#Presence fic

[idontknowreallywhy]

5 - Essence

I did it! I finished a fic!

*makes note in calendar for this is a day to be MARKED*

Never mind that I already have a spin-off idea… this is complete. And, I’m actually really proud of it. There are clumsy parts, I can always see things I want to improve but I think the ideas are good and I like it.

Hope those who’ve enjoyed the previous chapters think I’ve done this part of Scotty and Virgil’s story justice. And will forgive how viciously I’ve tortured a metaphor…

Presence, Absence, Divulgence, Patience…

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Virgil and Scotty’s plan was simple. 726 meant 7th floor. His room was 625. So he just needed to get up one floor and along a room… unless the numbering was haphazardly allocated. But it probably would be fine.

They slipped out of the door and hurried away from the ruckus happening elsewhere on the psych ward. Virgil took a moment to wish whoever it was improved health very soon. They turned the corner. Well, Virgil did, Scott cut through the corner just to show off. Then they were out of sight and could breathe for a moment. Virgil clutched the pillow he’d brought in one hand and the waistband of the undignified pyjama pants in the other. Which meant no hand free to hold Scotty’s but he was in the lead and half way down the corridor anyway. So Virgil followed.

They’d get caught on the main stairs or in the lift so they were going to use the fire escape.

Scott hung back as they approached the door and let Virgil do the honours of leaning on the bar to open it. He jumped in horror as alarms blared and he clutched the pillow to one ear while trying to block the other with his shoulder, waistband still clutched with a white knuckled grip. Scotty gave him a meaningful look so he swallowed hard and leapt out on to the metal staircase. They were… a long way from the ground. As his brother had suggested, he dropped the pillow over the edge and watched it fall and land in a hedge. Then he tiptoed as quickly as he could up one floor and crouched by the door… hopefully nobody would look up. He closed his eyes and tried to tune out the harsh clanging noise which seemed to be trying to split his brain into two. The scent of cut grass and sun baked concrete was overwhelming after the antibacterial monotony of the hospital ward.

It worked like a dream. Three people came rushing out on to the stairway, one spotted the gleam of white below and they thundered down and down and down the stairs, the vibrations making Virgil’s teeth rattle. He hardly dared breathe. Scott however, refused to be stealthy and was standing on the railing doing a ridiculous victory dance. Virgil hissed at him to get down. He knew Scott wouldn’t fall, his balance was borderline superhuman, but it would be bad if he was seen.

Right, he had made it this far and still had his pants. Now to get on to level seven.

This part did not go to plan. They had forgotten… the fire doors only opened from the inside. Scott facepalmed in despair and Virgil told his brother not to blame himself… he hadn’t thought of it either. Ok. Take stock and work the solution.

The door wouldn’t give a millimetre. Scotty suggested smashing it with a rock but the rocks were seven storeys down along with the people he could still hear hunting them. Virgil looked around desperately. The window to the room nearest the fire escape was cracked open. It would have to do.

Scotty took him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye, smiling encouragingly. Virgil felt encouragement was all very well but how was he going to climb over there with one hand unavailable? He didn’t want to risk falling to his death without his trousers either. Scott suggested maybe if he’d got more rescue scout badges he’d be able to fix them. Virgil scowled at the familiar dig because he’d spent more time on music than tying knots and whatever.. but it did give him an idea. Mr Made-it-all-the-way-to-Falcon didn’t seem willing to part with his belt, so Virgil tore a strip off his pyjama top and bunched the waistband tight, tying the excess fabric together. Then cautiously let go. It held.

Alright.

He did feel a little wobbly as he climbed over the railing but hoped that was just a natural reaction to the horrifying drop below him rather than any lingering effects of the sedatives. Scott gave him two thumbs up then rubbed the back of his neck as he frowned over at the window. Virgil hoped he wasn’t having second thoughts because he couldn’t do this by himself. He hooked a foot around the railings behind him and feigned a confidence he didn’t have to bolster his brother by letting himself tip forward until his hands caught the windowsill. Ok. He pulled at the window to open it more and froze in horror.

It was a hospital. Of course every window would have a limiter on it to restrict how far it opened. So people couldn’t climb out.

Or in.

He looked back at Scotty who was in full pacing SmotherHen mode. Virgil could just ask his brother to pull him back and they could come up with another plan but found he didn’t want to give up yet. Resolutely not looking down he kept a firm grip on the windowsill with one hand and slipped the other into the gap, feeling for the mechanism that was causing all the trouble. There was a screw. He put all of his strength into forcing it loose, fortunately the fine motor control seemed to have returned along with his strength. He grunted with the effort then bit his lip. It wouldn’t do for someone to hear him now.

It moved! Then it spun and came off in his hand. He let it clatter to the floor, too late for stealth now, and pushed the window open wide. Thankful for the years working on his upper body strength he heaved himself through the window and slithered to the floor, landing with a thud and his trousers round his knees. His face burned and he scrabbled to make himself decent, looking in panic around the room for anyone who might have seen but… the room was empty. He sighed in relief and got to his feet.

This room smelled different. It was a different kind of empty to the ward he’d been on. The sort of empty that had recently been full then emptied suddenly but not yet scrubbed clean. Maybe the occupant had gone home. He hoped the occupant had gone home. Virgil stood there, a little lost all of a sudden, wondering whether he and Scotty would both get to go home one day.

Scotty squeezed his shoulder. That meant he was proud. Virgil glowed. It had been a pretty awesome stunt all things considered. They were a great team. And they were nearly there.

He opened the door slowly, silently and peered out. All was quiet. He started moving stealthily to the next room, but had to turn back to shush Scotty who was whistling nonchalantly. He’d get them caught! And worse, it was horribly off key. Virgil was sure he did it on purpose to annoy him.

The next room said 726! This was the one! He went to high-five Scotty and over-balanced slightly as his childish brother moved his hand away just in time. He really was an idiot. But he was Virgil’s favourite idiot so it was good he was here. He looked around one last time then tried the handle and pushed open the door.

And froze.

He’d got it wrong… must have misheard the number. This was some old guy’s room. The stench of antiseptic and panic was strong in here. Virgil clenched his fists in frustration and turned away. He’d just have to check every single room in the place. He knew his brother was here somewhere and he wasn’t sure when the chance to sneak away would come again.

He took three steps then froze as his brain caught up with the information his eyes had sent through moments before: Dad’s jacket was hanging on the back of the chair next to the bed.

Huh?

He shuffled back and looked again. Maybe just a similar jacket? A foot was sticking out from the bottom of the sheets, the man was tall like Scott, but it was thin and frail. This guy was about 80 and had a beard and looked… done. Poor guy.

He glanced at the name card that had been inserted into the slot at the foot of the bed.

Tracy, Scott Carpenter

His heart soared and plummeted within a single breathless moment. It must be a mistake… everything was wrong. The little of this body not padded by bandages was skeletal, ancient-looking. Where there should be strong warm hands were wires and splints and the darkness of bruising. The man’s cheekbones were like knives, below deeply shadowed eye sockets in which reddened eyelids flickered. Sweat beaded his face. The little hair visible beneath the dressings on his head was too long, the beard too… beardy. The click and whirr of the machine breathing for the stranger was alien. The heart rate monitor was agonisingly arrhythmic and definitely too fast. His brother’s pulse was always steady - Virgil had felt it many times through a tightly gripped wrist as they stood somewhere way too high and Virgil’s own heart raced in anticipation of the next crazy stunt. Or through a gentle thumb in a handhold when he was nervous. Or best of all ear to chest when surrounded by his brother’s arms.

There was a familiarity but… no. This wasn’t his brother. It couldn’t be.

He looked up at Scotty who smiled at him sadly and tilted his head towards the haggard face on the pillow. Virgil crept closer and slipped into the chair to study it. The ears were the same, except a little swelling behind and even more bruising. He couldn’t even start to think about any human could get into this state, let alone…

Virgil’s eyes dropped to the faint white scar on the bottom of the man’s jaw, just to the side of his chin. The relic of an old misadventure, barely visible under the patchwork of red and black and purple, but instantly recognisable to the boy who’d tried to tape it together with sticking plasters. If they’d owned up and his brother had got the stitches he needed at the time, it would never have scarred. But, as with so many things, those blue eyes had pleaded with him and he’d done his best to help.

He looked back over his shoulder to where Scotty had been standing guard, seeking his reassurance.

But he was gone.

He turned back to Scotty in the bed, heart torn into shreds by his inability to help this time. This was beyond sticking plasters and hugs and promises not to tell. His head swam and the other words that voice had said to his father, the ones he had refused to acknowledge or understand, came floating to the surface. The possibility Scott might not…

No. Not while Virgil still had blood in his veins. They were together now and everything would be alright.

He reached out a tentative finger and stroked the one small area of cheek that wasn’t obviously injured and then rested his head gently on the pillow alongside his brother’s, close enough that his face brushed the side of Scott’s but not so close he might cause painful pressure. Little brother inhaled deeply through his nose, seeking a semblance of calm to counter the fear rising in his chest and then held his breath, hardly daring to believe. Hiding behind the antiseptic and the plastic and the soap and the hollow cleanliness of it all, something was filling the emptiness. A faint melody, unique, as familiar as his own. A music that meant safety, and that he wasn’t alone. A music that meant home.

The constant erratic beeping noise slowed, almost imperceptibly, and fell into a steady rhythm.

A brand new score had been opened. But Virgil knew the notes now. They’d compose this next version together.

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[siriustar8]

Headache - @jegulus-microfic - 235 words

Regulus had the worst migraines ever.

Whenever he as much as passed by a crowd of loud gryffindors, walked the grounds when it's sunny, or played a long match of quidditch, he always ended up with his head pounding and eyes watering, unable to move or speak. He would need complete silence, as little light as possible, and a long nap. 

When he started dating James, extroverted cheery bubbly James, he thought he would need to keep his distance whenever his temples started to hurt. 

But to his surprise, the moment he mentionned having a headache in the middle of the Halloween party, James dropped everything and pulled him gently towards his dorm room.

He closed the curtains, fluffed up the pillows, and pushed Regulus softly on the bed before tucking him in. 

"Would you like me to stay with you, or do you prefer being alone?"

"James, it's fine. You can go back to your party. I'll just sleep it off."

The frown on James' face was too adorable, when he responded: 

"Baby, that's not what I asked you."

Regulus couldn't deny that the mere thought of his head on James' chest already made the tension in his head lighter, so he pulled his boyfriend by the sleeve and settled next to him, content despite the pain.

Honestly, Regulus should've known that James would be considerate and lovely. It was James after all.

[ckret2]

The second dimension has burned up, almost(?) everyone is dead, the ones that aren't dead wish they were, and this funny little yellow triangle the Axolotl met one time is some kind of god ghost party host tyrant.

Wanna make it even worse?? I know you do. Let's make it so much worse.

Here, have a fic. Last week's Part 1 is about Bill doing some kind of cosmic horror shit to the Axolotl; part 2 here is about the Axolotl trying to process the most horrifying thing he's ever seen while a bunch of the most annoying gods you've ever seen argue about building inspections and vandalism.

####

When the Axolotl tumbled out of the bloated pocket of reality where Dimension Zero's singularity was supposed to be, for a moment he thought he'd gotten turned around and flown straight back in, because here again was the yellow triangle's nightmarish party: the geometric rainbow of corpses and undead puppeted into dancing for their "magister," the flashing strobe lights, the hissing whispery white noise like the echoes of a Big Bang had gained sentience and started passing secrets to each other, the cacophonous music that seemed to be every song playing at once.

He had to shake his head to clear it and make sense of what he was seeing. No corpses, no dancing: all he was seeing was all the gods who'd gathered together outside the incinerated two dimensional wall to help deal with the criss, at least triple what there had been before he'd entered what-wasn't-Dimension-Zero. The flashing lights were the cameras and broadcasting equipment of reporters, cordoned off from the Apocalyptic Threat Task Force's main center of operations but still crowding as close as possible to see what the firefighters and ATTF were doing. The whispers were the buzz of activity among the emergency response workers.

And the music was only playing in his own head.

A few gods glanced at him as he emerged from the immense roiling miasma that had replaced Dimension Zero, but they had their own business to deal with and he wasn't part of it, so he was quickly ignored. He wouldn't know what to say if anyone had spoken to him. It was hard to think of anything but the dancing.

He should tell someone what he'd seen. Numbly, he looked around for the storm cloud with the ATTF he'd spoken to earlier, but couldn't pick it out from the crowd.

There was one "face" in the crowd he distantly recognized: a harried-looking vending machine filled with planets and moons—VENDOR, the Axolotl was pretty sure. Some politician. THEY were irritably shifting THEIR worlds back and forth on THEIR spiral racks as THEY spoke to one of the ATTF's many apocalypse cops; THEY'd already vended five planets that the apoc cop had cradled in their tentacles. As the Axolotl swam past the duo in search of the cloud, he heard VENDOR snapping, "—I'll have you know elections are coming up again. The last thing I need is Municipalitron suggesting this lackluster response to a gaping hole into Dimension Zero is MY fault! By the time those rubbernecking reporters make it around your flimsy barrier, I want to be able to report you've cleaned up this mess—" Was the incinerated Dimension 2 Delta even in THEIR district?

He saw THEM on the news from time to time at cosmic crises like this, providing temporary planets for refugees until they could be moved to other worlds (or, in dire enough circumstances—other dimensions); that must be what THEY were here for now. It tended to get THEM a lot of good press. The Axolotl didn't know how much of it was deserved.

To the Axolotl's further distaste, there were also cops here now—not the apoc cops, they were fine, but cop-cops: he saw one crablike being with red and blue mushrooms growing out from where his eyes used to be, and two interlocked fiery rings with a hundred distrustful eyes. They were talking to the hapless furred serpent the Axolotl had seen before he'd gone in to investigate Dimension Zero, the one who'd called in the emergency. She didn't look at all comfortable with whatever they were asking. Why the hell did a spontaneously combusting universe call for the police? Who did they think they were going to arrest? Who did they think they could blame for the fire? The fire itself?

Unless they thought it was arson?

There was the storm cloud: it was talking to another apoc cop, a floating flock of sheep with an ATTF badge pinned in their rain-soaked wool. The Axolotl headed their direction—but paused at the sight of the triangle's sun.

Before Dimension 2 Delta had burned, the little triangle's two-dimensional home planet had been illuminated by a sun shining down on it from the third dimension—a sun no one but the triangle could see. With 2Δ gone, the third dimension was slowly falling into Dimension Zero's nauseating threshold; and in the time the Axolotl had been talking to the triangle, his sun had fallen halfway toward the threshold.

He carefully picked it up and nudged it a safe distance back, then shook the sting of heat out of his paws. 

Someone said, "Hold on, you're the one who defaced the Department of Multiversal Vehicles' office!"

The Axolotl turned to look. VENDOR had apparently ganged up with the cops against the serpent. He groaned under his breath.

Looking between the trio with panic in her eyes and clutching her spray paint can anxiously to her underbelly, the serpent was saying, "Okay, okay, maybe I was out here to do a little graffiti—"

The Axolotl winced and muttered, "Oh, don't voluntarily confess anything." The cloud could wait. He hurried in their direction.

"—but I hadn't actually started anything when the dimension caught on fire! I mean—all right maybe I'd done a couple of tags, but only in vacuum, nowhere near any stars! And the fire started way off from where I was—"

"That sounds likely," VENDOR said.

"You've already got a rap sheet for vandalism," the crablike cop said. "Decided to try out arson—?"

The tentacled apoc cop who'd been speaking to VENDOR earlier cut into the conversation. "Lay off, we've already checked her out. The combustible material in a can of spray paint would only take out a solar system at most. Do you have any idea, any idea, just how much power it takes to burn a whole dimension?"

The dual fiery rings wheeled aggressively in front of the apoc cop. "You let us do our job, calamari. Just focus on doing your own."

"Don't mind if I do," the Axolotl said. He put himself between the accused criminal and the gods of punishment, gills flared and curled forward. "I believe this serpent was a witness to the fire. Is she under arrest?" (He could feel some of the mental numbness wearing off, the horror loosen its grip on his heart as he focused on doing his job.)

VENDOR took one look at him and scoffed. "Oh, you. I know who you are," THEY said. "I suppose this is one of your pro bono clients." All one hundred and two of the cops' eyes immediately snapped to the Axolotl.

Why did everyone think that today? "No," the Axolotl said exasperatedly, "she's not. But I do know her rights. Including her right not to answer any of your questions." (The serpent's jaw snapped shut.) "Do you?"

The cops both bristled. VENDOR drew THEMSELF up to THEIR full height (which was the same height THEY'd already been, a metal brick being rather inflexible like that) and prepared to retort—but THEIR internal camera caught on something just to the Axolotl's side. "Oh, no. Not her."

The Axolotl turned. Hovering in the void behind them, so small and translucent she'd be unnoticeable if not for the faint pinkish glow she gave off, was an astrally-projected mortal soul: a four-armed salamander-like woman with a robe and a string of beads wrapped around one wrist. She opened her eyes, blinking up at the Axolotl.

"Oracle," the Axolotl said, half greeting, half a surprised query. The Oracle bowed her head to him.

To the mortals she served, the Oracle was a priestess who received messages from a god: prophecies to help her people understand the divine and navigate the future. To the beings powerful enough to get called gods, the Oracle was essentially one in a long line of intern news bloggers that the Axolotl occasionally had coffee with to discuss local politics and court cases. His Oracles were almost always low-level mortal criminals who had gotten themselves involved in enough trouble to attract gods' attention, but whom he'd taken under his fin to help get out of that life before they graduated to crimes against reality. The Axolotl thought it was important to offer mortals help before they crossed a line they could never uncross, and important to keep an open conduit of information between higher and lower planes. He thought the people who had the power to shape reality owed transparency to the people living in the realities they shaped.

Not everyone agreed. 

"You smuggled your reporter past the barricade," VENDOR said accusatorially. (The cops visibly flinched at the word "reporter," the crablike one nervously clacking his claws and the ringed one's many eyes widening.)

"No, I had no idea she was coming." Which was unusual. Usually, the Axolotl visited the Oracle in her sleep to catch her up on his day's work and how it might affect mortal affairs; it wasn't often the Oracle sought him out first.

"Well, I'm not making a statement." VENDOR abruptly turned THEIR back to the Axolotl and his Oracle. "If anyone asks, no comment. I'm not commenting on the current incident." The cops also took the opportunity to quietly slink off. The Axolotl watched them go, making sure they didn't find someone new to bully as they left.

The Oracle shot VENDOR and the cops a puzzled look. The Axolotl said, "Don't worry about THEM. Why are you here?"

"Our seers have had premonitions. Could you enlighten us on their meaning?" the Oracle asked.

"Of course. What did they see?"

"They've received visions of an explosion in the... sky..." She trailed off, staring in wonder at the gap into Dimension Zero behind the incinerated wall. "Is... that the explosion?"

Before the Axolotl could answer, the storm cloud he'd been looking for swept past to loom over her. She flinched as her view of her god was suddenly blocked by a torrential thunderstorm, and flinched again as a sunbeam pierced the clouds to shine directly upon her and a serious voice boomed down from the tempestuous heavens: "Your people witnessed it?"

"There you are," the Axolotl said. "I was looking for you—"

The cloud pointed at him with a finger of lightning. "I'll get your statement second. Mortal's first. They don't last as long." (The Axolotl didn't think the Oracle was going to die of old age in the time it would take him to explain what he'd seen in Dimension Zero, but he didn't argue.) It said to the tentacled god, "Get those planets out to the flat worlders. The flock's already out there."

"On it." They tightened their tentacles around the worlds VENDOR had already passed over, and quickly scuttled off toward the line of blue light on the interdimensional horizon.

The storm asked the Oracle, "Can you describe what happened?"

"Uh..." She looked around nervously, trying to find the source of the voice, not realizing it came from the storm itself. "That's... what I came here to find out."

The Axolotl slipped his tail over her as an umbrella. (He needed the water, anyway; he'd been too close to too many fires today.) "Just tell it what your seers saw, like you were telling me. You may be able to help us."

"Help how?"

"None of us directly witnessed the 'explosion' your seers did."

Her eyes widened in alarm. "How do the gods not witness something?"

The Axolotl hesitated. "Even gods' eyes aren't all-seeing." He decided he didn't want the first thing he told his Oracle about the situation to be that all the gods that could have directly witnessed the "explosion" had been killed by it.

As the Oracle spoke, the storm cloud took notes in a damp notepad it kept steady with a current of air, burning the information onto the pages with a thread of lightning that meandered across the page like a Tesla coil. VENDOR, who'd backed out of "interviewing" range but not out of hearing range, partially turned to listen to her statement. (And while the other gods were distracted, the furred serpent quietly slunk off, trying to hide her spray paint as she did; the Axolotl didn't call attention to her. If the storm needed anything else from her, no doubt it had already gotten her contact info. Better that she go before the cops circled back to harass her some more.)

The Oracle said that her people's seers had seen a whole patch of the sky burning bright blue and collapsing together, the edges going black and the center growing impossibly bright, until everything sank into the center—and then went dark. Only once it was dark could they see what the light had been concealing: behind the collapsed patch of sky, there was a sea of seething colors. (The assembled group tried not to stare too obviously at the multicolored miasma that used to be Dimension Zero.) One seer had gone blind staring straight into the light, trying to discover anything about its nature.

The cloud asked, "And did she see anything important?"

The Oracle said hesitantly, as though not sure whether this detail mattered: "She said the light was... triangular."

A chill settled over the Axolotl. 

The cloud stopped, perplexed. "Huh." And then it dutifully burned that information down as well.

(Maybe it was nothing; triangles were very common symbols, lots of phenomena naturally formed triangles. Or maybe what she'd seen was whatever the triangle had done to try to save his people. Or maybe, maybe....)

While the cloud was focused on taking down its notes, the Oracle dragged her eyes from the tumbling colors of Dimension Zero and turned to the Axolotl. "We're worried about what these visions mean." She switched from interviewee to interviewer, all journalistic professionalism. "What did they see? What was this explosion?"

The Axolotl focused on the question to push the triangle from his mind. His eyes began to glow, as he recited:

"The multiverse is layered planes,

Stacked to bear existence's strains.

1D pillars, 2D walls,

3D rooms in 4D halls;

On a 0D foundation:

That's reality's construction. 

One wall falls into the basement,

It can shake the whole apartment.

But other walls can still load-bear

Until the gods can make repairs."

"Okay... Thank you. And—our plane is 3D?"

"That's right."

The Oracle took notes of her own: one of her four hands spun in loose loops, like an absent-minded conductor. In her physical body, she'd be holding a marker in a trance, copying down the prophecy the Axolotl had given her. No doubt it would be in the mortal papers on her world by tomorrow. The Axolotl thought it was better that the mortals know there was something wrong but that the people who had the power to do something about it were on the job, rather than just worry without answers. (Again, he was sometimes in the minority opinion. VENDOR was managing to give him the stink eye without a face.) "Is the multiverse actually structured like an apartment complex?"

"No," the Axolotl said. "It's a helpful visual metaphor." And it had rhymed with basement.

"But... this is something you can fix?"

"It is. There are gods of space and doomsday already here working to stabilize the foundation and repair the fallen wall." (VENDOR's lights flickered a bit brighter at the positive acknowledgment to the press.)

"Gods of doomsday?" She gave him an alarmed look.

"It's a misleading title. The ones here work to prevent accidental apocalypses."

"You're underselling the severity of the issue," the storm cloud muttered, not looking up from its notes. "This isn't your run-of-the-mill cosmic repair job. A second dimension's fully collapsed into the zeroth dimension. That's a plane packed into a point. That shouldn't be possible. It's destabilized everything built on top of the zeroth dimension—which means the entire multiverse." (VENDOR tried to shush it. It didn't acknowledge THEM.) "Plus, this fire is kicking our collective butts. One- and two-dimensional gods are getting incinerated, not even afterlives and underworlds are escaping the fire, reality itself is at risk of collapsing, we still don't know what's doing it—"

VENDOR let out a beep that was as loud as a car alarm. "Is there any reason the mortals need to know that!"

"Ehh... not that I can think of." The cloud glanced up from its notes. "They're powerless to do anything about it. It'd just make them worry about something that's out of their h..." Its roving sunbeams caught on the Oracle, still diligently taking notes on this out-of-control fire. "Oh."

Quietly, the Oracle asked, "You're sure the multiverse will be fine? If this fire even kills gods..."

The Axolotl paused. "I was more sure a second ago."

"It'll stand," the storm cloud said grimly, "but if we can't stop the fires, not for long. We've called out every god we can to help, but..."

"It should stand," VENDOR said quickly. "I'm sure the other walls are fine—I've personally seen to it that we're rigorous about maintaining our dimensions' structural integrity."

The cloud's sunbeam aimed ruefully at the missing wall. "Good work," it muttered.

VENDOR rounded angrily on it, "Well all the preventative cosmic inspections in the multiverse are useless if the inspectors didn't do their job right! Which they clearly didn't!"

The cloud raised a wall of fog defensively.

VENDOR paced in an angry figure 8 as THEY fumed, "It's incompetence all around! I'll bet anything it was electricians who miswired the laws of electromagnetism and shorted them out, or—or something! A properly constructed load-bearing wall imploding, much less dumping into the center of reality, just doesn't happen! And nobody noticed the danger?"

"We can't rule out the possibility of terrorism yet," the cloud said. 

 VENDOR rounded on the cloud to demand, "What terrorist would risk destroying the multiverse?!"

Angry lightning danced around its tornado. "How should I freaking know! A stupid one?!"

"Hah! That's all you've got?! The dimensions might have been burned by a stupid terrorist?" THEY turned on the Oracle. "Do not print that!"

Her hand froze mid-loop.

Thunder rumbled in the storm cloud. "Look, apocalypse Origin & Cause is still investigating, and the cosmic engineering inspector isn't here yet. If you'd give us five nanoseconds to do our jobs—!"

"What do you mean, isn't here yet! What's taking them so long?"

"I just put in the call—"

"That's no excuse, they ought to have been here before you called! Do engineers have time tapes or not!" VENDOR let out several irritated beeps as THEIR internal motors ground in irritation. "Probably dragging their heels because they didn't do their job properly before the dimension fell! Oh, I'm going to give them a piece of my mind." THEY charged off, still muttering, "I'll have the heads of the last inspector and the lazy subcontractors who didn't build this dimension up to code! If this does anything to jeopardize my reelection— You there, police!" (The crab cop, who'd attempted to make himself useful by eyeing the reporters still outside the cordon menacingly, started at being directly addressed again.) "I need your assistance! I need someone to hold up a phone for me."

The Axolotl gave THEM a wide berth as THEY passed. Even as a god who almost exclusively dealt with the dead, this level of devastation left the Axolotl stunned with horror. But VENDOR's biggest concern wasn't the loss of life? Nor the threat to public safety posed by the exposed and mutated Dimension Zero? It was a stupid election?

He made a mental note to look into Municipalitron's policies before the next election.

Quietly, the Oracle asked, "Are you safe here? If there's a fire that can even kill gods..."

When the storm had told the Axolotl about 2Δ's fire, it had said not even gods and ghosts made it out— The Axolotl's frills perked up. "Right, I came back here to tell it— Er, yes, I think I'm safe—but I need to tell—" He turned to the storm cloud, "I haven't told you what I saw yet!"

"Oh, right—I meant to congratulate you on coming back alive." It flipped to a new page in its notepad. "Congrats."

"You said that everyone in 2Δ died," the Axolotl said.

"They did. I can guarantee it." It grew its tornado to pantomime an expanding ring: "The readings Origin & Cause have gotten so far indicate that an enormous gravitational wave from the spontaneous combustion event's epicenter tore the universe apart. Imagine gluing a bunch of corn chips to a tablecloth, pulling the tablecloth tight from both sides, and dragging the tablecloth straight down off one end of the table. It'd shatter all the chips as they passed over the table's edge. Destroyed everyone and everything in that universe, on every plane. Landscape, mindscape, dreamscape..."

"Well," the Axolotl said, with the edge of triumph he got whenever he figured out how to rip a prosecutor's witness in half, "I found survivors. So how's that possible?"

He expected surprise. Instead, the cloud bobbed up and down in recognition, as though the Axolotl were confirming something it already knew. 

On the other hand, from half a solar system away, VENDOR shouted indignantly, "I beg your pardon?!" THEY leaned away from the phone the cop was holding for THEM. "How many?" THEY began rotating through THEIR internal selection of planets.

"Two or three million," the Axolotl called back.

VENDOR huffed irritably and switched to looking through their collection of much smaller, rockier astronomical bodies. "Hardly worth a moon, much less a planet," THEY muttered. "From Dimension 2 Delta, I assume."

"No," the storm cloud said. "Everyone in 2Δ is dead. He must've found the poor suckers getting dragged down from the other dimensions."

The Axolotl stared at it. "Dragged down from what?"

Before the cloud could answer, the flock of sheep it had been speaking to earlier called, "Boss?" They had clearly just come from the direction of the bright blue line on the horizon—and their fleeces was now stained with soot. "We're losing refugees even faster in Dimension 2 Epsilon, what's the new plan?" Dimension 2 Epsilon?

The Axolotl felt a chill wind blow off the storm cloud; but its voice was just as hard as ever as it said, "I'll check it out myself." Its sunbeam pointed toward the Axolotl. "Maybe you oughta come along, I can explain it on the way." it said. "Just you." And the beam drifted down to highlight the Oracle.

"Yes, I understand."

Its bright gaze turned toward the apoc flock. "Hold down the fort until we get back."

"Got it, boss."

The Axolotl turned to the Oracle and said quietly, "You should wake up. I'll contact you with more when I can."

As strongly as he believed the mortals ought to be privy to whatever knowledge the gods had about the crisis, he didn't think traumatizing his Oracle wold benefit anyone.

####

Apparently, the Axolotl had only been told about half the situation. As they traveled along where Dimension 2 Delta used to be, the storm cloud caught him up on the rest. It had been telling the truth about everything in 2Δ being destroyed. It had simply burned too fast and too thoroughly, and it wasn't until the flames reached the edges of the universe and looped back to eat themselves that the inferno began to slow down.

Slow down... but not stop.

Why hadn't the Axolotl realized sooner? Why would there be so many firefighters on the scene, if the fire had gone out before the first ever arrived? What was the distant blue line of light he'd followed until he found the ATTF's center of operations, if not the light of still-burning stars? Why would VENDOR have come to provide new worlds for refugees, if everyone had been so sure 2Δ didn't have any refugees?

When the flames had reached the edge of 2Δ, they'd effortlessly incinerated the first dimensions bordering its edges, like a flame consuming a flash string in a magic trick, and moved straight across to the next second dimensions.

"Dimensions 2 Delta, 1 Gamma-Delta, and 1 Delta-Epsilon were completely incinerated before anyone arrived on the scene," the cloud said. "We lost 1 Alpha-Delta and 1 Delta-Zeta after we got here—it's a miracle the fire didn't cross from 2 Delta over 1 Alpha-Delta into 2 Alpha. 2 Gamma's over ninety percent gone; at this point we're trying to detach it from the closest first dimensions and hoping the flames will stop at its borders. And we're just trying to rescue who we can from 2 Epsilon and 2 Zeta, because every time we start to get the fire under control, it restarts itself."

The Axolotl felt sick. Five dimensions had been destroyed? Three more dimensions were still burning—one on the verge of being lost?

"Some of your survivors must've been dragged down into Dimension Zero," it went on. "Or into the miasma around it. I guess you must not have run into Zero itself in there, or else you wouldn't be here to tell us about it."

"I don't think Dimension Zero is in that miasma; I think the miasma is Dimension Zero. It had some properties of a spaciotemporal singularity... except it's... big. Big but—all in one place. And there's time happening, but all in one moment." He was in no fit state to try to explain this. He wasn't sure he even understood himself.

"Huh," the storm said. "Never seen anything like that before. I guess that explains where the rubble from 2Δ went, but—I have no idea how the physics in there must be working."

"I didn't see any rubble. Would there be any? If everything was destroyed—gods, souls, afterlives, dreams..."

"Subatomic ashes. The dimension's matter still oughta be somewhere."

He tried to remember if he'd seen anything that might be subatomic ashes. All he could remember was the three dimensional stars and stardust that had fallen in—and the party, and the bleeding. "If it was there, I wouldn't know how to sense it."

By the time they reached the edge of Dimension 2 Epsilon, and a 2D plane once more safely covered up the shifting border of Dimension Zero, the distant line of light had grown into a sea of pallid blue flame: the hydrogen of countless two dimensional stars burning as their universe crumbled and crunched up. In the distance, beyond the fire's perimeter, the Axolotl could see the still-unburned flat constellations and nebulas—and the divine firefighters chopping and hacking the universe in twain ahead of the fire edge. He realized that fire crews he'd seen nervously milling about earlier were just a skeleton crew: the real firefighting force was out here.

The flames seemed reluctant to lick up into the third dimension; they clung hard to the second dimensions, barely even radiating heat into the neighboring universe. There was an eerie focused calm to the gods trying to stop the fires below—all the devastation beneath them, close enough to touch, and yet not touching them. Yet. 

Even as many firefighters as were out here trying to get the fire under control, they couldn't cover the entire perimeter; and so the storm cloud lead the Axolotl right up to the fire edge along a span that the stretched-thin firefighting force didn't currently have covered. They were close enough that a few of the storm's raindrops fell on the fire, making it sizzle out in some small spots, only for the inferno to roar back to life a moment later.

The storm spoke for the first time in several minutes: "I can't begin to tell you how, but it's like the fire's fighting back against us. Every time the fire crews get even a little bit under control, it erupts again. We've had to start breaking off the burning portions of reality to keep the fires from spreading to the rest of the dimension," it gestured at the gods at work cracking off an enormous slab of existence from the rest of the dimension to create a chasm half a galaxy wide between the fire and the as yet still safe portion of the universe. The separated portion buckled and bubbled in the fire like a melting piece of plastic. "And... even that's not enough. Cosmic fires aren't my speciality—but I'm told breaking a dimension is guaranteed to stop a fire. But this one just keeps finding a way to... jump across."

"What do you mean, 'jump across'?"

On the safe side of the chasm, at least a lightyear away, a perfectly well-behaved solar system randomly burst into a geyser of flames.

"Oh."

Firefighters rushed to the newly burning star. Several planets had already blackened, curled up, and crumbled to ashes. The ashes rained down into Dimension Zero.

The storm cloud turned their path toward the new fire, the Axolotl following close behind. "They don't even always pop up near the fire edge like this." (As though a flame jumping an entire lightyear away could be called "near.") "Half a dozen popped up at random throughout Dimension 2 Gamma before we even realized how this fire moved. And as if that isn't bad enough, if the fire isn't targeting mortals, I'll eat my fedora."

This time, the Axolotl decided not to tempt fate by asking how a fire could target anything.

The firefighters struggled to contain the new fire with a line of 3D flame-retardant foam. They weren't even trying to put the fire out, he realized; they'd given up the solar system for lost. They were only trying to keep the fire back from one planet: a disc-shaped world, already cracked from the way the heat had warped and bent this dimension's surface, surrounded by billions of glittery flecks. People. His frills flicked forward in alarm.

Rescuers were using planet-sized planes to scoop the bewildered two-dimensional people off their endangered dimension, like spatulas trying to rescue a pancake from a skillet in the fires of hell, and handing them off to other rescuers to relocate to one of the refugee planets VENDOR had supplied. But as the storm and Axolotl caught up the fire somehow found a way past the solid wall of 3D foam to ignite the moon orbiting the hapless planet.

And as if that wasn't enough, it sprung up on the people, too. The screaming populations of entire towns spontaneously caught fire. To his horror, the Axolotl understood now what the storm had meant by the fires targeting mortals. Reality warped and bent beneath them, twisting, melting; burning people were crushed together by the distortions in reality and fused together into dozen-mouthed wailing bodies. The overburdened plane of reality ripped and disintegrated like threadbare fabric over a candle, and people fell screaming into Dimension Zero before they could be caught.

The storm cloud flinched back with a flash of lightning. "Shoot—it is getting faster."

The Axolotl automatically lunged forward to help them. A split-second wall of shrieking lightning blocked his path and a gust of wind pushed him back. "Don't," the storm snapped. "Leave it to the professionals."

"Sorry." The Axolotl backed up a safe distance with the storm cloud, stomach twisting. "Is there any way I can help—?"

"No," the storm cloud said quickly. "This fire can pop up anywhere—it's already caught four firefighters, and they're trained to deal with this stuff. We can't risk it spreading to the third dimension."

He hated not helping—but unfortunately, he understood. "How did you put out the fires on the firefighters?"

"We didn't. We threw them into Dimension Zero."

The storm was right; there was nothing natural about a fire that could kill gods.

"I've gotta go find out the latest," it said. "Can you stay out of trouble for a few minutes?"

"Yes. I promise." Although it might be the hardest thing he'd ever done.

The storm cloud left the Axolotl; and the Axolotl watched the fire.

####

It went against every instinct in his body not to reach out to scoop up the falling dead.

He'd worked for eons as a psychopomp before switching to a career that gave him more of a voice in what happened to the souls he escorted. He'd met billions of species with billions of different ways of dying; he wasn't squeamish around corpses, injuries, rot, disease. He was comfortable around death. Heck, he and death had each other's phone numbers for emergencies—they regularly crossed paths at professional networking events. 

But there were some deaths worse than others, and there were fates worse than death. As he watched, an oval with thin little arms plummeted into a direction it couldn't even see, its body burning up; and then its ghost burned up, too. It would never join the eternal dance party, and the Axolotl wasn't sure whether it was the lucky one.

As he watched, the Axolotl noticed something strange. Like any populated world, there were probably millions to trillions of different species around this one, although at a glance the Axolotl could only spy a handful. But although all of them were eventually caught by the flames, there was only one species that seemed to be victim of spontaneous combustion—and that seemed to be falling into Dimension Zero: the people that looked like living geometric shapes.

When the storm returned, it was quieter; even its tornado spun more slowly. The Axolotl got the sense it hadn't received good news.

But it didn't share what it had received. It said, "I've seen my fair share of apocalypses, but I've never seen anything like this before. Whatever this fire is, it's not natural." The eye of the storm watched one of the melting people falling like cinders into the center of the multiverse, until even its sunbeam couldn't pierce the miasma. "Ten to one, I'd bet you something intelligent is doing that."

"Your stupid terrorist?"

The cloud laughed ruefully. "Yeah." It watched a moment longer; then sighed out a long gust of wind and tried to rally some of its earlier stoicism. "So. Those people you saw in Dimension Zero must be the mortals from the dimensions around 2Δ getting dragged in by the fire. You can see how they've been peeling off their planes when the flames get 'em. I'm amazed they survived the fall into Dimension Zero."

"Survived" maybe wasn't the word the Axolotl would choose; but he didn't know how to begin to explain the horrors he'd seen down there.

He tore his eyes from the terrible rain of corpses. "Not all of them," he said. "I know for a fact at least one of the survivors is from 2Δ. I know him. I've met him before."

"You have." The storm managed to look dubious at this. "You're sure it wasn't an alternate of the same guy from a neighboring dimension?"

"I talked to him in Dimension 2 Delta. He remembered meeting me. It's him."

"Huh." The storm processed that silently. "Nope. I've got no explanation for that."

####

(Thanks for reading!! If the art lured you in and this is the first chapter you read, this is part 2 of a 5-or-6 part fic about the Axolotl in the immediate aftermath of the Euclidean Massacre. Here's part one if you missed it. I'm posting one chapter a week, Fridays 5pm CST, so stick around if you wanna watch the Axolotl slowly discover just how much of a monster that silly triangle he likes really is.

It's ALSO chapter 61 PART TWO of an ongoing post-canon post-TBOB very-reluctantly-human Bill fic. I'm gonna fix the chapter numbering once I know how many chapters this plot is. If you're not sold on the idea of a human Bill fic, I've also got a oneshot about normal triangle Bill escaping the Theraprism if you wanna read that.

If this is NOT your first time here and you already knew all of the above: nobody commented on the fact that I was calling Bill's dimension "Dimension 2 Delta" rather than just "the second dimension"—but I hope that, somewhere in your hearts, some of you were wondering what I had to differentiate his dimension from that necessitated labeling it Delta. :)

I think this is probably the least horrifying out of all the chapters. Because of that, I'm worried it's kinda boring, but that might just be because I'm comparing it to the undead corpse party. And also Bill isn't here.

It's also the least edited chapter because I may or may not have spent the last three days drawing the second dimension burning instead of writing and ran 30 minutes past posting time doing last minute rewrites lmao. So uh, lemme know if there are any typos, sentences that don't make sense because I changed how I wanted to phrase them halfway through and didn't notice, weird internal contradictions, whatever.

But more importantly let me know what y'all think!!)

[bluemantics]

do you think when lance first stepped into red, he saw pieces of the former red paladin left behind? felt the imprints of his hands in the controls? do you think he noticed the snacks keith hid under the console, the sticker pidge gifted him stuck on his chair, the faint smell of whiskey-musk spray that he bought to clear out the scent of blood after rougher battles?

lance thought that red's cockpit would be empty and cold. he didn't think keith was one for comfort or sentimentality, based on his empty room and his plain outfits. but... here it was. evidence of keith, littering the inside of a lion clearly well-maintained.

with trepidation, lance put his hand on the controls and felt the way each of his fingers fit in the grooves left behind. his hands were slightly too slender.

he wondered how allura would react to the traces he'd left. a pillow and a pair of extra socks, and maybe an alien comic magazine.

more achingly, he pictured keith, trying to fit his smaller frame in a large, black seat. lance hoped in vain that shiro left fewer traces. he knew keith would see shiro in every little shadow, every slight trace anyways. 

that was the thing about chasing after someone you admire for so long.

attempting to push past the coil of emotion in his throat, lance walked back out of red, prepared to soothe his tense, cornered leader.

[ky-landfill]

[eggsplice]

They’re parasites. You know what it means to be a parasite, right, Tommy? You know it real intimately.

(Excerpt from 'when a house is both hungry and awake' by logsteds)

[barklikeagod]

this moment where benson holds the door open and makes randy walk under his arm to get inside the diner drives me crazyyy. it's such an intoxicating interaction and i can’t help but wonder if he's ever done this to randy before… maybe when they've closed bbb together and randy's been a little slow gathering his things from his locker. benson's just been standing at the door all quiet, waiting. and randy's shuffled over embarrassed and feeling guilty for holding benson up. says a quick 'sorry' that has benson turning the keys over in his hand, not saying anything back. pushes the door open but stands in the way and waits again, arm up, eyes dark but the contact pointed. randy blinking. “oh. thanks.” goes under benson’s arm, gets so close the smell of cigarettes is dizzying. rubs at his nose as he heads to his car. only pausing halfway there when he realizes benson is still at the door to the restaurant, just standing there, door still open, arm still up. a fluttery, confused, “benson?” leaving him as he looks around. and then benson’s back to business with a roll of his shoulders, key in the lock, quick pull on the handles to double check. randy a little hopeful as he says “see you tomorrow?” by the hood. benson nodding, replies with a rough, knowing, “you will.” that makes randy warm.

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

It’s just that Fingon’s like that stereotypical son who calls his mum and walks old ladies across the street, mows the lawn for his neighbours, brings home nice, pretty girls who want to be kindergarten teachers or something and is really passionate about some niche compassionate topic like children in poverty’s access to multiple sclerosis treatment and who everyone says is ‘such a nice boy’ but then he goes and dates the eldest kid of Mr. Stay Away From My Boys, Son, a flaming ginger who most people haven’t heard speak. And this is hilarious.

[amongsnot]

the first thing jimmy ever learned how to do was to tie his shoes.

his father had sat him down on the living room carpet one evening, placing a pair of his new kindergarten big-boy shoes in between the two of them, and he had told jimmy that they were going to learn how to tie them.

he grabbed the ends of the laces and held them in between his pointer and his thumb, letting the rope fall and tighten as he pulled sightly, hissing like a snake. jimmy laughed when his father rubbed the aglet against the skin on his ankle, and his mother laughed from the hallway when his father tackled him in a tickle fight.

and his father gave him a pair of his brand new shoes and taught him how to tie a know. and then his father gave him a pair of his brand new shoes and showed him how to make bunny-ears. and then his father slipped a pair of his brand new shoes onto his feet and taught him how to tighten and tie his shoes.

it was the first thing that jimmy had ever really learned how to do. it was the first thing that made jimmy realize that he wanted to learn more.

his parents just looked so happy.

they cooed and clapped their hands as he walked down the hallway, boastfully taking large steps in order to show off the way his shoes stuck to his heel and the arch’s blended willingly with his foot.

they continued to compliment his knot-work for the next month before they left the house, praising the tightness and the perfectly round loops. his parents told jimmy that they were so proud of him, and jimmy went to bed happy.

he wanted his parents to always look happy. especially when they were looking at him.

the second thing jimmy learned how to do was his multiplication tables; and it only grew from there.

the third thing jimmy learned how to do was fix the family’s ac after an especially hot winter. the fourth thing jimmy learned how to do was create his own self-functioning flight device. the fifth thing he learned how to do was build a fresh water filter, which he sold to the government in hopes that they could help people he couldn’t.

and after the second thing (third thing, fourth thing, fifth thing) jimmy’s parents twirled him around in the air and gushed over the way that he was “their perfect little boy.”

and jimmy was.

he was the perfect little boy who got college letters from ivy league colleges while the rest of his classmates made pasta art. he was the perfect little boy who joined his parents for their perfect little meal as they talked about their day. he was the perfect little boy who tied perfect little knots on his perfect little shoes.

maybe if he was a different person, with different parents, he would have a different life.

he would have looked at the difficult puzzle that were his unknotted laces and would have looked at his parents, who has left him alone with his shoes to go do other things, and he would have tucked his laces inside his shoes and dealt with the blisters on his heel and the pain in the arch of his foot.

(there is a boy that is a different person, with different parents, who had a different life, who still walks the planet with his laces tucked inside his shoes and goes to bed while massaging blood red feet)

but he is not a different person, and jimmy’s parents look happy.

a myriad of positive feedback and different inventions later, and jimmy has found that he throws himself head first into his makeshift lab because he wants to.

he doesn’t want to make his parents happy (though that’s a cool side effect). he doesn’t want to boastfully show off his tied knots (though he probably still will). he doesn’t want to receive things from colleges or receive keys to the city.

he throws himself headfirst into his lab because he wants to. because he’s been raised to be curious.

and a myriad of new discoveries later, jimmy meets a boy his age.

the boy reminds him of his father, with the way that he grabs onto jimmys inventions and pretends that they’re snakes. with his stupidly humorous wit and sharp brown hair.

the boy reminds him of his mother, with the way that he sees the way that jimmys in danger and stupidly jumps in to save him. with his aura of power and magical ability to summon anything jimmy’s looking for.

the boy reminds him of—well—jimmy. with the way that he curiously pokes at the way that the machine buzzes in his lab. with his odd physical features and his loving relationship with his parents. the way he hugs the hologram with pink hair and mooches off the hologram with green hair’s food.

(the boy reminds him of jimmy in the way that his laces are tucked loosely inside his shoe.)

jimmy asks him about this, because he’s curious, and his curiosity had only ever been met with a positive response.

(“why are your laced untied?” jimmy asks. they’re older then they were when they first met: they met friends and they came close to dying and they lost friends.

“what do you mean?” the boy asks, running a tongue against his large front teeth.

they’re sitting in the back of the boys truck, which he got from his holograms as soon as he turned sixteen. they got take out from the mexican restaurant they went to and are sharing a place of chips while staring at the stars. jimmy has already told the boy that the stars are more impressive when you look at them from space. the boy agrees.

“your laces,” jimmy repeats, gesturing towards the end of the truck, where their feet lie. “they’re untied. why?”

“never learned how to tie them,” the boy says with a shrug. it’s not a big deal to him—he’s a different person, with different parents, and a different life.

“really?” jimmy asks, eyes wide.

“yeah.”

“why didn’t you ever replace them, then?” jimmy continues, even though he’s known the boy for almost five years, and he knows the way that his voice is curt and end on a high note. he knows that the boy would rather drop it, but jimmy is too curious for his own good.

hes always been too curious for his own good.

“replace them?” the boy asks, his eyes going wide. “with what?”

“velcro exists for a reason,” jimmy says, shrugging his shoulders again. “so do slip-ons.”

“huh.” the other boy responds with.

and that is the end of their conversation)

and a myriad of late nights jimmy spends laughing until his side aches later, and the boy comes to him with a pair of shoes in his hand.

he tells jimmy that he never learned how to tie his shoes. he tells jimmy that he just got used to the constant blisters of his feet while jimmy looks through his closet for his old pair of big boy shoes. he tells jimmy that he never really thought that he could learn how to tie his shoes past the age of ten after jimmy sits him down in his living room.

jimmy is patient with him—he tells him about the snakebite of the smooth aglets and the knots in his memory. he tackles him when he manages to finally pull the loops tight, and he laughs when the boy slides them onto his feet and tries again.

the boy does is again and again throughout the day. he makes excuses to take off his shoes just so he can tie them again. he sits down on the ground and he slowly mumbles the steps to himself before he finishes and looks up at jimmy with an expectant smile.

jimmy applauds every single time.

later, the boy will sit on jimmys bed as he shows jimmy the places on his heel where he bled so bad it scarred. jimmy runs a finger against the white mark and looks at the boy with a concerned frown.

the boy tells him not to worry.

the boy tells him that he never has to worry about bleeding heels again now that jimmys here.

and the boy looks so happy.

just like jimmys parents.

[idontknowreallywhy]

1 - Presence

I’m pretty sure that the more determined I am to sit and write something fluffy in a spare moment, the more angsty it comes out. This morning I was going to write some nice earth and sky but smashed the Virg instead…

And so we have some Virgil post Scott’s going MIA because that’s clearly where the fluff lies. It’s a slightly weird idea and I maybe have fallen off the mixed metaphor cliffedge here, but sensory stuff fascinates me so…

Err… I’m sorry?

In mitigation I might have an idea for a follow up scene when Scott is finally back…

(Not well proofed, thrown down in a coffee break)

💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚

It was an unexpected thing that finally broke Virgil:

The smell of washing powder.

An odour none of them ever noticed, because it was everywhere. A background chord running through all the linen in the place, over which all the other scents of the household were layered like a complex symphony. Until some of those more discordant scents became too loud and overpowering at which point the item was laundered, and a new score was opened beginning only with that familiar chord as a canvas.

By unspoken agreement, his room remained as he’d left it. Perhaps none of them had truly accepted he wouldn’t return to fill it with life again. Perhaps it just wasn’t necessary to thrust the knives of practicality into that particular wound yet… they weren’t short of space at the ranch.

Virgil would visit, once or twice a week, usually late at night when the effort of holding everything and everyone together had drained the last drop of his resolve and he needed to renew his vow to his big brother.

It required preparation though. He would shower, thoroughly, using a fragrance free soap he had ordered especially. Only when he was positive that all traces of his own cologne, hair products, coffee, his own smell were washed away would he open the door. He didn’t want to add anything to the faint music that persisted inside.

The bed had only been slept in three nights, on that brief visit home before he was deployed for the last time and so nobody had thought it worth stripping the sheets and laundering them. There was a light gloss of super-shiny gel on the pillow and the quiet but unmistakeable melody of his brother lingered.

The blue fluffy dressing gown on the back of the door had been worn longer and played the more powerful tune of his cologne, with a harmony of pancake batter, coffee and, on one cuff, a hint of whisky from the evening he and Virgil had sat on the back porch exchanging dad jokes and Scott had laughed so hard he’d sloshed his drink all over his hand.

He would check everyone else was asleep, then slip to his brother’s door, enter quietly and reverently remove the robe from its hook to wrap around his shoulders, lifting the outsized hood to cover his head. The intense familiarity was always a shock and so he’d stand there for a moment, surrounded by his brother’s song to catch his breath. Then, slowly he would kneel by the side of the bed, his face resting on the edge of the pillow and he would rest for a while and imagine his big brother’s arms around him. He could almost feel Scott’s forehead pressed against his own, or maybe his cheek resting on the top of his head. He’d promise again that he would look after the others. He’d be big brother as long as he had strength left in his body. And somehow, some strength would return. He’d made it through nearly three months now. He could keep going. He could do it for Scott.

He couldn’t linger there for too long. He couldn’t fall asleep here, couldn’t risk a sweaty nightmare eradicating all he had left.

He’d replace the robe and close the door, sneak back down the hallway and return to his own room. Then, and only then, could he allow the tears to fall.

One night he missed a step.

He didn’t check on the others. Maybe he also messed up the stealth part as he was jolted out of his bedside reverie by his youngest brother’s gasp:

“Scotty??!!”

He spun to face the doorway and was able to see Alan’s heart break all over again as the wrong brother looked out from under the hood.

That had been a long night. He’d done his best to explain what he’d been doing and held back his tears as he confessed he didn’t think Scott would come back as a ghost to visit them. He held the devastated child as they both wept and lay awake until the birds signalled another day to survive through was moments away from dawning.

He’d thought little more of it until one evening, well after the kid’s bedtime, Alan burst into the kitchen in a terrible panic and seized grandma by the hand, dragging her upstairs. Curious, Virgil followed and paused at the top of the stairs as he heard Grandma’s low comforting voice interspersed with hiccuppy sobs. They were coming from Scott’s room.

Virgil peered around the half open door to see his grandmother and brother crouched together on the floor, Alan clutching his empty hot chocolate mug and sobbing his heart out. He caught grandma’s eye and she indicated with a look that she had things under control. She’d handle this. He wasn’t needed this time. Virgil nodded and was about to back out when his gaze fell on the bed. And Scott’s robe in a heap by the pillows. And the marshmallows on that robe, surrounded by a spreading brown stain.

Virgil lied and said he had a migraine the following day. He shouldn’t be angry with an 8 year old for wanting to drink his bedtime cocoa with the ghost of his big brother. But he was. Because he, Virgil, was a terrible big brother. Scott wouldn’t have been angry. He’d have laughed and said it was cute and ruffled Allie’s hair and that was why Scott should still be here and Virgil couldn’t do this. They left his food outside the door, with a little get well soon card drawn in a rare fit of cooperation by Gordon and Alan. Alan had surrounded his name in hearts and kisses. He didn’t deserve it.

Late that night, after his usual shower he crept back along the corridor to Scott’s room, quietly opened the door and shut himself inside. Grandma had, indeed, handled it. The bed was neatly made again with freshly laundered sheets and the robe was hung back on its hook, fluffier than ever from the dryer. A new score was opened, only the starting chord could be heard.

Virgil took a deep breath in through his nose and tears filled his eyes.

He was gone.

💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚

(Ok I do need to TBC it as I can’t leave him like that… I’ll fix it I promise)

update: Part 2 “Absence” is here

[five-and-dimes]

Here’s a headcanon I don’t know what to do with:

Once they get together, at the end of nights when Dream visits, Hob will take his hand and say, “Stay?” and Dream without fail will respond, “Yes.”

Now here’s the thing about this little routine. At no point is a full sentence spoken out loud.

So from Hob’s point of view, every night he is asking “Will you please stay?” and Dream is saying “Yes I will stay because you asked me to.” But from Dream’s point of view, Hob is asking “Do you want to stay?” and Dream is saying “Yes, please allow me to stay.”

Both think the other one is doing them a favor. Both think they are the one making a request and the other is the one fulfilling it. They’re both carrying around gratitude towards the other for being kind enough to “indulge” them and spend extra time together.

I don’t know how they would ever find out about this strange ongoing miscommunication or what the reaction would be. I just think it sounds like something that would happen to them. They're both emotionally compromised idiots.

[backpackingspace]

Odysseus knows he made a mistake calling out for Athena. He knew the second her name left her lips. /she/ doesn't like it when he calls out any name but hers. When he mentions home or telemachus or gods forbid his penelope. It's not allowed. He's not allowed to think about anything but herherher. He knew it was a mistake. But

He had /felt/ Athena. For the first time in years that old connection sparked to life. A muscle long stiff with use but /there/he felt her. And if she heard him. If she chose to help well.

It would have been worth calypso wrath.

In the days that follow, it's all silence. All signs of Athena having disappeared. And as odysseus hangs from his wrists, numbly allowing his master to do as she pleases, he can't help but regret.

He knows the rules. He knows how to survive (dying is pointless /hes tried/) he can't help swallow the bitter pointless helpless rage. Why had athena even checked on him if she was just going to /leave/ him like this. And even still, as soft fingers drag their way down his skin, he can't help but silent pray (his tears long since dried up. It only ever made things worse) please goddess, please Athena don't leave me here. Kill me punish me in any other way just please please let it end.

[just-french-me-up]

dreamling 16 or 23 for the kiss prompts? 👀

23. "A kiss in relief" | Have some Prince!Dream / Knight!Hob as a treat because this concept tickles my brain divinely!

The battle was won.

Already the camp was filling up, some soldiers shedding their dirtied armours while others were being rushed to the healing tents. The chaos of battle clung to them still, brewing amongst them and would soon, no doubt, burst into the clamour of celebration. Regardless, all heads bowed as the prince exited the command post, guards following close behind.

Morpheus would celebrate with his men, as all good leaders must, in due time. He would be expected to give a speech, rousing words for those gathered under his command, and solemn ones for those who had fallen, but he could not focus on either now. He had to know first. He had to make sure.

A prince does not announce himself upon entry. It was with tight apprehension that he stepped into the Lord Commander's tent, his guards following suit. He braced himself for blood, gushing wounds and grunts of pain, but was met with a much more pleasant (and relieving) sight.

"My prince."

Hob would bow lower, Morpheus knew, but his movements were hindered by his squire, who was busy removing the various parts of his armour. A quick glance was enough to know the blood staining his shirt and skin was not his. Good. Morpheus suppressed a smile.

"Lord Commander."

Like the rest of his men, Hob looked spent, covered with the grime of the battlefield, his hair sticking to his forehead, but victorious nonetheless. He, too, ought to be with his men soon, share the glory together as brothers in arms. But not yet.

"We have much to discuss after today's victory," Morpheus said, before glancing back at his guards. "Leave us."

The soldiers stepped out without a word, although Morpheus knew they wouldn't stray far. Hob gave a quick nod to his squire to dismiss him, and as the boy left, they stood alone. Hob had not drawn another breath that Morpheus pulled him close, tasting the battle on his lips, blood, salt and dirt, and something else, something distinctly, comfortingly Hob's. Hob sighed into his mouth, hot breath tickling his cheek, bringing him closer still. By the time he let go, Morpheus had gone almost dizzy, holding on to a still armoured shoulder.

"Careful, I may get a taste for winning you battles," Hob smiled against his lips, "if this is the thanks I get."

"Are you hurt?"

"Bruised, at most. It will probably look worse than it feels."

Morpheus furrowed his brow, suspicious. Hob was hardly reliable when it came to pain. He would suffer agony and wave it off as nothing more than a scratch. Morpheus would have to wait for the whole armour to come off to see the extent of the damage.

"You know," he said as he started undoing the laces of Hob's vambrace. "Lord Commanders usually stay at the commanding post to oversee the battle."

"Well, I guess your Lord Commanders are usually pretty shit, then."

Morpheus shot him a disapproving look, the piece of metal falling on the floor with a dull "clank".

"I do not want you hurt."

"You should have made me Lord Jester then," Hob chuckled. "Master of the Drapes and Napkins. No chance for bruises there."

He cupped Morpheus' cheek, his thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. He did like to jest, that one. Unfortunately his true talents lay in the sword, which inevitably placed him at the end of another. Perhaps that would be another reason to seek peace during his reign, Morpheus told himself. A selfish reason, but a motivating one nonetheless.

"I always come back to you, don't I?"

"Only because I order you to."

"And I wouldn't dream of disobeying my prince."

"Good."

Send me a kissing prompt?

[thebiscuitlabryinth]

Here is a secret: Pure Vanilla Cookie had felt like he was being watched for a long, long time.

He can't quite pinpoint when exactly that started, if it was before or after he earned his Soul Jam. He thinks it must have been after, because he thinks he wrote it off as the Light of Truth's presence, but the specifics don't really matter. Either way, the feeling of eyes on him had been so constant that it faded into normalcy, and he hadn't noticed it since.

Until now.

Now, with Shadow Milk Cookie breaching the seal, and crumbling Elder Faerie Cookie, and White Lily Cookie becoming the new Guardian of the Seal, and White Lily Cookie being really and truly back in the first place and– and—

The point is that Pure Vanilla is quickly realising that a lot of his prior assumptions don't hold weight anymore. A lot of things he had believed to be unshakeable truths turned out to be wrong or, even worse... well, lies.

And these realisations aren't all bad, truly. Some are sweet with relief and the familiar scent of lilies. But his feelings on the matter aren't helped by the fact that suddenly, for the first time in years, he can feel those eyes on him again in piercing clarity, burning with a malice he had failed to notice all this time.

Pure Vanilla does his best to leave them be, focusing on the unmistakeable warmth of White Lily at his side, and the determined hearts of the children, and everything that needs to be done. It is uncomfortable, but it is manageable.

Delivering word to Crispia about the situation is no quick business, let alone waiting for word to return back. As such, they are staying in Faeriewood for the foreseeable future, waiting on a response from the Republic or the other Heroes. The Faerie Cookies are lovely and more than welcome to the notion, though that is hardly a surprise with how beloved White Lily is to them, and rightly so.

Pure Vanilla Cookie, to his credit, does his best to relax as they wait, but it is increasingly difficult as time wears on. He cannot bear to go anywhere near the Silver Tree, because the weight of that gaze increases by a tenfold whenever he is anywhere near its vicinity, almost crushing him, as if urging him to- well, it makes navigating the Faerie Kingdom difficult, if he cannot get too close to its centre.

Pure Vanilla sighs from where he is settled gingerly down among the soft pastels of the flowers, nestled carefully beneath the shade of the bending canopy of less dangerous trees. From here, he can see White Lily's radiant figure across the bridges and walkways, roped up in conversation with the Silver Tree Knights and surely discussing her new title and all that may entail. Whatever the case, he is content to have her within his sight, soothing some age-old nerves.

He busies his hands with a flower crown, the repetitive motions helping to distract from the twisting trunks of the trees lingering in the corner of his vision, their silvery bark marred with dozens of squinting eyes, black as shadows with vibrant blue—

No, no, no – but it's too late, Pure Vanilla's hands stumbling on his work and crushing a flower in his clumsiness. Regret instantly soaks into his core, and he hurriedly releases the poor bud, only feeling worse when he sees that some of its nectar and colour has stained his hands. Such delicate beauty, destroyed by his own foolishness. He certainly can't give this crown to White Lily now.

Bitterly unwanted, the thought that Shadow Milk must be laughing at him now flits across his mind, and he drops the flower crown like its petals are dripping poison, lest he ruin it any further.

In the end, no matter how much he pushes it aside, his thoughts always swing back to the same dreadful realisation. If Shadow Milk has been watching him all along - and deep down, Pure Vanilla knows it to be true, even though he hates it - then he must have seen everything. Every moment he was vulnerable, every moment he was hiding, every moment he thought was private.

It's terrifying. His mind keeps reeling at the mere idea, flicking through his lowest moments with the aching, sickening knowledge that he had seen it all. It feels unfathomably invasive, almost as much as Shadow Milk's voice burrowing into his head like it belongs there. Nothing Pure Vanilla has experienced has been solely his own, and it seems like it never was.

Pure Vanilla is saved from his own sinking thoughts by the gentle warble of birdsong, and grateful for the distraction, he looks up to find a small bird descending from the canopy. Admittedly, it is different from the blue birds he is used to, looking to be a spore variant of some sort, but he smiles at it just as cheerfully.

"Hello, chickadee. How are you today?" He greets affectionately, voice warming as he holds out a hand for the spore bird to land on. It does with a chirped greeting back, and for the briefest, most blissful moment, Pure Vanilla feels light with the simplest happiness.

And then the bird looks up at him, with not two, or four, but countless eyes opening across its entire body, inky black and mockingly blue.

Pure Vanilla startles fiercely, jolting back and shutting his eyes tightly on instinct, and the movement is more than enough to scare the bird away, but he is too occupied with fumbling for his staff in the grass beside him to pay it any mind.

Finally, his fingers find purchase, and he hastily lifts the staff upright, half-leaning against it as he looks through its eye. The pupil darts around until it lands on the bird once more, where it has fled back to a perch among the branches.

It looks normal, or as normal as a spore variant can be. It certainly doesn't have a hundred knowing eyes.

The trees don't have eyes either, for that matter.

Pure Vanilla presses his forehead against his staff, desperately tempted to keep his eyes closed forever, to rely solely on his staff so he doesn't have to risk seeing anything unreal. It's a dangerous, guilty thought, but it persists even when he gathers the strength to crack his own eyes open once more.

He blinks once, twice, hesitantly looking around.

There are no eyes. Just a spooked spore bird in the canopy, a half-crushed flower crown hanging off his lap, and White Lily in the distance, now joined by an energetic Gingerbrave and his friends.

Pure Vanilla watches for a moment, waiting. When everything remains as it is, he sighs again, heavily, wearily, and sinks back into the bed of flowers, holding his staff to his chest in a loose grip, even as he lays down.

He thinks he hears a mean giggle chime faintly in his ears, but what does he know? That's probably a lie too.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 99

Part 1 Part 98

Steve spends a short three days in the hospital before they start the discharge. It’s surprising, somehow, that spending time slowly dying in the Upside-Down is more traumatic on the body than literal possession. Eddie can’t wrap his head around it. 

He’s sitting on Steve’s bed, hopefully for the last time, hip to hip as he kicks his feet out over and over again at the same tempo of his beating heart. Steve’s got their fingers interlaced on Eddie’s thigh, flexing his own fingers to that same rhythm Eddie’d started up. 

“You think it’ll be much longer?” Steve asks, slumping his head to the side and atop Eddie’s shoulder.

His hair tickles Eddie’s cheek. Eddie wants to reach up and smooth it back, but Steve’s still holding his hand, and the other one doesn’t quite reach. 

“Nah, the old man’s good at getting what he wants.”

“That’s because he’s got the same big, sad eyes as you.”

Eddie squawks in fake affront even as warmth pools in his cheeks. Few people have mentioned a resemblance, and it makes him go soft and gooey every time.  “I don’t have big, sad eyes!” He shakes Steve’s hand around gently in his - he’s always, always gentle. “I’m too tough.”

Steve snorts, small and tired. Even with relatively minor injuries, neither of them have been sleeping well in the small hospital cot. It’s starting to show in the circles beneath Steve’s eyes. Eddie wants to bundle him up in the backseat of Wayne’s truck and tuck him into their bed at home.

They won’t even have to come back. All they’ve got is some sort of cream for Steve’s burns, and Eddie’s bruised ribs and broken nose  are supposed to heal all on their own. His concussion’s already behind him, even if things still go a little wonky if he moves his neck too quickly. 

They can just convalesce. Maybe Wayne will bring them soup. Or burgers from the diner and a strawberry milkshake to split. Anything will be better than the mind-numbing sterility of the hospital, as long as they’re together. 

If only Wayne would hurry the hell up. 

It’s not Wayne who walks in. It’s not any of their friends, or family, or an unnamed doctor in blue scrubs. It’s not anyone he recognizes at all.

It’s a perfectly matched pair - like salt and pepper shakers at a fancy diner. Eddie feels his shoulders curl, a silent question mark to their upright forms. 

The woman looks like a mannequin, in her gray pencil knit skirt and matching cardigan, belted tight enough to make her look like a wine glass. Her hair is a windswept brown and her chin’s raised just so. 

The man’s suit is a pewter gray, matching her skirt perfectly. He has his hands stuffed into the pockets of his slacks, like he’s posing for a catalog as he looms imposingly on the threshold. 

She knocks on the frame of the door, calling a quiet, “knock knock,” as the man strides in. 

Eddie feels Steve’s hair brush against his cheek as he sits up and twists, to look at the new arrivals. Eddie doesn’t look toward him, can’t tear his eyes away from the pair, as the woman comes to stand beside the man, photogenic smile plastered to her face, even as the man glares down at them.

“Steven,” he says, eyebrows furrowed in an expression Eddie knows intimately. He’s seen it on Steve’s own face enough times. It’s less charming on the older, meaner model. 

Steve drops his hand covertly and shuffles slightly to the left and away, leaving Eddie’s hand to flop to the mattress, bereft. 

“Dad,” Steve replies.

Eddie turns, can’t not when Steve’s voice comes out so even, so lifeless, so dead. It’s just like when the mind flayer was running the show. Like Steve’s not there at all.

He is though. And that feels worse, because as Eddie stares at Steve’s perfect profile, he can almost see the years of distance and berating stacking themselves into the clench of his jaw and that familiar furrow of eyebrows. 

“What do you have to say for yourself?” His Dad doesn’t shout, but the hiss somehow still feels like it’s echoing off the bare walls of the hospital room.

Steve flinches back. Eddie sits on his hand as it twitches without his permission to grab onto Steve’s own. 

“For what, sir?” Mrs. Harrington’s perfect face scrunches up into a wince as she looks sidelong at her husband’s stony face. He opens his mouth, eyebrows angrier than ever, and Steve blurts, “I’m sorry.”

It doesn’t help. 

“Sorry,” he says evenly, like his fist wasn’t clenched in preparation for a strike. “Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?”

Steve sits, wordless, as he stares up at him, unblinking. 

Mrs. Harrington sighs. “Oh, Steve.” It sounds sympathetic, but Steve’s back curls in, arms wrapping around his ribs as he looks down at his own hanging feet. 

Eddie sits on his other hand.

Steve remains silent while storm clouds bloom above Mr. Harrington’s head.

Mrs. Harrington sighs, crossing arms and tapping perfectly manicured fingers against her own forearms, that same familiar beat that Steve gravitates toward without any of the soul.

“Sweetie,” she starts, no warmth in her voice or eyes. “I understand that you might have been feeling a little sick, but that’s no excuse for the state you left the house in.”

Eddie looks at Steve out of the corner of his eyes, and sees Steve looking right back, eyebrow quirked up in a silent question Eddie doesn’t know how to answer with witnesses.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again, looking back down to the linoleum between his feet. 

“You’re sorry?” Mr. Harrington demands, voice raising with each syllable he utters. “You flooded the house, Steven!”

Steve flinches at the sound of his name. Eddie reaches out for the connection between them and plucks it, thrumming it like a guitar. Steve smiles, just a little, down at his socked feet. 

It’s a mistake. Mr. Harrington’s nostrils flare. Eddie sees the resemblance in the way his nose leans just slightly to the left, almost charmingly crooked. But there’s none of that familiar light behind Mr. Harrington’s eyes. He’s an empty pit, a bottomless well.

“We’ve had to replace all of the carpeting on the second floor,” Mrs. Harrington cuts in, looking down at her nails, uncaring as Mr. Harrington’s incensed further by her words.

“We wouldn’t have even known if the Allen’s hadn’t called us!” He’s shouting now, gesturing wildly toward the open door like whoever the Allen’s are, they’re waiting right outside, watching the show.

Mrs. Harrington sighs. “Oh, Richard. Don’t make a scene.”

As if spurred on by his wife’s chastising words, Mr. Harrington’s voice only gets louder. “You soiled the carpet beyond repair.” He punctuates his words with a raised finger, like he’s counting down all the sins he’s ready to lay at his son’s feet. “You made a spectacle of yourself in front of all the neighbors.” Another raised finger. 

He points both fingers  at Steve’s face, finger close enough to his nose that Eddie wants to snap out and bite it. “You left the garage open to be ransacked!” And here comes raised finger number three. 

Steve’s curling further and further into himself, creating distance between his Father’s wagging finger and his vulnerable face. 

“Leaving the door open, Steven?” Mrs. Harrington asks, just as aloof and uncaring of the scene in front of her, even as she says, “we could have been killed.”

Eddie can’t help the snort that comes out. It’s all just such a cartoonish display, almost unbelievable even as he watches it play out in front of him. He slaps his hand over his mouth, but both their gazes have already snapped over to him. 

Well, better him than Stevie. Stevie, who Eddie’s seen with that same curled posture hiding in his closet, and looking up at his own goddamn house from the passenger seat of Eddie’s van.

He’d been straight backed facing down a demogorgon but just the sight of his parents has him fading into himself. No fucking way. Not on Eddie’s watch.

Eddie slaps his own thighs once, sharp enough that it stings. Mrs. Harrington jumps, just a little, at the sound. Eddie stands, shifting on the balls of his feet until he’s just slightly in front of Steve, ready to defend. 

“Wouldn’t you have to actually be home for that?” Eddie asks.

Mrs. Harrington gasps, hand over her cheek like Eddie had slapped her. “Excuse me?” she asks, at the same time that Mr. Harrington demands, “who are you?”

Eddie puts his pointer finger to his chin, pouting like he’s really thinking this through. “You know, I think you’d know that if you were ever actually around.” 

Steve stands, shoulder to shoulder with Eddie as his Dad takes a threatening step toward Eddie. 

“This is Eddie,” Steve says, voice flat and cold. King Steve’s come out to play. Eddie grins, manic and wide in that way that’s always worked to rile up cops and teachers alike. It works just as well on the Harrington’s. He sticks out his tongue and almost laughs again when Mrs. Harrington takes a startled step back. “You’d know that if you gave half a shit about me.”

Mr. Harrington scoffs as he looks Eddie up and down, eyeing the rips in his jeans, the frayed hem of his t-shirt, the unkempt length of his hair. He turns away, dismissing him without even a word as he looks back at Steve. 

“It’s time to go,” he says, glaring down at his son. “We’ll talk about this at home.”

Steve takes a step away from Mr. Harrington’s grasping hands. Eddie reaches out, interlocking their fingers again and squeezing tight. The splint on Steve’s finger sticks out awkwardly, digging into Eddie’s own hand as Steve squeezes right back.

“Eddie is my home,” Steve says, like that isn’t the most romantic thing he’s ever heard.

He almost swoons, even as Mr. Harrington rages, looking between the pair of them, making connections Eddie desperately hopes are true and even more desperately hopes the man won’t go spreading around. 

“Last chance,” Mr. Harrington says. “Or we’re-”

He doesn’t get to finish. Wayne chooses that moment to walk in. His stance goes loose immediately, gaze sharp. 

“Richard,” he says. Calm, cool, and gruff as he meets both their enraged eyes, one after another. “Nora.”

Mrs. Harrington sucks on her teeth, mouth pursed as she holds her silence. Mr. Harrington has no such compunction. 

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

Wayne raises his eyebrow before turning his back on them to run his eyes over Steve and Eddie in turn. “You boys alright?” Steve nods, but Eddie raises his hand to flap it back and forth in a wishy-washy gesture that Wayne grimaces at. “Ready to go home?”

Richard scoffs, taking a threatening step forward. “What do you mean home?” Steve flinches as the last word lands with derision. Steve doesn’t respond, just looks down at his own shoes with a clenched jaw. 

Mrs. Harrington sighs, and it lands in the room like a blow. 

Wayne’s eyes have gone hold and hard as he turns around and steps fully in front of Steve. “Steve’s been staying with me for over a year,” Wayne says, tone modulated and controlled even as his hands clench. “And you didn’t even notice.”

“Steven,” Richard says, a warning hidden in his tone. “Last chance.”

Eddie leans around Wayne to look between the pair. He resists the urge to pull Steve behind him. Eddie squeezes his hand and is floored when Steve’s shoulders immediately straighten, chin raised just so, like he’s keeping his crown straight atop his head. 

He stands, shoulders back, head held high. Eddie stands right along with him. 

“I’m not going with you,” Steve says, boring holes into his Father’s head with the force of his conviction from behind Wayne’s shoulder. 

Mr. Harrington’s  jaw clenches with whatever he sees on Steve’s face. He reaches his hand out, palm open and beckoning. “Give me your keys,” he demands, curling his fingers like he’s in a cheesy karate movie and begging his opponent to make the first move. 

Steve laughs. “You want my car?” His laugh is hollow. “You’ll have to go get it from the trailer park.”

Mrs. Harrington eyes Eddie and Wayne like she’s putting pieces together he’d rather she not have. Even still, she turns away with an airy, “Come on, Richard.” When he doesn’t immediately follow her directions, she continues, “this isn’t the place.”

Mr. Harrington’s snarling like a dog, finger still raised in threat as he hisses, “this isn’t over,” before turning and striding through the door with enough careless force that his shoulder hits the frame with a meaty thwack. 

“See you next year, then!” Eddie calls, waving bitchily at their backs. 

They all stare at the open door, waiting for an attack that never comes until Mrs. Harrington’s heels stop echoing down the corridor. 

“What the hell was that?” Wayne asks gruffly. 

Steve’s jaw is clenched, as he glares out the open doorway, but at Wayne’s question, he slumps, stepping closer to Eddie until he can lay some of his weight onto Eddie’s shoulders. It hurts his ribs, but Eddie takes it gladly, wrapping his hand around Steve’s waist. 

“Just the usual,” Steve says, sounding exhausted. 

Wayne eyes him critically as Steve avoids his gaze. Eddie squeezes Steve’s side, flickering his fingers against his waist just to feel him wriggle against the feeling. 

“Alright, kid,” Wayne says, reaching out to squeeze both their shoulders comfortingly. Steve slumps further into Eddie who gladly takes his weight. “I think it’s about time we all get home.”

Eddie smiles, bumping his hip into Steve. 

He was already home. After all, Steve’s right here. 

Part 100

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[zarnzarn]

It is only after that Athena realizes what was wrong.

"Apollo," She says, quiet. The other god looks terrified at her sudden reappearance, confirming the answer before she even has to ask. Still, she stomps over to the bed, brushes aside the curtain that holds-

No one. The bed is empty.

"-DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?" She realises she's shouting, throat hurting from however long it's been. "Damn you, Apollo, why didn't you-"

Artemis is holding her back, even though they all know now that Athena would never be her father, no longer would raise a hand any of them.

"Why-" Tears catch in her throat. "Why would you not let me say goodbye to her?"

"She told me not to," Apollo says quietly. His cheeks are also wet, and he's cowering back but his stance is strong. "And you- you were happy, Athena. With all your warriors, with your Ithaka. I could not spoil that too, not when it would not last as long as your grief would."

"Damn you," She chokes out again, voice defeated, then turns to the bed. "Let me see her."

"That's not a good-"

"Artemis, please!" Athena snaps. "Let me see her, Apollo. One last time."

Apollo inhales shakily and raises a hand, turning back the time of his realm. Athena keeps her eyes trained on the bed, until-

"Pallas," She breathes, kneeling by the bed. Pallas lies unmoving, still bleeding all these decades later. She coughs suddenly, making Athena's heart ache. She knows that pain now- of the Aegis striking you down- but she still cannot bring forth regret for the latent hope that one day she might be saved.

"Pallas!" Apollo from the past exclaims, putting his pots down to stand by her side. "Oh- you're awake!"

"Not for long," She croaks out, and Athena sobs at the sound of that beloved voice. At what is coming. "Don't tell her. She won't reach me in time."

"But," Apollo wavers. "You're awake! Surely-"

"I'm only awake because someone is speaking my story," Pallas smiles faintly. "My essence will not survive the ending." Then she frowns. Realizes something and gives a small, wondrous smile. "But maybe-"

Athena reaches out to her, even though she knows it won't touch.

Pallas looks straight at her.

She gasps, and the other shoots her a familiar grin, before abruptly dissolving into mist with a horrid ripping sound, two colored lights floating in the air for a moment, then disappearing entirely.

"Let me see that again," Athena snaps hoarsely, pale.

"Sister-"

"NOW!"

Once more, she watches the soul of her first friend tear into half. Then again and again, until-

"Wait," Artemis holds out a hand to stop the movement, catching the split moment where it coalesces into her last storyteller and the last listener- a familiar shoddy prince and a familiar princess dripping with water, knobbly-kneed and grinning at each other- "Is- is that..."

Athena doesn't reply, still staring. Of course, it makes sense, she was the one who whispered the story to Odysseus under the stars after a training session gone wrong, but why would Pallas-

Why would she-

Unless-

Athena! Oh, wow, your hair is beautiful, she remembers both Odysseus and Pallas saying.

Athena! Come in, the water is lovely, she remembers both Penelope and Pallas saying.

"I have to go," She says hoarsely.

"GO!" Apollo and Artemis shout in unison, wild hope entering their eyes, and push her into-

Ithaka's palace bedroom. It is night. The olive tree in the middle of the room swishes.

Odysseus is sitting upright, Penelope in his lap as he strokes her hair. Jarringly full grown and speckled with grey, from the vision from a few seconds ago. But not old enough, not old as they should be, because-

When he turns to her, his grin is both his and hers, and when Penelope slits open one nymph-blue eye, the mischief is both hers and hers.

"We were wondering-" Odysseus laughs, a feminine lilt to the sound that isn't his, predator-playful expression the same as it was from all those centuries ago.

"-when you'd finally notice," Penelope finishes, the rough curl of the nymph language the queen does not know shaping her letters, quiet glee at a successful scheme the same as it was from all those centuries ago.

"It is you," Athena breathes, dropping her spear. Her helmet, her armour, walking closer like a soldier finally home from war. "It has been- you've been here the whole time."

Odysseus and Penelope cackle and Athena breaks out into a run and Pallas, grinning, raises their arms to welcome Athena back home.