk resting on her lips as she tilted her chin to look at him. “He still hasn’t waved the white flag and asked for counsel?”

               “Nope,” Elliot pushed the door against the stopper and leaned against the iconography, waiting impatiently for her. “There’s a solid chance he’s got a thing for you, though…might be why he’s not asking for a lawyer.”

               “He’s either brave or stupid,” Olivia dragged her feet as she moved into the dimly lit hallway, shaking off the last of the flutter working through her belly. “I’m his type—let’s not make this deep, El.”

               “Oh, by the way, Liv,” Elliot stood in front of her as they approached Interrogation One, a crooked smile creeping across his face as he encroached on her personal bubble. “You better not go ducking out on me again because it’s too hot in there.”

               “You turned on the heat again, didn’t you?” Olivia slipped out of her jacket and swatted him with the overheated leather before he could reach for the door handle. “You’re a royal asshole, you know that, right?”

               “I’ll see you inside, dear,” Elliot shrugged his shoulders, laughed, and dodged the slap of leather against his exposed forearm.

               “You’re lucky I’m too hot to bruise your other cheek and match them up,” Olivia turned around, flipping him the bird as she came to the end of the hall to put away her coat.

               “You keep your hands to yourself,” Elliot called out after her, a guilty smile across his face as he twisted the handle and gave it a push.

              He really had jacked up the temperature. It was excruciatingly hot in the interrogation room. Olivia gripped the back of her neck and swallowed a groan as the wave of heat spread across her skin, awakening every pore as a bead of sweat kissed her brow as she went from the cooled space of the hall to the sweltering cage the interrogation room had become. Elliot narrowed his eyes at her, a not-so-subtle reminder that she wasn’t going to go escaping their interrogation over a little sweating. She shifted her weight in her ankle-high boots and cleared her throat as Elliot’s eyes burrowed a hole straight into her soul, refusing to back down. She would’ve been lying if she said the look he just gave her was ineffective but it was shifting her focus and tugging at the last of her sanity as their suspect continued to stonewall them.

              Cat and mouse. The bait was out and he wasn’t biting.

              “You look really uncomfortable, Olivia,” Russell had already, expertly, pushed every one of Olivia’s buttons before she had made a rather prompt exit just thirty minutes earlier. “Can’t take the heat?”

              His inquiry wasn’t without irony as he wiped the sweat from his neck and dried his palms on his pants. His skin had developed a reddish hue in patches and the staggered pattern of his open-mouthed breaths hastened. Of anyone in the room, Russell was the least skilled at executing a poker face. He grinned, his sleepy gaze fixated on Olivia as she moved behind the chair opposite his. He licked his lips as he immersed his attention fully on her; studying the sway of her hips even as Elliot’s jaw tightened with displeasure.

              “Oh, focus on yourself for a little while, Russell. The only words I want to hear out of your mouth is an explanation of why you restrained, raped, and mutilated four women in the last six weeks,” Olivia snapped and slammed both hands on the edge of the table, barely making a hair flinch on her partner’s body.

              “You really don’t want to keep pissing her off,” Elliot had both sleeves rolled up, a light sheen of sweat across his brow and down the curve of his nose, still favoring the healing flesh wounds across his chest and ribs as he winced with a flex. “Playing games with her is a bad idea, buddy.”

              “That sounds like you’re speaking from personal experience, Detective Stabler,” Russell lit the match and ignited another fire as Elliot balled up his right hand into a fist.

              I want him to watch.

               “That shit isn’t going to work on me,” Elliot gritted his teeth, a flash of Olivia’s fingers stroking Stuckey’s cheek moving into his consciousness as his patience wore and the affliction twisted at his guts.

              Elliot couldn’t let it tug at him any further as he centered his concern on Olivia. Elliot already knew Olivia’s breaking point and she was comfortably residing at the edge of it even as Russell Miller continued to man spread in his seat, a delightful sneer aimed at her. She was thoroughly done with his shit but four hours of interrogation needed to be worth something more than a foul taste in her mouth. He wasn’t going to get away with this. Olivia’s knuckles went white as she gripped the cold steel with the tilt of her head as she dug her chin into her shoulder. The slow blink was satisfying as her back went rigid after a necessary release of the palpable grip from the tabletop.

               “How many false confessions have you inveigled from men in my position, Detective Benson?” Russell had gotten her attention with that one as she laced her fingers through her hair and snagged a couple of knots in the process. “Tight slacks. Low cut, tight tops that leave next to nothing to the imagination. Repeating the action of running your pretty, delicate fingers through hair that most red-blooded men would love to pull. I’m sure that it’s done a healthy amount of coaxing.”

               “Well, I’m sure this is no surprise to you, Russell, but you’re a predator and only predatory men would make something so innocuous become a device or a motivator for their fetishes…” Olivia couldn’t help but laugh as she crossed her arms, letting sections of softly highlighted locks fall around her face. “Is that your motivator?”

               “Oh, you’re not going to redirect this, Benson. I have too many curiosities that need satisfied,” Russell scrambled as Olivia found the trigger to flip the game on him, making him more irritated than she had earlier. “You like the attention, don’t you? I bet you love knowing that you get stared at by that uptight mother fucker over there, huh? How many times do you think he’s imagined undoing the zipper on those slacks?”

              “Have I touched a nerve?” Olivia could feel the burning stare from Elliot as she diffused the bomb and stepped directly into his line of sight to soften the temper that was beginning to boil. “Sounds like I touched a nerve, doesn’t it?”

              “That’s what it sounds like,” Elliot had to move as he paced the floor and watched her tongue graze the edge of her lip.

               I want him to watch.

              Russell’s left hand banged against the surface of the table, demanding their energy anchor on him as he scrutinized Elliot’s movements. “Come on, Stabler, tell me how much it kills you that you haven’t taken the initiative and sampled the product?”

              “You fucked up son of a bitch,” Elliot had done his best to not let it get to him but Russell had sent his rationality flying out a window.

              “El…don’t,” Olivia grasped his bicep and redirected his torso, absorbing more of his heat than she’d bargained for as his chest thumped against her own.

              “Oh, no way,” Russell’s laugh was entirely too loud as Olivia’s grip persisted on Elliot’s arm, the balance of her intensity meshing with a more frenzied one from her partner. “…You already have, haven’t you?”

              “Alright, enough,” Olivia veered, converging at the edge of the table with a little more intensity as she gripped the table. “Was that the problem with your victims? Were they wearing tight, low cut clothing and suggestively touching their hair? Did you think it was all for you? Just couldn’t stop yourself, could you? They were all there to be your playthings, weren’t they?”

               “You know it’s always all for me,” Russell lacked self-control and a filter as he jolted from his chair, lunging at Benson as his shouts echoed through the room. “Always!”

               Elliot had been waiting for him to make an ill-advised maneuver for hours and all it took was getting a weak grip on Olivia’s shirt to flick the switch. The sound of cotton and polyester ripping immediately preceded the haphazard and quick extraction of Russell’s form from Olivia’s immediate vicinity. Elliot knocked over two of the chairs in the tussle and took an elbow to the face as he wrapped his arm around Russell’s torso, tugging him just enough to stop the flow of air to his sternum. A last hoorah of Russell’s strength came in the form of a shift of his arms in such a way that the contents of the file went flying into every direction before landing in a scattered pattern on the floor. Russell flailed as Elliot swung him toward the table as the clang of cuffs reverberated in the air. Elliot bumped against Olivia’s side as he secured Russell’s hands behind his back. Elliot couldn’t help himself as he took a whiff of her deodorant stifled sweat, citrus, and faint coconut while his partner beat him to the punch with the slapping of her own pair around Russell’s wrists.

              Her timing, as always, was impeccable.

               “You know I could’ve gotten him just fine without you knocking him around,” Olivia breathed heavily as she elbowed him and went to the glass to give it a couple of sharp pounds before moving back toward the mess they’d made. “Couldn’t just let me have this one, huh?”

               “Not that it matters but I had a little bit of a vested interest in putting a little bit of a hurt on him,” Elliot tilted his chin, gesturing toward her ripped shirt as he caught his breath and heaved Russell to his feet as Fin and Captain Cragen opened the door. “It’s exactly what it looks like this time…”

               “Are you okay?” Cragen was parental in his assessment of the situation as he passed Olivia first, his voice barely above a whisper as she awkwardly held torn fabric between her fingers.

               “I’m fine,” Olivia said and turned her head toward Elliot. “He’s the one that’s doing all of the manhandling with fresh scabs on his chest and abs…I’m just peachy.”

               “Fuck you both,” Russell fought against the cuffs as two uniformed officers pulled him toward the doorway, the spittle running down his lip as he struggled.

               “Sounds like the conversation got a little dodgy in here?” Fin and Elliot had butted heads more than enough but the concern for Olivia was paramount as the reddened flesh of her ribcage peeked out from the ripped portion of her shirt.

               “Nothing that we couldn’t handle,” Elliot sniffed the stale air in her absence from his proximity and dabbed the perspiration from his forehead, never once taking his eyes off of his partner.

               Elliot’s yellowed bruising across his left cheek stood out in the light as Olivia took a step closer, reminding her for the second time of the game they’d play to get out of a jam. It reminded her of every gamble she’d taken to save him even though she knew the reversal was bitterly true. The thought alone stole her oxygen as she contemplated the reaches of her partnership. She made eye contact with him in spite of her best efforts not to and the doubt crept in. She bit down on her bottom lip, held the ripped open section across her midriff closed, and ducked out of the room before Elliot could fully fathom what she had just done.

               What Olivia hadn’t anticipated was that he’d follow her around every corner.

               “Liv, come on,” Elliot pushed the door to the cribs and found her sifting through a duffel bag for another shirt, her back to him with the ripped section of her top hanging off to one side. “Cragen’s going to want to talk to us about what just happened in there and you ran out a little quick…”

               “Can a girl change shirts so she’s not flashing her fucking stomach to the whole fucking precinct or is that too much to ask?” Olivia was terse as she pulled a fresh top from the bag, refusing to grant him the courtesy of looking him in the eye. “I’d like some privacy.”

               “I’m sure you would but you’re not going to get it,” Elliot was unintentionally rough with her wrist as he spun her around, encouraging a yelp from her. “You act like I’ve never seen what you’ve got on under there.”

               “El…Jesus,” Olivia let out an exasperated sigh and pivoted in her shoes as the cot rail pinched the backs of her legs until it dug against the material of her pants. “Why are you doing this? Wasn’t all of that in there enough for today?”

               “You can act like everything is fine and dandy, but I see right through your bullshit, Liv,” Elliot was less concerned with the concept of her personal space and more focused on driving the point home as his knees brushed against hers. “Every single day, I’m running after your shadow, and even when I am facing you, you’re pretending. Why?”

               “If you’ve got something to say then just say it. Contrary to popular belief, I’ve never needed you to coddle me and that’s not going to change anytime soon,” Olivia squeezed the shirt between her fingers, frustration brewing as her partner’s behavior seemed less like an unusual outburst and more like he’d been holding it in.

               “So, you don’t think about your power play with Stuckey at all?” Elliot took a step back from her and wiped the thin layer of sweat from his face as he craned his neck back, angling his eyes toward the ceiling. “I mean, really, Liv.”

               There it was. They’d tiptoed around it and pretended as though it didn’t exist but it was real. It had taken weeks to talk about it and they’d both let it fester for a lot longer than they should have. The wound was open and Elliot wasn’t going to let it go. Not that Olivia was doing anything about forgetting it. It been haunting her and invaded wandering, waking thoughts on a daily basis. Olivia crossed her arms and shrugged her shoulders, the distant look in her eyes less than inviting as she trapped her tongue against her cheek. She didn’t want him to know that she’d replayed the scenario a thousand times but the outcome was still the same every time. That acrid taste on her mouth, that look in Elliot’s eyes, and a pang of agony over not being able to look away or close her eyes.

              It was strategic. It had to be.

              She did it all for him.

               “What do you want me to say?” Olivia dodged him and moved toward the exterior wall, winding the fabric of the shirt around her hand while the ripped shirt continued to hang freely from her torso. “That slapping you around and saying really fucked up things about you didn’t bring me personal joy? I certainly didn’t want to force you to watch that cretin stick his tongue in my mouth, either. I thought you knew me a little better than that, El.”

               “I want you to tell me the truth, Liv,” Elliot took a breath as he lowered his voice, the agony having its way with his senses as he stared at the floor. “I can’t get the image out of my head and I had to ask myself if it was out of sick possessiveness but I don’t think it’s that.”

               “Why are you telling me this now?” Olivia leaned against the cold finish of the painted, cement brick and bit down on the swell of her lip. “I can’t be your little sibling that you tower over and stifle whenever danger gets too close. I’m not property, Elliot.”

               “Eleven years, Liv,” Elliot was fiddling with the tip of his tie, winding it around his fingers as he shook his head slowly, grappling with the words. “Eleven God damn years. Enough to go from zero to sixty and lose control of all of my faculties without so much as a lift of your fucking pinky. Eleven years of tucking away so much of my sentimentality when it comes to you that the sight of your lips on anyone else’s…Despondency doesn’t go far enough and all I can do is pretend that it doesn’t piss me off. It does. It torments me. It kills me…it breaks my heart.”

               “You’re a fucking piece of work, Elliot Stabler,” Olivia’s voice strained, a swarm of trepidation whirling through her chest as she fought the desire to hit him as his sky and steel lifted to stare into her soul. “I walked away from you once and I can do it again just like that.”

               “Just like that? No hesitation at all?” Elliot refused to shrink as his speech did nothing but piss her off as he groaned into the atmosphere. “I can’t say that I wouldn’t deserve it, Liv.”

               “I meant what I said, Elliot, about having rules and not breaking any more of them,” Olivia had already broken them for lesser men but she let the comment slip free as though it carried a semblance of conviction. “It can’t get personal.”

               “We’re a little past that, Liv,” Elliot wanted to shout at her but he held it in as he watched the indignance cover for confusion as he groaned, popped his knuckles, and pushed his sleeves up toward his elbows. “Everything fell apart…except for you. You were still here. You are personal and I don’t want that to change.”

               “Whatever you’ve done with the Elliot Stabler I know, I need you to bring him back because this convoluted and confusing sender of mixed signals is like riding a roller coaster and I’m sure my lap belt is broken,” Olivia hated being the equalizer but she was witnessing her best friend fall apart before her eyes as she shoved past him and reached for the door handle.

               Elliot wasn’t good at grandiose gestures or elucidating the details of his feelings until they were boiling over like a screaming kettle but he couldn’t let her slip away again. He snagged one of her belt loops and tugged her backward, demonstrating one of his more agile qualities as he braced her back from smacking against the wall. Olivia’s knees betrayed her as they shook, reverberated the sensation as the gooseflesh covered all the way to her neck. He made her feel gossamer and ethereal, unnerved and out of control, while understating the actuality of her height as he tilted her chin with the tip of his index. It wasn’t demanding but the craving was irrefutable as he sought out a silent acquiescence with the softest graze of his mouth on hers.

               Her answer wasn’t so quiet as the utterance came out in a soft, breathy gasp.

               “Don’t ruin it,” Olivia was already drunk off of him simply by his touch and his heat radiating against her, both of which were consuming her as his name came out in a moan. “Elliot.”

               Elliot’s lips were already tracing the curve of her jaw all the way to her ear while his fingers gathered along the small of her back, tangling around the strip of ripped fabric. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop, Liv.”

               Olivia’s eyes rolled back and the Earth tilted on its axis as she didn’t give two shits if anyone walked in or not while her back involuntarily arched, pushing her forward, against his chest. “No, no, no, don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

               The protective line between them had dissolved with the return of a gaze that seemed to last forever. They’d tiptoed around the broken glass and still came up with shards as Elliot’s mouth crushed Olivia’s, pushing her lips apart as though he’d replayed it in his head a thousand times. Perhaps, he had and knew, deep down, in the depths of her mind that she’d done the same as her fingers gripped his bicep, drawing him closer. Her heartbeat thrummed against him, the frenetic rhythm building with that of his own. He loved her so much more than he could ever say in words as he directed her motions and dragged his fingers over the material of her shirt until her moan vibrated against his mouth.

               Elliot savored the taste of a mint’s remnant on the tip of Olivia’s tongue as he felt the chill of the night air radiating through the windowpane as he pressed his palms against the glass. It suddenly didn’t matter that only a singular door separated them from the outside world—for a moment, they existed wholly for each other. Even as Elliot leaned in a little further and bowed his head as if to pray, he simply craved more of her. Elliot tilted his chin and encouraged Olivia onto the tips of her toes while his arms memorized the curve of her spine down to the swell of her hips. There wasn’t anything to pull them back, convince them of an alternate path, or deter them from simply being. There was nothing left to prevent either of them from feeling something real.

               “El, we still, ah, have work to do,” Olivia’s eyes were dreamily in reset, lashes aimed down, lips swollen and bruised while reality crashed back down around them in the dim, her fingers gliding along the chiseled edge of his jaw. “Captain will send Fin or Munch out after us and we’ve already been gone too long.”

               Elliot groaned and dragged his lips down her cleavage as he pulled her close and buried his face against the soft, hot skin above her shirt, generously squeezing her backside until the grunt was audible. “I know…But I don’t want to.”

               “We have to,” Olivia bit down on her lip, the chill of the wall finally touching the exposed skin at her side while she traced lines around the remnants of bruises on his face. “As much as I’d like to keep going, we have to get back to our job.”

               “It’s worse than a little taste,” Elliot set his teeth against the material of her shirt before standing upright, applying a soft, completing kiss to her temple as his embrace slowly unwound. “A tiny tease of you.”

               The absence of his heat against her tugged at the strings of her ailing heart as she ran a hand through her hair and unfurled the shirt to swap out, a smirk residing on her lips. “You know, it’s only a tease if it doesn’t lead anywhere, El.”

I wouldn’t know where to start on tagging this one. Just hope you’ll check it out.