#They sense someone coming up behind them and assume the worse because they can’t afford not to

[fallcrestrpg]

lıllı Radcliffe Hotel: Top Floor Common Area - Late Night/Early Morning 12/25 ıllıllı

RIKKE

It had been weighing in her pretty much the entire night that Goodwin had not only been able to gain entry into the building, but had even managed to get his hands on Skylar, and she herself didn't even notice until it was too late. Rikke was their Paladin. She should've noticed that with Keagan gone and Luke busy chasing Lyra, the girls would need her to be closer and focused on them. Instead, Luke beat her to the punch and wound up taking a silver bullet to the shoulder. God, if _anything_ worse had happened to any of them-

Rikke let out a small groan, but stopped herself short of making too much noise. It was late, and even if Leo had thought ahead to get the suites -and each individual room- warded for silence, that didn't mean that superhearing couldn't realistically still be bothered. She let Jack and Hanuel take the rest of the night as she took guard by milling about in the common area. The lights weren't off because it was still a hotel, but she wouldn't have needed them to know someone was coming up behind her. "I would have expected you to be taking advantage of Lyra's need for sleep?" she teased before turning to face the witch.

PHOENIX

Honestly, when everyone turned in for the night, she thought her cousin would actually be the exception but lo and behold, Lyra fell asleep as soon as she hit the bed. One would assume the kids exhausted her but she wasn't the one taking care of the kids so Nix had no idea why she was so wiped out.

Regardless, she took the opportunity to step outside, finding the common area so different now that it wasn't filled with all the families. Finding the familiar figure, the witch made her way over - only to smile, the moment Rikke acknowledged her presence. "I *am* taking advantage of Lyra's need for sleep. I'm out here so that I won't wake her with whatever I do." She shrugged, "Not that I had a plan anyways. What about you? You looked quite deep in your thoughts just now."

RIKKE

The other woman's words immediately had Rikke's eyebrow raising in a mix of confusion and curiosity. "Oh? And exactly what is it that you could manage to do that would risk waking her?" She fixed her with a dubious look as she said, "So, let me see if I'm following: you didn't have plans to do anything, but you felt the need to leave the room in case you woke up Lyra with whatever you did...I'm sorry, just how _loud_ is your sleeping then?"

The light chuckle that had followed her teasing, died off at the question of what Rikke herself had been thinking about just before. Shaking her head, she shrugged and said, "Nothing terribly important. Constant thought is just one of those nifty Paladin side-effects. Can't turn the noggin off if you don't sleep, and we sleep so much during our stasis already that our bodies hardly ever get to a point where we might need it...of course, that might change now that we don't have to go back into stasis."

PHOENIX

She gave the paramedic a playful shove at the teasing. "Shut up, I don't *snore*, but Lyra's a light sleeper so any sort of noise would wake her - personally, I think it's because she doesn't want to miss a second of drama." She shrugged as if that made logical sense.

"So you're telling me that Jack and Haneul are most likely awake right now too? How come Haneul's the grumpiest one out of all of you?" She partially joked because it was still true in the end. While he wasn't *mean* or a complete asshole, but that man grumbled since he arrived with Dylan of all people. "I suspect that would result the need to find a lot of hobbies to occupy you guys at night? What do you normally do then?"

RIKKE

The shove did absolutely nothing on it's own, but feeling the need to afford her friend the slight satisfaction, she let out a small noise of complaint and threw in a -slightly delayed- shift to the other side. "See, again. I just don't understand, what could you possibly do to make a small noise? I've been in the cabin long enough to know that Lyra is _not_ light enough of a sleeper to where breathing would be enough to wake her." Rikke scoffed at the theorized reason for Lyra's light sleeping. "Yeah, missing 'drama', as you put it, really seems to be her biggest sore spot. She still hasn't let go that she was the last one in the family to find out about the twin's 'true father'." Lyra's exact words had been "true _daddy_" but the way everyone had squirmed, made the Paladin not want to repeat that.

She nodded. "We honestly have no idea why he's the grumpiest, if anything one would expect that if it were an age thing, Jack would take the grumpy role. I've theorized that it might his past, but I think given that he's my boss at the fire station, it might be bordering on Lyra territory for me to ask." A wry chuckle fell from her lips, blue eyes dropping down to the floor briefly before looking up and out over the now empty ballroom. "The way the seals on the Nexus work, by the time we were activated there wasn't really any time to spare to the idea of hobbies or anything outside of our duties to protect the charge we were assigned to. If woke up, it meant that the threat to their life was imminent and our time was ninety-five percent focused on keeping them alive, three percent focused on being a productive member of the hive mind to try and find a way to reverse the broking of the seals, and two percent trying to blend in and not out ourselves as not human."

PHOENIX

"*Okay*, so I just wanted to be out of the room, stop trying to call me out." She snorted. "Let me *breathe*." This seemed to be a common theme in this family - not letting Nix (or anyone) breathe was one of Lyra's favourite things to do. "Drama is her thing - Aunt Ianthe always did say that Lyra could've been a good agent if she actually used those skills for something other than gossip. It's almost scary sometimes how she find things out so yeah, no one is surprised when she got upset about being the last one to get the news. Keg and Luke definitely did that on purpose in order to tell people instead of having them hear from Lyra."

Nix had once guessed that Haneul was the oldest considering how grumpy he was, hence his nickname being 'gramps'. But that went out the window when she found out that wasn't the case. Still, since it might have soemthing to do with his past so the witch dropped the topic with a simple nod. "Right, the Nexus." It definitely slipped her mind when everything else distracting her, "The reason why the kids are babies now... So far the only threat was Goodwin, and he had nothing to do with the Nexus." She joked before continuing. "There's also the matter of certain people escaping after breaking that seal." It obviously didn't just end with Old Man Grey being killed off." The paperwork she had to do for that too.

RIKKE

Rikke held up her hands and said, "I'm sorry, calling you out was not my intention." Though the woman followed it up with a laugh, she also immediately diverted the focus back to Lyra. Rikke would like to think that she had a good grasp on things, but though not quite to Keagan's level, Phoenix was definitely harder to read than some of the other folks she now lived with. Nodding in agreement about Lyra, Rikke opted to play it safe and add, "Oh, and for the record, I'm also sorry if I've given you any reason to feel like you need an excuse or a reason to do stuff like leave your room or whatever. It's your business, and I'm completely okay with you just reminding me of that. Honest."

There was a failed attempt to stifle a sigh before she simply repeated back, "Right, the Nexus." Rikke's tone was empty as she said it, a part of her wishing she too had the privilege of forgetting it existed, if only so she could momentarily forget how she came to be tied to it in the first place. "It sounds like the town has been relatively lucky with the magic kickbacks after the seals being broken, but that thing is capricious and it won't always play out that way. Old Man Grey being killed off is currently a bit low on our priority list of things to address, seeing as we have to cleanup the mess he left behind first."

PHOENIX

Surprised at the apology, Nix smiled and shook her head, "Nothing to apologize about - I mean, everyone else is either sleeping or dealing with their kids at the moment so I guess it must be weird that I'm out here by myself. Wait, do I look suspicious?" She smirked, "I'm kidding. If you really must know - I got a song stuck in my head for the whole day and I was hoping I could dance it out otherwise, I really would just stay up all night thinking about it."

Her own lips flattened into a line, understanding that the seals breaking wasn't exactly good news. "The whole baby situation didn't make it look that bad for a moment." She sighed, shaking her head, "You're right, there's still a bunch of things to sort out. Hopefully we can get prevent any more seals from breaking." It was clear that the forces weren't going to stop anytime soon even if a few of them looked like 'accidents'.

RIKKE

"I mean, it's not _weird_, per say. Just, unexpected is all. I mean with everything that happened in a relatively short amount of time, I suppose I just expected most people to be too exhausted to make the trip back out of their suites," Rikke was quick to clarify. "Suspicious? No, not really. Not to me, but that's because I know who you are- As in like, that you're Phoenix. I wouldn't- I wouldn't like claim to _know you_. That would presumptuous." The Paladin took the woman's explanation as a time to pause and gather the bearings she'd clearly lost. "Jack says Diego told them the easiest way to get a song out of their head was to sing it from beginning to end."

Rikke offered her a half-smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "In all fairness, the Nexus may affect all supernaturals but, the responsibility to keep it sealed and protected falls on us and the Council." And boy was getting things done in the Council's best interest, given the Guild and other international supernatural leaders were already complaining about why the people in charge of the Nexus issue were all from the same town...

PHOENIX

She did not hide the smirk on her face because it was very endearing to see the woman trying to clarify what she initially meant even though there was no misunderstanding to begin with. "Diego's got a point. People normally do that; I just prefer dancing it out instead."

Perhaps she shouldn't have mentioned the Nexus to begin with because the expression on Rikke's face fell with every word exchanged about it. With the intent to comfort the other, Nix reached out and rubbed against the Paladin's arm gently as she gave a wry smile herself. "We're all here to help too so it's not *completely* on your shoulders. I'm sure the rest of us would rather have you share the burden than take it on all by yourselves. We've got the Guilden and other folks researching everything too."

RIKKE

The Paladin wasn't entirely sure where to go from there. A part of her wanted to take comfort in the reassurance and the warmth of the soft touch as well, if she were being honest but, there were things that were too deeply ingrained in her to allow it to be that simple.

With the entirety of her past now available to her, there were parts of herself that fell back into place to the Rikke before her last stasis. The society within which she was actually born and raised made it hard for her to truly appreciate any form of affection outside of family as anything other than platonic. Rikke was taught that even the idea that there would even be any other option for how to read Phoenix's action was revolting, and an offense to Phoenix herself. Not to mention that as a Paladin, it was constantly drilled into them that the entire reason they even existed was to keep their witch charges safe and to solve the matter of the Nexus so they _wouldn't_ be needed. The idea of allowing others to take on that burden _and_ get to remain free if and when the seals were restored?

It was way too much to try and sort out right now. "So, did you already have a dance in mind when you came out here?" she asked, then making to pull out her phone, "Oh, the girls taught me how to use this before their hands got too small to use their own. Unless you were planning on going the silent-movie route."

PHOENIX

The sudden topic switch back to music definitely caught her attention but Nix took it as a cue to *not* discuss about the town's problem anymore for tonight. One she shouldn't be surprised with since it might be too heavy of a topic to be discussing *this* late at night anyways. Welcoming the diversion back to the song and dance, Phoenix gave a little wave with her hand to cast another sound barrier around them. Even if all the rooms had proofing, it never hurt to add another one so that people who also happened to be in the hallway wouldn't hear them.

"Do you have a music app? Or we can youtube it." She peered over to look at the screen. The *plan* was letting the music lead me so sort of?" She chuckled, "The song's called Cure for Love by Ellie Goulding."

RIKKE

Rikke could see the spark of concern that her sudden change in topic had brought about in the younger woman, but greatly appreciated the fact Phoenix opted not to act on it. Even if it meant they would eventually loop back around to it -letting things go wasn't exactly a family trait- at least for now, they could shift focus over to something much lighter. And that would maybe place some very needed physical distance between the two.

"Letting the music lead? Sounds a lot like there wasn't really much of plan, but then again Lucas got her musical talents from her mother's side, not ours," she laughed. It was one thing to learn the mechanics of dancing, quite another to be able to just do it. As the song began to play, Rikke couldn't help but furrow her brow slightly at the lyrics. However, as Phoenix had been gracious enough not to pry before, she'd reciprocate and just *let the music lead*. "The dance floor is all yours."

PHOENIX

Learning that Lucas' musical skills was not inherited from Rikke's side of the family had her letting out a light laugh before shaking her head to disagree, "Rikke, I've seen you dance before and you did well! Dancing is all about letting the music move you. Choreography comes from that. I guess we can call it the makings of a plan then." She tapped on the screen to start the music, adjusting the volume a bit before walking backwards further into the area.

She started swaying left and right, getting a grasp of the feeling, "You want to join me?" She asked, almost smirking at the other. Her arms reached out in front of her to motion the other to come towards her. "Come on, it'll be fun!"

RIKKE

Rikke ducked her head and fiddled with the phone a bit in bid to ride out the warmth on her face. It wasn't like she was unaccustomed to being complimented on her skills or abilities or even just in general -hell one could argue that Lyra complimented her at least once an hour- but it had been a long time since she'd actually been affected by a compliment. It had been a long time since she _cared_ enough about what the person complimenting her for it to have an effect...for it to have _this kind_ of effect. The last time hadn't quite turned out so well though, and now there was the matter of her 'niece's family at play...

The Paladin hadn't even noticed when Phoenix approached the phone, but it would be a lie to say she'd managed to stay oblivious to the witch once she began dancing. The invitation had her laughing lightly in response, even as she shook her head. But once the arms were extended, it felt rude to not oblige. "I think it's fair to say you're leading, ye?"

PHOENIX

The playfulness shown in her eyes, Phoenix gave a shrug, "Unless you want to take the lead, I wouldn't mind that at all." She chuckled as she swayed with the other, similar to how they danced last time but a bit more controlled and a lot more sober. "I don't know what you were so worried about, you're doing well." Though she did want to dance tonight, she wasn't planning on doing anything too difficult to begin with - she didn't think this was the time to put in an actual work out.

"I'd say that Lyra would attest to that , but my cousin would take any chance to .. *compliment*." An understatement if her constantly hitting on Luke was any indication.

RIKKE

Rikke gave a low chuckle in response. "Oh no, this was meant to be _your_ time. I'm already technically intruding by having been here," she pointed out. Besides, nothing provided more reassurance that things would definitely remain within the witch's realm of comfort than handing control over to her. "I just happen to have a really good _lead_," Rikke quipped, not really trusting herself to be too chatty. Best way to keep from putting one's foot in one's mouth, was to open said mouth as little as possible.

Rikke could only roll her eyes at the comment. "That woman manage to _compliment_ just about anything with a pulse." Grumbling was easier than processing that Lyra's words had power, if only because most of her observations -about _anyone_- were usually objectively true. Having gotten caught up, she stopped actively paying attention to the music until the song changed. "Oh, uh, did it work? Or do you need another go to get the song out of your head?" Against her better judgement, she offered her hand back out along with the question.

PHOENIX

"Well, techinically I intruded on your time. You were out here first after all." She pointed out before making a face and shaking her head in disagreement. "You're definitely better than you give yourself credit for. Look, I'm not even leading you all that much." Despite the song choice, Nix was having a lot of fun even though she was sure she was more awake now than she initially intended.

And.. as soon as she noticed that, the song ended and had switched over to.. a classical music of all things. Her smile widened as she took the offered hand. "Rikke, you know how to waltz? I'm a bit rusty on my ballroom dancing but I can always do a little brush up. "

RIKKE

Something between a scoff and a chuckle left her lips at the thought. "Trust me, I've had plenty of alone time to last me several lifetimes. Besides, the person who said 'idle hands are the devil's playground' clearly didn't take into account an idle mind." The paladin spun her out and back in, though whether it was the music leading or a way to distract from her heavy statement was unclear even to her. Rikke could only chuckle in response to her next words, because her mind was immediately racing with the double-meaning the words could hold, and she didn't trust herself not to say something otherwise.

Placing a hand around her middle -feeling the waist might be too personal- Rikke smirked as she began to lead them. "Considering I'm ancient, ballroom dancing would be one of the very few things I was actually taught. Along with many other useful little things so one could seem the perfect lady, who would one day make a suitable wife."

PHOENIX

Though there were times when the two of them got pretty close together, it didn't seem as heavily emphasized as now with Rikke facing directly at her at such close proximity. However, Rikke mentioning that she was taught the dance did bring her mind back to reality. She couldn't help but snort at the term 'perfect lady' for the sake of being some man's wife. "I know those were the times, but honestly, you are plenty impressive even if you don't know how to dance." She pointed out as she followed the taller woman's lead.

Even if Rikke didn't mention anything, one could easily tell that this was a dance she was familiar with. "Do you know all sorts of ballroom dancing then? Almost tempting to find out just how much you know now."

RIKKE

"It's nice to know I can still make an impression," she chuckled. It honestly shouldn't feel like such a huge accomplishment to impress a _friend_, and Rikke was painfully aware of this. However, admitting the truth to herself wasn't really an option, and after Phoenix had taken her last attempt at a deeper compliment- it was just best to keep it tame.

It had been so long since Rikke had danced with someone like this -let alone someone who also knew what they were doing- she was surprised she still remembered. "Well, they gave us the basics in a few styles of the time but, the waltz was the one they hammered in the most and the tango is one I taught myself as a 'fuck you' to the waltz," she laughed.

PHOENIX

“Quite the impression.” As often as Lyra teased people, she didn’t *always* do it without reason. Rikke definitely left an impression on the witch and it didn’t help that they basically saw each other nearly everyday since they found out that they were part of the same family tree. Realizing that she had blurted that out, Nix cleared her throat and focused on the dancing.

“Tango?” She almost said it incredulously, “You’re surprising me with every fact you reveal, Rikke.” She chuckled, “I didn’t expect it to be tango. Almost thought you’d say something like.. foxtrot or i don’t know.. the cha-cha.” She shrugged. “Was it weird? Despite it being the thing to do at the time. That you had to dance to impress.. quite literally. Nowadays we dance just for fun or for competition but surely not required in our daily lives.”

RIKKE

Rikke's glanced down at their feet for a moment, giving the likely red tinge on her face to cool down to a rosy pink. Looking back up, she had a sheepish look on her face, but made an attempt at a smirk as she said, "Careful Miss Calvetti, your cousin might forget it -often- but she still does have super-hearing. If you continue to compliment me, I'll continue to be compelled to compliment you back, and we'll both increase the chances she'll hear something and run with it."

She chuckled a bit herself and said, "Yeah, that one was definitely learned once I was already over on this side of the ocean. We didn't exactly have the internet to learn things from other countries back then." A pensive look crossed her face at the question. "Honestly, it's far weirder when I think back on it now. But back then? It was just one of many things that I had to do in order to be considered as 'doing my duty'. One of the least bothersome too."

PHOENIX

She was feeling just as red herself but still she also made an attempt to keep a straight face, "It's merely the truth.. I'm sure Lyra would have also said it.. in a vastly different way but it also just means that I wasn't lying." She hummed, "But Lyra could also take *silence* and still run with it. She really could've been an agent if it weren't for her motivation for *gossip*."

"I must admit, the only thing I do like was that everyone seemingly knew how to dance." She tilt her head with a wry smile, "The fact that it was one of the integral things to being a wife.. I still can't believe it was a thing."

RIKKE

: "Okay, if we're going to use the fact that Lyra would also say the same thing, albeit with a different vocabulary, to further prove that a point is valid, then clearly my ability to dance falls far short to your ability to light up a room," Rikke retorted before swiftly adding in spin out. It wasn't a lie either, she could easily point out, after all Lyra had pointed out just that morning how Phoenix was 'hot enough to pull even the gayest waiter in the hotel'. "Her penchant for gossip can have its uses...sometimes."

Rikke tilted her head to one side and said, "Well, it was more like everyone who could afford to take the time to be taught how to dance and not have their entire family starve, but yeah that still left quite a few." She met the wry smile with one of her own. "It was often said that dance taught grace, and grace was a valuable quality. But really, it was more like if a girl could be made to do only activities that required her to do what she was told by a man, then it would be far more likely she would continue to blindly follow a man's direction as a woman...Honestly, the only thing about my life back then that I really miss would be my family. Even then, only _some_ of them."

PHOENIX

"I... don't know about that." Phoenix chuckled softly, feeling her cheeks grow warm again. The witch was far from being a shy person - though not the extent of whatever Lyra was, but something about Rikke's words actually made her somewhat ... bashful. She even found herself looking off to the side to avoid direct eye contact while she waited for her cheeks to cool. "Sometimes - it's also scary how fast she receives some of the information. I feel like my job would be way easier if I had half that talent." She snorted.

Nix gave a slight wince to the reasoning. "Right.. sorry. It was a different time, of course. " Her smile flattened into a thin line. It was hard to think of her family all learning how to dance and following the ways of that era considering what their current selves were like. Perhaps they'd be very different if they were living in that time. "Hmm... well, for one, I'm glad that you're part of *this* era now." She tried to lightened the mood. To think they were having this conversation while they were twirling about in the area. "Maybe we can teach you some of the more *modern* dances?"

RIKKE

"I do." There was a resolute tone with which she spoke, that indicated a level of confidence she didn't actually feel at the moment. At least not in herself. She was definitely confident in her observation that Phoenix was beautiful, but _that_ was also kind of the problem, wasn't it. Her brain immediately came up with like fifty different ways to play it off and not sound like she was being forward or predatory, but they all seemed to want to come out of her mouth at once and instead it all created a stopper and nothing came out. Clearing her throat, she opted to take the out given and speak to Lyra's skills instead. "I think it's less a talent, and more a honed skill that she happens to have been refining since like, birth."

Rikke immediately felt guilty. It was clear that her honesty in the moment had been upsetting to the witch, and that was far from her intention. "Oh well, I mean, it's quite literally a lifetime ago...or well, a _few_ lifetimes ago," she joked. The other woman's words made it to where she almost reflexively wanted to reply 'Stop saying things that make me like you even more' but her filter was kind enough to give her pause. "I'm glad to be a part of it too," she said instead, before laughing lightly at the suggestion. "I suppose there'd be no harm in learning something new."

PHOENIX

The amount of confidence behind those two simple words did surprise her, but made her smile nonetheless. As they've said earlier, compliments were not uncommon and Nix knew she had some level of attractiveness but to hear it from Rikke really gave her butterflies.. butterflies that she didn't know what to do with at the moment. "Umm." She chuckled, "Yeah.. Sometimes I just wish she filters her thoughts juuuuuust a little bit. Just a tiny bit. Think before acting.. But that will only happen when pigs fly.

Her eyes looked back up into the other's - she did it voluntarily but somehow her words caught in her throat for a moment. "A few lifetimes ago - To think you've seen allll the trends come and go... and come back again." She joined in. "It'll be fun! You know I've got classes of all levels going on at the gym, and if not that, I could give you *private* lessons."

RIKKE

"Considering your female cousin managed to give birth my female relative's _twins_, I'd say it's entirely possible for pigs to start flying tomorrow," Rikke pointed out. There truly was no telling what magic was capable of. Just a few hours ago they witnessed Luke trigger her werewolf gene with no full moon in sight. "For all the hive mind knows about magic, there's so much more we have yet to learn."

Rikke chuckled at the slight awe in Nix's words. "It was one of the weirdest experiences, once the seal broke, to have all of those memories just come rushing back. Some trends really should stay forgotten though." The taller woman had been nodding along to the idea of taking classes at the gym, but at the mention of private lessons -and the clear emphasis on _private_- she was unable to keep a brow from shooting up. "Well, there's plenty of modern music on the phone...unless you're tired of me already- or, in general. It is pretty late," Rikke stammered.

PHOENIX

She nodded with a snort, accepting the reality that pigs may just fly considering how things had been unfolding in this town. To think her own relatives were basically the unicorns of the supernatural world, life hadn't been one bit dull as they learned more about the Paladins. "You're right, for all we know, pigs might actually know how to flow." She sighed, "You'd think that it gets less surprising as we learn about things, but nope."

This time her laugh was loud, "Seriously, some trends should stay forgotten. I don't know who thought it was a good idea to bring them back but that is a crime." She joked before stopping her feet while her eyes widen with surprise and immediately shaking her head to disagree. "Oh what? No, *never*. I'd never be tired of you. I didn't expect you wanted to learn like.. right now - and I was offering private in case you didn't want to dance in front of a group of people either. I- no, I'm not tired of you."

RIKKE

"We live in a pretty unpredictable world, Fee!" She exclaimed, using the nickname she'd gotten into the habit of using. Nix was perfectly fine, but it was what everyone else called her. This way, Phoenix knew who was calling out even before she looked. It was all to make her life easier. Just that. No other reason. "Our teenagers are all babies again. Seriously, flying bacon is not that much of a stretch anymore."

Rikke couldn't help the broad smile that came at the sound of Phoenix's laugh. It was truly a wondrous sound, and it took a bit more effort than she'd like to admit to _not_ focus on how it made her stomach do a few flips. "Well, it seems that corporate America really loves cashing in on people's nostalgia, so I expect baggy pants and chokers to pop back up soon enough." Rikke almost collided with her given the sudden stop, but she was able to stop as well just in time. "Sorry, I-" Truth be told, Rikke wasn't even sure what she was going to apologize for. "I didn't mean to imply that _you_ had implied you were or anything. You're a far better person and way too kind for that. I was just giving you an out, but I mean- I just- I-" The paladin stopped and let out a small breath before sheepishly grinning down at the witch and saying, "I'm not tired of you either."

PHOENIX

Did she beam a little at the nickname? Mayhaps. Or It was definitely about ... flying bacon being reality. Somehow. Yeah. Maybe that. "This town is just all sorts of craziness, whether good or bad. They did say, never a dull moment in ol'Fallcrest. That still rings quite true even after all these years. This town is very consistent."

It was.. endearing to see the older woman be so flustered after her explanation. Her hands moved onto the other's upper arms in hopes to also help calm her. "Good, because it would suck not being able to see you ever again. *Absolutely * miserable." She chuckled, "It's nice of you to give me an out, but I won't need it - *I* offered to teach you personally and I'm not one to walk back on my words."

RIKKE

The thought _did_ cross Rikke's mind that they hadn't even reached to the worst of the seals yet, but one glance at Phoenix and how giddy she seemed made her keep it to herself. She'd already ruined the witch's mood once tonight. "Kind of par for the course when most of the residents are supernatural," she quipped instead

It took a lot not to outwardly react to the touch, which was saying something, given they'd just been ball room dancing. Of course, a reassuring touch was a bit more personal than a hand on one's shoulder for a waltz. "Yes well, I'm beginning to see what side of the family Skylar gets her _dramatics_ from," she teased with a light chuckle, opting to shift the focus. "It's good to know, but for the record, I'd like to think I've gotten to know you well enough to say you don't strike me as someone who goes back on their word."

PHOENIX

Something about the fact that they were supernatural that peace was never an option for them which was not by choice. "I think it doesn't help that the town's pretty small - is this how those cities would feel like when superheros and villians fight? Just tearing up the place. That budget to fix the city every time though." Says the person who worked in the administrative sector.

Phoenix turned slightly, dipping her chin towards one shoulder to play coy, "I don't think it was that hard to guess, I am a Calvetti albeit less dramatic than Lyra. The whole family combined is less dramatic than Lyra." She smiled, "Good. Good.." She was weirdly happy at the thought that Rikke saw her in a good light, not that she really did anything out of the ordinary to disprove that. "So.. Was there a song you'd like to dance to?" She pointed out, realizing that the waltz had actually ended by now. "Or are you getting tired? .. Like in general, not of me, of course."

RIKKE

"Collateral damage is such a major pain in the ass," Rikke groaned. "Part of what we end up helping to help with, because as good as the town is about handling structural damage, there will always be something that would be _too_ hard to cover up without magic. That and the handful of mundanes that see more than they should...I'll take a busy shift at the fire station any day."

Taking note of the reaction, the words were out of Rikke's mouth before she'd even processed them herself. "Oh? And I'm assuming that as a Calvetti this is your way of trying to disarm me with cuteness then? Lyra, Sky, and Keagan use their puppy eyes, and you weaponize coyness. Lucas never stood a chance." Not wanting to risk being asked to elaborate, she latched onto the question and reached over for the phone. "Oh, uh. I...hadn't actually thought that far ahead," she chuckled. "We can hit shuffle and see what comes up?" Rikke turned back to look at her, "Come on, Fee. I already _said_ I wasn't tired of you, and believe it or not, it takes quite a lot to exhaust a Paladin....remind me to never mention that in front of your cousins."

PHOENIX

"Damage control is.. just... the worst." She groaned, "With all the things happening in this town, it's just a matter of time if we're being honest." Phoenix said flatly. It was miracle on its own that they've managed to *still* keep their supernatural world a secret in this town. Especially with all the stories she's heard of the times she wasn't around.

She went from coy to shy when Rikke basically called her cute. Her flush definitely was because they've been dancing all night, not because it was a compliment coming from the other. Fortunately, both of them opted to move onto the next topic. "Y-Yeah, that's a good plan." She nodded before her eyes widened at the comment about a Paladin never getting tired. "... Never in front of Lyra especially, the things she'll say to both you and Luke... that you're both.. um.. *very athletic*." She laughed at her own words. "

RIKKE

"It's been a secret for hundreds of years, we have to ensure it stays that way. At least for the duration of _our_ lifetime, because it would suck to be remembered as the generation of superanturals that broke the streak," Rikke noted. "Besides, it's the one secret that Lyra's been able to keep, so if she can do it, we can too."

Between the woman's body language and her actual spoken language, it was fair to say that Rikke was getting a lot of signals. If only she could manage to read and decipher them... The taller woman handed the phone over to Phoenix. "Here, I'll let you do the honors, so I can't be accused of cheating or something later. And I'm sure Lyra would just opt to focus no our stamina, and run with that until someone manages to either confirm she's right or prove her wrong."

PHOENIX

"From the rate the seals are unraveling, we might just be that very generation to break that streak." She sighed, "She could hide her secret as a supe is because she forgets she's a supe. Have you seen her use her wolf strength *or* speed? It only happens once in a blue moon and no, it's not even when her life is being threatened."

Taking a step closer as she took the phone, the witch looked down at the screen to pic a suitable playlist. In her opinion, any song should be able to work. "There are many things that Lyra would focus on." She muttered, "It's her way of multi-tasking, according to her." Eventually picking a random list, she hit play and set the phone aside. "You ready?"

RIKKE

Rikke scrunched up her face a bit. "If anything, I think it might be the fact everyone has cell phones and social media that might make it to where we're the generation that outs us, not so much the seals. I can't tell you how many cell phones I've had to wipe in the last month alone." She let out a snort of laughter and said, "Yeah I suppose it's hard to share a secret you've effectively forgotten yourself."

The comment made her eyebrow shoot up again. "Is that so? Please, since you would know her better than I, do tell what those things might be. Maybe I can find a way to prevent her attention that way." As the phone was set down, Rikke had begun to reply that she was ready, but then the first few notes of the song sounded. "Oh, this is one of the band's songs. "

PHOENIX

"Social media is a nightmare when you're trying to cover up something - because if they did share it, it's not just the people who originally took the videos and pictures." While she wasn't part of the tech departments, she understood the troubles that came with it. "She's really one of a kind." They may all complain about Lyra, but they all loved her just the same.

Her own brows shot up. "I... don't think that's possible." She chuckled, "Like.. I doubt you can stop being attractive. Luke may have prevented Lyra from visiting the gym when she's there but you well know that did not her from 'complimenting' at any other chance she got." She tuned onto the song and smiled, "Oh, what a coincidence." She started bopping to the beat, "Let's start easy a learn a few basics. Follow the beat and see if you can do these couple of moves." As the music progressed, she did a few standard basic moves to start them off with, pausing after each one so that Rikke could try it before either repeating it or moving on to the next one.

RIKKE

"That's where the advantage of having magic on our side truly comes in handy, but even then if we don't act quickly, magic may not be enough. Honestly a cluster each and every time something major happens. Luckily Luke was able to spin a good enough tale to explain the absence of the kids. One less headache." Rikke let out a snort as she said, "I don't think the word 'unique' is even good enough to describe her anymore."

Rikke was listening up until a certain point, and then everything just kind of zeroed in on one thing. "You think I'm attractive?" The question was out before she'd even realized it was. "I mean, like in a general aesthetic way or- I should really stop asking questions and digging this hole much deeper than it needs to be," she said with a nervous laugh. Diverting back to the music she said, "Well I did let the girls pick the music, so far less of a coincidence." The taller of the two shifted her focus entirely on learning the moves being shown. Yup. Learning. That was the only reason her focus was on Fee, anything else would be wrong. "I think I've got it."

PHOENIX

It took Rikke zoning in on her words for her to realize what she said exactly. All other topics thrown out the window as Nix also focused on this as wlel. "Um.. Well.. Yeah. You're hot." She said bluntly, "Everything you do is just.. attractive." Something about the Holstein family looking good while doing even the most mediocre things. "You, yourself is attractive as a person so I don't think you can just ... stop." She shrugged as if her answer was no big deal even though she could feel the heat oozing off of her cheeks.

The witch couldn't even hear the music anymore as she wondered what Rikke was thinking right now. Did rikke not know she was hot and was just asking for clarifications? Or was there other meaning behind it? Nix shouldn't think too much into this but her brain disagreed and went into overdrive.

RIKKE

It took her a bit to regain functional control of her voice. "Oh..." Was all she managed to say in response. For as much as Phoenix had said, it still didn't quite clarify whether the witch _personally_ found her attractive, though it was starting to sound like she was just stating more of an objective matter. Which was _oddly_ disappointing. Granted, it wasn't Phoenix's fault. Rikke should really know better by now than too get too hopeful on such matters.

She let out a wry chuckle as she finally added, "Oh, I think I can probably find a way or two to make myself unattractive if I really wanted to. I could be complete asshole, for one." Even as she said it, Rikke wasn't entirely sure she knew _how_ to be an asshole, but that was neither here nor there.

PHOENIX

Her brows furrowed at the reaction. Did she say something wrong? Because it didn't look like Rikke was at all pleased with her answer. The witch, who normally had her cool better than most Calvettis, was actually wracking her brain to see if there was anything she could do, analyzing their interactions tonight so far.

Then the other woman's word brought her thoughts back, which only make her snort. "Rikke Holstein, you couldn't be an asshole even if you tried. At least as far as I *know, there's not a mean bone in your body which is one of the many things I love about you." Although one shouldn't say that everyone in the family would be the same (take Dicky for example), Lucas and her nieces were all good people. That and Nix would like to think her eye for people was pretty good.

RIKKE

Oh there was so much confusion right about now, and Rikke did not feel that it would be appropriate to try and untangle the mess of it all right now. Especially if it turned out to be a complete misunderstanding on her part, which would then just lead to things becoming awkward for them over nothing, really. "Well, thank you. It's good to know that my character has made it hard to believe I'd be capable of acting ill towards someone else without reason," she said by way of just moving long. Rikke made a mental note of learning the differences between what was considered just and acceptable means of platonic affection and what wasn't.

"You know, growing up at the time I did, affection in any way, shape, or form was something that was rarely demonstrated in public past a certain age. We never got the chance to really know where we stood with any of our peers unless it was explicitly stated, and even then it was far more normally for someone to address you to mention how you messed up. It's nice to see that's changed. I can't imagine the girls growing up in a more nurturing environment."

PHOENIX

The shorter woman not really knowing what had resulted from her compliment, and nodded to agree with what she said, "it's easy to tell even if someone's trying to hide their assholeness - their big egos are a large factor, for one. What's hard to figure out if they're crazy enough...." If their recent experience was anything to go by. "You're definitely not an asshole."

Really, the whole family did provide the best environment for the girls. With the exception of the Bensons who were no help at all to no one's surprise. "I'm sorry that the times were like that back then." She sighed, "I'm just really glad that Luke is the person she is; she's pretty much the reason why the girls got to grow up the way they were. Mini-me's as they always say. The fortunate thing is that the Bensons literally have nothing to do with the girls."

LYRA

The woman had noticed her roommate dipping out on her almost immediately. She may have been thoroughly exhausted from the evening's events, but there was zero chance she was going to miss out on the potential dirt that would come from Phoenix -of _all_ people- sneaking out of their room, and then out of their suite entirely. It was already eyebrow raising enough that little miss goody-two-shoes was starting to randomly take pics for her insta that weren't necessarily Diablo levels of spicy, but they were more than simply Mild.....

She was able to keep herself quiet and out of site for the majority of the cavity-inducing interaction, though that was likely more due to the fact that she wasn't willing to risk the effects of whatever barriers Fawkes had decided to bubble themselves in. After a while, boredom won and she ended up sending Phoenix a voice message: "Hey cuz! Good morning! Because in case you've had such a wonderful time that you didn't notice, it _is_ in fact morning now. Just before the sun, no worries on that front. ANY WHORE! Just checking in to see if you were able to _relax_. You sounded hella frustrated, but like if it was a _bad_ kind of frustrated like because of something that happened or like a _good_ kind of frustrated because one of the waitstaff _actually_ caught your eye, like I couldn't tell. Fill me in!"

PHOENIX

Phoenix jolted out of her thoughts when her own phone rang out. Her phone had been scheduled to be on Do-Not-Disturb during the night so to have her phone ring aloud, it clearly meant that it wasn't nighttime anymore. "I - Wow.. Um.. It must be morning." She didn't take a step back but she did pull out her phone to see what the notification was for. A voice message? She frowned and played it on speaker - her face dropping to a very unimpressed look once she recognized Lyra's voice.

However, that also didn't last very long since it was basically her cousin calling her out, albeit a bit wrong with the details. "Jesus, Lyra.." She swore as she ended the message. "If only she was an agent.. Didn't think she'd notice I snuck out... but why would she think I was with one of the waitstaff off all people when she knows who I'm interested i- When she knows I have no interest in them." She looked down at her screen again, "Why is she even up at this hour?"

RIKKE

Rikke wasn't quite as startled by the phone going off, having heard the vibration before the actual tone sounded. She had been about to offer the woman some privacy when she began to play the voice message right then and there. There was an amused grin on her features as she listened to the youngest Calvetti cousin bringing her usual brand of chaos even to a message. Her features only faltered slightly at the last remarks.

The witch's slip-up didn't go unnoticed, but Rikke wasn't going to press her either. If anything, she smiled easily and just said, "You know Lyra, even when she knows you like someone, it's not a deterrent for her to try and hook you up with someone else. In Luke's case, the 'someone else' being _her_ self." Her tone remained pleasant. The sting of there clearly being someone Phoenix was interested in, _and_ the fact she clearly didn't want Rikke to know was present but she'd get over it.

PHOENIX

The shorter woman bit her lip as she observed the other. Something just didn't sit right with her especially since it felt as if Rikke was misunderstanding who she was interested in. Granted, she hadn't been upfront about her feelings either but hearing it like this felt.. wrong and it didn't help that she noticed the woman's expression as they listened to Lyra's message.

"I want to say that the only reason why she'd set me up with someone else is so that she could hit on *you*." It felt like a reveal but one that wasn't surprising because Lyra was still hitting on Luke after learning the younger Paladin was quite literally the twins' other bio mom. "But obviously, no one can really stop her." She stopped to take a deep breath as if to gather all her courage for her next words. "...Honestly, there'd be no point in setting me up with someone else because I'm .. I'm interested in .. well, *you*."

RIKKE

The comment made Rikke's brow knit in confusion. "Well that doesn't make any sense, she's been hitting on -and a _very_ take Luke- since ever- Oh, unless you're saying she's set you up with others before...though I'm still unclear as to how that would directly impact her hitting on me." It had become one of the rare instances in which talking out her thought process _didn't_ help to clarify things.

"Oh..._oh_...I- are you sure? I'm not all that interesting. I mean, _you_, you are young and talented, and beautiful both inside _and_ out. I think Lyra was onto something when she said you could have your pick," she laughed nervously.

PHOENIX

It would've been adorable to see Rikke figure this out if it weren't for her own anxiety and nervousness as she braced herself for the woman's reaction once she understood what she meant. When the other started to downplay herself for some reason, Nix let out the breath she had no idea she was holding and took a step closer towards the Paladin while frowning.

"You are and have been interesting since the first day we meant. Rikke, you are .. amazing for lack of a better term, more amazing than what you apparently believe yourself to be ." Her eyes looked down and reached out to hold the woman's hands in hers again. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't into you since day 1... Learning that you were literally Luke and the twins' ancestors did surprise me which I still apologize for the way I acted.. But you're you.. And you're right saying that you're not defined by that and I should know that because I've enjoyed all the times we've spent together.

RIKKE

Of all the things that Phoenix said, her brain latched onto only one almost immediately. "You have _nothing_ to apologize for. No, it wasn't the best feeling," she chuckled, "_But_ it was also very understandable. It's not every day that you find out your new friend is technically someone's very great grandmother...even though they're the same age- Magic is fucked and we all end up in situations where the reality of it smacks in the face and catches unaware. It's all good."

There was a silent pause between them as Rikke offered Phoenix a reassuring smile, and the witch just seemed to look at her expectantly. "Oh! Right, yes. The other stuff you said. Sorry, brain is processing a bit slowly. It's not used to hearing such things and not have to also consider how acknowledging them would be a _terrible_ idea- Because it totally wouldn't be! Not this time. Not with you. I'm going to stop talking."

PHOENIX

She only smiled when Rikke answered to *that* of all the things she said. Still, Nix nodded to what the other was saying because that was pretty much the reason why she acted the way she did. To learn that she was basically hitting on her friend's great ancestors.

Even after all that, the Paladin still rambled on. Still on that adrenaline, the witch grabbed the taller woman by the collar and pulled her down so she could press her lips against the other. The height disadvantage she had, honestly. The shorter woman was literally tip-toing. '

RIKKE

There was the briefest of seconds where the sudden tug on her collar had Rikke thinking she'd managed to severely overstep and said something that would require the witch to bring her down to her level for a proper smack. The most telling thing about it all, was the fact that even though she believed this is what was going to happen, Rikke made no move to avoid being smacked to being with.

Obviously having been geared up for one thing, and instead being greeted with warm lips pressed against hers, it did cause her brain to stall for a moment as it processed the change of plan, but once she was on the same page, Rikke wasted no time in looping an arm around Phoenix's waist to help hoist her up as she herself lowered to meet her in the middle.

PHOENIX

Phoenix really hoped they were on the same page when she took the leap and kissed the other. She was about to back off but fortunately, Rikke did not have her in suspense for that long before she reciprocated the kiss. Her very muffled and abrupt squeal when she was suddenly lifted up into the air.

A arm wrapped around the other, and the other elbow rest on the woman's shoulder while her fingers played gently with the hair. Even while they were doing this, Phoenix still couldn't quite believe that Rikke was actually kissing her back. She really should've done this earlier if she had known Rikke felt the same way.

RIKKE

Rikke gently set Phoenix back as reluctantly pulled away just enough for them to be able to catch their breath. "At the risk of embarrassing myself, I'll admit to having wanted to do that pretty much since the night we met," she whispered with a chuckle.

Rikke didn't rush anything though, taking the time to run her hand through Phoenix's hair, hand coming to rest at the woman's jawline, gently cupping her face. "Magic or not, I don't think I'd ever find a way to describe that gaze of yours other than absolutely bewitching."

PHOENIX

She couldn't stop smiling even when they broke apart despite both their reluctance. Her body just naturally leaned in closer - if it was even possible given their distance. Somehow Phoenix didn't expect that confession. "Really?" She whispered, almost giddily. "What a coincidence, I was the same."

With the hand on her, she instinctively leaned into it. That snuggling Calvetti trait simply shining through at this rate. Said eyes soften at the compliment; something about the way the Paladin described her had her melting. "God, why are you so romantic?" She tiptoed again to steal another kiss.

RIKKE

"I think the only thing that stopped me that night, was the fact that we had an audience in the form of the shared braincell that is Lyra and Maths," Rikke admitted, somewhat emboldened by the witch's own confession. "Of course, once we regained all of our past memories, it was less the audience and more the repression that made it easier to just run every little action through the 'that's just what friends do' filter."

Happily obliging to the stolen kiss, Rikke chuckled at the question before replying, "Well I did hang out with Emily Dickinson a bit." She lent down to give the woman another kiss of her own before slowly pulling back and saying, "If that convenient phone call is anything to go by, you're probably going to have a lot of questions to answer to _if_ you go back to your room..."

PHOENIX

“I think Lyra was actually disappointed that nothing happened that night other than the dance. Meanwhile Maths just didn’t want to be stuck with her *alone*.” Her nose lightly brushed against the other’s. “Mmm. Now you don’t need that filter with me. But it’s also because things really hadn’t calmed down since we got back in town. Event after event. As we’ve said, Fallcrest doesn’t let us breathe.”

Her jaw sort of hung there at the idea that Rikke actually hung out with *the* Emily Dickinson. “That is.. “ So cool, she would’ve said but was interrupted by the kiss, not that she minded. “How accurate was the show?” She *had* to ask. Then her curiosity turned into dread. “Oh god, I… How shameless would I be to ask if I can just be your new roomie.” She sighed, “I don’t want to deal with her yet.”

RIKKE

"The fact that Lyra holds expectations for _other people's_ interactions is not as surprising as it should be," Rikke noted. "I think Teagan may be the only one that can handle Lyra alone, I mean, you tend to only deal with her one-on-one at bedtime so..." The paladin nodded and hummed in agreement. "Considering this is the quietest things have been recently, I wouldn't be surprised if all the adults took advantage of the babies' sugar comas to sort themselves out." If the emotions she was picking up from Luke _way_ in the back of her head were anything to go by...

Blue-eyes narrowed a bit as she thought about the question. "You know, I only even learned about the show because Miles wanted me to watch it with her. I'd say it was accurate enough. Emily, poor dear, was twice as gay, twice as sick, and and twice as depressed because of how it all played out. Also, she was a witch, hence why I wound up involved." Rikke laughed at the response and said, "You're more than welcome in my room any time you'd like, _but_ that doesn't guarantee there won't be questions. If anything, there might be _more_ questions."

PHOENIX

"He is the only one. You have no idea how thankful we are to have Teg in our lives." She chuckled. "Lyra's got a soft spot for him even if she never admits it. He's been able to wrangle Lyra when all of us failed so that's saying something." The witch hummed, "I'm sure everyone's taking advantage of the peace and quiet, as short-lived as they might be." Who knows when the babies would wake up.

Phoenix's eyes grew even larger, "She was a witch? Oh my god, that's.. Wow, I never expected that. To think she was a witch too? ... Did you guys secretly date?" She joked before letting out a groan again, "I don't want to deal with it today at the very least. Maybe not tomorrow - maybe I'll avoid her until I could actually give her answers and/or deflect. Keg's plan on letting her be the last to know is honestly the best plan."

RIKKE

"That boy is a godsend. From what Lucas has told me, he's been there not only to keep Lyra in check but to help Luke through some of the most difficult moments. If Lyra doesn't wife him up, she'll be sorry when someone else does," Rikke said, casually dropping in the lingo she'd learned from the twins...hopefully in the right context.

"No, we didn't secretly date," Rikke said with a roll of her eyes. "She was my charge, and her heart was claimed by and always belonged to Sue. I did help them meet up far more often than is documented, just by virtue of being able to orb them into the same room though." The blonde let out a laugh and said, "It's going to be kind of hard to make it to where Lyra is the last to know when I'm pretty sure she's been watching us this entire time."

PHOENIX

Phoenix agreed with everything she said about Teagan. That boy was such a blessing to have. They really were quite the trio; all of which was roped in by Lyra no doubt. Her eyes did go up when she heard Rikke suggest Lyra to 'wife' Teagan up. "Teagan, patience of a saint. I'm rooting for them. Endgame as they say."

"Ohh. That's cute. You just orbing them to have *their* secret rendezvous. Orbing really is so convenient; honestly wish I could orb - saves the car trip being trapped on the road for hours with Lyra." She really loved her cousin but as everyone in the family agreed, one could only handle Lyra in small doses. Again, Teagan with his saint-like patience. She whipped her head around to see if Lyra was actually watching them ever since - or even before - the text. "Is .. Wait, do you sense her around?"

RIKKE

"Good things cone to those who wait," Rikke remarked. "And I can personally attest to that being true now more than ever. Hopefully he won't have to wait centuries though. Still a human, after all."

Rikke smiled and said, "The next best thing to having love, is being able to see the look on the faces of those whom you help find it. And orbing is very much a handy tool, but not very stealthy. I want whatever Luke, and probably the twins, have. Do wish I had more answers for them." She was briefly side-tracked by that thought before laughing at Fee's question. "I don't need magic to sense that one."

PHOENIX

"I'd say we should help him but Lyra listens to no one." Phoenix shrugged since it sure wasn't about lack of trying. Lyra was the infamous Hurrnado for a reason.

"No, I wouldn't think it's all that stealthy - the bright light is *really* telling. Like you have a better chance of 'hiding' it during the day than when you orb at night." Her smile softened, "Luke is all about that patience too.. To think she waited for Keg for so long - even having taken care of the twins on her behalf." She sighed, "I'm beginning to think the entire Holstein family tree is a bunch of romantics." She groaned, "She's stalking us right now, isn't she? Nope, not heading back. let's go to your room and when time lets us.. orb me back into the room so I can grab my things."

RIKKE

"That's the thing, isn't it. We all just be default always go with 'Lyra listens to no one' but as we were just discussing, she clearly listens to both herself _and_ Teagan. If anyone will be able to figure out how to get a point across to Lyra without any help, it'll be him...eventually."

Rikke looked unimpressed with the commentary, and jokingly threw in, "Well just go ahead and tell me blue is your most hated color while we're at it." She couldn't help the look of pride and almost wonder that overtook her features at the thought of her descendant. "Lucas is...something else entirely. The way she's been putting those girls first, from day one, and not even remotely considering they were hers. I can't claim that comes from any side of the family, to be honest. It's all her." Rikke laughed at the groan and simply said, "Yeah sure. Let her see us orb off together and then have her not see _you_ until a later time. That'll keep her quite, surely."

PHOENIX

Though they had broken up, Nix was still rooting for Teg and Lyra - they felt like endgame afterall. "I'm really glad that Lyra - and Luke - has Teagan." She concluded.

She shook her head as she bit down her lower lip, "I didn't say I hate it." She chuckled, "Hmm, perhaps.. Though I do have a feeling you might do the same." It did back up her belief that the entire Holstein tree was romantic, and really the best people in general. "Either way, it's admirable, what Luke did - And it looks like she got the girl too in the end. Patience of a saint, the two of them." There was a slight pause when a thought came to mind, "Or does that say something about us Calvettis?" Her arms came down, only to wrap themselves around the woman's waist, "I don't think it'll keep her quiet, but at the very least, she won't be able to bombard me with questions?" Her tone went up with uncertainty. "I just want to be here with you and not think about what my cousin will say with that unfiltered mouth of hers."

RIKKE

"Oh you have a feeling? Is this your way of easing me into the news that you have a child or even chil_dren_ that I have yet to be made aware of? I mean, I think after dealing with Lyra just so I could get to spend time with you as a friend, I'd be prepared to take a few 'your not my mom' s if it means getting to get a proper _goodnight_ instead of whatever awkward dance we've been doing," Rikke teased.

The blonde chuckled and simply said, "I'm old, Fee. I can recognize a trap when I see one." No way was she commenting on the Calvettis right now. Wasting no time in wrapping her own arms around the smaller frame, she placed a kiss to the top of Phoenix's head and said, "Alright, alright. Consider your wish granted."

[dongofthewolf]

Slowly Learning That Life Is Okay

Abby Anderson x Fem!Blind!Reader

Sweet sweet fluff about fear of intimacy where Abby rescues the reader and they unexpectedly become closer.

Requested by @rianncreates

Warnings: swearing, fluff, minor violence(?), cute gay shit :)

A/N: I am not visually impaired but I really tried my best to write a character whose lack of sight doesn't define them. I wanted to portray how our differences don't define us; we're all connected in a way (as cheesy as it may sound), and it makes me sad to see small things like not being able to hear/see divide us.

Ever since you were a kid, people have always had a hard time looking you in the eyes. Due to your condition, they appeared hazy and almost grey; something that made a lot of people uncomfortable. In fact, most people don’t even know it, but you can actually tell when someone is turning away so they don’t have to face you. There’s a certain recognizable sound when someone purposely looks away to avoid affording you the basic decency of eye contact, and it’s dehumanizing as fuck. It didn’t matter that you weren’t completely blind, it was enough that you were still alienated from the rest of the world. They didn’t see you as a person, to them you were your blindness–it defined you. It’s the reason people were afraid to interact with you, why kids were always so cruel to you, and why you always kept people at an arm's-length. That is, until you met Abby.

Abby was unlike anyone you had ever met; she was the first person who saw you—truly saw you. While most people knew her to be Isaac’s top scar killer, you knew her as the girl who tended to your wounds after she found you patrolling the city. She was the smell of pine and fresh rain that filled your senses, and her voice was like a soothing ailment when she calmly reassured you that everything would be fine. 

In the WLF infirmary, Abby never left your side. It’s not like your injuries were super severe or anything, but she stayed with you regardless. She wrapped your arms with fresh bandages when they needed changing, and got you desserts from the cafeteria using her connections to Isaac. After a few days, you quickly learned that the two of you had a lot in common and soon she was visiting you almost every day.

It’d been a month now and you’ve officially made the WLF stadium your new home. You and Abby were sitting in your room while she read to you with that same lovely voice. It had become a habit now; Abby had read to you in the infirmary, and ever since then she's been coming over so she can share all her favourite books with you. She was just starting a new chapter when you interrupted her. “Abby?”

Abby instantly stopped reading, and you could feel the bed shift as she sat up to face you. “What’s up?” 

“Can I ask you something?” You were nervous. Although she had been nothing but kind to you, you didn’t want to ruin what happened to be the closest friendship you’ve had in a really long time. 

You could hear her smiling as she answered. “Anything.”

You hesitated; you’d never normally do this with anyone else, but you trusted Abby. As you sat there contemplating your next words, Abby gently took your hand before continuing with that same reassuring tone she had used when you guys first met. “Hey, you know you can always talk to me right?”

Her hands were so warm. It was such a small detail that most people probably wouldn’t notice, but for some reason it was all you could think about in that moment. They were rough and calloused from years of combat but whenever she touched you, it was delicate and light. It was as if she was afraid that she would hurt you, even though you knew she never would. God, why can’t you think straight while she’s holding your hand like that? Fuck, it shouldn’t be that hard.

You struggled to get the words out, like something in your chest was weighing you down. “I just… I don't want things to change.”

“Hey, nothing you say could ever push me away. Okay?” Abby was softly caressing the top of your hand with hers as she set the book aside.

“I was wondering if I could…” Fuck, how were you supposed to say this? You paused trying to decide how to word it, but it still came out wrong. “feel your face?” 

Abby didn’t respond, and if she hadn’t been holding your hand then, you would’ve thought she had left. After waiting for what felt like a whole five minutes (but was probably closer to thirty seconds) you were starting to get nervous. “Abby? You still there?”

Your voice must have snapped her out of it because she responded immediately. “Yeah, sorry I just… I was expecting something a lot worse. Like you murdered some kittens or something.” 

You giggled at the sincerity in her voice, relief flooding through you. “Kittens? God Abby who the fuck do you think I am?”

“I don’t know! I thought you were admitting some deep dark secret.” Abby nervously laughed along with you, her hand never leaving yours. 

As you both settled down, Abby shakily brought your hand to her cheek, silently signalling to you that it was okay. You hesitantly caressed it, softly stroking the lines of her cheekbones with a smile on your face. Your hand then slowly moved up towards her forehead, your fingers tracing the scar above her eyebrow. The scar was thin like from a blade or a scrap piece of metal, and you couldn’t help but wonder how she had gotten the scar–wondered how many scars she had gotten after years of fighting in that senseless war. 

You’d never say it out loud because the WLF had saved your life, but the war with the Seraphites was unnecessary and quite frankly, useless. All of the so-called “sacrifices” being made for the sake of some fucking land was just stupid and greedy. 

You weren’t really a religious person–especially considering the whirlwind of shit you’ve been through–but if this whole virus was a result of some higher being thrusting humans into extinction? You couldn’t blame them. All these survivors were granted a second chance to better themselves, thousands of people by some miracle had survived the outbreak, only for them to revert back to the same tired, old ideology of war and power. You supposed that even after all these years, humans never really change.

Your fingers moved slowly back down, passing the bridge of her nose and her Cupid’s bow before reaching her lips. They were soft and parted slightly when you reached for them, but she still didn’t move.

Abby stayed incredibly still as you took your time feeling her face, exploring every crevice—every detail of her subtle features. You could feel a stray strand of hair hanging next to her face, so you lightly brushed it behind her ear before bringing your hands back down to rest on your lap. But before you could fully pull away, your hand brushed up against something rigid and stiff. It took you a moment before you realized that you were touching her huge bicep, and you were astonished at her strength. It also took you a minute before you realized that you were literally feeling up her muscles, causing a sudden heat to rush towards your cheeks as you quickly retrieved your hands. 

“Oh um… sorry I didn’t mean to- I mean I didn’t realize-” You tried to get the words out but you couldn’t. “Fuck this is awkward.”

Abby chuckled watching you get all flustered from touching her arms, and then out of nowhere it slipped out. “God you’re adorable.”

Then there was a pause, you weren’t sure you had heard her correctly but from the way her laughing suddenly came to a halt, you were sure she had just said what you thought she did.

“Uh, shit. I should… I should go.” Abby began standing up but before she could, you reached out and grabbed her arm. You pulled her towards you again, tracing your hand back towards her cheek as you gently cupped the side of her face with your palm.

“Don’t go.” Abby’s cheeks grew warm under your touch. You wanted more than anything to tell her how you feel–how you’ve felt for her since the moment you two had first met. 

After spending so much of your life consumed by this irrational fear of abandonment and intimacy, you had let someone in. You lowered the barrier that you had spent so long building because of her. And of course it was easy to assume that you liked Abby just because she was one of the only people you hung out with, but it wasn’t like that. Abby wasn’t like the rest of your friends or family because she was never overbearing; most people were quick to treat you like a child or some helpless creature, but she never did. She gave you space when you needed it, but she also never made you feel lonely. Her presence was calming and comforting. Abby gave so much and expected nothing in return.

The possibility that your feelings for her were reciprocated made your heart flutter, but it was also really scary. This was entirely new territory; relationships were never a priority for you by any means, especially since survival has always been your prime concern. But now that you’ve found asylum here with the WLF—with Abby, you were safe. You were free to live, free to enjoy the prospect of a somewhat normal life, and you better believe you were going to take full advantage of this newfound normalcy.

You leaned in towards Abby, your foreheads touching and your lips just millimeters apart. As you placed both of your hands on her cheeks, Abby stayed impossibly still as her nose softly grazed yours. Abby’s hands landed on top of yours as she held them against her face, securing them there like she was afraid you would leave. 

Then–as if it wasn’t the most terrifying thing ever–you kissed her. It was delicate and gentle, and you nearly cried because of how perfect it was. And although you had just felt her lips with your fingers, nothing compared to how they felt against yours. They were so soft you wanted to melt into them, and in that moment you nearly did. Your body involuntarily leaned into her, your arms falling against her broad shoulders in an effort to support yourself, before slowly moving to wrap around the back of her neck, pulling her even closer. All that built up tension from weeks of spending nearly every day together suddenly dissipated the moment you closed that gap, and those tears that had previously threatened to fall suddenly did. Small teardrops fell from both your eyes and wet your cheeks, causing Abby to pull back slightly as she wiped them with the pads of her thumbs. “What’s wrong?”

You gave her a small smile as you chuckled slightly. “Nothing, I just… I really like you Abby.”

As soon as the words fell out, Abby laughed softly before embracing you for a kiss once again. When the two of you finally pulled apart Abby spoke again with that same heavenly voice of hers. “I really like you too Y/N”

[cherienymphe]

Protect & Serve III (Steve Rogers x Reader)

WARNINGS: Cop!Steve, mentions of abuse, violence, STALKING, HARASSMENT, eventual KIDNAPPING/NON-CON

IF ANY OF THIS OFFENDS YOU, PLEASE DNI

➥ {page breaks done by @whimsicalrogers}

summary:  escaping an ugly past, you have no choice but to return home. While much has remained the same, Officer Rogers is a new addition who has won over the hearts of the town in your absence. And no one believes you when you start to see him for who he really is

~

The man behind the counter welcomed you with a warm smile as you approached. Maybe he could sense your uneasiness as you hesitantly placed your hands on the counter, looking at him with a nervous smile.

“Hi,” you quietly greeted. “Um… I need a gun.”

The brunette chuckled, blue eyes filled with mirth as he eyed you.

“No kidding,” he replied, gesturing around to the rest of the gun and hunting and supplies store.

“Right,” you chuckled. “I just… I need something small and easy to handle.”

You bit your lip, and his face slowly grew solemn as he ran his eyes over you.

“You don’t look like a hunting kind of gal,” he quietly insinuated.

You shook your head.

“No.”

He nodded in understanding before inhaling as he straightened, turning to eye the wall behind him. He paced, eyes roaming over the assortment of guns, and you took the time to look around. Never in your life did you imagine yourself in a place like this, but you were tired of being a sitting duck in someone else’s twisted games. You’d been through that once already…

“Here…”

You turned, eyes falling to the small gun in his hand as he neared the counter again. It was small enough to throw into your purse or hide in your car, whenever you got a license, and it looked easy enough to operate. It was perfect.

“I want this one,” you told him.

“Figured you would. It’s a Ruger LC9. It’s a 9mm caliber semi-automatic. Super simple to operate and will still get the job done,” he murmured.

He showed you how to load it, turning the magazine over and going over its features. You nodded as you followed along and grabbed your wallet without hesitation. He eyed you again as he took your cash.

“You talk to the police?”

“For what?” you wondered.

“For whatever’s got a girl like you buying a gun on a Monday morning,” he explained.

You sighed.

“Yeah, I’ve talked to them, but since no crime has been committed, there isn’t much they can do. I refuse to just sit around and wait for someone to hurt me. I’m done with that,” you told him.

He nodded and stuck his hand out.

“The name’s Clint. If you have any questions or…need to come back here, you know how to find me.”

You shook his hand and threw him a grateful smile.

“Thanks.”

The weapon felt so heavy in your purse, and even though the safety was on, you were careful in placing the bag in your car. The ride home was spent stewing over your thoughts. There was too much that you had to consider, and instead of spending the rest of the summer making lesson plans for when school started back, you were worrying about some stranger stalking your house at night.

Here you were doing the cops’ job for them.

That thought drew your mind to Officer Rogers, and you clenched your jaw. There was a time when you gave people the benefit of the doubt, but after your marriage, you couldn’t afford to do that anymore. How glad you were to be wary of the blond cop from the beginning.

His behavior had officially crossed questionable and dove straight into terrifying. You feared to imagine what would have happened had you accepted his proposal for dinner. You didn’t understand his behavior…not one bit. Was he punishing you for turning him down? Surely, that couldn’t be it. It seemed so…silly. Childish even.

Wanda had stated that just about every woman in town had been trying to lock down the man since he moved here. You could believe it. You’d have to be hard of seeing to deny how attractive he was, and coupled with his profession, you could definitely see why he was popular with the women in town. He was a seemingly kind man with the face of an angel, sworn to protect those in need. He was like something out of a cheesy romance novel.

You knew better though.

You’d been on the receiving end of his gaslighting tactics, his nicely veiled threats, and his wandering hands. The real kicker about his behavior though, was that he hadn’t done anything concrete enough to go to anyone with. None of what he did was objectively outright enough to report him with. Wanda had already asked you if you’d misunderstood his quip about your past abuse. You could just imagine anyone else’s face when you told them of how he brushed your waist and held your hand. ‘Oh, the horror!’ they’d say.

You hid your gun in your nightstand as soon as you got inside of your house. You hoped that you wouldn’t have to use it. You’d never been the type to resort to violence, but your ex-husband had changed all of that. If the cops wouldn’t do their job and protect you, without an incentive, then you’d do it yourself.

Hours later, you did just that.

You were half asleep anyway, having been going in and out of consciousness all night. The noise had come from the front of your yard this time, and you peeled your eyes open, slowly blinking as you heard it again. You had swiftly flicked the switch on your lamp and slipped your hand into your drawer to grab the weapon you’d bought.

You licked your lips, slowly sitting up. You looked down, making sure that the safety was off just before exiting your room. It was quiet outside as you quietly crept downstairs. You felt silly, standing in your living room in your oversized t-shirt, both hands on this toy-sized gun. You glanced at all of the windows, and when you didn’t see anything, you crept into the kitchen.

The silence made you nervous because you knew he was still out there. You turned towards the window and didn’t see anyone through the curtain. You weren’t convinced though, and you remained still. Sure enough, a bulky silhouette came into view as they glided past the kitchen. With wide eyes, you raised your arms, the gunshot making your ears ring as glass shattered.

You watched as he clutched his arm before taking off, a deep grunt traveling through the broken window. Hurriedly, you ran after him, throwing the door open before sprinting outside. Your yard was empty, and you had your gun raised before you as you paced the yard, spinning around. It was quiet…empty of anyone else it seemed.

They were gone, but fortunately, you knew that you’d hit them. You were just about to lower your weapon when you had a thought. With wide eyes, you ran back into the house. You were quick in grabbing your phone from upstairs before sprinting back outside. You turned the flashlight on as you neared the grass just below your window.

There, before you, were a few spots of blood, and hope bloomed in your chest. You let out a chuckle, feeling confident for the first time in a while. You put the safety back on the gun and laid it on the kitchen counter as soon as you were back inside. You grabbed a paper towel, stepping back out into the cool night air. You were wiping up the blood with the napkin when red and blue flashes suddenly filled your vision.

You stood and turned, watching as a police cruiser parked along your curb. The cop who stepped out was familiar to you, but it wasn’t the last person you wanted to see. Bucky strode across your yard to approach you, a less than enthusiastic look on his face.

“We got a call about gunshots. They listed your residence as the source,” he said as soon as he was close enough.

Your lips parted, and you glanced away. The blue-eyed man sighed at that.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” he admonished.

“What other choice did I have? None of you can do anything until I get hurt, and why would I wait around for that? The state doesn’t require a license to keep one on my property. It was self-defense,” you defended.

He frowned at that, running his eyes over you, alarmed.

“What was self-defense?” he slowly questioned.

You shoved the napkin at him, and his eyes widened.

“I shot him…Officer Barnes. I know I did! I got him in the arm, and now you have his blood, his DNA! You can test it, see if there’s a match in the system-.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” he said, attempting to calm you down.

You hadn’t realized that you were talking so fast, and you apologized.

“Here,” you said, turning to walk into your house.

He followed you, watching as you put the bloody napkin into a Ziplock bag before handing it to him. He gingerly took it, eyeing it before heaving a sigh.

“Well…the evidence is pretty damning. We’ll test it as soon as possible,” he eventually said.

Sighing in relief, you nodded. You watched as he leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied you. There was a twinkle in his blue eyes, and it struck you how much like Steve’s they were.

“Ms. Y/L/N…is there anyone who’d want to hurt you? Anyone at all?”

You opened your mouth to reply in the negative when you suddenly froze. Familiar blond hair and blue eyes came to mind, and you blinked, a realization falling over you.

“Killian,” you murmured as if just remembering him.

“Sorry?”

You shook your head, eyes meeting Bucky’s again.

“M-my ex-husband. He’s the only one I can think of…”

“I assume it ended badly?”

“That’s an understatement,” you scoffed. “He was advised by his lawyers to go through with the divorce when I filed. It wasn’t his choice, at all, but it was in his best interest.”

The other man simply stared at you.

“He wasn’t…a good man. Not at all. I wish I could say all of it was verbal and psychological, but I had no choice but to come clean when I landed in the hospital. It wasn’t looking good for him and refusing to go through with the divorce would make him look worse,” you explained.

Bucky sharply inhaled, nodding.

“I see…”

“I…can’t believe that I’d never considered him before. He has money, but I’d never thought he’d find me so quickly,” you murmured.

Bucky made his way to the door, and you followed.

“I’ll get this down to the station. You be careful with that gun,” he advised, and you nodded. “Have a good night.”

And for the first time in weeks, you did.

“You look well rested,” Wanda complimented, bringing your plate to you.

You returned her smile with a genuine one of your own.

“I feel well rested. Hopeful, actually,” you replied.

“That’s good! So I take it things are a lot better at your place, now?”

“They will be,” you cheerily said, digging into your food.

“I’m glad to hear it, and what great timing too. It seems like Steve might be out of commission for a few days,” she told you. “So, it won’t be him responding to any 911 calls.”

You blinked up at her. You couldn’t care less about the blond cop in any way, and the information actually filled you with relief, but your curiosity got the better of you.

“Why?”

“He was shot,” was her simple response.

However, it made you feel anything but simple. You almost dropped your fork as you eyed her, brows furrowing as your heart dropped to your stomach.

“…what?”

“Yeah, in the arm…”

It felt like someone took a knife to your chest.

“…the word is that he was involved in a hunting accident.”

You forced yourself to swallow, mind whirling.

“When?”

She hummed, thinking.

“The day before yesterday, I believe,” she answered.

You wanted to be relieved at that, that it wasn’t last night, but…it all seemed too coincidental. No…there was no way. The thought alone made you want to be sick.

“How…awful,” you whispered.

“I know,” she pouted. “I’m baking him a cake tonight. Figured I’d head up to his house to deliver it to him.”

You pressed your lips together, trying, and failing, to talk yourself out of what you were about to do. You knew that you were paranoid, you’d never deny that, but you owed it to yourself. If only to quell your fears. You had to see…

“Uh…when are you heading over?”

“Probably in the morning,” she said just before welcoming some customers in.

“Can I come with? I’d like to check in on him too…”

She looked at you with a sly smile, and you grimaced.

“Growing on you, is he?”

“Hardly,” you scoffed. “It’s just… He’s always entertaining my concerns, responding to every call I’ve made. I feel like the least I can do is check on him, you know?”

She nodded, buying your lie.

“That’s really sweet of you. I’ll swing by your house around 8,” she said. “He lives pretty far out, so it’ll take about 45 minutes to get there.”

You nodded, and she left to go deal with some customers.

You swallowed, appetite lost, and you pushed your plate away. Your paranoia was really getting the best of you because a part of you actually believed that the person you shot last night was Officer Rogers. It was the most outlandish thing to think. The man was an officer of the law, and even though he proved that he didn’t deserve that title, there was a pretty big gap in between some creepy touches and a full-blown stalker.

You knew how it would sound if you voiced your fears to Wanda. People hunted around here all the time, hunting cabins forever common. It was perfectly believable, but…it seemed too coincidental. Besides, you figured there was no harm in seeing for yourself just to put your fears to rest. However, a small voice in your head wondered what you would do if you didn’t put them to rest at all, but only increased them?

What if you only confirmed your suspicions?

This plagued you all throughout the night and well into the morning when Wanda pulled into your yard. You locked up your house and hurried to her car, goosebumps rising on your flesh from the cool early morning air.

“So how far does he live?” you asked as soon as you were in the car.

“Do you remember where Dr. Banner lived before he left town?”

You nodded.

“Past that,” she replied, and you blinked.

“Why so far out?” you wondered.

“Steve likes his privacy. Plus, he’s really a nature kind of guy. Homebody too. I know our town is no New York, but even it gets a bit too much for him sometimes,” she explained.

“Being secluded in a big house with Steve Rogers, out in the woods, sounds like something most women would be interested in. He definitely strikes me as the type to want kids and the whole nine, so why hasn’t he ever taken any offers? You said it yourself that he’s had plenty…”

You were beginning to realize that you didn’t know much about this man, at all. It seemed strange that someone like him hadn’t dated anyone in 6 years. You already knew that there was definitely something wrong with him, but could there be more? Like making you feel unsafe in your own home more?

“I don’t know,” she hummed. “He did have a short thing with Peggy when he first got here-.”

“Peggy? I could see that,” you said to yourself, wondering what had happened.

Wanda answered your unspoken question.

“Yeah, it didn’t last very long though,” she sighed. “She left as soon as it ended. I never did find out what happened exactly, but she was just gone one day. House emptied of everything, and her car was gone. I guess it ended pretty badly. Steve never talks about it.”

You frowned at that. You’d known Peggy growing up, and that didn’t seem like her. Unlike you, she was never the type to just take off. But so many years had passed. Steve came to town about 4 years after you left, and a lot could happen in 4 years. People could change, and you supposed that’s what had happened.

The rest of the car ride was filled with idle talk about things that had happened in the years. Wanda told you about her boyfriend, Vis. He’d move here about two years ago, and he apparently made her very happy. She’d been lonely ever since her brother Pietro had moved away not long after you did, and Vis apparently made her smile more.

Eventually the topic somehow came back to Steve...and Bucky and Sam.

“His name is James, but everyone calls him Bucky. Him and Sam were roommates in college and just remained that way ever since. They both moved down here about…4 years ago? They’re all like 3 peas in a pod, like brothers…”

Sam was Officer Wilson. You’d seen him in passing a few times, usually with Bucky. He seemed nice enough.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if one, or both, of them was up here already,” she said, taking a left into the trees.

The driveway was paved and long, curving every which way before it eventually straightened out. You realized that the car was going up an incline, and thick trees surrounded you on both sides. When Wanda said that he liked his privacy, she wasn’t exaggerating. The seclusion of it all could be considered peaceful if you ignored who lived here.

She pulled up in front of a nice two-story house, the light blue paint standing out amongst the dark trees. You had the small cake in one hand while you closed the car door with the other. You admired the scenery as you followed her. It was beautiful, there was no denying that, but the battered woman in you couldn’t help but to think how easy it would be to get away with anything. If you screamed, nobody would hear you.

You followed her around the side of the house towards the back deck, and with a start, you realized that the hill that the house sat on led down to a rather large lake. Fog hovered over the water in the early morning, and your lips parted at the sight, eyes running over the thick trees on the other side.

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you murmured.

“He had it built before he officially moved down here. I don’t blame him for spending all of his free time at home. Who’d want to leave this?”

She knocked on the backdoor, and your nerves spiked as you realized that you would soon be coming face to face with the erasure of your fears…or something that would only worsen them. It took a few minutes before you heard him approaching the door. A greeting was already on his lips when he opened it, but it died when his eyes landed on you.

“Wanda…and Ms. Y/L/N. Come on in,” he greeted, stepping back.

“Hey, Steve. I wanted to bring that cake by before I had to go to work,” she said with a smile.

You followed her inside and shuddered when your shoulder grazed Steve’s chest.

“Y/N wanted to check on you too, make sure you’re alright,” Wanda added.

You looked at him with a small smile, noticing the long-sleeved shirt he had on.

“It’s the least I can do after responding to all of my calls,” you told him.

He returned the smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I appreciate that,” he whispered. “You can just put it on the counter.”

He gestured to the kitchen, with his right arm you noted, and you followed his instruction. You could hear him and Wanda talking in the living room while you slid the plate on the granite countertop. You glanced around, noting how homey it looked. You weren’t sure why that surprised you.

“Rough night?” you heard Wanda ask him as soon as you reentered the living room

Your eyes followed as she gestured to the several empty beer cans on the tv stand. Steve chuckled, placing his right hand on his hip, the left hanging limply at his side.

“Hardly. Sam and Buck came by last night. We just got into a few beers, watching some game that was on,” he replied.

You licked your lips.

“How’s your arm? Wanda told me it was a hunting accident…”

His gaze met yours, and the corner of his lip quirked up into a small smirk. He gestured to his arm, his left one, and relief filled you as he spoke.

“Yeah, Sam and I got a little careless out there. It’s just a graze, but nothing to worry your pretty little head about,” he responded.

Wanda chuckled at that while you fought not to sneer. You were just thankful that you’d put your fears to bed. The man you’d shot last night, you’d gotten him in his right arm. Steve was injured in his left, and you allowed yourself to breathe now.

“Can I use your bathroom?” you suddenly asked him.

“Yeah, sure! Just down the hall there,” he told you, gesturing behind him.

You thanked him and walked past him, Wanda’s voice reaching your ears as she asked him something. You went for the first door on your right, hand on the handle, when you were startled by a presence.

You looked up as Steve placed his hand on the small of your back, eyes widening as he pushed you along. His fingers pressed into your waist, and you shrunk in on yourself, a frown covering your features at his close proximity.

“Not that one,” he quietly told you. “That’s the basement.”

Your eyes met his now, and you quickly looked away at the intensity there.

“This one’s the bathroom,” he continued, opening a door, and flicking on the light for you.

You murmured a quiet ‘thanks’, flinching when he squeezed your hip one last time before returning to the living room. Your jaw clenched. He may not have been a stalker, but he was still a creep.

“I... I don’t understand. How long does it take to test some blood?”

The policewoman before you pursed her lips, arms resting on her desk.

“It can take up to a few days-.”

“Which it has been.”

“Yes, but the sample has to be sent to a lab, and we have to wait for the results,” she explained. “I understand your concern…”

“Do you?” you mumbled.

She chuckled, green eyes sparkling with mirth.

“I do. Why do you think I have the job I have anyway? I like being able to protect myself and other people,” she told you. “There was a time when I wasn’t able to…”

You sighed, glancing around the busy station. It was empty of a certain blond cop, and you were happy.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re also a woman, so there’s no doubt that you definitely understand what I’m feeling. I just…I have to know who this person is. I don’t feel safe in my own house.”

“I know,” she replied. “Steve talks about you a lot.”

Your heart skipped a beat at that, face falling.

“…he does?”

She hummed.

“He wishes that he could do more,” she said. “He worries about you. Of course, with this blood sample, I imagine he’ll be doing a lot more worrying. This is proof that someone is out there every night, messing with you.”

“Do you think this will be enough to convince your boss to let someone stakeout my house?”

She mulled it over, humming.

“You know what? It might be. I’ll definitely bring it up,” she replied, and hope bloomed within you.

You fidgeted in your seat, worrying your lip, and she frowned.

“Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?” she asked.

Her tone of voice told you that she knew you did, so you figured it was best to just come right out and say it.

“If you are able to get someone to watch my house at night…can it not be Officer Rogers?”

Her frown deepened, and she ran her eyes over you. She leaned in, a red strand grazing the side of her face as she studied.

“Now why would you request that?”

You didn’t feel like you had a valid reason to give her, not one that she’d believe anyway. Steve was a town favorite, so you had to come up with something that would make her listen to you.

“You and Officer Rogers are friends, right? You care about him?”

“Of course,” she said, urging you to continue.

“I know that he worries about me, and that’s why I think someone else should be assigned to this. If it gets approved, of course. I just worry that lines may start to blur…”

She straightened up at that.

“How do you mean?”

You let out a soft sigh.

“He did ask me to dinner a while back, and seeing as I only recently got divorced, I refused. I’m just not ready, and I know that he understands and has no problem waiting, but…”

You chuckled.

“He’s just so sweet. I still feel so bad about it, and I don’t want to make this any harder on him. Until I’m ready, I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. I think it’d be best for everyone if an objective pair of eyes were on this. Especially for his sake…”

She hummed, nodding in understanding.

“No, Ms. Y/L/N, that’s perfectly reasonable. I’m glad to hear that Steve is finally trying to get back into the dating pool though,” she said, standing, and you followed her lead. “It took him long enough.”

You simply threw her a smile.

“Well, thank you for listening to me, and please, call me as soon as those lab results come back.”

“I will,” she promised.

Your shoulders felt lighter as you stepped out of the police station. Soon, you could find out who was tormenting you and they’d be locked up. In addition, you wouldn’t have to deal with Steve for a while…or ever again. You could finally breathe again. Soon you’d have nothing at all to deal with aside from lesson plans, and bratty kids were nothing in comparison to this.

As you neared your yard, you realized, with disappointment, that you would be eating your words. A sleek black car was parked on the curb, and it took a minute for you to realize that it belonged to Steve. You’d just seen him a few days ago, so you were unsure why he was paying you a visit. Apprehension filled you as you parked.

He was already out of his car and slowly making his way towards you when you stepped out of your own. You sent him a tense smile, standing beside your driver’s door as you eyed him.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” he greeted.

“Officer Rogers.”

“I came by to thank you for the cake,” he told you.

“Oh,” you said with a frown, shaking your head. “There’s no need. Wanda made it. I just carried it in the house.”

You brushed past him, nearing your house, and you could hear him following.

“Still. It was very thoughtful of you to come by and check on me. Especially considering the night you had before…”

You paused and turned to look at him, brows furrowed. He had one foot on your steps while you stood on the porch, neat blond hair pushed away from his face.

“…sorry?”

“Bucky. He told me about what happened,” he explained.

“Ah,” you softly said.

You shouldn’t have been surprised. Wanda did say they were like brothers, after all.

“I confess that’s partially why I’m here. I wanted to see how you were fairing. That must have been terrifying for you,” he admitted, blue eyes inquiring as they drank you in.

You glanced down.

“Yeah…it was, but…I didn’t have much of a choice,” you said, looking at him. “I know you all are just doing your job, and I suppose I can’t blame you for that, but… I couldn’t just sit around and wait for someone to hurt me.”

He hummed, eyeing you.

“So do you know who it is?”

You shook your head.

“No, but I did get some of his blood. I talked to Officer Romanoff today, and she said that the lab results should be in any day, now,” you repeated what she had told you.

He nodded, making his way onto your porch now, and you stumbled back.

“Look, if you need-.”

“Officer Rogers,” you boldly interrupted, giving him pause.

His blue eyes were focused entirely on you as you swallowed, determined to put an end to this.

“Um… I have something to say…”

He straightened up, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared you down, waiting for you to continue. Your tongue darted out to swipe over your bottom lip, and you took a deep breath.

“I’ve always tried to give people the benefit of the doubt. Always, but…since my ex-husband, I don’t think I can really afford to do that anymore. For my own sake…”

Steve’s eyes had darkened, and you fought to hold his gaze.

“Your behavior makes me uncomfortable…and I want to say that perhaps you aren’t aware of it, but I don’t believe that. I think you know how you make me feel.”

You watched as he looked down his nose at you, jaw clenching and eyes hard, and you forced yourself to continue.

“If I offended you…or hurt you when I turned you down, that wasn’t my intention. Believe me, that was the farthest thing from my mind, and I don’t appreciate you acting so inappropriately towards me for it.”

His chest heaved with his deep breath, and you watched the way his cheek poked out, probably from his tongue. Satisfied with yourself, you took a step back.

“That’s all I had to say,” you finished, turning to go inside.

“Ms. Y/L/N, wait,” he finally spoke, reaching for your arm.

“Officer Rogers, please! I-.”

Your words were cut off by his loud grunt, pain lacing his tone. You had reached out to push him away, not liking the way he’d grabbed you. You frowned, chest clenching, feeling like someone had dropped a bucket of ice water over you as you watched him clutch his arm…his right arm.

He had reached for your right arm with his right hand, and in retaliation, you’d turned and pushed your left hand against…his right arm. Realization hit you, and your eyes widened as you looked at him with different eyes. Eyes filled with a fear unlike any other you’d ever experienced.

You stumbled back, heart dropping into your stomach as his gaze finally met yours. He opened his mouth to speak, but you were already rushing inside, locking the door behind you just as his fist banged against it.

“No,” you whispered to yourself, shaking your head.

He didn’t knock again, and you moved to the side, watching his silhouette through the curtains. It was getting late, the setting sun casting shadows everywhere, and feeling like you were going to be sick, you noted that the shape looked awfully familiar. He just stood there for a painful amount of time before eventually taking a step back and leaving altogether.

You placed your hand on your couch, struggling to stand. It was no use. You collapsed to the floor on your knees, taking your table and lamp with you, the fragile décor shattering upon impact with the floor. You pressed your hand to your forehead, entire body trembling as you realized what your subconscious had always suspected.

Officer Steve Rogers was the one tormenting you every night.

 ~

tags: @xoxabs88xox @darkficreposter @mcudarklibrary @captainchrisstan @nickyl316h @buckybarnesplumwhore @harryspet @readermia @sebabestianstan101 @villanellevi @opheliadawnwalker3 @notyourtypicalrose​

 @coconutqueen21​ @briannab1234​ @stargazingfangirl18​ @lou-la-lou​ @izzfizzh​ @thatgirly81​

[vampiric-daydreams]

Revelation

Jasper x Reader

This is Part 5 of the Jasper miniseries. Here is Part 1.

Summary: Somewhere between the exhaustion of having your emotions literally toyed with and receiving some shocking news from Alice, you try to develop a deeper understanding of your situation. This leads to a shocking revelation about Jasper.

Word Count: 2,936

*

Something was definitely going on now, if it wasn’t already.

They sat at their table in the cafeteria, together but not interacting. Alice was looking anywhere but at Jasper, and Jasper seemed starved for her attention. He glanced at you, darting his eyes away when you noticed, almost as if he was ashamed. Alice’s gaze locked with your own mere seconds after, her gorgeous golden eyes pierced with pain. Even after spilling their secrets to you last night, they were still keeping something for themselves. You reflected on what Jasper told you before he left last night.

It’s important that you seek her when you’re ready to listen… You’ll like what she saw for you.

Jasper’s words, the distance between them both… Could it have something to do with that vision? Frowning at Alice, who was still staring back at you, you stood up and walked out of the cafeteria; knowing that she would follow behind you.

Minutes later, Alice met you by the drinking fountains outside a block of classrooms. Her hair, always styled to perfection, was slightly messy; but that in itself was enough to tell you that whatever had been going on last night had gotten worse. As she walked towards you, it was like she suffered more with every step.

“I’m sorry for freaking out last night, I-”

“Don’t apologise for that. It’s a lot to take in at once for anybody.” She forced a smile. You didn’t trust her.

“Well, I’m sorry. I’ve upset you and Jasper with my actions.” You paused. Was now the right time to ask for the rest of her vision? You took the plunge, anyway. “I hope it’s not an inconsiderate time to ask, but Jasper told me I needed to find out more of what you had to say? I shouldn’t have stormed off like that, and he made it sound like I missed something important back there.”

“(Y/N), only if you’re ready to listen, can we get away from here and go someplace a little more private?” For the first time, you noticed, Alice Cullen seemed human. No longer the paradigm of devastating perfection, Alice’s straight brows furrowed, and she toyed with her fingers. Giving her a nod in response, Alice led you away from the school and into the forest you had refused to follow Jasper into only yesterday. But this time, it was different. You knew the Cullens would not kill you, as much as they may want to. Something about Edward struck him as the hypocritical type who would campaign for your death to protect their secret, yet protect Bella at all costs in the same breath.

“He said I’d like what you saw for me. What does that mean?”

Alice halted in front of you, dwarfed by her surroundings of wide trunks and thick, mossy roots. The moist earth squelched beneath your shoes as you took your final steps before stopping behind her. She didn’t turn to face you. “I know about your arrangement with him last night—about how he’s using his gift to suppress your feelings—and (Y/N), it’s wrong.”

“It’s the only thing we can do. I can’t get over him. Even now that he’s out of range, I can feel the love seeping back into my heart.”

“It won’t work,” she spat. She turned around and glared at you. “Nothing either of you do will work and the rest of us have no choice but to accept it. Including me.”

“Alice, I-”

“I didn’t tell you about the rest of the vision I had—the one we’re living in right now.” You didn’t speak again, knowing it was probably easier for her to shoot everything at you at once. “I’ll skip how we were concerned about our secret being safe with you—I can’t afford for you to run off again. This is important. I saw you and Jasper together. I’ve done what I can to see if there’s a way around it, but it seems right. It’s like the universe keeps pushing you together in every alternate scenario,” her voice broke, “and he looked so happy with you.”

“I’m so sor-”

“I need you to hear this. It’s difficult for me to admit that Jasper and I might not be as perfect for each other as I hoped. When I first met him, I had already known we would be married and in love and with our coven. I had that vision twenty-eight years before I met him, and I shaped my entire life as a vampire around it. I practised vegetarianism long before I met him, I–” She cut herself off, almost sounding breathless. “I have to give you my blessing, because the Jasper I saw in that vision with you was a better version of himself, a happier version of himself. I thought I was meant to be with him, but I guess I was wrong.”

“It’s not like Jasper even wants to-”

“I’ve been distancing myself from him; trying to see if I might move on from him.  I had a vision and saw myself, perfectly content, with the two of you as a couple. He assumed the woman who changed him was his mate, but he was wrong. Perhaps I was wrong about him?”

“Alice! That can’t be right! He told me how long you’ve been married, there’s no way you wouldn’t have noticed sooner if that were the case!”

She gave you one last defeated expression before she left, and you were alone; your heavy heart threatening to drown you.

 *

 Two days had passed, and already your love for Jasper rising and falling like a Yo-Yo was exhausting. All of your energy had drained away. You flopped on your bed and laid there lifelessly; staring up at the ceiling you wondered why it had to be you. Why couldn’t you be a normal person with a normal crush on another normal person? You wondered if Bella ever felt that way.

We need to talk. You didn’t want your first text exchange with Jasper to be so blunt and cold, but you both needed to reassess the mood-control strategy; your body just wasn’t coping.

You went over Alice’s visions in your mind, playing them like a movie. Even through the guilt, your heart fluttered at the thought of a romance being a possibility. Had she seen you kissing?

A powerful sense of nausea hit you as your body threatened to vomit. You still wanted Jasper, and you were sure you always would—but what it was costing both of you was too much to bear. Stuck between the man you loved, who continued to discard you, and his wife who despite her own feelings was determined for you to take him from her. You were a mere human treading water in what felt like a vampire soap opera.

Lulling your head back against the soft pillows supporting you; you allowed yourself to drown, falling deeper and deeper into the sleep that consumed you. Tomorrow, you would get better answers—and you knew just where to get them. 

 *

 Bella Swan sat awkwardly beside you on the bleachers. She had gym class, but rolled her ankle; and you had a free period. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and she held an ice pack to her right foot.

You watched her as she lowered her chocolate gaze. “Can Edward read your mind, too? Is it weird dating someone who can do that?”

She still didn’t look at you. “No, I’m an exception… For some reason.”

“Bella, c-can—I mean—do you think Edward would speak with me? I know he hates me, but-”

Her eyes met yours. “He doesn’t hate you, he’s just concerned for Alice. But I’ll talk to him and see if I can get him to meet you if you don’t mind telling me what this is about?”

Had Edward even bothered to mention it? “Do you know about the Jasper and Alice thing?” The face she gave you said she did, and then her eyes hardened. “After what Alice told me earlier, and what Jasper said to me last night, I need better context. Edward can read minds so maybe he could tell me what Alice and Jasper both think about everything to help me decide what to do with myself?”

Bella fumbled with the ice pack as she readjusted it on her swollen ankle. “I don’t know…”

“Please, Bella. Jasper was so hot and cold with me the other night, and the way Alice keeps looking at me… I just feel awful. I’ve wanted to be with Jasper for so long, but I never thought it would be like this. I never knew I was wishing for decades-long marriage to end just so I could get what I wanted. Please, Bella. This is insane. All I did was have a crush on a cute boy at school and suddenly I’m the catalyst for vampire divorce.” She tensed at your use of the v-word in such a public place, but you ignored her. “I’m not asking to pry into their entire lives—just the stuff that’s related to me. How truthful was Alice being about giving me her blessing—even if that blessing gave me the right to swoop in on her husband? How is Alice seeing us being together, if Jasper is so worked up and telling me he’ll never love me? I don’t want to embarrass anybody or cause any more harm than I already have. I just want clarity. That’s all. Is that too much to ask?”

Bella hesitated, her top teeth sinking slightly into her plump bottom lip. She clenched the towel wrapped around the ice pack. “It’s reasonable. Look, I’ll talk to Edward later and see what I can do. It’s no fun for the rest of us either, right now.”

You reached over and pulled her into a tight hug. “Thank you so much, Bella.” She pushed away from you, clutching her ankle and wincing in pain. “Sorry…”

 *

 The Cullens hadn’t been at school that day, meaning a full day without Jasper’s interventions. It was the first time since the moment you struck your deal with him that you had energy to spare. You could catch up on homework and pay attention to a movie and simply be without wanting to pass out from exhaustion. But being the glutton for punishment this whole scenario was turning you into, you called Jasper. He didn’t pick up. You tried again.

“(Y/N), I told you-” he started, but you cut through his deep voice with your own.

“I want to alter our arrangement. Can you come over?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I’ll see you soon.” You hung up. The house was empty and silent, save for the sound of a leaky tap that still needed fixing. To distract yourself as you waited, you tidied up a bit. You washed the pile of dishes in the sink and wiped down the kitchen counters. You picked up the piles of clothes on the floor in your bedroom and actually put them away, folding each garment and telling yourself; he’ll be here after I fold this one. But you remained alone. You pulled your phone out from your pocket and dialled his number again, only to hear a message tone.

Tears pricked in your eyes as you understood he wasn’t coming—that he didn’t care about you or how his gift was affecting you. Surely Alice had been teasing you; dangling your hopes and dreams right in front of your face as payback for all the trouble you had caused her. She and Edward were probably laughing about it right now; laughing at the pathetic human who thought they had a chance. You took a shaky breath and grabbed your coat.

 *

 The inside of Bella’s house was cosy. You sat together in her lounge room with a cup of hot chocolate. Chief Swan wouldn’t be home for a few hours, and you couldn’t wait any longer.

“He said no, didn’t he?”

“Edward is… old-fashioned-”

You scoffed. “He thinks I’m immoral, then. I get it.” Your grip on the warm mug tightened. Bella’s sleeves were crunched up in her palms, and her inner debate about whether to continue speaking was clear on her face.

“But we’ve talked about what’s happening with you and he mentioned some things he heard.” She gave you a knowing look.

“Words… or thoughts?” Her lack of response gave you your answer. You put the mug on the coffee table and glanced around, your voice lowering into a whisper. “Is it safe to talk here? I appreciate what you’re doing, but I don’t want to ruin another relationship by involving myself.”

“They’re out hunting today. They’ll find out eventually, but nothing will happen. The Cullens are good, they don’t hurt people.” It wasn’t as though you thought Jasper was planning on killing you to protect his marriage. But you let her go on, dying to receive the intel you desperately needed. “We were driving home in my truck on the first day I transferred to your English class. I knew nothing at first, but when you started asking specific questions, I told Edward. He explained the situation to me—that by that point, you were on the path to discovery no matter what they did about it. I asked him if I could do anything to help, but he said it was useless. All of their energy had to be focused on making sure you accepted the truth instead of exposing them for what they are. Right as you figured it out, he told me Alice had a new vision that was split into two parts. While they were happy you wouldn’t do anything rash, the sight of you kissing Jasper-”

“Kissing-”

“-got them a little riled up at first.” She misread the look of astonishment on your face for one of fear. “Not at you, at him.”

“Jasper won’t have anything to do with me, though. How did we even get to that point?”

“Edward didn’t mention that, but said in passing how they both feel about it. Alice is devastated. Her entire world is crumbling, but she has enough grace and trust in her gift to let it be. She’s been thinking about leaving. There’s a ‘cousin coven’ in Alaska that she’s been contemplating staying with until things blow over. Jasper won’t let her go. No matter what she says to him, he refuses to leave her. He’s hell-bent on rejecting you -… sorry. But Edward said that when he suffocates your affection for him like you agreed, he isn’t happy. Jasper doesn’t enjoy doing it. Edward said that a part of Jasper likes that you like him.”

You couldn’t speak and only stared at Bella with an open mouth. Nothing he had done had showed that he liked your attention—even a tiny shred of it. Your blood boiled within your veins as you hardened your jaw and asked Bella through clenched teeth, “In what way?”

She looked at you, the alabaster skin on her forehead creasing with concern. “Edward didn’t elaborate. It could be reciprocation, but it could also be him just missing the attention? If I ask about it now, he’ll know what I’m doing so that’s all I can tell you at the moment.” She took a sip from her own hot chocolate, her long sleeves now wrinkled, and added, “It sounds like he’s conflicted.”

Your guilty heart skipped a beat as the words left Bella’s mouth. Images of Jasper Hale dipping you into a passionate kiss took over your mind, and you started feeling warmer. Perhaps you shouldn’t have doubted Alice’s gift right off the bat. What if it was going to happen? What if Jasper was only being harsh with you to stop himself from being too tender? You sculled your hot chocolate and slammed the mug back on the coffee table a little too hard; causing Bella to jump at your sudden action. You had to see Jasper again; and no matter how hard he tried to avoid you, you would make another meeting happen. You would ask him to tell you precisely what he was feeling, even if you needed to humiliate yourself once more to do it. 

So, you thanked Bella and rushed to your car. The sound of the roaring engine gave you a rush of adrenaline as you followed the roads of Forks—from memory—to the Cullens’ house. A thousand things were going through your mind, but you pushed them aside and pressed harder on the accelerator. As the lights and buildings morphed into a thick wall of trees, you could see the bright colours of the Cullens’ house peeking through the cedars. And waiting by the front of the property, arms crossed and fists clenched, was Jasper; whose eyes were burning holes through your skin.

*

Tags: @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @eggmettcullen @scuzmunkie @xcharlottemikaelsonx @oi-itsemily @cacti-succulents-andlesbians @aw0kenangel @jelly-fishy-babie @kawaiikpoplover268 @awkwardnesshabitat @salsameter @dillybuggg @awesomebooklover17 @badgirlsdeaddreams @raindancer2004 @camillapad @champagnejoker @tweedlydumbtweedlydoo @starrybumbles @bubblegumcat229 @boywivlove @mauvette268 @pleasantlycrazyworld @dissatisfactionbuthuman 

[seventfics]

Prickly Urchin

Written for @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

Prompt: Cursed Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Sigismund Dijkstra Rating: T (Swearing Language) Content Warnings: None Summary: Few people still alive can say they've met the emperor before his ascension to the Nilfgaardian throne. A young Count Sigismund Dijkstra is one of them. It's just that neither of them knew.

Read on AO3

* * *

“Ah, my friends. Let me introduce you to Count Sigismund.”

Three old gentlemen turn from their muted conversation to look at him—look up at him. Rare to find a man taller than himself, and today is not that day. Dijkstra keeps his smile pleasant as the eldest of the bunch gives him a firm handshake with a not-so-kind side-eye to his build.

This is the first of his ‘courtly’ parties.

In Dijkstra’s mind, the party is merely reconnaissance. In such small and comfortable confines, he can overhear the concerns of the noble elite as they are being spoken aloud, and not from a spy’s penned cipher. He can make note of their political conflicts with each other, their plans for retirement, and if any of it involves the Redanian crown.

He is an agent first. Count is just what the king has chosen him honorable of, and one more weapon to add to his slowly-expanding network.

Of course, attending personally means actually having to mingle and talk with the peacocking arseholes, which is a fucking pain in the bollocks.

He hates the attention his height affords him in times like these. Being noticed means more people bother him with questions and curiosities. But, it also brings whispers to him, names to remember and investigate later.

Adapting is part of a spy's job.

“I’m a humble servant of the king,” he tells the few who look to be snooping too closely at his unfamiliar presence.

“I am a lettered man of Oxenfurt,” he tells the ones who are searching for a status to preen about.

The rest simply get his name, and the evening fest continues.

He doesn’t care about what the evening is about. The important people, the connections, the information—that’s all that matters. Not the distasteful night’s attraction.

"You must stay for midnight, Sigismund. I've a delightful surprise planned for rare auction."

"Is that so?"

The rich love their parties, he knows, and oh how they love a little risqué presentation to end the night.

He is aware of what attending such a fete would also do to his reputation, but that is why, just as they bring out the girls who look too young to be drinking the chilled wine, he slips away into darkened hallways. No one will remember his face among the partying crowd. After a few rounds of drinks, no one will remember the face of the person that sat next to them all night. And he is counting on that.

Most of the guests have been asked to stay confined to the great hall, with servants moving in and out of special doors that connect to the residence’s kitchens. Dijkstra had been tracking the timing of the servant rotations, waiting for the right opportunity to slip through so his evening could start.

The manor is enormous, full of halls and a dozen small rooms, each with their own designated purpose. A book reading room. A letter reading room. A room that appears to be a library, with all of its books covered in dust as if no one’s moved them in a decade. Certainly the lord of the house has too much time in his fucking hands to have a room dedicated to books he won’t read.

Still, Dijkstra makes note of everything in his mental map. Such a place would rarely get visitors, none but a snoop like him on a night like this.

How strange though. A useless, dusty room for a dozen and more servants to ignore. The rest of the house looks so spotless. Smells like secrets get whispered inside these walls.

As he runs fingers through the spine of a book he recognizes from his old Oxenfurt days, he notices the uniform arc of furniture scraping the floor from repeated movement.

He never could resist a secret.

* * *

Of course he also hates musty cellar air worse than dust.

The side of the library’s shortest bookcase gave way to a slim doorway, one he had to squeeze through with effort. “Of–fuckin’–course there’s a bloody fuckin’ cellar under the fuckin’ richman’s house,” he says, mostly under his breath in case there’s someone at the other end of the sconce-lit hall. “It’s practically required decor. Need to make bloody note of that when I hire a mason for my own godsdamned manor...”

He slows at the small cells that emerge between shadows. There is a bear chained against the floor in one of them.

No—not a bear. Dijkstra squints in the lowlight. It’s long-limbed and man-shaped, with a net of spikes, or quills, sprouting out of its head and back.

Well, well. What a curious prize to have stashed away, is his intrigued train of thought.

The lock clicks when he inspects it, but the thing snaps its teeth at his fingers—suddenly close enough to grab him through the bars—and he is forced to push back to avoid losing a healthy digit. He can’t help the angry, “fuck off,” that comes out of reflex.

After its failed lunge, the creature assumes a defensive crouch. Although the chains keep it from scurrying to a dark corner, it still manages to create a significant distance where Dijkstra cannot touch it or its chain.

Strangely sharp eyes never move off of him, even from behind the shield of a wooly arm.

Dijkstra sniffs, and immediately grimaces at the damp, underground smell attacking his senses. “You’re a cursed thing, aren’t you. Smart. Maybe human once. Well,” he scowls harder at the grime and the pitiful secret inside a richman’s cellar, “you’re lucky I've no interest in mangy pets. I’ve also no taste for pointless cruelty and by the look of things upstairs, that's what's going to happen. So if you’re smart enough to understand a single fucking word I’m saying, get your spiney arse over here so I can pick the bloody lock of that chain.”

The creature stares at him for a gobsmacked, godsdamned minute. A minute that he feels inch by with building sweat, dreading an eavesdropper or worse, the lord coming down to poke and prod at its prize before his little midnight 'auction.'

Slowly, the creature slinks closer, the chain rattling as quietly as chains allow.

Dijkstra blinks to himself. So it is smart.

“I was never here,” he starts, turning the picks almost blindly, “I got lost on the way to the fucking loo, did three circles around the central room. I didn’t see or hear anything about a prickly arse man kept in a basement. I’m not a party person, and I hate competition.”

He mutters his alibi uselessly to the mute creature, with no sarcastic input or snappy retort. It's surprisingly trusting and patient, for an overgrown urchin that has no reason to trust a man he’s never met, especially given the circumstance.

“Phil is going to laugh at me,” Dijkstra continues under his breath anyway, “I came for intrigue and left because the most interesting thing in this house will probably get me killed to have discovered.”

“Thank you.”

Dijkstra raises his hands in mock surprise. “So it speaks.”

As if to be contrary, the urchin man keeps his silence again. Now absurdly sardonic of him. He should be kissing Dijkstra’s foot.

“If that's all, scram.”

The urchin man stands to its full height, which is considerably tall among most men, though not even close to Dijkstra’s imposing build. Not that it seems to be intimidated.

“I won't forget this,” it says, voice heavy with gravitas.

Dijkstra snorts. “You should.”

* * *

Years down the line, Karma finally catches up to the great Redanian Spymaster.

It was only a matter of time. It caught up to Radovid first. Now the Black Sun flies over the Redanian capital.

As a self-serving man, Dijkstra worked for and against both sides of the war. He held no regrets, certainly not for any kings whose heads might have rolled and paved way for better allies and stronger ties to him. He is aware of how an emperor might find that threatening. He’s not like Vernon fucking Roche, who is the most loyal, most frustratingly oath-keeping man he's met.

An enemy to the empire’s will, Dijkstra is brought before the emperor himself. In chains, of course. Can’t have an audience without fucking theatrics. He would do the same.

As he is herded through Foltest’s halls—bastard rest in peace—he is brought to a small staircase, one he takes slowly for his bone-aching leg.

“His Imperial Majesty Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, Lord of Metinna...”

Dijkstra zones out half through the list. He is the tallest man in the room and still his eyes fix themselves on the ground, weary from being herded around half the damn Continent only to be sentenced to death the proper bureaucratic way. At the marked end of the final title, he bothers to look up and sees an ordinary man emblazoned in black robes, red brocade, and gold chains.

And strangely sharp eyes.

He’s hit with a feeling like he’s seen them before, even though it should be impossible. A faded memory nearly rewritten itself into uneventful obscurity crawls out of the abyss.

The emperor stands. An unusual occurrence, going by the startled attention of the guards.

He looks at the spymaster but doesn’t say anything besides a short, apparently cut off, “you.”

Dijkstra has got to give it to him. The bastard gathers himself to gesture naturally really well. He might have even fallen for it, if he hadn’t already caught the wide look in those familiar eyes.

“You are the infamous Sigismund Dijkstra. Or is it Sigi Reuven now?”

“I like the sound of Reuven better.”

The dead silence tells him he broke protocol by not finishing with the obligatory, ‘your imperial majesty.’ More bureaucratic bullcrap that will get him hanged faster.

But the emperor simply blinks. And rounds the table to stand before him.

Dijkstra carefully keeps still, his back straight as it can be with how his busted knee bothers him. Then the emperor says something in Nilfgaardian, and the guards holding his arms behind his back retreat to the doors. Finally, he can put weight off of his cursed leg.

The room wordlessly clears at the emperor's raised hand.

It’s only in the forced privacy that he is spoken to again, with a very cryptic, “I never forget the favors I owe.”

The memory barrels through his tired brain like a horse-drawn carriage without a rider.

“You don’t owe me shite,” he says with a sniff. That urchin—that fucking urchin man he spared one ounce of pity that night. Became emperor of the godsdamned world.

From rags to riches, he thinks almost hysterically.

Emhyr lifts an eyebrow. “Are you sure you do not want an emperor’s favor?”

Well. When he puts it like that.

"Considering what these fun little trinkets promise," Dijkstra emphasizes with the rattling of chains, "I'm not so sure what I can do with that favor."

Now they're in familiar ground. Deals and offers and counteroffers—and the urchin emperor speaks the language like a fluent native.

Dijkstra keeps his eyes level with Emhyr's as the man circles him round calmly. He doesn't turn his head to follow where he steps. He doesn't need to. It's his ears that must stay alert and attentive to the words chosen for delivery.

“You danced around my agents and my own spymaster like they were children fumbling in the dark." Emhyr pauses to round him again but in the opposite direction. His profile is the very portrait of his imperial likeness painted and sold across the Continent. The artist of those really captured his stare. Respectful and arrogant at the same time. "You made a powerful enemy, Mister Reuven, and you've made yourself quite the competitor in the Redanian scene. But perhaps we can talk and see where our disagreements lie.”

“Disagreements? Light way to put it.” He scoffs, but there is no denying how bloody curious he is to test how far a favor from the emperor will reach. “Sure, I'll be amenable to a talk.”

* * *

When he tells Roche, the fucking vassal lord of Temeria just standing around the corner of the throne room, he laughs at the answering disgruntled, constipated face.

“You saved the emperor when he was a cursed urchin, and now you’re the collared prick at his beck and call?”

“Says the whoreson who gave him Temeria wrapped in a pretty bow.” Dijkstra sighs. Roche sighs too, but his is more soulful. “Ah, fuck it. We both gave him the rest of the world on a silver platter.”

“You don’t sound that angry about that.”

There is a creeping truth to those words. A spy adapts, and he is adapting to the current lay of the land and its rules.

Dijkstra taps his newly acquired cane on the polished floor, remembering a shady party and the cellar with an urchin man with too-sharp eyes. What would have happened, had he not freed the beast? Would the world be under a different iron fist, a crueler fist? Would it have all burned down already, with neither him nor Roche alive to bicker about it? Would it have been peaceful, with no room for spywork like his?

“Maybe I wanna see this through.”

He always did love the challenge of an abstruse, unreadable mind to win over. Kings were one thing, but an emperor?

His thoughts must be written plain as day on his face, as Roche looks at him like he's struggling between throttling him, or diving neck first into a clear bottle of Nilfgaardian Lemon.

[dindooku]

Ao3 - loulou1810

what you think might be your blessing may well be your curse... you hope it isn’t the latter

follow the story as you (reader) embark on a new life with the mandalorian.

will you find peace with yourself or will this be the spark to ignite your downfall?

tw - violence, suggestive themes

word count: 3,057

———

The overzealous grin dropped from your face as soon as the cell door slid shut, the air-tight lock hissing; twisting the dagger into your hopes of escape. Normally you were confident in situations like this, too confident. But now you knew, there was  no way out from this.

The cold metal pinched at the skin on your wrist as you writhed and contorted in an effort to gain some leverage, some space, some hope. It was no good. You were stuck, indefinitely. They knew that if you had your hands you’d make an easy case of escaping, but to your dismay, they’d clocked this, and so you were the only prisoner on the correctional transport vessel with stun cuffs.  Great.  Slowly you pulled yourself from the ground to right yourself from where you were laying after being thrown in, doing as best you could with the cuffs binding your wrist’s behind your back. Now slumped, knees bent and in a kneeling position facing away from the door, you began to take in your surroundings.

The cell which you were housed in was cold and dark, despite the bright white light that illuminated the small box, mirroring your feelings to a T, ‘ironic’. Four pristine white walls boxed you in, almost making you feel claustrophobic despite the room. To the left of you, there was a small ledge built into the wall, you assumed this was to be your bed. It was plain and flat, no markings, no sharp edges as to minimise the risk of injury. ‘ Who needs a back anyway?’ You mentally chuckle to yourself, trying to make light of an already bleak situation.

What you think to be hours pass meticulously slowly, but you’ve worked yourself into a state of false meditation, daydreaming almost. It was your minds automatic repose to trauma, taking you away from the present your body found itself in and disconnecting, taking you somewhere else, anywhere else. Somewhere where you didn’t have to run and hide because of who you were.

Trying to calm your racking nerves, you took a deep sigh,  ’might as well get used to it, you’re here for the lo-‘.

Footsteps.   But not droid…  human?  Turning your head slightly, still kneeling and eyes still closed you honed in on the noise signature, trying to make out the conversation.

“…Gotta choose soon Twi, that destroyer’s gonna be here in 15…”. ‘ Destroyer?’  You thought to yourself, what use is a destroyer out here? This correctional transporter did carry high threat individuals, but this was a max security metal box, no one could get in or out… so you thought.

“Patience... Lady knows best”. You could feel the blatant seduction in their voice, obviously using their words to gain an advantage over who they were talking to. If it weren’t for the destroyer comment you’d have thought they were just two workers looking for a quick fix someplace private. But the destroyer? ‘ What did they mea-‘

A heavy voice interrupts your monologue. “Just hurry up and cage him, or I'm gonna break tiny”. Focusing your mind more, you listened deeper, soon realising that two sets of footsteps were looming, louder and louder.  Shit, they’re in the corridor..what in the maker is going on?  Now only mere feet from you, the second voice speaks again. “Perfect…”. The T was exaggerated, almost with a hiss as it sounded like they were cut off from their monologue. Lighter, more agile footsteps made their way into the scene you’d pictured in your head. You imagined what sounded like two males and a female stood together on the other side of your cell. The quieter footsteps louder now, a modulated voice broke the whispering tension. “What's here, we’ve already got Qin, I thought it was only one?”. You found it hard to make out any emotion from this voice, in part the modulator but also, weirdly, the aura that was being given off also barred your mental vision.

“An eye for an eye, Mando” came from a new, vindictive voice, and before you could react, your cell door opened, the clattering of metal of what you assumed was a body chucked in. This caught you off guard, but you quickly opened your eyes and pushed from your knees, rolling on your side to right yourself into a crouching, defensive pose just in from the back wall of your cell, now facing forwards towards the commotion. Almost as soon as it had opened, the cell door shut, cutting your chances of escape. ' Damn it’

“You deserve this!” Echoed from the corridor as the four bodies made haste.

Quickly you darted your eyes to the new presence in your cell. The room now soaked red. Your interrogation was met with a harsh, brutal T visor. You were offset by the blank tint that blatantly stared back at you. You felt judged despite not being able to see their eyes, their gaze almost reading your mind and soul. Did they have eyes, were they human?  What would they do to you, were they friend or foe…  You quickly chased that thought away, not wanting to start a fight that didn’t need to happen, but you couldn’t help the defensive feeling that had made your hairs stand on end. You loved a bit of drama, but this was all too real, being stuck on a max security ship for something you couldn’t help, now with someone, something, you didn’t know was going to eat or kill you. This had all got a bit too out of hand; either way, you weren’t going to drop your guard now, no more stupid mistakes.

Both of you stared for a second too long, waiting for fo the other to make the first move.

“I need to get out of this cell” came the modulated voice as they slowly pushed themselves off their front, now revealing the heavy, Beskar chest plate. Wow this guy must really be pulling the big numbers to afford Beskar…  makes sense for them to be jumping a max security prison, or was jumping at least until they landed indignantly in your cell.

“No shit.” You chime back, almost laughing at the plainly obvious remark that they’d made.  Duh.  They centred himself, now standing a few feet from you; still not cutting the weighted gaze between you two.

“Give me a hand getting out and I’ll help you get off this ship”. Now that was tempting, but if they hadn’t already noticed your wrists were bound so the gesture fell short.

“If you hadn’t noticed my hands are already tied, would if I could.” You chide, your day couldn’t get any worse. Being offered a way out by this mysterious armoured being, almost given it on a silver spoon and plate, only for it to be out of arms reach, literally. Slowly lifting yourself up, you turned to go and sit on the bed sticking out from the wall. Before you could sit, the walking shield had walked up over to you, haste in his movements. He went to grab your wrist’s from the side. Alarm bells ringing, you quickly ducked and rolled to the cell door at the front, just avoiding his grasp. No way they were going to take your denied offer out on you. You were smaller than them, yes, but also ( you didn’t like to admit)  highly trained. You stood at a 45 to them, knees bent and ready to defend yourself the best you could despite your restrictions.

They turned harshly, squaring up to you. “Let me remove the cuffs”. This stopped you dead in your tracks.  They were gonna help you? Why? What use could you be to them?  You slowly stood up, turning towards the door now, exposing your back. This went against everything you’d ever learnt, Lori would murder you if they knew you were doing this, but something in the other’s demeanour made you trust them like you were in a trance, something you didn’t know as to why, but your gut was usually correct. And it was. The sound of cuffs hitting the floor made you flinch. You weren’t dead,  phew . Turning around hastily, you met the gaze again, but this time it was less threatening, still scary, yes, but trustworthy.

They walked up next to you, peering out of the cell into the corridor, You notice your morphed reflection in the shiny Beskar pauldron. Breaking you from your gaze, they pushed you back, urging you to get down to the side of the door, head-turning and placing an upright finger in front of the visor, mimicking a ‘shh’. You got the hint.

Body tense you crouched, back against the wall. Gazing down at your wrists you clocked the dried crimson lines etched into your skin. You must’ve really been pulling on those cuffs, enough to draw blood.

Quietly they lifted their left hand in between the bars of the door, their helmet just off the side, tracking something. The menacing glare was evident even from behind the mask, you could feel the urgency prickling off of them. You stiffened, remaining quiet, you could sense that this person knew what they were doing.

Suddenly they were struggling against the door, turning their back then yanking their arm down only to them grab a security void with their other hand from behind the door. The droid let off a blaster shot, the projectile pinging off the inside of the room, eventually discharging when it hit the armour of the masked assailant next to you. Unfazed, undamaged.  damn, that stuff’s hard .

The arm comes unhinged and the wine of the droid almost pulls a heartstring, until you remember that's the whole reason as to why you're here... droids.  The masked accomplice lifts the blaster, making quick work of the droid.

They drop the blaster, taking the arm they just pillaged and placing it vertically to the locking key of the door. With a subtle twist, the unlocking key slides out from the droid's arm, to then be placed into the key and used to unlock the door.

The door slides open. You can’t believe it, everything that's happened in the last 24 hours has been a blur, but this, you couldn’t have pictured it even if you tried.

You look up again into the steely gaze. “Follow me, behind me” came the voice. Damn, they weren’t one with words, either that or this was just routine to them. Standing back up, you nod slightly at them. You guess you aren’t one for words either, especially now. You’d always figured it’s best to keep your mouth shut unless you have to talk, and even then, in- tense situations like this, you had to be sure that what you were saying was thought out and logical; you had no time for mistakes. Plus, you weren’t going to give yourself away straight away, you didn’t even know who you were escaping with, they could be more trouble than you could handle. Hushing that thought away you reasoned,  it can’t get much worse than this, trust yourself to make it out alive .

Following behind them, jogging with light footsteps through the hallway, silent, red lights flashing, the place plunged in an atmospheric,  dangerous glow.

You gazed upon the controls, wondering why they’d brought you to the control room. There are no escape pods here, surely just getting back to however they got on this ship would be the smartest idea? Breaking your line of thought, they point to the security screens, showing four bodies running down a hallway. Two Twi’leks, a Devaronian and a Human. The conversation from earlier now started to make sense.

“I'll take the Devaronian and the human, you take the Twi’lek. The female has knives.” The voice sounding stern and logical, you trusted this voice, even through the vocoder. They knew what they were doing, at least it looked that way. “We have 13 minutes to leave. Make it quick.”  Jeez ok, I’ll do my best, how do they even know I know how to fight?  Before you could ask anymore internal questions, they were out the door, pacing down the hallway to the left. Taking this as your cue, you followed, branching in the other direction.  She has knives, right, close combat, you’ve done this before, you can do - you will do it again. Focus.  After a quick few turns here and there you hear the closing of a door just around the corner from you, up the hallway to your left, accompanied by the grumble and hiss of a female voice. You lean back against the wall, closing your eyes you chant to yourself,  That must be her. Now, breathe… Easy pickings.  Striding from the corner you were leaning against, mind focused, you face the Twi’.

“Spose' you could call it bad luck, others fortune.” You say smoothly, calmly. The Twi shifts, pivoting to face you from the other end of the hallway.

“I guess you two are working together now? Hmm? Yes,… did he charm you? Don’t take it personally honey but he’s not your type, his tastes aren’t in the defenceless.” She remarks, the S rolling off of her tongue in a hiss; her eyes glaring daggers into yours, trying to force the focus out of you. Seen it, done that , you thought to yourself.

“And you’d know?” You retort back, still holding the battle-trained composure in your voice.

“Oh honey you really have a lot to learn…” she strides slowly like she’s hunting her prey.  Yeah, ‘cause I’m the prey in this situation.  You internally smirked, you almost felt bad for the pain you know you could cause, but shouldn’t. That’s not the Way. “I know exactly what makes him tick, done it myself. You’ll get bored, he never removes  it . Don’t flatter yourself, you’re not any different.”  Who even said I had an interest, didn’t even know they were a He. Guess this one wasn’t a clean breakup.  You chimed to yourself, her position now about 4 metres away. You could sense it, she thought this was easy, that she had this.  Sure she does.  

Then, you feel it. Tensing you duck to the right, balancing on all fours as a dagger shoots past your left shoulder, your eyes still pinned to hers, a small smirk gracing your lips. You’d missed this, the adrenaline, the game of prediction,  feeling . This was where you felt most alive, doing what you were made to do. The gift you had was a double-edged knife. Yes, it got you in this situation, but without it, you’d have been dead long before your years.

She strode forwards, you lunging low to the ground, effortlessly covering ground. You were now only a couple feet from each other. She crouched, attempting to mirror your battle style. The Twi’ goes to throw another dagger as you rolled to her left side. You’d sensed it before her hand even left the blade. Quickly standing to her side, you turned your head and looked into her eyes; they’re now wide, the confidence stripped bare, beneath the realisation that she’d maybe have bit off more than she could chew.  

With this you dropped, kicking a leg to trip her from behind. Falling, she grabbed your collar, pulling you with her. Now falling atop, you righted yourself by bracing to the side, scrambling up into your stance. She went to lunge but paused. Glancing down she saw her belt was gone, confusion, then realisation swept her face to meet you gripping it, your right hand through a tightened loop and the other pulling it taunt.

I love that trick .

Grabbing another dagger she bound towards you, holding it outright in her right hand. You twisted to the side, wrapping her wrist in her own belt. She shifted, throwing a punch to your right cheek.  No stupid mistakes.  The anger at your mistake now bubbling you wrap her other hand in the belt as its retreating, her wrists now bound with yours. She hisses a snarl at you, “Bitch.” The smirk on your face grows a little wider now, the true fun only just beginning.

You shifted your weight harshly to the left, throwing her in a 180 to disorient and gain momentum. Dropping to your knees and twisting you bring your entwined wrists above your head and then yank over your right shoulder, bringing her down onto her back, head now facing you and her body strewn away from your core. You quickly unwind her wrists, forcing the belt down over her neck to strangle. You stretched out your left leg reaching for the knife that had dropped from her pouch with your toes, sliding it back to you with a kick. The knife now secured in your left hand, you edge it to her neck, only now looking back into her eyes. “A-lot to learn huh? Ironic.” The satisfaction in your voice over the play on words was clear, and so was the fear in her eyes. Oh, you loved proving people wrong, especially when they pretty much do it for you.

That's when you felt it,  the temptation, the greed to end her now. Do it. You’ve done it before, yes, you can do it again, do it.

No. You’re not giving yourself up like that again. You barely made it back to yourself last time, don’t push your luck now, you’ve learnt since then. You’re a better person now, you think… killing like this. This is not the Way.

The smirk now leaving your face, you twist her round, knife now held to the back of her neck. Using the belt to secure her wrists you pull her up. Eyeing the empty cell on the other side of the hallway you walk her over. She’s protesting but stops as soon as you edge the tip of her own blade into the skin on the back of her neck. She tenses, but follows your directions to the cell, stepping in and turning to face you from within the room.

“Coward” She whispered, eyes attached to yours through the fury of defeat, her fake smile taunting you.

Oh, the temptation.

“Don't flatter yourself, Honey”.

Her smile drops along with the security door

———

Ok, so I just finished editing this chapter. It’s my first fic and i’m just writing for enjoyment. I’ve finished chapter 4 and will obvs post more if ppl like this! Its tame rn but will get more spicy as time goes on ;) hope y'all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. best wishes, dindooku xx

i just read this back after 3 months and realised how bad my writing is lmao -> this was my first ever fic/writing and it tells lol, pls forgive me.

[carryonmywaywardcaptain]

Six Feet Apart

CarryOnCap’s Masterlist

Summary: Dean is fed up with a lot of things about the Coronavirus and safety guidelines, but he’s got a compelling reason to follow them. Sometimes it’s funny what a little faith can do.

Warnings: Obviously everything surrounding the ‘Rona, mentions of terminal illness, some angst, some feels but a positive ending

A/N: @rileynicole1967​ requested a Dean x reader fic based on “Six Feet Apart” by Alec Benjamin. This is definitely not what you asked for because it took a weird turn, BUT it was very therapeutic for me to write and I still managed to give it the ending you asked for. So I appreciate the request more than you know :) 

[IF you happen to be curious about the inspiration behind this:   I’ve been in a rough place for quite some time-- hence my Tumblr absence. Not that the self-disclosure is really needed, but my grandma is in really bad shape with her cancer and I’ve been trying to make things work with a guy who very well could have been “The One” under non-’Rona circumstances. I’ve been caught in a terrible, anxiety-inducing middle between obviously wanting to date and spend time with a guy who is out in the world everyday, but only being able to do so much without risking my grandma’s health. Aaand kind of mine too. Stupid faulty meatsuit haha. Anyway. Life has been so stinking heavy but this helped a little.]

Keys. 

Mask. 

Wallet. 

Phone.

It was routine now. Dean had gone through the process so many times that his body practically went on autopilot as he grabbed the items on his way out of the motel room he’d checked into late last night.

There were days he thought the guidelines were frustrating, inconvenient, and even a little pointless. He knew he’d probably get the virus at some point anyway and he’d made peace with that. Maybe he’d be able to fight it off just fine, maybe he wouldn’t. But the chances of that happening were like anything else in life. Even if the world had managed to come to an eerie halt, that didn’t mean it applied to people like him and Sam who still had work to do. 

Although he knew he had everything he needed, he checked his pockets again just to be sure. If it were up to him, truthfully he wouldn’t even bother with the mask or the “social distancing” crap. 

But it wasn’t just about him anymore. And he couldn’t afford to take any chances.

Oh, I miss you most at six feet apart when you’re

Right outside my window, but can’t ride inside my car

And it hurts to know just how lovely you are

And be too far away to hold, but close enough to break my heart

I miss your smile

Feels like miles

Six feet apart

Dean pulled into a worn concrete driveway in front of a modest white house. The front porch, which he’d become quite familiar with lately, contained two cast iron chairs and a matching table. He’d never been inside, couldn’t risk the possibility of bringing the virus into her home if he’d unknowingly come into contact with it. While he was constantly on the road chasing cases, she only left the house for treatments, appointments, and intermittent trips to the porch when he could make it back to visit.

He sighed heavily, putting the car in park before turning to glare at the offending bit of fabric on the leather seat beside him. He hated wearing that stupid mask. Hated the way the material trapped each breath, circulating the warm air right back to his face. He hated how stuffy and suffocating it felt. Sometimes it even made him feel a little claustrophobic.

But she’d sewn it herself and given it to him so he could stop using t-shirts, bandanas, and any other piece of clothing he could find in his trunk as a makeshift mask each time he came to see her. Sometimes he struggled to keep in mind what a thoughtful gesture it had been. That having to wear it might be annoying, but it really wasn’t a big deal in the grand scheme of things. And if a stupid piece of fabric had even a small chance of keeping them safe, then he could deal with it for a few hours, couldn’t he? 

A few hours, he thought sourly. Nowadays they were lucky if they could even get that much time together. But he’d take what he could get.

Reluctantly, he grabbed the mask and looped the elastic bands around each ear. After fussing with the edges, trying in vain to make it fit comfortably, he let his head fall back against the seat in frustration. As he examined the space above him, sinking deeper into his ruminating thoughts, he began to wonder how much longer he could keep this up and if all of this was really worth it.

So far, so far, but so close

Like a star out in the cosmos

Can’t touch the beauty I see

That’s how it feels at six feet

It had been a while since the last time he’d been able to visit her. When the front door opened and two women emerged, he climbed out of the car and walked straight to his usual spot on the overgrown lawn. As he got closer and appraised her condition, he tried to conceal his reaction.

She looked rough. Despite the fuzzy robe she wore, he could tell how feeble her figure was beneath. Her movements were slow and deliberate, making him suspect she may have fallen again recently. He clenched his jaw, recalling how she’d been too weak to pick herself up last time and had remained on the floor until someone came to check on her the next morning. 

With help from the other woman, who he assumed was a new caretaker, she settled into the cushions on one of the chairs. Her chest heaved and her eyes fell closed as she took a moment to recover from the exertion of her short walk. When her eyes finally fluttered open, they were a stark contrast against her sallow skin.  

“Long time, no see,” she teased, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Dean nodded. “How’re you feeling today?”

“Can’t complain.”

In a way, he knew she was lying. He had a feeling she was having a rough day, but she was never one to complain. He had quickly learned that no matter what was going on in her life, she was the kind of person who worried about everyone else and put their well-being before her own. He wondered what kind of update the doctor had given her this time, but he was too afraid to ask.

“It’s so good to see you.”

Her gentle admission shook him from his thoughts. The edges of her eyes crinkled and he could just imagine the smile she wore beneath her mask. 

Space and time are interwoven

Well, at least that’s what we’re told

When I was young, I was suspicious, but it’s true

Time sticks like glue

I feel so blue

Here missing you

So I think I’ll build a time machine and go back to a time

When we didn’t need to measure six feet on the ground

When I came around

That’s not allowed

I can’t go back now

He’d never really been the relationship type. He hadn’t been looking for anything when their paths had first crossed, but there was something about her that had captured his interest. The more they’d gotten to know one another, the more he learned just how much they had in common. 

It had made him feel uneasy at first-- how easy she was for him to talk to. She rarely pressed him on anything and she had a way of making him feel comfortable even with the hardest conversations. They’d shared their life stories; their favorite memories, biggest letdowns, family dramas, and everything in between. After all of the monsters they’d each faced in their lives...this one was the deadliest and ugliest he’d ever had to face. And of all the people in the world who didn’t deserve to go through something like this, she topped the list.

Okay, sure, no one really deserved a death sentence. But didn’t it always make it worse that bad things always seemed to happen to good people? 

Dean had beaten leviathans and reapers. He’d taken out loads of vampires, ghouls, and ghosts. He’d ganked more angel and demon douchebags than he could count. But when he had asked her to let him help-- when he’d mentioned what Cas could do or offered to work with Sam to find a spell that might heal her-- she politely declined. She had simply thanked him and explained that it wouldn’t be fair to everyone else fighting for their lives like she was. That her life was in no way more important than anyone else’s. She’d told Dean sometimes these things just happen and have a little faith, you never know.

Dean had of course tried to argue, but he couldn’t quite put into words just how special she was. That she didn’t deserve this and he’d give anything to change their circumstances. At one point he’d even considered tracking down a crossroads demon and making a deal to switch places with her, but he knew she wouldn’t have wanted that. 

No matter how many times he tried to bring it up or how much he wished he could fight this one for her, there was nothing he could do to fight the monster slowly killing her from the inside out.

So, I miss you most at six feet apart when you’re

Right outside my window, but can’t ride inside my car

And it hurts to know just how lovely you are

And be too far away to hold, but close enough to break my heart

I miss your smile

Feels like miles

Six feet apart

It seemed like there was never enough time. They’d talked all afternoon and neither one of them were ready to say goodbye but, when she suddenly shivered, he knew it was time for him to leave. It wasn’t cold outside by any means, but it took a lot more to keep her warm these days.

He couldn’t help but linger a little longer, admiring her from where he still sat in the grass. Sometimes just being in her presence helped ease a little of the hopelessness he always seemed to grapple with. It was starting to take a toll on him-- not knowing if things would ever get better or if the world would ever return to some sense of normalcy.

What he wanted more than anything was to walk right up on the porch and wrap his arms around her. It didn’t make sense how much he ached to just be near her. He’d never admit it out loud, but it was almost physically painful how much he wanted to reach out and touch her-- to hug her, kiss her, or even see her smile without their stupid masks.

But she was barely holding on and he knew her body was fighting every moment of the day just to keep her alive. 

He hated wearing his mask. He hated how he could be so close to her and still feel so far away. He hated not being able to hold her and he hated that there didn’t seem to be an end or a solution in sight for the state of the world at the moment. He hated that she was dying and there was nothing he could do about it. And he especially hated the fact that the universe had to have a pretty damn cruel sense of humor to let him meet someone like her in a time like this. Even though he was fed up with feeling like he was stuck in another one of Gabriel’s twisted, incessant pranks...the thought of walking away and not having her in his life at all was far worse. 

So he took it one day at a time. He knew there was a chance he might get the virus at some point and usually he was ready to accept whatever cards fate dealt him. Maybe he’d be able to fight it off, maybe he wouldn’t. But she wouldn’t be able to. And he knew if he slipped up, if he somehow managed to pass it along, that that would be the end for her.

He hated a lot of things lately and he wasn’t sure if they’d ever really go away. But there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that every single inconvenience and moment of frustration was worth it for him to be able to spend time with her-- even six feet apart.

***

Dean was staring up at the ceiling, unable to fall back asleep. The nightmares didn’t come as often anymore but, when they did...well, they were no walk in the park. He let out a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he pushed the images of her sunken face from his mind.

The movement had jostled her, and he hugged her closer when she began to stir. He placed a gentle kiss on top of her head and she hummed softly as she nestled further into his chest.

When they were in the thick of it, it had been so hard to see a way out. To believe they’d be okay or ever have a shot at actually being together. To believe there would be an end to the virus or that there was any chance she could get better. 

Sometimes those dark days, when all hope seemed lost, felt like nothing more than a distant nightmare. But Dean refused to let himself forget. Maybe it was morbid, but every moment with her felt a little bit sweeter when he reminded himself of how grim those days had been and of everything they’d had to overcome. When he remembered everything she’d had to endure.

It was honestly a miracle that he was lucky enough to hold her in his arms like this. Everyone had asked him on numerous occasions if he’d done something, but even he didn’t have an explanation. He really didn’t care whether it was faith or something supernatural or even just one of life’s unexplained mysteries-- all that mattered was that she was healthy and alive. 

So he kept the memories of those days close and promised himself he’d never take the time he had with her for granted. They had made it through one of the darkest times in either of their lives and he had no doubt they’d face more in the future. But, with her by his side, he had faith they’d find a way to make it through those days too.

So far, so far, but so close

Like a star out in the cosmos

Can’t touch the beauty I see

That’s how it all feels to me

So far, so far, but so close

Like a star out in the cosmos

Can’t touch the beauty I see

That’s how it feels at six feet

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[thefanficmonster]

For Better And Through Worse

Rodney Skinner (The League Of Extraordinary Gentlemen) x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Swearing

Genre: Romance

Summary: Y/N is a simple girl with big dreams. She works hard towards her goal of travelling the world, seeing all it has to offer. She’s also a devoted student, one with the hopes of one day fulfilling yet another dream of becoming a fashion designer and leaving the town her and her sister have been stuck working in. Her stars align and fate smiles down upon her one day when a rather mysterious man makes his way in the café she works at.

Requested by Anon. Hello there! I’m so terribly sorry to be posting your request so late, dear. I hope the fic makes the wait worth it. This is the first time I’ve been introduced to this character and this movie in its entirety and I absolutely loved it! Thank you so much for the request and for your patience. Please enjoy! Love, Vy ❤

“Close that book, Y/N! Your shift’s starting!“ My manager scares me half to death when his voice suddenly booms throughout the empty diner. 

It’s close to one in the morning and I’m stuck with the shitty overnight shift tonight because my older sister wasn’t feeling well. I arrived early while my friend still hadn’t finished his shift and decided to kill time productively by studying behind the cash register. Even though my shift has started, there is no real reason for me to abandon my book considering how dead the place is. Dead, eerie and unsettling. It’s 24/7 diner in the middle of seemingly nowhere. Well, our town in general is a big ‘nowhere’. If you came here on vacation - no you didn’t. You probably got lost along the way to a different destination. If you live here - good luck, hope you get out soon.

A young, 5′2 girl with only a can of pepper spray to defend herself with left in a café working the shift from one to eight AM. That’s simply ludicrous! I can hardly believe my manager has the audacity to leave like this. Not even a ‘call if you need anything’ out of politeness. Nothing! He doesn’t like any of the workers here so I don’t take it personal but he’s EXTRA mean to me because my sister turned his offer of a date down. It’s a surprise he hasn’t fired the both of us yet. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know if he’d be doing damage or doing us a favor by firing us.

I wait for the jerk to leave before reopening my book and proceeding with my reading. I can’t contain the smile that automatically appears on my face whenever my mind wanders into the contents of the pages. Seeing the pictures of the fashion creations gives me hope that one day I’ll be standing in front of a mannequin that will be displaying a piece I’ve designed. A piece won’t be enough though. I want an entire clothing line. Several even! The fiery passion in me won’t be easily satisfied - I have a vivid goal in mind and I won’t rest until I have it in my hands, until I’m looking at my clothes in the windows of shops and in magazines.

I unintentionally stop reading let myself daydream - well, it’s more like dreaming with open eyes considering it’s one AM. My imagination is sometimes so real it scares me. It all feels like I can reach out and grab it, hold it close, live it for a little while. However, that ideal life is soon ended by the sound of the bell that hangs above the door of the café ringing. I come flying down from my daydreaming cloud with a startled jump. My heart is beating quickly for no real reason other than the fact that there’s a person here at this hour. Knowing the type of town this one is, they are either one of the local drunks or not local at all. An outsider. The ones that everyone assumes are criminals on the run.

I couldn’t blame them if they said that about this guy. Mysterious, shady, suspicious - all adjectives that describe him perfectly. His sudden presence makes me uneasy. Many outsiders who choose to stick around for a bit frequent this bar, therefore I know some of them. This one I have never seen before. He almost looks unreal - a walking doll. He’s got an abnormally pale, sheet white complexion, a top hat and sunglasses. Sunglasses?! At the dead of an already pitch black night. I’m surprised he hasn’t stumbled into something yet. Maybe he has, what do I know.

“Good evening. One beer please.“ He says, hopping onto a bar stool and resting his elbows on the counter top of the bar that some ways down from the cash register - the two counters are connected.

“Coming right up.“ That’s the usual response I give to customers but I’ve never said it so hesitantly. He’s not being creepy or anything, he’s not even doing the staring most customers do which while uncomfortable, I still have to tolerate. The only truly off-putting thing about him is his appearance and the fact that he’s here at this hour. Drinking beer.

I keep my gaze on him out of the corner of my eye as I go fetch a cold beer bottle from the fridge behind the bar. I typically do waitressing, but I know my way around the bar as well. I see him reach for yesterday’s paper one of the previous customers has left there. He’s still distracted by it when I approach him and put a coaster down in front of him as well as the beer bottle, mumbling a quick: “Here you go.”

He lifts his head only enough to give me a nod with a small smile. From that proximity, the color of his skin looks more like paint, which is even more unsettling. He has also taken off his sunglasses, his eyes now free to make direct contact with mine which makes me pause for a second before asking the second routine question, “Anything else?”

“Uh, yes....�� His eyes go down to my nametag, “Y/N, could you tell me where this address is?“ He slides a piece of paper over closer to me. 

I reluctantly nod and look at the note he’s handed me. The letters are written in poor handwriting but I can still decipher the majority of what’s written. “This address is from the next town over, sir.” I inform him with a tightlipped smile that’s my way of sort of apologizing for the inconvenience.

He nods slowly, “Well, how far is this town exactly?” He furrows his brows at me and takes out a pen, taking the note back so he could write something at the back of it. 

“It’s a city compared to this one. It’s a two hour drive from here.“ I tilt my head to the side, discreetly looking at what he’s writing down.

“Thank you.“ He puts the note and pen away, “By the way, don’t take this the wrong way, but what are you doing here?“ He gives me puzzled look.

I scoff and shrug my shoulders, “Working, as you can see. I’m covering this shift for someone else, I don’t usually work it.” I respond nonchalantly. 

“No, I mean what are you doing working here at all?“ He points at me, “That dress, it’s self-made, right?“ 

Ok that’s off-putting. Either he is clairvoyant or it’s so obvious that an amateur has made it that he couldn’t help but notice and point it out. All I can give as an answer is a slight nod, a baffled expression on my face.

“That’s what I thought. It’s incredible.“ He probably realizes that he has caught me off-guard and has confused me, so he shakes his head with a small chuckle and a wave of his glove covered hand. “I saw the book you were reading on my way in. Fashion and design. So you’re an aspiring clothing designer?“ 

I feel relief wash over me as the confused furrow and pursed lips are replaced by a relaxed smile. I take the few steps back to where I was previously sitting and where I’ve left the book. I hand it to him once I return for him to see. “Yes, but the course here is expensive and I can’t afford it without this job.”

He nods slowly as his eyes carefully scans the pages he turns. “Impressive, so a goal-getter as well.”

I can’t help but giggle, “And a traveler at heart. I also need the money for that...” I open the book to it’s last page and show him the list I have written of places I’d like to visit. 

His eyes widen a bit in amazement as they go down the neatly written list. “You know, I’ve visited some of these places. I plan on visiting the rest as well. I could use a partner.” He winks at me playfully.

I roll my eyes, “As I said, I can’t afford it. You think I’d still be in this town if I could?” I say rather bitterly. Feels like the subject is an open wound and talking about it is the same as pouring salt on it.

“Who says you’ll have to pay a penny. I said I’d like some company, you’ll be paying me with your presence.“ His gaze is firm on mine, his tone suggesting he isn’t kidding around. I unintentionally let my disbelief morph into a ‘bullshit’ expression of distrust that causes him to raise his hands up as if surrendering, “No funny business, though I know what this looks like to you. Trust me, I wouldn’t offer that to just anybody. I sense how strongly you wish to fulfill your dreams. I see it all in your eyes, there’s a flame behind them. And...I’m gonna be honest, I’ve done many less than honorable things in my life. But when I see a chance to do good, I want to take it. Now it’s on you, take it or leave it.“

I’m stunned and frozen. I can’t even answer him. I’m just standing here with my mouth hanging open and eyes wide, staring at him awaiting for him to burst out laughing at any moment like ‘Did you really believe that?!’  But he doesn’t. He remains serious and after what feels like forever smirks, putting a hundred bucks next to the untouched beer bottle. 

“If you change your mind...I swing back the same time tomorrow.“

Before I can even shake free from my shock he has already left. I didn’t even get the chance to tell him I won’t be here the same time tomorrow. I feel my heart sink as my mind races, two sides of me battling - one that wants to take the chance that’s being offered to me and the other scolding me for even considering it.

Dumb or not I’m rooting for the first side. 

Eyes don’t lie. Just like he read me so well just by looking at mine, I read him by looking at his. All he said was true, not a doubt in my mind about it. He meant all he said and for some odd reason I believe him despite him being a complete stranger. I don’t even know his name, for goodness’ sake! But I want to go with him. The hard part for me would be leaving my family behind though.

Well, I have a little less than twenty four hours and a seemingly never-ending uneventful shift ahead of me to ponder it.

                                                              *  *  *

I can’t believe any of this - not what I’ve done, not what I’m doing and most definitely not what I’m about to do.

I have packed my bags and snuck out of the house, running at full speed to the café. When I arrived I was breathless, with a heart beating faster than a galloping horse.

I’m now waiting for the man. The stranger. The person who could be anyone or anything - including dangerous - but right now all he is to me is my path to success, the person who’ll guide me to achieving my goals.

I’m about to go running away with this man, off to God knows where. No one guarantees he won’t do harm to me. I can’t be 100% certain this won’t end badly for me. All I can do is take this chance if I want to. And I really REALLY want to. 

Just as the clock strikes 1:25 AM, an old car pulls up at the curb in front of the café. I’m standing in the shadows, away from any windows to avoid being spotted by the worker who’s on the dead shift as I call it. The way the car has parked it’s positioned directly underneath a street lamp, almost like it’s under a spotlight. The door to the drivers side opens to reveal the same man from last night. When he steps out in the lamp’s light he looks to be glowing, his unusually pale complexion shinning in the light. 

“Y/N!“ I call out to him, startling him for once instead of the other way around.

He stops and looks around, taking the sunglasses off and narrowing his eyes at his surroundings. I chuckle to myself and step within the line of light, “My name’s Y/N. You already know that.” His eyes land on me and a smile spreads across his face as well as mine. “I don’t know yours though.”

He takes a step towards me, “Rodney. Rodney Skinner. Though, please don’t let that name throw you off. It was given to me for far less sadistic reasons than you may be imagining right now.”

I can’t help but laugh, “All I ask is for you to not skin me alive.”

He gives me a small bow, “I shall respect your request. Now...“ he straightens his posture and turns to motion to his car, “To freedom and adventure?”

I don’t know what takes over me and drives me to close the space between us, but it is also to blame for the fact that I pressed my lips against him. Even after realizing what I have done, I don’t pull away. I don’t see my doing as wrong - in fact, I feel like I’m doing all the right things for myself tonight. He responds to the kiss after a second or two of stunned hesitation.

The little kid in me can’t wait for this journey to commence anymore so I pull away abruptly, giving him a bright, wide smile and my eyes bright. I watch as he comes back to the present moment and nods, mumbling as if to himself a quick, “Right...” before circling around the car and opening the passenger side door. 

I gladly take a seat and fasten the seatbelt while Rodney takes my suitcase and backpack and puts them in the trunk of the car. Here it is, I’m seconds away from the biggest step in my life so far. A dangerous and risky step for sure, but the sense of freedom I feel is worth it all. The joy and excitement I feel as the car starts moving is all I need to keep looking forward and keep my mind off my family’s reaction when they find my goodbye note.

“By the way, what’s at that address you showed me yesterday?“ I ask to keep myself distracted from the aforementioned thought which is stronger than I thought it would be.

“Ah, a friend of mine, Nemo. He holds the vehicle of our travels. Tell me...“ his hand nonchalantly rests on top of mine between the seats causing me to blush, “have you ever traveled by a submarine?“

I physically jolt at the absurdness of the question, “You’re not serious!” I turn to look at him, my free hand covering my mouth which is hung open in disbelief.

He laughs, taking the hand he’s holding and bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to my knuckles which relaxes me. “I’m deadly serious, Y/N. Speaking of Nemo though, do you know of any good barbecue places in that town? He loves a good barbecue.”

I grimace, “No and I’d much rather never know or enter one.” He gives me a quick puzzled glance, careful not to take his eyes off the road for too long, “I’m a vegetarian.” I clarify with a snicker.

I see the realization be processed and show on his face, followed by a laugh when he says, “Oh Nemo’s gonna love ya.”

I don’t know if that was sarcasm or ironic. I just know one thing - I have so much ahead of me at the moment. Travelling, studying, meeting new people, seeing a submarine, for the love of God! And even a potential romantic relationship. The future has never looked so bright for me, and this is all thanks to this abnormal yet hypnotic man next to me.

Freedom and adventure, here we come!

[ghostsofmemories]

INSECT POISON: UPDATE 3

okay so first things first: I rearranged some things so what was previously chapter 11 is now going to be referred to as chapter 12, which is so long that it’s the only chapter this update will cover! it clocks in around 6.5k after cutting it down with editing. I’m eventually going to split it into two or three different chapters, but because all the events take place in the same day and were meant to be in one chapter, it’s easier to cover them all in one update and not include the chapters that’ve been written since then, all but one of which are pretty short.

content warnings (some of these are pretty heavy): sexual assault, death and cemeteries, possible hallucinations, toxicity/manipulation, instability

anyway, on with the update!

chapter 12 (formerly 11): quivering lip

this chapter surrounds adult Robert’s trip to visit his sister’s grave in the town he grew up while having a mental breakdown, the woman he meets there, and the interaction they have at her house that leaves him feeling even worse than when he started off.

some select excerpts from the beginning:

All this town knew how to do was rot. Robert realized this upon coming back for the first time in years—nothing was beautiful, nothing was alive, and nothing here was worth coming back to visit.

As he made his way through the empty parking lot, going slow in an effort to remember where Ramona’s grave was, he was struck with another bout of feverish anxiety. The baby was going to be his, and all his genes matched his sister’s, even when held up to the light. Would she grow up to look like her namesake, too? Would he have to watch a carbon copy of his dead sister, his greatest secret, grow up and put her hair in braids and ask for help with her math homework? He could already see it. Freckles and deep brown eyes and dark red hair, soft smile from her mother, talkative and hyper. Everything Amanda convinced herself Ramona used to be. He would be raising a eulogy, a little memorial. Ramona Bennett-Blanchard, in loving memory of Ramona Diane Bennett. Robert had force back vomit at the mere thought of it.

not him being totally wrong about what his daughter’s going to be like I’m-

He made sure no one else was around before sitting cross-legged in front of Ramona’s headstone. The feeling of fever left him just enough to give him hope this might help. “It’s been awhile,” he said, snaking his fingers through the grass around him. Dry, yellow, half-dead already. At least the sky was cloudy. The earth here needed some rain. “It’s miserable out here. Cold and stale.” 

There was no reply, of course. The breeze replaced the need for one: skimming the sweat on his forehead and the back of his neck, smoothing him over. He felt like a child, here, thumbing weeds and talking to no one—like a schoolboy being forced to apologize. He made himself smaller, tried to conserve his heat against early November’s faltering autumn. He couldn’t picture himself leaving until his patience ran out, and desperation gifted him with heaps of it.

okay here’s the part where he talks to “Ramona” (she’s either a ghost or a hallucination and you don’t know because neither do I <3)

And there she was. Ragged bangs hanging over thin eyebrows, hair straight greasy and down to her waist, overalls covered in grass stains. Everything about her was juvenile and smelled of stale lake water. She sat on top of her stone, looked straight ahead, as if Robert was irrelevant to her situation. The dead version of Ramona was the same as the old one in looks as well as attitude—she’d been pulled fresh out of a memory, right out of their fifteenth birthday.

“You’re so…” Robert paused, looking up in awe at  his sister, vulnerable as he could manage, tired as he was. “Young. And here.”

“You’re old and here.” She said, looking at him, now. He wasn’t sure why he expected her to look older, or if he’d expected to see her at all, but whatever his expectations were, they’d been slaughtered by her stare—cold and violent. No different than when they were both children and alive.

and oops here have some of the manipulation that made me realize some things in earlier parts of the book need to change:

Robert stood up and walked after her, realizing the ground was seeping and mossy and wet all around them. It hadn’t been before, he was sure of it. As he walked, the landscape meshed itself from dying town to young forest, and he was distracted by it, having to close his eyes when he wanted to speak. “How do you know about my daughter?” Robert asked, his socks getting wet beneath his canvas shoes, not standing well against the moist, newly swamping ground.

“Because I can know anything I want to, as long as you knew it first. I’m a part of you.” Robert stopped walking, and Ramona looked back at him. “You still can’t think about two things at the same time? How old did you say you were?”

“You can’t be a part of me. You’re a ghost. You’re dead.” He said, shutting his eyes again. Shutting his vision out didn’t seem to do anything. The landscape was in his head as much as it was around him. 

“How is that more feasible than me being a part of you?”

“But you said you hadn’t been in my house. You said you weren’t following me.” He kept blinking, waiting for it to be dark just once. He tried putting his hands over his eyes, which seemed to work, but made him feel childish, all of a sudden. He didn’t know what to do with himself, with his body. He had trouble convincing himself he was inside of it at all.

“Like I’ve never lied to you before. Of course I’ve been there. I’m in your head all the time. You didn’t have to come here to talk to me.” Ramona laughed and started walking again. The laugh kicked Robert in the gut. It was old, rotting. He couldn’t be imagining this, could he? That was so her. She seemed almost more vivid than she had when she was alive—she was a memory playing out around him, but everything in it was raw, fresh out of the slaughterhouse. 

a little internal monologue excerpt after ghost-Ramona says something about Robert killing her:

No one, himself included, had ever said it out loud before. He’d spent countless nights as a teenager practicing what he’d say if someone ever accused him, and he’d imagine confessional scenes before he went to sleep, or therapy sessions where he’d admit what he’d done and then disappear and change his name. But it was all in his head, just lips moving with nothing but breath coming out. He couldn’t afford to be overheard by anyone, for even the walls and the ceilings and the mirrors to know what he’d done. When he heard it come from someone else, he became a child caught drawing on the walls. The stages of grief hit one after another, each one knocking the wind out of him, but reaching acceptance was as impossible as catching a bird—he could run and lunge and sneak quietly up behind it, but all the bird had to do was go up.

and that’s that for that scene! now it’s time to meet Agnes! don’t get your hopes up about her :)

“Sir?” 

He jumped awake and stumbled backward. There was a young woman, maybe a teenager, standing a few feet away from him, too nervous to get closer. She wore a brown jacket that went down to her knees, probably belonging to her father or bought for a couple dollars at a thrift store. Her hair reminded him of something that fluttered or floated, cut off at her shoulders and so brown it was nearly black, but swaying around her face at even the slightest breeze or movement.

“Sir, do you need help?” She asked, taking another step toward him. She was braver now that she saw how exhausted he was, how red his eyes were, how he coughed so hard that he nearly fell back on the ground. “It’s cold out here, and it’s been raining for awhile now. I think you’ve been out here for too long.”

“It’s raining?” He asked, and made an attempt at directing his attention to his surroundings, though the woman—or girl—seemed to have an extra dimension in comparison to the things around her, like she was a deer shaking in a forest. More rich. More colorful. Just more. But there was still a graveyard, still grass, the mossy swamp and Ramona were both gone. For some reason, this is what he expected. To become the madman who fell asleep in front of a headstone, who didn’t wake up even when it started raining. “I don’t know you.”

What he meant to say was are you from around here? and then because I’m from here. I used to be from here. And I don’t know you. It was nothing unfamiliar for his mouth to cut off the first half of his sentences.

you guys I promise I did not mean to start feeling bad for this guy and now I have to change his whole backstory to make it make sense someone help me

“I’m Agnes, and I don’t know you, either.” Agnes crouched down to be level with Robert, like she was kneeling over an injured animal or talking a toddler down from a tantrum. He supposed he was both. “Would you like some help?” She stuck her hand out, and when he reached out to take it, his blood, frozen, thawed a bit. Her hand was too warm and gripped his too tightly. 

She hoisted him up, though she was much smaller than him, probably a lot lighter. “What do you need?” She asked, taking a polite step back. Her eyes were level with his throat, but she turned her head up, eyes darting around different parts of his face. His nose. The blood on his lower lip (if prompted, he wouldn’t have known where it came from). His eyelashes, tangled from sleeping face down over his arm but mostly dry when put up next to the rest of him.

Eventually, he and Agnes were in his car. He couldn’t remember, exactly, what conversation had lead them there, but he was almost sure she was afraid to leave him alone, that she had assumed he lived in town, and that he had probably lied about where he was from or where he was headed or why he was at the graveyard in the first place.

“Are you feeling alright?” She asked, bouncing her knee, looking up at him from her place in the passenger seat. He remembered how wet he was, that he was probably soaking the car and the seat and that he’d have to clean it all up later. 

He realized, then, that Agnes had too much faith in him. The girl saw a man, most likely older than her, who’d fallen asleep crying at the grave of someone he most likely loved, and decided he was most likely a good person who was grieving, who was most likely unstable in a self-isolating way, in a no one will ever understand way, in a million ways he wasn’t. 

“No,” he said, knowing he had waiting too long to answer and there was nothing else he could say that she would believe. He sighed, tried to remember where he was supposed to be driving. “But I’m sure I will be.”

“I hope so.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” he said, and let his subconscious drive for him. He remembered that he was supposed to be headed to Luther Street, that she lived at the end of it, that he told her he only lived a block away from there and he’d said he’d let her make him a cup of coffee and change his clothes, that they had a tub of her brother’s old clothes that were supposed to go to goodwill that would probably fit him.

“What?” Her eyebrows tied themselves into knots, knitted themselves into something sloppier. “Why not?”

yes I am going to continue oversharing excerpts from this chapter. I spent three months writing it and I think I deserve to indulge

“Because I’ve done a lot of bad things,” he said, and his heartbeat quickened in a way that was unfamiliar. Like someone walked in right after he broke something. “I’ll feel fine, eventually, but I don’t deserve it.” This was not something stated as a way to tear pity from the throat of the small animal beside him, it was a simple fact. This naive girl thought he was something worth saving, trusted him enough to get into his car and let him drive. He was a liar, a murderer, evaded her attempts to learn his name (but would hand it over anyway when she got into his car and saw his nametag from work).

“No one is irredeemable,” she said, looking out the window and making a small noise of understanding, something like huh but only in a hum, her lips never parting. “It’s snowing. It hasn’t snowed since the day before Thanksgiving.”

She was the sort of girl who loved winter, but mostly for the spring that followed. She was the sort of girl who would suffer through the death of everything colorful just for the satisfaction of watching all of it come back to life.

“I am,” he said, and he turned onto Luther, a street of smaller houses, where some of the locals couldn’t afford garbage service and tossed their trash into the back of their trucks until they had the extra cash to bring it to the dump. This was where most the stray cats of the neighborhood called home. 

“What makes you so different?” and then a boney finger pointed to a blue-gray house on the right side of the road, a double wide trailer with a car in the driveway that was hoisted up on a jack. “That one.”

“I guess it’s because I’m still not sorry.”

“I think,” Agnes said, looking at him, though he couldn’t look back for more than a second at a time, trying to find a way to park in Agnes’ slender driveway, “that you are. You just don’t know it yet.”

“You have too much faith,” Robert said, turning the car off. He pulled the key out a little too harshly, and was compelled to look at it, to make sure he hadn’t broken it, but he knew better. The key wasn’t broken, half of it still wedged into the ignition, rendering the car and key useless. To check that his key was still in one piece would only further cement his impression as being crazy.

That’s what Agnes had to have thought. There was nothing else for her to think. There was no other option for men who fell asleep in graveyards, who called themselves bad people with no repentance, who checked to make sure their keys weren’t broken when they turned their cars off. 

“I think I have the right amount.”

don’t get too attached to Agnes btw (spoiler alert: she doesn’t die (a little unfortunate imo)).

She was already frustrated with him, the stranger. Robert, his ID had said. Robert Bennett. Agnes came from a family of helpers and saviors, and Robert didn’t want to be saved. 

Still, there were ways around such things. She would make him want it.

ew ew ew EW

He decided to wash his face in the bathroom sink before he buttoned the shirt up the middle, the warm water a refreshing change from the rain’s cold that seemed to have set into his bones, decided to stay there until it got warm enough to start decaying. He scrubbed with his hands, then with his fingernails, until he could feel his skin shedding. When he stood up straight again, he saw Ramona’s face—all covered in red, just like his, hair dark red and still damp because the towel could only hold so much. He slammed himself back against the wall, which was only a step away. In the kitchen, Agnes froze over the sink, the coffee pot overflowing in her hand, wetting her hand up to her wrist. 

“Are you alright?” She asked. A moment had passed with no other sound to follow the crash, and there was nothing to do but ask. It felt like an invasion of privacy to do anything else, anything more.

Robert closed his eyes and took a moment to learn how to breathe again, then how to speak. “I’m alright,” he said, and if he was in his own house, no one would have heard him. The walls here were thin, though, and Agnes shook off the interruption to start the coffee maker.

When he was ready to open his eyes again, the reflection in the mirror hadn’t changed. It wasn’t Ramona. It never was. He just looked more like her than usual, that’s all. It was seeing her that had refreshed the image in his mind, gave his idea of her face more clarity, that’s all. 

He sat on the lid of the toilet and held his head in his hands, for a moment, but didn’t let himself cry. There was no reason to, she wasn’t here this time. He hadn’t seen her.

and then some of their coffee scene:

“Oh, that’s terrible. I’m sorry. If you want to talk about it, you can, but you don’t have to.”

He was speaking before he had the sense to stop himself. “I won’t get too far into it,” he said, reaching for his cup of coffee. He had no plans to drink it, but now that it had cool enough to just warm his hands, he was thankful that it kept him busy, “but she drowned. In the lake. It was a long time ago.” Indeed, emptying his troubles out to a stranger was soothing, but Robert wasn’t known for his conversation skills. He wanted to let something else slip out—the sight of Ramona out of the corners of his eyes, seeing her at the graveyard and waking up to this gentle woman. Or girl. She was younger than him, he was almost sure, but she could be anywhere from seventeen to twenty-seven.

“Oh, I think I heard about that. Ruby Bennett? My older cousin was close with her. Well, she says she was. She exaggerates sometimes, but they knew each other at least. Martha’s my cousin’s name. I guess if you and Ruby were twins you would have graduated with her.”

“Ramona,” Robert corrected, and set his cup down. The name Martha was familiar to him, but not enough to distract from his sudden, unexpected defensiveness. He moved himself to the edge of the chair, frowning, already feeling the toll of the cheap furniture on his back. The furniture in his apartment was cheap, too, but it was a sort of cheap he was used to. Thrift-store-miracle cheap, not mass produced for $8 a piece cheap. “Her name was Ramona.”

“Oh, sorry. Ramona,” Agnes ran her finger down the short pile of unopened mail, averted her eyes, embarrassed by the nature of her mistake. Her accidental disrespect of a dead girl.

this next part is where the big content warning comes in, if you’re sensitive to sexual assault (it doesn’t follow through all the way but it’s definitely implied) probably don’t read this excerpt or the one that follows, they’re both pretty heavy

Not much later, Agnes was swiping a kiss in the hallway, walking Robert to her bedroom, breath hot and vision blurry. He was unsure how or when they got there, but it was something like this:

Robert, finishing his coffee out of obligation, hoping the caffeine would soothe his headache and give him the energy to drive home soon. He stood up, took the two or three steps to the sink to rinse the cup out.

Agnes, following his movements faster than he could make them. “Let me get that,” she offered, and took the cup from his hand, set his and hers down in the sink, stared up at him with dark eyes and deep red cheeks. 

They were three inches apart. Robert opened his mouth, took a step back (Agnes mirrored it, of course, before he’d processed that he’d moved at all), closed his mouth. Opened it again. A toddler trying to speak, a fish pushing air to the water’s surface, a drowning man. 

Several more seconds of staring, then Agnes’ hand on his shoulder, then her lips on his, then the half-walk, half-kiss through the kitchen and down the hallway. Robert felt as though he might doze off, might fall over, might start crying again. He didn’t understand what he was doing enough to stop. Agnes kept kissing him while she fumbled with the loose doorknob, kept kissing him while she shoved the door open. It had been awhile, but she wasn’t completely without experience. She moved like liquid, so fast and fluid that Robert could hardly inhale, let alone speak. Did she think she could baptize him like this? By holding him under? She started unbuttoning his shirt, slid it off his shoulders, let it fall off the unmade bed and onto the carpet.

 It wasn’t until he realized that she was undoing his jeans that Robert pulled away. Pushed away. Did both at once. Agnes’ eyes flitted open, and she frowned. “What was that about?” Her hair framed her face in a way that made her look young, innocent (and it was still difficult to believe that she wasn’t either of them). She was sitting on the bed and he stood as far from it as he could. It was a twin size and still took up most of the room. He was only a step away from it and backed against the wall.

“No. No, I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t have- I can’t do anything like that. I didn’t mean for that to happen, I-” He already knew his whole face was red and his hands would shake the second he thought too hard about them. “Agnes, I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well. I need to go home.” His apologies were as sincere as they were unnecessary. This wasn’t what he wanted. He knew he wasn’t a good man, but he wasn’t his father. His marriage was what tied everything together, the only reason he’d ever had to regret his past. It was what kept him grounded, even if that wasn’t exactly what he’d wanted for himself. Amanda was the only promise he’d ever kept, the only thing he’d ever paid faith to.

yeah so after this there’s a really awkward dialogue that needs some work so I’m just going to pretend it doesn’t exist for now, just take the end of this neverending hell chapter :) this excerpt is a bit disorganized and messy but so is Robert and so am I so it’s fine.

Leaving his hometown, dizzy and sick to his stomach a forcing his eyes to stay open for the entire fifty-six minute drive, there was a dull knife of guilt pushing at Robert’s gut, trying to cut him open. Why didn’t he stop her sooner? Had he just cheated on his wife? Where did he go from here?

He kept his eyes away from the roadside when he passed his childhood home on the way out of town. His mother wouldn’t miss his visit, and he was likely better off without it. He understood this better than he understood most things, and yet he had to stop himself from turning around, from finding himself on her doorstep, from knocking on the door and falling into her arms the second it opened. He longed for the comfort of any mother but the one the one who’d raised him. Was that an evil thing to think? Would his mother hate him if she knew he’d driven past her?

It didn’t matter. man does what he has to do sometimes, and if that made him evil, he could live with that. Sometimes, a man has to drive past his mother’s house. And sometimes, he has to stop someone from ending his life in a lake by the forest, watch the bubbles float to the top until they don’t, wait a little bit longer to make sure. And sometimes, he has to come home and tell his wife he wasn’t feeling well and had gone to the doctor and was told that he needed to rest for awhile pick up some tylenol if it didn’t get any better, tell her he’d sleep on the couch so he wouldn’t get her sick,  question all night if he would tell her the truth tomorrow or not just to disappear off to work before she was up in the morning and leave a note on the fridge that he was feeling better and that he loved her.

Maybe he did. He couldn’t imagine a world where he’d be so afraid of losing something that he didn’t love. This constant exchange of fear and comfort really couldn’t be anything else.

okay yeah that’s it! hopefully soon I’ll update on the shorter chapters I’ve written since this one, but one of them needs to be re-written entirely since I’m changing so many things about Ramona’s character.

writing this chapter was a bit of a catharsis for me, and also made me realize some changes that need to be made to the backstory/early narrative because Robert’s character ended up evolving into less of a bad person and more  morally gray, the kind of character you can relate to but sometimes in ways that scare you a little bit. I hope you enjoyed this update! I spent way too long working on it and even longer writing the chapter. I’m finally getting back in the swing of writing post-covid and post-going back to school for the first time in two months, so hopefully no other large life-altering events happen because I’m having a pretty good time writing this book.

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[cloveroctobers]

NOAH SAMPATH —

IG info/bio: @/noahknowspat | 275k followers | “A True Renaissance-Man.” | (currently his page is on private, which he often does several months out of the year

25 (26) years of age

Born & raised in Kandy, Sri Lanka until his mother decided to uproot him & his sibs to the uk leaving his father behind

Both of his parents are from Nuwara Eliya

His parents decided it would be best for just his wife & children to live elsewhere while he continued his work in hotel & tourism

Which to him, is the best job he’s ever had—in a sense it felt like he loved his job a little more than his family but Noah knew that wasn’t completely true

Noah figured there was something secretly going on between his parents, he noticed how they would argue more over the years & how his father was fond of their homeland while his mother was not

She did not have much family left, most either leaving the country or dying from sickness

He’s used to living in a bungalow since that’s what he grew up in

Moved to Romford which didn’t take long for him to get adjusted to, he was quick to adapt to situations since that’s normally expected of him as the eldest...

Lived with an aunt? Who really wasn’t a aunt in a cramped 2 bedroom apartment with a child of her own (who was around Noah’s age and favored Richa Moorjani) for a couple of years

Has two younger sibs: a 17 year old brother, and a 11 year old sister

His mother was m*rdered just before his 18th birthday, therefore he’s grown not to celebrate his birthdays even tho he knows deep down that’s not how his mother would have wanted him to go on

She was wise and often stayed up with the moon having conversations with her eldest—if not with all her children

but as he looked back on their conversations he could tell that his mother knew she wouldn’t be on this earth for long

Which showed him a different way of living

His father hated Romford, didn’t think it was the best/ safest place ( I did some research and mostly saw that this town is kinda rough. Anybody from the uk reading & have experience with the town please confirm? Not attending to offend anyone plus every place has its rough areas) for his family & felt his point was proven once his wife was k*lled

He demanded for his children to come back home but Noah wasn’t having it once he realized his father had changed & became aggressive himself

He hated confrontation but he was of age now so he could do what he wanted but there was no bloody way his sibs were going back with this man

He was not the man they all once knew—shit, his sibs BARELY knew him

So Noah fought a lengthy battle with guardianship over his siblings

It only became easy once money was involved for the man to back off

It was v difficult to manage a household and two children at 18-19 all on his own but he was willing to do it, he felt like it was part of his purpose

Plus his “auntie” & “cousin” came around quite often which helped somewhat & even tho the woman was gritty in how she carried herself, anyone could see she cared for Noah’s mother & her children otherwise she wouldn’t have been around before & after his mother’s death

She became like a second mum but no one would ever replace his mother

It was tough going through his early twenties...he had became a parent figure instead of going to uni to study archaeology

He loved fossils & dinosaurs as a kid 

probably keeps up to date with any articles or shows that share their findings on prehistoric species in water or land (I find that shit so creepy yet interesting until I get too creeped out and leave lmao? especially dealing with the ocean!)

Enjoyed that American show called “siren”

He didn’t enjoy much of what usual twenty-something year olds would, he had to be home to take care of his siblings they became a major part of his life now

He is the type to bottle up his feelings. Ofc he jumped at the chance to raise his sibs without a question after seeing the state of his dad a week after his mum’s funeral but he knew he HAD feelings

He wasn’t a robot just because he tends to be quiet & observant

He had his low days too

But he would hide them in books, that was his safe haven, his escape

He loved working as a librarian even if he got shitted on for it

It never payed much even in his position but it brought him comfort that there were aisles of novels ready to tell him stories & found some relation to his own life

As if that wasn’t enough, he loved going to book shops as well. If he had enough $ leftover he would treat himself in a new book purchase

Will buy a new book even if he has piles of unread ones, which he does have a section of that in his room & in the corner of the living room

Has a kindle since it was the cheapest & can easily slip it into a bag if he can’t decide on what book to bring with him

Has glasses but prefers contacts, ‘i don’t want someone to think I’m that nerdy since I read out in public.’ He often thinks to himself—yet when he’s immerse in those pages the world goes silent around him

Collects vinyl toy figures and keeps them either on his mantle or built in shelves in his room

Loves coconut water & won’t drink any water unless it’s coconut

Got his gorgeous cheekbones from his dad

His father p*ssed during his 23rd year of life due to tsunami hitting the hotel he worked in

He took his sibs to their native land once it was safe and connected with their father’s side, which was bittersweet

I think I get Scorpio energy from noah? Idk but it’s in there somewhere

He likes cutting his food into smaller pieces no matter what it is, it’s just a habit since he did so for his younger sibs

Secretly it’s also easier for him since he feels like the dentist ruined one of his nerves once he got his wisdom teeth out

He hates the dentist

His baby sis is deaf & he absolutely took the time to learn sign language along with his brother

Chose buying her hearing aids over paying a monthly bill when $ got tight

His 17 year old brother now works a job & helps out the best way he can even if it took a bit of persuading from their cousin

They’re all extremely close and are aware what Noah’s done and continues to do for them

Probably enjoys painting even if he’s not the greatest at it, but there’s something about water color that is pleasing to his eyes

He’s had many jobs to keep food on the table and support his family but being a custodian paid him the most yet he couldn’t continue working overtime not when his sibs were as young as they once were. He had to let the job go, the money was great, his co-workers sucked since they never came to work leaving him with OT, but it was also a lot of gross work & the teenage girls were always hitting on him

Prone to taking on more than he can chew whether it’s in relationships or life situations

Has either one or two best friends outside of the villa & they’ve been tight since junior year

They didn’t approve of Noah stepping forward to take care of his sibs, knowing it would be a big responsibility & possibly put his life on hold

But they didn’t understand & came around to once they saw him in action & became supportive/proud

He knows they mean well?

Cannot dance

Owns a couple of blazers that he feels the most comfy in

Loves a good pin-striped dress shirt

Has soft thin wavy hair

Will sport a 5’oclock shadow if he’s stressed out, tired, or wants to show a more “mature” side of himself

Misses his mum’s Lamprais & kottu roti

He’s 5’11

Had 1-2 gfs before the villa & both of them were super lengthy relationships which there’s obviously nothing wrong with

Always trying to make it work even if there are signs of it failing

Is not the dominant one in relationships & usually wants to keep the peace—which falls back on him taking everything on his plate & bottling them up instead of addressing situations from the jump

Is observant but also likes to assume?

Tries to be honest & loyal

Once he’s in a relationship & it’s confirmed from the other, he is completely devoted & smitten

I think quality time is his love language

I also think he tried to play the violin growing up since he found that to be one of the instruments that holds so much passion

Likes period pieces minsus the racism :)

Has read Frankenstein countless of times over Shakespeare, he’s got good work, yeah? but it’s a bit overrated

Keeps in touch with rahim & feels he understands him on a level his mates of years do not

They go holiday together when Noah feels he can afford it, even if rahim says he can pay for it. It’s not a big deal

Yet it is. He feels insecure when someone feels like he can’t do something because of where he’s from & what he does for a living. It showed more in his relationship with hope

Sure she was constantly paying for things but when he silently took the initiative to do so it was automatically assume that he didn’t have it even with his wallet out to pay

There were plenty of flaws in his relationship with hope and it took forever for him to see the toxicity in it even if fans adored them together

I’ve decided that they won’t be endgame. Which breaks everyone’s hearts after he’s the one to surprisingly call it quits after 3 years. He thought it would get better once he realized they way the acted towards each other was not completely heathly but it got worse

So he did what he had to do with what was in the best interest of everyone & hope did not agree

It was heated, it was emotional, and there was a last moment of intimacy to seal the deal of their goodbyes

Then came the drama online, with interviews and people trying to bring Priya into the mix & Hope was always vocal so it became a bigger issue

Noah just wanted to heal on his own but he was never going to engage in the drama. If they were all back in the villa face to face he might have said something but he didn’t need his words twisted so he rose above it and knew the two would eventually along with the fans

To get over the breakup? He hung out a little later with his mates at CLUBS, visited rahim, spent more time with his sibs, read, and...reached out to...BLAKE

After almost two years with whoever (in my case it was henrik) she was freshly single herself & not really looking but knew Noah was trying to get underneath someone. A rebound? Since he couldn’t bring himself to do so with the girls around home

Blake knew what happened with hope. She along with mc & some fans saw it coming. She thought about it, really thought about it but decided that she wouldn’t be Noah’s rebound. She knew Noah just needed time and when he was ready, maybe she’d be around

Celeb crush: Gillian Anderson, Antonia Thomas, Tika Sumpter, Aja-Naomi King, Normani Kordei, & Sophie Turner

Who does Noah listen to? Hozier maybe? KWABS, Grace Carter, Seinabo Sey, Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, Half Moon Run, Aisha Badru, Lianne La Havas, Dana Williams, Allan Rayman, Rationale, etc...

Anthem = Sid Sriram, “It isn’t true”

[thebaconsandwichofregret]

Happy False Value Day everyone!!!

As many of you know Ben Aaronovitch used to work for Waterstone’s, a bookshop chain in the UK, and because he’s quite proud of having worked there (and they are proud of having once employed him, no seriously, every time I even look at one of his books in one of their shops a member of staff spontaneously appears to tell me “He used to work here you know!” If I had a pound for every time I’d heard that I could afford to buy the Folly) he gives Waterstone’s a special exclusive short story in the first run of every new Rivers of London book. 

Obviously this is great for those of us who are UK fans. 

It’s less great for those of you who are international fans. However in the spirit of International Magical Cooperation I managed to get my hands on my copy ever so slightly early and so I have here for your reading pleasure, the exclusive short story from False Value - A Dedicated Follower of Fashion

Please note that this story contains mentions of sex and drugs and rock’n’roll

A Dedicated Follower of Fashion

By Ben Aaronovitch

You know that song by The Kinks? Not that one. The other one. No, not that one either. Yeah, that one- ‘Dedicated Follower of Fashion’. You wouldn’t believe it to look at me now, but that song’s about me. 

These days my daughter does her best to keep me looking respectable, and I haven’t the heart to tell her that I’d much rather wear my nice comfortable corduroy trousers, with braces, and leave my shirt untucked. But back in the sixties I was the dedicated follower of fashion. And it’s true that they sought me here and they sought me there but, as Ray Davies knew perfectly well, that was probably because of the drug dealing. What can I say? Clothes aren’t cheap. 

I was a middleman buying wholesale and supplying a network of dealers, mostly in and around the King’s Road. I rarely sold retail, although I did have a number of select clients. And of course nothing lubricates a soirée like a bowl full of alpha-methylphenethylamine. It was all going swimmingly until some little shit from Islington stiffed me on a payment and I found myself coming up ten grand short. And, believe me, ten grand in 1967 was a lot of money. You could buy a house in Notting Hill for less than that - not that anyone wanted to, not in those days. 

Now, I’ll admit that as an entrepreneur working in such a volatile industry, I probably should have ensured that I had a cash reserve stashed away against such an eventuality. Mistakes were definitely made. But in my defence, not only had I just discovered the joys of blow, I was also distracted by my infatuation with Lilith. 

Now, I’ve always cheerfully swung both ways and, to be honest, I’ve always been more attracted by the cut of someone’s trousers than what was held therein. But when I met Lilith it was if all the cash registers rung out in celebration. She was so like a man in some ways and so like a woman in others. I’d love to say that it was the best of both worlds, but looking back it was a disaster in every respect. Although a completely exhilarating disaster, like a roller coaster to an unknown destination. I tried explaining what she was like to Ray Davies and that beardy writer who ran that sci-fi magazine, but they both got her completely wrong. 

So there I was, suddenly ten grand down to people whose names you’re better off not knowing - let’s just call them the Deplorables and leave it at that. If I tell you that their nicknames were Cutter, Lead Pipe and Gnasher, that should give you a flavour of their character. You could call Cutter the brains behind the gang but that would be risking an overstatement. Organised crime in the good old days required little in the way of actual brains and relied much more on a calculated defiance of the social niceties vis-à-vis psychotic violence. Terrify your rivals, bully your customers, and hand out a bung to the local constabulary and you were away. 

And it goes without saying that aesthetically they were a dead loss. 

The Deplorables had a straightforward approach to those that owed them money which I will leave to your imagination - suffice only to say that it involved a sledgehammer and, of all things, a marlinspike. 

But I had no intention of losing my knees, so I had arranged a couple of new deals that would net me a sufficient profit to cover both what I owed the Deplorables and the same again to appease them sufficiently to save my poor knees from a fate worse than polyester. 

I know some of you are thinking that polyester was hip and groovy back in the Swinging Sixties, but trust me when I say that it was an abomination from the start - whatever the elegance of its long chain polymers.

In order to keep body and wardrobe together while I waited for these deals to come to fruition I decanted, along with Lilith and my faithful sidekick Merton, to a squat in Wandsworth just off the Earlsfield High Street. Now, I normally shun the transpontine reaches of the capital. But my thinking was sound. With my reputation as a flower of Chelsea and the King’s Road, I reckoned that nobody - least of all the dim members of the Deplorables - would think to look for me across the river. 

‘No fucking way,’ said Lilith when she first saw it, ‘am I living in this shithole.’

Squats come in many flavours. But political, religious or student, they are almost always shitholes. However, I could see this one had potential and Nigel, God bless his woolen Woolworths socks, had at least kept it clean. 

But not particularly tidy. 

Outwardly Nigel was definitely one of the children of Aquarius. Inside he had the soul of an accountant, but alas none of the facility with numbers. 

According to Nigel, who could be dull about this sort of thing, the building we were squatting in had been built in the eighteenth century as an inn that specialised in serving the trade along the river Wandle. This was news to me, because I had assumed the rank channel immediately behind the house was a canal. 

‘There used to be factories up and down the Wandle,’ he told me despite my best efforts to stop him, ‘all connected up with barges. And this is where the wartermen used to get their drinks in.’

With the collapse of that trade it was converted into a grad town house, a status it retained for a hundred years or so before providing slum housing for the unwashed multitude. Occasionally on its hundred-year odyssey it would surface into the light of respectable society before descending once more into the depths of squalor. 

Which is where yours truly arrived to bring a touch of colour and a modicum of good taste to the old place. 

Looking back, I believe that might have been the start of the whole ghastly business. 

Now the thing about the drug trade is that it overlaps with the general smuggling industry. As a result a man with the right contacts can acquire much in the way of valuable cloth - Egyptian cotton and the like - without troubling the good people of Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise. Then such an individual might use his reputation for fashion to sell on said items to the East End rag trade at less than wholesale, cash under the table, no questions asked and no invoices raised. Not as lucrative as a suitcase full of horse, but safer and more dependable. 

Cloth, even expensive cloth, takes up considerably more room even than Mary Jane, so the fact that the old building had a beer cellar capacious enough to store the stock was the other reason I’d chosen it as a bolt-hole. Merton and I pressed Nigel into service to help us carry the bales, wrapped in tarpaulin for protection, down to the cellar, which proved to be mercifully dry and cool.

It was surprisingly cool - you could have used it as a pantry. 

‘That’s because of the river,’ Nigel explained. ‘It’s just the other side of that wall.’

I touched the wall and was surprised to find it cool but bone dry. 

‘They know how to build houses in those days,’ said Nigel. 

Once we’d moved the good in, it was time to deal with the ever simmering domestic crisis that was life with Lilith. In the latest instalment of the drama, she had ejected Nigel from the master bedroom and claimed it as her own. This was less of a distraction than it might be because Nigel, like nearly all men, was clearly smitten with Lilith and acquiesced with surprisingly good grace. 

And so we settled in companionably enough, especially when Lilith and Nigel discovered a common in the works of Jack Kerouac. I could see that at some point I would be bedding down with Merton for a night or two. I won’t lie and say that I didn’t find Lilith’s peccadillos upsetting but Merton, bless his acrylic Y-fronts offers compensation in his own rough manner. 

Things started to go wrong the night of the storm and consequent flood. And while our decision to drop acid and commune with the thunder- Nigel’s idea, by the way - probably wasn’t to blame, it certainly didn’t help.

I don’t normally do hallucinogenics as they often disappoint. You go up expecting Yellow Submarine and get a lot of irritating visual distraction instead. My colour sense is quite keen enough, thank you, without having a pair of purple velvet bell-bottoms start to shine like a neon sign. 

The master bedroom - now Lilith’s domain - contained, of all things, a king-size four-poster bed that was missing its curtains. But since I’d arrived, it at least had matching cotton sheets in a tasteful orange and green fleurs-de-lis pattern. They matched the old wallpaper with its geometric tan and orange florets that still showed the retangular ghosts of long vanished photographs and paintings.

At some point - Nigel had said the 1930s - the owners had installed an aluminium-framed picture window that ran almost the length of the room and looked out over the canal, or more importantly, up into the boiling clouds of the oncoming storm. 

Lilith started on the bed with all three of us, but I can’t take anything seriously when heading up on LSD, least of all sex. So I quickly disengaged and chose to sit on the end of the bed and watch the storm. I doubt the others were troubled by my absence. 

I watched the storm come in over the rooftops of South London with lightning flashing in my eyes and that glorious sense of joy that only comes from something psychoactive interacting with your neurones. I lost myself in that storm and, in it, I thought I sensed the roar of the god of joy, whose acolytes dance naked on the hilltops and rip the goats apart. 

But the mind is fickle and darts from thought to thought and I became fascinated by the patterns the raindrops traced down the window glass. Then the play of light and shadow drew me to the walls, where I found myself pulling at the torn edge of the wallpaper. Like most squats, damp had gotten into the room at some point in the past and the top layer peeled away to reveal another layer below - a vertical floral design in red, purple and green on a pale background. Carefully I stripped a couple of square feet away. And while behind me Lilith howled obscenities in the throes of her passion, I started on the next layer. This revealed a faded leaf design in silver and turquoise. The colours pulled at me and I realised that if I could just find the original surface I might open a portal to another dimension - one of style and colour and exquisite taste. 

But I had to be patient. Clawing the walls would disrupt the delicate lines of cosmic energy that flowed along the pinstripes of the layer of blue linen-finish paper. Delicately, I peeled a loose corner until I uncovered a beautiful mustard yellow bird that glowed with an inner light. Gently and meticulously I revealed more. A trellis design overgrown with olive and brown brambles sporting red flowers and crimson birds. I knew it at once as a classic design from ‘the Firm’, the company founded by William Morris to bring back craftsmanship to a world turned grey and smoky by the Industrial Revolution.

I was ready for a hallucination then, and willed my mind into the pattern in front of me, but nothing happened. The wallpaper shone out of the hole in the wall, the light shifting like sunlight through a real trellis, real birds, but that achingly rational part of my brain stayed aloof. Chemistry, it said, it’s all chemistry. 

At some point Nigel escaped the bed and fled whimpering into the cupboard and closed the door behind himself. 

The trellis and its mustard-coloured birds mocked me from the walls, 

‘I think we’re sinking,’ said Merton, for what I realised was the third or fourth time. 

I was still coming down and it took concentration to focus on Merton, who was stark naked and pacing up and down at the foot of the bed. Lilith was sprawled face down, arms and legs spread like a starfish to occupy as much space as possible. There was no sign of Nigel, and in my elevated state I seriously gave consideration to the thought that Lilith had devoured him following coitus. 

Merton rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, as if testing his footing. 

‘Definitely sinking,’ he said, and ran out of the door. 

I flailed about a bit until I found a packet of Lilith’s Embassy Filters and a box of Swan Vestas, managed to not light the filter on the second attempt and dragged in a grateful lungful. A burst of head-clearing nicotine helped chase away the last of the lysergic acid diethylamide and I was just trying to determine whether I’d hallucinated a naked Merton when he reappeared.

‘I’ve got good news and bad news,’ he said. ‘We’re not sinking but we’re definitely flooding.’

The cellar was divided into two parts. The stairs led down to the smaller part of it, essentially a wide corridor which used to house, so Nigel insisted on telling me, the coal chute - now bricked up. A big metal reinforced door opened into the larger part of the cellar - the part with over ten grand’s worth of fabric stored in it. The door was closed but the corridor part was two inches deep in filthy water. 

‘Don’t open the door!’ called Nigel from the top of the stairs. 

I had no intention of leaving the dry section of the stairs, let alone risking the cuffs of my maroon corduroy flares in what looked to me like sewage overflow. Merton, who’d been trying to force the door open, now splashed back as if stung. For a man who I’d once seen cheerfully batter a traffic warden for awarding him a ticket, it was odd how he never argued with Nigel - not about practical things to do with the house anyway. 

Nigel, resplendent in a genuine Indian cloth kaftan - or so he claimed - passed me and stepped gingerly into the water. Reaching the door, he rapped sharply with his knuckles just above the waterline, then he methodically rapped up the door until he reached head height. After a few experimental raps to confirm, he turned to me and told me I was deader than a moleskin waistcoat. 

‘The whole room’s flooded,’ he said. ‘Probably not a good idea to open this door.’

I sat down on the stairs and put my head in my hands. I did a mental inventory of what I’d stored and how it had been packed. It was bad, but if we could pump out the room half of it could be salvaged - especially the silks, since the individual rolls had been wrapped in polythene. 

Thank God for Hans von Pechmann, I thought, and got to my feet. 

‘We need to drain the room,’ I said. ‘Nigel, get a pump and enough hose to run it back out to the river.’

Nigel nodded.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, and practically skipped up the stairs. 

‘Put some clothes on before you go out!’ I called after him. 

I told Merton that when we had the pump and the hose, he would have to cut a suitable hole in the door -  near the top. 

‘Will you need tools?’ I asked. 

Merton eyed up the door. 

‘I have what I need in my bedroom,’ he said.

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea.’

It took Nigel the best part of the day to source the suitable equipment. In the meantime, I sent Merton out to the local phone box to see if I couldn’t rustle up another life- and kneecap-saving transaction. Ideally, I should have been making the calls myself but I didn’t dare show my face on the street - it’s a well-known face, even in South London. I spent the time cataloguing my wardrobe, alas much reduced by my exile, ironing that which needed ironing and casting away those items that had fallen out of style since my last purge. 

Some things never go out of style - some things, thank God, will never come back. Let us hope that the lime-green acrylic aquiline button-down cardigan is one of them. I really don’t know what I was thinking when I bought it. 

Apart from a spectacularly noisy toilet break, Lilith stayed blissfully asleep in the main bedroom until teatime and then vanished into the bathroom for the next two hours. 

Once Nigel had returned with the pump and the hose, Merton used his hammer and chisel to cut a rough hole, six inches across, near the top of the door. Nigel had brought down the cream-coloured hostess trolley and mounted the pump on that to keep it out of the water. Once it was rigged we ran a hosepipe up the stair, down the hall, across the kitchen and poked it out the back window. Merton stayed to supervise the outflow while I returned to the top of the stairs and gave Nigel the nod. 

It looked ramshackle and was, indeed, held together with string and gaffer tape. But like most things that Nigel built, especially his improvised hookahs, it was perfectly adequate. The pump puttered into life, the pipe going through the hole in the door stiffened, there was a gurgling sound and I followed the passage of the water upstairs and into the kitchen. There, an arc of water shot from the hose and into the river beyond. 

‘How long until it’s pumped out?’ I asked.

‘A couple of days,’ said Nigel. 

When I objected, he pointed out that it was a small-bore hosepipe, that the cellar was large and that we didn’t know how the river water was getting in. 

Some things you can’t control, I suppose, such as Lilith - who I found sitting in the kitchen in a loose yellow kimono, drinking brandy and letting her assets hang out. 

‘It smells different in here’ she said.

I pointed out that the window was open to allow egress of the hosepipe and was thus allowing fresh air, to which Lilith was generally unaccustomed, to enter the room. Lilith grunted and said she was going out that evening to meet some friends in Soho. 

I tried to talk her out of it but she insisted, and there was no stopping Lilith when she was set on something. 

‘What if the Deplorables see you?’ I asked.

‘Darling,’ said Lilith, throwing an orange ostrich feather boa around her neck, ‘the Deplorables never frequent the places I do and in any case - I’m invisible.’

I was making another calming cup of tea when I realised that Lilith had been right. The kitchen smelt fresh and, oddly, sun dappled - of you thought sun dappled was a smell. I went to the open window and took a deep breath. Not normally something I’d recommend given the foetid nature of the Wandle - which still looked more like a canal to me - behind the house. The air was fresh and another thing I noticed was that the water shooting out of the hosepipe was clear. I pulled the pipe in a bit and had a closer look and then an experimental tate - just the tip of the tongue, you understand. It was plain, clean water. Perhaps, I thought, the cellar had been flooded by a burst mains pipe. If so, then there was a chance that much of my stock might survive relatively intact. 

I also noticed that the house had a small back garden, or rather a side garden, an overgrown patch of weeds and brambles that filled a roughly triangular space between next door’s garden wall, the river and the side of the kitchen. I replaced the hose and went looking for the door that led to the garden. I’m not a horticulturalist myself, but to a man in my position, knowing there’s a back door - for egress in extremis - is always a comfort. 

It took three days to drain the cellar, which passed as quickly as two quarters of Lebanese cannabis resin could make it. Now I’ve never been one to get the munchies, but Nigel could consume an astonishing amount of fish and chips, and poor Merton was forced to make several supply runs. On the morning of the fourth day, Nigel declared that we could force the door and I went to fetch Merton. 

Who was nowhere to be found.

His room was as he always left it, the bed made with military precision and knife-edge creases. Merton was a thoroughly institutionalised boy, but what institution - the navy, prison, the Foreign Legion - I’d never thought to ask. His clothes, though dull, were hung or folded with the same admirable care. His tool case was missing but the canvas bag containing his baseball bat, bayonet and the long wooden stick with the stainless steel barbs that I didn’t want to know the purpose of, was tucked into the wardrobe next to his two spare pairs of Doc Martens boots. 

I returned to the basement corridor, which Nigel had mercifully mopped clean once the muddy water had soaked away. Nigel was standing by the door to the cellar, stock-still and staring at something on the floor. 

‘What is it?’ I asked.

Nigel pointed mutely at a battered blue metal toolbox sitting by the door. Its top was open and its trays expanded to reveal its rows of neatly arrayed tools and boxes of screws and nails.

‘He must have gone inside,’ said Nigel. His voice dropped to an urgent whisper. ‘Inside there!’

Since I had no idea why Nigel was so agitated, I reached out and pushed the door open. It opened a fraction and then pushed back - as if someone was leaning against the other side.

‘Merton,’ I said, ‘stop fucking about and let me in.’

I shoved harder and the door opened a crack and out poured a weird sweet smell like cooked milk. And with it a sense of outraged dignity which so surprised me that I jumped back from the door, which slammed shut. 

‘Is he in there?’ asked Nigel.

‘Must be,’ I said, but I wasn’t sure I believed it.

Neither of us could match Merton -  because that’s who it had to be - for physical might. I mean, I employed him precisely because he could intimidate your average creditor just by breaking wind. So we trooped upstairs for a cup of tea and some pharmaceutical reinforcement. 

‘Got any more black beauties?’ asked Nigel, who never could separate his biphetamines from his common or garden amphetamines. I swear, you try to educate people but there are limits. I gave him a couple of ludes, and given the day we’d had so far, took a couple myself. Lilith returned fabulously drunk at two in the morning, and we all piled into bed and didn’t get up until the next afternoon. 

The door to the cellar remained closed and Merton’s tool case was still where he’d left it. I tried the door, but it was stuck fast with no give at all. I even tried knocking it down, like they do in films, but all I did was bruise my shoulder. 

If Merton was in there, he wasn’t coming out until he was good and ready. And since I wasn’t getting in, I had to accept that I wouldn’t be realising any value from my stock of fabrics any time soon. Still, I’d already written down their value and put other deals in motion to generate cash flow - another drug deal, as it happens. A stack of Happy Bus LSD out of Rotterdam. A little bit riskier than my normal deals, but needs must, as they say.

Without Merton, I was forced to rely on Nigel to go out and make the necessary phone calls. Unlike Merton, who followed instructions without question, I had to explain everything to him as if he were in a spy movie with Michael Caine. Once he had the gist, he darted out the front door wearing an RAF surplus greatcoat. As I watched him go from the upstairs window, I realised that his hair had grown long enough to reach between his shoulder blades and wondered why I hadn’t noticed. 

The next couple of days went past with no sign of Merton, and I only managed to keep anxiety at bay with the help of my dwindling supply of cannabis resin and long punishing nights with Lilith. 

The door to the cellar remained closed. 

When I had nerved myself up to go look, I noticed that something had been jammed into the cracks around the edge of the door - as if it had oozed out from inside the cellar in liquid form and then set on contact with air. I took a set of pliers from Merton’s tool case and worried a fragment out. It’s a long time since I’ve prepared a slide in earnest, but while I didn’t have a microscope I did have a jeweller’s glass I keep for checking crystal shape. Under magnification the fragment revealed itself to be a tangle of threads - blue cotton, my good Egyptian cotton at a guess. I picked at the tangle with a pair of tweezers and a strange notion struck me -  that the threads weren’t tangled randomly, that there was a pattern to the knots.

I could imagine a circumstance where the pressure of water could both shred the original weave of a cloth and then tangle the threads. I could even imagine water pressure forcing the threads around the edge of the door, but it seemed unlikely. Before I discovered fashion and pharmaceuticals I did a degree in chemistry. Started a degree, to be precise - I stopped paying attention in the second year. But I always thought of myself as rational even when under the influence. 

If I’d known what I know now, I would have run screaming from the house and taken my chances with the Deplorables. But I lived in a much smaller world in those days. 

Although large enough for my Rotterdam connection to agree to a deal. Not only that, but it seemed my credit was good enough for me to procure a sample shipment on good faith. With the profit from that sale I could finance a larger shipment and thus dig myself out of my financial predicament and quit the squat - and it’s creepy basement.

The only catch being that I would have to provide my own mule to bring the sample in. Normally you don’t use your friends as mules, not even friends of friends. What you really want is a gullible person who’s been talked into it by someone you only know through business. I knew a guy who could meet a girl at a party and have her on a plane to Ankara the next day. He made a living recruiting mules and didn’t mind some wastage at all - right up to the point someone’s mother gave him both barrels of her husband’s grousing shotgun. The police never caught her and only Merton and I turned up for the funeral. 

It wasn’t hard to persuade Lilith to fly to Rotterdam - especially first class - and the beauty was that wherever she touched down, she paid for herself. Or to be strictly accurate, other people took care of her needs for her. The downside, of course, was that you had to allow her time to party - in this case, at least a week. You’d think that without Lilith sharing the high thread cotton sheets of the four-poster bed I’d be getting more sleep, but I found myself spending most of every night staring at the underside of the bed’s canopy. 

It didn’t help that I had to ration the Quaaludes - I needed them to keep Nigel functioning. 

‘There’s something in the cellar,’ he said, and refused to go down into the basement. 

I, on the other hand, found myself increasingly drawn to the cellar door. Especially when it started to flower. 

It started with a spray of cotton around the door frame, overlapping triangular leaves of white and navy-blue cotton that stuck to the bricks of the wall as if they’d been glued in place. I took a sample and found that instead of regular weave, the cloth was formed by the intertwining of threads in a complex pattern. Some of the threads amongst the white and blue were a bright scarlet and spread through the fabric in a branching pattern like streams into a river basin. Or, more disturbingly, like capillaries branching out from a vein. 

I did make an attempt, cautiously, to scrape one of the ‘leaves’ off the wall with a trowel I found in Merton’s tool case. But even as I pushed the blade under the edge of the cloth I felt such a wave of disinterest -  I cannot describe it more clearly than that- that I found myself halfway up the basement stairs before I realised what had happened. 

The next day the cotton leaves had spread out at least another six inches and surrounding the door were tongues of crimson and yellow orgaza. Individual threads had begun to colonise the door proper - curling into swirling patterns like ivy climbing a wall. I spent an indeterminate amount of time with my back to the opposite wall, staring at the pattern to see if I could spot them moving.

I wondered what it meant. Perhaps Nigel was right, and the Age of Aquarius was upon us and we had entered a time of miracles. 

When I was upstairs I tried to put the cellar out of my mind and concentrate on plans for the future. I had fallen into drug dealing almost by accident and had always found it an easy and convenient way to keep myself in the sartorial fashion I aspired to. But if my run-in with the deplorables was an indication of the future, then perhaps it was time to pack it in. A boutique of my own instead, one in which I could serve both as owner-manager and inspiration. Before the merest thought of doing actual work, no matter how supervisory, had filled me with disgust but now … now it seemed attractive. 

I didn’t trust these feelings. 

I needed out of the squat. I needed to be strutting down the King’s Road or Carnaby Street. I wanted back out into the world, where I could be as dazzling and as splendid as the first acolyte of the goddess of fashion. 

But you need working kneecaps to strut your stuff. And so I stayed where I was. 

By the third day the door was completely obscured behind a tapestry of red, black and gold thread, and wings of cotton spread out across the walls and ceiling. The organza had likewise spread and a third wave of pink and yellow damask now framed the doorway. By the sixth day the entire corridor was curtained in swathes of multicoloured fabric, so that it seemed a tunnel to a draper’s wonderland. 

I no longer dared leave the safety of the foot of the stairs and yet I still found myself walking down them three times a day to look. The urge to walk into its warm comforting embrace was terrifying. 

On the seventh day, Lilith failed to return. I started to seriously worry on the eighth; on the ninth, I fell into such a despair that no amount of near pharmaceutical-grade Drinamyl amphetamines could lift me from it. On the tenth, a postcard arrived with four jaunty pictures of a tram stop, a fountain, a town square, a gigantic statue of a man holding up the sky and Groeten uit Rotterdam written across the front. 

On the back Lilith sent me love and kisses, explained that she’d met a splendid sailor or three and would be staying on in the Netherlands for a bit, but not to worry because she’d found a perfectly wonderful Spaniard to courier my product back to London. Thoughtfully she’d written the travel and contact details of the Spanish courier on the postcard - in plain English. 

With a heavy heart I sent Nigel out to pick up the package and when he failed to return I was not surprised. 

We live in a universe constantly assailed by the forces of entropy. Nothing good, pure or beautiful can stand up to the relentless regression towards the mean, the dull and the shabby. A minority have always striven to be a beacon in the gloom, a constant source of inspiration to those around them. Some worked through the medium of paint, or music, or literature, but I have sought to make myself the living embodiment of style and culture. 

God knows it hasn’t been easy. 

But a man should always know when he’s been beaten. That morning, as I sat in the kitchen, futilely waiting for Nigel to return, I realised that that time, for me, was nigh. I went upstairs, stripped myself down to my underwear - not nylon and not frilly, thank you, Ray - and after taking a deep breath to steel myself, donned a pair of brown corduroy trousers and a matching moleskin shirt. A pair of Hush Puppies and one of Merton’s donkey jackets completed my transformation. I looked in the mirror -  I was unrecognisable. 

Stuffing the last of my cash reserves in my pockets, I headed for the front door. I paused by the basement only long enough to ensure it was closed. From behind it came a noise that might have been a giant breathing, or water flowing, or shuttles running back and forth across lines of thread. 

I shuddered and walked boldly out into the sunlight. 

My plan was simple. Take the train to Holyhead, the ferry to Dublin and then, via a few contacts I still had, to America and freedom. 

I didn’t even get as far as Garratt Lane before I ran straight into Cutter. I tried to braout but somehow he recognized me instantly and called out my name. 

I turned, ran back to the squat, slammed the door behind me and went for the back door. There I could escape via the garden, over the wall and run for Wimbledon Park station. 

But Lead Pipe was waiting in the kitchen, with a cup of tea on the go and the Daily Mirror open to the back pages. 

‘About time,’ he rumbled when he saw me. 

Three guesses where I went next. 

I was down the stairs and into the basement corridor before I even noticed that the walls had grown a fringe that glowed with a soft golden light. I was prepared to throw myself frantically at the cellar door but I found it open. I ran inside with no brighter plan than to barricade myself inside and hope the Deplorables grew bored.

Inside the cellar was a riot of colour. The walls were arrayed with purple organza and burgundy charmeuse, while sprays of a brilliant blue habotai framed cascades of fabric woven in a dozen colours - scarlet, yellow and green - into tangles of vines, leaves and flowers. Globes of light hung suspended from golden threads in each corner, illuminating a bundle of gold and black embroidered silk suspended from tendrils of lace - like a cocoon from a spider-s web. 

Around me was a giant’s breathing and the warp and weft of a loom gigantic enough to weave the stars themselves. I could no more have stopped myself from grasping that bundle than I could have stopped myself breathing. 

The bundle was warm and squirming in my arms. I unwrapped a layer of gauzy chiffon, gazed down on my fate and was lost. 

‘Oi,’ said a voice from behind me. 

I turned to find myself confronting the sartorial disaster that were the Deplorables en masse. I won’t describe their appearance on the off chance that children may one day read this account. 

‘Can I help you gentlemen?’ I asked, because politeness is always stylish. 

‘Yeah,’ said Cutter. ‘You can give us the ten grand you owe us.’

‘Plus interest,’ said Lead Pipe.

‘Plus interest,’ said Cutter. 

‘I’m rather afraid I haven’t got it,’ I said. 

‘That’s a shame,’ said Cutter, and he turned to Lead Pipe. ‘Isn’t that a shame?’

‘It’s definitely a shame,’ said Lead Pipe. 

The bundle in my arms squirmed a bit and made happy gurgling noises. 

‘Since the money is not forthcoming, I’m afraid we’ll be forced to take measures,’ said Cutter. He looked once more to Lead Pipe. ‘Is your sledgehammer ready?’

By way of reply, Lead Pipe held up his sledgehammer and I couldn’t help but notice that there were brown stains on the long wooden handle. 

‘And Gnasher,’ said Cutter. ‘Do you have a marlinspike about your person?”

Gnasher grunted and held up a pointed lump of metal that I can only presume, in my ignorance of all things nautical, was a marlinspike. 

Cutter turned back to me and smiled nastily.

‘I’d say that you should take this like a man,’ said Cutter. ‘But that would be a waste of time.’

Never mind his rudeness, I had more pressing concerns. 

‘Shush,’ I said. ‘You’ll wake the baby.’

Cutter’s face suffused to a fine shade of puce and he opened his mouth to continue his ranting, so I twitched aside the fine damask sheet to reveal my daughter nestled in her bundle of silk and high-thread Egyptian cotton.

Her beautiful brown face broke into a charming smile and, opening her chubby arms in a benediction, she laughed - a sound like water tumbling over stones. 

Cutter gave me an astonished look and whispered.

‘Is this your…?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered back. ‘Her name is Wanda.’

‘But,’ said Cutter, ‘you can’t keep her here.’

‘She likes it here,’ I said indignantly.

‘It’s a dump,’ said Lead Pipe in a low rumble. ‘It’s not fit for human habitation.’

‘He’s right,’ said Cutter. ‘There’s damp and mould and the kitchen is a disgrace.’

‘And there’s no nursery,’ rumbled Lead Pipe.

‘And the garden is a jungle,’ said Gnasher. ‘Totally unsuitable.’

‘Gentlemen,’ I said, ‘I can’t attend to any of these details if you break my legs.’

‘Obviously, we have to deal with the immediate shortcomings of the house before we return to the matter of breaking your legs,’ said Cutter. ‘Don’t we boys?’

‘I know a couple of builders,’ said Gnasher. ‘And Lead Pipe has green fingers. Ain’t that right?’

Lead Pipe cracked knuckles the size of walnuts. ‘That’s true,’ he said. 

‘Really?’ I said.

‘You should see his allotment,’ said Cutter. ‘He has compost heaps you wouldn’t believe.’

I thought of the rumours of what exactly happened to people who crossed the Deplorables and I decided that I actually did believe in those heaps. 

‘About my legs,’ I said but Cutter wasn’t listening.

‘And there’s the roof,’ he said, and the others nodded. 

‘About my legs,’ I said louder and then wished I hadn’t, because the trio were jerked out of their dreams of home improvement and focused on yours truly in a somewhat disconcerting manner. 

‘What about them?’ asked Cutter, taking a step towards me. 

‘I thought we might reach a more mutually beneficial arrangement,’ I said.

‘What kind of beneficial arrangement did you have in mind?’ he said. 

‘There’s the matter of the way you dress,’ I said. 

Cutter pushed his face towards mine. 

‘What’s wrong with the way we dress?’ he said. ‘It’s practical.’

‘Stain resistant,’ said Lead Pipe. 

‘Yes, but,’ I said, ‘it could be so much more.’

And Wanda laughed again and this time behind the chuckling stream was the crisp snap of fabric shears and the whistling hum of the shuttle as it plays back and forth across the thread.

‘But first,’ said Cutter, waving a blunt finger in my face, ‘we have to sort out the playroom.’

And that was that. I gave up the pharmaceutical trade and opened a boutique instead. Cutter and his boys were my first customers, and while they never stopped being an unsavoury gang of foul-mouthed thugs, at least when they broke legs they were well dressed doing it. 

Merton, it turned out, had fled the squat the day we pumped out the water and, being in need of some security, assaulted a police officer so that he could spend a couple of nice peaceful years at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Lilith visited him regularly, and after he got out they ran an animal sanctuary just outside Abergavenny until their deaths, within three months of each other, in 2009. Nigel is still alive and taught cybernetics at Imperial College until his retirement a couple of years ago. 

My daughter and I never got around to giving the boutique a name. It was always just ‘the shop’ and given that we never advertised it’s a wonder that we stay in business. We’re always at the cutting edge of fashion. We were out of flares while the Bay City Rollers were still number one and stocking bondage trousers before John Lyndon had dyed his hair. We’ve moved the shop a couple of times and, while we’re hard to find, we’re always close to the river. 

So if you want to know what the herd are going to be wearing next spring, and if you can find us and are prepared to pay the price, you too can join the ranks of the stylish, the à la mode, and truly become a dedicated follower of fashion. 

END

[badacts]

crack in the ceiling/where the light bleeds in

Jason has a problem. Tim solves it because that’s his job in this family. Also on ao3.

The effects of the Lazarus Pit don’t last forever. Just ask Ra’s.

The thing is, Jason thought that might be a problem he’d have to deal with later. Like, ‘towards the end of a natural human lifespan’ later, in the event that he reached old age in his round two at all. Instead, he’s twenty-four, and he’s pretty sure he’s dying.

Or worse, not dying. It wasn’t, after all, the Lazarus Pit that brought him back to life. It just restored the function of his brain and everything that makes him himself along with it. Which he now seems to be losing.

So far, the extent of his problem-solving has been some quiet questions about the Lazarus Pits that still exist and also determinedly not saying anything to any of the bats. Of course, keeping it on the down-low from them precludes acting crazy in front of them.

Which is why, when the becoming-familiar need to puke comes over him while he’s working a case with Nightwing, he bolts.

“The hell?” he hears from behind him. “Red Hood!”

Jason ignores him, rapidly regressing from ‘feared vigilante’ to ‘scared animal’. By now, he knows the drill: first, the faint roll of nausea, followed by confusion, and then the visual hallucinations. Sometimes he hears shit, too. Then it’s followed last of all by the pain of his brain trying determinedly to break itself apart.

Pain is just electrical impulses. A reaction of the body - just the workings of fancy machinery, or maybe fancy meat. It’s the other stuff that scares the shit out of him. Particularly the shivering loss of control.

He can’t afford it. He can’t ever, ever afford to lose control.

He goes to one of his quieter places, with the entrance through a slanted skylight on the roof. His hands feel a thousand miles from his head as he fumbles through setting the security system. His vision is sparking, bubbles of light bursting and then dimming again too slowly.

The sliver of rational thought left to him wonders if this time will be the one he can’t come back from, but the rest of him is consumed by the need to get somewhere dark and quiet and just wait. He takes off his boots and the too-heavy outer layers that are chafing at his skin and setting his nerves on fire. Once he’s mostly stripped down, he lowers himself cautiously onto the mattress in his windowless bedroom.

In the dark, with his eyes closed, it’s almost like having a stomach bug, if he discounts the sense of impending doom. He breathes, and breathes, and determinedly doesn’t lose it.

*

He wakes with a start when the lights come on overhead. He makes the mistake of opening his eyes, and the resultant bolt of pain drags a sound disturbingly close to a whine from between his teeth.

“Fuck,” someone says, too loud. “Jason?”

Jason doesn’t reply, forcing an arm up to cover his eyes. The return of the darkness helps, but it also makes him aware that he’s breathing too fast. He wishes he could stop: it hurts.

“Photosensitivity,” Tim says more quietly, either narrating the work his big brain is doing, or, in a more likely scenario, telling the others exactly what’s wrong with Jason. “Rapid respiration. Nausea, if I had to guess.”

Fingers ghost over his brow, and then prod less gently at his chest and abdomen. He flinches away from the touch to his belly. “ Don’t .”

“Diffuse abdo pain,” Tim says. “Don’t touch? Sorry. I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

He sounds awfully relaxed, for someone who’s in danger. Jason remembers vividly before - Tim underneath him, breathing blood, and the sick and overwhelming sense of victory that he had won out over his replacement. Not caring that the kid under him might die. Hoping for it.

He can’t blame the Pit for his thoughts, not really, but it can take some of the responsibility for his lack of inhibitions, control and morality. These days, he’s pretty happy that Tim Drake is alive and kicking. He really, really doesn’t want to be one to put him in a grave.

“Go away,” Jason grits out. Each muscle in his jaw feels like high-tensile wire.

“One moment,” Tim says, followed by the distinctive click of an earpiece being muted. “I’m not going anywhere, Jay.”

The desperation sweeps over him like a tide. Thirty seconds ago, he couldn’t have imagined moving. Now, he forces through that and lunges at Tim.

Then he’s face down on the floor and retching, not quite sure how he got there. His head -

“Easy,” Tim is crooning, like he might have been going for a while. It has to be a tone he learned direct from Dick. “Yes, thank you, B. That’s very helpful.” And that tone is the result of years of dealing with Batman. “ Yes, B.”

There are fingers at Jason’s sleeve then, pushing it up, and then a pinprick in Jason’s arm. Tim says, “Ondansetron administered. Give it a minute.”

Jason lies there, trying not to inhale his own sour breath, feeling the right side of his head throb in time with his heart, until his stomach actually starts to settle. It feels like fifty years - with his metabolism, it’s probably more like ten minutes. He empties a sigh into his floorboards.

“There you go,” Tim says. He sounds like he’s talking to the victim of a violent crime, not Jason. “I’m going to help you back onto the bed, okay?”

His hands wrap around Jason’s forearms, and he starts to pull Jason up. But wiry muscle aside, one hundred and fifty-some pounds of Tim doesn’t have a hope of moving Jason if he doesn’t want to be moved. And he doesn’t.

“...or not,” Tim says, and capitulates by settling a blanket over Jason - being careful to avoid trapping his arms - and then raising his head to settle a pillow underneath it. It’s not much movement, but it still makes stars go off behind Jason’s closed eyelids. He bites back another groan.

“Your head hurts, huh?” Tim asks, because he’s some kind of detective or something. Jason would roll his eyes if he could. “Have you been knocked out recently?”

“No,” Jason says, and then a fragment of his familiar refrain: “Helmet.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tim’s definitely rolling his eyes. “What does it feel like? The pain?”

Jason presses his fingers into his right eye socket. Then he flicks them out to mime an explosion. “Throbs.”

He doesn’t need to see Tim to hear his metaphorical ears prick up. “Oh, shit. Did you see things, before it started to hurt?”

“Lights,” Jason admits. It’s less creepy than admitting that he also hears bubbling like boiling water, on and off, just quiet enough he can almost ignore it right before the pain kicks in. “They’re green.”

“Good,” Tim says, which absolutely wasn’t the response Jason expected. There’s more rustling, and then Tim says, “Little prick.”

“Fuck you,” Jason replies, letting Tim stick him with another needle, and then, when Tim snorts, “D’you have to do the clinic run too?” That was something he did once or twice when Bruce felt he needed the education - assisting Leslie at the clinic. Nothing makes you as appreciative of working on other bats as helping treat civilians. Normal people.

“Only when I really pissed him off,” Tim replies. “I’m going to roll you over now. Try not to puke on me.”

“Not gonna puke,” Jason replies, more out of stubborn will than any actual faith in himself. However, his stomach stays settled, though he keeps his eyes firmly closed.

“You’re lucky I brought my kit with me,” Tim mutters, more to himself than to Jason as he resettles the blanket. “What were you going to do next time you get a serious wound? Put a bandaid on it?”

Jason’s first aid kit is perfectly adequate, though maybe a little sparsely stocked right now. Normal people just don’t carry prescription anti-nausea medication on their person. Jason can’t think of a way to communicate that without moving his jaw, so he just gives an unamused huff.

There’s a ruffle of sound, and then the distinctive soft shick of someone pulling off their domino. “It’s just a matter of waiting it out now.”

“What?” Jason mumbles. He’s assuming Tim isn’t waiting for him to die - not even he would sound so cool about that - but he’s not entirely clear on what it is they’re waiting for, or doing, or what Tim just injected him with. It’s just that now the creeping anxious nausea has faded, it’s hard to worry about anything beyond the pain and the way his whole body feels like rocks shoved in a sack.

It’s the light - even through his eyelids, it’s uncomfortable. He’s just about to demand Tim turn off the overheads when a hand drops over his eyes, leaving him in blissful darkness.

“Sorry,” Tim says. “I need the light in case you actually are having an aneurysm. Do you get headaches like this a lot?”

Jason’s slightly offended by Tim calling it a headache. His brain is breaking. “Sometimes.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re having a migraine,” Tim says. “Have you been to a doctor?”

That question is frankly fucking laughable, and both of them know it. Jason mumbles, “I’m dead.”

“And as you like to tell us, you wear a helmet because you already died of head trauma once,” Tim says. “People with past TBIs are more likely to have migraines.”

“How’d I know that?” Jason’s slur doesn’t sound pissed off enough. Skipping the consonants hurts less though. “Didn’ finish high school.”

“Neither did I,” Tim points out.

“Nerd.”

“Loser.”

“Probably.” At least they’re in the same boat. “Migraine, huh?”

“Pretty sure,” Tim confirms. “If you were having a brain bleed, I reckon you’d be dead by now. Again.”

“Lazarus Pit. Thought m’head was broken,” Jason mutters faintly. He doesn’t mean to say it, would never admit it to Tim Drake in a million years. It’s just a moment of weakness.

“It is,” Tim replies, on the shadow of a laugh. “Not like that, though.”

*

The after phase is a real trip.

“Euphoria,” Tim observes. “Decrease in pain, plus all the dopamine your body has been pumping out - instant high. Same thing happens to new moms once they’ve pushed their babies out.”

“Thanks for that,” Jason rasps. He’s in bed now, though he’s working on blocking out how he got here. He’s already going to owe Tim for tonight, but he draws the line...right there. “Seriously, you can leave now.”

“No can do,” Tim replies. He’s still in his uniform, though he’s ditched the cape and the armed over-vest for just the pants and a slick-fabric undershirt. It makes Jason’s gear look clunky and old-fashioned by comparison. “I’m on baby-sitting duty.”

Not even the slow haze of hormones can dull the bite of irritation at that. “Fuck you.”

“To be clear, I don’t think you’re going anywhere right now,” Tim clarifies. “I’m just here for everyone else's’ peace of mind.”

“Anxious freaks,” Jason mumbles, though not unkindly.

“You can hardly blame them. It’s never a good sign when the Red Hood disappears without a word,” Tim says cheerfully.

Despite himself, Jason prickles. “They that worried for the safety of Gotham’s criminal element?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Tim snorts. “They’re worried you’re going to get yourself killed. Again.”

Jason doesn’t have a reply to that. Sensing that, Tim continues, “I actually think you might be right about the Lazarus Pit. You thought it was wearing off, right?”

“Right,” Jason confirms after a moment, though grudgingly. Stupid detective brother.

“It might be,” Tim says. “Just enough for your brain to remember that it got seriously injured back then. Or you might have a different trigger. There’s something here about diarying your episodes and trying to figure out the causes from that.”

Jason doesn’t have to look to know Tim is scrolling through his phone where he’s sitting cross-legged on the mattress next to Jason. He said something brisk about being close enough to ‘monitor’ when Jason tried to shove him off, and he’d given up. His head doesn’t hurt anymore, not precisely, but he still feels wobbly-necked and fragile.

“Triggers?”

“Storms, specific kinds of food, stress,” Tim lists.

Jason opens his eyes specifically to give Tim a dubious look. “Stress?”

Tim looks back at him just as dubiously. “How many hours sleep do you get a night?”

“Fuck off,” Jason replies, and firmly closes his eyes again. Stress. Jesus Christ.

“I’ll get you a headache journal for Christmas,” Tim says lightly, and then, “So, why’d you try to beat me up?”

“I always beat you up.”

“Not tonight you didn’t. We don’t reward points for effort in Gotham.”

Oh. That attempt at beating him up. Jason mumbles, “Don’t know.”

“Whatever.” Tim can fit a lot of scorn in that tiny body of his.

“Maybe I just don’t want you around,” Jason snaps, sharp as he can make it right now.

Tim, predictably, rears back to give Jason one of his lizard-glares. It doesn’t last long though, fading into something a bit more evaluatory. He says, “You can’t make me leave.”

Jason sputters, caught between the desire to laugh derisively and the desire to get up and shove Tim out the window he came in through. Before he can pick, Tim lays down on top of the bedcovers on the empty side of the mattress.

“Hey, this bed is really comfy,” he says, as though he isn’t constantly being found asleep on hard non-bed surfaces across Gotham. Jason once found him napping on a rooftop.

“I’ll give you the website of the place I got it off if you go away,” Jason attempts.

“Like I couldn’t find it myself,” Tim scoffs, scrunching himself down into Jason’s pillows. “Hey, pass me that blanket?”

“No,” Jason replies, pulling the blanket in question tighter about himself. It’s his favourite, warm and soft, and the weight of it on top of him is already making him sleepy despite Tim’s rudeness.

“It’s okay, I don’t need one anyway,” Tim says.

“Seriously, go away.” What is the world coming to? The only brother Jason should have this much trouble getting rid of is Dick.

“Babysitting, remember? And when baby sleeps, so does sitter.” Tim pats kindly at Jason’s blanket-covered elbow. Jason kindly doesn’t strangle him for it.

Yet. He doesn’t do it yet. Because there’s a tickle of nervousness in the pit of his belly about having someone else sleep so close to him, and not out of fear for his safety, either. That on top of his incomplete acceptance of Tim’s migraine theory has him lying stiff in his blankets when Tim finally reaches over and flicks the lights off.

“Big spoon or little?” Tim asks, which surprises Jason so much that he actually laughs. “Go to sleep. You’ll feel better afterwards.”

“Did WebMD tell you that?”

“Nah. Everything is just always better with more sleep,” Tim replies, and then yawns. “Shh.”

Jason manages about five minutes of his commitment to stay awake while Tim’s breathing slows and evens out next to him. He’s warm and comfortable and his head doesn’t hurt anymore, and he might not be dying or going crazy after all. The closer he gets to sleep, the easier it is to believe.

He’s nearly asleep himself when Tim, sounding far more awake than Jason would have expected, says, “I’m not scared of you.”

He probably should be. That said, they’re Robins - not scared of much. Jason mumbles, “Go to sleep,” and promptly follows his own command.

[crqstalite]

&burn

thinking about AJ last night and her relationship with kaidan (remember when i said 5/7 of my canon sheps have been paired with him? yeah.) and even though no one asked, i think billie eilish’s &burn  fits really well for where her character goes. is it cliche? maybe. but i like this song so there >:(

it’s a bit long. and a bit silly but nonetheless -- first look in AJ herself i guess.

-

Lips meet teeth and tongue My heart skips eight beats at once (That's better) If we were meant to be, we would have been by now See what you wanna see, all I see is him right now H-h-him right now

Kaidan’s one of the few people AJ’s ever learned to trust by the time Saren’s investigation begins -- she’s the sort of person that refuses to let people get close unless she knows they won’t hurt her. And close often means just learning the name she prefers to go by. She likes to keep people at arms length.

Kaidan is different. Kaidan doesn’t press on her to trust him faster than need be.

She admires that about him. It’s still a slow process to open up to him, but it isn’t as needlessly painful as she’d believed it would be. There’s no fear to actively revealing parts of her character she’d never been able to show before.

It’s new. He’s new. How she smiles whenever she catches his eye is new. She isn’t sure whether she likes it or not. But he does mean a lot to her. She knows he’s a new part of her life she wants to be around. That she actively wants to get to know, that she wants to become part of his.

AJ wonders what’ll become of them after Saren is gone and the mission is over. What does he see her as? A stepping stone to someone better? Or is this real? One of the few things she’s chased after for most of her life?

Someone who loves her unconditionally, platonically and romantically?

She doesn’t know what he is to her. Maybe she doesn’t want to. If she says it out loud, if she says she really cares about him, that she loves him...

My heart skips eight beats at once (That's better)

Will it still be real when she wakes in the morning? Will June and Kaidan still be...

She can’t find the words for it. Nor does she want to. That means making that real. That means putting a name to it. A name means that it exists.

A name means it can be ripped apart.

I'll sit and watch your car burn With the fire that you started in me But you never came back to ask it out Go ahead and watch my heart burn With the fire that you started in me But I'll never let you back to put it out (Thanks)

This is after the Normandy crashes, and the two years have passed where AJ is wondering where he is. Searching for anything she can find to bring him back to her. Looking for anything that she can do to take her life back, to rewind the clock.

Futilely, of course.

With the fire that you started in me But you never came back to ask it out Go ahead and watch my heart burn

And that part specifically is Horizon and everything after it. It isn’t fair, she was so sure that what they had was real. She was always under the assumption that when you found real love, that was forever. That it’d always be there. She thought Ilos and everything that came before and after meant something in the grand scheme of things.

And then he leaves. She watches him leave. She lets him leave, biting her tongue for everything she said, wondering how this encounter could’ve gone differently.

Later, she understands. Later she can rationalize it away. Later, it all makes sense and it doesn’t quite hurt as much. It’s all in character, and it’s fair of him to walk away. 

She’d asked too much, pressed too hard, and deserved exactly what happened when he pushed back.

Later isn’t now, though. Now is when she’s hurt and broken and shattered like glass. She sees whatever future they had together go up in flames. That makes her angry, it makes her frustrated that there’s nothing she can do to stop it. There’s nothing she can do to fix it.

She always could fix these things. But she can’t even find the pieces to glue back together. And maybe she doesn’t want to fix anything. Maybe she wants to throw everything off her desk and scream and cry and stop acting like she has everything together when she doesn’t.

The shattered photo on her bedroom floor when the dark energy stops flickering over her is what breaks her completely.

Go ahead and watch my heart burn With the fire that you started in me But I'll never let you back to put it out

Alexandra June AJ doesn’t know if she wants their relationship back or not. She doesn’t know it’s worth letting him come back and re-light the fire he’d set the first time. She burned her hand on this stove once, and she can’t afford to do it again.

7-4-2008, I still remember that Heaven sent a present my way I won't forget your laugh Packing everything when you leave You know you comin' back

Here is where I assume Kaidan is never able to forget about Shepard -- or in this case AJ. He might try in those years she was dead, but no one else is her. The corners of their eyes don’t crinkle the same way her’s do, no one else smiles the same, no one else’s laugh is so muted you consider it treasure enough to even hear it at all. Her voice is sharp but at the same time, the only thing he’s wanted to hear since she died.

And then she was gone. Just like that, a candle light flickered out by the freezing cold of space. Choked out by the air that was supposed to sustain her.

Then she was back. At first he thinks he hallucinating.

He’s not.

It’s whiplash, trying to wrap his head around that. He’d grieved for her for nearly two years by the time he sees her again across that field on Horizon. He isn’t sure that it even is her at first, with the long dark hair missing, a red mop of hair on her head now in it’s place, orange light pulsing behind scars on her face.

The relief in her voice is palpable, the same breathless Kaidan off her lips when she hugs him. It’s the same smile, the same dark eyes he could lose himself in if he let himself go.

She’s here.

But at the same time, she’s not. The scars on her face aren’t her’s. The insignia on one of her’s crew’s armor makes his blood run cold. She’s upset, tripping over her words to try and explain to him why she’s with them.

Cerberus. Them.

Walking away is one of the hardest things he’s had to do. He wonders whether it’s the right decision for a long time. 

She doesn’t yell after him. Her voice is strained enough, on the edge of barely held back tears with his name on her lips.

The empty look in her eyes when he’d had to say goodbye haunts his dreams.

I try to wait for the storm to calm down But that's stubborn, baby, leadin' to war We droned down on each other Tryin' to even the score

They live to see the end of the suicide mission. They live to see each other return to Earth. So close, and yet so far. It isn’t the same like when she was dead -- he knows she’s here. He knows she’s alive at least.

She’s aware she’s a walking political catastrophe waiting to happen. Not to mention there are space cthulus on the horizon.

She’s aware he’s here in Vancouver. And very much alive. 

Do they miss each other? Or do they miss the idea of each other? Something she’d had to learn, and something he’d had to consider. Was there anyone out there like him? She hadn’t had the chance to look, she hadn’t wanted to look.

He already knew there was no replacing her as is.

They don’t have time to decide.

The Reapers hit Earth.

A storm is whirling around AJ. She barely knows what’s happening anymore, and there’s nothing she can do about any of it. The Reapers are here and destruction reigns. And yet she barely has enough time to process any of it, trying to find an opening to get back to some semblance of normal. She needs to find a crag in the side of the mountain to pull herself back up and stop her fall.

Kaidan. 

He nearly dies there on Mars.

That forces her to slow down because it turns her world upside down. It leaves her dizzy and sick because she isn’t sure what she’d do if he died. They may not have been together in years, but he still means everything to her.

She can’t control the Reapers. She can’t control Cerberus. She can slow all of those things down, but nothing she herself does will affect any of those things.

But what she can do here? What she can even do to convince the only man she’s ever loved to trust her again? Is her fear of going back to something real, something with a name going to hold her back from finding a sliver of happiness in this dimming galaxy?

What they can do here? He sees someone else in her shoes, even if it’s still the same AJ he’d spent the night with, she’s changed. For the better, for worse, he can’t tell. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Is it worth the risk of giving himself back to her?

Well, they can try not to burn each other on re-entry.

Go ahead and watch my heart, watch my heart burn You know you coming back, you know you coming back

“I want to understand what this is between us...and make it real. That’s what I want. What do you want?”

“I can’t bury what I feel for you anymore. And I don’t want to.”

Go ahead and watch my heart, watch my heart burn

[bubonickitten]

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: tumblr // AO3

Chapter 7 full text & content warnings below the cut.

      CWs for Chapter 7: panic attack/shutdown; hospital/ICU imagery. Jon meets his apparent quota of one (1) allowed swear per chapter. SPOILERS through S5.

      Chapter 7: Zombie, Redux

     There are hushed voices coming from somewhere deep below the unbroken whine of static filling his ears. Nearer, Georgie is saying something, but her words are too garbled for Jon to wring any meaning out of them. He isn’t sure exactly how long it’s been since he woke up, but he can feel his muscles cramping from holding the same position for awhile now, curled tight and taut and small.

  …catatonia: a state of…

  Fuck off, Jon thinks dully.

  At least he’s not crying anymore. That stopped some time ago, all of a sudden between one moment and the next, and now he just feels hollow and raw. He knows what he would see if he looked in the mirror: puffy, reddened eyes, so reminiscent of a human – but with a glint of something hungry and monstrous behind them. Any sympathy or concern that anyone might feel at first glance would be quashed with one long look into those eyes, leaving only fear and revulsion and hostility in their wake. And they would be right to flee or freeze or fight, just as they might when confronted with any other predator. 

  Jon keeps his eyes closed.

  “– a sedative,” comes an unfamiliar voice, finally reaching him through the haze.

  “Does he look like he needs a sedative?”

  Basira, Jon recognizes.

  “We – we should really do some – some tests…” The first voice trails off uncertainly. A nurse, Jon assumes. He can feel the apprehension coming off them in waves. 

  No one knows what to do with him. There is no standard of care for a patient who spent the last six months as a seeming corpse with frantic brain activity as its only signs of life.

  A zombie, Jon recalls wryly. The statement calls to him from within Basira’s bag: a taunt, a balm, and a poison all at once. He pushes the thought of it away.

  None of the hospital staff like entering his room, he Knows. They certainly don’t want to deal with him now he’s awake. His circumstances present a medical marvel – the kind of mystery that most researchers would kill for a chance to study – but their curiosity was tempered by that overpowering sense of wrongness emanating from him. They were wisely dissuaded by the sheer dread of coming close to something so unquestionably inhuman. 

  Most people aren’t so curious that they would run headlong towards an ominous fate like the first person to die in a horror film, he supposes. It’s just one more way in which Jon was – is – such an easy target for someone like Jonah Magnus.   

  Distantly, Jon can feel himself start to shiver.

  There’s movement to his right as Georgie sits on the edge of the bed, within arm’s reach but careful to leave a buffer of empty space between them. She tells him that he’s safe – he’s not, and neither is anyone else while he still exists in the world – and that she’s here – for now, but once she realizes how far gone he is, she’ll leave again – and that they’ll sort it all out – yes, and when they do, they’ll never stop looking at him like he’s a monster, and isn’t he?

  The door closes behind the nurse, but the fear lingers for several minutes afterwards, like blood diffusing through water.  

  “Jon,” Basira begins, her tone resolute and impersonal.

  “Give him a minute,” Georgie says.

  “He’s had a minute. He’s had six months.” There is no malice in her voice, only a bone-deep exhaustion. Basira has been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders since the Unknowing. She’s barely had a chance to mourn Daisy; she’s wound tight from hypervigilance, made worse by the Flesh’s attack; she’s had to put practicality above all else, because sentimentality is a luxury that has long since been stolen from her. “He needs to answer some questions.” 

  Georgie huffs and turns back to Jon.

  “Jon, can you hear me?”

  He nods without looking up.

  “Are you nonverbal?”

  Jon can feel a faraway part of himself balk at the clinical flavor of the word. Georgie was always direct like this. Intellectually, Jon can appreciate having a term to summarize nebulous human experiences like this. Emotionally, he still has difficulty tolerating how exposed the practical application of those terms makes him feel.

  Besides, the word doesn’t really apply to this situation, does it? Not in the traditional sense, at least. Not completely. So he shakes his head no.

  He takes a deep breath and reluctantly looks inward to the Archive. There’s a spark of excitement, or relief, or maybe smug vindication from that alien part of himself when he finally gives in to the need, and he tries his best to ignore it and get it over with. He doesn’t delve too deeply, instead settling on the first thing that might work.

  “I’m sorry, it won’t let me say the words,” he says, voice strained and raspy with months of neglect.

  “O…kay,” Georgie says. “I guess that’s a no?”

  “Hmm.” Basira doesn’t say anything else.

  Jon starts picking through his library again, but nothing jumps out at him. His thoughts still feel sluggish, his mind packed with cotton. Or cobweb. Usually he’d shudder at that thought, but right now, he’s just too tired for that familiar fear to actually reach him through all the fog. He’s just spent months literally sleeping like the dead; why is he so tired?

  When a full minute passes without a reply, Basira turns to Georgie. 

  “Could you give us some time alone?”

  “No.” The immediacy of the refusal surprises him. He feels Georgie’s eyes on him, and he tenses. “I’m staying, Jon.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “Then talk to him.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to be involved in Institute business.”

  Georgie hesitates, and Jon finally looks up at her. He’s careful not to make eye contact. It’s alright, he wants to say, you don’t have to stay – but he can’t.

  “…anyone who doesn’t want to be a part of it, they can…” Jon says instead, faltering when he can’t find a good way to express the rest.

  Back to the charades, I suppose, he thinks sullenly. He holds one hand out and walks the middle and index finger of his other hand across his upturned palm.

  “Jon, why are you –” Georgie cuts herself off with a short exhale. “Do you want me to stay?”

  Jon bites his lip. “Probably putting you in danger.”  

  “Yeah, probably, but that’s not the question I asked.” She sighs when she sees Jon’s puzzled expression. “Look, the only way I can think to approach all of… this is to break it into smaller pieces. It doesn’t mean I’m committing to anything else, it doesn’t mean that I can’t change my mind, it doesn’t mean that I can’t walk away later or set more boundaries. I’m not asking whether I should stay, and I’m not offering to get involved indefinitely or unconditionally. Right this moment, all I’m asking is whether you want me to physically leave this room for now and come back later.”

  For a few minutes, Jon says nothing. If the question had been whether it’s safe to be near him, she already knows that his answer would be an emphatic no. Unlike him, Georgie knows when to cut her losses and leave. It would be condescending to assume that she needs him to protect her from her own choices, especially considering how, of the two of them, she’s the one who actually has a self-preservation instinct. She doesn’t have a choice, really. She can’t feel fear – one of the most basic survival tools – and as a result, she has to evaluate her circumstances much more constantly and painstakingly than others.

  It must be exhausting, Jon thinks to himself. He knows what hypervigilance is like. Even if Georgie can’t experience the fear that goes along with it, it probably still saps her energy in much the same way.

  He tries to force himself back on track. The question: Does he want her to physically leave in this moment? 

  No. He really, really doesn’t.

  Jon closes his eyes, and Naomi’s statement is the first thing his mind touches: “Could you stay please?”  

  “Okay.” Georgie looks at Basira. “I’m staying.”

  Jon feels some of the tension leave his shoulders, but he can’t help feeling selfish.

  “Are you really okay with that?” Basira says, eyeing Jon. He can detect the unspoken question: You know what I’m going to ask. Do you really want her to hear the answer?

  He does. Georgie deserves to know. They all do. What he doesn’t want is to hear what she has to say to him after the truth comes out.

  But he nods anyway.

  “Fine. What are you?” Basira says without preamble.

  “’Are you secretly a monster?’ probably would have been a great opener,” Jon says acidly.

  He flinches as the words leave his mouth. They were Sasha’s once – the real Sasha – said with a hint of playfulness, but now they just sound bitter. He’s fully aware that he has an overflowing stock of resentment bottled up inside him, hidden somewhere deep underneath all the layers of guilt and grief and self-loathing, but he wasn’t expecting the vitriol to slip out quite so easily. And he really, really can’t afford to start burning bridges, especially so early on.   

  But Basira seems unruffled.

  “Alright,” she says with a shrug. “Are you?”

  It’s complicated, he does not say.

  When he reaches up to run a hand through his hair, the movement jostles the hospital bracelet affixed to it, catching his eye. He brings his hand back down and stares at it, hanging loosely from his wrist. He’s always been scrawny, but his arms look thinner than usual. Fragile. With a pang, he notices the scarring on his wrists, left there from where the ropes cut into him during his month in captivity with the Circus. By the time the world ended, they had faded somewhat. As they are now, they’re impossible to miss.

  SIMS, JONATHAN, the wristband reads. Date of birth. Sex. Blood type. Patient identification number. Barcode. An allergy alert: amoxicillin.

  Is he even still human enough for an allergic reaction to pose a threat? He could Know, he supposes, but –

  “Jon?” Basira prompts.

  He sighs, closes his eyes, and consults the Archive once again. 

  “It seemed almost human, from a distance, but as it got closer, I saw that it was –”  

  Jon quickly skims through statements looking for an appropriate fragment.

  “…some newly-birthed monster,” he settles on. It’s blunt, and a bit petulant, but he may as well be honest. He resigns himself to whatever comes next.

  Martin would have hated to hear him think like this.

  Martin’s not here, some destructive, cruel part of his mind supplies.

  “Why are you talking like that?” There’s the faintest tinge of aggravation in Basira’s tone now. 

  Before Jon can answer, Georgie gives him a skeptical, almost chiding look. “I doubt it's that simple, Jon. Why don’t you try that again?”

  “I could see myself becoming one of those people and I fought very hard against the feeling of wrongness that seemed to be trying to worm itself into my mind,” he amends. Better. Probably more accurate, if he’s being kind to himself. (He’s rarely kind to himself.)

  “That sounds more constructive than just giving up and deciding you’re a monster,” Georgie says.

  She still seems baffled by the unusual quality of his speech, but he can tell she’s trying not to draw attention to it. Probably thinks it’s some neurological aftereffect of the coma. Not-coma. Whatever.

  Who is he kidding? Georgie is sharp. She knows this is some supernatural nonsense – and there’s a simple, straightforward way to confirm it for her.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be the same person I was before.”  

  “I think that could be said of anyone. We all change from moment to moment, and – wait.” Georgie gives him a shrewd look as she registers the cadence with which he speaks. It’s undeniably familiar, but it’s not him. It’s his voice, but those aren’t his words. “Jon, was that my…”

  “Statement – regarding the last words of a possible corpse,” Jon says wearily.

  “Jon,” Basira says, her eyes widening just barely, “are you quoting statements?”  

  “The words repeated, as though on a recorded loop.”  He gives an affirmative nod, just in case the words are unclear – which is often the case. 

  “Care to explain why?”

  “I started to say something – but my voice died in my throat,” he says.

  Then, changing tack: “…but it – it didn’t seem to be working right; all I could hear from it was the – faint noise of static, and…”  

  They probably don’t care how it feels, though, do they? They just want to know what it makes him now. His hands flutter in agitation as he tries to redirect, mind racing to find another statement.  

  “Okay, alright, I get the gist,” Basira says. There is a long, considering pause. “Can you just… write it down?”

  The simple answer is no, but the easiest way to make them understand is with a demonstration. He holds one palm flat and with the other hand mimics writing on it. 

  Reaching into her bag, Basira produces a small notepad with a pen stuffed into the wire spiral binding. Jon pulls the pen out, rips the cap off with his teeth, and –

  “Seriously, Jon?” Basira complains.

  “Honestly, Basira, what did you expect?” Georgie snorts. “You can’t tell me Jon’s desk isn’t a graveyard of gnawed-up pens.”

  Jon manages a tiny smirk at that. Most people were well-acquainted with his treatment of writing utensils after the first week of working alongside him. It had quickly become an office joke. About a month into his tenure as Head Archivist, he’d managed to chomp down on an exploded ballpoint pen. Tim had found him at the bathroom sink twenty minutes later, still trying to get the ink off his face and hands – and, of course, never let him live it down.

  Well, until Jon burned the bridge between them, anyway. The good-humored ribbing and inside jokes gradually dwindled away, only to be replaced with corrosive distrust and resentment.

  Jon’s smile fades just as rapidly as it had appeared. He flips to an empty page of the notebook.

  He sets out with the intention to write a sentence of his own: Regardless of the mode of communication – verbal, written, sign – I can only borrow from statements.

  It sounds too stiff, too academic, but it doesn’t matter. The moment the tip of the pen touches paper, Jon’s hand seizes. The tape recorder underneath the bed emits a brief crackle. When Jon tries to press down and begin writing, his fingers and wrist start convulsively twitching. A scalding pain starts to seep through his fingers and crawl up his arm, the recorder’s static oscillating along in time with the throbbing. When it upsweeps into a shrill screech, Georgie starts.

  “Jon –”

  Picking the pen up off the page, Jon holds up one trembling finger: Wait.

  With a pained hiss, he shakes his hand out until the ache recedes. When he starts writing this time, it’s with the intention of reproducing a verbatim line from the statement of Jane Prentiss, regarding a wasps’ nest in her attic: I have tried to write it down, to put it into terms and words you could understand.  

  The words flow easily. The handwriting is a nearly illegible scrawl, but that has nothing to do with the Archive. Jon has always had poor handwriting, and it’s only gotten worse since his encounter with Jude. While his dominant hand is still usable, the burn scar contracture still affects his mobility and coordination to some extent.

  He’s tried grabbing individual words from statements to piece together a novel sentence before, but just like speaking a single word in isolation replays every instance of it recorded in the Archive and leaves him reeling in the aftermath, trying to write a standalone word is risky. When he writes a word with the express intention of removing it from the context of a statement, every occurrence of the word floods him all at once. The force of it always overwhelms him before he can even start on the next word in his intended sentence. Usually he ends up dropping his writing utensil. Sometimes he passes out. Always it’s unpleasant. 

  It’s as if whatever power is enforcing the rules knows when he’s trying to bend them. Or Knows, more likely. Assuming he can assign self-awareness to the Ceaseless Watcher, that is.

  Stop, he tells his wayward brain. Stay on task.   

  He shoves the pen back into the notebook’s spiral binding and hands it back to Basira, who returns it to her bag. The cap he keeps for himself, rolling it between his fingers now.

  “What about BSL?” Georgie suggests.

  Jon shakes his head no.

  “How do you know?” Basira asks.

  There are two answers to that. The first is that he just Knows. The second is that he’s tried. Martin knows a limited amount of signs, but Jon’s hands never cooperated when he tried to copy Martin’s motions. His fingers never wanted to curl into the correct shapes, his joints would lock up, and subtle movements would turn into violent tremors. Once, in a fit of stubborn frustration, he kept pushing back against the thing controlling his body. His arms went limp and numb, and he couldn’t use them for hours after.

  Simple nonverbal signals – nodding, shaking his head, giving a thumbs up – seem to be, for the most part, whitelisted. Most charades and expressionistic gestures will also pass through the Archive’s filter. Formalized signing, though, is usually blocked.

  The deciding factors seem to be intentionality and whether or not an attempt at communication is deemed to fit the definition of formal language. Sign languages, systems of writing, spoken words – all off-limits unless being used to reproduce the Archive’s existing records. The more imprecise and abstract the attempted communication, though, the more likely it is to escape the Archive’s strict conceptualization of language.

  He and Martin experimented a bit with illustration and found mixed success. It was difficult to ascertain any concrete limits. The more abstract the intended drawing, the more likely Jon was to be able to produce it – though it tended to leave him drained and with a splitting headache regardless of how successful the attempt was.  It did seem as though the intent mattered more than the result – which was probably for the best. Jon was no more of an artist than he was a poet, and it showed.  

  Any time Jon tried to ask the Beholding for clarification on the rules governing his new-and-impaired communication abilities, it gave him nothing but static in return. They had to find things out mostly by trial-and-error.

  Luckily for Jon, Martin is observant and intuitive when it comes to reading people, and he’s a poet with a mind for the abstract. He was usually able to interpret Jon’s meaning with alarming speed and precision, and whenever Jon grew frustrated with his inability to express himself in a way that felt right, Martin would pose yes-or-no questions to try to help him narrow it down. He would always keep going until Jon was satisfied that he was understood. Even when they were in disagreement. 

  But Martin isn’t here, Jon’s treacherous brain reminds him again.

  “Let me guess,” Basira sighs. “You just know.”

  Jon gives a tired shrug. Even if he could use his own words, he may have had the same response. He’s never managed to have a conversation about his ability to Know that didn’t leave him feeling defeated. Sometimes it doesn’t seem worth trying to explain.

  “Alright,” Basira mutters to herself, rubbing her temples now. “This makes things more complicated.”

  You think? Jon wants to snap, and he’s thankful that he can’t. It isn’t Basira’s fault; she doesn’t deserve his ire.

  “So, what does this mean?”  she continues.

  “I often find myself locked in a sense of esoteric paralysis on how to proceed,” Jon quips, borrowing from Adelard Dekker this time. He wonders if Dekker would have tried to kill him on the spot. He wonders whether he would have been right to do so.

  Georgie stifles a laugh. Jon can hear the relief coloring it, and one corner of his mouth twitches into a smile again. She’s intimately familiar with his ill-timed gallows humor, and the fact that he can still draw on it so readily is a good sign. Another small piece of evidence added to the Jonathan-Sims-isn’t-too-far-gone column. She wants to believe it’s still him, he Knows, and wants to believe that he can get better – but there’s still a tiny, nagging ghost of doubt somewhere deep in her mind. He doesn’t blame her for that. 

  Basira isn’t as amused.

  “Jon,” she groans, “please be serious.”

  “It was definitely human once I could see, as it grasped desperately” – a skip ahead – “it was trying to say: ‘I’m sorry.’”  

  “It’s fine, just…” She sighs. “Try to answer the question.”

  Jon closes his eyes again, brow furrowing in concentration.

  “…so aware of the position I’m in, and keen to use that power to actually help people.” Referencing Tova McHugh’s statement makes him nauseous – the hatred and disgust he felt the first time he read it was directed at himself as much as it was at her. But it’s a fair comparison, considering what he was doing back then. “I’m trying to do good,” he adds, and hopes it sounds more sincere than Tova’s flimsy rationalizations ever did. 

  As expected, Basira looks unconvinced.

  “Look, Jon, a lot has happened –”

  “He already knows,” Georgie interrupts. “We talked – in the dreams, you know.” Basira does know. “About Tim and Daisy and Martin. And… and Melanie. He’s the one who told me about the bullet.”

  “I thought Melanie figured it out on her own.” Basira’s eyes narrow as she looks at Jon. “How did you –”

  “He said he knows things because of the Eye.” Georgie gives him a look that he can’t quite parse. Sympathetic, maybe? An undercurrent of disappointment, but without accusation. Frustration, but not directed at him – rather, it’s for him, on his behalf. “And he said that when he woke up, he would explain everything where Elias couldn’t overhear, but…”

  “Maybe somewhere in your library are the words to explain what happened,” Jon says, unable to mask his dejection. “I suppose I’ll just have to try.”  

  “Still want to wait and do it in the tunnels?” Georgie waits for Jon’s affirmative. “Fair enough. I brought you a change of clothes.” Jon gives her a questioning look. “I’ve, ah, been bringing a bag each time I visit for the last couple weeks, in case you woke up. Just some things you left at my flat. I couldn’t find any trousers, so I just grabbed a pair of my joggers – which are definitely too big for you, but it should be better than a hospital gown, at least.”

  Jon feels a grateful smile tug at his lips. He didn’t expect this level of consideration, doesn’t deserve –

  “We should probably wait until a doctor signs off on your release, though.” Georgie stands and starts to move towards the door. “I’ll go to the nurse’s station, and –”

  Jon shakes his head. “I cannot imagine what they would have thought of a person who could not die.”  

  “Well, you can’t just walk out of here. I don’t care how inhuman you think you are, you still need to be cleared for discharge.”

  “I’ve no interest in becoming a resident medical marvel.”  

  It’s a hollow excuse. The first time around, the hospital staff couldn’t wait to rush him out the door. He doubts they’d ever processed a discharge so quickly before or since.

  “Just stay here.” He’s halfway to ripping off his ECG sensors when she shoots him a stern warning glare. “Leave them.”

  Jon responds with a peevish huff. Those sensors haven’t been connected to anything since the first week he was here. No one wanted to hear the incessant flatline, and –

  Suddenly, he Knows all about the heated argument that was had regarding his DNR status. He had no next-of-kin to consult, so they were hesitant to mark him as DNR in advance. That meant that, since he was unresponsive – and his case was so unprecedented as to make any speculation regarding an outcome impossible – they should have been trying to resuscitate him. But they’d already tried that, and the consensus was that he should have been declared dead by the first responders. (Rumor was that his boss of all people had managed to convince them to bring him to the hospital for treatment instead.)

Under normal circumstances they would have declared time of death several times over by now and moved him to the morgue – except that brain death hadn’t occurred, and it didn’t seem like the absence of a pulse or respiration was having any effect on that in the slightest. Didn’t that render the entire discussion altogether moot?

  And then Jon Knows how the only reason he was admitted in the first place is because Elias had a brief chat with the director of the hospital. He was, as always, very persuasive.    

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Georgie says when she hears Jon sigh. She stops at the threshold and looks back at him again just as he starts fiddling with IV cannula in the crook of his arm. He freezes and folds his hands in his lap, like a toddler caught reaching for the cookie jar. “Jonathan Sims, you’d better still be in bed when I come back.”

  Jon rolls his eyes, but stays put. As Georgie leaves the room, Basira lets out a soft chuckle.

  “No wonder she and Melanie get along so well.”

  Jon refocuses at the mention of Melanie’s name. He makes a circular motion with one hand: Go on. When Basira gives him a blank look, he has a quick rummage through his catalog.

  “– see any obvious signs of previous slaughter.” Trevor Herbert’s statement leaves a nasty taste in his mouth, but given Basira’s expression, it seems to have gotten his point across.  

  “Oh, the bullet?” Jon gives an enthusiastic nod. “Yeah, we, uh… we removed it. Melanie was reluctant at first, but I guess Georgie won her over. She’s… recovering. Physically, at least. She’s still angry, but not like before. Mostly, she just seems lost. And…”

  Basira hesitates.

  “…whatever protection it might have afforded you is severed.”  

  “Don’t read my mind, Jon,” Basira snaps.

  Jon shakes his head: I didn’t.  

  “Whatever.” She drops into the chair next to his bed. He can see the fatigue in the way her shoulders slump. Basira has always had excellent posture, but right now, she looks ready to crumple. “Brought you a statement, by the way. If you want a fix before we leave.”

  Something famished and greedy rears up inside him. It’s only with some difficulty that he manages to force it back. He can feel Basira watching him intently, and he avoids meeting her gaze.

  “Well? Do you want it or not? You have that hungry look to you.”

  Involuntarily, Jon’s eyes flick to Basira’s bag. He squeezes them shut again, shaking his head.

  “Hm.”

  Jon opens one eye and chances a glimpse of Basira. Her poker face is as flawless as always.

  It’s stale anyway, he tells the persistent thing inside him. You’ve already got that one. Just pull it up and reread it if you want it so badly.  

  It continues scratching at the door.

  Can’t you just be satisfied with Oliver’s statement and go back to lurking?

  He isn’t sure why he’s acting like the craving belongs to something other. The Archivist, the Archive – they’re both him, even if they feel distinct from the human he used to be. It just helps sometimes, to talk to those parts of himself as if they’re backseat drivers. He used to do the same thing to his intrusive thoughts, back when he was still his own person. It wasn’t difficult to adapt his inner monologue to apply it to the Eye’s influence, even if it is ultimately a self-delusion.

  The door opens and Georgie is back. The nurse trailing behind her looks like she would rather be literally anywhere else.  

  Here we go, Jon thinks sourly.

      The hospital staff are clearly out of their depth. As it turns out, a rotating cast of specialists have been overseeing his case through the months, but it seems each of them did so for only as long as it took to hand him off to the next unlucky person in line.

  Once he’s disconnected from all the (mostly inoperative) sensors and monitors, a nurse – he drew the short straw, Jon Knows – goes through the motions of taking his vitals a final time. Jon does him the courtesy of keeping his eyes lowered and tries to ignore the way the man avoids turning his back. He does not speak except to give short instructions – sit up, lay back, hold your arm out straight, take a deep breath – and Jon obeys without saying anything in return.

  The current attending physician on duty makes only a cursory show of evaluating his condition. During the brief neurological assessment, she makes no comment on the fact that Jon hasn’t verbally answered any questions or even said a word. She’s barely there for twenty minutes before announcing that she should go work on his discharge papers. 

  “Shouldn’t he have a treatment plan?” Georgie tries. “Or – or referrals for follow-up, or something?”

  “I, ah, have to discuss things with his treatment team,” the doctor says, already halfway out the door.

  She doesn’t, Jon Knows. He hasn’t had a treatment team since the first month he was admitted.

  “This is ridiculous,” Georgie mutters as the door closes.

  Jon reaches out to touch her arm, and shakes his head when she looks at him.

  “It is. It’s unprofessional.”

  “Understandably, I think – it was entirely my own fault.”  

  “Stop that. You’re still a patient, you deserve some sort of – continuity of care.” When Jon chuckles, Georgie shoots him an indignant look. “What? You do.”

  Now that there are no lines restricting his movement, he’s finally able to stretch properly. Doing so yields a series of devastating cracks and pops from his joints, and Georgie gives him a horrified look. He just raises his eyebrows at her: What?

  When he sidles to the edge of the bed and puts his feet on the floor, Georgie stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to stand?”

  No, he’s not, but if he has to sit here a moment longer he’s going to lose his goddamn mind.

  Predictably enough, he does have trouble standing on his own at first, but Georgie has no problem supporting his weight. Even when they were dating, she probably could have picked him up if he’d let her, and he weighs even less now. The bathroom is small, and he waves her off when she offers to help him dress. She hasn’t seen the extent of the scarring on his body, and he’d rather her not. Once he demonstrates his ability to stand using the handrail, she agrees to wait outside, but she stands near the door just in case.

  Jon shouldn’t be able to stand at all, this soon after waking up from a six-month coma. He should have more muscle atrophy. He should need extensive physical rehab. He should still be in bed. Hell, he should probably be in some research facility somewhere, being poked and prodded and tested every which way.

  He keeps waiting for the moment Georgie decides it’s all too much, tells him to take care of himself, and leaves.   

  Although he’s been here before and he knows what to expect, he still has to brace himself before looking at his reflection in the mirror. He’s haggard. Gaunt. His hair isn’t as long as it was where – when – he came from, only barely touching his shoulders now. It needs a wash. The burn on his hand is mostly but not yet fully healed. Same familiar dark circles under his eyes, same familiar speckling of shiny, pockmarked worm scars. His ribs are visible, and – he’s hit with a bolt of panic in the split second before he remembers that, yes, twelve pairs of ribs is the normal amount that he should have. Hopefully this time he can keep all of them.   

  The eyes staring back at him – only two – are still his own for now, back to the deep brown they’d been for most of his life before the Archive claimed its place. But he can see something sinister skulking behind them even now, and he knows that everyone else will be able to see it, too.

  When he emerges from the bathroom dressed in a What the Ghost hoodie two sizes too big and practically swimming in a pair of Georgie’s joggers, he’s surprised to see that she’s still here. That she hasn’t changed her mind and written him off yet.

  “Better?” she asks, and he nods appreciatively, if a bit timidly. “Sorry it’s not more your size.”

  Jon doesn’t care. He hasn’t been this comfortable in… well, he doesn’t feel like calculating the time frame of the apocalypse. He doesn’t wait for the Beholding’s disapproval to hit him before he sends it a silent rebuff. At this point, it’s just reflex.

  “I found you a wheelchair,” Basira says from across the room. “Just in case you need it.”

  As she gives him a measured look, he feels like he’s being tested. It makes sense. The speedier his recovery, the less human he seems. But he isn’t going to feign infirmity. They deserve the truth from him.

  There is a familiar dull ache in his bad leg, though. He could do with a cane, but his should be in his office about this time, and he doesn’t want Georgie to have to support half his weight until he has a chance to retrieve it. 

  “Well?”

  He wavers a moment longer, then nods an affirmative and has a seat.

  Just then, the door opens and a nurse enters, a new one this time. Jon makes the mistake of looking up, and when their eyes meet, he Knows that she has a statement for him.

  The sound he makes as he claps his hands over his eyes is something like a strangled, panicked whimper.

  “Jon?” Georgie places a hand on his shoulder.

  “Oh, um… sorry if I startled you, uh – Mr. Sims. I have some paperwork here, we just need some signatures before you –”

  When she was nine years old, she was playing with friends in a drainage ditch. It was nearly dusk when they dared her to enter the tunnel, but she always was the bravest of them. She –

  Jon digs the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees sparks, rocking back and forth slightly to distract himself from the compulsion snaking its roots through his thoughts.

  – spent days wandering the gloom, and all the while, the frantic calls of the search parties echoed off the walls. Whenever she tried to call out a response, it would tighten its grip on her ankle: that warbling, mangled, broken-jawed thing with the –

  “Leave them here,” Basira says curtly, crossing the room in a few long strides. “I’ll bring them to you when we’re finished.”

  Jon can see the shape of the statement in her thoughts, but it’s not enough. He needs her story. She needs to tell it in her own words. She has to walk through that tunnel again, relive every twist and turn and shade of terror, and he has to experience it alongside her, all eyes –

  “O-okay,” the nurse stammers, “I just – I thought I saw –”

  – a second shadow, starkly visible even in the deepest dark, all dislocated joints and distorted –

  Basira shuts the door on her mid-sentence and turns to face Jon.

  “Jon. What was that?”

  “…you’re not going to give the Watcher a statement,” he says, panting shallowly, hands still pressed to his eyelids. “You’re better than that.”  

  He isn’t sure whether he’s saying it for himself or for Basira. Both, maybe.

  “She… has a statement?” Jon nods. “And you could tell just by looking at her?” Another nod. “That’s… hmm.”

  “I could hear in her voice that she was afraid of him.” His elbows dig bruises into his thighs as he leans forward and draws his shoulders in tighter. “I was, too.”  

  “Does covering your eyes actually help?” Georgie asks, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. An attempt at grounding him. It helps.

  “…it was enough to ease the relentless pressure,” he says, “if only a little bit.”  

  Jon pauses for a moment as he selects another statement.

  “…wear a cloth across his face – hold my hand in front of my eyes –”

  “Oh,” Georgie says, understanding. “Hang on.”

  She withdraws her hand, but Jon can still feel her standing over him. A few moments later something is being lowered over his face and he goes rigid.

  “It’s just my scarf, Jon. I thought we could use it as a blindfold.” Jon signals assent. “Okay. You can put your hands down now. Just keep your eyes closed.”

  He waits patiently while she ties the scarf off at the back of his head and adjusts it, ensuring that it covers his eyes completely.

  “Better?”

  Jon lets out a shaky breath and nods. It’s a lengthy scarf and one end sits in his lap. He takes it in his hands and runs his fingers over the fabric: a nice texture, soft and warm and comforting. He wonders if – no, Knows now – Georgie knitted it herself.

  For a few moments the room is quiet but for the scratching of pen on paper as Basira forges Jon’s signature on the paperwork.      

  “I’ll go hand this over and then we can get out of here,” she says brusquely. “Don’t take off the blindfold until we’re back in the Archives.”  

  Jon wasn’t planning on it.

      End Notes:

Finished this chapter earlier than I expected. Not sure when the next one will be ready, hopefully sometime next weekend.

SO. A lot of exposition in this one, but I wanted to try to give a general outline of how Jon's statement-speak works, what limitations he's working with, and what loopholes he's already tried (and failed) to exploit.

Jon's verbal dialogue in this chapter was taken from statements in the following episodes, in order: MAG 019; 141; 112; 013; 026; 047; 115; 054; 094 (x2); 036; 054; 125; 032 (written not verbal); 156; 123; 155; 021; 064; 029; 010; 139; 042; 151; 125; 097; 099.

I realize that's... a lot of citations, so if you don't feel like scrolling and counting but you want to know what episode a specific line comes from, feel free to ask and I can tell you, lol.

[danyka-fendyr]

Absence of Good

Chapter 1: Masquerade

Okay so I’ve been talking about starting a Spencer Reid fic for 8 million years and now I’m finally going to do it. So anyway...ya’ll better reblog this and leave nice comments if you want the second part that I will write regardless of whether anyone validates me or not because this is half for myself. Don’t judge you know you’re in the same boat. Anyway, enjoy. Or don’t I can’t make you love me.

Permanent Taglist: @rhabakoli @dreamwritesimagines

Warnings: Extremely graphic gore, descriptions of murder, disturbing themes

Wordcount: 3234

“When people see some things as beautiful, other things become ugly. When people see some things as good, other things become bad.”

-Lao Tzu

The most intimidating part of a job was always the first day. You didn’t know anybody, you didn’t really know what you were doing, and you were still a little bit convinced that your boss was judging your every move and kind of hated you. The fact that Aaron Hotchner had not once smiled during your interview did nothing to assuage that fear.

However, here you were, in the elevator at Quantico, with a tray full of coffee, balancing a million creamers and even more sugar, because you weren’t sure what everyone liked but you were trying to win them all over with bribery anyway. A lovely day, truly.

You had wanted this job in the BAU for years. You were morbidly interested in serial killers ever since you were young, and fascinated with catching them. To most people it was...offputting, to say the least. People don’t really warm up to the girl who thinks that announcing how many people Gary Ridgeway killed is a good ice breaker. 49 confirmed, 71 claimed, by the way.

So naturally, you figured you should go somewhere your talents would be better appreciated. Unfortunately, every half-wit piece of muscle in the FBI wanted to be in the BAU, so it had taken you several years to get to where you were today. Frankly, you thought you should have been here much sooner, but it was a rigorous process, and so you had to wait until you were well into your 20′s. But hey, not like you were getting any younger over here, right? 

Okay, so you were bitter. What else is new?

Your first few seconds in the bullpen were utterly terrifying for the simple fact that nobody noticed you were there. This was not...how do you say...uncommon, for you. However, it was exceptionally awkward. Did you speak up? Did you just wait until someone noticed you trying to juggle too many coffees and so much sugar you could fill a bathtub with it because that’s how you liked your coffee? Fortunately, you didn’t have to decide.

“Agent Y/L/N,” SSA Hotchner said. “I see you brought coffee.”

That was almost a smile. You knew the coffee was a good idea.

“Oh, uh...yeah. I figured, first day, right? First impressions and everything.” You started unloading your coffee when Hotchner gestured you towards a vacant desk waiting for you. “I hope nobody minds the ridiculous amount of sugar. I just didn’t know how you guys take your coffee, and I like my sugar with a side of coffee you know, so...”

You stood back, swaying awkwardly on your stilettos a little bit and trying not to let your body language cave in on itself like you wanted to. To help with your anxiety, you noticed upon turning around that everyone had swiftly crowded around you. Awkward.

“Ha, you sound like our boy genius. He puts so much sugar in his coffee it’s barely recognizable anymore.” A tall, incredibly fit black man chuckled. “I’m Morgan, by the way, but my friends call me chocolate thunder.” 

He winked. Uh...okay. Somebody swooped in to save you from that though.

“Ignore him. I’m Jennifer but everyone just calls me JJ and the coffee was a lovely gesture.” The stunning blonde leaned forward to shake your hand, but not before cutting Morgan a glare.

“Emily Prentiss.” The dark-haired, serious-looking woman gave you a smile as she shook your hand.

“SSA Rossi, pleased to meet you.” The older Italian man gave you a little smile as he shook your hand.

The truth was you already knew a little about all of them, having read through their personnel files before starting this job. Which meant you were prepared when Dr. Spencer Reid began his introduction.

“Hi, I’m-”

Before he could finish his sentence, you were already pulling hand sanitizer out of your purse and applying some of it, stopping him dead in his tracks with confusion.

“Dr. Spencer Reid. Your reputation precedes you.” Now you were in your element, a little smirk on your face and a twinkle in your eye.

Stunned, he reached forward to take your hand even as he said, “You know, hand sanitizer actually only kills-”

“Spencer, please,” JJ interrupted teasingly. “Not yet. We want to keep this one.”

You laughed, already finding it easy to fit in with this crowd. “Oh, don’t worry about it. It would take a lot more than that to scare me away.”

You winked at him, and he blushed. Oh, you were going to have fun with this one. He was cute and smart, the whole package. You’d be damned if you weren’t already a little smitten.

“Oh, there’s a new person!” A cute blonde with absolutely wild style stopped dead in her tracks, surprised to see you. “You’re the new!”

“I’m the new,” You confirmed.

“Oh, hello! I’m Penelope, and unfortunately, I come bearing bad news.”

“There’s a case baby girl?” Agent Morgan spoke up.

“Right as always my sweet, sweet Chocolate Thunder.” Ah. So that was what that was about.

Heading into the briefing room, you and Reid ended up trailing a bit behind, causing you to lean into him to whisper. “Are they a couple?”

He laughed a little bit. “No. Just best friends. That’s just how they communicate.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Nice. I like it.”

“Yeah?” He smiled.

“Yep.”

Before you got the chance to say anything more though, you were officially being briefed. You absolutely couldn’t afford to talk during your very first briefing, so you just smiled at the handsome brunet before giving all of your attention to one Penelope Garcia.

“Alright crime fighters, brace yourselves because this is a bad one, even for our standards. The images I am about to show you are to be viewed with caution and it is not advised you continue on if you are pregnant, have a heart condition or are prone to seizures. I’m going to hit the button now and one of you is going to tell me when I can look again.”

True to her word, Garcia clicked a button on the remote and then shielded her eyes. You could see why. The images on the screen were absolutely brutal. They were women, or at least you were pretty sure they were women, who had had their eyes, noses, and mouths removed. Three of them, one after the other. You liked to think you had a pretty strong stomach, but this...this was giving you the heeby jeebies. All the Scary Mary R.L. Stein nightmares you had as a kid were coming right on back now.

“That’s...really something,” You breathed quietly.

“No kidding.” You were validated in your disgust by Agent Morgan, who looked just as perturbed.

“It gets worse, kiddies,” Garcia spoke, eyes still closed. “Their limbs were all cut off, but those were left at the crime scene. The missing facial bits though, and I deeply, deeply regret having to say this, were nowhere to be found.”

“Trophies,” Rossi said.

“Most likely,” Reid agreed from where he sat next to you. “Most enucleators take the eyes as trophies, and while it’s highly unusual for other facial features to be removed, it seems logical to assume that these would also be taken as trophies, especially given the complete disregard for the rest of the body.”

Garcia hit another button, causing different, less horrifying images to come up.

“Can I look now?”

“You can look baby girl,” Morgan reassured her.

“Oh thank goodness. You know I hate that part.” Garcia continued with the case briefing, letting you know exactly where you would be flying to.

“We’ve already made contact with the Miami police department. They’ll be ready for us when we arrive. Wheel’s up in 30,” Hotch instructed.

“Okay, so the victims,” you said, wanting to voice what was on your mind. “The taking of the eyes, nose, and lips is all extremely personal. But the cutting off of the limbs and then just leaving them there says quite the opposite. Like...there’s this loathing of the body but an obsession with the face.”

JJ nodded. “Agreed. It’s oddly matter of fact too. Very business-like. Look at these cuts,” she said, pointing to the photos. “Aside from the first victim, who’s a little rougher, these are clean, precise chops. Just get it done and over with. But the face, there’s detail there.”

“Agreed,” Rossi said. “Look at those cuts. Not a single piece is missing. It’s absolutely vital to this guy that he get the whole package. The eyes are perfectly severed from the ocular nerve, a clean removal, almost surgical in precision. And the nose...he had to cut through a lot of cartilage to get that kind of clean, flat removal. Our guy has to have some kind of history in the medical field.”

“It’s likely that they symbolize a depersonalization for him,” Reid said, hands bunching as he spoke. “The taking of all of the distinguishing features of the face indicates a sense of ownership. It’s as if he’s saying, ‘Look, I’ve taken who you are. Who people know you as.’ Some believe that the Ancient Greeks used masks in their plays to cause the viewers to focus on the character’s actions, rather than their appearance. All of our victims were relatively low risk. It could be our unsub sees these women as wearing masks, but he doesn’t like the actions that correspond with the face they choose to wear, or he believes their actions do not correspond with their mask and therefore they do not deserve to wear it. This taking of the self, of the soul if you will, could be symbolic of a dissatisfaction with how these women present themselves and how that conflicts with the unsub’s view of them.”

The rest of the team did not seem nearly impressed enough by this. You, for one, were awestruck. You had read about him, of course, but that was nothing compared to the real thing. He was beautiful.

“Okay, so we’re assuming that our guy probably knows his victims,” Morgan said.

“It would make sense. It makes it easier to get close to such low-risk targets if he does know them,” you said.

“You have a point,” Rossi said.

“Alright, well, first we need to determine whether or not our unsub is in the medical field or not. Y/L/N, Reid, head to the M.E.’s and find out what you can about the bodies. Morgan and Prentiss, you’ll head to where they found the last body, and...” Hotch continued dolling out assignments, and before you knew it, you were there.

“The media are already calling him the Face Thief,” the Miami PD chief told Hotch.

“Oh, that’s original,” you grumbled.

“Well, it does its job. People around here are terrified. This is like something straight out of everyone’s worst nightmares.”

Hotch nodded. “Well, don’t worry. My team and I plan on catching this guy as quickly as we can.”

Speaking of which, you and Reid needed to go talk to their M.E. Now, what did a girl have to do to get a dead body around here?

Spencer seemed to know his way around pretty well, probably having memorized the layout of the police station on the plane or something, and so you followed his lead.

“I take it you know where we’re going?”

“Yeah. Been here a few times before,” he said.

“Have you ever seen anything like this?”

He paused in the hallway. “No. This is some pretty intense stuff. And while I can’t exactly say it’s not like this all the time, well...”

“It’s not like this all the time,” you finished for him.

“Yeah, exactly.” He laughed a little bit. “So, you’re kind of young to be in the BAU already.”

It wasn’t a rude question. From anyone else, it might have been, but you could tell he was just curious. Plus you happened to know he was a child prodigy, and therefore was in no place to judge.

“Yeah, well, don’t make any mistakes. It took me forever and a day to get here. I just skipped a couple years of high school, fast-tracked my college education, that’s all.”

Spencer nodded. “I read your file. You finished your Bachelor’s in a year and a half, joined the FBI at 19 and gained your doctorate while working for the bureau. That’s pretty impressive.”

You smiled wryly. “Oh, you can’t fool me Dr. Reid. I’ve read your file too, you know. Now you, you are quite impressive.”

The man before you blushed beet red, stammering out something that sounded like the beginnings of an excuse, but fortunately for him you both found yourself in the presence of the M.E. before he had to come up with anything more than, “Well, I don’t know I-I mean-”

“Dr. Reid. Dr. Y/L/N. Let’s get right to it. This guy does some neat work, but he’s no doctor.”

“Really?” You asked, fascinated.

“Yep. Look at these cuts here around the mouth. They’re jagged. There are hesitation marks. Not because of inexperience with the action, but lack of expertise. You can see the same marks around the nose and eyes. And, I’m sorry to say, all of this was done anti-mortem, which did not make his job any easier.”

“He’s a sadist, then,” you deduced. “He gets off on their pain.”

The M.E. nodded before continuing.

“He started with the eyes, which I hate to admit is smart since those are the easiest part to remove wholesale, which seems to be this guy's trademark. After that, the victim usually passes out and dies from blood loss, which makes the rest of his job easier. But if you look closely you can see these aren’t surgical cuts. The only precision here stems from a purely obsessive desire to get things right. It’s good work for an amateur, but it’s just that, amateur,” she said.

“And the limbs?” Dr. Reid asked.

“Well, I can tell you a little bit more about those, since we still have them. They were cut off post-mortem, and it was a pretty quick job. It looks like it was done with some sort of power tool. There’s no beauty to those, and there’s no attempt to make it look pretty. And yes, the torsos do show signs of sexual assault. Additionally, it looks like he knocked his victims out first to incapacitate them before taking them to a secondary location and waiting for them to regain consciousness before beginning his..process.”

“I guess we can tick the sexual box in the sexual sadist checklist.” You sighed.

Reid nodded, leaning forward to more closely examine the nature of the cuts and the body.

“Okay,” you said, thinking out loud. “I’m the victim. You’ve got me tied up and you’re about to remove my eyes. I’m doing a lot of screaming. You scoop my eyes out. Here’s what I’m wondering. Why not start with the nose? If he’s a sadist, wouldn’t he want to like...see the look in their eyes or something sick like that?”

Spencer hummed thoughtfully. “It’s possible it’s an act of remorse, but that seems unlikely given the other details of this case.”

You thanked the M.E. before heading back out, but you stopped Reid in the hallway.

“Okay, indulge me. Let’s play this out. You’re the unsub and I’m the victim,” you said, leaning up against the wall and gesturing for him to get all in your business. “Okay, so you’re looking at me, and what are you thinking.”

Spencer stared at you, and you thought you caught the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, but you brushed it aside. He took a step closer, fingers brushing across your cheekbones as he stared at you thoughtfully. For your part, you tried not to let your heart race, because you had sincerely not thought about how attractive the good doctor was before signing up for this experience.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “The eyes are the most expressive. But...maybe that’s what he values about them. They’re so beautiful.”

It was your turn to swallow hard. That felt deliciously personal, but you were trying not to read too much into it. His brow furrowed, expression changing.

“Maybe that’s it. This is more about the eyes than the whole face. The eyes take precedent because, if he’s removing the face to capture their essence somehow, what are eyes said to be the window to?”

You grinned. “The soul.”

“Exactly.” He smiled back at you, and you must have forgotten to put a dryer sheet in with your laundry because you swear you felt static electricity crackling up your spine.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, but then you snapped out of it. 

“We have to go tell Hotch!”

It was true that the eyes were the window to the soul, and they were the window to this guy’s soul too. Garcia had gone on the prowl for medical school rejects, people who watched too many YouTube videos about surgery without being nursing majors, and otherwise normal folks who just owned way, way too many scalpels. Before you knew it, you had a prime suspect. And uh, tip? If you ever decide to be a serial killer, try not to kill the people you openly have vendettas against. It makes you really easy to catch. So actually, you know what, go for it.

“I can’t believe this guy ran a whole blog based off of the people in his neighborhood he hates,” you said.

“A whole blog positively riddled with face fetishizing symbolism. This guy could go on for weeks about the masks people wear and how our eyes show who we truly are and blah blah blah,” Emily mocked.

You were in the car on the way to his address. Another girl had been reported missing, and you were praying you wouldn’t be too late to find her. 

As it turned out, you weren’t. In a stroke of good luck, you arrived just in time to save the day. You and Spencer ended up going in together, Spencer taking the lead in talking this guy down. You couldn’t help but admire the way he did it. It was like art, watching him. The careful way he played right into the fantasy, eased the unsub into trusting him. Masterful, right up until the moment he cuffed the guy and the show was over.

On the plane ride back to Quantico, you found yourself sitting next to him. “How do you do it?” 

“Do what?” He asked, confused.

“Play into their fantasies so well. Doesn’t that...I don’t know, mess with your head?”

He became quiet for a moment, and his face fell. You worried that you had said the wrong thing. Crossed a line.

“Yeah. It uh...it takes a toll on you, definitely. Some days, working this job, you’ll be afraid of your own mind,” he admitted quietly.

You didn’t totally know why you leaned into his side on the small couch, other than sheer sympathy. You didn’t totally know why he let you.

“Spenc-Reid,” you corrected yourself. “Do you think the people we deal with are evil? Do you think they ever stood a chance?”

“I ask myself that question a lot,” he said softly. “So many of the people we see behave the way they do as a result of trauma of some kind. That doesn’t excuse their actions by any means, but...it makes you wonder. What if things had been different? How many more people would be alive today? How many more brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, daughters, sons? It’s a ruthless cycle. And all because someone didn’t have anything good in their life, and so they passed that down to someone else. So...I don’t know.”

“Do you think it’s better not to think about it?”

“No. I think it’s important for our jobs to at least try to understand. Besides, it’s human nature to try to make sense of things. Even when it’s hard.” He stared at his hands, head hung low.

“You should get some sleep. Clear your head,” you said gently. “I’ll wake you up before we land.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Just as he settled in, he lifted his head one more time to speak to you. “Y/L/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Great work today.”

“Thanks, Reid. You too.”

Dr. Reid was smiling when he fell asleep.

“Darkness is the absence of light: when there is no light, there is darkness. Light is an existing thing, but darkness is nonexistent.”

- ‘Abdu’l-Bahá

[iwhumpyou]

BTHB: Hurts to Breathe

Rose - requested, Origami Rose - filled.  Anyone can request any square, any character, any universe.

The second half of @whumpedupvesper​‘s request.

Masterlist.  Kyran.

Bedside Vigil.

~#~#~#~#~#~

His breaths were agonizing. That was the very first thing he registered, before everything else came filtering back into his head, and it was really nothing more than he expected – between an angel who never snapped his wings back in and several distinctly unfriendly glares, he had long since gotten used to being short of breath, to burning as he forced his lungs to take in breaths despite the suffocating pressure and the lightheadedness and the ringing in his ears.

And it had only gotten worse after the cave, with magic still slipping against his fingers and nothing to brace against the pressure, to stop the panic catching in his throat and –

Elizabeth, sneering. Gabriel, snarling.  A punch, and it was so much more than physical pain. The weight on him, the panic clawing against his veins, the magic that wouldn’t come, the pressure that became all too real as fingers closed and his windpipe was inexorably crushed and those dark, hate-filled eyes –

Kyran startled up, gasping, his fingers flying to find pressure that didn’t exist, grasping his neck to assure himself that the constricting bands were only in his mind.

His neck was bare, but every breath felt like fire.  His ribs were unbroken, but pressure contracted around his lungs.  There was nothing stopping him from breathing – nothing except memories, years of them, of hateful eyes and sneers and restrained power just waiting to snap.

Dark eyes, a clouded face – no wings, but he flinched back all the same, because the last time he’d seen this particular angel, he’d been dying.

He could still feel the fingers around his throat – not a memory, not a bruise, no, he could still feel them, and he had to grasp his neck himself to make sure that it wasn’t real.

“You’re awake,” Gabriel croaked.  He sounded like he’d been choked, his voice raspy and hoarse.  But there were no dark bruises around Gabriel’s neck.  And magic still bled dully inside Kyran, sparking at his touch, and there was no way Kyran could’ve fought an angel without magic.

“No thanks to you,” Kyran said in a voice that sounded like crushed gravel, and Gabriel flinched at the blow.

Actually, now that Kyran was paying attention, Gabriel looked horrible.  He was slouched in the chair, his skin waxy and his eyes rimmed in darkness, and he stared at Kyran like he couldn’t move.  In all fairness, Kyran felt worse, but it wasn’t a competition.

“It was a hex,” Gabriel said haltingly, “Rae destroyed it.”

Kyran took a deep breath and let it out, abruptly exhausted.  “Of course it was,” he murmured, sliding back into bed.  He kept an arm curled around his neck.

Gabriel didn’t move as Kyran slipped back into sleep.

~#~

The next time he opened his eyes, it was to confusion and an eerie sense of timelessness.  The sun shining through the windows had shifted to the shadowy light of dusk, but Gabriel hadn’t moved an inch.  He sat with the same slouched posture, hands twisted together, staring at Kyran.

“You’re awake,” he said again, as though he’d decided to take on the job of stating the obvious.

Kyran didn’t feel awake. Kyran felt like he was trapped in a dream.

He couldn’t breathe. He could hear the gasping breaths, could feel his chest rise up and down, but he couldn’t breathe.

He closed his eyes.

~#~

Gabriel had moved this time, though not by much.  The chair had been adjusted to afford a better view out the window, even though Gabriel was still staring at him.  His hair was damp and he looked tired.

It was the last that sparked the rage.  Gabriel had no right to be tired.

“Get out,” Kyran said, levelly, steadily, neutral if they both ignored how his voice couldn’t rise beyond a rasp.

“Kyran,” Gabriel started.

“Get out,” Kyran said, and he didn’t have the energy to make the words hurt.  He didn’t have the energy to enforce them.

Gabriel sighed and stood up and walked out.

Kyran took a deep breath.

~#~

Rae was next.  She was waiting for him when he woke, and she handed him a glass of water to soothe his throat.

Gabriel hadn’t given him water.  Gabriel had perhaps assumed, rightly so, that Kyran would never take a glass of water from him again.  As it was, Kyran dipped a finger in it to ensure it was truly just water before he drank it.

“It was a hex,” she said. Kyran hummed.  “We destroyed it.”  Kyran focused on taking small sips.  “Lilith and I have been focused on building better wards.”

Of course.  Because Kyran couldn’t, because he was useless now that he couldn’t do magic.

Rae took the glass from him when he was done.

~#~

Adam looked terrible, even worse than Gabriel had, and Kyran blinked at him, confused, before it dawned on him.  The witch. The puppet.  The control they’d exerted over Adam, until the blood of hundreds stained his hands.

No, Adam wouldn’t have taken kindly to magic controlling his movements once again.

They had nothing to say to each other, but Adam looked slightly better when he could see Kyran, could reassure himself that the demon wasn’t dead, and, if nothing else, Kyran knew that Adam hated being controlled far too much to do it to someone else.

It was not impossible to breathe with Adam in the room, but it was still difficult.

~#~

Lilith chattered. About magic, about her day, about what she’d eaten for her last meal – when she’d eaten, however, she did not mention – about the leaves outside the window. She brought him water, and food, and books.  She didn’t want a response to anything she said, which was the only reason her presence was tolerable.

She didn’t mention the hex. She didn’t mention Gabriel.  But her eyes never strayed long from the bruises around his neck.

~#~

He hadn’t expected to see Elizabeth at all.  He barely knew her – once the warrior princess that had massacred his people, then the tragic martyr.  A death he’d carried – no, not carried.  It had never been his to carry.  But it hounded at his heels, no matter how far or fast he ran, and when he thought he was safe it would snap at him again.

He would never forget Gabriel’s eyes, wide with horror and terror and grief.

He had made himself into a monster for this woman, for the sake of her death, for all the people she’d left behind.  And he had no idea who she was.

Elizabeth had haunted him for years, but the truth of it was that she had never known who he was.  He’d been shackled to her murder, had cursed her name and life and death, but she had never even heard his name.

“Do you want some water?” she asked.  A princess’ courtesy, polite but distant.

“No.”  He didn’t know her.  He didn’t trust her.  And whatever else she claimed, she had been Zane’s sister once.

She merely nodded, as though that was perfectly reasonable.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Kyran couldn’t stop his eyebrows from raising.

“Excuse me?” he rasped.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, still polite, “You’re not a piece of trash, or scum.  I’m sorry for what I said.”

“It was the hex,” Kyran said hoarsely, eyeing her with suspicion, “Not you.”

“The rage was the hex,” Elizabeth said, her tone steady, “The words came out of my mouth.  For that, I’m sorry.  You should not have had to hear that.”

He stared at her.  He had not expected that.

He also did not fail to note that hers was the first apology he’d heard.

“You’re healing very slowly,” she said, and he’d seen it on everyone’s faces when they looked at him, when they skipped from gray skin to the bruises he could still feel to the exhaustion he couldn’t hide.  “I was under the impression that demons healed faster than this.”

Kyran had been under the same impression.  But wielding magic still hurt and the exhaustion had settled into his bones long before he’d been choked by Gabriel.  Long before Elizabeth had burst into being.  Long before everything, because he couldn’t remember a time when he was not tired.

“I can’t breathe,” he confessed.

Her face went sharp as he swallowed, bringing a hand to his throat.  “I can’t – I don’t know what – it hurts,” he said, and his chest burned with every gasp, “I can’t breathe.”

“What do you need?” Elizabeth asked, still princess-soft, but there was steel in her tone and determination in her eyes.  Her posture had straightened and she looked at him expectantly – a warrior, awaiting orders, a strategist, seeking information.  A queen, who could not solve the problem unless she knew what it was.

Kyran thought about it. His throat constricted and his lungs seared and he thought about the way Gabriel filled the room and tightened the pressure around his ribs and the way Rae’s gaze felt like an iron on his chest and Adam’s haunted gaze twisting something inside Kyran and Lilith and the way her words never seemed to give him space to take a breath.  He thought about Elizabeth, the living proof that he did not kill her, and Gabriel, who choked on guilt and stayed in silence. He thought about breathing.

“I need to leave,” he said. Something in her face shifted.  “I cannot stay here.  I cannot breathe here.”

“Will you be safe?” she asked.  There was no skepticism in her tone, no doubt, no judgement, but the weight of her gaze was heavy.

Kyran dredged up a smirk. “I lived many years after your death, princess,” he said, “I am not that easy to kill.”

She didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she watched as he levered himself out of bed, wincing as the movement pulled at bruises and sore muscles. She followed him as he stumbled out of the room and down the steps.  The house was dark and silent.  She watched him as he stepped outside, taking a full, deep breath of the chill night air.

“Remember,” she called after him, her voice calm and sure, “Remember you can always come back.  Whenever you like.”  He turned back to stare at her.  “This is still your home.”

No.  This was never his home.  But he appreciated her words all the same.

“I’m glad I didn’t kill you, princess,” he smiled, and he kept walking.

It still hurt to breathe, but it was getting easier.