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ofbluesandyellows · 6 months ago

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Iceblink Luck - TASM! Peter Parker / Fem! Reader

Summary: You can be a little clumsy, and you can have very bad sight with a sprinkle of bad luck but thanks to that you proved Peter Parker that he doesn't always have to be Spider-Man to save someone.

Word count: 5.1k

Warnings: mentions of blood, injury (nothing too bad) and bad sight.

a/n: Hi! Came with a new one, a bit of a long one, and this one is for my girlies with glasses, bad sight, girlies that are clumsy but also adorable. And here's a fun fact: the name of the one shot is from a Cocteau Twins' song, and I found something quite cool- and I quote "suggests a phenomenon that is both natural and mystical, possibly referring to the reflection of light off icebergs, which sailors would use to navigate, implying a sense of guidance or fortune." So that gives something away I guess. Hope you like this one :)

Thank heavens it was a Saturday, the embarrassment was less strong if you were not showing your face at work, but thinking about it you were going to have to explain to them what happened to your nose.

And it was a bit stupid, but stupid things like that happened to you way too often for them to be surprised.

Yet you couldn’t help wanting to hide when this cute boy stared at you for a little too long as you both waited for your orders at the one bakery where they sell the tastiest poppy seed cakes.

You stared back at him with a lipped smile, trying to be as polite as possible, even if he was the one doing the rude staring.

“Oh sorry,” he scratched his cheek. Ears turning bright pink. “I was just- that looks bad, what happened to you?” he pointed at his own nose.

You had convinced yourself that it didn’t look so bad after applying two layers of concealer but now you weren’t so sure about it.

On instinct you tried to cover it with your palm. “um, it’s really stupid. I was reading and the book fell on my face,” the boy winced, “yeah was a hard cover.”

The scratch kinda itching for the sudden acknowledgement.

“Is the book okay?”

You laughed, an ugly kind of laugh, great. “It is, thanks for the concern.”

“Makes you look tough, though,” he smiled.

“Thanks, that’s exactly the look I was going for.”

“Achieved.”

Both exchanged little looks, he sighed when he got handed a paper bag.

“Well, hope your nose heals nicely.”

“Thank you,”

“Bye.”

You felt the fluttery sensation in your belly, oh god.

•••

You were so late, and you were never late, not when it came to your work, you could be late for dinner, late for a doctor’s appointment but for work? Never, that would be sacrilege. That until today.

You woke up suddenly, eyes blinking to the ceiling, sunbeams illuminating the room and that was weird. Realization hit you, fumbling with sheets and bumping with your nightstand you whined as the clock on your phone screen shone a perfect 8:08 am.

“FUCK!” The shout felt so foraging to your own voice you stood frozen in front of your closet for a second and then as fast as you could you dressed.

Mismatched socks were no issue to you, you didn’t care one was pink and the other blue, you didn’t mind that they were showing from under your overalls; overalls felt like the easiest choice, that until you wanted to pee and you decided not to, would be a waste of time. Brushing your teeth as you ran to the kitchen, cold coffee in your go to mug, a protein bar you found abandoned in the counter was shoved in your bag. Calling that a breakfast.

“Agh,” you cried as you hit your knee on the chair.

Glasses.

And fuck you didn’t have time to put on your contacts, frames had to be. But you know how that quote goes about ‘I need my glasses to find my glasses.’ Well that was exactly how you felt, you had to run to the bathroom to spit the toothpaste and rinse your mouth. Squinting you tried to catch the glimpse of light blue, the color of your frames all round the room, a very difficult task to do when you only saw blurriness, not to count how impossible it felt in the mess you had. So you did what you thought easiest. Grabbing the ends of your quilt you made it float upwards, creating a bubble of air underneath and there the soft thud let you know you were right.

Carefully you kneeled and tapped the carpet with your hands.

“Voilà!” putting them on your face a sigh escaped you, everything took shape.

What now?

Standing up you went to put on some perfume and you even dared to add a few jewelry pieces. Shoving your glasses up your nose, you made a mental note to get the new prescription and change the frames to ones that sat on your nose nicely. At least they didn’t hurt your now healed nose anymore. That saved you some time, no concealer needed. Then all forgotten, as your eyes found it, a stain of toothpaste on your green shirt, there was no time for a change so you tried to put the overall strap over it, it didn’t stay so you shrugged and ran. Shoulder bumping on the door frame.

There went another bruise, you still wondered how you managed to collect so many of them. There was your answer each time.

Glasses pushed up your nose again.

A last little check before heading out, apartment keys, shoes, coffee, oh no, what about lunch? You'd have to buy something. Clothes; well yeah. Bag and laptop. Ready.

And you made your way out.

It all passed in fast glimpses, the couple walking their dog, kids laughing as their parents took them to school. Old lady dressed in an all yellow outfit, and your reflection on a high end clothing store.

Ew.

Readjusting your glasses on, just to check if it was real, the image you were met with.

It was embarrassing, you’ve walked two blocks surrounded by people with your hair looking like that! If you looked up what ‘pillow head’ was you were sure a picture of you would pop up on the page. Flattening it was doing nothing to the nest of hair, so you looked for a scrunchie, a clip, anything really that could help fix the atrocious hairstyle, but all this just as you walked because you were not going to lose any time, you were already too late to have the luxury to stop.

Aha! An old pen showed up at the bottom of your bag, a grin of triumph appeared on your face but just as fast it disappeared. Pushed from your back, your sight went blurry. Everything kind of mixed and you tried to push those damn glasses again automatically. Yet they weren’t there.

“No, no, no…”

The person beside you mumbled a sorry and you gasped as you heard a crack, you weren’t sure where your glasses were, not that it mattered anyway, they must be shattered no use of them.

Blinking you stood there. It felt like being stranded in open ocean what were you supposed to do now, you could see up close pretty well—if you put your phone or your book two centimeters away from your nose that was the sweet spot of perfect sight, not even worth to say how bad things were from afar, you couldn’t see shit, so things weren’t literally looking good for you.

You needed them for work and to see what the lucky people were able to see without help like the street lights, or what if you fell on a sewer because you thought it was just an oil stain and you ended up in the Hudson River after you traveled all the way there from under the city. Yeah it was a longshot but you were in New York where everything was possible.

What to do was all you could think about, but you were afraid to move as if doing so was going to harm you. And it was so stupid yet so overwhelming, tears started forming in the rim of your eyes, your sight getting even worse.

And the contacts were left at home, why? Because you were in a rush, why didn’t you carry an extra pair? Because you were dumb like that. If only you had grabbed a scrunchie maybe you wouldn’t be in this situation.

Ouch.

“Don’t stand there!” a man pushed you with what you guessed was his shoulder.

You moved to the side as best as you could. Grabbing your bag with too much force, as a lifeline. Maybe if you called Cam, your co-worker, she could understand and come help you? You scattered around inside your bag, heart pounding harder the more you looked inside.

“No way,” it seemed you were experiencing the so feared ‘worst day ever’ because your phone wasn’t there and you were too blind and too panicked to do anything other than cry.

Spots of color were all you saw from afar and unclose, your coffee had spilled a bit inside your bag, you hadn’t noticed a moment ago but the smell gave it away.

Sniffing you made your way to the bakery a bit ahead on the street, you could make out the teal sign, and the smell of baked goods served as guidance. The next few steps were so slow you had no idea if anyone was coming straight at you, as predicted you felt something hard hit your side.

“My bad, didn’t see you there-” It was the hand grab on your elbow and the kindness of the words.

You felt tears stream down your face so easily you felt childish for it. His face was a shapeless thing but you noticed he was tall and his hair was brown. What you were certain of was that he was kind.

“It’s okay,” your voice watery and a bit choked up.

“Are you all right?”

“I- I’m a bit lost, but i guess I’m fine,” which was not a lie, you were okay if you ignored the little headache forming at the back of your eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,"

You whipped your face with the back of your hand, how embarrasing this was, crying over something like this to a complete stranger.

This boy must have seen the struggle, gentle hand on your elbow still, dragged you closer to the wall of the bakery, out of people’s way.

“Um, you want to call someone?"

“No, I just lost my glasses so… er yeah I’ll go now, thanks though.”

Turning, not even a full step ahead you hit your leg with the table outside of the place, mumbling horrible things to it. The boy barely hid his snort with a cough.

“Okay, now you need to let me help you.” He said and you could almost hear the smile on his voice.

“You don’t have to-“

“You didn’t see the table and it’s just a foot away from you, I’m not letting you go by yourself in New York.”

“But I know my way around.” Stubborn you needed the help, yet you couldn’t handle the awkwardness.

You always felt very strong for being independent, now it seemed like you had lost even that.

“Bet you do, but if I watch on the news tonight that something horrible happened to this girl in mismatched sock… I wouldn’t be able to live with myself, so if you aren’t doing it for you, do it for my peace of mind.”

There was no way a random boy could be this nice and unintentionally funny to a girl with bad sight.

“I guess you can walk me to my building,” you blinked repeatedly, making the tears disappear.

“No problem,”

With a deep sigh you barely made the image of his arm going up, you grabbed it and he chuckled. The warmth was coming up your neck settling in your cheeks.

“So right?” he asked.

“Yeah,”

The buzz of the city served nicely as background noise, no need to speak, yet it all felt too awkward, the boy moved you aside or said ‘step’ when needed. No matter how nice he smelled or how strong his arm felt it was impossible to not think of the possibilities of him being a murderer or a bank robber. What if he took you somewhere else to kill you, that would be the definite end of a perfectly ‘worst day ever in history’ so may as well…

“Why do you have a pen in your hand?”

“Oh?” you felt it then, you were still holding on to it for dear life. Maybe this could be your weapon if something happened, better than nothing you supposed. “I was going to use it for my hair.”

“Right,” he said deadpan.

Shit, you must look horrible if he said it like that. Yay.

“So you live nearby?” you asked, giving his arms a light squeeze as someone ran beside you.

“Um no, but I like the coffee and the croissants at the bakery. Work nearby though.”

“Cool,”

“You?”

“Me? Me, what?” blink, blink.

“You live nearby?”

“Yeah, kind of, we passed the bookstore, so we have another two blocks to go, so…” you shrugged.

“How do you know we passed the bookstore?” he sounded amused.

“I heard Lu’s laugh, she laughs at everything and makes the most awful jokes. An easy to clock kind of laugh, very unique.”

“Is that where you buy your books?”

You frowned for a second. “Er yes? Best bookstore around here,”

A beat of silence, you could feel his muscles flexing yonder your palm.

“Can I ask you how you lost your glasses? They’re on your face so it’s kind of weird you lost them,”

“Right,” you cleared your voice, the wave of embarrassment creeping in your chest but oh well he was basically serving you as a guide dog. “They were kind of old glasses so they slipped down my nose a lot, and then someone pushed me from behind and they flew out or whatever and I heard a crack and what use was it if I tried to look for them,”

“And you don’t have like an extra pair,”

Ugh stop with the questions.

“I do, but didn’t bring them… listen I know how this looks, I’m stupid and I had the most awful day ever so stop reminding me of my idiocy, please?”

“Wow, okay. “

Shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, if I was rude, I feel pretty bad for everything and I don't even know you and you are helping me but I do feel very stupid and a little paranoid.”

“No, yeah I understand. Trust me, I was just saying because I know it can be a hassle,”

You blinked, “you wear glasses.”

“Used to,”

“Must be nice, to see without any kind of thing in front of you,”

“It is, but you can relax a little, I’m not going to rob you, I would've done it earlier if I wanted to,” he laughed, you tensed and he gulped. “Joking, I'm only joking.”

Both of you remained silent as a woosh of air hit your face. The boy beside you moved fast, suddenly you didn’t feel his arm in your palm but his hand on your other shoulder; a ball bounced off close enough to you.

“Hey, be careful.” he shouted and steps were heard, running and gigging. “You okay?”

Blinking you shrugged unsure as to why you wouldn’t be. “Yeah, what happened? I just saw colors moving"

“Just some kids playing soccer, almost hit you,”

“Thanks I guess.”

“Don’t worry about it, so… if it helps to make you feel less wary, let me introduce myself. I'm Peter, and I work at Stark industries.”

The image of a Peter that worked at such an important company kinda took shape in your head. You didn’t know why but you were sure he wasn’t the type to wear a suit, yet you could see a navy blue sweater on him, the fabric felt soft between your fingers.

“Are you a scientist?”

“Yes, you could say so.”

“Are you or are you not?” you smiled.

“I am, yeah. Neurotech, and all that stuff,”

“Sounds boring,”

He laughed, feeling the rumble coming all the way to your hand. He had a nice laugh. “So what do you do Miss ‘my glasses ran away from my face’?”

You went rigid for a second as a street crossing appeared. His hand went to yours and it felt warm, way bigger than your own. Instinctively you squeezed while you waited for the light to change.

“Um,” the nervous chuckle made it a little less awkward. it was an unsettling feeling holding hands with a man you could barely see. “Editing, work at a kids book publishing company.”

“Hmm I understand the outfit now,”

Your mouth formed an ‘o’. If it was an insult he made it seem like a joke as he snorted, probably by seeing your face.

“That’s so rude, and for the record this was picked in a rush, had no time to even check in the mirror.”

“No, yeah I like it, very I don’t give a fuck.”

“Ugh, please stop.”

He let out a laugh that made you grin, turning to look at him, you knew he was staring back, you could only imagine how he looked.

“You are very easy to piss off, you know that?”

“I am not! If It wasn’t because I’m partially unable I would punch you on the gut.”

He scoffed. “You wouldn’t stand a chance, blinks. And you wouldn't even be in this situation if you weren’t partially unable.”

“Touché,”

A blink later you realized the nickname. Just as you were about to ask him, realization hit you, Peter had distracted you, you walked across the street without noticing and you were now able to recognize your street. One, two, third building to your right and there it was, the smell of roses lingering in your nostrils.

“It’s here,”

“Oh,” his hand dropped.

Feeling your fingers tingle you closed them in a fist. Fixing your bag’s strap across your chest, pen still gripped tightly.

“Thank you, Peter.” you extended your hand to him, it took him a second to hold it, but when he did you felt comforted, maybe the walking and the little conversations had done something to create such sensation, that’s why you felt the need to do more than say the obvious.

“It’s fine, glad you got here safe.”

“Let me make it up to you!” your voice coming out a little too loud, you almost grimaced but there was this thing in your chest that told you to not let him go just yet, maybe it was curiosity about how he looked, to put a face on the kind human that helped you.

“No need, seriously.” He moved and you felt the first step on the back of your heel when you mirrored him.

“Please, just let me go get my phone and we can exchange numbers, I can buy you coffee or a bunch of croissants.” you were smiling, hoping.

“I- really? I mean I love the idea of free food, but there’s really no need-“

“Just stay here, yeah? Be right back, if I don’t come back in like five minutes or if you hear a loud crash, come look for me I probably fell down the stairs and broke my neck,”

You laughed as he grumbled.

“Okay, just be careful, don’t need that kind of burden over my shoulders. Can you imagine what the press would say,”

Snorting, you waved him off. “Be right back!”

And you practically ran, you knew this building better than your own palm, it was easy, almost funny to see how you navigated the place without hesitation.

Contact lenses on and a big smile on your face later you found your phone on the kitchen counter. Your bag plopped on the floor and you headed back down in a rush.

There were like five missed calls and a bunch of texts from your group chat at work. You only texted a ‘call you in five’.

At the bottom of the entry steps, a tall man was leaning on the brick wall railing. You came to a halt, almost losing your step on the way down. His eyes went up to you at the same time as his hands, serving as cushion if you fell yet you managed to save face. Yet the shock was obvious, you gulped and there was Peter looking at you with a soft frown.

Fuck me, it 's him!

Clearing your throat you tried to hide the surprise, he chuckled a bit not knowing what was happening, so you went down the stairs slower now, cheeks feeling hot and your belly making twists and turns when you were face to face with him.

Oh god.

“How many fingers do you see?” he asked, holding a peace sign in front of you, like way too close you went cross-eyed.

Slapping his hand down, you held it for a little longer than a second, the tingles came back.

“Funny, but I see perfectly fine with my contacts, thanks very much.” your eyes landed on his t-shirt where you read: Zombies eat brains, don’t worry you are safe.

You snorted at it. “And you were making fun of my mismatched socks, hypocrite.”

His laugh and smile were like seeing a sunset, pretty and bright and it took your breath away.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to see it,” he shrugged.

“You didn’t tell me you were the guy that saw my embarrassing nose bruise!”

He smiled sheepishly. “Wasn’t relevant,”

“Could've made me feel less stressed about you being a serial killer since minute one,”

“Will do next time, but I do hope there isn’t a next time, not in the same circumstances at least,”

Your eyes found his and the staring was intently, you had to take a big inhaler, you weren’t aware you were holding it in. Peter’s phone buzzed and he frowned, quickly adjusting he sent you a slipped smile.

“I gotta go, but I’ll hold you to your word on those croissants and coffee, okay blinks?”

“Um, okay.”

Peter didn’t do much as wave at you and he walked fast and away. Blinking you realized you didn’t ask for his number nor why he called you that.

“Worst day ever,” you grumbled going up the stairs defeated.

•••

Unlucky, that’s what Cam said to you as she drove you to the hospital.

Maybe you were unlucky indeed, in the past month you had been at risk of losing your life due to the many little incidents, three you’ve counted so far. But keeping a positive mind was key to surviving them all, or so you tried to convince yourself of it.

“Third time's a charm of whatever,” you mumbled, making pressure over your palm.

“Oh shut up,” Cam scowled.

You giggled but it cut off when she passed through a hole making your hand shake.

It’s been two weeks since you last saw Peter, and that played an important role in your performance at work. Daydreaming of his voice, how the faint scent of fabric softener still remained in your nose after so many days, and your lack of attention when you walked around the office.

That’s why you were at the hospital now.

It was a bump on the knee followed by a bad placement of the coffee cup on your desk that sent the warm liquid over your jeans, between a gasp a swift motion your chair fell back with you in it, hand barely grabbed the corner of the desk cutting through it, and you were unable to explain exactly how that had happened.

Cam took you to the ER the moment she saw blood coming out of your hand.

“You are not bleeding dry, not on my watch.” She said as if by speaking it you magically avoided such destiny.

Sitting in a room where blue curtains hung around, you got chatty with the nurse as she cleaned the wound, making you grimace and wince just a couple of times.

“Feeling alright? You didn’t hit anywhere else dear?”

“Nope,” you fixed your new pair of glasses up your nose, even the new ones slipped a bit at times.

She smiled, as she wrapped a long strip of gauze around your left palm. “Is that too tight?”

“It’s fine, thank you,”

“It’s my job dear, so if you feel dizzy in the next few minutes let me know okay, I’ll go get the doctor so you can get going.”

“Ok,”

You were feeling pretty normal, yeah you got a bit scared and it was obvious your hand was a bit sore but the pain killers were already minimizing the pain.

The nurse with the kindest smile you’ve seen disappeared, the curtain remained open so you distracted yourself with the passing and going of the nurses soundtracked by a few pained moans and low chit chatting here and there. Moving your hand made you wince a bit, but it got choked down in a second.

“Blinks?”

You blinked, looking behind you as if the person in front of you was addressing someone else. Stupid you felt when he chuckled.

“What are you doing here?” you asked Peter as he entered the little curtain parted cubicle. Fixing your glasses to try and ease the sudden nerves.

“My aunt works here,” his thumb pointed to your left just where he had come from. “Are you okay? What happened?”

His frown made you feel a little bad, fingers twitching when you moved it around as to show him.

“Cut myself at work. No need for stitches, lucky. Right?”

Peter scoffed. “This is the third time I see you in need of assistance, what’s up with you and getting hurt huh?”

He stepped into the space a little further, you felt your stomach twist, oh the daydreaming was finally paying off. Maybe you should fall more often.

“My luck I guess.”

“Well lucky me that I find you every time.” he grinned.

“Peter! Thought you were gone,” the nurse that had patched you up appeared, sending you an apologetic smile.

“May, sorry I just found a friend here.”

“Oh,” the nurse's eyes went from Peter to you, a little smirk on her lips. “Well, you can wait for her outside, she needs to fill in a few forms before she can go.”

“Okay form police, I will, ” palms up defenseless, Peter sent you a quick glance. “Mind if I wait for you?”

Of fucking course not.

“No, it’s fine.”

“Cool,”

When May, the nurse handed you a thing to sign, she was looking at you in a funny way. You couldn’t dare to ask, so when you headed out of the ER, she squeezed your shoulder.

“Thank you.” you said and she nodded.

“Take care dear.”

Immediately after she walked away you texted Cam.

You:

Found the boy I told you about, he is waiting for me. Text you later

Cam:

Ugh,but are you okay? Don’t need a ride home?

You:

I’m fine, just go. See you tomorrow.

Cam:

Ungrateful girl, hope he is as hot as you made him sound.

With butterflies in your belly and the painkillers making their magic you saw Peter glow as he chatted with an old lady at the desk of the hospital. His smile only grew when he spotted you walking his way. He was literally glowing a halo of light all round him.

“All good?” he asked.

You nodded grinning like an idiot, your cheeks were probably cherry red but who cares. “Are you busy now?”

Peter licked his lips. “I am not, why?”

“Want to go grab that coffee and a bunch of croissants?”

He chuckled, scratching his cheek, “Yeah, why not.”

“Nice,”

You walked to the bakery since it was only a couple of blocks East.

“So you got new glasses?”

You pushed them up the bridge of your nose. “Yup, they still slip but not as much as the others. Got extra contacts on my bag.”

“Better be prepared,”

“Exactly… Peter, can I ask you something?”

Peter nodded making his way to your right, where the cars were passing.

“Why you called me blinks?”

Peter laughed. “Because you blink a lot,”

“I do not… besides how much does one has to blink to be blinking a lot,”

Peter shrugged, you blinked up at him. “See? you just did it, it’s not like you blink like a normal person, you do it in a slow motion, don’t take it the wrong way, I mean it in a cute adorable way”

You pushed him from your shoulder, he didn’t even move at your attempt. “Now I’m going to be so aware of that ugh, thanks Peter.”

You were making him laugh so much and it was such a heartwarming feeling you didn’t want it to stop at all.

“Please don’t, I like that, just forget I said anything.”

Cherry on top that day was tripping over a piece of sticking out sidewalk, that only made you extremely embarrassed–what was new anyway– as you held onto his arm for support, Peter didn’t miss a beat either, hands on the small of your back ready to save you.

“This is getting ridiculous blinks, if you want me to hold you just tell me, don’t trip over yourself."

“I swear this is me all the time, don’t need to impress you with my unskilled ways of moving.” you fixed yourself, not being able to look him in the eye, glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose.

“You have impressed me already, never met anyone as clumsy as you.”

You glared now, a fake mean stare. “That makes me unique then,” you straightened as if proud of that.

“Very, but you’re in good capable hands,”

The bakery appeared in your line of vision.

“Oh yeah?”

“Definitely,” his smirk was so self-assured you believed him.

“So you don’t ever trip or hurt yourself?” The smell of recently baked goods hit you the moment Peter pushed the door open for you.

His light chuckle made your spine tingle. “I wouldn’t say it never happened but it’s different.”

“There’s no difference you either do or don’t” the line moved, he hit your back, strong hands holding you in place.

“Oh trust me it’s way different, but maybe with time you’ll find out.”

Turning in your spot you caught Peter already looking down at you, a knowing smile on his rosy lips, you were ready to take that as your reward after everything.

You blinked and his grin widened.

“Ugh stop!” however you didn’t look away.

“Blinks…”

“Huh?”

You felt him lean in, slowly you were ready for whatever was coming. With your belly in a knot, Peter stopped just as your noses brushed just barely.

“It’s our turn,”

His eyes were so shiny in that brown hue, it was humbling to have been caught like that; agape, flustered waiting to be kissed. You could almost feel how bright your face was shining as you twirled to find the girl on the counter smiling at you.

“Can I have two coffees to go and as many croissants as possible, please?”

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cannibal-nightmares · 4 months ago

Text

Seven

"Sounds like you were having a day. That's what my mom used to call it when she got her wires crossed."

Spirit hosts his home for a weekly weekend dinner between just he and Stein.

Wrote this to process some things over a couple of months, and, much to my surprise, it helped a lot. I didn't originally intend for it to see the light of day, but I ended up enjoying the ending. please dont whack me lol aaaaa

Soul Eater - Stein x Spirit (ship is up to interpretation, SFW) // OOC Stein, domestic fluff, caregiver-esque Spirit but not really, non-verbal stein, agereg!stein?, hurt/comfort, this piece goes nowhere Word count - 2,018 -- [AO3 link]

Sometimes he got like this, uncharacteristically unresponsive, even when it was in his character to be unresponsive. There was a heaviness to his slow breath and a glaze in his eye that left more to be remarked, unfocused on settling dust particles in a dimming sunbeam.

That afternoon, he was slow to pack up his things from the infirmary and the lecture hall. Spirit had waited outside on the massive steps, as he so often did, noting how much time had passed with the slight inclination for a second cigarette, the first one lit after he realized the misstep in timing as it was.

A hup, standing up and turning to step back inside to check on his meister, and, finally, the professor met the evening sun with a distant gaze.

"What took you so long?" Albarn jested.

Stein almost didn't answer. "'Just lost track of time. You could have gone home without me, you know."

Spirit chuffed, but his light-hearted expression tugged to shift as Stein's tone painted the air.

"Nonsense, silly. When else would I get to yammer to you about work?"

Franken exhaled shortly with a forced polite twinge to his brow and waved them both along down the stairs. It was fast-obvious each and every step felt like a free-fall.

They carried on in silence.

The two took turns hosting their homes on Friday nights for shared dinners, recuperation, and wherever else the evenings would take them. Over the year they had been doing this, they found their belongings spread out between each other’s apartments: It was disorganized, but Stein was good at keeping track of things like insects in a web by snippets of pictures and content within his memory.

“Hey, Stein?”

“Hm?”

“I think it’s your turn this week.”

The professor looked up from his thoughts, realizing he took them paces in the other direction towards Spirit’s place.

“Oh, I guess that’s right.” He took pause, unsure of how to apply grace in correcting the mistake, attempting to casually redirect their path when Spirit brushed his sleeve.

“Franken,” he caught his gaze, eye contact visibly shattering his meister’s focus, searching for a more tangible tell. “Let me cook tonight.”

Something somewhere in Stein wanted to argue for the sake of consistent routine, but something else was at the forefront of his decision-making. A beat, and he nodded with an unchanged expression but a softness like that of gratitude in his eyes. He very clearly wanted to express something more verbal, though too long of a pause discredited him from an intended gesture; he closed his gape and readjusted his glasses, thereafter rubbing tired knuckles to his temple, soothing something lost.

“Hey, are you okay?” Spirit had his heels off the ground to tilt his head to his partner, a firm hand to Stein’s bicep; Albarn knew how delicate touches often did more harm than good for grounding techniques.

Acknowledgment flickered in Franken’s reflection, and he was able to re-track, rubbing the back of his neck now and meeting his weapon’s face before quickly splitting away.

“Yeah, I think I’m just… Having a day.”

Spirit squeezed his shoulder. “We don’t have to do dinner if you’re not feeling up to it—”

“No, it’s fine.” Stein cut him off insistently. “I want to.”

The whole truth of the matter was he felt safe with Spirit. He imagined he’d probably sit at his desk or go to bed if he had gone home, but a force within him did not want to be left alone. He wanted Spirit’s company as though his life depended on it.

The death scythe smiled gently. “Off we go, then.”

Paces to the east side of town painted approaching walls in golden-orange sun. The quiet neighborhood looked like a dollhouse come to life at this part of the evening, the streets about to brim with dinner plans and weekend celebrations. In their delay, they had just missed the usual ebb of rush by the time school got out. A silent cyclist passed by.

“Stein…” Spirit was hesitant to cut through the quiet. “I know you don’t like me asking, but…” He brought both of his flat and open hands out in front of himself, paralleling each other, starting apart wide and ending nearer together in the middle of his abdomen, a furrowing questioning stark to his countenance.

There was a sharp shard of annoyance in Stein’s quiet sigh that resulted, but a reasoned defensiveness in his eyes shone years worth of experience he desperately wanted to rewrite.

“You don’t have to answer. You know I only ask because I want to care for you. And I know it needs some practice from both of us.”

Stein half-glanced over to his side, and then back to Spirit. He waved his hand for his focus then nodded his fist at the wrist.

Albarn chuffed but then corrected himself. Do you know why?

The professor wanted to sigh again. Do you know why?

Spirit was only half-confident in the response. Too, he wasn’t sure what would be stepping on his partner’s toes.

I think so.

Winter has… Stein exhibited an uncertainty in his hands, signing the gesture for MIXED, then corrected himself to CONFUSION. He shook it out. “Dissonance.” His voice trailed by the third syllable, already having started small.

Spirit rubbed his meister’s back. I know.

"I'm going to lie down for a while… If you don’t mind.”

The death scythe helped the coat off his partner’s shoulders at the doorway, his limbs heavy and tired.

“Not at all. Should I start dinner and wake you when it’s done?”

He knew he wasn't going to be able to taste anything, and that eating might end up being a chore to the point of nausea, but Spirit knew--they both knew--that a meal and some rest was definitely going to help him think straight. It was obvious Stein thought to deny it, but eventually managed a lost nod.

Spirit exhaled in resolution, taking a moment to squeeze his hand.

“When did you last eat?”

Stein opened his mouth to begin speaking, but nothing came out. He blinked away a tightness in his chest and touched his thumb first to the side of his chin, then his ear.

Yesterday.

Typical he'd skip breakfast. Spirit nodded.

“Is there anything you’d prefer?” He had to admit to himself he knew the questions were making his guest tired.

The professor paused, then slipped his hand from Albarn’s grip to click at his screw, eye contact gone distant beyond them both. Spirit half-mindlessly petted the back of his knuckles to Stein’s forearm to return gentle focus. From nothing, he was clearly becoming overstimulated.

No worries. “I’ll figure something out for us, dear.”

Stein forced a readjustment to meet the side of Spirit’s neck. “Thank you, Spirit.” He flickered sincere eye contact from emerald to aquamarine, held the moment for just a beat, then slunk off to the hallway, too fuzzy and scrambled to worry if the message was received.

Spirit was no stranger to these spells, twicefold: One in seeing Stein in these states before, and another in his own first-hand experience. Well, Spirit corrected his own thoughts, he didn’t exactly understand the non-verbality and shrinking ego from a first-person perspective, but that pit of unprecedented and unanticipated emptiness was certainly no stranger. They had profound moments together that led each of them towards new coping mechanisms, unexpected craftiness in both defense and in aid like that of brugmansia bloom. Sometimes the weekend meals were bargaining, reminders to themselves that they both were human through the reflection of the other.

He knew exactly what to make for dinner.

Spirit tapped the guest bedroom door with soft knuckles, and gently peeled it away from the frame. As his eyes adjusted to the dim, he realized no one was in the neatly made bed.

“Stein?”

He stepped back out to the hall and nudged his own bedroom door that was slightly ajar, eyeing blankets mussed but still no professor to be found. The room took moonglow and the air tasted sweet with chilliness, inviting Albarn to push the door further to see the parallel sliding glass cracked open. On the balcony, his meister sat criss-cross, looking out through the wrought iron railing down to the street.

“Hey,” he made his presence known before stepping out to the cement, an immediate shiver overtaking him. He sat comfortably next to him and followed his trajectory. “What are you looking at, Franken?”

Stein had his arms folded in on themselves awkwardly, but pried one from the knot to out point to the sidewalk of the bistro adjacently below. He made loose hands that seemed to grab at themselves in the center of his body, but Spirit wasn’t able to follow.

“I’m… Sorry, Stein, I don’t know that word.” Albarn said aloud while signing along.

The professor refocused on his partner with a tiny curious twinge to his brow and gestured movements with his hands that looked similar to the last. A pause, and he clarified.

“Stories.”

He looked back out to the street and Spirit followed the trajectory. Gesturing to a man in a blue suit chatting to a woman on the curb, Stein nodded upward.

“What do you think he does?” His voice remained ever-quiet. He then signed the word for “WORK?”

“By the looks of it, maybe… A business man. He has a briefcase.”

Stein shook out his hand to hold a misplaced sigh, but consoled the impulsion by meeting his bolt. He didn’t crank it, though, fingers left in temptation. He unfolded his legs to bring knees to his chest, his raised elbow to rest propped up against them, the other arm squeezing his legs tight.

“I think he’s living a double-life. Maybe that’s his wife, maybe it’s not. Maybe he is a businessman—probably a paper-pusher--but he does something else on the side that she doesn’t know about. They’ve planned a date, but, last second, it has crossed the plans of his second employer. He has to figure out how to cut the dinner early before she realizes that’s not his normal weekday briefcase.”

Spirit went speechless and searched Stein in a received child-like wonder, the game falling into place.

“Oh, look, he did it!” Albarn chimed as the two characters parted ways from each other. Stein grinned, but felt inclined to hide it.

“What about her?” Spirit pointed to a woman at a table on the sidewalk with a relaxed hand to her jaw, looking out to the road in absent thought.

“What about her?” Stein passed the baton.

“She’s…” He hesitated, thinking. “She’s a usual at this cafe. She has the menu memorized like the back of her hand, but pretends she doesn’t think it leaves more to be desired. She fantasizes of having a restaurant of her own where everything is cat-themed and… And involves calamari somehow...”

Stein glanced to Spirit and once he finally caught a returned look, he laughed a single amused chuff, their expressions matching pink in the dark. They both shivered.

“What do you think they think we do?”

“I guess that depends how much you’re out on this balcony.”

Almost as if on cue, they made eye contact with the lady at the table who happened to look up at them.

They waved.

Dinner is ready.

Stein freed his hands from their anchors. What did you make?

Spirit’s smile was warm. Breakfast.

Something of surprise lit up in the meister’s eyes.

Do you want to eat out here or inside?

Franken wasn’t sure what to do with his hands until he decided on tugging to Spirit’s sleeve, then taking his left hand in both of his own, bringing folded knuckles to his temple, shielding his eyes momentarily with a sweet grin. Albarn confessed the regression was in a way alarming, but he felt the genuine comfort start to radiate off of Stein in their shared company. He let his hand out of his meister’s grasp to sweep through his hair and pull him into a hug.

“Let’s go inside.”

#soul eater #soul eater fanfic #soul eater fanfiction #my fanfic #franken stein #spirit albarn #stein #soul eater stein #soul eater spirit #spiritstein

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therealslimshakespeare · 4 hours ago

Text

|| Not if but Who

Circa: April/May 1944

WARNINGS: 18+, typical universe warnings apply + rampant Nazis Eugenics ideology, strongly suggested, referred and mildly shown medical experimentation and abuse ❌

Johnny knew it would end up like this. Not even end up, it would start off like this and stay like this and the only likely change was some escalation of this.

And while he was sorry for it, and tired of it, and aware his course of action had been cryptic and perhaps unworthy of a honest, obedient, rule abiding inferior officer these last months but he also knew it would be like this.

So he’d done what he’d done.

And still, it ended up like this.

Him and Cleven, sat in this claustrophobic little shack with its pristine white walls, an absence of color that evoked sterility and tidiness back home but here in the muddy stalag it was positively off putting, with the sun beating in and the fan whirring in the single large window. There were smaller windows all along the ceiling like in a jail cell, and it made the bright white of the room positively garish at certain times of the day. It wasn’t time for that yet, it would take about an hour more for the sun to slant in right where it would reflect off the opposite wall and then beam right into Brady’s eyes and fucking glitter off the utensils.

The tools.

The medical shit, in its shiny metal tray with its squeaky metal wheels and its white terry cloth towel.

Johnny knew this well. This place with its noxious smells of copper and acetone, the sterile implacability was familiar, the sunbeams regular visitors he knew exactly when they would come calling. And the doc’s monologues too, they were very familiar. Johnny didn’t mind them half as much as when he stopped. When he stopped talking that meant he expected something from Johnny -a reaction of some sort. And worse than a bored kid in Sunday school, Johnny usually had floated far away from the subject at hand while the guy talked. First he’d gone horseback riding in his mind, even indulged in memories of brushing and washing and saddling Hector until his beautiful thoroughbred was a shiny black. Then when those reminiscences grew too gentle and meek for the accompanying feel of the doctor’s real life handling of his carcass, Johnny went to his fort, to training and to bailing, it kept the blood up and his heart rate racing.

The doctor liked those symptoms.

Johnny had learned to think of things that would do it, mimic the fear the monologues did not produce in his chest. He’d learned to mimic many things over the months. Some he’d not ever had practice with but he was clever at improvising. And some things he didn’t need to fake. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that but he wasn’t much into feelings these days. Feelings were the doctor’s preoccupation and Johnny had begun to associate them with him.

Or with Ida.

But mainly he improvised. He was good at it.

They said that in flight school, not too good of a pilot but a decent crasher.

But Major Cleven was the best at improvising. And yet, sat here opposite the authoritative little desk and its self soothing bully in a lab coat, it went to waste. Because the doc hadn’t grabbed for a speculum or a hammer or a needle even, he’d not even felt for swollen lymph nodes under Cleven’s chin or in his armpits. Not even taking interest in the twin cuts on his cheeks, the sickly gray circles under wide blue eyes- courtesy of a week in the cooler. Brady watched Cleven and tried to wonder why he wasn’t appealing, he was more impressive and more senior than Brady and yet remained unmolested. So far the doc had only talked. Talked and talked. Johnny knew it would be like this. And that’s why he’d done what he’d done all these months. Cleven wasn’t gonna beat this any better than he had.

Not while the guy kept talking. A strange punishment, this, for covering up his sister’s pregnancy. They’d not seen her yet. They’d not seen Bucky either. Cleven had enough sense or the self preservation to let them both go, allow the guards to take them away, submit himself to a moderate punishment. It landed him out of the cooler and about the barracks sooner than the two other components of the triune, and it caused him to be in here of all places, his brain being slowly roasted alongside Jack’s with pseudo physiological babble.

Right about now, it was anyone’s guess which of the Americans the doc was addressing. Brady figured both. Likely both of them. Mentions of Catholicism halfway through the first fifteen minutes of the doc’s bone numbing self articulation seemed pretty pointed towards himself. It went something like:

“This one is a religious man, yes? Catholic, I have seen his crucifix. Yes some men feel they are special because they are loved by a god, they are protected and dignified above the rest by this divinity. They do not expect to suffer nor are they allowed to enjoy certain things, because they are, like their god, above it.”

But then it veered, something more like:

“And then there are men, ones who do not think of things as forbidden or allowed, they only have wants. But will they act on them? No. But they do want. And it is odd, no, what will make such a man finally act on those wants?”

The latter question hangs there in the air, Brady suspects, intentionally aimed and poised metaphorically over Gale’s head, as strongly as any physical threat. He assumed it’s pointed at Cleven, since the man with wants is contrasted to the Catholic. Brady knows himself to be the latter, he wasn’t sure he’d classify his Major as a man with stark wants but surely all men, even Major Cleven, had wants.

“I don’t know what the hell you're on about.” Cleven sounds very measured to Brady‘s ringing ears and he finds himself letting out a breath of relief that the Major is still so damn composed. Maybe all is not lost.

“-I don’t mean for you to understand.” The doctor emphasized his subject by giving Gale an unimpressed look, “I am speaking of your friend, the large man, very loud yes? And very fond of you. The one that wants you.”

“No he doesn’t.” Brady finds himself blurting out before Gale can even inhale. To even bring this up, to haul whatever priceless chemistry their majors have into this rat shack and call it ugly, make warped -it isn’t something Brady can take, not like the needles and the electrodes and the rest of it. “He doesn’t -don’t you dare.”

His sudden rush of fury is like a gasoline fire lapping at the surf. Whatever this is, this quasi interview that feels ever more like a villain's cinematic crescendo, the doctor had his trajectory planned, nothing seems to put him off.

Johnny knew it would be like this.

“You know in Germany we sterilize men with unnatural wants.”

Brady can feel Gale go pale next to him. That’s more frightening than even being in this horrible place, seeing Gale Cleven lose his nerve.

“That what happen to you?” Brady felt rash in the wake of Cleven’s blanching and he took it as a score when Gale whipped his head up at the dig. It struck Brady as funny anyway, the way the doctor always had his experiments and his shots and his intimate exams but never required anything back. Not like that. Maybe he had been gelded that way. Maybe -Jack had thought of so many maybe’s these past months his brain was sore with them. None of them ever mattered, what mattered is what the guy wanted and required. Which suddenly seemed to have grown in ambition.

“I used to be a psychiatric pediatrician, in Munich. Before the war.” The man changed track, reminiscing in the face of Brady’s insult and it resulted in making him feel like everything bounced off a wall and hit him back in the face. Intentional on the doctor’s part, no doubt.

“Poor kids.” Brady muttured for the sake of obstinate morale and in genuine discomfort at the mere concept of this man in such close proximity to innocents.

“And I was excellent at my craft.” the doctor went on, “Do you know how many children the state had to take in because their mother’s were unfit, masculine? They had jobs, they were political, unwomanly. It ruined the children, only the greatest care could retrieve for them some vitality, have them to where they could give back some worth to the state. Do you know how we cured this ill? How we cleaned our country of women like that?”

Neither man had a jest or a guess. Answering seemed a very risky thing, and guessing was terrifying.

“They too, were sterilized.” the doctor laid his hands out, palms up in a familiar gesture of what was once common sense.

Johnny wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anything more sickening. Gale for his part, had gone very still.

“I have here authorization,” the doctor lifted from his desk a file which had been lying there neglected all this time, stamps and lettering making its cover look quite official, “to enforce these measures for your female officers. The recent pregnancies in multiple of your officers makes this issue unavoidable.”

Neither spoke again. If they’d have bothered, they might have guessed that beyond the thinly veiled suggestions of homosexuality and fraternization there was something more intent here. Just as both men knew this wasn’t the end of the subject, otherwise, why bring them in for it? To tell them? To taunt them? The entire thing held the tone of one of Ev’s riddles, like there were two answers out of this thing, but damned if Brady had any idea if he was working with all the clues or only the first.

“I have already implemented it in your lady colonel.” he added, like an afterthought.

The ringing in Johnny’s ear had turned into a raging surf. “You- you didn’t-“ he heard himself croak before he could swallow his panic down; he thought of Ida and and he thought of father and he thought of mother and the grandchildren they’d never have and somehow he ended up thinking of Bucky and his throat closed up. He wanted Bucky right now, it was stupid thing to want but Cleven was too quiet in the face of this outrage and Bucky at least had cried with Jack when they buried that infant alongside the dead dogs and typhoid victims.

“I have an order to conduct the same with the rest.” The doctor continued, “I have some presentment that you gentleman would find this measure unfortunate, no?”

Gale’s finger had begun to drum a nervous rhythm on his chair arm, the one nearest Brady. Johnny stared at the tapping digit with detached intrigue, incorporating it into a piece he’d been arranging that morning before they got called in for this shitshow of a monologue. Maybe Cleven could be roped in as drummer, he could be taught by Christmas. Nothing else to do in this place. Except humor this fucking white coat.

“We wouldn’t allow it, sir.” Cleven spoke up at last, and it wasn’t apologetic but neither was it fierce, he seemed to be trying to match the conversational tone the doctor had adopted.

“Do you allow things now, Major?” the doctor inquired, amused. “See, I told you I know men like you, it is not what is allowed or disallowed, it is only want and the acting on it —or not. You do not have freedom to act, Major Cleven, not here, you know that already. I wish to teach that neither do you have freedom not to act, if what I want is for you to act.”

“Whadda’ya want?” Cleven repeated.

It was always going to be a bartering, since they stepped in here, somehow Brady thinks that he and the major both knew that, and in a frightening sort of malaise, he mourns the closing act of suspense as to what the currency is.

“I miss my practice, Major Cleven.” The doctor almost sounded as if he expected sympathy, Brady had heard him use it before, “I miss my craft, I was wrongly accused and demoted from my place and I find myself here with little to intrigue a mind as complex as my own. I can care for physical maladies, I can heal a boy’s shoulder and I can make his legs strong until he can lap this compound faster than the national record, yes? But it is not the mind. I miss minds, Major. Do you not think your own sufficiently damaged to need my expertise?”

Cleven’s eyes had squinted into slits, knowing and challenging, he didn’t deviate, “I said -what do you want.”

“You see then,” the doctor’s face beamed, “you do not allow or disallow. You can only -negotiate, yes? And that even, is a privilege that tomorrow? -we can take away. So do not, Major Cleven, make me take it away.”

Something in his Major’s face showed a meekness that was as horrifying to Brady as it was pleasing to the doctor.

“You see this,” the doctor was eager to go on, lifting the dreaded folder, it had Lu Smith’s face paper clipped to the front, and began to theatrically bury it beneath other papers, “this can stay here, if I am otherwise occupied. If more pressing matters require my skill. You have a woman with you of ethnic race, bronze, black hair -I can overlook her for these orders, even in the likelihood of the SS taking over, I can overlook on a few conditions.”

Brady could tell Cleven was hard at thought by the frantic twitch in his jaw, even as his eyes stayed mild and his mouth soft, he seemed to be trying to find that riddle answer. Brady felt sorry for him. There never was one in this place.

“You play many games to pass the time, you and your men, yes?” The doctor spoke again, having spent the past few deadly silent moments enjoying Cleven’s futile calculations, “I want you to play a game with me. I will not monopolize your time. But things must be fair, I cannot endlessly provide my expertise with no recompense, you cannot go on in your current state. The body flags, does it not? Once you have felt what I can do for you, you will respect my craft.”

Gale Cleven didn’t think he was likely to forget anytime soon those Adrenalin shots he’d seen Brady endure, or their symptoms of panicked sweating and tight chested jitters worse than any flak shakes, the utter inability to sleep. Or its side effect of thudding blood in his temples and his armpits and in his groin. The way Brady’s arms were littered with the puncture wounds. The obvious sight of the boy’s headaches that had him swaying in agony at roll call.

Maureen hadn’t been pleased about any of it, she’d said she knew of those kind of stimulants and they could kill a man by stopping his heart, said he should never take them. Certainly not to please her. Maureen was very far away from this hut and its gargoyle of an overlord and she needed to stay that way. Smith, he felt, was closer by the specter of her physical description.

“Games?” Cleven repeated and he felt rather than allowed his own mouth to smile, likely a wide and disbelieving thing because his heart might not accept the obvious here but his mind knew exactly what sort of games these would be. “We sure do.” he balled his fists on his arm chair to keep away the impulse to tap, “But I think you’ll find some of us -what did you call it? Allowing? I’d raise you; experienced. At these games.”

The doctor looked puzzled for once and on his own part Brady was sure he looked idiotically confused, although he felt the aura of Cleven’s meticulous precision in the air, some miasma of intent and calculation that made him snap to it and try to play along. Cleven’s smarts and intents were like that, tangible as a pet monkey on his shoulder but every bit as impossible to intelligently converse with.

“Sir,” Cleven leaned forward in his seat with that disarming cordiality that Brady had only ever seen him use on women or new recruits, “you and I know this game, s’why invite amateurs?” his meaning hung thin and obscure for a brief moment before he sucked in a breath and added his addendum, Brady should have seen it coming, “I can make it worth your while, a-and uh, and I am the one in need of treatment, like you said. Three's a crowd, sir. Send him out,” he didn’t even glance at the boy he was trying to save, just a callous jerk of the head to indicate his subject, “and we’ll play this, you and I -man to man.”

Brady felt his eyes smart, a wronged sort of gratitude jarring in his heart as he recognized the play. It was an emotion he’d only felt before in church at the thought of a perfect God allowing himself to be murdered for sinners. Gale Cleven, however less boisterous in his goodness to Brady than Bucky, was forever reliable in his sacrificial leadership, to be counted on to offer his back to be used as a stepping stone to get the objective done. Brady didn’t know him as well as Bucky, a matter of squadrons, but he always thought what everyone else thought- he was the closest thing anyone could get to Jesus Christ on earth with a toothpick. Something now about the savior’s scant loin cloth and the contouring rivulets of blood and the often omitted throng of mocking scoffers at the foot of the cross felt as shaming as it ought to have been all along. He wouldn’t let this sick fuck of a doctor see him cry, not when he could mistake gratitude for fear. Brady closed his eyes, neither of the negotiating parties were looking at him anyway.

“Oh, you mean for me to send him away?” The doctor repeated, comprehension feigned heavily in his voice, it came on stronger to Brady’s ears with his sight withheld, “But I am not a player, Major Cleven, I am artisan. It is for you two to produce what I direct. Don’t be rash, Major, don’t forget that even bargaining is a kindness I grant at my discretion. Your boy knows. See how white he has gotten. He shows more in his cheeks, you in your eyes, no? You would have made a fine contribution to our movement if you had been enlightened soon enough, Major Cleven, you are impeccably kaukasische.”

Gale gave him a sorry grin, one pained from something besides a lost chance. “But I’m not. Enlightened, that is.” his jaw shifted forward in a subtly cocky challenge, “So games. That your price?”

Brady had only seen the doctor look so pleased once or twice before, but this was a quiet, bone deep sort of satisfaction, no doubt only scored when having defeated someone as strong as Cleven. “Religious revulsion - pragmatic repression.” the doctor mused, looking to Johnny with the first epithet, then to Cleven for the second before smirking dreamily, “Clash them and who prevails? Mix them, and who absorbs who? Who wins?”

Cleven stared off just shy of the guy’s ear, at the window, a shift to boredom taking over. “Whadda you want us to-“

“Fascinating what can be found through reflexes, no?” The doctor rose for the first time and came round the desk, retrieving the small and now familiar little padded hammer before standing beside Brady, the also familiar feeling of the man’s hand settled heavy and reminding on his shoulder, right where it joined his neck. “One little tap, Major, and we can elicit a response the receiving party does not even think of, muchless grant permission for. See? Tap, and ah- there goes the arm.”

Nothing about the little taps to the elbow and the knees and the tops of his feet ever hurt, even when they were repetitive again and again some days. The bruising was minimal and the pain not to be categorized as such it was so trite. Far worse was the suspense of escalation, the graduation from elbows to the neck, to the jaw, or knees that climbed to the thighs and higher.

Cleven watched this mild experiment with the face of a man who knew it was a prelude and not a main event. “Fascinating.” he repeated politely with the wryest imaginable pronunciation. Brady didn’t manage to hold back a small laugh, all his discipline being engaged to keep from trembling under the doctor’s hand.

This only pleased the doctor who beamed between them as if a point had been proven. “He responds to you, already. Come, you will be my assistant, Major.” Gale’s brief look of horror was gratifying to Brady’s own but then that faded like a spark into an ever growing comprehension. “In my esteemed practice in Munich, we dedicated much time to this.” the doctor continued, “My assistants I trained to be meticulous, to let nothing affect their aim or their goal, there is a field of human responses Major Cleven.” the man warmed to his topic so transported that he seemed to expect Gale to convert right then, “All range of responses. We as a society have been taught to view some as bad or good, as incentives to action or inaction, compassion or anger. In medicine, it is only chemicals in the mind. Emotion becomes -chemicals. It is so beautiful, Major, to elicit without these boundaries. It is to view humanity as a God.”

Feeling already relegated like a corpse to the operating table, Brady glanced over to find Cleven giving the doctor a very unimpressed stare that would’ve fit well on horseback, staring down some Wyoming cow that had slipped its barbed wire and gotten itself into free country only to have its leg chewed off by a coyote.

“God, whatever he is, sure as shit feels more than you.” Cleven offered, mildly mannered still, he seemed conscious of the line between provoking and remaining entertaining, a cat finds no sport in an inert mouse. “I’m sorry I can’t be your assistant sir, but I’ll happily let you bang around on my tendons. Or -or let Jack here, he’d make a fine assistant. He’s been mine before.”

Assistant at the radio, where his quick mind was a whiz at translating Cleven’s chicken scratch and Morse dashes into news reports for the camp. The kid actually perked up at the praise and Gale felt his stomach go sour -more than it already was.

The doctor smiled at Cleven's repeated rebellion with strained forbearance. “Major, it is you who are to be my assistant. It is for the superior to break the propriety of his rank to heal his mind. It is the believer who I intend to dissuade. His religion makes him revolt to such touch, it is only societal shame that hinders you.”

Brady could feel the man’s hand jangling the chain of his dog tags, ones the man knew had a cross on them.

“Pragmatism and revulsion, Major, perhaps the two of you will switch places when this metamorphosis is complete. Or perhaps you will become one, and adapt, as all evolving creatures should. And as I have said, his face is telling, I was compelled to watch it from the moment I met him.” he extended the harmless little hammer to Gale. “Tap at my command, Major.”

____________________________________

He kept saying -Brady, Jack, the kid kept saying- with every thump and jerk, kept saying in an assuring mumble “It doesn’t hurt sir.” -like that made anything better at all.

Jack said it again when they both stumbled down the hut’s outdoor steps, both of them squinting into the beaming glare of the setting sun, the last hours of their day already used up unpleasantly. Jack was rolling his sleeves down, he was muttering “doesn’t hurt at all” as he hid quarter sized bruises along his forearms beneath drab olive, fastidiously fastening the buttons at his wrists. His hair looked close to black it was so drenched from sweat.

“Brady.” Gale insisted on a halt before the kid rushed right back to the combine. It didn’t feel right to have this chat on what was practically the quack’s front porch, but then, where better? “Look at me, stop a minute and- Jack.”

Brady never had been anything less than excellent at eye contact, poker face too. The doc was right, though, his cheeks gave him away. Especially when he was mad. He wasn’t mad now, not that Cleven could tell, Cleven wondered how many months of this it took for the anger to fade into whatever this brusque apathy was.

“Major?”

Gale itched at the bridge of his nose, his own sweat drying there. “This hasn’t got a damn thing to do with your pain tolerance.” he reminded, “Or that -that fuckin’ little hammer.” They both allowed a moment of disgust to pass between them before he went on, hands on his hips and all the old bearing he could summon, “Brady, he’s goin’ for our minds, you know that. Better than me. This hasn't got shit to do with pain and I need to know-“ Gale sniffed, rough and angry, rather like a bull himself, eyes frustrated and wild like Johnny had never really seen them, “Jack, I need to know what else. Because, he’s not gonna stop here. S’not gonna be just little hammers till we get out. He’s gonna want more and more and there’s not shit we can do besides-“

When he failed to submit to the reality of it all verbally, Johnny muttered it for him- “Besides give it. So they don’t have to. Any of them.”

“Yeah.” Gale’s jaw kept ticking but his maddened eyes were sagging with fatigue, without Bucky, even without Ida, Cleven was like a toy soldier sticking to the form of the drill without cognizant rationale for the need of it, he’d run out of ways to lie to himself. “I’m gonna try with the Commandant. But, they say the SS gonna take over anyways and-“”

Brady scoffed, nothing against Cleven it was only he’d been thinking of Fritz, of how even some of the guards weren’t free of the fucking lab coat, how the orders for sterilization were already here, how his sister was already mangled by them. “-That could backfire.” he observed, because he’d thought about it time and time before; and decided against it every time.

Cleven just shook his head. He was likely going to try. And that was kind of him, very like him to try to make another appeal to the Kommandant. And probably useless all the same “I’m sorry ‘bout your sister.”

Jack’s face folded into a grimace, ugly lines all around his sharp nose, looking fucking ancient for a brief minute in his grief. “I dunno what to- what to tell my folks.”

“Don’t.” Cleven suggested; none of them even knew if she was still alive, no need to write she was sterile if worse news was coming up right behind it in the mail.

“‘kay.” the lines smoothed a little.

“You in this?” Cleven asked Jack after a beat, “Really in this? For whatever they push? Because I’m not sure two American boys like us can think up what he might ask. And when he does, I need to know beforehand.” The bitterest look crossed his face before he added, “I wish I coulda spared you. I’d like to have, liked to have had you gone for a lotta reasons but, it’s not to be, so, are you in?”

Brady was already looking at him with more than agreement, more even than resolve, there was a fatigued compassion there that Gale didn’t know how the kid had retained through months of this. He also looked very young, suddenly, the shift made something in Gale’s soul twinge uneasily. “To the bitter fuckin’ end, sir.” he says with a man’s resolve, and Gale thinks of the boy’s father, and what that man might think of Gale for not managing to protect his son from this. He thinks of Ida and of her curious, hurt eyes, the inventory of their collective failures she keeps and does not judge, of Bucky who carries it all on his shoulders without noticing the particulars, Maureen and her sudden harrowing sobriety.

He wonders if company in this degradation will be the end of Jack or the saving. He has never been close to the boy, not like Bucky or even Benny, but he never did like him better than right now. Never wished better for him than right now. Never noticed his cold eyes had flecks of green when the sun slanted just so, they were warm in the light of a dying day and Gale tried to remember that, how they were, in case he ever needed to remind him. In case that died out, too.

Jack’s eyes had green in them once. And Gale was to blame for this. Whatever this might be.

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it! If you’d like to be added or taken off this tag list, just drop me a note!

@ab4eva

@stylespresleyhearted

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@kittykat786

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@josieb100

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@pearlparty

#those who can #mota fanfic #Gale x Jack #mota #mota oc #mine #Gale Cleven Fanfiction #Buck Cleven #John Brady fanfic #John Brady

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the-obnoxious-sibling · 1 year ago

Text

in which buggy doesn’t sleep well, missed breakfast food so much in prison, tells tall tales, and schedules a—not a date. a… day to catch up with an old… person. shanks. whatever.

the next part to this story, which is a follow-up to this one, which was itself a second take at—actually, here’s a tag for all of the near miss stories & related talk, go there if you want the context. (i’ve linked to the chronological order sorting of the tag, so you should see the “thinking about near misses in east blue” post first.)

Buggy was still mad at Galdino hours later, when he got fed up with his feet being tripped over in the dark and the rest of him (sitting up in the rigging, sulking hiding just sitting) had gotten cold. But given the very limited space on the Red Force, it was either bunk with someone or sleep on the deck, and Buggy was not about to do that. The men��ugh, now Galdino had him doing it!—were way too excited about following Buggy’s every move, he shuddered to think what they might do at night. Assuming he could even get to sleep with all of them hovering like that.

So if he was bunking with someone, there was really only the one option: the only other guest on this ship who’d treated him like a human being.

But he wasn’t happy about it.

Galdino paid him no mind, using a borrowed mirror to inspect himself as he prepared for bed, applying a thin layer of wax along the edge of his hairline. When he was done with the mirror, he silently held it up so Buggy could look himself over. He used pretty long-lasting makeup, the better to survive bloody fistfights and brackish ocean spray—and some of it had even survived the sterilizing baths they dunked you in when you arrived at Impel Down! Buggy would write to the brand, to tell them to use that fact in their advertising, but that degree of longevity probably wasn’t a huge selling point now that Ivankov and his ilk had escaped the prison.

Anyway, nothing had happened today that could really mess it up. His face was fine.

…it could use a touch-up, though. Just to solidify the linework on the crossbones, make the edge of his lip really crisp. Buggy touched the corner of his lip, considering, and very much against his will recalled how it had felt for someone else to touch that part of his face.

It had been a long time.

Not so long that Shanks’ hand was the first to touch him since Shanks, mind you. But a long time all the same.

He scowled, and threw himself into bed. Touching up his makeup—and who, exactly, would he be doing that for?! That kind of thinking could wait until morning. When, hopefully, he would have recovered his sanity in full.

As he was drifting off, Buggy heard Galdino roll over and say, softly, “You may think of that guy as some dope you used to sail with, but fact is he’s an Emperor. One who’s taken an interest in you. I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“And who asked you to do that?” Buggy muttered into his pillow.

“No one,” Galdino acknowledged. “But if I’m hitching my wagon to yours—and it sure looks like that’s what’s happening here—I want to make sure we aren’t about to ride off a cliff.”

With that grim visual in his head, Buggy sunk into an uneasy sleep.

The next day dawned warm and bright. Buggy had thoughtlessly picked a bed that sat under the one small window in the room, right where an early morning sunbeam would shine in his face. He groaned a protest, but unfortunately, once up he was up. Leaving Galdino to sleep his fill, he stretched, grumbled, and made himself presentable.

(This did not involve touching up his makeup in any way.)

A handful of Red-Haired Pirates were also up and about, though Buggy couldn’t tell how many were early risers and how many had been on watch overnight. A few nodded at him with the bleary eyes of hungover men. Uneasy at the acknowledgement, however small, Buggy ducked into the mess, praying that there would be something hot to eat at this hour.

Prayers were answered in the form of the ever-grinning Lucky Roux, who was setting out large pans of a few types of porridge under warming lamps, with toppings (both savory and sweet) laid out in small bowls. Buggy opted for oats with some dried fruit and syrup on top, something that would fill him up and leave a sweet aftertaste. Though he might go back for the rice porridge later if he could get a soft-boiled egg to go with it… oh, eggs. He’d missed eggs.

There were also two steaming pots of liquid sitting to one side, one a tisane that smelled oddly familiar—after a moment, Buggy remembered the hangover cure Rayleigh had sworn by, and had to bite back a nauseous stab of nostalgia. He went for the other, not caring what it was so long as it was hot. It turned out to be awfully bitter, so he stole a bit of the porridge syrup to sweeten it.

Loaded down with food and drink, Buggy set himself up next to the kitchen, facing the rest of the mess. No one would be able to sneak up on him but Roux, and the day a man that size could—

“Any special requests?”

Biting back a shriek, Buggy spun to see Roux poking his head through a small window between the kitchen and mess. “I’m no short-order cook,” he said with a grin, “but this early I’m happy to make people what they want, so long as I have the ingredients on hand.”

What Buggy really wanted was a hot dog. Fuck, he missed bread. And meat. But he didn’t want a cheffy take on it, he wanted the greasy sausage and halfway stale bun you got when you bought a hot dog at a boardwalk. Since that wasn't likely to happen… “Over-easy eggs and toast? Oh, and ham, or bacon, whatever meat you’ve got.”

“That, I can do.”

Buggy dug into his oats, watching other men slowly creep into the mess in varying states of wakefulness and dress. The most tired looking came straight to the kitchen, where Roux already had plates waiting—the night watch men, then, being rewarded for that unpleasant duty. That was smart, Buggy thought, reluctant but firm in his admiration. If he ever got a really top-tier chef in his crew, that’d be the way to get people to do the worst chores: give them good food after.

“Building Snake says we're making landfall this afternoon?” one of the night watch guys said to another. Buggy tried to lean in without making it obvious that he was eavesdropping. “Seriously, that soon?”

“We need to resupply if we're gonna keep housing these guys for much longer,” the other replied, glancing over at a cluster of Whitebeard Pirates around one table, Marco’s distinctive tuft of fiery orange hair poking out of the center. “We buy goods today, give all of them shore leave so they aren't in the way while we load up tomorrow, and if the winds favor us we offload the clown and his troupe the next day.”

Buggy twitched. What now?

“Oh, did Rockstar find the Buggy Pirates already?” Roux asked, handing the pair of men their plates. “When’s he gonna learn he doesn't have to work so hard to impress us?” The three of them shared a laugh over this overachiever who’d apparently found Buggy’s ship in under a day. (The hell were they doing so close to the Calm Belt?) Leaning down to hand Buggy his requested dish, Roux said, “Only three days from your crew! That must be a relief, huh?”

Ignoring the startled looks on the night watch pair’s faces as they ran off—yes, Buggy had been here the whole time, so good of you to finally notice—Buggy grabbed the plate and breathed in deeply. Eggs soft as silk, bacon just the far side of well-done, toast triangles gleaming with butter… god damn, but it was worth being awake at this hour to get quality food. “It’ll be nice to be home,” he said around a mouthful, “but I’ll miss this.”

Roux burst into big, booming laughter. “You guys! Always so appreciative of good food. I’d expected to rate higher than prison fare, but I’m flattered to hear I’m also better than your usual!”

In the middle of stabbing the yolks of his eggs with a sharp corner of toast , Buggy squinted suspiciously up at Roux. “What do you mean by ‘you guys?’”

“I mean Roger Pirates, of course!”

Buggy blinked.

“Shanks is always happy to eat whatever, but he can’t hide how much happier he is when I make his favorites. And that Silvers Rayleigh…” Roux shook his head.

Buggy nearly choked on an egg. “You’ve met Rayleigh?!”

“Oh sure, about ten years back? We’d barely been on the Grand Line six months, just hit Sabaody and were debating whether to move forward to the New World or stay in Paradise a little longer, and suddenly Shanks was running off to talk to this old man. Of course I had to feed him, if just to prove to the guy that I deserved my job. He really—” Roux sniffed the air, spun around and yelped, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

So that was how they had Rayleigh’s hangover cure on this ship. “Sabaody, huh…?” Buggy wouldn't have thought he’d end up there, with how often world nobles visited the place. Did Rayleigh have a death wish? Or was he just old enough at this point to escape notice? Buggy snorted. Lucky him.

A storm of feet came thundering from out on the deck, drawing the attention of most of the room—until the mess door flung open to reveal a cluster of men in ragged Impel Down uniforms. They spotted Buggy and cried out, “Captain Buggy! There you are!”

This got eye rolls and looks of annoyance all around, which Buggy almost wanted to join in on. Seriously, did these guys need their hands held on the way to the bathroom too?

“Here I am,” he said dryly, sipping at his drink. “Don’t you people remember what mealtimes are? Where else would I be at this hour?” Ignoring their responses (“Of course! Captain Buggy’s so smart!” “So logical!”), he edged a little closer to the wall, having a feeling he was about to get crushed.

The men did flock to his side the second they were able—attempting to offer choice bits of food to him, like he didn’t clearly already have something better on his plate—but their devotion was thankfully balanced by respect, and they didn’t sit so close he couldn’t breathe.

They were still totally incapable of keeping their mouths shut, though.

“Captain Buggy, will you tell us of another of your adventures?”

Buggy bit back a grimace as pirates less enamored with him gave his group a dirty look. Yeah, he wouldn’t want to be in tight quarters with them either, if he were hungover and not a Buggy fan. But how could he ignore their request? “Sure! Anything for you guys!” What stories hadn’t he told yet…? “Have I told you the story of… how my crew acquired our fiercest member, Richie the Lion?”

“A lion?!” “No, Captain Buggy!”

“Alright, then. It all started when my brave crew was exploring a jungle island, years ago…” The actual story of how they’d gotten Richie was nothing special—it was really the story of how he’d met Mohji, a mistreated performer in an East Blue circus where Buggy had hidden out until the first time someone mentioned his nose, at which point he wrecked the place. But who here would know if he adapted the story of a day he’d spent on a jungle island with Captain Roger and Shanks? (…besides the obvious person, of course.) So he wove a tale of cleverness and might, of Captain Buggy spotting a dangerous beast that had a crying child trapped up in a tree and tricking it into pursuing him instead, only for the lion to be instantly tamed by his sheer power… and of course, Buggy being richly rewarded for the rescue.

“And that’s why we named him Richie,” Buggy concluded. “After the riches and fortune he brought me that day.”

“How touching!” “How bold!” “How amazing!”

How exhausting. “Now,” Buggy said, mopping up a smear of egg yolk with his last corner of toast, “are you satisfied for the moment, or do you need another—” Glancing up, he nearly choked on his bite. Shanks was standing in the midst of the men, sipping from a steaming hot mug and watching Buggy with an amused smile on his face. That fucker definitely remembered being stuck up a tree with a lion clawing at their feet. “Shanks! W-what do you want?”

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” he said, glancing down at the man sitting across the table from Buggy. It seemed the men had been so captivated by Buggy’s storytelling that they hadn’t noticed Shanks either; now that they had, they quickly moved to accommodate him. Taking the suddenly empty seat, he set down his mug—Buggy’s nose wrinkled up, it was the hangover tisane—and leaned his chin on his fist. “If you’re taking requests, how about when we first met Oden? That’s a good story.”

“I—that—” Like hell Shanks just wanted a story.

Lucky Roux got Buggy’s attention, and held out a plate clearly meant for Shanks; it was the same kind of breakfast he’d favored as a child, down to the diced tomatoes perched atop the eggs—originally a deterrent to keep Buggy from stealing his food, at some point it had become a highlight of the dish for Shanks, the freak.

…maybe he did just want a story. For all that he was an Emperor now, Shanks didn’t seem to have changed much as a person. Buggy passed the plate along to Shanks, and tried to relax. “That is a good one.”

Turning to the men watching this exchange wide-eyed, Buggy barked out, “Now, who among you swabs recognizes the name of Kozuki Oden, once heir to the shogunate of Wano?!” This got a couple of looks of recognition, but mostly confusion—except for, from the far side of the room, a few angry grumbles. Buggy laughed. “Don’t tell me the Whitebeards still hold a grudge? Just because our crews fought for three days, and Oden chose to come with us in the end?”

This garnered a far more impressed reaction from the ex-prisoner crowd, and some narrow-eyed looks from the Whitebeards. Oh, they definitely still held a grudge. But Shanks was smiling ever so slightly, and that was enough to make Buggy smirk and say, “Well, feel free to offer corrections if you think I’m telling the story wrong.”

And then he told the most overblown, exaggerated version of events he possibly could.

Some of the Whitebeard Pirates threw out corrections—and insults against Buggy’s memory and honesty—but Buggy gave as good as he got, Shanks occasionally chimed in with falsely innocuous comments like “that’s not how I remember it” to their corrections, and the story was all the better for the pushback. That was the thing with lying: the larger lie sounded more believable when someone objected to small details, because your audience assumed that everything that hadn’t been corrected must be true.

For all the insults and slander tossed around about dead men, the mood in the room was significantly lighter by the time Buggy finished the story. Most of the Red-Haired Pirates had left, their duties for the morning calling, but the former prisoners and Whitebeard Pirates lingered to hear Buggy out until the end, with Oden and his family sailing off on the Oro Jackson, Whitebeard’s men calling out fond farewells and complaints at his disloyalty in equal measure.

Even Marco the Phoenix was convinced to speak up at that point, saying, “Pops never forgave Roger for that, yoi,” with a slight, sad smile.

“For stealing Oden?” Buggy snorted a laugh. “If you wanted him to stick around, you should’ve gone to the last island yourselves! That man wanted adventure, and we were going on the greatest one imaginable.”

Marco protested—Oden had been like family to Whitebeard, didn’t that mean something?—and with the story complete and the breakfast hour long passed, the crowd began to disperse. (They’d learned yesterday that people who lingered in the mess tended to get roped into dishwashing duty, whether they were crew aboard the Red Force or not.) A couple people still remained: Shanks, who’d spent so much time egging on the Whitebeards that he’d scarcely touched his food; Marco, going back for a third or fourth cup of the not-tisane; and a few especially devoted ex-prisoners, staring starry-eyed at Buggy.

“The last island…” One of them breathed. “Captain Buggy, what’s it like?”

Buggy blinked. “Laugh Tale?” He glanced at Shanks, who was watching him with a perfectly neutral expression, then down at the bitter dregs left in his cup. What to say? Buggy flushed. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—lie about this. “I, uh, I don’t know.”

“What?!”

“We didn’t go,” Shanks said, getting a grateful look from Buggy and surprise from the rest of the room. “Buggy got sick, and I stayed behind to look after him.” This won Shanks some undeserved admiration from Buggy’s fans—what a sacrifice he’d made, and for Captain Buggy’s sake! Yeah, right.

…well.

Well.

What other reason could he have had, to stay behind?

Galdino’s (terrible, awful) words from yesterday popped up in Buggy’s head. Gah, surely not that! Surely he hadn’t—not back then. Surely he didn’t now, for that matter! Buggy grimaced. It wasn’t like he could just ask, not around all these people.

Not around them. But maybe…

“Shanks, I—”

“Listen, Buggy…”

They blinked, dumbfounded. After a moment’s silence, Shanks gestured for Buggy to go ahead.

Buggy scratched at an itch along his jawline. It would be nice to be back on the Big Top, where he could get something like a clean shave again. But before that… if he could just get the question out. He gritted his teeth. Why was asking for things so hard? “Yesterday, you said you’d like to sit down and catch up if you weren’t so busy. If you really meant that… I hear tomorrow’s gonna be a shore day, at least for people who don’t have a real role on your ship, so I was thinking…” Buggy shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe we could do that? Can you spare an hour for me?”

“Yeah!” Shanks grinned, so wide and bright Buggy could hardly bear to look at it. “Yeah, I’d love that. But forget an hour, I can give you the whole day.” When Buggy frowned, puzzled, Shanks explained, “I was about to ask you to spend time with me.”

Buggy laughed under his breath. “Figures.” All those nerves for nothing! If he’d just kept his mouth shut a few seconds longer, Shanks would’ve asked, and then Buggy could’ve looked like he was doing him a favor by giving him exactly what Buggy wanted. Oh, well. Turning to the men hovering behind him, Buggy snapped, “You hear that?! You boys are gonna have to find something else to do tomorrow, I’m gonna be too busy to hang around telling you stories of my greatness!”

“Yessir, Captain Buggy!” (“Wow! An elite captain-to-captain meeting!”)

“And if any of you dare to follow or interrupt us, you’ll live to regret it! Spread the word!”

The men disappeared obediently. Buggy let himself bask for a moment—god, but it was nice to be listened to. Even if they did take it to extremes. And even if they only did it because they thought Buggy was a pirate on Captain Roger’s level, and not just a kid the guy had taken a liking to. And even if… with a little sigh, Buggy turned back around. Gathering up his dishes—even if he managed to avoid dishwashing duty today, clearing his place was the least he could do—Buggy glanced up at Shanks and froze at the look on his face. That fond little smile… heat rushed to Buggy’s cheeks, and he groaned, shoving a hand in Shanks’ face.

“Don’t look at me like that!”

“Like what?” Shanks laughed, pushing Buggy’s hand out of the way, still looking at him like…

“Like—” Buggy remembered Galdino’s words and violently shoved the memory down. He remembered a similar look on Shanks’ face, years ago, and violently shoved that memory down too. Getting to his feet, he floated his stack of plates through the kitchen window and bolted. “Just don’t!”

But even as he left, he knew Shanks’ expression hadn’t changed. He was still looking at Buggy like he liked him.

And Buggy had just agreed to spend the day with him tomorrow.

What had he been thinking?

#notfic #every day this thing gets less and less notficcy… i’ve capitalized things this time (gasp)#well ao3 crossposting *is* gonna happen so i might as well make editing for that eventuality easier on me #the near miss fics #one piece #shuggy #shanks #buggy

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sadiepeach · 7 months ago

Text

I RAMBLE ABOUT A STARLESS CLAN ANTAGONISTS

I made a meme with the ASC villains a few days ago and then I proceeded to ramble about them. This is the rambling that was supposed to accompany that post before I had some technical issues with Tumblr.

Warning: I think some of my takes here might suck in the eyes of others but I can't really rest until I get these thoughts out of my head.

I like to think Podlight was aware of this whole mess since before Curlfeather died and that he just thinks Splashtail is continuing his sister's work. I think that before Wind, he knew everything they had done EXCEPT for the fact that Splashtail planned to have the dogs kill Curlfeather. I also believe he will likely betray Splashtail now that Frostpaw revealed that bit of information at the Gathering in the beginning of Wind.

I also desperately need to see how Splashtail, Berryheart and Podlight interact and how they rule RiverClan. But for that, we need a protagonist to witness these events. So, dear antagonistic kitties, please notice the THREE protagonists hiding in a bush JUST outside your camp and take one of them as prisoner. It can't be Frostpaw because she is meant to rescue RiverClan and she can't do that by being stuck in the enemy camp. Also, Splashtail would kill her. It can't be Nightheart because Berryheart would want him dead. Thus, Sunbeam remains our only option. And if they do capture Sunbeam, we will have more mother-daughter angst, yay. Actually, no, I changed my mind Nightheart could fit this scenario quite well too. Berryheart could use him to sorta "blackmail" Sunbeam I suppose. And Frostpaw and Sunbeam could have the occasion to bond a little more as they're both protagonists. Nighheart already has strong bonds with both of them. We would have an arc where the protags have bonded with each other all the way through. (Unlike TBC in which Shadowsight was like: "Omg we've been through so much together, the 3 of us, we're such good friends!!! Meanwhile Bristlefrost: We spoke to eachother exactly 2 times. (I don't think she said this but it'd be so funny if she did))

Do I want these cats to die though?

Berryheart, yes. (too much of a karen to be left alive, I'm sorry). I know it's kinda iffy since the other female antagonist of this arc is also dead but like. I'm sick of her, I'm sorry.

Podlight, no. (he's such a silly little man, bonus points if he actually remains a medicine cat and learns how to be a proper one). Actually this applies only if he does end up betraying Splashtail. Otherwise, I'd want him gone too.

Splashtail, no. (I am so sick of the main villain dying. But I also don't want him to disappear into the unknown like Sol and Sleekwhisker. I guess what I want the most for him is a redemption of sorts. Maybe he is beyond that. But like. Fucking Clear Sky got a redemption (a very shit one, but a redemption nonetheless). So I'm not that convinced Splashtail is beyond redemption. I guess I also want him to live because he is so unbelievably young and has his whole life ahead of him. My solution to this dilemma is the following: Splashtail is defeated. He wants to return to RiverClan like he said he'd do when he was at the Moonpool with Podlight. But Frostpaw tells him that he may come back to RiverClan only after he learns to meditate and reflect on his actions. She basically sends him to the Park Cats and after some time he comes back as a changed man and proves himself to the rest of his Clan. THE END. I don't know how this would work without him killing someone, though (actually if they sent Rootspring (+ another cat so it's 2v1) to guard him, it would work as Rootspring has his op earth powers that could help him easily find both the park cats and find Splashtail if he tries to run away and escape from him). It's a bit frustrating how we still don't know that much about Splashtail and how his mind works because I have so many headcanons based on little things I noticed about him and I have the massive urge to write a psychological analysis on him but the Erins might butcher his character so it would all be meaningless. I will make an AU out of it if it doesn't come true (which probably won't) and write a fanfic or something about his whole life in RiverClan as well as this redemption journey I have in mind for him.)

I got it all out for now, thank you for reading!

#warrior cats #warrior cats spoilers #a starless clan #splashtail #curlfeather #podlight #berryheart #waca #riverclan #asc spoilers

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cainluvr69 · 1 year ago

Text

"A Trick and Escort" Cain SSR Story - Taking His Hand

raws were provided by a kind twitter follower!

Akira: Ahh, it's so warm. I'm being healed… I bet it'll feel even better if I could sink in all the way to my shoulders…

Cain: Master Sage. Mind if I join you?

I was soaking my feet in the spring at the Town of Eventide when Cain approached me, coming from town.

Akira: Of course you can. The temperature's perfect.

Cain: Ahaha. I can tell just looking at your expression. It's the same one you'd see on a cat in a sunbeam.

Akira: I-Is that how I look right now? We have springs like in the world that I'm from too, and it's just really comfy…

Cain: Woah, they've got hot springs in your world, too?

Akira: Yes. You can warm yourself up in the bath just like this one, and they'll have places you can get a massage at right nearby, too.

Cain: Like getting your shoulders rubbed and stuff?

Akira: That's one option, yes. And you can get acupressure done on the pressure points in your arms and legs too, things like that.

Cain: Pressure points?

Akira: They're like, umm…points on your body that feel good when you put pressure on them. Like, right around here…

I spread the palm of one hand and pressed between the base of my thumb and index finger.

Akira: You don't have to put very much strength into it, just about this much, but it'll help you feel better.

Cain: Huh, let me try. Right here?

Akira: Um, a little bit higher…

Cain: Here?

Akira: Ah, umm… It might be easier to just show you instead of trying to tell you. …Let me see your hand.

I took Cain's hand and pressed gently on the pressure point in question. When I did, he closed his eyes, like he was trying to lean into the sensation.

Cain: It's kinda hard to tell while I'm soaking my feet, but I think it does feel a little good…? But why does it feel good to press down there?

Akira: Umm, I don't really know exactly how it works either… All I really know is that I heard that pressing here and a couple other places feels good, and tried it out for myself.

Cain: Huh…

Cain took his hand back, and tried pressing on the pressure point himself.

Cain: Just applying pressure with my fingers won't take much time or effort, so I'll try it out for myself sometime. But… I know doing it myself would still work just fine, but I feel like you doing it for my instead would feel better.

Akira: No, I totally get it! It just feels like it works better when someone else does the acupressure or massage for you.

???: Then would you like for me to help?

✦✧☾✧✦

Akira: Figaro!

Figaro: I don't know if they'll be exactly like these "pressure points" the Sage is talking about, but I know a few points on the body that can do something similar. Not in the hands, though, but on the feet.

Cain: Woah. So you can refresh your feet, too? Could you tell me where they are?

Figaro: Of course. So just pull yourself out of that foot bath and come sit over here.

Cain dried off his feet and sat down on top of a nearby rock. I sat down next to him so I could observe from up close.

Figaro: Here we go.

Figaro took one of Cain's feet in his hands, and pressed his thumb into the arch.

Akira: (Oh, I know that pressure point!)

Figaro: How's that feel? Good? Painful?

Cain: Hmm…? Uh, not really either. It just sort of feels like you're pressing on it with.

Figaro: Huh? Usually this hurts super bad on most people.

Akira: I guess that means Cain probably doesn't have any bad pressure points? I've heard that if pressing on a pressure point hurts or feels good, it means your body's not doing very well.

Figaro: Ah, the picture of youthful health… Next, let's try here…

Cain: Uwah?!

Figaro: Oh, you felt something?

Cain: Uh, yeah. Like, it hurt, but in a good way…?

Figaro: Oho. The one I just pressed on is one that hurts if you're not eating enough. Which means you must be hungry, Cain. Am I right?

Cain: You are! It's amazing that just pressing on my foot can tell you something like that.

Akira: That's the first time I've heard of that point, too! But I guess a doctor would know that kind of thing.

Figaro: Yep, yep. Because I'm a Southern doctor. …Heh. Hehehe…

Akira: …Figaro. Um, you turned away, but you're laughing at me, aren't you?

Figaro: Sorry, sorry. It's because I was just taking a shot in the dark, and you two just believed me so innocently.

Cain: You were just guessing…?

Figaro: This is just a place where the muscle gets stiff easily. It gets stiff in people who are very physically active, so I figured it'd work on Cain. The people in this town have their own methods of releasing tension in the body, too. They demonstrated on me and Leno earlier. It wasn't a medical procedure and didn't use these pressure points, but it sure did feel great, so you can ask them to do the same for you if you're interested.

Akira: Oh, so it's sort of like at a spa…! Thank you for telling us about it.

Figaro: Now then. It's been a while, so I guess I'll go offer acupressure for everyone else's feet, too.

Cain: Ahaha, I kinda wanna see how they'd all react. I know Snow and White are over in that direction.

Figaro: Oh, really? I'll be sure to avoid them.

Akira: (Wow, he really doesn't want to do anything for his teachers…)

Figaro: I'll see you two later.

Cain: Yeah, see you.

✦✧☾✧✦

After Figaro left, the two of us tried out the pressure points in the arch of the foot that he told us about.

Cain: Hmmm… Yeah, I'm not really getting anything, painful or otherwise. How about you, Master Sage?

Akira: Same here… I wonder if it's because you naturally avoid places that'd hurt on yourself.

Cain: Then let me try it out on you.

Akira: Are you sure? Then, please do.

Cain: I'll start off with the first one Figaro did on me. Let's see…right around here?

Cain pressed the pad of his thumb into the arch of my foot really hard. It felt like he'd just electrocuted me, and I yelped.

Akira: Ow…?!

Cain: Huh?! I'm sorry, did I use too much strength? Or was that the wrong area?

Akira: No, no, it's not that! I've heard that getting acupressure from someone who's good at it can hurt so much it'll make you cry. And it'll also hurt on anyone who's not taking good care of himself. So it's probably just because I'm not taking care of myself well enough… (I should watch my posture when I'm writing in the Sage's Manual, and stop staying up so late, and stop snacking so much…)

I hung my head, reflecting on my poor daily conduct, but Cain patted me on the shoulder.

Cain: Hey, since we have the chance, how about we go ask the townspeople to do that relaxation technique Figaro talked about to us?

Akira: That's a good idea. I've been thinking about how bad I've been taking care of myself even before now, so I did want to ask them about that…

Cain: Well then, that's settled. Shall we, Master Sage?

Cain smiled at me, an expression as pleasantly warm as the morning sun, and offered his hand.

Akira: (Is he planning on escorting me all the way to town?)

As I thought that, I reached out and took his hand. And when I did, he pressed down on the pressure point I'd showed him earlier on my palm.

Cain: You left yourself open!

Akira: Gyah!! Hey, Cain, your little "prank" kind of hurt…!

Cain: Ahaha, sorry, sorry. I just thought that'd be the quickest way to put some pep back in your step. You still looked kinda down. You're still exhausted from that inspection Lord Vincent put us through a while back, right? Of course you're not at the top of your game right now. Instead of going and getting a massage because you've been reflecting on what you've been doing lately, how about thinking of it as a reward for all the hard work you've been putting in instead?

Cain smiled brightly at me, and I, too, felt myself relax a bit.

Akira: You're right… Thinking of it as a reward for myself instead will probably make it feel more relaxing, too.

Cain: Exactly what I think. Alright, this time I'll escort you properly.

I took Cain's extended hand. He squeezed my hand tightly, as if trying to bundle it up with feelings.

Cain: There aren't any other places you hurt, are there? I'll do anything of me you ask, Master Sage.

Sub Event: Cain-Style Massage

Akira: Good morning, Cain.

Cain: Good morning, Master Sage. You're up earlier than usual. Did you sleep okay?

Akira: I did! I'm actually feeling better than usual thanks to the massage you gave me at the Town of Eventide a few days ago. So I'm waking up bright and early! I didn't feel tired at all when I woke up today.

Cain: Haha, if it helped you out, then that's what matters most to me. Oh yeah, I tried out that massage on everyone else from Central, too.

Akira: You did? How'd they feel about it?

Cain: Riquet and Arthur said it hurt a little, but mostly it felt nice. Oz couldn't really tell one way or the other, though. So I tried applying some more pressure… But then the twins saw me and told me to stop right there. I wonder why?

Akira: Huh… (They must've been startled seeing one of the younger wizards giving the world's strongest legs a no-holds-barred massage, especially without knowing what was going on…)

Cain: Just tell me whenever you're feeling tired out again, Master Sage. I'll give you another massage.

Akira: Thank you, Cain. I'll be looking forward to it!

#.mhyktl #.cardtl #cain knightley #figaro's got a thing for feet i guess and there's nothing any of us can do about it

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ao3feed-itafushi · 6 months ago

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sunbeam

by HamsterQinghua “Thanks for coming,” Yuuji feels the need to mention again. Fushiguro frowns. “I’m only here for the discount,” he mutters, pragmatic as ever. Yuuji sighs dramatically. “Lame,” Yuuji shoots back half-heartedly, but he knows that discount is the only reason Fushiguro’s here, too. “It’s a weird sort of discount, too, isn’t it? The terms were something like…” He scratches his nose, trying to remember. “You had to show up with someone else…?” He shakes his head before patting Fushiguro on the arm. “Thanks for helping me save some money.” “You don’t have to keep thanking me,” Fushiguro murmurs, the tips of his ears slowly turning red. Yuuji’s grin widens. He opens his mouth to tease the other some more, but before he can, someone behind them clears their throat. When Yuuji looks up, there’s no one in front of them, and he quickly tugs Fushiguro with him to stand in front of the ticket register. “Err, hello!” he greets. “Two tickets for Human Earthworm 5, please!” “We’re going to be the only ones in the theater,” Fushiguro murmurs, and Yuuji shrugs. “More space for us, right?” --- or, Yuuji takes Fushiguro to the movies, and it's not a date... right? Words: 1049, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 5 of star crossed Fandoms: 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Manga), 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Anime) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Itadori Yuuji, Fushiguro Megumi Relationships: Fushiguro Megumi/Itadori Yuuji Additional Tags: ItaFushi Week 2024 (Jujutsu Kaisen), Didn't Know They Were Dating, Idiots in Love, Getting Together from AO3 works tagged 'Fushiguro Megumi/Itadori Yuuji' https://ift.tt/4XrDqRx

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #itafushi #itadori yuuji #fushiguro megumi #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #fushiita

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richardxoliverxmayhew · 1 year ago

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II Drabble for @vxctorx

Boyish, blue orbs waltzed a delicate balance of hasty yet purposeful glances upon the roughened facade of his sketchpad's parchment, now etched with meticulously drawn ribbons and curves of ebony and ashen shades, and the golden image of his love's reclined figure. The honeyed tones of tender sunbeams and the sea's untamed locks rapping upon the distant shore perfectly accompanied such a waltz. "Just continue lyin' just like tha'... Aye, tha's righ'. Just keep tha' hand of yer's framed close to yer' face. I promise I'm almost done, just a few more touches, is all." Oh, how Vic was born to be an artist's muse (not that Richard counted himself as much of the former). The auric bends of his muscles, tied together with his princely crown of tawny curls that Richard had raked with wandering fingers a hundred times over; and not to mention the captivating splash of teal concealed in such a handsome gaze. The sort of gaze that Richard would recognize out of a crowd of thousands. The sort of gaze he would recognize in the depths of darkness. Such godly traits would be enough to make Apollo blush. "Have I e'er told ye' tha' I always wanted to go to art school. Ended up becomin' a fanciful dream, I suppose," he tut, as poised fingers weaved the sketcher's charcoal upon the final flourishes.

He could feel the round of his heart cuff against the walls of his chest. A misplaced pulse trapped against his throat now, which he silently tried to swallow back. "Y'know, I realized I've collected way too many fanciful dreams, and endorsed certain realities mainly 'cause I was expected to do so or... maybe even 'cause I was too much of a coward to figh' for wha' migh' actually make me happy." He paused. ".... It's time to put an end to tha'...." Since the weeks leading up to their seaside holiday, Richard had been wrestling with this notion, which eventually bloomed into something of a confession in his busied mind. One ripe enough that the plump of its cheek would break off from its stem on its own accord and tumble against entwined roots. Richard lowered the barrier of his sketching pad, his blue eyes-- now brimming with the excitement of hope, the fear of refusal, and, mostly, the amount of overpowering love and affection he held for this man before him. His love. His future. His everything. Placing his materials down, he drew forward before taking a seat beside his beloved; his warm hand, now lightly freckled with echoes of their previous, sunsoaked days, clasping Vic's. "Before I say wha' I've been wantin' to ask ye', I need to tell ye' tha' I got a job in London... Or, at least I applied for one, but rumour is tha' the position's as good as mine. Aye, it's not anythin' fancy like bein' a lawyer or bein' a gen'leman but it's a start; and, more importantly, it's certainly enough to buy a wee flat, and food, and clothes, and a new life. Our new life!" Our new life. Ours. Oh, how that word tasted all the more sweet now that he was saying it aloud.

His eyes crinkled into a fervid smile, as his adoring gaze remained transfixed in earnest upon Vic, as if he were the North Star amidst a night as black as tar. "Come away with me, Vic. Aye, I know, it's sudden and I don't have a ring I can offer ye' righ' now, but I'll work hard. Hell, I'll even put in two shifts. Three, if it means makin' sure ye' ne'er want for more." Fingers folded a little tighter round Vic's hand now. Youthful optimism radiated with every word the Scotsman spoke, placing what sliver of doubt he once held upon the backcloth of his mind's eye. "Just imagine, a new life away from Sco'land. A life in London! Ye' can be whoever ye' want to be and work in wha'ever job makes ye' happy, and, in time, we may just have enough to purchase Our own plot of wood. For our cottage," he cooed, Their evergreen dream never having strayed away from such ingenue beliefs. "Look, ye' don't have to answer me righ' away if ye' donnae' want to. I know wha' I'm askin' is no small feat. I just-... No ma'er how many times I played it out in my mind my life in London, my happiness, wouldn't be complete without ye'.-- To put it bluntly, I'm ready to finally be brave if ye' are too." Gentle lips kissed the gilded hills of the gentleman's knuckles. "Come with me..." Richard whispered against the other's skin, the taste of sun and brine still stained upon His skin. ".... Come with me...."

#vxctorx #//*excitedly and nervously places this drabble on ur doorstep* <3//#//im really sorry it got longer than expected luv buuuuut I still hope you like it nonetheless! :>//#//idk I just had such a clear image of Richard basically proposing to Vic to come away with him//#//after applying for his London job ghjdkshjg//#//once again i hope u enjoy! 💛🥰//#period;uni days;v #hes half my soul as the poets say;#//also richard is being the softest ray of sunshine rn i cantttt ;-;//

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booksandchainmail · 2 years ago

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Pale 7.x

“I’m not really very drunk,” she told him, sitting down beside him, and laying a hand on his shoulder. “I’m other things. If you’re tapped out, you and I could retire upstairs. Work out the leftover restlessness and adrenaline of the day.”

OKAY. DID NOT SEE THAT COMING. big win for people who ship their teachers I guess? Though I'm assuming from the "Before" header that this is a flashback

Larry Bristow laughed at something.

I could have been calling him Larry this whole time...

Here, in a bar, late at night, the group of them gathered, her slightly inebriated, tired self was akin to a tiger stretched out in a sunbeam. The claws so easily protruded as she stretched.

... hot

Luisa Crowe choked on her drink.

don't think we've heard of her before. Or of any family members.

Just a week or two off of her latest hunt, she was willing and wanting to track down this Blue Heron Throne god, while Alexander did the legwork to bring them all together.

So this is how the school got founded. It's so weird to see them all friendly and relaxed together

Thoughtful and lost in thought. He was hard to get to know, and much of that had to be done not by reaching out or studying him, but by studying what he offered and what he asked, when he finally decided what he could ask that might be a good question. Seeking validation and respect in the opposite way to how Larry did. Too subtle, instead of too forced.

keeping this in mind as an analysis of Charles. Strange to think of him socializing with this circle of other practitioners. Does he miss any of them?

Charles looked bewildered. “I mean I’m not a threat, I’m willing to help but… I know how cutthroat practitioner society can be, and I imagine hollywood or any other high society is the same. I’d rather keep my throat intact.”

didn't really work out for him huh

“Smart,” Alexander said. “I don’t think I’d have it in me to hold back on revenge.”

Luisa looked troubled, like she was going to say something, but she was interrupted.

think I understand why Luisa didn't stick around with this group

“There is no police force governing us. We’re still, generally speaking, in a wild west of practice,” Alexander said. “If you don’t act with prejudice, you’re setting precedent.”

I think setting a precedent of not using overwhelming lethal force is a good thing

“Charles,” Larry said. “When we were mid-job, you mentioned these special Others.” “Others, bound by rules, get certain leeway. If they must ask questions or must do certain things, like a revenant having a very specific path laid out before it, that’s… in our analogy of a bank heist, it’s the drill. It’s more solid, it has more force.”

I wonder if this applies to any of the Kennet Others?

"Figurines were soaked into the muck. I want one, but failing that, I want it gone.”

I'm assuming that this will unbind a goddess Durocher draws on for power? Would that just weaken her, or would the goddess then be out for revenge?

The Kennet trio send friendly Others home. He waited, studying the photograph for details. The inscription was telling. The phrasing. Not unsummoning, not releasing. Just… sending them home.

wild practitioners!

Black ink bled into the photograph, taking on three dimensions in the scene. “Abandonment,” Alexander said. “A connection severed.”

what will this do? Just pick a random connection to sever? Most obvious would be to each other, but I think that would need more effort. The word "abandonment" makes me think about their families though, and I'm concerned that how much they've been using connection blockers might backfire

A few out in these woods, like Lucy Ellingson, who was going for a walk, now severed from critical connections. They wouldn’t renew.

which critical connections?! all of them? Connections this could potentially touch on: Avery and Verona, her family, Kennet Others, people at the school. The last two don't feel critical necessarily (annoying but the other two can help). I'm worried that this will just have people forget about her entirely, hopefully not everyone and not irreversibly.

“The first option is that you tell me everything I want to know, then die by your own hand. The second option is that you Awaken fully to this world and swear undying fealty to me in the process.”

these are bad options

He jerked, and for a moment, saw only stars, heard only raucous noise. His eyes rolled up and his head turned skyward.

umm

“Go home,” John Stiles told him.

why is john suddenly here??? I guess he wasn't mentioned when Alexander spied on the girls sending people home, so maybe he's doing a search of the woods first?

“Yeah. I won’t say anything. I could help with the body, and the crime scene.”

did John kill Alexander?! I thought the bits at the end of the last section (jerking, head dropping, kneeling) was Alexander preparing some practice, but did he just get shot?

... hilarious if so. What a way to go, in the middle of his dramatic scheming

“His head-” Lucy said. “It’s gone. Cracked open.” She sounded so much like a kid.

Lucy is getting so much gun violence-related trauma

John walked, long, quick steps, until he stood between her and the body. He put a hand out to steady her, to keep her from pulling away or moving to a point where she could keep looking.

and I'm glad he's looking out for her. Honestly, John becoming Lucy's familiar is looking like a better thing the more we see

“It protects Kennet,” she said. She was still shaky, but she stepped back so she could meet John’s eyes. “That’s my responsibility.”

I mean it's messed-up to have a kid taking on that level of responsibility, but I do love this

“I was thinking about him being my familiar.” John remained standing where he was. He wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear this, but… “…Not so much anymore.”

oh. Or that. I suppose the corollary to having John as her familiar would mean she wouldn't have to personally do violence is that a lot of problems would be getting solved violently in front of her

... I wonder if that was the connection that Alexander severed

#booksandchainmail reads pale #pale #wildbow

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platonic-activity · 10 months ago

Text

Ignis Fatuus (Foolish Flame)

Chapter 4

Read here on AO3

Her visit with Mulder was a blur. He was irritable and tired. Mulder isn’t the type of person who is comfortable sitting still and resting. She knows this from his prolonged rehabilitation after taking a slug to the femoral artery during their first year working together. She had played a naive Clarice Starling to a psychopath and it had ended with Mulder nearly bleeding to death on a dock. She remembers that feeling of dread when she couldn’t assess his blood loss because it was pouring through the decking into the water below.

He had overextended himself today. Of that she is certain. It is a sobering thought. That a short walk to purchase some groceries is still too much for him in his current state. Open brain surgery is brutal requiring a six-week minimum recovery. That is when they know exactly what was done. The upside is there appeared to be minimal violence to his parietal bone considering he had endured an unscheduled craniotomy.

His vitals were normal. Blood pressure and pulse textbook but a little higher than normal for a man in his level of physical fitness. He tersely answered her uncomfortable questions. His breath sounds were normal. Her fears of a pulmonary embolism or massive infection were allayed.

It wasn’t until she removed his bandage that she began to worry again. Of course, this was itchy. He has the beginnings of a localized infection around his sutures. She had slammed her eyes closed worried that getting him to agree to another hospital visit would be nearly impossible.

When she opened her eyes he was watching her face intently.

“It looks like you have a small infection starting around your sutures. If this surgical site were anywhere else I would bring you oral antibiotics. I don’t want to take any chances with this. I think you need IV vancomycin.” She said in the calmest voice she could produce.

To his credit, he didn't argue but disappointment and frustration were written on his face. She would have been more comforted if he had lodged a campaign to avoid the hospital. It took a few minutes to get a fresh bandage applied and they were out the door, Mulder in sweats and a ripped Brooklyn Dodgers T-shirt. Her stomach is sour with worry.

_________________

It’s 2 am by the time she leaves him sleeping, doped to the gills with Benzos and fluids going into one arm and full-strength Vanco into the other. She is almost as punch drunk as he is having flown a badly routed connecting flight from Chicago less than 24 hours ago. She takes a moment to close her eyes, jolting awake when headlights fly past her in the Georgetown medical parking garage.

She urges herself into action and pulls her car out onto the empty streets of Georgetown pointing towards the Richmond suburbs yet again with a piece of Mulder’s bandage securely in her pocket.

_________________

She wakes up slowly on a thread-bare couch. She smells garlic and coffee and sees a sunbeam traveling from a high transom window to the wall above her. She stretches and sits up slowly. One of the gunmen has delivered her coffee and next to it sits a bakery bag bulging with bagels.

Thank god for these wonderful nerds

She is finishing adding cream to her coffee when she hears a quiet knock on the door a pause and then Byers sneaking a look around the door to see if she is awake.

“Oh hi, Agent Scully. I took a guess and toasted an everything bagel for you.” He says politely as he sets a plate down on the coffee table. He is already in a suit and she wonders if he slept in it or if it's just later in the morning than she had intended to rest. “Frohike is ready to talk with you in the lab.”

“Thank you.” She sighs trying to pull herself together a bit.

She meets Frohike in an alcove towards the back of their offices. She can see the rest of the space from where she sits. Byers has started to fidget with some hardware, glancing up at her every few minutes looking like an overgrown owl. She is fairly certain she can’t be heard from where they are.

Frohike wastes no time before launching into their reason for meeting.

“Anna Walsh… thought to be 35 years old. Her birthdate is listed as September 17th, 1965. Her fingerprints are on record in the state of Illinois as a requirement for employment working with kids. The earliest records I can find of her is that she passed a GED exam in 1984, after that I have a lot of work history. The state of Illinois Department of Revenue has two unclaimed paychecks on file totaling $367, one from an after-school coordinator job at the YMCA and the other from a bar in the Polish downtown area of Chicago. She has no arrest record that I can find; however, there are two incidents where she was detained briefly and released. I would guess that she was involved in some way with the guilty party in both cases, either riding in the car or sharing a living space. Both instances were drug-related.”

He pauses to see Scully’s reaction to that. Scully listens intently, sipping her coffee. Her expression is tight, mulling over each bit of detail Frohike supplies.

“She moves to the suburbs at some point. The first address tied to her that I can find is a small apartment near a mall in Naperville in 1989. The lease was in her name only. After that, I didn’t see any rental records until the past two years in Mount Carol where she cosigned on a house rental with a woman named Maya Williams who appears to have also been in foster care and is close to the same age as Anna.

When Frohike pauses she waits.

“That’s what I have. She doesn’t appear to have a driver's license. The DNA was difficult. My lab contact says that the sample is degraded. He hopes it will be enough to show a relationship but he isn’t confident.”

Scully stands and looks around. Byers seems to have found a task interesting enough to occupy him. Langly is sitting on the couch playing a video game with headphones on. It’s all so overwhelming, each tidbit of information swirling in her mind to create an image of who this woman is. It’s also quite underwhelming. This will not be definitive. There is so much more information she will need before going to Mulder.

She feels herself sag, the emotions of the past two days catching up with her. It must be evident on her face. Frohike looks apologetic and concerned.

“I hate to admit this but I would know a lot more if I could widen our circle a bit here. Langly could get into the adoption records. I fear that if I try I will send up a flag on our activity. Don't ever tell him that I said that.”

Scully chuffs a small laugh and reluctantly agrees. “Her juvenile files must be sealed,” She says.

“I believe it’s the case for all members of the foster care system in this state. Without any idea of how she came to be in Chicago and at what age we really can’t make any headway. We need to know how this happened to gauge whether she is safe.” He levels her with a serious look. “Let me bring Byers and Langly in to find her childhood records. I won't tell them your suspicions or the DNA tests.”

She thanks Byers for the bagel and takes what is left of her coffee with her into the early morning air. The circle is widening. The wider it gets before she talks to Mulder the more uncomfortable she gets.

_________________

When he wakes up she is there beside him, dozing in a chair with her head on the bed next to his hip. She has changed and showered. He can smell her fresh flowery shampoo. It seems that she has brought him coffee.

Despite his recent discontent with being infirm and dependent, Mulder feels better than he has in the two weeks since he last woke up in a hospital. The difference between waking up to her then versus now is heartening. She isn’t radiating fear for his life. He isn’t in any pain. This was only a precaution she had assured him. The doctors had been in at the crack of dawn to inform him that his blood tests looked good and that the antibiotics were doing their job.

She looks peaceful in her uncomfortable position just like the million times she's fallen asleep on planes, in cars on stakeouts… just like this waiting on him to wake up in the hospital. Her hand is slightly curved and he thinks she might have been holding his hand at some point. He marvels at how she manages to sleep anywhere as he starts in on the coffee she brought. It's from a cafe near her apartment that she knows he likes. It’s not fully cooled so he figures she must have gotten here recently. He squints at her watch. It’s already 9:30 in the morning.

A nurse bustles in and halts when she sees Scully asleep. She quietly goes about her tasks placing discharge paperwork on his table and removing his IVs. He holds his right arm over his body so she can take out both from one side of the bed. “I’ll come back for those papers after the neurologist comes and gives you your instructions. You should be able to leave within the hour.” She says in a hushed warm tone and leaves with a friendly smile.

He doesn’t want to wake her. He tries to remember the last time she has been at peace in his presence and struggles to do so. It must have been Vegas. By the time he had arrived, she had already roundly shamed the Lone Gunmen for luring her under false pretenses. She had been nursing a protracted but manageable medication-induced hangover and let him treat her to lunch at a burger stand loved by the locals and a walk through an old graveyard of historic neon signs. He had been in such a good mood he even dropped a 10 into the collection tin with the sign saying “Help us get plugged in, Donations Encouraged.”

Something about watching her eat unreserved always puts him in a better mood, especially in the past 2 years. She had scarfed down a huge burger and almost all of their shared fries. “I don’t get why they didn’t just ask for my help.” She stated around a mouth full of French fries. She washed them down with a swig of beer. “I’m not that difficult to approach. Why all the subterfuge?” She said leaning forward on her elbows and regarding him seriously.

He had thought it better to keep his response to himself and chose that moment to take a long pull from his beer. “Hhm, the guys just prefer to operate on subterfuge. I think they get off on it.” He said following it up with the most charming smile he could come up with.

He could tell she had been feeling better and her eyes sparkled with a bit of mischief. The tilt of her lips had him suspecting that she was considering pushing the issue further but instead, she surprised him by suggesting they try their hands at some poker before catching their flight that evening.

Then the next two months happened. They had quarreled in a way they hadn’t since right before their unexpected trip to Antarctica. Only this time it was he who suggested that her contribution to their work was trivial. He regretted it and she knew that. They had barely gotten their feet under them when the artifact showed up.

In the space of two weeks, she had been to Africa and the American Southwest in search of answers to save his life. When she arrived at his side desperate to communicate with him she was still fighting for his life. There was nothing trivial about what this woman adds to his life.

Now months later she is dozing peacefully. He hopes that he can figure out a way to allow her to keep this peace for a little while. It’s the least he could do. Finally, he reaches out and tucks her hair behind her ear and she stirs, waking slowly and then suddenly all at once. When she fixes her eyes on him she gives him a warm sleepy smile. He swallows what feels like a giant lump in his chest as she reaches for his arm turning it over and running her fingers over the bandage left behind from his recently removed IV. She glances at his other arm and then into his eyes.

“It looks like I’m ok to go home.” He says his voice slightly thick. He clears his throat. “Just waiting on a final visit from the doctor.”

“Good.” She says, still holding his arm. Her fingers are rubbing a light circle around the underside of his forearm. “I’ll get the paperwork to the nurse,” she says reluctantly letting him go.”

#ignis fatuus #x files #the x files #fanfiction #fanfic #mulder #scully #mulder and scully #msr

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wizardofarles · 1 year ago

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In light of ao3 being down for who knows how long, I’m posting chapters 1-5 of Lord, You Keep Me Crawling here on tumblr

If it’s still down by Sunday when chapter 6 is supposed to go up, I’ll post that here too

(Rating: Mature, tw: csa, implied/referenced suicide, graphic depictions of violence, catholicism, homophobia, panic attacks, ptsd)

Summary: a Catholic high school au wherein the Regent is a Bishop and headmaster of Laurent’s school

Chapter One: On My Knees

The office door opened with a click. Laurent didn’t turn to watch his uncle enter the room. He lounged in one of the high-backed upholstered chairs with the heels of his Doc Martens resting on the polished wood surface of the headmaster’s desk, scrolling through instagram on his phone without really seeing anything. The earbuds in his ears played no sound. They were for show; a performative nonchalance, when really, Laurent had been listening for that click. That didn’t stop his stomach from dropping when he heard it.

Dull footsteps muffled by the plush silk rug approached his chair at a casual pace. Laurent used the few seconds it took his uncle to reach him to scroll back up to a previous post—some pretty Akielon girl with blonde hair and blue eyes, lounging on a beach with three other girls, all in bikinis.

His earbuds flew out of his ears. Laurent turned to see his uncle holding the wire in his hand, earbuds dangling and dancing around each other in a spiral that was sure to tangle. The glance and subsequent grimace of distaste that his uncle directed at his carefully angled phone screen was brief. Laurent might have mistaken it for some trick of the imagination if he didn’t know the man’s face like the back of his own hand.

“Put it away, Laurent,” Uncle said. “School rules still apply in my office. Even for you.”

With a small burst of triumph in his belly, Laurent locked his phone and snatched the earbuds back. Uncle’s gaze lingered on his face, around his eyes. Laurent pretended not to notice, until Uncle grabbed his chin and tilted his face up to look more closely.

“Wash it off.” Uncle’s expression was unreadable, even to Laurent, but his voice was stern.

“You don’t like it?” Laurent put on an exaggerated pout.

“We’re in school, Laurent. Wash it off. I won’t ask again.”

“I don’t have makeup wipes or anything.”

Uncle’s mouth twitched, but his thick beard hid the finer details of the expression. Laurent couldn’t decipher whether the brief flash of emotion he’d seen had been a smile or a scowl. Then Uncle released his face from his grip and walked away without a word, passing through the door to his adjoining bathroom.

Laurent waited while his uncle grabbed a hand towel and ran it under the faucet. The fact that he was expending the effort to do it himself instead of ordering Laurent to do it made him uneasy. Was there a trap here somewhere?

He tried to push his worry away and distracted himself by letting his eyes wander around his uncle’s office. A wide sunbeam poked in through the East-facing window, filling the room with the young light of the morning. On the opposite wall, an ancient leather-bound Bible with gold lettering sat on a wooden hutch, a red ribbon sticking out from between the pages like the flicking tongue of a snake. A crucifix hung on the wall above it; a wooden cross with a little ceramic Jesus stuck on there, looking down solemnly over the room. He was bathed in sunlight from the window.

On the wall to Laurent’s back, beside the door, was a painting that Laurent purposefully didn’t look at—one of those renaissance paintings of little naked cherubs. It was an impressive piece of art in truth, but something about seeing it here in his uncle’s school office had always made Laurent’s skin crawl.

Instead, he found himself staring at the framed photographs on the wall behind his uncle’s desk. Uncle smiled with the Royal Veretian Academy for Boys choir over the years. The choir varied year by year, but his uncle looked the same in every photograph; his lush brown beard always trimmed and neat, his blue eyes twinkling, his left hand resting on the shoulder of the boy beside him.

In seven of those photos, that boy beside him was Laurent, growing slightly taller in each snapshot while his uncle never changed aside from a slight dusting of gray at his temples in recent years. His gaze drifted toward the photograph from three years ago, when Laurent was eleven-going-on-twelve. That was the last year that Aimeric Fortaine had stood smiling on the other side of Laurent, his eyes as green as a sunlit forest.

Uncle returned with the damp towel in hand and crossed in front of the window, fracturing the sunbeam with his silhouette as he came to stand by Laurent’s chair. “Close your eyes,” he said, and began to clean the eyeliner off Laurent’s eyes. He was gentle, and the water was comfortably warm.

“Sister Margaret thinks you are possessed by a demonic spirit, you know,” Uncle said as he worked. His voice was close and rumbled pleasantly in Laurent’s ear. “Stunts like this don’t help your case.”

Laurent grinned. “Are you going to exorcise me, Uncle?”

Uncle finished wiping the makeup away and pulled back. His tone slapped the grin off Laurent’s face. “Sister Margaret may seem like nothing more than a wrinkled old crone to you, but she holds a lot of sway in this community.” He paused to lock his icy blue eyes onto Laurent’s. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Laurent cleared his throat and sat up straight, affecting his voice like he was reading from a textbook. “You want me to clean up my act in front of Sister Margaret so she’ll think you saved me from the devil, and then she’ll tell everyone she holds sway over that you’d make a good Archbishop of Arles. Got it.”

Uncle raised an eyebrow. He still loomed over Laurent with the black-smudged towel in his hand. “Laurent.”

Laurent held his gaze. “I said, I got it.”

“Good,” Uncle said, his tone softening as he tucked a strand of Laurent’s hair behind his ear. The brush of his fingers against Laurent’s ear sent tingles down his spine.

“Will you be home for dinner?” Laurent asked.

Uncle hummed, and his fingers found the sapphire encrusted cross earring dangling from Laurent’s left ear. He had given it to Laurent as a Christmas gift two years ago. Technically, it was another dress code violation—like his combat boots—but some small liberties were granted to the headmaster’s favorite nephew. Apparently, as Laurent had discovered today, eyeliner was not one of them.

Uncle toyed with the earring as he spoke, “I will try my best. I suppose I must take advantage of all the time we have left. I won’t have you all to myself for much longer. Soon I’ll have to compete with your brother.” He sounded wistful, regretful.

The reminder of Auguste’s imminent return from Delfeur twisted Laurent’s stomach into knots. He was thrilled to get his big brother back now that the war was over, but so much had changed since he saw him last. Laurent had changed. And surely Auguste had too.

“Do you think Auguste has killed people?” Laurent asked quietly.

“Undoubtedly. He’s a soldier, Laurent. That’s part of his job.”

Laurent chewed the inside of his cheek as he mulled over the idea of his big brother killing people as though he was inspecting the flavor of a dish that was new to his palate. In order to make it fit with the Auguste in his head, he imagined his brother as a shining knight straight out of one of the fairy tales that his mother used to read to him when he was a child. The kind who only killed for honor and justice—a hero. He tasted blood in his mouth where he must have broken the skin inside his cheek. There are no heroes, he thought with a stab of bitterness that surprised him.

Uncle’s hand was warm on his shoulder, except for the cold band of his ring. “All right,” he said. “Back to class.” He gave Laurent’s shoulder a quick squeeze before letting him go and moving to sit behind his desk. He started sifting through the neat folders of paperwork and making small sounds of disapproval at the back of his throat.

Laurent hesitated for a moment, half hoping his uncle would say something more, but he went on with his work as though Laurent had already gone.

With a stab of disappointment, he stood and made for the door, his mind already slipping back into a brooding haze. His uncle’s voice stopped him with his hand on the doorknob.

“And, Laurent,” he said without looking up from his papers. “Next time you want my attention, think up a new trick. The dress code violations are getting stale.”

All throughout his morning classes and lunch, Laurent hadn’t been able to get his mind off of Auguste. He sat in the back of Sister Margaret’s classroom as she droned on about the significance of Mary’s immaculate conception. Laurent tried to pay attention, but his eyes were drawn like magnets to the ticking clock on the wall behind the Sister, and every time he looked at the clock his mind wandered back to Auguste.

“Only a body born free from sin would be a pure enough vessel to bring into the world our Lord Jesus Christ, who was himself born without sin also—as you all should know,” she said in her reedy voice. “Our Holy Father created Mary to be that perfect vessel, untainted by sins of the flesh—”

The hands of the clock ticked on. In Laurent’s mind, Auguste was running toward him with a grin on his face that outshone the sun in the sky above them. Then his arms were around Laurent, wrapping him in warmth, and Laurent was spinning.

Then he was falling. Auguste landed on top of him and pinned him to the ground, his face twisted in a rage that Laurent had never seen on him before. He tried to squirm, but Auguste’s hands closed around his throat.

“Liar,” Auguste snarled at him. Laurent could barely hear him over the pounding of his own heart in his ears.

“What?” he squeaked, gasping for breath. “You’re hurting me, Auguste!” He didn’t understand why Auguste was mad at him. But he knew in his bones that his brother was trying to kill him.

Auguste’s face was red and a vein pulsed in his forehead. “You’re a disgusting fucking liar!”

The sun moved behind his head, throwing both Auguste and Laurent into shadow. Then Auguste was not Auguste anymore. The eyes that glowered down on him were green as summer and full of hatred.

“You take that back!” Aimeric screeched.

“I won’t!” Laurent shouted, “You’re a disgusting fucking liar!” He spit at the angry green eyes.

Aimeric let out an animal cry of rage, and then Laurent’s world devolved into a flurry of fists and elbows, knuckles and fingernails, fury and pain.

He was spinning again, and then he was on top, raining his fists down on Aimeric’s stupid, lying face.

“Burn in hell!” Laurent screamed. His voice sounded like a ringing bell…

Laurent woke with a start. A bell was ringing. He peeled his face off his desk and tried to glimpse the clock through the swarm of his classmates funneling toward the door. 12:45. He had slept through most of religious studies.

He quickly gathered his notes and his backpack and joined the flow of students heading out into the corridor. He could feel Sister Margaret’s eyes boring holes into his back as he hurried away. All he could think was, Uncle is going to kill me.

Laurent let the crowd herd him through the halls. He spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him. Most of his peers avoided looking him in the eye. They saved their stares and whispers for when his back was turned and scurried when he got too close—as if grief was contagious.

It didn’t bother him, though. His classmates were all either overgrown toddlers or vapid social climbers and snakes who were so wrapped up in their own petty, juvenile bullshit that even looking at them for too long gave Laurent a headache. He didn’t need friends anyway. He had tried that once, and it ended in disaster.

A ceiling light flickered as he passed beneath it. He hadn’t yet fully shaken off the dream, and it left him with the sense of walking between worlds; like he was walking on a tideless beach with one foot on hot, dry sand and one in cold water. Usually his dreams dissipated like mist in the sun when he woke, but not this one. This one seemed intent on hanging around.

He tried to make sense of it as he walked. To lay it all out and look at it from a new angle. First, he had dreamt of Auguste. He shivered at the memory of his brother’s rage—the hands around his throat had felt so real. That part was an invention of his mind, though, Laurent was certain. But then, the scene had morphed into a memory as though that had been its destination from the start. As though everything would always lead back to that moment that Laurent wished desperately he could change. Yet, even in his memory, even in dreams, he was never able to change it. It always played out the same way. It always led to the same ending.

Laurent turned a corner, nearly arrived at his locker, and stopped short. The boy behind him barreled into his back, then brushed past him with a huff of annoyance, but Laurent paid him no mind. He was too busy staring at the great beast leaning against his locker.

Akielon, by the looks of him—dark curls above a nut-brown face and eyes like a rich whiskey. And he was a giant. The beast was standing around and laughing with a group of two other older jocks, and he dwarfed them both. Laurent was sure that he had never seen him before today. He would have remembered.

New to the school, then, and with no inkling of the mistake he was making. He was about to find out.

Laurent marched across the hall and planted himself directly beside the big Akielon.

“Move.” His voice cut through their laughter like a sword through flesh.

The beast turned slowly. His brown eyes traveled from Laurent’s face down his body, to his black combat boots and back up again in a move that brought to mind a lion assessing its prey. Laurent wondered if the Akielon beast was trying to appear intimidating or if he was just slow.

He saw the moment that the beast decided he was not a threat. Something like amusement glittered in his dark eyes.

“Ask me nicely, sweetheart,” he said in flawless, unaccented Veretian, “and maybe I will.”

Heat bloomed in Laurent’s cheeks. He ignored the swooping feeling of adrenaline rushing into his bloodstream and plastered on a sunny smile.

“Call me ‘sweetheart’ again,” he said, “and I’ll rip your balls out through your throat.” The beast’s companions shifted aggressively, but the beast remained still. Laurent continued, “Now, move your big, hairy Akielon ass off of my locker.”

One of the henchmen—another Akielon, black-haired, with a patchy five o’clock shadow—started forward with a grunt, but the beast held him back with one outstretched arm. He pushed off the locker without using his arms and squared off against Laurent. At his full height, the beast easily towered over him by a foot. Laurent felt his breath leave him, but he stood his ground and carefully did not flinch.

“I could snap you in half with one hand, kid.” There was still a hint of amusement in the beast’s voice, but there was a real warning there too, and more than a hint of disdain. Laurent was reasonably sure the threat was hyperbole, but the way that his RVAB blazer strained at the Akielon’s shoulders and biceps planted a little seed of doubt in his mind.

“You really shouldn’t threaten me,” Laurent said.

“You threatened me first.”

“You don’t know who I am.” Laurent took a step forward, craning his neck to maintain eye contact. He was close enough to reach out and grab the beast’s red tie now if he wanted to. Close enough to smell the garlic on his breath.

The beast’s grin was sharp. “I’ve got a general idea by now, sweetheart.”

Laurent drove his knee up into the Akielon’s balls with the full strength of his body.

Then Laurent was on his back, gasping for air. The black-haired henchman had shoved him to the ground hard and knocked the wind right out of him. Somewhere, a woman was screaming, possibly praying.

“Motherfucker!” the beast moaned in Akielon. He was doubled over and cradling his groin with his hands. A crowd was gathering around them in the hall, choking the flow of foot traffic like a blood clot blocking an artery.

The goon moved to grab Laurent, but he scrambled to his knees before he could reach him and dove at the beast’s legs. Laurent wrapped his arms around the beast’s knees and attempted to take him down in some kind of improvised bear hug. But the brute was just too strong.

He managed to loosen Laurent’s hold on him by thrashing his right leg in kicking arcs. One kick connected with Laurent’s ribs, hard enough to bruise. The next sent the beast’s shoe smashing into his stomach. That one was worse.

A wave of nausea surged through him, followed by dull pain. Laurent collapsed onto his hands and knees. He wrestled the nausea back down by sheer force of will.

Through the pounding blood in his ears, he heard the beast’s voice above him.

“Do you yield?” the beast said. Laurent pulled himself back up to his feet.

“Do I yield?” he asked, incredulous. “I knew Akielos was not as advanced as Vere, but I had no idea you were still stuck in the medieval period.” There was scattered snickering among the bystanders.

The Akielon beast’s expression turned sour, his jaw sliding forward. “I’m trying to offer you an out, kid.”

Laurent leveled a long assessing look at the Akielon. An old lesson of Uncle’s floated in the back of his mind. A man’s body will tell you what his tongue will not, if you know how to read him.

Hands in tight fists, shoulders squared, every bulging muscle tensing against his school uniform—the brute had a short fuse, and he wasn’t even attempting to conceal it. Rage glittered openly in his dark eyes.

Laurent laughed, a sharp and bitter sound even to his own ears. “No, Akielos. I do not yield.”

He shifted his weight and watched the beast shift with him.

“Damianos,” the beast said, startling Laurent out of his head.

“What?”

“My name is Damianos.”

“I don’t care what your name is, brute.” Laurent lunged on the last word.

Then suddenly his feet lifted off the ground. A huge meaty club of a hand clamped around his bicep. Laurent thrashed and tried to pry fingers as thick as sausages from around his arm with his other hand. He turned, expecting to see the Akielon or his friend hoisting him up, but the face above him was much older, uglier, and hairier.

Coach Govart’s face twisted into a mean approximation of a smile, and he set Laurent’s feet back down on the floor. To Laurent’s surprise, in his other hand he held the arm of the beast—Damianos. Though Laurent doubted even Govart had been able to lift Damianos off the ground with one hand. No, only Laurent had suffered that humiliation. He felt his cheeks burning again, and scowled.

“Start walking, boys,” Coach Govart growled as he dragged both Laurent and Damianos down the hall. The crowd of students had vanished—scattered at the sight of Govart like rabbits fleeing a bear.

They only passed Damianos’s Akielon henchman and one other figure. The sight of her sent Laurent’s stomach swooping with dread again.

Sister Margaret held her rosary up to her lips as she whispered a fervent prayer. Her knuckles were white around the cross, and her face was ashen. When Laurent met her eye as Govart hauled him past, she shuddered and made a shaky sign of the cross.

Laurent wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream. Instead, he lifted his chin and marched along with Govart as though he were the one leading that mad dog and not the other way around. He marched right up to the door marked Headmaster in golden letters, and knocked three times without being told.

“Enter.” His uncle’s voice was muffled through the wood, but still clear enough to be heard without mistake.

Govart released both boys. Laurent straightened out his blazer before opening the door, then sauntered right over to the chair he had sat in earlier that morning and plopped himself down into it. His uncle’s office was darker in the afternoon, now that the sun had fled the eastern sky.

“Hello, Uncle,” he said lightly, kicking his feet up onto his uncle’s desk, though never actually looking at his uncle.

He kept his eyes on Damianos instead, watching for the moment when the depth of his situation dawned on him. When it hit him, Damianos seemed to shrink. He stood frozen in the doorway, staring at Laurent with an expression of horror that was not dissimilar to the way Sister Margaret had looked at him in the hallway. It was every bit as satisfying as Laurent had hoped.

“Twice in one day, Laurent?” Uncle matched Laurent’s light tone. “Feeling neglected?”

Laurent shrugged. “I thought you might be bored.”

“You certainly know how to keep my days interesting. So,” he spread his hands, “who’s going to fill me in.”

“They were fighting in the hall,” Coach Govart said gruffly from the doorway. “Sister Margaret fetched me to break it up.” Laurent cringed at the mention of the old nun’s name. Uncle was definitely going to kill him.

“Thank you, Govart,” Uncle said with a slight nod, and his mad dog was gone. The door clicked shut behind him, and silence bloomed in the office. When Uncle spoke again, his voice was softer.

“Damianos. Please, sit.” Laurent dared then to look at his uncle and found him smiling at the Akielon boy like an old friend. Uncle was good like that. He always knew everyone’s names and could make anyone feel welcome anywhere. It was why everyone loved him.

Laurent didn’t have that gift—though Uncle would correct him and say it was a skill that anyone could learn. Laurent was inclined to disagree. People didn’t love him, and he didn’t imagine he would ever be able to make them the way Uncle did.

As Damianos shuffled over to the chair beside Laurent, Uncle frowned and tapped the toe of Laurent’s boot twice with his silver pen. With a scowl, Laurent lifted his feet off the desk and planted them flat on the floor.

“Good boy,” Uncle said, like it was a normal thing to say then. The fire returned to Laurent’s cheeks with a vengeance. He looked down at his hands in his lap, letting his hair fall like a golden curtain over his eyes. Soft rustles to his left told him that Damianos had sat down beside him. Laurent sent out a silent prayer that Damianos was not looking at him then.

“Damianos,” Uncle began again, “I hope you’re having a pleasant first day here at the Royal Veretian Academy for Boys. I see that you’ve already met my nephew, Laurent.”

Laurent heard Damianos’s throat click when he swallowed. “Yes, Your Excellency.”

“Please, there is no need for such formalities. Call me Father Laurent, or simply Father.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Tell me, what do you think of my nephew?”

The silence stretched on too long. That alone would have been answer enough, but Damianos apparently had a death wish. “Honestly, Father,” he said, “your nephew is very rude.”

To Laurent’s mortification, Uncle laughed. His rich, warm, genuine laugh. “He is, isn’t he?” He pointed a weighted glance at Laurent, then shifted his attention back to Damianos. “You are honest, aren’t you, Damianos?”

“I try to be, Father.”

Uncle spread his hands magnanimously. “Of course you do, my child. ‘And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate to be with you always, the Spirit of truth, which the world cannot accept, because it neither sees nor knows it. But you know it, because it remains with you, and will be in you.’ John, chapter fourteen.”

Laurent knew what was coming next, even if Damianos did not. His uncle’s smile was warm as a forest fire. “Damianos, tell me the truth of what happened between you and my nephew.”

Laurent turned his gaze back to Damianos and poured as much ice into his stare as he could muster. Damianos glanced at him and squirmed in his chair. He cleared his throat. Laurent narrowed his eyes.

“Well…” Damianos began, then flicked his eyes to Laurent again and stopped short.

“Go on,” Uncle prompted. “Give me the truth of it, son.”

“Yes, Father. Well, I was standing—I was leaning against his locker—well, I didn’t know it was his locker at the time, it’s right next to the one Father Herode gave to me this morning. Laurent came up to me and told me to move. I said—”

Damianos stopped again. Glanced at Laurent. “Go on,” Laurent coaxed sweetly.

“I, um. I said I would move if he asked me nicely—”

“This brute called me—”

“Is your name Damianos?” Uncle cut through. Laurent snapped his mouth shut. “Because I recall specifically asking Damianos to speak.”

Laurent bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from talking back. He held his uncle’s gaze as he pulled his left leg up and hugged it to his body, placing the sole of his boot directly on Uncle’s fancy upholstered chair cushion. Uncle’s face was a perfect statue. Laurent hoped there was dirt on the bottom of his boot. Maybe some gum or dog shit.

“Well, uh…” Damianos straightened his tie. “I don’t remember exactly what was said by either side, but some threats were exchanged, and then Laurent attacked me. I defended myself. I offered him the chance to walk away, but he refused.”

Laurent scoffed.

“I see,” Uncle said. “Thank you for your candor, Damianos.”

“Aren’t you going to ask for my side of the story?” Laurent interjected.

“We have established that Damianos is honest. You are not.”

“Luckily for you,” Laurent mumbled. Something dangerous flashed in Uncle’s blue eyes and it pushed Laurent’s head down like a physical force. He picked at a scab beside his thumbnail as though it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. Laurent had a sneaking suspicion that he would be eating dinner alone tonight after all.

“I apologize for my nephew’s behavior, Damianos,” Uncle said. “You have to understand, he has lost a great deal to Akielos. He lost his father, my brother, in Marlas two years ago. That was only three months after the loss of his mother. And his older brother has been on the front lines in Delfeur ever since. I believe Laurent has misdirected some of his grief and anger at you, an Akielon within reach.

“It’s no excuse for his behavior, of course, but I hope it may provide some context.”

Damianos was silent for a moment. Laurent tried to sink into his chair. He was oscillating between embarrassment and boiling rage at his uncle for telling those private things to a stranger. And this Akielon stranger, of all people.

When Damianos spoke, his voice was soft. “I’m very sorry for your losses, both of you.”

“Shove it up your ass, Akielos.”

The brute exhaled sharply, a little noise of contempt.

“Laurent.” Uncle’s voice was like a whip. He softened it again when he spoke to the other boy, “Thank you for your kind words, Damianos. You are free to go.”

That’s it? Laurent wanted to protest, but he didn’t dare interrupt his uncle again.

“Please don’t hesitate to come to me in the future,” Uncle was saying, “for anything you or your family might need to help you get settled in Arles.”

Uncle rose and Damianos followed. Laurent stayed seated, but saw them shake hands in his periphery. Then he made the mistake of glancing at the photographs on the wall. Aimeric seemed to grin at him even more brightly than he had this morning. Laurent’s stomach turned violently, and he wondered what his uncle would do if he vomited on his Patran rug.

“Welcome to the RVAB,” his uncle said with a smile that Laurent could hear. “You’re a senior, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I may be biased, but I believe there’s no better education in Vere than what you’ll receive here. Our students are among the top picks of the most prestigious universities in the country. I hope to see you thrive here, Damianos.”

“Thank you very much, Father Laurent.”

“God bless you, my child.”

“And you as well, Father.”

Uncle walked Damianos to the door, and once the brute was gone, Uncle locked it behind him. He turned to Laurent; his face completely devoid of emotion. The coldness in his eyes sent a shiver down Laurent’s spine.

“You have displayed a callous disregard for school rules regarding violence, decency, and foul language. You have spoken out of turn. You have disrespected me, and you have disrespected God. Your behavior is a stain upon this school, upon this holy order, and upon the name de Vere.”

Laurent looked at his shoes. He was expecting it when Uncle said, “Fetch me the paddle,” but the expectation did nothing to quiet his pulse.

With shaking hands, Laurent took the wooden paddle out of the bottom right drawer of Uncle’s desk and brought it to him. Like an obedient dog with a stick, his mind supplied, if the dog was about to be beaten with the stick.

“Bend over the desk,” Uncle commanded, and again Laurent obeyed. “You will count out loud to fifteen.”

“Yes, Uncle.” Laurent closed his eyes and steeled himself for the pain, willing himself not to cry.

By the time Laurent said, “Fifteen,” he was weeping. He heard Uncle put down the paddle, and then he was at Laurent’s side with an arm around his back, helping him stand up.

“Why do you put us through this, Laurent?” Uncle gently brushed Laurent’s cheeks with his thumbs, drying his tears. “You used to be such a sweet boy.”

Laurent sniffled. “I’m sorry, Uncle.”

Uncle stepped behind his desk and sat down in his chair with a sigh. He slid the white clerical tab collar free from the neck of his shirt and set it on the desk. “Come over here.”

Laurent obeyed. Ceramic Jesus watched him gravely from his place on the wall. Laurent thought he looked cold now that the sun was no longer on him.

“That’s a good boy. God offers forgiveness,” Uncle said, “to all His children who repent and devote themselves to His teachings.” The belt came off next, the silver buckle singing like a bell. “Kneel, child. Show your devotion, and rise, cleansed.”

Laurent knelt before his uncle as though he were about to receive the body and blood of Christ through Holy Communion. This ritual was just as sacred, Uncle said. After all, he couldn’t physically get much closer to God than through the touch of a Bishop. When he rose again from beneath his uncle’s desk, though, he did not feel cleansed. Maybe I’m broken inside, he thought. Maybe my soul is beyond reach.

He wondered if his uncle ever felt like this. If the sated smile on his face was anything to judge by, Uncle didn’t appear to be troubled by the same doubt. Doubt is a test of faith, someone had told him once. He couldn’t remember who. It may have been his mother, or even Uncle himself. Regardless, Laurent repeated it in his head like a mantra, and it managed to put his mind at ease a little.

The bad feeling faded as the day went on, until he nearly forgot about it entirely. Instead, the thrill of carrying around a secret won over, and Laurent spent the rest of the school day feeling special, and more than a little smug about it. But later that night, when Laurent stood alone at the kitchen counter pushing rice around on his plate rather than eating it, the doubt returned. In the dark, silent house full of ghosts and secrets, there was nothing to keep the whispers in his mind at bay.

Laurent tried to imagine how he would explain all this to Auguste, if he had to. How he could make him understand. It was pointless, he knew. Auguste would never understand. No one would. Uncle said that only God would ever understand. That was why they had to keep it a secret between the three of them. But what if Uncle was wrong? What if God wasn’t in on the joke?

Laurent gave up on eating and resigned himself to a sleepless night of staring at his bedroom ceiling, cringing from shadows on his walls. If this creeping unease really was a test, he felt like he was failing.

#chapter two coming shortly. I have to go through and add all the italics manually bc tumblr hates me 🫠#ao3 is down #captive prince #my writing #my fanfic #laurent of vere #damen of akielos #auguste of vere #lykmc #capri fanfic #writing #lamen #captive prince fanfic

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starry-wren · 1 year ago

Text

Sunlight: An Original Character Story

by WrenTheDragon

Words: 1195. No content warnings apply.

A cute, fluffy little bit of gay romance <3 hope you enjoy

First time I post my writing on here ik it’s bad just bear with me

Character descriptions, because I didn’t feel like working them in there:

Will’s desc: Will has pale skin and dark brown eyes. He has dirty blond hair that he dyes lighter. It is long enough to be parted and one side swoops forward a bit. He loves to wear jackets with band t-shirts and occasionally (but very rarely) he wears a baseball hat. He also wears tight, usually light denim jeans. He sometimes dyes his nails black when he feels like it. Taller than all his friends, but still average height.

Ryan’s desc: Ryan has dark brown fluffy hair and grayish eyes. His skin is slightly darker than Will’s and he has dark freckles if he goes in the sun. He loves hoodies and sweaters and has not worn a short sleeved shirt or shorts in a very long time. He is shorter than August, but just by a little bit.

August’s desc: August has dark brown, long but still slightly fluffy hair. She dyes the front two strands various colors, but usually pink or red. She has tan skin and grayish eyes. She would get freckles if she ever went in the sun. Taller than Ryan by a little bit (even on estrogen) and likes to rub it in his face.

Well now, let’s get on with the story

I woke up to the screeching tone of my alarm clock. I felt around for the snooze button and slammed my hand down onto it. I’ve always hated that alarm clock, it signaled that it was time for me to wake up at an awful hour to go do pointless busywork in a building full of judgmental popular kids. But today was different. Today Ryan was coming back.

I haven’t seen Ryan in two weeks, he’s been away visiting his cousins. Ryan’s family lives pretty far away, so he usually stays a while when he goes to visit. He doesn’t like his cousins much though, they’re the kind of girls who always drown themselves in makeup and are addicted to Snapchat. Ryan texted me a lot about the stupid stuff that they did. I haven’t seen him in person for so long, maybe today we could bike to the ice cream shop together, or take a walk in the forest…

My alarm clock started to beep again. Fuck. I roll out of bed. I remember on the first day of school the world felt so cold and foreign when I woke up. Now it felt bright, and full of possibility. I looked over and saw how pretty the yellow-orange sunbeams spilling through my curtains were, and how the particles of dust danced illuminated in the air. Life is so much different if you have someone to look forward to.

I eat my breakfast as fast as possible, and run out the door to the bus stop. Ryan isn’t there. He’s usually a bit late though, always getting distracted by little things and sleeping in too much. I waited and looked behind me at Ryan’s house a couple times, hoping to see his front door open. Sometimes he would sneak up behind me and grab my shoulders while I was distracted by waiting for him. That usually scared me half to hell, and Ryan would always laugh at me.

I hear the door creak behind me. I look over to see not Ryan, but his twin sister August. They’re identical twins, but they really don’t look much like each other. She joins me at the bus stop.

“Hey Will. Bet you wish Ryan was here instead of me, huh?” She smiles smugly. August really loves to be annoying about me and Ryan.

“No, I uh..” What are you even supposed to say in this situation? “Where is he?”

August chuckles. “Currently, digging through the massive pile of stuff on his desk. Probably lost his homework”

We hear the bus stop at the corner. August sighs and walks back to the door. “Ryyyyyyyan!!! The bus is here, get fucking ready!”

Ryan runs out. His bag is open and haphazardly slung around only one of his shoulders. My face lights up when I see him, and I hope August can’t tell. August smirks at me. Ugh. Guess she can tell.

“How can you ever think that is pretty?” she whispers to me. I ignore her.

I walk onto the bus behind Ryan. I look at his hands, how his fingers perfectly curve, how soft they look. I really want to hold his hand. Do I usually think about Ryan this much?

He sits on our bus seat and smiles, he looks at me like I’m glowing. I sit down next to him. With the sun shining through the window behind him, he really is glowing. I forgot just how pretty his face was. The bus starts to move.

“So, did you miss me?” he says, playfully raising his eyebrows. Of course I missed him.

“I miss getting the whole bus seat to myself.” I say jokingly.

“Well, too bad!” He grins and turns to put his foot next to me on the seat, pushing me towards the aisle.

I want to lay on his lap in protest, but the awful homophobic kids have decided to sit in the seat diagonal from ours. I shove his leg back onto the floor and we both laugh. I scoot back next to him, a little closer now. Our knees are almost touching.

“I uh.. got something for you!” Ryan says. “I was wrapping it, that’s why I was late.” He rustles through his backpack for something, and pulls out a small velvet bag.

He hands it to me, and our fingers brush for a second. Ryan’s fingers feel so warm, but that’s probably because my hands are always cold. I open it, and inside is a bracelet. The bracelet has pretty blue and white beads, and a piece of sea glass. It’s one of the pieces of sea glass that I gave Ryan when we went to the beach.

“You used the sea glass I found at the beach,” I’m trying not to, but I can feel myself smiling a big stupid smile. He’s smiling at me too. It makes me want to lay in his arms and sink into his hoodie and stay there forever. His hand is on the seat next to mine. I extend my littlest finger and lay it on top of Ryan’s. He looks down at his hand and smiles even wider.

He looks up and turns back towards me “Guess what, they’re matching!” Ryan says, and pulls down his hoodie sleeve a bit. He reveals a bracelet almost identical to mine, except for the shape of the sea glass.

“Aww, that’s so sweet” I say “Thank you” I put my whole hand on top of his and grab it. My nail polish is chipping, I should probably repaint it soon. I lean into his side and rest my head on his shoulder, just for a second. It’s as if Ryan is the sun, made of all the light and happiness in the world, and when I touch him I get to feel a little bit of the warmth that he holds. I missed this most of all. He rests his head on mine just a little bit, but people are walking past us boarding the bus so we have to sit up straight again. We’re almost at school.

“I actually did miss you, you know.” I say.

“I missed you too. But you know what I didn’t miss? School.” The bus is driving through the parking lot. “I hate practice tests and reviewing because I forget everything from the beginning of the semester.”

“At least you have classes with the smart and talented moi to help you out” I joke, pointing to myself with a flourish.

We both laugh. People are getting off the bus so I squeeze Ryan’s hand before letting go and stand up, and he follows behind me. As he walks off the bus towards the side entrance to the school(we have different first periods) waving at me, I wonder what would happen if I took his hand and ran away with him to the field, so I could have him all to myself. I walk away, and look at my bracelet. I squeeze my jacket sleeve and smile to myself. I feel like I always feel after leaving Ryan, like there’s still a little trace of sunlight burning in my heart.

#writing #story #oc story #oc stuff #writeblr #writers on tumblr #gay romance #mlm romance #mlm relationship #fluff #gay #queer #sfw romance

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