#Saw this one come in and nearly hoarded it like a letter in my desk for later encouragement when I do battle with another background

[ominouspuff]

not a part of the wip game but DAMN your colours????? your backgrounds???? breathtaking every time, you have such an eye for atmosphere its incredible

Nom, this is so kind of you to share. I am INTENSELY GLAD to hear this. Please accept this thank-you flower that got a bit out of hand

Thank you so much!!!

[theoldlord]

   Carved into the stone heart of Khaz Modan, the mighty city of Ironforge stands a testament to the dwarves' strength and resilience. An expansive underground city that delves as deep into Azeroth as the mountain itself stands tall. Massive doors of solid rock protect the city in times of war and lava from the mountain itself is rediected and distributed for heat, energy, and smithing. It is considered by many to be the most well-protected city in all the Alliance, nor has any point in history told of it being owned by any other than the dwarves. For this reason alone the Bank of Ironforge, or the Vault, stands as the safest place for anyone seeking to secure their valuables away for safekeeping. Maintained by the Stonemantle family and a legion of administrators, the Vault's lockboxes numbered in the millions and came in almost as many sizes depending on how big your hoard of coin was..

   Araian had been a customer to the Vault for decades now and he could think of few that -didn't- use the Vault to safeguard their fortunes. He could have taken the tram that connected Stormwind to the mountain fortress but then for matters such as this he thought it important to come by gryphon. The view of the mountain from the sky alone was worth it, even if he did have to bundle up under a layer of leather and furs to keep the chill of the mountain air at bay.

   "Ye get much older an' we won't be havin' enough furs to warm yer bones on such flights ye daft fool!" A hardy mountaineer waved Araian down once the gryphon landed, sending dusting’s of snow flying with each beat of its wings. The horned helm jammed onto the dwarf's head held fast by a large hand lest the Gryphon's wingbeats send his helm flying.

   "The day I cannot travel by gryphon, Morthagrin.. Well, I don't want to think of such a day. Flying still stands as one of the most enjoyable adventures in the world. It is good to see you, my Friend. Did you get my letter?" Araian grinned as he extended a hand out to the Dwarf, grasping his forearm in a warm gesture.

   "Aye, we got it! Cleared out a whole section o' level forty seven for ye! Gotta say Dinita is right excited ya be trustin' the family an' Ironforge with this much responsibility, friend. An' it's good to see ya too, heard 'bout what's been happenin' to ya.." Morthagrin shook his head as a disgruntled expression dominated his features. "Ya be findin' somethin' o' them to hit, ye let me know. We'll give 'em a good hammerin' fer ya!"

   A dwarf of simple words but the meaning behind them was as heavy as the twin hammers slung at his hips. "Good, good.. I'm glad Lady Stonemantle had such space available, and on such short notice. There's no safer place than the Vault and no people more capable to safeguard my past. You've kept my fortune safe for as long as I've been alive, Morthagrin." As they passed under Ironforge's massive stone doors, doors that had never in their history been breached, Araian nodded solemnly. "I appreciate that, friend. Truly. The moment we get a leg up on this new enemy, you'll be among the first to know."

   Idle chit chat saw two old friends through the lengthy journey to the Vault's entrance at the heart of the Commons Ward. The main thoroughfare for trade in Ironforge, there was rarely a time of day or night that did not see it packed with people of all types. Legions of dwarven guard marched in formation through the crowds, keeping the peace. Wagons, even Steam tanks from time to time were known to travel the wide stone highways. Set before a large parade area  across from the auction houses, the Vault rose above all other buildings carved into the rock walls of the city. A multi-storied building of polished grey marble with a matching set of stairs that led to the one and only entrance. Above the doors the crests of both Ironforge and the Stonemantle family rested alongside the words 'The Vault of Ironforge'. The doors were flanked by a three pairs of the city's finest. Large shields and savage-looking halberds stood firm to prevent any unwanted entry.

   As Araian and Morthagrin made their way past these stoic vault guardians and up the steps the set of burnished bronze doors opened for them as they got near. Past another set of guards a vast marble hall stretched back for over five-hundred paces with long counters stretching along its length. Dozens of the Vault's clerks worked these counters day and night servicing the monetary needs of the Alliance.

   "Lord Sunshield! By all that is stone an' sturdy, s'good to be seein' you!" The voice of Dinita Stonemantle, Vault Administrator, carried out across that expansive hall from where she rose from a small desk behind rows of counters. A set of wooden doors opened to allow the pair entry as they made their way to her. She even came from around her desk to give the human male a generous hug. One that nearly stole the breath from him, too!

   "Lady Stonemantle, you honor me with a meeting!" Araian exclaimed, chuckling after he caught his breath and eased into a seat across from the woman's solid silver desk.

   "Hush, ye! What am I, one o' yer poncy knights?! Honor this an' honor that. We're speakin' gold not honor! Great ta see ya too, Greybeard." Dinita exclaimed, offering the human lord a wink before she drew her spectacles back down across the bridge of her nose and began sorting through a vast stack of parchment. No less than seven enchanted quills rose to attention to begin the task of assisting the Vaults head admisitrator with the current task of Araian's finances. "I'm told you've a sizeable hoard to be needin' safekeeping, aye? That's no trouble at all, my dear! The current rates are quite manageable these days, even after the last war. At least by now they're occurring quite consistently with our projections. Eliminates nasty fluctuations, aye?"

   "Given the volume it'll take Morthagrin an' his team a week to get all o' ye items from the castle in Duskwood. That includes transportation as well, my dear. I see you've selected the Magni package for this.. Safe as diamonds or yer money back!" Giggling at her own cheesy bankers lines Dinita's gaze rose to the elder lord.

   Araian could only nod where he thought it appropriate and chuckle when she did. "You've always known best, Lady Stonemantle. The last time I took your advice you made me a fortune in Northrend with the lumber rush. Suffice to say I've trusted you with my wealth this long, I don't think you'll do me wrong. What of my other requests? I believe I submitted the applications for land deeds in both the Highlands and Boralus City correctly."

   “Hmm.. let's see here if we can dig those up and go over them, yes?" Her gaze slanted to Morthagrin, the mountaineer instantly adopting an 'at attention' stance. "Morthagrin, be a dear would ye? Yer free to be goin' about Araian's requests. Take your team and get started right away." Without word, though a cheery grin was offered to Araian as he nodded, Morthagrin trudged off as armor jingled until he vanished from sight.

   "Unfortunately, Araian, it would seem your request for deeds in Kirthaven was denied. Quite unfortunate, I'm sorry. It says here that land grants are hereditary through the clans that live in the region. There's no exception clause given that a majority of these clans are no longer alive.. It would seem the existing village elders hold rights to them and save them for the next generations. Boralus City? Your grant was approved for that, but I would advise against it."

   Araian frowned briefly, he had quite enjoyed his tour of Kirthaven when visiting it these past few days. Though, he could understand the reasons given for his denial. The village elders were smart, he'd give them that. "Why do you advise against Boralus city, my Lady?"

   "Insurance, my dear Araian. Ye could afford the purchase price o' many a manor throughout the city's wards there is no doubt. The insurance rates'll bleed ye dry though. It's surrounded by water! Even built upon it! Another cataclysmic event an' yer whole home will be in Naga territory! Ye got rats an' corrosion from the salt water too. No, no, no that'll simply not do. Tell ye what, give me a few days to see what's available an' I can give ye some more options, aye? Yer a lord, Araian. Lords need castles. Solid foundations. Towers. Stonnnne." Dinita explained as she shuffled that stack of parchment into multiple smaller ones.

   "Alright, Lady Stonemantle.. I understand. Still, the castle must be smaller than what I currently have. Yet larger than the one in Stormwind. You've got that one noted down as listed for sale as well, yes?" Araian nodded his head slowly as he clasped his hands together in his lap.

   "Sell yer Stormwind house? Tch, Araian. This is why ye leave the money to me! That house is an investment! Time goes on it's value only increases. I'd consider subletting it like ya do that pretty lass in Dalaran. She's a right good tenant mind you, should find another for the Stormwind house an' ye be right as rain. I won't be hearin' no buts from you either, Lord Sunshield! Keep thinkin' the way ye are an' you'll be broke an' I'll be pissed at ye! Off with ya then, I've got a dozen other lords to see to this afternoon but I'll put you down for Thursday, aye? Show ya what I've got fer a new castle!" With that, she was gone. Vanishing from her seat as if she were a shadow walker. Only those enchanted quills remained to finish the paperwork and sort it afterwards, leaving Araian quite out of place.

   A trip down the halls of steel would do him good.. There was always room for one more sword or another suit of armor for his hall. Right?

@theborderlandcoalition���

[theawkwardterrier]

Beneath the Flap

Steggy Week 2k19, day 4 Prompt: AUs and crossovers

Summary: The serum doesn’t work out as planned. Steve gets a new role in the SSR.

AO3 link here.

With Dr. Erskine dead, no one can entirely explain why the serum worked, or why Steve woke up the next morning to find that it had entirely stopped working and left him just as he had been before. The vein in Colonel Phillips’ neck gets a worryingly energetic workout as he moves between yelling at Steve (again) for getting himself on the front page, and yelling at Howard for having created a single super soldier for about twelve hours and now not even that.

“What’s done,” Agent Carter says firmly from her place against the wall behind the desk, “is done. And I think, sir, that we all just need to move forward. We’re still meant to fly to London, I presume?” She doesn’t give Steve more than a casual glance, but he still appreciates her speaking up on his behalf.

“The three of us are,” Phillips says, moving on to a more businesslike crabbiness. “But now I don’t have many options for what to do with this one.”

Steve stands as straight as he can now that his scoliosis is back. “Sir, I’d like to reiterate my request to come to London with you.”

Phillips gives a snorting little laugh. “‘Reiterate your request.’ Son, I’d like to remind you that I turned you down yesterday during your fifteen minutes of being Charles Atlas. Now you’re back to being a shrimpy little thing who barely survived basic? I’m sorry, but the senator doesn’t want you on his plate, and neither do I. We’ll just have to see if the lab boys will still take you.”

Stark steps forward. “Actually, I’d like to keep looking at him. At this point, I’m the most familiar with the process. Maybe by figuring out what went wrong here, I can figure out how to get it working again.” Phillips still looks dubious, so he adds, “Might be able to make it more broadly applicable, get the whole program working like we had wanted.”

There’s a split second where Steve thinks the answer will be no, but then Phillips says gruffly, “Alright, pack your bags. But Stark, this had absolutely better not interfere with your other work.”

“It’ll be a side project,” Stark swears, raising a hand.

“And perhaps when Private Rogers is not being a test subject, we could find him some other duties,” adds Agent Carter, and while it’s phrased as a suggestion, it borders on an order. Phillips looks amused so briefly Steve isn’t entirely sure he saw right, but then points a finger at Agent Carter.

“You’re right, Agent. I suppose I can find him something else to take care of.”

“Like I said, most people are pretty good by now about keeping it clean,” says Private Allen, “but if you catch something…” She snips her scissors through the air over the shared square desk in their back office in demonstration.

Steve eyes his pair warily. Sure, he’s had his own mail censored, he knows that. But being the censor is different. Time of war, he reminds himself, and winces at what a slippery slope that is.

Once he gets started, though, he finds that it is pretty easy, just as Private Allen had said. Most of the folks detailed to the SSR know how to keep a secret, and the stuff they write to siblings or sweethearts or fellow soldiers is pedestrian - about the food, or how they're feeling, or the guy in the next bunk who talks in his sleep. Steve snorts reading through the half dozen letters Corporal Daniels has copied out exactly to different girls at different addresses, and rolls his eyes at the way Private Ellerby describes his duties to his mother with a sort of loftiness that is entirely unearned by the guy in charge of divvying out new boots.

He hasn't even touched his scissors, and hasn't entirely realized the morning has passed when Allen says, "One more each and then we'll go have some lunch?" and he agrees.

Dear Kitty, says the letter that he opens next

The weather isn't exactly welcoming, but it is nice to see familiar scenery again. I know things might wear for you a bit, seeing the inside of the same four walls most of the time, but it wears on me sometimes not to always know where I'm going to hang my hat from one night to the next.

(Not that I wear my uniform hat very often - it gives me a bit too much of a jaunty recruitment poster look - but you'll forgive a turn of phrase, I hope?)

Steve laughs a little, and Allen, not looking up from her own letter, asks, "Is that one of Patterson's? If he's trying to hint again about what he’s packing down below, I'll tell you that he's certainly exaggerating." Steve waves her off and continues.

Things haven't been going quite as smoothly as I'd wished - we lost an excellent man recently, and in some senses more - but we go on. I'll be travelling a bit and I'm not sure where, but I'm sure the service will do its best to make sure that your letters find me. I know that you enjoy a good chat more than sitting down to compose a letter, but I'll ask your favor in continuing to write. Since Michael— the writer censors herself, a thick black line drawn through whatever she had written next. Steve refrains from holding it up to the light to try to identify the words.

Hearing news from old friends always brings a smile to my face, and reminds me that we aren't fighting alone. And, of course, your care packages are always appreciated. The one you sent last time was a treat. The Body in the Library and a pair of your hoarded Dairy Milks were just what I needed - bless you, and twice again!

As for the issue we spoke about last time we were together, I'd ask that you remember to speak up. I know you think that you were brought on only because you are excellent at adding numbers together in your head, but I'll remind you that the skill is more than that and I wasn't the only one who noticed. Mr. G can certainly build a head of steam, but steam is simply the venting of heat and we’ll all be better off if you hold your ground, wait for it to dissipate, and make sure that he understands what you're saying. I appreciate knowing that people like you are helping us work through our problems, and I'll sleep even better at night if you would push through the stubbornness of others and allow your solutions to truly shine. You are brilliant, you've been right more often than nearly anyone, and if they aren't going to listen, you must make them.

I'll leave off my scolding here (I am still holding out for something sweet next time, after all) but remember that I'm thinking of you even through everything else. Speak out, Kit!

Much love,

Peggy

When he comes to the signature, something in him isn't surprised. It isn't that he and Agent Carter are best friends - little could be further from the truth - but the letter shows the tenacity and intelligence and subversive bits of humor that he has already noticed in her. The handwriting is clear and readable, although there's a bit of a patchwork quality to its composition, a smudging to the ink in some places, that makes him think that it was dashed off in odd moments, pieced together as she found the time, and that touches him too: the thought of her remembering to jot down advice and comfort to a friend even with everything he’s seen her taking care of. He notices the places where she'd done her job for him too - "the issue we spoke about last time," “Mr. G” - and his eyes move again to the thick black slash in the center of the page. There's still a place or two where he should probably do a bit of a snip (the reference to Erskine's death is on the borderline), but he decides to let it slide. Steve was chosen for this job, as much as Phillips had chosen him for anything, because he had knowledge of some of the SSR's most top secret work and would be able to pick up references to it. Someone without that knowledge, though, wouldn't understand what was truly being said.

Or at least that's what Steve tells himself as he slips the letter, whole and untouched, back into its envelope, marks it with his censor’s label, and places it in the box set aside for mailing.

"Time for lunch?" Allen asks, getting to her feet, and Steve, considering whether he’ll have time to eat and still run out to find a bookshop with Agatha Christie, agrees.

Kitty -

Just a brief note to wish you a happy birthday. Imagine me singing if you’d like, though I think we both know that it isn’t truly a strong point of mine.

Considering geography, weather, battle lines, the whims of fate, etc., I’m not entirely certain that this will reach you before your next birthday, but hopefully my gift will arrive in a timelier manner (it needs some more particular handling than a letter; you’ll understand my meaning when you receive it).

I hope everyone there is planning to celebrate you properly. And if they’re still reluctant to have a real party there after the one they threw for me and Fred, please pass on from me that I don’t actually consider what happened between us a tragedy and that things in fact are looking even better for me now than they were then - in more ways than one, actually.

I know it seems a bit defensive, but speaking honestly, Kit, I look back on the person I was then and it’s as if I only dreamed being her.

Anyway, you can pass on my official lifting of the curse, along with my greetings to everyone (except Noreen - we both know why). But many happy returns mostly to you, Kitty. I hope things look even better at this time next year for all of us.

Best, Peg

“So why did they pick you for this detail?” Steve asks as they sit at their traditional table in the mess.

“I’m usually in the secretarial pool,” says Rainy. Maybe it’s not professional and he should still be calling her Private Allen, but she’d told him her nickname and he figures they’re friends now. “It was in my file that I speak French, and after the last girl who did got married, they asked me to step in. You know that we can’t just pass through letters because there’s no one to understand them.” Steve is meant to be taking a similar role for the SSR’s secret and science-related assignments - last week he’d finally been given some heightened clearance, and several encyclopedias worth of classified files to read - but sometimes he wonders if assigning him the letters not actually written in English would be more effective.

Rainy pushes away her plate, the little leftover lump of stew, with its approximate meat and perhaps once potatoes, jiggling slightly. She examines her bread, crinkling her mouth, but butters it anyway. Steve doesn’t take any such issue. Meals here are served on time and in what he considers plentiful quantities. Plus the doctor who’d done his physical when he’d arrived had put him on some sort of extra milk ration in an attempt to “get some heft on these bones of yours” (and given him the glasses he’d known for years he’d needed and also known he couldn’t afford). Steve can still sometimes grasp the feeling of those hours of having been taller, broader, of not struggling to breathe, of having a straight spine and eyes that just worked. But even without all that magical science he had hoped would change things, being a little guy in the army he’s in some ways better off than he’s ever been.

“Everyone from secretarial who has the night off is going to the pictures after supper, if you want to come,” offers Rainy. “They want to see Mrs. Miniver, but I have the feeling I’ll end up crying. I’d much rather see Yankee Doodle Dandy, but I’ve been outvoted again.” She puts on a little pout, which makes Steve laugh.

“Getting your performance ready?” he asks, and Rainy sticks her tongue out at him.

“The girls are much harder to convince than boys ever were,” she reflects, sighing as she tosses hair that Steve can now see clearly is a bouncy and beautiful blonde wave. With the glasses to help him actually pick up on details, he itches for his sketchbook and pencils more than ever. Rainy really does have a fascinating face, beautiful if not classically so, brimming with confidence and a bit of mystery. He wonders if he could get her to sit for him.

“Steve, are you going to answer the question, or are you just going to stare?”

“Sorry.” He decides to ask her later, maybe after the film and the inevitable follow-up visit to a pub. “I’d love to come. Thanks for asking me.”

She stands to clear her dishes. “Well, everyone’s been wondering about you, so coming out tonight and meeting them might settle the questions.”

He knew that he stuck out among the staff here. The only surprise is that no one’s confronted him yet about how he’d gotten in. “So what’s everyone been saying?” He gulps down the last of his prescription milk and stands too.

“Top theory is that you’re the secret son of some higher up,” she tells him seriously, and he almost drops his tray.

“Which one?”

“Most people are split between Marshall and Nimitz, and there are some who are sure it’s actually Phillips, but I think Hap Arnold’s the best looking, so that’s where my money is.” She elbows him as they finish scraping and sorting their plates. “Want to give a pal the real story so I can get a jump on things?”

He shrugs, a little uncomfortable even as he’s amused by her matter-of-fact tone. “Someone took pity on me, I guess. Not a general though, and certainly not Phillips.”

There’s that theatrical nature again: Rainy looks disappointed only for a beat before she perks back up again, says, “We’ve got to come up with something better than that by tonight,” and starts proposing stories as they walk back to the censorship office.

Agent Carter is seated at a table by the back wall. For a second, Steve thinks he sees her eyes following him, and actually considers waving to her although they haven’t spoken since he’s been here. But then he blinks and she is just eating absently while paging through a file on the table in front of her.

Maybe the glasses just don’t work as well as he thought they did. He goes back to work, trying to forget the moment that he had apparently just imagined.

Steve starts saving her letters until the end of the day. He knows that it isn’t exactly professional of him, but he can't help but want to savor them. He tells himself it's alright - he doesn't give special treatment to all her letters, only those to Kit. The dutiful missives to her parents, those that go to the other relatives and acquaintances with whom she occasionally corresponds - they are all read and processed in the order he comes across them, just as he does with all the rest of his load. But when he comes across one addressed in her now-familiar handwriting to Katherine Moore, he tucks it aside, uses it as an incentive to get through another day of the work that wears and weighs on him more and more.

He is angry at himself, that all he wanted to do was make a real contribution to the war effort and here he is in the heart of it all and still it isn't enough for him. He is angrier that he has given up asking Phillips for more that it seems he will never receive. And he lies guiltily in his bunk at night thinking about how much he loves reading over Peggy's writing, hating that he thinks of her as Peggy now only because he's listened in on her talking to a friend. Sure, it's his job, and sure, she must know that someone would be doing it, but it doesn't give him the right to take so much joy in it. No one else would give them more than a cursory glance - they're perfectly ordinary letters on the face of it; whoever reads Kit's letters on the other end probably doesn't remember them by the time they're through - but Steve can't help it. When he forgets himself, he wonders what she is going to say the next time, what little turn of phrase will make him laugh, what observation will make him think, what detail she will reveal about her life that will only make him fall for her further.

Dear Kitty,

When I said that you should speak out, I had no idea that I would be encouraging you to do so against me. I am proud of you, however. Excellent preparation for the next time someone tries to speak over one of your ideas (and we both know there will come a next time).

You say that you're ashamed that I'm happier now during wartime than I would have been otherwise. Sometimes I'm ashamed at it myself. But then I remember that it is not my choice to make it better for many women in Britain now than it was when we were at peace. Yes, the franchise has been extended by a lordly and reluctant hand, but I'll remind you that it was through strenuous efforts on the parts of our mothers (well, not mine, perhaps) both in civil protest and in another time of war. Do you truly think you would have been allowed to learn higher maths, the advanced calculus over which I despair and in which you so revel, to truly exercise your brilliant mind, had the opportunity at B— (she's blacked out the name, although Steve has read enough of his classified files to insert "Bletchley Park"; he snips carefully to take out the redaction completely) not been opened to you? Do you think that I would have been allowed to show what I was truly made of in a world where women were meant to aspire only to a man, home, and family - and where a nice man, a fitting man, was neither required, nor encouraged in developing?

This war has devastated me, Kit. I've seen its ravages more closely than you can imagine and they terrify and sicken me, and make me even more determined. I am doing absolutely everything in my power to make sure it comes to as clean, fast, and righteous an end as can be hoped for at this point. But I would make myself a liar to my own mind and to you if I ignored the ways that it has given me things that I never would have had, showed me things I might not have discovered until too late otherwise.

I would trade my life for the war to be over. I would trade my life for it to never have started. But it has, it is here, and it has opened doors that would have remained firmly shut - and I know not only for me.

Peggy

P.S. Had a report from Hew that you're in high spirits, and that you were very thankful for the birthday gift - I will politely refrain from imagining how you might have showed your appreciation. Don't worry, it wasn't hard to have him reassigned to courier duty in line with your special day, and I’m sure I’ll have another urgent message to send along with him. Perhaps just around New Year’s?

“What are you sighing about?” Rainy asks, eyes almost crossing as she focuses on cutting out some single incriminating word inconsiderately placed in the exact center of the page.

Steve hadn’t even realized he had been sighing. “It’s nothing,” he says, thinking about how Peggy had so perfectly, so precisely and vehemently, expressed something he had felt himself and felt terrible for feeling, something he had never been quite sure how to say.

It made him feel a little less lonely. He wonders what she would say if he went up to her and said, “That strange and awful kind of lucky feeling? I understand it too.” Probably she wouldn’t say anything, just wonder who in the hell he was and get him shipped back home.

It might be worth it, though, just to see her in real life again, instead of the vague paper outline he has to conjure up every time he reads her words.

“Now I’m not calling this a solution,” Stark says as Steve buttons up his shirt and smiles at the nurse slipping out of the exam room. “But I’ll comfortably consider it a breakthrough.”

“A breakthrough that came totally by accident,” Steve points out.

“So did X-rays and the Toll House cookie.” Howard grins unconcernedly and claps his hands together. Steve’s been coming to see him every week or two for the last three months and he’s never looked this delighted with the progress. And it wasn’t even Howard who did anything: apparently a lab tech had brought one of the portable sun lamps which are so popular at headquarters over to his work station where he had a couple of vials of Steve’s blood.

“And you’re sure the ultraviolet in there caused some sort of reaction?” Steve asks.

“That’s the theory as of now. We’ll keep running isolation tests but,” Howard smacks a file gleefully against his palm, “the samples that were exposed to the UV look almost identical to the ones we had taken right after the procedure.”

“And you think you’ll really be able to get things back to how they were?”

For a minute, Howard looks more cautious. “I don’t want to get your hopes too far up, pal. It’s looking good, real good, but this really was Erskine’s baby and I’m just the understudy here. I don’t want to make any promises.”

“How much longer are you looking at for testing?”

“If it goes well, maybe another month and we’d be ready to try again. You still willing?”

Steve tries to give a simple nod, nothing overeager, nothing to jinx it. Last time had turned out to be too good to be true, but maybe this time… “Come find me when you’re ready.”

“Good enough.” The door opens, and Howard’s secretary enters. “Good to see you, sweetheart,” Howard tells her in that smarmy tone of his as she hands him a stack of papers to sign with a smile. He nods to Steve, who says, “Hi, Millie,” and sees himself out.

He’d told Rainy a couple of weeks back that he didn’t understand why girls like Millie put up with that kind of stuff from people like Howard or worse, and she’d just laughed and said, “Of course you don’t. The thing of it is, Steve, when this war finally gets done, most of us are going to have to go back to the way things were, which means that this is a perfect time to find a half decent husband. You have to keep smiling to keep the options open, even with the beasts around base.”

“Why would you want to settle for half decent?”

Her smile turned slightly brittle at the corners. “It’s not really about want, more about what’s going to have to happen. There aren’t as many nice men as you might think. I have standards - I keep my ear to the ground, so never anyone with a wife or a fiancee or a steady, and no one who’s given another girl a problem - but I have to jump on it, or I’ll be back home with a dud or everyone whispering about what I might have gotten up to with all these men here.”

Steve didn’t even feel overly affronted by the remark - he’d spent his whole life firmly in the dud category when it came to women, and at least Rainy was his friend - but something must have shown in his face because she’d pointed a finger and said, “You’re lucky I haven’t jumped you, honestly, but it’s pretty obvious that you’re taken, considering all the sighing and mooning you do when her letters come through here.”

“What do you—I’m not—I don’t moon.” But she was already grabbing a letter off her desk and staring at it with big dopey blinks, heaving her shoulders about and taking in huge, dramatic breaths, occasionally letting out a little ha-ha-ha chuckle. He guessed that it was probably a pretty decent impression of him reading one of Peggy’s letters, but he wished he wasn’t so obvious about it.

He’s not exactly being subtle now, but he never is on the way back from his appointments with Howard. He doesn’t get many other opportunities to wander around with his eyes casually peeled - usually he’s meant to either be working, at chow, or in his bunk, not moving through the more essential and top-secret SSR areas where people like Howard and Phillips and Agent Carter do their work.

He’s distracted from thoughts of getting a glimpse of her when he comes across the huge map that dominates the tactical room. He tries to just peep from the corners of his eyes as he strolls through, but even with his new glasses he can’t see quite that well. Then again, no one’s around at the moment, the last of the SSR personnel striding out with a stack of folders and not even a glance at Steve. He takes advantage, placing his hands at the edge of the massive model as his gaze sweeps over the little markers that represent troops and bases. He frowns, and not only because those little wooden figures are too insignificant for what they’re meant to stand in for: Bucky and his friends, people who Steve grew up with, millions of exhausted and foolish and jubilant soldiers, each with their own past and future. How can a war ever end when all the people fighting it are reduced to game pieces? How can a war ever end when the people in charge are overlooking something so major?

“That’s not right,” he mutters to himself.

“What isn’t right, Private?”

He spins, not quite believing that she is here, that he didn’t sense her behind him or at least hear her heels approaching.

“Your map’s wrong,” he blurts, thinking of the way Bucky would cover his face in embarrassment because even after all that tutelage Steve still couldn’t get a simple sentence out to impress a lady.

Her mouth twitches upward, just the left side, and she lifts a meaningful brow at him. “I did well at geography and I’m fairly certain that we’ve labeled everything correctly.”

“It’s not that.” He gestures to the Alps between Italy and Austria. “Why isn’t there a fortress marked there?”

“Why should there be?”

She is studying him intently now and he stumbles a bit with his words before getting back on track. “You’ve got a half dozen units which have encountered Hydra troops in a pretty small area and a short time span. They have to be coming from somewhere, and I’d say the likeliest place given the information is about here.”

“I’ve been informed by experts in six different disciplines that it’s absolutely impossible for someone to build anything there because of the bloody great mountains on either side. And until we can get further aerial surveillance of the site, it’s known around here as Agent Carter’s magical base theory,” she says with a wry bit of challenge in her eye. He just shrugs.

“I don’t know about magic, but I do know that logic dictates an enemy base around that location. And besides, isn’t this a rogue Nazi science operation we’re talking about? Maybe they could come up with a way around the problem of...what was that? ‘Bloody great mountains?’”

"Cheeky," she says quietly, but she's smiling as she does, and the affection in her tone startles him and turns something sour in his belly. Because she's here talking to him as an equal without knowing that he's been peering into her private thoughts, mulling over and coveting them in a way he doesn't with anyone else's feelings. If she knew that, she would probably never look at him with politeness much less friendliness.

"I should get back," he says abruptly, and he shoves his hands into his uniform pockets and finds the first exit he can.

Kit!

The news came through the grapevine before Hew arrived back - I should have known that soldiers would be such massive gossips, but honestly - which is how I've gotten this letter out in the early post.

Congratulations to the both of you. I know you have that lovely rose-covered church back home that will make the perfect spot for the ceremony - even if you decide on a winter wedding, everything will look absolutely picturesque all draped in snow. And while Hew might argue for Edinburgh, I do encourage you - as always - to put your foot down. Although goodness knows you would merely have to think about a trinket you saw on holiday as a child and the man would already be crawling on his knees over the ocean to fetch it for you. He really is a darling where you're concerned, and I say you couldn't be luckier.

I certainly have no wish to intrude on your happiness, but you did ask about my own romantic prospects, and I'm afraid to report that they're a bit stalled at the moment. (I don't wish to ruin things further, but "grim" might be putting it better, if I'm to be frank.) I wasn't actively seeking a single thing in that area, and I think you’re well aware how thin on the ground suitable prospects are, especially someone who would find me suitable in return. (If Fred was frightened off by a bit of light introductory work, he would barely give me the time of day in my current position.)

But then the man I’ve been writing about came across my path and I could suddenly think of little else. Do you recall the letter your sister sent years back describing the Ideal Man, the one we all laughed over that night until we couldn't breathe? I know it’s a silly old thing, but I keep thinking to myself that he ticks each box: kindness and compassion, intelligence, respect for who I am and what I stand for, looks (it must be mentioned), and that special something that works its magic on you in particular...Things are a bit sticky, given our relative positions, and he seems rather dense about the whole thing, but those factors could be overcome. We had a conversation recently that made me think he thought of me in the same way. However, it ended with a definite rejection, and I have seen him many times in close company with a woman, so I wonder if he is perhaps very privately spoken for. I'm nearly ready to give up, if you'd like the truth.

I know. You're the romantic of the two of us, Kitty, and I can practically hear you telling me to seize the day and not rest until I've properly done the job.

I suppose that attitude is why you are the once announcing an engagement and I'm the one moping over people who don't seem to notice a thing.

I'll take the advice, if I can. After all, I would never want to upset the bride before her nuptials.

All my love and best wishes,

Peggy

Well, Steve thinks, swallowing hard as he sets the letter down. That's that. She's had her eye on someone else this entire time and he was a fool to think he ever had a chance. This man is a fool, too, for not seeing the chance he has.

He still finds a smile for Kit: he's never met her, never even read one of her letters, but Peggy's warmth for her has sparked the same within himself. He hopes that she and Hew are happy, that they both make it through and have a chance at a life together.

"Take a walk, Rogers," Rainy tells him kindly. "You're going to fog up the windows with all your sighing, and it's still first thing in the morning."

"No," Steve says, biting down on the wave of sadness inside of himself. Even the letters, illicit as they were, aren't safe anymore. "I can work." He’ll have to get used to it sooner or later.

He starts looking out for the man who has Peggy’s heart. He doesn’t even notice he’s doing it until he catches himself staring with furrowed brow at a letter from Corporal Lewis, who he thinks he’s seen talking to her a couple of times. He tries to recall whether he’d noticed between them that particular magic she’d mentioned. He imagines he’d know what it looks like: it’s what he’s felt looking at her, all the way back to Camp Lehigh. With a precision that surprises him, he can recall the quiet amusement, the perfect red upturn of her mouth as she’d smiled at him when he’d climbed into the back of her jeep. The memory of it still makes him smile now, even as he knows that it’s the sort of thing that will have to keep him going from now on.

“Private Rogers.”

He snaps to attention, dropping the letter and saluting from the crisp, commanding tone even before he quite registers who’s addressing him.

“Agent Carter.” He flounders for a minute. “This is Rainy. Private Lorraine. Private Allen, I mean.”

“Private.” Peggy nods at her, but Rainy is too busy letting her eyebrows climb into her hair and mouthing “Is that her?!” at Steve as he tries to subtly wave her off. Unbelievable that he once thought her sophisticated and composed.

“Perhaps we might speak in the corridor? I wouldn’t want to distract Private Allen from her work.”

Steve can practically feel Rainy’s wide eyes on his back as he holds the door for Agent Carter and follows her out into the hallway. He expects that his friend will have her thumbscrews waiting when he comes back.

“Rainy would have let you distract her all day,” he says, trying for a laugh as they find a quiet place around the corner, but Peggy only presses her lips together and says, “Indeed.”

After a space of silence, still waiting for her to speak, he suddenly has an inkling of why he’s been called out here. She’s smart, Agent Carter, and she’s somehow figured out that reading her letters is the best part of any given day, that he sometimes reads them through two or three times before sending them on. She’s probably letting him stew in it, waiting for him to confess. “Was there something you wanted to speak with me about?” he asks through the clenching of his lungs and throat. He stands very straight even as a thread of sweat slides slowly between his uniformed shoulder blades.

“I did.” She gathers something within herself and starts, “Steve—” before he cuts her off.

“Yes, I’ve been reading your letters,” he blurts, barely registering the use of his first name. “It’s my job, but just doing your job is no excuse, and it certainly doesn’t let me off the hook for the way I read them. So I understand if you won’t ever trust me, but I just wanted us to both know.” He lets the last of his breath go as he trails off and faces her like a firing squad.

“Of course you’ve been reading my letters,” she says with what he thinks is a little smile on her face. “All of the higher level SSR correspondence is distributed to you.”

“You knew?” It feels as if he’s six steps behind and he doesn’t quite know how to make his brain catch up.

“Yes. Just as I know that you aren’t particularly good at the job. Agnes who empties your wastepaper basket says that the others in the department are full while you barely ever seem to have anything thrown away.”

“People don’t speak out of turn too often,” he says uncomfortably, but then adds with a bit more fire, “And there’s also the little matter of free speech, unless we just decided to hell with the whole Constitution around the same time we locked up all the Japanese folks.”

“Not quite,” and she’s certainly smiling now, eyes softened at the corners. “It sounds, however, as if you aren’t entirely satisfied in your current position. I was wondering whether we might put your skills to better use elsewhere.” She holds up a file folder he hadn’t even noticed before and flips it open to show far off shots of snow and dirt and trees and an incongruous steel fortress. “The surveillance flights came back. The Hydra base in the Alps is no longer simply my pet theory.”

He can’t help the way his voice picks up, turns serious and strangely professional, as if he’s really part of it all. “So you’re formulating an attack plan?”

“We have something in the works,” she says briefly. “And I actually— Well, I was here to offer you a chance to be involved.”

“In strategy? With you?”

“It would be nice,” she says slowly, “to work with someone with a mind of his own. Someone who can listen.”

Steve’s instinct is to glance around to make sure there’s no one else there she could be referring to. He smothers it, but ends up pointing stupidly to his own chest, which isn’t much better. “Are you sure—Do you really mean me?”

“Who would I be speaking of otherwise?” She tilts her head at him, a bit of hesitance to the motion. That’s not like Peggy, he thinks, and it’s so strange that he knows that she is cautious only in a tactical way when this is one of a bare handful of conversations between them. “Steve, you have been reading my letters, haven’t you? Even the most recent ones?”

A disbelieving little snort escapes him. “You can go back and ask Rainy that question and she’ll laugh herself sick.”

“Is she—Are you...in a relationship?”

“No,” he says in careful confusion, and then adds recklessly, “She says she wouldn’t even take a chance on a guy as hung up as I am on...someone else.”

He remembers the way that remade body of his had reacted, careening around corners, rushing too fast for control. That’s how he feels now, on an edge too rapidly, recklessly, approached. He’d always accepted that he wasn’t exactly a catch for any girl, no matter what Bucky had insisted, and he’d made himself stop caring about it all, given up reaching. Except for now, apparently. Except for her.

She says, “If you’ve read the letters, why would you assume I meant anyone else? Unless—” and something is dawning on him, terrifying and bright and impossible: the idea that she is reaching back.

“Why wouldn’t you just say something?” It’s bewildering to even ask the question, to even be entertaining the possibility that this is what she meant, but she acts as if it isn’t.

“I thought I was, after a fashion,” and he thinks he sees a bit of a blush rising in her cheeks. “Apparently I hadn’t taken into account your obtuseness.”

“And you still want someone that obtuse on your team?” The words contain too much yearning hope for them to simply be about a new army assignment.

“A little obtuseness can be charming, under the correct circumstances,” she says, and he hadn’t noticed that they were so close until a door slams down the hall and they shift apart as if they’re being chaperoned.

“Why don’t we say you report to me at 0800 tomorrow?” She folds the file against her chest with one arm. He has a sudden, delightful image of Peggy as she would have been at school. “I’ll have you officially reassigned by then.”

He nods. “Rainy’s going to be furious. She says it took long enough to break me in, she’s not going to be pleased to have to do it to someone else.”

“Yes, well, I think it’s someone else’s turn to break you in.” Even with her bland, businesslike tone, he feels the tips of his ears glowing from the insinuation.

“Just so I’m aware, how does—” He clears his throat. “How does Colonel Phillips feel about his people becoming...friendly under his watch?”

“Oh, he takes it about as well as you’d expect,” she says casually. “If he finds out about it.”

“Then I guess I’m lucky to have a crack SSR agent on my side.”

Her eyes meet his, and he sees his foolish grin echoed in hers for the moment she allows it. Watching her tuck it away and become professional again only makes him smile wider.

“I’ll see you in a timely manner tomorrow, Private, or I’ll be sending you a strongly worded letter.”

“That doesn’t give me much incentive,” he tells her honestly. “I’d love any kind of letter of my own from you.”

A week later he gets back to his bunk and finds an envelope tucked beneath the blanket addressed in familiar handwriting. He doesn’t even know how she got it there - he’d just left her after a strategy session and her announcement that they would be traveling to visit troops on the continent - but he sits and tears it open before he can think of anything else.

Dear Steve...

[boneandfur]

The Mask of Fate

Summary: when Bryce and Ari visit the Museum of Fine Arts, they make a startling discovery. Is the past truly the past? Or will Fate lend a hand? // Notes: Inspired by an edit made for me by @choicesarehard (at beginning of chapter). Much thanks and love goes to my writing pals, without whom none of this would be possible! You know who you are. // Words: 1470 // Song: Jenny of Oldstones by Florence Welch // Pairings: Bryce x MC, Ethan x ? //Rating: though this first chapter is only rated T, the rest of the work will have a hard and fast EXPLICIT 18+ rating. //AUTHOR's NOTE: if you enjoyed this, don't forget to like, comment & reblog!

PROLOGUE

Present Day

"Nox habet quod dies perdidit.” (Night holds what day has lost) -- Seneca.

"Tell me why you dragged me to a dusty museum on this nice, sunny day again?" Bryce laughs as Ari pays for their tickets, fixing her with a charming smile. "We could be out there playing Ultimate Frisbee."

"There's something I want you to see. Come on, slow poke." Ari digs her finger into Bryce's ribs, tickling him. "Eek!" The nearest museum docent, a girl with bright pink hair and a grandma cardigan, turns to stare as Bryce pulls Ari into his arms and rubs his nose against hers.

"There's more where that came from later, you beautiful, infuriating thing." His voice is a thing of beauty: honey and the echo of the tides, blowing over the bare flesh and warming her, like a tropical breeze blowing through the palms beside a white sand shore. "Doctor Riversong. Now, what's this special surprise?"

Ari tosses one dark ponytail over her shoulder, and winks, beckoning Bryce towards a door near a statue of Asclepius, the Greek god of medicine. "I know a guy."

•••

The back room of the museum is entirely too dusty for his tastes, and climate controlled. They couldn't have splurged for an upgrade? Bryce is wishing at this point that he'd thought to bring a wool sweater, he certainly owns enough of them living in the Northeast.

"Cold, Dr Lahela?" There's something about this 'guy' that sets all the hairs on the back of Bryce's neck distinctly on end, for all of his friendly manner.

"How do you know each other again?" Bryce barely moves his lips against Ari's ear, and yet Raines responds, his voice a liquid dark thing, smooth as a hand grasping silk sheets in pleasure -- or exquisite pain.

"Let's just say we have a mutual interest." Raines lays his hand over a panel on the door, and it slides open.

The smell of the little room is fresh and bright, like citrus and sunshine, for all its cramped space. Ari tugs at his hand, and Bryce allows himself to be led to a long aisle, made up of glass cases. Inside are the bric-a-brac of a world gone by, ranging from iron sickle knives to a doll with stone eyes, a child's plaything. Each has a small label, dated anywhere from 2000 BCE to 1600 CE.

Bryce moves along the glass cases, peering at the minutiae of lives lived thousands of years in the past. Ari has moved beyond him, talking with Raines. All of a sudden, he stops. There, in the case, is a bull's horn, gilded and flaking, bored with holes in a line. He knows what it is even before Raines speaks. "A bullroarer."

"Yes, you certainly know your history, Dr Lahela!" Raines sounds faintly amused, and Bryce feels soured, though nothing in Raines's manner is condescending.

He feels that he must have it, he must touch it. It's mine, Bryce thinks, although he knows it cannot be. He can almost feel the weight of the thing in his hands, and he knows the low roar it would make as it swoops through the air.

"From the height of the Minoan Empire, about 1600 BCE. That particular item was found in the ruins of the Palace at Knossos."

"You mean, like the Minotaur and Icarus?" Bryce takes a step back from the glass, although it pains him to do so. "That's just a myth. I'm a doctor. We believe in science, and what we can prove."

"You can't prove anything here, Doctor Lahela. These human memories, how precious, how fleeting they are." Somehow, it sounds like an incantation.

Raines removes a teak chest from one of the cases, weathered by time. The bronze lock crumbles in his hand. When he opens the case, the scent of labdanum is in the room, sweet and dark as vanilla and rich earth, like a woman who has just sat down after a bath, combing oil through her thick dark locks.

He then draws out a wax tablet, mummified and preserved by the centuries. "This was found in the ruins of old Ostia, buried under the foundations of a house near the shore. Some fishermen dragged it up in their nets in the late nineteenth century. It is a miracle it still exists."

"What does it say?" Ari strokes one fingertip over the lettering, entranced.

Raines raises a brow, reading aloud. "'Is that a stirgil in your toga, or are you just happy to see me?' Some things never change. Moving on..."

As Ari and Raines move on to the next case, Bryce hangs back. There is something about the teak case that fascinates him, like a medical curiosity. He crouches down level with the box. On the inside, there is lettering in Latin, almost too faint to make out. Medicae... Numidia. Something glints in the box, and Bryce removes it carefully.

It is a scalpel made of polished bronze, etched on one side with a drawing of a boy leaping over a bull, like the fresco he saw back in the hallway. When the world was new, when myths were made, oracles were spoken, and gods walked among men.

The smell of labdanum is back, and black storax, thick and sweet as the guava paste his mother would make for mochi. In the polished bronze, Bryce can almost see a woman, staring back at him down the centuries, dark eyed and skinned.

She was a medicae... of Numidia. At the house with the sign of Epione. In Ostia, where the blood oranges grow.

Bryce can almost see her turn her head to meet his eyes, as if to say:

Remember.

•••

In Ostia, there is a blood orange tree, under the sign of Epione, the goddess of healing. She is called Felicitas by the Romans, and her high priestess never turns a soul from her temple door. Harper grew up on the streets of Subura, back in Rome, where she learned the art of the medicae. She came to the port city of Ostia nearly two decades past, back when she was yet a girl, back when the blood orange tree was only a sapling, a reminder of the home she would never return to.

At night, when the locusts sing in the trees and the priestesses of that stone house wash the doorstep with salt water, Harper's lover comes to her in dreams. She will wake in the dawn-light, when the sun has not yet risen over the bay, and listen for the song of the nightingale; just as it sang beside their bedroom window, back in Subura, when they were young together.

(Back before the Legion, back before Ostia, before her hair began to turn gray, before her bones started to ache when the seas turn green with the coming storm.)

Beside her, the bed is cold, the place where he would lie is empty. Harper will roll over in her bed and reach beneath it for a chest made of teak and ebony, filled with the scrolls he has sent her. Each is like a precious jewel, a memory, hoarded and kept sacred. She will take out one at time, into the courtyard to break her fast.

(With sweet wine from Hispania, and blood oranges.)

Harper breaks the wax seal of the letter with a flick of her fingertip, and she smells the scent of him, her man; as though he sits beside her at the table, drinking watered wine and eating sticky figs, his deep blue eyes never leaving her face.

You get this crinkle between your eyes when you think too hard, my love, he will whisper, and press his thumb there, caressing the strain away.

(But like the space beside her in bed, Harper is alone at the table. She does not like to think about how many years it has been, or how many lines she can see beside her eyes in the beaten bronze mirror.)

She unrolls the carrying case carefully, wind and salt have done their wear and tear on the waxen leather packet. Out of the case falls a spring of fauna, and Harper carefully crumbles it in her palm, holding it to her nose to breathe in the strange scent. It is not a plant she knows, or has ever known before. If she did not know him better, she would think that he had a lover out there, in the far flung reaches of the Empire, and she would not blame him: it has been years since last they held one another.

(Yet a promise is a promise, and she has kept it, in her fashion.)

Under the same stars, in some far-flung corner of the Empire, Harper can picture him: sitting at his writing desk beneath his hospital tent, her man:

Ethus...

[stylesgalaxy]

mastermind; chapter 3

A car zips past me as I run across the street. I ignore it's angry honk and push through the doors to the art shop. It was a bit far from the campus and in the side of town I wasn't very familiar with. Julia and I lived in the opposite side. But I heard from a classmate that this one has the best prices.

A chime rings when I open the door but no one is at the counter to greet me. I don't mind, I start looking for what I need quickly. My calligraphy prints were not satisfactory, apparently, but the professor was letting me resubmit them. I look down the shelf against the wall but it's all canvases. I walk further into the store to check out the other aisles.

"Can I help you?" a voice startles me. I scream and turn around, holding my hand to my chest. The boy in front of me has a very handsome, very familiar face. His dark hair falls in strands over his light brown eyes, almost making me swoon.

"Hi," I say uncertainly. Zayn happened to be an art major as well, I've seen him a few times in big lectures but we've never had any classes together.

"I know you..." he says with a light smile. "You're that hot girl's friend. Julia?"

"Yes," I sigh. I'm the hot girl's friend.

"I'm Zayn, what's your name again?"

I didn't expect him to remember my name, he was very drunk and we only spoke once before I gave Julia the green light. I don't remember why I liked him so much.

"I'm Aria," I answer.

"Ah, nice name. What is it your looking for? I can help you," he says with a polite smile.

"You work here?" I ask in surprise.

He nods.

"I'm looking for ink, silver if you have."

"RIght this way."

Zayn leads me through the store to where they keep the calligraphy supplies and the Windsor & Newton inks. I'm pleasantly surprised to find that it's $2.50 for a bottle and immediately begin hoarding every colour I like. Zayn finds this hilarious, I make him show me the pens. I choose a thin-tipped one that he says is better quality than the other brands. I'm completely immersed in this shop and every thing they have because for once, I can afford these things.

It's been a good two hours before I walk up to the register to cash out. I didn't even notice how much time had gone by because Zayn was so easy to talk to and actually quite funny.

"And your total is... $84.76," he says after ringing up every thing. I happily pull out my credit card to pay. I couldn't believe how much I got for $84. "I trust I'll be seeing you soon?" he chuckles. "I mean if there's anything left for you to buy."

"Don't be silly, of course there is!" I answer. "I have to build a sculpture for one of my assignments, I'm going to be back."

"For Lennard's class?"

"Yeah, you have him too?"

"Wednesday afternoon," he smiles. "Odd guy, isn't he?"

"Oh, no doubt. What are you building for your sculpture?"

"My Patronus," he says after some hesitation.

"What's your Patronus?"

"You can find out when I finish it," he chuckles and starts moving things around his table. I take this as a sign that he doesn't want to talk about it so I leave.

"Whatever, weirdo, let me know if the Tombows go on sale," I say walking towards the door with my big bags.

"Will do! Do you need help?"

"I'm good, thanks. Bye!" I shout through my arms, struggling to open the door.

The buses hate me, as usual, so it takes me about an hour to travel back home. I have one bag in my left hand, and I'm holding my other bag with the huge papers to my chest with my right hand, all while my purse starts slipping off my shoulder. I knock hoping Julia is home and can open the door for me because I can't be bothered to fish out my keys right now.

I hear sounds of scrambling coming from inside and then Harry opens the door for me. I'm confused before I take in his messed up hair and shirt thats inside out. Behind him I see Julia on the couch, hastily arranging her hair to appear normal. I try not to make it obvious that I've noticed Harry's very apparent bulge and fly undone because I can see how discreet he's trying to be about it.

"Hey," Harry croaks. "Do you want me to help you with those?" he nods to the bag I'm carrying. I give him a tight smile.

"No, thanks," I say. I walk around him, careful to keep to not touch him and take my shoes off. "Hey, Jules," I greet her, without making eye contact, as I walk straight to my room. "I'm gonna be working on my assignment, don't mind me. You guys can... carry on or whatever... I don't know." My face heats up in embarrassment. Why am I so awkward?

I shut my door tightly and hope it didn't seem like I slammed it. Because if it looks like I slammed it then it looks like I'm mad, and if it looks like I'm mad that they were getting frisky, it's obvious that I have a thing for Harry. And if either of them realize that, it wouldn't be hard to understand why I act the way I do around Harry. I don't want to destroy the good progress we've made in our friendship this past week.

I sigh deeply and then grab a more comfortable change of clothes from my closet. My desk is already cleared up, ready for me to make my prints. Obviously, I practise on normal paper with my new pens and inks before pulling out the fancy sheets and cutting them in a neatly so they're letter sized. I'm nervous to start the first print but I get over it quickly. If I mess up this sheet, I have more but if I mess those up too, then I'm fucked because I have to submit eight prints tomorrow morning, and I'm not submitting them on two types of paper.

I think about Zayn for a few minutes while I work. Over the past two years I'd seen him around a few times because we were in the same program, but the mysterious and broody vibes that he gave off intimidated me from ever speaking to him. He was also very quiet. That has to be why Julia lost interest in him, because with a face like his there is no other reason I can imagine why she wouldn't want him. He spoke a lot to me today though. I figured that's because he was in a place he was familiar in and he sort of knew me. I can see us being friends in the future.

I didn't make any new friends during orientation in first year, so when Julia started dating Harry several weeks later, we both became acquainted with Louis and Niall and they're now my only other friends. I'm grateful for them since they let me go bar-hopping with them when Julia refused to because her and Harry preferred to just stay home together. And they were really fun too. They liked to make fun of Harry and Julia as if they're an old married couple, and their impressions are really funny when I'm drunk.

However, it'd also be nice to have an artist friend. I already wish I had gotten Zayn's number. Not to go out with him, but to have someone to talk to about my art.

I'm nearly done one print when a knock sounds at my door a couple hours later.

"Come in," I say, surprised that for once Julia learned how to knock.

"Hey," she says slowly. She shuts the door and cautiously sits on my bed. I don't turn my chair around to face her, I just keep working. "Harry just left and I wanted to say sorry about what you saw earlier."

My face heats up again.

"Don't worry about it. It's cool," I assure her.

"Okay, good, I just felt bad because I know you don't like it when—"

"Did you have sex on the couch?"

"We-what?"

"Did you have sex on the couch?" I repeat calmly.

"No, we didn't. We-uh... no. Not on the couch."

"Good, just remember the couch is off limits for sex. I don't care about whatever else you do," I say nonchalantly. "Wait, the entire living room and kitchen as well. Though I'm sure you knew that already."

"Okay," she whispers. I'm not sure why Julia is talking about this with me so delicately when she's never hesitated to go into very descriptive details about their sex life before. But then again, Julia conjures many strange explanations in that brain of hers, so she's probably labelled me off as a scared prude or something.

"Um, this isn't going to change how you act around Harry, is it?" she mumbles.

I look at her in confusion.

"What? No. Why would it? I knew you two were having sex," I roll my eyes at her. Honestly, just because I haven't done the deed doesn't mean I don't know about it. And like I said, she went into very descriptive details about their sex before.

"I know, but you've never seen us like that before. I just hope nothing traumatized you."

Harry's bulge flashes in my mind and I curse Julia for bringing it up.

"I don't know what your talking about, I didn't see anything," I lie.

"You didn't?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Really. And besides, it was clothed so it wasn't like I actually saw his dick."

"Wait what?" Julia exclaims.

"What?" I respond trying to pretend like I didn't just say what I said.

"You saw his clothed dick?" Julia stares at me, wide-eyed.

"What? No, I didn't. He has a dick?"

Julia and I stare at each other for a few seconds, before we both burst into laughter.

"Oh, God, never tell him that! He was trying to hide it so bad!" she giggles.

"I wasn't planning on it!" I wave my arms around like it was obvious. She falls into another fit of giggles.

"Moving on," I say, "you'll never guess who I met today."

"Who?"

"Remember that guy I approved of for you at that party during orientation in first year? Zayn?"

"Oh my God, I remember him! He was so hot!"

"Was? He still is!"

"Get it, Aria!" she chirps. I roll my eyes.

"He works at the art shop on the other side of the town."

"That's hot."

"Tell me about it," I smirk. "I think I'm gonna go see him again soon."

Julia and I ended up talking for an hour about Zayn and other guys she's dated. For the first time in ages, my mind was completely off Harry and it felt nice to talk to my best friend about boys. We were like young teenagers again, scheming ways to lure Zayn in and planning potential future dates. I hadn't even thought about him like that until I started speaking to Julia.

It was time I moved on from Harry.

---

I accidentally tip my travel mug over trying to pour hot coffee in it and nearly burn myself. Oh fuck. Now there was coffee all over the kitchen counter and floor and none in my mug.

I quickly throw a bunch of paper towels on the tile floor to mop it up and then inspect the counter. My eyes widen when I notice the coffee seeping into the coffee machine. I shut it off immediately and unplug it from power before it explodes or something. I'm not sure how easily electrical appliances catch fire, but I didn't want to risk burning my apartment down today.

I know I can't leave this mess like this, Julia will have my head. Quickly throwing paper towels on the tile floor and the counter, I decide that if I leave right now and run, I can make it to Starbucks to grab a coffee before my class starts. So I messily mop up the mess, wash my hands and run out with my purse. I put my jacket on in the elevator and hold the folder with my new prints in my mouth.

I was up all night last night after Julia and I were finished talking about Zayn. Hence why the coffee is so important. I woke up thirty minutes ago after I fell asleep for an hour and took the fastest shower then failed to make coffee. At least my calligraphy prints were all done and ready. I'm really glad Zayn sold me the fancy paper because it makes the calligraphy look so much more elegant and old fashioned, and the silver ink enhanced it as well. All in all, I'm pretty proud of them.

It was twenty to nine which meant the campus was full of students milling around and slowly making their way to class. There were a few maniacs running around like headless chickens (me) while also texting their roommates to warn them not to use the coffee machine. I was dodging people like a bullet and nearly made it to the Starbucks when I remembered I should have mobile ordered because the line up looks so long. Just as I was about to pull to a stop in front of the store, someone bumps into me harshly and a coffee drops to the ground and my folder slips from my hand.

"Shit!" Niall yells and the same time I let out a horrified scream. Three of my prints landed in Niall's spilled coffee.

"My prints!" I shout, dropping to my knees.

"Aria, shit, I'm so sorry! I didn't see you, oh fuck are they ruined?" Niall starts blabbering.

My hands shake and as I reach out to grab one. It was then I noticed that thankfully I had enough functioning braincells before I slept to remember to put them in individual sheet protectors. The coffee touched the plastic on the outside but the prints themselves were safe.

"They're in sheet protectors, they're okay!" I hear Harry's voice. I look up meeting his gaze. I hadn't even noticed him standing next to Niall with a Starbucks coffee of his own. He bends down in front of me, pulling out napkins from his pocket and starts to gently wipe at the coffee. It comes off clean and leaves my assignment looking just as it had before. "See? Completely fine," he confirms gently. I let out a sigh of relief. I was so scared for a moment.

"You were so smart for putting them in plastic sheet protectors," Niall comments.

"Thank fuck," I grunt. I grab a napkin from Harry and help him. He stops and stares at the print he was holding.

"You made this?" he asks, as if it just occurred to him. I nod. "Shit, this is so good, Aria."

I blush and thank him. I'd love to hear him compliment my work, but I'm sad because I have to go to class coffee-less now.

"'No legacy is so rich as honesty'," he reads. "Is that Rupi Kaur?"

"No!" I scoff. "It's Shakespeare."

"Shakespeare is shite," Niall says.

"Shakespeare is one of the greatest writers in history!" I argue defensively.

"This is beautiful," Harry continues, ignoring Niall and I. I gather the prints in my folder and stand up, the boys follow suit. "'If music be the food of love, play on' I know that one!"

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. Niall and Harry were pouring over my prints and to be honest, after staying up all night to make them perfect, it felt nice to have them say it was good.

"'You have witchcraft in your lips'," Harry drawls out slowly. He bits his lip. "Can I have this? I quite like this one," he says.

"No," I quip and pull it away, gently placing them back in the folder. "I have to submit them in..." I check my phone for the time. 8:51. "Nine minutes."

I pull my purse back over my shoulder and try not to meet his gaze.

"What's the drink you got there?" I ask nodding at his coffee cup.

"Uh, a Blonde Hazelnut latte—"

"Great, thanks," I say grabbing his coffee and walking away with it. "Bye, guys, see you later!" I wave at them and smirk at Harry's indignant expression. I bring his coffee to my lips and take a sip.

---

It's been a couple weeks since I sort of walked in on Harry and Julia. They're more cautious about getting horny when I'm in the room now. And because of what I promised, I'm with them a lot. They love to watch TV together, which I don't understand. I mean I understand watching TV or binge-watching Netflix, but it seems like it's all they do. When they're not in the bedroom, or eating, they're in front of the television. How they get their work done is beyond me.

"We're watching Say Yes to the Dress, wanna join?" Julia asks me one night after I get back from work.

"Don't you guys have homework?" I question.

"We've done it already."

Probably forgot to mention that they're also both business majors, so they have some classes together.

"We have a four hour break on Fridays together, that's when we do all of our schoolwork."

They must be some next-level geniuses, because it takes me ten hours to do one assignment. I couldn't help but also feel like I lacked the security they had regarding their future jobs. Both of their father's were rich businessmen, and both of them were extremely smart. Whether they passed with a 4.0 GPA or a 2.8, they were still going to get a job with their parents and do really well. I had no idea what I was going to do when I graduated.

What did one do with a degree in Fine Arts?

These are the thoughts that plagued me some nights. What was I going to do with my degree? It cost a lot of money to even come here to this university, it was only going to double up after I graduate and try to pay it off. I'm going to spend my whole life looking for temporary jobs to pay me enough so I can pay off my student debts. I could sell paintings, but it would take years to make a name for myself that will make me successful. I could try getting my work into a gallery, but the people who get their works in galleries spend years pouring their heart and soul into their pieces. That's going to take time, and time is money—which I don't have.

I remember being just as lost in high school. Julia applied to this university and convinced me to apply as well. She dragged me to uni fairs to learn more about my program and forced pamphlets in my hands until I was in love with the campus and program enough to apply for it. And I do love it, I got to meet great people and I'm learning amazing things. I was also good enough to get in so that has to count for something, right?

"What are you going to do after you graduate?" I asked Zayn one day. He was showing me sculpting supplies when I randomly blurt this out.

"Uh," he drags out for a few seconds. His eyebrows scrunch in deep thought, but I know he thinks about this a lot too. "I guess, I'm just gonna see where life takes me."

"And that helps you sleep at night?"

"Well, no," he chuckles. "I mean... I kind of like tattooing... I thought I might work at a tattoo parlour. Or do comic book illustrations."

Tattoo parlour. Comic book illustrations.

That's a good answer. That's the perfect answer for Zayn. He has an idea, he has his himself figured out.

"What do you want to do?" he inquires.

"I don't know," I mumble.

"How about I open up my own tattoo shop and you can draw my designs for me while I draw comic books?" he suggests.

I grin at his attempt to cheer me up, and nod.

"Sure, sound's brilliant."

---

Satisfactory work on the prototype. Visually, it's pleasing. Conceptually, it doesn't really make sense. Ask yourself: what is the meaning behind this piece? How do the elements you use embody that? Why did you choose the medium you chose? And remember you don't only have to use one. It would help you to open your mind more.

I growl in frustration and slam my laptop shut. I thought this week couldn't get any worse but the feedback from my sculpture prototype was the cherry on top of the cake. I knew my idea of a dancing ballerina was sub par but I hoped that if I made it look pretty, the professor would just accept it.

Stupid art teachers. They always have to get to deep and meaningful.

I can't help but compare myself to Zayn. Zayn knows what he's making for his sculpture—his Patronus, his spirit animal. That's meaningful. He knows what he wants to do in the future, he's talented, he can get there. He isn't lacking anything.

Angry tears prick my eyes and my fingers close into fists. I lost my touch. I know it. When I came into this university, I was full of fresh ideas. Now I was just drained. All my work was being handed back to me because it wasn't good enough and I had enough. I stared at the stupid cardboard ballerina model then threw it against my wall. It bounced back which gave me no satisfaction, so I picked it up and tore it to pieces, screaming.

The door to my room burst open suddenly, and Harry barged in.

"Aria?!" he took in my state, then the torn cardboard in my hands. "What happened, what did you do?" He walks into my room, completely ignoring the death glare I'm sending him.

"What the fuck are you doing here?!" I scream. He was the last person I wanted to see me like this, and I had no energy to be careful around him.

Harry's eyes widen and he stares at me in shock, then apologetically.

"I'm sorry, I-I came to see Julia, but she's not here yet," he explains. I roll my eyes and turn away from him. Of fucking course. I forgot Julia had given Harry keys to our apartment. Ever since he got them, he'd been visiting more often.

"She went out with her father," my voice comes out scratchy and monotone.

"Her father—?"

"Yes. His personal assistant came to pick her up an hour ago."

"Oh okay," he says quietly, still standing in my room. I turn to look at him expectantly, but he just stares back at me like a doe with green eyes. "I'm not leaving you like this."

"Like what?" Fury drips from my voice. I don't know why it angers me so much. Who is he to know what I'm like?

"Like-like this! All crying and stuff."

"Well, I want you to leave!"

"No," he says quietly and shakes his head.

"Leave!"

He stays rooted and even has the audacity to fold his arms across his chest.

"This is my house and I demand that you leave!"

He bends down to pick up the torn pieces of cardboard. I huff and sit down on my bed, my face in my hands. I can see Harry trying to arranged the pieces back together like a puzzle to fix it. My heart strings pull at his actions. He's trying to be helpful and here I am, being a bitch to him again.

"Leave it, it's not important anymore. I already got my mark and feedback," I mutter. He gently sets the pieces down then moves up closer on the ground so he's kneeling in front of me.

"What happened? Did they say there was something wrong with it?" he asks.

"Yeah, it's useless, it's not good enough," I scoff. Harry immediately shakes his head.

"Don't say that—"

"It's true, Harry! It looks pretty but-but that's not good enough."

"What is 'good enough'?"

My throat constricts and my eyes well up in tears again. I shake my head, not being about to speak of my failure. Harry carefully grabs my hands and looks into my eyes. My heart beats faster at the feel of his soft hands over mine.

"Come, I'll make you some tea. Relax a bit, and we'll figure something out," he suggests.

"Harry, no," I say weakly. Despite my distressed state, I know I probably shouldn't be spending time with Harry like this, especially with Julia not here. But when he insists and pulls me up to my feet, I am unable to refuse him.

Harry sits me down at the small table in the kitchen and swiftly moves around to make tea.

"You've never had my tea before, no?" he inquires. I shake my head not even realizing that his back is to me so he won't see. "You're going to love it, everyone loves my tea. It's probably the best in the country."

A small laugh escapes my mouth. Harry whips his head back, an accomplished smile on his face.

"I doubt that," I say eventually. His face brightens even more at my response.

"Don't knock it 'til you try it."

He gives it a final stir, sets the spoon down on the counter, then places the steaming mug carefully in front of me. I look at the light brown liquid expressionless.

"It's Earl Grey," he says quickly. When I still make no move to pick it up he says, "that's all you guys have here, I assumed you like Earl Grey."

"Oh, I love Earl Grey," I start. Harry smiles in relief. "I hate milk, though."

His smile drops.

"Fuck," he says under his breath. He slowly drags the mug to his side. "Well... this was mine actually," he reasons, "all along." He turns around to grab a new mug.

"Oh," I play along. "See, I thought it was for me, 'cause you put right in front of me."

"No, no," he wags a finger. "That was a trick, and you fell for it. I made you think that was for you, to throw you off. I knew you hated milk all along."

I try to contain my laughter because I know he wins if I do, but I can't help it. His endearing behaviour is making me smile. His eyes sparkle at the sound of my laughter, and I am in awe at how quickly he was able to brighten my mood.

"I take sugar in my tea sometimes," he says. "I know that you..." he narrows his eyes at me and I give a small shake of my head, "don't take sugar in yours... which is why I'm not putting any in here." He places the second mug of plain black tea in front of me. I blow on it a bit to cool it then take a sip, it tastes just as ordinary as I always take my tea.

"Mmm, this truly is the best tea I've ever had," I say sarcastically.

"Told you," he grins.

Harry sits across from me and tells jokes and a few anecdotes to help me relax. Within a half hour, I'm in stitches and I've completely forgotten about my breakdown.

He finishes another story and I'm laughing harder than I have in a while. Tears of mirth slip down my face, and I wipe them away with my sleeve. I've quietened down and look to see Harry staring at me with a content smile.

"I think that's the first time I've seen you really, truly laughing around me," he says. I catch the happy glint in his eye that makes me long for endless moments like this.

"Well, I'm not like this with everyone, considered yourself special," I joke. His forehead furrows and he turns the tiniest bit serious.

"Of course, I consider it an honour to even call you my friend, Aria Collins," he declares. I search for any hint of teasing in his eyes, but I find none. I gulp and smile shakily.

His hand moves up a bit on the table and for a moment my heart stops, but his hand doesn't come any closer to mine.

"Do you wanna talk about your feedback now?" he asks gently. I sigh deeply. I know there's no escaping it so might as well get it over with now.

"My prof doesn't think it's good enough. He said it's lacking conceptually and I need to be more open minded."

He looks at me blankly. I know Harry is at a loss when it comes to art because it's not his forte, but I'm pleasantly surprised when he pushes himself to keep trying.

"What was the idea you had for the ballerina?" he asks.

"It was just a ballerina. I was fascinated with ballet when I first came up with the idea. I just thought they were cool."

He nods and thinks.

"You should make something related to you," he offers.

"But what? And how?"

"You know... and before I start, forgive me, 'cause I don't know much about art and things—"

"It's okay."

"Um, I'm taking a Greek Mythology elective this semester." I tilt my head, not expect this. "D'you know who you remind me of a lot?"

"Who?"

"Artemis."

My jaw drops.

"You're very independent like she is," he continues. "It's hard to impress Artemis, and it's hard to impress you. She's sworn to never marry—and I know you haven't but you've obviously prioritized other things before relationships. She's very, like, determined and dedicated to her work which you clearly are as well..."

Harry begins to falter and trails off awkwardly. Eager for him to feel just as comfortable as he's always made sure I felt, I'm quick to answer.

"Artemis is my favourite goddess," I tell him. His eyes meet mine.

"Really?"

I nod.

"Who's your favourite god?" he follows up.

"Apollo," I smile. Harry laughs.

"No way! He's my favourite, too!" He blinks owlishly at me. "Why don't you do something Artemis-like for your sculpture. Or Apollo-like."

I try to think of how I could twist this Artemis idea and make my sculpture about me. I absent-mindedly tug at my sleeves and bite my lip in concentration.

"You know..." Harry starts again and I inwardly smile because I know he had an idea from the beginning but he doesn't want to be too forward. "Every god and goddess has a sacred animal."

I vaguely remember reading something like that.

"What's Artemis'?" I ask.

"A deer."

A deer. Huh.

"Deer symbolize things like adventure, cautiousness, individuality..." Harry continues. I raise my eyebrows. He nods, "Sounds like someone in this room."

I crack a smile.

"I like that idea," I say truthfully. "I think I can work with that."

"What else did your prof say?"

"He told me to be more open-minded and not use only one medium or something like that..."

"What's your medium?"

"Well a medium is the physical thing you use to show your art. I was going to use clay for my sculpture."

"So he wants you to use more than clay?"

I nod. Harry looks at me like he has an idea but he doesn't share.

"How about we let this idea cook for a bit, and with time you'll think of a something."

"Okay," I agree, feeling the exhaustion of the night. I got pretty far with the deer idea anyway. "Sounds good." I get up to put away our mugs, and when I turn around Harry put his shoes on.

"I should probably leave now," he mumbles, slipping his arms through his jacket. I nod.

"Thanks, Harry," I say sincerely. "I'm glad you didn't leave, you... you helped me a lot today. I'm sorry I was such a bitch to you."

He smiles wide.

"It's no problem," he says, his hands tucked into his pockets. I surprise both of us by moving forward and wrapping my arms around his torso. He stands shocked for a moment, and then slowly rests his arms around me too. I hug him tightly, trying and failing to not pour all my emotions out. His hand rubs up and down my back. I inhale his scent. I don't want this moment to end.

Eventually, I pull away before it gets awkward. Though I don't think Harry would ever allow me to feel awkward in his presence. I fold my arms together, determined to not look shy but Harry sees right through me and snickers. He opens the door and steps out, waving goodbye.

***

There’s chapter 3! Let me know what you thought :) Also I probably should mention Aria rolls her eyes a lot. Like A LOT alot, it’s gonna get annoying I know but that’s how she is. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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[murphystarr]

not so self assured

a sort of companion piece to chapter 10 of @ch-ch-ch-ch-cherrybomb‘s twin skeletons. features leslie harris, my harris kid, and a lot of self-reflection and some uneaten chicken enchiladas. 

mentions of suicide

The coroner had estimated that Brian had died sometime around 11:30 that Friday night. He had been dead for nearly ten hours before Leslie had found him, stiff and cold, dangling from the rafters, a makeshift noose made out of an electrical cord tight around his neck.

That was six days ago.

No.

Five days, sixteen hours, seventeen minutes and 48 seconds.

She was still pretty numb about the whole thing. Then again, nothing could really prepare you for finding your older brother dead. The paramedics had checked her out when they arrived to set Brian free from his noose and take him to the morgue; they took her blood pressure, put a stethoscope to her chest, shone a light in her eyes, asked her what day it was and her name. They calmly explained to her that she was in shock, then a paramedic who reminded her of her older sister, Morgan, took her to the living room and guided her to the couch, advised her to lie down and put a pillow underneath her legs. She stayed there with her, making small talk while Leslie heard her mother’s screams from the garage, and the faint voices of police officers, asking her father questions that Leslie thought would never relate to Brian:

“How long has he been depressed?”

“Did he say that he had a plan?”

“Has he flat out said that he wanted to hurt himself?”

Hurt himself? No. Hurt other people? Maybe. It really depended on the person.

Back when they were younger, Brian was the kid that future Brian would have loved to pick on. He was the fat middle child while his older sister was an actual pageant princess and his younger sister was a point spot flyer for their state’s most prestigious competitive cheerleading team. He was boxed in and overshadowed by his sister’s accomplishments and his parents’ divided attention. On Fridays, their father went to Leslie’s cheer competitions and their mother accompanied Morgan to the multi-day pageants. They would all return Sunday afternoon with trophies, tiaras, medals, and flowers, usually with the expectation that they were heading to higher and higher things.

The summer that Brian went to fat camp, Leslie’s team, Cheer Extreme Great White Sharks, placed first in their division at Worlds, and Morgan won Miss Virginia Teen USA.

Was Brian depressed? Leslie honestly couldn’t tell. The only thing she could point at was that when Brian was fat, he often parked himself in front of the television with an armsload of food, not moving for hours.

Kind of what Leslie was doing right then and there.

She had made herself comfortable in a hoard of blankets that would make any dragon proud, armored in four-day-old sweats, decked out in a messy bun that hadn’t seen anything but dry shampoo in days, staring at reruns of Family Feud, all while nursing a cold plate of chicken enchiladas that her cheer friend, Tazzy, and her two dads brought over yesterday. She wasn’t hungry, she had only cut out a slice of the dish an hour ago when Morgan begged her to eat something. It had been nearly 20 hours since she ate something, she needed to keep up her strength for the funeral tomorrow.

“You need to take care of yourself, babe,” Morgan had said when she put the enchiladas in the microwave for her. “Keeping yourself away from food isn’t the best thing for your body right now. I’m sure your coaches feel the same way.”

Oh, right. Her coaches. They had stopped by the other day with white chrysanthemums and a card signed by the entire team for Leslie. They uttered the usual platitudes, how sorry they were, how was she holding up, if there was anything they could do let them know, but they needed to know when she’ll be back. The Sharks had a huge competition coming up soon and they really needed her back at the gym.

Leslie missed the gym where she had been training at for the past ten years. Five times a week, since she was four, she was in her own world. Surrounded by her teammates, they tumbled, danced, stunted, jumped, and cheered. Practicing over and over until they could easily perform award winning routines in unison. Leslie found a second home in The Shark Tank over the years, a place where she found refuge from the drama in her family, where she was surrounded by the girls she grew up with, girls she considered to be her sisters, and her coaches: Anthony, Dallas, and Regan, who she looked up to as mentors.

But since Brian died, it seemed that cheer and all desires to return to The Shark Tank had been put on the backburner. She hadn’t brought herself to go through her at-home conditioning drills. She hadn’t even bothered to stretch, something that was vital to any cheerleader, especially to a point spot flyer. She was the focus of the entire routine whenever she and the other flyers went in the air, she had fought tooth and nail for that position, dealt with numerous concussions, conditioned her body and pushed herself beyond her limits to be the ideal flyer. She was the best flyer on the team, the entire team depended on her.

But now, all kind of spirit she could muster up for her team was reflected in her Great White Sharks hoodie, the one that had WORLD CHAMPION pressed on the back in obnoxious, blocky letters.

She wasn’t supposed to be going through this. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. Leslie was supposed to breeze through her freshman year at Central High, making her place in student council and yearbook committee. She was supposed to travel with her team to Disney World in June, where they had the opportunity for a threepeat as World Champions. She was supposed to keep up with her photography, having her pictures place in local shows like they had been for the past year and half. She was supposed to look up to Alana Beck as a guide, like she had been since her freshman year started. But the moment Brain let out his last breath, all of that went away. She wasn’t a two-time World Champion anymore, she wasn’t one half of the freshman representatives on the Homecoming court, she wasn’t a member of student council or the yearbook committee or even a photographer, she was just Brain Harris’ sister. She had been his sister at the beginning of the year, but she had worked hard to differentiate herself from him for the past two months, not wanting to leech of his popularity by blood association and the fact he drove them both to school every day.

But Brian killed himself in their garage, next to where they kept their bicycles and his snowboard. He waited until his family was asleep, disabled the alarm, then tiptoed downstairs into the garage, with no intention of coming back out alive. And Leslie wasn’t Leslie anymore. She was just his sister who was listed in the obituary as one of his surviving family members. Nothing she did mattered anymore.

She felt a warm hand on her shoulder. Leslie looked up to find an identical pair of hazel eyes looking down back at her. Morgan must’ve finally taken a shower, Leslie noticed, her hair was damp and skin was flushed rosy red. Her older sister looked down at the plate on Leslie’s lap, frowning slightly.

“Did you eat any of that?”

“Yeah,” she lied. “I’m not that hungry right now.”

Morgan didn’t fight it. She circled the couch and sat down next to Leslie, then began to softly play with her hair. Leslie instinctually leaned next to her, resting her head on Morgan’s shoulder.

“When was the last time you took a shower?”

“I don’t know.”

“Les.”

“Five days ago?”

Morgan just let out a sigh. Leslie closed her eyes. Let Morgan pet her head in a soothing motion.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?”

“Not really.”

That was a lie, Leslie had her outfit picked and had laid on her desk two days ago. Black scalloped dress with a black cardigan, black pumps and sheer tights, even black pearls to go in her ears. The pearls had been from her grandmother, a gift to celebrate her starting high school. Leslie had never predicted that she would have to use them so soon.

Physically, she was ready. Emotionally? Not a chance in hell. She wasn’t ready to face all of Brian’s teammates and friends, her dad’s clients and colleagues, her mom’s book club friends and old sorority sisters from college. She wasn’t ready to see some of her teammates who had texted her a few days ago that they would be at the funeral to support her. She just wanted to stay in bed, isolate herself until everything was normal again, press some sort of button that would skip the entire grieving process, exterminate every emotion she was feeling that arose when she saw her brother’s body hanging from the garage ceiling last Saturday morning.

She wanted to disappear.

“...gonna be there.”

Leslie must’ve tuned out again, only coming back to hear the tail end of Morgan’s announcement.

“Who’s gonna be there?”

“Mr. Murphy. He’s coming to the funeral tomorrow.”

That made sense, he and her dad worked at the same law firm downtown together. They had known each other from their days rushing Pi Kappa Delta. It was natural that Mr. Murphy would be there to support his friend during this time. She had once heard that Mr. Murphy and her father had to wrestle in mud pit during their time pledging, only Brian had told her later they had to do it naked.

“That’s nice of him. Are any other Murphy’s gonna be there?”

“I’m not sure about Mrs. Murphy, but I’m pretty sure Zoe might be there.”

Leslie nodded. She liked Zoe. They used to dress up together and play make-believe when they were younger, and Leslie taught Zoe how to do a backflip on their trampoline. They spent a lot of time together in the summer, when Leslie didn’t have cheer and Zoe didn’t had guitar lessons, usually swimming in Leslie’s pool or riding their bikes down to the park to play on the swings. She hadn’t seen Zoe since last winter break, when they went to Colorado for the annual “Harris-Murphy Skiing Trip / Disaster”. Morgan chose to stay back in Chicago with her boyfriend for the holidays, and Brian had decided to torment Zoe, snapping her bra and mimed jerking off whenever she passed by. But Leslie and Zoe made the best out of that week, making friendship bracelets out of colored string and making snowmen outside of the timeshare.

“That’s good. I like Zoe.”

Neither of the Harris sisters had to bring up the fact that Connor Murphy wouldn’t be attending the funeral. Even if he wasn’t in rehab, he wouldn’t want to show up within three miles of the service.

During that same ski trip, he wasn’t any nicer to Connor either. She vaguely remembered him trying to shove Connor off the ski lift when they were high off the ground, but Connor had gotten revenge by dunking Brian’s head in the toilet. Leslie remembered silently cheering for Connor during that trip, Brain wasn’t any nicer to Leslie as well. He had stolen her Nintendo 3DS and wiped her save file of Ocarina of Time, “just because”. So when she saw Brian’s hair soaking wet, running off to tattle, she couldn’t help but snicker.

Was she a bad person for still thinking that was funny?

She didn’t bother to answer that question, instead choosing to lean in closer to her sister. She then heard something buzz. Morgan fished her phone out of her pocket, swiping it open.

“It’s Eli. He’s gonna swing by in an hour and pick me up to get dinner. You wanna come with us?”

She just shrugged. She liked Morgan’s boyfriend enough, but she didn't think she could handle a sympathy dinner at the moment.

“Not really.”

“Are you sure? He invited you.”

“I’m not that hungry.”

Morgan just let out another sigh, typed out some words to Eli, then sent the text.

“Okay, I won’t push you. But can you promise me you’ll try and eat something tonight?”

“I’ll try.”

“And will you take a shower?”

“Yes, mom.”

“Thank you.” She kissed Leslie’s forehead, gave her a last squeeze, then got up, ready to head upstairs.

“Oh, hey, I found a cute picture of you and Brian on my phone. I sent it to you a while ago, I thought you’d like to see it.”

“Okay, I’ll look at it.”

She waited until the thump-thump-thump of Morgan’s footsteps trailed off upstairs before fishing for her phone. She thought it was somewhere in her blanket pile, but she eventually found it between some couch cushions. She turned it on, and sure enough, between thousands of notifications from Instagram, GroupMe, and Snapchat, she found a text from Morgan, sent about an hour ago. She tapped on it, revealing a picture of her and Brian last June at Orlando. It was just after Leslie had gotten off the mat from Finals at Worlds, and she was somehow sitting on Brian’s shoulders. She think Morgan might’ve forced Brian to let her up there, but she could barely remember anything just after the performance from all the adrenaline pumping through her veins. She remembered hitting a solid routine, no one had fallen or slipped, and just an hour later she heard her team’s name was being called as two-time champions.

She was in her uniform, decked out in a full face of makeup with blue and silver eyeshadow, her team’s colors, what seemed like five sets of false eyelashes, hair teased to the Heavens in a high pony, and the biggest smile on her face she had ever seen. She could see that she had picked out gray rubber bands on her braces, a choice that she had made at the orthodontist’s just weeks before. But what really stood out to her is that Brian was wearing a Great White Sharks T-shirt. She recognized that shirt, it was the shirt that the team gave to parents and siblings when the girls made the team every year. She knew that on the back it said LESLIE “BIRDIE” HARRIS. Brian was giving a smirk to the camera, flexing both of his arms while Leslie had her arms in a high V. It was a picture that her team’s Instagram would have loved to have posted a few days ago when they announced their support for Leslie, instead of Brian’s Sophomore yearbook picture.

But Leslie continued to stare at the picture. She didn’t know what to think. It all looked so… fake. Sure, Leslie looked like a model for a Great White Sharks’ Barbie doll, but the fact that Brian and Leslie could be civil for a moment to take a cute picture together was strange. Brian didn’t take cute pictures with Leslie. He stole her epsom salts way beyond when football season was over and would hog the upstairs bathroom to soak when Leslie was sore after three hours of conditioning at the gym. He didn’t show up to support her at her competitions. He didn’t even seem to care that Leslie was already being scouted by colleges as a freshman. He didn’t even seem to care about Leslie.

So why was Leslie sobbing on the couch, ears burning red and ugly tears cascading down her face? Maybe it was because when they were younger, he would hold her hand while they walked anywhere together. Maybe it was because he taught her how to play Legend of Zelda and would read the guide out loud to her because she couldn’t read yet. Maybe it was because he took care of her when she lost her very first cheerleading competition and held her while she cried. Maybe it was because she was grieving for the Brian she knew, and mourning for the relationship that they could have had.

But Brian had killed himself.

Leslie managed to calm herself down enough to reply to Morgan with a heart emoji, save the picture on her phone, and set it as her new phone background.

She was mourning her brother, but not for the brother she had lost five days, seventeen hours, fifty-seven minutes and 21 seconds ago. The one she lost what felt like forever ago.

And she didn’t know how to feel about that.

[raendown]

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 1768 Soulmate au: The one where when you are distracted you tune in to your soulmate's thoughts and absently write them down

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI

Chapter 153: Madara/Tobirama

Madara was young and small and bored, trapped in his first calligraphy class when he could have been outside learning more kata, ink dripping carelessly from his brush to ruin the page beneath him. He was dozing off in the summer heat as he idly touched the tip of his brush to the page to draw pointless circles when suddenly they weren’t circles anymore but fully formed kanji spilling across the parchment in elegant swoops.

He only noticed when the tiny little woman who was trying to teach him his calligraphy gasped and snatched the paper away from him with a mockingly proud coo.

“Oh ho ho, do we have a little genius on our hands?” Susumu-sensei asked. Madara blinked.

“Huh? No? Are those words? I don’t know what they say.”

She gasped all over again and carefully returned the page. “Ah, my lucky little pastry! That means you’ve made a connection with your soulmate! Should I tell you what it says?”

“What? No! No, I…I want to read it myself.”

“I see, I see. Well, let’s get learning then. Perhaps if you are very lucky, some day you might reach a state when you are both in tune with each other enough to have a direct conversation!”

He paid much more attention after that. It took months to learn his letters well enough for him to puzzle his way through the absent thought he had captured on paper but when he did it was worth it. Madara laid in bed with the precious scroll clutched to his chest and muffled his laughter behind the other palm.

Anija couldn’t look any stupider if I braided his hair and sewed his hands to his ears.

Whoever his soulmate was, they already had a small corner of his heart.

Over the years it happened every so often, on the rare occasion his attention drifted when he happened to be holding a brush or a pencil. Each time it occurred Madara made sure to keep the precious scrap of parchment, hoarding them away in a box under his floor, and he only ever read them while he was alone. The private thoughts of his soulmate were for his eyes only.

Sometimes they were idle thoughts about the stupidity of the people around them and Madara would laugh as he looked forward to hearing that sass first hand. Other times they might be considering thoughts on battle tactics or weapon choices. Madara nodded along with the sense in those ones and was glad to know that his soulmate was a fellow shinobi. He was sure he would never have anything in common with a fragile civilian, let alone be able to share his life with one. But his favorite thoughts were the ones that had nothing to do with anything important, whimsical ideas about impossible dreams that were sometimes happy and sometimes sad. Those, Madara felt, told him more than anything about what sort of person his soulmate was.

He wished he could say that the most important events of his life were all accompanied by little notes of his soulmate’s thoughts but unfortunately that just wasn’t to be. His personality was such that he simply couldn’t let his thoughts wander when something important was happening around him, not when he might miss some crucial detail. When he agreed to a ceasefire with the Senju, while he sat through all the boring yet necessary peace talks, as they built the village he had always dreamed about, through all of that he had no time to let his mind drift and connect him with his other half. Not until all was said and done and both of their clans had settled in with several others having agreed to join them.

The day he finally had a chance to sit and breathe he was hunched behind a massive pile of paperwork and staring down at the report in front of him with no will to read through it. His fingers lifted a pencil to twirl it around and around, tapping the graphite tip on the pages in front of him while his mind wandered away to the café across the street. Should he go out for lunch today?

Any ideas about lunch were abandoned when he felt his fingers pause, not having noticed they were moving in the first place. With an oddly detached feeling he looked down to see that he had written something across the top of the report.

If my brother does not smarten up I am going to kill him.

Quiet chuckles escaped him as he thought idly that he could apply that same sentiment to his own brother.

We could team up and throttle them together wrote itself across his page and Madara paused.

That sounded a great deal like it was in response to him. How curious.

Curious indeed. It’s nice to finally speak with him.

Madara very nearly dropped his pencil, hanging on to it only because the muscles in his fingers clenched in shock. He had always wanted to meet his soulmate and now here they were somehow talking to each other!

I’ve always wanted to meet him too. If only he were in Konoha.

But he was in Konoha. Madara swallowed thickly and thought about how he had built the damn place, of course he was here. His pencil skittered across the page yet again and when he looked down he felt the strangest rush of joy and fear all at once.

Holy shit my soulmate is Madara.

Was that a good reaction? A bad one? The written words were devoid of any emotional context, only stared back at him with no further answer even though he waited for several minutes. He was left with nothing to do but sit at his desk and scream internally over how many unanswered questioned he suddenly had. The idea that he might have walked right passed his soulmate on the street was frustrating. They could have been together ages ago!

The rest of his day passed slowly, filled with large periods of time in which he simply could not focus on anything. He’d spoken directly with his soulmate for the first time since Susumu-sensei explained that it was possible all those years ago. They knew who he was. So why had they not come to him so that they could speak in person? It would have been the first action he took if he were the one to suss out their identity, too excited to finally have an answer to stay away for long. That they failed to appear by the time he wandered home from the office led him to suspect that they were not exactly thrilled to be his match.

Madara sat down to a simple dinner that night, overcooked in his distraction although he was still too out of it to notice anyway, and picked at it slowly while he tried to come to terms with the fact that he had done something to estrange his own soulmate before he’d even met them. He wished he could say it was a surprise but he’d always known he had a caustic personality. He’d just always assumed his soulmate would love him the way he was. To be proved wrong was…a disappoint, to say the least.

Soft knocking at the front door brought him up out of his stupor enough to frown and wonder what the hell Tobirama, of all people, could need from him at this hour. Even his fellow workaholic should be home at least pretending to take a rest from all they did during the day but that could be only his chakra signature hovering on the porch and Madara knew very well he wouldn’t be going away until he had whatever he’d come for.

With a reluctant grumble he pulled himself away from the burnt rice in his bowl and marched over to wrench his front door open, one eyebrow already lifted in question. It was joined by the other in surprise when he saw the hesitant, almost shy way that Tobirama stood before him, weight shuffling back and forth like a nervous child. He didn’t speak before shoving something under Madara’s nose and seeming to fold back in to himself.

At first Madara didn’t understand what the big deal was. It was only a speech Tobirama had been working on to present to the first academy teachers when they were chosen. Flipping through it, however, revealed that on the fourth page down near the bottom it seemed the man had gotten distracted and begun doodling in the margins. Interesting. He wouldn’t have thought Tobirama was the type. When the doodling turned in to words and he recognized the lines of thought laid out on the page he froze. Those were his thoughts. Those were the things he had been thinking about when he and his soulmate had tuned in to each other at the same time.

Madara’s head snapped up to find Tobirama watched him shyly through the fringe of his hair. Everything about the man’s body language was cautious but open, watchful, clearly prepared for a negative reaction but just as clearly hoping for a positive one.

At least he understood the words from earlier now.

“Holy shit,” was all he could think to say. Tobirama nodded sagely.

“Yes, that was my first thought too. I apologize for leaving you in the dark for so long. As ashamed as I am to admit it, I needed time to…”

“Get used to the idea?”

“Build up the courage to say something,” Tobirama corrected him, eyes dropping to the side with shame.

Madara nodded and took a slow, deep breath in. Then he let it back out just as slowly while he weighed his options. It was a quick decision. He’d just spent several hours thinking his soulmate didn’t want him and the thought of not even trying now gave him the same empty feeling in his chest that he’d been fighting against up until three minutes ago.

“Would you like to come in?” he offered. “I can…recook dinner.”

“Oh. Yes. That sounds – yes.”

Madara smirked faintly. He’d never heard Tobirama like that stutter in his life. The man had shown more human emotion in his brief time here on the front step than he had in all the years they’d known each other so far. As he closed the door behind them Madara realized he was smiling, feeling oddly hopeful for his future all of a sudden.

It was a strange feeling but he was certain he could grow to enjoy it.

[evolutionsvoid]

As an experienced natural historian, I have dealt with a wide variety of flora and fauna that can be found throughout our world. I have studied Great Mottled Caecilians in the rainforests, traveled with Trolls across great mountain ranges and nearly froze my roots off trying to track Arctic Wolf Fleas across the icy tundra. Not to praise my own petals, but many see me as one of the top researchers in this field. Despite all that, though, I have to question if I am qualified to even write an entry on such a species. While I could write about anatomy, behavior and reproduction of other species with ease, these creatures defy a lot of things I am used to. Honestly, I don't even know if I completely understand how their anatomy works! A part of me thinks that a mage would be better suited for such an entry, but I will do my best to tell you about these strange creatures. I probably know just as much about Sphinxes as the next guy does. The first thing to note about Sphinxes is that they do not appear to have a preferred habitat or environment. This is due to the fact that they seem to not even live on the same plane of existence we do. Much like the Aelf, they appear and disappear at will, showing up without rhyme or reason. This is baffling and frightening to many because Sphinxes are pretty big. They reach the same size as some dragon species, making them quite intimidating when they happen to appear in the middle of town. They are quadrupeds, preferring to walk about on all fours, strutting about with the elegance and ego of a really big cat. That is honestly the closest comparison you could have between a Sphinx and an existing animal, they act like giant cats. The way they walk or jump, the way they stretch when they are tired or bored, the way their tail swishes about without a care and the way they gain entertainment from the suffering and despair of others. It's kind of unsettling how close those two match. 

While this comparison may make one assume they are just big dumb cats, one must realize that Sphinxes are incredibly intelligent creatures. Their knowledge blows scholars and mages out of the water, which is surprising when they drop an incredible piece of wisdom with the nonchalance of someone ordering gravy off a menu. Though one may appear on the southern continent, they can easily tell you about things out east as if they had just finished vacationing there. It is obvious that I bring up the riddles and puzzles that they so enjoy, which attests to their knowledge. One thing to know, though, is that they are not all-knowing. As legends and encounters say, there are things Sphinxes do not know, they just happen to know a lot. You won't trip them up with common knowledge, you will need to delve deep into a subject to start finding things they haven't learned yet. On the subject of riddles, it is time we bring up the motives of this species, or what we think is a motive. History has seen several famous Sphinxes appearing over time, each different from the last, but each sharing some common themes. Some Sphinxes have terrorized the countryside, deploying deadly puzzles and devouring the losers. Others have created great lairs and dungeons in which they rule and hoard. Certain encounters have had some showing up to toy around with people, speaking of riddles and puzzles but not eating those who come up empty. It is a strange spectrum of behavior, ranging from voracious tyrant to bored, playful titan. The one theme we can find that connects them is entertainment. Saying it out loud is a little weird, but that is the best we can come up with. Sphinxes who show up in our world seem to be looking for some kind of amusement. Much like how each person has different hobbies, each Sphinx has different ways to amuse themselves. As I mentioned before, some may become monsters who ravage the lands and take entire towns hostage as they play the role of some demented tormentor, while some find fun in bamboozling people with riddles and tricks. Intricate lairs and dungeons formed in mountains and valleys may be an enjoyable hobby to one, as they take pleasure in making elaborate traps and thwarting eager treasure hunters and monster slayers. It all depends on the individual who arrives. So if a Sphinx appears outside your town, pray that it is one who prefers logic puzzles over the taste of human flesh. Though not every Sphinx is a destructive monster, each is well equipped to take down foes (prey is probably a better word, though). Their sheer size and strength already makes for a tough fight, but their intelligence and magical abilities makes slaying them an extraordinary feat. Their magical prowess allows them to unleash devastating spells and they are clever enough to use such powers to create traps and set ups that can take down foes before they even realize their mistake. Though large, they are quite fast, which combined with their size allows them to turn their bodies into battering rams. Their tails are prehensile and can act much like a boneless arm, slapping away foes or snaring them in its grip. The "wings" they possess are tipped with venomous barbs which can paralyze the muscles of those they sting. These stingers are often employed by Sphinxes who enjoy playing a deadly game of riddles. When one fails to answer their riddle, the stingers will whip down and paralyze them, allowing the Sphinx to devour them with ease. Speaking of eating, that mouth is another thing you have to watch out for. With broad, cracking teeth, they can crush metal and stone within their jaws. An odd thing to point out is that the huge mouth on their chest isn't used for talking. Instead, their voice seems to come from the organic vents that are positioned below their eyes. It's quite bizarre. Also, to top it all off, Sphinxes have the ability to create portals out of thin air. With a mere thought, they can open up a gate between places and stroll from one land to another in the blink of an eye. These portals have a wide array of uses, like catching fleeing victims without moving, redirecting spells in complex patterns, hopping from one place to the next and even creating complex dungeons that defy reason. Those who have triumphed over Sphinxes in their lairs have claimed that large chunks of these domains simply blink out of existence with the departure of the creature. I guess it explains how they are able to make such massive labyrinths in such tiny spaces. Now I cannot go too far into this entry without bringing up my encounter with a Sphinx. For the longest time, I had never seen one. They rarely appear in this world, and often disappear just as quickly. Having one show up anywhere near me during my travels was like praying for a miracle. For years, I would hear stories about them, but I could never be around when one showed up. It is more frustrating than the situation with the Aelf, because I at least know it is impossible for me to meet one of those, but the mere ounce of a chance of seeing a Sphinx was excruciating to deal with. At last, though, my time came. I was out studying Rock Dragons in the canyons when a messenger raven dropped a letter at my camp. One of my associates had written to me saying that a Sphinx was spotted out on a plateau that was a five day journey away from me. He said he didn't know when it originally showed up or when it would disappear, but he thought to let me know. I immediately dropped everything and rushed to the scene, writing back to my friend mid-journey. I traveled without rest for days, moving as fast as I could so that I didn't miss my chance. There was not telling when the Sphinx would be driven off or would decide to go home, so I hoofed it the whole way. I did the five-day journey in four, and I was at the verge of collapse when I finally finished my climb onto the plateau and looked to find it empty. Words cannot describe the sheer anger, frustration and disappointment I felt at that moment. I would have burst into tears if I had the energy to do so. All that effort was wasted, the Sphinx was gone. I was ready to give a good cry when someone awkwardly coughed behind me. I turned around to be stunned by the Sphinx, who was just sitting there. I later learned that he had caught wind of some "explorer" who was dying to meet him, and he figured it would be an amusing event. To make things more fun, he hid during my arrival just so he could pull this mean prank. What is with people pranking me all the time? What have I done to deserve this? Anyways, I rejoiced at the sight of him, as I finally had the chance to meet a Sphinx, despite the fact I was moments away from dropping from exhaustion. I introduced myself to him and told him about my background. He seemed to find amusement in me, so he agreed to talk with me further. However, my fatigue made such an interview difficult, so I asked if I could meet with him tomorrow. Thankfully he agreed to that as well, so I went to set up camp. Before I could even open my backpack, there was a flash of light, a mighty shove and I tumbled into the front desk of an inn. Originally, I thought I had just woken up from a dream after some traveler hauled my exhausted carcass to an inn. The terrified owner didn't give me any details, he just threw me my keys and pointed me to my room. Never had a bed felt so good! I passed out the moment I hit the hay! Dream or not, a good night sleep was the greatest thing at the time for me. I don't know how long I slept, but sunlight was what woke me the next day. The blinding light roused me from my slumber and I opened my eyes to find myself in a bed that was sitting in the middle of the plateau. I practically screamed when I saw the Sphinx staring at me like a creep! Thank goodness I had the thought to wear a sleeping gown that night! Of course the Sphinx thought it was hilarious as I scrambled to figure out what was going on. Turns out he dropped me at the inn last night to get some rest, then teleported the whole bed back the next morning to give me a scare! I pointed out to him that this prank seemed more creepy than funny, which he found endlessly amusing. No matter who I deal with, someone is always trying to pull a fast one on me. After changing into proper clothes and collecting my faculties, I finally had my chance to talk this Sphinx. My first question was his name, which he told me. I then promptly asked him to say it again, as it was some sound I couldn't comprehend or even write. I wound up calling him "S" as that was the first part of his name that sounded remotely similar. I immediately threw dozens of questions at him, eager to learn more about his kind. S quickly cut me off and told me that such knowledge came at a price. I thought he meant a dual of riddles, which would put my life on the line. I have to honestly say I would have agreed to such a game. I know that sounds foolish, but discovery requires risk. Thankfully he did not go that route, rather he wanted to do what he called "Quid pro quo." How it would work is that I would tell S a piece of trivia or some kind of fact that I gathered from my journeys. If he did not know this fact, or found it amusing, he would allow me to ask a question. If I failed three times in delivering satisfying trivia, he would cut the interview short and call it a day. I agreed to the game and readied my journals. It was time for the duel to begin! Surprisingly, I actually got him with a few. A part of me was worried I would botch it three times in a row and fail, but I actually interested him with a few pieces! It seems that Sphinxes don't know as much about the Underworld as other places. I am guessing it is a tight fit down there for them, so they avoid it. I was able to ask him four questions before I bungled it, but that was good enough for me! My first was asking if his kind had any sort of culture or society, which S said yes to, only clarifying by saying "it's looser than you would think, but the others force a bit more order to things." My second was asking about Sphinxes and the Aelf, and what their relationship was. S said that the Aelf are a bunch of stuck up, self-serious, doom-sayers who really need to learn how to let go of a grudge. The Sphinxes aren't at war with them, but the two sides often get into arguments and fights. He joked about how Sphinxes are a funner bunch (despite the fact their kind sometimes devours people and terrorizes cities) and that they know that grudges are silly to hang on to. He did grumble, though, that there was one Sphinx that everyone seemed to despise. He mumbled something about how "she ruined the best one for the rest of us." The third thing I got to ask him was how their anatomy worked. It was a pretty broad question, but I figured I would try. S replied by going into detail about Sphinx reproduction which I quickly cut off and refuse to write down here. Clearly that reply was a joke, albeit a rather gross one. He did say that they have skeletons, but they weren't made of the same thing as people "from these parts" have in their bones.  My fourth and final question was the big one. I had two strikes at the time, I knew it was now or never to ask the burning question. I looked to S and asked why the Sphinxes came to our world. What did they want from us? What did they seek? S rolled onto his back to catch some sun and told me that "everyone needs a good rumpus room." He said nothing else, and I blew my chance when I failed for the third time. Before I could try and bargain with him, a portal opened up and he batted me into it. One nauseous second later, I found myself sitting in my old camp, where I had been studying Rock Dragons previously. S seemed to be done with me, having gotten all the fun he wanted at the moment. Though disappointed I didn't get to ask more, I was grateful I had the opportunity. That brief conversation I had with him will forever be burned in my mind. Happy with my luck, I turned to my camp to continue my research to find the hotel bed flattening my tent. S was done with me, but apparently still had to squeeze in one more gag. Funny enough, a few days later, when I was watching a family of the creatures drink from a river, I was caught off guard by their hatchling appearing right behind me. The inquisitive thing tried to nibble on me, thinking I was a cactus, which I was forced to fend off. This angered the mother, and I wound up running from an enraged female for the next two hours. Later that day, I received another message by raven saying that S had disappeared from the plateau for good. Something tells me that the "sudden" appearance of the hatchling was some kind of parting "gift" from him. I have to believe he was sitting somewhere that day, chuckling as I scrambled up monoliths to avoid being trampled.   And that is all I really have to say about Sphinxes. They are an odd lot who just seem to show up in our world for their own amusement. A part of me hopes to see S again, as there are hundreds of more questions I wish to ask him. The other part of me, though, kind of hopes I don't, because I am starting to get sick and tired of being the butt of every joke.   Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian