#Something so miserable and ghastly about someone who says ‘I know this is wrong

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

Maedhros built up a high pain resistance from Angband; particularly to the burning sensation. Considering how low he thinks of himself, it’s likely he expected the Silmaril to burn him. He didn’t think he was redemptive, he thought I can take it.

Part of why Maedhros acts so viciously is because that’s how life treated him. I can take it if my brothers die. I can take it if I’m damned for eternity. I can take it if everybody thinks I’m a monster.

He’s proud, and he’s suffering. He won’t back down, he will succeed or be martyred.

[thedistantdusk]

Arcadia, Chapter 3

Thanks to everyone who followed along! Things are heating up with this chapter! Most of the referenced triggers from chapter 1 apply in this chapter specifically. Here's the link to chapter 2, if you're just seeing this now :)

Thanks again to @secretkeeper13, @accio-broom, @remedialpotions, @jamezbot, @jenoramaca, @not-steve42, @ginisbetterthanfirewhiskey... god, I'm forgetting people, and I'm sorry! But you're all amazing <3

___________________________

D A Y + T H R E E

As fate would have it, Ginny wakes before 0-700.

Not that she sleeps.

Nightmares, the likes of which she hasn’t experienced in years, torment her throughout the night. They leave her scared. Miserable. Guilty. Around 3 AM, she finally reaches for her Dreamless Sleep potion with shaking hands. For more reasons than one, she’s pleased that Harry’s slept on the couch.

She knows now just how stupid this entire mission truly was. The longer she analyzes it, the more she accepts that her bloody pride got her here in the first place. A chance for a promotion, however small, gave her false confidence in her ability to disregard a decade of sexual tension, all while trapped in close quarters with the person she wants the most.

She hopes Harry makes himself sparse today, though she knows that sounds cruel. But the longer they spend together, the clearer it becomes they’re on the cusp of something… and not something that would look good on a performance review. He’s been kind and understanding so far, even when she’s fucked things up. She just hopes she can ignore the most human parts of herself until they’ve dealt with this.

So at half-past 8, Ginny — Jenny — emerges from the house in a bright floral sundress and nude pumps. Were it not for the secret weapon clutched in her right fist, she might have fit in quite well... but Jenny has no intention of fitting in. Not anymore. In three confident strides, she marches across the front lawn, bends down, and spears the prongs of a lurid pink flamingo into the grass.

Yes.

She grins and takes in her work. How ghastly against the backdrop of earth tones! How repugnant!

Ginny steals quick glimpses over each shoulder, only to be met with the eerie, blanketed silence that’s defined Arcadia since their arrival. No activity at all. Which means she’ll have no issue with the next bit…

She strides to the mailbox at the end of their driveway and gives it a sharp kick. The post slides out of alignment, leaving it askew. Perfect. She returns to the house with a bounce in her step. Living with the twins taught her a thing or two about how to infuriate complete strangers.

She just hopes it’ll be enough.

___________________________

As luck would have it, it is enough. Her efforts receive reward more quickly than she thought— more quickly than she’s been conditioned to expect.

Scarcely an hour passes before she finds the warning she needs. And to be honest, it could’ve been there sooner; she just figured she’d give it that long before she checked.

Still, it’s not even 10 AM when she opens the door and sees it on their welcome mat: a folded paper with Pee-tri scrolled on the front. She can’t help but admire the sheer cheek as she unfolds it; this is the closest they’ll get to a public call-out for the way Harry insists on correcting everyone’s pronunciation. The message inside doesn’t surprise her, either.

Be like the others before dark. Or else.

Ginny glimpses out at the lawn, just to confirm— and yes. Sure enough. Just as she’d suspected, the flamingo's gone. The mailbox is straight. Everything’s back to normal.

She kicks the door closed with a smirk and wonders if they’re aware of how easily they’ve exposed themselves. How—

“What’ve you got there?” Harry calls from the sofa in the living room. He looks up from his laptop with bleary, dark-rimmed eyes. A wave of guilt washes through her; that sofa clearly didn’t get more comfortable overnight. Not that he would’ve accepted the alternative.

“Erm. A letter.” She waves in front of her and walks into the living room. “I’ve done a great job annoying them!”

He offers a gentle smile. “Any chance you’ll let me know who this ‘them’ is that you’re so worried about?”

Ginny rolls her eyes and settles on the other end of the couch. “You know I can’t—”

“Talk about your work,” Harry finishes, turning back to his computer. “Right.”

“Mm. Not exactly that I can’t… talk about my work,” she ventures, putting her feet up on the white ottoman. “More like I can’t give information until it’s essential knowledge for all parties involved. Based on criteria that I also can’t share.”

“Sounds like a fun job,” Harry deadpans, still looking at the computer. “But anyway, if I were to suggest something like… I don’t know…” He casually tilts the screen in her direction. “The fact that Oliver Skinner definitely has a criminal record, and maybe that’s worth looking into. You couldn’t confirm or deny that?”

Ginny just shrugs. “That’s correct. I can neither confirm nor deny.”

His theory is wrong, of course. Dead wrong.

They wouldn’t have sent an Unspeakable and an Auror into the country if this were a simple Muggle murderer. Harry would be able to suss this out, she reckons, if he had more sleep. Poor bloke.

He groans and cracks his back. “I’m starting to understand why King’s always so frustrated.”

“Probably because he has to deal with you all the time,” Ginny quips, reaching for a magazine on the floor. Ugh. Of course, it’s only the TV guide, Radio Times. They don’t even have a TV, but it came with the Daily Mail on Sunday.

Harry reaches for a glass of water on the coffee table. “Fine,” he relents, in between sips. “I’ll stay in my lane. But if I get bored, I’ll get tetchy.” He gestures to the computer. “And since they’ve given us this laptop, I’ve had time to do a bit of—”

“They’ve given me a laptop,” Ginny corrects, arching a brow. “As you’re well aware, Auror Potter, that is technically the property of the DoM.” She returns to the guide with a shrug. “I just don’t care if you use it, mostly because I don’t expect you’ll be looking up tits all day.”

He chokes on his water; Ginny just laughs and turns the page. Ooh, lovely! Eurovision looks particularly flamboyant this year…

“You’re absolutely right,” Harry says, once he recovers. “I’d never look up tits on government property!” He looks affronted as he hands over the laptop, but she knows he’s not done... not when he’s set that up so perfectly. Annnnd sure enough…

“You of all people should know I'm an arse-man, Ginny.”

Now it’s her turn for an unattractive snort as he winks over his shoulder and marches upstairs.

When he’s gone, Ginny rolls her eyes and opens her laptop. He’s an incredible liar on the arse-man front, but it was a good joke. A simple joke…. one that didn’t deserve looking into.

It’s just unfortunate that can’t stop these stupid fucking butterflies from erupting in her stomach like she’s ten years old again.

___________________________

He launches into the air again, the gardens of his neighbors spanning out in front of him. Each perfectly manicured. Each disturbing in its performative precision. None of this is real; none of this is life.

He pulled out the trampoline after dinner, when Ginny okayed it. He’s not used to that— checking before he does things. This whole exercise has been a great reminder that his teamwork skills are rusty, especially when he’s in a subordinate role. Ron left after their first year to work in the magic shop instead, which only made sense after… yeah. Harry draws a deep breath and jumps again. Ron and Hermione haven’t been problem-solving in his head for ages. There’s been no one to share the burden of choices or—

“OI!” Oliver’s voice thunders across the garden.

Harry smiles and takes another huge leap into the air. Just in time…

He rips open the fence door and stomps over, hands balled into fists. Harry’s never seen anyone look quite so furious while dressed in cashmere. And standing beside a trampoline.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Oliver hisses, eyes narrowed to slits. “Are you trying to make enemies, Henry? Is this entire estate a bloody joke to you?”

“Of course not!” Harry lands on his bum before he jumps up again. “This is very serious!”

“Oliver!” Sharon wails, hurrying over. “Oliver. Please! This really—”

“Keep your nose where it belongs, woman,” Oliver snarls, looking at her like she’s scum on his shoe. “No one wants your opinion!”

Sharon flinches… and this, more than anything else, gets Harry’s back up. “No need to take it out on her!” he snaps, climbing down from the trampoline. “Talk to me if you’ve got a problem, Ollie. Why not—”

But just as Harry’s feet touch the grass, something very weird happens: A dull buzzing fills his ears. Sharon and Oliver hear it too, but unlike Harry, they aren’t looking around in bewildered confusion. In a flash, the rage on Oliver’s face transforms into something much different: fear. And as the pressure grows, Harry can only watch as Oliver grabs Sharon’s hand, yanking her from the garden, when—

An unmistakable sound replaces the buzzing. A large piece of glass from somewhere in the front of the house shatters on the pavement. And with that, the buzzing stops.

Birds chirp again. Someone laughs in the distance. Harry jabs a finger in his ear, trying to clear it, but it seems Oliver’s returned to his furious state. He lunges towards Harry, a vein ticking in his neck, his hands outstretched as if to push him over— but Harry doesn’t have time for this. He’s already running around him, bolting towards the source of the sound, his hand inching for his pocket…

Because whatever they’ve got going on isn’t related to Oliver, is it? No… definitely not. That buzzing was too creepy to be muggle. Harry hadn’t really been convinced of the Oliver theory in the first place, even if the wanker has a criminal record for drunk driving. He mostly suggested it to Ginny to see if she’d give him any information.

Harry spots the broken glass the second he reaches the pavement. The lamppost right outside their house has shattered, light bulb and all. Bits of glass sparkle on the street, but the lamppost is at least 10 feet high. Harry scans around for signs of a ladder, or some form of a projectile… any method someone might’ve used to— oh! A baseball rolls around in one of the open garages across the street. He’s about to march over and collect it when his conscience stops him.

Because that’s the definition of circumstantial evidence, isn’t it? Harry sighs, rubbing his forehead. Snatching the baseball while working alone is one thing, but it’s not worth risking Ginny’s job. Especially because he reckons these thoroughly unmemorable homes are each equipped with monitoring systems. At absolute best, that would be… awkward to explain to the muggle police, especially without an obvious connection between the ball and the shattered lamppost...

Harry’s just about to turn back inside and write it off a freak occurrence when—

Shit.

His breath freezes in his throat.

What the...

He blinks a few times to make sure he’s not imagining it, but no...

There’s no weird buzzing this time… but something else is happening instead. The grass on the far side of their yard is bulging and curling, right in front of his eyes. The soil creaks as this… this mass — a huge sphere of some sort — passes through; bits of dirt fly into the air before settling back.

Harry’s veins turn to ice, his stomach churning. Work has introduced him to new, vile varieties of ghouls and nasties. He’s been bitten by a leprechaun. Stalked by a vampire. He’s encountered every disturbing otherworldly menace that one could imagine.

But he’s never seen anything like this.

His only solace is that it’s headed towards Mike’s empty house… this massive, rolling boulder that travels beneath the soil. ‘Boulder’ isn’t exactly the right term, though; he’s never seen a boulder move with a slinking, predatory grace. He’s never gotten gooseflesh from a rock, no matter how large.

And try as he might, he can only stand there, wide-eyed, his heart racing. Because now he knows for sure what Ginny only alluded to before: whatever they’re chasing isn’t human.

And it’s aware of them.

___________________________

The door creaks open less than five minutes after the glass shatters, but Ginny’s prepared.

She’s standing in the alcove just off the entryway, wand in one hand, fire poker in the other. It’s probably not the best strategy she’s ever had— but she reckons that if a Muggle were to catch sight of an altercation, it would be an easy memory supplantation. Wands and fire pokers don’t look that dissimilar, and—

“Ginny?” Harry calls. Directly into her ear.

Shit! She jumps into the air, the poker clattering to the ground.

“When did you learn to move like a cat?” she demands, turning to face him. “You nearly—”

“We need to talk,” he says brusquely. It’s only then that she takes in his wide, haunted eyes. His white pallor. The way he hasn’t even commented on the ridiculousness of her fire poker.

Oh.

He’s scared.

Scared in a way she hasn’t seen him in ages. Maybe ever. Which means he heard…? Shit. She’d might as well ask.

“What do you erm…” She toys with her wand handle. “Want to talk about?”

Harry heaves a tired sigh. “I’m only going to ask you this once,” he says flatly, rubbing his hand over his forehead. Then he blinks up at her, his eyes pulsing and stern. “What the fuck was that?”

“The… shattered lamppost?” she hedges. “I’ve no idea. I just—”

Apparently, that was the wrong response.

Harry groans. “You know damn well I don’t mean the bloody lamppost!” he snarls. “I mean that… that thing! First the weird buzzing, then whatever moved through the grass! It was like some creepy worm, or—”

“—not a worm,” she amends, staring at her cuticles.

This, too, was the wrong reply; she’s never seen him go from bewildered to enraged quite so fast.

Harry lets out a furious roar and kicks at an empty box. “This is why Unspeakables are so fucking annoying!” he shouts, tossing his hands in the air. “You never fucking say anything — even if it might help someone!”

Pfft! He can do better than that...

“Not sure what you expected,” she deadpans. “Would it help if I were a Speakable instead?”

Harry rolls his eyes and throws himself on the couch. Ginny just leans against the door… and waits. She can’t say she blames him for being angry. It’s probably made him feel vulnerable in ways he hasn’t in ages.

“The least you can bloody do,” Harry says, cutting into her thoughts, “is to let me know how to kill it.” He glimpses up at her, his chest still heaving. “Because if anything happened to you….” His hand curls around his wand, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “We both know I’d never forgive myself.”

Fuck.

Her heart clenches; as embarrassing as it is, tears sting the backs of her eyes. She wasn’t expecting that… but it makes perfect sense. He’s not angry because he’s vulnerable; he’s angry because he doesn’t know how to protect her.

Because he’s Harry.

Her Harry.

And try as she might, she can’t deny that. He’s hers… even though now he’s broken and angry and scared and alone. Which is probably why she loves the fucking fuck out of him.

No.

She stops herself, squeezing her eyes shut. Mission. Mission. They’re on a mission.

Right. She clears her throat and steps forward, two papers clutched in her hand.

“What’s that?” Harry grumbles as she hands them over. He scans the pages, brow furrowing. “Sugar… engine oil. Red Dye 40. What am I supposed to do with—?”

Ginny smiles and tries to make this easy. “It’s the report from the necklace. The thing that was on Mike’s medallion… it’s rubbish. Not blood, not some ghost slime. It’s just a weird mixture of types of rubbish.”

She should’ve figured he wouldn’t find this significant.

“What a brilliant scientific discovery.” Harry tosses the paper to the side. “Hermione would be thrilled.”

Ginny gnaws at her cheek, choosing her words carefully… but if he’s already seen it, if he’s already heard it, surely there’s no harm...

Harry rises to his feet and takes a step closer until he’s towering over her, all warm and brooding. They aren’t touching… not exactly. He’s just hovering close enough to give her strength, whether he knows it or not. When she finally gets the nerve to look up at him, his green eyes are swirling with more pain than rage. Truth be told, she prefers the rage. “I deserve to know,” he says thickly, like he’s suppressing something in his throat, “what the fuck is going on.”

Ginny breaks their eye contact. Some of this she hasn’t even shared with Attica yet. She’s violating about a million protocols by telling Harry first, but if they’re together on a mission…

“It’s… not what we thought. Not what I thought,” she admits softly, after a moment. “We came out here under the assumption of chasing something from the Thought Chamber. Something that erm… may have escaped. During a routine experiment.”

He’s not impressed, though. “Yeah,” he says, arching a brow. “I gathered all of that from your intro with the camera, thanks. Do you ever plan on telling me anything new?” He jerks his chin towards the window. “Because you’ve sure as hell never mentioned Evil Grass Monster Experiment #6, and that may have been helpful to fucking know before I saw it.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

His attitude is more infuriating than his actual words, but she lacks the patience for dealing with either. The bloody nerve, to act all impatient with information that’s kept secret for a reason...

“I don’t have to tell you shit, actually,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “And in case you’re unaware, I can protect myself.”

Harry pulls back with a laugh, but this one is cruel. Dark. The sort she’s never heard from him before. “Makes sense,” he says with a fake grin. Then he taps her on the nose. “Because when that thing outside inevitably kills someone else, we all know how well you’ll manage the guilt.”

Ouch.

She reels back, stung. He’s got to know that’s a low blow. Younger Ginny would have Bat Bogeyed him into oblivion, but she’s better now. She’s changed.

At least that’s what she tells herself as she glares at him, her hands fisted so tightly they turn white. “Say what you mean,” she manages several moments later, when rage isn’t clawing at her chest. “If you’d like to rehash our breakup, Auror Potter, I’m all ears!” She gives her best impression of an icy smirk. “This isn’t exactly professional… but then again, when have you ever been?”

Harry looks like he’s going to respond, but a loud vibration starts in his back pocket. “Fuck!” Now it’s his turn to leap into the air before he realizes it’s just his wand. And really, she’s tempted to laugh— but the look on his face helps her put the pieces together.

Because if his wand’s vibrating, that means it’s an emergency; only department heads can summon their employees like that. They’re the only ones with access to that sort of technology, not that she’s really interested either way.

“It’s King,” he mutters. She’s about to get on him for stating the obvious, but when he peers at her again, his face is filled with such timid yearning that she can only see the 11-year-old boy on the train platform. “Can I…erm. Use your mobile?”

Fine. Ginny nods towards the bedroom, her head still spinning. She’s still a bit angry with him, but he’s so fucking broken. They both are. And besides, they’ve got bigger problems. What could possibly have King so worried that he’d call Harry from a mission? The man is unflappable.

Harry returns a minute later, his face stony, jaw set. In another life, she might’ve seen the bulge in his pocket and asked if that’s just her mobile, or if he’s happy to see her.

Instead, she tucks her hair behind her ears like the seasoned professional she is. “There’s no reception inside,” she points out. “I’ve had luck calling Attica from up the street, right at the corner. Just watch out for…”

Harry smirks. “Grass monsters?”

Ginny draws a breath to consider her options. She could keep him in the dark forever, but isn’t that the whole point of this assignment? To learn? It’s time for the truth, she reckons...

“It’s erm. It’s called a tulpa, actually.”

His eyes light up at this. “A tulpa?”

Ginny shifts her weight and searches for the right words. “It’s a… it’s sort of like an evil imaginary friend, created by a group of people to do their bidding,” she explains, reaching for the discarded papers. “They come from the material of whatever’s underground. I’ve only heard of creatures made from clay or water, but since this village was built on a rubbish tip”— she flicks the papers with her fingers— “that’s our guy!”

She can almost see the gears spinning in Harry’s head as he studies the far wall. “So…” he says slowly, still peering off, “it’s basically an evil dump monster, made of rubbish, that can murder people.”

A laugh slips past her lips. It sounds a bit dumb when he puts it that way. She clears her throat and continues. “I was wrong because it’s not something that’s escaped, more like something that’s—”

“Formed,” Harry finishes quickly. For the first time all week, he sounds intrigued. Like he’s happy to be here. “So… they’ve made it to keep order, then?”

“It would seem so.” She shrugs. “I… honestly don’t know. But between the weird buzzing and the rubbish, it’s the closest match we’ve got. According to the system database, anyway.”

There’s another pause as Harry mulls this over. “So, how do we get rid of it, then?”

How fucked up is it that her heart warms at the way he says ‘we’?

Ginny brushes that aside. “Considering the mask in Gogolak’s house and the way they’ve made a point to tell us he’s in charge, I’d say he’s the one we need to get rid of.”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest but doesn’t object.

“Or at least… knock him totally unconscious,” she adds, swallowing; Gogolak’s a wanker, but she’d rather not kill him, either. “Beyond just being asleep. Because he sleeps at night, but the tulpa’s still here, which means he needs to be down for the count. Comatose, even.”

Harry’s wand buzzes again. Ah, shit; in all the hubbub, she’d forgotten about that.

Concern floods Harry’s face. “Give me five minutes.” He blinks. “Ok?”

She waves towards the door. “Duty calls.”

He gives her a weak smile and turns away; she begins the trek upstairs to send Attica an email update.

“Ginny?”

She stops to look down at him. Harry’s paused, halfway out the door. “Thank you,” he says softly, meeting her eyes. “And… I’m sorry. For everything. Ok? I’ll always, erm…”

But she can’t right now. She actually fucking can’t.

“Later,” she whispers, nearly begging. “Please. Let’s do this later.”

Because of course she loves him.

She’s always fucking loved him, even though that’s changed forms. It’s shifted. It’s evolved. He feels the same way… she knows he’s bloody feels the same way. She just doesn’t have the resources to deal with whatever this fuck is reigniting, right in front of her eyes, as the tulpa dances in the back of her head.

Luckily, he understands. Harry just swallows again, nods at her, and heads out into the night.

___________________________

As it would turn out, he was wrong about the identity of the summoner.

“Great news!” Hermione announces on the other end of the mobile. “MLE found Yaxley. He was hiding in a cave in Romania, just like you said.”

Harry snorts; he wishes that gave him more pride. “Well, if you’d listened to me months ago, then—”

“The important part is that we have him,” Hermione says, cutting across. “We need you back ASAP to prep for witness questioning. You’ll take the stand, of course. The trial’s set to start next week!”

He can practically hear her bouncing with excitement. Very little brings her more joy than trials of former Death Eaters.

“Erm… about that.” Harry rubs the back of his neck. “We’re actually right on the cusp of something here. I’m gonna need a couple more days to wrap things up.”

“Really?” Hermione sounds surprised. “Kingsley and Robards said you’d be pleased. Said you found this mission as useless as they did.”

Fuck, he was such an arse.

“Well, things… changed,” he offers lamely. “It’s going really well. This mission is so important to her. I’d just hate to leave at the last minute.”

“Ohhh?” Hermione draws out the word in a way that suggests she finds herself quite clever. Even before she asks, he knows what she’s on about. “How’s it going with Ginny, then?”

Harry rolls his eyes. Her coy prodding is obvious, even over the phone.

“As I already said, it’s going well,” he replies flatly. “We’re a great team. Always have been.”

But she can’t let him have that one, can she?

“Well… not always,” Hermione allows. “After Percy—”

Harry groans. For fuck’s sake, what’s her obsession with stating the obvious? “Yeah, well,” he retorts, “I’d like to know who you think did well after that, especially since…”

He trails off with a sigh.

Especially since what, exactly?

He toys with the fraying ends of his hoodie string.

Especially since Ginny was the last to speak with Percy? That she still carries the weight of the guilt for what she said that night? That she’s never admitted it, but that he suspects her choice to become an Unspeakable was influenced by the things she wishes she could un-say?

Harry makes a face. That’s corny as fuck, isn’t it? What a thing to pull from his arse...

Hermione interrupts his thoughts for a bit of bragging. “Well, Ron and I have done just fine.”

He can almost imagine her staring at her engagement ring in dreamy affection. The mental image makes his reply sound more bitter than he intends.

“Well,” Harry snaps, “Ron wasn’t the last person to speak with Percy. So I’m not sure how you could compare the two, really.”

Shit.

The silence on the other end tells him he needs to apologize, even if it’s true. Fortunately, Hermione gives him an easy out. “Anyway.” She clears her throat. “I’ll give you until tomorrow night, but we really need you the following day. If you haven’t settled this, we’re swapping you out. Got it?”

Harry sighs. He’s exhausted, but this couldn’t possibly take much longer. Ginny’s more or less got the proof she needs now. They just need to confront Gogolak, knock him out, and—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Harry cranes his neck towards the source of the noise. Huh… weird. Far up the street, flashing lights tip him off. That’s definitely Oliver’s Audi, the one parked in the driveway directly beside theirs. It’s in utopia blue with a metallic finish, a detail Oliver probably mentioned at least fifty times the other night. Then, while Sharon and Ginny were out walking the dog, Oliver began a mind-numbing lecture on the car’s exact miles per liter. Harry was a bit drunk, which is probably why he interrupted to ask a much more important maths question: How many blow jobs per week is too many, exactly?

Even from a distance, Harry can tell that Oliver’s nearly the same shade of murderous red now; he storms from the house and turns off the alarm with his key fob. But then he pauses, glancing around like something’s spooked him. He must decide it’s not that significant, though, because he huffs back inside soon enough. Fucking wanker...

“....Harry?”

“Sorry!” Harry shakes his head. “Yeah, sorry, that works. See you then, Hermione.”

“Can’t wait!” she trills. He doesn’t need to see her face to know she’s smug and grinning.

___________________________

Two minutes after Harry leaves, Ginny feels it again: that same sensation she experienced while walking Captain Bone.

She’s sitting at her laptop when it starts… this deeply unsettling shift. It stands the hair up on the back of her neck. She rushes to the window on instinct, but just like before, everything outside looks the same. There’s no “moving grass monster,” as Harry called it. Not yet, at least.

Still, she can’t deny it’s growing louder. Getting stronger. And now that she’s felt it for a bit longer, she can put more words to it. It’s like she’s plummeting through the absence of sound; like all the wind’s been sucked from the air. It’s a building pressure, a mounting unease, and before she knows it, her whole body starts to shake.

Then two things happen in quick succession: that weird feeling stops, and a car alarm begins to blare in the distance.

Weird.

She shudders. This whole thing is so fucking weird. Weird is her job, and this place is still Very Fucking Weird. Seriously, who enjoys living here? She’s reaching for her wand, just in case, when the front door slams open.

In retrospect, it’s a blessing she knows Harry as well as she does… because she can tell that those heavy, clobbering footsteps don’t belong to him. She knows he’s not the one drawing deep, ragged breaths as he marches up the stairs.

She hides around the corner of the bedroom, her heart racing, and goes through a mental list of spells she might use. Shield charms. Enchantments. The buzzing’s stopped, so this probably isn’t the tulpa… but who else would be here? Gogolak? It sounds more human than—

“Jenny?” a deep, soothing voice asks. “Are you in here?”

Her breath freezes in her throat. She’s only heard that voice once before… but it’s so similar to her former life that she identifies it at once.

“Mike?” A wave of relief washes through her. She shoves her wand into her dress as she comes around the corner. Sure enough, there he is, in the flesh. Mike Snodgrass. A man she presumed dead days ago.

“Hi!” Mike pants. He cracks a smile. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but.” He winces, wiping a palm on his ripped khakis. “Been hiding!” Fuck. His whole outfit (yellow Polo, khakis) is the same he wore days ago to unload their boxes, except now it’s filthy. Stained. Like he’s been living beneath cars and inside drains. He’s just missing his Saint Julian medallion, which she’s sent to the Ministry.

Ginny feels sick. She wrote him off as dead so carelessly...

“I’ve been trying to take it down,” he adds earnestly, peering at her. His cheeks are caked in something red and grimy, the same stuff she stuffed into her bra. He’s been tailing the tulpa, she realizes, her stomach plummeting…

Except he’s got no clue what he’s doing.

“I was about to leave the development, to just run away, but that’s when I figured out it was coming for you two!” He shudders, closing his eyes. It feels like he’s been waiting a long, long time to say this. “And I’ve been aimless without Jess in the first place. So what was the point in leaving, really, if I could save…?”

He trails off, clearing his throat; when he looks up at her again, there’s a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “I’ve been leaving clues, though! Why didn’t you listen?”

“Clues?” Ginny sounds like she’s a million miles away.

Mike’s nearly pleading now. “You had to go and kick the mailbox and stick the flamingo in the grass, didn’t you?” He raises his pointer finger. “And even though I left you a note, you had to make it even worse! It only attacks when the sun goes down, see.”

“You… you left the note?” she whispers. She was so certain that it was from Gogolak...

But Mike proceeds in such a rush it’s clear he hasn’t heard her. “It was about to get Henry by the trampoline, so I threw the baseball as a diversion. I broke the lamppost, too— which worked. For a second,” he adds hastily, glancing over his shoulder.

“How did you also set off the car alarm— oh.” Her head’s still spinning. “Buddy system. Right.”

Mike dangles a keyfob. “Covenant rules. Stole the spare off Jane.” He glances into the hall again before whipping back to face her. “It’ll need a sacrifice tonight, though,” he adds grimly. “And every night, until you all have perfect behavior. It was coming for you earlier, see. We aren’t meant to be outdoors after dark without a permit for dog-walking, so.” He shrugs. “If there’s an unapproved disruption like a car alarm, it knows just where to hunt.”

It’s then that the final pieces of this dreadful puzzle slide together in her brain. “Captain Bone,” Ginny breathes; she swears a feather could knock her over. “He was the first since we arrived. Punishment for us sticking out.”

“I couldn’t save him,” Mike laments. “It came up and snatched him. So I threw in my medallion, right after his collar, just to make them think I was already gone.”

“That’s… that was brilliant,” she admits, biting her lip. “Thank you. You didn’t have—”

“Nah,” he says firmly. “I did. For starters, you remind me so much of…” He stops mid-sentence, an odd expression on his face.

For a second, she thinks he’s being sentimental, but then she feels it too.

Shit.

The hairs on her arm stand up. It’s back… that weird way she felt before. Like the air’s sucked from the room. That creeping, clawing silence. This time, though, it only gets louder, louder, louder, until she’s throwing her hands over her ears, all hope of self-defense forgotten.

But Mike knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly what he’s doing. She doesn’t have the chance to object or get her wand before he’s ripping open the closet door and throwing her inside. Ginny opens her mouth in a startled cry, but it’s like she’s screaming underwater, the sound distant and distorted. Mike slams the door closed with her inside and stomps to the center of the room— but now the thundering, roaring wind is causing her physical pain… it’s so loud now that it reverberates in her chest, so loud that her hands shake as she reaches for her wand at long last, but fuck fuck fuck, it’s too late…

It’s too fucking late.

Because Mike’s made a choice. One he can’t take back. He just stands in the middle of the room, puffing out his chest, offering himself as the proud sacrifice, even as the noise grows so loud that Ginny screams her throat raw.

She feels it enter the bedroom, this looming, shifting mass— but by then, she’s certain her ears are bleeding, her eardrums bursting. Her whole body rattles and shakes as she peers through the slats in the closet door, but she’s frozen. Stuck. Miserable. She couldn’t cast a spell if she tried… even as the tulpa oozes into the room, lunges itself back, and swallows Mike with a sickening squelch.

Even though the slats of the door, Ginny’s sprayed with blood. Covered. And she’s dizzy now… so dizzy. A drop of blood trickles into her eye; she reaches up to wipe it from her face, and it’s only then that she hears her own screams again. They reverberate through the small space, anguished and pleading, so loud that she’s certain someone up the street could hear, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t fucking care. She just screams over and over and over, her nails clawing at the walls, until the world slips away into darkness.

___________________________

Blood.

It’s the first thing he smells as he charges up the steps. His chest squeezes, his eyes water, his head pounds over and over again with one word: No.

No. No. No.

Not Ginny. It can’t be.

But almost as soon as he smells the blood, he hears her screaming, and yes! His heart soars. Screaming is good; screaming means she’s alive and breathing and—

Fuck.

His dinner rises in his throat as he steps into the bedroom. He smelled the blood from the steps, he hadn’t expected… this much. It always takes him aback, exactly how much blood is in one human body, and he’s certainly never seen it sprayed, all over the floor… covering the walls. Covering the closet, even, where Ginny’s still screaming.

He flings open the door, thinking he’s prepared for what he might see. Somehow, though, none of that measures up. Because he’s dealt with tears in his line of work… but he’s never, ever seen her so broken. His chest clenches when he takes her in. Her perfect suburban dress — the yellow floral one, the one he liked so much— is now red and grimy, caked in blood, as Ginny rocks back and forth on the floor, sobs wracking her body.

Blood’s covering her face, too, and her arms. Dried trails of it have crusted around her eyes, like she’s fallen asleep wiping them away… or perhaps lost consciousness. The thought is too terrible to bear. He kicks the door open completely and brings her into his arms in one fell swoop.

She melts against him, her voice raw and broken. “H-Harry!” she manages. “P-please! I need-I need!” She begins to shake, pressing her face to his chest.

“A shower,” he says firmly, stepping into the en-suite. “You… you just need a shower. Ok? And maybe some calming draught, I’ve got some in my luggage, and—”

“No!” she cries, shaking her head. Her eyes are wide and filled with horror. “Don’t… don’t leave. Don’t leave me, Harry, please!”

“I… ok,” he allows, carrying her to his luggage to retrieve the bottle. She clings to his neck as he reaches for it, but she weighs next to nothing. Fuck, she’s so thin… he’d just been too busy eyeing her up to realize exactly how thin. What a complete wanker.

It’s not difficult to unzip the suitcase with one hand and pass her the bottle. “Take this,” he urges, thrusting it into her hands. “Please, Ginny. You’ll feel—”

She’s already downed it before he gets to the end of the sentence. She tips her head back, drawing air into her lungs. “Thanks.” Her voice is still hoarse. Ragged.

“Shower, then,” he murmurs, walking her into the bathroom. He feels her start to relax against him, her body growing looser, as he opens the curtain and turns on the tap.

“Thanks,” she whispers again, her head tucked beneath his chin. His fingers itch with restraint; he’d do anything, he thinks, to hold her against him. To press a kiss to her temple. To tell her he loves her and that she’s beautiful and perfect and he’s sorry, so sorry, that any of this happened and—

She peers up at him, her eyes more focused now, less wide-eyed and horror-struck. “Would you stay here?” she asks, biting her lip. “While I shower? Just so I’m not—”

“‘Course.” Harry swallows, putting her on her feet. She lands with unintentional grace, one foot after the next.

“And can you… erm.” She turns her back to him, lifting her hair above her zipper. His hands shake as he reaches for the clasp. He knows the exact shape of her back as he slides it down, over the middle bump of her white bra strap. He nearly unstraps that for her, too, before he catches himself. It reeks of intimacy, doesn’t it? All of this…

His eyes linger on the soft swell of her bum before he turns around, self-disgust hammering in his throat.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he adds feebly. He balls his hands into fists as her dress hits the floor… followed by her bra. And her knickers.

“Not your fault,” she croaks, stepping into the shower. He smiles, his glasses fogging up as he moves to sit on the closed toilet seat. Even covered in blood and traumatized, she can't bring herself to blame him.

She finishes several minutes later.

“Erm… towel?” She shuts the water off. “Could you?”

“Sure,” he soothes, thrusting one through the curtain. “D’you want me to leave, or…?”

Ginny manages a weak snort. “Nah. Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

He chuckles at the door as he turns around again. She’s right, of course; he knows every bloody inch of her… but it’s not quite the same now.

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He whips around to face her. Admittedly, she looks… better. The blood’s gone. Her eyes are still red-rimmed from sobbing, but she’s looking a bit less like a woman who witnessed a death. Which reminds him…

“Erm. Give me a second to get it all cleaned up?”

Ginny shudders and settles on the toilet seat; he immediately kicks himself for asking. “Yeah,” she says a moment later. “Just… come get me, ok? When you’re done?”

He nods.

___________________________

It can’t be later than 10 PM when he finally carries her to the bed, still wrapped in a towel.

He’s exhausted from the nights on the sofa, but he knows she’s worse off. He’s cleaned the bedroom fairly well, he thinks, considering. There’s a rust-colored stain above the closet that he reckons won’t go anywhere anytime soon. He just hopes she doesn’t see it.

He rests her on the duvet surface, fully prepared to head downstairs for the night— but the pleading look on her face informs him he’s got other plans, instead. So without sharing a single word, he spreads his palms, lies beside her, and waits.

It comes eventually, as he knew it would. One person can’t deal with all that, see all that, without eventually cracking. And as a fellow fucked-up individual, he would know.

It starts as simple tears, ones that he wipes away. It progresses into sobs… full-body sobs. The sort he heard coming up the stairs. He’s surprised she’s got any left, but Ginny’s always been the sort to keep him on his toes. And just as her water-dark hair starts to dry and sprout red tendrils, he faces the thing he expected least of all: a kiss.

She starts softly. Slowly. Her lips so tender and soft that he forgets everything. She moans against his mouth, her whole body leaning into it; he’s instantly reminded of how much he’s fucking missed her. How lonely he’s been. How could he have forgotten the tiny mewl she makes in the back of her throat as her tongue parts his lips? He must’ve blocked it out, he realizes, as she begins to slide her body against him, panting, as she tips her head back. His lips trail down her neck, nibbling and biting, as she grips his arms and hair and bum. Because if he’d remembered all of these little details, he’d have gone mad long ago.

He’s throbbing hard by the time he gets to the tail end of her towel, which brushes the tip of her thighs. He tries to adjust himself, to—

“You can take it out, you know.”

Oh. He blinks up at her, his breath freezing in his throat. She’s peering down at him, her lips red and swollen.

“I know you’re hard,” she adds, her voice still raw. “So if it’s uncomfortable… take it out.”

He arches a brow from his position at her thigh. He’s about to retort with something snappy. Something that might keep them bantering for ages. But Ginny has no patience.

“Please.” It’s nearly a command. She blinks down with glassy eyes, her lips swollen. “I want you, Harry.”

Fuck. He groans, rubbing his cock against his palm to relieve some of the pressure. It doesn’t help for long, not that it matters; he’d rather focus on her, anyway. So with a slip of his fingers, the towel opens. She releases a breathy moan, tipping her head back.

Naked.

She’s finally naked. In front of him. His breathing grows ragged, his eyes scanning the territory somehow both totally familiar and completely new. She is thinner; he was right. Her hip bones jut out now, her stomach more sunken. But most of her is the same. The smattering of freckles on her chest. The way her breasts have puckered and darkened, the way her chest is rising and falling so fast. The thatch of dark red hair at the apex of her thighs.

“Well,” she quips. He blinks up at her as she reclines on her elbow. “Are you going to fuck me, Harry, or just stare all day?”

With that, he removes his glasses and gives her a smirk— her only real warning— before he kisses her one more time, just as his fingers spread her thighs.

She opens beneath him with a breathy sigh. Fuck, she’s so wet… he groans into her mouth as he dips his fingers further and further down. She’s dripping by the time he finds her clit… by the time he begins to swirl in tight circles. Clockwise. The pattern that screams of such intimate familiarity that it’s as if the years never passed.

He’s scarcely done anything, but she’s already writhing against his fingers, arching her back. “Please,” she slurs after a minute, “put them in.”

He’s never been one to deny her, has he?

It’s like muscle memory how quickly he finds his face between her thighs instead. He spares a moment of self-indulgence as he closes his eyes, breathing her in. She smells like home. She always has. It’s comfort… but more than that, it’s proof. Proof she wants him as much as he wants her. It’s why he stuffed his face in her knickers whenever he got a spare moment on the Horcrux hunt: one hand on that black lace, the other pulling at his cock. It’s bloody erotic, seeing proof of how much she wants him… but it’s more than that.

It’s love.

And despite all the things he’s forgotten tonight, he’d never forget this. He presses two fingers inside her, his hands shaking, and lets his body do the rest. Fuck, he’s missed this. She cries out above him, her hands grasping at his hair, tugging him closer. He’s never forgotten this… the way she tastes. The way she smells. The right way to run his tongue against her clit. Exactly how many fingers she needs, pressed against her just there… crooked in a certain position… just as she begins to thrust herself up and down on them, her cries growing louder, more insistent… and yesssss, there it is, she’s right there, right fucking there—

“Harry!” Her hair rubs against the pillow with abandon. “I’m… I’m so close,” she pants, her body starting to shake.

“Come for me,” he commands, his cock fit to burst, his face slippery. “Come for me, Ginny.”

He returns to her clit for a split-second before she says the words that change everything.

Her whole body tenses, a blush spreading up her chest. “I love you!” she cries, her voice strangled… and with that, she’s coming, clenching around him, her body shaking as he rides her through it.

What he doesn’t tell her is that he comes, too. The second those words wash over him. Those fucking words that prove he’s fucked up, fucked up, fucked up… but he can’t exactly help that, can he?

He just shoves his face into the duvet, thrusting his hips once, twice, and with a grunt, he’s off. His cock tightens and bursts, filling his boxers. Soaking through his jeans. He pulls back, dizzy, when the clenching finally stops.

Luckily, she seems too distracted to notice. Ginny’s half-asleep as he rises from between her thighs, pulling the blanket over her. He presses a kiss to her temple and makes quick work of removing his soggy clothes. Fairly embarrassing, this. Like he’s 16 again and rutting on the lawn.

He mutters a quick cleaning charm and changes into basketball shorts before settling down beside her in bed… making sure he’s on top of the duvet.

But as he drifts off, there’s something far less sentimental that hammers through his chest: They need to get their shit sorted.

Before he ever, ever lets that happen again.

[kramer497]

Why You Need a Divorce Lawyer

I really got somebody in a book shop uncovering to a social event of individuals why they ought not have their own lawful advisors, how they couldn't trust in authentic aides, how attorneys would swindle them and how they ought to depend on the affiliation the speaker had a spot with considering everything. That discussion made me consider why individuals facing division and separation need any attorney, in any case a decent segment genuine expert Guide to Divorce in Kansas .

Reason #1-What You need to know

You need to know your benefits, responsibilities and commitments under the law. Essentially a legal guide who has been held to address your inclinations can encourage you. How might you sensibly talk about monetary outlines in separating and detaching, in the event that you don't have even the remotest sign what your benefits, responsibilities and commitments are? Not course of action what your benefits are can accomplish not getting something reasonable of resources, something reasonable of help or something reasonable of time with your youngsters. Not game plan what your responsibilities and commitments are can accomplish your paying a great deal resources or something reasonable of help. Most legitimate counsels offer an exceptional diminished rate for guiding associations to urge individuals to get bearing early and regularly. There is no motivation to depend upon yard fence counsel, when you can get bona fide heading from an affirmed experienced separation attorney for a sensible expense. Additionally, in my experience, the deck fence encouraging is routinely confused. Review that if what you hear is half undeniable, it is as yet confused.

Reason #2-Backyard Advice

My accomplice is secluded. Is there any valid reason why i wouldn't have the alternative to depend upon my accomplice's agreement and information. Considering everything, you could do that yet what you need to perceive is that except for if your pal is an endorsed lawful guide, he/she isn't avowed to offer legal guidance. Your companion's information will be restricted to his/her specific experience. His/her relationship in the law is restricted to current genuine elements of his/her case and the law as it was by at that point. Things change. The law changes. Any adjustment in the genuine components will change the result or encouraging. Besides, changes in the law will alter the course. Your pal essentially doesn't have the information and experience to bring to the table sound appropriate legitimate bearing.

Reason #3-Identifying Issues

The sooner you get a legal advisor, the sooner you will recognize what you need to know to promise yourself (and your adolescents and property interests). Every so often individuals have no clue about how to approach perceiving the issues they need to assess, regardless of whether the partition is a neighborly one and the get-togethers foresee a "amicable division." A decent, experienced separation legitimate educator can help you in seeing the issues you need to examine with your partner to accomplish an all out course of action and generally settlement. All through the range of the years there have been various occasions when we had the decision to raise to customers zones they had from the beginning excused and gives which ought to be related with their settlement conversations, like life consideration, clinical benefits incorporation, and adolescents' instructive requirements.

Reason #4-To Share or Not to Share?

My mate as of now has a legitimate counselor. Do I truly have to get one moreover? Can't a practically identical legal educator address us both? The reasonable response is as a general rule in reality actually no, not actually. 30 years sooner when I from the start started giving legitimate direction, it was mindfully no-no for a legal counselor to convey the various sides to a segment, paying little notice to how "neighborly" it was. There are some restricted conditions wherein twofold portrayal may be permitted, if there is done dependability of foreseen miserable conditions and a waiver of contentions with showed assent by the two players. These conditions are restricted and whenever down and out separations or conversations ought to emerge, the lawyer should end the portrayal and the two players should look for new course. In all honesty, we believe it or not, just to a great extent consent to twofold portrayal. We address our customers excitedly inside the imperatives of the law and the contentions in tending to coordinate sides are preposterously obvious for us to consent to do in light of everything. That, yet in the event that your life assistant has a legal advisor, that recommends that he/she has effectively looked for genuine heading and has some direct information on his/her benefits, responsibilities and commitments under the law.

Somebody once said information is power. Would you rather be the one with the information (and the force) or the one without information? How trusting would you have the choice to be of your life assistant or his/her legitimate instructor in the conditions? Recall that your pal's lawyer as of now watches out for your life accessory. We would say, mates, particularly individuals who will all things considered be controlling will hardly ponder ruining the law to acquire advantage throughout activity. As a matter of fact a customer revealed to me that her life partner who stays in the private home uncovered to her that she was eventually his "property chief" and thusly she was unable to return the home without his assent and presence and that his legitimate educator said precisely that. Unmistakably, all that he provoked her wasn't right. Her life partner also told our customer that they didn't have to utilize genuine supporters and could agree confined without legal advisors. He additionally said that on the off chance that she mentioned having her lawyer study administrative work before she checked it that he would discover something to change with on each draft to drive up her expenses. Obviously he was attempting to control, caution and control his life accomplice, who was dexterous to look for her own free heading from a learned, experienced separation legitimate advisor.

Reason #5-Do You Feel Lucky?

Going to a court hearing in a moving toward division without a genuine consultant takes subsequent to playing Russian Roulette. How fortunate do you think you are? Would you play out a procedure on yourself or would you search out an affirmed prepared proficient? For what reason do you feel that you see enough to address yourself in court? Do you fathom what your benefits, responsibilities and commitments are? The adjudicator will not arrangement with you in the event that you have no clue about the thing you are doing. There are rules of proof and picks of system that immediate hearings. You need somebody in your social occasion that knows the principles of the game. You will anticipate that someone should set you up for your attestation in court with the target that you don't put your feet in your mouth up to your hip bone. You will be confined by the things that emerge from your mouth in court. As a matter of fact we kept an eye on a man who caused spousal and youngster keep up obligations of $4000 consistently. The court gave a sales subject to wrong shows detailed by his better half's lawful guide and dependent on things he said in open court concerning his remuneration which were not accurate. A gifted starter legitimate advocate can get you to offer articulations that you don't anticipate saying, particularly on the off chance that you have not been ready for your introduction.

Reason #6-Too Little, Too Late

Going to see a legal counselor after you have enough registered papers or looked with statements or hearings capable se (keeping an eye on yourself) takes subsequent to shutting the shed entryway, after the cow got out. Since you were not would in general doesn't recommend that you can move away from a ghastly choice or horrible strategy you may have made or move away from decisions the court made when you were unrepresented. An opportunity to get exhortation is before you sign. An opportunity to get course is under the attentive gaze of you go to court. Truth be told, you ought to get course when you get legitimate notification of an approaching argument against you.

In the event that you are getting this and you have reasonably stepped papers, you should in any case talk with a decent experienced separation lawful guide to have the papers uncovered to you and to outline t he papers to check whether there are any specifications that might be utilized to rethink terms move well to you or to demand "explanation" of the arrangement. The legitimate guide can likewise clarify the consequences of having signified the work zone work.

In the event that you are getting this and you are amidst a segment activity and have been to announcements confined, you should look for an energetic gathering with a good experienced separation legitimate guide to check whether there is any certified motivation to cover the sworn assertions. Try to take the entire of your records with you to the gathering. We have seen conditions where it was conceivable to reestablish a case for a customer in light of the fact that the statements were taken too soon. In such conditions, the declarations were smothered by recording the suitable papers under the principles of court. For your condition it very well might be past where it is possible to do anything, yet you ought to in any event converse with a division legitimate advocate rapidly decidedly.

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead

Summary: Steve goes back. Some things are the same. Some are different.

AO3 link here.

The problem with deciding not to come back from returning the stones is that he has no one to consult about what exactly that means. Bucky, the only one who knows, the only one who guessed, has no expertise in quantum physics or advice about what exactly he’ll be doing to the timeline.

“You’re taking all the stupid with you,” he’d said, and part of what he meant was this: going off half-cocked as always, Rogers. Seat of your goddamn pants. He isn’t wrong about that part. For a strategist, Steve spends a lot of his time winging it.

(He tries not to miss Sam. He misses Sam.)

Even once he’s taken the leap, used the Pym particles to land himself so far back that he’ll only make it to the twenty-first century again by living through until then, he doesn’t precisely know what to do about it all. He spends a week alone, and then another. He does odd jobs to make money for food and a room to sleep in. He’s forgotten how different something like finding work had been, in the days before resumes and networking and the necessary google of someone’s name and background. People look at his eyes and assume he’s a vet, they look at his arms and assume that he can lift and carry things; they’re right on both counts, and that’s enough.

He already took the chance, just coming back here, but he worries about what he might do to Peggy’s future - her amazing, groundbreaking future - if he tries to slip back into her life. But he is also so tired, so encompassingly tired. He has helped to hold the world up for what feels a lifetime: Atlas with arms exhausted and shaking. He imagines how sweet it will feel to rest with her beside him. He knows he has to try.

(He must have known it all along. He brought himself to Washington D.C. in 1949. Peggy’s lived here for just over two years.)

He knows her address. He can remember the exact pattern of the heart monitor, the precise places where she laughed as she told him about the K Street apartment that had first been rented for her.

“Ghastly place,” she had said, smiling even as she did. “Everything dark wood, with barely a window for a bit of sunlight. And practically on top of scandal: I couldn’t go out my front door without thinking of Teapot Dome! So I had the housing stipend rerouted to a lovely little place on 11th Street and things worked out rather nicely. I didn’t feel quite so miserable about coming home, and there was a grocery and a café right across the street.”

He waits for her in the café, tucked in the back. Peggy comes in promptly at seven in the morning. She speaks to the woman behind the counter, a young black woman with a wide, sweet smile, and carries a cup of tea over while her breakfast is being prepared in the kitchen. She sits down at one of the tables entirely automatically, picking up a newspaper and not even looking as she slides into the booth seat facing toward the door. Her regular spot, then.

(Nat always said he made a terrible spy, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be observant.)

He means to come sit on the seat opposite from her. He pictures it minutely, down to the way the vinyl will rub and give as he slides across, but he finds that he cannot picture how she will look at him, what she will say. In the moment, he freezes. He ends up looming awkwardly over her for long enough that she looks up at him, a polite smile on her face as if she expects to be handed a plate of bacon and eggs, or perhaps to need to turn down a request for a date.

But then she takes in what she’s seeing.

She breathes in a sob. Her teacup is already sitting on the tabletop, but she sets down her folded paper as carefully as if it were made of porcelain too.

“Steve?” He feels the echo of the fragile word through decades. He thought he knew, when he saw her for the first time barely able to lift her head from her hospital bed, when he found the photograph that she kept so boldly on her SHIELD desk twenty-five years after he'd been gone, that they would be like this in any time. Apparently he didn’t truly know until he hears it. He is shaking.

She stands abruptly, pushing herself out of the booth and catching his hands in hers. She is so very close to him.

“Am I going to have to murder Howard for keeping secrets?” she asks quietly. He shakes his head. She traces over the skin of his forehead, no longer as smooth as it had been. She runs fingers through the front curve of his hair, strange to her, with such perfect delicacy that he almost flinches away.

“No,” she agrees quietly, and takes her handbag from the table. “Come with me. I have to set a terrible example for my employees.”

Later, after Peggy calls in pretending to be sick to a Howard simultaneously suspicious (when was the last time Peggy was ill?) and totally heedless, probably already thinking of what kinds of explosions he’s going to be taking on today, she makes them fresh tea. He can tell that it’s just a distraction. The kettle is whistling for nearly a minute before she breaks their gaze and goes to pour the water.

When they are across from each other at her small kitchen table, she says, “Tell me,” and he does, a bit.

When he has finished his brief sketch of things, she takes a sip of tea. “So, the future,” she says, her voice musing rather than judging.

“You seem to be taking this pretty well,” he tells her.

“Yes, well, I’m not entirely sure that this is real, you see,” she explains.

He looks out her nice little window for a moment; when he leaves, he’ll have no memory of the kind of view she has. “If I’d showed up and said that I’d been dug out of the ice and came to find you, would you have believed it more?”

“Perhaps,” she admits. She looks into his eyes, though, and adds quietly, “But perhaps not.”

“I understand. Even where I’ve been, time travel is a pretty new development.” He pushes back from the table, carefully so as not to rattle Peggy’s pretty blue-edged china. He looks down at her, and she looks back, a bit of tilting evaluation in her eyes. “The Dodgers are going to lose the Series to the Yankees, four games to one. It’ll all be over Sunday night. The score of the last game will be ten to six.”

She swallows. “Then I suppose I shall see you Monday morning?” Her hands, with their neatly manicured nails, rest solidly on the table in front of her. Her knuckles are pressed tightly together.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” he says, nodding slightly to her, and sees himself out.

She is already waiting when he enters the café on Monday morning. The only clue to how she’s feeling is the way her head pops quickly up whenever the door swings open.

“I’m sorry about your Dodgers,” she says as he sits down across from her.

He shakes his head. “The Yanks will do even worse to the Phillies next year,” he says, and she covers her mouth with a trembling hand.

When she speaks again, it is aching. “Let’s go home,” she says.

“Don’t you have work?”

“I planned ahead this time. As far as anyone knows, I’m scheduled to be out of the office in meetings all day.” She examines him again. He understands the urge; he thinks at this point he could describe where each of her curls lies against her shoulders, and if he couldn’t, he’ll just need to take her in a while longer.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Of course I am.” Humor, just the most hidden hint of tears. “It seems that you’re still a bit hopeless, I see, even after all this time.”

(Tony would have said the same thing. Tony.)

“Probably.” He gets to his feet, offers her his hand. She takes it, lightly, more formality than anything else, and stands beside him. “I’ll work on it.”

“I’m sure you will.” She leads him out again, toward her apartment. “And I’ll certainly be happy to assist.”

They settle into something. It’s so easy that Steve catches his breath from it sometimes, exultation with a bold edge of fear. She goes to work, and he stays in their neighborhood. He does the shopping at the corner market and learns, after a fashion and several borrowed library books, how to cook. He does the laundry, and learns the hard way which of Peggy's suits need special care. He walks around getting to know the area.

He overhears two of Peggy’s neighbors whispering about him as he helps a little boy fix his bike chain on the street corner.

“I always thought she must have a man somewhere,” one says to the other.

“Well, he’s lucky she took him back. She’s been here two years, nice, polite girl with a good job and that wonderful smile, and he turns up now? Where has he been?”

“I’m not much sure it matters, looking at him.”

Steve tucks his head and grins.

He stops by the newsstand for a paper enough times that the owner, an older guy named Al, eventually asks if he’d like to do a bit of work. Steve knows it’s mostly pity, but he’s restless. He takes Al up on it, working pasted together hours so Al can take breaks during the day and get home a bit earlier in the evenings. He hangs around and chats other times. They talk baseball (Al’s a Chicago transplant, a heart and soul Cubs fan) and world events and dabble a bit into politics (Steve has to read the papers closely to try to keep his stories straight). Al had a son who never came home from Guadalcanal, and maybe that’s why, when he sees Steve sketching between customers, he asks him to fix up the sign above the stand, just a little refresh on the paint and maybe a nice little drawing.

Steve guesses that he does a good enough job, because the owner of the cafe and the drugstore ask for him to come over to their places, to do bigger murals inside. He starts to get asked to do all sorts of things, from house painting to pretty watercolor cards. He’s still home in time to make supper and talk to Peggy every evening.

He knows, now, that Peggy has a thick quilted dressing gown that looks like something a grandmother would wear, and doesn’t make him feel like a grandmother’s wearing it at all. He knows how she takes her tea and that she likes a square or two of chocolate at the end of the day. He knows how it feels for her to rest her feet in his lap as they read on lazy Saturday afternoons, and what it’s like to walk arm in arm back home talking about the film they’ve seen on a Sunday. He knows the giddiness of automatically calling her “sweetheart” as he asks her to pass the salt. He knows what she looks like when she first gets up, and the careful, precise order in which she applies her makeup and styles her hair. He knows what it’s like to kiss her on waking and as she leaves for work, as she arrives back home and before they go to bed. He knows what it is to fall asleep beside her, smiling.

He wakes himself up, shuddering, at least three times a week. Sometimes he is gasping. Sometimes he is crying. Most times he wakes Peggy too.

Early one Saturday morning, she switches on the light as he tries to calm himself. She rubs his arm for a moment before standing from the bed and putting on her dressing gown. He can hear the sound of her preparing tea in the kitchen, but when she doesn’t come back, he follows her.

“Sit,” she tells him, gesturing to the chair across from her at the table, and when he does, “Drink,” her voice firm and compassionate. He listens to her, taking a sip and then staring into the depths of his cup. She’s put in just the right amount of sugar.

After a moment, she says, “I haven’t asked you very much about where you’ve come from, but I think we both know how untenable that is. You need to talk. I’d like to hear it.”

He takes another sip, then a third. Finally, he hoarsely, “I don’t know if I can tell you. I’ve already changed your life just by coming here. I don’t know how much I can do without ruining things.”

“Steve.” She leans across the table, touches his arm, his face. Her disheveled hair falls forward a little, framing the warmth of her eyes. “You are the best man I have ever known, and perhaps the strongest. And I don’t think you need to go through this alone. Let me help you.”

He almost laughs. How many times did he say something like that to people grieving a disaster that won’t happen for decades? How many times did he ignore his own advice? He thinks, again, of Sam. “Some stuff you leave there, other stuff you bring back. It's our job to figure out how to carry it.”

He thinks that Sam also meant that sometimes you find someone to carry it with you.

They don’t get out of their pajamas until well into the afternoon. Once Steve starts talking, he finds that he can’t stop. He tells her about Hydra (“Get up with bloody fleas, I told them”) and about Bucky. He tells her about Korea and McCarthy and Vietnam and the civil rights movement, about Betty Friedan and President Kennedy and President Nixon, about AIDS and global warming. He was in the twenty-first century for over a decade. He reads fast and doesn’t sleep much, and his memory is excellent.

He tells her about the snap. He tells her about his friends.

Finally, with darkness outside their windows, he says to her, “I keep thinking about Maya Lin. She’ll be an architect and a designer. She becomes famous for making the memorial for the war in Vietnam. I know it’s right to do what we can to avoid that war, to minimize that damage. Making that choice could be wrong for Maya Lin. It will change her life. How do we know which strings we can pull without letting everything fall apart?”

Peggy looks down at the notes she has started taking. She flips over one page, then another. “Well, we shall think and strategize and try our best to do the best for the most people.” She taps a finger on one paragraph. “I think that this is one string we should start tying up as quickly as we can.”

"If I see a situation pointed south, I can't ignore it," he told Tony once, and that was true. It still is. It's just harder when south isn't a clear direction on the compass, when trying to fix things could only make things worse. This is why Steve could tell her, why he had to. Because he believes in her mind, in her ruthlessness and her clearheadedness, but in her goodness too. He doesn't think he could have done any of this alone.

(He must have known he would do this all along. He brought himself to Washington D.C. in 1949. Zola was brought here just over two months ago.)

They tell Howard. Partly because they need him, to provide documentation for Steve, for resources, for cover. Partly because Peggy says that he’s a friend and he’s trustworthy, and Steve trusts Peggy. For his own part, though, Steve needs to work to remember how much hasn’t happened with Howard. He hasn’t become who he’ll become yet.

Steve sleeps better knowing that they’re doing something. He doesn’t sleep well until they have Bucky back.

“Any idea what he’ll be like after rise and shine?” asks Howard, checking once again the pulse of the man lying unconscious on one of his many guest beds. To everyone else, Bucky’s hair is long, unkempt. For Steve, it’s shorter than he’s used to now. The arm, high tech for this time, looks especially ugly and primitive.

Steve thinks back to all the information they gained after the fall of the Triskelion. Nazi records have always been blessed and cursed. “He hasn’t been under for too long. It won’t be pretty at first, but we’ll be able to get him back.”

In bed that night, Peggy holds his hand beneath the blanket and whispers, “Hopefully we’ll get him back back without you trying to sacrifice yourself,” and he doesn’t know whether she’s talking about Azzano or the helicarrier, and he likes that she has the option for either.

They count on the minimization of Hydra’s influence to help stabilize things, and they’ll prove to be right. Peggy also cultivates herself a reputation for sound, nearly prescient, advice to other agencies. It will help them influence things they need to in the future, but it’s already believable, based on a solid foundation. No one suspects the man who’s occasionally seen on her arm at functions or visiting her office - bearded, older, bearing only a passing resemblance to the lost Captain America - of having anything to do with it. He barely talks shop with the guys, usually ends up recommending recipes to the wives.

“I do prefer you in an apron and pearls,” Peggy says as Steve rubs her feet after one such night out, her heels discarded beneath the kitchen table.

“It’s the natural order of things,” Steve tells her solemnly.

“Too right, pal,” Bucky calls from the bathroom. (He heard from Al at the newsstand that they were having trouble with their sink and came over to help rather than let Steve take care of it. “Flood the whole place, more like.”)

Neither of them quite knows who proposed to whom. Steve claims he did it, Peggy attests with equal vehemence that she took the initiative. Neither of them much cares when it comes down to it.

They invite the Commandos to the wedding. Or, rather, Peggy invites them, and then when they all show up with faltering, incomplete smiles, Steve comes over to say hello.

“If it was anyone else but the two of you, I don’t know that I could believe it,” Monty says, dazed.

Dugan wants horse racing tips. Morita wants to know if he ever makes it with Ava Gardner. “Already tried asking that one, pal,” says Howard sourly.

“Sometimes you just have to live it,” says Steve, and goes to take another turn on the floor with his wife.

They move to Jersey in ‘52. Steve’s afraid that Bucky’s going to have an aneurysm over the betrayal, but the commute’s easier on Peggy now that SHIELD’s working out of Camp Lehigh most of the time.

(Buck ends up living in Brooklyn near his folks and goes back to school to get his engineering degree. Howard says he doesn’t care, he knew how much schooling Bucky had when he offered him the job, but Bucky wants to earn it, and he likes to learn.)

Somehow, it takes three days to pack up the apartment in DC and three weeks to unpack in their cozy little house in New Jersey. Peggy’s pulling late nights all the time as she gets things put together, but she refuses to let Steve do much during the day: they both have extremely strong opinions about every little thing, and she wants to be there to decide which cupboard the glasses will go in, or how far the sofa will be placed from the window and how far the armchair from the sofa.

They finally get things sorted one Saturday when it’s nearly autumn. They leave the door open to let in the air, still warm with just the beginnings of a chill. Peggy stands with her hands on her hips in the middle of their living room. Steve watches from the doorway, loving the way the light filters over her hair, loving the way he already knows exactly how it will.

He steps into the room with her, selects a record and sets the needle carefully. He holds out a hand to her.

They’re practiced at this now. They’ve been to the Stork Club and danced at their wedding and done a thousand other things in between. Peggy jokes that Steve only breaks her foot once a month now, twice if she’s very lucky. But there’s no showing off today. He holds her in his arms and they sway, turning in slow circles, the music washing over them as they stand in their new home.

“The war's over, Steve. We can go home. Imagine it,” she had once said to him in a vision that had taken his breath, a vision that might never exist.

He doesn’t have to imagine it anymore.

[spoons4spoonies]

Story Time: POTS diagnosis

I was diagnosed with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (or POTS, since that’s a mouthful and a half) in August of last year. It was nearing the end of my gap year, which was supposed to be a period of rest and healing, not of gaining new unwelcome symptoms and new diagnoses.

I had as usual set myself an unrealistically (in hindsight) high goal of becoming a completely healthy and abled person by the time I started university, as I simply could not wrap my head around the idea that I would be able to cope otherwise. In other words, it was get better or you will fail and never amount to anything and always be miserable – and yeah, needless to say as the time drew nearer and my body showed no signs of obeying my strict instructions, I entered more and more panic spirals of despair.

At this point I would like to return to the present to let you know that I have just finished my first year and survived my first lot of exams since the endurance test that was A-levels. Not to say that it has been easy – of course university was never going to be a walk in the park – but I have done well and I should be proud of myself.

(I know this because my mother keeps sending me postcards telling me how amazing I am. Bear in mind that she lives twenty minutes away and visits me once a week – often to hand the postcards over herself to save on postage.)

Anyway, unless you have it or know someone who does, you have probably never heard of POTS. It is essentially a problem with my blood pressure and that is what I stick to when I’m asking someone for their seat on the tube. When a normal fully-abled person stands up, their blood pressure increases slightly to account for the increased effect of gravity – mine does not and as a result my heart is forced to pump faster to keep blood going to my brain. My heart rate can increase by up to forty beats per minute just from getting up off the couch.

Symptoms include dizziness, an inability to stand up for long periods of time, nausea, headaches, fainting (though thankfully I have never experienced that one), digestive problems, fatigue (like I didn’t already have enough of that), heart palpitations (just casually in the middle of the night when you haven’t moved for hours) and even shortness of breath. Of all of these, I would have to say that the heart palpitations are the worst. They do not hurt exactly, but they are terrifying – especially before I had my diagnosis – and make it hard to breathe.

It is hard not to panic when your body is doing it’s very best to simulate a panic attack.

I have a friend whom I met online who suspected they had POTS and I’d been aware of it for some time before I started to consider whether I myself might have it too. I’ve read that about a third of those suffering from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome also have POTS so it wasn’t a wholly unlikely scenario. I had also read the NHS page for it and noted that I had many of the symptoms, however, this was not conclusive proof to me as the problem with autoimmune diseases is that the symptoms overlap a lot.

Then I started a course of birth control pills and my CFS specialist, Dr S, wanted me to take measurements of my blood pressure to check that it wasn’t causing any problems. As it turns out I have fairly low blood pressure, so there’s no risk of getting a stroke from my daily dose of oestrogen. More importantly, I noticed how my heart rate would increase far beyond normal levels if I took a reading whilst sitting down and then another after standing up. This was the proof I needed to self-diagnose.

From there on out it was a case of proving the matter, so we brought it up with Dr S and she referred us to a cardiologist.

There was a bit of a kerfuffle when we arrived at his clinic, as it turned out to be a children’s hospital, which as a nineteen year old I was theoretically not supposed to be treated at. On the bright side, there were a lot of cartoon fish on the walls. Whoever decided that adults don’t need cute animal drawings in hospitals fundamentally misunderstands what it’s like to be in a hospital.

Eventually we managed to sort the whole situation out and I was taken downstairs to have an electrocardiogram. This was to test the electrical activity of my heart – don’t ask me how that works or what exactly the point was because the science went over my head. All I can say is that it didn’t hurt and there was something oddly exciting about being hooked up to a bunch of wires. But that might just be me and all the superhero media I consume.

Then I went to meet the cardiologist, Dr D, and give him a history of my symptoms.

It had not even crossed my mind up until that point that there might be something “seriously” wrong with me, by which I mean something life threatening, so needless to say it rather came as a shock when the cardiologist did an ultrasound of my heart to check that it didn’t have any holes (and I quote). In retrospect it might have been a joke, but it certainly didn’t land well with me.

The fact that I had a cold and unpleasantly slimy machine on my chest and was lying there with only a fairly ratty, old bra to protect my modesty did not help. This again was something that had not occurred to me and I was deeply grateful for the presence of my mother in the room so that she could fill the awkward silence with small talk and I could focus on breathing normally. It is extremely strange to hear your own heartbeat sounding like a foetus’s on TV and be painfully aware of the fact that anyone around will literally be able to hear your nerves.

Ultrasound over with, chest wiped down and clothes thankfully put back on we sat down to discuss what was next. Dr D was fairly confident from my description that I did have POTS but obviously I had to go through the whole process before it could be official. In the meantime he gave us some advice about dealing with the symptoms:

1.       Drink lots of water. Aim for three litres a day.

2.       Eat lots of salt. Aim for ten milligrams a day.

3.       Stand and sit up slowly and jiggle your legs to get the blood moving.

4.       Exercise.

This I interpreted as a prescription for Pringles and an excuse to hold in the face of people who tell me to stop fidgeting. My mind happily slid over the recommendation of exercise as a “Problem for later me” A.K.A something I hoped I’d be able to put off indefinitely.

Building up muscle, fitness and stamina are all worthy things and have helped now that I’ve achieved them, but in conjunction with my CFS they have often seemed impossible goals. Also, I like sitting down.

I shall now elaborate on the third recommendation, which I follow every morning, doing a funny little dance about my room to bring my limbs to life. I pity the person who lives below me in my student accommodation… at least I am rarely up before eleven. The hilarious point about this was that Dr D took it upon himself to give us a rather long and overly serious demonstration, standing up from behind his desk and jiggling about on the spot with a completely straight face.

Both my mother and I were struggling to maintain the same level of facial control.

It was a couple of weeks before we could return to London to embark on the next step of diagnosis: getting a blood pressure monitor fitted that must then stay attached for a whole twenty hours, taking measurements on the hour every hour. This was something of a trial as I had to walk around with a bunch of thick tubing wrapped round my neck and with the machine strapped round my bicep.

I garnered a lot of stares as people must have assumed I had something serious going on. The fact that it beeped loudly and inflated with a sound like an airbed being pumped up at every measurement, did not make it inconspicuous to say the least. It also meant that I barely slept through the combination of loud noises and the clamp tightening on my arm.

I was thoroughly exhausted the next day when we went to drop it off and then continue on to a hospital in order to do the tilt test. This involves being strapped to a table which is then tilted upright from the horizontal and then being stuck there for the next twenty minutes (feels like three hours) whilst measurements of your blood pressure and heart rate are taken. I already felt ghastly but by the end of this I was ready to curl up in a ball on the floor and stay there for the rest of my life.

The doctor administering the test ran through the results with us, confirming that I had POTS – though technically we still had to wait for Dr D to give the all clear as it were – and then confidently asserting that I didn’t have CFS and certainly didn’t have any mental health problems and should stop taking my antidepressant straight away since it was all because of POTS and once I started doing some exercise I’d be fine.

Right…. Thanks Karen.

One more appointment later I had my official diagnosis. Alas, having trekked halfway across London to make this appointment, it only lasted ten minutes and mostly consisted of me being told to come back in six months when I had tried some exercise and then we’d see about medication.

We have postponed this reunion indefinitely as I have seen little change for the better – though in truth I have not gotten started on the rigorous exercise plan he had in mind – but nor is it sufficiently bad that I am in desperate need of medication.

I have found that the most useful tool in combatting my symptoms are compression garments as they help with my circulation. I have some tights, a knee support, gloves and several random bits of tubing that can be used anywhere. They reduce pain and allow me to stand up for longer.

Mod H

[misssophiachase]

Can you write a Peter Kavinsky hot tub scene with Klaroline?

Hey! Thanks anon and Happy Holidays! I really loved this scene in the movie. I’ve changed it though and put a Klaroline/Christmas spin on it. The title and italicised lyrics are from the song playing during the hot tub scene in TATBILB, which I’m sure you already know. 

Lovers

25 December - Aspen, Colorado - 1:03am

I’m in the dark….

“All by yourself, huh?” Caroline murmured, making her presence known. She wasn’t quite sure how long she’d been standing inside at the window watching him from afar but Caroline was fairly certain it might constitute stalking to some. 

If anyone caught her she’d say it was all his fault.

And it was.

She was pretty sure anyway.

She’d been unable to sleep, his crimson lips taunting her every time she closed her eyes. As if it was bad enough he haunted her during the day she also had to contend with his unwanted presence at night. 

“You say that like you’re surprised or something, Forbes,” he replied stoically, his eyes focused on the small ripples forming on the surface of the hot tub. 

“Well…”

“You are unbelievable,” he growled, slicing his hands through the water and disturbing the ripples he’d apparently been so captivated by moments earlier. “Who else would I be with?”

“I don’t know,” she began. “The waitress at dinner could barely keep her eyes or hands off you.”

“Sounds like someone was also distracted,” he shot back, a slight grin tugging at his lips but it was gone before she could admire just how much it brought out those disarming dimples. 

“Well, it was a little hard not to notice,” she baulked. 

And it was.

Caroline could barely contain herself during dinner but decided to blame the foreign feelings on indigestion. Now she wasn’t so sure.   

“You realise you’re not my girlfriend, right? I don’t answer to you.” He asked, his blue eyes finally meeting hers. Although it was dark, the lights emanating from the hot tub couldn’t hide his frustration. 

“Trust me, I’m aware,” she huffed. “And for that I am grateful. It’s difficult enough having to pretend with such an egotistical, arrogant jerk.”

“Say what you really think,” he muttered. 

Caroline couldn’t miss the hurt registering on his face but only for a split second. Klaus Mikaelson could be so frustrating but there were moments. albeit brief, she would catch a quick glimpse into some hidden world where he wasn’t the arrogant jock he purported to be at college. 

October 31st - Stanford College, California - 9:59pm

She remembered the first time they met like it was yesterday. Two years her senior, Klaus was well-known around college, almost as much for his womanising ways, as head of fraternity Alpha Delta Phi. 

Caroline had pledged Beta Sigma Phi not knowing just how connected the two organisations were. It was Halloween and Caroline had found herself at their fraternity celebrations, mainly because her best friend Katherine had forced her to attend. 

She was actively trying to avoid Stefan Salvatore, a guy from her English class who’d taken a rather unhealthy likening towards her. He was part of Alpha Delta Phi and this was the last place she wanted to be. Tightening her white feathered mask, Caroline was happy to be at least partially disguised to avoid detection.   

Katherine had disappeared to get some punch but she’d been taking her sweet time returning, no doubt flirting with someone. Caroline found herself distracted by some artwork on the nearby wall. 

It was gorgeous. An array of abstract dark blues and greys. Upon first glance it seemed angst filled and dark but there were a few, brief white and silver touches that signified something completely different.

“Do you like it?” A voice asked behind her. It was low and gravelly over the loud music, his breath tickling the hairs on the back of her neck and making her shiver.

“It’s complex,” she murmured. “So many layers, so many emotions.” Caroline didn’t consider herself an art expert but she knew what she liked and this was it. 

“How so?”

“The artist,” she began, wondering briefly why she was conversing with a complete stranger she hadn’t even seen but found herself too lost in the painting to stop. “They’re drowning in fear and sadness, but these lighter colours show they aren’t completely lost. There is hope buried amongst all the despair.”

There was a long silence, Caroline almost worried she’d interpreted it wrong and the stranger was preparing to argue with her assessment. 

“Caroline, is that you?” Unlike the stranger, that was a voice she knew and dreaded at the same time. 

“Stefan,” she groaned, trying to sound like she cared but failing miserably. She could still feel the stranger behind her wondering what he was thinking right now. “You’re here.”

“Well, of course it is an Alpha Delta Phi party. I’m so glad you came, it feels like I haven’t seen you in ages.” If by ages he meant spying on her from behind a tree yesterday afternoon in the quad. 

“I’ve been busy,” she lied. “With homework and…”

“Me,” the stranger finally spoke again, now coming into view. Of course he was dressed as the devil to her angel. Rather than being weirded out she was actually relieved he’d stepped in, whoever Lucifer was.   

“Yes, we’ve been seeing quite a bit of each other actually,” Caroline babbled, wondering how her night had taken such a turn. “We even wore matching costumes for the occasion, isn’t it cute? He just loves that kind of thing.” 

By the way he stiffened against her, Caroline could tell matching costumes wasn’t really his thing. But he did start it.

“You and…” Stefan baulked, his surprise not lost on Caroline. 

“Yes,” she confirmed, wondering briefly why he was so shocked but not caring as she pulled him closer for a kiss. Might as well make this believable. 

She’d noticed those crimson lips under his mask but never imagined they’d feel so supple. The stranger was still at first letting her do all the work as her tongue ran along his upper lip. The least he could do was play along, she thought. 

But it didn’t take long before he opened his mouth slowly welcoming her tongue and intertwining it with his. He tasted like a combination of whiskey and mint and she only registered that he’d dipped her backwards when he finally pulled away. 

She could make out his blue eyes filled with something unrecognisable as he pulled her back up to full standing mode. Given the fact her legs felt like jelly she was glad his arms were still firmly fastened around her waist. But if Caroline was being honest holding her balance wasn’t the sole reason for that.

They held each other’s gaze before he let her go and lifted his mask. It took all her composure not to lose it. It was Klaus Mikaelson of all people and she’d just unwittingly thrown herself at the egotistical idiot like one of his many sycophants. 

“You’re welcome, love,” he smirked, those dimples making an untimely appearance. 

“Excuse me?” She insisted, deciding she had nothing to be grateful for, well except maybe for Stefan’s hurried exit.  

“It’s only a snowflake by the way,” he offered pointing to the artwork in question on the nearby wall. 

“Is your interpretation really that literal?”

“I suppose it is,” he murmured, a brief frown creasing his forehead before walking away, leaving Caroline open mouthed. 

“Roomie,” Katherine squealed excitedly as she approached. “You’ll never guess what happened to me.”

“It can’t be as crazy as what happened to me,” she mumbled taking the plastic cup from her friend’s outstretched hand and downing it in one go. “I’m going to need more drinks to get through this party.” 

13 hours later….Beta Sigma Phi House

“Go away,” Caroline groaned, trying to appease the excruciating headache the incessant knocking was causing. 

“I can’t do that,” Katherine shot back, throwing open the door and jumping onto her bed like an excitable child on Christmas. “He’s here to see you!”

“Katherine,” she whined, throwing the pillow over her head and trying to ignore the pain ripping through her cranium. “I don’t care.”

“You’ll care when you know who it is,” she chuckled. “The whole house is in a frenzy.”

“Great, let them greet this mystery guest that I have no interest in seeing in my current state.”

“Care,” Katherine chided, peeling away the pillow and throwing off the covers. “You must have made a real impression on Klaus Mikaelson for him to show up here.”

“Klaus Mikaelson?” She asked, suddenly somewhat conscious. “What does he want?”

“Well, how about you stop whining, change into something much more attractive than these ghastly, flannel pyjamas and get your ass downstairs,” she insisted. “He usually loses interest in a girl the moment after he’s kissed her but you must have made an impression.”

“Oh wow, my mission in life,” she growled. “To be of interest to the biggest, womaniser on campus.”

“Stop with all the compliments, love, you’re embarrassing me,” another voice offered from the doorway. She buried her head in the pillow as the previous night came back in all its weird glory. 

Caroline felt the mattress bounce, realising Katherine had left her with the smug idiot. She was going to have words with her supposed best friend later. She sat up, albeit reluctantly, noticing that her hair was sticking up in different directions and had taken on a bed-like appearance and not the sexy type. 

She took a moment to focus on the intruder, all sexy in dark jeans and a grey henley, no signs of a hangover in sight. Bastard. Meanwhile she was clothed in her most unattractive but equally warm she would argue, red tartan.  

“What do you want?” She asked, deciding that in her current state she needed to get to the point before a bathroom visit was necessary.

“Now, that’s not the way to talk to the person who saved you from your clingy, ex-boyfriend.”

“He’d have to have been my boyfriend for that ever to be true,” she grumbled. “And you didn’t save anyone, I’m more than capable of doing that on my own.”

“Fine,” he agreed. “I’ll accept your version of events, Forbes.”

“Says literal Mr Snowflake,” she shot back remembering his close minded interpretation of the painting. “What do you want, except ruining my sleep patterns?”

“I have a mutually beneficial proposal for you, love.”

Looking back Caroline realised it was the most stupid thing she’d ever agreed to given the fake endearment that accompanied it, but decided to blame it on the fact she was probably still drunk.   

Present Day

Show a little loving…

“Why am I here, Klaus?” She asked shyly, making her way towards the edge of the hot tub. “Really.” 

When they made their arrangement it was designed to deter Stefan and any unwanted girls that swarmed around him on a daily basis. 

Caroline had been surprised given she assumed he loved all the attention. But as soon as they shook on their deal the only person he seemed to want to swarm around him was her. And Caroline was struggling not to like being in his constant presence. 

It was as if they got each other but Klaus still remained a little distant. When he invited her home for Christmas at his families ski chalet in Aspen, Caroline was confused given the terms of the arrangement. However for some reason she’d said yes.

But meeting the Mikaelson family yesterday had been confronting to say the least. Mikael was a dictatorial, judgmental father who didn’t think anything Klaus did was good enough. Esther, while being kind for the most part, just let her husband behave that way. 

His siblings Elijah, Rebekah and Kol, she noted, were all similar to Klaus; cocky and apparently immune to their parent’s treatment. Although Caroline could see straight through them all. She was frustrated, wondering why Klaus didn’t bite back, why none of them did.

Dinner at the nearby restaurant last night had been the final straw, watching as the waitress shamelessly flirted with her supposed boyfriend. Caroline had told herself numerous times that she didn’t care but standing here in the darkness it was all too much to deny.

Klaus hesitated for a moment his glance now returning towards the water. For a guy who was usually so self-assured he was having a lot of trouble making eye contact. Caroline didn’t stop to think, just removed her coat and waded into the water in only her white nightie. 

She decided to address the fact that her nightie would be completely see through later. 

She could see him inhale sharply while his eyes traced every inch of her body as she submerged herself in the hot tub. There was no chance of him avoiding her gaze now and their connection was as intense as ever through the steam rising up from the water.

“I know you’re a stubborn ass but talk to me,” she insisted. “It’s just you and me.”

“I didn’t get to give you your Christmas present yet,” he murmured, reaching outside the tub and producing a brightly coloured, wrapped gift.

“You didn’t have to…”

“But I wanted to, Caroline,” he smiled. “It might also explain a few things.” Reaching for it and tearing away the paper, Caroline recognised it straight away. 

“You gave me a snowflake,” she asked, her eyebrows raised curiously. 

“It’s not a snowflake turns out,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“You don’t say,” she teased, taking in the painting she’d fallen in love with all those months ago at his frat house. 

“Everything you said that night it just hit me,” he explained. “You saw everything; every stroke and every emotion I poured onto the canvas. I was happy but also scared that you noticed and interpreted all my vulnerabilities. 

“The fear and sadness…”

“My father has never hidden the fact I’m a disappointment,” Klaus shared, his voice breaking slightly. “I’ve worked my ass off to be what he expects but apparently it will never be enough.”

“And the light?” Caroline asked purposefully changing the subject as she traced the silver and white streaks. He didn’t respond immediately. Caroline, meanwhile, placed the painting on the side of the hot tub then made her way towards him.

Shine a little light on me….

“I knew there was something on the other side but it wasn’t until I met you that night everything finally made sense,” he murmured, pulling her closer so that she was straddling him and snaked his arms around her waist. “You get me, Caroline Forbes. All of me.”

“Is that so?” She teased, running her hands along his toned shoulder blades and revelling in the feeling of his bare skin against her touch.

“That is so,” he grinned, nuzzling his nose against hers. 

“Hang on,” she replied, pulling away abruptly from his warm embrace. “You tricked me, Mikaelson?”

“Well…”

“You only made this deal because…”

“Because I am utterly and ridiculously in love with you, Forbes,” he smiled, pulling her closer. “Even before we kissed I was a goner.”

“Well, I do have a certain irresistible appeal,” she giggled. “But just so you know I sometimes speak without thinking. And now that you’re my boyfriend….”

“I am?”

“Don’t tease me,” she groaned, pulling him closer so their lips were within inches of each other. “I might feel the need to tell your father what an ass he is over Christmas lunch, just a warning.”

“Just another reason I love you,” he feathered kisses along her jawbone, Caroline losing herself in the sensations it was causing below.

“Oh and while I’m admitting things,” she began, pulling back again and gazing into his eyes. “My nightie is probably see through by now.”

“You’re killing me, Forbes,” he groaned, his hands moving lower and pulling her flush against his body.  And suddenly nothing or no one else mattered now they were finally in each other’s arms. 

In my Crossroads FF collection HERE

[ruthsheart]

comfort

 While Marco is flying the wolf pack to Scotland, @ava-x-park stays with Ruth to comfort her hysterical best friend. To her surprise, she learns that being a good friend isn’t always gossip, shopping, and compliments.

tw: blood

Ruth: Something was wrong. Something had to be wrong. Marco hadn’t picked up his cell all day. Last night he’d flown off like some geeky superhero in a trench coat, pack of wolves floating around him like little deadly clouds. He’d simply flown off, alone, and left her, alone, and not once had he picked up his cell in twelve restless hours of calling and sobbing into her pillow and smashing whatever she could smash in her anxious rage. The least he could do is send her a text. Hey Ruth, I’m in Edinburgh, be home soon, in his typical careless, no-big-deal way of saying things that mattered. No. Idiot had gone off to be the hero and get his throat torn out as he starved himself of sleep and food, all alone, in boring ol’ Scotland of all places. Selfish jerk would get eaten by wolves and the only thing she’d know for sure was that he never picked up the phone ever again. In the meantime, Ruth had thrown enough fits to exhaust herself and trashed enough of her flat that she couldn’t properly sit or lie down anywhere except the floor. So on the floor she planted herself, pretending to nap between ragged sobs and panicked, ferocious text messaging.

Ava: As Ruth's self-proclaimed best friend, it was Ava's duty to comfort and soothe poor Ruth in her brother's absence - to be a pillar of strength and consolation during Ruth's time of deep distress and loss. To bring a sense of calm and clarity into the midst of the chaos of Ruth's desperate situation.

However, Ava being Ava and Ruth being Ruth, it was never going to be quite that simple.

The little silver spoon sang against the glass cup as Ava prepared some sweet chamomile tea. Stevia, of course, no sugar. Sugar was for breakups and when people died, and as far as Ava knew - despite Ruth's fears for the contrary - no one was dead just yet. There was no sense in adding to the dramatics by giving the poor girl sugar.

"Here you go, darling," she said in a soft, sing-song voice, as she padded back to Ruth. "Usually when mummy feels stressed she has a tramadol and takes herself to bed, but I don't have any tramadol." She took a seat on the floor opposite Ruth and offered out the cup. "So I made some tea. Apparently it's soothing. If it doesn't help, we can move on to wine, I'm sure I saw some Chardonnay in your drinks cabinet."

Ruth: She sniffled miserably as she poked a few more words into a text message. Please don't leave me here alone. I can't do this without you. Send. As Ava's nimble feet moved with an almost inaudible patter across the wooden floor and over the throw rug, Ruth weakly pushed herself up to sitting. Her hair hung limp and tangled over her face. Her wrinkled white blouse was smeared with blood and her jeans had dark mud-stains across the shins. She hadn't changed or showered or eaten in almost 24 hours. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Marco was the only person who mattered and he was gone.

"Thank you." She muttered as her hands wrapped around the little cup, her voice low and rough from crying. She didn't want tea, but she was raised to be polite whether she wanted it or not. Instead, she held the heat close to her chest. It was something warm in this cold, dreadful world. "I don't want to sleep. I don't want anything." Everything was wrong, from Ava's adorable little socks to the spinning ceiling fan above their heads. The world was wrong without Marco in it. "Why won't he answer me, Ava?" She already knew the answers. He's focusing on telekinetically flying himself and a pack of wolves. He's too high up for proper cell service, which was spotty over the wild parts of Great Britain to begin with. He didn't want to get distracted and mess up. He'd dropped or forgotten his phone somewhere. He fell, or he was attacked, or he was dead. "Why is he such a selfish jerk?" Her throat squeezed tight and her ragged voice turned to a squeak as she gripped the tea cup tight and sniffled back aching tears.

Ava: "Well, that's what the tramadol was supposed to be for," Ava explained with pronounced patience. She tucked her long legs neatly under herself and rested her now-empty hands in her lap. "At least get changed. A nice, hot shower and some fresh pyjamas. You'll feel a hundred times better, trust me."

At Ruth's questioning, she gave a exaggerated, sympathetic sigh. "Because he's a man," she explained. "And they're all the same. Brothers, boyfriends, dads... they all go to the same school of self-absorbedness and awful communication. It's just what they do, and we love them anyway for some reason. I'm sure Marco will be in touch with you again  just as soon as he's finished dealing with those ghastly flea bags. He's probably off scrubbing himself with a wire brush as we speak and he'll be home before you know it."  She folded her arms, forgetting herself for a moment and frowning deeply. If her mother were here, she would scold Ava about wrinkles.

"I still don't really understand what that boss wolf was even doing. Like, what on earth was he planning to do with Faye's body? Go to uni and drink at the weekends? Use his new thumbs to finally surf the net on an iPhone? What was the master plan, exactly?"

Ruth: Ruth’s eyes lifted from the little glass cup hugged in her hands to give Ava a deadpan, exhausted stare. She was too tired to argue. Last night, she might have thrown a fit if someone told her what to do, she might have screamed and tossed her mug of tea across the room. She didn’t have the energy to fight like that, not after a long, sleepless night of crying into her throw rug. Now she could only stare with sore, watery eyes, as if silently begging Ava not to force her up from the rug where she will decidedly lay until she dies.

Ruth sipped at her tea, then frowned at the boring herbal taste, like water and leaves. On second thought, that was all tea was, water and leaves. She set the cup aside and drew her knees up to her chest. Her focus faded in and out while Ava chattered on about fleas and scrubbing... Blood and dirt-stained fingers picked unconsciously at the mud on her jeans. Her mouth answered before her mind had even caught up. “He wanted power.” She blinked at the distant invisible place she’d been staring at for minutes before turning to look at Ava. “He was nothing more than an animal before Faye, just a wild dog, but inside Faye, he had power. He could communicate, he could manipulate, he could walk among us and nobody would throw him in a kennel and move him to the zoo. He was angry, and he wanted the power to do something about it.” She thought back to the night in the woods, dancing and feeling each other’s bodies under the full moon. She’d been asking herself the same question for days—what had Ulfric wanted out of that night? Was it really him in control, or had Faye shone through for one evening? Ruth hugged her knees tighter. “He wanted to hurt people. That’s reason enough to destroy him.”

Ava: "Well, he got one thing right, I suppose," Ava mused with a non-committal shrug. "People tend to underestimate the gift of the gab, but if you've got it, you've got an awful lot of people under your thumb. I guess he could talk to us and move around our world and still talk to all of his gross little friends." It was the best of both, really.

Oh-so-casually, she took her phone out of her pocket and brought up Marco's number. There were exactly two WhatsApp messages to him saved in her history: one from like a million years ago asking why his sister wasn't answering her phone, and one from last spring asking him when his birthday was, because she had been tipsy on champagne cocktails with Ruth and thought she was being dreadfully witty. Neither message had elicited a response from Marco, though the two blue ticks confirmed that he'd read them. She keyed in another message.

would u hurry up?? ruth planning ur funeral xx

Still smiling sweetly for Ruth, she put her iPhone away again.

"Anyway, like I said. Men. Even men who are wolves, or dogs, or whatever. Selfish."

Ruth: Ruth sighed, a long dramatic rush of exhaustion. Normally, she'd agree with Ava. They'd laugh about how terribly irritating men were--selfish, rude, ignorant... Ruth couldn't count how many times she'd told Ava stories of how Marco was impossibly frustrating and unkind to her, but for every tale of woe, there were two more stories of his generosity and love. Things had never been easy for them, father always had his expectations of them, but they held strong because they had each other. Without Marco, she would be utterly alone for the first time in her life. He had to come back. She needed him back in her arms, because if he didn't come back, she wouldn't know how to live without her other half.

A silence fell between them, exhausted and painfully aware of itself. Again, Ruth found herself staring at Ava with a blank, lifeless expression of disappointment. Everything was wrong. Words came out wrong, the carpet under her bum sat wrong, Ava's watery tea was wrong, Ruth's aching violated skin was wrong, the air felt wrong. Ava's presence only sharpened that sensation from a dull blade to a slicing edge.

Slowly, Ruth uncoiled herself and fell onto her back. She shut her eyes. For a moment she thought if she pretended to sleep again, maybe Ava would go home, leave Ruth to suffer in loneliness as loudly and as mud-caked as she wants. Then a strange thought popped into her head. Without getting up or opening her eyes, Ruth muttered. "Why are you here, Ava? What do you want?" Her hands felt heavy, as if someone rested a 20 kg weight in each palm. They sank into the fluffy rug, blood-stained fingers curling in on themselves. "I thought we weren't talking anymore."

Ava: Ava watched her friend mope with concern, a tiny crease appearing between her perfectly-maintain eyebrows. Ruth was acting like her brother was already as good as dead. None of them had died yet.  They'd all come up against the wolf pack in one way or another, and they were all still alive. Even Des, and all he had to defend himself were flashy lights. Marco could literally move things with his mind. He could even fly. He was going to be fine.

Ruth's question, however, threw her slightly. "Hmm?" She tilted her head to one side and tried not to sound as miffed as she felt. "What d'you mean, why am I here? You can't be all by yourself in this state, can you?" She fell silent for a moment, the hurt worming its way into her chest as she scrambled to find something else to say.

"Of course we're talking, Ruth! What on earth are you going on about? Honestly, all this stress has made you really confused. You're my bestie, babe. Just because we've been, like, super busy all year doesn't mean you're not still my fave, yeah?" She smiled at Ruth's supine form and folded her arms across her chest. "You know, I read this thing on Instagram the other day, about how really close friends can, like, not see each other for ages and then just pick up again right where they left off. I think that's totally us, don't you?"

Ruth: Eyes shut and body laid out like a skinned animal rug, Ruth tried not to sigh too loudly at Ava’s trite response. Tried, and failed. There were nine other people who could have come to comfort her, but Ava was the one who’d come. Ava, who’d been avoiding her for months. She had an angle, a motive, something. She wouldn’t just show up now to play nurse to someone she didn’t want to see without a reason. The idea that Ava was only here to watch her settled bitterly in her chest. Just another watcher, another person she thought she knew, wasting their time making sure she doesn’t do anything reckless. Slowly, Ruth explained with only a little venom. “I don’t need a babysitter. I’m a grown woman. I can eat, and sleep, and poop when I want to. That’s not why you’re here.” Again, she asked. ”What do you want?”

The reply was not what she’d been expecting. Ava, as she always did with her perfect knack for being perfect, smiled and brushed away Ruth’s concerns as easy as swiping left. Ruth’s eyes eased open to stare at the whirling ceiling fan. Confused? God, she really was confused. The world felt like it was crashing down on her head and nobody else could even feel it at all. Was she really losing it this time?

Her face scrunched up as a hiccup of a sob escaped, hot tears spilling free once again. “I’m s-sorry, Ava. I don’t know what I w-was thinking. Of course we’re still besties. Besties forever.” She swiped her hands across her cheeks to brush her fat, heavy tears away. Her fingers left brown smudges across her face. She gasped another quivering breath and squeaked as she stifled another sob. “I thought... I had my accident, and then you s-stopped messaging me, and I... I thought I scared you away. I thought you didn’t like me anymore.” She buried her crumpled, crying face in her hands, too embarrassed to share her gross snotty tears with Ava. “I love you, b-ballerina babe. Please don’t hate me for what I said.”

Ava: Honestly, Ruth's super-suspicious line of questioning was confusing - not to mention the rudest. Here was Ava, making tea and offering a listening ear like the amazing friend that she was, and all Ruth could do was shout at her and like some snappy... snap... McSnappington.

"Well, my darling. You're very upset right now, so I'm going to let that..."

She trailed off when Ruth suddenly dissolved into a puddle of tears and heartfelt apologies, and her own heart softened, kneaded with a strangely upsetting combination of genuine sympathy and gnawing guilt. "Oh, sweetie..." she said quietly, shuffling across the floor to draw alongside Ruth before lying on the floor next to her. "I was scared. Super scared. I wake up one morning to like, fifty billion WhatsApps all telling me to ring back, it's an emergency, you've tried to..." She paused, hesitating and blinking back tears. "That you've tried to... to hurt yourself. And then some of the others are saying it was to do with this... this stupid magic nonsense."

She fought to get a grip on herself before she started crying too. It wouldn't do to cry. This wasn't a big deal. They were best friends, just like they always had been. Nothing had changed.

"T-totally spooked, babe," she went on, with a nonchalance she's perfected over countless years. "And it was so not cute of me to ghost you like that. Completely selfish. I am so, so sorry for being such a hideous flake." She rolled on to her side to face her friend her head resting on her arm. "I love you too, gorgeous. It's you and me, yeah?" She reached out a perfectly-manicured hand and brushed away a tear. "Best friends."

Ruth: Buried in her hands, Ruth tried to swallow down the tide of tears that kept rising up, stinging at her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. She heard Ava move, her motions graceful, quiet, gentle. Everywhere she went was a dance, an expression of her perfect lithe shape. Someone like Des or Imogen would have plopped down beside her like a great sack of potatoes, announcing their arrival with fanfare and perhaps a little endearing clumsiness. But Ava, she moved with elegance, like a flower opening to the morning sun. In many ways, her best friend was like her twin brother, a rather inevitable turn of events considering how close she and Marco were. Just like him, Ava was almost always perfect. She was always smiling, always controlled, determined and practiced, talented and beautiful. Just like Marco, Ava was gifted. Her beauty inspired Ruth, and it tormented her. She could never be that graceful, that naturally smooth and gentle. Wiping her face roughly with long fingers, Ruth sniffled back the soggy tears and blinked at her effortlessly gorgeous friend.

"It was so, so scary." She nodded in mopey, pathetic agreement. "I thought I could make it disappear, get these horrible images out of my head, if I threw it all away and left this awful place, but without the paint..." Without the paint, there were so many other ways to pour her soul out onto the canvas. Her wrists itched painfully where the scars knotted her fair skin. "I wanted to d-do everything on my own, to prove I was s-strong and smart enough to control it, that there was nothing wrong with me. I..." Her throat tightened, but she pushed onward in a small, whimpering voice. "You're right. I can't be alone. I'm not strong enough."

Slowly, Ruth shuffled closer, reaching out to rest a soft arm around Ava's petite waist. "Best friends. No matter what. Even when... when... I'm not..." Even when I'm not pretty, or strong, or smart, or funny. Even when I'm falling apart. Please, please love me. Tell me I'm enough. She wriggled in closer, trying to hide her messy face against Ava's chest.

Ava: Ava shook her head. This was so typical Ruth. So independent and stubborn. So hell-bent on doing everything herself, even when it was a disaster waiting to happen. Still, she couldn't blame her. Their powers scared Ava, too.  Ava, as much as she avoided this truth, had been frightened into inaction. Ruth had had the guts to attempt an escape.

"Oh, darling," she sighed. "Your painting is in you, like my dancing is in me. You can bin your paints all you like but I'm afraid there's no running away from how devastatingly talented you are!" She allowed herself to smile again. "Maybe this magic thingy is the same. It just sort of is."

She hugged Ruth close to her, not sure what to say. Her usual go-tos when comforting her friends were to tell them they were just so pretty, that they didn't need so-and-so in their lives anyway, or that they should go clubbing or shopping. Somehow, in the face of Ruth's raw pain, with her friend's thick, tangled hair between her fingers, none of her pre-programmed responses seemed adequate. That quiet, growing panic that had become increasingly familiar to her since beginning her studies at Durham made it's presence known once again, and she fought to contain it.

"Even when you're not quite up to yourself, yes. Of course. What are friends for, after all? Darling, you've been so brave. But the wolf thing is gone now. Marco will be back in no time, all fussing about being hungry and having dog hair on his jacket. Faye will be up and about in no time and we can all get back to normal. That's all we want, really, isn't It?"

Ruth: “Devastatingly talented? That’s your choice of words?” Ruth wanted to slap Ava’s cheeky mouth, so she did, gently. Rolling onto her side, she lifted a hand to pat Ava on the cheek, leaving a muddy smudge in her wake. A smile threatened to pull at her lips as she noticed the dirty handprint on Ava’s flawless cheek, a little bit of artful juxtaposition. At least she’d left her mark somewhere in the world before the end of it all. “Devastatingly something, I wouldn’t say talented, maybe foolish.” Rolling again onto her back, she blinked her aching eyes at the whirling ceiling fan. Her smile faded, sharpening into a little frown of contemplation. Maybe it just is. That bit of logic went against everything the authors had told them, but that could be why it sounded so appealing. Of course, anything sounded more appealing than cursed to die horribly. For some of them, they had taken to their powers like a fish takes to water. For Ruth, it felt more like her powers had taken to her. Overwhelming waves that crashed on her head before receding away into the depths of the unknown future, leaving her smeared with paint, sore and confused. All she could do to control it was keep her paints and pencils nearby for those moments when the levee broke and time came flooding in. Was that what Ava meant by “it just is”?

It was easier to ignore the gnawing fearful questions when she was pressed up against Ava, wrapped in her slender arms with the sweet floral scent of her filling Ruth’s head. Fingers brushed into the thick matted hair at the back of her head. Finally, her ragged breathing began to settle into a rhythm. Her quivering relaxed into a heavy exhaustion. Ava’s fingers curling into her hair sent waves of warm, tingly sedation through her. She snuggled against Ava’s chest, relieved to feel cool skin against her burning hot cheek. Her breath swept across Ava’s skin in quiet little hiccups. Ava’s voice was like a melody, light and dainty as birdsong. Again, the flimsy ghost of a smile floated on her lips. Marco would saunter back in complaining about hair on his jacket as if he’d only been gone minutes, rather than days. “Marco...” Her giggle was a tiny breathless wheeze. “I miss him.”

Faye, too. She missed Faye’s careful fingers, her soft lips, her watchful eyes. That Faye was gone. This new Faye wouldn’t dote on her every movement, wouldn’t drink in her every word like poetry. The wolf was dead. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Ruth nodded against Ava’s chest. “Normal,” she whispered. Her head was immensely heavy. Simply the act of breathing took all the energy she had left after her violent fit of tears. She shut her eyes. “I’m not sleeping.” She insisted in a small groggy mutter. “I’m just resting my eyes for a minute.”

Ava: Ava laughed as Ruth gently cuffed her cheek. So relieved was she to see her friend show even a glint if her usual cheerful banter that she was even willing to let the muddy smudge on her face go. Either way, she was still the cleanest person in the room. That would have to do. "Devastatingly gorgeous, then," she offered.

Ruth had become calm, and Ava shut her own eyes in the soft silence that came with the likely-brief island of tranquillity in the sea of her friend's emotions. "I know you do, babe," she replied softly. "He misses you too. That's why he's going to hurry back."

She opened one eye and glanced down at Ruth's head, profoundly unconvinced by Ruth's claim. "Darling, if I blew on you right now you'd be off. Why don't you go to bed? I can wait here and wake you up if Marco comes back, yeah?"

Ruth: “God, I hope he hurries back.” Ruth grumbled sleepily into Ava’s chest. “I can’t live like this. I can’t keep living like this. Always on edge... waiting for the next attack... the next bout of bad news...” Her voice hummed low as she babbled her drowsy worries. “Every time I think I can trust someone, they hurt me or they leave me, everyone but Marco... but he’s run off, too.” Weakly rubbing her watery eyes, she sighed. “For once, I just want to feel safe, like there isn’t someone waiting to jump at me from the shadows.” She sniffled miserably. “The stress is killing my complexion.” Some mornings she didn’t even recognize herself in the mirror.

Sleep. She was so unbelievably tired. If Marco would just come marching victoriously through her door, she would finally be able to let everything go and let sleep take her. Until then, her thoughts stuttered between sluggish disappointment and frantic bursts of fear and anger. “Noooo...” She moaned quietly, squeezing a little tighter at Ava’s waist as if to hold herself there on the floor with her. “What if he calls?” Her voice began to tighten and turn high-pitched with panic. “What if he doesn’t come here first? What if he shows up on the news? I don’t want to miss anything!” Her breath faltered. Her voice wavered into a plea, rather than a demand. “I can’t sleep. Marco might need me at any moment. I have to... I have to stay... awake.” Again, she hid her face in Ava’s chest, shielding her friend from seeing how her eyes could barely keep open, despite her worried protests.

Ava: Ava sighed deeply. "It's not fair, is it, darling?" She replied. "Do you ever think maybe life would have worked out so much easier if we just... hadn't all gone down to the beach that first night? I mean... " she smiled, abashed. "I only went out that night because I was meant to meet some boy from History of Art - you remember the fit one with the ponytail that dropped out last May?" Her smile faded at the memory, her free hand moving unconsciously to rub at the muddy streak on her face. "Anyway, I stood him up. Got to the bar and just, like, kept walking. And the beach looked so lovely that I wanted to take a picture and put it on my Instagram." She glanced sideways at Ruth and raised her eyebrows. "Should have just gone on the stupid date, shouldn't I?"

She'd gone off on a bit of a tangent, but she didn't really mind. Ruth probably didn't care too much either. The poor girl was almost out cold.

Ah, skin. Something Ava could actually help with. "Perfect, then. We'll do facials at my apartment once all of this is finished... just... just as soon as you aren't muddy anymore." The carpet in her bedroom was cream, after all.

Ruth's sudden protests caused her to sit up. "Ruth. Darling. Marco is going to be such a pain if he finds I didn't look after you properly," she  said. "He'll know, too.  No amount of eye cream is going to fix this, babe."

Ruth: Ruth remembered the boy with the ponytail. He’d been smart, but lazy, uncommitted. Ruth had several classes with him in her first year. She had glared at him from across the room every time she noticed his nose buried in his phone in the middle of lecture. Maybe all that glaring had injected him with some terrible illness, or maybe he’d finally decided he was too smart for school, either way he’d dropped out suddenly and Ruth had never seen him again. Ava’s chest slid out beneath her cheek as the girl moved to glance at her. Ruth blinked the tears from her eyes and raised her head to meet Ava’s dark, sweet eyes. A slight smile tugged at Ruth’s lips. Ava was so naturally lovely, even smudged with dirt and shadowed with somber emotions. Ruth imagined painting that soft, radiant face, smoothing delicate pinkish porcelain-colored paint onto the canvas with her sharp painting knife to get the clean, flawless reflection of her beauty. “He was pretty, but that guy had no dedication to anything. It’s good you stood up that cheeseball. He’s no good for you.” Even exhausted and upset, Ruth knew without a shadow of a doubt that Ava would have abhorred dating that loser. It was obvious.

“We were star-gazing,” Ruth began in a dreamy, far-away mutter. “Marco and I, we were already at the beach together, looking at the stars. We do that in the summertime when school gets out, just lay back and talk about cabbages and kings while the night turns all around us for hours and hours and hours...”

Every time she thought she had gotten the tears under control, they began to creep back up again. Her eyes welled up with wetness at the simple suggestion that they do facials together, something they used to do regularly before her accident had driven an awkward wedge between them. For perhaps the first time in twenty-four hours, Ruth paused to look down at herself. Her clothes were caked and smeared with dried sticky muck. The dried blood on her hand was falling off in ragged little chips. Her hair hung in thick, matted tangles, rather than her usual luscious waves.

When had she become such a horrible mess? How had she let it get so bad? With Ava here, no less—perfect, gorgeous, well-composed Ava, who never looked less than completely stunning.

Mortified, she hid her face in her hands, wishing she had Cleo’s gift to disappear. “Ohmygod, I’ve lost it. I’ve really lost it. I’m on the floor in day-old clothes with dirty hair and blood and... and Marco’s going to have a cow. Oh god, what do I do? I’m such a mess. No wonder everyone thinks I’m totally mental.”

Ava: Ava smirked. "Yeah, definitely. He probably thought he was God's gift to women, too. The way he used to peek around sometimes in lectures to see if anyone was looking at him. I mean, he was hot and everything, but I'm actually fairly sure that he was so in love with himself that going out with anybody else would have counted as cheating."

As Ruth's eyes began to well up with tears again, Ava lay back down next to her again. "Yeah, and it's like, June now. You'll be doing it again this time next week, I promise. Just lazing about chatting about.... about cabbages in the sky and all those lovely things." Probably twinspeak. She didn't ask.

"You have a little bit, darling," Ava admitted with a twinkly laugh. "It's so not like you but let's face it, you're still hotter than the majority of people on their good days. What you do, is get a shower and have a nap. I don't care which one you do first - although I'm sure you'd be far more comfortable with all this dried muck off you." She got to her feet and put her hands on her hips. "Right. Chop chop. You decide what you're doing first and I'm going to get you a towel and some nice clean pajamas."

Ruth: Ruth sniffled and gasped, trying to suck back the tears, collect them inside herself where no one else could see them. It only made her sounds more miserable as she struggled to breathe. Ava's closeness beside her was a troubling comfort. Rub her face and sniffle all she wanted, she couldn't hide her pathetic sobbing enough for Ava not to notice. Ruth had tried so hard for so long to be strong, to be independent, but her best friend's closeness and understanding left Ruth's exhausted strength feeling as flimsy as a wall of dry leaves. A little shove sent her spiraling off in all directions, scattered powerlessly on the wind. She had missed Ava in her absence far more than she had thought. Being smart and strong was so agonizingly boring sometimes.

She missed facials and shopping and moaning about gross people in their classes. She missed wandering in new places and laughing at each other and staying up until the run rose. She missed riding bikes down hills and splashing paint on each other and arguing over what to eat for lunch. She missed having friends. Without Marco, her life had become lonely and loveless. But she hadn’t truly lost Ava, not like she lost Des all those years ago, only frightened her best friend. She prayed to the heavens that she wouldn’t lose Marco this time. She opened her mouth to argue that Ava couldn’t promise her that it would happen. People kept promising to her that Marco would be back, but they weren’t actually doing anything  to bring him home. Hypocrites, the lot of them. Her breath wobbled out a small hiccup. While she swallowed down that wave of tears, she decided she’d argue another day, one where she wasn’t barely keeping herself together.

It’s not fair. Ruth was tired and muddy and fighting to hold back tears while Ava was glowing with laughter and kindness. Ava was effortlessly perfect. Like Marco, she never tripped and fell on her face, never lost her cool. Rory, too. Stupid air signs and their stupid flawless smiles. It’s not fair.

“Th-thanks,” she muttered into her hands. Pulling her fingers away tentatively, she looked down at her hands and grimaced. “Shower.” She nodded. “He can’t see me like this he’ll throw a fit.” She looked around her at the rug, spotted with crumbles and smears of mud, then at her filthy hands, then up at Ava. Her eyes still puffy and watery, she held out her hands for Ava to help her up off the floor. ”Ohmygod I’m so gross.” She whined once she climbed to her feet. Her skin stung as she peeled the jean jacket from her shoulders. In the hours she’d been fussing and screaming and lying there, the jacket had nearly adhered itself to her back. She winced as she dragged it over her aching muscles, then dropped in it a heap on the floor. The white blouse beneath the jacket cling to her skin in filthy patches, splattered with blood. She didn’t hesitate for a second, curling her fingers under the hem and lifting the soiled shirt over her head before throwing it to the ground. She didn’t care what happened to the shirt now. Wash it, burn it, throw it in the rubbish, it was all the same as long as she didn’t have to look at it again. Her steps were slow and unsteady as she fumbled with the button of her skinny jeans while she wandered toward her bedroom.

Ava: "Oh you know he will, darling. He'll come strutting in here and he'll  be like..." She plastered an exaggerated frown on her face and deepened her voice. "Oh, Elizabeth, you look just simply frightful, what the devil have these - these nincompoops been doing with you while I was gone? If I can fly to Scotland whilst juggling a pack of wolves, one would think that they'd be able to to look after you between then. I shall have Jeeves lop their heads off!"

She was talking nonsense now. Anything to lighten the mood. Anything to coax her to do something - anything - that wasn't lying on her floor in floods of tears. Ava had no idea what to do with that. She knew how to gently tease and gossip and giggle. She was a good mate. As this conversation went on, however, she was becoming ever more sinkingly aware that she wasn't a particular skilled friend. She'd never really practiced it.

Her existential crisis was put on hold briefly as Ruth undressed right there and then, dripping with her trademark nonchalance at being stood in front of someone as she peeled her clothes off. Soft, tanned skin brushed futilely at patches of dirt and blood, her normally silky dark curls hanging in a matted, scruffy mess around her face as she bemoaned the state she was in. Even filthy and bedraggled, she was gorgeous. Ava was sure that in the same position, she herself would look like something that had crawled out of a swamp. Ruth's dark gaze and fascinating softness would shine even through anything.

She blinked as Ruth turned away and made her way out of the room, and realised that she'd been staring. Ruth probably thought she was being rude. Or worse, creepy. God, she wasn't a creep. She was just - well, tired. They were all tired. It was bound to be making them all peculiar.

Sighing, she got to her feet and picked up the dirty shirt, bundling it up in her arms and hovering for a moment, unsure of what to do. Finally, when Ruth had left the room, she tiptoed to the kitchen to find the bin to dispose of the shirt. And make some more green tea. God, she needed a cup of tea.

Ruth: Ruth winced as her first name left Ava's lips. She could hardly stand it when Marco called her by that name, as much as he was accustomed to using it for some godforsaken reason. When anyone else called her Elizabeth the feeling changed from a frustrated fondness to a sour taste that strangled her throat. Even if it was just a joke, a silly impersonation, Ruth couldn't help but wear a theatrical pouty frown. "I don't need to be looked after," she grumbled quietly. "I just need a slap over the head from time to time." Maybe a kiss on the cheek and a handful of compliments too, but she wasn't going to admit that to anyone. With a small sniffle, she attempted to fix her hair, tucking wild strands behind her ears and combing fingers through thick snarls at the back of her head. She was fine. She could take care of herself, when she wasn't swept away in the floodwaters of her anger and fear. Lifting her chin proudly, she dammed up the levee. She had appearances to keep, a reputation to uphold. Too many people were already questioning her sanity. They couldn't see her like this.

Ruth squeezed her eyes shut as she wriggled out of her tight jeans that gripped at the curves of her hips and thighs. Hopping precariously on one foot, she worked off her tiny striped socks one at a time, then peeled the trousers from her legs. It felt good to be free of the binding clothing that stifled her skin. She left a trail of stripped away clothes strewn about behind her as she meandered toward the bathroom. Her breath froze in her throat as she caught a glance at herself in the mirror, haggard and stained, with dark circles set deep under her puffy pink eyes and hair in an ugly knot at her neck. With a heavy sigh, she started the shower, waiting for the hot water to steam over the horrifying image in the mirror. In the distance, she heard the kettle bubbling to life again. Ruth plucked a cotton pad from the cabinet and doused it in makeup remover before she set to work wiping the streaks of black eyeliner and soft shimmery eyeshadow from her face.

A thought kept flitting in and out of her head as she dabbed at her face. Ava stayed. Even when Ruth looked like a walking nightmare, and wanted to scream at everything and everyone, Ava stayed. Ruth had snapped at her and told her to go, still Ava stayed. She wasn't sure what that meant, but it meant something. Staring at her pinkish, bare face with sunken dark eyes, Ruth was at a loss for reasons. Maybe there wasn't one. Ava didn't need to have a reason to be there. Without a second thought, Ruth padded back to the door to her bedroom so she could poke her head through and call to her friend. "Hey, Ava? I'm glad we're best friends." Then she slipped back to the washroom to climb into the shower.

[jax-writes]

You Bloody Arse

Warnings: Swearing? That’s all I can really think of Word Count: 1673 Note:  I'm challenging myself to write a drabble a day until I'm ready to pick up my series again. I've been fighting a block for a while now, and it's time I fight through it. But anyway I'll be posting this on my tumblr too. I hope you enjoy it! Throw me a comment or two. I do take constructive criticism guys. Blatant hate is always blocked, but any advice is always welcome. Also sorry to those of you in the UK. My shitty drabble honestly happened with little research because I just had to write, and I don’t know if you guys actually have Uber or anything like it. And I am just assuming you have fraternities tbh. But it made more sense to me for something sort of similar to houses at Hogwarts.  Also on AO3!

"You know that feeling you get when you're at a concert, and the lead singer stops singing for a minute to let the crowd fill in the lyrics? And you just feel light and happy, like you're floating? And all of your problems and the world's problems just don't exist anymore, because in this moment, everyone is together, and singing together and you think that's what world peace must feel like? Well. That's how I feel when I look at you. I don't expect you to have a response, or really to feel the same way. I understand that you don't. But sometimes You just have to say things, or you might explode. Sometimes, even though you know that what you're going to say is going to make or break a friendship, and just change everything in general, you just have to say it. Because life is damn short. If I've learned anything in my life, it's that. Life is so short and it's too short to be bitter. If I don't tell you how I feel ever, I'll die a miserable old man. So I'm sorry if this makes you feel any sort of pressure. It isn't meant to do that; I would never intend to harm you or cause you stress. But I know how you get. You'll probably say something about how you're fine and everything is okay. But then you'll be chewing on my words when you go to bed and lose sleep because you think you're hurting me because you don't return my feelings. Well, don't do that. Please don't. I went into this whole speech knowing how you feel about me is not the same way I feel about you. Don't waste time worrying if you've hurt me. The only one who's hurting me here is myself. But it's not like I could stop these feelings. I did try, believe me. Because I don't want to cause you this stress. And after all, you deserve to find someone who will make you as happy as you make me. I'm going to walk away now. The only thing I'm begging of you now is that you don't end our friendship. I may get over these feelings in time-seeing you find love of your own might help. Or maybe I'll find someone who's willing to put up with my sorry ass. Who knows? The one thing I know is that losing your friendship will do me no good. I know our friendship will change after this, but please forgive me and please don't cut me out. Because romantic love aside, you are one of my best mates and I will always love you for that. But this is me, walking away. I've got to yell to James now." Remus gaped, then frowned as he watched Sirius' retreating form. He'd known once the darker haired young man began speaking that it was important. He didn't have his trademark smirk or a hint of a joke in his voice. But he'd never expected this. Sirius hadn't been behaving any more different than usual. Had he? With a groan, he slid down the wall to sit and bury his face in his arms. "What the bloody hell?" he muttered.

"I told him." James jumped in surprise as his best friend flopped himself in the seat across from him. Wide eyed, he glanced at their friend, Peter, and back to Sirius. Sirius was now sitting stretched out, feet on the table, and was fiddling with his phone. James cleared his throat and closed his laptop. "You did what?" Sirius sighed, and removed his feet from their elevated position to rest normally on the floor. He sat up and clasped his hands together on the table. "I fucking told Remus how I feel about him." "And? Did he declared his undying love for you?" James raised a brow. "Did he rip your heart out and eat it in front of you?" Peter chimed in with his own question, causing the others to turn to him with ghastly expressions. "Graphic there, Pete," SIrius remarked. "Neither. Or Both. I don't know. I told him how I feel and left him with the request to still be my mate, and left." He shrugged before falling back into his seat. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" James grumbled. "You should have stayed, Pads." "Why? I already know how he feels, Prongs. I don't need to hear the words 'Sorry, Black, but I think you're a right git, but you're my friend and that's all we can ever be. Shove off and die in a pit.'" "Bit dramatic, don't you think?" James quipped. "You know he'd never tell you to die in a pit. But it's better you finally told him, yeah? Instead of holding it in like you do everything else." "He didn't punch you on the spot, and he did let you talk, so that's got to be a good sign, right?" Peter acknowledged. "Wormtail's right. He did let you have your say." "He was probably too mad to speak just yet and I left before the explosion happened. But yeah. It's better that he knows. I was honest though. I don't want to lose him as a friend. You three are the only family I've got, and I don't think I'll do too well losing any of you," Sirius frowned. James nodded. "You're right. We are family. He won't just leave you." "Family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten," Peter nodded seriously as he scribbled in his notebook. James and Sirius stared at their friend for a moment before bursting out laughing. "Good god, Wormtail. Babysat your sister again last night, eh?" Pettigrew grinned. "She made me play Lilo and Stitch twice. In a row." Sirius snorted and shook his head. "Well. I'm glad Disney movies are relevant. I'm just sad I'm the alien." "Don't worry, Pads. Petey here is your Pleakly." "Hey! If I'm Pleakly, you're Juumba!" Peter threw his pen at James. Sirius raised an eyebrow at the pair. "Didn't those two get married? Pete, I'm sorry, but James is spoken for." James nodded in agreement. "Too right. Speaking of, I have a date with Lily tonight." "Gotta get ready soon?" Sirius asked. James nodded once. "I'm picking her up from work." "You doing anything tonight, Pete? Wanna drink away my sorrows with me?" Peter pondered this for a moment before shrugging. "Yeah, alright. But you're paying for the Uber." "Cheers," Sirius saluted.

He was done marinating on this. It was time to find him. Since he was close to their fraternity, Remus checked the house, nodding at some of the guys as he passed them. Unfortunately, the man he was seeking was nowhere to be seen, and no one he asked had seen him. Off to the library. He knew James and Peter were there studying. If Sirius wasn't with them, they would certainly know where he might be.

The trio was still at their table when the bellow of "BLACK!" rang through the building. The three jumped (or in Peter's case, fell over), and turned to the source of the yelling: one Remus John Lupin. He was storming int heir direction, eyes on Sirius. "Hide me," the man in question whispered. But it was too late, Remus' long strides made his trip over a short one. Everyone in the library had their eyes trained on Remus. Sirius knew his friend hadn't thought this through, or he'd be more self conscious about yelling in front of everyone. It was clear he was a man on a mission. "H-hey, there, Moony," Sirius gulped when the lanky man stopped in front of him. "You bloody arse!" he exclaimed, eyes narrowed. His face reddened when he seemed to snap out of his angry daze and noticed eyes on him. "Sorry," he muttered to girl nearby. "I did apologize, Remus. I did mean it," Sirius sighed. He glanced up quickly as Peter and James were rising from their seats. "We'll see you later, mate," James said, gathering his things and looking between the two. Peter nodded and scurried out with James. Remus sighed and sank into the seat that was occupied previously by James. "You're still an arse." Sirius nodded. "You're right." "You don't get to tell me all of that and then tell me how I feel." "You're right. But in my defense, I really didn't want to hear you tell me you hate me and I should die." Remus stopped, gaping. "You're a bloody idiot. H-what? What part of any of our years of friendship have implied I would tell you you should die?" Sirius opened his mouth, but Remus didn't let him speak. "Furthermore, how could I ever hate you? You've been my best friend for years, Sirius." Sirius shrugged. "I am the local trash. I get recycled sometimes, then pitched in a couple of days." Remus growled, causing Sirius' gaze to snap up from the spot he'd been fascinated with on the table. "Fuck everything your mum has ever said to you, Black. You're not garbage. You're not worthless. You are a damn treasure. You are important. You are beautiful." Sirius swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, unsure of what to say. That was acceptable, as Remus continued his monologue. "You may be bloody stubborn, and a pain in the arse, but you are worth so much more than anything your damn mother has to say about you. She's not your family, Sirius. We are your family. The Marauders are your family. If I have to change your last name to convince you, I damn well will." He huffed and crossed his arms, looking away. Sirius smirked now, understanding finally dawning on him. "You'll have to at least take me to dinner before we do that, Moony." Remus met his eyes with a small smile. "Yeah? Tonight at seven." "It's a date, then," Sirius said, standing. Remus rose as well, glancing at the shorter man. "It's a date."

[not-a-space-alien]

Earth Helps Back, Part 3:  Newfound Old Friends

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Epilogue

On AO3 (AO3 is glitching so idk if it actually went up or not--will fix later)

It’s hard to describe the effect of not knowing anything about someone and then suddenly having an encyclopedia’s worth of knowledge about them dumped into your head.  Anathema had been granted memories that were not hers, but they were in the past, they were memories.  So when they dropped into her, it felt as though she had always known everything she currently did.

As a consequence, Anathema in that moment felt rather like Aziraphale and Crowley were very close friends that she had known for a long time.

It’s kind of the business of witches to know things they’re not supposed to, but this was a step above and beyond what Anathema usually dealt with. The sudden rush of having memories spanning back millennia felt like it physically knocked the wind out of her.

She remembered the Garden, the apple, she remembered ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia and Greece and Rome and Jerusalem, a wealth of places and times she had never been, people she had never met and experiences she had never had.

She remembered the Arrangement.  She remembered what it had felt like to shake hands with your supposed mortal enemy and feel a great deal more fondness than you were supposed to.  She remembered what it had felt like to realise so grippingly and suddenly that the world was going to end by the hands of your own comrades unless you did something to stop it, you, who were virtually powerless against the powers-that-be, but you had to try nonetheless.  She remembered the—was it fair to call it love?—that they felt, for the Earth and for the humans and for each other, and the tightness with which they had gripped each other’s warm hands when they thought they were about to die, or whatever ghastly equivalent would be waiting for them in place of death.

We have to try was the theme.  We can’t do it, but we have to try.

And they had won.  The Earth was safe.

And then their victory had been torn out from under them.

Anathema’s excitement grew as she saw these two beautiful beings built from the ground up in her memory, vibrant and full of life and kindness and so ready to try.  And then it had all been smashed to pieces, because the memories that came flooding into her past a certain timepoint had taken a sharp downturn.

Darkness.  Or blinding light.  Pain, never-ending pain, and crying and begging and absolute helplessness.  The feeling of being forcibly stripped of any personal autonomy you had managed to scrape out for yourself.

Regret.  

And then pushing on in a muddle of grey, utterly miserable, without reprieve, on and on.

She was snapped out of her trance by Newt kneeling beside her.  “What’s wrong?”

“We…”  Anathema staggered to her feet, knocking over a few candles.  “We have to help them.”

“Who?” said Newt.  “The angel and the demon?”

“Their names are Aziraphale and Crowley, and…”  Her head was spinning.  She didn’t even know where to begin.

“Help them with what?”

“Newt, it’s awful, I felt…”

Newt came up and supported her elbow, because she looked a bit wobbly. “What?”

“They were punished, Newt.  For trying to help us.”

“Oh,” said Newt.  “Oh no.” He scratched his head.  “By Heaven and Hell, you mean?  Their bosses?”

“It must have been.  Oh, Newt…”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yes.  Come on.” Anathema dashed over to the coat rack and started pulling on her peacoat.

“Wh—What, wait, where are we going?”

“To go help them!”

“You’re not serious, are you?”

“What?” said Anathema, pausing with her arm halfway in the sleeve.  “Of course I’m serious.  They’re in trouble.”

“Well, it’s not like there’s anything we can really do about that, though, right?”

“Wh—Nothing we can do?  Imagine if they had had that attitude when the apocalypse was about to happen!”

“Well, I-I mean…”  Newt rubbed the back of his head.  “It’s not really any of our business, is it—I mean, it’s one thing to think maybe you can phone them up and ask for some feathers, but we can’t really go against—”

“They risked everything for us!  And you don’t even want to try?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to try!” said Newt.  “I’m just saying I don’t see what we’re really capable of doing.”

Anathema became self-aware and finished pulling her coat on, buttoning it up angrily.  “You know what, Newt?  You were right.  Trying to stop the apocalypse really doesn’t sound like something you’d do.  Fine, then, stay here.  See if I care.  I’ll go by myself.”

“Oh, come on,” said Newt.  “Wait, hold on.”

Aggravated, Anathema turned and crossed her arms.

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t help them.  Really, I’m not.  But they’re—they’re other-worldly beings with powers we can’t even comprehend.  We must look like mice to them.  It’s unrealistic to expect you can take on whatever managed to best them, don’t you think?”

Anathema flared her nostrils.  Newt took her hands.  “I just don’t want to see you get hurt, Anathema.”

“You didn’t see what they were like before,” said Anathema.  “You don’t know them.”

“Neither do you!” Newt exclaimed.  “Just this morning you weren’t sure they existed!”

Anathema suddenly regretting not having Newt join her in the circle.  He hadn’t seen it and couldn’t imagine what she knew.  There was no way to explain it all to him, and the feathers were gone now, so she couldn’t assemble it again and have him repeat it.  “Even if we do look like mice to them, that doesn’t mean they can’t fall victim to something bigger.  Like a tiger.”

“And it’s the mouse’s job to fight the tiger?”

Anathema looked away, face red.  “It hardly seems fair.  That we help save the Earth and then get to go live our happily ever after in a nice flat in the city. But they do it, and…”

“It really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“We have to do something, Newt,” Anathema said, desperation mounting.  “If you had felt it…”

Newt squeezed her hands.  “All right, Anathema.  You know what you’re talking about.  Let’s go see what we can do.”

Anathema was able to glean something about their routines from her glance through the spell.  The angel, she thought, seemed to spend his Friday nights at a specific soup kitchen helping out.  The demon, meanwhile, hung around a night-club that was an hour away on the tube.

She wondered if that was on purpose.  She wondered if they had been avoiding each other.  She wondered if something dreadful would happen if they were brought back together.  There were a lot of details that had been left out that she didn’t understand properly, and Anathema second-guessed herself all the way over.  But Newt had sounded so confident in her, so sure of her ability to just figure things out, that she thought I have to try.

They hit up the soup kitchen first.  A human volunteer offered them seats to the meal before Anathema realised what was happening and waved him away, saying they weren’t there to eat.

“So what’s he look like?” Newt asked, squinting at the line of volunteers handing out food.

“I should be able to sense his aura,” said Anathema.  “Hmmm…None of these people.”  She flagged down the volunteer who had spoken with them and asked, “Excuse me, we’re looking for someone.  He’s pretty tall, got very curly hair, may go by the name Ezra?”

“Oh, you must mean Mr. Fell!” said the volunteer.  “He works in the back.  I’ll go tell him there’s someone here to see him.”

The volunteer disappeared into the back.  A few moments later, a haggard figure came out to meet them.  He looked like he hadn’t brushed his hair in weeks or slept in millennia.  He was about the most un-angelic-looking person either of them could think of.  He didn’t seem entirely here in the present.

His eyes drifted above their heads.  “Er, hello?” said Anathema, giving a little wave.

The angel’s eyes snapped down to her.  “Er…Do I know you?”

“No,” said Anathema.  “I don’t think so.  My name is Anathema.  You’re Aziraphale, right?”

Aziraphale looked at her sharply.  “Don’t say that so loud.  Let’s go talk outside.”

They went onto the street.  Aziraphale refused to say anything until they had moved off into the adjacent alley.

“How do you know my angelic name?” Aziraphale demanded.  “I haven’t told it to any humans in years.”

“I…”  Anathema was suddenly unsure of how to proceed.  She didn’t think it would go over well if she just demanded Aziraphale abandon his angelic duties and go with her.  And it definitely seemed like the two of them had been staying apart on purpose.  Would she have to trick them into following her and meeting each other again?

Additionally, she wasn’t sure how he would react to finding out she was a witch. The witches Heaven condoned were simply re-labeled as prophetesses, but witchcraft did have a bit of a sticky history with the religion Aziraphale served.

She could claim authority from a Higher power.  That would surely do it.

“I’m a prophetess,” said Anathema.  “I’ve had a vision.”  That wasn’t too much of a stretch of the truth, actually.  “And I came to give you instructions.  The Metatron sent me.”

As soon as the last sentence left Anathema’s mouth, Aziraphale’s face crumpled into a cowed expression.  “Oh, I see. What are the instructions?”

“You, uh…You’re supposed to follow me,” said Anathema.  “You can take a break from your work here.  This is very important.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale, sounding utterly dejected.  “Please give me a moment to let the supervisor know I’m leaving.  I’ll be right back out.”

He disappeared back into the soup kitchen.  “Boy…” said Newt.  “That guy helped save the world?”

“You should have seen them before, Newt…”

Newt put his arms around himself to guard against the cold.  “We’ve got the angel.  Can we go home now?”

“We still have to get the demon.”

Newt grimaced.  “Must we?”

“Newt!”

“What?  He’s a demon.  He’s responsible for all sorts of awful stuff, right?  Why should we help him?”

“They’re a pair, Newt.  You can’t have one without the other.”

“Mmm,” said Newt, not sounding convinced.

“Are you afraid of him?”

Newt gave her a look.  “Can you blame me?”

Anathema couldn’t in good conscience say that she wouldn’t have been afraid of the possibility of meeting a demon with just the information Newt had. “He’s not like that, Newt.”

“Sure, sure.  I’m sure he’s got a heart of gold.  Poor guy needs our help so he can go back to whatever he was doing before, which I’m sure was helping little girls get kittens out of trees.”

Anathema gave him a dirty look.  Aziraphale reappeared, ending their sniping.  “All right,” said the angel.  “Lead the way.”

“We’ve just got to hop back on the tube for a bit,” said Anathema.  She noted the increasingly late hour on her watch with concern, suddenly wishing she had been able to talk Newt into driving them.  “Hopefully we won’t get there too late.”

Aziraphale did not bother to ask where they were going.  He let himself be led onto the train like a herd animal.  He took a seat across from Newt and Anathema and let his eyes drift absently over them as the train pulled away.

“I don’t like the way he’s looking at us,” Newt whispered to Anathema.

“Don’t be a baby,” Anathema answered him.

Aziraphale did not say a single word the entire ride.  He seemed absolutely miserable.  Anathema made attempts to engage him in idle conversation, but he refused to respond even to that.

“This is us,” Anathema told him when they were there.

Aziraphale shuffled off the train after Newt and Anathema.  Anathema led them up from the station into the chilly night air.  She wrapped her scarf more tightly about herself.  “All right.  Good, it’s just right there.  Let’s go.”

Anathema paused whenever the night club came into view.  She could see huge groups of people moving about inside, and the music was so loud it was audible even from across the street.  Places like that had always been particularly overwhelming for Anathema.  She had to deal with feeling everyone’s auras on top of the usual sensory stimulation.

She really didn’t want to go in there.  Luckily for her, she could faintly feel the aura she was after just outside the club.  

It was markedly bigger than those of the humans around it.  And it had a certain dark tint to it.

“There he is,” said Anathema.  “He’s around back.  Aziraphale, will you wait for us on the corner here?”

“All right,” said Aziraphale.  “I don’t suppose I have much choice.”

Anathema took Newt’s hand and bypassed the entrance to the club, peeking her head into the alleyway beside it.  Down at the end, just before the dumpster, a woman in a slinky red dress leaned against the wall; a slim figure in a black suit leaned over her.  The two were engaged in a very passionate snogging session, bodies pressed together.

“Hmph,” said Newt.  “Oh yes, he looks so miserable.”

In the faint light, Anathema caught a glint off a wedding ring on the woman’s finger and thought she had an idea of exactly what was happening here.

Without further comment, Anathema legged it up the alleyway towards them. Neither of them acknowledged her advance.

The man in the black suit—who at this point Anathema confirmed, yes, was Crowley exactly as she saw him in her memories—leaned in to bury his lips in the woman’s shoulder.  She tilted her head back and let out faint moans.

“Ah, excuse me,” said Anathema.

The woman’s head snapped towards her.  Crowley, very slowly, raised his head, but did not look at her.

“We're a bit busy,” the woman huffed.

“Mr Crowley?” said Anathema.

Anathema caught sight of a thin tongue flicking out of Crowley’s mouth, very quickly.  Then, he pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his breast pocket and slipped them on. “Go wait for me inside,” he murmured.

The woman reached down to collect a discarded handbag off the floor, then scurried to the back entrance of the club, where she disappeared.

Crowley turned, hands in his pockets.  “What?” he said gruffly.  “I'm kind of in the middle of something.”

“Ah…” said Anathema.  She was sure that if she could just convince Crowley to walk the thirty feet out of the alley and lay eyes on Aziraphale, something would happen.  “Would you mind coming with me for a bit?”

“What’s this about?”

Anathema bit her lip.  “I’m a witch.”

Crowley sneered at her, turning back towards the club.  “Piss off.”

“Beelzebub sent me!” Anathema blurted out.

Crowley froze.

“Don’t worry about finishing up your job here.  I need you to come with me.”

Crowley turned back to her, whipping his sunglasses off.  Even though Anathema knew full well Crowley did not have human eyes, she still wasn’t quite prepared for it.  Newt, who hadn’t had any preparation whatsoever, took a shocked step back.

Crowley’s slit pupils were blown wide in panic.  “I followed my instructions.”

“I’m sure you did,” said Anathema.  “I just need you to come out here.”

“I—I—I wasn’t doing this for enjoyment,” said Crowley.  “Duke Hastur told me to come here and spread sexual immorality.  I swear it.  He’s my direct superior.  I was following his orders to the letter.”

“You’re not in trouble.”

“I-I know there was a no sex rule, but the qualifier was I should do it if a superior gave me a mission,” said Crowley, voice ratcheting up faster and faster with anxiety.

“You’re not in trouble,” Anathema repeated, holding her hands out in what she hoped was a placating way.  “I promise.”  She leaned in towards Newt and rapidly whispered, “Go get Aziraphale.”

Newt turned around and jogged out of the alley.

Crowley trembled as though Anathema had threatened to shoot him.  “I’m sorry I was rude to you.  I really am.  Hastur told me to do this.  You can ask him.”

“We just need to talk to you about something,” said Anathema.  “Scout’s honour.  Just talk.”

Crowley took a step back.  “L-last time he said that…”

“Please don’t run away,” said Anathema.  “Please just wait.”

Newt appeared at the mouth of the alley.  Aziraphale was behind him, but the angel was moving more slowly.

“What did Beelzebub offer you as a reward for doing this?” said Crowley.

“Nothing—”

“Whatever it is, I’ll give you more.”

Newt arrived, pushing Aziraphale.  The angel’s face collapsed into an expression of sorrow the second he laid eyes on Crowley.

Crowley took another step back.  “S-so this is it, then?” he snapped.  “Beelzebub’s had enough of me following directions and wants to see me suffer even more?”

“No, no, no,” said Anathema.  “Now that you’re both here, I—”

Anathema heard a shing from behind her and turned to see that Aziraphale had drawn a huge sword from out of nowhere, leveling it at Crowley.  Crowley, meanwhile, had produced a pair of very long, wicked-looking knives, and had them out and crossed in front of him.

“No,” said Anathema.  “No, put those down.”

Before she could move to get in between them, Crowley lunged at Aziraphale with a yell.  Aziraphale blocked his attack with his sword, then pushed him back and went on the offensive. Crowley twisted to avoid it.

“Newt, make them stop!” said Anathema.

“What do you want me to do?” said Newt.

Crowley tried to sink a knife into Aziraphale’s shoulder, but the angel blocked, and the knife skidded off the blade and clattered onto the cement.  The sword came down and carved a gash in Crowley’s arm, from elbow to wrist, eliciting a cry of pain.

“Stop!” Anathema yelled, racing forward and grabbing Aziraphale from behind. Newt, taking his cue, tried to grab Crowley’s arms.

Crowley elbowed him out of the way and pressed forwards, bringing the knife down at Aziraphale.  Aziraphale held the sword out to block, and the knife came down, grinding against it. Crowley pushed to try and break the block, and Aziraphale stepped back, squishing Anathema against the alley wall.

Newt got both of his hands on the arm holding Crowley’s knife, trying to pull it away from Aziraphale.

The two blades still ground against each other.  Aziraphale and Crowley finally locked eyes from over their blades.  And they both burst into tears, arms trembling on the weapons.

Crowley leaned into Aziraphale, sandwiching the flats of the two blades harmlessly between them, sobbing.  Aziraphale sunk to his knees, and Crowley went down after him, head on his shoulder.

“I can’t do it,” Aziraphale wept.  

“Me neither,” said Crowley.  “Tell Beelzebub whatever you like.  But I can’t do it.”

“I can’t kill him,” Aziraphale moaned.  “I just can’t.  Do whatever you want to me.”

“Even if it means more torture,” said Crowley, “if it came to it—”

“Wait!” said Anathema, frantically waving to cut off their lamenting.  “I didn’t—I never told you to fight each other. I’m not actually here because Metatron or Beelzebub sent me.”

They both looked up at her with wet eyes.

“That was just a little—um—that was just to get you both here.  We’re here to help you.”

Aziraphale stared at her foggily.  “And who are you again?”

Anathema puffed out her chest.  “My name is Anathema Device.  I’m an occultist, professional descendant, and your new friend, and I’m going to do whatever it takes you help you sorry pair.  Now follow me.  We’ve got to get back on the tube before it stops running for the night.”

[anavantgardener]

Frost and Mischief Ch. 6

Summary: And yet another chapter of Frost and Mischief! Things are starting to happen! Action is kicking in and new players are entering the arena. Loki and Elska are still working on figuring out their feelings toward one another, but the potential danger Asgard may be in is keeping them a bit side tracked.

Pairing: OC x Loki Laufeyson

Warnings: manipulation, mentions of violence, death of loved ones (I promise there’s happy things in the chapter, too)

Word Count: 3,687

-----

Gone Rogue

-Somewhere in Vanaheim-

Settled in a dark wood, scattered with rune stones and archaic symbols, the woman sat in the center of a ring of vines. Golden leaves trickled their way down into her enclosure. She had an enchanting way about her. Her many years of magic had left her skin tattooed with runes most had forgotten. In her lap sat the skull of a bull, gold gilding now etching off after centuries of use.

Her hands raised, her shawl fell, exposing the crimson burns she had thrice earned all those lifetimes ago. The wind billowed around her, and within moments, her scenery changed.

"Hello, my dear boy," Her voice a sickly sweet sound, she now stood in the dungeons of the Asgardian palace. "Do not look so dreary." As she spoke, the man in the corner whipped his head, feeling both shocked and relieved by the sight before him.

"My lady," he knelt into a deep bow. Since the man's sentencing, his silken clothing had been exchanged for a much itchier Asgardian cloth. It was not the least bit pleasing. "You are a sight for sore eyes."

"And you are someone who has passed information to the enemy," she rested her beech wood staff on her shoulder, placing a mocking frown on her lips. "Tut tut, my boy. I thought we had taught you better than that."

Eyes widening, Dusan began shaking as he realized his transgressions were not as secret as he had hoped. He began stuttering, trying to explain his reasoning, convince the powerful seeress before him that he had not disclosed as much as she believed.

"Quiet," with a wave of her hand, the man could not speak even if he wanted to. "There is hope for you yet, Dusan. We have a plan for you, Odr and I. It may require a bit of shape-shifting, but I can help you with that." The corner of her lip curled up.

With a snap of her fingers, she was no longer confined in the walls of Dusan's cell. Shooting to his feet, he rushed to the magic barricade that locked him in the small space. To the right of his cell was this conniving seeress, her hands circling the face of a guard, golden magic seeping from her finger tips into his nostrils before the poor man crashed to the floor.

Another snap of her fingers and she reappeared in the cell, this time accompanied by a very unconscious guard.

"Let's get to work, shall we?" A ghastly little wink from the seeress and Dusan, too, fell to the floor.

*****

-Elska's P.O.V.-

Today was Saturday, and that gave Elska time to bask in her lady in waiting duties. On the weekends, she was not required to complete any combat training, and the young lady found that to be quite the luxury.

Three days had passed since the attack and Elska's wounds were healing quite nicely. The young woman could now walk without limping, which she found very nice since Fandral and Thor would finally quit asking her if she wanted to be carried down the stairs. She very much appreciated the gestures, but did not think the Asgardian Court would feel quite the same.

One morning, Thor had come into Queen Frigga's study to ask if Elska might join him for breakfast just this once. Interest piqued, the queen suggested they join him instead. Flustered by her offer, Thor gave a boisterous, uncomfortable laugh before stifling it suddenly and sitting awkwardly beside the pair. Queen Frigga and Elska shared same expectant look as they continued sipping their tea and taking small bites of their morning cheese and biscuits.

"Yes, well," he started, clearing his throat. "Elska, you must know that I have considered you one of my dear friends since before this lady in waiting business, yes?" He looked worried, like their friendship was a secret he forgot to tell her about.

"Of course, Thor," her brow furrowed as she grew concerned, wondering what could be on his mind. "Thor, is everything alright?"

"Yes, no, I mean yes everything is alright," he stumbled over his words. "Elska, I have never shared the same opinion of you as my father." The queen watched her son curiously. "I always saw you as my friend, the Valkyrie, the spirit who was destined to protect my home. I was always so proud to be your friend. I still am."

He paused, gathering his thoughts before continuing.

"I know that I may come off daft, my brother has made such conclusions apparent to me, but I was never oblivious to your situation," he closed his eyes at this point. "For that, I am truly sorry. It means that there has been no excuse for my standing by while my father and my people have dragged your good name through the dirt simply for your parentage."

"Thor, I can assure you-" The young man held up a hand, cutting Elska off.

"I know," He smiled, shrugging and opening his eyes. "I know you will forgive me because you are an extraordinary person and you have forgiven me every other time I have wronged you in our friendship. For this, though, for this I must earn my own forgiveness. For too long have I feared my reputation with my father and my people. I am not afraid anymore. No one, I repeat, no one, will ever treat you the way those weaponsmen did, the way my father has. Not while I have anything to say about it."

"May I hug you, my prince?" Elska beamed at Thor, her heart swelling with gratitude.

"Only if you do not call me that again," he laughed, rising from his seat to embrace her.

As Elska sat back down, the queen continued watching her son.

"You are becoming quite the kingly young man," she held her hand out for him to take. "I consider myself lucky to have seen this moment of your growth." Thor kissed his mother's hand.

"Thank you for allowing me a moment of intrusion upon your morning," he began walking to the door.

"Thor?" He turned around as his Queen Frigga called him.

"Yes, mother?" he asked.

"Would you like to formally join us for breakfast this morning?" she asked her son, although truly not giving him the option of saying no. She was already waving the servant in the room to bring in more food and tea.

"Yes, of course," he laughed, sitting back down.

"And this is not purely so I can use your skills after as a sparring dummy for Elska's combat magic training," she wrinkled her nose, shrugging her shoulders innocently.

Elska remembered that day fondly. Palace life was interesting, offering both ups and downs, but she was happy to be there. Her new friends were quickly becoming people she did not want to lose.

She had also been spending more time with Loki over the past few days, meeting often in the evenings to spend time in the library, learning together. While their sessions often began with study and instruction, they tended to end in discussions of life and joking around with one another. He was at last beginning to open up to her, telling her a bit about his former wife, Sigyn, and his brief century outside the palace.

When Loki spoke of Sigyn, Elska noticed he didn't seem entirely sure how to feel about the woman. He still would not tell her what happened between the two of them, but she had asked Sif and Fandral one day after training. With forlorn faces, they told her.

Sigyn and Loki married after mere weeks of courting. Soon, they'd had a son together whom they named Nari. They adored him, and Loki found a certain peace in being near his son. The boy became his world, his reason for living. Elska remembered the little one from Loki's single visit to the palace during his marriage. He had Loki's eyes, but his hair was lighter, a golden color. Even at a young age, he was gifted in magic; he'd turned Elska's broom into a frog.

After one of Loki's mischievous reigns, the giantess Skadi saw to it that a wolf murdered the couple's son, tearing the Nari apart. In the midst of Loki's weeping, the woman used his own son's entrails to chain him to three boulders. She placed a snake over his head, venom dripping slowly but constantly onto the young man's face. He writhed in agony, and his screams shook the Nine Realms.

Elska remembered those moments, when the ground would quake and shrieks would pierce the sky.

Sigyn, beside herself with grief, found her husband shackled by the remains of their own child, their Nari. Using a bowl to catch the venom before it fell to Loki's forehead, she dutifully stayed by the man she loved. When the bowl filled, she would carry it to a nearby tree, pouring it over the roots.

And then, one day, when emptying out the bowl, she never came back. Loki cried out for her, and still she did not come. Thor heard his brother's screams and found him, miserable and in horrid form. According to Sif, Thor was barely able to speak in the days after finding Loki. His brother's condition stunned him speechless, and he swore vengeance on both Skadi and the woman who broke Loki's heart.

Fandral told Elska they never did learn what became of Sigyn, but that Odin granted Loki an annulment of the marriage. Four hundred years had passed, and Loki still found himself unable to trust his heart with anyone else. The Warriors Three believed that the whole incident drove Loki deeper into himself and his wicked ways.

Hearing the story, Elska felt herself ache for  the man who was quickly becoming her best friend. She could not even fathom the amount of pain he must have gone through in those days. She knew, however, that she could not let Loki find out what she had been told. It was something that he would come to trust her with in time, and if he did not wish to tell her ever, that was okay. It was his trauma, his own story to process.

Learning of Loki's past also convinced Elska that perhaps she would not pursue him as anything more than a friend. Despite her growing attraction towards the young prince, she did not want to risk their friendship for a relationship that he may not be ready for.

At the end of the day, life would go on, and things would progress as the Norns saw fit.

*****

Presently, Elska and Queen Frigga were walking through the palace gardens before the evening feast, aiding servants as they began their decoration planning for the Festival of the Golden Apples of Idunn. The queen often asked Elska for her opinion, which she eagerly gave. Perhaps she could bring a touch of the lower district's preparation process into the palace and Asgard's upper district.

"Perhaps an archway of marigolds could be crafted to mark the entrance to the palace?" Elska suggested.

"Oh yes, I do think that would look quite lovely," the queen smiled at her lady in waiting.

The two continued chattering, the guard King Odin customarily ordered to accompany them keeping closer to them than usual. As they walked, Elska noticed the paranoia he hid very poorly. His eyes were glued to Queen Frigga, and Elska could have sworn he rolled his eyes at one of the woman's earlier statements.

Well now, that is strange, she thought to herself.

"My dear sir," she turned to him, hoping to get a good look at him, his face, his features, anything that would help her visualize his doorway. "Have you any suggestions for decor?"

"Well, I would-" Clearly startled by Elska's question, he stumbled through his sentence. "I would, I believe, most likely hang golden streamers." He ended his suggestion in an uncertain tone, but shook his head as if proud of his spontaneous idea. His eyes were golden, his skin clearly accustomed to the sunlight. He looked uncomfortable in his armor, and he more waddled than walked in the bulky get-up. As he spoke, Elska built his doorway - a disarray of worn wooden planks, the handles rusted.

"Golden streamers," the queen held a finger to her chin, looking around the area. "You know, I think that could work." She gestured for one of the garden staff to write down the suggestion.

Elska thought about excusing herself as to sneak off to a perch where she could watch the man unseen, and peek into his mind. This notion was quickly waved away, though, as she worried the suspicious man might attempt some treasonous act against Queen Frigga.

Instead, she suggested they rest on a nearby bench.

The queen continued discussing preparations for the festival with the staff, giving Elska the opportunity to turn her focus to the guard. She was still unpracticed in telepathy, and she prayed it did not take her too long to read the strange guard. Amazingly, the man failed to notice her eyes boring holes into him as she opened the doorway to his mind, the hinges creaking.

"How am I supposed to make contact with this mutt if she is constantly side-by-side with the queen?" Elska heard the man ask himself. His name calling threw her off, and she found herself in front of closed doors once again.

Mutt? Elska frowned. I suppose that means me. She tried to shrug the insult off, reminding herself it wasn't the worst thing she'd been called. Wondering why in the Nine Realms he would find it necessary to speak to her alone, she opened the doors to his mind once more.

Unfortunately, he had already moved on from his current thought topic, now simply frustrated with the boredom he was enduring as the festival plans were made.

This discovery left Elska troubled, and she pondered why he could possibly wish to speak to her. Perhaps the All-father had instructed him to give her some sort of warning, inform her that her new status did not keep her from his scrutiny. She did not know whether to avoid the conversation or wish it to be over with already.

Apparently she had been encompassed by her thoughts for quite sometime; it took Queen Frigga several nudges to retrieve Elska from her own mind.

"My apologies, my queen," she curtsied.

"You are forgiven," the queen looked at her apprentice peculiarly. "Are you troubled, my dear?"

"Not troubled so much as contemplative," Elska attempted to play off the situation as a moment of self-reflection.

"I understand, you and I are alike in this way," Queen Frigga rose from the bench, picking a flower from the bush beside her and placing it in Elska's hair. "Why don't we make our way back inside for the evening feast?"

"At your pleasure," Elska replied, motioning for the queen to lead the way. "How is the All-father faring?" She asked, hoping to hear more about the thief she'd seen sentenced.

"He is much more stressed now that the festival is much closer," she started. "With the thievery in the merchant district, he is planning to increase security. That being said, he is unsure of where to pull guards from and where to add them in."

"That is quite the predicament," Elska said, keeping her eye on the guard now walking in front of them. He seemed significantly more interested than before. "Have you managed to learn any more about the incidents in the merchant district?"

"Unfortunately, no. It would seem our prisoner has rethought his plans of cooperation," the queen frowned. "He is refusing to speak at all, now."

Elska perceived the smirk that now made its way to the guard's lips.

Odd, she thought.

They continued their walk, moving their chatter to much lighter topics. Queen Frigga told Elska of an upcoming ball where she planned for the young woman to make her first formal appearance as lady in waiting to the Asgardian Court. Elska had one week to prepare, but the queen promised she would do everything in her power to help.

As they reached the main hall, the queen bid Elska farewell. As she left, Elska turned her attention to the guard who had accompanied them. Strangely, the man had disappeared.

*****

Elska had sat silently munching her dinner for the entirety of the evening feast, pondering the guard, his thoughts, and his seemingly unfitting looks and glances. She was oblivious to the world around her, and as her friends stood to leave the hall, they realized she was still absorbed within her thoughts, sitting and staring into space.

"Elska?" Thor called, and still she sat.

As they exchanged concerned glances, Volstagg returned to their table, nudging the girl back into reality.

"Oh, are we leaving?" Elska stood, completely unaware of their stares.

"You seem to be much more entertained by your own mind than our company," Fandral remarked, annoyed.

"Perhaps I have reason to ponder, have you considered that?" Elska replied, a stony look on her face.

"Care to share with the group?" he shot back.

"Not here," she said. Elska had planned on telling them, but she wanted her own time to process the events. She also believed that the news of a rogue guard might not go over very well if the whole of the Asgardian Court found out.

Her statement confused her friends, and they were now more concerned with the details of what she was thinking about than the lack of attention she'd been giving them. They began making their way to Thor's chambers to talk in private.

Elska had quickly learned that Thor's chambers seemed to be the group's personal den. It would certainly explain all the plates and cups she had cleaned from his room while she was still a servant in the palace. She certainly did not mind their seclusion to the eldest prince's room; it was a cozy, pleasant place. A hearth on the far wall was constantly lit, and in front of it stood a round wooden table where his company could sit comfortably and talk. When the deep blue curtains were open, the sun streamed in and there was no need for candle light. When the sun went down and the candles were lit, they created a wondrous vanilla scent, mixed with a bit of rain.

Taking her usual seat on the lounger next to the hearth, Elska looked over to her friends now seating themselves around the table. As Loki filed in last, he took a seat beside Elska. Today, he sat seemingly closer to her, and their legs nearly touched. Reminding herself of the decision she'd made earlier, she returned her thoughts to the task at hand - relaying the news of the strange guard to her friends.

"I think we may have a rogue guard in Asgard," Elska got straight to the point. "I have little evidence, but the actions of the guard in question were too peculiar not to mention."

She recounted the story, from the odd sentiment she'd heard in the guard's mind to his actions following. The first portion of her story was rather interesting to tell; Fandral asked her if she'd ever read his mind. Telling him she didn't like to pry, he said that was "just too bad" as he "often pictures himself naked." Sif scoffed, Hogun shook his head, Thor and Volstagg burst into laughter, Loki stared daggers into the man, and Elska looked at her hands while the scarlet embarrassment made itself at home on her face.

After that, she made sure they no longer deviated off topic.

"I would have simply assumed the All-father had a scolding in store for me if not for the strange actions that followed," Elska finished. "I would have at least attempted to get the conversation over with had he not completely disappeared after walking the queen and I back to the palace."

"He smirked?" Fandral asked. "I didn't know palace guards knew how to smile."

"Just because most of them do not find you funny does not mean they do not smile, my friend," Volstagg patted his friend reassuringly, a mocking smile on his lips.

"Does the same guard accompany your walks each time?" Loki spoke for the first time since they had entered the room.

"No, it differs depending on who is available when we take them," Elska appreciated that it seemed her worries were at last being taken seriously.

"But you could pick him out in the event you saw him," Hogun continued the questioning.

"Yes, absolutely," After her response, Loki rested his elbows on his knees, folded his hinds together and used them as a head rest. Closing his eyes, he looked like a child in prayer to anyone who had not observed his thinking process.

"Perhaps we could go find him, scour the palace for him?" Thor suggested, earning a nod of agreement from the Warriors Three.

"Who is to say that he hasn't already retired to his quarters?" Elska posed. "What would we do, knock on every door until we find this one man?"

"She is right," Loki sat back up. "It would be futile to even try searching the palace. There's too many guards and we do not have a clue as to their schedules. We do not even have a name."

"So what do you suggest, we just sit around and wait for this rogue guard to do who knows what?" Sif, like the others, wanted to put this threat to bed.

"I suggest we wait until we know more," Loki held his hands up, attempting to calm any rising tempers. "We can not play any cards until we know what sort of hand we have been dealt."

"I agree with Loki,"Elska looked each of her friends in the eye. "Besides, it seems he wants to find me. Perhaps he will come to us."

Each giving their own huff of surrender, the topic was put to rest for the time being.

[unusuallyzealousburgette]

The Struggles Of Muggles Band (Drarry)

Originally, Harry enters the band room to search for Hermione, but instead he finds a stuck-up, blond Violin player crying in a practice room. Being the insistent, hero-complexed person that he is, Harry just can't leave until he puts a smile on Draco's face.

Link to AO3 here

It’s usually on Wednesdays that Harry and Hermione meet for lunch; ‘meeting for lunch’ of course meaning Harry barges into the west band room to find the girl and drag her off to the campus dining hall which, by their late arrival of one o’clock pm, unfailingly becomes far too over-packed to enter and sit. This was the reason that the girl- constantly overworked with appetite stretched far too thin- proposed a precise meeting at twelve-thirty on the dot, which she never once met, the result of this being an inevitably dry lunch at the local sub shop and rushing back just in time for their afternoon classes. Harry, oft being quite caught up in his own world and prone to such reckless behavior anyway- and at no measure capable of reeling in anal-retentive yet single-minded Hermione- never sought to amend their broken plans, and so, this Wednesday, their cycle continues. His hand formed into a tight-knuckled fist, Harry wonders why he ever bothers to knock; it never makes any difference as no one can ever hear him. This point is proven as, unclenching his fingers and pulling the door open sharply, he is nearly knocked off his feet by the disorderly racket of independent players whining and banging and moaning and clanging. A short girl, even shorter than him, bursts from the room like a wave of sound in a flurry of sheet music and red hair.

“Oomph, sorry!” the girl ejaculates as her cello case cleanly whacks Harry by the shin. The boy bites down on his lip, wincing. She seems awfully nice, or at the very least sensitive, and he wouldn't want to upset her by being rude about the incident. He kneels over to hide the pained grimace on his lips and begins gathering some of her spilled papers. “It's no problem. Not at all,” Harry says as he pulls himself up, the wide-eyed red-head propping a hand underneath his elbow, “I'm sure you're very busy and just- er- didn't see me.” The girl nods hurriedly, taking the sheets. “Well, thank you for getting my papers anyway.” She looks anxious to make her escape. “I’d- uh- best be off now...” Harry hurries to catch the girl before she runs off completely. “Wait! I'm looking for Hermione. Hermione Granger? Have you seen her?” The girl’s brows furrow for a moment before her eyes alight with understanding and Harry can practically hear the bell ringing in her head. She claps her full hands together with excitement and directs him inside of the room: “One of those practice rooms, she’s just always practicing that Hermione. You know she really is such an inspiration. Just an inspiration to us all. One of the best players we've got…” Harry cries out a ‘Thank you!’ to the girl’s retreating figure, shaking his head when she doesn't turn back, too caught up in raptures of her own creation. Harry enters the room and methodically makes his way to the back class, stepping over empty cases and trying not to slip on loose papers. The practice rooms line the back wall, their interiors extending outwards, only slightly bigger that a broom cupboard. The windows aren't blacked out, but the Harry can't see much inside and the rooms themselves sound-proofed.

He opens the first door with caution. The musical notes dull into a soft series of reverberations as the room swallows up the noise like a black hole; the inside is as dark as one too and bathed in silence. Harry hesitantly opens the door wider and, seeing as this wouldn't be the first time he's caught Hermione catching some much needed but ill-timed sleep, calls out into the space and steps in further, letting the door fall closed behind him. “Mione? Mione, wake up.” He whisper-shouts. Someone moves in the darkness, their voice hoarse and contemptuous. “I'm not ‘mione’, now get out you great buffoon!” “What the-” Harry scrambles to pull his phone from his back pocket, nearly shattering it on the hardwood floor, and shines the light on the huddled figure in the corner of the room. The person is pale, almost sickly so, and a mess of blond hair shrouds their face. Their eyes are a deep, dark grey, the kind that threaten to swallow you up. Harry doesn't think he's ever seen someone with such odd, contrasting effects about them, except for, maybe- “Oh hey, I know you... you're from my Advanced Statistics class!” Harry exclaims, “You were the one who corrected the professor so many times that they cried at their desk! Mate, that was hilarious I-” “Dear gods, will you leave? Do I really need to remind you that you’re not welcome?” the boy hisses.

A little surprised by the boy’s rude interjection but nonetheless deterred Harry huffs, rolling his eyes and letting a hand fall to his hip as he says, “I'm only trying to make polite conversation,” Then upon taking the blond’s position into consideration, “Is something wrong?” The faint, yellowish light makes the boy’s scowl look ghastly, but exaggerates the redness of his nose and eyes once his hair is pulled back from his face. “That's an awful stupid thing to ask,” he then says, “seeing as you, one, just walked in on me sitting alone in a dark closet, two, don't know me and probably wouldn't actually care to know what is wrong is something was, and three, are still in my space despite me explicitly asking you to, please, get the fuck out!” Walking closer and dousing the light from his phone, Harry drops onto the floor next to the livid boy and leans his back onto the wall languidly. If Harry didn't know, in fact, that this histrionic kid was obviously crying for help, he too would have thought his actions clinically insane. Nonetheless, he remains stupidly stubborn in his convictions. “Your face looked a little red. Were you crying?” The blond’s anger gives way to desperation and he drops his head back crying, “Just leave me alone!” When it becomes clear that Harry has no intentions of the sort and awkward slince draws out between the two. Harry racks his brain for something to say. “You're- erm- really good at math, you know. How'd you get to be so good? I myself have always been rather terrible. Don't know how I managed to get into Advanced Stat. Quite a stunt that was-”

“-Seriously, what do I have to do to make you go away?” The blond interrupts, gesticulating wildly, “A hundred- no, a million- no a billion pounds! A billion-fucking-pounds if you would just-” “-My name is Harry, by the way. Harry Potter. You can call me Harry, or Potter. Whatever floats your viola-” “-please, please, please, please leave me be! I'll have the money hand-delivered by the bloody prince of Norway- shirtless! And, fuck it, pantless! Seriously! Whatever the bloody fuck you're into-” “-Is that a Viola, by the way? My best friend���s a musical major, or whatever, but I've never really known. Could be a cello maybe…” The boy suddenly rises up onto his knees, hands knuckles deep bed of curly, blond strands, “-Gods! It's a mother-loving, honest-to-god, bloody fucking Violin you irritating, insufferable, uncultured swine! How do you not know what a Violin is? Of all the other-worldly indecencies this tops them!” The blond throws his hands into the air. “You- oh you- you miserably insistent git- can just live on freely not even knowing what a bloodied Violin is while I live in constant pain because of the bloody instrument! Un-fucking-believable!” With this the blond bursts into tears, his raspy breaths unintelligible to even Harry and his shudders almost nightmarish.

Yep. Definitely a cry for help.

Harry takes this all in stride, throwing an arm over his shoulder and pulling it tight as he slumps back onto the floor. “You've got quite a flair for the dramatics haven't you? You'd like Edgar Allen Poe, I think. I've only read his one poem about that singer, Usher I believe, but thought it was quite boring. Too many facial descriptions- and by the way he described Usher, now that I think of it, he must have been gay too. “Oh, but he never names the narrator. Quite sad, don't you think? To have this whole dramatic story but not know the name of the main character?” Draco’s body relaxes under the boy’s arm. After a long, dragged-out silence Harry is sure he hears the blond sniff loudly, a sound suspiciously similar to capitulation coming from his mouth. “Harry Potter, you are the oddest man I've ever met- but you're wrong. I despise Edgar Allen Poe, though I do agree that he was most definitely gay,” The boy untucks his hand and reaches it out to him, “Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” A smile graces Harry’s face as he shakes the frail hand, long bony fingers clasping his. He nods to the boy, “So, Draco, now that we're properly met, or whatever, can you tell me what it is about this blasted Viola that's keeping you in constant torment?” Draco snorts and leans his head backwards to match Harry’s in position and his eyes fall closed. His thin body sags against the cement, “It's an assignment. A stupid, brilliant assignment. I have to compose and perform a concerto of at least one hundred and sixty measures. Ten students will get their concertos sent to the London Symphony Orchestra where one might get chosen to have our piece performed at a live concert. “It's my dream, of course, but violins are one in a million which just means I have to try even harder to achieve it. Don't get me wrong, I know I can do it, I know it's in me, I just can't find it; that inspiration; that ball of fire and heat and genius. Where the bloody fuck did it go?” Harry leans closer to the boy, contemplating a moment and then deciding, “Find it.”

Draco snaps out of a peaceful trance, his head turning to face Harry’s, “What?” “I said, ‘Find it’,” Harry stands resolutely, grasping Draco’s hands in his, “Find your inspiration. If there's one thing I learned through my first year of college, mind you spent in dark room constructing my ‘blue period’, is that blue periods really fucking suck. Like, seriously, one guy makes money off of his depression and now we all have to go paint in blue and study this guy's fucking art when I’m clearly an Art Major, not a psychologist, and I'm certainly not a therapist-” As he starts to trail off Draco stares up at the curly-haired boy with one raised eyebrow and delicately curved lips. “-but, my point is that you're not going to find your genius in this cupboard. You have to go out, find it. All great works of art come from experience, not depression. Well, that and that the colour blue really sucks. It's so ambiguous and boring and plain, and-” Harry makes a sort of disgusted expression, gagging histrionically. Draco snorts, “I wouldn't put the therapist thing against you. Really.” the blond stands, placing a warm hand on Harry’s upper arm and grinning at him with softness and gratitude as the fluorescent light from the band room falls upon his face. “I would. I reckon my patented ���charm-them-till-they-forget-all-their-worries method’ is quite unethical at the most, unorthodox at the very least,” Harry says, still grinning slyly. Draco release his arm and takes a step back, crossing his arms in an unbelieving fashion. “Charming? Is that what you call invading my space and refusing to leave me alone? Bit of metrosexual view on things, don't you think?” Harry shrugs, “Hey, you said it, not me.”

Draco blushes a pretty red, “Well I- I mean that's- well that's not exactly what I said- what meant I mean…” The blond bites his lip apprehensively. “Oh just get out.” “I guess I better just leave you to your music anyway.” Harry, finding himself unable to take his eyes from Draco bottom lip. He nearly falls over as he pushes the door open and his cheeks bloom bright red in embarrassment. Draco watches with thinly veiled endearment as he makes his way out in an uncouth manner, the blond’s arms crossed over his chest. “Oi, Harry!” he hears from behind, turning on his heel to heed the sound, “I'll see you in Stat, right? You can- erm- ask me if you need any help.” “Oh. Oh! Yeah, totally.” Harry runs a hand through his hair, feeling oddly off-balance, “Er, maybe next you'll be teaching the class!” Draco nods, smirking, “Maybe.” “Maybe.”

A wide grin on his face, Harry takes a step forward with his eyes steadily trained on his shoes. The door to the practice room closes behind him and he finds himself glued to the spot as the world spins around him. A finger taps on Harry’s shoulder and, on his looking up, he finds a bushy-haired girl standing over him, one foot tapping impatiently on the hardwood floor. “Really, Harry?” Hermione reprimands, “I was waiting for you so long that by the time I got up to find you the hall was already filled! Whatever happened to twelve-thirty sharp? I set that time for a reason!” Harry shakes his head roughly, “Oh, I'm sorry Hermione, I didn't even realize. I was actually just looking for you.” Sighing as she grabs his arm and pulls him off, Hermione laments, “Well why would you ever go looking for me, Harry? You're the one who's always late.” “I don't think you've got that exactly right, Mione,” Harry responds, relentlessly tugging on his messy locks. The girl rolls her eyes, “Whatever you say, Harry. We have about an hour of time left… what do you want to do?”

Images of curly blond hair, a deep grey eyes continuously playing over in his mind, Harry barely comprehends the girl’s question. “Huh? Oh, er, want to grab a sandwich?”

AO3

[cosmosfated]

Only A Second

For thematic inspiration, muns of both muses suggest to listen to Ouroboros - Infinite Circulation for the first half and Who We Want To Be for the second half.

A world that had fallen into ruin, so far and so fast that it made the drop of a rollercoaster from the top feel like walking down a slow hill. All because of a failure to communicate, a simple mistake that could have been avoided if only people would listen. All of this, the chaos and the bloodshed and the destruction─ everything could have been avoided entirely if only they would have listened! But they never do. Never have and now never will.

She never wanted these abilities. The fire and brimstone that burned in the back of her throat every time she would get angry. The glowing acidic green eyes that made the rest of her eyes turn a slow inky black. The way her nails would curl and bend, painfully at first but then she got used to it, every time she felt the need to defend herself. The sensation of power rising in her that made her head swim, and she would grin and catch the glint of light against the knife edges that replaced her old dull human teeth. She never asked to be like this, she never wanted to be chosen for this outcome within fate’s design.

To them, she always was and now always will be a monster.

She’s much inclined to believe them, at this point. After all, what sort of person would enjoy the slaughtering of their own kin? What sort of person would enjoy the screams of agony and terror brought on by them and them alone? What sort of person could do that? No, there was no human that could do that. Monsters did that.

History is made of and by many things. She would be one of them.

It’s a shift in weight that disturbs the ground behind her that forces her to turn towards the sound, hands raised and catching ablaze with a bright green flame hazed with a black outline. In the ashes and rubble, in the falling dark from dusk, there stood someone who looked so miserably out of place and yet right where they belonged. Face hidden by the shadow of one of the pillars of an ancient cathedral left barely standing, the gloom of another red stained night reaching for them in desperation or perhaps celebration. 

“Who-- who are you? If you take another step, I won’t hesitate to c-cut you down! I will make you regret ever coming close to this place!”

No response, but the person doesn’t move. Not towards her and not away from her. Nothing is said for a while, but she can feel eyes on her and it’s this person staring at her. Who else could it be, after all? It’s unnerving her. How can someone look her in the eyes, look at her like this and not be terrified enough to take a swing?

And then, “behind you.”

Reflexively, she turns and closes her eyes as a green shield contraption appears before her as she raises her arms. Something clangs loudly against it and the green flames incinerate the person who was trying to attack. The girl sighs and steps away from the charred corpse of someone who was only trying to cleanse a monster of the world... hey wait a second why is that person not attacking yet?

She whips around and takes a few steps forward brazenly, trying to see if she could get them to move or take a swing now that she’s closer. Nothing. A few more steps. Nothing.

Then the person opens their eyes as they take a step forward into the moonlight. A vivid and clear purple, with marks of green and sky blue within. This person─ he?─ steps into the open air with one hand on a the shaft of a cane and the other in the pocket of what are clearly jeans. He looks no older than her cousin did when she last saw them. His brows raise a touch at the prolonged staring and apparently the look she didn’t know she was wearing. “why are you looking at me like i’ve insulted everything you hold dear?”

Huh? “You’re... not going to attack me?”

He double takes at the question. “no? gods, why would i do that?”

She shifts somewhat nervously, the flames that were curling protectively around her hands and shoes dying down with a hiss against the ground. Her claws however tap nervously against each other as she looks down at the ground with remorse and nostalgia for a time better than now. “Everyone attacks me. Why would you be any different?”

“well, i’m not everyone, so take that into account.” His rumble of laughter causes her to look up again, shocked and confused from this ... relatively normal exchange. “i’m not going to attack you because you’ve done nothing against me. to attack a scared person because they’re scared defeats the whole purpose of trying to see what’s wrong wouldn’t you say?”

“B-But you’re standing in front of a monster! One who killed all these people! Surely you want to take down the monster...?” She doesn’t know what’s wrong with this guy. He’s acting so calm for someone standing before a murderer.

His brows furrow, lips pursing for a moment. His eyes look around in confusion, actually leaning forward to presumably check areas that are otherwise out of his line of sight, then leaning back to do the same. Looking back at her, he tilts his head curiously. “i don’t see a monster around. perhaps you scared it away before it could do any more harm?”

“Me!” She shouts, voice cracking. “I’m the monster! I killed everyone here! This is all me! Why aren’t you trying to attack me?!”

“ah,” the sound is monotonous. His hand in his pocket moves to allow his pink painted nails to scratch at the side of his jaw-- which she can now see is slightly covered with stubble. Something he seems to notice from the brief look of disdain on his face before he addresses her again. “i see a kid who now more than ever could use someone to listen to her, someone to protect her so she can finally rest a little bit. i see a kid who was forced into something she wanted nothing to do with, something she didn’t even want to acknowledge existed. i see a scared kid who didn’t want to do all the things she did but was only reacting to the world’s reaction to her, a kid reacting to the terror in everyone’s eyes with terror of herself in kind. someone who looks absolutely famished if i’m being honest. you look absolutely ghastly, kiddo. when’s the last time ya ate? christ on a bike, let’s get some food in you before you collapse from usin’ too much of that ability you got there. feel free to talk at me, rest assured i’m willing to listen.”

As he’s saying this, he’s starting to walk up to and then past her.

“Ah--! Sir, uh--” She pauses for a moment, as does he, to address her with a curious look. “I’m Anne... do you have a name?”

His smile is the warmest smile she’s ever seen, and it makes her actually believe that he means well. He has a smile that she’s sure would make God’s favorites be jealous of him. It makes her want to stick around this one as long as possible before he attacks her too, even if he says he won’t.

“t’is a pleasure to meet ya, anne. my name’s fleur. what do you say to a good ol’ fashioned burger? know any good spots around?”

Anne had been with him for a while now. Were there uncomfortable and even angry looks from other patrons here, oh yes indeed there were. But this man, Fleur─ he stood up to all of them and said that if anything were to happen, she is his responsibility. She would not be harmed while he takes breath into his lungs, or there would be more than just hell to pay.

She thought he had the sort of voice that makes people not just want to talk to him but also want to listen to him, or so she said. She had that feeling when he first started talking. Maybe everyone else got that feeling too, because they backed off really quick when it came to what he told them and with him standing his ground in the way he had. She saw him as brave, though in the back of his own mind he hardly saw doing what’s right as a banner of his bravery. Not that he’d speak up against that when this kid, Anne, looked so pleased with it. At least she’s smiling.

They’ve been talking for a while. Mostly about her story, how she had gotten there. Tears were shed and secrets were given in shaky hushed tones. Whispering of hobbies that she could no longer do thanks to her claws tearing everything apart, of friends who she could no longer see because she accidentally hurt them, of a potential love who ratted her out to the world and made her tear her hometown apart from the grief and the rage of the situation her crush put her in. Speaking about a sister who gave her the world and tried to offer her a home when everyone else told her she was a monster. Speaking so highly of someone who... this poor child had to watch die because they wouldn’t listen to her. Nobody listened. Nobody even tried, after her sister.

As he had promised, he had listened. Occasionally, he would make small commentaries. Referencing his own family, his own hobbies, showing her hints and tidbits about how to get back up when the world insists that you stay down. Adding another layer to the word ‘perseverance’ and showing her his roots in ways she had no idea about. Hearing him speak so softly and so gently, he could see in her eyes that she didn’t think this would last. And... even if she’s right about it not lasting, that wouldn’t stop him from giving someone hope as it was given to him.

And then she asks that question. “So what’s your story?”

Fleur chuckles. “i’m afraid there’s no enough time in the world for my whole story, but i can tell you about where i am, and where i would like to be. is that alright with you, kiddo?” She nods rather enthusiastically, and he leans back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. Where to start? How to end? Ah, he could always begin with that... 

A look of utter admiration crosses his features and one hand moves to grasp at the necklaces hanging around his neck. A silver sun with a rainbow center, a sky streaked golden feather, and a bottle of four leaf clovers half filled with some of them having petals turned grey. “i live among the impossible made reality. my parents, well too many have adopted me... but each and every one of them are so very important to me. my papa, a powerful magic user─ the history books and fairytales would deem him a monster but to me, he is home. my mother, the one i wished i always had─ she’s not your average missus, and that’s just how i like her. her stories of her days before meeting me and my papa are something i could listen to forever. my mom, a knight and someone who has walked the past with me so i could get through it with someone to pull me back to the present. she reminds me of how to be brave even when i can’t muster anything heroic or selfless. my soulmate─ words cannot do him justice and i could go on for ages about how i adore him so. he has given me the world and i intend to return the favor. my girlfriend─ she has been there through so much, and she continues to remain even when i am weary of everything else. one of these days i intend to propose to her, to make her my wife, and hopefully i will have overcome it all and i can finally, truly, go home to her. my siblings─ four older and the rest younger, they are my light, my everything. i would fight and die for them, while also claiming to not know them in the slightest. my uncle─ the crazy kook could give me the run around all the live long day and still have energy to spare to talk about his fluffy husband, someone else i hope i get the chance to properly know. and then there is my brother, if you can call him that. by all technicalities, i was another mission. another thing to get rid of or at least get to understand. we ended up bonding. he listened, when i didn’t think anybody would listen to me anymore. i couldn’t think of a world without him in it. without any of them in it. they are my life. and i can only hope that they are going to be there when i can finally live my life the way i want to live it. it’s a work in progress, but with them... it doesn’t feel like work. it feels like dancing, like laughing, like smiling. it feels so easy. even when it isn’t.”

He takes a breath and looks at Anne again, smile turning sheepish. “i went off on a tangent there. i apologize.”

“No, that’s cool. You sound like you really love them.” He’s seen that look before, so he waits for her to speak again. Waiting is something he’s gotten much better at, along with being semi more tactful. “...how do you know you can trust them? Like, they haven’t known you your entire life, how do you know they won’t... hurt you?”

“huh.” He uncrosses his ankles, feet now firmly on the floor, and looks up towards the ceiling for a few moments. He wasn’t expecting that. Maybe he should have been. Maybe he made himself not expect something like that.

Whatever the case, he leans forward onto the table and looks at its checkerboard design for a short time. “...i don’t. i don’t know that they won’t hurt me, or they won’t betray me, or they won’t leave me when i really need them to stay. that thought scares me every single day of my life, kid. every breath i take, every move i make, everything that i do or think or say, i’m worried that they’ll leave me. i’m worried that i’ll do something wrong. that this is it, this will be the final nail in the coffin. i don’t ever know if my next sentence will be the last one i ever say to them. i don’t ever know if their next sentence will be the last one they ever say to me. i don’t know.”

“Then how can you say that you want to be around them, when you doubt that so much and so often?” Her voice shakes and trembles, confused and scared and trying to understand but she doesn’t know how. He knows that tone well. It was his, once. “How can you say that they’re your family if you can’t trust that they’re going to be there for you when you really need them, when everything is falling apart and you need someone to just listen, or sometimes just to stay...?”

Fleur continues staring at the table for a while. Not a word uttered, aside from the mindless murmurs from the patrons around them whispering terrible things thinking neither of them were listening. Not a sound made, aside from the rain that was beginning to fall outside. Not a breath taken, aside from the ones given to keep the chest rising and falling despite it aching to rest for a few moments in blissful stillness.

And then, he looks up.

“that’s just it.”

There’s that smile again. That smile that told the world to stop on its rotation and tell everyone to look, look at the creation of the sun and moon and all the stars in the sky, look at the cursed angel who cared not for feathers but for who those feathers would be carried by. That smile that could tell you that it was going to be okay and you would believe it because it gave you the impression that it knew things would indeed get better, from experience or simply knowing you couldn’t know. That smile that you could see being the one to greet you when your time in this life is finally up and you wouldn’t mind if it meant you would get to see that smile every day after. That smile that you could see on the worst day of your life, and it wouldn’t feel so awful. That smile that has seen war, that has worn blood, that has felt agony, that had the choice to be death but chose to be life. There’s that smile that could bring the world to its knees if he hadn’t chosen to use it to bring it back up to a stand.

“that’s the risk you’re taking, anne, when you love someone. to love another person is to give them a part of yourself that is always so fragile and so easily broken but you want to believe that they’ll handle it with care. no matter how many walls you put up, no matter how many wars you wage in its honor, it will still be weak and fluttering and the easiest way to destroy you if you made the wrong move. but that’s the risk you take when you choose to love. love isn’t easy. and that’s what makes it great and terrifying and beautiful and ugly all at once. love is what keeps us alive.”

Not hearing any lie in his voice, Anne slumps back down in her seated, wavering in conviction but not yet seeing what he does. He supposes he can’t blame her. She’s been alone for so long. It must feel like forever, to her. “... How can you know that you’re safe with someone?”

“...kiddo,” he chuckles and shakes his head, eyes closing as he cranes his head upwards. An action that looks like he’s praying, or perhaps waiting for an answer. Still he speaks. “i knew i was safe when i could no longer stand my ground and they did not bury me beneath it. i knew when i felt the ground crack beneath me and they caught me before the earth could swallow me up. i knew when i could fall asleep next to them and wake up with them asking if i slept well even when they know i rarely do. i knew when i smiled and it didn’t feel as if i was playing a part in some gaudy show, when it felt i was truly happy. it was reckless and careless, scary and world shattering. i thought i was going to be sick when i first showed them i trusted them. sometimes, being safe means stepping out of your comfort zone. sometimes, learning to control the fire,” he gestures towards the window as the rain puts out the last hissing embers in the not-too-far-off distance. “means stepping into the flames. it’s not pretty, it’s most certainly not fun. i would be lying to you if i said that it was. but,” and he looks at her properly again. “the best choices we can ever make in our lives are sometimes the hardest. can they also be the worst?” He shrugs. “undoubtedly. but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try and see. sure, that also doesn’t mean that there’s a diamond in every rough.”

Lightly, gently, Fleur takes one of the girl’s hands in both of his own.

“sometimes, the only way to know the truth is to first listen to the lie.”

She can feel the light tremors to his touch, now. Before, his hands never looked like they were shaking. Even when they were at his side, on the table, crossed over his chest. His hands always looked so steady. Now she can’t not see the small twitches and strain to every bend to every one of his fingers. Some look easier for him to bend and move, and others look like they have worse conditions. But he made them all look as if they were in perfect condition. Through the pain, through the aches, through everything and anything that moving them put him through, he still managed to smile in such a way that the sun would look cloudy in comparison.

Anne remains silent for a while, as the white noise of rainfall hushes the anger and makes the sharp claws and razor blade teeth go back to normal. Glowing green eyes go back into a normal and otherwise unnoticeable hazel with flecks of green around the pupils, the whites of her eyes returning to proper color. He smiles at her with what she can only read as pride, though for what she can’t possibly fathom right now.

She takes a breath and stands up, back to him.

“...okay. Fleur, one last question... before I go to try and fix things.”

“yes?”

“What happened when you told those you love the truth, when you tried to make things work? What happened when the world caved in, when everything went to black and you didn’t think that the world would get any better? What did you do?” She wrings her hands nervously. “...What should I do?”

A pause. “you have to be willing to wait forever.”

“I don’t have forever, Fleur. Nobody does.”

She hears a chuckle from him. She can hear his smile in it. “ah, but that’s the thing. sometimes, forever is only a second.”

“What does that mean─”

When she turns, she’s met with a simple sight.

A fully bloomed yellow rose, a bandana adorned with strange symbols.

And a note that says: 00:00:01.

[thebrightsun]

If Love Is A Sin

This is the song fic for @darkness-anon ! I hope you guys enjoy it! This is a perticular long one, I should’ve made this a two part story. 

Song: Angel With A Shotgun.

Pairing: Analogical. 

Warnings: Angst. Falling. Fallen Angel. Implied Bullying. 

“Look at that killing half!" "Why are his wings half metal?" "Shhh, he's gonna corrupt you if he hears you!" "He isn't allowed to sing, that's so sad!"

Anxiety walks with pass the teenager-angels without looking at them. He has listened to this kind of rumors for years. Anxiety is a killing half. He is an angel-demon, a combination of sanctity and evil. Others say his mother threw him up to the heaven before she fell from the sky, but he doesn't care about what his mother did anyways. Walking to the edge of the heaven, he sits down and looks down to the unstopping chasm. This is the only place no angel will dare to come. All of them know the edge is where angels fall, but Anxiety is never scared. He hates this place, this shining heaven, where love is referred as an impure desire.

"Hello angel, looking at up the sky, the only thing I can see is you, perfect as a painting. City street light will shine on you even when the even the sun sinks, and the moon disappears. You are the brightest star comes from the sky." Anxiety lightly hums to the song he randomly heard earlier this day. He isn't allowed to sing. Other angels think he doesn't fit the typical angelic singing, but he knows nobody will come close to he-, well, most of them will never come close to the edge.

"That is a beautiful voice you have." Logic comes from behind and comments casually. He sits down next to Anxiety, wings folding behind his back. "And that's a pair of delicate wings you have."

Anxiety glares at the angel next to him. He is tall but looks gentle. The glasses on his face makes him looks stunning, well, if he is willing to smile more that is. "Don't you know who I am?"

Logic tilts his head a little and looks at Anxiety. "What are you? The killing half? An angel-demon that isn't allowed to sing?" The questions sound harsh, but his tone was quiet and smooth.

Anxiety snorts and looks away. Clearly, this angel isn't as approachable as he may seem. He smirks, "Well, you never lie, do you?"

Logic looks at the chasm and the dark cloud. He replies without thinking, "To explore the mortal world has already cost most of my energy. I don't have the time to tell a lie."

Anxiety looks at Logic. Complicated emotions are flowing in his eyes. He doesn't forget the first line Logic said to him. How can he forget? This is the first time someone compliments him on his singing skill and voice. He narrows his eyes to Logic. "Angels aren't allowed to study human."

"It's fascinating. How mortals interact with each other." Logic pulls up a smile. He has read all of the books in the Angel Library, and he desperately needs something new to learn.

Oh, God. Anxiety stares at Logic. He was right when he said Logic would look even more stunning when he smiles. That slightly upward tilting angle fits him perfectly. Suddenly, he feels something new, and he understands why his mother chose to fall from heaven. The new kind of emotion brushes through his body as he watches Logic in amazement. Without thinking twice, he tackles the intelligent angel and pins him on the ground. "Come to see my every day, and I'll get you mortal books, deal?" He smirks at the now slightly blushing angel.

"Deal." Logic looks at the killing half almost curiously, then nods. He pushes Anxiety away and gets up. Giving Anxiety another gentle smile, he leaves the edge, humming to the song Anxiety was singing.

Anxiety frowns when he hears Logic's singing voice. Logic is tone deaf. A tone-deaf angel will never be respected in the heaven. Also, an angel is never allowed to fall in love. Anxiety looks at the dark cloud in the chasm. No. He is not making Logic to fall. He only wants to see him, and that's all.

For the next two or three months, Logic comes every sunset to get a new book, and as for a giveback, he will bring a sheet music of Anxiety's favorite song.

"If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss." Logic reads out the lines in Romeo and Juliet, then looks at Anxiety. He knows that Anxiety already recited the whole book before he comes.

Anxiety rolls his eyes. What is with all these Shakespeare love? "Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss."

Logic smiles. He closes the book and says, "I guess that's it for today, I'm coming back tomorrow. What song to you want me to br-" He is stopped mid-sentence. The soft texture on his lips makes him froze.

Anxiety can't keep it together anymore. The feelings are too strong. "My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite." He whispers into the kiss as he moves his hand up to Logic's waist, pulling him closer to his body.

"Logic!"

Both of the boys stop what they were doing when they heard someone yelled. Logic quickly pulls away and looks toward the person.

Prince.

The royal angel looks at Logic in disbelief. "Logic, there are hundreds of angels you can be friends with, and you chose this killing half? And what is the book you're reading? Mortal literature?" He rushes to Logic and pulls him away from the edge. "And this place is so dangerous! This angel-demon must corrupt you, or else you won't do stupid things like this."

Logic opens his mouth and looks back. The anxious thoughts suddenly appear in his chest. He mouths, "Wait for me, I will come back!" He is confused and worried. For the first time, after the kiss, he is exposed to something new. Something mortals portrait in every century's literature. Love. He knows that he shouldn't have this feeling, but he doesn't care. He has to get back to him.

Anxiety is panicked. He shouldn't ask Logic to come in the first place. Why will they do to Logic? Most of the angels don't know what kissing means, do they? He looks at the book in his hand. He is all his fault, and he will fix this.

It's been four days, four days since Logic was pulled away from Anxiety. Prince and Morality are extremely worried and lock him in the room, only sending food in. He has tried everything to escape, but nothing works. He feels like a black hole is slowly replacing his heart, swallowing every thought down, leaving him painful and miserable. He longs for Anxiety. He misses his singing, his half metal wings, his mischievous smirk, his everything. Love is driving him crazy. Logic is still trying to escape, until one day Prince takes him out. "Logic, you're free."

Logic's eyes are wide. He looks at Prince in shock and asks, "Aren't you locking me in the room anymore?"

Prince smiles. He pulls Logic and runs to the edge. "You were corrupted by that killing half. That evil creature admitted himself. Archangel decided to let him fall, and you will be cured."

The lines stab into Logic's heart as he flies to the edge. Landing on the cloud, he almost falls because of the fast speed.

"Easy, Lo." Anxiety smirks, but inside he is worried. Why does Logic come? He is not supposed to be here.

Tears are forming when he hears that. He stares at Anxiety fondly but painfully, then moves his eyes to Anxiety's now tied-up wings. "Anx..." He walks toward Anxiety without thinking, only being pulled back by Prince.

"It's okay, Logic. It'll only last a few second; then you will be clean again. The impure desire won't bother you anymore." Morality soothes and lightly pats on Logic's shoulder. Shaking his head, Logic looks away. No one will understand him. He will never be the same. Love has stigmatized him. Pain flickers in his eye as he lowers his head, trying not to show his vulnerability to anyone.

Gradually, more and more angels gather near the edge. Around noon, the archangel comes, and the crowd is finally quiet. "Anxiety, do you have anything you still want to say? You will not remember anything after you fall." Archangel asks.

Anxiety doesn't say anything. He simply stares at Logic lovingly but miserably.

Farewell, my love.

He turns back, and steps to the edge then jumped down without looking back. He isn't afraid of leaving the heaven. He hates this place.

Then he hears the scream.

Logic's face turns to a ghastly pale when he hears what Archangel said. Anxiety won't remember anything. He won't remember his smile, his love of books, his wings, his scent...Nothing.

Logic's body stiffens. What can he do? He can't save Anxiety from this. He watches Anxiety stepping to the edge. He remembers Anxiety told him he's not afraid of falling. Logic brings up a hand to his chest. It hurts so much that he is almost numbed. As if his heart is attached to Anxiety with a string, the longer their distance is, the more unbearable pain Logic's chest stores. Tears won't stop streaming down his face. Love is hurting him, but he still doesn't regret it.

He looks at the angels next to him, and everyone suddenly seems so cold-hearted. He pushes Prince and Morality aside and sprints to the edge. Smiling as bright as possible, he jumps. No one sees that happens.

Winds tear his wings apart, but he feels nothing. Logic flaps his broken wings as fast as possible, trying to reach for the falling boy. One try and another, his wings get hit more and more, but he is closer and closer to Anxiety.

Just a little more...

And he reaches him. Embracing him tightly, Logic bites down on Anxiety's lips. The kiss is painful, harder, and more hurtful. Tears are in both boy's eyes, but nobody cares. Tongues and teeth, they kiss like a fight. Logic grips on Anxiety's hair as Anxiety digs his nails into Logic's shoulder. Lightning hit on both boy's body, leaving ugly scars, but no matter what, the couple is inseparable. Nothing will tear them apart.

If love is a sin, then let me be a sinner.

[enviious]

▲ five time my muse thought about kissing yours, and the one time they did. (SMASHES SEND BUTTON)

send me a symbol for…

▲  five times my muse thought about kissing yours, and the one time they did.

Five times she thought about kissing him:

1. It’s the Requiem Ball, she forgets which one (they are all the same, a drunken blur). All night, she’s tipped glass after glass of liquor down her throat and, unfortunately, it’s begun to take effect. The room glows with a bright, intense light that stings her eyes and everything and everyone is twirling around her. The room rushes before her eyes, she feels herself fall and she’d have hit the floor if only a pair of strong arms didn’t reach out and grab her waist. Her heads throbs with every note the orchestra play and she slumps against the body,  head leaning on the chest, her hand grasping the shoulder. There’s a gentle voice speaking to her but she can’t quite make out the words. So she looks up…and it’s Ghastly, looking down at her and smiling that sweet smile of his. Maybe it’s the alcohol seeping through her system but she notices his kind eyes, the way his scars define his features. She wonders how soft his lips must be…and she’d find out if only she could stand long enough to reach. Yet she’s truly drunk, well beyond sanity so she lets him lower her into a seat and suddenly the very concept of the two of them makes her laugh.

2. They are in his shop one cold, dark night. She’s stopped by late after work to pick up a suit jacket she’s commissioned from him. When he brings it out, he insists she tries it on. They both know it’s a perfect fit (it always is with him) yet she humours him anyway. Always such a gentlemen, Ghastly holds the jacket open for her and she turns, slipping her arms into the silky sleeves. She pulls it over her shoulders and turns to show him. His brow furrows, eyes scouring the jacket and no matter how hard she tries, she can’t convince him that it’s perfect, that she really does love it. He says something about fabric which she doesn’t quite understand, lifts his needle and thread from a table. He moves in closer until all she can see is his well-fitted shirt and broad chest (suddenly she doesn’t mind being tiny). He asks her to keep still and starts sewing the shoulder of the jacket. She makes a joke and a small smile appears on his mouth, although he’s still completely focused on the jacket. Well he’s working, she takes a moment to notice the mere inches between their faces and how easy it would be to just lean over and kiss him. But that’s unprofessional, she’s here on business, not a date. Anyway, she’s much too stern for him, he’d probably never looked at her twice let alone feel anything towards her. He grunts, nodding his head and walks into the back to get her bill. Then she’s left by herself, all alone in his workroom and suddenly there’s a little twinge of regret within her.

3. The meeting has just finished and the newly elected Elder’s look absolutely miserable. The curse of magic she supposes, having wonderful powers but mundane jobs. She’s congratulated Erskine already (although maybe teased would be more appropriate), she’s ignored Madame Mist and now she waits, watching the flow of people shake hands with Ghastly Bespoke, no, Elder Bespoke now. It takes a few minutes but the queue finally thins out and she walks over to him. There’s a smile on her face as she calls him ‘your Highness’ and she laughs as he rolls his eyes, complains about the job. He deserves it really, he does. A quiet yet steadfast pillar of the community, he’ll do a whole lot of good as Elder, and she tells him that. Tells him how he’s a good man, that he’ll make a great Elder and maybe she’ll finally have a boss that she doesn’t loathe. She ignores his protests, there’s no point in arguing with him, he won’t listen. Instead, she hugs him. It’s short and sweet but conveys the message well. She feels his shoulders relax and one of his arms awkwardly find her waist. Her smile widens. Oh, he’s such a gentleman, a rare find nowadays. If she was another person, she’d wish he was hers, instead of pressing a  kiss to his cheek, she’d kiss his lips and wrap her arms around him. But she isn’t, she’s Carribia, she doesn’t feel for anyone. So she steps back, congratulating him once more before walking off and leaving a red stain on his face.

4. It’s been a quiet day left alone in her office with piles of books to comb through (what she’d give to get back in the field). The words are starting to swim from their pages and oh, there’s a knock on the door. Elder Bespoke steps in, closing the door behind him, with a package, tucked under his arm but she doesn’t question it (it’s probably reports and she doesn’t want those). They exchange the usual pleasantries however it takes a moment for her notice his eyes won’t quite meet hers. She ignores it, continues the conversation until he clears his throat and rather awkwardly hands the parcel. A frown appears on her face and she asks what is it. He won’t say, he tells her to open it. Carefully she unwraps the brown paper and looks at the…cake. He’s made her cake, a loaf of banana bread. There’s a bright smile on her face as she thanks him. She thinks she hears him say something about icing sugar but she isn’t paying much attention to his words. She’s too busy watching his face light up as he talks about baking. It had briefly been brought during a conversation earlier that week, that banana bread was one of her favourite’s and here it is, hand made. No man has ever gone to all the effort to make her cake. It’s too sweet, it’s too kind, oh she could kiss him. Really. She could. She wants to. She won’t. Instead, she tells him how kind he is, how one day a woman will be lucky to have him and his baking. 

5. The new Sanctuary provides an excellent distraction from all the misery. The Hall of Remembrance is a different matter, however, it hurts. Yet she always ends up there, walking around the room, pretending to herself that she isn’t there for one name. She always is though, always leaves it till last. Long, red nails reach out and gently taps the engraving. He appears, in his well-fitted suit with those scars across his head and she smiles a melancholy smile. In all her years on this earth, she never thought she’d miss someone like she does him. She misses the way he would hold her, the warmth he gave, she’d give anything to see that sweet smile of his one last time. Almost instinctively her right arm reaches out to brush his face. She needs to touch him, to kiss him and tell him she’s sorry she let him down, that she let him die. The projection flickers underneath her fingertips and he vanishes. She won’t cry. She’s General Carribia Envy, she isn’t weak and crying isn’t something she’ll allow herself to do. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to.

The one time she did:

1. It’s late and everyone else is resting, enjoying the last moments of peace before the chaos erupts. Of course, she’s still awake, bent over a table trying to read a map in the dim lighting. She hears someone enter her tent and instantly she knows who it is. Her eyes stay trained on the map well she tells him he should be resting if he, the Elder, plans to go to Roarhaven. He shakes his head asking where the usual pleasantries have gone. She doesn’t reply. There’s silence throughout the tent and far beyond it. no bird sings, no human laughs, war is coming. Neither of them speaks for a few minutes but she’s well aware as he walks over and stands beside her. Even more so when he gently places a strong hand on her shoulder. He asks if she’s alright. A sigh escapes from her lips and she straightens her back, turning to face him. His hand falls from her shoulder. She looks him right in the eye, tells him it’s a bad idea, a move too risky, that he should send her instead. Of course, he disagrees. They debate for a while, he ever so calmly well her voice raises, getting louder and louder. Then suddenly, she stops, dark eyes just stare at him. His brow furrows, he asks again what’s wrong. She looks at his eyes, his scars, his shoulders, his hands, engraining into her head the way he stands, the way he looks. She says quietly, I don’t want to fight. She takes a step forward, reaching up on her tiptoes so that her hands can hold his face and she kisses him. If he doesn’t respond, it’s alright. She wouldn’t blame, it’s inappropriate Tipstaff would say as he scolded her, he’san Elder, he’s her boss. He deserves a nice woman not a snake like her- but then there’s arm around her waist, pulling her tighter towards him. He kissing her. It’s slow and gentle, less violent than she’s used to. It’s different as it isn’t fueled by lust, a rash decision in the heat of the moment. She doesn’t rush like she normally would, she savours the kiss, him. Then it’s over, their faces still lingering close to one another. Her right-hand drops from his face and clutches his shoulder. Oh, she’s been waiting a long time for this.

[smokyrie]

diamond on a landmine 2/?

Even White Diamond had trouble saying no to her beaming face. Ignorant in her youth, Pink learned fast under the six guiding hands of the only other diamonds she knew. Of course Yellow missed her, after many nights settling in with her as another day cycle ended. They all did.

When Yellow arrived again, a bit of time had passed. The visit was not simply because she wanted to see her, but because she wanted to celebrate. Because she'd made the sacrifice of leaving, furthering Blue's apparent anger and/or apathy, her army had been successful. Right now, applying the healing salve to their crippled authority took precedent over any personal feelings. Pleasing White Diamond, above all, was key to a successful and altogether long life as a leader of the Authority.

Blue's Pearl stood there, waiting for her as she wrung her hands. She wasn't excited about this, but neither were any other of her servants. Their relationship was extremely complicated, something to talk about when the night cycle came, whispers in the darkened hallways accompanied by the fear of being caught. It was too easy to get killed in this environment, and many handmaidens found themselves shattered for as simple a crime as speaking at the wrong time.

These days were always touch and go. Sometimes, rarely, they got along and things were alright for a time, her owner much calmer. When Yellow Diamond was happy, they all were, and Blue Pearl was altogether too pleased to serve them when she had finally graced her hallways. The Imperial Palaces were like a maze, something that thankfully gave the leader time to think before actually arriving there.

The doors were opened quietly and she stepped inside, looking about. It appeared she wasn't here yet. It didn't bother her, as she had been in here many times without Blue's presence, but it still felt strange. Approaching her palanquin, she sat down on the soft cushions, leaning against a pillar. Eventually, gentle footsteps echoed in the air as Yellow toyed with one of the pillow's tassels, and she stopped.

Blue Diamond gazed upon her with a practiced sort of annoyance, as if she'd expected this. Seeming to glide across the floor in that dress of hers, she sat down next to her but gazed only outwardly. "Did you think about what I had to say?"

“Yes,” said Yellow carefully. Blue was always hard to read, especially with that veil on. She had the urge to simply rip it off but she didn’t, remembering the last scolding she’d received from White for interrupting Blue’s grief. “But honestly, the way you react to me suggests you dislike my presence. Does it truly matter what the answer is?”

“Of course it does. I have to say that I’m slightly offended you’d ask me that when I said in great and clear detail what I wanted. I, out of all people, should know what matters to me.” Her hands gripped and stroked the smooth fabric of her veil, a common nervous tic.

“It’s as if you’re determined to take offense in everything I say…”

“Someone has to disagree with you,” said Blue, annoyed.

“I come because I care for you. I want the best for you, yet you remain so sour, and it drives me to temporary insanity when nothing can be done for you. You’re not the only one that misses her.”

Pink diamond was something special, and she brought something so unique to the table even though she died so miserably young. The key to their fragile, four party connection, even in death they united in one purpose and one purpose only: her. It wasn’t unheard of for the Diamonds to care for each other but something radiated in the path she walked. They had all craved her, loved her. Perhaps it was her unique power, or maybe it was just a natural born ability that blossomed not unlike the flowers she insisted on keeping.

Even White Diamond had trouble saying no to her beaming face. Ignorant in her youth, she learned fast under the six guiding hands of the only other diamonds she knew. Of course Yellow missed her, after many nights settling in with her as another day cycle ended. They all did.

“I don’t know how to be around you anymore, Yellow. What do I say? What do I do? Imagine thousands of years of awkward contact, we both left alone as White distances herself further. It’s almost shameful, how we attempt interaction, as if you honestly loved me before our sister was born. Do you not agree? I could never be what she was… And neither can you.”

“I’ve never walked into this room under any pretense that I expected something out of this, that I’m looking for someone else in those ghostly eyes of yours. I would rather suffer years of awkward, stilted small talk than live in absolute silence. You were right, things aren’t as they were before. The state is dwindling. Perhaps I still thought you cared about our people.”

“Don’t say such things to me so carelessly,” she snapped.

“I’m nothing if not entirely sincere. I want nothing more than for for you to rise to your former glory, outside the shadow that was her death. The sun will refuse to shine until you do so, and refuel your commitment to your public life. Your occasional smile keeps me coming in this dreary place, where your sadness sticks to the walls like grease. Unlike White, I have not abandoned you.”

She began to slip the veil off, looking at the smooth floor. It was shined so nicely she could almost see herself, anything but Yellow’s determined face. “I just want to go back to how things were,” she eventually said. “But I don’t think that’s possible anymore. I just don’t know what to do in the face of this terrible monster, or how to approach my subjects with anything but melancholy laced apathy…”

And there they were, in Yellow’s amazement, finally saying things of worth to each other. “They can’t be that way, no. But they can be something different, something new. Maybe even a hopeful something, if you just work with me. Be with me, honestly,” she attempted to explain. “Your cries are ghastly, when filled with the sadness only you can project. I’m not your enemy… I am your family. We will rise again, because that is what pink would have wanted. We have to give her that, blue.”

Once the material had dropped around her lap, she turned her face to look at Yellow fully. Her eyes were red and she was a mess. Thinner than usual, even. Yellow rose her left hand to touch her face, stroking her smooth skin. They didn’t say anything for a long while, Blue thinking on this heavily. What yellow said made sense, however much she hated to admit it. After the war she heavily disliked entering the battlefield, too sick to her stomach over what they’d done in the final wave. She wasn’t proud of it.

Pink did everything she could in the smallest time allowed her decadent, loving life. Fascinated by all organic things, she just knew how to make an individual happy. With a calming voice matched by her ephemeral beauty, she got fantastic results even when faced with the impossible. Though conquest was always their goal, she managed to live a lazy life. The joke between the other three often fell to speculations over when she actually did any work, but it was all in fun.

She was always right about a lot of things, and Yellow suspected she held some psychic power. Possibly even more than blue did, which led to her personal conclusion that pink drank in their emotions as though she lived off them. It did no favors for poor Blue, who reacted to her in such an obsessive and love drunk fashion. Yellow had to admit how taken she’d been, remembering only sometimes the way it felt when Pink and Blue’s hands interacted and mixed on her skin. Those heated and dark nights haunted her, always failing to discern her actual feelings from the other two’s psychic influence.

“I know,” she finally said, in a quiet voice Yellow barely recognized. She was, hopefully, beginning to give in. “But what can we possibly do? Is there really a way to fix this drastic decline?”

“Yes,” said Yellow, who took her hands and squeezed them tightly. Blue wished she’d take off the gloves, but she knew how Yellow felt about taking them off. “But we have to work to find something to change this soon. We may have to lead our people,” she explained. “I want to give you everything, but I need a foothold on something solid until I can pull us back up. Let me… Please let me pull you up.”

Her words brought a small, if not solemn, smile to her face. She moved closer to Yellow, who stroked her hands so calmly. “I just never thought… It would end that way.”

“Sometimes it has to happen. But you’ll never get a chance at righting that wrong without letting yourself move on.”

Finally, Blue settled against her, her face tucked neatly into Yellow’s chest. Her head tucked under her chin and yellow stroked her hair. Of course she had been brought to tears again, but the wise military leader didn’t say anything in response to that. Her apathetic cruelty could wait for another time, perhaps when Blue could smile again and respond in kind. When she finally calmed herself, it took a good moment for her silence to return.

“Why doesn’t white care about us anymore?” She whispered.

“She aches more than we could ever imagine,” said Yellow softly. “She does care. I have to think that, no, I know that…”

“I suppose we are all irritable in our loneliness,” Blue sighed. She pulled back a bit, her large, glittering eyes pointed upwards as she looked at Yellow. It made her so nervous, imagining a day where she could trust the other again. Their closeness dwindled before these visits began so long ago, a hollowed figurative heard dying slowly as the blood stopped pumping towards it.

“I’m not going to leave you again.”

It was as if Yellow knew what she wanted to hear, and it threatened making her cry again. Blue didn’t know when she had become so tortured by that wet phenomenon, but it was how things were, the wet trails ruining her complexion. Yellow cupped her cheeks in her own two hands, thumbs stroking her skin. They had been more than physical so very long ago, though it ended in such a dangerous dark place that Blue rarely liked to acknowledge. They could be so bad for each other, throwing their bruised counterpart out of their chambers with resounding roars that could scare the mightiest of soldiers. It was just how it was sometimes, their personalities never quite fitting together properly. It was a puzzle they couldn’t solve, even though they longed to finish it.

They could only stare at each other for the longest time, trying to figure out between them if it was the best of ideas to get close again. It was something they both ached for, physical and emotional touch. There wasn’t a concubine that could compare to another Diamond, however pleasing they were. There wasn’t a thing Blue could do when Yellow’s face ghosted closer to her own. Their faces, their very bodies were different but pleasing in their complexity. When their lips touched, it was Blue snaking her arms around Yellow, fingers digging into the fabric on her back as though to pull her forward.

Blue exhaled as Yellow sucked on her lower lip, letting go with a resounding pop. Her right hand let go of Yellow to touch her own lips, trying to come to terms with the fact that it had just happened. Her eyes teared up and Yellow brushed it away, but frowned. “Oh, enough with that! I’ll do this on one condition -- cry only when the situation calls for it. Please,” she pleaded. “If you do this much longer, the Blue Palace will drown and your servants will sadly wash away with the salty tide that is your sadness.”

She hiccuped, smiling slowly. When it didn’t stop, her normally sad face contorting into a toothed smile, Yellow couldn’t help but laugh. Her hearty chuckle received an even rarer giggle. For the first time in ages, their visit didn’t end as the night cycle began. For once, their Pearls could sigh in relief, as their mistress’ voices echoed in the dim light for no one but each other.

1|2|3|4|5|6|7

[talonroar]

The Midnight Hour

The Clockmaker was not a rich man, nor was he poor. He lived in the space above his shop in London and kept a steady business. His clocks were all unique and his customers ranged from simple farmers to royalty. When children were born, he would deliver a brand new clock to the family. Likewise, he would visit those who were dying, collecting his clock once their souls had passed. He hated these visits most of all, for every time, those that were dying would look at him in horror as though he were responsible for their coming journey into the afterlife.

In truth, it was not the Clockmaker they despised, but the secret he carried; a secret that would be passed to only one other soul--his apprentice.

The apprentice was a young boy who admired the Clockmaker a great deal. His master had taught him all of his secrets, the last being given near the end of the Clockmaker’s life.

It had grown late, and as the city drifted off to sleep, the shop, filled with its ticking clocks, filled the silence.

“Will you tell me now?” The Apprentice asked.

“Not yet.”The Clockmaker said. “It is not yet the proper hour.”

“But when will that be?” The Apprentice asked.

“Soon.” The Clockmaker said. He kept looking to the great grandfather clock. It had slowed in its years and grown old. Soon, it would die, as all things were destined to do. That made the Apprentice think of his master and how he too had grown old in years; older still, since he had stopped selling his clocks as of late. It was an ironic thought, the Clockmaker having run out of time. He did not know that his master was dying, only that he had promised to give away his secret on tonight of all nights.

Before long, the clock struck twelve and so came the Midnight Hour. But not that only--there also came a loud knock, one that rose above the tick of the clocks.

Now, the Apprentice knew that nothing good had ever come from this time of night, the Witching Hour. A terrible storm had brewed since he last asked for the Clockmaker’s secret, and, in between the stranger’s knocks, the wind howled with the fury of a demon.

Usually, the Clockmaker would have made no motion to answer the door. He had feared the sound above all else, and in this, his last days, he had avoided answering the meager shop door. But tonight was different. The Clockmaker rose from his armchair and with his Apprentice in tow, he solemnly approached the shop’s entrance. He opened the door only a little, before a great wind finished the job. With it came a flash of lightning. There, standing in the doorway was an imposing figure. They wore a cloak, black as the night that spawned this meeting, and a hood, which shrouded their face. The Apprentice held his breath as the stranger entered the shop at the Clockmaker’s bidding. As the three of them made their way back to the parlor, with the stranger in the lead, the Apprentice kept his distance. Something was wrong with their new guest. But the Apprentice said nothing, and followed them in silence.

Once in the parlor, the stranger continued to the grandfather clock. The Clockmaker was shaking as their guest extended a withered hand to the clock. The slow ticking fell silent. With its last, distorted chime, the Clockmaker went pale. He swallowed as tears formed at the edges of his eyes. The stranger, silent as a grave, started back the way they had come.

The Apprentice could take no more. “What is happening?” He asked. “Who is our guest?”

“You asked me to tell you my final secret, my young apprentice.” He said, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks. “So here it is: to all men, time is given. Once our accounts are spent, the debt is collected. But… There are times that one account might be transferred to another, and the date extended. Have you not wondered why it is that I have not given a clock away for some time? Guilt burdens us far heavier than the weight of years upon this miserable world, young one! Forgive me, my Apprentice. Forgive me!”

The ticking of the clocks had stopped and the shop had grown cold. The Apprentice could no longer hear even the storm. The Clockmaker wept as the shop’s door swung open below, and a long, lonesome moan echoed from outside. The Apprentice watched as his master fell to his knees and the shapes of what had once been men, in the form of shadows, came crawling up from the shop below. The Clockmaker was dragged, screaming, down the steps and towards the open door. The stranger said nothing as the Clockmaker was dragged outside, into a world that had never seen, nor would ever see, light. Then, as the stranger was about to make their leave, they turned to face the young Apprentice. 

It was not the face of a man that met him, but a bare skull, with empty sockets as black as the unnatural world beyond. The stranger put a single skeletal finger to his lipless smile and then left, venturing into the yawning void. The storm returned, and with it, the ticking of a clock shop in late night London.

What did not return was the Clockmaker or the stranger. And, if the Apprentice had any say in the matter, they never would.

In fact, for the rest of his years, and there were many of those, the Apprentice built for himself a shop of his own. He would have to travel from time to time, of course, and only after many years in one place, from town to town, city to city where no one would know his name, nor would they know what would happen if they were to be given one of those infernal clocks. 

No. 

No one would ever know his ghastly secret and he would avoid the stranger’s visit until so many years had passed that even the horrors of that night had become a distant, half forgotten nightmare.

But time has a way of remembering what we do not and it is excellent at making guilt blossom in the heart. With it’s careful gardening, the flowers of the past sprang anew. The guilt unfolded yet again and the Apprentice found an apprentice of his own, someone willing to take upon them the mantle of Clockmaker. And so, now old and frail, the Apprentice waited for that fateful knock at the arrival of the Midnight Hour…