#Octavia Muss

[yumyumpod]

[gctawaygirl]

open to : everyone muse : octavia thatcher (25, lady-in-waiting, pansexual) plot : a forbidden relationship that is taking place within the palace. octavia is the daughter of a lesser noble so your musse could be a knight, the son of a noble or an actual noble, the prince (sibling of the person she waits upon), squire, etc. they could be in love or just having a physical fling but this takes place during one of their rendezvous. historical verse, nsfw welcome most taboo not, please read my rules.

octavia let out a long contented sigh as she arrived at the intended destination of pleasure. she had somewhere to be in fifteen minutes, an event where she would wait upon her lady but she was too caught up in the moment to care. she grinned, a laugh tumbling from her lips as she came down from her high. she caught the other's lips with hers for a moment, "now that is exactly what i needed today," she whispered, keeping her voice low so they did not get caught. her breath was still heavy, "i don't suppose we have time for one more round, do we?"

[botanikos]

To My Dearest Friend Stolas,

This letter reaches you with a weight heavier than I can bear, and for that, I must begin with an apology. I failed you. Despite my efforts, the court has ruled, and the scales have tipped against us. I fought, Stolas—I fought with every ounce of cunning and reason I possess. But the forces aligned against you were formidable, and they were determined to see you fall.

Your mansion now lies frozen, a bitter monument to Andrealphus’s ambition. To see him residing where you once walked with pride… it cuts me deeply. Your home, once vibrant with your presence and Octavia’s laughter, now stands cold and silent. It is a cruel reminder of the court’s decision—and of my failure to prevent it.

I know this must feel like the end, but I beg you, Stolas, do not lose hope. I still have allies, friends in places where shadows whisper. An appeal is possible, and I am already working toward it. It may take time, but I will not rest until every avenue has been explored, every thread pulled, every favor called upon.

If there is anything you need—anything at all—do not hesitate to ask. I owe you that much and more. You may no longer reside in the halls of your estate, but you are not without friends, and you will not face this alone.

I know you regret nothing when it comes to the imp who holds your heart. But I cannot deny the ache in my chest as I wish you had heeded my warning to keep your distance. The court is cruel, Stolas, and the higher we climb, the harsher the fall. Yet love—foolish, stubborn love—makes us blind to such things, does it not?

Even so, I do not begrudge you your choice. I only wish it had not come at such a cost.

Hold fast, my old friend. The seasons change, and winter cannot last forever. We will find a way through this, and I will not rest until you have regained what is rightfully yours.

With unwavering loyalty, Prince Vassago Keeper of Shadows and Secrets

How he receives the correspondence is a mystery, and one that ignites a small spark of curiosity within him. The flame, however, is weak and its tinder wet. Still, Stolas opens the letter, reveling briefly in its familiarity. For a moment, he pauses and looks away from the ink upon the paper. Of course he should have seen an apology coming a mile away with the determination in which Vassago had written him days prior. But it pains him to know how much weight the prince carries with him for the trial's outcome. He wishes he could take it away, snatch it straight from the paper and refuse to let his friend have it back.

There was no one to blame but himself. Stolas understood that and yet — all around him others were determined to share it. The weight and cost of his actions was hefty, and perhaps they thought him unable to bear it all alone [ they would be correct, not that he would ever confess to it ]. He returns to the letter with a small shake of head.

Frozen. Something in him bristles with the vision of his home being cast in ice. Ah! His gardens! A sharp ache like the twisting of a blade starts in his chest. He thinks of the new budding blooms, the hybrids he had tended to so carefully, and the plant from when he was just an owlet! It was unlikely they would survive the frost. It would seem the consequences extended even beyond the people he kept close. Trembling hand rises to muss already unkept feathers. They thread through the plumage atop his head with a series of soft, and low sounds. The prince found himself ignited with a restlessness now. And the crossing of Vassago's title makes him nervous more than grateful. It was a dangerous symbol, however much his rebellious scheming made him feel less alone.

But he wasn't alone; Vassago was right, and Stolas was aware of that much. It just felt lonely. The ex-prince knew he was pushing back against the positive forces around him, refusing to allow the dust to settle, refusing to let himself breathe or be nurtured in the way he so carefully did with his beloved plants. It was. . . hard.

Talons click against the floor as Stolas searches the apartment for a pen and a wrinkled piece of paper. At long last, he brings himself to the countertop and leans over it, hastily writing a response. Whether or not it makes it to Vassago is. . . another obstacle he will have to cross. But he will find a way.

To The Ever Determined Vassago, Please do not be so audacious in your efforts. You know very well the consequences we, anyone, can and will meet. And this, I fear, is only the beginning. Your unwavering courage does not go unnoticed. I appreciate every effort, every warning you have offered me. Your friendship has been invaluable, and you are a remarkable comrade to have. Formidable, even. It certainly feels like the end, I will not hide that from you. I continue to die a thousand little deaths with the passing of the moon and sun. And even with all the stars in the sky, I feel myself lost in darkness. I am surrounded by light, yet I cannot bring myself to open my eyes. I cannot stop you; I hold no power of you, nor did I ever before, but even less so now. But I urge you to reconsider, or at the very least, to take your own cautions to consideration. Do not follow in my footsteps, my friend. I do not know just how I have earned your loyalty, but I fear you might let your flame burn to brightly. Do not take risks for me. I will never ask that of you. With a considerable amount of concern, Stolas P.S. Now, why have you crossed off your title? Surely you do not wish to match me so earnestly!

One the letter is written, Stolas folds it tightly into a neat little square and scavenges for an envelope. Without magic, he cannot merely send it off, nor can he place it in just anyone's hands. Least of all with his name plastered on it like a neon sign. So upon the the front he addresses it to Vassago in unassuming print, with only a hazardously scribbled star being the indicator as to whom it comes from.

Stolas promptly wanders outside to slip it into one of the post boxes. He's too recognizable to offer it directly for delivery, so it will simply have to take its time.

[thewholecrew]

@headstrongblake said: "yeah, we got close over the years i guess, but you have to know if i had a choice...i would have wanted you there with me this whole time instead." / octavia & bell, about nick tho

he had watched the two interact and was pleased to see how well they seemed to get along. bellamy had been worried sick over octavia while in prison, worried about her, about if he did the right thing in asking nick to look after her when he knew the boy had a temper of his own. bellamy thought that because of that he'd be able to better weather octavia's storm, but with every passing visit in the beginning he had honestly thought he'd made a mistake, that perhaps it was too much pressure for nick, that he should have chosen someone else. but now, being able to see them interact with his own eyes there was a small sting of jealousy. that nick had replaced him as her brother. there was no awkwardness between the two like there was with bellamy and sure he had only been let out a few days ago he couldn't help feel as though perhaps she didn't need him as much as he did her.

"you two have come a long way," bellamy murmured in a playful tone as he gently nudged octavia's shoulder, giving nick a nod as the two parted ways, nick returning to tend the bar. "i'm glad," he said honestly but there was that hint of sadness in hiseyes that of course his little sister saw. yeah, we got close over the years i guess, but you have to know if i had a choice... bellamy tore his gaze from the bar where his crew was all intermingling to look down at octavia as she took his hand. he offered a small smile as he squeezed it, i would have wanted you there with me this whole time instead. there was a wave of relief that washed over him as he released her hand and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, tugging her against his side as he gave her a gentle shake. "well... i'm here now, and i don't plan on going anywhere else for a very, very long time, alright?" he gave her a wink and lightly mussed her hair.

"but i am glad to see you two getting along, had me worried there for a long time that you two were going to kill each other," he teased as the two began walking to join the rest, "so thank you both for not doing that," he gave nick a small grin and nod in thanks as he took the beer offered to him. taking a long sip, he sighed happily looking around the bar at his people he'd been away from for so long, eyes lingering then on octavia, "it's good to be back."

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 4 - Broken

The dry, blistering pain radiated from his lips, yet seemed to find its roots elsewhere in his body. Miller knew it was likely the result of oxygen deprivation - being trapped in an airlock was never overly conducive to improving bodily functions after all. Yet, he felt broken, torn limb from limb in a way physical violence would never entirely account for. A switch flicked, somewhere in his mind, when Anderson Dawes’ men came for him. A thought came to him, a thought that was thrown back in his face by Dawes and his men as easily as the punches they rained down on his already battered features.

Did he love Julie Mao?

Miller wasn’t entirely sure Dawes’ definition of love was the same as his own. The man didn’t seem entirely capable of much feeling beyond hatred, retribution and revenge. But maybe there was something in it… And the man did seem to have felt something for his sister. That could have been the guilt talking though, killing someone was a great way of proving your unadulterated adoration. 

He reached for the bowl of hot water Octavia had left for him, and the cloth resting on the table. Gently, ever so gently, he eased his hand into the bowl, wincing as the water came into contact with the myriad cuts that grazed his skin. His hands had never been unblemished; they were just one clue that he wasn’t quite so Earther as his suit and hat belied. Now; however, they looked broken. Veins interwoven with scars. Scars interwoven with fresh cuts, the blood congealed on the surface of the skin. As his hands came into contact with the water, streams of red came away. At first, swirling like ink, then leaving the liquid a pale red. The worst of the congealed blood remained on his hands, and Miller flinched as he moved to scrub it away. 

It struck him how long he had been a broken man. He hadn’t attempted to change it - he was old, Ceres was set in its ways, a job was a job. He might have tried with Havelock… But the Earther insisted on being an idiot, constantly trying to get himself killed. He knew Muss - Octavia - whatever - didn’t dislike him quite so much as the others, but he had never attempted to change anything about their relationship. He needed the distance, the sense of security that came with being seperate and alone. Things could change too quickly out in the Belt to trust others too much.

Yet…

Did he love Julie Mao?

Is that what the feeling was? Had Anderson Dawes - big OPA bosmang - somehow managed to decode the feelings of cool, calm, collected Detective Miller? He didn’t want to think so.

Yes, she brought him comfort. It was good to know that some girl, just as broken as he was, had set out to make meaningful change in the Belt. It was a nice, good thought - nothing remotely romantic about it. She was - what? Half his age? Dawes was delusional, the bastard. 

He liked to think though, if he met her, it would make him a bit less broken. Heal something inside - that thing that snapped all those years ago. Perhaps bring something back to the job, some feeling of success, triumph, a bit of joy. Make his heart beat a little faster, his head spin in the same way as the drink he had preferred to company for so long. It would be nice to have someone to talk to, perhaps to even share those damn drinks with.

That wasn’t love, was it?

[theexpanse]

THE EXPANSE | 1X02 - The Big Empty

[wlweak]

the expanse rewatch    —    6 /  ∞

[darkskyatnight]

In the Expanse, Joe and Octavia would definitely adopt Julie if she lived, prove me wrong.

[the-expanse-fashion]

Octavia Muss, The Expanse, Season 1, Episode 7

[moocowmoocow]

Femslash February 19 - At Work

Octavia Muss x Gia

Muss finally clocked off, mostly because Star Helix could no longer afford to pay her for all the hours she was putting in. Since Havelock was attacked, she had to pick up his caseload and Miller had fucked off after his rich girl kidnap job. Shadid was riding her ass and she was doing the work of three detectives.

She needed something to relax. She didn’t want the muddied head that drugs and alcohol would bring her. Christ, she needed to get laid. But being an Earther working for Star Helix made finding partners hard out here in the Belt. And really, she didn’t need a relationship right now.

So she gathered the chits she stored in her underwear drawer (it amused her) for nights like this and went to the Rosse Buurt. The madam gave her the stink eye until she placed her money on the table. Then she only asked Muss’s preference.

When Muss entered the room, Gia’s face fell. “Gee, thanks,” Muss said. “Really makes me feel wanted.”

Gia shrugged in that expressive Belter way that showed Muss that she really didn’t give a fuck about what Muss thought. “Heard Star Helix was here. Thought maybe it was Dmitri.”

“Oh, so you’re only fucking Havelock now?” Muss crossed her arms. She would have bet next week’s salary that the madam made this as difficult for her as possible.

“You pay script Earther, I fuck you.”

“Good.”

“Sit.” Gia patted the bed next to her. After Muss sat down, Gia lightly caressed her face. “Kiss?”

“Yes.” And Gia kissed her, slowly and deeply. Muss almost hated how needy she reacted to the kiss, but she had to admit that Gia was good at what she did.

The kiss broke. “I have toys. You want?”

Muss shook her head. “No, just your fingers first.”

“You pay - “

“I paid.” Muss replied and pulled Gia down to the bed and kissed her again.

[yumyumpod]

Watching The Expanse for the first time: Dulcinea

[theladyfangs]

Anchor: An Expanse Fanfic Joe Miller/Octavia Muss

Late to the party, but better late than never!

I give my humble offerings to this tiny, but amazing pairing. 

Part 1: Anchor   She knows he’s watching as she leaves.But she’s learned you can’t save those who don’t want to save themselves.

Part 2:  Lost Things    She’s still not sure of him, even after six months of working together. He’s not exactly volunteered more information about himself. She’s not inquired, even though everyone at the station, it seems, has their own theory.

Part 3: Regrets? I Have A Few    She has always been too good for him.In the end, he fucked it all up. Story of his life, really. But this time, he cannot escape the mistake.Because he sees her, each and every day.He sees her when she doesn’t think he’s looking. But even when he’s caught, he never looks away..

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17868248/chapters/42168602

[goldenneku]

[thewholecrew]

@headstrongblake said: “i don’t know how she was at school when you came ‘round but the kid i knew?” nick shakes his head, “she seems happier with you, better.” / nick to kass about octavia

they'd just finished getting their matching tattoos and kassy already wanted to go back in there for another one. she was grateful for nick having driven them, she'd heard that this tattoo place was one of the best in the area but the surrounding street was a little sketchy so, with him being their designated bodyguard as always, they could just enjoy the experience rather than always looking over their shoulders.

with octavia still inside, kassy and nick now waited by the truck, her hand gently covering the wrapped up tattoo on her arm as she watched how enthusiastic octavia was talking to the artist inside. when nick then spoke she glanced at him in surprise, a brow raising as a lazy smile tugged along her lips. she got the idea that before kass and octavia knew one another she might have been a handful, well perhaps more of a handful than she was now and a soft laugh escaped her thinking about her best friend.

"well, you dunno how i was before we became friends too," she countered with a wiggle of her brows, arms carefully crossing over her chest as she leaned back against the car door. it wasn't just octavia who was happier, better. from what nick was insinuating it seemed that the two girls really did need one another because without octavia kassy wasn't so sure she'd be as... expressive as she was. as happy? no, without a question. better? not a chance.

she gave nick a small smirk and shrug, "things seemed to have worked out for the better for both of us then," she told him as octavia waved goodbye to the artist and headed towards them with all smiles. it had kassy's dark eyes lighting a bit brighter as she pushed off the truck, "sooooo? you got your next ten tattoos already lined up?" she teased octavia as she joined the two, kassy's good arm reaching out to pull her into a side hug, bumping their hips. "gonna be more kickass than this guy by the end of it," she teased, giving nick a playful look, "as if you aren't already."

"listen, any tattoo you need drawn up, i've got you," she told o as they got inside, closing the truck door behind them. "of course i'm serious, you're my girl, bitch, i would be honoured to have you covered in my art," she laughed. "hey, you too," she leaned forward from the back seat to muss nicks hair. "however, i'll have to charge you though, you don't got the best friend discount, sorry nick," she grinned at his disgruntled reply, at octavia laughing in the back seat beside her while he pulled out of the parking lot to take them home.

[prixmiumarchive]

Conservation of Mattering

Naomi Nagata has endured more than her fair share of pain for the sake of her relationship with her child’s father. She has finally reached her limit and decides to leave. However, escaping the grasp of someone like Marco Inaros isn’t going to be easy without a lot of help.

This chapter is in a format I’m unsure about, but it felt like this part belonged together. I hope that everything continues to feel like it fits. I welcome feedback on tumblr or AO3!

Chapter 3 (on AO3 and below)

'Just think about it.' It sticks in Jim's head, more a command than a request. When he gets back to the police cruiser, he leans his head back for a moment. From the parking lot, the housing authority's building stretches upward and blocks out the sky.

He notices the silhouettes of people pass in front of the car and flits his gaze back down. He turns the ignition and hears it rattle. He feels eyes on him, but they quickly avert themselves and focus on other things when he tries to meet them. He shows no animosity toward the people here, but he knows what the car he drives looks like, and he can hardly blame them.

He drives down a few blocks before radioing in that he had seen Filip Inaros, safe and sound and with his mother. He knows there's more to it than that, but he does his best to let it rest for the time being. He needs to think.

A few pretty justified traffic stops and routine patrols later, Jim finds himself back at the precinct. The paperwork and turning in is usually the most dull, tedious part of a shift, but this afternoon he feels something tight and tense behind his ears and along the side of his neck. He glances at the brass nameplate on the Captain's door. He bows his head a little and scratches lightly at the back of his head as if to make less of himself as he passes it by.

He doesn't know what he's hoping for – a lifeline, maybe – when he walks into the empty break room and feels like he's hiding for several minutes. It feels like a long time, and his gaze flits to the sound of the door knob turning.

A woman walks in, curly hair piled and tied to the back and top of her head. She caries a stack of papers backed by a folder and looks for all the world like an administrative worker. Her clothes don't belie her rank at all, her badge concealed somewhere along with her weapon. She looks tired and lost in thought, too, when she nods a greeting to Jim. She slides by him to get at the copier.

“They don't pay someone else to do that for you?” Jim asks mildly when he notices her feeding page by page to the machine – sometimes on the glass, sometimes through the top tray.

“They might,” she allows in a pleasant, dubious hum. She places one of the originals back into its original pile, held protectively to her side. “But sometimes I just need to feel it.”

“The copier?” Jim scoffs, and for the briefest moment he feels the normal, almost airy detachment from the outside world that belongs here. He knows from experience and hearsay that copiers are among the world's most-reviled machines. He can remember hearing his mom complain loudly at one of them, and it's no different here.

“The work,” she says, and just like that the daydream is gone.

Jim frowns. He remembers why he has been avoiding taking the next step, and he glances sidelong at the woman's face. He wonders if she would know – if she's the lifeline. He tries to adjust his posture so he appears a little more casual, but it's hard to do when she's in plain-clothes and he's still wearing his uniform.

“Yeah, about that...” he segues, and he knows that he at least has her attention from the look he gets. He lets it stay on him for a moment, trying not to wince. “Let's say you—Are you ever in a situation where you're undercover and you meet someone and... you know what the book says you should do, but you're not sure of the best way to handle it?”

The scowl he gets as a reply is cutting and lasts long enough for the copier to stop making its rhythmic, high whining churn of a sound. The detective collects her copies and stares Jim down. He's pretty sure she doesn't blink.

“My job is all about making decisions on the fly. Trying to keep my integrity while I do it,” she says. He can hear the 'but,' before she utters it. “But what did you do, Holden?”

“Nothing,” he says, already holding both hands up in loose surrender, about the level of his shoulders.

“Uh-huh,” she says with every inch of her voice and frame. She raises her eyebrows, whole body turning to challenge him without a word.

“Nothing,” he repeats. “... Not yet.”

He hadn't thought it was possible for her eyebrows to shoot up higher, but they do.

“What's her name?” she asks, pointedly.

Jim's stomach tightens a little more than he expects for it to. He feels like he's been punched but not hard enough to take his breath. He inhales through it, but he feels his own brow screw up into an expression of something resembling hurt. He blinks at the woman in front of him.

“What,” he says softly, not a question.

“Tell me I'm wrong,” she says. She shrugs and drums the fingertips of her free hand along the counter-top where a really worse-for-wear coffeemaker sits.

“It... is a woman,” Jim answers cautiously. He wonders how she does that, but it's in her title. He sees the look of recognition registering across her face and he lifts a hand and his index finger to try and forestall it. “But,” he insists, “it's not like that.”

He is met with rolling eyes.

“It never is, but it always is,” she says. “This is why I think we should probably place a moratorium on male detective work, but no one listens to me,” she says with only a tinge of dry humor. She sighs, rolling right past it. She looks down and shifts her weight a little as if to find a more comfortable place to plant her feet. She looks up at him with a cocked head. “Fine,” she says. “Tell me how it's different this time,” she says.

“It's not just about the woman,” Jim says. His brow stays tight as he tries to explain it. “It's about her kid...”

“Her kid?” the woman asks sharply. Her fingers drum hard against the counter-top.

“Yeah,” he said. “Welfare check. She's... going through a break-up, I think. The kid's father called it in.”

The knit of his colleague's brow isn't exactly reassuring. Neither is how long it takes her to say anything. He can see thought and worry that he doesn't think he's earned with the information he has given her playing out behind her eyes.

“The father, huh,” she murmurs eventually. She finally meets his eyes. “Jim,” she says, cutting past any formality in a way that feels gently scathing. “This is above your pay-grade. It's not your job to psychologize what's going on between these people.” She clears her throat softly, glancing off to the side but only for a second. “No offense, but you're not a detective. And you're sure as hell not a social worker. And I know I'm not one either, so that's as far as it goes.”

Jim watches her for a moment before sighing and letting his shoulders slump.

“You're right,” he allows, reluctantly.

A hand on her hip.

“But?”

“It's just... there's got to be something—”

“Something you can do?” she asks, almost cutting off his thought. She clicks her tongue softly and shakes her head. “It's a dangerous road to walk down, Officer Holden.” She shakes her head a little. She looks at him, her eyes sad, compassionate maybe. “Whatever you do, you're already in too deep. And it's been – what – six hours? I've seen some bad decisions made by cops who care, but wow.”

Jim shakes his head, and then his posture finally manages something that is a little bit like defiance.

“No,” he says softly. “I'm not in 'too deep' because I finally see... something that isn't just me enforcing laws and rules that – maybe they make sense, maybe they're necessary – but that never touch any of the people I'm supposed to serve with anything but... fines and criminal records.”

“Wow,” she repeats after a moment. She lifts her hand – only one – in a placating gesture. She reaches toward his shoulder, but she doesn't touch him. “Look, I get it. The idealism wears off.” She sighs for him, and he can tell. “But that doesn't mean what you're doing is worthless. Keep going. Work your way up. Do what you're supposed to do and get where you're supposed to be,” she says, each step making sense when spoken in isolation. “And if that's... not this line of work...” she adds more discreetly.

“Hey,” Jim protests lowly, too. “Don't... Don't do that. Just... give me something I can work with,” he bargains. For a while, he thinks she's finished playing, but finally she shrugs high and looks at him.

“Fine,” she says. “You want to play it through. Do your job as a mandated reporter but make sure it gets to the most... interestingly biased ears... I think I can get you a name.”

Jim can't imagine what she means, but he knows it's what he wants to hear.

“Thank you,” he says. He thinks about it for a moment more and nods, feeling more resolved. “Thank you,” he repeats, reaching out and touching her shoulder in a companionable, appreciative way.

She nods curtly.

“Yeah,” she says. “Your job on the line. Don't say I didn't warn you,” she says, but there is at least a hint of dryness in her tone. “Go,” she orders with a nod. “I'll text you,” she says, and somehow that feels like a more illicit promise than it is. He finally leaves the break room, relieved but wondering why.

It is evening, nearly dark when another firm, rattling knock interrupts the silence. Naomi feels her heart start to pound in her chest again, and this time she knows there is more to be afraid of. The knock isn't just efficient and loud, but it continues with an intimidating insistence that demands that someone answer it. She stares at the door as if she could will it away, but there are probably more things than fists to worry about on the other side. Her phone falls from her hand, scowling at job search websites and financial aid office pages forgotten. She places it on the coffee table, but then she thinks better of it and straightens enough to push it down into her pants pocket. She might not have time to call anyone – and who would she call?

The police officer from earlier comes to mind, but in her experiences with the police, they weren't prone to taking requests.

She turns her attention to Filip. He stirs in response to the noise, and for the first time the rattling sound makes her angry as well as afraid. For almost an hour, her son has been lying on his back on a blanket at her side, his chest and round belly rising and falling in peaceful, silent slumber. She can tell he is waking, and she hears Camina's thudding, determined footsteps coming through from her bedroom. She makes a decision and picks up her son, coaxing him against her chest and hoping against hope that somehow he will go back, remain asleep through this. She strokes the back of his head with her fingertips and shushes softly into his ear, starting to shift her weight in a rhythm on her feet.

Camina opens the door to her own apartment. In her loose, sleeveless top, Naomi can see the rope of tense muscle running along the back of her arm. She is ready to try and single-handedly keep the men on the other side of the door at bay. Naomi can't help thinking it's brave but stupid. Guilt wells in the pit of her stomach, deeper still, because she has put someone in this position. Maybe there was a time when she might have been able to say that it was mutual – that they'd have been willing to do anything for each other just because of who they were, but time and boys and men and streets and neighborhoods and school and distance and being girls here had slowly built a wall that only desperation had torn down. With startling efficiency.

It still makes her feel like she owes far more than she can repay, especially with a baby to protect held tight in her arms.

There are two men at the door, both instantly recognizable. One wears looser clothes while the other carries himself with an air of diplomatic dignity in spite of all the noise, all the posturing outside that she knows Camina's entire floor is now aware of. They know they've put everyone on alert. They just don't care.

One is a boy she's known since high school. He stands to her right hand and seems to be the one whose fist had been engaged with Camina's door and its frame. The other is a man whose frame and voice and stance are so familiar that they're as much a part of her as the little boy held to her chest. She swallows a thick, fast, sickening rush of saliva that floods her mouth in place of words.

“Let me see her,” Marco orders Camina conversationally, as if his mere approach doesn't speak of aggression, of a threat.

Naomi knows better now. She feels like the floor is drawing at her feet, her knees, but she keeps the latter locked tight.

“Don't you mean 'him'?” Camina challenges.

“'Him'?” Marco asks. Naomi hates how he sounds like he's trying to be polite. She hates it for a lot of reasons.

She sees the quick tilt of Camina's head, the dubiousness visible even from the back.

“Well, I guess I could mean the cop you gave my name and address. Or I could mean your son,” she says pointedly.

“Ah,” Marco intones. Naomi sees past Camina – the way he rolls his shoulders in something smoother than a shrug. He pockets his hands. The way he's dressed, it looks like he could have been planning on going to church instead of across town to shake down his ex in the name of their son. “And would either one of those things be necessary if we had just talked like calm, mature adults?” he challenges her like he means to educate her.

Camina snorts with disgust.

“Get the hell away from me,” she orders, but it isn't a desperate demand. It is an expression of contempt with no fear behind it at all.

“I didn't come to see you,” Marco points out. Then he lifts his hands. They touch at the palms and align along each finger. He makes a gesture to point with both index fingers. It is so slow and deliberate that it looks almost innocuous, but something about it looks familiar. It hums at the base of Naomi's skull that it looks like a child – using fingers for a gun. “I came to see Naomi,” he says, and in spite of everything her feet move by a step when he says her name, only to plant firmly onto the floor.

“And she doesn't want to see you or she'd be in your apartment, wouldn't she?” Camina asks, but Naomi barely makes it out. He has caught her eyes, and even if it is for an entirely different reason than it used to be, she can't look away. She knows with increasing clarity that this is something she can't simply run from. She can try, but he has something on her. It's the reason he still looks at her like she is the only person – the only thing in the room.

She feels her skin crawl. She feels the warm squirming against her chest. She notices the garbled sounds Filip makes, and she wonders if they mean excitement.

She is afraid they do.

He hears his daddy's voice, calm and controlled after the storm outside has passed.

She wishes she could tell him in words that the storm hasn't passed. It's just looking for a way inside.

She barely gives herself allowance to blink.

“Naomi,” Marco prompts.

Camina glances back over her shoulder.

“Go into the bedroom, Naomi,” she tries to insist.

Naomi glances back in turn, but then she looks at the other woman and shakes her head. She is met with a look of near-offense.

“I'll talk to you, Marco,” she agrees. She glances over at the couch. She is aware of the faint electronic heat in her pocket. She takes a few steps forward. Marco steps back but only to hold out his arms for his family. She is glad Camina is standing between them. “But talking's all I'm doing.”

Marco's shoulders slump a little, but he keeps his arms held up and out. Everything about is movements looks like a performance now. He is vibrant, charismatic, but none of it looks like anything but a performance to her now.

“Baby,” he coaxes, drawing out the word in a way that seems too pointed to be around other people, “don't be like that. I came all the way over here to see you. I want to clear this up.”

“And that's why you called the cops,” Camina points out, but she makes way just a little, slow and cautious in her movement. Her arms fold, but they don't stay that way. She stretches them, keeping them loose and apparently ready to move.

“Exercising my right as a concerned parent,” Marco points out, finally giving Naomi a respite from his prying eyes with a glance at Camina.

“I bet,” is all Camina says in response.

“Let me see him,” Marco says more than asks as Naomi gets a little closer to the doorway. She shakes her head and backtracks a little, holding Filip tighter. She sees the registry of the response all over Marco's face. He is angry, cooler toward her without moving or changing his tone at all. “He's my son,” he points out.

“Your baby,” Naomi snaps, correcting his address of her from before because she can't help it. “And he's... your child, but...”

“But,” Marco warns her, almost casually.

“But the life you're living – the life you've been living,” with her – but not anymore, “isn't safe. It isn't right for him, and if you want to call the police I'm sure there's plenty I could tell them about that.”

She notices the bristle in movement from their – Marco's – silent friend at his side. There is a calming gesture from Marco, and he doesn't move. For all the world, he could have been a trained soldier, listening only to one man. She doesn't know why she didn't see it before.

“Are you playing with me?” Marco asks her, giving her every opportunity to say 'yes.'

She shakes her head in a simple enough reply.

He sighs, very heavily. He closes his eyes.

“Just come home, Naomi.” He blinks his eyes open again and looks at her, anger seemingly abated. “We can talk about this there. There's no point bothering our friends with stuff we should be working out together for our family.”

“Our 'family,'” Naomi snaps back at him, “is built on lies you told me. For years, and I—” she says, but the words die in her throat. She's afraid to say them, but more than that, she's so angry that she sees white for a second.

“Naomi,” he snaps, as if saying her name again and again will change it. “I'd like to say hello to my son,” he tries.

She shifts Filip's weight in her arms. She notices the way he cranes his neck to look at Marco. She knows if she lets him shift around very much that he will probably reach for him. Her stomach knots itself and turns in her belly. It is one part of this that makes her feel like a monster – and there are more, too. She can't tell him yet – she can't explain the lies she has told her baby, unwitting and complicit. He is too young to understand that there is anything in the world but truth, and she has lied to him so completely that he wants his daddy. Her eyes burn and she blinks fast.

Decisively, she shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “We can... we can discuss it later,” she says, placating when she doesn't mean to. She hates it and wishes she hadn't said it, but she keeps going. “But for now, you need to let the answer be 'no.'”

She isn't looking at him except in the periphery of her vision when he shifts his stance, his entire posture. She recognizes the hiss of breath, the snarl of anger. She could give him the same, but for now fear overrides it.

“Fine,” he says, so fervently that it really does sound magnanimous, like he could give up their son happily and in a heartbeat. Like she has convinced him. He even backs away, and she hears the creak of the floor in the hallway. “You want to play it that way?” he demands. She glances up at him and notices the visceral change in the way he carries himself. Her heart is pounding again. She glances down at the hip and side of the man beside him. Marco's clothes are so well-fitted it would be hard for him to be carrying, if not impossible. His friend, on the other hand.

The fact that she even thinks it is crazy, and she knows it. She can't undo the last years of her life, though, so all she can do is take a defensive step backward, to hold her son tighter to her. She can hear the sounds of him starting to blubber more urgently, edging toward crying. He senses it, even if she cannot tell him. His mother is afraid.

The tension defuses abruptly, and he is already walking away when she hears the words of hushed conversation drift back toward them. The word 'bitches,' is used multiple times and in creative and casual ways, almost making it sound like a fairly standard word of address. Camina slams the door purposefully, power and determination visible through her stance even as she locks it down. Naomi can't help but smile a watery, weary smile. A frightened smile that she shows to Filip as she holds him up, swings him gently in her arms, holds him tight, walks with him, and does everything she can to stop him crying. Everything but the one thing she can't do.

He huffs and splutters in exhaustion against her shoulder later. She has almost won him back to sleep and murmurs affectionate words into his ear, along with an apology.

“I'm so sorry,” she says, and she only hopes the words will still hold their meaning when he fully understands them. “I'm so sorry that Mummy is afraid...”

Natural light floods through the office and reflects a little harshly off the interior pane of glass that makes up part of the wall of his little office. Amos squints against it. Even the paperwork he is looking at seems to shine too bright. He squints at it and keeps filling it out. He won't shut the blinds, though, because he once had a kid tell him that it made it dark and scary. So he doesn't shut the blinds anymore except in desperate circumstances.

He looks up, still squinting but this time part of it is a glare as someone casually knocks on the door frame, unannounced and without an appointment. He looks beyond a stack of manilla folders on the corner of his desk and through a dusty moat of light to see a uniformed police officer standing there with a friendly smile on his face. Amos doesn't return it.

“Can I help you?” he asks in a tone that clearly indicates that he is busy and has little interest in helping.

“Yeah, I'm... I'm Officer Holden,” the man says. He steps over the threshold and stretches out his hand to offer it to Amos. Amos keeps his dominant hand working on the paperwork and doesn't reach up. He just looks a little higher this time to meet the man's eyes.

“And you're here without an appointment. Talking to me,” he says in response.

“Uh... yes,” Officer Holden says as he withdraws his hand back to his side. Amos looks up and eyes just how close his hand hanging casually at his side is to a gun. He files it away, the same way he always does.

“What do you want?” he asks, ticking another appropriate box.

“I was given your name by—” Officer Holden starts to respond, but Amos looks back up. He rises from his chair, to his full height, and picks up a few folders from the shorter stack on the other side of his desk. He uses the movement to circle all the way around Holden's back in the space, placing the stack of folders heavily in a cheap little plastic basket near the doorway. He goes back behind his desk, but he doesn't sit down.

“Just do you know,” he says, “I ain't in the business of taking bribes from cops. Didn't think I'd get your kind at CPS, but if you pulled something with some chick you think'll talk and that I'm gonna help you out or look the other way because—” He gestures wordlessly to his own shoulders and the build that flows down from them as if it is a clearly comprehensible explanation, “I'm not your guy.” He looks back down and turns the completed side of the form over. He gives a half shrug. “And you've got the wrong department.”

“Whoa,” Officer Holden says, informally and delayed. He seems to have struck a nerve. Amos lifts his eyebrows, but it's with interest more that Officer Holden is still standing there talking than anything else. “First of all whoa,” the officer continues, this time as if he is trying to slow Amos down. “Second, that is not what I came here for. That's—” Officer Holden spares himself finishing that sentence. “I'm... here about a child welfare case,” he explains, switching back into something that Amos recognizes as a professional tone. “And I was given your name as a guy I might want to talk to if I was... serious about trusting my gut.”

Amos isn't surprised that often, least of all by cops. There are good ones, bad ones, and ones that don't care. They're just like other people except they usually don't hide their weapons and power. The one thing he likes the most about them is that they're really transparent people – not hard to figure out in a moment or two. This time, though, Amos realizes that maybe he looked too fast.

He lifts his eyes without distraction and appraises Officer Holden more carefully this time. In spite of his pretty-boy, iron-happy appearance, his eyes don't have the almost drunk-sober thirst for attention and power that Amos had half-expected to see there. Maybe so much that he'd imagined it. Looking closer, he sees wide-eyed, embarrassing innocence for a man Holden's age.

He sighs and feels weight push down on his shoulders. He recalibrates himself and hooks his thumbs in his empty belt loops.

“Okay,” he says, cautiously. “I'm listening,” he explains, not bothering to hide that he hadn't really been doing so before. “What can I do for you?”

[readme-odt]

You know a ship is way to underrated if there are only about 5 Tumblr Post about it and no Fanart. Or probably Im just creating weird ships.

But Joe Miller and Octavia Muss (or their actors) had such good chemistry in the first season of the Expanse. Frickin miss those two together.