#So he’ll be haunted by glitter forever

[buthearmeouttho]

If I was part of the mcu (Pt. 14)

Bucky: I don’t know if I’m worth all this Steve.

Steve: It wasn’t your fault Buck, they made you do those things

Bucky: But I did them

*Gun loads behind them*

Me: try again.

Bucky: *turns to see me holding a gun to his head*

Bucky: How the hell did you get-

Me: *steps closer with gun still pointed*

Me: not important.

Me: now take that back.

Me: leST ILLÚVATAR HIMSELF STRIKE ME DOWN

Bucky and Steve at the same time: what the fuck.

(Illúvatar is the first, and all powerful god from the lord of the rings universe. I have read the silmerillion. A challenge only few have attempted)

[rhysdarbinizedarby]

‘Our Flag Means Death’: How Blackbeard & Stede’s Fantastical Underwater Reunion Came Together

[Warning: The below contains MAJOR spoilers for Our Flag Means Death, Season 2, Episodes 1-3.]

It doesn’t take more than a single second to recognize Kate Bush‘s haunting and heartbreaking tune “This Woman’s Work,” as Blackbeard, a.k.a. Ed (Taika Waititi), is pushed from a clifftop to plunge into the ocean’s depths below in Our Flag Means Death‘s Season 2 installment, “The Innkeeper.” But how did the pirate heartbroken over Stede Bonnet (Rhys Darby) wind up in this position? It’s a delicate and winding path that starts with the infamous pirate’s unraveling over the course of the latest season’s first two episodes.

Believing Stede intentionally abandoned him after planning to run away together at the end of Season 1, Blackbeard embraces the version of himself so many have conjured up in their minds as he leads the Revenge’s “new” crew to pillage and plunder on the high seas. His unhinged behavior eventually forces Jim (Vico Ortiz), Izzy (Con O’Neill), Frenchie (Joel Fry), Archie (Madeleine Sami), and Fang (David Fane) to violently take control of the ship and neutralize Blackbeard — or so they think — after he steers them directly into a storm.

When Zheng Yi Sao’s (Ruibo Qian) Red Flag happens across an eerie-looking Revenge on the ocean, Stede dives overboard in his excitement over the possibility of seeing Ed, only to be told various excuses for his absence by the crew aboard. When Stede directly addresses Izzy regarding Blackbeard’s lack of presence, the now peg-legged pirate claims the Revenge crew dropped Ed on a beach.

This seems to ring true as we see Blackbeard wash ashore and cared for by his own former captain Hornigold (Mark Mitchinson). While together, Blackbeard and Hornigold discuss the mutiny that took place and Blackbeard’s hopes for the future. When a role-playing scenario testing Blackbeard’s ability to be an Innkeeper, a profession he’s interested in, goes awry, he attacks Hornigold, killing the tarp-clad pirate. But when Hornigold rises again, Blackbeard realizes something is off.

Aboard the Revenge, Ed’s body is uncovered below deck. Believing him dead, Zheng Yi Sao is forced to consider killing the Revenge crew for mutiny after initially welcoming them aboard the Red Flag. And Stede has to cope with the idea that his love may be gone forever.

After hatching an escape plan for the Revenge team, Stede and pals return to their former ship, leaving Zheng stranded without a wheel. Going to sit with Ed’s body, Stede wonders why he had to go and get himself killed. Meanwhile, Blackbeard begins to realize he’s stuck somewhere between life and death, a place this Hornigold manifestation calls a “gravy basket.”

As the two men banter about the pros and cons of choosing life over death, Hornigold ties a boulder around Ed’s waist and throws it from the cliff they’re standing on, pushing Blackbeard into the ocean. Just as it seems as though he’ll succumb to the waves, Blackbeard proves Bush’s song right: Perhaps there’s a little life in him yet. When Stede lifts the cloth from his face on the Revenge, underwater Ed reacts to the change. Peering into the water, he sees a light from which a fantastical mermaid version of Stede emerges.

In the real world, Stede reacts to Blackbeard’s twitching hand, taking it in his and pleading for him to live as a montage of their moments together rolls alongside Bush’s still-playing song. The final seconds of the episode see Ed’s eyes open, giving Stede hope.

So, how did this moving turn of events come to pass? A team full of creatives was responsible for bringing the captivating and satisfying reunion.

Stede’s Mermaid Tail

“It’s a huge process,” putting together Stede’s practical mermaid look, according to costume designer Gypsy Taylor. She says “it started with me begging everybody” to avoid visual FX and make a tail for the sequence. The orange and glittering look could have followed several different styles, but ultimately, Taylor notes, “I thought if Stede is going to turn into a mermaid, and it’s in Blackbeard’s dream, it’s sort of his vision of a mermaid.”

Considering this, in Taylor’s mind, Blackbeard wouldn’t envision some epic fantastical creature; instead, Stede would “just be like a goldfish. He’d just be like a sweet harmless goldfish.” In putting sketches together of the ensemble, Taylor acknowledges the symbolism of the goldfish motif: “There’s a huge Chinese element that we have coming through, and goldfish in Chinese culture is considered lucky.” As this vision of Stede was responsible for helping bring Ed back to life, that luck was certainly there.

“I thought that was a pretty beautiful thing, that they meet each other under the ocean and then they find each other,” Taylor gushes. “And so I went a little deep on that, but really he’s just a goldfish.” In order to achieve the goldfish mermaid look, Taylor teamed up with props master Hayley Egan, who’s based out of Australia. “She happens to excel at making mermaid tails,” Taylor shares.

After securing Egan’s involvement, Taylor says, “We fit Rhys in a jumbo stretch long skirt and made sure it was really tight so he could still sort of do this dolphin [swimming] action. And then we bought these mono fins, which you can purchase online and put your feet in.” Safety was key, though. “He had to swim really deep and for a really far distance, and he’d never done anything like that before,” Taylor explains. “So it had to be really safe and doable.”

Once that was figured out, Taylor says Egan “cast something like 3,000 hand-sculpted silicon scales. There’s something like five kilograms of glitter in the whole thing. And then we hand-dyed pleated chiffon for all the fins, so that when he was swimming through the water, it would have this magic feel.”

While the scene may play as emotional and romantic, the story behind getting Stede’s mermaid look from Australia to New Zealand was actually quite comical. “[Egan] sliced two suitcases in half, filled [them with the mermaid tail], and then when it went through customs, the customs guy said to her, ‘Are you bringing fish into this country?’ And she’s like, ‘Yes, yes I am.'”

In total, there were four tails, including “a practice tail, a stunt tail, because Rhys had to do quite a few lessons before we got the real one on. And the real one was super precious, and chlorine’s very strong, it eats fabrics away, so we wanted to save the hero one for the hero shot,” Taylor reveals. When it came time to film, “We put him in [the tail], and it was just amazing.” In order to get Darby into the pool, Taylor says a ramp had to be built and the actor was placed in a wheelchair while costumed “and pushed in.” As unglamorous as it sounds, she adds, “it was like Rhys’s dream come true.”

How Kate Bush Entered the Music Mix

It’s safe to say Kate Bush has been having a moment on TV since last year’s “Running Up That Hill” needle drop on Stranger Things, but music supervisor Maggie Phillips says, “This Woman’s Work” was selected before Netflix‘s hit made headlines with their use of the aforementioned song. “When we were placing [the song in the season lineup],” Phillips says, “it was maybe weeks after Stranger Things, and I was worried that we would look like copycats.”

Phillips maintains that the song was in the mix before, but it ultimately “doesn’t matter because really what matters is that Kate Bush is a queen and more and more people need to know her music.”

She says, “From what I heard from David [Jenkins], it was a song that Taika was attached to.” At first, Phillips was reluctant to go with the song due to its prior uses, but “David told me not to worry about [that], that people have short-term memory when it comes to music.”

While she debated with the team over cutting it, “[David] has the visuals in his mind. I don’t. I’m just hearing it with a script and I had no clue how it was going to work until I saw the first cut, and it was beautiful and they picked a part of the song that worked really well with the visuals, so they sort of made it their own,” Phillips explains. “They added a different context to the song that I wouldn’t have been able to imagine myself. So they proved me wrong for sure.”

It’s hard to imagine the scene without Bush’s song. “It changes the way you listen to the song,” Phillips notes. “I got chills watching it and I know that song so well and haven’t gotten chills like that in a long time.” With all of the buildup, “You’re waiting for them to have their romantic moment. You’re waiting for three episodes for that to happen. And so it’s so cathartic when that song comes on, and you see them come together in this fantasy world under the sea. It’s just perfect.” This led her to email Jenkins. “I was like, ‘You were right. I was wrong. But this was beautiful, and thank you so much.'”

Blackbeard’s Wet Wig Woes

Anyone watching the scene unfold would have to notice Blackbeard’s silver tresses weaving through the water, a feat much more difficult behind the scenes than the seemingly simple sequence onscreen. “We filmed that quite late in the season, and so we were really planning and thinking about that all the way through [filming]. I was a bit nervous,” hair and makeup designer Nancy Hennah admits. “I knew that he was going to have to be under the water with his wig on for quite a long time.”

Even with high-quality wig glue, Hennah says, “You can do everything you can to make that wig stay on, but there’s a limited amount of time that the glue will last. So we had to use different products than we would normally use to get the wig down.” Because the product Hennah normally uses to keep hair back in a wig is water soluble, “it melts, and the hair starts coming out from the lace, and it can ruin the whole look of the wig.” She had to come up with a creative fix.

“I glued his own hair back, and then we glued the lace on top of that, and wildly, it lasted right until the very last shot when they were dragging him through the water by the ankles,” Hennah reveals. “The wig just came off completely after they’d finished shooting. And so he came up out of the water, and the wig was off to the side, [and he goes], ‘I think my wig came off.'” She calls the success of the wig “incredible” and “just a fluke really.”

When it came to capturing Darby’s underwater look, it was all about blending the mermaid tail with his skin. “With Stede, Gypsy had a beautiful mermaid tail made, and we did a whole lot of practice with different types of silicon and things that we had to blend that piece between his skin and the tail. We made these pieces of silicon with glitter and things in them that we individually stuck over the top of the mermaid tail,” Hennah details.

Again, there were concerns about getting “things to stick underwater,” but watching the scene come together from behind the camera eased those. “[When] we were standing there on the set that day and watching the monitor, it just was so beautiful that we were all blown away by it, and that tank that they were filming in was a couple of stories deep, and to be out there in that water, it was challenging, and they both did so well. It just went off without a hitch. It was one of those great days where it just worked for everybody.”

Don’t miss what else is in store for the season. Stay tuned for additional interviews and content as the second season of Our Flag Means Death unfolds.

Our Flag Means Death, New Episodes, Thursdays, Max

Source: TV Insider

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [03]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: no warnings apply

Summary: A hand catches your wrist. Warm fingers brush against the slip of skin where your glove ends, sending an electrifying shock up your arm. You start. Lockwood lets go and pulls back. “Like it or not, we are in this together,” he says quietly. His voice drops to a low tremble, gaining a quality that feels like a solid caress on your skin. Heat crawls up your neck. “And as with any proper team, there are no secrets, and no holding back valuable information. Deal?”

Notes: [01] || [02] | [04]

Words: 4.3k

A/N: A shorter chapter, but I still hope you'll enjoy it! Thank you so much again for all the support! ♥ If anyone new wants to join the taglist, just lemme know!

03: wring those embers

back then, i was dauntless and dawn could never know and my weakness made me weep less than i would ever show you — The Amazing Devil: The Calling

Indeed, at Rotwell everyone works hard to solve the Problem. It is quite impressive how immaculate they look while doing it—as though in addition to the highly sensitive Psychic Talents every Rotwell agent possesses, they secretly train to perform under stress with no fold in their jackets, no holes in their pants, no grime smudges on their faces. Seems as though your invitation to those seminars got lost on the mailing route.

You slither by the countless other agents in their splendid burgundy jackets, aware you stick out like a sore thumb with your torn coat and muddy steel-capped boots. After the night you had, it is hard to plaster on the charming smile that is Rotwell’s USP. Every winning smile sent your way by your colleagues is too bright, too clean. They look very new and fresh and shiny, like someone has popped them out of a plastic case this morning.

The glittering glass building rises on Regent Street with its smooth-fronted edifice of glass and marble. Snarling lions, holding rapiers in their forepaws, have been inscribed into the glass of its sliding double doors. Outside, a line of the desperate and ghost-haunted stands, waiting to get inside and petition the company for help. You squeeze past them inside the spacey foyer, a wide room with gold-fringed red carpets leading to the different departments laid out before a row of neat receptionists sitting at their tidy desks. Right at the room’s centre, in front of the white-marbled wide stairs leading to the upper floor, stands Tom Rotwell’s marble bust with its forever-frozen, blank expression passing judgement over his legacy. You feel very small under his scrutinising gaze, and duck along the marble pillars towards the maintenance apartment on ground floor.

Someone barks your name. There goes your plan to head in unnoticed and get cleaned up before any of the adult supervisors catches you. But when you turn, you recognise the scrawny boy heading your way: Aleck Gorobec, an agent from the Domestic Hauntings Division. He’s always had this habit of chewing on something—right now, he’s working a toothpick between his front teeth as though he’s trying to make a gap as wide as the Grand Canyon. “Hey, Crawford wants you in his office.”

The relief vanishes in an instant. If you had to chose between spending the afternoon in Daniel Crawford’s office or doing a tango with a Wraith, you’d be already on your way to put on your best Sunday dress.

“Like, right now? ‘Cause I really need to get a new jacket—”

“NOW now,” he says. “Better not keep him waiting, he seemed prety pissed. I think he got into a fight with his wife. Again.”

Even better. He’ll chew you, spit you out and feed your remains to that little rat of a dog he owns.

You will find no support in Aleck; now that he has relayed the message, he turns and saunters back to his little group of half-sized lackeys with identical hair cuts, leaving you to your fate.

So you make your way towards the staff elevators and think about faking a heart attack so you could skip seeing Crawford. They wouldn’t let someone with a weak heart deal with something as harsh as work regulations, would they?

The lift brings you up two more floors to the deputy sector. Each floor is lined with heavy crimson carpets you know for a fact are steam-cleaned every night when the majority of agents set out for cases. Employees on this floor have their own canteen and coffee shop regular agents aren’t allowed to use—you have a feeling a cup of coffee or tea they serve up here costs half of your rent compared to the one they sell downstairs that is delivered by the local Starbucks.

Muffled voices drift through the rows of closed oak doors. Somehow, the smell always reminds you of a teacher‘s room; stuffy but comforting in a way, the sleek couches and spartan cabinets in the small waiting areas and lounges have absorbed the coffee smell over the years.

Crawford’s office is at the end of the long hall. You were hoping he would be caught up in a phone call as well, but when you knock, there’s an immediate “Come in!”

Andrew Crawford is a small, stocky man with little to no neck depending on his mood for the day. Apart from making it his life ambition to harass every even slightly successful agent under the age of 25, his other hobbies include collecting every type of Little Trees Car Air Fresheners on the market. As far as you know, he doesn’t even own a car.

“Took you long enough,” Crawford grumbles. His little hairy moustache twitches in annoyance. “Take a seat.”

You prefer to stand. Somehow you don’t think that’s what Crawford wants to hear. So you make your way across the office, slowly sinking into the hard plastic chair. Deputies’ rooms are all furnished equally: marble-topped desks, chairs, bins, filing cabinets and a few plants. You count ten, eleven, twelve of those air fresheners hanging from a single yucca plant.

Crawford finishes abusing his plastic keyboard, throws a glance at a large-scale street map of the Strands, his area he’s responsible for, takes a swig of cold tea and turns to you for the first time.

“Wait, where’s your damn jack—” Crawford stops, takes you fully in: the tears and holes, the grime and ectoplasm smudges on the once-splendid red. He grunts, and leans so far back in his swivel chair it creaks loudly in protest. “Almost didn’t recognise it. Say, Rotwell is one of the best employers anyone with Psychic talents could ask for, don’t you agree?”

You hate questions like this. “I, er—yes?”

Crawford looks at you. Then looks some more, as though he’s just waiting for you to realise what this is all about. He clears his throat and leans forward, puts his massive arms on the table as though he’s just having a chat with a close pal in a pub after work. “See, thing is, I was informed you were seen with unknown operatives from other agencies. And last time I checked—” He turns to the monitor to his left, slams his thick fingers on a few keys—“you were not on a job that required assistance from external agents.”

You start fidgeting with the hem of your gloves. “Well, no, but sir, I was attacked—”

“I heard that happens from time to time when engaging ghosts.”

“No, I mean by a man. Someone alive.”

Crawford eyes you suspiciously with his tiny, dark eyes. “When did that happen?”

“In the early morning hours. Three, four a.m.”

“And what do you want me to do about it now?”

You open your mouth, and close it. One of Crawfords few talents is successfully making you feel as though you are the problem. What if you were? What if you’re overreacting? An agent’s life tends to be dangerous, what of it? “Well, the culprit is still out—”

“Do you have a name? Did you see his face?”

“No, and I didn’t, but—”

“Then what exactly do you expect from me? Clearly, nothing serious happened to you, you got off with just a few scratches. The real issue is that due to what recently transpired, further employment might be a problem.”

You grit your teeth against a groan of frustration, feeling your body burning with anger, your blood boiling with rage that threatens to spill over. “I have worked here for five years, without any complaints, no breaches of contract.” You ball your hands into tight fists. “I am an exceptional agent, you know that. And you’re letting me go just like that?”

Crawford sighs wearily. “Trust me, this isn’t easy for me either. I am aware you are one of our more lucrative agents. But lucky for you, we are not letting you go. I merely suspend you for conducting unauthorised work with an external agency. Until your suspension is lifted, all benefits are revoked. That includes using certain facilities and access to equipment for field work. You can leave your jacket here.” Crawford reaches forward and taps a spot on his desk with two fingers, before returning to the paperwork in front of him.

It takes a moment to stir from the ice-cold grip that has taken hold of your body and heart. Your mouth is dry and a fist-big chunk of anxiety is lodged tightly in your throat. “I was not working with anyone. This is all a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding or not,” Crawford replies calmly; something has caught his attention on the monitor, he isn’t even looking at you, “we’re just taking safety measures to ensure the confidentiality agreement wasn’t breached on your end.”

“But I—”

He looks up at you then, and blinks as though wondering why you are still wasting his time. “And where is your rapier?”

“Still at ho—the dormitory.”

“All right. No need to bother. We’ll send someone later to clear out the room. If you need help finding new accommodates, there are a few establishments offering lodge for little money in Lambeth I heard.”

The aggressive typing resumes. You are clearly dismissed.

Wrenching out of the jacket, you make no effort to hide your anger and frustration. Crawford gets a balled-up knot of dirty fabric thrown on his desk, but he seems to care little for your tantrum safe for raising a single bushy eyebrow at the flickering screen.

You stomp outside the room, slamming the door shut behind you hard enough it rattles the golden-framed paintings of rolling hills and slithering lakes on the wall.

You’ll show him. You’ll show them all.

When you catch a glimpse of yourself in the polished glass window on your way out—no wine-red jacket, nothing to identify who your employer, no former employer was; just your tired face yet eyes bright with determination, for the first time since a long while, you look like yourself again.

At the Lions Den, it isn’t just the cleaning crew mingling near the entrance. DEPRAC vans park in front of the main doors. A few officers are lost in a deep conversation about the intricately interwoven iron railings decorating the windows on the first floor. Two very tall, very sturdy Rotwell agents stand guard, self-important and with their chests puffed out as though they are guarding Buckingham Palace itself.

There is no way you’ll be able to get inside through the main entrance—even if you did, you have a gnawing suspicion security has been tripled inside since yesterday. They must have figured out someone has broken in, otherwise why would DEPRAC be here?

You duck behind naked rhododendron bushes and sneak towards the iron door leading to the back garden. Many residences in Chelsea have garden terraces; this one is a courtyard between several buildings. Slim paths wind through the back and disappear behind shoulder-high hedges. The trees, their leaves turned gold and russet with the late fall, are strung with chains of white lights, and stylish ghost lamps scattered between them that give off the familiar green glow at night. A small fountain plashes musically in the centre of the yard.

Minding the pebbles crunching under your boots, you gingerly make your way across the lounging area, past the small tables and cushioned three-piece suites—until you catch the swish of a black coat disappearing around a corner.

Just great.

You hurry after it, hearing the crunch of stone under heavy work boots somewhere behind you. DEPRAC, or worse, Rotwell agents.

The two are hiding behind a bench facing the back entrance. Before whoever strolls behind you can round the corner, you grab Lockwood by the end of his coat, and Lucy by the back of her collar, and yank them behind the trunk of an elm casting long, dark shadows on the building.

“What are you doing here?” you hiss; all three of you are cowering so close together your knees almost touch.

Lucy looks as though she is still recovering from being grabbed like that—by considering if she should swing at you or not. Lockwood on the contrary has already collected himself and put on a diplomatic smile. Yet you can see the steady, fast hammering of his pulse against his throat.

“Why, Lucy has never seen the infamous Lions Den, that’s why I took her up on a little sightseeing—” Lockwood begins.

“We need to get inside,” Lucy hisses back. Straightforward, to the point, like an arrow aiming true. You can work with that.

“Not sure if you noticed, but Rotwell dormitories have a strict jacket-only policy,” you say. You feel their eyes on you like a pair of red-hot coals.

“Where’s your jacket then?” Lucy asks.

You draw your shoulders back. “I quit. This morning. Afternoon. So, no jacket for me.” What’s a little lie if they will never find out the truth. Whatever shrapnel of self-respect you can hold, you will staple it on you as though it is the last leaf whipping on a barren branch during a cold winter storm—the last remnant of the previous season where everything was warmer and cosier.

There is silence. You can hear the soft electrical hum of the lights and ghost lamps turning on above your heads as dawn sets in, the water plashing in the stone fountain in the centre of the courtyard.

Lockwood and Lucy exchange looks—it seems like a glance, but you recognise a full blown conversation governed by face muscles and eye narrowing; it is the same whenever you and Kipps argue about something without wanting a third person to understand the topic. Kipps’s teams calls it your ‘sibling conversation.’ Lockwood and Lucy look a lot like that right now, conjuring full volumes with shared glances only.

“Just follow me,” you mumble, and duck behind a juniper tree before they can reach the conclusion of their argument. “And keep your heads down.”

You lead them away from the agents strolling down the path you’ve been on just a minute ago. Lockwood and Lucy immediately stick to your heels, careful their heads don’t poke over the hedges.

The three of you sneak around the east wing, through another iron gate and pause to listen for voices. Only a couple House Sparrows chirp in the trees above your heads. This could be a graveyard for how frequent visitors stroll by.

Finding your apartment isn’t hard. Bright, neon-yellow DEPRAC tape marks an X where the full-height window, smashed and gaping, leads inside the rooms. Glass lies strewn across the grass. The entrance to your apartment is like a dark mouth, the broken glass still sticking to its frames standing out like jagged teeth.

Again, you listen for voices. Again, only silence answers. You look back at Lockwood and Lucy. “I’ll go check things out. You stay here and keep watch. If anyone comes, let me know.”

Not interested in any disagreement or otherwise unsolicited opinions, you turn to slip inside. A hand catches your wrist. Warm fingers brush against the slip of skin where your glove ends, sending an electrifying shock up your arm. You start.

Lockwood lets go and pulls back. “Like it or not, we are in this together,” he says quietly. His voice drops to a low tremble, gaining a quality that feels like a solid caress on your skin. Heat crawls up your neck. “And as with any proper team, there are no secrets, and no holding back valuable information. Deal?”

You wrestle with what you should say. You have never been skilled at putting things delicately. Frankly, you’re better off on your own than having to worry about those two—and yet. If Lockwood and his agents had not let you stay and patched you up, what use would have your confidence now?

Not trusting your voice, you nod.

Glass shards crunch under your boots when you step inside. The whole room is demolished: furniture overturned, the cupboards have been completely and methodically emptied. All the drawers are missing. What remains of your desk is splinters and broken leftovers. Your clothes have been ripped off the hangers and thrown on the ground, some even torn. You don’t want to think about how you would have met the same end if he had gotten you into his hands.

The wardrobe’s door barely hanging on its hinges squeals when you carefully pull it open. You find your duffel bag at the bottom, and meticulously start throwing whatever intact clothes you can find inside. A few shirts, something you can wear to sleep, underwear, a few jeans, your favourite turtlenecks, sweaters. A package of unopened gloves. Your library pass that grants you access to every Archive in London—the one you thought you’d lost a week ago and technically should return to Rotwell.

An old, outdated kit with a few zip fasteners missing hangs from a hook. Whatever leftover equipment from missions you’ve hoarded over the years—salt bombs, iron fillings, hands-sized lavender packages, one canister of Greek fire, a slightly rusty iron chain—you pull out from the back corner and cram inside the kit. There’s also the last model of a layered leather harness with small pockets and buckles to hold equipment that you prefer to the standard agent belt around the waist.

It should be enough to manage simple cases as a freelance psychic operative until you find your bearings and build a reputation. Type Ones should be no problem, and most non-agents can’t tell the difference between grocery-bought salt and the extra grainy and purified salt from Sunrise Corp. You’ll have to drop by at the Thames Embankment at some point, where a lot of the cheaper merchants ply their trade under the brick arches of Hungerford Bridge.

But your first job will be making sure no one will get hurt over that stupid key ever again.

There is one more thing. On the door, tapped against the wood, is an old photograph. Matthew, Kipps, you. Age eighteen and thirteen, the boys crowd you and pull grimaces behind your beaming face as you proudly present your shining new rapier and the Fittes Manual to the camera. Seven years, but it feels like a lifetime.

People always used to say that you two have the same eyes—everything else is different like night and day. His blonde curls shine like a halo in the setting sun stealing through the curtained window in the back. He has a half-smile on his face, and his head tilted towards Kipps as though he is just on the verge of turning and telling him something. You see the same dimple on his cheek that you have when you smile, and when you squint you can make out the small smudge of pasta on the corner of his mouth you guys had earlier to celebrate you achieving third grade.

You fight the urge to touch his face on the picture—the only comfort during the first months without him. Even though you know he won’t come back, sometimes you wished an echo would reverberate, something that connects you to him apart from the memory of the last day spent together before he died. You take the picture and fold it neatly before putting it into your back. Grief can try and catch up later when you’re too busy to give it more thought.

As you get your stuff ready, something glinting on the ground catches your eye. It is a small, polished coin, flat on one side and engraved on the other. Depicted on the bottom is an infinity sign, and above is a double cross. You brush your thumb against it, but of course there is no psychic echo attached to this item. Because it belongs to a living person—that living person who must have lost it when he destroyed the interior.

Beneath your gloves your palms are slick with sweat. You stare at the symbol for some time, unblinking. The bitter taste of a certain word spreads on your tongue, closing your throat.

Unwrapping this revelation will have to wait. You move swiftly to the hallway and stand before the umbrella rack that holds your rapiers. Most of them are a little too fancy not to link them back to one of the bigger agents with their jewelled handles, but there are two with simple designs, so you decide on the 17th Century Italian Rapier.

“Take the Solinger Rapier,” comes Lockwood’s voice from behind you, startling you. You shouldn’t be surprised he doesn’t listen to orders, still you throw a glare at him over your shoulder which he promptly ignores by giving you a bright grin. “More balanced.”

“So much for being a team. Scared I’ll just run off with the evidence?”

“Ah, so you did find something. Well, we at Lockwood and Co. hold teamwork to the highest account. It is only polite I help.”

Any reply gets stuck in your throat when loud steps thump on the other side of the apartment’s door. Lockwood and you look at each other, eyes wide.

You throw your kit at him without a second thought so you can go after your other bag, and to his credit, he catches it effortlessly and bolts for the smashed window. Before you follow, you quickly snatch the Solinger Rapier and fasten it to your belt.

With your duffel bag in hand, you join Lockwood and Lucy outside. The sun is already behind the horizon, the sky a pale grey-blue, the colour of tempered steel. You take your kit back from Lockwood, ignoring his satisfied grin like a cat in the sun when he notices which rapier model dangles from your hip, and lead them back through the gardens out on Dovehouse Street.

Everything is going so smoothly. Too smoothly. Since the universe can’t have that, just as you close the iron gate behind you and set out down the street to where you guys can call a cab, a familiar voice calls out your name—a voice that always has your fight-flight-response kicking in, tending towards fight the moment you turn around and see Sebastian Vernon’s self-satisfied, arrogant grin.

Sebastian Vernon, a fellow Rotwell operative at the height of his career: he’s recently turned 19, he managed to luck out a Jack of all Trades regarding Psychic Talents and sports an impressive, sharp jawline many girls you know swoon over. The Golden Boy, The Pride of Rotwell. Of course he developed an ego as big as an inflated balloon with nicknames like that.

“Did you get my note this morning?” His voice jolts you from your thoughts. “Great drawing, isn’t it?”

“So it was you. I almost couldn’t tell; it looked like a five year old drew that.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw, his smile cools down to freezing point. “I heard they kicked you out,” he continues. “What was it this time? Botched a job? Set a customer’s house on fire?” He strides towards you with his hands behind his back, his cologne trailing like a cloak. His hair is pinned up fashionably, expression arch. He has always possessed a regal bearing. You can’t understand how he manages to look down his nose at you, even though you are one head taller.

You have crewed with him sometimes during the years, and neither have warmed to the other. You try to chalk it up to personality conflict, but deep down, you know that it is mutual dislike. Sebastian always finds ways to make you feel less-than with the barest twist of inflection or a carefully chosen word slipped like a knife between the ribs, so sharp you don’t notice the wound until you look up from a lapful of blood. And you aren’t above a blunt riposte, even if it often comes far too late.

When he’s close enough to stand in front of you, he whistles. “Like what you did with your face. Gotta compliment whoever gave you that shiner.”

“Jealous they managed that within a day when you couldn’t do it in the last five years?”

His smile turns arctic. At least that’s something you can always hold against him: kicking his ass in every in-house rapier duel since joining Rotwell.

“Always with that big mouth,” Sebastian seethes. “Whoever rearranged your face should have done us all a favour and shut you up for good.”

“I would appreciate,” Lockwood says in a conversational tone, making you startle—you have completely forgotten him and Lucy, “if you do not threaten my agency’s associate.”

He holds himself leisurely, relaxed. His long, slender fingers curl around his belt—not outright resting on his rapier handle, but close enough that he could reach it with one swift, quick movement if he wanted.

Sebastian blinks. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to know who you are?”

A corner of Lockwood’s mouth twitches. His voice is deceptively calm, his smile wolfish. “Lockwood from Lockwood and Co.”

Sebastian’s pale blue eyes widen. He looks at you. “You’re telling me you’re working with Andrew Lockwood? From the Lockwood and Co.?” A sort of deranged laugh escapes him. “I know it’s bad, but I didn’t expect it to be that bad! Surely, even you can do better than Lockwood and Co.!”

You throw a quick glance at Lockwood. He regards Sebastian in silence, and his face can be hewn from marble in its impassivity, which you realise now makes him all the more terrifying. His gaze sharpens like a hound on the scent.

“Why not ask your ginger boyfriend if he can get you a position at Fittes’s?” Sebastian’s smile crooks into a cruel half-moon. “Or has he already reached his expiration date?”

You open your mouth—and to your surprise Lucy shoulders past Lockwood and wrenches one of your bags out of your hand. Her eyes are blazing, red blotches of rage spot her cheeks and neck. “His name is Anthony Lockwood. And Kipps—Quill Kipps has a name, too! If you don’t have anything nice to say to your fellow—former colleague after everything she’s been through, then best keep your mouth shut.”

She whirls around and marches off, like a sudden autumn storm sweeping through the streets. Lockwood and you share a look; you notice his eyes glint with barely contained mirth and pride before he dashes after Lucy.

When you glance at Sebastian, he keeps his face blank, but the emotion behind it becomes unsettling and dangerous, like a vague whiff of burning plastic from an electrical outlet.

You hurry after your two new companions. Sebastian’s voice trails after you like a shadow. “Careful you don’t get your new team killed. Again.”

You draw up your shoulders, take your doubt, ball it up, and crush it into a fuel you can use.

“So,” you say when you caught up with Lockwood and Lucy. You’d offer to take your bag back, but Lucy holds it as though she can’t wait to use it as a weapon and bludgeon someone with it. “Kipps has a name, too. Nice one.”

“Shut it. I just can’t stand haughty guys like him,” Lucy grumbles, impatiently swiping hair out of her eyes.

“Funny,” Lockwood notices brightly, “how you sometimes use that same voice with me.”

Lucy rolls her eyes, but some of the tension in her shoulders dissipates.

“I gotta admit, good teamwork so far,” you say. “I guess I can let you take a look at this.”

You flip the coin between your fingers and present it with the symbol up on your open palm.

Lockwood wastes no time plucking it from your hand, his fingertips brushing against your gloves. Even through the fabric, you feel the warmth of his skin. You put that information into a box, close it up, and shove it into a far, dark corner where you’ll hopefully forget it and it can collect dust.

“Fascinating,” Lockwood mumbles, inspecting the coin from every angle. “Does anyone know what this symbol means?”

Lucy glances at his open palm. “No.”

He said so earlier. No secrets, no holding back information. Yet this is something you can’t share yet. The fact that somehow, this symbol seems … familiar.

“No,” you echo, eyes fixed ahead on the road. Black clouds, like slabs of onyx, gather at the horizon, rolling over London. “Never seen it before.”

taglist: @helpmelmao, @simrah1012, @chloejaniceeee, @fox-bee926, @frogserotonin, @obsessed-female, @avelinageorge, @quacksonhq, @wordsarelife, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @che-che1, @breadbrobin, @anxiousbeech, @charmingpatronus, @starcrossedluvr, @yourunstablegf, @grccies, @sisyphusmymuse, @ettadear

[sangdelune-archive1]

✧ * º • ––  @chironitas​​ asked:     there's been a misty, faraway look in vanitas' eyes all day; he looks as though he's wholly lost in thought, consumed by memories of a different time, a different place.

(if one looks closely enough, there's sorrow there, too --- a sorrow so deep and profound that he's quietly drowning in it, though on the surface he keeps an even keel.)

---that night, after reading his brother a bedtime story --- something that's become a bit of a shared ritual between the two of them --- vanitas lingers in the doorway. his back is to misha at first, and he sighs heavily, one slender shoulder coming into contact with the oaken doorframe with a faint thud. he turns around, then, lips set in a thin line; it's patently obvious there's something he wants to say, but he's struggling mightily with finding the words.

(allowing himself to be vulnerable is not something he is used to; it doesn't come naturally to him.)

when he speaks, he doesn't meet misha's eyes.

"i'm... sorry, mikhail." his voice is strained and quiet, and it's so wholly unlike him to seem so very small. he gestures vaguely towards misha's arm, then, doing his best to hide a twisted expression behind a curtain of inky-black hair. "it... must have hurt so terribly."

(until his final days, he'll deny that there were ever any tears in his eyes. but there are: they cling, glittering like diamonds, to dark eyelashes; one tracks down his cheek, leaving a faint trail in its wake.)

"i didn't want things to... wind up the way they did. i wanted---" he comes dangerously close to choking on a sob, one he won't allow himself, "---you---" (i wanted us), "---to be happy...."

                  ⮩      【     Unprompted. 】

╰  ☾  ☆ * : ･   ⁞    —     ˗ˏˋ         THE TWO OF THEM HAD FINALLY SETTLED INTO SOME SORT OF NORMAL, something that the child was grateful for. He's managed to settle in with his brother and that vamp - ... Noé . He's found a nice, warm place where people truly CARED for him. And things were almost like they were before everything went wrong.

                 But ' almost ' wasn't ' the same '.

                There were still little CRACKS beneath the surface; little bits of damage here and there that could never be repaired nor healed. TRAGEDY still lingers within their veins; right alongside the blood of the Blue Moon. No matter how the two of them tried to bury the pain and sorrow beneath a happy domestic life, it would always be a part of them.

                And thus ended their nightly bedtime stories as his brother stood up to leave and he would slip underneath the covers to settle in for bed. But the faint sound of his brother's form hitting the doorframe makes him sit RIGHT back up; blue eyes staring while his brother couldn't even bear to meet his gaze.

                ' I'm sorry, Mikhail. It must have hurt so terribly.  '

                Those words and the motions his brother would make towards his arms make him FREEZE, his eyes turning itself towards his own two hands. FLESH and BONE on the right. Cold STEEL and METAL on the left. How did such a gory fate befall his own body ? Did he actually die that day ? Even now, he didn't have the answers; only that blur of cold and pain that would forever HAUNT him.

                ' I didn't want things to wind up the way they did. I wanted you to be happy. '

                Those two hands just squeeze at the blanket as what little memories he did have were all stirred up again. What was he supposed to say ? That things were okay ? The Vampire of the Blue Moon … Father was always a difficult subject for the both of them. Their death still pained their children to no end. And the fact he COULDN'T bring Father back still left a gaping hole in his heart.

                He couldn't say it was okay because things weren't okay. But he wasn't mad at Brother now, not like how he was before. There was only a DEEP ROOTED PAIN now the both of them had to share as the Kin of the Blue Moon.

                The words can't find themselves … but he cannot just let his brother stew in his pain alone. Warm, soft blankets were thrown off of his body and to the side as he slips out of bed and walks towards him. Those very same arms that were just another symbol of their regret wrapped themselves around his brother's form and held him close. He doesn't speak right away… but he manages to say SOMETHING.

                '... I wanted to be happy too. I wanted ALL of us to be happy. That's why I just dealt with the Comté for all those years. I wanted to bring Father back so we COULD be happy again. '

                ‘ But ... everything was really SCARY and SAD without you. And ... I’m sorry for not listening to you earlier. ‘

[heartbreakgrill]

Serious; Luke Hemmings (Pt. 1)

a/n: I cannot tell you where this came from, but it IS ACTUALLY REALLY GOOD OMG. please enjoy, there WILL be more parts probably tomorrow. (Also omg I’m dying my hair, should I post a selfie? I’ve never done a face reveal lol)

description: he came with the falling of the leaves, and left with the cold breeze of winter. maybe this time, he’d stay.

The gentle cracking of a leaf breaking under your weight snapped your eyes to the sidewalk below. Your boot-clad feet ran into another leaf, a smile pile, and a dozen subway-like cracks caused by years of distress. You looked back up, afraid to run into anybody who wasn’t walking on the opposite side of the sidewalk. Luckily, you did just in time, because you dodged a group of girls jogging at a steady pace.

Your brows drew together; They weren’t in workout clothes. You looked for fear on their faces, but they passed quickly, without a hint of what you weren’t hoping for. Your head followed them, pace slowing, as you scanned their outfits. Some of them were dressed cute, in fall outfits similar to yours, but two or three were merchandise from a band- 5 Seconds of Summer.

You stopped completely. Your feet drew you to the wall behind you, as if they knew you were going to get ran over if you didn’t move. Your mouth fell agape slightly, and your heart raced. Fingers reached for your cellphone, hesitantly opening the contacts and scrolling past ABCDEFGHIJK...

L.

A sweaty thumb hovered over the sideways call button, tongue circling dry mouth for some kind of coping mechanism. Suddenly, it was ringing, but not from your actions.

Luke Hemmings.

You quickly answered, the hand that was still in the pocket of your jean jacket curling. “Hey,” a breathless tone, a feeling of desperation.

“I’m in town. I wanna see you,” he mumbled into the line, unable to speak much louder due to who all must be around him.

It’d been a year, a year since 19 year old Luke came crashing into your world like a hurricane. The leaves had been falling then, too, harsh winds whipping through until a calm autumn Sunday recruited your attention, the eye of the hurricane. It was a one night stand, fleeting kisses and dodging eyes when a phone number was hastily left on your bedside table.

You’d called. He’d answered. And after a month of relentless calls and texts, the winter winds took his blazing blue eyes and washed them out with read receipts and unopened Snapchats.

Of course you’d fallen for him so quickly. You were vulnerable, empty at that point in your life. Now, you were more stable, but you couldn’t resist seeing him.

You needed him, craved, as if some Pavlovian affect took hold as soon as the temperature dropped below 40 and midterms wheeled themselves into your schedule. It was Thanksgiving break, now, two weeks off from stressful deadlines, so you had time.

And, God, you were so willing to give it all to him.

“How long are you in town?” You muttered back, afraid someone on the other side would hear you.

“Week and a half. Five shows, 7 days off. Free today.”

Your eyes flickered between the people passing you, the crosswalk ten steps ahead. “I have plans for lunch, with a friend, but come over at 4. K?”

“Okay. See you soon.”

You hung up, taking control of the situation in the slightest. You wanted to grip onto the wall, your body flailing through space in his head and your own heart. There was no gripping the sand between your fingertips.

You went ahead to lunch, fingers tapping relentlessly on the tabletop, your inner thigh when you noticed Sheila glaring at the rhythm. Eventually, after you’d gulped through two ice waters and a sand which, she cleared her throat. You looked up from the floor, suddenly realizing how dry you’d been the last forty minutes.

She spoke, “okay, what is up with you?”

You and Sheila had been roommates last year, still were this year, too. Only, she was leaving today to visit family for the holiday. She’d been out running errands for before she left, and wanted to see you before she wouldn’t for half a month.

Your mouth was dry already, but you swallowed again to try to salivate it. Provide clarity to your words. You shrugged, knowing how embarrassing this would be, “Luke’s back.”

Sheilas eyebrows rose high, her arms crossing over her chest. She leaned back in her chair, tongue clicking in bashful anger. “Oh, really? For what? To apologize?”

You dryly chortled, though you didn’t smile. “No. He has some shows to do. I completely forgot. I haven’t even seen him post on Instagram in forever.”

“Y/N,” Sheila reached across the table and tightly gripped your wrist. She loosened the hold when you met her eyes. “You’re going to get hurt again.”

“I know,” you shrugged. “I just can’t say no, ya know? It sounds stupid, but maybe this will provide me closure. Or maybe this time he’ll stay.”

“You know he won’t.”

Her words didn’t hit you that hard: She was right.

The last time he’d been around, he was still with Arzaylea. You were a getaway for him, his escape from the flashing lights, the public state of his relationship with her, and the screaming fans. You promised him to never, ever tell anyone about the incident. the public would hate him, his fans would be angry, and he’d lose listeners.

“I don’t.”You denied her, though it was true, in the edge of an argument.

Sheila opened her mouth to speak, and you could tell by the breath she took, that she was going to reprimand you. You suddenly reached to the ground, hand snapping from her fingers, and tugged your back over your shoulder.

“I gotta go. He’s coming over in two hours. See you when you get back.”

Sheila sat in stunned silence, eyes barely following you as you bounced out the door. Your glare stared hard at the concrete beneath your feet, more and more leaves crunching below.

Soon to be an analogy to your heart.

-

You showered when you got home, brushed your teeth, washed your skin with glittering lotions and rose-scented body washes. He didn’t deserve all of this, no, but the way he’d make you feel for the next few days did. You should just move on, but your mind had been on him for the last year, and, yes, you would make sure this would be closure.

Or a new beginning.

A knock on the apartment door came firm and sharp at exactly 4:01. You were sitting on the edge of your couch, ignoring the text messages from Sheila, and the group chat with your other friends. Your knee was bouncing and you hoped to God he wouldn’t smell your anxious sweat.

You wiped your brow before standing and moving in shaky legs to the door. You shut an eye, peering through the peephole. There he stood, in all his rockstar glory, a leather jacket and black skinny jeans holding clenched fists, pouty pink lips framing the frantic look on his blue eyes. God, had they always been that pretty?

You opened the door wide, allowing him to move in beside you. You shut it, turning to face him.

And it all came back naturally.

Luke reached out to your waist, pulling you flush against him in a warm hug. You held his neck between your arms, fingers tucking themselves into his curls, which were much longer now.

“How are you?” His accent had faded much more, but it was still there to haunt the goosebumps on your skin.

You tugged away, fingers splaying across his leather jacket. “Okay. Uh, nervous,” you shared a laugh before he moved his hand to cup your cheek.

Your eyes melded into his own, his blue pupils flushed wide open with intoxicated lust. “Don’t be. Just me.”

You pressed your lips to his own, feeling the same balloon pop in your chest. And, some time later, you were flush against the bed, Luke’s body collapsed on top of yours. Your heaving chest puffed up with each deep breath to meet his own before he rolled over beside you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, opening them as he moved his arms around you. You turned to face him, eyelashes now fluttering against his chest.

“You’re so beautiful,” he smiled softly at you.

“Your hairs gotten longer,” you replied. You reached up and curled the strands around your pointer finger.

“Yeah, decided to grow it out after I broke up with...” he trailed off, “well, you know her.”

This was the first you were hearing of the breakup. Your eyes lit up, but you surpressed your grin. “Oh. I didn’t know.”

Luke shrugged, “S’okay, though. I’ve been better without her. Hell, even Petunia is happier. I got my own place in LA, living with Ash and Cal now.”

“How are they?” You asked him, letting your head falling into the cavity between his breasts.

He drew across your skin, “Good. Yeah, Ash has a girl. Kay, is her name. Cal’s still single, but he’s good. Michael’s still with Crystal. They’re living together now.”

You hummed. “And you?

His eyes met yours and he smiled sadly. “Still getting over it. But, I think this could help...”

He kissed you again. You held on, unwilling to let go until his phone started to ring. He answered it, other arm still holding you close to him.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in an hour.”

Your bottom lip poured, moving with Luke was he sat up. He stood and began to put on his boxers, but left the rest of himself naked. You admired his chest, more defined now that he was somewhat taller and healthier.

Maybe you didn’t regret being the other girl if she had really taken that big of a toll on him...

Luke hung up the phone with a goodbye and sat on the edge of the bed. You wrapped your arms around him from behind. Your lips grazed the skin beneath his ear and his head fall back against your shoulder.

“Everything okay?” You kissed.

He nodded, “Gotta get back for some celebration shit.”

You sighed as he turned to face you. He hugged you better, forehead pressing against yours. “Hey, pretty girl, I’m not going anywhere for another hour.”

“Another week, right?” You smiled. His head rocked forward. “Good.”

“We talked about me some, let’s hear about you.”

Luke got more comfortable after handing you his T-shirt. He leaned up against the headboard, allowing you to lay your head in his lap. His hand fell in your hair, the other splayed across your stomach.

Your fingers played with his. “Not much has changed, Lu. I’m better, I feel better. But it’s still just college, work, internships here and there. Can’t wait to graduate and just travel.”

“You look better,” the hand in your hair traced your jawline. “You look healthier and happier. I could see it in your walk.”

“I got a therapist,” you giggled.

He applauded you jokingly before his hands found their spot again. “I’m proud of you. I remember you telling me how nervous you were for that. But look at you now. Beautiful as always, but happy with yourself. That makes you the most beautiful.”

Your cheeks flushed and you looked away. “Yeah, well, thanks.”

“Where do you think you’ll go first?” He continued to inquire.

You shrugged, “I wanna go to France. Or LA.”

An awkward beat passed. Would he think you were asking to come visit? Was he going to pull away then, did he still wants no strings attached?

You cleared your throat and Luke’s tongue clicked in response. “LA’s beautiful. Not as good as home, though.”

Was that an invitation?

“Australia?” He hummed at the question. “Id like to go. See an ostrich or a kangaroo.”

He laughed, “Out of everything there is to see.”

“What do you want me to say? ‘Oh, gosh, I can’t wait to go to Australia and meet Liz Hemmings! She is the real star here.’”

You laughed loudly at the joke and Luke joined you until silence took over again. You felt him shrug. “I think she’d like you.”

“Who?” Your brows furrowed.

He traced them, feeling down to around your chin and brushing the hair away from your neck. “Mum. She’d like you. You’re kind, bubbly. Like her.”

You blushed again. “I’d like to meet her.”

“I...” Luke trailed and never picked up from it.

It was nearly 9 pm now, and your eyes were beginning to fall close. You hadn’t realized how stuck on a schedule you were from college until your body relaxed completely into Luke’s lap. Your hand held tightly to his, though, fingers threaded with them.

He glanced at the clock on your bedside table, methodically rubbing circles into your hairline. His lips puckered and he leaned to place a firm kiss onto your cheek, nose, forehead.

He gently set you onto the bed, pulling the sheets out you. He tugged in the muscle tank top he’d work under his shirt, his leather jacket, jeans, and boots before tucking away his phone. He would bear the cold for you to sleep in his shirt.

Luke kissed your forehead again, causing you to stir. You groggily opened your eyes, meeting the electric blue right above you.

“Gotta go, pretty girl. I’ll see you tomorrow? Maybe you could come to a show,” Luke squeezed your wrist.

You pursed your lips and he pressed a kiss to them. “Okay. see you.”

He was gone with the click of the lock in the door and you rolled over, wide awake.

TAG LIST: @mantlereid , @boxofteenageideas @dinosaursandsocks , @ashhdaniellee95 @stephaniemelville-blog @zhangyixingxing1 @verlaneswiftie13

[oneletteredwondered]

Siren Song

Sum: Pirate Remus hears a song on the water and needs to find out what it is. Nothing can console me, but my sailor bold.

Written for @dukexietyweek Day 3: Pirates

Warning: possible manipulation, referring to a creature of unknown origin as ‘it’, mild descriptions of drowning, kisses.

--

Salt isn’t the only thing in the air. The crew can feel it. Anticipation or dread. There’s something dangerous lurking in the water they know. Of course none of them have seen the thing, but it’s in the hit against the hull of the ship, the scratching they can hear late at night, the sound of a song that permeates through the waves. There’s something down there they know, and the captain is eager to find it.

“Simple really,” Mad Captain Remus says to them, securely tying their longest length of rope around his torso. The crew shifts from foot to foot unsure if they should allow this to really happen.

“Pull me up if I scream,” The captain says and falls backwards off the edge of the ship. The crew rushes to the edge and looks over into the water, seeing the line of rope down into the sea foam but none of their captain. They whisper to themselves and take positions near the rope, waiting and waiting for the tug to signal pulling their captain back to deck.

--

It’s cold. The water presses on his chest and constricts his breathing. Remus has a chance to catch another gulp of air then lets the water drag him down. His fingers are already numb but he keeps his body moving to ward off most of the chill. It does little but Remus isn’t one to give in so easily.

Which is mostly true. He’s heard the siren song on the water for weeks now, getting closer to his ship. At first he wanted to destroy the thing, protect his crew from their trickery and potential death. Perhaps sell the hide and teeth for a pretty penny to treat the crew a day of relaxation and well deserved pillaging.

Then he started listening to the song, which is probably his first mistake, part of the trickery involved. He listened, and the song sounded sad, more sad than any he’s ever heard before. Desperation, sorrow, despair. Remus felt it burn inside him and fester till he felt like his flesh would rot due to the emotions whirling inside him. None of the rest of the crew could hear it as well as he could, could feel what he could, it drove him more mad than he already was.

Perhaps that’s what the siren wanted, to make him feel, and give in. Remus doesn’t much feel like he’s giving in even as he breaks the surface of the water to breathe again. He feels dangerous, challenging even, wanting to play the siren at their own game. He takes another deep breath and dives back under the water.

It’s so dark he can barely see through the murk, but he can see enough though it stings his eyes. He spins weightlessly in circles, trying to figure out where the sound of the siren is coming from. Their voice echos through the water and bounces in every direction he can’t directly pinpoint where the singer is. As soon as he thinks he knows where the siren is, the song is behind him, making him spin dizzy in circles.

He pops over the surface of the water again. Refusing to go back to the deck without seeing the siren if it kills him. Which may very well be what the siren wants. He inhales slowly and gathers as much as air as he can, and sinks back down to a song closer than it was before.

His eyes burn with the strain of searching, turning this way and that, trying to catch merely a glimpse of the creature that has been haunting his nightmares. The song is vibrating in his skull now, loud enough to block out the waves above him. He closes his eyes tight and clamps his hands over his water logged ears to block the sound out.

Suddenly it stops. Silence besides the rush of waves. Carefully Remus lowers his hands and opens his eyes to the water around him, coming face to face with rows of sharp jagged teeth.

He blows out a puff of bubbles, clamping a hand over his mouth to not waste any more air as the siren tilts it’s head back and forth at him. His lungs are already burning with a need to breathe but he’ll be Davey Jones himself if he lets this moment pass him.

The siren is there, floating in the water not a foot apart from him. Dangerous points of teeth stick out of their mouth and their eyes are solid glowing purple. Their color marking are hard to pick out in the dark water surrounding them but Remus supposes that’s the point. He can detect hints of grey, black, and that brilliant purple, but nothing definitive.

The siren lets out a coo, trill and sharp and it sends a shiver down Remus’s spine. The siren reacts positively to that, smiling wickedly at him and swimming in a circle around him that causes the length of their body to curl around him possessively. Whatever emotion Remus is feeling at the action he can barely focus on it as his chest begins to spasm.

He lets out the last of a puff of bubbles and thrashes for the surface. He doesn’t quite make it, a hand, cold and quick, wraps around his ankle and yanks him farther downward. He wants to scream or fight, hand reaching for the dagger strapped his side but the siren is faster, hands gripping him and body coiling around him as much as the shark like body will allow.

Remus tries to inhale once, body desperate for something to breathe, and expects to swallow down salt water but that doesn’t happen. Just as he opens his mouth, lips cover his and air, warm and hot, enters his lungs instead. He nearly gasps and ruins the whole thing, watching as the siren’s gills work to breathe water in and air out for him.

Once he feels able to hold his breath he pulls back, surprised the siren lets him. Their hands on his face are colder than the water, eye shimmering with subtle movements. Remus can’t help it. A grin begins to spread across his face, an expression that gets wider when the siren returns it fully showing off their sharp teeth.

Morbid curiosity consumes him and Remus touch the teeth boldly, feeling the point and nearly pricking his finger on it. The siren lets him touch, another trill of noise curling out of their throat. Remus shivers again at the noise. It draws him in, something deep and longing calling him closer to it.

The siren makes another noise, more pointed and direct this time. Despite the water threatening to bring him to his grave, Remus opens his mouth and repeats the noise as best he can. The siren spins around him again, kissing air back into his lungs.

This time Remus knows he has to pull away or he’ll stay down there forever. As tempting as it is. He points up to the surface and siren glares at him, letting out a hissing noise. Still it helps him up. Remus inhales hard once he breaches, coughing up the water that infiltrated his lungs. He can feel the creature curling between his legs as best it can with it’s size, reminding him it’s there.

And Remus wants to stay there, wants to float in the water forever staring at the creature and their hypnotic eyes. He only wishes he could tell if the want is because it wants him, or wants to kill him. He’s scared and excited by both options, which is how he knows he needs to get out fast.

So Remus screams, a strangled sound from his salt water wrecked throat. The reaction is instant. The rope around his torso tugs hard, dragging him upwards, as the siren lurches up, a pained noise escaping them as Remus clambers up the side of his ship. He can hear it crying as he hits the deck, covering his ears with his hands to block out the noise. He wants to dive back down and console the creature, let it keep him forever. It burns his soul and the only thing to stop him from doing so is his crew, using the rope around him to tie him to the mast and hoist the anchor to get the ship moving.

The crying follows them for three days, a wailing noise that has the crew miserable but none as much as Remus. It affects him so much more it seems, able to hear the sound clearer than the others, hear the sorrow in the song that makes him scream and cry. Still he does not return to the water or look over the edge of his ship for three days.

It’s on the evening of the fourth night that something changes. The song is softer this time, more subdued, begging now instead of demanding. That’s not what gets Remus to stand from his chamber and stumble his way out to the deck to lean over the edge of his ship looking for purple scales. It’s the fact he can understand the words being sung to him.

“My heart is pierced by cupid, my disdain all glitter and gold, there is nothing can console me.. but my sailor bold.” The song stings right through him, his soul vibrating with knowing he is the sailor being sung about and the words leave his mouth before he can think.

“His hair hangs in ringlets, his eyes black as coal, my happiness attend him, wherever he may go.” He’s lucky, or perhaps unlucky, none of the rest of the crew is around to hear him or see him. He scans the water, nearly desperate as the song, when the siren surfaces, letting out a coo to him. Relief floods Remus’s system at seeing them, something settling his frayed nerves at being apart. He mimics the noise back and siren smiles. They open up their arms to him and coo again. Come down here.

The urge to jump is commanding. Remus holds fast and instead repeats the noise with a gesture up. Come this way. The siren grimaces at him and coos again, more forcefully. Come down, please. Remus does not. He shakes his head and siren lets out a cry that hurts. Please.

Remus wants to. He wants to jump over the edge and follow the siren wherever they may lead him. He can’t. Not knowing their intentions with him.

“How can I understand you now?” He finds himself asking, clawing at the banister of his ship, anything to ground him to where he is. He debates tying himself down if it’ll help his urge. The siren tilts their head at him and smiles with their teeth, letting out a trill of a noise.

You belong to the sea, to me. The siren says. Remus knows this. Seven seas save him he knows this.

“What do you want with me?” He asks then. The siren smiles more genuinely at that and disappears under the water. Remus nearly does jump then, not wanting this to be over, but the siren appears again, shooting up out of the water claw their way up the boat. Once they’re close enough, Remus leans over and helps them settle on the edge. 

He can see all the patterning of their body now, swirls of purple and black and grey, blending into one another it’s hard to say where one color ends and another begins. Their eyes now have a ring of black around the edges of the purple, adjusting to being out of the water. They coo and drag a finger across Remus’s cheeks softly and he melts into the cold touch.

I want everything, you are mine. The siren says and Remus kisses them. He cuts his lip on their teeth but it’s nothing compared to the feel of their scaled skin under his hands.

“Stay with me,” Remus finds himself asking. The siren coos happily and Remus echoes the noise. The night is wiled away cooing at each other until the first of the crew wakes. They catches Remus curled in the arms of the siren, both sleeping on the deck. The creature leaps over the edge of the boat as quick as it can and Remus jumps to watch them fall into the water until they can’t be seen any more.

Whatever questions the crew has he can not answer. He is unsure of the nature of what just happened himself. But come next night, he’s tying a rope to his torso and jumping overboard. The siren catches him and trills and teaches Remus it’s language.

Despite the concern, the pattern continues, a night above, a night below. Perhaps worrying when Remus begins to grow gills on the side of his neck, but he’s the same reckless captain the crew knows. Reckless as anything when he spends his nights with a deadly sea creature.

Word spreads when another ship threatens to attack, half the crew jumping overboard with a glossy look in their eyes and the sounds of a siren’s feast follow after. The crew wasn’t sure to be fearful or thankful considering the siren had not done the same to them. Remus couldn’t have been more besotted.

The rumors spread and when the crew docks, Remus stays on the ship with his siren. The crew tells hims tales of what everyone says and he laughs with them and they laugh when the siren trills from over the edge. They are feared even more now on the waters than ever before and they take full advantage of so.

Davey Jones prays for those who come across Mad Captain Remus and siren song for a lover.

[coles-number-one-whore]

Warnings! Major Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Panic Attacks, Self-Hatred, Self-Deprecating, Self-blaming, Fusion 

Based on this post I made.

Fallen Kingdom

Roman was wondering. Wondering how the king was. Wondering how the others were with the King around.

He knocked on Remus' door hesitantly, flinching when the sound of several crashes were heard before Remus opened his door.

"Oh look who it is!" He grinned. "My dear brother! What brings you around?"

"I just wanted to know... Do you ever wonder how things were when we were one?" He watched as Remus' grin dropped and he shook his head. "Do you want to find out?"

"Dunno." The chaotic twin shrugged. "Do you wanna find out?

"It surely wouldn't hurt." Roman muttered.

Almost immediately, Remus' grin was back as he took his twin's hand.

"Then let this party start!"

~•~

"Woah. This place is so dark and freaky. It's amazing!"

"Yeah. Sure. Amazing. Sure. Where are we anyways?"

"I think we did it Ro! We're the King again!"

~•~

It was his fault. It was his fault and no one else's. It was Roman's fault and no one else's. He was the one who'd done it.

He was the one who'd asked Remus to do it with him. Roman was the one who'd asked Remus to fuse with him.

It was all his fault.

He couldn't stand going into the imagination anymore. It was all a reminder. Of when he and Remus had just split and there were no Light and Dark. When they were just them. Not the Prince and the Duke. Just brothers.

But now he was gone and his part of the imagination was slowly withering and disappearing.

Roman couldn't stand it.

He couldn't watch.

Remus was gone.

Did that make him the king now?

Roman had sat there, thinking about how Virgil always compared him and Remus to Thor and Loki, hoping that Remus had actually pulled a Loki and faked it so he could see Roman cry for once.

Deep down he knew that wasn't it.

He cried for him.

But nobody came.

~•~

Patton was baking that night. He had found a new recipe and wanted to try it out, he decided to call for Roman to be his taste-tester, since everyone else seemed too busy at the moment. "Roman, kiddo! Can you come downstairs for a bit and try my cupcakes?"

He frowned when he didn't hear any answer and went to investigate.

The door he found wasn't Roman's door though. It wasn't the red door with glitter stars on it, instead it was replaced by a normal white door with golden swirling patterns.

Patton rubbed his eyes in amazement, not believing what he was seeing. Surely it couldn't be...

The moral side took a deep breath and mustered up the courage to knock on the door.

"Oh! Hello there, Morality."

Patton couldn't help but let his smile spread.

~•~

"I think it's working Remus! See how happy Patton looks?"

"Yeah yeah I can see the froggy going all starry-eyed when he sees us."

"Where are you? This place is so dark, I can't even see you."

"Oh don't worry! I'm right here beside you. Just like I'm haunting you forever!"

~•~

Morality was curled up on the couch, staring at the air like it was the most interesting thing in the world. He still couldn't believe what had happened.

There was the broken vase, shattered into a million pieces and now lying on the ground. Usually it would've been Remus' fault. Usually it would've been Remus being too caught up in his disturbing thoughts to notice where he was going until he had broken something.

But not this time. This time it was Roman, with one of his more violent outbursts, when he insisted on blaming himself for what had happened.

Patton felt powerless. Before, when he felt like that, he used to bake. But there was some sort of awkward silence in the kitchen that he couldn't stand.

Before, when the silence was like that, Remus would've come around the kitchen and started just talking so the silence wouldn't linger for too long. It wasn't that Patton exactly like the ideas the chaotic side had, but there was just something endearing about how he would sit on the counter and babble on and on about the most random things, as long as you didn't pay too much attention to what he was exactly saying.

It was quiet. So so quiet.

He hated the quiet.

~•~

Logan didn't know what to make out from the King's return. He wasn't repressing his thoughts this time though, he really didn't have much of an opinion on it. He didn't exactly like the king that much anymore, he would deny it, but he might miss the twins constant banters and arguments, but he didn't dislike him either, he understood that the existence of one Creativity as a whole would benefit Thomas' mental state.

So when Patton very rudely rose up into his room excitedly, albeit without asking for permission, and babbling some incoherent nonesense as he dragged Logan to the living room, the logical side was a bit confused about all of Patton's commotion.

So he just accepted it. The King was back. There was only one Creativity from then on. Hopefully this would help things go better.

There was just one thing that slightly worried Logic. It was that the King insisted on calling himself Romulus. Normally, he couldn't care less about that and would move on from it, but there was this feeling inside of him that told him that wasn't it.

He looked into the myth about Romulus and hoped that it was just a sick joke. Remus was part of this after all, he would probably do something like that to make anyone who looked to deep freak out.

Right?

~•~

"Why Romulus though?"

"Nothing, just thought it sounded cool!"

"How come?"

"Don't tell me you haven't looked up what our names mean."

"..."

"Oh you definitely haven't. It's nothing, you can look it up after we decide to split again anyways."

~•~

Logan tried to ignore the tension in the mindscape as he cleaned up the lunch table and throwing away the mostly half-eaten food. Just a few more minutes. A few more minutes and you'll be back in your room.

He rose up in his room the second he was done cleaning up after everyone and plopped onto his bed.

He looked up at the painted stars on his ceiling, trying to make out the constellations in them and ignore how bad he still was at emotions.

He was sad. He wanted to cry. He had lost one of the few sides he'd call his friend. He had lost one of the few people who would drag him along for stargazing in the darker part of the imagination, where they could see the stars properly without all the lanterns flying around in his twin's half. He had lost the one person that would sit with him and they'd exchange creepy and gross facts.

Funny enough, he didn't cry when he thought of those moments, and how he won't have them again.

It seemed to only hit at the most random times, when he wasn't thinking about them. Like when he was reading a book or brushing his teeth or just wandering the mindscape out of boredom.

Those always seemed to be the moments that his mind like to remind him how he had told off the warning.

~•~

Virgil didn't like Romulus, to say the least. He didn't like how Patton would look at him with so much joy and how Logan didn't seem to mind him at all. All he could feel about the King was the crippling sense of dread that seemed to take over him whenever he looked at the side.

So he wondered. Wondered if the two sides could hear him if he talked to Romulus. Wondered if they'd split again if they were told to. Wondered if Remus would hear him of he decided to apologise for being a jerk to them after leaving.

Yet, everytime he tried to get even near the royal, he would feel a suffocating sense of despair that would drive him to getting as far away from Romulus as possible, even if the man was just waving and smiling kindly at him.

Maybe tomorrow, he told himself every day.

~•~

"Ro we should talk to the little nightmare."

"Oh I'm sure he'll be fine soon, Remus. No need to worry!"

"Alright I guess..."

~•~

Stupid little good-for-nothing. He couldn't breath. He couldn't think properly. Oh god, what was happening? Why couldn't he breath? Why didn't you just tell him, you useless hypocrite?

Remus. Remus was gone. He hadn't apologised and now he'd never have the chance to.

You really are dumb. What made you think he would forgive you anyway? Especially after how you were that last time.

He used to be happy with them too. Just the three of them. The dark sides. The terror's of the mindscape. It was a fun time.

Him and Remus would cause trouble all the time, and then Janus would come after them and clean up their mess. Sometimes they'd pull pranks on the other residents of the mindscape. Sometimes they would just sit around with a few board games and a batch of cupcakes or cookies, stay up all night playing and later wake up and see that they had fallen sleep on the ground. Remus would always win Space Encounters and Candyland.

The thought of those times only made more tears slip out from his eyes and blur his vision.

Idiot.

Useless.

~•~

Janus would be lying if he said he didn't miss Remus, then again, he was Deceit. The darker part of the mindscape was now quiet without Remus' constant chatter.

He would be lying if he said he was happy with the arrangement.

But he'd also be lying if he said it wasn't helping Thomas.

Wasn't he a liar though?

~•~

"You've been quiet. Is something wrong?"

"..."

"Remus? Are you alright?"

"I-- Yeah, I'm fine. Do you know that if mermaid's existed, they'd have tp pee from their belly button?"

"...I did not need that imagery."

~•~

It was cold. Janus pulled the blanket over himself tighter. Once upon a time, Remus and Virgil would also huddle under it with him. But now Remus was gone and Virgil hated him and it was colder than ever.

He was pitiful, hiding under his blankets all day and flipping off anyone who came near him. It was just like when Virgil had dumped them for the 'Light' Sides.

Except back then Remus helped.

Back then Remus would ignore all the little things that bothered him, whether it was that Virgil didn't like them anymore or that his favourite show had ended. Instead he popped around his room with baked goods and cheesy comedy movies to try tonmake him feel better.

He wondered if he should just stay in his room forever, maybe then someone else would come for him.

~•~

Romulus didn't know when it started. At first it was just a tingling in his chest, a sensation of something being wrong.

Little by little, it got more and more, until its pain was unbearable. Until he could barely breath anymore. He fell to the ground.

~•~

"Are you there? You've been awfully quiet lately."

"..."

"Remus?"

"..."

"

"Remus?!"

~•~

Roman gasped as he got back om his feet. The split had left him in a daze. "Remus?" He looked around, panicking when his brother was nowhere to be seen.

He screamed when he realized what had happened.

Remus was gone.

There was no Duke now.

There was only the Prince.

~•~

A/N: All kinds of comments are appreciated. Short comments, Long comments, Very short comments, extra gigantic comments, Extra hearts, Hating me for creating this, EVERYTHING!

Taglist: @stationery-cum @meowthefluffy

[tirednotflirting]

masterlist {november 27, 2022}

5 seconds of summer

cake

i am missing you more than i should (guess i’m not out of the woods) {2k}

“Luke?”

He jumps as he spins in the stool he’s seating in, Luke’s eyes suddenly meeting the ones he’s been searching for in every corner of the world. He used to spend hours lying awake thinking about this exact moment, about what it would be like to speak again for the first time with his lost great love.

{ao3}

haunting me forever from the start {3.5k}

“See, Cal,” Michael lets his elbow drop to lean on Calum’s shoulder. “These kids aren’t even scared of this. You’ll be totally fine.”

Calum is moments away from giving a snarky response when he catches a glimpse of the people in line behind them as he turns in Michael’s direction.

And of course the most beautiful boy he has ever laid his eyes on is just steps behind him and also about to witness Calum shriek like a baby at the sight of a clown or something.

for ainslee’s 2020 halloween fic event

{ao3}

all I need is your heartbeat beating (next to mine) {1.9k}

Calum had always enjoyed the little things in life.

{ao3}

home is wherever you are tonight {1.3k}

Home is with other people, he thought (though that sounds just corny enough that he figures it’s something he read on a decorative pillow in a craft store or on a post his mom shared on Facebook).

{ao3}

malum

while the rhythm of the rain keeps time {1.1k}

It’s a combination of sounds he finds himself mentally bookmarking, the mixture of the rain, the whirring of the A/C, and the reminder of the presence of Michael somehow creating the perfect mixtape for a calm early morning.

{ao3}

and we’d both stay out until the morning light {2.7k}

He lost track of the number of nights they’ve had like this a long time ago, the center of glittering, happy chaos being a place Calum loves to frequent. He’d follow Calum anywhere, including to a mindless and seemingly pointless celebration like tonight. Michael knows he’ll go anywhere so long as he gets to keep watching the way Calum’s eyes and smile sparkle when even the faintest light hits his face.

He’s watching it then, practically being blinded by it all, he thinks, when Calum catches Michael’s hand and pulls him back in for another dance.

{ao3}

lashton

i’ve got a secret for the mad (in a little bit of time it won’t hurt so bad) {2.5k}

Luke woke up in an odd position, his long limbs tucked up onto the couch, an ache in his neck but also a pair of lips pressed against where the pain began (something oddly poetic, he would reflect on later during a writing session that only he and Calum attended). Ashton’s body was half on top of his own, the drummer’s calloused fingers pressing against his ribs under the t-shirt Luke had thrown on after showering in the venue the night before hopping on their bus.

{ao3}

on a summer evening (baby, you’re the end of june) {2.6k}

It’s a scene that has a mob of butterflies flying through his stomach straight up to his heart and taking over his thoughts because Ashton suddenly finds himself knowing he would give up anything to watch this exact moment play out everyday for the rest of his life if he could. Watching this person he cares so so deeply for be warm and safe and happy and with him.

{ao3}

you’re my golden hour (the color of my sky) {2.2k}

“Thinking about me?”

He giggles at Luke’s teasing words, feeling his cheeks warm some more than they already were. Ashton shifts some to get Luke to sit up and look at him. He can’t help the calloused hand that falls to his cheek, his thumb running along his cheekbone, beneath his tired, happy blue eyes. “Always.”

{ao3}

does it ever drive you crazy, just how fast the night changes {4.6k}

Except this time, as he catches just the briefest glimpse of the man’s face, of his hazel eyes and strong jawline, he realizes this isn’t a stranger. Very much not a stranger. It’s Ashton Irwin, the host of at least three of those reality dating shows he forces Michael to watch with him on the weekends since he can’t watch them when they air live on Monday and Tuesdays.

Or, well, he was the host of all of those shows until about two months ago.

Because Ashton Irwin has been dead for two months.

or Ashton Irwin is supposedly dead but Luke just found him in the milk aisle at 2am

{ao3}

i was just an only child of the universe (and then i found you) {2.2k}

“What’s going on in that gorgeous head of yours?”

Luke’s expression shifts for a moment then, to something lighter and happier, in response to the compliment. It fades just slightly and then he’s dropping his spoon in his mostly empty bowl and turning in the barstool so he can face Ashton. He drops his hands around his waist and maneuvers the standing boy to move between his legs. “You ever think about how tiny we are?”

{ao3}

but we were something, don’t you think so? {2.6k}

He takes a deep breath as he watches Ashton continue down the street, not once looking back to see if Luke is still looking at him. And when his own walk sign lights up, it takes Luke just a moment to get his feet to start moving again as one single thought fills his mind so many times it feels like it’s blocking his vision.

If one thing happened different, would everything be different today?

{ao3}

hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you (and i will hold on to you) {2.6k}

Luke had imagined a moment almost exactly like this a million different ways. Only recently had he given up on the idea of ever running into him again, of being asked to join him for a meeting that would become another big, Hollywood produced moment in Luke’s memory. However, in every one of those fantasies that Luke had allowed to play out in his mind, he had failed to factor in what it would feel like to hear the forgotten voice of a lost love.

or part two to but we were something, don’t you think so?

{ao3}

and I’ll make a cup of coffee, with the right amount of sugar (how you like it) {1.7k}

It’s around noon when Luke jumps just slightly as a coffee cup from the shop near his apartment and a to go bowl appear in front of him. He doesn’t lift his face from the table but hears some rustling and then a plastic spoon is left on top of the bowl. A warm hand is placed against his shoulder and he can feel a kiss being placed against the top of his head.

Ashton mumbles something soft against his hair, his hand squeezing Luke’s shoulder before heading off. For just a moment, Luke feels some of the tension in his back lift off, as though Ashton’s touch were able to pull some of that away. 

{ao3}

i don’t sleep at all without you pressed up against me {1.1k}

“Been feeling funny all day. Like, something feels off,” Luke mumbles, his voice coarse still from the show. “I can’t sleep.”

Ashton nods, wondering if Michael and Calum are also feeling the same way or if it’s just one of those Luke And Ashton Things. He finds himself hoping it’s the latter but he’s too tired to reason out why. “You wanna try to sleep here?”

“Yes please,” Luke says quietly, already making his way into the room.

{ao3}

my eyes have always followed you around the room {1.5k}

Ashton’s house is filled to the brim with people and glitter and bubbly drinks and all he can do is watch the way Luke squeezes his eyes shut, a bright smile on his face when posing for a picture. All he can do is watch the way the tall blonde tucks his messy hair behind his ear only to have the curls fall back into his face, his efforts entirely fruitless. The entire building is practically shaking from the volume of the music but all he can hear is Luke’s laugh. Ashton hasn’t touched a drink all night yet he still feels drunk off of the way Luke’s everything clouds up his mind.

{ao3}

blinded by the colors {1k}

It’s a buzz he can feel at his fingertips and running through his veins. It’s the sparkles from the smiles and eyes and glittery faces all around him. It’s the melody being sung from the crowd against the barricade closer to the stage and the chants for the artist up next from those closer to him. It’s euphoric, he thinks, as he lets his eyes shut to let his other senses take it all in. The last minutes of sun warming his cheeks mixing in with all the sounds and smells.

i’m all butterflies (i’m sky-high for you) {1.9k}

It’s too early to be thinking like this, Ashton keeps telling himself. He can’t be thinking like this so soon. It’s asking for complete and total disaster, for running back up and checking to see if you lit the fuse on the firecracker kind of disaster. It feels terrifying but it’s the kind of feeling he’s found himself craving as of late.

Some 20 or so feet away he can Luke smiling brightly as he tells a story, his hand not holding a glass of wine waving through the air, those in the little circle around him laughing like he’s telling them the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. Luke tends to do that, he can capture the heart and attention of anyone around him in seconds with his bright smile and wide blue eyes.

{ao3}

i've been dreaming about a knitted sweater for two {3.1k}

He feels Ashton relax more into his arms and the lucky and in love feeling starts flooding his mind again. Luke pulls back but lets his forehead stay pressed against Ashton’s as they giggle at each other for a moment.

“French toast time?” Ashton questions once they pause in their laughter.

“Please.”

The feeling continues to float around in his brain as he watches Ashton cut up fruit while he flips the bread on the griddle. Though really, he thinks, that feeling has probably been taking up most of his mind since the day they basically wandered into each other’s lives.

{ao3}

just take it easy (hold onto this feeling) {1.6k}

Luke had really grown to love the quiet.

{ao3}

turn it on in a new kind of bright (it’s solar) {1.3k}

Each morning and evening brought gorgeously painted skies that no artist could ever dream of replicating exactly, no camera able to draw in all the light just right. Luke is no astronomer so the science of the beauty the sun creates is lost on him. Though he thinks he’s alright with considering it somewhat magical instead.

{ao3}

i will write you kitchen songs (i'll give you all my love) {1.7k}

It’s a sweet, domestic little tune, Ashton making their morning coffee. Luke wants to play it on repeat.

{ao3}

[red-writing-on-asylum-walls]

FebuWhump Day 8: “Hey, hey, this is no time to sleep...”

Otherwise known as “Cold 2.0″.

Warnings: descriptions of panic attacks, mentions of injuries, mentions of hypothermia, freezing temperatures

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

“Come oooooonnnnn,” Milo whines, bouncing in place with his shoulders hunched to his ears and his hands deep in the pockets of his coat, “It’s coooolllldddd! I wanna go hoooommmmeee!” His breath forms little clouds in the air, his nose and cheeks flushed red from the winter chill permeating the old house.

“Shhh, just a minute!” Cody keeps shuffling around the room, swinging his EMF reader this way and that and frowning as it refuses to display more than the most basic of readings.

“Uuuuhhhggg!” Milo throws his hands in the air and slumps against the wall with a pout. He yanks his hood lower, shark teeth dangling in his face, and sticks his tongue out at Cody.

“I could have sworn there was a reading here a second ago…” Cody mutters after a moment. He switches the EMF off and drops it back into his bag with a sigh that boils out of him like a tiny thunder cloud, “All right, Mr. Whiny Pants, we can go now.”

“Finally! I’m freezing!”

“I told you to wear layers!”

“I am!”

“You’re wearing your shark hoodie and a coat, Milo, that is not layers.”

“And a t-shirt!”

“Still not layers.”

Milo sticks his tongue out again but Cody doesn’t see it because he’s too busy fighting with the door. The knob rattles in his hand, the entire door shaking in its frame, but it won’t open. Cody gives it a good kick but it still won’t budge. He slams his shoulder into it and all he gets for it is a bruising shoulder and Milo laughing at him when he falls over onto the cold wooden floor.

“It’s not funny, Milo! The door won’t open!”

“Suuuurrreeee it won’t,” Milo rolls his eyes, nudging Cody out of the way to grab the door handle. He sarcastic expression turns confusion, then frustration, and then panic as he yanks on the door, fighting to get it open, “We’re trapped! We’re trapped in a haunted house and we’re gonna die!”

“We are not going to die!” Cody barks, looking around the room, “There! Let’s try the window!”

“B-but this is the second floor!”

Cody ignores him and hurries across the creaking floorboards to the single window. He presses against the cold glass, peering through the years of dirt and grime, “It looks like part of the roof is below this window. If we’re careful, we can probably use it to climb down. Come help me open this!”

It’s a struggle but the two boys manage to pry the window up from its warped frame. It makes an awful, groaning protest as they push it up, and cold air that billows into the room makes them both shiver. The wind is starting to pick up outside as the sky begins to get darker—the brightest thing around is the snow that glitters in the light of the dying sun.

Milo’s already climbing out the window, teeth chattering in the cold, eyes watering as the wind snaps at his face. His boots slide on the the slanted roof and he snatches at the window sill again in a panic, breath puffing out in front of him. Cody’s hovering, one hand ready to grab his friend if he needs to. Milo gives him a shaky grin and slowly lets go of the window, straightening up again until he’s ready to start making his way down the roof. He opens his mouth to say something, probably sarcastic or challenging, and shifts his weight as he does so.

That’s enough to throw him off balance.

His arms pinwheel in the air and Cody lunges halfway out the window to catch him. But his hands snatches at the cold air. Milo goes spinning off the roof with a resounding crash and a scream of pain.

“MILO!” Cody shouts, leaning as far out of the window as he dares, “MILO!? WHAT HAPPENED!?”

He can hear Milo crying on the ground below, great gulping sobs, but he can’t see him past the roof. When he shouts back, it’s in a shaky and tear choked voice,

“I—I th-think I b-b-broke some—something! It h-h-hurts! C-Cody! CODY!”

“I’m coming, Milo! Just hang on! I’m coming!”

Cody pulls back into the room, fumbling his cellphone from his pocket as he runs at the door again, charging at it from all the way across the room. He slams into it, rattling the entire thing, and falls to the floor with a grunt. With shaking fingers he dials for his dad and keeps slamming himself into the door as it rings, only pausing when he hears the line pick up.

“Cody? Everything all right? Are you on your way home?”

Struggling to hold back his tears and his voice betraying him with a tremble, Cody gasps into the phone, leaning against the door with Milo still crying in the background,

“Dad! Dad, Milo’s hurt! He—he fell off the roof—“

“The roof? Why was he on the—“

“Please come get us! Please get Mr. Fuller and Mr. Pierly too! Please!” His eyes are hot, burning against the cold, and he sucks in a shaky breath, tries not to let on how scared he is.

“Okay, okay, deep breaths, Cody! I’m coming! Stay on the phone with me! I’m coming to get you!”

Cody can hear Dom crashing around the house and he clutches at the phone with both hands, shivering from cold and from the fear making panic spark in his chest, “D-Dad, hurry, please…! I’m s—stuck in this r-room and Milo’s hurt and I can’t—Dad, I’m scared…!”

“You’re going to be okay, Cody, my brave boy! You’re going to be okay!” Dom’s voice is thick with emotions and Cody can tell he’s trying not to cry, “I promise, Cody, I’m coming to get you! I’ll be right there! I just need to get Milo’s dads and then we’re coming to get you! You’re so brave, Cody, you’re so brave and it will be okay!”

It’s when he’s trying to stifle another sob over the sound of Dom shouting for Jake and Dan that Cody realizes it’s gone quiet outside.

He runs back across the room and leans as far out of the window as he dares, “MILO!? MILO, ANSWER ME! MILO!”

There’s a soft whimper from somewhere below and a thin, shaky voice drifts up to him through the thickening dark,

“…cold…’m so…tired ’n cold…”

“MILO NO!” Cody puts both hands on the window sill, his phone still in one hand, and leans out even farther, “MILO! MILO, DON’T FALL ASLEEP! MILO, YOU GOTTA STAY AWAKE! MOVE YOUR ARMS! DO SOMETHING! DON’T JUST LAY THERE! MILO!”

The tears streaking down Cody’s cheeks ache and feel like they’re freezing the second they touch his bare skin. There are tinny voices from the phone but Cody is straining his ears to hear any sound from his friend on the ground below. He has half a mind to climb out the window himself. But he could just as easily in the same or worse predicament as Milo and that would put them both in even more danger.

Panic tangles with the lowering temperature and snags in Cody’s throat, coiling in his lungs and squeezing his heart until he thinks it will pop. He knows he needs to conserve his warmth and energy, knows he needs to keep his core warm, but he can’t stop crying. The salt from his tears stings his chapped lips as he leans out the window, clutching at the phone where he can hear the faint sound of his dad’s voice calling his name. He wants to answer but the gasping sobs won’t stop, the panic is keeping him rooted in place, indecision and horrible thoughts freezing him both inside and out. His mind is a slurry of fear and hopelessness. The only things he can focus on are his worry for Milo and how much he desperately wants to see Dom again.

He tries shouting for Milo again, tries to keep his friend talking, tries to keep him awake. Sometimes Milo answers. For the most part, he does not. Cody thinks about trying to open the door again but he’s scared that if he leave the window, then he’ll lose Milo forever. The skin on his face is starting to sting fiercely in the cold.

Headlights cut through the oncoming night and desperate hope surges up in Cody’s chest so strongly that it brings on a fresh wave of tears.

The car swerves to a halt in front of the old house and Cody can just make out Jake and Dan falling out of it to disappear under the eaves of the porch. They’re shouting, calling Milo’s name. Cody feels dizzy, either with relief of hypothermia, he doesn’t know.

Dom looks up, meets Cody’s gaze, and throws himself at the house.

Cody tears himself away from the window, dashes across the room, and starts pounding on the door, calling for his dad. He can hear Dom crashing up the stairs to the second floor and he stumbles back when there’s a furious roar. Something smashes into the door and it shudders violently, the entire house groaning with effort of keeping it shut.

But Dominic Bridges will not be kept at bay.

There’s a snarl of animalistic and passionate emotion and then an almighty crash that nearly rips the old door off of its hinges.

Dom plows into the room in a flurry of dusted snow and billowing steam, his face red and eyes watery. And Cody hurls himself bodily into Dom’s arms with a loud sob, pressing against his dad’s chest, numb fingers pawing at him, trying to hold and on never let go. And Dom is squeezing him tightly, sinking to the floor in relief, his face pressed into Cody’s shoulder as he gasps out breathless words of comfort and promises of safety and love.

He is the warmest thing Cody has ever touched, warmer than fire or even the sun.

He lets Dom carry him back down the stairs to the car where Jake and Dan are waiting anxiously in the heated interior. Dan tears out of the drive and speeds towards the hospital while Jake tries to keep Milo warm and stable in the back. His leg is definitely broken, jeans stained red and a bit of bone winking through the skin. Cody feels sick and terrible and starts crying all over again, apologizing for getting Milo hurt while Dom clutches him in the front passenger seat, shushing him and stroking his hair. The adults try and comfort him and say it’s not his fault, these things just happen, they just need to be more careful, and Milo will be okay.

But Cody just cries.

He cries into his dad’s old coat until he’s too tired and out of tears to cry anymore.

And not once does Dom let go of him.

[lizzy-bennet]

This Never-Ending Melody Fandom: Doctor Who. Pairing: Whouffaldi Length: 2,500 words Warnings: None Also on Ao3

The memory of what Clara told him in the cloisters lives on in the form of a song, its melody always winding its way through the back of his mind, soft and sweet and sad and ever-constant, like the cadence of his twin heartbeats.

He just wishes he could remember the words that went with it. (Or: Several instances the Doctor plays a song called Clara.)

He’s in a diner somewhere in America. There’s dust on his shoes and a guitar in his hands, and the last place he remembers being is at the end of a burning universe. He can recall falling to the floor, remember the feeling of his two hearts shattering at the sight of a girl crying over him, and him asking her to smile, for her sake as much as his.

(He thinks....he thinks she might’ve smiled for him. That she must’ve smiled for him.

But he can’t remember it.)

Now he sits on a barstool, in this kitschy American diner with records on the walls and Elvis painted on the door, and a surprisingly British waitress standing behind the counter, with kind brown eyes and a clever smile. She crosses her arms on the countertop, leans toward him as he talks, and for a reason he can’t quite put his finger on, she feels comfortingly familiar to talk to.

He must be lonely, he thinks, shaking his head.

It’s not like he’s ever seen her before.

As he stares at her, he hears a song playing somewhere in the back of his mind and he plucks it out slowly on his guitar, fingers dancing deftly across the strings. He’s not quite sure where the tune comes from; it’s both brand new and old, comforting and haunting, melodic and melancholy. But it’s something he somehow knows as well as he knows the sound of his own two hearts beating.

The waitress listens, dark brown eyes watching his hands, and then she asks, “What’s the song called?”

He looks up, the tips of his fingers ghosting over the guitar strings, and says:

“I think it’s called Clara.”

# “You said memories become stories when we forget them,” the waitress tells him later, after he’s confessed he can’t remember what Clara told him in the cloisters. “Maybe some of them become songs.” He thinks she sounds sad when she says it, and he thinks it might be because she knows what it feels like to lose someone too. He’s been around the universe long enough to know what grief looks like the instant he sees it, and it’s right there in her eyes when she looks at him, along with something else he can’t quite place. He wonders if maybe she’s saying that part about memories becoming songs for her own benefit as much as his.

He thinks that whoever she’s thinking of, whomever she’s lost, she must’ve loved them very much. And in reply, he strums his guitar and says, “That would be nice.” # The years pass and things change. He gets a job lecturing at a university, parks his TARDIS in his office, stops running so far and so fast. But the melody remains, its volume ebbing in and out like waves of the sea, sometimes quiet, sometimes loud. From time to time, he’ll hear the song playing brightly, right at the forefront of his mind. It’ll happen when he passes by an English teacher’s classroom, or when the café next door starts advertising soufflés. Sometimes it happens when he laughs, or before he falls asleep, whenever he’s happy or even when he’s sad, but it’s there.

It’s always, always, always there, this lyricless melody. Forever playing. Never leaving him.

He doesn’t think he ever wants it to. #

It’s late-afternoon sometime in the twenty-first century, and he’s in his office at Saint Luke’s University. He’s already graded several papers - three good ones he’s marked with an A, and a bad one he simply wrote pudding brain in circular Gallifreyan on - so now he takes a break, standing and slipping his guitar strap over his shoulders. His fingers fall across the strings, and lost in thought, he moves to stand beneath his office’s old ruby and sapphire stained-glass window, a mosaic of blues and reds reflecting across his silhouette as he plays.

“That song,” he hears someone behind him say, and slightly startled, he turns to see a woman with a wastebasket - one of the university’s janitors - standing in the doorway. “It’s pretty.” He blinks. He’d been playing almost unconsciously, like the music was all muscle memory as his mind wandered elsewhere, so it takes him a moment to recall exactly what song he’d been strumming, and then he remembers:

He was playing that song again. That song that never leaves him, the one he first played to a waitress in a retro American diner and hasn’t really stopped playing since.

He nods, a pattern of blue and red shadows moving across his face as he does, “I suppose it is.”

“I’m surprised you were playing it.”

He squints at her, eyebrows furrowing, “Why?”

The janitor shrugs her shoulders, “It’s just that you always play rock songs, that’s what you’re known for. But this song...this song’s so different than anything else you ever play.”

The Doctor supposes that she’s right. He likes loud songs, hard rock and guitar riffs and fast drumbeats that echo the rhythm of his two hearts after an adrenaline rush. Songs to run from Sontarans to. Songs to shoot through space to. Songs that drown out all the other lives he’s led and all the other voices in his head.

But this song he plays now is slow and soft and sweet and sad, and always winding its way through the back of his mind. He doesn’t always know exactly why he’s playing it, or sometimes that he’s even started to play it at all, just that it’s something he does.

The janitor stares at him, interrupting his thoughts once more as she asks, ”Does it have words?”

He knows that it used to, once upon a time, when he knelt in the cloisters with a girl he once knew but no longer does. She’d told him something important, but he can’t remember it, not a single sentence, not even a word. The melody remains lyricless, the words he wants always just beyond his grasp, forever dancing just out of his reach.

“No,” he answers. “No words. Not anymore.”

# “What’s it called?” A new student asks, like they all inevitably do. The semesters pass and his students change, but the song remains like a constant companion, and so that question does too. “Clara,” he answers, and her name feels at home on his lips.

# The night air is warm, but the breeze is cool. There’s a party going on in the courtyard of Saint Luke’s as the students and staff of the university celebrate the end of another semester, and the Doctor stands under a lit-up, glittering tree, it’s branches woven with white string-lights, and he plays his guitar in its glow. And then he spots her.

It’s that waitress from that diner in the desert.

She’s walking by, and he catches a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. She’s wearing that same nearly TARDIS blue dress as before, half covered with an apron, its stark white strings flying behind her like wings as she walks.

“You, Diner Girl!” he says suddenly.

(He’s doesn’t really know why he calls out to her, nor does he quite understand why his two hearts beat gratefully when she stops.

Maybe it’s because he’s been without a companion for so long.)

Diner Girl turns toward him, and he doesn’t really expect her to recognize him - after all, he only spent about an hour with her, a few years ago, just one of a million customers who must’ve come into her diner and sat on that stool - but she smiles at him like he’s an old friend.

“Hi,” she says as she steps toward him, the sparkling lights shining down across her smile like stars.

He raises an eyebrow, not sure whether she really remembers him or is simply feigning politeness. Something about her posture suggests that she’s lying.

“You remember me?”

“‘Course I do. You’re the man who played me a melody for a glass of lemonade,” she says. Then gently, quietly, so nearly noiseless he almost doesn’t catch it, she adds, “I don’t think I could ever forget you.”

So she does remember him. He must‘ve been wrong about her lying about something, he thinks. It’s hard to tell, sometimes, with humans, the odd, emotional creatures that they are.

She brings him back out of his thoughts by flashing him a smile that boarders on flirtatious as she says, “Bit surprised you remember me, though.”

“Never forget a face,” he banters back, but even as the words leave his lips, he knows it’s a lie.

There’s one face out there that he just can’t remember, no matter how hard he tries.

The waitress looks stricken for a second, like some sort of old wound she thought had long since scarred over has reopened, all painful and raw, but the look’s gone in an instant; she wipes it away with a shake of her head, her brown ponytail bobbing with movement as she does.

“So this is what you do, is it?” She asks, smiling as she gestures around at the school, looking just a little bit proud although he has no idea why she would.

”You teach here?”

”I lecture. What are you doing here?” “Catering,” she answers easily, motioning down at her uniform. “What, you thought I dressed as a waitress for no reason?”

He shrugs. Human nuances like fashion sense were lost on him. “People have worn odder. You should see some of the outfits I’ve picked out.” She raises an eyebrow at that, presses her lips together like she’s trying not to smile, and the Doctor asks, “So you’ve come back home from America?”

She shrugs, ”Oh, you know how it is. Can’t stay in one place too long.” “I know the feeling.”

“Bet you do.” She grins at him then, and he grins back at her, and as he does, his fingers begin to pluck out four familiar notes on his old guitar.

Diner Girl blinks, her lips parting for just a moment. She remembers the tune, he realizes, he can see the recognition and surprise register in her eyes at the sound of it. He watches as her gaze floats down to the guitar in his hands, and then flickers back up to his face as she says, “Still playing that song, huh?” “Always.”

“You ever remember anything this Clara told you?” “Not a word.”

She nods, and she looks sad, like she’s a breath away from breaking down, and something inside him twists, all raw and painful. He can’t stand the sight of tears, especially not tears from this girl. It’s nonsensical, this reaction of his. It’s not like she’s his friend, it’s not like he even really knows her, but for some reason he feels that if this tiny, brunette girl standing in front of him cries, it just might break his two hearts. “I can play a song for you, if you’d like,” he offers, because he can’t deny this strange impulse that wants him to do anything to get her to smile again. “In exchange for a lemonade?”

“No,” he says, shrugging and shaking his head, the pads of his fingers brushing against the guitar strings. “Just because.”

She stares, searches his eyes, and then something in him sighs with relief as he sees a smile playing on the corner of her lips.

“Keep playing me that song, then,” she orders cheekily, her eyes sparkling as her smile widens and she nods at his guitar. “You started it, might as well finish it.”

So he obeys and keeps playing, the song drifting through the air and floating softly on the breeze, and though it’s stupid and sentimental and certainly nonsensical, for a moment he feels like it’s as if Clara’s there with him.

Finally, he reaches the final part of the song, the last note lingering in the night, and then, quick as lightning, the waitress stands on the tips of her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek. Before he has a chance to react, to exhale, to wonder why she would, she’s gone.

She had catering work to get back to, he supposes. # He questions once, when he’s playing it for what may be the thousandth time, how he can know this untaught song so well. And the answer he gives himself is:

He knows the song so well because it’s Clara, and what Clara told him in the cloisters, and she’s woven into his mind and two hearts so deeply that not even Time Lord technology can fully take her away.

He may not remember the sound of her laugh or the shade of her eyes, but he remembers how she made him feel and the lessons she taught him, and here they all are, wrapped up in the form of a wordless song that never leaves him.

He just wishes he’d never forgotten the lyrics that go with it.

#

The year is nineteen-fourteen and he is on a battlefield that is not a battlefield, standing beneath a snow-filled sky.

And he is dying.

It’s nothing new, this dying thing. He’s died oh so many times before. From one regeneration to the next, and then all those billions of times he burned himself up in the confession dial. Still, dying is not something you can get used to, and he finds himself hesitating, lingering in this life before he goes onto the next.

The glass creature made of memories that’s there with him must sense it, because she says, “I’ve got a little goodbye present for you.”

He scoffs at that, starts to make a joke, reply with the wit and wisdom that only dying men hold, but then his words fall silent and his breath catches beneath his collarbone, because Clara is standing in front of him.

And he recognizes her.

The air is cool and the sky is grey, but there’s this glow around Clara, all golden and soft, and when she looks up at him, the world feels a little less cold.

She smiles, warm and clever and bright, and there it is again: that song that’s always playing in the back of his mind.

“Clara,” he says softly, gently, a smile coming across his face at stares at her, and he hears the melody grow louder and sweeter.

“Hello, you stupid, old man,” she says, and there’s no mistaking the fondness in her voice as she says it, nor the love in her eyes she has when she looks at him, and he thinks he’s never seen or heard anything more beautiful.

He ducks his head, laughs at her loving insult, and bit by bit, his memories come back to him: the sound of her voice and then the flash of her smile. The way he felt when her arms wrapped around him and then the way he grinned at her jokes. How she was the waitress who told him that sometimes memories become songs, and then how she’d checked in on him without him ever knowing he was talking to her, to his Clara, and then and then and then...

Then comes what she told him in the cloisters.

It’s all back, every single sentence, each and every word, and those words that she said settle in his mind like stardust, sparkling and gentle, bright and beautiful. And he smiles, because finally, finally, finally, after all these years...

The melody in his mind has lyrics.

[chickensarentcheap]

Best Part of Me - Chapter 21

Warnings: none

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y​, @alievans007​, @innerpaperexpertcloud​

“Hi mommy!” Millie cheerfully greets, as Esme journeys towards where her daughter sits on the shoreline, clad in one of her many bathing suits, head and most of her face covered by an oversized floppy sunhat. She’s the happiest when by –or right in- the water; calm and relaxed, that edge she always seems to carry softened and almost nonexistent.  

The ocean is a powerful antidote for all that ails you. Even Esme finds  that the mere sound of the waves and the smell of the salt that hangs in the air helps in easing the burden of the stress and worries that she often carries. And as beautiful as they are and how majestic the view from her back deck had been, that’s a feat even the mountains had never been able to accomplish.

“What are you doing?” she inquires, as she crouches down beside Millie, the little girl turning her face up for a kiss.

“Just stuff,” Millie replies, and turns a bucket of wet sand upside, adding it to the ‘castle’ that she’s already constructed. “Daddy said to stay here and not to go in the water without him.”

“And you actually listened? I’m impressed.”

“Well I don’t want a shark to eat me,” Millie explains, using the back of her sand covered hand to push wayward strands of hair out of her face.   “Daddy said that sharks like little girls with blue eyes and light brown hair the best. ‘Cause we taste like watermelon and that’s their favorite.”

Her mother smirks. “And you actually believed him?”

“Oh course! Daddy wouldn’t lie. And I’m not taking any chances. I do not want to get eaten by a shark.”

Esme glances over her shoulder, to where her husband is flat on his back, sprawled out in the middle of blanket; arms loose and relaxed at his sides, sunglasses on. “Is he dead?”

“God, I hope not,” Mille moans. “’Cause he’s the good cook and I’m getting hungry.” She wipes the sand from her palms onto her thighs, then cautiously lifts the edge of the receiving blanket that protects her baby sister –laying along her mother’s arm- from the brilliant sunshine.  “Hi Addie,” she presses a kiss to one tiny foot, followed by the other, then fixes the blanket.  “She’s awake. I think she smiled at me.”

“Well she likes you. You’re her big sister. You’re the one that used to talk to her and read her stories all the time when she was still in my belly. She probably recognizes your voice.”

“I hope so. And I hope she knows I’m not annoying like the other ones.”

“Your brothers are not THAT bad.”

“Oh, yes they are, mommy. I mean, I’d miss them if they weren’t here anymore. But they’re little assholes.”

“Amelia...”

“I know,” she sighs dramatically. “Bad language. I’m trying. I really am. It’s so hard though!”

“Especially when you’re around your dad as much as you are and he  has absolutely zero filter left.”

“He is totally a bad influence,” Millie agrees. “We had fun today. We went shopping and had ice cream and daddy made me buy him two blue Gatorades at the dollar store ‘cause we ended up being in there forty minutes instead of twenty. But I had to get glitter and paper so...” she shrugs. “He’s going to help me make birthday invitations.”

“He actually agreed to that?”

“Yup,” she sounds so much like her father, even with that one simple word. “He’ll do anything I want. Anything.”

“Except wear the tiara.”

“Oh, it’ll happen. He will wear the tiara. And I’m going to take a picture when he does and you’re going to put it on your Instagram.”

“I don’t think he’ll like that.”

“Oh well. He put the video of you up when you were sleeping and he gave you the wet willy.”

“That’s right. He did.”

“It’s only fair, mommy. He did you dirty. Now you have to do the same to him. I think you deserve revenge.”

“You know what I think?” Esme reaches under the hat to tuck hair behind Millie’s ears. “I think you’re an evil genius.”

“I don’t know if I’m evil, but I’m definitely a genius. You know,” she appears pensive for a moment. “Now that I think about it, I must be adopted.”

Esme laughs. “You’re a little savage.”

“I learn from the best,” Millie declares, then frowns as she notices her mother’s choice in foot apparel.  “Mommy, what the hell? Why are you wearing socks on the beach?”

“I don’t like the sand between my toes. You know that.”

“That is just weird.”

“I swear, if you start sounding or acting any more like your father...”

“I’m sorry. His DNA was stronger. It’s not my fault. It’s why I’m so awesome.”

“You definitely need to stop listening to him so much,” she lifts the brim of the hat and presses a kiss to her daughter’s cheek before standing up and wandering over to where her husband lies. “Are you alive?” she asks, digging her toes into his side, right between two of his ribs. “You better be because I haven’t gotten the chance to renew your life insurance policy yet.”

“What you would you get?” he responds. “Twenty bucks?”

“Twenty bucks?” she scoffs and settles down on the blanket besides him; placing Addie on his chest and stretching her legs out in front of her. “That’s generous. That’s ten more than what they offered.”

Tyler smirks. “Well one thing’s for sure. I can at least die knowing you didn’t marry me for money.”

“We had like what? A few hundred bucks between the both of us when you got out of the hospital? It’s safe to say neither of us were in it for financial gain.”

It had been incredibly easy to blow through nearly every cent either of them had in the bank, including whatever had been sitting in savings.  The first two weeks after Dhaka had been spent in a hospital in Mumbai, and Nik had refused to cough up the money to even cover a small part of the bill, citing that she couldn’t access private funds within the company, and there simply wasn’t anything left from the first and only payment they’d received from Mahajan Senior. In the end, neither Tyler nor Esme had received a penny from the Dhaka job, adding insult to grievous injury. Even transport to Australia had to be paid for out of pocket, and it had wiped out both of their checking accounts.  

Their start to their new life had been rough; a new apartment with barely any furniture in it, two months of inpatient therapy with only weekend visits home allowed, a baby on the way.  All while still trying to get to know each other outside of those five days in the dirty hotel room in Dhaka. But they’d gotten through it; every fight brought on by frustration, disappointment, and pain. Every harsh word spoken out of guilt and regret. Every time they didn’t know how they’d be able to put food on the table or properly take care of a baby once she arrived. But things slowly started getting better. Her old boss had contacted her saying she was owed a large chunk of money for previous work she’d done for him, even though she’d known full well it was just generous gift on his behalf. Then a check had come in the mail from Saju’s wife. Enough to cover six months' worth of rent and still have some left over. They’d never found out how she even knew who they were, let alone how she tracked them down.  

To this day, they’ve never actually spoken or met face to face. But once every three months an email arrives from Neysa, complete with pictures of her now teenage boy and an update on how they’re doing. No mentions of whereabouts; even behind bars, Mahajan Senior has a lot of pull in not just Mumbai, but all of India. His influences stretch far and wide, and almost seven years later, Saju’s inability to get Ovi away from Tyler and his eventual death is still viewed as a catastrophic failure.  It didn’t matter that his son had been rescued from Asif or brought home safely. Or that lives had been lost and others altered forever. Even Tyler, despite stepping up and giving Ovi a relatively normal life and the family that he both wanted and deserved, is regarded as an enemy. He was the one that stood in Saju’s way, after all, and more than once through the years Mahajan Senior has commented: “you don’t know how to die, do you”.  

****

“I think if we got through that first year intact, we can get through anything,” Esme comments.  

“That was a pretty shitty twelve months,” Tyler agrees, as he lays his palm on Addie’s back and wraps an arm around his wife’s waist, hand coming to rest on her hip. “There was some good stuff too. I mean, we got married and had Millie. But for the most part...”

“It was pure crap,” she finishes for him, and he nods. “But now look!” she cheerfully exclaims. “If anyone had have told you back then that this is where we’d be now, would you have believed them? That we would have gotten this far? Everyone was against us. Everyone. Nik, most of my family. And we’re the ones getting the last laugh. We’re the ones that are still together while their lives are shit. Is it wrong how happy that actually makes me? That we get to sit back and watch their lives fall apart?”

“Maybe a little bit wrong,” he says with a grin. “But I get it. There’s someone I wish was still here so I could rub it in their face.”

“Gaspar?”

He nods.  

“He did not like me for some reason. Kept calling me ‘that girl’ or ‘the girl’ even when I was in the room. What was up with that? I mean, other than the fact he was a complete sociopath.”

Tyler shrugs. “He was just protective I guess.”  

He doesn’t want to talk about it; Gaspar, the ten million dollars offer to give up her and Ovi. It still haunts him; how calm and callous the other man had been about the whole thing. As if it wasn’t two human beings that he was willing to sacrifice for the almighty dollar.  And he knows he’ll never tell her. The whole truth behind what had happened that night. What good would it do? Telling her that she’d come dangerously close to being thrown at Asif’s feet. The outcome would have been horrific; rape, torture, unbelievable abuse and cruelty. It’s bad enough that those thoughts still plague him. She doesn’t need them weighing her down.  And he’s thankful when she changes the subject.

“She wore you out, didn’t she,” Esme comments, a hand over her eyes; sheltering them from the sun as she watches Millie happily playing in the surf.

“She’s like having ten kids rolled into one. I’m starting to understand why her teacher is so tired at the end of the day. Millie plus twenty others?”

“Twenty? There’s thirty kids in her class.”

“What the fuck? Thirty?”

“Look, things have changed since you used to travel by horse and buggy to your one room schoolhouse.”

“You know what...” he slides his hand up to her side, then pinches the sensitive spot below her ribs.

“Ow! You shit head!” Esme cries, and then shrieks when his fingers did in just above the hip. Aggressively tickling her until she’s flat on her back; kicking and squirming and squealing for mercy.  Laughing until she succumbs to loud, painful hiccups. “You’re a dick!” she dramatically pouts and directs an elbow into his side;  still allowing him to draw her tightly against him, a hand coming to rest on the back of her head as he presses a kiss to her temple. “You almost made me pee myself,” she complains, as she rests her head on his shoulder and places her hand over his as its sits on Addie’s back.

“That’s what you get for making an old man joke.”

“I hear that getting extremely sensitive about aging is the first sign of senility,” she teases, and places a kiss just below ear, then to the scar on the side of his neck. And she pulls back to look at it, tracing a finger over the surface.

It’s almost seven years old now but has just begun to appear not as dark or swollen.  It will always be there; no matter much if softens. A lasting reminder of how close to death he’d actually come. Even now there are days where she can barely stand to look at it; filled with either immense sorrow or rage. And others where she feels nothing at all. Where it’s nothing more than one of the various battle wounds that take up residence on his body. She knows every single one and the stories behind them; able to find them with and trace them with her eyes closed.

“It’s really starting to change,” she comments, and then lays her hand on the side of his face and turns his head towards her, kissing him softly.

“It doesn’t both you are much anymore.” It’s more a statement than a question.  

“It never bothered me because of what it looks like. It’s never been about that. It bothered me because of what it represents.”

“You and I do not like at the same way. It reminds you of the end. Or what was almost the end. It reminds me of the beginning.”

She smiles at that and leans in to nuzzle the tip of his nose against his ear. Closing her eyes as she rests her forehead against his cheek, his hand moving from the small of her back to the nape of her neck and then higher; kissing her as he combs his fingers through her hair, pushing it away from her face and off her shoulders.

“You guys aren’t making babies, are you?!” Millie calls, her voice dripping with disgust. “I do not want another brother!”

Tyler chuckles. “This is not how babies are made,” he assures her. “Sometimes it starts out like this and then leads to babies being made.”

His wife scowls. “Don’t touch her things. What’s wrong with you? Amelia, we talked about this. It is not possible to have any more babies. Your dad got neutered.”

“What the fuck?” Tyler mutters. “Don’t tell her that.”

“What do you want me to tell her? You got the snip and had to lie on the couch for two days with a bag of frozen peas on your crotch?”

“You know how you always threaten me with sleeping on the couch? You keep pushing your luck, you’re going to end up there.”

“A full eight hours without you snoring or talking in your sleep? Sign me up. Awww...baby...” she gives a dramatic pout and places a series of kisses along his jaw. “...did I hurt your feelings? Did I upset your delicate sensibilities? I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“I can think of one way that I’ll accept.”

“We only do that once a year. It’s not our anniversary yet. So no, not going to happen. Anything other than THAT.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “Anything?”

“I don’t like that look you get when you ask that.”

“You trust me?” he asks.

“I’m not sure right about now.”

“Just trust me. I’ll go easy on you. I promise.”

She frowns. “You’re not even going to tell me what it is?”

“Nope. You’ll find out. Once the kids go to bed. It’s not that bad, I swear. I wouldn’t do anything that would hurt you or freak you out. It’s tame. For me, anyway.”

“Even at your tamest you’re dirty. With a capital D, so...”

“Trust me,” Tyler implores, then gives her a long, slow kiss before sitting up; one hand on the back of Addie’s head, the other on her bum. Grimacing at the pain that settles in his shoulder and the stiffness in his back. Some days it’s bearable; he can get by without popping any pain meds and time in the water or even standing under a hot shower is all the help her needs. Other days he can barely get out of bed and there isn’t enough medication in the world to even take the edge of. The lasting and crippling souvenir of a hard, punishing life.  

“You need to go and get that checked,” Esme scolds, as she kneels behind him, a palm pressed between his shoulders as she digs the fingers of the other hand into the most troublesome spot: to the right of the spine, on the edge of the shoulder blade. She doesn’t even need to ask anymore. She just knows. Every spot that aches, every trigger point that send pain and numbness shooting his entire arm and settling into his fingers.

“I probably should have gotten it checked when we first moved here.”

“You think, Tyler? You really think? You know what I think? I think we’ve far surpassed it just being a separated shoulder.”

“A fucked up shoulder is more like it,” he says through gritted teeth, then stretches his legs out in front of him and places Addie on his thighs.

“You were supposed to take it easy after the replacement surgery. Not go back to what caused all of the damage in the first place.”

“I don’t need to hear this.”

“Well, you’re going to hear it.”  She wraps her arm around his neck, resting it along his collarbone as she digs her thumb into the most sensitive and painful area of the muscle. Causing a litany of profanities to spill from his mouth; loud enough for Millie to stop what she’s doing and glance over her shoulder, a concerned frown on her face.  “Why did you wait so long?” Esme sighs. “I told you when you got back from New Zealand to go and have it looked at.”

“I just thought it was separated,” he speaks through clenched teeth, his eyes closed. “Then I thought maybe it was just the arthritis flaring up. Now...”

“Something is totally fucked in there. I can feel something moving around. And there’s a lot of clicking and popping going on. You’re probably going to need surgery. Again.”

“Okay Miss Negativity. I don’t need to hear this.”

“You’re going to hear it, you stubborn shit head. What are you going to do if it gives out while you’re training Ovi? Or worse. When you go and rescue his sorry ass. Then what?”

“First, I’m going to dope myself up and hope for the best. Second, there’s no guarantee that I’m going to have go and bail him out of trouble. Let’s just get past the first part, yeah?”

“You’re going to pass the first part because you didn’t go and get your shoulder looked at when you should have. You need to stop worrying about everyone else and take care of yourself for a change.”

“That’s rich. You of all people saying that. Okay....stop...stop...fuck...” he drops his head to his chest; sweat beats across his forehead and trickles down his temples.  

“Are you okay?” She leans in and pecks his cheek. “You look like you’re going to puke.”

“I feel like I’m going to puke.”

“Seriously, Tyler, you need to go and get looked at. I’m not fucking around. Enough is enough. Stop being so...I don’t know...so YOU.”  Heaving a sigh, she sits down beside him one again, one hand rubbing his back comfortingly, the other softly stroking his thigh. “Go and get it check,” she begs. “Please.”

“Nothing can be done about it right now anyway. It would have to wait until the shit with Ovi is done. Then I’ll go. As soon as it’s finished.”

“You better. Because I’m not above being the kind of wife that makes your doctor's appointments for you. You’re worse than the kids sometimes, I swear. They actually listen better than you do.”

“I know. I’m a pain in the ass.”

“Huge. A huge pain in the ass,” she concedes, then tousles his hair. “Did you know Kyle didn’t come home last night?”

He removes the receiving blanket from Addie’s face, smiling down at her as he leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead. “I didn’t know he lived here now.”

“He walked Salena home and never came back. Not until you and Millie left to go into town. You know what that means?”

“He got more action than I did last night?”

“It means that there’s trouble in paradise. Or hell. However you want to look at him and Nik.”

“I don’t look at them at all, so...”

“What is the hold she has on you guys? We’ve established she’s not good in bed. She doesn’t give head so it’s not that either. She doesn’t even have big boobs or a nice ass.”

“First, she doesn’t have a hold on me. She never has. She was there if I wanted it. That’s it. No strings attached. I’d fuck her, she’d leave. That’s as far as it went. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Were your standards that low?”

“I was taking Oxy with booze. What do you think?”

“I think I came along at the right time.”

Tyler nods in agreement.

“You have to admit, Kyle is way too good for her.”

“Don’t drag me into this. I don’t care what either of them do. He wants to marry Nik, let him marry Nik. Who gives a shit? Don’t take it so personally. Do I think it’s fucked he’d hook up with someone that cause shit between us? Of course, I do. But if he's that stupid, he deserves to be miserable.”

“We’d be related to her,” Esme points out.

“And? We’d never have to see her. You think they’d come here all the time or something? Nik would never settle down here. Ever. Trust me.”

“Kyle wants to. Settle down here.”

“He’d never win against her. Stop worrying so much her so much. Yeah, she caused a lot of shit. Or tried to. But it didn’t work and us being together and being happy and having a family? That’s the best revenge against her. Your brother’s a big boy. Let him do what he wants. You can’t stop him from fucking up his life.

“He’s my brother.”

“And? Your brother knowingly got with someone who tried to ruin your life. If you ask me, he deserves whatever shit show he gets with Nik.”

“But...” she runs her fingertips along the top of his hand, then along the smooth metal of his wedding band. “...if we could get him hooked up with Salena....”

“I’m not getting him hooked up with anyone. Leave me out of this. You shouldn’t even be involved in this. We’re adults for fuck sake. Can we concentrate on our own relationship and our kids? Because those two things are all that matters to me.”

“I didn’t realize we were having problems to concentrate on.”

“Did I say there were problems? Other than I think you should mind your own business? Stop...” he drapes his arm across her shoulder and pulls her into him, kissing her temple. “...let’s just worry about what us and what goes on in our own house. Who cares what your brother is doing or who he’s doing it with. He can handle his own shit. He does not need you getting involved.”

“I just think...”

“Esme...”

“...that he...”

“Stop,” he gently orders, then tangles his fingers in her hair and draws her into a kiss. Longer time and more intense; closed mouth upon closed mouth. And the tip of his tongue just brushes against her top lip before he pulls away.

“Okay...” she sighs, and grins when she feels him kiss the tip of her nose. “...that was...nice...”

“Nice? Just nice?”

“Well I can’t show you just HOW nice because there’s little people here. But trust me. It was better than nice.”

“Just let it go. This thing with Nik and your brother.  If he fucks up, he fucks up. He’ll learn his lesson. Let’s just concentrate on us.”

“I hate to break it too you, honey, but if we haven’t been able to concentrate on just us in almost six years. Five kids, remember? Do we even exist outside of being parents anymore? Because I don’t remember the last time it was ‘just us’. And I’m not talking about sex, for the record. So let’s not get into that conversation again. When is the last time we actually went somewhere without out kids?”

“Well it was just you and I in the bathroom this morning while I took a leak and you brushed your teeth.”

“That was a really nice three minutes of connecting with you, I must say. I’ll see you again in another what? Five, six years?”

“You wanted a big family. I was fine with three.”

“Pardon me? You’re the one who wanted a fourth and a fifth. You’re the one who talked me into it, remember? You wanted a half dozen kids and a stay at home wife and I was more than willing to give you what you wanted. So don’t start with that.”

“That means there’s one more to go if we agreed to half a dozen.”

“Oh no!” she laughs. “Don’t you even dare. I am done. I am babied out. You want another one, you go find yourself a second wife to give you more kids. Because this wife is done.”

“One more wouldn’t hurt.”

“It would hurt my vagina, okay. It’s seen five kids already. It’s a hot mess down there.”

“A SEXY hot mess,” he grins, and nudges her playfully with his elbow.  

“You are like the most biased husband on the planet and I love you so fucking much for it,” she wraps her arm around his neck and presses a noisy kiss to his cheek. “No wonder I keep you. You do wonders for my ego.”

“So one more?” He hopefully attempts.

“You’re insane. Why would you go and get the operation done and then decide three months later you made a mistake? Why didn’t you just hold off until after Addie and then we had this discussion?”

“I thought we were done. That was it. Five.”

“Because we agreed we were done. And now you’re changing your mind. Just like you did when Declan was supposed to be the last one. What is wrong with you? What is this overwhelming obsession to breed?”

“It’s not an obsession. I just...I don’t know...” he shrugs, fingers fidgeting with the hem on Addie’s sundress. “...I just want to leave something good behind when I go, I guess.”

“And you’ve made five very good things. Five very beautiful and healthy and incredible things. So why...?”

“I don’t know,” he repeats. “I just wouldn’t mind one more. Even it out.”

“She’s only three weeks old,” Esme reminds him.

“I didn’t say I want one right now. I mean eventually. A year from now. Two years from now.”

“That is not what you’re thinking, and I can tell. That is not what’s going on in your head, Tyler.  This started as soon as all this Ovi crap came about. As soon as you agreed to get back into things, you started thinking about this, didn’t you.”

“Maybe...”

“What’s going on in that mind of yours?” She combs her fingers through his hair, presses a kiss to his cheek. “That beautiful, troubled mind.”

“I don’t know,” Tyler admits.“I just thinking about if things go wrong...if I have to help Ovi and things just get even worse...what have I left behind? Did I do enough? Did my life mean anything?”

“Your life means so much more than you think. To me. To your kids.  Don’t ever doubt that, please. You will have left so much behind. You helped make five amazing little human beings. Who adore you and worship you and think you’re the most amazing man in the entire world. And you know what?”  She curls both arms around one of his “I think you are most amazing, beautiful man in the world, too. You don’t realize it, but you saved me just as much as I saved you. Don’t ever doubt how important you are to me. Or your kids. Okay?”

He nods and places a kiss to her brow before resting his forehead against hers. Sometimes even the biggest and the strongest need to feel appreciated and validated. Even if they’d never admit it out loud.

“And as far as this sixth kid thing goes, can you give me at least a few months? Because right now I’m worn out and sometimes I don’t even know if I can handle the five I already have.”

“Well for what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty fucking amazing.”

“You really are the most biased husband on the planet,” she grins.

“It doesn’t make it less true. And speaking of five kids, where’s The Ginger?”

“He didn’t want to come home from Salena’s and I was not dealing with the tantrum that would have ensued if I’d have forced him. You might be able to carry him all the way from there to here, but he’s damn heavy and I’m not even attempting it.  I told her that you’d come and get him after dinner.”

Tyler groans. “You’re going to send me over there? Do you know what I had to deal with yesterday when she came by here? Twice? Do you know she was checking out my dick?”

“She told me. She’s hardly shy in case you haven’t noticed. She wanted to know how I haven’t been split in two yet.”

“Jesus Christ...”

“What? Sometimes I wonder myself. Are you blushing? Holy shit. Is Tyler Rake blushing? I’ve seen it all now. You’re not usually like this. You usually don’t mind when a woman checks you out.”

“They’re usually not checking out my dick and my wife isn’t usually talking to them about my dick, so...”

“Baby, just so you know, I brag about every part of you. Not just your dick. Did Kyle call?”

“That was a weird transition. Why does he talk about my dick too?”

“I’d be very worried and disturbed if he did. I was wondering where our other children are. If he’s actually surviving out there somewhere with them or if you turned off your cell so he wouldn't call for help...”

“He left a voicemail. Said he’d have them home before bedtime. I said to keep them for a few days but...” he shrugs. “...he didn’t agree to that. Sorry. I tried.”

“You know what means? For the first time since Declan was born, testosterone is not in charge of the house. Now it’s estrogen.  Oh my God, you poor man.”

“You’re not PMS’ing, so I’m okay. I’ve survived almost seven years of that shit every month. I can survive one night.”

“We’ll see about that,” she gives him a wink, then places her hands on his shoulders to help push herself up onto her feet. “I’m getting too old for this shit. You’re going to be picking me up and carrying me to the house one of these days. I think I’m falling apart too.  Millie!” she calls to her daughter. “Let’s go and cleaned up. Daddy’s taking us out on a date.”

Tyler grins. “He is, is he?”

“When you do ever get to go to dinner with two and a quarter beautiful women?”  

“There was this one time in Thailand...”

“No one wants to hear about your conquests, Tyler. And by no one, I mean me.”

“Daddy...” Mille stomps over. “...did you see this shit?” she wildly gestures towards her mother’s feet with the plastic shovel in her hand.

“Millie, just don’t ask. Let your mom be as weird as she wants. I’m used to it.”

“Socks on the beach!” Millie huffs. “What the hell, mom.”

Tyler smirks, and clutches Addie to his chest with one hand, offers the other to Millie and lets her think she’s pulling him to his feet. “I bet you’re extra glad my DNA was stronger the day you were made, aren’t you?”

“So glad,” Millie agrees, and then shrieks when he scoops her effortlessly with one hand, giggling hysterically and her legs kicking as he tucks her under his arm, carrying her ‘football style’.  

“You know...” Esme muses, as she curls an arm around his waist. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe things will go okay. With Ovi.”

“They will,” he promises. And hopes that those words sound more convincing to her ears than they do to his own.

[lux-mentis]

wwdits episode 1x10 (finale) thoughts: 

guillermo working at a panera bread before becoming a vampire’s familiar? we stan. i love panera 

guillermo is self-aware of his lackey-ship. the mention of renfield was a nice touch too--wwdits awards its audience for consuming other vampire media w/ little easter eggs which is quite nice. also, as an aside--i wonder who thought a (i assume to be) taxidermied bear was a good interior decorating choice. probably laszlo & nadja tbh 

guillermo’s vampire-sona is great omg. also he’s an artist?? i love it! just another thing he has in common w/ nandor if we count the pilot & the glitter portrait thingy he did. personally a fan of ‘guillermo the great’ of all the options we were shown

i also wonder if we’ll get anymore dracula parallels--first the renfield reference & then we’ve got guillermo being a descendent of van hellsing. anyway, i’m glad that everyone’s favorite fan theory ended up being true--guillermo’s got a real knack for vampire killing & i’m curious if we’ll get a more serious exploration into this internal struggle (wanting to become a vampire vs. succumbing to his ‘nature,’ that of a vampire hunter) guillermo. in other words, can someone fight against their own destiny? 

awww, nandor’s excitement on having living descendants is super cute. he was so excited to be called a ‘grandpappy’ like alksdjfds i /love/ him. & at the end of the day, not even vampires can live alone--obviously family/culture/history is very important to nandor. 

since i thought the 37 wives line was a throwaway line, i wonder if the fact that nandor only ‘loved’ 35 of his wives has any importance. perhaps they’ll come back as vampires/some other supernatural creature? who knows 

oh also!!! slightly worried that since guillermo sent off the vampires’ dna, this will eventually come back to haunt them in the form of skilled vampire hunters. i mean surely vampire dna would look different/have diff markers than human dna? either way, y i k e s

nadja just carrying around a skull? once again, proving to be a favorite character of mine. this might’ve also been a slight nod to the end of the ep where poor gregor loses his head (again) but idk, it’s a stretch for sure

nandor’s “that wasn’t very nice,” when laszlo & nadja hissed at guillermo was a nice touch. in some ways nandor really is trying to make up for not defending guillermo in the night club... in his own way lol

colin being 100% white was so hilarious--i lowkey hope this was ad-libbed or something lmao 

laszlo better watch out lmao--w/ how he’s treating guillermo, it’s not gonna go well for him if guillermo has a change of heart & joins up a vampire hunter’s group next season (which i doubt would happen but u never know)

in madeline’s defense, if a floating vampire was tapping on my window saying “wakey wakey” while holding a stuffed bear i too would probably just,,, die 

nandor asking guillermo for help in pinpointing what emotion he was feeling (grief) was oddly sweet? he grew attached to madeline so quickly :’( unlike the other staten island vampires, nandor doesn’t seem to heed the ‘don’t get attached to humans’ rule too well. kinda reminds me of the ‘citezenship’ ep where he’s sad abt his home country not existing anymore & he lets his meal go. he still cares abt humans in a way that differs from laszlo & nadja (i.e., nadja immediately turns humans that she is interested in while laszlo has shown zero interest in any human at all).

shout out to the found family trope being represented w/ nadja, laszlo, colin, & guillermo coming to madeline’s funeral. i mean colin left early, but nadja & laszlo stayed for as long as they were physically able to. once again, nandor’s dedication to his bloodline is very sweet, going thru physical pain to say goodbye to madeline 

this ep really solidified how much laszlo & nadja love each other--poor gregor, but i’m sure he’ll be back next season in some capacity. whether thru mentions, flashback, or perhaps even as a zombie (since those were canon in the wwdits movie)? the topiary of nadja must’ve taken laszlo so long to make... we stan forever

the parallels between the finale and the pilot ep were /real/ for guillermo and nandor. while i think nandor has (somewhat) started to show his appreciation for guillermo more, he was upset & in pain so i’m not surprised he lashed out by booping guillermo’s nose & yelled at him. extending his time as a familiar for another yr tho? not nice D: 

this insinuates that nandor actually plans on turning guillermo eventually (like no offense to nandor but i don’t think he’s manipulative/vindictive enough to be stringing guillermo along forever). 

guillermo staking the portraits like oof, he looked so upset over it. i’m guessing that the fallout of submitting his dna (as well as the vamps) will be explored soemwhat in season 2. i could see one of guillermo’s relatives or something tracking him down bc they realize that he has van hellsing blood. like from what we’ve seen, it makes him a natural at killing vampires so... if i were a hunter, i’d want him on my team. & if i were a vampire... well, i’d want him dead. so next season should prove interesting for poor guillermo--maybe less of him being a familiar and more exploring his background, family, and strengths? idk; either way i’m excited™ 

[catsafarithewriter]

"I like you for who you are now. You don't have to change for anyone but yourself." Gimme that good good angst

Some good good angst coming right up! Also, I apologise for the length of this ficlet - the idea was simple, but the execution required a more complex result. (Like, uh, 3.5K-length complex. Enjoy!)

x

“I didn’t give him the ability to love, you know,” the artisan said. He sat by Haru’s sickbed, a cane in hand that mirrored so closely that of his Creation’s. “To care, sure. To empathise with others, now that’s an important part of any hero. But to love?” He shrugged. “That development was not of my doing.”

Haru pushed herself up, ignoring the aches and pains of the last case. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” she said, her voice still hoarse from several days of disuse. 

The artisan shrugged. “Truth be told, it’s quite flattering that one’s own Creation can outgrow its artisan’s intent. That he has come to love not just one, but three individuals shows it to be more than an anomaly.”

There was a pause. 

Haru watched the man who had declared himself to be Baron’s artisan, tired and old and yet not so old as he should be. His eyes still shimmered with a gleam comparable to the gemlike irises of his Creation. Eternal eyes in a haggard face. 

Haru inhaled shakily. Her lungs still hurt from the bruised ribs. “So why do I feel like I’m being singled out?” she asked. “Why talk to me alone? Why not Muta and Toto as well?”

He waved her protests away airily. “The crow is of Baron’s kind, a Creation, and the cat is more magic than mortal after a lifetime in the Creation world, but you…” He inclined his head to her. “You are the mortal link.” 

Haru said nothing. 

The artisan’s gaze moved along the bandage that dominated the entirety of Haru’s right arm. Just one of many scars from the previous case alone. “You had a close call there.”

“But I survived.”

“You won’t always. Even if you - miraculously - somehow avoid an untimely demise through the Bureau’s recklessness, death will one day come for you.”

Haru smiled uneasily. “That’s kinda how life works.”

“Not for an immortal. Not for my Creation, or the crow, or possibly even the cat for a very long time yet. You are the only one for whom death is an inevitably.”

Her smile waned, only lingering because the other option was fear. She leant forward and clung onto the tight-lipped humour as she patted the artisan’s hand. “Thanks, but whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. I’m quite happy being human; I’ve found I’ve rather got used to it.” She braced herself against the sides of her sickbed and began to shift her weight. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m sure the rest of the Bureau are quite worried about me–”

The artisan laughed. Haru froze. 

“Oh, how arrogant you are,” he scorned. “Do you really think this is about you?”

Haru slowly lowered herself back down. 

Curiosity killed the cat, her mind warned.

“Well, I did,” she said slowly, “until you laughed just then and said that. And now I’m thinking there’s some seriously crossed wires going on here.”

“Conceited fool, you’re only important because you matter to him.”

She swallowed nervously. “I have an ego that would argue otherwise.” 

The artisan continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “For whatever reason fate has decided, he has latched onto you as someone to love. Even though he knows it can only end in one way - in heartbreak and sorrow.”

Haru’s smile slipped away entirely. “Okay, I can’t even pretend to find this conversation funny anymore. What do you want.”

“What I want is to ensure that never happens.”

“And how will you do that? Like you said, I am mortal, I will die. Maybe not for years, maybe tomorrow, but I will die. I know that. Baron knows that. You can’t just change that–”

“Says who?”

Haru faltered. “What?”

He leant forward, those telltale eyes glittering. “Immortality is difficult, but not impossible to obtain.”

Haru tilted her head away, as if she could make his words make sense with a simple change of angle. “You’re talking crazy. Even if that was true, even if you did have a way, I’m not looking for immortality, like I said, I’m quite happy being human–”

“But is he?”

“Of course he is–”

“He must endure an eternity while you wither and pass and he is left alone. Why, in all the worlds, would he be happy with that, if he loves you as you know to be true?”

Haru’s mouth snapped shut. It opened and closed a few more times before she found words. “You can’t escape grief,” she eventually croaked. “You can’t protect him from that forever. Sooner or later he will lose someone he cares about, and it may be me, but it may be Muta or Toto, or even someone we haven’t met yet. Death is a fact of life, even for Creations, and he has to learn to live with that.”

“Does he?”

“What other choice does he have?”

“He was not made to love. That was not something I built into him, but something he learnt. As such, he was never made to bear the burden of a broken heart. To love is one thing, to grieve is another. Such an experience outside the scope of his creation could be enough to break him.” His hand curled around Haru’s wrist. “Are you willing to take that risk?”

Haru’s breathing shallowed. One part of her wanted to laugh at the idea, that Baron, her Baron, would simply shatter from the loss of her - not because she doubted he loved her, but because she knew he loved Muta and Toto also. He was not alone. And he loved his job. He loved the Sanctuary, and the adventure, and he loved people. He had more to live for than just her, and she loved him for it. 

And yet. 

And yet another part of her knew how uneasily he wore his immortality. How her own fragility haunted him in a way it did not haunt her. He never said as much, but she saw it in the way he worried for her, watched her, as if she might vanish in a heartbeat. As if he was trying to sear their precious moments together into his mind forever. 

He had never grieved. 

She would probably be his first. 

She exhaled, and realised she’d been holding her breath. “What do you have in mind?”

The artisan procured an apple from his bag, a simple, ruby-red apple, and Haru couldn’t help thinking of fairytale warnings and other unsettling allegories. “Fruit grown in the fae world,” he said. “One bite, and you will become immortal. Stronger. Hardier. A fitting companion for a Creation such as mine.” 

She eyed the fruit, and something inside her twisted. She shook her head, sharply. “No. No, I don’t want it.”

“Don’t make the mistake of forgetting this isn’t about you,” he snarled. “I will not allow the Creation I poured my heart and soul into to be destroyed by someone like you. If that requires a little immortality, then so be it.” 

“It’s about me the moment my life became involved,” she retorted. “And Baron outgrew your expectations once; he’ll do it again. He’s stronger than you give him credit for.”

The artisan didn’t move, and Haru could feel him weighing up her conviction. Then the hostility faded, and he straightened. He placed the apple on Haru’s bedside table. “Keep it,” he said. “You will come to realise I’m right eventually.”

“And if I don’t?”

Those eyes glimmered. “Then you have to ask yourself one thing. Do you really love him?”

x

The Bureau was quiet after the chaos of the last case. Muta and Toto had been banished from the Sanctuary for bickering, Baron citing the doctors’ prescription of rest and respite for Haru. Haru hadn’t really minded. At least it had been entertaining.

Curled up across the sofa with book in hand, she dropped her head back to watch Baron, his back to her while he washed up the tea cups. 

“So,” she said eventually, “that was your artisan.”

Baron gave a humourless chuckle. “What did you think of him?”

“I don’t like him.”

Another chuckle. “That’s blunt, Miss Haru, even for you.”

“You don’t really like him either, do you?”

Baron paused at his task, his back still to Haru, but there was surprise in the way he held himself. “Is it that easy to tell?”

“Only because I know you so well.” Haru pulled herself up, crossing her legs atop the sofa cushions and straightening. “Does he know?”

Baron’s stance shifted as he went back to washing up. “Probably. But I don’t think it matters to him.”

“Why not? He created you.”

“What does that change?”

“After putting his heart and soul into making you, there must be… something.” Haru thought back to her own fraught conversation with the artisan, and added, “You’re not nothing to him.”

“Maybe not,” Baron conceded, “but pride doesn’t correlate with care. One would not want a prized art piece to break, but that still doesn’t make it anything more than a possession.”

Haru’s mouth twitched into a scowl. “You’re not a possession.”

He still didn’t turn to her, but there was the tinge of amusement in his voice. “I know that, Miss Haru, and you know that, and that’s all that matters.” He faltered as Haru circled her arms around him, her head resting against his shoulder blades. “Miss Haru, I believe the doctors prescribed minimal movement while you recover.”

“Hugs don’t count,” she mumbled into his back. She held onto him, breathing in his scent of tea and mint, and wondered if he was thinking how fleeting the moments were also. If he felt like time was slipping away from them, even now. She inhaled again. “He offered me immortality.”

Baron stilled, and suddenly he was more figurine than figure. “Why?”

“He said he was worried about you having a mortal companion,” she muttered.

“What kind of immortality?” 

“Fruit from the fae world.”

She felt him exhale, and although the tension loosened, there was still a hoarseness to his voice. “You didn’t take it,” he said. 

“How can you be so sure?”

He lowered the tea cup he had still been holding, and finally half-turned to face Haru. “I would be able to tell,” he answered. “That kind of immortality… it comes with a cost. It’s true that you would never die, but neither would you truly live. You’d become like one of the fae. Temporal. Restless. One part of you would always be in their world.” He tilted his head, eyes so alike to his artisan’s and yet so different in every way that mattered, meeting hers. “You would no longer be the Haru I know.”

Haru’s smile was wan. “Just as well I didn’t eat then, isn’t it?”

“Were you tempted?”

“To be immortal?” She scoffed, and hoped it didn’t sound as hollow as it felt. “No thanks. I’m quite happy the way I am.”

I was never tempted for myself…

Baron nodded. “Good. Immortality never comes without a price. Even if you can’t see it at first.” He looked at her a moment longer, that same look as if he was trying to burn the memory of here and now - of her and him - into an eternal memory. “And, just for the record, I like you for who you are now. You don’t have to change for anyone but yourself.”

“I know,” she murmured. She sighed and dropped her head against his shoulder, and for a moment the world was quiet and calm and simple. “I know.”

Then you have to ask yourself one thing. 

Do you really love him?

x

“Shit, shit, shit, move, move, move!” Haru bundled the survivors towards the crackling portal, its fizzling surface spluttering as the connection between the two worlds faltered. They had thirty, maybe forty seconds, before it gave way entirely. The portal flared orange. Twenty. 

Haru caught Baron by the elbow. “Baron, it’s about to collapse!” she roared over the chaos. “You need to get over there and help Toto stabilise it!”

“I’m not going without you!”

She gestured to the people she was still herding. “One of us needs to get everyone through, and I don’t have any magic to help Toto.” Red. The portal was red. “Baron, now!”

He gave her one last look, and then nodded and disappeared into the fire-red depths. Haru motioned for the survivors to wait, aware that Baron could endure the journey, but she couldn’t be so sure about mortals. Red. Orange. And back to crackling yellow. Not ideal, but a damn sight better than before. 

She started people back through the portal just as colour began to leech from the world. The portal had thirty seconds. The world probably had twenty.

Only a dozen people left to go, and the world was greyscale now. 

Five. Everything was black and white. 

The last person stepped through and the ground gave way beneath Haru’s feet. The portal was orange, but without a world to anchor it, it sputtered and flared and an explosion of magic and colour ripped into Haru. She was thrown across the expanse of nothingness that the collapsing world had become. 

x

After what may have been seconds, or hours, or days, she opened her eyes. 

The world was quiet now. 

She was the only source of colour in the featureless void. She would have called her surroundings white, except that would have implied colour, instead of the true absence of anything it was. She floated there, a lone anomaly of existence in the void the world had left behind, wondering what her options were now. 

She probably couldn’t rely on a rescue. They’d had a hard enough time connecting to a world that didn’t want to be found, let alone one that no longer existed anymore. So that ruled out waiting. 

And she didn’t have any magic, so magicking her way back wasn’t even an option. 

Usually, in these kinds of situations, now would be a good time to take stock of the resources at hand and what they knew. Well, she was alone surrounded by quite literally nothing, and even the Bureau’s understanding of how the void between worlds worked was highly theoretical at best. So… a no-go on that too. 

She floated for a while, aware that she should be terrified - she was facing almost certain death - but found the emotion not forthcoming. Probably something to do with being nowhere. It scrambled all the usual survival instincts. So, on the plus side, at least it didn’t look like she was about to go into mental meltdown mode. Yet. There was still plenty of time. 

She floated for a bit longer, except she wasn’t sure for quite how long, since time didn’t seem to work properly outside a designated world. Her gaze travelled down her arms - it wasn’t as if there was much else to look at - and that’s when she noticed the splatter of colour adorning her sleeves. 

Except, no, it couldn’t be just colour, that would be ridiculous, even for here. She brushed a finger against the blob smearing her elbow and it peeled easily off, at first like dried glue, but as it drifted upwards (downwards? There wasn’t exactly gravity to gauge off) it expanded out into 3D, pulling itself into a bubble and aimlessly floated by her side. A tingle of loose energy buzzed along her skin and she realised it wasn’t colour - not just colour, anyway - but magic. 

The exploding portal…

Her mind was already racing, throwing off the cobwebs of the void. What she was seeing didn’t make sense in the context of any world she’d ever been in, but out here, in the void, the rules were different. Out here, magic wasn’t limited by the usual demands of reality. Out here, it seemed, magic could take on entirely other forms. 

She rolled the blob - it was purple - between her fingers, marvelling at the fact she was touching pure magic. She was probably the first person ever - or, late least, the first person to get home to tell anyone about it. And she was going home. She had a plan now. 

She began to peel more colour-magic stains from her clothes. 

For there wasn’t a lot known about the void between worlds, other than it was a bad place to get stranded, and Haru was well aware of that now, but one of the things most heavily theorised was the concept of potential. 

Worlds were born and created and made space for themselves in this void; the logic was that in order to do that, the void had to be flexible enough to allow all the conflicting worlds to coexist within it. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to get worlds with completely different passages of time, or rules of magic that outright contradicted each other, or even the concept of souls operating differently (externally, in one particularly memorable world). the void had the potential for any of these worlds to exist and so, the logic went, since it was responsive to that, one would potentially be able to influence rules in the void simply on will alone. 

Of course, that was a lot of theorising, because no one had actually ever tried. Or, at least, tried and lived to tell the tale. Which, as far as reassuring thoughts went, was pretty far down on the scale. 

Still. One plan was better than none. 

She amassed more magic remains, and now it was beginning to sizzle as her intent poured into it. The void was susceptible to belief and, right now, Haru was a whole mess of belief and intent and everything else the potential responded to. She pictured the portal it had shattered from; she remembered the way the magic would crackle over her skin as she passed through it, and the way home, and the people she needed to get back to. 

Suddenly it expanded out and the swirling eddy of magic became a portal. Before it could slip away or she could lose control, she gripped her hands into, through the portal, and heaved herself through. Pressure shifted. She felt like all the air had been kicked out of her, and then she was drowning in air, and then she fell through into a world that was all too real and solid and bright. 

Her knees hit the cobbled street of the Sanctuary, and she had to bite her tongue to catch the curse before it slipped. The gasp gave way to laughter. Real, loud, almost tangible laughter that bounced off the miniature houses and echoed back to her. 

She was home. 

“Haru?”

Her entrance had been rather dramatic. Someone was bound to notice. She picked her head up and grinned at the form of Baron in the Bureau doorway. He was holding his hat and cane, like he had mistaken her arrival for a client and was preparing for some dramatics of his own. 

As he saw her, the cane clattered to the ground.

“You’re alive?”

Her grin froze. “What?”

The hat followed after the cane and he approached her, stopping just shy of within arm’s length. There was a shadow in his eyes, like he was afraid to be relieved. He started to reach out, and then haltered. “How…?”

“Improvisation. A lot of luck. And a little bending of reality’s rules.” She couldn’t let the smile fade entirely, for panic would take its place. “How long have I been gone?”

“A month.”

“Did you think I was…?”

“After the portal collapsed, we couldn’t get it up again,” Baron said, his voice hoarse. He still looked like he was meeting a ghost. Which she was, she supposed. His gaze couldn’t quite meet hers. “We thought the world had collapsed. And people don’t come back from the void between worlds.” 

“Well, here I am,” she said, weakly attempting humour. “Ta-da. Back.” 

“So I can see.” 

A heartbeat passed. Neither moved. 

Gently, Haru said, “It really is me.” She reached out, bridging the gap that Baron couldn’t bring himself to cross, a hand tentatively curling around his. “I’m here. I’m alive.” 

At the contact, something seemed to break. A wall. Or something. He abruptly stepped up to her and Haru barely registered before she was pulled into a sudden, uncharacteristic embrace. She could feel his breath rattling through him, shuddering through his lungs in heaving gasps that spoke of unshed tears, and the knowledge that her loss had broken something vital in him. 

She hesitantly returned the embrace, drawing him closer and letting her sure heartbeat calm his. 

“I’m here,” she echoed. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

x

“He must endure an eternity while you wither and pass and he is left alone.”

x

Haru stared at the apple atop her desk. It still looked as fresh and ripe as the day Baron’s artisan had given it to her. Immortal fruit for an immortal life, she supposed.

How fitting.

x

“Why, in all the worlds, would he be happy with that, if he loves you as you know to be true?”

x

She picked up the apple. 

“Sorry, Baron.”

x

Then you have to ask yourself one thing.

Do you really love him?

[starswornoaths]

Stay.

Over the years, Serella has found herself with many, many members in her little chosen family. Many of whom have already left, whisked away in slumber. There are only a few left to whom she hasn’t said goodbye. On her last night on this star, that changes.

Or:

Absolutely do not, under any circumstances, read this while listening to “Goodbye may seem Forever” from Fox and the Hound 0/10 sobbed while editing.

Word count: 2,836

Ordinarily, Serella loved riding through the Highlands on Ullr’s back. It was liberating, that feeling of the sharp chill of crisp Coerthan air lashing at her face and the howl of the wind in her ears as they raced through the snowy pathways and foothills around Camp Dragonhead. While certainly not so freeing as flying overhead, there was something special about feeling her bird trot against the resistance of several inches of powdery snow that glittered like stardust as he kicked it up in his wake. On another sort of outing on any other picturesque day she would happily hop off to play in the snow with her beloved bird— for how else would they stay young, otherwise?

Today, however, Serella rode from Mor Dhona straight into Camp Dragonhead with a heavy heart and a hard set mask of stoicism. She dismounted and led him to the stables, though yet lingered at her faithful friend’s side: she was waiting for someone, after all. Ullr doubtless sensed her dread, as he trilled in that questioning way that seemed to ask her, Mama, what’s wrong? Her heart squeezed in her chest, even as she forced herself to smile as she gave his side an affectionate pat.

“It’s alright, boy,” she reassured him, even as she knew it was a lie. “It’s alright, this...this shouldn’t take long.”

One of the passing knights recognized her, and reassured her that Lord Emmanelain would be out shortly. She thanked him and busied herself with slowly removing Ullr’s saddlebags one at a time to add to her own backpack. Even as she was mindful of the straps lest they chaffe him as she worked she felt her eyes sting— a stinging that persisted as Ullr reached over and gently nipped at the saddlebag she was now working to fasten to her own pack.

Another softly questioning wark came, as if asking, Mama, what are you doing?

The cold must be drying her eyes, Serella thought, and blinked back her tears as she lifted the second of the saddlebags and strapped it to her own pack as well; they weren’t that much heavier, she had emptied them before they left. 

“Hey there, old girl,” she heard a familiar, boyish voice call to her, “good to see you again.”

She straightened, intent on answering Emmanellain in that calm, collected voice she had been practicing for what felt like a lifetime when a happy bark sounded in the camp’s stone walls. She whipped her head around to see her brave little brother standing just outside of the stable looking at her like he was scared to his wits end, her mother beside him with eyes already haunted for her childrens’ absence, and her sweet, excitable canine bounding over like a bolt of lightning.

That she had not been expecting— and the surprise disarmed her of her staunch stoicism.

“Ma— Vardr—?!” She didn’t even care her voice broke or that her eyes swam with tears as she knelt to catch her sprinting companion.

He nearly barreled her over in his enthusiasm but she managed to keep knelt, even as she was bombarded with licks and tail wags and his happy whines. She attempted to soothe him around her own tears: she hadn’t realized just how much she had missed her pets, and felt Rhalgr’s absence more keenly than she had in recent weeks. She hoped her fuzzy cat was napping by her fireplace malms away in Foundation, keeping nice and warm.

“What are you doing here, boy?” She asked as he calmed down enough to sit in front of her and let his thump excitedly. 

“Brought him from your house— on orders from a bluebird chirping in my ear.” Myrina said from somewhere above her: she must have stepped inside the stable at some point. She couldn’t bring herself to stand just yet when Vardr was so starved for her affection— and she for his, really. “And lest you worry, I’ll be glad to take him home once we’re done here— needed an excuse to stretch my legs, anyroad.”

Though she was wholly and utterly delighted at being able to see Vardr again, her mother’s words gave her pause: a bluebird— Aymeric? He had been one of a few to know that she was travelling to Camp Dragonhead for personal reasons; she’d had to report it to all of the Alliance leaders lest they need her counsel, and never mind the way her stomach churned at the discovery of that particular requirement for the job and the revelation that this was just how Minfilia had lived; she hadn’t the wherewithal to unpack the emotions she felt with that. Much as she adored the other leaders of the Alliance, she doubted very much any of them save for him could contact her mother— or would even know to— in advance. We’re supposed to be neutral, the sweet fool, she thought with infinite fondness even as her heart twisted in her chest.

In the wake of everything that she was going to have to do and everything that was in front of her, Serella had somehow skipped past feeling overwhelmed by her emotions and had numbed herself enough to stand without fear of crying all over again.

“Pray tell your bluebird that I’m so grateful for this—” she thanked Myrina before turning to her brother, “— and thank you as well, of course,” she amended, trying to smile even as it felt like her skin was being pulled too tight from the already fleeting cheer. Like snow in springtime it rapidly evaporated, and she asked in a quieter voice, “how fare you? Are you sure this isn’t too much trouble?”

“Oh come now, old girl, give me some credit!” Emmanelain dismissed, holding a finger up. “I might not be quite so adept as Haurchefant had been in chocobo husbandry, but I know how to care for a full grown bird— who do you think Artoirel foisted all his stable boy duties on when we were children?”

The thought of Artoirel being the one to shove off work in their youth had Serella snorting in laughter; little wonder Emmanelain had been so quick to shirk off his own duties when they had first met.

“I was more worried about overwhelming you— you have so many other duties now.” Serella explained, even as she had continued to pet Ullr and Vardr in turns. 

“If Camp Dragonhead can’t provide for a spare chocobo, then I am already not doing my job.” Emmanellain replied with pursed lips. “And if anything changes to where we cannot, he will be taken care of at the Holy Stables.” He clapped a hand over his heart. “I swear I’ll see to it myself.”

“I never had a doubt in my mind,” Serella reassured him, though with a wince she hesitantly asked the two of them, “...might I finish stabling him? Say my goodbyes?”

“I would have insisted you do regardless,” her younger brother reassured her.

“It’s only right,” Myrina said, a hand coming up to pat at Ullr’s beak. “Poor dear already suspects, most like.” 

With a jerk of his head toward the path leading out of Camp Dragonhead, Emmanellain said, “go on, we can wait outside. Need us to take Vardr?”

“Nah, he can stay— he’ll howl otherwise.” Moving back inside Ullr’s pen, she patted her thigh. “Come on, boy.” 

Pleased as a goobue in mud, Vardr happily flopped down beside her as Emmanellain and Myrina quietly excused himself. Ullr preened his chest tuft nervously as she worked to remove his saddle and bridle. With her chocobo fully freed of his riding gear and her dog faithfully leaning against her leg she took her time carefully brushing out Ullr’s feathers; she had noticed that he had begun to look a bit lathered as they came into the Highlands. 

It was soothing, the back and forth repetition of feeling the brush drift through his feathers. She had always taken great pride in taking care of him herself; even the thought of this being goodbye, even for just a short while, made her insides knot themselves with guilt. Ullr fussed and whined, and he must have realized something was different about this time, she realized with the way he kept turning to look at her, kept trying to nip her hands to stop her from brushing him. To calm him, she began to quietly hum as she often did when brushing him. Though Ullr quieted, he seemed to eye her dubiously as she went about tending to him.

“I won’t be around for a while, boys,” she spoke quietly when her song ended and the brushing stopped. “I have to find all your aunts and uncles— I’ve told you about what happened, haven’t I?”

Vardr made a low, questioning noise and she felt him press his forehead to her thigh to tip his head back and look up at her. She did not meet his stare— she had fallen into a sort of melancholic trance, tending to Ullr as she was.

“They’re all sleeping, and I have to...to wake them up again. So you’ll have to take care for me, alright?” She made to sweep the feathers that had shed naturally off when impulse demanded she take a few of them and carefully tuck them away in her breastplate; Ullr was the only one she could conceivably take a part of with her, she reasoned. “Be on your best behavior, the both of you.” Ullr turned his head and gently bumped his beak against her cheek. She stroked the downy soft feathers between his eyes. “Don’t give Emmanellain a hard time; he’s doing his best. You know the stable hands: they’re good about keeping your hay fresh and your stall clean, so no pecking them if they forget your salt block once or twice, alright?” 

Vardr let out a startled snort when she moved to stand in front of Ullr, the poor dog being jarred from leaning against her leg as she shifted. She leaned down to give him an apologetic pat when he came to sit beside her again. She returned her attention to her horsebird when she heard a stable hand discreetly clear his throat. 

“Time for me to go now.” She pressed her forehead gently against Ullr’s and gave his head one last scritch. “I love you, Ullr. Be a good boy for me, alright?”

When Serella turned Ullr grabbed the hood of her cloak with his beak. When she turned to free herself, a heat already behind her eyes as she took her hood back, Ullr let out a mournful wark, pleading, Mama, stay?

“Now, now,” her chastisements were warbled through her unshed tears, even as she took a step backward out of his reach. “What did I just say? Be good for me, Ullr. I’ll be back.”

She patted her thigh again, and tried to ignore the way Ullr wailed at being held in his pen. The stable hand tried to calm him, but even as she stepped out into the snow, she could hear him butting his side against the door in protest. She quietly apologized to him: she had always been bad at hiding her upset from him.

Vardr fell into step beside Serella as she walked toward the path leading back through to Mor Dhona, where Emmanellain and Myrina waited for her at the edge of the camp. She felt her already lead filled stomach sink to the floor the closer she neared; three more goodbyes, and that would be all that held her to this star. As she came to a stop in front of them, she tried to claw at what remains of her stoicism she could find within her.

“Well, this is it.” Emmanellain said with a heavy sigh. “Suppose you’re heading straight out, then?”

“To linger would just make it more painful.” Serella reasoned. “They...they need me. And I’m faring little better without them.”

Myrina nodded in understanding. “You’re certain you have all you might need on the road?” She asked with a frown.

“It isn’t far,” she replied distantly, though after a pause, she amended, “...to the tower. I...I can’t take much with me past that, or so I’m told.”

The youngest Fortemps nodded grimly. “And...you’re alright with that?”

“No. But I haven’t a choice.” Serella shrugged. Turning to her mother and giving her the biggest hug she could manage, she whispered, “thank you for bringing Vardr with you for me to say goodbye, Ma— it means more than I can say.”

“Seemed only right.” Myrina sniffed. “Wish your brother was here.”

“He...he didn’t want to say goodbye in person.”

“I know. I got his letter. It’s...enough.” The way Myrina squeezed her daughter until her shoulders popped gave away the lie. “I can’t fathom the pain you two suffered in mourning your father and I. Don’t...don’t put me through that.” 

“We’ll be back as soon as we can, Ma.” Serella hoped that what strength she had was enough to hold her mother together for even a few seconds longer. 

“You’d damn well better be.” Myrina reached up on her tip toes and kissed her cheek. “I love you, little Ella.” 

“I love you, too, Ma.” With a sniffle and a kiss to her forehead, Serella let go. When her mother stepped back, her brother hesitantly came forward.

“Serella.” Emmanellain said in a serious tone, all pretense of his own boyhood gone. She looked at him, then— really looked at him, and saw that he was trying just as hard as she was to hold himself together. “This isn’t...do not call it ‘goodbye,’ alright?” He pointed an accusing finger at her. “You adventurer types like those, but I deny your goodbye!” Tears welled in his eyes— and hers. “You will come home, you hear me? I accept naught less!”

“...I promise.” She said, and all pretense of Ishgardian mannerisms went out the window when he launched himself at her for a hug. She squeezed him tight enough that she felt his ribs creak. He only clung to her tighter. “We’ll come back, just you see.”

“You had better!” He sniffled into her collar. “Ullr will never forgive you otherwise— nor will I!”

“I know, brother mine,” she yessed him through her own tears— she had not realized she had so many of them to shed today. “I know. I love the lot of you too damned much to stay gone, you know that.”

“You had better.” He mumbled, going slack as if in defeat.

He was the first to let go and step away, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. Taking the opportunity for what it was, she knelt down one last time to speak with Vardr.

“You watch over the others for me, yeah?” She asked him, and when he whined, she placed her hand atop his head. “I love you, Vardr.”

It didn’t surprise her when he started to trot along after her when she stood and turned to leave. She had anticipated it, and turned to look down at him over her shoulder. She held out her closed fist— a command she had taught him early.

“Stay.” She ordered him.

Vardr whined, pawing at the snow in front of him. Myrina knelt down and took hold of his collar, nodding at her sternly to go. 

Serella left, and did not look back again. She pretended that Vardr’s mournful howling was just the wind of the encroaching snow storm. Eventually, that was all she heard besides.

By the time she had made her way into Mor Dhona, past the settlement, and into the crystal forest surrounding Syrcus Tower, she had managed to take an old hairpin she had found in Eureka and refashion it with Ullr’s feathers. She had pinned it in her hair out of want for having something there— the dramatic in her demanded she leave her Orthodox hairpin with Aymeric in the infirmary before they parted— again— and she had not realized how familiar its slight weight was on her head until she went without. 

It felt oddly final, when she walked past the first gate to the tower. There was still yet the disabled wards to walk passed, but something about the heavy thud of the doors closing behind her felt...permanent in a way she did not want to dwell on. 

I’ll come back. And I’ll bring everyone with me. She promised herself, and that alone made her legs push her onward. She had someone she needed to meet up ahead, anyroad. No sense in keeping him waiting.

Uthengentle did not comment on the new hairpin when he eyed it upon her arrival to the doors of Syrcus Tower. Instead, he offered her a tired smile and put away his whittling. Not even left home, and it was clear the shadows had already caught up to haunt both their eyes.

“Well, Ellie,” he said in a weary voice, “ready to save the world again?”

“As ever.” She replied, just as exhausted, and felt like she left everything that was home the second they stepped through the doors. 

[heather1815]

My little test subject: Chapter 15

Chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4, chapter 5, chapter 6, chapter 7, chapter 8, chapter 9, chapter 10, chapter 11, chapter 12, chapter 13, and chapter 14

Angsty Tomtord fic with slight Paultryk on the side.

Warning! This fic contains: Foul language, scenes of torture, use of medical tools, drug use, self-harm, suicidal tendencies, violence, self-neglect, blood, and a little bit of stockholm syndrome and force feeding. Viewer discretion is advised.

A cold bitter wind swept over the town like an icy wave. Patches of snow covered the streets and sidewalks, glittering under the sunlight. Cars roared up and down the roads spewing fumes into the air; visible by the contrast in temperatures.

Exiting the department store, Eduardo breathed out an exasperated sigh; releasing a puff of steam into the air.

He absolutely hates to be away from work for long periods of time, but Mark had insisted they go out shopping together today. Eduardo didn't mind too much at first, seeing as how he is running low on basic goods and needs to replenish his stock.

Loud chattering following close behind him elicited a tired groan from Eduardo, and he kept on moving.

"Wowie! I can't believe I never considered getting a membership here – this store has absolutely everything! And for such a cheap price too!" Matt exclaimed joyfully as he walked out of the store alongside Mark, carrying shopping bags on both hands.

Eduardo rolled his eyes and frowned. He couldn't understand Mark's logic of inviting the ginger doofus to tag along with them. Hadn't they agreed to only make peace with their neighbours? Why is Mark being so friendly towards the airhead?

If Eduardo had to make a hunch; he'd suspect Mark was just happy to find someone with shared interests to hang out and go shopping with. Now that they are no longer rivals, it seems that the two narcissists have found each other like in those lame soul mate romance novels and saw how much they got in common.

Of course, if Mark wants to go ahead and be pals with their neighbour, he is more than free to do so. Especially since Eduardo doesn't have to allow or forbid anything in his life. But does Mark have to try and involve him on it constantly?

He tuned out their voices as they continued on their way home.

Matt jovially laughed at their shenanigans. He'd been spending more time with the duo over the past week. Ever since they made peace, Matt looked forward to their next "self-care" session. Eduardo is still pretty terrifying and he doesn't stick around for very long for Matt to really interact with him; but Mark just naturally clicks with him. It's nice to have someone who understands you.

"Anyways, how is Edd doing?" Mark inquired Matt after their laughter died down. "I don't believe I've seen you two together once since we moved in."

At the question, Matt's stomach tightened and he avoided the blond's gaze; searching for something to say. "Edd is... fine, I guess." He mumbled. "He's been pretty busy lately, so I haven't seen him as much as I used to."

"Well, sounds an awful lot like a certain someone that I know." Mark shot a pointed glare at Eduardo, who walked a pace ahead of them and merely huffed in response to the comment.

Worry jabbed Matt's chest as he reflected back on his current predicament with Edd. His first and brief meeting with Reagan haunted him. He can't shake the notion that there is something deeper going on. He gave a lot of thought to this situation to find the best way to go about this without upsetting Edd, and in the end, Matt decided he'll talk to the brunet as soon as he can.

Doubt gnawed away at him. I just need to play it cool – act natural! Matt reasoned nervously the closer to home he got. Edd won't suspect anything if I'm laid back.

His thoughts came to a crashing stop when his feet suddenly slipped on the icy ground as they were crossing the street, and Matt fell forward. Letting out a startled yelp, he instinctively raised his arms out in front of his face as the ground neared. "Ah! Not the face!" However, a hard tug on the back of his coat quickly put an end to his fall.

Matt looked up wide-eyed as he was hauled back to his feet, and realized that it was Eduardo who saved him from a nasty fall.

"Watch your step, dumbass!" The burly brunet scolded.

Gratitude flooded through Matt and he nodded fervently. "Y-yes! Thank you, Eduardo!" He squeaked, shrinking back a little out of fear. Please don't punch me! He closed his eyes and begged silently.

But Eduardo simply released his hold on him and walked away. Matt blinked in surprise. He's amazed that he hadn't received a punch yet, not even once since he started hanging with the duo. Eduardo hasn't so much as raised a fist at him so far. That gave Matt comfort, though he's still pretty weary of him.

He continued to chat with Mark for the reminder of their journey home, talking about more beauty tips and things they could do together.

"I guess I should start getting dinner ready, huh?" Mark spoke up, looking down at his watch as they climbed the steps to the hallway of their home. "Since it's pretty cold today, how about we have a good ol' beef stew?" He suggested.

"Sounds good to me!" Eduardo agreed. Being so busy with his work and having no culinary skill whatsoever, it's times like this he really appreciates his companion's wonderful cooking ability.

"You are invited to join us if you want, Matt." Mark continued, turning to address the ginger next to him. Eduardo resisted the temptation to roll his eyes and groan in frustration.

"Oh! Thank you!" Matt sheepishly scratched the back of his head. "I'll just… I think I will check on Edd first, and see how he is doing."

Mark nodded in understanding. "No problem. It will be a while before dinner is ready, but I'll leave my door unlocked for you!"

"Good! Guess I can take this chance to get back to work while we wait-"

Eduardo was about to stalk off to his own apartment when his ear was grabbed and pulled back abruptly by none other than Mark.

"Oh no you don't!" The blond man admonished. "You're not getting away so easily this time, Eduardo! I already let you off the hook last time and I had to set everything up by myself. But today you're going to help me prepare dinner!"

"Ow! Are you mad?" Eduardo exclaimed indignantly, trying to pull away. "Do you want me to set the food on fire?"

Mark huffed as he dragged the protesting brunet by the ear to his apartment. "Don't be so dramatic! It's high time you learned how to cook anyway."

Matt giggled as he watched the pair argue. They seem angry at each other, but he knew this quarrel was entirely good-natured. Mark and Eduardo have the tendency to get into a lot of arguments with each other for the littlest things; but they never escalate to dangerous levels.

When they had gone, Matt quickly put away his shopping bags aside, and padded up to Edd's apartment door. "Edd?" He called out and knocked. "Are you there? I'd like to talk to you." He pressed his ear against the door.

"Come in!"

Hearing the muffled cheery greeting through the door gave Matt hope. He must be in a good mood today!

At the invitation, Matt walked right in. The room was bright, the curtains drawn back to let sunlight filter through. Seated in the dining table, Edd leisurely sipped a mug of coffee with a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast in front of him. Ringo weaved her way around the chair, tail held high as she rubbed against her owner's leg.

"Hey Matt!" Edd smiled and waved tiredly.

Mirroring her owner's voice, Ringo meowed a particularly loud greeting as well; melting Matt's heart. But he did not gush over her for long, as his gaze settled on the contents on the table.

"Hey! Uh, are you… having breakfast right now?" Matt couldn't help but ask, confusion evident in his voice. It's nearly four in the afternoon, for crying out loud!

Edd chuckled. "Yeah. I woke up a little while ago." He broke off into a yawn. "I came home later than usual last night."

The brunet seems so upbeat as he scarfed down his meal. Matt can't recall another moment as of late where Edd behaved like his old self. This was how he used to look, back when there were three of them; for a while, after Tom's death, Matt had been afraid that this Edd had vanished forever.

Upon closer look though, Matt realized there were dark bags under Edd's eyes. Sensing his stare, Edd blinked back at him. "What is it?" He asked, words muffled by a mouthful of food.

"Were you out with Reagan last night by any chance?" Matt asked.

"Yup!"

"But I thought you only went out with Reagan on Wednesdays and Saturdays?" Matt inquired, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He is pretty sure yesterday was a Tuesday.

"I do. But apparently a client of Reagan's or something cancelled their plans together, and he invited me to hang out instead." Edd explained calmly, taking another bite out of his meal.

Pulling out a chair for himself, Matt sat down next to him; remembering his own advice of playing it cool. Since they're on the topic of Reagan, he might as well just go with the flow from here. Matt took a deep breath. "So… who exactly is this Reagan fellow anyway?"

He looked down at his hands nervously, bracing himself for Edd's humour to drop – thinking perhaps he overstepped his boundaries in asking. But when Matt looked up again, there was nothing in his friend's eyes except for intense interest.

"Reagan… well, he's an… interesting guy." Edd began coolly. "To be honest, I am not entirely sure what he does. But he is staying in town for a little while." He paused to take a sip of his coffee. "He doesn't know his way around the place, so he asked if I could be his guide during this period, and I said yes."

Matt thought over his words carefully. "Oh so… this isn't a permanent thing then?"

"Haha no." Then Edd's expression darkened as realization dawned on him. He had been having so much fun going out with Reagan, he hadn't considered that the Irishman isn't going to stick around town forever. What will he do when the time comes to say goodbye? "No I… I guess not." He muttered dejectedly, his posture sagging.

Sensing his sudden shift in humour, Matt panicked; desperately searching for a new topic to change to before things go downhill. But his mind was running so fast he couldn't think of anything appropriate to say or do. What do I do?

"Mrrrow!"

Coming to his rescue, Ringo hopped onto her owner's lap and peered at the food intently. Edd laughed, running his hands through her soft tabby fur. "Why you cheeky little thief! You've been eyeing my breakfast this whole time, haven't you?" He teased, blocking the food out of Ringo's sight. She mewed indignantly and tried pawing his hand aside. "Don't be so edgy! I just filled your food bowl. It's over there if you're hungry."

Matt laughed as the brunet placed the cat back on the ground. Thank you, Ringo!

"Anyway, what have you been up to?" Edd asked casually.

"Oh, nothing much honestly." Matt confessed, leaning back on his chair. "I haven't added anything new to my collection of trinkets in quite a while now. I've been hanging around Mark and Eduardo a lot lately. And there isn't anything new to watch on Webflick either-"

"Wait, what?"

Matt went rigid with alarm. Had he been too laidback? "What?" He echoed in confusion.

"You've been hanging with Mark and… Eduardo?" Edd spoke the last name with a mixture of venom and disbelief in his voice.

"Yeah?" Matt still wasn't sure what the big deal is. "I already told you they don't plan to bother us anymore."

Edd frowned. "And you believed them? I thought you knew better than that by now, Matt." His words caused a twinge of hurt within the orange-haired man, making him wince. "I mean, I can kinda understand you and Mark getting close; being vain and all that. But Eduardo? Really?"

Matt felt as if something massive got lodged in his throat. This wasn't how he had intended their talk to go. "They're not so bad." He began defensively, shifting around in his seat with clear discomfort. "I don't get to interact with Eduardo all that much, I will admit. But he hasn't done anything so far, and Mark is actually a really smart guy! They even invited me to have dinner with them – why don't you come join us for once? I think if you just try and give them a chance, you might find yourself warming up to them too."

But Edd wasn't so easily convinced. "Are you kidding? Eduardo and I in the same room? That's just asking for trouble!"

"It really isn't!" Matt insisted, frustration welling up inside of him. He so desperately wanted this arrangement to work. Maybe then Edd wouldn't need to keep going out with Reagan. "Eduardo won't even so much as glance at you; he's far too busy worrying about his mysterious job to say or do anything."

Sighing in defeat, Edd closed his eyes and leaned back on his chair. For a couple heartbeats, neither of them spoke. Then Edd turned to face him again. "Fine. I will... consider what you said."

Matt smiled, his heart fluttering with hope.

"But as for today, I think I will have to decline the invitation."

"What? Why?"

Edd stretched his arms. "I just woke up! I want to get some commissions done before I go out tonight."

"You mean… you're heading out with Reagan again?" Matt stared at him, huge eyed with dismay.

"Yup!" His friend drank the reminder of his coffee, none the wiser to the ginger's concerns. "I mean, I can't just say no now - Reagan is expecting me to meet him today. We'll probably eat junk food somewhere and get drunk-"

"I think you're making a big mistake, Edd!"

A voice suddenly exclaimed, and Matt realized with horror that it had been him. He slapped a hand over his mouth. His concern must have driven out all thoughts of being tactful, or of not upsetting Edd in the process. But it's too late to take it back now.

Edd stiffened and stared back at him through narrowed eyes. "What are you talking about?"

Matt took a deep breath. "About Reagan." He confessed, ducking his head nervously.

"And what makes you say that?" Edd sounded as calm as ever.

Gulping, Matt hesitated and shifted on his seat. It seemed clear that blurting out his suspicions the way he did hadn't been exactly the most sensible way to go about it. But I can't stop now. I have to tell him what I think!

Edd waited in silence. Matt couldn't tell what was running through his mind. "I am not… entirely sure. But when I met him I just didn't feel right about him." He went on, nervously aware that it was too late now to change his mind. He really regrets not having rehearsed this conversation prior this talk now. "There's something undeniably off about him – I can't exactly put a finger on it."

"So I'm supposed to take your word for it just because you have a bad feeling about him?" Edd asked, his voice still deceptively calm, contrasted with his rigid posture and glaring eyes. "No offence, Matt, but you only met Reagan for a total of two minutes. It's not exactly enough to judge a person's whole character off of."

"I know, I know! But I can't shake this impression that Reagan might be up to no good; and that you might have some part to play in it somehow." Matt continued. "Don't you think it's a tad strange to spend so much time around someone you hardly know? You don't even know what he does for a living! For all we know, he could be dangerous and involved in some shady business."

As he spoke, Edd began to look troubled, narrowing his eyes so that only the faintest sliver of brown showed in his eyes. He let out a long sigh. "I can see how in your point of view Reagan could be seen as suspicious." He murmured. "We haven't gone in any adventures for a while. Heck, I believe this might be the first time we've actually sat down and talked to one another. But there's no need for you to be jealous."

"Jealous?" Matt parroted incredulously.

"I see now that I have been ignoring you for a while, and I'm very sorry for that. I promise I'll make it up to you soon." Edd went on as if he'd never spoken. "But you don't need to hold it out against Reagan. He's a real swell guy!"

Matt blinked, incapable of believing what he was hearing. Could it be true his suspicions had been only conjured up by his envy towards Reagan? He literally has nothing else going against the Irishman but his first impression of him. Aside from that one time, he knows nothing about him. Who is he to judge? It is true that Matt misses spending time with Edd just like they used to. He supposed Edd did have a good reason to think he is jealous.

A twinge of apprehension flickered in Matt's belly as he remembered the look in Reagan's eyes when he and Edd had walked out the door. Those vibrant green eyes had glowed with mirth and something akin to triumph, Matt is sure of it. His gut was telling him that the Irishman should not be trusted, and he must somehow convince Edd of that, for the sake of his safety.

"You've… changed, Edd. I feel as if you're not the same person anymore. Truth be told, I'm having a hard time confiding you with anything because… I- I'm- I am always afraid of how you're going to react." He ventured. "We've only just started getting over our grief and get back on our feet when this guy shows up out of nowhere. Don't you think that's even a little bit odd?"

Edd looked up at that; his eyes trained forward with interest. For a heartbeat Matt hesitated to continue sharing his concerns about Reagan, but his determination to keep his friend safe gave him the courage to go on.

"I know I may not be the most reliable person you can count on. I forget things quite often, I'm clumsy, I mess up a lot – believe me, I get it. But we've been friends for a really long time now; so much so that we are practically family at this point." Matt didn't dare mention how short their already small family has become, and simply moved on. "We've been through adventures and hardships together, travelled through thick and thin and to hell and back again – literally! We trust, confide, and look out for each other no matter what! I don't have any definitive proof, but I just know for a fact there is something suspicious about Reagan. I… I don't want to lose you too! Please trust me, Edd; I really think you should stop seeing him. I sense something bad is going to happen if you don't." He gazed at him imploringly.

For a few heartbeats he thought Edd had not heard him, he was so still. Then he pushed his chair back and rose from his seat, staring at him with a stone cold expression. "And you fully expect me to stop meeting Reagan altogether just on the assumption that you have bad vibes about him?"

Matt blinked. "I just thought—"

"This isn't what I expect from you, Matt!" Edd growled. His usually warm eyes glittered like ice. "You would do better to mind your own business than to come here telling tales about Reagan." He studied him for a long moment. "Don't you trust me to take care of myself?"

"I—I'm sorry!" Matt stammered. "But I thought I should tell you the truth."

Edd let out a long breath. All the interest he had shown before had vanished, leaving his expression cold and remote. "Go." He ordered. "I'll talk to you later. And never—never— mention this to me again. Do you understand?"

Matt stood up wearily and began backing out of the room. "But what about Reagan? He—"

"Just go away!" Edd spat the command.

Wincing, Matt's feet scrambled against the wooden floor in his haste to obey. Once out of the apartment and closing the door behind him, Matt came to rest when he had put a good distance between himself and Edd. He felt utterly bewildered. At first Edd had seemed prepared to listen to him, but as soon as he suggested he should stop seeing Reagan, he had refused to hear any more.

A sudden chill swept through Matt. For a short time, Matt had let himself hope that he could make Edd understand how dangerous the Irishman could be.

God damn it! He thought. Now he won't hear another word against Reagan. I blew it!

Confused and unhappy, Matt made for Mark's apartment, almost unconsciously. Like the blond man had promised, he kept the door unlocked for him, and Matt walked in dejectedly. While Mark worked on the stove, Eduardo was busy cutting vegetables. There were several ingredients gathered in front of him.

"See how easy it is? I told you could manage!" Mark nudged his partner encouragingly, eying Eduardo's progress with approval as the brunet handed him a portion of sliced carrots to add to the stew. Mark wore a frilly white apron as he cooked. "Honestly, you were so stiff at first it was like you were genuinely expecting the vegetables to spontaneously combust or something!"

Eduardo grumbled under his breath and obediently continued slicing more vegetables.

Matt numbly stood there and watched them for a moment without speaking. He felt sad, drained after the quarrel with Edd. He couldn't help wishing it were Edd and Tom here cooking together instead of Mark and Eduardo.

Choking down his anguish, Matt offered to set up the table; hoping to take his mind off things and move on with his day.

(Meanwhile…)

Soft snores echoed faintly throughout the room as Tom peacefully dozed off, a book sprawled over his chest, Tomee bear clutched close in one arm, and a dribble of drool trickled from the corner of his mouth. The door to his quarters slides open with a hiss, and a shadow falls over Tom's unconscious form.

Nearing the bed where his test subject laid, Tord paused to study him. Look at this lazy ass motherf#cker. He snickered quietly, watching the steady rise and fall of Tom's chest. He'd come to escort Tom to his soldier training, only to find the eyeless man in the middle of a nap instead.

Any other day, Tord wouldn't think twice about jolting Tom awake to get on with their schedule for the day. Tord is a busy man, after all. However, looking down at Tom's relaxed expression as he slept, Tord's features softened and he couldn't bring himself to do it. He's so… cute!

Tord shook his head to clear away the intrusive thoughts. What am I saying? I am the Red Leader for goodness sake! I can't think like this.

Deciding to get this over and done with before his thoughts can betray him once more; Tord hastily adjusted the settings on his mechanical arm. The repulsor on the palm of his hand switched to a speaker, and Tord chose the 'air horn' setting.

Lifting his hand close to Tom's unsuspecting face, Tord grinned. Just like old times.

He braced himself and blasted the obnoxiously loud air horn noise through the speakers in his hand. Tom instantly shot up from his bed in alarm, falling off the side of the bed with wide eyes as he whipped his head around wildly.

"Wha- what?! What's happening?!" He asks panickedly, still bleary from sleep.

Tord couldn't help but burst into laughter at the Brit's dazed reaction. Tom's gaze finally fell on him, and putting the pieces together he glared at the Norsk.

"Rise and shine, soldier!" Tord grinned.

"What the f#ck, Commie?" Tom scrambled to his feet, clearly irritated by his rude awakening. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, especially not without the Dreamcatcher device, but this was still a pretty awful way to wake up to.

The Norsk stared at him in amusement and chuckled. "Somebody's cranky."

"And somebody needs to shut f#ck up." Tom fumed.

"Oh come now, Thomas; don't be so offended." Tord soothed, programing his arm back to the repulsor. "It if makes you feel any better, I play this exact same trick on Paul and Pat when they think they can sleep in!" Before they moved in to the same quarters, that is. "Now come, we have training to do."

Tom caught up with Tord as he headed for the long corridor and fell in step behind him. "Will Paul and Pat be joining us?"

Tord replied without looking back. "I've ordered them to help ensure that everything is top notch with the rest of the base. It's going to be just you and me."

Tom's heartbeat quickened and he gulped at the notion of being left alone with Tord. If something were to go wiry between them – and it very well could, given their relationship – there won't be anyone to help Tom if Tord decides he's had enough. Tom will just have to tread carefully from here on out. In theory, Tord won't hurt him unless he is provoked; so as long as Tom reframes from doing stupid sh#t he should be safe.

"What do you mean? Isn't that our end goal? ~" The voice pointed out with a scornful hiss, trailing a set of sharp fingertips teasingly along the side of his throat. Tom winced. "So what if it comes sooner? I say you mock him to your heart's content and just spill out everything you ever wanted to tell him right to his face before he pulls the trigger. ~"

Right, because that's not f#cking suspicious at all. Tom retorted dryly despite the fact that the voice's nails were digging into the flesh of his neck; drawing blood. He could feel the warm liquid tickling down onto his shirt but Tom elected to ignore it. This won't be the first time today that the voice will shed his blood. Even it isn't real. I have to play it cool. One wrong move and Tord could very well decide that any threat over my life won't be enough for my cooperation. Besides, not even Tord's anger management issues will be enough for him to lose all reason and kill me.

He heard the voice tsk in distaste. "Excuses, excuses… you'll run out of them sooner or later, but it will be far too late for you then. When that happens…I will be there to remind you of your place. ~" Tom could sense the voice grin against the back of his neck right before a set of claws scored down his back in a quick motion; from the base of his neck all the way down to his waist. Tom whimpered and the voice disappeared, its foreboding warning still ringing inside his head.

Returning to reality, Tom and Tord walked together along the large hallways of the lab level. Tom's mind raced as he shot quick glances in Tord's direction. This will be the second training session he's having with Tord; and if things weren't awkward enough before, they are definitely so now after their chat in the test room. What does he have in store for me this time? By the time they reached the training room, Tom's nerves were skyrocketing but he succeeded in maintaining his expression nulled.

They made their way across the immense gym toward the fighting ring that stood elevated just a meter above the ground. Tom followed Tord as he climbed the small steps leading into the ring and jumped over the railing into the cushioned arena.

"Now Tom, as a soldier it is important for you to be prepared for anything. Everything counts in the battlefield and you must be ready to face it." Tord explained as he strolled to the centre. "You can't be expected to rely solely on anything else aside from your own wits." He went on, turning to face him. "Depend too much on your gun, and when you find yourself without it you'll be done for. Like I said; anything can happen. Run out of ammo, get disarmed, captured, yatta yatta you get the idea." Tord raved on, twirling the fingers of his robotic hand in a dismissive gesture. "And sure, you'll be fighting alongside the rest of my army, but that's still no excuse to slack off. Teamwork may be key, but don't be surprised when you have to fend for yourself at some point."

Tom began to tune Tord out as his vision darkened once more. He whined as the all too familiar sensation of sharp digits grabbing hold of his shoulders made itself known to him.

"You hear that? Don't depend on anyone else. ~" The voice cooed mockingly into his head. "You are on your own. If you can't do things by yourself, don't bother asking help from others. You'll merely burden them more. ~"

"I want to concentrate on your fighting skills, and I want you to concentrate on them too—which means no distractions." Tord continued, pacing back and forth in front of Tom, emitting an air of authority to him.

"No one cares about you other than what you possess. ~" Whispered the voice, another set of phantom hands wrapping around Tom's waist while one sharp digit trailed his jawline and another pierced the flesh of his cheek. "If it weren't for the valuable serum currently running through your veins, believe me, people would not bat an eye if you were gone. As they should! ~"

Sudden movement flashed right in front of him. A blur of blue and red whirled past his nose, and Tom fell backwards as his feet were knocked lightly from underneath him. He landed flat on his back over the cushioned mats of the ring. Before Tom could get a chance to properly recover from the blow, the wind was knocked out of him by a heavy boot pinning him down over his ribcage. Gritting his teeth in irritation, Tom glared upwards to see Tord towering calmly over him. "Do I have your attention now?" He growled, although his one visible eye sparked with mirth.

Blinking, Tom realized what had just occurred and composed himself. "Yeah, you got me. Now let me up!"

Tord pursed his lips, as if genuinely considering the idea. "I'll let you up, if you address me properly." He smirked.

Rolling his non-existent eyes, Tom grumbled. Tord leaned downwards while simultaneously increasing the pressure of his boot over Tom's ribs. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that. Mind speaking up a little bit more?"

Clenching his eyes shut, Tom hissed at the building pain in his lower abdomen. At least the Commie managed to shut the voice up. He acknowledged, before sighing in defeat. "Sorry, Sir! It won't happen again, sir!" Tom growled hastily, glaring into his gray eye.

Satisfied with his answer, Tord lifted his boot off and stepped back. "That's better." The Norsk murmured, watching Tom stagger to his feet. "As I was saying; Thomas, you have been with us for many months now. Although you were never directly involved with any of the army's activities, you are no stranger to this type of environment." He commented, referring to their little adventure in the army countless years ago. Ah, the fond memories! "You have had some fighting experience; you are familiar with guns and… other weapons." Tord's voice slightly lowered, and Tom did not need to be a genius to know what he was implying with that remark. "Not to mention that you are quite clever and agile… when you want to be, that is."

Tom crossed his arms and stared at him deadpanned. "Are you going to keep on babbling or are you getting somewhere with all of this?"

He received a cuff to the back of his head for his snarky comment. It didn't really hurt, since Tord used his organic hand – it's more of a reminder to keep quiet and listen when the leader is talking. But Tom found himself rubbing the sore spot with a frown regardless.

Shaking his head, Tord tutted. "Patience is a virtue, Thomas. A virtue you unfortunately do not possess an abundance of." He went back to pacing. "Where was I? Oh yes! You are quite the formidable opponent when put in the right circumstances. But one day you will meet an opponent who is all of these things as well, and perhaps so much more – quick, fierce and clever." Tord noted, his voice lowered to an intense hiss. "And it is my duty as your leader and mentor to prepare you for that day."

Tom nodded, surprised to find himself so caught up on the Norsk's words. It's not in any way normal to hear Tord compliment him; and gathering from past experiences, Tom knows this doesn't usually end well for him. Tom's senses were fully alert, and on guard.

"Show me how well you fight." Tord ordered. "Attack me. Try to pin me down."

Tom blinked. Usually he would be static at the chance of punching Tord's stupid smirk and face in, just to payback for all the sh#t he pulled. But Tom couldn't help but hesitate, his fingers curling into fists in a repeating motion. There's something undeniably suspicious about this.

"Really? Just like that?" Tom raised an eyebrow sceptically.

"What else is there to it? A kiss on the cheek for good luck?" Tord argues, shrugging with indifference. He then smirks. "I didn't realize you would be so scared of going up against a half blind amputee, Thomas."

"Shouldn't you begin by teaching me some basic moves? Jumping straight to fighting seems really out of left field!" Tom tries to reason.

"I'm sorry, which one of us runs an army?" Tord remarked with a chuckle. "We both know you are not defenceless, Thomas. Before I can start teaching you I would like to see what level your skills are right now, so that I may pick up from there. No point wasting time teaching you things you already know." He explained coolly.

Seeing no other way out of this, Tom scoffed and rolled his non-existent eyes. He decided not to give Tord the benefit of seeing him flustered and just get this training session over with as soon as possible.

Narrowing his eyes and getting into focus, Tom analysed Tord's form, sizing him up and wondering the best way to go about this. Tord wasn't much bigger than himself; but what the Norsk lacks in height he makes up for it in muscle, surely. Nearly ten years leading an army – Tord can't possibly be weak.

Tom's mind flashed back to the incident when in a fit of rage he'd ripped out Tord's eye patch and invoked the Norsk's wrath. Perhaps because at the time Tom had been so weak and malnourished, but Tord definitely isn't someone he ought to mess with.

With that in mind, it would be a waste of effort to begin with mere punches and wrestling. The next best thing Tom could think of would be to aim for one side. But which one? Tord may be blind on his right side, but Tom isn't foolish enough to think that the Norwegian man would let himself be open to attacks with such a weak spot being exposed. Not to mention that his right has the deadly, metallic hand; currently flexing his fingers with anticipation and making faint whirring sounds.

"Today if possible, Thomas." Tord teased, taking notice of the Brit's clear discomfort and frustration as he could practically read his every move.

Grumbling a low growl, Tom shifted his attention to the Norsk's left side. Looks simple enough, aside from the aforementioned muscle strength. But here's the thing; would Tom rather be hit with a very probable painful punch to his face from a hand made out of flesh and bones, or from a robotic fist made out of hard metal and steel?

"What's this? ~" The voice returned to haunt him. "Afraid of a little pain? ~" Tom could practically feel it grin right up against his ear, and he suppressed a shudder.

Ignoring the voice's sharp claw-like nails grazing over his injured back, Tom focused his attention back to training. Perhaps if he could trick Tord into going a certain direction, while aiming for the other one, Tom could go behind his back and unbalance him with a powerful enough blow.

With a plan set in mind, Tom braced himself. Disturbingly enough, Tord hasn't taken his silver-gray eye off him for even an instant. Tom stared back at him and dashed forward.

He pretended to aim for Tord's right, and when the Norsk tries to block his blow, Tom would divert to his left on the last minute to land a punch on his side.

But Tord was more than ready for him.

Rather than blocking Tom's feint attack, like he had been hoping for, Tord lashed out with his robotic hand and tried to punch him square in the face.

"What the-?!"

Tom abruptly halted, blinking in confusion and barely managing to dodge the strike. He tried to retract his steps and go the other way around, still going along with his plan, only for Tord to block his path and grab a hold of him; easily flinging him away. Tom felt he had been knocked away like a bothersome brat. He hit the cushioned floor hard and lay winded for a moment, catching his breath, before scrambling to his feet.

"What the hell?!"

"Interesting strategy." Tord commented slyly. "But you'll have to try a lot harder than that. Again!"

Getting over his initial shock, this time Tom looked at his shoulders but aimed for his legs. When Tord attacks, Tom would knock the legs from underneath him as he ducks. Tom felt a surge of satisfaction as he charged, but it turned into confusion as Tord unexpectedly sidestepped out of the way and let him skid his leg into nothing where he had stood just a heartbeat before. Tord timed it perfectly – and before Tom could catch his bearings and formulate another plan of attack, Tord landed a kick with painful precision on Tom's stomach; knocking the wind out of him.

Panting, Tom staggered backwards with a wild look in his eyes. He spotted Tord coming his way, and in his haze, succeeded in blocking a couple of punches until Tord head-butted him, and pushed him backwards. Stunned, Tom fell on his back as Tord pinned him down, squashing the breath out of him.

"Now how about you try something I won't expect, hm?" Tord hissed into his ear, climbing off him and backing away with a challenging gleam in his one gray eye.

Tom scrambled up, panting, and shook himself crossly. He hissed and charged again. Tom was determined to win no matter at what cost. But Tord is just as equally determined to not go easy on him, or let him win at all.

Tord remained absolutely still, not moving a muscle as he watched Tom get nearer. Fuming, the test subject tackled him head on and tried to use his own weight to bring the Norsk down with him. However, Tord had endured the force of the impact with his legs digging into the floor. He watched with blatant amusement, as the other man tried in vain to overpower him. He is slowly, but surely succumbing to frustration. Tord mused. He almost felt bad for Tom at this point, seriously considering going a tad bit easier on him.

Well… Almost.

Keeping one of his legs tightly secured in the ground to keep his balance, Tord twisted his other one around Tom's, and used his hands to shove him away. Tom staggered backwards, tripping over Tord's leg in the process. He tried to regain his balance last minute, to stand up and keep fighting, but Tord kneed him in the gut and he flopped heavily onto his back.

"Thomas."

Above the roaring rush of blood pulsating in his ears, Tom barely managed to hear Tord's soft voice above him. Blinking his eyes, Tom saw the Norsk extend his robotic hand out to him. Knowing he didn't have the strength to get up by himself at this point, Tom accepted the offer without complaint. Once the Brit's hand was in his mechanical one, Tord hauled him up until he was back on his legs. Still stunned and dizzy, Tom nearly fell again until Tord grasped his shoulders to keep him steady.

A hand gently grasped Tom's chin, and raised his head to make eye contact with the Red Leader. "Tom, listen to me. You're strong and quick, but you must learn to keep control of your speed and body weight so that it's not so easy for me to unbalance you."

Tom batted the hand holding his chin aside pathetically. "Isn't all this a bit too much?" He complained, still panting. "I mean, what are the chances we fight other soldiers like this? In a real war, everyone is going to be equipped with guns; at least I sincerely hope so. Also, even if we're unarmed, the other troops will surely have guns and they'll kill us way before we get the chance to get near them and do something. So, I don't know, this all seems kind of pointless to me."

Tord chuckled. "Trust me, you'll be plenty thankful to have this set of skills on you if the occasion ever arises." He continued. "It may sound silly and improbable at first, I know, but it is a training requirement for any army and I cannot just overlook it." Once he was sure Tom wasn't going to topple down if he lets go of him, Tord walked away to stand on the opposite side of the ring. "Whenever you are ready, try again."

Tom backed away; hot, sweaty, and out of breath, until he found himself leaning against the elastic ropes of the arena. Groaning in exasperation, frustration raged through him. He just wants to get this stupid training session over with, so he can go take a shower and return to his quarters for a quick nap before his dinner arrives. Now more than ever, Tom is determined to get the better of the Commie.

He took his time in recovering and made another quick observation of his opponent, searching for any weaknesses he could exploit to his advantage. Standing all the way over to the opposite side of the fighting ring, Tord was stretching his limbs, popping some of his joints in the process. Tom watched him with something akin to fascination. The Norsk looks so at ease, and confident in his abilities. Was there even a bead of sweat on his face? The long, cobalt blue coat really made Tord's overall form and shape stand out. It gave an empowering and dominating air to him, but also graceful and elegant too. Sure, Pat and Paul wear them too, but for an unknown reason Tom thought it looked a lot more appealing on Tord.

Feeling reinvigorated now, Tom snapped his mind back on track. "I'm ready now."

Tord shot him a brief glance. "Well? What you're waiting for, Thomas? An invitation?"

Narrowing his eyes at Tord's teasing comments, Tom rushed at him. The Red Leader smirked and positioned himself into a defensive stance. Once he was within proximity, Tom raised one fist and swung it towards the Norsk's left cheek. Tord ducked to avoid his strike and raised his robotic hand, ready to swipe down right onto Tom's head. Thinking quickly, Tom fell back to the ground to avoid the blow, and in one fast movement, struck his legs forward to kick Tord straight on the gut. Taken by surprise, Tord hissed as he felt all air be knocked out of him. He doubled over and staggered backwards. Tom took his chance now that the Norsk is momentarily winded, and he swiped his leg against Tord's own.

Tord was knocked down and fell back onto the cushioned floor with a grunt.

Tom flipped himself over and leaped to his feet. He felt jubilant. He observed Tord's form, lying down completely still with the exception of the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in heavily. Tom approached him, his movements sluggish from fatigue, and yet for the first time in a long while he actually felt proud of himself.

Towering over him, Tom found Tord's one visible eye glinting proudly back at him.

"That... was much better." The Norsk puffed, out of breath. Tom smirked just a tiny bit, and lends him a hand, to which Tord gratefully took. Tom heaved him up, helping Tord to his feet as he adjusted his uniform and hair. "But you forgot to pin me down. That was a mistake."

Smirk wiped away instantly, Tom got no time to react as Tord pulled him forward hard, knocking him to the ground, then retreated and let Tom pick himself up before rushing at him again. Tom braced himself for impact, but Tord bowled over him easily.

"Look at my size, Thomas! Don't try to stand up against my attack. Use your wits!" Tord instructed, pinning him down with his boot. "If you are fast enough to avoid me, then avoid me!" He stepped off.

Tom scrambled to his feet again, preparing for Tord's next attack. This time he didn't dig his heels into the cushioned floor, but stood lightly, keeping his weight on his toes. As Tord advanced toward him, he hopped neatly out of his path, and struck out a punch against the side of Tord's face, sending him spiralling onward past him.

Tord regained his footing and whirled around to face him. A sly grin on his face as he rubbed his sore cheek. "Excellent! You learn quickly." He praised with glinting gaze. "But that was an easy move. Let's see how well you deal with this one!"

Tord sprang at him, slamming into Tom's side and knocking him off his feet. Tom writhed as he was firmly pinned down by the Norwegian man. Tord's silver-gray eye stared back at him when a mischievous expression crossed his features.

No harm in teasing him a little bit, right?

"Say, does this remind you of something?" Tord purred with mock contemplation. Tom stopped struggling to look up at him in confusion.

"No? Not really?-"

He cut off abruptly when Tord deeply inhaled, his nose scrunching up and his throat rumbling. Tom froze, his eyes widening. He knows exactly what the Commie has in mind. The snicker-snag!

Back when they were teens and started living together, it was common for Tom and Tord to get into lots of petty arguments and fights to breakout between them for the littlest things. Tord especially liked to tease Tom by pinning him down and subject him to a snicker-snag; a disgusting move where he would dangle a thread of saliva over his face until it eventually falls, and slobbers him. At the time, Edd would usually come to his rescue before such fate could happen. But Edd isn't here to save him now.

With that in mind, Tom's panic kicked-in and he started to trash around wildly, trying to escape but to no avail. His struggles only escalated when Tord began to droop the bead of drool, inching closer and closer to his face. "No! No! No!" Tom screeched, shaking his head frantically as his mind went haywire the closer the strand got until he couldn't take it anymore, and simply turned his head away. Eyes clenched shut as he waited for the humiliating defeat with one last desperate scream.

But it never came.

Tord slurped the thread back before it could reach Tom, and stared down at him as he laughed. "Jesus, Tom!" He wheezed. "With the way you're screaming it sounds like I'm subjecting you to some painful torture! Not a snicker-snag!"

Tom opened one of his eyes and gazed back up at him, annoyed that he's being made fun of, but at the same time relieved Tord wasn't going to go through with it. Or so he thought, before Tord's laughter died down and he let his saliva hang from his mouth once more.

"Oh c'mon!" Tom renewed his struggles, writhing beneath Tord from side to side to try and slip away. "Since when are snicker-snags included in soldier training, for f#cks sake?!" He hoped Tord would pull the disgusting slob back up again to give some witty remark, but unfortunately Tord merely chuckled and continued his insistent teasing.

In a last desperate effort to escape this awful humiliation, Tom thrust his legs up hard into Tord's belly, successfully throwing the Norsk off of him. He miraculously managed to dodge the droplet of spit at the last second, twisted and jumped to his feet before Tord could catch him off guard.

They continued training for hours in that gym. Without even feeling the presence of time pass between the two of them, they kept sparring for the reminder of the day. They laughed and bantered through the many punches and kicks being thrown at each other, but there was no sign of animosity between them. Only competitive playfulness.

All previous thoughts of suspicion, defiance and disdain have disappeared. There is only now; Tord and him, facing each other.

"That's enough for today." Tord stopped and gathered to his feet.

Tom couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief. He's completely spent after today's workout. Though he would personally never admit it out loud, he enjoyed the training session with Tord. Mostly because it was the only chance he got to pummel his fist in Tord's face without any repercussions after holding in his anger this whole time. But there was also this underlined pleasant sensation Tom couldn't possibly ignore that manifested sometime during training.

It felt weird.

He followed Tord out of the ring. The Norsk seemed a little tired; stiff and with a slight limp but he still walked with grace. Tom fell in step next to him, panting heavily and still a little exhilarated from their training.

"Good work, Tom. You did great today." Tord began as they walked into the hallway.

Tom glanced at him and scoffed. "Yeah right! I couldn't even manage to pin you down!"

Tord chuckled. "To be fair, no one can. Maybe Paul can, but he hasn't so far. When I set the challenge for you I knew you wouldn't succeed, but I wanted to see how you would try to anyway; and just as I expected, you did not disappoint." He went on. "You get frustrated very easily and that tends to cloud your judgment when it matters, but you are a quick learner and that'll be essential for the rest of your training."

Only half-listening at this point, Tom realized something strange. He wasn't feeling the least bit tired; in fact, Tom felt quite the opposite. He feels as if he could run laps around the track all day, his feet skimming the ground as the exhilaration of speed coursed through him, and Tom had a feeling he could stand up to anything. This sensation was new and refreshing to say the least. Tom wanted more.

"Hey Tord." Tom spoke up after a few brief minutes of silence. "Am I allowed to use the gym whenever I want?"

Tord glanced back at him questioningly and hummed. "I suppose."

"Then if it's all the same to you," Tom stopped walking and glanced over his shoulder. "I think I'll head back and train a little more by myself."

Tord stared at him in surprise, and then Tom glimpsed a flicker of disappointment in the Norsk's eyes before he settled for a calm demeanour and a lazy grin. "As you wish. But don't be surprised if you get a scolding from Patrick later for overworking yourself. I practically have to put up with it every day!"

Tom forced himself to chuckle casually before whirling around and going back the way he came. Something about Tord just then unsettled him. Why did he appear disappointed so suddenly? Tord had that exact same expression at the end of their talk in the test room. It had been brief, but it was still there.

Is Tord expecting something from me? Tom couldn't help but wonder. If so, what?

(Meanwhile…)

Reagan whistled a happy little tune as he led Edd toward their destination for the night. He couldn't stop thinking back to the ginger-haired man he encountered a few days ago. It was hilarious how awfully easy it was to unsettle him, and he can't wait to play more games with him in the future. Will he be brave enough to even try? Or will he stand back and watch as I steal his friend away? Reagan snickered quietly to himself. He surely can't wait to see.

"Hey Reagan, are you sure you know where we're going?" Edd's voice cut through his musings and he glanced back at him over his shoulder. "I must admit I've never been to this part of the town before, so I am kinda blind here."

Reagan clasped a hand on his shoulder dismissively. "Don't worry. I've been to this place a bunch of times over the past few weeks – I practically know this area like the back of my hand at this point."

Edd blinked in surprise. "Really? Why?"

The Irishman hummed pensively, grinning as he fished his pocket for a cigar. "Work related stuff, mostly."

They continued walking through the suspicious looking neighbourhood. Despite Reagan's reassurance, Edd remained on high alert; his brown eyes flicking all over the place.

The buildings they passed by were old and rundown, their windows cracked or barred with wooden planks. The streets they tread in were narrow and dark with barely any light posts to illuminate the way. The farther they went the fewer cars seem to drive by the area, leaving them in an eerie silence with nothing to take its place.

It was only when a bottle shattered ominously close by their location, startling Edd so badly he visibly jumped, did he finally voice his increasing worries.

"Reagan? Are you absolutely sure this place is safe? Because I got a really bad feeling…"

Expecting to hear another reassurance to calm his nerves, Edd was completely unprepared for Reagan's response.

"Well… I said that I know this place – didn't say anything about being safe."

"What?!" Edd exclaimed only to slap a hand over his own mouth in fear of attracting unwanted attention. He grabbed Reagan by the shoulders and started shaking him in desperation. "You mean to tell me we are currently walking through a danger zone and you are okay with this? Are you mad?"

Reagan stared at him wide eyed before smirking. "This is the fastest shortcut that I know of. Plus I thought you trusted me, Eddie. I would never lead you into danger on purpose unless we didn't have any other choice. But I promise you, as long as you stick close to me, we are safe." He brushed Edd's hands off his shoulders. "Trust me."

Edd stepped back hesitantly, still unnerved by the reality of the situation. "I do trust you, Reagan. It's your judgment that worries me a little." They resumed walking. "I mean, what if we get jumped on by a mugger? Or surrounded by a gang of bandits? Or worse?"

"Calm your tits, Eddie. I'm sure we'll get through this just fine."

"You know, there's been a lot of rumours and sightings of a beast wandering the area. Well, it's been a while since the last report, but in any case, I think we should be careful-"

"Beast? Seriously?" Reagan interrupted, rolling his eyes. "Where the f#ck are we? The eighteen-hundreds? Sh#t Eddie, I forgot my pitchfork and torch at home – guess we're f#cked!"

"I'm serious! People got killed by whatever it is, and it was a huge deal a while back. It kinda became this town's version of the Mothman or Bigfoot; everyone knows about it."

"As fascinating as it sounds, I'm still confident we got nothing to worry about." Reagan eyed him curiously. "You seem to know a great deal about this case though."

"It was all over the news when it first started occurring; it's kinda hard to not pay any attention to it when it's everywhere! Besides, it's quite an interesting case." Edd half-lied.

True, he had watched the news back when everything first happened, but Edd had never given the situation much thought. He was concerned for Tom and Matt's wellbeing at the time and often cautioned them to be careful. Then there were no more news about it and Edd thought everything was all good again.

Until Tom died that is.

When Edd finally snapped out of his denial, there was a stage in his period of grief where he tried to find the culprit behind his friend's murder. During his search, Edd had stumbled upon many articles surrounding the mysterious cryptid but Edd instantly brushed it off. Not that he doesn't believe in the supernatural in any way – his adventures have more than proven their existence. But it's highly unlikely this creature had anything to do with the situation, since Tom's death did not match the description of any of the other victims. Still, didn't stop Edd from doing his research on the matter.

"But I don't think we got to worry about anything. No one's going to jump us, and if they do, I'll make them regret it." Reagan's voice cut through his thoughts, jerking him back to reality.

"How can you be so sure?" Edd prompted.

Reagan gave a low chuckle. "I got… briefed before arriving in this town. Let's just say I know exactly what I am dealing with." He then paused, his tone taking a serious turn. "But I can't guarantee your safety if you decide to come here on your own for whatever reason. So I advise you to stay clear from this area when I'm not with you, or you're going to get beaten to pulp with an inch of your life left."

Before long they finally reached the end of the dreadful alley and left the horrid neighbourhood behind them. Edd released a sigh of relief when Reagan nudged him, prompting him to look up.

Their destination turned out to be a bowling alley. Reagan thought it would be fun if they played a few rounds and ate Chinese takeout together. Edd squinted as he took in his surroundings. The dim lighting combined with the harsh neon lights that bordered each one of the bowling tracks and walls hurt his eyes, and the obnoxiously loud pop music that blasted from the speakers didn't help matters. It genuinely feels as if they're on a rave rather than a bowling alley.

They sat in a booth on the far side, closer to the lanes and away from the other players in the establishment. While Edd busied himself on setting all their food down, Reagan went ahead and got the game started.

"And… strike!"

The blond flicked his hand forward and released the ball, flinging it across the smooth lane with such strength it thundered loudly above the blasting music. However, contrary to the Irishman's wishes, the ball dashed straight to the gutter and harmlessly passed by the pins.

Reagan frowned. "Boo! Game's rigged!"

"Tough luck." Edd chuckled, opening the last of the food wrappings.

"It's your turn now." Reagan turned to him, holding a bowling ball out for Edd to take. The brunet swallowed.

"I, uh, why don't you go ahead and play my round as well? I'm sure you can make a strike this time!" Edd suggested nervously.

The Irishman raised an eyebrow and scoffed. "That's not how this game works, Eddie." He shoved the ball into the Brit's hands. "C'mon! I'm the one paying for all this; the least you could do is try and enjoy yourself!"

Shoved closer to the lane, Edd staggered forward and approached wearily. He had never gone bowling before – In the past, Tom would forbid Edd and Matt from ever stepping foot into one of these establishments. It's not like he's here to complain now. Edd thought uneasily as he crouched into the address stance. Still feels wrong to be here playing though.

Pushing his nagging anxiety aside Edd held the ball up to his face, preparing to throw. However, as he peered at the dark holes of the ball, it appeared to shift – morphing into a face with empty eyes and spiky hair, glaring back at Edd as if scrutinizing his actions and a pang of guilt scorched through the brunet. Edd leaned closer to the apparition, yearning for the real thing to manifest out of it and change his reality from what it currently is.

"Hey Eddie, are you gonna throw the ball any time soon or are you planning on frenching it first?"

Reagan's teasing jab cut through Edd's thoughts, effectively erasing the illusion and jerking him back to reality. Blinking rapidly, Edd hastily threw the ball and watched as it went straight for the gutter.

"Yeah, sorry… I'm not very good at this game." Edd laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly as he tried to brush off his embarrassment. "I think I will just... sit down and eat instead. I'm really hungry. Maybe you should take a break too?"

Reagan stared at him intently for a couple of heartbeats before shrugging. "Whatevs, Eddie. I am gonna keep playing, if you don't mind."

However, not a minute later and Reagan called it quits when the ball went to the gutter again. They sat down on the booth and began to chow down their food and talk.

"So Reagan, what did you do before coming to this town?" Edd asked through a mouthful of food.

Reagan tsked. "You know I'm not allowed to answer that."

"Oh not work – I mean, like, life in general?" His earlier argument with Matt caused a bit of unease within Edd. He knows Reagan better than Matt does, that's for sure, but the Irishman is still as enigmatic as the day he first met him. The weight in his conscience would lessen considerably if Reagan were to shed some light into his background.

Humming deep in thought, Reagan tapped his chin repeatedly. "Not much, honestly." He took another forkful of his meal. "Just hopping from one place to another, looking for new thrills, hang around for a while before eventually moving on to the next best thing. Guess I was kind of a wanderer before settling for my job."

Edd contemplated his words. "Sounds nice, but also a bit lonely though." He stirred his food with one fork. "Don't you have a family to get back to? Or a home, or something?"

"What? And be tied down to only one place and having to depend on others all the time? Pass!" He scoffed, raising his chin. "I can't think of anything worse than being held back by others when you can accomplish so much more out of your life. I like to be free, thank you very much! I met a lot of people in my travels, and I can tell you, no one sticks around forever – and hey! Life is short! Can't afford to settle for a handful when there's a whole world ripe for the taking." He finished his speech with a wide grin on his face. "Why despair when there's a bar in every corner of the world?"

Edd opened his mouth to protest, but stopped short when Reagan reached for one of the fortune cookies. Rather than cracking one open to take the fortune from within, like you're supposed to, he simply tossed the full thing in his mouth and started chewing without a care in the world. Edd stared at him wide eyed.

"Reagan… you do know that's not how you eat fortune cookies, right?"

The Irishman stopped chewing, staring back at Edd in confusion. "What you mean?"

Flabbergasted he was actually going to have to teach such a basic concept to someone who claims to be so independent, Edd took the remaining fortune cookie and cracked it open; taking the slip of paper to demonstrate.

"Oh!" Reagan deadpanned in understanding. He stuffed his fingers inside his own mouth, poking around the mush of food inside. Edd nearly gagged in disgust and had to look away. Reagan finally pulled out the wet slip of paper from his mouth. "Blimey! You mean to tell me all these years I've been eating fortune cookies wrong? Well, this is embarrassing."

Edd chuckled half-heartedly, brushing the incident off. "So what does it say?"

Reagan unfolded his fortune to read, flicking away the bits of food clinging to it. "The greatest danger could be your stupidity." He deadpanned, earning a chortle out of Edd. "Aiight, sounds sensible enough. What about yours, Eddie?"

The brunet unwrapped the slip of paper eagerly. "All things are difficult before they are easy." His smile fell as he read the words out loud, the phrase resonating within him. It seems things are always difficult. He thought frustratedly. The image of a ginger-haired Brit smiling brightly back at him flashed in his mind, and Edd shifted in his seat uncomfortably. I shouldn't be here.

"I think I'm gonna head back home now." Edd stood up from his seat, ready to leave.

Reagan's head snapped up to look at him before he'd even finished his sentence, giving him a look; one that says he'd mistepped. Instantly, Reagan's hand shot up to grab Edd's elbow to stop him. "Whoa whoa whoa! Not so fast, Eddie." He spoke coolly. "Are you forgetting that I'm the one paying all expenses here tonight? After all the trouble of booking a place for us, you mean to tell me my money is going down the drain cuz you can't put up staying out a little bit later?

Silence descended between them like a thick fog, and stayed for a full minute as Edd contemplated his words.

"C'mon, Eddie!" Reagan grinned, tipping his head lazily to one side. "Where's your sense of adventure? Live a little!"

Edd bit his lip. He squirmed uncomfortably under that smile; it made him feel like a dull-witted child who still needs parents' permission to stay out late with his friends, and a tight knot of anxiety congealed in his stomach. Giving in with a small sigh, Edd shrank back into his seat and dropped his gaze, sipping his cola from time to time to relax.

"You know Eddie, I gotta be honest with you man, from one friend to another; but I think you might be just a little bit too uptight."

"Huh?"

"I mean, just look at your lifestyle!" Reagan motioned to the Brit's entire being. "You are an artist, hoping to strike big someday, and maybe even find yourself a fancy lady to court – or dude; I don't judge! – And you are really open with people." The blond narrowed his eyes. "And that's dangerous."

Edd stared at him, perplexed by the Irishman's way of thinking. "What do you mean?"

"Well, how many other people out there do you reckon have the same goals as you do? It's gonna be a competition, regardless if you think you got talent. Someone out there could be even better, and what will you do then?" Reagan kept going, acting composed and laid back as he delivered some harsh truths to really knock some sense into Edd's reality. "Put it this way, Eddie; you keep letting people in, you are just asking to get yourself hurt. I speak from personal experience that they will leave you in the end – one way or another."

Contemplating his ominous words, Edd couldn't help but tilt his head to one side. "Why are you telling me this?" His eyebrows scrunched up in confusion, watching Reagan tip back his head and take a massive gulp of his beer.

"Because we're friends! I thought that was obvious enough by now. I care about your wellbeing, especially since you lost a friend not too long ago, and I don't want to see you get hurt." Reagan responded as he slammed the tankard on the table, oozing confidence to back up his words. His tongue swiped around his lips briefly to clean away the foam the tasty beverage had left behind. "Those rose-tinted glasses you have on can only take you so far before it becomes too much for you to handle, so I advise you to start building some walls."

Edd drank his cola, unsure of how to respond and just letting Reagan's advice replay in his head. "Kinda bleak way of viewing the world, don't you think?" He speaks at last, a small faint smile on his face as he tries lightening the mood. "The world is pretty harsh, and life can be tough on us; but it's not all bad! There's so much more to it."

"Sometimes people die, sometimes they live, and sometimes they break apart." Reagan murmured coolly, slowly churning the beer in his glass. "In my line of work, you know, you learn the worst of humanity, and you sure don't see a lot of best to balance it out."

His sombre tone convinced Edd that he was speaking from personal experience. He felt a sharp prick of curiosity, wondering for the life of him what could Reagan's mysterious job be, but Reagan said no more, and Edd didn't feel that he could ask him about it.

Last time I asked you all on your update preference: long pause followed by weekly updates, or irregular updates like I've been doing so far. I read each and every one of your comments, but in the end the majority of you have decided on weekly updates. So after this chapter, I will take a long break and write up to 5 or 6 chapters and then start updating the story again at a later time. I will announce the return date in the next chapter! So please don't think this story is dead, cuz it's definitely not, k?

And with that, I ask you this; how much of what Reagan is saying do you believe is true? 

[artificialqueens]

Leather and Lace: Chapter 3 (Shalaska, side Trixya) - dandelionprophets

A/N: HS Shalaska AU where Alaska is a pretty cheerleader and Sharon is an outcast. Chapter one, chapter two.

In this chapter two very different groups reluctantly come together.

Sharon feels nervous again on Monday, and she wonders if this is going to be a regular thing now. Alaska is early, like her, and she walks in on her own. She is not wearing her cheerleading outfit for once, instead wearing a black skater skirt on grey tights, with a woolen pink sweater that clashes horribly with her bright red nails. Her hair is in a messy bun on top of her head, and it looks a bit like she just rolled out of bed. Sharon forcibly moves her thoughts away from Alaska in bed, instead smiling at her and waving slightly. To her surprise, Alaska foregoes her usual seat and sits down right next to Sharon.

“Hi! I was thinking, since we have to pair up often anyways, it’s easier to just sit next to each other.” Alaska says, smiling brightly. Sharon is pretty sure they haven’t had to pair up except for the frog debacle, but she finds herself nodding anyway.

“How was the clean-up on Saturday?” Sharon asks once Alaska gets settled.

“Oh, I just hired a cleaning company. If anything is less than pristine when Daddy gets home he’ll go berserk.” Alaska rolls her eyes, and Sharon tries not to smile at the fact that Alaska is such a fucking cliché.

“So when is he coming back?”

“Hmm, not for a month or so… I think he’s in China right now.”

“Wait, really?” Sharon frowns, “You’re on your own for more than a month?” The idea of Alaska all alone in that giant mansion makes Sharon feel instantly sad. Sharon still remembers when she heard the news that Alaska’s mom had died, six years ago. She was 11 at the time, and of course everyone in school knew about it instantly. Alaska didn’t go to school for weeks, and when she came back she talked to no-one except Willam and Courtney. Sharon thinks the memory of those empty, haunted brown eyes will stay with her forever. It was the first time she had felt empathy for Alaska, the first time she saw her as a real person instead of as a popular barbie doll she despised.  

“It’s fine,” Alaska shrugs it off, bringing Sharon back to the present, “How was the drive back? Did you guys get home okay?”

Sharon thinks about the drive back, where she had been relegated to the backseat, having to listen to Katya flirt with Trixie the whole ride. She probably would have been more upset if she hadn’t gotten that hug from Alaska before she left.

“Yeah, Trixie and Katya are becoming very friendly with each other,” Sharon hints. She doesn’t want to out anybody, but she also wants Alaska to know that she’s not alone.

Alaska, however, is completely oblivious. “That’s so nice! It’s so hard being new at school.”

Willam and Courtney walk in, and they pause for a second when they see Alaska sitting next to Sharon. They share a look, shrug their shoulders, and take the two seats next to Alaska. Willam looks over at Sharon suspiciously, her eyes squinted.

“So why did you crash the party Friday?” Willam asks, a hostile undertone in her voice. “I never see you at parties.”

Sharon is about to bite back when Alaska quickly says, “I invited her.”

“I think it’s nice that you and Katya came!” Courtney chimes in, shooting Willam a look. “You guys are really cool.”

Courtney looks at Sharon earnestly, and Sharon is at a loss for words.

“Thanks, Courtney,” she says, a genuine smile forming on her lips.

Willam looks from Courtney to Sharon, and finally at Alaska, nodding to herself.

“Yo Lasky, can I copy your homework real quick?” Willam then asks, already grabbing Alaska’s homework. Courtney rolls her eyes fondly and shares a look with Sharon, as if they’ve all been friends for years.

On Tuesday, Sharon walks into the canteen looking for Katya and sees her sitting with Trixie, Willam, Courtney, and Alaska. Feeling like she stepped into an alternate dimension, she makes her way to the group. Alaska immediately makes room between her and Katya, and everyone smiles at her as she sits down. Sharon supposes this is her life now. Eating lunch with blond cheerleaders who use glitter as eyeshadow.

“Sharon, we were just discussing that we really want to go to one of your parties,” Courtney tells her. Apparently, Katya’s crazy stories actually made her interesting to Willam and Courtney, and now they see her as a gateway to an interesting life filled with drugs and wild parties.

“Uh, I don’t throw parties,” Sharon says.

“No, ones you go to,” Courtney clarifies, “like actual college parties.”

“Yeah, don’t those dykes you guys hang out with throw crazy parties?” Willam chimes in. Sharon feels Alaska completely freeze up next to her, jaw locked and looking down, and she wonders how her supposed best friends are so fucking oblivious. Sharon is ready to go in on Willam, but surprisingly, Courtney speaks first.

“I don’t think you should use that word, Willam,” she says, and Sharon, Alaska, Katya, and Trixie all turn to Courtney, their mouths wide agape. Sharon wonders if Courtney realizes she is saying that in front of two, probably three, possibly four, lesbians.

“What, why?” Willam asks, “Is this because we made out on Friday?”

“You guys made out on Friday?!” Alaska screams.    

“No not because of that,” Courtney says, her cheeks turning red. “But. It’s a slur. People use it to bully lesbians. So we shouldn’t say it. Right guys?”

Courtney glances around the table, looking for support, and everyone nods along with her.

“Yeah, great point Court,” Trixie says, smiling at her friend.

“Alright fine!” Willam gives in, throwing her hands in the air. “But when are we going to a college party?”

“Well, not this week,” Alaska says, “The cheer rally is on Friday! You guys are coming, right?” She looks expectantly at Sharon and Katya, and Sharon can’t help but make a face. Cheer rallies are everything she hates about this school. Those jocks, those cheerleaders, with the exception of the ones at the table she’s sitting at, have always been the ones picking on her, the ones that made her feel like a freak. She doesn’t want to cheer for those fuckers, she doesn’t want to join in on that social hierarchal bullshit.

“No way,” she says resolutely.

“But it’s going to be my first time cheering with the team!” Trixie says, and Katya smiles at her before turning to Sharon.

“We could go?” she says, and Sharon rolls her eyes. Katya is way too far gone. She then makes the mistake of looking at Alaska, who is watching her with dark brown puppy-dog eyes and a slight pout. Sharon can already feel her resolve slipping.

“Maybe. We’ll see.” she settles on, but Alaska smiles at her as if she just promised to dress up in the school colors, wave the school flag and make signs spelling out Alaska’s name. And who is she kidding, if Alaska asked she probably would.

It turns out Sharon has her next class with Willam, and they walk to the classroom together. Sharon’s defenses are all the way up, but Willam seems to be completely comfortable, the look of suspicion from earlier this week gone.

Sharon studies Willam, trying to figure her out, and as a result, she bumps into some football player.

“Watch out you fucking dyke freak,” the guy hisses at her. Before Sharon can so much as roll her eyes, Willam grabs him by the arm.

“What the fuck did you just call her?” Willam demands, and Sharon’s mouth drops open.

“Yo Willam what the fuck, everyone knows that she- that she’s a-“ the guy sputters, clearly surprised at Willam’s reaction.

“And everyone knows that you lost your virginity to your cousin, but I don’t go around calling you names,” Willam says, releasing the guy and walking away from him. Sharon shares a baffled look with the jock and then hurries to catch up with Willam.

“What the fuck?” she asks her, not knowing what else to say.

“What?” Willam says casually, studying her manicure, “I thought we weren’t supposed to say that word anymore.”

Sharon stands still for a moment before following Willam into their classroom, and she wonders what the hell is happening with her life right now.

At the end of their classes, Katya tries to convince Sharon to sit on the bleachers during cheer practice.

“No, it’s weird now that we actually know them,” Sharon says.

“It was way creepier when you were just stalking her, Sharon.” Katya tells her, pulling on her arm, “Plus, I promised Trixie we’d be there, so she can practice performing in front of an audience.”

“Ugh. Fine.” Sharon gives in. They walk to the field, and they are a bit late, the practice already in session. They take a seat pretty close to the field, and both Trixie and Alaska wave enthusiastically at them, not looking surprised that they are there. The rest of the team doesn’t look surprised either, but they don’t look as happy as Trixie and Alaska to see them. Courtney and Willam both give them a wave and a smile, but the rest of the cheerleaders look a bit like the shit under their shoe just walked in.

Katya sits facing the field, eyes on the cheerleaders, not even lighting up a blunt, and Sharon carefully follows her example. She watches them dance, watches them laugh with each other, watches Alaska flip her ponytail, watches Alaska fall when doing a cartwheel, watches Alaska’s skirt being stuck in her top after she gets up, and feels like creep.

“This is weird!” She complains to Katya.

“Seriously? Sneaking looks out of the corner of your eye was not weird, and actually being invited to watch is weird?”

“Well, now she knows that I’m watching her,” Sharon insists.

“Yes, that’s what makes it less weird,” Katya says very slowly, as if talking to a child. “Besides, see this as practice for the cheer rally.”

“I’m not going to that,” Sharon says automatically, and Katya chuckles.

“Sure you’re not.”

Sharon watches the rest of the practice trying to be more relaxed, even smiling at Alaska when she catches her eye. She looks over at Katya and sees her staring at Trixie with a dreamy look in her eyes.

“So how’s that going?” Sharon asks her, elbowing her side.

“We declared our undying love for each other and are ready to run away together.” Katya says, “Preferably to Hawaii.”

Sharon’s eyebrows shoot up, “Seriously?”

“In my mind we have.” Katya pulls her knees up and rests her chin on them. “In reality, there’s an 84% chance I’m barking up the wrong Barbie,”

“Well stay away from my Barbie,” Sharon can’t help but say. Katya immediately turns to her, a devilish grin on her face.

“Well look at you finally admitting your crush! No need to be territorial Sharon, I won’t corrupt your precious princess.”

Sharon growls at her.

When the cheerleading practice is finished, Alaska and Trixie walk up to them, taking a seat on the bleachers with their backs to the field, facing Sharon and Katya.

“Hey, thank you for coming,” Trixie smiles, mostly looking at Katya.

“Of course bitch! I promised!” Katya punches Trixie on the arm, and Sharon takes a moment to internally criticize Katya’s flirting skills.

“Did you have fun?” Alaska asks Sharon.

“Not really my cup of tea. You were good though,” Sharon answers, and promptly realizes she doesn’t really have any right to criticize Katya.

“No I wasn’t, I was horrible as always,” Alaska says, a smile still on her face. “But it’ll be much better Friday, you’ll see,” Sharon rolls her eyes at the implication, but understands that resistance is futile.

“I’m so nervous for Friday,” Trixie says, “I’m sleeping over at Alaska’s on Thursday so we can spend Friday morning practicing.”

“You’re going to take lessons from her?” Sharon asks incredulously, and Alaska makes a small affronted noise and pushes her lightly.

“Oh by the way, Trixie, I do have to mention that I can’t really cook. Anything.” Alaska says, sheepishly smiling at Trixie. “I mean, I can try, but I may burn the house down.”

“You can’t cook?” Sharon asks, “Then how do you eat in the month you’re home alone?”

“I don’t know… I just eat a sandwich, or I order pizza.” Alaska says, twirling her ponytail around her finger.

“Okay, I’m going to teach you how to make pasta so you don’t die from scurvy,” Sharon says, immediately worried about Alaska’s health. Sharon has been cooking for years, used to not having a meal on the table if she doesn’t. Alaska smiles at that like Sharon just gave her a great idea.

“Hey! Why don’t both of you come over on Thursday, and you can teach us then!” Alaska proposes, clapping her hands.

“I’m free!” Katya says eagerly. “If Trixie’s okay with it?”

“I’m good with any plan that involves me not having to eat Alaska’s burned food,” Trixie says, grinning at Katya.

“Sharon?” Alaska asks, looking at her expectantly, fluttering her long dark lashes. Not for the first time, Sharon feels it’s almost unfair how beautiful Alaska is.

“Sure, why not,” Sharon says, shrugging.

“Well don’t sound too fucking enthusiastic Sharon,” Katya rolls her eyes at her.

“That’s just her brand,” Alaska says, smiling at Sharon provokingly. Sharon scoffs at her but can’t help smiling back. Katya cackles and pokes her in the cheek.

“What’s so funny?” Courtney asks, her and Willam walking up the bleachers and joining them.

“Sharon’s insistence to hate everything,” Trixie says, and Sharon glares at her.

“I don’t hate everything,” Sharon defends herself. “I just hate most people.”

“No, see, that’s why I like you,” Willam says, pointing at her, “Your whole scary vibe. I dig it.”

The group stays on the bleachers for a while, chatting and laughing. Katya sparks up a joint and Courtney and Willam are very excited to try it, which results in a lot of coughing and giggling. Katya excitedly reassures Trixie about her dancing, and Sharon can’t help but notice the blush on Trixie’s cheeks. Courtney and Sharon talk about politics, and she is surprised to notice that Courtney has a lot of interesting ideas. Alaska and Katya apparently have the same weird taste in movies, and they spend ten minutes quoting lines to each other while the rest of the group looks on with confusion. Somehow, their weird little group is meshing, and for the first time ever, Sharon feels like she may have more than one friend.

When it gets later and the sun starts falling lower, Alaska shivers slightly, only her cheerleading outfit keeping her warm. Sharon hates herself, she really does, but she does the most cliché thing imaginable and she takes her leather coat off, draping it over Alaska’s shoulders wordlessly.

Alaska looks at her then, the orange glow of the setting sun painting her features, her brown eyes sparkling, her pink lips in a perfect smile. “Thank you, Sharon,” she says, and Sharon thinks that no moment can be more perfect than this.