#Joan: shut up and help me examine the body

[redrobin-detective]

I think an underappreciated aspect of s1 of Elementary is Joan being like “ugh grisly murders? dangerous crimes? other bizarre problems and antics my client is getting up to? Can’t wait to be done with all this” and turning around and getting so invested in solving the case. Like no wonder Sherlock was offering her an apprenticeship by the end of the season, despite what she said Joan was not only highly skilled but also very interested in Sherlock’s work.

[bluejaysandblackbats]

It Takes A Village

Fandom: YJ98, Flashfam, DC Comics

Summary: After witnessing Bart murder someone, his friends scramble to cover Bart's tracks and stumble upon an international scandal as a result.

(Minor background: Bart took a gap year, and Conner did two years of community college. This starts shortly after Bart's 19th birthday. So, Conner and Jenni are 20, Bart and Cissie are 19, Tim and Cassie are 18, I made Greta 17 for the sake of the fic, and Judy is 15. I decided to make Owen 22 and Thad 16 for plot reasons. Clark and Conner are brothers in this fic, and Clark is 12 years older for the sake of this fic, so he's 32.)

Chapters: 4/?

Characters: Bart Allen, Conner Kent, Judy Garrick, Jay Garrick, Joan Garrick, Cissie King-Jones, Cassie Sandsmark, Tim Drake, Greta Hayes, Jenni Ognats, Thad Thawne, Owen Mercer, Meloni Thawne, Clark Kent, Wally West, Linda Park, Courtney Whitmore, President Thawne

Relationship(s): KonBart, CissieCassie, WallyLinda

Additional Tags: Serial Killer AU, No Powers AU, Angst, Dark Comedy, Bart Allen Kills in This Fic, Minor Thad Thawne, Separated in Childhood, Some Smut in This

Chapter Four: Unburdened

Bart sat in the waiting room with Judy, bouncing his leg and checking his phone. It would’ve seemed like average nerves if he hadn’t locked and unlocked his phone six or seven times in under a minute. Bart insisted on driving Judy, so they’d have time to talk. When the time came, though, Bart had nothing to say. Judy touched his arm, worried that she’d pushed him past the limits of what he could handle by dragging him along. “If you don’t want to go in—.”

“I’m okay,” Bart lied. It was such a strange shift from the peace he had received the night before. The ire he’d suppressed clawed its way to the surface, bubbling over, boiling in his stomach, and sitting on his chest. It was much harder to hide. 

“Bart, you’re rocking back and forth,” Judy whispered. 

With a sharp inhale, he crossed his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits, shutting his eyes tight, trying to sift the anger and the fear he felt. It was like sifting cornstarch and flour through a sieve. There was nothing he could do to filter the two. Fear was anger and anger was fear and his heart... His heart beat so fast. 

“I’m fine… I have to—.” 

“Find a lie,” Bart thought, “Hurry up and lie.” 

“I have to pee… And I don’t want to leave you alone. That’s all,” Bart lied. 

“Oh… Well, you can go. We have ten minutes. Go down the hall and turn left. That’s where the boy’s bathroom is,” Judy replied. Bart smiled and nodded. 

“Are you sure? Are you okay? Text me if you need me,” Bart whispered urgently. Sometimes he wondered how people could take things he said at face value. Lying felt like a third language to him. It helped that he was sober and what he said was so mindless and embarrassing that it seemed real. He walked quickly to the bathroom to splash his face and come to his senses. His ears rang, and he shook his head. He ran the water over his fingers until it was near-scalding. Bart walked down the hall and took his place next to Judy. 

“I was just speaking with your girlfriend—.”

“Oh, no. She’s my sister,” Bart sweetly interrupted.

The older woman nodded. “Oh, I’m sorry. It must be your eyes. They’re so different from hers. You have a lovely sister. Just a doll,” the woman replied. 

“Thank you. I think so, too,” Bart beamed. 

“Ms. Garrick,” the therapist called. Bart looked up, but he didn’t stand. He examined the short woman, her hair hidden by an intricately tied scarf, and the bright colorful patterns of her clothes. Judy reached for Bart, grabbing his hand and tugging him along through the doors. When they stepped into the office, Bart shut his eyes, retreating further into himself than he’d ever gone. But this time, he didn’t lose time. He was fully aware of the scene and his reaction, but he couldn’t be bothered to step back into his body. He could see himself crying—. No, sniveling. Bart was sniveling. 

“ Bart, is my voice quiet or loud? ” the therapist asked. 

“ Quiet ,” Bart answered. He looked around the hospital room, shaking at the similarities between the playroom back home. Every room in Bart’s childhood home slash prison had three walls and a mirror, a one-way mirror. He didn’t know that because he had no reason to know. It was easy to get lost in the memory because it was more familiar to him than anything he’d experienced in the past seven years. Bart could almost smell the latex gloves. He could almost hear the screaming. The sirens. Flashing lights. Dark stairwell. Dank, damp. Grandma’s hand. It was the first time she ever touched his hand. Loud pops. 

A gentle reassurance in both English and Interlac. “ You’re safe now, Sweetheart, ” Iris whispered. Then the same words in English. He doesn’t understand. It took him years to understand. The more he understood, the worse he felt about it all. 

“Bart, what do you see?” the therapist asked. 

“I see—. I know I’m here with Jude. I just—. I keep thinking about home. Where I come from. Not—. I can’t be here—.”

“Bart. Bart, would you prefer that we go outside?” she questioned. 

“Yeah, I can’t—. I—.”

Judy took his hand, leading him out into the sun. “Bart, are you okay? What happened?” Judy whispered. Bart held his bangs out of his face. The sunlight helped him come out of the fog, waking up from a dreamlike state. 

“Sorry, I lost it for a second,” Bart answered. He took a shaky breath. “God, I don’t—. I’m sorry. I’m not this messed up all the—.”

“It’s okay… I’m worried about you,” Judy replied. Bart felt cornered. He had no choice. He had to tell her something true. The therapist introduced herself as Lucille but asked that Bart call her Lucy. They sat down, and Lucy asked if Bart felt comfortable talking about how he felt. 

Bart sighed. “I didn’t know I was a prisoner until I—. I grew up as a test subject, and I was told—. I was made to believe I was sicker than I was. I don’t think it’s fair of me to be upset because I had a lot of opportunities that other kids didn’t have, especially in my home country. I got special treatment, but I can’t help but feel like—. 

“I was twelve the first time my grandma hugged me. She wrapped her jacket around me, hiding my face, so I couldn’t see the violence all around me. I’d been in the facility most of my life. It was all I knew. I wanted to go back. I couldn’t understand why my grandma would take me out of a place where I had everything to take me to a place where I couldn’t even—. I love my grandma, and I understand it now, but I—. 

“I grew up looking at her with a layer of glass between us. I grew up seeing a sadness in her eyes that I thought everyone had. The hugs and our hands locked together… I had it for such a short time. Then, I was thrown into a world filled with people I didn’t know. People who expected me to understand their social cues and the nuance of human existence. I was used to getting everything I wanted at a moment’s notice. I was used to people answering my questions when I asked them. I was used to saying exactly what I thought. I learned that people prefer that you suppress your true nature. You have to be palatable. Easy to digest ,” Bart paused. He hadn’t looked up at either of them. He mumbled something in Interlac. 

“Is it safe to say you see the people here as physically free but emotionally repressed?” Lucy asked. 

“I know they are. People smile when they’re sad. They say things are fine when they’re angry. They sit through agonizing conversations to be polite. The niceties require so much emotional restraint. I understand how some of it makes sense. It’s better to be kind than to say something hurtful and true… But why should I lie to my detriment? Why do people ask you how you’re feeling if they don’t care? Do you care? Or do you want to calm me down to make yourself more comfortable with my presence?” Bart asked. 

“Bart,” Judy whispered.

“No, I understand. There’s a lot of nuance to communication. It’s difficult to determine someone’s intentions if you know that most people mask their true thoughts… But I will tell you, Bart, I do this because I care,” Lucy reassured him. Bart nodded. 

“I’m sorry… I—. I’m here for Judy. I’m not here to talk about my stuff,” Bart whispered. He wanted the attention off of himself. “I don’t want this to be about me.” 

“It is about you,” Judy replied. 

Bart squinted at her. Judy chewed her lip and looked away. “What do you mean by that?” Bart questioned. No answer. “Judy, did you trick me into coming here?” 

Judy nodded. “I didn’t think you’d come if I told you I was worried about you,” Judy replied, “Please don’t be mad.” 

“Judy, I came because I—. I’m not mad at you. I’m—. I’m overwhelmed. I don’t want to be the object of anyone’s attention anymore. I spent my whole life being observed, and I just—. I wanna be normal. Isn’t it enough that I care about you? As long as I have people I care about that want me around, I will be there. I’m not leaving you,” Bart replied to put the focus back on Judy. He tried to be as gentle as possible, masking the emotions that manifested physically from head to toe. His stomach hurt, and his limbs screamed for him to fidget or stand up. 

“Yeah, but what do you see me as? I’ve heard you tell some people you’re my cousin and then you tell other people I’m your sister,” Judy replied. 

“It’s all arbitrary, but you can be whatever means the most to you. It doesn’t make any difference to me because family is family to me. I love you like I love Jenni. I love you like I love Max. I love you like I love Grandma. I’d do anything for you. Why should it matter what I call you?” Bart asked. Something soft. Something true. 

“I don’t know… I guess I—. I’d like it if you saw me as your sister,” Judy stammered. Bart nodded. 

“Okay. That makes sense to me… And Judy… Thanks for asking me to stay when you came back home. I would’ve left if you wanted me to, but I—. I’m glad I didn’t have to,” Bart smiled. 

**

After Judy’s family therapy session, Bart took her out for bubble tea. “Wanna try mine?” Judy asked. Bart nodded. He switched cups with her. Judy took a sip of his drink. “I should’ve gotten this one.”

“You can have it. I like my drinks sweet like this one,” Bart replied. Judy looked at him, frowning as she sipped her drink. “What’s wrong?”

“You always say what I went through was worse, but I was gone for three years. You were a prisoner for twelve years,” Judy whispered. 

“Ten, but it wasn’t a prison… I mean, it was more of a wing of a building, like an observatory. A doctor’s office that was made up to look like a home. That’s not really—. I didn’t expect to react like that. I don’t know why that bothered me the way it did. You won’t tell Jay and Joan… Will you?” Bart asked. Judy shook her head. 

“Jenni told me that her mom and your dad were twins… And that Wally knew them.” Judy changed the subject, but it made things worse. 

“Mhm…” Bart took a sip of his drink. 

“Do you look like your dad?” Judy questioned. Bart shook his head. 

“I look like my mom. Thad looks like me but blonde like the president,” Bart replied. He never referred to his paternal grandfather as his grandfather. It was always the president or Him. “I have another brother.” 

“Really?” Judy asked. 

“Nice,” Bart thought to himself, “Maybe she’ll forget what we were talking about.”

“Mhm… I’m right in the middle. Owen has a different dad. We haven’t met, but I talked to him on the phone once. He hung out with Thad a few times. He said he might drive out to see me soon now that I’m moving to the East Coast,” Bart replied, “It’d be nice to get to know him a little better. It feels awkward texting a brother I’ve never met before.”

“Did he come here with his dad?” Judy asked. 

“No. Mom sent him with a woman from here. She adopted him… But she passed away a few years before I moved here. He’s been looking for family ever since,” Bart answered. 

“Do you think he’s worried you won’t like him?” Judy replied. 

“I’m more worried that he won’t like me. I always wonder what’ll happen when people meet me and get to know me. I remember when Jay and Joan got the call telling them that you were alive. I packed up and cleaned the room. I didn’t want you to know I was here… And then I got the call from Jay and Joan when they told me you wanted me to come to the hospital,” Bart whispered. 

“I’m glad you came. I didn’t expect you to sit there every day with me until I was discharged. I appreciate you describing the plot of every TV show you saw for the past three years. That was great,” Judy laughed. 

Bart grinned. “I was sure you were sick of me, but I was so nervous. I couldn’t stop talking,” Bart chuckled. 

“I thought it was interesting. I’ve never met anyone who could quote full seasons of a show before. It was nice to have a distraction,” Judy smiled, “I—. Will you tell Greta I said hi?” 

“Of course… I’m sure she misses you. How’s Courtney? Is she still helping you get ready for that placement exam?” Bart asked.

“Yeah, but it's the math portion. I just can’t get it,” Judy replied. 

“Well, you can call me anytime you like. I don’t mind helping you whenever I’m free,” Bart offered. “Um… Do you want something to eat before we go?” 

“No… I think I wanna have a piece of cake at home,” Judy answered, “And you probably want to get back before Conner leaves.” 

“He’ll understand if I spend a little more time with you. Are you sure you don’t wanna get a mini pizza? I’m paying,” Bart whispered. Judy hesitated before smiling and nodding. 

**

Bart fell asleep on the couch that night. Conner left before he returned, and he couldn’t sleep in his room. The weather took a turn that night. The wind picked up, thunder rumbled in the distance, and Jay came out of his room to check on Bart. “Hey, kiddo?” Jay whispered. Bart didn’t move. “Bart?” Nothing. 

Jay sighed and draped a blanket over Bart. He wouldn’t be asleep for long. Jay could hear Bart at night, wandering the house in a feeble attempt to tire himself out. Jay turned to walk away, and Bart stirred. “Jay, about last night… I don’t remember anything between talking to Jenni outside, and our conversation… Was I weird?” Bart mumbled. 

Jay sighed. “Scoot over, Bart,” Jay whispered. Bart obeyed. “Are you okay?” 

“I don’t know… Sometimes, I—. I think I scared Judy this morning. And I—. I wonder if there’s something I’m doing that I don’t know about. Do you have any idea what I did during that time?” Bart questioned. 

Jay rested his hand on the back of Bart’s head and nodded. “Jenni came in twenty minutes before you did. You came in alone, and Roy pulled you aside and said something to you. Then, Linda showed you something on her phone. You sat with Linda for a long time… A few people talked to me and asked if you weren’t feeling well. You weren’t strange. You were just—. There’s a distance there sometimes,” Jay answered. 

Bart ran a hand over his face. “I keep waiting for you to be mad at me. Why aren’t you?” Bart asked.

“Because you’re a kid… I don’t think you’re in danger. I just—. I want you to talk to me if it gets to that point. Joan’s convinced that I worry too much, but I can’t help it. I had to put it out there yesterday for my sake. I needed to see where your head was at,” Jay confessed. Thunder rumbled, and lightning struck in the distance. Then thirty seconds of silence between them.��Boom. Crackle. Flash. 

“How do you know I’m okay?” Bart asked. 

“I can’t explain it. There’s still a light there. Still, a special something in your eye that lets me know you’re still there,” Jay answered, “Need some company out here?”

“Sure,” Bart whispered. Thunder. Brighter lightning. 

“The power might go out tonight… Do you want me to ask about what happened in therapy this morning?” Jay questioned. 

“I don’t know… It was a lot. I don’t know if I wanna do that again for a while,” Bart answered.

“But you would do it again… Wouldn’t you?” Jay smiled. “I hated it the first time… But it’s not that bad. Take your time with going back if you’ve gotta… And I’m sure you’ve got some friends in Happy Harbor who know a good therapist.”

“Do you think I need one?” Bart whispered. 

“I think we all need one,” Jay replied. 

**

Thunder shook the house, making the shutters knock. It woke Bart up, and he checked his phone. Six text messages. 

OWEN: any chance your awake???

TIM: Have you heard the new Creachur King podcast? It’s on the White Thang of Alabama. Thought you’d like it. I know you’ll be up any minute now. Let me know when you hear it. 

GRAMPS: proud of u!!! lmk when ur done settling in! grandma says hi too!

HELEN: Can’t wait to see you! Miss you! 

CASSIE: Wanna watch something Friday night??? You can pick, Cissie says she’ll watch whatever. Conner said no more sci-fi

CONNER: can’t stop thinking about you <333

Bart smiled, deciding to text Owen first. Thunder rumbled and the lights finally flickered on. 

BART: I’m awake. How’s it going? Have you talked to Mom?

OWEN: nope. hoping you would give her my number… see if she wants to talk to me

BART: She does. It’s hard to catch her when she’s awake… I think it’s noon for her right now

OWEN: can you text her first for me

BART: One condition… Drive up for the weekend. I’ll have my room together by then

OWEN: fine :/ text her and see if she wants to talk to me

BART: :) ok!

Bart cursed under his breath, frowning at the thought of texting her. He hoped the next time they spoke it’d be in person... So they could all be together. He would've done anything to have that. 

[the1975attheirverybest]

imagine being mattys gf whilst all this hate is happening and suggesting that you take a trip off the grid (otg, as he would say) for a while to get his mind off work and drama for a bit before he goes back on tour. So I’m thinking either you go somewhere posh and tropical and just go to the beach and eat amazing food and fuck oooooor you go on a camping trip / road trip somewhere kind of remote like to the berkshires or Joshua tree or something like that and get outside a lot and cook your own food and cuddle up next to each other to stay warm at night

Idk why is responding to all your concepts with mainly dialogue today. Bit rusty from not writing for a bit.

——

“California, as in, LA?” He scuffed, avoiding her eyes, as has been his habit lately. She knew he was also eyeing his phone. Itching to check it.

“No, what, do you think I JUST met you? California, as in Joshua Tree, Matty.”

The slightly hint of a smile twitched on his lips. “Like Kaufman?”

She knew she had him hooked. “Like Kaufman.”

Matty straightened his posture, pulling his shoulders back and finally meeting her eyes. “And Joan Didion?”

“And- Joan Didion.” She nodded, tripping over a giggle.

He inched closer to her side of the couch, his eyes fixated on her empty lap.

She knew what he needed and patted her legs, his cue to rest his head in her lap. “The desert.” He mumbled, his eyes fluttering shut. “And camping and stuff.”

Her hands stroked his hair, one of them reaching into his infinite mop of curls to scratch at his scalp. Matty let out a heavy breath. “No phones. Just you and me. Nobody else.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking….we don’t have to, though. Just, you know, with everything going on, I figure-“

“Can we go tomorrow?” She felt him shift to look up at her.

“Yeah, umm, yeah, Matty. We can go tomorrow.”

As if content with this impulsive plan, he smiled and shut his eyes again. “Do you mind if I also leave my phone behind? Like, not bring it?”

“In…the dessert?” She frowned watching the laugh form on his face as it left his lips. “No, genius! I meant, like, here. Like when we leave tomorrow. Would it be okay with you if we just- rely on your phone?”

“Whatever you need, my love.” She bent forward, kissing his forehead.

***

“Matty, it’s crooked!” She tilted her head to the side, examining the tent from a different angle.

“You fell in love with an artist, not a builder, love. best I can do.” He shrugged.

She rolled her eyes. “All this body building and new sexy muscle’s just for show, then? You keep talking about how much stronger your arms have gotten, I only assumed-“ she yelped and burst into laughter when he cut her off by pulling her into his arms.

“Those arms were made for cuddling you. So shut up and hug me back. Need it.”

***

“I made s’mores!” He announced as soon as she emerged out of their shaky tent.

She burst into laughter when he handed her the roasted marshmallow and crackers. “Matty, we had s’mores for dinner. We’re gonna have them again for breakfast?”

It was the only thing he was comfortable “cooking.”

“Move over, old boy. Let me show you some tricks. First off, this fire is pathetic. I could put it out with a sneeze.”

He sprung into action to help her move the wood from the side into the pit. “You- actually- have camping skills?” Matty watched her, wide-eyed and confused. “Why didn’t you say anything from the beginning!”

The truth is, she loved watching him struggle to figure out how to provide for the two of them. The crooked tent that took him twice as long as it should have to put up, the sugary, nutrient deficient ‘dinner’ he’d put together, seeing him work with his hands and temporarily forget that there was a wild, and complex world out there waiting for his return, watching as he dozed off to the best sleep he’s had in weeks while she tried to explain the stars alignment to him….it was all too perfect to ruin. Even if it meant eating s’mores for two days straight.

[me-myself-and-my-fos]

Playing Doctor

Pairing: Sam Abrams x Nicole Abrams

A/N: I’m so soft for family fluff with Sam rn

Warning: pretend medical stuff; brief joke about pregnancy

“You’re all better, Mr. Fuzzy tail!” Joan said, opening the tent flap. She picked up the stuffed squirrel and tossed him back into the weaved basket full of stuffed animals. “Next patient!” She called out. There was a moment of silence before she looked at her sister and leaned over to her. “Penny, you have to get the patient,” she whispered.

“Okay!” The three year old pushed up off the floor and toddled out of the tent over to the couch where their mother was sitting.

Nic was typing away on her laptop, catching up on some emails. Lined up next to her on the couch were half a dozen stuffed animals, some store bought and some hand knit by Sam’s mom as gifts to the girls. The waiting room was packed full of patients, and Penny peeked over the half wall the couch was against. She poked her mother’s arm.

“Mommy, patient pwease,” Penny asked in her adorable voice.

Nic smiled and handed her the next “patient” that sat beside her, a stuffed lioness that Joan had named Nala. “There you go, Doctor Penny.”

“Tank you!” Penny exclaimed before running back over to the tent. She entered through the flap and set the toy in front of Sam. “Patient’s here!”

“Thank you, Doctor Penny,” Sam chuckled. He looked to his oldest daughter. “Doctor Joanie Bologna, would you like to examine the patient?”

“Yes, please, Doctor Daddy!” Joan nodded and took out her toy stethoscope, holding it to various parts of the lioness’s body. She hummed to herself, nodding as she performed her “exam.” “Mhmm. Mhmm. Just as I suspected!” She announced.

“What’s your diagnosis, Doctor?” Sam asked her.

“Butt sharks!” Joan replied very seriously. “It’s very bad, Doctor Daddy. She needs surgery right now!”

Sam nodded, mimicking her serious expression. “I’ll prep the patient.”

“Doctor Penny, I need the scalp.”

“It’s a scalpel, sweetheart,” Sam reminded her gently as he placed the toy lion on its side.

“Right. Scalpel!” Joan commanded, and Penny handed her the plastic child’s knife. “Syringe.” Penny handed her a fake, plastic syringe.

Joan pretended to cut a line horizontally under the tail with the knife. “Flush out the butt sharks,” she said, taking the syringe and putting it where the imaginary cut was.

“Go ‘way butt sharks!” Penny bounced in her seat.

“Butt sharks are all gone!” Joan announced. “Band Aid?” She looked at her sister and Penny handed her a bandage. Joan unpeeled it and stuck the bandage on the butt of the stuffed lion.

“Great job, Doctor Joanie Bologna,” Sam told her. “The surgery was a success.”

The tent flaps opened and Nic crouched down in the entrance. “Okay doctors, time for bed.”

“No!” Joan whined. “Five more minutes, mommy! One more patient.”

“I’d say yes but your fellow doctor is already falling asleep,” Nic pointed out, picking up Penny and standing. Joan climbed out of the tent, slowly followed by her father crawling out. He groaned as he got to his feet, his back sending aches of pain through him. It was not comfortable sitting on the floor of the tent for an hour. “Go upstairs and brush your teeth. Daddy and I will be up there in a minute.” Nic ruffled Joan’s hair and watched the six year old run up the stairs.

“My back is killing me. Remind me to ask my mother for pillows for Christmas,” Sam said, rubbing his lower back.

Nic chuckled at him, adjusting Penny in her arms who was nodding off. “After the girls are asleep I’ll give you a physical exam, Dr. Abrams.” She handed their daughter to him and winked. “I’ll clean up here. You can help Penny brush her teeth and get the girls settled in bed.”

He nodded, taking Penny who snuggled into him. Sam leaned down and pressed a kiss to Nic’s head before heading upstairs.

Nic cleaned up the toys scattered throughout the living room. The stuffed animals were put back in their basket, the doctor toys placed in the toy box. She shut off the lantern in the tent and put the plastic knife in the sink to wash in the morning. The blanket on the couch was folded and tv shut off, she headed upstairs to help her husband put the girls to bed. Penny was out before her head hit the pillow but Joan took a bit longer. Eventually she settled, and they closed the door to her room, leaving only her nightlight on.

Sam collapsed in the bed on his stomach and Nic shook her head in amusement. She climbed in beside him as he rested his arms on a pillow. She moved to straddle his hips and started massaging his back, eliciting a groan of relief from him.

“I forgot how magical your hands are,” he mumbled into the pillow.

“Your hands are magic in the OR, mine are magic on muscle,” she joked. The bottom of her palm pressed into a particularly stiff spot and Sam let out another groan.

“Y’know, this is giving me déjà vu,” he told her.

She raised a brow at him. “Oh?”

Sam nodded. “Reminds me of Valentine’s Day about four years ago.”

Nic grinned and shook her head. “I remember. It ended with us having Penny nine months later.”

“We’d be more careful this time,” he suggested, glancing back at her.

She smacked his back playfully. “If I get pregnant a third time I’m castrating you.”

His laugh warped into a moan as her hands massaged further up. “I’d deserve it.”

“Good God, Sammy, you’re tense,” Nic mumbled as she massaged up and down his back. “Work’s really been doing a number on you, huh?”

The only response she received was soft snoring from him. And she chuckled to herself quietly as she gently tapered off her massage. Nic kissed the back of his head and climbed off him, heading to their master bathroom to get ready to join him in bed.

[melissa-s23]

Test of determination

Summary: Thomas tries to overcome some of his fears by going on a horror ride on a theme park. shenanigans  ensues.

Characters: Thomas, Joan, Patton, Logan, Virgil, Janus, Roman, Remus

Pairing: none really, but could be read as Intruality :)

Words: 2250 (nice number)

Warning: jumpscare, caps lock. Let me know if I should add anything else!

Author’s note: This is very silly and light hearted, but I had the idea a few days ago and I wanted to write it. Plus we don’t have nearly enough Intruality content so even if this is not romantic, it’s still the two of them. Hope you like it!

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

Thomas faced the attraction that stood before him. A horror ride. Even though it was mostly aimed for teens, he couldn't help but gulp. Did he really wanted to do this ?

« Joan, can you remind me why I asked to come here ? »

- « Well, you said you wanted to overcome some of your fears or something like that. And I thought we could start with something light to ease you into it smoothly. And if it ends up being too much, we'll stop. »

Thomas sighed, running a hand through his hair « Yeah... yeah. I can do this. How bad could it be, right ? It's just a silly attraction, nothing more. I can do this. » He smiled weakly. The hand of his friend on his should helped him ease some tension and so, he bought the tickets and went on the ride.

…

He absolutely could not do this.

The first minute of this was bearable... The second, not so much, and the poor man already had his eyes shut .

- « How long does this one take ? »

- « I think it's 10 minutes ? » said Joan, who was sitting just next to Thomas, unphazed at the thing.

10 minutes.... so he had to deal with.... 8 more...

He could do this.... He could do this...Even though right now, he was feeling like he could do anything but this.

And what does this mean for his Sides ?

Well, Virgil was curled up in a ball, his hoodie covering everything but his bang, and he was trying very hard not tell Thomas anything stupid. Logan was next to him, on the 17th slide out of 82 slide Powerpoint about why this ride was not in fact going to kill Thomas and how this ride was in fact most probably harmless. Janus also tried to calm Virgil, even though he couldn't help his irritated tone. « Could you not make Thomas feel miserable for two seconds ? » « Well I can't really help it, in case you didn't know you idiot.It's not like it's my job or anything. », on the other hand, Roman was stress-singing his heart out, his katana out and ready to smack everything that would appear too close to him.

And meanwhile, Remus was having the time of his life. He couldn't help his giggling and squealing. All of the sudden imagery inspiring more and more ideas from him, making Virgil growl at him with new levels of angry. Of course, the couldn't care less. The looks of rage directed at him everytime he spoke up were pleasing, even.

« OH !! OH !!! WHAT IF THE BATS SCRATCH YOUR EYES AND IT GOT ALL INFECTED ??!??? » 

- « REMUS SHUT UP !!! JUST SHUT UP! »

- « Remus, if you want to blurt out thoughts like that right now, have the decency of speaking backward or something so we don't have to understand what you're thinking about. Taking care of the crying toddler is already not easy. »

- « You're the fucking toddler. »

- « Oh, look at Virgil, making comebacks and swearing. You're such a big boy. How mature of you. »

- « You two quit it. »

The two shut up for about 2 seconds before another jumscare made Virgil yelp and Janus groan. Getting the two to team up really wasn't easy. Roman examined the space quickly before frowning.

« Hey, has anyone seen Patton ? I don't remember seeing the puffball anywhere. »

- « What if he's hurt ? » the anxious side perked up.

« D-Don't worry kiddos ! I'm f-fine ! » came a shaking voice. Everyone looked as Patton tried to come closer to his friends without his legs betraying him, clearly not fine. Janus scoffed.

« Please. » he grunted as Logan punched his elbow a bit.

« What ? It's virgil's job to act like an incompetent child, I don't think we can deal with two of them. »

- « Can you not rub it in ?? Because I can make this unpleasant for the both of us. »

- « Implying I enjoy anything about this ... »

- « Stop. » Logan ordered firmly, silencing the two, then turned at Patton with a more gentle expression and a kinder voice. « Patton, what exactly is troubling you ? »

The emotionnal side couldn't find something to look at for more than five seconds and tried to stare at Logan as he replied « Mmmhhh... a- a little bit of...everything ? I know fear is more of Virgil's department but umhh... this ride has a lot of things that makes me... nervous. »

- « Sorry... » The anxious side mumbled.

- « Oh no don't worry it's okay ! I'm just... mhh... you know, this ride is very good at being scary, that's all ! »

- « Is there anything you think we could do to help ? Perhaps you could join Virgil as I continue to explain how most of the props are not made of flesh and therefore, most probably unable to harm us unless the people that made the rides are competent enough to write a very complex code to acomodate the machines used for the train. »

- « ...Wow... thanks kiddo. I think that might actually hel- SPIDERS!!!!! »

And just like that, the small comfort Patton had was gone. He jumped and tried to hold onto the closest whatever he could find.

And suddenly, the whole squad went silent.

Because the closest whatever Patton hold onto happened to be Remus.

The rat man stared, wide eyes at the poor mess Patton had become as the spiders pattern came from every corner of the ride and oh god so many spiders-

« What if they're deadly ?? What if those spiders came in and got into your mo- Oh god there are an awful lot, you could drown in that many spiders and WHY DO THEY MOVE SO MUCH- »

- « Virgil, stay with us. They aren't real it's just a light trick. » Even as his voice stayed even, it was clear that Logan was also nervous due to Thomas' general edge at the moment.

- « You okay there, Padre ? » Roman came closer to his brother, who was uncharacteristically quiet. Patton was burried deep into Remus' side and gripped the duke's clothes like a lifeline.

- « Umh... Y-yeah... Sorry kiddos ! You know how those little death dealer scare me... I can't help it.... A-Are you alright ? »

Roman raised a brow « ...Yeah... I'm doing okay. » the question was : was remus alright, though ?

Ever since Patton hold onto him, he had his eyes locked on the moral side, and he froze like a statue. And Roman wished he had a telepathic link with his twin at the moment.

...

Remus did not like that.

Patton was being scared. And not because of anything he said. Patton was scared by what was happening outside right now....

Remus did not like seeing Patton scared.

At all.

He really wanted Patton to stop being so scared.

He could feel his heartbeat, his shaky breath, his trembling legs. Patton has always been terrified of spiders, and the general atmosphere did not help him calm at all. And patton, even though through sheer panic, grabbed Remus for comfort. He went to Remus for comfort..... Remus... remus...

Remus had to help him.

'Okay, for once in your lifetime Remus, focus.' He had to think of something to distract Thoma from whatever was happening before him.....  Let's see.....

Spiders.... Spiders have fur. Remember that furry art that you stumbled across yersteday, Thomas?? This shit was definitely por

Fur … Fur is soft.

Soft... like a pillow ?

Pillow... Sleep ...what if someone used a pillow to choke Thomas in his sleep ?

Sleep.... he could sing a lullaby ? Sounds too creepy. Let's start over. Let's see...

« oOOH MY GOSH !! » Thomas jumped as the statue of a Witch light up before him.

-« Okay. Next time you have an idea like that, remind me to stop yourself. We'll go sit somewhere calm after that »

- « I-I'm okay ! I'm okay, Joan..  I-... just... tell me this is finished soon, please. »

- « …Yyyyyep. » They were only halfway through it, but Joan couldn't bring themself to worry Thomas even more. Poor man...

They both passed by the awfully cliché witch. Crooked nose, witch hat, green skin.

Green skin ?

Remus stopped at that.

That's it. He had an idea !

He slowly opened his mouth, and Roman stood curious. On the other side, Logan and Janus tried to calm the river of thoughts that escaped Virgil at an impressive speed. They tried to muffle the sound of this scary voice, but that only made Virgil bring up even more ideas.

Remus inhaled loudly, and sang as loud as he could.

« SOMEBODY ONCE TOLD ME THE WORLD WAS GONNA ROLL ME- »

Every single side jumped at that. Virgil closed his mouth with an audible click and eyed Remus. Meanwhile Patton had to step back at the sudden sound, but kept his attention on Remus, who continued to sing.

The sudden song popping into Thomas' head made his nerves lose it and he started laughing uncontrolably

Virgil, Roman and Patton joined Thomas, and soon enough, the room was filled with wheezes and a perfectly on key sang 'All stars ' As Remus became more and more ridiculous in his movements. Roman joined him soon enough and they became the only thing you could focus on.

Janus sighed through his nose, but couldn't help his smile. Logan's eyes switched between Virgil, Remus and Janus.

- «Well this is new »

- « I think we already know this song ? »

- « No, I'm talking about Remus. Weird how for once, he tries to calm the chaos in Thomas' mind... A surprise to be sure, but a welcomed one. »

- « ...Was that a- »

- « Hey now, you're an all star, get your game on~~ » He hummed, obviously avoiding Logan's question. The logical side soon followed the movement, with virgil joining in slowly after.

Sure, Thomas would jump a bit at the sudden pop in of the monsters, but the rest of the ride went extremelly well. And before he knew it, the ride stopped, and they had to get out of their seats. Thomas was still giggling to himself.

- « Well glad to see you made it out alive ! What caused your sudden mood boost? »

- « Oh it's nothing. I just had a random song playing in my head and I wasn't expecting it at all. » He wiped a tear of laughter from his eyes.

- « Heh, I see. And hey. You did it ! You went through the whole ride first try ! »

- « I sure did ! I'm not doing that again anytime soon, though. »

They both laughed and travel through the park, looking for the next attraction to do.

In the Thomasphere, things went smoother, and Remus could swear that when he locked eyes with Virgil, he mumbled a thanks before retreating in his room.

Logan was now debating with Roman on the next part of the park to go, and Janus was away, listening to the conversation but mostly in his thoughts. Remus took a step in his direction but Patton caught him before he made it to the yellow side.

« Heya Remus... I just wanted to... emh... apologize for earlier. I wasn't at my best » he chuckled. « I didn't even ask before doing what I did and maybe I scared you as well so... if I did anything that bothered you, I apologize and know that I'll do my best not to do it again. »

- « Aaaww, don't worry, Daddy. It caught me off guard sure, but if I didn't like it, I'd push you away before you can say 'kiddo' ! »

- « Oh, that's good to hear. »

- « … »

- « ... »

- « Well, I'll be on my w- »

- « Thank you, kiddo. »

Remus' voice died on the spot.

« Thank you very much. I know I'm not the... nicest with you at times, but you helped me and that was kind of you. So yeah... Thank you. »

- « ... »

- « ... »

- « Boy, this is awkward. »

- « Yep. »

- « I'm not used to that soooo ummm....... You're welcome ?I guess ? I'll, uh... I'll see you around next time I cause problems on purpose. »

- « Oh, yeah alright. » was all Patton could say before Remus escaped the discussion. And the words would not stop repeating in his head again and again and he knew it would drive him crazy with an emotion he's never felt before. And he knew he needed a time for himself right now.

Before dissapearing, he looked one last time at Patton, who went back to be the happy pappy Patton they knew, and a quick glance at Janus.

And he knew damn well the pleased grin on the snake's face wouldn't leave anytime soon.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

The Crucible (part two)

[UK Tour; Carrie AU 2]

Part 1

Word count: 9240

TW: Child abuse, blood, the r-word again, emotional manipulation, minor implied sexual content (as in: one paragraph and nothing actually happens), underage drinking, vomit

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

-Eve Was Weak-

  “Jesus watches from the wall,

But his face is cold as stone

And if he loves me,

As she tells me,

Why do I feel so alone?”

Mulaney looked up from the notebook, which is studded with doodles of crosses and stars and hearts, and set his gaze on the teenager sitting across from him. Her arms are crossed over her chest again and she’s leaned back in her chair, jaw set thoughtfully. She’s got some sass, but was one of the easiest, most well-mannered people he’s spoken to for questioning before. Plus, she made the examination more fun with her snarky comments, which were even able to make his stoic partner who ran the camera, Madeline, chuckle or smile from time-to-time.

  “Any speculation as to who the author is?” 

  “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say Joan Seymour.” Katherine Howard said. That sass mentioned before slipped back into her voice, edging her words in a way that made Mulaney huff out an amused breath.

  “What do you suppose she’s trying to say?” Mulaney questioned.

  “Probably, ‘help me, my mother’s insane.’” Katherine responded.

  “Interesting.”

Katherine raised her eyebrows at him, sniffing. She’s poised and waiting.

  “Do you consider yourself anti-religious, Katherine?” Mulaney asked.

Katherine snorted a light laugh. “No.” She said. “I just think some people take it too far, that’s all.”

  “And you disapprove?”

  “Look--” Katherine uncoiled her arms and sat up straight. At Mulaney’s side, Madeline quirked a brow at her change in stance, intrigued. “I’m all for believing whatever it is that you believe, but you say ‘religion’ to me, and I’m thinking da Vinci’s Last Supper. Jesus looks sad. The apostles look miserable. I don’t want to go to that party!”

Mulaney blinked at her logic. Katherine looked back at him, then turned her gaze up thoughtfully. She drummed her pointer fingers against the tabletop.

  “Shouldn’t religion be more like Dogs Playing Poker?” She said.

  “Dogs playing…”

  “Poker.” Katherine finished for Mulaney. “I can’t tell you what any of the apostles are doing in The Last Supper. But I can tell you that the little white bulldog is holding an ace under the table.”

Mulaney unsuccessfully tried to smother a smile. Katherine caught it, grinning.

  “See?” She said. “That’s fun! I’m engaged! There’s wonderment and awe! That other stuff is just all ritual and punishment. And it’s way too weird and way too serious.” She leaned back again, studying Mulaney and Madeline’s expressions. “What? It is!”

------

Jane Seymour was a woman of many faces, and not in the mentally ill sort of way, although some people assumed she may have been harboring multiple personality disorder within her wretched brain. She had many masks to wear, some cold and stoic, others sinister and wicked, and a few that may have even been sweet and nurturing. When she was at the local laundromat she worked at in town, several customers reported how she would “look at them like she was assessing their souls”, like she was judging whether or not they deserved to go to heaven. She thought most of them were Godless and muttered about it constantly, regardless of if they could hear her or not. She simply did not care.

Many people thought she would never delve into the sexual world of intercourse, what with all her screws loose that warded away most men and her extreme devotion to Christ, so it was quite shocking to hear the screams that erupted from the Seymour bungalow May 13th, 2005. Police were called, but had to wait to get a search warrant, so they, along with several neighbors, sat on the curb for hours, listening to the piercing cries that split the street in two. By the time police finally burst into the house to locate the struggle, they thought they were too late when they reached the master bedroom, which was covered in blood. But then they saw the woman rocking back and forth on the soaked bed, holding a tiny red baby with tufts of whitish hair to her left breast and everything clicked into place.

Several believed this woman was not fit to raise a child for obvious reasons, but police had no right to take a baby away from its mother, so the infant stayed and grew up in the house she was born in. It wasn’t like there was any place she could go, anyway. Jane’s husband was nowhere to be found. 

Henry Tudor is--was--had been a mountain of a man. His arms were like truck tires, round and firm to the touch. He had broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and a huge body to go along with his already giant frame. Coppery gold hair framed his head and his bright sapphire blue eyes struck a stare that could put someone six feet under. Every single aspect of the man’s body boasted of an indestructible juggernaut.

And yet, he hasn’t been seen in fifteen years.

Rumors bubbled up. They always did. Some speculated he ran away to avoid the burden of taking care of a child or to simply get away from his insane wife. Others, mainly rowdy teenagers itching for drama, said Jane killed him and sacrificed his body to the Lord. Because of that, stories of the Seymour bungalow being haunted were created, although there was no proof of anything of the sort. Because they weren’t true. But Jane Seymour had been out to kill.

Her girl-spawn had barely been a few months old at the time. She laid in her homemade crib, gurgling and laughing, staring with strange blue eyes up at a mobile that was made for her. Jane crept up to her and aimed a knife for her throat.

Henry stopped her.

  “You shall name her Johanna,” He had rumbled, easing Jane’s hand back to her side. “Joan for short.”

  “Like Joan of Arc.” Jane had observed.

  “Yes,” Henry had said.

  “Hm.” Jane had peered down at the wriggling little beast. “I suppose that does make it slightly less Godless.”

  “Yes,” Henry had said again. “Wait and see.”

And then, he was gone, disappearing into the night and never coming back.

Jane should not have let him stop her.

The child, of course, did not know this.

Joan slipped through the front door, but not without noticing a few neighbors peeking avidly out of their own windows, ears pricked. The whole neighborhood, possibly even the entire city, was always so interested in every little detail of the Seymour family’s lives. At least a few of them actually had the decency to duck back inside when they saw her coming up the sidewalk. One didn’t even notice her, it seemed, because he was still staring when she disappeared inside, while another was only pretending to not snoop while she fussed unnecessarily over her rose garden. Joan shot the flowers a sharp look, willing them to burst out of the ground and bite the lady’s nose off, but the front door closed behind her before she could see if anything happened. From the silence outside, she assumed nothing did.

(damn stupid woman wish she’d just go blind)

The smell of cinnamon was drifting through the entrance hallway. Maroon and orange (never red) candles were lit up throughout the downstairs area; Mama always preferred their warm glow over the harsh fluorescence of the overhead lights. Mama’s favorite radio station, WORT Radio, could be heard playing from the kitchen, along with the sound of singing.

Mama’s singing.

  “Jesus, possess me!

Sweet savior, be my shepherd

Bless each endeavor

Till I finally join you forever”

A giddy tingling sensation zipped up through Joan’s spine. She always loved the sound of Mama’s singing. Her voice was so silken and honey-slicked, like the gentle croon of an angel. Joan said she should join a gospel, that she would be the best singer in the entire group, but Mama would always wave this off with a dismissive hand and a chuckle.

Joan ventured further into the house, feeling lighter and lighter with each step. She entered the lounge, where a Black Forest cuckoo clock clucked peacefully on the wall. There were many religious pictures and crucifixes in here, but Joan’s favorite was the photo of Jesus leading a herd of baby lambs through a beautiful flowered field. It radiated so much innocence, unlike all the other paintings of punishment and hellfire and sin. It was hung up beside the huge wooden cross with reddened edges over the unused fireplace. Joan did her best to never look at that decoration in particular.

Weaving around the brown felt couch and two moth-eaten velvet throne chairs facing each other, Joan glided into the kitchen. It was an old kitchen indeed, with an oven that squealed like a dying pig when opened and a sputtering gas stove, but everything worked perfectly fine for the two of them.

Two…

  “Fly me free of temptation

And the flames of Hell's devastation

Then He will take me

And wash me in the river

I will make celebration

In the joy of final 

The might of final 

The fire of final Salvation!”

There was Mama, singing along to the song playing from an old radio on the counter, her back to Joan. 

She was a moderately sized woman, but had a strong, corded neck and incredibly muscled hands from years of working at the local laundromat. Honey blonde hair framed her face, which was quite beautiful in a weird, overzealous religious way. Reaching brown roots slithered like snakes from her scalp, with only a few white hairs visible. Despite being in her forties, her complexion was more weathered by hardship and discipline than age. Piercing golden brown eyes flickered when she finally noticed her daughter standing there and a smile broke out on her pale pink lips.

  “Mama,” Joan said breathily, unable to bite back her giddy grin. 

  “Ah, Joan,” Mama said, “there’s my sweet girl.” And then she opened her strong arms out wide and Joan darted into them instantly, nestling into her embrace. Mama smelled like honey and laundry detergent. “You’re home early.”

Joan felt her lower stomach twinge and she leaned a little closer into Mama’s chest. She would keep her mouth shut about the incident at school for now. Mama was in a good mood; no need to go and mess that up.

  “School--ended sooner than usual.” Joan said, internally wincing. She hated lying, always fearing that she would be struck dead the moment the fib rolled off her tongue, but she would correct herself and tell the truth soon.

Mama hummed. “I see.” She pulled away and turned back to the counter, where she had been shaping bread dough with her wolf-like hands. “Dinner won’t be ready for awhile.”

  “That’s okay,” Joan said. “I can wait.”

Mama hummed again. Joan fidgeted anxiously behind her.

  “Is everything alright, my darling?” Mama asked, concern in her smooth voice.

  “Yes, Mama,” Joan answered. “Just-- umm-- may I go shower?”

Mama chuckled. “Of course, dear.”

  “Thank you, Mama.” Joan gave her another quick hug, then scurried up the creaky wooden stairs to her room.

Filthy. She suddenly felt so filthy. She had showered barely an hour ago, but grime seemed to be crawling all over her. Would Mama be safe from it? Was it bad that she touched her?

She tried to remember what Miss Aragon had told her. About this being…

  “Normal.” Miss Aragon said. “It’s perfectly normal, Joan. Every girl goes through it.”

Joan whimpered. The spattered mess between her legs had been wiped away by Miss Aragon, a humiliation she would never be able to live down, and she was now fully dressed again, but her clothes felt too tight, especially around her groin. It felt like there were eels alive and writhing inside of her. She squirmed on the grey couch she was seated on in Miss Aragon’s office, a place where most students were forbidden to go into.

  “My skin feels weird,” Joan whispered. “I-I’m hot…”

Miss Aragon frowned. Joan looked up at her with shiny, wet blue eyes and a glazed expression.

  “It hurts,” She croaked.

  “I know, sweetheart.”

  “What did I do?”

  “What?”

Joan shifted uncomfortably. Guilt surged through her, along with another painful sensation in her lower stomach. She whimpered again.

  “What did I do?” She asked again. “D-did I sin? Is this my punishment?” Miss Aragon looked baffled, and Joan wasn’t sure how she should feel about that. 

  “No, no, Joan,” Miss Aragon said quickly. “You didn’t--you didn’t sin.” She made a face, like those words tasted funny on her tongue, but it disappeared quickly. “You’re a very good girl. All women go through this, like I said. It’s completely normal.”

  “But--but I’m bleeding!” Joan cried woefully. She could feel drops of blood squeeze slickly out of her vagina and she cringed. “You shouldn’t-- it’s not-- I-I’m gonna bleed to death!”

Miss Aragon is frowning again, and Joan easily recognized it as a frown of pity. That’s the expression most adults wear when they look at her. 

  “You aren’t, Joan,” Miss Aragon said patiently. “It’ll stop in a few days.”

Joan squirmed again, wanting it to stop now. She looked up at Miss Aragon helplessly.

  “What did you do?” She asked. “To get yours? How did you sin?”

Miss Aragon sighed and Joan instinctively shrunk away. Instead of being struck, however, her coach eased an arm around her shaking shoulders and pulled her in close against her side.

  “Oh, Joan…” She murmured, stroking her wet hair. “You poor, poor girl…”

Miss Aragon had then gone on to explain the process of the strange word called ‘menstruation’, telling her how she would bleed for four to seven days at a time every month for basically the rest of her life. It sounded awful. How could God curse females with such a horrible bodily function?

The sharp ache in her lower stomach returned like a tug on her small intestines. She put her hand between her legs, but drew no blood (this time). A new feeling rose in Joan’s sore chest, a yearning, an ache. She felt suddenly cold, as if the sun could no longer warm her. This was it, then, the change was here.

Would she still be Joan after it was all over? When she shed the last of her “uterus lining”, as Miss Aragon had said, would she still be herself? Or would she be someone new?

Would being someone new be all that bad?

Joan swiped some looser, fresh clothes from her dresser and then scurried her way into the bathroom. She didn’t want to turn on the lights, so she lit a few candles instead, letting their warm glow fill the small space.

With muscles that were weak with fatigue, she slowly began to undress herself. First her overalls, then her white and baby blue flannel, her cream colored bra, and finally her underwear. The puffy sanitary napkin--a “pad”--that Miss Aragon had put in for her was spotted with large dark red, almost black stains that looked like gross bodily jelly. It was wilting already, so she carefully removed it and replaced it with one of the many others she had been given, remembering how Miss Aragon had told her to always change them whenever she got the chance or she may get sick.

After throwing away the pad she wadded up with toilet paper, Joan stepped into the bathtub and cranked the faucet handle.

Showering was agony.

Although the hot water had offered her a brief respite from the deep, otherworldly chill that had settled into her body, there was no escaping the pain. Each beating droplet against her limbs felt like a fresh wasp sting stabbing into her muscles and the flesh on her stomach, taut and uncomfortably bloated, pulsed and throbbed with agony every time she moved.

Like before a few minutes ago, like at school, she reached between her legs, and it came back sticky and red.

The smell of the blood was pungent and unnatural. It was nothing like real blood at all. It was more like the rot from her deteriorating insides as her sin caused her to rapidly decay. It made her feel sick, so she stuck her hand under the spray of liquid fire shooting out from the shower head and didn’t pull it back until all the blood was gone.

The smell remained on her hand.

Joan scrubbed vigorously between her legs, which seemed to be permanently stained. Crimson would smear across her pale flesh each time her vagina bled again and she did her best to wipe the trails away with an itchy sponge. By the time she finally gave up, her inner thighs felt chafed and raw.

Joan took to just watching the water and beads of soap run down the slightly rusted drain. Slowly, she sat down, knees bent up to her chest, legs spread slightly. Red drools down the floor of the shower to join the suds down into the pipes.

This reminded her of a time when she was eleven and was violently ill in the shower. She remembered looking up, slumped heavily over the rim of the tub, still in all her clothes, and seeing Mama in the doorway. She had been shaking her head, but had a morbidly amused glint in her eyes. Then, chuckling darkly, she was saying, “You shouldn’t have gotten--”

  “--drunk,” Said Joan, her fists clenched determinedly at her sides and her heart hammering in her throat.

The figure in the armchair in front of her turned to look at the doorway and squinted up at her for a moment as though trying to figure out who she was. And then it sagged back into the chair with an air of disappointment. Like it had been expecting someone else, someone better.

Joan stared back through the thick mop of white-blonde hair that had started to hang in her eyes lately because she’d been too lazy to cut it.

She was eleven and standing in the doorway of the house she’d grown up in, feet squared in her tattered shoes (she hadn’t gone and gotten herself a new pair in awhile, though she was long since overdue) and jaw set grimly.

  “...You're what?” Said the figure slowly, her weathered, thick-knuckled hands clutching a periwinkle embroidery and a shiny sewing needle.

  “I’m drunk, Mama,” Joan said again, feeling a thrill that was equal parts excitement and terror run through her from head to toe as she said the scandalous words. She watched those dark eyes apprehensively, dimly aware through the buzz of alcohol that she was shivering.

Later, on nights when she had nothing better to think about (there would be a lot of nights like that), she would dramatize this event in her head. She’d think about what might have happened if she’d been yelled at, or sent to her closet, or even slapped across the face and sent sprawling. It wasn't that she did this to feel sorry for herself, or to pretend that it had been worse than it actually was.

The truth was that all of those outcomes were things she wished had happened more than what actually had.

From the worn-out old armchair, the figure stared at her a moment longer, before simply shaking its head in silent apathy and looking back down at the embroidery.

  “This is why God has left you,” Said Jane Seymour, dismissively.

And then Joan had trudged off, disappointed by the lack of reaction. Usually her Mama would throw an absolute fit over the littlest things she did, but the night she drank alcohol was barren of any dramatics.

An hour later, she would violently heave up all the whiskey she ingested from her system in the shower. It burned more than it did on the way down and made her cry helplessly for her Mama, who knelt by the bathtub and stroked her hair like she was a dog while she threw up all over herself. Mama had cradled her head against her chest when she was finished, mouth and chin still dripping with vomit, and told her what an evil little imp she was in a voice like sweet caramel.

Joan shook her head, scattering droplets across the shower walls and curtain. She looked down and saw a small sea of blood rippling around her feet. Her nose curled in disgust and she backed up further against the back of the tub.

Minutes passed. Joan’s mind was fuzzy and blank for most of the time she sat in the water and her own blood. Her vagina began to hurt at one point and throbbed steadily with her beating heart. 

When it was eventually time to get out, she found that the heat of the water had soaked the energy right out of her, and it took everything in her to get dressed again instead of just curling up naked in a corner of the shower and passing out.

The cuts splattering her figure, those that hadn't scabbed over yet, were gooey and red, the flesh around their edges white and puckered from the water. They burned faintly as she stepped back out of the shower’s steamy shelter and into the cold air of the rest of the house.

The light from the candle flames cast her gaunt features in harsher contrast when she peered into the mirror. Her hollow cheeks nearly became empty holes and her sunken eye sockets were black caves. Still, the shiny blue of her eyes was visible even in the cavernous puncture. The fire’s glow reflected off the stygian liquid steel of rolling droplets over her emaciated frame. 

The sight of the deathlike girl would send anyone but Mama screaming into the night.

------

  “Good news, Kitty!” 

Anne came out of nowhere, flinging her arms around Katherine and causing her to jump. They staggered, nearly falling right over, but managed to stay upright in the crowd of students leaving the school. Katherine laughed.

  “What can it be this time, Annie?” She asked, shifting her backpack onto one shoulder after Anne pulled away.

  “It turns out we are going to college together after all!” Anne declared, smiling widely. “I just got the text last period!”

Katherine felt a surge of happiness go through her, but still couldn’t help but tilt her head. 

  “Wait-- I thought the Royal College of Music turned you down?”

Just saying the school’s name sent flutters of joy and excitement and awe through her. She still couldn’t believe that SHE, Katherine Howard, got accepted into THE BEST music school in England. Maybe even the entire world!! She couldn’t wait until she got to explore the castle-like campus and fulfill her dream of being a real performer, and although she had hoped that her dear cousin and best friend would be a part of that, she didn’t actually think it would have happened.

But here Anne was, shrugging nonchalantly with a radiant look in her dark brown eyes.

  “Yeah, well,” She waved a dismissive hand, “Daddy pulled a few strings and now I’m in.” 

Katherine couldn’t help but chuckle knowingly when her Uncle Thomas was brought up. She could only pray for the poor soul at the Royal College’s administration board that must have met the other end of his needle-sharp words.

  “We get to be roomies together!” Anne said. “Isn’t that great or what?”

  “It’s AMAZING!” Katherine declared, hugging Anne. “I can’t wait!”

The sound of a car broke their embrace and the two of them, along with a few other students in the courtyard, turned to look at the shiny dark blue Ford Mustang honking at the curb. The driver’s side door popped open a second later and a gorgeous young woman, probably twenty or twenty-one, with lush olive skin and curly brown hair came sliding out. She lowered her electric blue Burberry sunglasses and hickory brown eyes swept over the crowd of high school kids in disdainful amusement.

  “CATHY!!” Anne cried gleefully. She launched herself at Catherine Parr and the two immediately melted into a heated kiss. Katherine sputtered a laugh.

  “Classic Anne,” Maria said, coming up beside Katherine with Maggie and Bessie. “Always can’t wait to jam her tongue down her lady’s throat.” She’s elbowed in the ribs by both Katherine and Bessie for that, making her snicker. “What? It’s true!”

  “Come on,” Maggie said, and they all crossed over to the couple. “Alright, children! That’s enough PDA!”

Anne parted from her girlfriend to stick her tongue out at Maggie. Cathy chuckled and turned her gaze to the others.

  “Hello, kids,” She said languidly. 

  “Hey, Cathy,” Katherine smiled at her. The other three greeted the other woman as well. “How are you?”

  “Bitchin’ good,” Cathy rumbled, her lips twitching upwards. The lipstick coating them was a dark red color; Katherine believed it was called “Nibble” if she remembered correctly.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” Anne suddenly said. She perched on the hood of the Ford Mustang and spread her hands out in front of her like she was about to tell a grand fairytale. “Can you guys believe the stunt in the shower earlier?”

Like that, Katherine’s good mood dropped away and icy guilt slammed into her once again. It made her feel so stupid, as all her friends burst into giggles around her, enjoying the funny memory while she just felt sickened by them. Why couldn’t she be more like them?

  “What?” Cathy looked at all of them in confusion. “What happened?”

  “Oh, Joan Seymour happened,” Anne told her. “Sixteen fucking years old and that stupid retard just stood there having her very first period.”

Katherine winced at the use of the slur. Why did it suddenly hurt to hear? She hadn't cared when Maria said it earlier in the pool. Was she just now realizing that it was wrong to say?

  “I think she’s fifteen, actually,” She said.

  “Who cares?” Anne said. “Doesn’t change anything! I knew when I was 9!”

  “Wait--” Cathy said, and then she exclaimed, “Gross! In the shower?”

  “Oh yeah!” Anne nodded her head enthusiastically. “Blood was just dripping down her legs!”

  “All the blood ran into my stall!” Maggie joined in excitedly.

  “And she sat in it!” Bessie added.

  “All while squealing like a fucking pig!” Anne chortled. “WEE WEE WEE WEE!!!”

  “Anne, enough!!” Katherine shouted over all the laughter. “Stop it! It’s not funny!”

Anne looked at her and then said, “Hey, you guys! Stop! Stop! Kit is right. It’s not funny.”

All the giggling died away instantly. Katherine breathed out a sigh of relief--

  “It’s fucking hilarious!”

--that was quickly replaced with a sharp intake of breath.

Anne slung an arm around her shoulders. “Aww, sweetie!” She nuzzled her cheek with her nose. “There’s a runt in every litter! A nobody. And our nobody,” She chuckled darkly, “is Joan.”

------

The smell of freshly baked bread hit Joan’s nose when she walked down the stairs and her stomach growled so loud it caught Mama’s attention in the kitchen. Her face flashed dark red, her blush bright against the pale backdrop of her white-blonde hair, and Mama chuckled in amusement.

  “Someone’s hungry,” Mama said.

  “J-just a little…” Joan stammered shyly.

She really, really was, though. She skipped lunch because she had left school and hadn’t eaten since breakfast, which had just been two pieces of plain toast, but she felt like she was starving. Like it’s been a lot longer since she ate anything. She set her hands on her lower belly and wondered if hunger was another bitter side effect of menstruation.

  “Joan?” Mama noticed the way she was holding her stomach. “Is your tummy alright, darling?”

Joan felt an intense flash of fear 

(she knows she knows she knows she knows she knows she knows)

lance through her and she inhaled sharply. She nodded, dropping her hands limply to her side.

  “I’m okay, Mama,” She said. “Just hungry.”

  “Dinner will be ready soon,” Mama told her. Joan could smell the casserole in the oven and her stomach growled again. “Why don’t you go wash your hands and set the table?”

Joan nodded and hurried to wash her hands off in the kitchen sink before retrieving the plates and utensils from various cabinets. She took them to the dining room, a dimly lit room filled with more crosses than anywhere in the entire house. A huge iron one hung above the table, where Jesus’ petrified face of agony could always leer down at her when she was trying to eat. The only other decoration was a wooden picture frame laying face-down on a small shelf. Joan glanced at it and remembered the last time it had been filled by...

...a photograph of Mama’s wedding.

It had been a bright and sunny day, with white clouds floating over the wedding ceremony. In the picture, the newlyweds were standing on the top of the stone stairs leading to the chapel. Above their heads was a tall arch decorated with beautiful white roses, handpicked by the maid of honor. The bride and groom held each other’s hands, the picture of matrimonial bliss. 

This was the first time Joan actually saw what Daddy Henry looked like. Mama didn’t talk about him very much, and when she did, it wasn’t ever in a good way.

But these two in the picture looked so happy.

Daddy Henry’s wedding tuxedo had to be one of the largest ever designed. He was herculean, with a behemoth body and golden blonde hair. Dazzling sapphire blue eyes stood out brightly in the photo, so much like Joan’s own. He had a massively wide smile on his bearded face, grasping his bride’s hands in his own huge ones. 

Mama was in a beautiful white gown gown that hugged her every curve, with sterling silver feathers sewn into the sleeves and into the frills of the wedding dress. Her lips were painted ruby red and were curled up into a blissful smile as she leaned into the wall of muscle that was her husband, her hands lost within Daddy Henry’s colossal grip.

...Were these really her parents?

Joan had found the photo hidden behind one of Jesus’s birth when she accidentally broke the frame while playing. She was ten at the time, and itching for mischief, so she hid the photo from Mama, despite all the questions she wanted to ask. 

It had been a complete accident that Mama found out she had it, when she saw it in her room after she forgot to put it away.

For a long time, Mama didn’t speak after she found the photo. She just gripped it tightly and stared at it with wide, bulging eyes.

  “Where did you find this?” 

Joan flinched at the edge in her voice. Trembling, she stuttered, “I-I broke a picture frame a little while ago. You didn’t notice, so I picked up the broken glass so that we wouldn’t get hurt. I found it behind the picture of baby Jesus.”

Mama took several deep breaths that did little to calm her. Joan swallowed thickly.

  “M-maybe it could help us look for him?” She said timidly.

Turning abruptly, Mama stormed out the bedroom and downstairs. Joan ram after her, crying, “Wait! Mama!”

Mama strode into the lounge and began roughly throwing firewood into the fireplace. Joan skidded to a stop behind her, her eyes wide.

  “Mama!” She shouted. “Stop! We have to find Daddy!”

But Mama didn’t stop. She just kept tossing in wood until the fireplace was full, then moved to dousing the logs with an alarming amount of lighter fluid. Joan lunged forward and grabbed her arm as she lit a match and flicked it in. The flames roar to life instantly, illuminating the cold look in Mama’s golden eyes.

  “No.” She hissed, and then threw the photo into the fire.

  “NO!!!” Joan screeched.

She threw herself at the fireplace, dropping to her knees and shoving her hands into the burning logs. Flames licked at her skin and she howled in pain, but didn’t pull back until she grabbed the smoldering remains of the photograph. It disintegrated in her fingers and she wailed in anguish right before Mama grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her backwards.

  “What are you doing?!” Mama cried. Her eyes are even wider now, and Joan saw that she was scared. The smell of burned flesh hung heavily in the air.

  “That was going to help us find Daddy!” Joan yelled, tears running down her cheeks. Her hands hurt so badly. Pink and scarlet criss crossed together over her charred skin. “We were gonna find him and he was gonna come back!!”

  “No he wasn’t, Johanna!”

  “WHY?!”

  “BECAUSE THERE IS NOTHING KEEPING HIM AWAY!!”

In an instant, the scalding hot blood in Joan’s veins turned to ice-water. She started to comprehend the implication of Mama’s words, and the tears came out from her eyes faster and faster. She wilted like a daffodil, crossing her burnt hands in front of her chest and grabbing her arms, squeezing them tightly as she bowed her head and doubled over on her knees. The crown of her skull cracked against the hardwood, sprawling her hair like a waterfall of white-gold all over the floor. 

  “No… No… No...” She wept again and again.

  “He doesn’t want you, Joan,” Mama said ruefully. “He didn’t even want me.” She took a deep breath, sadness etched in the grooves of her words. “He doesn’t want either of us.”

Mama knelt and took Joan into her arms, rocking her slowly. Joan tried to grip onto her, but just let out a pained wail when she moved her hands.

  “Mama!” She cried. “Mama, it hurts! It hurts!”

  “Oh, my poor baby,” Mama said sadly. “Shh… It’s going to be okay, my darling angel. It’s going to be okay, Joan…”

  “...Joan? Joan?”

Joan jolted, backpedaling into her mother, who looked concerned. Mama gently cupped her cheeks.

  “My dear angel,” She murmured, “what’s wrong?”

(tell her tell her tell her)

Joan swallowed thickly. “S-something happened at school today. Something terrible...”

Mama frowned and brushed a loose strand of hair out of Joan’s face. “Terrible things are the Lord’s way of testing us, Joan.” She said wisely.

  “I know, Mama, but the other girls--”

  “You aren’t like the other girls.” Mama cut her off.

  “But I am, Mama! I am!” Joan said. “I never thought so, but--”

  “You aren’t, Joan. You aren’t. You’re special.” Mama’s lips twitched slightly. “Special.”

  “You aren’t listening to me, Mama…”

  “I’ve heard all I wanted to hear, now finish setting the table, please.” Mama said. She glided past Joan and went back into the kitchen to check on the casserole. Joan slowly laid out the plates, then looked over her shoulder.

(tell her tell her tell her)

  “Mama, in the showers today…”

Mama whipped around instantly, her eyes suddenly lit up like hot coals. Joan thought she might have seen a flicker of fear somewhere in there, too.

  “What have I told you about showering with the other girls?” Mama said.

  “I know, but--” Joan floundered.

  “What have I told you?” Mama shouted.

  “It’s a sin! It’s a sin!” Joan gave in.

  “And as such--”

  “But Mama--”

  “It is--”

  “I STARTED TO BLEED!!”

Silence.

Stillness.

The platter Mama had been holding slipped from her fingers and shattered against the wooden floor. White and blue pieces exploded out in every direction. A few chunks cut Mama’s slipper-clad feet and ankles, and blood slowly began to bud out like blooming roses in May, but Mama did not move. Or flinch. Or even blink. She just stared very intently at Joan like she was hoping she would burst into flames if she leered hard enough.

And then, her face did something strange. It twitched, like all her expressions were falling off one by one, so it looked like a mask for a moment. Then, the skin rippled and creased and wrinkled, and her soft features were eroded away by furious and sinister ones. A sick white light ignited behind her golden brown eyes, like twin lightning bugs of insanity inside the sockets. Joan backed up against the dining room table with a whimper.

  “Mama, I started to bleed in the showers and the other girls-- they laughed at me and called me names and threw things at me!” She said woefully. “I was so scared, Mama! I thought I was dying!”

Mama’s face twitched again, and this time her head jerked a little with it. The veins in her neck bulge out of the flesh and pulsed monstrously. Her eyes suddenly looked a lot less golden brown and a lot more brown-red.

  “Mama, why are you looking at me like that?” Joan asked softly, quaking.

  “The curse of blood,” Mama said quietly. There’s an awful, dry chuckle edging her words. Joan blinked like an oblivious pure white heifer about to be sacrificed to God.

  “Mama, you’re scaring me…”

Mama’s entire head twitched this time and then, a split second later, she’s striding across the kitchen with her right hand held high. Joan didn’t have any time to react before she was backhanded across the jaw by pointy, spike-like knuckles. She yelped out in pain and shock, tottering sideways and careening right into one of the dining table chairs. Her body unceremoniously crumpled into it, and she and the chair both crashed to the ground in an ungraceful heap.

  “You’re a woman now,” Mama said above her. Her eyes are wide and gleaming, but there’s no emotion in them. “Pray to heaven for your wicked soul.”

  “Wh-what did I do?” Joan stammered, rolling over onto her back. She could already feel her jaw welling up with a fresh bruise. “M-Miss Aragon said it’s something all girls go through. Even y--”

Mama hit Joan again, and blood splattered out in a bright red line across the floor. Joan whimpered sharply, tears of pain springing to her eyes. Her tongue instinctively flicked out against her newly busted lip and it stung in response to being licked.

  “And God made Eve from the rib of Adam,” Mama said like she was in a trance. “And Eve was weak and loosed the raven on the world. And the raven was called Sin and the first Sin was the Sin of Intercourse. So the Lord visited Eve with a Curse and the Curse was the Curse of Blood.” She leaned down to Joan and her words were suddenly washed with potent venom, “Say it, woman.”

  “No, Mama--”

Joan was struck a third time. Smears of her blood are left on Mama’s knuckles.

  “Say it!” Mama bellowed.

  “No!” Joan cried. She turned sharply and scrambled away, but Mama pursued her and delivered a kick to her ribs that sent her sprawling on her back.

  “And Adam and Eve were driven out of the Garden and into the World and Eve found that her belly had grown big with child.” Mama droned on. She lifted her foot and pressed it down on Joan’s stomach, pinning her to the ground. Joan yowled in pain when a cramp seized her at that very moment, deepening her anguish even further. “And there was a second Curse, and this was the Curse of Childbearing, and Eve brought forth Cain in sweat and blood.”

  “Mama!” Joan sobbed. The tears were flowing free without resistance, now, and creating small pools on either side of her head. “Mama! Stop it, please! Listen to me!!”

But Mama did not listen. She just leaned down, applying more pressure to Joan’s poor belly, like she was hoping to make all the blood come out now. Joan threw her head back and screamed in pain.

  “And following Cain, Eve gave birth to Abel, having not yet repented of the Sin of Intercourse. And so the Lord visited Eve with a third Curse, and this was the Curse of Murder. Cain rose up and slew Abel with a rock. And still, Eve did not repent, nor all the daughters of Eve, and upon eve did the Crafty Serpent found a kingdom of whoredoms and pestilence.”

  “Mama, listen!!” Joan yelled. “Stop! It wasn’t my fault!”

  “And Eve was weak,” Mama said flatly. “Say it.”

  “N-o!” Joan squirmed underneath her mother. Her hands, rough and scarred permanently from the burns she got five years ago, flew up and grabbed Mama’s leg. Two of her fingernails jabbed into one of the cuts on Mama’s ankle she got from the glass and Mama jerked away with a hiss.

  “You vile demon!!” She screeched.

Joan fled as quickly as she could, but Mama went after her, just like last time. Just like all the other times. 

(if i had a nickle for every time she made me cry in here...)

Her wrists are seized and they both fall to their knees on the floor in the lounge. The impact rattled Joan’s frail body and she could feel more blood drip out onto the sanitary napkin in her underwear.

  “Mama, let me go!!” Joan cried frantically. She struggled, but her Mama was much stronger than she was and was able to restrain her. Mama’s body hunched over her, her belly pressed against her rigid spine, practically crushing her frail daughter. “Please! Please, Mama! I’m sorry!!”

  “Say it, woman,” Mama whispered harshly in her ear, her words biting like serpents.

Joan sniffled and, with words that were thick with blood from her busted lip, choked out shamefully, “And Eve was weak.”

The grip on her wrists loosened slightly. Mama’s hot breath tickled her ear when she breathed out a dark laugh. A sloppy, halfhearted kiss was pressed to her temple.

  “Good girl,” Mama whispered breathily. She leaned back and twisted Joan around so they would be facing each other, but did not release her child from her ironclad grip. 

  “Mama, why didn’t you tell me?” Joan asked. Her icy blue eyes are filled with tears and sorrow, so much sorrow. “I was so scared, Mama. I thought I was dying!”

Mama shook her head and looked up ruefully. She squeezed Joan’s hands together and exclaimed hugely, “O Lord! Help this sinning woman beside me here see the sin of her days and ways!”

  “Stop it, Mama--” Joan squirmed uncomfortably.

  “Show her that if she had remained sinless the Curse of Blood never would have come on her!” Mama brayed on.

  “Mama--” Joan whined. “Mama, please stop! I don’t understand! What did I do?” She squirmed harder. “Mama, let me go!!”

Mama shook Joan violently, then drew her in close, eyes flashing. 

  “Ask for forgiveness of your sin.”

  “No, Mama.” Joan said, swallowing thickly. “I didn’t sin, you sinned. You didn’t tell me and they laughed.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Darkness overtook Mama’s features like the black clouds of a thunderstorm. Her face twisted with disgust, and she suddenly looked like she hated her child with every inch of her being. She dug her fingernails deep into Joan’s brittle wrists.

  “I did not.” She hissed lowly. “I did not--sin.” She carved off chunks of Joan’s flesh with her nails. “Go to your closet and pray.”

Joan stiffened, her eyes bulging hugely in her skull. She whimpered and shook her head, shrinking down into herself.

  “No, Mama,” She whispered fearfully. She could see her prayer closet from the lounge, the door fitted underneath the staircase. It was cramped and dark and hot in there, just how Mama liked it for her. “D-don’t wanna go…” She couldn’t look away from it.

  “Pray.” Mama said. “Ask for forgiveness.”

  “Please, Mama,” Joan begged, looking up at her mother desperately. “P-please don’t make me go. I-I don’t wanna go. I’m sorry!”

But Mama’s uncaring look of hatred did not change, and inky black dread poured out through Joan’s organs like a thick, dark oil spill. Her breathing began to hitch and pick up, but Mama didn’t seem to care about her worsening panic attack.

  “Please, Mama,” Joan wheedled hoarsely. “I-- I’ll bring the Stones again!”

This time, it was Mama’s turn to look scared. But then it morphed into intense enmity and she began to beat Joan senselessly towards the closet.

  “You monster!” She howled. “You spawn of the devil! Why must I be so cursed?!”

  “The Stones!” Joan yelled as she was kicked and hit and slapped. She rolled to the side, but Mama beat her back down to the floor, slowly getting her closer and closer to the wretched, evil closet. “I’ll bring the Stones, Mama! I’ll bring the Fire!” 

And then a powerful kick drove into her belly and her words pitched into a shriek of agony. 

  “MAMA!!” Joan screamed. “MAMA-- MAMA, STOP!! IT HURTS!! Y-YOU-- IT HURTS!!!”

Mama grappled onto Joan’s arms and began dragging her across the floor to the closet. Even with the sharp, unbearable pain in her stomach, Joan fought her, kicking and struggling and screaming bloody murder, but it was futile. Mama shoved Joan into the prayer closet and slammed the door shut, locking it tightly.

   “NO!!” Joan shrieked. She threw herself at the door, causing it to rattle heavily on its hinges. “Mama, let me go!!”

  “Pray, little girl!” Mama ordered. Madness curled from her lips like poisonous vipers. “Pray!”

  “Please, Mama!!” 

But Mama did not let her go. Her footsteps retreated somewhere into the house and Joan sunk to the floor, weeping. Panic started sticking to her lungs like black tar, making it harder and harder to breathe. 

Mama was so angry… What if she never let her out? 

Dread sped up her thoughts, racing through her veins, filling her with desperation. 

No one would even hear her screams, her last dying words, her final prayers…

She began to wheeze, the thick, musty air brushing against her lips. The oppressive stench of her own fear and blood and piss from other times in the closet burned her nose.

Would the neighbors notice? Would they even care? 

Pain lighted in her belly again as her chest contracted with her heavy breaths. 

Would her teachers, so quick to look away from her black eyes and limping figure, even call and ask where she was?

Joan began to scratch on the door, the frame, the hinges, scrambling to escape, her instincts pitching her action into a fury of movement. 

What would they say when her body was finally discovered, a rotting corpse hidden in the darkness of a closet made for holy purposes? Perhaps she would be the talk of the town, even more than usual. The poor Seymour kid, whose Mama went mad after her husband left and God could no longer satisfy her. Who killed her only child, slowly starving her tiny daughter to death one evening while she sewed a new blouse for a customer at the laundromat and listened to her religious music.

Joan’s fingernails scratched harder, grazing the wooden confines of her holy coffin. She could feel the warmth of her blood as the nails began to tear and break, smell the copper of her panic, leaving thin lines of crimson as she clawed frantically.

What if she didn’t starve to death? What if she suffocated? Could that happen? No, she’d read about that before. There was enough air filtering in here, probably. She’d die of dehydration first. Already she could feel her throat constrict, dry and callous, an arid lining of flesh. Spots of light pricked her vision. Tears ran down the side of her bruised face, mingling with the sweat now coating her skin. She felt clammy and cold, yet suddenly too hot, as if in a fever.

  “Mama, let me out!” She begged coarsely, the words scratching at her throat.

She could take the hitting or yelling or cursing. Anything but this. 

  “Mama…” 

Joan slumped to her side, shuddering. She looked up and gazed around at the horrors that littered the closet. There were so many paintings of Jesus’s death, all in great, graphic detail. When she was little, they used to give her awful nightmares about evil men nailing her to a cross or Jesus’s bloodied body chasing her through a ruined dreamscape, welding a wicked-looking crucifix made of barbed wires and yelling at her to join him on his cadaverous crucible.

They still gave her nightmares, she hated to admit.

The dead eyes of Christ bore down on Joan’s pathetic, shaking frame. Jesus’s face was contorted into the same expression of disgust and pain as Mama’s had been, like even he knew that she was the worst thing to ever grace God’s green earth. She curled into a tight ball on the floor, not wanting to meet his scornful gaze anymore, and began to pray through her haze of tears.

------

Moonlight cast silver streams on Anna’s smooth, glowing skin, making her look like a goddess of the night above Katherine. Her soft touch sent pangs of pleasure crackling through Katherine’s body like lightning bolts of lust, soothing her mind of all its worries with her warmth. Everything felt good and okay and wonderful again when Anna was with her, holding her, talking to her, loving her. She thought that nothing could possibly bring her down when her girlfriend was there by her side.

And yet, she still couldn’t get the image of Joan Seymour’s naked body covered in blood on the floor out of her head.

Katherine sighed heavily and Anna pulled back, blinking.

  “Am I really that bad?” She said, then looked at her fingernails, inspecting them closely. “I thought I got them down to the perfect length this time…”

Katherine managed to laugh. “No, it’s not you, you big silly,” She nudged her playfully. “It’s--something else…”

Anna tilted her head. “What is it?” Worry flashed across her expression and Katherine couldn’t help but feel a flutter of love flap in her chest. She loved when her girlfriend got like this, all concerned over her, even over the littlest things. “Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine,” Katherine said. She pushed herself up into a sitting position with a sigh. “It’s just-- I did something...not good today.”

  “Oh no,” Anna gasped. “Not good?”

Katherine shoved her. “I’m serious!”

Anna laughed slightly. “I know! I know!” She said. “Come on, tell me about it.”

They got dressed and stepped out of Anna’s red Jeep so Katherine could get some fresh air that would hopefully help her tell the shameful story. It was a warm spring night and they were parked on the side of a small grove that had a trail that led to a hiking trail and some camping grounds. Katherine ducked under a tree that was wrapped in blooming vines of pink-white dog roses, pale ghost petals shivering in the breeze. Anna came up beside her and they both sat on a low-hanging branch that was practically grown for the purpose of sitting and telling your girlfriend about the awful bullying you participated in today.

  “Did you...hear about the Joan Seymour incident today?” Katherine eventually choked out hesitantly.

Anna actually thought for a moment, as if a fifteen year old girl getting her first period and thinking she was dying hadn’t been the talk of the entire school.

  “Vaguely, yeah,” She finally said. “I don’t get into that kind of drama, though. I tend to stay away from it, you know?”

Katherine did know, and that sent fear ricocheting through her body when she remembered it. Of course Anna didn’t like discourse- she’s told her several times before! How could she be so stupid?

Anna peered at her closely, and she knew it was too late to turn back now.

  “What does Joan Seymour and her period have to do with you?” Anna asked her.

Katherine swallowed thickly. Fear pounded heavily at her brain, fear of Anna breaking up with her when she told her and leaving her all alone--but didn’t she deserve that? What she did was horrible. She didn’t deserve a girlfriend after harassing a poor little girl, ESPECIALLY when she herself was eighteen and technically an adult.

  “I--” Her words caught in her throat for a moment, but Anna’s patient, loving gaze made them all come tumbling out. “I was in there. With her. In the locker room.” She lowered her head in shame. “I--yelled at her with everyone…”

Anna just looked at her for a long time, moonlight glinting in her caramel brown eyes and making them look like they were glowing. Then, she sucked in an impressed breath and said, “You’re right. Not good.”

Katherine felt a cold slicing of fear slash through her, but then Anna’s grave expression shifted into a thoughtful smile. She ran a hand down an ivy-coiled section of the tree and mused, “I kicked a kid in the ribs one time.”

Katherine blinked at her. 

  “I did!” Anna said, then shook her head and chuckled at the memory. “Reed Mulligan. Big white kid who’ll probably grow up to be a robber or something. Anyway, he beat the shit out of me once in Year 7. And then, in Year 8, he picked on the wrong kid and got his ass handed to him. Everyone ran when he dropped to the ground, but first I gave him a good kick in the ribs. Felt terrible about it afterward.” She peered at Katherine closely. “Are you gonna apologize to her?”

Katherine snorted dryly. “Did you apologize to Reed Mulligan?”

  “Hell no!” Anna said. “But there’s a big difference, Kat.”

  “There is?”

  “This isn’t Secondary School anymore.” Anna said. A flurry of snowy pink petals swirled down from the tree and over their shoulders. “What did Joan Seymour ever do to you?”

------

The prayer closet lock clicked and the door creaked open after seven long hours. Joan stopped crying for her Mama after the first hour and fell silent for the rest, not even asking to eat or go to the bathroom. Probably because she was asleep, curled up into a little ball on the floor, pillowing her head with her arms. Mama knelt down to her, setting one hand on her shoulder and raking the other through her white-blonde hair. Joan’s eyes shot open instantly, and they seemed to glow in brilliant shades of blue in the candlelight.

  “Did you finish your prayers, little girl?” Mama asked.

Joan nodded.

  “That’s my good girl,” Mama cooed. She kissed Joan’s cheek, saying nothing about the dark indigo bruise bloomed on her jaw. “It’s time for bed.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Joan whispered. Slowly, she uncoiled from her position on the floor, shaking out her numb limbs as she did so. Mama watched her with a sharp eye as she rose to her feet.

  “Joan?”

  “Yes, Mama?”

Mama took a deep breath and stood up, practically towering over her little daughter.

  “I know I sometimes do things that I can’t explain,” She said, “but know that my feelings for you never change. Even--if you have sinned.”

Joan winced, but she shook her head and managed to smile wryly up at her mother. 

  “Mama, you don’t have to say that,” She said. “You love me. You don’t need to ask for forgiveness from me. I know you do what you have to.”

  “Yes,” Mama said slowly, nodding. “We have no one except each other, Joan.”

Joan shivered. Her heart ached fiercely in her chest, and she so badly wanted to believe that that wasn’t true, that there was someone out there who wanted her, but she knew that was just wishful thinking. Fifteen years, and the only person who didn’t throw her away was her Mama.

  “I’m the only one who cares about you.” Mama said. “No one will ever love you except me.” She cupped Joan’s cheeks and looked at her with maddening adoration and love flickering in her eyes. “You will always be a monster to everyone else.”

And Joan nodded, knowing this would always be true, and whispered, “Yes, Mama.”

[sonicrainicorn]

Made of Love, Chapter 21

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Table of Contents

Ship(s): Logicality, (platonic) Prinxiety

All Characters: Thomas, Virgil, Roman, Logan, Patton, Dr. Picani, Joan, Talyn, and Deceit

Synopsis: Humans Roman and Virgil get wrapped up in some serious magic business without meaning to. Their other companions aren’t exactly as they seem, either. Together they all must defeat a great threat for the safety of humanity.

Chapter Desc.: Virgil is getting really tired of the universe causing problems.

TW: Cursing, alcohol, death mention

Prefer to read it on Ao3? Click here!

“Joan says they have no idea who gave them the info,” Thomas sighed as he plopped down in his seat.

He, Virgil, Roman, and Patton were in the living room trying to solve their big mystery. Logan was still clocked out in the bedroom. His earlier incident didn’t quite ease up as well as the previous ones.

“They never met each other. It was just a written message.”

“Where did the message come from?” Patton asked. “Are they okay? Does Altair know where they are?”

"I don't know. Someone from Talyn's old clan said it was waiting there for them. But Talyn hasn't been there in years." Thomas frowned down at his phone. "Maybe his info is outdated?"

Patton fidgeted with his hands. "I don't know. I'd still be cautious."

"Yeah. They're both keeping their eyes out."

They had no idea what else to do. Without a doubt, Altair created this Figment specifically for them. It was someone Patton and Logan recognized and knew well, while the others have always been Magi they’ve never seen before. It boiled down to three major issues: how did Altair know about Arlene? Who sent them after her? And how did he create such a powerful Figment?

They didn’t have answers for the first two. But Patton figured out the third one.

Figments take up a lot of power and magic. They are a soul forced to recreate their former body without the magic that once held them together. Of course some things are going to be a little off because of that; an essential part of them was missing. But if there’s enough power, then less of them would be missing. Arlene was able to exist as herself because her soul and magic were able to come together almost to completion. There was enough power to put them together. Altair had enough power to put them together. Unfortunately, there was one way he would have gained that jump of strength. Logan’s magic.

There were many, many reasons to why that sucked, and Virgil didn’t want to focus on any of them. He knew plenty of them front and back already. They never left his thoughts since the moment he saw his timeline.

The more magic Logan lost, the more of it went to Altair. If he was able to get all of it, he would be able to get it completely under his control. And if it ever got to that point, there wouldn’t be any more Logan. That would lead to all kinds of bad things.

It couldn’t ever get there.

“What are we supposed to do, then?” Roman asked. “We don’t have anything to go off of, we don’t know where Altair is now -- it’s like we’re back at square one. We just keep getting pushed farther back anytime we make progress.”

“We can’t exactly stop making progress,” Patton said. “Even if we have nowhere to go, we can’t let that be the end. There’s too much at stake.”

Virgil frowned at the coffee table.

“But we have even less time than before,” Thomas replied. “You said it yourself, Logan’s running out of magic. He can’t wait around for Altair to just show up. It took us forever to even get an idea of where he was the first time. How are we supposed to find him now?”

“I…” Patton floundered. Virgil felt a flash of panic -- desperation that was not his own -- enough to make his heart drop before disappearing. Patton clasped his hands together. “I don’t know. I have no idea what to do.”

Neither did anyone else.

Did Virgil accidentally take a nap that wasted most of the day after that? That wasn’t anything you could prove. The answer was yes, though. Yes, he did. It was a complete accident. He decided to go to his room to think about stuff then all of a sudden he was waking up. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it), he had a closing shift today. That meant he got to go into work a bit later.

But since he woke up feeling like trash, he decided to stay in bed until the time came to get ready. The first thing he did after was march straight into Roman’s room.

“Ro --” The rest of his name broke off.

Roman sat at his little desk. Fast asleep. His head rested on his folded arms with his laptop on and right in front of him. It displayed a picture opened up in editing software. The picture wasn’t complete yet, but it seemed to have gone through a lengthy process already. Without hesitating, Virgil crept forward and saved the file. Just in case.

He decided to let Roman get the extra sleep. It was obvious he needed it.

So Virgil wandered into the living room to recruit someone else. Patton, Logan, and Thomas were all there. The TV was on, but Patton was the only one watching. Logan sat beside him with his legs pulled up, focusing on his notebook. Thomas was on the floor with a new painting in front of him.

“Roman’s knocked out so I need someone to come to work with me.” He shoved his hands in his hoodie pockets.

“I volunteer,” Thomas muttered from around a paintbrush. He didn’t lift his eyes from the canvas as he used a different sized brush.

“No.” He turned to the other two. “Patton? Logan?”

Logan lifted his head. “What?

Patton smirked and shook his head. “I’ll go with you, Virgil.”

Virgil grabbed Roman’s keys and they were on their way.

When they got there, the bar wasn't very crowded. With it being the middle of the week, only the usuals showed up. Which was fine with Virgil. He knew almost all of them by name and knew they wouldn't be a bother. Half of them didn't even drink -- they just liked to hang out. It led to Virgil conducting a bit of an experiment.

Patton threw back another shot and set the glass down on the counter with the nine others. Virgil waited in anticipation.

“Yeah, I feel nothing.”

Now that just wasn’t fair. “How the hell…?” Virgil examined the shot glasses as if that would somehow provide answers. “I’m -- what witchcraft are you doing and how can I get in on it?”

Patton laughed. “Unless you somehow get healing magic, I don’t think I can help you.” He put his head in his hand. “And for once, it’s less witchcraft, more science.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, alcohol is basically a poison, right? And I have a fast healing body. So poison, plus extra-good liver, equals no effect.” He smiled.

“I’m jealous.” Freaking real-life Captain America here. “How much of that passes on to Picani?”

“Almost none of it, actually.” Patton used his free hand to move a shot glass over to him with a finger. “So Picani can totally get drunk.” He paused. “Don’t ask me how I know that.”

Virgil smirked. As he collected the other shot glasses, someone ran up to the counter and took the empty seat by Patton.

“Virgil. I’ve been thinking about that contract thing you mentioned and I might’ve finally figured it out.” The Theorist’s string of words staggered to a halt when he caught sight of Patton. “You’re�� not the one that usually sits there.” He looked almost on guard. “Where’s Roman?”

“Couldn’t make it.” Patton studied him a bit suspiciously.

A gut feeling told Virgil to intervene. “Uh, Patton, this is the Theorist. He’s the one that tried to help us.”

“But led us right into a trap.” Patton’s suspicious gaze didn’t waver.

The Theorist shifted a bit. “Look, I told Virgil this before, but the future isn’t so clear cut all the time. It was a chance.”

“Maybe next time you should consider all possibilities before endangering people,” he lifted his glasses, his brown eyes swirled into that bright blue, “or there’s a chance you might have a big problem on your hands.”

The Theorist almost knocked down the stool in his attempt to scramble away fast enough. He sputtered, pointing a finger at Patton as he put distance between them. “Y-you’re a -- a --”

Patton dropped his glasses in place. He seemed a bit satisfied with the reaction.

Virgil didn’t understand.

“You’re a Machai elf.” He looked horrified at just saying the name. “Why didn’t you tell me you were friends with a Machai elf?” He leaned over the bar to hiss at Virgil.

“You never asked,” was Virgil’s automatic response. “What’s the big deal? I thought you saw my timeline.”

“I saw glimpses I didn’t pick out any details.” He eyed Patton worriedly.

Fair enough. “Well, why does Patton being a Machai elf or whatever make any difference?” He continued his clean up of the shot glasses.

The Theorist gawked at him like he was an idiot. “Do you have any idea what a Machai elf is?” He continued to be flabbergasted after receiving a deadpan expression from Virgil. “Machai elves are some of the deadliest creatures of the magic world. They’re ruthless and intimidating. They don’t back down from a fight and they're trained to kill from birth. They're one of the most notorious elf tribes, how can you not know this?"

Virgil shrugged.

"Ugh, humans. You never bother to ask important questions." He sent another weary glance Patton's way. "I've never heard of one straying away from the tribe, though. Are you the only one?"

Patton scowled. "We're not going to get into that."

The Theorist shut his mouth.

Holy shit. Talk about impressive. "So what's the reason you're here? Other than being afraid of puffball Patton over there."

The Theorist's face twisted at 'puffball' but continued regardless. "Well between your anger issues and his ability to rip out my spine like a Mortal Kombat finisher, I don't know how eager I am to say anything anymore."

"Oh, come on," Patton said, voice dripping with faux sweetness. "I'm not going to rip out your spine. There are less messy ways of getting rid of you."

"Patton." Virgil couldn't believe he had to use a parent voice on Patton of all people.

"I'm kidding. A bit."

Virgil rolled his eyes. "Ignore him." He turned all his attention to the Theorist. "He honestly isn't going to do anything to you. Patton's one of the nicest people I know."

The Theorist didn't seem too sure about that.

“If it makes you feel any better, I learned my lesson from last time. I won’t be trying to stab you again anytime soon.”

Patton stared at him in disbelief. “You what?”

“Fine.” The Theorist took a seat but made sure there was enough space between him and Patton. “But the minute any of that changes, I’m running right out of here.”

Virgil rolled his eyes again. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Just get on with it.”

“So the contract. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since you rather rudely accused me of making it --” he sent a look that Virgil ignored -- “and I managed to narrow it down to a few things. The word ‘contract’ is actually important here. You called it a contract. You didn’t say deal or bargain, you said contract. That helps a lot. It eliminates several creatures like imps and faeries -- which leaves us with things that are capable of creating contracts. That’s obviously the more human things like witches, but it’s also less human things. Things like demons, shadowlings, boogeymen --”

“Boogeyman.” Virgil didn’t hesitate. “It was a boogeyman.”

The Theorist faltered for a moment. “Okay. That makes things a bit more complicated.” He tapped his fingers against the countertop. “Boogeymen are difficult creatures, and every culture has its own interpretation for what they do. Sometimes they’re even considered demons.” His fingers stopped. “But they all have one thing in common. They prey on fear -- they can create it. Depending on the variation, they can even manifest that fear and take it with them.”

“But why?” Patton asked with full sincerity. “Why would -- what does this have to do with a contract?”

“He didn’t want to be there,” Virgil explained. “He said he was bound by a contract.”

“And that wasn’t a figure of speech,” The Theorist continued. “To make a contract with a boogeyman is to literally bind them to you. It makes the contract a million times more effective because the boogeyman won’t be freed unless they complete it. And if you’re going to try to get rid of someone -- and you’re insane enough -- why not make a contract with a boogeyman? I mean, at their core, boogeymen are basically ideas.”

Virgil’s throat closed up. “It’s impossible to kill an idea.” He didn’t die. He didn’t die. He didn’t die. He didn’t die.

“Or at least, the manifestation of an idea is very hard to get rid of. And I think we might all know of someone who’s willing to literally bind a malevolent creature to do his dirty work.” The Theorist stirred a bit in his seat. “And for once, that’s not a theory.”

Patton frowned.

“What would Altair need fears for?” He got away. Virgil let him get away. He fucking let Anxiety complete his contract.

"Just think about it. If you're after someone, you'd want to use their greatest weakness against them. What if you knew what that was? What if you knew what could bring them to their knees -- something they wouldn't win against? Something that strikes them down to their very core? That would be useful, wouldn't it?"

A bit too useful.

The Theorist noticed the expressions on both men’s faces and cleared his throat. “Uh, do with that information as you wish. Unless you need something else, I’m going to get out of here.” He prepared to stand up.

Something switched in Virgil’s brain. “Hypothetically --” he made sure not to look at Patton -- “if someone who wasn’t meant to see into time, uh, happened to see into time, how long would side effects last? If any.”

“Hypothetically --” the Theorist glanced between Patton and Virgil, somehow seeming to put the pieces together -- “that’s an unknown factor. Seers don’t usually force that ability onto someone as it usually results in, uh, bad things. Like losing your mind type of bad things.” Comforting. “But if I had to guess, if someone was capable of handling it, they might get vivid visions of whatever timeline they saw lasting between a few days to a couple of weeks. Though, once again, there’s not much information on it.”

“Alright. That’s an interesting concept.”

“I’d say so,” Patton muttered as he eyed Virgil. He then turned his eyes away and onto the Theorist. “So you’re a Seer, then?”

The Theorist sat up straight. “Uh, yes.”

“Care to tell me my future?”

“Oh, uh,” he shared an uncertain glance with Virgil. “Okay. If you’re sure about it.” He held his hands out, palms up.

Patton placed his hands on top. “I’m fairly certain.”

Virgil tried to pretend he had better things to do while that went on. He didn’t want to draw any attention to them by standing there and staring. What brought him back was the Theorist yanking his hands away as if he had been burned.

He failed to cover up such a reaction. “Is there a specific question you want to be answered?”

Patton clasped his hands together and placed them on his lap. “What’s the ratio of bad to good?”

“Normally, I’d say that’s relative.” He delayed his next sentence. “But I get the feeling I know how you'd perceive it so I'd say it’s mostly bad.”

“What happens in the good parts?”

Once again, he hesitated, but for a different reason. He took a glance around the bar before grabbing the leftover shot glass and turning it over, making the bottom the top. He waved his hands over it. Little moving pictures projected on all sides of the glass. A makeshift crystal ball. "You get a normal life." He placed his hands on the counter. "There will be ups and downs, but you get through all of them. It was a little tricky to see since you spend most of your time as a fusion, but getting passed this stretch of hardships will lead to some of the best moments of your life. You might even consider it a happy ending."

Patton stared at the glass. The little pictures floated around of scenes that had yet to come. A majority of them had Picani rather than Patton himself. "And what of the bad?"

The Theorist's fingers curled up. He swallowed thickly and focused on the glass rather than anyone else.

Virgil put his hand over it. The happy images faded. "I don't think we need to focus on that," he whispered. He knew a lot about those bad timelines. It wasn't anything Patton should see. Especially since in many of them, Logan died in his arms.

Patton's brows knitted together.

"He might be right." The Theorist pulled himself together. "Focusing on the bad parts of a possible timeline tend to create a self-fulfilling prophecy." He fidgeted. “Virgil, can I talk to you outside for a moment?”

“Uh.” Virgil did his best to gauge how much of an effect his absence would have. Eh, it might be fine. “Sure.”

They left a confused Patton to try to figure out the pieces himself.

The moment they stepped outside, the Theorist heaved a sigh as if he had been forced to hold his breath. “And that is why I try not to do future readings anymore.” He dragged his hands down his face. “I’ve never seen a future so full of despair. All his timelines are so drastically different! I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“What d’you mean?” Virgil didn’t like how it sounded.

“I mean, normally, someone’s timelines don’t have such intense extremes. Their future is up to them to choose and interpret. Sometimes a minor inconvenience is what they see as devastating. Sometimes finding a dollar on the floor in two months is the best thing to happen to them. That’s all mundane stuff -- stuff I usually see out of many people.” He looked down at his hands and frowned. “All of the bad timelines were so short. If we continue to follow a bad path, he has what -- a few weeks left at most? But in all the good timelines he goes on to be thousands of years old. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“How would that even happen?”

“Because he doesn’t have a choice,” the Theorist snapped.

Virgil’s back straightened, caught completely off-guard by the harsh tone.

A slow realization crossed the Theorist’s face. He sighed and blinked to get rid of the tears in his eyes. “Virgil,” despite speaking to him, he didn’t lift his eyes, “I’ve been able to see into time since I was five. I’m almost five hundred years old now, and I’ve seen some pretty awful things come to fruition -- things I could’ve stopped.” He pressed his back against the wall of the building. “I used to think that time was a straight line. I thought it was something that couldn’t waver from its path. But that’s not true.” He looked right at Virgil. “The future can be bent in any shape you make of it. That’s the beauty of free will. Good and bad futures are interchangeable and any bend you make can bridge the gap between the two.

“But Patton doesn’t have that option. His future is affected by the decisions of others. Where we are now, in this current mess of a timeline, he can’t affect his own future. Not unless we get out of it. But he has no way of getting out of it himself. And that just isn’t fair, is it?” He held such a genuine sincerity in his voice that Virgil wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “Promise me you’ll do whatever you can to fix this. I’ll try to help out to the best of my ability, but ultimately it’ll come down to you. You, Roman, and Thomas are the only ones who’ll be there to change anything. Promise you’ll try to do something.”

“I…” That was a rather tall order. The answer was obvious, however. “I promise.”

Virgil didn’t want to talk about the future for the rest of the night.

He would have gotten through with it if it wasn’t for Patton.

The bar closed. They were the only people in the building. Virgil had a few things left to clean up before they could go. He tried to insist that Patton didn’t need to help, but of course, it didn’t work. It always went faster with two people, anyway. It was as they cleaned that Patton decided to bring up a certain topic for discussion.

“Hypothetically --” Virgil’s blood immediately ran cold -- “if someone were to see into time when they weren’t supposed to, they’d tell their friends, right?” Patton stopped and stared right at him. Somehow, it seemed more like a demand than a question. Everything in his expression and posture said that he knew.

Virgil couldn’t face him. Like a kid that got caught in a lie. “If we’re purely speaking in hypotheticals here, I’d think maybe that person wouldn’t want to say anything about it. Because they wouldn’t want their friends to have that burden.”

“Burdens shouldn’t be carried alone.” With that finalizing statement, he carried on with what he was doing.

Oh, man. Come on! That wasn’t fair. He made it sound so easy. And why the hell did he start sounding so serious today? Throughout the whole exchange with the Theorist, he didn't sound very Patton. It was kinda weird. Virgil decided to do what he did best; deflect the situation. “So, uh, was what the Theorist said true?” He heard Patton stop moving. “About what you are, I mean.”

“You mean how the Machai are emotionless, ruthless creatures?”

“Yeah -- emotionless?” Virgil whipped his head around to look at him.

It seemed that particular statement went ignored. “Most of it was true. The Machai are warriors. I’ve known how to handle a weapon for almost as long as I could walk. I was raised to stay with the tribe -- that all outsiders are bad." He leaned against the edge of a table. "There’s a lot of fighting and killing, and just flat out messy ways of dealing with stuff. But I-I don’t do that anymore. That’s part of the reason I left.”

Well, he didn’t have enough time to unpack all of that. “What’s another part?”

Patton’s whole demeanor changed. His eyes brightened like a warm fire had been lit in them. A soft smile slid onto his face. “Love.”

(Next)

[contraloci-blog]

Fool Me Once - Ch.2

Guys, I got a fucking raise at work and I’m so happy that I’ll drop the chapter that I was planning on uploading tomorrow.

Felix survives the fall. Locus leaves Chorus.

One way or another, though, they’re still going find each other.

AO3

<- Ch.1...Ch. 3

Ch. 2

A week later…

Thwip.

The deer Locus had been aiming at keeled over, dying before it could even scream. It crumpled into the undergrowth before it could alert its neighbors of the hunter just beyond the grazing grove.

Locus reloaded his crossbow slowly, eyes on the rest of the deer. They meandered through the grass, eating peacefully. He picked a buck with an impressive rack of horns from the herd and took aim again.

Thwip.

A bolt through the eye, just like the buck before it. This one’s death was less discreet, however, and the other deer looked up, startled, before they immediately fled. Locus let them go. He only needed two.

Before he got up to secure his kills, Locus swept his sights over the clearing again. No enemies were sighted. He hadn’t sighted any since he escaped the tower.

Reassured, Locus slipped out of the shadows of his hiding place and loped down the clearing to where the first buck fell. He pulled the bolt from its eye, wiped the blood off on the grass, and bagged it. The deer here were small – this one wouldn’t even reach his waist – so hefting it up was easy.

Locus found the other one and bagged it too. Before he secured his bounty, he checked his crossbow. It was near his elbow, ready to be swung up and shot at a moment’s notice, and fully loaded. The sword was on him too, but hidden. He didn’t need anyone seeing it and connecting the dots, but leaving it felt wrong.

Locus pulled down the bandana covering the lower half of his face and wiped sweat off the bridge of his nose. Then he pulled it back into place.

The two bucks went over Locus’ shoulders. The trek back was quiet – peaceful, some might say.

Locus hated the quiet. He worked best in it, but the silence let his thoughts run amok. Without a gun to focus on, his thoughts were even less welcome.

He looked up to watch the birds instead. Melody was farther from the sun than Chorus, but it still had jungles. The refugee colonist fleeing the civil war on their home had settled on the warmest, wettest parts of the neighboring planet. Locus thought it was illogical, but he wasn’t complaining either.

The birds here were unafraid of humans. They carried on their business noisily, hopped from branch to branch, flapped their wings, and emitted so much sound that the jungle was forced to take notice of them. A flash of orange dashed through the foliage and Locus stiffened. Relaxed.

Felix isn’t here.

He had to remind himself of that fact whenever he sank back into old patterns. Felix wasn’t here to watch his back. He wasn’t here to distract people from Locus, or handle his conversations for him. He was dead on Chorus, because Locus left him there.

∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙

The refugee colony he stayed at stylized itself The Town of Wode. It was an ambitious name for a place that had more tents than it had buildings, but the people were trying.

“Here,” Locus grunted, dropping off his haul at the communal mess. The two bucks thumped down on the metal countertop.

“Oh – Sam! You’re already here.” Sweet smiled at him from the other side of the countertop, his typical clipboard in hand, and Locus averted his eyes. “I know you’re usually early with your contribution, but eight in the morning is pretty early for two deer, isn’t it?”

“I like to get it out of the way.”

“And we’re all thankful for that,” Sweet said. He opened the bags delicately, peered in, and then looked away with a soft noise. “Ah – Murk! Bradley! We’ve got two deer for the pot, get it to the kitchens!”

Murk poked her head out of the door leading to the kitchens, gave them both a look, nodded, and disappeared back in. A few seconds later, she walked out with Bradley on her heels. Murk took a bag and Bradley took the other, both giving Locus nods of acknowledgment.

“Well, that’ll be tallied off,” Sweet said, making a note on his clipboard. “So what’s the plan for the rest of the day, big guy?”

Locus thought about just walking away. But Sweet’s smile demanded an answer, and people – normal people – didn’t leave conversations hanging. “I have to go to the hospital. Then I might check in with the scouts,” he offered, “and make sure the jungle-side barricades are holding up. See if there are any jobs that need doing.”

“So, more work.”

“Yes.”

Sweet held his hands up. “I don’t mean that as a bad thing, of course! I’m just saying – we’re all glad you came here to help us like this. It’s… really great of you.”

“Thanks.”

“But, y’know, working all the time isn’t very healthy.”

Locus distantly recalled Dr. Joanes, the colony’s hospital director, telling him the same thing. He recalled Dr. Wayne, the hospital’s psychiatrist, also telling him the same. “Yeah,” he grunted.

“So if you’re looking for anything to do… or someone to relax with…”

Locus blinked. Sweet’s expectant expression told him he was missing something, but it took the rusty gears of his brain a few seconds to process what. The answer came up but it felt wrong enough that he doubted it. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I’m asking you out on a date, Sam.” Sweet leaned forward, making his curly hair fall into his eyes.

“Oh.”

Shit. Locus glanced to the side, waiting for Felix to dig an elbow into his ribs and then slide in, all smooth oil and grease, and ply the situation into something more comfortable. When he didn’t appear, Locus had to close his eyes and remind himself.

Felix is dead.

“I’m… sorry,” he said. Apologies still felt stilted. He couldn’t ever be sure if they were sincere enough. “I’m not really…”

“Not gay?” Sweet offered, his smile dropping a little. “It’s alright. I felt like it was worth a try.”

That isn’t the problem, Locus thought, but he didn’t correct him. “Sorry,” he repeated, “I’ll go now.”

“Alright. See you tomorrow, Sam!”

He retreated from the mess hall before the situation could grow anymore awkward. Locus thought he would grow used to it eventually, but then again, it had only been a week since he fled Chorus. Walking around without his armor on felt naked, but it was the only way he could engender trust here. They weren’t war-torn soldiers looking for help. They were people trying to a build a new life. That kind didn’t exactly welcome mercenaries. His armor had to stay on his ship for now, no matter how exposed he felt without it.

Wode’s hospital was a modest set-up just over three stories tall. Locus circled the on-going construction at the back of the building and walked inside. “Hello,” he said, nodding at Bagel, the nurse who manned the front. “I’m here for my appointment with Dr. Joanes.”

“Hey, Sam,” Bagel chirped, wiggling her fingers at him. “Yeah, I’ve been expecting you – you’re the first one of the day. Uh, Dr. Joanes is waiting for you in her office, just walk on in.”

“Thank you.”

Joanes’ office was on the first floor – made it easier to access, she’d explained – and Locus found it easily. “Doctor,” he said in greeting, startling the woman at her desk.

“Sam!” she gasped, her hand on her chest, shoulders hitched high, and Locus froze to let her get used to him.

“Sorry,” he said, automatic.

Joanes waved her hand, her surprise melting off her face. “What – no, no, it’s alright. You just startled me. Gosh, we just need to put a bell on you one of these days. You move like a ghost!”

He didn’t have a reply for that. Locus shut the door behind himself. “I’m here for my appointment,” he said quietly.

“Of course. Undress and go to the examining table, I just need to finish this up quickly.”

Joanes tapped out a few more things on her computer as Locus stripped to his underwear. He laid his clothes out on the chair next to the examining table then sat down, crinkling the paper under him. He looked at Joanes to avoid looking at his body, and she met his eyes above her monitor.

“Well, you’re ready,” she said, her fingers pausing. She left her work to walk towards him, pulling her spectacles from her coat pocket as she did. “Alright, let’s see… show me the stitches on your shoulder, please.”

Locus moved obligingly. He bared his neck for her, letting Joanes bend over to peer at the network of stitches on his shoulders, back, and chest. He stared at her shoes as she worked, committing their stitching to memory to ignore how exposed he felt.

“Okay… they’re healing pretty well, I think I can remove this set now. Have you been doing any heavy work lately?”

“Not much.”

“So… you haven’t lifted anything in recent memory? Heavy things, like large loads, guns… animals?”

“…nothing really heavy.”

“Sam.” Joanes’ tone grew firmer and Locus met her eyes. “You’re going to rip your stitches if you’re not careful. I realize that you’re a very good hunter, but please – either take someone with you, or do something else.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Locus murmured. Joanes didn’t look very convinced, but she offered no more argument.

“Lean back. That stomach wound of yours isn’t infected anymore, but I want to keep it covered for now. Are you changing your dressing like I told you?”

“Yes. Twice every day, morning and night, after applying the antibiotic ointment.”

“Well, I suppose you can listen to one order.”

He dipped his head again.

“Okay. The worst’s gone, but I still think you need to dial it back a notch. Do you remember what happened the first day you came here?”

It was an embarrassing memory he didn’t feel like recalling too closely. “Yes.”

“You broke a rib.”

“Yes, I know.”

“After I explicitly told you that your rib was already cracked and in danger of breaking further.”

“I am acutely aware.”

“Are you?” Joanes muttered. “Well, the good news is that you don’t look like you’re on death’s door.”

Locus caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that hung behind Joanes’ desk. The heavy bruises around his jaw – courtesy of Agent Carolina’s impressively deadly spinning kicks – had faded to an unpleasant yellow color. In another week, they would disappear entirely.

“But you still look like you fell down a building’s worth of stairs. All at once.”

“You’ve told me,” Locus muttered. Joanes stepped around him to grab her surgical scissors for the quick snip his stiches required. “I am taking it easy.”

“Taking it easy is sitting down and watching a movie,” Joanes said. “It’s not proving you are a one-man army for everyone with eyes and ears.”

“I’m not proving it,” he protested.

“Well, you’re certainly doing something,” Joanes whipped around with her tiny surgical scissors in hand. She advanced on him. “I’m just here to make sure you don’t die while doing it.”

She cut one stitch. Locus ignored the pain. “Contributing is important,” he said after a short pause.

“I know. But doing it at a detriment to your health isn’t helping anyone. It actually gives people more work to do.”

Perhaps this was her way of telling him that she was sick of treating him all the time. Locus wouldn’t blame her. He was sick of having to be treated. “I’ll make sure to get out of your hair, doctor,” he said dryly.

“Make sure you do, young man. I’m tired of getting people asking for pictures of you.”

The non-sequitur threw him for a loop. “…what?”

“Nothing, Sam. Nothing. Tilt your head, I can’t see when you’re blocking the light.”

He tilted his head. “Doctor –“

“Any more questions, Sam, and my hand might slip and fatally stab you in the neck.”

“…alright.”

∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙

[we-are-richmond]

No Rest E2 C6

I...I love this chapter

"Clementine?" I questioned, looking between her and Andy. Clem's eyes remained wide as she stared at the man.  "Shit..." He whispered. Andy scratched the back of his neck looking away from us, causing the rest of the group to look at us. Jade gave us a dirty look, while Liam shook his head. Joan and Clint gazed at us unnerved. I bit my lip looking at Clem with concern.  "Is there a problem right now?" Clint questioned, crossing his arms. I looked at Clem nervously, biting my lip. Our chances here were a lot better then out there. They could even help us with finding the others. I quickly thought of some way to keep us here, but save Clem too.  "We're fine. We've just had a rough week, we could use some rest." Clem looked at me surprised, but I shook my head slowly at her. Please Clem just rust me for now.  The group gazed at us, looking between each other. Liam looked at Andy concerned, getting up to follow the man. Joan turned her focus on the two of us, before finally speaking. "There is an empty tent avalible if you wish to sleep. Liam's RV has a working shower if you want to wash off." Joan explained, noting the after effects of the muertos guts all over us, "Conner can get you a fresh set of clothes after you two have cleaned up and settled into your tent."  My eyes grew wide, nearly buldging out from my skull. I didn't need to look at Clem to know she had the same reaction. Slowly a smile grew on my face, processing everything the woman said. New clothes would be amazing. Not only that, but they said the showers worked! A freaking shower! I couldn't even remember the last time I had a shower!  Jade rolled her eyes at our reactions. "There's shampoo and conditoner in there. A bar of soap too. Don't expect hot water though, it'll be lukewarm at best." She explained.  I stood up, gently taking Clem's hand as I stood up. She reluctantly followed me to the RV. "Sorry Clem...just had to get you out of there. You didn't look well. What was up with that anyway? Did you know that guy or something?" I was worried for her. We didn't see eye to eye recently, but I still cared about Clem. I cared a lot about her.  "That Andy guy...Gabe if he's here, we can't stay. He's not to be trusted." Clem exclaimed, looking at me.  I gawked at her. "Clem, we have to stay. It's safe here, these people seem nice. They have food, shelter, security. There's kids here being kids... We...We can be kids. Me, you, and AJ. Doesn't he deserve that at least? To have...a childhood we could never keep."  She stopped, staring at me in my eyes. Did I offend her? She hates you. Shut up. "Your right...just...watch out for Andy. He acts all nice, yet that man, he's a monster."  We made out way into the RV, looking around. The was a table with two booth chairs parallel from each other, the driver and passenger seat in from, three bunks on the side, a bathroom set in the back, and a tiny kitchen area across the table. Looked rather roomy honestly. There was also a make shift crib on one of the boothes. Defiantely Jade and Liam's.  I walked over to the shower, hesitant to turn it on. "Please work." I whispered. Wrapping my fingers around it. "Oh my god." Clem gasped out as water began to trickle from the faucet. A grin grew on my face, and I held out my hand. "Oh my god, oh my god it works!" I exclaimed, feeling the lukewarm water. Although I preferred hot water, this was exactly what I freaking needed! I turned around to look at Clem.  My stomach grew fluttery seeing a smile on her face as well. "You look like a dork Gabe. You can take the first shower, me and AJ can wait at the table." Clem explained.  "Don't be mad when I use up all the hot water." I beamed.  "I can survive without lukewarm water you dork." She countered, glancing at a broken mirror on the wall. She faintly touched her pigtails, before pulling her hand away fast as if she had been burnt. Before I could even speak a word to her, she walked away, eventually exiting the RV all together.  Now alone, I closed the door behind me, stepping further into the bathroom. The shower continued to trickle, and I couldn't help but glance at myself in the mirror. Furrowing my brows together, I leaned over the sink, looking closer at my reflection.  Muertos blood lingered on my face, feeling as though it was staining me. Dirt coated my face as well. My dark hair was still nappy as ever underneathe my beanie. "God I need to find a brush." I whispered. Continuing to examine myself, I grimaced at the ugly scar over my nose.  "NO!" I remember screaming out as Mason grabbed Clem. Not thinking at all, I rushed over to her. Then Lonnie struck me in the face with his gun.  My fingers traced over it, sighing. I didn't regret it at all.  Finally stepping away from the mirror, I walked over to shower. The water pattered against the creme colored walls of the shower. I slowly undressed myself, dropping my clothes into the floor.  I kicked my shoes on top of my clothes, preparing to step into the shower finally. Something clung to my neck, causing me to pause for a moment. Gently, I slid the dog tags off my neck, hissing softly as it caught onto the my hair at one point. After a small struggle, I gently put the dog tags onto the shower.  Taking a shower after so long, it felt like heaven. The blood and dirt slid off my body, sinking into the drain. It was so nice to finally feel clean after so long.  Nearly 20 minutes passed before I finally stepped out of the shower. I slid my clothes on quickly, grabbing the dog tags, and running out of the RV. Clem would probably have my neck knowing I took this long. Rushing over to the now burn campfire, as the sun was setting now. I eventually spotted Clem sitting on the log with Allison, or Kayla, couldn't tell from here.  "Hey Clem, sorry I took so long, I was-" I walked over, and instantly my jaw dropped.  Clementine sat besides Kayla, looking at herself in the mirror, her hat in Kayla's hands. Her hair rested in a short asymmetrical cut. Kayla smiled holding another pair of scissors in her hands. "I know the perfect outfit to go with this." Kayla got up, putting Clem's hat down, and went to her tent.   Upon hearing my voice, Clem turned around to look at me. I felt my face burn looking at her new look. "How is it?" Clem asked somewhat concerned.  "Fucking gorgeous." I said to quickly.  Both of us went bright red at this, looking at each other nervously. AJ glanced at us from his stop on the dirt, before going back to playing with some rocks. God this baby was more mature then me.  I attempted to open my mouth up, only for Kayla to push past me with something in her arms. "Here Clem! It's the perfect match to you!" The woman exclaimed, handing her a red leather jacket. Clem gave her a look, taking it slowly. "Thanks...I guess." Clem replied, sliding the red jacket over her arms. After getting the jacket on, she put her hat on, facing us. "Well?"  "Clem!" AJ cooed. "Amazing kiddo!" Kayla stated, grinning. I gave Clem a small smile, scratching the back of my neck. Clem gave me a small smile as well. I walked over, taking a seat next to her on the log. This was something. Defiantly a good something.  The two of us watched everyone around intereact with each other. The adults weren't stressed, trying to find ways to survive. The kids were playing happily, not being forced to always carry a weapon on them. These people...they were living. They were alive....  Suddenly there was a warmth on my hand. I looked down slowly, to see Clem's hand over mine, giving it a small squeeze. I looked at her nervously, but watched as she gently put her head on my shoulder. My face turned red, but I choose not to comment on it. Why think on this? Thinking usually always ruined the moment.  Right now I was enjoying the moment, enjoying being alive for once.

[waiting4morning]

Fic: Snow Day

Title: Snow Day Fandom: Mass Effect Andromeda Rating: PG Pairing: Jaal/SisRyder (pre-relationship) Summary: Trapped on Voeld during a blizzard, the Nexus team finds a fun way to kill time, and Jaal learns a few new things about Ryder.

Note: So I guess there’s some thing running around that Tumblr doesn’t let you find posts with links to them?? In any case, if you would prefer to read this on Fanfiction.net, I’m there under the same name.

Thank you very much @quinzelade for beta reading this for me. <3

Jaal followed the human Pathfinder, ostensibly giving a tour of the Resistance headquarters on Voeld, but he was far more interested in observing her. She walked into the hangar shivering from the cold, but the wonder on her face was easy to see and gratifying. He sometimes forgot what a marvel the headquarters was, but through the aliens’ eyes he was able to see it anew.

The largest space was in front of them, the hangar with a few shuttles undergoing maintenance, or waiting for fighters to go on the next mission. Further in through the hangar was the medical bay,—with far too many beds filled—the barracks, and command center.

Ryder, in particular, seemed to focus on the details around her. Nothing seemed to be beneath her notice: an injured fighter was staring at her, so she walked over and made cheerful small talk, chuckling as she wiggled her five-fingered hand for the man to wonder at; later, she quietly agreed to check on a supply drop that was missing so that panic wouldn’t spread among the ranks, then talked with genuine interest to a priestess about specifics of angaran spirituality.

He could almost hear Evfra’s warning in his head: “Don’t trust too readily.”

But he was finding it harder and harder to maintain a cool, professional distance. Joan Ryder and her companions were—there was no other way to say it—enticing. They bickered among themselves like adhi, but the next moment were hunched over a vid, howling with laughter over jokes he did not understand and watching each other’s backs when it was needed most. And they were so different from each other. Vetra with her spiky shell as hard as armor; Liam and Ryder both with that flexible mass on their heads that they called “hair;” Peebee with her odd tentacled head, and Drack who was so old Jaal still had trouble comprehending it. But these differences didn’t seem to separate them except for good-natured digs that even Jaal recognized as playful.

In short, they felt like a family.

And of course, there was Ryder.

Jaal hummed to himself as he watched her examine a broken console, her face alight with interest. She was curious about everything angara, always turning to him to ask a clarifying question, or asking him to explain something that didn’t quite translate, surprising him a couple of times with her insight.

He was beginning to admire her intelligence, ready laugh (very angaran), curiosity about everything they saw. Other aspects of her were hard to read; she felt very flat—emotionally—to him sometimes, but he was beginning to see that this wasn’t like the angara, who might suspect you had something to hide, but a natural reserve that seemed common to all humans to varying degrees. Not quite shyness, though he thought Ryder had some of that too. At least her facial structure seemed flexible and emotive when the occasion warranted. He wondered at times if he would ever be able to read the body language of Drack and Vetra, whose faces were far more rigid.

Jaal had read the accounts of the ketts’ arrival. From what he understood, they’d always been aloof, even when they were pretending to be peaceful.

These aliens had few pretensions. Even when they were perplexing, there was an honesty about it.

But despite her alienness, there was something powerful about Ryder, something compelling that he found difficult to explain.

Was he wrong in feeling drawn toward them? Evfra wouldn’t approve, but then again, the old man approved of very little.

“Oi, Joanie!” The one called Liam waved over at where Jaal and Joan were standing. The Intelligence officer had been explaining several of the symbols on the large, globular map. At Liam’s voice, she turned, her strange, furry eyebrow ridges—no, he thought, correcting himself, just eyebrows—rising in expectation.

“Something up, Liam?”

“Overheard scouts talking to the Admiral. Blizzard sweeping through. We’ll be stuck here for a few days.”

“But Techix!” Joan protested. “We told Admiral Do Xeel we’d go.”

Jaal stepped forward. “During a blizzard, my people will find shelter. Even the kett do this. Very little will be happening while we wait the storm out.”

Joan glanced at him, the light from the nearest sun lamp catching her oddly colored green eyes, and nodded. “SAM, tell the others to remain on the Tempest for now. No sense in all of us getting trapped in the base.”

“Acknowledged, Pathfinder.”

Joan turned to Jaal again, her face determined. “Okay. What can we do to help?”

Jaal nodded in approval. “Let’s speak to the admiral again. I’m sure she’ll be more than happy for a few extra hands getting the barriers in place.”

Within moments, Ryder, Liam, and Vetra were helping shift the snow barriers outside the hangar. These were large, metal fences that prevented the snow from piling up too high outside the secret entrance during a blizzard. Once those were in place, everyone, including the forward watch posted just outside, retreated inside and shut the doors.

Vetra scurried over to the nearest sun lamp, shivering so hard her mandibles made a clacking sound against her bony jaw.

“Now what?” Joan asked, walking up to him, snow crunching under her boots.

“Now?” Jaal shrugged. “We wait. Those without tasks will find something to do.”

“What about us?”

“Well… we could sing, dance, play games, maintain our weapons…”

“Snowball fight!”

Out of nowhere, a frozen projectile flew through the air and splattered against Joan’s chestplate. Snow splashed up into Joan’s face and, standing next to her as he was, Jaal felt some prickles as it hit his exposed skin. He looked up to see Liam, grinning and laughing as he retreated.

“Oh, you’re on!” Joan whooped and ran after Liam, who yelled something about “jump jets” and “cheating.” Within minutes, a snowball war began to rage from one end of the hangar to the other. Jaal looked around at the other Resistance fighters standing around in the hangar. A few seemed shocked, others seemed annoyed, but more and more, he saw smiles. There hadn’t been much opportunity for fun lately.

“Vetra, come help!” Liam shouted, ducking. A snow ball hit his leg and he yelped, diving behind a crate.

“No way,” Vetra said, still huddled next to the sunlamp, “I’m—” But whatever she was going to say was muffled with a squawk of outrage as Joan threw another snowball which went wide and it hit Vetra squarely in the cupped portion of her cowl, splashing up into her face.

Silence fell, then Vetra rose to her impressive height, scooping out snow from her cowl, eyes narrowed to slits.

“Eat snow, Ryder!” she crowed and joined Liam. Soon Joan was huddled behind a stack of crates, unable to even poke her head out without getting splattered by snow. Jaal hesitated, unsure. He felt drawn to the fun, but would the other Resistance members disapprove? Evfra would object, for sure.

He caught Joan’s eye and she grinned, her face alight with joy, and suddenly he was grinning back, and diving into the fray.

“Someone needs to watch your back,” he said, skidding to Joan’s side, scooping up a massive snowball almost the size of her head and lobbing it in Liam’s direction.

Liam and Vetra dove out of the way, but the snowball was big enough that when it hit, it still got snow on both of them.

“Ha!” Jaal laughed.

“Right on!” Joan whooped, lifting her hand, palm facing outward.

Jaal looked up at it quizzically. “What are you doing?”

“Oh yeah. You wouldn’t know...” Joan said. “Give me your hand?”

Jaal extended his hand slowly, wondering what she was going to do.

She reached down, raising his arm so that it was facing outwards like hers and tapped their palms together. “We call this a ‘high five.’ It’s like, um, cheering on a teammate that did something awesome.”

“‘High five,’” Jaal repeated. “Five fingers up high?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Joan said, crinkling her nose as she smiled in a way that Jaal found unnaturally fascinating. Angaran noses didn’t do that. “Between us, we have eight fingers. Maybe when humans and angara high five should call it a ‘high eight’ instead?”

“Maybe.” His fingers twitched and curled over hers. Her eyes widened, the skin on her cheeks changing color.

“Less handholding, more snowballing!” yelled Liam just before a snowball smacked Joan in the side of the head. She spluttered with indignation, yelling a few words Jaal’s translator couldn’t pick up, and scrabbled around in the snow, packing frantically.

The fight resumed with renewed fury and soon, Jaal was pleased to see other Resistance fighters joining the fray, their hesitation about the new aliens disappearing in the joy of just playing.

Suddenly, a pair of fighters barreled through the middle of the hangar, shouting something and running toward the doors.

Snow balls dropped from hands, friendly taunts stopped dead. The runners reached the massive door to the hangar as it cracked open just enough to let in three angara, one of whom was being supported by the other two. Jaal saw blue blood running from the injured angara’s leg, though it seemed strange until he realized it had frozen to her skin.

The Resistance fighters who’d been in the snow ball battle drifted off, some back to their duties, the others, greeting the newcomers and getting them closer to the sun lamps.

Joan bit her bottom lip, turning to Jaal. “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have—”

Jaal put his hand on her shoulder. “No, this was needed,” he said, gesturing at the fighters with his other hand. “Look. Can you not see the burden lifted in their eyes? We fight an unending war… that doesn’t mean we forget how to live. How to have fun. You gave that to them today.”

“Thanks, Jaal,” she said. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

“How so?”

She looked startled, then lowered her eyes in an expression he didn’t quite understand. If she were angara, he’d accuse her of being coy, but that didn’t seem to fit with what he knew of her so far.

“Well…. You’re obviously important to the Resistance, and Evfra’s top lieutenant... I’ve seen how beloved you are here. Your good opinion is worth having.”

He cleared his throat. “You honor me, Pathfinder.” Heat flooded into his crest, turning his frills a brighter blue, he was sure, though he didn’t think Ryder had learned to read evidence of his embarrassment.

“Pathfinder.” SAM’s voice coming out of the speaker of her helmet—set next to them on a stack of crates—made them voice jump. “The temperature is continuing to drop due to the blizzard’s arrival. I recommend retreating further into the base where the concentration of sunlamps and people are higher.”

“Right,” Joan said, breaking eye contact with Jaal and scooping up her helmet. “You heard him,” she said to Liam and Vetra who stood at a nearby sun lamp, looking damp and disheveled from the snow fight. “Let’s get further in and dry off.”

“No argument from me,” Vetra said, using her longer legs to quickly outpace the rest of them.

Ryder gave Jaal one last smile, then turned to follow her. Liam hurried ahead too, brushing snow from his hair, leaving Jaal to catch up. But he didn’t mind the momentary solitude. He needed to remind himself of what was at risk. As much fun as the snow ball fight was, as intriguing as Ryder and her crew were… he had to keep in mind what was most important: ensuring the survival of his people against the kett.

But perhaps…

“Jaal,” Ryder said, pausing to turn around. “You coming?”

He smiled and easily leapt forward to catch up with her, enjoying the look of surprise on her face. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

She laughed, nose crinkling again. “So are all angara good jumpers or just you?”

Perhaps the angara would no longer have to fight alone.

[transformationstuck]

Entry for the 'Costume Contest'

http://pastebin.com/dicv8W8h

—-

John coughed up a load of dust, as he fumbled for the light switch.

It sounded easy enough to begin with. Jade needed some help hauling her old junk out of the basement, and volunteering to help seemed like the natural thing to do. Judging from the dust that greeted him after he pried the doors open, it was obvious that nobody had been down here in ages. After a few more seconds of searching, John finally felt the switch, and couldn’t help but be surprised that the lights still worked after all this time. What greeted him was a veritable warehouse of discarded junk, machines, and other doohickeys.

‘Of *course* Jade found a way to make this place bigger on the inside,’ John groused. Thankfully, Jade left him with a list of specific things she wanted to salvage. Captchalogue or no, hauling the entirety of this stuff out would take weeks!

Stepping over piles of broken down robots, John made his way deeper inside. Most of the things on the list were supposed to still be intact, so finding them wouldn’t be too difficult. Hopefully, anyway…

‘Let’s see…trash…junk…I don’t even know WHAT that thing is…uh…oh! There’s something! That’s gotta be the modified Wardrobifier she was talking about…’

Jade never went into much detail when he asked about the thing. She just blushed, and insisted that she wanted it gone as soon as possible. He couldn’t hear what she started muttering, but he could have sworn her face got even redder.

'Eh, must have been defective or something. Shame, but not my place to say anything. Now..might as well get to work…’

As John approached, he failed to notice the small puddle of oil at his feet, leaking from one of the various robot arms cluttering the floor. He didn’t have a chance to curse as he flopped over, clonking his head on the side of the Wardrobifier.

The machine sprang to life, whirring with activity. Dozens of outfits cycled on the display, asthe neglected device sparked and smoked. Finally, the device settled on a lone outfit, the screen blinking, as if waiting for something…

'Urgh…shit..that’s gonna sting all day.’ John groaned, reaching out to steady himself with something as he stood back up.  Unfortunately, his groping fingertips brushed against the screen, confirming the choice that would seal his fate.

*Beep!*

'Wait, that thing’s on? When did tha-’

*SHOOOMP!*

With a flash, John’s clothes vanished, the machine doing it’s work and redressing him head to toe. When it finished, the altered Wardrobifier sputtered a final time, the display blinking a single image of a feather duster, before shutting down for a final time.

'Ugh…w-what was that? Why the hell was that even on? And…and…W-W-W-What the hell am I wearing?!’

John bolted up on unsteady feet, as he scrambled to examine himself. That damn thing had put him in some sort of…French Maid outfit! He wobbled, his feet crammed into a dainty pair of high heels. From what he could tell, his feet had shrunken down to fit, as despite the tight feeling, it wasn’t actually uncomfortable. What *was* uncomfortable was the corset he’d been slapped into! His silky, gloved hands ran up his torso, and he gulped, noticing his waist was much thinner than he remembered…

“What the hell is this?” He tugged and pulled at the ensemble, but it felt like it was painted on, as there was no give, no indication that it could be removed. “It’s stuck! Why can’t I *ung* get zis thing off?”

“W-wait a second, was zat my voice? M-m-mon dieu!” His efforts to remove the outfit doubled, but the thing was essentially glued to his body. Unbeknownst to him, the outfit was altering his statistics. His intelligence stat was slowly draining, while his mangrit points were being reallocated into…something else.

John grabbed his head, lurching over as his thoughts began to dim. His toned, flat chest began to soften, then expand. Acres of cleavage formed, as giant, heaving titflesh spilled out, filling the bodice. The top strained, as John’s chest grew cup size by cup size, ending somewhere around F. A low gurgle welled up in John’s new rack, as wet stains formed at his new, turgid nipples.

“What’s zis? Zese tits, zey are full, like ze milk jug! And so heavy, too! Eeep!”

John’s hands rocketed to his crotch, feeling an intense tugging sensation.

“Non, non, non, zis cannot be happening~!”

But it was. With a wet *shlurp*, John’s manhood vanished, leaving behind a new, dripping pussy. Her ass ballooned at the same time, riding the tiny skirt up, leaving the maid’s nethers almost completely exposed to the open air, concealed only by the floss of a thong she now sported.

Panting, John shuddered, her new, curvy body radiating with pleasure. What little remained of her former mangrit stat was pumped fully into sensitivity. The air itself tickled her skin, as she struggled to stay on two feet.

“Oh, zis is *huff* awful! Simply..*pant* awful…I can’t believe zis! I…I…”

*AHHHHHHHNNNN~!*

For a moment, John saw stars. Then, John was gone.

“Ahn, non, non, non, zis will not do~! How silly Joan is, leaving such a mess on ze floor~! *Giggle* I am like ze cow, squirting milk all over Madame Jane’s things~! And ze dust, it is everywhere! I must get to ze cleaning, tout suite~! Maybe zen Madame Jane will give me ze sweet reward~!”

And with a dainty trot, Joan pranced away, perfectly balanced on heels, intent on cleaning the entirety of the spatially-inconsistent basement.

Concerned about not hearing from him, Jade would later visit the basement, finding nothing but a sparking clean storage room, and a perky, dripping, horny maid.

But that’s a story for another time…

—–

[ecotone99]

'[RF] The Funeral of Joan Jacobs'

Joan overdosed last night in her home on the edge of downtown. Romero, Joan’s husband called me early at work, telling me he hadn’t called police because there was hash everywhere and he needed time. “I need you to get here man, I mean I need you to get here man.” He kept saying. Turns out he needed me to distract Rocket, their nine-year-old son, so he could get away. Before I hung up, he mentioned that Rocket found Joan first, strung out on a dirty couch with dried vomit clung to her face.

The two were playing catch in the gated front yard when I drove in. “Uncle Alex!” Rocket screamed. Romero handed me the glove and went inside for the better part of an hour, dusting the hash off surfaces and disposing of pipes. Rocket talked constantly about last night’s game against the Tiger Sharks and I listened carefully for the moment he would think of his mother again. Eventually I thought to call a funeral home to arrange a booking for today. The woman on the line was trying to offer different packages and plan fine details and I finally told her all I needed was the cheapest option with a nice wood casket and a set of purple flowers. Before our parents, my brother, and the rest of the world knew of Joan’s overdose, the funeral was set for 4 p.m.

The authorities came and officers questioned Romero and I while the medical responders bagged Joan. We were convincing a group of officers she was using alone when an older Caucasian officer said, “Junkies don’t just happen, there’s always a supplier.” He examined us and faced Romero. “Where’d you buy the dope Hombre?” He was acting like some vigilante, pointing and stomping around drawing the neighbors’ attention. Romero avoided the bait and kept his mouth shut, only asking if all this was necessary.

The examiners finished their assessment and confirmed our confession of an overdose, and they offered an autopsy if Romero wanted it. “It’s obvious.” He said. “Please just send her to be prepared.” I gave them the funeral address and the authorities trickled away to file their paperwork. Rocket had escaped to play with the neighbors’ kids, so Romero and I went to sit with their parents and talk about Joan.

Among the people in this small part of the city, Joan was a Rockstar. She loved singing and would go around to bars with Rocket performing and collecting tips to buy ice-cream.

“The thing about Joan,” Stacie, the neighbor said. “Everyone heard her in the bars singing the classics in her raspy get-it-all-out sort of way. But you know I heard Joan’s real voice. On summer nights, she would sit on her porch and sing some of those old folk or blues twangy songs. I’d listen from the back door so she wouldn’t see me, but she sounded beautiful and I always wondered why she hid that side.” Her husband Dave agreed and told his own stories about her. It was a happy time until they started talking about addiction, assuring us it wasn’t our fault. I stepped away to call my parents. Mom answered.

“Mom, Joan’s died, hand the phone to Dad.” I said.

“Joan! No! Oh, my Joan!” She fell into a fit of crying and it took some time for my dad to wrestle the phone from her.

“Alex! Joan’s dead?” He asked.

“Yea, the funeral is at four.” I said.

“Four! Four today? Are you serious Alex? I can’t do four. Your mother and I have a board meeting at 6 we can’t miss. Those bastards want to raise taxes to fund higher education while our workers lose jobs!” He was screaming.

“Uh huh, sure… Yup.” I said. “So, it’s at 6, be sure to tell Ron Jr. if he wants to come.” Ron Jr. was my eldest brother, a real man’s man who was dishonorably discharged from the Marines for his drinking habits. Nobody but me bothered to fact check him when he came home saying his foot was twisted in a drill.

“Why don’t you call him Ronnie?” My father asked. “Nobody says Ron Jr.”

“Just tell him.” I said. We said goodbye and I sat down to chat until it was time for Romero, Rocket and I to leave. I told him it was best to keep her addiction a secret. “Tell them we’re waiting on the autopsy.” He nodded and we left in separate cars.

I stood by my mother for most of the service. Various neighbors and friends filtered in to pay respects. My mother would ask, “Who’s died.” Every half hour. She seemed sedated somehow and would then see Joan, saying, “Oh, my baby.” The other minutes she spent talking my father’s ear off with stories that didn’t happen, smiling all the while.

From the start, everyone was tired and disheveled. My brother, Ron Jr., came late, wearing his full Marine Corps uniform and cap, hollering about his fallen brother Joan and how he missed her, stumbling about and smelling the plastic flowers. My father didn’t question the erratic behavior and went to shake hands and hug like men. Dave and Stacie then entered, approaching Ron and Ron Jr.

“My condolences, you must be Joan’s father and brother, she spoke about you two often. We’re Joan’s neighbors.” I heard Stacie say.

Trying to comfort the men, David said, “It’s a real tragedy, there’s plenty of good people I know out there helping families through this opioid epidemic.” He handed my father his number. “Give me a call if you ever need some help, I’ve got friends in similar spots who help people like you.”

“What?” Ron said. “Alex what are they talking about?” I looked at Romero and he looked at me. Furious and sweaty, Ron and Ron Jr. rushed Romero who was standing with Rocket in near Joan.

“You Junkie!” Ron Jr. shouted. Romero stood and tried to calm them. I grabbed Rocket and my Mother, sitting them down in the pews. A shouting match of ugly and demeaning finger pointing ensued. Romero was trying to explain she began using after Rocket’s birth for the pain. They would have none of it and kept digging into his skin. In frustration Romero desperately said, “I didn’t do nothing! If anything, Rocket got her hooked!” Rocket heard it all—this was the last straw. My father tried rather stupidly to shove the much larger Romero. He failed with a spectacular whiff, and Romero returned with a haymaker, hitting my father square in the temple, knocking him into the casket and Joan fell onto him. Two unconscious bodies lay on the ground. My mother, in hysterical laughter, fell to the floor and crawled to the pile, laying down with them and whispering. Romero and my ex-Marine brother were wrestling for advantage and fell onto the pile. A crowded group of employees formed outside and the two were pulled apart by security.

Rocket and I stood in an open field with the priest as she descended into her final resting place. It was peacefully quiet and neither of us spoke, we let the priest do his job. When it was just the two of us Rocket said, “Uncle Alex, our family is fucking crazy.” We laughed for a while and when we were both satisfied with our goodbyes, I produced a baseball. We played barehanded catch until it was too dark.

submitted by /u/jamjacob99 [link] [comments] via Blogger http://bit.ly/2GipCVa

[pattyannand99-blog]

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[hihogandalfaway]

#Its been a while since I watched it #Joan: ew murder#Sherlock: you dont have to see #Joan: shut up and help me examine the body #there's this... delightful little look sherlock gives early joan #even back when he was still antagonistic towards her #she'd say or do something about the investigation and he'd be like Oh #Oh you're like me #she was such a natural problem solver and observant #but moreover wasn't grossed or weirded out by the things/work that he did #as judgey as she *sounded* sometimes #it was clear she thought it all was facsinating #which i think was a new experience for sherlock #to find a companion in the odd and obscure (via @redrobin-detective)

I think an underappreciated aspect of s1 of Elementary is Joan being like “ugh grisly murders? dangerous crimes? other bizarre problems and antics my client is getting up to? Can’t wait to be done with all this” and turning around and getting so invested in solving the case. Like no wonder Sherlock was offering her an apprenticeship by the end of the season, despite what she said Joan was not only highly skilled but also very interested in Sherlock’s work.

[sonicrainicorn]

Made of Love, Chapter 14

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Table of Contents

Ship(s): Logicality, (platonic) Prinxiety

All Characters: Thomas, Virgil, Roman, Logan, Patton, Dr. Picani, Joan, Talyn, and Deceit

Synopsis: Humans Roman and Virgil get wrapped up in some serious magic business without meaning to. Their other companions aren’t exactly as they seem, either. Together they all must defeat a great threat for the safety of humanity.

Chapter Desc.: Sometimes things get a little more complicated before they get any better. Virgil is still waiting for the complicated parts to stop.

TW: Minor violence, body horror

Prefer to read it on Ao3? Click here!

Virgil stared at the pile of sticks on the ground for a while. Part of him wanted to go back inside and grab someone, but the other part convinced him that wasn’t necessary. It would be a short test. If it came out negative, then he was just a crazy person. If it came out positive, then oh well. Maybe he’d end up with a few scratches at most. Honestly, he didn’t know what he preferred out of those two options.

“Start up.”

He took a few steps back as the pile sprung to life. The two dummies took form and stood there, waiting for Virgil to do something. Well, now or never. He clicked his pens. As soon as he lifted his arm, the dummy he aimed for blocked his movement. Then, almost like a whisper in the back of his mind, something told him to use his other hand. So Virgil listened to it. He swung his dagger into the side of the dummy and it stuck with surprising ease. It took a moment -- as if it needed to register what happened -- before falling back into a pile.

Alright. That didn’t prove much either way, but alright. The pile climbed its way back to life. Round two.

Virgil went after it again, and again, following the hints that the universe seemed to whisper to him. Anytime he followed them, it ended in his favor. Anytime he didn’t, he lost. Wherever it was coming from, it knew what it was doing. It saw every weak point and every opportunity. Still, that didn’t give him exact proof. He needed to hear words. Not intuitive hints or suggestions.

On complete accident, he brushed against the stationary dummy. Taking this as a challenge, it raised its sword. Oh boy. Patton did say they were sensitive.

“Step to the side.”

Roman’s voice was not something Virgil expected to hear. He almost jumped right out of his skin. Instead, he ended up tripping over his own feet. Because of course he did. He dropped his daggers to catch his fall, and it was like someone ripped off his headphones. Sounds that were previously muffled without his knowledge came back full force. The wind, and the birds, and the rustling of leaves. He didn’t know how he couldn’t notice them missing.

But that wasn’t his main concern. He fell on his back. Hard -- even with the aid of his arms. And suddenly he had two wooden sticks pointed at his throat. That by itself wouldn’t have been intimidating, except that those sticks weaved into the rest of the dummies’ swords.

“Objective complete,” Virgil groaned out. He let his arms drop as the dummies disassembled.

Part of him expected Roman to walk into his line of sight to make fun of him, but he didn’t show up. A swift glance around the perimeter proved that he wasn’t even down here. So then what the hell? Was he actually going crazy? He expected to hear Logan’s voice again, not Roman’s. Why was it Roman’s this time?

“Virgil?”

Virgil turned his head to see Patton walking into the clearing. Barefoot for some reason. Ninety percent of the time, Patton didn’t have shoes on. Virgil had no idea why. What madman walked outside with no shoes?

“What are you doing?” He took one look at the scene before him and raised a brow. “Did you… do okay?”

“I know this looks bad,” Virgil held up a hand, “but trust me, this is the outcome of like five rounds.”

Patton frowned. “Why did you do so many? And why by yourself?”

Virgil sat himself up with another groan. He needed to stop falling on his back. “I was trying to figure something out.” The daggers stared up at him. “I’m honestly still not sure what to make of it.”

“Well, what’s up?” He took a seat beside Virgil.

“I, uh,” how was he supposed to word this without sounding insane? “Yesterday I kind of heard something when we ran into that Figment.” He spared a glance at Patton. “It kind of -- it was, um -- it sounded like Logan. A little bit. Like, he yelled at me.”

Patton furrowed his brows. “Logan?”

“Yeah, and right now I heard Roman, but --” He gestured around -- “he isn’t exactly here.”

“What did they say?”

“Advice, I guess. Just what I should so next.”

Patton frowned in thought. “Well, I know for a fact that Logan wouldn’t have been there yesterday --” Virgil snorted -- “Oh, hush. And I just saw Roman before I came out. So something else has to be imitating them.” His eyes landed on the daggers. “Can I see these for a second?”

Virgil shrugged. “Go ahead.”

He picked them up and examined them. They looked the same as the first time Virgil ever saw them. Nothing about them was different. Nothing was off. “You might wanna move back.”

No need to tell Virgil twice. He scooted himself away, ignoring the pain that spread from the back of his arms. Patton commanded the dummies to spring back to life, and Virgil watched him fight. It was interesting, to say the least. He had never seen Patton fight with daggers before. Instruct him, yes, but never fight. He didn't like to. Virgil always assumed that was just because he fought from a distance rather than close up. It didn't seem as if that was entirely correct.

He handled the daggers like he had done so his whole life, moving them as if they were just another appendage of his body. He was deadly. Scary, almost. His movements were clear and precise -- aiming only at vital parts of the body. Places that could kill a human if hit. Maybe that’s what was so scary about it. He aimed to kill, not to maim. Not how Roman and Virgil were shown. And certainly not how Logan fought when given the chance.

“I don’t see anything wrong with them.” Patton didn’t spare a second glance at the dummy as it crumpled to pieces. “They’re just normal, old daggers. I didn’t even hear anything.” He handed them back to Virgil.

Virgil took them back, somewhat cautiously. “I must be going crazy, then.”

“Or…” The dummy sprung to life behind him. He didn’t even flinch. “One more round. I have an idea.” He stepped off to the side so Virgil could take his place.

“Uh, okay.” Virgil picked himself up, wincing, to walk over to it. It looked the same as it always did. No matter how many times it was hit, cut, or stabbed, it returned to the same state in pristine condition. Almost like magic.

He took aim at the dummy and the cycle started anew. The little whispers aided him if he seemed to be stuck, but no prominent voice called out to him. This time, however, he noticed how the surrounding sound was muffled to him. Not the same kind of muffled as a stuffy ear or being underwater, but like headphones with no music playing. Which was an odd feeling since headphones weren’t actually on his head. Why would that be happening? Maybe it was --

“Swing behind you.”

Without so much as a second thought, Virgil did as he was told. His arm stopped mid-motion. With the dagger mere inches from his face, Patton held onto Virgil's forearm. He smirked at Virgil’s wide eyes.

“Objective complete.” His voice sounded distant despite being so close. Virgil faintly registered the dummies falling back into stick piles. “Who’d you hear that time?” He let go of Virgil’s arm.

Virgil tried to gain some semblance of composure so he could answer. He didn’t know how to handle almost stabbing Patton in the face and him not being fazed by it in the least. “Logan again.” Even his own voice sounded far away.

“They respond to you.” Patton grinned. “That’s their magical property -- they take the voices of people you trust so you’ll listen to their advice.”

Virgil tapped the ends and sound returned back to him. “Do you have an explanation for why they make everything else sound muffled, then?”

“Well, that's an interesting side effect, but magic always comes with a price. That’s how things stay balanced. It’s most common with magical objects, but magic types also have their limits.” He looked up at the rustling leaves. “Like, I can’t stray too far from nature for too long or else things get a little… bad. So no big city dwelling for me.” He turned back to Virgil with a smile.

“Seems a little annoying.”

“It’s just kind of life." He shrugged. "Do you wanna head back inside now? I'm gonna start working on lunch.”

“Sure.”

They both followed the worn down path back to the house. Virgil spotted Roman at the dining table and walked over to him while Patton went off to the kitchen.

Virgil didn't even get the chance to sit down before Roman spoke to him, “Do you ever realize how much closer Picani is to Patton than he is to Logan?” He didn't spare a glance up from his laptop.

“Well, hello to you too,” Virgil muttered sarcastically. He plopped himself in a chair and messed around with one of the pens. “What are you even talking about, by the way?”

“I've been thinking --”

“That's groundbreaking.”

Roman stopped his deep concentration to glare at Virgil. “So I've been thinking, and it's something I couldn't help but notice, but Patton is the happy bubbly one, right?”

“Sure.”

“And Logan's like the exact opposite. He's mean, and cold, and arrogant, and a huge downer, and he shuts down  all of my ideas --”

“Yeah, I get it. Go on.”

“So why is Picani such a happy, excitable guy?”

“I get the feeling you're about to tell me.”

“I do have a bit of a theory.” Roman grinned. He pushed the laptop to the side so he could lean over the table. It allowed Virgil to see part of the photo he was editing. “I've been working on it for a bit, and I think I get it. Logan doesn't dull down Patton's energy like it seems he should. He focuses all that energy. He makes it less chaotic and uses it for a specific thing. It allows him to get out all his nerdiness in ways that are fun.”

Virgil glanced over to the kitchen where Patton and Logan were working on lunch. “So what I’m getting from this is that Logan’s just as big a dork as Patton, but he keeps it all inside and lets it out with Picani.”

“Exactly! Just like how all of Pearl’s fusions are show-offy in some way.”

“Why is this one of the things on your mind?”

“I don’t know. It’s been like two months.” He fell back against the chair and moved his laptop closer. “I need something to think about other than impending doom.”

Two months… It really has been that long, hasn’t it? Neither Roman nor Virgil had gone back to their apartments after their previous trip. The keyboard sat in the closet of Virgil’s room. Untouched since that day. It felt like such a long time ago already. How have they been at this for two months?

“For once, I think I agree with you.”

Virgil continued to sit at the table with Roman. They didn’t talk all that much more, which was fine. Roman had four possible moods while editing photos: one, which was rare, “don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, don’t breathe in my direction”. Two, “wait, were you talking to me?”. Three, “I can only answer yes or no questions”. And four, “I can and will have an in-depth discussion with you whether you're listening or not”. So it was safe to say that Virgil didn’t mind the silence.

Logan and Patton were over in the kitchen, anyway, so there was at least background noise. Like their soft chatter, or the bustling of kitchenware. They were familiar sounds and ones that Virgil had long since gotten used to.

“I’m gonna go check on Thomas real quick. Don’t burn anything.” Patton winked before leaving.

Logan rolled his eyes.

Virgil’s attention was drawn back to the table as Roman shut his laptop with a heavy sigh. “Oh, how I loathe the editing process, but it is a necessary evil I must bear.” He placed a hand on his chest and looked off into the distance. “I can only hope that by the end of it all, I leave these pictures looking as extravagant as they deserve.”

Virgil stopped twirling his pen to make sure his unamused look came across well. “Who are you trying to impress?”

“Oh, I don’t need to try to impress.” He paused his theatrics to simper at Virgil.

Their interaction was cut short by the sharp gasp coming from the kitchen. They looked over to see Logan fall to the floor. Virgil rushed over in an instant, followed closely by Roman.

Logan curled up against the cabinet with his left arm pressed to his chest. From what Virgil could see, it was the same thing that happened last time. But this instance was more… intense. The black waves underneath his skin were farther -- taking up part of his bicep where previously it was only up to his forearm. The sharp flashes of smoke occurred all throughout it with no real pattern. Every new flash caused Logan to grit his teeth and claw uselessly at the tile. At one point, the entirety of Logan’s hand had disappeared into a smoky cloud. Twitching and moving like the mass Virgil and Roman saw over two months ago.

Slowly, the flashes stopped. The ink beneath his skin crawled over to his wrist, where a thick black band formed, then faded once again. Like nothing ever happened. Except this time Logan didn’t get up right away. He didn’t try to brush it off like no big deal. He stayed on the floor, staring hard at his hand. It trembled violently.

“I want to ask if you’re okay, but that was so obviously not healthy,” Roman muttered. He eyed Logan with concern.

As did Virgil. “You have to tell Patton.”

“No,” came Logan’s immediate reaction. He lifted himself up with the aid of the counter. His face twisted in a contorted grimace. “I’m fine.”

“Uh, none of that seemed very fine,” Roman added.

Logan frowned. “I have it under control. Patton doesn’t need to know yet.”

“Right. And how many times has it happened since we found out?” Virgil crossed his arms.

“That’s not important.”

Virgil was going to have a stroke or something. This man had a death wish. “Logan, if this keeps happening to you then you’re going to have to tell him. It’s only going to get worse the longer you keep this from him. It's already gotten worse.”

“I can’t.” Logan looked back down to his trembling hand. He seemed worn out. “He doesn’t need to know.”

“Who doesn’t need to know?”

The three jumped and turned to see Patton enter the kitchen again. Logan hid his hand behind his back and tried to look casual.

"Nothing. No one. Everything's fine."

Patton didn't appear convinced in the slightest. He stared at Logan with his expression caught between amusement and confusion. "Logan, honey, the stove's still on."

"What?" Logan's right hand was pressed against the stove top. "Oh. It seems it is." He removed his hand and turned off the flame without so much as a flinch.

Virgil tried to ignore the disaster of a cover-up happening right now.

Patton shook his head and approached Logan, holding out his hands. He didn't need to ask for Logan to put his hand there. "Well, no burns. So you still have that much going for you." He swept Logan's bangs out of his face with a smile. "But I'd recommend not pushing your luck." He paused, placing his hand on Logan's cheek and furrowing his brows. "Are you okay?"

Logan blinked. "Yeah. Fine."

He didn't look fine. Even Virgil could tell that. It looked like a strong gust of wind could blow him over. "I don't know, Logan, you seem a little iffy to me."

Logan sent him a glare when Patton's back was turned.

"Almost like something happened," Roman added.

"Did something happen?" Patton turned back to Logan, who dropped the glare.

"No. Roman just likes to be dramatic. You know how he is."

"It kind of seems like he has a point," Virgil continued. "It looks like something happened. But if it did, you'd obviously tell Patton, right?"

"Stop it," Logan growled.

"Lo?" Patton placed his other hand on Logan's cheek to cup his face. "Nothing's wrong, is it? You're okay?"

"I, um," Logan seemed at a loss of words for once. Virgil could almost see the gears spinning in his head.

Patton frowned. "Maybe you should go lie down. You don't look too good."

“I’m fine.” He brushed off Patton’s hands and side-stepped around him. As he did so, he moved his hand to keep it out of Patton’s sight. “I just -- I’m fine. Nothing happened to me. I’m perfectly okay.”

“You’ve never been very good at lying.”

Logan stopped. He sighed and closed his eyes. For a moment, Virgil thought he would say the truth. He should have known better than to hope for that. “Let’s just continue with lunch. We don’t need to stop for any false alarms.”

Then that was that. Logan once again kept a dangerous secret from the one person that could possibly help him. Patton didn’t buy it in the least. He knew something was up, as any person would, but he didn’t say anything. He did what Logan wanted and dropped the subject -- continued with lunch like no big deal. Not even Roman tried to bring it up again.

Well, Virgil didn’t know how much longer he could stay silent.

(Next)