#Listen a little meddling never hurt anyone...technically he did all of that himself

[fadedrainbowbookshelves]

You know she mailed that letter herself.

[alovesongshewrote]

Almost A Thousand Years - Witch Hunt | Hisirdoux Casperan

Plot:  You’ve known Hisirdoux Casperan for almost a thousand years.  You’ve hated him for almost a thousand years.  And for almost a thousand years, you’ve been cursed to feel each others pain.  But somewhere in that time, things changed.  [Hisirdoux Casperan x Mostly Gender Neutral but Probably Female Presenting Based on How Historical Men Treat Them!Reader]

Word Count:  4,463

Warnings: i swear some more and uh... i can’t really give a warning, it’s spoilers.  you’ll probably like it tho, i promise

A/N:  today’s a/n shout out goes to @furblrwurblr​ for drawing femboy hooters douxie and fucking cursing me

Taglist:  @furblrwurblr​ @rainningdoom​ @fluffydmonkey @blondie0458​ @sitherin-mxschief​ @jinxedleo​ @lawlesshedgehog @einahpetsyarcip​ @dolphincommander​

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“I told you the boy was bad news Master,” past you said with way too much pride in their voice for your liking.

“Oh, would you shut up?”

“So you’re me from the future, then?  Tell me, how do you end up travelling time with the likes of that git?”

“Oi, shut your mouth you little-” Douxie put his hand over your mouth, effectively shutting you up for the time being.

“Calm down (Y/N), please,”

Both you and your past self said “No,” in unison.  It would have been funny in literally any other situation, but alas, this was what fate handed to you.

“All of you, silence!  Have you any idea what you’ve done?  I knew my apprentice was an ignoramus, but travelling through time?  Time!”

You felt a very strong urge to scream, but fortunately, Douxie was doing the talking.

“I think we handled ourselves just fine, all things considered.  And technically, it was your idea,”

“Damn right,”

“Well, then, you must have botched it up!  My planning is flawless!”

“For the record, Master, I had nothing to do with this.  He did, which is me, and… ugh!  Time travel, so confusing!”  past Douxie was awake, and you decided right then if anyone said anything else you were going to knock him, your past self, and Merlin unconscious just for some peace and quiet.

“Aah!  The timelines are in complete disarray!”

Oop, that counted as saying something, “They’re about to be in more disarray,” 

“Seriously, (Y/N), calm down,”

“Don’t you talk to me… us?  Like that!”  past you was a little confused, but they still had the spirit.  It was the wrong kind of spirit, but spirit nonetheless.  You sighed, knowing that Douxie was right.

“No, (Y/N)?  Me?  Whatever.  He’s right, I just need a second,”

Past you froze in absolute shock while Douxie's past self decided to relish in the fact that you were wrong.

Present Douxie didn’t have a lot of patience for this, “Look, both of you, quiet down for a second.  Master, I can fix this, I swear!”

“Ah-ah, your meddling has already wreaked enough havoc on history!”

“Then surely we can use the time map to change things back, and then it’ll all be as it was,”  Archie said as you, your Douxie and the familiar surrounded Merlin, your focus on the time map in your former master's hands.

“It doesn’t work that way.  The map only offers glimpses of possible futures!  There are no detailed instructions,”

“Oh come on, it’s not that bad,”  Douxie said, reaching towards the device before Merlin slapped his apprentice’s hand away causing both of your hands to sting.

“Ow.  Look, life doesn't come with instructions, and we live through it every day without causing too much damage.  We can manage this!  It’ll be fine,”

“Not that bad, eh?  It’ll be fine, eh!?”  Merlin said before revealing just what the time map had to show you.  

King Arthur was on the ground, dead.  Needless to say, that was not good.

“Oh, fuzzbuckets,”  Both Douxies and your past self said.

“Oopsie,” you grimaced at the consequences of your actions. 

“Your little dungeon break must have changed fate!  Now, unless I stop it, the king will die!”

Merlin stormed out of the room, off, probably, to fix your mistakes.  Beside you, your Douxie groaned, bracing himself against the table.  You put a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him.

“Seriously, how can you stand to touch him?”

It was your turn to groan.  You didn’t even look at your past self as you responded, “Because he is my friend and I care about him,”

It may have been a risky statement, one that could doom both you and your wizard, but the smile on Douxie’s face was worth it.

“I don’t understand, how can you-”  

Douxie cut off his past self, “You’ll understand when you’re older.  Now, you two stay here, we have to go,”  he grabbed your hand, and you left to find Claire or anything else that would help save the future.  Whichever came first.

It was Claire.  Claire came first.  You could hear the knights cheering from your place in the shadows.  The noise was a decent cover-up for your conversation.

“They’re hunting Jim!  If they catch him, he’ll be killed!”

“I know, and he’s not the only one.  Because of us, Arthur’s now fated to eat the big one, too!”

“Eat the what?  Oh, no, was I supposed to bring food?”

“He’ll be eating a death sandwich, Steve,”

“Ugh, who would eat that?  Gross,”

Douxie groaned, but you couldn’t help but laugh a little.  Times were tough, but that didn’t stop you from admitting that Steve absolutely had a point.

“Look, if Arthur dies, we lose the Battle of Killahead and the war,”

“Which will probably mess up time so much, you’ll never be able to return home,”  Archie said, pawing his way around your hiding space.

“At least, not our home,”  you glared at the ground, as if the dirt was the reason the world was at stake.

“Oh no!  Toby!”

You looked up at the time map just in time to see the War Hammer disappear into a blue mist.  That could not be a good sign.

“What’s happening to him?”

“The future- our future, is vanishing!”

“There’s gotta be a way to fix this,” you said, using the time map, searching through time to find something that would save your home.  Among the red, there was a moment of blue.  You paused as an image of Arthur and Morgana getting along flashed into the sphere.

“What’s that?”  Claire asked before you had the chance to ask the same thing.

“Well, that wasn’t there before.  It’s a new timeline, one where Arthur and Jim live,”

“And Morgana’s the hero?  I thought she was destined to become Mistress Doom,”

“No, you’re thinking Mistress of all Dark Magic.  Mistress of Doom is… something else,”

“What?”  Douxie paused, looking at you with vast amounts of suspicion.  

“You’d be surprised by some of the house calls I’ve made.  Now, keep talking,”

Douxie shook his head, but he was smiling.  Good.  You loved that smile.

“It looks like there’s a possibility if we get Arthur and Morgana to reconcile, then somehow, nobody dies,”

“I don’t think I have to say that that’s the outcome we want!”

You took a moment just to look at Douxie’s face.  In this small moment of victory, which was over too soon, he looked happier than you’d seen him in a while.  Of course, you never saw his face when he looked at you.

“Squire Steve!  We are all thirsty!”  and bam, moment over.  Thanks, Gallahad.

“I’ll keep an eye on Morgana.  Douxie, you work on Arthur.  (Y/N), Steve, make sure they don’t kill my boyfriend,”

“We’re on it.  Don’t die out there, guys,”

“We won’t,” Douxie said, taking one last look at you before he ran off.  You and Steve did the same.

About a minute in, you could feel things going wrong.  Your chest hurt as if you’d crashed to the floor.  It wasn’t awful, so you ignored it and kept moving forward, following Steve and the knights and making a mental note to make sure Douxie was ok when you had time.  A smirk made its way onto your face when said wizard knocked his past self out.  You couldn’t imagine that it was good for him, but if he could still perform magic, he was ok.  

And after that, things were okay.

At least for you.

Douxie was having a difficult time getting Arthur to listen to him.  Magic, as always, turned out to be a useful tool.  The king and his sister began their reconciliation, but something was troubling him.  He saw the way they looked at the illusion of Gweneviere.  They had both loved her.  Arthur even called Gwen “the heart of him,” and they had lost her.  He could see the grief on their faces, how it killed the king and weighed down the sorceress was clear to anyone who looked at them the right way.

This was not the first time Douxie contemplated his fear of losing you.  He’d been afraid of that for a long time, and one could say that he was used to the familiar sense of anxiety that made itself at home within him whenever you were in danger.  But now?  Now he looked at the faces of the royal family and realized that losing you would completely destroy him.  

Douxie was already a selfless person, one who would sacrifice everything he was to save the world, but right then, he decided that he would sacrifice the world to save you.  You were the world to him.  

But he couldn’t focus on that right now.  He had a job to do.

So did you.  And Steve was not making it any easier.

“Kill the beast!”

“Wait, kill?  I thought this was catch and release!”

“Oh, my g- ok, come on, Steve,”

You grabbed the boy by his armour and dragged him along as you followed the group, stopping dead when you reached the troll that the guards spoke of.

Arthur’s men had slung chains around the creature, restricting its movement to next to nothing.  You were not okay with this.

“Squire Steve, will you do the honours?”  Lancelot asked, tossing his sword to the boy.  

The boy whimpered, very obviously uncomfortable with this.  He turned to you, eyes desperately searching for instructions on what to do in this situation.  You shook your head, trying to get across that needless murder should probably be avoided.

Whether or not Steve got the message, you would never know.  The troll jumped at the teen.  You jumped in front of him, creating a shield with your magic, and Arthur jumped in front of you, swinging a sword at the troll and putting himself in some pretty needless danger.  You couldn’t talk on that subject though.  When it came to needless danger, you were freaking royalty.

“Careful, young squire, witch,” he spat out your title like it was a curse, “Show these beasts no sympathy,”

He kicked the troll into the sunlight, turning it to stone instantly.  You looked on with disappointment as the guards cheered.

Behind you, Steve whimpered again.  You turned, hoping to provide some comfort, or calm the kid down at least, when you froze, your blood running cold.  Behind Steve stood Bular, aka the Troll who kept trying to kill you.

“Shit,”

The Gumm-Gumm prince knocked Steve aside, advancing and attacking the guards.  He hadn't noticed you yet, and you intended to keep it that way, staying out of the troll's field of view, and going after Steve instead.  You helped the boy up and off the ground.  He wasn't injured, but you realized that the king was about to be.  

Before you could do anything, Douxie and Merlin had things under control, saving Arthur and taking out the troll prince.  You breathed a sigh of relief.  If things went well, Bular wouldn’t see you.  Very few things ever went well, but you had your fingers crossed.

And it worked!  For once, things went your way.  Arthur knocked the Gumm-Gumm out with a kick to the face.  Sure, he said some very menacing and antagonistic things right after, but you had no thoughts in your head other than, “Well, that was convenient,”

You watched the guards take Bular away, taking note of Morgana questioning who the real monster was.  If Bular hadn’t tried to kill you and your friends and hadn’t successfully gotten you tortured a couple decades ago, you might have agreed with that.  Unfortunately, he had.

You hadn’t realized that you’d lost yourself in memories until Douxie said your name.

“-(Y/N), are you alright, love?”

“I-” you watched them take the troll out of sight, “I will be,”

Your wizard took one of your hands, squeezing it, “I’m right here if you need me,”

“I know,”

It was silent for a moment.  Then you heard the knights calling Steve.

“I should go,”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,”

“But I should.  Someone needs to make sure that kid doesn’t run into any more high ranking Gumm-Gumms,”

Douxie seemed hesitant, but he respected your choice, “Stay safe,”

“You too,”

From the corner of her eye, Morgana watched you and Douxie.  She wasn’t focused on it, per-say, but she did find it odd.  Were Merlin’s apprentices not constantly at each other’s throats?  She ignored it for now and moved on.

Things went decently for you after that.  The forest was peaceful, the knights were quiet.  Everything was chill until Steve decided to walk through a trap.  You weren’t sure why he didn’t just stop.  Kids these days, honestly.  

You winced as the arrows hit his armour and his skin.  Beside you, Gallahad and Lancelot were absolutely losing their shit.  You had to admit, it was kind of funny, but you were also concerned for your friend.  You put up a shield around him, sheltering the teen from any further arrow-related damage.  Needless to say, the knights were very disappointed.

“Oh, come on, now!  Don’t spoil all the fun,”

“It was fun for the first minute.  Now I’m concerned for his health,”

“Really?  Merlin’s witch apprentice showing concern?  Well then, we’ve found something rarer than the holy grail!”

You took a moment, keeping up your shields as the king and his guards moved through the trap, Lancelot and Gallahad now supporting Steve.

It was weird to see how much you’d changed.  Talking to your past self had been surreal, and a decent reminder of what a little shit you had been, but you hadn’t considered the specifics.  Past you was a scared kid doing what their king told them to.  Under Gunmar, you didn’t have any interests or hobbies outside of getting stronger and staying alive.  Even after you left, you really didn’t start to become who you were now for a few centuries.  You'd been scared that the Gumm-Gumms would come for you at any moment, and that fear wouldn't leave you until at least the fifteen hundreds.  You suddenly felt enormous amounts of guilt weighing on your shoulders.  Guilt about what you’d forced your past self to go through, that you never got a childhood worth having, that you hadn’t been a person for so long that it took centuries to take a real interest in something.  And you felt guilty about how you’d treated other living things.  You knew now that everyone who could be saved deserved saving, but the child you were in the twelfth century didn’t know that.  

But you couldn’t fix the past, even though you were now reliving it.  The only thing you could do was forgive yourself.

And so you did.

Then you ran after the knights to see if Steve was okay.

He was.  Teenagers are surprisingly resilient, that’s how they can do dumb things and not die.  You counted Steve coming out of that trap mostly unscathed as a win.  What wasn’t a win was Lancelot spotting Jim and Callista, looking at what appeared to be Jim’s phone.

You had no idea if that would affect the space-time continuum, but what would affect you personally was your friends getting shot.  And Lancelot was aiming a crossbow at them.  Great.

Beside you, you could hear Steve’s internal panic.  This time he didn’t turn to you, instead, he chose to act, smacking the crossbow out of the knight’s hands.  The arrow still fired, but there was still time.  You put a spell on the arrow, knocking it off course a little more and lessening the impact.  However, there was still an impact.  You could hear as much from the trolls below you.

Lancelot lined up another shot, but Steve knocked the weapon aside again, and you used your magic to push the crossbow out of reach.  It didn’t do much, but it bought your friends some much needed time.  The knight thrust the crossbow at Steve, clearly frustrated.

“What if we just let this one go?”  Steve’s efforts were admirable, you’d give him that much

“You never let them go,”

Lancelot turned away from you to face the king, who was rallying his soldiers.

You put a hand on Steve’s shoulder, “Hey, you did a good thing, kid,”

“Thanks, (Y/N),” Steve’s voice shook slightly, and you felt awful.  If you had time, you probably would have hugged him, told him everything was going to be okay, and maybe adopted him, but right now, you had to find some way to protect Jim.

The knights ran off, leaving you and Steve watching them go.  

Douxie and Merlin came out of the bushes, clearly in pursuit of the king.  They called out to him before running off again.

“C’mon Steve, we have to follow them,”

The boy, who was still shaken, nodded, following behind you as you ran after everyone else.  

Things were not going well.  Morgana and Arthur were fighting, knights were surrounding the area, and Lancelot was firing arrows at children.

Claire was skilled enough to fend for herself, scaring Lancelot, but before the knight could say anything that everyone would regret, Steve knocked him out with a large rock.  You were a bit surprised, but also very pleased.

“Whoa, man, that troll- that came out of nowhere!  Right guys?”

Lancelot woke, only for Steve to hit him again.  You were very proud.

“Nice one, Steve!”

“Thanks!  Uh, can you do your doctor thing?  Make sure I didn’t kill him?”

You kind of doubted that Lancelot had been killed by the rock, but head trauma exists in every century, so you nodded and began your assessment.  You managed to focus up and do your work, ignoring the clanging metallic noise of the battle before you.  Then the pain hit you.  It was like you’d been thrown back into a tree, but that hadn’t happened, so what was- Douxie!

You rushed your assessment, focused on the ache in your spine, “He isn’t dead, Steve, you’re in the clear,”

The teenager punched the air, saying something that you weren’t paying attention to.

“Sorry, kid, I’ll be right back,”

That was kind of a lie.  You weren’t sure when you’d be back.

You made your way to Douxie’s side, helping him up as Morgana sent a beam of gold magic into the sky, before bringing it down on the earth like a whip.  Your wizard pulled you close to him, trying to shield you from the magic.  Had she been paying attention, Morgana would have declared this officially strange, but at the moment she was fighting her brother and former mentor.

You, Claire and Douxie thought it would be a good idea to try and reason with the angry sorceress.

“Stop!  We found another way!”

“It doesn’t have to be like this!”

“We can do this peacefully!”

“The time for peace ended long ago,”

“Morgana,” Claire called out, “He’s not the enemy,”

Morgana continued to rant, but you were a little distracted by the fact that she was now flying.  It wasn’t the best choice either of you had made, but you and Douxie got closer, just in time for the sorceress to cast a spell, creating shadow-like clones of herself.

“Oh, buckets,”  Douxie said as shadow-clones appeared before all of you.

“Yeah, that,”  you drew your sword.  There wasn’t much left to do but fight.

Unfortunately, you were in the minority when it came to having a weapon.  You watched as your friends struggled and dodged, eventually backing away, but wherever they went the shadows followed (as shadows are wont to do.)

Your small group found their way to a cliff, overlooking the ocean.  You recognized this place, but you weren’t sure how.

You could hear Merlin call for someone to protect the king, but you were a little busy fighting for your life at that moment.  

Somehow, you found an opening and sliced through the clone.  You only enjoyed your victory for a moment before Douxie was thrown to the ground, causing you both to wince from the pain.  You were about to make your way over to him when Arthur pointed his sword towards the sky, drawing a spell into the blade and releasing it into the ground, knocking everyone back and banishing the shadow-clones.

Douxie helped you up before you both ran to get the time map.  The sphere flickered from red to blue.  You looked out into the sunset and suddenly realized where you recognized this place from.

Morgana’s name left your lips and Douxie’s at the same time.  The time map’s sphere showed the sorceress’s body.

You and your wizard ran towards the duelling siblings in a last attempt to stop them, but you were once again blown back.  

You screamed as Morgana fell off the cliff for the second time in your life.

You couldn’t remember walking back to the castle. 

You knew you must’ve done it because you would remember being carried back, but you didn’t know how you got from the cliff to Camelot.

And now Claire was talking, “She’s gone.  We failed,”  as if you needed reminding.

“No,” Douxie’s voice came from beside you, “I failed.  Master, I-I’m so sorry,”

“This is why you don’t meddle with time,”

You didn’t even sass Merlin about how this was his idea.  You were out of sass at the moment.  Your head was full of static as you tried to process things.

“But I tried, I tried to fix it,” Douxie fell to his knees, his eyes on the still flickering time map.

Correction, your brain was full of static and heartbreak.  You knelt beside your wizard, putting your hands on his shoulders as he focused on the time map.

“Don’t you see, boy?  There is no ‘fixing’ anything,  Every change has consequence.  Knowing the future is a responsibility to bear with caution, lest you cause the worst things to happen,”

You couldn’t look Merlin in the eye.  Even as he walked away, you didn’t watch him go.

“Morgana’s dead, Excalibur's broken.  This never happened,”

“We are in uncharted territory,” Archie said, coming closer to you and Douxie, allowing the wizard to pat him.

The pain in your chest was his.  The utter anguish he felt over failing to fix things stabbed through you.  And it wasn’t just that.  He had failed Claire, and Steve, and Jim.  He had failed Merlin, and Toby and Camelot.  But the worst thing was he had failed you.  He had destroyed your future, and now you were stuck here.  The very thought of it ripped through him, and you felt all of it.

You bit your lip, just then realizing what that day was.

As if he realized what was to come, Archie took a few steps back, wandering away from the two of you.

“Hey, Doux,” he turned to look at you, the sorrow in his eyes eating you alive, “This was the night.  In our timeline, anyway,”

“What?”

“Where was that fight again?  Merlin’s study?  The staircase?  The throne room?”

“(Y/N)?”

“If we wait outside, do you think we’ll see it happen?”

The pieces fell into place for him, too.

“I don’t even know if it will,”

You waited a moment.

“Who knows.  We hated each other enough, we might still get cursed,”  The joking tone in your voice made you both smile, even though it didn’t reach your eyes.

“Seriously, though, Douxie.  I think whatever bond Merlin gave us, I-” you took a deep breath, knowing that what you said next would definitely damn you both.  But that didn’t matter.  He needed to hear this.

“I think it was the best thing that ever happened to me.  You are the best thing that ever happened to me,”

Douxie looked surprised, only for a second, before his eyes cast their gaze to the ground, to the time map that sat closed on the floor.  “Are you sure?”

His voice was so quiet you barely heard him, and it was so sad, so scared, that you could feel your heart shatter into a million pieces right then and there, “Yeah,” your voice felt like it would break at any minute, “Yeah, I’m sure,”

Your predictions were correct.  Your voice broke and tears came to your eyes, much to your embarrassment.

“(Y/N),” Douxie turned his body towards yours, taking your face in his hands, “You-” he took a second, also feeling that his voice would fail him at any minute, “You mean everything to me, and I-I ruined your future.  We don’t have a home to go back to, and it’s my fault, I-”

“Douxie,” you cut him off, “As long as I’m with you, I’m home.  If we have to, we’ll just build a new future, together,” you ran a hand through his hair.  This was it.  This is what was going to kill you, “I love you, Hisirdoux Casperan,”

There was silence.

And then his lips were on yours.

Do you remember the kiss in the 80s?  Yeah, that was child’s play compared to this.

Your lips fit together perfectly,  his hands glided over your back, pulling you closer to him.  Your hands held his face, swiping away at the tears that threatened to fall.  You found your bottom lip captured between his.  A gasp escaped you when he bit down.  It wasn’t enough to draw blood, but it was enough for your heart to race a little faster, if that was even possible, and tighten your grip just a little.  You could almost feel his pulse racing, and you were absolutely certain he could feel yours.  Your last kiss had been everything in your past, but this kiss was your future.  It was a promise that no matter what came next, you would face it together.

And then you remembered exactly what it was that your future held.

T'was a mood killer.

You broke the kiss, almost unwillingly and definitely wanting more, but Douxie had been right.  He should know what, “I don’t want to kill you anymore,” meant.

Also, there was a loud crash and bright lights from one of the towers, and that was pretty distracting.

“Those damn kids.  Did we really fight so much?”

That almost got a laugh from you, but you had something else to focus on right now.  You rested your forehead against his for a moment, just breathing for a second before your spoke, your voice low, “Douxie, I have to explain some stuff,”

“What is it, darling?”

“You were right, there’s some stuff you should know.  Doux, I think now is later,”

You bit your lip before standing and motioning for him to follow you into the castle, “Let’s go,”

[blackswaneuroparedux]

It is always dangerous for soldiers, sailors, or airmen to play at politics. They enter a sphere in which the values are quite different from those to which they have hitherto been accustomed.

- Winston Churchill, The Gathering Storm

**Pictured above: Seated, left to right: Air Chief Marshal Sir Charles Portal; Field Marshal Sir Alan Brooke, the Rt Hon Winston Churchill; Admiral Sir Andrew Cunningham. Standing, left to right: the Secretary to the Chiefs of Staffs Committee, Major General L C Hollis; and the Chief of Staff to the Minister of Defence, General Sir Hastings Ismay.

No one serious has ever doubted the statesmanship of Winston Churchill. However a broad criticism of Churchill as warlord only came to light after the war. Many historians thought that he meddled, incurably and unforgivably, in the professional affairs of his military advisers.

The first surge of criticism came primarily from military authors, in particular Churchill’s own chairman of the Chiefs of Staff, and Chief of the Imperial General Staff, Alan Brooke. The publication of his diaries in the late 1950s shocked readers, who discovered in entries Brooke himself retrospectively described as “liverish” that all had not gone smoothly between Churchill and his generals.

On 10 September 1944 he wrote in his diary (an entry not known until the 2001 updated version was published:

“[Churchill] has only got half the picture in his mind, talks absurdities and makes my blood boil to listen to his nonsense. I find it hard to remain civil. And the wonderful thing is that 3/4 of the population of this world imagine that Winston Churchill is one of the Strategists of History, a second Marlborough, and the other 1/4 have no conception what a public menace he is and has been throughout the war! It is far better that the world should never know and never suspect the feet of clay on that otherwise superhuman being. Without him England was lost for a certainty, with him England has been on the verge of disaster time and again….Never have I admired and disliked a man simultaneously to the same extent.”

Many of the British field marshals and admirals of World War II came away nursing the bruises that inevitably came their way in dealing with Churchill. They deplored his excessive interest in what struck them as properly military detail; they feared his imagination and its restless probing for new courses of action. But perhaps they resented most of all his certainty of their fallibility.

Norman Brook, secretary of the Cabinet under Churchill, wrote to Hastings Ismay, the former secretary to the Chiefs of Staff, a revealing observation: “Churchill has said to me, in private conversation, that this was partly due to the extent to which the Generals had been discredited in the First War—which meant that, in the Second War, their successors could not pretend to be professionally infallible.”

Churchill’s uneasy relationship with his generals stemmed, in large part, from his willingness to pick commanders who disagreed with him—and who often did so violently. The two most forceful members of the Chiefs of Staff, Brooke and Cunningham, were evidence of that. If he dispensed with Field Marshal Sir John Greer Dill as Chief of Imperial General Staff, he did so with the silent approval of key officers, who shared his judgment that Dill did not have the spirit to fight the war through to victory. 

As General Hastings Lionel "Pug" Ismay (later 1st Baron Ismay), Churchill’s chief military asdvisor and link to the CIG, and others privately admitted, however, Dill was a spent man by 1941, hardly up to the demanding chore of coping with Churchill. “The one thing that was necessary and indeed that Winston preferred, was someone to stand up to him, instead of which Jack Dill merely looked, and was, bitterly hurt.”If Churchill were to make a rude remark about the courage of the British Army, Ismay later recalled, the wise course was to laugh it off or to refer Churchill to his own writings. “Dill, on the other hand, was cut to the quick that anyone should insult his beloved Army and vowed he would never serve with him again, which of course was silly.”

It was not enough, of course, to pick good leaders; as a war leader, Churchill found himself compelled to prod them as well—an activity that occasioned more than a little resentment on their part. Indeed, in a private letter to General Claude Auchinleck shortly before he assumed command in the Middle East in June 1941, Dill warned of this, saying that “the Commander will always be subject to great and often undue pressure from his Government.”

The permeation of all war, even total war, by political concerns, should come as no surprise to the contemporary student of military history, who has usually been fed on a diet of Clausewitz and his disciples. But it is sometimes forgotten just how deep and pervasive political considerations in war are. 

Take, for example, the question of the employment of air power in advance of the Normandy invasion.

As is well known, operational experts and commanders split over the most effective use of air power. Some favored the employment of tactical air power to sever the rail and road lines leading to the area of the proposed beachhead, while others proposed a systematic attack on the French rail network, leading to its ultimate collapse. This seemingly technical military issue had, however, political ramifications, because any attack (but particularly one targeted against French marshalling yards) promised to yield French civilian casualties. Churchill therefore intervened in the bombing dilute to secure a promise that French civilian casualties would be held to a bare minimum. “You are piling up an awful load of hatred,” Churchill wrote to Air Chief Marshal Tedder. He insisted that French civilian casualties be under 10,000 killed, and reports were submitted throughout May that listed the number of French civilians killed and (callously enough) “Credit Balance Remaining.”

This is not to say that Churchill’s military judgment was invariably or even frequently superior to that of his subordinates, although on occasion it clearly was. Rather, Churchill exercised one of his most important functions as war leader by holding their calculations and assertions up to the standards of a massive common sense, informed by wide reading and experience at war. When his military advisers could not come up with plausible answers to these harassing and inconvenient questions, they usually revised their views; when they could, Churchill revised his. In both cases, British strategy benefited.

In The World Crisis Churchill wrote: “At the summit, true strategy and politics are one.” The civil-military relationship and the formulation of strategy are inextricably intertwined. A study of Churchill’s tenure in high command of Britain during the Second World War suggests that the formulation of strategy is a matter more complex than the laying out of blueprints.

In the world of affairs, as any close observer of government or business knows, conception or vision make up at best a small percentage of what a leader does—the implementation of that vision requires unremitting effort. The debate about the wisdom of Churchill’s judgments (for example, his desire to see large amphibious operations in the East Indies) is largely beside the point. His activity as a strategist emerges in the totality of his efforts to shape Britain’s war policies, and to mold the peace that would follow the war.

The Churchillian model of civil-military relations is one of what one might call an uneven dialogue - an unsparing (if often affectionate) interaction with military subordinates about their activities. It flies in the face of the contemporary conventional wisdom, particularly in the United States, about how politicians should deal with their military advisers.25 In fact, however, Churchill’s pattern of relationships with his Generals resembles that of other great democratic war statesmen, including Lincoln, Clemenceau and Ben Gurion, each of whom drove their generals to distraction by their supposed meddling in military matters.

All four of these statesmen, Clausewitzians by instinct if not by education, recognized the indissolubility of political and military affairs, and refused to recognize any bounds to their authority in military activities. In the end, all four provided exceptional leadership in war not because their judgment was always superior to that of their military subordinates, but because they wove the many threads of operations and politics into a whole. And none of these leaders regarded any sphere of military policy as beyond the scope of his legitimate inspection.

The penalties for a failure to understand strategy as an all-encompassing task in war can be severe. The wretched history of the Vietnam War, in which civilian leaders never came to grips with the core of their strategic dilemma, illustrates as much. President Johnson, in particular, left strategy for the South Vietnamese part of the war in the hands of General William Westmoreland, an upright and limited general utterly unsuited for the kind of conflict in which he found himself. He did not find himself called to account for his operational choices, nor did his strategy of attrition receive any serious review for almost three years of bloody fighting. At the same time, the President and his civilian advisers ran an air war in isolation from their military advisers, on the basis of a weekly luncheon meeting from which men in uniform were excluded until halfway through the war.

A Churchillian leader fighting the Vietnam War would have had little patience, one suspects, with the smooth but ineffectual Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Earle Wheeler. He would, no doubt, have convened all of his military advisers (and not just one), to badger them constantly about the progress of the war, and about the intelligence with which the theatre commander was pursuing it. The arguments might have been unpleasant, but at least they would have taken place. Perhaps no strategy would have made the war a winnable one, but surely some strategic judgment would have been better than none. Nor can strategy simply be left to the generals, as they so often wish.

The Churchillian way of high command rests on an uneven dialogue between civilian leader and military chiefs (not, let it be noted, a single generalissimo). It is not comfortable for the military, who suffer the torments of perpetual interrogation; nor easy for the civilians, who must absorb vast quantities of technical, tactical and operational information and make sense of it. But in the end, it is difficult to quarrel with the results.

[multiwarblerrps]

love aint (blainofsky) chapter 2

summary: A few weeks after their meeting in the hospital, Blaine and Dave run into each other at Scandals, the gay bar in West Lima. word count: 3,257 rating: pg warnings: underaged drinking notes: (semi-S3 canon 1x1 RP written with @multiberryrps) established klaine, eventual blainofsky. 250k+ words and ongoing. Also on: AO3

“Man, they’re getting their asses kicked today.”

Dave gave a little laugh as he sipped his beer, finishing it off and setting the empty bottle back down on the bartop. He was watching a football game on a small 14-inch TV stashed behind the bar. Only he and the bartender were watching; everyone else in the bar much rather preferred watching the music video clips play along with the booming music.

It wasn’t often that Dave ventured out to Scandals and when he did before, he was still in the closet. He had to sneak away and almost assume a completely different identity back when he was hiding who he really was. But things were different now. He was out and somewhat proud-- he was still adjusting-- and being at Scandals was the most comfortable place he felt like he could be himself.

“Hey, can I get another?” Dave asked, watching as the bartender gladly went to fetch him his drink. It was the first time in a while he’d pried his eyes away from the TV for more than a minute or two and he took the time to survey the place. There was the obvious share of regulars but there was one guy at the complete opposite side of the bar that he didn’t see quite as often-- one Blaine Anderson.

Blaine had just settled at the end of the semi-crowded bar and exchanged pleasantries with his favorite bartender-- it had been a while since he’d visited. He tried not to make a habit out of going since he’d been with Kurt. After ordering his usual drink he just happened to glance down at the other end of the bar where he saw a familiar face.

They locked eyes and when the look of recognition passed over them, Dave smiled and lifted his hand for a meek wave hello. It had been a little while since they’d last seen each other and Dave felt a little bad that he hadn’t reached out to Blaine like he had promised that evening in his hospital room.

With his drink in his hand, Blaine took the initiative to get closer to Dave. “Fancy seeing you here,” he smiled as he took the barstool next to him. He felt a bit relieved to know someone in the crowd-- especially someone that wasn’t from his group of friends at school. “I thought you might’ve lost my number,” Blaine teased him, giving him a little nudge as he sipped his drink.

“H-hey,” Dave greeted a little awkwardly, though he was genuinely happy to see him. “Yeah, sorry about that. Things have been a little crazy lately; I really meant to call you.” When he knew the lack of explanation probably wouldn’t fly as a good excuse, he elaborated. “I, uh, have to repeat my senior year.”

“What? Why?” Blaine asked, wrinkling his forehead as he placed his drink on the bar. “At Thurston or at McKinley?”

“At McKinley,” Dave answered. “Uh, I guess when my dad tried to see if I could transfer, it turned out that it was too late in the year and they basically said it wasn’t doable unless I took extra classes and summer school. Starting the year over just felt like the best thing since I don’t want to go back to Thurston. My dad and I actually just finalized everything so I’m set to go to McKinley next fall. I’m sort of-- I don’t know-- celebrating, I guess.” He gestured just as the bartender returned with his beer and he motioned for a toast before taking a swig.

Blaine tapped his glass against Dave’s bottle before taking a drink himself. “Wow.” He shook his head as he processed his friend’s news. “Well, I mean, I suppose that’s a good thing-- you should take some time to gather yourself and relax before jumping back in.” Then the realization hit him and his face lit up a little bit. “Hey!” He turned to Dave a little bit. “We’ll get to spend our senior year together then-- that’s exciting!”

Dave broke out into a smile and nodded. “Yeah, I’m trying my best to look forward to it. I mean, I’m out but I also kind of want to keep my head down because I don’t really want to deal with anyone giving me a hard time.” He shrugged then as he tried to remain optimistic. Attempting to shift the attention from himself, he asked Blaine a question. “So how about you? Where’s your boyfriend?”

An audible sigh fell from Blaine’s lips as his smile faded. “Kurt’s, uh,” he took another drink. “He’s with my brother and the rest of the glee club. They’re at my house fawning all over him and how great he is.” There was a bitter tone to Blaine’s voice as he rolled his eyes.

“Your brother?” Dave gave Blaine a confused look.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love my brother, I really do,” he shook his head. “He’s just…” Blaine really hesitated to say anything about Kurt that he wouldn’t say directly to his face; he didn’t feel right complaining about his boyfriend ever but between his brother, senior ditch day, and Kurt getting ready to leave for New York, he was feeling a bit selfish. “Cooper’s really pushy and not to sound like a child but he hurts my feelings a lot and Kurt doesn’t really care to listen. I mean, I’ve never really talked about Cooper before but it’s for good reason-- then he showed up unexpectedly and I didn’t have a chance because ‘Oh wow, Blaine, your brother is Cooper Anderson? He’s the most handsome and talented guy in the world!’” He mocked his friends’ voices as he rambled a little.

Dave furrowed his brow. He didn’t peg Kurt to be the kind of guy to just cast his friends-- let alone his boyfriend-- aside like that; that didn’t sound like the Kurt he knew. “Sorry about your brother being a jerk. At least here you don’t have to be around that,” he said, trying to look on the bright side. He didn’t feel like he was in any place to offer up real advice but he still wanted to at least attempt making Blaine feel better. “We can drink a couple of beers and talk about something that isn’t Kurt or your brother if you need a distraction,” he pointed to the TV behind the bar. “Celtics are down by thirteen.”

Blaine finished off his first drink and waved down the bartender for another as he let out another sigh. “It’s fine,” he said, glancing up to the screen that Dave had pointed to. “Figures,” he mumbled, chuckling. “Not surprising with the week I’m having-- my team can’t even win.”

Dave really wanted to console Blaine somehow but he wasn’t quite sure what to say. He didn’t know Blaine well enough to comment on his brother and he wasn’t looking to meddle in his and Kurt’s relationship. He just wanted Blaine to know he was there for him, for whatever he needed. “Hey,” he spoke up, hoping to keep Blaine’s mind off of what was getting him down. “I know I just said the thing about staying under the radar even though I’m out, but do you think I could, like, hang out with you guys at Glee from time to time? Last year when Coach had us do the halftime show, it was actually a lot of fun.”

“Yeah?” Blaine’s face lit up a little, never for a minute thinking he would even begin to entertain the idea of setting foot inside the choir room. “Absolutely, of course! Between you and me,” He leaned in just an inch. “I’m sort of lined up to be the ‘New Rachel’ next year so, you’re definitely in if I say so,” he chuckled, his nose crinkling as he looked at Dave, his smile growing. “That would be wonderful, that makes me really happy.” He sat up a little straighter in his seat, the news clearly brightening his day.

Seeing that talking about that silly glee club made Blaine so happy, Dave thought to keep the conversation going even though he only sort of understood. “‘New Rachel’-- what’s that?” he asked, sipping his beer. He thought about the girl and what she represented in the club. “You’re going to be bossy and annoying?” He laughed at his own joke. “Shouldn’t it be that you’ll be the ‘New Finn’? ‘Cause you’re the lead guy, right?”

Blaine chuckled softly, shaking his head. “C’mon, Rachel’s not that bad. She’s just… misunderstood,” he defended, shrugging. He felt like he and Rachel were cut from the same cloth sometimes. “I mean, technically the new lead guy, but we all know I’m more capable of taking control and leading us to win than Finn. I mean, he’s great and all and he’s a good leader; Rachel’s just better at getting down to business and knowing what’s important in the competition world.” He noticed he was beginning to ramble again and it made him laugh. “Sorry, I know you’re just barely interested-- not trying to scare you away.” He smiled fondly. “I just love the glee club a lot.”

Dave laughed along, not because he really understood but because Blaine just made him laugh. It was fun to see him so happy about his little club-- it was a lot like how Dave got excited about football so he could sort of relate. “Hey, you don’t have to apologize-- I get it. Do you guys have your championship game soon? Or, uh, whatever you guys call it?” he asked.

“Nationals,” Blaine nodded, smiling fondly at Dave. “We won the last competition while you were still in the hospital-- us and the Warblers dedicated our performances to you, I dunno if you heard. But, yeah, our next competition is in a few weeks, we’re going to Chicago which is exciting.”

“Uh, yeah, I think that Sebastian guy told me about that. I think he felt bad about being an asshole the last time we spoke so he said he did some charity or fundraiser thing in my honor, or something-- I don’t know,” Dave recalled, though the conversation he and Sebastian had had about that was already so brief. “Chicago, huh? That sounds like fun… Man, it’d be cool to eat a real Chicago-style pizza in Chicago.” Having lived his entire life in Ohio, the only time he ever got to travel out of state was to watch a football game or two in Indianapolis. “But yeah; that’s super exciting… Are you guys nervous about the big game?”

Blaine thought it was extremely cute that Dave was sticking to sports terminology when talking about show choir; it made his smile stick. “I’m personally not nervous, I know everyone else is-- probably not Rachel. I have confidence that we’ll win.” He nodded, trying not to sound too arrogant. Biting on his lip, he shrugged. “Maybe you should see if your dad would let you come cheer us on. I’m sure you could bunk with us-- Mr. Schuester is supportive of you joining at any point so I’m sure if he thought it would turn you on to the idea he would definitely let you.”

Dave nodded along with Blaine, finding his confidence a great trait. He wondered to himself silently if it came with the territory of being out and proud. Since Dave wasn’t especially invested in the glee club, he wasn’t sure what to think or make of coming along with the New Directions to Chicago. “Is that allowed? I don’t even go to McKinley again-- or, yet,” he voiced his concerns though he made no personal qualms with actually going with them. “I mean, I have all the time in the world right now until next school year so that sounds fun, but, I thought you had to be part of the team to ride on the team bus. Or, I guess, ‘team plane’ is more accurate.”

“We actually are taking a bus, so you were right the first time,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Anyway, I’ll talk to Schuester, I’m sure he’d love to have you.” Blaine promised, knowing that Will was very sensitive to Dave and his experience and certain that hearing his story of repeating his senior year and possibly wanting to join the glee club would be enough to let him join. “You could hang out with us and get to know us a little better so when you come to school next year you don’t have to worry about making friends; you’ll already have them.”

The prospect of having friends from the get-go sounded appealing. He wasn't sure how the guys on the football team would treat him when he returned and even though everyone thought the glee club was a bunch of losers, they at least had each others' backs. "I'll ask my dad; I guess it'd be cool to see how it all works behind the scenes, too." Dave thought he should warn Blaine before he got a little too ahead of himself-- "But no promises on actually joining; it's fun but even I can see how dumb Finn looks on stage. I can barely dance better than he can," he laughed.

Blaine let out a melodic laugh, shaking his head as he recalled the last time Dave danced with the glee club. “Eh, I seem to recall you being extremely talented out there on that football field-- better than Finn, even. You were very sharp, very good,” he encouraged, knowing that Dave had a lot of hidden talent beneath all of his insecurities. “No pressure on joining,” he added, “You could just come sit in sometimes or participate every once in a while.”

"Yeah? You were watching me?" Dave asked, surprised that anyone actually had an opinion about his dance moves. He was one guy in a sea of zombies; he figured the only person actually watching him amongst all the dancers and singers was his dad. "Yeah, well, I don't know-- I'll have to think about it. But I'll keep the offer in mind." Dave knew it was possible to juggle football and glee club but he wasn't sure if he wanted to be that guy; he was already going to be in the spotlight now that he was out. But maybe once the school year started, he'd feel a bit more comfortable.

“Yeah, I was,” Blaine smiled at his friend, shrugging. “I noticed when you ran out to join them and honestly, even in a sea of dancing football players, you still stood out because you were so much better than the others,” He said honestly as he finished off his second drink.

Dave chuckled at the compliment as he waved the bartender over to refresh their drinks. "I, uh, don't know about that," he replied meekly. "I mean, I guess since I play football I'm already good on my feet." Dave wasn't really the type to take compliments well-- especially if it didn't have anything to do with football or academics.

"You should see him on Country Bear Night," the bartender chimed in, having heard the tail-end of their conversation. "He gets the whole crowd going when he's havin' a ball."

Dave blushed and couldn't bring himself to look at Blaine. "Oh, n-no, I just--" he chuckled nervously. "Again, I'm just joshing around and having fun…"

“I believe it, though! He did amazing with our glee club last year.” Blaine shook his head, grinning at Dave, nudging him. “So you like coming to Country Bear Night?” He asked, making a mental note of that.

"Yeah, I guess I do… sometimes," he replied, still a bit bashful with the continued compliments. "There's not a whole lot of dancing I know how to do but I know my way around a line dance-- I have fun with it." Dave's whole thing since getting out of the hospital was really just trying to find all the ways he could be himself and enjoy who he was. Scandals always made him feel at home in his skin and that fact was made even more so on Country Bear Night.

Blaine was glad that Dave was doing so much work to find himself and find where he was comfortable; the fact that it was at Country Bear Night was incredibly endearing. “I’ve never been to Country Bear Night, surprisingly enough. I’ll have to come sometime, you can teach me how to line dance.” He didn’t intend for it to sound flirtatious.

Dave was a little caught off-guard; he’d never been asked to teach anyone anything before. “U-uh, yeah, I can teach you but you’re already so good at dancing… I bet you won’t even need my help,” he replied, though the prospect of running into Blaine again at Scandals sounded like a great time. All they were really doing here was just talking and already Dave was having a great time; he imagined dancing and letting loose would really be a lot of fun. This was turning out to be a promising friendship and Dave didn’t want to do anything to wreck it.

“I will definitely need your help,” Blaine corrected. “You can teach me and I’ll take a new skill back to the New Directions,” he laughed. “They’ll wonder who the heck I am.” Blaine took a sip of his final drink that the bartender had sat in front of him, knowing that he should be cut off around his third or fourth. He let out a content sigh, feeling a lot less heavy than he had when he came into the bar that night. Smiling over at Dave, he reached over to pat him on the arm. “This has been really nice, David. I feel a lot better than I did earlier.”

"Happy to help," Dave replied as he returned the gesture by patting Blaine on the shoulder. "You can always text me when you need to vent or just wanna shoot the shit; I'm usually here at night just to unwind, too, so I'm a decent drinking buddy." He pulled out his mobile phone and composed a quick text message, with Blaine’s phone chiming just a moment later. "There-- now you have my number too. I promise I won’t ghost you again."

Blaine smiled as he looked at his phone, immediately saving Dave’s number. “Thanks,” he repeated, shaking his head. “I promise that I’m not always a downer. Things have just been a bit rough with Kurt because of the whole graduating thing. I’m not really dealing with it well,” he shared, pulling out his wallet to pay for his and Dave’s tab. “But I will definitely take you up on that.” Blaine offered a kind smile to his new friend. He liked how comfortable he felt around Dave, it was easy and he didn’t feel like he needed to be anyone but himself.

Seeing Blaine smile made Dave smile. Although Dave didn't feel like he did much to make Blaine feel better about his problems, he was glad to help in some aspect. "I don't think you're a downer, so don't worry about it. Next time we meet, it'll be to celebrate or have fun-- not to mope or vent." Dave was adamant on making good on that statement. Dave thanked Blaine for the drinks and waved goodbye to him, watching him until the shorter man was completely out of view. One thing he knew for certain: he wasn't going to wait for happenstance to bring them together again.

[ilikelookingatthings]

Akatsuki no yona chapter 193 thoughts part 3 :a comment I was proud of on youtube

of course the dad protected his son from the damage he would have gotten for the real reasons he killed the priests most likely by spreading rumours that the priests were meddling politically and it was the prince everyone already favored anyway so yoohon basically went unpunished. by showing the implications the priests were innocents who hadn't done anything worthy of those deaths except be excited and show kindness to her family it reminds us they are HUMANS and really lets us feel what yoohon did upfront and personal. even our kid priest who we love went through hardship due to this situation and yna wouldn't have been born if soowons dad had succeeded in killing that priestess which feels different that seeing the heads of srtangers who were important to kouren's people. which was sad and motivated her but her people had been a dick to our heros at the time as well. this was up close and personal. we got to see the humanized parts and extra motivations about soowon's dad so if she says he did something we can guess he did do it. and then we see with the priests being innocent just WHY Il might hate aggression war and death so much he'd avoid it at all costs. and we've got some of the reasons for why king Il might not want soowon to marry yona or go into the mini temple. soowons dad killed the priests and burned down temples so that's a disrespect to the gods and more importantly the innocent priests that were killed. soo-won had the blood of hiryuu which you'd think would cause favor but consider the last time someone with the blood went to the temple many were then killed. like does Il ever think maybe if he hadn't brought the yon-hi to the temple genuinely wanting them to get the blessing to marry properly that the death wouldn't have happened. it also means yoo-hon could have caused the deaths of many people Il found precious and more important was still thought of as  a threat to Yonas mom by Il because yoo-hon hated the priests and its not like Il knows if it was just a excuse or like how yon-hi thought it was to protect her and her family and the promise yoohon made. 

plus soowon could potentially have that sickness that causes short life    

we see the human emotions from prince Il. the hurt/bitterness he'd feel from the big brother insulting him unwittingly(not realizing how much his big brother does love him and sees value in him because his brother is bad at communication), the anger, confusion and horror and betrayal at his brother hiding something and then destroying the priests and killing innocent people who are kouka residents, the fear and paranoia from hiding a priest under his big brothers nose and the want to protect his wife from harm, and we know he is a kind person cuz he treated yon-hi with kindness and was her friend for a while and the loss of that relationship. and we see the negatives from his overly religious side a bit as well. but its not like Il didn't anything to yon-hi after finding out that makes him evil. and it makes us know that prince Il probably didn't have much love for his brother and honestly if he does its understandable even if it seems the older brother still loved his younger brother very much to some degree. It helps set up why king Il might have been able to kill his brother. something we still don't know for SURE that king Il did. and yoohon in his bid to protect his wife ended up causing his precious brother much pain and in a roundabout way was the reason her mother killed herself. getting rid of the priests he never liked hurt the people he loved in unexpected ways. just as him protecting his country and striking fear using the heads tactic almost gave kouka and stubborn enemy with a grudge that was valid/in the right to exist. it makes me wonder if soowon outed the wifes identity to yoohon at somepoint or if Il is still under the wrong impression his brother was at all interested in the religious power or something. So I really didn't see that as backtracking us in anyway because we got the possible motives for why Il might kill yoo-hon. where soo-won got his focus on using people and not relying on gods. we see more proof of why soowon might love his dad so much and that the dads love for the younger brother was real. that yoo-hon had good intentions biu often did really cruel things without asking others and didn't listen to people thinking it was nessacary when it wasn't. why king Il might not be a fan of soowon due to what his dad did and the wife didn't stop it(though honestly we know hr husband was terrible at listening even to her so it probably couldn't have stopped anything). and it keeps us from getting too ahead of ourselves assuming people are bad from the get go like what most readers assumed of the priest despite how everyone is nuanced. like her uncle bringing up that the priests didn't hurt, swindle anyone and were kind and were even able to tell at first glance so they probably could talk to the gods(irony that zeno made the priest hood lying he could still talk to the gods and ended up scamming the country by fighting armys by himself to keep them safe rather than it actually being the gods....just for it to turn out the priest hood legit could talk to the gods or at least sense stuff). and extra things that we could think were reasons for the grandpa king to choose il over the clear favorite yoohon. 

plus in a way we get to see from soo-wons moms perspective its like how we've seen the predecessors of the white, blue green dragons. technically soowon has the red dragons blood so seeing the moms perspective makes me think of that parallel. also we are seeing one of the people that raised and influenced soo-won (the mom) which could give us a little extra something to try to figure out soowon who can be a bit hard to read at times. 

I think the twist that the priests weren't evil gives a extra layer to things. we definitely can see the bad and good sides of religion in the series. its very easy to focus on the bad but its interesting because people bonding over religion at the firetribe brought them to appreciate Yonas group and actually stopped them from killing innocent civilians in the city. they stalled and just wanted yona back but tey weren't cruel or did anything that would make enemys in the city like we had seen happened when yoohon threw the heads in lady kourens country. or how people who lost even a mini battle could hold grudges from their dead and injured. 

 the chapter reminds us that perspective is important in lots of different ways. definitely took me a bit to appreciate it though.

[writing-freak]

Useless pt. 3

Pt. 1    Pt. 2

Hank McCoy (Beast) x Reader

A/N: Final chapter!! Hope you guys liked them! More x-men to come!!!

Word Count: 1,785

Masterlist

You were incredibly grateful that the younger mutants were in class, and that your older friends were engaged in a practice mission in the training room. The hallways were completely empty, and you made it back to your room without anyone seeing your sobbing mess. You collapsed onto the floor, resting your head against the closed door behind you.

You had come to accept your mutation. You had even come to love it. You loved the way it made Hank’s eyes light up, its potential to help your friends. For once in your life you felt truly gifted, like Charles had said you were before bringing you to his school.

But you had made Hank feel something he didn’t feel. You made him kiss you, you made him feel an attraction to you he didn’t feel. Your mutation, it hurt your best friend, destroyed any trust he had in you and ruined the friendship you shared. It was horrible, disgusting even, and you hated it, more than you’d ever hated anything in your life.

Tears streamed down your face as you felt someone approach the door behind you. Feeling someone presence before being able to touch them was something Charles had taught you soon after you’d come to the school, and you knew who it was even before you felt his knock just an inch above where your head rested.

“Y/N?” Charles asked softly, and as you willed him to go away, he decided to take a different approach. Y/N? you heard echoing inside your head. It was Charles’ voice, but that didn’t make it any less unsettling. I would like to talk to you.

You reluctantly rose to your feet, and opened the door so that he could wheel himself in. As he turned the light in the room on, you were forced to meet Charles’ eyes.

“Look, my role here is not to meddle with the lives of you mutants,” Charles said finally, as if you were a small child. You rolled your eyes. “Listen, please, what I’m trying to say is that my role is to help you to embrace and learn to control your mutation. And your mutation, it’s an amazing thing.”

“But it’s horrible,” you argued. “It damages everything and does more harm than good.”

Charles laughed. “You think mind control doesn’t have its problems? Y/N, you are still learning to control it, and that’s okay. It’s more than okay, it’s what’s expected. But you need to learn right now that there’s no distinction between you and your mutation. You need to accept it as who you are, and you are good.”

“But-”

“No buts,” Charles said, sounding like a frustrated mother. “You are not trying to harm someone with your powers, you made a mistake and that is okay. It’s expected.”

“Thanks Charles,” you said, unsure of how you felt about the matter. You still felt incredibly guilty, and the idea of having to face Hank again made your stomach churn. But you knew Charles meant well, and you knew he was right, that despite everything, you were still good.

—

It had been a week since the incident, and you were avoiding Hank.

Technically, you were just making yourself busy, which is what you told Jean, but I’m all honesty, making yourself busy meant running out of the room every time you saw anyone in a lab coat enter.

You knew he was working in the lab (you’d checked on your way over), and that was the only reason why you were in the library, catching up on some homework in your favorite chair by the window. Jean and Scott had insisted on making your shared bedroom their make-out space, and while you usually supported the two younger mutants’ relationship, it had made you feel a little sick.

And so you were just opening your books when you heard a loud crash from around the corner. You rushed to help whoever it was, and was shocked to find the person you’d been avoiding for so long in the exact same position he’d been in just a month or so before.

“Really, Hank?” You asked, and despite your fear for the coming conversation, you felt your eyebrows raise. “Again?”

Hank froze, his eyes wide as he realized you were really speaking to him. “Y/N...I…”

The smile that had begun to grow on your face faded, and you looked down at the pile of empathy books surrounding him. “Need some help?”

“Yes,” Hank said finally. You helped him gather the books and return them to the shelves.

“I guess you won’t be needing these anymore, huh?” You said, trying to hide your disappointment.

“Yeah, I guess not,” Hank said. “I’m nearly finished with your gun, just need to test some stuff out, really, so I won’t be needing any of these anymore.”

“You’re still working on your invention?” You asked, shocked. Hank looked confused.

“Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?”

You looked away. “I just figured...you know...after what happened…”

Hank grew very red, his pale cheeks pink with embarrassment. “I’m nearly finished. Would you…” he took a deep breath and looked at you with hopeful eyes. “Would you like to see it?”

You felt something settle in your chest, and the smile you gave him felt genuine. “I’d love to.”

Hank had been lying when he said your gun was nearly finished. The sleek silver and yellow gun was fully completed when you entered the lab, a dozen or so walnut-sized discs surrounding it on Hank’s table.

“I just need you to try it out,” Hank said, placing the gun in your hand. It fit perfectly, and now you understood why he had made a mold the shape of your hand weeks before.

Hank showed you how to load the discs into the gun, and then walked about ten feet away.

“You want me to test it on you?” You asked, shaking your head definitively. He rolled his eyes.

“They won’t hurt.” When you still looked reluctant, he added, “I promise.”

You still felt hesitant as you raised the weapon to point it at Hank across the room.

“You need to act like you’re manipulating my emotions before you fire the gun. You’re essentially using your mutation on the gun, which then in turn uses it on me.” You nodded, focusing the gun on Hank’s right shoulder.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you pulled the trigger, telling the gun to relax, to sleep, as it fired a disc at your best friend.

The disc hit exactly where you had been aiming, and Hank dropped to the floor, fast asleep.

You couldn’t control the feeling of excitement that overwhelmed you. It had worked! To test the weapon once more, you channeled the opposite energy, and hit Hank once more. It mere seconds, he was picking himself off of the floor, and huge grin on his face.

“It worked,” he said, his blue eyes lighting up. “It actually worked.”

You could tell he was still working on processing it, but you had already begun understanding what this meant. “It worked!” You yelled, jumping up and down. You ran to Hank, and threw your arms around him, squeezing him in a hug so tight you were sure he was unable to breathe. “Thank you,” you breathed in his ear. “Thank you so much.”

And then, pulling away, you did something that surprised even yourself. Unable to control it, you leaned forward to kiss him. It was short, shorter even than the last time, and you put about a foot of space between the two of you before even looking at him again.

“I’m sorry,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m so sorry I did that, especially after what happened last time.” You were about to walk away, the previous excitement you’d felt beginning to diminish as quickly as it came. But Hank looked confused.

“What happened last time?” he repeated. “I didn’t mean-”

“I know,” you said. “You didn’t mean to, I know.”

“No! I mean, yes, I mean-”

“I’m so sorry I made you do that. I’m so sorry-”

“Made me do what? Kiss you?” Hank’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You thought you made me kiss you?”

You frowned. “Well, yeah.”

Hank flushed an even darker red than before. “I definitely kissed you on my own.”

“But you said-“

“I didn’t mean to kiss you without talking to you first. I didn’t mean to kiss you out of the blue like that. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, or ruin our friendship, or make you avoid me for a week.” You looked at the floor, feeling guilty all over again. “I wanted to kiss you.”

You looked up at him then, and felt a small smile return to your face. Feeling particularly brave, you took a step forward to place a hand on his red cheek. You knew a million thank you’s could never express just how grateful you were to him, for taking the time to help you, for being a part of your life, for making you accept yourself, but you decided to try anyway. As you stood on your tiptoes to meet his height, you felt a flutter of butterflies in your stomach. You couldn’t tell if they were your own or Hank’s. They intensified as you brought your lips to meet his.

Though you had done it before, kissing Hank this time felt different, and you felt pure joy for the first time in over a week as you rested your forehead on his, letting out a sigh of content. Hank’s glasses were fogged up, which made you giggle lightly, but you could still see his eyes lit up behind them, making your chest swell with happiness.

“I lied to you before,” Hank said suddenly, snapping you back to reality and causing your eyebrow to raise in question. “Those discs do hurt. Do you mind helping me pull them out?”

You jumped back in surprise, at least as far as Hank would let you with his arm hooked around your back. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, Hank, I’m so sorry! Let me help you!” It must have been the expression on your face, because Hank let out a laugh, his pearly whites shining as he looked down at you. The laugh was cut short when you pulled the two discs out of where they were embedded in Hank’s shoulder, and he winced. “Sorry,” you repeated, wincing yourself. He shook his head.

Looking down at the discs in your hand, you felt the burst of excitement all over again. “It worked.” Hank grinned.

“It really did.”

[neuxue]

Wheel of Time liveblogging: The Gathering Storm ch 32

In which ghosts have funerals and Nynaeve plays detective.

Chapter 32: Rivers of Shadow

That’s a lovely chapter title. And interesting, if a little ominous, combined with the snake-and-wheel icon that’s basically shorthand for ‘this chapter has implications for the entire story and world’.

And we’re with Nynaeve. Standing on top of a wall. Not you, too, Nynaeve!

I’m not going to quote the whole thing but the opening description is very atmospheric and lovely.

She can still feel a storm in the north, only it’s not really a storm, it’s a metaphor, and when the wind starts blowing it’s also a metaphor, and actually it’s another point of parallel between her and Mat. Her weather-sense is quite a lot like his dice. Both basically just say ‘PLOT COMETH AHEAD’.

There would never again be a place for her in the Two Rivers. She knew this, though it hurt her. She was Aes Sedai now; it had become who she was, more important to her now than being Wisdom had once been.

That’s quite an admission from Nynaeve, Queen of Denial, Self-Deception and Malkier.

It’s also a nice continuation of her thoughts from way back in TFoH, when she and Elayne were on the wagon away from Tanchico and Nynaeve had a moment to think about what she wanted and who she was becoming. How this started out as her wanting to protect the people from her village, but then shifted more into a desire to learn how to Heal, and set her on the path towards becoming Aes Sedai – something she once utterly denied ever wanting to be, but has been becoming ever since.

And it’s one thing for Egwene to leave the Two Rivers behind; she wanted a bigger world, and while she’s occasionally expressed some nostalgia, she came of age elsewhere. The Two Rivers was a childhood home, but she is no longer a child, and her life has taken her beyond that village.

Nynaeve, though, came into adulthood in the Two Rivers. She was Wisdom; it was her place in the world, her identity, not just her childhood. And when she left, so much of that was taken from her, and so much of her journey since then has been about re-establishing who she is, both to herself and to those around her. She is no longer the Wisdom, but along the way she has gained wisdom.

And now, she’s almost finished with that journey. They all are. The time for character development is past; it’s time to take their places, as who they have become, for an ending.

That simple life – once all she had been able to imagine – would now seem dull and unfulfilling.

How far she has come, to be able to acknowledge that and admit it to herself without fighting it. She knows herself, now. She’s faced so many of her fears and insecurities – has actually faced one of her worst fears twice: once in her Accepted test and then again at World’s End – broken her block, become and embraced being Aes Sedai, and in the process she’s learned to accept and be herself. She’s still Nynaeve, so she’d still probably want to box your ears if you said that to her, but she can be so much more honest with herself now. She can see and understand things like this, even if it runs counter to who she once thought she was meant to be.

Have I mentioned that I love Nynaeve’s character arc?

The nearby fields were barren. Ploughed, seeded, yet still barren. Light! Why didn’t crops grow anymore? Where would they find food this winter?

I don’t know, maybe ask some Aiel to come sing to them? They might not mind a break from kidnapping rulers. Loial would probably join in.

So they’re up here to look at…ghosts?

Like a wisp of the ocean fog, a tiny patch of glowing light was blowing across the ground. It grew, bulging like a tiny storm cloud, glowing with a pearly light not unlike that of the clouds above. It resolved into the shape of a man, walking. Then that luminescent fog sprouted more figures. Within moments, an entire glowing procession strode across the ground, moving at a mournful pace. […] They were composed of a strange, otherworldly light. Several figures in the group – which was now about two hundred strong – were carrying a large object. Some kind of palanquin? Or…no. It was a coffin. Was this a funeral procession from long ago, then? What had happened to these people, and why had they been drawn back to the world of the living?

This is lovely. I didn’t mean to quote so much of it, but it’s just a very cool image. Soft and light and a little bit eerie and a little bit mournful but also strangely beautiful. Then again, Sanderson has practice at writing ghosts among mist…

I suppose it’s fitting that a ghostly funeral procession turned up the day after Rand did. The Pattern’s fraying, and right now he carries a feeling of darkness and death…and yet, this doesn’t seem dark in the same way. Sad, perhaps. Wistful. But it puts me in mind of the whole no beginnings or endings notion. This has been, and perhaps soon will be again, and the Wheel turns.

A guy turning to charcoal, on the other hand, is just fucking creepy.

But also kind of cool.

Mostly creepy, though.

“You’ve heard that he is proclaiming that the Last Battle will begin soon.” Nynaeve felt a stab of worry for Lan, then anger towards Rand. He still thought that if he could stage his assault at the same time as Lan’s attack on Tarwin’s Gap, he could confuse his enemies. Lan’s attack could very well be the beginning of the Last Battle.

Which seems very fitting, to me. Maybe it’s because Malkier feels almost like a prelude to Tarmon Gai’don, if you zoom out a little. Or maybe because of the parallels between Lan and Rand, and the way Lan feels like a…version of Rand on a smaller scale and different timeline. Tied to Malkier as Rand is tied to the land as a whole, an embodiment almost of a nation or world. Fated, or believing himself fated, to give his life to that cause.

And it would be fitting, too, for Lan’s personal war in the Blight to finally come to fulfilment not as a waste, not as a distraction from his and Moiraine’s and the world’s greater cause, but as the true beginning of its culmination. As if Lan has been held back until now, held back by other duties and other bonds but always looking northwards, until it becomes time for those things to intersect and so he is released.

Also it would be a fitting nod to part of Aragorn’s role in Return of the King, so there’s that.

“Yes,” Cadsuane said, musingly, “he is probably right.” Why did she keep that hood up? Rand obviously wasn’t around.

Because it adds to her aura of wisdom and mystery, obviously. She’s almost three hundred years old; she can do it for the aesthetic if she wants to.

The other Aes Sedai resumed their conversation, Merise and Corele taking further opportunity to voice their displeasure with Rand in their separate ways – one dour, the other congenial.

It made Nynaeve want to defend him.

Ah, Nynaeve. That’s just like her – she can chew out her people until the cows (sheep?) come home, but if someone else so much as looks at them crosswise, she will be boxing ears before you can say ‘hypocrite’. I love her.

And honestly, that’s not even a particularly unusual trait, as much as it’s fun to laugh about in Nynaeve. Anyone here have siblings? Yeah.

Nynaeve started to leave, and as she did so she noticed that Cadsuane was watching her. Nynaeve hesitated, turning toward the cloaked woman. Cadsuane’s face was barely visible by torchlight, but Nynaeve caught a grimace in the shadows, as if Cadsuane were displeased with Merise’s and Corele’s complaints. Nynaeve and Cadsuane stared at each other for a moment; then Cadsuane nodded curtly. The aged Aes Sedai turned and began to walk away, right in the middle of one of Merise’s tirades about Rand.

One of the subtle things I’ve enjoyed is watching the relationship between these two change, especially Cadsuane’s growing respect for Nynaeve. In Winter’s Heart, she thinks she will not acknowledge Nynaeve as Aes Sedai until Nynaeve has been tested and has held the Oath Rod. Then, in Crossroads of Twilight, we get this: The child would need to flash her Great Serpent ring under people’s noses to be taken for Aes Sedai, which she was, if just technically. It’s a small shift, but definitely a shift. And now this – a nod of seeming respect, of agreement, even, as if between equals or allies. It’s just one of those on-the-sidelines relationship shifts that can be fun to see in subtle snippets like these.

That nod of Cadsuane’s couldn’t possibly have been given out of respect. Cadsuane was far too self-righteous and arrogant for that.

Well, she’d hardly be the first Aes Sedai you’ve judged that way, Nynaeve. Moiraine?

What to do about Rand, then? He didn’t want Nynaeve’s help – or anyone’s help – but that was nothing new.

It’s hard, when there’s so much else at stake. Because it’s not just about him – it’s about the entire world.

And ‘I don’t want anyone’s help’ is fine when it’s, say, your maths homework. Or a struggle between friends that people keep meddling with. Or when work sucks and you’re tired and your flat’s a mess and you just want to not have to deal with any of it for a bit. But there’s a point where it stops being a thing people actually need to listen to – where help becomes necessary whether you want it or not – and I’m pretty sure that point is somewhere slightly before ‘I carry a nuke in my pocket just in case’.

Now, it’s also true that a lot of the people ostensibly trying to help Rand are actually just trying to push him in one direction or another, and are not in fact helping at all.

And there are others who are trying to help, but are going about it in a way that is absolutely not going to work.

And there are some who are perhaps trying to help him, but are mostly trying to help keep the world from breaking apart around him. That’s where it gets a bit…tricky.

But as threatening and as intimidating as Lan could be, he’d sooner chop off his own hand than raise it to harm her.

Too soon, Nynaeve. Too soon.

Rand. Once, she’d thought him as gentle as Lan.

Once, he was gentle. But then…*waves at entirety of series up to this point* thathappened.

That Rand was gone. Nynaeve saw again the moment when he had exiled Cadsuane. She’d believed that he wouldkill Cadsuane if he saw her face again, and thinking of the moment still gave her shivers. Surely it had been her imagination, but the room had seemed to darkendistinctly at that moment, as if a cloud had passed over the sun.

Yeah um…not just your imagination, sorry.

And this is where Nynaeve sees more than perhaps most of the people around Rand, including some of the other Aes Sedai. Cadsuane sees it as well, but the others, I think, don’t realise quite how significantly he’s changed. Nynaeve, though…she knew him when he was gentle. And she knew him when he was becoming the Dragon Reborn, Healed him when he said he wasn’t sure how human the Dragon Reborn could afford to be, stood by his side and protected him when she could, however she could. She can see that something has changed, that the boy she knew is…hopefully not gone forever but certainly on a very extended, forced holiday.

Still, she won’t turn away from him. Nynaeve doesn’t give up on people like that. And anything can be healed.

But first, a coughing child. I suppose it’s the sort of thing Rand might once have paid attention to – refugees and starving children – as he did in Tear with the two steamwagon boys for whom Min foresaw tragedy. Now, though, he can’t take the time or the energy to care. And so it falls to Nynaeve.

I suppose it’s a way to show her in a role that’s not actually unlike Wisdom. Just for the world in general and with greater power and knowledge. But that doesn’t mean she’s left this behind: her care for those who need help or Healing, her sense of responsibility for those who find themselves in her care or purview. And also her low tolerance for bullshit, as evidenced by her dealings with this kid’s father.

“He should live, if you do as I say. […] If the fever starts again, bring him to me at the Dragon’s palace.”

“Yes, my Lady,” the woman said as the husband knelt, taking the boy and smiling. 

Nynaeve picked up her lantern and rose.

“Lady,” the woman said. “Thank you.”

Nynaeve turned back. “You should have brought him to me days ago. I don’t care what foolish superstitions people are spreading, the Aes Sedai are not your enemies. If you know any who are sick, encourage them to visit us.”

She’s still blunt and a bit abrasive, of course, but even so I think she’s just done more for the reputation of and sentiment towards Aes Sedai with one Healing than any of the others have in the city thus far.

Because, while she has become Aes Sedai, Nynaeve isn’t one to hold herself aloof and apart from the world, not when there are people who need her help or healing. She can’t help everyone – like Rand, she can’t solve everyone’s problems – but when she can, she’ll always try. She doesn’t ignore the refugees as not worth her time; she just tells them to bring their sick to her. Because they’re suffering, and she can help, so she will. She’s practical that way. Practical and caring – it was one of her early conflicts with Moiraine, that Moiraine could look away when people were suffering, in the name of a greater cause.

Both kinds of people are needed, and this helps highlight Nynaeve’s own strengths. She knows Tarmon Gai’don is coming, and is certainly focused on that, but she doesn’t let that stop her from taking the time to help a random child who needs it, because that’s who she is. She’s still Wisdom in many ways, just of more than Emond’s Field, and it doesn’t much matter to her if the people who need her help are refugees or royalty.

But I think it definitely surprises the family, to see an Aes Sedai so…human, I suppose. Human, and straightforward, and helping them while asking nothing in return except that they not keep anyone else who needs help away.

How did one handle a creature like the Dragon Reborn?

Ask Min. Or Elayne. Or Aviendha.

Look, it was just lying there…

Nynaeve knew that the old Rand was there, within him somewhere.

Oddly enough, she seems to be one of the every few to actually…see that. To remember that he’s human.

He had simply been beaten and kicked so many times that he’d gone into hiding, letting this harsher version rule.

He’s human, and he’s hurting, and he’s been hurting so much for so long. It’s amazing, in a way, that so few are able to understand that, seeing instead a monster or a legend or a weapon or an obstacle, but rarely seeing the broken, bleeding boy. Amazing, and yet at the same time not surprising at all. That’s how this works. And he’s done too good a job of pushing that humanity away – though it becomes a vicious cycle at some point; how long can you retain humanity when no one expects it of you?

It’s one of the most important things about Nynaeve, especially in terms of her role in Rand’s story: she doesn’t stop seeing that. She can see what he has become, can see what he’s done to himself, but she can also still see the boy from her village. And that’s no small thing. He needs that now as much as – perhaps more than – he ever has; he needs those anchor points, those people who know him and love him and see him, otherwise how could he find his way back even if he decided he wanted to? This at least gives him the choice. To know he is loved, to know he is seen, to know that he is still human in the eyes of those who know him.

As much as it galled her to admit it, bullying him was just not going to work. But how was she to get him to do what he should, since he was too bullheaded to respond to ordinary prodding?

Ah, Nynaeve. Bless her. *shakes head fondly*

It’s a good realisation, but I also like it because even her thinking here shows clearly that she’s seeing him like just another problem from her village, rather than as some cosmic gamepiece she needs to position and control. Yes, she’s trying to get him to ‘do what he should’, but it’s the sort of tone she might have used in thinking about how to get young Matrim Cauthon to milk his father’s cows when he’s supposed to.

So in that sense she’s not really…treating him any differently, just because he’s the Dragon Reborn and could incinerate her where she stands. And there’s great value in that – it’s honest, it’s straightforward, and it’s very much Nynaeve. This is just how she shows her love.

There was one person who hadmanaged to work with Rand while at the same time teaching and training him. It hadn’t been Cadsuane, nor had it been any of the Aes Sedai who tried to capture him, trick him or bully him. It had been Moiraine.

So much growth from Nynaeve, to be able to understand and acknowledge this.

Her grudge against or hatred for Moiraine is another thing I’ve enjoyed watching the progress of over time because it does what so many hate-at-first-sight reflexive yet largely irrational hatreds and grudges do in reality: it fades, gradually and often subtly, until it’s just not there anymore but you can’t put a finger on when exactly it vanished, or why. It just takes lesser and lesser importance in the face of other things, other points of focus.

Of course, her apparent death, and Nynaeve’s shame at her own response to it, certainly helped – I think that ‘death’ shifted the perception of her in the eyes of quite a lot of characters and even readers towards the more positive. Because memory turns to legend, and things are altered in that changing. It does set her up well for an eleventh-hour return.

But a lot of it is just that Nynaeve hated Moiraine because Moiraine represented the changes she resented – leaving Emond’s Field, the boys and Egwene changing and sometimes suffering, Nynaeve losing her sense of place and purpose and authority – more than because of Moiraine herself. And so as she’s grown – as she’s accepted some of those changes, and found a place in this larger world for herself, and learned to embrace her own power, and understood the necessity or inevitability of some of what has happened, and focused on her true passion for healing – that sharp hatred faded to wariness and then to something more like a stubborn and even petty attempt at holding on to that grudge, and eventually even that faded to…respect. Understanding, perhaps.

Well, Nynaeve wasn’t about to act the same way for Rand al’Thor, no matter how many fancy titles he had.

I’m not sure that method would work now, anyway. It worked for Moiraine because she understood what he needed and would accept and respond to at the time. When he was being pushed and chased and tormented into a power he feared, when he was fighting to prove his claim to a destiny he didn’t want, when he was unsure and afraid and trying desperately to mask it, fighting for control and authority and so, so afraid of being outplayed, taken, used by those who knew this game he was only beginning to understand but was thrown in the middle of.

That was a mindset in which he could accept some guidance and advice because on some level he could admit he very much needed it, so long as he could be sure it was free of manipulation – the thing he so greatly feared, because at the time he was far more susceptible to it, new as he was to the game and to power, and with barely even the Aiel at his back.

Now…subservience, obedience, obequieousness are commonplace to him. Aes Sedai have sworn fealty to him. He doesn’t fear manipulation as he once did, because the scales of power have shifted so drastically, and doesn’t acknowledge his need for advice the way he once might have. So it will have to be a different approach.

Perhaps Nynaeve is well-suited to that; perhaps meeting his eyes and letting the fact that he is the Dragon Reborn and could kill her on a whim just…pass her by, seeing him and treating him instead as human, is in itself a form of surrendering in order to control. Not fighting against what he is, yet also not being cowed by it; just letting it exist, and accepting it, and focusing on him instead of on that.

Maybe I’m forcing the metaphor too far. But it’s a nice metaphor, so…*shoves*

Or maybe the solution is just appearing to die in a way almost perfectly designed to fuck with the guy’s head, and then reappearing dramatically at an opportune moment.

She needed to show him that they were working for the same goals. She didn’t want to tell him what to do; she just wanted him to stop acting like a fool. And, beyond that, she just wanted him to be safe.

It’s that last part that makes her so different from the others she disdains as petty manipulators. The simple fact that she cares about him.

She’d also like him to be a leader that people respected, not one that people feared. He seemed incapable of seeing that the path he was on was that of a tyrant.

No, Nynaeve, he sees it. He just can’t bring himself to care. After all, what does a tyrant’s rule matter if it is destined to be short-lived?

(A somewhat related but largely tangential question: does anyone know if there’s any etymological link between ‘tyrant’ and Tyr, Norse god of justice/law/war who sacrificed his hand to bind a wolf? It feels like there shouldbe, though I can’t find anything that says so, but as I’m neither linguist nor Norse mythology/language/history expert, I’m really not qualified to answer.)

Anyway, Nynaeve, like Cadsuane, has a plan. Lots of mysterious plans showing up here recently. Knowing Sanderson, they’re likely to collide around the 85% mark somewhere.

Though I don’t know how much of the pacing he’s directly responsible for and how much of it would be contingent on whatever was already outlined, so who knows?

Nynaeve’s lantern cast strange shadows on the grass as its light shone through the trees trained and trimmed in the shapes of fanciful animals. The shadows moved in concert with her lantern, the phantom shapes lengthening and merging with the greater blackness of the night around her. Like rivers of shadow.

Subtle as a hammer. But it works, because it’s not meant to be subtle at this point. It’s meant to be a drumbeat that says Tarmon Gai’don, that doesn’t let you forget for a moment where we’re heading, because it’s close, now. It’s close, and it’s everywhere, and it’s inescapable.

There’s also a bit of a circling back to the opening of the chapter here, in the image of phantom shapes moving with her lantern – with the light – but merging with the darkness around as well…and a glowing funeral procession of the dead, a haunting yet beautiful reminder that the world is coming apart at the seams, as Light and Shadow take to the field.

The whitewashed walls were as immaculate here as they were in other sections of the mansion, but they were unornamented.

Not unlike— actually, no. I am not going to sit here and write a paragraph on the symbolism of undecorated walls. I am not. You can’t make me. I have dignity.

Turns out Nynaeve doesn’t need grey hair or an Aes Sedai face to get people to do as she tells them when she has her mind set on something. Especially when it relates in any way to helping or protecting her people. Which includes just about anyone she says it does.

Do they not know she’s Aes Sedai? Or is she ‘my Lady’ because she’s married to a king? Or is the hat she made fun of on that random worker actually a fedora?

Rand had determined that his hunt for the Domani king had hit a wall with the death of the messenger.

But you know how to deal with walls, Rand! Just climb on top of them and then fall off.

Nynaeve wasn’t so certain. There were others involved, and a few well-placed questions might be very illuminating.

Ah, so that’s the plan. Find out some information that will be useful to Rand – that he definitely wants – as a sort of…not peace offering exactly, but indication that she’s on his side and willing to help.

I’m not sure that’s really the secret to getting him to listen, but I suppose it can’t hurt.

…that’s probably a stupid thing to say, given, you know, everything about this book so far.

When in doubt, ask the housekeeper. And she’s seen the messenger, who definitely sounds beautiful enough to have come from Graendal. Probably the one we saw, briefly.

“Had one of the most beautiful faces I rightly think I’ve ever seen on a man.”

Unless of course he’s Galad.

“He was sent for questioning,” Nynaeve said shortly. “I have little time for foolishness, Loral. I am not here looking for evidence against your mistress, and I don’t really care what your loyalties are. There are much larger issues at stake. Answer my question.”

But what a different sort of not-caring it is than Rand’s. She’s direct and to the point, and not particularly delicate about it, and anything that isn’t relevant is not her concern because there are bigger issues…but it’s not an all-consuming attitude; it’s just pragmatism. It’s not nice, and she’s definitely using her power and position to intimidate and to get people to do what she wants, but she also has very clear, definite limits. And a clear, definite purpose. And also the capacity to feel emotion, which is probably a plus.

Excellent, looks like we’re in for some good old midnight skulduggery. Elayne would be so proud.

So would Cadsuane, probably, at how Nynaeve is handling this. But I’ll try not to let Nynaeve hear me say that.

True, Rand might grow angry at her for appropriating soldiers and stirring up trouble.

But Nynaeve is one of the very few people left who doesn’t fear his anger. She does a little, on something of an instinctive level where if he looks at her with the full force of his I-have-stared-into-the-True-Power-and-the-True-Power-stared-back act she’ll recoil, but it doesn’t…take. It doesn’t last. It’s not enough to make her turn away, or run. It’s unnerving, but there’s too much caring and concern and sheer stubbornness to her where he’s concerned for fear to truly take root.

Moiraine said something to this effect once, that he would need people around him who could face or quell his rages, who could, in essence, continue to look him in the eyes. She was talking to Egwene, but Nynaeve has taken on that role in many ways.

And I think it’s important that she’s there as someone who doesn’t love him the same way Min and Aviendha and Elayne do. It’s a different kind of love, a different kind of bond, and therefore a different kind of…anchor, or reminder.

Such a lovely evening stroll, through the rotting fish gut district to the prison.

She wished she had news from the White Tower.

Yeah, huh, it’s been a hot second since she’s actually heard anything from…anyone, really. It seems like Egwene could pay her a dream-visit, but I suppose Egwene has quite a lot of other things demanding her immediate focus, last we saw she was bleeding and about to be imprisoned, and I think she might not want to bring her problems to Nynaeve’s attention because she knows there’s nothing Nynaeve can do about it right now. There’s too much else that needs to be done, and all she can do is focus on her part of it, on doing what she can to heal the Tower.

Still, a brief message would be…far too much communication to expect, in this series.

Ha, a prison disguised as a chandlery. A place of walls and dark and cold, disguised as a place that sells candles for illumination. Cute.

Sanderson, we need to have a talk about your obsession with hawk-faced men. It’s gotten out of control. An intervention is required.

The writing here also feels much more Sanderson than some of the other parts have, but I don’t actually mind it as much because the shape of the characters and ideas feel mostly how they should. Maybe Nynaeve’s a little more direct in some of her thoughts, but it still feels like her, so it bothers me less that the phrasing is off. Sanderson said in his introduction that he wasn’t going to try to perfectly imitate Jordan’s style, and he hasn’t, and I can live with that because it’s certainly preferable to the alternative. It’s noticeable, but that’s okay. It’s only when the actual content – characterisation, particularly – feels wrong that it becomes frustrating.

But any good secret operation would have a working front.

Always another secret, right, Sanderson?

See, that’s the sort of line that definitely doesn’t feel like Jordan, but…oh well. It’s fine. It does the job. And this doesn’t feel like a scene where note-perfect prose is important, the way, say, The Last That Could Be Done was. And that, Sanderson got right. So I’ll take it.

(I may be less sanguine next time a Mat chapter rolls around, but again that’s because the changes start to actually interfere with the character and the story.)

Fight! Fight! Fight!

Pacing-wise, I suppose it’s about time this particular storyline was punctuated by a random fistfight. Not that I’m complaining about the fact that it’s been mostly talking and thinking since Chapter 22, because it’s deliciously painful talking and thinking, but sometimes you’ve just got to break some noses I guess.

“Which one do you think I should ungag,” she asked casually, “and which one should I kill?”

Okay she can be pretty terrifying when she wants to be. This almost reminds me of…Semirhage, actually, in that scene where she had Cabriana and her Warder held suspended in flows of Air much like Nynaeve has these two not-chandlers. I mean, that’s just about the only similarity, but it’s what came to mind.

Of course, she’s not going to kill either of them. They just don’t know that.

Which makes this interesting to compare to Rand; as a reader it’s incredibly obvious that there is a difference, because we can see their thoughts. But just as it seems many outside observers don’t fully realise just how far Rand has gone, it’s possible they also wouldn’t see as much of a difference between his threats and Nynaeve’s, here. So much is dependent on perception, and on what you know and don’t know.

But there is a difference, whether or not it’s clearly visible to an outside observer, and in this series that’s important. It’s important that Nynaeve does not intend to kill, here, and almost certainly would not even if it would make this task easier. It’s important that she’s doing this for a clear purpose, and for a cause she cares about. It’s important that she can feel.

Private jailers like these riled her anger.

Guess we know where she stands on the privatisation of prisons, then…

“I will do whatever you say! Please, don’t fill my stomach with insects! I haven’t done anything wrong, I promise you, I—”

She stuffed the gag of Air back in.

But you’re missing the best part, which is where you pause and then take the gag back out and he’s still talking, so it’s like pressing ‘mute’ off and on. Come on, if we’re doing a midnight prison raid there are tropes that must be observed!

[The other] looked sick, but he had probably already guessed that she’d want the dungeon. It was unlikely that an Aes Sedai would burst into the shop after midnight because she’d been sold a bad candle.

I mean, I wouldn’t put money on it. We’ve been taught well: Aes Sedai do the things they do for their own reasons.

A youth sat on the floor in front of him, and Nynaeve’s globe of light illuminated his face, a frightened Domani one with uncharacteristically light hair and hands spotted with burns.

“Now, that’s a chandler’s apprentice,” Triben said

Is he now? I feel like he wouldn’t be mentioned if he weren’t relevant – and I especially feel like he wouldn’t be mentioned in such a disarming, ‘nothing to see here’ way. I’ve read murder mysteries and whodunits. I know what I’m about.

She raised her globe of light and surveyed the cellar. The walls were stone, which made her feel much less nervous about the weight of the building above.

If you’d spent any time in the Tower recently, you might feel differently…

Or if you’ve spent any time with a mad Asha’man in the basement of a palace…

‘Hawk-faced’ count this chapter: 3. Sanderson. Please.

“Keys?” she asked.

Okay now I want a story about a wilder thief in one of the bigger cities whose main ‘trick’ is picking locks with weaves of Air.

And hello there, Lady Chadmar. Not enjoying your stay here, I see.

Nynaeve inhaled sharply at seeing how the woman was being treated. How could Rand allow this?

Because he dismissed her, and put her out of his mind completely. Because he can’t afford to care about her anymore, so she is none of his concern. Because nothing matters anymore, beside the Last Battle. If she lives, she lifes. If she dies, well, he’s already damned; what’s one more name?

Again, Semirhage was treated better. But that’s because Rand still cared, then.

“Now,” she said to the three, “I am going to ask some questions. You are going to answer. I’m not certain what I’m going to do with you yet, so realise it’s best to be veryhonest with me.”

Cadsuane really would be proud. She’s sticking to the truth here, but still conveying a…well, it’s more of a figs-and-mice kind of threat than anything else, really. And it’s certainly effective.

Nynaeve sighed. “Look,” she said to him. “I am Aes Sedai, and am bound by my word. If you tell me what I want to know, I will see that you are not suspected in the death. The Dragon doesn’t care about you three, otherwise you wouldn’t still be here”

But she also gives them this. She doesn’t sit there speculating on whether or not she could simply will their hearts to stop beating. She threatens them, yes. She’s harsh. But she also offers…fairness, amnesty, pardon. It’s a question of lines in the sand again, I suppose, in determining the relative morality of this compared to Rand, but it still seems to me there’s a very marked difference. One is bound, still, by her word and her station and her general sense of what is and is not acceptable. The other…isn’t. It’s a question of limits.

The interesting part, again, is in the difference or similarity of perception by those who don’t have the privileged access we do into Rand’s and Nynaeve’s heads. Do these jailers feel any less threatened by Nynaeve than they would by Rand? She seems to be more human, offering them a chance to leave with their names clear, and reassurances that she will hold to her word, but she’s also Aes Sedai, appearing at midnight. Would they see the darkness around Rand? Would they react differently? To what extent does it matter whether or not the person threatening you has limits, if you don’t know where those limits are?

It’s part of the whole thing that I find so interesting about outsider POV – a chance to see how these characters are perceived by someone who can’t see their thoughts, and therefore a glimpse at them from a different angle, which can sometimes reveal surprising things. And then its close cousin, the view of outsiders from within a known character’s mind, but in such a way as to make you wonder what exactly it is they’re seeing. To see that character in a different way even while you’re in their head, through the reactions of those around them.

It’s something Jordan was particularly good at, and it’s being done rather well in these recent chapters as well, with the change in Rand’s mindset, and the way it’s so clear in his POV but not necessarily to all of those around him. And here, to see complete outsiders react to Nynaeve in such a way that makes it clear they see her very differently than those of us who have been in her head since the first book.

Anyway, it’s something I always find intriguing. Perception is such a fun thing to play with, and you can do so much with it when you have these lovely long character arcs.

“If we talk, we go free?” the fat man said, eyeing her. “Your word?”

Nynaeve glanced about the tiny room with a dissatisfied eye. They had left Lady Chadmar in the dark, and the door was packed with cloth to muffle screams. The cell would be dark, stuffy and cramped. Men wo would work a place like this barely deserved life, let alone freedom.

But there was a much larger sickness to deal with. “Yes,” Nynaeve said, the word bitter in her mouth.

Because there are things she will not do. And things she needs more; things that matter more.

And I do think there’s a difference in how they see her to how they would see Rand, because they’re willing to ask for that promise, for her word, and to take her up on it.

So the jailer is holding firm to the story that the messenger just dropped dead one day. Some aspect of Compulsion, perhaps?

“The man remained for months in your possession, presumably healthy all that time. Then, the daybefore he is to be brought before the Dragon Reborn, he suddenly dies?”

Nynaeve, too, has read her murder mysteries.

“I don’t know how he did it, Lady. Burn me, but I don’t! It’s like some…force had ahold of his tongue. It was like he couldn’t talk. Even if he wanted to.”

Yeah there was definitely some element of Compulsion involved, at least in keeping the messenger from talking. I wonder what happens when you put a Forsaken’s Compulsion against a dark ta’veren’s pull?

I’m kind of surprised that, for all Nynaeve’s experience with Compulsion at Moghedien’s hands, she doesn’t seem to pick up on this.

But she can’t seem to get much else out of any of them, and like so many ideas that seem excellent around or just after midnight, this one is starting to lose its shine a little.

Aha!

As soon as Nynaeve began the Delving, Nynaeve froze. She had expected to find Milisair’s body taxed by exhaustion. She had expected to find disease, perhaps hunger.

She had not expected to find poison.

A slow poison administered in several doses through food. And who makes the food?

Any guesses?

Yes indeed, it’s the ‘chandler’s apprentice’. Well done, Nynaeve, you’ve solved the case!

Next (TGS ch 33) Previous (TGS ch 31)

[arazialotis]

Profile Picture Not Included

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Word Count: Around 3000

Summary: The reader has been single for a while and has had trouble with dating, even online matches. But with her sister’s need to meddle, giving up may not be as easy as it sounds.

Warnings: Language

Special shout out and thank you @misguidedconqueress for always being there and helping me out!

Obviously I intend no hate or ill wishes to him or his family. This is purely just for writing and wasting my time.

This is purely for a hobby and my enjoyment. Maybe some of you will enjoy it too. I apologize in advance for any mistakes or grammatical/spelling errors. I appreciate any feedback or suggestions!

—–

Online dating… Is that what your life had come to? It was mostly your sister that had convinced you. She had been hounding you since your last breakup; trying to set you up with her friends and coworkers, scheduling get togethers and ‘forgetting’ to mention she was bringing along a male friend or prowling for bait anytime you stepped foot in a bar. So you set up the account to appease her need to dabble in your love life. Even went on dates with a few matches, but ended up only with a couple free meals and disappointment. Needless to say, it had been a few weeks since you pursued other matches.

Your phone buzzed, your sister was ringing. “Hey, Sherri what’s up?”

“I just thought I should tell you, I scheduled a date for you tonight.” She blurted out.

You rolled your eyes. “Sherri, come on. I need a break from divorced attorneys and college bros.”

“Just hear me out. This guy seems really promising, like a 94% match.” She babbled.

“… Wait, you were on my profile?” You accused her.

“What?” She defended. “I thought it could be pizzazzed up a bit.”

“Oh my god.” You logged on to see what damage she had done.

“Well, maybe if you used a password unrelated to Jensen Ackles, perhaps it wouldn’t be so easy for me to hack in.” She argued.

Thankfully, she hadn’t messed around too much. She just updated the profile picture and added some extra information to your bio. You looked through your recent matches. “Okay, so who’s the guy?”

“His name is Jay Akens… I thought it sounded similar to Jensen’s name so you might have a slight interest.” She hinted.

You scrolled down to the match and clicked on his profile. “Ugh, he doesn’t even have a picture.”

“Listen, you can’t afford to be choosy. If all you’re hung up on is unreachable celebrities you’re never going to find anyone because your expectations are set to high.” She lectured.

“Well, I have a photo op scheduled with him in two months, so technically he is reachable.” You argued back.

“Yes, I’m sure in all of five seconds, he’s going to fall madly in love with you.” She teased.

“Shut up. I am a rational person, you know. I do realize that something like that would never happen. I just don’t want to fall for the first guy I have the slightest connection with. I’ve done that before…” You started explaining.

Sherri interrupted. “And you got hurt, and you need space to breath, and you want to think about your choices before making a commitment, blah blah blah… Honestly Y/N, you’re becoming a broken record.”

You sighed but didn’t respond.

“It’s not an actual date, just a phone call.” She urged.

You pulled up the conversation Sherri had wrote in your place. “It says he’s in the film business and with no profile pic, you know that means? He’s some pervert living in his mom’s basement and exploring options in the porn industry.”

“It’s just a phone call…” She repeated.

“… Fine, but that’s all I’m signing up for.” You gave in. “And I’m changing my password to something unrelated to Supernatural.”

“So something to do with Doctor Who.” Sherri laughed.

You hung up on her. And kept reading through his bio. Interests include country music, golfing, physical fitness and sports, playing guitar and outdoors. How the hell was this guy a 94% match?

——

Jared bounded across set from the makeup trailers to the bunker where they were shooting most of today’s scenes. Jensen was pacing back and forth reading through the script. The crew started to filter in from a lunch break and got into places.

“Hey.” Jared greeted Jensen.

Jensen immediately picked up on Jared’s odd mood, knowing instantly he was hiding something. “What the hell did you do?”

Jared sat down on the library’s table and raised his hands in defense. “Nothing, nothing… Actually…”

Jensen rubbed his hand on his forehead. “How many people are we going to need to apologize too?”

“It’s not that bad.” Jared whispered.

“Places!” The director yelled.

Jensen and Jared got into position, as the costumes team came in and quickly altered their appearance.

Jared talked over them. “I got you a date.”

Jensen rolled his eyes. “I’m not interested in a date.”

“She’s super cute.” Jared pulled out his phone and handed it to Jensen.

“What the hell is this?” Jensen scrolled through the app.

“It’s your dating profile.” Jared chewed on his lip.

It’s a good thing the director called action, otherwise Jensen may have socked him right there and then. Jensen quickly slipped the phone into his pocket and rolled through the scene.

“Reset! Five minutes!” The director called.

“A dating profile? Are you fucking kidding me?” Jensen whispered to Jared.

“It’s been five months dude, you need to move on.” Jared instructed. Jensen wasn’t buying it. “It’s just a phone call, no sitting down or booty calls required.” Jared assured.

Jensen pulled out the phone again, looking over your profile.

“She has gorgeous eyes, and look at the smile.” Jared nudged him with his elbow.

Jensen couldn’t deny Jared’s comment. He slightly smiled as he read over your profile; Physical Therapist, artistic, avid reader, loves all four seasons, and a little bit of a dork with a side of nerd.

“See…” Jared encouraged. “Just give it a chance. She’s your highest match.”

Jensen scoffed, thinking those formulas were simply made up and selected at random. He clicked back and viewed the profile Jared had set up for him. “Oh come on, you made me sound like a complete douche.” He complained. “Jay Akens?”

“Well, we couldn’t put the real you out there… otherwise every girl would match themselves to you.” Jared explained.

“There’s not even a profile picture, she probably thinks I’m some creep still living in my mom’s basement.” Jensen grumbled.

“Just think of it of it as an opportunity to get over this hump… A way to stimulate the appetite.” Jared teased.

Jensen whacked his shoulder before the director yelled action again.

—-

Your hands were clammy and your heart was racing. ‘Just a phone call. Just a phone call.’ You repeated to yourself over and over. It was 7:30 and he was supposed to be calling you. A few more minutes had passed and you finally released your clutch on the phone and set it down on the counter thinking how amazing it would be if he forgot to call. Not two seconds later the phone buzzed and you silently cursed to yourself.

“Hello?” You sheepishly answered.

“Umm, Hey is this Y/N?” You heard a deep voice ask.

“Yeah, Jay?” You responded.

“Mmhmm.” He confirmed followed by an awkward pause.

You broke the silence. “So, I’m just going to be completely honest. I’ve really slowed down on this whole online dating thing and it was my sister who set this call up.” He softly chuckled. “That is too weird. My friend set up my entire profile and this call, so we’re pretty much in the same boat.”

Maybe that’s why there wasn’t a profile picture, you thought… or he’s still a creep and lying through his teeth. But his voice did sound awfully nice; deep and sexy. Stop imagining things, you scolded yourself trying not to set expectations high as your sister so willingly pointed out earlier in the day.

“So if your friend set up your profile, was he pretty accurate?” You asked.

“I guess so, I kinda sound like a trust fund brat, which I’m definitely not.” He explained.

“Well, what else are you interested in then?” You questioned.

“Umm… Sailing, Clint Eastwood movies, horseback riding… I’m not really helping myself here, am I?” He kicked himself mentally.

“Not really,” You laughed. “But hey, to each his own.”

After another cumbersome pause, Jensen tried again. “So how do you want to do this, alternate questions that each of us have to answer?” He purposed.

“Sure, I have to report something back to my sister so that would help.” You agreed.

“Okay… previous relationships?” He started.

“Jeez, jumping in hot and heavy…” You gritted your teeth.

“Yeah, you’re right, that was a stupid question.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“No, it’s good, let’s just get it all out there now.” You said. “I have been out of a relationship for about a year and a half now. We were college sweethearts, never engaged or married or anything like that. We just got bored and fell out of love I guess. So I’ve been on dates here and there but nothing has really stuck… So now you answer?” You asked, confirming his proposed agenda.

“Yeah… I ended a relationship five months ago. I found out that she was cheating on me repeatedly and was more interested in chasing status and wealth than an actual relationship.” Jensen explained.

“God, that sucks. I’m sorry.” You tried to empathize.

“Don’t be, I was an idiot by not seeing it in the beginning. Your question.” He directed.

“Any kids?” You asked.

“Nope.” He answered.

“Me neither.” You responded.

“Do you want kids?” He questioned.

“Ummm…. If I find the right guy, it might be nice. I guess I’ll figure it out down the road. If the road ever goes that way, that is.” You explained.

“I’ve always wanted a family. White picket fence, dog in the front yard, you know, the American Dream.” He expanded.

“Oh no! Not a dog.” You disagreed.

“Well, the dog isn’t a requirement. I was just trying to paint a picture… I’m pretty indifferent to pets at this point but I’m assuming you are not a dog person.” He slightly chuckled.

“Yeah, not at all. I definitely would want a cat someday.” You confirmed.

“Come on, why cats?” He argued.

“Well, because dogs just love you unconditionally, no matter what you do. With cats you have to earn their trust and respect, and even then it’s not guaranteed. So when a cat loves you, they chose to, it just means more.” You defended.

“That’s kinda weird. Unconditional love is still love. And with that, you know it can never be lost, even if you screw up. ” He disclosed.

“But it you screw up bad enough, perhaps you need a bit of punishment and not just forgiveness so you can learn from your mistakes.” You argued.

“So you’re a masochist.” He giggled.

“What?! Gross. No! Maybe… I don’t know…” You began to blush.

“Okay, I’m sorry, it’s your turn anyways.” He directed.

“Then different topic… You said you’re in the film industry, what does that entail?” You asked.

“Well…” He chewed the side of his cheek wondering how much he should disclose. “I travel a lot between home and Vancouver where we shoot. And yeah, just do a little bit of everything on set.”

Supernatural was shot in Vancouver, you thought. “Do you work on anything I would know?”

“Probably not,” He lied. “Just B horror stuff, I’m hoping to work my way up the ladder though.” “Yeah, definitely nothing I would know then. The last horror movie I saw was the Exorcism of Emily Rose and I couldn’t sleep for like three months.” You confessed. “I can handle the basic spooky tv stuff though, like the X Files.”

“The truth is out there.” Jensen said the tagline. “I want to believe.” You smiled back.

“So what do you do then?” He asked.

“I’m a physical therapist. I do outpatient so typically my patients are well enough to be outside the hospital living at home and have some functioning back. Our goal is just to increase their capabilities.” You explained.

Jensen lightened up. “You know, if I wasn’t going to go into film I wanted to go into physical therapy/sports medicine. I even was accepted into the University of Texas.”

“Oh fun! Deep in the heart of Texas.” You quickly sang and did the clap afterwards. “You know I’m never sure if you are supposed to clap before or after singing Texas.” “No!” He laughed loudly. “You’re supposed to clap before you sing the line altogether.”

You chuckled a bit to before clapping and then singing it over in your head “Are you sure? It doesn’t sound right.”

“I’m fairly confident.” He assured.

“Okay, good to know; even though I’m not sure when I’ll use that again. What made you pick the Longhorns?” You asked.

“Family’s originally from there. I even still got some of that southern drawl, ya’ll.” He slipped into a thick accent.

You laughed. “Alright, I’ll make sure to greet you with a good ‘Howdy partner’ next time we talk.”

“You’d like to talk again?” Jensen hesitantly questioned.

You thought about it, realizing the words had slipped out of your mouth. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Jensen smiled. “Me too.”

“Okay. Well, I guess I’ll talk to you soon?” You timidly asked.

“That’d be nice. Same time next week?” He suggested.

“Sounds good.” You confirmed.

“It’s a date.” Jensen said putting it down in his calendar.

“It was nice talking with you Jay.” You added.

“You too Y/N, have a good night.” He ended.

—-

A month and a half had flown past, your weekly calls with Jay had turned into practically three nights a week. The more you talked with him, the more things seemed to click. You both understood each other in a way you hadn’t with anyone else. And your sister had definitely taken notice. Your coffee get togethers had turned into interrogations.

“Do you just want me to record our conversation next time so you can properly psychoanalyze it?” You proposed.

“That would be very thoughtful, thank you.” She didn’t pick up on your sarcasm.

“I mean, I don’t know what else to tell you. He’s sweet, he’s playful, he’s genuine. He presents himself like he’s the full package.” You explained.

“Then what’s holding you back, take it to the next step.” She urged.

“Well, I’ve told you. He’s mostly in Vancouver, so it would be an expensive trip.” You threw out an excuse.

“Then what’s next, your three hour phone conversations are going to turn into five?” She challenged.

“Did Mom tell you? God, I need to get off the family plan.” You sipped on your coffee.

“And so what, it would be expensive. I happen to know for a fact that you have built up at least three months of PTO and you get paid decently. With hardly any expenses other than rent and loans, you should be rolling in dough.” She accused.

“But he hasn’t even sent me a picture or anything yet, for all I know he’s still just a creep and making up this fake persona.” You reasoned.

“Have you even asked him for one?” She knew you all to well.

“No, but I’ve strongly hinted.” You defended. “I can’t even find him on Facebook or anything. It’s like he doesn’t exist.”

“So the only way you are ever going to know, is if you set something up.” She pressured.

“If he was truly interested he would suggest it first.” You argued.

“Y/N, wake up! It’s the 21st century! It’s okay for you to make the first move.” She argued back.

“Just call me old fashioned, I would like to be pursued a little bit.” You explained.

“Wait a minute! You’re just waiting for that Supernatural thing, aren’t you.” She tested.

“I’d like to have my options open when the time comes. I can be very convincing in five seconds; if Jensen would just hear me out, I think I could get him to go on a date.” You played, no real seriousness behind it.

“Don’t you pass up something great, for these silly fantasies of yours.” She warned.

Later that night you received a call from Jay. He typically was the one to do the calling as he had explained his schedule could be irregular.

“So, I have a confession…” You began.

“Shoot.” He was eager to hear.

“I’ve slowly started listening to some country music and it’s not all that bad.” You shared.

“Haha! Everyone has a bit of grassroots in them somewhere. And now I can finally say, you convinced me a few weeks back and I purchased some Odesza tracks. You should have seen the looks on the crew’s faces when I started playing them, they were completely shocked.” He laughed.

“You know… I’ve been thinking…” You started.

“Uh-huh.” He encouraged.

“I mean, it’s really my sisters fault for putting the idea in my head, and I know she won’t let it go until it happens…” You backed down, losing courage.

“What is it Y/N? Maybe I’ve been thinking something similar…” He confessed.

You sighed before jumping back in. “What are your thoughts on meeting in real life? Like actually sitting down over dinner….”

“I thought you’d never ask. I’d love to! You have no idea.” He said much to your surprise. “You know, I’m actually going to be out in Indianapolis like in two weeks. I’d be close to you, well closer than Vancouver is to you anyways.” He suggested.

“Like the week of the 23rd?” You asked shocked.

“Yeah.” He confirmed. “… For a business convention.” It technically wasn’t a lie, he told himself.

“That’s so weird, I’m going to be out in Indianapolis that weekend… for a conference.” You fabricated.

“Oh cool, what kind of conference?” He questioned.

“Umm, continuing education, for work.” You expanded the fib, not wanting him to know yet how geeky you really were.

“We should totally meetup! Want to get together that Sunday night?” He suggested.

“That would work perfect. I’ll be there overnight, leaving back to town Monday morning. Oh, but the conference runs pretty much the full day. It’d probably be like a late dinner, like 8:30 or so.” You explained.

“Seriously, it has to be fate. That fits perfectly with my schedule.”

“You’re not going to a conference on lymphoma are you?” You deepened the lie, trying to pull out more information from his end.

“Ah crap! I passed that one up. If I had only known before you were going to be there.” He joked.

“I think dinner will be great though, maybe we can text more details closer to the date.” You suggested.

“Sounds good Y/N. Can’t wait for it. Good night.” “Night Jay.” You ended.

You flopped down on your bed, chewing your lip in anticipation for a very exciting weekend.

— 

Click Here for Part 2

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[akiyamapining]

I HAVE A THOUGHT

Okay I’m like, exhausted. Haven’t really slept in like, four days. I’m at the point where I just KNOW I’m tired but I just don’t FEEL tired and I’ve been thinkin. Hear me out, it’s probably impossible. I blame my tired brain.

Luffy's Gear Second speeds up his blood, which in turn speeds up his body, he's tecchnically moving at speeds faster than much of the world around him with no mental jetlag, and only few physical repercussions (it strainss his heart, I don't care if he's made of rubber, that shit is dangerous!!). But like, hear me out, I might just be really tired and coming up with stupid shit, but like, if Luffy Awakens his Devil Fruit, if at all possible for him, what if it's just like activating Gear Two.

But instead of just gaining a speed boost, ot allows him to go so fast he travels through time??? Or gains an ability akin to the Instant Transmission technique from Dragon Ball Z???

Really, logic does NOT apply to Luffy, at all. He has gone into situations that have the odds SO stacked against him it’s not funny, but usually comes out on top! He’s a favorite of Lady Luck, has almost died like… 15 times, was fucking TORTURED as a child by a nasty, rotten pirate who didn’t care what he did because obviouSLY THE END JUSTIFIES THE MEANS, was RESCUED from CERTAIN DEATH by his CHILL FOSTER DAD™(Shanks), has managed to turn ENEMIES into ALLIES, not once but like DOZENS of times, rose to infamy in like… threeeeeeish months, survived his abusive freak of a grandfather (I love Garp, I really do, but that is NOT how you show love, and that is NOT how you treat a child. HE NEARLY KILLED LUFFY OVER A DOZEN TIMES USING THE EXCUSE OF “Training him to be an upstanding marine”! If anything, I think that Garp made Luffy begin to doubt becoming a marine, thought about it with a simple “I’ll have to listen to commands, and it’s a robbery of freedom”, but wasn’t about to abandon the option, because he still loved his grandpa and wanted to make him proud. Shanks and his stories of his grand adventures as a pirate merely allowed Luffy to harbor and grow that doubt into a hard-as-diamond belief.), stopped the civil war in Alabasta because WOW VIVI IS DISTRESSED LET’S NOT, broke into Impel Down, got terribly poisoned, was given the option to be cured but the cure was ALMOST just as deadly as the poison itself, went through TERRIBLE pain, and came out VICTORIOUS, albeit in technical terms ten years older (not physically, he lost ten years doing that. In my standards, he aged up ten years in bodily health. It won’t catch up with him til later in his life though, I bet), and survived getting the flesh on his chest, his RUBBER FLESH (ugh, that must have been horrible to see, and smell), melted off because he had been lucky enough to have caught the interest of supernova-at-the-time, Trafalgar Law.

With all of that in our minds, I wouldn’t doubt that Lady Luck would grant his Awakened Devil Fruit the ability to travel through time, or basically teleport.

Because come on.

He’d literally be stretching time and space.

’~’

I admit, he’d, at first, almost do something stupid. With time travel, he’d go back and try to prevent so much bad shit that’d happened to him without thinking of the consequences, as always, and he would end up DRASTICALLY changing things.

For example: he would go back to prevent, let’s say, the events of Marineford. Whitebeard would still be alive, Ace would still be alive, so much DEATH would have been avoided, and Teach would target Luffy and his crew in an attempt to become shichibukai. The vile man had seen Luffy’s wanted poster and decided to target him, and then full out admitted this to Ace at Banaro, and Ace definitely was NOT going to have that! I memorized their conversation as evidence because people like to sass me with a classic “YOU HAVE NO PROOF!”:

“First, I’ll go to Water Seven from here to kill Strawhat Luffy and hand him over to the government!”

“Luffy…!? What did you say…!? ”

“Oh? You know him?”

“I won’t let you lay a finger on him. He’s my little brother! ”

’~’

Luffy preventing Ace from being taken to Impel Down in the first place, which means preventing Ace from continuing to hunt Teach by, maybe, telling Ace about the Yami Yami no Mi and it’s abilities, and, if he manages it because coME ON, he can’t to save his life, lie about how he knows this, which would either drive Ace back towards Whitebeard in an attempt to prepare for such a battle, maybe even train more, or wouldn’t prevent Ace’s action against Teach, but would cause him to take the fight MUCH more seriously from the get go with the newfound knowledge. Going with the latter route, Ace taking the fight seriously from the start, if Ace seems too powerful to Teach, he’d do everything in his ability to flee the battle, as the man has always been a coward, and was never a carrier of The Will of D, despite being Marshall D. Teach. I don’t doubt that Teach would somehow escape Ace’s fury and flee Banaro, deciding against his thought of turning in Ace instead of Strawhat. He would hide out with his crew, or what may be left, for a lil less than a month. Lay low. No destruction, no killing, nothing from the Blackbeard Pirates. They would fall off the grid. Ace, having lost the man’s trail, would either continue roaming for any leads, or retreat back towards Whitebeard with his newfound knowledge of the man’s abilities, because he has SOMETHING on the man now, and his crew should know.

Teach would then head towards Sabaody and Fishman Island to have a run in with the Strawhats. They wouldn’t win that battle, and Luffy, plus his crewmates if they knew, would then be given to the government, and, knowing Luffy’s heritage, they’d rush to execute him almost as fast as they had with Ace. The papers would be full of excitement over it.

“SON OF REVOLUTIONARY DRAGON TO BE EXECUTED IN A MONTH!” the paper would scream, alerting everyone Luffy had managed to save or befriend, in one way or another. Shanks, Dorry, Brogy, Whitebeard (if Ace found out and lost his shit. He would try to leave, to rescue his baby brother, who doesn’t deserve to be executed. He would be held back, kicking, screaming, and crying out that Luffy was his first light in the dark, that he needs to save his little, adorable brother, that he’d always hate himself more than he has if he lets Luffy die. I feel that it would hurt Whitebeard and the others on the ship to see someone who was usually smiling and cracking jokes and being a nasty little brat on some days, and just an all around JOY to be around, be so… lost, and broken, and just a WRECK. They’d go and help save Luffy, I think. Whitebeard knows the importance of family, knows that Luffy means the WORLD to Ace, who was so, so PROUD when Luffy’s first bounty came out, and any brother of Ace was a son of his, and no one would be executing one of his sons when he could do anything about it.), two Yonkos and two giants.

The marines had been dreading in the original timeline that Shanks would join in the fighting when he arrived 15 minutes late to the war with a latte, imagine their horror as Whitebeard and Shanks join forces to save a simple, small boy made of rubber, who's grin and energy touched the hearts of practically millions on both the East Blue and the Grand Line.

But, the whole thing would be a plot by the marines to draw out Dragon, to catch him trying to rescue his son. But, the Revolutionaries, they are one big WILD CARD! I haven’t gotten enough about Dragon himself to even begin to THINK that be would mobilize forces to save Luffy. But, he did rescue Luffy at Loguetown, remember that. I bet he would be so so PROUD of Luffy, who was causing the World Government so much CHAOS, doing just what he had been doing, but instead of planning, like Dragon, he just went and did it. And if anything, the sudden headline would spark SOMETHING in the amnesiac that is Sabo, a deep-seated terror that he doesn’t know the origins of, or maybe it would knock him into a wave of soul crushing horror as memories of a small, bright little boy came crashing into him like a tsunami, he would drop the paper in horror, he never knew that Dragon was Luffy’s FUCKING FATHER, he would rush to Dragon about it, and if the man would do nothing, Sabo would become enraged. What a horrible father, what a SNAKE! He would beg, plead, do anything to get this man to save his FUCKING SON! And if Dragon was going to act, he would assign Sabo and a select group to infiltrate Impel Down to save Luffy, only to have barely missed him, yet they would be able to break out Luffy’s crew, if they had been captured when trying to help Luffy. Anyone can elaborate on what happens after this, I’m moving on.

If Ace had retreated to Whitebeard instead of going to Banaro to confront Teach, the man would have, more than likely, destroyed Banaro and would make his way to Water Seven. I estimate that he’d make it there after the events of Enies Lobby, unaware of the dramatic uppage in bounty that would follow. Aqua Lagoona had just passed, he’d just miss the Strawhats leaving the large city, but he would see the newly built Thousand Sunny flying as quick as a bee out towards the ocean, and he would follow. They’d go through some bastardized game of cat and mouse, I doubt Teach would even TRY confronting the Strawhats so close to Thriller Bark. So he’d wait until the fog lifted, like an idiot, because he probably doesn’t know the fog won’t lift. But, and correct me if I’m wrong, the fog DOES lift after Moria is defeated. He follows Luffy to Sabaody, where he confronts the Strawhat crew, and from here I believe the events mentioned in the last path would come to pass.

’~’

That was an example of what his meddling with time could lead to. Robin, of course, would stop him from doing it. She understands the risks of time travel, she’s read many books after all. Not only would she warn him to never use his power unless it was his ONLY CHOICE, she’d have him PROMISE!! And Luffy never breaks a promise, at least, not to my knowledge. It would be a great way to reset if he loses too much. And that means if he loses his crew, and he doesn’t feel he can go on without them.

Honestly, I find Luffy’s Gears facinating. Gear Two is advanced speed, Gear Three is damage spread across a large distance, and Gear Four is a mix of both. Truly interesting, the things Luffy has come up with for attacks and abilities when it comes to his own body. Which is why I’m instantly appealed by a Luffy moving so fast that he stretches time and space to the point of time travel, or teleportation.

And honestly, I kinda wanna see what other people have to think about my lil (understatement) rant here.

This has been your friendly neighborhood crow, signing out so I can attempt to sleep.

[mrevaunit42]

Road to being a hero (My hero academia AU prequel)

Hello everyone, Mr.E here wishing you a fantastic week! 

I’m here to say happy birthday @minthia-ren *throws confetti* WOO! and for your birthday I took a wild guess and made this *an idea give to me by @artgirllullaby thanks lullaby!*

So a few weeks ago i made a SVTFOE my hero academia au which you can read right here  https://mrevaunit42.tumblr.com/post/162875418322/im-going-to-be-a-hero-boku-no-academia-au-part   I had loads of fun with it and figured you know what would be really cool, making a prequel of it.

So while this is based on the my hero academia series *highly recommend* this is not exactly a one to one as i like to change up things in aus so i can write my own version of stories in that world. 

All Might and The Queen *this au’s Eraserhead* are the top heroes around but before they were they best, they were River Johansen and moon Butterfly, two students at UA high, training ground for all heroes and while River doesn’t technically have a quirk, he isn’t the only one with a secret. 

So this takes place before River gains one for all and is basically the first day of school of his freshman year.

The main bad of this story is basically an oc but there are two old foes who have cameos in this I was just too lazy to describe them. also no spoilers I made this background up

Have an amazing birthday minty and you too if it’s your birthday when you read this. Happy birthday! *yes I stole this from Caddy and I don’t care.* 

Notification squad: @hipster-rapunzel @nerdymetalhead @isolated-frequencies @ladyxgilex @thefandombytes 

“Wow….”

The words slipped out of young 14 year old River Johansen but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t contain the excitement bubbling in the pit of his stomach. Despite the setbacks, despite the nay sayers, despite being told an undeveloped quirk was paramount to being quirkless, he was here. He was ready to follow his dreams and become a hero.

He was about to take his first steps into the giant, seemingly impractical building of U.A high.

River glanced down at his hand, a torrent of emotions running through him.

River was a rather unusual case in the world that bred heroes and villains overnight. Quirks were manifestations of great, weird and strange powers about 80% of the world possessed. A physical part of a person’s identity nowadays.

River technically had a quirk, a power hidden deep within himself. The problem was it was hidden too far inside and no one could hazard a guess how to get it out. The doctors referred to it as undeveloped: A quirk that had been forming but has stopped for no apparent reason. Since the quirk gene hadn’t finished developing the power, it simply did not work. It was just there.

River could still pass on his quirk to his children (Whatever it may be) and for all intents and purposes was registered as a quirk user with the government but the harsh reality remained: either the quirk would form one day or it wouldn’t.

Normal, more sane people would’ve been deterred, given up and gone out to seek normal, everyday lives but not River. He was neither of those words and he refused to allow his destiny to stop there. He would be a hero even if he had to claw his way from the bottom to get there.

And claw he did.

Without access to his quirk, River decided to focus on the one thing he could control: Himself.

He trained intensely over the last few years, building his strength and stamina to peak physical condition. He could run miles without tiring, bench press double his weight and picks fights with bears and come out the victor.

Not that he did fight any bears. That would silly and dangerous of course.

However, despite all his hard work and effort, no one would take him seriously whenever he declared he would be a hero. An undeveloped quirk, they reasoned, was just as bad as being quirkless. He would never be a true hero because it was simply too dangerous for someone who was basically human.

River never listened to them for a moment. He refused to believe such a thing and even if he had to lie to get into UA, he would get in.

Which, coincidentally he might’ve actually done.

River nervously glanced over his schedule, trying to keep a calm face amidst the happy go lucky teenagers that surrounded him as he focused on the most troubling aspect of the piece of paper he held in his hand

Quirk: Super Strength.

So he panicked. It was perfectly understandable given how left field the proctor’s question came from and it’s not like anyone was hurt. True his hand was a little swollen and bruised after defeating so many test bots but he passed 1st place with a nice chunk of rescue points on the side. He was living proof one did not need to have a quirk to be a hero.

Too bad he couldn’t actually tell anyone about that.

“It’s fine” River muttered to himself, anxiously fixing his school uniform, patting down his short blonde hair “it’s fine, no one will ever find out.”

“Find out what?” A voice asked quizzically.

River nearly jumped out of his skin as he faced the owner of the question. He felt his cheeks burn as he lifted his gaze higher to find a pair light blue eyes staring him at curiously.

She was nearly a head taller than him with long straighten pale blue hair. Her face was set in a stony indifference but her eyes spoke with more emotion than he had ever seen in anyone.

“That…I…” River spoke slowly, trying to will his mushy brain to work “Don’t know where I’m going! New campus you see and I’m lost. I’m looking for 1-A but I don’t seem to…”

“1-A?” The girl repeated “That’s my class. I can show you to it if you don’t mind.”

“T-thanks!” River beamed despite the nervous beating of his heart “I’d really appreciate…say, have we met before?”

The girl rose an eyebrow “Have we? I don’t seem to recall.”

River stroked his chin thoughtfully “Oh, I remember! You were in line to take the school exam! Sorry I don’t usually forget a face, especially one as pretty as…”

River gulped, quickly covering his mouth

If the girl caught River’s slip of the tongue, she didn’t let on

“Oh, the examination. I suppose I would look familiar. I haven’t introduced myself yet. I’m Moon Butterfly.”

River took her hand eagerly “River. Umm, River Johansen!”

“Pleasure to meet you River.” Moon said, gently pulling her hand away “Shall we head to class?”

“Of course, ladies first”

Out of pure instinct or perhaps more likely out of some misunderstood signal from his brain, River fell into a bow before he realized what he had done.

River’s blush worsen out of embarrassment and he was at a lost how to escape this situation without further embarrassing himself.

River could feel his heart stop as Moon’s cute giggles played on his ears “Alright my good sir, please follow me.”

River scratched at his neck as he dutifully followed behind Moon.

The grin on River’s face was priceless. His muscles ached from how wide it was but he couldn’t help it! First day of school and he’s already made a new friend and no one suspected he didn’t actually have a quirk. He learned a lot from his teachers and he was finally taking the first true step to be the hero he always dreamed he would be.

Everything was coming up…

“Please, that’s all my money! I need it.”

River stopped in his tracks, ignoring the noises of the city for a moment.

“Shut up and hand it over.”

River scanned the area, eyes narrowed in concentration when he picked up a tiny whimper coming from the alley ahead.

River ran as fast as he could, barely mumbling apologizes to those who were slow in moving out of his way as he pushed past.

He ducked into the narrow passage only to find a sickening sight.

There was a boy about his age in a regular school uniform huddled on the floor, crying and sniffling as three older students hovered over him menacingly.

He had never seen any of them in his life but his heart burned with a righteous fury as he noticed the very familiar attire that the three older teens wore.

“HOW DARE YOU!” River shouted, unable to contain his rage any further.

The three older students turned around, a smug sneer dancing on their lips

“Dare what?” The middle one spoke up, taking a step forward. It was clear he was the later “We’re just doing some business. Nothing to get involved with”

River clutched his fist tightly, trying his best to ignore the barely veiled threat.

“You are UA students” he told them through tightened teeth “You are supposed to be heroes. You are supposed to protect and serve others, not your own greedy desires.”

The leader scoffed dismissively “You’re a bit naive of you think that kid. Get out of here before I show you how the world really works.”

“Meddling when you don’t need to…” River dropped into a fighting stance

“Hmm?” The trio looked confused at the 14 year old.

River took a deep, calming breath before letting out the fiercest battle cry he could muster, his fists clenched as he raced forward with all his might

“…is the essence of being a hero!”

The leader remained unimpressed as the diminutive pipsqueak inched ever closer.

River threw himself at a lunge, ready to plant his fist firmly into the jerkbutts stomach as hard as he…

He nearly lost his balanced as the leader of the bullies vanished without a word and left him grasping at empty air and despite how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop the shiver that ran down his spine upon seeing the goons knowing smirks.

River gasped loudly as all the air was knocked out of his lungs, the leader towering over him, his knee driven as deep as he could manage into River’s stomach.

River fell backwards and landed on the cold pavement.

“Tch” The leader grimaced, rubbing his aching knee “What the hell? You’re built like a wall.”

“H…how did you do that?”

“Oh the whole vanishing act?” The leader waved off the seriousness of the question “I can freeze time at will. Dangerous.”

“Yeah” the shorter goon chuckled dumbly “Except it only lasts as long as you can hold your breath.”

“IDIOT!” The leader screamed “Ugh, whatever. It’s more than a match for you pipsqueak.”

River weakly rose to his feet, fists at the ready once again.

The leader shook his head “You just don’t learn, do you?”

“I’m thick headed like that” River replied with a smug smile

The leader said nothing as his goons approached. The shorter of the two hands morphed into giant lobster pincers. The taller one’s arm turned into a massive of unrealistic bulk of muscles.

“Monster Arm, Lobster Claws teach him a lesson.” The leader grinned evilly before vanishing into thin air once again.

River braced himself as the two remaining bullies rushed towards him but before he could react to their attack, something basked him in its shadow.

River whirled around to find the leader of the scum grinning manically at him, his arm raised high.

“Hey!”

Everyone stopped dead in their tracks from the sudden outburst but while River had been expecting backup for his foes, the looks on their faces made it clear that wasn’t the case.

“3 against one seems a little unfair, doesn’t it?”

River frowned thoughtfully, the familiarity of the voice poking at his memories but he couldn’t fathom a guess who could that be.

“Now then” Moon’s voice called out “Give back whatever you took from that boy and let my friend go or else we’re going to have a problem.”

“Moon!” River cried out

The leader rolled his eyes as he turned to face yet another 14 year old brat that fancied themselves a hero.

“Look kid” he spoke condescendingly “Your little boyfriend made his choice and I need to teach him a lesson about sticking his nose in other people’s business.”

‘Boyfriend?!’ Despite the severity of the situation, River couldn’t stop the blush from forming on his cheeks.

The leader went on “So move along blue unless you want the same lesson”

Moon’s gaze was indifferent but River could see the cold, controlled fury brimming in her eyes.

“Well then” Moon said simply “I suppose I have my answer.”

The leader smirked as he inhaled deeply and…

Nothing. Nothing happened and instead of everyone else locked in place, he found himself straining, willing his body to move but his muscles remained frozen, unresponsive to his brain’s commands.

He glanced upwards only to find the brat had locked eyes with him, her light blue eyes a pale gray as her hair stood on end almost like it had been caught by a breeze.  

“Guys” He strained to talk “She’s got me locked in place”

“We’re fine” Monster arm turned to his partner in crime.

“yeah we can move.” Lobster claw answered.

“You idiots!” The leader scolded “That means she can only get one of us. GET HER!!”

“Right boss!” The pair scurried forward, their sights set on the teenager holding their boss in place but in their rush they had forgotten one tiny, angry detail.

River lunged at Lobster Claw, smashing the ¾ths teen, quarter lobster straight into a brick wall.

Lobster lashed out, flailing his claws out wildly but this wasn’t River’s first fight.

River ducked under the attack and tackled his stomach as hard as he could. Lobster claw wheezed as all the wind out was knocked out of him. he whimpered softly as he collapsed onto the floor.

River didn’t bask in his victory yet. His legs were already moving but he feared it was far too late as Monster Arm rose his hand and aimed it straight for Moon’s jaw.

The confidence never left Moon’s face as she nimbly dove under the jab, pivoting on the balls of her feet while her hair fell back into place, her eye contact with the troublesome leader broken for a moment.

Monster Arm turned around, striking outward with his hand in a wide swing but Moon was far too quick for him: She sidestepped the attack and caught the mass of muscles by the wrist. With a strained groan, she pulled Monster Arm over her shoulder and sent him slamming into the pavement with a satisfying thud.

Moon wiped her hands cleaned of non-existent dirt while she blew a loose strain of hair back into place “I’d say that’s victory for me.”

The leader disagreed silently as his muscles slowly began to relax and unstiffen now that  her gaze was turned from him. He flexed his fingers carefully, making sure he had free movement before attempting his quirk.

River made his way over to Moon, unable to keep the admiration out of his eyes “That was so cool Moon! I didn’t know you could do that. Umm, what was that exactly?”

“It’s my queenly gaze” Moon explained “but most people call it Medusa’s gaze. I can freeze anyone in place so long as I make eye contact with them. The side effects take a few seconds to wear off once I look…oh no!”

“That’s right” The leader appeared, towering above the two 14 year old’s without warning “It’s game ov…”

River moved to intercept but Moon was already on it.

Her eyes did not pale this time nor did her hair rise but her hand did and with it, a giant, shimmering blue copy appeared and squished the hapless leader of the bullies against the wall before forming out of existence without warning.

“That’s…not…fair” he whined as he fell onto the floor and unconsciousness.

Moon could feel anxiety building within her as she mentally cursed herself. She wasn’t supposed to use that so openly, so recklessly. Her mother warned her about what would happen if the wrong people discovered the secret about her second quirk. The secret of the Butterfly family….

A moment turned into seconds and seconds became dozens but eventually Moon turned to River, wondering what was going through his mind right now.

“You have a second quirk?”

Moon blinked, surprised at the excitement in his voice. Not curiosity or fear or confusion but genuine joy and giddiness.  

“Y-yes.” Moon uneasily answered “but I can’t really talk about it. I’m sorry River.”

Moon glanced downward sadly, wondering if she lost her new friend over her most guarded…

“That’s okay, I understand.”

Moon blinked in astonishment “What? Y-you do?”

River gave a cheerful nod “Of course. A second quirk is an unheard of thing. It’s a secret and one you need to keep. One I will keep.”

Moon could feel her heart skip a beat at the sight of River’s toothy grin, his blue eyes filled with sincerity.

“….I…” Moon began but River added “I’ll make it fair. I’ll tell you the secret about my quirk”

“Your quirk? You mean super strength?” Moon gestured to the imprint of Lobster Claw molded perfectly on the wall’s surface.

“Nah, that’s just because I’m strong from all the training” River revealed “but the truth is my quirk is undeveloped”

“Under….developed? I…I don’t quite follow”

“I have a quirk” River explained “But it hasn’t actually formed yet. I don’t know what it’ll be…or if it’ll ever actually become active…”

“River…”

“That’s why I lied” River went on “They would’ve never let me in the school if they found out I didn’t have a quirk.”

“Don’t be silly River” Moon shook her head “We have the support…”

“I don’t want to be support.”

Moon stared at River, his determination evident in his tone.

“I want to be a hero” River said “I want people to know everything will be alright. That no matter what is going on, they’re safe. That they have nothing to fear. You know why?”

“Why?” Moon asked gently

River gave the brightest smile he could “Because I’m there! I will be the symbol of peace and I’ll save everyone.”

Moon’s heart softened at River’s declaration, his puffed out chest and heroic pose, the smile that never left his face.

“I believe you River.” Moon told him softly.

River offered his hand “To friendship and secrets.”

Moon took it and was caught off guard how soft yet firm his hand was against hers

“To friendship and secrets.”

“So” River began as the two made their way to ensure the boy was alright “Have you ever considered wearing goggles?”

“No.” Moon answered uneasily “Why?”

“I think it’d help with your quirk. Really freak people out if they can’t tell who you’re looking at. Plus I bet you look really cool.”

“Thanks River. I’ll keep that in mind.”

[queenofchildren]

The Spy Who Yelled At Me

I wrote a Minty Spy!AU a while back and then immediately decided to do a companion piece for Bellarke. It blew up a little bit, but now it’s done. Please enjoy, and don’t be scared off by the fact that Clarke is being a bit of an ass in the beginning.

[also on ao3]

"Your new boyfriend does what?"

Sitting on one of the two bean bag chairs that double as a sofa in Jasper and Monty's apartment, Clarke has just heard the craziest story ever. If she heard it from anyone else, she'd think they were pulling her leg. But this is Monty, who's always been the most grounded one of her friends, so she has to admit defeat and accept that this is in fact a true story.

"He works for an intelligence agency. International."

"He's a spy."

"I'm not sure if that's the official term…" Monty starts, then cuts himself off when she glares at him. "Yes, he's a spy."

"And he didn't tell you?"

"Well, when we first met he was actually in the middle of doing his spy thing, so he assumed I knew. And then… I don't know, I guess he never found a good moment to bring it up."

"Well, he should have looked harder for one!"

"It's not that big a deal, Clarke." Monty starts, though he doesn't sound entirely convinced. "Is it?"

"He lied to you!" Clarke explodes. "You've been dating for four months now and he failed to mention that, oh, he's a spy."

"Technically, we weren't dating the first two months," Monty starts, but Clarke is too fired up now to accept his apologies. Her friend, who is honestly the smartest, sweetest, best person she knows, got lied to, and she's not going to just let that go. Not even for a guy who probably knows about a dozen ways to kill her with his bare hands.

"And what does that even mean, he's "in intelligence"? Does that entail listening in on people's conversations? Toppling foreign governments? Assassinations?"

Monty twitches his shoulders, a little helpless.

"He couldn't go into details but… Nate said that he's had to do things he didn't like."

"Oh, he had to, did he now?"

"Look, Clarke, I know it's a lot, but things aren't always as black and white as you think they are…"

"And sometimes they are! Spying and possible murder aside, he still lied to you. Is that what you want in a relationship?" Through the haze of anger in her head, Clarke is aware that she's possibly projecting her own insecurities on the issue. She too has been lied to by someone she trusted, and it has fucked her up. She doesn't want Monty to go through the same thing.

"Monty, I know you really like him, but this is a big deal. If he's keeping that from you, what else is he holding back on?"

Monty sighs, then nods defeatedly. "Maybe you're right."

Clarke hates seeing him like this, hates having to talk him out of dating a guy he's been crazy about for months now. But she's sure that, in the long run, it will be for the best.

When Monty texts her, later, that he broke up with his spy boyfriend, Clarke thinks that will be the last she hears of the international spy community.

She couldn't be more wrong.

It's about a week after Monty found out about his boyfriend's whole spy deal and broke up with him, and Clarke is beginning to wonder if telling him to ditch the spy boyfriend was really the best course of action. Because Monty is suffering, quietly but unmistakably, and Clarke doesn't know who to be more angry at: Spy boyfriend for lying to Monty, or herself for convincing him to cut his ties. But then, she didn't really have a choice, did she?

So when there's a sharp, angry knock at her door one evening, Clarke is just worried and distracted enough to simply open the door without looking through the peephole first - only to find herself face to face with a whole lot of tall, angry, startlingly handsome man.

"You're Clarke?"

She nods dumbly and squints at him to assess if that's an actual tuxedo he's wearing or just a very fancy suit. Either way, it's a lot to process - and reminds her with sudden mortification that she opened the door wearing threadbare pyjama pants and a big, fluffy sweater.

Not that the stranger seems particularly interested in what she's wearing.

"You're the one who broke up Miller and Monty."

The ferociousness of his voice alone is enough to tear her out of her haze and back to the reality of having an angry man standing in front of her - but it's the nature of the accusation that really gets to her.

"I didn't break them up! I protected my friend from getting hurt." At least, that was the plan.

"Well, you hurt my friend in the process." His tone makes it clear that he considers this a grave sin.

Then he actually pushes past her into the apartment, ignoring her cry of protest. Never mind the intrusion though - she's been accused of being a bad friend, and that cannot stand.

"Then maybe your friend shouldn't have lied his ass off for months," she says, determined to hold her ground.

"He had good reasons for that, okay? We can't just go around telling our life story to everyone."

'We' – so apparently she now has a spy buddy of Monty's spy ex standing in her living room.

Lovely.

"Oh, but you apparently have no problem with dating unsuspecting civilians and telling them a bunch of lies."

"Just like you apparently have no problem meddling in your friend's life and telling him what to do."

Clarke huffs. The impossible man actually blames her for the whole mess when clearly, it's all spy boyfriend's fault for lying in the first place. But how did he even get to that conclusion? Did Monty tell Miller? It seems unlikely.

"How do you know what I told Monty?"

"Your texts are not encrypted. They're out there in your messenger app for all the world to see." He stops himself, grins smugly. "Well, all the world with the right tech."

"You spied on us?"

"It's literally what I do for a living,"  he deadpans, apparently not the least bit sorry.

Clarke tries her best to convey just with her eyes how very much she's going to kill him, no matter how many concealed weapons he's got on him right now.

"Well, if your friend put you up to that, I'd say I did the right thing telling Monty to ditch him."

"He didn't. Coming here was my idea. And where the hell do you get off making those kinds of decisions for other people?"

"Sorry if I don't want my friend dating a murderer!"

Impossibly, his face darkens even more.

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

Probably not - and she can't say that she particularly wants to know. Because tuxedo and model hair and chiseled features aside, the man before her is dangerous. She may not feel like she in particular is in any danger from him right now, but there's a darkness in his eyes that makes her wonder what they've seen him do.  

She suppresses a shiver - she will not let herself be intimidated.

"Get out, or I'm calling the police." It sounds a bit like an empty threat, all things considered - who knows how many of the forces that be turn a blind eye to his agency's activities? "If you're even answering to them in the first place."

He rolls his eyes. "Of course we answer to them."

"Well, then you'd better leave now."

He looks like he wants to protest, then decides against it and storms out instead.

Phew, Clarke thinks as she closes the door, locks it twice and attaches the little chain too. Hopefully that really will be the last she hears of international spies with no idea of the concept of boundaries.

She buys one of those text encryption apps anyway, just in case.

Two days later, super spy is standing before her door again, angrily waving around a Manila envelope.

"Go away," Clarke growls through the door - this time, she remembered to check before opening it.  

"I won't."

"Well then have fun standing in the hallway, because I'm not letting you in."

"You realise I can get that door open in about 3.5 seconds? Faster if I just kick it in."

"Way to get me to trust you," Clarke calls back. She tries to sound unimpressed, but nevertheless, she quickly darts over to the kitchen to grab the pepper spray she hid in her junk drawer.

There's silence for a moment, then he's apparently decided to change tack.

"Look, I didn't come here to threaten you. But Miller's been miserable since Monty broke up with him, and I have a feeling the only person who can do something about that is you. At least let me explain what we do before you judge him, okay?"

It's a terrible idea, of course, and every brain cell interested in her self-preservation is telling her so. But there's something in his voice, in the urgency of it, that makes her want to trust him.

She opens the door.

...and regrets it almost immediately, because he swoops in, slaps the envelope on her kitchen table, and barks: "Sit down and listen."

And although she should be angry, or at the very least indignant, about being ordered about like this, Clarke actually obeys and sits down. Because spy guy, it turns out, is very good at ordering people about, and has just the voice for it too.

She forces herself not to follow that particular train of thought and actually focus on the photos before her.

The first picture is a grainy mugshot: a pale, bald man holding up one of those identification signs with an angry expression and scarily cold eyes.

"White supremacist," spy guy explains in a hard voice. "His organisation was planning terrorist attacks in several big cities."

Clarke gasps and presses a hand  to her mouth as he slaps down the next picture, this one of a couple exiting a run-down house.

"They led a human trafficking ring."

Clarke shudders but doesn't get a break as he keeps slamming down pictures before her, each with a short explanation: Fraud. Arms deals. Drugs.

By the time the folder is empty, Clarke has tears in her eyes, and spy dude is breathing hard.

"This is what we do. And you can look down on us from your high horse, but fact is: the world is better off without these people. So if you'd prefer to be the one getting that filth behind bars, by all means, step up."

Clarke doesn't know what to say.

Nodding grimly, he swipes the pictures back into the folder.

"That's what I thought. Now, I get that it's a lot to wrap your head around. And I'm not saying we're saints - far from it. But we're not the bad guys either. Miller is doing a tough job, and Monty was the best thing in his life. He made him happy, and he deserves that." There's something in his eyes, a wistful edge in his voice that makes her wonder if he thinks that he too deserves to be happy, or if that's something he reserves for his friends.

"It's not about the spying, you know. Not entirely." Clarke swallows hard. "It's about the fact that he lied to him."

"He would have told him sooner, if he could have. But he had to make sure he could trust Monty first."

"Well, now Monty can't trust him anymore."

"Monty can't, or you can't?" Clarke bristles, annoyed at how quickly he managed to pierce through this issue to the soft, wounded place within her. But before she can get her bearings, he's speaking again, softer this time and a little resigned.

"Listen, I think it's great you're looking out for your friend, I really do. But Monty's a grown man. He's got all the information he needs to make his own decision. You need to let him do that. And you need to give Miller a shot."

"Does he have all the information?"

"He knows what he needs to know. Some things, it's safer for him to be in the dark about."

"So you admit it will be dangerous for him to keep seeing your friend."

Super spy swallows hard.

"The biggest risk is that he'll lose the person he loves." He lays a hand on her arm, a calming gesture and one that she thinks might be a practiced one - but it works nonetheless. "I promise, I'll make sure nothing happens to your friend."

"You better."

"I will." With that, he gathers up his folder and walks to the door. He's almost there when something occurs to her.

"How do I know I can trust you? I don't even know your name."

"It's Bellamy. Bellamy Blake."

Then, after a moment of quick thinking, he grabs the pad of sticky notes and a pen off the side table by the door and writes something down, then hands it to her.

"There. Now you know where I live. If you ever think your friend Monty is in danger, you can come yell at me."

Then he's gone, and Clarke is standing in her kitchen, clutching a pink post-it note and wondering what the hell just happened.

She tries not to think about the mysterious Bellamy Blake much after that, except for small moments where she sees his haunted eyes before her, as if that short moment alone had been branded into her mind. But she does ponder the encounter long enough to come to the conclusion that he may be an ass, but Bellamy was right about one thing: Monty can make his own decisions. After a fruitless evening spent trying to find any trace of her visitor online, Clarke finally gives in and calls Monty instead.

Soon, Monty and his spy boyfriend are back together and, Clarke has to admit, nauseatingly happy. When Monty actually introduces her to the boyfriend in question, she has to admit that he seems like a pretty decent guy. She still can't help but prod him a little bit, to try and get a feel for him - but in the end, if Monty's decided to trust him, she'll have to do the same.

Apparently, seeing Monty and Miller back together appeases her super spy visitor as well, because she doesn't hear from Bellamy again, and soon almost forgets about him. In fact, if it weren't for the address still stuck to her fridge on a pink post-it note, she'd start to believe the whole thing never happened at all.

Until the day, that is, when Monty disappears.

At first, Clarke doesn't even make the connection between Monty's recent entanglement with the spy community and his not picking up his phone or replying to her texts. She's got a hectic day herself, and, well usually she and Monty are not leading the kind of life where dangerous situations are a frequent occurrence.

But as soon as the thought occurs to her, Clarke is flooded with the most horrifying images, inspired in no small part by her love for campy action movies - dark basement rooms and abandoned warehouses, scar-faced gangsters and brutal interrogations and oh fuck she needs to find Monty, now!  

Just before panic engulfs her, she has one last clear thought: Go find Bellamy.

Which is how she comes to be standing in front of a sleek, modern apartment building, biting down tears as she rings the doorbell.

"Monty's gone!" She practically yells into the intercom as soon as she hears it crackle on the other end. She's aware that she must sound pretty hysterical, but she doesn't give a fuck right now.

"Clarke?" Bellamy's surprised voice replies through the intercom. For a moment, Clarke is impressed by the fact that he correctly guessed her identity from her screeching, then she spots the beady eye of a camera above her head.

"What's going on?"

"Monty's gone, that's what's going on. And you promised to keep him safe!"  

The door clicks open and Clarke storms in, energised by the prospect of having someone to yell at, and someone as deserving as Bellamy no less.

She doesn't let him get one word in before she's planted herself right before him, chin raised and brows furrowed, to poke him in the chest with one merciless finger.

"You promised to keep him safe! You promised!" That seems to be the only thing she can focus on, so she repeats it once more, teary-eyed and wobbly-voiced. "You promised."

He puts up with it for a surprisingly long time before snatching her hand out of mid-air and pulling it against his chest, effectively immobilising it. She briefly considers continuing the action with her other hand, then thinks better of it.

"Calm down."

"Easy for you to say," she fumes, nowhere near calm.

"Just breathe." He actually demonstrates, breathing in and out exaggeratedly. She can feel his chest rising and falling with the movement, and to her own irritation, her breathing slowly falls into a rhythm with his, much slower and deeper than it was when she first got here.

"Now," he adds when he's apparently satisfied with her oxygen intake, "tell me what happened."

"What happened is that I can't reach Monty."

"And that's unusual?"

She nods. "He usually calls or texts back within an hour or two."

Maddeningly, Bellamy's face does not give away if he finds this at all worrisome. He does, however, drop her hand and steer her over to the couch with one hand to her lower back.

"How long has it been now?"  

Clarke looks at her watch. "Six hours."

"And Monty would never leave you without a reply for that amount of time? What if his phone battery died?"

"He always carries a power bank and a charging cable with him. And there's always his ipad." Bellamy raises an eyebrow skeptically. "He's a total tech addict."

"Alright. So when was the last time you spoke to him? Did he say anything about his plans for today?"

Clarke thinks for a moment, Bellamy staying patiently silent as he waits for her reply.

"He was planning some kind of anniversary brunch with Miller, but then he also wasn't sure if Miller would have to work today, so I don't know what happened with that plan..."

"So when you texted him, there's a chance he was simply distracted."

The question is irritating - or rather, the assumption that she didn't think of that herself is.

"I'd assume so," Clarke replies tartly, "which is why I didn't call in the first place."

Bellamy nods, prompting her to continue.  

"It wasn't urgent and I was pretty busy, so I didn't look at my phone for a few hours. But when I checked again around noon, there was still no answer. So I called after all, because I figured even if he was with Miller, they were probably done with their brunch. No answer. I tried again about every thirty minutes or so..."

"Persistent, aren't you?"

Clarke rolls her eyes at Bellamy's interjection.

"I'm not always like that. But I got last minute tickets to a play we'd been planning to go see for a long time, and I knew Monty would kill me if I took someone else."

"Alright, fair point. So when you couldn't get through to him did you reach out to any of your other friends to ask if they knew anything?"

The interrogation continues like this for what feels like ages, Bellamy asking ever more specific questions and Clarke trying to answer them as precisely as she can. She has to admit, his calm demeanor makes it easier to keep it together herself, but the hint of worry on his face when he's finished cross-examining her still makes her stomach clench.

"So? What do we do now?" She asks, a little scared he'll say "Nothing".

But instead, Bellamy looks her in the eyes, steady and determined, and says: "Now we find him."

He gets up, presumably to fetch some sort of spy gadget that will help them, and Clarke takes the opportunity to look around the room.

The large open-plan apartment is clean and uncluttered and looks like the home of a person who isn't really home all that much - a look she knows from her apartment, even if it tends to be a lot messier. There's a kitchenette along the far wall, a bed in one corner and a rack of weights and other fitness equipment in the other. Everything is utilitarian to the point of being spartanic, with one glaring exception: the bookcase, facing a worn leather sofa and practically overflowing with books. Squinting, Clarke tries to read some of their titles, curious to know what an international spy would read in his free time. There's a lot of history and mythology, biographies and memoirs, and a smaller section of non-fiction - politics, psychology, sociology.... He's definitely a well-read spy.

Bellamy returns just then, but the piece of tech in his hands is nothing more than one of those bluetooth headsets douchey guys usually wear in order to have loud conversations on the subway. He slides it in place behind his curls, looking surprisingly non-ridiculous, then gets out his phone and starts tapping on it.

"You're going to find him with just your phone?" Clarke can't help but ask, because honestly, this is a little underwhelming.

"Quite the opposite." He flashes her a short grin, cocky but somehow reassuring, "I'm bringing out the big guns."

"Literally or figuratively?"

Again that flash of a grin. "Both."

Then he presses the call button on his phone and she hears it ringing, getting fainter as he walks towards the bookcase and pulls out a book. Clarke briefly wonders if he's gone mad - but then the entire right side of the bookcase slides sideways to reveal an actual hidden closet full of guns.

While Clarke is still trying to process this - she's never even seen one gun up close, for crying out loud, let alone a good dozen! - Bellamy starts talking, explaining to someone on the other end of the phone call that he needs help in finding a missing person. There's a brief pause as the person seems to be asking a question, then Bellamy explains again.

"Miller's boyfriend."

Another pause.

"I would, but he's still on assignment."

Filling in the gaps in this one-sided conversation is an irritating task, but it keeps her from freaking out about Monty, so Clarke keeps listening intently, wondering if she should tell Bellamy to just put the stupid phone on loudspeaker. But he's currently taking guns out of his secret murder cupboard, and Clarke decides that maybe now is not the best time to question his phone etiquette.

"A friend of Monty's showed up worried because he's been missing for eight hours."

Again the crackle of the voice, too distorted to make out the words.

"I know that's not much, but apparently they're close and Monty's pretty good about answering his phone..." The crackling voice on the other end cuts him off. "No she's not hysterical. Worried, yes, but she's pulled herself together, and her story makes sense."

Wow, Clarke thinks sarcastically to herself, what high praise.

But Bellamy is apparently getting as impatient as she is, because he barks into the headset: "Just look for the damn number, Raven!" and the voice actually falls silent.

Suddenly, Bellamy is standing next to her, taking off his headset and putting it on her head instead, carefully tucking aside her hair so that it doesn't get caught in it.

"Tell her Monty's number."

But of course, she doesn't know the number by heart, and has to fumble around for it in her phone. And just when she's managed to navigate to her contacts with trembling fingers, a sharp female voice whips at her ear:

"Bell? What the fuck is taking so long?"

"Sorry, just looking for the number now."

"Ah. The friend." The woman sounds less than enthusiastic about having to talk to her.

"Yes, I'm the friend", Clarke snaps, irritated once more with these rude people. "And I'm trying to help, but I'm not dealing with potential kidnappings and fucking gun closets every day, so excuse me for needing a moment to adjust."

"Ah. The gun closet. That means he's trying to impress you."

Clarke almost drops her phone.

"He what now?"

The woman actually cackles. "Just wait until he gets out the motorcycle. Bellamy Blake, glamorous super spy...."

Suddenly, the headset is yanked off her head, and Bellamy's face is right next to hers as he growls into the microphone: "Will you please shut up and focus on running the goddamn number!"

"Yeah, yeah," is Raven's muffled reply, and Bellamy puts the headset back in place on Clarke's head. "Alright, hit me with the digits."

It takes Clarke a moment to get her bearings even as Bellamy steps back, because he was right there just then, almost nose to nose with her, and even now that he's gone back to towering over her and glowering darkly, there's a little hint of red on his cheeks, and she wonders despite her frayed nerves if Raven was right about the gun closet.

She shakes her head to clear it. Monty, she reminds herself, he's the only reason she's here. Voice steady, she dictates his phone number to Raven, then waits as the other woman falls silent and all she can hear is the rapid click-clack of a keyboard on the other end of the line. Clarke entertains herself with watching Bellamy for a bit as he decides which guns to take with him, following the play of the muscles on his arms and back as he slips on one of those shoulder holster belts she's seen on TV cops and slips a gun into the pouches on each side. Then he grabs a leather jacket off a hook on the wall beside the bookcase and shrugs into it, causing his shirt to ride up a little so she can see the sliver of tan skin between his dark shirt and his belt.

She's brought back to reality, hard, when Raven says: "Shit." Then, urgently: "Hand me back to Bellamy, will you?"

Clarke obeys, and watches as Bellamy's face darkens within seconds of Raven's explanation.

"You sure?"

Raven's reply is short - most likely affirmative, because Bellamy's frown deepens.

"Alright, I'm heading out there. Can you get me eyes on the building?"

Another short reply as Bellamy pushes a book back in place and the secret weapon's closet slides shut again, firmly ignoring Clarke until she can't take it any longer.  

"What's going on?"

"Raven traced the phone signal."

"I figured. And...?"

"And it leads to a warehouse owned by the Wallace family. One of the biggest players in all sorts of crime in the area."

"Wait, the Wallace family - as in, Dante and Cage?"

Bellamy's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "You know them?"

"Very little. They're one of the biggest donors at my hospital, so every once in a while we all get drafted into leading them around and telling them about the great things we've been doing with their money. They don't really seem to care much though."

Bellamy snorts. "I bet they don't. Their charity is most likely for tax reasons."

Bellamy grabs some car keys off a rack by the door, then turns back to her with his hand already on the doorknob.

"Alright, I'm checking out the warehouse. You can stay here, and text me as soon as you hear from Monty."

"No way. I'm coming with you."

"Like hell you are."

"He's my friend, Bellamy. I want to be there when you find him. And what if he needs medical attention? Wouldn't it be good to have a doctor there?"

"Maybe. Or maybe the doctor gets hurt too and I'd have two dead civilians on my hands."

Clarke can practically feel the blood draining from her face, and Bellamy flinches.

"Sorry. I didn't mean... I'm sure your friend is still alive."

"How can you be?"

He hesitates, looking at her as if trying to decide something.

"You want the ugly truth?"

She nods.

"Because whoever took him, it makes no sense for them to kill him. Either they took him to hurt Miller, in which case they'll need to actually let Miller know they have him. Or they think he knows something and they want it - which also takes time."

He doesn't need to spell it out for Clarke to understand what he means.

The thought alone is enough to make the fear in her stomach turn to hot, heavy anger. No one is going to lay hands on her best friend - not while she's got a super spy with a motorcycle and a gun closet and, she hopes, deadly combat skills.

"Let's go get him then."

There really is a motorcycle, but Clarke is too distraught and angry to take much notice of it, or to spare more than a fleeting thought to Raven's earlier words about impressing her. She does, briefly, marvel at the fact that his broad shoulders provide complete coverage from the wind, and that, with her arms around his waist, she feels a lot safer than she probably should while sitting on a motorcycle with a stranger. But that's all the distraction she allows herself from the problem at hand: Someone wants to hurt Monty, and she's not going to let them.

In any case, they only ride a few blocks on the motorcycle before Bellamy steers them into the dilapidated backyard of a dry cleaning business that looks like it's seen better days.

"Alright, Princess, your carriage awaits," Bellamy comments snarkily as he parks his bike, then leads her over to a delivery van parked at the back of the lot. It must have been blue at some point, but has now taken on a slightly rusty tinge, and there are several dents and scratches along its sides.

"We'll need to stake out the place without being seen," he explains, a little less snarkily, and Clarke nods and clambers into the passenger seat.

Then they're off again, heading towards an industrial area near the harbor. This time, when Bellamy pulls into a loading dock, she knows they've reached their destination. Beside her, Bellamy is calm but tense, attentively looking around as he navigates them to a somewhat concealed spot near the back of the loading dock and kills the motor.

He fumbles around under his seat for a moment, and suddenly the wall of the driver's cabin swings open towards the back of the van. Bellamy clambers through and motions for her to follow, and suddenly, as if she'd stepped into a parallel universe, Clarke finds herself surrounded by monitors and keyboards and a variety of gadgets she can't even begin to imagine uses for.

Clarke gasps, and Bellamy turns around to give her a small smile - although one that fades again quickly.

"I borrowed one of our surveillance vans."

Clarke is still looking around, stunned, while Bellamy gets out a little black case and fumbles something into his ear. Then he holds out a second, similar piece. Fitting easily into the palm of his hand, it looks like a hearing aid.

"Put this in your ear. You're staying in here while I scope out the place, but if you notice anything happening out there, you tell me."

Clarke nods in understanding and carefully pushes the soft piece to her ear, wincing as it emits a high-pitched feedback whistle.

"Sorry," Bellamy says curtly, snapping shut the black box and turning to the array of monitors. He presses a few buttons and the monitors turn on, showing her a comprehensive view of the area as well as one infrared view of the building before them. She can make out several human shapes, one of them sitting down while flanked by two others.

"Monty!" She breathes out excitedly.

"We can't be sure of that yet. Not until I have visual confirmation. So you," taking her by the shoulders, he pushes her down on the little folding seat before the monitors, "are going to stay here and wait while I scope out the area. Now these,” he points to the earpieces they're both wearing, “have a microphone built in, so if there's anything happening here, you tell me."

One glance at the monitors to make sure there's no one right outside the van, then he opens the door.

"And whatever happens, do NOT get out of the car."

The door slams shut, and Clarke quickly locks it from the inside before sitting back down again, watching on the monitor as Bellamy quickly makes his way to the warehouse before them. Pressing himself against the wall, he peers inside one of the dusty windows, checking that the air's clear, before he quickly smashes the window and lunges through it on a flying roll, miraculously without so much as touching the jagged glass sticking up from the windowframe.

The microphone on the earpiece must be pretty sensitive, because Clarke can hear everything: Bellamy's quiet breathing, his careful steps as he advances further into the building, distant clanging and groaning further in the bowels of the warehouse complex... and, eventually, voices.

“Do you see them?”

“I said tell me if anything happens out there, not use the mic to pester me.”

“Sorry,” Clarke breathes, swallowing her childish indignation. He's getting himself into a risky situation, alone, to find her friend. The least she can do is be quiet and not distract him.

Clarke sticks to that resolution as she listens breathlessly for any sign of Monty or his kidnappers, eyes carefully scanning the monitors just like Bellamy told her to.

Bellamy must be getting closer to whoever is in the building, because the voices are getting louder and clearer, and suddenly, she can make out words – and one in particular that makes her gasp in shock.

“We'll get that bastard Miller if we go through him, I'm sure of it.”

“But we don't have him, do we?” The annoyed, drawling voice sounds vaguely familiar even over the microphone.

“We have his phone. We know where he lives, what he does. He's some kind of nerd, probably won't even put up a fight. Just say the word, boss, and we'll snatch him up.”

Clarke feels her heart stutter in her chest as she figures out who they're talking about – and then speed up again as it occurs to her what it means.

“They don't have Monty?”, she hisses into the headset, careful to be quiet so as not to startle Bellamy into giving up his position.

“No.” Bellamy's reply is short, no doubt due to the need to be quiet.

“But they want to kidnap him to get to Miller,” Clarke adds, still piercing together what she just heard and what it means.

“We won't let them,” Bellamy growls. “Now stay quiet.”

She does as she's told, listening anxiously as the man addressed as “boss” - whose sleazy voice she thinks she has correctly identified as Cage Wallace's – tells his goons to go through with their plan, then turns his attention to other matters.

Clarke doesn't really listen to the next matter discussed, however, because she's disctracted by a sudden flurry of activity in the docking yard. A truck is pulling up to the warehouse, two men jumping out to quickly unload a few crates and boxes while three big, burly men come out of the warehouse to take the cargo and inspect it.

Clarke holds her breath, wondering if this constitutes something she needs to tell Bellamy about, but after a short, aggressive conversation, the two delivery men get back into the truck and drive off again.

She's just about to let go of the breath she's been holding when one of the muscle-packed goons stops in his tracks and looks straight at her van.

Then he calls out to the other men and points at the van, and Clarke's blood seems to freeze in her veins as they set down their cargo and start walking towards her.

“Bellamy,” she whispers, deciding that this is definitely a development he needs to know about, “there are some guys out here getting pretty interested in the van...”

“Have they seen you?”

“No, but they're coming closer.”

The men are now circling the van, rattling on door handles and debating amongst themselves. One of them walks back towards the warehouse, and Clarke prays that the others will lose interest in her and follow him back inside.

She has no such luck, however: The man returns with a crowbar in hand, and now Clarke really starts to panic.

“I think they're going to break into the van.”

There's muffled cursing in her ear, then Bellamy's quiet voice. “Don't make a sound. I'm coming to distract them.”

True to his word, just as the driver's side door of the van creaks under the force of the crowbar, Clarke sees Bellamy emerge from the warehouse and lunge at the man nearest him. The man is down on the ground after a short tussle, but the two other are already turning on Bellamy, and despite the fact that he seems to be doing a lot of damage with quick, precise hits, the two are nonetheless closing in on him. And then the third man picks himself up and jumps on Bellamy's back, and soon he's pinned against the side of the van, and Clarke stifles a scream when one of them punches him hard in the stomach and he doubles over.

Time to act, she decides.

Looking around, Clarke's eyes fall onto what she first assumes is a police baton - until she sees the little prongs sticking out at its tip.

Perfect.

One last look at the monitor, one experimental push of the button on the side of the baton, then she throws open the back door of the van, sticks out her arm, and jams the baton into the side of the nearest attacker. Fist closed around the grip of the baton so tight her fingers hurt, she presses down on the button until the man goes down, body twitching with electric aftershocks.

The two who have been pinning Bellamy against the van look over and let go of him for a moment, and even though he's bleeding and clearly a little dazed, Bellamy makes use of the distraction to push them off and throw himself in the driver's seat.

"Close the door!" Bellamy yells and Clarke complies just in time before the van screeches off and she can be thrown out the back door.

For a moment, she just sits pressed against the side of the van, trying to get her racing heart to calm down – although actually, it turns out, it's her head that's the problem, because it currently has trouble catching up with everything that's happening. Monty isn't here, and she is being followed by a car full of armed and dangerous criminals.

And before she's even begun to try and process these facts, there's a loud bang and the whole car rocks. Another bang follows immediately after, and another, and finally Clarke understands what's happening.

"They're shooting at us!" She yells in Bellamy's direction, as if there was a chance he hadn't heard the ear-splitting noise yet.

"I know. I'm trying to shake them off.”

"I don't think it's working," Clarke yells back, and now there's definite hysteria in her voice.

Bellamy swerves hard, then turns abruptly into another direction - to no avail: on the monitor showing the rearfacing camera, their pursuers are still hot on their heels.

Another volley of bullets hits the back of the van, leaving clear dents in the steel, and Clarke throws herself through the door to the driver's cabin.

Bellamy glances only briefly in her direction.

"You okay?"

"I'm not hit, if that's what you mean."

"Good," he says, and suddenly she's pulled into his lap, squished between his chest and the steering wheel, "cause I'm gonna need you to drive."

"What?" Clarke squeaks out.

"You know how to drive right?"

He doesn't wait for her answer, which Clarke takes to mean that she doesn't really have the option of not knowing.

"Alright, take the wheel." She does as she's told. "Now put your feet over mine on the pedals. On 3, I'm moving away, and you're moving your feet into place and pushing down as hard as you can." Bellamy says it with such certainty, like he knows that everything will happen exactly as he orders it to, that Clarke can't help but believe him. Then he counts down, squeezes himself out of the seat, and Clarke slams down her feet.

Next thing she knows, Clarke is driving the van, hurtling down the street at 90 miles an hour while Bellamy leans out the window to shoot at the car behind them. She barely manages to identify the parts of the city rushing by, but she has just figured out that they've reached the harbor and are racing towards the basin.

That's when Bellamy cries out next to her and throws himself back into his seat, clutching his arm with a pained expression.

“Did you just get shot?”

“Just a little. Keep driving.”

With that, he turns back and leans out once more, but another volley of bullets forces him to retreat inside the car again.

“Dammit, we're not shaking them.” He seems to be thinking for a moment, before he abruptly says: “Turn left.”

“Left?” She's racing along the edge of the basin now, with warehouses and loading cranes to her right – and nothing but ships and water to her left.

“On the next pier, yes.”

“How is that helping us?”

“Just do it.”

The next pier comes up, branching out from the harbor wall and broad enough to drive onto it with a car. It is possible to drive onto it – she just doesn't understand why.

But next thing she knows, Bellamy's hand is on hers on top of the steering wheel, slick with blood.

“Do you trust me?"

Does she trust him? Before her mind can decide on an answer, her hands turn the steering-wheel and they make a sharp left onto the pier, the wooden planks rattling underneath them as they keep racing along – and their pursuers, she sees in the side mirror, are doing the same thing.

“What now?”

“Now we jump out.”

“Right now?”

“One second. Get ready.”

He leans out the window once more and shoots, and in the mirror, Clarke sees that a sail from an anchored boat has come loose and is slowly drifting down behind them, shielding them from view of the other car.

“Now!” Bellamy yells, and Clarke opens the door, takes a deep breath, and pushes herself out.

She just makes it past the wooden edge of the pier, leg grazing the planks, and hits the water hard. It shoots up her nose painfully and she makes the mistake of gasping in response, so now her mouth is filled with dirty harbor water as well. When she comes up, coughing and sputtering and spitting out water, she's immediately pulled backwards, into the shadow under the pier – Bellamy has made it to her side, pulling her along with one arm and paddling with his feet while his injured arm drags uselessly through the water.

The thought of the sheer amount of bacteria getting into his wound is enough to get her focused once more, at least enough to understand Bellamy's instructions.

“Stay under the pier and swim back towards the harbor wall as fast and as quietly as you can.”

She nods and starts swimming in earnest, fearfully glancing up for a sign of their pursuers above them. A large shadow indicates they're passing beneath the thugs' car, and Clarke speeds up to make it to the stone wall at the end of the pier. She used to be a fairly good swimmer, but with her current hours, she doesn't get much time for any sort of workout, and by the time Clarke finally reaches the wall, she's already fairly exhausted.

Luckily, there's a small stony ledge in the wall, just high enough to keep her head and shoulders out of the water when she stands on it, and a very convenient metal bar she can hold on to so as not to slip off the slimy, algae-covered stone.

Bellamy reaches her a few seconds later and follows her example, simply clinging on to the metal handhold and breathing hard for several seconds. It worries her to see him so winded, because he's obviously in much better physical shape than her. His wound must be getting to him, and the temperature of the water, while not outright freezing, is still too low to allow any prolonged stay, especially for someone who's losing blood rapidly.

“What now?”

“Now we wait until they believe we went down with the van.”

“What if they don't? We can't stay here long. The water's too cold, and you're bleeding."

"I've noticed. We won't have to stay here long. Raven knows that we were pursued and drove the car off the pier. She'll do something to draw them away, and hopefully send backup as well."

She takes a moment to study him. He looks unnaturally pale, no doubt due to the blood loss, and at this rate it won't be long before he passes out. Making a decision, she fumbles off her belt with one hand.

"I need to do something about the bleeding, at least."

But while getting off the belt with one hand was possible, if a little fumbly, attaching it is not. The moment she lets go of the bar to use both hands, she slips off the algae-covered ledge and underwater.

She propels herself upward and grabs a hold of the metal bar again, clucking her tongue irritatedly – there's no way she's going to be able to properly apply the tourniquet with one hand.

But just as she's pondering this problem, Bellamy swings over towards her, trapping her between the wall and his body while holding on to the bar above them with his uninjured arm.

“Now you can work with both hands. I'll keep you from going under,” he explains, and when Clarke tentatively lets go of her handhold, she realises he's right – she's pinned safely in place.

With that taken care of, she can get to work on his arm, but it's a fact she has to actively remind herself of: for a moment, she's simply frozen in place, overwhelmed by the sudden knee-to-hip-to-chest contact, by the discovery that his freckles are much more numerous than she previously noticed and the fact that his lips look soft and kissable and she wants to wipe away the dried drop of blood still clinging to the corner of his mouth from where he must have received a hit earlier.

The sight of blood finally brings her back to her senses and to the task she should be focusing on, and with heat crawling into her cold cheeks, she frees her hands from where they're pinned between them and gently takes hold of his arm.

He hisses in pain and a fresh swirl of blood is released into the harbor basin, and Clarke does her best to move slowly and carefully.

“I'm sorry, but this is gonna hurt for a bit.”

“I know,” he grinds out, and she wonders how often he's sustained injuries like this. If she went through with the fleeting thought of taking off his clothes, how many scars would she find on his tan skin? She's afraid of the answer.

Pushing aside the thought, Clarke wraps the belt around his arm just above the bullet wound, careful not to jostle it too much, then pulls it as tight as she can.

She can feel Bellamy jerk against her as the remaining blood is pressed downward in his arm, can feel his body tense against hers in pain. Tying off the belt as quick and as tight as she can, she lowers his arm so that it rests on her shouder, then loops her arms around him and soothingly strokes down his back until she can gradually feel him relax against her, his head coming to rest on her other shoulder as he takes a few deep, steadying breaths.

“I'm sorry.”

“Had to be done.” His words are muffled, but his breathing is normalising once again – she can tell by the puffs of warm breath hitting the cold skin above her collarbone every time he exhales.

She thinks she should probably want to push him away, but the reasoning behind it, which must have made sense at some point, doesn't really manage to make it through her fuzzy head. The thing that matters is that he's in pain because he tried to keep her alive. If he needs a moment, he'll have it. She continues her soothing motions and asks:

“Do you get banged up like this often?“

“Pretty regularly, yeah. It's a side effect of the job."

“And let me guess, you always say it's just a scratch and refuse to be properly treated.“

He lifts his head to look at her, surprise written on his face.

“I get that type a lot in the ER, and you seem to fit the bill. You need to be more careful with your health, okay?“

“You work in the ER?"

That's not really what she wanted him to take away from this conversation, but Clarke is starting to feel the cold from the water, so any distracting conversation is welcome.

“I do. I was thinking about getting into a more specialised field after my internship, but then I realised I kind of love working in the ER – helping people right away, without the time for long consultations; it suits me. I think I'm too impatient for anything that works at a slower pace.”

Bellamy cocks his head to the side to study her, and Clarke suddenly realizes that the reason he's still so close she could count the freckles on the bridge of his nose is because he's still holding them both above the water, which must be incredibly taxing. Overcome with guilt, Clarke lifts a hand up to the metal bar above to hold herself up, and Bellamy swings sideways again once he realises she can stay on the ledge on her own once more. She takes his injured arm and places it on her shoulder once more to keep it out of the dirty harbor water, but that's the only point of contact between their bodies now, and cold water rushes at her so suddenly Clarke almost regrets her decision – for no other reason than that he was doing a pretty good job of keeping her a little less cold, of course.

“Well, your ER experience certainly came in handy today. Not only are you keeping me from bleeding out, you also kept your head in a dangerous situation. Not many civilians would have.”

Clarke's mouth drops open at the unexpected praise. “Why, Agent Blake, are you complimenting me?”

“Just accept it,” he says gruffly, but she thinks she sees a splash of color on his pale cheeks.

Still, just because he blushes adorably doesn't mean she'll let him off the hook for being a condescending dick before.

“Well, it's not as flattering as hearing how I'm not even being hysterical...”

He makes a playful grimace.

“You can't hold that against me – I didn't even know you then.”

“That was like three hours ago. And I'm pretty sure you knew a lot about me from your spying.”

“That's not the same. Now I know what you're really made of. And that you can administer medical aid under pretty weird circumstances. And that you're a kickass driver.”

It's pretty blatant flattery, but he looks and sounds sincere, and Clarke has to admit she does feel a little proud of herself right now, for being alive if nothing else.

“Stop, my ego will get out of control.” She's trying to sound sarcastic, but Clarke can't help the little smile tugging at her lips, or the unguarded laugh bubbling up inside her.

“I'm trying to be nice here,” Bellamy chides, but his pout is as fake as the way she rolls her eyes.

What's real is the fear shooting through her when the planks of the pier above them creak along with the sound of footsteps, and Bellamy tenses with sudden wariness beside her when the footsteps stop right above them.

“Blake? You down there?”

Clarke freezes, her breath coming in shallow gasps at the thought that the Wallaces' goons figured out Bellamy's identity and their hiding-place.

But when her eyes find Bellamy, he seems calm, if a little green.

“I am, Sir,” he yells upwards, and a second later, she hears movement up on the pier as his response is apparently heard.

“It's my boss,” Bellamy explains, and she's thankful for the confirmation that she can stop fearing for her life now.

“So we're safe,” Clarke realises, insides soaring with relief.

“Well, you are. I am in big trouble.”

“What? Why?”

“For one thing, I took an agency vehicle to go on an unauthorised mission with a civilian whose life I endangered in the process. And also because when Miller messed up his assignment to go on a movie date with your friend Monty, I bet him that I'd never fuck up like this for a civilian. So now I owe him fifty bucks.”

“Oh well, Monty's pretty awesome. Everyone would fuck up because of him.”

Bellamy looks at her silently for a moment, a flash of hesitation on his face followed by determination.

“It's not him I did this for. Not really.”

With that, he pushes off the harbor wall and starts paddling out from underneath the shadow of the pier, leaving her behind to gape at him as she figures out what he meant.

By the time she does, Bellamy has reached the rope ladder that is being lowered into the water from above and is pulling himself up, struggling to hold on to the rope with one hand. Clarke follows immediately, as if hanging onto the ladder below him would in any way enable her to help if he loses his grip. As irrational as it is, she still feels the need to make sure he's alright. Doctor's instinct, she tells herself, nothing else. And certainly nothing to do with the fact that he apparently risked not just his life but his boss' goodwill just to help her.

As soon as she clambers onto the pier, Clarke is surrounded by people: Paramedics wrapping her in a blanket and asking her if she's hurt. People in suits, presumably from the agency, with more questions about what happened and how. Someone handing her a bottle of water and guiding her to a bench to sit down.

But through the whole chaos, all she can see is Bellamy, being guided to sit down on a stretcher by a nearby ambulance as two paramedics take in his blood-stained shirt and the way he gingerly holds his arm.

Pushing away the nearest suit, she makes her way over to the ambulance.

“He's been shot in the left arm, a through-and-through. I only managed to apply a tourniquet and stop the bleeding several minutes later, so there might still be significant blood loss. Plus, we were in the water for several minutes,” she informs the paramedics, then steps aside to let them do their job.

“You applied first aid while hiding from Wallace's men?”

The surprised voice belongs to the man she saw talking to Bellamy earlier, and judging by his apparent seniority, she assumes it's his boss.

“Well, he could hardly do it himself, after he was shot trying to keep me safe.”

The man smiles, transforming his severe face into a much warmer expression.

“Don't worry, Ms. Griffin – as Agent Blake's superior, I promise I will go easy on him. There will be some sort of disciplinary action, of course, but all in all, your little adventure today gave us valuable insight into the Wallaces' plans.”

Clarke nods, relieved, and doesn't protest when one of the paramedics comes over to check up on her. Apart from a case of very mild hypothermia, she survived the whole ordeal without a scratch, and gets some good news on top of it:

“We managed to get a hold of your friend Mister Green as well. It turns out he and Agent Miller had left for a spontaneous trip to the mountains and neglected to inform anyone. They're both on their way back, and will be brought to a safe house until we're sure they're not a target anymore.”

While Clarke is still processing this, not sure if she's more relieved that Monty's safe or pissed that he failed to tell her, Bellamy's boss tells her that she's free to go home as long as she comes in for a full statement the next day.

“I'll give you a lift home,” he offers and starts to gently lead her over to a nearby car.

But Clarke hesitates, looking back towards the ambulance where the paramedics are helping Bellamy onto a stretcher for the ride to the hospital.

And looking at him, Clarke realizes with sudden renewed energy that there's one more thing she needs to do before she can go home and rest.

“Just a second,” she tells the man, then turns and strides back towards the ambulance.

“Wait,” she calls out at the surprised paramedics, stopping them from closing the ambulance and clambering inside instead. Bellamy frowns when he sees at her, as if the sight of her makes him expect more reasons to worry, but there's only one thing she has to say.

“Thank you, Bellamy. For helping me find my friend, and for keeping me alive.”

With that, and with the kind of courage that can only come from surviving trigger-happy gangsters, a high-speed car chase and a drop into the harbor basin, Clarke pulls him close by the back of his neck and kisses him.

Bellamy stays completely still for an awkwardly long moment before he finally brings his uninjured arm up to her waist to pull her close, his lips opening under hers on a sigh, and Clarke deepens the pressure of her lips on his and thinks that, excitement-wise, kissing Bellamy Blake surpasses even the most adrenaline-fuelled car chase.

A discreet cough behind her makes her draw back eventually to catch one of the paramedics grinning openly, the other looking rather impatient.

But Bellamy is smiling, and the sight is more impressive than all the cool spy stuff and quick fighting moves in the world.

“Find me when you're done being patched up,” she says, then finally jumps down from the ambulance. The last thing she sees before the paramedics close the door is Bellamy bringing a hand up to his lips with a rather dazed look, and she giggles at the sight – badass super spy, indeed.

She can't wait for their next adventure.